New & Improved

The staff has put in some work to spiffy up the blog and we're sure you'll love the new look.
Navigation is easier as well and the blog list has been updated (look for more to come).
We'll also be experimenting with some more multimedia content.
On that note, it gives great pleasure to provide this gem, a rare demo by The Swim. Enjoy.
The Swim - Beautiful Endeavor
They're playing Dec. 1 at Che's Lounge, so anyone in Tucson, go on down and check 'em out.

Playgrounds

I just got back from watching Warren Miller's latest film down at the Fox Theatre (isn't it strange that I'd never been there before, then attended two events in three days? Monday's Iron & Wine show was incredible!).
I've long been a fan of his ski and snowboard films, which isn't a surprise considering he basically invented the genre. But for me it's always been more about Miller's narrative abilities and how he infuses his films with a great energy, taken from his simple mantra: If you don't do it this year, you'll be one year older when you do.
I haven't skied in nearly 11 years. Writing that, it kinda pains me that it's been so long. It was a trip during Christmas break my senior year of high school, out to New Mexico with the pop and the bro, to crash with friends in Farmington (shithole!) and venture out to the glorious Wolf Creek and the stuck-on-the-side-of-the-road Hesperus. (Coincidentally, the car-ride hours of that same trip were dominated via headphones by my newly acquired Recovering the Satellites album, which would later offer 'Angels of the Silences,' 'Miller's Angels' and 'A Long December' to Miller's Snowriders 2, the first of his films I'd see on the big screen.)
I was never much good. I could get down the not-too-steep hills just fine, but I was never too daring. What I liked most was zipping down fairly flat ground, not having to turn much, just enveloped in the nearly motionless gliding speed. To me, it was kinetic energy at its most peaceful. There's no other way on Earth to move quite like that, and it's absolutely exhilarating.
I learned at Williams Ski Area, an out-of-the-way mountain that was cheap enough and small enough to allow anybody more than enough runs in a day. There just simply weren't any crowds or lines. I still see that whole ski area in my mind clearly - though from a quick search on the 'Net it's apparently now called Elk Ridge Ski Area. But that map is still the same, and I know exactly what it represents.
I miss the feeling -- but skiing is expensive, and I live in the desert, and just a couple weeks after that last ski trip I blew out my left knee, which still doesn't feel completely strong...
Someday again I'll ski -- and that's the overriding inspiration that Miller's films provide.
But I also take away this tremendous spiritual uplift. The photography is gorgeous, the athletes are the best in the world, but Miller without a doubt captures skiing at its essence, which is the simple fact that it exists outside of day-to-day reality. It's an escape, it's pursued feverishly by people who can't be tied down, whose only drive is to go where there's fresh powder. Fresh powder, probably the most powerfully metaphorical playing field in all of sports. Skiing is exploration and escape -- and you're afforded a good bit of each just sitting there in the theatre.
I've now seen at least five of Miller's films on the annual big-screen tour (out of 58 total). It's just a ball of fun (though expensive -- I lucked into a free $20 ticket tonight). Playground was this year's title. There's little better for a pick-me-up as the winter arrives than getting a dose of Miller's quirky philosophy and get-up-and-go mentality. He's truly inspirational, even if you've never touched snow in your life. All he asks is that you grab a little adventure in your life.
See you next year, same time, same place...

Solid proof that Carson Daly is Hollywood's biggest douchebag

I'd long suspected as much, but now this proves it: Daly to defy writers strike.
That asshole isn't worth the weight of his smarmy grin without writers. Since when did an inexplicable habit of bagging starlets before they washed up earn people their own TV shows?

Seriously though. Six gigantic multinational corporations are trying to suffocate thousands upon thousands of hard-working writers even more than they've been for years. Support the writers.

Back to Back to Back to Back

Just try cramming more live music into a weekend. (I know it can be done, but it's definitely a special case.)

Start off Thursday with the Swim opening for Ted Leo & The Pharmacists. Watch your friends on stage opening for one of their heroes. Then enjoy the fantastic, fast and frenetic songs of one of rock's great unheralded songwriters.

Chill at home Friday before heading out to catch another of the rare Fourkiller Flats shows. Wish you had a ride home, knowing that whiskey drinking is the most effective and appropriate way to absorb the wailing, gravely twang of the Flats. Listen to mostly unrecorded songs, including one in all likelihood played for the first time live, thinking all the while that it's definitely time for a new album (right, gentlemen?).

