DIAPSALMATA: REVIEWS OF WHATEVER

Waylon Jennings / Cedartown, Georgia / 1971, RCA

The classic legend of Waylon Jennings is that he was restrained by Nashville throughout the ’60s until he demanded artistic freedom, invented the Outlaw movement, and then made a run of some of the most timeless country music throughout the ’70s until too much cocaine brought him down.  Good story, but not much of the truth.

Waylon is Waylon — and not even Chet Atkins’ iron fist could ever convert him into a Nashville assembly line artist.  This is a record cut just before the Outlaw transition and the whole things got a hard hitting, funky groove that’s pure Waylon and nowhere close to the rest of Music City’s concurrent releases.  Four tracks feature huge Nashville orchestras, but they’re down with murderous tension as oppossed to schmaltzy splash.  “Big D” and “It’s All Over Now” (not the Bobby Womack rock & roll classic Hoss already cut on his debut, but a new cut written by his new wife, Jessi Colter) show Nashville’s finest (the Superpickers!) throwing down over upbeat numbers, which is always a pleasure.  Waylon’s voice is in fine form throughout (singers from this era had this uncanny ability to be able to sing.  Their voices were like conversations with characters you constantly wanted to chat with.)

The truth of Waylon’s pre-Outlaw records is for the most part the roots of all his huge statements are there (Honky Tonk Heroes, This Time, Ramblin’ Man, Dreaming My Dreams, Live!, Ol’ Waylon, I’ve Always Been Crazy), but with the HollywoodOutlaw salespitch completely absent.  There’s schlocky Nashville pop, no doubt, but he never moved beyond intense sentimentality and camp throughout his entire career.  He was an entertainer.  This is some of the finest music I’d ever like to hear.  (I would say he and Jessi’s cover of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” could have been passed up.)

Ornette Coleman & Prime Time / Opening the Caravan of Dreams / 1985, Caravan of Dreams Productions

Here’s Ornette and his freefunk compatriots inaugrating a jazz hall in Fort Worth, TX.  Opening the Caravan of Dreams could probably be read other ways, but I’m sure it’s all on the level.  “Harmolodic Bebop” is an annihilating primer in the terms employed, none of the funk found round here.  But dig in and damn it (wouldn’t the eye of a hurricane be pretty and full of harmony as well?)  For the most part they’re laying down simple funky grooves with those harmomelodiddies flying up and down all over the place and shapes shift, images run by, holes are found and jumped into, then you’ve gotta climb out, and the whole time if you fall or rise you know you’re rising higher.  Ornette was born in Texas, you know?  Added to the list of thinks I’d like to personally thank him for.

FREDDIE MERCURY / Mr. Bad Guy / 1985, CBS

Queen were a goddamn band, dude!  None of this infighting, can-the-guitarist-and-hire-his-best-friend, lead-singer-solo-career-fronting, dying-drummer, shit syndrome (I guess ’till this Paul Rodgers stuff).  The point being, Freddie Mercury never ditched his bandmates to pursue what could have surely been a totally warped, flamboyant, dominant, and crazy run at egocentered, superstar, megalomania.  But Queen where a band.  None of that bullshit necessary.

Mr. Bad Guy sounds like Freddie did it in his basement on some 1985 synthesizer and made up the names of the other guys.  (I like that vision, for if true, Freddie Mercury could shred guitar as hard as Brian May…but I bet he’s actually got players on here.)  If Casio keyboards and drum machines sold at Radio Shack in the ’80s were the industry standard for tone, this would be it.  That being said, the scope of the music is simply magnificent, bizarre, and constantly entertaining.

“Let’s Turn It On” is some sort of warped dance number intended to precisely that: turn on the party.  “Foolin’ Around” is Grade A+, mid ’80s dance-synth pop.  Mercury’s melodies and chord progressions are over-the-top and elegant.  It grooves like a mofo, too, replete with an insanely shredding, harmonized keyboard and guitar solo.  Somewhere on Side B, after a song called “Man Made Paradise,” he descends into a piano and voice meditation in overtracking, vocal chambers, and crazyhigh operatic falsetto.  Some hip-hop producer should run out NOW and snag the sample of the main groove from the title track, “Mr. Bad Guy,”  a huge menacing piece of two note synthesizer and computerZepfunkdrums.  By the end of the songs he’s chased rainbows in the sky, tripped on ecsctasy, become president, runied people’s lives, and spread his wings to fly away.  That’s all in there: I swear.

