Elvis and Dylan

I'm lucky to live in a city where I can hop on a train and in less than an hour I can step off the train platform and walk right into the Chicago Theater. Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello were in the house last night.

It was a very spirited and rousing show. And well, surprise, suprise, it was Elvis who really blew me away. I mean, I cannot criticize Bob Dylan, in my book he's kind of like a river or the grand canyon, or a willow tree. He just is, love him or hate him. I happen to love him, or maybe it's not him, he's a cantankerous, strange and quirky dude, but his music, his poetry in all it's various guises is a gift that keeps on giving. David Kehr talking about Errol Flynn's "The Adventures of Robin Hood," once remarked that the movie was "beyond criticism." (Errol Flynn jumping around in green tights - could be ridiculous, but for some reason it works!). That's how I feel about Dylan. No one, especially not the little man in the black hat and shiny black suit with stripes down his pant legs can live up to DYLAN. There's the man, the work, the myth.

All that said, Dylan has a very tight and solid band backing him these days. There were only two songs that I thought they really murdered. I'd suggest to Bob that "Positively Fourth Street," and "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carrol" just should not be re-arranged in some weird, faux Lawrence Welk manner. I get the feeling that Dylan believes he has the right to do anything he wants to his songs, even arrange them out of existence. Like Piccasso in his later years, no one around him can say "no." Sometimes a good collaborator can save you. Anwyay, that said, these guys know how to do that old-timey stuff as per Dylan's "Modern Times," but it was when they rocked out on the up-tempo numbers where they really grabbed me. I guess, when I go to see Dylan, all those other times I've seen him still resonate with me (Dylan backed by the Band, Dylan backed by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Dylan backed by the guitar masters Charlies Sexton and Larry Campbell). All in all, happy to see Mister Dylan still going strong. He's a true American treasure.



But it was Elvis Costello opening for Dylan who stole the show. One man, one guitar, one voice. He absolutely tore the house down. I've seen Elvis before, with the Attractions, with the Imposters, in fact, I saw Elvis when he first came to U.S. shores all those years ago, at a little club in Schaumburg, Illinois way back when "My Aim is True," first hit the shelves, he's always been good, but this time around, you realize the man really is a master.

Elvis (excuse my French), fucking rocked. So much passion, so in the moment. He had the audience in the palm of his hand. he was wielding an Epiphone Acoustic/Electric, the same model J. Lennon used to play, it was hooked up to a small tube amp, and he got a perfect, creamy overdriven sound to back his superb vocals. I can't say enough. It was so powerful, so inspiring. When he quoted Lennon's line, "I don't want to be a soldier mama, I don't want to die," in "Wake Up," when he did a rousing, punkish, version of "What's So Funny about Peace, Love and Understanding," he hit the bullseye. The audience roared with delight. It was one of the best performances I've ever seen. Totally unexpected. Elvis truly is the King. This one writes his own songs too! Elvis lives!

"authorized and ordered crimes of torture to be carried out ... as well as other war crimes."

Yes, well, sometimes there's a glimmer of light. I know sometimes justice is slow, or never comes, (or doesn't exist?!), maybe this never goes anywhere, but this is good news from Europe, or at least it's a first step. We have our own homegrown Milosevics and Pinochets (think Rumsfield, Cheney, Bush) and one can at least hope that they one day there is some kind of reckoning, that they "get what they deserve."

I suppose just having to be a Rumsfield, a Cheney, a Bush is punishment enough on some karmic plane. But in this human element, it would be good for all of us to bring these guys to account for their crimes against humanity.

Tonight I am going to see Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello at the Chicago theater, and I'm really looking forward to it. My band, the Telepaths are thinking of adding Dylan's "Masters of War," to our set list when we play in early December. I'll let Dylan have the last words. He is of course, speaking of those who build the death planes, who build all the bombs, those who "hide in your mansion/as young people's blood/flows out of their bodies/and is buried in the mud."

And then the final stanza: "And I hope that you that you die/and your death'll come soon/I will follow your casket/in the pale afternoon/ and I'll watch while you're lowered/down to your deathbed/and I'll stand o'er your grave/Til I'm sure that you're dead."

Here's Eddie Vedder giving it a whirl:

Life - I recommend it!

I hate nostalgia. I love history. Makes sense? For instance, I listen to music from the sixties or seventies or eighties, not because it reminds me of a lost time, or reminds me of who I was back then, I'm not fondly looking back through misty eyes, hell no, I listen because some of that music still resonates with me NOW. When that snare drum shot rings out to start "Like a Rolling Stone," it's the kick, the immediate adrenaline rush of now that grabs me by the lapels. I'm thinking there are some songs, some novels, some poems, whatever, that are so much of the moment, that they are beyond time. The moment stretches out forever and you can dip in and you are alive in an ever-expanding nowness.

At the same time, the now, is the aquarium we swim in. Sometimes there just seems to be too much now. I find it refreshing to read about times and people who lived long ago. Partly to see a glimpse of a lost world, and also to illuminate, or to put on fresh eyes to see what's happening today.

So lately, I've been reading a biography of Percy Shelley. An English poet. I kind of get the impression that he and his fellow poet, Byron, if they lived today, would be fronting rock & roll bands. I see Shelley as kind a kinky Ray Davies, and Byron, well of course, he'd be the lead singer of the Doors.

I came across this yesterday, something Shelley wrote in a notebook in 1819. It seems to me, not so old really, no, I think it could have been written today, and well, there's a real kick when someone from another time and place hits the bullseye in your head, this moment.

"Life and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and feel, is an astonishing thing...we are struck with admiration at some of it's transient modifications, but it is itself the great miracle. What are the changes of empires, the wreck of dynasties, with the opinions which supported them; what is the birth and the extinction of religions and of political systems to life? What is the universe of stars, and suns...and their motions, and their destiny, compared with life?"

Murdering Mother Nature or "Oedipus. You can't handle the truth!"

If you want to know how poorly we are taking care of our planet, you should check out CNN's Planet in Peril. I didn't see it all, (frankly some of it is quite painful to watch!), but it is impressive in it's scope and there is a ton of new information to process. To sum up, our wealth and affluence and prosperity are killing the planet (all of us are culpable - every last one of us!). Seems that our great technological/industrial paradise is squeezing out the planet-wide ecosystem that spawned us. We truly are murdering Mother Nature and at an alarming and accelerating rate. Did you know that our world-wide population has grown by 400% since 1900? Unchecked growth (don't the economists tell us this is a desirable state?) in nature is what we call CANCER! Human Beings are now a Cancer on the Planet! Yikes! Not so good for one's self-esteem.

Reminds me of one of my heroes, the famous beat poet Gary Snyder.

Back in the 70's he wrote a truly great book called "Turtle Island." That's what the Indians called the territory we now call the U.S. Anyway, Gary was kind of like the canary in the coal mine. The lone poet/prophet whistling past the graveyard. And well, now that we know we are turning this blue planet into a grave, can we somehow stop it?

It's kind of funny in a sort of sick way, we are the uppity monkeys that just don't know our place. Everything in an ecosystem has a job. At some point, we got it in our heads that our job was to destroy the ecosystem and replace it with Orlando, Florida, a faux paradise of glitz, a desolate, god-for-saken amusement park of cheap thrills. Not so amusing after all. And is it our fear of Mother Nature, our fear of death, that drives us to killing everything that is not us and in that way, we actually assure our own destruction? Maybe there's a play in there?!

Wake Up and Smell the Roses

Supposedly a cow, a horse, a pig, a dog, a cat, a mouse, a bug, etc. (I mean there's a long list of fellow creatures on this planet, although according to the latest count, species are disappearing at an alarming rate - and may I ask if we finally kill off all off our fellow species, won't it actually be quite a lonely damned place to live? And if you listen to the news (oh god no!), the water, the air, the soil, and of course the ice, is all being polluted, corrupted and destroyed by our heavy-handed presence - so I mean, what's the end-game here?) these creatures don't fret about their place in the world, although, I'm thinking this might just be more of that human hubris we've all grown so accustomed to, who are we to say what goes on in the mind of a pig, or cow or a mouse?

