Don't pretend to be something I'm not. Don't go to clubs and know all that much about the electronic "scene." Beyond the rare Diplo show -- and those who surround him, I'm clueless. Looking over the content on Resident Advisor, I'm usually baffled, but blow away by their critical knowledge and comprehensiveness of the electronic music worldview. Pitchfork for higher level thinking perhaps? I do however, hole myself up and enjoy a lot of what I'm hearing in this sphere. Particularly dubstep, I'll even act like I do know something about that. Though I don't. It's splintered in so many directions and strains now, it seems impossible to stay afloat. Night Slugs is a label I adore. Everything that's come from that imprint has been in a steady rotation all year long. But is it dubstep? I hear it called UK Funky, but have no idea what that might be? I'll play completely stupid with Girl Unit, who's what is as incredibly dub, purple, and maximalist as I've heard this sound. Back in the half-decade, there was this thing called Space Disco -- this alienates the disco, goes deep space, and hovers over the dancefloor with chipmunk pop melodies.
I was very excited the other day when I discovered that the most reliable source for news and reviews on Columbus, Ohio pizza culture, had been renewed for a new season of hijinks. Those of you living here -- who have not explored the trials and tribs of the Pizza Slayer crew -- are missing out on this important sociological experiment. Believe me, our city may not be known for our pizza, but we have consistent quality all over town and there is a fierce debate on what's the best. This argument is constantly challenged in the pages of Pizza Slayer. Kind of wishing they branch off their expertise to bars and bistros, a hot dog flame war, or an investigative report on local food carts -- but there's surprisingly enough pizza to go around. Because of them I'm now a fan of the unassuming Northland gem, Terita's. Glad they called out the gladhanding of the Yellow Brick. Ugh.
Another bloggeratti I've been reading for some time, is now on a sociological experiment of a completely different ilk. Rachel Coleman, the author of the delightful Pop Jew in Brooklyn, is currently on the Pop Jew Bus Tour. Huffing it Greyhound style to cities on the mythical dive-bar trail - Detroit, Madison, Chicago, Minneapolis and beyond cross-country -- and reporting her findings of good record stores and better after-hours. She made her first stop in Columbus to witness the Skylab Lock-In (where the bands didn't start till 12 and ended at sunrise I suppose) with Unholy 2, Puffy Areolas (abbreviated), the Cheater Slicks (epic set), Funerals (out of place, but intriguingly dance-able and strange), Fey Gods (underrated electric-scum-rock kings), and Jewell/Burleson (whom I missed). She seems very mobile and complete in her brief visits -- something everyone at one-time or another dreams of doing, but doesn't. Cross-country wanderlust, coupled with PBR tallboys and gnarly music. A good read.
I always wanted to be the kid in this video. A Top Ten '80s pulse. Peter Rafelson, who wrote this, also wrote the previously mentioned Jane Wiedlin hit, "Rush Hour." So it all makes sense.
This is just because....the time is right.....entering the holiday corridor.
Hard to believe I'm just about to vouch for the progeny of William Smith. For a moment, let's survey the career of William Smith. Of course, if I consider myself "old school," which I do (test me), at 12, He's the DJ, I'm the Rapper was a watershed. Though I knew it was comical rap, commercial rap, not nearly as lethal as LL or Kool Moe Dee, it was enjoyable to see "Parents Just Don't Understand" in the ubiquitous spotlight it took hold of. But really, that honeymoon was short-lived. "Summertime" may have been the twilight of the Fresh Prince's career. I'll admit to watching the sitcom -- it was mindless and starred the "rapper." But I think it was Six Degrees of Seperation (I'll give him some acting chops) where his ego may have taken control //// and see Ice Cube //// and his musical endeavors laid bare for all to see. A joke.
Big Willy beget Jayden. Now the Karate Kid and destined for some stroke of stardom. I guess his wife then beget Willow. Yes. Too young for the stage. For the Miley Cyrus cycle. Still "Whip My Hair" is respectable teen pop, and packed with enough beat and pizazz to consider, that if her handlers stay this cutting-edge (yes, a Willow Smith song is cutting-edge) she could become the next Rihanna -- in 10 years. Which, to me, is saying something. "Whip My Hair" is mindless, like her father, sort of confusing, sort of head banging for urban radio, sort of bigger than "Umbrella" at the moment. Just sweet enough though that it's veering closer to Disney Radio than the Top 40 (though as of press time, it's #11 on the charts). Who knows? It's a bit too catchy to actually admit to loving.
