Tremble Under Boom Lights

Thoughts Upon Viewing Detroit From an Undetermined Altitude...

2012-01-25T19:01:00.003-05:00

(note: this piece originally appeared in a Detroit-based publication called Hablo and anyone who emails a photo of themselves holding a copy of the mag gets a prize. The theme of this inaugural issue was "the city")

I don't have time to die.

Almost as if it were taunting me, my 6-year-old PowerBook crashed on me four consecutive times after writing that sentence. When I was a child, I remember getting myself all worked up, frightened really, trying to wrap my head around the concept that there will be a point when I will cease to exist. These fits would almost exclusively happen at night while trying to lull myself to sleep. The cathexis of it all was unnerving. All I could think about was that someday my body will be in a box in the ground and I will have no control over it. Tangible being will be no more and I've got no evidence other than "hope" for an afterlife. This is absolutely the scariest fucking thing I can ever imagine.

Everything residing in my memory…high school locker combinations, unspoken sing-song rhymes created in the mind but never uttered , fleeting flag football moments captured like flickering 8mm films in my brain…all of these vaguely unimportant and somewhat indescribable things, if not documented in a tangible medium (whether a recording or a writing or perhaps a photograph) will wholly disappear. Upon deeper thought, no matter how many books you write or pictures you take, more of your life, your story, your everyday being will die with you than could ever possibly be left behind. While folks like Abraham Lincoln or Marilyn Monroe have been studied and written about ad nauseum, it seems we will only ever know or see portrayed a shell of the full existence they truly embodied. And these are people who lived pretty public lives. For someone as insignificant as myself who cares deeply about history, information and archiving, this is patently depressing.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about death and how I simultaneously feel, hope and fear that it will come unexpected. This evening I dropped my wife off for an evening with her girlfriends. I'd recently returned from the gym so was wearing a classily threadbare t-shirt, nouveau preppie plaid shorts and a Hockey Night in Canada hoodie. After saying goodbye to her and blowing a kiss, I lumbered into my 1998 Mercury Sable and made the short trip back home. I couldn't avoid thinking about what would happen if I were to be completely blindsided at an intersection and died. At 11pm on a Wednesday evening, this is not how I would hope to leave the mortal plane, but it is by all means possible. How…embarrassing that would be.

I'm left thinking of the death of Amhet Ertegun…the aesthete founder of Atlantic Records was backstage at a Rolling Stones concert in 2006, slipped and fell, suffered a closed-head injury and was gone not long after that. The series of events made me extremely cautious of where I stepped, but also nervously aware of the fact that I could go at any moment. If someone as smooth as Amhet could go in such a gauche way, what hope did I have? As much as I'd like to consider myself prepared, I'm not always dressed for the occasion. And I'd rather not draw out the process too much as it seems a little…needy.

But oh the random loose ends! Who would assemble the CD shelf I'd picked up earlier in the evening? Who would email that MP3 I promised to a friend? These are things that at one time, before death, I was clearly the best-qualified candidate for these jobs. With me gone, how will these bozos ever figure anything out? Who would understand or comprehend the significance of boxes of random, disparate shit I have accumulated in my 29 years, as I've explained the filing/classification system to absolutely no one? Old war movies warned men to have their affairs in order before heading into the shit overseas and that seems pragmatic, but how are regular people (ie, everyone I know) busy living modern lives, supposed to accomplish that? A will can only do so much, and if you've got no real money or assets, what does it really achieve?

What can I do to prepare? Lately I've been trying to attack every pesky errand or task with vigor. I won't put it off because I can't trust it will get done were I gone. Tomorrow is already jam packed replacing the fuse for my dashboard display light. Emails that usually linger in the inbox for days while I conjure up the perfectly laconic response are now confronted head-on, day-of even. And the more I do this, the more it seems I have time to do other things I want to do, like writing this or listening to music, two former givens that are now considered high luxuries.

Even still, there are still nights where my mind fixates on the concept of no longer existing. I do the math based on life expectancy for males and try to figure out where exactly significant fractions (1/3, 1/2) of my total days will land. I wonder how much my wife would cry. As someone so crazily interested in every last thing encompassing my life, the cruel reality of not truly being able to quantify the ending of it is such a smack in the face.

In spite of this, all I can really do is to try and block it out of my mind and make known the truly transcendent moments. Flying back to Detroit from Nashville, solo, for my wedding. Feeling guilty for splurging on a First Class ticket. The flight path takes us further north than I would think necessary. Looking out my window I feel as if we're on top of Belle Isle. With some effort I can spot the top of a house where I slept and spent much time. There will be no reason for me to ever stay there again, but in that one moment, all the time spanned in that brick enclosure, that building that someday will be gone just like all of us, the time spent there and the memories accrued emboldened my consciousness as if I'd inhaled the bouquet of unimaginable flowers, my mind pollinated by the infusion. The feeling wasn't happiness or sadness; it was simply a heretofore never-experienced realization, as if my brain had discovered an entirely new and original sensation that had not existed prior to my aerial sight of that row house.

To be able to express that above, to burn it into these pages here and survive for eons, coupled with the catharsis of pouring out these morbid meanderings has already sated my mind. Thinking back to when I was a scared, confused child, that peace of mind was all I was ever looking for anyway.

"Things We Left in the Fire" in new issue of Boat Magazine

2011-11-22T14:01:00.004-05:00

Issue Two - See it Through from Boat Studio on Vimeo.

Boat Magazine is a new magazine that sets up shop in a specific city and focuses each individual issue on that particular city. Issue one was Sarajevo and featured work by Dave Eggers. Issue two settled in Detroit and features writing by Jeffrey Eugenides and myself, Ben Blackwell. I am pretty damn stoked to type that sentence, if you were wondering.

As for my article, here's what Erin (one of the fine folks behind Boat) had to say about it:

"And in the second issue of Boat Magazine we have an article called ‘Things We Left in the Fire’ by Ben Blackwell. He talks about how his mom’s house caught fire in Detroit and the difficulty he had sorting through the things that were there. He mentions the impressions of his feet in the cement sidewalk as a little baby and the baseball cards he left in the attic. It’s amazing how, years on, he can still remember the things that he left behind."

(I was known by my initials for the first eight years of my life. The impression was done when I was four months old)

I know I briefly touched on the subject of the house fire here on the blog a couple of years back, but this piece focuses more so on the aftermath of the incident and the utter confusion it brought about. Please buy many copies here...

http://www.boat-mag.com/?page_id=512

The Interesting Intersection of Sports and Music...

2011-10-23T12:24:00.004-04:00

It's taken me awhile to come to terms with the veritable distance between the worlds of sports and music. I don't need to be reminded that Detroit Lions Mel Farr and Lem Barney sang backing vocals on Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" (and that Gaye actually tried out for the Lions) or that Joe Montana and Ronnie Lott (both San Francisco 49er's at the time) sang backing vocals on Huey Lewis' "Hip to Be Square" with equally as successful results. It's more complicated than that (and yes, I know Lewis also had an album titled Sports).

As a precocious pre-teen, I saw absolutely no difference in the inherent coolness of Sportscenter hosts like Craig Kilborn or guitarists like Kurt Cobain. They were both, in their own way, edgy, ironic, subversive and mind-expanding to a kid like me traipsing easily through the path of middle school.

While I've spoken a lot about my thoughts on Cobain, it's worth noting that I wanted to be a sportscaster way before I ever wanted to play music. Kilborn, along with other hosts like Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann, seemed to love what they were doing and make it look effortless. As an adolescent, it was clear to me that I could do that. And it seemed way more achievable or attainable than being a musician.

(a recent visit to http://www.sportscenteraltar.com/phrases/extract.asp has me belly-laughing reminded of all the brilliant catch-phrases these guys came up with)

I also want to relay the story of a little bit Kilborn once did. It went something like this (I am paraphrasing)...

"Everyone remembers getting their first baseball mitt. For most folks your dad bought it for you, maybe some of you it was your mom. For me it was the older man who lived down the street who lived by himself and didn't have a wife or kids. He just really enjoyed giving presents to the kids in the neighborhood."

When the White Stripes debuted on national television on The Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn in July 2001 I happened to run into him in the hallway. Neither Jack or Meg or anyone else in the crew would end up even meeting the guy. I told him what a big fan I was and also repeated the story above. "Oh yeah, I remember that...we got a lot of angry phone calls about that one."

But for me, by the time I hit high school, it felt like I could play/enjoy sports or be really into rock and roll. Those two paths, in my opinion, failed to intersect at any point. While seemingly benign, Kurt Cobain's excoriation of so-called "jocks" in interviews and more-specifically the book Come As You Are was all the indication I needed that the "rocks" weren't hip to that scene, in spite of any inroads made with MTV's annual Rock'n'Jock softball challenge.

(side note: current Milwaukee Brewer Prince Fielder caught the final out of one of these Rock'n'Jock games. I played against Prince in PAL -Police Athletic League- baseball around this same time and remember thinking he wasn't anything special. Clearly my scouting skills have a ways to go)

(side note 2: a live quote from Cobain seems to sum it up succinctly: "I spent all of my life trying to stay away from sports and here I am in a sporting arena.")

Luckily for me, as my interest and skill in sports waned, my interest and involvement in music increased. The prime illustration of this point is that while I played soccer for all four years in high school, I actually skipped my final game (against Lutheran East High School…I believe a fight broke out) in order to rehearse with the band I'd just joined, Hell's Belles.

Sports had become too competitive, too serious and too draining. I never was a fan of conditioning or off-season work and at my high school, that shit was taken very seriously. I played baseball my freshman year, but felt that because I didn't play on the right travel team (travel baseball, an insidious world of backstabbing and intensity I wish upon no one) or wasn't one of the Italian buddies of the coach that I was kept from playing while I had legitimate skills. The situation reeked of politics and punk rock couldn't have been further from that structure.

So the subsequent years entailed my general disregard for anything remotely athletic coupled with the absolute zealous fervor consuming all things garage, rock, and roll. It was only once I hit the vague maturity of 25 or so that I realized the worlds of sports and music are not mutually exclusive.

Things like Stephen Malkmus referencing Bobby Abreu's legendary 2005 Home Run Derby showing in the liner notes to a Pavement reissue. That seemed...odd to me. Like something that just wasn't done. Or curiously noticing that folks in the band Weird War being SUPER into NBA basketball and even being in a fantasy league with guys from the Walkmen, a band who took it a step further and even sponsored a youth basketball team for a season (still one of the coolest things I've ever heard a band doing).

Or any number of the writings of Chuck Klosterman, whether it be subtle nuances in his writings about music/pop culture or his outright coverage of things like the Super Bowl or Final Four. I'd even referenced here before Klosterman tackling the topic of football strategy in Eating the Dinosaur that actually fascinated me in a way that only records or musical esoterica ever had.

This all manifests itself exquisitely in a piece Klosterman wrote titled "Three-Man Weave."

I will not even attempt to try and describe this thrilling piece and instead say that if you trust me at all, even the tiniest bit, you should read it.

It was with this piece I became aware of the website Grantland.com, a site owned by ESPN but seemingly tailor-made for someone like myself who enjoys sports but is patently put off by the tone and approach offered by ESPN, it's eight off-shoot channels and all-around sports coverage in general.

(my interest in Grantland also been buoyed by the recent successes achieved by the Detroit Tigers and Detroit Lions, as hometown connections always make it a little easier for me to be interested in just about anything)

Grantland takes on sports and sporting without the traditional tone or demeanor and almost comes off as a less-snobby Pitchfork for the sports world. And while I sincerely despise Pitchfork and its "taste" I avidly read the site as it is essentially Indie Rock News where I can catch up on the latest tourdates, releases, gossip and bullshit. For informing me factually, Pitchfork cannot lose. For informing me taste-wise, Pitchfork perpetually loses.

At this point, I am reading Grantland as often as I read Pitchfork and it feels exciting.

The overall feeling I'm left with amidst all of this is that sports and rock and roll do co-exist in much of the same atmosphere. What Cobain got wrong was his blanket accusations of "jocks", ie, athletes. The problem does not reside within the athlete, it lies within the jock-mentality, which surprisingly, many athletes do not have. That jock, bully, overly-competitive attitude is wholly gross in just about every facet of culture except (sometimes) in sports. In any other environment, you'd just look like a right dick.

Again, for one of the best things I've read in quite some time, check out "Three-Man Weave" here. I do not recommend very often and do not do so lightly.

http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/6625899/three-man-weave

A Brief Exercise in Self-Humility...

2011-09-30T13:43:00.004-04:00

Start the video at 1:30 if you're patient, 3:10 if you like music.

This footage was shot on July 4th, 2003 at the Magic Stick. It was a glorious day in Detroit rock history. Young Soul Rebels record store (now only existing in memories and a fair amount of t-shirts across the globe) had their grand opening a few doors down from the Stick and I was proud to be their first paying customer, $1 for a 1 1/4" badge of the San Francisco punk band Crime.

Later that day the Dirtbombs would play a wind-besieged set at the TasteFest in the New Center area that marked Ko's first-ever appearance as an actual member of the band.

To top the evening off was the Young Soul Rebel's launch party. I don't remember the specifics of how it all came about, but I know that Brian Muldoon and I, affectionately known as the Science Farm, had been enlisted to play. I'd brought my own amp. Not long before we were supposed to play Jack arrived. I don't know if we asked him to play or he asked us if he could. Regardless, all three parties agreed to the idea of covering "Louie, Louie."

The big bad "secret" about the whole thing is that I then didn't know how to play guitar. Still don't. I've no idea what chords are called or what key things are in. I just try to play what it sounds like and usually fail miserably. So to involve Jack in the whole thing made me feel a little guilty.

(after the fact Brian said we probably should've just done "Looking at You" by the MC5 and I couldn't agree more)

At 4:02 I let Jack take a verse and just make stupid noise on my guitar the entire time. I'm totally acting like a dipshit.

At 4:36 see Marty Morris of the Cyril Lords and SSM be so kind as to pick-up and re-set the mic stand I'd so callously dropped to the floor.

At 4:41, please help me understand why I am wearing such baggy jeans. I would say this time would be the skinniest in my adult life, but that's still no excuse. Why did I choose to eat away my babyface?

At 5:20, I pay respect to the Cramps

At 5:46 I've eschewed the guitar and it's clear that my singing is not my strong suit either

At 6:17 "Thanks for nothing"

Brian starts an original song at 6:25 that was basically titled "I Could Be Jesus Christ and You'd Just Ask Me For a Glass of Ice"

Brian told me afterwards that he couldn't hear a damn thing. All things considered, he does an impressive job of keeping up.

At 8:41, I must admit, that guitar swinging is kinda impressive

At 9:20 another original song, "Nails in My Brain" (inspired by the Mistreaters' "Santa Stole My Baby") Brian loved this one

10:39 "Dirt" by the Stooges. My goal was just hitting guitar strings with the right timing, I didn't really notice or care what notes they made.

12:00 slamming the neck of the guitar into the mic stand...pretty cool

12:59 Marty Morris offers me his PBR. I pour it out over the neck of my guitar and toss it behind me. What a dick.

The video cuts out at 13:25 and it's probably for the best. Brian always said his goal was to be in a band that would clear rooms and I think we just about accomplished that.

There's other videos of Brian and I playing together (including a 20+ minute version of "Sister Ray" and probably the Rock City Festival where we played an unusual number of songs with the digits 6 and 9 in the title) but the only copies of those are probably buried in my mom's basement or lodged in the wall of a burned out house on the east side of Detroit.

Still, there's something to be said about being 21 years old and absolutely fearless.

The Curious Case of History Repeating Itself in Detroit Rock and Roll…

2011-08-29T18:57:00.022-04:00

As I look at Detroit rock and roll records more and more, the things all seem to blend together. At first I thought it was simply my brain being oversaturated with the stuff. But upon closer inspection, I realized it wasn't me...that a lot of this stuff really does repeat.

Let's start early with the Detroit Lion, John Lee Hooker, and his "I'm in the Mood" from 1951 as heard here:

Sixteen years later the MC5 would crib the lyrics of "I'm in the Mood" for their blistering song "I Just Don't Know"

And twenty-five years after that, the Gories cribbed the riff of "I Just Don't Know" for their own "48 Hours" (side note: this song was a reaction to Crypt Records honcho Tim Warren and his request that the band record more material for what would end up being their "Outta Here" album. The yelling on this is generally meant to get the message across that no album should take more than two days (48 hours) to record. The drawn out "dunh-dunh-dunh" combo manages to repeat twenty-one times, intended to serve as a twenty-one gun salute to the then-recently deceased Rob Tyner, lead singer of the MC5)

While a repeat in song titling alone, I think that Scott Campbell's "I'm Saving Myself for Angela Cartwright" from 1986 coupled with Mick Collins' and the Dirtbombs "I'm Saving Myself for Nichelle Nichols #3" were pretty cute together, even if otherwise unrelated.

(autographed!)

(not0graphed)

While we're on a Mick Collins roll here, let's not forget his publishing company name, one of the best in the biz if you ask me, South of 8 Mile Music (as visible in the scan above). While a clever way to declare Collins native Detroit status, one can't help but wonder if this was not a calculated response to Guido Marasco (of GM Studios in East Detroit, a suburb of the city and not a neighborhood) and his pub de guerre Nine Mile Music. The studios were located on Nine Mile Road after all.

(uh, Mysteriants? are you seriants?)

You want some more Mick gems? How about the title of the most recent Dirtbombs album:

(originally titled "Technocracy")

For comparison, how about this EP by Wendy Case's pre-Paybacks outfit Ten High:

(originally titled "We Call Soda 'Pop'")

But I've given Mick enough shit for a lifetime so let me start putting myself under the microscope. My record label, Cass Records, is not the first label to use that title. Check it out:

(b-side is anti-hippy garage protest song "Unworthy Americans" this was the only record released on the imprint, a subsidiary of Ecorse's Revival label)

If that's not enough, there was ANOTHER label called Cass from a seemingly undetermined time:

(no one knows nothing except Debra did two more singles on the label. Any help?)

I wish I could claim that being my only personal lift, but the more-obvious (and intended) backstory behind my label art as seen below...

was that I was royally inspired by the Italy design below. I was never trying to steal...I was sincerely paying homage. I was just lucky that there was actually a statue of the obscure Michigan politician I happened to want to depict on my label. Had I chosen the name Woodward Records not only would I be equally as unoriginal, I'd also have one lousy cartoon to work from.

Dave Buick once told me that the reasoning behind the "Lo-Fi Renaissance" tag-line was that when he was searching for images of Michelangelo's David sculpture to use on the label, he kept on running into it being referenced to as an example of the "high Renaissance" period. So he flipped the script.

But it's also possible that the label name on some of the records by the Colors (pre-Dirtbombs Pat Pantano) label Poe Records may have been an influence...

(quoth Pantano "speak of this nevermore")

Seeing as we've depicted a Hentchmen label above, let's talk about a great song by the Mutants called "So American" (pay attention to the first two words of the song AND their delivery)

The Mutants "So American" 1978 by cassdetroit

And now for the Hentchmen's 1994 jam "Chicks and Cars"

The Hentchmen "Chicks and Cars" by cassdetroit

Again in the label department, how about the Inkster label Mutt? Home to many a desirable soul singles and even an LP by a legitimate practioner of witchcraft!

(a better song title/band name combo has never existed)

And now for Rocket 455's own label, home to their debut single...

(some copies with free rocket launcher!)

And about ten years later, Eric Silvenis of D-Wrecked-Hit Records started doing weird one-off singles with one-off label names too, like...

This label actually gets triple points because it is also a take on Northern Records out of Detroit, (going back as far as 1959 and owned/operated by the female Johnnie Mae Matthews) and steals the idea of the letter "A" encased in a star from Astra Records...

(shoulda been called the Aqua-Nets, amirite?)

Hell, even band NAMES can conflict with each other, check out this power pop band from 1980

(if I have to explain this one to you just leave right now)

In the end, I really don't know how/why/if most of these artists were truly cognizant of the lineage of their forebears or not. A lot of times people just have the same good ideas completely independent/ignorant of others who'd had those exact same ideas. The best example of that I can give is below, as I know for a FACT that the first record cover was completely unknown to the folks behind the second one...

(audition? for what? it's your record James)

Feel free to post your own additions to the list in the comments, as well as critiques, tips (the money kind), advice for troubled teens and recipes for cooking kale.

Motor City Yearning #7

2011-07-29T18:21:00.003-04:00

I didn't say it in the podcast, but I just really wanted to say here that Ted Lucas' "Plain and Sane and Simple Melody" is one of the most beautiful songs I have heard in a long time. I know all the words and sing them to myself quite often. I strongly urge you folks to check out the Ted Lucas album. It's so soft and soothing and generally easy...I've yet to find someone who hasn't fallen for it. Do yourself the favor. You will not be disappointed.

Motor city yearning 7 by cassdetroit

My First Appearance on Record...

2011-06-30T10:58:00.006-04:00

I know I've said before that my first appearance on record is on the Clone Defects' "Bottled Woman" single, with an uncredited reverb crash. And that's all nice and well for my cred. But that's not entirely true.

My first appearance on record is featured on this album...

(And if it's not clear, Mike is playing a baby grand piano on a cliff over the ocean...it has to be the ocean, right? No one bothers to do that shit on a lake).

Mike is somewhat known on the East Side of Detroit. He comes from the illustrious Quatro family who also gave us the Pleasure Seekers (featuring his sisters Suzi, Patti and Arlene). He ran MQI (Mike Quatro Inc, 150 Kercheval, Grosse Pointe Farms) and was responsible for booking a large number of the Detroit band's from that era you know and love (Mc5, Stooges, etc). He supposedly had a hand in booking acts for the Cincinnati Summer Pop Festival...the night where Iggy smeared the peanut butter on his chest.

(side note: MQI later became DMA or Diversified Management Agency who released the "Fantastic 5" compilation in 1976 and featured such illustrious forgotten bands like Holy Smoke, Beauteaze, Badge, Ruby Jones and Sweet Crystal. I'm fairly certain DMA was run by Dave Leone who originally started out with the Hideout clubs/record label)

Mike Quatro also made a name for himself as a performer. Rumors at the local grocery store were that he was on Lawrence Welk (or Ed Sullivan?) playing virtuoso piano at the age of 5. Now that I would like to see. It's also worth noting that he titled a solo album "In Collaboration With the Gods" which has to be the least-pretentious name you could ever give a record.

(I honestly love this album cover. Just check out that tile work)

Anyway, at the time I was in middle school at St. Clare Montefalco Mike's two step-daughters were also enrolled there. Mike convinced our estimable music teacher/guidance counselor, Dorothy Ciesluk, to gather the best voices in the school for his recording project.

About 30-40 of us were huddled on the stage in the church basement and prompted to sing a couple of different short lines. The one I remember is "Save the oceans and we'll save the earth." I wish I could remember what all of this was recorded on...DAT? Cassette? Reel-to-reel? In the mid-90's it really could've been anything.

Miss Ciesluk was so blatantly impressed with Quatro that it hurt even my pre-teen eyes to watch. Everything he said was either hilarious, brilliant or perfect...clearly she'd been notified that this guy had actually collaborated with GODS and had the album to prove it.

It wasn't until two years ago that I ever heard the fruits of my labor, entitled "The Ocean Song"

the back cover of the "Vision" album complete with quote that reads:

Falcons of the springtime waltz

bathing alabaster maidens,

in music from many lands,

forgotten prophecies splendidly remade,

their richness of wisdom fully displayed.

Five billion people, dancing in time,

whirling, swirling in brutal pantomime.

Phasers-filters, electronically connected,

minds and music magically dissected,

fingers and emotions, crashing on keys,

in "Vision" with the universe,

Michael sets the world at ease

Mr. K, 1740 AD

Here's the song for you to listen to:

The Ocean Song by cassdetroit

I've actually written on here before about my appreciation for "Songs of the Humpback Whale" so it was a welcome treat to hear those sounds as part of my first foray into the music biz.

Guitar heroics on the song were provided by Gary Spaniola who was also in Detroit mainstays Bitter Sweet Alley and did technical work on some Insane Clown Posse Records.

I'm not sure how well the "Vision" album did in stores, can anyone with access to SoundScan look this one up for me? Part of me is reminded of the lawsuit brought on by the English school children featured on Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall Part 2" recording, but I somehow doubt legal action on my behalf would be anywhere near as lucrative.

I bought my copy from Quatro's store at CafePress and urge you to do the same here Buy VISION now! You can also buy all kinds of custom-printed t-shirts, calendars and thongs right HERE emblazoned with images from throughout Quatro's career.

Enjoy!

Random Goings-On...

2011-05-13T14:48:00.008-04:00

Just a clearing house for what's been happening...

First off, Nike...where'd you get the idea for this t-shirt?

If you're excited enough, you can buy it here...

Bullshit Nike Trying to Make a Buck

Also, I'm finally making public my map of suburban Detroit record labels. It's not as exciting as the Detroit map, but it's interesting nonetheless.

Suburban Detroit Record Label Map

In the spirit of maps, here's an interview I did with WDET radio's Craig Fahle a few months back.

My Interview with Craig Fahle about Detroit Record Label Map by cassdetroit

And even ANOTHER radio interview about the record label map. I sound like a dick in this one because I keep talking over the host, but on the phone her voice was so quiet I could barely hear her. Honest, I'm not a dick.

Interview about Google Map with Alisa Z by cassdetroit

Here's a picture explaining how Third Man Records was able to reissue the first two White Stripes singles

And a photo that shows the impetus for one of my favorite Dirtbombs song titles

And one of me just acting like a buffoon.

Finally, there are some Dirtbombs shows starting at the end of this month. Thought everyone should know that we have a new bass player by the name of Chris Sutton. While I'm really going to miss Zack, Chris comes with loads of experience from bands like Dub Narcotic, C.O.C.O. and the Gossip. DEMF here we come!

Esquire magazine presents...Ben Blackwell?

2011-04-19T14:10:00.003-04:00

Back in March I was flown to Detroit by Esquire magazine to record a song and take part in a fashion shoot. While I initially viewed it as a free trip back home to see my friends and family, I ended up genuinely enjoying the experience. It was my first time in a proper recording studio left to my own devices and the result, a song called "Bury My Body at Elmwood" is something I'm proud to have written and played all the instruments on. And as much as I dreaded it, the fashion styling/shooting weren't all that bad.

Here's what Esquire gave me to say about it all...

For its May 2011 issue (on newsstands April 26), Esquire gathered Ben Blackwell and four other amazing musicians in Detroit for a two-day fashion shoot with legendary photographer Danny Clinch. To make things interesting, Esquire also issued a challenge to each musician: create, perform, and record an original song inspired by the phrase “Last Night in Detroit.” Each musician rose to the challenge, and Esquire is now selling the songs (as well as a five-song EP) on iTunes to benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters of Metropolitan Detroit.

Check out Ben’s story, hear a clip of his new song, “Bury My Body At Elmood,” and watch some behind the scenes video at: http://www.esquire.com/detroit

Click here to buy Ben’s new song: http://www.itunes.com/esquirepresents

Unsolicited Package...Help Us Solve This Mystery!

2011-03-23T18:09:00.004-04:00

Yesterday an unsolicited package arrived at Third Man Records. Here's the shipping info:

Inside the box were 30 copies of this record:

It's a one-sided 7" featuring the song "Young Girl" as performed by Paul Watkins and Brooks Poston. Both men were members of the Manson Family and the performance itself is taken from the unreleased soundtrack to the 1972 documentary "Manson." The label is listed as Helter Skelter and the record is catalog # HS 666.

Anyone have any clues about the brains behind this one? We're dying to know.

More Than You Care to Know: An Exhaustive Bruise Cruise Recap Complete With False Imprisonment, Fist Fights, Suspected Kidnapping and Good Times Too!

2011-03-13T23:46:00.006-04:00

(Bruise Cruise was a garage rock festival that took place over three days on the Carnival Cruise ship Imagination, starting in Miami on Friday February 25th, stopping in Nassau, Bahamas for a day and a show at Senor Frog's and then back in Miami on Monday the 28th)

The otherwise uneventful flight down to Miami was punctuated with an announcement from the captain. We looked out the left side of the plane to see the space shuttle Discovery in the midst of its ascent…a glowing orange fireball with a curlicue vapor trail in its wake was one of the most amazing things I'd ever seen. After a minute or two the trail just stopped, seemingly as the shuttle had left the earth's orbit.

With my first real visit to Miami I kept thinking how much the city ruled the 80s…from Canes football, Hulk Hogan, Dan Marino and the Dolphins, cocaine smuggling, gross sports cars, Miami Vice…I'd be hard-pressed to think of any more cultural contributions the city has made to society in the past twenty years. Oh well.

The pre-party show that night was too massive for its own good. The club, Grand Central, was not used to putting on rock and roll shows and did not have favorable acoustics for making the switch. The early check-in process for Bruise Cruisers went smoothly, but the mess of bands on the bill was too much for most anyone (let alone folks who'd almost certainly flown in that day) to make it all the way through. Walked in while Turbo Fruits were playing and the place was teeming with all sorts of friends from Detroit, folks I didn't expect to see and the usual garage rock standard-bearers.

Apparently very few folks knew that the drinks at the club had gratuity included. And apparently the club owner yelled at John Dwyer of the Oh Sees for wearing a tank top. And in my fourteen-ish years of independent venue rock and rolling, I have never, EVER previously experienced a club literally running out of beer across all brands and formats. Three strikes.

Vivian Girls were the only band playing that I'd never seen before and it wasn't really my thing, but still much more powerful, more oomph-packing than I'd imagined they'd be live. The records, to me, always sounded thin. The other bands, Surfer Blood, Ty Segal, Strange Boys, Oh Sees, Quintron and Black Lips were all in the realm that I had expected with Ty and the Oh Sees being particularly strong, but by the time the Lips went on the crowd had visibly thinned and most folks were struggling to keep with it. But still, a Black Lips show of this caliber is still rewarding.

Trouble hailing a cab at the ungodly hour was only compounded by the equally vexing task of cramming two friends into the cab who 1) didn't remember the name of their hotel and 2) couldn't get ahold of the rest of their party who were staying there. One passed out in the bathroom, the other tried going through the phone book to find the name of the place. They eventually just got a room at the Hotel Clinton, where we were staying.

Independent of that, Malissa took it upon herself to finagle and haggle discounted room rates for two separate groups of friends at this late hour. The quoted rate was $220 and she was able to get them down to $150. Girl should buy used cars for a living.

After check out and before boarding Malissa and I walked to a liquor store down the street and each bought a bottle of champagne to bring on board, the maximum allowed by cruise mandate. There's a curious rhythm to folks walking down the street in Miami, solely because of the fact that 90% of the people that passed me on the street were wearing flip-flops and making that resultant sound. It's difficult to respect a town with that attribute, but it's also kinda funny to listen to.

We cabbed it to the Port of Miami and went through the decidedly smooth check-in/embarkation process. Being a returning Carnival cruise passenger my Sign and Sail card (ie, my onboard ID/credit card) was gold where all the first-timers had blue cards. The awkward Key West/Cozumel cruise with my sister and parents at age16 suddenly felt rewarding in hindsight.

In talking with some other folks like Jared from the Black Lips and Danny from the Jacuzzi Boys, we'd all realized that we'd been on Carnival cruises at roughly age 15-16 and that there really couldn't be a more unexciting time to do so. The reason being that, up through about age 13 you're still just an annoying little kid and things like the arcade, swimming pool, water slide and 24-hour ice cream bar are all that you really needed to shut up. Over age18 and you can at least smoke cigarettes, flirt with the opposite sex and probably sneak booze/gambling. Jared and I bonded not only on the fact that we'd both been essentially bored on our cruises (me writing poetry in a notebook, him not having pot) but that we had actually both been on the exact same boat we were currently on, the Carnival Imagination. Weirdsies.

We quickly dropped our baggage off in our stateroom and then made way to the pool deck which would effectively be ground zero for Bruise Cruisers for the duration of the trip. With ample lounge chairs, waitstaff, booze, shade, hot tub and space for congregating it was really a no-brainer. I had two Long Island ice teas and barely felt their effects. Thems the breaks when you tip the scales at 220lbs.

