Friday, December 26, 2008



A year of great change.

The apathy broke and receded, revealing a part of us we never knew existed.

It has been really difficult to maintain my cynicism, but as most of you know…I’m holding on.

The final turn before the straightaway into 2009 has been a most feverish one. Not to say that last push should be any different from any other year, but this one has been marked change, both global and personal, producing a monumental year in introspection.

With that thought comes music. 365-music filled days – quite possibly the year in which I’ve listened to and discovered more music than ever.

As the frame of reference widens, so does the ability and authority to criticize. But there is no right or wrong in this world. There is only you and your choices. We are but slaves to our experiences. Experiences that differ between us all. They are the items that govern our every instinct.

So with that, I give you my instinctual reactions to music over the past year. My top 10, if you will. Will you?

I’m just a guy with opinions. Strong ones. So take them with a grain of salt or with a Sherman tank or with a glass of water (half full, of course).

But as the New Year dawns, take what Jarvis Cocker said as something to write on your wall:

“Some say the cream rises to the top. Well I say…shit floats.”

Happy New Years people friends.

(again - please buy the music - these artists deserve your cashmoney)



Finally getting the recognition he deserved when he was alive, this compilation of somewhat “lost” Russell songs is, as most of his music is, like nothing else. From album to album, his works vary from post-disco, to solo cello compositions, to, as on this album, the more plain guitar and voice building to intricate pop. But what unifies all his work is a tone. An unmistakable transfer of human emotion through speaker. There is something so immediate and relatable about his voice, it is as if you’ve known him for years. Also, more acutely with his post-disco works, Russell could be referenced as an influence of the modern-day bedroom composer. Whether he’s playing with a full band or just with his cello, Russell transmits a solitude. Not necessary a lonesome one, but simply a supremely personal expression that into which he has allowed us a brief window.




What the Black Lips couldn’t finish, Cheap Time eviscerates. Sublime garage glam sounds from Tennessee with a frame of influence much wider than the Lips - producing a much less boring result. You can hear anything from The Quick to T-Rex to Sparks to the Clash to, and especially, Big Star. Power pop with the amps on fire and the mics crackling like a Christmas tree inferno.




One of my personal favorites in the past couple years, Danava leans heavily on Black Sabbath/Hawkwind/Stray riffage but does so with such virtuosity that they create entirely new tonal wrath that makes my struggling ear drums beg for more. With the ever-impressive Dusty Sparkles at the helm, UnonoU doesn’t beat out their self titled debut for me, but it certainly picks up where they left off. You can hear the beginnings of growth with tracks like “A High or a Low” and “Spinning Temple Shifting,” bating my now psych-infused mind for their next release.




Maybe it’s just the fact that I know he’s the nephew of Alice Coltrane, but when I listen to Los Angeles, I can’t help but think that Flying Lotus is, or strives to be, the Alice Coltrane of electronic music. Well-versed in the spiritual and philosophical side of electronic composition, but not to snotty too have fun and make your ass move. The record is full of overblown, burning electronic heat. It oscillates you out of your head (a la Boards of Canada, Milieu, Autechre) but then yanks you back into it with decadent yet danceable beats, all without forgetting his sneaky Aphex Twin switches.




Grails also broke through in 2008 with Doomsdayer’s Holiday. Albeit a bit schlocky with its album-starting B-horror screams, its unbreakable songs go further than the band had gone prior. Grail’s audiophilic love of music is all the more evident in this collection than any other – references as wide, but not limited to Pentangle, Bill Frisell, Ali Akbar Khan, Ennio Morricone and of course, Sabbath, Hawkwind and Focus. Each song has a different sound, but all unified by the band’s taut musicianship that echoes across the hundreds of instruments used here.




