When a band is so in your wheelhouse. . .

that it actually takes you time to develop a relationship with them as themselves, rather than genre placeholder ("well, Falco hasn't done anything in a bit, so I GUESS I'LL LISTEN TO Single Mothers*). . . when the most recent** Protomartyr record came out it took me a second to recognize the band as something special, rather than just Graham Jams. I've been immersing lately; there's a maturity to this that a lot of sardonic post punk/indie/blah blah blah doesn't muster.

*Single Mothers and Future of the Left don't actually sound much alike at all, save for being in a larger genre of loud, literate rock music.
** The song posted above is not off the most recent record, but it's the song I've been feeling most intensely lately.

10/30! Ashbury Heights!

"what's that flaming cathedral in the distance?"

this road winds like yarn. triangles and spirals and
houses clustered like apartments, apartments spread
like ramblers. Ropes around a narrowing hill.

When we talk about the city, we talk about The City.
Everything I know about this place I learned in
documentaries about Jefferson Airplane and
the film Basic Instinct. 

"you went to the mission and you got
tacos?"

a thick film of glass when we get over the
bridge from east bay, and the way that
everyone says "east bay" like a sentence,
after the show that starts awkward and ends
triumphant, the uber driver says "the city"

and the entrance feels like one
like it should, no long suburban
depression trailing into density,
too tired and building weary to
recognize.

This is not a poem about
san francisco,
it's a poem about knowing nothing
about it, but the hill, the
sillhouettes at midnight after
Oakland ends for us. It's about the imprint,
the "in a few years will Seattle seem--"

the new space forever,
frozen pizza thawing, the smell of
burning pepperoni spilling out into
the bay.

15 Years of Listening to the same band.

There were about fifteen of us in a barn-converted loft in Snohomish, Wa with shag carpet, card tables and scatterings of chips and soda, passing around a portable landline. My buddy Cliff gets through.

"1077 The End."

"Hi. I'm part of the vast conspiracy trying to get you to play Local H." 

"Oh, Jesus. We've talked to a lot of you tonight."

* * * * *

In college, when people related their prom stories with equal parts instant nostalgia and maturity-based distance, this was always when I had to explain to them that I was Home-Schooled, and it worked differently for me, that instead of the go/don't go binary, I got a Third Option-- I was the DJ. And in my cool-music-kid stories, the one about playing the Pixies' "Where is My Mind" as a final slowdance got loads of "oh, man, that's awesome."
And it was, in that record-store clerk sort of way. Very few people cared; it was slow enough they could rub their thighs against one another in what was (theoretically) as close as any of us would come to sex before God came down from the Heavens with a Ring and The One and we were bathed in glorious copulative light.

The REAL cool moment, though, had come the year before, when, after a frenzy-producing "backstreet's back," I popped on "Fritz's Corner."
Rather than dividing the room into Rockers and Preppies (or whatever highschool movie thing you're into) the whole room was stomping, shouting and basically going nuts in their lipstick and prom-dresses and tuxes. It's one of the few times I've seen music work exactly like it feels it should-- grabbing people by the ears and taking them with it, no matter. Trying to convey this moment to people unfamiliar with Local H, or too cool, required too many explanations of context.
Immediately following the song, a Perpetually Concerned Mother scampered up to the DJ Booth.

"You are doing a GREAT JOB. Really wonderful job, I-- we, the other chaperones-- just have one request. Please, no more songs like that last one."

* * * *
I think I was sort of annoyed at Cliff that night, because I actually thought it would "work."
I later got into a long argument with Marco Collins, the DJ at 107.7 the end, about his refusal to play the group after listening to Hamfisted, which he threw against the wall for sounding so much like Bleach. 

Yeah, I said. But who the hell rips off "Bleach?!" You play Bush ALL THE TIME.