Decide that a bright and beautiful Saturday in the mid-80s is perfect for sitting in the park, celebrating a used book store that's not only survived for 30 years, but grown and grown and grown and inevitably become an integral part of your own life. Settle in with a chicken quesadilla on a blanket front and center while a bunch of old blues session players crank out pitch-perfect, passionate tunes.

Then let Tucson's favorite sons and their best mariachi friends let loose with what must be about the best of the dozen or so shows of theirs you've taken in. Remember how you first saw Calexico with maybe a couple hundred people stuffed into an art gallery by the railroad tracks, must've been 1999 or 2000. Remember how they seemed to have a pedal for the passing train, and how they set the room on fire. Remember how on three or four albums since those same musicians captured a hell of a lot more attention and without a doubt became one of the world's greatest bands. Sit in anticipation for a particular song, a Bob Dylan cover you'd been soaking in for months, with several different bootleg recordings, before finally hearing them back Willie Nelson on "Senor." Celebrate as the trumpets bellow loud and mysterious. Shimmy and sway as the show stretches many songs and songs and songs afterwards. Depart with a poster and autographs, and the knowledge that such musical moments are priceless.

Let Sunday evolve slowly, but make sure to head downtown in time to catch the Skeletor parade. Mosey from there on over to the Ween show. Marvel at how packed the Rialto Theatre is, betting that none of the dozens of shoes you've seen there in the past several years had more people. Rock out with one of the strangest bands around. Ponder how despite never being fully joking or fully serious they've developed such a passionate following. Wish you knew a few more of their songs other than the Mollusk album.

Practically stagger out of the show, pausing to take in the painted masses and assorted weirdos passing by, hell-bent on some damn mischief or another. Let the fading crowd take over your thoughts, and provide the cinematic background for reflection on a weekend full of energy and curveball vitality and stupifying humanity, and sounds, wonderfully delivered sounds, that lodge themselves deep, as they should, offering continual refuge in the coming days and weeks from the numbing work and tasks that exist apart from the nights and the bands and the revelry and the nirvana of a well-orchestrated weekend.

Celebrate it all, and wait for the next round...

Upon Return...

A deep and overriding exhaustion, more mind-altering than the beer that took control of my last night in Brooklyn.

Manhattan skyline

Here's the view from my cousin's apartment in Queens. That's the Empire State Building prominent on the left, with the UN obscuring all but the tippy top of the Chrysler Building. Foreground to the right is the back of the Pepsi Cola sign on this side of the East River. Nice digs.

Dispatches from the East

Currently sitting on banks of East River staring at Manhattan skyline Stop Bars and comedy show last night in Queens and Art Brut and The Hold Steady in Philly Stop Ansel Adams and Annie Leibowitz exhibits at the Corcoran and boating on the Potomac and a rooftop party in view of the Capitol Stop Air & Space Museum World War II memorial and the Mall Stop Friends got married on lunch hour Stop Many great friends and laughter and incredible sights and sounds and steady consumption of Yuengling Stop Returning Sunday Stop

Catfish off to the East Coast

Well, I'm leaving in the morning as soon as the dark clouds lift...
Not actually, but there's nothing better to announce the night before you take off for someplace else. I'm thrilled to be headed to D.C., Philly and NYC. And the news from Felix Hurn tonight makes the whole trip even better: Next Tuesday we'll rock out at the Hold Steady show. Boo-ya!
Untold hours of fun and adventure await. It's time for another 'Ninjas of Fun' stealth attack -- East Coast style.

Catfish at the bluegrass festival with a half million other people, part two

After loading up with beers, Freaktown and I got into the park Saturday just in time to hear Guy Clark singing out LA Freeway on our way to catch James McMurtry on the way to John Prine. And in the only really large music festival I’ve attended, I immediately came to grips with all the concessions you have to make to time and space and crowds and hunger and restroom breaks and moods and everything. But I settled easily into the see-who-I-can-see-but-make-sure-the-festival-is-about-fun-and-friends mentality and let that drive everything. We met up with S and D and C and family and after the Flatlanders settled in on a few blankets in front of the main stage. (Thanks to those who staked out the place.) From there it was Ricky Skaggs & Bruce Hornsby, Gillian Welch and Steve Earle. If my favorite song day one was Remember the Mountain Bed, day two’s was Gillian and David doing Queen Jane Approximately.

