THE BLANK GENERATION

I watched a humorous, slice-of-life documentary tonight titled Speedo. I found this in the new release section of Rentertainment, and just couldn't pass up a documentary subtitled "A Demolition Derby Love Story". I've been burned a lot recently on indie films, but this one was a keeper. I'd place it right up there with Okie Noodling, the documentary on the art of noodling (catching 60-pound catfish with your bare hands) that was scored by The Flaming Lips. Speedo follows Ed "Speedo" Jager, demolition driver extraordinaire, on his quest to earn a national rep, take home a purse that'll put food on the table, split with his long-estranged wife, raise two sons (one the frontkid of a hardcore band), and marry the love of his post-divorce life. It's a snapshot of a hick soul that many of us educated folk might call "fucked up". But, when taken for what it is, Speedo's life actually has a true, almost Walden-like ring to it. Not to say that Speedo has been misunderstood and hence has obtained greatness, but rather that Speedo has reduced his life to a pursuit of happiness that is both simplistic and honest—even if for him happiness is found when slamming his '76 Caddy into other pieces of junk in front of a WWF-like crowd of bystanders. I dunno, rent it and see what you think.

Speaking of Walden, I found my copy from high school in my parent's basement over "Thanksgiving vacation" along with the Basic Writings of Nietzsche. Man, it's been a while.

Now, not to get all transcendental on your ass, but I've been thinking a lot about meditation lately at the bequest of a few people. I'm just not down with meditation, even though at its core it can be summed up as nothing more than conscious relaxation—focusing on one's breathing in an attempt to clear one's mind of all thoughts and distractions. And, I'm totally down with that. But, I just can't imagine having any success at it, especially given the fact that I find the whole practice to be incredibly hippie—and not in a charming way. I know that getting over my preconceived notions of what is and what is not "hippie"—and whether "hippie" is a mostly good or evil thing to begin with—would probably do me some good. But, that's a pretty big hurdle to clear for someone that fears the smell of patchouli, astrology, bootlegged Dead concerts, and barefoot, beflowered people alike. (Yes, it's true that I do value certain hippy principles, like activism, a love of the environment and a fondness for music and the arts.) Still, the search for inner rest and relaxation has become more of an intrigue as I grow older and still more restless. So, maybe I'm becoming a rare non-drug-using, bathing, meat-eating hippie in my old age. To be continued, I suppose.

Back on point, I'm interested specifically in determining whether I can meditate to rock music, cause I'm just too much of a self-conscious music snob to be down with listening to the sound of waves gently lapping at a shore while I meditate. I'd like to think that when I listen to certain kinds of non-ambient music—from acoustic blues-folk like John Fahey and spooky art-folk like Movietone to hypnotic neo-psychedlic rock like Dead Meadow or abrasive Daydream Nation-era Sonic Youth—I'm able to reach a sort of inner stillness. Through my mind's devotion to the sounds emanating from the headphones, I'm able to lose my grasp on other common thoughts, and in doing so create a mental environment that one would equate on a surface level with the act of meditation.

Certain forms of rock music do seem to allow me to "escape" from my current mental environment, to relinquish whatever thoughts I might be consumed with at that moment and turn off my brain. When I was younger I used to listen to music through headphones every night as I was attempting to fall asleep. For some, this would only stimulate their brain and prevent the necessary shutdown that gives way to sleep. But for me, it worked like a novel aphrodisiac, slowing down my thoughts to the point that I could simply become consumed in the music I was listening to. The relaxation that resulted would send me off to sleep in a swift fashion.

While I haven't spent much time thinking about it until now, I wonder if what was happening to me at that moment could be deemed quite similar to meditation. More importantly, I wonder if it's possible to successfully meditate to non-ambient music, in specific rock music. My brief stint spent researching the topic hasn't proven this assumption to be accurate. But, I'm not giving up hope just yet. I want to believe that I can meditate to music, and do it on my own terms. Of course, I also want to believe that hippies are so Urbana, and I'm so Champaign. This sure is a fine tight rope I walk.

Wow. Hanging with the family for two whole days doesn’t get any easier even as I grow older and supposedly more mature. But, after 20-some games of euchre, enough dessert to feed an infantry unit, a viewing of the Jim Carrey Grinch remake (for the kids), and a Turkey dinner, I’ve survived to return to my disheveled apartment. Coming along with me for the ride back to Champaign was a new 10.5-gallon, stainless steel, flip-lid, step-can for the kitchen (a nice find by M), a few vintage shirts (25 year-old Sears button downs courtesy of my dad) and I regret to say none of M’s tasty pumpkin cake (no, not pie, cake…even better!). So, there you have it.

There will be plenty of talk of music in the coming days, as I’ve got a lot of stuff to blab on about. And, there’s that pesky “Best of 2005” list that continues to loom over my head. Plus, some reviews due for the next issue of Skyscraper.

But, but, but, first there’s some genuine thanks that I need to extend (after all—it’s that time of the year) to my friends—all of you scattered about the country that I speak to far too infrequently because I’m lazy and busy and busily lazy and just plain poor at that whole spoken-word conversation thing. Thanks for, well, being a good bunch of people, I suppose. For most of us—from Zac to Mary to Fred to Amy—we've shared at leat one thing in common: our love of music. Music has been good to us, for the most part, and we've propped its ass up on more than a few occasions with 400-mile roundtrips to concerts or by devoting way too much money (and in some cases guitar strings) to this philanthropic cause that is our lifeblood.

Anyway, hopefully my rambling about music will show you that no matter how fucking bizarre (or normal) my life becomes, I'm still going to need to rest upon my musical laurels from time to time to achieve some sense of sanity. And in resting on those laurels, my thoughts will also turn to you...to shared experiences that we've enjoyed in the past and possibly to what could become of the future. To me, music and you are linked, even if I don't bring that up all too often. Many of my greatest moments are directly alligned with some of my fondest musical memories, like the night I almost got up the courage to hook up with M after an amazing Wilco concert, or the time I skipped school and drove to Iowa with Jon and Mary to catch Nirvana playing in a gymnasium. So, friends, remember that I do think about you, even if I'm a bastard that doesn't return phone calls or breaks plans on a whim. It's the thought that counts, right?

Tonight, I’m especially thankful that a pair of my friends are still among the living this weekend. They were involved in a nasty auto accident on Wednesday and were quite lucky to have come out of it with only a totaled car. So, remember to take good care of yourself over the holidays… I need to keep the few readers I already have right here with me.

Mr. Joe Prokop, the sexy beast. 