With what was certainly the most beautiful album of the year, Johan Johannsson adds a second part to his intended trilogy focusing on technology and American brand icons. On Fordlandia, like his excellent album IBM 1401, Iceland native Johannsson uses a 50-piece string orchestra mixed seamlessly with a variety of electronic elements. But unlike the IBM 1401 album, Fordlandia matches the cadence and tone of its reference without fail. In the 1920’s Henry Ford bought a vast tract of land in Brazil hoping to create a settlement focused on rubber tree harvest and processing. It inevitably failed due to a multitude of logistical reasons ( What makes Fordlandia impressive and affective is its ambitious tones and swells that raise the heart into the neck. As goofy as it may sound, a long form compositional piece about one of Henry Ford’s failed business endeavors creates unmistakable human emotion. Probably something similar to Ford’s emotions during the project: ambition, progress, worry, doubt and failure. Emotions that are part of most of our own lives/projects/jobs/relationships/commutes, thus why I assume you’ll react to this incredible music as I have.





See what I’ve already written about this sucker. It still ain't disappointin'.



A relatively new band in my frame of reference, Thee Oh Sees began as a side recording project for John Dwyer, a member of such excellent bands as Pink and Brown, Coachwhips and the ever-awesome Hospitals. The Master’s Bedroom is a perfectly mixed punk/one-man band/garage/rockabilly explosion. Equal part The Cramps and the soundtrack to Hairspray, this is a sound that had not yet graced these ears until The Master’s Bedroom’s first spin. Where rockabilly gets monotonous after about 10 songs, Thee Oh Sees liven things up with unexpected changes and innovative vocal arrangements. Two voices prove better than one, offering a twisted, reverbed, male/female harmony that create B-movie imagery without getting too contrived. Perfect for dance parties in the dark.




The one pseudo-metal release that made my top ten this year, Torche finally locks down a perfectly produced masterpiece that melt’s face and proves progressive mastery. A re-tweaked phoenix rising from the ashes of Miami’s preeminent metal droners Floor, Torche does a fine job of displaying down-tuned guitar mastery, without falling into the “virtuoso du showingoff” category like so many metallic acts before them. Besides the perfect production of Meanderthal (and it’s irreverent title), the songwriting stands out as the strongest force on this album. Unlike many of the bands they’ve shared bills with like The Sword and Isis, their droning riffs seem to have evolved into something more. Where The Sword rips and dies, Torche rips and rises higher through differentiating song structure. And Meanderthal is their first time reaching the outer layer of stratosphere. Looking forward to see if they can make it through without burning up.




Possibly the best song of the year, Kurt Vile’s “Freeway,” the first song on Constant Hitmaker, garnered a great deal of attention across the musical lands. Simple construction combined with interesting bedroom production, Vile crafts the brand of song that no matter what you do, your morning shower is doomed to a repetition in your mind. You try and try to think of something else, but each track’s infectious Guided By Voices-esque hook riddles your mind with unsuspecting joy. A floating puff of smoke, this album meanders along like a high. Carrying you to places you wouldn’t expect to land but also wouldn’t mind visiting for a while.


Sunday, November 23, 2008


I got a pair of legs. Just one. One pair. Two legs total.

And they're flopping around like two soggy carrots under my desk.

You know why?

The Saints are blasting out like flame-engulfed Nerf rockets from my alien-shaped speakers.

It's 2008, almost 29 years since this Australian band first laid their Stooges/Pistols/Ramones-tinged heat on unsuspecting sheilas. But using the word "tinged" is misleading. The punk movement we all know and love had yet to break into Australia halfway around the world. The Saints were the Sex Pistols of Australia. And through one listen, you can hear exactly why.

This is one of the best albums I've come across in quite some time.

Careful to rock your face off.
You need your face.
I need your face.

Album's great straight through but highlights include:
"Erotic Neurotic"
"I'm Stranded"
"No Time"

Monday, October 27, 2008


It all begins at the beginning.

A good place to start…or begin, rather.

Aural punishment in the form of a slow metallic drone.


The band’s name being a peephole into their sound-apartment, the place looks like your weed dealer’s room in college.

But more metal, less Marley. An amplified and evil Raga, intent on hypnosis through a dredging, methodical bass dirge.

