Out ‘n' about in the City of Angels - and Memphis - with Blurt's roving shutterbug (11/16 - 11/30).

By Scott Dudelson

(above) GWAR & Dead Fetus - Live @ House of Blues (www.houseofblues.com) - 11/16

GWAR Loves Crack - Live @ House of Blues (www.houseofblues.com) - 11/16

A Fine Frenzy (Alison Sudol) - Live @ El Rey Theatre (www.theelrey.com) - 11/17

Among the Oak & Ash (Josh Joplin & Garrison Starr) - Live @ El Rey Theatre (www.theelrey.com) - 11/17

Royal Crown Revue - Live @ The Mint (www.themintla.com) - 11/18

Snoop Dogg - Live @ Club Nokia (www.clubnokia.com) - 11/19

DJ Quik - Live @ Club Nokia (www.clubnokia.com) - 11/19

KISS - Live @ The Honda Center (www.hondacenter.com) - 11/24

Gene Simmons with KISS - Live @ The Honda Center (www.hondacenter.com) - 11/24

The Black Crowes (Chris Robinson) - Live @ Club Nokia  (www.clubnokia.com) - 11/28

New Found Glory (acoustic) - Live @ Troubadour (www.troubadour.com) - 11/30

Dashboard Confessional (Chris Carrabba) - Live @ Troubadour (www.troubadour.com) - 11/30

***

Scott Dudelson is a music journalist and concert photographer based in Los Angeles.  Scott is also the Chief Operating Officer of Prodege, LLC, the company behind www.swagbucks.com.

No. 5: Hardcore Hit & Run

By Bryan Reed

I haven't done much writing about hardcore for a while. This is odd, given hardcore is the first music I truly loved. And, like any first love it never really leaves your system. You might stray for long periods of time, and you might even grow out of it, but any reminder of those happy, bygone days will bring a smile to your face. To this day, Minor Threat is still my all-time favorite band. So, I'm playing catch up, writing quick snapshots of a few (9) of my favorite recent hardcore records that that might have slipped your radar.

And to avoid confusion, they're in alphabetical order, not order of preference.

01. Aneurysm Rats - Dying To Live (Assassinated)

It's less than 15 minutes long, but that's all the time it takes for the Philly fivesome (featuring Colin McGinniss of Paint It Black and None More Black) to leave a dent in your forehead. The 12-track, one-sided LP is a fantastic mid-tempo slammer punctuated by both sub-minute ragers like "Perfect Skin," and fist-swinging anthems like "Babies Don't Eat Sandwiches." Straightforward hardcore beats are broken by flagellating swipes of guitar noise and unexpected moments of gang-vocal mantras. The feeling of the whole is as fun-loving as it is enraged, like a grinning drunk who'll hug you after punching you in the teeth.

"Left To Right" | "Classic Tammy"

02. Cloak/Dagger - Lost Art (Jade Tree)

Better to pogo than to mosh by, Lost Art has a bit of the '77 spunk (like The Damned or The Vibrators), a shot of The Briefs' amphetamine paranoia and a hardcore streak that marries Adolescents giddiness with Fucked Up stomp. The record is a caffeinated fit totally worth it for that inescapable bounce-around-the-room-in-your-socks-vibe. I dig it, and I'd wager even those not typically into hardcore might, too.

"Don't Need A"

03. Friends of Friends - Deep Search

Friends of Friends is easily the most approachable band on this list. Their No Idea Records aesthetic (read: beard punk) is as indebted to the gutter pop of the Replacements and Jawbreaker as it is to Black Flag and Agnostic Front. The songs are simple and earnest, and the choruses almost universally boast group-sung crescendos. But, even as this record walks confidently on well-trodden paths, it's brought a smile to my face every time I've spun it. Surely, that counts for something.

Download all of Deep Search here.

04. GRIDS - s/t 7" (Lunchbox)

Integrity demands that I disclose my relationship to GRIDS as friendly. We share a hometown - Charlotte, N.C. - and a fondness for hardcore and noise rock, and even the most cursory listen to the band's debut single reveals their massive debt to the Jesus Lizard and Flipper. But what appeals most to me about GRIDS is that I know where they're coming from, because we have a lot in common. Punk has always had its regional aesthetics and influencers, and I hear Charlotte when I listen to GRIDS. I hear the suffocation felt by anyone looking to carve out a niche in a city that feels much like a commuter college - its biggest draw is its proximity to beaches and mountains, not any of its own accomplishments. GRIDS isn't happy with that, and neither am I. But we can be pissed about it together.

05. Hawks - Barnburner (Army of Bad Luck)

Another bunch of Amphetamine Reptile addicts, Atlanta's Hawks have crafted a gleefully malicious LP in Barnburner. The bass dominates here, thick as tar and heavy as lead, it stomps the dominant thrust of Hawks' songs, as the guitars lacerate jagged swaths above it. Vocalist Michael Keenan issues threats with a garbled voice as though he's spitting his epithets with a mouthful of razors. But in the midst of the band's sonic attack, there are deep, undeniable grooves that make this musical miscarriage into a work of twisted beauty.

06. Just Die! - Garages and Basements (Self-Aware)

Hailing from Asheville, N.C., Just Die! won me over with the closing track of Garages And Basements, "Watch Your Speed, Chief." It plays like a Gorilla Biscuits anthem, roughened around the edges, more jaded that GB's often naïve optimism would allow, but still hopeful. When the chorus hits, it's something like perfect.

07. Lewd Acts - Black Eye Blues (Deathwish, Inc.)

Lewd Acts understand dynamic. They understand that opening space in a song only makes the dense parts feel heavier and more burdensome. They know that a well-placed slow riff makes a lightning bridge all the more shocking. And on Black Eye Blues, the San Diego band uses this adeptness with variation to its advantage, pairing Tyler Densley's bile-churning growl to an instrumental storm that surges and recedes, torrents and trickles. It can be the slow-dripping water torture or a sudden immersion in a boiling sea - both ways it kills.

