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bird flu for the soul...
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Sometimes I wonder....
so....the hot bed of topic is roiling with the idea of who's to say what or what is not art.
Now...here's my short and sweet salvo fired in whomever's direction you wish.
Art is in the eye of the beholder. My argument is and has alway been that I have a problem when the label of "art" rests in the cradled arms of the artist...
So...just because I have an opinion on who does and doesn't suck doesn't mean that I am right but you know what, you silly little goof? It doesn't make me wrong either....
Having said that....deem whom you wish as worthy of the monicker "artist"...but if I disagree and you want to discuss it...bring your A game because I'm a pro...but it doesn't make anyone right....get it?
Now...lest get back to swapping spit and touching peckers....
"Your not wrong Walter....your just an asshole"---The Dude
|
Now...here's my short and sweet salvo fired in whomever's direction you wish.
Art is in the eye of the beholder. My argument is and has alway been that I have a problem when the label of "art" rests in the cradled arms of the artist...
So...just because I have an opinion on who does and doesn't suck doesn't mean that I am right but you know what, you silly little goof? It doesn't make me wrong either....
Having said that....deem whom you wish as worthy of the monicker "artist"...but if I disagree and you want to discuss it...bring your A game because I'm a pro...but it doesn't make anyone right....get it?
Now...lest get back to swapping spit and touching peckers....
"Your not wrong Walter....your just an asshole"---The Dude
Monday, April 19, 2004
Galveston...
(the search for the perfect song) Part 3
The sun continued to bare down on them through a partly clouded sky but Vic swore that…was that a rain drop? He wondered, no…couldn’t be… it’s hotter than hell on the Fourth of July out here (which, ironically, it almost literally was). Then he felt it again…and another…and another. Soon, he just had to ask.
“Is that rain or just water from this road work” pointing to the shoulder where men charred from the sun were laying concrete.
“Don’t know, I can’t tell but it sure smells like rain.”
“Look” Vic noted, “The bridge to the island.”
“Wow,” Bird replied, “a double rainbow.”
Sure enough... out of the driver side window and off to the East hung two perfectly shaped rainbows on resting on top of the other.
So there it was, raining on them in choking heat. As they left the mainland and headed for the island, Vic, without seeking permission this time, punched the “on” button and could not believe, neither of them could, what they heard.
“I can see clearly now the rain is gone….”
The bridge to the island was as wavy as the ocean. Driving across it, you truly felt as if you were skimming the waves themselves.
“All of my dark clouds have disappeared…”
They could not believe it. All those miles. All of this time. Finally, they had the perfect song for the perfect moment.
“Gonna be a bright, bright, bright sun shinny day…”
As if it were planned: the rain, the song and the roller coaster ride of a bridge all ended at once, just as quickly as it had begun.
As if everything was meant to happen just that way. As they drove onto the island, Vic reached for the radio only being stopped midair by Bird.
Nope.
No way.
“Don’t even try to top that!” He reached for the knob and flicked the radio off. Next stop: Baja Beach Club on the east end of the seawall.
“I can see clearly now….”
Indeed.
|
The sun continued to bare down on them through a partly clouded sky but Vic swore that…was that a rain drop? He wondered, no…couldn’t be… it’s hotter than hell on the Fourth of July out here (which, ironically, it almost literally was). Then he felt it again…and another…and another. Soon, he just had to ask.
“Is that rain or just water from this road work” pointing to the shoulder where men charred from the sun were laying concrete.
“Don’t know, I can’t tell but it sure smells like rain.”
“Look” Vic noted, “The bridge to the island.”
“Wow,” Bird replied, “a double rainbow.”
Sure enough... out of the driver side window and off to the East hung two perfectly shaped rainbows on resting on top of the other.
So there it was, raining on them in choking heat. As they left the mainland and headed for the island, Vic, without seeking permission this time, punched the “on” button and could not believe, neither of them could, what they heard.
“I can see clearly now the rain is gone….”
The bridge to the island was as wavy as the ocean. Driving across it, you truly felt as if you were skimming the waves themselves.
“All of my dark clouds have disappeared…”
They could not believe it. All those miles. All of this time. Finally, they had the perfect song for the perfect moment.
“Gonna be a bright, bright, bright sun shinny day…”
As if it were planned: the rain, the song and the roller coaster ride of a bridge all ended at once, just as quickly as it had begun.
As if everything was meant to happen just that way. As they drove onto the island, Vic reached for the radio only being stopped midair by Bird.
Nope.
No way.
“Don’t even try to top that!” He reached for the knob and flicked the radio off. Next stop: Baja Beach Club on the east end of the seawall.
