That's What I Like About the South

Just got back from South Carolina [late last night.]

I really like the South. It's green, largely rural and the people call you "Sugar", "Sweetie" and "Darlin'." I've been to Virginia, Florida, South Carolina, Alabama and Georgia now, so I can say I've seen a fair amount of the South. And despite the hot & humid weather, it is pretty great. Cool buildings, lots of rivers, history, good music ... food ... what more can you want?

That being said, the Charleston / Columbia area had the worst radio I have ever encountered. I thought that Air Supply, Peter Cetera and Bonnie Tyler had gone the way of the running board and spats. Boy, was I wrong.

On the downside, I discovered [again], during the second night of my trip, that I am highly allergic to down pillows. Quite literally, I was praying for a quick and painless death. And then I come home, and appear to have sinusitis. And of course, it is Memorial Day so a trip to the doc is out of the question. I called the 800 number on my card to see if I could get a pre-authorization for a visit to the doc-in-a-box. That was fruitless. No comment, as I work for the company that provides said health care.

People who are not susceptible to severe allergy attacks cannot fully appreciate how traumatic, painful and debilitating they are. Let's just say it is a version of hell.

I'll write more about my Charleston / Columbia trip later. I have to apply a cold compress to my head and sneeze for awhile right now.

Quackers

Here is a photo of the feathered bastard who woke me up this morning at some ungodly hour.

San Diego Serenade

Made the absolutely hellish drove from Thousand Oaks to Solana Beach Friday afternoon. "Why would you do something as reckless and stupid as that?" you should ask.

The answer was that it was the only California appearance of the Be Good Tanyas [at least as posted on their website. They mentioned that they played San Francisco earlier this week as well.] And was it worth it? Absolutely.

The BGTs have released three records, they're all great, buy them, you won't be sorry, etc. etc. Originally, the group consisted of Samantha Parton and Jolie Holland, and then they added like-minded folk-traditionalists Frazey Ford and Trish Klein but Jolie left to pursue a very fine solo career [where she is backed, at least partially, by my one-time guitar repairman friend Keith Cary.]

I would say this about the BGTs: Frazey Ford is emerging as a major talent in terms of songwriting and vocal ability. Her voice has an ethereal bluesy quality about it, with a spine-tingling edge. And her songs - "Only In The Past", "In Spite of All the Damage", "It's Not Happening" and "Ship Out on the Sea" are all major achievements. [In the photo above, from left to right, that's Trish Klein, Samantha Parton and Frazey Ford.]

And the concert? First, my friend Steve and I were in front of the stage, Trish Klein could have kicked us. Which was cool, but the sound in front is not that good. So it was a trade off. But that aside, the concert was great. As I remarked to Steve [a fellow guitar nut], female musicians seems to be less about playing extended flashy solos and more about finding a groove. And the BGTs are groove miners.

They play some nutty guitars as well. Sam played an inexpensive Yamaha acoustic. Trish played an Old Kraftsman semi-hollow guitar, which was - back in the day - one of those guitars that would sit on the back wall of a pawn shop unloved and unsold. Mix in some 5 string banjo and mandolin, and you've got the musical mix [backed up by a string bassist and a drummer, very talented players who wisely let the focus be the three ladies.]

Not much more to add. See them if you have the chance.

Ask The Man Who Owns One

You can learn a lot from listening to smart people.

Many times, I get asked where do I learn about obscure music?

Really, in the olden days, it was pretty difficult but I had both a methodology and some trusted sources.

The first way - the methodology - was to look and see who produced the record, what songs [if any] the group covered, and ... you know, what they looked like. I mean, the Carpenters and Deep Purple look different from each other. But that does not mean you should pass either group up ... and lastly, the record label would give you some clue, sometimes. The Kinks on Reprise? What's that about? So, sometimes it did not. And we all know about the infamous Black Monday at Curb Records [Where is Mike Curb nowadays? Someone? Anyone?] So that was my method, and it led me to some pretty cool records, and vast confusion when New Wave came out ... new labels! no covers! or generic covers! So, forgive me for buying the Shirts and the Yachts when I should have been buying the Buzzcocks and Stiff Little Fingers.

The second way was hanging out at record stores à la High Fidelity. Though the kindly record store managers Rick and Jim tried to steer me towards the Modern Lovers and Captain Beefheart and Spirit, for the most part, I resisted, and listened to their recommendations to listen to the Byrds, Yardbirds and the Who. So at least I had some idea what the 1960s were about when I was a teenager.

Nowadays, it is so much easier ... and so much tougher. As I have famously remarked, "the internet is the playground of the obsessive." [And that would be me, when it comes to music.] So I can find free demos for Tanya Donnelly and crazy crazy sensitive Canadian genius Issa [née Jane Siberry]. But am I listening to the right stuff? Am I missing some new trifle by Grant Hart or the Decemberists that I should be catching?

