Posted 10:55 PM by sport

Wanna get some of these LA observations down before they get too stale. I don't feel especially sharp and witty, but so be it.

Great to see Rich Honig again after way too long. Rich is one of those loyal friends who remains in touch through the years and across many miles. Our trip to Disneyland was a sweet and easygoing day. With the free entry, we felt no pressure to pack in a full day's fun, so it became a relaxed amble through the park, stopping to enjoy old rides remembered from childhood. Bittersweet at times, as some sight or smell would recapture childhood trips to Disney World with Pete even as the perspective of an aging kid found new ways to appreciate the various attractions and atmospheres. After we left, it was on to Hollywood for some hot dogs at the famous Pinks stand. Kept feeling the ghost of Cassavetes directing "Minnie And Moskowitz" there as we munched our dogs, but frankly (har har), gimme Papaya King any day. I won't even mention the glory of Katz's deli in fairness to Pink's.

We got hold of Miles, who was out at a friend's house in the Valley (apparently to Angelenos, the Valley is what Long Island is to New Yawkers. Can't fathom why, but there you go), and invited us out. There we met with Miles, his lovely gal Jane and their friends Judie, Cliff and Tim. Cliff is a cartoonist with whom I share numerous favorites, so there commenced much yammer about Basil Wolverton, Jack Kirby and so forth. Fucking guy HANGS with Robert Williams! He and Tim have a project called "Rat Bastard" (check this: http://www.indymagazine.com/articles/ratbastard.shtml ) which we screened a bit of. Swell stuff, great guys. Judie is a FIRE EATER! She showed off this skill - deep in the evening's revels - to everyone's delight and amazement. She made me a bunch of delectable apple martinis… the first time I really enjoyed that drink (but a good wimp-out choice after all the Glenlivet of the previous several nights). Milo and I sang a bit (glad I had him to remind me of my own lyrics), Jane came running in wearing a cartoon dinosaur costume, and all manner of gladness held sway throughout. Cliff broke the sad news that Tiki Ti is only open from Thursday through Sunday, and here we were on Sunday night, after closing. Dagnabit!

I awoke with the snout of a Husky in my face. Allergy or not, it was impossible not to laugh hysterically at such an awakening, and that's a good way to start any day. Of course, it's always impossible to escape the shadow of my own dashed dreams, and this time it came in the form of a cd (among the pile of releases Jane brought from England, where she works with all sorts of hot bands and artists) by Har Mar Superstar. It's yet another KRS act (on some other label over in Britain) that seems to be succeeding. I said nothing about it then; good company distracts from these moments of hopelessness, and good company is what I was in, but Lord how they weigh when I'm alone. Har Mar Superstar tours, and it's easy to imagine that if I did, I'd "exist" as well. I might be delusional about that, but nevertheless I feel like my inactivity has let Slim down completely, and murdered my own chances for the modest career I've longed for. At this point I'm too ashamed even to email anyone at Kill Rock Stars. I kid you not. (Here it goes again. Shut up, whiner.) I put the cd lower in the stack so it wouldn't keep bringing my mind to such desolate terminals.

The last full day in LA was spent driving with Claudia through the mountains. Just gorgeous… Topanga Canyon, the Pacific Ocean, all that. It was always weirdly fun to see places formerly known only from jokes on Match Game (meet you at that motel in Encino, Brett), Carson references (take the Slauson cut-off…), V.D. Parks lyics (what's up Laurel Canyon) and the like. It was relaxing to just take in the sights and talk with Claudia as we drove and stopped for a "fatburger." She treated me like royalty the whole time. A perfect host and a precious friend. Brad was feeling quite ill, and doesn't enjoy Hollywood shit anyhow, so she and I changed and went to the Six Feet Under premiere I mentioned earlier. What a gas to see the concrete handprints of all the 20th century's screen icons along the red velvet carpet as searchlights combed the sky and photographers snapped away at arriving actors; it was magical to inhabit a real moment of Americana, even if Hollywood dreams are not my own.

I like Six Feet Under, so it was all a lot more involving than the "Lord Of The Rings" premiere for me. The show regulars were there as well as semi-regulars like Kathy Bates and Lili Taylor. Amazing to discover that the guy who plays Furio on the Sopranos does NOT speak with an Italian accent! Chatted a little with the guy who plays Brenda's crazy brother, but without Brad on hand, there seemed little point in trying to chat up the cast. Instead we wandered around the lush, two-story affair grabbing free glasses of Glenlivet (natch) every ten seconds, and examining the recreated set from D.W.Griffith's INTOLERANCE that loomed in the vast courtyard. Hollywood looked pretty sparkly from up there. As far as the 2 episodes screened, I'd better keep mum for loyal viewers, but I dug 'em.

The main "Sport-is-a-failure" moment that night occurred while a band played (mostly the music was recorded swing stuff, far more conducive to a good night than the horrible crap blasted at the LOTR party). These guys were generic rockers, doing stuff like "Theme from Flashdance" in that "isn't this ironic" way the Skels used to perform "Right Back Where We Started From" over ten years ago. It was weird watching the audience of stars, schmoozers and industry suits enjoy this Fred Durst retread as he and buddies romp romp romped through their set. "What Ifs" and "No Ways" volleyed violently through my head until I shook 'em off with my regular mantra of "doesn't matter… doesn't matter…" and headed back down to the car. That night ended with a quiet chat under the citrus trees at casa Dourif.

The flight home was nearly as annoying as the flight out, and back in freezing Long Island the cabby demanded 30 bucks for an under-5-minute ride home. Prick. I tipped him one lousy buck. Today I feel ill and old, but that's the price of almost constant partying plus jet lag. It was fun fun fun even if my constant references to my constant self pity give a different impression. I guess additional little memories will be shared in other entries, but that's the overview. It's good to be home with loved ones, and it sucks to be back in the real day-to-day, too. Some Ebay items were waiting and Meredith sent me a cool comic book, so that all helps. Emails from friends (sending encouragement after reading other whiny comments from previous days) arrived amid the barrage of spam and forwards. It reminds me of how many of those same good people shared the excitement of the Willoughby release party a million years ago.

So now the task is to restore physical health to whatever degree possible, and attempt to develop strategies for reducing this depression. Last week was mostly a giddy break from ME. And with that, I'll do you that exact favor by stopping this. I'll be back when something funny comes to mind.

Posted 4:31 PM by sport

I'm coming down with a bug of some kind, no doubt picked up on the plane. So I'll write more about the trip shortly, but now I see Fred Rogers is dead. He was one of my true heroes, and I LOVE his songs. Never covered any of them as I'd wanted to, since it would have been taken as "camp" and too many assholes have mocked him for too long. Along with the crucial message of respect and kindness he lived to share, Fred's tunes are sophisticated little gems disguised as simple ditties. His philosophy, fully embodied by his actions, was based on bravery and wisdom often mistaken for wimpiness and naïveté. He never exploited his success to sell garbage to children, never considered changing his approach to suit increasingly corrupt and shallow cultural trends and never traded on the power of his celebrity to enrich or enshrine himself.

There will be tributes-a-plenty out there in the real world, so there's no need to go on about him here. But, suddenly, life sucks that much more.

Posted 12:06 AM by sport

Back in New York. Christ it's cold. How do you people stand it here?

Posted 6:21 AM by sport

Slightly tipsy. Just back from a premiere and party at Grauman's Chinese Theater for the show "Six Feet Under."

Read that sentence again. A premiere at GRAUMAN'S FUCKING CHINESE. Kind of hep, eh? And a party. Pretty swell fun, despite the indignity of being surrounded by lacquered young Hollywoodens, all doing better than I ever will for no justifiable reason and others doing well for every good reason imaginable. Sheer talent as well as the schmoozers/schnorrers. Me more in the Schnorrer camp.

Gotta catch a plane tomorrow and deal with the no smoking, the time change, a potential hangover, and all of it. But you may freely interpret my lack of timely entries as evidence of too much fun being had. It's been great. And now it's on to New York, the cold, and an eventless horizon.