Working behind a bar for years, and in an actual brewery, I get the jib from a lot of beer "geeks." More than beer "geeks," I get "hop-heads" these days. So much so I suppose I could call myself one, developing a taste of well-hopped beers -- IPAs and the like. But I'm not a beer "geek." Even though I'm supposed to talk like one. Those guys are like the overzealous weed rah-rahs, who partake in the "culture" of weed and all the tacky accoutrement that comes with it, but maybe even worse -- I'll take a coaster, visit a favorite brewery, but never worry about ABVs or whatevah the fuck. I'm fairly partial to the beer made about 50 feet behind me. Believe in Columbus Brewing Company's IPA -- a stiff competitor against DogfishHead 60 Minute. Of course I'm talking like one. So this won't be a lesson, or a take on notes or aromas, just a list -- since Autumn is the time of year the best beers seem to arrive.
Above is DogfishHead Bitch's Brew -- is this supposed to taste like Miles Davis? I'm not usually into stouts, but here you have a Porter brewed with honey and gesho root. Very intriguing.
Something I've never known about before are Fresh Hopped IPAs. The hometown brewery, Columbus Brewing Company used week old hops to develop Super Fresh H-O-P (now completely unavailable). Much like their IPA, yet mellower. I could probably drink this forever if I had too. I need something not as potent as the originator.
Another bottled brewery favorite has been Lakewood, New York's Southern Tier. They too have made a Harvest Ale, using fresh hops. This is a close second to the CBC, yet hard to find now. Alas.
Any of the Southern Tier catalog is well worth your monies. I'm not partial to Pumpkin Ales, but their Pumking Imperial Pumpkin Ale is a worthy beer. Not a cookie. Then along comes their 2XIPA. I think they want to rob me from Dogfish.
What I can recommend is below. Left Hand Twin Sister IPA tried a bit too hard. Never judge a beer by it's (name and) cover. Told 'ya I'm not a beer "geek."
I've seen Guided By Voices countless times, in countless settings, composed of countless members filling roles. But this was classic. The "band" that made the magic. That I'd seen in supper clubs, arenas, public parks, places as intimate as Canal St. Tavern and a post-office in Tipp City, OH, USA. This night, in 2010, in October, in Columbus, was not an ideal location -- but that is another sub-story, for another time. It couldn't dampen the atmosphere or the songs or the sense of community in the room (people I haven't seen in a decade). Of Bob Pollard's million-strong songbook, he's a master at whittling down a Top 30, a spotless laundry list from that classic era. This would be a setlist most bands from the "era" would kill for on the reunion circuit. Superchunk/Sonic Youth/not even Pavement could match what was heard on this Saturday night. This was a time capsule -- one that I'm content to unearth as frequently as they'd like...and Pollard can keep writing. I've been saying he's in another renaissance and hopefully in his '50s, a renaissance proportional to this classic line-up. I could go into Mitch and Toby (amazing medley there) and Demos and Fennell, but that would only repeat a sentiment I've extolled for years. This was the band.
Thanks again to Mike Sperry - the pro who caught this on tape for all to have. Download the whole show here.
It began to feel like Gustav Ejstes was just going through the motions. The same way those Caravan and Family (and eventually the Groundhogs) albums get progressively more predictable (i.e. worse) as they '70s went dimmer. It's probably because I just wasn't listening soft enough, I wanted skree and fuzz, endless solos and Polaroid resin. Skit I Allt has everything, including the progression, on one platter, and I'm disappointed in myself to cast it off at first listen, as just another Dungen album. With Reine Fiske weaving a heavy load of masterful guitar work, the more Ejstes furthers his compositions towards jazz fusion, the more implicitly psych his songs become.
"Ballor" is a particularly potent nugget. Fresh as morning dew from a fjord, the addition of Anna Jarvinen gives it a Curved Air mystique, a driving piece worthy of "Back Street Luv." There are elements of Soft Machine and Bitche's Brew all over the place. And it's "Soda" that proves they don't have to be "heavy" to be "heavy," as the vibes are sonic "heavy," vintage smoke and wine "heavy." As piano has gained a prominence, the virtuoso riffing comes on all fronts. Ejstes is still repping hip-hop and Aphex Twin, but I hear none of that. This is reel to reel free jam. That's especially true of "Hogdallstoppen," a rightly organic epic face-melter -- which edits in and out of mushroom clouds, flying laughs, and seismic choogle. This is the fantasy marriage of George Martin and Randy Holden.