After the safety briefing at our muster stations (wish it was more like MUSTARD stations) Ty Segal played at the Xanadu Lounge and nailed it. His science was tight. He was immediately followed by the Oh Sees and I was ecstatic that they included "Warm Slime" in their set.

Upon its release last year I was instantly impressed with the title track on the album. Not only is it catchy as shit and stacked with an unparalleled "all you need is the summertime" breakdown, but this opening track also clocks in at over 13 minutes long. A lot of bands have long songs and even fewer bands have STRONG long songs, but I can't think of a single act that's OPENED with the long-ass jam. Stooges didn't do it with "We Will Fall" or "Funhouse", Velvets didn't do it with "Sister Ray" and the Dirtbombs certainly didn't do it with "Race to the Bottom" OR "Bug in the Bassbin." John Dwyer, in this instance, gets a million genius points from the bank of "Why Didn't Someone Else Already Think of This?" department.

We took a nap after the Oh Sees and woke up just in time to get dressed for dinner. There's a vague dress code for dinner so it meant I actually had to wear pants. I realize as I type that it seems like a given, but I mean pants in the terms of "not shorts" and NOT in the way of "something covering my nether region". They purposefully have assigned seating seemingly chosen at random with the idea that you should be a little bit out of your comfort zone and have to converse with people you might otherwise never reach out to.

Our table was great, all Bruisers and Malissa had the added bonus of sitting next to John Norris, formerly of MTV News. He was awesome.

I ordered the flat iron steak with peppercorn sauce as I'd remembered the peppercorn sauce when I was 16 on a cruise to have been absolutely amazing. I guess my palate (or the chef's mastery) had shifted sometime in the past 11 years because on this occasion it was merely passable.

Malissa started to feel a bit ill so we left in the middle of dinner and went to the aft of the boat in an effort to cool off. While a calming atmosphere, it didn't seem to help her constitution and we returned to our room where she only felt sicker. After tending to her she said she was fine (although she'd remain sick and sleepy for the rest of the night) and I ventured off to Ian Svenonius' lecture.

I arrived early and was struck up in conversation by Tom Scharpling of WFMU. He liked the new Dirtbombs album so that immediately got my attention. We hadn't "signed-up" for the limited 60-some seats in the conference room, but were able to squat our way into respectable positions.

I think I was kind of just anticipating the lecture to be off-the-cuff riffing from Ian in the style of his book "The Psychic Soviet" what we were treated to was not one but two short sketches/skits that were performed by volunteers from the audience and coupled with impressive slide shows.

The first piece focused on how rock bands would be cynically viewed by aliens as illustrated by dialogue excerpted from Metallica's documentary "Some Kind of Monster". It was well-written and witty and definitely something that would fit in both stylistically and context-wise with Svenonius' previous writings.

The second piece focused on backwards messaging in popular music and with some of the most well-known instances used as examples ("Paul is dead", "my sweet satan", "it's fun to smoke marijuana") deconstructed what the artists' original intent behind them must've been. Again, another well-assembled piece.

Each skit lost essential impact through volunteers who were purposefully sabotaging their parts, whether it was speaking in unnecessary accents, ripping up parts of their script and throwing it across the room, or just generally being jackasses. While the message still came across (and yeah, I'm sure we were all there for a "message") these two women (one from each sketch) kinda ruined something that could've been really cool.

I immediately returned to the cabin and went to bed.

Woke up early and ate breakfast on the exterior deck while the ship pulled into Nassau harbor. It was a serene, peaceful time. Malissa headed out for an onshore excursion with friends (rumor was the zoo would let you hold monkeys…but apparently not true) and I stayed behind waiting for my DJ set.

Sat poolside with John Syzmanski and gabbed like little girls about records, Detroit, the quaintness of pre-Internet touring/planning and how weird it is when people you know die. We shared the spray-on sunblock Malissa bought in Miami to mixed results. My mid-thigh to kneecap on both legs was lobster red as was a weird, triangle-shaped spot on the ventral side of my ankle. Otherwise, consider the sun blocked. John was fine, except for the entire front of his torso, which resembled the hue of barely cooked beef.

Rolled in to Xanadu for my DJ set around 1:15 and after a brief chat with the boys Jacuzzi I proceeded to play the following jams:

Moon Pool & Dead Band – Patsy

Alvin Cash and the Crawlers – Twine Time

Banbarra – Shack Up

The Spencer Davis Group – High Time Baby

Parliament – Flash Light

Jackie Brenston – Rocket 88

The Jimmy Castor Bunch – Troglodyte

At that point the Jacuzzi Boys began playing. With a temporary replacement on drums, the set was pretty remarkable with each of the songs vibe-ing off of the previous one. All in all, I just felt every song was solid and impactful and the fact that they're recording their new album (coming out on Sub Pop subsidiary Hardly Art) at the Key Club in Michigan only excites me even more. I then played:

Cybotron – Alleys of Your Mind

Shirley Ellis – The Clapping Song

The Equals – Black Skinned Blue Eyed Boys

Little Richard – Keep a Knockin'

Gloria Jones – Tainted Love

The Marvellettes – I'll Keep Holding On

The Gap Band – You Dropped a Bomb on Me

Gino Washington – Puppet on a String

Laid Back – White Horse

Vaughan Mason and Crew – Bounce, Rock, Skate, Roll (Part 1)

Machine – There But For the Grace of God Go I

Immediately followed by Surfer Blood. Clearly the red herring in the cruise line-up, there were only about twenty people watching them when I packed up my records and left. Part of me felt bad, but I then realized this is a band that has no problem selling out its own shows, has enjoyed heaps of praise from the likes of Pitchfork and recently signed to Warner Brothers. Upon realization of that, my feelings changed to "you'll never have to play a show this small again guys, so enjoy it."

From there was more relaxed chill time poolside. There was a Motown trivia contest that Ko and I were poised to win from the get-go. Simply enough, the organizer would play a song and those participating had to name the artist and the song, with one point awarded for each correct answer.

In terms of Motown the most obscure thing they played was "Money" by Barrett Strong, which is still one of the most popular songs of the past 50 years, even if the original artist is generally forgotten. We were surprised by the fact that Motown, as a term employed by Carnival Cruise contest organizers, apparently encompasses any black music from the 60's or 70's, including stuff like Aretha Franklin (while never releasing anything on Motown, at least she's a Detroit artist), the Crystals and the Ronettes. The only one we were stumped on was who performed "Mr. Big Stuff" (Jean Knight) and our 39 points made us the clear winners, graced with a generic "gold" medal with red, white and blue ribbon to wear it around just like someone who's actually accomplished something. I bet Ko still has it.

After more general hanging out, including but not limited to witnessing how lame the waterslide was via watching friends go down it, and an in-depth convo with Ian, Tom and Terre about which bands dominated which decades, Malissa and I double-dated with Brent and Tessa on the island to get some authentic food before spending the rest of our night at Senor Frog's. Before we left Malissa told me not to bring my passport, apparently it's more trouble than it's worth and losing it is far more an issue than being without it. I obliged and we made our way into the Bahamian evening.

Immediately off boat there was a bevy of locals sizing us up. One introduced himself as "Doctor Feelgood" and I couldn't help but wonder what exactly was the extent of his knowledge of Motley Crue's discography.

We walked briefly before realizing any of the restaurants we wanted to hit were too far away and summoned a cab to take us to the Arawak Cay neighborhood. It seemed a little less touristy than the places immediately abutting the cruise ship docks so that was welcome. As soon as we exited the cab a barker from Twin Brothers approached and started selling us HARD on why we needed to eat there. The place we'd been recommended was just next door, but for some reason we appreciated the guy's effort and decided on Twin Brother's.

(side note: one of his selling points was the restaurant being "featured" on CBS television and I was kinda hoping that it was just clever marketing…something like a news report saying "four American tourists were robbed today at Twin Brothers restaurant in Nassau." I mean, it's not false advertising, they were featured on CBS, amirite?)

I ordered a Long Island ice tea and it wasn't as tasty as those made on the boat. I'm not normally a drinker and the mere scent of alcohol is enough to make me gag, but the cruise was a special occasion, the first real vacation Malissa and I had ever taken, so I drank a little without much to show for it except receipts.

Our food was impressive…the conch fritters were a shared appetizer and absolutely to-die-for. All four of us were very pleased with them. I ordered cracked conch as my main dish and it was more of the same deliciousness. I don't like sea food that smells like it's sea food and both these dishes were almost scentless (in the best possible way) and the plantains were magnificent. All seemed pleased with their meals and Twin Brothers comes highly recommended.

From there we took a cab to Senor Frog's and found out that our cabbie was the DJ there when the club originally opened (he would show up there later in the night and say "Hi"). We arrived just as the Strange Boys started playing and for the first time I finally "got" the band. Maybe I'd sworn them off before as Black Lips imitators or (more likely) just never paid them their due attention. Maybe it was the minimal amount of booze pumping through me, but it was clear to me that the Strange Boys occupy a very important place in the musical landscape right now and I felt privileged to witness it.

On a side note, Senor Frog's is the overall atmosphere I imagine date rape to have been invented in. Oh my god the place is unreal…the music is loud and throbbing, it smells vaguely of vomit, the place is over-packed with sweaty bodies and the MC has liquor in a squirt bottle that he can indiscriminately spray into peoples' mouths. Needless to say, the setting kept me from wanting to drink anything more than water and even then I was slightly wary.

The Vivian Girls bookended their set with renditions of "My Heart Will Go On" and I was reminded of the shuttle ride to the port of Miami on my teenaged cruise many moons ago. Celine Dion's version came on the radio right as we pulled up to the ship, eliciting lighthearted laughter from the passengers. I was listening to Sonic Youth or the Velvet Underground on headphones and had to ask my mom what happened. I hadn't (and still havent') seen TITANIC so it didn't seem that funny to me.

In hindsight, that experience pretty accurately mirrors how I feel about the Vivian Girls. So I guess the cover was apropos.

Just before the Black Lips went on I saw Ty Segal and his girlfriend Denee headed back to the boat, they were going to relax in the hot tub and invited Malissa and I to join them. As great as it sounded, I'd already promised to judge the Soul Clap dance off after the Lips' set. I should've shirked the responsibility and enjoyed that hot tub.

The Black Lips were spirited, but by this point I was exhausted and didn't have the energy to enjoy their set beyond the most general of appreciations. At the conclusion of their set a table and chairs were set up on stage and Ian Svenonius introduced and questioned each of the handful of dance judges.

When asked which corporation I represented, I responded "the city of Detroit" to mild cheers.

The contest itself was confusing. There were five rounds and ten people in each round. They had numbers on their backs so they could be easily identified. The winners of each of those 5 rounds met in the final round. At one point in between rounds there was an announcement made from the stage about a missing 4-year-old girl. It seemed out of nowhere, but I made a mental note to myself to try and find out what exactly it was all about.

I basically just agreed with one of the judges on either side of me. DJ Jonathan Toubin coolly played only James Brown songs. The girl who won the first round ended up winning the whole thing. I guess she danced ok. The whole thing left me feeling vaguely awkward. I just wanted to leave.

At the conclusion of the contest I found Malissa and we made our way out of the club. I'm immediately greeted by a man resembling Gary Busey only shorter and stouter, yelling at me "You fucking punched me in the head thirty times! You assaulted my wife! You coward!" along with some other psychotic rambling. There was a woman standing next to him, holding a child, crying and yelling something at me as well…the general message was along the same lines as those of the man I will heretofore refer to as GB (Gary Busey) while his wife will be CW (for "crying wife")

My immediate thought was "These folks are REALLY drunk" and I said "I don't know what you're talking about" and continued on to the ship.

Tom Scharpling caught up to me and I asked him to stay with me, as I almost anticipated these folks to follow me and try and start a fight. He said he didn't think I had anything to worry about, but walked with me regardless while Terre T (his wife) and Malissa trailed not far behind us.

About halfway back to the ship the head of Bruise Cruise security, Justiz, catches up to me and says that I need to come back to the club, that a man was making accusations about me and that I had to address them. I told Malissa and Tessa to head back to the boat and that I'd met back up with them as soon as I'd cleared everything up.

I'd figured, since I was wearing my favorite/standard navy blue and white-striped shirt that there was probably some other person there wearing a similar styled top and that it was moreso a case of someone biting my stripey style. More than anything, I was pissed that it was seemingly hip to wear striped shirts as I've been rocking that shit since I was a teenager and not only do I have to deal with Urban Outfitters and American Apparel hawking that shit, but I also have to answer for any dumbass at Senor Frog's wearing 'em too.

On my walk back to Senor Frog's an unmarked car pulled over and out came GB, CW and a police officer in some imperial reject uniform. GB says "That's the guy" and CW agrees. The officer asks me to tell my side of the story and I say that I don't know what he's talking about, that there is no story and I have no idea what it's all in reference to.

The officer then asks who saw the altercation and could verify my side of the story. I was told there were four witnesses who saw what I did as well as surveillance tape footage. I said I didn't do anything so I didn't really have a "side" to the story and then said there were to people with me the whole time who could verify I did nothing, Tessa and Malissa, who were both back on the boat by this time. Justiz went to work trying to get ahold of those two and became fairly occupied doing so.

Around this time the officer confirmed with GB that he wanted to press charges and then asked me to place my hands behind my back so that he could handcuff me.

For me to type "I couldn't believe it" would really belittle the amount and pace of thoughts going through my head at this point. I thought about Amanda Knox, about not having my passport on me, about all the episodes of "COPS" I'd ever watched, about being hauled into lock-up and spending the night in Bahamian jail, about the boat leaving without me, about how in the hell I would get back to civilization, about where in the hell the US embassy might be, about what in the hell actually happened that I was falsely being accused of anyway.

My overwhelming thought was to remain calm and not lose my temper or overreact. That was the one thing "COPS" had taught me. If you're innocent, act innocent. Don't get enraged. Don't raise your voice. Remain polite. Stand still. I did all of these things and the police, at this point two officers, were still bumbling in a Caribbean, Keystone cops sorta way that was almost endearing. They told me I should just admit to it and then say I was sorry and that it could all be dealt with from there. Separated from any of my friends or acquaintances I couldn't help but consider doing just that. I also questioned myself "Man, maybe I DID punch this guy?"

Another member of the Bruise Cruise security, Nick, had appeared at this point and seemingly flustered, pulled me aside and asked me to just tell him what happened. I calmly told him I didn't know what they were talking about, that I hadn't done anything and that I'd never seen these people before in my life.

The look on his face was priceless. I don't think he believed me. Talking to him later, he explained it as so (paraphrasing): "When you said that, I just thought you were truly a sociopath, that you were cold-hearted and were just straight-up lying to my face. When you see and hear someone yelling at the top of their lungs that they were punched in the face and attacked, I guess you just instantly believe them."

In addition to that, Jonas, one of the cruise organizers, described his thoughts on seeing me in handcuffs somewhat like this: "It just didn't visually look right, seeing you in handcuffs. But I knew you had kinda been drinking on the cruise when you don't really drink at all otherwise. I thought maybe you had a dark side."

By this point folks had begun to filter out of Senor Frog's more steadily and cross my path. My biggest support came from a manager of Senor Frog's who was also onstage judging the dance contest with me. She was the first to say "You've got the wrong guy" and immediately, assuredly said "He was onstage judging the dance contest. 200 people saw him. He has nothing to do with this."

The cops, in their only moment of crime-solving logic, countered with "No one's arguing whether or not he judged the dance contest. These people are still saying he assaulted them."

Next to happen upon me was Ian "Smash the State" Svenonius. With his expertise in world cultures I thought he'd just snap his fingers, rattle off some claptrap about the proletariat and communism and I would instantly be freed of my shackles and we'd be laughing it off like old comrades.

As he got closer, someone came up to him and said something to the effect of "DO NOT say anything or get involved here you will only make things worse" and after a brief pause, he continued on his way back to the ship.

Fuck.

From there, the Black Lips had finally filtered out of the club and saw me. Jared was the first and most adamant about the situation, damn near screaming "You've got the wrong guy, he doesn't even drink! This is wrong!" The incredulity in his voice was clear.

The cop responded, in a manner clearly meant to shut him up, with "Would you be willing to go to court and testify on his behalf?"

Jared countered with "I would be GLAD to testify in court! I will not get back on that boat until Ben is let go! YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG GUY! HE DOESN'T EVEN DRINK!"

(at this point I'd felt a little guilty having had ONE drink that night, almost thinking that if the cops tested me and alcohol showed up that for some reason I would be imprisoned for that)

Joe Bradley of the Lips got in the face of GB, stared him down and pointed his finger at him saying "You have no soul!"

As I look back on the nine or so years I've known the Black Lips, from buying 5 copies each of their first two 7"s at their Lager House show in 2002, to a truly terrible show at Maxwell's in 2003, to stealing food from a house party in Detroit, or bringing 'em along on tour in 2006 and letting them crash on our hotel room floors, seeing them sign to Vice and hone their stage show into an entertaining rock and roll juggernaut and touring the far reaches of the globe…this show of solidarity was truly the best feeling I could ever imagine from them or any band. When I first thought back on it, I got teary-eyed. THAT'S what music is really about…being part of a brotherhood.

(the only photo I've seen of myself in custody, with Jared and Justiz. Photo: Jackie Roman/the Hell Gate)

Joe had said that the cops at Senor Frog's had another guy in custody and that HE was the person they were looking for. We all walked the100 or so yards back to the club only to find that the guy they had in custody was GB, who'd somehow managed to end up back there without me noticing.

It was at this point a woman I'd never seen before looked at me and then looked at the police and said "This is not the man you're looking for…he wasn't involved in this at all. He's innocent. You're looking for my husband."

"Where is your husband?" the police responded.

"He's inside. I didn't want him to have to come out here and deal with all of this. We just called our lawyer," she said.

"Well, can you bring him out here?" the cops coolly asked.

I then looked at GB and very calmly said "Can you please just be a decent human being and look at this guy when he comes out and see if maybe HE'S the guy who punched you?"

For the first time since I'd first seen him, GB was relaxed and responded "I can do that."

Out comes a guy, relatively the same height as me, blond hair a little bit shorter than mine, wearing one of those Cuban-style, button-down, barber shirts. No damned hipster stripes.

"Yeah, that's him" GB admitted.

I didn't have enough time for the weight to lift off my shoulders before the police said, "Everyone is going to the police station."

This was not cool. I patiently tried to get the attention of the officer "Excuse me sir, he JUST said I didn't punch him. Excuse me. Please!"

The authorities were patently ignoring me and it was scary. Their minds were made up and there was no convincing them otherwise.

As I turned around and was lead to the cop car I was confused to see a proper film camera, complete with blinding floodlight attached.

"When the fuck did TMZ get here?" was my reaction.

There was a tight crowd of somewhere between 15-30 people consisting of Black Lips, random Bruise Cruisers, Senor Frog's employees, other bar partrons, and people with cameras. The situation was loud and seemed like it could erupt at any second.

The cops (or someone) started yelling at whomever to stop filming and taking pictures. Others (the Black Lips immediately come to mind) were adamant that the crew continue filming and shooting pics. I was put in the backseat of an unmarked police car right and was soon joined by GB, the man who not 5 minutes ago was still convinced I'd punched him in the head thirty times.

"Hey man, I don't really know exactly what happened, it was all pretty crazy, I hope you can understand how weird this all is for me" he said as we sat with our hands behind our backs.

"Yeah, no worries. BUT I HOPE YOU CAN UNDERSTAND HOW WEIRD THIS IS FOR ME!"

I would find out GB is a bail bondsmen from Connecticut. He said it was weird to have the cuffs on him for once, although I doubted this was his first time. I asked what he thought of all the "Dog the Bounty Hunter" reality shows and he said they were bullshit.

His wife is from Brazil. She was having trouble becoming a US citizen, but apparently if you buy a house for more than $500k in the Bahamas, they will automatically make you a citizen. So they were in Nassau looking for houses to get her citizenship and ideally make it easier for her to become a US citizen in the future.

I would later find the altercation stemmed from GB and CW bringing their 4-year-old daughter into Senor Frog's at 1am. Apparently GB went up to someone (probably the guy that looked vaguely like me) and said "Can you please not smoke in front of my daughter?" to which he replied "Maybe you shouldn't bring a kid into a bar at one in the morning" and then the fists began to fly. This was also the source of the "kidnapped 4-year-old" comment from the stage and I guess someone had (wisely) grabbed the daughter in the middle of the melee just to protect her and SOMEHOW that got misconstrued as kidnapping. Yeah, I know.

We arrived at a police station only to be told that we need to go to "Central" so we hopped back in the car, drove another 5 miles and ended up at another seemingly bland building. In my memory there was a prostitute just walking out. We were buzzed into a back room with fake wood paneling and bad overhead lighting where the arresting officer relayed the story to his superior something like this…

"There was an altercation at Senor Frog's this evening. This man (pointing at me) was falsely identified as having assaulted…"

"So what is he doing here?" the commanding officer interrupted, "Get him out of here"

My handcuffs were quickly removed and without as much as an apology. I had to ask if someone could drive me back to the boat as I had absolutely no idea where I was. Weirdly enough, after what seemed like ten minutes of driving to get to the police station I was still only about two blocks from the ship.

As I was dropped off and walked alone through the night towards the glowing ship ahead of me my stomach began to feel nauseous. Only once I'd gone through it all did I realize how bad it actually was. In spite of the nausea I still felt like the soldier returning from battle…like I'd somehow conquered something and was stronger because of it. And I had what felt like the biggest smile of my life beaming from my face.

As I re-boarded the ship a woman signaled to me and showed me a picture she'd taken of me handcuffed. She said she was glad I was ok and although I didn't know her, it was comforting to hear. She also took this photo:

(the biggest smile of my life, just before re-boarding the ship. photo courtesy of Jackie Roman/The Hell Gate)

As I headed toward our cabin I ran into the Jacuzzi Boys who were overjoyed to see me. They could barely put into words how BAD they felt when they saw me in cuffs and conversely, how much better they felt knowing that everything was now ok. For the rest of the trip, from close friends to random strangers, this sentiment would be echoed time and time again and just like describing how the words and actions of the Black Lips had an impact on me, every time someone commented their concern/relief it was a refreshing reminder of someone previously unforeseen brotherhood.

Malissa had left a note in our cabin saying she was at the pool and that she was scared. I didn't know what she knew about any of this…but the entire incident would've been visible to anyone standing on the port side deck of the boat.

Apparently some mix-up had Justiz looking for someone named "Michelle" and when that didn't work they tracked down Tessa and asked if she knew where Michelle was. Confused and scared, she started calling Malissa Michelle, not sure what was going on.

Both Tessa and Malissa were told that they'd need to go to the police station to give statements on my behalf. Malissa later said she didn't feel good leaving me to deal with the situation by myself, but had she been there and seen me get handcuffed she would've lost her shit and the situation would've only become more difficult. I'm glad she didn't have to witness that and I hope in the future she never has to.

Turned out that Malissa and Tessa were on their way to greet me at the entrance to the boat and had apparently just missed me. I got a call in the cabin and they came and met me and I gave her a much-needed hug before going down to the security office to fill out some paperwork just so Carnival had internal documentation of the incident. That was pretty painless.

Back on the deck I happened to run into the guy who looked like me who was actually in the fight. He said he broke his hand punching the other guy and (eventually) that he was sorry and I forgave him. From there, I gave my rundown to Jonas and Michelle (the head honchos of the Bruise Cruise) and while doing so, thought of the follwing…

Not to try and sound like a martyr, but I'm glad this all happened to me. I wasn't drunk and don't have a temper or problems with authority. The entire time I was calm and polite and just generally quiet. Had one of the Black Lips been accused in a case of mistaken identity, they would've been screaming their head off, spitting in people's faces and generally turning the entire thing into an international incident. So really, all in all, I was probably the best person the whole thing could've happened to. And I'm fine with that.

But it's also fucking scary as shit. The cops essentially LIED to me and said there were witnesses and a surveillance tape…NONE of which was true. I was so blindsided by the entire thing that I didn't even think to challenge them on this…I'd almost just taken it as fact. I also didn't think to show my knuckles with absolutely no signs of having thrown punches and because I didn't know exactly when the whole thing went down I wasn't even comfortable using the "I was onstage judging the dance contest" defense for myself. Not to mention they tried to sucker me into admitting to it anyway (at that point a very legitimate approach seeing as I was getting nowhere) under the guise that if I just apologized we could work towards sorting everything out.

The bigger lesson learned is not a nice one. Simply put, if someone accuses you of shit you didn't do, you have to sit there and deal with it. You need to answer to their accusations and in some unfortunate situations, be handcuffed and detained. EVEN WHEN YOU DID ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG. And this is dealing with seemingly HONEST cops. If there's the least bit of shadiness, graft or crookedness…man, you've just got to be fucked.

I managed to find out that there was an incident outside SF's last year and it seemed like the cops were trying to avoid a repeat of that, hence why I was brought into the police station. They had to diffuse the situation and save face in regards to cuffing me.

I also found out that the "Bahamian" way is to get the relevant parties to apologize to each other and let them go without any paperwork or reports or news showing up in the papers. They're only source of income is essentially tourism and they will do whatever they must to ensure that revenue is not jeopardized. Hence why the guy who actually was throwing punches was back on the boat not twenty minutes after I was.

The rest of the night would be enjoyable…watching the sunrise with Joe Bradley as he explained the financial bailout of Middle Eastern nations was equally surreal and serene.

The next day would be enjoyable, but even the free drinks and finger foods at happy hour while the Oh Sees and Quintron played were more relaxing than anything. Good, long, in-depth conversations with Ty and Tom were probably the highlights of my day, along with overserving myself at the 24-hour pizza and ice cream stations.

I turned $1 in the penny slots into $12 and struggled to hear Joe Bradley play piano at the VIP reception. Disembarking was easy and painless…the bar tab between Malissa and I over three days was only $100 which I was quite surprised by, especially considering we had friends who'd easily topped $500 in that same period of time. The happy hour, two bottles of champagne and two complimentary bottles of wine all consumed on Sunday helped keep costs down.

The cruise was insanely fun and I doubt anyone who partook did not have an absolute blast. I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone even remotely thinking of going. Plus, you heard it here first, the Dirtbombs are confirmed to play in 2012.

Day off in Miami was tour-guided by Danny from the Jacuzzi Boys and was an absolute treat. Having never really seen Miami before I'd always considered it a cultural wasteland, but with Danny's guidance we got to really experience the flavor of the city…from Cuban coffee to South Beach to old man nautical bars.

The highlight for me was the Wynwood Arts District, my first-hand proof that Miami is far from a vapid, cultural wasteland. The area was expansive and breathtaking. Every available space was covered in massive, colorful street art and the neighborhood was practically littered with galleries. In all my travels I've never seen such a concentrated and well-executed example of public arts. Words or photos would only fail to do it justice. It's best left to be discovered and explored in person. Just like the rest of life.

I Remember When All This Was Trees...

2011-01-31T16:23:00.004-05:00

I quietly released a solo album a little while back. It's called "I Remember When All This Was Trees" and you can listen to all 11 of these tracks below.

The whole project was a test on two different levels. The first goal was to do something creative that dealt with my memories and the history of the city of Detroit. The second was to write, perform and record the entire thing myself. It may have taken me over a year, but I managed to accomplish both of those goals.

Each track is available here for free download. Please feel free to send them around and share with your friends (and even more so your enemies). If you want to toss a buck or two in the proverbial hat, paypal knows me at cassdetroitATaolDOTcom

I really feel the best way to enjoy the songs is on the vinyl LP available over at http://www.cassrecords.com

Each copy is hand-inscribed/assembled and comes with a code for free download of the tracks. It's pressed on 180-gram vinyl and is limited to 300 copies.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask. Thanks for listening.

Blood on the Airwaves (for Charles Johnson) by cassdetroit

I Can't See Through Plywood Windows by cassdetroit

National Sound Corporation by cassdetroit

Zero Tolerance Soul Commandos by cassdetroit

48222 by cassdetroit

The Sainthood of Father Solanus Casey by cassdetroit

The Summit (Can You Dig It?) by cassdetroit

Gordon Newton, 1970 by cassdetroit

Tribal Rites of the New Sunday Morning by cassdetroit

The Nain Rouge by cassdetroit

To The Corktown Couple Who Survived the Titanic by cassdetroit

Detroit Record Labels: A Map

2010-11-01T10:39:00.007-04:00

I've been working hard for a couple of weeks to pull this together. It is by no means complete or perfect, but I think it's a good start.

The link below will take you to a Google Map with pinpoints of over 200 Detroit record labels throughout history. With each pin-point comes a little bit of info about that label.

I tried to stay away from labels that had multiple addresses because that became confusing. Still trying to figure the best way to tackle that issue.

I've got a separate list of labels not in the city limits that still needs more entries to be worthwhile before making public. Ideally the two will merge together at some point.

My criteria for this was simple...an address I could find for a record label. Most were taken from Keith Rylatt's essential book "Groovesville USA" but a fair amount were also gleaned from my own independent research, ie, addresses listed on the labels or sleeves in my possession.

Let the comments, additions and critiques fly in the comments section. Hope you all enjoy it.

Detroit Record Label Map

Motor City Yearning #6

2010-10-13T12:29:00.003-04:00

Motor City Yearning #6 by cassdetroit

Should I be posting the tracklisting for the podcast here? Or is it better to just make folks have to listen to it to know what's inside?

Baseball Team Photo, 1993...See if you can find me

2010-10-06T11:56:00.003-04:00

This was originally scanned for inclusion in the Palladium documentary about Detroit, but like my interview, it ended up not being used.

Latest Rumblings...

2010-08-23T11:53:00.002-04:00

In an effort to eliminate clutter, I gave my fiancee a pile of clothes to get rid of. Only afterwards did I remember that the USMC coat that'd been kicking around my closet for years a) actually used to fit me and b) was worn on the back cover to "Ultraglide in Black"

Seeing as three of the two dozen Dirtbombs fans in the world might still be reading here, I offer a link to said auction. Bid high! You can even get a letter of authenticity from me if you happen to win.

http://cgi.ebay.com/Vintage-USMC-Military-Dress-Coat-Uniform-Dirtbombs-/320577338149?pt=US_CSA_MC_Outerwear#ht_500wt_1154

Also, Collectors Weekly just posted an in-depth interview I did with them in regards to vinyl production and Third Man Records. Check it out over at...

http://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/your-turntable-is-not-dead-inside-jack-whites-vinyl-record-empire/

Timmy Lampinen: Kresge Arts Fellow...

2010-06-30T11:16:00.003-04:00

While "fellow" may be the last word I'd choose to describe Tim Lampinen (aka Tim Vulgar) in this instance it excites me to do so. Check the news here...

http://kresge.collegeforcreativestudies.edu

This means a nice chunk of change for Tim to focus on his craft. What an exciting thing to be happening in Detroit.

I'm also personally pleased because Tim asked me to write his letter of recommendation. Check the Kresge site for the specifics, but all I remember was that it was supposed to be written by someone who dealt with the applicant in a professional manner. Enjoy my letter below. And congrats to Timmy, a more deserving fellow I could not think of.

To Whom It May Concern:

My path has crossed Tim Lampinen's at many points in the past 10 years. As a drummer in the Dirtbombs, on more than one occasion I've had the unfortunate lot to follow Tim's band Clone Defects with hopes of not being completely overshadowed by their devastating live show. As the owner/operator of Cass Records I had the ultimate pleasure in releasing a 7" single with Tim's band Human Eye and experienced unusually quick sales of all 500 copies of the record, via mail order, to customers across Europe, Asia, Australia and the United States.

But more than anything, I consider myself a fan of Tim Lampinen's. For a genre like rock and roll, oft-criticized, rehashed, gimmicky or just simply fake, Tim has time and time again proven to be the real deal. Whether it's shaving a banana onstage, singing heartfelt lyrics about God or attacking a white cinderblock wall with paint mid-song at the MOCAD, Lampinen has always been the polar opposite of rote and predictable.