But I'll see my Shelley, and you have no idea what glory that represents now. Damn I miss her. Nothing but Shelley means anything now. I'll share LA tales once I'm situated at the home computer, but as of now I am interested solely in family and impending fatherhood; The auld creative dream rests snug in a coffin it should have been laid in years ago. Los Angeles has helped concretize that determination (and it IS a determination; brutal realizations never having had much motivational sway hitherto, and this new path demanding the determined suppression of a host o' bad optimistic habits), so this was good. Even if I hadn't had so much fun. But I've had so much fun.

Confidential to Liz - I blew my chance to hit Tiki Ti. FUCK!

But in short, for now: as much as I could not imagine living here, all I miss about NewYork is the loved ones. The city the state and the whole life can go piss up a rope. I think "home" could permanently be a zipper bag in any comfortable room. With a bit of Glenlivet. The worst thing about heading back to civilian life is the loss of that temporal "hey let's blow it out" mood. And the pernicious resuming of that "oh, I can see you anytime... not tonight" delusion that is the source of all grief.

Gimme the clock ticking and the temporary bunker. But first, gimme my wife.

Your faithful retiree - Sport

Posted 3:31 PM by sport

I did intend daily entries, really I did, but this'll have to do. I need to get ready and git to Disneyland with Rich, who works for the mouse and has free access. Some scattershot observations about the past few days...

Met Miles at the Frolic Room on Friday. Great little joint with Al Hirschfeld murals, but the LA no smoking thing is REALLY annoying. You have to go out front where there are stools and and ashtray provided, but you can't bring your drink outside. So it felt like taking a bite of an oreo cookie, having to cross the street for a sip of milk, return for another bite, etcetera. So we wound up at The Cat and the Fiddle, a place with an outside deck where one may enjoy both toxins together, just as nature intended. Everyone here is on the make. A pleasing open friendliness shadowed by the feeling that it's all "just in case" you can help them careeristically. For example, once when Milo left for a minute, I decided to record a few minutes of crowd chatter on minidisc. So I'm sitting there holding the mic and three young women at a nearby table all get up and come over to me. "Are you recording the sound in the place? "Yes" (well, no... now I'm recording you asking me this). "For a movie?" She looked beatific with excitement. "No it's for a project of mine." The beaming smile collapses. "Oh. A project..." and they turned together like a flock of birds, headed morosely back to their table without a further word.

Visited Amoeba records, a very large store with a lot of everything. Nothing by Sport Murphy, however. Everyone else, though. Lots and lots of Sleater-Kinney. I did not belong in there. I fully grasped the enormity of my nonexistence in the music business at any level whatsoever, and it was not especially troubling. It felt more natural wandering past the old shoeshine joints on Hollywood Blvd, the Capitol tower and other relics of old times.

Last night we went to a party at the home of a musican named Jack Lancaster. I knew his work, especially a version of Peter and The Wolf, which featured people like Brian Eno and Viv Stanshall. Jack is a great guy, and told me lots of Viv stories. All the guests were smart, interesting and very pleasant people and all was well until some guy took a seizure, turned gray and collapsed on the kitchen floor. This put a crimp in the merriment, to say the least, and we didn't stay too much later. Over at UCLA, Van Dyke Parks was appearing in a sort of Avant Garde opera by Pere Ubu's David Thomas. At first I had slight regrets about going to the party instead of that but it all worked out well... including, I think, the guy who collapsed.

I'm a little frayed, mostly on account of the first night out with Miles. Still regrouping. Maybe Space Mountain'll set me up again... there were all kinds of things I intended to mention, but all I can think of right now is how much I miss Shelley. Oh, here's one quick thing: driving along the highway, there's this huge fracas by the side of the road. Two guys duking it out with a screaming audience of upset friends circled around them. Hot Damn! Then we get closer and see the camera crew. Shooting a movie! I wished I could call those girls from Friday night and say "get here quick! A MOVIE!"

Claudia's been great, squiring me around and seeing to every concern. Some of the nicest times have been just shooting the breeze with her and her daughter Cleo, listening to Scott Walker, eating french fries.

Brad and Claudia have an orange tree and a lemon tree. The lemons have invaded the orange tree, creating mutant lemoranges on one side og the tree. They taste more like edible lemons than inedible oranges. During one of the very few times I've seen any TV, I caught a local access show with musicians from "Assyria." Absolutely bizarre stuff... trying to figure out measures, I had to quickly count 1,2,3,4,5,/1,2,3/1,2/1,2,/1,2,3,4,5,6/ and like that. Truly baffling changes and very specific dissonances creating a flavor unlike anything else I've heard. And this was a regular civilian ethnic musician, cam-cordered at a local family event at a rented hall... not some arty knitting factory band or someting. Hypnotic shit.

Nuff said. Off to Disneyland.

Posted 3:47 AM by sport

DATELINE LOS ANGELES: THURSDAY FEB 20 2003

Knew I had to get up and make a plane today, so naturally I could not sleep last night. Kee-rist! So I watched "ESPN Classic" for a few hours: "Football's greatest games." Having less than no interest in the game of football, I view old NFL highlights films as abstract, mind-numbing entertainments akin to staring at a lava lite. The narration - always supplied by some husky William Conrad type of voice - groans about mysteries like "the line of scrimmage"and "roll out" ...names like Johnny Unitas and Joe Namath are invoked as nostalgic callbacks to earlier, equally football-oblivious times in my life ...macho production music blasts heroically as these guys run and knock each other down for reasons unknown. It's really good. It held my bleary attention until sleep eventually triumphed.

Before hitting the airport, Shelley picked up The New York Daily News, which I gave the once over before satisfying myself that there did, indeed, seem to be no article about me. So it goes. Hung out at the airport almost 2 hours before getting on the plane.

The flight seemed endless, but was relatively uneventful. First leg went from Long Island to Nashville, where I had to kill two hours before making the connection to LA. Spent those 2 hours in a bar, since that's the only place you can smoke. So I did, and drank a few glasses of wine, figuring it a light enough potable for afternoon swilling. Then the longer leg of the trip commenced, during wich I was treated to the shenanigans of some goateed douchebag and his frail, carrying on behind me like pair of 3 year olds. The jerk's voice was reedy and piercing, like a toy megaphone broadcasting some of the most inane chatter I've heard this side of "Def Poetry Jam." Dunno what he was doing to her, but she kept making with remarks like "Stop it! That hurts! Sto-hop! Sto-hop Tha-hat!!" To which he just chortled and, i guess, writhed ...enough to continually jostle and kick the back of my seat. Everytime I shot an irked look back in their direction, they apologized and stared as vacantly as a pair of bobble-head puppies. I had some more wine and napped whenever possible.

The flight itself was pretty bumpy (which I kind of like), so the pilot chose to remain rather low in the sky. This made for some nice aerial-relief-map vistas of the mountainous terrain, especially when night fell and the random cities and roadways below shined like gold jewelry strewn across a black blanket. All the while, these 2 carried on behind me.

When the trip was over, I commented to the guy beside me "what assholes!" (he agreed) and some southern nerd-daddy told me "ah got kids he-yur; watch yuh languitge." A burgeoning wine hangover already exacerbated my bitter animosity toward those other two jackasses, and I was in no mood. "Yeah... just what I need right now... bullshit from YOU!" He took umbrage at my ungallant tone and further vulgarity, and made as mean a nerd-daddy face as he could muster. "Go home... keep walking" I advised. He did, still shooting me that pissy-lemur look as he led his two fine young, heretofore innocent sons out of the airport. "Fuckin' prick" I snarled. Fuck him. Prick.

How very nice it was to step out into Los Angeles and have a smoke. Room temperature, just like I figured. Claudia greeted me and we drove to Tarzana, where they're putting me up in a small house all to myself. Here I am, then: a bit fried, sipping just enough Jagermeister to forestall the wine headache until it's slept away and I can begin my adventures, if any.

