The Death of a Chinese Booking

As mundane as my musical career has been--I have never lit myself on fire and have only been mildly electrocuted, but willfully on my part. So tomorrow is easily one of the highlights. I'm performing at a Chinese restaurant. Again.

My Chinese restaurant performance history boils down to one year in college. We convinced a run-of-the-mill eatery in Chinatown in Philadelphia to allow us to bring 2 kegs of beer into their restaurant and make a scene; while casual diners sat around us. I guess there were about 30 of us.

Anyway, they moved us into a private room the following year, and I played 'The Rainbow Connection' for a private party. There was something about how the garlic sauce hitting the water chestnuts that brought out the flavor in my acoustic guitar that night, and if Kermit's frog brethren hadn't been butchered and served to us as 'pork lo mein' that night, they'd have been proud of my rendition.

Well tomorrow night, there's a real band situation happening. Me and the Misanthrope are sitting in with Via Skyway, our pal George's ongoing project, at M Shanghai Den in Williamsburg. We are going to eat the bejesus out of some Chinese food (9:30) , take in a set by Hype of the States (10:30) and then crash the stage like braised duck at 11:30. I don't know about the acoustics, but the food looks really delicious.

Between now and then, I'll be coming up with all kinds of stage banter. But for now I'm excited that Rob has agreed to play the entire set with chopsticks, and that the chicken wire that separates the band from the fans will still have chickens hanging from it.

See you there!

Germs and mosquitoes

Sorry for the light posting this week. I've been struggling with a nasty cold caught from my six-month-old nephew over the holidays; the only thoughts I've had to share are 'uhhh' and 'glugg' depending on when I last emptied my sinuses. Those six-month-olds are *brutal*; if a nation ever pools their runny-nose infants together they could launch a full-scale germ attack that would have this country on its knees, or maybe on its couches, watching Dr. Phil and 'That's So Raven'.

The only thing that really helps me in a cold is sleep; everything else (cold medicine, Vitamin C, liquor) just distracts the symptoms for a few hours. Unfortunately, I've recently been the subject of early morning mosquito attacks. They divebomb me and fly by my ear, then swoop up, waiting on a nearby wall or on the ceiling like a vampire bat for their next opportunity. I've taken to sleeping with a flyswatter.

Oh, and isn't it almost December? Do we live in Malaysia? Why am I still being attacked by mosquitoes?

Anyway, I'm on the hobo car back to health, so more posts today and tomorrow (including another entry in my 'all time favorite movie characters'.)



and fighting mosquitoes in the dead of night. It's been extremely disconcerting; they fly by my ear and then wait for me, either on the wall, or on the ceiling. Last night I slept with a flyswatter.)

GREATEST MOVIE CHARACTERS OF ALL TIME: ASH

Let's kick this list off. In no apparent order, by the way.

First on my list is Ashley 'Ash' J. Williams.

"Klaatu barada N... Necktie... Nickel... It's an "N" word, it's definitely an "N" word! "

Bruce Campbell's Ash is not just the hero of the Evil Dead movies, he's the quintessential hero of all movie-time. James Bond needed gadgets and put vermouth in his martinis, Indiana Jones was a Screaming Suzy around snakes and slept with Calista Flockhart...Ash sawed off his hand and affixed a chainsaw to kill the undead. *Groo-vy*.

The first Evil Dead movie is Sam Raimi's first, it came out when he was 22. He went to high school with Bruce Campbell, and in high school, I imagine that Bruce Campbell held up school buses to save virgins. And the first movie is a low-budget thrill ride, where Sam exhibits his black sense of humor and some wild camera tricks that give these B-movies a unique look.

But it's Evil Dead II where everything takes off, and Bruce Campbell really comes into his own. Where Evil Dead pits a bunch of stupid college students against 80,000 years of dead demons, #2 just gives us Ash. He survives and destroys everything evil because, frankly? It just doesn't matter. Just set up the obstacles; Ash knocks them down like he's bowling for dollar$.

Ash is also one of the most quotable movie characters ever. The quotes themselves aren't that memorable, it's just that he speaks to everyone like he's going to have to kill them or he's going to have sex with them.

