Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago

Every year there are endless discussions on the perfect autumn record or the quintessential summer jam, rarely does the conversation center on winter. Usually the amniotic waves of a shoegaze epic (Ride’s Nowhere, the Verve’s A Storm in Heaven) or a bleak collection of outsider folk (Smog’s Wild Love, Comus First Utterance) succeed in thawing or fortifying icicles in the soul (depends on the preference).

Recorded during a harsh Wisconsin winter, wide-released in the midst of a disheartening Ohio winter, and taking his name from the (misspelled) French for “good winter,” Justin Vernon or Bon Iver began his debut For Emma, Forever Ago as an isolated acoustic exorcism and emerged three months later with an album of near celestial enlightenment. At first glance Vernon could easily be lumped in with the bearded, given the limitations he set for himself it feels like a low-key session but quickly becomes sonically gorgeous. The falsetto that lifts “Flume” is surgeon pure(for example) as if engineered by the omniscient ghost in the room – capturing Vernon’s breaths turned to frost, his ribs contracting for heavy pauses. These are the primal nuances the listener never sees in a song; on something like the haunting gold of “Skinny Love” even the negative space is transformative punctuation.

At the album’s middle “Blindsided” is met with micro-electronics that never crowd the minimal grace, allowing Vernon to record a chorus of himself without overwhelming the intimate confession. That clarity builds into “Creature Fear,” the compounded beauty of both his rustic earnest and the peaceful ambiance he was hoping to achieve.

Winter albums, I conclude, require both comfortable submission and deep concentration, lucid transparency and hidden charm. For Emma, Forever Ago is a diary of cold hands, connecting with a clear moon, and bursting with quiet sparks in the snow.

"Skinny Love"

Comments must include favorite winter album.

Givng into the (Television) Ghost

One must first realize Television Ghost are nearly Beach adoptees, playing the Boo Boo regularly and sniffing down the same pipeline with "the kids" (this new 12" boasts Matt Horseshit on boards at the Self-Esteem Studios and Kevin Failure as lone thanks), so they've got the chops to respectably vamp on the Pink Psychedelic Viking playbook. This is corrosive through and through, without any sunshine -- doused in gristle and division. Could be shitpop, but better known as loner punk with a scatterbrained, playful mindset.

When my brain bloods peak "Nodoz" and "Babel" cavort around Wire riffs with two left feet and three gnarly strings. "The Amputee" is time you'll never get back -- a modern reference might be the Chromatics Chrome Rats phase -- clunky, craggy notes strewn into a dank practice space. It all concludes with the giant "Long Talk," a locked sin-wave raped and pillaged with static beats and sexual frustration. WTF was Doug Mosurak thinking? (The same thing I was?) This kind of psyche-fuc and dis ordinance is exactly the reason I'll be spending plenty of sunshine in the cavern of Beerland.

Ode to Bobby Trimble

If time allowed there would be adequate reviews of both Iron Curtain Innocence and Harvest of Dreams, but this is a plea to the public, to the organizers of the Secretly Canadian/Jagjaguwar/Dead Oceans showcase at SXSW. Please talk Mr. Bobb Trimble out of retirement (again if you count the one-off in November 2007). Discovering these two gems is another touchstone in my continuing journey obsessing over music. Imagine T. Rex or Roky Erickson being influenced by the Wizard of Oz and General Mills more than booze and horror. At the Freak Scene (covered in red carpet and wood paneling), where I've spent most of my time with these records is the perfect environment for his dreamy, woozy, desperate weeps. Heady and Airy equivalent.

I've seen Roky avoid total breakdown and comeback sounding like 1969, forget hermitage Mr. Trimble and show the crowds you made timeless music. So...I'm reserving myself to get mushy and completely under the skin of his work, and giving a heads up to those writers with better vocabularies to expound about Secretly Canadian's smart move in re-releasing him unto the world. A mob will eventually rule. We need more info on his backing band the Kidds (composed of actual kids) and the Crippled Dog Band (who recorded at least an album?) and whatever might be lurking in Trimble's archives. The mob will eventually rule.

