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by Kimberly Massengill

Contents:
Caesars Palace:  Freaked-Out Farfisa Fun November 12, 2002
Bonus Bowie October 30, 2002
Getting it Free, Getting it Fast, Getting the Rubber Glove September 26, 2002
Get Your Motor Runnin' August 28, 2002
Long Hype The King August 21, 2002
Theremins in Outer Space August 14, 2002
Music to Sit in Front of the Air Conditioner By August 7, 2002
Lonesome Bob July 22, 2002
Before He Got Old July 8, 2002
Talkers vs. Shooshers June 26, 2002
Multiple Personality Syndrome (ROCKS!) June 18, 2002
The Naive Pop of Maxwell Implosion June 8, 2002
Vin Scelsa, Uncorked May 29, 2002
There is Magic in That Marker! May 22, 2002
Eleni Mandell, at Fez and After May 14, 2002
Spiritualized at The Beacon May 4, 2002
Coffin Daggers April 25, 2002
Country Comes to the City April 6, 2002
Don't Let Reid Paley Scare You March 30, 2002
The Waldorf Rocks (Then Limps a Bit) March 22, 2002
Dear Miss Music For That Not-So-Fresh Feeling March 15, 2002
Jiggle and Thunder and Infectious Beats March 8, 2002
CheeseFest Marathon March 1, 2002
Kurtz-y and Bows at Joe's Pub February 22, 2002
Hot Hors d'Oeuvres and Hennessy with Mr. Isaac Hayes February 15, 2002
An Evening of Dinner and Bragging February 8, 2002
'BAI's Back January 31, 2002
Bound Only By Six Strings January 24, 2002
The Supremest, The Suckiest, And The Spookiest of 2001 January 17, 2002
Carbon Leaf January 10, 2002
Top 10 Albums of 2001 January 4, 2002
Last Year's Columns October - December 2001

Kimberly Massengill's a big ol' Southern belle who likes gray matter, a slow, grindy groove, and cucumber dip.  She lives in Manhattan, where she talks dirty on the radio and bellies up to the bar when nothing good's on TV.  Don't be afraid to say hey.
www.hometown.aol.com/kimmassengill

Caesars Palace:  Freaked-Out Farfisa Fun
by Kimberly Massengill
November 12, 2002
I've got some bad news for the "no ads" movement.  True, I'm tempted to run home and cower under the covers every time my eyes are assaulted with advertising where advertising hasn't been before (parking garage gates, inside cabs, etc.), so I'm not completely unsympathetic to the cause Adbusters.org crowds my inbox with.  But I don't see ads as inherently evil.  They can inform, entertain, and allow us to enjoy the attached services for cheap or free (por exemplo, the ads you see on this page provide me with a paycheck for tapping out this stuff). 

I especially don't get the folks who earnestly condemn the use of Rock music in TV ads.  I'm so often reminded of or enlightened by the often inventive commercial applications of popular (or not so) songs.  The artists are getting paid for it (probably more equitably than is provided for in their recording contracts), and it exposes the great unwashed to some worthy tunes that may otherwise have been overlooked.  Case in point: Swedish band Caesars Palace.

One thing that sets this 4-piece apart from the current crop is their use of the Farfisa organ.  Though its appearances are infrequent and uneven, when it's good, it's reminiscent of ? And The Mysterians, and adds interest to the otherwise sharp edges.

In fact, uneven is the best way to describe their three releases.  Most cuts are almost bad, but naively bad, in that puppy-breath-adorable way.  But the few standouts make the albums worthy of purchase.

From their newest (released in April, but not yet in the US), Love For the Streets,
"Jerk it Out" is an example of wall-of-sound at its finest.  It's the absolute best thing since their '98 effort.  No big standouts on 2000's Cherry Kicks, but "Since You've Been Gone" and "Only You" are worth listens. 

There are two versions of their 1998 debut release, Youth is Wasted on the Young -- one has a slightly different track list, and is under the name Twelve Caesars.  If you only get one, Youth... is the one.  "(I'm Gonna) Kick You Out" is the Farfisa soaked, dizzy-fun song from the commercial.  Also of note are "Suzy Creamcheese," an echoey almost-instrumental, and "You're My Favorite," an affectionate look at one's back burner girl.

(Notice how I reviewed a spitfire young band from Sweden, without once mentioning The Hives?)

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Your Kimberly's on WBAI This Saturday

I'll be spinnin' it freeform style on Saturday, November 16, 3pm to 5, on WBAI 99.5 FM in New York City.  They have a fat, fat signal, but if you're not in the area, you can catch the webstream by going to www.wbai.org and clicking "listen."  And let's hear what you think!

Count on my playing some Caesars Palace.

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Bonus Bowie
by Kimberly Massengill
October 30, 2002

Back in the Spring, when the heavily armed David Bowie press machine dunked consumers into a simmering vat of promotion, I fell starry-eyed victim to it. Dragged out all my old Bowie and re-explored it, all sex-with-your-ex like. I was re-smitten. From the pretty good latest album, Heathen, to the live A&E concert (complete with Bowie taking phone calls from housewives who followed him back in the day), to a polished appearance on Conan O'Brien, where he talked family and Bowie-ized the kiddie ditty "Hickory Dickory Dock," to the recent appearance opening the VHI/Vogue Fashion Awards with a Skiffly "Rebel Rebel." It all worked for me.

So when The Museum of Television and Radio launched a Summer-long retrospective of his work, captured on film and such, I was up for it. Excitedly attended installment number 1. Loved it. Never went back.

Well, the museum is rewarding we procrastinators, the lazy, and the otherwise lame, by extending the Bowie retrospective, and bringing installments 1 through 5 back for a final weekend blast. And get this -- each segment will include new material not screened in the original run. The bastards!

Able only to note the high points of installment #1, I can tell you the TV appearance of a teenage not-yet-Bowie, earnestly promoting his Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Long-Haired Men is a rare treat that'll make you wish you had a rewind button, and the dry BBC treatment of Bowie's rabid groupies is disturbingly hilarious, and not to be missed.

All 5 parts will be re-screened November 2 & 3, beginning each day at 12:15. And don't miss the photo exhibit on the 5th floor.

David Bowie: Sound + Vision

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Not Quite Dead Yet

Oxford American, the amazing grit lit magazine I like to/hate to think I had a hand in killing (they quoted me in the issue which turned out to be their last) has been rescued, resurrected, and relocated from Oxford, Mississippi to Little Rock, Arkansas. On President Clinton Avenue, no less!

Regardless of the move (or, as they say down there, irregardless), the magazine will keep its original name and flavor. Editor Marc Smirnoff says that a magazine, just like a person, should keep its birth name no matter what stage of its life it is in. Touche, Marc. That's why I'm called Kimberly Massengill, and not Kimberly Perfectly-Good-Anglo-Surname-Which-Has-Nothing-To-Do-With-Feminine-Hygiene, after my ex-husband.

First issue from Little Rock will hit newsstands in January, and the highly regarded annual Southern Music Issue (which includes a free compilation CD) will be unleashed in April.

Old subscriptions are being honored, and new ones are going for $29.95 for one year/8 issues and $49.95 for two years/16 issues. Dig out the crispies and give the Christmas gift that keeps on reminding the giftee how cool you are 8 times throughout the year. Order by calling 501-907-6418.

The music issue's so consistently good, I'll bet Sweet Sweet Connie's already pitched a tent at the magazine's back door.

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Mixing With Strangers

I have a ton of homemade mix CDs folks have sent to me. They run from good to great to curious, but all of them are appreciated. My only complaint is that I have no idea who sent me what (label your mixes with your name, peeeepole!). But everyone knows your own mix CDs are better than anyone else's, right? (Funny how everybody believes that.) Well, here's an almost creepy way to test that theory.

Josh Benton, staff writer for The Dallas Morning News, has foolishly launched the Monthly Mix CD Club. Every month you wanna, make a mix and send it to him. In return, he sends you one of his. If you send two copies, he sends two back -- one of his and one of another club member's.

The upside is that the guy has appropriately eclectic tastes (perhaps made even more so by the mixes sent to him). October's mix included cuts by Mike Doughty, Arab Strap, Sonic Youth, Spoon, Television, Calexico, Shuggie Otis, Velvet Crush, and Death Cab For Cutie. The downside is that his membership just jumped from 40 to, like, 40,000, so his project may be short-lived.

Worth a try, though. Go to www.crabwalk.com, and click on the easy-to-miss "CD Mix Club" link on the side.

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Coffin Daggers in the Halloween Parade

You heard me. Those purveyors of instrumental spook-surf, The Coffin Daggers (pretty much my local faves these days), will be performing live atop a float in the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade. If you can't make it down to the Village, set your VCRs to start recording at 7pm, 'cause NY1 broadcasts it live. Gonna be wicked cool.

www.coffindaggers.com
www.halloween-nyc.com

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Newly Available Dylan Tickets

A limited number of maybe-kinda-great seats have just been released for Bob Dylan's Madison Square Garden concerts on Nov. 11th & 13th. $42.50 - $125.00. Cut, paste, purchase.

http://www.enn0.com/i.cfm?DID=227524&UID=45474598&MID=267273

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Hope It's True

Another of my local, gotta-see-him-live faves, Reid Paley, has finally stepped into the 20th century (just in time for the 21st), and put his seat-warmed domain name to use. Check out www.reidpaley.com, then experience the Brother Theodore of Brooklyn live and in person, when his trio does "two big hairy sets" at Hank's Saloon, Halloween night, starting at 10.

CMJers better drop 'em inside the shirt, 'cause the show's advertised as "NO COVER / $5 w/CMJ BADGE."