But this text is not about Om. It just begins here. Remember?

Om’s new drummer is a member of the Portland, OR band, Grails.

I saw Om play recently and was reminded of Grails's tumble into one of my mind’s many chasms. So I dug the sucker out and what did I find?

A delicious bit of musical wonder.

[And we’ve arrived at this text’s subject. Welcome to it.]

Grails are one of those 14,000 bands that come tumbleweeding across my daily mindspace that I simply forget to follow-up on.

But then, Om.

A band whose album, or rather two song mediation, Conference Of The Birds, causes me capture within a plodding parade of mystical lemmings through the sands of time. Yea.

Om was the string tied round my finger reminding me to investigate Grails.

If Iggy Pop wrote repetition into Fun House as a response to Detroit’s automotive assembly lines, Om wrote repetition into Conference Of The Birds as a manifestation of our brain waves during dreamstate - slow, repeating, beautifully frightening, echoing throughout.

Where Om limits itself to one stream of consciousness, Grails incorporates collective width including: Popul Vuh, Zeppelin, Hawkwind, Melvins, Gong, Ali Akbar Khan, Ash Ra Temple, Acid Mother’s Temple.

Sounds like it could be an introspective nightmare…but what separates Grails from lesser-awesome groups is their ability to break from the conventions of meditative music up toward a much more, for lack of a better word, rocking zone.

They take the groundwork laid in place by the groups mentioned above, and instead of regurgitation, they fuse and push. Building the meditations into loud, forward-moving celebrations around bonfires with tribal intoxicants made from local frog’s pancreas.

This is psychedelic celebration music.

The inorganic builds of Mogwai and Pelican aren’t found here, but instead the growth comes as a band improvising. These songs aren’t composed. They are planted, tended to and grow as the sun hits the leaf. This is organic psychedelic.

But it’s too well-versed to be hippie music. This is musician’s scripture. Music produced by the lovers of great music (that great music being produced by lovers of great music before them)


If you made it through that…here’s Grails - Burning Off The Impurities. Enjoy Friend-O.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008


The burning red sun peeks its fiery strands up from below the Miami horizon.

Traffic begins to bustle.

A man listens to marshmallow-sized headphones while roller skating down the boardwalk.

Bums. Bums bum.

A girl in a skimpy bikini and cut-off t-shirt looks over her shoulder. She winks.

You think, “is she winking at me? Or that Baywatch film crew behind me? Ah whatever, where’s the churro cart?”

Neon, everywhere.

A West Highland White Terrier rides a hover board through rising pavement steam whilst smoking a clove cigarette and quoting Raymond Carver.

Thus begins Lindstrom’s new album, “Where You Go I Go Too”.

(I figure…I reviewed the old album, might as well discern and divvy the new)

It’s a blistering smoke machine, this thing. Filled with Vangelis flourishes, unmoving Pink Floydian bass lines, Hans Zimmer/Steve Reich synth vibes, and enough Italo-disco pastabilities to choke Mario, Luigi and that loser Toad.

No one likes you, Toad.

With the out-of-nowhere critical success of his first album, Lindstrom returns with middle finger a-flipping toward all who challenge his mastery of the medium.

(Activate stern Norwegian accent)

“You wanna listen to this record? You think you can handle it? Well see if you can get through the first monster jam. Oh? What’s that you say? It’s a half hour long? 30 minutes? No. it couldn’t be.”

He continues…

“Yes. It is! Does that frighten you? Do I frighten you? Well maybe you shouldn’t be so invested in the 5 minute, 10 song album structure you’ve gotten so damn comfortable with. Tell your mom you’re ready to throw out your safety blanket then plug these 12 inches into your ear tubes. I think you just might enjoy the commitment.”

I love it.

…coming back with an album that challenges you to sit down for a half hour and actually listen to something. To do lists on PDAs, blackberrys, speaking engagements, trips to the mall, trips to the bank, crocheting, Myspace, all the things that take up our time on earth, and Hans Peter says, “no. If you like my music, sit down, or rather, stand the fuck up and jump around to it for a half hour or more. You might learn something about yourself.”

