Top Songs About Fools, Foolishness and Tomfoolery

It's April 1, April Fools day, otherwise known as "bring the assholes out" day.  Good innocent people will be pranked, or bombarded with bad wit and badder jokes all day long. Tears will be shed, coffee will be spit and punches will be thrown. There will be a few arrests, mostly for public nudity or boisterous college like behavior. It's not fun and its not funny, unless you have the peerless wit to pull off your silliness.

I like to stick to music related humor like raving about Kanye's new oft delayed album or championing everything Nicki Minaj has done for empowering women. Here on this blog I'm just gonna list my favorite songs with the word " FOOL" or " FOOLS" or "FOOLISH" or "FOOLED" or "FOOLING" in the title.

Here Goes.... Video attached for the ones I think you should hear.  Be nice out there, jokers.

1) Fools- Van Halen



2) Won't Get Fooled Again- The Who
3) Fooling Yourself- Styx (first appearance of STYX ever on C.O.F.)

4) Fool For the City- Foghat



5) Foolin' -Def Leppard
6) Fooled Around and Fell in Love- Elvin Bishop(but Mickey Thomas sings)

7) Fool For Your Stockings- ZZ Top



8) What a Fool Believes-The Doobie Brothers (everybody do their Michael McDonald impression now)
9) Fool To Cry-Rolling Stones
10) Fool On The Hill- The Beatles
11) Fool in the Rain-Led Zeppelin

12) Fool's Game- Michael Bolton- C'mon 80s!!!





13) Dancin' Fool- Frank Zappa  (the 70s + cocaine + colorful lighted dance floors)
14) Fool For Your Loving- Whitesnake (hair continued)
15) Chain of Fools- Aretha Franklin

16) Everybody Plays the Fool- The Main Ingredient  (watch just for the white shoes and flowered ties)



17) Nobody's Fool- Cinderella (the hairiest)
18) Ship of Fools- The Doors
19) Ship of Fools -The Grateful Dead

20) Fool's Gold- Thin Lizzy  (Irish Fools, second best solo on this list)



21) Lovefool- The Cardigans (one of the most singable 90s one hit wonders)
22) Fools Rush In- Elvis Presley

23) Foolish Heart- Steve Perry  (music to get a wisdom tooth pulled to)





24)The Fool- Camper Van Beethoven
25) Fools- Deep Purple
26) Only a Fool Would Say That- Steely Dan
27) Only A Fool- Black Crowes

28) The Fool, The Meddling Idiot- The Melvins (easily the most difficult song to get through on this list unless you're tunneling through concrete using only a plastic spoon)



29) You Were the Fool- Ween  (you never know with Ween)



30) Fools In Love- Joe Jackson


Thats it. I'm not listing songs by Ashanti, Jewel or Debbie Gibson.  That would be foolish.

SXSW Day Three: Every Band Is A Girl

I pretty much stayed at Hotel Vegas(Hotel Hot Burrito, Mustache Central) the whole damn day and fuck you for telling me for two weeks now that I missed anything worthwhile anywhere else.

I saw Hinds from Spain. You pretty girls from the lets do reverb, everyone's doing reverb/you tube launched career of sorts did too many shows and blew your vocal wad long before your afternoon set complete with live language barriers between soundman and you. 2 chord mid tempo dour pop, yawny and scratchy(no relation to itchy, I'm talking vocal fry) Take your modeling income and pay someone to tune your guitars. The only band that had an autograph line that Id seen...like total teen town. As boredom glazed over I thought " Is Hinds a mispronounce/misspell mistake of a Spanish condiment?"  17 shows and they could have stopped at one if hype didn't force its hand.

I saw the marvelous Sunflower Bean from NYC. Trippy shredding dream rock like a faster D'arcy led Pumpkins, with the pixie dream girl Julia Cumming swaying and thumping on bad ass bass and vocals.

I saw Birdcloud. Dirty purdy bird duo of Nashvillettes all horned up and wet, and strumming and humming. Rub a dub dub on a 12 inch sub. Cowgirl soft porn, golden country greats with a harmonica inspired faux fellatio part for one of their trailer park meets I fucked a rodeo clown masterpieces. LUV. Spelled L-U-V.

I saw Mystery Lights from NYC. Sweater psyche in the raw, with a univox backbone and throttled on drums. Punk dust scattered over yelps and high kicks, and jaws dropped like flop sweat from the sky. One of the premiere sights of the day.A two beer worthy set in a mere 25 minutes.

I saw Guantanamo Baywatch from the PDX, full out tongue in cheeky rave up surf rock from the bridge city. Sloppy bass from a Blazer Jersey wearing trashette, but the songs didn't scatter the masses. Waves of people wading in.

I saw the miracle of Chicano Batman from LA. We were all cholos pogo-ing to solos from this incredible revitalized R&B meets low riding while crooning+ astrology signs plus palm trees +empenadas at the back door disco with a sunsplash of Santana and sultry burst of Yamaha organ runs from a transistor radio kinda-deal. Sexy Spaniards in powder blue tuxes fucked shit up with soul- riffic sambafied sounds.  The BAND of the DAY. This is why I come every year. I did not expect to dance. I did not know when I stopped.

I saw Thee Oh Sees pile up their ratty amps like pyramids and put the two drum kits in the middle of it all and I saw the crowd cinch up their breaths and clutch their beers like they were babysitting them and I saw the clear sg clone of a guitar slung solar plexus high on band leader John Dwers person and I saw the first squelching chord scream down and split the crowd apart like demagnetized ball bearings on a wave of phase and I saw people lifting diving crucifying themselves on the nails of outstretched arms from the crowd below their bodies. I saw the magic psychedelic mighty light leave the traveling garage and beautify the open space with amperage, spark and dance. I saw transformation, I saw sweat land in dust, I saw god with a lower case g in that courtyard for awhile. I saw no escape from a sore neck from the rollicking edge of the pit.

I saw Hundred Visions again, I saw La Luz, I saw The Sloths, I saw several other bands that were not breaking the bathroom line worthy and I felt old and tired and I felt like it was worth it one hundred times over.

I saw Sunday the next day, ate three chili dogs as the onslaught of girl bands drowning in reverb's swiss cheesy blanket surrounded me inside and out at Uncle Doug's Chili Dog Fest #7 at Empire Control Room and Side Bar.  I saw the trip home in front of a bad nights sleep and a burrito night cap. its taken a few weeks to get up to snuff and bullish enough to write about it.  Enjoy the bands in Bold. They are in my future and not just a post script or a bullet point on this silly blog.  SKB

SXSW Day Two: Reverbolution

Ive lost my last Prednisone pill, the grackles are chatty right outside my window and rain looks threatening, but fuck it. Time to rock. But first , 2 mashed potatoes egg and cheese breakfast burritos to properly gum up the system. Rather than give you a play by play, I'm giving highlights with scatterbrained similes . Enough prattling on. 

First stop was the Antiquiet Showcase where I caught the Pom Poms set..Duane Eddy guitars washing over a dead weatherish type grind and a nice smoky voice coming out of a Gloria Estefan doppelgänger. Dark blues, leathered and pompadoured, never seen tighter jeans on a human, a good start to the day.

I headed over to the Hotel Vegas Annex while passing by a bloated bum splayed out on the sidewalk mouth agape but breathing and covered in various promotional cards dropped by desperate rappers in a lame attempt at humor. For a minute I questioned the risky selfish trip called humanity and kept going. Got there in time to see Pink Mexico, an oily coiffed trio of ruffians..lively high vocals, fuzz bubbles rising and popping above the robotic Regular John thud of drums. Reverb reared its head in comets of echoing chemtrails above the crowd, sipping cheap sponsored tequila while grafted to their phones(humanity again).

Then Next door to Hotel Vegas another loose locked trio called Heaters, or basically a modern day Ty Segall cover band. Reverb on reverb , tippy toes singer easing up to the mic while the cheeks flap from the wind tunnel forming around us. Every word was buried meters below the surface, canyon top yelping, completely unintelligible.

Luckily I saw on my digital schedule that Hundred Visions were coming up. I was up front , ears leaking burst fluid caused by the riffkrieg. Total gangbusters of crushing volume. This is racing an avalanche to your lunch date music. Monolith moving. Sending Thor home from a fight with Mjolnr between his legs. Music God uses to pass a stone to. Bamtastic melodic and throbbing. band of the day. Seek them out. They've got stuff on band camp and it hurts so good.

Headed back across the tracks to catch a fairly hyped band called Night Beats who came all the way to Texas and didn't tune up. The reverb swallowed everything in sight and sucked it into a big black hole of I don't care. So glad you spent all that time on lyrics that sound like Charlie Browns mom on three klonopin. A damn shame. Little Peter drowned in a well of you blew your one shot.

Got wind of an off the beaten path yard party starring those current Detroit demigods Protomartyr, post punk leaning foursome complete with a frumpy frontman with a marble mouth delivery and a stance and demeanor from the balled up shirts on the floor of Oscar Madison's closet. The kids died for it. I enjoyed the scenery of the rhythm of swaying carabiners, overall jorts, dirty babies running in the lumberyard/grass and lost dogs .

My earache was something no belly full of Lone Star could dissipate. Took a long break and went to The Grand Billiard Hall for the Rock Candy showcase. Saw Patsy's Rats..a fast pace Runaways aping rock band that held my attention until they motored through a cover of one of the worst songs in history..New York Groove by the genius Ace Frehley. I freely moved towards the exit, back to the sleeping porch and the cackling grackles to come.

