THE BLANK GENERATION

...blech.

My only fascination with The Oscars is in the get-together that my friends host in which we do an Oscars pool. This year's pot was only $60 for the winner, with $5 going to the last-place finisher. And, for the second year in a row, I finished last. (I didn't take home the money this year, though, as Tim and M both tied me and Tim then beat me on the tiebreaker. Wah-wah.)

Anyway, The Oscars suck. I mean, did anyone listen to those live musical performances and think that any of those songs deserved anything more than a flush down the toilet? I voted for the song from Motorcycle Diaries--which surprisingly won--because I enjoyed the music from that film. But Antonio Fucking Banderas and Carlos Santana went and murdered it dead on stage, holding the actual song hostage for the sake of their vein performance. (On a side note, I thought that the movie's theme, which is used in the film's trailer, was a far more deserving selection. Of course, it's an instrumental song and we all know that folks love them vocals!)

Anyway, my selections for MP3s of the week are taken from soundtracks that I enjoy. I chose songs that are exclusive to the soundtracks themselves. In doing so, I didn't really put much thought into what to select. I passed over Ennio Morricone, who is the Messiah of soundtracks, for the simple fact that you're probably already familiar with his work. Likewise, I passed on childhood favorite Cyndi Lauper and her contribution to The Goonies, "Goonies 'R' Good Enough". (C'mon, it's a great fucking song!)


The sexy Soledad Miranda, star of Vampyros Lesbos.

I selected a variety from the Vampyros Lesbos soundtrack. If that title leaves you scratching your head, it's essentially an erotic thriller, a "A Psycho-Sexadelic Horror Freakout!" if you will. Really, it's an absurd German B-movie from 1971 that's really not worth seeking out. But, the soundtrack is pretty cool. See for yourself. The music was composed by Manfred Hubler and Siegfried Schwab, and it's sort of a mixture of acid-jazz, psychedelic pop and space-age funk. (Note: the record itself features works from Vampyros Lesbos and two other films, and I can't remember if the specific songs that I pulled are actually from VL.)

I'm also featuring two songs from one of my favorite movies of all time, Midnight Cowboy. You're probably already familiar with Harry Nilsson's "Everybody's Talkin'," a cover of a Fred Neil song. But, the remainder of the soundtrack is good, too, including several songs from scorer John Barry.

Finally, here's a couple Brian Eno songs from his album Music for Films, released in 1978. The record is not among Eno's best, as it collects abstract fragments that he used in various (most likely bizarre, homo-erotic) films during the '70s. Unfortunately, the liner notes are worthless in identifying which films the songs were actually used in. But, the songs themselves are the usual instrumental curiosities that we've come to expect from Eno's mid-'70s body of work.

The songs are located in the sidebar to the right.

N/P--Suburban Kids with Biblical Names, #1 EP

I've done the grand total of nothing this weekend. Well, nothing particular to this blog, at least. On Friday I went to my first-ever NBA game and witnessed two things that I never thought I would see in person: 1) Cap'n Crunch and the Captain Morgan pirate teaming up together with Ronald McDonald to defeat a pair of inflatable Miller beer bottles and a Pepsi can in a game of three-on-three basketball; and 2) an NBA player airball a free-throw. The later distinction belongs to Washington Wizards forward Michael Ruffin, a former Chicago Bull. He completed his feat against his former team, as the Bulls beat the Wizards 97-90 at the United Center in Chicago. I received the tickets as a Christmas gift from my friend, who accompanied me to the game. I gotta say, I would never, ever, spend $45 of my own money on a ticket to sit that far from the action in a cramped seat. It's a good thing I don't suffer from vertigo, like Jimmy Stewart. (Of course, I'm not entirely convinced of how much actual suffering Stewart endured in the arms of Kim Novak.)

Saturday was a relaxing bore, although I did get to see the Oscar-nominated Scorsese flik The Aviator. Among other things, it was LONG. Methinks Scorsese, who has never won an Oscar for best director, will garner the sympathy vote tonight. Speaking of this evening, I'll be attending an Oscar party. Last year I took home last place in the Oscar pool, which may not sound like a feat, but I did win my five bucks back! Tonight I'll try to reverse the curse and go worst to first. No more going with who I want to see win, which means Paul Giamatti and Sideways won't be getting any nods from me on major categories. Wish me luck!

Later today I will try to post next week's MP3s of the Week. In honor of the Oscars, I'll be posting some of my favorite soundtrack selections of note. Ciao.

N/P--M. Ward, Transistor Radio

In Italy, apparently. He's posing under the guise of a twosome titled Jennifer Gentle. (Ring a bell, fans of Piper at the Gates of Dawn?)

If you don't believe me, listen to "Universal Daughter" from Jennifer Gentle's brand new album on Sub Pop, Valende.

Okay, Syd Barrett jokes aside--(Wait...anyone else seen this, by the way? ...It's fucking hilarious!)--Jennifer Gentle has peaked my interest. There simply are not any number of modern bands running around attempting to recreate Barrett's loopy psychedelic pop goodness. But, the song that really caught my attention from Valende wasn't so much a raping of Syd Barrett's solo material as it was an orgy of pure erotic bliss featuring The Clean, Faust, and a hodgepodge of your favorite freakbeat bands. Check this song out: "I Do Dream You". It's like a syringe dripping with pop 'n' roll heroin injected right into your bulging blue vein. Fuck! Does it get any better than that?


Jennifer Gentle

The jury is still out on the record as a whole. It's only been in my hands for a matter of hours. But, I've already listened to it four times. It's actually a varied, often mellow affair, full of much more of this--"Circles of Sorrow"--than the rabid, beat-up pop of "I Do Dream You". The mixed bag makes the record a tough study. In many ways, it reminds me of the first time I heard Clinic's Internal Wrangler, which was fascinating simply because of its revolting style. I'll post more on Valende later, but if you're as blown away as I was by the samples, you can purchase it on LP or CD here.

In the meantime, there's another record that I need to spend some time with. I can't wait!

The good ole days, when one could spin French twee pop stars Caramel on the radio.

This week, I had the opportunity to DJ on the radio for just the second time since leaving college some seven years ago. A friend of mine asked me to co-host his one-hour show. So, I spun some acid rock, Pere Ubu, and Count Five for the unsuspecting listeners of 107.1. In preparation, I spent some time looking back to my junior and senior year of school, when I DJ'ed on the college radio station at Western Illinois University, in sunny Macomb (pop. 20,000, give or take a few cops and several cows). This was long before I had adopted the moniker "The Noiseboy" for my DJ gig at the local pub.

For shits (and mostly) giggles, I broke out an old cassette of one of my college shows from 1997. It was actually entertaining in that "ah, those were the good old days" sorta way. I knew then and remember now that no one listened to my show, which was on Thursday nights from 10 to midnight. I mean, I had a few friends that would call in and pester me, but mostly I was playing to the crickets (and cows...and cops).

Still, I had a great time. Radio was my career ambition for a brief while in school. (Like, before I realized that I would one day have to work for a Clear Channel station and be forced to play the same 30 songs over and over again.) I spent a lot of time making sure that my set list changed dramatically from week to week. For the week that I listened to recently, I had quite a memorable stretch of songs. For starters, my theme song, "(The Gym Is) Neutral Territory," came from hardcore punks Lifetime. I loved the rumbling bass notes at the beginning of the song, and the attitude and lyrics fit my feelings at the time: "Why find a nice way to tell you 'you suck'? I hate your guts; you are so boring. And, if you don't stop those looks I'm gonna poke you in the eye. Who are you anyway? You think you're second to none..." Let's just say that living in Macomb wasn't my cup of tea, and that song just about summed it up.