“I can see clearly now….”
Indeed.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Galveston...
(the search for the perfect song) Part 2
Well, almost anything. He felt he did know good music when he heard it and for that reason, he became Bird’s “on-again” “off-again” manager and chief confidant.
Vic had held so many jobs at so many different times, if he had to fill out an application for a straight job (which he swore he never would do again) he would get confused at where he worked and when and for how long. He had gone to college dropping out minutes from a degree. He went to school to be a paramedic, graduating at the top of his class, but never bothered to apply for a job as a paramedic. He was a bar-tender. He had a radio show. He put more new shingles on more than his fair share of homes. Now, here he was, trying to make it in the music busi-ness with his friend Bird. Who, ever so often, would fire him for drinking too much and booking too little, only to re-hire his friend again amid promises of “straightening up,” “ keeping an eye on the big picture,” all that.
So here they were, rolling south out of Houston headed to Galveston Is-land and the beach, a night “off” from their “business” trip.
It was six o’clock when they finally pulled into “Brian’s Seafood and Steak.” It was a shotgun-shaped building with a pitiful bamboo and green all-weather carpeted deck that they were sure was added to the restau-rant after the fact. They picked “Brian’s” for no other reason than the fact that, this close to the Gulf, anything from the seafood side of the gumbo stained menu probably was good. It was, they agreed, paying the check with what little gig money they had and moseyed their way back of 45 headed south for the island.
The heat stuck to them like a wet wool jacket, even with evening coming on, only now there was the added humidity of the Gulf. Silence continued to hang in the air. Vic stared at the clock on the lifeless radio… 5:55. Vic wished it would play one song which didn’t piss him off, just one song. Just as there was no room in Texas for country music that sounded more like pop music, it seemed there was no room for it in the oven of a car that the two of them sat and sweat in.
“You mind if I…” Vic started, reaching for the dial.
“Yes.” Bird spat before Vic could finish his sentence.
“But I wanna just see if….”
“No.”
” Don’t.”
So, Vic just stared out the windshield while cutting the wind whipping by outside with his arm like a bronze sword, tanned from a thousand miles of Texas sun and no air conditioning.
That’s when it started.
|
Well, almost anything. He felt he did know good music when he heard it and for that reason, he became Bird’s “on-again” “off-again” manager and chief confidant.
Vic had held so many jobs at so many different times, if he had to fill out an application for a straight job (which he swore he never would do again) he would get confused at where he worked and when and for how long. He had gone to college dropping out minutes from a degree. He went to school to be a paramedic, graduating at the top of his class, but never bothered to apply for a job as a paramedic. He was a bar-tender. He had a radio show. He put more new shingles on more than his fair share of homes. Now, here he was, trying to make it in the music busi-ness with his friend Bird. Who, ever so often, would fire him for drinking too much and booking too little, only to re-hire his friend again amid promises of “straightening up,” “ keeping an eye on the big picture,” all that.
So here they were, rolling south out of Houston headed to Galveston Is-land and the beach, a night “off” from their “business” trip.
It was six o’clock when they finally pulled into “Brian’s Seafood and Steak.” It was a shotgun-shaped building with a pitiful bamboo and green all-weather carpeted deck that they were sure was added to the restau-rant after the fact. They picked “Brian’s” for no other reason than the fact that, this close to the Gulf, anything from the seafood side of the gumbo stained menu probably was good. It was, they agreed, paying the check with what little gig money they had and moseyed their way back of 45 headed south for the island.
The heat stuck to them like a wet wool jacket, even with evening coming on, only now there was the added humidity of the Gulf. Silence continued to hang in the air. Vic stared at the clock on the lifeless radio… 5:55. Vic wished it would play one song which didn’t piss him off, just one song. Just as there was no room in Texas for country music that sounded more like pop music, it seemed there was no room for it in the oven of a car that the two of them sat and sweat in.
“You mind if I…” Vic started, reaching for the dial.
“Yes.” Bird spat before Vic could finish his sentence.
“But I wanna just see if….”
“No.”
” Don’t.”
So, Vic just stared out the windshield while cutting the wind whipping by outside with his arm like a bronze sword, tanned from a thousand miles of Texas sun and no air conditioning.
That’s when it started.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Galveston...
(the search for the perfect song) Part 1
The heat rising off I-45 to Houston was horrible that day. To make matters worse, there was nothing worth hearing going out over the airwaves. That is to say, there was nothing particular about this drive in early July thorough south Texas except that for Bird and Vic it would end in the Gulf of Mexico.
