Like you really needed more encouragement to go see JK's February tomorrow night (Thursday, 10.29) at the Brooklyn Knitting Factory?
As the only NYC band that continues to hit me in all the right places, I feel compelled to add that their live shows are often utterly transcendent. And if there's anything to be said about churning guitars and propulsive, swamp-thick rhythms in 2009, this is the band that's saying it—while dressed to the nines, no less!
More on Jonathan Kane's February here and here. (The latter includes a free MP3 download.)
I just spent twenty minutes of my life searching the internet for an episode of that show Unwrapped. You know, the one hosted by Marc Summers—former host of kid programs like Double Dare, and quite possibly the mildest man in America. I actually think of Unwrapped as one of the better offerings on the Food Network, if only for its often horrifying revelations pertaining to how anything from gumballs to hot dogs to pickles are manufactured and distributed. An uneasy TV cousin to both Alton Brown and that Dirty Jobs guy, I often find myself roped into episodes of Unwrapped, even if I have only a fleeting interest in whatever the subject matter is.
Then I saw the episode about how cast iron cookware is made, and it was like watching Satyricon, 2001, Fitzcarraldo, Chelsea Girl, and a Skinemax movie all at the same time. Wow!
Naturally, I'm a big cast iron fan. In any post-apocalyptic/zombie takeover/survivalist scenario, I'm sure it would be among the first things I'd scavenge for in the wreckage of our failed society. Cast iron (skillets, in particular) are incredibly useful, satisfyingly heavy, boast a hidden health benefit, and are virtually indestructible. My wife and I have a beautiful one that she found in someone's trash on Flatbush Avenue. It was in pretty bad shape, but we cleaned it up and now use it constantly. (Interestingly, while scrubbing loose some burnt-on schmutz from the underside of its cooking surface, the manufacturer's imprint was revealed for what seemed like the first time in a century. I Googled the name, and indeed, the company that made it went out of business more than 50 years ago! As such, our skillet is already well on its way to family heirloom status, even though we're not the original owners.)
Anyhow, I'd never given much thought to how cast iron was manufactured, but the episode of Unwrapped that covered it was utterly riveting, so keep an eye out for it. As a consolation, here's a dorky, but similarly informative video put together by Le Creuset that covers a lot of the same ground. (Albeit with less molten metal being splattered around and a totally unnecessary smooth jazz/trip hop musical accompaniment.) [Link]
My only business at this year's WFMU Record Fair was to catch up with Vicki Bennett, whom radio listeners and patrons of avant media know as the supremely talented People Like Us. In the midst of all the vinyl which the Fair aggregates on an annual basis, Vicki and her pal Irene Moon helmed a stall festooned with trinkets, baubles, plastic grapes, and the pair's many independent and self-released audio/video projects.
Vicki's immense catalog of work includes the Story Without End DVD, which is a wonderful collection of her inventive and forward thinking media manipulations. Using found footage, impossibly obscure audio, and relics of both mediums that have fallen into the public domain, Vicki weaves disparate themes into an all new narrative which is light years away from anything the original creators could have imagined. A recurring theme in her work is a breathless anticipation for an orderly, technologically advanced near-future that would improve our lives while simultaneously bringing us closer to one another. But with those eagerly foretold years now behind us and their promises unfulfilled, there is a poignant subtext which stands in stark contrast to the bright eyed characters who populate her universe.
"Resemblage", which is included on the DVD and which was created with materials from the Lux collection of moving images has an unusually sinister tone to it, but it is one that works to brilliant effect. Beginning with some undeniably Gilliam-esque paper collage, the film quickly moves into foreboding territory through the colliding images of burning landscapes, failing powergrids, and digital static. Although it clocks in at only slightly north of four minutes, I've found it to be among her most compelling works to date.
The true magic of People Like Us is Vicki's unique model of promotion and distribution. By operating so far outside of the mainstream, she has freed herself of the baggage that customarily inhibits artistic growth, and her lengthy career and incredible prolificity bear testament to that truth. In the past, she has said:
"I believe that through the internet, people can experiment and distribute their work for free, or very cheap, and become famous through their idea, rather than through having financial backing. I see the value of working below the radar because I believe all things float to the surface eventually. And so I reinterpret the media through my work."
Here's a recent interview with Vicki in which she further expounds upon these themes, her source material, the Story Without End DVD, and other aspects of her very inspiring career.