Posted 7:24 PM by sport

OK - a quick one before I head west. Moved deeply by my gripping account of dashed hopes and broken feldezziks, Isaac Guzman has seen to it that an article on your faithful blog blubberer will see daylight in tomorrow's New York Daily News. Tomorrow (as of today) will be Thursday February 20. I hope to sit on the airplane, subtly drawing attention to the article about me as if to say "... again...? Press? Oh won't they leave me be!?"

Actually I'll be reading 2 books, "NYC SEX" and "REMEMBERING WOOLWORTHS." But what matters is that Mom and Dad will read this piece. That is all that matters. So if you read this in time, look for Thursday's News.

Looking forward to this vacation from the familiar, I am. Some loose plans afoot, and Liz Belmont has supplied me with a list of promising watering holes out there. Hanging with Claudia, Brad, Miles and old chum Rich Honig. Dwelling in a room temperature city for about a week is appealing to say the least, and I expect you'll all get this snow taken care of by the time I'm back.

I hope to provide daily reports. In the meantime, my love to the Great Gonzo for his bon voyage message, my thanks in advance to Isaac, and fond wishes to the rest of yez. Now barkeep: pour me a "Ray's Mistake."

Posted 3:19 AM by sport

Several days now since the last entry, several days since I read any email, and a couple of days before I'm scheduled to leave for Los Angeles. An update, then.

I saw some guy on BBC news, a UK songwriter who is apparently getting "buzz" for writing an album based on "his reactions to the events of September 11th." The reporter notes that "the singer-songwriter is alive and well" from the evidence of this kid's work. Thank heavens! I should hear his work. I'm sure it must be rewarding! There really aren't enough credible artistic reactions to the events of September 11th, unless you count those those spontaneous outbursts of elated dancing from Muslims the world over. But those were immediate and now it's time for considered reflection. Thank goodness for this kid from the UK! But I want to hear something from the French. They are especially artistic, as we can see from their evolving, endlessly creative response to their European comrades, the Germans.

"Hello, America! Please help us destroy the Kaiser and his depraved teutonic hordes! Pernod?"
"Greetings, Monsieur Hitler! Welcome to France and, please, take full advantage of our every orifice for your pleasure! Brie?"
"Ah, General Eisenhower! Welcome to France and thank you for ridding us of those German bastards! Escargot?"
"Yes, German friends, these filthy Americans must be stopped at all cost! Gitane?"

Mind you, I have no consistent opinion on the war. I'm amazed that so many do. I'm as astounded by the eagerness of some Americans to sacrifice young people's lives down there as I am floored by the instant willingness of some other Americans to regard their government as evil and aggressive every time some difficult position is demanded by the evil and aggression of others. I'm as pissed at the sweeping international hatred for my country as I am by the reasons we keep giving them. I'm baffled by the ability of so many to hold such ironclad opinions, but I am not overly fixated on the unfolding pageant because the war already visited my home, so y'all have your fun.

I'm more interested in all this damn snow, or, rather, the effect it had around here.

With the snow-in preventing any normal activities, I finally spun some reel tapes sitting in a bag I acquired a few months back, the chaff of some radio station, it seems. One turned out to be an interview with Chuck Barris from around 1974. I like Chuck. Always did, as I said in an earlier entry. At this point, Chuck hadn't yet hit on the Gong Show idea, and waxed poignant about the moral ramifications of his racket. He sounded like a tired man about to quit in spite of the greed-satisfaction his success provided. Who knew his biggest hit lay just ahead and that this would, in fact, lead directly to his retirement? Amazing luck to find this relic. Along with this tape are pre-edit / pre-sfx segments of a drama, a full program of an interview with some psychic (inclusive of between-segment yammer with the host) and other oddities. (Why do I love this stuff so much?) There's also a soundtrack from some early 60s holiday broadcast, including spots for GE. One features Raymond Scott -type electronic noises; Just my meat, really. It was helpful to listen to this, and it provoked other cabin-fever activities.

Played with my Marx "Kooky Kombo" (a 60s, Marvin Glass-designed "one man band" gizmo for kids) and wrote a bunch of actual LYRICS for the first time in ages. Along with the Barris tape, other things caught my attention: an interesting E Jean Carroll comment - of all things - in some mag, the films "Amalie" and "Wings of Desire" (come for the Nick Cave clips: stay for Peter Falk!), so forth. Layabout hours with Shelley featured pleasures like that of observing the dogs romping out back in the blizzardry. Oh yeah, the dogs! We have this one dog, Cupcake - a huge Dog De Bordeaux, like "Hooch" from the movie - who, fixed in eternal, gigantic puppyhood, plays with a stuffed draydl. Whenever Cupcake squeezes the thing, an inner gadget plays a recording of kids singing the draydl song. So all night long, even as I contended with the usual sleepless tossing, I couldn't suppress howls of laughter everytime I heard "Draydl, draydl draydl... I made it out of clay..." The sweet behemoth squashes the thing in his jaws, sits staring at it as the song plays, tilts his head and bites it for another reprise. Sometimes he also works another identical stuffed draydl to create a megamix, alternating them with the precision of a turntablist.

So with all these things going on last night, the "depressure" building up in my head gave way, and blew out like a geyser.
Fwwwoooom! Old Fateful.
It left me in a condition (temporary, alas, but wot th' hell) of whimsical whatthefuckitude. Knowing fully that all creeds are hogwash and that in the eternal "for now" nothing is truer than the falsehoods one holds dearest, I've chosen to interpret transient thoughts and chance observations as signposts to Holy Truth. Feeling Jung at heart, I'm conning myself - like a d.i.y. John Edward - by seizing synchronicities and felicities and calling them epiphanies. All this high-flyin' hoo-hah is difficult to explain fully, but one grabs random, resonant pieces of information like those alluded to in the previous paragraph and forces their irregular contours into a jigsaw roadmap as uninterpretable to others as my albums themselves. Nevertheless, if the map leads yours truly from today safely into tomorrow, it is as valid as all the political discussions everyone else so passionately engages in these days, and far more useful.

As well as other ramifications which are none of your business, I've maybe hit on a way to mentally frame my musical pursuits: work which accepts and embraces the absolute refusal of "the world" to embrace my work. I'm gonna crawl off like Barris - with this streak of failures as stalwart as his successes - and amuse myself, in retirement from giving a shit. Maybe I'll do those karaoke shows, maybe not. I dunno. While the hopes I held for my work were small and had little or nothing to do with people's usual ambitions in the music biz, I no longer ask for a thing. With this home studio and assorted gizmos, toys and instruments, I'll set about making another album - tentatively titled "A Room Of Voices" - all by my lonesome. Maybe KRS will want it or maybe not, but right now it's well beside the point. I'd been considering offering full rights to all my previous work if anyone would pay anything at all for it, since money is a big problem right now, but certainly nobody would and that's also beside the point. Point is, that's all in the past.

I concede to Stephen Merritt (et al) all the credit for whatever it is he (or they) does (do) that I'm supposed to remind people of.
I concede to John Cusack all rights to the recognized face.
I concede to Sleater-Kinney the status of act that sells records for Kill Rock Stars.
I concede to that English kid the job of keeping the singer-songwriter alive and well by singing about the events of September 11th.

Nothing I ever create will be accepted or respected by anyone other than a tiny (and shifting) circle of friends, and that is gonna be fine. And if the stuff is never heard by friends, that'll also be fine. And if I never make the stuff at all, that also will also be fine. From now on, I'd like to live the way Cupcake does, biting the draydl for as long as it entertains me, and then trotting off to the foodbowl.






.

Posted 3:18 PM by sport

If nothing else, spam is sometimes good for amusing subject lines.
This one evokes dim memories of the Latin Mass, with celebrant Father Slim Gaillard:

Domireno Excidamus Mcvouty

(...Dominus Vobiscum O'Reeney!)

Posted 4:30 PM by sport

"Didn't time sound sweet yesterday?
In a world filled with friends, you lose your way"
- Scott Walker, "Big Louise"

What follows will get pretty grim, so skip it if you'd rather, but consider this fair warning.