 

SXSW Day One: High Waisted Jorts

High waisted jorts are in and apparently easy to perform drumming duties while wearing. I'm in Austin the morning after my first day at my almost annual trip to SXSW. I feel old and just missed skipping the whole damn thing after a three week toe to toe with inner viral catastrophe. Got me some prednisone good enough to help bench press a baby rhino and some Vicodin for straight kicks and/or ear pain.
So I'm good to go wander among the road cases the show cases and the closet cases. My bud and gracious host Alex suggest we head down to El Sapo for an hors d eurve of musicafter securing my wares on the sleeping porch so we took the short drive and happened upon an impressive trio of ladies called Moving Panoramas. A great mix of dream pop with clairol hair and hot pants. Think Mazzy Star under a glissando blanket of punch drunk reverb. And the drummer flailed gracefully around clad in high waisted jorts. We stayed for the obligatory 4 songs and returned to home base.

After meeting up with our lovely vacationing friends Eric and Alison, the boys decided to head to a place called Pendejo Park for a hidden showcase of sorts that was neither a park or very hidden. Upon arrival we were pleasantly overwhelmed with a heady mix of B.O and vegan hot dogs on the grill. Maybe they smell the same I don't know....but the "park" was a front porch extended out with a makeshift stage made of pallets and bricks. And the music was provided by a fierce but friendly trio of heathens called Bummers Eve. What a rush of huffed distortion and failed mission space scuzz these guys brought. The hipper than thous almost left their beach towels patchwork on the gravel to dance. I had a hotdog or two, passed on the moonshine, petted a few strays and we left for a place called the Carousel Lounge.

The Carousel Lounge is a circus themed bar with a low big top pitched ceiling a red puffy Naugahyde bar cover and clown murals just freaky enough to  get you to remember the wares of John Wayne Gacy.  The band we saw was yet another trio Stargazer Lillies who's guitarist insisted on bludgeoning all 12 of us with 2 100 watt Marshall Heads worth of reverb in a bar made of cinder blocks. The deer in the headlights lady singer with the gossamer voice wasted her words under this muddy wave of whatever and could not compete with joe guitars layer. Stop the trapeze I wanna cut the nets out from under me and swan dive the concrete. For some inexplicable reason they were selling tote bags which I wanted purchase just to choke myself out with.

I was left alone for a while and what's a guy to do but buy a fabulously gaudy western shirt and post a suave pic of me wearing it on the FB only to be burned at the fashion stake. That's why I stick to monotones.....

We regrouped at the fabulous Spiderhouse compound...hard to call it a bar ..itsa massive malaise of everything complete with a taco trailer and a ballroom where I saw my favorite band of the day, Pujol from Nashville TN. Super hyper power pop foursome with tight harmonies, steady pulsing
drums and busy bass....with screamy warm fender solos on top..think Big Star and Television in a practice space next to immense meth vats. Their new album is called Kisses and the future looks like a fresh pile of tight flannels and skinny jeans for these four men. Other bands we caught at Spiderhouse included the wacky Lemons.... a straight up mix of the Fugs and the Archies, and Apache with a squirrelly shirtless Apache? Frontman doing his best Ramones/Dolls impression. Loads of messy Thunders licks and the crowd's attention.

The night ended up,the road on Guadalupe at the legendary Hole in the Wall where for some strange reason on ST Patrick's day....they were serving free  Sapporo. We caught Very Fresh(Brooklyn) set. This trio(again) harkened to a feminine tinged Velvets with more melodramatic quips like Lou Reed on the tail end of his period.

So far, one day in to SXSW, lots of estrogender specification, lots of rock because, #rocklivesmatter, tight harmonies,,I still like my new shirt, my wristbands number three as of now, hook em horns, I got some fill of good music in only half a day...good music,  some sophomoric, some laborious, but mostly glorious.
I'm hoping for double the tacos, double the bands, double the groundswell of reporting today on day two.

My Favorite Albums of 2015

What do we have, two weeks left in the year and everybody and their brother(because most "journalists" are under 35, and thus still relevant) have put that Kendrick Lamar album on a fuckload of year end best album lists...and the rest of us, who actually realize that we have no lyrical connection whatsoever to Kendrick, we don't give a shit about Compton(cue the struggle) and we don't really want to pass the time thinking about what the fuck "To Pimp a Butterfly" means. I'm sure its deep, but still....no connection to most of us, whatsoever. "Us" being rock fans. 

Lets be honest, hip hop is for younger than me people who like to dance, bounce their heads up and down in an unchallenging mid tempo rhythm, smoke, and buy very expensive sneakers that they put on display. Among a long list of reasons that would(in this quick edit, reactionary world) brand me a racist, I never liked it because the poetry relied much more on style, not substance. I'll give you your debut album to get all of that struggle out, but you gotta move on after that, cmon. No real, well read human being wants to hear about all of the beautiful people, places and things you acquired after your accountant told you you could go balls out and buy stuff that the small brained and disenfranchised covet.

But in terms of music, a genre, it has legs, it has influence, a heritage apparently important to culture and lots and lots of grown humans all over the world, love it, champion it and put a shitload of it on their best of lists.

But fuck it, not me. I'm almost 50, and I'm cool with being an avid proponent of hip hop. I get the fact that millions of all y'all connect with it. I never did, and I never will.it does nothing for me but make me feel cheated, bored. Maybe its different for musicians whose chosen genres, rely on a shitload of woodshedding alone in basements and bedrooms...lots and lots of trial and error with no help from a producer, another "featured" artist, or somebody actually "selling" beats like a digital carnival barker, as a cheap shortcut infused to the foundation to your hustle and flow.

That said and with complete control of this non sequitur...Here are my favorite albums of 2015.

1) Wand-Golem (blew my mind live 2x in 2015, thats high praise..almost religious)
2) Fuzz-Fuzz II (Ty remains teflon)
3) Clutch-Psychic Warfare( a smidge of a step down from Earth Rocker, but Neil is still a lyrical genius)
4) Built to Spill- Untethered Moon-
5) Ava Luna -Infinite House (the best band from SXSW 2015)
6) Wilco-Star Wars
7) Le Butcherettes- A Raw Youth (aint no frontwoman alive right now better than Teri Gender Bender)
8) High on Fire-Luminiferous
9) Sun Kil Moon-Universal Themes....But Benji from 2014 changed my life
10) Jason Isbell-Something More than Free(quite simply one of the best songwriters on the planet right now.)

Thats all I got. Send hate mail to me...

Top 10 Best Vibratos of All Time

The vibrato. That slippery wave at the end of a vocal phrase. A supernatural fluttering, like the tiny wings of invisible birds attached to the business end of a strong verse,struggling for flight or wavering towards rest in the solemn pillowy quiet.
Something some vocalists discover quite by accident, as natural as an exhale with smooth speed bumps, others train for years ruminating on scales and breath calisthenics, aching for control..find it hitchhiking along with the words and melody culled from some basement poetry or stranded thought scribbled in the invisible margin of a napkin with fresh coffee ring... these masters squeeze it through fibrous membrane, like tonal juice dripping off the tongue in a tiny tidal push toward the space between the ambient noise and the auto-tuned trickery of the desperate vocal gymnast.... 
To the listener it is the magic sprinkled on the end of a message, it is the smooth landing or the exhalted energy bursting from a shaky phrase. It is the poise, power and precision of the best of the best. a perfect vibrato can either warm your weary bones or chill them in magnificent awe.

Here are my top ten vocal vibrato masters. In no order of importance but with keen emphasis on power, beauty or control. Those with the most divine natural fluidity and delivery.

1) Burton Cummings- The canuck with the coolest pipes. lead singer of the Guess Who. Try and listen to "Laughing" , "Undun" or even his solo hit "Stand Tall" without the gooseflesh rolling in sync with his uncanny vocal glimmer.

2) Freddie Mercury- The greatest rock vocalist to ever inhabit this mortal coil(IMHO). And if he wasn't he would make the list for his performance on "Somebody to Love " alone. Quite possibly the greatest vocal take ever put to tape.. So many tricks in his arsenal, yet such beauty and power in his sly vibrato. Here we go.."Save Me", "Don't Stop Me Now", "Killer Queen", "Play the Game", fuck it...too many to list. We bow to you Fred. We will never be worthy.

3) Ray LaMontagne- The words flow like slowly melting butter from Ray's mouth washing over your moment in warm comfort. A complete natural, stunning control, effortless delivery. "Trouble", and "Be Here Now" are great starting points for you in the dark out there....

4) Alison Krauss -Alison's voice is like free transportation for anywhere you want your mind to go. A gossamer like blanket on a cold but windless day, a hovering hummingbird just outside an open ear..."Killing the Blues(with Robert Plant)", "Lay My Burden Down(With Union Station)"...restful poise for the restless.

5) Steve Marriott- of all the one of a kind vocalists on this list, Steve's voice confounds me(in a very good way) the most, because of his pitch and strength of delivery in the phrases. With the Small Faces and Humble Pie he possessed the combination of a cigarette rasp and the burst of high speed vibrato, unparalleled and at his mercy. No voice ever like it before or since...Check out "I'm Ready"(Live From Performance: Rocking the Fillmore) , "Black Coffee", and "Rolling Stone"(also from the Performance album)...you'll be pleasantly exhausted.

6) Brian Ferry- OMG. Brian could very well be my spirit animal if I had any say in the choosing. The Roxy Music frontman has one of the most unique voices on the planet(not in a Bjork-like jump out a window sort of way). A stoccatto vibrato with machine gun tempo, but bullets wrapped in velvet, exploding in orgasm on impact. "The Thrill of It All", "Love is the Drug", "Ladytron", "Re-Make/Re-Model", "For Your Pleasure".

7) Tim Buckley- Tim(father of Jeff) had his own topsy turvy career with gamut run from ethereal folk to experimental jazz and his voice was even more of a freak of natural occurrence. The extraordinary vibrato he possessed was stealthy and brewing from a place of disparate pain, but no less powerful for it. "Cafe", "Dream Lover","Song to the Siren", "Once I Was", "The River" will do you real good.