Many of the songs I enjoyed most during the festival were covers and I think that make perfect sense in the realm of bluegrass (and hardly strictly bluegrass) music. Country and folk have always been about the standards, with everyone of note giving his or her or their own interpretation of the great songs. While the songwriter may seem king in this arrangement, it’s really more about the performance. If everyone’s playing the same songs, that sets a level playing field and the better rendition comes out on top. And some songs are just perfect in a bluegrass festival setting. Walking back toward the main stage later Sunday, with a good bit of the festival under my belt, I just felt like Dylan’s You Ain’t Going Nowhere would be just perfect. And, no shit, within a half hour, Earl Scruggs and his boys were belting it out: “Ooh whee, ride me high, tomorrow’s the day my bride’s a-gonna come / Oh oh, are we gonna fly, down in the easy chair.”

And then there’s the universal truths offered by a lot of the best country and folk music. Steve Earle said it best as he was tuning between songs: “Same girl, different harmonica.”

We were down at the park Sunday in time to catch the Sadies, and just as I was sure she would, Neko joined in, singing Evangeline, with her in Emmylou’s role just forming a great bookend on that day. We were all looser with Sunday’s schedule, settling in a ways back from our main-stage camp of a day earlier. I ate the best corndog ever. A couple of us made a beer run after realizing that the day’s supply was woefully insufficient – and in doing so made a few bucks selling later on to fellow festival-goers as their own supplies dwindled. I ran over to see Dave Alvin on a smaller stage that seemed even more crowded. The boom operator there had a much easier time passing the camera right over the crowd, and I tried giving a different look or gesture each time it caught me. Maybe there’ll be a DVD of the festival, and thousands of people across the world will have documented proof of my existence…

Sunday was the heaviest bluegrass day, with David Grisman, Earl Scruggs and Doc Watson leading up to Emmylou. It was the first time I’d seen the legendary Queen of country-folk and her set was incredible (as I can prove to anyone with the bootleg I’ve snagged). Highlights were Pancho and Lefty, Red Dirt Girls and Sin City, but really the whole thing kept me moving in that half-dance thing I described earlier, a swaying, twisting, head-bobbing casual sort of shimmy thing.

I couldn’t have asked for better companions throughout, reconnecting with several people I’d hardly gotten to see in years and realizing why the hell I’m friends with all these awesome people to being with. Overall I feel as though I pulled some minor logistical miracles getting together so many people who I knew but didn’t or barely knew each other.

At the close of the festival we all assembled, stuffed too many people into a two-door Honda and then a studio apartment, ordered Burmese food and re-upped on some beer and Fernet. We listened to a Wilco bootleg I’d brought as a gift for my hosts, watched a bit of the Wilco documentary to zero in on that Santa Cruz record store owner, and talked about the city and life and Arizona and how so many people managed to start in Tucson and end up in San Francisco. I was invited a few times to move there, encouraged to make Bay City my home too, to take part in such notable occasions on a regular basis. What could be more convincing? What could make a better argument than those friends and that weekend? It’s hands-down the highlight of the year.

Catfish at the bluegrass festival with a half million other people, part one

Blogging things a week late is never good form, but the price extracted for my tremendous San Francisco vacation was way too much work and stress immediately upon return. Plus, most of my computer time since has been devoted to tracking down bootlegs of the performances I saw, with surprisingly good luck.

It was a relatively unplanned vacation, all starting with an email from Freaktown saying that I should do everything in my power to make it to the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. Yeah right, thought I, noting that it’s barely a week before my long-planned swing to the East Coast and short-notice airfare is as big a discourager as anything. But I kept looking over the list of artists: Jeff Tweedy, Emmylou Harris, Steve Earle, Dave Alvin, John Prine, Gillian Welch, plus a whole host of actual bluegrass legends. Had I never known it was coming I couldn’t possibly hate myself for missing it, but now that it was presented as an actual option, how could I not? So I searched out a decently priced flight, scammed an extra day off work and ultimately spent the whole weekend feeling like I’d won some damned contest.

I stopped and started writing this a few times, and at each step the words fell far short of the magic that I felt while listening to the music. But live music is like that – fleeting and powerful, at times transcendent and at times a buoyant current you ride for a while, and try to hang onto as it flows through you. At times during the performances I tried to see the music, to let my eyes fall somewhere, a tree or a bird or a section of the massive crowd, and watch it move, watch for moments it matched the music, as if the sound was a wind. Other times my own body was what got caught up in the tunes, more of a set of loose sways and twists than anything resembling an actual dance, but it was mostly bluegrass and that’s pretty much how I roll anyway.