To make it into Galveston they would have to negotiate their way through Houston, a fairly difficult task at five o’clock on Friday afternoon. Then it’s a burn down 45 to the end of the mainland. Finally, cross the bridge, straight to the beach for a break from the heat of a Mexican suburban with no air conditioning. In July. In Texas.
“Why don’t you turn that damn thing off, man?” Bird sighed. “It’s giving me a headache, and if I have to hear one more Tim McGraw song I am seriously considering pulling this rig over and punching you in the teeth!”
Vic laughed at this thought. Bird was a pacifist beyond reproach and could not, in all likelihood, punch his way through a very wet paper bag.
“You try it and I’ll knock you on your ass.” Vic replied with a chuckle.
It was amusing that the two of them, crazy from the heat, were engaging in conversation you might expect to hear in a bad gangster movie, with bad actors and a very bad script.
Because the driver has the say in these matters, Vic flipped the dial to “off”. They rode in silence, save the wind whipping through the three open windows (the driver side window merely cracked, unable to roll up or down). At last, they entered Houston, hot air blowing from every vent.
Surprisingly, the traffic in Houston was manageable and the two slid through with relative ease. In a rare burst of excitement, they joked at the prospect of now having a little extra time for their favorite pastime on the road: drinking beer. Oh, and trying to concoct a barely believable lie to tell the locals about who they were and what they were doing so far from home. This was comical, alone, because they fancied themselves to be in the music business.
Well, Vic did anyway.
Bird, honestly, was in the business, writing some of the best songs you may never hear. He was even starting to get some airplay on smaller stations from Amarillo to Wichita Falls to Plano, even down to College Sta-tion; this being the real reason for the trip for Bird. He was hoping to meet a few people down here in South Texas and maybe, with a little luck, sell a few records.
These little radio stations were fantastically Texan. One thousand to 10,000 watt beacons of everything a Texan is. They were full of Texas pride, playing noting but music by Texans, for Texans, about Texas. There was no need for music from “Nash-Vegas” around these parts. There was little desire to hear so-called “country” music that didn’t have a fiddle, didn’t talk about having a Shiner Bock with buddies and didn’t mention Texas.
That was exactly what Bird wanted a piece of. Although he wasn’t technically from Texas, he and Texas got along just fine. Hell, some Texans even considered adopting him as one of their own. They accepted him, despite his geographic disadvantage. They welcomed him. Just as they did, over time, with Jerry Jeff Walker, Gary P. Nunn (who wrote the theme song for the television program Austin City Limits), Ray Wiley Hubbard and select others.
You see, in Texas, music is more than something you hear on the car radio when going to and coming home from work. It’s more than something you dance to. It’s more than background noise for paying bills around the kitchen table in early spring, windows open, attic fan humming. Texas music is a way of life. It’s a lifestyle, a recreation, a coming together of like minds. It’s music written and sung by folks who have something to say and listened to by people who want to listen, who really do listen. Texas music is so powerful, in fact, with a little timing and luck an artist can make a very comfortable living doing what they love for people who love it and never have to leave the Lone Star State. For Bird…that was just fine.
Vic, on the other hand, wasn’t sure.
Of anything, for that matter.
|
The heat rising off I-45 to Houston was horrible that day. To make matters worse, there was nothing worth hearing going out over the airwaves. That is to say, there was nothing particular about this drive in early July thorough south Texas except that for Bird and Vic it would end in the Gulf of Mexico.
To make it into Galveston they would have to negotiate their way through Houston, a fairly difficult task at five o’clock on Friday afternoon. Then it’s a burn down 45 to the end of the mainland. Finally, cross the bridge, straight to the beach for a break from the heat of a Mexican suburban with no air conditioning. In July. In Texas.
“Why don’t you turn that damn thing off, man?” Bird sighed. “It’s giving me a headache, and if I have to hear one more Tim McGraw song I am seriously considering pulling this rig over and punching you in the teeth!”
Vic laughed at this thought. Bird was a pacifist beyond reproach and could not, in all likelihood, punch his way through a very wet paper bag.
“You try it and I’ll knock you on your ass.” Vic replied with a chuckle.
It was amusing that the two of them, crazy from the heat, were engaging in conversation you might expect to hear in a bad gangster movie, with bad actors and a very bad script.
Because the driver has the say in these matters, Vic flipped the dial to “off”. They rode in silence, save the wind whipping through the three open windows (the driver side window merely cracked, unable to roll up or down). At last, they entered Houston, hot air blowing from every vent.
