A few years ago I was in Moab, outside of Arches National Park. Arches is one of the most striking places in America, in fact it’s where I ate two hits of acid one morning, threw on Axis Bold as Love and put pen to paper with the intent of music for the first time. But by that point I had the Arches experience, and as gorgeous as it is, it feels trafficked in the center of summer, like a mall with red rock majesty. I figured I’d find a health food store in town and ask some hippie where one could go and get off the beaten path and avoid drowning in the tourist sea. I found a gal with a hemp necklace that looked like she dropped a hundred dollars on it in a 97 Phish Parking Lot, thick enough to support strange fruit, but with crystals. I asked her where the secret scenic spot was where I wouldn’t get run over by an obese Nebraskan in a golf cart. The first half of her response was somewhere between Mushmouth and the teacher from Peanuts, but by the tail end of her sentence she segued seamlessly into English. “(*&^**^%* Bill’s Canyon” she said repeatedly. After three looks that said “what the fuck are you saying” she finally said Negro Bill’s Canyon. She was red as the Kool Aid man, perplexed as to why the one black man in Utah at that moment was asking her to say “Negro”. I think she expected backlash, but all I wanted was directions. The real name of the canyon is Nigger Bill’s Canyon, though they changed it in the late 60s along with a number of other Parks that probably had names like Lazy Mexican State Beach and Asians Are Good at Math National Wildlife Refuge. It was a different time. I brought Nigger Bill’s Canyon up to my dad and he had an interesting take on it. He wished that they never changed the name of it. His point was that it was history. Changing the name we doesn’t negate that there was a place called Nigger Bill’s Canyon, nor a lengthy time where such a place could exist. We need those reminders of a not too distant past, better to face them head on and acknowledge them rather than pretend they didn’t exist. I didn’t think of it that way, not sure that I do now. If my guardian granola angel told me to go to Nigger Bill’s Canyon, I would have simply left Utah in a flurry of middle fingers at 95 mph back to civilized California. I think of this regarding the confederate flag hanging in Carolina, the streets named after confederate generals. I doubt that changing them really makes any difference. Though I do know the distinct panic induced the second I see that flag as a bumper sticker or in the air. But regardless what flag fights against the wind in any locale, the tension is time tested and in the veins and bones. If anything the flag is symptom, removing the symptom only creates a false and fleeting comfort while disease spreads in silence. Bill certainly had a beautiful canyon.
White is the New Black 6/12
Spokane!!!! How did you not notice that chick was white??? She looks like a white chick dressed as black chick for halloween who didn't really try all that hard. Like someone threw a chocolate pie at her in a Gallagher-esque comedy sketch and before she could clean up completely, she was offered a gig at the NAACP. Maybe Spokane is truly color blind and I can go up there and be an Asian Man named Fung Lee who maintains a Koi Fish Pond like I have always dreamed. It's the last place where Sir Paul McCartney can walk leisurely down the street and when accosted by a rabid Beatles fan, he simply says "I'm Lamont Jenkins, a Janitor and the local high school, go sports team!" I guarantee you one thing, when her black ass gets pulled over, she pulls out her hidden copy of Spin Doctors Pocket Full of Kryptonite and pronounces "ask" correctly and drives away, ticket free. This whole story fascinates me, to spend 12 years pretending to be a black person is a commitment that some black people don't even have. If I can get three words into a sentence with a fake british accent before I get too exhausted to keep up the ruse, I consider it an achievement. I'm looking forward to the inevitable documentary 12 Years A Fake and the casting controversy when they get a black woman to play a white woman pretending to be a black woman.
This Mother Fucker
This mother fucker!
I don’t know what the statute of limitations is on the misuse of an afro, but I wanna sue this dude for my dollar. I dig for records, that’s pretty much my favorite way to pass the time. Getting my fingers blacker in the thrifts and summoning dust mites into the atmosphere in the quest for black gold is a solid Monday as far as I’m concerned. I’ve learned a few rules through the years. One of them is finding a record with a fat ass afro on the cover and 1967-1972 on the back. You buy that shit. Regardless. The band could be called the Dooby Dooby Dipshits, but if there’s a Black Man who would cast a shadow that looks like he has a Hot Air Balloon for a head, you’ve got an album full of tough drum breaks and some pocket bass playing. The same afro in 1977 doesn’t promise the same thing, it’s probably some coke infused synth laden disco, but pre 72 is your safety zone.
