Live at the Piqua Heritage Festival

Hmmm...Blame it on my upbringing that I'm especially suspect...nah...prejudice against people from Piqua, OH. Of course it's full of dirtier, less-educated, proletariats than its more bourgeois neighbor to the south, Troy. We did after all invent the industrial mixer, the bar code, and the strawberry.

But during Labor Day, Piqua slays my hometown with its history. The Piqua Heritage Festival re-creates those bygones that Troy never knew existed. Being a former Indian conquest, a village conquered by the French, and (still) a vital point of dock along the popular Miami-Erie Canal, Piqua breeds history buffs; pure Caucasians that dress like natives and mountain-men (no mountains in Ohio?), full-on pre-colonial, overnight camps (that prolly rage on homeade moonshine after dusk), and farmers that pride themselves on organics (my father grinned ear to ear with his ear of field corn).

This is the end of my festival season (with perhaps the late arrival of a demolition derby, fingers crossed), but its always the most humbling. My mother remarked this hobby, of re-enacting the life of a plumbing-less nation, is just as much a hobby as golf (for the rich and famous). I tend to agree, though hopefully my future here is behind the lens -- little chuckles towards the guys in buttless chaps, smoking cracklings, churning butter, and telling kids 'bout the good ol' days, will be suitable fantasies with which I'm better off avoiding and (through mindless observation) generalizing for my own amusement.

Up on a School Night With Bad Times

Let's use first names. Dusty wanted me to send him some shots of his band that he thinks I took after hours waiting for him to finally take the stage (on a Tuesday no less). Sadly Dusty, I took no pictures, only a non-representative, poorly videotaped portion of your band's second song. Jeff looked over at me and said that I'm probably loving this because I'm a big fan of Yes. Yes, he was right on. I'm also a fan of the long list of obscure psych bands you channel (Captain Beyond, hello). I just got done reviewing the latest album of faceless drivel by some French uber-psych hacks named Turzi that can't hold a candle to your love of Guru Guru. Ummm....can I start a label and sign you already. SRSLY?

Other than the Deathly Fighter, the only Columbus band I've been head over heels for in the past few months is The Moon and Bad Times, though I wish they'd shorten it to just Bad Times (10X more killer, trust me). Be known, this is only the first time I've seen them in the flesh. And to the bloggeratti, there's simply no audio for you to dwnld right now. Simply wait, good things come to those that. Or venture to Columbus to say you were there, as I'm sure some higher profile shows will come their way once the Columbus Alive (sic) finds out how good they are. Until then -- my lo-tech addition.

Live at the Ohio State Fair

The Ohio State Fair has been an Elliott Family tradition for as long as as I can remember. Unfortunately the 2007 pilgrimage was met with plenty of rain, therefore we spent much more time with the cattle and pork, than we did with the midway and the colorful people that inhabited it.


So, even though my summer of festivals has become a bust (sorry festival fanatics but I bought a house), I decided to leave you with a picture of my adventures at the largest state fair in these Great United States. It's a junior pig handlin' competition, jus' so y'alls know.

Introducing...Pale Young Gentlemen

Just look at that picture; a cello, stiff postures, period clothing, a guy in suspenders gripping an acoustic. The Pale Young Gentlemen had me scared before I even cracked open their eponymous debut. Would this be the work of a cut-rate Decemberists, drooling over literature and making parlor games out of pop music. Or could it be the work of some group huffing the same Eastern-Euro fumes smelt by Beirut's Zac Condon? Truth be told, it's a little of both, but in the best way possible. You're going to get a bit sea-sick within Pale Young Gentlemen's adherence to trad-instrumentation and Muse Machine pretension (the kids gotta latch onto somethin'), still it's charming, pulling a listener into a forgotten time that sounds equally like today.

