Steady Dollars

I've been listening, against my better judgement, to the new Pink Mountaintops (entitled 'Axis of Evol') a lot lately. McBean is still on the same Canned-Heat-eating binge. The album sports his seal of fuzzy and dingy basement jam sounds, but this time around I find it's bereft of anything unique or inspired. In all honesty it sounds cheap and lazy to me. The tracks never really build beyond their simplistic beginnings and although he has stretched his lyrical depth to cover more than PMt's usual "getting laid" theme, the end product is sadly weak. Comas, the albums opener, if glanced at as just a nice singer/songwriter piece, is really the only track I found satisfying. The album art might recover some credibility but on the whole I venture to say "booooring."

BIO

Also, I just got a hold of the new Van Morrison, it's kind of wanky and smacks of memphis.

'Dats all.

This one, my friends, will be somewhat long and at times self indulgent (for me only) so carry on only if you have the time (I won't be openly hurt if you don't).

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I'm done. It's over. No more school for a few weeks. Climax? Meh.

I'm now free to hang, call me and let me love your company.

I was breezing Dusted's List(ed) for this week and I came across a website "holla-atcha" in Joel from big bear's 8 picks. This site allegedly allows you to "enter a band that you like and it plays a song by that band and then plays songs by other similar artists that you may enjoy, but probably haven't heard of. You can set up, like, a hundred different channels or so. The super awesome thing is, if they play a song that (a) you don't like or (b) you feel doesn't belong on that channel, you can mark it and they'll never play it again." I haven't had a chance to diddle with it yet as I'm currently at work (get your ass in gear Saelen) but this sounds purdy-neat. Give 'er a look-see.

Goodness, the new Harry Potter kicked the shit outta me. I didn't expect it to be so good.

I got 4 OINK Invites. I'm just givin'em away. Tell your friends and your dad.

Max and I watched two interesting films the other night.

The First,



"Aaltra" (Black & White)
A shockingly dark and ironic french comedy about two curmudgeon neighbours ("neighbour"-for lack of a better word; their relationship is hazy) who get paralyzed by a grain auger and go on a parasitic road-trip to Finland to get a settlement from the makers of the machine (Aaltra) that turned them into paraplegics. The movie is filled with long, sweeping, establishing shots that stunt the pace, (slowing it down as the character's lives are slowed by the dawning of their paralysis) and set up a cruely cynical tone of emptiness.
The humour busted my guts: sometimes muted and subtle, other times debased and mouth-covering. Handicap taboos have been bravely conquered here, the result is one of those laughs that hurts. Like a racism laugh. Forget Carlin, Prior or Chappelle. Let the french offend you.


The Second,



Spalding Grey's: "Swimming To Cambodia"
With his body found in the East River in 2004, two months after he went missing from New York you might say Spalding was a saddened man. In this monolgue, of Jonathan Demme direction (Stop Making Sense, Silence of The Lambs), Grey unfolds a personal narrative about drug trips, insecurity, worry, money, and the crimes of the US governement while telling the gruesome story of Polpot and his "Killing Fields" of Cambodia (Spaling Grey played the United States council in the film "The Killing Fields," the monologue is also a story of the film shooting in Thailand and Spalding's very personal strggles). Some might be turned off by Grey's relentless neurosis and some more might call him a narcissist but there's no argument about the man's delivery. The film was nearly two hours (of just him talking in a chair with some maps and mild light/sound/camera effects), but his "slam-poetry" pacing has you absorb every word and carries your attention as he jumps from topic to topic. Just when you think he's drifted off into some disjointed tangent he about-turns and ties everything in nicely.

What I like the most about Spalding Grey is how much he reminds me of Woody Allen. He might be a bit more flamboyant and charismatic but he is the same glass ego who rarely says anything that's not somehow about himself.
A good watch, as educational as it was entertaining.

It's killing me how much time I'm wasting lately.

The Melody Maker

THE RULES: List five songs that you are currently loving. It doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions, the artists, and the songs in your blog. Then tag five other friends to see what they're listening to.

