more than this would be unbearable

One of the CD’s available at Starbucks right now is called Second Wave. It’s a collection of bands like Joy Division, the Smiths, Roxy Music, the Pretenders, lots of late 70’s and early 80’s indie rock. What I don’t understand about this collection is its inclusion of punk acts from the 1970’s, bands like the Ramones. I understand the label, or what it is trying to accomplish. Second Wave implies the onrush of bands following New Wave. This is the reaction to punk’s initial aftershock. This is the evolution of indie culture as it entered the 80’s. This is the music I would have devoured had I been alive and/or old enough to appreciate it. How come the Ramones are on this compilation? No matter your interpretation of the beginning of punk rock (everyone knows it began in Detroit in 1967 with the Stooges and MC5), the Ramones are one of the icons of punk, if not the ultimate punk band. The Ramones are everything the Sex Pistols wished they were, the natural reaction to the Stooges and the New York Dolls. The Ramones are what made Joy Division possible. What are they doing on this compilation?

I have a strong displeasure for labeling genres of music. So much music defies labeling, so much crosses boundaries. Labeling something as this or that nails it to the floor. The name Second Wave implies reaction. All of these bands were reacting to the Ramones. How can the Ramones be a reaction to their own impact? Someone took over a dozen late 70’s and early 80’s indie bands that they liked and stuck them all on one compilation, slapping on a nice overly general tag so they can sell it to the masses. Elvis Costello is on this thing for crying out loud. “(What’s So Funny About) Peace Love and Understanding” predates “Hand In Glove” by seven years, and “More Than This” is from Roxy Music’s last album, by the way. A band that recorded throughout the 70’s shouldn’t be lumped into this loosely defined category. This is like an action movie that stakes its plot on a system of physics and then proceeds to defy those physics every step of the way. I’m looking in your direction Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Just let music be music and like it or move on as your heart tells you.

I’m still listening to my Mission of Burma. That’s when I reach for my revolver.

that looks just like a flying dog

You know the kind of movies that you wish you had directed, or the kind of books that you wish you had written? Son of Rambow is one of those for me. It’s not a jealousy issue or a feeling that I could have done a better job. It’s more a sense that my vision and the creator’s are pointed in the same direction, and whoever made this work of art did it so well that I wish I’d shared his or her train of thought. As it is, I have found my new favorite movie.

Son of Rambow is the story of two outcast boys – Will Proudfoot, whose religious family holds his spirit under lock and key, and Lee Turner, the school bully. After seeing Rambo: First Blood, they decide to make their own sequel to the Sylvester Stallone action-jackson classic. This is a story about dreams, a story of struggle and creation. Will lives his life smothered by his Puritanistic fellow Brethren. He draws fantastic images of dragons and flying dogs all over the pages of his Bible and makes flip-art in the corners, flip-art of lizards catching flies and airplanes sprouting legs to land. I love it when a director utilizes his medium and turns each shot, each frame, into a work of art. The first two shots in the movie are works of art in and of themselves. First we have an image of the women in Will’s family. His mother works in the kitchen, preparing dinner, while his sister and grandmother are in the living room. We see his sister and mother through the wall, and the view is framed, like a photograph. His sister is working on a puzzle while his senile grandmother sits quietly in a chair. Both are wearing their Brethren dresses, and it may as well carry the title “Destiny,” or “Ages.” Life in this family follows one course, and it always has the same result. The second image is immediately after. We see a shack behind the house, and upon its reveal it’s like looking at a painting, like an Alan Lee illustration for JRR Tolkien. This is where young Will hides from his family, from his life, where he works his magic and makes his drawings. This is where he hides himself. The shack is old and crumbling, one of its edges slightly caved, slightly dented, as though someone tried to bash it in. It’s still standing, and Will still dreams. This is a movie about dreams. This is a movie I love.

Even the first time we see Lee Turner his image is so striking. He’s been kicked out of class for having a tennis ball, and he sits against the wall, tossing the ball and catching it a la Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. He’s a little rebel, a little troublemaker. Troublemakers generally make the best artists.