"Wide Black Eyes"

08. Lowbrow - Broken Speech (Self-Aware)

Another Charlotte band, Lowbrow made a vibrant contribution to my hardcore listening queue this year. The band's punishing sound probably wouldn't be out of place on a grindcore mixtape (next to, say, Brutal Truth or Magrudergrind), but Lowbrow's got a surprising handle on dynamic - especially given this is their debut. For all its redlining speed and blitzkrieg aggression, Lowbrow shows itself to be a band willing and able to scale back for moments of spacious tension. It only serves to leverage their next blow into a knockout every time.

09. Psyched To Die - Year One (Dirtnap)

The way Psyched To Die -  pictured at the top, and fronted by ex-Ergs frontman Mike Yannich - so gleefully delivers their short, fast bursts of depressive anxiety perfectly balances sarcastic humor with pointed irony. But more than that, it lends itself perfectly to the band's dry, West Coast-style hardcore. This singles compilation is one of my hands-down favorites of the year. That it bridges the deliriously snotty fun of The Ergs, the bouncy venom of vintage West Coast hardcore with the sarcastic bitterness of both is just gravy.

"Conditioned To Fail" (.m4a)

\

Also in rotation: Agnostic Front - Victim In Pain (reissue via Bridge Nine); Frodus - Conglomerate International (reissue via Gilead Media); Flipper - Generic Album (reissue via Four Men With Beards); Zero Boys - Vicious Circle (reissue via Secretly Canadian)

***

Bryan Reed is from North Carolina and, despite his best efforts, he still hasn't grown out of the racket that irritated his friends and family in high school, and continues to irritate them in the present. Stalker-types should know that they can follow Bryan on Twitter @subparrockstar.

Me, with John Zorn cover in hand. Sonic Youth's Death Valley '69 pokin out in the back

 30 seems like one of those unfathomably big numbers for the anniversary of my recording music, in one location. I'll try to stay clear from any "what a long strange trip it's been" type stuff. I feel I mainly want to make a mundane commentary about life - a commentary about the basic, mundanity of life.

 Thankfully plenty of people, including me, can view my 30 years through rose colored glasses. But there was the mind-numbing boringness in between the standout records, and in fact sometimes *during* the standout records. The overwhelming magic was really there 1.5% of the time. An analogy would be touring, which I've done more of lately, and thankfully. You play 45min's sets, of which 1 in 5 is magical, and then it's welcome back to the nothing-to-somewhat-something, of moment to moment life. I don't want to be a big stick-in-the-mud and ungrateful sour puss, but I look back on -let me take a stab here- 5 or 6 very ground breaking records, and maybe 40 moderately so, and what I remember is that even the scenes surrounding the music, were much more underwhelming than the collective memory seems to make them.

 When I was very young -barely over 20- what seemed most exciting, was that my immediate peers and I were seemingly doing something important. The broader scene (downtown New York in the 80's/No Wave/post punk) seemed 88% mediocre and tiresome. But I am very happy that that era in New York has taken on a golden mantle. I'm grateful for some people's rose-colored view of that era, cause it has slightly enhanced my own memory. It's like when you show a visitor around town, and everything feels more interesting cause you share their viewpoint.

 One main thing I can say is that these 30 years seem to encompass a golden era in independent recording - from when it started to be more affordable and democratic, to now, when recording is extremely accessible and common, and concerns about quality are at a minimum

 Speaking of rose-colored glasses. Tom Antona from Alice Donut (a band I first recorded 17 years ago), wove a tale from stage the other night of fishing with me ("a young Martin Bisi") back in the day, at a polluted canal near the studio, and how we'd catch "magical", mutant fish with mutant butterflies flying around us - not exactly how I remember it, but a version I'd like to hang onto

 Well, if you want to stroll down memory lane with me, you can watch this video of when I took all the records down from the studio wall recently. The reasons for me doing it are complex, but I place each cover in a basket and "reminisce". They include indie stuff like Sonic Youth, Swans and Dresden Dolls, avant garde and World like John Zorn and Bill Laswell, and more mainstream records like Ramones, Iggy Pop and Herbie Hancock. This is part 1 of  5, but you can easily find the other segments:

VIDEO HERE

Find Martin Bisi on Myspace: www.myspace.com/theendcredits

The name Star Fucking Hipsters may put off a few folks -- like the merchandise managers at the big box retailers -- but there are worse things they could be called.  Like a side project, for one.

SFH founder Scott Sturgeon (aka Stza) was so bothered by that label that he had the band record a full album's worth of songs just weeks after they finished touring behind their last record. Mainly to prove that SFH was a committed band.

Recorded primarily in his New York apartment and engineered on a laptop, "Never Rest in Peace" manages to sounds even better than the band's studio-produced debut. The songs are tighter, the lyrics clearer and more importantly the band is finally safe from being called a side project.

We recently caught up with Sturgeon long enough for him to answer a few questions:
 
Any lineup changes since the last record?
Yes, we now have Chris Portier from Dread Fabrik and Big Attack! On bass and drummers Alex Charpentier and P.Nut who also plays with Degenerics and Ensign. We still have Yula (Beeri on) bass and Ara (Babajian) on drums. They are very busy and interesting people, but they know that they always have a place in the band. S.F.H. has at least 10 members at this point and no bad feelings. My only thing is that I absolutely need Nico (de Gaillo) and Frank (Piegaro) to be there. They've even played a couple of shows without me, which I am proud to admit.
 
Did anyone ever try and talk you out of the name?
No, I started the band, I deal with almost every aspect of what we do when we're off-stage, so I get to name it whatever the hell I want. I understand that I have a habit of shooting myself in the foot "commercially" but then again, that's exactly why I do name my band something Fucking Something or naming a record Fuck World Trade. Although it may not be very shocking, it definitely keeps our albums out of places like Target or Best Buy; places that I would never want to support financially anyways and I suggest that people find alternatives to these huge global corporations that are bleeding you dry while you think you're saving cash ‘cuz Wal-Mart has a smiley face discount. These stores will decimate your town, steal its money and then they'll leave you in economic crisis.
 
You had a bunch of guests on the last record. Any guests on this one?       
Not quite as many as we were very pressed for time, but we did manage to get Dick Lucas from Subhumans and his band mate in Citizen Fish and Culture Shock Jasper to sing on two of the songs as well as having Bryan (Kienlen) from the Bouncing Souls sing and plays bass on a track and Miguel (Reyes) from Oakland/Citizen Fish plays a horn on "The Civilization Show", a very Citizen Fishy song in my opinion. And we had a bunch of friends sing back-ups from various NYC bands. It's in the liner notes.

