Hot Cong Fever Forever

I ran into Al Perry today at Los Betos. He was just sitting there, waiting on his burrito. “Blazing set, man,” I said.

He thanked me, then without any hesitation said it had been one of the best weekends of his life.

He was right – he had to be.

Club Congress 20^th Anniversary was nothing short of historic – three nights of outstanding music, accompanied by the feel that something absolutely unheard of was happening.

I felt it right away. The whole crowd was geared up; they all knew it. They all knew that this was something damn special.

I was hosting Stu LeBlanc and CH for their weekend out of the pines, a preview weekend of the eventual move. Also swinging through town for the weekend was our favorite expatriate, Mr. Tim Finagain, on loan from Paris.

I was riding high all week for the show and Tuesday’s show by the Knitters only added to the anticipation.

When thousands of people congregate – and dozens of bands reunite – to celebrate a city’s music scene over the years, there’s an obvious tendency to think there’s something special in that scene, something special in that sound, something special in that town. And it’s all right.

My own knowledge of the Tucson music scene goes back just eight years. I know most of Greyhound Soul and Fourkiller Flats, of Calexico and the latter Giant Sand years, of the newer clubs. I know nothing of the defunct clubs, nothing of the departed acts and sadly, next-to-nothing of Rainer Ptack.

But even in those few years, I’ve caught on to the enduring legends, caught a buzz from what came before.

The counterpart to the weekend, the documentary film High and Dry, spent a while pondering on what precisely makes up the Tucson sound. Some speculation went as narrow as a particular drum style, a sort of off-beat, opposite sound. Others cited the heavy guitar presence. Some spoke more esoterically about “space” in the sounds. Some merely over simplified it with the “desert rock” tag – which has been around long enough to actually come to mean something.

I can’t cite anything in particular, other than the city itself. It’s more of a feel and a character than anything else. It’s relaxed, with the only urgency in the music itself. It’s quirky at times, beyond unique at others. There’s a landscape to Tucson music. It’s four dimensional. Its connection with a Tucson listener is immediate – and deeper than pretty much all but that listener’s most favorite music. Tucson’s music is filled with contradictory characters – from the anti-hero Howe Gelb to the British bluesman Tom Walbank. Tucson’s music is contradictions piled on each other, competing sounds and genres layered as if they were instruments. And the perfect mix is achieved in so many different ways, it’s hard to cite a particular sound.

The first act I really caught Friday was the Sidewinders, and Rich Hopkins’ guitar alone is plenty enough to make you believe they were truly screwed out of hitting the big time. Leave the Gin Blossoms comparisons at home, the Sidewinders are more like a dust-baked Replacements in sound, if not impact and Paul Westerberg’s songwriting.

I caught a tantalizing bit of La Cerca – a band ready to make a big impact. Let “desert rock” now take over the indie stage.

The highlight of Friday, and probably the whole weekend, was Giant Sand. Howe Gelb has a presence alright, and it only grew with the importance of the event.

He’s certainly been the longest-playing and widely appreciated and revered performer associated with the Tucson music scene, as innovative and influential as you’d find anywhere these days.

There were new songs and old songs, with his old bandmates Calexico back in full force. I lost some of the specifics as the night grew hazy, but that sound is still in my mind: Howe Gelb doing whatever he wanted with that guitar. And I was constantly amazed.

Saturday brought the Al Perry All Star BBQ, with Al hosting court as the Legend he is. Not that he needs a lead guitarist, but Al brought out two, including Chuck Prophet, for a triple Telecaster attack that was stunning. He played a friendly set, filled with the classics: Loserville, Little Bird Flies Away (though I’m not sure on that title) and Dreaming. The best, though, was “We Got Cactus,” the near-signature song he rescued from obscurity, complete with its Bloodspasm songwriter singing backup. Incredible.

Next I caught the peyote blues of Greyound Soul inside the wonderfully renovated Rialto Theatre. Greyhound was in great form, perfect form really, but I had to make the toughest decision of the weekend and run across the street to catch the Drakes, performing under their new name, the Townies.

If Giant Sand hadn’t been so perfect, this would have easily been the set of the weekend.

The Drakes played old and new and sounded perfect. The guitar/keyboard combo was spot on. Tom Stauffer’s got some top quality new tunes – including one I woke up humming the next morning and couldn’t shake all weekend. Their brass section fit perfect. The Drakes’ sound is terribly hard to describe because it’s so versatile. They can swing between dense and spare like few others. I’m not sure if anybody else could go without a bass on some songs and have a tuba (that for some reason they kept calling a sousaphone) hold down the low end. They closed with Randy Newman’s Louisiana 1927, but the second-to-last tune was the one that really brought the house down. Here’s to more shows and more records by the Drakes/Townies, who sound like they’ve got the “Fantasy Jones.”

And the night kept going, with a shot of pure adrenaline known as Chango Malo. The boys were in high spirits, but were either forced or offered to cut their set short to get the gig back on schedule. No problem. As the drummer left his kit to announce it would be the last tune of the night for them, he invited the crowd up on stage. So there MP and I are, dancing right onstage, along with Chango Malo and about 50 other crazies. Excellent.

But Saturday wasn’t done yet. In the surprise bonus great act of the night, I finally caught Tom Walbank, playing a righteous boogie blues like it was the New Year or something. I was groovin’ and shakin’ it – and I rarely groove, and never shake it.

I caught High and Dry on Sunday and am now vastly more informed about the scene –vastly more impressed, and vastly more appreciative of the fact that I chose this place and have been here for nearly nine years.

Sunday night however was a bit tougher. The legs weren’t holding up so well. The stomach wasn’t quite sure why it’d been drowned so much the two previous days. But the music didn’t stop and despite my lower-key demeanor, I didn’t withdraw. And the bands were perfect for a sitting back time. The swooping mysterious desert jazz of the Friends of Dean Martin and Friends of Dean Martinez (I’m still not up to speed quite on the precise difference) could float right on over to me sitting on a curb without losing a thing. And then Calexico (performing as Spoke) just kept it going. The current ambassadors of the Tucson scene played the good guys, cutting their set short to get the night back on track.

Fourkiller Flats closed off the weekend for me, a second reunion gig in two weeks and I couldn’t be happier. They played with the keyboards again, a new sounds that just slides right on in and makes the music a little denser, a little richer. I’ll never figure out why Fourkiller Flats didn’t explode. Maybe they hit the alt.country wave just a bit late, but Jim Cox’s songs of heartbreak and boozing are incredible and his voice just kicks you. The set had a couple songs that thrilled me because they were familiar from shows in years past, never recorded or left off albums for whatever reason. Ah man, what a happy comfortable time standing in front of that stage.

So that’s the roundup. I’m an appreciator in the whole scene here and the weekend was mind-blowing. I hope every performer and participant can join Al Perry in proclaiming the weekend one of the best of all-time.

Let the Circle Be Unbroken

Last night down at the Rialto, I caught the Knitters - a collective of veteran punk rockers lighting country music on fire for the sheer enjoyment of it all.

Anchored by Dave Alvin’s blazing guitar and a tight rockabilly rhythm section, the band’s true brilliance is the same as it is for X – John Doe and Exene Cervenka’s synchronized wail that slowly becomes another beast entirely, its own singular creature, born to breathe fire and shout heartache.

The music was tight and spot-on, a reminder that Woody Guthrie is god and good American music is all the damn same - it comes from counter-culture fringes, the subversive elements of sex and drugs right up front, but with an earthiness and an honesty and a wisdom that comes from living on the down side of the good life.

It’s true and good and right. And the punk shown through. The punk will always show through and always has. Until the 1970s, it simply went by different names and came from different places. It was Woody and the Carters, it was Charlie Mingus, it was boogie brothel piano and Robert Johnson’s devil guitar.

What X put on stage in Los Angeles in the early 1980s and what the Knitter put on the stage last night is proof it’s all the damn same. The Knitters did turns on Woody’s “Do Re Mi” and the Stanley Brothers “Rank Stranger,” as well as X screamer “Burning House of Love” and Knitters fave “Call of the Wreckin’ Ball.”

It’s the America that fell beneath the cracks and is better for it. It’s the America of Woody and Ray Charles and Johnny Cash. It’s the outlaws and the righteous, but more accurately and most importantly it’s the America that denies and abhors the power structure. It’s the America that doesn’t want the Machine of oilmen and bankers and war-mongers. It’s the America of Hunter S. Thompson and Edward Abbey.

So many of our greats and our legends have died, but more will rise, like John Doe and a host of others.

Last weekend, Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes were exploded in a mess of fireworks 150 feet above ground in the crisp Colorado air.

The celebration included the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s cover of the Carter’s Let the Circle Be Unbroken. Another Carter tune reinterpretation became one of the cornerstones for the whole new alt.country movement. But look beyond No Depression to another Tupelo classic - their version of the standard Moonshiner.

Dylan - a Guthrie and Carter disciple himself - spun his own version of Moonshiner out of a put-on folkster image in the years before his words jumped out of his head and his pen kickstarted a new America.

Yesterday also saw new Dylan releases, priceless recordings dug out of some vault somewhere. They should’ve never been buried in the first place, but I don’t mind. This whole new release thing just serves to remind us all that the whole damn show is still being run by a bunch of crooks at the top.

The set includes the Vietnam protest song chronicling the disfigured soldier “John Brown” and song I’ve never heard called “West Texas.”

Which brings to our vacationing cowboy dipshit in chief. He may not be the evil incarnate of Hitler, nor the propagandized Mr. Magoo parody of the Chinese communist leaders, but there’s no greater symbol of a corrupt government sending its own sons and daughter to their deaths in an immoral war than the arrogant smug grin and cowboy chuckle of George W. Bush.

