Like dying and going to Beatnik Heaven

Patti Smith at a School Of Harmolodics workshop at this year's Meltdown Festival, curated by none other than Ornette Coleman himself. Jazz, poetry, dance, it's all here. This is so cool:

Reasons to riot in the streets, part 274

One word: NO.

Atlas Wept

We are proud to present a preview of the latest recording by The Blame, Atlas Wept. Give it a listen:

You thought you would have your way forever
Turned out not to be true
You thought you were the hero of the movie
Now the world points its finger back at you
What can you do? What can you do?
Throw a tantrum...play the victim

You thought you were the winner of the dogpile
That pile of bodies, now it's rolling over you
You thought you were the author of the future
The book slammed shut before the end of Chapter Two
What do you say? What do you say?
Blow the same stupid horn
Serve the same tasteless corn

You can't be satisfied to sit and count your money
Without your words written in the air
It's not enough just to get away with murder
It eats you up that they don't love you everywhere
So you keep croaking at every microphone you see
Our forsaken angry god
One sad obsolescent clod.

Dig it here. We have two guest contributors on this track who have not yet told us how they want to be credited, but when we hear from them, we will give them the appropriate shout-outs.

Bodies...we all got bodies

Terrible news about Chris Knox. The Tall Dwarfs legend (a brilliant songwriter, performer, and friendly, funny guy) had a stroke, and apparently his prospects for recovery are not yet clear.

If you want to monitor his progress and send fond wishes, Chris's family has started a blog.

Read and breathe

The most interesting commentary I've read so far on the current situation in Iran, from a pseudonymous Iranian-American poster on the normally hilarious Sadly No!, which has been hosting some serious, non-snarky discussion on the matter:

I am so glad people are wising up. I’m Persian, born in the US. I’ve been to Iran several times, last time was 2007. I have been telling people for YEARS: Wait. Do not intervene. The hardliners are shrinking, the youth is something like 80% of the population, and they all like the West. Even most of the middle aged people want a return to a more western culture, and be part of the world (while not giving up all of their Islamic Republic). Mostly, they are sick of a bunch of stupid rules and religious thieves running the country. There are charity boxes lining the street, but everyone says the govt just keeps the money.

I knew this was going to happen, but not when. I am glad the US is sitting back and not saying anything. Just sit back, shut up, and watch it happen. If not this time, then next time. When the new govt is in power, extend an olive wreath, GENTLY. They will need to settle in and show their independence first. Iranians are big on independence and respect.

I always tell people the following rules about the Middle east (semi tongue in cheek): they are very independent, and dont like being interfered with. They are very ethical and are big on keeping their word. They are tricky, but will never balls out lie (most of them at least). They like to argue/fight, and have long memories, and are big on honor.

Dont give the hardliners a reason for anything. The second the US does anything, game over.

I see it like this: What the hardliners just did is insult the whole people. They lied to them. They interfered with the voting process. They did this before, but it slid, for various reasons (they are tricky). But now they have been been caught, and people are PISSED. If it fails this time, I guarantee every one of those kids will remember this, and be back for more, the same way Iraqis and Afghanis have their own vendettas for being bombed by the US. Don’t shift the spotlight. Those kids won’t give up until the army is driving around in tanks. Which unfortunately might be really soon. Hopefully the army backs the populace. You’d have to be really dumb, or hardcore religious, to not see how the wind is blowing over there.

UPDATE: More thoughts from here:

Demonstrators in the streets in Iran today utilize allegations of fraud as the tip of their spear, but what fuels those protests goes beyond the official results of an election. That is even more true of Iran than of other recent examples of this post-electoral dynamic because the terms of the election itself were a farce even before the votes were counted: The Iranian "president" and "parliament" - elected powers - are in the end overruled by a Supreme Leader, his "advisors," his "experts," his "Guardian Council" (Ayatollahs, which is to say fundamentalist religious clergy) and the elected leaders live under their veto power on virtually all matters except for some of style and tone and what to eat for lunch...

More to the point: The yearnings by those in the streets of Iran today precede and supercede the concerns about yesterday's election results. They are seizing the moment of the election, but this is not really about the election. This is about a much deeper and wider discontent with the theocratic-political system they have lived under for 30 years. The timing of the protests has as much to do with the world's eyes being on Iran at this moment and the quorum of international media reporters that are inside Iran as part of that watch. (It's an advantage that the 1989 protesters at Beijing's Tienanmen Square did not have when their demonstration was cut short by a massacre.) The cost for the Iranian state of resorting to excess violence and brutality to shut down this revolt would, as a result, be much higher to its own goals at home and abroad, than it was for the Chinese regime twenty years ago. In that, the protesters have the system over a barrel.

In short, history is happening right now, and it's not "our" job to do anything about it. I'm thankful those brave kids waited until the neo-cons were out of favor over here to make their stand.

Seen Your Video: The Unbearable Lightness Of Being

In the realm of totalitarian kitsch, all answers are given in advance and preclude any questions. It follows, then, that the true opponent of totalitarian kitsch is the person who asks questions. A question is like a knife that slices through the stage backdrop and gives us a look at what lies hidden behind it.‎
-Milan Kundera

Somehow I managed to miss this movie when it came out, despite having a girlfriend of Eastern European ancestry, despite an interest in the Prague Spring and Cold War repression, and yes, despite an interest in smart, pretty European actresses. It must have been the way the film was advertised, with copious stills of Lena Olin frolicking on a mirror in sexy black lingerie and a bowler hat, that caused Maati to judge it as a piece of sleazy sexploitation that she had no interest in seeing. We probably were not the only Americans to write off what turns out to be a provocative, complex epic rich with historical insights, philosophical criticism, and full-blooded, fascinating characters. It was actually Davis who brought up the movie, and, when I admitted that I'd never seen it, insisted that we put it in the queue immediately. Now I know what I missed.

Well, first off, the movie is full of sex scenes, which are essential for what they reveal about the inner workings of each of the three main characters. Without them, the movie would probably be less successful and less illuminating. And the meaning and power of sex is a crucial theme in the novel by Milan Kundera (previously thought unfilmable...and maybe it is; I haven't read it) that Phil Kaufman's film is based on.

It's 1968 in Czechoslovakia, and the city of Prague is open and inviting. The Soviet-supported government has loosened up a bit, offering what they call "socialism with a human face" (which sounds pretty much like what we've had in most of Western Europe for years at this point), and people are relishing a taste of the Sixties in their corner of Eastern Europe. Surely a little free love, rock and roll, and open discussion of ideas can't do any harm, can it? In this milieu, womanizing brain surgeon Tomas (Daniel Day Lewis) and clever eccentric artist Sabina (Lena Olin) have a good thing going: regular dates for playful, theatrical sex involving mirrors and a handsome black bowler hat, and the freedom to live their lives apart the rest of the time. It suits both of them, so far; neither one has much use for commitment or romanticism, Tomas satisfying his insatiable curiosity via endless one-night stands and Sabina expressing her contempt for convention and connection; to her, such things are oppression, boredom, and worst of all, kitsch. (Her recurring comment: "I like to leave.") Both of them might live out their lives this way quite contentedly, but circumstances intervene.

Enter Tereza (Juliette Binoche), an eager, sensitive small town girl who Tomas hopes to recruit as his latest playmate. Responding to his casual flirtations, she packs her bags, moves to Prague, and shows up at Tomas' door. You may expect to be set up for a trite virgin-whore dichotomy between the two women, but that whole notion is delightfully subverted when Tereza literally pounces on Tomas, kissing him ferociously and knocking him to the ground. This girl may be guileless, but she is no shrinking violet. When he wakes up the next morning (this is a man who made a big point of never spending the night with any woman---not even his best pal Sabina---once the deed was done), their hands are locked together in an iron grip. That grip holds for the rest of the two characters' lives, in spite of everything.

How does this hedonistic, downright smug cad make the shift and learn what love is? Well, it does not happen quickly or easily, and it takes the whole movie for it to happen conclusively. Tomas compartmentalizes his life so he can continue his exploits while simultaneously giving lip service to his commitment. But Tereza's power is palpable, even when she seems to be the "weak" one. It's Binoche's performance that is key here; she is so utterly irresistible that you don't doubt Tomas's love, twisted and inauthentic as it may be at the start, for a second. Not only is she as cute as a button, she utilizes her training at a clown college to energize her screen presence. In an unusually sexually charged movie, competing against Lena Olin's formidable catlike poise and piercingly intelligent eyes, Juliette Binoche steals the show with sneezes, goofy grins and silly little dances. It's magical.

This is neither a ribald sex farce or a tragic love-triangle story, though. It's a character-driven epic that follows three intriguing people's lives during a focal point of 20th century history. There's jealousy, but there is also a deep bond and a mutual respect that grows between the two female leads. The night they first meet at Sabina's apartment, Tomas seems to become irrelevant all of a sudden, a boy trying to get the attention of two adults. A later intense-yet-comical scene featuring the two leaves us wondering, "did they or didn't they?" (I won't reveal any more; you really should see this film. Several times.)

But all of that is only one aspect of this sprawling movie. Remember, this is Prague in 1968. And we are there. (The role of Prague is well-played by Lyon, France and some skillfully-placed backdrops---this was a pre-Glasnost, pre-Velvet Revolution production.) The feel of the city in the first hour is one of optimism, challenge and excitement: a 60s environment of mini-skirts, cool shades, Czech-language covers of "Hey Jude", and free-flowing conversation interrupted by incredulous musings to the effect of, "can you believe we're getting away with this?", while scowling bureaucrats lurk in the background.

