Chuck Eddy dusts off his old vinyl and scratches his head. We all win.

Greetings, BLURT readers. This column's theme is fairly simple: Basically, I sort alphabetically through my shelves for dusty old 7-inch vinyl indie singles from acts that aren't household names, and try to figure out why I wound up keeping them in the first place. This is the 11^th installment (first two appeared at Idolator.)

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MELTED MEN - Smoke Alarm Limbo (Pink Sock, 2004)

The front of the EP sleeve - revolving around a hideously deformed blue-skinned mermaid princess seated on her throne deep in the coral reef -- looks more or less like some half-awake stoner knocked over a few candles worth of hot wax all over it. And when you get down to it, so does the music, and surprisingly, this is not a completely horrible thing. Back cover also offers a conceptual clue: A middle-aged black couple, possibly with car broken down, occupying the stoop of an apparent gas station in the middle of nowhere, though clearly along Highway 321. Insert shows six subsequent shots of a highway patrolman in short pants detaining a tinfoil-masked transvestite in a hula skirt, not to mention a necklace comprising several primitive woodwinds. Actual vinyl is translucent, a sort of sea-green color. Band is a "collective" (what else?) from Athens, Georgia, and they include the Sun City Girls and To Live And Shave In L.A. among their closest MySpace friends. Songs include "Thumbs Like A Human" (a rapper spits about escargot while splitting the difference between the Residents and Red Hot Chili Peppers over electronic blippery almost managing to sound funky); "After All The Smoke Clears" (sproinging Jew's harp underlies helpful good ol' boy running down the sandwich menu over the phone - hot wings, chicken fingers, deli meat); "Pain Gel" (more blippy electro-funk, this time with twang attached, plus self-consciously annoying babble about being "sick and tired of being sick and tired");  "Sticky Frog" (missing amphibian link betwixt Clarence "Frog Man" Henry and Crazy Frog wherein some backwoods codger growls like Dr. John and/or Captain Beefheart -- but also occasionally Adam Sandler -- about a frog in a hollow log, and the art-funk hops around in an appropriately rubbery and squishy manner);  "Block Of Ice" (beat suggesting soldiers marching in cadence serves as foundation for yet another stoned rebel drawler, this one repeatedly expectorating a borderline quasi-racist "boogie boogie boogie boo/that's what I'm tellin' you" rhyme). During "Pain Gel," I accidentally knocked my phone out of the cradle, and I erroneously assumed that the busy signal - which fit right in - was part of the song.  Neat!

(http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewProfile&friendID=74171248)

MONDO TOPLESS - "Amazon Queen"/"Leave Me Alone"/"Just What I Need" (G.I. Productions, 1997)

More white boys playing fast and loose with dangerous and thankfully long-discarded stereotypes; the drummer even gets credited with "jungle wooops" in the A-side, which wooops sound a lot like the "monkey see, monkey do" chants in "African Man" off Iggy Pop's undervalued 1979 New Values LP. Numerous other racially insensitive rock'n'roll precedents - Warren Smith's "Ubangi Stomp," the Lime Spiders' "Slave Girl," like that - come to mind as well. Though it should be noted that the actual (and pleasantly buxom, though tragically not topless) grass-skirted cartoon Amazon queen on the 45 sleeve is unmistakably Caucasian, not to mention not particularly tall. And speaking of buxom, the band - a couple members of which I should confess here that I partied with on occasion in mid ‘90s Philadelphia, where they're from - took their name from an old Russ Meyer movie, just like Faster Pussycat and Mudhoney and Vixen before them. As umpteenth-generation Nuggets revivalists go, their live sets could be fun to frug to, too, I recall; the bar scene depicted on the rear side of the single sleeve even makes me a wee bit nostalgic. And "Amazon Queen" itself starts off pretty well, with a hardy riff and rolling Tarzan tom-toms and those aforementioned war wooops. But the vocal feels fairly weak and unassertive beyond the chorus, and the "yeah yeah yeah"s sound too rushed to hang loose, and the trash organ more suggests some shag-haired TV approximation of ‘60s garage-punk than the real thing. (Not that ‘60s garage-punk particularly cared about being "real," I don't think, but you get the idea, right?) The guitar leading "Leave Me Alone" has some life to it, too (momentarily reminds me of Mellencamp's "R.O.C.K. In The U.S.A."), and you can feel the band shooting for Seeds/Music Machine/Shadows Of Knight sleaze from some dank back alley. But they seem scared to rock too hard, so it's impossible to shake the feeling that they're just more follow-the-rulebook post-Fleshtones camp followers instead. "Just What I Need" is faster, with a bit of bop to it, but ultimately even more sub-generic. Word is the foursome's still around, though with a couple different guys now.

