Ideally, I'll shut down the old bloggerino (if you're into the whole brevity thing) for the next few days.
But that won't happen. We all know some craziness from New Year's Eve will need reporting on Thursday morning.
Thanks to the dearth of comments, I have no idea who reads this thing, or whether it truly is an anonymous journal of my thoughts. Sometimes the best place to keep something secret is to hide it in plain sight. Not my intention, but it appears that 600-plus posts into this, the attention is lacking.
So until 2009, I'm outta here.
In the meantime, keep reading. Whoever you are (or aren't).
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Two More 2008 Highlights for the Road
Best Album I Wanted To Hate Thanks to Rolling Stone's Endless Praise
Bob Dylan, Bootleg Series Vol. 8: Telltale Signs
I'm a Dylan junkie, but a wise listener treads cautiously with his modern work. Modern Times disappointed me, yet everyone quickly labeled it a classic.
To my ears, he had not hit classic status since Time Out of Mind. Time for me to revise that statement.
Tell Tale Signs accomplishes two goals - it rejuvenates the Bootleg Series, dormant since 2005, while showing that even in his twilight, Dylan abandons amazing, revelatory music on the cutting-room floor.
Songs drenched in Daniel Lanois-swampiness on Oh Mercy become more fully realized with just a piano and that ragged voice. Time Out of Mind leftovers like Red River Shore and March' to the City are both epic and intimate.
Dylan's music hadn't drawn this reaction from me since I first heard the Bootleg Series boxed set comprising the first three volumes.
The two versions of Missippi wipe out any record of the Love & Theft version. Same goes for Dignity, a vanilla rarity made dynamic on two starkly different takes.
Tell Tale Signs resurrects gems from the instantly forgotten North Country , Gods and Generals and Lucky You soundtracks.
This collection almost leaves me hoping it's the end of Dylan's new music. What a better career capstone than a triumphant set recalling his earliest folk forays and almost every stage between?
Best Long Overdue Record From A Rock Scion
thenewno2, You Are Here
After seeing Dhani Harrison hold his own with Clapton and company during the Concert for George, I've been waiting for any signs of more music.
Finally, he deliver the bold You Are Here, his collaboration with Oliver Hecks.
At first glance, he's woven traces of his father's style into the 21st century electronica and patches of prog rock. This moody, minimal record echoes his father's work without mimicking his sound.
As George's virtual twin - really, he's identical to his father- Dhani correctly embraces his heritage while adding his own wrinkles to the mix.
As with She & Him, Harrison has put out a promising debut.
Dhani leaves us with a gentle record with a healthy dose of seething anger beneath the surface.
Let's hope his output proves more prodigious than his late father's. Brainwashed took more than a decade to complete, and the younger Harrison played a major role in its posthumous release.
Bob Dylan, Bootleg Series Vol. 8: Telltale Signs
I'm a Dylan junkie, but a wise listener treads cautiously with his modern work. Modern Times disappointed me, yet everyone quickly labeled it a classic.
To my ears, he had not hit classic status since Time Out of Mind. Time for me to revise that statement.
Tell Tale Signs accomplishes two goals - it rejuvenates the Bootleg Series, dormant since 2005, while showing that even in his twilight, Dylan abandons amazing, revelatory music on the cutting-room floor.
Songs drenched in Daniel Lanois-swampiness on Oh Mercy become more fully realized with just a piano and that ragged voice. Time Out of Mind leftovers like Red River Shore and March' to the City are both epic and intimate.
Dylan's music hadn't drawn this reaction from me since I first heard the Bootleg Series boxed set comprising the first three volumes.
The two versions of Missippi wipe out any record of the Love & Theft version. Same goes for Dignity, a vanilla rarity made dynamic on two starkly different takes.
Tell Tale Signs resurrects gems from the instantly forgotten North Country , Gods and Generals and Lucky You soundtracks.
This collection almost leaves me hoping it's the end of Dylan's new music. What a better career capstone than a triumphant set recalling his earliest folk forays and almost every stage between?
Best Long Overdue Record From A Rock Scion
thenewno2, You Are Here
After seeing Dhani Harrison hold his own with Clapton and company during the Concert for George, I've been waiting for any signs of more music.