8) Stevie Nicks- In my dreams, your dreams everybody else's dreams and the dreams of those who aren't even born yet...lies a place for sweet Stevie and her wonderful voice. Yeah, she's lost a little power, klonopin and coke will do that to anyone. But in her glory years, whirling like a dhervish behind the whoosh of delicate lace, she could belt out the most glorious coo-like vibrato fine tuned for any emotion needed.."Seven Wonders", "Gypsy" and "Gold Dust Woman" for release, and "Sara" "Dreams" and "Landslide" for the moody drift of introspection. If only I could catch the wind from one of her twirls.............

9) Antony Hegarty- lead singer of Antony and the Johnsons. This androgynous doughy delight has unbelievable control over his vibrato, with a low key, almost low end operatic sensibility. Amazing tone and ease akin to Bryan Ferry with sweeping blips of whirr in mid phrase, but with twice the dramatic implement.
A must to seek out for his style alone, dig deep to find "Hope There's Someone" and "You Are My Sister".

10) Jeff Buckley- from the loins of father Tim, Jeff's almost limitless vocal talent sure leaves me to think there may be some genetic link going on here, not just some boy who lost his dad at an early age and listened to a lot of records. Everyone knows his take on Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen...but give the astounding presence of songs like "Lover You Should Have Come Over", "A Satisfied Mind", "Lilac Wine", "Everybody Here Wants You", "Forget Her" a try if you feel like stopping in your fucking tracks for a while.  We miss you Jeff.....and Tim...and Freddie...and Steve.

Who did I miss.......let me know,   Seano

Best-Ofs and Biggest Disappointments of 2014

This post is fairly under the wire, but I'm gonna get it in anyway. It wasn't a very busy year for content at Circle of Fits, in fact this is only my 20th and final post of the year. Must be the binge watching binges or the new vinyl addiction that kept me away from the posts....anyhow here are a few of my picks for the Best-Ofs and Biggest Disappointments of 2014.

Best Albums of 2014

I should use the word "Favorite" or the phrase "Listened to More Than Once" but Best-Of will do for now.

1) Manipulator-Ty Segall: Look out Mr. White, this is your new Jack of all Trades. At 27 he puts out an average of 3 albums a year as singer, guitarist and drummer in several psych/garage/fuzzed out/space folk projects. This year, manipulator had something for everyone of his fans. A highly listenable, and slightly refined version of the bullet points of his talents.

2) Lazaretto-Jack White- Not as much oomph as we wanted, but still the best and biggest Rock Star we have these days. I just wish his pretty vinyl wasn't so expensive.

3) Once More 'Round the Sun- Mastodon- The riffolympics continue for these" metalled" athletes from the ATL. Not as singable as The Hunter, but crushingly as beautiful.

4) Midnight Sun- The Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger- A highly underrated pop/psyche rock outing from Sean Lennon and Charlotte Kemp Muhl. I wonder if Sean is ever going to not be compared(in an unfair negative way) to Pops because this fine tuned cornucopia of beautiful pop soundscapes certainly holds its own.

5) Morning Phase-Beck- I could not escape comparing this to my fav Sea Change(as did many other lazy writers) and ended up not caring as much.There's just not enough heartbreak(damn you, happily married family man Beck!) But it will be number One on my second chance records of next year.

6) Bad Self Portraits-Lake Street Dive- I hopped on the bandwagon for this one and the ride has been as pleasant as one of a dog's with an open window. This Boston bred Indie soul/jazz band has one of the best singers I've heard in years with the stunning Rachael Price. And they dress really well.

7) Royal Blood- Self Titled- Merely a rhythm section but one that leaves you wondering how a clean cut duo can crack open the fucking sky with no pulled punches and sonic bomp like that.

8) The Beast of Left and Right- Lazer/Wulf- I luv this twisted wreck without a crash experimental metal trio. The only thing they are experimenting on in their audiences, who lay wet and dazzled by their dark array of metal math spit out  like binary on fire.

9) The Voyager-Jenny Lewis- Maybe its the slight ginger with a guitar fetish I possess, or maybe it's just because she writes great songs (with or without the help of Ryan Adams), I don't miss Rilo Kiley at all.

10) Stay Gold-First Aid Kit- Sisterhood from Sweden. Very clean and enjoyable indie folk with a lilt to it.


Biggest Disappointments of 2014

1) Green Day gets the RRHOF nod and Richie Blackmore has not gone all Blackmore's ninja Knight and put a flaming arrow in between Billy Joe's hot topic inspired eyeliner.

2) Billy Corgan- The most thin skinned self absorbed blowhard that the 90s has ever produced. This cranky cretin actually thought Tommy Lee was a good drummer and wrestling was legit while slagging hard working vets like the Jam and Foos. He cannot just shut up and play his guitar.

3) Bob Lefsetz- Bob, I used to love your letter but not all musicians want to be big bloated rich superstars, not all musicians want to embrace streaming or social media, not all people care about ski trips, Apple and Pop stars.

4) Thom Yorke- another year, another collection of glitch blip and beep with half howled unintelligible laptopped lyrics over them. Here and gone like the last one. Hacking soundtracks. More ZZZZ from the 10101010.

5) The embracement of Fatassery- Is this bootylicious part two, Iggy, Nikki, JLo, Beyounce and  Ms. Trainor? You have the cache to have on call trainers, video editors and PR people to keep your butttastic statements on the positive side..most people who struggle with their weight don't necessarily want to be proud of it, no matter how you spin it.

6) Sting- because Sting is a disappointment every year.

7) Mark Lanegan's latest album - Mark, your current live band was the best youve ever had...where were they when you recorded this album? A whole album's worth of a drum app was too much of too little for me.

8) Taylor Swift was on the cover of Time magazine, Taylor Swift was everywhere. Are her talents that massive? Or is her team made up of very powerful 19-25 year old PR people. Are the journalists all tweens? Who the fuck over the age of 21 care about Taylor Swift? What percentage of the REAL GENERAL TASTE CONSCIOUS PUBLIC give a flying fuck about this girl?  Once again, Taylor Swift was on the cover of Time Magazine.

9) Brody Dalle- I love her, but let's stop calling her a punk icon at this point. Her latest album was VERY experimental and nobody had the balls to say it. Mostly sung in a washed out hush of a voice wayyyy out of her comfort zone, the songs(most of em) fell short of anything everybody knows that shes capable of..

10)  The "Serial" Podcast hype....I mean at this point it's comical. Hey lookey here!!! I guess the world REALLLY dicovered podcasts this year...AHEM..theyve been around since about 2003-4, shit I even had one! 9 years ago!!!  But really now, the crime was boring, the characters were boring, the ending was apparently boring, and if it hadn't been produced by Ira Glass nobody would have cared. This is hipsters getting a clean hush voiced radio version of what Nancy Grace and a plethora of true crime trash TV shows have been doing for years....

11) This years Season of Louie- excuse me, I wonder if you could help me find my laughs anywhere? Lots of serious contemplative stuff like the "fat girl dating" and the extremely boring Non English speaking Non girlfriend. Yay, she did a duet on the violin with my daughter? Yay I saved Ellen Berstyn in an elevator twice!!!  Thank goodness for Pamela Adlon salvaging the game in the final inning.

12) Prince's afro or Prince's bad mustache? I can't decide.

13) Hozier = Magic= Goyte.  If you don't know what this means youre doing great.

14) Boyhood. The kid didn't take one acting lesson and he had 12 years to do it.

15) Jimmy Page- Refused a booking on Howard Stern (who's interviews with top tier rockers are mostly great, very few dick jokes or pleading for threesome stories). Phoned in a highly hyped Bio which turned out to be a Picture Book...haven't we seen all the pics of Jimmy/Zep that we need/want to see at this point? And reportedly HAND STAMPED those books at signing events for the fans who waited in line after paying 70 bucks retail for the fucking thing.  The remastered remastered remasters with the NEVER BEFORE HEARD unfinished demos was a bit of a cash grab too.

16) Robert Plant- Just say you can't hit the notes anymore and people will stop asking.

17) Imagine No Imagine Dragons.

18) Neil Young- Ditches Pegi for crazy, goes coocoo for Pono and writes a book about all the fucking cars he loves. Neil, the cars and trains were the parts of Waging Heavy Peace that made it a huge bore fest....

AND BY THE WAY ALL ROCKERS ABOUT TO WRITE A BIO...Please call Keith. Ask for pointers.

19) Ryan Adams and his perfectly messed up hair. We know you have a stylist.

20) Slipknot- rethink the masks. It ruined the already pathetic Kiss and that's what we're hoping for.

21) Wayne Coyne- Running neck and neck with Billy Corgan in the Douchbag of the decade race...stay tuned to see who wins.

22) David Gilmour- Just couldn't leave the island he owns long enough to put fucking lyrics on the "NEW PINK FLOYD ALBUM". Now playing in dentist office lobbies everywhere.

23) Morrissey- Shut up, eat a fucking sandwich or get laid you cocky twat. You're running out of places to play and columns to fill.

24) Goodbye Jack, Joe, Ian, Bobby, Johnny, Tommy and.....Malcolm. We hardly knew ya.

This is Not A Dog Park, Bitch.

As I write this, I cannot stress the importance of your input, advice and or criticism. So please add your fill.....


I'm a curmudgeon. it's no secret, folks. I feel it to the marrow, I fly the flag. I have had intermittent lucid hours of what others would calm calmness or clarity, or god forbid, happiness throughout the years and I love a good laugh just like everyone else. I would be much less of a man without humor. But my thought provoked reality normally teeters towards glass half empty, glass full of curdled milk or glass nowhere to be found. Years of therapy have uncovered the truth under my litany of excuses for it. The bitterness is not a pill swallowed for comfort or attention. Bitter is a large part of my personality. Oh, well.