1)Caribou - Bees (fr: The Milk of Human Kindness) Nobody told me Caribou was over so I'm still listening to him. Undemanding and simple, this song pulses along with a groovy, late-sixites-roadtrip vibe. Basically a Steppenwolf bridge on repeat with entertaining but muted electronic toyings. It just rides it, ya'know?

 2)Blonde Redhead - Loved Despite of Great Faults (fr: Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons) This song reminds me a lot of my early days with built to spill and is somewhat of a novelty to me as I honestly didn't really get into blonde redhead until quite recently. Just never really bothered. Although this track is not the highlight of the album, which is a gem indeed, it's has nonetheless served me well lately.

Before I announce my third pick please allow a quote:
"In Crime and Dissonance, Mike Patton has pulled together a rare collection of Morricone tracks that reflect his connection to the Maestro via a shared passion and commitment to the extreme and the experimental. Psychedelic Sitars, heavy breathing, screams, screeches, electric guitar feedback... much of Morricone's language here keenly intersects with the abstract metal soundscapes of Patton's own music giving us fresh insights into their deeply powerful and uncompromising aesthetics. Both artists have straddled the pop and experimental worlds throughout their careers, creating a body of work that is honest, authentic, meticulously crafted, imaginative and cathartic. Both artists have also suffered from a measure of misunderstanding. But the music lives on. Like all great music the bizarre miniatures that comprise this remarkable set are still as fresh as the day they were recorded (some thirty to forty years ago) and now through the generosity and vision of a youthful and committed contemporary music master, they reach a new generation of ears to inspire even newer vistas of creativity. It is the responsibility of the few to carry the torch of truth and integrity through the dark ages we find ourselves in and this heroic set of soundtrack rarities shows us that the spirit of freedom is, has been and always will be alive and well. One only has to look for it.” - John Zorn NYC

3)Ennio Morricone - Giorno Di Notte Conducted by Bruno Nicolai. From the film Una Lucertola Con La Pelle Di Donna (fr: Crime and Dissonance compiled by Mike Patton) This is the first track off Ennio Morricone's (best known for his spaghetti western scores ie: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly) double disc set of rare and previously unreleased film scores compiled by the genius pervert M.Patton. Experimental yet not indulgently so, this song interestingly balances a jazz/dub foundation with unsettling noise effects and dissonant piano backups. The relish of the track is more in the artist as you have to stand in awe of Morricone's range. This song makes me feel cool and edgy, like some wise cracking sauve-as-fuck early 70s villian in a car chase flick with a mild coke habit and a salami dick.

4)Out-Hud - S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D. Yes the whole album. Once it's on I tend not to leave nor do I cut it short. I realize it's old hat and they have a more recent (and some would argue, better) release but there's something so alluring about this record. you can comfortably play it anytime: studying, fucking, reading, thinking, walking, washing, or working. a real all 'rounder.

5)James Gang - Yadig (fr: Thirds) This is classic Joe Walsh prior to his pussy-ass selling out to the Eagles for their fame scraps. Even though I'll always begrudge him the move, he still brought out the best in that awful, awful band. But I digress, this song is a departure from his usually crunchy, synch heavy rock ballads of the era. It's light and moody and he manages to make at least one song that doesn't involve him singing about growing up, or some shitty broad. He instead lays his focus on the arrangement. Joe Walsh shines here as usual. The man is an "atmosphere" master (just listen to the intro to "Tend My Garden") and this song isolates that solely. With the simple binding of a rhodes, a glockenspiel, a light bass, and some brushes on the drums he and his boys diddle out a nice little instrumental melody. Joe off-loads on our hearts when he ends it all with a fleeting and bittersweet blues solo. Yadig?

So that's me, somewhat behind the times and still listening to jams that would get nods and back pats from Bro-Jake and his neo-chauvanist, drivetime-dj cocksucker buddies down at ROCK 101. Still real.

I'd tag some cats but unfortunately I was the last to do this and I only know five...cats...so it's moot. MOOT.

peace and love and good music while you tend your garden.