Finally, he deliver the bold You Are Here, his collaboration with Oliver Hecks.
At first glance, he's woven traces of his father's style into the 21st century electronica and patches of prog rock. This moody, minimal record echoes his father's work without mimicking his sound.
As George's virtual twin - really, he's identical to his father- Dhani correctly embraces his heritage while adding his own wrinkles to the mix.
As with She & Him, Harrison has put out a promising debut.
Dhani leaves us with a gentle record with a healthy dose of seething anger beneath the surface.
Let's hope his output proves more prodigious than his late father's. Brainwashed took more than a decade to complete, and the younger Harrison played a major role in its posthumous release.
My Close-Up With Dixie
Christmas can kill if your mood runs counter to its bright lights, crass commercialism and facade of togetherness.
This year, I didn’t look forward to Christmas with the family. The events of Dec. 23 cast a pall over the whole proceedings; listening to the Jesus of Cool reissue and napping next to the cat sounded a lot better than rallying around that mound of presents I was forced to subsidize.
I barely got out “Merry Christmas” a few times when leaving the office before it became futile. I had not a drop of holiday spirit in my bones; joy would only emerge with the end of the holiday.
A dark, soggy drive winding through the Georgia hills and a Christmas Day outline of the bailout's necessity didn't help.
Only on Friday did I find a few moments to savor, when I hunkered down with an old friend.
This year, I didn’t look forward to Christmas with the family. The events of Dec. 23 cast a pall over the whole proceedings; listening to the Jesus of Cool reissue and napping next to the cat sounded a lot better than rallying around that mound of presents I was forced to subsidize.
I barely got out “Merry Christmas” a few times when leaving the office before it became futile. I had not a drop of holiday spirit in my bones; joy would only emerge with the end of the holiday.
A dark, soggy drive winding through the Georgia hills and a Christmas Day outline of the bailout's necessity didn't help.
Only on Friday did I find a few moments to savor, when I hunkered down with an old friend.
One family member had stayed upstairs, unable to hear the troops marshaling in the kitchen. With her hearing vanished with age,
At nearly 14 years, she sleeps a lot. Without any clues to her lip-reading skills, I didn’t bother into those peaceful brown eyes. Her whitened snout and eyebrows instantly gave away her years.
While she still insists on leaping the two front steps following a bathroom walk, her rear legs barely cover the distance and always come down awkwardly.
Those arthritic hips tell more of her age than graying fur.
She barely raised her head at my presence; when I approached, he stretched then flopped on her side. The treat changed the equation.
I sat there, crumbled up a holiday treat to make it easier on her to scarf it down. She briefly surveyed the green chunks then worked her way from largest to the crumbs on the area rug.
A head rub with knuckles kept her attention. While she would deploy her nose to nudge my hand back to the scratching spot, she took what I meted out, and no more. Then we just sat there in silence.
When I left the kitchen, more jingling ensured, before a re-energized Dixie walked up to me.
More rough hip movement on the basement stairs completed the journey.
As always,
Soon enough,
Monday, December 22, 2008
Best Musical Discovery of 2008
We don't all come to music when our first chance arrives.
The critics and hipsters would besmirch people for being late to the party, but fuck 'em - great music is not some exclusive party with a limited time for admission.
As I've aged and lost a few contrarian steps, I moved to the better late than never school, so I'm starting a new tradition here.
We all stumble onto albums long after their release. I've found a lot this year, through my newfound obsessions for vinyl and the Great American Songbook, but one revelation topped them all.
Nothing else I've heard holds a candle to the otherworldly fire generated between Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald.
There's just something about those voices - one sweet and pristine, the other grizzled and ancient, both beautiful in their own ways.
Sadly, my previously exposure to Let's Call the Whole Thing Off came courtesy of Christopher Walken deadpanning the lyrics on Saturday Night Live. But hearing these two take on Gershwin couldn't sound more organic.
On My Love is Here to Stay, Louis sounds as if he'll be around to see the Rockies crumbled and Gibraltar tumble. Ella sounds like she could set them tumbling with a few of those legendary high notes.