Got a call from a journalist who had interviewed me recently. Looks like his promised newspaper article is very unlikely to run. So this pretty much freezes the progress of our record at one mini-review in British mag, another in a mag I write for, one in a local paper (written by a friend), and an online site or 2. This current disappointment is the result of my article getting cut several times because the editor regards EVERYTHING else that comes along more important.

CAT POWERS releases hotly anticipated album; critics orgasm as one
DEVO zany MARK MOTHERSBAUGH to score new cartoon
PHISH drummer buys sandwich
ARGENT tribute album to feature SEA AND CAKE and WILCO
CHRISTINA AGUILERA shows ass crack on new video
ANI DEFRANCO declares "I'm against a war with Iraq"
BEATLES hailed as "perennial favorites" in new poll
Sales figures for latest JAY Z release cause much discussion
Genius of BECK "inarguable" says TOM BROKAW
Nobel prize nomination for BADLY DRAWN BOY

The editor is far from alone in his assessment. I dearly wanted this ink if only for my family's sake, who read that paper regularly. The same paper covered the conspicuous grief of Pete's widow in daily installments; the articles were grueling in their crass exploitation of 9-11 emotion to inflate the status of this hateful cunt and her even more obnoxious relatives. This is what forced me to stop reading newspapers, and it also influenced me to make Uncle anything but a further exploitation of Pete's death and the deaths of all the others massacred. If I'd been less cautious about all that, maybe the album would have been more ink-worthy, but I'd be as blood-covered as the Gr*ces with none of their sense of entitlement and arrogance. I could not live with that on my head. No article could save my album from oblivion, but this one would have been a coup in terms of morale, and a small measure of righteous balance would have been struck. It is not to be. My well-intentioned friend who wrote the thing says to tell him, though, if any shows come up, and he'll see that there's a mention.

There won't be shows though… I tried to overcome hopelessness this past weekend and plan a gig or 2 with the musicians I've been working with. They were all at a party I'd invited them to. I invited a lot of people to this thing, and some of Shelley's friends drove up from New Jersey, but the only friends of mine who made it are those who live a few minutes away. Anyway, the band will not be doing any shows. Interest is apparently not high enough to warrant the effort. Nobody's interest is high enough to warrant much effort, in fact, and so, 3 weeks into its existence, I declare Uncle dead. A moot proclamation, but it'll have to do in lieu of all the positively-directed effort I'd like to exert if ANYBODY else gave a shit.

So that's the situation here. Well, not really. It would be impossible and pointless to describe the tidal wave of black misery that slams me awake every fucking morning after a couple of hours of restless, pill induced sleep. As difficult as the process of recording the album was, it directed my thoughts and energies toward something that occasionally seemed meaningful. That's all over and all that replaces it is the daily awareness that yet another album is dying just as undeniably as my family is dying around me. My head feels ready to burst with toxic concentrations of defeat, hatred and sorrow. The only personally mustered relief comes from idiotic distractions and this little recurring fantasy where I slo-mo the bullet passing through my palate and into my brain, blowing every thought, memory, fear, hope and emotion out the back of my skull into some perfect, absolute nowhere.

There are several actual friends who read this blog and write encouraging emails to me, and for these few precious friends I hasten to add that I'm not threatening suicide… it's not something I'd consider while my loved ones are living. I've decided that the least act of nobility I can perform in this wretched life is to endure it until that blessed, inevitable day when all faiths are proven wrong and all achievements join all failures in infinite irrelevance. I want to spend my remaining years in some version of happiness I can share with Shelley. She's the one who usually hears the kind of things I'm telling you here, and if I'm to spare her such agonies I'll need to become something else.

For one thing I have to find a way to give up creative ambitions completely, devote myself to them with an ascetic's determination or somehow mutate them into something that will fulfill and contain passion, even as it remains a private hobby. For those to whom this is alien gibberish, let's draw a metaphor of learning how to satisfy one's urge to love and be loved through celibate solitude, nymphomania or masturbation. Attempts by others to achieve this kind of adjustment - a repulsive choice forced upon some by most - resulted in Van Gogh's corpse lying in a wheatfield and the collapse of Charles Ives' physical and mental health before the age of 50. And I don't apologize for comparing myself to those two great artists. My failure or success in making work of that stature will not be determined by the idiots of my day any more than theirs was by contemporary idiots. But if I don't try to make work as personally honest and artistically ambitious I have no right to call myself an artist. And that is the only job description I've ever had any interest in fulfilling.

The dilemma here is probably meaningless to most people… it seems like yet another manifestation of my absolute self-obsession. Well, this blog is a steam valve as truly as the music itself has been. If it helps to rid my mind of a fraction of this pressure, then it's worthwhile. In the actual living of life, I try to be the kind of friend who is fun to be around and helpful when needed. Other than with those with whom I have a close, reciprocal relationship, I never fully air these woes outside the blog or some expressive equivalent. For a while now, I've mostly opted to stay home rather than drag my burdens around publicly. I've replaced most correspondence with these cloistered monologues and comedy routines, since the need to vent would unavoidably and negatively affect the content of any email or phone calls. Isolation has resulted, but that's preferable to the strained friendships that would otherwise occur; it seems better to have a wide range of glad acquaintances I can periodically "catch up with" than a sequence of close friendships done in by my own problematic personality.

I'm also aware that these self-indulgent horrors hold sway only when I'm not fully absorbed by the crises of my family. Right now, depression is acute because I'm not otherwise occupied by emergencies affecting them, and it's oddly welcome for that reason. I reckon that, given patience, soon it'll all seem less pressing and I can rejoin life in my role of eccentric, ne'er-do-well amigo: there is a sort of "depression release" that comes after critical mass has been exceeded. I'm waiting for it. When that happens, a refreshing gust of apathy sweeps over me and, for a while, the inner torments give way to enjoyment of numerous amusements. That's when I'm at my social best.

Anyway, as my family members are subject to depression stemming from old age, ill-health, the deaths of loved ones and the mind boggling cruelty of the Gr*ce brood, I am usually forced to maintain a happy demeanor around them. It's part of the duty to help. So please forgive this entry as the necessary expression of overwhelming stress and sorrow. I'm pretty sure it'll end up getting deleted out of embarrassment anyway. In any event, it's no more harmful or noteworthy than these songs I've wasted my life creating, and likewise, it'll soon be superseded by something far more trivial and entertaining.

Stay tuned, if you care to.

Posted 9:48 PM by sport

I'm too depressed to write anything worth posting; it wouldn't be overstating things to call it despair.
So instead of the posts I write and delete daily, here's a pretty nice online write up found at:
http://rockbites.org/rockbitesDaily.html
As with the Long Island Press piece, this will probably vanish in a few days, which is why I'm putting it up here. I am grateful for these web reviews, but it's all so fucking ephemeral. So is everything else, I guess.

A reluctant Sport Murphy releases 3rd LP
A true outsider to the music industry, encouraged by friends, returns with a heartfelt tribute to a lost brother.

Texas born singer/songwriter Mike 'Sport' Murphy and his nephew Peter Vega were raised as brothers and remained very close into their adult years, both ending up in New York city. They appear together as kids in a home photo on the cover of Murphy's third full-length, Uncle. When Peter died at the World Trade Center in September 2001 performing rescue work as a member of Brooklyn Ladder 118, Murphy "...decided to withdraw from the world, and that included making music." But the trauma was only one factor in his decision. He already had one foot out that door-in his own words, Murphy "loathes" the music industry. He'd rather just make music for the folks he knows. Six years ago when he finished his wonderfully eclectic solo debut Willoughby (a Charles Ives-to-Brian Wilson project that followed a several-year stint fronting NYC folk/punkers The Skels), Murphy self-released the LP and then simply handed it out free to friends.