[Re: Issa. I could do an all-day rant [both pro and con] about her decision to become the new Woody Guthrie, but I won't because she once sent me a nice responsive email. And also because I have enormous respect for her as an artist.]

What brought this subject up was viewing the Bob Dylan interview posted on YouTube from December of 1965, when he was briefly in San Francisco. Bob, in that interview, gets asked all manner of question, most of them inane. But when he does respond about pop music and culture, he references some really remarkable artists, especially given what was floating around in 1965. He recommends Charlie Rich, Doug Sahm and calls Smokey Robinson a great American poet.

He was right then, and he's still right. How cool is that?

Stunned Mullet

Last Thursday, I went to a reading and book signing in LA for big-time writer boy at Book Soup, which is a pretty lousy place for a reading [due to its insanely catacombed floorplan ... what the fire marshall doesn't know won't hurt him, I guess.] So I knew BTWB in college, when I was an undergrad and he was a grad student in the MFA program at a large state-run little-known university in the mid-1980s.

And I keep in touch with other writers from the writing program. And I have been to readings for all of his books. But really he has no reason to remember me, and actually, I hope he doesn't as it would reflect poorly on how he is filling up his idle hours, of which, I am certain, he has none.

So, I waited in line for him to personalize a couple of books for friends, including the couple of writers I do actually keep in touch with. So I introduced myself to him.

Let me interject that he still looks about 30, is thin, has full long hair, and has the same delicate sculpted features that made him such an icon with both sexes back in the 80s.

I, on the other hand, was once referred to in the pages of Fucked Company as looking like an "overstuffed pig." And that was about 6 years ago when I was younger and prettier.

So I hand the two books to him, and introduce myself, and he tilts his head at an awkward angle, like a man who is trying to drain his ear of water ... or a man who is in an uncomfortable situation but has the refinement and equanimity to not stand up and run in spite of his immediate and justifiable instinct. And he regards me, and squints. The squint of "Let me think. Did I go to school with a talking dog?" Inwardly, I was laughing because I am the master of schadenfreude, and he couldn't have been nicer, and I dropped the right names, and he wished me well, but it was really uncomfortable for him.

And he gets lots of stupid questions that he handles gracefully. I know, I witnessed some people asking him really dumb questions. I'd hate to be him, save for the good looks, money and moderate but not uncomfortable level of fame. And talent, and critical acclaim. And the work -- did I mention that? -- he has done some great, memorable work. Work that will last several lifetimes. Other than those things, it must be a bitch to be him. Poor bastard.

Sunday Night Wrap Up

About 11 years ago, when I was just out of a soul-destroying relationship, I commented to a friend that my goal was to avoid leading a surreal, ironic life. And for the past 11 years, I have been doomed to leading just that. Every good deed gets punished, every good intention gets thwarted, hard work is met with futility and worse [just ask the SEC what they think of my work] ...

And it gets no better as I exit my third long-term relationship [I only count the ones over five years, friends.]

But at least I have my dog. Have I told you about my dog? She's only in all my posts. You'll have to forgive me for that, what else can I write about that isn't depressing? To me - and I don't know if you'll agree with this - but the national mood feels very mid-70s to me ... gas prices, turmoil in the Middle East, lack of confidence in the political leadership with no clear alternative on the horizon, bad pop music with focus on glamour over substance ... are you with me people? Do you want to hear more about my dog?

I've been riding my bike each weekend, about 25 miles ... from Stanton to Long Beach and back. It's weird how I am only interested in riding the route that I used to ride back in the 1980s. I really don't like new things. You can imagine how much I look forward to dating again.

I was at the dog park [sorry, back to the dogs] and a guy was trying to teach his Border Collie to do the Skidboot-type tricks. Take five steps backwards, raise a paw, do a little calculus. I was at some rich fancy-schmancy guy's house a few years ago and he had taught his dog to sit patiently while he propped a biscuit on the dog's nose. Then the dog would sit there, with the biscuit on his nose, and the guy would give a command, and the dog would flip the biscuit into the air and catch it and eat it. Now, if you have that kind of time on your hands, why not teach the dog to give you a blowjob?

I'm not ruling out that the guy had not already done that.

People who know me know that I do not get tired at night. I can stay up all night easily. And yes, I do mean sexually. Just kidding. Maybe. But of course ...

Really, when I was a kid, I would be much like David Sedaris, scrubbing the linoleum floor in my bedroom with Comet, then waxing the floor and rearranging the furniture ... until 3 or 4 in the morning, listening to Larry King or Jim Bohannon ... what's on the menu at Duke Ziebert's? Maybe a nice brisket of beef with a side of kugel. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Larry would talk about Lenny Bruce, Angie Dickinson ... the interview with Little Richard still remains a favorite ... his days as an overnight deejay in Florida ... wax, wax, wax. Those were the days.