Pretty damn cool

Bass Drum of Death, man!

So yeah, you take a bit of Jay Reatard's new wavey type stuff, add some fizz to the production and a drummer who sounds like he played in the New Bomb Turks. And that's Mississippi's Bass Drum of Death. Just a two-piece. This is my second find this year. The other being the aforementioned Left Lane Cruiser. Or at least side one of LLC's latest.

But back to Bass Drum. Listen to this record when yer cruising with the windows down. It's summer time rock n roll. Perfect for cold beer on back porches, too. Maybe cold beer when you're driving? Not sure anyone does that any more. Anywho, I'd be interested in hearing what Memphis folks think about these guys. As I understand from my good Memphis friend The Colonel, these guys are well-known in those parts. He said BDoD plays a lot with some "insufferable hipster" named Dent?

Whatever. Check this out and get your rock n roll on.

Round 2 Around the Corner- Sharks vs. Red Wings

Well, at least the next opponent is easy to hate, if not to beat. Death to Hockey Town (oh wait, it's already in ruins).

Born to be a Rolling Stone

The Be-Bop-a-Lula Gene Vincent is fine by me, but I love his later work even more, especially the twelve songs he cut in 1966 with Glen Campbell on guitar. The songs are fantastic with one notable exception, but it's the voice that kills. Ten more years of pain and booze and the yearning aches, ya know? That voice- jesus- hard to imagine so much abuse didn't destroy it, but that sound dazzles. We're a long way from rockabilly, but it ain't easy to categorize. You get the hard-rocking "Bird-Doggin'" and the gorgeous pop of "Love is a Bird" and the swinging "Poor Man's Prison" and the wistful "Lonely Street." That doesn't include "Hurtin' for You Baby," "Born to be a Rolling Stone" and "Ain't That Too Much," which all have huge hooks delivered in that voice. The only stinker is "Hi-Lili Hi-Lo," which sounds like he's auditioning for a Julie Andrews' movie. This album wasn't released in America right after he made it, but it comes in several varieties now. I'm staring at a British version with Gene kneeling Paul Hornung-style by his star on Hollywood Blvd. He looks like he can barely hold that grin a second longer before he'll have to beat a child. This one is called Born to be a Rolling Stone, but I've also seen it as Ain't That Too Much- The Complete Challenge Sessions and Bird-Doggin'. It don't matter. The songs remain the same, and that voice- damn.

Sharks 6, Kings 3

Hey Norton

The new Ugly Things has a long article on Norton Records with sidebars of folks naming their favorite releases. I have somewhat mixed feelings about Norton, as their celebration of all things daddy-o and the overuse of words like 'wild' and 'wacky' and 'crazy' can wear you down. Plus, too many average rockabilly players get too many raves. That said, when I actually looked through their releases, I realized how many I had and how many I loved. They also do first-class packaging with some of the most beautiful covers and arguably the finest liner notes out there. Here are a few of my favorites.

Fort Worth Teen Scene- three full cds of mostly excellent 60s garage, with many of these tunes being nastier than your standard variety beat run through. All three are recommended.

Bobby Fuller- El Paso Recordings, Parts 1-3- this guy is the perfect link between Sun and the Beatles, and even if nobody solves the mystery of his murder (legend has it they poured gasoline down his gullet), so many songs keep getting unburied. He is so much more than "I Fought the Law," which isn't close to his best.

Gino Washington- Love Bandit & Out of this World- these are two of my all-time bestest soul releases, reminding you how much exuberance the older singers brought to the party. Fantastic tunes delivered with great enthusiasm in a spirit of fun, and we're a long way from Marvin Gaye.

The Mighty Hannibal- Hannibalism- he's right up there with Gino in the soul pantheon, but he has his somber moments, even crooning an anti-war number. Every time I pull this out I'm surprised by how good it is.

King Coleman- It's Dance Time- everybody, including your three-year old, is gonna get off the couch for this one, as this remains one of the best times on vinyl. Offbeat R&B that's just a hoot.

Friday at the Hideout- this collection from Detroit's Hideout, a weekend teen hangout for the likes of Bob Seger and his friends, is shockingly good. The tunes stand out from the endless pack of 60s comps for their diversity and quality, and it's a good time to boot.

Charlie Feathers- Uh Huh Honey- this guy has just a bit of swamp in his rockabilly thing, and the songs are just more distinctive than many of the releases from that time. His country stuff is also the shit.

Stud Cole- Burn Baby Burn- one of the genuinely weird discoveries from a near-Elvis impersonator who brings the spookiest double-tracking vocals to his bluesy uncategorizable numbers. That's him pictured above, and I can't recommend this enough if you haven't heard anything fresh for awhile.

Flat Duo Jets- Safari, Introducing, Red Tango, Wild Blue Yonder- my love for all things Dexter knows no bounds, and you can't go wrong with any of these.

Andre Williams- Greasy, Bait and Switch- not much left to say about this guy, but these records do hold up, even if B&S is uneven.

