Confessions of a Jamcruise Convert

By David A. Schools

It was about 45 kilometers east of Costa Maya, Mexico when we hit the military checkpoint.

Several armed soldiers - teenagers - kept watchful eyes on us while an officer walked carefully around both vehicles. Another young soldier sat in a nearby hut, his weapon lazily trained on the passenger in the first vehicle. Just another day in Mexico, I suppose, but the recent cartel violence got me thinking - "Why the hell did we ever get off that damn boat?"

An interesting question, as for nearly seven years I had sworn the last thing I would do would be to get on that damn boat. But a year ago I agreed to two performances by The Stockholm Syndrome on Jamcruise 9 with one caveat: we could get off after our last performance so we wouldn't have to spend three more idle days on the ship.

What the hell was I thinking?

I was thinking the band could use the money and the exposure. After all, we had a new record coming out in February and Widespread Panic would be coming off of two New Year's Eve shows in Denver where the temperature was sure to be below freezing. How could a few days on the Gulf of Mexico beneath the warm sun be that bad?

I'll admit it; I'd always imagined Jamcruise as my worst nightmare - a real life ship of fools. Billed as an opportunity for music fans to see their favorite artists perform and to hang out with them as well, Jamcruise seemed like the kind of indentured servitude on the high seas I needed to avoid at all costs.

Don't get me wrong: I know without our fans I wouldn't have a gig and nobody would be reading this article. I love meeting the fans, especially the sincere ones; however my paranoid brain reeled at the idea of being trapped and at the mercy of the "other" kind of fan: the drunken, incoherent, and resentful tooth-grinder with flecks of dried spittle glued to the corners of his mouth who corners me and goes on and on about "That time at Red Rocks when Mikey materialized a double-helix rainbow out of his guitar during Chilly Water...."

This type of fan seems magnetically attracted to me at those times when I am least prepared to deal with him in a friendly way. Whenever I observe this species in his natural habitat, he always seems to be wandering in a dream-like reverie, searching for the room with the best party or a friend who was rumored to be holding the kindest buds on board. I wondered if anyone would actually miss one of these resplendently high denizens of the live-music-loving community if he were to "accidentally" fall overboard during a raging version of "Sugaree" as interpreted by The New Tomato Groove Orchestra. Isn't there an old philosophical saw that asks, "If no one hears a drunk hippie hit the water, did he really fall overboard?"

But there I was in the early morning light of January 4, 2011 with the other band members watching a crane hoist huge crates of sound gear 14 stories up the to the pool deck of the whitewashed skyscraper known as the MSC Poesia: the floating home of Jamcruise 9.

Images of "bon voyage" scenes from disaster-at-sea movies like "Titanic" and "The Poseidon Adventure" came immediately to mind, where happy people were about to embark on an exciting yet damned adventure at sea. Just when my paranoia had reached fever pitch, I saw the twin spiritual figureheads of our cruise: Col. Bruce Hampton (Ret.) and George Porter Jr. My mind eased, the clouds parted, and the sun came out accompanied by a horn section and a choir of funky background singers.

This might actually be fun.

Despite the early hour and huge crowd of excited revelers, we managed to get on board and find our stateroom. Of course, it was still being cleaned. In lieu of a much needed nap, we made a beeline to the poolside bar where I was informed by Robert Randolph that the acquisition of several drink ticket booklets would make my life easier over the next few days. The wife agreed, and the first boat drink soon followed.

After a hilarious mandatory lifeboat drill featuring clunky life preservers for everyone, it was naptime, though I couldn't really call it a nap per se. It was more like a few hours of fitful fever dreams enhanced by an endless loop on the TV featuring recorded performances from past Jamcruise events and interviews with musicians and partiers by the effervescent Cruise Director Julie McCoy (aka Annabel Lukins of Cloud 9 Productions).  The sound of Bob Weir and his trio's strained poolside performance of "Sugaree," which drifted from the stage into my stateroom, finally forced me into the shower.

Before I knew it, 2 am was upon us. Not bedtime, but show time for the Stockholm Syndrome. That's right, 2 am show time in the cool, blue darkness of the Teatro De Felice theater. There was some nervousness in the dressing room, mainly because we couldn't find any paper to copy down Jerry's hastily scrawled-on-a-cocktail-napkin set list. On top of one of the lockers, I noticed a familiar black binding: the kind that Kinko's uses to put together a band's touring itinerary. Knowing that the back of every page would be blank, I reached for it.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw: an itinerary for several days of performances on a cruise event called SHIPROCKED.* Yes, it was a Heavy Metal cruise featuring Cinderella, Vince Neil, Tesla, and a host of lesser-known bands with brutal sounding names like Broken Teeth. The idea of funky, boogie-style jam music seemed to go hand in hand with the sunny, happy vibe of a Caribbean cruise. But Metal?! I laughed imagining all these middle-aged Metal bands wandering the decks during the daylight hours. Would there be full makeup? What about the preened hair? Would they have Aquanet-wielding stylists in tow? And what about the groupie thing? Would the sight of Vince lounging poolside in his trunks still thrill the ladies of the road? Would Tesla perform their famous acoustic version of "Signs" in the afternoon with colorful drinks for all? (Author's note: While doing research for this article, I found a video recap of Shiprocked and it looked like a real good time. Just like Jamcruise, people of all ages, shapes, and walks of life came out to see their favorite bands.)

I was ripped from my metallic daydream by our tour manager pondering the idea of a Goth cruise with an abandoned pool area and an overflowing psych ward. We copied down our set list and got on with our show, which, although a little rusty at first, finally took off after a few songs. I couldn't believe how many people were still there at 4 a.m. when the set ended. The music never stops on Jamcruise, except for a few hours around breakfast for food, power napping, and, believe it or not, personal hygiene.

The next few days were an unexpected pleasure. Being trapped on "the barge of doom" as I had been referring to it for the previous 7 years was nowhere near as horrifying as I had imagined it might be. My wife and I had a ball wandering the halls with our friends, plundering the ship, and generally being treated to a real good time. The Jam Room, hosted by a different musician each night, provided some of the best musical moments. Like when I found myself at 5 a.m. playing bass in a Buddy Miles inspired jam with some musician friends I didn't even know were on the damn boat. And although I never made it to the disco, I am pretty sure it NEVER stopped.

In the midst of my seven years' worth of cynicism, paranoia, and sarcasm, I had neglected to give Jamcruise a chance. It's not like a regular in-and-out festival in the middle of Nowhere, USA, but a cruise liner designed for relaxation, partying, and overall feeling good while meeting fans and catching up with your fellow tradesmen and friends in the business. This might be work, but it's nice work if you can get it.