Tweedy in particular was mesmerizing. One man, one guitar, one voice, an occasional harmonica, and a set of songs that stack up very favorably with anything every written or performed. I don’t say that lightly, or with hyperbole. It’s a very measured and purposeful statement, but everyone who stood near me as those songs washed over us in the dying afternoon, sunset and early dusk of a perfect San Francisco day in the park would agree.

I’ve long said that Remember The Mountain Bed – a collaboration across time and space between Tweedy and the legendary Woody Guthrie – is probably the best song ever written. I’ll just include one favorite verse, but measure the rest of the lyrics yourself here:

I learned the reason why man must work and how to dream big dreams
To conquer time and space and fight the rivers and the seas
I stand here filled with my emptiness now and look at city and land
And I know why farms and cities are built by hot, warm, nervous hands.

And in just the second song of Tweedy’s set I was absolutely thrilled, hanging on the transformative wisdom of the words and the intricate, hauntingly beautiful guitar work, all the while aware that I was in the midst of one of the greatest musical moments I’ve ever experienced.

Just as Dylan’s Blood On The Tracks is an album that comes stunningly close to offering a definition of life, “Remember The Mountain Bed” is a song that nearly circles the total of humanity. (And if you think Blood On The Tracks is a nothing but a brilliant break-up or divorce album, with songs of pain and sorrow, you’re sadly missing out on a great deal.)

Tweedy was in a great mood, joking throughout, with his kids sitting on the side of the stage and at one point he dedicated a song to his wife.

The set list was great, opening with Sunken Treasure. I loved the mix of stuff from throughout his career, from old Uncle Tupelo stuff to an almost forgotten Golden Smog song to the title track from the latest album.

In the crowd during the Tweedy performance, Freaktown and I recognized a guy who was in the I Am Trying To Break Your Heart documentary during one part. It was unmistakable – he’s a record store owner in Santa Cruz who was backstage when Tweedy performed a show in San Francisco. He’s unmistakable, with a pretty thick beard that goes a bit further down the neck than most, and thick, straight, somewhat longish hair underneath a ball cap. It was so weird to actually see somebody from that movie in the crowd (having apparently many more viewings of the film under his belt, Freaktown also recognized somebody else, but I couldn’t place her), but then at one point this guy turned around and held his camera aloft to get a crowd shot. Holy shit, I thought, that guy from the movie now has a picture of us! For a while after that I let myself get lost in the trippy, circular ruminations around the fact that a perfect stranger and I both have documented proof of the other’s existence.

Taking the train over to the park Friday, Freaktown and I ran into SW practically the moment we boarded. Now there’s a little synchronicity to kick off the weekend, I thought. Then we met up with Tony and found our way in just before T-Bone Burnett started. We knew his special guests were Neko Case and John “Cougar” Mellencamp (never forget the “Cougar” part), but how that was going to all tie together was beyond any of us. Neko played Hank's Alone and Forsaken and another one I didn’t recognize. After a few more, out came the Coug (“The COUG!" we shouted). There was some song about Jena, then the real highlight, “Pink Houses,” with what I can only guess is the first and last time Neko sings “Ain’t that America” to back the Coug. Nice.

Then after Tweedy we all headed down to the Haight for sausages and beers, taking it easy with the knowledge of two more tremendous, long days of music ahead of us.

Holographic Gore...

... was the runner-up name for the latest mix, which ultimately became:

The Strangest Oscillations

Mose Allison - Young Man's Blues
M. Ward - Chinese Translation
Tom Waits - Bottom Of The World
Dean & Britta - Moonshot
Son Volt - Atmosphere
Pavement - Gold Soundz
Rainer Maria - Catastrophe
Calexico - Señor (Tales of Yankee Power)*
Gob Iron - Hills Of Mexico
James McMurtry - We Can't Make It Here
Arlo Guthrie - St. James Infirmary*
Steve Earle - Copperhead Road*
Townes Van Zandt - Rex's Blues*
Neil Young - After The Gold Rush
Dave Alvin - You're a Big Girl Now*
Okkervil River - Love to a Monster
Mazzy Star - Flowers in December*
Feist - One Evening
The Zombies - She's Not There*

(* Live)

and here's the one before that:

