The trashcan obsessional

yea i moved.  and ive been head over heels intune with work.  new babblings will come in the next week or so.  to be covered….adam payne/billy boa/new blockaders/ everything ive held true to my small semi-pulsating heart.

Still reelin’ from the amazing weekend filled with Shaefer beer/delicious Chesapeake Bay craps/female masseuse company of last weekend.  Kilmarnock, VA is a total shit hole without the wonderful Bay experience replete with canoes and fuckin’ huge jellyfish.  I get creeped out so large with the fear of the unknown pain of open water.  Took a Sunday morning-hung-over canoe trip out to a shit infested remote island that was completely surreal.  The paddle back ended up bein’ nothin’ but a leg mutilating experience.  Fuck it.

THOMAS JEFFERSON SLAVE APARTMENTS.  Can I just lay it bare?  This is THE band of the 90’s.  Old bitter Ron House coming out of his so what folkish band Great Plains, getting straight bothered with his new band.  His tales of drunken episodes in Columbus, Ohio are just perfect for this dude who is sick of talkin’ with dude freshly broken up with lame ass chicks.  House throws himself into the tuneage backed by a guy that knows how to use a wah-wah pedal that doesn’t annoy the shit out of me.  This is destitute music ladies and gents.  Pissed off and embittered, TJSA plows through three albums of beautiful frustration.  The leftover waste of this band is pretty much non-existent.  NOTHING out there sounds like these dudes  Thanks Siltbreeze/Bag of Hammers for the early 7 inches that opened me up to this band.  No Homo.

will get to more, but wanting to lay this down.  the straight desperation of Ron House, based on sexual conquest on all of the Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartment albums is hilarious and scary and enthralling all wrapped up in one grossly indulgent package of three albums.  Its a bro that has put himself as the quintessential barfly that makes our weekend excursions seem like a pitiful mess that it can truly be.  I can’t believe I missed out on this as an adolescent.   Micky Rouke be damned, this shit it a total bummer.  I LOVE IT.

“An odd, random thought entered Joe’s mind.  Possibly it had emerged because of the discussion about Christ. ” ‘Worry,’ ” he said aloud, echoing the robot’s term.  “I think I know what you mean.  A strange thing happened to me, once, back on earth.  A very small thing.  I got down a cup from the cupboard, a cup I hardly ever used.  In it I found a spider, a dead spider; it had died because there was nothing for it to eat.  Obviously it had fallen into the cup and couldn’t get out.  But here’s the point.  It had woven a web, at the bottom of the cup.  As good as a web as it could weave under the circumstances.  When I found it — saw it dead in the cup, with its meager, hopeless web — I thought, It never had a chance.  No flies would ever have come along, even if it had waited forever.  It waited until it died.  It tried to make the best of the circumstances, but it was hopeless.  I always wondered, Did it know it was hopeless?  Did it weave the web knowing it was no use?” Joe Fenwright   The Galatic Pot-Healer Philip K. Dick

CAUGHT SOME BADASSERY

WEEKEND OF WEEKENDS.  A bloody (literally) mess of hoppin’ and laughin’ nonstop.  I got a good crew here in Richmond, as spotty as it may be.  Sunday rolls around and I take a new co-worker of mine to Karen’s for fried bologna and banter about that fuckin’ amazing 96′ Chateau-Nuf-du-Pape that was brought by a friend to a killer grill out the night before.  Could never afford that shit, but i totally appreciated the gracious nature of a bro that wanted to see the excitement around how rad a bottle of wine can be.

Pop off acouple of Wire episodes that I’m revisiting and call it a night.  I woke up to an out there voice mail from an 832 area code, which is apparently Cleveland.  It was the voice on a slightly deranged bro somewhat drunk and talking to anyone he can on the street, as well as my voicemail.  Laying in bed, taking this all in at 6:30 in the morning was weird enough, but damnit if i wasn’t scratchin’ to hear this guy’s voice.  My boss later told me advised me to hold off the phone call to the guy because he needed em around for the busy season, but I couldn’t;t hold myself back!  I NEEDED TO TALK TO THAT MOTHERFUCKER AND SEE WHAT WAS GOIN THROUGH HIS HEAD.  It is probably way to indulgent and possibly injuresome to the individual because I probably wouldn’t of held the situation in a delicate manner due to the fact I am prone to fits of unproperness outside of work.  But seriously, I wanted to be apart of this man named Jordan’s head space.  I need that fucker to call me tonight.  I saved his number.  Here is to the future of me hopefully not getting my throat cut and my bowels removed.