But the good folks at indie label Kill Rock Stars (Olympia, WA) picked up Willoughby and gave it wider distribution in 1999, gaining Murphy some recognition in the US press and winning him some new fans. Murphy composed a second LP for KRS, Magic Beans (2000), and was working on a third. But when the press and the public "generally ignored" Magic Beans, Murphy says he stopped work on its follow-up and "...destroyed the recordings and the arrangements." Then the suicide pilots brought down the twin towers.

Murphy wrote recently, "After Pete's death, the thought of making songs remained unappealing, and I certainly didn't want to mine my family's heartbreak for the sake of tune fodder. Only the idea of 'speaking' to Pete enabled me to view another work as anything more than meaningless, and that's all I've tried to do."

Kill Rock Stars released Murphy's new album, the 22-track Uncle, three weeks ago for the US. It is a patchwork scrapbook of Murphy's years with his younger brother, an outpouring of grief and anger, an a celebration of family and friends in the face of evil and unfairness.

Directed as it is to Pete, Uncle feels clean of demagoguery and cheap bandwagoneering. And the album has enough humor and variety to stand as a piece of heartfelt entertainment untethered to those horrible moments 17 months ago. The themes of evil and love that run through Uncle are timeless. Through simple honesty of emotion, Murphy has kept these songs unburdened by the sort of gang-mentality self-righteousness imbuing, for example, Paul McCartney's embarrassing anthem, Freedom. Murphy, like his friend Irwin Chusid (of Songs In The Key of Z), and like Kurt Wagner (of Lambchop), plays with musical genres and styles with sly joy. On this disc you'll hear simple folk ballads (No Fair), Brian Wilson/Bruce Springsteen tributes (Paul La Grutta), quirky novelty (Behistun), evocative pop (The Late Days Of Summer), and a nine-second ditty called You Lousy Stinking Scumbag. Scattered among the songs are recordings of Pete and Sport as children.

Some two dozen friends helped Murphy bring this collection to fruition. There's a lot of sadness in this mostly-quiet record, but there's joy, too. Murphy says, "Uncle is an album for an audience of one and he'll never hear it."

Posted 4:01 AM by sport

Transcript of the first live Sport Murphy webchat, 2-5-03. We hope future chats will be a little more on-topic and I think a moderator might help. While the following may be confusing, we post it in its entirety for whatever bits of interest may be gleaned. Thanks to all participants.

mikesportmurphy: ok, I'm here, so, anyone?
mikesportmurphy: standing by.
< Go_go_Rangers03 has entered the room >
mikesportmurphy: welcome go
Go_go_Rangers03: hello room
mikesportmurphy: hey go
Go_go_Rangers03: sport chat YEEEEEEEAHHHHHHH
mikesportmurphy: yes hi do you have a question?
Go_go_Rangers03: wher are the PPPPUUUUSSSSYYYY
mikesportmurphy: lol none here go
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
< mwf_iso_? has entered the room>
mikesportmurphy: greetings mwf
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
mikesportmurphy: hi mwf what's up tonight
mwf_iso_?: gogo are you into the rangers
< Styxfan593932 has entered the room>
Go_go_Rangers03: fckind a mwf RAAAANNNNGERRRRRSSSSS
mikesportmurphy: this is a q and a about my music, folks. welcome styx
mwf_iso_?: asl gogo
Go_go_Rangers03: 25 m port washinton ny mwf HOOOORRRRNNNNYY
mikesportmurphy: styx?
Styxfan593932: y
mikesportmurphy: yes, welcome... any questions?
Styxfan593932: ty :)
mwf_iso_?: hmmm gogo you sound hot ; )
< collegebabewithcam has entered the room >
collegebabewithcam: Hi my name is Courtney and I am having nude fun on my new webcam
Styxfan593932: y i hv a ?
mikesportmurphy: ok styx, if that means "yes i hve a question," shoot
collegebabewithcam: Hi my name is Courtney and I am having nude fun on my new webcam
Styxfan593932: y wz paradise theatr so fkng awesome????
mikesportmurphy: ??? i'm here to discuss my new album
Go_go_Rangers03: SSSSUUUUCCCK MYYYYY COOOCCCKKKK
mikesportmurphy: on kill rock stars
Go_go_Rangers03: mwf BLLLLLOWWWWW MEEEEE
mikesportmurphy: entitled "uncle"
< Styxfan593932 has left the room>
< DemonSeedDarkLord has entered the room>
< the_one_and_only_53> has entered the room>
mikesportmurphy: welcome
mwf_iso_?: mmm gogo i'd love to
DemonSeedDarkLord: aNy GrRLZzZ hErE
Go_go_Rangers03: MWF I WANT TO FFFFUUUUCCKKKK
the_one_and_only_53: yo demon wuzzuuupppp!!!!!!
mwf_iso_? : mmmm gogo i'm wet
DemonSeedDarkLord: HeY mWf AsL
collegebabewithcam: Hi my name is Courtney and I am having nude fun on my new webcam
collegebabewithcam: Cum join me at http://www.reallivesororityquimcams.com ...I'll be waiting, studs!
DemonSeedDarkLord: HeY cOrTnEy ArE yOu ReLly NuDeS?
< collegebabewithcam has left the room>
< DemonSeedDarkLord: has left the room>
< mikesportmurphy is "standing by">
the_one_and_only_53: did demon leave
< the_one_and_only_742 has entered the room >
the_one_and_only_742: sport murphey caht here?
< mikesportmurphy is reactivated>
mikesportmurphy: hi, 742 yes... sport murphy chat - what can i do for you
Go_go_Rangers03: I GOT A HARRRDDDD COOOOCCCK MWFFFF
the_one_and_only_742: r u really sport murphey
mikesportmurphy: yes, welcome! what's your question
the_one_and_only_742: prove it
mikesportmurphy: um... i'm not sure how to do that, but i'm him
the_one_and_only_742: u r not
mwf_iso_? : (slowly stroking gogos erect member)
the_one_and_only_742: bullsht ur not sport murphey
mikesportmurphy: ok skip it
the_one_and_only_53: lol "toao742" nice name
the_one_and_only_742: fuck you 53
the_one_and_only_53: real inteelinget 742
mwf_iso_? : (rubbing gogos massive boner)
the_one_and_only_742: mwf is a faget not a real chick
the_one_and_only_53: fuck you 742
Go_go_Rangers03: ARE U A MAAAANNNN MWFFF
< MackdaddyJason has entered the room >
MackdaddyJason: where mybizzatches at?/?///
< love4sport has entered the room>
love4sport: is sport here
mikesportmurphy: hi, yes thank god
MackdaddyJason: yo yo love4 asl
mikesportmurphy: hey love... got a question?
mwf_iso_? : (parting my lips and likking them sedudtivly)
the_one_and_only_742: faget
love4sport: sport?
the_one_and_only_53: rotf @ "toao742" your the fag
mikesportmurphy: yes, love go ahead
Go_go_Rangers03: FFUUUUCKKKKK
love4sport: you look like jon cusak lol : )
love4sport: you see hi fidelity?
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
mwf_iso_? : seductively i mean
mikesportmurphy: yes i know. cusack.
mwf_iso_? : (and unzips gogos pants)
the_one_and_only_53: rotgff cusack is a woman you fags
mikesportmurphy: i sorta thought we'd talk abut my album uncle
mikesportmurphy: about
the_one_and_only_742: your stupd 53 thats joan his sister
mwf_iso_? : r u there gogo? (wantonly rubbing my love nub)
< [@@OI2jkf has entered the room>
Go_go_Rangers03: I WANT PUUUUUZZZZYYYYYYY
MackdaddyJason: yo rizzangers can i send you a pm
MackdaddyJason: wuzzup [@@OI2jkf you got a cizzam? asl?
[@@OI2jkf: Bush is full of SHIT
< bushisnotfullofshit has entered the room>
[@@OI2jkf: warmongers are so fucked
bushisnotfullofshit: no u are scumbag
mwf_iso_? : (gnawing on gogos kneecaps)
love4sport: but u do look like him its uncanny if u were younger
the_one_and_only_53: i know who joan cusack is 742 you dick
mikesportmurphy: i have a new album named uncle
[@@OI2jkf: no u are asshole bush secretly funded the brown shirts in cuba to get plutonium mines for more profit - read chomsky loser
mikesportmurphy: the original purpose of this chat was to do a q and a...
love4sport: i saw your show at street level with the skels
bushisnotfullofshit: i have read chomsky dickhead and hes as stupid as you
Go_go_Rangers03: TIIIIIIIIITTTTTTSSSSS ROOOOCCCCKKKK
bushisnotfullofshit: slick willy arranged the 9-11 attacks to draw attention away from his sex life and vince fosters murdr asswipe
mwf_iso_? : (rubs her lower back against gogos workboots and moans)
< Christy44dd has entered the room>
MackdaddyJason: huzzello Chrizzisty asl ???
[@@OI2jkf: your so fucken naive anushead - bush invented aids
Christy44dd: I am so eager to play with my new naked webcam! Come join me at http://younggirlstitsalive.net
< Christy44dd has left the room>
< MackdaddyJason has left the room>
bushisnotfullofshit: deluded cockbucket - aids was a legacy of the new deal you commie
Go_go_Rangers03: mwf u there?
mikesportmurphy: see, i thought we'd discuss this album, or maybe the bad mood i've been in
[@@OI2jkf: check your history roidbreath, when nixon was implementing his covert campaign to infect african americans with impetigo and ringworm, it was only the roosevelt imperative of 1945 which permitted full scrutiny by an impartial international council who determined that the entire scheme, linked to copper interests of a very young matt drudge (ring any bells, slimetwat?) and his cronies, was a fraudulent religious-right boondoggle to kill innocent animals for the benefit of multinational corporate thinktank deathsquads, so fuck you mudnipple
mwf_iso_?: yesss gogo purrrrr (stick pinky toe in gogos nostril)
< the_one_and_only_05 has entered the room>
< the_one_and_only_53 has left the room>
< the_one_and_only_742 has left the room>
love4sport: sport?
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
bushisnotfullofshit: yeah, right, mazurkatestes... trot out your old conspiracy theories when everyone knows by now that the kennedies had already sacked the national trust for blood money with which to silence the gangsters they hired to kill general westmoreland becasue he knew about their sex orgies with dorothy provine and anna maria alberghetti while luxembourg fell to the russians under their coke-encrusted noses but the whole thing collapsed becuase a certain bill moyers - apologist for the weather underground and the baader-meinhof gang - had advised them it would be "politically incorrect" to intervene you whorescab
bushisnotfullofshit: 'scuse me i meant "because"
Go_go_Rangers03: FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOOOOOOUUUUU
mikesportmurphy: yes still here
[@@OI2jkf: bushisnotfullofshit is a neofeudalist shithammer. i read it on the bathroom wall in the vatican lol
love4sport: lol
Go_go_Rangers03: LOL LOL LOL
mwf_iso_?: ROTFL (scraping her eyeball against gogos belt loop)
[@@OI2jkf: lol - hosepiston
bushisnotfullofshit: grommetsponge
love4sport: hey sport! the skels rocked man i saw you once! CUSACK!
mikesportmurphy: yeah, uh, thanks
Go_go_Rangers03: LOL CUUUSSSSAAAAACKKKK! CUUUUUNT!
bushisnotfullofshit: reaad the constitution, thermometersac
[@@OI2jkf: no YOU read it, dripladle
love4sport: sport?
love4sport: sport?
< amplyendowedteenagerebecca has entered the room>
mikesportmurphy: yes, i'm still here for christ's sake what?
amplyendowedteenagerebecca: HI I'M A YOUNG OVERSEXED MODEL WITH A NEW WEBCAM AND IT'S FREE AT http://freerebeccascam.org
< amplyendowedteenagerebecca has left the room>
< bushisnotfullofshit has left the room>
< [@@OI2jkf has left the room>
mikesportmurphy: so the thing is, i'm really into charles ives, and, um...
< Go_go_Rangers03 has left the room>
< mwf_iso_? has left the room>
love4sport: sport? are you still here?
the_one_and_only_05: hey love4!!!
mikesportmurphy: YES I'M HERE!!!
love4sport: hey theone05, hello
the_one_and_only_05: male, 32 here
loveforsport: mmm nice, theone05 f, 29
mikesportmurphy: maybe i can get the ball rolling... the frustrating thing for me when I am making my music is that I find that I am...
the_one_and_only_05: love: cam?
loveforsport: sure
< the_one_and_only_05 has left the room>
< loveforsport has left the room>
mikesportmurphy: ...often thwarted by fate in cruel and crushing ways. I am especially troubled by the inability of my music to...
< TheBluebirdOfHappiness entered the room>
TheBluebirdOfHappiness: Hello... Sport Murphy?
mikesportmurphy: Yes! I'm here!!!! Hello!
< TheBluebirdOfHappiness left the room >
mikesportmurphy: well.
mikesportmurphy: figures.
mikesportmurphy: am i alone here?
mikesportmurphy: guess i can do this alone. so: sport!
mikesportmurphy: yeah. mike?
mikesportmurphy: please tell us about your new album, and charles ives, and whatever bummer shit is on your mind this evening.
mikesportmurphy: sure, mike. in my opinion, I am, personally speaking...
< GriceARoni has entered the room>
< Steve_Pick> has entered the room>
GriceARoni: griefstricken fem here with brand new buttcam! any media?
Steve_Pick: hey G ...limpdick journalist with promo cds for sale. wanna chat?
< mikesportmurphy has left the room>