But, my show wasn't a hardcore punk show; rather, it was a smattering of indie rock and pop. At that time, I was buying as many records from Parasol as I could afford, and supplementing that with the occasional trip to East Peoria Co-Op Records or Reckless in Chicago. I was buying A LOT of seven inches in those days, and to be able to play them on my show I had to transfer them to cart (for you non-broadcasting types, a cart is in many ways like an eight-track) since the station didn't have a functional turntable. (Some college station, eh?)

In one stretch of my set on this particular night I went from Orange Juice to XTC to Charles Bukowski (wtf?) to The Cows to Fugazi to (commercial break: Dominos!) to Apples in Stereo to Built to Spill to Versus to the Eggs. Crazy stuff.

Anyway, I found a couple of a different set lists as well (no tapes, though). And from that list I've plucked a few songs that I haven't listened to in ages to feature in the MP3s of the Week section contained in the sidebar to the right. I can't believe I actually spun Lambchop's "Moody Fucker," for obvious reasons. Then again, my theme song had a few undistinguishable f-bombs in it, too. So, I guess I chose to play with fire like the dumb college kid I was.

I'm sure that Caramel--a French, twee indie-pop band--went over well with my classmates. As did D.C. punks The Meta-Matics. Anyway, enjoy. I sure did.

N/P--Bedhead, What Fun Life Was

Welcome back to My Television, or MTV for short, a new series reviewing DVDs that I recently rented or purchased. Series one featured The Undertones. This time around, we're dealing with a deadlier band of punks: the Dead Boys.

The fact that I've made it to Year 28 without having ever actually seen the Dead Boys in action is a bit embarrassing. As much as I’ve loved listening to Young, Loud, & Snotty--and to a lesser extent Stiv Bator’s solo material--and as many phenomenal live photographs as I’ve seen of the band, I just can’t believe that I’ve never seen them live. Well, late last year, Music Video Distributors gave me ample reason to get off my ass and stop making excuses when they released Dead Boys--Live at CBGB 1977. All I had to do was peruse the music DVD section at That’s Rentertainment to get my hands on a copy.

It’s rare to see color footage of any band performing at CBGBs from this era. Here, we’re treated to an entire concert, albeit these ten songs are over in prompt time. I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything like this. There are no modern bands that truly match the insanity and intensity of a Dead Boys concert. It’s a fact that I’ve long suspected, but can only now say with any certainty. As guitarist Cheetah Chrome--real name Eugene Richard O’Connor--said in his current-day interview (which appears here as bonus material): “The Ramones could always follow us. (As for) everyone else--fuck ‘em.” Another funny tidbit from the director’s interview with the now skin-headed Chrome: “I just wish we could’ve been around long enough to make sure Limp Bizkit didn’t exist. Oh well.”


The Dead Boys' Sire promo photo

Chrome also reveals that this concert was originally filmed for an episode of 60 Minutes; Mike Wallace was supposed to the voice-overs. It’s safe to assume that after the folks at CBS got a hold of these tapes, they quickly changed their tune and lost interest in breaking punk rock to the TV masses.

“Alright you animals of this rock and roll zoo,” a hyper emcee announces to the crowd as the Dead Boys take the stage, “up on your hind legs and clap your paws for your keepers. Here, to rattle your cages and choke your chains are Sire recording artists from Cleveland, Ohio--the incredible, phenomenal Dead Boys!”

(The mention of Sire Records gave me a good chuckle. How many modern bands would enjoy being announced in such a manner? “Ladies and gentleman, please rise to your feet for Geffen recording artists--Nirvana!”)

The Dead Boys wasted no time, kicking off their set with “Sonic Reducer.” Stiv Bators already appears to be drenched in sweat. His tight black pants are clinging to his legs. Somehow, he’s even skinnier in person than he appears to be in photographs. Another nice touch is drummer Johnny Blitz’s dual kick drums, both sporting a skull on the drum head.

Bators sheds his white suit coat by the guitar solo, revealing a black sleeveless shirt and a tight, red necktie. The band is smoking, but Bators is only getting warm.

Personal favorite “All This and More” is song two. Stiv has something flesh-toned safety pinned to his shirt that looks like a piece of raw meat. (Upon further thought, it was just that--a slice of bologna.) A piece falls to the floor, which he then picks up, sticks in his mouth, chews on and spits back out. Yeah, sorta odd. Things would only get more bizarre, however, and we’re not even out of song two yet. Later during the same song, he picks the meat up off the floor a second time, blows his nose on it (great camera work, as you can see the snot), puts it back in his mouth and finishes singing the chorus before spitting it back out.


Stiv and Cheetah in action

Cheetah Chrome looks like he’s incredibly doped up and pissed off; he never appears to have any fun on stage. He’s an aggressive, intense stage presence, and works in tandem with Stiv to keep the crowd into it. He’s no match for his singer, though. Stiv is always the showman. Whether he’s humping the mic stand with his back arching his groin into the air, or sitting on his ass in front of the drum kit, legs crossed, he’s always the focal point. He moves around on stage like a pinball out of the shoot. And he’s got more tricks in his bag than anyone this side of Iggy Pop. During the guitar solo of "Not Anymore"--during which Stiv can not allow Cheetah to steal the spotlight--Stiv pours a beer down the front of his pants. (Maybe that’s why he appeared dripping wet before the band even began?)

Periodically during filming, the lights went dim. The director explained that CBGBs just wasn’t capable of giving them enough juice to maintain all of their cameras and the additional lighting that was necessary to be able to get a good shot of the band. Those brief moments, while disappointing, at least gave me a chance to catch my breath.

At the beginning of “Flame Thrower Love,” Stiv falls backward to the stage like a felled Redwood. His energy level is amazing. Stiv spends a good third of the set on the stage floor, writing around and smacking himself with the mic stand. And he gets no breather between songs. Other than one short tuning break, the band breaks little between songs. There’s no need for banter, though, when the in-song performance is this entertaining.

Clearly, the band’s rhythm section plays a vital role in keeping the live songs grounded. Blitz--sporting a sleeveless denim jacket and a blonde mullet--is a fucking MAN on the drums. Meanwhile, bassist Jeff Magnum goes about his business in the background, staying bolted to a spot in front of his bass cabinet. While Cheetah and rhythm guitarist Jimmy Zero are more than capable on stage, it’s obvious that hysteria rules the day. A perfect note-for-note rendition is forgotten in the name of performance. The Dead Boys really gave their audience a show to remember.

During “I Need Lunch,” Stiv breaks out a particularly disgusting trick. He gulps his beer, appearing to swallow it. Then, he meanders toward stage front and--right in front of the camera--massages his throat muscles with his fingers and spews the beer back up. During “Ain’t Nothing to Do,” Stiv discovers a piece of chewing gum on the stage. He picks it up and--of course--chews on it. Minutes later the gum is stretching out of his mouth and down his chin like a mic cord.

When he’s not going for the gore, Stiv is like a partially wounded predator. His weapon of defense is his mic stand, which he beats against his body and swings through the air. Toward the end of the set, he’s pulled his drenched shirt up to his chest like a miniature half-shirt.

By the time of the band’s closing number--a spirited cover of The Stooges’ “Search and Destroy”--Stiv has reached his climax. At one point he shoves Cheetah, causing the guitarist to fuck up the bridge. And (this is a classic) he ups the audience participation level in a truly bizarre manner. He grabs a woman from the audience and drags her partially on stage. He then flips her over so her head is facing up, straddles her face and proceeds to simulate the act of oral sex. She wriggles free and he slams his mic stand into the stage as if he’s chopping wood before exiting the stage. Bassist Magnum is the next to exit, followed by the drummer, who knocks over his entire kit as if he is Gulliver rising to his feet while fending off Lilliputians. The guitars ring in feedback and we fade to black while the audience cheers their asses off.

Phew-wee. Now that was a concert I would’ve paid five bucks to see in person.