One of my favorite fight scenes ever is between Ash and his possessed hand in Evil Dead II. It's a little gory, but pretty damn funny.

so what's it *like* to be a band whore?

I just read my goofy little description about what stinkrock was supposed to be about. listmaking and ranting, for sure, and I need to update the description. but that "3+ bands" thing isn't really coming through, is it? Have you ever really wondered what it's like to be a band whore? Here's a glimpse of the last 4 weeks or so and a peephole at the upcoming 4:


Oct. 20: After a visit to the doctor earlier that day where I was anesthetized, I head to the final mixing session for House of Blondes. You know it's official 'cos Paul's there (he's the drummer). That night, George Vitray wraps up that House of Blondes record we started recording in 1999. No one shows up at the wrap party.

(House of Blondes deserves its own post; and through most of September and October George and John and I were bunkered down. It's fun to make a record that takes nearly as long as 'Apocalypse Now' to make but doesn't involve cow butchering or Brando. Although George is like Brando in many ways...)

Oct. 26: Tony comes over and we work on Get Help songs for four hours, because he's signed us up for a show in Boston on Dec. 14th and we need material. Halfway through, his brother Mike comes over, whinges about his girlfriend, drinks some beer, and tells his brother that his songs are too long. We make some edits.

Oct. 27: Cardinals win the World Series. I walk home in the rain at 2am.

Oct. 28: With my new-ish Pro Tools setup, I meet Jeff Wiens at the Strikes Again! rehearsal space and he tracks some parts for 3-4 hours. Later that night, I see a Misfits cover band with JC from SA! and we stay up till 5 a.m.

Oct. 29: rehearse with Strikes Again!

Oct. 31: mix some rough ideas and email out to Strikes! guys. I've got my apartment wired so that I can record or mix at a whim. 10 years ago I read in a Bob Mould interview that he's got everything ready to go so that he can record in a moment's notice. This is when he lived in Texas, though; it's not as easy in a NY apartment. But it's close.

Nov. 1st: Strikes! rehearses again. John and John track some new bass, vocal and guitar parts.
Nov. 3rd: more recording with Jeff. I decide to go to Smoke and Mirrors the following weekend and lay down some drum tracks with Chris.

Nov. 4th-8th. I have no idea what happened. Honestly. I practiced my drum parts, I'm pretty sure I showed up at work...

Nov. 9th: rehearse with Tony on Get Help. He's enlisted a band of Boston friends (including drummer Dennis from his band the Beatings, one of my favorite drummers ever), and we're heading up to Boston the following weekend to play with them.

Nov. 11th: Stay up late writing lyrics to 3 Get Help Songs. It usually takes me 6 weeks to finish words to a song. Tonight it took me 5-6 hours. The key: repeat verses!

Nov. 12th: After being up most of the night, I head to S&M with John van atta and track drums for several hours. If you've caught a whiff of Strikes Again!, playing drums for several hours ain't like being in the Grateful Dead. It's painful. More takes ended by me smashing my hand with my stick than I care to remember.

All that being said, the new Smoke and Mirrors is kicking the Hope Street location, at least in terms of drum sounds. Those brand new Neve preamps kick a lot of ass, but Chris played us a few samplings of different combinations of mics, and even the one room mic and the Shure 57 stuck out in the hall with the doors closed sounded pretty awesome. Chris also said I'd become a much better drummer since I'd recorded last. That was pretty sweet to hear. Someone buy that kid a modem.

At the end of the session, George gives me a CD. I'm playing bass for a Via Skyway show on 12/2.

Nov. 13th: Tony and I trade emails and decide to head up to Boston this upcoming weekend to rehearse with our fledgling band; at least 4/5 of them. He casually mentions that we're performing live on a podcast called the Best of Boston. We tape this Saturday at 10/18; once I know when it airs, you'll hear more.

Last night: Get Help rehearsal. And now I have to sign off, because I'm leaving work early to go rehearse in Boston, where I'll spend 4 of the next 5 weekends.

December: I have three shows with three different bands; 12/2 with Via Skyway, 12/7 with Strikes! in Boston, 12/14 with Get Help in Boston.
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So that's how it is. And as crazy as it all sounds, I don't know what else to do with my time. As long as one person reacts in a positive way to a piece of music I contributed to, this is how it will go.