There's plenty of drama, pure melodrama, to be seen here. As if Madison, Wisconsin lends a man nothing in environmental atmosphere and forces one to the stages hidden in stuffy high schools and community theaters. Let's think of those Great Lake States as a mini/little Scandinavia, taking great pride in the stoic...the nuance of songwriting, expressing human tragedy through artistic means. Bergman on overdrive, or Red Bull. Matthew Reisenauer has that voice, much like Rufus Wainwright or Antony, it's arresting in its theatrical grip, a tad of acting (the faux-Brit enunciations, the stuttered emotion), but perfect foil to the weeping melancholy of his piano playing.

There's really no need for cello, or chanted choir, or bass, or guitar for that matter on this disc. Songs like "Saturday Night" and the gripping finale, "Single Days" get their point across simply through Reisenauer's fragile narrations. Randy Newman gets many props from the band and as such it's warranted. Imagining Randy Newman's soundtrack to The Point, maybe Pale Young Gentleman should be producing their own show of morality amongst the societal -- only it would include characters named Nikolai and Fraulein, clad in knickers and cravats. It's totally cool to hearken back to a time your generation never knew as long as you can sense it into song; making us all wonder what it felt like.

Put..Put..Put..Puttin' on the Hits

It was last week that RN'R Robertson and I were commenting on this show and many other things from our childhood. He thought it was more jake than it actually was, and I thought it was less jake. Then we realized we were using an adjective that probably derived from Cleveland. Jacob's Field? Lo and behold, this was a syndicated show and was more than likely sandwiched between Small Wonder and This Week in Baseball on Saturday mornings. It was my dream to be a contestant on this show an lip-sync Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer," just like the video.

A horrific scene indeed. So very jake.

Look What the Rookie Did

Canadian Pop?

Fortunately/Unfortunately the be all, end all, resides with the New Pornographers. And
I really can't argue against such a statement. Mass Romantic was the supergroup at the height of their powers and everything after that has been akin to cool water (it's hard to admit you don't like it or need it, right?), but it's not something you bring up in normal conversation.

"Oh I had some great fucking water yesterday."

With Challengers though, I'm getting a bit sick of the cream and sugar (not to mention the worst album cover in the history of album covers). It was such a relief to get the latest project from Jason Zumpano. In the Co. of Ghosts is nothing to get excited about, it's simply a quaint album of piano instrumentals from the guy who lent his namesake to possibly the most underrated band in the realm of Canadian Pop. Geez, listening to Goin' Through Changes for the first time in maybe seven years brought back a tidal wave of memories. Slept on for sure.

But back to Ghosts which is another quiet triumph for the equally slept on Catbird Records. The CD is a dying format for sure (can't remember the last one I bought), but Mr. Catbird always has something up his sleeve. Jason Zumpano's latest was not intended for public display, it was an artistic trade with friend Jason McLean. Now that it is available for thrifty consumption by the rest of the world, we get both halves. Zumpano's extremely cinematic penny arcade scores (very Vince Giraldi) and hand-numbered, hand-pressed, prints from the mind of McLean (very Seussian, Goldbergian, and Kolchakian). Not something you'll be putting on your year-end top-ten or pumping on the car stereo, but something that will be cherished as a artifact of artists bucking the trend when most people are hard-driving the past in search of fast-money for the immediate future.

Live from Muscle Shoals

The brother and I had to make an emergency trip to Birmingham, Alabama for reasons I won't divulge here. Another story, another time. We were to leave on a Sunday and return on a Monday. Thirty-six hours in the Suburban with the Elliotts and Co. This wasn't a vacation, far from it, but knowing I would be traveling South, visions of touristy pit-stops to Rock City and Graceland passed through my head. But I've been to both (highly recommended btw), and the line to B'ham kinda pinballs between the two.

Muscle Shoals was the only destination in the entire state (besides the beach, but that's not too lovely) I could desperately think of. Then again, I wasn't sure what (if anything) was there. I knew a lot of music was recorded there (and later have discovered a ton of music was made there), but in terms of a landmark, a museum, a famous diner, I had no clue. Neither did any of my companions. And when my caravan finally obliged to my wishes of driving 90 miles off of I-65 to take a little adventure, there was already tension in the car.