Tim Lampinen has consistently been creating intensely captivating sounds and stage shows in Detroit for the past decade. While other local Detroit musicians are simply satisfied with bashing out the same four chords and singing about booze and girls, Tim has never fallen into that trap. He has always pushed himself (and his bands) to create new, original, sometimes difficult work. I firmly believe that Tim Lampinen is in the exclusive company of musicians like Captain Beefheart, the Stooges and Destroy All Monsters…one who creates music that borders on art, one whose live performance borders on theater, one who, if given the extreme honor of this Kresge grant, would no doubt result in multiple important, envelope-pushing and lasting contributions to the cultural history of Detroit.

A few years ago a student at Wayne State put together a mini-documentary about Tim Lampinen for a video production class and I was interviewed for the project. My only memory of the dialogue from that interview was that I said if I ever won the lottery, I would love to just give Tim a stipend, a set amount of money to work with and be his benefactor. Having been in the record business for over ten years and having released records by well-over 50 artists, I can honestly say Tim is the only person I have ever felt this about. His desire to create is so strong, so infectious, so all-encompassing that one can only imagine the potential fruits of his labor if his focus is able to be solely creative and not hampered by having to scrounge for quarters in his couch every time he needs a pack of guitar strings or to put gas in his car.

I've yet to win the lottery but I'm still doing what I can to support Tim Lampinen and in just a few days I'll be releasing a new 7" single by Timmy's Organism. Please be the lottery I never won and help Tim in ways I will only ever dream of.

Sincerely,

Benjamin Blackwell

Motor City Yearning #5

2010-06-25T14:18:00.000-04:00

Motor City Yearning #5 by cassdetroit

What I Did at South-By-Southwest...

2010-06-17T10:35:00.002-04:00

A bunch of nerds talking about vinyl. Someone actually recorded audio of it. For the tens of folks who asked to hear this panel, prepare to be bored...

http://audio.sxsw.com/2010/podcasts/031810m_HowtoMakeMoneywithVinyl.mp3

You've Got a Funny Face, But the World is a Funny Place...

2010-05-12T17:42:00.002-04:00

Title of this post is one of my favorite Mick Collins' lyrics in quite some time. Listen to the latest Dirtbombs song we were paid gross amounts of money by Scion for over here...

http://www.scionav.com/music/scionavgarage/#general6

Should keep Zack neck-deep in tofu for quite some time...

The Podcast Series is Named...Motor City Yearning

2010-04-01T14:13:00.000-04:00

Motor City Yearning #4 by cassdetroit

Let me know if the sound of my mouse clicking is too annoying to deal with.

Podcast #3 and Photos with the Ability to Leave Me Completely Dumfounded...

2010-03-04T22:32:00.018-05:00

Strange things afoot today. First off, what seems to be some sort of

guerilla stickering campaign leads me to existential questions I'm

not ready to answer...

(photo taken in the Woodbridge neighborhood of Detroit. Stickers also spotted in the Cass Corridor)

Next, a Detroit gas station puts a little too much faith in hope...

(actual un-retouched photo from a gas station on Wyoming in Detroit)

Let's pull it all together with some tunes from the town I love. If
anyone has any insight into any of these shenanigans (sticker, gas,
jams) please let me know.

Podcast # 3 by cassdetroit

Who Let the Bozo in at 1:04?

2010-03-03T06:45:00.002-05:00

http://www.storyofdeath.com

Podcast #2 and Setlist from DJ'ing with Greg Cartwright...

2010-02-07T16:37:00.002-05:00

Ben 102 by cassdetroit

Notes on the Podcast:

This was actually recorded about three years ago and was intended to be part of Ko's podcast series, hence her cackling all over the thing. The idea was to be an "introduction" to me and all the different things I've done musically. So if you can get past the grating of Ko's voice, here's some notes/corrections to go with it:

At 6:02 I say the Starlite Desperation moved to Detroit in August of 1998. It was actually August of 1999.

At 7:32 I say Belle Isle is roughly 980 acres. It is actually 982 acres. New York's Central Park is 843 acres.

At 17:59 I can't remember if PBS radio is in Melbourne or Sydney. It is in the Collingwood neighborhood of Melbourne.

At 43:46 I say the Lost Kids recording is from 1998. It is actually from 2000.

Also, last night I had the extreme pleasure to DJ with the one and only Greg Cartwright at the Foo Bar in East Nashville. Rather than do a whole new post dedicated to it, I've tacked on my playlist here, all played from original issue 7" singles. Dig.

Bunker Hill - The Girl Can't Dance

Mad Dog & the Pups - Funkey Monkey

the Mighty Hannibal - Jerkin' the Dog

Mel Torme - Comin' Home Baby

the Countdowns - You Know I Do

Hoyt Axton - Double Double Dare

Chris Garrett & Sweet Poison - Family Man

U.S. Bonds - New Orleans

Tina Turner - Whole Lotta Love

the Chain Reaction - When I Needed You

Ralph Nielsen and the Chancellors - Scream

the Canadian Rogues - Keep in Touch

New York Dolls - Stranded in the Jungle

the Music Machine - The Eagle Never Hunts the Fly

Nathaniel Mayer and the Fortune Bravos - I Want Love and Affection (Not the House of Correction)

the Swinging Tigers - Snake Walk Part 1

Link Wray and the Raymen - Hidden Charms

Eddie Floyd - Raise Your Hand

the Parliaments - (I Wanna) Testify

Pseudos - It's a Long Way to Nowhere

the Equals - I Can See But You Don't Know

Dickens - Don't Talk About My Music

MC5 - I Can Only Give You Everything

the Rolling Stones - Not Fade Away

Sandy Edmonds - Come See Me

the Alarm Clocks - No Reason to Complain

the Coasters - I'm a Hog For You

Rochelle Rosenthal & the Kickball Queen - Lottery

Belita Woods - Grounded

Little Eva Harris - Get Ready-Uptight

Eric and the Vikings - Get Off the Streets Y'all

the Fabulous Counts - Girl From Kenya

Vicki Anderson - I'm Too Tough For Mr. Big Stuff (Hot Pants)

Andre Williams - Humpin', Bumpin' and Thumpin'

the Pleasure Seekers - What A Way to Die

Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band - Diddy Wah Diddy

the Underdogs - Get Down On Your Knees

the Mothers of Invention - Why Don't You Do Me Right?

the Kinks - I Need You

Roy Head - Just a Little Bit

the Old Exciting Scot Richard Case - Get the Picture

Mickey Murray - Shout Bamalama

Bob Seger System - 2+2=?

the Groupies - Primitive

Smokey Robinson and the Miracles - In Case You Need Love

Bo Diddley - Crawdad

the Elois - By My Side

DJ Set for the Dex Romweber Duo Performance at Third Man Records 2-4-2010

2010-02-06T14:37:00.002-05:00

Everything except the final song played from 7" vinyl...

Bill and Will: Goin' to the River

Bill Carter and the Rovin Gamblers: Baby Brother

The Artwoods: Sweet Mary

The Velvet Underground: Temptation Inside Your Heart

The Jayhawks: Stranded in the Jungle

Ronnie Love: Detroit, Michigan

Edwin Starr: Stop the War Now

Timmy's Organism: I'm a Nice Guy Now

The Driving Stupid: Horror Asparagus Stories

The Black Lips: Katrina

The 5.6.7.8's: She Was Mau Mau

Felt Letters: 600,000 Bands

The Detroit Cobras: Slumlord

The Gories: Telepathic

Jason Merrick and the Finders: I'm Not What You Are

Apparition: Apparition

The Misfits: We Are 138

R. Dean Taylor: There's A Ghost in My House

Louis X (Louis Farrakhan): A White Man's Heaven is a Black Man's Hell

Sound of Imker: Train of Doomsday

A Number of Names: Skitso

My Top Twenty-Seven Albums of the 2000's...

2010-01-28T16:26:00.005-05:00

1. the Walkmen Bows and Arrows Record Collection (2004)

I'm still as compelled by this album as I was upon first hearing it in 2004. I did a tour on drums for the band Weird War and while I sincerely wanted to play with them because I loved their music (and their previous tour employed a drum machine), I was really excited when I found out all the dates were opening for the Walkmen. At this point in time the Walkmen had played two shows in Detroit…one at the Gold Dollar and one at the Magic Stick. I saw them at the Magic Stick show with approximately twelve other people and when upon meeting the band told them I was at said show they couldn't believe it. That show was before their first album was officially released, they were selling their "black" and "white" 12-inch records at the merch table that night but I bought the early copy of Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone and while not completely impressed by it, felt that they were still a band I needed to keep paying attention to.

So the tour was amazing…not only was it a blast listening to Ian Svenonius' ramblings every night, all while I'm trying to keep a straight face, but the guys in the Walkmen could not have been any nicer. I used Matt's drums the entire tour. They let me engage them about Jonathan Fire*Eater. We both reveled in the absurdity of a horrible Valentine's Day gig in Northern California (the city escapes me). Their soundcheck in Pomona was comprised solely of Fire*Eater songs (tour highlight for me). The whole time, I paid attention to their show but don't know if I ever really got it or found myself engrossed with it. Not until a week or two after the tour had ended did it click for me. It was winter in Detroit. It was gray and depressing. It was the first winter in memory where I wasn't attending school. It was a very transitional time. The tour with the Walkmen felt like some briefly perfect balance of things…music, life, travel. As that tour faded more and more to just a memory I found myself turning towards Bows and Arrows more and more. While I could say it for just about any album on this list, I will reserve it for just this one…it is perfect. Paul Maroon being a criminally underrated guitarist is only overshadowed by Matt Barrick being an even moreso underrated drummer. Those two are instrumentalist team-players to the core. They are the heart and soul of that band. The fusillade guitar attack of "The Rat" is unnerving. And yes, that song seemed classic the instant they first played it…it was everyone's favorite before the album was even released. Coupled with Hamilton Leithauser's universally understood lyrics and what you have is a masterpiece. Lyrics like

"When I used to go out I would know everyone that I saw

Now I go out alone, if I go out at all"

Are so pure, so devoid of flourish or style or intent. I like to say that the Walkmen are a musician's band. Maybe it's my way of explaining why they're not massively popular. But little things like the bass on "My Old Man" how it thuds on one note for nearly the entire song and just when you thought you'd figured it out, Pete Bauer slyly throws in two extra notes at the 3:55 mark, as if he's only trying to see if you were paying attention. That, to me, is a musician playing for other musicians. Other things like the opening song and the first words on the album, "What's in it for me" while seemingly benign, to me feels like a seething indictment on modern culture and this generation. Followed by the words "I came here for a good time and now you're telling me to leave" is simplistic beauty. The lyrics all have a conversational quality to them, to the point where it's hard to imagine them being tooled or worked on and not just phrases plucked from actual conversations. To find inspiration in the every day, or even just to make it seem like you did, is heavenly.

I once wrote about this album that it was "sad, angry, pleading…everything an album should be" and while all the blabbering above suggests otherwise, that's really all you need to know.

Dan Sartain Dan Sartain vs. the Serpientes Swami Records (2003)

I searched out this album because of Everett True's review of it in Careless Talk Costs Lives. I was mainly intrigued because Dan and I are roughly the same age and I couldn't fathom how he was already releasing his third album at only 21 years old. No store in Detroit had this album in-stock. I had to special order it. I vaguely remember Brian Smith (my then-editor at the Metro Times) saying he'd heard it and that he "didn't get it" or something equally as clueless. I should've taken that as a sign. Anyway, what Sartain does on the Serpientes album is puts it all out there for the listener. The image you get of Dan Sartain by listening to this album is EXACTLY the Dan Sartain that exists in real life. There is no characterization, no marketing, no subterfuge. He lays himself out on the line and everyone benefits because of it. The "Walk Among the Cobras" trilogy here is gut-wrenching. When Dan bellows

"You don't know what it's like to be alone

And you don't know how it feels

To have the cobras snapping at your heels"

I tear up. It's clear that Sartain knows exactly how this feels and his earnestness makes me question the validity of any of my own feelings. Dan Sartain speaks powerful stuff. The secret weapon on this album is Beehive and the Barracudas as his backing band, a shit-hot group that never got their due. While all of Sartain's songs are consistent, this album seems to have been recorded/captured/performed with something that seems missing from the rest of his. Dig that "Leeches Pt. 1" is the best song the Misfits never wrote and it took some rockabilly kid from Alabama to do it. I did two tours playing drums for Dan and the songs off Serpientes were always my favorite to play. I find it weird that I didn't hear this album until six months after it was released. When I finally got that silvery disc in my cold grubby hands it felt like it was made just for me. Dan Sartain vs. the Serpientes will forever be timeless.

Kelley Stoltz Below the Branches Sub Pop (2006)

While Antique Glow is what originally grabbed my ears, Below the Branches is flawless in every way. In a weird way, Kelley actually let me pick the track listing for this album. He'd sent me a handful of cd-r's of different mixes and sequences and outtakes and after awhile I think he'd become a bit overwhelmed by it all. I remember writing to him "you have to open with 'Wave Goodbye' as it's the build-up and launching point for the entire album" or something to that affect. I didn't know Stoltz actually went with my track list until after the album came out. When I asked Kelley about it he said "well, I figured you know this songs better than anyone else" I was a little unnerved when he said that, but after having toured as his drummer and having lived these songs, I truly feel that way now. "Prank Calls" tugs at my heart with…

"I got you, you got me,

and though our love may never truly be free,

it's much cheaper than the price of gasoline"

But "The Sun Comes Through" is what completely wins me. While rehearsing for our Euro tour I stayed with Stoltz in his apartment. One night he spent the night at his girlfriend's and told me to feel free to crash on his bed that eve. I slept like a baby and when I woke up I noticed that of the two windows in his room, one had a curtain that didn't completely obscure the light. As I wiped the sleep out of my eyes I was absolutely overjoyed to see the sun come through the window on the right. My fascination comes from the main lyric of the song,

"And the sun comes through the window to the right"

Liars They Were Wrong So We Drowned Mute (2004)

There was no mistaken Liars sophomore album for their debut in what is arguable the most dramatic shift in approach between records by ANY band ever. A concept record about witches, this album is seriously a life-changing record in my book. From the raunchy digital hook in "There's Always Room on the Broom" and its peaceful "oooh-ooooh-oooh" vocals to the wicked-catchy syncopated drums that propel "Broken Witch" (and are still being aped by Pantano and I at soundchecks) this is an album that the Dirtbombs, as a whole, adored. Rolling Stone gave this record one star and I guarantee you in ten years this will be cited as a landmark, watershed, game-changer.

Whirlwind Heat Flamingo Honey Dim Mak (2004)

Ten one-minute songs, written and recorded in a day and they run the full gamut from subdued whisper pop ("The Bone") to spazz punk with one of the sickest drum beats of the decade ("The Meat Packers") to elect-faux hop stealing its title from an obscure Adam Mackay SNL digital short ("The H is O") to rubbery Beck-indebted bass sludge ("Muffler") to forlorn pump organ lament ("Lazy Morning") and they ably cover all their bases and it took me longer to write this than it did to listen to the album. Hands down the best 10" record of all-time.

Sonic Youth NYC Ghosts and Flowers DGC (2000)

With recent sentiment for Murray Street rising I could very easily be writing about that one here. But what puts NYC Ghosts and Flowers at the head of the SY class for me is the words. For an album to claim influence/dedication to or from Beat poetry is one thing, but to actually achieve it is another. The lyrics to every song on this album could exist solely as poetry and be as equally as captivating. Criticism against this record runs rampant with such claims as "they sound like they're playing without listening to each other" and to me, that seems to be an ideal musical approximation of the Beat style. This is not a tuneful or catchy album. It is musical art.

The Duchess and the Duke She's the Duchess, He's the Duke Hardly Art (2008)

On paper this is an album that completely turns me off. Somehow, this male/female duo managed to make "campfire punk" interesting without being sissy. Lyrics that weren't afraid to be honest, even if that meant being a little bit dreary and negative, coupled with complimentary acoustic guitars. People will only love this album more in the coming years.

8. the Breeders Title TK 4AD (2002)

I literally waited nine years for this album. Last Splash was the first CD I ever bought with my own money and I loved the shit out of it. I needed more Breeders. This record was nothing like I'd expected yet everything I was hoping for. The sinister vibe is there and Kim's vocals shine. With the amount of time spent on this record, there's got to be some outtakes kicking around, right? Give 'em up already.

Tyvek Fast Metabolism self-released (2007)

The sound of a city rebuilding and crumbling at the same time. Only one song over three minutes, songs referencing microbiotics, and pre-industrial understanding and the dada-tastic "Can you drive a Honda like I can drive a Honda?" is the best musical question asked in decades.

Sleater-Kinney All Hands on the Bad One Kill Rock Stars (2000)

While already a fan of S-K by the time this was released, I wasn't explicitly aware of its release. I was at the Border's in Grosse Pointe and just happened to glimpse this in the racks. Instantly in love with the tunes. "Milkshake and Honey" still gets sung in its entirety (to myself) every time I go to Paris. History nerd points for name-dropping the Monitor and the Merrimac in a song called "Ironclad." The one-two punch of the ominous title track coupled with the sugary-sweet pounce of "You're No Rock N' Roll Fun" is unbeatable. The cover is the only use of a found photo I've ever felt legitimate. Got to see four shows on this tour and the crazed college kids in Oberlin got a treat that eve, even if they didn't let S-K or the White Stripes into the house party later that night..

Beck Guero Interscope (2005)

The first "Beck" album in a long time. Sea Change was aping Gainsbourg and Midnite Vultures earnestly pointed out the hilarity in nu-funk and even Mutations as much as I love it, felt like a left-turn. So the old standby of the Odelay-sound was the quintessential summer album.

The Black Lips Good Bad Not Evil Vice (2006)

The fact that these guys are as big as they are is still mind-boggling. While not re-inventing the wheel, they take Garage music (in this sense I feel a need to capitalize) and own it. They were babies on the first album, confused on the second, poised for greatness on the third and fully actualized by the time they re-appropriated this nugget from a Shangri-Las song for an album title. To sample the Swamp Rats "I'm Going Home" and the Savages "The World Ain't Round, It's Square" takes equal parts genius and demented. "O Katrina" is timeless and "Bad Kids" is an anthem. I rest easy at night knowing that someone is pushing the Back From the Grave sound on the world's youngsters.

Franz Ferdinand s/t Domino (2004)

There are no songs here that warrant skipping. Every one is a stone-cold solid jamfest.

A-Frames Black Forest Sub Pop (2005)

A band that I'd followed straight from the get-go and completely surprised me with their wiz-bang of a third album. I love how the title track is on the album in three different formats, increasingly abrasive. The tones captured here are the height of ideal and should be taught in all your fancy-schmancy recording schools. Memorable songs from the last place I'd expect it.

Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks Pig Lib (2003)

Malk's entry in the guitar-god hall of fame should simply be this album. His guitar has a voice like none other and it sings like a choir. "Face the Truth" is equally as godhead, but he uses the word "elucidate" twice on that album and it patently rubbed me the wrong way. It struck me odd that the song "Dark Wave" was as synth-heavy as it was and when I asked Malkmus if it was in reference to the Lost Sounds who had earlier released an album called Black Wave that seemed to presage the sound of "Dark Wave" Steve neither confirmed or denied it. The guitar phrasing on "No More Shoes" is like manna from the heavens.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs Fever to Tell Interscope (2003)

YYY's opened for the Dirtbombs in 2002 and played most of the songs off Fever to Tell that night. I ran a tape of their set from the soundboard without telling them and am infinitely glad I took that chance because I listened the shit out of that tape. While I felt that I liked the self-titled EP on principal, I always felt it lacked a certain something. That something is loud and proud and spitting in your face right here. Nick Zinner = guitar transcendance.

the Hives Tyrannosaurus Hives Interscope (2004)

Completely Swedish in its precision. The singularity of vision from these five guys is machine-like. Not sure if any band could touch them in terms of being a "unit" and the extra set of legs added to the back cover of this album was snidely brilliant. "Diabolic Scheme" wins for me because I still can't tell if they used a real or canned string section on it.

Melvins A Senile Animal Ipecac (2006)

This is what I've always wanted two drummers to sound like. A band 20+ years into their career isn't supposed to make an album this great. New blood in the form of Big Business reinvigorates the tunes and "A History of Bad Men" is the pinnacle of heavy.

BLOW The Bonus Album K (2002)

Recorded on a lark, to fill the merch table while waiting for her "real" album to be available, The Bonus Album is the crystallization of disparate thoughts and styles converging sublimely and in less than twenty minutes. A more beautiful voice may not exist and the a cappella "The Touch Me" is the ideal platform for it while "Jet-Ski Accidents" is achingly personal and revealing. I've still never heard the "real" album this was a bonus to and don't want to for fear of it failing to captivate.

The Starlite Desperation Go Kill Mice Flapping Jet (2000)

The soundtrack to senior year of high school. What rock and roll is supposed to sound like.

Reigning Sound Too Much Guitar In the Red (2004)

Every song a winner. Greg Cartwright's masterful marriage of words and guitar is frustratingly transcendent. Album title comes from the (former) organist's thoughts about the songs before he quit. Dork.

Rage Against the Machine Renegades Epic (2000)

A good covers album should make you search out the originals. An amazing covers album is one where you prefer the remakes to the originals. So while I don't rate Rage's versions of "Kick Out the Jams" or "Down on the Street" better than the Stooges or MC5, and their "Street Fighting Man" is pale, they actually hold their own to Dylan's "Maggie's Farm." That's right, I said it. The updated instrumentation far better approximates the heft of the lyrical content. As for the rest of the songs, they ALL top the originals. Renegades suffered because it came out after the band had broken up. I know it's hard to say about a million-selling album, but it really is underrated. Take into account how many poor white kids with no clue this introduced to the Stooges and MC5.

Clone Defects Shapes of Venus In the Red (2002)

Nothing is more punk than the lyrics "You'll never be down if you walk in God's light" My first-ever paid writing gig was doing the bio for this album and I gave myself bonus points for not using the word "punk" once while doing it.

The Strokes Room on Fire RCA (2003)

Too much chatter about the first album, the second one with its reaching high school lyrics and identifiable "You Talk Way Too Much" is where it's at. They played three of these songs at their Radio City Music Hall show with the White Stripes and in the elevator after the show Ryan Adams commented that they "were like the new Smiths". I have no idea what in the hell that space-case meant, but those three songs (a faster "You Talk Way Too Much", "Between Love and Hate" and "The Way it Is") still resonate the deepest reaches of my heart.

Jay Reatard Blood Visions In the Red (2006)

I just wish I could give the guy a hug right now.

Weird War If You Can't Beat 'em, Bite 'em Drag City (2004)

Pseudo-intellectual dada funk from DC.

Datsuns s/t V2 (2003)

New Zealand lays their claim to the invention of the "riff"

By the numbers:

Bands on here I've been on tour with: 12

Bands I've never met any members of: 2

Albums I'm thanked on: 1

Least Represented Years: 2001 and 2009 each with no entries

Albums not on my iTunes: 3 (Below the Branches, Pig Lib and Shapes of Venus)

Albums I'm certain I paid for (my initial copy): 6

Albums I own on more than one format: 19

White Stripes albums that would've made the list had I wanted to write about them: 3

Bands I've seen perform at the Magic Stick: 15

Bands I've pressed records on: 4

Bands I've asked to do records with: 7 (not including the 4 I actually did records with)

Detroit Podcast #1

2010-01-19T10:41:00.002-05:00

At the urging of more than a few and with hosting help of a wily Irishman (that's the seanear1ey), please enjoy the first in what will be an ongoing series of Detroit/Michigan focused podcasts. I would post the playlist here, but then what would be the point of even listening? So hit play and enjoy a half-hour of my dull voice and highly compressed mp3's. And if anyone has a good name for the radio show, let it fly in the comments section.

Podcast #1 by seanear1ey

Archer Record Pressing Master Numbers: A Number of Names versus Cybotron in the Ever-Confusing World of Record Chronology

2009-12-13T19:46:00.012-05:00

Archer Record Pressing began in Detroit in 1965. The original location was 6552 East Davison and after a few years the operation moved to 7401 East Davison where they still press records today. The building is, without question, one of my top 3 favorite places in Detroit. The actual pressing of records is a holy process to me. So the feeling I get walking into Archer must be analogous to that my grandma got when she walked into St. Peter's Basilica.

(this folk art is my Michelangelo)

In it's forty-plus years of operation, Archer has been the go-to for local Detroit labels and musicians self-releasing music. The stuff pressed there dizzys the mind...Sonic Rendezvous Band, Death, Tribe Records, Von Records, Ollie McLaughlin stuff, Touch and Go, Blue Rose Records, Metroplex...I could go on, but I think you get the point. Such a repository of local music history, lore and juju does not exist outside of Hitsville.

Any recording brought into Archer without a catalog number (and occassionally those with one) will be assigned an AR number for internal reference. After seeing these over and over again and realizing that they are issued sequentially, it became evident that if one compiled a large enough list of these numbers, you could feasibly start to date records that were previously undated or in question. So here's my contribution to that process. Any years or dates come directly from Archer invoices of information listed on the label of the actual record itself.

AR 489 - Mandingo #1 (Four Tracks)
AR 493 - King Soul #493 (Gloria Taylor)
AR 665 – Gordoon Records #10011 (Crystal Myth)
AR 724 - Tru-Ba-Dor #724 (Soul Generation)
AR 857 - Demoristic #857 (The Ravins)
AR 884 - Leo #884 (Jay Rhythm)
AR 939 - Gatewood #939 (Alphonso Hamilton)
AR 953 - Magic City #007 (Mad Dog & Pups)(1969)
AR 1074 - Magic City #008 (Soul Tornadoes)
AR 1670 – Mutt Records no # (Detroit Night Riders)
AR 2501 – C.O.G.I.C. no # (Rev. Drayton) 1-24-1972 300 qty, repressed 500 qty 3-27-72
AR 2579 – C.O.G.I.C. no # (Rev. Drayton) 3-27-72 500 qty
AR 2590 – C.O.G.I.C. no # (Rev. Drayton) 4-10-72 1000 qty
AR 2657 – C.O.G.I.C. 1000 qty 5-26-72
AR 2691 – C.O.G.I.C. LP 500 qty 8-22-72, 300QTY 10-24-72
AR 2838 – C.O.G.I.C. LP 300 qty 10-17-72
AR 3271 – C.O.G.I.C. no # (Rev. Drayton) 500 qty 7-16-73 (AR-2657 side 2 re-used as b-side)
AR 3618 – Blackman Records no # (Quixotics)
AR 4132 – Lobo Records no # (Norm Wade and Detroit Gold) 500 qty 3-31-75
AR 4977 – V.F.H.L. Records no # (Herman Harris & Voices of Faith, Hope and Love) (1977)
AR 5726 – Get Down no # (Sahara)
AR 5930 – Big City Record Company no # (R.U.R.) (1980) 7"
AR 6180 – CLC Records no # (Chuck Cole) (1981)
AR 6212 – Capriccio Records P-928 (A Number of Names) (1981) (see#6374, 6344, 6312)
AR 6406 – God's City's Sounds no # (Highland Park Community Choir) (1981)
AR 6591 – Dazia Records no # (Somerset) (1982/83)
AR 7352 – VU Records no # (A-tack) (1986) 12"
AR 7357 – Tripple Star no # (Paul Garrison) (1983) 7"
AR 7390 – E.R.C INC no # (The Eveready Crew) (1986) 7"
AR 7481 – Sims Entertainment no # (Livewire) (1987) 12"
AR 7511 – J.F.I. Recordings no # (KC and Crew) (1987) 12"
AR 7583 – Mack Records no # (Klash) 12"
AR 7586 – Bassment Records no # (Worthy D and the Boys) 12"
AR 7689 – MBE no # (Frinz) 12"
AR 7830 – Ren Sin City Records (K-Stony Jamm) (1988) 12"
AR 7976 – 12th Precinct no # (MC King and DJ Boywonder)
AR 8063 – T.C. Real Records no # (Real'n'Smooth) (1989)
AR 8147 – Pretty City Records (Pretty City Boyz) 1989
AR 8150 – Midwest International no # (Curtis Gadson)
AR 8300 – Frontear no # (the Darkskin Cats) (1990)
AR 8347 – Motor City Records Inc. no # (Fresh Boys) (1990)
AR 8587 – ICUPP Records 001 (Gangster Fun) 7"
AR 8696 – Bass-X Records #0-16389 (A.U.T.H.O.R.I.T.Y.) (1992)
AR 8881 – Monokon Records no # (K.B. and the Fearless)(1992)
AR 8882/9992 – Psychopathic # 1004 (Insane Clown Posse "Carnival of Carnage")

AR-6212 is "Sharevari" by A Number of Names, widely considered to be the first Detroit techno release. Invoice #6212 only lists mastering, processing (plating) and test press charges. The second Detroit techno record, "Alleys of Your Mind" by Cybotron, is invoice # 6237 (invoices and AR numbers are interchangeable, but because "Alleys" had a customer-supplied catalog number of 107034 it fails to have an AR number on the label or its run-out grooves).

The "Alleys" invoice is dated 10-29-81 and gives a quantity of 1000 initial copies, making it literally twenty days after the "Sharevari" invoice. BUT...it seems that actual PRESSING charges for "Sharevari" don't show up until AFTER the "Alleys" pressing charges.

I remember hearing stories about "Sharevari" debuting on-air during the Electrifyin' Mojo radio show and Mojo even giving the group their name. So it's possible (but not necessarily probable) that "Sharevari" was recorded first but languished for awhile before it was actually pressed. In that time it seems Cybotron flourished and recorded their own debut and POSSIBLY pressed it before A Number of Names pressed/released "Sharevari".

There were also numerous invoices (referenced above) that show "Sharevari" being repressed while I didn't notice any subsequent invoices/orders for "Alleys".

Either way, it's fascinating that both of these groups were germinating at the same time, seemingly unaware of each other and their releases being the initial salvo in the blast of Detroit techno. The mechanics of when the songs were recorded, compared to when they were test pressed and/or released is merely insight into a previously undocumented side of it all.

(please feel free to set the record straight, correct, critique or hurl eggs in the comments section)

Disclaimers: None of this information is definite. Most of it is gleaned from records in my personal collection, listings found on eBay, or time briefly spent combing through Archer's old invoices. Some numbers can prove difficult especially if they were repressed later with different label art/years (hence the A-tack VU Records seeming out-of-place that's causing me to pull out my hair). Please feel free to add any records you may have in your collection or have AR numbers for (found either on the label or etched in the run-out groove) in the comments and I will add it to the master list.

Outta My Wednesday Moanin' Mind...

2009-11-04T11:18:00.008-05:00

I feel like I've got a lot of scattered thoughts but none significant enough to warrant enough bile-spew, so instead I figured I'd sorta employ the old Joe Falls ramblin' format. In writing that sentence I found myself troubled to recall if it was either Falls or Bob Talbert who made familiar-to-me that style. If you're reading this and know who both of those people are (and more importantly, who used that style) please forgive me as it's hard to accurately recall the specifics of newspaper columnists at the time I was ten years old.

Is it just me or are CD's increasingly looking a lot like cassette tapes right about now? At the record store yesterday I was torn between the CD and 2xLP formats of the remastered version on Nirvana's Bleach. I already own, by my estimation, four copies of this album on vinyl and one copy on CD. Both formats come coupled with a previously-unheard live show from the era. The CD was priced $9.99 while the LP was $26.99 and came with an mp3 download code. I legitimately felt like I really only wanted the mp3's, if only because a) I don't see myself listening to this release very much, b) if I want to indulge in a vinyl listen, I already have four different colors to choose from, c) having spent plenty of time with live Nirvana recordings, I don't find myself going back to them too often. In spite of all that, I STILL bought the LP.

Did you know Dutch Elm Disease did not originate from the Netherlands (ie, the Dutch) and was merely first identified in that country? The disease originated in Asia and the introduction into America can be traced to a single shipment of logs from the Netherlands, said to be slated for use in Ohio furniture production as veneer. Despite the claims of people my parent's age, I think the eventual diversification of Metro Detroit's tree stock was, in the long-term, worth having cut down a shit-ton of trees. See also The Virgin Suicides or anything else Eugenides has written as it is utterly phenomenal.