Two days later I watched the sun come up as another floating city block eased into the dock in Costa Maya to the thumping bass from the disco two decks above. The party was over for me and soon I would be headed home to a mystery military checkpoint and a new year. And as the pink light faded into the bright blue sky of morning, I watched one lost and sweaty Jamcruiser repeatedly stumbling drink in hand across the aft deck, still looking for that elusive never-ending party room and completely unaware that it was happening all around him.

*********************

Due to our early departure, we were unable to attend the annual Jamcruise awards ceremony. I'm not sure what exactly we missed, but I came up with a few of my own:

-Best Musical Performance: Galactic's superior and energetic rendition of Swamp Dogg's "Total Destruction To Your Mind" featured Living Color's Corey Glover on vocals.

-Most Jealous Musical Moment: Jerry Joseph, Wally Ingram, and Eric McFadden perform an incredibly moving version of Blitzen Trapper's "Furr" in the jam room and wishing that I knew the tune well enough to join in.

-Most Personally Satisfying Moment: Bob Weir, Jay Lane and Rob Wasserman perform The Other One in the indoor theater venue. It was a humid night, I was lost in the decks trying to find my party and I was pulled into the venue by cool air and cool tunes. The seas were rough that evening and the bow was moving up and down quite a bit so it was amazing how drummer Jay Lane integrated the rolling of the waves into the tune's inherent 6 count.

-Non-Musical Event I Wish I Hadn't Missed: The Iron Chef contest pitts Karl Denson, Col. Bruce Hampton, and JoJo Hermann against each other in a battle of improvised culinary skill.

-Best Ears: Steve Kimmock, who displays a supernatural ability to join any band playing any style and actually make the music BETTER than it had been without him.

-Best Sanctuary: Shockingly, the Casino was not only the emptiest and quietest but it was also the one place to smoke a cigarette indoors.

-Best Original Costume: The ONE AND ONLY person who chose to dress like a predator (wolf) on the night where everyone else was dressed in zebra stripes.

-Most Hilarious Moment: Ivan Neville and George Porter Jr. discuss the meaning of "Who dat?" with Bruce Hampton in the artists lounge.

-Most Disappointing Natural Phenomena: A sudden late night thunderstorm roars out of nowhere and punches a big wet hole in Garage A Trois' set in the middle of a mesmerizing vibes solo by Mike Dillon

- Most Overplayed Song of the Cruise: "Sugaree." I love this tune, but hearing it performed by three entirely different bands in three days was a little much... even for this Dead Head.

-Most Surprising Realization: Almost 100% of the fan interaction I experienced was of the sincere kind. These folks were polite, never got in my face, and made me feel great about my choice to join the crew. I was happy to meet them all. Except for that one drunken woman who told me how much she loved my band and then proceeded to literally kick my ass.

*Read all about the heavy metal Shiprocked! cruise in the spring print issue of BLURT, on newsstands in mid-March. An edited version of this blog will also be in the issue.- Ed.

[Photos Credit: Brad Hodge]

***

David A. Schools plays bass for Widespread Panic and Stockholm Syndrome. You may have heard of ‘em. Widespread Panic was honored this week by Georgia's House of Representatives and Senate to mark the Athens band's 25^th anniversary. Meanwhile, Stockholm Syndrome releases its new album Apollo this week on Response Record. Purchase on sight.

TRUTH IS FRICTION / OTEP SHAMAYA

In a world where the likes of Rand Paul and Sarah Palin excel, where working people are the eager pawns for the filthy rich, where rats feed freely and the poor obey like insects, truth is certainly friction. In this case, the two opposing forces causing the friction are historical amnesia and pure pious stupidity.

This is not new. It has always been a vital part of our national identity: freedom for some, slavery for others, liberty for all - except women, indigenous tribes, slaves, gays, & the Irish. As a people, we tend to detest truth. Indeed, collectively, we are unwilling to see the forest for the matchsticks. What we desire is a given reality.

We are very much like a family who refuses to acknowledge that our shifty cousin Glenn has a gambling problem. So we sit, silently at the dinner table, avoiding the massive gorilla in the room contrived completely from the $14,000 in stolen retirement checks he nicked from Nanna. Do we address it? No, we just quietly pass the casserole and listen as the collective enamel scrapes over the cutlery.

But let's say this year, as you sit together round yon dinner table, something different happens. This year your bullshit quota overfloweth. So as cousin Glenn slugs back his fifth Pabst Blue Ribbon tall-boy, belching, and laughing loudly at his own poorly timed gynecological jokes with a mouthful of mashed potatoes and turkey tendons, you grimace, you can feel your entire body boiling towards a breaking point. 

Then you see ole Glenn lean over to ask Nanna if she has 40 bucks for another "sixer and a pack of smokes". 

Well, this is the moment.

Right here. Right now.

You push back from the crowded table, toss your fork to the plate and roar high and mighty, "Goddamn it, Glenn. You contemptible cunt! Stealing money from Nanna so you can play roulette at the Pink Palomino? She's on a fixed income you filthy bastard! Besides, roulette?? It's not even a game of strategy, you dick! If losing is your thing then I guess you're a professional, ay? Well, fuck off. Do you actually think we are all just gonna sit here and let you get away with this? Do you?? Well, I'm giving you one chance, you greedy pile of shit, to make this right. If you do not leave this table right now and find a way to repay her every single fucking cent, I am going to carve out both your eyes with this olive spoon and sell them to a couple of Serbian fellas I know who pay big bucks for usable organs and then do you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna march back into this house, step over your bloated body, and give that bloody money to Nanna. Are we clear, you syphilitic testicle? Or do I need to start prying out those baby blues?"

And just for good measure, you toss your mug of scalding tea into Glenn's great staring eyes and he runs out of the room screaming in agony. There's a moment of heavy silence and then chaos ensues.

It seems everyone was actually just going to sit there and let Glenn get away with it. Now the family erupts like a bunch of nervous baboons flinging their own excreta at a deadly cobra.

Insults hurl through the air. Poor Nanna is scrunching her sweater over her heart and Gramps is jumbling through his unbonded dentures for YOU to "GET THE FUCK OUT". Meanwhile, the other relatives are head-lighting you with harsh yellow judgmental scowls, whispering things like "unbelievable", "what a fiend" and "monstrous". Twenty minutes later, Nanna is on a stretcher with chest pains and you are being arrested for domestic violence against your degenerate cousin.

Is that fair? No. But this is how the responsible sect behave in a polite, civilized society. We must have selective blindness in order to survive. Anything else must be subjugated for the common good.

For example, if I was to state that American entertainment icon Michael "Jesus" Jackson died from an overdose of a powerful anesthetic injected into his candle colored arms every night so that he remained paralytic and unable to sleep-rape the children, I would be berated by the eager-doomed as a reprehensible miscreant only out to start trouble. 

No, no! It's far easier for them to believe Mr. Jackson had a severe case of restless leg syndrome so he had to be placed in a coma every night with enough drugs to vegetate a rhinoceros.

