-- Recent Listens --

Them Crooked Vultures
Them Crooked Vultures, 2009

Josh Homme (gtr, vox)  [ Kyuss, Queens of the Stone Age ]
Dave Grohl (drums)  [ Nirvana, Foo Fighters ]
John Paul Jones (bass)  [guess]
Scathing rock.  We need more of this.

Jeff Beck
Emotion & Commotion, 2010
J.B. - why so long?

Robben Ford
Blue Moon, 2002
Typical Ford.  No wasted notes from premiere and unheralded guitarist/singer/songwriter.

Merl Saunders and Friends
Keepers, '71-'75 (redone in '97)
Saunders on keys, gigantic sounds as fresh now as then.  Though not a Dead fan, Jerry Garcia wins me over  with his wild abandon.  Not enough of legendary Mike Bloomfield but still a nice funky, blues disc.

Harry Nilsson
Pussycats, 1974
Nilsson ( Schmilsson, Son of ) is one of my favorites.  Gets together with John Lennon, who is partying whilst on hiatus from Yoko.  Some tight, fun and serious songs.

Ween
12 Golden Country Greats, 1996
Whacked-out with great musicianship.  Songs such as 'Piss Up A Rope', 'Help Me Scrape The Mucus Off My Brain' and 'Japanese Cowboy' give you indication of what this is all about.  Have fun with all their stuff, though not for everyone.

Rolling Stones
A Bigger Bang, 2005
Screw the critics (I'm not one).  This stripped down bluesy release has Jagger doing more than vocals (guitar, harmonica, bass) and Richards trading licks with Woods (or Mick?).  Raunchy, as usual, this is actually better than expected.  Screw the critics (I'm still not one).

Get Me To The Show Ontime (circa around 1979)

9:15 am     I get a call from Rocker letting me know the show is at 7:30 tonight at the Duluth Auditorium.  I confirm this.  Back to sleep.

10:45 am   Bud calls and wakes me up from one of my vivid dreams.  Led Zeppelin is ready to play at our high school (ya, right) and Robert Plant can't sing.  They ask me if I could fill in (hey, it's my dream).  I say, "You're bloody well right I'll sing" or something like that.  Then, the phone rings.  I slam the phone down.  So close to being a star.

10:46 am    Bud calls back.  I ask what the hell is his problem.  He mumbles something (he's a certified mumbler) and I think he says thickets for the hugfest in foo-foo.  What?  Oh, the concert.  Ya, got it.  Why?  Bud says the show might be sold out.

10:48 am    The phone is left dangling as I vaguely hear some mumbling.  I'm high-tailin' it to my '69 Ford Custom 500 and drivin' crazy- fast.  For all of  five blocks.  I hope Mrs. Adams isn't takin' her morning slow-walk next door.  She just might have to fast-jump out of the way.

10:54 am     I brake and jump and roll.  Not really, but it sounded good.  I dash into Good Earth Records and look for Jerry.  It's a landmark store in our little town which sells albums, tapes, posters, smokin' apparatuses.  And concert tickets.  In this bygone era, you had to purchase them at a store or order them and wait for the mail.  There was no waitin' here.  Jerry is not around.  Only a dimwitted worker bee, Jimbo.  He hadn't seen Musket (nickname for Jerry) in awhile.  He didn't know when he'll be back.  'LA Woman' is blaring on the stereo which disrupted my thinkin'.  I was thinkin', "Shit, I better get four tickets or I'm dead."  I promised Bumbler, Rocker and, the most important one, our driver, Jonesy.  If only I had woken up earlier.  Preferably yesterday.  "Calm down.  Musket will be back.  It's his store and looking at Jimbo, I'd say he had better hurry."  Jimbo was air-drumming on top of the cash register.

11:23 am     Ok, the whole album of 'LA Woman' is now over.  No Musket.  No tickets.  No way.  Where the hell is, wait, here he comes.  With a smile as big as a double-wide and eyes as red as a baboon's butt.  Oh oh.  Pushing his glasses back on his nose, as they always slid down, he looked at me.  "Hey Alto.  What's up?"  "I need four tickets for the concert tonight."  "What concert?"  "You know, the Slade and Brownsville Station one.  In Duluth."  Jessica Sampson saunters by and Musket's attention is not on me anymore.  The Boss is now screaming.  Internally, so am I.

11:42 am     Watching Jerry run his store was a thing of beauty.  He started Good Earth on his own and had a vision of what a record store should be like.  And he nailed it.  Not only was the selection diverse but it was a cool place to hang out and talk music.  And he knew his music.  And was passionate about it.  He could talk for, literally, hours on why John Lennon should've killed Yoko Ono.  Or what Jim Morrison meant on an obscure poem he wrote.  But this was getting ridiculous.  He was ringing up some Billy Squier and a button (the Rolling Stones logo) and was deep in conversation about Elvis Costello with some high schooler who should take a freakin' bath (not many showers in those days).  I nervously flipped through the G-H album section keeping my eye on him.