Ocean Breezes Oe’r the Mountains

…a quick listen to “Back Street Kids” from Technical Ecstasy may change yr definition of tolerance (a message from the campaign for people against the fascist musical critic regime represnted by the likes of All Music Guide.  Three and a half stars my ass.  Same to five or zero or one, as well.)  A fine comparison to “Back Street Kids” is (in all reality) “Band on the Run” by McCartney (1st undeniably synchronicity — Ozzie’s love of the Beatles, his desire to re-create Sgt. Pepper’s, his cover of “In My Life,” — for reference see Vh1’s Behind the Music on Ozzie, or Sabbath, or what-ever-the-fuck-ever-I-remember-from) as a good similarity do diverge into thoughts laid by certain bombs of the instability of “criticism.”  But an unfavourable topic.  Since I was a small child I’ve wondererd why the rabbits are on the run…why the jailor man and sailor sam are searching everyone…and to this day, I can’t play licks that smooth on the guitar.  As a child my mother told me that all the songs on Paul McCartney’s All the Best… were originally Beatles songs and that these were just Paul’s solo versions.  Straight faced — some piece of information must’ve made her believe it herself.  It’s unidentifiably…didn’t listen to no Lennon solo tracks ‘cept what was on The Lennon Collection or whatever that was…WAH WAH, as in the context that Sonic Youth uses to kick of certain tracks….i.e. the Names show last night in which Naomi is Kim + Thurston in black dress one, Brad Dunn is session musician those folks never heard of, and Nicholas rips the drums, an aside from “On the Strip” which just reminds me of the whole situation in few ways ‘cept sound, ideas and memories.  Oh, have you not read Hume?  Heidegger doesn’t even attempt to escape him.  Anyway — when’d it come along that this rock’n'roll cohesiveness became interpretaadoihgle…(what was I doing yesterday morning at this time?)…outside, the dawn is cracking (so then attempt to summon the pure air of the infinite surises and sunsets in the land of neither right before that culminitave day or the days after’n'before), hold tight in fear, hold tight in fear…sounds good I suppose…two points: 1) Have you ever met Matt Herrebout?  2)  The first time I heard Stolen Car” by Springsteen the crows were not storming above as they are now and the air did not remind me of young hangovers in the desert next to the Columbia River wondering how to burn the time till Santana appeared more distant than Metatron.  I used to own automoblies…no longer.  A Volvo we towed a U-Haul with to go visit folks down the road smiling in pictures and memories…