Hank's Saloon, 46 Third Avenue at Atlantic, Downtown Brooklyn, (718) 625-8003

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Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

You know that feeling when you spin 'round and 'round and get all pleasantly dizzy? It makes for big baseball pre-game fun, brings Dervishes closer to God, and likely inspired Harry Nilsson to write "He Needs Me," recorded more than twenty years ago by actress Shelley Duvall (born to play Olive Oyl) for the Robert Altman film Popeye. It's now been dusted off for use in the P.T. Anderson film, Punch-Drunk Love, and the original recording of the sweetly psycho song has won the long battle with Tahiti 80's latest Wallpaper for the Soul (a Matthew Sweetish entry which puts the eezy in breezy) for the rights to my repeat button this week.

The Popeye soundtrack's out of print, but that of Punch-Drunk Love (which will include lots of tasty Jon Brion work, too) will be release November 5th. I'd track it down, if I were you. Makes me even wanna investigate the children's songs Duvall's recorded.

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Getting it Free, Getting it Fast, Getting the Rubber Glove
by Kimberly Massengill
September 26, 2002

Just returned from a trip back home to Virginia, where I got searched, scanned, and swabbed for explosive residue (really unnecessary, Mom).  Gotta thank the Newport News/Williamsburg Airport x-ray operators for finding my missing nail clippers, and the good folks at LaGuardia for allowing me to witness a shitzu getting anally probed at gunpoint.  The dog didn't seem to mind much, but jeez, isn't that what airport motels are for?

But none of that surprised me as much as the fact that the car I borrowed whenever no one was available to chauffeur me around (my niece's fiance's Jetta -- thanks, Patrick) was tuned to a Rap station, and I didn't change the dial once.  Prior to this, I was really only exposed to the MTV-ed, watered-down-for-white-girl-consumption stuff, but never before have I experienced total immersion, in the form of a nuthin-but-Rap radio station for 7 days.  'Course, I'm not saying a suburban Rap station isn't watered down, but still. 

I never really knew what P. Diddy did for a living, but now you'll find this cave bitch cravin' the Chrissy, poppin' a cap into your neck for shortin' my chronic, and disrespectin' da ho's.  My jeans kinda drag the ground now, too.

In an unrelated story, I bought a FUBU shirt while I was down there.  That's unrelated, right?

We'll catch up later, but in the meantime, here's some time-sensitive tasties you need to know about....

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All Museum-ed Up WBAI's All Mixed Up with Peter Bochan will broadcast live from The Museum of Television and Radio this Saturday, September 28th, 5-7pm, as part of the museum's annual Radio Festival.  Performing will be The Coffin Daggers (you read about 'em here, remember?) and the very original movie theme cover artists, Morricone Youth.  There are a couple of seats left (free, but reservations are required).  To snag 'em, write to mixedup@pipeline.com, and give all your pertinants.  These performances are delectably intimate, and the sound is an audiophile's wet dream, so try not to miss it.  Short of that, you can just make sure your ear's in front of a radio this Saturday afternoon, tuned to 99.5FM. www.mixedup.com www.coffindaggers.com

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Getting Corny in the 'Storm

If buzz about celebrity sightings and made-for-TV doctors touting health benefits aren't enough to get you to check out Leaf Storm Tea, then how 'bout a rumor that your morning cup'll likely be served by WFUV's evening jock, Corny O'Connell?  'Tis true.  Mr. O'Connell spends most of his mornings pouring tea and spinning tunes in the Upper West Side's sparkling-est new refreshment portal, on the corner of Amsterdam and West 94th.  But lest you think he's there for your let's-flirt-with-the-DeeJay pleasure, you'd better skidaddle before Leaf Storm's proprietress Amy Chen notices.  She moonlights as Corny's girlfriend.

Speaking of moonlighting, if you stopped by for tea a couple of Wednesdays ago, you'd've seen yours truly understudying in the role of The Pastry Girl.  (And no, that has nothing to do with getting one's tassels to spin in opposite directions.)  My three hours in the food service industry were fun, but trying.  Remembering what each scone, croissant, and muffin is filled with ain't easy when the you're not allowed to use the lick-n-sniff method. 

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Gotta Have It Right Now

Barnes & Noble has re-instituted their same day delivery for CDs, books, and DVDs, for those who live or work in Manhattan.  Not only does it not cost you extra, it won't cost you one thin dime, if you order two or more items.  Order by 11am, click the green apple icon, and new music'll be knocking on your door by 7. 

I used to take advantage of this deal when it was previously offered.  The first time, by accident.  Imagine my surprise when a strange dude showed up at my door and handed me the CD I'd just ordered online a few hours earlier.

This is a great service.  Let's use it, so we don't lose it.

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/sameday?sourceid=00080962975845829642
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Gotta Have It For Free

I told you I'd let you know next time the fine folks at ItsAboutMusic.com were giving away another CD.  The time has come.  Volume 2 compiles the work of 20 artists, including The Avenues, The Griffins, and Grey Eye Glances.

I heard from many of you who took advantage of Volume 1, and responded positively.  This time out they're charging 3 crispies for postage, but that's fair, no?

Go to www.itsaboutmusic.com/freecd2.html and get some on ya.

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Losers Return Home, Hat in Hand

Get it?  Hat in hand?  And it's a good thing they have Fez to return to, because Inside the Actor's Studio has taken over the Westbeth Theater, and the place has been all James Liptoned up, sending Loser's Lounge back to Fez under Time Cafe, in the East Village. 

The good news is that measures have been taken to remedy the problem of Loser lovers hovering over the tables of restaurant patrons, whilst waiting in line for the downstairs doors to open.  Good news, too, for the folks who quickly tire of having the dainty cocktails they've spent their hard-earned cream on knocked over by the likes of my ample ass.

That's not enough good news for ya?  Toss in that the welcome home show will be "I Don't Want To Go To Chelsea: A Tribute To Elvis Costello," October 11, 12, 13, 18, and 19, and the ticket prices have been reduced from $25 to $18.

Below is their wonderfully dry new ticket policy, which I'm reprinting here, because it doesn't appear to be found on their website and some of it looks important.

* Hard tickets for admission to all shows will be sold in advance
through Ticket Web -  www.ticketweb.com . Only hard tickets will be
available for admission (no phone reservations) and tickets sales will
be capped at an amount that will keep the room comfortable for everyone.
Because of the smaller venue, and the reduction in ticket prices we
expect that these shows will sell out. Please buy your
tickets early.

*  Advanced hard tickets will also be available to be purchased in
person at Other Music, which is located at 15 East 4th Street between
Broadway and Lafayette Streets (phone 212-477-8150)

* Everyone who has a hard ticket will get in to the show, and almost
everyone with a hard ticket will be able to get a seat. But, seating
will not be guaranteed as it will be available on a first come first
serve basis.

* Any unsold hard tickets will be available at The Fez on the night of
the show.

* We are working with The Fez to create a more comfortable environment
for those waiting in line for the doors to open.

* The Fez is located underneath The Time Cafe at 380 Lafayette St at
Great Jones. For directions, information, etc. check out
http://www.feznyc.com/

"I Don't Want To Go To Chelsea: The Loser's Lounge Tribute to Elvis
Costello"
at Fez under Time Cafe
380 Lafayette Street at Great Jones
Oct. 11, 12, 13, 18: Doors at 8 PM, Showtime 9 PM
Oct. 19: Doors 7, and 10:30 PM, Showtimes 8 and 11 PM.

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Since I've been out of town for the better part of the past month, I missed writing about the MTV Video Music Awards.  Allow me, at this late date, to summarize: 

~> There is no better get-over-yourself gauge than shoving a camera in the face of whomever's currently being burned on stage.  (Avril LaVigne = good sport; Enrique Iglesias = weenie).

~>  I was much more troubled by Pink's saying she was "too drunk" on a show designed to appeal primarily to kids, than by Christina Aguilera's baring her leathery f'munda.

~>  I love the heftier injection of Rock music into the mix, but when did Axl Rose become a deity?

~>  Best line of the night was actually not broadcast until the following week, on Conan O'Brien.  Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (Robert Smigel), to the solo Darius Rucker:  "So, instead of Hootie and the Blowfish, you just blow now?"

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Get Your Motor Runnin'
by Kimberly Massengill
August 28, 2002

(I've gotten mail from readers about several of my radio essays for WPKN that also pertain to music.  The following is one that aired last August, in honor of the unofficial National Road Trip Month.  Since I'm currently on a road trip of my own, I figured now'd be a good time to pull it out, dust it off, and crank it up.  To 11.)

We all have music reserved for certain activities, and rarely are the rigid boundaries between the groups ever crossed.  There's house party music that'll get your group jumping, but you'd never listen to alone.  There's chit-chat on the couch with a glass of wine and a friend music, which you'd never carry to your car.  There's gonj music, completely different from speed demon music.  There's music you scream over in a dance club, but you'd never EVER buy it.  There's music to have marital relations by, which is the ultimate opposite of my favorite category: OBNOXIOUSLY SUNNY HOUSE-CLEANING MUSIC!  Some of us have alternate categories, as well.  Music to compliment a blue funk.  (Notice I didn't say "to lift you from a blue funk." Sometimes you just wanna wallow in it.  Yknow?  Same goes for music to heal a broken heart by.)  And the ever-necessary music to pump you up while you're dressing to go out and spend an evening in a socially uncomfortable situation.  This music must have a tune infectious enough to stick to your ribs until you arrive and get a cocktail or two in ya.  The alcohol'll take it from there.

There are rules that apply to the selection of personal soundtrack music.  The pavement pounding music you put in your walkman on your way out on foot, must achieve two things:  it must keep an appropriate walking rhythm, and it must make you feel as though you own the world.  You need the beat and the ‘tude to avoid becoming tangled up in the reckless baby strollers, the errant umbrellas, and the “yo mommy, can I come wichoos.”

But there is no more universal list of songs than that of road tunes. 