Ah yes, the scoundrels. There's a great scene early on in a nightclub where a rock band is beating out a boisterous rendition of "That'll Be The Day" to a gleeful audience of bopping youth. Up in the balcony sit a group of Communist Party officials, toasting each other and gazing imperiously at the crowd below. Sabina, Tereza, and Tomas play a game at their table, posing the question, "Can you tell a man is a scoundrel by looking at him?" and sizing up the Party potentates one by one: "scoundrel", "scoundrel", etc. (Naturally, Tomas becomes the butt of the joke at the end.) One of the "scoundrels" approaches the stage and demands that the band play a dour patriotic song. The band obliges and the audience howls with disgust, while the big boys on the balcony smile and raise another toast...until the band, having had enough of this crap, break into a swinging 60s boogaloo version and the kids go wild. The Party officials exit, indignant, and the fun goes on. It's a small victory, but ominous as hell when you know what's coming. We get our first taste of the authoritarian mindset here. Later it comes out in full force.

When the Soviet tanks hit Prague, it's absolutely gut-wrenching and effectively invasive. It's as if another movie has suddenly barged in to destroy the one we've been watching for the last hour. We switch from color to stark black and white as actual footage is blended with shots of Tereza shooting photos, Tomas searching for her, and Sabina, shrewd and unsentimental as usual, driving to the border in her already-loaded car (everybody drives these cute dinky-looking Czech sedans that look about one step up from the notorious East German Trabant) and beckoning to the couple as if to say, "Fuck this shit; are you leaving now or what?"

We're in a police station as Tereza, among other photographers, is being interrogated by the authorities. Taking pictures of the invasion is in itself an unpatriotic act, you see? Here again is the authoritarian mindset at its finest: it is something beyond any particular ideology; we could just as easily be in Chile during Missing. (Well, at least she isn't slaughtered in a soccer stadium with thousands of others. On that count, Brezhnev's lackeys come out looking relatively good.) "Left" and "right" have no meaning in this setting. Which economic system or political structure or global alliance is being sworn allegiance to is beside the point; authoritarianism is the same everywhere. The Communists in Czechoslovakia in 1968 would be fascists in Chile in 1973 or Taliban in Afghanistan in 1996 or Fundamentalist Christians in 21st century America. The attitude that people are out of control and need a strong hand to keep them in order...that's universal. The rest is window dressing. A scoundrel is a scoundrel. Something to keep in mind when you read that the excellent German movie The Lives Of Others, about Stasi surveillance in East Germany, is considered by some morons to be "one of the top conservative movies of recent years". (Stepping off of soapbox, putting away my old Crass records...)

There is a period where our three protagonists all end up in Geneva, living the exile life and trying to adapt. Both women find the Swiss insufferably superficial; Tomas takes it all in stride, as he always does. A subplot ensues where Sabina is courted by an earnest but rather clueless married Swiss college professor, and she starts to look less like a force of nature and more like a temperamental brat. (Specifically in a funny sequence where she makes a big scene in an expensive restaurant because she hates the Muzak playing almost imperceptibly in the background. Most of the movie is fueled by a nonstop Janacek soundtrack which makes the offending rinky-dink "noise" sound even sillier than it already is, so the viewer may see her point.) In the end she bolts for the US, ending up in Bolinas, where she pursues her art career, befriends a sweet elderly couple, and flirts with a hunky mailman. Tereza, having nothing to do and feeling both unable and unwilling to fit in the world of chic Western European photojournalism, heads back home to face the worst that post-invasion Prague has to offer. Tomas, the empty cipher the movie revolves around, goes through the motions of being womanizing Tomas, the suave brain surgeon about town, for a moment. He can't stand it. The lightness of his being has become unbearable. Suddenly, something/someone truly means something to him. He has to leave everything, because life is pointless without his wife.

Back home the authoritarians have won. The returning Czech expatriates have their passports confiscated at the border as their reward for coming back. The same settings that seemed lively and vibrant at the start now have a quiet, nasty, ominous feel. Every person you pass on the street could well be gathering information on you, so the intellectual fervor of the Prague Spring has been replaced by sullen, bitter silence.

Tomas loses his position at the hospital because of an article he wrote in a magazine about Oedipus Rex and what it means to take responsibility for one's actions, which the secret police interpret with the same critical acumen you would find among our own current right-wing pundits: "Do you really believe that Communists should pluck out their eyes?" Offered a chance to sign an official retraction, he refuses on principle; Tomas is actually fairly apolitical, but he will not accept being pushed around by anyone. Eventually he loses his practice altogether and becomes a window-washer (even then finding opportunities to play the horndog, this time with the wife of a Party official), while Tereza is sexually harassed as a bartender and later has a creepy one-night stand with a seemingly friendly guy who may be yet another spy. Any glamour that may have come from the previous regime's sexual openness has now been replaced by predatory sleaze and exploitation. In the DVD commentary, there is much talk of how sex in Czechoslovakia became an arena where people felt it was the only place they could have any freedom. (Or was it an opiate for the masses, passively sanctioned by the state?) I guess the Communists didn't suppress access to birth control, since with all this rampant coupling, nobody ever seems to have the slightest concern about getting pregnant.

Tereza and Tomas find their peace in the end by leaving the city and joining a collective farm run by one of Tomas's former patients. This is no sentimental rural idyll; we see them working terribly hard. But the forced simplicity of their life somehow gives them back the dignity that the scoundrelocracy of Soviet-occupied Czechoslovakia robbed from them. In the final moments of the film, we see a subtly different Tomas, a decent, compassionate man whose healing powers are still with him, and a man totally devoted to the incredible woman who has been right there with him the whole time. The last night we share with them, they and their friends drink and dance at a little pub. Later, the couple head up to their room, Tereza balancing her feet on her husband's. After three-plus hours of film punctuated with intimate sex scenes, they open the door and close it behind them. There is a little more after that, but I'd like to end this review there, at the moment when they are finally left to themselves for one last sweet night.

Let's not allow this to fall down the memory hole

The Rude Pundit's latest missive is as rude as usual, full of lurid, ugly fantasies about the lurid, ugly Ann Coulter that are par for the course in Rude Punditland and cathartic for many of us who are sick to death of our entitled and coddled opinion-generator class, but the end of the post contains a real bombshell that should be read by everyone interested in the truth behind the Tiller assassination, not just the strong-stomached ones who can handle RP's um, robust brand of commentary. In the interest of raising more questions, I reproduce this quote from one of his readers.

"For some few years I volunteered as an escort at Dr. Tiller’s and several other clinics. I didn’t know the good doctor well, but met with him on several occasions and was impressed with his kindness and the care he obviously felt for the women who needed his services.

"Of course I have been heartbroken by his assassination, but I’m not so full of hate towards his killer. I’ve seen too many of his kind on the lines; in fact I remember seeing him. We knew Mr. Roeder as 'Prom Queen' from the flowers he usually carried there, and the screaming fits he would throw when approached by escorts. He was one of many not-too-bright mentally ill recruited by various self-appointed fundie leaders who groomed them to scream the threats they themselves were so careful not to utter aloud.

"I’m pretty sure that he has been exploited again to shoot Dr. Tiller. I don’t know who is using him this time- when I saw him, he was in Troy Newman’s stable of nuts, but the fundie leaders are an incestuous bunch who tend to swap followers as needed.

"According to papers Roeder filed today, his possessions amount to a 16yr.-old Taurus and $10, and he only works occasionally at minimum-wage jobs. Yet he managed to finance several 400-mile round trips to Wichita from the KC area in the last month to case the church and know Dr. Tiller by sight, bought a handgun, gas and meals etc. Also, he asked- begged- for bail to be set today, despite his total lack of assets. Obviously, the poor bastard expects someone to post it, all of which leads me to believe that he is not the solitary nutcase the fundies claim he is.

"Somebody had to put him up to it, help him plan it and pay his expenses, and will now feed him to the sharks. Hopefully, and maybe with a bit of psych help, he will realize how he was used and name names."

OK now, can we get some research on this pronto, before this conspiracy gets swept under the rug?

Whatever happened to the Mighty Ballistics Hi-Power?

This British band made two EPs in the mid-to-late 80s, then vanished. Have yet to find them on vinyl, CD, or mp3. Good stuff in a dubbed out punky reggae vein with allusions to old folk songs and earnest lyrics about the UK miners' strike, class struggle, the British tabloid press, the Cable Street riot, and in this particular track, misogyny. Yeah, a "message band", but not as heavy-handed as that sounds, filled with haunting spaces and ear-grabbing choruses. The MBHP were on regular rotation in the X-tal van back in our touring days as both Mick and I were fans.

Until now, I never even knew what these guys looked like. Below is a video I found. That sure is one filthy looking warehouse they're playing in.

It would be great to see this lost music released again. I'm not sure their records even came out on CD the first time around. (On the other hand, in these days when every formerly rare record seems to be turning up somewhere, it's almost refreshing to see something this truly elusive. When I was a kid, record collecting was a SKILL! Now get off my lawn!)

You can set your clocks to the sanctimony

Somehow, as soon as the news came out about Dr. George Tiller's murder on Sunday, I instinctively knew that Chris Matthews would have Will Saletan on his show Monday night and the two of them would respond to this act of religious/political terrorism by sensitively and compassionately scolding all those selfish women who won't meet the pro-lifers halfway for a sensible compromise on the oh-so-troubling issue of abortion.

Imagine my surprise last night when I was correct! I must be psychic or something.

UPDATE: More thoughtful sensitivity from the thoughtfully sensitive Mr. Saletan. Thank you for sharing, dude.

Ear Candle Radio's Top 20: April 2009

This is a damn good list this month.

