Wednesday, March 10, 2004
jungle fever
Hey, I wrote this cd review a while back and never published it. It's still as relevent as the nose on your face, so check it out...
Welcome to the jungle -- Bernie, that is. If you're aware of Mr. Jungle, you prolly know him as the sensitive guy in Warm Wires, the Bay Area outfit led by ex-Harm Farmer Brad Mossman. On the Wires' two full-lengths and numerous live shows, Jungle has served as a sort of foil to Mossman, playing the serious romantic to Brad's sex- and bird-obsessed kook.
Jungle's eponymous solo debut features two songs from the Wires' Kindness album, one of which ("Burr") has been re-recorded by Oakland engineering legend Wally Sound. Because of Jungle's vocal style -- a husky hippie whisper that's ready to give a homeless guy a quarter -- you may not even realize how twisted some of his lyrics are. "Burr" may seem all gooey-eyed and loving, until you understand he's comparing himself to an annoying plant you can't get rid of: "And if you cut me loose/ I will be a burr/ And I will stick to you/ Make you scratch and curse." If you had any doubts about the underlying menace of the tune, it ends in a frantic tabla-and-fiddle spasm.
With its gently churning guitar, Indian percussion, and spaceman metaphors, "Falling" (also from Kindness) recalls the California psychedelia of Cole Marquis and the Snowmen -- even if Jungle originally hails from the Midwestern flatlands of Ohio (and once played in a band with Banner Thomas of Molly Hatchet -- serious metal roots!). The best song here may be "Water," with its pretty guitar plucking and Jungle's odd refrain of "When the water comes down/ It's the best you can do to say no." What does the lyric mean? I have no idea -- and I don't want to! Like the best strangely affecting folk music, the song makes sense without really having to.
The final track is "Nervous Eye," which sounds like it was recorded in a shed -- and was. There's some nice spooky beats and loops by Viola Keeton, but the tune's not the best showcase for Shirley, the makeshift percussive unit that Jungle plays with local calypso-bluegrass outfit Lipsey Mountain Spring Band. Still, the EP is a good introduction to one of the Bay Area's best secrets, and a sweet teaser for his upcoming full-length, which could well be titled Guns & Roses.
Welcome to the jungle -- Bernie, that is. If you're aware of Mr. Jungle, you prolly know him as the sensitive guy in Warm Wires, the Bay Area outfit led by ex-Harm Farmer Brad Mossman. On the Wires' two full-lengths and numerous live shows, Jungle has served as a sort of foil to Mossman, playing the serious romantic to Brad's sex- and bird-obsessed kook.
Jungle's eponymous solo debut features two songs from the Wires' Kindness album, one of which ("Burr") has been re-recorded by Oakland engineering legend Wally Sound. Because of Jungle's vocal style -- a husky hippie whisper that's ready to give a homeless guy a quarter -- you may not even realize how twisted some of his lyrics are. "Burr" may seem all gooey-eyed and loving, until you understand he's comparing himself to an annoying plant you can't get rid of: "And if you cut me loose/ I will be a burr/ And I will stick to you/ Make you scratch and curse." If you had any doubts about the underlying menace of the tune, it ends in a frantic tabla-and-fiddle spasm.
With its gently churning guitar, Indian percussion, and spaceman metaphors, "Falling" (also from Kindness) recalls the California psychedelia of Cole Marquis and the Snowmen -- even if Jungle originally hails from the Midwestern flatlands of Ohio (and once played in a band with Banner Thomas of Molly Hatchet -- serious metal roots!). The best song here may be "Water," with its pretty guitar plucking and Jungle's odd refrain of "When the water comes down/ It's the best you can do to say no." What does the lyric mean? I have no idea -- and I don't want to! Like the best strangely affecting folk music, the song makes sense without really having to.