The crows in hyperstereo remind me of infinite mornin’s with Scott and Cope smoking Midnight Special thinking about the ducks future in the sight of some failed project….the Jesus and the Mary Chain, don’t think the Reid brothers ever saw it coming.  I could’ve been as bonked out as they were and got the same joke, wish the Record Label Man would’ve shown up, too.  Groovy idea though.  Wonder why My Bloody Valentine’s schtick got all the great reviews, but then I’m divided…as indie-rock fan I’m a theoretical reunion disciple of Mission of Burma, Jesus and Mary Chain, and others (in terms of cheesedick influence)…sometimes I think there’s too much Sonic Youth on my computer.  When Lee comes in all “My eyes are focused/my brain is talking/it looks pretty good to me” I could be trying to break into that golf course nexts to Jak’s house or sitting in my room in high school by myself, seems like the most natural thing in the world.  I remember a day wonderin’ what happened to some odd CD I bought when I was 13 and lookin’ for it, finding it oddly stashed (as though my future self would know) next to Tom Cochrane’s Mad Mad World, Washing Machine….10 years after they were in town, the first Seattle gig I saw, playing with Ghidra at the Blue Moon and Wally was opening for them, when I mentioned it to Jeffrey he said, “Oh yea, we opened for ‘em the night before…”  The Sonic Youth vibe goes deep that way — I think a generally misunderstod idiom, more similar to the Grateful Dead than most wanna know…there’s something disparaging knowing that Frank Zappa was obsessed with the same issues as Jerry Springer a lot of the time, all that absolutely transcendental musical talent and vision worried ’bout a new car (not to mention, etc.).  Then again, Jerry Springer was once the mayor of Cinncinati (Babes in Toyland? anyone?)…(outside, always a lot of plant’s breathing, equalizing…ever see CMT’s show ’bout the spoiled kids form cookie cutter lane who have to work with people who know how to grow a plant?  Damn, it’s innarestin’, if you wanna call that diversity, then I suppose we’re onto some sort of good plan.  But even Manifest Destiny wasn’t so great of an idea.  Inhertied myths…like Buckethead, he’s sort of a myth, but I doubt that most people ever heard “Buckhead” by the Kirkwood Bros shredding in their weird worldy, please, why isn’t the history of SST available to those denizens of modern indie culture, how to put everyone into their place, so to speak, harmonics — a forgotten art…sun’s coming up, pancakes, fryers, brilliant mornings frying people eggs as you wonder what anyone would be doing up at such an hour….’nother horribly misunderstood band, the Ramones…oh, I’ll laugh at all this with the spray, we’re still out at the ocean, no matter how inland we might be.  Think of how many years it takes a tree to learn a lesson.  A don’t think they don’t learn lessons, walk through the forest at night — you’ve got no one to trust, but the trees.  “Swallow My Pride” is A+ straight up great shit if rock’n'roll ever meant anything, and they were trying from the start.  Forget the fact that they became…what?  Fill in the blank, yrself.  Back to the chime and dime of the Meat Puppets, something ’bout a hot pink tornado I believe, and it is…lemonade trees, like behind (possibly) Alee’s house in Oakland where he lived in a little in-law house in the back yard and we woke up and Roman could play every guitar.  Maybe that’s what they were singing ’bout.  (Still rememberin’ showin’ up…or I don’t, memory is so odd…so Maybe the Moral is McCartney is On the Ball)…anyone ever thing ’bout the connotations of Fred Firth teaching at Mills and the music coming out of there? (i.e. the Bay Area, East Bay, specficially)…as San Francisco is like Seattle and Portland, a supposed paradise with an identity crisis (if you don’t belive me just follow yr nose in Berkeley to find how pure and free food can be).  Zone zone zone zone zone zone zone zone zone.  Qwerty (an early nemesis…) … back to the Grateful Dead (funny how I missed ‘em through the Puppets), but Jerry was one badass pedal steel player and he wore black and was a heroin addict.  Spent his life desperate and sad (mebbe)…Willie’s another trip, toured with the Dead and at the same time dropped stone cold other world simple ol’ country classics like this one, “Look What Thought Will Do,”

Don’t ever forget that Keith doesn’t play a fucking note on “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll”….or that if you listen to the right Santana records, you may realize that he’s crazy mofo, actually that’s what I thought — Lotus — all yr heroes are failures-type shit…pickup trucks pulling up closing doors, etc…(if they didn’t fail, then why are you here), if yr into the dialcetc logistics, but I suppose if’n yr into those that ya got a couple of thumbs where the sun don’t shine.

Anyway, if you’re not aware, sometimes people…applause, appplause, applause, and then a  g a  i  n, give me  container of colorshifters for $500…one day you’ll wak e up and realize the truth…that Willie Nelson’s been mourning and praying for you since the day you were  born.  That’s probably more than most of us have done for ourselves…(I forgot, yr always alone with a cigarette…)”walking through streets that are dead”…kick it in yr pants again with that hippie-prog second grade typing lesson shit.  That’s why Howie Leibrand is yr doctor.  (They used to give us some shit, ‘cept for the folks that crossed over an’ won’t even say “hi, howdy, hello” anymore).  Count, learn yr time, learn yr rhythm’n'funny breaks, por que no, answerve that question…ain’t no use in crying, stay away from me, from who knows where or when ‘cept when someone maybe fifteen and having an experience, ghosts dangling out the window on treble high notes (there is definitely too much room ‘twixt the notes), bum bum bum…stand at the station, and the tracks…ferget the metaphor, just look at ‘em an d s e   e no wayout.