This morning I needed a little I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm to distract me from the scorching 9 degrees Fahrenheit outside my front door. They clash so well on this one; their voices serve best when mingling, not when they sing their parts in a vacuum.
The tenderness in their voices on Nearness of You is as sweet as it gets in popular music.
Their interpretation of Porgy and Bess, the last collaboration, leaves you wanting more.
With three albums of blissful duets I ended a lifetime of ignorance. Otis & Carla could have contended if Redding's death had not limited their partnership to one album, but pop music has not equalled the sheer power of these duets. But records are stepped in the highest quality and a once-in-a-century pairing.
I came late to the Ella and Louis party, yet now wonder how my ears went without them.
The critics and hipsters would besmirch people for being late to the party, but fuck 'em - great music is not some exclusive party with a limited time for admission.
As I've aged and lost a few contrarian steps, I moved to the better late than never school, so I'm starting a new tradition here.
We all stumble onto albums long after their release. I've found a lot this year, through my newfound obsessions for vinyl and the Great American Songbook, but one revelation topped them all.
Nothing else I've heard holds a candle to the otherworldly fire generated between Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald.
There's just something about those voices - one sweet and pristine, the other grizzled and ancient, both beautiful in their own ways.
Sadly, my previously exposure to Let's Call the Whole Thing Off came courtesy of Christopher Walken deadpanning the lyrics on Saturday Night Live. But hearing these two take on Gershwin couldn't sound more organic.
On My Love is Here to Stay, Louis sounds as if he'll be around to see the Rockies crumbled and Gibraltar tumble. Ella sounds like she could set them tumbling with a few of those legendary high notes.
This morning I needed a little I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm to distract me from the scorching 9 degrees Fahrenheit outside my front door. They clash so well on this one; their voices serve best when mingling, not when they sing their parts in a vacuum.
The tenderness in their voices on Nearness of You is as sweet as it gets in popular music.
Their interpretation of Porgy and Bess, the last collaboration, leaves you wanting more.
With three albums of blissful duets I ended a lifetime of ignorance. Otis & Carla could have contended if Redding's death had not limited their partnership to one album, but pop music has not equalled the sheer power of these duets. But records are stepped in the highest quality and a once-in-a-century pairing.
I came late to the Ella and Louis party, yet now wonder how my ears went without them.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Music Rumors I Can Do Without
I'm on deadline for the Colorado Health Plan Analysis, so I won't resort to my usual bloviating.
A reunited Phish will headline TWO nights at Bonnaroo 2009
While it's just a Rolling Stone rumor, I think I just saved $250 and four days without a shower. Bonnaroo probably earned a sellout crowd thanks to the dreadlocked set.
Even the Sunday Bruce rumors won't drag me back if the Vermont Four get two headliner slots.
I think I'll stick with Pitchfork or maybe head to Rhode Island for the Newport Folk Festival.
Manageable crowds make festivals more palatable. So do a healthy lack of Phish fans.
Scarlett Johnsson Wants to Make More Music
Please, no.
Scarlett, with all due respect, you had your chance and blew it with a winning formula (Tom Waits covers).
Dave Sitek of TV on the Radio drags down his good name jut for involvement with Anywhere I Lay My Head.
Hopefully, he'll stay as far away from the follow-up as anyone who heard anything from the first record did.
Better yet, hopefully the suddenly poor Leonard Cohen will charge you a small fortune to cover him.
Frankly, Scarlett, we do give a damn about our music, so stick to film. You're not Zooey Deschanel.
A reunited Phish will headline TWO nights at Bonnaroo 2009
While it's just a Rolling Stone rumor, I think I just saved $250 and four days without a shower. Bonnaroo probably earned a sellout crowd thanks to the dreadlocked set.
Even the Sunday Bruce rumors won't drag me back if the Vermont Four get two headliner slots.
I think I'll stick with Pitchfork or maybe head to Rhode Island for the Newport Folk Festival.
Manageable crowds make festivals more palatable. So do a healthy lack of Phish fans.
Scarlett Johnsson Wants to Make More Music
Please, no.
Scarlett, with all due respect, you had your chance and blew it with a winning formula (Tom Waits covers).
Dave Sitek of TV on the Radio drags down his good name jut for involvement with Anywhere I Lay My Head.