Beyond the nostalgia/kitsch acquired in a mixtape full of '80s plastic-pop, there's no better way to connect with that nostalgia than through the blatant sampling of hip-hop. Think about the nostalgic burst in Bone Thugz using Phil Collins "Take Me Home" -- Phil's not exactly welcome at any moment, but in the context of a thuggish ruggish introspection, it's perfect, goosebump inducing. Perhaps why I enjoy Droop-E's Black Diamond Life so much, it that there's nothing as obvious as what Droop-E has crafted in this slender eight song mini-album -- made of exclusively Sade samples. When sampling a resource as liberally as Droop-E, it's close to a concept. Songs like "Cherish the Bay" and "Hungry" imagine a Bay Area street-life, taking a night off on the yacht, cruising champagne and blunts, sultry sax and relaxed bongos -- "Smooth Operator" wafting in the background.
While I can't say I've heard much of Droop-E besides Black Diamond Life (which you can download for free here), he's been around the block. As the son of E-40, hence the guest spot, he's appeared on various mixtapes and many of his father's cuts. It's very calculated and very wordquick, extremely similar to Curre$y (talked about previously) -- laconic and mellow. A welcomed foil to samples so blatant and so obvious. Hip-hop producers should do this more often, but for now, Sade is off the table. May I suggest -- The System?
Yes. An Aerosmith song (perhaps the only thing besides It's a Shame About Ray and Ed O.G. and the Bulldogs I like from the city). Could not believe I hadn't heard "Season of Wither" before this seasonal shift, but it fits here. A epic '70s slow-burn, classic in every inch, moody and searing all the same (kinda like Autumn in Ohio). The rest of this culls from that mood - empty John Hughes hallways, roller-rinks in October (they always factor in), another Twin Sister song (cause they exemplify the Fleetwood Mac/Bjork hybrid of my dreams), pure lush and earth-tone warmth. There are a few on here that deserve explanation. International Feel is the closest I've heard of Agitation Free -- and they are native to Punta Del Este, Uruguay (a place to fall in love). There's Winwood and Collins cause my walkmen would've liked this on a paper route -- during the season. And Games? "Strawberry Skies" could be a contender for song of the year.
Please Enjoy. Make sure to download, lay to compact disc, and jam the fall foliage with this one. The Double River Rainbow Mix is no longer on the cloud. Left-click the link for that one. I promise I'll make a page where all of these can reside.
(Download by right-clicking title and "saving file as.")
Balam Acab – “See Birds (Moon)”
Shannon – “Give Me Tonight”
Roxy Music – “Take a Chance With Me”
Twin Sister – “Meet the Frownies”
Steve Winwood – “Talking Back to the Night (Wumme Edit)”
International Feel – “The Coptic Sun”
Deerhunter – “Helicopter (Diplo and Luncie Mix)”
Games – “Strawberry Skies”
Philip Bailey and Phil Collins – “Easy Lover”
Ariel Pink – “Round and Round (Hood Internet Mix)”
Summer Camp – “Round the Moon”
Aerosmith – “Season of Wither”
Not sure why, in the back of my mind, I imagine "No Room to Live" as a comeback. There are circumstances that could suggest such, but that can only be attributed to bad handling of their best album (on all fronts). And, on the blip-a-minute indie-ticker, a song as achieved as "No Room to Live" flies on by in a blink. Right now it just took its maiden voyage playing to fans awaiting Guided By Voices. How appropriate. While one classic takes a final bow, another awakens and arises. Though the kids have never really encountered a slump yet -- all work, all the time, even in smoking cigarettes. Work. This seven-inch, taken on that tour, was unsuspecting, a surprise to any GBV die-hards that may have bought it, and a boon to the kids who came just to see the kids (never lived through the "classic" line-up).
The single is wildly indifferent, but the melody is the most hopeful they've ever written. A white flag with a flower bomb in the back pocket. "No Room to Live" is the closest they've come to the Velvets-Pavement-Clean axis that is usually the unusual way they're usually defined -- that romantic nihilism defined really. You can hear feedback and fuzz sitting back on the bench, arms crossed. The once obfuscated crest of the trio is instead magnified and mellowed here.