Another example would be if I said Sarah Palin believes the word America comes from the Bible or that she secretly hopes to start her own religious organization that is a sort of reverse Mormonism where the wife leads the household and has multiple husbands, or that she encourages her daughters to have anal sex instead of using condoms because she believes that it preserves the sanctity and Christian virtue of virginity.

Egads! If I wrote that, I would be flogged and labeled a traitor and a reprobate and tossed into the dank undercroft of Guantanamo and kept chained there as an enemy of the state.

Or if I told you that the majority of the rodents who want to keep America sterile of equality are closeted sodomites who fear that this kind of constitutional buoyancy would unmask them as traitors to their own kind. That those ministers, politicians and admirals who scream "NO" the loudest, have zero gag reflex and use chemical rectal constrictors to remedy all the years they've used a "wide stance" in secret restroom liaisons.

Well, if I wrote that, I would be bound in a burlap sack with a wild animal and tossed into the Mississippi river for revealing such truths.

It would be the same if I dared to inform you that hemp is only illegal because the versatility of the plant threatened William Randolph Hearst's newspaper/timber interests, or that every time you buy a gallon of gas you are funding terrorism, or that a bi-racial President can still be homophobic, or that you have more power than you know because THEY want YOU to be tame and apathetic, I would be hung from the tallest tree and set on fire.

No, my friends, we do not want truth. We want scripted reality. I have learned a lot since the spoiled Bush baby trampled our nation for 8 years and left it bloated from excess like a Congolese sewer rat in the rainy season.

I have learned to love my country but trust absolutely no one in authority. I have learned that this is a world where the rats poison themselves.

 Blurt blogger Otep Shamaya is frontwoman for heavier-then-heaven outfit OTEP. She's also a contributor to our print magazine and penned the essay "Whippet, Good" for our last issue. Watch for #10 and more of her writings in mid-March, on bookstore and assorted indie retailer newsstands.

Keeping Tulsa safe.

By James McMurtry

Why is it that small Midwestern airports have all the most up to date passenger screening equipment, while some of the busier airports do not? Do they think Al Qaeda is planning to hit us from the heartland, or is the fear index just higher out there, prompting the local politicos to bring home more homeland security dollars? Of the three times I've been ordered into the full body scanner, a cylindrical device resembling a see through version of the orgasmatron from Woody Allen's "Sleeper", one was in Tulsa, one in Green Bay(I think it was Green Bay, pretty far north and more or less up the middle), the third was somewhere east. Tulsa was a trip.

I flew to Tulsa from my home town of Austin, Texas. The Austin airport is small but often very busy. Sometimes, if one of the three checkpoints is mysteriously closed, it can take one nearly two hours to complete baggage check and security screening. I've grown used to it. I haven't noticed if the Austin airport even has one of those clear orgasmatron like machines. If so, I've never been in it.

My tour manager and I made it to Tulsa, played the gig, got paid, well, most of it, spent the night, and were back at the airport two hours before our return flight was scheduled to depart. It was Saturday, and the Tulsa airport was practically deserted. There was no line for baggage check.

There was no line for security. In the screening area, there were about fifteen TSA employees and maybe five passengers. Seemed like a bit of overkill.  After I 'd done the ex-ray conveyer dance, shedding belt, necklace, cell phone, change, shoes, pulling the lap top out of the bag and setting it in its very own bin, I noticed that I was being barked at. It was ten in the morning, the voice might have been human, it sounded like a higher pitched version of the teacher's voice from the Charlie Brown holiday specials from my childhood. I held up my boarding pass to signal that I was familiar with the procedure. The voice became more shrill, I had to focus.

"You have something in your cargo pocket!" yelled the woman behind the voice.

"Yes ma'am, that's my wallet", I yelled back.

"Take it out or they will search you."

I noticed then, that the only lane that was not taped off lead right through the orgasmascanner. Hmm. . . I wasn't familiar with the procedure after all.

The woman with the voice approached. "You have to take everything out of your pockets". I clutched my wallet, boarding pass and baggage claim checks.

She motioned me through the machine and I obeyed, but neither of us had noticed that the woman on the other side of the machine had her back turned, I realized too late that I had walked up behind a large woman with a Glock pistol on her hip. She didn't startle, her hand didn't reflexively go to her gun. She just seemed tired and slightly annoyed that I wasn't familiar with the procedure. I should have remembered from Green Bay, but Green Bay was so long ago. I was beginning to get irked. Snappy comments were bubbling their way to the forefront of my half consciousness. It was still two hours until flight time and I was wondering if I could get in some serious trouble and still get out of it in time to make my flight. What would've happened if I yelled out something on the order of "No I don't know this procedure because real airports don't bother with it and if any of you ever flew you'd know that."?

Not nice. And the woman with the Glock actually did seem professional and pretty much lacking in delusions of self importance.  She ordered me to step back into the machine, put my feet on the yellow footprints and raise my arms over my head while keeping my hands together. I did as I was told, while the ghost of Evelyn Waugh whispered, "The pleasure momentary, the posture ridiculous . . ."

The machine made a rather loud noise as the scanning device circled me. I was aware that some poor soul staring at a TV monitor was seeing a good deal more of me than any of us got to see of Diane Keaton in "Sleeper". I was told to step out. The woman with the Glock (come to think of it, I guess they all had Glocks, or some such modern polymer framed hi-cap semi auto) went through my wallet and told me I was cleared. I walked to the conveyer and reassembled myself. I felt jarred somehow, more so than after the usual screening ordeal, and more jarred than I remember feeling after any of the few times that I've been bodily searched. Why is it assumed, in our culture, that an individual would rather be visually spied on than physically touched? I'm not sure which act is more invasive.

The lady with the Charlie Brown's teacher voice sure seemed to think that the threat of search would snap me into line, but I'm not sure it will next time. I don't relish being frisked but I don't like that jarred feeling the machine left me with. I doubt that the machine increases one's risk of cancer more than does life in the twenty-first century, with its constant bath of electromagnetism from cell phones and all our other necessities, but I don't like the machine. Still, I might be hesitant to request a bodily search for fear that to do so might place me under extra suspicion and increase the hassle potential in an already hassle filled day of travel.

Tim, my tour manager, was waiting in the hall when I finally got myself back in order. "Glad they're keeping Tulsa safe," he said.

Singer-songwriter James McMurtry lives in Austin, Texas. When he's not touring, you can see him at the Continental Club every Wednesday, ‘round about midnight. Full details at his official website. His latest album, Live In Europe, was released last year on Lightning Rod Records - read the Blurt review here.

[A few years back, Byron Bay, Australia]

The night had come down slowly, warm and beautiful, and I was waiting side of stage for the show to begin. There was a light coming from the artists' trailer behind me and it spilled over toward the stage.