(http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=4406834)

THE MOONEY SUZUKI - "Oh Sweet Susanna"/"Say Man, What Time Is It?" (Gammon, 2002)

New York, five years later, with garage revival stuff in the form of the Hives and Strokes and White Stripes starting to reap profits that Mondo Topless certainly never imagined, and I WAS THERE, too - never partied per sé with the black-clad sunglasses-at-night schticksters in the Mooney Suzuki, but I did witness them on stage a bunch. They recorded these songs in Detroit, and put a black chick whose Afro harks back to the heyday of Angela Davis and Cleopatra Jones on the hard cardboard cover - so yeah, yet more radical chic and mau-mauing the flak-catchers. But I'm pretty sure "Oh Sweet Susanna" was the Mooney Suzuki's best song regardless, not so much for its bittersweet reminiscence of last summer's crush (which was fine, don't get me wrong) as for its guitar riff, which for all the world sounds stolen outright from Eddie Money's not exactly garage-purist "Two Tickets To Paradise." Boogie-woogie piano at the start resembles "Long Tall Glasses (I Can Dance)" by Leo Sayer to boot, and I have no complaints about the toasty and casually manly vocalization, which pulls off its ‘70s commercial meatball rock in much the way, say, Urge Overkill's "Sister Havana" had a few years earlier. The B-side's MC5 attempt is more along the lines of this band's usual doings, and also isn't really much of a song - just a couple of dorks shouting back and forth: "Say man, what time is it?" "I tell you, it's showtime!" Nothing but a vamp, trying to come off funky, as ineptly at it as anybody from the Spin Doctors to Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (both of whom it brings to mind) might have at the time. As a tossed-off B-side though, taken out of the context of its era and its habitat and it's makers' delusions of souldom, it almost passes muster. When last heard from two years ago, the Suzukis were succumbing to coming hard times in the biz, watching their V2 label fold just in time to keep the world from hearing an album that sounded like they'd experienced a Deadhead conversion.

(http://www.myspace.com/themooneysuzuki)

Chuck Eddy is the former music editor of the Village Voice and the author of several books, including the greatest book on heavy metal ever written, Stairway To Hell. He won't admit it, but he knows more about rock ‘n' roll than the entire accumulated BLURT brain trust.

Hell, the Grammys prove that year after year. Obviously, you don't have to make very good music and people will buy it. It can even be downright terrible. Here's why: Sure, the Internet leveled the playing ground for a lot of us but it also muddied the waters; now, everyone's an off-the-couch artist, writer, photographer, musician. Hence, content, i.e. music, is everywhere [...]

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.

Taylor Swift and Myley Cyrus together for the first time! Wait, where are those guitar fills coming from? Oh wait, now I see the band behind them.  Myley needs to dial down the dramatic gestures. Swift is playing it perfectly. Great poise.

Best Pop Collaboration: Plant and Krauss win it--no surprise here.  Krauss looks smashing. Plant looks like Plant-meaning he wins hands down for rock's Dick Clark Award for still looking amazing even in his sixties (80s perm and all). Krauss remains silent while Plant accept the award.

Jennifer Hudson performs. What a voice. What a choir.