Posted 6:30 PM by sport

Oh! You're back.

Well, since the blog is supposed to be a communication medium or expressive outlet, let me communicate or express this.

Sometimes people ask me things like… "are you doing any shows?" or "How is the new album doing?" or "Where can I get the cd?" …things like that. My response is usually flippant, and the impression is probably "well he obviously doesn't give a shit about any of this." On the contrary; it matters way too much to me. Sincere answers: I'd like to, but I dunno / I have no idea / Order it.

The band I was playing with regularly a few years ago, the SoundSations, disintegrated at exactly the time Willoughby began gaining some steam. The subsequent versions of that same band have convened intermittently, pretty much on the basis of "a show is booked, let's rehearse a set a couple of times." This essentially requires planning a set of fairly familiar tunes… about a dozen fail-safe numbers we can brush up on. Uncle seems to have struck a chord with people who would usually find my work hard to enjoy. This is good, because it was intended as a more digestible album than usual, in respect to Pete's taste in music, which was more like yours than mine. I think shows concentrating on the new songs from that album would meet a similarly open response. I dearly wish there were musicians who really wanted to do this.

There's little incentive for straining to arrange performances of stuff I wrote 10 years ago or presenting ill-prepared versions of newer things in 40-minute "get on, get off" sets in little shit holes where a proper soundcheck isn't even possible. It sucks from several standpoints: I want to help the label sell copies because it is wonderful to have them put my stuff out there, and even if touring helped very little, it would show them I'm not apathetic. Also, I really enjoy performing.There are few things more exciting than to be surrounded by sympathetic and well-rehearsed musicians doing material I am passionate about. When this happens, the audience response is almost always strong and inspiring. I dearly wish there were musicians who really wanted to do this.

But the point is, simply: I do hope there will be more shows and more songs. The flesh is willing but the spirit is weak. I can't blame the numerous friends who've come along to help for short periods of time, but without some regular and reliable team, it's just plain impossible to get any momentum going. If anything happens I'll tell you, but please don't interpret inaction as indifference. I dearly wish there were musicians who really wanted to do this. I haven't entirely ruled out shows with taped accompaniment, as unappealing as that sounds. It may turn out to be the only practical way to work, and if I can contrive a way to make it interesting, I'll do it. If you want to support a worthwhile cause, help KRS by buying numerous copies of Uncle as gifts or landfill. It would please me greatly if, somehow. they didn't take a big loss on this album.

