Category: Adventures in Rock and Roll

It’s raining again. Here is San Diego, we aren’t really equipped with patience to outlast the rain. I, personally, am SO over it.

Also, I have been a little perturbed the past few days, because one of my favorite bands, Mercury Rev, have released a new record and it is available like everywhere but HERE. Everyone else in the world can get this record but here in the U.S. we have to wait until May!

There is one thing I have to say about this: FUCK THAT. I love this band and there is no reason why I should have to wait. But…

I learned a new trick today. Did you know you can buy stuff on amazon.com.uk and have it shipped here? I had no idea, until a couple of hours ago. It’s pretty damn cool, let me tell you.

I am pretty fucking clueless sometimes. Who knows the stress I might have saved myself just knowing amazon.com.uk ships to the States. Golly knows with all the time I spend on the internet, I should already be in tune with this simple little fact.

But still, why is Mercury Rev holding out on me like that? What is Up with THAT? I can’t be mad at them – surely it is some bonehead record deal thing that is stalling the release here in the States.

Mercury Rev is touring Europe when I will be over there. So this is a special message for Grasshopper – Dude, PLEASE PLAY IN ITALY AFTER YOU ARE DONE IN GERMANY. Also, if you should find yourself in Venice while I am there, I will show you around. I know you like Venice because I have seen that picture where you are drinking Heineken in a gondola.

My brother called me today, to tell me he wanted to take me to B.B. King for my upcoming birthday, but I have to work that night. So he said, well, you have a date for Mercury Rev, whenever they come back. My brother, who doesn’t get the music I listen to, understands that Mercury Rev are something special.

And Hopper, when you get back to San Diego, I will make you guys a kick ass veggie meal, way better than those burritos we got on the street. All you have to do is ask.

Disgusting.
$130 for a ticket!
(On phone.) Tom. I got there right at 10:00 and all they had was seats in the back. And they were ONE HUNDRED THIRTY DOLLARS EACH. So I said fuck it.
(Hanging up.) If I was a U2 fan, like Tom, I would be on the ground crying because my band is not only putting out crappy records, but they are also screwing their fans.
Yep, no more ‘band of the people” I guess.
Poo-2. FuckYou2.
I remember when U2 used to play for FREE.
Those days are clearly gone.
I bet the Pope doesn’t even charge that much.
The Pope charges?
OK, well, not the Pope.
Celine Dion charges that much. Also Madonna.
Celine Dion doesn?t count. I wouldn’t pay $10 to see her, even if she had a real fire-breathing dragon on stage.
I’d probably pay $130 to see Frank Sinatra.
Frank Sinatra is dead.
EXACTLY.
Elvis! I’d pay that much to see Elvis.
Or the Beatles!
I’d pay that much to see Macca at the Red Square but only if they threw a plane ticket to Moscow in.
You are not British. Please stop talking like a British person.
I reckon it’s OK to talk like a British person, if you aren’t trying to fake an accent, like Madonna.
I wonder if when Madonna gets hammered, she lapses into a Cockney accent?
Blimey. What a thought.
STOP TALKING LIKE A BRITISH PERSON.
Let’s not forget you paid $500 to see Radiohead once.
Yeah, but that included gas and a hotel room in L.A.
Those were the early days of ebay, I don’t think they had the “Buy it Now” feature at that point.
Let’s not forget that it was that ticket that eventually lead to me living in Venice. I wouldn’t be the renowned authority on Venice bars if I hadn’t bought that ticket.
That $285 dollar ticket.
Radiohead didn’t charge that much, the holder of the ticket did.
Radiohead wouldn’t screw their fans like that.
We are treading in potentially boring material here.
Speaking of British people, I wonder if you can be Prime Minister if you are Irish?
Bono as Prime Minister. Maybe that’s why he shook George Bush’s hand!
He wants to be more than a pop star, that’s pretty clear.
In the words of Jeff Tweedy: “What you once were, isn?t what you want to be, anymore.”
Now he is just a world figure raping his fans with high ticket prices.
Yes. Let’s not get into “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.”
Complete and utter crap.
That has got to be the boringest record ever. Who are they trying to kid?
Don’t forget, most people are sheep.
You’d have to be a sheep to buy that piece of crap.
I think you are running the risk of pissing off a lot of sheep right now.
Good, they should take the piss if they bought that stupid, boring record.
Take the piss? You can’t stop talking like a British person, can you?
So I wonder how many piss-taking sheep are going to spend $500 on ebay to get one of those tickets?
Lots of forty-something clueless fucks will, you can be sure.
I think you are running the risk of pissing off a lot of forty-somethings right now.
Remember that Prince concert where all the people starting cheering because they thought the opening act was Prince?
Yes, I’d imagine the same crowd will be at the U2 concert.
Hey, I bet a lot of them will get laid for the first time in a long time, that night.
Hey, now that I think about it, I’d pay $130 if I could get a seat close enough to see Adam Clayton’s package.
Row 8?
That would probably do it.
You’d have to be like, in the pit to see Bono’s package!
I think you are running the risk of really pissing off Bono here.
Yeah, but not Adam Clayton, and he is the only U2 who matters.
Just because of his package?
Pretty much. A better meaning for “what a fucking dick.”
I use to really love “The Unforgettable Fire.”
Pretty much everything since has been Pretty Forgettable.
Na ah. What about that other record? The huge one? I used to listen to it all the time.
Joshua Tree.
Oh yeah. I think I traded that one in for a Pearl Jam record.
What about Zooropa?
Zooropa? Snoozeropa is more like it.
In the words of Johnny Rotten, “fucking boring, Sidney! Exterminate! Exterminate!”
That wasn’t Johnny Rotten, that was a movie about Sid Vicious.
Yeah, but it is fun to say that. If you are totally into talking like a British person, that is.
In the words of the Super Furry Animals: “move you, buy and sell you, terrorize you, mass destruct you.”
U2 ought to listen to “Phantom Power” so they can hear what a good pop record is suppose to be like.
“Flaunt you, disconnect you, cluster-fuck you, we will crush you.”
Well, I am not sure what it all means, but it sure sounds good.
All the sheep heard that tiny bit of the U2 record on that Ipod commercial and thought their record was good all the way through.
And only that tiny bit was OK. Even the rest of the song sucked!
Sellouts.
Yep, they can’t go around saying they aren’t sellouts anymore.
Um, anyone who shakes George Bush?s hand?
You’d shake it.
No I wouldn’t.
Yes you would.
No.
Yes.
Don’t you know it is impossible to win an argument with yourself?
Whatever.