Being away from Detroit has made long for music from there in weird ways I could've never predicted. I'm buying the most random records on eBay for the stupidest reasons… like the labels share the same zip code as the house I grew up in (48224) or the mere fact that it's FROM Detroit. I am also legitimately looking for copies of 7"s by Friends of Dennis Wilson, Bang Bang and Child Bite. These are all bands I have never listened to and never saw perform live. I guess I'm merely overcompensating in trying to maintain a bit of Detroit musicologist cred. But seriously, if anyone has a lead/line on any of those singles (and let's not forget that Grayling 7" with the man fishing on the cover or the Ethos single with the pic of the girl in tight-fitting skirt from behind) I am legitimately interested.

I've lately been envisioning something bigger for the time I've dedicated to Detroit music and its history. If I had half a brain it would manifest itself into a weekly podcast dedicated to the topic and featuring NOTHING but music of the city from the past 100 years…but barring someone physically workshopping me through that process I don't see it happening. Maybe it has more life as an informative website…label scans, release years, other pertinent info. All of this I see as moreso dedicated to the unheralded music of Detroit (I have to fight the urge to refer to it as "this" town and keep reminding myself I don't live there anymore) as info about Motown or Hideout has already been exhausted. But what about Fiddler's Music Productions…one of those labels that shared my childhood zip code and also housed a music instrument store where I bought my first pair of drum sticks? Or Blue Rose Records, seemingly the earliest purveyor of rap on vinyl in Detroit? I can't be the only one thinking these things. Also, I am by no means making a claim on the merit of ANY of this. I'm not reticent to admit that a LOT of this music just does not speak to me, that it is downright BAD and is probably ignored for a reason. Regardless, it has, whether positively or negatively, contributed to the musical fabric of the city and the continuing narrative that runs throughout our history.

Blue Rose Records is indicative of a larger obsession for me of late…early Detroit rap and hip-hop. For the past few years I've gobbled up every last shred of info surrounding this seemingly forgotten area…Freddy Fresh's Rap Records Book is a good place to start for discographical information, but he's still missing A LOT of info. I've taken to buying any rap record I can find from pre-1991 Detroit. I've knocked on doors in Detroit neighborhoods I'd never imagined visiting in hopes of tracking down Darryl Nicholson. From what I can gather, Nicholson was EVERYTHING behind Blue Rose…the writer, the performer, the publisher, the label itself. I even had some help from a private investigator in tracking him, but still no luck.

(I understand that in the ultra-territorial world of record nerds tracking down old record makers that offering up this info is considered uncouth. But at this point, I honestly don't care. If anyone else can track find this guy, all the better. Hopefully they are as well-versed in his history as I've become and just ask him the right questions. And if they can find a spare copy of the Breeze 7" I would be glad to pay handsomely)

My interest in Detroit rap stems from the decidedly rich musical history of the city and the seemingly nonexistent information available about it. While my heart lies much closer to the world of Sixties Back From the Grave-style garage rock, that vein had been mined for a good twentysome years before I even knew what it was. For anyone to truly consider themselves a fan of music, they need to grow more accepting and less discerning with time. While I would just love to discover an unknown garage 7" from 1966 with a 48224 zip code, I know the chances are slim that will ever happen. But as the field of rap history is one still emerging into its own I stand a much larger chance of making an impact in that area.

Tip: next time ANY organization asks you for your zip code, offer up 48222 (commonly referred to as the "triple-two" amongst area postal enthusiasts) as it will routinely render useless their efforts of marketing. 48222 is the zip code for the JW Westcott, the mail boat that services passing freighters at the foot of the Ambassador Bridge.

If anyone has a copy of Nicola Kuperus' First Edition book (hardcover or softcover) I will gladly pay you TWICE the amount you paid for your copy. Can't believe I slept on this one and word is she does not plan to print any more any time soon. Viva Detroit photography.

Cass Records will have new releases available before 2010. Our first release in over a year (blame the fire and the move) will be a 7" by the Readies, followed up by a 7" from Nashville's own Turbo Fruits and then a 12" single from the Dirtbombs.

Last week the Dirtbombs became, by my estimation, the first band to play all four rooms of the Majestic Theater complex, with performances in both the Café and on the Garden Bowl Lanes in the same evening. I'm not sure if this is a feat to be praised or not, but the sheer incalculable number of hours I've spent on that block must be staggering. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I dare anyone to find a band that has played the Magic Stick stage more than us.

Making a want list is the best thing you can do as a record collector and I can't believe I've gone almost two years since I last published one. Look over at http://trembleunderboomlights.blogspot.com/2007/01/bens-wantlist-for-2007.html to see my original wants and clearly you will be as amazed as I am about how many of those I've obtained in such a seemingly short time. Let's see how quick we can cross these off the list…

Rodriguez "Inner City Blues" 7" on Sussex
-"To Whom It May Concern" 7" on Sussex
-"Sugar Man" 7" on Blue Goose
The Fourth Movement 7" Tryangle Records
Mudhoney Promotional Cake Mix Box for Piece of Cake album
The JuJus – Do You Understand Me? 7" (United Records)
The Birds – You Don't Love Me (You Don't Care) 7"
BMW – Chillin 12" (Blue Rose Records)
BMW – Rock the House12" (Blue Rose Records)
The Breeze - Breeze Rap 7" (Blue Rose Records)
The Coloured Balls "Ball Power" LP
Danny Dell and the Trends "Froggy Went a Courting" 7-inch
The Misfits "Bullet" 7-inch (Plan 9 records, black or red vinyl)
Spiritualized Ladies and Gentleman… LP
Paul Nichols- Run Shaker Life 7"
Fireworks – 10"
The Sloths – Makin' Love 7"
Tribal Sinfonia – Something Has You Turned Around 7"
the Lee VI's – Pictures on My Shelf 7"
Kack Klick - Lord My Cell is Cold b/w One More Day, One More Night 7"
Reverend Drayton - "By and By" b/w "On the Battlefield" Cogic Records
The Black Diamonds – I Want, Need, Love You 7"

I'm absolutely enamored with Bored to Death and am sad that the season finale is already upon us. When originally presented with the premise as "It's a modern take on the classic private eye story with some dark humor" I was extremely skeptical. But with a perfect trifecta of main cast (Jason Schwartzman, Zack Galifinakis, and the absolutely phenomenal Ted Danson) supported by exciting guest stars (Kristin Wiig, John Hodgeman, etc) and what emerges is clever but not ironic, funny but not pandering, relevant without being preachy and personally, the position of Schwartzman as the possibly-succesful novelist-turned-PI beholden to the whims of his eccentric mag editor boss (not so secretly modeled after Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair) doesn't seem the least bit far-fetched to me. Not since the debut of The Tom Green Show on MTV have I been so excited about a television program. Let's hope season two is timed to run at the same time as season two of Hung and thus make my Sunday nights complete.

I've recently come into possession of one of the coolest, most unique items of Stooges memorabilia I can fathom. I talk about it in-depth in Robert Matheu's illustrated official biography of the band so search out my exact words there (and enjoy the unreal photos he unearthed for the tome), but for now, absorb the absolute beauty that is the Armed Forces Radio and Television Services label for the Stooges Fun House album, side two.

(this is the first and most likely last LP I've ever wanted to frame)

I mean, I miss Detroit music so much I actually purchased a used CD copy of Deastro's Moondagger yesterday. It's as if the other bloggers have won some prize no one wants.

I've currently been engrossed in Chuck Klosterman's latest collection of essays Eating the Dinosaur If you haven't already indulged, do yourself a favor and search it out as CK is quite possibly the most incisive pop culture critic we will see in our time. He is also one of only two living people that I sincerely want to meet (the other being Dave Grohl). I feel like Chuck and I have enough in common that we could engage in mutually beneficial conversations and legitimately be friends.

Anyway, a few thoughts on issues CK brings up in Dinosaur:

-his comparison to David Koresh and In Utero-era Kurt Cobain is, while completely absurd, insanely captivating. I was especially dumfounded with the clarity of one particular line…

"Koresh decided he was literally God. Cobain was told he was figuratively God. Taken on balance, which would make a man crazier?"

-the insight into laugh-tracks and all things laughter is equally as compelling. His observation as to German people only laughing when they are legitimately amused seems peculiar, but when broken down to analyze that Americans have three laughs (real, fake real and filler) is especially interesting when he explains…

"People halfheartedly chuckle throughout most casual conversations…it's a modern extension of the verbalized pause, built by TV laugh tracks."

I'll be damned if that didn't open my eyes to a previously un-tackle-able line of thought.

-Klosterman waxes about the connection between Pepsi and its efforts to align itself with the hope-happy ideals of the Obama campaign and ties it all in with references to Mad Men and how the advertising world seemingly operates. My only beef with this argument is that he fails to raise the most obvious point. That is, did you not see that Pepsi re-jiggered their logo to almost completely ape that of the Obama campaign? I mean there were more than just a few articles on this on websites as significant as Slate. How did this fact manage to elude not only you, but your editor, your agent, your wife and seemingly anyone else who read your words before they went to print. To talk about Obama and Pepsi and to not even make a passing reference to the similarity of their logos is egregious. See below...

-CK's assessment of football is, to me, someone who really does not care for the sport, insightful to a point that I almost want to pay attention to it now. Almost. The breakdown of the implementation of different defensive and offensive strategies and how they can mostly be traced to individual progenitors within the past 50 years seems incredible to me. I also wholly dig that Klosterman unabashedly mixes writing about music and sports.
Again, please do search out any of his writings (I particularly like Dinosaur and Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs) and you will not be disappointed.

Mick once told me he had a MS Word file that was nothing but an exhaustive listing of Detroit record labels of years past, complete with their addresses. He never gave it to me. Does anyone have it? Can some enterprising soul fabricate an easy-to-navigate map of this information, complete with color-coded pins according to genre and hyperlinked to available discographies? Or do I need to do it all by myself? Seriously, the things I'd do for Detroit…

A lot of records aren't expensive…they are just rare. But somehow, when I want a copy of a record that's "just rare" is soon becomes expensive.

Another Detroit music nugget I've stumbled onto lately is the Archer Record Pressing numbering system. When I first mentioned this to a local record store impresario he started with "Oh great, here we go…" as if I'd gone off the deep-end. When I'd discovered that records mastered through Archer have a sequential numbering, it became clear that once a significant amount of those records have been compiled, it makes it possible to date undated/mystery/unknown records.

In the grand scheme of things this isn't that big of a deal, but it can prove to be very helpful if trying to answer some music nerd questions.

In the above-pictured example, notice on the right side register of the label the AR8594 code. This is what I'm talking about. With seemingly no other relevant information pointing to an actual date of this release, based on what I've compiled, I can tell you that this record was mastered sometime after 1989.

The idea of all this excites me…I just wish I had more time to devote to it. Full-time jobs really limit the scope of geek-outs lately.

Did you know that Election Day warrants no mail delivery in Nashville? And in Pittsburgh you cannot purchase alcohol on Election Day. Is that not fucking weird?

Seriously, not only did I just buy a Deastro CD, but I went trolling around for rare, unheard, unreleased, whatever Detroit electro shit. Found this with help from a friend who wishes to remain anonymous. Dig it?

http://www.sendspace.com/file/6erbj3

And I'm spent. Feel free to fill up the comments with critiques, likes, dislikes, leads on my want list, suggestions, bacon recipes, AR-XXXX catalog numbers and anything else of note.

West Coast Part Two: All You've Ever Wanted to Know About Playing a Decent-Sized Rock Festival But Were Too Bored To Ask...

2009-10-05T16:56:00.003-04:00

Woke up early Saturday morning to properly facilitate smooth sailing with all things Outside Lands.

I must make an aside to let everyone here know what an absolute task it is to set-up all the necessary crap for playing a festival of this magnitude. There's a reason bands have tour managers and it's shit like this. It's not any one particular person's fault or error, but there's just soo much shit that comes into play…emailing a stage plot, sending a guestlist a week beforehand, figuring out how many meal tickets we need, giving advance notice that we need to be paid day-of-show in cash, sorting out our load-in time and parking permits for our vehicles, signing off on permission for Internet broadcasts, coordinating to have our credentials dropped off at our hotel the day before we arrive…as the one taking care of all of it, I was startled by how thorough it all was. I can only imagine the added difficulty if we had merch, needed transport from our hotels, rented gear or any other possible headaches.

All band members met at the Hotel Phoenix and we made way to the fest in two vehicles. Z and I were in the minivan designated as the "equipment" vehicle with access to park directly behind the Twin Peaks stage where we'd be performing. Dorien's rental Prius with the rest of the band inside had "guest" parking which was basically just an unassigned spot on one of the public streets snaking thru the park. Confusingly though they'd failed to include a guest parking pass in our credential pack, so THAT vehicle had to phone the stage manager when they were approximately 5 minutes away from the entrance so that a runner could be summoned to meet them with a pass.

We waited ten minutes to get the minivan behind the stage because the doof manning the gate said the path was blocked. The stage manager finally waved us in and proved that said path was indeed not blocked. Loaders unloaded our shit, we set it up while the Mars Volta's gear was soundchecking (even thought ALL correspondence from the festival explicitly said NO band would receive a soundcheck, that was clearly false)

Once we'd all set-up our equipment a palpable serenity came over us. It was early and backstage was empty and we were just able to relax like a calm before the storm. We were permitted one "specialty" item on our rider and since I was the one doing the advancing that one item was a case of XXX Vitamin Water. I honestly wonder if anyone in the history of Vitamin Water has drank more than I did on that sunny San Franciscan day. I easily downed at least six full bottles and would not be surprised if the grand total was somewhere closer to eight or nine. I clearly achieved my goal of remaining hydrated.

Onstage doing a line-check and the Miracles' "You Really Got a Hold on Me" came over the PA and at that moment, it felt like everyone in the band was instantly assured, by mere presence of Smokey and company, that everything was going to work out just fine.

And work out fine it did. Despite the intense scrutiny we placed upon ourselves in trying to stay within the confines of a fifty-minute slot, our set felt natural. Hell, we ended ten minutes early. I was hoping for some sort of finale, but we ended respectfully without anyone jumping into the crowd or carelessly throwing equipment. Ultimately, it feels a bit anticlimactic. At the same time, I was just completely overjoyed to be playing Kelley Stoltz's drums. To think how man of my favorite songs were recorded with those very drums just left an enormous smile on my face.

As soon as we'd finished I began breaking down gear and loading it into the minivan, much to the dismay of the stage manager who had to politely, yet firmly, tell me that he was paying stagehands to do that work. Me, I just don't have the patience to wait for those guys, so I grab shit and load it myself, saving EVERYONE some time.

I was quickly given a DVD of our performance and immediately asked to list what songs we wanted featured on the official Outside Lands YouTube channel. You can go search that out to see what songs I picked.

Following that I walked a half-mile to the payment trailer. I'd arranged for us to be paid in cash and all I had to do was cross out the band name off a schedule with a highlighter and sign a sheet of paper, all while Raphael Saadiq rocked a version of "Search and Destroy" on the mainstage.

As I walked out of the trailer with an envelope overstuffed with cash, I wondered if I could have just as easily walked up and said "Ah yes, I'm here for Dave Matthews Band…can I get paid now?" I mean really…they had no idea who the hell I was and the fact that they were handing me a large amount of cash made me think they would have done SOMETHING to check my shit.

From there I met the rest of the band in catering. The main attraction seemed to be a construct your own Philly cheesesteak station. I said "hi" to Cedric from the Mars Volta. Zack said "hi" to Tom Morello.

At that point, we ventured to the promo area of the festival. As it works, a bunch of different companies pay a fee to be able to set-up a tent and have the opportunity to give artists free shit. We were promised one Altec-Lansing digital iPod/iPhone boombox for the band and I had my hands on the little post card that entitled the bearer to it. So when I happen upon the Altec tent and watch Zack being pitched hard, not saying a word, I didn't think much of it. As the lady finished her spiel to Z with "So do you want one?" I was completely caught off-guard. Apparently my possession of the post card meant nothing as Zack exhausted our alotted iPod dock.

I wasn't really mad at Zack, because he doesn’t really know any better. He's still the new guy. And if I was in his position I would've done the same thing. I guess it just means he feels comfortable to scam an iPod dock without consulting with his bandmates, (who've invested far more time and effort into the whole endeavor of the Dirtbombs). I didn't even know if he had an iPod either…I seem to remember him always asking to borrow mine because he lost the charger to some old Sony mp3 player he had.

The whole situation only worked to bring feelings of awkwardness to the surface for me. Personally, I love free shit. And the idea of having an area at the festival where performers, of which I am legitimately one, can get a bunch of free shit…it seems like a no-brainer.

But what comes into play is the interaction with the people giving the free shit. You see, some shit is truly free and free to everyone…like ice cream from the Ice Cream Man. He does not scrutinize. Ice cream to the masses. Other things are merely free to all artists without discrimination. Given my "artist" wristband for the festival, this presents no inherent problem. Where issues arise is when there's a booth where shit is free to certain artists, but not all artists. Granted, it's not like these people state that as their policy, but it's clear.

I've encountered this before at Bonnaroo. If you had to specifically define the practice, it would be something like "if you're an artist big enough to be able to pay for whatever is being offered, we'll give it to you for free." It just makes the whole fucking thing slimy and gross and has absolutely nothing to do with music or art or performing in front of a crowd and has everything to do with elitism. I feel like I gots to do a song-and-dance to get the goods. You folks already got my song, that shit was on stage, you ain't getting the dance too.

I can't remember what the name of the sorry company was, but there was a booth at Outside Lands with an impressive display of sunglasses. I perused the stock with mild interest and was surprised, yet not really surprised, to see a sign that said "Special Festival Artist Pricing: $69" Yet I'd bet our entire payment from the festival that if Dave Matthews or Eddie Vedder walked over the reps from Lame-Ass Sunglasses Inc. would be tripping over themselves to give them whatever they wanted for free.

We, as a band, then made way to the Onitsuka Tiger tent. The folks from Onitsuka had seen our set and personally asked us to come over so that they could outfit us with shoes. I was ecstatic because, at this point, I do not even own a pair of sneakers and could legitimately use them (zipper boots, despite their badass quality, aren't terribly versatile with a pair of shorts).

The dude asked everyone their size and quickly came back offering boxes to everyone. Ko, Zack and Mick all received, by my estimation, shoes that looked totally badass. I remember liking the brown and blue of their specific kicks. My 10 1/2's were not so fortunate. They fit and were comfortable, but the overwhelmingly white sneakers with accents of black, silver and red were just not my style.

So here's another awkward situation. I want, no NEED, a pair of these shoes. They will clearly be free. I sat there, internally struggling with whether or not I should ask for a pair in blue or brown (I mean seriously, white shoes? Do I look like I work in a hospital?) In my eyes, if the company wants me to wear something because there's some sort of inherent prominence placed in the absolute non-ability to play drums on-stage, I want to at least be completely in love with the shoes I am supposed to be wearing. I don't think that's too much to ask for on my side of the agreement.

Zack egged me on, saying I should lie and ask for a different size in hopes of getting a better color. Instead, I told the rep, in earnest, how the shoes fit great but that I just wasn't crazy about the colors and really just wanted a pair that I was in LOVE with.

He looked at me like he was a kindergarten teacher trying to explain to a pupil why they have to sleep at naptime. To paraphrase, he said something like this, totally condescending, "We REALLY don't have a lot of pairs of shoes with us, so I can't really do much on different colors. I can SEE if there's anything else back there in a ten and a half, but I won't make any promises."

Which I responded to with a sincere thanks and mention that I would be content with whatever they had but extremely happy to have a different color. He returned shortly thereafter to say they didn't have anything else available in my size. I thanked him and said the red/white/black/silvers would work fine. We were all then given free earbud headphones and posed in group photos excitedly holding our schwag.

Fast-forward a couple days later, I'm in Nashville and wanting to get away from the zip-boot footwear and pull out my Onitsukas. Imagine my dismay to find two silver/black/red/white monstrosities that are not only different sizes (10 1/2 and 7) but are also both left feet! I can never be sure, but I want to think that because I had the temerity to ask for a specific color that the guy handing out the shoes decided to fuck with me and if he did, I must say, well-played.

But in a pending deal with Onitsuka customer service, I should have a pair of Onitsukas arrive via post any day now and not only will they be of the same size and for opposing feet, but they will be a color of my choosing. If so, then I win.

Ran into Alex Minoff in the gifting area. He was there playing with Extra Golden and I think I'd only seen him once since we played together in Weird War back in 2004. It's the unexpected people you run into like Alex that make festivals an extra-special bit of surprising and fun. We talked for all of sixty-seconds (about what, I cannot even recall) but I definitely felt that much better because of it.

We made our way back to the stage just before Mastodon went on. For my thoughts on Mastodon, please check out my All Tomorrow's Parties post. Anyway, as I waited in line for the porto-john, a little toe-headed kid, no older than 4-years-old, walks up to me and hold his arms up. I can gather that he either 1) has been watching to many episodes of "COPS" or 2) wants me to grab his arms and swing him around. Being the fun-loving guy that I am, I grab his arms and start twirling around in a circle. I feel dizzy merely typing about it. After a few rounds of twirls I was able to convince him to climb up my legs while I held his arms and do a flip. His mother, who'd apparently been pre-occupied up until this point, came and kindly grabbed him saying "You don't even know this man" to which I without thinking replied "It's okay, I don't know him either."

I would later find out the kid's dad was one of the guys from Mastodon.

Feeling a bit tired, I decided that I wanted to leave. This was just as Mastodon was starting their set. Ko, Zack and Pat all wanted to stay and I didn't really have the patience to find/ask Mick his opinion, so I took the minivan filled with all the equipment and left the fest. Since James Kim's place was right around the corner I dropped off his drums in his garage.

On the drive to drop off gear back at Kelley's and Ink's I found Zack's iPod. Hoping for something good to listen to, I put my thumb on the clickwheel and tried to spin it, but something felt wrong. It barely moved. I was nervous because I thought I had broken it. I clicked over to the info setting to see how many songs are on there to be smacked in the face with a grand total of 70. That's not an iPod…that's two mix-cds. And you need a fucking dock for that!

I took solace in sending Zack a text message that read: "Just because you have it listed as Randal Chabot and not Deastro does not make having 'Tree Frog' on your iPod any less gay."

His response was "You were not supposed to see that."

I checked into me/Mal's and Ko's rooms at the Phoenix and then dropped off the rest of the gear by myself. I nap a bit before heading to soundcheck where I enjoyed the blonde Oreos that had been laid out for us. Introduced myself to Ty Segal and told him I couldn't walk five feet without seeing his name lately. Was amazed to see how young he is. He looks like a baby.

Went back to the hotel after soundcheck. Mal and I walked a block to some decent Thai place around the corner and had a late dinner there.

Made it to the Rickshaw shop while the Sermon was playing. Was bummed to miss Ty Segal but I really did need dinner.

The club was packed and it translated to intensity on-stage. I think Mick got popped in the mouth by the mic by rowdy fans. A few dudes from TV on the Radio showed up. I felt like I played as hard as I could, coming off-stage completely out-of-breath. Ty, watching right beside my drums, said he'd never seen us play before but that he was very impressed. I felt happy hearing that. I guess I usually just assume the "kids" don't understand us, so kind words from Ty, the next great garage genius, were that much more powerful.

Back to the Phoenix and we walked up the street for some so-bad-it's-still-bad pizza, tasting like someone just ran the whole thing underneath a grease faucet. We ate it with impunity and slept like kings.

I didn't want to do shit the next day. As the one who'd booked the flights I'd arranged for a Monday evening flight whereas everyone was leaving Sunday. This gave Malissa and I some much-needed chance to relax. She felt strongly about going back to the festival and while I initially didn't agree, there wasn't much else going on. My arm = far from twisted.

Took a cab to Golden Gate Park and breezed through security with our wristbands. What I had not anticipated was how nipple-twistingly cold San Fran can get in late August. I showed up in a jeans and t-shirt (because I didn't even bring anything like a coat or sweater for the trip) and insanely cold. I held my bare arms across my chest and rubbed both of them looking shaken-up like someone who'd just been pulled from a burning house, saved from drowning or tenuously extricated from a hostage situation.

We slipped backstage, said a quick' "hello" to the Dead Weather and then took a spot side-stage to watch them play. At the start of their set I looked out at the crowd and, feeling completely honest, said "there's not that many more people to watch the Dead Weather than were here to watch the Dirtbombs." After another two minutes or so I had to admit that there were a SHIT-TON more people watching the Dead Weather than the Dirtbombs.

Their performance was superb and personally, I loved the fact that they played so many new songs.

Backstage after DW 's set I met DangerMouse. He just happened to be hanging out in San Francisco and was just checking out bands at the festival. When it came up that I was in the Dirtbombs, he perked up and said "I really wanted to see you guys, but you just played way too early."

Zack was the only other Dbomb who'd show up at the festival on Sunday and he relayed a funny story about being backstage. There was an "exclusive" area of trailers that was meant only for those with artist wristbands. As he had one it wasn't a big deal. But Ween was the next band onstage and their crew was trying to clear out the area of anyone who wasn't in their crew.

Zack said, to whom I'm not exactly sure (and possibly just me) "Jack White's back there chilling, not asking people to clear out and you think anyone is going to give a shit about what Ween says?"

Ran into Sunny Kay from GSL backstage and again another welcome surprise encounter. We tried to figure out where the master tapes to the Lost Kids album were located and we didn't have a solid answer. I also geeked out in telling him how, for a summer or two, I bought every 7" GSL released regardless of whether or not I knew anything about it. I was pleasantly surprised more often than not.

Zack and I ran into the dude from Onitsuka again and he said he wanted to give us some ear buds. Having received a set each already we were slightly confused, but I honestly thought they might have newer models than the day before. He hands them to us and asks us to pose for a photo and then makes reference to some friends/colleagues as us being the band Cage the Elephant. We bit our tongues hard. I guess to the reps from Onitsuka, we all look the same.

We walked the long walk toward the main stage. Had the bright idea to stop by the Alternative Apparel tent and see if they had any free clothes I could wear to warm my ass up. Being the final day of the fest their pickins were slim, but I was ecstatic to score a Mr. Rogers Eco-Vertigrain Cardigan.

It wasn't particularly thick. When buttoned it made me look like a sausage. The "ash" color wasn't ideal for absorbing heat, but god-damn if that last trip to the gifting tents didn't totally save the day. Thank you Alternative Apparel for the $45 cardigan you gave to me for free in a time of personal climate crisis.

MIA started soon thereafter on the main stage. Her sound was absolute shit. The bass was completely overpowering and her vocals were almost non-existent. Seemed like she could've benefited from a soundcheck, or at least an engineer who knew what her songs sounded like.

Nevertheless I enjoyed hearing "Bamboo Banga" live. Most of her performers were wearing Michael Jackson t-shirts. She had twin pale-skinned, red-head dudes dancing for her and it was strikingly odd. Highlight, for me, was her new song that sampled the synth part from Suicide's "Ghostrider."

At this point in the show we'd met up with James Kim, managing something like VIP concessions and he hooked us up with a plate of free calamari. Fuck yeah.

After "Paper Planes" we decided to leave. On our way out of the park we were stopped by two kids asking for passes to get in. Always looking to help out, we slid the cloth wristbands delicately off our wrists, told them they were all-access artist's passes and to enjoy themselves to the fullest. The look of excitement/bewilderment on their faces was priceless and I hope they lived it up for the brief time remaining for the festival.

Cabride back to the Phoenix found the driver blowing through an intersection as the light turned from yellow to red. I commented "I didn't see it turn red" to which he replied "Neither did I" and Malissa followed with "We're from Detroit, red lights don't apply to us."

The driver, Eddie, perked up. "I'm from Detroit too."

"Whereabouts?" I ask.

"East Side" he offers.

"Where on the East Side?" I say, really just wishing he'd give me his address already.

"Kercheval and Philip" he says.

I'm amazed. That intersection is approximately a mile and a half from 3424 Bishop where I spent the first twenty-six years of my life.

He went to high school at Finney and worked at Joe Muer's restaurant on Gratiot, a class establishment that I'd only ever heard spoken about wistfully. He told stories of running a flower cart downtown and ultimately of his leaving the city in 1969. Although we grew up both knowing markedly different versions of the city, the camaraderie was undeniable. It goes without saying, but it truly is a small world.

We rested at the hotel before an evening birthday party for our booking agent Dave Kaplan. The party was swell and yet I can't remember anything of note happening worth repeating here.

Our final day in San Fran was pretty chill. Saw Robin Pecknold as I was checking out of the hotel and wondered if he'd spent the previous day listening to the Dirtbombs as I'd spent the previous day listening to Fleet Foxes. I should've said "hi" but got scared that it might not have actually been him. But it totally was.

Time spent in the Haight had me cross paths with Brock Galland (current guitarist with Kelley Stoltz) and upon asking him for any recommendations (he was on lunch break from Amoeba, where usually dispenses this wisdom) he spit out with Ty Segal, Fresh and Onlys and Oh Sees. I felt good telling him I was already on the ball for all of 'em.

Actually met up with Ty (accompanied by the Jeff the Brotherhood bros…seriously, those guys are everywhere I turn) at Amoeba and had a good once around the store with him. Is it weird to say that he seems like a little brother to me? Like I just want to protect him and lead him safely down the path? Anyway, on his recommendation I bought 7"s by Nodzzz, Sic Alps and the Baths. On my own recognizance I bought the RAKS, RAKS, RAKS compilation of 1960's Iranian garage/pop/psychedelic jams, the 3rd installment of Bo Diddley's 2xCD collections from Hip-o-Select Ride On, a prime collection of NorCal 60's garage called Up From the Grave and a collection put together by DJ Shadow called Schoolhouse Funk that fails to list any of the bands playing on the compilation of vintage high school and college marching or concert bands.

Malissa bought an amazing pair of Frye boots at a vintage store and I was more than happy to pay $100+ for them. They look hot. I love her.

Rest of the day would lazily linger. Mexican food and prime record time with Stoltz was really the cherry on top of a sundae of a tour.

Dirtbombs Went to the West Coast for Four Shows...Part One

2009-09-15T17:44:00.004-04:00

Flying to Atlanta to get to San Diego, from Nashville? Oh the beauty of airline hubs and the dregs of Hartfield International, a more-despised airport I cannot imagine. In my attempt to explain to Malissa how close the Casbah is to the San Diego airport, I was physically able to point out the window to the marquee of the club approximately 5 seconds before our plane landed. Yes dear, visible-from-the-airplane close.

We arrive to an oppressive, 94 degree heat. Pat’s hanging out with his sister, the rest of the band is running errands for/with Mick. They’ve rented a minivan. Mal’s cousin picks us up from the airport and we go to eat at the Yardhouse. I forgot what I ordered, but Malissa got an amazing mac’n’cheese dish while the rim of my lemonade glass was dusted in sugar. I appreciate the attention to detail.

Arrive at the Casbah just in time to sound check. The Sermon had offered up their gear in exchange for the opening spots on the shows and we couldn’t really say no to that. The day before their van started smoking and they too had to rent a minivan (coupled with a spare truck they were also traveling in) to make the tour possible. Together we felt like soccer moms-in-arms.

We hadn’t played together as the Dirtbombs in about five months. First song at sound check was “What You’ve Got” a song that the band had never played live and only two of us (Mick and I) played on the recording of. I felt comfortable with it but Ko and Zack clearly have trouble making sense of Mick’s complete lack of a follow-able guitar. We then did “Underdog” and leave the stage because the doors were about to open.

First band was the Death Eaters. They may spell that with one word, but if they do, I wonder if they ever improperly addressed as the Deat Heaters? Or kids I knew in St. Louis called the Overtones…did they ever get called the Overt Ones? Or ’76 Kansas City punk unknowns the Vomitones…could anyone have ever called them the Vomit Ones? Oh the needless way my brain chooses to reinterpret band names.

