The Format For Me

Listen:

A while ago I decided to abandon what little hope I had left for modern rock radio. (Whose dick is Three Days Grace sucking so that I have to hear their glossy bullshit ten times a day?) I thought at this point in my life I was finally old enough to listen to and appreciate jazz. So I bought a Miles Davis record. Shortly after that I decided that although I was old enough to "dig" the music I was listening to, I didn't yet believe that I was boring enough. (Thanks a lot, Kerouac.)

So here I am.

A week ago I decided to buy the fourth LP by the monumentally minimalist noise trio, Shellac, entitled "Excellent Italian Greyhound." I haven't found a better example of rock music that resembles jazz music. Their music is sparse and drawn out, their rhythms more than occasionally depart from the annoyingly routine 4/4 time signature and subsequently their songs take on arbitrary, almost linear structures, as if they take the listener from Point A but then must go on some uncharted journey to discover the location of Point B.

But my discovery of rock music that successfully quells my disdain for anything sonically mundane isn't the point of this post. This is: after opening the record I was happy to see that it included a copy of the album on compact disc.

For years I've been saying to anybody who cared to listen (and more who didn't) that all vinyl albums should come with a separate digital copy, either in the form of a CD or a free digital download. That is, they should if the recording industry wants to do anything other than shoving its head up its ass to pull up the steady decline of overall album sales over the last decade. Right now this has got to be the best way to modernize vinyl and revitalize the creative output of album-oriented genres like punk rock.

Also, on a sensory level, providing both formats of the album--digital and analog--makes Shellac's music, often brash and difficult to understand upon a first listening, much more palatable and portable. Let me explain.

Four songs in particular, across Shellac's 38-song catalog, are longer than seven minutes: "House Full of Garbage," "Didn't We Deserve A Look At You The Way You Really Are," "The End of Radio" and "Genuine Lulabelle." In punk rock seven minutes is an eternity, and its listeners are hardly patient. Furthermore, two of those songs are the first track of their respective albums.

"The End of Radio," the first track on Excellent Italian Greyhound, is a great example. Listening to music on vinyl is great experience, unless you have a song like this. It becomes apparent after listening to it for the first three minutes that the song's creators had a vastly different artistic intention than they did for the song that follows it, the up-tempo, riff-tastic "Steady As She Goes." It is with songs precisely like these that even the most uppity of rock nerds like myself thank our digital age for the invention of track selection. If right now you're saying, "Just count the record grooves, dipshit," then you haven't seen the lines on this album and are still completely unfamiliar with the music in question.

Now, with both formats for the price of one, when that full moon comes out and you're finally ready to dive into "Genuine Lulabelle" or "House Full of Garbage," you can feel free, pal! But if you find yourself getting ready to go to work and you only have time for "Spoke" it's still right at your fingertips. The possibilities are endless.

And if you're like me and know the damage that oppressive Florida heat can do to vinyl, I'm willing to bet you appreciate a nice, reliable, digital back-up as well.

Happy Birthday, Kurt Cobain!!!

Happy Birthday, Kurt Cobain.

I don't care if it's cliché to still understand you or love your music anymore, but you still deserve the wishes, even if they only come from me, your widow and your daughter.

Just know that, wherever you are, there are still people here who wish you were still with us.

Come As You Are

See, I have this theory about why a lot of really good independent bands never feel the need to stop in Florida when they choose to tour nationally. My theory has to do with the geography, really, and whether or not such a trip would be financially lucrative for said band. Any band that is currently touring to make some money (and that usually equates to every band that is currently touring, period) usually finds that traveling all the way to Florida would cost them more against the potential ticket and merchandise sales they would make if they came through and played the show.

Furthermore, not only are Floridian indie/punk-lovers trapped on the dick of America, wishing they could one day be in the same shitty bar as their favorite bands, but it is understandable that those bands probably don't want to get here by plowing through a Bible Belt that might not seem to take too kindly to their loud and unorthodox noise.

I think about this when I think about a conversation I had with Dan Peters, drummer for Mudhoney, when I asked him, when Mudhoney played at BackBooth in Orlando in June 2008, when the last time Mudhoney had come to Florida to play a show.

Somewhere around 1993 was what he had told me. That was fifteen years ago, at the time, and before the suicide of Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain.

After I think about that, I think about one of my favorite independent bands of all time, the one in the YouTube link at the top of this posting: Rasputina. And it makes me want them to come to Florida in the near future. Or now. Please.

I love them.

A Poem

"Cheer up, Giada De Laurentiis"

Cheer up, Giada De Laurentiis.
Don't be so down all the time.
Try smiling once in a while.
Stop worrying so much
About the world
And all it's troubles.

A New Companion

I've been doing a lot of thinking since my college graduation ceremony two Fridays ago, and I have to admit that some of this thinking has been absolutely, bat-shit clinical, crazy. But the least one of the bat-shit clinical, crazy ideas has been to adopt a puppy. It'll get crazy, just wait for it.