Son of Rambow is also a period piece. The setting is the early 1980’s when the Cure ruled the charts and the boys wore more makeup than the girls. When our heroes find popularity upon the discovery of their creation they are invited to a CBGB’s/Max’s Kansas City hangout called the Sixth Form. Everything decadently 80’s is at your disposal, whether you like it or not. Everything 80’s and childish, that is. Roll up a bag of Pop Rocks and slam a Coke like there’s no tomorrow. Sniff a cake-scented eraser. Be somebody, baby. Go see Son of Rambow, not because it will change your life, but because it will make you appreciate living all the more.

Currently listening to: Mission of Burma, Signals, Calls, and Marches. Now I have to own them all. Great. I’m going broke again.

the landing

Maybe it was the way the sun hit the hills at 6:00 this evening while I was driving home from Martinsburg. Maybe it was the way the green hills turned into waves and my car skimmed along the interstate like a motorboat searching for the right water. Suddenly, as I drove on I81 this evening, I had the urge to go fishing. Once I knew what I wanted the sensation felt perfect. I was there, on that dock, on whatever body of water, preferably in Upstate New York at this time of year. You hear the water lap against the posts and you know this is where you belong. Get me a lawn chair and a cold beverage (alcoholic or not, it doesn’t matter), get me a rod and a good Mepp’s lure, and I can catch anything from a dock. But even if I don’t catch anything it’s all right. Feeling the air move gently and letting the sun bake my skin as it slowly descends is good enough. Maybe I spent the entire day on the lake anyway, and maybe we already caught our fill. This is the after party. This is where the real fun lies, catch or no catch. The world is my bed. Don’t wake me. But landing a fish is a thrill in and of itself. Try landing a king salmon. You feel the weight and you know it’s alive, fighting, struggling, one solid piece of muscle battling for survival. You have to plant the butt of the rod just below your navel to get the right leverage, to get the right foundation. Otherwise it will rip that thing from your hands and you’re out a couple hundred dollars worth of equipment, not to mention the top layer of skin on your palms. Reel and pull. Reel and pull. And when it nears the surface you feel it struggling. There’s a lot of fight left in it. You can feel it moving, flapping, wrenching back and forth. You have two people waiting with nets and when that fish is on the deck and you’re tired and trying to maintain your balance as the boat bobs you know you just won a war. There’s nothing masculine about it, nothing macho. You just realize you’re stronger than you think.

friends to know and ways to grow

I just wanted to share this with everyone.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=c6j8EiWIVZs

Sometimes music makes you glad to be alive. The Reading Rainbow theme is one of those songs. Someone sat down and took time to write this, a little ditty for a television show encouraging children to read. I think people really are good at heart. Whenever I hear this song I smile. I’ll be lying in bed, taking my time falling asleep, and I’ll think of this song and play it over and over in my head. Optimism isn’t only for children. Give it a shot. You may change your life.

Currently listening to: the Fugs, Tenderness Junction. When I was in high school my parents and teachers used to say I was born at least thirty years too late. I’m pretty sure they were right.

and you will know me by my burning bridgestones

I turned left onto Valley View Boulevard. Why did I do that? I wanted to go right. 581 is closer that way. Screw it. This way took me to Hershberger, and I could get to 581 anyway.

My Chick-Fil-A sack sat on top of my messenger bag in the passenger seat, the lip pursing just below the open window, drinking in the sunshine and wind like chocolate and milk. Just past four o’clock and I had to be at work at Plan 9 by five. I spent a little longer than I meant to at Starbucks, getting off at 3:30 but sticking around for my tips. The wait wasn’t long, neither was the wait at the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru, but it adds up. I had to get home and shower, hopefully by half-past. My long day was mostly over. Just one more speed-bump before a day off.

The last stop light caught me on the way out of the mall area. Black Mountain ground away in their big 70’s glory and my foot tapped as wind slid through the open windows and ruffled the fast food bag next to me. A white Toyota Camry pulled up close behind. I thought nothing of it.

Green light, and I pressed the gas. My Subaru Outback has poor pick-up. It’s something I’ve gotten used to. The Pontiac Sunbird took off like a bottle rocket with its V6 engine. I think I have four cylinders. Whatever. I’m used to it, and I’m more patient as a result. I slowly got up to speed and looked in the rearview .