Balls out. Take it or leave it.

This record rips and makes me psyched to be aurally sound - My Bloody Valentine almost put an end to that at the All Tomorrow’s Party festival this past weekend.

Thrown repeated into the Wall. Of. Sound. 132 dB. Whoa.

pictures here:

Anyway…dig in friendly friends.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008


I told my roommate i could get rid of it (using the power of words)...


Reply to: [?]
Date: 2008-09-15, 11:52PM EDT


I have the most kick ass box spring on earth ready to join you in your home.

It is a FULL size box spring as produced by Sealy Posturepedic and is in damn near perfect condition. It can serve a number of purposes:

1. a box spring (under a full-size mattress)
2. a stage for small dogs (or cats) performing in a show
3. a training device for a low-budget, local football squad trying to make it in the big leagues.
4. a temporary wall.
5. one of a series of mattresses and box springs used in a giant toppling domino display.
6. to use as a gauge for distance after a sweet bike jump.
7. a replacement bumper for your Mack truck.
8. to stay afloat at sea...for a few minutes.
9. a perfect item for reserving parking spaces.
10. kindling.

These are just a few of the many ways you (and your friends and family) can celebrate with this incredible FULL-size box spring. If you want it, you gots to come pick it up.

This is the cowbell for dinner, (if you want this mattress) come and get it.

Alright. It's been fun talking.

hit me up if you want this thing. 50 bones, OBO.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008


So in my ever-loving search for the perfect burger...really...i frequent the burg-centric (and fantastic) blog

Recently they had a competition to see who could write the best hamburger related acrostic poem. And in my ever-developing patheticness, I submitted a poem.

and won.

a book.

about burgers.

here's the acrostic.

Holy crap.
Understands me. Gets me.
Really caters to my most crucial of needs!
Great. Now I have to
Eat it. Goodbye
Rare friend.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008


Wednesday, August 27, 2008


Hello peoples.

There are many reasons why I enjoy electronic music.

It can make me dance (which I never do).
It can make me deeply introspective (which I am anyway...but more so, and to different places).
It can make me feel like a iron, figity robot (which I am as well – gangly bastard).

One of the seemingly lesser reasons I enjoy electronic music is simply how excellent it sounds blaring through my headphones/speakers (both significant monetary investments - thus elevated sonic quality). Music created on electronics blasting out like silver digital rockets through other electronics. Top notch.

One of my favorite electronic records of the past couple years is Lindstrom’s “It’s a Feedelity Affair.”

Shit kicks off so hardcore.
Dance-y and fun. Lush and smoove.

There are certain albums that convince me, despite the obvious counterpoints, that I am cool as fuck. That I can swing down the street like fucking John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and everyone will reel around all slo-mo-like and go, “did you see that fucking guy? Holy crap. Cooler than a Creamsicle in February.”

Albums do it in different ways.

Iggy Pop & The Stooges’ “Fun House” makes me believe I can get any woman on Earth just by walking by. Best fucking rock album of all time.

Captain Beefheart’s “Safe as Milk” makes me think I could live on a algae infested houseboat in New Orleans slapping foot-stompin’ banjo while sipping Jack and Ginger’s for all-god-loving-eternity. That's quite me.

But this Lindstrom album creates a different image for me. Walking into a club (which I never do – 5 years in NYC, 26 years in its general proximity and I NEVER went to a club), I command the attention of the entire dance floor.

Think Rusty from National Lampoon’s "Vacation," rolling into the French Disco. In this case the white leather jacket would read "Kadin" on the back. All the ladies swivel their heads.

I raise my hand slowly and a frigid tumbler of lime-spiked Stolichnaya is slid inside. I walk forward and the entire joint reacts to my movements. Ah, well, you get it. Hotness abounds.

Then the battery runs out on my iPod and i realize that I'm holding up the line at CVS when the automated check machine won't scan my shaving cream and floss.