Suddenly I was engulfed by an enormous sillhouette - an image of a man in a cowboy hat splayed along the ground. Larger than life, a legendary figure printed like black ink on the grass.

It was then that I knew I was standing in the shadow of Tony Joe White. (Henceforth referred to as TJW.)

[A few months ago, Philadelphia]

It was a fifteen hour drive from Nashville but it was worth it. I was playing the opening set at World Cafe for TJW. Due to difficulties with the P.A. my set was cut from 45 minutes to 30. Things like that always fuel my performance, sometimes a little anger is good. I played and had a good time although I did swear quite a bit. After the show, I got to chat with TJW for a good half hour or so about his gear and stuff.

He is a quietly spoken man who looks like Elvis Presley. In fact, they were friends in the 60s (Elvis covered some of his songs including 'Polk Salad Annie'). You get the feeling that he doesn't say anything unnecessary to any conversation. I told him about how I was there in Byron Bay. He said Jack & Meg White had come up to say hello that day, why hadn't I? I've thought about it and the truth is that I hadn't felt worthy... And then we talked about his guitars and stuff.

TJW is all about the groove and the tone. I dare anyone to find a better guitar tone, whether he's playing his '65 Stratocaster or his Pimentel nylon string (handmade in Albuquerque by an old luthier family originally from Mexico). He plays with a tender touch, at times as if he is caressing a woman - after all, they say that tone is in the fingers.

He has the same gear he bought back in the Golden Era - the original electric guitar, Colorsound Supa Tonebender, the Maestro Boomerang wah pedal - all from the '60s. His Fender Tweed 4x10 is most likely from 1973. He's kept all this gear in ship-shape condition and the sound is pure splendour. If you can, get up close to the amp and let that holy analogue tone wash away your digital sins... I did just that at a recent show in Nashville. (See pic.)

His new album is called 'The Shine' and some of the songs were co-written with his wife, Leann. "They're all about truth and life," he says. The band got together in his living room and just played. The grooves are there and it's the kind of record you can drive to and cover some miles before you know where you are or how far you've gone. This music can ease your weary mind and just make you feel instead of think.

Guitar sounds range from gorgeous warm distortion (on 'Tell Me Why') to that beautifully tender nylon string ('Season Man'). These different textures weave through the album creating a synthesis of opposites that melds into one - that unmistakable artistry of TJW.

The feel he gets from his classical guitar is almost Latin at times and I could easily hear Bebel Gilberto singing some of these songs.

This dude (and he is a Cool Dude) has had the kind of career every shy singer-songwriter dreams of - songs covered by artists like Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Etta James & Dusty Springfield; touring all over the world with just enough fame to get an audience but not so much he can't walk down the street; song royalties without having written a song he'd be too embarrassed to sing... These are the things we gentle folks dream of as we drive our old cars across America in search of an audience and a new song.

TJW continues to be a "season man, moving with the change... moving with the rains..."

Anne McCue

The new album : The Shine (Swamp Records)

Also recommended: Deep Cuts (Swamp Records)

Anne McCue on the web: www.annemccue.com

Out ‘n' about in the City of Angels with Blurt's roving shutterbug (December 2010)

By Scott Dudelson

(above)

Kyp Malone (of TV on the Radio) - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

(below)

 McCoy Tyner  - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

Daniel Carter - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

Nels Cline (of Wilco) & Kyp Malone (of TV on the Radio)  - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

Michel White - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

Michelle Coltrane - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

Nels Cline (of Wilco) - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

Radha Botofasina  - Alice Coltrane Tribute: Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org) - 12/4

Black Giant - Live @ Club Nokia (www.clubnokia.com) - 12/10

The Dandy Warhols - Live @ Club Nokia (www.clubnokia.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.

Blog title is instructive. Don't take that final, permanent leap.

By Coco Hames

AND SO.

Considering the recent rash of suicides in my immediate friendscape this holiday season, I feel that I should take this opportunity to let you know that if you're ever feeling lost, blue, overwhelmed, you get that ringing in your ears and that pinhole gaze, don't forget to e-mail me at dontdoitdummy@gmail.com and talk it out a bit. Don't just jump right in, I don't care HOW long you've been thinking about it, how much time you've given it/everyone. If you didn't e-mail me first, then you're going to get ruthlessly recycled cosmically, like... you're coming back as an overweight mosquito, like... no one likes mosquitoes, and then not even your mosquito brethren will like you because you can't even keep up. You can't just duck out, you know, you'll just be thrust right back in, and it won't be better, you haven't earned better yet, you see?

If you'd like to indulge the urge by proxy, however, it's worth taking a look at five classic examples of suicide in film, in particular five female suicides that stem from different cultures, age groups, eras, and impulses. And how, in every case, the world is not a better place without them, and they certainly are not better off dead.

MAEDCHEN IN UNIFORM (1931, directed by Leontine Sagan)

Ah, Weimer Era cinema. Being a girl is tough going, straight up. Pain is real. And their world is an insane microcosm of an insane world, and the attempted suicide scene at the end of this film is in turn abrupt, passionate, desperate, frenzied, shocking, and of course, futile. All the things that suicide is, y'all. And as you can see, not in a good way.

REBECCA (1940, directed by Alfred Hitchcock)

In this one you get a nice, long, drawn out portrait of suffering, from two different women, two different sides of the suffering coin. One's even so committed to her misery that she tries (almost successfully, so deep it's quite scary) to convince the other to kill herself. In the end, of course, the diabolical lady servant succumbs to her demons (aaaaaaand fire) and our little protagonist gets away in the RIGHT way: she just gets the hell out of there.

JULES ET JIM (1962, directed by Francois Truffaut)

Every crazy girl's favorite love story, Jules et Jim features an excellent performance by Jeanne Moreau as... a fuckin' woman. For she is like all women: strange and evil. So French. And a perfect display of how petulant suicide truly is.

MULHOLLAND DRIVE (2001, directed by David Lynch, whose book on transcendental meditation is pretty much a must-have audio experience)

One of my personal favorites, and one of the most relate-able final impulses -- performed by an awesome Naomi Watts -- a really actually totally simple and believable story about Los Angeles as metaphor and as the town that it is, and how the weight of depression and desperation can drive you to the edge, and then over it. Kind of a prime example of "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here" being a better choice than that hand gun.

CASINO ROYALE (2006, directed by Martin Campbell)

This was just on the other day, and besides the bangin' opening pong sequence, I really like this movie. Except for the fact I know nothing about poker, so that goes on a bit long for me. But the vaguely underrated Eva Green (also excellent at portraying a woman, in all her twists, turns, pathos, and glory) shows us the ultimate futility of taking your own life: you're nobody's righteous hero, sister.

