Category: tunes

Music. Bands. Songs. Concerts.

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untucked

Open me.
I’m gonna try my best to not let this week’s travel keep me from writing, but if there’s nothing going on worth writing about then I don’t mind skipping a day. I think that could be a potential pitfall actually, forcing myself to write every day regardless of whether or not there’s something to write about. Because Thursday I leave early for Houston, I’m attempting this Wednesday double-up to get myself ahead on the days. I’ll spend Friday once again up in front of customers, wearing my best “I know what I’m talking about” face. Pull some ill-fitting khakis over my ass, tuck in a nice blue dress shirt, brush my hair and fill my breast pocket with business cards. The portrait of a corporate slave, bowing and scraping for a paycheck and some stock options. Why couldn’t I have been a cowboy or rock star?

I’m sitting in a hotel in Houston, belly full of beer, steak, garlic-mashed potatoes, and some kinda Jack Daniels ice cream. Business travel is at least nice for the meals. The flight wasn’t bad, and I got a lot done this morning before leaving. Y’know those ultra-productive days where everything seems to fall into place? When you’re able to get everything that you wanted to done and more? I love those days. Tomorrow it’s back to work, but for now I can sit here and watch W address the RNC. Then I guess Kerry is gonna talk in Ohio, it’s a fun-filled night for politicos.

Last night the Killers at the Boardwalk was a good show. As usual, the tiny Boardwalk was packed wall-to-wall with the cream of Sacramento’s emo-youth. Tousled, jet-black haired, lanky youngsters with dark thick-rimmed glasses and untucked concert tees. Doing their best to wear their angst and societal aloofness on their sleeves for all to see. Girls decked in once-again-cool 1985 makeup and hairstyles, with plenty of pink and poof. And me, a guy in his late twenties. A guy wearing jean shorts bought as Sams, Reef flip-flops, and a red and blue striped preppie shirt, untucked. With a brown corduroy Nike hat covering my thinning hair, I realize I’m fast becoming the outsider at these shows – and I like it. I wanna be that old guy my friends I and I saw at the Ween concert back in 1994, the one we laughed at because he wasn’t wearing what we were wearing and looked so out of place. The one who just didn’t care and came out to hear some good tunes. What am I talking about?

I’m not writing anymore, Dave out.

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wayne presents

Moses brought them down from a mountain.
Sometimes water sounds and tastes infinitely better to me than soda, like right now – I’m drinking water and it “tastes” great. Intro paragraph over.

Tonight I mowed my sickly lawn with tender-loving care. I edged her, used the blower to clean her of stray cut grass, fertilizered her, weed-controlled her, and all around pampered her. But that’s not what’s important about this story – the important part is the soundtrack I chose for the task. A few days ago I downloaded an album by a group called The Horns of Happiness, simply because I liked their name (alliteration does a whole heck of a lot for me for some reason). Occasionally I’ll do this, grab an album on name alone, and usually it’s a bust. Like they say, you can’t judge a book by it’s cover (as illustrated beautifully by the turds contained within the kickass album covers of Molly Hatchet). Anyway, the album was perfect for our oddly Fall-like weather this week. Some strange hodge-podge of disjointed tunes, sometimes reminding me of anything from the Microphones to Neutral Milk Hotel to Sufjan. Anyway, it’s quickly climbing the charts in my head, gunning for number one with some animal drive? yeah. The music was good, and the lawn’s already showing signs of improvement. Whew! What a relief.

Speaking of our unseasonably Fallish weather of late, bending my mind more and more to thoughts of Halloween. If I haven’t said it before, I freakin’ love Halloween. Ever since I was a kid and my brother and I used a pair of my dad’s old slacks and one of his old flannels to make a mask-covered basketball-headed dummy which we then ritualistically covered in 99? fake blood from Kmart and hung from the basketball goal above the garage. I will repeat, Halloween is awesome. This year will be our second annual Halloween party, and I swear I’m fated to finish the backyard the day before or something. I just want it done y’all, I just want it done.