An exhausted Stiv after this very show

The disc’s bonus material is worthwhile, too. Interviews with the band on the day of the show are humorous, if not insightful. Cheetah seems totally incapable of putting together enough words to form an intelligent sentence. But, Stiv is more than up to the task, offering up this nugget: “What we’re doing on stage is just releasing a lot of energy, frustration. Where is it best to do it--here or on the streets? ...Here [the audience] can break a bottle or jump around or just watch us get [their frustration] our for [them]. So, what we’re doing is really healthy.” (The questions are not included, but you can imagine the question that was asked of Stiv to get that response: “So, America thinks that what you’re doing is evil, and the root of all that is wrong with young kids today. Can you defend your actions?”)

Cheetah’s response is even better: “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

The band members are asked for their influences in typical fashion. To no shock, Stiv responds with Iggy Pop and the New York Dolls. But, he also mentions Paul Revere and the Raiders. Go figure. And, Stiv also shows us a bit more of his misogynistic rocker side when asked what kind of girls he likes: “The ones who like to fuck and then leave in the morning. I don’t like ones that like to hang around me all day. I hate that.”

Also of note in the bonus footage is a lengthy interview with Hilly Kristal, CBGB’s mastermind that aided in introducing NYC--and later the world--to the Dead Boys. He remembers the early days well, when the Dead Boys would drive from Cleveland to NYC for a CBGB’s gig, with Stiv mooning everyone along the way.

Ah, but the real trick or treat surprise of the bonus material is some footage of the opening band from that night, a Pere Ubu-ish discordant pop band called The Steel Tips. If you can imagine a man lighting his shirt on fire, hence setting off firecrackers inside his shirt, a huge dude with a pentagram necklace banging away on a cow bell, and a catholic school girl on background vocals, then you’re half way there.

I highly recommend checking out this footage. It’s simply amazing. Must see TV, at least in my household.

N/P--David Bowie, "Andy Warhol"

(If you have no clue what "Year Without Music" means, see this.)

Today’s theme music: “Dead Man,” by M. Ward.

Oh, I’m not doing so well these days. I’ve caught myself on numerous occasions staring—with bloodshot, lustful eyes—at the new release section of my favorite online music vendors. I’m desperately selling albums that up until this year I never really considered giving up--just so I can fuel the fire. I’ve even purchased the same record--twice--in the past month. I found an import copy of T. Rex’s Prophets, Seers, and Sages and snapped it up, since it was on my January wish list. Then, two weeks later, I found a remastered version with a disc of bonus material--at the same store! I bought it, too. Now I’m selling the import on eBay.

February has not been kind to me. I still need to get the new Iron & Wine EP, the new Dead Meadow, and the new M. Ward. And that's just off the top of my head.

I can feel myself sliding into that mighty void. The cold, damp grasp of Death has a hold of my hand and is leading me to pasture, where I presume all musicaholics eventually end up. (Not that I’m dreading this, however; I hear that this pasture looks a helluva lot like the inside of Amoeba Music.) Oh, woe is me. I’m a failure without a stitch of discipline in my spine. I’d never make it as a monk. I’d rape & murder & steal--sell me shrine, even--just to have one more day with Suicide’s debut LP.


I know how they feel...

I identify with the zombies in Shaun of the Dead who are attacked by flat-mates Ed and Shaun. The protagonists’ choice of weapon as they battle the zombies in their own backyard?

LPs.

I feel like those zombies. Yes! Yes! YES! Feed me more records. Keep flinging ‘em at me. I can’t stand it. I want death by LP!

But, alas, there are others like me in this world—other troubled souls who wander aimlessly through the mean streets with foam seeping from the corners of their mouths, never sure if they are doing the suckering, or if they are the sucker. Today, I found proof.

Thank you, William Bowers. May we find strength in unity.

N/P--Television Personalities, Yes Darling, But Is it Art?

Half String, A Fascination with Heights

(Series introduction provided here.)

Welcome to the letter H, brought to you today by Half String's A Fascination with Heights, which is located on the shelf between Half Japanese's Greatest Hits and Neil Halstead's Sleeping on Roads.

In a sonic sense, Half String reminds me of C-Clamp, who I rambled on about in my discussion of the letter C. Dreamy jangle-pop was Half String's specialty, which ultimately made their hometown of Phoenix an odd locale to operate from. I don't think of the desert when I think of bands influenced by the likes of My Bloody Valentine and early Primal Scream. At least, that was true for me when I moved to Phoenix in 1999. My stay there was brief--about three months. I didn't find what I was looking for; but, I did find a wonderful independent record store named Stinkweeds. Turns out, it was owned by Kimber Lanning, drummer for none other than Half String.

Much like my time in Phoenix, I've long since forgotten about this particular album, which was released in 1996 on Independent Project Records. Listening to it now, I can see why. It's actually a solid record with a few bright lights, but there isn't anything specifically unique about it. It's mellow, guitar-based psychedelia washed in reverb. Other bands came first and did it better: Felt, the aforementioned Primal Scream, Ride, Chapterhouse, The House of Love and The Ocean Blue, to name a few. Allmusic's summary does the trick: "The surprise is that Half String's work ranks right up there with the best of their predecessors', and like Ocean Blue, their American roots help them avoid some of the British scene's more flowery or overproduced tendencies. A Fascination with Heights is well-written, beautifully focused and does such a good job of using its dream-pop influences that it tends to sound more definitive than derivative--while its very independent roots kept it from receiving much attention, it's certainly as worthy as many higher-profile records." That conclusion might have been truer in 1996 than it is now. Frankly, the record sounds dated, and not in a timeless way.

What is remarkable about this album is the packaging. Keeping par with previous IPR releases, it's a digipak that is hand-letterpressed and individually numbered. The photo doesn't really do it justice.

I dug up my copy of the group's 1994 single, Oval, also on IPR. Memory told me that I enjoyed the seven inch more than the album. And, indeed, I do. "Oval" is an okay song, but I really like the vibe on the flip side, "Sun Less Sea." (On a side note, in the process of hunting down the single I turned up an old Godzuki seven inch that I hadn't listened to in ages. They were an off-kilter indie-pop band from Detroit, so I added them to the list. See the "MP3s of the Week" on the righthand sidebar for a fun Godzuki song.)

I believe that Half String vocalist/guitarist Brandon Capps eventually joined Bruce Licher's band, Scenic. I have no clue what happened to the rest of the band, though. I assume Kimber is still taking care of business at Stinkweeds. Oddly enough, Stinkweeds' site doesn't list Half String among its inventory. Parasol, however, has both A Fascination with Heights (on CD for $4.75!) and the singles compilation Eclipse, Oval, Hue, which features both sides of the Oval single along with two other singles. Buy them here. If you like what you hear, it's hard to go wrong for a measly five bucks. As for myself, I'd probably sell my copy of the full-length if I thought I could get anything worthwhile out of it. But, if Parasol can't move a new copy of the album for more than five bones, it's unlikely that I'll get squat for my used copy. Either way, I'm holding on to the seven inch, though.

Songs:

Half String, "BackStroke" (from A Fascination with Heights on IPR)

Half String, "Hurrah?" (from A Fascination with Heights on IPR)

Half String, "Sun Less Sea" (from the Oval 7" on IPR)

Okay, I think I've finally settled on a "template" that I can live with. Simple, yet refined.

There's a new weekly feature on the sidebar to the right--"MP3s of the Week". Every week I'll post a new batch of songs I've been listening to lately. Enjoy!

N/P--The Go-Betweens, Before Hollywood

I fell in love with the old folk song "Blues Run the Game" a few years ago when I heard my first version of it, recorded by Nick Drake. Since that time, I've also heard Simon & Garfunkel's version. And, it turns out that Bert Jansch, Sandy Denny and the Counting Crows have all also covered the song. (Gee, talk about "Which of these is not like the others?".) At any rate, I've finally heard the original version, and it's tops.