So, The Blackouts did indeed make an appearance on WFMU this week, which of course I completely forgot about. Lucky for me, there's an archive of the show posted on Three Chord Monte's site. Listen to the RealPlayer version, as you can fast-forward that one. You want to go to about the one-hour, fiften-minute mark to catch the beginning of their set. The sound quality on the RealPlayer version just doesn't come anywhere close to matching the intensity of their actual live show, but you can still get a good sense for what they're all about. And they're playing mostly new songs that haven't been released yet.

I'll be without the world wide web for the next couple days in good ol' Canton, Illinois, with the family. Enjoy your Turkey Day. Remember: mashed potatoes and gravy never taste as good the second time around, so eat an extra helping the first time around.

A nifty introduction to this series is provided here.

C-Clamp—a now-defunct, ex-Champaign-Urbana band—is tucked away on the shelf in-between the Buzzcock’s Operators Manual and John Cale’s Fear.

I got my first taste of C-Clamp well before I moved to Champaign when I picked up what I believe to be their first recording, the self-released “Passing/Fox & the Hound” seven-inch, in May of 1995. Oddly enough, I didn’t buy the record in C-U; rather, I got it from Reckless on Broadway and Belmont in Chicago. The Reckless sticker on the sleeve reads: “Chicago band plays low key angular pop in a Seam or Codeine style. Features member of Steak Daddy Six.”

I really miss the days when I used to spend a good chunk of change on seven inches. What a great, inexpensive way to discover new bands. And those stickers that Reckless slapped on everything were quite helpful in building hype for whatever single I happened to be fawning over. Nowadays I don’t spend a dime on singles. Most bands don’t bother with them anymore because most labels don’t want to front the cash to press a single when pressing a full-length CD is more cost-effective. And sadly, all of my seven inches are now stored in the closet, out of sight and often out of mind.

But, I did listen to this particular single tonight to see if my memory was correct. Both of the single’s songs also appear on C-Clamp’s debut album, Meander and Return, which is what I’m actually going to discuss at greater length here. I recall that I preferred the single’s versions of each song, and in retrospect I can’t quite place why that was. Maybe it was the fact that I heard the original versions first, and possibly I just fell in love with the vinyl's more “raw” production values. At any rate, I don’t see how it much matters now.




So, lets move on to Meander and Return. At the time of its release in late 1995, I thought C-Clamp was a pretty unique band. Sure, they did have a melodic, clean-tone sound reminiscent of Seam. And, to a lesser extent I suppose they also sounded a bit like Codeine. So, the Reckless sticker was accurate. But more so than either of those bands, C-Clamp seemed to relish in rocking and rolling. That was due in no small part to Nick Macri’s round, energetic bass tone (a precursor to Dianogah for certain) and Frantz Etienne’s spectacular, soulful, atmospheric drumming. Etienne was truly a monster behind the kit, sort of like rock’s version of Elvin Jones (which had nothing to do with the fact that he too was Black, and everything to do with his ability to use his drum kit in both a rhythmic and melodic sense). Still today he remains one of my favorite drummers to witness in the flesh. Too bad he’s no longer active, to my knowledge.

It’s hard to place C-Clamp anywhere but in the slow-core camp. But unlike a lot of the bands often lumped into that movement, C-Clamp borrowed a lot of texture—especially in the form of feedback—from the shoegazer movement and their friends in HUM. Actually, listening to this record now, I hear a decent amount of early Starflyer 59 in the band’s sound, too.

Another determining factor in differentiating C-Clamp from bands like Low and Bedhead was their obsession with obtuse melodies and angular riffs, much of which can be credited to Tom Fitzgerald’s songwriting. Fitzgerald’s elaborate, irregular guitar playing would not prove easy for anyone to sing over the top of; luckily for that anyone, Fitzgerald had the job of attempting to do just that. His vocal lines often sounded like abstract painting looked—broad brush strokes juxtaposed against a busy background. He definitely wasn’t constructing vocal leads with a killer hook in mind. And that was yet another reason why I was fascinated by C-Clamp’s complex web of intrigue. To think, the band claimed their songs were “simply pop songs that require a little patience.” Ha!

Vocals and all this talk of slowcore aside, my favorite C-Clamp song remains the instrumental “Fox and the Hound,” which sounds more in line with Slint or Hoover. The version on the album is drenched in distortion and thus rocks a bit heavier than the seven-inch version. The rhythmic guitar line that lays the song’s foundation bounces around like an acrobat on amphetamines so much so that I have a hard time figuring out exactly what time signature the band is playing in. (Anyone that has this album wanna figure it out for me? Maybe it’s just 4/4, who knows?) This song strikes an emotional nerve with direct force, more so than any other song on the record.

Meander and Return was Ohio Gold’s first release. They went on to release records by Dianogah, The Zincs, and Pinebender, as well as another C-Clamp full-length, Longer Waves. C-Clamp gained some notice overseas when the British label Che Records nabbed a song of theirs for a 1996 compilation entitled Disco Sucks, which also features The Delgados, Fuxa, Bardo Pond, Merzbow, Windy & Carl, and others. I presume that Parasol Records might still have a copy or two of Meander and Return for sale, considering that Nick Macri used to work for them and all. If not, I’m sure they’ll know whom to speak with about getting yourself a copy. As for me, I’m keeping mine.

I actually interviewed Nick on behalf of C-Clamp in or around 1996 when I was still “publishing” my zine. He was in the process of moving up to Chicago at the time. But, I never finished that particular issue and the interview is sadly lost. I do recall him telling me something about a kitty cat that liked to piss on Frantz’s drums, though. Hmmm…maybe my memory isn’t so good.

I do remember that Nick, who was previously in Steakdaddy Six, did go on to play with Heroic Doses and possibly in Euphone's live band. But that's about as good as my memory gets.

"Winning the peace" in Iraq was a continual talking point in the presidential debates and the dialogue that surrounded them. But yet, many Americans don't understand just what "winning the peace" means. Sure, we have to have a trained Iraqi army and police force that supports our desires. Yes, we need to have an Iraqi-led governing force that is strong enough to keep the peace. These are basic concepts that are easy to grasp.

But, in retrospect, not enough thought was given as to why the Iraqi army decided to lay down their guns, which led to our quick "Mission Accomplished" proclomation. Looking back now, as this informative first-person account on Salon does, it's obvious that we lied to the Iraqi army in convincing them to surrender, and as a result shot ourselves in the foot (over and over and over again). If only we had used some common sense at the time—which unfortunately seems to be the recurring theme with this administration—and actually gave the Iraqis a chance to share their opinions and goals, we might have been able to circumvent a good deal of the chaos we've since created. Sad, but true.