Deat Heaters were a three-piece with a black guy singing lead and playing guitar, an Asian guy on bass and a white dude drumming. Someone made the wise observation that if you added a Mexican and another white dude that they could give the Dirtbombs a run for their money. I sincerely liked how they sounded and I don’t say that often about local openers. I was vaguely reminded of the Reigning Sound. They didn’t have a record. I believe they said they were working on it. Eagerly I await.

The Sermon sounded better than they ever have before. This was peculiar because I only recognized one band member and knew that one of the guitar players was on-loan just for these shows. Nevertheless, it felt as if what before could get caught up in intensity without much intention, this show echoed with effort and exaction. The dirge-y, “Dirt”-like ending tune was a welcome departure as well.

We made the point to actually write out setlists but that action notwithstanding, there really is nothing like jumping onstage with no rehearsal behind you. No net, no take-backs…or as Tom Petty would say, free-ballin’.

The performance was surprisingly acceptable. Upon starting “Wreck My Flow” I felt that the disco boots-pants beat on the hi-hat didn’t seem right. I stared at Pants and for the life of me could not figure out what was wrong. Halfway through I finally realized that I don’t play this song on the hi-hat. I play it on the rim of the snare drum. This was my only “duh” moment of the night.

Encored with the borrowed blue Ludwig Vistalites on the floor in the middle of the crowd as Pants stood over me (on the stage) pouring water all over them for impressive water spouts upon impact. Hands got all wet and resulted in dropped sticks. That shit's funny when you're the only one playing.

Post-show I met up with pal Davey who played in Tall Birds and was in town drum tech-ing for Modest Mouse. Intro’d me to Joe Plummer (MM drummer) who said we’ve met before. I couldn’t specifically remember, but he reminded me that he was at the White Stripes show at Al’s Bar in LA back in 2000. He was with his then-girlfriend Janet Weiss. They bought “Hello Operator” picture discs, Sleater-Kinney asked Jack and Meg to open for them not two months later and it was all downhill for the White Stripes from there.

Nearby Mick was talking with someone and beckoned me over. He said “Ben, meet Alex Chilton.” I was supremely caught off-guard. Member of the Box Tops and Big Star, producer of the Cramps and the Gories(!) and all I could muster was some limp conversation about, shit, it wasn’t about ANYTHING! I was so flustered that I dragged Mal over and she proceeded to have a better conversation with him than I could. Smooth move Ben.

I manned the min-van for the nighttime drive back to San Diego. I was getting a bit sleepy but was too proud to say so. A stop in Orange County found us at one of the three best gas stations in the US (in my opinion). That stop also recharged my constitution and I was easily able to drop off Zack at his friend’s place (where a pack of raccoons were literally climbing 12-foot-tall chain link fences) before the rest of us set up camp at In the Red headquarters in Eagle Rock.

Larry Hardy’s residence on Avenue 45 is the vinyl Valhalla vision in the barren wasteland that is Los Angeles. Mal and I crash in the Dave Katznelson Memorial suite, making this one of only two times at the residence where I failed to sleep on the couch. After about a dozen visits, that couch is part of my DNA (or is my DNA part of that couch?) and to see Ko sleeping on it, I won’t lie, I felt slightly betrayed.

The ability to sleep in the next morning was delightful. Mick, Ko, Pat, Mal and I walked up the street to Auntie Em’s for delectable edibles from Terri Wahl, previously punk who spent time in the Red Aunts and the Screws. The special that day was a lasagna (I think) and me and two of my tablemates all ordered it. We enjoyed it.

Back to Casa de Hardy. Pat scooted off with Mick and they dropped Ko off at her hotel. They went to a gallery doing a show of Polaroid photos. They’d planned to go to the Third Man Records pop-up store too, but somehow got sidetracked and ended up at Amoeba.

Mal and I met up with Steve Macdonald and his son Alfie. We made way to a surf shop in Pasadena in search of rash guard for Alfie’s first-ever swimming excursion the next day. They had no guards. We walked to Urban Outfitters and realized THEY didn’t have rash guards either. From a freeway overpass we marveled at the smoke plume from the wildfires in the distance.

After our QT with Steve and Alfie we went back to Larry’s. Malissa went to hang out with her friend Alia while Larry and I cruised to Hollywood to hang out with Bob Matheu.

Bob has just written the authorized biography of the Stooges. He enlisted me to write a review of Funhouse for the book. I thought it would be just for him to quote from (as he said, he was sick of all the reviews of the album from the era and wanted new words) so imagine my surprise as he shows me the book with my review printed in its entirety.

If that were not enough, alongside my words are the most absolutely stunning photo outtakes from the Funhouse sessions where Steve Mackay looks so damn foxy I feel that my heterosexuality is now negotiable. Add to that a pristine label scan of an Armed Forces Radio and Television Services LP (proudly mentioned in my review) and the whole thing is quite possibly my most favorite thing I’ve ever written. Please do search out the book, officially titled “The Stooges Authorized and Illustrated Story” as it is truly a treasure trove. Pre-order on Amazon today and save!

And if THAT were not enough, he also hipped our ears to some sonic Stooge delight the likes of which have not been heard in 30+ years. That’s all I’m fit to spill here, but let’s just say that there’s still PLENTY of solid material languishing in the vaults that should (hopefully) see a release sometime soon.

I’ve never had the luxury of seeing Larry Hardy so giddy. The original plan was for Larry to drop me off at the Echo and then double-back to Hollywood where he had dinner plans. As we listened to more and more Larry’s eye was increasingly fixated on the time. In what was welcomed desperation, Larry gave me $60 and said “I’ll PAY for your carbide to the Echo if it means I get an extra 15 minutes of listening to this stuff.” I happily obliged and was gracious enough to give him $20 back as the ride was $30 and change and I tipped the driver up to $40.

Brief soundcheck at the Echo and then chill time with my buddy Josh. He has an apartment right around the corner from the club so we hung there a bit before returning to eat pizza slices next door to the club. Not sure if it’s always this way, but the 7” jukebox in there was offering free plays. Naturally I played the Stooges.

Downstairs that evening was Conor Oberest and His Mystic Valley Band. The confusing/interesting thing about it is that the entrance for that club (the Echoplex) is around the corner and down the street from the entrance for the Echo. So more than a few confused fans walked up to the door for our show only to be directed down the block, across the street, down some stairs and back across the street to see Conor. The VIP’s for that show were allowed into the entrance of the Echo and led down a secret set of stairs to the Echoplex. I saw Jenny Lewis and Chloe Sevigny (separate) and couldn’t help but think Chloe’s ensemble was terribly outrageous in the most uninteresting way. Then I wondered if people actually like Conor Oberest’s music.

(although Dungen was opening the show, I made no effort to see them…figured owning the record was good enough and for a band playing that kind of music, the only time I’d seen them live it seemed sterile and rehearsed. I was hoping for more…jamming? I can’t believe I’m actually typing those words. Watching them play felt like jazz to me and that’s not meant as a compliment)

I missed openers Jail Weddings and the Sermon too. Turned out that as de facto tour manager I made a pretty huge goof-up. After LA, we had a day off to drive to San Francisco. The following day, Saturday, we would be performing at the Outside Lands Festival in SF at 12:45pm.

At some point in organizing the tour, the Sermon asked if we wanted to play a show on that Friday and if not, would we be fine if they did themselves? We chose to relish in our day off and had no problem with them booking their own show. Turns out I failed to notify the Sermon that we would still need their gear with us in San Francisco for a 10am load-in at Golden Gate park. And that kind of thing just ain’t possible when they’ve got a late gig in Santa Barbara the night before.

I sat on the curb outside the Echo feeling pretty fucked. As is my usual first instinct on those feelings, I called Kelley Stoltz. He didn’t answer, but I left a detailed message. Before I could even seriously begin to worry, Kelley called back, said he had a drum set and guitar amp we could use. He’d already been in touch with James Kim (his drummer) who proffered up another drum kit and a quick call to Kevin Ink (Stoltz’s bassist/engineer) and we were sorted with another guitar amp and a bass amp. All told, it took maybe twenty-five minutes to sort all that out.

Not that I really needed the reminding, but it was at this moment when I realized how dear and irreplaceable true friends are. I know I would’ve done the same thing for those guys in a heartbeat, but just that feeling of people sincerely making the effort to help us out…there’s absolutely no beating that.

Our set at the Echo was alright. Mic stand started to slide far below Mick’s mouth-level early on and none-other than Har Mar Superstar jumps up and straightens it out mid-song. I scream “anything to get on stage!” while he does so. No one hears it. I still think it’s hilarious.

Crowd seemed a bit thin throughout the performance. It remotely peppered my thoughts and made me feel a bit down. As soon as we start “I Can’t Stop Thinking About It” in the encore Pantano up-and-leaves his drum assignment to bring his kit onto the floor to play in the middle of the crowd. Sonofabitch stole my line. To fight fire with metaphorical fire I pulled my drums onto the floor as well and we ended the entire thing in sloppy, fan-pleasing fashion.

I was exhausted after the show. It was officially Pat’s birthday by this point and he was officially drunk. It was funny, if only because it seems like no one drinks in the band anymore. Load out was slow and steady and we eventually ended up at the Cha-Cha and ate from the fantastic taco truck parked outside there.

We drop off Ko at her hotel, Zack at his buddy’s and the rest of us slumber soundly at In the Red HQ. As per Pat’s b-day request (and thankfully ignoring his bidet request) we awoke early Friday morn to get on the road to SF. I ate some Jack-in-the-Box. I don’t recommend it.

Upon arrival in the Bay Area we dropped off Mick “Where am I Staying?” Collins and Pantano in the Duboce Triangle and made way to the Fisherman’s Wharf Sheraton where the rest of us had paid for rooms that eve. We dropped off Ko and Malissa while Zack and I went to go procure our replacement gear.

First to Hotel Phoenix to meet up with sometime tour manager Dorien who was helping with the whole fiasco in exchange for a pass to Outside Lands. From there to Stoltz’s crib in the Mission. Kelley wasn’t around, so we helped ourselves to the gear he so lovingly laid out for us. I was stretching to find a reason in which we’d need an original German Polydor pressing of Black Monk Time as I know Kelley has one, but we decided against DJ Lethal’s proposition for a live collab.

From Stoltz’s to the Studio That Time Forgot where Kevin Ink calls home. Bass and guitar amps later we were on our way to within hearing distance of Pearl Jam at Golden Gate Park to pick up James Kim’s silver sparkle tubs. I won’t lie in saying that I was really tempted to load-up his Roland synth drums instead and have Pantano work with those, but I relented.

The process of gathering all this gear felt like it took forever. It was dark by the time we returned to the Sheraton. Zack hopped out and I took the minivan to the underground parking and following directions from the attendant, head towards the back where there were more available spaces.

I happened upon a completely empty row of parking spots and with even though it seemed to be a secure underground parking structure, I surmised it was always best to back in when given the chance. What I hadn’t noticed was that these spots were actually underneath a ledge. So as I slowly inch my way back, waiting for the tires to hit the parking block or the bumper to hit the wall, I’m totally fucked.

Because of the ledge, the parking block is placed underneath, somewhere my back tires will never touch but makes absolute sense when parking the sensible front-first way. The back window spider web shattered quietly with a "pop" and remained mostly intact, surprisingly so as what I’d backed into was solid concrete.

For once I had to call Zack without some smart-assed quip. He said he could tell instantly, by the tone of my voice, that I wasn’t joking. So instead of meeting up with Pantano for his birthday, we pulled most of the gear out of the van (the rental place had some clause about not using it for moving cargo) and then drove the 25 minutes to the rental car place at San Francisco International airport, switching spots with Zack before we arrived because naturally he was the only one who was supposed to be driving.

(I’m sure had we followed those rules in the first place we wouldn’t be in this situation)

I sat in the van while Zack dealt with paperwork and crap inside. Just when I thought busting the window out was the clever way to get out of having to refill the gas tank he hops back in and says we need to fill up or pay the $4/gallon charge for them to do it.

We make a wrong turn and soon remembered that they make rental car lots so that you can’t leave without having to pass a security guard. We found ourselves at the mechanic’s station and they stared at us like we had penises on our foreheads.

After doubling-back and finally getting to the security guard we somewhat easily found the gas station we were directed to and filled up. Once back to the rental agency, we carefully switched the gear left inside to our new, identical minivan. After once-overing and double-checking that everything was out, Zack smart-assedly slammed the trunk HARD so as to rain fragments of tempered glass on the black concrete of the parking lot. This was WAY more punk than him breaking that Coca-Cola bottle in Germany.

Finally back at the hotel and looking back I wish we’d have parked in the same spot we busted the window in. Anygay, it seemed like the whole window replacement excursion took us 2 hours start-to-finish on our day off. Ko and Malissa were at some bar and soon arrived back with Mexican food for Zack and I. Passed out watching Fox News. Had nightmares.

Sommet to Springwater, Green Day to Davila 666: A Comparative Study...

2009-08-03T11:45:00.002-04:00

Some of the guys from Green Day were backstage at the Dead Weather show on Thursday. They were affable and conversational. This somehow translated into me and Swank finding ourselves at their sold-out Sommet Center gig the next evening.

Swank said he'd never been to a proper arena show (he did see Guns 'n' Roses at the Toledo Speedway on the Use Your Illusion tour, but that was outdoors) and was generally excited. I was intrigued and wondered if they could possibly keep my attention as occupied as New Kids on the Block did back in March.

First observation, before even entering the arena I had to acknowledge how many radio hits Green Day has had. Coupled with Foo Fighters and Red Hot Chili Peppers, that magic trifecta is any brain dead modern rock radio programmer's go-to list. Seriously, any single released by any of those bands is a surefire playlist staple. With their ascent to acclaim coinciding with the emergence of modern rock as a viable format, all three acts have essentially been bankrolled by the massive publicity, quality of the work notwithstanding.

Openers were the Kaiser Chiefs. While performances in their home country find them headlining comparable-sized rooms and selling them out, the sensibility of US concertgoers has yet to have fallen to that level. I seriously cannot understand the fuss about them. I did find out that a line in their biggest single – "A friend of a friend got beaten" from "I Predict a Riot" – is actually written about Ben Swank. First the Von Bondies, then the Kaiser Chiefs…I'm wondering what else I can start blaming on him.

Missed Green Day's grand entrance while killing time backstage. Made way to the VIP riser behind the soundboard and staked my claim there.

What instantly became clear was that this concert, to me, seemed to have very little to do with the music. The performance leaned toward un-ironic spectacle. Whether it be Billie Joe Armstrong hopping offstage and running half-way up the lower bowl of the Sommet Center, the liberal use of pyrotechnics and subsonic charges, the extended drawn-out jamming of seemingly every song to facilitate preaching what felt like a canned message, bringing a fan onstage what seemed like every-other damned song…it was more of a lowest common denominator circus for those with undiscerning taste in rock and roll. There was no art…just artifice.

I took biggest offense at the "props" portion of the set where, in rapid succession, Armstrong:

1) used a Super Soaker-like weapon to douse the crowd with water
2) manned a redneck rigged device that unfurled two extra-length rolls of toilet paper into the audience
3) armed himself with a t-shirt cannon and began to launch tees to the farthest reaches of the Sommet Center

At this point, what had maintained mainly as a bad rock show had delved into pure pageant. The event had ceased to be about music. I could, surprisingly look past their addition of three additional musicians for the live show. I can, somehow, ignore the fact that they unrepentantly rip-off so much, from song titles ("Know Your Enemy" was originally Rage Against the Machine, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" was at least half a dozen other songs) to actual songs ("Warning" is the Kinks "Picture Book", "Hitchin' a Ride" is the Stray Cats' "Stray Cat Strut", "Brain Stew" is "25 or 6 to 4"). I could pay no attention to the outright pandering of bringing no less than five different members of the audience onstage (not at once, but all at different points) to stage dive, take over vocals, operate Super Soakers, et al. But dammit, if I wanted shit tossed incessantly into the audience I'd go to a fucking Gallagher show.

(Swank, on the other hand, seemed to think this was the part of the performance that elevated the night from "bad show" into "so-bad-it's-good-show")

Equally as inexcusable was the demands coming from the stage. EVERY-FUCKING-SONG required a clap-along, a coordinated waving of the arms over the head, a call-and-response vocal desperately trying to ape those of European football chants (or in one case, just chanting the classic "Ole' Ole'" tune itself) that more often than not sounded like limp renditions of "The Banana Boat Song."

In their defense, the songs off Dookie still resonate. "Longview" to "Basket Case" to "She" to "When I Come Around" all had me singing along, the words forever stuck in my brain. I remember first hearing about the band on a short-lived MTV show hosted by Kurt Loder called "Daily Dose" where they showed the vid for "Longview" and a clip of them touring in a bookmobile. I went out the next day and bought a cassette of Dookie. It seemed that the album didn't hit until a few months later, at which point I was already claiming to be a fan from "way back." Even at age 12 I was a snob.

I had a 24"x33" poster of the Dookie album cover in my bedroom back then. I strategically placed it at eye-level right next to my bed. While my interest in the band was nowhere near Nirvana-levels of fervor, that album cover provided countless hours of staring, laughing, dissecting and rapt attention where a poster of the In Utero album cover was on the wall as a matter of principle rather than entertainment. Fifteen years later you could say my intentions of attending a Green Day concert were the same as placing that poster next to my bed…I wanted to be entertained and despite their all-out attempt to do so, I think I would've just preferred something less flashy and a bit deeper. Like Nirvana.

I even remember girls in middle school prank calling my house while I wasn't there. When I asked my brother what they said, he replied "They asked 'is the fritter fat boy there?' and then immediately hung up." The "fritter frat boy" is in reference to a cop depicted on the cover of the album. Why do I remember these things?

I remember because in a time where MTV was my only significant exposure to new music Green Day stuck out as something different. The shenanigans of a mud fight at Woodstock '94 were like crack to a 12-year-old by trying to be benignly deviant. Seeing Armstrong play his baby blue Fernandes "BJ" Strat (the same one used at the Woodstock gig) put a smile on my face. I respect those who stick with a specific model for ages…Willie Nelson and his 40 years with Trigger, Mick Collins and twentysome years with his Kent Videocaster…I guess I just never expected a performer of Billy Joe's ilk to hold on to something very long. It's refreshing to see otherwise.
We went backstage without watching the end of the set or either of the two encores. Why was I not surprised to see that they ended it all with "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)?"

Instead Swank and I rolled over to the Springwater. The room was packed and we arrived just in time to see Jeff the Brotherhood take the stage. It seems like these guys just keep getting better. I love the three-stringed guitar that actually sounds MORE full than a six-string one. I like it that Jake seems to be singing more. I adore the fact that they remind me of a more tune-driven version of the Melvins (which is by no means a slight on the Melvins) and I can wholeheartedly endorse their upcoming Heavy Damage album as riff after totally-bitching riff of must-hear quality.

Next up was Davila 666 from Puerto Rico. I had the album but had yet to listen to it. There was an instant feeling of kinship with them as we are label-mates. For people who aren't on labels or don't have the benefit of being on one they love as much as I love In the Red, I guess I'd compare it to being an older brother. You want to look after the younger bands on the label. You want to go to their shows and support them, buy their 7"s, pay the cover and make sure they're taken-care-of on the road. The fact that I'd never met them made no difference. Once you are part of the In the Red family, there's an unspoken bond I feel that, while difficult to explain, definitely exists.

These six guys, all looking like characters I knew from my days of baseball in Southwest Detroit, utterly smoked the place. Sure there were long pauses between songs. Sure the feedback was squeal-y and unrelenting. Sure they were mostly out-of-tune. But the all-around solid performance coupled with a downright explosive crowd reaction and all I could do was be excited for the band.

I can't imagine what kind of notions one has of the States coming from Puerto Rico. As I stood there, watching the mayhem and interaction, the CLOSENESS of it all, I wished to be in Davila 666's position. I can't imagine they pegged Nashville for being an exciting place to play, because, for most bands, it's not. Instead, they're greeted with what arguably has to be the best response they've received in this country. I was excited FOR them, just imagining the happiness and joy (and drugs and girls probably) swirling around their heads. Collective calls of "uno mas!" were met with an encore. The whole thing felt special.

Turbo Fruits had the unenviable task of following that blast and they did so with poise. While the new rhythm section still doesn't have tons of miles backing Jonas Stein, they're already on their way to becoming his best assortment of players yet. Barring any disastrous mistakes, I can't see how the newest Fruits material could be denied by anyone whether it be live, on record or in theory. The Turbo Fruits are scary good.

The evening's two shows were oddly similar. Davila and Green Day were clearly both intent on having fun but that manifested itself in different ways. Every band wanted a connection with the audience, but a dank bar and massive arena don't facilitate those connections in the same way. As much as I disliked it, I cannot blame Green Day for their actions. They are merely filling a need. They're not evil…they're just not for me. I'll take the smoky bar over the arena any day.

Two Weeks of Thoughts on Sonic Youth...

2009-07-15T19:07:00.003-04:00

What does one hipster who was too cool to scam tix to a Sonic Youth show say to the still-die-hard fan who attended with ducats purchased from an online presale via Ticketmaster the instant they went on-sale?

"What old songs did they play?"

Having attended Sonic Youth concerts for over a decade now, I hate to admit it, but this is generally how I'd rate any Sonic Youth show I've ever been to.

On the Thousand Leaves tour I was excited because they ended the set with "Death Valley '69." Everything else was from A Thousand Leaves or the relevant SYR releases of the period.

I should have known better and learned my lesson then.

Every subsequent show has been judged solely on the back-catalog tunes they played. Murray Street tour was alright because they ended the show with "Making the Nature Scene" and Sonic Nurse was cool because they jammed on "Inhuman" with a bunch of Detroit noise dudes.

As a musician, I can understand their position. Anytime you have new songs, those almost instantly become your most favorite to perform live. But as seems to be common-knowledge now, Kim Gordon has declared herself all but finished with playing bass on new Sonic Youth recordings.

So with Mark Ibold (and prior to him, Jim O'Rourke) taking the majority of the bass duty, that leaves fewer and fewer instances where Kim plays bass, ie, does old songs. I actually think that such a bold artistic statement, 20+ years into her musical career, is exciting. It's as if Picasso, at age 65, would have said "I am completely done with paint."

Part of you would think "Well, his other mediums may become even better" while you could just as easily counter with "But you're such a damn good painter!"

The show in Detroit was a let-down, but only because I couldn't get into the old songs they played. I've been listening to The Eternal intently and I'm into it, but I know exactly what to expect from those songs live. There seems to be no experimentation or spontaneity to them. So when their set completely ignores 19 years of their career (1989-2008) I feel that I have ample reason to complain.

Nothing off of Goo, Dirty, Jet-Set, Washing Machine, A Thousand Leaves, NYC Ghosts and Flowers, Murray Street, Sonic Nurse or Rather Ripped. To me, that was appalling. They leaned too heavily on Daydream Nation tracks, unsurprisingly so as it was an album they toured playing in its entirety last year, augmented by "PCH" and "Catholic Block" from Sister and "World Looks Red" from Confusion.

The entire show felt like Sonic Youth cruise control.

But such is the problem when you're an artist with such an enviable back-catalog. SY could easily tour and play nothing but the "hits" and the fans would eat it up. To play the new material still cultivates new fans (and young fans) while old-timers like myself sit here and gripe.

The discouraging part is that it feels like it's eliminated some of the mystique. Sonic Youth is still sacred to me. I still place a lot of faith in them. So when it feels like I've solved a bit of the mystery (ie, we go on tour, play the new album and a handful of old songs) it hurts. I wish it felt a bit more spontaneous, more experimental, more boundary-pushing. The more I dwell on it, the more The Eternal feels completely predictable. It feels like any of that truly wild vibe of the band now finds it outlet in Thurston's noise endeavors.

It's frustrating to feel like I've figured them out, able to predicted their moves, their plans telegraphed….like seeing a magician a few too many times to the point of where you know how he pulls it off. You'll still go to see him every time he comes to town, but you will only leave the show with disappointment that he doesn't wow you like he used to.

But what a difference two weeks makes.

While being clearly bummed about the SY Detroit show, I'd still held out hope for Nashville. I'd managed to finish their "Goodbye 20th Century" biography the day of the show and that felt like some cosmic connection and gave me good vibes.

Even though we arrived 3-4 songs into the set, the vibe was immediately liberating. And as if they'd read my mind, they really did destroy it with the old songs they pulled out. "White Kross", "Shadow of a Doubt", " PCH" (again) and decidedly little off of Daydream, an overrated album if there ever was one.

To top it all off, they ended the set with "Death Valley '69" and it was, dare I say, heavenly. The way the breakdown slowly builds up, rumbles along with the vocals errantly yelping "hit it" and culminates back into the undeniable chorus…it was all teenaged blissful passion bursting through a song about cult murders.

What become more apparent was that while again their set excluded everything from Goo through Rather Ripped (as most of their sets have this year) it finally clicked that all of those albums were released by big, corporate, major labels. Kim's bass disinterest/tendonitis notwithstanding, I think this is a subtle message. Maybe they're saying fuck major labels. Maybe they're saying "free at last, free at last…" Maybe they're not saying anything. That's the beauty of a band who's been around forever…it's so easy to discriminate every last bit of minutiae and foist some self-determined importance to it. It gives hacks like me something to write about at the very least.

Each proper Sonic Youth set was followed by a hush-hush after-show appearance by Thurston at a separate location. In Detroit, the show was in a sweaty basement filled with smelly noise dudes. You had to know the password to get in (for us it was "John Olson") and it was just as much a bummer as the SY gig.

The room was 90% dudes. Thurston would yell something at the opening band, for example "Dudes" and then EVERYONE would start chanting "DUDES! DUDES! DUDES! DUDES!" coupled with a scary raucous banging on the heating/cooling ducts overhead. The few girls in the room were yelling "Kiss him!" but could not be heard over the din.

It was frustrating because, just like the Sonic Youth show, I really wanted to like it. But it was completely formless. Noise music can be so mercurial. I personally LOVE so much of what comes hand-in-hand with that scene… the artwork, the writing/reviews/label copy, frequency/randomness/locations of shows, catering to collectors, hand-made copies…all that stuff is completely up my alley.

But the music is so hit-or-miss. A friend came up to me in the middle of it all and said "There's no way you can possibly like this" and I had no counter to his statement. The curious thing about it all was that with certain people, saying you saw an unannounced Thurston noise performance would carry some sort of bragging rights. .But the people who would be impressed by such a claim are the exact same people who would not be able to stomach 5 minutes of his performance that night, an uninspiring coupling with Greh of Hive Mind.

It was quite funny seeing the tour bus on 11 Mile at 2am, unable to make the turn down the quiet, Royal Oak street where the performance went down. Apparently the tour manager literally had to run down the street to grab Moore and Ibold and get them on the bus.

But the hush-hush noise gig in Nashville was so fucking exciting. Thurston and Leslie Keffer squealed unholy feedback in the sports bar confines of Betty's Bar. It was exactly what noise music needs to be…scary, loud, unpredictable and confrontational. At one point the sole power strip connecting all the amps/pedals/electronics got switched off. Both Thurston and Leslie stopped sheepishly and slowly made moves to get things going again.

I took a breather outside and when I came back in both of them were on the floor in the middle of the crowd, Thurston with a long-haired bandana-wearing bumpkin on his back and Keffer with her evening gown almost over her head, exposing her "not cute" (her words) underwear. They were quick, they were engaging and they left everyone in the room entertained.

Afterwards I approached Thurston and said "That was way better than your show in Detroit."

He responded simply, "Yeah…it definitely was."

The Gories: Still the Same After Sixteen Years...

2009-06-22T21:13:00.006-04:00

The Gories were sublime.

I'd formed a little thought in my head on the drive from Nashville to Memphis. I was hoping the Gories (who were supposedly going into the show with only one rehearsal under their belts) wouldn't be too bad. Everyone's heard the stories of their inability to play in tune, play in time or just simply start and finish songs at the same moment. Going into their two shows this past weekend I couldn't help but hope that I would at least recognize the songs through the caterwaul.

At the same time, there were grumblings among the super-snooty of not wanting to attend the show because "Mick knows how to play guitar now." Having a vague understanding of that statement myself I could understand where it comes from. The guy generally has his shit under control in the Dirtbombs and it'd be easy to ascribe that ease to the Gories.

So when Dan Kroha came up to me after the show and asked, as the utmost Gories super-fan (as big a highlight as any for me on that particular eve) what I thought, I felt happy and confident in saying "You weren't worse than you needed to be and you weren't better than you were supposed to be." To make the statement a little more clear, I say the Gories were perfect.

From the opening primitive three-chord rumble of "Nautiloid Reef" I was agog in disbelief. I'd been waiting at least ten years to witness Dan, Mick and Peg onstage together, most of the time believing full-well that there wasn't a chance in hell for it to happen. Others had waited longer…Larry Hardy who started In the Red Records with the sole intention of putting out a Gories 7" back in 1991 had never seen the band perform. Others had come farther…there were whispers of some dedicated soul who'd flown all the way from Brisbane, Australia for the performance. And I don't think he was disappointed.

Sure Mick's voice was totally blown out to Blacktop proportions and Dan sang a few of the tunes his pipes couldn't handle. There was significant downtime between songs with repeated requests for duct tape for Peg's hands and drums. There were definitely fuck-ups and the laughing and attempts to correct them were endearing. All of this was necessary and almost fail-safe.

With such roadblocks all those uninitiated to the Gories live experience (ie, most everyone there) got exactly what they would have back in 1988. That is, a balancing act, a band completely capable of being transcendent and terrible within the context of the same song.

Mick played Jack Yarber's Fender Jaguar. I missed the classic Kent Videocaster, but his sound is his sound regardless of axe and it was cute seeing him and Kroha play matching guitars. Dan did the blown-out harmonica on "You Don't Love Me" and surfed into the crowd like a rock star. They bungled the intro to "View From Here" while Mick's vocals took on a never-before-detected sense of "me against the world" that imbued the song with so much fist-in-the-air rah-rah that I just smiled as I, along with the rest of the crowd, ended the couplet "One of these days, I'm gonna shout, won't somebody open the world up" with a gutteral "AND LET ME OUT!"

I was in the middle of the crowd, dancing like a fool, sweating my ass off, happy as a clam.

Missed the first three songs on Saturday night. The Gories went on at least a half-hour earlier than they had on Friday. They played a fairly different set too…tossing in their cover of the Iguanas "Again and Again" and adding "Detroit Breakdown" and "Ghostrider" which I was secretly longing for. As Friday was a long time coming and a long night living, Saturday experienced a noticeable downturn in crowd enthusiasm, save for the crowd's rapturous replies to Mick's call in "Thunderbird ESQ."

The fifteen-year-old in me favored the debut performance Friday while the record collector in me preferred Saturday's performance. But with Mick pledging to have his voice in full-form for the show at the Majestic this week, coupled with a sold-out crowd of 1000+ and the Gories going on last and it's the Detroit show that I'm near-certain will be the tops of the US gigs.

Below is a list of all the songs, by album, I recall the Gories playing over the two nights. Also included is a probably never heard-before live version of the Motown classic "Leavin Here" as done by the Gories in Paris, France back on June 5th, 1992. Enjoy.

Feral
I Think I've Had It
Charm Bag
Boogie Chillin
I'll Go
Hidden Charms
Sovereignty Flight

Detroit Breakdown
Stranded
Thunderbird ESQ
Nitroglycerine
Let Your Daddy Ride
Queenie
Ghostrider
View From Here

Telepathic
To Find Out
You Don't Love Me (You Don't Care)
Again and Again
Baby Say Unh!

Nautiloid Reef
Train Kept a Rollin'

Teased:
Stormy
Gimme Some Money

The Gories "Leavin Here" Live in Paris 6-5-1992
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6j36lo

DJ Set for the Turbo Fruits Shindig...

2009-06-01T16:34:00.002-04:00

With Swank by my side, here's the shit I played (vinyl-style) with only one working turntable. That made song-to-song transitions an exercise in dexterity. An original Checker pressing of Bill and Will's "Goin' to the River" was the only record completely snapped in half and left unplayable.

