My band has been fortunate to have a notable celebrity help us out with our new biography (http://www.troubledownsouth.com):


At first, I was shocked when TDS asked me to be their official biographer. How could I capture the brilliance? How could I capture all of that rich history? How could I ever pretend to describe the cathartic experience of seeing them on a good night? Like when Matt goes flying around the room on one of his extended tap-on guitar solos? Or when Scott leaps over the drum set to get to the mic for his signature tune, “Lick My Chaps”? Ah, good times, good times.

Well, down to brass tacks. TDS was formed in 1977 in Leeds, England by the mysterious Jimmie Lee Slade. Legend has it that the extraordinary Leeds band the Mekons named one of their early songs after Slade’s band, but the reality, according to those in the know, is that the Mekons never even heard of Jimmie Lee Slade, given that he performed exclusively in his bedroom for his beloved pet rock, Jive Jake. If Slade were still alive today, he would certainly explain that the whole “Trouble Down South” situation between himself and the Mekons is just a coincidence. Unfortunately, however, Slade accidentally electrocuted himself during an inept attempt at auto-erotic asphyxiation in the bathroom of a Journey concert in 1980. Some conspiracy mongers have attempted to prove that Slade intentionally did himself in during the third encore of “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” but all empirical evidence refutes the notion.

Three hours before he died, TDS released its first single, “(Do The) Emu,” a collaboration between Slade, Doug Ewe, and a handful of very angry 8-year-olds. A group of bands playing emu-core music briefly sprang up in the wake of the single, but, sadly, all of them were backing Elton John within the year. Ewe and the former 8-year-olds (by this point 13) kept the TDS name alive with the 1985 album Squeegee, but due to the dubious ontological claims of the indie label which released it, the album currently only exists in the minds of rock journalists.

Ewe met his own tragic end in 1988 when he attempted to push the World’s Largest Hairdresser into a swimming pool after an overdose of heroin, barbiturates, nutmeg, and banana peels during a recording session with Phil Spector.

The remaining members of the band (now in their mid to late teens) met and decided to continue as a band with the venerable TDS name, but as a hardcore punk band, figuring that their three-letter acronym would give them the edge over any hardcore bands with only two letters in their acronym. Then tragedy struck again in the form of college.

It took the young TDSers well into their late 20s and early 30s to shake off the existential ennui that had taken hold of their souls and forced them to waste their youths in a boozy, overeducated haze. They decided that the way to rock & roll stardom would be to get day jobs, spouses (except for one notable holdout), mortgages, and debt.

And these are TDSers I admire so much today. They have taken public personas carefully conceived to drive their fans into buying frenzies whenever they get around to releasing bobbing-head dolls. They have constantly challenged themselves with greatness while playing happy hour slots during which the bartender and the patrons shush them. They have written their names across the sky, but erased them again quickly so as to avoid a citation from the local police. Trouble Down South is:

Matt Baab, the Violent One. As the other members of the band learned, Matt is quick to whip out his blade and cut the other musicians whenever they make mistakes.

Hayden Childs, the Mildly Retarded One. We’re all proud of Hayden for learning to change his own adult diapers and for being able to grasp foreign policy a bit better than the current President.

Scott Wiedeman, the Gassy One. Ah, many times have I delighted at one of Scott’s onstage bon mots, all punctuated by a well-timed gust of wind.

Julie Wood, the Acerbic One. Who hasn’t received a tongue-lashing from this one? You had just better watch your step around her!


All I can say is that I am proud to be associated with such a wonderful group of people.

-Gore Vidal

I haven't forgotten this blog. Just been busy.

I'm working with a few friends on launching an online magazine, The High Hat: http://www.thehighhat.com, which should be up in the next two weeks. Be sure to keep checking back.

I'm trying to finish the album reviews promised back in March.

Also, the band is going to master our tracks we recorded last December at the end of the month.

In other words, lots of news, but not that much.

My friend Martin was here last week, too, and we took a kayak/fishing trip down the Guadalupe River. These kayaks were far more stable than the ones from the last story, and we had no problem with them. Also, the take-out point was clearly marked, which was excellent. The guy who rented us those kayaks said that he'd missed an unmarked take-out point before, and had been quite pissed-off about it, too.

Anyway, Martin, who'd never fly-fished before, caught the biggest fish of the trip, a nice 1.5-2 lb Guadalupe bass. Huzzah!