By now you've probably read about (and probably viewed) the recent shooting of an unarmed, injured Iraqi insurgent prisoner by a U.S. Marine. Well, the reporter that captured the murder on video has finally posted his thoughts on his blog. And it's a truly moving account.

The best concerts all have one thing in common: they leave the listener feeling invigorated, reinvented, and giddy as a six year-old who receives the square of birthday cake with the biggest slab of icing on top. The best live bands have that ability to tear down walls (pardon the cliche) between the audience and band. You know what I'm talking about—that imaginary "fourth wall" that allows the audience to peak in on the party. Some bands are better than others at creating a communal sense of excitement at their concerts. Essentially, some reveal more than others; some feature peakholes, while others just swing the front door wide open and let the audience sleep on their couch.

There are plenty of tactics that bands will use to tear down that wall, from actually going into the audience (ala the old grunge fave "the stagedive") to simply slapping some skin or allowing the audience (the "hot" ones at least) to come up on stage and boogie. But, it's a rare feat to discover a band that can break down that wall with wrecking ball-like intensity without resorting to well-worn tricks of the trade. Last night, I found one.

The Arcade Fire put on the best show of the year as far as I'm concerned. Forces both seen and unseen united to create a special night. For starters, the concert was supposed to be held in an all-ages coffee house. I think coffee houses are obviously great for coffee (if you drink the filthy brew) and studying and yapping with friends and reading the paper. They are not well-served as a venue, however. (Unless we're talking about Joe Schmoe playing some songs he wrote on his acoustic guitar.) I like beer with my bands. And I like my bands on an elevated, well-lit stage backed by a great-sounding P.A. So, luckily, due to "overwhelming demand for tickets" the show was moved to a proper venue, The Highdive.

For those non-locals among us, The Highdive was once considered to be the savior of the rock and roll scene in Champaign-Urbana when it opened five-plus years ago. It was a 450-capacity venue that was appealing to both the eyes and ears. Not only did the promoter bring in great bands that weren't receiving the opportunity to play in town otherwise, but he was doing so on a regular basis. Well, time, circumstances and reality have changed some of that. Now, there are other, smaller venues that fill that niche, and The Highdive is primarily a DJ/dance venue that hosts the occasional touring band of note.

So, seeing The Arcade Fire at The Highdive brought back all these wonderful memories of old. I think the club itself had a good fucking time last night. The exposed brick walls were happy to shake free a little dirt and the lights were pleased to be coordinated to a kick drum instead of a Xtina album and the stage was overjoyed to hold an upright bass, steel drums and an accordian instead of forty sorority girls showing off their shoulder blades.

And the crowd was definitely having a good time as well. After witnessing The Arcade Fire's hyped live show (supposedly they were signed on the strength of their live show) myself, it takes some definite doing on the part of the audience to not have fun at one of their shows. The band simply bursts with energy and emotion and reckless we-don't-give-a-hoot-whether-you-
dig-us-or-not-cause-we're-rocking-the-party-anyhow attitude.

The group's live set put into motion some influences that aren't as readily apparent on the record, namely the Talking Heads (whom they covered), Neutral Milk Hotel and the Flaiming Lips. I already had a Yo La Tengo-meets-Broken Social Scene vibe from the band's debut album. But what they do on a raised platform transcends simple indie rock conventions to elevate the band to a truly unrestricted status. My friend Chris—who dislikes their name—says the "arcade" portion of their title is fitting because the band resembles a carnival on stage. They were having FUN; but more so, they effortlessly constructed a communal atmosphere. Not only were the band members swapping instruments between songs, but the entire group seemed to shout out the background vocals. There was an unruly energy that possessed the band and was left totally unchecked throughout their set. Percussionists pounded the stage floor, the mic stands, the monitors, each other, tambourines, Civil War-styled marching drums, sleigh bells ... basically anything capable of producing a noise regardless of whether it was bolted down or not. In this sense, The Arcade Fire reminded me of Neutral Milk Hotel's live backing group, a ragtag Salvation Army-styled band full of bruised horns and strange instruments culled from the attic of an eighth-grade music instructor. The Arcade Fire could have just as easily been peddling for change on a street corner.

The celebratory atmosphere also reminded me of my experiences seeing The Flaming Lips. While the crowd was never doused in confetti and there was no fake (or real) blood to be seen, The Arcade Fire seemed intent on forcing their exuberance onto the crowd, and the audience seemed more than willing to accept the gift. The mood fell short of bedlam, for certain; but then again, convincing aging indie rockers to stand (instead of sit) at a concert might be as much movement as one can expect at a concert of this ilk.

Just as the group's album inspires a sort of restless optimism, their live show also capitalizes on that sensation, but with a greater urgency and without sacrificing any of the album's textured pleasantries. Even though it was clear that the lead singer's voice was worn and weary, his supporting cast was more than able to make up for any imperfections with a rousing performance. And whether we're discussing baseball, bands or the affairs of state, I think we can all agree that it's those that wholly accept the concept of winning as a team that have the greatest chance of ultimate success. The Arcade Fire are quite familiar with that concept.

They also paid dues—rightfully so—to The Blackouts, who rose to the occasion and put on one of their best sets of recent memory. It's too bad the rest of you out there in cyberspace won't have the opportunity to witness this one-two punch for yourselves. But I suspect that your opportunity to see The Blackouts on a stage near you will be coming soon enough.

At the end of every year, as Novemeber gives way to December, I begin to draw up my list of favorite records from that year. It's a common task that any music critic with a big mouth (and lets face it, that's every one of them) gets excited about completing. For me, that means a mad scramble about this time of the year to round up records from the current year that I've procrastinated over purchasing. It's not just about wanting to ensure that my list passes my own test. In tune with the theme of the holidays, I also want to share my favorite songs with (force my shitty opinions on) my friends (anyone that's willing to accept a free mix).

This year is no exception. There's still a few releases—like the new Jonathan Richman album, for example—that I need to hear. But, I can scratch one record off my list thanks to a recent trip to Parasol Records: The Soft Pink Truth's Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Soft Pink Truth?


The Soft Pink Truth 

Those keen music nerds out there will get the joke in the title; it's a play off the title of an old Minutemen song that appears on Double Nickels on the Dime. The wordy adaptation is appropriate for The Soft Pink Truth's second album, a collection of old punk covers. The Minutemen number doesn't actually appear on the album, but songs from The Angry Samoans, The Swell Maps, Minor Threat, Crass, Die Kreuzen and others do.