The Camry was right on my bumper. I saw the driver in high definition, his curly gray hair and his beard, his glasses. He was an aging hippie. He was a hot-rod grampa, longing for his 20’s, chasing them with his car even though the faster he went the faster they disappeared behind him. Valley View Boulevard is a two-lane road, two-lanes in both directions, and there was nobody on my left. Why didn’t he just pass me? My ire rose.

Here came the exit for Hershberger. I slipped gently inside the white line, passing the Williamson ramp, and the hot-rod hippie followed me, as close as ever if not closer. I was going 40 in a 30 zone. Usually when I’m being tailgated I slow down, but this time I maintained my pace. My foot must have built-in cruise control, because I was perfect. The speedometer stayed put with superglue. The hot-rod grampa stayed right on my ass.

Here came the ramp, the clover leaf loop to Hershberger Road. My Sunbird used to be able to take this thing at 35. I was afraid of going faster because of the front wheel drive. 35 bordered on fishtailing, but it still felt sturdy. Anything higher would have been inadvisable. Maybe the Outback could do better. It’s four-wheel drive, better grip, more weight. Maybe it could handle the loop. I decided to find out.

My foot maintained pressure and the speedometer stayed at 40. I glanced at the road, at the shoulder stripe for reference, and I glanced in the rearview mirror. Hot-rod Hippie was still there, but the nose of his Toyota peaked around the concrete wall. A smile crept across my lips. Could he really not keep up?

I glanced back to the road to make sure I had the right angle, glanced down to the speedometer that still read 40, and I glanced again in the rearview mirror. Hot-rod hippie was nowhere to be seen. Empty black asphalt rolled beneath me like a treadmill.

Here came Hershberger and the merging lane. I looked back for traffic. Everything was clear in the near lanes. I kept my speed at 40 and shot out, increasing to 45 and then 50 to match speed. I made sure I was clear of the traffic in the far lanes, hit my turn signal, and entered. It was a clean sweep. I looked back in the mirror and a maze of traffic had formed. About a quarter mile back I saw a white Toyota Camry trying to merge. He fell in behind two SUV’s trying to get off for 81South. He was boxed in. Any hope of holding that virgin skin and caressing that lovely youth of ages past was gone. He was at the mercy of oncoming traffic. He was stuck.

I found my lane and kept my speed right at 50. I couldn’t wait to eat my Chick-Fil-A.

if only i had the audacity and quick wit of jack black in high fidelity

One of the irritating things about working in a record store is the snooty clientele. Not everyone who comes into Plan 9 is a hipster jerk who wants to brandish their knowledge like it’s God’s gift to the chosen few. Most of the customers are decent people. Every now and then you get the jerk, though. They are what’s wrong with America.

And they’re usually from out of town, either just moved in or just passing through. One evening a young lady came into the store with her boyfriend, and in the course of our discussion we learned that she was from Charlottesville and had been a Plan 9 customer for some time. At first it was bridge to get to know her. Soon it became her tool to put us down. She started out telling us how great it was to have a Plan 9 in Roanoke, that she never knew we were here. Then she shifted gears and told us how much more stuff the Plan 9 in Charlottesville has than our store. Finally she switched on the turbo and started one-upping us on everything we told her, how Charlottesville has everything better, how she has a bigger knowledge of music than us, how much better she is than the clerks in Roanoke’s pissant Plan 9. If all you’re going to do is insult us, just go. If you’re not going to buy anything I’d rather not have you.

Last week there was a young man who I have seen in the store before, and he does buy stuff. He’s a nice kid. He came to the counter with a purchase and noticed I was wearing a Sleater-Kinney shirt (what else is new). I learned that he was originally from Olympia, and we got to talking about the area and the street where Sleater-Kinney took their name. He actually saw Janet Weiss in a bar once. I was getting more and more into the conversation, not entering a one-upping contest with him but genuinely listening to what he had to say. I had already mentioned that the back of “You’re No Rock and Roll Fun” has a photograph of the Interstate exit in Olympia for Sleater-Kinney, and after his bar story I decided to tell him my story about driving to DC to see them, the cancellation, the reschedule, waiting after the show with my copy of The Woods, seeing them come out and deciding it would be rude to bum rush them, turning back and seeing Carrie looking at me. I just wanted to make conversation. “I saw them up in DC on their last tour,” I started, and suddenly the guy jumps in and says, “Oh! I forgot my wallet. I can’t buy this.” And he walked out.