The final track is "Nervous Eye," which sounds like it was recorded in a shed -- and was. There's some nice spooky beats and loops by Viola Keeton, but the tune's not the best showcase for Shirley, the makeshift percussive unit that Jungle plays with local calypso-bluegrass outfit Lipsey Mountain Spring Band. Still, the EP is a good introduction to one of the Bay Area's best secrets, and a sweet teaser for his upcoming full-length, which could well be titled Guns & Roses.
spalding gray, rest in peace
In 1987 I was a freshman at Wooster College in Ohio. I was 18 and I had no idea what to do with my life. I'd taken a short story writing class senior year in high school and liked that very much. I'd made super8 movies with my friends. I wore rugby shirts and went to see Tom Waits and Billy Joel (ahem) concerts. I was an unformed kid, waiting for inspiration to strike.
It did. In the form of a Rolling Stone article.
It wasn't a piece profiling a rock star that made me see the light, though. It was a piece on Spalding Gray, the monologuist whose body was found in the East River this past weekend. I would like to say that I found him funny or that I liked his storytelling techniques or that his views on life were inspiring. But really it all came down to girls. In the article, he told a story about his increasing fame and how it affected his life. After doing a bunch of monologues in which he talked about all the wacky things that happened to him, he was riding a train in Europe. And this hottt Scandinavian mother and daughter came up to him and offered to do him.
A hottt, possibly Swedish mother and daughter wanted to have sex with Spalding Gray, for no other reason than to be in one of his future monologues? This was the life for me!
Well, I ran out and rented Swimming to Cambodia. It blew me away. Over the years, I read his other monologues and devoured his great novel, watched him perform live, and caught him in a few movies. Every single time he was so unique. He was the ultimate blogger -- a person who would take the most personal experiences of his life and make them incredibly funny. Or sad. His life was theater. I wanted to be him.
Last year I went through a very depressed period, where I couldn't really see much reason to keep living. Call it a mid-life, possible-death crisis. I'm sure lots of people go through them to some degree as they grow older, as they wonder what purpose they have or they look back on the small hill of beans they've accomplished. What I didn't know was that Spalding was going through the same thing.
After a bad car accident in 2001, he'd been living in a constant state of pain and a perpetual mental fog. He'd even tried jumping off a couple bridges, as if to test out suicide. Eventually, he succeeded.
I'm not much for mourning people who you never knew. It's awful when people die, but it always seems like such a private issue, especially when they take their own lives. They had their reasons.
But I guess, more than ever, thinking about Spalding Gray makes me want to leave something behind, even the smallest little something, that some kid somewhere can pick up and say, "Wow, that's cool." Thanks, Spalding-mon.
It did. In the form of a Rolling Stone article.
It wasn't a piece profiling a rock star that made me see the light, though. It was a piece on Spalding Gray, the monologuist whose body was found in the East River this past weekend. I would like to say that I found him funny or that I liked his storytelling techniques or that his views on life were inspiring. But really it all came down to girls. In the article, he told a story about his increasing fame and how it affected his life. After doing a bunch of monologues in which he talked about all the wacky things that happened to him, he was riding a train in Europe. And this hottt Scandinavian mother and daughter came up to him and offered to do him.
A hottt, possibly Swedish mother and daughter wanted to have sex with Spalding Gray, for no other reason than to be in one of his future monologues? This was the life for me!
Well, I ran out and rented Swimming to Cambodia. It blew me away. Over the years, I read his other monologues and devoured his great novel, watched him perform live, and caught him in a few movies. Every single time he was so unique. He was the ultimate blogger -- a person who would take the most personal experiences of his life and make them incredibly funny. Or sad. His life was theater. I wanted to be him.
Last year I went through a very depressed period, where I couldn't really see much reason to keep living. Call it a mid-life, possible-death crisis. I'm sure lots of people go through them to some degree as they grow older, as they wonder what purpose they have or they look back on the small hill of beans they've accomplished. What I didn't know was that Spalding was going through the same thing.
After a bad car accident in 2001, he'd been living in a constant state of pain and a perpetual mental fog. He'd even tried jumping off a couple bridges, as if to test out suicide. Eventually, he succeeded.
I'm not much for mourning people who you never knew. It's awful when people die, but it always seems like such a private issue, especially when they take their own lives. They had their reasons.