When we rolled into the thick humidity of Muscle Shoals, it looked like every other, small, depressed, and rustic Southern town. There wasn't a mention of music, or music legends, or even a convenience store that sold little guitar magnets. My family was bit miffed, frustrated, ready to strangle me, till we spotted a fairly unadorned studio down the road. It was Fame Studios, the home of the original Muscle Shoals sound. There's a laundry list of artists who recorded there, simply to be backed by the Swampers; the studio's renowned session team. Aretha, Wilson Pickett, Little Richard, Candi Stanton, (to my mother's amazement) Paul Anka, all logged time there for it's room effects and the mix of country, soul, and funk provided by the owners.

Further into the 'burg, tucked away on Jackson Highway was Muscle Shoals Sound Studios, perhaps better known as thee M.S. place of refuge. Many including Dylan, Cher, Traffic, Jimmy Cliff, and Paul Simon traveled there for similar reasons. Being a point on what is known as the Mojo Triangle, it's a city nestled directly in the middle of Nashville and Memphis, so the miscegenation of black and white style was more apparent here than anywhere else during that time. Alas, it was closed, and we didn't get to see inside the final piece of the puzzle. We also never made it to Shiloh. (Sorry Uncle Jeff).

I've read and been told by a few people now that the definitive Muscle Shoals track is "I'll Take You There" by the Staple Singers. In case you're unfamiliar, or need a recap I've provided it for you.

Definition of a GBV Geek

Too much time apart. I know. Being separated from the internet for a good two weeks opened up some horizons. I rejoined nature, bought a house, traveled to the deep South (more on that later), and tried my best to have some semblance of a summer vacation, all without a computer screen staring me in the face. Excuses, excuses. As a result, I've got plenty piling up to talk about and a mailbox spilling over with new music. So bear with me.

First though it would be inappropriate of me to ignore Robert Pollard. I owe him heaps of gratitude. Once again though he's inundated the indie palette with a gobstopper of new flavors, to lukewarm responses. The Takeovers, the Circus Devils, the Silverfish Trivia, it's really all too much. Not that it's all bad (in fact it's somewhat of a banner year so far, compared to the past few), it's just not all gold. Not to mention another double dose of Bob on Merge in October (hope it's gold and platinum). And a fucking singles club? Flooding the market? Who knows? There was a time when I would purchase every single piece of wax the man created (I've got a full shelf of releases to prove it, even the Howling Wolf Orchestra record), but as of today, the Guided by Voices geek in me has subsided. Is it age? Quality of material? Is the GBV Geek an endangered species?

There was once a time when these mutants roamed the earth in considerable numbers. An indie-rock equivalent to Dead Heads (I've met tape-traders). They could name each of Bob's gazillion drummers in chronological order, owned Bee Thousand on multiple formats, made covert pilgrimages to Pollard's former home on Titus Ave. in Dayton (Mullet Graceland?), subscribed to his "literary" magazine, EAT. Guilty, Guilty, Guilty, Not-Guilty. Some went as far as making music inspired by Uncle Bobby's DIY, regular-guy, thrift-store arena rock. Semi-Guilty. I love the fact that such mania spurred a community of non-musicians to buy a four-track the first time they heard "Game of Pricks." But alas, it seems the love has waned, these days listening to Guided By Voices is more nostalgic trip than new and exciting. Sad but True.

The Knights of Infinite Resignation however, still find Bob's well half-full. I've met this guy in some capacity, and it's likely we spent most of that conversation drunk (years ago?) discussing the hierarchy of Mr. Pollard's output. It's refreshing to know that shameless adoration for GBV can still be placed in song without a hint of self-consciousness or irony. Coming across as Cheap Trick-lite, alone at the Tascam, TKOIR's latest single, "Paris Hilton and Captain Beefheart" is a humorous side declaring "there was always something wrong with my GBV shirt/ you thought my Chuck Taylor's weren't so cool." From a songwriter who readily admits to talking about the Cleveland Browns during concerts, oddly quotes from Camus in his liner notes, and survives on mac & cheese, this is quite entertaining power pop -- a one-man Franklin County Art Brut. Sure, this might never escape the basement, it probably won't and he's probably fully aware of that reality, but as a reminder that the GBV nation is alive and well and anticipating and creating, this is a tiny, piece of ephemera sorely needed.