The July Plan

Okkervil River - The President's Dead
The Mountain Goats - Going To Georgia
The New Drakes - The Impossible You
Flogging Molly - If I Ever Leave This World Alive
Jello Biafra and Mojo Nixon - Love Me, I'm A Liberal
The Hold Steady - Southtown Girls
Tom Petty - Ankle Deep
Billy Bragg - Saturday Boy*
Damien Rice - The Blower’s Daughter*
Tom Waits - San Diego Serenade*
The Band of Blacky Ranchette - Getting It Made
Lonna Kelly and the Broken-Hearted Lovers - I Should Have Known
Nico - I'll Keep It With Mine
The Sadies - Evangeline*
The Walkmen - Many Rivers To Cross
Ryan Adams - Dear Chicago
Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus Three - (A Man's Gotta Know His Limitations) Briggs
Bruce Springsteen - Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street?*
Bob Dylan - In The Summertime
Arlo Guthrie & Peter Seeger - Deportee (Plane Wreck At Los Gatos)*

(* Live)


Others Previously:
Distant Gold
Anchors
Whirlwind & Refuge
Talkin' Ponderosa Highway Blues
Momentary Fires

My favorite cop of all time

Ex-Dearborn cop and wife, who said they made brownies with seized pot, face charge

A former Dearborn police corporal who was allowed to resign from the department last year amid allegations he used confiscated marijuana to bake pot brownies with his wife could be sentenced to up to 90 days in prison for using a controlled substance.The real treat in all this is the recording of the 911 call he made.

The real beauty of this story is the tape of the 911 call, when Officer Dipshit asks for the score on the Redwings game after saying "We made brownies and I really think we're dead, I really do."
Check it yo:

The imprecise measurement of time...

Let's just go ahead and call it a heck of a day.
I took care of my administrative tasks - oil change, picking up my custom framing order from Michael's - lickety split.
I picked up the new Paste magazine to read over a relaxing iced coffee (we're still in the 90s here, folks and dammit fall can't come soon enough).
I bought a new house plant, and finished naming the rest of them: Jackie, Roy, Don, Sandy, Pee-Wee, Mickey and Tommy. I considered anachronistic names like Herman and Mortimer, but I thought they'd be too tough to remember. Not really sure why they happen to be male... Stu said he used to name plants after musicians, Thurston and Kim and etc.
I spent some great time with the illustrious Robert Anthony Peters and his family.
Later I headed downtown to catch The Swim play a nice outdoor set.
No complaints at all, but answer me this: Why do Saturday's contain half the hours of your average Monday?

Random thoughts from the last bunch o' days

- Tonight's New Pornographers show was fantastic. Each time I see the band (this was the third) I like them more and more. Songs from the new album were really well done and the band filled the theater with an incredible, swelling energy during "The Bleeding Heart Show," causing the song to leap over a handful of others to become my favorite NP song. Dan Bejar is hilariously tangential to the overall performance. He just hangs out in the wings drinking beer most of the show, emerging four or five times to play guitar and sing. At one point, one of Neko Case's dogs wandered out onto the stage and just plopped down at her feet. Fun times indeed.

- Afterwards I had several good chats, ending up down the road at Sports On Congress with a certain Chango Malo bass player. We talked about bands and playing live and being on the road and "making it" and what dedication really means. I have high hopes for that band, a bunch of great dudes who possess an absolutely electrifying live show and a new album that combines swagger and nuance, a mess of energy and guitars wrapping up a singer who you can just hear leaving the last drop of his soul in the songs.
We also talked about the antiquated notion of "selling out," a topic I visited here, curiously enough using the New Pornographers as an example.

- I'm currently listening to Okkervil River, a live show from fall 2005. I'm hedging in some ways here, but for my money there's no better band to emerge this millennium. (Sure, the band was technically formed and released its first EP in 1999, but they themselves call the 2002 LP Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See the first "real record." Another gem from the Will Sheff-penned band bio at okkervilriver.com describes the addition of an ornithologist as a multi-instrumentalist - "He was a fine electric guitarist, so we handed him an accordion.")
I've failed up until this point to write my thoughts on the band's amazing new album, and their live set that was my personal highlight of the third annual Hotel Congress festival, so here goes a brief description: The new songs hold every bit the emotional and intellectual weight that the band's previously acclaimed records do, but with more accomplished musicianship all around. It's a wonder to watch a precocious band getting even better.
It helps that they're friends, at least in a superficial way, though with each new swing through Tucson I get to know the band better. After the Congress show some friends and I hung around with half the band and two thirds of the Friends of Dean Martinez until the wee hours, getting busted by Congress security for noisiness and violating the non smoking rule/law/policy.