You put out "Until We're Dead", toured like crazy, then immediately recorded this new record. Did you have any down time?
I had a bout a month and a half last winter to travel around Central America. I've been slowly learning Spanish over the last eight years. I can speak it enough to get by, I suppose. Other than that, no, I've really not had more than two days off from band business of some sort. I'm planning on taking it easy this winter as much as possible.

Why the rush to put this record out?
We really felt the need to put together a catalog of songs to cement the fact that we are not a side project, but an actual band. Plus we just had so many new songs and we knew we could make a better record than "Until We're Dead", so we figured why the hell wait, let's get this thing out there and break out of the side-project category for real. We will definitely be waiting a bit longer to do our third record tentatively titled "Ska Fucking Hipsters".

Where did you record "Never Rest in Peace"?
Myself and Nico live on the fifth floor of a fairly infamous building in Alphabet City called C-Squat or See-Skwat, depending on who you talk to. We rehearsed there a few times and it turns out that our apartment has a really great sound so we demoed and recorded a bit in a bedroom at P.Nut's house in New Brunswick, NJ, but the record was almost entirely recorded and mixed in three of the rooms on the fifth floor of our place by a fellow named Ryan Jones (myspace.com/ryandjonesengeneering) who is a live soundman that happens to be an amazing recording engineer. He just had a laptop and two little monitor speakers. After we'd record a song take, it would already be mixed by him, he's that good.

Any big inspiration for the songs that make up "Never Rest in Peace"?
Every song has its own separate inspiration. For example my first lyrics on the song "The Civilization Show" were inspired by the events that transpired on the Oakland BART platform last New Year's where a police officer shot a kid in the back of the head while he was hand-cuffed laying on his stomach in front of a lot of civilian witnesses on their way home from their New Year's parties. Later, the officer claimed that the victim was making fun of his mom or some such nonsense, my theory was that the cop was coked out of his mind when he publicly executed the young man.

Can you talk about the song "Banned from the Land"?
That song is about the subjugation of the native "American" tribes when our ancestors committed what amounted to an indigenous genocide and how this is stolen occupied territory.

Guest post this week from Michael "Mick" Flores of my new fave band, Gidgets Ga Ga, self-described as a "Midwestern powerpop trio with grit, wit, spirit and musicality. Imagine The Replacements getting jumped by The Beatles and The Monkees then molested by The Who & Nirvana." I couldn't have said it better. Take it away Mick...



Dear 7-year-old Me,

I'm writing this letter to you because you are 7 years old and you don't know what life has in store for you. So I am going to fill you in on some things.

I'm still knocked out by the musical tsunami I heard in the basement. You know exactly what I am talking about. When you heard that song for the first time. It still happens to you when you hear it.

Music was and still is the answer. Music is your call. You will never have a doubt that music is calling your name. You were scratching before it was cool and an art form. (Note to self: scratching a record with a needle makes it skip!)

Remember when Mom gave you your first guitar? It was really a gift to Mom from Dad for Valentine's Day. Mom wanted to learn how to play but it was too hard on her fingers so she did what any good mom would do. She gave it to you. Remember her handing it over and looking you in the eye when you told her you wanted to be a musician? And her words of wisdom as she handed it to you were: "That's great son, just remember musicians suffer and a musician's life is a hard life. Great musicians have to suffer and you have to suffer to make great music. You my son, have not suffered enough." So you said what any smart-ass kid would say and told her, "Let the suffering begin!" Needless to say, that guitar wasn't any kinder to you than it was to Mom. It was a lot harder on your fingers as they blistered, peeled and bled out.

I still admire the fact that Mom has a deep understanding of the heart and soul of artists and musicians. Although she was not a musician herself, she sure knew how to enlighten you as an aspiring one. She still does to this day [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Wish You Were Here

Disclaimer:

The story you are about to read is based on actual events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. This is pure Gonzo-deSade - if you are easily offended by adult language, sexual situations, drug fiends, homophobia, or salacious behavior - move on. This is not for you.

 

I woke up in my pajamas curled up on the couch like a rehab patient.

Hung. Over.

It felt like an iron balloon was inflating inside my skull. My stomach pinched and turned in nauseating waves that crested between the sadness and paranoia.

So many questions...

"Why was my mobile phone in the fish tank? Did I drunk dial my mother again? Did things get ‘out of hand' while sexting with an ex? Could that explain all these empty Tabasco bottles in the bathtub? But why did I microwave pudding? Or Photoshop Hitler mustaches on pictures of Cate Blanchett and email them to The Vatican? Just for kicks? Or was there some deeper psychological root to all this mania? How twisted was I? Maybe I should go to the hospital, call the paramedics, seek help now --- Holy Krishna! Get it together, lass. This is just the drifting haze of the aftermath. Ride it out. Eat some carbs. You'll be back to super-hero status lickety-split."

Indeed. It seems all it takes to uncover this kind of spastic emotional hysteria is 3 bottles of Bordeaux, 2 cups of coffee, 5 shots of tequila, a hash brownie, 2 tabs of xanax, and a devastating break-up. Yes, I've recently lost the love of my life due to a rather silly but irreversible skirmish on the number of accessories I should've added to my iPeen (see previous blog - and please, stop sending me hate-mail. I am keeping my elegant vagina. Reset and move on).  

Now, my head knows the dangers of committing spiritual archeology under the heavy drapes of drugs & alcohol. But during deep dramatic distress my bohemian-heart pops like a blowfish calling the "fuck-it-all" devils to rise from the depths, seize the helm, and steer me directly into the eye of the crashing storm.

I wanted to drink and forget and awaken on the far shore depleted and sore from the jagged tiers of the frigid rocks. So here I was, alone and shattered, hoping this sad-sickness would soon surrender itself out of me.

And then my landline rang.

It was Jonah - one of my dearest friends and co-conspirators. He is an excellent example of living a self-defined life. I've always believed him to be the psychic lovechild of Abbie Hoffman and Freddy Mercury. Together, we are the best of the worst. True professional degenerates. Whenever he calls, beautiful trouble follows.

"Otep," he said, "drop the doom and gloom, pack a bag, and get cute. We're going to Tijuana."