Now, a punk covers album certainly isn't a novel concept. But The Soft Pink Truth is a novel band, which is why the project comes off as a stunning success. The group is essentially one man: Drew Daniel, one-half of electronic cut-up artist Matmos. Daniel redesigns these guitar-based originals as booty-bass techno songs that have been beat up by Aphex Twin. The Soft Pink Truth has really gotta be heard to be appreciated. I don't think I can do his cover of Crass' "Do They Owe Us a Living?" justice, outside of suggesting that if you've never felt like shaking your skinny white ass on a dance floor while listening to Crass, then Daniel's revamp might just do the trick.

Daniel is a genius at re-envisioning these songs without stripping them entirely of their flesh. Yes, Minor Threat's "Out of Step" sounds a bit odd recast with a woman's voice and a bouncing ball bass line, but the song still retains a good deal of its aggression even with a playful overhaul and more than a hint of irony.

The Soft Pink Truth does serve a particular agenda on this album. Sexual politics play a big role in shaping the album's roster of songs. (Hence we get "Confession" by Nervous Gender which includes the lyric "Jesus was a cock-sucking Jew from Galilee. Jesus was just like me: a homosexual nymphomaniac.") Hearing all of these traditional punk-rock songs setting the dance floor ablaze with filthy, frenetic beats creates some sexual tension that's not dissimilar from potty-mouth Peaches.

For that reason alone, The Soft Pink Truth may not be everyone's cup of tea. But, I haven't heard another record this year as brilliantly ballsy as Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Soft Pink Truth? It's going on my Top 10 list for sure, even if it looks a little odd next to My Morning Jacket, Joanna Newsom and Dungen.

Over the past month I purchased two EPs by local Champaign-Urbana bands that couldn’t have less to do with each other if they tried even a smidgeon harder. The first is by The Situation, the three “Lukes”—Luke Walker, Damon Luke Wilson and Matt “Luke” Filippo. The second is by American Minor—no Lukes involved, but there’s a Bruno and a Bud. The first is a self-released “demo” of suspect recording quality. The second is a major-label release (sporting a fancy FBI anti-piracy warning on the back!) of superior recording quality. The first sports no guest appearances; the second features Heartbreaker Benmont Tench on Hammond and Wurlitzer. The artwork for the first is crude in design and printed on Kinko’s-quality paper; it’s a homemade job. The second comes packaged in one of those presumably eco-friendly cardboard gatefolds and utilizes fonts that don’t come pre-installed on your Dell.

But when I said that the two couldn’t be further apart, I meant not only in terms of presentation and representation, but also within their respective genre. Both four-song EPs are loosely affiliated to the blues-rock genre. But they don’t sound anything alike.

We’ll start with the self-titled debut from The Situation, a brawling trio that reminds me of the bastard child of Spacemen 3—minus all of the psychedelia—and the Immortal Lee County Killers. “The First Excitement” sports a bitchin’ crunchy blues-punk wallop that veers into a classic Sonic Youth-like rumble over what I would call the bridge (which also serves as the introduction). The song is without a true chorus, though, to the song’s ultimate defeat. “Why’d You Come to Me” features Walker’s splendid slide guitar lead in a more traditional dirty blues number that recalls the modern flavor of Dan Melchior’s Broke Revue and to a lesser degree the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. Walker’s vocals—raw and tortured and full of energy—are pushed to the fore on this song. He’s no crooner, nor is he going to win any awards for “Best Male Vocalist,” but Walker’s voice fits the style appropriately and when he delivers a passage with confidence it suits his songs well.

“This Rabbit Hole” continues to place the emphasis on the Lee County Killers tip with another helping of amplified slide guitar set to stomping rhythms. The bass is a bit buried in the mix, but these guys clearly keep the rhythm in their blues. Whether he’s banging the fuck out of his tom or executing his snare drum with rapid-fire hits, Wilson’s drumming maintains the group’s muscular physique while also adding an interesting counterpoint to the guitar-bass line.

The clincher is “New Closer,” a heavy, grumbling bruiser that finds The Situation furiously digging up dead people by the moon’s steady light like a desperate, estranged widow after the family’s lone heirloom. Wilson attacks the drums with Todd Trainer-like intensity and precision before the band segues into a brutal and brief neck-breaking section that sounds like Helmet-gone-blues.

These guys definitely have the heavy-hitting punk-blooze hybrid down pat, and musicianship is hardly an issue. Now, they just need to work on crafting their songs a bit more and in doing so developing a style more suggestive of their own personality. Expanding their sonic vocabulary a bit and varying the vocal delivery would give their sound some needed range. But overall, this is a promising debut—warts and all—that was well worth the price of admission, a measly three bucks.

I spent twice as much to get a look-see at American Minor’s long-time-coming recorded debut, The Buffalo Creek EP. But, you gotta pay for the studio time somehow. In all seriousness, I can’t think of another local band that has morphed more in the course of a year-and-a-half than these guys. Of course, any time a band goes through a lead guitarist it’s going to affect their sound to some degree. But these guys also know more than a thing or two about crafting their tunes. American Minor continually fiddles with their songs, even when simply leaving well-enough alone would seem like a great fucking tune to the pedestrian listener. (It’s hard to recognize “Get On It,” my old fave that is presented here after major cosmetic surgery.) I suppose that quest for perfection comes from concentrating specifically on a handful of songs and jamming non-stop day after day. But these guys also have an ear for arrangements, which comes from spending their formative years listening to masters like Big Star and The Faces.


American Minor  

“Walk On” is a commanding, straightforward opener that sheds light on one of this band’s keys to success. American Minor has got that knack for choosing irresistible chord progressions. Sounds simple enough, but it’s a gift that seems to elude so many of their peers. Bluesy, “southern” rock and roll is utterly dependent on the almighty riff, and that riff is naturally built on the chords themselves. But beyond just the guitar tabs—and it’s clear that new guitarist Bud Carroll is a bit of an Einstein on the fret board—singer Rob McCutcheon has got it going on. He sounds confident, sexy, and absolutely alive on this particular recording. And the magic dust he shakes free of his shaggy hair settles on the rest of the band like a security blanket. There’s no denying that American Minor ain’t fucking around here.

It’s a great start to the EP, and I’m also sold on the follow-up, “Buffalo Creek,” the record’s namesake. The only obvious downfall is the guitar solo at the song’s start (and middle) that sounds very ‘80s in that “hey listen to me I fuckin’ rock” kinda way. Carroll’s tone is so clean and his solo so wailin’ that it automatically calls to mind arena rockers of past and an audience full of flickering Bics. For this particular song—which eloquently paints the picture of desolation row, red-state style—it just works against the blue-collar theme. But I dig the gritty, tough guitar riff, the smart use of backing vocals, the textured guitar overlay during the second part of each verse and Knox’s plodding cowbell. And the mellow, melodic bridge in which McCutcheon sings “I lost my momma / I lost my kin / in the black black river / It makes a man shiver / again and again and again”. Here the band walks a thin line, showing vulnerability in its desire for sensitivity. Ultimately, the introspective sidebar comes across as genuine, not hokey, which is no easy task.