Hasil Adkins- The Wild Man- this has always been my favorite from him, even though most folks dig Out to Hunch. His version of "Matchbox" wins the prize, and that's a long list of contenders.

The Sonics- duh

"I Don't Know How to Feel Right Now"

"The true fan naturally thinks of the team as a kind of artificial totem, through which the community enjoys and suffers together the team's varied fortunes, maintaining a common temperature, as if every citizen shared the same heart."  William Gass

Clearly, I am not a true fan, and for once, at least this morning, Mr. Gass is very, very wrong. Last night, the Sharks stunk up the ice for twenty-one minutes, and when I turned off the television, they had been outscored 8-0 in the last four periods by a weak offensive team missing its top scorer.  I didn't even stick around long enough to see the last desperate act of the white-flag waving NHL coach- switching goalies. So after I put two kids to bed and sat down to read in the peaceful quiet of my living room, I noticed a pleasant calm, a serenity that comes after the worst has happened, like the pacific expression of that keyless drunk stumbling from the tank after his DUI in a forgotten beachside town.

Of course, man was not meant for lucidity and peace of mind, and conditioning overpowers that first illusion of will power and cheap wisdom.  I turned on the fucking TV, and now it's 4-2, and the eyes roll and I've chomped down hard on the bait, knowing in a moment the lie that is free will. And then it's 4-3, and even while I'm speaking out loud to an empty room, "I ain't buying that tease," I'm whipping out the credit card for another roll in the masochist hay. 15 seconds later the Kings score when the Sharks appear to be collectively on PCP, like five teel hippies in a field. 15 seconds to remind you just how stupid your fleeting faith had been.

But we're still in the second period, and here comes another teel wave. 5-4. Joe Pavelski, the most stoned looking on that hope-crushing fifth Kings' goal, then miraculously flips a backhand over a stunned Jonathan Quick (I kid you not, this is their goalie's name) and in the inimitable words of that Frenchman stuffed into a cannon and then taken out when Joan of Arc decides boulders would have more destructive power on that Simpsons' episode mocking the classics, "I don't know how to feel right now."

The third period is naturally played more conservatively than a Barry Goldwater budget, and they're heading for OT, and I'm off for a beer. Three minutes later the mostly silent Patrick Marleau receives the puck with one hand on his stick, spins past a defender at the blue line and then threads a perfect pass to the recently incompetent Devin Setoguchi, who buries the winner on the same top shelf  Joe Pavelski hit in Game 1.
Sharks win, 6-5 and take a 2-1 lead in the series.

Ecstasy, right? Greatest playoff comeback in Sharks' history ought to warrant a solo dance in the dark and a bit of morning giddiness, but no. It's mostly disgust with their absurdly awful play and the positions they put their long-suffering fans into.  To paraphrase a buddy- I'm in a different place, and I hate being in that place, and I hate them for putting me in that place.

And I can't wait for Game 4.

Round 1 is Here

Well, that cold April rain falling on this dismal morning can only mean one thing- the start of the most exciting two months (one if you're a Sharks fan) in sports- the NHL playoffs.  Because alcoholic aging punkers tend more toward baseball (longer game times mean more justifiable drinking times, plus all those "it's OK" day drinking benders with the 1:00 weekend starts), let me guide you through the first round of this year's playoff matchups.

EASTERN CONFERENCE

(1) Washington Capitals vs. (8) New York Rangers- the Rangers are everybody's consensus pick for biggest dog in the post-season, so even the Caps can't choke to them. Caps in 5.

(2) Philadelpia Flyers vs. (7) Buffalo Sabres- You'd have to love the Flyers except for one thing- Chris Pronger, the most intimidating and successful defenseman over the past decade, is out for at least the first two games. Sabres in 6.

(3) Boston Bruins vs. (6) Montreal Canadiens- the hate in this rivalry makes every game a must-watch and more emotion favors the underdog, but I'm still sayin' Boston has too much all over. Bruins in 6.

(4) Pittsburgh Penguins vs. (5) Tampa Bay Lightning- Malkin and Crosby are still out, but somehow they'll figure out a way to make it happen. Pens in 7.

WESTERN CONFERENCE

(1) Vancouver Canucks vs. (8) Chicago Blackhawks- last year's Stanley Cup winners back in on the last day and get this year's regular season class act for their trouble. All signs point to the Canucks marching through the playoffs, but they rarely beat the Hawks and they have a history of Shark-like gagging. Hawks in 7.

(2) San Jose Sharks vs. (7) Los Angeles Kings- the first round is always a struggle for the men in teel, and this year should be no different. The loss of Kopitar, though, and the Kings' general lack of firepower should set Sharks' fans' misery back a few weeks. Sharks in 6.

(3) Detroit Red Wings vs. (6) Phoenix Coyotes- the Coyotes match up well against the aging gentlemen from Hockey Town, but somehow those red and white jerseys find a way. Wings in 7.

(4) Anaheim Ducks vs. (5) Nashville Predators- the Ducks have the best line in hockey with Perry./Getzlaf/Ryan, and that alone will be too much for the Predators, who have never won a post-season series and want to keep that streak alive. Ducks in 7.