"One Mile From Heaven"

"Premonitions -
The Fantasy"

Ain't A Damn Thang Changed

WC's oft-overlooked career in hip-hop began as half of Low Profile, who in 1990 were a upstart duo on Priority Records laying the foundation for the West Coast G-Funk era. Dr. Dre may be credited with inventing the genre, but Low Pro, and in particular WC's follow-up supergroup, the Maad Circle (Minority Alliance of Anti-Discrimination), were responsible for planting the seed. But where The Chronic and Snoop's solo debut typically glorified the gansta' lifestyle, the Maad Circle wrote from the perspective of former bangers telling their tales and the roadblocks involved in escaping that cycle. Certainly Ain't a Damn Thing Changed is rife with South Central L.A. - Blood vs. Crips imagery, but on the whole, songs like "Fuck My Daddy" and "Out on a Furlough" are socially conscious, as there's an underlying message in each. Stories of police brutality (keep in mind this was pre-Rodney King), absence of patriarchal figures in the ghetto, selling out, the ease of getting sucked back into the hustle when trying to follow the "straight and narrow," all get intertwined into what is a deep and sonically fluid narrative. While not exactly a concept record, the singular concepts easily conjure the harsh reality the 90's had to offer aspiring West Coast rappers.

Perhaps the true godfather of G-Funk is producer Sir Jinx (best known as the man behind Ice Cube's stellar trio of solo records post-N.W.A.) who here did his best to present a Left Coast version of the Bomb Squad, instead of cathartic edits and militant black samples he presented a smooth blend of late 70's funk, humorous skits that do little to detour the and most evident, the album's hypnotic, low-rider beats. In addition the Maad Circle boasted a young, hungry, and most of all talented Coolio along with DJ Crazy Toons (Cube's cousin) a turntable master to be reckoned with (check "Get Up on that Funk" for proof).

At the center though was WC, and while this group debut is an underrated (and mostly unheard and out of print) classic, his terse yet fatherly cadence has been mis-used in his career post-Maad Circle. On this record you feel his life story unfold before you, given with a voice that barely has time to regret but does, barely has time to attack but does, and barely realizes how vital his foreboding might become in the future but there's a slight confidence here that suggests he does. And I suppose that's where this column comes in. Find this tape by any means necessary -- WC was no soothsayer, nor the black CNN of the time (that title went to Chuck D, KRS-One, and Ice Cube), more a regular cog stuck in the ills of his community and calmly warning of the apocalypse that may result from continuing such behavior.

On a lighter note, he went on to create typical, streamlined, G-Funk with Westside Connection, but returned artistically with the amusing Ghetto Heisman.

The Kids are (Still) High (and Doing Alright)

Dear Blog,

You've been suffering from neglect. For that I apologize. Maybe the new job and the 70 hour work week is to blame, coupled with late nights scouring debate clips and finally diggin into the Japrocksampler (full report when I'm finished)....but dispatches from the road report the kids are alright on their magical mystery tour with the Super Furry Animals. Though Ron House's claim that they are my favorite band of all time is false, they are one of the most underrated and shape-shifting pop groups of the last 20 years. A live band that goes for spectacle and quadrophonic experience, with a catalog of gems to accent such grandiosity. Always steps ahead visually and sonically (check the Rings Around the World DVD) the trip-happy psych-lads from Wales have few peers.

Case in point, the low-key, doom/hope parallel on the mostly acoustic MNWG, their virtually long-lost Welsh-language album. I've often ranked RATW as their greatest triumph -- but MNWG has soaked in proper over the years, a profound enigma in black and white that perfectly contrasts a career of over-the-top technicolor. Only now have I started researching the lyrics' translations in English, btw they can be found here. Good luck in hunting this one down (as Flydadddy Records is no longer a label).

Here hoping this travelling imagination factory rubs off on the TNV camp.



"Hometown Unicorn" from the album Fuzzy Logic.

The Necropolis Stopgap

On "Song for a Working Man" the follow-up to last year's excellent Stupf 7", the Necropolis quintet solidify their presence as the nerviest band on the beach -- it's altogether hyper-kinetic, hyper-atmospheric, stabbing through speakers, plenty of gray nail on bleach white bone. Not proverbial nails on chalkboard, but iron screeching while digging into skin. Before the song comes to a blackout ending Bo and Emily Davis' yelps morse-code out a tinny, addictive din resembling tuneful pop mangled and frayed.