Yea. Reality. Hmm. A bitch.

I also dig on the organic elements that drive this record. It is an electronic record, true, but it also has guitar and bass elements that mirror my own guitar tastes…even my own guitar playing. It ain’t that technically impressive but everything seems to fit in its right place.

Anyway. Here tis’. Enjoy this gemmish-gem.

if you dig, check out similar hotness in Booka Shade, Trentemoller, Prins Thomas and Pantha Du Prince (posted earlier on this very weblog)

Tuesday, August 26, 2008



Red. Oh so...reddish.
The color of a radish, but usually lighter in hue.

A sweaty cheek beckons your arrival with sweet clumps of salt juice.
I dab at them with mine hanker-cloth and wonder why I keep a sweat-covered rag in my pocket. Shocking that women won’t come near me…really.
Packet of tissues next time I go out in heat like this. It really is a sky-high sauna out here.


Like the center circle of the flag of Japan. Perhaps the ‘center’ modifier was unnecessary back there. There is only one circle on the flag of Japan. Simple. I like.

Like the sun. Granting us orange-y red-like warmliness on a summer’s day such as this. Prompting one to disrobe and frolic, arms agape and flailing, through a field of swaying, multicolored crepe-paper streamers wiggling up toward the blue expanse. The wind-stroked paper makes a crunching sound like that of a cornfield set ablaze by a wandering arsonist.

And the birds…

Oh! The birds!

They won’t stop swooping and squawking in my face. Diving down trying to steal my sandwich. I only have twenty minutes for lunch and really, with the heat and birds…chicken salad inside tomorrow.

The French call it La Rouge. Feminine. Like a woman or particular types of deodorant.

A symbol of love and war and blood and stop signs.

A tomato. A cherry. Cherry Tomatoes.

A red M&M.




The color of my old skis. What is someone supposed to do with a pair of old skis anyway? Donate to the less fortunate? Do you know how expensive lift tickets are these days? I’m surprised anyone can get out on the slopes. And forget about lunch at the lodge. Best be packing chicken salad.


Like the grapes in my chicken salad…which I will omit from the recipe next time. Their sweetness overbears the salt of the chicken and mayonnaise. It’s an art, really, making a good chicken salad. I thought I had it mastered, but once again, just like at the DMV yesterday, I was so desperately wrong. Bastards. 40 minutes I waited. For what?

The DMV’s logo is red.


Like my heart.
And I assume most other normal, non-alien people’s hearts.
Beating for, on average, 72 years or something until I croak and it stops and turns brown.

Saturday, August 23, 2008


I've just returned from an excellent trip.

I spent 10 days in the world Bugs Bunny discovered when he dug deep into the Earth and popped out the other side bewildered and upside-down.

Fortunately and unlike Bugs, I arrived on my feet. Well, enough so to take some photographs. Here they are. Enjoy them like you would a frosty beverage.

Shanghai Photomiton

Wednesday, August 20, 2008


comin' home today...

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Friday, August 1, 2008

Thursday, July 31, 2008


Watch out NYC ladies...
O Pointy Birds,
Pointy Pointy.
Anoint my head,

Monday, July 28, 2008

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Underwater Moonlight-ing...

There’s a simple something. An implanted wink that instinctually involves you in music, literature, anything. The composer, author, whomever decides to create something that, if enough attention is paid, allows you to join them for the ride. The ride that caused them to create in the first place.

The wink laced throughout Underwater Moonlight is more like a punch in the gut for me. A punch in the gut I so desperately long for. The snarling humor, snark, frothing wit, whatever you want to call it threaded through this compilation of songs is so smart, so real and so able to be interacted with that almost anyone can take a sliver of a smile away upon their very first listen. Robyn Hitchcock’s lyrical intelligence is something that extends atmospheres outside the realm of songwriting and into a space where anyone who creates anything can take a nugget of witticism out and say, “hey, these fucking guys are smart. And they write fucking incredibly catchy songs! Fuck.”