We've got the powerful and passionate Mick Collins and his excellent band the Dirtbombs turning Barry White into sexy garage-rock glory at #1. We've got Jeffrey Lewis putting a Jonathan Richman-like spin on the works of Crass and making it work. (Here he finds melody and poignancy in what was originally an eerie spoken word piece about looking at the graves of fallen soldiers and seeing only futility.) We've got a cynical political punk bar band record that was handed to me a couple months ago by local poet/journalist Michael Layne Heath, who also plays guitar with the Screamin' Geezers. ("They're making money, you can't argue with that!") We've got one of the most underrated bands of the British Invasion, the Dave Clark Five, who, bless their souls, treated every song they did as A NAIL THAT WAS MEANT TO BE POUNDED JUST RIGHT.

We've got another pointed anti-folk blurt from Paleface, who deserves more than to be known mainly as Beck's ex-roommate. We've got return visits from Angel Corpus-Christi and Love. We've got a brief gem from local psychedelic fusion miniaturists the Interstellar Grains. We've got an old favorite by African Head Charge, who implore us to "hold some more" and "love some more". We've got another funky Bush Tetras classic, which reminds us to congratulate bassist Laura Kennedy on her progress after her liver transplant. We've got a big messy Mothers Of Invention epic from their most inspired period, just before Frank Zappa made the mistake of his life by breaking up the band.

We've got the band Ian turned us on to, one of the bands that inspired Mike to bring back the Slumberland label, the blazing guitar and lazy vocals of Crystal Stilts. (Hat tip to Ian.) We've got an oldie that inspired many a hallucinogenic journey in the 80s: basically the Cocteau Twins covering Tim Buckley under the name This Mortal Coil; frankly, I've never been able to get into either of the Buckleys' musical output, but damn, that This Mortal Coil song hits the proverbial spot. We've got another AMAZING track from the Young Disciples. We've got Sonic Youth in the 90s throwing themselves into a cover that's guaranteed to piss off both Beatle-haters and overly serious Beatles fans and please anyone who loves great music.

We've got a great, great, great ballad from the Pretty Things; just listen to Phil May's voice when he groans "I love you baaaaaaybeehhhhhh!" We've got an oddity from the little known corners of Leonard Cohen's discography that only caught my attention during the Conspiracy Of Beards' New York tour; love that major-to-minor shift at the end of each stanza. We've got a depression ballad from fellow Mekons fans the Knife And Fork Band. We've got a kick-ass piece of musical journalism from Jonathan Mann. (I'll post the YouTube video through which I discovered this indie gem in an upcoming post.) And last, we've got Irma Thomas, a New Orleans goddess, showing us what love is all about.

Running this station is an endless source of joy, and knowing that someone out there is paying attention is the icing on the cake. Keep on listening and voting!

1. The Dirtbombs - I'm Qualified To Satisfy You - Ultraglide In Black
2. Jeffrey Lewis - Demoncrats - 12 Crass Songs
3. John Shirley's Screamin' Geezers - They're Makin' Money - We're Not Supposed To Be Doing This
4. The Dave Clark Five - Any Way You Want It - The Hits
5. Bush Tetras - You Can't Be Funky - Boom in the Night
6. Angel Corpus Christi - Theme From Taxi Driver/NY NY - I Love New York
7. Paleface - Stupid War Movies - Paleface
8. Interstellar Grains - The Source - Interstellar Grains
9. African Head Charge - Hold Some More - Songs Of Praise
10. The Mothers Of Invention - The Little House I Used To Live In - Burnt Weeny Sandwich
11. Crystal Stilts - Verdant Gaze - Alight Of Night
12. This Mortal Coil - Song To The Siren - It'll End in Tears
13. Third Flight - Third Flight - Eccentric Soul: The Young Disciples
14. Sonic Youth - Within You Without You - Daydream Nation
15. The Pretty Things - You Don't Believe Me - Get The Picture?
16. Love - Love Is More Than Words (or Better Late Than Never) - Out Here
17. Leonard Cohen - Stories Of The Street - Songs of Leonard Cohen
18. Knife & Fork Band - Depression Of 1990 - Almost Friday Night
19. Jonathan Mann - Hey Paul Krugman - Song A Day # 3
20. Irma Thomas - Take A Look - Time Is on My Side

Shifting the terms of the debate for a minute

While our ruling class labors to make us complacent and comfortable with the unacceptable, perhaps these thoughts from the late David Foster Wallace deserve another look:

What if we chose to accept the fact that every few years, despite all reasonable precautions, some hundreds or thousands of us may die in the sort of ghastly terrorist attack that a democratic republic cannot 100-percent protect itself from without subverting the very principles that make it worth protecting?

Is this thought experiment monstrous? Would it be monstrous to refer to the 40,000-plus domestic highway deaths we accept each year because the mobility and autonomy of the car are evidently worth that high price?

Go read the whole article. Despite the writer (one of these days---maybe when I retire!---I will sit down for a few years and read Infinite Jest), it's not very long. But the questions Foster Wallace dared to raise are worth asking. What kind of people do we want to be? Where do we balance our perceived "safety" and our integrity? Does "America" actually mean something, or is it just a country stolen from its rightful owners that thinks too highly of itself? The right wing in this country loves to talk about "courage"; here's a new frame for discussing the subject.

UPDATE: Look who's agreeing now. Wonder how long till Rush Limbaugh starts dusting off the old "Betray-us" jokes?

99 bottles of something unspeakable on the wall

Seymour Hersh was talking about this stuff years ago, but it got swept under the rug pretty quickly.

Now it's coming out, whether the current administration likes it or not. I have relatives in Afghanistan right now, and I understand the urge to avoid inflaming international anger at Americans, but guess what? That ship has already sailed, and trying to pretend these crimes never happened isn't exactly going to make the world love us again. The only way out is to confront this directly. The depraved specimens who engineered all this are not only walking free, but they get to spout their opinions on TV as if they are wise, venerable policy experts, rather than the twisted monsters that they are. If we ever hope to be readmitted into the civilized world, a full accounting of the deeds of these vile pseudo-Christian pseudo-patriots is way past due.

Should the photos be released? Yes, but under carefully controlled conditions. Every time Dick Cheney or any of his devoted media enablers appears on TV, a slideshow of these incriminating shots should be displayed on the screen as long as they are speaking. Then the viewers will be able to interpret their remarks in the proper context.

But wait...there's more, courtesy of Sadly No! How they deal with this in other countries. Why's it so hard to get it in the "land of the free"?

UPDATING AGAIN: Fred at Slacktivist despairs for the state of Christianity in America. Funny how every one of these blog comment threads always ends up hijacked by someone breathlessly spouting, "But what if there was a ticking time bomb?" Once again, TV has done its job well. Me, I'm with David Foster Wallace in the post above.

(Here's the source of the subject line, written in 2001. It already felt back then like bad things were coming. Not from our "enemies", but from "us". Sometimes I don't like being proven right.)

"You're either on the bus or you're off of the bus!"
The driver's voice crackles through the speakers
As the highway to Hell unfolds like a yellow brick road
We're checking the map as we quell our reservations
With biker crank and Prozac
99 bottles of something unspeakable on the wall
Take one down...pass it around.

Songs about being bored: still not boring after all these years

Another video recommended by Ian below. Now that the classic Lawrence Welk rendition of "Sister Ray" has been pulled from Youtube, it's good that someone else is getting cute with the found footage. Enjoy.



Feel free to fill the comments with your thoughts about the Smothers Brothers' TV show, strictly for symmetry's sake.

Seen Your Video: The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Season 3, Disc 1

We return to our ongoing reexamination of mainstream America's uneasy-yet-lucrative relationship with late-60s/early-70s counterculture with a variety show that ruffled so many feathers in its time that after repeated instances of censorship, CBS ultimately canceled the show mid-season in 1969 despite its popularity. In these days of premium cable, The Simpsons, South Park, even the decades-past-its-prime Saturday Night Live (or The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, for that matter), it's hard to imagine a world where the Smothers Brothers could be considered dangerous. Nevertheless, they were, which in itself is sufficient reason to check them out.

I only have vague memories of this show at the time it was broadcast. As a kid, I was sent off to bed on Sunday night before it came on, but I recall hearing it from the other room as my parents watched it, and I must have seen at least a few episodes, because I remember the video for Mason Williams' "Classical Gas" and some of the "Pat Paulsen for President" sketches. I swear I remember seeing the segment where a pre-hippie George Carlin does his "Indian Sergeant" routine; I got some serious deja vu when he went into the "leaping into the gorge" bit. But overall, I think we were usually protected from this stuff at the time. So most of this DVD is fresh to me. Which naturally makes it a prime candidate for Netflix, and a subject for this blog.

The Smothers Brothers themselves tend to be the best thing about these shows most of the time. Tom's non-sequitur-spewing idiot savant and Dick's authoritarian straight man were a hilarious combination. Their music wasn't half bad, either, an outgrowth of (and spot-on satire of) the poppier end of the early 60s folk revival that I am already on record as having a weakness for. They nailed the conflict of sibling rivalry while simultaneously turning the genetic empathy of siblings into impeccable comic timing. Every stutter (and fiendish attempt to destroy decorum) from Tom, every pause (and moment of irritation followed by attempt to smooth things over with the world outside) from Dick turns even the dumbest jokes into something provocative and side-splitting. The funniest parts of their routines happen between the words.

The show itself is an odd (and quintessentially '60s) mixture of variety show conventions (silly dancers, Nelson Riddle Orchestra; corny sketch comedy) and envelope-pushing commentary. Each of the four episodes offered on this DVD has its share of "WOW" and "WTF?" moments. At the time these shows were taped, the brothers' TV show was in its third year, and they began filming in the aftermath of the Democratic Party clusterfuck/police riot in Chicago, a rash of political assassinations, international unrest, and the first inkling that the so-called summer of love had been overly optimistic and some ugly stuff was coming. In that context, showbiz-as-usual wasn't enough.

