Out of the blue D. Thor resurfaced. With an internet presence too. Keep and eye there. Should be something of interest whenever it gets updated. Days, Weeks, Months. A Year.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tell Mama Rhoades.
Out of the blue D. Thor resurfaced. With an internet presence too. Keep and eye there. Should be something of interest whenever it gets updated. Days, Weeks, Months. A Year.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
California.
Just finished this little novella by Amra Brooks yesterday about fucked up families, friends, and growing up in California. Cali from Teenage Teardrops put it after an original run of only 100 self published copies sold out. It's really great, really honest, and really beautiful. Definitely pick up a copy if you can. HERE.
Can we talk about how great TEENAGE TEARDROPS is sometime?
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Saturday/Sunday Sounds.
Deerhunter - "Never Stops" from MICROCASTLE.
Abner Jay - "The Reason Young People Use Drugs" from THE TRUE STORY OF ABNER JAY.
Kurt Vile - "Best Love" from CONSTANT HITMAKER.
{All of the above were discussed, purchased, listened to, or recommended yesterday. Two different trips to the record store, two different conversations about music with two different friends. I should probably stop spending so much money on vinyl... but THEN AGAIN...}
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Small Flowers.
They're coming over for dinner. They'll be a table full. We'll have to move the suculents, and the cactus, and you won't mind because for some reason you have something against them. Maybe they're too easy to take care of, and you like the challange of the difficult plants in the bathroom, the ones that keep nearly dying and you keep nursing back to health. They stretch to the sunlight in the window, they have leaves and small flowers to open.
We don't have a regular table, we don't have the room so the couch has been pushed back and we're borrowing a folding card table from work. There will only be the four of us. Me and you and your grandmother and her husband. Your nervous about us cooking for them; strangely, after all this time, this is the first time we've cooked for them. For anyone in our family really. You worry your grandmother will make suggestions, post-anythinganyonecandoaboutit, about the food and what it's missing and what it has too much of, and how much longer it should have been cooked for. Or not. I worry about burning the Salmon on the unreliable broiler.
There is a bottle of Vodka in the freezer, that has been there for months- since your mother was in town- ready for your grandmothers husband. Your grandfather. We think that there is enough to keep him chipper throughout dinner and for most of the cab ride back to their hotel.
They won't stay out late.
I arrange the cactus and the succulents, in a neat triangle of plants you don't like, on the trolley next to the television. We are resetting the channels because the cable keeps going out of signal. Which is not surprising as we don't pay for it, and just plugged the cable we found sticking out of the wall into the back. We're almost certain it comes from the same place as the free wireless internet we steal. Astro's World. Your dad bought us the television, and although new and shiny and high tech and out of place in our apartment of plants and furniture we found on the street, we like it because it takes up less room than the old one, and it means we can have more candles everywhere. And keys, and Bobby Pins.
The channel programming function flickers near completion. You have on an apron, that I've never seen before to prevent any staining of the dress you're wearing. You look really pretty, in the evening sun and the candle light and the small lamp in the tiny kitchen. And not for the first time I wonder how I got here, to be so lucky, and how you worked up the courage to let me be here with you, to let us have this life together. I want to kiss you on the forehead and tell you that I'm sorry for anything bad I have ever done, for no particular reason at all. But I know it will confuse you, distract you from the task at hand, so I step across the grocery bags on the floor, turn my head to the top of yours while you stir the contents of the fancy Le Creuset pots that we could never have afforded ourselves, but were lucky enough to have bought for us, and in my head I say:
I"m sorry for all the things I've ever done that hurt you.
But outloud I say: Thank you
And you turn and smile, and say For What? For Cooking?
And I look at you, and I smile back and I tell you, No. For everything.
We don't have a regular table, we don't have the room so the couch has been pushed back and we're borrowing a folding card table from work. There will only be the four of us. Me and you and your grandmother and her husband. Your nervous about us cooking for them; strangely, after all this time, this is the first time we've cooked for them. For anyone in our family really. You worry your grandmother will make suggestions, post-anythinganyonecandoaboutit, about the food and what it's missing and what it has too much of, and how much longer it should have been cooked for. Or not. I worry about burning the Salmon on the unreliable broiler.