Partially because my boss held me at work a bit after I needed to leave, the 3/5 of us who were riding together didn't get out of town until 2. We got to the South Llano River State Park at about 5:30 or 6 (I forget). They informed us that they were out of drive-in sites and that we've been downgraded to a walk-in site. OK, fine. Then, when they hear that we have 5 people in our party, they freaked out. Apparently, only four people are allowed in each walk-in site. They're going to have to put us into the last drive-in site. OK, fine. We set up camp & head down to the river for some fishing. I took about 2 itty-bitty largemouth bass, 2 Guadalupe River bass, and a few sunfish. The other guys (who are much better casters than I) took around 12 fish each in the same time-period. We headed back to camp around dark, and were joined by one of the other guys.

Here's a shot of the lovely Llano (rhymes with "Lando") River.



The other guy arrived late, around 10 pm. We'd just gotten back from a trip to town for chow. The Assistant Park Ranger, a good ol' boy with a bit of a Barney Fife over-anxious attitude (due to his boss being in the hospital, presumably) arrived to bitch about us parking the cars side-by-side instead of nose-to-nose, then to bitch about us drinking beer, despite the fact that they were all in coozies. After our assurance that we meant no harm, Good Ol' Boy Fife went his way.

The next morning, we headed out to look for the place from where we'd be renting our kayaks. We knew that we'd gone too far when we crossed the river, which wasn't supposed to happen. We pulled over and just then, a truck towing a bunch of canoes and kayaks came up after us, it was our kayak guy, who I've since affectionately renamed "Mildly Retarded Drunk Obnoxious Asswipe" (or Mr. DOA, if you wish [changed "Inbred" to "Obnoxious" for the acronym]). He had us follow him down to watch him set a couple of fathers & sons up with canoes, then follow him back to his place (which had a sign that appeared to be camoflauged to assure that no one could find it from the road) to drop the truck and pick up lifejackets, then back down to the second river crossing, which is so close to the headwater springs that it was the first place on the river that anyone could set in.

Here's another shot of the Llano River.



While riding us down to the river, Mr. DOA was polishing off his third Miller Lite since we'd run into him. It was 8:30 in the morning. This was not a good sign. Our plan was to set in at the second crossing and fish while heading down to his place. He assured us that we recognize his place when we got to it, then dropped off after telling us to expect to flip over a few times.

A word about the kayaks. Unlike most ride-on-top kayaks, these were narrow and short (usually these types of kayaks are one or the other, but never both) and seemed to be built with instability in mind. Every single one of us flipped within seconds of setting off. We hit the first deep pool just afterwards. This water was deep, swampy green, unlike what one would expect of a body of water this close to its headwater springs. Anyway, the fish were biting like crazy for everyone but me. I tried four different flies and got nary a nibble. The river had enough current to prevent one from remaining in the same place for longer than a single cast. We hit a couple of short rapids, which were mostly shallow (which was good, because you didn't want to fall out and crack your head in deep water) but which typically pushed our boats into trees or a high bank before dumping us into a deep (at least chin-deep or more) pool.

Me, enjoying a fairly warm refreshment. The grey boat was my craft. I have a soaked towel and water in the backpack, which is strapped on tight. Note that my flyrod has a holder, but that it is in no way secure.



For your entertainment, here's the shot of me crashing in the rapids.



This picture is from moments after the last one, as I'm surveying the rapids that just dumped me into a tiny pool that was way over my head.



We ate lunch when we stopped to drag our kayaks over a road crossing. It was about 105 degrees then. I had taken to putting on more sunscreen every 20 minutes. The heat was intense and the river offered little cover. I had yet to have a single nibble by lunch, while some of the other guys had taken as many as 20 fish (we were all practicing catch-and-release, btw).

After lunch, my luck changed, and I started to bring in some fish, largemouth bass and sunfish (perch and bream), some of the latter of which were nicely sized. We were still taking our time, although we were unsure how far we'd gone and how far down Mr. DOA's place was. There was one section of river that was wonderfully shaded and so rewarding that I rowed back up to the top of it and floated down again. All my luck in the early afternoon was on a subsurface woolly bugger that was brass tipped and orange with gold streamers.

Here's a shot of me in ACTION!



Another ACTION! shot. Note the professional way in which we choke down the warm beer in the shade.