The song itself is a lovely ode to depression. See for yourself:

Catch a boat to England, baby,
Maybe to Spain
Wherever I have gone,
Wherever I've been and gone
Wherever I have gone
The blues are all the same

Send out for whiskey, baby,
Send out for gin
Me and room service, honey
Me and room service, babe
Me and room service, well
We're livin' a life of sin

When I'm not drinkin', baby
You are on my mind
When I'm not sleepin', honey
When I ain't sleepin', momma
When I'm not sleepin',
You know you'll find me crying

Try another city, baby
Another town
Wherever I have gone,
Wherever I've been and gone
Wherever I have gone
The blues come following down

Livin' is a gamble, baby
Lovin's much the same
Wherever I have played
Whenever I throw them dice
Wherever I have played
The blues have run the game

Maybe tomorrow, honey
Someplace down the line
I'll wake up older
So much older, momma
I'll wake up older
And I'll just stop all my tryin'

Catch a boat to England, baby
Maybe to Spain
Wherever I have gone,
Wherever I've been and gone
Wherever I have gone
The blues are all the same

The song was originally composed by Jackson C. Frank on a boat ride from America to England in early 1965. Frank was an upstart New York folk singer that traveled to England in the shadow of Simon & Garfunkel to try to find fame in the burgeoning British folk scene that had already spawned Donovan, Bert Jansch, and Al Stewart, among others. Frank released just one record, Blues Run the Game, shortly after arriving in England in 1965. But, his impression upon those who heard him was substantial. Simon produced the album, and later recorded his own version of "Blues Run the Game". And you can hear a direct link between the melancholic, dark folk music of Frank and Nick Drake.

Frank's time in England was limited, however, as was his celebrity and minor success. He was traveling the world on funds awarded from an insurance payout from a childhood accident. He spent money--on cars, mostly--at a ridiculous rate. And soon there was no more. Frank returned to New York, settling in Woodstock. Long story short, there would be no follow-up recording, and after a brief, failed attempt to revive his career in England, Frank returned to the States, fell into a depression that he couldn't shake, and eventually ended up in and out of mental institutions or homeless in New York City. He was discovered in the 1990s by a kind folk fanatic that helped him receive proper medical attention and a new home. Soon thereafter his album was reissued. Frank died in 1999.




My discovery of Frank was recent, as I purchased the Sanctuary Records reissue of Blues Run the Game, the "expanded deluxe edition" that features an entire second disc of material, basically everything he ever laid to tape. It's well worth seeking out, as not only is "Blues Run the Game" one of the best folk songs I've ever heard, but many of Frank's other songs are also noteworthy. Included below are some of them.

Try Nick Drake's version of "Blues Run the Game" first. It's from the Tanworth-in-Arden bootleg, and is a home recording of poor quality. (It's also miscredited in the jacket to British folkster John Renbourn, who covered the song in 1965, the same year Frank began performing it live. That just shows you how quick the song, and Frank, caught on upon arrival in England.)

Then, listen to Simon & Garfunkel's version from Columbia's expanded release of Sounds of Silence.

Finally, here's Jackson C. Frank's version. I think you'll agree that it's the best.

And, a few more songs by Frank from the same album.

"Milk and Honey" (Drake and Sandy Denny also covered this song.)

"My Name Is Carnival"

"Dialogue"(Again, you can hear where Drake drew obvious inspiration from Frank.)

If you're interested in reading more about Frank, see this article from Dirty Linen published in 1995. For more general info on Frank, see this site.

(Introduction provided here.)

Welcome to the second installment of "Mixed Up." Mary got a kick out of Installment 1.0, a mix for her and her newborn son, Eric. Eric is doing well. (Matter of fact, in the photo she sent me, he looks to have adopted a hybrid emo/hip hop style, sporting some baggy clothes and a skull cap. I guess the media gets to 'em sooner and sooner each year.) We here at The Blank Generation wish her a speedy recovery.

But, today's entry isn't about kids, nor does it have anything to do with high school, my vocal chords, or any pitiful poetry that I may have passed off as mine in high school. (Jon recently posted about this supposed "book of poetry" that I published in high school on his site. But, you'll get no link out of me.)

No, today's entry is about a recent friend of note. A guy who, much like Jon, I knew for only a brief time before he fled town. (On a side note, plenty of my friends have moved away from me. Now, isn't it about time that I do some damn moving of my own? The fucking Midwest is getting a little worse for the wear in Year 28.) This particular fellow and I really didn't share what I would call a normal friendship. We saw each other in bars often enough, and spent time talking and what-not. But, we never really hung out independent of an event. I think if he would have stuck around a bit longer, that would have changed, however.

As it is, we've kept in touch since he left town and I hope to visit with him soon, maybe on a summer vacation to the east coast. I think he's doing well for himself, and the move was definitely something that was needed at the time. But, I do miss hanging out at Mike & Molly's and arguing with him about why Crooked Rain is a better album than Wowee Zowee. (Can you believe anyone siding with Wowee?) That was one argument I think I won. Unfortunately, I keep losing the damn argument concerning the better Cheap Trick song: "Surrender" or "I Want You to Want Me". Guess which side of the fence I sit on?


Pavement

Truth is, we're both right on both counts. It's just opinions, after all—even if "Heaven's a Truck" blows away "Grave Architecture." (We can agree on that at least, can't we?)

Ahhhh, Zac. I do miss ya.

I first met Zac in an interview, of all places. As in, I was interviewing his old band. He used to wield a mean axe for American Minor, and I conducted their first-ever interview (to my knowledge). Now that they're on Jive Records, I'm sure they'll have a few more opportunities. Zac isn't in the band anymore, and that makes me both sad and happy at the same time. Sad, because he was an exceptional guitar player who really fucking ached rock and roll from his soul. Happy, because I think he might be better off now, at least on a personal level. Maybe that's not true; I can't really declare that to be fact. But, I think he's changed some as a person since leaving the band and moving back to the Virginias.

At any rate, Zac and I enjoyed a competitive edge that manifested itself in games of pool and music nerd debates like the above. From my first conversation with him—that interview at the dearly departed Les' Lounge—it was obvious that Zac was a little different. It wasn't just that he was a shaggy-haired transplant from West Virginia. His bandmates could all say the same. Zac wasn't trying to fit in, but it had nothing to do with a rebellious haircut. I do believe that he was homesick for most of his year in Champaign, and that might of caused him to be depressed, or just defensive in general. "Home's always going to be home," he told me in the interview.

But, beyond his apprehension for Illinois and its folk, Zac was one smart and savvy motherfucker. When I asked the band what their influences were, Zac chimed in: "When someone asks us our influences we always say Exile on Main Street-era Stones, Mick Taylor and The Faces." Plenty of bands name-drop Exile, but to overlook Keith Richards for Mick Taylor was a bold—and wise—move. Not to mention The Faces. Who in the fuck is giving Rod Stewart props nowadays?

Sure, that might have been a stock answer that any of the band members would have coughed up. None of them argued with it. But, as I came to know Zac a little better, it became clear to me that he was his own beautiful beast. And he wasn't afraid to let you know it. His musical tastes were varied like mine; matter of fact, he was one of the few friends I had that shared my appreciation for country music. (Zac actually commended me for spinning Merle Haggard's "If We Make it Through December" one night. I did a double take.) But, more importantly, when I spoke to Zac I never felt like he was feeding me a line, telling me what I wanted to hear. He spoke honestly, and his opinions came from a certain understanding that he achieved through years of self-education, self-medication, and a thought process that was decidedly un-West Virginia. On the surface, he looked like one of those guys who drives a beat-up pickup truck with a bumper sticker that reads "These colors don't run!". Once I got to know him, however, I found him to be far more complex than I expected. He was grappling with similar issues as me, even if we were at different points on the map.