Joe Carducci

Word is i'm one of the special guests on this publishing panel april  
18 in LA at USC:
http://web-app.usc.edu/ecal/custom/113/index.php?category=Item&item=0.866426&active_category=Search

***

In other newses, both the nytimes (sam tanenhaus) and washpost   
(david broder) wrote pieces on family dynasties in politics that   
managed to avoid a mention of the daleys, who among other recent   
coups have managed for awhile to place a defense counsel, ed genson,  
to rep their enemy machine-apostate now ex-gov. blagojevich (his   
advice: keep quiet), not to mention placing a white sox fan in the   
white house - look next for a chicago olympics, and then daley's son  
patrick is about 33 now, a vet of afghanistan...  that's how to run  
a dynasty!  for political effect, not headlines.  and that's all   
richard m., his brother bill moved from fannie mae to jp morgan   
chase's corporate responsibility operating board position, so he's   
naturally laying low.  but what does this say about the news media?   
tanenhaus and broder may be masthead kings, but on sinking ships   
that just gives them a few extra breaths of air.
http://www.chicagoreader.com/features/stories/theworks/090129/

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Dude's even wronger than foege or browne:
http://www.16miles.com/2009/01/top-10-of-2008-2-triple-candie-thank.html

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Assuming a touch above zero visibility this saturday david   
lightbourne & birgit burke will again bring their acoustic guitar &   
mandolin blues and rags songbook from laramie's buckhorn to   
centennial's trading post apres ski music series.  they'll go from   
4pm to 6pm or thereabouts.  free.

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SAT., 31JAN09 Curated by MARVIN TATE
ONO PERFORMING: Love Letters/The Night Time
"The diva releases what we are constrained to suppress;
she gives vent to our nameless furies; in her, our madness reigns.
We sin, she suffers." - Annie J. Randall
Elastic Arts Foundation
2830 N. Milwaukee Ave. (2nd FL), Chicago
http://www.travistravis.com/UPCOMING.html
http://www.roctober.com/roctober/ono.html

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Michael Fournier reads from his book on Minutemen - Double Nickels   
on the Dime:
Quimby's, Chicago, Sat. Feb. 14, 7pm, free.

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Check out pre-chicago wax trax founder jim nash at his denver wax   
trax in 77 with LA's the nerves on tour behind counter.
http://www.pattyheffley.com/

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Ron Asheton copy:
http://www.metrotimes.com/music/story.asp?id=13608
http://blurt-online.com/features/view/260/
http://blogs.westword.com/backbeat/2009/01/vintage_qa_with_the_late_stoog.php

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Blog archeology paydirt:
http://grimhorror.blogspot.com/2009/01/overkill-la-triumph-of-will.html

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The Stains / Carnage Asada.
The Stains lineup is Rudy on vocals, Robert on Guitar, Caesar on Bass
and Gilbert on drums which sounds like the original pre-LP lineup.

Liquid Kitty punk rock BBQ West L.A. Sun 2/22
Highland Park American Legion Hall - Friday 3/27
Doll Hut - Anaheim - Saturday - 5/22
http://www.myspace.com/familiacarnageasada

***

Chuck Dukowski Sextet, Ketman
Friday, Jan. 30, 14 Below, Santa Monica.
CD6, Carnage Asada, Love Canal, Plain Wrap, Master Cylinder
Saturday, Jan. 31, Club Travesty/the Legion, 227 Ave 55, Highland Park.

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Latest bopst show:
http://rvanews.com/2009/01/the-bopst-show-and-with-anybody-episode-39/

***

Lawsuit bait, two per shirt:
http://www.cinefilevideo.com/products-page/

Joe Carducci is a hell of a writer, record producer, and former A&R executive, formerly most closely associated with the influential LA-based record label SST Records. His most recent book Enter Naomi: SST, L.A. and All That, chronicles his time at the infamous label and the life and death of famed SST photographer Naomi Peterson--a supreme talent who I had the priveledge of working with on many occasions--and whose laugh I still miss. -Scott Crawford

Cut-ups
Carl Hanni

Since sometime back in the 1980s, sonic provocateurs NEGATIVLAND have
been releasing their own records and records by like-minded acts on
their SEELAND RECORDS imprint. They have contributed mightily to both
the spreading out and subversion of audio culture, and in doing so
ended up in the litigious middle of the on-going debate (legal and
ethical both) about copyright laws, "fair use," sampling and found and
appropriated culture. They have also released a slew of irreverent and
genre busting records by fellow travelers Bob Ostertag, Realistic,
John Oswald, Eddie The Rat, Porest, Xerophonics, the incomparable
Sleepytime Gorilla Museum and many more.