(aside: there's something pretty cool about a Radio Personality who will devote 15 minutes to arguing with a16 year old. everyone was sad when he left, even if we were a bit skeptical about his love of British Electronic Music.)
* * * *

It was during my scarf-phase and green fuzzy jacket phase and hair nice and fluffy phase, and arguably H's
punkest phase they stopped at Graceland, in Seattle, touring on the No Fun EP, which was great, but I was already ready for a new album, to the point where I could name songs from this theoretical record.
"Hey, play everyone alive!"

"Oh man. You're a pretty girl. Just the sort I'd take home to my mom. . . ."
 * * * * *

 (there is a VHS copy of Local H's 1998 show at RCKNDY sitting somewhere next to some Darkwing Duck cartoons I taped off TV when I was 10.)

* * * * *
Here Comes the Zoo-- arguably the band's last real stab at recapturing/continuing radio/mainstream success, came out the same week Jason and Alina died in car accident. there was nothing on Zoo that spoke to that, directly, but a new release from my favorite band, and the discussions/analyzations of it with close friends, provided something to enjoy, and be good at talking about, when there wasn't much else of either.

* * * *
arguably, I tend to rep 1998's Pack Up the Cats the hardest, though it was As Good As Dead that first introduced me to their basic thing. The basic thing being a grim underdog sensibility, blue collar angst, angst-angst, sarcasm, humor, sensitivity, and not-to-be-underestimated-- hard, catchy rock.
though I might say that 2004's Whatever Happened to PJ Soles? has the group's best 3-song run in the whole catalogue.

* * * *


you know this year was a blur; I only thought it was fun at first.

* * * *
Yes, I've hung out with Scott Lucas a few times. He's always been pretty drunk.
-- Elizabeth, from The Reputation, at the same afterparty that yielded "Mayonaise and mustard" and arguably my most performed poem.

for a while, the lyric in PUTC's song "Hit the Skids. . . or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Rock" about wanting to go to parties where you knew people, have friends who were doing things, and feeling completely fucking out of place, that was me. Then, at some point, I realized I was at afterparties with touring bands, getting free drinks at Caps (oh, man. Caps.) and free passes to shows. The relevant lyric then became . . . I'm in love with Rock and roll, but that'll change eventually.


(acoustic version for maximum lyric accessibility.)
Likewise, for someone who takes on musical taste as such a large part of their identity, as I spent less time in my room and more time in crowded clubs, or hyper-catered sorts of gatherings, I always assumed I'd get over it. That the designated "cool" bands from highschool/early college-- your Sonic Youths, Far, Radiohead, etc-- would be the ones whose banner I'd wave in the parade of evolving musical identity. Because it's really exhausting to try to explain to your friends why you like a band that they don't care about, let alone over the course of years.
Because this isn't some canonized cult-- "Wait, you like THE FALL? I also like THE FALL," "Dude, Trout Mask Replica"-- nor was it a "quirky' pop-love ("It's embarrassing but I am SO INTO Christina Aguilera!") or a nostalgia-based taste. Plenty of folks were like "oh yeah! I remember (all the kids are right)(bound for the floor) (high fiving mf)" but few wanted to hear about the NEW album. Crowded rooms where large, bearded men who listened to BOTH types of music-- Heavy AND Metal-- "playfully" shoved me in my So/So t-shirt and turned back to the bar with a "what are you, new?" Kids for whom music was invented by the Beatles in 1966, ceased to exist around 1973, then started existing again with Kid A doing that indie-rock self-hug and openjawed sneer.
Though, to be fair, 2004's Whatever happened to PJ Soles? had a more than a few plays at Lobster House parties and a few converts at that.

(interestingly enough, have the same problems with Mudhoney, a far more conventionally "credible" act. maybe it's a grunge thing.)
* * * *
Everytime I listen to Local H I marvel that Graham managed to pick a band out in 1997 that essentially nobody else cared about and that was arguably already irrelevant and somehow,15 years later they're one of the only bands that existed then who are still making good music. Either it was incredibly genius or complete luck.-- Josh Adams.