Later in the afternoon, I started using a spider surface popper. The fish couldn't get enough of that thing. I caught the largest bass of the trip by some 6": a 24" 2-lb largemouth that was the largest fish I've ever caught on a flyrod. He fought a bit, but I was wilier. We didn't have time for a picture, because I'd snagged him at the base of his throat and he was bleeding quite a bit. I was worried that getting a shot of him might prolong things too long and kill him, so I let him get a swallow of water, then grabbed his lip and popped the spider fly out, held him up to measure on my flyrod for the other guys to witness, and let him go. Total time: about 45 seconds. We all fished that pool for a while. It was getting into late afternoon, so we figured that we couldn't be too far off from MR. DOA's spot. Then a couple of guys whose kayaks had been taking on water decided to go ahead down to his place.

Here's a shot of the spot that reminded me of the NC Piedmont.



About 20 minutes later, the third guy headed off after them. The last guy & I started about about 10 minutes behind him. I was actually 5-10 minutes ahead of the last guy, who stopped to untangle his leader before going. We rowed aways, and fought the urge to stop and fish some more out of some concern that we hadn't seen the other guys yet. We hit some long, rough rapids (I was riding like a champ by this point) that ended up shooting us under a low iron bridge. The light was starting to get into late evening. A few houses started to pop up on the banks. We passed an elderly couple fishing on their dock who told us that the other guys were only 10 minutes ahead of us, and that we were about 45 minutes off from MR. DOA's place. If we rowed hard, we'd make it before dark.

So we rowed hard. We had to drag our kayaks over a dammed ranch road, and we passed one place where a cement bridge had collapsed into the water. There were a bunch of large javelina or feral pigs crossing there, including one fucking giant buck. Several deer watched us pass, too. We also saw a couple of foxes running through the bushes.

We knew the name of the place: Fox Hollow, but saw no signs for it. We went through another area of houses and docks, including one that we were convinced had to be the place, because there were numerous kayaks and canoes on the lawn, although it didn't have a sign. We stopped there and shouted for anyone, but the house looked wrong (e.g. it was very nice) and no one came out, so we figured that we were wrong. After that place, we crossed a set of rapids where I got turned around and Will's kayak came at me so fast that it nearly ripped my right foot off.

Another long pool. Light was fading fast. Another set of rapids. I turned around and shouted for Will to watch out for the trees at the base of that set. He couldn't hear me. I floated downriver a bit and shouted back to see if Will was ok. Nothing. I turned about, and realized that full dark was upon us, and that the night was moonless. I couldn't see anything back on the river. I paddled back up, calling for Will. He finally shouted back that he'd been tumped and had lost everything. I intercepted his cooler, a shoe, and his paddle. His flyrod was gone, though. He finally caught up, and we decided that we were too far downriver to get back to the last houses. We figured that we'd keep going for a little while.

Another set of rapids. Another long pool. I pulled to the side and climbed up a ridge to see if I could see lights. Nothing. In any direction. We were in the middle of nowhere on an unpredictable river in the middle of the darkest night of the month. Fuck.

Another set of rapids. This one threw me right into the trees and took my flyrod. I spun around to get it, got turned sideways, and then flipped into chin-high water. This time, my glasses were gone, and the bag holding my lighter had gotten ripped. I also took a good thump on the head from the kayak.

Up until that point, I had figured that I could get us out of this situation. I knew that I had the wilderness survival training to deal with whatever. Without my glasses, though, I couldn't see three feet in front of my face, and felt truly fucked. I felt helpless fear that I haven't felt since I was a child. This was the sort of situation where people make bad choices and die. Will seemed almost delirious.

Another set of rapids. Another long pool. Although we couldn't see it, this pool culminated in a dead-end, and some rapids headed off to the left. We pulled up at the end of the pool to talk. Will said that he wasn't doing another set of rapids for anything. I could see a light over the bluff and told him that we should dump the kayaks and head out on foot. We decided that the light could be a house and started shouting for help. Nothing. We sat there for a few minutes, then shouted for help again.

This time, we heard someone shout our names. I can't tell you what that feels like. Maybe after I get some distance.

We hauled our kayaks over the bluff and found that the river made an S shape and that the other guys were with some people just downriver. By dragging our kayaks over the hill, we avoided the rapids and could set in on the other side and float over to where they were.

The people turned out to be MR. DOA and his wife, Li'l Drunk Idiot Bitch. Let's call her Li'l Dibbie. They made fun of us for missing their place. Was there a sign? No, but it had green chairs. Green chairs? Yep, that was the place. No, really, green chairs were what we were supposed to be looking for? Yep, y'all are really dumb, now don't mess up the grass.