Man, after many false starts, fallen-through plans, and naive hopes i finally got to see "Grizzly Man."I'm both dazzled and crushed. Herzog's narrations were austere and painfully poignant but most importanly very sparse. He allowed Treadwell's story to tell itself and geared his manipulations more towards the film's editing. In fact, the most revelatory and heart-liquifying parts were usually hidden in the brief moments between takes. Most of these involved Treadwell's personal narrative and the sad expositions therein but one in particular struck me awful hard. There's a shot featuring the local coroner (a potential case-study himself) and Treadwell's former girlfriend/co-bear advocate: the coroner gifts her with the watch that Treadwell had on his wrist when he was dismembered by the bear. Both behave very formally (like people who know they're being filmed) and exchange camera-humouring smiles as if they're on a live local news feed receiving/awarding some generic achievement certificate. Instead of cutting at this point Herzog runs the camera longer and captures one of the rawest moments of humanity I've ever seen on film. It was nothing dramatic (fucking life just ain't), just merely the fading of the socio-public veneer on that woman's face to reveal her naked forlorness. She personified pain in that face, it was just so honest. I sat in quiet devastatation throughout the rest of the film. It continued on very much in this trend with many more insights into our nature and mother nature. I insist you see this if you haven't, if ya'll have then I'd love hear what you thought.

p.s. Werner Herzog plays the father on Julien-Donkey Boy

on another topic:

sealed w/a kiss presents:
subtle, saturday, media club
i'll buy you a drink.

granville skytrain station. don't frequent it as it's totally off my path. went today incidentally, saw something so shitty it was great. the only ads occupying the walkspace were "monopoly" at mcdonalds. i was just tickled.
school's going well, wolf parade's alright (yes they are naben and mike), i guess i'm a fucking blogger now, going to victoria soon (hope to see those that might concern), fucking christmas coming. fuck rights.

b.iles

i'm getting a trifle bit tired of waiting for my goddamn student loan, I've been eating stale cheerios and cans of ginger ale for breakfast, lunch, dinner and bed night snack. i'm starting to get cagey. i had $11.83 owing on my previous student loan and before i was to receive my new loan I had to clear the former. so i did. and september 6th rolls around and i'm still staring at the $1.27 i had in there from last week. so i call and politely ask why my fucking money is tardy. the nice gentleman (its not his fault, its not his fault, its not his fault) explains that with delinquent payments its policy to freeze the loan for 7-10 business days, regardless of your financial situation, regardless of your promptness in making the payment, regardless of your honesty and tact. they'd turn away a diabetic who couldn't afford his insulin. "no insulin for the insolent" they'd say chuckling, then once they were sure he was incompacitated they'd come to the hospital and take a big policy sized shit on his stupid comatosed head just because they can.
i mean it yo, this bureaucracy nonsense has left me with a taut necked lust for blood and punishment. you should see my pillow, its practically in tatters. but want can i do? honestly what? i'll tell you, i can lay down in bed and i can go to sleep and i can dream that when i wake up the goverment will be kissing my forehead, gently brushing the hair from my eyes and safely tucking a nice big cheque under my pillow so i can live. but the more likely scenario involves waking up with crusty shit all over my mouth and a letter from my friends at the national student loan service centre that reads "fuck you, you tired poor bitch." i'll be so choked i'll turn to my pillow and say "remember straw dogs?"

check out saturna island, quiet, undiscovered, serene

home now, so tired.

hammocks or pillows.

that mike and I wrote a new book on unruliness at sissy indie rock shows? well we did. and its out soon. some highlights:

1.mike screaming "WEED!!!!!" at Jake Snyder after he made the unfortunate shout out to how it's "safe" to smoke dope in the vancouver streets (seemingly obligatory stage banter for any american band coming to canada, its a staple crowd pleaser, tried and true). smokin' dope.

2. myself and mike going ape shit to the more whimsical minus the bear reveries that didn't really warrant that level of spazzing

3. the bastard bald headed bouncer pawing his way to the front of the stage to tell us to "calm the fuck down." how later we enjoyed a clandestine shit talk over that big idiot (once he was at a safe distance, you can't fight a guy with clever puns and sassy wit). but seriously what a dick, to be honest it really pisses me off the more i think about it, who does that?

4. three brief and uncomfortable makeouts featuring me, mike, and my girlfriend. and as if this wasn't debaucherous enough, how we progressed to a five way make out with my girlfriend's friends. we're not gay.