* * * *

So what brings this up?


today is the guys' 7th record release and I'm fucking stoked. I'm still into these guys; every time I think i'm done, that hey, I have McLusky now, I'll just throw on the new Queens of the Stone Age, it's really all about Future of the Left for me now, H do what they do, and do it a little bit better each time. Seeing the new single for a band I've been into since highschool and the guys looking kind of like cool uncles, with grey beards and all, that's not an "I'm getting old" moment, that's rad. Of course I'm getting older, -- linear time, hello-- but there's a comfort in seeing them own it, do their thing and, frankly, keep kicking ass. This blog was originally going to do a lot more of the music-reviewing; why Here Comes the Zoo suffered under Jack Douglas' hand, the strength of the concept behind 12 Angry Months and how it'd have been devastating to me if it'd come out when I was in Bham instead of Swansea, but that's not the point. I got out of music writing for a reason, and I'm not trying to convince anyone any more.
I don't know if Hallelujah! I'm a Bum will be their best album, or what it'll do commercially, but I'm about to hop on a bus and go pick it up.

futures.

Bellingham Revisit Roundup

Remember that post when I said I'd post more about the Capitol Hill Block Party? I either pretended you were a woman and lied to you or I went up to Bellingham twice, Brielle went to New York and I hit up a wedding in Portland all while looking for jobs.

in other words, making jokes about David Yow's majestically grey-haired belly or the proliferation of various types of t-shirts at outdoor rock shows is so two weeks ago.

So. It's been a while now since USS Horsewhip's last official show but their memory lives on in my heart. And in the heart of the USS Horsewhip tribute band made up entirely of former members of USS Horsewhip entitled . . . sigh. . .USS Horsequit. Caught a ride up to Bellingham with James, Chris and Richy and caught their set in the basement of Jinx Art Space. HQ barrelled through a bunch of local classics that hadn't actually been heard for nearly half of the actual band's live sets ("Break Out the Make Out," "People At this Laundromat Need to Mind their Own Fucking Business") and closed with a cover of Nirvana's "Aneurysm" which they dedicated to me and Conan Neutron, of Mount Vicious, who are from Northern California and played next and were a lot of fun even if I didn't want the man's hairy sweaty chest in my face for a half an hour.

Saturday day a bunch of us --breathes in-- katandchrisandbeckie andandrewandjasmineandmarahand uhmeandanotherchrisandcjithinkthatsit went 1.) Rollerskating at the All Skate at Lynden Skateway. Beckie broke her knee falling down at the end of a Taylor Swift song. It is more funny than anything else. 2.) To Ferndale for delicious Bob's Burgers and Brew where the server sighed a lot but was still very nice and I had a burger with an egg on it and the server called Beckie a "powderface." Its funny when nice dadlike old men make cocaine references. 3.) To a park in Ferndale who's name I forgot. It was lovely. 4.) To Wood Coffee in Ferndale where Kat and Jasmine were supposed to play a show. The people there seemed to have no clue about running shows and completely ambivalent about the existence of this one. To that end Kat only played five songs-- two on guitar and two on accordion-- and Jasmine did a truncated set as well. We were all pretty tired though, so despite the killerness of the tunes the shortness of the set was probably okay.

Then a little later there was a housewarming party.

Crashed at Kat and Chris' place. Their cat did little to bother me. Ryan Johnson came up and we had a board game night that also included many beers. The profound look of despair on his face when he and partner J-cup had their turns at Celebrity. Sarah Baker and Kat were victorious in that bout, Chris and I taking a noble Second.

The next day I took a leisurely stroll around and caught a few buses home for $2. I could do more posting (maybe I will) about Bellingham and how its changed and is exactly the same and all that and the people I specifically saw and how great or weird or both it was, but really, its just nice that I have firm fast friendships there and can think fondly of it again.

Maybe we'll talk about Portland next. Or not.

There Goes Sickness: 10 Days in 2009.

