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Saturday, March 29, 2003
Gee... been having a bout of bloglassitude of late, eh?
Well, there's been a lot going on. I'll save the real news for later, but a mention of a long lovely day of NYC rambling this week. I'll indicate with asterisks where I've decided to digress into abject lies.
Went in planning to see Kelly Copper's exhibit of works derived from the frames of found home movies, and took this as an opportunity to visit other friends in town. First to David Garland's place, where he played me some of the new songs from his just-completed humdinger of an album. His best set yet, this thing, and the new ones are incredible. Beaming with pride to have collaborated on a few of the album's selections. After this treat David, his wife Anne and I were shocked by a huge BOOM somewhere out there. The instant, inevitable and obvious worry. *David and Anne, cowering in sudden, helpless fear, looked to me for... I dunno, answers... reassurance... the usual. "Never fear" I shouted.*
I went down to investigate, troubled to see a bunch of emergency vehicles heading straight for the Ed Sullivan theater, home of David Letterman's show, which was my next stop. Turned out to be an electrical fire, which blew out a manhole lid. So I returned, *calming the Garlands and the rest of the building's terrified occupants. Brushing off the mass "hurrahs" with a modest shrug, I signed a few autographs, kissed a few babies* and walked to the park with David for a chat and a cuppa. After that I headed back to the theater to meet my young nephew David and up to the writers' offices for a long-postponed visit with chum Steve Young. I mean chum as "buddy" ...not a bucket of fish-guts meant to lure sharks, which would be one hell of a rude thing to call one's buddy.
And while on the subject of blogwise clarity... when I say David at this here post-Garland point in the narrative, I mean young David the nephew, but not when I say Young, which is when I mean Steve, who writes for yet another David I've never met, so don't even worry about that, since THAT David was on sick leave anyway. Of course, later I was to meet up with Steve Espinola, who is - of course - not Steve Young, so bear in mind that any later references to Steve - meaning, references concerning the period after (young nephew) David and I leave Steve (Young - writer) (which hasn't even happened yet in the current tale, since we're just arriving at David's offices to meet Steve after I left David to meet David, who'd later accompany me to meet up with Steve) - mean Espinola. But it seems like if I singled out Steve Young for "last name" treatment, it'd be a sort of rude thing to do with such an esteemed buddy, who is no mere bucket of shark-lure to be bandied about off the side of the "first-name-basis-boat" as it were.
Steve hosted us as graciously as ever, despite constant interruptions from people expecting him to write funny stuff for the show. *This impertinence was not to be tolerated, and I told Steve that if he insisted on entertaining America instead of amusing us, we'd take our business elsewhere. Things got tense, and if it hadn't been for my reluctance to set a bad example for David, it could have degenerated into a real brannigan. As it was, things took an ominous turn. Young stood upon his desk, coiled and ready to strike with a very heavy-looking vintage box camera as I goaded him on with a potted palm I'd dragged in from the hall (a defensive precaution dictated by previous, similarly atavistic visits to the office of this loose cannon). "Come on, comedy-man... take your shot; I'm so scared I forgot to laugh!" I spat. Steve just snarled: "Bah! Let's see you sing yer ditties with 'xelfielloR' imprinted across your skull, Caruso!"
Sanity prevailed and, after a round of sweaty apologies,* David and I said bye to Steve and headed downtown to Kelly's exhibit at Anthology Film Archives. Kelly was, as it happened, the only Kelly in the evening's plans, which must be a relief to you, even though I find it a little obnoxious on your part that this should seem like a "relief" since, as delightfully singular a person as Kelly is, you have no right to assume that another "Kelly" would somehow represent a surfeit of "Kellys" or be - in any way, shape or form - "a Kelly too far." How DARE YOU!
*I'm so pissed,* I'll continue at another time.
But before I go, I promised big news, and the big news is... it's official:
Shelley is pregnant!
Look for our newest release in December.
I am astonished. We are delighted.
Hommina hommina!
But what to name the baby? These things can get confusing.