As Thomspon wrote in his last Rolling Stone piece:

“Your neighbor's grandchildren will be fighting this stupid, greed-crazed Bush-family "war" against the whole Islamic world for the rest of their lives, if John Kerry is not elected to be the new President of the United States in November.”

Well, Kerry lost, but we can still kick and scream and end this fucking war:
“We were angry and righteous in those days, and there were millions of us. We kicked two chief executives out of the White House because they were stupid warmongers. We conquered Lyndon Johnson and we stomped on Richard Nixon -- which wise people said was impossible, but so what? It was fun. We were warriors then, and our tribe was strong like a river.”

These days the tribe is strong as well - and right in our moral certainty that this war is both evil and stupid:

“While bumper-sticker patriotism may have anodyne effects on Bush and his followers, the retroactive ethical justifications for the invasion and occupation of Iraq are flimsy at best. And for so many on the left, the undermining of America's moral strength under this administration is more of a "grave and gathering danger" to America than Saddam Hussein ever was.”

The voices are out there and they’re strong. Another example: I stumbled onto some writer I’d never heard of today, somebody who is either a nobody or a wise man, but he wrote something amazing just in the past week:

“It is also certain that a doctrinaire, intellectually incurious, unblooded and stay-at-home gaggle of technocrats led by a faux cowboy from Connecticut unwittingly unleashed this waterfall of blood. …
The war itself is over, the retreat will begin shortly, and Iraq will settle in to its own bloody reinvention over the next decade. And America, my country, will reel."

The country will reel, but others will step up in the footsteps of Woody Guthrie and Dylan and the country greats and tell the real stories of this nation - the footsteps of the down and out, the longings and the imagination of the poor children.

There will be more anti-war songs and some will die away. There’ll be love songs and songs of screaming disillusionment. There will always be protest. There will always be an American spirit to the best of its music.

And even out of an unprecedented sadness and defeat, New Orleans blues will one day flourish like never before.

Catfish at the record shop

Go buy the New Pornographers Twin Cinema and the White Stripes Get Behind Me Satan.

Trust me. Just do it. Or Just Do Them, I guess, buy the records and trust me.

Catfish at the clubs

So, what have these fair readers missed since the Sufjan Stevens show?

For starters, Alejandro Escovedo.

Texas’ own mix of Dylan, Joe Strummer and Willie hit Congress Tuesday night, the day the desert dwellers drank in 2.29 inches of rain, the most of any single day in the past 22 years.

The man is a legend, the legend is a man. He was wearing a tie-less black suit, with slick-backed hair and looked nothing like a man who’d been beaten down by disease.

He could rock as hard or as quiet as he wanted, but he rocked.

It was the type of show where you’re just drinking in the singer’s presence, washed out and surrounded by the sound of the performance.

Some of Stu’s friends came down earlier this month on a tour of their own and while I missed their set, I did carry guitars from a basement and sit in a plastic chair in an alley next to a van, drinking cheap beer. And some of the boys journeyed with me to catch the Bad Monkey.

The Old Pueblo loves its own, harbors a heartfelt, solemn respect for those who tread its streets. A woman whose fingerprints are all over the Tucson music scene died recently. I never knew her; I missed the punk scene here in the mid 1980s because I was in elementary school. But I gave my $5 to the benefit show and saw the re-united Fourkiller Flats play one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was as if the Beatles were native to Tucson and never quite got out, broke up and were playing a one-off benefit show. All their best friends were there, the bar compatriots and the folks who spent three years wondering where the hell the Flats went. The tunes were so comfortable, so damn well done. Incredible.

This weekend will be incredible as well. Viva Tucson. Viva Desert Rock. Viva.

August

August has muscled its way in and there’s nothing you can do about it. Get ready; there’s plenty of shit to be done.

August is a demanding sonuvabitch. August is a Monday, no two ways about it. You’ve had the weekend, and now it’s time to grind.

August points down the road toward September, and says “That’s your rest.”

August is sweaty. August is full. August is what you’ve been preparing for.

August is a playoff race – there’s no room for beginners. August just got done lifting weights and sure looks like it.

August isn’t patient, but it’s rich. Sleep later, the fun is as intense as the work in August. August is a pagan celebration of absolute movement – complete, frantic, spastic, unending, unquestioning, vital movement.

August is out of synch – too many moving parts. There’re gears grinding, missed moments and not a moment to think.

August is first grade, or freshman year. There’s no wisdom in August – you’ll sort through it all later. August is caffeinated, sleepless adventure.

August is when filing systems go to hell, when stacks stack up, the start of the hole you’ll spend the rest of the year digging out of.

August is blue collar, not decadent like September. August is experience showing the newby how it’s all done.

There’s nothing mystical or mysterious about it: August’ll kick your ass.

“August was awesome,” you’ll say when September hits, “but who the hell’s idea was that nonsense?”

August has given me more newness than anything else in a long time. August is all five sense set on high, pushing the limits. August is the price you pay and the reward at the same time.

If August were a band, it’d have four guitarists, bass, drums, keys, horns, backup singers and special guests sitting in on harmonica and pedal steel.

August really should be two months.

Whew

So I finished moving Saturday, but spent most of the week unpacking and putting stuff away. I'd have loved a day off work besides the weekend, but no dice.
At this point, I'm more or less settled in, enjoying the balcony's mountain view and enjoying the quiet.
There's still more to be done, some unpacking-wise and some shopping-wise, but the pace has slowed and hopefully comfort will settle in.
As a bonus, I discovered I have some measure of free cable. It's only the lower stations and pretty much the bonus channels are just WGN and two CSPAN channels. But the rest are crystal clear and that's what really matters.
Yep.

Sufjan Stevens

While a friend struggled with whether he could like Sufjan Steven's
music in the days leading up to the show, I was more or less clueless.
I'd heard a couple of tunes and read several reviews, but went in
nearly expectation free: I knew just that I'd be seeing an indie folk
act.
The eight-piece band came out all decked out in Lt. Col. Henry Blake
style Illinois gear, cheerleading their way into the set, which opened
with a state-by-state account of the U.S.
The show was damn good. The songs jumped between quiet and boisterous,
but each one seemed to fit.
At first I couldn't quite decide how to read Sufjan, but a theory emerged.
A cynic could easily view the whole shebang - matching costumes, an
overly literate musical and lyrical style and the ambitious 50-state
project - as a completely pretentious act. But it was all good and
sincere.
Sufjan is infused with this childlike enthusiasm and creativity, which
he harnesses remarkably well.
Think of it like this: the costumes are dress up, the imaginative
songs are filled with a childlike fascination of their subjects, the
multi-talented band is a play group and Sufjan is in the middle of it
all, an adult reflecting on childhood by playing childhood.
This theory is still vague, but it grew during the show.
His state-themed songs are deeply researched and filled with
characters that fit well into a quirky appreciation of a state's
uniqueness. He even brings in legend and superhero tales, all the more
fitting to capture a child's mind. Though his songs are deeply
researched, they're haphazardly so - more grade school book report
than scholarly text.
And when he introduced one song with a story about a summer camp
experience making up a flying wasp predatory bird thing, it fit just
perfectly.
I was reminded of Finding Neverland, with the talented adult writer
captivated more by what captivates children than by anything else.
Sufjan fits with that, but even moreso, playing this character
himself, swirling between the creator and the subject matter.
The show was beautiful at times, quirky for the most part and filled
with songs that seemed to bridge the creativity of kids and adults.
And I'd never seen anything quite like it. Great for $10, but now I
should move on to an album or two.

UPDATE: Edited to get rid of that weird font.

Life in Tunes

Today’s topics are the letters i and x, the number infinity, and the painfully obvious notion that technology revolutionizes music.

I’m amazed that the digital revolution is continuing to spin crazily, further and further from its groundbreaking introduction of the compact disc.

The Apple music universe, with the i-everything, still seems to be the realm of fantasy. How some little gizmo can be a personal jukebox holding entire record collections still seems like somebody’s great-but-impossible idea. Throw in the podcasting, the ability to buy any song and it seems too good to be true.

I remember being blown away by my old roommate’s 60-disc changer, with its full random function and incredible accessibility. And this isn’t ancient technology, he still uses the thing. But the ipod bests that by a factor of 100,000 or so: it’s roughly one percent the size, with roughly 100 times the storage. Incredible.

And one of these days I’ll buy one of the damn things.

Then there’s the all-everything, all-the-time satellite radio. On a 20-hour cross-country U-Haul drive, I got hooked. The programming is nothing short of genius, from the formulating of the individual genre stations to the playlists, track-by-track. Satellite radio and podcasting are a year or two away from being universal. They’re just that good.

The access to great new music is mind-blowing. It’s leaps and bounds beyond the near-yesteryear of Napster and cd burners.

Then there’s the opposite side of the coin – digital failure driving me to the most fundamental analog medium: radio.

My car’s cd player crapped out on me a month or so ago, and since I’ve been glued to KXCI, the community radio station. It’s not always great, but the variety and quality of music overall is stunning. I’ve heard an incredible amount of new stuff on the dial and been frequently thrilled when one of my more obscure favorites came on the radio. The “real people, real radio” tag truly fits.

The last component of this is the oldest of them all – live performance. Through these new technologies, touring bands of all levels are reaching new audiences and fans of all stripes are finding new favorites, a perfect marriage.

July

July is on fire. It burns. It burns freely, wildly, nothing to stop it but some far off hope, a coming rainstorm or a blast of change.