Hopefully, he'll stay as far away from the follow-up as anyone who heard anything from the first record did.
Better yet, hopefully the suddenly poor Leonard Cohen will charge you a small fortune to cover him.
Frankly, Scarlett, we do give a damn about our music, so stick to film. You're not Zooey Deschanel.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Arctic Gusts and Ugly Heights at Paris Landing
With clear skies and 45 degrees at race time, I couldn't go wrong.
Finally unbound from the annoying head cold that wouldn't die, I returned to the State Parks Running Tour at Paris Landing, an exquisitely placed park on Kentucky Lake's western shore.
The boring drive traced the grungiest boulevards of Clarksville, barb-wired military lands, towns barely qualifying as such and two stately blocks of tiny Dover on the Cumberland River. Just as quickly, Highway 79 descended into a river valley - Kentucky Lake is just a dammed-up stretch of the Tennessee River - spanned by the Ned McWherter Bridge.
I would grow quite familiar with the bridge in the next hours - it accounted for nearly five miles of this Over the River Eight Miler.
Once the course broke away from the treeline, an ill gale-force wind picked up. I didn't expect Kentucky Lake to be under the occupation of winds as strong and fierce as those gusting in the Rockies back in October. But at least three or four times, the wind nearly knocked me off my feet.
With the sun beating so brightly, the cold reservoir waters grew mesmerizing; the currents kept me focused. Until the turnaround on the east bank, I tried not to guess the distance ahead. That seemed like a fool's bargain.
Running with blinders on and a clear sky made it almost bearable. Long sleeves, which usually grow uncomfortably warm within the first 10 minutes, held their cool until the bridge was forgotten.
But as the course left the bridge for a pair of loops through the park, the difficult never diminished. In fact, it worsened on a string of paths across a highway overpass, sailboat docks,
Needless to say, all those lunges from bootcamp did not leave me with anything to gut through the steep incline at Mile 7. That last hill barely registers on the course map, but nearly deliver the kiss of death for Over the River.
Jumping into the icy current would have been preferable to running that incline. So I gave up, walked to the top and gingerly ran down it, fearing the famous Melville clumsiness would turn an ankle or lead something more severe. Despite a few walking bouts, I ran it out, even as the wind strengthened again.
Somehow, only four 30-34 year old men decided to try Over the River, landing me a fourth place finish, sports fans.
The tour goes on hiatus through the holidays, so I'll pick up that torch in Oak Ridge, Cleveland or some other rustic destination.
For the rest of the tour, I won't pray for sun or rain, just a break from constantly shoving breeze.
Finally unbound from the annoying head cold that wouldn't die, I returned to the State Parks Running Tour at Paris Landing, an exquisitely placed park on Kentucky Lake's western shore.
The boring drive traced the grungiest boulevards of Clarksville, barb-wired military lands, towns barely qualifying as such and two stately blocks of tiny Dover on the Cumberland River. Just as quickly, Highway 79 descended into a river valley - Kentucky Lake is just a dammed-up stretch of the Tennessee River - spanned by the Ned McWherter Bridge.
I would grow quite familiar with the bridge in the next hours - it accounted for nearly five miles of this Over the River Eight Miler.
Once the course broke away from the treeline, an ill gale-force wind picked up. I didn't expect Kentucky Lake to be under the occupation of winds as strong and fierce as those gusting in the Rockies back in October. But at least three or four times, the wind nearly knocked me off my feet.
With the sun beating so brightly, the cold reservoir waters grew mesmerizing; the currents kept me focused. Until the turnaround on the east bank, I tried not to guess the distance ahead. That seemed like a fool's bargain.
Running with blinders on and a clear sky made it almost bearable. Long sleeves, which usually grow uncomfortably warm within the first 10 minutes, held their cool until the bridge was forgotten.
But as the course left the bridge for a pair of loops through the park, the difficult never diminished. In fact, it worsened on a string of paths across a highway overpass, sailboat docks,
Needless to say, all those lunges from bootcamp did not leave me with anything to gut through the steep incline at Mile 7. That last hill barely registers on the course map, but nearly deliver the kiss of death for Over the River.