Well, there's been a lot going on. I'll save the real news for later, but a mention of a long lovely day of NYC rambling this week. I'll indicate with asterisks where I've decided to digress into abject lies.
Went in planning to see Kelly Copper's exhibit of works derived from the frames of found home movies, and took this as an opportunity to visit other friends in town. First to David Garland's place, where he played me some of the new songs from his just-completed humdinger of an album. His best set yet, this thing, and the new ones are incredible. Beaming with pride to have collaborated on a few of the album's selections. After this treat David, his wife Anne and I were shocked by a huge BOOM somewhere out there. The instant, inevitable and obvious worry. *David and Anne, cowering in sudden, helpless fear, looked to me for... I dunno, answers... reassurance... the usual. "Never fear" I shouted.*
I went down to investigate, troubled to see a bunch of emergency vehicles heading straight for the Ed Sullivan theater, home of David Letterman's show, which was my next stop. Turned out to be an electrical fire, which blew out a manhole lid. So I returned, *calming the Garlands and the rest of the building's terrified occupants. Brushing off the mass "hurrahs" with a modest shrug, I signed a few autographs, kissed a few babies* and walked to the park with David for a chat and a cuppa. After that I headed back to the theater to meet my young nephew David and up to the writers' offices for a long-postponed visit with chum Steve Young. I mean chum as "buddy" ...not a bucket of fish-guts meant to lure sharks, which would be one hell of a rude thing to call one's buddy.
And while on the subject of blogwise clarity... when I say David at this here post-Garland point in the narrative, I mean young David the nephew, but not when I say Young, which is when I mean Steve, who writes for yet another David I've never met, so don't even worry about that, since THAT David was on sick leave anyway. Of course, later I was to meet up with Steve Espinola, who is - of course - not Steve Young, so bear in mind that any later references to Steve - meaning, references concerning the period after (young nephew) David and I leave Steve (Young - writer) (which hasn't even happened yet in the current tale, since we're just arriving at David's offices to meet Steve after I left David to meet David, who'd later accompany me to meet up with Steve) - mean Espinola. But it seems like if I singled out Steve Young for "last name" treatment, it'd be a sort of rude thing to do with such an esteemed buddy, who is no mere bucket of shark-lure to be bandied about off the side of the "first-name-basis-boat" as it were.
Steve hosted us as graciously as ever, despite constant interruptions from people expecting him to write funny stuff for the show. *This impertinence was not to be tolerated, and I told Steve that if he insisted on entertaining America instead of amusing us, we'd take our business elsewhere. Things got tense, and if it hadn't been for my reluctance to set a bad example for David, it could have degenerated into a real brannigan. As it was, things took an ominous turn. Young stood upon his desk, coiled and ready to strike with a very heavy-looking vintage box camera as I goaded him on with a potted palm I'd dragged in from the hall (a defensive precaution dictated by previous, similarly atavistic visits to the office of this loose cannon). "Come on, comedy-man... take your shot; I'm so scared I forgot to laugh!" I spat. Steve just snarled: "Bah! Let's see you sing yer ditties with 'xelfielloR' imprinted across your skull, Caruso!"
Sanity prevailed and, after a round of sweaty apologies,* David and I said bye to Steve and headed downtown to Kelly's exhibit at Anthology Film Archives. Kelly was, as it happened, the only Kelly in the evening's plans, which must be a relief to you, even though I find it a little obnoxious on your part that this should seem like a "relief" since, as delightfully singular a person as Kelly is, you have no right to assume that another "Kelly" would somehow represent a surfeit of "Kellys" or be - in any way, shape or form - "a Kelly too far." How DARE YOU!
*I'm so pissed,* I'll continue at another time.
But before I go, I promised big news, and the big news is... it's official:
Shelley is pregnant!
Look for our newest release in December.
I am astonished. We are delighted.
Hommina hommina!
But what to name the baby? These things can get confusing.
Monday, March 24, 2003
A new and gratifying review of the album, dear reader. This time it's from my birthstate, Texas.