So with that said it makes the next few paragraphs easy to write, consequences be damned.

Disclaimer: I like most dogs. I had a dog for 15 years that I think about more than often. I wish my living situation was one that would allow me to still have one, but it is not. So I'm stuck with these cats who shit indoors and keep me up at night. yet I still love them. This I am capable of admitting. As for canines, I think some have more positive features than the humans that take care of them. I think, just like humans, there are good dogs and bad dogs, that may or may not have been born that way. I encountered bad people and their horrible dogs today(one in particular).

I took my son to a local park at his request this afternoon. One we frequent, as it is close and he seems to like it. It is a park in the lovely idyllic-to-a-fault Chestnut Hill section of Philadelphia. Lots of privilege, blue bloods and young couples with babies who can't quite handle anything more than a quiet street and a well deserved parking space. It is also a well known spot for people to bring their dogs and let them go nuts with balls, sticks and squirrels. However....nowhere does a sign exist proclaiming that this is allowed or not. So the dogs run free. That is the legality of it I assume.

We were doing our recreational business as well, using the stomp rockets that so many kids from ages 7-12 are enjoying these days. We were using fallen branches as markers to measure the length of how far each rocket flew after we "stomp launched" it. Now we already knew that dogs have smaller brains than humans. A dog sees a stick and he wants it, especially if he and his master had been playing fetch 30 or 40 yards away. My son doesn't like dogs because he has been pestered, chased and maybe threatened several times in his life by dogs, and each and every time it was a dog in the pit bull terrier family (what a surprise, a pit bull..Come at me pit bull owners, I'd be happy to argue the merits of any other breed vs. yours).

That said, a little brown terrier came out of nowhere at high speed and wanted the stick in my son's hand and started chasing him. My son was frightened and I shouted at him to drop the stick but he didn't hear me. After about 20-30 seconds he dropped the stick and the dog grabbed it and ran. The dog only wanted the stick. My son sat down and cried, scared and exasperated, complaining about the dog. When a dog is chasing a kid, 30 seconds is a lifetime.

My problem is not with the dog. My problem is that the owner who was 30 yards away, never moved, never told his dog to stop...just plain didn't do a fucking thing and the dog ran back towards him with the stick. The guy never said a word, never approached and never apologized. Now I don't know about you, but if it were my dog, leashed or unleashed and it started chasing a kid, I would have sprinted towards it and called it off or immediately leashed it or dragged it off by its collar until there was enough comfortable distance between the dog and the child. I would have felt awful and apologized profusely to the child and his or her parents.

But this guy failed to do any of that. So I yelled "Who's goddamn dog is this?" and he raised his hand as his dog returned to the fray 30 yards away. As I marinated in the glow of his stupidity, I put a hand around my ear and in mocking fashion yelled "What's that you say? Are you apologizing?" Just then his female friend or neighbor whom (I kid you not, was wearing her baby in a Bjorn) yelled back at me..."This is a dog park, Go home!"

Now this is just one of the thousands of reasons my faith in humanity pales in comparison to yours. This is not a dog park bitch. And if that dog had knocked my child over..if its paws or snout had come anywhere close to connecting to my son's person, I would have done everything in my power to maim that canine with my fist or foot. I would have beat it with the stick it ripped from my son's hand until it walked funny and shit blood for a week. I would do anything to protect him. And if you didn't have a baby attached to you, I would have headbutted some sense into you until you could whistle through the holes in your teeth line, and then called the cops on the owner of that dog and on myself for losing my patience.

But instead, I just walked away with my flustered son. I did go home. And I thought about how you would feel if a dog lunged at your papoose or was chasing your fat ass around while a small brained pit bull was nipping at your babie's booties.

I wondered as a curmudgeon, how much time I should devote to your stupidity and selfishness, and to the actions of your pal, the dog's owner. I wondered if I should write about it and ask anyone who reads it for perspective, rather than a pat on the back.

So that is what I'm doing.

To "Wax" Philosophic

Here we are about 10-12 years into a movement and I've decided to join. Call me current. As a matter of fact, I've been a proper slave to it for several months now.Total rookie shit, I know. It's getting to be ri-goddamn-diculous... I'm talking about the resurgence of vinyl, LPs, wax tracks, good old records, man. I'm hooked and well past the point of no return. I'm head down in the stacks, nose to the crates, belly to the bin. I'm on craigslist digitally underlining a made up map in the garage sale section on friday nights, I'm trolling my hood every Saturday morning, scoping out brilliantly colored slightly neon signs affixed to telephone poles. Looking for arrows and numbers. Elbowing out the elderly on their silly little quests for decorative and/or commemorative plates and old curtains.  I'm everywhere I can be without cloning myself, looking for these goddamn records, leaving my bored kid in the car(windows cracked half open,people) Thrift stores, church sales..no garage or stoop or flea market is off limits. Hi. My name is Seano and I'm a curbaholic.


However.......I was a cassette guy right out of the  gates in 1980 when I joined the Columbia House 6 tapes for a penny club. I still remember the six because I still hear the tape hiss in my head from playing them to death on my GE tape recorder and later Panasonic Boom Box.That's right, Boom Box is capitalized. And yes, I never bought those two cassettes at full price and avoided prosecution, most likely by providing them with an assumed name like Ben Dover or Hugh. G. Rection.

They were Billy Squier-Don't Say No, Van Halen I, Led Zeppelin II, Led Zeppelin IV, AC/DC-Highway To Hell and The Doors-Greatest Hits. These were my go-tos, until I was old enough to ride my bike down to the Music City shop in Perinton Square Mall, with a couple weeks worth of lawn mowing money and add to my collection. Cassettes fit easily into my Cannondale bright yellow bike seat bag. I couldn't have imagined riding one handed on a 10 speed all the way back up that hill with a slippery bag of albums under my other arms. Cassettes were portable and in another year, fit perfectly in my Panasonic silver Walkman knock off. (Just like the brand Kleenex became the word for all tissues, Walkman became the word for all portable cassette players, at least in idyllic upstate NY).

My parents had a stereo, and a bunch of albums housed in an old wooden icebox in our funky little farmhouse, including Sgt. Peppers, Physical Graffiti, Big Brother and the Holding Company's Cheap Thrills and a host of others. I remember those iconic covers, wanting to know who R. Crumb was, wanting to see the pictures behind the brownstone windows on the gatefold, wanting to research all of the so called Paul-is-dead symbolism within the lineup...

I don't remember my parents having music on as much as I do at home. Nor do most of the busy people I know. My father was always working in the yard or ensconced in some art project in the barn, my mother was always taking my sister to some dance recital. I wouldn't call either of them influences for my musical ability or obsession. To the both of them, music was something you put on during conversation, when they had company, and the kids were in bed. But those albums, those covers, the big bassy warm sound that rumbled out of my Dad's big brown cloth covered speakers, that's what stuck with me. I used to pull a chair up to the ice box and play those albums, years before the ease of cassettes and blank TDKs and recording arena rock tracks off of the radio took over my listening experience, thus began to chip away at my general attention span.

Now, decades, and 2k cds in boxes and 40k mp3s later, I've returned. You'll find many vinyl appreciation blogs and youtube videos out there, and naysayers vs. pundits in every corner of the globe, volleying beliefs, insults and scientific studies that approve or disprove vinyl's sonic superiority. Which at the end of the day is all very relative, case study by case study, with speaker quality, vinyl thickness, speaker placement, tube amplification, 1300 dollar turntables vs. white ear buds all coming up for consideration.

I don't care about any of that bullshit. I found that over the past ten years or so, music listening became something I patched into my lifestyle, squeezed into a road trip big or small, affixed to my ears while I worked or played. It became invisible, fleeting and as shallow as the next track scrolled through with infinite ease. It became something to acquire, peruse and discard or file away in a dead hollow cloud nobody can see or figure out the location of. Smaller, Faster, not even there, but will come when you call it, when you will it to appear, for your own personal function or form.

Multitasking. Some call it a revelation. I call it a killer. Why not stretch your mind and body to their limits? You'll get it done sooner, faster. sign off on it. On to the next. Bitch slap your bullet points, bully your bucket list, bring your " A" game to all of the games people play and watch all of your critical synapses struggle against each other in a cage match to the death. I'm not good at it, but surely fell/fall victim/champion to it as we all have.

So, I'm going to strip it back down, I'm going to indent my lovely couch with my lovely ass a moment or two after I split a gatefold open, engulfed with a waft of mildew and memories slide that black circle out of that worn sleeve, and plunk it down on my 1979 Pioneer PL-512 turntable. I'm going to drop that arm, and look at the cover and the liner notes, while I listen. And while I do that, besides partaking in an adult beverage, I'm going to do fuck all else.

I'm going to repeat this heroic, primitive series of events often, while some of you are bluetoothing while you compare organic tomatoes, shuffling while you bodycycle. I'm going to be here enjoying the crackle of the dust in the odd groove, the risk of skip, the warm bruise of the bass blanket. And these are my roots, these are the steps I must retrace. This is the emotion I must court, date and score with.

However....A vinyl nerd I am not. I have adhered to some personal guidelines after several run ins with hipsters of a previously unseen level of pretense and snobbery. I have arrived at auctions or musty garages to find too many an archaeologist of wax in my way, and I in theirs.  My rules are as follows:

1) Unless an album is on my holy grail vinyl trail, I'm not spending more than 8 dollars on it. This means I don't buy new releases on vinyl. I'm not spending 35 dollars on a new pair of Levis let alone a new album.

2) I don't buy re-releases on vinyl. Sure I really want that Stooges-Fun House I saw the other day. It may or may not sound better than the original, but I want the original. Call me an antiquer, people.If the original is found, see #1.