I love San Diego, but if there is one thing I don’t love, it is having to go to L.A. to see live music. It gets expensive, and also, it is a generally a long, hard ride home the next day. How come L.A. gets some bands for two shows, and down here in San Diego, we get shit?

Totally pisses me off. But of course, I was not about to let that stop me from driving up to L.A. to see Wilco last night. No fucking way. There is going to be a lot of swearing in this entry. I FUCKING LOVE, LOVE, LOVE WILCO.

Yes, it totally pisses me off that they skipped San Diego, especially since the last time they were here in 2002, they sold out their show and I was one of a couple thousand people watching them. Isn’t that enough?

The TWO L.A. shows were at the Wiltern, in Koreatown. I didn’t know there was a Koreatown until I pulled up at the Ramada Inn, Koreatown. I got there at 6:00 P.M. and Mark, who’s father’s memorial service was yesterday, was taking the train in. By the time he showed up he was feeling a plethora of emotions and also, the effects of a few beers he’d had with friends and also, a half bottle of wine he consumed on the train. He was well on his way, understandably, of course. We went across the street to get some sushi. The sushi place was packed and we sat at the bar where the sushi guys were setting out immense plates of fresh fish, artfully arranged in little rectangles domino style. Frantic servers whisked them away to some room where they were feeding an army. We ordered some sushi and a plate of abalone, which we ordered because it came with a tasty looking sauce in a tiny abalone shell (which I know is illegal, the plucking of tiny abalone from the sea, and this will be the first of two abalone references of the evening.) Our abalone came with no sauce and it was also RAW. Blech. Nasty. Gross. The servers were too harried for me to ask them to throw some panko bread crumbs on it and fry it, please. I did try It – and It was Disgusting. The sushi was good, though.

Anyhow we left the sushi bar and walked across the street to the Wiltern. I must be living on another planet, because we got there at 9:00 P.M. and the opening act was already done, and Wilco was going to start any minute. Recent events on my planet are, the headliner doesn’t go on until 10:30, or even later. But whateves, the sooner the better. I ran down to the front only to be stopped by a security guard. “You can’t go down there,” he said. Huh? I asked why and he said “you have to have a wristband.” Is this some new bizarre Los Angeles custom, like for the “in” people or something? “Where do I get a wristband, then” I say. The guy tells me we have to be one of the first 200 people, then we get to go in front.

Well, this is what I say to this custom: FUCK THAT.

Couldn’t get down there though and so I was totally freaking out because my favorite American band was about to start and there were really tall guys everywhere. Really tall guys are generally nice people but at a show, they suck. I searched around for a solution, Mark running after me, the poor guy. Finally… and this is where I know the gods of rock n roll smile down on me – I see a couple of stairs, then a wooden railing. Then I see a little girl. That’s it, that’s my spot. I go and stand right behind the little girl, and from there I have a fantastic viewing spot with absolutely no chance of a tall guy getting in the way. “I am not moving from this spot,” I tell Mark. “Can you please go and get me an Absolut Raspberry and soda?” The little girl is there with her dad. There are four loud yuppie-guys on a hall pass standing next to me. One of them is asking his friends “what was that other hit by the Turtles, besides Happy Together?” His friends weren’t all chiming in at once, so I did. “Uh, that would be It Ain’t Me, Babe,” I said. They looked at me like I was insane. “I don’t think so, it was something else,” Yuppified replied. “Dude.” I said. “My ex-Stepdad was the bass player for the Turtles. Believe me, it was It Ain’t Me Babe.” They looked at me like I was lying, and proceeded to quiz me down. Would I make up a story like that though? Not only do I not want attention, but if I did I’d have a better story to tell. They sent out a volley of inane questions. “He wasn’t in the Turtles when my mom married him – he was by then an abalone diver,” I told them. I don’t think they believed me, but I didn’t really care. I’ve been to enough L.A. shows by now to know, sometimes it is just best to ignore the natives.