Stereo (some “new” psychedelic band with their puns on “stereo” sound – the standard for 50 years or so (if’n i’m wrong let’s have a discussion ’bout numbers & and now, was, and when)…born to lose, every dream has only brought me pain, de acuerdo, but who needs a string section?  Axl Rose?  Never listen to the myth.  The history of rock’n'roll proves this.  It’s an example of truth for better or worse.  Look into what you  want, but peer with a deep eye and if you find youself only worrying ’bout the third one and key changes, you’re joy voice can’t save visions of DIsney.  All my life, I’ve always been so blue — so you imagine it’s good, but hey, who knows, whatever…clack clack clack clack clack clack…drum machines have great snare fills, going back to these origins, nature reality is the lesson, fragmentation is the rule, ha ha ha hah (ha does not equal hah?), make the nature scene (rule unveiled, ’cause they should be…’n if you know I know. And if you know anything than you’ve known it forever and you know everything there is to know.  That’s what is called recollection.  The marble emboided folks know about it.  Snagged smoe steps from Jerusalem with some blood on ‘em.  Which church has the longest reigning seat of the “Pope?”  Your first guest is wrong, but when you see that saint with the skin of his enemies on his hands and the Ramones sang backwards.

UPCOMING SHOW: Diminished Men & Corespondents @ Cafe Racer, Friday 6/12

It’s gypsy time this Friday.  Corespondents are the bastard sons of gypsy jazz musicians who grew up in junkyards.  Guitarist Olie Eshleman tunes down to C# — that’s Sunn 0))) heavy mo-fo’s — except he uses it to channel classic “eat-shit” bass lines and groovalicious leads.  These intertwine perfectly with Doug Arney’s bouzouki riffage.  “Drummer” Kieran Harrison-Buhlinger has a kit rigged out of something he stomps his foot on for a bass drum, a dubbed out snare, and a single hi-hat stand with a cowbell and a variety of other objects dangling off of it.  Sometimes he turns around to play and instrument called Don Bao that I’d never seen ’till I saw it here and still can’t describe accurately.

The Diminshed Men have not played in months due to other obligations.  Drummer Dave Abramson’s been on the road with Grails in Europe and bassist Simon Henneman has been down in Florida working on his own projects.  Rumor has it that all four of the World Famous Diminished Men will be around on Friday to throw down on their patented blend of psyched out, free jazz, surf madness (now with touches of Can!)

Since it is at the Cafe Racer, the whole damn thing is free.  Be there or real gypsies from Trajan’s Forum will come to your house, distract you with their begging children, and than steal your camera, passport, wallet, and Eifel Tower lighter.

Corespondents and Diminshed Men will be performing at the Cafe Racer (University District),  5828 Roosevelt Way NE, FREE!!!, 9 p.m.

ALBUM REVIEW: Hopewell “Good Good Desperation” (Tee Pee, 2009)

I wish I lived in an era where rock & roll sounded like this.  Once there was a time when the kids sat around listening to fucked the nines hard rock and it somehow broke through to the masses.  Hopewell’s newest record, Good Good Desperation, is a blast of straight up, glorious warped, stoned out, progged up, psych rock that’s as good as it gets now — or for the last 20 years.

Back in the late ’80s and early ’90s bands like the Flaming Lips and Jane’s Addiction roamed the planet bashing away proudly at huge riffs, fucked guitars, and primal drums.  Hopewell are not pale copies of these bands — but the aforementioned acts do seem like the last “new” idea these New Yorkers may have heard.  And that is a good thing.  Miles away from the standard guitar noodling and random jamband-on-10 riffage of most new psychedelic bands, Hopewell are concerned with making a great rock record — old school style.   (There’s the other route that classicist styled rock bands are taking into ’70s AOR — a genre which is, well, never okay.   Addressed here through the Eagles diss, “I ain’t got no peaceful easy feeling.”)