But I guess, more than ever, thinking about Spalding Gray makes me want to leave something behind, even the smallest little something, that some kid somewhere can pick up and say, "Wow, that's cool." Thanks, Spalding-mon.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
pisces picnic
You're probably wondering, "What's it like to be involved with another Pisces? Is it a barrel of laughs? A barrel of monkeys? A cracker barrel?" It is all of these things, and more.
Take this weekend, for instance. On Saturday, Elka suggested we stay in and watch Strange Brew. I couldn't tell if she really meant this. She'd seen the classic '80s yuk-fest many times and swore by its geniusness. I was doubtful, having heard rumors to the contrary, so I suggested we go see Bertolucci's new movie, The Dreamers, which Laura said was way hottt, instead. Putting on her happy face, Elka said she was up for it.
But when I talked on the phone with her later, she said she wanted to go to that Altamont II noisefest at Liminal Gallery. I'd already seen all the bands except for Bobby Conn, so I didn't want to go.
She recommended I come over and have dinner, and we'd figure out our plans then. When I arrived, she was playing Patty Griffin. Do you know this Patty Griffin? Kinda wimpy, kinda pretty, what Chris likes to call music your mom likes.
I couldn't resist the urge to needle Elka over her choice. "What's this vagina music?" I asked. "Shut up!" she cried, using that cute pained voice that always says to me, "Tease me more!" So I kept harping on it. "That sure is some good vagina music, man, this sure is damn fine vagina music." Yes, I was being a dick. But truthfully, I really think that phrase is funny.
Thus commenced a long diatribe about how music snobs were subhuman reprobates who didn't deserve to live. Okay, so she didn't say that. But she did say that music snobbery is lame and that I was close-minded and snotty. And I argued that everyone has opinions about what is good and what is bad, that snobbery was only bad when used incorrectly. If you dislike entire genres because of your snobbery, that's wrong; but if you decide you don't like most warbly female singer/songwriters, that's fine. (And hey, I like Joni Mitchell as much - if not more - than the next guy.)
Anyway, us being Pisces there was plenty more going on here: I was annoyed that she'd committed to a plan and then changed it, she was pissed that we were always doing what I wanted to do and that maybe I wouldn't like her if she liked vagina music. Add in the fact that we both then got hurt feelings and nursed them throughout the rest of the evening, and you've got the perfect Pisces day.
Of course, the upside is we can't get away with anything. We can't hide our anger or frustration because all Pisces have alien-antenna emotional radar detectors waving over our heads at all times. Which leads to much discussion and lots of processing. So on Saturday we ended up stayed awake until 3 talking it all out.
And it's funny. The next day, when the truck we borrowed to go to the white elephant sale died in the Webster tunnel, it didn't seem like a big deal. It was something outside our control, and no one was slighting anyone or calling into question their loyalty or trust or capacity to love. Because of the night before, life was good.
Besides, the truck's stereo had been stolen the week before, so there was no chance we'd have to listen to Patty Griffin.
Take this weekend, for instance. On Saturday, Elka suggested we stay in and watch Strange Brew. I couldn't tell if she really meant this. She'd seen the classic '80s yuk-fest many times and swore by its geniusness. I was doubtful, having heard rumors to the contrary, so I suggested we go see Bertolucci's new movie, The Dreamers, which Laura said was way hottt, instead. Putting on her happy face, Elka said she was up for it.
But when I talked on the phone with her later, she said she wanted to go to that Altamont II noisefest at Liminal Gallery. I'd already seen all the bands except for Bobby Conn, so I didn't want to go.
She recommended I come over and have dinner, and we'd figure out our plans then. When I arrived, she was playing Patty Griffin. Do you know this Patty Griffin? Kinda wimpy, kinda pretty, what Chris likes to call music your mom likes.
I couldn't resist the urge to needle Elka over her choice. "What's this vagina music?" I asked. "Shut up!" she cried, using that cute pained voice that always says to me, "Tease me more!" So I kept harping on it. "That sure is some good vagina music, man, this sure is damn fine vagina music." Yes, I was being a dick. But truthfully, I really think that phrase is funny.