12:12 pm     My patience is exhausted.  Jerry was now out the back to get a shipment of albums and cassettes.  Man, can he move fast when he has to.  I caught up to him and asked if I could help.  "Oh hey, Alto.  What's up?"  "Any tickets?  Jerry?"  He was already gone to the back.

12:25 pm     Jerry comes back.  Finally.  "Oh hey, Alto.  How long you been here?"  "Musket, the tickets.  I need four tickets.  Remember?"  "Oh ya.  I think that show sold out."
 
12:26 pm     Plan B.  "Are you sure?  Could you check?"  "Ya, I can call Freddy over in Chisholm.  He might have some."  "Oh man, that's be great."  He was gone in a flash.  Jimbo can't figure how to ring up a blank cassette.  Jerry rings it up and then goes into a rant about how bad the Stones are these days.

12:36 pm     Jerry is gone again.  How does he move so fast?  I look at Jimbo.  He just shrugs.  Now I'm starvin' marvin'.  Figuring Musket will be back soon (fingers are crossed), I go next door to grab a burger.  The best in town.  Except the half-pounder with fries has gone up.  Geez, now $2.99?  I've lost all my patience and my money.

1:02 pm      I reenter Good Earth full and ready to keep up with Musket.  If he tries to escape again, I'll have to tackle him.  He's bigger than me but I'm desperate.  It'll take us at least an hour and a half to drive to Duluth.  I still have to shower (one of the lucky families) and get prepared for the show.  That takes a lot of time and effort.  I'll stay calm and see what's in the bargain bin.

1: freakin' 52 pm    Guess who decides to show up?  Yup, Musket.  With a pizza and beer.  "Hey Alto.  Want some 'zza?"  "Jerry."  "Hey man, you look a little stressed.  How 'bout a beer?"  "Thanks but no thanks.  How about those tickets?"  "What tickets?"  Deep breath.  "THE CONCERT TICKETS FOR TONIGHT."  "Oh those.  I have to go get 'em.  I'll be back in about an hour."  Now I don't know about you but one hour really means two, maybe three.  Exhausted, I gave in.

5: oh my God 38 pm    A knock at my door.  I answer in full concert mode.  My hair combed just right, an old Black Oak Arkansas t-shirt and my fav-o-rite blue jeans, a little torn.  "Hey Alto.  Sorry 'bout that.  We got to talkin' and well, here they are.  You can pay me whenever.  I don't know why you needed them so fast.  They don't play till tomorrow."

5: is that me sobbing? 45 pm   I am back asleep.  With the phone off the hook.
                 

-- Recent Reads --

The Corrections
Jonathan Franzen, 2001
A dysfunctional, quirky and very real family story that displays harmony, personal anguish, humor and an ending that left me weeping.  But also upbeat.  Yes, you can have it both ways.  An emotional, taut and excellent read.  Franzen is somebody to follow.

The Enchantress of Florence
Salman Rushdie, 2009
Yes, that Salman Rushdie.  He who had a fatwa on his head for years after writing 'The Satanic Verses' in '88.  He is a vivid and colorful storyteller but peculiar in style.  I felt as if he was talking down to me.  Oh well, off with his head.  This will challenge you in an intellectual way but still very entertaining.

Benjamin Franklin : An American Life
Walter Isaacson, 2003
By no means boring, this biography by Isaacson tells us stuff about Ben that you didn't get in high school.  But what else is new?  This is one man who shaped America, possibly more than any single person.  Tons more interesting than the John Adams book, not the cable presentation.  I will read Einstein's bio by this author as soon as I can.  Supposed to be scary good.

Childhood's End
Arthur C. Clarke, 1953
Everybody knows Clarke as the author of  '2001: A Space Odyssey' in '68.  But this overlooked gem by one of the top five sci-fi writers ( in my humble opinion), will have you guessing and wondering long after you've finished reading it.  Discussions about 2012 collide in this fast-paced, 200+ page novel.

Riven Rock
TC Boyle,1998
If you haven't read any TC, get out your reading glasses and read.  He transforms this simple nonfiction story (with maybe some fiction?) about the mental state of one powerful 1800's tycoon into a humorous romp.  Anything Boyle writes, please read.

American Goliath
Harvey Jacobs, 1997
The Cardiff Giant.  General Tom Thumb.  P.T. Barnum.  Another possible bending and blending of a real story into a sometimes uneven read.  However, fun as hell and compelling.  Jacobs hasn't done much but his '09 book, 'Side Effects' sounds enticing.

Winter VS. Summer : HUNTING

When men find out I'm from Minnesota, they glance at me hopefully. 

"Pretty good hunting up there, right?"  Visions of venison, bear rugs and goose-down pillows.
"Ya, I guess."
"And fishing."  Stuffed otters and coonskin caps.
"Ya."
"I remember when I was on a hunting trip .."
"Excuse me, but I don't hunt."
"Huh?"
"Maybe a little fishing."
"What the?"
"I mean, I tried.  I really did."