The b-side "Cocksuckerbastardmotherfucker" however, turns the dials backwards, mutating through innovative regression. There are circuits bursting and imploding, guitars strangled, casio-blurts stretched to amorphous lifeforms of their own, all dragged to bear witness to this sludgy punk (beautiful) mess.

Basically, anything stamped with the CDR imprint is vital stuff these days.

There's a Little Oberst in Icarus Himself

I must have a caucus of readership in Madison, WI, as a bulk of the discs I get sent to me are coming from the region. The National Beekeepers Society and Pale Young Gentlemen are sure to garner some national attention in the coming year. As for Icarus Himself, the solo project of NBS's Nick Whetro, persistence is key -- keep wallowing into the piano sir, and you'll soon find your voice. This first contact shows that Conor Oberst has direct control over youth like Nick. Mr. Whetro is quite adventurous in his own right, but seems to have taken buckshot from Bright Eyes' 360 degree skeet-shot over anywhere within 500 miles of his Great Plains center in Omaha.

"I lost my smile/In a 3rd World War" -- something resembling Pink Reason timid and frail before the prom. Whatever "Youth in Asia" is trying to exact, he's questioning the administration, the status quo, the stagnancy, as best he can. It's minimal goodness emotive enough with piano and space to keep me wanting more. Ain't no Xiu Xiu at least.

The Smoke and Mirrors of Birds of Maya

I'll happily sign on to anything described as "a G.G. Allin demo played through a megaphone" or "the heaviest album to ever come out of Philadelphia," two claims made by Birds of Maya, the latest band to be added to an increasingly eclectic Holy Mountain roster.

My bro took one listen and declared that he hates the blooze -- honestly though, who doesn't if you don't got 'em? This is deconstruction blues, a kind of revisionist celebration, scraping any regard to fidelity and recording the whole shebang in one blurry take. I'd hate to see the room after the smoke had cleared from this session. Vol. 1 is an album for weekend binges, caked in the resin of choogling guitars , screech and static. I went on to remind my brother that he had a few Groundhogs records in his collection and that Tony McPhee lived by the gospel of blues, he just distorted it in lengthy jams, ratcheted up the psych, and set the world free (please investigate).

Vol. 1 possesses many of the same qualities as the groundbreaking (no pun intended) Split LP, I wouldn't be at all surprised to find a cover of "Cherry Red" somewhere in their repertoire. These are guys that ape blues riffs as a necessity, the same way label-mates Wooden Shjips ape kraut riffs. These are guys that appreciate Danzig and Thin Lizzy, doods that have shared stages with Blue Cheer, Bardo Pond, LSD March as a gesture of thanks and devotion. Put down your guard and let it all settle in, five minutes into "Ancient Withes Rise" and you'll see what I'm oggling -- plenty of abstract pathways marched upon, plenty of buzzy creaks and cracks, a toxic miasma of black and white.

For those looking for the polar opposite to the cleaner, yawn inducing, misstep of Dead Meadow's latest Old Growth or the indulgent sputtering of Black Mountain's In the Future, this may just be your salvation. Nothing fancy, nothing unique, simply proto-metal blooze psych done exactly right.

"The Whole World Should Stop When I Bleed"

I was feeling nostalgic in my old age, thinking fondly of the teenage years on Brown St. -- Hence, new section. It's easy to pluck out the Amps LP or Alien Lanes, Brainiac or vintage Swearing at Motorists for a fix, but I really wanted to dig deeper. I'm looking for the quirky buzz of Cage, dirt-weed grunge mantras from Scorched Earth Policy, Candyass, Haunting Souls, Omatic, Real Lulu - the list is relatively endless. I'm so far removed from my collection of Dayton vinyl (where is it?) that I can't even find my Mercury Pusher (the band I really wanted to hear at the moment). They played spastic garage rock long before it was fashionable (now a commodity) -- four maniacs capsizing any ship that would have them. I did find some splinters of the MP in my copy of the Fakey Vampires EP Administer the Loving Touch (Olive 2001).

The band was stripped to Dan Corcoran and Xtian Spencer on guitar and drums respectively. I remember this coming in the peak of underground love for the White Stripes and the somewhat humble beginnings of the Strokes (there was a time when they just had that brilliant 7"). There's that spirit lurking at the heart of the recordings, barreling along a gravel road that runs through the factory carcass and trash dumps of Dayton, OH (a miniature Detroit and on the pipeline of I-75). Not so much blue-collar hollerin', the duo are from my knowledge are quite educated/intelligent, aware of the history involved, but also inclined to just let fat, numbing, riffs do most of the talking. It certainly sounds of the time, piquing my interest for those elusive Mercury Pusher archives even more.