Amon Duul II - October 5th, 1971

I woke up wanting to hear some krautrock. The Duul in particular. YouTube is a magical thing. When traversing through what is arguably the group's best jam, "Soap Shop Rock," patience is a virtue.



"This song is dedicated to Black Panther Party.....from the album Yeah-Tee."

Young Black Teenagers: Ahead of Their Time?

Tampa, Florida, June, 1991. It was my first real vacation without the parents when Jeff and Patti allowed me to pick a friend (I chose Doug Jackson) and fly down for a week with Uncle Bruce and Aunt Pam. The usual Florida tourist sites were seen, Disney, Universal, Clearwater Beach, Hooters...but by that time in my life I was more interested in finagling my older cousins into taking us to a concert. Like a sign from God himself, that week Tampa was hosting one of the most bewildering package tours of the decade. Imagine my surprise when Michelle and Sean were obliged to chaperon my friend and I to see the Sisters of Mercy/Public Enemy/Gang of Four/Warrior Soul, in a multi-cultural, genre-bending, precursor to Lollapalooza (more on this show in an upcoming edition of WTF). First on the bill though were Young Black Teenagers, a hip-hop quintet from the Bronx clothed in matching army fatigues. They were neither young, black, nor teenagers.

Despite being lambasted by their peers, virtually excommunicated from hip-hop, and generally regarded as novelty simply for their name, Young Black Teenagers had plenty of talent to go round and a PE connection that should have made them household names on par with 3rd Bass. They were the first act signed to Hank Shocklee's Soul for Urban Listeners label and their Bomb Squad produced self-titled album is brimming with the same cathartic edits and air-raid samples that made Fear of a Black Planet such an apocalyptic good time. Bad business deals, bad press, and bad blood with their benefactors (don't fuck with the gift horse) led them down a quick path to the cut-outs. They did score a minor-hit with "Tap the Bottle" (well known for sampling "Tom Sawyer" without Rush's permission) and DJ Skribble went on to become MTV's resident turntable jockey (remember The Grind? me either).

Listening over this record for the first time in many years, I'm actually shocked at how socially conscious and politically adept the group's lyrics were. Of course the themes are dated (reminiscent of the Goats topical jeep jams), but it's easy to conclude that YBT's Achilles heel was that they were far ahead of the game. I'm not quite sure that Eminem could get away with "Daddy Called Me A Nigga' Caused I Like to Rhyme" in the new millennium without the Rainbow Coalition kicking in his door.



(Editor's Note: Trying something new. So you'll have to quickly create an Imeem account to hear the songs I'll be posting. It's well worth your time though.)

A Little Blake Goes a Long Way

Just posted this "sweeping generalization" of Cleveland's Exit Stencil Records. It had one glaring omission. What's going on with Blake Miller? He was excluded because he's from Columbus, right down the street. But the label did send me a stopgap split 7" with Julie Sokolow, anticipating the October release of Blake's sophomore album, Burn Tape.

"Tomorrow Sorrow," is apparently also the first song on the album, a soft, purple folk prayer, proving he's found a comfortable seat between the beards (Sam Beeeeam) and the bearded (Devendra), all the while spanning-off, eerily getting witty with reverb, bells, and tape loops. Go on, it gets stranger.
The second track, "Chilly April" almost naively attempts to become his one man lisa frank animal jug band, but saves it with the mist of a skeletal pop dirge in its center.

After listening to some David Thomas Brougton on recommendation, I'm thinking Blake Miller is destined to be his haunting American counterpart. Both singers are homely familiar, but still sound like they're singing, and creating, from some distant, mystic, crawlspace. Apologies to Ms. Sokolow for not flipping sides yet. I'm simply over-anticipating what's sure to be an interesting full-length (his new site features the first four songs). The real dark-horse.