Critics that are hoping to find a "sounds-like" for American Minor in Kings of Leon or The Black Keys will ultimately be disappointed—or if they dare to anyway, then laughed at behind their back. American Minor don't sound like either, despite the likelihood of all three being lumped under the "southern rock" banner. Where the Kings of Leon tend to keep things stupid simple in an attempt to not muck things up, American Minor seems to welcome the challenge of building a better song.

But that’s not to say they aren’t capable of misfiring. “Movin’ On Up” is the band’s first recorded misstep. It’s a weaker song that at times crosses over into misguided white-boy blues territory. “Movin’ On Up” also brings up another complaint I have with this EP, which is the production. The record sounds too polished, like someone emptied a can of lemon-scented Pledge on a 30-year-old, lacquer-less coffee table in the hopes of giving it a fresh look to impress the parents-in-law. Traditional, blues-based rock and roll gets by on its guts; it provides the listener with a slice of life that’s cut from a familiar fabric. The curtains match the rug, and there’s no effort made to conceal the stains or sunspots. Considering how many times I’ve seen these guys put the pedal to the floor on stage, I know they can keep a listener’s interest without needing to put on their Sunday best.

Which brings me to “Get On It,” which as I said before used to be my favorite American Minor song. But this version is a stranger to me. And I don’t think I want to get too friendly with it either. This might be an example of thinking too hard about something that comes as natural as can be; they took a song originally overflowing with vitriol and stripped it of much of its brute force, giving it a lyrical overhaul and lessening the intensity of the vocals to boot. And that just saddens me. This version definitely sounds more radio-ready, but it would get its ass kicked at the schoolyard by the old school edition.

Despite all the cosmetic differences between American Minor v. 2.0 and the American Minor I was introduced to two years ago, I still feel the same way about these guys as I always have. At the core, the songwriting is top-notch and the band just has a knack for identifying with the lowest common denominator. Subject mater alone would dictate that this band is going to be an easy read for Average Joe American. Even though the band endorsed John Kerry, they’re far more likely to serve as a sounding-off board for those simpleton American folk proud of the gun rack hanging up in the rear window of their Ford F-150. That’s not to say that American Minor is stooping too low on this album; rather, they know their roots, and that’s what they deliver with stunning accuracy. Unlike a good deal of us, they aren’t ashamed of where they came from…and I suspect, where they’re headed, either. More power to ‘em.

Beatnik Filmstars' Beezer 

Introduction provided here.

Beatnik Filmstars' Beezer lives on a shelf inbetween The Beach Boys' Sunflower/Surf's Up and Beat Happening's Jamboree.

It's been, oh, say nine freaking years since I first discovered this quirky little British band via a seven inch released in 1995 titled "Bigot Sponger Haircut Policy". How could I pass up a nugget like that: Beatnik Filmstar's "Bigot Sponger Haircut Policy"? It all sounded deliciously Pavement-esque, and yipee kai yay was I not let down in that department. I remember listening to the A-side of that seven inch over and over and over again on my nifty Technics turntable (passed down to me by my brother), which featured a handy endless repeat function. "Bigot Sponger" the song alternates between hyper-active guitar babble (like the Wedding Present sped up 40 bpm) and a slow, chug-a-chug chorus. Over the top of it all is meandering, wacky lead guitar and singer Andrew Jarrett's dry musings:

Have you ever felt really happy?
I wanna know—what does it feel like?
Will I notice if it happens to me,
if it happens to me overnight?

...Cause I feel so...dead.

I know, it doesn't sound particularly cool, does it? But fuck, was I high on this oddball song, which also appears on Beezer, a collection of the group's early singles and out-takes. I think I was just excited to hear a British band that had obviously taken a few pointers from Slanted and Enchanted. Of course, what I didn't truly realize at the time was that both bands were just jumping on The Fall's bandwagon.

Anyway, Beezer draws almost equally upon the jagged pop sensibilities of Wire, vintage Guided By Voices, elder Boo Radleys and Boyracer as it does The Fall. Still, much of this album does indeed sound like a Pavement parody (even the packaging is remniscent). But, a good song is a good song is a good song. And many of the 23 tracks on this album are just that. As a young band free from any overarching definition of what they hoped to accomplish, Beatnik Filmstars ended up achieving plenty. While this was released domestically in early 1996 on Slumberland, the band would move on to greener pastures with a pair of releases on Merge before calling it quits—I believe—around 1999.

I still have the "Bigot Sponger Haircut Policy" seven inch, so I suppose I could part with this full-length. But seriously folks, what's the eBay market value for this? Five bucks? I think I'll hold onto this one for awhile longer, even though I don't really find myself in the mood to listen to dysfunctional indie rock drenched in white noise all that often anymore. Who knows...maybe in five years I'll find myself coming full circle, and damn will I be glad I held onto Beatnik Filmstars then.

Random thoughts that accumulated over my lunch hour, spent surfing the web at the office:

• Some wicked bad news from Insurgent Iraq, which continues to be a wellspring of chaos. I don't even know where to begin, so just read it. Money quote: "US-installed CIA asset Iyad Allawi, the 'prime minister,' said he was sure there had been no civilian casualties in Fallujah."

• My recent ramblings about Wilco on "the morning after" appear to be dead-on in retrospect. Like so many other bands, Wilco, possibly thinking of their concerts as a cathartic experience for both band and audience, has chosen to remain vocal post-election. An observer at the band's recent San Fran show found frontman Jeff Tweedy as witty as ever:

"Thanks for all the requests," [Tweedy] said to an electrified crowd after the band rocked through a couple opening numbers. "We'll probably play 73 percent of them. And that's not an exit poll. That's an exact count."

Wilco finished their two-hour-plus set with a cover of Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper", set to a backdrop of a smirking Dubya.

• Pop Matter's Adrien Begrand enjoys a walk down memory lane with a lengthy review of Pavement's recently reissued masterpiece Crooked Rain Crooked Rain. Read the review here. The entire second disc of the reissue features unreleased songs, most alternate recordings and demos of songs from Crooked Rain, some of which feature original drummer Gary Young. The best thing about the reissue as far as I'm concerned is the inclusion of the "Gold Soundz" 7" b-side "Strings of Nashville". (My original vinyl copy skips a couple times.) "Nashville" is by far the weirdest song Pavement ever recorded—a mellow, druggy, country ballad. And there's even an additional instrumental version included here to boot!