Zac didn't have a ton of attitude, but he was confident. And I appreciated that trait. It made our discussions more compelling. And, more than anything, it's his friendly face that I miss nowadays. He was the consumate barstool critic, and sadly I've lost him to the East. I guess home will always be home.

Now, about this mix. There's no Pavement or Merle Haggard on it, and for that, I apologize. But, there is plenty of good stuff. Read on...and while you're at it, click on the selected links to listen to an MP3. I'm only keeping these up for a week.

Illinoiseboy Blues

01 Black Mountain, "Don't Run Our Hearts Around"

I wanted this mix to be a bit unruly, a bit haggard, and a bit raw. And this song actually accomplishes all three. If Zac had to conjure up an ideal rock and roll band to play guitar for, I'd bet it would sound something like Black Mountain. And, I don't think he's heard them yet. This particular song finds the singer doing a Jason Molina impersonation, but the music is just killer—like a headbanger's ball trippin' on LSD. The runaway section at the end of the song just floors me. One of the best six minutes I've spent this year with a song.

02 John Fahey, "Requiem for John Hart"


John Fahey

This is a classic from 1967. I could listen to Fahey play the guitar all day long. His technique is remarkable, but more importantly he's got that emotive instinct that can't be taught. He understands human emotion far better than most, and his ability to communicate his thoughts through his instrument is unmatched. When Zac moved back to the Virginias, he lost his appetite to be a musician. He's now warming to the idea once again, taking up pedal steel and mandolin. Possibly, this song will give him some additional motivation.

03 Junior Kimbrough, "I'm Leaving You Baby"

Kimbrough is a gem. I love this song, a rusty nail stuck in the fleet of foot.

04 Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, "Grown So Ugly"

Some rambunctious blues from the Captain off of Safe as Milk. At its core, "Grown So Ugly" is a song most can relate to: a tale of a man that's turned into a real asshole, so much so that the woman he loves doesn't even recognize him anymore.

05 Comets on Fire, "Whiskey River"

Listening to this song is like having the skin peeled back from your scalp. I love it. I realize that I'm stuck on a filthy streak in the mix; but things will soon sway in the opposite direction.

06 Pearls Before Swine, "I Shall Not Care" (edit)

While the entire song is a freak-folk fest, I stripped this song of its three parts to focus on the conclusion, a nice little folk song with a backbeat. It's one of the best passages that Tom Rapp has ever put to tape.

07 Tyrannosaurus Rex, "The Travelling Tragition"

From their Prophets, Seers, and Sages album that I recently picked up, this was perhaps the most engaging song on the record that I hadn't previously heard. Notice the fucked-up hand percussion toward the end and the eery choice of chimes. This is one of the few songs on the record in which Marc Bolan actually sings in a manner that enables the listener to understand what he's actually saying. (Of course, he then decides to sing "Boom-de-boom, de tra-la-la, de rat-a-tat-tat, de-boom-de-boom" as if to puncture any sensical progression to the lyrics.)

08 The Holy Modal Rounders, "Dame Fortune"


The Holy Modal Rounders

Oh, how I love this one. It's from the album, The Moray Eels Eat the Holy Modal Rounders, that gave us "Bird Song" (as heard on the Easy Rider soundtrack). This album is just far-out freak-folk recorded well before the term was coined. But for an "underground" group, their reach was notable. Famous playwright Sam Shepard guested on tambourine on this record, although he's not included here. This song is a bit of an odd-man-out on the album, a weird bluesy piano stroll that's both melancholic and melodic. I would not claim that this particular song is representative of the Rounders as a whole, but it's among my faves from what I've had the pleasure of hearing.

09 The Stooges, "Penetration"

For some reason, this song just sounds great following the Rounders. And it serves to pick up the pace. Iggy is one of the best at sounding like an oversexed, sleazy slimeball, and this is one of his best performances.

10 Blue Cheer, "Summertime Blues"

"Lord I got ta raise a fuss, Lord I got ta raise a holler." Blue Cheer's rendition of Eddie Cochran's 1950s hit is just total balls to the wall deconstructionism. It sounds as if it was written specifically for a huge stack of amplifiers with blown woofers. Blue Cheer really did crank it up to 11.

11 Roky Erickson & The Aliens, "Two Headed Dog"


Roky Erickson

Those of you who are familiar with Erickson's Thirteenth Floor Elevators or his subdued folkier albums of the '90s will be surprised to hear what he sounded like after resurfacing from his bout of madness in the late '70s. This is from his first solo album, released in 1980 in Europe and later reissued in the States under the title The Evil One. (Sympathy for the Record Industry released it in 2002 under the same title, but with an entire bonus disc of live material.)

12 Dolly Parton, "Jolene"

Again, this may seem like a bizarre transition. But, the desperation of Dolly's song flows quite nicely out of the wickedness of Erickson's song.

13 Tammy Wynette, "Apartment #9"

Zac was one of the few (younger) patrons at Mike & Molly's that enjoyed my country music sets. So, this triumvirate of country's grandest ladies goes out to Zac. I called it "grits," instead of "country". My vision of country was a mixture of rootsy blues, boot-scootin' boogie, outlaw country, and Hank.

14 Loretta Lynn, "Less of Me"

I've been shocked by the number of peeps I've spoken with that love Lynn's comeback album from last year, but have really never heard her old stuff. I'm no Loretta Lynn expert, and I do not claim to own much of her extensive discography. But, for cryin' out loud folks, this woman is a legend for a reason. Check out Coal Miner's Daughter (where this was plucked from) and Fist City for starters.

15 Bonnie "Prince" Billy & Matt Sweeney, "My Home Is the Sea"

One of these days I'm going to get around to talking about Oldham's latest album, Superwolf, from which this song comes. It's among his strongest albums to date, regardless of moniker.

16 Entrance, "Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor"

Guy Blakeslee's rendition of this traditional blues song is so completely different from Gillian Welch's arrangement on Soul Journey. I know that Zac likes Welch, so I wanted him to hear Entrance's version. They're both exceptional versions, but Blakeslee's rendition taps into a more magical source for its energy. He also allows the song to stretch its legs to almost seven minutes. (Several blues artists have recorded this song, most notably Mississippi John Hurt. I also know Woody Guthrie has covered it, as well as Sandy Denny and Lucinda Williams.)

17 Skip James, "Illinois Blues"


Skip James

Our theme song, and the inspiration for Illinoiseboy Blues. This was taken from Hard Time Killing Floor Blues, which was released in 2003 on the Biograph label. The session is from the mid-'60s, just a few years before James passed. John Fahey rediscovered James, and got him back into the studio for the first time in decades. His guitar playing was still phenomenal at this point. For anyone that wants a great entrance point into James' music, this record would be ideal. Since it was recorded in the '60s, most of the sonic difficulties of his earlier works from the '30s have been banished. And, this is essentially a greatest hits of sorts. Anyway, here's a little excerpt from the lyrics: "You know, I been in Texas and I been in Arkansas. ...But I never had a good time till I got to Illinois." Hopefully, Zac had a few good times, too, while he was in Illinois.

18 Devendra Banhart, "Be Kind"

I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really like this song. A lot.

19 The Gris Gris, "Mary #38"

We continue down the modern bluesy route with these fuck-ups from San Fran. This song actually reminds me of The Rolling Stones circa "Play with Fire". It's got that menacing, sly side to it that lends the song a spooky ambience.

20 Dead Meadow, "Good Moanin'"

Oh, yeah. Finish as you start. We come full circle with this heavy, two-fists-a-swinging bastard. I don't know if Zac still has a pick-up truck or not, but if so, he needs to head to the highway as soon as possible. This song will sound absolutely fucking killer as it rips apart his six-by-nines with the windows down on a crisp, dark evening. For sure.