The first show of the fall was one of their most controversial, as the now-older brothers let us know immediately in the introduction. The highlight of the episode is a long segment featuring Harry Belafonte where, after joining the Smothers Bros. in a version of Nina Simone's "I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free", then delivering a smoldering solo love ballad, he jumps into a medley of his great calypso hits while footage of the Chicago Democratic Convention flickers behind him on the chroma key. It starts off jolly and snide, as images of clashing politicians are juxtaposed with Belafonte's buoyant party songs, then veers into pathos and discomfort as footage of cops and demonstrators becomes more violent while Belafonte twists "Mama Look A Boo Boo" into a Greek chorus: "My country can't be ugly so!" By the time he alludes to another hit, "Matilda", by suggesting Matilda should just stay in Venezuela and spare herself from what's going on here, all pretense of light ironic comment has been jettisoned and you realize everyone involved with the show had put everything they had into Making A Statement. It's an effective "the world's gone mad" moment, and more evidence that Harry Belafonte is a national treasure we should appreciate now while he's still with us.

Of course, no one saw this at the time, because CBS cut the segment after the aforementioned smoldering love ballad, leaving Tom Smothers (the more politically active of the two despite his airhead comedy persona) particularly livid, as we see in an audience Q & A piece they hastily put together to fill the empty space in the show. (Which, in a ridiculous bit of irony, was in turn cut out to make room for an extended ad for the Nixon campaign!) Immediately, it's clear that the brothers' days on network TV are numbered.

In the meantime, we get a weird time capsule of a transitional period in American pop culture. The next show gives us another veteran of the same comedy circuit that gave us the Smothers, Bob Newhart (I will admit, I was quite fond of his 70s sitcom, where he played a psychiatrist and was married to the delectable Suzanne Pleshette), and the cast of the musical "Hair". What a thing that was to watch; you start off going, "God, what an embarrassing showtune bastardization of hippies", and end up forced to admit what a stirring song "Let The Sunshine In" really is. We also get a glimpse of a young dark-haired Kenny Rogers (we also catch a few glimpses of a young, dark-haired Steve Martin here; he was one of the show's main writers) fronting the First Edition; unfortunately it's the kitsch of "But You Know I love You" and not the faux-psychedelic camp of "Just Dropped In To See What Condition My Condition Was In", which would have been fun..

Show 3 features George Carlin (R.I.P. you magnificent misanthropic old bastard) and the Doors, who are caught in their uncomfortable Soft Parade phase, first awkwardly running through "Wild Child", which never gets as primal as it wants to be, and later showcasing their hit single at the time, "Touch Me", a Robbie Krieger composition that sounds like a good song if you don't pay attention too closely. (Am I too harsh here? OK, it's a catchy tune, but the lyrics don't seem to go together from line to line. Something about a promise being made, a demand to know what "she"---a third party distinct from the "you" being sung to?---said, then all that's dropped in favor of some vague sweet nothings about heaven stopping the rain and stars falling from the sky. Sounds sultry and romantic, but it doesn't add up or mean anything. And yeah, lots of Doors songs make very little sense, but there's a big difference between crazed surrealism and undistinguished bland goo.) Jim Morrison has a great voice, but he misses crucial cues and looks and sounds bored as hell with what he's doing. The guest sax player upstages the band at the end of the song. Krieger clearly has a black eye during the performance, supposedly from a car accident, but it's hard not to speculate that he and Morrison got in a scuffle. It is an intriguing look at a fascinating band slogging through one of their worst periods.

The last of the four episodes raises loads of questions. This one is clearly cut to ribbons, but the brothers offer no comment on this whatsoever, compared to the Belafonte incident. First off, the introduction mentions a musical guest called "Hedge And Donna", who we never see. (I had to Google them; turns out they were a sweet-voiced, obscure folk duo of their day who were also an interracial married couple. Did the network actually cut them out because they felt TV audiences weren't ready for a black woman and a white man as a couple and musical act? And if so, why weren't they restored to their rightful place on this DVD? Weird, huh?)

Second, the main guest on the show was an impressionist named David Frye, whose first appearance in the episode begins with him impersonating William F. Buckley. Suddenly, before he actually does anything funny, there is a sloppy cut to him taking a bow, and we move on to the next part of the show. No comment in the bonus features. WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED? Did Frye cross some sort of line? Did he actually do something humorous, perhaps? (Even now, I would welcome any appropriately snarky trashing of the pompous ass who who gave us the National Review, and whose most famous quotation, "standing athwart history yelling STOP" was a reference to stopping the civil rights movement in particular. Such a principled fellow.) From the evidence of what was left behind, that would certainly be welcome, since based on what we get to see here, Frye suffered from the flaw of many impressionists: he could create perfect imitations of his targets, but he couldn't come up with anything funny or interesting for them to say.

The show's staff of writers, many of whom went on to bigger and better things, should have taken up the slack here, but when we watch the Emmy-award-winning sketch, "A Fable For Our Time", the most stunning thing about it is how UN-funny it is. Sure, Frye gets to do Johnson, Humphrey, Wallace, and Nixon, and he does them all really well, but none of the lines the writers provide for them are the least bit cutting or amusing. Comedy is a fleeting thing for sure, especially 40-odd years on, but considering how hilarious the Smothers Brothers could be when left to their own devices, it's odd that they achieved industry recognition (bittersweetly, they got the award AFTER the show was shitcanned by the network) for one of their least funny sketches. (But then, it was sort of political, albeit in a SAFE way compared to other stuff they did, so maybe their peers were awarding them for other work that they dared not acknowledge at the time, like some sort of "referred pain" theory of humor?) Or maybe the writers got the Emmy for the bit in the same show that featured Liberace and a traffic cop; that was actually funny.

Well, from this taste, the Smothers Brothers were brilliant comedians, their show was an uneven but valiant effort with many great moments, and CBS were cowards to let them go when they did. We have more volumes of this series in the Netflix queue, but we have many other diverse things we want to see before we indulge further. We'll return to this particular time capsule later.

Contort yourself two times

It's like the last eight years never happened:

According to today’s left, the answer is yes: Barack Obama is America. And opposition to Barack Obama or any of his policies is therefore, by definition, anti-American.

George W. Who? Never heard of the man.

It’s amazing how these people can turn on a dime.

We stirred up some concoction

Here we take our characters from the previous movie, strip them of all their worldly possessions (and clothes), strand them outside of some sort of nightmarish stadium (or is it supposed to be a playground ride?) and have them act out the lyrics to "Outside The Blue Room", a Blame song whose lyrics were spontaneously written by Davis Jones and J Neo Marvin just outside of one particular blue room.

Dig the sexy dance moves. Xtranormal does not allow you too many options, but the ones they do offer are pretty amusing. (The cheesy surf music is also theirs. Sticks in your head after a while.)

"Don't blame me, I voted for Cindy Sheehan"

The ever-witty TBogg sums up the latest distraction all too perfectly:

...the endless harping on what she knew and when she knew it is exactly the distraction that previous party in power wants.

By Monday, people will believe that Pelosi herself was doing the waterboarding and only then will Republicans admit that it is torture.

The US government engaged in torture, period, and all the weasel words and blame-shifting don't obscure that basic point one bit, unless you are deliberately choosing not to hear it. I am willing to see Nancy Pelosi investigated for her complicity on the issue only after Cheney, Bush, Rumsfeld, Woo, Bybee, Ashcroft, Gonzales, et al are securely behind bars. Let us keep our priorities straight, shall we?

UPDATE: Let's not pretend we don't all know exactly why they did this is the first place.

UPDATE AGAIN: The Rude Pundit raises a very good point: this is the CIA we're talking about.

Oh and Barack, I don't know what the hell you think you are doing, but I suggest you stop and remember why exactly you are where you are now. The mandate you have is not a mandate to keep the likes of Richard Cohen happy. Get a grip. Thank you.

Now you're talking

This is what we should do. Stop paying our credit cards. Demand a cap of 10% interest, and don't pay one penny to the credit card companies until Congress gets up off their lazy corrupt asses and passes a law making it illegal for anyone, credit card companies included, to charge anyone more than 10% interest on any loan, charge, or other financial transaction bearing interest.

Want a big laugh? The Republicans keep saying the Democrats are "socialists." The Democrats are closer to being made-men in the mob than to being socialists. Socialists actually do something for the people once in awhile, instead of just shoveling all the money into the coffers of the corporations.

Full rant here. Hat tip to Avedon at The Sideshow.

Pulled back and forth toys

I noticed a lot of bloggers have been having fun making xtranormal movies, usually by putting idiotic wingnut manifestos in the mouths of these cute/creepy animated characters.

I thought I'd try something a little different. So, here is a dramatization of the lyrics of two songs by The Blame, "Wagons And Boys" and "Let Me Plant One On You". Tell me what you think.

Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long

Our final video of the Conspiracy Of Beards' April trip to New York shows the boys belting their hearts out on "Dance Me To The End Of Love" and ruling the dance floor at a loft party in Williamsburg in the wee wee hours. Special thanks to Allison for wielding the video camera while Neo was busy singing.

Read about it here.

That's why you want to be there

Daryl Henline leads a quintet of Beards in the backyard of Brooklyn's Stain Bar in an exquisite small-group arrangement of Leonard Cohen's immortal "Suzanne".

Read about it here.

Those were the reasons and that was New York

The Conspiracy Of Beards singing "Chelsea Hotel #2" on the PATH train back to New York after they appeared at WFMU in Jersey City. Video shot on the fly by J Neo Marvin, who says it was pretty noisy, which is why it took a couple of lines for everybody to get going. At the end you can hear the conductor berate him for filming the moment: "You can't take pictures here!" Party-pooper.

Read more about it here.

What America really wants and most politicians are too scared to support

Elizabeth Kucinich lays down the law



Can we get this bill passed, like, yesterday, already?

Seen Your Video: Tinariwen: Live In London

This is one case where you are better off watching all the extras before you get to the main feature. To get the full impact of this rocking little band from the north of Africa, you need to know exactly where they're coming from, which makes the bonus mini-documentaries and interview footage essential.