"What the fuck are we gonna do down there?" I asked. "Get robbed?"

He said, "That's enough of that, scholar. I know exactly what you need: fun, sun, and Mexican skydiving."

I dribbled, "Jonah, I'm a mess today. I still miss her. Another time, okay?"

Jonah shouted, "Get it together goddammit! You called me at 4 this morning screaming about how ‘our side' is losing the fight for Gay Rights, that your ex won't return your calls, and how quickly you were sinking into the sand! As your sponsor in debauchery, I cannot stand by and watch you become another soggy cliché! We are going to fucking Mexico, my friend!"

I wanted to hang up. I wanted to slip back beneath the blankets and drift deep into the calm waters of depression.

I said, "I don't think I have the emotional architecture for this level of adventure."

"No worries." He said. "I've got the sure cure: ACID."

"Are you serious?" I asked.

He was serious.

"Come on O, don't say no." He pleaded. "We need to do this. I got it all taken care of. Trust me. After this trip, you're gonna be good as new!"

Normally, I would say no - LSD is not a drug I am partial too - but I was in serious emotional crisis and his enthusiasm was too much for me to resist. The "fuck-it-all" devils once again grabbed the controls and I surrendered.

Skydiving. On acid. I was impressed. "Excellent form, sir. Let's do it."

He beamed, "I knew you wouldn't let me down. We can trip on our trip and we'll peak by the time we fly the friendly skies. If we leave now we can be there by 3 o'clock."

"On the way we have to stop", I said, "So I can get a new phone. Can't go on this journey unarmed."

He laughed, "That's the spirit! Make sure it takes video! Now, look out your window."

He was parked in my driveway.

I got dressed, threw a bag together, and raced to the car. He dosed me as soon as I got in and we sped off for the border - music blaring, eyes wide, minds open.

By the time we passed through San Diego a strange crystalline network of glowing prisms, organic fractals, and rainbow webbing had emerged and devoured the peripherals. The passing landscape melted and split like a watercolor Rorschach. I found myself lost in the Escher angles of the Great Cosmic Grid. Everything was infinite and ever expanding. I realized we, the human species, were nothing but holograms projected over the octagonal gravitational planes.

Beautiful. Right?
I thought so.

Then the sun began to bleed and pulse like a colossal strobe light. The landscape darkened and drowned in inky petroleum and choked with ash and fire. Then hundreds of hairy spiders, giant scorpions, and hagfish began plopping all around me.

My visions kept coming: I saw black Jesus riding a dragonfly, armor-plated grizzly bears ripping Sarah Palin to pieces, Jerry Falwell sucking off Mickey Mouse, and a sleeping winged land whale (whatever that is) laying soft white eggs on the scaly skin of some forgotten Sumerian God. It was incredible.

After an hour or so of this miserable nightmare, everything dissolved into a radiant storm of tiny embers. Everyone and everything looked to be made of fireflies. When we reached the border, the guard either didn't notice or didn't care about my incessant staring because he just waved us through.  

We somehow found our hotel, checked in (without getting arrested), and then lit out for the airfield. Jonah's timing was impeccable. 3:05 on the nose.

We met up with our instructors, had a 7-minute tutorial session, and then bam! We were up 13,000 feet and ready to vault into the stratosphere.

But then the drug turned on me.

I kept thinking that whatever I was doing to my mind could never be undone. And that all these people standing around me were conspiring to poison and murder me.

Not the thoughts one wants to have while racing 300 mph over the jagged Mexican terrain. And things were getting worse. I glanced at Jonah. He was laughing hysterically, which (of course) I perceived as evil incarnate.

Fear gripped my spine. Everything felt ominous. I suddenly realized that I was strapped to a portly little man named José - yes, my instructor. I think he said something like, "ARRRE YOOUU RREADY?" But before I could process the question, José stepped out of the plane and we tumbled into the atmosphere.

I remember falling.  And thinking, "This must be how Icarus felt" and someone shouting, "HOLY GOD WE'RE GONNA DIE!" It was José. What kind of demented jackass screams something like that while strapped to a noob with a head full of acid?

I closed my eyes. Terrible idea. I could see the inside of my skull.

José shouted again, "I'm just messing with ya!"

The treachery of the moment was too much for my senses to bear. I must have blacked out. I don't remember landing. I don't remember punching José. I don't remember how we got back to the hotel. Or how I got under the bed. But when I woke the drug was long gone. Jonah had moved on to another - Ecstasy. (And probably a little demon-speed)

He was shirtless wearing a man-thong, listening to his iPod, and dancing like an eel out of water. He spoke to me in a rapid, unbroken cadence only a few major-league drug cosmonauts could master:

"Otizzle!Good.You're awake!You okay?Why did you punch that guy?They were gonna call the cops.Luckily, I brought petty cash.You owe me $150 American. Just kidding. You hungry? I ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and a fruit platter from room service.Have some melon.It's good.I don't want any right now but you go for it.See, I told you it was going to be fun. Go ahead have a peach."

I was much too grumpy for fruit. "What time is it?"

"It's daytime." He said. "On Sunday.Come on, get up. Let the healing begin. I've got something really special lined up for tonight."

"Dog races?" I asked.

"Even better." He said. "Chop chop. Get a move on. Later, I reveal the true purpose for our Mexican invasion!"

Before we go on I should give you a little more info on Jonah. He's a self-loathing TV producer who uses his absurd wealth to make up for the fact that he's a self-loathing TV producer. He's also the kind of beautiful lunatic who will persuade me to go skydiving on acid without telling me our trip also includes a dinner with leaders of the ultra-conservative group "Marriage is Holy".

Awesome, isn't he?

The first couple arrived at the restaurant shortly after we did. The husband, Reed, was a major stockholder in a Conservative cable news network, and his wife, Cassandra, was a bulimic aristocrat with a bad pill habit.

The second couple arrived a few minutes later. They were bitching about the cab driver and accusing the "sand-monkey" of taking the long way so he could plump the meter.

The husband, Pervis, was a Baptist Minister specializing in gay exorcisms and supervised the nefarious "HOMO NO-MO" clinic. His wife, Eustace, was Republican royalty - her father was a famous segregationist.

