WHERE YOU GO I GO TOO

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: http://flickr.com/photos/andykadin/sets/72157607462298637/

Anyway…dig in friendly friends.

http://rapidshare.com/files/147879131/lindstrom_-_where_you_go_i_go_too.zip.html

ANYONE LOOKING FOR A BOX SPRING?

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

http://boston.craigslist.org/gbs/fuo/842467465.html

FULL SIZE BOX SPRING - READY TO BLOW YOUR MIND - $50 (Kendall Square)

---

Reply to: sale-842467465@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-09-15, 11:52PM EDT


Hello.

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.

A POEM OF LOVE

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

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

http://aht.seriouseats.com/archives/2008/08/burger-book-giveaway-the-hamburger-a-history.html

FLIGHT FRIGHT

So look.

I promised myself when I started this weblog (way back in ’74) that it wouldn’t be about me. This guy. What the crap do I have to offer you, dear reader, other than perhaps a glimpse into the music world I so dearly treasure. Thus, the mainly musical offerings so far.

That aside, this next album connects to my being in a very particular way.

Stand by - soul doors opening…

I have an unqualified, illogical fear of flight.

Airplanes.

Yes. Airplanes scare me shitless.

I understand the physics – drag, lift, etc. – but for some odd reason I can’t get by the fact that we are fucking floating on invisible fucking nothingness 30,000 ft. above a violent range of fucking snowcapped fucking mountains! What? How can this be? I’m looking out the window across some bald guy drooling on himself and wonder when he’s going to stand up in a fit of unwarranted rage and yank the HUGE lever (why does it have to be so damn big? Do crazies need a fucking invite like that?) on the emergency exit door thus sucking me and my unsuspecting coach jockeys out into the wild blue fucking yonder!

Whoa.

Clearly I have a slight problem. Good thing I picked a career that only flies me around the world 400 times a year or so. Once again…nice work self-defeating moron.

Despite the above, there has been some headway. And, as most respite arrives in my life, it comes in the form of music.

For some odd reason, combined with a blatant disregard for both FAA regulations and repeated flight attendant flogging, I must take off while listening to music.

One song specifically – Laila, Pt. 2 by Agitation Free.

I develop rules that, however illogical, when proven to work once, must be instituted as a universal. This is now a rule. I haven’t crashed yet, and the past 6 flights – some over 15 hours long – have all started with Laila, Pt. 2.

There is something within this song. Something intrinsically laced within its consistently upward bouncing bassline, its flittering guitar solos doused in celebration, and the popping progress of the snare. When it kicks in at a about 1:30 I am temporarily free of fear. Flight is now something straight out of the 60s...a yellowy party in the sky with cold beverages, luxurious meals and sexy stewardesses.

It is no longer the moments before a life-changing disaster, but instead the birth of an adventure whose memory will rival any of those life long.

This song does that. Quite a radical shift from my fears detailed above, wouldn't you say?

Mechanical failure.
Terrorism.
Pilot error.
Suicidal flight attendant.
Psycho drooling bald man.

They melt into introspective delight.

AH!
Song’s ending!
Quick - Restart it!

Anyway…here is the album within which the song that makes flight possible resides.

First Communication also kicks ass.

Enjoy.

http://rapidshare.com/files/142189799/2nd.zip.html