"No Interest In Oil Spilling..." is a refrain in this defeated couple's clash, in between yawns of euphoria. If anything the single is a call to attention for those without the retroactive sense to return to Born Again Revisited before moving forward. It will all make sense. Here' to the sweet side.
The b-side, "Nite and Day" comes cut from the quilt of that studio expanse that will inform the upcoming album. The song's a quick punch of typewriter teeter-punk that fizzled enough in the end to be left off, but serves as the perfect foil to "No Room to Live." Evolved art, bristling in nervous energy when they choose to rattle off some thrash. Prepare for this album kids.
Re-examining Crazy For You (perfect title, btw), my foot went directly in mouth. After seeing Bethany Cosentino and Best Coast live, a band crush developed -- foot has been yanked through skull and out the back of my head. It was likely a journalistic grudge that kept me from being smitten. There were weeks spent tracking down America's latest sweetheart too busy for an interview. Her songs are instant hummers, almost too simplistic to commend. Her story -- from mediocre noise troupe to Spector-spit Girl-Group pop, too easy to shoot holes through. So, an interview with America's latest Cali stoner tart would be comprised of questions about week and the Ronettes (or even baser, the Viv' Girls). Mind numbing gnawing you wouldn't want to read for the nth time.
An impromptu "interview" with Cosentino backstage at her recent Columbus show revealed an evolution I didn't expect. She's well aware of the simplicity of it all, how a set is composed in five minutes shuffling around the same 13 songs in a more pleasing manner than the last. I suggested "Bratty B" to lead things off. It's easily Cosentino's most simple ditty, the catchiest thing you don't want to catch yourself singing. It might result in an endless string of rhymes, over and over in your head the day long -- the sign of a wonderful piece of songwriting. Done before? A million times. But having kids in dorm rooms cop your stuff as bohemian acoustic fodder is another level these days.
Who wants to gamble, this song will end up on American Idol this year?
Best Coast's focus, or blurred vision of the classics, is a flawless design. She shimmies and smiles in time with the songs -- her co-writer, Bobb Bruno giving mammoth riff behind her light strumming -- and Ali K. (formerly of the Viv' Girls) plays the role of minimal, shamble-pop drummer to perfection (an indie mercenary/franchise kicker). It's evolution from two years ago -- and you either prefer both (the raucous and wild/the sparkle and sway) or sit cross-armed on one side of the fence. The amount of stranger sweat I was doused in gave me pause to think most kids prefer the sparkle and sway. I enjoy either if it's done right. She's right by me.
Unfortunately the hoopla got in the way of enjoying the revived Strapping Fieldhands. I'm thinking these guys should'a played an early set as well, but the lack of consumption might have dulled them? Stumbling in at their beginning was my end on a school night. I got to see about 10 songs, all pulled from the past, still as obtuse and toppling over with wonderfully antiquated pop. Thanks to the diligent efforts by one Speery, you can relive that entire set RIGHT HERE. They haven't seem to lost a beat, though a vacuum of years have gone by. Witness them doing a personal favorite, "Ben Franklin Airbath" in the year 2010.
Really. Noise has always been noise. A place where you pledge your allegiance to guys/girls/units you've seen in extremely intimate circumstances/in extremely transformative/transcendent conditions, wearing that badge. Here it's a band like Sword Heaven, or a guy like Ryan Jewell. It's evolved. I've forever heard ABOUT Emeralds, but never HEARD ENOUGH of them to truly make even a brief observation. Just noise from a lesser micro-metropolis (in reverse). I suppose that's how Emeralds have evolved, moving from the amorphous "noise" of old into intricate Kraut-excursion, scientifically/technologically modeling their heroes, but going beyond. INC. that "noise" through big sweeps. Well, even the solo stuff has INC. those sweeps. Mark McGuire (not the Card/A 'roider) just made a solo record that eclipses the brilliant neu Emeralds record. Not totally. Just a little thunderstorm under the weight of that mammoth piece of wax. Editions Mego is worth your money. Go Research.