I chose not to reveal my politics or my loud & proud outlaw rock-poet heresy. I didn't have the energy or interest to intellectually pummel these volcanic-enema-men or their blue-blood brides. Silence was the key to my stability. And theirs.

Between breaths, and stuffing their craws with food and booze, these pontificating scab-bags railed on and on against the evils of the Internet, atheists, feminists, and fags.

Pervis barked, "Can you believe what these sodomites are trying to do now?" Bits of food hissed from his lips. "Mark my words, destroying the sanctity of marriage is the goal of the secret homosexual agenda!"

Eunice mumbled, "Filthy Fags", but Pervis slapped her hand, "Not while the men are speaking, honey."

I was just about to go erupt on Jonah when Reed leaned over and asked, "You bring the vitamins, soldier?" I pretended not to hear. Jonah smiled and slid the bottle of ecstasy to him. Reed grinned like a pig in shit. He popped one in his mouth and motioned to his wife. She tossed back a pill and passed the bottle to Pervis and Eustace.  They, too, joined the party.

Jonah began doling out bumps of cocaine from a small grinder but I declined. Not my drug. Shortly after, we piled into Reed's limo and headed out for their favorite local disco. Yeah ...disco.

In the car, the women downed shots of Jack Daniels while Pervis and Reed crushed up Viagra and snorted it off the mini-bar.

I was ready to bail. I remembered my new phone and retrieved it from my bag. I needed a cheap flight back to L.A. - NOW.

Suddenly, Pastor Pervis barked, "Just what in the hell do we have here, huh?" He motioned to my bag. The contents had spilled out all over the limo seat: wallet, keys, hand sanitizer, pill bottle, eyeliner, mints, and ...my iPeen.

Fuck. I forgot I brought it.

Before I could explain, he grabbed it by the shaft and the damned thing thundered to life - violently vibrating in a flash of bright, multicolored lights - he sputtered, "Whoa now, you're not one of those, uh - holy Jesus - is this a weapon? Are you a member of the Lesbian Jihad?"

Jonah shoved another bump up Pastor Pervis' flaring nostril and said, "Back off, buster. She's one of us." Pervis sucked back the powder, downed a shot of Jack and passed the iPeen to Eustace. She waved it around like a lightsaber.

Reed shouted to the driver, "Stop! We're here! Alto! Alto!" The limo screeched to a halt.

Eustace touched Jonah's shoulder, "This is where we met you, remember Jonah?" He blew her a kiss.

Cassandra leaned close to me and whispered, "Welcome to Gomorra. You can have anything and everything you want here." She smiled and waddled from the car.

The "disco" was actually a private sex club for the wealthy elite. Reed and Pervis flashed their Platinum VIP cards and we were ushered in. The place was a dive. They paid for freedom and secrecy - not luxury.

The music was a deafening mix of techno-trash and German trance. The stench of cigarettes, cheap cologne, latex, old lube, and assorted bodily fluids was equally overwhelming.

This was definitely NOT my scene.

I tried to get Jonah's attention but Cassandra suddenly dropped her skirt (no panties) and jumped on top of the bar. A crowd collapsed around her, staring wildly at her mature meat-curtains slapping and clapping to the rhythm of the music. I expected her husband to object, but Reed was busy making out with a black transvestite in the back of the club.

Pervis and Jonah plopped down at a booth and started slamming back Jaeger-bombs while Eustace gave a handjob to a Limbaugh look-a-like.

I commandeered an adjoining table to survey this insane circus from a safe setting. The waitress brought me a bottle of tequila infused with scorpion venom. Perfect. I wanted swift amnesia.

Reed sidled up next to me and said, "So sport, wanna play?" I punched him in the dick and he slid to the floor. I roared, "Game over. Fuck. Off."

I slammed a shot, and was just about to suck back another when I saw Eustace and Cassandra making-out.

Hate devoured me.

Watching these two hypocritical hags eat each other's face was too much for me to bear. I had to get out of there. Fast.

But first, I needed to give Jonah a piece of my mind. I jerked him by the collar and shouted, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you bring me here? This isn't my scene, you maniac! How is this supposed to help me? I am outta here!"

Jonah laughed. "Cool out, Teez. I'm sorry. Okay? But I promise it's worth it.  Your new phone has video, right? Capture a memory."

A devilish grin slid across his face. Indeed, the master plan.

I moved through the room secretly filming these human disasters like a true virtuoso - smooth zooms, perfect pans - passing over Jonah giving me a thumbs up while snorting lines off a hooker's ass, over to Pastor Pervis sodomizing Reed who sucked off the Nubian Tranny, to Cassandra fucking Eustace with the technological wonder that is my iPeen.

I filled up my phone with video and snuck out quietly. I had Reed's limo hustle me back to the sweet sanctuary of my apartment.

I showered, downed a couple of Ambien (with a vodka chaser), and ate half a hash brownie. My mobile buzzed. A text from my ex: "Babe! I'm at a Disco in Tijuana! SOOO drunk. Thought I saw Jonah. Wish u were here!!"  

I grabbed a bottle of tequila and collapsed on the couch.

I woke up the next morning. Hung. Over. I remembered the video. I hissed, "I'm gonna fry those fuckers." I looked for my phone - shit, where was it? My apartment was a mess: dried pudding, Hitler mustaches, Tabasco bottles --- Fuck.  It can't be.

I was curled up on my couch like a rehab patient.

And my phone was in the fish tank.

James Luther Dickinson's Dixie Fried

By Carl Hanni

This month Sonic Reducer pays tribute and respect to James Luther "Jim" Dickinson, one-man repository of the southern musical vernacular, kudzu-crusted swamp boogie conjuror and musical force of nature. 

Jim Dickinson, who recently passed along into the great recording studio on the other side, was one of those Large Characters that can only come from the American South. Equal parts iconoclast, master collaborator, producer of note, studio rat par-excellence, keyboard-man/multi-instrumentalist in demand, character, legend, raconteur and living (now deceased) archive of several Southern musical traditions, Dickinson lived several musical lives, often at the same time. He became, over several decades, the very stuff of Memphis itself. His home (barn, really) studio in the Mississippi Hill Country south of Memphis became a point of destination for generations of bands looks for some genuine Southern grits and grease in their sound and in their point of view. And his life was a tabula rasa of dedication to putting the bomp in the bomp-shu-bomp-du-bomp and the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong.