Two of their juicer label releases are /Music For The Odd Occasion/
(1997) by the Aussie crew ANTEDILUVIAN ROCKING HORSE, and /In Your
Dreams/ (1995) by the Boston-area duo HEAD AND LEG. ARH members DJ2
(Paul Wain) and DJ3 (Susan King) and 3rd member/collaborator Ollie
Olsen have crafted an unruly mutt of a record that could be filed
either under "experimental" or "techno/electronic" in your local
record store, if there are any of those left. The techno/dance side is
nervous, jittery and probably too-high strung and full of deviously
annoying voices, lurid samples and dissonance for anyone not seriously
chemically whacked to do a lot of raving to. On the
conceptional/experimental side, they show much affinity for Dada (Hugo
Ball is quoted twice in the liner notes) and its Surrealist cousin,
along with a splatter-palate of samples, appropriations, cut-ups and
studio chicanery, all with the drum machine poking at it like some
meth-head fingering a head-wound. They seem to have equal amounts of
fun with their synths and drum machines as they do with their samplers
and found material. Needless to say they are cheeky, irreverent and
full of mirth. Really, why would they be on Seeland otherwise? You
don't have to be a nerd, DJ, sample rat or fair use activist to dig
their pastiche, but it certainly doesn't hurt, either. Song-titles
like "Rigorous Doughnut," "Lost Sky Daffodil," "The Third Ore Bit" and
"A Perry Mason Moment" tell you exactly nothing, thankfully. ARH have
put their time and their face where their beliefs are, meeting the
opposition head-on and sticking their neck out in a variety of
above-ground moves dedicated to their belief in the Freedom to Sample
and Use at will. Along the way they have collaborated with Damo Suzuki
of Can, The Boredoms, David Thrussell of Snog and jumped into
Negativland's fight with the RIAA, and released two more records,
Music for Transportation and Forward Into The Furniture. All in the
name of fun and freedom, bless them.

Head and Leg are Robert Pierce and Ken Lacouture, a pair of cards
playing with a deck of sonic and conceptual mischief. On /In Your
Dreams/ these cut-ups and a dozen of their pals compose, conjure, dice
and splice together 18 tracks loosely arranged around a dream theme.
In addition to the usual guitars, keyboards, etc. the credits include
slapping, murmuring, spitting, bagel, grapefruit, metal cart, bathtub
and wind-up fish. Although the record is dedicated to Jorge Luis
Borges, these guys pretty obviously worship The Firesign Theater, and
that works well for them. These are basically sample and studio/tape
manipulated comedy skits woven together with five "dreamscapes."  They
take venomous aim at commercial radio with the stupendously sarcastic
classic "The Hits Keep Coming," which appropriates enough hard-rock
samples (Who, Stones, Zeppelin, etc) to keep them tied up in Copyright
Hell for a lifetime. "Poke You In The Eye" is charming silliness,
"Hey, Fat Lady" disconcerting carnival-barking surrealism, a skit
waiting for a David Lynch movie. They take time out for commercials
("The All Pain Network") and a tour of "The Womb Room." Naturally some
of these pieces work better than others; comedy is tough. But they
have a sure grasp of their studio craft and the record has a
conceptual consistency that's admirable. Like The Firesign Theater,
this is a sit and listen record, and virtually useless as any kind of
background ambiance. Do people sit and listen anymore in our
fractured, micro-byte time? Head and Leg have more in common with an
old-time radio serial than anything you would hear on the radio today,
low-power FM or pirate radio notwithstanding. If you can find the CD
and find the time, /In Your Dreams/ opens a door into a
time/place/head-space where taking the time to compose something isn't
dedicated to U2ish bombast, gangsta or singer/songwriter narcissism or
prog-rock wankiness, but something else entirely: actual
entertainment, backed up by concept, produced with great charm, humor
and perhaps even humility. What a concept.

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.

Guest post this week from a new fave artist (who I can't shut up about) Chris Velan. AND... he's Canadian :-):

Dear Frozen Winter Lake (a.k.a. Lac Mercier),

While you’re out there in the dark, crusted over with ice and snow, I’m in this warm lake chalet, cheered on by the requisite crackly fireplace. In this part of the world [...]