This album is a punch by punch, knock you on your ass songwriting masterpiece.

Aside: There’s that whole theory that those who were nerds in high school end up being the cool kids in life and the cool kids from high school are doomed to never leave the town in which they were “reared.” Theories are theories because they can’t consistently be proven true but I can see some of that idea in this music. The Soft Boys came about after they realized that after years of rejection, they’d become the cool kids. They are conscious of this fact and hang it over the head of those they've left behind, taking great joy in breathing a hearty, "fuck you." Their intelligent rebellion manifested itself in musical form dealing with rejection, anger and frustration, the resulting experimentation with psychedelics and the remarkably up-front and good-natured humor that surrounds it all. They know they've beat the high school kids, but why not taunt them just smidge more with their tight rhythm section.

This album stands out as one not part a movement. It stands out because it stands alone. It is timeless and gets me every time. Makes me want to jump around the room and destroy the joint with joy. Highlights include “Insanely Jealous,” “Kingdom of Love,” “I Want to Destroy You,” “Tonight,” “Underwater Moonlight,” and “You’ll have to go sidways.”

Hope you enjoy as much as I do….bitches.
This one’s a top 10-er.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Feewings...Nothing more

There’s been a delay.

Apologies for all you wearing out the edge of your seat.

I’ll ease back in gently with a single, yet ultimately important piece of music.

From Brian Eno’s foundation-laying epic, “Another Green World.”

The track is called, “The Big Ship”

Now I can’t say exactly why, but this piece of music has a greater effect on me than any other in my possession.

No words. Repetitive. Rocking up and down like a creaky wooden ship at night. So airy and thick. Something's ending...or beginning...Or both.

I’ve never had a song evoke more imagery and feeling than this simple, dense three minutes and three seconds. Who's to say what infinitesimal compilation of personal experiences have led to this intense reaction, but man, it gets me. Chokes me up, sends shivers down my spine, all that. Not afraid to admit it. Not one bit.

I’m putting it out there. Laying my feelings in the open for you, dear reader, to mock, agree with, trample upon, or sear with your laser beam goggles and neon-spewing devil dartboards.

Do as you will. But be sure to listen loud and drink it in first.


Wednesday, May 14, 2008



Monday, May 12, 2008

Starless and Bible Black Sabbath



Folkmaster Flex himself, Mike Roberts, is back in the U-nited States and going ripshit on his guitar. He posted an absolutely spectacular cover of Nico’s (Jackson Browne’s) “These Days” upon his return and somewhat 12-gauged my mind. Kid is so damn talented it makes me want to vomit…PRAISE!

So. In response to Mike’s open call for cover suggestions, I thought I’d be the smart ass I tend to be and suggest a seemingly un-coverable song (and one of my all-time favorites), “Starless” by King Crimson. It’s a 12-minute song with strange/difficult chord changes, a killer build and a monumental guitar solo that makes you want destroy everything non-living within a 10 to 20 foot radius.

Anyway. Of course. Mike killed it. Slayed that fucking thing and made it his bitch. One thing (of many things) I can say about Mike is that the guy just knows how to make good music. He’s by far the most talented musician I know and seriously and simply knows what sounds good. So he took “starless” and made it his own - Mike’s folk-on-top-of-its-head, down-n-dirty, yellowed beer-drinking awesome sandwich.

For the love of god, check out the song on mike’s blog and divvy the props accordingly.


Saturday, May 10, 2008

Mo' Music....

They say first is the worst, second is the best and third…well, third’s got that derned hairy chest.

Last night was round two of DJ action at River Gods here in boston and it was, well, the best. The crowd was frothing for heat and you know damn well I gave it to them. So much so that bar stools and the standard River Gods’s thrones became unnecessary. Everyone got elevated. They floated around the room like those stoned punks in Half Baked - choking on the smoldering musicjuice being blasted through their brains.