July tries to make you think it’s slow; it lulls with empty hours and searing heat.

July is the middle of the year. It celebrates independence; it has to. The ideal of July is a fiery individualism, seldom reached but celebrated as though it’s universal.

July is just waiting to turn a corner, dulled and slowed, looking for the next adventure. July is a cradle, a set of bookends looking back and forth for something to hold.

July is a rickety footbridge crossing a dry creek and though I’ve marched more than halfway across already, I’d still like to turn back. I’m not ready for those August banks.

I’ve done my best to embrace July – its heat, its oppression, its long days and nights indistinguishable from one another – because if I don’t there’s a good chance it’ll kick my ass. Surviving July is like running with the toughs, just for a while, just to get to the next part of town, to hitch along ‘cause there’s nothing else to do.

July can’t help but bring thoughts of January, but they’re vague, the shadows of good memories, with none of the bad.

July is an adolescent who steals smokes and flicks the butts at people’s heads, laughing like he’d invented the whole gig.

July is a desert acting like a peacock, flexing his muscles in a big-time show of dominance and power.

July almost – almost – shouldn’t be natural, or legal.

Just try to shepherd yourself all the way through July without getting cut or lost somehow, floundering drunk-like in the heat or the storms or the hours that have stacked up when you weren’t looking.

July isn’t big on alternatives.

July shouldn’t have four letters, it should have 17, all spiky and thorny, filled with Ys, Ks, Ms, Vs and at least three Ws. YVKWWMMYYMMWWKVVK – that’s more like it.

July sure as hell ain’t gonna take you seriously.

stuff

It's a bummer I quit writing about politics...
So anyway, the days here are long and hotter than hell and the sweet sweet thunderheads haven't rumbled in yet.
There's summer pro league basketball to watch on the weekends.
I can't wait to see this movie called The Aristocrats. It better come play here.
For fellow Okkervil fans and friends, here's another great press clipping.
Then there's the most despicable thing I've ever heard of:
Coach paid player to hit boy

The Associated Press
PITTSBURGH -- A T-ball coach allegedly paid one of his players $25 to hurt an 8-year-old mentally disabled teammate so he wouldn't have to put the boy in the game, police said Friday.
Mark R. Downs Jr., 27, of Dunbar, is accused of offering one of his players the money to hit the boy in the head with a baseball, police said. Witnesses told police Downs didn't want the boy to play in the game because of his disability.
Police said the boy was hit in the head and in the groin with a baseball just before a game, and didn't play, police said.
"The coach was very competitive," state police Trooper Thomas B. Broadwater said. "He wanted to win."

Good lord, this is T-ball! That's surely going to be the next Sports Illustrated sign of the apocalypse.

Make sure you're keeping up on Mr. Chair's travels. And Mister Arnie's Year Following the Break Up.

In the coffee shop here, Brenton Wood just came on the radio. For my money, he's got to be the most underrated Motown/soul singer there is.

One of these days I'll lay out my athiest/panthiest/Jedi theology on y'all...

Anybody seen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Or Wedding Crashers?

Oddities

Every city and town has it – the claim to fame, the world’s biggest, oldest or best whatever, the birthplace of whomever, the unique mundane bit of trivia some chamber of commerce so thoughtfully applied to the town’s name as an official title.
And without fail, the more lame the designation, the more lame the town – the more lame the destination, the more lame the moniker.
So where does the World’s Oldest Rodeo fit? Pretty near the bottom. It’s not as bad as the world’s tallest cross, as a friend recently described the site of her family reunion. And it ain’t the Town Too Tough To Die, like that lame-ass place down the road that annually celebrates a 120-year-old murder by getting all dressed up in period costume and fake killing each other for a weekend.
But I was born in the town that boasts the World’s Oldest Rodeo, grew up there in the cool pines and the downtown of quaint shops, and never once went to the rodeo. I never gave a shit.
Once again I found myself in the middle of the madness, out and about on Whiskey Row on rodeo weekend, watching the cowboys drink and carouse.
Maybe it’s strictly a cowboy thing, or maybe any sort of celebratory crowd acts the same, but there was a seriousness they applied to the revelry that I don’t see on the average weeknight trip to my favorite haunts. They were geared up and gassed up, two-ton pickups unloading clean-shaven cowboys with new, perfects hats and perfumed cowgirls, asses nearly bursting out of Wranglers.
In the middle of that you had the Valley folk, the Phoenix and Scottsdale weekend get-away-ers looking for cool weather and some “authentic” small-town Arizona experience for their Independence Day.
And there, plain as the dust on the ground, is the paradox of every town’s claim to fame: that same dumbass thing that attracts all the folks to come see it, to see “real” sites, history and festivals, is what turns the town into a goddamned Disneyland façade of what it’s supposed to be. Americans don’t like zoos nearly as much as they like marveling at people slightly different from themselves. City folk like quaint heartland bullshit and country folk go nuts for the city’s manufactured glamour.
And when it’s your own hometown and you see through every bit of smoke and spin applied to everything it’s all the more maddening. I feel an amazing disconnect with the hick town that spawned me.
But for some reason those rare return trips home are increasingly interesting. I can peek through a kaleidoscope of different perspectives. Some close friends actually love it there; some are counting the days until they can get out; some will always hate it but never leave.
Real life has hit most of them and that’s the most fascinating of all. Some of my oldest childhood friends have families and honest-to-god careers. And not for the life of me does that seem the slightest bit attractive. It’s not a matter of arrogance or snottiness. Sitting on a porch with a couple beers, talking life and everything else, I can almost carve out in my mind an existence there for myself. It’s vague, ill-defined notions really, but it reinforces the connections that are the strongest roots in my life. But roots are just a support system, a delivery method for the ability and the opportunity to do so much more.
One day maybe I’ll settle on a place that defines itself in much grander terms. Or more likely, I’ll try out a few places, cities that can’t quite settle on a single claim to fame and offer up several possibilities. When you climb the ladder to the top, cities don’t have claims so much as nicknames: the Big Apple, the Windy City. And it’s all still for the tourists.

Sub Pop at the Hot Cong

An Northwest indie rock invasion in the late June desert? Yes, please.
Rogue Wave and Helio Sequence – both made up of kooky popsters with way too much talent – each put together tremendous sets Tuesday.
Both defy description a bit too, though neither is particularly groundbreaking. But sometimes indie excellence lies more in making a stew of various influences than stepping out on your own.
For the Rogue Wave, think a bit of the Shins, but more straightforward rock most times.
For Helio Sequence? Well, the Modest Mouse sound is definitely there a bit, but the harmonica wailing and feedback guitar brings in some Neil Young elements.
Regardless, both bands should be doing a lot better than a 100-person draw, even in the middle-of-the-week, middle-of-the-summer Tucson. Oh, and they will. Just thank me when you go check them out.

2005.5

Six months down, six to go. How’s 2005 shaping up? Well, decent, I ‘spose.
Why are half years never subjected to the same sort of reflection reserved for the full year? Or even half as much?
Screw it. Catfish Vegas presents… presents 2005.5, the best of the year so far, a collection of movies, music, personal experiences and nonsense that has kicked ass.
Okkervil River has far and away put out the best album so far this year. “Black Sheep Boy,” is all sorts of crazy awesome. It rocks harder and swoops slower than any of their previous efforts. And in the concert category, their March show is also among the best.
Shows in general have been a high point for the half year: Okkervil, Luna, Crooked Fingers, Clem Snide, Steve Earle, Wilco, Calexico, Neko Case, Social Distortion and more.
Other albums that are sure to be on the end of the year bests: Bruce Springsteen, Crooked Fingers, Clem Snide, Beck, Mike Doughty and Bright Eyes (also, I’m sure, the Decemberists, White Stripes and Spoon, though I’ll have to hear ‘em first).
I can only recommend outright three movies so far this year: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Sin City and Crash. I’ll throw in Star Wars for the nostalgia. Still on the list to see are Batman and Land of the Dead.
And in the Catfish arena, how ‘bout camping, trips North and Midwest, time at the ballpark, promotion and refuge. And then there’s all the mess: SKC and time wasting for the most part.
And nonsense? Nothing else has quite so nearly defined this half year. DJJ alone has stretched absurdity farther than I’d have guessed.
Props to the Ponderosa pine tree.
And in closing, here’s a New Half Year’s Resolution (in the immortal words of Freaktown): Henceforth, I will kick ass.

June

June’s gots its ups and its downs.
I had a stint in the Midwest and a stint up North, re-embracing roots I know and exploring ones I’d only just met.
I’ve seen the Doctor; he’s pretty much the same as ever. But the General and Chair are at crossroads so large there are double left turn lanes each way and buttons to signal the flashing cross signs.
June is a time when eras start and stop, trading the baton like sprinters in a 4X100.
It’s a full month, stuffed with moments of reflection, each coming just a bit too late to really matter.
It’s watching those around you prepare for their own transitions – the drives, the jobs, the semesters, the loves.
June is more acute than its twin July – more immediate, harder around the edges.
It’s strange that June follows May; no other successor varies so wildly from its predecessor.
June contains not only the year’s longest day, but the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, etc. But the revelations occur at night, in those short hours when Today means the absolute most, suspended in perfect balance between Yesterday and Tomorrow.
June so wants to be eternal.
June has given moments of the most pure relaxation I’ve had in ages and June has extracted high hopes in exchange.
June’s the total package, the one-stop shop.
It’s a yin embedded with its own yang, a bit rough for those who prefer their shampoo and their conditioner to come from separate bottles.
June never needed warming up and it certainly doesn’t plan on slowing down. In the winter days vanish, sneakily waltzing out the door while you’ve got your nose in a book, But in June the days whiz by, completely in the open but blurred as highway stripes.
If you have to ask, you don’t understand June. And if you’ve come to understand June, too damn bad because you can bet it’s already July.