In my quest for Brown St. I've already come across some extremely informative blogs of Daytonian nostalgia. Try The Buddha Den or I Remember Dayton.

Obama or Bust

Not sure if an endorsement from the World of Wumme will help him, but he's obviously the only candidate that gives any hope of ripping things up to start again. Barack Obama is certain to have the support of the "romantic nihilists" throughout the country. I'm just saying -- have you seen this guy give a speech yet? -- I'm just saying.

Guinea Worms Appreciation Week

The apex of Guinea Worms January re-birth was certainly the packed, Bobo boogie night with Detroit's Tyvek. Wil Foster was a fierce, determined frontman, especially when casting out his new defining mantra, "Box of Records", making it truth (w. Rep in tow) as the band pushed the club's sonics into the maroon.

I was provoked this weekend for the Nth time to bust open my vault of GW relics (cleverly titled CD-RS and on the cheap paper singles). It's very tempting to petition Columbus Discount into giving the green light and allowing Foster free reign over a whirlwind retrospective or better yet allowing the current incarnate have their way over a full slab of vinyl.

Here's a track from what I've dubbed the Goblet EP. "Drunk on the Plane" is from the whiskey influenced Wagner-Dancey days, all loose n' wiggly -- urgent n' wicked.

The Rise and Fall and Rise of Scat Records

"Save a spot for us, Right behind the Pretty Things."

That line from Prisonshake's recently released "Cut-Out Bin" 7" pretty much sums up the legacy of Robert Griffin, his band, and his empire, Scat Records. I'd love a tell-all from the guy -- Were Guided By Voices the doing and undoing of the label? Why so long between Prisonshake releases? Why the eventual move to St. Louis? Is Damon Che as much of an asshole as they say?

Scat can be ranked alongside Siltbreeze as a 90's harbinger of lo-fi and the DIY spirit (or avant can also = pop). Griffin was responsible for the resurrection of the 70's Cleveland punk scene (with the Those Were Different Times comp.), wonky pop from Franklin Bruno, pre-Smog outsider folk from A Bullet for Fidel, sprawling, unheard, guitar masterstrokes from Thee Speaking Canaries...and of course he was the man who took a chance on Vampire on Titus and a little record called Bee Thousand. After that the catalog gets kinda' cagey, if only because the gems start coming few and far between, though we do get an essential Mice re-issue around SCAT65.

As far as I can tell Prisonshake haven't released a proper record in 15 years. The Nice Price EP, which showcases "Cut-Out Bin" doesn't completely make up for lost time, it does however contain enough acerbic venom and Lake Erie art-skronk to justify there's no need for Griffin to pack it in. He's got a good grasp still on the vision of his band and where he places among the current underground. It might be a bit crankier, more lucid and less stoned (mature?) -- but the sound that he grew up with followed him down to Missouri. There's promise of a double LP in June, hopefully not a record full of "Song 3 Side 2," still Scat needs to be propped back up in its own right, and a monster Prisonshake statement is the perfect place to start.

Times New Viking vs. the Endless Groove

It's been a pleasure and a privilege to share DNA with the drummer from Times New Viking this past week. The media blitz has made me a giddy fanboy and proud brother. Rip it Off will prolly garner a Metacritic rating over 90% as critics and bloggeratti alike lauded the album's pop virtues. It pains me that I can't take the time to review such an incredible step forward for the band, but I'm likely to be the slightest bit biased. Doug has an exhausting list of links to prove my point. Let me add one more from People with Animal Heads (an excellent daily read, btw), and while this is not exactly an article specifically regarding TNV, it's interesting nonetheless. There's really little for me left to say, and what I can and will say is strictly indie-rock Nostradamus-esque hyperbole -- like it or not Times New Viking are the harbingers of the Shitpop (edit: excuse me, Shitgaze) Revolution. And by Revolution I'm speaking of a giant cultural shift that 's about to take place, of which TNV's trademark sound will remain at the forefront. Believe it.