Jim's myriad of projects, bands, recordings, production credits, etc. have been detailed elsewhere many times, including recently here in Blurt, and are too numerous to go into in complete detail. But if there's anyone out there who hasn't heard the list yet, a few of the highlights include producing and collaborating with Alex Chilton on Big Star's legendary Big Star 3 and Chilton's disaster-masterpiece Like Flys on Sherbert; recording memorable records for The Replacements, Tav Falco's Panther Burns, Green on Red, Flamin' Groovies, True Believers, Jason and the Scorchers, North Mississippi All-Stars plus many many more; several fruitful collaborations with Ry Cooder (including the soundtrack to Paris, Texas); and a legendary Muscle Shoals recording session with the Rolling Stones in 1971. Along the way he sired a couple of the coolest kids in music, Cody and Luther Dickinson of the North Mississippi All Stars, played in the legendary bar-room wreckers Mud Boy Slim and the Neutrons and the famous Atlantic Records studio band the Dixie Flyers, recording behind Aretha Franklin among others. Bob Dylan, Toots and The Maytals and Jerry Jeff Walker all benefited from having him in the studio, along with several dozen other acts. Oh, and he recorded a bunch of solo records, starting with 1971's Dixie Fried.

Something of a legendary/long out of print classic, Dixie Fried showcases what Dickinson felt like doing when left to his own devices. It's nine songs form a Memphis stew of looney tunes rock & roll, Hill Country country, white boy blues, minstrel-show boogie and whatever else they feel like taking a run at . Not everything on Dixie Friedsticks in my brain, but the ones that do are impossible to dislodge. He and his 2 dozen + players listed nail the stutter rhythms of the circus side-show boogie on "Oh How She Dances" to perfection. He tears the roof off Carl Perkins' "Dixie Fried," conjuring up a shuffle beat that Little Feat would build an entire career around. His tricked-out version of Bob Dylan's "John Brown" is a psychedelic folk blues classic . His own composition "The Judgement" is a small wonder, a hybrid of jazzy, country flecked gospel and cosmic blues. And his take on Furry Lewis' "Casey Jones (On The Road Again)" is a deliberately unfolding narrative that rolls on like a slow moving train shuttling between the barroom, the jail and the church.

Produced by Dickinson and legendary Atlantic Records producer/engineer Tom Dowd, Dixie Fried sounds delicious in that warm, wet way that so many records did back in the analog early '70s. The drum sound on every track, the Memphis-fried dubby effects on "John Brown" and the fabulous separation in the mix from start to finish are textbook/Production 101; except that, in truth, nothing that Dickinson did resembled anything in a textbook or academic or generic or standard. Intuition pretty clearly dominated intellect in his playing and producing. Enthusiasm, humor (ribald and otherwise) and a sense of communal playfulness infuses everything on Dixie Fried, as it did on most of his records. This is a fun record. 

Jim Dickinson was one of those guys that only come along a few times in a generation. He was a catalyst, the guy putting in the long hours, making everyone and everything around him better, leading by example, setting standards and making and breaking rules as he went along. Jim, wherever you are: is the piano in or out of tune there?

***

You can leave comments below or e-mail them to me directly at modmedia@theriver.com .

Carl Hanni is a music writer, music publicist, disc jockey and vinyl archivist living in Tucson, AZ. He  hosts the vinyl-only Scratchy Record Show every Tuesday night at the Red Room in downtown Tucson, and spins records wherever and whenever he can. He believes that in a better (all analog) world all records would be released on vinyl, but takes good music from wherever he finds it--even on CD. His feature piece on legendary bass player/record producer Harvey Brooks was recently published in Goldmine.

Meat indie rock band The Ettes.

By Coco Hames

Has anyone noticed how hipster snobs are pronouncing Vietnamese pho "phuh"?  Is this the correct, indigenous pronunciation or something?  Because it isn't an isolated incident, I must have heard at least four hipster snobs pronounce it as such in the last month, coast to coast.  Well, whatever, I'm not playing that game.  I don't play games with my food!  I eat it!  

Now, because Obama isn't really DOING anything at the moment (he's so not busy, it's crazy...) we need to start wrangling up legislation to outlaw factory farming.  My grandparents were hog farmers, my mom grew up on a farm, and she asked me "What's factory farming?"  Factory farming is the phrase used to describe the machination of animal farming and prevalent industry (and consumer, presumably) disregard for the health and welfare of the animals we eat.

You could go to YouTube and look up "Meat Your Meat", or visit peta.org and see pretty much anything they have documented there, and you could get an idea of what factory farming is, and why we should not do it.  It's bad for the planet, it's bad for the animals, which is bad for us (H1N1 anybody?) and it is cruel and inhumane.  You don't want to eat a sad pig do you?  I don't.  I want my bacon happy and healthy.

Jonathan Safran Foer FINALLY gets to the point in his new book I won't recommend at all to anyone, Eating Animals.  PS - nobody informed me this was a glorified collegiate essay, I.  Cannot.  Stand.  That.  Shit.  Hey alla y'all Susan Sontags, listen up!  If you are an academic writer, please fall off your high horse and just deliver the info with simple, elegant, educated panache, will you?  There is nothing I dislike more, NOTHING, than playful academia.  Who do you think you are?  Take all of your English classes and your grammar classes, learn and use proper Latin and the Dewey Decimal System, that is all important, but do not wag your academic finger at me from your ivory tower of reference books, get to the effing point.  Which, like I said, Foer FINALLY does (seriously, second to last page in the book), ahem:

"It shouldn't be the consumer's responsibility to figure out what's cruel and what's kind, what's environmentally destructive and what's sustainable.  Cruel and destructive food products should be illegal.  We don't need the option of buying children's toys made with lead paint, or aerosols with chlorofluorocarbons, or medicines with unlabeled side effects.  And we don't need the option of buying factory-farmed animals."

