Kath And Alex In Brooklyn

One time Nashville rock and roll journalist Kath Hansen and former Whining Art Fag Alex Sniderman have gone to the dogs. So drop by and say hi to to them @ Kath And Alex In Brooklyn.

Crop Circle Hoax

Page 300 recently posted a real treat - an mp3 from Crop Circle Hoax. I was on the same bill with them on the second to last night of Lucy's Record Shop's existence. It was the last show I've played.

More Lucy's links.

A Dog's Life - The Times Of Lucy's Record Shop by Jim Ridley

Lucy's @ My Space

Flush With Greatness

The excellent post about Paul Westerberg clones over at Armagideon Time reminded me of perhaps one of the stupidest things I've done. I had gone to see The Replacements at the National Guard Armory in Nashville. I rode up with a gang of punkers who spent most of their time on the way up to the show and while waiting in line to get in huffing various inhalers. No straight edge for them. I kept my nose to myself and split from them when I saw some other people I knew. Athens, GA band Dreams So Real opened and they were so boring I almost fell asleep. I split for the bathroom as soon as they were done so I wouldn't miss a second of the Place Mats show. Creem magazine had been raving about the Pleased To Meet Me tour and I was up for some "Hello Dolly" and "What's Your Name" alongside the band's own great catalog of hits.

I took care of my business and as I headed out in walks Paul Westerberg in a godawful plaid suit with what looked like clown shoes on his feet. He'd obviously had a few. So like a super doofus fanboy I went back in the bathroom and waited for him to finish his own business at a urinal. He turned around to go out only to face me blabbering, hey you're Paul Westerberg. He looked at me with obvious disdain and mumbled something as he stepped around me. Hell, I was creeping myself out so I didn't ask for his autograph or follow him down the hall like a puppy dog. I just went back to the audience and enjoyed an awesome show glad I at least had the decency to let the man take a leak before I gave him the awestruck stupid fan treatment.

R.E.M. reappraisal time

I've fallen in love again with R.E.M. and I feel fine. It started with their Rock And Hall Of Fame induction. Stipe was insufferable as usual and I felt the same loathing I'd had for them ever since Green came out. Then they walked over to play a few songs. I was about to change the channel and then they launched into "Gardening At Night" and the powerful effect of music and memory rang through my happy ears and heart. All was forgiven. I let go of the hate. So what if Mike Mills had morphed into a Nudie suit wearing Sammy Hagar hairdo goofball. So what if Pete Buck liked to attack stewardesses. So what if Bill Berry had long retired from the band. So what if Stipe was a politicized whiner...well I don't know if I can ever get around his ideological mis-steps, but ultimately it should be about the music. And I've found a place to dwell where I can forget about the bad and concentrate on the good.

The best R.E.M. music evokes a yearning and wistful mood that always sent me into a bohemian wannabe reverie. Chronic Town, Murmur, & Reckoning were often the soundtrack of a late afternoon; Kerouac novel in my lap or a notebook where I'd scrawl some sophomoric poetry tripe beside me. R.E.M.'s music was often the mellow respite from my constant diet of heavy metal and punk rock; a co-existense that may have seemed like a dichotomy to my friends, but it made perfect sense to me. R.E.M. were the standard bearers of the entire alternative music universe. Their relentless early club tours helped pave the way for countless indie bands. When Peter Buck spoke about the Minutemen in interviews and then brought them out on the road for the Fables tour punk rock was elevated.

The other thing R.E.M. had going for them was they were Southern. I may not be a rebel flag waving redneck and I don't have the quintessential Southern accent, but I was born in Memphis and lived my whole life in the South so I do have quite a bit of regional pride. It felt good to see a Southern group making waves all across the world who weren't named after firearms or high school gym teachers. They didn't run from their Southerness or try to hide it. The kudzu draped cover of Murmur wasn't mysterious to me. All I had to do was drive down the road apiece to find a similar scene. Identification with their home was the same as saying we are one of you; fans and band alike had ownership in R.E.M. and their kudzu like growth into one of the biggest bands in the world.

Which is the point where I originally lost my love. It was their deal with Warner Brothers. It was like they had betrayed I.R.S. Records. It was that over produced slice of "Orange Crush" that hit the airwaves after Green dropped. It was going to skateboard over at Jeff's house and seeing little 13 year old kids wearing their R.E.M. concert t-shirts from their Murphy Center appearance the night before in Murfreesboro. The real deal breaker was Stipe's ascendancy to political warrior via his giddy assaultive slogan t-shirts Mtv Video Awards acceptance speeches. Where their music had often hinted at political ideologies through elliptical abstract lyrics, "Cuyahoga's" environmental message excepted, now it was all out in the open like a cankourous sore.