But as a human being, a guilt-riddled, brain-addled specimen, no doubt, I sometimes wonder what exactly I'm doing here. I mean, I've kind of opted out of the "be fruitful and multiply" directive. My seed has not engendered an offspring, no indeed, instead, it has fallen on deaf eggs, and in my book that is a good thing. Does the world really need any kind of facimile of me? I dare answer, "I think not!"

So, what purpose? Some days it's not even a question. Just glad to be alive. Other days, well, is it my job to enjoy, or only to endure the pummeling of the world? Maybe I don't really have a purpose or job at all. Aye there's the rub. So, what's the matter, except the matter? On the other hand, as my father used to say (quoting someone else) "I never promised you a rose garden." And if I don't have a rose garden to haunt, can I still take a whiff and smell the roses?

Turning Guns to Butter!? (or how about "I can't believe it's not butter!?")

A must read from Chalmers Johnson:

"There is, I believe, only one solution to the crisis we face. The American people must make the decision to dismantle both the empire that has been created in their name and the huge, still growing military establishment that undergirds it. It is a task at least comparable to that undertaken by the British government when, after World War II, it liquidated the British Empire. By doing so, Britain avoided the fate of the Roman Republic -- becoming a domestic tyranny and losing its democracy, as would have been required if it had continued to try to dominate much of the world by force."

Two wars and counting! Big Dick and Little Bush are itching for more. Anyone for dismantling an empire? How would that play in Iowa, in New Hampshire? As Nick Lowe wrote, and the other Elvis once sang, "what's so funny about peace, love and understanding?" Who will step up to the plate?

Sparklehorse!

Sometimes a record whaps you upside the head and you can't get it out until you play it to death. Then it's imprinted forever. Or at least until they finally put the pennies on your eyes.

Sparklehourse's album, "Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain," wasn't like that for me. I bought the cd sometime in 2006, just after it came out. Played it once in awhile. Liked it, but it kind of washed past me, if you know what I mean, it sat in a stack of other discs, filed under "nice background music," but still, I didn't listen to it very often. I gravitated to other stuff.

Well, I do think this thing is some kind of masterpiece. Totally hypnotic. Captivating. Creeps up on you. I "re-discovered" it one afternoon, and now I play it obsessively. Not exactly sure what it's all about. But it's about something. And I can't get enough. Makes me think of Yo Lo Tengo on some tracks, but only tangentially. Then it has it's own unique sounds. Unlike anything else. A haunting, ethereal beauty. And some rocking tracks, and some dissonance, and fractured surreal lyrics.

It's all the brain-child of a guy named Mark Linkous. Seems he's had a strange and difficult existence on the margins of musicland. Anyway, I love this cd...

Torture Logic!

Why am I so tortured about the torture debate? Not really sure. Maybe I've been on the losing end of that bargain in another incarnation. Or maybe my powers of imagination and empathy somehow make it real easy for me to see how you could find yourself under the screw for no good reason. Maybe it was all those formative years sitting through Benediction and taking in the stained glass re-enactment of the stations of the cross. I mean, that seemed to be a case where a fairly likeable dude who talked about love was whipped and pummeled and nailed to a tree for what was in his head. I guess the injustice of it all kind of seeped into my DNA.

So, eventhough I know torture goes on, it's been employed by many nations, many police forces, many armies, it's usually been condemned. I mean some of the great practitioners were folks like the Nazis and Stalin, and the French, the Spanish. Or for years if you wanted to know how to torture you'd go to folks like the KGB or the CIA for the latest methods. Again, I realize that bad shit happened. Happens still.

What's amazing though is how you now have a President, a Vice President, an Attorney General (or Attorney General to be) who basically has decided to "redefine," what torture really is, because if we do it, even if the Geneva Conventions says what we're doing is torture, it must not be torture because well we're doing it!

So you actually have a statement sort of like this (I'm paraphrasing what I heard on the radio this morn): If it's torture, it's unconstitutional, we don't do anything unconstitutional, so we don't torture, even if we do what we are doing looks like torture, don't worry it's not! Also this Attorney General-to-be tells us that we have a "war president" (remember this is a never-ending war!), and as WAR PRESIDENT our Commander in Chief can do anything to protect us! And by the way, if he does it, even if it includes torturing us, or ripping up our constitution, well it's all ok, because once he does it, it's actually legal and constitutional. And NO ONE CAN TELL US ANY DIFFERENT.

Is this what it's like to live in a BANANAS REPUBLIC!?

UPDATE: I just wanted to add to the list. Of course, just about every country, every army, every police force, every bully has at some time used torture, to either get information, or well, maybe just for the sadistic pleasure of having power over another human being. George Orwell's definition of power - one man's boot-heel crushing another man's head. Elizabethan England along with being a such shining, verdant village idyll was also a terror state with Catholics and Protestants torturing (the rack and screw) and murdering each other for what was in their hearts and minds. There are many arguments against torture - doesn't work, false confessions, brutalizes the tortured and the torturer. It's immoral, it's wrong. There's some thresholds a man, a force, an army, a nation should not cross. Once crossed we are lost. When dudes in suits with big salaries start hedging on the meaning, the definition of torture, I think it is safe to say that our ship of state is on shaky ground. The more boot-heels, the more pain, the more brutality, the weaker we become. A hollow bully of a nation.

"He Lifts Me Up!" - The Belfast Cowboy

I read obits once in awhile. Is it some magical-thinking way of proving I'm not dead yet? It's a way to find out something about people you didn't really know. A person was born at this time, did this, did that, died at this time, and at this place. There's so much left out. You know that the simple facts tell you something, and still the facts basically miss the essential stuff of what makes a life.

I came across this obit for Sri Chinmoy, a spiritual holy man who founded a meditation center in Queens back in the sixties. He became a guru for some famous people, including the musicians Carlos Santana and John McGlaughlin. I came across his name many years ago. I was a fan of Miles Davis' haunting "Bitches Brew" album, which led me to listening to the great guitar work of John McGlaughlin, which led me to his band Mahavishnu Orchestra. I learned McGlaughlin was a disciple of Chinmoy.

A guy named Jerry Goodman was the violinist in Mahavishnu Orchestra and many years later, I met a guy named Fred Glickstein, who was also in a band with Goodman, a Chicago based band called The Flock, one of the great, lost, psychedelic rock outfits that came and went after a disc or two. Anyway, I kind of count Fred as one of my friends. He lives near me, we chat once in awhile, trade e-mails. He's totally unplugged from the music scene, but he's got a million funny stories. He's a sparkling soul and I'd glad I know him.

Anyway, so in some weird way, I feel connected to Chinmoy via Davis via McGlaughlin via Goodman via Glickstein. So I read Chinmoy's obit with quite a bit of interest. He advocated meditation (yes!), vegetarianism (well, I guess ok!) and celibacy (are you sure? I mean you got to let it out sometime captain!). He was an athelete who slept only 90 minutes a day (that sounds totally crazy to me - isn't that how we break prisonsers at Guantanamo - I mean I need a good eight hours to be somewhat coherent?!), and who ran ultra-marathons and did some heavy lifting.

Here's the really funny part. It seems Chinmoy was a spiritual leader who "literally" lifted people up. He physically lifted them. It was one of his great acheivements. I mean who else can boast that he lifted: Sting, Muhammad Ali, Neslon Mandela, Sid Cesear, Desmond Tutu, Yoko Ono, Jesse Jackson, Susan Sarandon, Eddie Murphy and Richard Gere!?!?

No, he did not lift Van Morrison. But still, when all is said and done good ole Sri was quite the uplifting holy man!

Dancing on the Precipice

I recently read about the late, great, French pop songster, and bad boy, Serge Gainsborough, and well, eventhough, I've never really heard his music, he seems like just my cup of tea. I guess he sort of reigned supreme in France during the late sixties, early seventies.