Finally, here's one of my favorite People Like Us MP3s, originally from the All Together Now CD. (Download the whole album, and lots more great PLU sounds in WFMU's Free Music Archive).
I've just been reminded me that we've passed the five year anniversary of John Peel's death—certainly one of the greatest and most unexpected losses the music and radio realms have ever endured. There was a real majesty to Peel's presence on the radio, and unlike the many hacks and imitators who've since tried to fill the void left by his departure, none of it was part of any marketing strategy on his behalf. Peel came across as a modest and reserved gentleman, and carried himself thusly. His respect for the innumerable artists who performed on his program was abundantly evident, and the praise he earned from those fortunate enough to have worked with him was pretty much universal in tone. John Peel was a class act.
His bio on Wikipedia is a good launchpad for further reading. Posted below are some classic Peel quotes from an email that went around shortly following his death in 2004, all of which acknowledge his wry humor and enviable talents. The closest I ever got to the man's legacy was having the honor to air segments from his syndicated highlights program, Peel Out in the States, on WPRB back in the early 90s. Then as now, it's reassuring to see that he is still regarded as a hero to so many.
___________________
When asked what he would say to George Bush if he was stuck in a room with him:
I'm a bit of a hippy and a peace loving man.....I'd cut the bastard's head off!
On retirement:
I don't plan to retire before I die. I don't like the idea of retirement. I don't want to play golf. I just want to keep doing what I'm doing. I do regard the playing of golf as like entering the antechamber to death. When my mates tell me they've started playing golf, I mentally cross them off the Christmas card list.
Following George Micheal and Aretha Franklin performing a duet on Top Of The Pops:
They say Aretha can make any old rubbish sound good -- and I think she just has.
On Big Black:
Once a week I drive a nail through my foot to remind myself of the stupidity of not going to see them when I had the chance.
Regarding his debut on Top Of The Pops:
In case you're wondering who this funny old bloke is, I'm the one who comes on Radio 1 late at night and plays records made by sulky Belgian art students in basements dying of tuberculosis.
After playing 'Higher State Of Consciousness' by Josh Wink for the second time: I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking that sounded better when I played it the other night, at the wrong speed.
After an expansive, brain-frying track by someone like Spacemen 3 or Flying Saucer Attack: I'm beginning to suspect their spirit of adventure has driven them to experiment with states of mind well beyond those traditionally associated with the consumption of three pints of Old Peculiar.
John Peel once joked he wanted to die while broadcasting. On his 60th birthday he said:
I'd quite like to die on the air but not in a melodramatic way. I would prefer to go during a long track. Then a continuity announcer would come on saying, "John seems to have been taken ill. We will take you over to Radio Two."
Then you'd hear the sound of my heels being dragged down the steps. And that will be that.
Janice Long's favourite Peel quote, from when they introduced David Cassidy on TOTP:
Janice: 'Ooh, I used to have him on my bedroom wall' Peel: 'That was very athletic of you Janice'
His wonderful on-air legal warnings:
It is my duty to warn you that in the next few hours you may be exposed to language and concepts you find unsettling. If this is the case I suggest you turn over. And here's Fuckatron, on Cunty Records, with "I Sodomised My Dad"
Some advert on his show, for some other awful daytime DJ like Gary Davies said "Gary Davies, playing the best music in the world." To which John replied:
Oh, he plays the Butthole Surfers does he? I must give him a listen.
Tomorrow night, sessions from the Janitors and The Smiths. Two bands with an 'it' in the middle. Very conceptual this programme gets at times.
I was a little bit late to the Gary War party, but tracks from the recent Horribles Parade LP were a recurring presence on my final few shows of the most recent WFMU season. The hype surrounding War had cast him as a sort of little brother entity to Ariel Pink, whom I've always found a bit too purposefully clever to get down with. Gary War's music resides pretty far out on the fringe, but it still manages to strike a more perfect balance between noise and pop, with incredible hooks buried beneath layers of hiss, chamber reverb, and ambient room tone. A recent stumble through WFMU's ever expanding Free Music Archive yielded his debut LP, now available in its entirety for free download. Here's a pair of tracks from that collection to get you started.
I just found this excellent dub poetry take of LKJ's "Inglan is a Bitch", the musical version of which was one of the first reggae songs I ever heard on the radio. "Reggae Fi Peach", which can be found along with this one on the excellent Independent Intavenshan retrospective, remains one of my favorite tracks of all time. Read up on Linton Kwesi Johnson here.