- For any music fans out there, I can't say enough great things about archive.org and NPR's live concert series. Both are absolute treasure troves of fantastic music, all full live shows.
I must have downloaded 30 or so shows between the two, all legal, free and with sound quality at least equal to regular live albums released commercially. But a full show start to finish is much better than most commercially released "live" albums, which tend to be collections of live songs from many shows, or heavily edited in some way. I love the banter, the set lists and all the in-between stuff that really makes a live show stand out for someone.
Archive.org has more than 43,000 concerts at this moment, with more added all the time. Here are just a few Catfish Vegas recommendations: all six Calexico shows in the archive, a somewhat scratchy but absolutely captivating Warren Zevon and Jackson Browne radio show from Germany in 1976, Giant Sand's set at the Congress 20th anniversary festival, the Mountain Goats' show from the 40 Watt in Georgia last year, several Elliott Smith performances that show just how delicate the singer's life became in his latter days... and on and on. It takes a long while, but browse through the artist list for your favorites. There are plenty shows in MP3, as well as lossless FLAC versions. For more recommendations, write me or comment.
NPR's live concert series is something I've been impressed with for about two years, starting when I found a crystal clear sounding recording of the joint Calexico and Iron & Wine tour, which I saw here at the Rialto, transfixed for most of the night. Since, I've downloaded shows by Wilco, the Decemberists, Neko Case, the Walkmen, Sleater-Kinney, Arcade Fire, Son Volt, Jenny Lewis and the Drive-by Truckers. And all are top-notch. The lineup for this fall includes John Vanderslice, Rilo Kiley, Animal Collective (which I'll either avoid or download to try and figure out why I enjoyed their show here so little), Okkervil River, Josh Ritter, Spoon and the New Pornographers. No shit, NPR is gonna bring it this fall.

- Many, many more shows in town this fall. I'm certainly going to have to pick and choose. I did already pick up Ween tickets for myself, The General and Katred, so that'll be a strange evening. Other shows on the horizon include Neko, Modest Mouse, Gwar (??!), Iron & Wine and Ted Leo (with local openers The Swim and The Deludes -- AWESOME!), and that's honestly just a cursory list of the upcoming shows. Some decisions will have to be made.

- I keep getting the occasional stranger approaching to bestow monster props on my Rad Racing T-shirt. For a 21-year-old movie about BMX racing that hasn't even made it to DVD, Rad has some fucking staying power. As I say when I get those compliments, "Hells Yeah." Order yours today online.

- Lots of big goings and doings coming up on the horizon. I head to Flagstaff this week. Then out to San Fran and the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival early Oct. Then barely a week later I leave for the East Coast - gonna rock D.C., Philly and NYC for 11 days. Boo-yah!

- That's probably it for tonight. Gonna crash then devote tomorrow to picking up my framed Jackie Robinson photographs from Michaels, get the oil changed in ol Excaliber Jeebus, buy some more plants from Home Depot to give the house a more lively appearance, have dinner with Robert Anthony Peters and then head Downtown to catch The Swim.
Everybody have a nice September. I hate to cop to how rare my blogging is, but I have to steal this line from Cicci: If this blog was a pet lizard it would've died by now.

- Maybe if there was an ancient Norse god of blogging I'd be doing better.