Musicians can have political opinions. They can base their music around them like The Clash and be great at it. But it's rare for politics and music to mix well. I'm looking for the universal made personal, not rallying cries. There wasn't wholesale politicizing of R.E.M.s music, but Stipe's contant podium thumping distracted and detracted from the band. Just like I didn't want Al and Tipper Gore involved with my music during the P.M.R.C. heyday; I don't need singers becoming politicians. So beyond the occassional track like "What's The Frequency, Kenneth" that I liked despite myself I didn't listen to much of R.E.M.s post Document output. Then, eventually, I couldn't even stand to listen to their ealy material. I had moved on. I had wised up.

So just call me dumb again. I don't think I'll ever embrace their post I.R.S. material, but I'm in love again with the early days. The joy I always felt is back and while I won't be dreaming of a future spent in bohemian languor anytime soon I might have to get out a blank notebook and fill it with gibberish. Or even better; just continue to fill this blog with it.

More Old School Nashville Rock Flavor

It's been forever since I posted something and there's been a good reason. I've been too busy reading all of the Nashville Intelligence Report issues posted at Nashville 80's Rock to have time to write much here. Allen Sullivant is making my pathetic little pic posts from the Metro look completely bush league and I couldn't be more glad about it. There are also copious mp3 amounts of great Nash Vegas rock from the day and a link to his Youtube goodies too. So check it out.

R&R Crapper

from an email I sent earlier to DD:

 

The R&RHofFame induction ceremonies last night - I watched it. The whole damn thing and I felt like I had some monstrous narcissistic suppository shoved up my a**. Jann Wenner sucked up to Ahmet Ertegun - dang that dude must be powerful to be this feared in death. Aretha Franklin could go on a diet and a Third World country would then not starve. Ronnie "Spector" Bennet's speech went on and on and why the heck are The Ronettes even invited when Phil "Pull My Trigger" Spector is already in the Hall with plans afoot to switch himself with the wax dummy model of himself if he gets convicted of shooting more than his mouth off. Next up was the first artist of the night I used to idolize: Patti Smith. She went on too long and then decided to make a political statement by becoming a cover band. She should have been booted from the place as soon as she launched into what she said was an "anti-war" song "Gimmie Shelter" instead of performing one of her own songs. Sidebar digression: my own interpretation of "Gimmie Shelter" is that the song is addressed to the protestors in the streets instructing them to cool out or their actions could lead to civil war in their own cities while eventually the song admits that even love could start war too; a typically ambivalent Jagger/Richards composition that's open for discussion so IF Patti wants to equate it as a simple bromide against WAR "ugh what is it good for" then so be it, but dammit do your own song chick! I would have enjoyed a marathon stretch of "Horses" fer sure. I did like "Rock n Roll N-------r" even if it was ragged sounding since I thought the word "n------r" was verboten these days [it got censored here - see]. Next up was VAN HALEN or in this case Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar: a truly tedious and crapulent filled segment. Velvet Revolver's induction was complete product placement (themselves) garbage - not one true word of appreciation spoken and then, oh SH*T then, they proceeded to butcher the hell out of "Ain't Talkin' Bout Love" including Weiland singing the wrong words. "You've got to set me free, baby" WHAT was up with that. It's "You've got to bleed for it, baby." Ugh. Then Paul Schaeffer and his band of crum bums managed to do damage to one of Van Hager's best moments with Anthony and Hagar assisting. I'm surprised they had the time to play since they seemed to mainly be busy kissing up to Eddie Van Halen all night. The dude needs help yada yada so what - he fired both of you a**clowns. Take a shot at him instead of being whimpering turds. Al Sharpton wouldn't take such crap, but he darn sure knows how to interject himself into media events as he took another podium in honor of James Brown. Blah!!!!!! The highlight of the night was up next when Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five got in. Melle Mel told the gangster rappers of now where to stick it and let us know he was a grown 45 year old man. REPRESENT, hell yeah. Then they went out and tore the roof off the sucka - the first 5 minutes or so being transcendent (they looked they actually rehearsed unlike the other acts) and almost bringing me to tears every time they got to a part once rapped by the deceased Cowboy (always my fave of the Five). This was followed up by the verbose Eddie Vedder (please keep him away from making speeches someone) who went on and on about REM and while it was heartfelt and at times touching he really needs an editor. I was staying up just to hear Bill Berry say love to his family and then he didn't even get to talk after Stipe went on and on and on thanking everybody and their mama even including a little bit to the people that should have been thanked first, the FANS. Then they had to go and remind me of why I once adored them by doing "Begin The Begin" and "Gardening At Night" before lapsing into crap REM in the end. The all-star jam with Patti and the others was completely uninspiring dreck and now I'm tired and cranky since I didn't get all the sleep I usually get. Never again will I watch such garbage, life is just too short, unless KISS finally get in of course.