5. gordon being drunk enough not to care that he was zombie walking across the stage amidst disdainful glares from the band (mid-song for christ's sakes, oh lord what HOOT!).

the bulk is mostly quarky antics and tales of mischief but be sure to check out the last few chapters where we talk about alienating all our friends (and ensuring potential new ones won't bother), our despicable reputations, the sad depths of our depravity and how we can't seem to stop yelling when we speak.
Penguin Books
$5.99 or let us give you a blow job. we're not gay.

is that in poor taste? i'm not homophobic for the record.

For the last few months my longtime eagerness and love invested in minus the bear has definetely been on the wane. The release of Menos el Orso (hey guys, clever name, now spell "you're a bunch of retards" in spanish), an initial disapointment for me, only served to augment this loss of faith in one of my favourite groups. I remember a discussion with a good friend who pointed out that my tastes were probably just evolving and the same old uninspired technical indie pop just wasn't doing it for me anymore, he was probably right. So when tickets went on sale for minus the bear at the media club (aug 27) I made my reluctant way to scratch to burn away another 13 dollars I don't have. It was an obliged purchase, there's no way I could allow this band to come to town and pass me by, regardless of how disinterested I've become.

I arrived with a handful of my good buddies and after nearly an hour of pussy footin' around the front entrance (trying to get everybody tickets) we finally all got in. The scene was random, college dudes, skaters, tough guys, bitches, indie rock clowns, and the occasional scenester. It occurred to me that the broad fan base was very much a product of mtb's exoteric song writing-any meathead who likes going to the lake, smoking and getting a drunken lay could jam on these tunes, they're not challenging.

We'd missed the first band (New Years Resolution) while millin' around out front trying to get sorted, so I have little to say. My inclination, based solely on the muffled squeaks I could hear from outside, is to talk shit but I didn't see them proper so I have no comment.

Second on the list was Carpenter, and as these bros were setting up I caught sight of the lead singer and bass player of All State Champion. I chuckled and remembered a time when Kamloops shows used to fill with almost-trendy little scenester shits all swooning, arm in arm, over the weak emo stylings of All State Champion. We thought they were such hot shit. Unfortunately, things haven't changed a whole lot for these dudes, they're getting older and yet appear as if they have little or no desire to diversify. The trouble with this is something that was appealing and pretty cool when your fans were 14 now stands only as a sad testament to what happens when you don't stop smoking weed and refuse to pay your mom rent for the basement suite you've been living in since you told her to fuck off and moved down there in grade 10. These guys are stuck in 1997 and its only gotten worse. And if All State Champion is laughable then Carpenter is tears worthy. I could not believe what i was hearing (yes i could), this wasn't even pop punk, it was pop rock, big, dumb and loud. Every song was based around a simple four or five chord structure that they'd breakdown and trade off ad nauseam. It was college beer rock to the nth degree. I can see the liner notes now: Carpenter would like to thank John Mellancamp, getting up late for work, dropping out of grade 12, pilsner, rizla papers (fuck zigs man), 16 year old girls, Gibson Les Pauls (what is it with pop punks/rockers and Les Pauls?) and 99.3 The Fox. Mind you, to their credit the energy was good and their music required almost no effort to listen to, regrettably it did flow.

So good riddance Carpenter, and its off to the front to sweat it out with Minus The Bear. It really occurred to me midway through this amazing fucking show that as bands evolve in their style they have to be seen live to be properly understood. I finally got it. Watching Dave Knudson (yes, the creative engine behind botch) tweak his peddles with as much finesse as he plays guitar really put the zap on my head. This is the sway of the trend for MTB, glitchier songs and a less active live guitar role for Knudson which would be a dissapointment if the man wasn't a fucking wizard. They played a long and fufilling set, touching on the best parts of Menos El Orso, playing the favourites from Highly Refined Pirates and the only two decent songs on the lack luster They Make Beer Commericals Like This. I showed up expecting nothing more than a brief but cynical trip into nostalgia-land but I ended up getting sucked right back in and couldn't help but remember how much I like drinking, lakes, driving drunk, sipping beer, making eyes with aloof women and the soft hearted wisftul tones of minus the bear. they still got it.