The Blank Generation will soon feature MP3s. They will not necessarily be of the legal variety, but nonetheless later this week I will have the ability to post MP3s, so you can listen while you read. Cool beans, eh?

Most likely, I'll only keep MP3s posted for a month at a time, as they will pertain to whatever I'm posting about at the moment. I might inquire about posting more-permanent MP3s as well, working with specific indies that I'm familiar with in the process. We shall see.

At any rate, I'm just so excited to finally have this capability!


N/P-The Holy Modal Rounders, "Dame Fortune"

One of my all-time favorite zines is Chickfactor, published soley now by one Gail O'Hara. Some find it too snobby, too cliquish, too NYC, too indie pop. And yes, it is all of those things. But, I simply love it to death. It's like you're snooping in on a cocktail hour conversation about music, and everyone in attendance has, at one point or another, bummed a cigarette off of Stephin Merritt.

Chickfactor does these great polls, where they ask a celebrity cast of indie rockers the same questions: "What musical instrument will dominate the next century and why?"; "What is the weirdest thing you've ever had to eat while on tour?"; "What is the best heckle you've heard or yelled?"; "What record did you buy purely for packaging?"; "What music only makes sense to listeners on drugs?". (The last one, by the way, is asked in the new issue.) In addition, they do fabulous interviews and lots of brief reviews that are often entirely unprofessional.

Alas, the sporadically-published magazine made famous by Belle & Sebastian, is no longer a print magazine. It's exclusively online now. But, I suppose the benefit to you is that you can peruse it for free. This issue features interviews with Ms. Joanna Newsom (among others), a "jukebox jury" with Alasdair Maclean of The Clientele, and plenty of polls featuring celebs like Merritt, David Grubbs, Frances of The Cannanes, Slim from Kill Rock Stars, Jonathan from Lambchop, David from the Silver Jews, and plenty more. Check it out, dude.


N/P–The Possibilities, Way Out

Did you watch Paul McCartney during the Superbowl halftime show? My god, was that awful. M suggested that the elder Paul was the most nonsexual musical God they could find. But, c'mon, surely Billy Joel was available, too. Why not throw the two of them in front of a couple Steinways and let them tickle some ivory together? Now that's really not hot.

On a sad note, McCartney's appearance last night is only throwing money into Michael Jackson's defense fund. Surely, that sterling version of "Get Back" is going to move a few thousand copies of Let it Be.

And, what in the hell was up with the tacky patriotic visual effects during "Hey Jude"? Since when does that song have anything to do with America's identity? Actually, "Na-na-na-na-na-na-na" is applicable to us Americans; after all, it's GW's favorite phrase to utter when someone criticizes his decisions.

But seriously, Paul wrote the song, originally titled "Hey Jules," as a comfort to John Lennon's son Julian while John and Cynthia were getting a divorce. Aha! Now I get it: divorce! Now there's a wholly American concept.

Moving right along, Pitchfork has posted their Top 100 albums of the 2000s, so far. Since we're at the decade's midway point, it makes sense. I pondered doing the same thing late last year, but the "Best of 2004" list in and of itself proved too time-consuming.

Needless to say, I find plenty of questionable choices in their list. That fucking Unicorns record has no business being anywhere near the Top 100. And, while I'm no fan and can't intelligently comment on the record, Eminem's Marshall Mathers LP seems far too low at No. 93. Maybe the record actually isn't that good, but it sure has seemed to make an impression on everyone who has heard it. Prefuse 73's Vocal Studies & Uprock Narratives in the 80s is also too low. That record was the shit. (I haven't heard his follow-up, which charts here at No. 51.) Cat Power's You Are Free at a lowly No. 63 is a joke. I'd love to hear someone defend that record's poor ranking.

I was glad to see my No. 1 of 2004, Ms. Joanna Newsom, appearing in the 50s. I disagree with that low ranking, of course, but I understand that she's not for everyone. Even though it's an EP, I would have charted TV on the Radio's debut Young Liars higher than 46. I can't think of anything else from the past five years that sounds like it. I don't have much beef with Arcade Fire at No. 45, but it goes to show how much of a passing fad they consider that band's freshman album to be considering it was No. 1 on their 2004 list. I'm sure that The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi at No. 32 will raise some eyebrows. Certainly, plenty would say at that position it's underrated. Fugazi's The Argument landed at No. 29. I can't really disagree with the ranking, since I've never heard the record. But, I'm skeptical nonetheless.

I'm pleasantly surprised to see Devendra Banhart's Rejoicing in the Hands at No. 18. Once again, though, to differentiate this release from its brother-in-law Nino Rojo is foolish. Nino did not make the Fork's Top 50 of '04; nor did it make this list. The Strokes debut lands at No. 16. How it failed to crack the Top 10 is beyond me. Ditto for Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, which sits on the bubble at No. 11.

I wish the Fork would finish sucking off Animal Collective and move on already. Sung Tongs is not the ninth best record released since 2000. The rest of the Top 10 is, well, bland. Interpol, Radiohead, Modest Mouse, White Stripes, Outkast, meh. I still need to hear that Avalanches record in full.

Maybe some day I'll get around to my list, which you'll probably find bland as well.


N/P—"Illinoiseboy Blues," a mix that I'll be discussing in the coming days.

Welcome to My Television, or MTV for short, a new series reviewing DVDs that I recently rented or purchased. Today's offering is Teenage Kicks: The Story of the Undertones, the companion documentary to the 2003 release of the band's same-titled best-of compilation. The CD is available in the states only as an import, which is fine since it's really no better than the group's domestic best-of comp, The Very Best of..., released in 1994. I have no clue if we can purchase the DVD in the States, but you might be able to find a copy at your local independent video store, if you're as lucky as I am to have a wonderful store like That's Rentertainment nearby.

The film begins on an odd note. John Peel is our host for the documentary, which is only fitting since he broke the band in 1977 and proclaimed their stud song "Teenage Kicks" to be his favorite single of all time. The awkward moment occurs when Peel announces that he wants the lyric "teenage kicks so hard to beat" inscribed on his tombstone. The film was released in 2001, and obviously at that time no one saw Peel's untimely death as immediate. Still, it was a chilling pronouncement for these ears considering how recent ago Peel passed away.

Peel serves as our tour guide as he walks around the Northern Ireland town of Derry, where the Undertones formed, in a Fat Possum t-shirt. Four-fifths of the band joins him, as they recreate old photo opps like the one below. Missing in action is singer Feargal Sharkey, who just happens to have one of the best names of any frontman in rock and roll history. Sharkey and the band seemed to be politely estranged to this day. However, Sharkey is interviewed and featured in the film, independent of his former bandmates. Filling in for Sharkey in the photo is Peel (second from left).




The following realization is striking: when these guys first broke on the strength of that great single, "Teenage Kicks," they were incredibly young—all between the ages of 16 and 20. The group had mailed Peel their demo, and he responded approvingly, suggesting that they get in to a studio in a hurry. (His letter was signed, "the world's most boring man.") The Undertones did just that, and they began gigging in clubs like the Casbah Bar in their hometown around 1977.

Irish journalist Eamonn McCann covered the band in those days, and remembers that the group was the focal point of plenty of resentment, suspicion, and hostility because they were non-conformists in sharp contrast to fellow contemporaries like The Clash or The Sex Pistols. As anyone who is familiar with their music can attest, The Undertones were not your typical punk band in that their songs were not angry and full of spite; rather, they were almost fun, full of yearning and focused on subjects very otherworldly for their Irish kin: girls, the weather and candy bars, for example. Despite existing in a community at war (the Irish Republican Army was making plenty of noise in those days), The Undertones did not come across as a band that was "full of angry, ugly sounds, and snarling at the world," to quote McCann. To Sharkey and Co., revolution meant rebelling against the general attitude of the youth that surrounded them. Their statement of opposition: aim for the mainstream.