Signing off and packing for Boston,

SR

jolly pirate donuts

This is who am I on the inside. And actually? pretty lately, pretty occasionally, this is who I am on the outside.

Youtube link

(Blogger beta currently doesn't allow embedded YouTube videos. Move along.)

Village Voice vs. the Decemberists

Ooh! Chris Ott of the Village Voice writes a Decemberists takedown rife with factual inaccuracies and personal attacks, but then the Decemberist's lead singer's girlfriend writes in to defend him (scroll down to the bottom of the page). Saucy!

Colin Meloy does have a bit of an ego problem; he wrote the 33 1/3 book for the Mats' Let it Be entirely about his childhood, and didn't even pepper it with ship or war or pelanquin references like he does his lyrics. His band's music is pleasant and lush and a little boring. I'm just excited that someone feels strongly enough to rip into him personally and irrationally. I really love how irrationally upset music makes people sometimes.

I enjoyed this exchange:

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"Familiar world of self-pitying white people looking for reasons to be unhappy?"


"Is that what you'd call a dance off contest, a pretend lava pit down the middle of the audience, three sing alongs, and cell phone calls to audiences members' mothers?"
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Does that sound like happiness? 2,000 people singing the lines "I am on reprieve
lacking my joie de vivre" in ensemble, some stranger getting your mom out of bed late at night (my mom's a poor sleeper to begin with), and dozens of people pretending to burn to death in a fake lava pit?

Well, it certainly sounds like happiness to me. Like Twister on acid.
Stay lugubrious, Decemberists!

Jukeboxin'

Even if this were written in complete earnestness, I'd believe it to be true.

A nice followup article would tackle the crazy issue of how to sabotage the jukebox. I knew a guy who would play 'Echoes' by Pink Floyd with all five plays. I never did anything that crazy, although once some friends of mine played 'Jessica' by the Allman Brothers 3 times in a row just because we couldn't get enough of it.
(oh, and two weeks ago, I listened to 'Tuesday's Gone' about 75 times in a row, but I was alone, and the Cardinals had just won the world series.)

My most successful jukebox moment has to be in a bar attached to a bowling alley somewhere in Pennsylvania. I surveyed the crowd; quiet, keeping to themselves, or laughing. not much music playing. I nodded, walked to the jukebox and put in 'The Gambler' by Kenny Rogers.

You can't gamble in Pennsylvania. Hell, you can barely stick your neck out without some Quaker trying to chop it off. But somehow, everyone on their barstool felt a little rambly, a little gambly, and before I knew it half the bar was singing along. I'd done a good thing.

Flip side:

In college I lived in a fraternity house (albeit a house where people like the Dead Milkmen, the Murder Junkies and Wesley Willis would perform in our living room). Every Thursday we had a party where people would come over, drink free beer, play pool and foosball. It was like 'Dazed and Confused', except with uglier chicks. It was here as a freshman I heard incredible music I'd never heard before. And if you were the guy serving the beer, you got control over the stereo,

This house never catered much to students, but more to people in the outlying Philadelphia area, and for a time, we became a party location for friends and posse members of the Goats, a Roots-like hip-hop band that made a bit of noise in the early '90s. Well, they took over our party and played nothing but Goats for several weeks in a row, and my roommate and I got plenty sick of it. So the following week, we signed up for 4 hours of bar shifts, playing Smashing Pumpkins and punk rock and probably some Metallica. After turning down 40-50 requests to change the music, some guy pulled out a taser, turned it on, and jammed it to my head. It turns out he turned it off before making contact, but it freaked the crap out of me.
I guess the moral of that story is, some people freakin' *hate* the Smashing Pumpkins. Makes people angry!

And then there's the proudest moment:

The time my band Vote for Noah got our CD in our neighborhood bar, Fitzgerald's at 24th and 3rd. We'd play our song and look around the room with our eyes bugging, waiting for people to go into convulsions, start speaking in tongues, and buy us shots. It didn't play out quite like that, partially because the songs were so much quieter than anything else being played (mastering is important kids!) but the first time you cue up a song you wrote on a jukebox is pretty special.