Live at the Washington Beach Community Festival

By no means was this an anti-Comfest fest, and in order to handle the local scene with kid gloves, Comfest was not a bust. It's hard to fault "anyone" who's trying to make this city a better place. No utopia of course, but every town has it's share of lot lizards and bad poets. Full disclosure: there's nothing better than seeing "most" of your favorite bands in a sunny park with your wife, a fishboat, and mug full of CBC pale ale close to the hip.

The Washington Beach Community Festival filled all the voids. Curated by Times New Viking, and pretty much birthed by Siltbreeze Omnicron, Tom Lax, it could've been subtitled, "Losers Whom Love Forgot." The Unholy Two, (now with even more guitar), started things off. Mr. Chris gives new meaning to the post-punk, making all the best punchlines blistering minute-and-a-half songs, forcing crowds to shield their eardrums, spitting improv-comedy from the cutting edge (what's being cut exactly? And why are you defending Officer Bobby Cutt$ Jr.?) Who really cares? This is everything you really want to hear/say in one quick knife hit from the electric stove. They should basically own CDR for the next year or so.

The second-coming of V-3? Kevin DeBroux is currently making Columbus his home, and Pink Reason, his ongoing journey, is beginning to sound like a descent, one that he will take, with all of you, kicking and screaming, moaning, and chugging puked-up vitamin water, along the way. Sporting a mohawk and the face of a young Tom Cruise, his incantation on this night went solo, playing a brief set of forgotten punk covers on an un-tuned acoustic guitar. This is the guy mother told me to stay away from (and eventually that guy, G.G., wrote me letters from prison), but I'd be damned if I didn't strain to hear the gospel that comes from his mouth. Honestly, this guy eats the truth for breakfast each and every day, then funnels it into eternally bruised, soul-rattling, deep-depression rock. Consider yourself fortunate the author of one of the year's most evocative albums might just have a post-office box here.

From there things get blurry. Not from alcohol, but from exhaustion. All's I can say, is that, for me (personally) Psychedelic Horseshit, owned the night. With new recruit, Laura (pictured above), filling in on bass duties, they seemed to physically say, "fuck a keyboard, play it yourself," throwing their cheap speak-n-spell into the decks for a new germ of crowd participation. I'm a tad bit partial, but this may have been the most engaging Horseshit show to date. Their energy (kinetic, poppy, yet wholly unrefined) can shine through any technical difficulty/drunkenness thrown in their path. They truly create their own fidelity. If this town has Zimmy, it's Matt Whitehurst. Keep in mind, Magic Flowers Droned, keep in mind. Fuck folk.

From there the heavy-hitters took center. Jerusalem and the Starbaskets caressed quotidian staples (i.e. White Stripes compounded blues riffs, Jeff Mangum's compounded inner-world-psych) and made them malleable for underground heads (like most in attendance). I could swear the duo played the same two-chord jammer for at least an hour, but I'm prolly quite wrong. Right? At this very moment they're doing the same thing for a crowd in flood-ravaged Oklahoma, and some kid is having his mind blown. Hmmm....Pavement and Elephant Six......and Lightning Bolt...for the micro-generation. Just don't blog it, keep it a secret. Please.

Live at Comfest

I could rant infinitely about the cons of Comfest (would love to start with that website, seemingly created at the turn of the century), but can only comment on the clueless entertainment committee and their quixotic quest to make everyone in town happy. Sure it's a hard feat, but do any of you have the pulse on what's good and what goes well together? I've posited the idea for curated stages time and time again, and honestly think the variety would be even greater while the quality would increase tenfold. Get a Ron House Stage, a Rick Cautella stage, a Paul Brown stage, a Hot 107.5 stage. Get WOSU involved, the Other Paper, fuck, even let the Alive writers pick some bands. Ok, I'm ranting. Get a clue. Seek out the talent instead of wading through applications from the X-Rated Cowboys.