Sides one and two of "Wild Things" compilation LP
Mountains and Rainbows – Knock You Out
The Jesters of Newport – Stormy
The Orange Wedge – From the Womb to the Tomb
Link Wray - Hidden Charms
Roy Head – Just a Little Bit
The Dead Weather – I Cut Like a Buffalo
The Horrors - Shadazz
A Number of Names – Sharevari
Viva L'American Death Ray Music – Dub SS
The Fabs – That's the Bag I'm In
The Glass Sun – Stick Over Me
The Black Lips – Born to Be a Man
Gardens – All is School, All are Teachers
Jay Reatard – Gamma Ray
Randy and the Radiants – My Way of Thinking
Dick Rabbit – Love
The Treniers – Poon Tang
Death – Politicians in My Eyes
Detroit Grand Pubahs – Sandwiches (Bloated Evil Bread Dub)

From a White Stripes Book Proposal That Almost Got Accepted...

2009-05-13T17:47:00.003-04:00

Below is my just-missed-it proposal for Continuum's 33 1/3rd series. Out of 527 proposals, I made it to the final 27 and they ended up selecting only 10 titles. If anyone runs a publishing company and is looking to hand out a royalty advance, I'm listening.

No other band from the turn of the century has been more mythologized or misunderstood than the White Stripes. The red and white-clad duo from Detroit was thrust to the forefront of the nascent "garage rock" revival of 2001 with the likes of such bands as the Strokes, the Hives and the Vines. In the name of a "return to rock" the White Stripes right-place-at-the-right-time 3rd album White Blood Cells was critically acclaimed the world over and introduced the band to an overly receptive international audience that would only grow exponentially in the years to come.

The Michel Gondry Lego-fied clip for "Fell in Love with a Girl", John Peel's exulting praise on the BBC and the subsequent blistering live sessions recorded at Maida Vale, the band's turning down of a cover shoot for almighty NME magazine (only to have a live shot used without their approval)…these are just a myriad of the well-tread, good copy stories that are frequently and without thought repeated ad nauseam in the telling of the tale explaining the success of White Blood Cells.

To that I say, you've not even scratched the surface.

What really gets me excited is that there's so much more about White Blood Cells that's never been told, never been dug up and exposed to the ripe air of peering eyes and inquisitive minds. Information (hardcore facts…pure provable FACTS) that only add a complex back-story to the narrative being told by the lyrics and melodies we're all familiar with. Stories about its creation (the band crashing on the couches and floor of a cluttered Memphis apartment during recording), the touring (a near-riot in Missoula, $15,000 cash locked in a hotel safe in LA with no way to retrieve it) and the drama (being kicked out of the actual Hotel Yorba by a hammer-wielding employee while trying to shoot a music video there) are all, whether you're familiar with the band or not, intriguing to the point of enjoyment regardless and unattached to one's opinions on the actual music.

I'm amazed no one ever brings up the fact that HALF the songs on this album originated in various musical outfits Jack White inhabited through the late-Nineties in Detroit, mutating and adapting with each different group that tackled them. Whether it was as a sideman in Two Star Tabernacle, a country-gospel-rock band (think the Gun Club meets Hank Williams' "Luke the Drifter") that debuted the album's first single "Hotel Yorba" and stellar "Now Mary" a good four years before they'd ever see release - OR - his very own take on Dylan with the Band (Jack White and the Bricks) that debuted "I Can't Wait" and "Offend in Every Way" in their brief, six-show existence in Detroit in the summer months of 1999.

And no one even seems to know that a song like "I Can Learn" had been performed at the White Stripes' first live performance in 1997 or that "Dead Leaves…" had been kicking around in their arsenal since 1998. In short, I hope to portray how White Blood Cells is the brilliant fusion of the musical detritus that'd been collecting in Jack White's brain for years equally coupled with his ever-expanding and expressive brand new compositions.

People gloss over the fact that such White Stripes touchstones as cover songs, guest musicians, blues music and guitar solos are all literally non-existent on this album. This may seem small, petty or insignificant, but when only one other White Stripes album is lacking only ONE of these components (Get Behind Me Satan has no covers), it makes it all the bit more peculiar and intriguing. White Blood Cells, while being most people's introduction to the band, is seemingly the least "White Stripes" White Stripes album.

And no one outside a small circle of those closest to the band are even aware of the absolute legal shit-storm that resulted with their record label, Sympathy for the Record Industry, upon the severe non-payment of royalties on sales for and the band's resultant leap to major labels XL and V2.

I've interviewed both Jack White solo (for an in-depth feature in Plan B magazine in 2003) and the band together (as part of an upcoming, feature-length documentary) as well as having penned the track-by-track liner-notes to their Under Blackpool Lights concert DVD. I have an established rapport with both band members that already has them committed to speak with me at great length about anything and everything in regards to White Blood Cells and the surrounding hysteria.

While band involvement is by no means anything unheard of in 33 1/3rd territory, let it be known that of the no less than seven books written about the White Stripes, neither Jack nor Meg have participated in any aspect of any of them. With their involvement it's painfully clear that this book will contain heretofore unimagined insight, musings and involvement the likes of which White Stripes fans (whether they be die-hard or casual) will salivate at the hope of. Conversely, even readers completely uninitiated to the band will simply be better informed because of it.

With their pledged participation, I've also been granted access into Jack White's personal archive of the band. From the daunting MOUNDS of press clippings (White Blood Cells was the first time the band would employ a publicist) from the era to unreleased live recordings, personal photographs and everything else imaginable, the availability of this trove will not only help to strengthen my own knowledge of the band, but it will help cut my time spent on research considerably.

Of most supreme historical importance is hours upon hours of video footage shot of the band in-studio while recording White Blood Cells. While previously only rumored to exist, the availability of said tapes will open a virtually untapped portrait of the band…that is, how they operate, interact and get along in the ever-mystifying studio setting.

As if their help were not enough, I've established strong connections with many others involved in the making of this record. David Swanson (filmographer of the sessions), Patrick Pantano (album cover photographer) Jack Yarber and Nick Ray (friends who's floor the band crashed on while recording), Chloe Walsh (the band's publicist), Ian Montone (the band's lawyer and subsequent manager) John Baker (tour manager) and no less than fifteen others.

As it stands, White Blood Cells is a quirk in the band's catalog that is deserving of deeper critical analysis and exposure. While access to the trove of above-mentioned raw information to the band is crucial, the ability to synthesize and present that information without boring, confusing or pandering to the reader will be a paramount goal of the utmost importance. It is my intention to cut through the rampant mythology and misunderstanding of everything surrounding them and this record and simply portray what a truly outstanding piece of modern musical achievement it really is.

The best way to do so is to simply let this smattering of 16 seemingly disparate songs guide the story. Each song's genesis, whether it be in 1997 with Two Star Tabernacle, the White Stripes in 2001 or whatever, will be its starting point and it will all be chronologically pieced together with the main focus being each composition's studio completion. From there, due attention will be paid to the resultant touring, press mania, video shoots, legal wrangling and surrounding hubbub that helps complete the picture of how this album (and more so this band) truly connected to its audience.

I've been following the White Stripes since 1997 and have dedicated more time, energy and manpower hours to the band than any sane person should to ANY endeavor that doesn't result in marriage or birth.

I completed three years of journalism studies at Wayne State University before leaving to tour in the Dirtbombs. Because of my journalistic training, I tend to focus on facts, anecdotes, and first-hand quotes in my writing rather than observations, stream-of-consciousness, feelings or any of that other flowery hippie bunk that behooved Lester Bangs but has severely hampered any subsequent rock writers.

Since leaving college, I've had my writing featured in publications as varied as Ugly Things, SF Weekly, Plan B, NME, Chunklet, Creem Online, the Stranger and Careless Talk Costs Lives. I also won Rolling Stone magazine's 2003 college journalism award for a tour diary I wrote about the Dirtbombs' trip to South-By-Southwest that year.

The reason I think I'm most qualified to write a book about the White Stripes is that I've always intended on doing so. From the early days sneaking into dank Detroit bars, collecting set lists and photocopied flyers off the wall on school nights all the way through worldwide tours, platinum records and TV appearances, I've stood by. Studiously keeping my own archive and mentally filing away every last bit of informational flotsam and jetsam, this band is my life.

The problem is…I've never known quite how to best frame my own personal experiences with the band in terms of writing. It's always felt too massive or too complex for me to even begin to digest or tackle.

The possibility of a 33 1/3rd book was like a beacon from heaven. I don't need to worry about or focus on the band's early years or any tabloid fodder. That's a different story for a different time. The story that I can tell is that of a band caught right on the precipice of decent indie rock notoriety teetering onto outright worldwide recognition…roughly, from the time of recording White Blood Cells in February 2001 until touring of the record ceased in October of 2002, with two triumphant gigs opening for the Rolling Stones and a performance on Saturday Night Live.

I think most famous artists will agree that the most exciting period of their careers was that precipice…when things just started to pick-up, where each day held a fresh, new and usually surreal experience that, after awhile, could (or would) easily become rote and commonplace. And that is why although I think Icky Thump is their best record, Elephant the fan-favorite and Get Behind Me Satan the most shrouded in mystery, White Blood Cells is the exciting record, the one most-deserving to be fleshed-out into a cohesive, well-informed book.

Return to Recent eBay Losses...

2009-05-01T11:36:00.002-04:00

YOUNG SAVAGES GARAGE 45 ON DYNAMIC SOUNDS 2006! HEAR IT
Your max bid: $37.77
# of bids: 8
Ending price: $38.77

Never underestimate the power of a soundclip in an auction. I've put so many uninspired, runner-up bids on rerun45's auctions after hearing soundclips that I feel like he owes me money. No regrets on losing this one.

Garage - The Driving Stupid -"Horror Asparagus Stories"
Your max bid: $67.77
# of bids: 33
Ending price: $67.97

Hipped to this by the Horrors fanzine of the same name. How it never made it to a Back from the Grave comp I'll never know. And this was just for the one-sided promo version? Serial eBay overpricer craigmoerer has the stock issue available as a $175 Buy-It-Now which is absurd, although I still desperately want this gem.

1960s Garage 45 ASCOTS Who Will It Be? FRAT B.F.T.G.
(Reserve Not Met)
Your max bid: $466.66
# of bids: 6
Ending price: $360.00

Next to Lee Marvin Computer Arm, the only other respectable thing to ever come out of Waterford, Michigan is the Ascots. Perpetually available in Barry Wickham's mail auctions for the convenient price of $998, the quantity find of mint, unplayed copies has killed the value of this record. I was hoping to cash in and my max for this VG++ copy was more than $100 over what anyone else wanted to pay for it. Emailed and asked what his reserve was and if he wanted to sell outside of eBay. No response.

Woven Bones Hozac Hookup Club Black Lips Blank Dogs
Your max bid: $8.87
# of bids: 13
Ending price: $51.00

I'd heard a track on their Myspace that I dug and thought I might be able to get this easy. I was wrong. Is this absurd for a record that was just released this year? For a band that's not even that well-known?

Idle Times Hozac Hookup Club Black Lips Blank Dogs
Your max bid: $7.77
# of bids: 10
Ending price: $26.00

I clearly should have joined the Hozac Hookup Club when I had the chance. Not one to sleep on singles club invites, when Hozac sent the list of upcoming artists for this, I recognized not one that I had to have. In the interim, I've found out about 3 (so far) that I'm bummed I didn't jump on.

Dutchess and Duke Hozac Gold 69/150 Tyvek Black Lips
Your max bid: $29.99
# of bids: 10
Ending price: $30.00

Got screwed out of a gold version of this because I'd failed to include what record I wanted with my paypal payment to Hozac. Even more reason for the standardization of Paypal shopping carts the internet over. I'm totally smitten with this band and otherwise would feel no compunction in paying this much just for color vinyl and derivative artwork.

CLIX RECORDS STORY 31-cut CD Michigan rockabilly label
Your max bid: $13.33
# of bids: 3
Ending price: $13.83

A rockabilly label from Troy, Michigan? Sure, I'll bite. Got a copy for my bid price when the seller relisted. Have yet to listen to. Artwork is shoddy and liner notes nil. A bootleg.

A NUMBER OF NAMES Skitso/Sharevari QUALITY/RFC 12"
Your max bid: $33.33
# of bids: 11
Ending price: $52.00

The only place to find A Number of Names classic "Skitso" is on the Canadian release of their seminal "Sharevari" single. I'd plunked down a C-note on an original Capriccio 12" in post-fire retail therapy but am now terribly anxious to actually hear what I believe to be their only other song.

MAJESTICS Class A ULTRA RARE DISCO/FUNK/RAP 45 mp3
Your max bid: $111.11
# of bids: 13
Ending price: $393.00

Bid because I was erroneously told it was a Detroit record. Turned out to be from Milwaukee and my interest plummetted. A peculiar record in that it's sought after by modern soul collectors for the A-side and early rap collectors for it's B-side.

BLUE HAZE W/BIG Z KILLER MICHIGAN GARAGE INSTRO 45!
Your max bid: $44.44
# of bids: 6
Ending price: $77.88

Another case of rerun45 enchanting me with Michigan 7"s with soundclips. I've probably spent more money with this seller (through both eBay and record fairs) than any other in my life. He consistently turns up great shit and I've been known to pay top dollar for...uh, shit?

BMW - ROCK THE HOUSE DETROIT BLUE ROSE RAP 12" HEAR
Your max bid: $202.22
# of bids: 8
Ending price: $204.72

Have you noticed how often I'm the second highest bidder in these auctions? Too often. It's way better to lose by a mile than by a hair. I guess now I can let the cat out of the bag and say that I think the Blue Rose label is the genesis of the rap scene in Detroit. I was hoping I was the only one hip to this stuff, but obviously there's people as equally enamored as I am. Bid on this was overcompensating for losing the 12" below.

BMW - CHILLIN DETROIT RAP ON BLUE ROSE RARE 12" HEAR
Your max bid: $333.33
# of bids: 11
Ending price: $338.33

Both of these BMW 12"s were sold by a record store in Detroit that I frequent and frequently ask them to hit me up if Blue Rose/weird Detroit rap comes in. They put them up on eBay. I can't say that I'm mad, they clearly got a buttload of dough for them. But I can point to this as a reason that record stores are dying. No, it's not putting records for auction online (that's one of the few lifebloods still flowing). It's lack of connection with customers. Had the seller contacted me (and yes, they have my info) and asked for $500 for both of these 12"s, I most likely would have taken that offer. And granted, it brings into the equation all kinds of unpredictable variables that can only really be determined once the record is listed (or as the seller said to me "rolling the dice"). Here the human-to-human interaction level is removed and the possibility of finding sweet-ass records at physical stores diminishes, to the point where I will soon not bother going into their storefront and instead merely peruse their auction list. While this is great for the worldwide record collectorate, it does not endear yourself to hometown customers. All that being said, I'm still aching copies for these two BMW 12"s and the Breeze 7" on Blue Rose. Will pay or trade handsomely. Please.

MUDHONEY Street Waves 7" '08 RARE #13/79 SUB POP Punk
Your max bid: $33.33
# of bids: 12
Ending price: $129.50

One of the few bands who I have damn-near everything they've ever done on vinyl. The sleeve enticed me and I thought I'd get it cheap, but I underestimated the dormant Mud collectors out there. I don't even think I've got the non-sleeve version of this 7". I'm slacking in my old age.

Placeholder...

2009-04-30T18:36:00.002-04:00

As I've been busy, just wanted to check in with quick thoughts.

I equally love "Sea Within a Sea" by the Horrors and "Mama's Mad Cos I Fried My Brain" from Turbo Fruits. The 5CD Little Walter comp on Hip-O is bananas. Sonic Youth wins on their split 7" with Beck. More words soon, I promise.

Random Rambling Thoughts on New Kids on the Block Live at the Sommet Center...

2009-03-18T02:46:00.002-04:00

Why did everyone think my going to see New Kids on the Block was a joke? I never was a fan (beyond buying some packs of NKOTB trading cards because they were unbeatable at .25 cents each and I was a sucker for some cards) but with a friend working for them I couldn't resist the opportunity to see what they had to offer live.

First off, if before the show I was pressed to come up with four New Kids' songs that I was familiar enough with to sing along to, I would have quickly failed. So to sit through roughly twenty songs and clearly recognize half of them was a welcome reintroduction to the mass of shit buried in my unconscious. As I said, I was never a fan, but my sister played those damn cassettes religiously, slept on the bed sheets and even went to their concert at the ripe old age of seven (with my DAD, ever the trooper) thus always making me jealous that her first live concert experience was a good six years before mine.

As I look up a list of NKOTB jams, I'm realizing there's a handful more that I could've kept rhythm to that they didn't even play…"Funky, Funky Christmas", "Dirty Dawg" and "This One's For the Children"…and realize how utterly inescapable this group was in my formative years. These guys completely OWNED it during the first Bush administration and apparently I was paying attention enough to never forget. Wikipedia claims they've sold over 80 million records worldwide. That is a shit-ton if there ever was.

The guys put on a genuinely enjoyable show and I don't mean that in an arch-ironic hipster sort of way (but will say I feel vaguely inspired by Carl Wilson/Celine Dion). They are able to maintain your attention for a solid two hours and the thousands of screaming, fake tanned, late Gen-X/early Gen-Y, peroxided women losing their shit in the room not only ups the db's a bit…it adds an unexpected, good-natured humor to it all. The kind of thing where you just sit there and randomly laugh at the absurdity of it all at random points in the concert. I was told there's just something about New Kids that just instantly brings those women to back to the shrieking pre-teens they were some years ago. And while it helped to be told that…it wasn't like it wasn't completely evident while sitting in the crowd. I wondered how the volume compared to that of the Beatles in their heyday or what performer unequivocally has the loudest audience besides that of theater-goers for Barbershop 2? Heyoo!

I like the vague references to more critically acclaimed pop culture throughout the show. Donnie Wahlberg at one point was wearing a Misfits "Crimson Ghost" t-shirt. In a video segment with the instrumental outro of "If You Go Away Girl" they flashed images of "Those We Have Lost" that included Kurt Cobain (decent applause) and Notorious B.I.G./Tupac Shakur together (fucking MONSTROUS crowd reaction).

I also noticed the bass line for "Games" was almost a direct lift from Liquid Liquid's "Cavern"…and sure that bass was popularized by Melle Mel's "White Lines"…but the fact that something as obscure as Liquid Liquid can be made palatable to a generic, Middle American crowd goes to show that cream truly does rise, for better or for worse. Liquid Liquid never got paid for the lift and the legal battles essentially ended the group but now you can hear said approximation live at a Nashville hockey arena. Good times.

I was also wildly surprised to find out that NKOTB's original guru, Maurice Starr, a large, seemingly lovable black man (or at least depicted as so in their Saturday morning cartoon series) was an integral member of the Jonzun Crew…a seminal electrofunk band whose records are a definite must-hear.

Or that "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)" is an unparalleled Philly-soul track from 1970 that was less of a hit for the Delfonics than it was for New Kids. Not only that…it's a classy tune.

Why does it feel like I'm trying to find reasons to justify being at a New Kid's show?

Conversely, the songs' lyrics are particularly more dreadful with about two decades behind them. The puerile, juvenile, sappy, pappy dreck that severely overuses the word "girl" ultimately comes off as an 8th rate Michael Jackson imitation. The soporific instrumentation (those faked keyboard string sections!) is equally as retching and I dare you to find a fan of triggered drums.

It's hard facing the fact that this is how most Americans (hell, most people everywhere) experience live music. In big, oversized barns with no regard for acoustic quality. Once, maybe twice a year. At inflated ticket prices. Miles away from the artist. I get the feeling these people, on the whole, do not know what they are missing.

They are not exposed to smaller-level artists (with traditional radio and television outlets all exposing FEWER artists than ever) and are thus that much less likely to experience more intimate performances. To put on an impressive show in an arena you really do have to up the production value…video screen, pyrotechnics, back-up dancers…and with the added production you add to your costs, thus ballooning the ticket prices.

I'm not saying the world would be a better place if more people went to small clubs to check out music. I just think that a majority of people would sincerely enjoy it. It seems a large percentage of the population genuinely enjoy music and in turn derive pleasure for seeing it live. Yet it's something that most people take part in so infrequently that it's almost heartbreaking.

I suspected the key of some songs was changed to accommodate the fact that voices have changed in the past twenty years and wonder if anyone else noticed. The omnipresent, monosyllabic chanting vocals (see "Hangin Tough", "The Right Stuff" and "Games") seemed like it was an attempt at New Kid's "hook" or "thing" as much so as a fresh rap from Donnie Wahlberg or wicked falsetto from Joey McIntyre. Certainly there's enough of a cultish edge to their fans that getting them to just grunt along is hardly a challenge.

It was awkward that Wahlberg non-consecutively kissed (on the lips) no less than four women from the crowd. It was badass they let Jordan and McIntyre perform the hits from their solo careers and I particularly enjoyed "Give it To You" with its syncopated start/stops. It was no surprise I spotted no more than twenty men in the audience. It was 17 years since their last performance in Nashville.

It seemed that their dance routines had not changed in that time. They were still doing the "both hands on belt-buckle and shake legs like an Elvis clock" thing for "The Right Stuff" and a few other moves that seemed sneakingly familiar. It brings up a bevy of questions…first, if these are the same routines, how much did they remember after 17 years? If nothing at all, do they employ the same choreographers? If not, do they refer to videos of old performances and take notes? Who in the New Kids' camp is the keeper of old performance vids? What are their band meetings like? How do they split their $18 million gross from the first leg of the tour? How come this is so incoherent? What am I trying to prove here? Does any of this make any sense? Are you with me?

I guess, in short, being in a different town made me want to try different things.

(Does anyone else remember Hard Copy story from the era where a runaway/kidnapped girl was supposedly spotted in the crowd of the "Hangin' Tough" video? How did that story end up?)

Jams I DJ'd Wednesday Night...

2009-03-14T19:48:00.004-04:00

All played from original issue 7"s...

The Monks - Complication
The Stooges - I Wanna Be Your Dog
MC5 - Looking at You (A-Square version)
The One Way Streets - Jack the Ripper
Crime - Hot Wire My Heart
Nirvana - Love Buzz
Kack Klick - One More Day, One More Night
Psycho Surgeons - Horizontal Action
Tyvek - Duck Blinds
The Gories - Baby Say Unh!
The Velvet Underground - White Light/White Heat
Nick and the Jaguars - Ich-I-Bon #1
Sonic Rendezvous Band - City Slang (stereo)
Ralph Nielsen and the Chancellors - Scream
Beck - Gamma Ray
The Monks - Cuckoo
Dansette Damage - NME
? and the Mysterians - 96 Tears (Pa-Go-Go version)
The Victims - TV Freak
The Buzzards - The Shiver

ATP 2008 The Year of Touring is Finally Fucking Over...

2009-02-16T16:32:00.005-05:00

(Exactly one year ago today the Dirtbombs started off 2008 with a record release show at the Magic Stick in Detroit. There was an eviction notice on our practice space that day. Surprisingly, we didn't get kicked out and besides omitting "I Hear the Sirens" from our set of the entire album front-to-back, everything went off without a hitch.

After the show, Ralph, the night manager of the Magic Stick appeared backstage with champagne to celebrate the occasion. It was unexpected and decidedly classy and honestly, the only time in my life I've ever thought alcohol tasted good. The Magic Stick has always done right by the Dirtbombs.)

Seemed like we drove all day to get to Berlin after dark. I bought a monkey calculator along the way…equally offended and enthralled by the tin toy's mere existence. The show was lively and refreshing…the crowd mobilized and vibrant was a welcome reaction. Zack jumped into the mass at some point and came down hard on his ankle. I kept telling the dude he should be doing pre-game stretches.

After the show we're backstage and Zack's looking for some ice for his ankle. Somehow this leads to an argument between him and Ko. Then, with a bottle of Coke in-hand, he was looking for a bottle opener. Unable to find one, he slammed the bottle to the ground out of frustration and it exploded into hundreds of tiny little pieces. Part of me thought, "Wow…barely been on tour two months and he's already turning into a rock star." I said nothing, as I'm wont to do in such situations, and an argument between Z and Pat soon developed.

Their argument didn't really resolve. I talked to some fans onstage after the show and some dick literally lights a match under my ass. I go off on him, posing hypothetical parental questions like "Do you think that's funny?" and "What's wrong with you?" until I angrily grab his arm and forcibly remove him from the establishment.

At the hotel Pat knocks on our door asks Zack into the hallway and picks up where the argument had left off. I'm nervous because the volume of their exchange is too much for a modest German hotel hallway at 3am, but also excited because it's so seldom that actual verbal confrontations happen in this band. I forget how it ends, but I was clearly entertained for a few minutes.

The Paradiso and its surrounding neighborhood in Amsterdam are so familiar at this point that they fail to feel like foreign land. After soundcheck Mick and I do an interview for an upcoming documentary titled "It's A Long Way to the Top…" and our general demeanor is one of negativity.

The show was fine. Spent time afterward looking over the prospective layout of an upcoming White Stripes fan website and then hoofing it over to our hotel. Had an expensive telephone call and, unable to sleep and the Internet failing to interest me, I went down early for breakfast, at lots of toast, cereal and orange juice and then tramped around town.

(Live photo from Amsterdam...the best Zack has ever looked on-stage)

Hit up my favorite antique store and bought some cool prints from the early 1900's. Found a familiar vintage clothing store and bought a new striped Breton sweater made by the same company (Pop) that made the Dirtbombs' matching jackets from the cover of If You Don't…

Basically, time off in Amsterdam to walk around was refreshing and therapeutic. I could gather my thoughts and scatter them simultaneously. The layout of the city and relevant landmarks (Paradiso, Febo, massive postcard store, outdoor stall selling tulip bulbs) are permanently burned into my brain, yet I'm still able to explore and discover new places.

Our final show in Antwerp was mostly forgettable. I do remember ordering a steak "medium-well" and having it served to me bloody. I also remember a guy in a wheelchair at the front of the stage, totally into our jam.

On our drive through the UK back to London a solid argument about the merits of liquor-license requirements in the city of Detroit and heavy-handed enforcement thereof. We find Zack is not one to back down or let go of an argument and in the midst of all this we were pulled over.

The constable who stopped us expressed concern that our vehicle was overweight. He checked the limit on the inside of the driver's door and shook the frame of the vehicle a bit with his hands. We all had a good laugh and then followed the cop back to the nearest weigh station where we indeed were a good 800 pounds overweight.

Zack "Smash the State" Weedon remarked "I bet your on the cops side, right?"

According to our tour manager Matthew, if our van in this situation was overweight, then almost anyone who ever rents any van of the same size is overweight. We barely had anything with us. Jeez, and SVT alone would put that shit in the red. As we left the weigh station Matthew says we have to go to a car park and somehow jettison the offending 800 pounds before we can continue on our way.

What.the.fuck. How in the hell are we supposed to do this? 800 pounds? That's like a drumset and two bass players? What in the shit are we supposed to do to get the rest of the offending weight home? We certainly can't discard the Guinness, Matt would throw a fit. We are racking our brains trying to figure out how to make this work, all the while Matthew's still driving along the motorway. After a good twenty minutes or so, he lets us in on the fact that he was fucking with us. Well-played.

We had minor time to kill in London and I used it to walk around a street market and buy Jammie Dodgers. From there we walked to the Agency Group's offices and got paid in a room lined with Pink Floyd gold records. Off to Finchley to drop off the gear and then reconvene at casa de Viner to tie-up the rest of our loose ends.

Ma and Pa Viner were back from the hospital where their first grandchild was just born that day. They wanted to celebrate and popped open the celebratory champagne and fancy Italian cheese. We stayed at a hotel outside Heathrow that night, took a shuttle to the airport the next morn and I personally bought $60 worth of UK candy bars before an easy flight to an uneasy home. But really, I think of the tour ending there in the familiar kitchen in Finchley, everyone happy and congratulatory with a toast of champagne, just like it had started.

2008: A Year in Numbers

Trips to the Emergency Room – 1
Trips to museums – 2
Significant, reconsider career-path injuries – 3
In-Store performances – 3
Records released – 5
Tour managers – 6
Shows played – 156
Shows played in NYC area - 9
Bands played with (excluding festivals) – 134
Days off on tour – 29
Flights – 26
Countries visited – 19
Records remaining unreleased – 2
Most people crammed in our van at once – 9
Continents we hung out with the guys from the Datsuns on – 3
Chipped teeth – 1
Trips to the beach – 3
Ferry rides – 11
Times pulled over by the police – 3

(don't look back in anger)

MFIC: A Closer Look at the Musical Taste of Detroit Mayor Ken Cockrel Jr...

2009-01-29T18:45:00.002-05:00

I'll forgive the guy for spelling Pasty Cline's name wrong, not including a thunderbolt in listing those guys who wrote "Dirty Deeds: Done Dirt Cheap" and adding an unnecessary "e" for Alicia Keys. Otherwise, I don't think Detroit has ever been in more-capable hands. Did he seriously just name drop Gang of Four and Black Flag? The last band on his list ain't too shabby either. Taken from his questionnaire posted at www.metrotimes.com/news/story.asp?id=13664 and I haven't felt so happy in quite some time.

"I like too (much) music to pick a favorite but if I was stuck on a desert island I'd want an Ipod loaded with a generous helping of Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Johnny Cash (especially "At Folsom Prison"), Patsy Kline(sic), Marvin Gaye, Pink Floyd, the Who, ACDC, Peter Frampton (specifically "Frampton Comes Alive"), Foghat, The Clash, Gang of Four, Joy Division, New Order, Black Flag, Public Enemy ("Fear of a Black Planet" changed my life), Ice Cube, Run DMC, Tupac, DMX, Jay Z, Notorious B.I.G., Moby, The Chemical Brothers, DJ Shadow, The Crystal Method, Lil Jon and the East Side Boys, Alicia Keyes, Jill Scott, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, and last but not least Detroit's own Dirtbombs."

ATP Part Four: The Worst Possible Phone Call...

2009-01-11T23:25:00.003-05:00

We get into Oslo early and the town is nipple-twistingly cold. Freezing…as in "this place is far too north for civilization" bone-numbing, hate-your-life frost. For some reason this made me feel like I should shave off my beard and just as I had that thought I noticed a classic, old-school, old-man type barber shop outside the van window, as if beckoning to me and my facial follicle folly. I put a pin on that location of my mental map of Oslo with hopes of trekking back there to get clean, but by the time we arrived at the hotel, we were beyond feasible walking distance. A cursory internet search of "Oslo barber" possibly even with "old-school" attached failed to turn up my white whale.

Instead, the fellas in the touring party hopped up the street to an army surplus store. All I can say is if ever given the chance to visit this kind of establishment, in Oslo, you really must. While their vintage regalia is jaw-droppingly expansive (Mick scored a pin from the 1936 Berlin Olympics) it's the inclusion of all types of broadswords, chain mail, full-body armor and other assorted Viking recreations that truly do take you into a mystic mind wonderland of elf slaying and wench-napping.

From there we skipped across the street to one of the most expansive post card shops I've ever seen. The mere size and scope of their stock was paralyzing so much so in that I did not buy a single thing. It was located in a collection of assorted antique/junk shops all sharing a similar plaza/courtyard. The band coterie split at this point as Pat and I got separated from Mick and Zack and went to find the Munch Museum on our own.

I was particularly tired that day and felt somewhat pressured into hitting the museum and the main thing pushing me to go was being able to cross Edward Munch's The Scream off the "Classic Paintings I've Viewed In Person" checklist. I mean, I was already in Oslo, it was (just barely) walking distance from the hotel…I'd be a fool not to.

So Pantano, armed with a city map, ably guided us to the Munch Museum. Back in 2004 it was the site of a brazen, broad daylight robbery where without much force two men stole The Scream and Madonna off the wall and seemingly pulled off one of the higher-profile art heists in recent memory. Both paintings were eventually recovered and after the museum was shuttered for ten months and a $6 million security update both works were put on display to the public again earlier this year.