2007.61

Mr. Chair considers the Fourth of July as his own personal New Year and I've long considered the end of the first half of the year a time fit for reflection (ignore the fact that it's mid-August as I actually get around to this review).
So what news is there to report from 2007's waxing half? Now that's a damn good question.
I had a weekly basketball game starting in January until it got too hot, plus I teamed up with some work dudes on a softball team that ran from March through May, so this year started off on a greater athletic note than anytime in the last decade. And man, my knees did a lot of hurting for a while. Of course, since softball ended I've been uber lazy, so I don't think that athleticism is a fair way to characterize this whole 2007.5. But it felt great to be back on the court and the field, even though I have next to no quickness or jumping ability any more, and my swing is in need of professional help (hey, at least I'm still slick in the infield).
I had a couple of great trips to Phoenix-land ("you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy") visiting friends, a couple of whom have since taken off for Orlando. I had a tremendous trip to Flagstaff and even hit P-Town a couple of times, most recently a month ago to collect a wonderful coffee mug in honor of being unrecognizable.
I had a terrific week in Portland, lured in by offers of a Son Volt show. The first few hours of my visit have been rightly labeled a "trainwreck of a night at Ladd's." Lots of great food and bars, a trip to the coast and one out to the Columbia Gorge. I got to spend time with a childhood friend I'd lost touch with (it turns out myspace is in fact good for something) and hadn't seen in 10 years.
I mentioned the Son Volt show in Portland (which was fantastic - I've always been a Farrar fan and hadn't seen him play in almost nine years), so here's some thoughts on other live music highlights so far this year: Stephen Malkmus was absolutely on fire, playing mostly new stuff to a packed Plush; Robyn Hitchcock and his new band (including Peter Buck) brought a great rock 'n' roll sound I was thrilled to hear after seeing him twice solo; Alejandro Escovedo and the Drive-by Truckers were a super double bill; the Hold Steady are even more incredible now that I know a couple of their albums; the Riverboat Gamblers drew me out for the first all-out punk show I've seen in years; and finally, there are few things better in life than spending time with an absolute legend like Arlo or Dylan (and a fellow fan like Josh).
I've also spent a lot of time checking out the stellar local bands: The Swim (who paired with the New Drakes in a double bill I absolutely loved), Chango Malo (thanks for playing my birthday), Fourkiller Flats (who unfortunately appear to be on hiatus again), Little Morts (moving to Austin doesn't mean you're not still local as far as I'm concerned boys) and my favorite new local crew, Mostly Bears. I can't wait 'til next Friday's Chango-Stock.
So for recorded music, I say run out right now and buy the new Wilco and Okkervil River albums. Also highly recommended are new ones by Modest Mouse, Feist, Arcade Fire, Shins, Son Volt and White Stripes. And for the rest of the year, I'm eagerly awaiting Band of Horses, New Pornographers, Iron & Wine and Steve Earle. Plus, I'm really intrigued by this Dylan bio-pic and its soundtrack.
And thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I've spent a lot of time digging early Neil Young records, old soul like the Delfonics, Tom Waits bootlegs from the mid 70s and a slew of great Dylan covers. Plus I've been able to track down seven versions of "St. James Infirmary," a spellbinding New Orleans folk tune I first heard Arlo perform.
As far as the cinema goes, I didn't go to a single movie until two weeks ago, when I caught the Simpsons, a not-quite-great-but-good-like-you'd-expect-because-it's-the-Simpsons type of a flick. Then last weekend I caught Knocked Up at the cheap theater, where I'm likely headed again either tonight or tomorrow, for either Shrek or Oceans 13. So there.
I hosted two pairs of friends visiting town as part of long moves. I acted in my first feature film. I caught some ball games. I went to Peter Piper Pizza on Tuesday. And thankfully I have neither the mess or the nonsense that were running me down when I last made a half-year report.
So that's a quick run down of the year so far. What'll come next? Hell if I know much. There's that Chango Malo show on Friday, plus the annual Club Congress festival over Labor Day weekend that has none other than Okkervil River on the bill.
I've come across some great old black and white photographs of the Dodgers, circa 1950s and 1960s, so I'm gonna frame them.
I'm hoping to orchestrate a trip to the East Coast sometime this fall.
And overall I just hope things keep going at least OK. And same wish for y'all.

LamO

Dear clueless NBA & MLB & ABC & Fox marketing people:
David Blaine and Dane Cook suck. They don't have a goddamn thing to do with the sports they're advertising. Nobody wants to hear their stupid shit. Those Blaine spots during the NBA playoffs and the Cook nonsense now during baseball games make me want to turn off the TV, not watch the games. Why the hell do you have to put some dick-faced half-celebrity in your ads anyway? This cross-marketing shit annoys the hell out of me. How 'bout putting PLAYERS in your ads? Dumbasses.

p.s. There's nothing better in the world than an 80 degree high temperature during a Tucson August.