While we're on the subject of Pavement reissues, if you havne't picked up Matador's reissue of Slanted and Enchanted, you most definitely should. Like the Crooked Rain reissue, Slanted's version features a ton of extra goodies including a brilliant version of "Here" from the band's first Peel Session. Malkmus thinks the band has more than enough material to do a similar reissue for Wowee Zowee when it hits its ten-year anniversary mark in 2005.

• As if the news of Condi Rice replacing Colin Powell isn't sad enough, Arab TV network Al Jazeera has received a video tape confirming the death of a hostage, believed to be British aid worker Margaret Hassan. Hassan had fallen out of the headlines as of late, with the U.S. elections and the Fallujah attacks; this news comes as a somber reminder of the civilian death toll of this war, which some sources place at over 100,000. Read more at the Times.

As for Al Jazeera, I'd recommend a screening of the documentary Control Room. Melissa and I watched it last weekend, and it truly paints a gloomy picture of the war in Iraq, the upstart Al Jazeera, America's poor, partisan media coverage, and Bush's attempts to enforce "mum's the word" on everyone carrying a tape recorder, video camera, pen and paper or megaphone.

• Check out the vibrant writing in Jon Wright's new blog, Unfinished Novellas. Those of you in the central Illinois area may remember Jon as the man who brought The Jesus Lizard, Fugazi, Man or Astro-Man?, Tortoise and countless other amazing bands to Peoria in the mid-'90s. Jon and his 7,000 LPs now reside in Denver, way too far away from this fellow Naked Bum. Jon and I go back a loooooong time, and could probably fill up a blog or two with our childhood tales. But I'm not sure the world wide web is ready to laugh its collective ass off just yet. Better save those stories—and the accompanying embarrassment—for some other time. But please check out his site. If you think I have obscure taste in music, you ain't seen nothing yet.

• Finally, Champaign faves The Blackouts, recent signees to Chicago's Minty Fresh label, are recording a live set for Jersey-NYC radio station WFMU. The set will be aired next Tuesday, Nov. 23 on the rock and roll variety show "Three Chord Monte". The show runs from 11am-2pm (central time), with the live band usually appearing during the final hour. Listen in on the web. The band is currently on tour with fellow C-U natives The Headlights. The pair will be opening for Arcade Fire in Urbana upon returning from tour on the 21st of November. I suggest you be there so as not to be square.

I found out about this from the blog Daily KOS, a watchdog site that's a great daily read if you're interested in political reform and issues affecting the Dems.

The following is the meat and potatoes from the Newsday story.

WASHINGTON -- The White House has ordered the new CIA director, Porter Goss, to purge the agency of officers believed to have been disloyal to President George W. Bush or of leaking damaging information to the media about the conduct of the Iraq war and the hunt for Osama bin Laden, according to knowledgeable sources. "The agency is being purged on instructions from the White House," said a former senior CIA official who maintains close ties to both the agency and to the White House. "Goss was given instructions ... to get rid of those soft leakers and liberal Democrats. The CIA is looked on by the White House as a hotbed of liberals and people who have been obstructing the president's agenda."

If there's truth to this story, I'm sure the blogs will be all over this in the coming days. I sincerely hope that our nation's government has not fallen this far off the deep end. If so, I might actually join others in seeking refuge in the Great White North. Poor circulation and a distate for scarves aside, I'm willing to sacrifice some climate for a little more sanity from my nation's gov. But before we all jump to conclusions, check out this Salon article for a good read on Canada's political climate from a former American living in BC. (Gotta watch a quick advert first, but it's worth the brief wait.)

My guess is, probably the same as it did at 20, but with some of the fun factor sucked out through a colostomy bag. Joining in line behind other late-'70s British art-punkers that have recently reformed (Wire, Buzzcocks), the original, like-old Gang of Four have announced that they're reforming to share a stage for the first time in 24 years. They'll play a handful of UK dates in early January. Read more about it here.

I've spent random evenings over the past two months attempting to re-organize my records and CDs into alphabetical order. I'm disorganized as it is, more likely to listen to an album and leave it sitting on top of the receiver than I am to file it back on the shelf when I'm finished with it. That trait, combined with my off-and-on DJing at local bars over the past two years and the recent Great Furniture Consolidation that occurred when my girlfriend moved in, has left my record collection in a state of disarray. Enter a fantastic new shelving system from IKEA for my CDs, and I've got some motivation for re-organizing my albums so that I can actually find something when I want to listen to it.

In the process of doing this great re-organization, I've turned up quite a few long-neglected albums that are begging for some attention. So, I'm starting this sporadic column as an excuse to revisit past affairs, some fleeting and others drawn out. We'll stick to the alphabetical theme, and begin with CDs before eventually moving on to records (and maybe seven-inchers too?).

Possibly I'll rediscover some long-lost loves along the way. If not, I'll at least find some stuff worth donating to an eBay auction. As anyone that has a large record collection can attest to—and as my parents have always been quick to suggest—it can be easy to go a looong time inbetween listens when it comes to certain albums. Like, say, several years. Especially for those fringe records that are truly great, but don't really fulfill an everday purpose. Those who know me best will tell you that I love proving my parents wrong. So, mom and dad, yes I do need all these records, because as you see, I just never know when the urge to listen to EPMD's Business As Usual will strike again.

See below for the first installment.

Acetone's self-titled release. 

Located between A Certain Ratio's Early and The Action's Rolled Gold is Acetone, who signed to Virgin Records subsidiary Vernon Yard in 1993, about the same time as Low. The two bands certainly share a similar vibe, even though Acetone is much more of a roots-rock band than Low. After releasing their second album in 1996 for Vernon Yard, the band was dropped. They resurfaced the following year with a new self-titled release on Vapor Records, a subsidiary of Reprise. This is the lone Acetone record that I have, and the lone Acetone record that I've heard.

Acetone wasn't reviewed too favorably by the media, and if memory serves didn't sell too well, either. Listening to it now, I can certainly see why. There's a smokey, sullen ambiance that lingers throughout the album. Acetone sounds simply disillusioned on this release, which is probably why I really liked them at the time while most others didn't. To say that this release was out of touch with pop culture is an understatement, as the group favors an odd hodgepodge of Velvet Underground's mellower, looser moments and Gram Parson's more introspective side—sort-of a Pavement-gone-country aesthetic. There was definitely no radio potential to be found here.

Singer/bassist Richie Lee is hardly what I'd call an engaging singer, despite his occasional attempts at gloom and doom (that were foreboding, apparently, as he committed suicide in 2001). But, his California-cool attitude oozes throughout his songwriting and singing, and ultimately provides Acetone with their standoffish posturing. I wouldn't call Acetone essential listenting, but I'm not coughing up my copy anytime soon regardless.