GREATEST MOVIE CHARACTERS OF ALL TIME: PREAMBLE

So I've got a job, and Donald Rumsfeld doesn't. Why don't I feel satisfied?

Long ago, I discovered my greatest gift: the ability to ignore real life when something fictitious was happening. Hell, I was programmed to; I was baptized a Catholic when I was 90 days old. 45,000 days later, or however the hell old I am, I'm still drawn to fiction, but g*d didn't keep the seat warm. it's to the movies these days, where accidents happen for a reason, problems are solved in 90-120 minutes, and where life is imitated with all the boring parts left out.



In the same way that the first 6 minutes of Fight Club revealed that Edward Norton wanted to be Brad Pitt, so goes the moviegoer: we want to be someone better. If you're like me, you sink into movies and want to become the hero of the story. You want to be Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark or Star Wars, Tom Cruise in Top Gun, Tom Cruise in Risky Business, Tom Cruise in Cocktail, Tom Cruise in the Screech sex tape...well, you know who you want to be. (tom cruz? call me?)

Check in every week for the list.





O

grandparents

My grandfather turns 94 next month. He's in tremendous health, still drives, and still takes care of my grandmother, to whom he's been married for 70+ years. They've lived in Kansas City since the universe was created.

They're tremendously kind people, respected in their community, and have terrific, biting senses of humor (particularly the grandmother). They taught me to play poker before I was 10 and send me a check every year on my birthday. My grandfather's been retired almost as long as he worked. If you're sitting in their kitchen at 5pm Central time, my grandfather will make you a martini to go along with his. gin, on the rocks, olives.

For some reason, I don't know that much about my family; as Midwesterners, we don't talk a lot. (My brother and I are currently seeking substantiation on a rumor that my parents smoked pot before we were born; b/c they haven't trucked with that sort of horse manure in recent years.) So I've always seen my grandfather as a kind old man who used to work for John Deere, took me fishing, and had a pool table and a slot machine in his basement (they'd spend a month out of the year in Vegas).
So it was a treat to get another perspective of him recently when my family sent along a transcription of some my grandparents' remembrances from years ago. I've included a few stories that give a good glimpse of how you might've spent your time during the Depression in the Midwest.