3) If at all possible, I prefer to "find" vinyl by accident, rather than go to a record store that has something that I covet nicely displayed. Record stores are down the list for me and mostly a last resort behind suburban garage sales(I say suburban because 9 out of 10 times a suburbanite just wants to get rid of that stack of albums his wife keeps loudly reminding him to get rid of, and therefore has no idea/or the disposable income not to care about what he has.), thrift stores in the middle of nowhere(the further away from the city, the better) and finally estate sales where the word HOARDER has been mentioned in the listing.

It really is about finding a bargain NOT for their collector/resale value but so I can buy MORE albums with the wad which I've allotted for myself. I plan on giving my son everything I have in my will with a STRONG addendum that if he doesn't share the passion when he is of age he may not give away or sell my collection but must leave it for an heir that is sure to appreciate it. So who cares if its a first pressing, or still sealed or has a NM on a listing, fuck that! Its about the music! Besides, that crazy notion is reserved for my 4000 comic books.

I would love to hear some/any stories of your happy accidents on your own personal vinyl acquisitive journeys.

Mine are posted on instagram.

Thanks to Derek and Derek and Alex for fueling this fire.

Disgustipated

Oh Beyonce, you're barely human. You're above us all, like a glittering pinata that none of the ghettotastic swingle ladies could ever break open with a thick swing. Your golden, diamond encrusted horn, you toot so frequently. Your faux empowerment jingles are merely just a front for your whack tracks of ebonic prestige....Your latest obliteration of the English language should give all welfare mothers even more hope...

It stay Yoncé, oh Yoncé in that lingerie
On that chardonnay, it’s gonna touch down like a runway
I’m Texas forever like Bun B, and I’m redboned yo
I’m really rit like Donjae, I’m camo in here yo
These thots can’t clock me nowadays
You wish I was your pound cake
Boy you know I look good as fuck
You wish I was your babymomma
Want me to come around and give you good karma, but no
We escalate, up in this bitch like elevators
Of course sometimes shit go down
When it’s a billion dollars on an elevator
Of course sometimes shit go down
When it’s a billion dollars on an elevator
(Ha, ha, God damn, God damn, God damn)

Ah yes. Such poetry, such selflessness and endearment, such word wizardry. Why not just cut to the chase and embalm yourself and your deity of a husband with gold bullion, pepper your dermises with rhinestones and rubies and put yourself on display in impenetrable, untaggable glass cases and travel the worlds worst neighborhoods, like the false idols of a new generation. Put yourself on a real tour, Bey. The needy can line up like a fucking church healing pray to you in hopes of you showering them with the gifts of wisdom and strength needed to break the endless circle of poverty and join the hood exodus in favor of a better life, with a white picket fence and a private yacht for all.

Sebastian 2001-2014

We lost our good friend and rescue cat Sebastian on Tuesday. It's been a week of heartbreak and reflection and a bit of regret. The apartment really doesnt seem the same without him. There are tumbleweeds of his hair in their allotted corners and crumbs of his strewn litter align certain kitchen crevices. There's no whine like interruption from the foot of my bed to be fed at 330 in the morning. There's no trotting down the stairs(not all of the way, but enough) to greet me every single time we entered, as he splayed himself out on a step of his choice, belly up for a rub. When my son is with his mom next week, it should be as empty and depressing as I expect it to be here, without my pal Sebastian.

Sebastian or "Sebbie" as Hud often called him was a 12 year old orange tabby crumpled up into a dirty sad corner of a cage at the Philadelphia SPCA last May when we first saw him. Older rescues are a much "harder sell" at the pound and Sebastian's description affixed to the cage announced that previous owners had to get rid of him after "allergy problems". Really? After 12 years of having him? What a crime. Well, we put an end to his tenure there and brought him home.

I had always been a dog person. I mean, we had cats growing up in an old farmhouse, but they were outdoor cats.I don't believe I bonded with them as much as I did the dogs we had.City Cat, Pansy and Snowball all met their various demises as often times outdoor cats do, by desertion, a friend's motorcycle and a neighborhood attack. So it was onto a life of dogs for me. My longtime companion was a wonderful golden retriever named Blarney(no, not the purple dinosaur) who was my confidant and fellow traveler for 15.5 years. I lost him in 2003 and had no interest in getting another dog for two reasons. I was living in NYC at the time and my fiance(later my wife, then ex wife) was sort of a crazy cat lady.

She had a cat named Ruby who was the real love of her life, a persnickety old tabby who didn't like anything but being left alone. This fed my perception of cats as animals who never really bonded to their human as dogs do, never followed them around, never went on hikes or bike rides with them, never partook in the fierce pleasure of sticking their head out of a moving vehicle at 65 miles an hour, etc. I didn't think there was hope for us, my fiance or Ruby.

Little did I know. We started spotting a stray emaciated orange tabby  scrounging and begging in the connected back yards of our neighbors apartment. My ex started feeding it and soon after, asked my opinion on whether we should keep it or not...and that's when Marmalade entered our lives and changed my opinion on cats forever. Marmalade was instantly interested in everything in that little apartment quickly attached to us and even gave friendship with Ruby a try. Ruby was far from a kitten, and prone to hiding under the bed in full brood mode when Marmalade was holding court. That wouldn't change much over the years, but when Marm wasn't around Ruby would crawl into your lap. Who knows whether it was for the selfish reason of needing to be stroked or an attempt at love of some sort. In the next year, we rescued several animals, an old beagle we named Gilligan(but couldn't keep), an orange tabby who had just been struck by a car and was found bleeding and broken in our hallway and I even had a go at rescuing some feral kittens nesting in a window well, but as soon as I got them out they scattered in a flurry of hissing and screeching. I was becoming an animal rights person, a borderline activist ...who still loved a good steak of course.

We moved to San Francisco in the early fall of 2004 and ended up driving across the country....with two cats in cages in the back seat of a big Ford Explorer. Marmalade would gaze out panicked and wide eyed, but mostly scared silent for the 9 state scurry. Ruby howled and cursed in a dull roar for the entirety of our trip. Those two cats figured out a way to coexist, through that move and our stay in San Francisco and the birth of our son. Another cross country trip back east to Philly in 2007 led to a a new house and then Ruby's tragic death from cancer in 2009. Clifford, a large, mostly white (with orange accents) cat then joined the fold. We split up in 2010 and the ex got custody of the cats . I guess I was a cat person as well now, because it really sucked not having a cat around for the first time in almost 10 years.

I lasted three years without a pet until that great day last May when we brought Sebastian home. Sebastian was diagnosed with a UTI in May of this year, He had been sluggish and hitting the litter box repetitively to no avail. When I took him in to get looked at, they were able to "express" urine. This is a fancy way of saying to squeeze pee out of him.They prescribed antibiotics and pain killers and he was back to waking me up at odd hours for food in no time.  When it happened again a week
ago...he couldn't really move. I tried to find his bladder and couldn't, I gave him the same drugs as he was given in may hoping they would take. They didn't. I took him into a clinic in South Philly after the SPCA said that he was "blocked" and they couldn't help him. When a cat is blocked, they most likely have formed crystals in their urinary tract and cant pee. This becomes potentially fatal when the trapped urine re enters the blood stream and shuts the kidneys down.

Sebastian died in my arms after I made the decision to have him put down. I just could not afford the treatment or surgery needed to keep him around. There is tremendous guilt on my part, as the only real reason he's not here is that I couldn't afford to help him. To add to my sadness, my landlord refused to allow me to bury him in the back yard, adjacent to the window sill where he kept a close, but fairly content eye on the chirping birds and restless squirrels alive in the tree cover around us. I kept poor Sebastian in a box next to the gatorade and made a decision to take him out into the woods and bury him under a tree with a chorus of chirping summer birds. It is there where he rests for eternity. Goodbye Sebastian, thanks for making me enjoy being a cat person. We will miss you.

Thank You, # Fu Manchu

Namaste and horns up. Headbanging is my yoga. Headbanging is fitness within the confines of a loose noodle. Thrashing my head about like it is plastic and bobbling between a young baseball fan's fingers is my cross fit. Closest to mine own highest calling, this hallowed act of rupturing neck vessels and loosening the bloody bearings in the cranial gears is all for the sake of escape. I am 45 years old. It hurts, but it's worth it. We do what we gotta do. Amidst a festival of decibel.

Some like curling up with a kitten, a two buck chuck and a Dan Brown book. Some like running for straight, endless miles in shiny shorts,then having to run back to square and falsely embrace the monotonous scenery in reverse. Some sit criss cross apple sauce (can't say Indian Style any more) in meditative pose and contemplate silence as a diversion to answering real questions about themselves in real time, while covert flatulence escapes to smother concentration. Some golf, some tend gardens, watching in stealth from bay windows for any stray jart or whiffle ball to crankily collect that may breach the trophy green. Some are born perfect, remain unscathed and empty.

I prefer shaking my brain from the foundations of its cerebral jello mold and re arranging my tainted train of thought. It's like a two hour lobotomy in the presence of overpriced beer and infinite watts.

The whole idea of headbanging IS to smother concentration. And to come out shaken clear and free of all blood clots, brain fuzz, P.T.A. faux pas, aftermaths of yelling at old polaroids, thrown furniture, exposed internet histories...Yet... the head is an air hammer pounding nails made of synchronized, bowel buffering riffs in ringing gnarly succession. Those riffs get knocked back in a riptide line of hairy robotic bows and flips offered up by a crusty cadre of Captains of cavemen, idiots of industry. The band responds by a dodge and a parry and a killstroke emitted from glittering ax and crunchy Celestion cacophony.  The riffs are a reminder (not a reflection) of my goddamn day. I don't bang my head to remember. I bang my head to forget. I pay in advance, and I buy the merch, motherfucker. Forget the crippling responsibility of a single dad's world. Forget the asshat in the LeSabre next to you on the way to the show blaring biggie in selfish omnipresent ghetto noise pollution. Forget the dude who didn't cut your bagel all the way through. Forget Joe the Plummer. Forget to remember. Forget to reset. Not to regret.