It's 3 p.m., and for the past hour I've been struggling to avoid smacking into that wall. I'm certain that this feeling is not unique to me: the post-lunch, mid-afternoon haze, otherwise known as the trying-ever-so-hard-to-stay-awake daze. I used to make fun of my homemaker mother for taking an afternoon nap. But, at the age of 28, I spend a good deal of my afternoon at work slumping deeper into my chair, wishing that I was working in a foreign country that appreciated the value of a good siesta. And if I'm lucky enough to make it through the afternoon without losing steam, I know that the comfy sofa will surely suck out whatever energy remains in my body by 7 p.m. To complicate matters worse, this whole daylight-savings scheme that causes night to fall before the five o'clock whistle blows only makes my case of the Zzzzzs all the more overwhelming.

There are potential remedies readily available to me that I do not take full advantage of. For example, I could (and should) exercise more. This I know, as it has been preached to me by loved ones and fitness magazines alike. But, I've failed to convince myself that exercising at 6 p.m. is going to help me stay awake at 3 p.m. Also, I could try coffee. Caffeine sure seems to work for a majority of Americans. But, I've never, ever, been a coffee drinker. Go ahead and stare at me with your curious glances. Study me like the rare, odd bird I am. But, I'm not into coffee. And over the past four months, I've filtered out soda from my diet as well. Plus, I'm not a smoker, either. So, I'm not doing much to enhance my chances of remaining alert and combating fatigue.

I've never been interested in prescription drugs. I'm not a big believer in correcting my chemical state through, well, additional chemicals. I've known a few people who've been addicted to prescription (and non-prescription) stimulants. So, in my ever-present paranoia, I stay the hell away from anything that could potentially give me a fix for fear of it fixing me to the point that I'm again broken. More so than the paranoia, though, I'm what the psychologists (and my parents) would call "fiercely independent". I don't want your help, and I don't need your help. And I definitely don't need to lean on a drug for support. I'm too proud for my own good.

That said, I've got to do something. I've spent the past four months at work struggling to make it through mind-numbing manuscript after manuscript. (However, it might take something a bit stronger, say someone forcing a gun to my head, to get me to finish this current one—an almost-academic study of the history of baseball sportswriting. What the fuck? I'm afraid my pride is going to whimper in the corner like a six year-old lost in a supermarket when it comes to helping me out with this book. Surely it will wisely excuse itself before finishing its edit of Chapter 13, "The Baseball Writers Rebel", as I power nap with my feet up on the desk.)

Hence, I'm interested in reading more about this expensive little pill. Anyone have any experience with it? If so, do tell.

Okay. So I need a breather from all this talk of political doom and gloom for the Dem party. What better a way to divert my attention from Karl Rove than by enjoying some fine Swedish indie pop? I don’t think it gets much more un-Evangelical, non-Red State, and immorally seductive than two pale-skinned Viking lads from the underground named Johan and Peter who want to “turn all the dance floors into a burning inferno of ‘Ba-ba’.” Am I right or am I right?

But wait! False prophets are these? This young duo has adopted the moniker Suburban Kids with Biblical Names. Fuck. Has Rove’s propaganda machine mobilized the youth of Scandinavia already? Is all this talk of Europe’s secular politics just a ploy from the liberal American media to falsely align our European brethren as allies in the fight against Bush? What in the hell is going on here?

Relax, readers. Put down your torches and pitchforks, and halt your protest marches. I’ve listened to Suburban Kids with Biblical Names’ debut EP, # 1, and I have determined it to be safe for left-leaning liberal consumption. There is nothing dangerous about these Kids, other than their sugary sweet melodies, their childish infatuation with Calvin Johnson, and Moses, their killer lapdog. Sweden poses no threat to American civil liberties. Rest easy tonight.

But before you rest—dance motherfuckers dance!


Suburban Kids with Moses, the killer lapdog. 

These suburban kids—nay, Knights of the Fey Table!—come galloping in on a horse-hoof driven drumbeat in “Trumpets and Violins”. Acoustic guitars collide with pianos and tambourines as the kids declare: “I want the trumpets and violins to play. I want revolvers and adrenaline today. I want solutions and kingdoms of love. Don’t want confusion and these black walls.” Hallelujah! If that isn’t worth crusading for then I’m not half the naïve twit I claim to be.

The vocalist—he has not yet revealed his true identity to us through liner notes or press releases, only adding to the duo’s Biblical mystique—sings in a slightly off-key baritone that reminds this scribe of Sir Calvin Johnson and Sir Stephin Merritt stripped of their rich timbre. He sings of faraway lands and the rented wrecks that will carry him there, with vitality coursing through his bulging blue veins. He sings of ripped-up letters of rejection from women who dare to listen to Joy Division, with the resigned supposition that “love will bring us down”. He sings in “do-doos” and “ba-baas” just like his proud European forefathers, the Stereolabs and Komedas.

But what separates the Suburban Kids from those artsy-fartsy rock and rollers is the group’s lo-fi charm, which sides the band with twee-poppers like Papas Fritas, Spare Snare, Tiger Trap, elder Belle & Sebastian, The Clean, Aden, The Pastels, and, yes, Beat Happening. But unlike many of their twee-pop cousins, these Kids got some attitude, dude. I half expect them to burst into an impromptu interpretation of Beat Happening’s “Bad Seeds” at any given moment.

I have no idea where these Kids—and yes, they do appear to be a bit on the young side—will go from here. They’ve only been a band since December. But let’s hope they don’t lose their knack for fucking shit up like a gang of Pavement t-shirt sporting, Polaroid-snapping, ferris wheel-riding, Chickfactor-subscribing, seven-inch collecting, orange corduroy-wearing, pillow-fighting fools.

Parasol Mail Order is distributing this Labrador (import) release. Get your copy now or die of thirst tryin’. Full length due out next year. See here or here for MP3s.

Obama the cover star. 

Okay, sorry for yet another political post. But ever since the DNC it has been U.S. Senator Barack Obama (D-Ill.) who has inspired me in times of Democratic doubt. He continues to ride a wave of positive national press with a recent cover story in Washington Monthly. The article tackles the topic of Obama's rising star and wonders if Obama can continue to be a bright light for the Dems. What I like especially is the article's evaluation of past African-Americans considered at one time as possibilities to become America's first black president, and how Obama differs from them. Read up.