Tinariwen and their sternly charismatic leader Ibrahim Ag Alhabib are inseparable from the Tuareg people from which they come, a group of nomads with an ancient culture whose territory crosses the borders of Algeria, Mali, and Niger as they cling fiercely to their own independent identity. The damage left behind by colonialism is clear: when the territory called "French West Africa" was carved into various independent nations, the borders were drawn with little or no regard for the ancestral lands of all the different ethnic groups of the region. (And this is no isolated case: the nation called "Iraq" was created in a similar fashion by England drawing arbitrary lines on a map, leaving the Kurds in a similar position to the Tuaregs, for instance.) So the French leave, and an oddly-shaped nation called "Mali" is established, stretching from the Niger River where the ancient "Mali Empire" was centered, clear up to a broad swath of the Sahara, where the Tuareg population lives.

So the question comes up: what is a nation? What is a national identity? Is it ethnicity? Is it a shared philosophy? Is it an alliance between peoples for mutual advancement and benefit? Or is it just a piece of real estate to be ruled by the strongest strongman who can hold it? Sorry, folks, you're on your own and good luck answering those questions; your old European conquerors have washed their hands of you. Here, have some foreign aid. Hope it gets to the right places. (And thanks for the natural resources, we'll be sure the general gets his payment.) Oh, I see that corruption and war are plaguing your people. Well, it must be proof of your innate primitive depravity. Surely we, your former Great White Fathers, couldn't have had anything to do with this mess, could we? And so it goes, the whole sordid story of third world struggle. It's a big subject, worth more thought and debate than this little blog post can contain by itself...

The young displaced Tuaregs that grew up to form Tinariwen, while directly affected by this state of affairs, grew up with more immediate concerns. Driven from his home after his father was assassinated by the Malian army in 1963, Ibrahim eventually found himself on his own doing odd jobs and trying to survive in Algeria, ultimately, along with a whole generation of stateless, exiled young Tuaregs like him, going to Libya for military training as part of Moammar Khadafy's campaign to support the Tuareg insurrection in Mali. Ah yes, Khadafy. Benevolent supporter of liberation struggles or petty imperialist puppet-master in his own right? You decide.

It would all be just another story of the endless cycle of ethnic wars in the third world, if not for Ibrahim's chance encounter with an Arab musician in Algeria who teaches him guitar, eventually selling him his instrument. The young guerilla and his comrades spend their downtime during the civil war brewing tea in the desert while they jam and write new songs that build on their traditional music with lyrics that address their own experience and express the feelings and views of their community. Something powerful grows out of these little sessions: a loose-knit band evolves, recording their own low-fi cassettes that spread like wildfire among the Tuareg people, capturing and feeding their spirits and communicating them to others. After the conflict is resolved, the music lives on. Tinariwen's guitars have an impact that reaches farther than their guns ever did. Eventually an English record producer named Justin Adams makes the trek out to the desert to put together their first studio recording, and the band becomes an international cult sensation.

The music itself is hypnotic and thrilling, slightly reminiscent of the bluesy droning sounds of Ali Farka Toure, only with a strong Berber influence that shows in the more Arabic-flavored melody lines. A whole fleet of electric guitars, a marvelously extroverted left-handed bassist, and one phenomenal hand drummer holding down the beat. On most songs, two or three band members (including a spry old man and a beatific woman) clap hands, sing backups, and break into spontaneous dances when they are moved to do so.

Various members take turns singing and playing lead guitar, but every time Ibrahim steps forward, the charisma level rises. His voice is just that much more deep and magnetic, and his guitar is just that much more biting. He comes across not as a domineering boss, but as first among equals, the guy with the X factor that everyone else looks up to. And with his wild mane of hair and his wry, haunted expression that tells you he's seen things you don't even want to ask him about, he cannot help but be the focal point. Yet he also has an air of quiet, centered dignity, like a warrior who has found a better way to defend and represent his community. Now when people hear the word "Tuareg", instead of thinking of some marginal group of oppressed desert rebels (or going "huh"?), thousands more of them will think of a band with a percolating, prickly groove that they can't get out of their heads. And while that won't solve the problems of the world by itself, it's a step in the right direction towards reveling in the amazing things human beings in faraway corners of the world can do. Once insurgents, Tinariwen are now diplomats. Buy their records and make them some money.

You need a mess of help to stand alone

If you have a curiosity about the Beach Boys and Brian Wilson, you've probably heard the name Jack Rieley before. Rieley had a brief fling as manager, collaborator and creative consultant for the troubled band in the early 70s, and gets both the credit and the blame for attempting to upgrade their image for the post-hippie counterculture, shepherding the group through three albums, Surf's Up, So Tough/Carl And The Passions, and Holland. Surf's Up was far and away the best of the three, while the other two were messy but interesting, and all three were the last attempt by the band at creating something weighty and relevant before settling into the tug-of-war between safe nostalgia and drug-drenched naivete that followed. (The former, represented by Mike Love, winning out while Brian Wilson eventually triumphed as a solo artist basically paying tribute to his own illustrious past. Sadly, his two brilliant brothers didn't last long enough to savor the moment. Oh, what Carl would have done with the reconstructed Smile album!)

Anyway, Rieley has not been served well by history. His contributions have been belittled as superficial manipulations of a clueless band, shallow gestures to ingratiate them with the political Zeitgeist of the day. Well, there might be some truth to that, but reading his own words on the preserved mailing list exchanges below, one gets another picture: one of a true fan, perhaps one of the most passionate Beach Boys fans ever, who had the guts to convince them, for at least a few years, that they had more to offer than they had been giving, and it was time for them to take the role as one of the great bands of the rock era that was alive and relevant to the time they were in here and now. Maybe that was a ludicrous idea. Considering Mike Love's response to Rieley's challenge was to pen "Student Demonstration Time", maybe this band was too square a peg for such a round hole. But Love also managed to come up with "Don't Go Near The Water" (a good song that's hit the Ear Candle Radio playlist more than once), and "California Saga" has its moments too. (For me as a kid hearing these records and knowing zilch about what went on behind the scenes, it seemed perfectly appropriate for the sun-and-surf-loving Beach Boys to be writing about ecology...still does, really.) Certainly, the group was on to something that could have gone further, if they had had the courage to see it through. The failure of the Rieley era sealed the fate of the Beach Boys and Brian Wilson even more surely than the capsizing of the Smile project.

If anything, Rieley's greatest gift to the band was his strong support and cultivation of Carl Wilson: appointing him the band's musical director, helping him write songs (the three they co-wrote are some of the best things the band ever did in the 70s), and enlisting his help to finish the work that Brian could not; it was Carl Wilson and Jack Rieley that made the song "Surf's Up" happen, and "Surf's Up" is to the Beach Boys what "A Day In The Life" was to the Beatles: a huge once-in-a-lifetime achievement that stands outside the rest of their catalog. So if Rieley had done nothing but sifted through the Smile tapes and goaded the Beach Boys into making something presentable out of "Surf's Up", that would be enough.

But Rieley is the forgotten man in the Beach Boys story, and his own silence has contributed to that. That, and his own lyrics for songs by all three Wilson brothers, which aimed for Van Dyke Parks surrealism, sometimes piled on the metaphors to the point of sounding creaky and overwrought on songs like "Steamboat". But we don't come to the Beach Boys for lyrics, do we? Rieley's lyrics, for all their hippie-babble tendencies, were eminently singable (and never as embarrassing as Mike Love's efforts). "Feel Flows", a virtual Carl Wilson solo recording (aside from Charles Lloyd's sax and flute overdubs), turns Rieley's word salad into something truly cosmic, and is the best thing either of them ever did.

Here is a rare opportunity to get a bit of the story in the elusive Rieley's own words. For a brief while, he contributed some thoughts and memories to an online Beach Boys mailing list, and it's interesting to read the story from his perspective. Jack Rieley is nothing if not highly opinionated, and gushes with praise for anyone with the last name Wilson and does not hide his disdain for the other members of the band. He doesn't go into it much here, but another factor in the equation was Rieley's sexuality. Being openly gay while Mike Love made no bones about his homophobia was never going to bode well for a long-term business and creative relationship with such a conflicted and dysfunctional family-based rock band. (Meanwhile, Davis has insisted while watching live Beach Boys footage that Mike Love is totally gay himself based on his dancing...so there may be some defensive closet-case projection involved. I have also read that Love gay-baited Sean O'Hagan of the High Llamas when he tried to collaborate with the Beach Boys years later; clearly Love's got some issues) Rieley did the smart thing and moved on, and since then, while book after book on the troubled Brian and his relatives/bandmates has come out over the years, he has kept his own counsel. But here, he spills his guts ever so briefly, and we get another side of the story:

Jack Rieley, Part 1

Jack Rieley, Part 2

It's worth a read, as is the O'Hagan story, which provides a portrait of how fiercely committed to lameness the Beach Boys became by the '90s, as O'Hagan points the finger at producer Joe Thomas (an ex-wrestler and "adult contemporary" label owner who worked with both the group and Brian Wilson solo) as a specialist in "right-wing country artists" who was given control because Brian's wife liked him. Apparently, you can't blame Mike Love for every wrong move the band makes, tempting as it is. Oddly, Bruce Johnston comes across much better here than in Rieley's account.

Key Rieley quote (trying to explain why the Beach Boys could not achieve the critical credibility and commercial success that the Beatles did):

The Beatles were focused, strategic, professional and well led during the years of their mounting ascendancy in critical and commercial acclaim. John Lennon and Paul McCartney, the creators, spoke the same "line" as did George Harrison and Ringo Starr. There was true career direction, which the group followed carefully.