These are movies, y'all, and I'm not an academic, and I certainly don't write like one. If anyone understands me ANY percentage of the time, I'd be surprised. I can't help the fact that I'm a bit "off" and wore my headgear to school and ate lunch with my reading teacher and played with toy horses when the other girls were learning to play makeup and make out. I don't care! Life is hard and crappy, but so funny and magical, and I love and live it, as hard as it can be sometimes.

YOU have to remember what these tragic characters (and too many of my friends) have FORGOTTEN. That you have a choice, and it is far, far better to rebel and scare yourself than to disappear completely. Because you can't. Wherever you think you're going, you can't hide. You're not allowed. So save the dramz for yer momz, and remember, escape is way easier than you think, without having to swing from the rafters. None of us remember you WELL, suiciders. If that's your last thought, you're wrong. We don't think of you fondly. You suck and if and when we DO think of you, it is with anger, disdain, and dislike. Wouldn't you rather just move to the desert and bar back and wear a muumuu and do whatever it is you want instead? I would. I would and I do. And so should you.

That's my pep talk for 2011. Since it simply HAS to be better than 2010, y'all, it will be.

Happy New Year.

Hoodies are fine for warmth but they're extremely unfashionable,

Coco

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Blurt "co-co-editor" and advice columnist Coco Hames fronts The Ettes - Hames on guitar, Jem Cohen on bass and Poni Silver on drums. Their Greg Cartwright-produced album Do You Want Power arrived in stores last fall, and they've got new stuff in the works too. Check ‘em out at their official website and their Facebook page.

Column #16: Best of 2010 - Red Dead Redemption, Call Of Duty: Black Ops, and more.

By Aaron Burgess

Blurt Picks: The 10 Best Videogames of 2010

As your humble Blurt videogame columnist, I spent literally hundreds of hours blistering my fingers in the name of gaming this year, with each new title offering yet more reasons to ignore my real-world duties in a quest to make the next level. As 2010 draws to a close, however, only a handful of games are managing to keep my trigger finger going into the New Year. Ten seems like as good a number as any, so here, dear readers, are my picks for the year's 10 best reasons to own a game console. See you in 2011-and if anyone feels like clobbering me, my handle at pretty much every online gaming service is first2letters. Happy New Year!

Red Dead Redemption

Platforms: Xbox 360, PlayStation 3

The wild, wild west meets the great wide open in this brain-bendingly rich Old West saga whose mythic plot twists, nail-biting moral ambiguity and blood-drenched plains are equal parts Cormac McCarthy, Coen Brothers and Clint Eastwood. And that's just when you play the main story. Take a side road into a game of gunslingers' poker or stop to see a man about a horse, and there's no telling how irrevocably deep into hero John Marston's tense, twisted world you can go.

Get it from: Amazon

Call Of Duty: Black Ops

Platforms: Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, Wii, DS, PC

As it seems destined to do with each new installment, Call Of Duty title No. 7 raises the bar for all first-person shooters, military or otherwise. Cripes, even the commercials for Call Of Duty: Black Ops-set to the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" in a move that reflected both the game's Cold War/Vietnam-era storyline and the overall experience of playing it-were genius. I spent untold hours in Black Ops' solo campaign, but the most merciful COD multiplayer experience to date made online play just as rewarding

Get it from: Amazon

God Of War III

Platform: PlayStation 3
In a year where a remade Clash Of The Titans rocked the big screen, there was really only one Titanic clash worth experiencing. With breathtaking visual design and cutscenes so powerful they alone could justify a PlayStation 3 purchase, God Of War III delivered Zeus-sized gameplay to match its graphics. Sure, the storyline hits harder if you've played previous God Of War titles, but even without that foothold, you'll delight in playing as the merciless Kratos, making your enemies squirm and their gods bow before you.

Get it from: Amazon

NBA2K11

Platforms: Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, Wii, PSP, PC

A new NBA Jam may have triggered players' nostalgia meters, but between the presence of Michael Jordan and the overall dedication to on-court realism, NBA2K11 proved there was only one NBA game worth honors this year. The graphics alone were so dialed in that I thought I was watching a TV broadcast; luckily I had the riveting gameplay to make me more than just a passive observer. As much as it does to let you build a dynasty, NBA2K11 is so beautifully realized that you'll be lucky to make it out of practice without scraping your jaw off the floor.

Get it from: Amazon

Halo: Reach

Platform: Xbox 360
The gritty, dread-soaked prequel took players back to the dawn of the Halo legend, but in (ahem) reaching back to Halo's salad days for its storyline, Halo: Reach never asked the same of players. Even more than its butt-kicking new features (space combat, anyone?), this entry-level awareness was the game's strongest selling point. As much as it proved the trickiest Halo game to master, Reach was also the easiest of the series' games to enter-and from its customizable DNA to its virtually endless multiplayer possibilities, it remains the hardest Halo game to leave.

Get it from: Amazon

Super Mario Galaxy 2

Platform: Wii
With its objectives set across multiple wacky 3D planets, this eye-popping platformer comes off like the logical sequel to 2007's fun, frivolous adventure starring everyone's favorite Italian plumber. (No offense, Luigi.) But it's the Zen-like simplicity and childlike sense of wonder that drive Super Mario Galaxy 2 that make the game rule. Even Nintendo 64-era memories influence the way you experience SMG2; and by the time you finish it, you'll have carved a new space in your memory bank for this one.

Get it from: Amazon

Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

Platforms: Xbox 360, PlayStation 3
More a dazzling detour than a true follow-up to 2009's Assassin's Creed 2, Brotherhood lives up to its title through an epic multiplayer addition and the ability to recruit fellow assassins in your plight against the Templars. Beyond this basic advancement, however, it's the wide-open feel of Brotherhood that'll hook you from the opening scene. Free to explore an eye-popping rendition of Renaissance Rome, I truly felt like I was reshaping history as I played it-even if I had some help from Leonardo along the way.

Get it from: Amazon

Mass Effect 2

Platforms: Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, PC
We've heard the storyline behind Mass Effect 2 a million times before: alien race, humanity in peril, one hero to save us all. Where developer BioWare changes the game, however, is in making morality a story element. In ME2, characters' motives and motions are as flawed, emotionally driven and potentially epic as would be ours if thrust into the same scenario. Though combat drives the action, it's the little things that count, and this is one game where the choices you make (including whatever baggage you bring from the first Mass Effect) literally shape the benefits you reap.

Get it from: Amazon

Rock Band 3

Platforms: Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, Wii
Mechanically speaking, keyboards and a few fake cymbals were the only things Rock Band's creators brought to the stage for installment No. 3. These peripherals, however-to say nothing of the new "pro" modes for guitar and drums-were mere jumping-off points for the Rock Band experience, which with Rock Band 3 proves the best rock & roll fantasy available on any console. Not only do you get full compatibility with all your older Rock Band downloads; you got the ability to rock them all with up to six of your closest friends. Bohemian Rhapsody, indeed.