Ended the summer with this. Now it's Indian Summer, and instead of my usual descent into death metal obsessions, I've moved more towards autumnal sophito-pop. Elegant '80s excess (carved in svelte pop songs). Here's to ending the Poolside season with an end of the summer record, an album that plays when it can, poolside at the Country Club pool (thinkin' bout Ivy League, maybe Oxford/Oxfam) and the overhang has about 40% change, causing huge Oak leaves to litter the water. I'm sure if you want this feeling, a John Hughes film (seasonally 16 Candles or Breakfast Club works best) or maybe seeing any prep-school pulp (Never Let Me Go?) will satiate. Bryan Ferry, little did I ever noticed, perpetually this nostalgic aura post-Roxy-weird.
How did I not know about Avalon? I know "More Than This," but always thought it an '80s fluke, a la Godley and Creme's (of 10cc) "Why" -- somewhere among the Roxy Music biography I stopped reading. Perhaps, following ENO (even if I know better/worse). It's never occurred to me that Bryan Ferry was the direct inspiration of the "new romantic" and Avalon was his sincere mock of the whole lot. Avalon may even surpass ABC's Look of Love, except it's glaringly less pompous, not a speck of glitter in sight. Ferry commands it all with a superhuman cool, aware those that still followed him, Andy McKay/Phil Manzanera, survived thanks to telekinesis. There is a strand of this romanticism, sophisto-pop that may or may not be defined by Avalon. A colleague of mine tends to be the foremost scholar on the subject. Read it. Learn. "Oblivious." Jeez.
But on Avalon the horns aren't fake, Mckay implants a smoky/sultry sax in only the necessary folds. Ferry's synths are supreme, second only to his confident-yet-resigned, dramatic-yet-indifferent, croon. His voice invented Martin Fry, invented Spandau Ballet. "Gold" ? Love it. But it's Bryan Ferry turned up to 11. Correct?
Avalon's secret weapon is Manzanera's exquisite guitar playing. His co-writing credit on "Take a Chance With Me" is comparable to the candy-radio-pop of the era and big bright anthems of the decade before from ELO and Fleetwood Mac. When he's called on for airy, watered-in, or flimsy floss work, he performs in the same light as Ferry, like pro, like he invented the guitars that skitter "Perfect Way" and Go West.
I'm now on a search. Thank god Alfred Soto can school you on Roxy. This is some required listening. If you like saxaphones?
Poolside is closed until Spring. Look for Friday Jams.
I know it's late on a Monday night, but I had to go see Wooden Shjips. I saw Wooden Shjips. I love Wooden Shjips. I often say things when I'm "out of mind" like "The Wooden Shjips are America's best psychedelic band" -- cuz they are, and there aren't many truly psychedelic bands anymore in America. Even fewer purely psychedelic bands in Columbus.
They played in CDR's basement. This was the perfect setting. It sounded amazing. But it should. They record a lot of amazing sounding records down there. I hope they burn me a copy of the show. They were recording it. I hope they make a vinyls of the show. They were recording it.
They also recorded the set by Times New Viking. Beer was a $1 and shots were only $2. Not a lot of "columbus" people were there. I've seen the TNV many o' time and I can't honestly say they've ever sounded better than that night. It's nothing "talking," it's not kool aid.
Pretty sure Matt Horseshit played too. Broken-hand blues, by himself, and it was equally as magical. Though the up-lights were on, and those few people were shufflin' in, so you couldn't really concentrate on what he wuz trying to do by him lonesome. I really loved it. It felt like an amazing night then.
I had to leave early Wooden Shjips. Your light show was boss. I wish they'd hung up blacklight posters (no I'm serious). But no one knew, and Columbus did you lousy (don't worry, they don't understand). Come back, and we'll put it in the same place, with the same people, and they'll probably record it again (but I'd love two live Wooden Shjips albums recorded in Columbus), and if it's the same intimate crowd it will persevere, but if we convince 100 more people to come (cause your the best psychedelic band in America) then it will transcend a happening. That's what this felt like. Achieved the mission. A happening. Just wish a lot more people came under the same spell.
For myself, it's a reflex to call Werner Herzog the greatest living artistic mind. I would even base that solely on his work as a documentarian. Be it the language of auctioneers or a frozen pond in remote Siberia -- if the images are there, Herzog can make the story just as illuminating. It's always a portrait of a world you never knew existed. It was always there, but Herzog who brought it from the background. I can highly recommend every one of these you can obtain.