Looking for Harry Belafonte

These are crazy days. The Nest is occupied. One of the Filthies has lost his mind, while the other one is pushing full steam ahead on destroying what’s left of his.
I’ve endured several hair interventions lately, as well as a couple dealing with problems of a more existential nature.
I had a dream the other night that I finally submitted to a haircut, only to have the friend who offered styling help leave halfway through the job to write a paper for school. It’s alright, I told everybody at the bar, I’m getting the haircut finished tomorrow.
I’m testing my research skills out with the King County Superior Court, re-emergences are everywhere and tomorrow it’ll be 100 degrees in the Ol’ Pueblo.
The other night, Mr. Chair told me about how it was funny we couldn’t find Harry Belafonte the previous evening. What? I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. We both knew we were talking about a cd, but the General was far more confused, wondering why we had been searching the house for an elderly black man.
But I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. Turns out Chair dreamed it. Just ponder for a moment what that dream really means.

Whirlwind & Refuge

Here's the new mix:

Whirlwind & Refuge

Okkervil River – For Real
Clem Snide – End of Love
Crooked Fingers – Big Darkness
Mike Doughty – Long Black American Car
Wilco – Not for the Season
Bruce Springsteen – Long Time Comin’
Paul Westerberg – As Far as I Know
Drakes – Bunny
Neko Case – The Virginian
Flatlanders – Tonight I’m Gonna Go Downtown
Bob Dylan – I Shall Be Released
Richard Buckner – Straight
My Morning Jacket – Mahgeetah
Sun Kil Moon – Carry Me Ohio
Thrills – Santa Cruz
Bright Eyes – At the Bottom of Everything
Superchunk – Shallow End
Mathematicians – Subtract My Life

Refuge

Three years ago, I took in a lost soul. An old Little League buddy turned spiritual advisor walked through tragedy and turmoil back to the desert. The desert welcomed him readily, eventually giving him a gorgeous blonde and a healer’s job. And I gave him my couch. So began the 505’s endeavor to become Zion, a Refuge for the weary and heartbroken, the contrite and perhaps even the prodigal.
In the hierarchy of karma, running a Refuge must at least place a person at the lieutenant level. Comfort, ears, beers and a place to toss a suitcase are what I have to give. And not everybody will, I’m sure. But anyone who is in my vast and intricate memory of great days and notable experiences is guaranteed at least as much.
After housing Freaktown for several months, I hit the road, bunking on couches, floors and actual guest beds for more than two months. My hair grew long and my beard reached what most thought was an uncouth shagginess, what I saw as a symbol of complete freedom.
I embraced the West, as much of it as I could, sharing late nights with old friends and strong drink. Along the way I read Lord of the Rings, and began thinking of myself and my journey in Middle Earth terms. I was a traveler from the Great Southern Desert, on my way north to kin and allies, defeating peril along the way.
I had nearly entire days of open highway, on winding roads through ancient mythical forests (the Redwoods) and wide Interstates across vast wastelands (that part would be Wyoming). I slept in great cities, walked great streets through tall buildings and absorbed more of the world in a shorter time than I’d ever before or since.
And now, I’m again running a Refuge, in the same place. Tragedy and heartbreak has sent one and soon another of my best friends couch-ward. I’m grateful for the company, glad to offer the shelter and broken to pieces at its necessity.
But Refuge is part of life, sometimes a large part, sometimes as big a part as Adventure, Achievement and Love.
My guests have lives with no maps, and theirs is a perspective that is oddly compelling. In no way do they measure future in 40-hour blocks and they do not need to change out of work clothes at any point in the day. Their minds are solving problems, large great ones that despite the pain open doors all over, strange magical doors in places nobody has ever thought of as a way to go.

Whirlwind

Out-of-town work excursions should always be so damn awesome. Last Tuesday I jetted to the Unholy Valley of the Sun, met up with the Factor and jetted for the scuzziest nightlife we could find in a strip mall.
Wednesday after working I hit the road for the Great North to see Wilco at Flagstaff’s Orpheum, a make up for the previous year’s rehab-based cancellation. (It’s more than a minor sore point that another of last year’s rehab-cancelled shows at our fair Rialto was not also rescheduled.)
I met up with Stu LeBlanc and the Short People at Flag Brew for dinner and then into line, where Stu told of strange end-of-days prophesy and mentioned something about 90 percent of the universe’s matter being mission.
The show was incredible, as were the two I caught in November. For having gone more than seven years since the first time I saw Wilco, I sure as hell made up some shows in a hurry.
I’ll reiterate now the fact that Wilco is without question the best band playing these days, both in terms of studio records, live shows and general commitment to the independent spirit and power of rock ‘n’ roll. Each album is awesome, each in its own sense groundbreaking and I’m sure they’ll continue putting out quality material if for no other reason than Jeff Tweedy’s writing just keeps getting better.
The show leaned heavy on The Ghost is Born and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, but we got a treat of two Mermaid Avenue 2 songs. Tweedy seemed a bit peeved, hurling his guitar at an amp before one encore and he appeared to steal someone’s camera. It kinda upset me that people kept taking flash pictures during the show, despite firm warning against such practice at the door and somewhat diligent security. I had my digicam in my pocked by forgetfulness more than anything, but didn’t touch it. I’d never flash a band and I know the quality of low light photography anyway. But Tweedy appeared to lean forward and motion for some front row person’s camera, and I swear I saw him walk off stage with it. Anyway.
Back to the Valley and the hospitality of the Factor and one down to Tempe Thursday morn.
Afterwards, I reassembled the Factor, the Short People and threw in Mr. Chair and we crossed the River to the Marquee, to see Calexico and Neko Case. Incredible once again. Neko Case blew me away with singing and hotness and Calexico brought out the full mariachi band, which I hadn’t seen in ages. If Wilco is the best band playing these days, Calexico is an infinitely close second, again in terms of both recordings and live performances. And Calexico has the oddly additive quality of being more or less a studio backing band as well. They do make everybody better, including Neko Case.
Another brilliant night, then back to sleep, back to Tempe, then back to Tucson to finish up the week’s work.
And what did Friday hold? Only the SICK Festival (Southwestern Intergalactic Comedy Kermis). The Secret Show opened with a short but really good set, Darwin disappointed, New Kevin was super wacky, Comedy Corner had a great Hell-themed cycle of sketches that included the grossest Scooby Dooby joke I’ve ever heard, and Demitri Martin had so many damn jokes I keep remembering them one by one ever since.
Only two frustrating text messages marred the night, which continued after the festival with the usual party and eventually I concluded what had turned into a rather confusing 22-hour day.
Not to be outdone, Saturday continued rocking. Caught the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, then went Downtown for a Secret Show special, which concluded with a bit about alligators I so helpfully suggested.
Then back to the house for a great party – friends from long ago, bellies full of laughs and a groundbreaking adventure for at least one of the housemates.
On top of everything, over the last few days I’ve spoken to two long-lost friends and seem to be parting ways with other company.
And talking in vague terms. A lot.

Blessed

Luna
Steve Earle
Okkervil River
Robyn Hitchcock
Social Distortion
Stars
M Ward
Clem Snide
Crooked Fingers
Mathematicians
Wilco
Calexico
Neko Case

And several nights of amazing local music – all since February.

April

April is a strange month.
It's a windy bunch of nonsense, punctuated by the first real actual heat of the year. It's coated in wildflowers and promise of wildfires. April is when people change times for reasons that still escape me. April is a curious mix of things coming to a close and things just starting. April is opening day and playoff runs. April is when politics get wacky and when the dead become famous for the wrong reasons.
April is a spotlight nobody can dodge. April is a musical explosion. April as a first name makes more sense than April as a month. It's all about looking to the future, getting lost in what might actually matter.
April is a strange month, senses choked off.
It's bright mornings and empty evenings. People run, from old lives and new ones. April's just a half a cup of coffee, not enough to do anything but still rich tasting.
April. I'll mark another year soon, not that I really care to.
If January is wheel-spinning, April is bald tires and a reckless driver.
April may eventually get somewhere, but there's never any telling.

Firefighting ain't my game...

But it's sure fun to give it a shot.
I spent eight hours Friday in a modified firefighter academy, learning more about fire behavior and incident command than I ever have before and getting all suited up, oxygen included, and shoved in a 450 degree room. Fun stuff.

The first of the drills we went through is called the maze. You get all suited up in turnouts, boots, helmet and go "on air," ride an elevator to the third floor of the training tower, and exit into a pitch-black, debris-strewn room, filled with simulated smoke. It's such a shock to start breathing through a mask, but there wasn't any time to think about that. I had to hit the ground, crawl around (always to the right first), find a fire hose and follow it as it snaked through the room. And the hose goes two ways: to the nozzle (into the fire) and to the engine (away from the fire). Oops. I chose one way and crawled through, over and under a bunch of crap to the nozzle. Turn around. Back over the same 15 feet or so, which wasn't any easier, then into new uncharted territory. I got stuck once on my airpack, flat on my stomach, couldn't move either way for a second, nearly panicking. You have almost no sensory ability there - no sight, touch is muffled by gloves and the rest of the suit, all I could hear was my own breathing (which nearly induced panic several times). The only thing I had was thought process (which wasn't working all that well either): breathe, go slow, crawl, follow the hose, get the fuck out of there. The training captains cheated for us a bit, shining a flashlight toward the right path a couple of times and tapping my shoulder when I got stuck. Damn, what an experience.