During that same period The Beach Boys were divided, unprofessional and horrendously led. Brian Wilson, the creator, had the respect of his brothers but not of the others in his band nor of their manager. The brothers spoke one "line" while Love, Jardine, an emerging Johnston and Murry Wilson spouted another. There was no career direction to speak of and chaos reigned.

A thought-provoking explanation of why some bands "work" and some don't. It's food for thought, monsters.

Ear Candle Radio's Top 20: April 2009

The recently passed country legend Porter Wagoner tops this month's charts with his haunting, almost-psychedelic ballad of empathy for the mentally ill. Neo used to watch the Porter Wagoner TV show as a child (for those of you who don't know, this was the guy who discovered Dolly Parton) and he says, frankly, he didn't know he had one like this in him. We found this song on a compilation of some of (the late) Lux Interior and Ivy Rorshach's favorite songs; those Cramps had impeccable taste. (Again, while we're on the subject: Ivy, when you recover from your grief, we would love to hear you do a solo album of Link Wray-style instrumentals. We'd play it constantly!)

Other new acquisitions rear their heads on this month's chart. When our pal Matthew Grasso came to stay with us recently, he brought another CD of his music we hadn't heard before, and this piece by one of his instructors at the SF Conservatory Of Music stood out; it's a neat little piece which Matthew executes with his usual subtlety and skill. We also have a classic from the jive-talking jazz wizard Slim Gaillard, the hard-to-find first single by New Zealand's romantic Verlaines, and a great extended comedy routine from Eddie Izzard where he illustrates a very important point: Never. Heckle. Eddie. Izzard.

Of course, longtime Ear Candle Radio listeners know how much we love Arthur Lee, and this month we're happy to see him represented, not only by a coolly sinister track from Forever Changes, but by some of his lesser-known later gems: a long, delicious acid-guitar freakout from Love and a bouncy, crunchy philosophical ballad from his first solo album. Another one of our heroes, Yoko Ono, contributes a blasting punk-thrash anti-war number with Sean Lennon on guitar; an old friend, Angel Corpus-Christi, covers Robert De Niro and banters with Alan Vega; MC5 tear the roof off with one of our favorite Fred Sonic Smith songs; and Lavel Moore gives us a heartfelt statement from the newest installment of the Eccentric Soul Series. This volume, The Young Disciples, compiles records made by an East St. Louis youth organization that reached out to at-risk youth in the ghetto four decades ago by teaching them music and coaching them to make passionate soul records. We sure could use more programs like that today!

As always, it's our listeners and their feedback that keep us enthusiastic about our radio station. Thank you all, and keep listening!

1. Porter Wagoner - The Rubber Room - The Rubber Room
2. Arthur Lee - Everybody's Gotta Live - Vindicator
3. Slim Gaillard - Chicken Rhythm - Vout For Voutoreenees
4. Matthew Grasso - Raguette (Bogdanovic) - Music For The Extended 7-String Guitar
5. Love - Love Is More Than Words (or Better Late Than Never) - Out Here
6. Brian Eno & John Cale - Spinning Away - Wrong Way Up
7. Yoko Ono/IMA - Warzone - Rising
8. Eleventh Dream Day - The Raft - El Moodio
9. The Pastels - Kitted Out - Truckload Of Trouble
10. Bush Tetras - Funky (Instrumental) - Boom in the Night
11. The Verlaines - Death and the Maiden - Juvenilia
12. The Rutles - Blue Suede Schubert - The Rutles
13. MC5 - Over And Over - The Big Bang! Best Of The MC5
14. Love - A House Is Not A Motel - Forever Changes
15. LaVel Moore - The World Is Changing - Eccentric Soul: The Young Disciples
16. Eddie Izzard - Great Escape - Dress To Kill
17. Angel Corpus Christi - Theme From Taxi Driver/NY NY - I Love New York
18. Robert Wyatt - Gharbzadegi - Old Rottenhat
19. The Music Magicians - Convertibles And Headbands - The American Song-poem Anthology: Do You Know The Difference Between Big Wood And Brush
20. The Minutemen - Mr. Robot's Holy Orders - Double Nickels on the Dime

Like a farting watchdog

T Rex sums up the way I've felt about newspapers for most of my adult life here. Mainstream print media may be an endangered species for a number of reasons, but until I can open a newspaper without being exposed to mediocre writing, bogus wisdom, false perspective, toxic mendacity and outright stupidity, I'm going to have an awfully hard time shedding too many tears.

My prediction is that we will probably have several very large papers shut down as the big corporations decide that this is not a lucrative business to be in anymore. What I wish for in the aftermath is to see those journalists who are actually dedicated to their craft and their ethics banding together to create smaller, independent, hard-hitting, truth-seeking publications of their own to fill the gap, perhaps hiring some of the stunning writers you can find on our blogroll over the right of this page for their editorial sections. Hey, let me dream if I want to.

Seen Your Video: The Howlin' Wolf Story

As a genre, blues has its limitations. One of the most formulaic musical forms ever invented, 95% of the songs have the same chord progression, for crying out loud. Go to a bar on "blues night" and it's all cliches, solos, and bravado, fine for drinking beer to, but don't expect to have your heart moved or your mind blown. And dear God, if you're at a party and someone suggests a blues jam, it's probably time to go home. For the most part, blues is more an ingredient that spices up other musical forms (jazz, soul, folk, rock, psychedelia, West African music, zydeco, even country and punk) than a music you can spend much quality time on in its own right. (I'm practically inviting a flame war here; this blog needs more comments anyway! Bring it on!)

[UPDATE: OK, I must clarify. In that paragraph, I'm mostly talking about "blues" as it is played today by too many lazy people. Please read on...]

And yet...

There are so many great visionaries who have made the blues their life's work, found their voices there, and created whole worlds within those limitations. Charley Patton, Robert Johnson, John Lee Hooker, I can listen to those guys all day. Bessie Smith, of course, was a goddess, as was Memphis Minnie. Muddy Waters and Sonny Boy Williamson II made some killer records throughout their careers, though other stuff by them I have to admit I respect more than enjoy. But there's one artist out there who I love without reservation: Howlin' Wolf.

Wolf, born Chester Burnett, had the best band (especially guitarist and longtime foil Hubert Sumlin, who spewed out snappy, economical, biting riffs that spoke more in a few choice twangs than other guitarists could do in their solos), the best songs (by both himself and Willie Dixon), an arresting growl of a voice (without him, Captain Beefheart and Tom Waits would have sounded very different), and a huge personality abundant with power, dread, rage and humor. But despite all the pleasure I've gotten from his records over the years, I started this movie knowing very little about the man himself.

We get lots of performance footage, with Wolf belting out his songs in that voice and pulling some wild stage antics like licking his instruments (harmonica and guitar), bugging out his eyes, and scowling and pointing his finger like an angry hellfire-and-brimstone preacher, all while sitting in a chair and not looking the least bit sedentary. (Too bad he didn't have more cameras pointing at him in his younger years, when he could really let go; we have to rely on eyewitness accounts for that.) Wolf took his role as a showman seriously, working hard to keep the audience excited. At the same time, when he stops the clowning, narrows his eyes, and points that finger at the audience, you can feel the sting of the reprimand as surely as if you were the character he's singing to in the song.

We are taken back to the childhood of young Chester Burnett, a poor black kid in rural Mississippi from a broken home, shuffled from relative to relative, scared of wolves (which led to him getting his famous nickname), and discontented with the lot of a 15 cent a day cotton picker in the segregated South. A more interesting alternative shows up in the form of an itinerant guitar player (none other than the great Charley Patton himself) who stirs the kid's love of music. When Chester comes of age, he has been living with his father, a kind-hearted man who gives in to his son's request for a guitar of his own. He strikes out to make his fortune and starts playing dodgy juke joints in the area, including a stint where he and Robert Johnson perform as a duo...

Gotta stop here. My jaw dropped at this point. Howlin' Wolf and Robert Johnson, performing together? How amazing must that have been, these two electrifying young artists throwing down together in front of an audience? Of course, being the Deep South in the 1930s, no one filmed or recorded this; the people we now think of as revered American cultural icons were regarded as nothing but n*****s, hardly worthy of attention. What a crime.

Anyway, our hero is paying his dues, receiving his baptism by fire in these rough backwoods venues, until he decides that Memphis is the place to go. We get our first inkling of the enterprising side of the Wolf; he not only establishes himself as a busy local musician, but he also gets himself a regular radio gig. One thing that impresses over and over in this movie is what a serious work ethic Wolf had. Earlier we are told that as a child his mother threw him out because he wouldn't work in the fields; one could conclude from this that he was a lazy adolescent, but looking at how hard he worked all his life, one gets the impression that he was too smart to allow himself to be exploited as a second-class citizen performing cheap labor. Wolf wasn't an explicitly political artist, mostly singing about personal conflict, emotional turmoil, and (especially) the wondrous pleasures of the flesh, but you get the impression that black pride was an innate thing with him. And it was that pride that sustained him and brought him his success.

In Memphis, this larger-than-life artist started to get some real attention. We get a nice cameo from Paul Burlison of Johnny Burnette's Rock & Roll Trio telling us how he met Wolf at the radio station where their respective bands performed, and we see how it was the power of music that helped break the barriers of the segregated South in the 50s and 60s; despite the system, they were peers digging each other's sound. (Peter Guralnik's book Sweet Soul Music is full of stories like this. An essential history book. Go get it.) The catalyst that propelled Wolf into the next phase of his life was the legendary Sam Phillips (long before Elvis, Jerry Lee, Johnny, or Carl), who recorded Wolf's first record, the haunting, eerie "Moanin' At Midnight", which instigated a bidding war that was won by Chess Records in Chicago. Wolf, proud man that he is, moves to Chicago not by train or thumb, but drives there himself with $4000 in his pocket.