Vacation season, for many, means lush summer highways and wild, airborne hair whipping your face and neck in the 2/70 air conditioning (2 windows down; 70 mph).  And for those of us who believe the car won’t start until the radio presets are locked in and the sound controls are tweaked to perfection, this is the season of road music.

Why do we need music in the car?  The same reason we needed to hear cards flapping against our childhood bicycle spokes.  Pace-setting beats and rhythms matching our task comfort us.  Motivate us.  Entrance us.

And I’m talking about popular music.  I mean, Brahms’ Piano Quartet No. 1, Opus 25 is a tasty traversing tune, and a good Dvorak Allegro’ll get you down the road a piece, but Rock and Roll was invented for cars.

Oddly, most songs about cars and driving and road travel don’t make good speed serenades.  You can keep your Sammy Hagar, and “Little Deuce Coupe” does nothing for me.  “Baby, You Can Sleep While I Drive” is a lovely sentiment, but unless you want to sleep while you drive, I’d leave the Melissa Etheridge at home.  “Me and Bobby McGee” and Willie Nelson’s “On The Road Again” are good for planning and packing, but are not so effective in the car.  Little Feat’s “Willin’” is a road tale without peer, but more for sitting still than moving.  Common mistake.

The test of a good cruising cut is whether it makes your accelerator foot itchy when you hear it while not in your car.

Sometimes, history will determine what’s right for you.  A single perfect metronomic moment behind the wheel over twenty years ago has resulted in Steve Miller’s “Fly Like An Eagle” holding a constant spot amongst my favorite driving ditties.  Some things just defy logic (and good taste).

At no time is motoring music more important than during a teenager’s introduction to car culture.  The soundtrack from our Drivers Ed days is the music that’ll infect our car stereos for the rest of our lives.  So it’s no wonder that that first drum crack of a to-the-floorboard favorite will often conjure up moist memories of adolescent exuberance and the invincibility of teenhood.  The days when the road took you places other than to work and home again.  The days when you felt as though you should close the sunroof to avoid taking flight.

Perhaps this is why, even as adults, strapping ourselves down in a locked, metal box can actually make us feel free.

When I step into a car, I step back in time.  Back to archaic gender roles.  I settle into the starboard seat, and flip the visor down to check my lipstick in the mirror that no self-respecting passenger side would be without.  I provide my ample thigh for use as an armrest for the MAN behind the wheel.  The man with gas money in his wallet and a destination in his head.  The man with at least a cursory knowledge of what’s beneath the hood and how to change a flat.  The man who knows that a gentleman gives control of the stereo knobs to the woman.

But we don’t live in that world anymore, do we?  Even the man who’s got the gas money and tire jack thing covered, even a man who’ll jump out to open the car door for you, will not relinquish complete control of the journey’s jukebox programming to his companion.  So, in the spirit of that dreaded C-word, I’ve come up with a few road rules that promote happiness and harmony, even for couples who were neither happy nor harmonious before the trip.

I must apologize in advance for offering no road music guidelines for children, otherwise known as The Raffi Rules.  This is because my only experience with such was when I, myself, was one of the children, and the only relief from monitoring the imaginary line separating my half of the back seat from my brother’s, was games like Who Can Be The Quietest, and the equally popular Let’s See How Quiet We Can Be.  The distinction between these two pastimes was apparent only to my mother, who insisted these were the games all children played during road trips.

The first rule of automotive accord for couples - Variety.  Always bring along at least 3 times more hours of music than the length of the drive.

Rule #2 - Selection - Each passenger brings his/her own case of pre-selected CDs, and takes turns choosing from the OTHER person's case.  That way, you're guaranteed of hearing only stuff you both like.  

Rule #3’s a biggie - Volume - Have the traveler who keeps turning the car stereo down agree that he/she will keep it at his/her maximum comfort level, and allow you one green-lighted song per hour.  A green-lighted song may be played at any relatively safe level.  Volume freaks and Rolling Stones fans will be very glad for green-lighted songs.

#4 - Singing - The right car carol will induce a white-knuckle death-grip on the steering wheel, and mental ward -style rocking in your seat.  And singing.  It’ll induce singing so enthusiastic, a glance into the rear view mirror would reveal neck veins you never knew you had.  But it’s only fair that the non-singer should have final approval of the other’s singing.  But bear in mind, you’re on a road trip to have fun and make memories, right?  Well, nothing makes memories like loud, inappropriate singing.  Trust me.

Traveling solo offers increased singing freedom, but brings with it the danger of being laughed at by the occupants of other cars.  A basic mastery of ventriloquism should take care of that. 

(Note for the boys: The effectiveness of this practice should always be verified in the mirror first.  If you've got one of those pointy, bobbing Adam's apples, spring for the tinted windows instead.)

I have what I think is an appropriate love/hate relationship with radio.  It’s certainly an education to explore the airwaves of each passing radio market along the way.  And with radio, you get a more authentic road music experience, complete with the squeal-inducing surprise of hearing the power twang that launches the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction,” or the offensive guitar howl opening of “Cinnamon Girl.”  But I prefer to customize my car trip soundtrack.

Good road songs are as diverse as they are alike, but, aside from the ease with which one can shout-sing along, there is one thing that all good traveling tunes have in common.  Someone conversant in music theory would explain it using terminology like tempo and meter, but to me, all these songs sound like the music the road, itself, makes.  They sound like the shuffling chukka-chuka-chukka-chuka railroad rhythm of wheel revolutions, or the reflection of your engine noise bouncing off the passing posts of a guardrail.  Like the beat kept by tires hitting the swollen tar joints in a long bypassed highway, the kind with a route number and a ghost story, rather than a name.   

Geography sometimes determines the perfect traveling tune.

For driving down the DelMarVa Peninsula (ham, tobacco, and fireworks country), only old Iris Dement or new Johnny Cash will do.  Memphis is for Elvis, Stevie Ray Vaughn is Austin, and there’s nothing better for taking inventory of the assorted smells along the Jersey Turnpike than Springsteen’s “Born To Run.”

When a city has no indigenous sound of its own, Stevie Wonder’s “Just Enough For the City” makes a handy default touring theme.  P Funk and Sly and the Family Stone seem to work well for taking the wrong exit in a strange, urban land.

Upon a New York City approach, the first sight of Manhattan’s skyline should be your signal to plug in the Frank.

Weather, time of day, and point in the journey can guide your music selection.  “Summer in the City” by The Lovin’ Spoonful creates a bond between you and your highway brethren in the sweltering crawl of August traffic, and The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” welcomes the rain like no other.  Early morning launches are best carried out to the caffeinated sounds of Lemonheads’ “Into Your Arms,” “Roam” by the B-52s, and for reasons I, myself, don’t understand, Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good” has been my favorite 6am song since long before he became a joke. 

It’s an entirely different game when the sun goes down.  Motoring mania turns melodious after dark.  Night driving songs are meant to celebrate the falling silence… celebrate it with sound, of course.  It’s Windshield Bug Blues like R.L. Burnside or Screamin’ Jay Hawkins as dusk turns into the active part of the evening, and late night blue highways are best rambled to the plaintive wails of Hank Williams, but only if your travel companion is silent, asleep, or already a skilled yodeler.  Trapped in a moving car with another person is not the best time to take up yodeling.  PM driving is also a good time to break out the Leonard Cohen, or if you’re feeling ambitious, put on Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” and try to recreate that VW commercial.

I begin every journey back to my homeplace with the scratchy 1930s version of Ethel Waters’ "I'm Coming, Virginia."

But for the prime daytime travel hours on the open road, the hi-test hits from the highway hymnal are called for.  Along with 80% of James Brown and 55% of Hendrix, baby boomer road standards include:

“LA Woman” by The Doors, Joe Cocker’s “Feeling Alright," "Running On Empty" by Jackson Browne, and The Stones’ ”Sympathy for the Devil.”  John Lennon’s “Revolution” is a great radio surprise song, with its wonderful screaming guitar fanfare.

Of course, most everyone agrees on Golden Earring’s “Radar Love” and “Born to be Wild” by Steppenwolf, Patron Saints of the Open Road.  Many swear by Dylan's "Like A Rolling Stone" and The Doobie Brothers’ "China Grove."  I hate this song with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, but the momentum created by the piano intro makes what follows almost bearable.  And perfect for the car.

“Life is a Highway” by Tom Cockrane is undeniable.  War’s "Lowrider," "Remedy" by The Black Crowes. 
“Schools Out” by Alice Cooper’s a perfect fit for the last day of you-know-what.

An SUV-Mom’s road revue will no doubt include "Every Day Is A Winding Road" by Sheryl Crow, Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way,” and "Into the Mystic'' by Van Morrison.  For the Starbucks Generation, it’s "Buena" by Morphine, and “Tom's Diner” by Suzanne Vega, as they slam back the five-dollar coffees, and Elvis Costello’s "Pump It Up" for the jitters that follow.  Take one “Walk on the Wild Side” to come down from over caffeination, and follow with a “Sweet Jane,” as needed. 

Heart’s "Barracuda," for those of us stuck in the ‘70s.  Same for "Feels Like the First Time" by Foreigner.  For the more mullet-headed motorists, it’s gotta be The Eagles’ "Take It Easy" or “American Girl” by Sir Tom Petty.

Let’s exit the Interstate of Common Denominators and explore some foreign territory, with some of my own, more offbeat faves for gobbling up the broken white lines.  (No, that’s not a drug reference, though maybe the act itself is.)  These’ve all been road-tested, and I haven’t had to toss any music out a moving car window since the days of 8-tracks. 

The fuel-drenched “Unbelievable” by EMF and Cure’s “Why Can’t I Be You” promote Pavlovian pedal punching, as does Iggy Pop’s “Lust For Life.”

Nothing revives vehicular vim and velocitous vigor like “The Power” by club band Snap, and “Would You” by Touch and Go provides appropriate automotive aurality.