Next was the "flash over" prop. It's basically a box-car looking metal box, one end set up about five feet above the other end. In there they light a fire, and you sit on the other side, well below "floor level," the only way anybody could surivive the damn thing, even in full firefighting gear. Then you wait, watching the fire getting bigger and hotter until the entire place is pitch black with smoke. There's a raging fire not 20 feet away, but flames aren't remotely visible. Then the fire gets hotter and hotter, until it "rolls over," the smoke gases swirling in on each other until the fire shoots back across the entire ceiling, right over your head. But you still can't see it for the smoke, only feel the heat bearing down in you. Then fire training captain doused the fire a bit to cool it down so it could built back up for another rollover. Again and again. Twenty minutes in this near dark chamber, 400 degrees, breathing oxygen through a mask wondering if there's any smoke getting in through a little crack. At the end the smoke had cleared enough that I could actually see the fire rolling over my head, thick dark fire that looked more like waves than flames. Incredible. The drill is to show firefighters what a rollover looks like, to teach them that any signs of such means to get the fuck right out of there, because next is a flashover, when the fire is so hot that anything in the room just simply combusts in a floor-to-ceiling wall of flames.

Next was the Dragon, a natural gas and diesel fire that reached 30 feet into the air. This was the only bit that was specifically different than actual firefighter training (save a modification or two). Three firefighters start walking toward the blaze, two holding fire hoses on a fog sream, a strong, misty spray spread as wide as possible. The streams basically act as a shield, letting the firefighters walk up right to the gas pipe and shut it off. We trailed in behind them, helping to carry the hoses on retreat. It's amazing, the fire is hotter for those standing around the perimeter than it is right up inside, just because of the water shield.

There's no way to describe the feeling of depending on this hose to put oxygen into a mask so I could breathe. After a while I just continually breathed because it was the only way I could be sure I was actually doing so. A long, slow breath in, then a long slow breath out, then again, no pause in between.

That was it for an exhausting day, a series of strange experiences, robbed of sight, thrust into intense heat and forced to function without having much of a clue of what surrounded me.

Bookend Tucson

I’m 25 and Mike Ness is 42. I’m writing my way through several phases of a quarter-life crisis, he’s rocking his way through a mid-life one. I’m standing on the fringes, a good way back of the pit, nodding my head, while he’s at the center of it all, creating a frenzy and a sing-along, providing a couple thousand folks with a hell of a good time.
And we’re both a good bit removed from our last encounter.
I’d been in Tucson just a week, an 18-year-old college freshman, clueless but eager to soak it all up. I was a week removed from the only home I’d ever known, thrust into dorm life, with beautiful girls everywhere and absolute freedom. I was in a new place, a hoard of new friends already, and on Friday night, I was headed to see Social Distortion play, the first concert I’d even seen that didn’t involve two hours of driving.
Mike Ness was riding high, having turned years of recklessness into White Light, White Heat, White Trash, a thrashing good time of an album. He was hard-core as ever, threatening to beat some guy’s ass who tried spitting on the stage.
I was on one side of the cage in the (thankfully) all-ages club. There was a big group of friends there, mostly punkers from the old hometown scene, emerging occasionally from the pit, sweat-soaked wife-beaters clinging tight. Two pals thought to get the Rebel Waltz tattooed on their right arms after the show.
One of the pals joined me at the show last week, nearly eight years after the first time I’d seen Social Distortion.
Social Distortion has long been on the periphery of my favorite bands, a punk rock outpost for an otherwise country-folk centered music fan. At the best their songs are tight, anthematic rockers, sewn with rough tales of hard living and failure. On stage Mike Ness sells it all perfectly, his persona of hardened punk godfather easily believable as he sketches out in stage talk the places where his songs can’t go. What sounds at times like nostalgia is simply background information. Talk of hard drinking in a parking lot 20 years ago isn’t bragging or proof he belongs there; it builds energy on the way to the chorus: “Story of my life.”
And so goes the shows, so goes Mike Ness, and so goes his audience.
There was Story of My Life and there was Story of My Life, and eight years in between. I think we’re both better off for it.

Lo Siento

Five weeks is far too long a hiatus for the faithful readers of Catfish Vegas presents... and the staff deeply apologizes. We'll return with regularity and spare the readership from having to modify old folk songs in calling for posting.
That said, there's still the problem of not having a topic, but rambling has never stopped us before.
Ah, the television has relinquished a topic, and right in time.
It's selection Sunday, with teams looked up and down and slapped with a label predicting their likelihood of succeeding in a tournament. Our favorite sons are deemed to be the third best in their particular field of 16. And I don't want to talk about the game yesterday that stuck the 'Cats with such a "low" seed.
All I can say is I'm damn ready for some frantic hoops action.
That, and I'm going to sit on bleachers (or grass) in the sun Thursday, with a beer and a bratwurst and watch Major League baseball players tune up for the coming summer-long battle for a World Series.
This is the best time of the year for sports, with basketball coming to a close and baseball starting. I love the convergence of a new season's hope for one sport and the exciting playoff atmosphere of another. It's the inverse of October/November, when the Series heats up about the same time Midnight Madness kicks off the NCAA season.
Whether it's the first pitch coinciding with triumphant hoopsters hoisting a trophy or the first warm-up dunk colliding with a late-inning homer, the excitement draws me in. Watching one group of athletes open a season full of promise while another group closes out a season is incredible.

Catchin’ up

Blogging very little as of late, but hey, I’ve been busy.
The big news is a promotion. I’m enormously excited and perhaps the only down side is the realization that with work-induced elation, I’ve taken another scary step toward full and complete adultness.

Wednesday night was a Luna show at Congress. Phenomenal. I know very little of the band, save one song somebody threw onto a mix tape for me years ago. But the urgency of a farewell tour and the lack of other good touring shows lately drew me in. Once again, damn.
Luna is in many ways indescribable - simple descriptions like mellow to mid-tempo indie rock just don’t come close. The two guitarists and the bass player all trade off with leads and the tunes are these ever-shifting collaborations that really hit home. Early off I hung toward the back, but toward probably the latter third of the show, the floor opened up enough to mosey through and I joined Freaktown right up at the stage. Glad I did, ‘cause only then did I get to really see the blend of energy and precision the band played with.
The songs were all great, and especially in the encore (both encores!), the band was wild, loose and passionate. You could just tell they’re putting all they have into every show, knowing that it’s all coming to an end and wanting that end to be the band’s highest peak.
Dean Wareham is a unique songwriter, merging bittersweet, mysterious lyrics with music that brings soaring guitar leads.
And Britta Phillips is abolutely gorgeous.
I urgently need to get more Luna albums. I’ve thrown Bewitched on a half dozen times since the show.
It’s a strange bittersweet feeling to finally catch onto a band at the end of their run. I felt the same way getting into Warren Zevon when he was already diagnosed with terminal cancer. I never caught a Zevon show (but did see Dylan play Accidentally Like a Martyr and Lawyers, Guns and Money), and I’m damn glad I did get to see Luna. That, and I’m damn glad they’re not all dying.
Regardless, never have I been so impressed with seeing a band I knew so little about. That’s probably a top-10 all-time show.

Rocked out with a few folks on the porch last night and then woke up early (yes, 11 a.m. is in fact early) to watch the Wildcats pound the shit out of Stanford. There’s nothing like an absolute, thorough demolishing to set the tone for a day. I’ll go right out and say it: Salim and Channing are the best senior duo in the country, the perfect inside-out combination and fiery, hungry competitors. Even after some terrible missteps, there’s reason to feel real strong about this team heading into March. And I’ll get one more chance to see them, having just picked up tickets for the Tempe game, me and Stu’s Christmas gift to Gramps.

And in the ever-lasting saga of Truth being quite Stranger than Fiction, here are some of today’s headlines:
Linguist unearths a new language
Police hit pay dirt: 3.6 million nickels
Woman sues after girls try to deliver cookies to her door

January

January is a long month.
The winter slows everything and whether it’s sniffles or something severe, everybody’s health stumbles a bit.
I can’t hide in books and movies, as much as I’ve tried. There needs to be friends; there needs to be the General and Freaktown.
There’s basketball, and football playoffs, but they’re frantic, fleeting matches. There’s not the steady march of summer’s sentinel, the great blue-sky game of baseball.
Even in the great desert Southwest, it’s hard to barbeque.
I’ve been writing, and dreaming. I’ve been drinking more tea than coffee, more whiskey than beer.
December’s flow of out-of-state pals has dried up. And what’s more, since I’ve seen ‘em all so recently, I ain’t got much to say, so there’s little phone or email communication.
January is a long month, with little redemption.
I’ve been playing basketball, driving and throwing creative and wildly imaginative passes that sail out of bounds, or coming off a pick for a three-pointer. Then, after my legs die, I got nothing.
It’s a month of distraction and wheel-spinning. But none of it unpleasant. There’s no rush. Cabin fever is still a month off and here it’s short and unbelievably mild.
I’ll be relaxing under a beautiful blue sky with a bratwurst and monster beer soon, sunburned probably by the seventh inning, sometime the first week of March.
January is a long month, with little redemption, but also little pressure and few worries. It’s an even-keel month, mostly, but maybe leaning just a bit to stir-crazy.
I went to the mountain last week and walked my old favorite trail. I missed a crucial turn - it was either buried by snow or destroyed by fire. So I just turned back, really on a slow saunter more than a hike. The air was cold but full of life. The snow was old, but still six or eight inches deep in places and had turned crunchy. I tried walking like I did as a kid, careful not to break through that top crust, as if tip-toe turned me weightless. There was a girl and a dog, neither one mine.
January is a long month, with little redemption but even keel, a pause as much as a start.