In Chicago, Wolf has a long career full of steady gigs and hit records, eventually crossing over to the white rock audience curious about the original versions of the songs they've heard the Rolling Stones, Doors, Cream, and others do. And young Hubert Sumlin is there for the whole thing. Now an affable old man, Sumlin is here to talk about his imposing, no-nonsense mentor: "If you said something to him, you had better be right, and you'd better say it right." Meanwhile, Wolf's two daughters talk about him as a father and a husband to their mother, and we see another side to the guy: a sweet, open-hearted man who adored his wife and kids. The daughters make a point of saying that there was no contradiction between the stable family man and the wild man on the stage: "That was just his spirit coming out." The jilted (and jilting) lover in so many of his songs must have been drawn from his younger years.

Again, pride, resilience and self-improvement are a recurring theme here. (Functionally illiterate as a youth, he eventually put himself through school in his fifties, where he learned to read and write, got a GED, and went on to study accounting. For a man his age, this was no small achievement, and testifies to his incredible drive.) We see Wolf at the Newport Folk Festival at one point, heckled by a drunken Son House, one of his old musical mentors gone to seed and coming off as a pathetic old man. Wolf delivers a blistering speech at House for wasting his life and his gifts that must have made him feel six inches tall. "He didn't take no mess", another associate recalls.

Late in the movie and in his life, we are told of Chester Burnett's reunion with his mother. It does not go well. His mother was a fiercely devout Baptist and never forgave her son for playing "Devil's music", throwing the money he gave her on the ground with contempt, and leaving her heartbroken son to drive away in tears. Shortly after, when Wolf cries out "Please write my mama/Tell her the shape I'm in/Tell her to pray for me/Forgive me for my sins" in one of his last great songs, "Goin' Down Slow" (which also references the illness that killed him in the end) we realize how poignant that lyric must have been to him, despite Willie Dixon's somewhat goofy spoken-word interjections in the same song.

Dixon is strangely absent in this story, and it's hard to fathom why. A powerful figure at Chess Records, Dixon played bass and, most importantly, was a gifted songwriter who penned great tunes for many of his fellow Chess artists, including Wolf. From all accounts I've seen, there was a lot of tension between the two men; Wolf didn't feel he needed anyone else to write songs for him, and even detested at least one of the songs Dixon gave him, "Wang Dang Doodle". (A great song, actually, a surreal, crazy downhome scenario worthy of Bo Diddley) I'd have liked to see some light cast on the fractious Wolf/Dixon working relationship, but even though the DVD includes a bonus feature on the infamous Howlin' Wolf/Muddy Waters rivalry, we get nothing on the subject here. I do think the guy who gave us "Little Red Rooster" deserves some recognition here.

Otherwise, I have no complaints. It has been a pleasure to make the acquaintance of Mr. Howlin' Wolf via this movie. I come away with admiration for his heart and strength along with the music I've always loved.

The word is out

Hope we see you there.

For all my old Rough Trade friends

A BBC documentary on the history of Rough Trade. Worth watching.

Updated impressions after viewing 80% of the show:

Nothing at all about the US branch of Rough Trade, which is a pity, as both the San Francisco shop and the American label had a huge impact in their own right. The Grant Ave. and later, the 6th St. Rough Trade deserves their own documentary; wonder if it will ever be made. Steve Montgomery, who we see an awful lot of in the beginning here, was more or less forcibly ousted by the San Francisco Rough Trade, which reorganized itself as a collective until the UK parent company imposed a management structure on them later; it's a fascinating story that deserves to be told. (And then, there's the German Rough Trade, the only branch of the company which never went bankrupt...and yes, as a former Rough Trade Deutschland recording artist I have a personal interest in learning more about them, obviously)

My, Geoff Travis certainly becomes elusive when any financial issues come up.

In retrospect, it's highly amusing when the company goes into a big dramatic identity crisis over Scritti Politti's "The Sweetest Girl": "Oh my God, we're betraying our vision by putting out a slick pop record!" If you listen to that song now, it sounds like an outtake from Rock Bottom more than anything, which is no surprise since Robert Wyatt himself played keyboards on the single. Later, of course, Scritti Politti moved into serious helium-voiced 80s cheese with semiotic pretensions, but at this stage, they hardly sounded like commercial pop at all. Funny.

Liked seeing Mayo Thompson and Shirley O'Loughlin and others give their take on the history. And what a great bunch of footage of the Raincoats, Fall, Wyatt, Stiff Little Fingers and more. Oh yeah, and the Smiths too. (At the time they came out, I was more appreciative of their role as Rough Trade's cash cow than their actual music, but looking at them now, I have to admit they really were a dynamic little band for a while.)

Conspiracy Of Beards: New York Diary, Pt. 3

Today's earworm: the la-da-da-da chorus from "A Singer Must Die". Bursts from the throat and rolls off the tongue like honey.

The street crazies in New York are louder, scarier, and way more entertaining than the ones you find in San Francisco. This morning, a youngish black man with blazing, enraged eyes and a receding hairline was running around, pounding on restaurant windows, bellowing something about Obama, and marching into the street on red lights. (Striding purposefully into oncoming traffic is something all New Yorkers do well, but this guy was a master.) I expect to spot him again soon as a token black pundit on Fox News making a special guest appearance on the Glenn Beck show.

Yesterday, on the Bowery, a disshevelled, wide-eyed fifty-something white man was communing intensely with his headphones, stomping briskly through the crowd, and providing edgy, enthusiastic running commentary: "These guys! Were GENIUSES! Back then they made MUSIC! Not like this TECHNO PUSSY SHIT you hear now!" He would take breaks from his tirade to leer at all the hot, sharp-dressed New York women who wisely gave him a wide berth, then he'd resume his riveting rock criticism. Maybe Christopher Stigliano was visiting New York this weekend too.

A conversation I had more than once this weekend: "So, you're an all male choir, you don't have any instruments, and you only do Leonard Cohen songs?" "Yeah, that's right." "And that's it? You guys don't do anything else?" "Well, it's good to have a focus, don't you think?"

Actually, there was a moment yesterday that broke the instrument barrier. Deron, our most extroverted member, the one who throws his head back, contorts his face and visibly feels every second of every song with the utmost intensity (if you've seen the Beards, you know who I'm talking about) is also an ace harmonica player, and there is a trio arrangement of "Stories From The Street" which employs two voices backed by Deron blowing a humungous chromatic bass harmonica. One day I hope to see this performed for myself; unfortunately, this was the opening number while we were all sequestered in a tiny (literally) green room behind the stage at the Bowery Poetry Club last evening, so I have only experienced the audio so far.

The Bowery Poetry Club felt tiny after the Highline Ballroom, a long narrow corridor of a venue with a busy little deli up front and a bar and seats in the back room and paintings of great New York poets on the wall above the bar. The set was exciting, possibly the best performance of the weekend; the audience up close, noisy, and engaged. We pulled off the best version of "The Window" yet. David Bentley's solo vocal is tear-jerkingly beautiful on this song, one of Cohen's most cosmic, universe-embracing spiritual pieces ever; I am in awe when we do this one.

For the second time that day, we did "Bird On The Wire", two rows of dudes swaying like happy drunks with our arms around each other's shoulders. It seemed like every baritone singer was singing a slightly different part, but this time, rather than straining to figure out what was correct I just threw my voice in the mix and relied on my sense of harmony. Turns out, according to Tom, one of the wise elder Beards, this is the appropriate approach to this song: the more somebody tries to tighten up the arrangement, the more divergent versions are created, which then end up all being sung at once. But why argue with success, when all this disagreement results in such a mighty sound? Other songs benefit well from precision; "Bird" is magnificent "midnight choir" chaos.

Larry and his cousin converged at the bar the same time I did, and Larry bought us all a round of Guinnesses. Generous. And delicious. As we all gathered to plan how we would all get to the loft party that night, Sloan, one of our bass singers who was leaving and wouldn't be joining us there, passed me by and cryptically shouted, "Arrange memories!"

"What's that now?"

"Arrange 'Memories'! That song we were talking about!"

"Oh yeah! Thanks!" I kind of like the way I misheard it, though. "Arrange memories." That is what I'm doing right now in this Chelsea internet ice cream parlor, actually.

Larry's cousin led the way to the L train, walking faster than anyone I have ever tried to keep up with, and I always thought I walked pretty fast. If I lived here, I would no doubt be getting an aerobic workout every day of my life. When we got to the Bedford Ave. station in Brooklyn, he steered us to Driggs Pizza, where we had some real New York style slices. Now I like some of our local pies, and am especially loyal to our good friends at Eagle Pizza on Taraval (a really friendly, funny, and down-to-earth couple who make some of the best food in San Francisco), but Brooklyn pizza is a category all its own that must be experienced.

On to the party. Williamsburg is going through the sort of transition that SF went through during the original dot-com boom, where live-work spaces moved from being a raw pioneer experience for arty types seeking cheap living and freedom to being a status symbol for the upwardly mobile, ("the hedge fund managers are pushing the artists out now", we were told) but the transition is not fully complete, and you can still find cool, progressive, artistic young people living in well-furnished storage-locker-like digs in highrises that look foreboding on the outside and teem with life on the inside.

The party was a maelstrom of noisy, shouting conversation with faint sounds of Beirut coming off of a laptop. (I always liked Beirut OK, but I was curious as to who actually listens to them. Now I know.) The acoustics were so live, and sound carried so well, that everybody kept talking louder to hear their own conversation. Some of the younger, more hippie-ish Beards were arguing strongly that we should all perform with our shoes off, but the sound of breaking glass quickly put a damper on any such notion. I milled around, drinking Cabernet and locating pockets of interesting conversation while we waited for Daryl and his wife and adorably trouble-seeking two year old son to show up.

The woman hosting the party came up to some of us. "I think it's about time you guys got started."

"OK, but we're still waiting for our director."