Man, sometimes I get super sick of people sending e-mails around without checking them out online first for accuracy. I have a family member who is very religious, and therefore very republican and very pro-Bush. Being so republican means that this person is also vehemently anti-democrat and anti-Kerry. What bugs me is how these anti-Kerry pro-Bush mails seem to circulate like wildfire among these “churchy” e-mail “clubs.” Like a right-wing party line, these retired-couples-cum-internet-surfers dutifully forward any piece of tearjerking, awe-inspiring, mushy God-crap that lands in their inbox along down the line to the next person who needs a “virtual hug” from the Lord. Now, I know I’m on the edge of offending people here – and I don’t mean to. You’re more than welcome to need a virtual hug from the Lord, heck maybe even I do, but that’s not my point.

It’s the political mails that really get me – mostly because these donation-plate-stuffing senior citizens just blindly believe whatever trash washes up on their AOL accounts’ shores and proceed to propagate said nonsense to those of us who actually bother to “fact check” the cyber-missives. Without so much as a thought on the accuracy of whatever the internet rumour-mill churned out last, they jot their insightful comments on top of the long line of those before them and proceed to add another column of carats to the left margin of an already unreadable body of mis-tabbed and oddly-spaced text. “I think this is disgusting, shame on us if we elect these men,” reads a comment in the 15th attachment I had to open on the way to the original e-mail which is still another 10 nested “envelopes” down.

And hey, I’m not even that guy who says anything negative about the dems or Kerry is necessarily wrong. Maybe, somewhere out there, there’s a mail about Kerry/Edwards that’s fact-based and worth distributing. But most of this stuff is ridiculous. Where does it say in the Bible that you’re duty-bound to God to forward this rubbish? Thou shalt be staunch republican, may thou never neglect thy duty to forward any e-mail which let’s thy distribution list know thy as such. I mean, you think Edwards flips people off as he runs? Think Kerry’s wife really runs overseas sweatshops? Or maybe that he’s voted to kill every defense weapons bill since ’88? They’re all crap folks, all crap.

To be fair, there’s no shortage of the same going around about Bush – and the tree-huggers can be just as bad about forwarding mails painting him as the grandest fool of an evil-dictator ever to grace the earth? so I suppose it goes both ways.

And to all my relatives, if you’re reading this, I love you dearly.

Time to go check e-mail and get ready for bed. Oh yeah, here’s a picture I drew last week in Taiwan while a co-worker was doing his portion of our presentation. It was the 8th or 9th time we’d given the same presentation to customers, and I guess I was just getting bored. Enjoy.

G’nite all, Dave out.

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seriously, for real?

Kakhi, beige, what the?!
This morning I woke up and it was overcast outside. The first time in a long while I don’t remember waking up to the sun. Not only that, it was cool outside. I stepped out into the morning and smelled Fall on the air. I know it’s premature, but it got me so excited for the coming of my favorite season. I could almost smell Halloween night, and I was pumped.

With the Taiwan trip coming up fast this Friday, I’m in a furious rush to get various things done and squared before I leave. This activity burst led to me having a day of unprecedented productivity yesterday. I mowed the lawn and had some more mulch and decomposed-granite delivered, all on my lunch hour. Dropped my new slacks off to be hemmed, and filled some prescriptions so I won’t die from my obscure disease while overseas. It was the kind of day I love, where I’m driven harder each time I tick something off the “to do” list, feeling more accomplished with each one. The kind of day where, when I lay down in bed at night, I feel productive.

Speaking of my various outings today: When I took my regular-man’s pants to be hemmed and magically transformed into tall-fat-man-with-ridiculously-short-legs pants, I was giving instructions to the woman behind the counter. “Both the black and khaki pair need two inches off the bottom, the navy-blue pair needs three.” “Oh,” said the woman, “I better not call them ‘khaki,’ the woman who does the alterations is Korean and might not know what that word means. I’ll call them ‘beige.'” OK, I’m thinking, why not get kindergarten on her ass and just call them “brown?” I mean, just how English-deficient is the Korean seamstress? Will she be able to interpret the “two inches” part or do we need to draw a picture or send a piece of string or something?