I know in all likelihood he probably did forget his wallet, but it was the timing that irritated me. Here he is telling me his Sleater-Kinney story, and then as soon as I start to tell him mine he cuts me off and walks out. You’re the one who brought it up, bro. If you don’t want to talk about it then stay quiet. But you really do want to talk about it. You just want to do all the talking. You don’t want to hear anyone else’s story, because you want to think you have absolute knowledge of all that is and ever will me music. I’m probably being unfair, but I have a right to be. After all, I’m the one working in the record store. If anyone has the right to be snooty, it’s me.

what might have been, but three that are for real

Story time, or an only slightly fictionalized account of what happened tonight at Plan 9. Aaron and I were reading magazines at the counter. I had the latest issue of Spin, brushing up on my My Morning Jacket so I’m ready for the new album this June. Aaron was catching up on the latest regarding illegal narcotics. The bells on the front door jingled, making me look up much to my displeasure, and in walked three FFA kids (Future Fratboys of America). They might have been sixteen. All I could think of was the independent record store clerks in the Aziz Ansari short. Aaron and I went back to reading our magazines. Mine should have been in Japanese. The FFA kids noisily walked to the Rap section and perused the B’s. One of them had the nerve to speak to me.

-- Do you have Boyz N The Hood?

Since he was looking at the CD’s I assumed he meant the soundtrack, if not the movie.

-- Do you want the soundtrack, or the movie?

-- It’s a band. They’re a ghetto band.

Some dumb-ass rappers named their group Boyz N the Hood? I stood up walked to the Used DVD section.

-- A ghetto band? I’ll show you ghetto.

I found our copy of Boyz N the Hood and shoved it in the little brat’s face.

-- You watch this, you white boy fuck. You watch this, come back in tomorrow, and I dare you to say ‘ghetto’ again. Stupid white boy fucks. Get the fuck out of my store.

They may or may not have understood, but they left in a hurry. Let them tell their friends about me. The fewer FFA’s I see, the better my life is. I went back to reading my My Morning Jacket article, and Aaron never looked up from his cannabis.

Now that I’m talking about Plan 9 I might as well talk about some new releases. Here are three you really ought to check out.

Nouns, No Age – I first heard about this one from the Sub Pop 20th anniversary sampler. Yesterday was my first shift at Plan 9 since new release Tuesday. I saw them on the rack and had to give it a listen. There are so many wonderful things about this record. I need a few more listens to discover them all, but so far I’m in love.

Shots, Ladyhawk – The first time I listened to this I started making dinner towards the end, and I found myself dancing while I flipped over my crispy crown potatoes. These guys have a way with building. They start out with a gentle movement that builds and grows to a pure rocking crescendo. “I’ll Be Your Ashtray” is exhibit A. About a month ago I listened to this album every day, and I decided to let it go for a while to come back later and see if it still had the same effect. I came back to it today. I’ll come back for more tomorrow.

In the Future, Black Mountain – I know I called this one weak in an earlier blog. I was dead fucking wrong. There is nothing weak or dragging about Black Mountain. This is progressive perfection in an age of pussy indie rock. Turn up the volume, rattle the windows, and piss off the neighbors. Don’t worry, because it will be so loud you won’t hear them complaining.

One more notable: The Age of the Understatement, the Last Shadow Puppets. I don’t care for the Arctic Monkeys, but Alex Turner’s voice lends itself well here. This one is pretty good. If I had more money I would buy this, but as it is it remains on the shelf.

i am iron man, driving and vexed

Iron Man is the best of the Marvel Comics movies. Given the overall crappiness of Marvel movies of late, I was anticipating a let-down. Marvel started out strong. X-Men wasn’t great, but it was still good, and I thought Spiderman was everything it needed to be and more. The more recent movies fizzled. Punisher was embarrassing, and I don’t want to say anything about Nicholas Cage as Ghost Rider. I wanted Iron Man to be good. I didn’t expect it to be great. It just needed to be good. Iron Man was the first comic book that I read and actually paid attention to. I think the first comic book I ever read period was an issue of The Flash. Iron Man was the first storyline I took time to follow. Tony Stark was my first close-to-heart hero. The X-Men came a few months later. Iron Man started the fire.