The thought occurred on no particular day, driving through Avalon Park, outside of Orlando, and probably running mind-numbing errands with my girlfriend. We were talking about the things we wanted to do once we had settled into the house or apartment we are currently trying to find for next year's lease.

It was without question that I wanted to adopt an animal, because I love animals. Theyarethecoolestthingsever.

When I jokingly tell people that I grew up on a 1,200 square foot farm in West Palm Beach, few of them realize the accuracy of the term that I employ. Since my birth my family has housed a Greyhound, a Dalmatian, five Bassett Hounds, a *Bull Mastiff, a *Redbone Hound, a Bloodhound, an American Bulldog (whom we referred to as 'Shitforbrains'), a Poodle-mix, a mutt named *Tessa and at least 30 domesticated cats over roughly three generations.

The three dogs with *stars next to them are still around, with one of the Bassetts and six of the 30 cats.

A farm. No shit.

So I'm sitting in the car, with the girlfriend driving, thinking about the kind of animal I have always wanted, and this seems to require much thought because I have had a lot of animals in my lifetime. And then it hits me.


"Babe! Let's get a Doberman!"

I was surprised by the lack of concern in her expression. With it, she seemed to reassure me that, because I had considered this animal just like any other, she agreed with me and trusted that we would have no more problems with this type of dog than we would with a Parakeet, or something. She, having only one dog in her lifetime, might have even trusted my judgment over hers based on my experience.

Sure, I thought, a Doberman isn't a bird, but I don't really care. I want a Doberman, and I'm going to get one.

So I told my family, and one would have thought by their consistent refutations that I was adopting an African Crocodile to live in my shower.

All I heard was bullshit about temperament, and how Dobermans are known to be one of the most dangerous breeds of dog. According to FreeRepublic.com, the Centers for Disease Control reported Dobermans, Pit bulls, Rottweilers, German Shepherds, Huskies, Alaskan Malamutes, Chow Chows, Great Danes, St. Bernards and Akitas in their list of the Ten Most Dangerous Breeds.

Okay. That's cool. But on every other list, Dobermans are ranked the fifth most intelligent behind the Golden Retriever, German Shepherd, the Poodle and the Border Collie at number one.

As an intelligent animal, who has been trained to operate by positive reinforcement, I can only deduce that something very bad must have happened to these animals to make them behave very badly. I could get into B.F. Skinner right now but its redundancy is even apparent to a three year old: good animals come from good people and bad animals come from bad people.

But, you know what? It doesn't really matter because I probably don't have the resources or the finances to raise a puppy right now, so a lot of this pissing and moaning is for nothing.

But still, at least I know that when the time comes for me to get a puppy, at least I know the dog I want, and when I can provide the right environment for it, I still know it will be one of the best decisions I make.

New Layout!

It needed a change. Things were getting old so I took the inspiration from the dubious last album by "Chicago's Finest Forges," Big Black. Also, my girlfriend, a Lilly Pulitzer freak, can appreciate the dueling pink and greens.

Disclaimer: For all who view this blog, please remember that this is just an album cover, albeit a tasteless one.

What the hell is next?

Well, it's finally here.

The day I never have to sit in a classroom again if I don't have the desire to.

The day I finally become free to worry about my life without the burden of letter grades on top of it.

The day I step out into the world, having learned (technically) everything I need to know about it.

Two decades. Four presidents. God knows how many 5-page papers and 500-word assignments.

All for what? My B.A. in Journalism.

It would be a lie to say that I am not proud of myself, because for all of my counter-cultural convictions, I still consider an academic degree a valid achievement; a close second to teaching oneself to play music. But despite what I have earned from my experience in college, I still don't feel like I've accomplished anything.

I feel like a failure with a college degree.

It's comforting to know that my girlfriend and my family are proud of me, and I guess that makes me proud of me. But I still only have the same amount of direction I had when I was 18. I still consider the question of what I should do with my life.

Only now is it I know that if I'm going to do anything, I had better god-damned love it because chances are good in this economy that nobody will be paid adequately for the job they do.

So my goal for now is to forget about my field of study, but only temporarily. I need to find a new way to orient myself toward the marketplace of ideas and the role of journalism in this hyper-changing, on-demand information age.

Now, it even surprises me that I am writing in my free time. If I had a class assignment due, you'd better know I wouldn't give a rat's ass about this blog. But alas, optimism abounds.

My goal is simple: devote my time to getting paid for 40 hours a week's worth of work. If it's not enough, do something else. If it is enough, make it not enough. Isn't that the correct answer, Capitalism? Please! I have to get a good grade on this!

And I guess, once those necessities have been met, my goal will be to devoting the rest of my time to securing myself in the niche I make for myself. Sleeping now in the bed I have made.

Or I could just start a punk band.