The other day, I was surfing around reading up on death metal. I don’t know why, I’m certainly not a fan of death metal or anything – but I am slightly fascinated with the devotion people have to an “art form” which to me sounds like pure shite. I mean, some of the website music samples for the “best” black/death/grindcore bands are hilarious. And then there’s the complete seriousness with which websites review these albums. I mean we’re talking about what are, on average, two-minute “compositions” comprised of rapid-fire bassdrum pounding, heavily distorted guitar crunching, and some dude puking into a microphone for lyrics. I mean seriously, you gotta read some of these reviews. They make absolutely no sense. In a review of Massacara’s album “Enjoy the Violence,” the reviewer pens the following gibberish:

Feral vocals slash across pounding rhythm carrying direct motifs of revolving riffs which in inversion or recombination transfer the listener through Wagnerian visual illustration in sound: shaping harmonic space in collage of juxtapositions to demonstrate change, allowing basic poetic ideas to expand into song structure conveying not catharsis but logical realization within a context where catharsis is an event of listener decision.

What the hell?! Did he even say anything? If you didn’t notice, that’s one sentence. And I’m not entirely sure, but I think there may have been a comparison drawn between the classical composer Wagner and this band Massacara. Really, there’s page upon page filled with these reviews, and I’m starting to think not a single one of them says a damn thing. Check it:

From this modal playing framing atonal song development is a dying Baroque gasp given ferocity by the gutter logicianship of death metal in a rising force of logic within the decaying realm, a negative truth within a larger existential conception which can never be reconciled with the forces of Judeo-Christian morality; its expression (cause and effect as self-inventing forms of calculation and change) brings to mind the ancients alongside the more recent philosophical efforts in Nietzsche and Heidegger to replace morality with a primal, natural valuation of a constantly changing aesthetic landscape with unaltering core values, as seen is the modern time.

Oh. My. Word. What the eff is this dude talking about?! Is there a thought buried in that mess? Again, that’s one sentence. Guys, the “songs” on these albums have titles like “Vomited Anal Tract,” “Orgiastic Disembowelment,” and “Feast On Dismembered Carnage,” and I’m seeing references to Nietzsche and Wagner? Are these people serious? I mean, that’s a whole dictionary’s worth of words and I swear they said nothing. Somebody boil it down for me, gimme a bulleted list or something. Crap, it’s too hilarious.

OK, well, I’m outta here. I’ve gotta take care of some spots of crabgrass I noticed while mowing yesterday. I mean, what is this stuff, magic? I mowed a week ago and there wasn’t a dang sign of it, it was nonexistent. Now, a mere week later, it’s snaking around in at least six different outcroppings. Personally, I think a jealous neighbor may have thrown some clippings in my yard or something. No worries, I’ll take that shit out – for good.

Dave out.

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double-header

For you Lord, and none other.
For the record, I don’t think this is cheating. I finished Wednesday’s entry around 11pm and was getting ready to hit the sack, when I got a second wind – and the rare urge to keep writing. So I did, and ’round about midnight I realized I’d written a full-fledged entry and not just a “starter” fragment for an eventual Thursday post. So here she goes, Wednesday’s hit the web around 11pm and this one’ll be up before 1am – making for a nice blog double-header.

First off, I’d just like to say that, beginning with this week’s Monday entry, I think the caliber of my entries’ “accompanying image” has increased greatly. That trippy color-thing on Monday, the awesome silhouetted diggers that were Tuesday, Wednesday’s “black dude with big balls,” and today’s Abraham sacraficing Isaac. I was beginning to feel down about my blog lately, like the entries were forced and not very good. But I really like yesterday’s entry, and I went back through the archives by week to see if I could pinpoint when I developed this feeling – but to my surprise couldn’t really find any entries that I truly detest. So, I guess I was just bummed because there seemed to be a run on ideas, and I couldn’t think of anything new. Hopefully I’ll maintain my talent of filling up paragraphs (much like thus one) with nonsensical ramblings. Ramble on!

In a quest for new music that I can fall in love with, I’ve been reassessing some of my latest downloads and giving them second chances to become the next Killers Hot Fuss. I finally made it back around to Sufjan’s latest effort, which I actually remember really liking the few times I listened to it the first time around. PF gave it such glowing accolades, I thought I’d better spin it again for good measure. Instantly I remember hearing every tune, which tells me that, at one point, I listened to the whole album – generally a sign that I enjoyed the offering. Anyway, predominantly quiet and for the most part reflective – it makes a solid impression (one underscored with some heavy Christian imagery, making the whole thing very familiar). I think I just picture it as more of a Fall album, while the summer heat makes me pine for something a little more bouncy. As a sidenote, Sufjan’s site eventually resolves to a website called “soundsfamilyre.com,” clearly a rip-off of this very blog. What?