There is a bottle of Vodka in the freezer, that has been there for months- since your mother was in town- ready for your grandmothers husband. Your grandfather. We think that there is enough to keep him chipper throughout dinner and for most of the cab ride back to their hotel.
They won't stay out late.
I arrange the cactus and the succulents, in a neat triangle of plants you don't like, on the trolley next to the television. We are resetting the channels because the cable keeps going out of signal. Which is not surprising as we don't pay for it, and just plugged the cable we found sticking out of the wall into the back. We're almost certain it comes from the same place as the free wireless internet we steal. Astro's World. Your dad bought us the television, and although new and shiny and high tech and out of place in our apartment of plants and furniture we found on the street, we like it because it takes up less room than the old one, and it means we can have more candles everywhere. And keys, and Bobby Pins.
The channel programming function flickers near completion. You have on an apron, that I've never seen before to prevent any staining of the dress you're wearing. You look really pretty, in the evening sun and the candle light and the small lamp in the tiny kitchen. And not for the first time I wonder how I got here, to be so lucky, and how you worked up the courage to let me be here with you, to let us have this life together. I want to kiss you on the forehead and tell you that I'm sorry for anything bad I have ever done, for no particular reason at all. But I know it will confuse you, distract you from the task at hand, so I step across the grocery bags on the floor, turn my head to the top of yours while you stir the contents of the fancy Le Creuset pots that we could never have afforded ourselves, but were lucky enough to have bought for us, and in my head I say:
I"m sorry for all the things I've ever done that hurt you.
But outloud I say: Thank you
And you turn and smile, and say For What? For Cooking?
And I look at you, and I smile back and I tell you, No. For everything.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Always Good.
New album coming sooner or later I believe.
{Yesterday was a great day. Day off in the city, good talks, good progress, good inspiration. Some photos to come. Possibly. Can you believe this weather? So good. Anyway I thought I'd break up the Bill Callahan overload with a bit of Jarvis. It is Friday after all}
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Devastating.
I missed this. But I'm still excited for the 14th of June.
What is it like to play solo on this in-store tour when many of the new songs are so fully orchestrated?
It's been real intense. For me at least. I don't know if people can see what is in my face. I've been sitting down for these shows as its easier to play a complicated guitar part if you can sit down. And the people crowd in and stare at you like in a zoo. Which is fine, I belong in a zoo. I'm only playing the slower songs from the record. I've been driving all day by myself then i show up late at the store. Everyone's waiting. I basically step out of the 70 MPH vehicle onto a stage and start playing these slow songs while my head is reeling. I get dizzy from driving.
Have you ever felt pressure to not be happy so you can write sad songs?
No.
Do you like to write and sing about your emotions?
Ha ha! Good one! Emotions!
Who is the "we" in Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle?
It's a generic we. Like "We Are The Champions."
How is Texas life?
I still like it there. But there's lots of places to like, y'know? I like the thunderstorms, the swimming holes, the live oaks, the coyotes and foxes.
From FADER.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Egg Cream.
I made a very specific deal. With myself and the guy making the Egg Cream. The deal was: if I don't like it then I may not finish the entire glass, and I may not come back. If I do like it, I may order another, and I may become a regular around here, especially on hot days, or days I have nothing better to do, or days I just really want something sweet to drink. I'd not had an Egg Cream before, so I wanted to lay down some ground rules. The guy making the Egg Cream didn't seem to care one way or another. He just shook his head, gave me a toothy grin, and said: "Son, you're gonna love it".
And I asked plenty of questions: "Why's it called an Egg Cream? Are you absolutely sure there's no Egg Involved?" "Won't the sparkling water make it taste odd, like fizzy and dairy mixed together doesn't sound like such a great idea to me" and "wouldn't I be better off just getting a milkshake? Which flavour gelato is better for this anyway?".
I"m already sat in front of a large chocolate cream Cannoli.
I have acute ulcerative colitis. This is not what I'm supposed to be eating. I'm not supposed to be ordering strange drinks with names that don't match the explanations of their contents, I shouldn't be washing down something dairy with something else dairy. I don't need all that sugar. This country has never made much sense.