So, I explain in brief how terrible I am at hunting and the fish stay away from my line as if the lure has rabies on it.  I wonder what a rabid walleye would look like.
The man is now very suspicious and shakes his head.  

Winter
We are off to track down and hunt the wily, tricky and foxy rabbit.  First of all, calling out  'Kill the wabbit!' didn't exactly help in my instructional part of  hunting this noble creature.  Sheesh, hunters have no sense of humor. I guess, when you have a rifle in your hands, this is no time to crack jokes.  This is serious.  The snowshoe hare (lepus americanus) or varying hare, is our prey.  This reminds me of the cult movie, only-meant-to-be-played-at-all-drive-ins, 'Night of the Lepus'.  Does anybody remember that gem?  Huge rabbits pounce and destroy a poor town, that, I suspect, have had one too many rabbit hunts.  Of course, with modern technology at that time, the gigantic bunnies were normal sized and the town was plastic.  You could actually see the shadows on the background.  Movies used to be so real back then.  I couldn't quite get that image out of my head, so I kept looking above me.  Just in case these varying hares did vary in size. In winter, we have snow.  In winter, the rabbit is white as snow.  So, shooting at white while walking in and through white might seem a tad difficult to distinguish snow-covered, white fur from something, say, a snow-covered mound of dirt.  As my instructions from fellow hunting friends were ( in the near future not-so-friendly), shoot at anything that hops, bounds, scrambles, scampers, zigs or zags.  I immediately grasped the situation firmly.  And another important lesson : don't shoot in the vicinity of another hunter if you see darting movements.  I didn't know my peripheral vision was that good.  My fellow hunters dropped to the back of me and for good reason.  I was the brave leader who will get first shot at our future rabbit stew.

The first 50 yards of trudging through a field of bright, shining, blinding ice crystals was peaceful and invigorating.  I was going to kill and eat the flesh of a fluffy, furry and flop-eared rabbit.  Sounds really manly.  The serenity was shattered as I stepped in a white hole ( damn, probably a rabbit hole) and  let out a shriek not unlike that of a hungry, five-month old baby girl.  As I fell, I lost grip of my rifle (damn, my hands were already frozen) and it went off.  That was the second thing I shouldn't have done.  In less than an hour I had two hunting strikes against me.  But, as fate would have it (others call it beginner's blind luck) I was vindicated.  My shot blasted into a pile of snow about 20 feet away and out sprang a white and red (?) rabbit.  He kind of looked at me, well, he would've looked if he had had a head, and fell over.  It looked like that solid white-chocolate bunny I had for Easter when I was young.  After I had bit its head off.

The rabbit stew was tasty.  I don't eat Easter bunnies anymore.  At least not the snow-covered ones.


Summer
We are off to track down and hunt the wily, tricky and foxy partridge.  Now, I know we don't have pear trees in the Land of 10 Trillion Lakes.  So I didn't quite get it.  I let my hunting buddies (no longer friends, numbers dwindling) give me the tips for shooting something that goes airborne.  The first tip : don't be alarmed when they take flight.  This graceful bird appeared in Greek mythology when Daedalus threw his nephew, Perdix, off a roof in a jealous rage.  The partridge or perdix stays amongst groundcover and avoids high places like trees.  Poor guy.  He has wings but is paranoid of falling.  Kind of like a fish (gilly) scared of swimming.  You have to hand it to those Greeks.  They sure know their mythological ornithology.


Walking down a dirt road, thick foliage (are those pear trees?) on both sides of us, the graceless, scared-of-heights partridge and his/her pals will suddenly and noisily crash through the trees, out to the open road and fly.  They come out of the trees low and they fly even lower if that's possible.  This is the time to fire before they get too much, uh, air.  Ok.  Check.  As our crunching Red Wings crunched, various birds other than partridges were singing a song.  Was that The 12 Days of Christmas?  Suddenly, swiftly and urgently. without warning, a clatter shattered the bird chatter.  As I almost swallowed my tongue, I instinctively reacted.  By not swallowing my tongue.  I also pulled up the rifle and shot.  The sound of the blast was like AC DC's 'For Those About To Rock' cannons.  We looked down the road in front of us and, laying in a clump of feathers, was a bird.  My bird.  My headless bird.  Another head-shot.  Partridge is tasty but always needs a pear.

After those two mind-blasting shots, I couldn't hit the ground if I was tossed off a roof.  I tried duck.  I tried goose.  Is that the same as duck-duck-goose (duck-duck-gray goose, in Minnesota)?  I have heard that the rare skeet is easier to get or the cool coot.  I may try.  Or I might just stick to music hunting and gathering.

Oh, and when women find out I'm from Minnesota, they ask about The Mall of America.  Go ahead and ask me about those pillows and caps.