Opening with  a flying stack of Beach Boy’s esque vocals that uses a transition from “ah’s” to “ooh’s” to convey the sense of going from a beautiful sunshiney day to contemplating mountaintops with one vocal phrase the album then pushes through ten tracks of epic riffage, guitar joy, and loving production (done by the band themselves) which keeps your head banging, brain spinning, and smile grinning.

Give this one to new summertimes of freeways, sunshine deserts, girls smiles you may or may not kiss, and remember to crank it loud beneath the stars somewhere.

Hopewell is performing at the Comet Tavern on Friday 6/5 with Voyager One, Drug Purse, and This Blinding Light, $8.

Raised By Robots/Elba/Beer Sandwich — House Party, 5/9

This week, in the Stranger’s recommended weekly shows, I have to give some commendation from purely personal roots.  Elba, Wah Wah Exit Wound, and Bill Horist were all featured.  Damn straight!  Go see all of these shows!!!  But the point here is in the Elba/Wah Wah collision — which has nothing to do with band members palaying with each other.

If’n yr interested in the Raised By Robots & Elba early show on Saturday, please come down to the U-District on the same night to view the same two bands throw down in drunken house party mode with Seattle’s finest band of beer drenched idiocy, Beer Sandwich.  Beer Sandwich was born to play Neil Young’s “Love to Burn” and features members of psych-prog astronauts Wah Wah Exit Wound, super core-metal tech band Girth, and Three Imaginary Girls/Seattle Music Magazine/KEXP fave, the Quit.  This band sounds nothing like any of them.  The show will be sweet.

If you can wander around 50th and 11th long enough, you’ll find it.  Just ask the closest dude to Colorado.

Raised By Robots/Elba/Beer Sandwich, Saturday 5/9, 50th & 11th, time doesn’t exist.

Live Review: Suffering Fuckheads @ the Seamonster, 4/30

A friend of mine who came to the Seamonster with me last night commented after leaving the show, “I don’t know — I’m just really not that into jazz.”  Something about too many notes, where’s the ideas, the beat, etc: common criticisms and hurdles with the form.  Personally I do not listen to jazz much at home and when I do it will probably Skies of America as oppossed to Miles Davis or Charlie Parker.  Live, though, I usually find jazz refreshing.  Even the Suffering Fuckheads.

The Fuckheads’ core consists of Mike Peterson on drums (the Accussed, Sean) and local Hammond maestro, Ron Weinstein.  (For last night’s show they were joined by a trumpeter and guitarist.)  Despite the intense hyperbole spouted by their MySpace page* the Fuckheads are not nearly all that skronky-blast-beaty-or-avant-gardy, at least in the final sound.  Peterson and Weinstein fly furiously through rhythmic and melodic ideas, using jazz stanards and originals to simply give them some ground to fly.

Peterson is almost a one man show in himself.  Looking like some demented, red-bearded woodsman who beats the skins somewhere between grindcore precision and Elvin Jones swing, it takes awhile to fly throught he sheer wall of his playing to decipher lightspeed rush of various rhythms, shifts, and musical jokes.  Weinstein counters appearing like a enthusiastic teenager in a happy older man’s body, intertwining flying jazz bass-lines and a variety of organ techniques — Herbie Hancock getting out there in Booker T. Jones’ body with Charlie Haden’s soul lost in his right hand.  (Never enough hyperbole, y’know).

Despite being a gloriously gone noise, the intensity/oddness comes mainly from the viciousness of the playing.  As organ and drums wind up insane fury, they never break into intentional skronk, abrasiveness, or atonal wankery.  Their weird schizoid genius is constantly filtered through (here’s a gasp to the post-avant-garde-modernism-whatever crowed) a dominance of their instruments and a desire to play music, and not deconstruct it.  Whenever the trumpet slides in for a solo, chorus or jam, whatever fury was being brewed seems to disspiate.  It’s a sound that let’s you know you’re firmly on ground, somewhere in a George Mitchell song, and not some John Zorn experiment.

The Fuckheads are too freaky to get caught up in the aesthetics of shock and awe.  They play.  They shred.  They take no prisoners.  But they also sound damn good.