Who knew that the Chauvet-Pont-d'Arc become the subject of Werner Herzog's first 3-D feature? I was practically giddy that Cave of Forgotten Dreams would be his first foray into the medium. For Herzog this seems to make perfect sense. His films are always very abstract pictures, wanting to draw you in to the myth/reality of what you're seeing, rather than spending time validating what you're seeing -- the mark of superior art? Herzog is always a mixed bag when brought up in conversation. You are converted or you aren't. Or you appreciate a handful of things -- Grizzly Man being the most noted. My goodness, Rescue Dawn is a film my parents still confer should have won Oscars when it was released, but I couldn't in good conscience ever tell them to rent My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done -- Herzog's latest flick. While it has the budget, (most of the) cast, and distribution of my favorite of last year, Bad Lieutenant, it moves like an episode of Law and Order hypnotized, much like the actors in Heart of Glass. Like it was made in a weekend. Like I like Herzog, but I'd still not brag about My Son as one of the greats. Still essential if you know the man.
Here's hoping Cave of Forgotten Dreams revolutionizes cinema. School kids will have to see this at Science Centers worldwide -- in 3-D. Teens will get high and watch this at former LazerDomes as Midnight Movies -- when 3-D makes it to those wastelands (do they exist?). You can sit yourself in a once inhabited cave-dwelling, tattooed in ancient diaries of line drawings while on your couch -- once I spring for a 3-D living room experience. In order for 3-D to survive (and I'm a wholehearted rah-rah for 3-D) there will have to be something beyond the gimmick. Movies you'll HAVE to see in 3-D. This should be one of them. All of that said, I fully believe Jackass 3-D will be nothing short of brilliant.
This is perhaps the Quest that took the most courage. Delving through the peaks and valleys of East Price Hill and beyond the Queen Blvd. Parkway. It was actually an amazing cruise through a half-thriving neighborhood and half-American ruins -- magnificent homes, pre-1900s, gone to spoil. I'm imagining places like Cleveland and Cincinnati are only second to Detroit in this display of abandonment?
Once up the actual hill, it was working class, stuck in 1978. There, Price Hill Chili and the adjacent Golden Fleece Lounge (both founded in 1962) looked an neighborhood institution. Both spaces likely overflowing on Friday nights.
We chose to dine in the smaller, "original," parlour. It was your typical counter, some worn booths, a blow-up pic of the Ol' Price Hill incline -- and above all else, it was clean, quick, and friendly (how we like our parlours here). Nothing, besides perhaps Pleasant Ridge, could top the authenticity of this Cincinnati experience. The charm and comfort gives it points on my scorecard. But the chili (where the proof resides) was completely lacking. J. Duane ordered a cup of chili, on the side. This was a strategy I've never exercised and here it fortified my instinct that Price Hill is average. There was really no distinct flavor and the consistency was Skyline style, almost too thin. Still, it wasn't fruitless, as the atmosphere added a bumper of resonance while I'm here thinking back. That stuff counts.
So -- we've got two more quests to go. And since it looks like I'll see at least one playoff game. I'm bound to reach Blue Ash and Empress (where? I don't know? need help here) before we get too deep in autumn.
Regardless of your view of Peter Edward Rose, this hit, 4192, was immortal. Something we will never see again in our lifetime. Something I witnessed at nine years old, when my father had an extra ticket and decided to take his son. I sat with my Uncle Hero, up in the Green Seats in deep centerfield. They always talk about how long the standing ovation lasted (over ten minutes) and I remember it feeling like forever. Even though Riverfront Stadium is long gone, and Pete Rose is shunned from Major League Baseball (gambling had nothing to do with his hits) -- I still regard this as one of the defining moments in my life. It made me love baseball more than most other things. Made it a religion. Devout.
Coincidence and Conspiracy riddle the date. September 11th, 1985. Another shadow that looms over Rose. When I heard MLB was allowing Rose back on a baseball field, to celebrate 25 years later, it was a given that I'd take my father. J. Duane Elliott, for his birthday (September 10th, 2010). He brought me to the games for the last 33 years, so I owed him. I like him much more than Pete. Dad's the real hero.
The anniversary festivities were a bit underwhelming. Pete can walk around an MLB field, but can't speak on one. His taped comments were probably the best part. To hear him advise young players to come clean before the hammer comes down -- it actually humbling. Pete should'a talked way back when. When they would'a just suspended him a season or two, then embrace him back and let him become a legendary manager, with a gamblin' hiccup in his career. Too little, too late, but at least he's telling the Roger Clemens of the game to fess up quick.