I wouldn’t call it relief, because Iron Man was good enough to where it held me from the first scene. There was no need for relief. I knew it was good enough early on. Robert Downey, Jr., played a solid Tony Stark, Gwyneth Paltrow answered all of my Goldmember questions as to her whereabouts, and Jeff Bridges does evil oh so well. Still, I had a few MST3K moments. In one scene Jeff Bridges accepts an award for an absent Tony Stark. As he stands at the podium holding up the trophy, giving his speech, all I could think was, “This is as close as Jeff Bridges will ever get to an Oscar.” My other moment actually occurred during the previews, which I suppose is a good sign for Iron Man if I can only make fun of it once. There was a trailer for the new Hulk movie, finally called The Incredible Hulk. When the title appeared on the screen at the end of the preview I leaned to my friend and said, “He’s not so incredible. I’d say he’s acceptable.” This started a chain reaction of average modifiers, and I’m sure we pissed off the people sitting around us. Fuck it. It was only the previews.

I’m glad Iron Man is a good movie, not just for Marvel’s sake but for the character’s. When I first heard they were making an Iron Man movie I had my doubts. He’s one of the classic Golden Age characters, but for popularity I’d say he’s near the middle of the pack. It would be like DC making a Green Arrow movie. Iron Man is the best Marvel Comics movie. It’s better than the X-Men movies, better than Spiderman by far, and let’s not get started on Daredevil and Elektra and company. They updated his origin from Vietnam to Afghanistan to make it more current, which helped a lot. There’s a new conflict to make Americans question the morality of arms sales. In the movie Tony Stark changes his ways when he sees his own bombs fired by the enemy. In reality the United States of America funded and supplied the Mujahadeen to fight the Soviet invasion, only to have the same freedom fighters harbor the world’s most notorious terrorist and lead to events we know all too well. When I think of what has been changed in Marvel movies, this is the most appropriate and effective liberty. Tony Stark remains Tony Stark and his motivation is unaltered. In Spiderman Goblin drops Mary Jane from the George Washington Bridge instead of Gwen Stacy and Mary Jane lives. In the comic book, Gwen Stacy dies. It’s a small change, but the effects are heavy. Iron Man did well with its liberties. I might even buy it on DVD.

Now it’s time for me to complain about drivers. I have driven a lot today. I drove out to First Team to have my car inspected and get an oil change, and I drove to Valley View Grande to see the movie, and just now I drove to Starbucks to write and have a soy mocha (soy mocha is better than regular mocha; believe it!). I have compiled a list of grievances that I have with other drivers. Not every other driver, but there are enough of these people to warrant my frustration. Let me dispense my grievances.

Grievance the first, when I pull out to pass you on the interstate, do not speed up and race me. I try not to pass much. I only ever pass when I approach a vehicle that is traveling slower than me. I like to drive in the driving lane and keep my speed consistent. There’s nothing like trying to get around a slower car, a move that is smooth and flawless for all involved when unhindered, only to have the slower car speed up because the driver is upset that someone is passing him. The driver may even be entirely unaware he or she is doing this. I know, because I do it, too. It’s a natural response. I’ll see a car trying to pass me and I’ll start wondering what’s taking so long. Then I check my speedometer and find that I’m going about five miles an hour faster than I was before. Maybe I shouldn’t be so upset knowing that I do it, too, but let’s try to stop this rude behavior. All I’m trying to do is get around you so I don’t miss my exit. There’s no need to go all Jeff Gordon on me.

Grievance the second, speaking of Jeff Gordon, there’s nothing like being tailgated on a road that leads to a traffic light. This happened to me on Peter’s Creek today, and it blends right in with Grievance the third. Grievance the third is being tailgated on a multiple lane highway. Why one Earth would you tailgate someone on a multiple lane highway. There’s no one around to block you in. Just go around me. I’m not changing speed. What’s great is when you’re being tailgated on a multiple lane highway, approaching a traffic light, and then the other driver pulls out to pass at long last. The kicker: the light is red. Don’t worry, buddy. The light will still be red when you get there.