Regardless, if you cherry-picked through the deluge of horrid cover bands and "new wave" hippies (Psychedelic Horseshit TM), you were able to find some worthy Columbus bands taken from their natural habitat and displayed for all-agers (who never get to see this sort of thing) and old-agers (who never go to see this sort of thing). Not sure if I would theoretically want my five-year old high on whatever fumes John Whitzky and El Jesus de Magico were huffing, but they would have learned a great deal about doo-woop and police brutality through the seamless theatricals of Hugs and Kisses "breakthrough" performance.

The legendary Cheater Slicks provided the most awkward of these "out of body" experiences. Imagine their surprise when they were asked to play the Bozo Stage (ugh, change that name pronto) at 2 PM in some blistering sun. My brother has always remarked Tom Shannon is the "greatest bummer in the world" (a compliment) and seeing him sweat through some instantly classic garage burners from their recently released Walk into the Sea, was proof enough. Temperatures warped any chance at cohesion, it was more like a prolonged seizure in slow-motion, convulsions in reverse, cough, cough, cough.

Mike Rep and the Quotas (pictured above), on the other hand, embraced the family cook-out atmosphere. It was 1984 or 1994 or even 2004 all over again. They really fry the reverb without any oil down in Harrisburg, to the point that it sounded like a plane was constantly in take-off. Here's a guy who just loves to get up on his tree-stump and share his love of music with anyone who will listen.

Then again, "trying is pathetic," or so said Will Foster's t-shirt. The Guinea Worms were the weekend's MVPs. I've always adored Foster's ability to flip a repetitious three-chord chant into apocalyptic party rock. Slowly but surely, the Worms get better and better each time I see them. A long progression, but I'm thinking the pay off (a new 7" on CDR, a greatest hits of old material?) is well worth the wait.

I'm forgetting some things. Night of Pleasure are the only punk band in town worth noting. The Lindsay made sure everyone now knows their name, 'bout time if you ask me. And of course this guy....



My Comfest could have began and ended with Dead Sea's early Friday set. Somebody sign this band already. Scheduling snafus aside, Comfest tends to win back my heart every year. I'm much too tired to bitch.

Live at Festival Latino

Perhaps the last of the fests which I can walk to, bellied up to Bicentennial Park to little fanfare. Unless you dig cumbia or Mexican forro, and large intimidating crowds after dark (I know plenty of guys who go apeshit for it), there was little cultural value in Festival Latino, at least in the two hours I was there. Again, it was daylight, an anonymous latin-jazz group was covering Santana, foods which have pretty much become a staple of the Columbus menu were being served (every modest taqueira in the city in one place), and trinkets from South of the border were sold to adoring (clueless) Caucasians. There was scant representation from Brazil (to my wife's dismay) and the eternal underdog of South America, Uruguay, or for that matter any other country that isn't Mexico. I did see wax worms whipped into a strawberry desert though.

Fortunately the Capoeira community stopped by to show us all how it's done.

Diggin' in the (60's-70's) - The Prix Label

What's it gonna' take to get a job with the amazing Numero Group? Month after month they keep discovering, and gloriously repackaging, crate finds that are essential puzzle pieces in the evolution of modern music. They seem to have all the bases covered, lost power pop (Yellow Pills), lost femme-folk (Wayfaring Strangers), lost world funk (various Cult Cargo comps.) and the label's biggest undertaking, the Eccentric Soul series.

Numero already unearthed the amazing Capsoul Label (their first release), so who would've thought there was another Columbus imprint that needed digging up? The Prix Label began on 921 E. Broad Street in the now defunct Harmonic Studios. Over a four year span (1969-73) they released only a small handful of singles. Pretty much all of them are compiled here, along with a batch of master tapes found only a year ago at a local estate auction (the owners apparently had no idea what a goldmine they possessed). Of course there is a bit of overlap with Capsoul, session players and band members were an incestuous bunch in the small but vibrant Columbus scene (Marion Ray, a star of Bill Moss' label, also recorded a single for Prix), but that's not to say Prix isn't an entirely unique entity.