“I Like Dirt” and “Show Me Your Soul” by the adrenaline-activating Red Hot Chili Peppers are great transit tracks, as is Bow Wow Wow’s cover of “I Want Candy.”

Cake’s "The Distance" and “Jerry Was A Race Car Driver” by Primus are exceptions to the no-songs-about-cars rule.  Moby’s "Praise You" and "I've Been Waiting" by Matthew Sweet are nice, jangly, car-trippy tunes.  So’s “Boys Better” by Dandy Warhols.

For serious scootin’, it’s gotta be “Need You Around” by Smoking Popes or The Pretenders’ "Tattooed Love Boys.”

“Love on the A Train” by Mecca Bodega w/M. Doughty, Beta Band’s “Broken Up a Ding Dong,” “One Way Or Another” by Blondie, “Rapture,” too, for that matter.  "Roadrunner" by Modern Lovers, “Been Caught Stealing” by Jane’s Addiction (but only if traveling without your pet).  “History Repeating” by Propellerheads w/ Shirley Bassey is a great on-down-the-road song, my choice of which has since been vindicated by it’s use in a Jaguar commercial.

Elastica’s “Connection” and “Sex on Wheelz” by My Life with the Thrill Kill Cult each have a good gas-pedal groove.  Same with Dee-Lite’s “Groove is in the Heart,” which is great for bucket seat lap dancing (that’s dancing with your lap, not buying a dance for your lap).

Most anything by or about Bo Diddley will put some lead in your foot.  Same for a lot of Muddy Waters, Smithereens, and Velocity Virtuoso, Dick Dale.

These are just some of the contents of my personal road trip soundtrack.  Your mileage may vary.

I once attended an intimate John Wesley Harding concert, where he took my request for "Red Rose and the Briar," a song he said he wrote with a friend while on a cross-country trip, when the two were following a Bob Dylan tour.  Harding and his buddy challenged one another to each write a verse while the other drove, then they'd switch.  Like playing pool, the object was to meet the challenge of the last verse written, and set up a dare, of sorts, for the next verse, with it all fitting together cohesively.
For a long time, I was haunted by the romantic image of this.  This game sounds like the perfect road trip music.  But, for those of us without musical skills or songwriting buddies of our own, thank God for the car stereo.

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Long Hype The King
by Kimberly Massengill
August 21, 2002

Got home one day last week to find several phone messages from friends, all with the same query. 

"Was that you having sex at St. Patrick's?" 

They'd heard that the libidinous libertines who Opie and Anthony-ed in the side vestibule were from my home state, and assumed I was the likeliest Virginian to be a-screwin' in the house of God.  Had to disappoint 'em.  I've had sex in a U-Haul, on a picnic table, and in the bedroom of a real estate open house house (all of it marital), but never in a church.  Not that I wouldn't.  I have more reverence for Graceland than I do St. Patrick's, or any church, for that matter.  And I'm a bigger fan of God's, than I am of Elvis.

Oop.  Did I say that out loud?

Well, I guess now's as good a time as any to confess.  I am not a fan of The King of Rock and Roll. 

Perhaps it's because Elvis was, effectively, before my time.  I was born around the time his career was peaking out, and by the time I became a music consumer, he'd already become a joke.  He died a few months after I graduated high school.  At the time of his death, he was so far past his prime, I marvel at the fact that he was only 42.  This is particularly curious today, when rockers continue to chart into their 60s 

And according to the numbers, dying was the wisest career move Elvis ever made.  Our culture's selective memory caused his popularity to skyrocket posthumously, and he's now enjoying a hype resurgence I find annoying.

There's the Lilo and Stitch soundtrack.  And on September 24th, a re-mastered collection, 30 #1 Hits comes out.  And last week's milestone anniversary of his death plunged us into deep hype mode, with the news full of Elvis tattoos, Memphis pilgrimages, and Priscilla Presley detailing her late ex's disturbing affinity for virgins. 

Whomever first said "long live the king," couldn't have imagined how obnoxiously true that statement would be.

I'm not above falling victim to hype, but I seem to be immune to the Elvis sort.  I don't think I own a single Elvis album, and likely won't buy the new one.  I find it hard to believe I'm alone in my disdain, but you rarely hear anyone opine thusly.  Perhaps it's blasphemous?

Though not a fan, I do look forward to experiencing Graceland someday.  I have a healthy respect for the kitsch value of all things Elvis.  I have the Elvis "bookmark of irony," the Elvis with Nixon photo, I even have an Elvis floor cloth I sometimes drape over the seat of my desk chair, so that I can draw literary inspiration from sitting on the face of The King.  (I got your reverence right here.)  But I feel his contribution has been even more over-hyped than that of, well, God.

I'm here to tell you that you can appreciate an artist's contribution, without appreciating the art.

God, however, kinda rocks.  Got him on speed-dial, in fact.

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Repeat Button Streak of the Week

"John Walker's Blues" from Steve Earle's Jerusalem, to be released September 24th. (Speaking of hair trigger offense.)

This is possibly the best album that no one will ever buy.  And all because of a song some folks say should offend good, clean-living Americans.  It's about a young man of privilege, and where his disillusion leads him.  Tell me, what's more American than privilege and disillusion?

Me, I'm much more offended by Bruce Springsteen's the-sky-is-empty-now-and-bleeding lyrics, than I am by this.

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Theremins in Outer Space
by Kimberly Massengill
August 14, 2002

Like a 30-year-old virgin, the theremin can be played without even being touched.  The artist moves his/her hands within an electromagnetic field surrounding the instrument to create a plaintive, eerie sound.  It's a little like an angry feline playing a violin, but cooler.  If you still can't place what a theremin is, think '50s Sci-Fi films, or the wooo-OOOO-oooo-oooo-OOOO part in The Beach Boys' Good Vibrations.

"An Evening of Theremin" at The American Museum of Natural History would be interesting enough (to theremin enthusiasts like me, anyway), but this one had a couple other things going for it, too. 

Number one, the show, part of the museum's Art/Science Collision series, was the first concert held in the new planetarium.  Yup, we were inside the giant space sphere, all recliney-like.  Second, the music was accompanied by a "graphics performance."  A sound analysis and visualization system designed there at the museum was synched up to the sounds of the live theremin, creating wrap-around projections on the dome ceiling.  The interpretive visuals morphed from particles resembling seltzer bubbles (from the perspective of one of the bubbles) to fireworks-like patterns to neon guppy sort of movements.  Part two of the show had geometric projections which seemed to suggest the viewer was moving within the skeletal chambers of a flower.

This was a show for the Ganj.

The artist playing the theremin was the young and positively giggly Pamelia Kurstin, who created a sound more like voice than violin, and more reminiscent of Phillip Glass than acclaimed theremin pioneer Clara Rockmore.  This was done by using effects to loop and layer the notes of the normally monophonic instrument.  Her performance was improvisational and lengthy.  I haven't been this impressed with someone's upper arm strength and endurance since my last hour-and-a-half blowout at Dop Dop Salon.  (It's thick, it's long, it's curly.  It requires a generous tip.)

Following the botanical portion of the sold-out show (saw a couple of Loser's Loungers in attendance) was a question-and-answer period.  This was one whiney audience.  The first question out of the gate was a complaint that, because the theater was completely darkened for the projection show, we couldn't see the theremin being played.  Questions were dealt with by the unflappable Ms. Kurstin and the slightly flappable, but really, really funny David McCornack, the Exhibition Department's Senior Principal Preparator, who served as the evening's Presenter, narrating an informative and hilarious slide show.  (When was the last time you heard those words spoken together?)  Humor that jumps out from behind the bushes at you, all dry and Monty Python like.  Ms. Kurstin accommodated the complainers and gave a further, fully lit demo, even rotating the instrument several times, so all in the round theater could easily see her process.

When I later asked him what might've been lodged in the audience's respective bottoms, Mr. McCornack was gracious.  "They came to see something and, in total darkness, couldn't see it."

Following the following-the-show part, the audience was invited into another room containing several theremins for our playground pleasure.

This was no Pink Floyd laser light show.  (That's a good thing.) 

www.pameliakurstin.com (Yes, the spelling's correct.)
www.amnh.org
www.theremin.info

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Music to Sit in Front of the Air Conditioner By
by Kimberly Massengill
August 7, 2002

What a week for great TV. 

Sunday:  The premiere of the E! Network's Anna Nicole Show.  She allows strangers to fondle her breasts whilst she casts the cameras a drugged, vacant stare.  She asks those around her prove their devotion by being tattooed with her likeness (at least three have done just that).  She whimpers.  She pouts.  She gets stuck under a table.  Such Maybellined deep-dish dumb makes for good "freakality TV," and I'll stay tuned for every single drop of it.

Monday: Our nation's President earnestly delivers to reporters an impassioned condemnation of Middle East terrorism, then takes two steps away from their mics, raises his golf club, and says, "Now watch this drive...."

Tuesday:  At the end of an Asa Aarons report on New York's channel 4 news, he throws it back to Chuck and Sue in the studio by saying, "Back to you, Suck and Chew...."

Silence.

A bit more silence, and the gaspy, gurgly sounds of Sue Simmons attempting to breathe, before finally finding a "Thank you... Asa."

Trio, the popular arts cable network has no chance of topping any of that, but they're certainly gonna try.  And music's gonna help 'em. 

Trio's uneven programming has both blissed me off and pissed me off.  Back in June, when their month-long Uncensored festival was touted as a daring look at censorship, the highlight was advertised as being an unedited broadcast of Last Tango in Paris.  Since I'd only seen the Blockbuster version, I sat down for it.  Unedited, sure.  No tape was actually snipped from the film.  But every single nipple, 'nad, and stick o' butter had a big hot pink shield over it.  Even the festival's documentaries about censorship employed Pepto-blobs to block out the naughty bits of artwork I'm sure even the Family Channel wouldn't shy from.

The Trio I had loved had now become a prudish joke.