I came across this Jimmy Mamou record at a thrift store in Oceanside. I couldn’t find a year on it, but I trusted the afro. The roundness of it was what your wanting. Plus those lamb chops! And to top it off, just look closely at those eyes. Dude looks high. He looks like he smoked a spliff the size of a baby leg 32 seconds before this photo shoot (in hindsight I guessing his red eyes are from dust mite allergies).
I did know the record was a risk. I was reading the song titles and it went Every Knee Shall Bow, Hold Me Jesus, I Read the Bible, Let Us Pray, Do You Believe In Jesus, Let Me Stand Up For Jesus and Creation. That’s a hefty amount of Jesus in a small amount of words. I’d go as far as to call the guy repetitive. I have nothing against Christianity, but man it zaps the flavor out of some music. Like saying “Christian Rock” is another way of saying “bland rock”, but still, the afro. I dropped a dollar on it. Took Jimmy home and dropped a needle on it. TERRIBLE. I skipped through this smooth Christian themed soft reggae, the kinda reggae Jimmy Buffet fans listen to while snapping their fingers along off rhythm. There was one song that had a groove to it, it was like the afro jumped off the head and said in a voice deep enough to front an all black Crash Test Dummies Cover Band “Yo son, I’m producing this track cause you been fuckin shit up with yo nonsense”
I guess I paid a dollar for a story about misspent afros. And now I've created a pressure on myself to never put out shitty music, or the easier challenge of never placing my face on an album cover. I'll go with the latter.
Go Chargers
My phone was dead. I was in the center of an 11-hour shift and I had left my charger at home. I felt like I was on a cold island. There’s pleasantness in the distance and detachment, but I always feel like I’m missing something. I was wondering what filters people were using on their photographs of sandwiches. And just what kind of sandwiches were they. You know, important stress inducing pressing shit. In those moments I try not to ponder the starving Indian child in search of a few grains of rice, I prefer let my mind wander over what how earlybird looks on a bottomless bowl of Ramen beneath the bright san diego sun, it’s just easier that way. The shift was moving Sunday slow and phoneless, I found myself reading the liner notes to jimmy buffet cds, the ingredients to a bag of chips and any other short burst of distraction that would captivate me for seconds at a time. At some point I heard a commotion out front. There was a woman who came barreling down the street like a bowling ball decorated with lipstick and Tourettes, she was snarling and cursing and took out a few locked bikes with her. Strike! This was cruel torture because it lasted. When someone lets out a brilliant firework of insanity, I generally think that I’m just catching the finale and there’s no sense in attempting to document it. But she was just breaking the ice with her madness. I had ample time to grab my phone and capture all of it, maybe even get David Attenborough or Sigourney Weaver to narrate it at some later date. But alas, there I was, impotent phone in hand, missing her crowning moment when she lay in the middle of a busy sidewalk in a puddle of her own urine, hurling her shoes into the street like they were Frisbees and she was attending a 1994 H.O.R.D.E. festival. I got home later that night and plugged in, charged up. I expected a flood of pings to welcome me back, inundating me with messages missed. It pinged once. It was a voicemail from my mother to inform me that I was still a nerd loser and nothing had changed since 1994. Though now, with a charged phone, I’ll document bigger losers than me, it’s all relative.
Ass-Hole-Lean
Well, this would be the first time I’ve posted a Scott Weiland video ever in my life. There was a brief window in 1994 where I could have theoretically done such a thing, but it was an age of no “walls” and considerably less screens, a postless era. I have a group thread on facebook with Jason Littlefield and Erik Canzona entitled “Dick Dog.” I can only assume that somewhere in years past, someone sent a photograph of a dog that looked like a dick (hopefully not a dick that looked like a dog) and the thread was born.
Every so often my phone pings and I get an alert saying “dick dog has received a message” and I perk up with excitement like a……..well…….. like a dick........ or a dog near my fried chicken, either way, the dick dog thread is aptly named. It’s usually a video of a heroic failure, an adorable animal or a life changing musical event. I root for the failures.