(The preceding entry has been radically re-edited from the original posted version. It's time to tail off on all the soul-baring, don't you think?)

Posted 12:52 AM by sport

Dammit to hell, a previous engagement prevents us from attending the launch party for my good pal Paul LaGrutta's New Jersey restaurant: Mulberry Street.

Opening night is Wednesday, but tomorrow's the "friends and family" gathering I swore to attend. Of course, this fucking cafone LaGrutta tells me about it LAST NIGHT. This is one of those hard-won accomplishments I admire and applaud; Paul has sunk his life into making a swank eatery out of a regular merdaio. With a cry of "Chi fa da sá, fa per tre" Paul endured grueling hands-on labor, headaches and strafed finances to turn his dream into a beautiful reality where I plan to chow down as soon and as often as possible (guess the cuisine, Miss Marple). We were there New Year's Eve, and I woke up pretty sfatto!

I'll soon post info about the place so Garden State residents and visitors can stop by and mangia. Please do: A buon intenditor poche parole.
Many blessings to Paul and Julia!

Posted 5:26 PM by sport

Today I'm at the folks' house as per usual for a weekday. I am enjoying one of the welcomest sights, sounds and scents I know: my mom, cooking dinner. She hasn't been able to do so since before the holidays. Nobody wants to feel useless, and when we are denied the chance to do those things that define for us our "purpose" or our arena of expertise / confidence, life becomes intolerable. Along with physical limitations and pains, depression descends and we feel like a burden to our loved ones on top of everything else. My mom has had a heap of woes, depression foremost. We've fought doctors and dolor, cooked dinners and picked up lotsa take-out. I've tried to boost the parents' flagging spirits with concerts of old recordings and special video presentations. Shelley has provided them with special visits by the great bulldog Olivia, and my sister, brother in law and nephew have increased the frequency of family gatherings. Brian has done the daily driving and fetch-em-ups. My mother has improved, and consequently my father has as well. Today, things are pretty good for the old folks at home.

I have go to shovel snow now, and then I'll come back in and eat a meal made by my mother's hands. There is nothing sweeter in this world than the opportunity to re-appreciate the commonplaces that comprise our richest treasure in life. Nothing is more rewarding than a small, temporary triumph over fate's grueling onslaught, and nothing's more delicious than the taste of love. A moment of silence, then, to smile, breathe deep and remember that we're alive. And a wish to you that you are similarly blessed this day.

Posted 11:28 PM by sport

Courtesy of David Garland (who will recieve today's "Eagle Eye" award: a Scott Walker compilation and another, "omnibus" cdr with Viv Stanshall and others), a new review for Uncle. This is from a brilliant and perceptive person named Tyler Ritter, who personifies all that is good and wise in humanity. Tyler Ritter is a writer with rare gifts of perception and craft... we can all take a cue from Ritter's example, and thereby become better listeners and finer people. I don't know Tyler Ritter, but I wish I did, and know that I could only be enriched by such an acquaintance.

Sport Murphy’s third album, Uncle, is a wonderfully
strange, funny, sweet and sad offering that is incredibly
diverse musically. Of the 22 songs here no two are alike.
The liner notes (and press release) put the music
contained on it into context—Murphy’s nephew Peter
Vega, who was raised with his family as his little brother,
was one of many New York City firemen who died saving
lives on September 11th. That said, this album is nothing
like any music written in connection with the
tragedy—there are no protest songs, no searches for
answers, no "let’s roll" dogma. Murphy doesn’t make it his
purpose to comment on the tragedy—he has opted to
deal with the loss of his surrogate brother by creating
something that he thinks that he would’ve enjoyed. The
results can best be described as beautifully and purely
childlike—the songs are divided by tapes that Murphy and
his brother made when they were children.


Musically Michael "Sport" Murphy could be described as similar in sound to Smog
without the distancing self-irony and satiric self-absorption. Oh and without the
sloth-like deadpan voice. Murphy has long been a conjurer of some of music’s
most overlooked artists—Charles Ives, Stephen Foster and Glen Campbell—as
well as Scott Walker and Brian Wilson who you rarely see mentioned in the
same sentence. The lilting "No Fair" and the barroom jazz ballad "Everybody’s
Gone" are the only songs that are solely about his loss—the former’s lyrics
vaguely depicting a forlorn narrator in search of an after-hours bar. Not much
to go on, but there isn’t much more that needs to be said.

The rest of the album is playful in its stylistic shifts—nearly every song is a
complete departure from the previous one. From the balladic "Late Days of
Summer" and "The Sound of Her Voice," to the crooning "Sleepy River," the
noirish "Played By Linda Blair," the childlike abandon of "Frogs Are Singing"
(which features the most unlikely hook possibly ever with "Frogs are
singing/Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em") and "Paul LaGrutta" somehow Murphy keeps the
stylistic changes strong and heart-felt.

This is a wonderful gift of an album packed tight with gems. Few pieces of
music so cohesively nail the nature of being human as this record does. In his
liner notes Murphy claims this to be his "inadequate gift" to his lost brother, but
after listening to it it’s quite clear that he’s being awfully hard on himself. It’s a
more than adequate gift to whomever is lucky enough to discover this album.

http://www.fmsound.net/IndieScene/NewReviews/Sport%20Murphy/Sport%20Murphy.html

Posted 5:19 PM by sport

Again I'm clearing out clutter on the computer, so I may as well post this stray thing... it was forwarded to me (by Irwin) from the "Outsider Music" message board about a year ago. Citizen Kafka of WFMU's "Secret Museum" posted the plug for my Ives essay which begins this pasted piece, and this other guy - a stranger to me - responded with a few words about my album Magic Beans. That album's reception may be summed up by the fact that Barnes and Noble offer Willoughby and Uncle on their website, but not Magic Beans. Which is to say that the other two albums are more or less credible failures, but MB does not even exist. Fine, scumbags. Ask me why I refuse to take discussions about Beck or Radiohead seriously. No, don't.

If anyone ever wants to flatter me into doing some favor, all you need do is parrot the following. But this guy had no expectation I'd even read this comment, so it means plenty.

> speaking of glory trances, see this essay:
> http://hometown.aol.com/mysteryfez/realbio.html
> for what makes the internet a great and personal place.

yes, see this...Sport's off topic, so disregard the rest of this if you
don't wanna go off topic

as sport has struggled to put his feelings about ives into words, i have
similarly been trying to make some kind of connection between pops, bleeps,
static buzzes and washes of white blood in my brain when i listen to sport
to the tips of my tongue or fingers, to make impression meet expression.

magic beans barely leaves my cd player. im not the type to often be worked
into enough of a frenzy about an artist to even call myself a "fan." im too
cool and aloof for that. ("yeah, some of the beatles stuff is okay") but
sport does it to me. he condenses all that is great about the last 200 years
of music into pellets of barely digestible nutrition, even occasionally
embracing the kitsch that i generally find so repulsive, but which he can
use because "he's allowed." each listening uncovers another queer perplexing
background noise or sly musical joke. most current music, insider or
outsider, corporate or indie, doesn't approach the depth and subtlety of
sports music. again, we careen off topic, but its a nice detour.

--jimmy tremor--

Posted 2:37 AM by sport

SIZING UP CHAMPAGNE
Since, as I previously explained, I've begun to leave bloggish buffooneries corked up in my head, I thought I'd demonstrate why they might be better left there. I offer you a list of names given to sizes of Champagne bottles, in ascending order. A bit of history on each is included as a public service. Read and learn.

(Liters / Name of bottle and derivation)

0.375: Split or Pony - "Split" is what you gotta do, man, when the time comes, dig? It's also the battle cry of a little-known version of "Captain Marvel" circa 1966, whose body parts would fly off in different directions so that the fingers could poke guys in the eye (ala Moe Howard) while the feet were kicking other guys in the balls (ala certain Dominatrixes).
"Pony" is a role I played in Eric Bogosian's play "Suburbia" as well as a dance popular in the Hullabaloo era. All these things - beatniks who leave early, that superhero, that play, and that dance - are half-assed, so it applies to a half bottle of champagne.