Trio's Hot Summer Nights is a month-long music marathon hosted by Rufus Wainright and featuring the music of over 200 bands in performance films, documentaries, and original specials.  Sounds like redemption. 

The piss:  Those who keep an eye peeled for such things have likely seen most of this fare before. Woodstock Diary, The Kids Are Alright, U2: Rattle & Hum, Don't Look Back, etc.  And curiously, a film about Princess Diana has been dropped into the middle of the Brit-centric network's music series.  Haven't a clue why.

The bliss:  There are a couple bits of never-before-seen material that show promise.  A documentary about Elvis impersonators airs mid-month, and India Arie hosts 10 hours worth of The 2002 New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, including performances by Counting Crows, Taj Mahal, Melissa Etheridge, and Ellis Marsalis.  And get this, the impossibly funny Amy Sedaris serves as Trio's roving reporter for the marathon.  This comic Chihuahua is certain to barbecue the festival's performers, attendees, and host city.

First up for Hot Summer Nights: "Roots Rock" continues through this week, into "Reggae Weekend."

Even if they mess this up (and they might), Trio will continue to have my heart, as long as they keep airing those great reruns of Sessions at West 54th.  No amount of hot pink crotch blots will cancel out that karma.

The tunes launch at 9pm, every night in August.  For air times and additional listings, check out www.triotv.com.

Now, if only someone would air the Rolling Stones' Cocksucker Blues, I'd be a happy girl.

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Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

Bruce Springsteen's The Rising

Yeesh.

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Lonesome Bob
by Kimberly Massengill
July 22, 2002

She's got an upscale hotel pastel landcape life In a tasteful frame

How many, huh?

Lonesome Bob (curious choice of names, but nobody asked me) is a New Jersey native, but his heart's from way the other side of the Mason-Dixon. His "Jungleland" roots show once or twice on his latest album, Things Change, particularly during a Springsteenesque echo-moan that dissolves the end of the last official track, following which are two "hidden" tracks -- a worthy cover of "Patches," and one of the album's two tasty instrumental jams.

The swampier of the two instrumentals takes prime advantage of the infinite title possibilities an artist is afforded when a song has no words to restrict. Lonesome Bob felt the garage-y, guitar-driven tune felt like "2 Drinks On An Empty Stomach." I did, too.

In keeping with Country music's most popular non-cheatin' theme, "I Get Smarter Every Drink" is perhaps the most rousing drinking anthem this side of "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw?" (That pneumatic tube-ish sound you just heard was 15% of my readership disappearing because I dare make a positive reference to Jimmy Buffett. Hey, you grow up in a Southern beach town, the Buffett comes standard equipment. To the readers who just exited, I'll just say... buh-bye.)

Then ol' LoBo turns on a dime. The very next song is a dark tale of a family of addicts. This one's written by Butch Primm and his wife Allison Moorer, who also harmonizes real purdy on most every song on the album. (And, not to reduce her to being simply Shelby Lynne's sister, but, she's Shelby Lynne's sister.) It raised scruff hairs I hadn't noticed since Mary Gauthier's equally chilling "I Drink."

The song graphically describes the dangerous lust for intoxicants one has inherited from his mother and father (with a refrain that ends, No one grows old in this household. We are a dying breed). There's a brilliantly bittersweet fiddle solo by Fats Kaplan, then this:

My son takes my needle, some powder and a spoon
He sets his sights on heaven, and shoots for the moon

Lyrics made even more chilling by the fact that Lonesome Bob Chaney lost his teenage son to the needle four years ago.

There's hardly a weak cut on the album, but I'd allow 5 or 6, maybe 7. That's how good this song is. Go. Buy.

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Before He Got Old
by Kimberly Massengill
July 8, 2002

John Entwistle was in Las Vegas early for an exhibition of his artwork (he's responsible for the cover art of the Who By Numbers album). In his work entitled "Generations," he assigns sundry caricature-istics to his original band mates, and uses a bass neck of exaggerated length to rein them all in, shepherd style. Not surprising. The master of flourishing fingerwork proudly admitted he was his own favorite bass player.

Reports indicate that these first shows have only been peppered with eulogies, but the tour serves as tribute, nonetheless.

"It's one day at a time for us," Roger Daltrey told a Bay Area audience, a few nights in. "Rock and Roll isn't easy. Nor is life. It's just best to get on with it."

And on with it, they got.

"He would stand in the rain and sign his name on anything, until the last autograph was signed. Of course then he'd complain for the next half hour about what the rain did to his hair," says friend and partner Steve Luongo. "Every time it thunders, I will think of John Entwistle."

It was at one of those post-Cincinnati 11 shows that I experienced the nearest near miss of my concert-going history, when a flying Jack Daniels bottle crashed on the floor next to me, having been hurled from the nose bleeds. And John Entwistle was among my first New York City celebrity sightings. Spotted him a few feet away at a nightclub (Limelight, maybe?), during a visit in the late '80s.

But he'll most often be remembered as the rock on which Rock and Roll was built. A sizable chunk of it, anyway. Cornball, but true.

So what's say we leave Entwistle's mates alone. Let them mourn his death in their own way. Celebrate his life in their own way. Refuse to buy a ticket, if you're that sort, but do it quietly.

Now, if you want to whine about Ted Williams' kids fighting over his body and accusing one another of wanting to maybe freeze it and sell his DNA, have at it.

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Talkers vs. Shooshers
by Kimberly Massengill
June 26, 2002

I like sugar with my coffee, whiskey with my tea (!), but when I'm listening to a live music performance, hold the talking, please!  Performance and chatter don't go together.  There's nothing wrong with leaning into your friend's ear for a quick "check the package on the bass player," or "look out - that guy rubbing up against you has his eyes closed and his head back."  But incessant chattering that disturbs those around you really bites my butt.  Problem is, the only thing more annoying than talkers are shooshers.

Aside from once hosting an open-mic night and once introducing a band presented by the radio station I worked for, I've been on a rock club stage only once.  It was for a reading.  The place was packed with pretty serious drinkers, and the few talkers got shooshed right away.  It was kind of embarrassing.  The shooshers were louder than the talkers, and called attention to the fact that people were talking during my delivery.  But within seconds, the whole point was moot, because the shooshers effectively shooshed the talkers, who then grudgingly joined the shooshers in clapping where appropriate, laughing in all the right places, and hooting when it was over.  Some butts even left their seats.

In the end, I was glad the shooshers shooshed.  They sorta saved my ass.

Oddly, what a nearby talker is saying will often determine whether I shoosh them.  Recently, as a woman was wheeled past in a wheelchair, a knuckle dragger a few rows behind me groaned, "I'd kill myself if that was me.  In fact, I'd kill myself if I was either one of those two," referring also to the one pushing the wheelchair.  It took everything in me not to climb over three rows of people to ask the offender if he could please be an asshole more quietly, so as not to pollute our spirits (and evenings) with his black, black soul.  I think the reason I didn't, was that I didn't want to stare into the eyes of it.

That, and sometimes I'm chicken.

I'm not much of a shoosher.  I'm more the type to raise a maternal finger to my lips, or give a yippee-being-quiet-like-the-grown-ups-is-fun look.  If those fail, and a syrupy "Hush, Honey" doesn't work, I might bring out the big guns.  The eyes.  One deliberately directed glare.  A visual surgical strike.  Eye daggers that say, "I just want you to know that at least one person, me, has noticed what an asshole you are.  Shutting up now might redeem you.  That is all."

There are all kinds of shooshers.  Painter/Director Julian Schnabel recently rose from the table he shared with his missus and their guests Lou Reed and Lori Anderson, and asked an entire meatpacking district restaurant full of patrons to kindly pipe down.  Now that's an obnoxious shoosher.  I have a friend who quietly uses her sweetest British accent to ask noisy neighbors to lower it.  That's an effective shoosher.  A few months ago, a national recording artist whom I adore annoyed those around him with his endless chatter during the show of another national recording artist, a friend of his who later asked him up to join him onstage.  Just months earlier, the offending artist spoke and wrote at length about the scourge of talkers in the audience, even chastising polite audience members for not policing themselves.  That's a hypocritical shoosher.

I was once at a show where the artist, like an overburdened substitute teacher, got pissy and halted her performance until the folks way in the back at the bar quieted down.  Then she wasn't very good.  I think if you're gonna raise the bar, you'd better be damn sure you can then get your leg up over it.  That's a foolish shoosher.

And there are as many different varieties of talker.  I'd like to say I'm a considerate talker, but I recently got caught trying to over-compensate for talking by clapping extra loud at the end of a song.  Problem was, it wasn't the end of the song.  The singer broke her lull by motioning for my companions and I to STOP CLAPPING.

Not that it's any excuse, but it was open bar that night.

Of course, if you're talking Broadway, symphonic performances, or any other event frequented by old people, all bets are off.  As humans age, they go from being shoosh-sensitive to shoosh-resisitant, to being downright shoosh-proof.  The old folks simply will not curb their discussion of which character is who, or what from dinner might be causing their gas.  They can't hear you shooshing them, anyway.

So, are you a talker or a shoosher?  I asked some musicians and music lovin' folks to weigh in.  Their answers left me even more confused about who's right and who's wrong.

Ruth Singleton, Manhattan Attorney, Editor, Orchestra Violinist, Superwoman:

I'm more familiar with the division between talkers and withering starers, having been among the latter on some occasions, although more in movie theaters than at concerts.


Kenli Mattus, Soulful Pop Singer-Songwriter (catch him at Irving Plaza June 26th, and the following weeks in Seattle, Hollywood, and Cleveland):

I think most people who are "talkers" don't really know they are talkers because they are usually either drunk or just clueless.