I was lost in the Dylan/Beatles/Stones/Who/Allman Brothers milieu at the time, I had no place for an ultra-hipster (think of a French Bogart who could write songs and sing) like Serge. I am ripe for him now. I plan on ordering some discs from Amazon to kind of catch up. Anyway, this quote from Serge (he believed he was an ugly man - eventhough beautiful women were wildly attracted to him, and he had relationships with many, including at the time, the great sex kitten, Brigitte Bardot), has resonated with me. I've been carrying it around in my head for weeks, and I thought I had to put it in the blogosphere. Here it is:

"Beauty fades, ugliness endures." - Serge Gainsborough

It's something I can relate as per my own self-image. I've always been uncomfortable in my skin. Ever since I was little, as soon as I could see myself in a mirror, or a photo, I have been disappointed. There's nothing quite like a disappointed Narcissist! But as life has gone forward, my strangeness, my self-perceived "ugliness" has sort become a badge of honor. I'm not worried about fading beauty, instead, the accumulated rust starts to turn into a dark, weirdness that is undeniable. Something endures. And the endurance itself becomes a virtue. Of course, entropy rules and well Serge finally gave up the ghost, just as we all must. Serge is gone but ugliness endures!

So anyway, this is all just a preamble to what I really wanted to write about - THE TELEPATHS! It's a band I'm in. I play guitar. It a combustible, anarchic outfit that specializes in energy and mayhem. We played out last night at Sylvies, a smoky and muggy little rock club. We did a 40 minute set. It was raw and exhilarating. I think we are undeniably the "sweatiest rock and roll band" in the city. I don't know exactly what it is - get the four of us up onstage, and suddenly the adrenaline kicks in and anything seems possible.

We were sloppy, and almost lost it completely a couple times last night, and well there's some kind of amazing kick when you realize you are dancing on the precipice. I hope we never lose that mad and loose r&r ethic. It's a cool thing, so different from the work I do with the Lovely Carla in my other band White Wolf Sonic Princess. There we are shooting for some kind of ethereal beauty. The Telepaths are definitely on the extreme other end of a dichotomy.

I feel lucky to be exploring both sides of that weird-ass equation...

The Cow Jumped Over the Moon...

One year, one Oscar, one Nobel Prize. Not bad. Add to that the guy wins the popular vote in 2000...

Of course, as we all know the Supremes stole the election from the man...and well, we're stuck with the Idiot Monkey, who takes the country down a sordid path of buffoonery and misery...

Do we always get the President we deserve?

Al asks us to think as a species...sounds like quite the leap...

The Ghost of Jeff Buckley

Last night White Wolf Sonic Princess (WWSP) played out at Uncommon Ground. It was such a blast. I mean, we were nervous as hell. For some reason, eventhough we've done a bunch of shows already, it really seemed like some kind of coming out party for us. Plus, because of the logistics, it was just the Lovely Carla and I. No bass, no drums. We were up there in a very intimate room, one guitar, two voices. About as naked and exposed as you can be. I guess maybe doing a standup act would be one step beyond.

It was a challenge and a kick. It all kind of went by in a blur. But we really savored it too. Uncommon Ground is a very cozy and intimate room. It's got to be one of the best places to play in Chicago. There were some familiar faces, in fact, much of my life in the last few years were kind of represented at some of the tables there. I've really been on a spiritual/creative quest and some of the kindred souls I've met along the way came out to support us. It was very gratifying.

Plus there were plenty of new faces too. We got a warm response. Good feeling all around. Even the Lovely Carla gave us high marks! As we packed up for the night I stood under the portrait of Jeff Buckley and thanked him. He's gone, but inspires still.

Still kind of riding the positive vibe this morning. No post performance crash yet. Maybe I can stay in the bubble for a little while.

Let It Rock...

Can rock & roll save your soul? Not sure about that. There is much debauch and wreckage associated with the r&r lifestyle. Early death. Fallen idols. Alchoholism. Drug abuse. Blasted and broken lives. Too many peanut butter and fried bannana sandwiches.

On the other hand, I do believe r&r feeds and fires the soul. It may not be enough to save a soul, but it certainly stirs it. Last night, I spent a few hours in a dark rehearsal space with a couple of other souls. It was hot, not really transcendant. We blasted through some numbers, originals and covers, elemental r&r songs, played loud.

Turn up the volume, crash through a chord progression, feel the kick of the drum, and throb of a bass guitar. The failures, the defeats, all the bad shit of the world had to wait for us outside the doors. You can't barricade the doors. Finally you have to pack up and go into that dark night. The world is waiting for us all with all it's pain and glory, it's claws and embraces.

But for a few minutes you get to rock, and it lights something inside. It may not be enough, but then again, the soul thing doesn't work by number and logic...instead it's kind of like magic...and sometimes a maple fretboard points you in a certain direction...and it's something.

The Drunken Monkey in Your Head

The Lovely Carla went for an acupunture session this morning. At lunch she hits me this sage advice: "beware the drunken monkey in your head...it is a monster!"

I'm thinking that my drunken monkey may have something to bring to the table...maybe I can redeem him for valuable prizes later?!

Disinterested Ongoingness of Everything

Tom Stoppard's play "Rock & Roll" is coming to New York. He writes about it in the latest Vanity Fair. It seems he was originally intending to write a play about Syd Barrett the great lost frontman of Pink Floyd, but then took a creative detour.

This line at the end of the piece really resonates: "every story, made up or otherwise...is secretly about time, the disinterested ongoingness of everything, the unconditional mutability that makes every life poignant." - Tom Stoppard

Just because he says it, doesn't make it so...

It's been said over and over...and well, not sure if our country can really deal with the depths of the degradation and destruction this man has unleashed. THIS MAN IS A LIAR AND A CRIMINAL! He should be hauled down to the Hague for trial for war crimes. The crimes committed by this nation stain us all...

UPDATE: What a fucking weasel! If there's any doubt about "advanced interrogation techniques" qualifying as torture, I submit that as a test (mind you only a test!) that Bush be subjected to a few weeks of the approved interrogation measures to see how well it all agrees with him.

Sweet Smell of Success

I can't really go into the specifics...I must protect the innocent, the not so innocent and the completely guilty. Let's just say, I've recently been involved in a business deal where mucho bucks have been discussed. It was very early stage, but if it all panned out, I stood to make a lot of money. Now, it turns out that someone that I greatly admire, someone who I've worked with for many years, someone who has inspired me, someone I can honestly call a friend, basically asked me for a bribe to make sure the deal happened.

It was presented in such a friendly and logical way. "You take care of me, I take care of you." And of course, I think of myself as a "deal-maker," not a "deal-breaker." I hesitated. I did not dimiss the idea immediately. I tried it on for size, I actually consulted with a couple collegues to see if it was something we could "work out."

At the same time, I knew it was wrong. And in my heart, I knew I could not do it. How to respond? Well, I came back with both barrels blazing. I ripped the deal to shreds. I probably lost a friend. I passed up the bucks. I told my friend he was making a big mistake. I even threatened to blow the whistle (this is probably something I won't do!)

Was I naive? I know that many deals are made by "greasing the wheel." Much of Wall Street and Washington too, and every State Capitol in the land has it's practitioners of the bribe. I am not on a high-horse here. I don't feel righteous, I'm not putting myself up as some moral example. I actually feel really bad that I had to blow this deal to smithereens.

I'm writing about it to just get it all out of my system. Kind of like letting the poison dribble out my veins. Corruption comes with a smile and a dollar sign, it comes at you all friendly-like, with logic and practical terms. It tells you if you want to "play with the big dogs," you have to play along. It's a sweet seduction that kills something.

UPDATE: The Lovely Carla tells me to be careful about getting too self-righteous here. She reminds me of a previous case where I did take care of a friend, I did take care of myself too. She's right. There's a slippery slope here. And no clear lines. Subtle degrees of corruption. I guess it's a case by case process. You hope you make the right choices.

I Don't Believe in Superman...but...

I don't really think it's our mission to "lead the world," I mean, what if we could live a good life, take care of our children and our planet? Try our best to lean to the light? But I really like this quote from Barack Obama:

"To lead the world, we must lead by example. We must be willing to acknowledge our failings, not just trumpet our victories. And when I'm President, we'll reject torture - without exception or equivocation; we'll close Guantanamo; we'll be the country that credibly tells the dissidents in the prison camps around the world that America is your voice, America is your dream, America is your light of justice."