"He's not here yet? OK..."

"You'll recognize him when you see him. He's a bit shorter, wears glasses and a mustache, and radiates an aura of calm authority."

"Well, I hope he gets here soon." In another corner, Ruben had already seized the reins and was putting a set list together in case we had to go it alone. Happily, in came Daryl and family in the nick of time and we assembled. I recruited Tim's (a Beard bass and excellent vocal arranger) sister Allison to videotape us as we performed. Thanks, Allison!

It was a loose, fun singing session; now all the pressure was off and it was time to just indulge in the fun that we all got into this thing for. Several party guests called out requests for great songs we have never done like "Tonight Will Be Fine" and "Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye". There's plenty more material for us to do in the future! As usual, everybody loves "Hallelujah". That song touches something deep in people; even atheists and agnostics relate to the theme of just opening your heart to the universe and singing "Hallelujah"; no explanation or justification necessary. It's nothing more or less than all our humanity coming out, rejoicing that, in spite of everything and no matter what your circumstance, it's such a goddamn gift to be alive.

That may be the central message, if there is any, of Leonard Cohen's mission: a deep, ecstatic, yet clear-eyed inquiry on what it means to be alive. Even when he has written and recorded songs like "Dress Rehearsal Rag" or "Seems So Long Ago, Nancy" that confront with terrifying empathy how it feels to be driven to suicide, every word and note from a Leonard Cohen song is full of the sheer wonder of life. And if that sounds corny to you, you have some growing up to do.

Anyhow, after our set, the party changed its tone, and suddenly the music got louder and more rhythmic as Beards and other guests went wild, break-dancing and ecstatically throwing one another around the room. As I was just saying, here it is: the wonder of life.

I have been on enough tours in my time to know full well how reality has a tendency to bash you on the head with a hammer once you get back home and return to your regular routine, but I feel regenerated by the last few days, and have a strong intention to stay that way. Next week, we will be seeing Field Commander Cohen himself in person in Oakland, so I know this feeling will not be passing quite so quickly.

Now, a long shuttle ride, a longer flight, and a reunion with my girl await. Your correspondent is signing off for now. Cheers.

Conspiracy Of Beards: New York Diary, Pt. 2

The Stain Bar is a cozy little joint a block away from the Grand St. subway station in Brooklyn. On this night, they had a special on mulled wine, which was nice for the throat before singing. The courtyard is decorated with a giant sculpture of a quarter, with George Washington's profile fashioned from what appears to be old auto parts. To the left, various artists (or is it one artist with many moods?) have contributed to a graffiti mural (which may still be a work in progress) with fire-breathing monster men, sultry mermaids and more. The room itself is full of comfortable couches you can sink into. Behind the bar is a turntable on which the bartenders spin old vinyl by the Rolling Stones, Otis Redding, and Lou Reed.

Gradually, the place began filling with people: Beard friends, relatives, and sweethearts; and, most gratifyingly, strangers who showed up because they read about it in the listings. There was a good write-up in the AM Metro that helped bring the people in, though Daryl was disappointed that the writer used all of his least favorite interview quotes in the piece. That's a Murphy's Law of journalism one should always allow for: they will always end up using your worst quotes, so be as brilliant as you can to journalists (without trying too hard...that can bring on the lameness if you're not careful). With L. Cohen on tour right now, excitement about his work is running high, which makes it a good time for the Beards to be on the road.

We did a full set, including some smaller group pieces like "Suzanne", the arrangement of which was changed again, just before the show. (And what an arrangement it is, a quintet with Daryl himself as lead tenor and staggered wordless harmonies that actually sound like boats rolling along the river!) We also laid out while various small groupings did "In My Secret Life" (my first time hearing this) and "Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On", a supremely ridiculous, rollicking potboiler from Death Of A Ladies' Man, Leonard's ill-fated, lush & lusty Phil Spector collaboration. Later after our set I brought up the over-the-top doo-wop ode to adolescent hormones, "Memories", my favorite song from that same album which is currently in rotation on Ear Candle Radio (there's also a very sparse voice/piano version by the Extra Glenns on their Martial Arts Weekend CD which we've played in the past) and was told more than once "You should do an arrangement! You can get some help from some of the others if you need it!" to which I said, "that'd be fun, maybe a ways down the road, when I feel ready." It would certainly bring down the house to have the Beards do THAT one.

Other than my dissatisfaction with my part on "First We Take Manhattan" (I'm switching from the low baritone part to the high one; there may more guts in my voice in that range, I think), the set went swimmingly. We had our first successful live version of "Land Of Plenty", and I think we're all feeling like we got over a big hump there. It was a sweet evening, and the subway got me back to Chelsea like a charm. Then my darling rang my cell phone just as I opened the door to my room. Perfect.

Woke up early this morning and jumped on the southbound E train to keep my promise to check out Ground Zero and videotape what's there now. What's there is a well blocked off construction site surrounded by blue fences and barbed wire to keep out the snoopers, while cranes diligently raise and lower themselves and cement trucks pass through the security entrance. The area is dotted with camera-wielding tourists, myself included, all seeking some sort of epiphany. Across Liberty St. is a museum devoted to 9/11, but the walking tour did not fit today's tight schedule. But being present there did conjure up the same "is that all there is?" feeling that ends Wim Wenders' Land Of Plenty, which I can now draw from my memory banks when the choir performs the title song. At least the scene hasn't been turned into a grotesque monument to patriotic kitsch yet. Overall impression: New York has moved on, thank you very much. And if you're gonna just stand there gawking, you might as well come in and buy some memorabilia already.

On to the Highline Ballroom, where the boys have an afternoon show. A nice mid-sized rock club it is too, perhaps analogous to Slim's in SF. (Maybe a bit smaller than the Great American Music Hall.) We share the bill with Peter Whitehead, a former Beard doing a solo set playing folkish music with instruments he created and built himself like a 10-string sort of guitar-mandolin hybrid. We performed two sets, served by a good sound system, which compelled us to lean towards subtlety. I did my best to blend and not stick out. There were some beautiful moments.

The audience was seated at tables, a bit polite at first, cheering and whooping by the end. (Do I need to tell you how good that feels?) They went wild for "Hallelujah". Of course, who doesn't love "Hallelujah"? I really appreciate that in our arrangement, we sing "do ya" and not "do you" in the first verse, unlike most interpreters of the song. (Jeff Buckley, please rise up from the grave so that you may receive your well-deserved spanking!) [UPDATE: Leonard himself sang "you" at the Paramount on April 15! I still prefer "ya", though.]

Next on today's busy agenda: the Bowery Poetry Club, followed rapidly by a loft party in Brooklyn. Zounds! I should know these songs pretty well by the time the night is over.

Conspiracy Of Beards: New York Diary, Pt. 1

I read Cat's Cradle in its entirety on yesterday's flight to New York and spent the remaining hour daydreaming ominously about Ice-Nine while passing over what I think was Lake Huron. If you read the book, you'll know what I mean.

My fellow newbie-Beard Larry stepped up to say hello on the same flight. Later, my seatmate, a middle-aged woman traveling with her husband and her mother, asked me if my friend and I were traveling to New York on business. No, I replied, I'm in a choir called the Conspiracy Of Beards. "What a name!", she exclaimed. "Yeah, we're a men's chorus who do Leonard Cohen songs." Her mother, who looked to be in her 70s, lit up. "That's so great!" Leonard crosses all age boundaries.

We convened at the 14th St. PATH station and took the train to WFMU in Jersey City, where we did a live-on-the-radio spot on Billy Jam's show. I remember Billy Jam from the Bay Area where he was a hip-hop DJ on the radio back in the 80s. He's still playing hip-hop, but he also has crazy men's choirs belting it out live in the studio, or at least this one. The station was a homey little hipster haven full of astonishing oil paintings of famous villains like Donald Rumsfeld, Osama bin Laden, and Phil Spector; great kitschy old album covers; back issues of zines like Roctober, XLR8R and Motorbooty; and (buried somewhere deep in their library) some of our label's Content Providers and X-tal CDs. Call 'em up and request them sometime.

Much stretching of limbs and limbering of voices in the green room as we warmed up by doing vocal imitations of the Asteroids game in the room, then did lots of songs before our director Daryl Henline showed up and put us through our paces. Daryl is great at kicking your ass and putting you at ease in the same moment, a true example of leadership. There is a version of "The Window" we do that is arranged for octet and solo voice, with the rest of the group bursting in on the choruses. In rehearsal, it was exquisite.

Time to go on. We strolled upstairs into the performance room while Billy and his assistant watched from the other side of a window. We rolled through "First We Take Manhattan", hit a snag when "So Long Marianne" morphed into "The Window" in the first few bars, and got our groove back with "Famous Blue Raincoat", "If It Be Your Will", "A Singer Must Die", and the amazingly arranged (kudos to Ruben Fonseca for this...various choir members write arrangements for the group, each with his own style...it makes for fun and challenging singing) "Is This What You Wanted?" I really think the Beards need to do a good studio recording of that last one. It's a hit, man!

It's amazing to be part of this THING that happens when the hard work pays off and this diverse group of imperfect voices suddenly meshes into a powerful musical force. I was a fan of the Beards before I joined, and I am a fan now. It's a thrill to be here doing this.

On the PATH train back to New York, the boys collected in one end of the car and sang "Chelsea Hotel #2". I grabbed the camera and shot a crude movie of us performing, until the conductor yelled at me, "Hey you! Didntcha HEAR ME! You can't take pictures on the train! Put it away or I'll call a cop!" Fortunately the song was already over. I think I caught an awesome moment. Hooray for spontaneity.

This evening, it's off to the Stain Bar in Brooklyn, where we will be doing our first live show of the weekend. I think it's going to be great; WFMU was the perfect warmup. Wish me luck. Gotta run.