I used to do a solo acoustic set regularly at a small East Village bar. Sometimes I would draw a bunch of people and the person after me would not. For better or for worse, unless the person without the good draw is phenomenal and lucky, it's hard to get a crowd to shut up in that environment if they didn't come to see you.  Whenever that happened, I would do my best to be quiet, even if I was schmoozing AND even if the person wasn't good (which can happen) just for good Karma.

For a performer, what doesn't kill you becomes a good story and fodder for more songs. If people talk over me, I try to find the ones who are into what I'm doing and vibe with them.

Shooshers in general are never really effective, because if people want to talk, they are gonna talk. Also, you have to realize that club owners want people to drink, drink, DRINK, so you can't really impede people's good time. That's why they went out in the first place.

I've encountered hard-core talkers and hard-core shooshers and both are pretty annoying, with an edge going to the talkers.


Kerry Nolan, proud New Jersey resident and Local Host of Weekend All Things Considered on WNYC AM 820 and FM 93.9:

I am a shoosher. There. I've said it. Out loud, even. I have abandoned the idea of ever going to the movies again, lest I clock someone with a half-gallon of diet coke to make them SHUT the fuck UP already.

Once upon a time, I was at a Springsteen concert. In front of me were two couples, clearly North Jersey denizens - the guys were of the pumped-up, get-wasted-on-Miller-Lite type and the girls can charitably be described as princesses. Well. You would have thought they were watching the show on TV, because as soon as Bruce went from an anthem to the preamble to a set of ballads, these harridans started visiting. As we were in the Byrne Arena, they were also loud. So loud, in fact, that I couldn't hear Bruce's monologue, despite the amplification.

I shot them the LOOK. I talked about them briefly to my companion. Then I leaned in and said, "ya know - if you really need to chat, you might want to take it out by the concessions."
"What is YOUR problem?"
"My PROBLEM is that I can't hear what Bruce is saying."
"He's just talking."
"Please just keep it down so I can enjoy the show."
"Whatever."

They kept talking. I went and got the usher, who shined a flashlight at them, humiliating them and actually shutting them up.


Andrew Vladeck, Honey Brother, Slide Banjo Player, Awfully Clever Lyricist:

Not to be difficult, but I think a person can be BOTH a talker and a shoosher.  We need to define out terms a little bit, since a person can talk loudly and rudely, or can talk quietly and discreetly into their neighbor's ear.  Also, a "shoosher" isn't telling the people to stop talking, but is imploring them to talk more quietly.

I have been one to talk (considerately, I hope) and shoosh during the same song!

Considerate talkers are welcomed at my shows -- but obnoxious talkers beware -- at my last show there was a fight between a loud inconsiderate talker who told a shoosher to fuck off, and the shoosher politely told the talker she and her boyfriend would give him a talking to outside the club after the show!  Isn't that exciting!


Amy Chen, owner of the Upper West Side's (soon to be) hottest new refreshment stop, Leaf Storm Tea:

I've been both a timid talker and a reluctant shoosher.  If I lean in one direction, I believe I'm more of a shoosher.  And though I've talked, in my recollection I've never been shooshed.

I want to know if we were all talkers in our younger days and evolved into shooshers in our doddering old age.


Reid Paley, Brooklyn Singer-Songwriter who gargles with barbed wire, and once had to stop playing to ask that the Packers game on the TV be turned down:

I don't care.  I don't play "shooshing" bars.  You're talking to a guy who's played all over the fuckin' place, as a solo in rock clubs where people, just as a matter of course, like the drunken slobs that they are, yammer unbelievably loudly, and it's not that they yammer more loudly during a solo set, it's just that you can hear them if there isn't a bass player or a drummer.

I don't know, it's nice when people pay attention to you.

Shooshers are annoying, but it does show a certain level of respect for the people that are actually dragging their ass up there to play.


Vin Scelsa, host of WFUV's Idiot's Delight, Saturday nights at 8:

I'm a shoosher.  I think there's a difference between clubs and concert type situations.  If you're at a stand up club, like Mercury Lounge, or Irving Plaza, [rather] than, like, the Bottom Line... The Bottom Line tends to be quieter music, and quieter music is really annoying when somebody's talking, and sometimes people do in there.

I think in a more of a stand up bar or club type situation, even though it's annoying, I think it's probably more acceptable.

It's not acceptable in a concert hall, ever.


Rich Shapiro, Live Music Lovin' Connecticut Lawyer:

(Rich didn't want to talk about talkers or shooshers.  He wanted to weigh in on a variant -- those who sing along with the artist.)

Sometimes, it's actually nice, some nearby singer who occasionally harmonizes properly.  Usually, it can be really annoying.  A friend has a completely different memory of the Simon and Garfunkel free show in Central Park (see a PBS pledge drive near you for details) than I have.... I recall a woman, sometimes next to me, sometimes in front of me, swaying onto me, or along with me to romantic bits of S&G, ending with a smile when the show ended, then, in seconds she was swept away into the crowd.  My friend remembers the sweaty guy who sung along in his ear the entire show.

Me, I go with the shooshers, but in a variety of ways, and sometimes not at all.  Almost amazed that no one's punched me, or that I talk to certain folks you might just choose to ignore because they're big.  I'm not sure I've ever actually shoooshed, though.

Annoying are the chatters that are there to see 'the other act', and so they can talk thru the one you've gone to see.  Most memorable example were the frat boys yakking loudly thru the Graham Parker portion of the show, waiting for the Southside Johnny portion. 

I'm often more of a glare shooosher. 

The frat boy thing, that's really hard to control, because they usually run in packs, and are always a few beers ahead of you.  (And, for me, always much bigger.)

(Then Rich introduces a new beef, certainly worthy of another discussion, another time.  I've got stories for this one, too.)

Talkers you can't shooosh.  The ones that keep talking to the talent on stage...

Good one, Rich.  For another column.

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Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

Journey's "Open Arms."  No, really.  I fell victim to this power shmaltz when I was a Perry/Shon lovin' young thing, but it hasn't aged well.  Seems an awfully cheesy selection to accompany your first dance as husband and wife, no?  Even for Charlie Sheen?  Nevertheless, that's what was done and who did it.

Sincerest best wishes to the bride and groom. 

Really.

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Multiple Personality Syndrome (ROCKS!)
by Kimberly Massengill
June 18, 2002
While I'm enjoying the new Eminem album, much of it seems more ethnic than his previous efforts (though black guys usually respect their momses).  More Dre than Mathers.  Still provides a valuable voice to damaged white trash culture, though. 

Eminem's morphing from Marshall Mathers to Slim Shady and back to Eminem again, got me thinking about other such music celebs currently turning corners, rewriting their M.O., reinventing themselves. 

Leading the pack is Ozzie offspring Kelly Osbourne, releasing a fiery reworking (with an arrangement that more than makes up for the vocal shortcomings) of Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach."  And speaking of fresh starts, one of the most sweetly amusing about faces comes from Last-Resort-Financing Spokesmodel, MC Hammer: "Fresh Start can put you in a new car, no matter how bad your credick eeeyuz."

From the People Who Don't Know Their Place department, Penelope Cruz threatens the observant among us by taking time off to take singing and hip-hop dancing lessons.  That doesn't frighten you?  Could a Jennifer Lopez type career shift be in the works for Ms. Cruz?  The prospect scares the paella outta me.

And in my effort to dodge "Paul McCartney Marries a Young'n" news this week, I stumbled upon "Peter Gabriel Marries a Young'n" news.  One report refers to the Irish bride Meah Flynn (mother of Gabriel's toddler) as both "twenty-something" and having been with Gabriel since the early '90s.  The only thing more disturbing than both being true, is that Phil Collins served as best man.

I don't care how silver and shallow he gets, Peter Gabriel remains a wildly sexy genius to me.

But the best of these recent rebirths has transformed himself into the host of a truly original radio show, bringing us guitar-driven V-8 Rock, every Sunday night. First he's E-Streeter Miami Steve Van Zandt, then he's Little Steven, of solo recording and "Ain't Gonna Play Sun City" fame.  Next he's that gold-plated Italian horn of a Sopranos henchman, Silvio Dante (owner of the world's most famous bazoomery, the Bada Bing).  And now, since April, he's radio's primo purveyor of Garage Rock, as the force behind the Hard Rock Café sponsored Little Steven's Underground Garage. Little Steven's brand of Garage Rock includes not only psychedelic Brits dancing The Pony in Nehru jackets, but also the sandy-haired American neighborhood kids who emulated them.  With lots of trebly shout-singing, B-3s, buzzy surf guitar, jangly percussion, and vocals happily out of the range of the vocalists, the performances seem more fun than fine-tuned.

Not exactly a wall of sound.  More like a room divider of sound. 

With a break style like that of a late night weekend jam show, and peppered with snippets of classic film dialogue, Little Stevenisms, and the occasional Springsteen teaser, the only mix is in the span of decades from which this music comes.  I dare you to distinguish between '60s Garage Rock and that of today.  From The Seeds, The Animals, The Rutles (no kidding), to a fierce new Cotton Mather song that spits fire and smokes up the garage.  Shoot your mouth off about Rock and Roll not being what it once was, and Little Steven is likely to show you what that hole is for.  He'll then offer suggestions for use of your ears.

"Garage Rock is music for older people with young spirits and young people with old souls. It's a certain sensibility that you have when you're 17 or when you're 67. It never goes away," says Little Steven.  "Cars and girls, baby.  Does anything else really matter?"

Classic Rock already came through and strip mined the primary era of Underground Garage's focus, but Van Zandt has now come along behind with a pick axe, and gleaned the rougher gems, the harder to reach, polishing them into something precious.

This nationally syndicated show's probably best experienced driving dark highways with a sleeping companion in the passenger seat, one who won't believe you heard what you say you heard, when they awake.

Lester Bangs would be this show's biggest fan.  It's Rock AND Roll.