It's the first day of spring, or at least it seems that way. There are girls around in shorts that I don't understand, and young guys with their shirt sleeves rolled open, or even some of them wear no socks with their shoes. So I'm wearing a jacket I don't need, and socks, and pants that don't fit right anymore, and I need a few minutes and this place is the only place for miles around to have the AC working this early in the year. The guy calls me Son too. I like that. He's only maybe ten years older than me. He has more hair on his head. Mine is combed over my scalp, parted in strange ways, whispy, nearly white. I told myself years ago that I couldn't wait to go bald. That I was looking forward to shaving it all off, hiding the razor burn beneath a cap or a wool hat. I thought it would be easier. But I hadn't thought it through. I'd forgotten about the heat, and that I wouldn't want to walk around with nothing on my head, and so now I let the last remains of a full head of hair grow as long as it wants. I let it curl up and over my scalp, I pull it across; proudly sweeping it over. Pushing it flat against my crown with wet fingers from the cold tap in the bathroom. I wear my badge.
The Egg Cream is done; it comes in a tall sundae like glass with a small metal jug of left over mixture. It looks good. I slide my finger around the inside of the rim and take a taste. Unsurprisingly it tastes like a chocolate milkshake. I slowly take a sip from the frothy top. It's a thin milkshake. It bubbles slightly. It's a float. A Soda float. It tastes good though, it's cold and sweet and not too thick. It goes okay with the Cannoli. I'll finish the glass. Maybe I'll try the vanilla flavour next time.
"How'd you like that Sonny?"
The guy asks. I nod my head slowly, lips around the glass, pulling back the last of the drink, and wondering what change I have left in my wallet.
And I asked plenty of questions: "Why's it called an Egg Cream? Are you absolutely sure there's no Egg Involved?" "Won't the sparkling water make it taste odd, like fizzy and dairy mixed together doesn't sound like such a great idea to me" and "wouldn't I be better off just getting a milkshake? Which flavour gelato is better for this anyway?".
I"m already sat in front of a large chocolate cream Cannoli.
I have acute ulcerative colitis. This is not what I'm supposed to be eating. I'm not supposed to be ordering strange drinks with names that don't match the explanations of their contents, I shouldn't be washing down something dairy with something else dairy. I don't need all that sugar. This country has never made much sense.
It's the first day of spring, or at least it seems that way. There are girls around in shorts that I don't understand, and young guys with their shirt sleeves rolled open, or even some of them wear no socks with their shoes. So I'm wearing a jacket I don't need, and socks, and pants that don't fit right anymore, and I need a few minutes and this place is the only place for miles around to have the AC working this early in the year. The guy calls me Son too. I like that. He's only maybe ten years older than me. He has more hair on his head. Mine is combed over my scalp, parted in strange ways, whispy, nearly white. I told myself years ago that I couldn't wait to go bald. That I was looking forward to shaving it all off, hiding the razor burn beneath a cap or a wool hat. I thought it would be easier. But I hadn't thought it through. I'd forgotten about the heat, and that I wouldn't want to walk around with nothing on my head, and so now I let the last remains of a full head of hair grow as long as it wants. I let it curl up and over my scalp, I pull it across; proudly sweeping it over. Pushing it flat against my crown with wet fingers from the cold tap in the bathroom. I wear my badge.
The Egg Cream is done; it comes in a tall sundae like glass with a small metal jug of left over mixture. It looks good. I slide my finger around the inside of the rim and take a taste. Unsurprisingly it tastes like a chocolate milkshake. I slowly take a sip from the frothy top. It's a thin milkshake. It bubbles slightly. It's a float. A Soda float. It tastes good though, it's cold and sweet and not too thick. It goes okay with the Cannoli. I'll finish the glass. Maybe I'll try the vanilla flavour next time.
"How'd you like that Sonny?"
The guy asks. I nod my head slowly, lips around the glass, pulling back the last of the drink, and wondering what change I have left in my wallet.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
M.J
{Now I could be WAY off here, but seeing as how Miranda July is working on a follow-up to the excellent ME AND YOU AND EVERYONE WE KNOW, I think THIS might be all about location scouting for the movie. So if you live in LA and reside in something similar, I'd suggest getting in touch. I mean, how awesome would having your place feature in her movie be?
Or maybe it's for something else entirely. In which case: do it anyway.
And read THIS. It's the BEST. I just bought a German translation of it too. Just because it looked amazing... and maybe because it featured a Mark Borthwick photo on the cover...}
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
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