Grievance the fourth, if you approach stopped traffic in front of an entrance to a shopping center or restaurant, do not make room for traffic to get in or out. By law, you are not required to let people out. I know it seems courteous, but this is how accidents happen, especially on a multiple lane road. Just because you have stopped to let people trough doesn’t mean everyone else can read your mind. I’m surprised there haven’t been more accidents at that intersection at Towers. Today as I was leaving First Team there was a car carrier truck waiting to turn right at the light, and so traffic was held up further back than usual. I couldn’t turn left. A pick-up truck saw my dilemma and stopped to let me out. I saw his courtesy (which, I admit, I appreciated) and I waved to acknowledge, but I didn’t pull out because when I looked behind him, in the far lane of traffic, there were cars coming my way that didn’t have courtesy on the brain. I waited for them to pass before I pulled out. Had the man in the pick-up truck blocked my path, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have done the same thing, and that’s the treatment I expect. It’s the safest thing you can do in that situation.

Grievance the fifth, when the sign says “Lane Ends Merge Left,” they mean it. I will not let you in if you try to jump the line.

I think Marvel should make an Avengers movie. We already have Iron Man and Hulk. Just whip up Captain America, Thor, Hawkeye, Wasp, Vision, and Giant-Man, and we have our cast.

vinyl pita hummus

I decided to throw my own private vinyl party tonight. There’s something soothing about listening to vinyl. It has nothing to do with sound, at least for me. When I listen to vinyl I feel as though I have more control over the music. I have a one-on-one relationship with the music. I physically get up to turn the record over at the end of the side. If I had a CD changer I would enjoy the idea of filling it with five CD’s and letting them go the whole night. With vinyl I have to choose my playlist and manually manage it. As I write this I am five records into my party. There will be one or two more by the time I’ve had enough.

Originally I planned to listen to three LP’s and then go to bed (go to bed early; I started this around five or six, and I was exhausted from work this morning). I proofread my second manuscript as I listened, and then somewhere in the second LP I got hungry. My stomach yearned for pita chips and hummus. The day had been cloudy through early evening, but it suddenly cleared up and became beautiful out. Why waste the entire evening indoors listening to vinyl? I could put it on hold.

I decided to walk to the Co-Op. The last time I had a hankering like this I went to Kroger because the Co-Op was closed. Kroger sells good hummus, and I coupled it with blue corn tortilla chips. Great combo. Tonight I wanted to support the Grandin Village, so I walked. I grabbed my pita chips first and went to the back of the store for the hummus. No hummus. You have got to be shitting me. I walked all the way down here for hummus, and there is no hummus. There is no hummus in a Co-Op. This is perfect. Whenever I do anything like this for myself it turns into an epic journey. I bought my pita chips, because I wanted my pita chips, and I walked back to my apartment. On the way I passed a young lady walking the opposite direction on the other side of the street. I don’t know if she noticed me.

I carried my grocery bag to my car and got in, and I drove to Kroger anyway. Like I said they sell good hummus. I bought the roasted red pepper Athenos hummus. I thought about the artichoke garlic, but my taste buds had been anticipating something like roasted red pepper. I couldn’t let them down. I suppose going to Kroger was a good thing in the end, because I was out of hand soap in my bathroom. On the way out I stopped in the toiletries aisle, and just my luck, they no longer have the kind that I use. I like the Softsoap milk protein and honey soap. They didn’t have it. I settled for ultra rich shea butter. Maybe it’s a good thing in the end. It will be good to change it up.

On the drive home I turned onto Memorial, and who do I see walking but the young lady I passed earlier. This time she is headed in the other direction. She had a carry-out bag.

So I instead of a pleasant evening of vinyl broken up with a brief early evening stroll I went on an hour long epic journey for pita chips and hummus. Now I’m listening to vinyl probably much later than I should be. I finished proofreading the manuscript a little while ago, but now I’m writing this blog. We’ll see how late I get to bed tonight.

The vinyl party:

1) Seven Swans – Sufjan Stevens 2) The Instrumentals Album – the Roots 3) The Woods – Sleater-Kinney 4) New Moon – Elliot Smith 5) Signals, Calls, and Marches – Mission of Burma