Thus commenced a long diatribe about how music snobs were subhuman reprobates who didn't deserve to live. Okay, so she didn't say that. But she did say that music snobbery is lame and that I was close-minded and snotty. And I argued that everyone has opinions about what is good and what is bad, that snobbery was only bad when used incorrectly. If you dislike entire genres because of your snobbery, that's wrong; but if you decide you don't like most warbly female singer/songwriters, that's fine. (And hey, I like Joni Mitchell as much - if not more - than the next guy.)
Anyway, us being Pisces there was plenty more going on here: I was annoyed that she'd committed to a plan and then changed it, she was pissed that we were always doing what I wanted to do and that maybe I wouldn't like her if she liked vagina music. Add in the fact that we both then got hurt feelings and nursed them throughout the rest of the evening, and you've got the perfect Pisces day.
Of course, the upside is we can't get away with anything. We can't hide our anger or frustration because all Pisces have alien-antenna emotional radar detectors waving over our heads at all times. Which leads to much discussion and lots of processing. So on Saturday we ended up stayed awake until 3 talking it all out.
And it's funny. The next day, when the truck we borrowed to go to the white elephant sale died in the Webster tunnel, it didn't seem like a big deal. It was something outside our control, and no one was slighting anyone or calling into question their loyalty or trust or capacity to love. Because of the night before, life was good.
Besides, the truck's stereo had been stolen the week before, so there was no chance we'd have to listen to Patty Griffin.
Monday, March 08, 2004
hair of the dog
I shaved my neck this weekend. You probably don't think this sounds like a traumatic event. You probably also have a full head of hair.
When you cut your own hair like I do, you end up having to shave your neck too. This makes you more aware of how men are truly the world's ugliest creatures. I mean, strange things growing out of our necks, come on! How gross is that? What possible purpose could such hairs have? Makes you think Darwin was full of shit.
Anyway, it's also really hard to do, this shaving of neckhair (i.e., nair). You're pretty liable to cut yourself or miss a small patch or make it all uneven, like a haphazard alien crop circle. That's why, back in the mid-'90s, my roommate Hany asked me to shave his neck for him.
We weren't really close, Hany and I. More than anything, he asked me because we were both unemployed. He was poor, I was home -- there was little to do but drink scotch, watch daytime TV, and shave his neck.
He was, to put it politely, a very hairy man. And I didn't want to do it. In fact, the idea revolted me. (Men, I'm discovering, are actually more squeamish than ladies. At least when it comes to hearing about the sex habits of their friends.) But I bit the bullet. I stood in the bathroom behind him, running the razor through the shaving cream, careful not to nick him, aware of each little "shrick" sound his thick hairs made, thanking the lord I didn't have a hairy back.
Nothing has ever made me feel more like a gay man.
When you cut your own hair like I do, you end up having to shave your neck too. This makes you more aware of how men are truly the world's ugliest creatures. I mean, strange things growing out of our necks, come on! How gross is that? What possible purpose could such hairs have? Makes you think Darwin was full of shit.
Anyway, it's also really hard to do, this shaving of neckhair (i.e., nair). You're pretty liable to cut yourself or miss a small patch or make it all uneven, like a haphazard alien crop circle. That's why, back in the mid-'90s, my roommate Hany asked me to shave his neck for him.
We weren't really close, Hany and I. More than anything, he asked me because we were both unemployed. He was poor, I was home -- there was little to do but drink scotch, watch daytime TV, and shave his neck.
He was, to put it politely, a very hairy man. And I didn't want to do it. In fact, the idea revolted me. (Men, I'm discovering, are actually more squeamish than ladies. At least when it comes to hearing about the sex habits of their friends.) But I bit the bullet. I stood in the bathroom behind him, running the razor through the shaving cream, careful not to nick him, aware of each little "shrick" sound his thick hairs made, thanking the lord I didn't have a hairy back.
Nothing has ever made me feel more like a gay man.