It sounds like a start to some kind of vision of redemption...I wonder if he'll have a chance to realize it...?

On the Road

We took our R&R roadshow 139 miles north to Madison (a city on a hill between two lakes Menota and Mendota), Wisconsin over the weekend. We played a show at Mother Fools, a comfortable little coffeehouse down the road from the Capitol building. Madison is the state Capitol and a college town, and this time of year, it's really all about football and beer. There's the Wisconsin Badgers college team and of course, there's the Green Bay Packers. Plus lots and lots and lots of beer.

So our band was battling the Badgers and lots of cold beer for the entertainment dollar. Football & beer won. It was me, the Lovely Carla and Sanjay our drummer extraordinaire (think a combo of Maya, Krishna and a Smurf and you kind of get a little flavor of who Sanjay is - we are so lucky to have him in our band) in Madison (there was a full moon too!), for a White Wolf Sonic Princess gig.

We were sort of fish out of water. Swimming upstream in a river of beer. We played to the vegan-soy-latte crowd. Not really a crowd, just a few stray, like-minded souls hiding out from the football-mad, beer-soaked hordes in a cozy little coffeeshop. We did two sets - nearly 2 hours of music. All originals. It went so well, quite the satisfying show. Some enthusiastic applause, nice words and smiles from the audience. Then, well, the night was still young, what else to do (?!) we couldn't resist, we jumped into the mad frat-boy fray with both feet. We found ourselves at a bar where the beer mugs were liter-sized, and another place where all beer on tap was freshly brewed right on-site.

We drank with gusto, happy with all we'd done and then we watched the football crazies get really sloppy, over-the-top drunk. We got a little fuzzy headed too. It was quite the scene. I can't really sum it up, but if our country is on the skids I think our obsession with football and beer might have something to do with it.

Anyway, Sunday morning the streets of Madison were pretty deserted. I'm sure there were a lot of hangovers, although, the three of us we were just fine. Had a nice breakfast and then it was back on the road to Chicago. I'm really getting addicted to performing. Music is such a cool kick. We are really refining our sound. More shows are on the horizon...I live for this shit!

SERJ IS ONTO SOMETHING!

Serj Tankian, the leader singer of System of Down, is on tour promoting his new solo album. Serj has a lot going for him. A political conscience, a strong voice, he looks like a young Zappa, and well, he's a kind of crazy Lebanese dude with something to say. He is quite quotable:

WE ARE THE CAUSE OF A WORLD THAT'S GONE WRONG

CIVILIZATION IS OVER! ELECT THE DEAD.

Religion of the Ad

I watched the TV show "Mad Men" last night. I thought it was quite good. It looks like it's taking off from movies such as "The Apartment," "Sweet Smell of Success," and "Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter." Looking back at 1960 from the eyes of 2007." It's kind of hard-boiled, hyper-active and ridiculous too. The Nixon/Kennedy election and packaging of the president is a backdrop that lends it some gravitas.

Anyway, between scenes, a quote flashed on the screen from the artist Kit Williams. It seems so true, and obvious, I guess it's kind of a cliche, but cliches are cliches for a reason don't you think?

"The engine of ancient society was religion but the engine of contemporary society, as I see it, is advertising." - Kit Williams

And why is it we want to fill ourselves, our lives with beautiful lies, hokum and crap? The human being never tires of blowing smoke up it's own collective ass...

By 2007 there is only the spin and the spin of the spin...we are all in the middle of the vortex. We all know it. And well that's all part of the game too...

Homage to the Forefathers

Feeling pretty good this morning. White Wolf and Sonic Princess rocked out at the Elbo Room in Chicago last night. What a nice room, great sound, the sound guy was a pro. I actually worked with him when I appeared as a solo acoustic act opening for the Amino Acids at Gunther Murphy's (RIP) a long time ago now.

This road show thing is kind of new to us. When we do theater, the audience comes to our place, the stage is our home turf. Each audience is different, each night is unique, each performance is it's own world, but the set, the room is ours. Not so in the rock & roll thing.

As David Thomas of Pere Ubu once remarked, "rock and roll is moving large black cases from one part of town to the other." So yes, we must do the "schlepping." Not so bad for me, guitar and amp, but for our drummer it's a good way to build up the biceps.

We were second on the bill, only played for 1/2 hour to a very tiny audience (I was gonna say "tiny crowd" but that would not be an accurate description). But you know, for a Wednesday night it's to be expected. I was pleased to have a small group of cool people really giving us a listen. The reaction was warm and encouraging.

Overall, it was one of our best outings yet. A pretty tight set, the rockers rocked, the slow ethereal ones were slow and ethereal. This morning the Lovely Carla tells me that a Hindu Holy Man was there last night talking about the full moon. He told her that this moon asks that we "pay homage to our forefathers." I didn't know it at the time, but I'm pretty confident homage was given and received.

"Trees Talk Too!"

A friend of mine, a fellow-traveller, a great spirit, sent me a very funny file. It's called the "worst album covers of all time." You can find some of them here.

The one below is my favorite. I wonder what kind of music these two characters made together. Plus since Ricky is undoubtably made of wood, the title "Trees Talk Too," is really sort of touching...



UPDATE: Well I went for a run and it dawned on me that Geraldine and Ricky were not a singing act, but of course, a ventriloqist act. I suppose the real pleasure of listening to the album was to put the thing on the the turntable, turn off the lights, lay back in bed and imagine Ricky speaking and Geraldine not visibly moving her lips at all!

There's more to the story: turns out Ricky also played golf, and well, when asked why he was always smiling, Ricky would reply, "I got Jesus in me!"

The Daily Hate

It's kind of fascinating to watch the "daily hate," (who is next?) that is being directed at the President of Iran. I mean, the guy might be a buffoon, and a holocaust denier, but it seems to me Iran isn't the only country headed up by a buffoon who has a slim grip on reality. There's another country I'm thinking of, it's starts with a U. and ends with an S., that has caused a world full of mischief all by itself.

Anyway, I'm sure there are big problems in Iran, and well, it's not a place I'd like to live, and I wouldn't vote for the guy that runs it, but I wouldn't vote for the guy that runs our country now either.

The event at Columbia seemed to go quite well. Everyone got to have their say. I wonder how Bush would do in a room with Iranian students?

The mad, foaming at the mouth hysteria that has risen up against the Iranian President seems almost manufactured.

And no, nukes or no nukes, I don't think it's a good idea to start bombing another country any time soon. If we are thinking that Iran is a "rogue nation," I guess I'd say a little self-reflection is in order.

UPDATE: Hey here's some additional insight from Professer Juan Cole regarding the Iranian President. I think it's safe to say Cole really knows his shit:

"Instead, the U.S. State Department denounced Ahmadinejad as himself little more than a terrorist. Critics have also cited his statements about the Holocaust or his hopes that the Israeli state will collapse. He has been depicted as a Hitler figure intent on killing Israeli Jews, even though he is not commander in chief of the Iranian armed forces, has never invaded any other country, denies he is an anti-Semite, has never called for any Israeli civilians to be killed, and allows Iran's 20,000 Jews to have representation in Parliament.

The real reason his visit is controversial is that the American right has decided the United States needs to go to war against Iran. Ahmadinejad is therefore being configured as an enemy head of state. "

Diabolical Madness

This is from Juan Cole:

"The argument about whether Cheney/Bush went into Iraq over petroleum is not interesting. Of course they did, one way or another. The question is what exactly they thought they were doing about Iraq's petroleum. I would argue that they threw public resources (perhaps as much as two trillion dollars worth when all is said and done) to secure profits for private companies. Otherwise, the US public will never, ever realize the sort of savings from the development of Iraqi petroleum that would compensate them for the blood and treasure they have spent in Iraq. (Not to mention the opportunity costs of squandering so many resources on a quagmire, when the public investment could have been put to much better uses)."

I'm not an econ wizard, but I do know that if you're gonna spend a Trillion dollars on anything, there better be a nice ROI. If you're spending a Trillion dollars and in return you get blood and hatred and endless war, well folks there lies a diabolical madness. "Public Money/Private Gain." Should be the new Republican tag line.