For one, they had Eddie Ray, who began in a trio with the legendary Sam and Dave. On "You Got Me" he shines like a legitimate star over a slightly psych soul groove. The album also boasts two tracks from OFS Unlimited, who were precursors to the big-band, multi-cultural, funk sounds of the Ohio Players and Sun. Their "Mystic" is a barreling slice of instrumental jazz blasts and polyrhythm, something that wouldn't be out of place on a Tarrantino soundtrack or necromanced into a Go Team sequence.

Basically, whether you're a fan of lost soul or not, Numero has provided both a rich history few knew existed and another seamless compilation of hidden treasures that would otherwise remain buried.

Meta-Blogging - Read Population : Doug NOW

Father's Day is approaching, and there is no better way to achieve paternal remembrance better than digging into soft-rock. This is in no way designed to steal my brother's thunder, for the letter he received from Gerry Rafferty is essential reading. Yes, Mr. Rafferty was robbed, but so was Gino Vannelli's "Living Inside Myself" (pictured above), and a number of others that I learned about a few months ago over late nights with the Time-Life Classic Soft-Rock Collection infomercial (starring, btw, Air Supply). So, in tribute to Doug's masterwork here's an epilogue of forgotten soft-rock, a mini-mix (for a limited time only) that includes among other things, Benny Mardones' tribute to pedophilia, "Into the Night," which broke the top ten in both 1980 and 1989, and Boz Scagg's classic "Low Down," which should be a staple of sampling hip-hop entrepreneurs for years to come. Let me know what you think.

Beach Talk - The Tree of Snakes Finale?

Despite what you read here, I don't get out of the house much, so making my way down to Bernie's Distillery for Tree of Snake's last show (?) took some finagling, but it soon became commandment. I kinda needed the stench, the glory, the mayhem, of seeing one of the finest bands in Columbus' history say goodbye. Really, F-U-N, is a three-letter word most don't bandy around in normal conversation, at least the purest definition of the word. I can honestly say, that's pretty much all that Tree of Snakes provide. Like our own Ramones. Our own Black Lips, without the pissing in the mouth pretensions (and infinitely catchier, no less). Lessons learned? When life hands you lemons, don't make lemonade, "Grab Another Beer." Nothing comes in handier than a "Trusty Swordfish." And be thankful, no matter what your dead-end job may be, at least you're not an "Alligator Dentist."

I'm no videographer, but this captures the anarchy that prevailed. I've spent many an hour in the decrepit hellhole that is Bernie's, vowing never to return with each visit (the holes in between become longer every time). The whole show I was hoping the crowd would piece by piece destroy this institution once and for all. Joints were passed, bottles broken, kids hanging from the plumbing, naked Jason being naked; Why couldn't we end it right then and there? It would've have been glorious if Bernie's were no more after this night. I don't care who plays there in the future, I'm never going back.

Live at the Troy Strawberry Festival

Festival dois, and oh the drama that occurred at the thirty-first annual Troy Strawberry Festival. Diaper derbies (our ringer failed in his mission, fucking baby), Jimmy Buffet cover bands, hastily assembled arts and crafts, strawberry ribs, salsa, donuts, fried or un-fried, all consumed in under an hour. Luckily the three injured by a lightning bolt were eventually released from the hospital and the Eva Trostle controversy didn't rain on the parade (which I missed btw). More than anything, the fest is a chance to rekindle memories of my youth. I haven't been to one in years, but it's comforting to know that not much has changed, civic pride city-wide. The local color that shaped me is still intact, and the older I get, the more small-town America becomes appealing. Even the town characters that will one day appear in my memoirs are still trolling around; Efrim (the bike-riding, tin-can, collector), Crazy Sherry (the downtown obscenity screaming misanthrope), and of course Dottie (she looked exactly the same 20 years ago when I delivered her paper). Her and the Country Four show no signs of stopping their boot-scooting life of entertaining the village with down-home, fiddle-flavored, versions of "Okie from Muskogee," no matter how lyrics like "We don't get our trips on LSD" make the masses chuckle.