Little Steven's Underground Garage Q104.3 Sundays 10pm to midnight Webcast at www.Q1043.com  Archived at www.hardrock.com

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The Naive Pop of Maxwell Implosion
by Kimberly Massengill
June 8, 2002

Here's my yesterday. What's the past tense verb form of frottage? Frottaged? Mashed? I got felt up on the bus yesterday. But when I hey-buddied the guy, instead of fleeing or denying, he apologized and explained why he couldn't help himself! The dude's defense included examples and visual aids (showed me a photo of the woman I reminded him of).

For the record, I prefer the denial/flight method of getting away with being a perv in public.

I then hit the sidewalk and got into a verbal altercation with a group of teenage boys who were repeatedly saying "fuck" in front of several little kids who were gonna get smacked for saying it later in front of their momses. It's a pet peeve of mine. Feeling like a caped crusader, I then walked into the middle of a scuffle between two Oz-looking perps and a Rite Aid security guard who was blocking their exit and demanding to see the contents of their bag. The two dropped the bag (apparently Colgate Total Whitening Formula is a big black market item), and began arm-to-arm with the guard and the store manager. Did this caped crusader continue her fight for truth, justice, and the American way? Uh, does running and ducking into the paper products aisle count? How 'bout hoping hard as hell that anyone who can't afford toothpaste, also can't afford a firearm?

Then I picked up a paper to read of Dee Dee Ramone leaving this world and R. Kelly videoing himself peeing on young girls.

Fuck Calgon. I needed a much more hard-core escape. I went home and soaked in a sudsy tub of Maxwell Implosion. Small Circle of Friends, the latest release by this DJ-centered German Pop outfit, is all about innocent rhythms and naïve (and sparse) lyrics.

Except for a brief dip into drum n' bass territory (a genre which, of course, was originally introduced and marketed by Satan), this is a slo-mo trampoline of an album, cool to the touch, designed to lower your blood pressure without making you want to open up a vein (or shoot anything into one). With lots of vibes, trumpet, and the very dated Clavinet keyboard that's now enjoying a mini resurgence, Torsten Heller and crew pick up where Tahiti 80, Air, and Burt Bacharach left off. Through sampling, and "stampling" (taking a sample and changing it just enough to put your own proprietary stamp it - how's that for coining a phrase?), they borrow heavily from The Doors, Simon & Garfunkel, The Turtles, and the tire and oil change shop on the corner. Just enough downbeaty funk-rap to warm the techno chill. Lounge-y rhythms against a stark and sun-bleached mood, upon which they expound in the CD's bonus multimedia track -- an animation of the computer rendering of a circle of islands, found in the album's cover art.

The liner notes conclude with the statement "Music is love!" (The exclamation mark is theirs.) Lucky for me, this band's love can wash away all the sticky indignity New York City can dish up.

An elderly woman in the Rite Aid yesterday must've had Maxwell Implosion flowing through her veins. She never left the checkout counter during the whole good-guys-versus-bad-guys dust-up. I later asked, "Weren't you scared? Why didn't you run and hide?" To which she replied, "And lose my place in line?"

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No More Brownies

That's not a declaration of gastronomic restraint, folks, that's a declaration of finality. Brownies, one of the most not-bad music venues in Manhattan, will close its doors this August.

Home of some of the tastiest booking since 1989, including introducing to New York audiences the likes of Ben Folds Five, Elliot Smith, New Pornographers, Presidents Of The United States Of America, Son Volt, Supergrass, Sugar Ray, Veruca Salt, and The Verve Pipe, the Avenue A space will continue in the hands of owners Laura McCarthy and Mike Stuto, who'll reopen another-further-different bar there in September, but one without live music.

Though they're hushy-face about the details, the reincarnation will have as its focus what they're calling "a revolutionary jukebox." "You'll have to show up when the new place opens to see it," says Stuto, "but it's something that I'm very excited about" Their reasons for the change have more to do with the physical limitations of the space, than with selling out to attract the heavily crispied fern and cosmo crowd. (Let's hope.)

Check out the final months' schedule at www.browniesnyc.com/schedule/index.html .

Though no new spot has been firmed up yet, McCarthy and Stuto are hanging onto the Brownies name, and plan to reopen the live music mecca elsewhere.

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Her Majesty's Fleecing

In not-as-sad closing news, one of the Manhattan HMV stores, the huge-ish one at E. 86th and Lex, will be closing at the end of June. Right now they're liquidating to the tune of 20% off all stock, which just about puts their prices in line with common retail. However! They'll be taking 40% off everything, the last week of the month.

Imagine. Shopping at HMV without grumbling. See ya there.

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Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

Sex and secrets. Secrets and sex. They go together like cigars and White House interns. ('Scuse the dated reference, but the current administration just ain't as much fun.) While the tabloids wet themselves this week, over stories of the gay Brit who chopped up a dude, then fled to the land of tabloids wetting themselves, said gay Brit was happened upon in Central Park, waiting patiently for the cops to notice him and make their arrest. From his perch on a park bench, he said, yup, I'm the man you're looking for, here's my picture in the paper, here's my identifying tattoo but I'm not gay!

I don't know about you, but in a world where chopping up British guys is no biggie, yet being gay is worthy of emphatic denial, such tales call for music therapy. Being that this week included the "third of June," I've been enjoying the song about sex and secrets that put Bobbie Gentry on the map. Well, on the calendar, anyway.

To this day, I don't know what was tossed off the Tallahatchie Bridge in "Ode To Billie Joe." Hell, until, like, just now, I thought Billie Joe MacAllister was a girl. Maybe a girl in trouble, which would explain what was thrown from the bridge. I never saw the film Jethro Bodine made with Robbie Benson and Glynnis O'Connor (or some such), but I grew up knowing the song must have something to with sex. Most Southern secrets do.

Just as the mystery of the song's subject matter captured my imagination as a child, what captivates me about it now is way the hazy Southern lushness is conveyed. The rhythm of the family dinner. The narrator feigning disinterest in her mother's news. The string section that falls lazily from the bridge, into the muddy water.

Seems like nothin' ever comes to no good up on Chocktaw Ridge.

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Vin Scelsa, Uncorked
by Kimberly Massengill
May 29, 2002
(This one's long as hell, kids.  Fawny in parts, and largely skimpy on the smart ass irreverence you've come to know.  But I'm a card-carrying fan of this guy, and I found it hard to carve out much of our 90-minute conversation.  So endure it quietly, or move along.)

Since November of '67, his freeform mix has been a fixture of the New York City airwaves, with stints at WFMU, WBAI, WLIR, WPLJ, K-Rock, WNEW (when it was New York's Rock station of record).  An understanding missus has allowed Scelsa to remain in New York radio without succumbing to being a button pusher.  "My wife has always been very supportive of what I do in radio, I mean both emotionally and spiritually, as well as financially, [allowing] me to follow my muse, or my stubbornness, or whatever you want to call it."

As the last century came to a close, so did his time at WNEW.  As the end of his contract approached, he got less and less respect from the station.  "First they cut my hours… then their offer to me was, you can stay here, but you have to buy the time yourself." 

I groaned when Scelsa told me this.  Dealt with as though he were hawking bald spot spray or stay-alive-longer pills?  Then I thought about it.  His many years traipsing the New York dial has earned Scelsa a sizable and devoted fan base.  A sponsor or two would surely have stepped up to the plate to keep Idiot's Delight on Sunday nights, with a signal strong enough to span the region. 

"Yeah, but the environment was not good there.  The environment was hostile," he says of the Opie and Anthony-ing of WNEW's format.  "There was just no place for me there.  And no place for my stuff there, either."

Over the years Scelsa has amassed his own music library, which he is now consolidating with his home collection, and getting rid of what's duplicated.  

He dipped his toe in various other broadcast waters (Q-104 and a couple of public stations, including WNYC) before getting the offer from WFUV.  "If you understand New York radio, you know that 'FUV is -- to a certain extent because of Rita and what she's done there -- is very much an extension of what Rita learned as a listener, listening to me," says Scelsa of Music Director Rita Houston.  "So, I'm sort of like, considered by them to be the granddaddy of what they're doing, you know?  So to get me over there, doing my show, doing Idiot's Delight, on whatever basis, just made the most sense." 

Scelsa seems hopelessly fused to airwaves in their traditional form.  His short-lived Internet radio show, Live At Lunch, was critically successful, but financially not, and his investigation of satellite radio came up empty.  "I spoke to Sirius, but they didn't seem to have any interest in doing a channel, or even a show, or anything where what I do would be allowed," he says.  "Because what I do is very hard to define." 

WFUV first offered him a full time position, "It would've either been the spot where Delphine is, or the spot that Corny's in," Scelsa refers to WFUV's Delphine Blue and Corny O'Connell.   "But it would've required working nights, and my wife and I did not want to go through that, at this stage in our relationship."  

His initial thought, when offered his current 'FUV slot?  "I don't wanna work on Saturday nights. That's the night that nobody listens to the radio.  That's date night, Saturday night…. So it was rough, but I took it, and I'm still learning what to do with it.  I'm still not totally comfortable with it.  And luckily, we have the Internet now, so that people can listen in the archives, the time shift, or whatever you want to call it."

Dismantling his second music library seems to prove Scelsa's into 'FUV for the long haul, even if it means Saturday nights, forever.  "But if he ever left Sunday night, I'm sure I'd be the first person they'd talk to," Scelsa says of The Big Broadcast's Rich Conaty.  "And I wouldn't mind doing Saturday and Sunday.  That could be fun." 

Of Idiot's Delight's three biggest hindrances, Scelsa hasn't a comment on the future of WFUV's limited broadcast signal.  About more time being allowed him, "A lot depends on what goes down over the next few months with Pete," says Scelsa, referring to the uncertain future of Pete Fornatale's Mixed Bag, which precedes Idiot's Delight.  "It's possible that the show could pick up an hour or so.  We'll see."