Jumping into the icy current would have been preferable to running that incline. So I gave up, walked to the top and gingerly ran down it, fearing the famous Melville clumsiness would turn an ankle or lead something more severe. Despite a few walking bouts, I ran it out, even as the wind strengthened again.
Somehow, only four 30-34 year old men decided to try Over the River, landing me a fourth place finish, sports fans.
The tour goes on hiatus through the holidays, so I'll pick up that torch in Oak Ridge, Cleveland or some other rustic destination.
For the rest of the tour, I won't pray for sun or rain, just a break from constantly shoving breeze.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Really Random Notes
I haven't had a lot to say lately - too much travel, holiday nonsense, illness and writing for which I get paid. So I dragged out these space-killing observations ....
Bonna-ripoff
This one comes from the "Who Buys This Crap?" Department. I question the existence of the Live From Bonnaroo 2008 DVD. Yeah, the organizers are trying to squeeze a few more Andrew Jacksons from attendees and more from those who didn't, but a DVD can't encapsulate all that went down.
Perhaps those who went overboard with the drugs might want it, but for all that goes into Bonnaroo, this set is skimpy. Dozens of bands boiled down to 16 performances.
Of course, they left out the most infamous performance of the weekend (Kanye West's sunrise surliness). I guess calling the organizer "squid brains" is no way to get a slice of the DVD pie. No listening to Chris Rock in the rain. And apparently the weekend's biggest dose of spontaneity, SuperJam, got the Kanye treatment. I would think Les Claypool, Gogol Bordello and Kirk Hammett might be worth documentation.
Then again, I don't see how one song gives away anything from those performances.
They'll be lucky to sell a dozen, if people applied my logic. People would be too busy renting the original Woodstock documentary.
That won't happen, because you can't contain an ignorance outbreak. Speaking of which ....
My Favorite Reindeer Game
Go to a busy shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon. Complete you shopping, then walk out an exit on the opposite side of the mall from your car. Work your way back through the parking lot with keys in hands, then watch the desperation with which drivers will follow you.
I tested it at the Green Hills Mall last weekend, only to find some people way too dedicated to that easy spot. A Mini Cooper slammed on the breaks, flung it in reverse and followed me until realizing I wasn't parked in that aisle.
The next volunteer's tenacity ruined the fun. She too slammed it into reverse, but was willing to back up as far as needed to get my spots. All she needed to do was go onto the two-story parking ramp where I landed, and she could have had her pick.
But this girl was risking danger for a primo parking spot I didn't possess, so I finally stopped and I told her I wasn't parked in that lot. Luckily, she wasn't upset and didn't floor it in reverse to cut me down for my mischief.
What a shame the holidays only come once a year.
Running, Still Running
Declaring myself finally over the sinus infection that plagued me for weeks, I'm off to Paris Landing and the Tennessee River to see if I can reacquire it during the 8-mile run tomorrow. That will be State Parks Running Tour #3, leaving me with two more to qualify for the Grand Prix (somehow, my less-than-fantastic finishes have earned me a few points).
But that cart has no horse until I finish.
Bonna-ripoff
This one comes from the "Who Buys This Crap?" Department. I question the existence of the Live From Bonnaroo 2008 DVD. Yeah, the organizers are trying to squeeze a few more Andrew Jacksons from attendees and more from those who didn't, but a DVD can't encapsulate all that went down.
Perhaps those who went overboard with the drugs might want it, but for all that goes into Bonnaroo, this set is skimpy. Dozens of bands boiled down to 16 performances.
Of course, they left out the most infamous performance of the weekend (Kanye West's sunrise surliness). I guess calling the organizer "squid brains" is no way to get a slice of the DVD pie. No listening to Chris Rock in the rain. And apparently the weekend's biggest dose of spontaneity, SuperJam, got the Kanye treatment. I would think Les Claypool, Gogol Bordello and Kirk Hammett might be worth documentation.
Then again, I don't see how one song gives away anything from those performances.
They'll be lucky to sell a dozen, if people applied my logic. People would be too busy renting the original Woodstock documentary.
That won't happen, because you can't contain an ignorance outbreak. Speaking of which ....