I get myself to the place where thwips of hair are painting my chin with sweat. Chafing, erasing.
Grey hairs unplucked, popping out like feathers from a strut-tastic chicken, dripping in the mist of licks.
Hair like tentacles bent on revenge, wrapped up in riffs so dirty, they're clean. Bang 'em if you got 'em. heads and hairs, that is....

We do what we gotta do to get to the godhead, to exhume redemption, to rock on and radiate.

Thank you Fu Manchu for Inspiration, perspiration and palpitation.

Moshtadon

Last night I went to see Mastodon in Philadelphia. I could pontificate on how awesome it was and argue that the precision, aptitude and all around bad- assery of this Atlanta foursome has neither faded nor morphed into anything new(as critics and long time fans have alluded to from 2009's Crack the Skye album on...) rather the band has expanded upon what it has always been...a one of a kind metal experience that pretty much puts on a clinic for any modern metal outfit in their periphery or wake. But I wanna talk about the mosh pit.

Bill, Troy, Brann and Brent barely broke a sweat while their stiff metal fingers blurred skins and dulled frets. Yet this mastery, these songs and a bunch of burly buffoons were the fine ingredients sprinkled on a whirling human cauldron of sweat, stench, piss and vinegar just feet from the edge of their stage..known as the obligatory Mosh Pit.

From the Urban Dictionary: Possible origin of the word "mosh" - the word originated in New York in the early 80s. The previous word for the dance was "slam". The origin is probably Yiddish, as is "mish-mosh" - something all mixed up. It was a specific New York Hardcore variation on slamming which went in a circle (usually counter-clockwise with the stage as 12:00). There was a variation to slower, chuggy music called the creepy-crawly. It may have been Jimmy Gestapo (Murphy's Law) himself who coined the word.

Crucial Mosh, New York style! 

Ok, whatever. By design last night, I decided to venture into the mosh pit. My friend wanted to let off steam after a tough week of intense study and I wanted to get a closer look at the band. It has been awhile since I'd seen them live as I was strapped to a breathe machine in a hospital post asthma attack on the night of their last visit to Philly in 2012. I still have the untouched ticket. I seem to be more vertically challenged at general admission shows these days, especially metal shows. There is always an abundance of lanky leathered- up Lurches at metal shows, who tend to hold their ground unimpressed and arms crossed in the middle of the fucking floor, like a loch ness neck telescoping above a sea of black T-shirts with cryptic fonts. And they follow me, like hovering black clouds putting up a denim wall in front of me, needy, leaning in,marlboro light smellin' girlfriends in tow. 

 I haven't reviewed a show professionally in a while either (long story, but hit me up if you need someone who has experience) and didn't have the sweet combo of a press/photo pass and a plus one, either. So it was gonna have to be an old school excursion being whipped through the pit and  coughed up at the front to get the visual results we wanted. If you brave the pit, you can do a mosh charade in motion through the hellish hurricane as a short cut to the front. I thought I was prepared, as a veteran of 6-700 shows, packing on a post- 40 fifteen as added heft to strengthen my stance in this treacherous dance.

 But there are no real rules in a mosh pit. Security tightens up with a don't ask don't see don't tell mentality. Which makes it real loose. These paid cretins are not storm chasers, they want no part of the tornado in front of them, and are ensconced safely beyond the barrier..catching dehydrated or blotto-ed crowd surfers like foul balls in their triage bunker..and sending them on their way via escort or ambulance. Even a community help-your bro-up-when-he-falls is mostly all for naught when you add darkness and a blanket of black tees to the deafening roar of a wall of Orange amps in sync with the strobes. There were bodies on the floor, boots in faces, errant air jabs( a la old school punk rock) in the dark that landed on ruddy cheeks in bass drum- like thuds. There were helicopters of hair whirring into view and obstructing the path to that sweet spot we coveted..the other side of the pit..center stage and a mere plectrum toss from the Masto -monitors. 

My friend made it, being younger, smaller and faster and armed with a plethora of yoga positions in which to weave in and out of the fleshy shrapnel unscathed like fucking Neo from the Matrix.  Me?  The last time I was in a mosh pit proper was at a small Rollins Band in Buffalo, prob 1991, which coincides with the last time I ever spit out bits of tooth. Errant elbows are like medieval maces to a young jawline. That shit scared me then, and it scars me now.But there I was and there was no turning back. I hopped in past the obligatory "arc of bros". This is an(offensive) line of miscreant-ic mortals dressed in camo cargos and their favorite backwards cap at every hard rock/punk/metal show. They pepper the edge of the pit with their muscle for the main purpose of shoving any shaggy nerd into the maelstrom with roid effected snickers and high fives all around. When one member of the arc of bros does enter the actual eye of the human hurricane, it becomes ANYTHING but calm. Most of these cavemen lower their shoulders like strong safeties into unsuspecting pee wees and lift them like a bloodshot bull does to a skinny matador. And thats exactly what happened to me. I was airborne for two seconds( WHAT A VIEW!) and came down just in time to move out of the way of some serious meth-ed out sweat monster conjuring up something with an arsenal of growls and wind-up arms. I got bumped around like the meaty pinball that I am and thrown into it a few more times before joining my friend on the other side. We spent the entirety of Mastodon's set being crushed by the rippling, swaying tsunami of zombies behind us and I had to compete with a rotund metal lady's hamhock of an arm bitch slapping me in my face while she screamed "BILL, YOU FUCKING ROCK !"and making the "heart" symbol with her fingers .

I feel like the Seven Dwarves were all coked up and break dancing on my back and neck. I feel like kneaded dough today...and I'm slow to rise. But that was some show. It was like a spin class with a better soundtrack, bruises and no bikes. Stupid similes aside, I'm a happy man today....25 years between mosh pits is too long. I made it through. Now give me a fucking cookie and turn the music up.

Thank you Mastodon. I look forward to your new album Once More Around the Sun, coming at us in June.

Random Rock Thoughts

I think the new Zeppelin Re-Re-Re-Releases are a money grab. I love me some Zep, but in the olden days of my fandom, I read many a quote from Jimmy Page(from as long as a decade or two ago) explaining that there wasn't much left in the vaults and they had used everything. Therefore, with the upcoming rollout of the expanded catalog(again), I'm expecting some sloppy jams disguised as "lost or unreleased" gems and a shitload of live bootlegs that he went and souped up. Most unreleased stuff is unreleased for a reason. I'll hold out hope for anything in a demo version as it's always interesting to peruse the early architecture of those FM staples. Acoustic demo version of  Gallow's Pole? 1st take of In the Light? John Paul Jones solo-ing on anything?  Boner rising. Super Zep fans will covet anything, but Jesus the catalog has been remastered three times already. I'm good thanks. As long as Ive been able to hear the squeaky bass drum pedal on "Since Ive Been Loving You" from Led Zeppelin III, I'm set. My boner is still going strong, That little sonic ditty has been around for 15 years now. However, if by some miracle I can hear the ice clinking from Bonzo's 12th glass of vodka and orange captured accidentally from the snare mic during tour rehearsals in Sept. 1980, I'm in. If not, I'll pass. As for the live stuff, I've heard the "Listen to This, Eddie" bootleg and that's all I need.

Neil Young is an extremely passionate man, and his soapbox for dissing the sound quality of everything released since 1989 is worn out and rickety as fuck by now. but he keeps standing on it, so A+ for effort, Neil. I have everything Neil Young has ever released, and none of it is on vinyl. I wonder if he still likes me? It's about the love, Neil. Love conquers all, and love does a higher bit rate not make.The Pono music player device thingamabob that he is proposing/kickstarting is a niche item for snooty audiophiles who wanna walk around with a Yello Toblerone-ish item tucked in their khakis, because they can't fit a turntable in a pocket. have you seen this thing? I'm hoping(but not really) that it's a prototype because this thing looks like a bright banana with angles for your back pocket. Should look real awesome in your morning coffee line...gonna fall right outta your yoga pants..Reminder...If your audio file quality don't match your headphone quality, all is lost my friends. all of this fussing over sound quality is moot. So Pono away. The kids won't buy it. The kids don't matter and the kids don't care..I'll be too busy letting my emotions do the listening and stocking up on a variety of bit rates from 8 track to a digital FLAC chip inserted under the skin behind my ear to care.

The envelope filter (guitar effect for anyone who cares to look up) is my latest favorite guitar effect. Nobody does it better than Jerry Garcia. See..hear Dicks Picks any of them ('77-80) where Jerry hadn't yet found a dragon to chase regularly. Oh well, if I had my druthers in 1978, and I was a hairy pitted barefoot female and older than 10.. He'd be my Khaleesi. In the headphones, an envelope filter mimics a cacophony of notes being squeezed gently in tourniquet fashion, and  farted out through a muted trumpet made of old tie dyed t-shirts.The joyous sound makes me wanna bathe in granola salts and red grenadine and teach a hungry bear to stop worrying about global warming and just dance.

The Apple-Beats merger is stinking up my joint. Headphones for fashion weenies who value bass more than clarity meets a company who made everybody listen to music on their fucking phones. So what if it's all about streaming..which is what these shut in audio pundits seem to think is the future of music. I can't wait for the future of music...faster..pulled from the cloud..instantaneous..wait, what?..Net neutrality only lets the beautiful people with the most duckets..get the streamo maximus fastissimus quickery?...the rest of those who care about invisible shit that you can't hold and can't see get ...overdriven compressed to the hilt-disposable streams... through bass heavy 200 dollar fucking headphones. Yeah, baby, the future is so bright(but treble free). We will soon be fashioned to forget...purchase tracks blindly with a button behind glass and wait for them to stream...enjoy a three to five minute song for the short ride...run the light to the next one. Repeat. shit out. Bury. repeat.