As we enter the museum an older woman at the counter smiles and says to me "Let me guess…you're here for the Nobel Prize awards?" My laughter was uncontrollable. While I knew the Scarlett Johansson/Diana Ross hosted ceremony would be taking place in Oslo in mere days, it was the idea that, to her, my long-haired, scruffy-faced visage said to her "Nobel Prize."

"No," I responded, "actually the complete opposite…I'm here with a rock band." We made small talk about the club we were playing and having been to town twice before and the good-natured folks there seemed genuinely interested that some fools from an under-the-radar American rock band would choose to visit their museum.

Our trip through the collection was enjoyable. We caught up with Mick and Zack and were able to view a large selection of Munch's works spanning mainly the early portion of his career. The recreation of his scandalous Berlin showing was interesting in trying to discern what exactly was scandalous about it all…apparently his work appeared "unfinished" to the old guard and to display it was a travesty that ultimately worked in Munch's favor as the resultant press/closing of the exhibit enabled him to keep showing his work elsewhere in town.

As we exited the redone Berlin expo we were right back at the front desk/gift shop. With Zack standing there I tell him "I think we missed something…" to which he replied "It's not here."

Fucking hell. Nothing against Munch and his museum, but I really only came to see
The Scream and was under the impression, from what I'd read online, that it was on display there. I hereby declare this the first time I've been royally screwed by Wikipedia.

The kind women at the front desk go on to tell us The Scream is on display at the National Gallery and give us directions how to get there, oblivious to the fact that we've no energy for ANOTHER museum this day. They excitedly get us to sign their guestbook, complete with a picture of us printed from our website taped to the page.

As a sign of gratitude they give us one copy of a lux Taschen Munch book "to share." Hadn't they ever seen the Radioactive Man #1 episode of "The Simpsons"? This can only end in disaster, barring us taping the spine of the book to the tour van floor so that is always accessible during those mind-erasing long drives.

From there we traipse around a little neighborhood we're told has lots of interesting vintage shops and the like, but all I really remember is how fucking cold it was. Seriously, the shit was bananas…frozen bananas.

Back at the hotel with nary a minute to spare before lobby call. We're waiting for Zack and he's not around so we head to the club and load-in without him. Matt goes back to the hotel a little later and grabs Zack, we soundcheck and I sleep until it's time for us to play. Our show was decent, if vaguely unmemorable on this drummer's end.

On to Gothenburg where the venue-prepared food gave everyone in the band diarrhea. Again, 'twas cold beyond belief and while no opening band was quite a bonus, the crowd was dead and the encore we played was unnecessary. Talked with some locals who've made a handful of vacations to Detroit and promised to tell all their acquaintances (local club owners and bartenders) they say "hi."

Reading Vanity Fair while eating candlelit breakfast solo was the high-point of time spent in G-burg.

The snowy, morale-killing drive to Stockholm was only saved by the remote possibility that Pelle from the Hives would possibly be at the show. Luckily, not only did Pelle show up and chat with us, but the club was happily packed and the crowd went apeshit in a moshpit sort of way that made Zack's eyes light up. We played magnificent and it helped redeem us from the bummer in Gothenburg.

Stayed up all night in Stockholm basement hotel room cruising the internet. Went to free breakfast at 7am and ate so much bacon that I think I smelled like a pig pen. The hotel was stylishly modern in that Scandinavian way and it made me feel all the more important while shoving yogurt mixed with granola into my face.

I slept most of the six hour drive from Stockholm to Lund, leaving the van only once to buy some ice cream.

We arrived at the club and my phone buzzed with a call from the Shopinski's, the family that lives next door to my mom's house. I was confused, but let it go to voice mail, still groggy from the drive.

As I slowly began to process the information, I realized that for them to be calling me was peculiar and before I could call them back they were ringing me again.

There'd been a fire at my mom's house. Both her and my brother went to the hospital for smoke inhalation and were expected to be alright and they needed my permission, being of the family, to start the emergency boarding up of the house.

To describe the thoughts racing through one's head at this moment is pretty difficult. It really does feel surreal, like it's all happening in a bad dream and that you just can't wait to wake-up. Trying to imagine the house I grew up in, where ALL my shit still is, on fire, in need of boarding up, it's not really sad, it's just confusing, unexpected and being stuck in Sweden thousands of miles away just left me feeling utterly helpless.

I called my dad and he was on his way there. I called my sister and she didn't answer her phone. I sat and waited as my stomach turned knots on itself. My dad called once he arrived and somberly said "It'll be a long-time before someone's staying at 3424 (the street address)" and it just pierced my heart.

He handed the phone to my Uncle Steve who gave me a brief rundown of the damages (two front rooms, burned, badly…pretty much all of my books destroyed) and asked what of mine needed to be taken from the house for safe-keeping.

The first thing to come to mind was the "fire" boxes, two high-quality, wooden 45 carrying cases, one with all of my White Stripes 7"s and the other with all the most-expensive, least-replaceable singles in my collection.

They're called the "fire" boxes because I so often tell anyone who'd listen that, in case of a fire, grab those two boxes and we won't need to worry about paying for another house and only be partially kidding. The fire was so intense that my brother had to climb out a basement window (just like he used to in high school so he could sneak out and drink) and my mom had a carbon monoxide level of 20% in her lungs, so they could be forgiven for forgetting about the boxes.

After those boxes, I couldn't really muster anything that absolutely HAD to be saved. While there are thousands of LP's and other singles, it all seemed pretty unimportant at that point. They're just records. I remembered my fire-proof safe, filled with years of hand-written journals and one-of-a-kind White Stripes paper ephemera. It's heavy as fuck and partially obscured from view, so I didn't even think it'd be an issue…it could just sit in the house for a couple of days until I got home.

My uncle Steve then offered the possibility of some punks busting into the house after it's boarded up, looking to run off with some shit and just tearing the place up. And that's what really messed with my head. The fire, the damage, the loss…that was all easy to cope with. But the idea of people breaking into the singed house and going through my shit…the mere possibility of that violation made me want to vomit.

I would call back a little while later, after soundcheck, and subsequently tell him to take anything that was already in boxes, which includes a good chunk of 45's, more White Stripes goodies, all of my photos, massive amounts of post cards and other stuff that I'm probably forgetting.

I wouldn't eat anything the rest of the day. I talked to my sister, living in Chicago, and told her if she needed anything to get home (money, credit card, etc) to just let me know and I could take care of it. I talked to various aunts and uncles, all concerned and wanting to know if there was anything they could do to help. It's times like this where one really cherishes being part of a big family. Petty differences and squabbles are instantly put aside and instead they come together to get through the adversity.

I managed to get through the show that night, but clearly my mind was elsewhere. It was the same place we ended the Euro Stoltz tour of '06 and I remember an equally small and tepid crowd back then. After a perfunctory encore I went backstage and continued the litany of phone calls and text messages with family back in Detroit.

Zack let me take larger, non-top-bunk bed in the room that night, clearly sensitive to the fact that I'd had a rough day.

ATP Part Three: "We Should've Ended at ATP..."

2009-01-06T02:39:00.001-05:00

Rotterdam was fine. Played some Star Wars video pinball with Pat to pass the time. Didn't watch the first opening band, Beyond Lickin', and the second, Dead Letters was one of the more confused, offensive things I've seen of late.

Our set was ordinary and the crowd enjoyed it, but once backstage some uttered the slogan for the rest of our time in Europe, "We should've ended at ATP." It didn't seem like that big a deal when we'd booked the gigs, but now in the middle of it all it was clear. Why would you go to the equivalent of rock and roll summer camp for all kinds of fun and hang out time and then follow that with MORE shows? Ugh.

From Rotterdam to Hamburg, home of the Reeperbahn, where sex shops, prostitutes, gambling and all other naughty possibilities abound. We've reached a level of recognition at the Molotov club where our name is included in the list of "notable" bands that have played there and have their name painted above the front entrance. That's a good sign, right? It feels like we're family, coming home for the holidays.

With time to kill after load-in/soundcheck, I decide to sample the cornucopia of delights the neighborhood had to offer. It only takes a few minutes in a German sex shop for me to realize how milquetoast or vanilla I really am. I mean…this stuff would make Marilyn Manson say "Whoa, hey, why don't you tone it down there a little?"

With no desire for life-sized rubber fists or stud-encrusted ball-gags, I made my way to the outdoor holiday market, festively decorated with Christmas lights and the inviting smell of food being cooked over open fires all the complete opposite of what one would expect in this civic municipality of inequity. So I found myself surprised when I unknowingly walked into the "adult" section of the market only to stumble upon, I shit you not, a stall selling wooden vibrators.

At this point, I call "too far" and order all guilty sex toy manufacturers back to their respective "time-out" corners to sit and think about what their service to society is. Have we come so far that…these things need to be made out of wood? Is this the "greening" of the sex industry or the opposite of it? I hate a world where I am now saddled with the knowledge that such a peculiar object even exists. I want to quit life at this point.

Before we hit the stage we all got individual pizzas to eat after the show. As we sat there waiting for who-in-the-hell remembers what, I got the nerve to munch and minutes later found myself with no pizza left and being prodded to hit the stage. For some inexplicable reason, I find this hilarious.

Molotov was packed and I felt we kinda blew it. There were some tuning issues for a good portion of the set and I just didn't feel that "oomph" that usually permeates the friendly, constricting confines of Molotov. Mick attempted to bring ladies onstage to dance during "Theme" but it didn't work out too well and it just becomes excruciating seeing him struggle with that task.

Upon completion of the main set we were locked out of our own dressing room, left to stand there in the crowd, thumbs-up-our-butts, until we somehow managed to unlock the "Being John Malkovich"-sized door. We reluctantly came back for an encore and "Sherlock Holmes" suffered from Mick's mic shorting out, Zack stopping playing bass to bring HIS mic over to Mick, said mic engaging Mick's synth pedal all resulting in an all-encompassing feeling of embarrassment to wash over me and most likely my bandmates as well.

After a somewhat redeeming "I Can't Stop Thinking About It" complete with a floorshow from the stage-right drummer, we retreated (this time easily) backstage. The roar for more songs was insistent and in our minds uncalled for. Really? We deliver a steaming pile of shit and you still want more? Ok. We ended with "Granny's Little Chicken" and I played the entire song on the floor. From there, the crowd was either satisfied or fed up with our act and we sat backstage in peace.

Until this loud, brash, annoying voice keeps booming through complaining that we didn't play "Pretty Princess Day" to the point where the dude yelling it actually got backstage and I got within seconds of confronting him to say "Who in the FUCK are you?"

Turns out it was Jim Hassler, someone I did not know personally, but a Detroit rock veteran who did time in Cum Dumpster (Finally! a reason to mention them here) and was along for the Gories' entire implosive 1992 European tour as he was Peg's boyfriend at the time. He and Mick talked at length and I merely wished I had another pizza to eat.

Lodging that night was provided at the Molotov's "punk but tidy" apartment a few miles away. The shower was traditional Euro removable nozzle head. These are almost always lacking a hook or attachment to suspend from and instead find the bather trying to awkwardly complete a shower with use of only one hand.

This punk flat would prove to be no exception. But with my MacGyver-like skills, I manage to precariously wedge the nozzle behind some unidentified plastic box structure and I bathe with relative ease. I tell the rest of the band to thank me later.

With everyone tired and Mick's snoring at a fever pitch there was a moment where there were five of us (luggage included) squeezed into one room with six beds, all hoping to escape the EARNOSETHROAT resonance emanating from him. But being so entirely cramped in there, I got out and bunked with Mick, rightfully figuring I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway and more so needing an available power outlet to charge my phone and computer.

So I sat and typed and the with the bar downstairs still open and music blaring I couldn't help but listen along to what was being played. At one point a familiar, lilting melody came through the system and I was racking my brain trying to name the tune. I vaguely discerned the lyrics "and I'll always love you" and fed them through Google and iTunes with no help.

With no recourse, I got fully dressed and marched down to the bar and confronted the DJ. He pointed to a picture disc copy of Thurston Moore's Trees Outside the Academy and the track "Honest James" and I thanked him, told him he was playing good jams and marched back upstairs to go lay in bed and type as Mick snored next to me.

After Hamburg was a much-needed day off. We first made a short drive to the short ferry that took us to Denmark, which is kind of a short country. With approximately a half-hour to kill, we made way to the pseudo-anarchist/hippie/off-the-grid commune of Christiania, located smack dab in the middle of Copenhagen.

Started in the late 1960's and situated around abandoned army barracks, the space is most widely known for Pusher Street, an avenue in the middle of the place where an open drug market at one time flourished. Marijuana, mushrooms, hash (and probably more) were indiscreetly sold in stalls on Pusher Street, supposedly controlled by the Russian mob.

The Dirtbombs played the Loppen club in Christiania in 2002 and since that time there was marked increase in police presence and while every time I've heard anything about the place since then it's always been along the lines of "the Danish government finally shut 'em down." Seriously, I must've heard that at least a half-dozen times in as many years.

So I'm here to report that on the surface, Christiania is alive and well. The only visible difference is that there seems to be no more narcotics dealing on Pusher Street. That feels good to say and apparently the residents there feel the same way, as the drug trade detracted away from the original tenets and purpose behind the inception of the place.

We didn't get much done in our half-hour…there was an indoor holiday market where I contemplated for 5 minutes whether or not to buy a bootleg White Stripes DVD from the Icky Thump tour and ultimately decided against it.

From Copenhagen we'd take an overnight ferry to Oslo on a ship fully equipped with sleeping cabins, several restaurants, bars, dance clubs, a movie theater and a wide-range of other crap to offer. Once inside the state room with Pat (bunk beds!) I immediately konked out.

Pat would pop back in later and say that if I was hungry that he'd be eating at the fancy restaurant on board. I demurred and he came back soon after to say that because said establishment only took reservations that he would be eating in 45 minutes…the soonest available opening they had, while empty tables plentiful.

We ordered on note cards that we had to fill out ourselves. I'm sorry, but if I'm eating at a spensive place I certainly am hoping that I'm not required to write anything down or check a box even. My chicken Caesar salad was almost too filling and my steak (the cheapest one they had) was good enough. Matt had given each of us a stipend in Norwegian Kroner for the ferry and mine was completely eaten up by dinner, probably the equivalent of $50. No, I don't think it was worth it.

From dinner back to our quarters where I tried to stomach the over-indulgencies of the Daydream Nation entry in Continuum's 33 1/3rd series. As a die-hard Sonic Youth fan, I recommend all avoid this book at all costs. I'd sleep a little but would spend most of the night awake either staring at the underside of the bunk suspended over me, listening to the Duchess and the Duke on the iPod, reading the wretched SY book or tweaking the intricacies of my White Blood Cells book proposal for Continuum.

After shifting between those activities for hours I noticed my laptop power running low and grabbed for my power cord to plug in. I frantically searched through my man bag, the only place I ever keep the charger, and cannot find it. I get nervous and a little sweaty, if only because I pride myself on not losing shit on tour. With no more power on the PowerBook I just sit and stare for the next hour or so, trying to remember where in the hell I lost the damn thing.

When time to disembark the ship, Zack knocks on our door and hands me my charger saying "It fell out of your bag and I accidentally though it was mine." Granted, it only fell out of my bag in the van, but I still think I can pride myself on the lack of losing things skills. Hell, I'm continually amazed that I've still managed to maintain possession over that little rubber/plastic protective cover for the pointy computer end of my wall charger.

ATP Part Two: The Only Parties I'll Ever Need...

2008-12-31T18:50:00.002-05:00

Awake the next morning and before shoving off in Dublin Zack, Pat and I pay our respects at the Phil Lynott statue. Consider our ode, to this black man, delivered.

Arrival in Galway was marked with rain, as was every other thing we would do for the three days we were in Irish land. Club provided an apartment around the corner, we dropped off our bags there and caught our breath before heading back for soundcheck.

My main memory of this apartment will be having tracked dirty water onto the hardwood floor and not caring about cleaning it up, as there was no matt to wipe my heels on anyway.

Post check we sit around and bask in the glory of free internet at the club. Ventured across the street for a medium pepperoni pizza that was satisfying. Opening band Disconnect4 wasn't my cup of tea and for the 25 or so people there the Dirtbombs were only vaguely theirs.

Post-show rainy load-out and then back to the apartment where Zack, Pat, Ko and I watched a reality show about producing porn movies, "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" and the VH1's "Supergroup" all while downing orange juice and Cadbury chocolate (me) or 3/4's of a big bag of Doritos (Pat).

Woke up early to shower and the joy of having my own room that night was that I also had my own shower. Turn on the faucet and let it run to get the hot water flowing…after twenty minutes it's apparent there's no hot water and the extremity of the cold water (read: biting) means I won't be showering this morn.

Breakfast at Subway, spicy Italian. Worldwide consistency must be admired in a franchise.

I saw approximately two blocks of Belfast. The club was a decent enough place and after soundcheck we checked into our hotel a block away. With absolutely no energy, we nap for the two hours before our set. We play swell enough to warrant an encore, but just barely.

Straight back to the hotel and watching Ewen McGregor's Long Way Down continent-spanning motorcycle trip through Africa that is truly inspiring and interesting and makes me feel that any complaining I have about touring is nothing compared to what these guys have gone through. See also Austin Vince's extraordinary (and earlier) documentaries Terra Circa and Terra Firma. In fact, I need copies of those too if you're looking to cross me off your Christmas list.

Early lobby call at 6:15 so we can make the ferry. All goes well and I space out on the boat while listening to the soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz and I don't recall much else 'til we arrive at the Faversham after dark.

The club was a step above most other English spaces, with attached restaurant, free internet it was seemingly constructed to actually be a performance space. How uncommon. Backstage was ill-lit and crowded, but had a good talk with the Hipshakes (last-minute add-ons to the gig) before they did their high-energy, mid-Nineties Midwest-style garage punk rock. They're released more records I can keep track of and they will only get better with age.

I stayed backstage for thee Vicars, but was told they ended their set by all piling on top of each other, as if we needed to top it.

The first run of the set was not very good…there's been a weird drop-out on one of the strings on Zack's bass and it happens at the oddest and most infrequent times. Mick bungled the intro to "Underdog" and Zack's mic wasn't on for the intro to "Ode to a Black Man". I think there was a string broken somewhere.

At that point, we could've just as easily dialed it in and I'm sure the crowd would not have known any better. We trudged through and it got easier, but by no means a fantastic performance. We redeemed ourselves with a particularly spirited encore which found both drumsets on the dance floor, facing each other with bass drums abutting, rolling off the lilt of "Granny's Little Chicken" to a suddenly juvenated (there was nothing "re" about it) crowd. We'd salvaged it. Yipee.

Stayed that night at some guest house with Rockdentist crashing on the floor. Woke early for breakfast, was told I was too late. Couldn't find bath towels, only once the front desk handed me some did I see the ones in our room (and why they weren't located in the bathroom is beyond me). Password for the Internet didn't work. They made all of us breakfast late as we'd been misinformed as to the time…I rocked beans and toast and jam and orange juice.

Drive to Minehead would be punctuated by us dropping off former tour manager Louisa at the Sheffield train station, as she'd had tequila the night before and couldn't bring herself to make it to ATP with us like she'd planned. Conversation between Zack and I on the reasoning behind record collecting was spirited and civil.

We arrived at the festival after dark and due to my sleeping habits, I wouldn't see daylight at Minehead at all during my time there. We walked into the main room just in time to hear the 1983 version of the Melvins finish their set. Big Business followed them the inevitable momentum loss of blowing an amp, I enjoyed watching them.

We played next and our performance was, in my opinion, flawless. I think we managed to win over some metalheads, which is always an accomplishment.

After breakdown/load-out, we made way to our respective chalets. I don't know what image that conjures to the British, but for me it means a stand-alone cabin with a quaint fireplace, made of wood, somehow related to skiing. At ATP, your chalet resembles a Super 8 motel, one unit tacked next to another in a long line of ticky-tacky little boxes. Apartment, maybe, chalet…come on.

After a hearty beef stew meal at the artists' food compound, made way to check out the bands. The Locust was completely unlike anything I could ever see myself listening to…with costumes. Isis was equally as uninteresting. The two minutes I watched of White Noise looked not to have any qualities resembling intriguing.

Excited for the Meat Puppets, once they started playing I instantly reminded myself "oh yeah…they're like acid country or something." The highlights, not only of the night, but what I'd assume to be their entire catalog, were "Oh Me", "Plateau", "Backwater" and "Lake of Fire."

Discerning eyes will say "But Ben, those are the only Meat Puppets' songs you know." And to that, I cannot argue. But the reason I know them is because those seem to be only songs of theirs that do not have a 3-minute long, noodle-y guitar breakdown tucked smack dab in the middle of something enjoyable. Those four songs are perfect in their succinct, clear and digestible presentation and I didn't mind sifting through their other (read: long) songs to hear them.

I was encouraged by Coady from the Melvins to come and join Porn onstage for their big, noisy finale…to just grab a drum and just start banging sort of thing. He also passed on the hot tip that Thurston Moore would most likely be joining them as well. Hot shit.

Unluckily, my pass only granted me backstage access (or stage access, I guess) to the big room upstairs while Porn was playing the small room downstairs. I had no way to get ahold of anyone to sneak me in, so instead I watched enviously as Thurston jammed drum sticks underneath his bass strings. Sigh.

I was really geeked to catch Os Mutantes. Once I got upstairs to see them I was immediately smacked with the aura of a bad 1970's Las Vegas review. Lots of flashy costumes, bad sound, possible plastic surgery and music that was completely unfamiliar to me found me lasting no more than four songs. Had I the patience to wait another hour and twenty minutes to see "Bat Macumba" and/or the other hit (or if they just put them earlier in the set) I'm sure I'd have been satisfied. Why Sergio Dias' guitar was not the loudest thing in the mix was also befuddling…his fuzztone single-handedly shook the foundation of the Brazilian establishment in the 1960's. His guitar mixed so low was akin to asking Jimi Hendrix to play acoustic.

Skipped out to the cinema to catch Salo as had been recommended by some friends years ago. Let's just say it's not really a rah-rah party time movie. I watched no more than ten minutes before scooting out of there. Spent the rest of the night watching Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. and Schwartzman in Spun and didn't fall asleep until around 5:45am.

I woke up at 5pm and loved it.

Walked in just in time to catch the Melvins set. What a blistering, bad-ass statement as to who's the boss. They focused mainly on shit from the past two albums, save for a sludge-tastic version of "Eyes Flies", and it really warmed my heart. They owned that stage.

The most fun thing about their set was the rest of the Dirtbombs getting to watch them. Ko and Zack had never seen them before, Pat not in 15 years or so. I honestly wouldn't peg ANY of them to like the show, but when I met up with them it was such an uplift to hear ALL of them gush about how much they loved it. The Dirtbombs, as a band, love the Melvins as a band and unanimously agree that they were the best performance of the weekend.

I was really excited to see the Butthole Surfers. I think most people in the room were, but for anyone who never saw them live the first time around it was probably solely based on Michael Azzerad's genius chapter dedicated to them in "Our Band Could Be Your Life." If ever was a piece of writing that could instantly make one adore a band, that is it.

After reading I searched out their early work religiously and when telling a friend I'd recently gotten into them, received the reply "Are into acid now too?"

They were old and boring live and didn't play any songs I recognized. I was hoping for at "Sweet Loaf" at least, but instead just got bad 80's freak rock. The performance soiled my once-high opinion of them. I wish I had not watched them.

I was equally as unimpressed by Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. I didn't think I would recognize any of their songs, but nothing about their performance had the smallest hint of captivation. It was more going-through-the-motions. Lydia Lunch, whom I had perceived to be this razor-sharp, effete queen of the No Wave scene instead came off as a surly, foul-mouthed Jersey housewife cursing out the referee at her son's soccer match.

Back at the Super 8 for dinner (Chinese beef and rice) and spinning records with Rockdentist. Was a good time just laying about not worried about the schedule as there was nothing else that eve I wanted to see, although felt a need to try and check out the Soul Savers with some of the Spiritualized band doing time there.

Instead, I fell asleep. Woke up and Zack, Rockdentist and I ventured to Crazy Horse. En route we were warned of a house gig by a group dubbing themselves Bad Guys, right down the block from our room. The badly British dance party at Crazy Horse was laughable. Points for dropping Saul Williams' "List of Demands" and was cool to chat with Manish from MOJO for a second.

We left quickly, poised to check out the house party. We ran into Jared from the Melvins and told him to follow. By the time we got to the room there were a good Pied Piper amount following. We walked into a solidly packed room where a drummer, guitarist and singer were playing for about twenty people. I was slowly able to get further and further in as people filed out.

I quite liked the music they were playing…the guitarist especially with wicked fuzz leads taking control of it all. After a bit people started to climb in through the window and someone stepped on the plug for the amplifier in doing so, rendering the guitar done for the night.

While dudes fruitlessly tried to fix the plug, someone plugged in an Ipod and started jamming AC/DC. Zack and Jared had climbed through the window at this point and raided the kitchen. Out of nowhere, I feel myself hit by chunks of bread, thrown by those two. More and more people begin to file in through the window and what had started as a full room had quickly turned into a room with absolutely not an extra square foot to move. In a spot that would compare to the size of most people's living room there were roughly thirty freaks, just waiting for something.

Zack and Jared then began throwing handfuls of corn flakes. It seemed to degenerate into complete mayhem at that point. The drummer from Torche had commandeered the kit and began pounding out a crowd-riling rhythm that, when coupled with the background noise of the Ipod, found the room erupt into full-fledged chaos.

People crowd surfing with their bodies mere inches from the ceiling, falling into the drums, any available liquid poured onto the drum skins for maximal mid-Eighties metal video effects, taking long swigs from bottles of booze handed to them by random strangers, immediately vomiting said booze…it was so retarded and exciting and foreign at the same time that all I could do was sit there wide-eyed, smiling, enjoying the absurdity of it all.

After a spell (was it twenty minutes? Forty-five?) it became apparent that this drum explosion would continue whether it actually should or not and our crew dispersed from the scene. I guess it would be another half-hour or so before security would finally show up and shut the thing down. Rumor was that the guys were even saying "Yeah, just come back in ten minutes, we'll have the party going again."

My time spent in the middle of that anarchy was the most fun I'd have the whole weekend and probably my entire year of touring.

With van call at 5am we didn't have much time after the house party to do much else. We packed our bags and said goodbye to Rockdentist as we filed down the long, confusing route to the van. Looking through the window of the party room as we passed by was a handful of the Bad Guys dudes surveying the damages to a table and trying to prop it up so as to hopefully momentarily fool someone into thinking everything was the norm.

Zack had apparently stopped to take photos through some windows and got separated from the rest of the group. Instead of searching us out he went back to our room and waited for us to grab him there. This took about 15 minutes in the 5am freeze. Once we'd gathered our stray little sheep, it was in the van for the interminable drive/ferry to Rotterdam.

All Tomorrow's Parties Part One: Nighting Irish...

2008-12-15T23:06:00.002-05:00

The flights over to London were effortless. Despite the layover in Chicago (I hate indirect flights overseas) we were rewarded with a half-full flight and none of us had to sit next to each other, or anyone else for that matter. I watched most of "The Love Guru" and can't help but contemplate how much Mike Myers' star has fallen.

Baggage and customs went off almost too easily…as if someone was making everything particularly carefree in hopes of sneaking up on us and suddenly requiring us to do calculus equations before allowed entry into the country. Easily found Matthew, our new tour manager over here, and made way to the storage space in Finchley to pick up our equipment.

The dark, dank garage is just as I remembered it…dark and dank. We had trouble remembering what gear, particularly guitar amplifiers, we'd used back in June, but figured that out fairly easily. Of more concern and importance was availability of only one drum set. We'd distinctly left two sets of drums and two assortments of hardware and now there was merely one. We'd later find out the problem, so often the person I look to point a finger at when things go sour in my life: Ben Swank.

So despite Swank's having taken the drums we'd planned on using we sorted things out. Matthew offered up the use of a drum set that was just sitting at his house. Seeing as we had to go back to his home in Sheffield anyway to pick up our merch, this was a relatively quick and easy solve. On our way there, Matthew asks if we like Vitamin Water.

"Yeah, why do you ask?"

"Well, I've got about ten cases of it stacked up in my living room"

With the reality of not having to pay to pay for any V-dubs for the next two weeks it became apparent very early on that Matthew rules.

From his crib in Sheffield to the streets of Bangor and Royal Tandoori curry restaurant. I indulged in chicken korma and garlic nan bread and 'twas heavenly. Pat commented that his chicken tikka masala was the best he'd ever had. We all lay heavy, heavy praise at their doorstep.

We'd crash that night at the Travelodge in Holyhead. Zack and I inexplicably found ourselves watching Samuel L. Jackson's film "SWAT" and after a brief period were physically unable to change the channel. Upon the film's climactic end (SPOILER ALERT: the good guys win) I doze off into dreamland around 11pm.

I awake again at 3:30am and will not be able to fall back asleep before we leave at 7:30am. I lay and stare at the ceiling for an hour, spend another two writing and killing time on my laptop, then spend another hour hoping I may at least get some ounce of sleep before we shove off on the early morning ferry.

I would get no sleep and the ferry would be very anticlimactic, other than Pat's mild hallucinations from the motion of the waves. We arrived in Dublin about 11am with ample time to kill and I led Pat and Zack to the string of record shops I remember finding when in town with Stoltz back in 2006.

I dig Euro shops and their propensity for stocking bootlegs. I thought long and hard about a 2xLP Nirvana boot Seattle Sound Sounds Great (who's name had weirdly been in my heard during part of my two hours of staring at the ceiling the previous evening) but decided against it as I couldn't see myself listening to the thing more than once. But the idea of a vinyl bootleg, to me, seems so counter-intuitive and backwards that I couldn't help but feel like I NEEDED to have it.

I also passed on the bootleg pressing of the White Stripes "Jolene" 7" as I thought 15 euro was a lot to be handing over to out-and-out pirates.

We walked up the block and found ourselves eating at Gallagher's Boxty House. I'd commented that I'd wanted to have some traditional Irish food, Pat recommended the trad seven course meal (a six-pack of Guinness and a potato) but instead we mange on boxty's. I'd understood them to be sort of like a burrito or a crepe…I ordered the Gaelic boxty and that had steak and mushrooms in some rich gravy-type sauce.

The confusing part for me was that the "boxty" bread or pancake or whatever you want to call it, was merely folded over and placed on top of the meat. Nothing was stuffed inside, it wasn't cooked all at once and frankly, its taste didn't seem to match up with its 20 euro price tag.

Unsatisfied, I reluctantly asked for the dessert menu. The sticky toffee pudding was calling my name…not only does the acronym "STP" rule when used for anything other than in-hindsight shitty 1990's alternative bands, but each word individually is something I really enjoy, so coupled together, it was a no-brainer.

Served with a dollop of cream and a side of ice cream, this hot structure of some bread/toffee concoction with a wisp of sugary sauce zig-zagged over it was, by far, the richest and most delectable dessert that I have had in the past ten months of touring. It clearly made up for the lackluster boxty and I wished that I had just ordered three servings of STP as I would've been a much more satisfied customer.

Pat didn't like his boxty either, but his cheese plate dessert, like my STP, also remedied his insufficient main course. Zack got grilled onions/mushrooms and soda bread and enjoyed that just fine.

Feeling invigorated by the glorious end to my meal, I marched back to Borderline Records and ponied up the plastic to get that bootleg Stripes single. Good food can make one change their position on just about anything, don't you think?

Checked into the hotel at 2pm and because the official check-in time was 3pm, had to pay a 10 euro service charge which makes absolutely no sense. The room is sitting there, empty, ready for us to use, what is the reason for charging an extra fee for us to get in there? I call bullshit on you Travelodge of Dublin.

With only one room ready at that time, the four of us in the band who hadn't invented garage rock took to the two twin beds pushed together and crashed hardcore. I thought it was a pretty funny example of how beat we all were, all four of us in a row, konked out, no regard or care for how little room there was to be shared between the mattresses…we'd truly reached a state of extreme comfort (or ambivalence) towards/with each other.

Soundcheck at Whelan's was the most comfortable I've felt while playing drums in recent memory. The tension of the heads, the timbre of their strike, the resonance of their decay…it all sounded (and more importantly FELT) perfect.