Get it from: Amazon

Donkey Kong Country Returns

Platform: Xbox 360
Mario wasn't the only Nintendo character who took us on a nostalgia trip this year. Packing a slew of gorgeously designed (and impressively tough) levels in his barrels, Donkey Kong also closed out the year with a 3D, Wii-exclusive reboot of his own side-scrolling classic. And did I mention that Diddy Kong is along for the ride? Probably not, because in one of many how-did-I-ever-live-without-that? updates to the classic franchise, I was too busy making both characters go bananas at once.

Get it from: Amazon

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Our game guru, Aaron Burgess, lives digitally but dreams in analog down in Round Rock, Texas. Contact him at first2letters@gmail.com  / AIM: First2Letters

Marc Maron  is a lot of things but, above all else, he is a stand up comic. If you've seen Maron in films, on television, or on stage, you know he can act, but Maron is not an actor; if you've read his memoir, The Jerusalem Syndrome, you know that Maron is a hell of a writer, but he's not an author; and if you heard his voice on Air America or, more recently, on his revered podcast, WTF  [<<http://www.wtfpod.com] (which Ira Glass recently referred to as "the New York Times of comedy podcasts"), then you know Maron is an eloquent and adept interviewer and storyteller, but he's no "on-air personality." Marc Maron is an immensely intelligent an gifted performer and writer, but above all else, Marc Maron is a stand up comic, and Marc Maron is as good at being a stand up comic as you or I could ever hope to be at whatever we choose to do (or whatever chooses us, or whatever).

 
If you're not familiar with Maron's work, he tells a story that sums it up pretty well:


Recently a young woman who had just seen me came out on to the street, came up to me, excited, and said, "You were really great. You're like Woody Allen." Of course, I found a way to make that a negative and said, "Really, I think I'm a little angrier than Woody Allen." In response she said, "You're like an Iggy Pop Woody Allen."

 

It's an honor and a great pleasure to start this column back up again by talking to Marc Maron about the Stones and, more specifically, "It's Only Rock and Roll."


"It's Only Rock and Roll" is a really interesting choice. It's maybe not as iconic a Stones tune as "Satisfaction" or "Brown Sugar," but it does serve as a sort of musical mission statement for the Stones. What is it about this tune that stands out to you?
 

There seems to be a groove, a bounce, between Charlie and Keith, that to me is Stones perfection. Keith running that pure Chuck Berry drive shaft fueled on his entire musical life and near-deaths up to that point. Charlie is crisp and forceful; Bill fills those holes in a big, smooth way. It seems that Keith shifted his sound on this album. Maybe it was the drugs, the exhaustion, or the stress of the drugs and the exhaustion, but there is a dirty rumble and raw crunch to it. I don't know if it was to compensate for or complement Mick Taylor's methodical, lyrical sweetness but this is definitely a wall of Stones rhythm and a deep-dug crumbling dam of Keith. Jagger lives this song laid back, wired, nasty and swampy at the same time


"It's Only Rock and Roll" is a grand filthy anthem that blew my mind. It is creepy, beautiful, menacing and sexy to me. I believe the first time I encountered it was maybe on the Merv Griffin show when I was like 11 or 12, and the Stones were on the show in sailor suits playing the song and they did all this weird shit with the camera lenses -- fish eyed and moving around. It blew my little mind and planted some serious bad seeds and sexual weirdness in me.

 

Yeah, Keith's playing seems more fluid on this record, but not in a boring or languid way.  The evolution of his playing is pretty wild to go back and listen to, but by this time he had really settled into a groove. Is this the Stones record, or era, you reach for most often?


No, I reach for the Beggars, Exile, Let it Bleed era first but lately I find myself reaching for this record and Love You Live. I do go back to Black and Blue occasionally and Some Girls. Rarely the early stuff, other than the very first album.

 
It has always seemed to me that, by the mid-70's, a lot of Jagger's thing was contrived. Do you think there's a level of self-parody in "It's Only Rock and Roll," or is this one of the last few honest Jagger moments?

I don't think the Jagger thing was any more contrived on this album than it was anywhere else once he figured out what that thing was. I think it was just habit and style but the singing is great. I didn't get a sense that he was a self-parody until Some Girls, really. He sings the fuck out of this album and he sounds great. There are some GREAT Stones songs on this album -- as good as any other songs they ever wrote. "Till the Next Goodbye," "If you Really Want to Be My Friend," "Dance Little Sister," "Short and Curlies." Come on.

 
Those are great tunes. I just put on Black and Blue recently and there's some stuff on there that I had forgotten about completely: "Hand of Fate," "Crazy Mama," "Fool to Cry." I sort of drift away from their catalog after Some Girls, as well. It's too hit-and-miss after that.

The Stones were ALWAYS hit-and-miss. I mean, come on. They're not the fucking Beatles.

 

Yeah, that's true but, from Beggars to Exile is a pretty unbelievable creative run. It's 32 years of a few peaks and way too many valleys since Some Girls. Are the Stones a band that strikes you as still being capable of great work, or are they just a Brand now? Does it even matter at this point?

 I think it is possible that between them there is another album there. I haven't cared about them in any real way since Bill stopped touring with them. I really stopped at Some Girls, though I like a couple of songs on Emotional Rescue and Tattoo You. I think if they stripped it all down and got back to what they were very early on sound wise - a blues band - it would make for a great record. I think if they did a studio record along the lines of the el Mocambo disc of Love You Live it would be awesome -- but a dream. They would have to let someone else produce it, they'd have to get Bill to give a shit about working again and Keef and Mick would have to get along. I think those obstacles are probably too big.

Excerpt from the book, "The Porky from New Yorky ‘s Guide to Weight Loss and Positive Mental Health”

You know you're a Porky if you exhibit some of the following traits:

1)    When they picked teams for kickball- you were picked 8th in a field of ten.

2)    You finished college with a C to C+ average.

3)    8 out of 10 girls turned you down for dates or rejected you for various reasons.

4)    If  you think you should be the boss  when in reality you’re the file clerk.

The Number One Porky Myth
Most Porkys  are not fat but many are slightly overweight


I remember the day as though it were yesterday. The day I gave my heart soul to rock and roll; or prehaps better spoken, to music. It was the equivalent of handling snakes, getting the fever, talking in tongues accepting Jesus—or in  this case accepting Mick as my saviour. It was in the summer months of 1963. A hot day at my best friend John Studebaker’s house. We were having a Cub Scout meeting–and the lesson that day was how to make a bean bag. Needle, thread, some hard beans and a piece of cloth. A primitive task preparing us cubs to get some basic skills to go face the world. After the meeting was over, all the cubs left but me. John and I were going to play as we often did—we were playing out our version of Rudyard Kipling. Our activities consisted of riding bikes-throwing dirt clods/playing with fireworks-or running around in the anarkali(old market). But today was different. After our fellow cubs departed John said to me, “come here you have to see this!”