As Foer mentions, it really SHOULDN'T be the consumer's responsibility, I know how crazy my aunt and uncle (farmers) think I am to even worry about this stuff, and I admit, it's exhausting to go into a grocery store and put on my Terminator laser eye beam and scan and scowl at the food being offered.  Do we elect these government agencies to protect our food and drugs?  Are they appointed?  Is it more of a quorum really?  See, I'm not being preachy, I don't know that much, I cheated off of Wilson McDowell (so dreamy) in government class, though I did really like the teacher and felt a little bad about it.

This band is making every effort to eschew factory farmed meat, at home and at restaurants.  Although if Poni has to eat a chunk off of a live factory farmed cow that just happens to be walking by, she will, she is a bloodthirsty monster chupacabra and I have no control over her.  Although evidently we can eat at Chipotle?  Google that, see if I'm right, I think I read something about that.

The sentient beings argument is for another time.  Don't ask me "If not now, Coco, when?" you thoughtful, intelligent, ethically responsible vegetarians and vegans!  I don't KNOW when, okay??  I'll pull my aunt's Judeo-Christian standby about man in God's image, or else the Darwin that fits my meat-eating agenda, or else published studies on brain evolution in tandem with meat consumption!  And don't think it stops with the meat, there need to be judicious, legally enforced practices of safe, responsible farming in all aspects of the agrarian world, from taking care of the people who pick your oranges to demanding transparency as to where all that corn is going and why.

And yes, there ARE other things to worry about.  For instance, the stir fry I just made came out all one color because I forgot to pick up greens at the Turnip Truck.  Aha!  My parsley plant is still alive, you'll get greened up yet stir fry!

Forensic Files,

Coco

***

Blurt "co-co-editor" Coco Hames fronts The Ettes - Hames on guitar, Jem Cohen on bass and Poni Silver on drums - whose album Look At Life Again Soon and EP, Danger Is, were released by Take Root. Their new Greg Cartwright-produced album Do You Want Power arrived in stores Sept. 29, and you bet we've got a big feature on the band in our new print issue. Check out the band's MySpace page for music and tour dates.

You read that right, it's the Top 9. Two qualifiers: 1) an album totally worth the price, your money will be well spent and 2) an album that's stood up on replay, ad infintinum. Hence, there were only nine. Trying to squeeze in a 10th felt like a copout. And we can't have that. So, just in time for your shopping lists, our faves around Outlandos HQ for the past year:

1. Michael Miller, I Made You Up



Awash in a melodic swath of near-psychedelic ether, Miller's sound teeters between that delicate dream state of newborn refuge and Milky Way haze. But don't let the SoCal singer-songwriter thing fool you: Miller's unassuming yet gumptious approach places him squarely alongside the likes of troubadours Pete Droge/Steve Forbert but with flecks of Supertramp/Bowie-style transcendental grandeur. No kidding. Which is why it's my top pick.

2. Chris Velan, Solidago



Solidago was on my tops last year because I had an early copy (the release was April 2009) but it's so good I'm putting it on the list again. The scoop: cunningly disguised as jangly chill-lax pop, Solidago reveals whipsmart songcraft and no-bullshit guitar rockers juxtaposed amidst easy-going ditties. Think Paul Simon, Tom Petty, The Wallflowers, Bob Marley. The kind of political/romantic moxie that makes me think hell yes, I too am a Hard Way Learner.

3. Mike Gent, Mike Gent



A pop masterpiece. Seriously. It’s easy, it’s smart, it’s fun, AND it has balls. Like Wilco used to (think Box of Letters, Monday). Speaking of balls, Mike’s other band, the Figgs, has long been one of my favorite badass live outfits.

4. Glasvegas, Glasvegas



Timeless Glasgow glampop at its uber-finest. Echo and the Bunnymen-esque, bigger drums. Shit-hot.

5. Gidgets Ga Ga, The Big Bong Theory



Fountains of Wayne meets Cheap Trick meets Strawberry Alarm Clock. Lots of bouncy, chimey guitars, and an authentic garage sound. Plus the album has a million songs on it. Loads of bang for your buck [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Out ‘n' about in the City of Angels with Blurt's roving shutterbug (12/1 - 12/14).

By Scott Dudelson

(pictured above) Vic Chesnutt - Live @ The Echoplex (www.attheecho.com) - 12/2

Guy Picciotto (of Fugazi) - Live w/Vic Chesnutt @ The Echoplex (www.attheecho.com) - 12/2

Trainwreck (featuring Kyle Gass of Tenacious D) - Live @ The Roxy (www.theroxyonsunset) - 12/3

Brian Wilson - Live @ The Canyon Club (www.canyonclub.net) - 12/4

Charlie Hunter - Live @ The Mint (www.themintla.com) - 12/6

Tenacious D - Live @ The Echoplex (www.attheecho.com) for the Winston Calling Benefit (http://winstonsvillage.bbnow.org) - 12/8

Frank Black & David Lovering (of The Pixies)- Live @ The Echoplex (www.attheecho.com) for the Winston Calling Benefit (http://winstonsvillage.bbnow.org) - 12/8

Jack Black (of Tenacious D) & Frank Black (of The Pixies) - Live @ The Echoplex (www.attheecho.com) for the Winston Calling Benefit (http://winstonsvillage.bbnow.org) - 12/8

Flea (of The Red Hot Chili Peppers) - Live @ The Echoplex (www.attheecho.com) for the Winston Calling Benefit (http://winstonsvillage.bbnow.org) - 12/8

Billy Bob Thornton & The Boxmasters @ Brixtons - 12/9

Jonathan Richman  - Live @ The Mint (www.themintla.com) - 12/10

***

Scott Dudelson is a music journalist and concert photographer based in Los Angeles.  Scott is also the Chief Operating Officer of Prodege, LLC, the company behind www.swagbucks.com.

Generally, we stick to music here on the OUTLANDOS blog. But once a month, we digress. The idea being that if we share the same taste in music, we likely share the same taste in other stuff, lifestyle stuff. It's kind of like what we do with THE DAILY DOSE; by associating music with "other stuff" --- in this case wine and cheese --- it adds a greater value to the music, an expanded aesthetic experience. So that's the theme for IN SHORT, monthly recommendations of "other stuff" that we think you'll like, will perk your interest or at the very least make you chuckle. Hence, a review of 2009, the Top Five:

1. Fans



It's a recurring theme around OUTLANDOS HQ, not only the power of fans but also what to do with it (more on that next week). But for now, just again touching on the idea that We can help.