...we've been led off the path once again by the media as it jumped to conclusions on how big of a role "moral issues" and the evangelical turnout played in GW's re-election. Pouncing on the 22% figure from exit polls, one media voice after another has proclaimed that Bush won because he mobilized the religious Republican core who were more concerned with moral issues—as they defined them—than the war in Iraq, the economy, the environment, health care, etc. A recent op-ed piece in The New York Times written by David Brooks is the first article I've read in which someone attempts to debunk this myth (that has already seemingly become fact).

Brooks says: "This year, the official story is that throngs of homophobic, Red America values-voters surged to the polls to put George Bush over the top. This theory certainly flatters liberals, and it is certainly wrong."

He continues: "As Andrew Kohut of the Pew Research Center points out, there was no disproportionate surge in the evangelical vote this year. Evangelicals made up the same share of the electorate this year as they did in 2000. There was no increase in the percentage of voters who are pro-life. Sixteen percent of voters said abortions should be illegal in all circumstances. There was no increase in the percentage of voters who say they pray daily."

The problem in the exit polling that has led to the misperception is awkward wording and the use of the phrase "moral values," which as we all know can mean just about anything to just about anyone. Is the environment a moral issue? Is health care for the elderly and the poor a moral issue? Is killing thousands of innocent people in a war a moral issue? Sure. Just as abortion, gay marriage and the death-penalty are moral issues as well.

Brooks concludes that Bush won this election because he improved across the board from 2000, gaining just enough in blue states and red states, among whites and blacks and hispanics, and among churchgoers and non-religious folks alike. The Republicans flat-out beat the pants off the Democrats, by some 3.5 million votes.

Blog Donkey Rising agrees, stating that Bush's largest gains came from less-religious voters, not the Evangelical bible-thumpers we've been pointing our finger at for a few days now.

I suppose this news only serves to further frustrate disconcerted Dems (or anti-Bushies) who were looking for somewhere specific to channel their rage. But the truth appears to be that we can't really blame any group in specific for Bush's victory other than Bush's re-election party itself and the nearly 60 million Americans that voted for him. And yes, those 60 mil are a tough bunch to pigeonhole, unless you want to just lump them all under "wrong". So, instead of simply channeling all the hatred to the southern Red states, why don't we keep that ire focused directly on Bush and his administration. Lets spend some energy working to defeat Republican control of our Senate and House—and of course the White House, too—instead of berating those damn Christians and their evil ways.

It's not that there's anything wrong with venting, but the time for screaming at a wall has come and gone. Enough with the name-calling already. There's work to be done!

(For those wondering what happened to the musical focus of this blog, you can rest assured that this post signals a change in focus for myself, also. It's been difficult to focus on music as of late, what with all the anger I've released. But, I hope to get back to talking about music soon.)

On my walk to work this morning it was a brisk, slightly sunny 45 degrees. The tips of my ears were frosted. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets—I hadn’t thought until today about carrying a pair of gloves. The wind—of which we have too much of on the prairie—exchanged evil glances with me the entire way here. Gone is Fall’s polite, inconspicuous entrance, and this morning that became all too clear.

I'm a hole without a key if I break my tongue
Oh, speaking of tomorrow, how will it ever come?

Kerry’s run at the Oval Office appears to be a longshot at this point. Please don’t hit me with another reference to the Red Sox’ magical defeat of the Yankees. Yes, the analogy may indeed be fitting—two differing giants with cash to burn and a fire in their bellies, one with history on his side, the other with America supposedly at his back. But even the optimist in me thinks that at this point in the Fall, New England has used up its reservoir of positive karma, elbow grease and blind luck. Sure, I hope I’m wrong—but the votes don’t lie (except, when they do…but how many lawyers does it take to prove that?).

I’ve never felt as disillusioned with America as I did this morning at about 1 a.m., when it became clear that Ohio was probably not going to go Kerry’s way. I’ve always held firm to my belief that there are more important issues in a majority of American’s lives than feeling like they could feel comfortable sitting next to the president of the country in a church pew. Do we not have more pressing needs than to reassess America’s moral core? Why do we lean so heavily on the black book?

I used to assume that Americans used religion as a social crutch, but that a good deal of church-going folks didn’t really buy into the program. Maybe they fell in love with the romantic idea of washing away their sins every Sunday, but ultimately it was the potluck that followed the 11 a.m. service that they looked forward to. For my parents, their entire circle of close friends was based solely on the church. For my mom, it meant prayer circle and quilting club and vacation bible school; for my dad it meant being a Deacon and hosting the annual weenie roast.

As I grew older and became disillusioned with church and religion entirely—I stopped attending at the age of 15, much to my parent’s chagrin, when the unanswered questions piled up—I came to terms with the fact that my parents really did believe what they were told…hook, line and sinker. Their blinders were up. They were locked in. They weren’t just in love with the concept of church. They needed to believe in the holy spirits and the parting of the sea and the ten commandments, too. They needed to believe that no matter how much they had screwed up their lives, as long as they had their faith they were sound human beings. And, I suppose, America needs to believe in a president that wears his born-again heart on his sleeve—no matter the blows to humanity his presidency inflicts.

Jesus, don't cry
You can rely on me, honey
You can come by any time you want
I'll be around
You were right about the stars
Each one is a setting sun

Sure, I realize the explanation is more complex than that. But right now I’m just filled with a whole lot of anger toward this so-called “religious right” that has created a moral dilemma that has Americans mobilizing all of a sudden.

Oddly enough, I don’t think Jesus or George Bush can patch my bitter heart. I hate a lot about my lot in life right now—the way the world around me alternates between smothering my head under a pillow and distancing itself like a cross-country lover. But, I now realize more than ever that it’s up to me to do the fixing. It’s up to me to do the caring. It’s up to me to beg for luck.

I want a good life with a nose for things
a fresh wind and bright sky to enjoy my suffering

From now on, I don’t expect the world of anyone, let alone the world itself. You hear that Alabama and Montana and Arizona and West Virginia and Florida? I don’t need your damn help anymore, and I won’t be looking over my shoulder to see if you’ve got my back. That’s my spin, and I’m sticking to it.

I would like to salute
the ashes of American flags
And all the fallen leaves
filling up shopping bags

Walking to work this morning, Wilco just seemed like the obvious choice for the mp3 player. They’re an American band, right? More specifically, they speak for the Midwest, don’t they? More than ever, I wish they did. And if The Boss doesn’t speak for (and to) small town America in the year 2004, does it mean he’s gotta turn over all those gold records from the ‘80s? I guess we’ll let him keep them. After all, he went out there and begged for some luck. And I’m no one to talk: I spent my vacation sitting on my ass when clearly I could have spent my time more wisely.

I think I’ll be turning to music even more than usual in the coming year. It’s my crutch, and damn if it hasn’t proven to be a sturdy one.