We went to his 15 year old brother Ray’s room and he went to the closet and pulled out a small plastic record player (the legendary $10 record player where you pull the tone arm backwards to start the wheel spinning) he pulled out  a record showed it to me—“Ray just got this” he said—then proceeded to put it on the record player. He dropped the needle on the record and it was at that moment that a switch flipped on in my head. Instincts that were dormant were now being awakened—it was  like a science fiction movie where the gigantic monster machine comes on slowly powerfully-it can’t be stopped and grows exponentially stronger minute by minute. Every molecule in my being became alive and marched toward the pleasure and pain center of my brain with the speed and power of a locomotive train. The song was “Congratulations” by The Rolling Stones.

Congratulations, congratulations
Well done my friend, you've done it again
you've gone and broke another heart. Yeah
Yeah, tore it apart
You've done it before, hope do it some more
You've got it down to a fine art
Remember the first time you tried to do it to me
There'll be no next time, just wait and see
Just wait and see

 
I realized my destiny and who I was and my station in life. To be quite honest, I wasn’t to happy about these realizations. It was at that moment that I knew instinctually that my life would be fraught with disappointment and little if any success. Feelings of desperation/lonliness and failure-bloomed like flowers in my being. I felt real anger, and when Mick sneered “yeah you tore it apart,” I knew those emotions were going to be the mantra of my life. The music spoke to me. It was my cross to bare.

Without saying anything to each other the song came to an end and John put the needle back down and we listened to the song again and a third time. I don’t know how Studee felt about it-I doubt he felt the same feelings I felt-but he must have felt something. He then said,”lets listen to the other side.”---Amazingly the other side of the single: ‘Time is on My Side,” brought on a plethora of paradoxically different feelings. I felt a sense of calm---a sense of hope. It’ll be alright—there’s hope—there’s a chance its not all lost—and your not alone—you’ll get your second chance-the dignity-the girl whatever you want you will get it.

Time is on my side, yes it is
Time is on my side, yes it is
Now you always say
that you want to be free
but you'll come running back (said you would baby)
you'll come running back (I said so many times before)
you'll come running back to me
Oh, time is on my side, yes it is
Time is on my side, yes it is

The story was complete-the Yin and the Yang. Two parts of the whole –the despair and the hope. This is what music was about. It speaks to you in a language that is private personal and most of all comforting. It was at this moment that I realized I was the porky from New Yorky and it was going to be a long and difficult ride. Now you may be thinking how would a 10-year-old come to these provocative realizations about his life and character. Well I would tell you first that it was instinctual and secondly it might have had to do with the fact that out of 10 kids making bean bags I was in a group of three that could not thread the needle and thus failed to stitch up the bag. It didn’t help that Mrs. Studebaker said several times in front of the group—“Come on Steven you can do it-its simple!!” Think of a Catholic Betsy Ross who might have been a character in Thornton Wilders “our Town” and you get the picture. Not once but twice she chided me about my failure. It was at this moment that I realized that most Catholics are latent Jew haters but I digress.

In this chapter I would like to explain the love hate relationship that Porky’s all over the world have with exercise. I remember when I first became aware of the strong necessity of exercise and the concept of “your body is talking to you.” I had turned 48 and went out with some chums for a night of fun to the DC Improv. David Brenner was the headline act and he of course is a charter member of the brotherhood of Porkys. David is very funny and really one of the best comics around—unfortunately like most porkys he was either mis-managed or somehow fucked up his own career and never received the stature he so deserves. Well to get to the story—he went into a long monologue of how your body talks to you—it was a unique combination of serious discussion and hilarious off the wall comedy—but I remember becoming acutely aware of “body talk”. Most of my exercise up until that time consisted of lying back and imagining myself jogging—or reaching for the TV remote utilizing the functional isometric technique of channel changing. I procrastinated for the next 9 years until three events/philosophies entered my reality. First off the perennial reunion was around the corner—I of course failed to meet my goals. Secondly I started working in a corporate environment with many beautiful young women. Now while I am a happily married man the arrogance of the male ego coupled with the Porky entitlement factor inspired me to think about exercise in a more serious manner to heighten my desirability factor-but the most important element that finally sent me to the treadmill was an episode of Star Trek. I don’t remember the title or even what the episode was about—I just remember the last 10 minutes. Bones and Mr.Spock were stranded in a capsule floating along with the oxygen running out. Unless they were noticed and rescued they were dead men. At some point during the small talk of 2 men often at odds with each other-now making amends-Spock launches a flair into space that robs them of most of their power and oxygen. Bones freaks out yelling something like—“spock you’re killing us—you signed our death warrant (or something to that effect). Of course they get rescued and in the last 2 minutes of show (standing in the company of Capt.Kirk on the bridge)—Bones takes a dig at Spock—and says, “ You know Mr. Spock---launching that flair was highly illogical,” Mr. Spock in his timeless cool manner turns to bones-pauses; raises eyebrows- then says, “No Dr. Mcoy it was in fact very logical,”—the episode ends. I’m not sure why but that 10-minute scene gave me all the inspiration I needed. Hence I bought a treadmill—and now I am going to share with you my formula for physical perfection. —All this takes is 30 minutes 5 nights a week—Jane Fonda—Pilate’s trainers-thigh masters—Guthrie renker watch out—the PORKERCISER regiment is here.

The only accessory one needs is his trusty pocket cassette player—however I am sure the more technologically inclined out there can duplicate this in the format that works for you-ok we are off and running-lets start the speed at 3 miles---Tunes away:

1)    Mary Chapin Carpenter "It must have happened"
I don’t even like Mary Chapin Carpenter—but this a great song structure with great lyrics—with a power and calming effect at the same time.

 “Can't remember seein' all my hopes goin' up in flames I can't remember reachin' for the closest thing to dull the pain I can't remember feeling I could be healed by a stranger's hand”
-A perfect first choice for someone who resents doing this—power on “after all baby here I am with you!”

2)    The Shoes "Tomorrow Night"
Ok were starting to find a groove now-one of the greatest power pop bands of all time-The shoes never received the recognition they deserved---operating in the shadow of Big Star—these guy had the looks, the tunes—but suffered the unfortunate fate of being relegated to a footnote in rock history.