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Joe (cousin) and I were always looking for a way to make a dollar or two, or 50 cents. Anyway, around 1932 or 33, some guy gave us this old horse, and the horse was to a point where he was no good for work, and we knew we could sell him in the rendering works in Topeka [25 miles], so we had to get a way to get there. So we went out to the junk pile where farmers had discarded machinery, and we got two iron wheels off of an old cultivator; and we took some sticks and made a pair of shafts for this cultivator thing and fixed it so we could sit on a board seat and the horse would pull us. We got about half way to Topeka, and that horse got tired…he could hardly move. So we unhitched him and tied him where he could eat grass for a while. Some hitchhiker came by and wondered what we were doing, and we told him we were travelling across country with that horse, and we just stopped for a rest stop. I think Joe had brought along a pot of beans or something, so we were eating. The horse got rested up, and we drove on to east Topeka where this rendering works was. We got about a block from the place and we unhooked the horse from the cultivator wheels, and pushed that off to the side and left it sitting on the street, and walked the horse over. And I think we got three dollars. We hitchhiked back to St. Mary’s.
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We had an old truck. And Joe’s father had a big hog he wanted to sell, and he wanted me to haul it to Topeka. Well, I got to Topeka and we got over to the packing house, and the hog was laying down – he got too hot in the back of the truck; and they said they wouldn’t take the hog, we had to take him home. They wouldn’t take him there because they would be delayed; it might be a half day before they could butcher him, and he was overheated and probably would have died. They said he’d be all right if we just stabbed him, cut his throat; bleed him now and then butcher him when you got home. So I borrowed a big pocket knife from some guy, got in there and cut the hog’s throat in the truck. Had blood all over the inside of the truck. We hauled him back home, and I helped butcher him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Uncle Joe, dad’s alcoholic brother, had money. He worked as a mechanic at the Santa Fe shop, but he invested money somehow… probably with his brother, who was an investor.
He had bailed this guy out who was in jail in Topeka, and the guy disappeared. I can’t remember why he was in jail. They found him in Jackson, Mississippi, and we had a certain number of hours to pick him up. So Joe drove up to St. Mary’s and asked me if I would drive down to Jackson, Mississippi, with him [about 750 miles]. Of course, I had to drive 99% of the way.
We left in the afternoon, sometime late, and drove all night. We had a flat tire in one town. We had a spare, but we were afraid to put the spare on. There was a filling station close there, and we took the tire apart, patched the tire, put it back on and pumped it up at the filling station. We still had a spare with us. We got back in the car and Uncle Joe said, “Where did you get that patch?” I said, out of that box, and he said “I had all my money in there.” But we looked, and it was still in there.
So we drove on, and we picked up a girl hitchhiker. We asked her where she lived, and she said “Jackson, Mississippi.” We didn’t tell her where we were going; we were going to wait and see what she was like. But she was real nice. We stopped to eat, sometime in the middle of the night, and then we told here there that we were going to Jackson. She was so happy, and said “now I can go ahead and eat more food now,” and spent the rest of her money. And we took her and dropped her off. She said “Don’t dare come by my house.” She said, “I’ve got to walk into my house.”
So we went and got the prisoner, put him in the back seat with handcuffs. And we drove on … we hadn’t slept yet. Finally we decided we had to go to bed, and we got a room in a hotel. We took the prisoner over to the city jail; he had papers, so they put him in jail. Uncle Joe talked someone at the hotel into getting him some whiskey, which was bootleg then, nothing legal. They got him some whiskey, and they asked him where his car was parked, and he said “Over there at the police station.” Anyway, he got his whiskey.
The next morning we gathered the prisoner, put him in the back seat, and we picked up two girl hitchhikers – I don’t know why, and they sat in the back. And when they saw those handcuffs, they about went berserk. They rode along until we got to where they wanted to go. When we got to Kansas City, Uncle Joe was, oh, he was terribly thirsty. Well, I knew where to buy whiskey because I had been to Kansas City. So we went down the the city market and got some whiskey. I drank some of it, and Uncle Joe said, “I better be driving; you’ve had that whiskey.” And he was feeding it to the prisoner, too, and the prisoner was sitting in his handcuffs. When we got to Topeka, took him to the jail, and the prisoner was drunk when we turned him back in; but Joe got his bond money back.

a confidence man at work

There's a good Newsweek article that gives a glimpse of how the rubes were duped into appearing in the Borat movie. (A few spoilers, don't read until you've seen it.)

And for heaven's sake, see it if you haven't, and if you have, see it again. It's incredibly hilarious, sure, but above and beyond that Sacha Baron Cohen is a con artist, and pulls off what has to be the most successful scam ever. And he films it, and it's #1 at the box office.

There will never be another movie like this. Go see it as soon as possible.

Marathon

Congratulations to everyone who ran the marathon today. Marathon Sunday is one of my favorite days in New York; people line up in all 4 boroughs (sorry, Staten Island) to cheer and pay tribute to thousands of strangers as they attempt to achieve what seems so staggeringly unattainable.

Although I have several friends who have run marathons, and my own father's run two, I can't quite wrap my head around what it takes to do it. Anytime I meet someone who's run one, I look at them incredulously, like they've just told me they casually discovered one day they could fly, or that they've hung out with Wonder Woman, and her truth lasso wasn't all that, and they went out for Cosmos afterwards and exchanged numbers.

One of the things that draws me to the art of long-distance running is the concept of setting a rhythm. Rhythm's my doppelganger as a drummer, even when recording to a click track that clicks every 1/2 second or so. So after my good friend Kevin finished the marathon today, I was asking him about he establishes a running rhythm. He says it's difficult, but is helped by the fact that there's a clock at every mile. To me, that sounds like an eternity between beats. I guess I don't get it.

Anyway, I was out today to support Kevin. He's been an exceptional runner for as long as I've known him but this was his first foray into the marathon. He set out to run 6-minute miles, which is absolutely ludicrous; that's less than a minute-a-mile off the world-class runners.