Today it was Jason Littlefield delivering this amazing video of Scott Weiland in what’s basically a Stone Temple Pilots cover band. In the video, he utterly butchers the signature hit Vasoline, a song he should be very familiar with. The video sounds like the security footage from one of those rehearsal warehouses where bands with corporate day jobs let loose and fire something from Huey Lewis and the News Sports album through a shitty p.a. His demeanor looks like he’s been eating from the buffet of heroin brownies for 24 straight hours, but who knows what demons are dangling the puppet strings over his corpselike body. "Scott Weiland’s rep has spoken to TMZ about the performance, blaming it on lack of sleep, a couple of drinks and an faulty earpiece. The rep says that Weiland has been overnighted new earbuds in time for his show in Baton Rouge, La., tonight." -loudwire.com Maybe he’s drinkin heroin smoothies. The thread went on for a while after we had all seen the videos. If earbuds make that degree of difference, I’m gonna get some so I can finally do my solo Jeff Buckley tribute night at Copley. Erik had the most tremendous quote of the thread, “Somewhere Layne Staley is stoked he od'd before having to play a Guitar Center without earbuds.” But there we were, an hour’s worth of Scott Weiland themed emails, asking ourselves who really won this round. For a moment Scott Weiland was the most relevant he’s been to me since I heard that one song off the Crow soundtrack. I might even listen to a song on spotify, let my fraction of a cent go to his earbud fund, keep the dream of the 90s from being deferred. Though it will definitely be on private if I listen.
Foreground Rob
A couple of weeks ago I was a part of a film and music event. I wound up watching 60+ local music videos in an attempt to pick out the best ones to show to the public. A lot of them were really great, but we're not here to celebrate the achievements of others, at least not today. We're here to discuss the misfits who didn't make the cut. Those who made the time pass like molasses trough an hour glass wearing a tight belt. First of all, I've been living my life wrong this whole time. I listen to David Bowie, Tom Waits and the Beatles all day and then try to make my own music afterwards. Naturally, thus far I have viewed myself as a complete and utter failure. There's nothing like getting the master of your record, feeling that mayfly brief moment of achievement and then comparing it to the Radiohead album you drew inspiration from. This moment is joined with an irreconcilable sadness that sounds like the Price is Right losing trombone.
Well, listening to some locals failing tragically made me feel like Led Fucking Zeppelin, although the balloon of my ego was helium filled and floating high. The bad videos were heroically bad and heroes they were, saving me from the depression haunts beneath the shadow that Bob Dylan casts. Listen to Background Rob in the foreground and you'll know what sonic pride feels like. If you're as impatient as I am, skip to the 25 second mark when the magic happens.
As a career cynic, some of these videos nearly gave me an orgasm. But as a not complete idiot, I have to remember to be careful. It's safest to talk shit about young feather weight kids who look Orville Redenbacher's jaunt through puberty. I generally avoid making fun of dudes who look like their trucks have ballsacs. The following guys look like they might murder me to death or take me to a Slipknot concert (probably the same result), but I'm just going to pray they never become privy to this blog, or if they do, they remember that all press is good press and this blog was ghostwritten by Matthew.
And though their video is about the ills of domestic domestic violence, the music is so terrible it actually made me question my views on the subject. Anyway. It's good to feel good bout yourself. And tonight when I go to sleep, I'll even be able to negotiate the times when I had a mustache and was in a rap rock jamband.
The Midnight Pine Buried Lyrics
Here are the words to one of my favorite Midnight Pine songs. It was written at Mama's Bakery in North Park. Shelbi had a melody, I had some words and we both had some chicken shawarma. This is one of my favorite spots in town, though fellow redwood Matthew Molarius is not a fan. You be the judge, let us know.