3) The Hoodoo Gurus- "I Want You Back"
  So were in a power pop groove now—here is a killer pop number with a larger than life production—imagine yourself in the Australian outback; your thirsty starving looking for a water hole—then miraculously you come upon—these cartoon character mop tops with 100 ft. amplifiers playing their hearts out for the Barney crowd—dinosaurs galore—that’s what mtv does for you

3)    Johnny Hallyday W. The Rattles "Keep Searchin"

OK now we're cooking—lets move the speed up to 3.1—Johnny Hallyday-now here is a misunderstood rock star—get your borsalino out and imagine Bridgett Bardot and Catherine Deneuve on your arm—and in your bed—befriend 60’s rock band the Rattles take a Del Shannon tune—put a farfisa organ in—a bad French accent and a Nazi holiday camp band—and we’re rocking—you can laugh all you want at Johnny Hallyday but he probably got more pussy than Mick, Keith & Wilt Chamberlain put together.

5)    Mannfred Mann "If You Gotta Go Now"
Sweat starting to make its appearance—no one can dispute the greatest songwriter of modern times was Bob Dylan---and similarly no one can dispute that Mannfred Mann—(with Paul Jones) was the greatest interpreter of his songs. And while this song is not in Dylan’s top ten—for my money (and work out) this interpretation reaches perfection – the lyrics burst with alarming immediacy when sung by Paul Jones—and the instrumentation is beat nirvana.

It ain’t that I’m wantin’Anything you never gave before
It’s just that I’ll be sleepin’ soon It’ll be too dark for you to find the door
But if you got to go It’s all right
But if you got to go, go now
Or else you gotta stay all night

6)    The Cramps- "A New Kind of Kick"
The Stooges may have introduced the world to Raw Power-but the Cramps took the concept re-invented it and over powered & destroyed every garage and punk band in its wake-including Iggy & friends. One of rocks biggest tragedies was the passing of Lux.  No modern punk rocker could touch the sheer magnitude of power and stage prescence that was Lux Interior---anchored by the demure but highly erotic Poison Ivy—literally unbeatable. Ivy took sex appeal to an etherial level—she was a woman you wanted to worship and crawl for—by the middle of this song—I’ve moved the speedomoter to 3.3….psst psssst  Ivy call me.

7)    Episode 6 "Love Hate Revenge" 
Refugees from the flower power british freakbeat explosion—these guys took an American bubble gum track-coated it with toffee flavored acid and came up with a minor freakbeat masterpiece. Throbbing bass lines and masterful lyrics:

      “ I bought a doll  from an old bearded lady, I named it Tanya and it looks just like you-and though I know that it sounds a little crazy—I can make you feel anything I want you to-----If I want you to cry bet your life your gonna cry –when I put two drops of water in this little dolls eye-so if want to get even all I gotta do is break this heart and you will feel misery..

8) The Choir—"Anyway I Can"
I’m beginning to feel to feel the pain—the adrenalin is slowing down—the workout is half done and I need purpose—this porky needs to be steadied—lets go back to 7th grade-Bari Thompson I’m sorry I teased you—I know you must have grown up to be so beautiful—If only I had the sense to have done what these Choir lyrics preach—“concentrate—accept  your mistakes figure out what you should have done better—it will get you beyond the pain—the beauty of the past-the beauty of that first smile—it never got better than that—love went downhill from there.”

8)    The Remains-"Say Your Sorry"
Ok Porky, puck up, pull yourself together and lets rev up this work out with the Remains. Barry Tashians Vocal was a cross between Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney—the guitar playing was a cross between George Harrison & Keith Richards and the songs were a cross…..”your love is not the way its been—say your sorry!”

9)Masters Apprentice—War or Hands of Time
Did you see Braveheart with Mel Gibson—Imagine this is the theme song—your off to fight for your freedom with an  army of scallywags—Sir William Wallace fighting for  the freedom of the Scottish People—amidst the sounds of these shimmering guitars.

“Oh I had to go—I will be thinking of you when I’m far away.”
While listening I had become Sir William Wallace opposing King Edward I of England---I led the men in the battle of Stirling Bbridge.I..I..I

10)Judith Durham—Wanderlove
This is the Female Heroine in the Braveheart film we just left—Princess Isabella—Professes her great love. Judith Durham may very have the most beautiful voice in pop music. Remeniscint of Sandy Denny-her range, subtletiy and grace are unparalled. Imagine her on the hillside singing this to Sir William Wallace—as you can imagine this Porky is sweating like a Pig-but listening to this song- I actually get goose bumps.

11) Flamin’ Ohs—Gotcher’head
Coming into the home stretch now---this obscure instrumental reminds one of Joe Meeks Tornados-but more american more farfisa keyboard –a theme I once considered many moons ago to close my long forgotten radio show-keep steady, petal to the metal or is it the other way around?

12) Bunk Dogger-“French Lessons” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0t3jibfncQ
This song always makes me laugh-obtuse humor verging on the obscene—no its not pedophelia—and aging french teacher barely able to walk falling in love with a 16 year old english girl—Henry Miller—where are you now when American Needs you—I need you-we need inspiration-we need laughter and most of all we need irrerevrence.

13) Music Machine
“Talk Talk”- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJR_KGZO4U0
We’re almost finished now and were gonna kick out the jams---this is definitely in the top five angry punk songs. Black leather leather pants & shirt—playing guitar with black gloves—these lyrics against discordant yet melodic angry punk it don’t get better than this:
“Here's the situation And how it really stands
I'm out of circulation I've all but washed my hands
My social life's a dud My name is really mud
I'm up to here in lies Guess I'm down to size
To size”

      14) The Stranglers-“No More Heroes” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6yTRq_rJg4
The last song in this grueling work out-nihilistic punk calling on the spirit of Jim Morrison. “Whatever happened to Leon Trotsky?” a stomping rythmn --2 more minutes and were done-are we feeling good or what?!!!---No More Hero’s-- I’ve got that chance now—how many pounds-2 3 4----------The song ends I step off the treadmill—I’m doing the moonwalk——time to hit the shower---wait –Is someone calling me—Is someone acknowledging my greatness—I hear a voice—Oh its my wife—“Steven can you come down here-it starts as a question and ends as a command—come down here—I just made an apple pie—do you want a piece----Can I have 2???

Out ‘n' about in the City of Angels with Blurt's roving shutterbug (11/8 12/4)

By Scott Dudelson

(above and below) The Posies - Live @ Club Nokia (www.clubnokia.com) - 12/4 (bottom photo w/Brendan Benson)

Joe Henry & Karin Bergquist of Over the Rhine - Live @ The Troubadour (www.troubadour.com) - 11/8

Over the Rhine (Karin Bergquist) - Live @ The Troubadour (www.troubadour.com) - 11/8

Lucinda Williams - Live @ The Troubadour (www.troubadour.com) - 11/8

Loudon Wainwright III - Live @ The Troubadour (www.troubadour.com) - 11/8

John McLaughlin (Mahavishnu Orchestra) - Live @ UCLA Royce Hall (www.uclalive.org)

Aqueduct - Live @ Club Nokia (www.clubnokia.com) - 12/4

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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.