Fancy Medals Ain't What They Used to Be

Last week one of our Four Star (how many stars are in the sky?) Generals marched down to the Senate to tell our brilliantly noble representatives how great everything is going in our foreign occupation in the land of Iraq. Seems everything is really peachy keen over there. Now some people may think that it was all just a big PR stunt, and an elaborate cover story to basically shore up support for President Pissy Pants ("presidentin' is hard work!").

Now I'm not one to question a guy with so many fancy medals on his chest. I mean he sort of looked like the second coming of Patton or Eisenhower, or Alexander or something. But it turns out another guy with fancy medals on his chest thinks this guy Petreus is just an "ass-kissing lickspittle," or something like that...

Well if one tip-top fancy medal dude is calling out another tip-top, fancy medal dude, what's a simple, humble pilgrim to think?

BLACKWATER

Imagine a counter-factual world. A world where let's say there was a foreign force in Louisiana (I'm just improvising here). This force is there to protect foreign Ambassadors and other high-level tight asses.

Well, let's say it's been kind of topsy-turvy lately in the streets of major cities in Louisiana, lots of violence and bad shit happening everyday. And well, there's an "incident," this foreign security detail is involved in a bloody shootout and a bunch of people end up dead. A new family - father, mother and little baby are shot up and burned to cinders in a bullet-riddled and combusted vehicle.

Let's just say the locals are up in arms. A lot of bad feeling all around. People saying something must be done. Then it turns out that a couple of years ago, a special order was passed, (unknown to the locals) that this security detail and in fact, any other foreign contractor in country is IMMUNE to any Louisiana LAW! And well, on one level the mad conception of the whole thing is fucking perfectly beautiful for the foreign occupiers. For the locals not so good. Who could imagine such a world?

Weather Vane

We are so much like the weather. Carbon-based weather vanes. One day to the next; one day, unlike any other. Ever again.

There are isobars, and barometric pressures, and moon tides. There is this big solar daddy hanging over us all. He's consistent, but changeable too.

As above, so below. There is only constant change, moment to moment. This feeling of continuity is really just a helpful (sometimes) illusion. Helpful, and then, not so helpful too. Can't hold on. To anything.

It's a little frightening. And a lonely row to hoe.

Good days you can ride the wave, and crash in the surf, and get back up, over and over. Until you are done. That's a life.

Time is a poet. - jd/sj

Everything is Everything

Lately most of my creative energy has been channeled into music and the band I co-founded with the Lovely Carla, the band with the improbable, unwieldy name: White Wolf and Sonic Princess. Sometimes when our bass player and drummer join us we then become White Wolf/Sonic Princess and the Enthusiastikatz. Now that's a real mouthful! How about WWSP&E?! I can see the letters plastered on the sign outside Madison Square Garden. I still have no problem thinking big!

Anyway, for some odd reason I was thinking it was a cool name when I came up with it, and well, whether it's cool or not, we're now kind of stuck with it. And well, isn't that how life goes? Stuck with these eyes and this nose and well, why exactly was I born at this time and place? Is there a reason? So many questions, so little time.

So our band has a round of very cool shows coming up, at some really fine establishments such as the Elbo Room and Uncommon Ground in Chicago, and Mother Fools in Madison, Wisconsin. Some amazing bands have marched through the Elbo Room over the years and well, Uncommon Ground is famous for really propelling Jeff Buckley's short, brilliant career.

So we've been rehearsing intensely, as a duo and as a four-some, really trying to hone our stage act. It's an interesting process, an evolution, hard work, and fun as all get out. At the same time, we've been in a real creative, song-writing phase. I posted our latest effort here. It's a real collaborative effort called "Everything is Everything," which sort of encapsulates a philosophical, maybe metaphysical outlook on our mad, mad, world. Plus as they used to say, "it's got a good beat, and you can dance to it."

I think it's funny too. I encourage you to give it a listen. Check out all the crazy loops towards the end. It's just a little pop confection, but sometimes, just maybe, that's enough!

"Buy One, Get One Free"

Last night, I'm in a taxi cab. The driver is in the middle of an extended monologue. He's a little older than me. He's from Pakistan, he's been in America many years now, he has a home, children, grown children. He works like a dog. Seven days a week. Never takes a vacation.

"Buy one, get one free. Buy one, get one free. Do you know why they say that...because Americans are not free."

And then this, "cheesburgers, cheeseburgers, cheeseburgers. All Americans eat is cheeseburgers."

There some other stuff he's saying, not sure what, can't follow it all, his voice makes me think of Andy Kaufman, but this guy is animated, funny, he keeps his eye on the road, the words roll out in a steady stream.

"I was young, in Pakistan, watch the TV, Lucy, Bonanza, Man from UNCLE."

Now this really makes me laugh. I was young, in America, I watched Lucy, Bonanza and Man from UNCLE too.

That's the America he thought he was coming to, that's the America I thought I was inheriting. Little kids watching TV worlds away, thinking the little black and white images on the screen were the world. And it kind of boggles the mind to think what that crazy, mixed up vision: Lucy, Ricky, Hoss, Little Joe, Napoleon Solo all added up to.

Somehow it wasn't the vision we ended up with...or maybe then again it really was...who knows? America is still a wacky domestic comedy, a western myth, a spy show, all jumbled up in our heads and on our multi-purpose screens.

And what are we left with? "Buy one, get one free."

Keys to Success

So, yes, this is really funny, sort of sad, and absolutely true. Check it out.

Different

One morning you wake up and everything is different. What you cared about yesterday, and the day before, maybe you no longer do. It's cool outside, not blazing hot. You're not edgy. You slept well. The coffee is really fine, but it's a new kind bean you never tried before. You think some things you never really thought about. Like yes, Kanye West probably is a genius and Hip hop is an amazing genre of music that you should know more about. And yes, when Kanye throws a fit about not getting any awards, well, of course, you actually agree with him.

Okay, that said, some things are still the same. Britney is still a clueless ding a ling. Bush is still a corrupt and dispicable idiot. Washington D.C. is a warped and sick place. Everything still looks like it's going to hell in a handbasket. But somehow it doesn't trouble you. I mean, well, there's a cool breeze coming down from the north, and the air is fresh and the sky is blue and you can put on a sweater and feel comfortable. And no one is shooting at you. So, well, at least, there's that...

Cretin Nation

In moments of clarity I tell myself that it's fruitless to worry about (and blog about) our latest thirty year war. I mean, our military will not be coming home any time soon, and who knows, I'm sure there are other backward places where the Joint Chiefs are planning to show off all their shiny new weapons. And I suppose there's no way to stop any of it. This blood spilling thing is such an integral part of our nation's glorious history. And then, on top of that, we have such an idiot running around the planet representing us. Did this cretin actually say we are "kicking ass" in Iraq? It's mind-boggling trying to imagine what makes this man tick...

UPDATE: There must be some kind of barometer or index or formula that can explain it. As the ignorance quotient increases, simultaneously, the arrogance quotient increases too. So, the stupid man, is too stupid to realize just how stupid he is, instead he sees a very simple, black and white world, (it's only a reflection of his own stupidity) and he comes to believe that he is pretty damn smart after all. All those brainiacs that make him feel small, are just full of hot air. So his stupidity rolls out like an endless carpet, and his arrogance overflows like a freshly poured Guiness Stout. Everyone in his path suffers. If he's got a really big important job, the wreckage is completely overwhelming...

Tax Cuts!

Is OBL now funny? That's how it works right? First time tragedy, second time comedy?

Anyway Matt Ygelsias and his commenters seem to think OBL is positioning himself for the Republican presidential nomination. OBL is for tax cuts. All we gots to do is convert to Islam!

Update: OBL cited Noam Chomsky as a writer he admired. I agree. But I wonder if Noam really appeciates being cited by the most hated man in West? Probably won't be as good for book sales as an endorsement from Oprah, but is all PR good PR?