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.

Who knew that's how it would turn out. I was in for the biggest rockstar moment of my life. Bigger than Andy even. I started out on the Sunday before, January 18, hopping the train down to DC which, miraculously, was on time. That alone seemed like a pretty good omen. Once we pulled into Union Station, as luck would have it, our train parked right alongside the vintage train that [...]

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.

By Ed Hamell, a/k/a Hamell on Trial

When I'm on the road I like to nap in my car. People think it's weird. (At least G-Love did, but...um...who cares?) But it's nice in there. You're getting rested up for the gig. You turn off the cell phone, nobody bothers you, out like a light.

Occasionally somebody will rap on the window. “Are you okay?” I like to scream back at them, “I'm trying to kill myself! Could you leave me alone?!”

I'm good at scouting a place off the beaten track that is inconspicuous. I'll even pay to park in a parking garage, (well, not in Manhattan, Jesus, you might as well get a hotel room at those prices), but I learned the hard way that are some parking lot security guys that take their job very, very seriously. At least in Toronto.

I was napping, out like a light, and it was hot so I had the air conditioner running and sure enough, three, you saw it right, three cop cars came with their lights on wanting to know just what the hell I was doing.

I don't know how many of my readership has been on the show Cops, but I suspect a large percentage and you know how when you just wake up and there's a cop in your trailer and you don't remember what you did to get him (or her, as in my case there were two male cops and a female) there, and you're kinda mumbling sleepy-eyed, reaching for your gun?

Well, one cop was pissed! So I got pissed back. Bad move.

We worked it out. I promised never to do it again. Of course when they left I fell back to sleep.

Overzealous employees always get my goat. It's just a job, for chrissake. And in light of the current economy, you're probably not gonna have it for very much longer anyway, so relax wouldja?

There's only two states that you can't pump your own gas. Jersey and Oregon. I didn't know about Oregon. So I got out of the car and started pumping my gas and the attendant charged out of his little room and yanked the hose out of my hand.

I don't like people yanking shit from me.

Ask politely. I would.

So I had to ask him, “Why can't you pump your own gas? Why is there a law?!” And he told me straight-faced, “People blow up.”

Now, I travel a great deal people. All over the world. And I'm usually driving. I've been to a lot of gas stations. I've slept in a lot of gas stations. Rarely, like so rarely, never, have I seen anybody blow up. Never ever. Never even on the horizon do I see a torch-like glow and think, “Yep, there goes another pumper. Bet his fried ass wishes he had been in Oregon or Jersey.”

Now I know many are thinking, “Hamell sure is confrontational, he's got no one to blame if people are afraid to come to his show.” Well, let me tell you about a positive run-in I had.

It was an Arab taxi driver taking me from my hotel in London to Heathrow airport. True story. I really, really like taxi drivers. 99% of the time they're amazingly cool. I've had some of my best conversations with taxi drivers.

It's a cinch. Wanna try it?

Just go like this, “How long you been driving today?” Typically they'll say, “Since 4 a.m.” And it's like noon, then. So you ask, “How much longer you gonna drive today?” And they'll say, “Until midnight.”

That's 20 hours, people. Then you ask, “How many days a week do you do that?” And they'll say, “Seven.”

And you ask if they have a family, and they invariably do, and then you ask, “Doesn't your wife mind?” And they'll respond, “She drives a cab, too!”

That's a tough gig, I think. More often than not they're working their butts off, when they used to work as a doctor in Africa, or India, or Saudi Arabia.

You get the idea.

Anyway, I can't remember what we talked about, this Arab cab driver and me. I mean, I'm sure it was world politics, but I really don't remember specifically what was said.

I was riding in the front. I do remember that.

When I got out, not only did he hug me but he gave me the ride for free. C'mon, cool or what?

So you see, I'm not such a bad guy. Remember, an indictment is not a conviction.