Sharkey says he held no misperception that by showing up on stage and performing angry music they were suddenly going to heal a country that had been ripped apart for hundreds of years. So, The Undertones embraced escapism instead of lecturing their audiences. "It was three pints of Guinness and hallelujah! Here comes Saturday night!" remembered Sharkey.

The documentary features a few "music videos" and live performances that are quite revealing, shedding light on a band that loved to have fun and act goofy, even on stage. The group would eventually become more political (in disguised songs like "It's Gonna Happen," which is about Ireland's hunger strikes against Britain), but overall they felt that they could best serve their countrymen by providing an substitute for grief and hostility.

Seymour Stein certainly heard no negative energy in the group's sound when he signed them to Sire. Stein recounts driving down the road in his limo on the way to a Searchers concert and hearing Peel spin "Teenage Kicks." In no time, the band was signed to his label. Starkey remembers calling his bandmates during a meeting with Stein in the singer's living room, which was decorated with singing awards he had won at Catholic School. Stein was offering 16,000 pounds as an advance, which Starkey communicated to the rest of the band. Their response: "Let's ask for 60,000. Tell 'em we want the same deal as The Clash." Stein could be heard going apeshit on the other end of the phone. But, the boys got their wish.




They toured America with The Clash, amongst others. But, touring was not something The Undertones were fond of. Some of the members were simply homesick, and favored remaining close to friends, family, and significant others. But the band's introduction to the fast lane was memorable. Upon being offered their choice of restaurants after performing on Top of the Pops, they chose McDonald's. None of them had ever eaten at one.

The documentary focuses primarily on the band's early years, and spends little effort walking the viewer through the group's maturation and eventual dissolution. It's clear that Sharkey was against the balance of his band from the start. He had a job, while the others didn't. Hence, he also had more money. And, as the group matured, Sharkey's desires shifted as his musical interests developed. A clip from the group's last televised concert in 1983, some four months before the band would break up, shows Sharkey on stage with his fingers in his ears. His subsequent solo career produced a number one hit, a god awful pop cover of Maria McKee's "A Good Heart." Needless to say, he was ready to go in a different musical direction from his bandmates, two of which went on to form That Petrol Emotion, who were quite good for a brief while.

The band reunited in 1999, sans the uninterested Sharkey, and never looked back. The documentary includes live footage of the reformed unit, with fellow Derry vocalist Paul McLoone in Sharkey's place. It's proof positive that while you can retrace your steps, you're bound to have a few missteps along the way.

Overall, Teenage Kicks was worth the rental fee. In addition to featuring a few non-hits like "Jump Boys" that will be fresh to those who only own the greatest hits comp, the documentary's inclusion of early live shows was entertaining in adding a face to a group that had only previously existed to me in sound. The footage was surprisingly crisp as well. Those who used to attend my DJ gigs and requested "Teenage Kicks" (that means you, Erik) will definitely find something of interest in this video.

But the documentary could have been better. I want to know how "Teenage Kicks," which I, too, feel is one of the best punk songs ever written, came to fruition. It's always interesting to discover how a band like this rose to fame, and while this video takes a healthy stab at it, ultimately it misses some key points of interest along the way. How about additional interviews with contemporaries of The Undertones to gain a better understanding of how they were viewed by other musicians, and how they fit into the scene as a whole. I could have done with a shorter walk down memory lane, and a little more commentary and opinion.

N/P—The Undertones, "Mars Bar"

Jon has a wonderful walk down memory lane posted at Unfinished Novellas on Bob Dylan. And that brought back a lot of great memories for me, too.

Jon and I have a special relationship. A very unique one, indeed. It dates back to seventh grade at Ingersoll Junior High in Canton, Ill. I don't know if this is necessarily true for him, but for me, Jon was the first person that I connected with in a truly meaningful way. He understood me, and I him. And we appreciated each other as the foolish little devils we were. Jon was a genius, and I recognized this even at the young age of 13.

For some reason, we were assigned a project in our English class (of all classes) to create and market a dream vacation spot, our paradise resort. (Maybe that wasn't exactly the premise of the project, I may not be remembering correctly.) Jon and I competed directly against each other, building these elaborate blueprints for our ideal destinations. Ours were quite similar; they were huge mall-like complexes that featured indoor baseball stadiums and amusement parks and god knows what else. "Mine has a ski resort." "Yeah, well mine's got an amphitheater and Bell Biv Devoe is going to play there." Through this silly competition, we allowed our imaginations to run naked through the woods—and we bonded.

Even dating back that long ago, Jon had a fascination with music that matched mine. He was the first person that I identified that really "got it" as I did when it came to music. By my freshman year of high school, I had discovered my older brothers' record collections. But, at the time I was still just a fool when it came to what I enjoyed. Still, I experienced music as a holistic process. The music I enjoyed, regardless of its quality, affected me in a meaningful way, serving as a steady friend and a healing guide.

Likewise, Jon also felt a spiritual connection to music, even though neither of us would likely have labeled it as such at that time. His obsession had developed beyond mine at that point—and honestly, he's still ahead of my curve. Jon had secretly signed himself up to the BMG Music Club (or maybe it was Columbia House, or both). He was ordering records with the money he earned from a paper route (if memory serves), without his parent's knowledge. They would not have approved of Jon smuggling Aerosmith records into the house. I assume his money was better spent on school clothes or Nintendo games, anything but the Devil's music. (Jon's father was a former minister.) Yet, Jon didn't let that phase him. He licked the stamps that represented album covers and placed them on the ordering card and waited for his records to appear, rushing home every day after school before his parent's arrived to ensure that he was the first one to peep at the day's mail.

On weekends I would ride my bike five miles into town to hang out in Jon's room, a tiny little alcove in the basement of his parent's house. There, we swapped baseball cards and listened to all of the contraband that Jon had successfully smuggled across the border. Our bond grew tighter, even though we had barely known each other a year or so.

Then, Jon moved away. Looking back, it wasn't that big of a deal at the time. We were friends, but I had other friends, too. And they were sticking around. But then, over the next year or so, I became even more of a music nutjob as I fully delved into my bros' collections. And, I began to miss Jon even more. He had only moved 45 minutes away, to another high school, Morton High, in our conference. But, for a kid without wheels, it might as well have been California. This was before the internet took hold, so we really lost touch with each other.

I don't remember why or exactly when I first traveled to visit Jon in Morton. It might have been our mutual friend, Josh, that drove me there since he had his license and car well before me. I remember hanging out in Jon's room—still in the basement—watching videos he had taped off of MTV and making mix tapes full of crappy metal and hard rock tunes. Jon was still purchasing CDs, of which I had few if any; luckily, I had all those records to fall back on. But, my brothers were both far too old to have any Queensryche or Testament, and for fuck's sake I just had to have some of that shit. Jon was my dealer.

Well, luckily for our longterm health, we soon discovered the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Bob Dylan. You may chuckle at the mention of the Peppers. But, they did both Jon and I a great service. Through their selection of covers, we were introduced to Sly, Stevie Wonder, Robert Johnson, and, yes, even Dylan (who needed no introduction). When we got into a new band, we didn't just listen to their records. We mined the artist for their influences, and then went and (sometimes literally) hunted those influences down. The Peppers' influences were one thing, but Dylan's were another. We were probably the only high school juniors in Central Illinois listening to Woody Guthrie.




The Peppers also got us into modern alternative rock as a whole, which led us to underground and indie rock by extension. Dylan, however, and the genres associated with him—from folk to country—have had a far greater impact on us, and more staying power, too. In the entry I linked to above, Jon mentions the Peoria newspaper article that featured his scarred arm. I'm sure the reporter thought he had happened upon a great story—a fucked-up kid who went to the extent of tattooing Dylan onto his arm to show how unique he was. In retrospect, it's a rather funny, if not charming, concept, though. Jon was attempting, in his way, to tell his parent's to fuck off while also showing his close friends how "deep" he was. In actuality, Dylan was an artist his dad probably enjoyed, while some of his friends were only lukewarm toward him. Oh well, it was the thought that counts. And Jon has plenty of other tattoos one could say the same thing about.