In a little more than a month, and if I so desire, I’ll be able to do a “one year ago” feature for my entries. That’s right, the blog’s 1st birthday is coming up in early September. Hard to believe I’ve been writing pretty much daily for a solid year. Come that day, I plan to do a ratio of writable days to days with entries – to judge my dedication, y’know? I have confidence it’ll be a high number, despite my recent spotty writing. I’m super proud of some entries, and others are so/so, while some are downright filler. More often than not I fancy a paragraph or idea that might be hidden inside an otherwise common entry. Anyway, I think it’ll be cool to “look back,” a year to the day, on what I was writing about. Blog on.

I mean, I’m trying Sara, I really am. A couple MP3s, a Ween WMA or two. Didn’t mean to “God you out” with that Sufjan track, but it’s outstanding, no? Dave out.

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out of element

Look at that black dude's balls!
I’ve decided that I’m just not extreme. Some people, while not extreme – can make that extreme transition. Working a desk job by day and paragliding or basejumping by night. Me, not so much. Not that I’m not crazy or afraid to take risks, I’ve always been willing to stick my neck out. It’s not even that I’m afraid to be extreme, I just don’t think I’m cut out for it. I’ll wakeboard, slide down waterfalls, hike mountains, etc., but I think I’m just a few ticks shy of being truly “extreme.” No worries, I think I’m “mundane” or maybe “average with a touch o’ crazy.” Either way, this paragraph is over.

Oh man, I thought of an awesome idea last night. I decided that Anthony, Ben, and I should get together and pitch a reality show to the networks. I had several ideas, but most centered around us pitching a classic “out of element” show where three computer engineers go somewhere “uncharacteristic” and have their experience taped. My first idea was to take three engineers and have them go to Alaska and homestead (man, I really thought you could still do that). The cameras could follow us as we try to build a house, farm, hunt, whatever. You know: “Three computer engineers, one raised on farm, one who used to be fat, and one who can’t do math – abandon their cubicles for a shack in the Alaskan wilderness.” Maybe the Alaska thing is too extreme (there’s that word again), but we could pitch a few ideas just for good measure: three engineers run a charter fish camp on a tropical island, move to the French countryside and run a winery, walk the Appalachian trail for three months, etc. So yeah, I have a wife… don’t worry, I’d work her in somehow.

Today I actually broke my cycle of laziness and got out to work in the backyard. I filled all the ditches for the sprinklers in “zone three,” and did some general rock cleanup. Then I fired up the sprinklers and sat on a stool in the middle of them, just because I could. It was relaxing actually, after sweating and working to rake dirt and rocks, sitting in the middle of a rain of cool water looking out over my creation. I am God of this backyard, all ye lizards and crickets boweth unto me and offereth up ye tributes unto me.

I’ve been listening to the new Polyphonic Spree album, and – it’s pretty good. I mean, it’s saccharine-sweet hippy crap, but great music. I’ve also decided I have to see these guys live. You may remember them as doing a song on an Ipod commercial a while back (indie is so out-of-the-closet), but the “band” is a sight to behold. Actually, they freak me out a little bit. Mostly because they look like some freakish doomsday cult, ala Heaven’s Gate or something. I count twenty-five white frock wearing “brethren” in most of the band shots, creepy. But for all the creepiness, they make some dang fine tunes. Even though the copy I have is all busted (a terrible blippy, bloopy, hiccuppy rip), I can hear the potential goodness of the album.

Time for bed, g’night.

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poop ship destroyer

Chain gang.
I don’t know, for some reason I’m feeling that need to “caveman out” lately. Y’know, to spend a day at home in the dark accomplishing absolutely nothing. Wake up early, never get properly dressed, make breakfast without a shirt on and rip CDs all day. Just fundamentally waste a day, for no other reason than I can. In this day and age we’re afforded a lot more luxuries than our ancestors. Back then, one day not hunter-gatherering meant one day not feeding the tribe. Today, to me, one day not working, or not doing anything for that matter, really has a net effect of nil. I can afford it see, my tribe can afford it, the world can afford it. So get off my back already, I’m busy, doing nothing.