This guy is my hero

Man peed way out of avalanche

National Arlo Day

I forgot to post this the other day, but what the hell:

It's the 10th of January, and I still ain't had no sleep...

Catfish at the record shop

I started off blogging last year with an impulse to make my own statement on the music of 2003. And so you're stuck with me. To continue, here's what struck me in 2004, simply the best:

1. Modest Mouse - Good News For People Who Love Bad News
2. Wilco - A Ghost is Born
3. Green Day - American Idiot
4. Elliott Smith - From A Basement On The Hill
5. Arcade Fire - Funeral
6. Social Distortion - Sex, Love and Rock ‘n’ Roll
7. Steve Earle - The Revolution Starts Now
8. Walkmen - Bows + Arrows
9. Ted Leo/Pharmacists - Shaking the Sheets
10. Killers - Hot Fuss
11. Rilo Kiley - More Adventurous
12. Old 97s - Drag it Up
13. Giant Sand - Is All Over the Map
14. Loretta Lynn - Van Lear Rose
15. Interpol - Antics
16. U2- How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb
17. Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers - Americano!
and a tribute, EP and live collection:
18. Por Vida - A Tribute To The Songs Of Alejandro Escovedo
19. Calexico - Convict Pool
20. Bob Dylan - Live 1964, Bootleg Series 6: Concert at Philharmonic Hall


Not being rich or a professional music critic, it’s hard to get to some albums in good time even when there’s tremendous reason to do so. And so the honorable mentions, the would-probably-be-on-the-list-but-I-haven’t-heard-them set:
Drive-by Truckers - Dirty South, Neko Case - The Tigers Have Spoken, Iron & Wine - Our Endless Numbered Days, Fiery Furnaces - Blueberry Boat, A.C. Newman - The Slow Wonder, Brian Wilson - Smile, Streets - A Grand Don't Come For Free, Tom Waits - Real Gone, Flatlanders - Wheels of Fortune, TV on the Radio - Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes, Pinback - Summer in Abaddon, Mason Jennings - Use Your Voice, Marah -20,000 Streets Under the Sk, Dave Alvin - Ashgrove, Richard Buckner - Dents and Shells

Research help: The Onion and Rolling Stone.
Check out Catfish Vegas presents... review of 2003

Catfish at the cinema

As promised, here's the my list for the top flicks I caught this year:
1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
2. Fahrenheit 9/11
3. Hero
4. Kill Bill 2
5. Shaun of the Dead
6. Incredibles
7. Dodgeball
8. Garden State
9. Door in the Floor
10. (tie) Spider-Man 2 and Shrek 2

Then I ‘spose there are the “honorable mentions,” or more precisely movies I didn’t catch but probably should (or should have). They could make a whole new list: Sideways, I Heart Huckabees, The Life Aquatic, Before Sunset, House of Flying Daggers, Closer, Ray, Dig, Aviator and Finding Neverland.

The year in politics

I'm sick of what goes on behind the curtains of this here democratic process, but for a fun take on the previous year, check out The Carpetbagger Report's year in review.

One Year...

It was one year ago today that Sgt. Pepper taught the Catfish Vegas to blog.
And what a remarkable year it has been.
For starters, I have to say my detective fiction serial was pretty
impressive.
And remember November, when I blogged in nothing but haiku, execpt for
Sundays, when blogging was done in only sonnets?
And once I finally got a keyboard with the proper capabilities, I reproduced
my very first writings - kindergarten letters to Santa Claus - in sanscrit.
That screenplay collaboration with Charlie Kaufman was pretty cool too.
And who could forget that wicked back and forth with that son-of-a-bitch
Paul Wolfowitz? Oh, the things comment threads can do.
If only I'd have thought of that million-dollar trivia sweepstakes
earlier...
And weren't the Cambodian leaders nice to let me post the new constitution I
wrote for them, even before it was submitted to Parliament?
Gosh golly what a year...

Stay tuned all week as the staff here at Catfish Vegas presents... rolls out our picks for the best of 2004.

The glory boys

Good-bye Brian and Luke, you’ll be missed.

“Memory is untouchable - It keeps such bitter distance
And silence is a photograph - A still and stone reminder
And in time we fade
Left in only recollection
Holding on is the hardest thing to do,
When everything is so out of touch
And nothing really means that much
When words don’t last beyond our lips
And promises are barriers
This same reflection, a portrait of contempt
A faded story book it’s pages over read,
Oh well, I’ll have plenty of memories to hold me when I’m gone
And if the pen permits I think I’ll write a few more songs
Cause nothing brings me back the way those old ones do...
It’s tried and true
So on and so forth, it’s so hard to see
We all fall down eventually
To bones - To graves - To history
And change won’t change a thing
A subtle keepsake
Our triumphs and our tears
Find innocence betrayed by fact and ignorance instilled...
And so
This one’s for the boys back home I hope you’re all alright
A childhood remembered in a song against the night
Embers on the wind, we were a spark of hope and pride
In the journey to find somewhere to ignite
For times we shared I give to you
The only words I know to say
You’re every part a part of me,
Amazing what a name can mean.
It’s a friend who knows you in this terminal unknown...
I’m coming home.”

- Bueno, “Glory Boys”

High/low

What a divide for my hoops teams:
The Suns have the league's best record and lead everybody in scoring.
The Wildcats manage to win at Marquette but score just 48 points, the lowest in a win since Lute came to town.
The Suns have all five pistons working together, the 'Cats are lucky most games it seems to have one functioning piston.
For the Suns, the most I can ask is an injury-free season, 'cause little else looks to derail a run deep into the playoffs.
For the Wildcats, at least the focus on defense and rebounding will overcome some weaknesses of the past.

Late or never, you make the call

I’m pretty damn far behind here, but a couple of albums from this year I got recently are just outstanding.

Green Day’s American Idiot has got to be one of the absolute most dead-on recordings in terms of capturing the cultural and political climate in the United States this year (Steve Earle’s The Revolution Starts Now also does quite well).
For one thing, the album is remarkably ambitious in its scope. The “rock opera” and “concept album” tags are so misused in general and I hate to throw trite cliches at an album I’ve really been enjoying. Let’s just say it’s a centrally themed statement on modern life a la (dare I say it?) Darkness on the Edge of Town or OK Computer.
They don’t have the bombast or the urgency of the Clash, don’t level the sharp attacks of Rage Against the Machine, nor can the neo punkers muster the righteous anger of Bad Religion, but Green Day is nobody’s little brother. American Idiot is intelligent, poignant and musically remarkable considering the band has never rated too highly outside the high school set. For godsakes, they burst onto the scene with an album called Dookie and paved a rather regretable road that brought Blink 182, among much, much worse.
When it’s all said and done, I’d say American Idiot will be remembered as one of the top several albums of this year at worst, and an undeniable classic at best.

The Killers’ Hot Fuss is simply fun. It’s catchy, festive, loud and arrogant. It’s a drunken swagger, just like the Las Vegas it comes from. (Hell, for all I know they’re really from the Henderson suburbs, but equating them with the Strip just seems to make more sense.)
It’s 80s rock all over again, there’s no doubt to that, but what a brilliant swirl they make of it. Like Ryan Adams Rock N Roll (an underrated ball of fun in its own right), the album is practically a track-by-track game of name-the-influence, which in the wrong hands is piss-poor. But they’re songsmiths who know how to both dress like their heroes and be themselves at the same time.
The lyrics can get ridiculous, and it’s hard to tell at times whether they’re tongue-in-cheek or just kinda stupid, but the focus is really just the catchy tunes.
The Killers may be a flash in the pan act. With such a winning debut I actually care, but I really hope not.

And the winner is...

Mr. Chair takes the prize with the all-too-predictable U2.

The Since and the In Between

Since the November Debacle, when the 10 p.m. news rocked my stomach with the same sinking feeling as the final buzzer of 2001’s NCAA basketball championship, I’ve more or less resolved to force politics into one of the furthest back closets of my mind.
I half hoped that in doing so I’d stumble across something in one of those closets to bring out and immediately throw into the lineup. Like benching politics in favor of say, science fiction, in the batting order of my mind and time.
Didn’t happen. While I did more or less cut politics almost cold turkey, nothing slid in right away to fill that void. No old interests bubbled up anew. No past curiosities reasserting themselves, nothing. Or more specifically no one thing. I’ve wrapped myself up in photography more, I’ve opened my ears to more music, but they’re just fragments of interests in the place of the monolith of the November election.
And it’s been really strange. I’ve been scattered these past six weeks. It’s a better sensation than constantly furious, but there’s little in the way of solace and even less in the way of any worthwhile pursuit. And that scattered-ness has certainly had an impact on my writing. I haven’t yet really felt comfortable switching away from the opinion, the argument, and back into the storytelling. But it’s coming.
I’ve enjoyed long stretches of highways with trees and highways with cholla. I’ve been surrounded and embraced by some of the best rock ‘n’ roll music there is. I’ve seen some remarkable films, particularly one chronicling Warren Zevon’s final months. I’ve concocted a supreme mix cd. I’ve drank beer late into the night, laughing on porches with old friends visiting from out of town.
They’re stories and they’re feelings, and they’re not the slightest bit political.
There’s a horizon now that holds with it more travel, more old friends. It holds family and hope, good food and new toys. The weather is chill and projects are taking hold.