Ed Hamell picked up the guitar at age 7 and started writing songs not long after. In his early 20s, Mr. Hamell was the front man and writer for an original band, but local bands were a dime a dozen in the tough, working class neighborhoods in Syracuse, NY. So he launched a one-man act called Hamell on Trial. Six albums (plus a live one) and countless shows later, Hamell himself is one of a kind. Catch him on tour this summer in the U.S., Canada and Europe.

YAP: NEW YEAR'S REVOLUTIONS

1. Don't Drop My Cell Phone In The Toilet (Anymore)

There's a lot of reasons you might want to adhere to this resolution. Let's say hypothetically that it was in your sweatshirt pocket and you were standing up taking a pee. (Ladies, you might want to skip this unless you're Melissa Ferrick fans. In that you might stand up to pee. I love Melissa Ferrick, she's wonderful but her audience prides itself on being bull dykes. Many of them are reading this now and saying,

"How did he know I like to stand up and pee? How did he know I dropped my cellphone in the toilet?")*

(BTW: See Milk, it's incredible.)

Anyway, your cell phone goes down in the water, you got to fish it out and then:

voilà, no more light-up, no more speed dial, no more communication. The thing is, not dropping your cell phone in the toilet is a lot easier to resolve than losing weight. Or quitting smoking.

2. Grow A Lot Of Hair

This is going to be troublesome. But I'm tired of too few options. I'd like to look like Christopher Walken. Or Maybe Mickey Rourke in The Pope Of Greenwich Village. Or Joe Strummer circa 1979. Elvis, for God's sake. It's too late for Rogaine, and wigs look bad.

3. Keep My Car Clean

My wife won't ride in it anymore. Very few people will. I'm turning over a new leaf. The only thing is, in my defense, is that I have to live in it, kinda, when I'm gigging. And you know how it is, you're late for the soundcheck, you drink a cup of coffee, you down a Red Bull, you eat a protein bar, you do an espresso, you chew some caffeine gum, you do your last few pep pills, you got to put the wrappers and empty cups somewhere, right? So you toss them on the floor. Then you get to the club and you gotta run in do the check, blast through the gig, drink six or seven more cups of coffee, get back in the car and drive six hours, drinking seven or eight Red Bulls. Okay, you got a bit of a pile on the floor.

But when you pull over to sleep, whaddaya gonna use for a pillow? Isn't the trash ideal?

I rest my case. And I rest my head on the comfy junk.

But I'm turning over a new leaf. Some of those leaves are on the floor of my car.

4. Stop Screaming At the Audience

No one enjoys this. It isn't helping. Who do I think I am? I've tried to get out but they keep pulling me back in. Some audiences are getting hip to my idiosyncrasies and when they see my threshold clearly on the horizon they stand up and scream. "INCOMING!"

This is doing no one any good.

5. Stop Reading The Comments Under My Favorite You Tube Music Or Comedy Videos

People have too much time. And the ones that do are usually young, I know, and they write stuff under videos about say, Bill Hicks or Jack White or Burroughs or anybody but Gene Vincent and it's adolescent or asinine or something so off the mark that I think "Geez, this depresses me."

That's not why I watched the video. It was to entertain, or inspire or study. And it's like messing with a bad tooth. I can't not look.

No more scrolling down on '09.

6. Fun! Fun! Fun!

Let's face it. These are tough times. The economy sucks and it affects all of us. It's hard to keep a brave face and a stiff upper lip. But Gosh darn it, life's too short. Unemployment is up. And this new administration isn't going to help certain vocations. For instance: torturers.

What's an unemployed waterboarder going to do in this new administration? I guess they could get a job at the DMV. Now that I think about it, I've often waited in line three hours to be told that I didn't have the right paperwork and it felt like somebody had attached wires to my testicles.

But I digress.

I think that I forgot to have fun. So... I'm going to make a effort to seek it out. Tonight I'm going to a nightclub in Manhattan to check out some live Brazilian music. I'll let you know. I might ride around in the car with a Beach Boy, maybe Brian or Al. Certainly not Mike.

Anyway thank God 2008 is behind us. That goes double for the last eight years. (Hey, was it my imagination or did Obama absolutely refuse to play the lowest common denominator card? Was his whole platform, "I know you're better than this? I'm going to appeal to your intellect and compassion? Your greater humanity. Not just as Americans, but people. Oh, you know he did.)