January 1st.
Started the year off watching London Fireworks on TV at Annmarie and Roy's house. Not that impressed with fireworks or TV, so the obvious recourse was a 9/11 joke.
Later Roy and I made pizza and unholy mixtures of fake drinks while I quoted entire Future of the Left songs at passerbys.
The day itself was a long one; 7 1/2 hours of busy busy serving hungover and still-drunks their ham and egg cures. Beautiful.

January 2nd
Jen goes back to the states, leaving hordes of weeping men in her wake. I wave but do not cry because I know I'll see her again. Probably overstayed my welcome and Jess and Johns watching '80s Spiderman cartoons and bad music videos.

In Luv Wit A Stripper, Indeed.

January 3rd
Sat in Monkey and tried to write a poem for the New Year that was more than a few lines long. It's something anyway. Writer's block persists. Milk Money doesn't think my story about comics and sex is weird enough for their "weird issue."
Witnessing slow trickle of Seattlingham friends onto facebookspace in a weird internet-consolidation plan.

January 4th
First official writing commission of '09: Bio for the new Police Teeth record, which comes out in February and kicks ass. They promise to pay enough for a few more cans of soup and give me over a week to get it done because motherfuckers move slow. (rimshot.)


January 5th
Somewhere in here I should mention I am working all of these days at least at different points. And that I might not be labeling these right. . . the fifth was a tuesday, right? Date with Theresa. We like each other more than the date was good, if that makes sense.

January 6th
Planning meeting for re-kicking-off The Crunch. Viva Coffee and posters!
(sub-category: Neil used to hang out with Teenage Fanclub when they were practicing and how vibrant the scene was back then but fuck it because he was just listenting to the Beatles all the time anyway. )
Soooooo. . . yeah. Your point?

Record practice demos for as-of-yet-unnamed-band with Punk John. On a cassette tape in the Uplands there is the base genetic material for "So Much For Aging Gracefully" and "Bedlam." My keyboard sounds like a cross between a musical instrument being played by a retarded rhinosceros and a coffee grinder.

January 7th
Post-work: More date action. Better date action. Perhaps the choice of better bars or a yes! to bridging that awkard gap between her saying "I think this is where someone goes for a really awkward kiss" . . . and going for the really awkward kiss.

Pre-work: two years worth of poety by Shane Guthrie.

January 8th
Work makes me want to get fucked up something fierce.
"But Graham, doesn't work always make you. . ."
Not always. But friday night it did, so me, Adam Burns, Punk John head to Mozarts. John gets called back and Adam and I spend the night giving advice to an emotionally distraught woman (most of it involved violence and/or Adam putting his hands over my ears and saying "Don't you want to have sex with this man??!? I do!")
Adam S. gets off work and we swing by the Jess' house. She is still up. Leave at 5.

Here's where the problem with hanging out with The Guy Who Knows Everyone in Swansea comes in; it's five a.m. and I've achieved my goals for the evening (noble as they are) but walking along Sketty someone leans out their window--
"hey! adam! It's my birthday! come on up!"
And we spend the next two hours with Nate, DJ from Slamonthebreaks and his friend-whose-name-I-forget talking about Art and Swansea's Potential and blah blah blah blah. I want to see 8 a.m. from the other end next time.

January 9th
This day had several false starts and all plans to play more rock and roll were canceled.

Not canceled, however, were the plans to fuck up the mix with Adam S, who looked at me the previous night with sad, sad eyes and said: "I really want to get drunk somewhere. . . that is not Mozarts."

Crowleys, The Office, Sigma. I always think I'm pretty down with Metal until I am in a place that only plays metal and caters to metalheads.
Adam: There are so many people I know here . . . and I don't want to talk to any of them.

January 10th
I, er, miss church. Again.

So. That's the first ten days. Since then I've nearly been lost on the Gower, got the completed poster for The Crunch, soaked in more of The Prisoner, broke glass in Wood Towers and have at least had ideas for things to write next.

Tonight is Framework Social.
Tommorrow is The Crunch.

Viva 2009!