About the unfortunate loss of the obnoxiously talented Producer Kara Manning, who was the Cassidy to his Kerouac at WNEW, Scelsa reports, "She's not there with me now because they can't afford her."

The Fandom Knows

More than three decades on the New York City ether has earned Scelsa a loyal following.  Launched by a fan six years ago, there's a web board, 6 or 700 subscribers strong, loosely devoted to Idiot's Delight.  Though he finds it "kind of disappointing," Scelsa communicates with fans via the WFUV board.  There's an online chat that not only gathers during Scelsa's Saturday night show, but still collects on Sunday nights, as well.  There are tape trees, and traders of home-burned copies of past shows.  There's even a mysterious (my word) hermit (his word) downtown, who regularly provides tens of thousands of dollars worth of bandwidth toward archiving Scelsa's shows.  Another fan hosts the sizable digest archives, and others keep web record of Scelsa's weekly lists of "The Songs I Played."  There are folks who've been mourning the passing of his Internet show for longer than it existed.  There are regular parties, barbecues, and concert gatherings organized by fans.  There's even a song about 'em.

It was that rabid(ish) fan base that clogged my mailbox last January, when I wrote of the apparent decline in the quality of Scelsa's show.  The angriest letter, however, came from Scelsa, himself.  It began a dialog, which led to my giving him another listen.  

To those who'd remarked that there seemed to be an improvement in the show, following that column, I'd joke, "I am so taking credit for that."  Little did I know Scelsa would later, quite generously, give merit to my levity.

"An intelligent pushing of a vulnerable button," says Scelsa.  "I guess that's what your column was."

"As much as it hurt you to write it, and it hurt me to read it, it was a kind of a wake up call.  I thought, ooh, she's right." 

"I'm not responsible for the Sunday night loss," says Scelsa, referring to his move to Saturdays, which was one of the reasons I'd stopped listening.  "But everything else you said, there's a certain amount of validity to all of it, and you need that every once in a while.  I won't allow anybody to do it to me.  I won't allow program directors to do it to me.  I won't let the digest do it to me," he says of the Idiot's Delight Digest.  "But there it was on the screen, and it was just as valid to me as if I'd picked up a newspaper.  To read something like that was very, you know, it was very powerful.  Like, holy shit….  It touched certain buttons that were already raw, and it pushed me in a good direction…  It was heartfelt, and it was intelligent."

Talk about Vin-dication.

"What was happening at the point at which you got turned off to the show, was that I was letting that get out of hand," Scelsa says of his for-better-or-worse trademark banter, "Thanks for having the balls to say something that hurt you and hurt me, but it eventually had some good," he said.  "It impacted on me in a good way."

And the impact has been apparent.  Part of the improvement sprang from an agreement with the powers at 'FUV that now allows Scelsa to broadcast more often from his home studio in New Jersey. 

Studio V

"If there's no reason for me to go the The Bronx ['FUV's studio is on the Fordham campus there], and the only reason would be to work with guests, then they're okay with me, if I do it from [home]," says Scelsa.  "See, my biggest problem at 'FUV is that I don't have my library there [he brings in a scant 120 or so CDs from home, and beyond that, relies on the 'FUV library].  While they have a very good library, I don't really know what's in it yet…  And, if the decision is that the next song is going to be Neil Diamond, I have to know that Neil Diamond is there, or there's gonna be dead air.  Or I'm gonna panic and just throw something else in."

Scelsa's being gracious about the station's library.  While I was visiting, there was no Neil Diamond to be found.

The Few, The Loud

"I'm always looking for melody, and I'm looking for intelligent words," Scelsa says of the things that might land a song on Idiot's Delight.  "Sometimes you'll get one without the other, and that's no good.  I'm always looking at a marriage of melody with poetry.  And it has to touch me personally." 

Though he listens to music at home several hours a day, "I do most of my serious listening in the car, 'cause there's no distractions in the car."

New Jersey motorists, beware. 

He can't possibly rock your world the way he did mine by appreciating my testicular gusto, but I urge you to tune in, anyway. 

Vin Scelsa's Idiot's Delight
Saturdays 8pm - midnight
WFUV 90.7 FM  (or go to wfuv.org for streaming and archives)

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Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

I cut my smack music teeth on songs like Robin Trower's "Bridge of Sighs," and last week we lost the voice behind it.  So, in honor of the late James Dewar, with a voice like swimming in hour-and-a-half Jello, I've re-obsessed over my old Trower this week.

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There is Magic in That Marker!
by Kimberly Massengill
May 22, 2002

In the never boring cat and mouse game of record industry versus music sharers/copiers, score another for the mouse.

Seems Sony Music's fancy new copy-protection technology can be circumvented with no more than the swipe of a standard steal-em-from-work felt-tip marker (why limit your larceny to the record biz?).

The technology prevents you (well, unless you have a Sharpee in your desk drawer) from burning copies or uploading music to your computer using their original, store-bought CD. What really burns my butt about this brand of copy protection is they do it by making their CDs unplayable on your computer, often causing it to crash. Even some portable players and car stereo systems refuse to play the encoded discs.

Not only can you kiss making your own mixes goodbye, but how much of your listening is done at your computer, in your car, or through your Walkman? Oh, wait! The Walkman is a Sony product (and, alas, a mighty fine one), so it's likely an exception.

Sony's Key2Audio technology works by adding a hinky data file to the beginning of their CDs. Since your computer reads that track first, it gets hung up there, continually trying to process something that doesn't make sense to it. Genius bastards!

Enter the magic marker.

Blacken the outer rim of the shiny side of the copy-protected CD (the side your stereo reads, not the side you read), and your evil MacGyvering should be enough to block your player from getting snagged on the roadblock track.

One can make a pretty tight argument justifying these record company schemes. It's their right. But when they limit the way folks who're not file sharing use the product they've plunked down hard-earned crispies for, rendering expensive audio equipment unusable, they're tampering with a trust I don't think consumers will forgive.

So for now, advantage: The Little Guy. But, as in any cat and mouse game, one's lead never lasts very long. The industry will, as well they should, come up with another way to prevent you from copying their discs. And the kids in backwards baseball caps will come up with a way to thwart that.

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Sand and Grit

J. Keith Christian, Jersey Shore promoter of shit kickin' and Cowboy poet who only takes his hat off for two things, hosts the fourth annual Twang Monster in fabled Asbury Park, NJ, Memorial Day Sunday. I've broken several State and Federal laws with this man, and can pretty much guarantee you'll get your b'jiggedy waxed to a shimmery shine, if you go. (Don't bother looking it up. It's a good thing.)

The "celebration of Americana, Roots and Twang Music" boasts a marathon line up, including (in order of appearance) The Jersey Star Roadhouse Country Band, Nicole Atkins, American Ambulance, Mick Hargreaves, Buddy Woodward & The Nitro Express, The Big Galoots, The Chelsea Mountain Boys, The Sloe Guns, Naked Omaha, The Hangdogs, Case 150, and Crash Gordon. Tell me that ain't what a redneck has in mind when he blows out his birthday candles.

Sunday, May 26th
The Oak Lounge @ The Berkeley-Carteret Oceanfront Hotel
1401 Ocean Avenue, Asbury Park, NJ
Doors open at 2pm, Showtime is 2:30pm - 1:30am (last band goes on 'round midnight)
Admission is a mere $10 for the whole beer-soaked mess

Go hungry. Leave drunk. For more info (and proof that tank tops do too go with cowboy boots) visit www.twangmonster.net .

If you care to make a proper (or not so) holiday weekend of it, check out the Asbury Park Music Festival, the day before at Convention Hall, just across the street. The "Celebration of Music, Art and The Rebirth of Asbury Park" features Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes, Pete Yorn, Dave Edmunds, Graham Parker, Dan Bern, Marah, Sloan, Antigone Rising and more.

http://www.concertseast.com/newrelease/convention_show6.shtml

And remember - if you don't come back with sand in your crack, you haven't been to Asbury Park. (Think I can sell that to the tourism board?)

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Night(s) of the Living Dead

Hardcore 'heads - heads up!

Nearly seven years, to the day, following the Grateful Dead's final show, all the surviving members of the original band - Mickey Hart, Bill Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh, and Bob Weir - will reunite as The Other Ones, performing at Terrapin Station, A Grateful Dead Family Reunion.

The Other Ones (don't you love a good self-deprecating name?) will be joined by Jimmy Herring on guitar, Jeff Chimenti on keyboards, and Rob Barraco on keyboards and vocals.

The two-day event will feature two music stages, a spoken word/interview stage, and a memorabilia tent showcasing items from the Dead¹s personal collection (maybe that Ebay guitar will be there). Phil Lesh and Friends, RatDog, Mickey Hart & Bembé Orisha, Bill Kreutzmann¹s TriChromes, and Robert Hunter are also scheduled to play on the main stage. Each day will conclude with The Other Ones performing a couple of sets. Confirmed second stage artists include The Disco Biscuits, Robert Randolph & The Family Band, Donna The Buffalo, and Karl Denson¹s Tiny Universe, as well as acoustic performances by Warren Haynes and Jorma Kaukonen.

Saturday, August 3rd and Sunday August 4th
Alpine Valley Music Theatre, East Troy, Wisconsin (pack up the microbus)

Tickets for the event are going for $44.50 per day, so you can see the living Dead ten times, or Liza Minelli once (insert your own "living dead" joke here). Tickets will go on sale Saturday, June 8th, but early tickets can be had through Grateful Dead Ticketing, beginning Thursday, May 23rd. For more information, visit www.dead.net.

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Oxford American Makes You an Offer You Can't Refuse

Oxford American Magazine, finest purveyor of Southern culture and literature on the planet, has lost its publisher, and is scrambling for a replacement.

"We have until the end of this month to find new ownership," Editor Marc Smirnoff told me yesterday. "It's going to go right down to the wire, but because we're having serious talks with more than