Yea. I’m confident. So what? If I weren’t so damn pumped by the tunes I spin/click then why the hell would I offer them up to you, oh treasured blog reader? I seek to spread the ashes of my charred rock unto your fertile sponge brains so that a leafy soulpsych insanity bush sprouts from within. And the same shivers my own brainshrub passes through me may one day rattle your spine with gale-force-winds of musical glee. Best take out insurance before your brain tree smashes your brain Honda.


Hopefully they’ll let me DJ again so that I can get some short/curlies on this David Chokachi-esque barefront chest-o-mine.

River Gods - 5/8 - 1
River Gods - 5/8 - 2

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Spanish Imposition

Once again, the force feeding.

For those of you who live in places other than Boston, here are the four hours of digital music I played at River Gods Bar Tuesday night.

I DJ’ed.

I controlled the lubricated minds of a lucky group of about 30 people from 8pm – 1am for a single night of their lives. I saw tears welling, smiles breaking, dollars dropping and coins collected.

I can only hope that the scattered songs I spun slipped secretly into the soul of some who witnessed with satisfaction. Seriously.

So here’s the musak. It was a pain in the nuts to get it all up on rapidshare – took up my whole goddamn day - so just deal with the fact that there ain’t no track listings.
If anyone actually reads this “blog,” downloads this music, listens to it and really, desperately needs to know what a particular track is, you can email me. But don’t expect an expedient response or anything. I could care less about you and your pathetic fanboy/girl requirements of me. I am of course kidding with you about the pathetic thing. Please inquire. I will respond with great zigor and vest.

River Gods 1
River Gods 2
River Gods 3
River Gods 4

I'm big on the pig

Piggly Wiggly. They get it.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

The Large Hardon Collider Opens Up a Black Hole

Nytimes today.

Page A10.

they misspell "Large Hadron Collider" as "Large Hardon Collider"

aparantly some people are filing a lawsuit in Hawaii because they believe a "Large Hardon Collider" will open up a "black hole."

who knew?

here's the link to the online (with correct spelling) version. Print is the only one with the error.

Monday, March 24, 2008



Back to the face melt on rye.

For those of you in New York and Boston, this group (along with Acid Mothers Temple) will be playing tomorrow night and Wednesday night respectively (yea, I did the respectively thing). They are a questionably dressed group of Oregoners called Danava and they play loud, long and decisively.

Guitar virtuosity is rare in this, the digital music age, so when Dusty Sparkles (yea, so what?) rips shit during these 8-minute jams, we should all bow down and kiss his vintage Beatle boots. Reminiscent of Hawkwind, Stray and Magma at their best moments, Danava rips with an intensity I haven’t heard since the 70s. I mean, I wasn’t alive in the 70s, but I’ve heard some music from the 70s and sometimes it’s real good, ya know? Like real good.

Anyway, they are the jam. Not The Jam, but the jam. Jam on.

More to come.

Danava - s/t

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Twin Vixen Press

A friend from college and her friend who i am not yet friends with but in time hope to develop a friendship with after i meet her have opened a print studio in Brattleboro, VT. Helen's etchings are fucking ridiculously cool and if i had spare cash i would buy them all. Check out their new site which I'm sure will be updated frequently as these two ladies produce amazing new works from their amazing new digs.

Also. If any of you are in North Brattleboro, VT and have a hankerin' for some SERIOUS pulled pork, hit up the Vermont Country Deli where they glaze the pig in Vermont maple syrup. Some of the best my buds have ever encountered.

This serves as a fine example of my theory that New York is like a mirror for the south. Everything you might think of as southern restarts on your way north from new york city, but reversed. Hot, cold. repubs, dems. waterskiing, skiing skiing. honey glaze, and now maple glaze.

I think i'll call it, "The New York City Cultural Mirror Theory."

Go ahead. Mull it over.

Ya heard?

Monday, March 17, 2008

Pantha Du Prince

Switching gears we have some night driving music. The road is lightless and perfectly winding. You watch as the arrow of your headlights slice across the landscape in front of you like the angle of wet ice left from behind a Zamboni. Talking in a gulp of warm summer air, you drive faster until you frighten yourself enough to slow down.