MR. DOA and Li'l Dibbie were shitfaced. They told us that we were lucky that they'd headed down to their friends' place. I realized that if I heard their voices again, I was going to break MR. DOA's nose. And possibly Li'l Dibbie's, too. The other guys had been there long enough to go get the truck, so we loaded up and left. We hit the campsite for dry clothes (and spare glasses), and went to town, exhausted, waterlogged, and pissed as hell. It was 11 pm. We found a diner that agreed to feed us, even though they were closing. A little milk of human kindness was decent nourishment right then.

Although we'd been on the river until 10:30 at night, we decided to go talk to MR. DOA in the morning. The idea was that Will and I should be able to take some kayaks downriver to find our lost gear. MR. DOA was a bit upset that we'd awakened him (at 10:30 in the morning), but agreed that we should be able to take the kayaks to look for the gear.

We had to go pick them up from where we'd left them the night before and bring them back to his place to set in. This gave us the opportunity to see which place was his.

It indeed had green chairs. No sign. You couldn't see the lodge from there. Nothing to distinguish it from any other place. Will and I set in and started downriver. We passed the place with the kayaks on the lawn about .25 of a mile later. We passed the place where Will had nearly taken my foot off, and both of us were tumped there.

A couple of long pools and rapids later, we found the rapids where Will had lost his flyrod. It didn't float, so we didn't really have that much hope for finding it. Will went through first and jumped off immediately at the bottom of the rapids. He dived into the water and came up with his flyrod. Apparently, he'd seen the tip gleaming, despite the rushing water. A bit later we found his missing shoes and towel. Pretty impressive.

A couple more long pools and sets of rapids. I headed into the rapids that had knocked me over the night before, and saw my flyrod stuck in the branches of the trees. Score! I pulled my kayak over, and jumped off to look for my glasses, knowing that it was stupid. We spent about a half hour diving into the fast-moving water and the pools on either side. Will finally said he couldn't do it anymore. We headed through another set of rapids and into the long pool where we'd given up the night before. The other guys were waiting for us at the other end. They told us that they'd originally been met by MR. DOA and Li'l Dibbie right up where I'd taken my spill. I was pissed, because if they'd stayed there, I'd never have lost my glasses. I left them there to fish and headed back upstream to look some more.

When I got back up to the place, I let myself float in the current from where I'd spilled. It took me to a spot over on the bank a bit around a corner. I realized that I could half-submerge my backup glasses and use the submerged side to see as clearly as if I had goggles. Doing this, I found my glasses. At the bottom of the Llano River. In fast-moving waters. Yes, you may be amazed now.

I also found a couple of long-lost spinning rods, which I took up to the Ranger Station for karmic balance.

Anyway, upshot is: a good scare, drunken rednecks, things lost and found, and the biggest damn bass I've ever caught on a flyrod.

Another ACTION! shot.

Update on our Memphis & Nashville trip.

First news: my wife did great on her triathlon. It was an Olympic size triathlon: swim a mile, bike 25 miles, run a 10K (6.2 miles). She did all of this in 3 hrs & 24 minutes. I'm married to a cool, bad-ass jock-girl!

Museum news: I had a lot of time to kill. My buddy Andy came over from Nashville, and we took in some of the sights in Memphis.

* The National Civil Rights Museum. There was a woman out front protesting the annex on the grounds that it cost $10 million, and added nothing, while neighborhoods in Memphis suffered in Third World conditions. She's right, but I'll get to that in a minute. The first part of the museum was built around and into the Lorraine Hotel, where Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot. The information was prodigious. I did a ton of reading on the various stages of the Civil Rights Movement while working on my master's degree, and every little detail I could think of showed up in various forms: the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, the NAACP in Birmingham and Montgomery, the Nashville Movement and the birth of SNCC, the Rev. James Lawson, the disorganization in Greensboro, the influx of white students from the North, the relative disregard for the role of women in the movement. Andy and I were there for 3 hours, and we rushed through the last part. Anyway, the first part of the museum culminates at the balcony where MLK was shot. There are hotel bedrooms (in disarray, as they would have been on that morning) behind glass on either side and a window looking out at the balcony, with a huge wreath marking the spot. The final statue exhibit shows the Memphis Sanitation Workers on strike, with signs that simply say "I AM A MAN" as they face down the police. A plaque mentions that the mayor of Memphis capitulated to their demands after the death of MLK, in an attempt to quell the riots across town. It doesn't mention that the Sanitation Workers were biracial, and or say much at all about the Poor People's Campaign that King launched right before he died. There is nothing about the Movement after King's death. It is as if the museum is saying that the sacrifice of King ended any racial issues in America. There is an exhibit about Gandhi, and then you may walk across the street to the protested annex. In this part, the room from which James Earl Ray allegedly shot King is preserved. There is a large exhibit afterwards mentioning that many people do not believe that Ray acted alone, and mentioning some other potential co-conspirators, including the Army, the FBI, and the Klan. The exhibit does not mention that King's family has endorsed this position. It is amazing and heartening that a taxpayer-sponsored museum in the South would mention the potential culpability of the military and the police in the death of this country's most prominent civil rights leader, however. I don't know if that's worth $10 million, but it might be, especially considering the unlikelihood that any of that money would have gone for social services or neighborhood-building.