Surprisingly, the traffic in Houston was manageable and the two slid through with relative ease. In a rare burst of excitement, they joked at the prospect of now having a little extra time for their favorite pastime on the road: drinking beer. Oh, and trying to concoct a barely believable lie to tell the locals about who they were and what they were doing so far from home. This was comical, alone, because they fancied themselves to be in the music business.
Well, Vic did anyway.
Bird, honestly, was in the business, writing some of the best songs you may never hear. He was even starting to get some airplay on smaller stations from Amarillo to Wichita Falls to Plano, even down to College Sta-tion; this being the real reason for the trip for Bird. He was hoping to meet a few people down here in South Texas and maybe, with a little luck, sell a few records.
These little radio stations were fantastically Texan. One thousand to 10,000 watt beacons of everything a Texan is. They were full of Texas pride, playing noting but music by Texans, for Texans, about Texas. There was no need for music from “Nash-Vegas” around these parts. There was little desire to hear so-called “country” music that didn’t have a fiddle, didn’t talk about having a Shiner Bock with buddies and didn’t mention Texas.
That was exactly what Bird wanted a piece of. Although he wasn’t technically from Texas, he and Texas got along just fine. Hell, some Texans even considered adopting him as one of their own. They accepted him, despite his geographic disadvantage. They welcomed him. Just as they did, over time, with Jerry Jeff Walker, Gary P. Nunn (who wrote the theme song for the television program Austin City Limits), Ray Wiley Hubbard and select others.
You see, in Texas, music is more than something you hear on the car radio when going to and coming home from work. It’s more than something you dance to. It’s more than background noise for paying bills around the kitchen table in early spring, windows open, attic fan humming. Texas music is a way of life. It’s a lifestyle, a recreation, a coming together of like minds. It’s music written and sung by folks who have something to say and listened to by people who want to listen, who really do listen. Texas music is so powerful, in fact, with a little timing and luck an artist can make a very comfortable living doing what they love for people who love it and never have to leave the Lone Star State. For Bird…that was just fine.
Vic, on the other hand, wasn’t sure.
Of anything, for that matter.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Sometimes a song is just a song...
A flute with no holes...isn't a flute.
and a donut with no holes...is a danish.
-Ty Webb
Down to seeds and stems again in more way than one so today...I want to give you one of my favorite poems from e.e. cummings....it's about a car:
she being Brand... (XIX)
she being Brand
-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having
thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her
up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my
lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity
avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good
(it
was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on
the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and
brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.
stand-
;Still)
-e.e. cummings
snaps for that fruity old pervert....
|
and a donut with no holes...is a danish.
-Ty Webb
Down to seeds and stems again in more way than one so today...I want to give you one of my favorite poems from e.e. cummings....it's about a car:
she being Brand... (XIX)
she being Brand
-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having
thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her
up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my
lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity
avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good
(it
was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on
the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and
brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.
stand-
;Still)
-e.e. cummings
snaps for that fruity old pervert....
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Seven Foot Long Reefer....
The trophies of my escapades are much like having a good day at the slots....on the internet...for play money....no one gives a fuck and it doesn't pay even ONE of the bills...
"Nothing in the this word is more common than unrewarded genius..." Calvin Cooldige( and my buddy Bird ) said that...so it doesn't matter that Dave Ray isn't writing for the New Yorker cause you know what...even if he was he'd still loathe...it also doesn't matter if he never links my blog...cause I don't need his help...it doesn't matter that Kev Mo can't find the band gig he deserves...and it doesn't matter that my past life of cocaine and road going was flushed down the truck stop toilet drain cause I was the drunk in an outlaw country band...
You know, if Kerouac would've been offered a nice paying accounting gig...he would've taken it and not look back...so the "romantic" idea of being the last of the "hardcore troubadours" is a foolish one and is in no way worth it...
but you know what... tonight....I miss my guys
|
"Nothing in the this word is more common than unrewarded genius..." Calvin Cooldige( and my buddy Bird ) said that...so it doesn't matter that Dave Ray isn't writing for the New Yorker cause you know what...even if he was he'd still loathe...it also doesn't matter if he never links my blog...cause I don't need his help...it doesn't matter that Kev Mo can't find the band gig he deserves...and it doesn't matter that my past life of cocaine and road going was flushed down the truck stop toilet drain cause I was the drunk in an outlaw country band...
You know, if Kerouac would've been offered a nice paying accounting gig...he would've taken it and not look back...so the "romantic" idea of being the last of the "hardcore troubadours" is a foolish one and is in no way worth it...
but you know what... tonight....I miss my guys