Of This Moment - Ex-Cocaine

By naming their album Esta Guerra (or This War, for English speakers), Missoula, Montana's Ex-Cocaine have crafted a timeless document of protest, even if there's no mention of battle or upheaval, of discontent or revolt. "Protest" because it speaks volumes with few words; the meditative escape of Bryan Ramirez's road-to-nowhere guitar ragas, the let-your-soul-bleed exorcism of Mike C's bongo beats, sound as far removed from the real world, the culture war, the war of rhetoric, that two like-minded psychic warriors could possibly sound in Montana. "Timeless" because Ex-Cocaine's buried ramblings won't truly take hold for another 20 years, even though on first listen you'd swear this was recorded 30 years ago by some Vietnam-defectives, live from a commune in Manitoba.

Warm and analog, these grooves just wouldn't sound proper on disc. Maybe cassette, but it's magnetic tape may need some baking in desert sun. Point being, Ex-Cocaine become most affecting as we reverse everything we know and think about modern music, the more anonymous and mysterious, the more confusing and mind-altering, the BETTER.

Honestly, I have no business tackling an album this deep without absorbing it for hours on end. A bender with the recent Siltbreeze offerings is in order. No one can describe, and reference, these latest releases better than Roland Woodbe himself. He'll start foaming at the mouth about Parameter, Steve Perigrine Took, and Roy Harper (try Stormcock), and you'll start another trip down another rabbit hole, picking through amazing records you never knew existed. Though my bro has a good take on the Pink Reason LP (equally perplexing and amazing as this one), there's a whole new world out there neither of us has tapped into. Think of these albums as dirty bombs, landmines placed over cisterns holding the truth underground. Freedom Rock.

Beach Talk - Moviola

My first encounter with Moviola was over 11 years ago, when I procured a copy of the Frantic EP (on 10" vinyl no less) from Trader Vic's on a tip from Tim Taylor. He gave me the obligatory record clerk logic "If you like Pavement, you'll love these guys from Columbus." That was a spark indeed, a band only 60 miles away that tried to sound like my high school crush.

Long gone are the days when Moviola cribbed from those lo-fi pioneers and dressed up their rustic pop in crusty fuzz and spindly guitars; 'cept for the nostalgic whiff that begins "Hand to Mouth." The quartet's seventh album, Dead Knowledge (on Catbird Records), is "matured" sure, but also the most adventurous, nuanced, and definitive album of their decade plus span, connecting the dots between Big Pink, the Grand Ole' Opry, Haight Asbury, Laurel Canyon, Muscle Shoals, and back to the Iuka Ravine.

By genre-hopping through the annals of Americana, unearthing mothballed memories, local folklore, and instruments from the attic (or the Elida High School Marching Band), Dead Knowledge might resonate as the group's last waltz (sorry, had to say it); the album they've always wanted to make. Recorded among the dollar stacks at the fabled Used Kid's Records, it's a confident and original reflection/mosaic of the heroes (Levon Helm, Neil Young, Bob Dylan) that were staring at their backs from musty, tattered covers. Rather than shunning off influences, Moviola embrace them here, feeding off the spirits that rose from the vinyl graveyard.

Moviola's longevity though, predicts Dead Knowledge is a new awakening, most evident in the rough-hewn, almost lysergic and definitely slow-burning, psychedelia that creeps into the album's first third. "Akron to Oakland" and "Rudy" recall American Beauty-era Grateful Dead, not the hirsute, brown acid, ten-minute jam, you're thinking of, but the adherence to craft and tradition a spry Jerry Garcia twisted into breezy, and equally trippy, little labyrinths. Elsewhere there are hints of bluegrass, "Humility," Tijuana brass, "Knotty Pine," and smoky, juke-joint blues, "Don't I Know," all along the way lined with weeping slide guitars, elegant strings, the occasional Beach Boys harmony, and some of the crunch from their roots for good measure, making for one varied and quite delightful travelogue.