Chilled upstairs for a spell before hanging with Sean Earley and crew and shooting the shit. Sean had so graciously designed and printed posters for the Dublin and Galway shows and seemed pretty excited about the gig. I didn't watch the Real Junk before us, but by the time we took the stage there was a sizeable, amped crowd ready for our jam.

We played a tad sloppy. Mick broke a string during the first song and we all seemed to be suffering from some slight disconnect. As if that insight even matters because the crowd loved the shit out of the show. There was a clear affinity for songs off Ultraglide and with the only other time we'd played town being in 2002 I guess it made sense.

Zack took a magnificent spill while standing on top of Pat's bass drum during the breakdown in "Candyass" and we all had a hearty laugh at him taking out a good portion of Pat's kit, but not before Pat moved out of the way to avoid injury and then quickly reassembled the mangled bits to come in right where he was supposed to. It was almost, dare I say, poetic.

Encored with "Can't Stop Thinking About It" and "Granny's Little Chicken" and once I brought my drums onto the main floor it seemed I could do no wrong with the crowd. They adored every last thing I could muster, whether hearty two-handed snare slams posturing as a drum solo or fumbly attempts at Bonham-sized tom flams those Irish freaks made me feel like I was Gene Krupa.

After show I felt no twinge of tiredness and instead cruised the internet for a couple of hours. An email from mom hipped me to some weird celestial happenings in regards to Venus and the gibbous moon and with nothing else better to do at 5:30am, I put my shoes on in hopes of finding those heavenly bodies amidst the orange glow of Dublin street lamps.

Up and down the street, foraying into an alley or too all proved fruitless. Back at the hotel and roof access was apparently restricted by "Emergency-Only" alarmed doors. I ventured to a section of our floor that was under renovation and snuck into an eerily empty open-doored room with hopes of scoping the moon from the window. I had to precariously climb over some boxes and tools to even get to the window, but had no luck in finding any special skyward occurances.

I guess the point of it all was that at least I'd tried. I've never really shown interest in eclipses or anything of that sort, but as I hope is clearly apparent by reading here, more often than not it's the journey, not the destination, that you remember.

TVOTR Part Ten: Finale...

2008-12-07T15:22:00.001-05:00

Arrival at Jupiter Hotel was late and through some possibly illegal methods, I discover that the Breeders are lodging there that evening as well.

The Ben Blackwell of 2002 in this situation would have shit his pants followed immediately by the cleaning of said shit pants and a surreptitious casing of the joint to find which room Kim Deal was staying in. Once I determined what room, I would nervously stare at its door for a half-hour before slipping a Dirtbombs CD accompanied by a hand-written note underneath. My heart rate would rise. I would feel like I'd accomplished something.

The Ben Blackwell of 2008 was tired and went to sleep.

Woke up early to enjoy as many of the Portland delights as possible. Voodoo Donuts delivered with its trusty, yummy morning goodness (a cruller and a bacon-covered maple log) and an exploratory visit into Powell's was nice and quick and left me prepared for later.

Would spend time walking dogs and waiting in the parking lot of BMW repair shop to finish the replacement of a broken headlight all while sitting on the concrete and discussing the individualistic perils and pet peeves of the touring musician. Grilled cheese lunch at the restaurant attached to the Jupiter was sufficient.

After lunch I was dropped off at Powell's. I picked up three books in the 33 1/3rd series…DAYDREAM NATION, KICK OUT THE JAMS and the self-titled Ramones record. I also got a book about the cultural history of blue jeans, another about the influx of amateur content creators and the supposed negative effect it's having on culture, vis a vis blogs and other new media (a text Mick dubbed "reactionary"), the thick, non-Stevie Chick Sonic Youth bio and a New York Times almanac-type tome called their "Guide to Essential Knowledge."

Was surprised they did not have a copy of Sugrue's ORIGIN OF THE URBAN CRISIS and still need to grab a copy for myself.

Walked to Berbati's for soundcheck and after that partook in a healthy debate about documentarians and their possible love/detachment from their subjects, in regards to people like Rodney King, Errol Morris, Michael Moore and others. After an entire month of relentless Ian Mackaye, vegan, straight-edge and "new guy in the band" barbs, it took my questioning of Zack's pronunciation of "Truman Capote" (which, to me, sounded like "Truman Compote") for him to finally go off.

It seems the hazing is finally complete.

Little Claw opened and was glad to see them. Wasn't expecting the violin and wish there were a tad more people to see them, but I enjoyed it and that's all that matters. Didn't watch as much of Eat Skull as I should've, but it seemed like the line-up was, barring one person, completely different from the one I'd seen in Detroit in September.

While not expecting much from the show I think all of us in the band were pleasantly surprised. It seemed the crowd in Portland had come to dance. Such is a beautiful sight from the stage. We'd forgotten that when headlining our own shows, as opposed to opening for other groups, people actually know what they're in for and have showed up (usually) expressly for your performance. It's a nice thing to be reminded of every once in awhile.

While loading out after the show made my second trip of the day to Voodoo Donuts and bought an Old Dirty Bastard…a chocolate donut with bits of Oreo cookie on top and some peanut butter (as a topping? Filling? I cannot remember) and it might be the best donut I've had there yet. Zack was excited about vegan donuts available at 2am.

Breakfast the next morn at the hotel restaurant was scrumptious and crowded and still left me with an overwhelming desire to play the Doug Fir lounge downstairs. Made a third visit to Powell's after that and bought 33 1/3's IN THE AEROPLANE OVER THE SEA.

Drove straight to the club, Chop Suey, in Seattle and enjoyed the fact that I could order Chinese food from a little kitchen situated inside the club. I thought the meal was tasty but my bowels seemed to disagree a little while later. Has anyone ever followed these "eat right for your blood type" recommendations? Just now in life I've begun to realize that particular foods have an adverse effect on my insides and that maybe I could prevent it.

Didn't watch the opening acts and instead spent time catching up with Henry from Chunklet who happened to be in town promoting his new book "The Rock Bible." We, as a band, bought four copies. Ko had apparently already received one for free. He also came up with the single best Zach joke yet.

Q: What's the difference between a straight-edge vegan and a bucket of shit?

A: You can at least party with a bucket of shit.

This after having met Zach for all of five minutes.

The show in Seattle was even more good-time-dancing-fun-vibes. For the encore I brought my drums onto the floor and riled up the crowd with pale (Dale) Crover imitations. To end it all, I grabbed my floor tom and threw it head-side down onto my ride cymbal, intending to puncture the drum skin with an exciting boom. While it failed to "boom" as much as I would've liked, I made a quick exit and went to catch my breath backstage.

While sitting backstage I heard pained moans coming from the hallway. Henry, standing halfway in the door showed signs of genuine revulsion on his face and then whispered, "There's a lot of blood" to me.

As it happened, one of the workers at Chop Suey was right there with me when I'd brought my drums into the crowd to make sure no one would fuck with my set. With split-second imprecision, he managed to slide his hand between my floor tom and ride cymbal as I was marrying the two in unholy bliss.

I ventured out into the hallway and there was an adequate amount of blood…way less than Henry'd led me to believe. The tip of his forefinger was just barely still attached. He was given a cup of ice to shove said digit into in preparation for reattaching it. I was freaked out but clearly not as much as the guy who was losing blood. I apologized and asked if there was anything I could do for him, but he seemed in genuine shock and other than telling me not to worry about it, didn't have anything else to say to me.

His bosses said the club would pay for the emergency room visit and his co-workers said if he played his cards right he could get workman's comp. After he was whisked away I got everyone in the band to autograph an LP for him and everyone wrote top-notch, witty and heartfelt inscriptions to the guy. We left him a t-shirt too. I didn't know what else we could do. I truly hope he's alright and I hope he doesn't mind that I don't plan on washing his blood off my bass drum.

Met Kim from the Dutchess and the Duke backstage and went totally fanboy gushing about how much I loved everything that band has done. She was humble and gracious and almost caught off-guard about how much I liked her "faggot-y folk band." When her and Dean from the Stoltz band were looking for beer after closing time, it was an honor for me to buy them a six-pack from the bar, as two finer people in Seattle you will not meet.

Stayed at the Crowne Plaza hotel and were charged $34 to park the van overnight.

Next morn was a requisite trip to the downtown Guitar Center (me: snare wires and floor tom head, Pat: crash cymbal, others: don't know) and then plunked down the big money for a meal from Whole Foods. I focused on dessert with cheese cake AND bread pudding. My main course was orange peel chicken on a bed of rice with some tofu thrown in for kicks. I ate both desserts and barely half of the rest and with a Odwalla I'd spent approximately $21 on lunch. Damn.

Showed up in Misssoula to find that the Badlander is the same room I knew as the Ritz where the infamous Jack White birthday riot went down back in 2001. Luckily, new ownership meant there would be no repeat of that night's shenanigans.

Local openers Rooster Sauce and Victory Smokes were exactly what I'd expected of bands from Missoula. The Sauce even premiered the video for their song "Snakeskin Monkey" this night and that too was everything I'd expected for a self-produced music video for a band from Missoula.

The stage was particularly small and coupled with not having played the town in over four years found us with an absolutely manic crowd completely up-front and in our faces. What upon booking felt like an unnecessary roadblock on our route home would prove to be the best of our headlining shows of this run…all the genuine excitement and dancing of Seattle and Portland increased tenfold and Missoula, despite what one may think, proved it can rock with the best of them. The encore was Zach's first-ever shot at "Granny's Little Chicken" and that devolved into Ko, Mick and I jiving in the crowd (Ko playing fuzz while I balanced her on my shoulders for a spell) and it ALL ended with me saying into the mic "Happy fucking birthday Jack."

The route back to Detroit would prove daunting. The first day of driving found us getting gas across the street from, I shit you not, a place with signage declaring it a used COW lot. Being the beginning of hunting season and Montana being kind-of a hunting state, it was fairly common to find ourselves driving behind a pick-up truck with 12 deer legs just sticking up in the air with the bodies completely obscured from sight. Most establishments had signs saying hunters were not allowed to bring their guns inside and I couldn't imagine why that even needed to be said.

We later stopped at a gas station that happened to be on an Indian reservation and it was one of the more depressing places we'd been in recent memory. The Kentucky Fried Chicken there carried only a bare-bones menu (scuttling my plans to rock a Famous Bowl) and the cash register sported a hand-written sign saying, in pen, "No credit cards…machine is messed up." The chicken strips were more breading than chicken and there were no fewer than three public service posters in view touting the dangers of methamphetamine use.

At the same time, Zach made a sullen declaration of not being able to dream in this establishment and after a suitable pause, pointed to the window of the gift shop completely filled with dream catchers and said "They just keep getting caught over there." There was a picturesque sunset and across the street was an advertisement for "Cuts-the-Hair." Weird, weird times.

That evening found us staying in Chamberlain, South Dakota. We'd GPS'd a Days Inn at the exit, but noticed the West River Inn and Suites offering 24-hour pool and spa. As frequent lodgers, this is not an everyday offer, and as night owls, it was an something we had to take them up on.

The hotel didn't appear to be a chain but it was clean and comfortable and very, very inviting. While making my way to the pool, Zach said the lady at the front desk said to let her know if we'd be swimming, as she would then turn the lights off for us. Having no idea what this meant I failed to notify her and instead just walked down to the pool by myself.

The indoor, heated pool and hot tub were accented not only by a stereo system that was playing light house music (and later, breezy classical) but by a second floor reminiscent of a projection booth with no less than three club-quality lighting systems in full-effect. We had managed to find the only 24-hour disco pool in all the world and it was in South Dakota.

After requisite hand-stands and underwater stretching I made way to the hot tub and marinated in there. There was no reason a place like this should exist, yet I was reveling in it. The thin, green laser lights coalescing into a circuit of geometric patterns was particularly spellbinding.

After ample time boiling in the tub I made back into the pool and stood in the middle, motionless, focusing on the colors and patterns the lights formed on the floor of the pool, benefiting from the unpredictable refraction caused by the still, chlorinated four feet of water. This is as close as I come to getting stoned, meditating or finding any other higher state of (un)consciousness.

(I later surmised that the only logical reason to have such a set up for a pool was that they probably host orgies there)

Having been away from home for so long, we'd planned to drive the remaining fifteen hours back to Detroit while only stopping for food, gas and pee breaks. And through the remainder of South Dakota, Wisconsin and Illinois this proved fine. It wasn't until we'd reached Indiana that shit got messy.

We reached a portion on I-94 where the road was just closed…all cars being forced to exit and most of them winding up at a Flying J Travel Plaza trying to plan alternate routes. Our GPS system helped us to get to the next open entrance ramp and once back on the freeway we were literally in a caravan on a road that was a sheet of ice with a flashing-lights police cruiser as the pace car.

While the icy conditions of the road became somewhat less daunting, the snow storm at that point had reached white-out conditions just around our crossing of the Michigan border. It was a nightmare…all of us had hopes of sleeping in our own beds that night and with home not even three hours away we could almost taste it. At the same time, we could not see more than a couple of feet ahead of our van in these conditions.

None of us wanted to stop, yet we all knew there was no other option.

We exited in Sawyer, Michigan and got rooms at the Super 8. Once checked in Zack (he of hole in his canvas shoe) and I trudged through the snow to eat at the 24-hour Country Pride restaurant at the truck stop across the street. At this point, the snow had ceased.

With nothing but time we had a long, languorous meal/conversation before heading back to grab some sleep. We'd all agreed to leave at 8am as getting home earlier was getting home better.

7:50 rolls around…Zack opens the curtains and coldly says "Fucking hell."

It seemed since we'd fallen asleep another four inches of snow had fallen. Thoughts of not making it home THAT day briefly entered my mind and I trembled. We loaded the van and Pat skillfully and cautiously maneuvered the van through more blizzard and icy road conditions until that spot where I-94 jags eastbound and we were free from the immobilizing grip of lake-effect snow. We would be home in no time and home ain't no time at all.

TVOTR Part Nine: We Are Apparently Pimps and Prostitutes Too...

2008-12-02T00:15:00.003-05:00

We stopped at some desert town on the Grapevine. Woke up in the morning and paid the one-armed man at Subway before hitting Starbucks for a milkshake that they besmirch by with the name Frappuccino.

The Warfield is a dignified place of performance and everything ran smoothly, bar Pat in a shouting match with some club worker about the guestlist. For our last show with TVOTR we played strong and floor-tom in-the-crowd/deconstructionist-stage-load-out seemed to really impress the crowd.

While cleaning out my bag in our dressing room between sets I happened upon a handful of "Fart Bombs" I'd bought at a corner store in Providence. Having not utilized any of the ammunition on the entire trip, I figured then was as good a time as any.

I cracked the bag of chemical as sealed in a gaudy mylar packaging. The two previously separated substances would soon join and commingle in an unholy pong. After starting the process, I blindly tossed the packet into the adjoining room. It landed at Mick's feet, he surveyed it curiously and it erupted with an inauspicious "pop" in his face.

While I would in any other circumstance consider myself a tomfooler of the utmost caliber, I can, with the joy of hindsight, offer that stinkbombing your own dressing room is a faux pas as gauche as recreating a silent film-era slapstick and having the protagonist slip on a plantain peel.

Everyone backstage from the TV on the Radio dudes, our guests, the security guards and the somewhat abrasive Jon Dwyer all found time to comment on the overpowering stench. It was clearly in bad form on my behalf, but, to be fair, I made sure to sit there throughout the tang's duration rather than escape to more fragrant pastures.

Joined TVOTR for their encore with the rest of the Dirtbombs and reveled in the massive percussive happening. Snuck out without saying goodbye to most and after-the-fact felt it was a tad impolite.

Ko would find herself on Danzig's tour bus later that evening. Clearly she wins.

The next day would prove to be a scheduling miracle…a day off in San Francisco, the likes of which we'd only dreamt of. Staying with Kelley Stoltz and he'd bought me half-a-dozen donuts as he revels in the fact that they're my breakfast food of choice. We met up with Mick and made time cruising the shops on Valencia.

After stocking up on postcards at the McSweeney's storefront, gawking at the taxidermy next door at Paxton's Gate and picking up a package containing a Kevin Ayers' solo record at Stoltz's PO box we made our way to the myriad of record shops in the Haight.

First to Rooky Ricardo's…I stocked up on pins of old record labels (Fortune, Palmer, others) and bought an LP that was visually reminiscent of the first Stripes' album cover. From there to some other record shop where I bought nothing, then onward to Amoeba, the temple.

Bought CD copy of the Dion album that was recommended as "sounds like Spiritualized" (produced by Phil Spector), the Cool Kids full-length, used copy of the Langley Schools CD, the Figures of Light CD (FINALLY!) and possibly other things that've since slipped my mind. Had good chats with all the requisite employees too…Tom Lynch, Shayde Sartin, Brock Whateverhislastnameis.

From there to Burma Superstar. Crowded as all get-out on a Monday night, this grub was the real deal. The tea leaf salad was enjoyed by vegan, vegetarian and real-people alike at our table. I personally delighted in my Nan Gyi Dok. Dining with Stoltz and his star-power found us enjoying complimentary dessert. The establishment gets utmost praise from all in our dining party.

Then down the street to Green Apple Books…I finally cross the LP copy of Beck's Mutations with bonus 7" and issue #6 of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern off my audio and literary want lists, respectively.

We spent downtime at a bar and caught up with various Stoltz band members while watching assorted sports highlights.

Stoltz drove us up to a hill overlooking the whole of San Francisco, a twinkling vista that made the burg seem smaller more than anything else. Zack and I soaked it in with Kel while Mick talked on the phone.

Back at Stoltz's to enjoy his "spatially inappropriate" Altec movie theater speakers and original pressings of Revolver and Black Monk Time.

The next morn we pick up Mick and him and Kel chow fish tacos while I'd early indulged in leftover donuts.

We then hit up Grooves, Kel's place of employment. I scored vinyl copies of the Flat Duo Jets' Go Go Harlem Baby and a mono copy of Mitch Ryder's Take a Ride LP. I also won some cool knick-knacks in the old-style crane-game in the shop…a slide whistle and a miniature cast of Nipper, the RCA Records logo dog.

From there back to the Haight to Groove Merchant Records that'd been closed on Monday. I got a Lorri Randolph 45 on Tri-Phi and a peculiar single by a band called Water Melon that's rambunctious weird '69-'70 rock with organ and the side "African Song" kills. After that we eat at a Pakistani (?) place in the Mission, on the same block as the Kil-o-Watt. Naan bread delicious, the rest of my meal not terribly so.

Big plan for the eve was a pizza party at Mike Gabriel's. Having attended one before, I knew what fun I was in for. Mike and his gal Jen prep with pre-portioned slabs of dough and assorted topping possibilities. Each person takes a turn assembling their own ideal pie and the rest of the party samples it with the requisite critique, ribbing and general good-hearted fun. The dough and I weren't getting along, but I still stand by my prime "How-To" example of a pepperoni pizza. Lots of stories told, records listened to and a general appreciation of life was shared by all.

Next morning Mick and I spent approximately 45 seconds inside Revolver (our distributor) to pick up copies of We Have You Surrounded on CD and LP. This is a new record as trips here usually become protracted bouts of scouring the racks for long-forgotten or mis-filed gems.

Slowly met up with the rest of the band and soon made our way out of the city.

After hours of driving and the lavatorial needs of one and the lodging needs of all was best squelched by a stop at a PETRO truck stop in Medvale, just inside the Oregon border. I made quick way to the bathroom, followed shortly thereafter by Pat who says "Ben…you should buy a "Greatest Hits" CD."

"Why?" I respond.

"Just do it," he says with a smile.

As I head back toward the register, I see a cardboard CD display case for the "Playlist: The Very Best of…" series of green-friendly repackaging of certain Sony-related artists' greatest hits. On top of the four-foot display was a mini billboard topper, listing the series title and its affordable $9.98 price. But neither the name nor the price could obscure the mind-boggling jaw-drop of seeing a picture of THE DIRTBOMBS on this advertisement.

Mick spotted it first. He was buying something at the register when his eyes caught the picture (one of our silhouette promo shots for...Surrounded) and he just stood there dumbfounded. When pressed by the cashier, Mick flipped the whole display around for the worker to see and said, "You'll never believe this…but that's ME!"

Zack nimbly negotiated the exchange of one CD copy of …Surrounded for the portion of the unit depicting his bandmates while we all just sat there kinda befuddled. No, they were not selling any Dirtbombs records at the stop. No, the records were not bootleg. No, no one in the band or at the label or even the photog had signed off on this.

We made a pledge to stop at any more PETRO's we saw the rest of the trip (with hopes of procuring more of the ads) and we saw not a one. A call to our record label and a call from him to friends in the photo licensing biz were encouraging, but apparently without the Sony logo anywhere on our visage, we've apparently been pimped without hope of retribution.

So here's a call to you faithful readers: If anyone can shed ANY light on this situation, if you know who does the layouts for the "Playlist" in-store advertising, if you find any more instances of this pic

at PETRO (or other) truckstop CD displays, if you steal/buy/barter for its possession or can just simply explain what-the-fuck is going on, please let us know and you will be rewarded HANDSOMELY by the band.

It's not that I don't like Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash or Heart…it's just that I never in a million truckstops thought that the band's picture (and to a degree, my image) would be used to shill products without any regard for consent or permission. Does this mean we're big time? Once we start getting screwed over? Surreal does not even begin to describe the situation. Two weeks later and it's still completely flummoxing and aggravating all at the same time.

At the same stop, Ko was utilizing the free WiFi to try and book hotels for the night. With our sights set on Portland, we'd discussed just straight booking rooms at the Jupiter Hotel, but with their quoted price as $150 per room, per night, we decided to take our chances with Priceline.

When the $60 per room, per night option for a 2 1/2 star hotel near downtown and the convention center popped up, we were a bit skeptical. Two and a half stars? Really? The luxury of the stay would be not having to check out the first morning…oh what a deep, restful luxury it is. We threw caution to the wind, booked it and were elated to find out we'd been placed at none other than…the Jupiter Hotel.

You win this round Shatner.

Interstitial: Dirtbombs Propaganda from Recent Times...

2008-11-22T20:22:00.002-05:00

To tide y'all over until I get some more writing done.

First, from our in-store at Amoeba SF back in May. Two thoughts after I viewed this:
1: Tom Lynch conducts conducts (possibly) the best Dirtbombs interview ever

and

2. During this performance, more often than not, we look completely bored onstage

http://www.amoeba.com/live-shows/videos/dirtbombs.html

Second, Mick and I got interviewed by Jesse Thorn of "The Sound of Young America" which may or may not be syndicated by your local public radio station. I get to geek out on the Gories, which is fun. Listen to it here:

http://earideas.com/earideas/explore/show/58505/The+Dirtbombs

TVOTR Part Eight: A Police Situation...

2008-11-17T05:59:00.003-05:00

Wake-up in post-election happiness. Breakfast at Auntie Em's in Eagle Rock and owner/operator/former Red Aunt Terri Wahl comps the meal. Mick and I then did a solid interview for the Sound of Young America radio show, a nationally syndicated program that we've actually listened to in the van before. With downtime after that we hit Amoeba Records in Hollywood. I feel equally ashamed and proud in saying that I bought nothing there.

Headlining the Detroit Bar in Costa Mesa ain't too shabby. After soundcheck we ate at the Mexican place next door. It was decent. From there, we ventured to the Borders up the road. When touring, a Borders or Barnes and Noble is the equivalent of "goal" in a game of tag. It's somewhere you can go and relax without fear of reprisals or persecution. Each and every one of these chain locations feels the same as the others and thus, in the grand scheme of things, vaguely familiar. We easily kill an hour there without even noticing.

Opening band Pistolero wasn't to my liking. But with Starlite Desperation as the middle band I was quite geeked. I hadn't seen them in about four years and their newest material on both Don't Do Time and Take It Personally stacks up to their best work in my opinion.

They opened with "Spirit Army" and I dug it, slinky bassline and all. They'd play one old tune, "Our Product" off their first 7" and dedicated it to me. Watching them play makes me feel like I'm still a senior in high school and Go Kill Mice was played to death/witnessed live that year more than you'd care to believe. Someday, maybe even here, I'll recall the days of hanging out at their crib on Commonwealth. What strange, strange days.

With a small hole in my floor tom head I asked Jeff from Starlite if I could borrow his floor tom. He said he was planning to leave during our set, that he had to be up early the next morning…and then just offered me his floor tom head. Dude literally gave me the head off his tom. It doesn't get any deeper than that for drummers.

Any detractive comments about our performance clearly stemmed from confusion between bandmates about doing our "headliner" set or our "opener" set. We'd agreed on an amended "opener" set beforehand but certain band members fell into "headliner" actions. This was, for all intents and purposes, completely unnoticeable to the audience.

Trying to get myself into "Start the Party" I'd accidentally biffed myself in the corner of my right eye with my drumstick. So hard that I managed to throw myself off the beat and have to play most of the song with my both my eyes closed…equal parts coping mechanism for the excruciating pain and hope that my eyeball would stay inside my ocular cavity. I was surprised there was no blood.

Drive back to LA to crash at the label HQ in Eagle Rock. I grab the couch, as I always do there, and it becomes a vague point of contention in the band. Pat asks why I always get the couch and I don't have a reason, just that I do. Never mind the fact that I claimed it first that night. It would not have been an issue had there been anything more than floor space available that night. Tired, I kinda snapped at him…told him he was free to find a hotel or someone else's place to stay that night, that no one was making him sleep on the floor. He responded acquiesced with "I'm just tired" to which I countered "I know Pat. We all are."

We were able to take the next day lazy…doing laundry, showering, loading mp3's into our laptops, enjoying the unfailing California sunshine and just generally relaxing before heading to the Wiltern around 6pm.

We were excited because catering was still up AND we got our $10 buy-outs. This never happens. We loaded up on the "make-your-own-fajitas" and cookies and ice cream as if we hadn't seen food in days. The thing with a catered club is that you have to view it that way…like you'll never see food again.

Our set, by all accounts, killed. With Larry from In the Red and Dale from the Melvins as the two people who've seen 100% of our Los Angeles area shows in our career in agreement, we clearly won over many people in the crowd. I feel confident in saying we could not have played a better show.

Afterwards we hung backstage and chatted with friends from Liars and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Rainn Wilson was there and Ko apparently thinks he's kinda weird.

Back to Larry's and to a comfortable night on the couch outside of Detroit that I've spent the most time on. Woke in the morning with and extreme lack of plans and responsibilities. Ate lunch at the Oinkster…chocolate malt and pastrami sandwich was delightful. Relented and finally did some laundry, having lasted just about a month without having to. Made plans for dinner with my buddy Josh. Larry, also with plans for dinner, put on the new Beefheart reissue It Comes to You in a Brown Paper Bag and we sat in his living room chatting leisurely.

I see what appears to be a spotlight searching around Larry's street. We then realize we've been hearing a helicopter overheard for a bit of time. It then becomes clear there is some sort of situation. Out in his backyard we hear from the chopper "Please surrender and give up your weapons."

I was half-hoping to hear them say "We have you surrounded."

Larry lives right at a "T" of two streets, with one end marked off with police tape and the other two blocked by police cars with their flashing lights. Despite all of this, he figured he'd be able to leave without a hitch. As he walked to his car he was informed that not only was he not able to leave, but that he wasn't even supposed to be outside his house.

According to the police officer, there were people in the neighborhood with weapons and the police couldn't find them.

We sat, metaphorical prisoners. Larry finally told his date to just come and pick him up and while they didn't let her past the police line, they did let Larry walk up the street toward the safe zone, but only if he would walk on the opposite side of the street.

We'd later find out that there was a car chase in the neighborhood and that the perps crashed the vehicle and scattered. The cops nabbed one of the suspects but the other was loose, so they blocked off the neighborhood and slowly combed through each block searching for him. I do not know if he was apprehended or not.

I managed to sneak out of the abode the same way Larry did and Josh and I hit up Local (the name of the restaurant and not an indicator of it's caloric content) in Echo Park for grub. I'm told the premise of the restaurant is that everything is made from fresh, local ingredients. I had the braised lamb tips and it was alright, but mainly had me wondering who in the hell is raising lamb in the city? The lemonade was clearly fresh, but too tart for my taste. I did find myself completely floored by their apple-cream chesse-caramel-sea salt hot desert…that dish totally made the meal.

From there we went back to Josh's crib and shot the shit, connecting over the fact that we both owned the same weird Mudhoney t-shirt when we were teenagers (with the band depicted on a TV set on the front and fake TV Guide listings on the reverse). Josh showed me the missing chord to "Cold Brains" that'd been bugging me for a couple of years, all while a video of him backing Beck back in 2003 played on the television.

Our buddy Steve came over and 3/4's of the band Kore Krew was in full-effect. There's unreleased recordings of us that, if Steve ever gets off his ass, might even be worth releasing. Called it a night and searching for Steve's car on the street for about 20 minutes was kinda hilarious.

Steve dropped me off back at Larry's, but not before taking me to the 7-11 in Eagle Rock, where for the third night in a row, I bought a pink-frosted donut with sprinkles. I think said donuts contain crack, as I was fucking hooked on these things like schadenfreude enthusiasts to Amy Winehouse.

We left from Larry's the next afternoon, but not before I worked out a trade for his out-of-print Cotton Museum 10" that was high atop my want list. Drive to San Diego seemed quicker and easier than usual.

The show that eve was a birthday party for a local radio station with two more bands on the bill than we're used to on the TVOTR/DBOMBS chuckwagon. We would be the second band. Noticing that TVOTR's soundcheck ran a little late, I figured there was no way we'd even get a chance to soundcheck, so I walked up the street to the mall.

The only store I'd visit was Levi's. While still never having bought a new pair of them in my life, I still always give them a chance. They had Orange Tab reissues that were absent when I visited my sister's store in Chicago, so I took the bait and took a pair of skinny fit and a pair of flares, both 36x32, to the dressing room.

The skinny fit was almost a joke on my end…with the circumference of one of my thighs hovering around that of a moderate-sized oak tree, there's hardly a "cut" that can diminish their impact. But after I found the flares were GASP, baggy and I contemplated the benefits of diversifying my blue jean reserves, no doubt inspired by an article I'd just read in GQ. $80 later and I'm the proud/confused owner of a new pair of Levis slim fit Orange Tab jeans. Weird.

While in line at Levis I got a call that it was time to soundcheck. Unexpectedly, TVOTR's tour manager had thrown some weight to get us the luxury so I hoofed it quickly back to the club and marveled at the monitor engineer walking around barefoot with the most vile, gouted, purple, misshapen feet I'd ever seen. Gross.

Zack and I walked up the street to Pokez for burritos that were offensively large. It is my hope with the new administration in Washington that someone steps up and puts and end to burrito inflation. I don't think, with our economy in the state that it is, that we can afford to keep making these things the size of one of Jupiter's more substantial moons. Zack wants me to mention that I could not even finish mine and that it should be a source of pride for Pokez. If he has any other input he can start his own blog.

Opening band was made up of DJ's from the sponsoring radio station, including John "Speedo" Reis of Rocket From the Crypt/Swami Records notoriety. They did all covers and I didn't quite know what to make of it…song selection was good with VU, the Who, Elvis Costello and other hip choices. Mick came out and sang "I Wanna Be Your Dog" as their final number and the rest of us D'bombs commented on how easy it is to forget what a commanding frontman the guy is.

Being in the unfavorable 2nd of four bands slot, we came at it with a bit of spite, not at any particular person, but just the situation. Thankfully, it translated, the crowd dug it and when I threw my floor tom from the audience back onto the stage and it unpredictably landed perfectly balanced on top of my bass drum (a feat of skill that could not be matched if I tried to replicate it a thousand times) I knew that the gods were on our side that night.

The third band (the generally inoffensive Delta Spirit) was clearly daunted by their spot on the bill. The fun thing was with us having to make it to San Fran for the show the next night, we didn't even stick around to watch them flail. We loaded up and hit I-5 for about four hours before we'd get our slumber that night, knowing full well that we'd rocked to the fullest of our capabilities.