My Favorite Reindeer Game
Go to a busy shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon. Complete you shopping, then walk out an exit on the opposite side of the mall from your car. Work your way back through the parking lot with keys in hands, then watch the desperation with which drivers will follow you.
I tested it at the Green Hills Mall last weekend, only to find some people way too dedicated to that easy spot. A Mini Cooper slammed on the breaks, flung it in reverse and followed me until realizing I wasn't parked in that aisle.
The next volunteer's tenacity ruined the fun. She too slammed it into reverse, but was willing to back up as far as needed to get my spots. All she needed to do was go onto the two-story parking ramp where I landed, and she could have had her pick.
But this girl was risking danger for a primo parking spot I didn't possess, so I finally stopped and I told her I wasn't parked in that lot. Luckily, she wasn't upset and didn't floor it in reverse to cut me down for my mischief.
What a shame the holidays only come once a year.
Running, Still Running
Declaring myself finally over the sinus infection that plagued me for weeks, I'm off to Paris Landing and the Tennessee River to see if I can reacquire it during the 8-mile run tomorrow. That will be State Parks Running Tour #3, leaving me with two more to qualify for the Grand Prix (somehow, my less-than-fantastic finishes have earned me a few points).
But that cart has no horse until I finish.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
My Keepers for 2008
Few albums slowed down the pace enough to become memorable this year. A slew flew by without leaving an imprint.
Black Mountain
As I rooted through CDs and songs eating up my laptop’s memory, some earlier highlights came back to me.
TV on the Radio, Jenny Lewis, Calexico and Devotchka all produced strong efforts, but I wanted to avoid repeating my 2006 list. Any of those records could have made the cut otherwise, but let’s face it, I’m a fan.
The best records should move the listener and convert them to the cause. All of these accomplish that goal.
The Keeper List
Fleet Foxes, Fleet Foxes and Sun Giant EP
If you own this stunning debut on vinyl, the equally amazing EP comes in the same package . So I consider part of the same whole, a journey of folk-rock refracted through the prism of Happiness is a Warm Gun and Paranoid Android. Sure, they could be described as a more rustic My Morning Jacket, but I barely listened to Evil Urges after Ben Crites turned me onto the Fleet Foxes. My favorite track shifts depending on the day - today it's Blue Ridge Mountains, tomorrow I'll pick Mykonos.
After a hundred or so listens, I can’t find a stale note.
Mudcrutch, Mudcrutch
Tom Petty reunites with original bandmates, two-thirds of whom play in the Heartbreakers. Throughout these high-octane, swampy rock tunes sprinkled with a little Bakersfield Crystal River
With Petty, everything old was new again.
She & Him, Volume One
Two Hollywood starlets tried to branch into music this year. Thankfully, Scarlett Johannsen is acting again and Zooey Deschanel left me wanting She & Him’s Volume Two.
Joining forces with M. Ward, the album sometimes waffles around some shaky, first-album songwriting, but Deschanel is the real deal. Her trembles with a heartfelt honesty and pulls many a page from the Joni Mitchell/Carly Simon/Carole King songwriting book while never sounding derivative.
Neil Diamond, Home Before Dark
The first collaboration between producer Rick Rubin and the King of Schmaltz Rock stripped down his theatrical sound but remained solidly cornball. With acoustic guitars up front and percussion nonexistent, Home Before Dark puts Neil Diamond the Songwriter alone in the spotlight. He never wavers on beauties like Pretty Amazing Grace, No Words, Home Before Dark and If I Don’t See You Again. His audiences want to glitz, but it’s hard to argue with the formula of Neil+Acoustic Guitar after these folk-pop gems.
Broken Social Scene Presents: Brendan Canning, Something For All Of Us
Three years and counting since the last official Broken Social Scene album, Canning’s turn at the BSS “solo” album game dug up gold. Giving more attention to flashes of My Bloody Valentine and Elliott Smith than Kevin Drew’s volume from last year, Canning sense of melody pushes him free of the noise-rock pack. Churches Under the Stairs and Snowballs and Icicles should stay into the rotation until BSS releases its next proper album (whenever that might be). Scenester Jason Collett turned out a fine collection of Dylan-esque pop, but Canning opened untold facets from the Scene’s sound of organized mayhem.