Zimmy

So I emailed a bunch of people reminding them to watch Bob Dylan's 60 Minutes interview Sunday and some people now think I'm compelled to comment on the interview. So here goes.
Dylan seems to be offering very little in terms of separating Bob Dylan the man from Bob Dylan the character, which is hardly surprising. He never looked like he enjoyed the interview, which begs the question why he agreed to it in the first place. It's not like his publicist prodded him into it. When your author is Bob Dylan and the subject is himself, traditional promotion hardly seems like it would matter.
Aside from Dylan's guarded, if not strange, demeanor and the feeling that he never really opened himself up at all, the interview was actually quite good. What was more revealing than his answers for the most part was Ed Bradley's unrestrained glee at the interview. He mentioned in the lead-in how he's always wanted to interview Dylan and it was evident. More importantly, as the interview progressed, he seemed to become thrilled at the conservation itself. I wonder how much the editing played a role in shaping the interview. There were a lot of cuts to historical voice-over shite and it would have been nice to see what was trimmed from the actual interview.
The most compelling part of the whole thing was Dylan's description of how some of his best songs seemed to be written almost by magic. At some level, genius or greatness simply is. You can disect an artist in so many ways, but the very fact that some simply have a greatness beyond others is unexplainable.
I wasn't really surprised or impressed by anything in the 15-minute segment. He certainly won't win any new fans just because of the interview. But the character of Bob Dylan, if not the man himself, is so wrapped up in mystery that some mumbles and a dour expression are expected from a television interview.

Talkin' Ponderosa Highway Blues

I just finished up the new biannual mix:
Talkin' Ponderosa Highway Blues

(intro)
Steve Earle - The Seeker
Gin Blossoms - Keli Richards
Social Distortion - Don't Take Me For Granted
Fountains of Wayne - No Better Place
Dan Bern - Black Tornado
Wilco - Company in My Back
Big Star - September Gurls
Elvis Costello - (What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding
Talking Heads - This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)
Modest Mouse - One Chance
Shins - Fighting in a Sack
Drive-by Truckers - (Something's Got to) Give Pretty Soon
Warren Zevon - Lawyers, Guns and Money
Goshon - No More Wasted Nights
M Doughty - Madeleine and Nine
Townes Van Zandt - If I Needed You
Bob Dylan - Boots of Spanish Leather
The Band and the Staples - The Weight
Solomon Burke - Diamond in Your Mind
Ray Charles - Baby Don't You Cry
Roberta Flack - Hey, That's No Way to Say Good-Bye

This one follows Momentary Fires.

Play it again, Sam

We're all wrong. Rolling Stone has copped out once again with one of those "Weren't the 60s and 70s great" best of covers: The 500 Greatest Songs.
At least Dylan took the top slot (and 14, 59, 68, 106, 185, 190, 203, 230, 332, 364 and 404)

But screw it, let's play again. Repeat your guess if you'd like. Winner gets... well, nothing, though I 'spose I could buy somebody a beer or something.
But wasn't it fun? Hells yeah, so let's do it again!

Who will be on the cover of the next Rolling Stone?

Cover of the Rolling Stone

Who’s it gonna be? C’mon, you pop-culture freaks, indie-rock snobs, movie junkies and the like, think ya know? Well, who’s it gonna be?
In a game that never quite got off the ground, some folks and I tried getting together a little lottery a couple years back. The simple premise: who will be on the cover of the next Rolling Stone. I think George got one right once and the gig just sorta fizzled out.
But since it’s such an immediately fascinating notion, I’ll bring it back right here. Not as a contest sort of thing, ‘cause I don’t feel like administering it, but just for discussion (and argument!):
Who will be on the next Rolling Stone cover (current one is Eminem)?

post your answer in the comments

President war-monger and the freedom of speech

This just about says it all about the state of the country and the world today:

Bob Dylan's Masters of War is a hard-hitting, anti-war song produced more than 20 years before any current Boulder High School student was born.
More than 40 years after its release, the song has been resurrected at Boulder High with huge and confusing repercussions that prompted Secret Service agents to pay the campus a visit Thursday.
Some students and parents apparently let the Secret Service and talk-radio stations know they were unhappy with the plan of a trio of students to do a poetry reading of the song, accompanied by background music, according to Ron Cabrera, the school's principal.
Rumors were rampant that during an audition and rehearsal for today's talent show, the students changed Dylan's powerful last verse at the end of the song to say that they hoped that President Bush was going to die.
The last verse begins: "And I hope that you die; And your death'll come soon."
Secret Service agents interviewed Cabrera on Thursday to determine what all the uproar was about and whether any threats were being made against the president's life.
"They were following up and doing their due diligence," Cabrera said of the agents' visit. "They had been receiving calls from the community and, in the course of the talk show, felt like they had heard (the students) inciting physical harm to the president."

Are the sedition acts coming back with the draft?
"Masters of War" is about the most fitting song anybody could be listening to these days. And remember, those who do not learn from the past...
U.S. Soldiers killed in Iraq: 1,170
UK and other "coalition" soldiers killed in Iraq: 146
U.S. Military wounded: 8,458
Iraqi civilian deaths: at least 14,304

To another year of good reading...

If you're a Catfish Vegas reader who doesn't already stay up to date on the adventures of Kip Rudolph Chair, by all means go check out Mr. Chair, who entered his second year of blogging today. The Life in a Dormant Volcanoe series is riveting.

... I heard you seen a little rain

Off soon to see Richard Buckner at Congress. To reprise me feelings heading up to his last local show in February, Hey there thunderhead.

Dan Bern and 89A

Flagstaff = mandatory.
I've learned that over the last few years. I’ve had enough great times in Flagstaff that I just can’t stay away for too long. There's a vibe so unlike the desert, it clears the head remarkably.
And what better reason to brave the getting-cold Northland than a Dan Bern show (seriously check out the Web site, there's lots of sound clips and lyrics for the curious). It’s a shame this guy is so damn far under the radar, but political-humor neo-folk for some reason just isn’t in high demand. But c’mon, anyone who calls his band the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy has a lot up his sleeve.

Saturday began by swinging through Mesa to pick up Z, then off north. A cup of coffee and some walking around Downtown, then off to Flag Brew for beers, dinner and Game 1. We met up with Stu LeBlanc and his pal and headed to the show.

Two openers were medium- to low-level open mic guitar duos. Then Dan Bern hit the stage, just a guitar and harmonica. I had no idea what to expect, the only albums I really know are full-band, folk-rock affairs. But what a hell of a show.

He opened with a Woody Guthrie tune and then got political. Much of the show drew from his new album, heavily influenced by the 2004 presidential race. The songs were topical, but avoided the usual trite traps and are actually poignant as hell, and hella funny.

One song ran through the glorious first days of a Dan Bern presidency - statehood for Cuba and Mexico on day one, a ban on gasoline engines for day two, collective farms for the third day, all the troops come home on the fifth day, the death penalty is gone on day six, legalized pot on day seven, free universal health care on the eighth day, giving more dough to public schools on day nine, and day 10 it became legal to marry anyone you want. Funny on so many levels, the song parallels the creation myths with their wide-sweeping daily pronouncements, and the grand presidential 100-day agenda.

Then there’s the soldier’s lament with it’s heart-tugging chorus: “ But who do you think will push my chair / After the parade is over.”

Just one song from my favorite, New American Language, leaving off too damn many gems, I thought, but that’s all I could muster in the way of a complaint.

But we did get the classic “Tiger Woods,” with half-shock opening line of “I got big balls, big ol’ balls.”

I’m not even sure where all those songs come from, but the show was phenomenal. Bern closed with the all-too-simple singalong: “Bush Must Be Defeated.”

From there Z and I met up with my cousin and headed off to the Mogollon Brewing Company and the Mad I, Flagstaff favs that finished the ruination.

Sunday’s return journey took the stunning 89A south of Flagstaff, down from the Mogollon Rim to Sedona, then through the magic redland to the erie Jerome, a curious near ghost town clinging to the side of Mingus Mountain. Switchbacks galore and a European-style village, it’s just another example of Arizona’s remarkable strangeness.

Hello champs

Too bad they had to sweep, I was hoping for a lot of Halloween night drama. One hell of a postseason and it just kinda flashed out in the Series. Oh well, the last three Series were great and this one didn't hurt the fans at all.
It was a wacky game one, but dominating is the only way to put the last three games.
"We know we're idiots, we know we're cowboys, but we know we're world champtions." - Johnny Damon.
Way to go, Curt. Congratulations, Manny.
Next year, time for the Cubs...

On matters concerning a blood-red moon, Titan and honest-to-goodness hobbits

On Wednesday, science reared up and declared in no uncertain terms that it absolutely kicks ass. More ass than me, more ass than Peter Jackson, and damnit, science kicks more ass than all sorts of gods.
Just when baseball and politics were dominating the news, taking up everybody’s precious day-to-day brain space, here comes science out of nowhere, swooping in to smack everbody in the back of the collective head and say, “We found proof of hobbits!”
The most significant evolutionary find in decades, at least, is amazing. Read the whole article, and search out more. A primitive halfling that may have even lived in trees? Man, doesn't science kick ass?
And while it was two decades of research and a seven-year space flight in the making, overnight we learned more about Saturn’s largest moon Titan than ever before. Perhaps an evolutionary cousin of Earth, Titan is larger than Mercury and the only known moon with an atmosphere. And we sent a spaceship to fly within 750 miles of it, snapping pictures of unprecedented detail all the while. Freaking amazing (Science kicks ass!).
Oh, and the lunar eclipse was captivating, an eerily beautiful site that seemed either otherwordly or ancient.