Pizza is here. I'm out of thoughts.

Bullet points

"Woe is you" a friend said to me yesterday. Fuck her, but she's right. She's usually always right.

A lot of good all of that trippy, dancy Grateful Dead nostalgia did me. I'm no dead head. The only nostalgia I'm good at is the constant post mortem rewind I partake in to re align my bullet points of anger and loss. I'm a rotten son of a bitch to the core and by rotten I mean dry rot. The kind of rot that festers on the inside, corroding upon itself while all outward appearance and structural soundness appear normal, high functioning and strong. My brain is a moldy cross beam that holds my head together, dry as tinder, flammable as ransom note paper. Look at me emoting. Look at me searching for reasons...errr attention, on a quest to find the root of all anger..my anger...this anger, the old friend who breaks the day at daybreak, shows you every hairline fracture in my smile, every jaded self punch, every guffaw masked as evidence of the smouldering ashpile of confidence next to my dreams and visions... while keeping it a secret from me until a day where it can unravel in an aimless reveal..a day like today.

I knew I was going to wake up more cranky than normal on this Cinco de mayo, because it's my dead sister's birthday. She would have been 43.

She's dead while millions of useless, murderous, deadbeat, abusive, empty, psycho, sycophants and sabotagers walk the earth.

I saw a guy literally walk backwards down invisible steps, wipe drool from his chin that wasn't there and freeze in place like a mime without falling today, a bleary muted out empty husk of a junkie walking my street...and my sister gets to unwillingly check out early.

I saw a ghetto mom yank her kid by one arm right off of the side walk, take the phone away from her ear where she was wasting her broken ebonic on some fool, whack him on the head with the phone and keep talkin....This bitch gets to walk the earth and Meaghan is gone.

I see the dark underbelly in lieu of the blue sky every day. And that's a problem..No its a lifestyle. A landscape. A masterpiece.  

It's her birthday..but I never liked birthdays. So I was apt to complain about it. Complaining is one of a triad of things I'm a world conquering expert on, the others being singing and painting houses. We all have to be good at something, right?

Let's celebrate being born and sticking around another year..like we're proud of it. Like it means something in this great big world full of gun loving, famine bloated, ozone depleted greed driven scenes everywhere we look or choose not to.

We should all be angry every day. We choose sitcoms, social media, a great back nine, food porn, gambling, bath salts, cross fit and cat memes to distract us.

My problem is that I don't even see the glass.

I've already walked through the burning coals and keep waiting for the next challenge.

My problem is that music and its power is temporary.

Medication and its trail of side effects are temporary.

Therapy is fleeting, expensive, and temporary.

The weeks where I have my son are temporary..distractions from the battle with letting the alien anger win, encase my body in a fiery ectoplasm whom no one wants to touch..in fear or repulsion.

I can put a playlist on, talk about my passions, dream about the things I wanna write about...still there.

Read another rock bio. Still there.

Sing another cover song. Still there.

Bitch about Kiss and suck up to the Grateful Dead. Still there.

Practice my son's vocal vibrato before his big choral concert next week. Still there.

It's never been a violent anger. More like a simmering bully that shoves me up against the teeter totter just when the sun hits my face and the synapses are in rhythm and all of my friends are in the room on the playground and we're talking about Mork and Mindy, or the X Files or the acoustic songs on Physical Graffiti....lets me know who's boss. Takes my PBJ and throws the zip loc in my face.

It comes on holidays like this one..Cinco de Deatho...Birthday Deathday. Yeah, thats where it takes my thoughts...even as I push through with a steady roll of awesome memories of a beautiful sis and all of the smiles she brought me when I needed it most....before the alien anger put up shop and stayed there.

Don't blame my mother. That's too easy.

Blame me. I can put that suit on. Been wearing it for years.

Goin' Down the Road Feeling...Good

I'm a Deadhead again.

It all started in Austin last month when my friend Alex dropped the needle on Anthem of the Sun. Alex is probably the last person on earth whom I'd a thunk had a grateful dead album of any kind. But there we were, jamming along to the sounds of the very first jam band.

Then my long lost friend and childhood neighbor Sean and I reconnected on FB and that got me thinking of his several cassette boxes worth of dead bootlegs he had in his messy bedroom in the 80s. It was our very own Golden Age of Unlimited Devotion, man.  He was also the first friend I knew with a tie dye (or 10) that he would actually wear to school. His tie dyes were faded and that impressed me, because I knew he wore the shit out of them. He wasn't no imitation fan, man. He was a real live deadhead, the very first of many Northeast 4th wave deadheads I would meet in the mid 80s. But Sean was the real deal. Couldn't sing a note, but his dancing and all around positive demeanor made up for it. Too bad it didn't rub off on me more often..but he was my real introduction to the Grateful Dead. He taught me about the different eras, the special combos of live songs and lingo like "Estimated/Eyes" and China Cat/Rider...man. Drumz..with a Z, not an "s" and Space. Infrared Roses was a cd of Drumz and Space mash ups before anybody knew what a mash up was.. Steal Your Face was not only a sticker..it was an album. He told me all about the dead Dead keyboardists, man. I took it all in, catalogued it and bought the t-shirts, people. I knew the difference between an east coast and west coast Dead show, I knew where the "Phil Zone" was, and I wasn't telling. This was pre-grunge OK? I wasn't beaten down, chewed up and spit out yet.I wasn't connecting musical dots with my angst yet..I wanted to be like Sean in those years '86-'90. When there was nothing left to do but smile, smile smile...

There have been other dancing bear bullet points leading to my renewed interest in Capt.Trips and co.

I spoke via FB to my friend Andrea recently. I was sharing an apt. with her in Aug. of 1995 when Jerry Died. That's kind of a weird day I've never forgotten. Jerry's death was just as hard to deal with as Kurt's or Layne's or Ronnie's. I must have played China Doll on a loop that day.

I picked up "Dark Star" recently..maybe two months ago..the roundtable format book on Jerry Garcia, but I had put it down while reading the Elliott Smith bio..and there it was on my nightstand underneath the Bukowski and the Swamp Thing graphic novel. Time to switch up the sequence of that pile. Right now I'm up to around '79 in the book. Dark days for the Dark Star.

I have a friend who just went to see the Dark Star Orchestra in LA. She told me it was a great night except for the fact that she was "too old" to handle the Drumz/Space portion. I would probably never be able to stand for that long again in my life without the best Owsley blotter money could buy. I wonder if the new jam band kids still start their own "tours" these days with the Dead or even Phish for that matter. My brother tells me it's some guy called Bassnectar. Sounds juicy.

I had a dream of the parking lot scene from one of the two Rich Stadium Dead shows(Buffalo) I attended in either '87 or '90. I still remember the guy weaving in and out of the rows of converted school buses, hibachis and hacky sack circles repeating "Trips, doses, transparencies, yin/yang" or the redheaded dreadheaded deadhead girl saying "need a miracle, actually need two." I can still smell the kind bud, and the grilled cheese entwined with the dank road funk of 10 thousand dirty Birkenstock feet and sticky pits.  You never forget your first outdoor dead show parking lot. You never forget any of them.

For some odd reason, or maybe completely obvious..Lately..my go- to songs when the weather turns bright enough to roll down a window on the winding road home from work and set free some of my own mucky funk have been Cassidy from Reckoning (1980 Radio City Music Hall Acoustic Set)...Birdsong from..anything...Eyes of the World from Wake of the Flood and Tennessee Jed from Europe '72. This natural choice catches me by surprise because for years it was metal, punk, classic rock....anything with a dial that went to 11 and disarmed my thoughts. I think Bird Song or Weather Report Suite or Looks Like Rain or Here Comes Sunshine or Box of Rain rank right up there with some of the most beautiful, inspirational music I've ever heard. And I know every word. It must mean something....but why did I put them away for so long? Could the reason be a s simple as music being cyclical? Or distinctly tied to specific events or eras or ...attics of my life? I still refuse to believe that its linked to the cliche of getting older and probably have to pinpoint it to all of these connections my brain has been making.

The Dead were always a different kind of escape for me, and besides my beloved Beatles, probably the "happiest" ( melodic,possibly lyrical) music I ever gravitated towards. It was the perfect combination of warm, squeaky Jerry guitar tone, rumbling dual drums, Bobby's commanding voice and Phil's space bass that kept me listening, singing and sometimes moving. The spectacle of watching others do that fluid- like shake your bones out dead dance was enough entertainment for me.Not to mention the characters and the stories from the songs they rode in on provided by Robert Hunter and John Perry Barlow. Those years from 89-91 were really crucial, an influential time in my development as a writer? and performer....positivity really did stick during those years before the black chasms of 93-95 and '97-'01 came along and I needed the volume turned way the fuck  up to drown out or amplify my misguided pain. There was no pain involved in my deadhead years..only pleasure.

People who read Circle of Fits would be surprised to know that I've seen the Grateful Dead live more than any other band I can remember...10 times. Not a patchouli drenched superfan by any means, but weirdly more than hugely influential bands in my canon like QOTSA(6) or Soundgarden(7)....or the Stones(5)..wow.

Thanks to Sean, Jen, Lara, Laura, Andrea and my brother Kevin for enlightening me on this journey. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to Dick's Picks Vol. 36. If you get confused, just listen to the music play ....

Please share any and all grateful dead memories with me.......Seano

Plea to the Ether

 I would very much like to have the freedom to write completely openly and honestly. I rarely feel that I do. I'm trapped in a conundrum of fear based etiquette, banished to a realm of faux sentiment and complete absence of timely reactions, joy based sarcasm, and conversation. I cannot sustain that here without.....
Without judgement from friends, ex wives, ex band mates, hack musicians, ex anythings. I want a free wheeling place where my opinions and my openness to reciprocate the scant comments that land in this little space of mine can thrive , can grow like weeds in a sick swamp of thoughts, rather than a battle of pulling on/up roots that ends up being a constant exercise in my workout with the written word. Exhausted.