Blitzen Trapper, Furr
Dropping the needle on Sleepytime in the Western World was among the greatest musical joys I experience this year. This Seattle
Trapper is responsible for two of the year’s best ballads – the delightfully tender Furr, a epic tale of a man's coversion to wolf and back, and Not Your Lover, the best After the Gold Rush outtake Neil Young never wrote.
Best Boxed Set
Look Them Straight In the Eye and Tell Them … Pogue Mahone
I already completed an extensive review, but Philip Chevron’s recovery from cancer gave Pogues fans the treat they always craved – the archive-emptying box set.
I could have done without the reunion live tracks (I don’t think what Shane MacGowan qualifies as singing anymore). But these five discs reveal a staggering depth to a band often pigeonholed as just playing Irish pub tunes.
(Follow the keepers label for past year-end editions.)
Friday, December 05, 2008
That's all for Lt. Nordberg
I feel like curling up on the couch, watching all three Naked Gun movies interspersed with a few rental care commercials and NBC football broadcasts.
All the while, I'll remember when Orenthal James was not dirty name ....
Since when does anyone who actually got away with murder take such a foolish risk?
How could a man with such comedic talent commit such heinous acts? Fourteen years later, I'm still questioning that. He threw away a lot.
We've lived through his the chase with A.C. behind the wheel, Judge Ito, Marcia Clark, civil trial, years of hunting for the real killer on the golf courses of America and the last comedic gasp in that audio tape that finally brought him down.
A free O.J. was mildly entertaining. Now he gets to live out his days in prison. The Goldmans and the Browns finally get a resolution, if not the one they wanted.
We get to rewatch Naked Gun.
Unless all this was set up so O.J. could get into a Nevada prison in his neverending hunt for the real killer. Hmmm .....
All the while, I'll remember when Orenthal James was not dirty name ....
Since when does anyone who actually got away with murder take such a foolish risk?
How could a man with such comedic talent commit such heinous acts? Fourteen years later, I'm still questioning that. He threw away a lot.
We've lived through his the chase with A.C. behind the wheel, Judge Ito, Marcia Clark, civil trial, years of hunting for the real killer on the golf courses of America and the last comedic gasp in that audio tape that finally brought him down.
A free O.J. was mildly entertaining. Now he gets to live out his days in prison. The Goldmans and the Browns finally get a resolution, if not the one they wanted.
We get to rewatch Naked Gun.
Unless all this was set up so O.J. could get into a Nevada prison in his neverending hunt for the real killer. Hmmm .....
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
A rough reunion
When you've played guitar since 16, leaving it in the case is the second-worst decision possible.
The worst is picking up a mandolin in the meantime, then returning to the guitar.
It's the equivalent of switching from a Geo Metro to an Escalade.
Since devoting myself to the smaller mandolin, I slacked off on guitar (again). It's criminal to let a Martin sit untouched for months.
But no more. To better split my time, I wake up a half-hour early and play the mandolin. When home from work, the guitar comes out. After dinner, the mandolin comes out for an encore.
What sounds so simple quickly turns painful.
The frets never seemed so far apart before, my fingers just stubs incapable of spanning them.
But by learning a few new songs each night, the hurting fingertips will ease up.
I have faith that Mykonos and Sun It Rises from the Fleet Foxes, latter-day Neil Young, a sprinkling of Bruce from all eras and a few Beatles favorites will restore the calluses in no time.
The worst is picking up a mandolin in the meantime, then returning to the guitar.
It's the equivalent of switching from a Geo Metro to an Escalade.
Since devoting myself to the smaller mandolin, I slacked off on guitar (again). It's criminal to let a Martin sit untouched for months.
But no more. To better split my time, I wake up a half-hour early and play the mandolin. When home from work, the guitar comes out. After dinner, the mandolin comes out for an encore.
What sounds so simple quickly turns painful.
The frets never seemed so far apart before, my fingers just stubs incapable of spanning them.
But by learning a few new songs each night, the hurting fingertips will ease up.
I have faith that Mykonos and Sun It Rises from the Fleet Foxes, latter-day Neil Young, a sprinkling of Bruce from all eras and a few Beatles favorites will restore the calluses in no time.
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