Between working crazy hours and being an expectant dad, I'm probably the last guy in your Google reader who's qualified to be dishing on dinner party-themed cookbooks. My wife and I haven't properly entertained for more than one or two people in quite a while, and with the above details in mind, I can't see that changing until the little tyke can mix or stir on command. Furthermore, one of the authors of this particular book is someone I've known for fifteen years. Granted, I haven't actually seen her for the last ten of them, but I'm not the sort to pull punches when writing about the creative endeavors of pals anyway. (And I've got the ever-shrinking Christmas card list to prove it, bub.) Nevertheless, Zora O'Neill and Tamara Reynolds' new Forking Fantastic!: Put the Party back in Dinner Party is exactly the kind of food writing I'd want to be coached by on the way to an epic, in-house gathering.
You may have heard about Zora and Tamara without even knowing it, as their reputation is something of a legend in its own time. They're responsible for Astoria's fabled underground supper club, which, to have attended, earns one a special brand of cache amongst the food cognoscenti of the outer boroughs. With heavyweights like Anthony Bourdain and Jamie Oliver counted in their fan base, these ladies are clearly not to be taken lightly or dismissed as yet more self-aggrandizing food bloggistas who somehow bullshat their way into a book deal. Zora and Tamara walk the walk, talk the talk (profanity included! just like in a real kitchen!), and could easily outgun any dinner party I've ever conjured.
Their secret? It's the food, dummy! The book has an appealing DIY aesthetic to it which wastes no time in dismissing all the crap that often weighs so heavily on the minds of potential party throwers. Suffice to say, matching cloth napkins, elaborate centerpieces, and heirloom crystal wine glasses have no place in the Forking Fantastic mindset. Put another way, if the sight of that skinny blonde woman on the Food Network who's always yabbering on about her "tablescape" makes you want to hurl a brick at the television, this book is your ticket to dinner party salvation. In it are recipes for all manner of crowd pleasing dishes from the simple to the complex, and the familiar to the utterly obscure. Best of all, the journey is loaded with tips and personal anecdotes from Zora and Tamara's own experiences in the trenches. As such, they'll tell you where it is and isn't OK to cut corners, but they'll also reveal why Led Zeppelin is perfectly acceptable dinnertime music, and why it's alright to ask a few of your guests to bring their own chairs, or to make due with drinking wine out of jelly jars... there's even a chart that breaks down why home cooking beats sex as a routine activity! It's that kind of disarming irreverence that mounts this guide as a perfect kitchen companion for creative weirdos who love cooking, especially for their friends. If you're anything like me, you'll have read Forking Fantastic cover to cover long before soiling a single skillet at its behest.
The Forking Fantastic homepage is here. Zora blogs at Roving Gastronome, and Tamara recounts the Sunday Night Dinner beeswax over at One Ass Kitchen. Both can be heard discussing the book and giggling like crazies on WNYC's Brian Lehrer Show by following this link.
37. Bad Brains: City Gardens, Trenton. The I Against I tour, when HR was still in the band. Some rasta guys in the parking lot peeled out in gravel, expelling rocks at punkers waiting in line to get in. Skinheads chased their car down Calhoun Street, and I spent next 3 hours bleeding through my jeans from a rock wound. The band was surprisingly boring, though I'll bet I'd be more into it now, as their wonky, jazz/metal period stuff has grown on me a lot over the years. NYHC titans Leeway also played, which means that Metalcore was in full effect. I attended this show alone, which is something I did frequently when I was in my teens and early 20s. [Listen to Bad Brains perform "Sacred Love"]
38. Token Entry: A Sunday hardcore matinee at City Gardens that also featured a bunch of NYHC jokers and their suburban Jersey counterpart wannabes. During the high school weirdo years, the Token Entry logo (heisted from pre-Metro Card NYC subway turnstiles) adorned both the bottom of my skateboard and the inside of my locker. I also had a Token Entry pin, which somehow got blood on it and was then lit on fire in a primitive gesture of sterilization. The crispy remains of this artifact still adorn the shoulder bag that I cart my junk around the city in every day, although it's also worth pointing out that I dumped my Token Entry records on eBay years ago to help finance the purchase of a Hugo Boss suit for my wedding. When the pin outlasts the music, it's probably time for some re-evaluation. These posts have been very therapeutic in that way. [Listen to Token Entry perform "Antidote"]