See you in a couple of weeks for Round 2, when my 3/8 prediction stats will have my credibility drowning in a puddle of beer, sweat and tears.

Range Rats

If you've seen the Dead Moon documentary, you might remember that tale of Fred and Toody on the road playing country songs in odd locations- middle-age walkabout,  Cole style.  Well, the record from that time (before Fred remembered he was born to rock) got buried,  but the good folks at Mississippi have dug it up and put it out. Range Rats is better than I expected, as I'd seen a few pics of Fred with a cowboy hat and they zinged high on the cringe meter. The sound here is actually much better than on a Dead Moon record, as perhaps they still had commerical dreams. There's nothing here that's going to make you sit straight up and scream, "For the love of Gram Parsons!" but it's a pleasant aural stroll along that Oregon trail.  They don't overdo the countryisms in the vocals, the tunes have big melodies and their harmonizing is rather pretty.  I'm gonna chalk this in the pleasant surprise category and see if I can cancel that drunken Internet order from last night. Don't let friends surf drunk, especially with a credit card.

Gass

I'm not on Facebook and I don't tweet. The iphone my wife insists I have has the sound off. I haven't watched a commercial television program since Cheers. I don't watch network news and I gave up on CNN. I couldn't find satellite radio if I were dating a slutty NASA secretary. My car has no GPS and the sound of a text makes my skin crawl.

I am old, and while the setup looks ready for a vitriolic denouncement of all things modern tech, that is not my direction. Let me put it this way- avoiding the popular cultural filters, I have to find other outlets to let me know what's what. Allow me to introduce you to one, if you have not yet made his acquaintance.

William Gass has a voice that makes me feel less alone, even though he is now 85 years old. He is a cultural and literary critic and a respected novelist, which matters far less than that he is a stylist, and one of the few remaining. It doesn't matter what he's writing about- it's the getting there that counts. While I would humbly submit that his last novel, The Tunnel, is the last masterpiece of this generation's age, few agree. It makes no difference. The writing schools will continue to pump out spare-prosed breakdowns of marriages by those who haven't lived, and the thirtysomethings will applaud as they recognize their own failures in the self-congratulating whining nothings who inhabit those apartment walls. It's time to leave such fiction on the shelf. It is a whirlpool in a cul de sac, a self-lacerating mirror fuck that takes us nowhere but to our own misery. Reading ought to serve a better purpose.

Gass teaches philosophy, but he is a remarkably playful writer. Some smart guys like to slip some vulgar into their highbrow to show they can ride with the truck drivers, but for Gass, writing must be about all of it. Spiritual yearning and shit-stained yes-fucks. Art and assholes. Gods and garters. Gass makes reading about anything a pleasure, and that’s a sentence I really ought to end with. Plot, for the big man, is for Hollywood hacks. When the mind that reads meets a like mind that writes, narration is beyond the point. We seek connection beyond what we’re allowed when we drop the kids off at practice.

The long dorm bullshit sessions are over. When the swirl of middle-age life leaves you numb on the couch  again, no text or tweet or post will make ya feel any less alone. Gass reminds us that books can still deliver one kind of human connection that social media simply doesn’t offer- sustained and deep focus on another's consciousness. And if you’re extremely lucky, you just might find a writer who lets you know those horrific thoughts that arrive at your weakest moments are human thoughts, sent from the collective mind but rarely spoken aloud or the A-list won't find you on it. We need our truth tellers to remind us we are not entirely alienated. Gass’s erudition is far beyond mine, but he settles in on the page and makes you feel at home in the dark muck, the strange mix of higher aspirations and baser drives. When you read Gass, you recognize the breadth of your waking life delivered without judgment. A sample-

What hope of happiness now, now I must fuck my own hand?

I’m sick of living in your childhood.

He is human in his off hours.

If there were a god who did create, then he’d have the cock squirt scotch at climax, and oral sex would produce a genuine and weary climax.

Prison is a splendid place to put writers.  It gives them a sense of grievance, and we know that grievances are among authors' more powerful motives; it removes them from temptations, and we know how easily writers are tempted by bosom or bottle; it eliminates distractions, that of the housewife among the more miserable, and makes pointless all the petty steps which must be taken in order to advance one's commercial, scholarly, or political careers; it directs the mind to the main things: liberty, injustice, the misery of humankind, the irremediable loss of opportunity, man's vast immemorial waste of Time, now seen as not some abstract flow of tick to tock but as the lit wick of life itself blown out and the expired candle's timorous thread of smoke still unaccountably mistaken for the flame.

That comes from a one-minute skimming of one essay, and more and merrier frolic on nearly every page the critics hacked bile and snot upon. This is a man you don’t read, let alone meet, every day. Digging deep into his pages leaves the tinkling sound of the cell unheard and the querulous cry of junior a distant echo in the cobwebs of your bad day. The man gets it, and all you can say is thanks for sharing.