The Suffering Fuckheads perform every other Thursday at the Seamonster Lounge (2202 N 45th Street).  Next show is Thursday, 5/14.

*”The Suffering Fuckheads music is a lethal cocktail of skronk and blues, post- bop coupled with turbulent blast-beats, and tenderyet-skewed ballads (Beautiful Love) along side innovative band originals (Bar Slut). The Suffering Fuckheads are not sonic wallpaper. They are not going to behave and play background music. They are not going to play your next shitty dinner party. They are not going to play your wedding, but they might do your divorce.”

Diamond Vincent ::: Contraband Countryband, Fri 12/12, The Rendezvous 10:30 pm

Friday night at the Jewelbox Theater at the Rendezvous. Two bands. Damn fine music.

Diamond Vincent (Master Musicians of Bukkake, Spoils, Gigantum) will be performing his damned fine songs pulled from the sea of woe. He’s joined by his Bukkake cohorts Don McGreevy on bass and Dave Abramson on drums.

Friday is the debut performance of the Contraband Countryband. Featuring Jared Nelson (Wah Wah Exit Wound, Beer Sandwich) on guitar and vocals, Olie Eshleman (Corespondents) on pedal steel, Chris Borgia (the Quit, Beer Sandwich, Elba) on bass and Kory Christian (Sugar Skulls) on drums.

Some of Seattle’s finest players and pickers burning holes into the carcasses of Seattle hipster-rock with some good ol’ boy gettin’ tough music.

Doors open at 10:00 p.m. Probably $5.

Damn Fine Shows

Lemons & Stallionsdkj
The Curious Mystery
The Glassy Globes
Brad Dunn
Jewelbox Theater @ the Rendezvous
Friday, 7/18 — $5

SUN CITY GIRLS: FOLK SONGS OF THE RICH & EVIL AND IT’S TIE IN TO SOREN KIERKEGAARD’S “EITHE/OR”

 (Where are they now under random slapdash psych groove – demanding of the audience, “Don’t you see how short the distance is?  The nothing.  It’s not that the ruler isn’t there, or that it doesn’t correspond to a fact, or that this knowledge can’t have parcitcal and useful applications.  It’s just that we must admit”…”You think I’m kidding?”)…not to mention sick feeling’n'dehydrated and yes I guess I’m a pack through it today ’cause only bought that pack when Patrick [whose a 40-something ex-engineer of many years who goes to underground freak shows]…wait, why’d it break to some schizophrenic elf singing about gypsies,’n'what?  “I will give you daggers bright/And I will give you swords.”  “I will turn you onto death” => also references to little people’n'leprechauns, so maybe the elf concept makes sense.

Smore Shows for February

An Evening with Crack Sabbath
Friday, February 1st
High Dive

May sound like a jam band, but that’s an insult. Crack Sabbath is Skerik (saxophones; more projects and activities than can be mentioned summarily), Ron Weinstein (organ; Suffering Fuckheads), Keith Lowe (bass), Mike Stone (drums) with manic appearances from B.R.A.D. (Master Musicians of Bukkake, the Accused, Asva, Burning Witch, Apes of Wrath) bringing some demented party vibe. Skerik’s sax playing is a manipulated mass that must be heard. You’ll never miss the guitars. Look out for classics like “Bar Slut,” “Bukkake Ducate,” Nirvana covers and dead on versions of the Tom Jones’ classic “It’s Not Unusual.”

Six Organs of Admittance
Climax Golden Twins
Sunset Tavern
Thursday, Feb 15th

Ben Chasny’s Six Organs of Admittance have just put out their furthest reaching record to date. Away from the 4-track solo guitar meditations, the newest record, Shelter from the Ash veers into climactic noise destructions, simple folk, and good ol’ down home psych freak outs. Recently played a free solo show at Capitol Hill’s Sonic Boom. Unsure if he’ll bring more electrsized force. Openers Climax Golden Twins put out on of 2007’s best records, Five Cents a Piece and have been performing shows with A-Frames under the moniker AFCGT. Sure to frizzle the tuned in neurons.