Words are my one true companion, yet they fail me more often than not because of my unwillingness to fully embrace them out of fear. Fear of the stress that comes from their backlash. Fear of the stress of my own expectations and progress as a writer The stress makes me tired. When I'm tired, I cannot write. I didn't flex that muscle enough in my youth to make it rote, make it memorable, make it easy. I cannot write when the feeling hits, as I did in my youth furiously scribbling in composition books in basement bars and backs of cars.. pre- internet, formulating the "self" that I know, love and loathe.

Like right at this second as I escaped to my room to sneak in this post in before the like- clockwork interruption of my seven year old in a never ending plea for attention...I knew it would come. There's nobody here but Dad. Nobody to distract him, to hand him off to so I can have 20 minutes to my fucking self to speedily and without proper editing....write this post....to myself. Can't write on the weeks he's with me. I'm walking tired then sleepwalking through notes that cannot connect  in an oft failed post bedtime attempt to fucking write anything of interest.

 It Is Never Going To Happen.

 Onward to non substantial Sunday sunny day fathering . The sun is out and those fucking sirens a block away and the neediness of children have derailed this train.

I'm out.

SXSickW Day 3 Pt. 2: Party at the Pool Hall

The best part of SXSW is anything unexpected. And Saturday night(traditionally the last night of the festival) was loaded with episodes of the unforeseen giddiness that accompanies new discoveries, kinda like that feeling when you climb the big rope in gym class(without the mess).
 So after a long dinner break, Alex mentions a showcase at a pool hall way off the well worn path of the trail of sponsored- this and sanctioned -that. Most likely a sycophant free event. So we roll up in his Saturn to a place called The Grand..which was in tucked the middle of a strip mall and when we arrived the parking lot was full of  clusters of dirty converted church vans and loiterers that looked like extras from a Judas Priest video. I knew we were in the right place. We were apparently there for the Rubberneck Burger City Rock and Roll Party. The Grand is immense throwback of a billiards hall with grimy white walls, low nicotine stained ceilings and at least 20 tables. To the left behind the pinball machines was a badly lit large area where dual stages were set up on the floor in front of the dart boards. They spared no expense. We liquored up and moseyed over to hear the spaced out fuzz rock of Technicolor Teeth. A band that stretches tight slabs of psych/garage and reverb over twitching punkish ponds of delay and noise. Their website describes them as "sunshine punk". Brilliant. And from Wisconsin. Sans cheese. Put it on a Bumper Sticker.

                                                              Technicolor Teeth

Next up was a snarky little gang of ruffians from NYC called  Dirty Fences . Very NYDolls-ish with the lipstick and pigtails to match. Short, double-entendre laden open hand slaps of scuzz rock, a bit derivative, but felt like music you feel like you need a cold shower and a cigarette after listening to. That's good, right? Loved the guitarist's mustache. Kinda looked like a caterpillar under a heatlamp.

                                                                 Dirty Fences

The vibe at the Grand was ground zero for all of my bullet points of rock. Scuzzy, dirty, bluesy, tight with drums that sass you right back. Shut ins with a tetris like maze of pedal boards and no eye contact. I looked around at the cast of characters in all of their their dimestore boots, chain wallets, glitter and sway, acid washed and pompadoured, cave-mannish, barber shop quartet bearded and patched up black denim ways and felt at home. I felt younger than I looked. Alive from the overdriven force of the Ampeg air, puppet string free, loose and randy.   We stuck around for one more round and I'm thankful for that decision because The JP5 from Nashville turned out to be one of the best bands I've seen in years. I say that  a lot, but I think I mean it this time.

 A three guitar driven blues rock band(pop hooks interwoven) with frontman Joseph Plunkett, whom by means of his voice alone, had to be some sort of Johansen/Costello love child. Two prevalent twin leads with just enough pomp and flash to get more than one of your feet and fists moving, held down with a burly backbeat provided by a mini-ginger skins hitter by the name of Rachel Hortman  I loved what they were laying down and so should you. If I had to pick one band to watch from my four days...I couldn't , but JP5 would be in the top 3..if you're into that sort of bizarre list fetish like me.

                                                                                 JP5

                                                                             JP5
   We wanted to make the most out of the evening and Alex and Jamie (total family men with broad musical tastes and backgrounds...and wives at home watching the kids whoo haa!) were in no way ready to call it a night at 11pm. So we headed over to the strange and wonderful Sahara Lounge. As the website sort of proclaims..this venue is like a juke joint that was designed by a permanently drunk voodoo priest who spent time doing an Egyptian pub crawl. It's truly one of a kind and if your ever in ATX, it is a must-seek-out locale. We watched a vastly entertaining band called Goldendawn Arkestra..whose sound I can only describe as bedoin funk. Clad in robes, dropping hot horns and throbbing vibes into the mix  with a rhythm section straight outta stax.. not a booty in the place was stagnant in any way.. I might have been dancing in place too, having totally forgotten  how ill I was and proceeded to prophetilize out plans for my anti hip hop manifesto within earshot of Jamie, much to his chagrin.

                                                            Goldendawn Arkestra

. I wish we could have stayed longer...the vibe was such that I was waiting for a boozed up blind bluesman to take the stage next, could have been that whiskey whispering to me.. but instead it was a four piece that craptastically mashed up the best of reggae beats with the worst of Dave Matthews melodies...so we hit the bricks...........next up.....SXSWSunday????

SXSickW Day 3 Pt.1

Day three: The decision was made(post pill and taco cocktail) to plow through this flu with the finest cheap elixirs Austin had to offer...mainly copious gulps of Lone Star beer staggered between water spiked with Emergen-C. My theory was simple: like many a sad cowboy, lovelorn hobo poet or telemarketer...drink to forget. Forget the oft dreamt up scenarios where an imaginary black cloud follows me in destiny's fashion, like a cotton hoodie on a wet day. An oscar winner once said "Gotta keep on livin', L-I-V-I-N." With that slogan in mind, I was dropped off at my first event of the day..The Converse/Thrasher magazine Death Match at the Scoot Inn, starring a line up of beefy, caterwaulin' metal bands.

 The first was the always thrilling, mostly terrifying Savannah band Black Tusk. When the bass player has a neck tattoo of a revolver pointed at his ear and the guitarist and drummer look like the highlights of their lives might be their most recent dumpster dive, then back the fuck up, son. Grimy, blistering blasts of riffs and rhythm escorted to the wind behind high fireball vocals was what the hungover skater crowd was treated to...it just about blew their wheels off the trucks.

I took a break to chortle down another cold one and go watch the skate punx do their bizness on the ramps Thrasher magazine set up on the site. Sort of a hypnotic bad idea watching a steady line of crash and burns as a buzz meets antibiotic cloud kicks in...I hung around enough to catch a song or two of the mighty Kylesa's set and as the tinnutis set in even through obvious infection, I decided to ramble.

One of my favorite venues in Austin is Beerland. Their no frills, couldn't give two shits about your stupid showcase attitude works. It leads to drawing great bands with the same attitude in to this little hole in the wall for packed chaotic shows, and little space to breath let alone have enough room to bring beer to lips over and over again. I caught the tail end of a set by a band that took me by surprise the crushing shoegaze whirl of Nothing, from..surprise no.2 Philadelphia. Its no doubt that there is a hissing cassette of MBV's Loveless on the back seat floor of frontman Dominic Palermo's car somewhere..this great noise-gaze quartet's sound is akin to the whir of spinning chainsaw that dissolves into mist. They reminded me why I have to dig deeper on the mean streets of home and stop denying that there is a scene, if not several in Philadelphia. I could barely make out a face on the stage and was led around by the glint of the blurry headstocks and blunt force trauma of the drums knocking me back even 8 rows deep in the crowd.

I went around the corner and decided to give it a go in waiting in line to see the Hold Steady at Red 7 and after 25 minutes, realized the pitiful absurdity of my actions...the wait was so slow that a cabal of nerds behind me actually sent one of their buds to order vegan noodles somewhere and they were still comfortably dining when I said fuck this-very much and skedaddled across the street to Empire Control Room. I stumbled across yet another great northeast band, the scrumptious hardcore of Brooklyn's Cerebral Ballzy,  armed with twin leads doing the chords of 80s hardcore proud and fronted by an extremely charismatic sinewy black frontman (with one of the best stage names Ive heard since Stiv Bators),  Honor Titus. If you ever need a band for your hardcore basement wedding reception or DIY bakesale who can cradle a crowd in their hands at four fucking o' clock in the afternoon, contact the management for C. Ballzy. Huge highlight.

With a body in obvious shock, awe and overload yet fighting the fumes of exaustion, I wandered over to the convention center to check out the always extraordinary Flatstock Poster Show which showcased these artists this year. This is one the most incredible arrays of present day concert poster art one could ever see and all for sale. My problem was that I'm such a collector that I was overwhelmed with the possibilities and all of my choices for purchase combined with a bum rush of anxiety canceled each other out and I bailed with nada. I scurried over to the Flatstock stage which was a large room with lounge chairs in front of the stage and was blown right away with this teenage power trio called Residual Kid. They are Austin bred and for sure had to get notes from their moms(or managers) to miss school and do this gig. It was well worth the exposure since badges were heavy and aplenty in the audience. They brought a slightly honed edge to a grunge tinged super tight mix of melodic hard rock/punk. These guys should be on your daughter's bedroom wall's and not those over- gelled assclowns from None Direction. Get with it people.

Coming soon...Part 2 of Day Three..Party at the Pool Hall