I would however like to comment on my favorite song (at least in the present) "Relevant:Now," the mammoth (in Viking vernacular) mountain of fuzzy riffs and tortured strings (courtesy of C. Spencer Yeh) that ends side one. If you own the vinyl (trust me, it's worth owning) you'll notice it falls into a locked groove -- which potentially means this thirty-one minute record could go on forever if you want it to. Sure it's a novelty, but here it takes on new life as a chain between the trio's noble aesthetic experiments and their penchant to alchemize noise into pop. I've done a little trolling to find similar albums that contain the endless groove and so far have only found 2 -- Brian Eno's Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) and Lindsey Buckingham's oft-overlooked solo outing Go Insane. I'm sure there are plenty more, so I ask readers (all three of you) to help in my quest and here compile a list of any others you know of or find through freak accident.

R.I.P. Clancey Elliott 1992-2008

Clancey's the one on the right. My dog, Mooch is sticking his tongue out in awe of his uncle's infinite wisdom. Didn't Edie Brickell sing something about how religion is the "smile on a dog"? I'll miss this guy.

All the Way with Tommy Jay

!!! Columbus Discount Begin Their Campaign for 2008 with 3 New Releases !!!

The real treasure of this recent batch is the re-issue of Tommy Jay's Tall Tales of Trauma -- originally released as an Old Age/No Age cassette in 1986 it's been generally unheard, ignored, and somewhat lost in the shuffle until the kids from Waverly so graciously unearthed it.

Tommy Jay has always been in the mix -- writing songs and playing drums for the Quotas or the True Believers farther back, collaborating on a number of Nudge Squidfish self-releases -- but even as an equal in the now legendary Ego Summit, his contemporaries main projects (V-3, TJSA, Bassholes) out shined Jay's dark horse status. Only now does one realize that his "Novocaine" was the fulcrum of the entire project. He was the poignant, coherent, folkie among a barn full of well-medicated genius.

The balance between these crisp psych-folk nuggets and direct contact with the lunatic fringe (be it "little black jelly beans," blotter, and blue oyster cults) make Tall Tales a rewarding time warp through twelve years of Central Ohio lore. In the record's earliest documents (circa '74, Timberlake) the Velvet's influence is obvious, not just on the cover of "Ocean" but also in "I Was There," a jangly, kaleidoscope of bittersweet pop that never edits his repeated guitar freak-outs. Into the 80's the specter of Lou Reed (or perhaps more referentially precise, the echoes of Mayo Thompson) loomed large in Jay's voice, phrasing, and tragic moods evoked, still the mysticism of Harrisburg is the overwhelming resonate. May I be crucified for such statement, but Tall Tales is infinitely more colorful and strange than any Reed solo venture (save Berlin), because it's the quirky folk record Reed never made. It tip-toes around Indian burial grounds, abuses cheap-drug in dingy basements, chronicles the lives of gypsies, tramps, thieves, murderers, the village idiot and the quintessential anti-hero in all of us (who may or may not still live on Weber Rd.)

Back to that lunatic fringe -- the cast of characters Jay surrounded himself with give the songs their creepy (and often beautiful) skin. Squid's pedal-steel synth on "Memories" transforms it into dim-lit neon honky-tonk or the flute and harmony provided by Jennifer Eling and Mike Rep respectively on the Joni Mitchell cover "Dreamland" is the closest thing to Laurel Canyon sunshine these ears have heard in the Columbus pantheon.

But the star here is Tommy Jay and his paradox sparring a warped ideal of weird America ("Last Hurrah," "Fear of Shadows," "The Bugmen") against a couple shots at cult eternity (in the straight-faced demeanor of "Old Hemingway" or the heart-felt "Lust, Honor and Love") is truly an emotional and sonic blur which always makes for the world's most cherished and puzzling musiques. Treasure indeed.

In Honor of the King

Skullfucking with Prosanctus Inferi

Chrome Leaf has always been a main contributor to the thriving local metal scene, even though their catalog is scant. Being the guys who put out Deadsea's brilliant Desiderata is enough clout in my book. They could shut the door tomorrow and I'd be appeased. Thankfully they're promising greater happenings in 2008, branching out worldwide with a release from Australia's Portal and an upcoming LP of "armegeddon necrokang diy hardcore punk" from Black Dove -- much, much to look forward to. But for now the order of the day is this creepily incredible one-sided long player from Prosanctus Inferi. Sacreligious Desecration in Excelsis from all the research on the band that I can gather, is a demo, but should not be treated as such. This is bludgeoning. I've not spent much time in the black metal underground, but I can fairly say this is inventive and brutal, something I'm physically scarred to put on some nights. The ultra-cryptic liner notes provide enough mystery, I'm not sure if I need a proper bio.