With all these lovely folks writing all these lovely words, surely SOMEBODY would be willing to play some shows with an old fellow? Anybody? Is this thing on?
http://www.fwweekly.com/issues/2003-03-20/listenup3.html
Sport Murphy
Uncle (Kill Rock Stars Records)
By Matthew Smith
The thought of yet another 9-11 album probably induces more yawns than interest by now - but don't run off just yet.
Mike "Sport" Murphy-Texas-born but New York-raised-lost his nephew, a fireman, in the World Trade Center disaster. Uncle, Murphy's third album, is a tribute to his fallen family member.
An expected pall of sadness and loss hangs over the disc. "No Fair" is a mournful ballad to those gone on. "Sleepy River" works as both lullaby and funeral dirge. But the c.d. is not total gloom. Although quiet and contemplative, this album is also filled with a sense of hope.
Unlike Springsteen's The Rising, which will probably become one of those albums greatly admired but seldom played the further 9-11 recedes into history, Uncle-because it uses that event as a jumping-off point, not a base-feels more relevant. Apart from a few direct references to "piss-proud swine" and people afraid to read the newspapers, Uncle works as a celebration of life's fragility and preciousness.
The album's history aside, Murphy emerges as a bright new voice in American music. He has the storytelling chops of Springsteen and Dylan and the inventiveness of Tom Waits and Brian Wilson. Warm string and brass sections share space with barroom singalongs and plaintive spirituals. "Bird in the House," funny and harrowing at once, sounds like Waits doing the Kinks.
This is adult rock 'n' roll at its best. Not the work of some over-the-hill band still releasing pointless albums in attempt to recapture faded glory and milk boomer nostalgia, but of a mature, thoughtful musician, full of genuine purpose and soul.
With all these lovely folks writing all these lovely words, surely SOMEBODY would be willing to play some shows with an old fellow? Anybody? Is this thing on?
http://www.fwweekly.com/issues/2003-03-20/listenup3.html
Sport Murphy
Uncle (Kill Rock Stars Records)
By Matthew Smith
The thought of yet another 9-11 album probably induces more yawns than interest by now - but don't run off just yet.
Mike "Sport" Murphy-Texas-born but New York-raised-lost his nephew, a fireman, in the World Trade Center disaster. Uncle, Murphy's third album, is a tribute to his fallen family member.
An expected pall of sadness and loss hangs over the disc. "No Fair" is a mournful ballad to those gone on. "Sleepy River" works as both lullaby and funeral dirge. But the c.d. is not total gloom. Although quiet and contemplative, this album is also filled with a sense of hope.
Unlike Springsteen's The Rising, which will probably become one of those albums greatly admired but seldom played the further 9-11 recedes into history, Uncle-because it uses that event as a jumping-off point, not a base-feels more relevant. Apart from a few direct references to "piss-proud swine" and people afraid to read the newspapers, Uncle works as a celebration of life's fragility and preciousness.
The album's history aside, Murphy emerges as a bright new voice in American music. He has the storytelling chops of Springsteen and Dylan and the inventiveness of Tom Waits and Brian Wilson. Warm string and brass sections share space with barroom singalongs and plaintive spirituals. "Bird in the House," funny and harrowing at once, sounds like Waits doing the Kinks.
This is adult rock 'n' roll at its best. Not the work of some over-the-hill band still releasing pointless albums in attempt to recapture faded glory and milk boomer nostalgia, but of a mature, thoughtful musician, full of genuine purpose and soul.
Sunday, March 23, 2003
"We should seek by all means in our power to avoid war, by analysing possible causes, by trying to remove them, by discussion in a spirit of collaboration and good will. I cannot believe that such a programme would be rejected by the people of this country, even if it does mean the establishment of personal contact with the dictators."
Neville Chamberlain
Neville Chamberlain
"If any one of these groups--the British, the Jewish, or the administration--stops agitating for war, I believe there will be little danger of our involvement."
Charles Lindbergh- September 11, 1941
Charles Lindbergh- September 11, 1941