39. Soundgarden: With 20 other people, at City Gardens. They completely sucked—a fact made even more apparent by how handily they were blown off the stage by the opening band. [Listen to Soundgarden, on a much better night, performing the song "HIV Baby"]
40. Bullet Lavolta: Opened for Soundgarden. See above. [Listen to Bullet Lavolta perform "X-Fire"]
41. Fugazi: Ft. Reno Park in DC. 1990. A friend and I had driven down to the nation's capital for a spur-of-the-moment visit. Not having any sense of what do once we got there, we marched into the 9:30 Club (because we'd read about it in fanzines), pounded exactly one rum & coke apiece, and then met two guidos from Florida who were interested in finding this park where Fugazi was alleged to be playing in 15 minutes. Some weird girl named Anne attached herself to us, we all piled into the guidomobile, and she directed us to the venue. We arrived just as the band began their set. Anne disappeared for a while, then re-emerged with a case of Bud tallboys which she began passing out to the crowd. The guidos vanished, the band played for two hours, and it rained. (Yes, this was my Woodstock.) Later on, Anne took pity on my friend and I who were underage, hours from home, and slightly drunk. As such, she paid for a hotel room for us at a pretty nice place in downtown DC. We crashed there for a little bit, but got spooked when Anne showed up at 2 AM, very drunk and wanting to come in. After some discussion, we fled for New Jersey and arrived back home just as the sun was coming up. Every teenager has a day/night like this that is remembered forever, right?[Listen to Fugazi perform "Exit Only" | Fugazi photo by Imagora Editions, licensed for re-use by Creative Commons]
42. Crash Worship: Maxwell's, 1991. Someone lit a smokebomb in the club and it only got crazier from there. Primitive warpaint, strobe lights, pounding drums, maniacal firebreathing and pyrotechnics, people going berserk... It was utterly tribal. The "singer" fought his way through the surging crowd with a wineskin, which he squirted in the general direction of people's mouths, but often just splashed on their shirts and faces. Someone produced a huge pumpkin, which was smashed in the center of the room and its guts whipped around and smeared on everyone's faces and clothes. No kidding, this was one of the best shows ever! The lore of Crash Worship was that they deployed tones at such sternum-rattling decibels, live shows were alleged to make show-goers lose control of their bowels, but (fortunately) that turned out to be only rumor. Nevertheless, the action continued on the drive home: Somewhere on the Turnpike, my car's electrical system crapped out. I coasted into a rest area in neutral with my headlights barely aglow, and after a few phone calls, learned that Triple A wouldn't service motorists on the Turnpike because it's a privately owned road. (Thanks, Jerze!) Two hours and $139 later, a Turnpike approved tow truck deposited me and my wounded vehicle back home, where I attempted to explain to my parents why I was hours late, covered in pumpkin guts, and smelled like a winery. [Listen to Crash Worship perform "Wild Mountain" | Check this clip on YouTube for visuals of the experience descibed above.]
43. Satan's Pilgrims: At Brownies, with the Original Sins and Swingin' Neckbreakers. Satan's Pilgrims were one of the few 90s surf bands aside from Man or Astroman whose records were worth listening to. They kept the gimmicks to a minimum (OK, they wore capes on stage) and just belted out one great song after another. After the show, friends and I somehow wound up in line behind Henry Rollins at the Astor Place Starbucks. Unrelated to that detail, the Starbucks employee serving us smashed a tray of glasses, cussed out his boss, and quit his job just as Hank was about to give his order. [Listen to Satan's Pilgrims perform "Ragtop"]
44. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Early aughts, in the basement of the College Ave. dorms at Rutgers. One of the first hints that I was way over the intended target age for this band was when I arrived at the show and found... my nieces. The last time our musical interests had intersected was when they'd been really little, and Neneh Cherry's "Buffalo Stance" had been the anthem for every girl with neon clothes and a collection of bangle bracelets. Nevertheless, the YYYs were a young band with little hype at the time, and any memory of their performance is overshadowed by the fierce hipcheck Karen O inflicted upon me while on her way to the stage. In other words, I hated them before you did.
45. Don Caballero: At Terrace Club, late 90s. As usual, Damon Che was down to his sweat-soaked skivvies by the set's end, which inspired poor little Kathleen from WRSU (who'd been crouching stage left) to conclude: "I think his penis juice got on me". That remains one of the most shocking things anyone has ever said to me, ever, in all the years I've been talking to people.