Dylan

Walking toward the amphitheater, I saw as close to a complete double rainbow as I've ever seen. The lower one was bright and strong, horizon to horizon. The top one was fainter, but visible except for maybe the very top 10 percent. Framed in glory -- what a way to approach a show.
Tonight was my 10th Bob Dylan show, stretching back to 1996. (I had to check online to count 'em all: 1996 in Mesa, Dylan & Simon in San Diego and Phoenix in 1999, San Diego in 2000, Sun City in 2001, Phoenix and Tucson in 2002, Sun City and Tucson last year and then last night.)
Last night definitely beat last April at the TCC arena, largely due to the crowd, but mainly just the vibe in general.
I have to admit, I was looking forward to tonight's show with the least amount of enthusiasm I've had yet approaching a Dylan show. For one it's midweek, no road trip involved, I just saw him twice last year, and I don't really dig shows at the casino. Hell, I only bought my ticket last night and finalized plans on going with friends practically on the way there. I damn near felt guilty that I wasn't set on fire to see this show.
But hell, it's just about as strong a show as I've seen outta the man -- and I wasn't even backstage (like four of my 10 shows).
I love the songs off the new album. Dylan busted out five of the 10 Modern Times tracks, plus another two from Love and Theft. And he played for probably as long as any show I've seen -- 17 songs, when the last two were just 14.
My favorites from the night were the unexpected "Señor" (which I've really been digging in a new light after hearing an incredible Calexico version) and "Simple Twist of Fate" (which I've never seen before), "Masters of War" (which just gets more jagged every time I hear it performed) and "Workingman's Blues" (with a favorite line of mine, thanks to a shirt I have with it on the back -- 'You can hang back or fight you best on the front line'). And the band lit "Summer Days" and "Thunder on the Mountain" on fire, no doubt.
All in all a damn fine show, certainly in the top half of my 10 shows and definitely the best I've seen in a long while (maybe back to the last AVA performance), though last year's Sun City show had a very unique and intriguing set list.
My props go out to Josh and Andrea for taking in the show with me and transportating. Proper companions definitely take a show to the next level.
I guess that just leaves me with a final statement on Dylan's Never Ending Tour, the only one I've ever gotten to see and one I know a great deal about, with an insider's perspective courtesy of a certain "uncle" bus driver: each Dylan show gives you something unique; the set list couldn't be more flexible; but you have to kind of know what to expect (new melodies, a crazy sense of juxtaposition in regard to albums and eras; blues and folk sounds as much as rock; no banter); and more than anything, if his voice is sounding clear, you know you're in for a treat.

And as a last note, here's the most random and eerie thing of the whole endeavor:
Leaving the parking lot after the show, we were behind a car with the license plate: 724-AVA, which was the date and the venue of the show. Trippy dude, trippy.

Quick report...

How, exactly, should one react to being voted "Most Changed" at his 10-year high school reunion?

Commercials

I have no outright beef generally with good music being placed in advertisements, but I gotta admit shock whenever I hear a band I dig on the TV backing something or another.
I just now saw a University of Phoenix ad featuring the New Pornographers.


And then there's the new VW/Wilco ad:


I can clearly remember hearing Richard Buckner in another VW ad. And the first I heard Devendra Banhart was in a New Belguim ad (I actually discovered the world of music-in-TV-ads message boards searching out what the hell that tune was).

In my mind, the notion of "selling out" as it's usually applied to music certainly predates Napster, if not the mass use of the Internet itself. Between the Net and digital music distribution methods and Clear Channel and the unapologetically dirty world of record label consolidation, things just ain't remotely the same any more.
I don't think that excuses anything outright. But I think there needs to be a new conversation on the matter, including everybody who holds an opinion.

Having met folks from most of the bands mentioned above (if just in the fan-at-a-show way), I can't bring myself to hold a hard line on the subject. Frankly, it just may be a post-modern, anti-anti sort of way of excusing previously DIY-banned behavior, but I reckon the phrase "sell out" is just about done.

Catfish on the way to the nightclub

It's almost time to head out and catch Shearwater. I'm curious about what I've heard from the Austin band (a good chunk of the latest record as it was first released, plus an earlier split 7 inch) and excited to see some quasi friends again. Shearwater shares at least two members with Okkervil River, hands down one of my favorite bands these days. The difference is the songwriting, and it's a hell of a difference because without knowing, I'd never guess the bands shared some members.
Shearwater is fronted by Jonathan Meiburg, the keyboardist and ornithologist, while Okkervil River is fronted by Will Sheff, the guitarist and movie critic. And that's a gross oversimplification of each of them, but they're both in both bands.
I mention quasi friends because Okkervil River played show here on Thanksgiving a few years back and all ate dinner at my house and crashed there later. I've chatted with them each time they've been through since and you'd have a tough time finding a more fascinating group of musicians and all-around weirdos.
Anyway, high hopes for a band that I'm fairly unfamiliar with musically despite what else I know of its membership.