Hello der.  Got a few emails from the noodknicks that read this pile of laziness politely askin’ me to update this sleepy beast.  I’ve wanted to, trust me.  Been in the throws of movin’/reaclimatin’ the body to big ol’ bike rides and WAY too many weddings.  The past weekend had me in the far reaches of Broadway, VA neck deep in beer brewers/lovers-of-Kolsch/way-to-wasted line cooks.  Decided to dress to the nines only to be mocked by Cornell Sander’s autistic, Neo Nazi of a great grandson for being a little “TOO FRAT” as compared to my relaxed version of self in college.  Fuck off.  It was a wedding my friend!  A celebration of effaced hesitation, yet utter enjoyment of long lost friends!  Props to the J Crew model who was noddin’ and winkin’ the whole time.

The new batch of vinyl has been killin the eardrums of a dude.  First up is the new Thomas Function on Alive! Records.  Why these fake-ass Shamans have been dismissin’ this Alabama crew as dolts of the lazy VU ilk is beyond me(fuck, are other heads really callin’ this new wave?).  These dudes really have tapped into that outthere/randomness of great pop acts of the 60s/70s past without soundin’ too wrapped up in it.  “I Can’t Say No” is one of those thangs that make your gizzards justly bounce in a hectic fury of fun.  Keep the fun rolling and piss on the weirdpunk banner if this is gonna be the output of bands to come.  Lovely.

Speakin’ of Tom bands, HOW DID I MISS THOMAS JEFFERSON SLAVE APARTMENTS when I was in college?  Sure, begrudgingly so, Built to Spill got me into that kinda under music (thanks audiogalaxy/napster/soulseek) but this would have never blinked on my radar at that time.  Based outa what I now consider the music blood lettin’ sanctuary that is Ohio, TJSA were just a fuckin’ anomoly.  Been wakin’ up and shavin’ to “Half Off,” a song of hookers gnawin’ off their legs, dudes peein in the woods, findin’ each other and eating body parts, and finally finding a masterbating Jesus?  All under an insanely catchy rock sock?  IT AINT NOISE I PROMISE.  These guys were tapped into something completely outa its  time/place/space.  They still are.

Newish Billy Bao releases on S-S (one of the best games in town) records imprint as well as Parts Unknown (still love seeing dudes on scooters in Richmond rockin’ Violent Minds Tees. One of the badassish hardcore groups still in the races.). Truely great Brainbombs tinged gnarliness. More processed/treated but the ungodly sentiments are still intact. Pain and frustration are wholy there, but clarified and more visable. Thanks.

Just got a new one on the tape deck from Russ Waterhouse’s (Blues Control) imprint White Tapes.  The Wild Gunmen are a duo/trio? outa Cinncity that have a serious drug problem.  They rip and tear at the songs they put together that bemoan a real hatred of one’s self that get to me.  It’s real as real can be, and it scares the living shit out of a dude.  You’ve got real songs here, and the depravity that eek out of banjo/fiddle/heavy-on-the-bass drumming/WRETCHED ass vocals just straight stick on your body.  Haven’t come across something this disturbing in a long long time.  It reminds me of NOTHING.  Songs of Jesus, drug addiction, paranoia and loathing to the highest degree.  Find it.  Somewhere.

Low and behold, I’ve been thrust back into this writing position once again.  I’ve been enamored by so much tunage thrown my way, that I can’t help but annoy the three of you that read this hunkin’ pile of crap.  Right on.

An archived released I believe, this Dave E. and the Cool Marriage Counselors 7″ is an absolute blast from the blast and cam out of nowhere.  Before Dave from the Electric Eels hugged the side of Saint Michael, he released some weirdbeard solo stuff.  Who runs this Christmas Pets label?  Three odd blasts of complete befuddlement comes from the depth of Dave E’s drug addled skull.  He’s a lyricist ladies and gents.  Acapella, kids xylophone, beat up horns/guitars, its all a stage for Dave gettin all gnarl dawg status.  Been bangin’ this thing hard.

Miami’s Electric Bunnies continue to stump the shit out of a bro.  They are all over the place!  Kevin Failure has deemed da dudes ”Miami’s answer to Pink Reason.”

And for due reason.  The kid like angst that blurts out of these pop songs is as dirty as what Pink Reason coughed up in all of their various releases in 07.

The ”Chewing Gum” 7″ on Florida is Dying is just another odd sidestep in these gent’s catalogue of undefinablity (who needs/wants it?)  Frantic punk/distorded power pop/insane Boredom’s style blurts/and some serious nodding out loneliness is all over this fuckin’ thing.  KEEP IT COMING.

I don’t know how to talk about Sex Vid.  I’m completely in love with the crew, and their name has been shouted from the the bellyards for the past fiscal year,

so what can I add?  Not alot.  The Void comparison is apt, but, they take this giant fuck-all of a mess and turn it into legit noisy-ass hardcore.  It’s up my alley big time.