Lesbian
Bloodhag
Shat
The Funhouse
February 21st

Lesbian released their debut on Holy Mountain (Six Organs of Admittance, Mammatus, Wooden Shjips) early last year (or late the year before? — doesn’t matter) and it’s a fine slab of guitars, guitars, and more guitars. Adapting many forms of metal at will, over the last year they seem to have been progressing beyond the movements of Power Hor. Heavy Heavy domination.

Diminished Men
Happy Birthday Secret Weapon
Blue Moon Tavern — FREE
February 29th – 10 p.m.

Diminished Men are grand theater, psychedelic, Spaghetti Western music presented under the tonalities of surf rock. Explodo-free jazz-groove drumming, deceivingly insane electric guitar, and swanky sax from your wildest Reeperbahn dreams.

Spoils, Wah Wah Exit Wound, Friday January 18th, Blue Moon Tavern, FREE

SPOILS

The best rock & roll qua rock & roll band in Seattle. Existing in a realm void of the pre-requisite irony or blaspheming idolatory of which infects current popular music propagation.

Extracting themselves from their various other constituencies (Master Musicians of Bukkake, Earth, Asva), Milky Burgess, Diamond Vincent, and Don McGreevy rock free.

Primordial electric finger-picking, supergruv rhythm section, and vocalizations emanating from some being’s core.

Doped-up, sexed-up, and fog-imposed tributes to the pure romance of the hedonsitic side of things.

WAH WAH EXIT WOUND

The naysayers of progressive rock only indicate their unprogressive minds. Progenitors of progressive rock who use the term should operate with caution as well to avoid semantic pitfalls.

Compositions designed to frighten and challenge within pre-existing languages. Presented from the realms of ADD denial and dreams of schizophrenic absolution.

Funk in 9, drunken pirate sing-alongs, odes to solary ocular organs, and a complete musical thesis on one interpretation of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations.

“Her eyes were the color of the sun!”

As always, the show is free. Because the Blue Moon is a free venue. And bands still get paid. Funny how that works. Required attendance for anyone who claims to have interest in the archaic musical tool known as “guitar.” Phenomenological demonstrations of various methods.

Only two bands on the bill so everyone gets to open up a little bit.

10 p.m.

Sleepy Workers Rise Again!!!

It’s understandable that one might say, “Who are the Sleepy Workers?” At this point you might call them a reverse-supergroup-of-folks-who-you-probably-still-have-not-heard-of. Sleepy Workers roamed Seattle in the early 21st century and have not performed a show since 2005. Prepared-guitarists Brad Dunn and Nicholas Gonzalez are Texas exiles who also were the initial core of the Curious Mystery (though Brad no longer performs with them). Drummer Dave Abramson is also the sticksman for Morricone-psych-surf specialists the Diminished Men, free-jazz ensemble the Spider Trio, archaic-audio-anthropologists Climax Golden Twins (who just returned from a quick European tour), and sometimes second drummer for the Master Musicians of Bukkake. Sleepy Workers often reference Polvo. Sadly, I’d seen them a few times, but buried under enough alcohol and time, I can not remember what it sounded like. Brad and Nicholas are also doing solo sets and Waves will be playing also.

Sleepy Workers
Brad Dunn (solo)
Nicholas Gonzalez (solo)
Waves

12/18 — Blue Moon Tavern
FREE!!!

If you can’t

If you can’t catch Sleepy Workers, then the various aspects of both bands are having busy weeks as well. Curious Mystery are performing tonight at the Rendezvous ($6). Curious Mystery and Diminished Men are also playing at Le Voyeur in Olympia this Saturday with Lozen. Next Thursday, at the Rendezvous as well, Diminished Men and Sean are having a holiday party.

Earth, Grails, Master Musicians of Bukkake: Chop Suey, 12/1, $10

Another great show created from the cosmic radiation.

Earth are epic, slow-plod, God-country music. Grails have put out two of my favorite releases of the 21st century, Burden of Hope and Black Tar Prophecies Vol. 1, 2, & 3. Master Musicians of Bukkake are the best band in the city. Watch Don McGreevy pull double duty as the drummer for Bukkake opening the show and super groove thunder stick in Earth at the end.

