Scourin' the Basement

Happy summer, ya lousy lushes! Busy times on the couch and in the mountains, goin' bug-eyed from perusing too many books in prep for a new class in the fall and chasin' kids down trails that end in waterfall rainbows. July will make you a hippie if you let it, so put down the pipe, raise the bottle and curse something that's buggin' ya, like my failed attempts to get modern attempts at the p-rock, which may simply mean the time has finally come when I'm just too damn old to get it anymore. Find myself scrunching my face and yearning for some semblance of melody every time I slap a new disc on.  That's OK, cuz there' still so much to draw from. Finally found a vinyl copy of Jack O's Don't Throw Your Love Away, which as always, sounds vastly superior to my nearly decade-old burned copy. Picked up the reissue of Fungus Brains' Ron Pistos Real World and it did not disappoint, all Aussie skronk with that rarely effective horn to boot- a must for lovers of all things 80s Oz noise. Have you been to Rasputin's lately?  They must do their markdowns with Skinnerian rats slapping price tags for treats. With absolutely no discernible rhyme or reason for why one record is now four bucks and the exact one next to it remains 16, that crazymotherfucker that owns half of Telegraph gives the vinyl-digging obsessive a fighting chance of actually scoring. You see records in that place you just don't see anywhere else (Sundazed aficionados should head basement-wise pronto) and some of them at very affordable prices. For instance, grabbed John Phillips' self-titled solo attempt to become king of the Laurel Canyon drug freaks for just five clams, and it would be worth it if only for the back photo, in which our demonically smiling, top-hat, multiple-scarf, tight black pants and polar bear jacket wearing hero becomes the poster boy for BEIN' HIGH and thinkin' you've got the world beat not knowing that the steep descent of your career began on the fifteenth rail of your breakfast on photo day. Hell of a record, though. Let's see, snagged Doug Sahm's early San Antonio recordings that Norton put out after his death and while there's nothing as groovy as "Mendocino" on it, young Doug being below the age and before the time when bong hits replaced sugar-coated cereals as your wake-up ingestion of choice, you can dance to it. For one mere dollar I continued my quest to own every Guy Clark album, even these crappy 80s ones. For some weird reason, 2009's Son Volt comeback record was wrapped and available for four dollars, and while the earnestness remains high it did send me back to Trace, his first and best record that sounds amazing all these years later. Have you heard that David Allan Coe naughty set of songs? If you see a copy, pick it up for me, will you? Never fails to make me laugh uncomfortably, and the cover shot of him on his Greatest Hits album is priceless, some fashionista's nightmare combo of Gram Parsons' jacket, Indian rain symbol necklace with matching earring, stupidly symbolic hand prison tattoos, anti-Hitler mustache (did a pipe accident make that area below his nose no longer fecund?) and the obligatory badass country black hat.  He's also looking straight into the camera with an expression of contempt for the candy ass motherfucker that even dares look him in the eye. My newest singer-songwriter project is Mr. John Prine, and any record that has "Sam Stone" on it is OK by me.  You see any of his first four records, do yourself a favor. I thought I had Rockpile's Seconds of Pleasure but a quick scouring of the basement runovers suggests not- hooks thy father is Lowe.

Hey, does anybody know anything about Jon Wayne's Texas Funeral? It sounds up my alley, but I'm tired of gettin' burned.

Gotta date with a Beltran-strapped Giants' squad who now threaten to score that third run a game.