Pantha Du Prince (Hendrik Weber) creates electronic music typically referred to as micro-house or sometimes minimal techno. I, for one, have no idea what the fuck all these electronic music terms mean. Why do they have to change every 15 seconds and why should I care what the label is when the music sounds as good as this. I don’t, but I thought I’d let you people know so that if you were partial to either micro-house or minimal techno (read: ass hole) your interest might be sparked. That’s why I did it and now it is done. So just deal with my labels, the shitty album title and get on with your sad life (Kidding. You’re great!)

But seriously…give it a whirl like Kevin Mcallister.

Pantha Du Prince - This Bliss

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Let's work through this one together...

"A 38-year-old Cole Avenue man reported that his home was invaded on Sept. 9. The man said he was sitting home alone masturbating and watching a pornographic movie when a man came down into the basement, holding a gun, and started to videotape him. The man said that before he left, the intruder fed his dog some mushrooms and the dog died."

So a man was down in his basement waxing his weasel. Nothing wrong there. Upstairs, some unknown intruder breaks in with a video camera and a gun, two crucial items when either filming an elk hunting expedition or committing a crime while consciously implicating oneself. The intruder heads downstairs and demands that the man continue whacking while being filmed. No time frame is listed here. Once the filming is complete (and possibly the whacking), we have the mushrooms.

Did the intruder bring mushrooms in a “pack” of some sort? Fanny or back? Or did he stop and check out the victim’s fridge prior?

“Let’s see…soda, purple stuff, sunny D, MUSHROOMS!!! Alright!!”

And were they button, portobello, psychotropic or shitake?

Did the dog choke? Was it allergic? Was the Heimlich performed?

And how did the feeding go? Did the intruder bring the dog downstairs and make the man watch as he fed the dog the death-inducing shrooms? Or, after the whole ordeal, did the man go upstairs only to find Fido’s bucket kicked next to a blue package of unwashed fungus?

Was anything burgled beside mushrooms?

Not unlike that show banished to the Court TV channel, this will most likely remain one of those “Unsolved Mysteries.”

Your thoughts on the case are encouraged.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

The Nazz

Todd Rundgren.

You know what I heard? That dude doesn't want to work. No. He just wants to sit around, smoke weed and bang on his candy ass Zildjans all day. What the crap is up with that? Look. We all have to put in our time to make this world spin. Atlas is cramping up. And I sure as shit ain't gonna sit at my desk countin' pinto beans while Todd Fucking Rundgren sits around whacking the sheep skins 8 hours a day (if not more).

I like the drums. I'd like to sit around with Neil Pert ripsticking through my musicbox. I'd learning the intricate runs, the crash/ride love. Tip tapping on that high hat, oh so quiet just before the tear streakin' coda. But no. I have to work. i got payments.

The Nazz is Rundgren's first band from late 60's Pennsylvania. They craft tight as hell, guitar-driven psych rock. God damn you, rundgren. Enjoy the drums...and the 30 other instruments you've mastered.

i love you.

link for you:
The Nazz - Nazz Nazz

Monday, March 10, 2008

The Psychic Paramount

An explosive, face-melting guillotine of spaced-out sped-up psychedelic monstrosities hell bent on making your sonic receptors wish simultaneously that they were never born and that your volume control could click up just one more beautiful click of goodness before they bled to death - otherwise known as The Psychic Paramount.

This is their first LP entitled "Gamelan Into The Mink Supernatural" and it is a scorcher. Watch out for the combustive entrance on track 2, "Para5". It's a speaker-blower.

dreams into reality

this is what this is all about.

there is nothing else.

In the beginning...

...they say there was rhythm.

I certainly didn't get any of it. They divvied that shit out unevenly. The purpose of this post is to allow myself time to fiddle with colors, fonts and smells to make sure that i can deliver quality content to you, dear reader, in the most condensed, easily consumable form available through this Blogger template. The lunchmeat of blogs if you will.

Catch you all on the flipswitch.