Here's how fast 6 minute miles are: after heading over to Williamsburg at the Bedford stop to see him go by, I headed for right for the subway in order to get uptown to meet his family at 105th and 1st, where he'd be going by later. I got on the L quickly, and after a 7-8 minute wait for the express train, I opted for the local. And with all the marathon crowd, the train probably took a little while longer to get uptown, but nothing unreasonable. I got out at 103rd and Lex, and fearing I'd miss him, I jumped out of the train and began a full-on sprint to 105th and 1st. (my full-on sprint is, coincidentally, about a 6-minute mile.)

I caterwauled down 104th towards 1st avenue, and when I was about 20 feet from the corner, I see Kevin race by. I'd only seen 4-5 other people go by, but there he was; I was still too far away for him to see me.

Wait, I drew you a map to help you visualize:


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Kevin........................................(1st ave)
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m
e



1
0
4
t
h

S
t



(This map isn't drawn to scale; i.e., Kevin doesn't actually take up all of 1st avenue when he's on it. He's about 6'1.)

Since I'd seen him in Brooklyn, he'd run seven and a half miles, and outrun the NYC subway system. At a 6 minute mile pace, 7 1/2 miles is exactly 45 minutes, and I realized later that's exactly how long it took me to get from Wburg to that corner. Hell, I guess I knew exactly where he was going to be when I got off the train. That's rhythm.

Anyway, Kevin finished the race in an unbelievable 2:45, finishing 238th. He also beat Lance Armstrong, proving he has twice the balls of that so-called world-class athlete. (rimshot) Congratulations Kevin.

Photos here.

What does the C stand for again?

I was all set to write a CMJ takedown this morning, but instead I'll point you to I can't Hank of Stay Fucked's post on the new Time Out NY blog.

CMJ continues to cater to a certain kind of band, and I suppose I wouldn't mind as much if I felt I liked that kind of band anymore (much more on that later). But even when I did, the shows are packaged with way too many people who don't care about music or completely deserted; sets are compressed, the sound is worse, etc.

Regardless, the festival is just a microcosm of big boring corporate rock, with that certain kind of band buying their way into prominence. oh, and the festival comes complete with cross-promotional crap; if it's going to take partnerships with porn stars to sustain the 'college' music biz, , perhaps the music just isn't very good.

just got my first comment!

Instantaneous feedback! It says:

"Cool guestbook, interesting information... Keep it UP"

and links to, among other things:

Paintball
California weddings
Toyota highlander used parts
perfume dreams
reflections on the Vietnam diaspora

I'm ready for you, spammer. Bring it on.

stinkrock is back

This blog started after my beloved St. Louis Cardinals got eliminated from the playoffs last year. I think I posted 6 blogs in one night.

Well, this year, the Cards won everything. They are, supposedly, the worst team to ever win a championship in any professional organized sport.

Over the last few weeks, I met a bunch of New Yorkers who were equally rabid fans, and watched several games of the playoffs with them. When it all was over, I hugged all of them, and sprayed champagne on several of them.

The only reason I met any of these people, the only reason I sought these people out in the first place, was because I was able to find them. And over the last few years, I've found Cardinals fans stinking up the Web, spanning geography and generation.

This isn't the first time I've had that experience. In 1995, I was a huge Bob Mould fan and discovered an email listserv dedicated to the topic of all things Bob Mould/Sugar related. Bob was my stepping stone. The commentary on the list was pretty dry, but I was amazed at the technology of sharing and extrapolating extreme fandom with complete strangers.

One day, on that list, some hardcore fan lists a tracklisting for a Bob solo live date, and includes the songs he played at his soundcheck, which featured a song called "Gold Star for Robot Boy" by a band called Guided by Voices. I checked this band out, and long LONG long story short, ended up joining an email list centered on the discussion of Guided by Voices. Which leads me to an outstanding fact:

Almost everyone I consider a friend in New York City; I met through this band. Seriously, almost everyone. Without GBV, I never would've joined Moneyshot, never would have become Microdot, never would've met or joined forces with Strikes Again!, never would have recorded at Smoke & Mirrors...never.

So, it's worth my weight in salt to keep connecting. You never know who you'll meet.

(Oh, and last thing...this is the most positive thing you'll hear me say for the next few months. Put your helmets on, and keep reading.)