"Ejaculated on 12.25.06 in utter mockery for divine procreation by a harlot, in a barn, amongst beasts of burden."

Could it be from Trondheim, Helsinki, Antwerp....heck I'd even guess San Fran since the guys at Aquarius Records have made it the make-shift black metal capital of the world. They green-light any record with an illegible logo and a Scandinavian address. But this is from Columbus by way of Zanesville (a quaint, working-class, panoramic town covered in soot), and there the sediment of the Muskingum River that runs through it must be as thick as the smoke of a burning Christian church.

Like fellow labelmates Deadsea, the duo of J. Kohn ("infester of sacred dream and voice") and S. Mercer ("martial marriage of cruciated vanquish") formerly of Vomitrocity, are a metal bouillabaise. Death, grind, speed, a bit of unwanted but necessary hick Pantera obsession, all presented in a quick, seamless, punishing fury. It's all intercut with bells from a Catholic mass and Gregorian chants, and a deep appreciation of the classics, be it Deicide, Morbid Angel, Napalm Death, or Venom. In moments it might even go beyond that. How serious they are about their Satanic claims? Who knows, but who cares? I'm just preparing my skull for two sides from this crew. Advance to Morrisound Studios, collect total fucking destruction.

There were only 100 of these beauts pressed and rumour has it they're just about gone. Get one while you still can. This is essential soul crushing vinyl.

The Year in Beach Talk

If you've read even an inch of my personal spew on W.O.W. you know it's been a bountiful year for local music along our concrete shoreline. 2007 was as diverse, enlightening, and nationally heard as any year I can remember ('95-Present). Of course I wasn't around for the Pica Huss years, but I had the shitty demo tape while living in Troy. I tried to get out as much as possible (harder now with a mortgage in Lil' Vegas), but thankfully the kids keep churning out piles of thoughtful vinyl to keep me company till 3 a.m. Facing facts, what shall forever be known as the "preemptive Spin Magazine trifecta," was the be-all end-all. There's a reason Times New Viking, Psychedelic Horseshit, and the Black Swans got there first -- they all made wonderful fucking records. So that's one, two, and three.

Let's end rank there. Everything else isn't lesser by any stretch, just loved in different ways. Believe me or countless others taking notice, the beach is spreading (now all the way down to Rontown).


Moviola made arguably the best record of their career drifting through a portal of Modern/Aoxomoxoa freakness without ever sacrificing the mature grandiosity of the recording process or the humbleness of the songwriting. Dead Knowledge is an album indelibly Classic on first listen. Meanwhile Deadsea's Rising is the fiercest offering from Adam Smith's death squad without penance towards his band's enigmatic quest. In other words, formidable local monsters are constantly evolving.

Though I'm compelled by The Casualties of Happiness and Entrance respectively, both Hugs and Kisses and Sword Heaven are best served live. One completely nostalgic and absurd, the other beastructive and enthralling. It's comforting there are now tangible documents of both. DVDs?

Look what the rookie did/// RTFO Bandwagon made the make-shift folk-punk album of the year in Flagships, but I've yet to see them play without reminding me of keggers on 15th Ave. I heard they might have imploded? I sure hope not.


Which leaves us right back where we began the year...it wouldn't be full circle without another mention of the (what's now becoming annual) January Surprise Columbus Discount Records singles dump. My brother re-iterated the fact with his excellent year-end singles list (maybe we'll join forces soon for a megablog, who knows), but I had to re-enforce getting right with the Magic Jesus and their brilliant little Funeral Home Session/Abracadabra 7". This chunk continues to puzzle, wound, slash und burn, and smoke-out any semblance of of reality in the room. Could be subtitled "Columbus Drug Experience - The Ride" or could be held as the purest form of "real" "true" "disturbing" psychedelia this town has seen in a long, long, while.
Just wait until '08. Methinks CDR is campaigning quite early.