Pete circled the Great American Ball Park in a golf cart, stomped on first base, met some old legends (Eric Davis, a childhood favorite), accepted a crystal trophy, and got a few "hall of fame" chants from the surprisingly small crowd (for this event anyways). He'll make it. In his lifetime I hope. In my lifetime I hope. A trip to Cooperstown is necessary. Something I hope my father and I can share -- like this game, like the first game.
Our game? Well, the Reds have been hit or miss as of late, but this night was all about the comeback heroics we've seen all year. Saw the Chapman give up the lead, but pitch a 103 MPH fastball and a 90 MPH slider (thee nasty boy/el muchacho repugnante) and then saw Joey Votto-matic launch an opposite field home run to win the game, break the tie in the bottom of the 10th. On that night, things seemed perfect.
Go watch Anthony Bourdain's episode titled "Heartland." He came to Columbus -- and made some solid observations. Namely Kihachi (the gourmet Japanese chef's meal/small plate smörgåsbord)and now, Clever Crow Pizza are relatively unknown but essential components in Columbus foodie culture. The mackeral liver at Kihachi is proof enough we have some gems here. Another segment in that episode claims Austin, Texas as the food cart capital of the U.S. Seasonally it is an ideal location for the food cart culture -- and furthering that truth I've sampled many of the carts there in my years. Ground zero for Taco Trucks, Korean Tex-Mex, one dedicated entirely to duck, Kebabalicious, the cupcake place, anything BBQ, and worthwhile NY style slices everywhere. Yeah, we should be jealous of Austin.
But should we? When we now have the Foodie Cart to brag about? The Foodie Cart trumps all in Columbus. Every other cart in this city is relatively worthless in comparison. They shill Japanese Crepes -- though many a Korean recipe slips in regularly. My first visit was heaven. Swordfish with Black Mussel Marinara and Oyako Chicken (which means mother and child, egg and chicken I learned). In future quests the menu revealed many gourmet surprises -- here's just a sampling:
Ancho Chipotle Chili Dog
Dry Curry Ground Beef
The now Legendary Bulgogi Cheesesteak
Miso Pork Belly
Yes. Pork Belly in a sweet, delicate crepe. It works. Bourdain would be proud/dumbfounded that this existed on a High Street sidewalk. I've yet to try the dessert crepes but they boast a pretty mean Banana Cream Crepe and the infamous Azuki Stick (?). Any suggestions are welcome. Plus they scoot around all over town, which adds to the reward of obtaining these goodies. Following them on Facebook to find menus and locations is now a rite of passage.
Update: just had a craving and seeked them out. Had the very popular Bacon Okonomi Yuki (a recipe with fried soba noodles and a egg) and the Azuki Stick -- which is a sweet red bean paste, similar on my tongue to guava, topped with strawberries and fresh mozzarella cheese. Believe.
Seems like I've had myraid opporunities to see Blue Oyster Cult live over my lifetime. Who knows if I didn't see them in some field circa 1978 and the parents don't remember. It's possible. They've been playing in fields and arenas and stadiums and gymnasiums (and likely a ton of biker bars) since 1968. It's a wonder that in 2010, Eric Bloom and Buck Dharma -- the guitar wizards (twin leads second to only Thin Lizzy) who invented the Cult, still play the lead. And play it with a everlasting fervor. I'm sure it was face-melting during the Tyranny and Mutation tour -- it wasn't here. I'm sure it was fist-pumping "Heavy Metal Parking Lot" in the Summer of 1981, with "Burning for You" on the radio -- waiting outside Hara Arena -- it wasn't here. But they played everything and more, with utmost precision and clarity (a few steps slower maybe, not during "Buck's Boogie"). "Hot Rails to Hell," "The Red and the Black," the hits. Funny it felt like at this, the Obetz Zuchinni Festival, next to a dirt-weed race-track, grease carts and life-threatening midway rides, out on the ball diamond, these legends could get a response with instrumental songs with eight minute solos. In Obetz, and I suppose most of middle America -- "Godzilla" appears to be the biggest hit (though "Burnin" reached 4 on the charts), lots of Godzilla cut-outs for $2 at Wal-Mart in the new millenium and no "time to play b-sides." I truly appreciate their penchant to channel the old version of this band, but honestly, now, even with families around, airbourne cold sores, meth heads in sweat pants, and heavy cops, the band doesn't look or sound that far removed from that past. Burn out the day, burn out the night.