* The Stax Museum of American Soul Music. We went directly to Stax from the National Civil Rights Museum. I recommend this approach to anyone visiting Memphis. The Stax Museum is in a poor black neighborhood in South Memphis. Right across the side street from the beautiful sign to the parking lot, for instance, is a two-story house looking as if it was only days from collapse. A couple of guys sat on the porch, watching the tourists and drinking beer. It was later in the day when we went into the museum, and they were trying to close by the time that we finished. Open for about a week when we went, the Stax Museum is a rebuilt replica of the original Stax studio & record store, which was located in a former movie theater. Pictures in the lobby show the theater falling apart and finally disappearing throughout the 70s, 80s, and 90s. The most striking was a historical marker before an empty field saying that the legendary Stax studio had been located there. And yet there we stood, inside the building.

The first thing you do in the museum is watch a movie stressing the multi-racial Stax approach. Most of the people involved were still alive when the movie was shot (and, indeed, are still alive today), so we could hear firsthand from Steve Cropper and Rufus Thomas (since deceased) about the studio and what it meant to Memphians and to soul music fans at large. The museum next emphasizes the role of the church to soul singing, before going on to the numerous exhibits. Many are interactive, demonstrating how the Stax approach to soul was different from Detroit's or even Muscle Shoals's. There are some eye-popping examples of excess, such as Isaac Hayes's gold-plated, white-fur-lined Cadillac. There is the original studio space, a large room with a sloping floor reminding one that you are standing in a theater. After seeing that room, I don't know how the Stax sound was so crisp. It seems like a cavernous space with weird corners and all the musicians playing at once would lead to a murky sound. Instead, the house band (Booker T & the MGs, if you don't know) managed to get a sound so crisp that I can tell how many strings Steve Cropper hits on a typical upstroke. It was just amazing to see and read about the racial unity involved in the Stax sound, especially after being pummelled by the evils of crackers at the National Civil Rights Museum.

Andy and I went from Stax to find Hi Records (which gave Al Green his start, among many others), a few blocks away. We again had to journey through some sketchy areas, but found it. There are no plaques or anything there, just a sign that there is a recording studio inside this building.

We headed down to Graceland next, but it was closed. I'd been before. My wife went to a party there the next day, but I wasn't feeling so good and skipped it. We also found Sun Studios, which was also closed. I'd been there before, too. It wasn't far from the hotel, so my wife & I stopped in for a t-shirt on the way out of town two days later.

In Nash Vegas, Andy & his fiance Jean took us to:

* The Country Music Hall of Fame Museum. Again, wow. They had some incredible relics there, like guitars and boots and outfits from Jimmie Rodgers, Mother Maybelle Carter, Buck Owens, Lefty Frizzell, Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Hank Williams, and I could go on for days. They had Gram Parsons's pot leaf Nudie suit, Elvis Presley's gold-plated Cadillac (which wasn't near as flashy as Isaac Hayes's), and Webb Pierce's Nudie-designed "Silver Dollar" Cadillac, which featured pistols for the car handle, rifles as hood and trunk ornaments, a silver-dollar-encrusted saddle between the front seats, and fuzzy-cowhide and silver dollars just about everywhere. Very impressive, although the second floor, with its focus on country-rock and new country, was far less impressive.

Afterwards, Andy and I trekked up the street to the Ryman, but it was closed for a private recording session, and the too-cool-for-school Nash Vegas country guys wouldn't let us in to see it.