2. Boxed Wine



Been trying it out this year and I can honestly tell you, it's not bad. As in, good. Especially for a table wine around the house. And both cheaper and environmentally more friendly with 4 to 6 bottles of wine condensed into one box. Less waste. Black Box is our current fave, if you can find it [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Official Release Series: Discs 1-4

(REPRISE)

www.becausesoundmatters.com

Rating: (9)

On Neil Young's Official Release Series: Discs 1-4 (Reprise; www.becausesoundmatters.com): The first time I heard Neil Young was on my stereo while lying on the top bunk in my room. Sunlight beat down on the east-facing window, heating the curtains until the must smelled up the whole room. That copy of After the Gold Rush was clean, being a recent purchase by my friend, who lent it to me. I thought he was nuts to have purchased an LP when cassettes were the wave of the future. I also thought the artwork-patchy jeans, acoustic guitars-screamed "country and western" artist and, when I played the record and it didn't sound like Kiss or Prince & the Revolution, decided it sounded country enough to be country, whether it was or not.

I didn't listen to Neil Young-willingly-for years. If he came on the radio, I made fun, whining along to "Old Man" and "Rockin' in the Free World," even as those songs started to make sense to my (woefully slowly) maturing mind. Eventually, I grew to appreciate the work of Crosby, Stills and Nash, but only figured out Young's connection to them when I ordered 4-Way Street from Columbia House. On the strength of "Ohio" and "Southern Man," I penciled the corresponding numbers to the then-new Young album Sleeps With Angels into the boxes on the CH form.

When it came, I found myself only really connecting with "Piece of Crap" and, once more, emulating Young's voice, which had taken on a crotchetiness that made "Piece" sound like my grandpa bitching and moaning. Ha! He said ‘crap.'

I know. What a douchebag. Did I really get anything from listening to "Ohio" and "Southern Man?" Looking back, I was connecting only to the sound of the songs and not what they said. I hadn't learned, hadn't grown up enough, to appreciate the hypocrisy of a Bible-thumper's racism or the significance of a protest gone horribly wrong. I was happy in my bubble where the events of the world affected someone I didn't know-and where my Kiss Alive! poster, a symbol of all that was well and truly cool and relevant, towered above my headboard.

Makes me kinda sick, actually. I know pretty much everyone starts stupid and ignorant, but man... I took a long time to pull my head out.

When I finally did, it was because another friend, much farther down the road, found the CD copies of Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere and Tonight's the Night he thought he'd lost and, somewhere along the line, had replaced. In that time, I'd learned about the discord between Young and Lynyrd Skynyrd over "Southern Man" and how "Sweet Home Alabama" was their response to the song, which forever altered how I heard both songs. The line "four dead in Ohio" now evoked a heaviness, a combination of dread and remorse, in my viscera, and sent a chill down my spine. 

Finally I got my own copy of After the Gold Rush-it was less than two years ago, and at least six years since I got Nowhere. Although I listened to them both plenty of times, start to finish, in car, in my office, alone and with company, life-and the flood of promotional CDs I've received since taking this job, pushed them to the outskirts of my collection, where staples languish while new artists file in and out, demanding various level of attention. Some of them leave strong, defined imprints on me and others mere footprints in the soft soil of my consciousness.

It's winter now, days before Christmas. The last time I listened to a Neil Young album was August, on a road trip through southern Utah while my wife and daughters slept. I don't think they heard a note, but I did. It was Harvest, and it was one of those magical uninterrupted listens that happen less frequently now as life hurtles past me. It was interesting to note how the red rock canyons of St. George gave way to the sagebrush-the normal, dry variety and the fire-blackened shadows of that-of central Utah as "Old Man" played. I didn't mimic Young. Instead, I pondered what the song means to me now as the grown son of an overgrown infant, and what it could mean to my daughters when they reach the age of reason.

This box set, the fancy 180-gram deluxe limited-to-3,000 copies audiophile's-wet-dream whose components I've considered for the better part of the last ten days? I don't know what the format has to do with anything. To me, it's just presentation. The quality of sound is superior to my compact discs and MP3s, but that's not what I get out of the music. Holding these records in my hand now, letting them play in my office as snow falls outside and I sweat road conditions and deadlines and Christmas, I don't know what the big deal is about the heavy wax and audio quality.  

I do know this: Every time I listen to Neil Young, I get at least one part of that summer day back... and then some. My youth and the accompanying sense of wonder and future have eroded, such that they're beyond my grasp, and I'm still ashamed for that boy who couldn't get a handle on Neil Young's music when it was handed to him on a slick black platter. But I'm happy for the not-quite old man who gets to hold the album cover again and hear the music and know just what Shakey means, why it's important, and how it pertains to my life now and my days to come.

As this would be a "review," it occurs I should tell you why it's good and why you should pay attention or money-assuming, of course, that Neil Young still hasn't creeped into your collection. I would cough up some adjectives, but since I'm pretty happy with the way I came to Shakey, I can only recommend that, when you decide you're ready for his songs, you listen well.

***

Neil Young's Official Release Series: Discs 1-4 features his first four albums on 180-gram vinyl with gatefold covers and a nice, sturdy box to keep ‘em lookin' real good. Incidentally, those four albums are Neil Young (1969, reissued with the original art/cover), Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere (1969), After The Gold Rush (1970) and Harvest (1972). It retails for $149.98 and came out December 1. There's a gold-disc CD edition, too. That'll set you back $84.98. www.becausesoundmatters.com

I have kind of a strange New Year's Eve tradition: I make a list of everything I'd like to be free of. Then, I burn it. And then I flush it. Double catharsis.

On that note, I thought it might be handy to have a list of the Top 10 CUT THROUGH THE NOISE posts of 2009 to not burn/flush and to hopefully (!) reread/re-forward:
1. Content Is Not King
It’s YOUR job to identify and celebrate your fans, to turn them into super-fans; your brand runs on super-fans.

2. The New Free
Free is dead. Over. Overdone. We killed it.

3. Size Matters
It's not the length that matters... it's how you use it.

4. I'm Broke But Here's $100 Anyway Sell me a shared experience. Not only will you get my money (even when I don’t have it to give) but also free publicity (as I brag to all my friends) [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.