As for me, I wasn't about to put needle to skin to show my devotion to Dylan, which grew with every additional Dylan album I procured. But, I did let at least a portion of my high school know just how hip I was to Bobby D. During my senior year of high school I experienced a strange little renaissance that I still can't fully comprehend. It began with being named the lead in the school's musical, and ballooned into being named "Mr. Little Giant" (keep your jokes to yourself) in my school's first-ever male pageant and later prom king. (As a disclaimer, my friends and I decided to do the pageant as a joke. Turns out, no one in the pageant had any talent or charisma, and I was selected as the best of the bunch despite my two-inch goatee.)

The facial hair was part of my costume for the musical, Man of La Mancha. Yes, I was Don Quixote. If you're finished laughing out loud, allow me to explain just how I landed such a role, having never been a part of the drama club or the school choir, and having never participated in a play. I was in love with a girl who thought I was the second-coming of Kurt Cobain. (That part didn't work out, obviously. The girl is ancient history, I'm still alive, and I've yet to knock Michael Jackson off the charts.) She was a drama queen, in both senses of the phrase, and really wanted me to try out for the school musical. It was the final semester of my senior year, and so I figured, "what the fuck?" If I don't try out for the musical, I'll never get to spend any time with this girl, who will be in rehearsals night after night after night. Maybe I can score a bit part or something.




As with any musical, part of the audition process was to act, and the other part was to sing. Everyone else was busy preparing pieces from other musicals for their audition. Most, if not all, of my competition was involved in choir anyway. But not I. I was guilty of singing along to Incesticide in my car, but that was about the extent of my vocal training. The night before the audition, I came to terms with the fact that I had yet to figure out what I was going to sing. Others already had their songs selected and their accompaniment planned, and I had yet to even select what I was going to butcher, let alone figure out who would be brave enough to join me on stage in playing the fool.

That night, I was listening to a Dylan album, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. It hit me: I could do a Dylan song. After all, even if my voice sucked, surely I could make a Dylan song sound respectable, no? I frantically telephoned my friend Scott and pleaded him to help me out. I needed him to learn the guitar chords to this Dylan song and join me on stage. My song? Well, let's just say that it probably wasn't the best choice, but Eddie Vedder had recently pulled it off at Dylan's 30th anniversary concert. And, hell, everyone liked Vedder's voice despite the fact that he sounded like shit. My conclusion: I was sure everyone would dig my take on the same song: "Masters of War".




So, for the first—and probably only—time in Canton High School history, "Masters of War" was the audition piece. Scott and I warmed up in the bathroom prior to my audition. It was really our first time rehearsing together. But, when I took the stage, let me tell you was there ever a spark! I'm positive that somewhere in that mess of microphone cables, something surely shorted out in response to my croaking. But, the girl thought I did a good job, at least.

I'm quite certain that I received the lead in the musical, ahead of more qualified and deserving guys, because the director saw some potential in me. After all, I was new to the scene and I could act reasonably well, especially in comparison to the other dudes trying out on the strength of their lungs. I know it wasn't because I nailed the emotive portions of "Masters of War". Oh no, I did not.

Dylan would soon have his revenge on me, unfortunately. As a penalty for butchering his song, I was forced to decline an invite to see Dylan in a quaint theater in Peoria. The tickets were front row, too. You see, the Dylan concert just happened to be the same night as the dress rehearsal for Man of La Mancha. Don Quixote had windmills to concur; there would sadly be no Bobby D for him.

Jon got to go to the Dylan concert, of course, and sit front and center for it. And he had a great time, too. Two nights later, he witnessed this blogger in tights, a wig, and a fake mustachio, singing his ass off under the bright lights. And I'm sure he had a great time, too.

It's been eleven years since I last sung a Bobby D tune in public. I'm sure it will be at least eleven more years before the next occurrence as well. Jon now lives in Denver. It might have seemed like he was a time zone away from me when we were in high school. But, sadly, he now actually is. I've made one trip out to Denver in the five-plus years that Jon has lived there. Other than that trip, we've briefly caught up with each over the holidays on a few occasions.

Today, we keep in touch through these blogs and e-mail. The blog itself I often think is pointless. After all, who gives a fuck what some minor music critic from the middle of nowhere has to say about the new Bright Eyes record? I mostly keep up with this blogging business so that my friends can stay in touch with me, even if it's through something as impersonal as cyberspace. I've never been good with words when it comes to expressing my feelings for someone. (Jon can testify to that; he's read some of the gibberish I passed off as poetry in high school.) It's easier for me to ramble on for 1,000 words about Bright Eyes than it is for me to put into words just how much I miss some of my friends that are now spread out around the country. For that, I'm sorry.

But, I think Jon knows just how much I miss him still today. If he ever desires a reminder, he needs only to think about "Dylan in a dumpster," which means nothing to you but everything to us. Those days are in the past, and those memories will always be there for me to return to. I only hope that in the future, we can share more time together in the flesh. After all, I've still got a box of baseball cards and a few blank tapes. I'm sure Jon hasn't traded in all of his Queensryche records; and I know he still dreams of one-upping my paradise resort. But guess what, Jon: I've got a video tape of a skinny kid pretending to be Don Quixote, and it plays seven days a week in my 10,000 seat movie theater that dispenses FREE TUBS OF POPCORN. Try topping that.


N/P—Brian Wilson, Smile

It's 22-0 for my Fighting Illini after they took down No. 10 Michigan State in Lansing tonight. What a big win! I'm a believer now. Some rightfully wonder why it took me 22 wins in a row to fully place all of my confidence in this team. Maybe it's just stupidity, but I truly chalk it up to two things:

1) My constant companion, doubt. I find the potential for wrong before I acknowledge the possibility of right. It's a trait that I can't seem to shake, to my chagrin. And, I just went through some tough times when my Cardinals were swept in the World Series. It's a painful trip to make it that far in the process and then be denied in such a brutal fashion. That took a lot out of me, the fan.

2) I've been beaten down by the mindset that the Illini play in a weak conference, which somehow takes away from what they've been able to accomplish with big wins over Wisconsin and now Michigan State. It's true about the conference. The Big Ten is no match as a conference when compared to the SEC or the Big East or ACC. But, and this is a big but, the Illini are just heads and shoulders better than the other teams in their conference. It wasn't true last season. But tonight, I finally believe that to be true about this squad.

They have a saying on this team: "I do this." They utter the phrase when talking smack, usually at each other during practice. Dee Brown pulls up for a three pointer with Luther Head in his face. Swish. "I do this." Deron Williams breaks down Rich McBride on the dribble and dishes to an open Roger Powell under the basket. "I do this." It's a choice of words with a very blue collar ring to it, which is entirely appropriate for this team.




For as much flash and dazzle as they can possess at times—usually thanks to Dee—they really are a workman-like team. Their motion offense dictates that they work their tails off running around the court to get an open look, often making pass after pass after pass before they shoot the ball. On defense, they hound the opposing team, with big guys moving twenty-plus feet away from the goal in order to double-team guards on screen-and-rolls. They use speed and athleticism and hustle to overcome some of their limitations, like an undersized low-post defense and a lack of consistent points-in-the-paint. They've got an unlimited amount of poise. An opponent isn't going to back them into a corner; they're too proud. They play like a hungry mob of union workers who are looking for a new contract, a fresh lease on life. In the case of this team, they want RESPECT. They want you to believe.

And now, I do. I promise.

N/P—Ennio Morricone, "The Big Gundown"