Greedy Gus's

The RIAA is at it again. Now it's webcasts that are in their sights. Support independent artists and visit RIAA Rader to make sure you're not giving them one thin dime.

Starwood Ad From May 19, 1989 Metro

Since Starwood appears to be closing its doors for good how about an old advert for the venue. I don't know if it will be completely legible and this might be be a good thing. This way you won't be able to tell they misspelled Kwame and Eazy-E in the Rap N Ride concert listing for June 10, 1989. That must have been a dope show with Kwame, Eazy-E, J.J. Fad, Special Ed, Kid N Play, Sir Mix-A-Lot, 2 Short, and N.W.A. along with a carnival midway. If hip hop wasn't your thing there was always Spam Jam on May 20th headlined by T. Graham Brown with Garth Brooks one of the many supporting acts for this flea market, cookoff, and concert combo. May 24th was a school's out party with the Bulletboys, Winger, and Cinderella at the top of the bill. Party on!!!

Old Metro Ads

More to come.

You Can Take The Redneck Out Of Louisiana

No mail today means no bills so props to all our Presidents living and dead. I've got no funky stories to tell today, no musical proverbs to drop, and just generally feel like an out of date cheese spread on a stale cracker. I've heard that nervous breakdown bald is the new thing, but I'll just stick to my traditional February angst and localized blah.

spontaneous compost combustion

Pure analog movement - does this mean swilling on heavenly milkshakes with Darby Crash at the Vicious Ice Cream & Soda Shop or perhaps punching one's head into the largest 8-track player in the universe. Perhaps it means transcribing every lyric ever penned by Lemmy in elaborate monk style script and when done you rip it up and burn it, go on a three day bender, and then start again. Faint echoes of "Party people in the place to be" body rock their way across the frozen digital tundra of my mind leaving traces and flashes of steel and whited out record labels that "say hey, say ho!" Simplification ends with amplification cross pollination the center won't hold but I've got one middle finger strong enough to hold on.

What ever happened to New Jack Swing; wasn't that the thing.

Bobby Jimmy & The Critters for Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame. You can't exterminate greatness like "Gotta' Potty." The signs all point to a magnitude on the one explosion of funky fresh goodness. Free bread and flea circuses. Nonsensical instumentals with black tails and tie banquets of distorted contortions. Take a chance, James. Calgon gonna' sho nuff take you away. Dinosaurs are learning on Sedimentary Street; they ate Gordon and Susan reet petite. Lord Dunsany's rap, "Man is a small thing, and the night is large and full of wonder." He forgot to add "Fergilicious."

The Hold Steady are not the best "indie bar band" in America. They are simply the best band.

The pack of desolate angels on the corner might have liked comedy bits, but they were downright hostile to digital bits. They thought it led it to the inflation of knowledge without wisdom and "hey buddy, can you spare a Camel cigarette?" Just longing to be considered a nemesis to authority. Like those feisty broads in the Dixie Chickens. No sexists, those angels. Reality extrusion intrusion: I miss country stores - their dusty counters old chocolate tiny black and white portable television with bunny ears dark mysterious items inventoried for decades rusted paint peeling sign outside screen door slamming Leo peppermint all this and a bag of chips.

'Til next time.

TANG & Adult Nappies

The adult diaper industry has been reeling ever since the death of spokeswoman June Allyson, but is pleased to announce their new celebrity: crazy psycho astronaut lady!

Richey Made A Splash

Whether Richey James of the Manic Street Preachers jumped from the Severn Bridge after disappearing on February 1st, 1995 or not he made a splash on this planet. God rest your soul if you're dead. If not; I hope you're happy and eating well.