Anyway, that's it for now...until next time I think I'll listen to my Beatles Live At The BBC. Fun, see?

I realize that you can't see the twinkle in my eye when I write this stuff. It's a joke. Don't write me. See #5.

Ed Hamell picked up the guitar at age 7 and started writing songs not long after. In his early 20s, Mr. Hamell was the front man and writer for an original band, but local bands were a dime a dozen in the tough, working class neighborhoods in Syracuse, NY. So he launched a one-man act called Hamell on Trial. Six albums (plus a live one) and countless shows later, Hamell himself is one of a kind. Catch him on tour this summer in the U.S., Canada and Europe.

Muslimgauze

In the annals of the insanely prolific, Bryn Jones, aka Muslimgauze, may stand alone. Having produced close to 100 releases between 1982 and his death in 1999, that number (including re-issues) has now more than doubled. That puts him up (and beyond) in the rarified category of Sun Ra, Duke Ellington, Bill Laswell, Bill Nelson, Jandek and other pathologically prolific musicians, most of whom can't touch the coattails of his discography.  It's actually even more impressive considering that the others were either much older at their passing or are still around and releasing records. The man was clearly driven by a profound need to create.


The volume of Muslimgauze's work is just a small part of a complex scenario. The urgency of his prolifigy was at the very least least double-edged. Obviously he had an unquelchable mass of music bottled up inside and the means to let it out. But Bryn Jones was also a man with a Cause; he was intensely, some would say militantly pro-Palestinian, and Muslimgauze was viewed by some as virtually the musical wing of the PLO. Wading into the on-going Israeli/Palestinian conflict is obviously a thorny path, but it became one of his choses ones. Jones' interests were, in fact, much broader, and included an on-going concern for issues of sovereignty, freedom, equality and justice throughout the world at large, especially in the Third and Muslim Worlds. He was a long-time student of the politics of oppression, and vocal in his support of groups that some consider freedom fighters, other terrorists. This was a stance that garnered him huge respect in some quarters and, naturally, great enmity in others.


You won't find any voices extolling any particular political cause on a Muslimgauze record, other than a occasional sampling of a newscast, speech or "ethnic" voice or snippet of music--in fact, you'll find almost no human voices at all. The politics are more inferential, but also show up prominently in song-titles and on cover art: Cout D'Etat features images of Ayatollah Kohemani on the front and Moammar Kadafi on the back, willfully provocative (some would say naive) images guaranteed to exhilarate one audience while alienating another. I certainly don't know his deepest beliefs, but we can only hope that they included a wish for freedom from oppression for ALL peoples, everywhere, irregardless of...well, anything.

 
One of electronic music's true visionaries, Muslimgauze produced a multi-tiered body of work that would take a devoted musicologist years to grapple with. As likely to be percussive as electronic, he created a new language that sucked together everything from dub, ambient, tribal and house to industrial, electro-acoustic, cut-and-paste and drone. Particularly striking are his extensive, body and soul altering forays into a highly personal fusion of Middle Eastern and North African (but also Asian, Native American, etc.) sounds, sometimes sampled and sometimes not, sometimes percussive, sometimes electronic, sometimes both; frequently harsh, sonically provocative, frequently unsettling, almost always intense, by no means for the timid. Muslimgauze's low end could cripple a crap sub-woofer, while the high end could set dogs barking blocks away. His recording mastery was intuitive and highly evolved, his musical vision seemingly endlessly hungry to create new variations.


Although he evidently spent most of a decade and a half holed up in one studio or another, he occasionally collaborated with contemporaries, including Systemwide, Apollon, Bass Communion and Sons of Arqa. He also DJ'd a bit, occasionally played live and gave interviews now and then, but it was really all about making and releasing music. He released 16 albums in 1998, and in the year of his death, 1999, there were a total of 22 releases marked Muslimgauze. He had releases on at least 32 labels.

 
Bryn Jones died suddenly, quickly, unexpectedly from a rare blood infection in 1999. Over 100 Muslimgauze records have been released since his death, some as reissues, most of it previously unreleased material. Even in death, the obsession continues.