The Forever and Ever War

John Robb over at Global Guerillas (sometimes you read something that really opens your eyes - "Once upon a time I woke up!"), tells us why we will be at war indefinitely...

"If you think the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan will end with this US presidency, think again. These wars will likely outlast the next several Presidents. The old Vietnam era formulas don't apply anymore. The reason is that the moral weaknesses that have traditionally limited the state's ability to fight long guerrilla wars have dissipated, and modern states may now have the ability and the desire to wage this type of war indefinitely.

For all intents and purposes, the US isn't at war. The use of a professional military in combination with corporate partners has pushed warfare to the margins of political/social life."

Illuminating & Obscure

A long weekend. Kind of got lost. A good kind of lost. On Saturday, went to see a dance performance choreographed by Sara our friend and band bass player. It was really cool. I don't often go to dance performances. I don't know why. There's something about movement and music, these bodies in this moment, doing these things, that is so of the moment, a celebration of the moment. No text. Very refreshing. Of course, it was inspiring and sad too. Even in the beauty, the perfect execution there's the recognition that each moment, no matter how extraordinary, passes, is passing, is gone. Anyway, here's a web-link to a description of the piece, (Ghost in the Machine) plus a nice photo montage of the work. And then, here is one of my photos. Taken in low light, manual setting...it's illuminating and obscure at the same time. Oh how very dichotomified!

Liars!

Let's be perfectly clear. Our leaders, our military is lying to us. There is a coordinated campaign to lie about "progress" in Iraq, so that we will keep troops there forever, or at least until Bush steps down. The next President, (whoever stoops low enough to get the trophy), will have to deal with this debacle. And even some of the Democrats are hedging on whether they really will bring the troops home (as far as I can tell only Bill Richardson - does he really have a snowball's chance in hell of winning, has said he'd bring them all home immediately). We live in Orwell's paradise. Winston Smith is our mirror image. It's probably easier to just relent and ride with the lie. But the reality on the ground has a funny way of not conforming to the PR. America's motto should be "eat shit and say it tastes good!" All I can say is fuck them all.

"Mama, why do they call it the blues?"

Lately, I've been really wrapped up by the big picture. The big picture doesn't look so good. I mean, there's global warming, peak oil, wars present & future. Plus species are dying, rainforests are disappearing, oceans are being polluted, the food chain is poisoned. Our government spies on us, lies to us, secretly detains and tortures us. Each morning, check out the news, be prepared for the "outrage of the day." And don't forget the universe is expanding. Our genetic code is 99% identical to chimpanzees. There probably isn't a god. No one is looking down at us with love and affection. People we love are dead or are going to die. Dead people probably don't go to a better place.

As the lovely Carla likes to say, "something is wrong."

Sorry. The coffee hasn't really kicked in this morning. Of course on the other hand...well...besides all that, I mean, hot damn, everything's great!

Sometimes you just have to go back to the micro-level of existence. Glad to wake up. Brew up a great pot of coffee. Sunny day. No pain. Maybe something good is right around the corner...

I've been in my little home studio, working on new music. I posted some tracks here. They are all free downloads. Check out my 7 minute vamp on a classic Neil Young song, which I dubbed "C the K," and check out my little ditty "The Prisoner of Love." I'm pretty pleased with the results. Anyway we must muddle through, nothing can stop the music...and well things are inexplicably, impossibly looking up!

UPDATE: Last night I was surfing YouTube and I came across this classic performance of "Idiot Wind" from Bob Dylan on tour in 1976. I love the passion and pissed off-ness he brings to this song. Seems to me his best songs always have an edge of anger, it's when the mask sort of falls away.

Although, at the same time, Dylan always seems to be wearing that Dylan mask, which seems to be the theme of this movie (multiple actors will portray the man). I'm really looking forward it!

Confederacy of Lunatics

Looking at the world, and seeing how America's use of military force is such a counterproductive and destructive tool, one figures that only a lunatic would be spoiling for the next war. Well, actually how about a contingent of influential lunatics? Names (where is the wall of infamy - these names should be scrawled in the blood that is forever on their hands) Bush, Cheney, Lieberman, McCain, Guliani...as well as a whole backup contingent of boot-lickers, hacks and lackeys.

What complete madness. Reminds one of this movie. How can we all sit back and watch this spectacle? What can we do? Where are the barricades? Should we all march to Washington D.C. and shut that city down? How long before they bring out the tanks and start shooting us down? Something is seriously wrong. Bush gets up like a little tinpot dictator and starts spewing invective at Iran, and well the audience gives him a round of applause. Shouldn't they have hooted him down? Laughed in his face? Tossed tomatoes? What fucking country is this?

Read this post from Glen Greenwald and shudder. We live in a rogue nation. One that can wreak great havoc. We are a supreme military power that needs an outlet. We gots lots of bombs, it's really the only thing still made in good ole USA, and well, don't we have to drop them on somebody? Didn't Randy Newman write a song about this strategy?

Hopefully this is all just liberal paranoia (it has gripped me real bad), but sometimes even a paranoid has real enemies...

UPDATE: And according to this post, the sales campaign for war with Iran will really ratchet up on September 11, 2007. They figure they only need about 30-40% support for their madness, and well there really are that many (at least) lunatics in this country. What a shameless, gutless bunch of assholes. Remember these war-mongers all avoided combat when they were of age. They want war, but of course the actual fighting and dying is always left to the "little people."

What's a Failed Superpower To Do?

Adam Gopnik recently wrote about France and their new President Nicolas Sarkozy, but really it's the comments on America and it's image in the world that was really striking.

Gopnik:

Now, for the first time, it’s possible to imagine modernization as something independent of Americanization: when people in Paris talk about ambitious kids going to study abroad, they talk about London. (Americans have little idea of the damage done by the ordeal that a routine run through immigration at J.F.K. has become for Europeans, or by the suspicion and hostility that greet the most anodyne foreigners who come to study or teach at our scientific and educational institutions.) When people in Paris talk about manufacturing might, they talk about China; when they talk about tall buildings, they talk about Dubai; when they talk about troubling foreign takeovers, they talk about Gazprom. The Sarkozy-Gordon Brown-Merkel generation is not unsympathetic to America, but America is not so much the primary issue for them, as it was for Blair and Chirac, in the nineties, when America was powerful beyond words. To a new leadership class, it sometimes seems that America is no longer the human bomb you have to defuse but the nut you walk away from.

...Its military weakness has been exposed in Iraq, its economic weakness by the rise of the euro, and its once great cultural magnetism has been diminished by post-9/11 paranoia and insularity. America has recovered from worse before, and may do so again. But it is also possible that the election of Nicolas Sarkozy may be seen not as the start of a new pro-American moment in Europe but as a marker of the beginning of the post-American era.

Karma

The rats are jumping off the stinking, putrid ship of state. I suppose that's good news, but one hopes there's some kind of karmic law in effect. If so, I'm figuring a whole shitload of rich Republican assholes are coming back as cockroaches or mealy worms.

Over There!

I stumbled across this blog by a dude stuck in Iraq right now. I think it really paints a vivid picture of how fucked up that whole mess really is, by someone experiencing it first-hand...not sure how long he'll be blogging, Central Command probably wouldn't approve. We are so fucked!

Bush's Goddamned Hell on Earth!

Dan Froomkin:

Instead, Bush ignored public sentiment, overruled his military commanders and opted for escalation.

And now it appears that the only thing the surge has bought him is time -- nine months or maybe a year, during which he was able to postpone the inevitable.

What has that year cost America -- and Iraq? For starters, a year in Iraq translates to over 1,000 more dead American soldiers; over $100 billion more in direct appropriations; over 15,000 more dead Iraqi civilians; and countless grievous wounds and shattered families both here and there.

In light of the costs, having bought a year of time may not seem like much of an accomplishment. But if Bush can drag things out another year or so, he can wash his hands of the whole mess and leave it for his successor to deal with.

Leading Us Into the Abyss

This post by Josh Marshall says something that is in a way obvious, but well, I've never seen it so cogently and perfectly stated before.

Here are the paragraphs that whapped me upside the head:

"And here I think we get back to the root of the matter: We are bigger than Iraq.