Another ripping project flashback, I’m now listening to Ween’s “The Stallion Pt. 3” from their Pure Guava LP. (Readers note: I snobbishly use the abbreviation “LP” and word “album” to describe those things most commonly now referred to generically as “CDs.” This is a music-purist and elitist thing, sorry to be such a prick.) Anyway, when we first heard this album we were sure it was a damn joke or something. I mean, gradeschool beats, crappy guitar, and laughable lyrics made the whole thing seem so tongue-in-cheek. However, since we were way into the comedy of stupid – we bit hard. So much so that as 9th graders we each shelled out $10 bucks for tickets to see Gene and Dean Ween play live at some dive in a Melbourne, FL strip-mall. I mean, if you count the twenty-twin-twin we paid a little more per person, but whatever. Live Ween is sublime to a gaggle of stoned 15 and 16 year-olds. And when they busted into that “Purple Rain” cover right after “Flies On My Dick,” sheer genius. Thanks for the memories Ween. I mean, we called Joey’s big brown Oldsmobile the “Poop Ship Destroyer” for years.

You feel gyp’d? Too bad, Dave out.

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waiting for the bus to take me to college

Spacey man, far out.
Even though Skinny Puppy’s Rabies may be one of the worst examples of “music” ever, it’s a like opening a musical time capsule for me. Listening tho this album brings my clad-in-black high school days rushing back. Not that I feel into the whole industrial/goth thing for too long, I’d say maybe six months top – but there was a time I lived for Frontline Assembly, Ministry, Skinny Puppy, and the like. So listening to it now as a byproduct of my ripping project is fun enough. I’m mad right now because I can tell I’m going to have to stop writing at some point and go pee, and I hate interrupting my writing – the urge goes stale really quick. Chances are I’ll come back to the page and deem everything I’ve written already “crap.” Owell.

I came home from work today fully intending to head into the backyard and fill in the ditches that comprise my recently-finished sprinkler system. However, it was so balls-hot today, I decided a nap on the couch would be far more rewarding. It’s OK, I worked quite a bit this weekend – the pavers for the porch were delivered last week and I started laying them. Seeing the combination of the finished retaining wall and newly-added mulch, the trees, and a little imagination for a finished paver-porch and green grass, I’m getting really excited. I actually think the backyard is gonna look better than average when I’m done. To be able to say that I did it 100%, from planning to labor to maintenance – will be a source of extreme pride for me. Considering I learned most of the skills on my feet as I went along, I think I’ve earned that pride.

Listening to the “new” Nick Drake album, not new really – but some of the mixes are new and even a few tracks are new to me. He’s got one of the most brilliant voices, and his writing is awesome. To think I “discovered” him back in college from a VW commercial or something (remember, they were all headed to a party – got there, and decided that driving with the moonroof down was better than the party?). Anyway, fate would have it that I “discovered” Nick Drake and Elliot Smith around the same time – so they’ve kinda “melded” in my mind as period artists. Reminding me of hot, rainy, summer afternoons in Florida, waiting for the bus to take me to college. Good memories, good music.

The Taiwan trip is sneaking up on me, and I haven’t really been preparing that much in terms of getting ready for my presentations. I need to set up some meetings at work to “pick some brains” and make sure I have the right canon of knowledge and current marketing party-line when I get up there. I’m not worried about the customer visits, but the industry training event is a little different, as I want to do a good job and not just be another white dude up there blathering. While I’m excited about the trip (I always am), I expect the last minute “ugh, I don’t even feel like going” feeling to set in as the date draws near (it always does). I always end up having a blast though, and each time I teach or present in front of an audience my confidence in doing so improves vastly. Crap thing this time: I miss Sharaun’s birthday while I’m over there. Yeah, that really bums me out, but what can ya do?

Doodoo time.

Much better. An odd out-of-cycle dump, but enjoyable nonetheless.

Drifting off into the don’t-wanna-write-anymore ether, Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures lulling me along. Too long staring at the screen writing nothing means it’s time to call it quits. Until tomorrow, Dave out.