2007 Music Year in Review: Vol. 1 – The Albums

Probably the biggest thing which happened for music in 2007 (as the media would have you believe) is Radiohead’s download only release of In Rainbows. Unfortunately, this only has to do with the industry and not the actual art. Various other pundits can debate what the “effects” of this will be for major labels, downloading music, distribution, etc etc etc. To me, the only thing which should be considered is whether or not the album was good and I’ll get to that later.

Hunkered down in my hole, I have no idea what really “happened” in music this year in terms of the bigger bands, important releases, trends, styles, or revolutions. None of it really matters to me since we can not tell at this point in time if any of it mattered for music qua music.

BEST ALBUMS OF 2007

A misnomer: the title should be “Albums I Have Purchased That Were Issued in 2007.” I can count them on my fingers. Here they are in alphabetical order:

Lack of Historical Perspective in Modern Pop Music Consciousness

Since I was fifteen years old I have spent a large part of my time reading, absorbing music and writing about it. As a creator of music as well, I tend to agree with a sentiment of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn — our culture is at a dire time when there is more commentary on a specific art form than actual art. With the proliferation of blog pages such as these, it seems that we are moving into an era when the possibility to actually listen to music, to understand it’s historical perspective, is diminishing under the weight of the opinions of the millions out there in the blogosphere. The main qualification for having an opinion on the web, is that one knows how to type and has access to a computer. How these are confused with the right to actually say anything constructive about the topic (beyond subjective stumping) is mind-boggling. I theorize it is deeply rooted in the American concept of validity in one’s opinion — which must be true to have a democratic state (or at least to convince people that they live in one). But this is a lie. Very few citizens of this country (politicians included) have anywhere close to an inkling of the knowledge required to make political decisions.

Master Musicians of Bukkake, Thrones, David Scott Stone – Monday Nov 12 7:00 p.m.

The Master Musicians of Bukkake have been dormant for a few months now, coming out of hiding for a single show at the Rendezvous a few weeks ago backing Herb Diamante. No over-the-top, ritualistic psych theater that night, but instead some acoustic guitars, odd drum kits, and keyboards to feather Herb’s pillow. But come next Monday, everyone can get their Bukkake dose at the Greenhouse (2515 S. Charles). The Greenhouse is one of the greatest D.I.Y. venues in this city, considerably more low-key the S.S. Marie Antoinette (R.I.P.) or Atlas Clothing. Managing to avoid the press (meaning the articles in the The Stranger documenting the last two which, I believe, helped with their demise. Sound on journalistic ethics, but in terms of music, why report on that shit?), Greenhouse presents free shows in a great house party atmosphere.

For folks who’ve never been to a Bukkake gig and are wondering what to expect, I am at a loss to tell you. The last two times I’ve seen them were the low-key backing job and a destructive, all out assault on Portland’s minds with Damo Suzuki (Can). No two shows by this ultimate mysterioso rock mindfuck have been similar this year. I’ve seen full on dragon maks, dance parties, embriotic sacs, togas, violent attacks by a guitarist in sarong and S&M mask, appearances by Damo, Herb Diamente, and everyone’s favorite demented summoned schizoid, Uncle Jim.

In terms of freaky live experiences, a lot of shit can be tossed about, but I have never seen anything top ‘em at their best. Or even at their medium. Or anywhere in between. They don’t even operate on these levels — they are an entity unto their unknown.

A small peak at some of the madness can be found here on YouTube: Master Musicians

Also performing are Thrones and more.

Free Storm Mind Clearance (Everything Must Go!)

Neil Young once sang “Laurel Canyon is full of famous stars/But I hate them worse then lepers and I’ll kill them in their cars” and Waylon Jennings spins out psych-country-soul jams with force’n'acoustic guitars and pedal steels wrap around like some sort of musical maypole sitting along drunk reminiscing on “Memories of You and I.” Tibet does see why Caeser is burning — maybe then thus the secrecy and solitude and mystery and insistince on plethora. Weighing over it all, if anything ever gets you down go to the Grateful Dead and listen “Bertha don’t you come around here no more!”