It was, all in all, a fantastic trip and a fantastic way to spend my birthday (which was the day we were in Nashville).

Richard Thompson, The Old Kit Bag full review:

Within the context of his career, I'm giving it an A-/B+. There's only one standout song that I can see him playing in ten years ("Outside of the Inside"), but the overall songwriting is as solid as he usually musters. The sound is phenomenal, though: as dry and straightforward as Mock Tudor, with some of the most breathtaking guitar as has ever appeared on his studio efforts.

As always, the songcraft is at the heart of the album, but the remarkable effortless layers of guitar and stunning leads take a song like "Gethsemane" (which is basically a re-write of "Hand of Kindness" with more bitter, apocalyptic lyrics) into the realm of the Truly Inspired. There's a few Thompson-copywright miserable love songs, like "Jealous Words", which is most distinguishable by the Lindalike harmony vocals of Judith Owen, and "Word Unspoken, Sight Unseen", featuring Danny Thompson's bowed upright bass. The radio songs will be the poppy "I'll Tag Along" and "She Said It Was Destiny", both featuring very satisfying sudden major-to-minor chord changes. The true standout is "Outside of the Inside", which Thompson introduced in concert as a Taliban's-eye view of the Western world. This song has the feel of Thompson's legendary wrestling with his Muslim faith, and, while it's not "A Heart Needs A Home", it is a classic Thompson first-person narrative that steps away from bitter love to talk about the wide, bitter world.

Thematically, I don't know why Thompson's subtitled the album "Unguents, Fig Leaves, and Tourniquets for the Soul", nor split the album into two chapters, "The Haunted Keepsake" or "The Pilgim Fancy". Sure, the names sound like they mean something, but why this album? Why these songs? Obviously, this aspect is going to require more thought.

Anyway, this is not the best Richard Thompson album, nor is it even in the top five. It is, however, a new Richard Thompson album, and deserving of all the accompanying praise. I like the way that it sounds, and I like a number of these songs. I'm sure that the tour will be incredible, and that the rest of these songs will eventually catch in my ear. Why wait? Go get it, if you're so inclined.

Arbitrary ranking of the Richard Thompson albums, by my taste:

1. Shoot Out the Lights
2. I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight
3. Rumor and Sigh
4. Pour Down Like Silver
5. Mock Tudor (hey, I'm surprised it's this high, too)
6. Starring As Henry the Human Fly
7. Amnesia
8. Hokey Pokey
9. The Old Kit Bag (made the top ten!)
10. Across a Crowded Room
11. Hand of Kindness
12. Strict Tempo!
13. First Light
14. Daring Adventures
15. You? Me? Us?
16. Sunnyvista
17. Mirror Blue

That list could be more complicated with odd albums like Industry or Sweet Talker, or bootlegs, official and otherwise. But I left 'em off, for ease of ranking.

Picked up the new Richard Thompson (The Old Kit Bag) at lunch. Thus far (I'm on track 6), it's not as good as the last one, Mock Tudor, but better than the two previous, You? Me? Us? and Mirror Blue. I haven't yet heard any songs that he'll still be playing in ten years. The guitar playing is breathtaking, though, some of the best I've heard on any of his studio albums.

Just checked out the resume of the producer, John Chelew, who manages to get a refreshingly direct sound (like the one from the last album). He's mostly produced the likes of John Hiatt, Los Lobos, and Britfolkers like Bert Jansch & John Renbourn, but I love that there's a Saccharine Trust production credit on there.

It's been half a month, and yet somehow I have nothing too intelligent to say.


Ah, the magic of the Internet.


Anyway, I hope to have more soon. In the meanwhile, be sure check out some of the blog links to find out what the other smart kids are saying.

Got the nod to do reviews of a few albums for an upcoming book on obscure or lost classics.

1) Jandek, Blue Corpse. Awww yeah! This will be the shiniest and happiest of reviews!

2) The Feelies, The Good Earth

3) The Mekons, The Quality of Mercy is not Strnen and OOOH!

4) The Go-Betweens, 16 Lovers Lane

5) Richard Buckner, The Hill, which I'll compare & contrast with Devotion and Doubt

I'm excited about this. I turned out about 4/5 of a poem the other night (which was junk, but it felt cleansing to write it), and it just does my soul good to be putting words on paper. I'm going to have to toast to self-indulgence the next time I drink like a fish and regale people with my oh-so-witty banter. Then, again...