By that I do not mean we, as America, are bigger or better than Iraq as a country. I mean that that sum of our national existence is not bound up in what happens there. The country will go on. Whatever happens, we'll recover from it. And whatever might happen, there are things that matter much more to this country's future -- like whether we have a functioning military any more, whether our economy is wrecked, whether this country tears itself apart over this catastrophe. But we'll go on and look back at this and judge what happened.

Not so for the president. For him, this is it. He's not bigger than this. His entire legacy as president is bound up in Iraq. Which is another way of saying that his legacy is pretty clearly an irrecoverable shambles. That is why, as the folly of the enterprise becomes more clear, he must continually puff it up into more and more melodramatic and world-historical dimensions. A century long ideological struggle and the like. For the president a one in a thousand shot at some better outcome is well worth it, no matter what the cost. Because at least that's a one in a thousand shot at not ending his presidency with the crushing verdict history now has in store. It's also worth just letting things keep on going as they are forever because, like Micawber, something better might turn up. Going double or nothing by expanding the war into Iran might be worth it too for the same reason. For him, how can it get worse?

And when you boil all this down what it comes down to is that the president now has very different interests than the country he purports to lead."

"You do not know what wars are going on down there/where the spirit meets the bone." - M. Williams

Miller Williams is a poet. Among other things, he fathered an extraordinary daughter named Lucinda.

The Infinite Sea

I'm the kind of guy who can pop in the Stones "Let it Bleed," & the Who's "Live at Leeds," and think they sound like they were recorded yesterday. These were the discs I was playing on the cd player as I was tooling down the boulevard heading to a business meeting yesterday, driving a big old black Chrysler 300M (it was the only car the rental place had available on short notice), dressed in a suit and tie, my usual shades. Don't even ask about the fuel efficiency of the vehicle. I was traveling in style, looking like "the man," with a plan. Talk about a time warp. I passed a building in Oak Brook where I worked as a young computer salesman 20 years ago. I passed another building where my father worked as a computer salesman over 25 years ago.

I couldn't help thinking I was kind of channeling my father's energy yesterday. He died in August, just like Elvis died in August and well, August now for me just has a feeling of doom and loss. I was edgy as hell, wondering who I was, where I was going. Uncomfortable in my skin. That has always been my way. So, something about the music was reassuring, reinvigorating. The hard edge of the guitars cutting through the darkness in my head, the bass and drums pounding a new and familiar tatoo on my heart.

There's something about the "Live at Leeds" disc that is always refreshing. The sound is so lively, so brutal, so primal, there's no studio tricks, just a document of a tight r&r band at their absolute peak, in the moment, a perfect blend of a strong rock voice (Daltrey), a Gibson SG cranked up beyond belief, Entwhistle's phenomenal, avant garde bass lines, and Keith Moon's volcanic, avalanche of drums. I used to play the vinyl version nearly 35 years earlier, in a little bedroom, all by myself, laying in the dark wondering just what I was doing in the world.

I got to the meeting, and acted like I knew who I was, and what I did, and how the world goes. I acted like everything was clear and neat and there were no doubts or questions. All was good and well, and hell, I was one of the "kings of the world." I left the meeting, got back in the car, cranked up the music and fell back into the infinite sea where there are no answers, only questions and well, of course, there's the rock & roll adrenaline kick that washes over me, and in some weird, unexplainable way that feeling, in that moment, the moment that opens up like an ocean, timeless, is like the only thing I can call home...

America's Greatest Export: Guns, Bombs, Death

Glen Greenwald is a liberal blogger who writes for Salon. He's been locked in a debate with some other bloggers about America's Foreign Policy, and whether America is an "Imperialist" power. I don't think there's any doubt is there? Anyway, here's a couple of paragraphs that sum up America's historical military role in the world. I think it's testimony to how we have never really recovered from all that "Greatest Generation" malarky. We all bought into the myth many decades ago. We see ourselves as the "good guys" who saved the world from the Nazi hordes and well, we've pumped ourselves up with so much hot air ever since we're like the fucking Hindenburg of nations. We are bankrupting ourselves both economically and morally. We have become the bloodthirsty hordes we so valiantly fought. And isn't that just the way the story goes?

Greenwald:

"I think this is the heart of the matter. Put simply, there is no reasonable way to compare the use of military force by the U.S. to any other country on the planet. We spend more on our military than every other country combined. We spend six times more on our military than China, the next largest military spender. And it is a bipartisan consensus that, even as the sole remaining superpower, we should increase both military spending and the size of our military further still.

No country can even remotely compare to us in terms of the sheer magnitude of invasions, bombing campaigns, regime changes, occupations and other forms of direct interference via military force in sovereign countries. We have military bases in well over 100 nations. In the last 10 years alone, we bombed Iraq, Afghanistan, Yugoslavia, Sudan, Afghanistan again, Somalia, and Iraq again. Even after the end of the Cold War, we changed the governments of multiple countries from Panama to Iraq, and we've attempted (or are attempting) to do so in Iran and Venezuela. We single-handedly prop up tyrannical governments in scores of nations using financial and military aid. No other country can hold a candle to the breadth and frequency of our involvement in the affairs of other countries. That is just fact.

Obviously, that we intervene, bomb and invade far more than any other country is not, standing alone, proof that our various military campaigns are unjust. But it is rather compelling evidence that we have a far lower hair-trigger for when we use military force than any other country in the world, and we use our military force in far more places and with a far wider range of motives and reasons than any other country."

"...penetrated a black hole...and skittered out the other end."

I was going to do a Post Abbie Fest post mortem. The fest is over, but not dead, so why bother trying to dissect it like a carcass? I just don't have the energy. I don't really want to try to sum it up. (Here comes the Sum UP!) Suffice to say, there were moments of sublimity, moments of ridiculousness, moments of satisfaction and moments of disappointment.

As one of those who experienced the fest stone cold sober, I must say there's nothing like a late night debauch with a bunch of creative people jazzed up on too little sleep, too much alchohol, and enough sexual tension to power Three Mile Island.

The Hypocrites' Bald Soprano was exquisite, one of the best, most perfectly rendered pieces I've ever seen. Another show, which I know nothing about, was a monologue by a bike messenger that reaffirmed my belief in the power of art. It was a riveting piece, a little gem that came from nowhere. One actor, one monologue can blow your world to smithereens.

My own efforts with my theater group and my rock band, were kind of like playing chinese checkers in a land of chess boards. I don't know what it is, sometimes I think I'm talking another language. Where I see clarity, someone else sees obscurity. It has always been so. In pursuit of some kind of perfection we always fall short, sometimes way short. It is our human condition.

A line I spoke this morning in a phone conversation with a business collegue in a totally different context, kind of shines a light on where I am this morning: "I want to live in reality. I think it's the best bet." But then again, here's how real our reality really is...

Abbie Fest XIX

It's the Abbie Hoffman Died for Your Sins Fest this weekend. My little theater group has participated 9 years running. It's just one of those cool events. Hard to explain how or why it's so cool, it just is. I guess it's like the Grand Canyon. You just have to experience it first-hand yourself. Anyway, we're doing scenes and our little r&r band the Telepaths will be performing today and early tomorrow. I hope I survive it all in one piece. Yesterday was the march, a ragtag group of theater people trekking across the cityscape from the shadow of the Piccasso statue, down the Mag Mile, the beachfront and then finally, inevitably to the Mary Archie theater. I took some pictures.

No One Wears His Crown!

Many, many rock & rollers wanted to wear the King's crown. But I don't think they meant it quite this literally...

What Happens When the Prozac Wears Off?

I read somewhere that there's possibly some kind of correlation between our happy bubble existence and the use of mood enhancing drugs such as Prozac. Could it be that the Wall Street elite and all the lemming-like hordes who followed them over the debt-filled cliff have finally run out the string? Bubbles seem to be bursting all around us. Finally, it seems to be dawning on people that our President is not only a moron, but an especially malicious one. Our economy has been high-jacked by con artists, hustlers and hucksters selling us a load of shite. People seem to be waking up to the idea that maybe government should be more than a feeding trough for greedy, little bastards who have sold us down the river and frankly don't give a flying fuck for the public good. Maybe we've all been getting a little contact high from all the Prozac and Prozac wanna-be's out there. Maybe it's time we all extricated ourselves from our own little air-conditioned bubbles and started smelling the coffee. There's a big old world out there and well a bubble always bursts. That's just the way of the world...