0.75: Bottle - This is the least imaginative of the bottle-size names, which is why it's the most popular. "Where are you from?" "Around." "What do you listen to?" "Rock." "What will you have?" "A bottle." See what I mean?

1.50: Magnum - A large size condom. Also a role played by Tom Selleck on television. So then: big hit show, big dick sheathe. It suggests an ample amount of suckage, however you read it.

3.00: Jeroboam - Israelite king who waged bitter war with:

4.50: Rehoboam - despite (or because?) of the similarly doofy names. What a minstrel show team they could have made! But why did the "battle o' the 'boams" inspire these designations for bottles? Well, think about yourself drinking 3 liters of Korbel and your arch enemy (and if you don't have one, you're living wrong) downing 4 and a half liters of same. An inevitable brawl of biblical proportions.

6.00: Methuselah - Oldest man ever! Died at 969 years, in the year of the flood. Didn't look a day over 800. So we get two idiomatic expressions here, "he's old as Methuselah" and "Ain't seen him since the year of the flood." Two cliches plus a hell of a party. And remember Ira Gershwin's take on Methuselah's longevity: "Who calls that livin' when no gal will give in to no man what is nine hunderd years!" Sho 'nuff - drink up, pops.

9.0: Salmanazar - Assyrian king (several, really) who combined the religion of Israel with local pagan faiths, creating a notable early example of the "moral relativism" and "mix-n-match religion" that purists and orthodox sorts decry. What better way to toast your impurity and impiety than with a ridiculously huge bottle of booze?

12.0: Balthazar - This is one of the Magi of Christmas creche fame. Your 3 Wise Men. I get this quote from some exhaustive Bible "who's who" website:
"There is no mention of camels or any mode of transportation in the biblical record. There is also no mention of their names. The traditional names adopted in the West are Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. The Syrian tradition uses the names Gushnasaph, Hormisdas and Larvandad. Others use Hormizdah, Perozdh and Yazdegerd, or Basanater, Karsudan and Hor, or various other names."

So why Balthazar? As we'll see, Melchior gets a bottle named after him, but not Gaspar. How come? Lost to the mists of time. But amen that we need not order a "Larvandad" or… yikes… a "Gushnasaph" of bubbly, though, friends, a "Hor full of wine" sounds like a fine, fine idea to this scholar.

15.0: Nebuchadnezzar - probably the baddest of your ancient kings, this time reigning o'er the land of Babylon. All those non-Rastafarians would cry "Neb, you RULE!" Which should give him the jumbo-est of all bottles, but no. Instead he replaces Wiseman Gaspar ( which is fine, because a guy with that name (( Gaspar, I mean, not Wiseman, who is a guy that makes documentaries )) used to own the club "February's" in Elmont New York, and paid the Skels el-dicko for playing there ) in the "we three kings" stakes. Neb, son of your friend and mine, Nabopolassar, eventually paid for persecuting 3 upright Hebrews (in the "fiery furnace" referenced in my hangover classic "It's Definitely Sunday") by suffering "lycanthropy." A WEREWOLF!

18.0: Melchior - OK, this is the other wise man. I can only surmise that he gets pride of place for bringing the gold to baby Jesus. Obviously, that's the gift that keeps on giving, but what of frankincense and myrrh? Well consider this little nugget about myrrh that I found in my exhaustive research for this important piece:
"It has been thought to be the chestnut, mastich, stacte, balsam, turpentine, pistachio nut, or the lotus. It is probably correctly rendered by the Latin word ladanum, the Arabic ladan, an aromatic juice of a shrub called the Cistus or rock rose, which has the same qualities, though in a slight degree, of opium, whence a decoction of opium is called laudanum."

Okay, gold… opium… and INCENSE? Guess why Gaspar was excluded from the wine-tasting party! Tom brought money, Dick brought dope, and Harry brought AIR-WICK! All mysteries are answered if you dig deeply enough.

25.50: Sovereign - once the most ubiquitous gold coin in British circulation, coin collectors scorn these nickel-sized bits of change as too common. So they are worth only the value of the gold itself. You think "worth its weight in gold" is a compliment? Then you are no numismatist, and philately will get you nowhere. Now, 25-and-a-half liters of champagne is just way too much. Foster Brooks, Shane MacGowan and Boris Yeltsin couldn't put all that away with Tex Antoine's help. So really, the regal name accorded this super-size serving of the stuff is a lot of piffle. After all the obscure biblical references the other bottles boast… after all the compelling background info I've dug up for you... we end here? Yes.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.
And I don't even like champagne.

Posted 11:31 PM by sport

Well, let's see… things have been reasonably quiet these last few days. The folks are fairly OK. Been gathering myself for whatever's next, and hoping it's mostly productive and not destructive. I'm going back to Cali. I think so. Feb 20 through 26, to visit friends Claudia and Brad and ol' pal Rich Honig. Miles Hunt is also out there, and I don't know how we'll get through a night of our brand of cheer considering the notorious LA smoking prohibition. We shall see. Maybe it'll be houses and store-bought. (Anybody got good ideas for what else to do out there?)

Been especially taken with Milo's song "Amongst the Old Reliables" lately. Quite a fucking piece it is, and there are 2 versions on 2 albums to compare …except I can't choose, so it hits me like Alan Price's "Between Today and Yesterday" (a masterpiece, that) which bookended the same-titled album in minimal and maximal versions. Gotta listen to them both. I guess there are others… "Hey Hey My My" and its acoustic counterpart, etc. Which reminds me that "Helpless" never got to me at all, and I don't know why it's so beloved. It sounds like "Knocking on Heaven's Door" which I feel the same way about anyhow. If one gets into my head on the constant random-select, the other combines with it and I go batshit trying to rid myself of them. Well, anyway…

I made a cdr comp of Irish and Scottish songs I plan to send Brian O'Connor, and while making it I found myself playing a song "Farewell! But Whene'er You Welcome The Hour" over and over. It's by Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852), who was famed for his arrangements of ancient Irish melodies, to which he set original lyrics. Moore was the Irish equivalent of Robert Burns, but is, for some reason, far less celebrated and commonly known. He was the major influence on the songwriting of Stephen Foster, and one can sometimes find examples where Foster out-an-out lifts musical passages (talent borrows, genius steals, eh?). The song in question is a bittersweet toast to friends no longer known. Damn it's gorgeous. So that's what I'm on about tonight. I'd dwell on it in detail, but nobody needs any more song analyses from me.

It's gotten weird with this blog… I think of things, and instead of hitting the keyboard I just ponder them through and leave things at that. The same thing has happened with songwriting. Something comes to mind and I develop it mentally until I'm satisfied and that's all. Actually realizing these things in words or sounds seems beside the point anymore. Some funny spiels, my friends… and some nifty tunes… lost as soon as I turn on the tv or read some comic book. So it goes. My medium is woolgathering. It wastes no resources, requires no collaborators, and it's nobody else's to review or ignore. I won't say this is healthy, nor will I say it's especially troubling. Just my way of explaining why the entries are getting rarer. Well, stay tuned; who knows?

Posted 9:16 PM by sport

Sorry for blog lag. Sport Murphy has not been in the best state of mind these recent days, and has opted to spare you the play-by-play. But anyway, for those unable to find UNCUT or unwilling to pay for it, here's Jim Allen's very kind commentary from the current issue.

**** Crafty tunesmith puts Bruce Springsteen in his place.
Stunningly varied, vibrant and well-crafted, this sonic eulogy to the firefighter nephew that Murphy lost in the 9/11 tragedy has roots in everything from Hoagy Carmichael to Brian Wilson, and is the true heir to the mercurial genius of Pet Sounds (Van Dyke Parks himself lends a hand). Murphy's deep, sad voice moves through a harmonically sophisticated landscape, like Mark Eitzel crooning the Rufus Wainwright songbook. With a sense of humour yet! Murphy is a skewed pop visionary to be reckoned with.