Buried
Beneath
The swell Jacaranda trees
The violent violet majesty
You are
The least
Last river standing in between
My freedom from this gentle dream
I’ve seen
Carried
The weight
Of words that never hesitate
Of worlds that should have tested faith
But still
You push
Against the tidal wave of youth
That washes til it’s drowning you
In truth
Midsummer night
Fell in love wrong
Days fall to nothing
Thirsty for poison
Thirsty for song
Searching for something
What’s love
But words
Just letters fed to haunted hearts
That stalk the salvage yard for parts
For you
For me
For guided light and openings
For tides to bring back broken things
To sing
To us
To rust
To push and pull and separate
To wield love in the face of hate
We try
At times
To stitch tears in our alibis
To braid the rivers, lakes and lies / to find
Midsummer night
Fell in love wrong
Days fall to nothing
Thirsty for poison
Thirsty for song
Searching for something
I fell
As hard
As boulevards are broken by
The candle quake of footprint light
You might Reveal
The teal blue tears and fears you still
Keep close to chest to breast til death
The lives you hide til nothings left
But love
So open up your wings to me
The branches boughs and everything
And I’ll sip slow and serpentine
TiI you surrender soft serene
There’s braille we feel but fail to read
The scales that name our wants and needs
And when there’s struggle all around
I’ll pry the thorns adorn your crown
Til every cunning cloud looks down
So envious of what we’ve found
The beech bark white wash reverie
The fevered ghosts surviving me
We blow old smoke through punctured lungs
Clouding up the crescent sun
My breakdown alley miles away
My midnight moon and new escape
The ballad of a severed spring
My love, my loss, my everything
My love, my loss, my everything
My love, my loss, my everything
Where's Bill Bellamy When You Don't Need Him
SPRING BREAK 2015!!! A drunken voice screams as if through the Horn of Gondor. It took me a minute to put 2 and 2 together, to realize why i couldn't park anywhere near our store located one block from the pacific, why there was an increased volume of young enthusiastic beach clad drunks swaying like frail trees in a hurricane while asking "have you ever heard of Zeppelin?" I remember when I was 19 and the prospect of going to a warm climate with an azure ocean and trying to bang a stranger while ferociously blind on hard alcohol, as Sublime's What I Got played in the background and Bill Bellamy cheered you on, sounded like a good time. Today, this literally sounds like hell. Like if I got drunk and drove a school bus full of adorable children and kittens off a cliff while listening to Deicide, I'd wake up in Cancun with a bottle of tequila in my mouth, Skrillex in my ears and youth all around me for eternity.
One loud posse thundered into the store. Their leader was one of those people you hate automatically, he never had a chance, neon orange shoes, ponytail, loud mouth and the confident opinion of himself. He had been poisoned with the belief that he was more of a comedian than a migraine. After making all kinds of high volume demands for reggae 45s he asked me if i wanted to go to a party after work. Generally when someone hands me a show flyer or a verbal invite, I always lie and say "cool man, I'll check that out" fully knowing that I'll be slowly trudging through season 3 of House of Cards in my jammies at 10pm, asking myself if I even still enjoy it. Thank god there's no Pinocchio situation, cause I'd have shot a brown dagger through the eyes of nearly every promoter (insert dick joke here) like some urban Cyrano de Bergerac. But for whatever reason when this guy asked if I wanted to party I said "NO!", emphatically, like so many spring break women will have to this evening. He tried to sweeten the deal by telling me what djs would be there as if their names would hold some allure or relevance for me, but it only brought out a "no means no, here's your change." 7 minutes after he made his purchase, a homeless kid came in and said "I found these records in the street, can I sell them to you?" Perhaps he was leaving a trail of vinyl so he could find his way back to the record store, perhaps he was so shitfaced he couldn't hold on to his Lionel Richie 45s and left them in front of Hodad's when onion rings peaked his interest. Sure homeless kid, here's a buck, get wild, it's SPRING BREEEAAAAK!!!!!
*when I was 19 I split a 30 pack of miller high life and a bottle of vodka with my roommate, after drinking it all we started walking to a party and I was throwing popcorn on the ground every five steps, when asked what I was doing, I responded "so I can find my way home like that fairy tail........Mitch and His Cookies!" My roommate, possessing slightly more clarity than I, realized I was so hammered I thought Hansel and Gretel was called Mitch and His Cookies and sent me back home for I was too far gone to continue, I followed the popcorn.