"Cool, clear, water."

The Lovely Carla tells me this morning, that according to the Witches' Almanac, this is a "water" year. Well, yes, as above, so below. I'm feeling quite soggy myself. In fact, the both of us are kind of "out to sea." Floating on the U.S.S. Transition. No time for panic. Supposedly this is a good time to let go of ego. On the one hand, "ego" is a way to hold things together. It's a bulwark against the infinite sea, but maybe without falling apart, one can let go, and kind of merge with the molecules. At least, that's one line of thought. So, yes, water. Gets you wet. It's refreshing too. Plus, it's what we contain, we're containers of water. It permeates our beings. Why fight it? It's time to take a big gulp of air, jump in the pool with both feet and kind of drift on down to the deep end. That's where the monsters hang out.

Rove Decamps

Andrew Sullivan has an excellent post mortem post on Karl Rove's despicable legacy here.

"Genius, Poet, Twat."

Did you ever see "Twenty Four Hour Party People?" It's a great, funny, inspiring movie. It was made in 2002. It stars Steve Coogan, (a role of a lifetime), who plays Tony Wilson, music mogul, impressario, and as a line from the movies says, "genius, poet, twat." The movie is a somewhat fictionalized account of the Manchester music scene in the 70's and 80's, about Factory Records and the marvelous characters who inhabited the strange little pop sub-culture that sprouted there. Manchester is a sort of dark, industrial city, a port city, that has spawned an amazing amount of innovative and cool music. Wilson was at the center of much of it, as founder of Factory Records and owner of the great, ridiculous dance club, the Hacienda.

Anyway, the movie is a real treat, a must see. It's one of those films I can see over and over, for the funny lines, the great music and Coogan's mad inspiring, embodiment of Wilson's unbelievable, unflagging creative spirit. This morning, I click on Yahoo and see that Wilson has died from kidney cancer at the age of 57. Fire up the cd player and let the sounds of the Durrutti Column, Joy Divison, Happy Mondays, and New Order wash over you. These bands would not have existed without Wilson and Factory Records. Wilson was truly one of the greats, he will be missed. Cheers to you Tony Wilson!

NOTE: Tonight my little theater group, Black Forest will be at the Peter Jones Gallery doing the Flaming Eyeball scenes (something we'll also be doing next week at the Abbie Hoffman Died for Your Sins Fest). Also both of the rock bands I'm in, the Telepaths and White Wolf/Sonic Princess and the Enthusiastikatz will be performing. There's also an art show going on, there will be a keg a beer, it will be ungodly hot with no A/C, and well, we are expecting a cast of thousands. Just the kind of wacky event Tony Wilson might have put on. I will be trying to channel that indomitable Wilson panache & brio in every last living moment!

Dog Days

It's the dog days of August. Bridges are collapsing. The stock market is tanking. Uncle Sam is slowly bleeding from an open wound called the Iraq war. One begins to get the feeling that this big, old empire is held together with chewing gum and baling wire. Are we finally at the "wizard of oz" moment? When we see the man behind the curtain is just a smiling, glad-handing, buffoon?

In my version of the movie, when the Wizard was exposed, Toto would have turned to the lovely Judy Garland, the famous snare drum would kick in, Michael Bloomfield's guitar would start wailing and Toto (with a dylanesque growl) would sing: "Once upon a time, you dressed so fine..." And then, at the chorus, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion would all join in: "How does it feel? To be on your own, no direction home, like a rolling stone?"

The Burma Shave Law

So, sometimes, just before the Lovely Carla and I fluff up our pillows, turn lights out, and head for dreamland, we encourage each other to "get an answer." You see, we believe in prophetic, or visionary dreams, eventhough, they are a rare commodity, few and far between.

Well, last night, I had one. Or at least that's how I'm interpreting it this morning. It was a real Moses/Burning Bush moment. I was bathed in light, and in conversation with a faceless, bodyless being. Or no, I can't really say it was a being, it was just a voice, a big booming voice (sort of reminded me of Charleton Heston's voice when he played Moses in Cecil B. Demille's campy classic "The Ten Commandments"), and this voice boomed out above my head, and at the same time a placard, a big, bright, shiny placard with one line, appeared before me, which read as follows: THE BURMA SHAVE LAW: NEVER LOOK BACK!

That's it. I looked at the placard, did a double-take, repeated the words to myself, and then it vanished, the placard and voice were gone, and well, I was left to fend for myself.

Now I realize the message itself isn't really all that prophetic or visionary, I mean, there's nothing radical, or new, or mind-altering about it. And well, I actually rarely do look back. I do my best to live in the moment, it's there where we are truly alive, but the manner in which it was delivered was quite impressive, very theatrical, and well I guess it's the whole presentation that had an impact on me.

Plus, to call it the Burma Shave Law, that's clever. I mean, Burma Shave was a product that had a unique marketing approach that kind of became famous in the 1950's. There were a series of road signs spaced along a highway, each with a few words and then finally the payoff. You cannot read these backwards. You must always be looking ahead. Or well, you must always be present, in the moment to make any sense of anything. Anyway here's two examples, in a way, they're little Burma haikus:

SOAP
MAY DO
FOR LADS WITH FUZZ
BUT SIR, YOU AIN'T
THE KID YOU WUZ
BURMA SHAVE

A WHISKERY KISS
FOR THE ONE
YOU ADORE
MAY NOT MAKE HER MAD
BUT HER FACE WILL BE SORE
BURMA SHAVE

"It's more the way it is now than it's ever been." D.D. Eisenhower

You are correct sir!

A Wild Ass Ride!

Do you feel it? Something's in the air. The worm has turned. Our little bubble world has been punctured. You can almost hear the slow hissing of collapse. It's not just me. Other people are starting to notice too. The paradigm is shifting. Every last aspect of our little bubble world (economics, politics, religion, the family, pop culture) seems like it's running down and out - entropy. Someone else dubbed the next phase we are entering - "creative destruction." Should be a wild ass ride!

God in the Sunshine

There was a time in the sixties, when supposedly people were writing "Clapton is god," on walls throughout London. There was certainly a time when that dude was channeling a higher power. He was a student of the blues, I mean, when he started out, he was the ultimate blues purist, weaned on Robert Johnson, Albert & B.B. King and other old blues cats like Robert Lockwood Jr.

After serving in the John Mayall Blues Band, Clapton went on to a power trio with Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker. Three over-sized talents with over-sized egos. They made a couple of great psychedelic blues discs including the double album beauty "Wheels on Fire." Here's another great YouTube clip. Clapton's Cream outfit doing "Sunshine of Your Love." The only other power trio that could go toe to toe with these guys was the Jimi Hendrix Experience...and well, that band leader was in another orbit completely. But here is Cream in their glorious prime...sublime. Check out the deep, biting tone Clapton gets out of that multi-colored Gibson. Yeow!

"If I ain't dead already..."

Wouldn't it be cool if someone posted a clip of John Lennon, Eric Clapton, Keith Richards and Mitch Mitchell jamming out on Lennon's blues tune, "Yer Blues?" Yes, indeed, it would...

"A Lesbian Who was Gyped."

It's been "hot time, summer in the city." A perfect excuse to go to the movies - think - air conditioning! Yesterday, the Lovely Carla and I went to see David Lynch's "Mulholland Drive," originally released in 2001. It's a great, engaging, Hollywood epic. One of Lynch's best. A story of dreamland and the nightmare mirror-world. We totally submerged ourselves in the beautiful saturated images. Anyway, afterwards, the lovely Carla heard this from one of the theater-goers, explaining, "what the movie was about," to a group of wide-eyed innocents: "It's about a lesbian who was gyped." I guess that's as good a summary as any other... THE COWBOY: "You'll see me one more time, if you do good. You'll see me two more times if you do bad."