46. The Humpers: The Continental, mid 90s, with 1000 horrible bands. The hype surrounding the Humpers was at a fever pitch, since their live shows were notoriously unhinged. At the encouragement of some lackey working PR for them, Jen and I were scheduled to interview the band, but that fell through when we realized they were all totally drunk hours before boarding the stage. The club would not permit ins/outs, so we were stuck inside for hours watching garbagey opening acts, as well as the Candy Snatchers, whose guitar player intentionally set himself on fire. (Often the best one could hope for on a typical night out in the East Village during this era.) The Humpers eventually came on at 2 AM, played one song, and their singer passed out. Honestly, I'm surprised I ever bothered going to any show ever again after this. [Listen to the Humpers perform the prophetic "Wake Up and Lose"]
47. The Bellrays: Maxwell's. Lisa from the Bellrays grabbed some punk rock doofus by the scalp and screamed the lyrics of a whole song directly into his face. The poor kid looked like a frightened animal when she was through with him, but I imagine the experience will be character-building in the long run. A paper route to the stars, if you will. On the way home, I was almost killed by the poor driving skills of a WFMU DJ who shall remain nameless. Let's just say that s/he isn't someone I'd recommend ever getting in a car with, especially after s/he began speeding into oncoming traffic on the wrong side of a highway meridian. The terrified facial expression made by Brian (who was riding shotgun) remains one of my most priceless memories ever. [Listen to the Bellrays perform "Fire on the Moon" | Bellrays photo by Dena Flows, licensed for re-use by Creative Commons]
48. Iggy Pop: The Instinct tour, sometime in the late 80s. Steve Jones from the Sex Pistols on guitar. Amazing show, way better than the recent Stooges reunions. Iggy was on Letterman two nights prior to this! Afterwards, a friend climbed out onto the window ledge of the moving vehicle we were traveling in. We got pulled over, and both he and the driver (his cousin) got tickets for something called "Riding on Parts Unintended", which remains one of my favorite turns of phrase to this day. [Listen to Iggy Pop perform "The Passenger"]
1. Grapes. Easy enough. Everybody put your hands together for noble rot! 2. Crushing. Isn't it crazy how much more delicious everything looks when it's oozing through the mouth of a pool hose? 3. Barrels. Made almost exclusively by superhuman European guys called coopers. If there's a better reason to slash and burn our way through the world's oldest and most majestic forests, I've yet to hear about it. 4. Bottling. The thing you've been working towards for a year. You're not planning on storing these babies in that blast furnace you call an apartment, I hope!
Certainly, there are other steps along the way like pressing, racking, worrying, second-guessing, panicking, and labeling. Not to mention a whole lot of chemistry. There's also the physical labor, cuts, bruises, stained clothing, soaked workboots, and of course: sampling... delicious and wonderful sampling... But that would take up too much space, so you get the abbreviated version. Now the only question is whether or not we can resist the urge for an early taste before our projected uncorking date in late November. This, my friends, is a true test of self control.
Listen: Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood consider it all over a bottle of Summer Wine.
I arrived home last night and discovered my wife finally submitting to the oft-stereotyped cravings of late-term pregnancy. On the counter were tubes of refrigerator dough, apples, butter, sugar, and rum extract. Then I glanced at the recipe she was working from and was horrified to see that it also called for a can of Mountain Dew. Gross! Fortunately, her pregnancy hasn't come at the expense of basic human decency, and she quickly assured me that the sonic-colored soda would not be figuring into her version of this baking exercise: apple dumplings with ungodly amounts of butter and sugar.
Needless to say, after the hellish day I'd had, buttery sweets that scrape the upper regions of the heart attack index were just what I was in the mood for, and these dumplings met the challenge with style. We didn't have any ice cream to serve with them, which is just as well, since even our scaled-back version caused my left arm to seize up a few times. With cardiac arrest only a few daunting mouthfuls away, I switched to red wine in a useless effort to undo the damage. Several hours later, I was still trying to brush the residual sugar out of my teeth before retiring to bed with what felt like a basketball in my stomach. I still have my doubts about cooking anything with Mountain Dew (and really, because I cannot stress this enough: we skipped that ingredient!), but even without, these apple treats were pretty damn godhead.
I arrived home last night and discovered my wife finally submitting to the oft-stereotyped cravings of late-term pregnancy. On the counter were tubes of refrigerator dough, apples, butter, sugar, and rum extract. Then I glanced at the 