Live from Maid-Rite

I'll admit the notion of a "loose-meat" sandwich doesn't sound too appetizing (imagine a sloppy joe without the tomato slop), but when it's simply called a Maid-Rite my mouth actually starts to droll now. I've always known of the tiny Maid-Rite diner nestled in the rolling farm community of Greenville, OH (home of Annie Oakley, Kitchen-Aid, the immortal Darke County Fair), I've just never known the history behind the place. Founded in Urbandale, Iowa in 1926 (the first car-hop restaurant in the country), president Fred Angell went on to start only 4 original franchises before selling the brand. Greenville's quaint dive is one of those four. Why? That's one of the mysteries I've yet to solve. What's a "Green Wave" represent? Water or Wheat? Why is the only thing you can order in addition to your Maid-Rite or Cheese-Rite Mike Sells potato chips and mini-bottles of Little Kings Cream Ale? Why didn't they sell off the place when the chain went big-time?

I hadn't had a Maid-Rite in over a decade, but they're more than worth the 45 minute drive to nowhere (actually minutes from the Indiana border, likely why the town was painted in Pacer's gold and blue) and the additional 45 minute wait to get our order. There is usually a line out the door and a row of cars around the block -- and of course a brick wall filled with other people's gum (just stick it and shut-up about it). Basically the Maid-Rite is a smallish sandwich (slightly bigger than a slider) on a sweet, unadorned bun. Inside is the aforementioned loose-meat (seasoned with a secret recipe -- possibly cinammon), pickle, onion, and mustard. It's easy to eat four or five of these with feelings of guilt and grease minimal. The smell stays around for a while, though after you've finished it's almost a welcomed scent. There's certainly a lot of planning and time invested in obtaining the sacred burger, then again Roseanne Barr would fly in specifically to get these things, so a relaxing cruise through Midwestern Ohio is minor for the prize involved.

The Albums of 2007 You May Have Missed

Manishevitz - East to East (Catbird)

I always thought these Chicagoans, Jajaguwar free-agents, were some minimal slo-core bore, without ever bothering to listen. I was wrong, very wrong. East to East is late-night decadence served elegant and quirky similar to Roxy Music and the Contortions. Even the ever-present sax here, which veers between smooth jazz and Morphine, fits properly into the landscape. Their back catalog is well worth a trip to the bins.


Reports - Mosquito Nets (Paper Cities)

This is one of those modest yet adventurous small-press records you mistakenly stumble upon. Full of scruffy tuneful moments barbed like Polvo and at times wide screened into grand distorted fits. Matches well with Columbus' current crop of "Shitpop" revolutionists.





Deathspell Omega - Fas (Norma Evangelium Diaboli)

The bulk of my metal listening came from Guitar Hero ashamedly, but I also think that's indicative of the genre possibly reaching a threshold. Still, I'm constantly digging deeper to find the most bludgeoning and imaginative albums I can find and these Frenchmen fail to disappoint. Fas is simply bizarre -- heart of darkness black metal filled with woozy, distant acoustic passages and plenty of earthy production tricks. Evil fucking Evil.




Britney Spears - Blackout (Jive)

Yes. I'm serious. Dead serious. Most probably never gave this a chance. This is candy, purely, but candy you can't stop craving. Tantric Future-Funk that allows her producers to vie for Timbaland's throne -- she's just a perfectly robotic/psychotic conduit. The slowly leaked, unpolished demos are even better. Sure to be a cult hit years from now. At least the guy on NPR agreed with me.




David Vandervelde - The Moonstation House Band (Secretly Canadian)

Goodness gracious T. Rex. Have your Devendra (though he's valiantly trying to channel Brazil now, Smoky was a bit tedious) I'll take this slow-burning, psychedelic folk prodigy. When I'm "in the mood" this is the perfect John Cougar Donovan album.





Super Furry Animals - Hey Venus (Rough Trade)

I wouldn't blame the world for judging this one by the cover. Hey Venus has kind of shaken up the entire graphic aesthetic of why SFA are so intriguing. Sad because this might be their best since Rings Around the World as it's as brilliant a batch of pop songs as Gruff and Co. have ever written. A nice companion to his also unheard solo album, Candylion. More and more I'm beginning to think Super Furry Animals are the most severely underrated band of their time.