Science kicks ass.

Hootie at Tiger's wedding was bad enough.

What the hell idiot let Scott Stapp sing at the World Series? Seriously. This is a big fucking problem. That guy sucks, royally.
Donna Summer was bad enough, but at least she might faintly be considered a legend, of some sort. Creed is one of the most undeserving bands to ever record a song. They're hideous.
And some schmuck at Major League Baseball (or Fox, or the Cardinals) hired that guy to sing?
No, no, no... They shouldn't even sing "God Bless America" at ballgames anyway, let alone hire some no talent ass-clown to do it.

Herky-jerky, methed-out neo-vaudeville

I caught this curious indie combo down at Congress last night - the Fiery Furnaces. In one of the rare shows I’ve caught without ever having heard the band, I was neither disappointed or impressed.
All I can say is that somebody needs to reign in this trend of massively hyped NYC indie bands.
This year’s Blueberry Boat got an obscenely high 9.6 rating from the inexplicably pretentious indie reviewers at Pitchforkmedia. That follows an 8.4 for their 2003 album Gallowsbird's Bark.
What I saw was a herky-jerky, methed-out neo vaudeville quartet.
There was the cute-enough lead singer (apparently Eleanor Friedberger) in a hipster feminist retro black dress, the floppy hipster haired bassist and guitarist and a drummer so spastic the Animal comparisons sprung to mind immediately.
All in all though, an unimpressive live band. The barely played for an hour, and didn’t seem to think music needed to be segmented into songs.
It was just this non-stop speed-up/slow-down routine; a few measures of crunchy guitar chords followed by electronic keyboard screeches, repeat.
What words I did catch were intriguing, seeming like a halfway stream of consciousness chant that could only be filled with deep about the hip urban existence.
The melodies were fun, when they existed.
Amazon.com reviewers range from being “spellbound and giddy with pleasure” to saying the band is “even more pretentious than Radiohead; even less musical than Gwar.”
I guess the Fiery Furnaces are a specific, if not acquired, taste.
Then again, I was listening to clean-cut folkie John Stewart, he of the ballad “California Bloodlines,” in my car yesterday, which means I can’t possibly be cool enough to “get” the Fiery Furnaces.
An album would be worth a listen, I’m sure, but even at $6 I don’t reckon I’ll check them out live again.
There’s simply too much else going on, even just this next week in this desert outpost.
Calexico tomorrow, Dan Bern in Flagstaff Saturday, Rilo Kiley Tuesday...

Tiger Woods is nothing more than a rich dork

Purely speculation here, but if I were to marry a gorgeous Swedish model, I would not have Hootie and the Blowfish play. Never. The lowest I’d possibly go would be Rod Stewart.
C’mon, how lame is golf? The most popular figure in the game’s history, the pinnacle of coolness on the links, and his wedding features the world-renowned talents of ... Hootie?

The other side of the equinox

Somewhere other than the Sonoran Desert, leaves are probably changing colors (and shit).
Here, it's dipped below 90 (most days).
Still, that equinox thing is over and it's fall dammit (or autumn for whoever the hell says that). And in the fall all sorts of people decide it's time to release new albums (and in recent years, various hot-ticket DVD items).
So here's what to expect as the days grow shorter:

Elliott Smith - From a Basement on a Hill (which apparently offers few clues to his death).
I'd probably rank this as the most-anticipated. What a strange story this singer made for himself. I'd just gotten into his stuff when he played a solo-acoustic gig in Tempe, mumbling something about how his band's bus didn't make it. His stoned, barely competent slacker persona as a complete contrast with his amazing performance. Like Zevon and Cash last year, posthumous equals intrigue.

Johnny Cash - American Five
I doubt there's much surprising here, but we'll see he songs he selects to cover - always the most exciting part of his American recordings and damn near always stunning.

Beck
Will Beck continue his yo-yo style and come back with a zany dance album? Truthfully, I hope so. Sea Chance was great, but his talen lies so much more with the upbeat music.

Social Distortion - Sex, Love and Rock 'n' Roll
What about the drugs? I've heard a live version of "Don't Take Me For Granted" and it's great. Critiques of this song are off base: Mike Ness has always been heartfelt and honest in his lyrics, so this isn't new, he's just never had a best friend's death to write about.

Tom Waits - Real Gone
If "The Day After Tomorrow" from Future Soundtrack for America is any indication, Tom Waits again proves he's among the best there ever was.

U2 - How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb
Eh. We'll see. Honestly, I don't expect much. Their last one was good-not-great, and they've released enough of those. I'd love to hear a turn back to Achtung-style stuff, but we'll see whether ego will let them go there.

Green Day - American Idiot
It's apparently already out, and while I'm curious, I'm obviously not that curious.

R.E.M. - Around the Sun
I lost interest after Automatic for the People. Still, it might be worth a look...

There's also the interesting Pavement and Clash re-issues, a star-packed Warren Zevon tribute,
and some promising hip-hop releases from Talib Kweli, Mos Def, Nas, Ludacris and the Black-Eyed Peas

It looks like I've already missed fall releases by Drive By Truckers, Old 97s and Rilo Kiley...

What I will not be listening to: System of a Down, Gwen Stefani, Destiny's Child, Eminem, Good Charlotte, various other shite.

Any other albums to look out for?

Down the stretch

It's a damn shame my D'Backs (and yes, there's a bit of hesitancy in that proclamation) tanked their season so damn long ago, but as we close in on October there's excitement galore in baseball:
Playoff hunt - Between division and wild card chases, six American League teams and seven over in the National League are realistically thinking about the playoffs. Of course, from my point of view, playoff spots are much more frequently lost than won, so we'll see who doesn't blow it.
Bonds - Spectacular. Again. It's time to put a mercy rule on the NL MVP award and let Adrian Beltre walk home with the honor.
Redbirds Row - As if Pujols, Rolen and Edmonds weren't enough, they can still count on an aging-but-deadly Larry Walker and an above .300 Tony Womack.
Ichiro - Are you kidding me? Hitting .374, eight hits away from the Major League single-season record, with plenty of games left. This may be the most interesting aspect of the rest of the season.
Shilling - It's a shame he won't take the Cy Young now that he's finally free of pitching in the same league as Randy Johnson. But I'd love to see Curt in the playoffs again.
Johnson - Randy has pitched better than anybody in the majors this year (again) but will not see the playoffs or anything resembling the Cy Young. This is the price of that 2001 Series win and it's a damn shame.
Whither D.C.? - Are the collective known as Major League Baseball owners so incompetent they can't even figure out how to move the Expos franchise out of Montreal? It's not like they didn't know this was coming.
Hillenbrand - Yes, it's extremely unremarkable, but the brightest bat in Arizona's lineup is still hitting above .300 (though at .302, a couple bad games can knock him down yet.)

Another project

Sufficient months have passed since I finished collecting Five Favorite Songs from more than 100 people, so what the hell, it's time for a new music endeavor, and another call for help.

One disc, 20 (or so) songs, the best, most distinctive covers of Bob Dylan songs out there.
The idea is to bring together songs that were so remarkably and uniquely done that the artist or band doing the cover truly came to own the song.
I'd like to avoid the absolute most famous ones, but it's hard to imagine a disc of such nature would leave out Hendrix's All Along the Watchtower.
Still, as you folks make suggestions, focus on the rarer tunes: Clancy Brothers - When the Ship Comes In and Echo & the Bunnymen - It's All Over Now, Baby Blue.

Now, I know there are Web sites out there that list covers (like here), but the point of soliciting suggestions is to get recommendations, personal favorites.

To join in, simply email or comment with any suggestions ya got.

Labo(u)r

It's a few days late, but I just wanted to mention that I spent Monday listening to socialist anthems, courtesy of Billy Bragg.

'We come in peace' they said
'To dig and sow
We come to work the land in common
And to make the waste land grow
This earth divided
We will make whole
So it can be
A common treasury for all

The sin of property
We do disdain
No one has any right to buy and sell
The earth for private gain
By theft and murder
They took the land
Now everywhere the walls
Rise up at their command

They make the laws
To chain us well
The clergy dazzle us with heaven
Or they damn us into hell
We will not worship
The God they serve
The God of greed who feeds the rich
While poor men starve

We work, we eat together
We need no swords
We will not bow to masters
Or pay rent to the lords
We are free men
Though we are poor
You Diggers all stand up for glory
Stand up now

You poor take courage
You rich take care
This earth was made a common treasury
For everyone to share
All things in common
Al people one
We come in peace -
The order came to cut them down

Outstanding. A loud, one-man sing along in the car makes up for having to work that day... 'course I got the last two Saturdays off in exchange so there's little complaint there.

The reason for this post is simple.
To tie the song to current politics is easy in my mind. The messages of peace, freedom, courage and the idea of the Earth as a "common treasury for all" are true to me, ideals at the core of my person, built by honest, noble, unmaterialistic parents who instilled an open mind, which reads and gives things careful thought.
The vile, power-stained, power-hungry minds of the Bush administration know none of this. It's riches and favors for them and their friends, shit for the rest. It may not be by "theft and murder" that they have 'ruled' but their crimes are nonetheless severe - outright lies, almost unfathomable secrecy and the idea that God is guiding their hand in war.

And in recent cd purchases, we're (not) surprisingly turning political:

"livin' in the motherfuckin' USA"

and

"Yeah, I believe the war is wrong
I don't believe that nations can be steered
Lead the world with smarts and compassion
By example, not coercion, force or fear"

Damn simple and damn right.