Thankfully, the lights went dim and Wilco emerged. Let me just say that for the next two hours, the boneheads next to me were not even a blip on my radar. It was just me, Mark behind me, the little girl in front of me, and Wilco.

And I was in TOTAL, FUCKING HEAVEN. This was a show that lifted me out of my body and put me in a place that I will be dreaming about for years. This was not even a show. It was a fantastic assault on my senses; it was better than sex. That’s it – it was better than sex. Lest you think “wow, homegirl must not have experienced blah blah blah” let me tell you, I probably have and this was much, much better.

The first few songs, all from a ghost is born, were relatively quiet and from my perch behind the little girl, I could hear much conversation around me. I tried to tune this out the best I could and not let it get to me. In the end though, all conversation would stop, because when the guitars started in (three of them, three guitars, how I love, love, love three guitars) there is no way anyone could converse in that room. I love it when the rock n roll tongue gets shoved down the non-believers throat. The little girl was one of the believers – when Wilco played the beautiful song “Muzzle of Bees,” she asked her father to pick her up to see better. Since this is my favorite song from a ghost is born, I nodded to Mark “hey, check that out.” She later wanted to be lifted during “Poor Places” from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot – a mini me if there ever was one. She kind of looked like me, too. It was fairly weird.

The crowd was silenced by the fourth song in the set, “Handshake Drugs,” with distortion that came down around my ears and entered my head and moved me in a way that would be addictive, if the drug companies could package it. It was the first time during the show that I knew I was experiencing brilliance. Live brilliance, ’cause I already am fairly familiar with the studio brilliance. And it kept on, a barrage of guitar and killer drums and general happiness coming from all the band members, save Jeff Tweedy who I now see should probably never speak unless he is singing, and the people bopping up and down all around me. Mark and I wanted them to play “Theolgians” in honor of his father, who had been talked up by a Catholic priest earlier in the day. When they did, Mark and I toasted Joe, his dad, and sang along.

I’m going away
Where you will look for me
Where I’m going you cannot come

No one’s ever gonna take my life from me
I lay it down
A ghost is born

Jeff Tweedy did manage to astound me with his totally inapproriate comments, little things that made me cringe, such as “We love our fans, but not enough to change the set list” when asked to play something not on the set list, and “I feel some negative energy coming from this side of the room…” Dude. These people are LOVING YOU. Be nice to them. Fine, don’t change the set list, no one will ever know.

It doesn’t really matter what a nerdy doofus he is because he is a Fucking Genius. And he totally and completely rocks my world. And out of however many thousands of nights I live and how many hundreds of shows I see, I will never forget those six guys sending arrow after arrow of happiness straight into my heart. And then Jeff sings, and I sing

Something in my veins, bloodier than blood
Something in my veins, bloodier than blood
Something in my veins, bloodier than blood
Something in my veins, bloodier than blood

What you once were isn’t what
you want to be anymore

It’s music, it’s Wilco, it’s what I live for, it’s better than sex. It is definitely better than sex.

While I totally believe in the title of this entry, those are not my words. They are Elliott Smith’s words, they are the title of the last song on his last record, the record he didn’t live to see released.

I really, really love “from a basement on the hill.” But before I get into that let me just puke, or, er, cough all over the record industry for a minute.

Elliott Smith was an indie guy – not some megastar. He was a brilliant musician, but not pretty. He played clubs, not arenas. I used to call him sensitive beanie guy, because that was what he seemed like to me – a guy with a knit beanie who never got the girl but always deserved her. I didn’t know he was so sensitive that he would drive a knife through his own heart. But he clearly did not seem to be having a good time in his life. And he was totally anti of what the music business is these days.

So “from a basement on the hill” is released, one year after his death, to “commemorate” him… whatever. He was already commemorated to me and to countless other people who loved his music. We’d buy the new record no matter when it came out. Why not release it earlier? Later? Maybe this was a loving gesture by friends and family. Maybe I am just really cynical.

And then Rolling Stone gives it the big review, the first review, the review reserved for bigger. I guess this is what it takes for the indie guy – dying. It sort of makes me sick. Hopefully it is making Elliott Smith happy, wherever he is now.

All this doesn’t really matter in the end. What does matter, is that Elliott Smith’s spirit is alive and well all through the new record. When I first listened to it, I was like, WOW, this is fantastic, and it’s finished! It sounded the way it would if Elliott Smith were alive to complete it himself. But now I have listened to it a dozen more times and I know, it is absolutely not finished. Which gives it a sort of live effect, as if Elliott were rehearsing right in front of you. It adds something very special, and is way, way better than a perfected studio record.

I know two things for sure: one is, I believe that when you die you go to the next life and the other, I really suck when it comes to writing about music. I also know that “from a basement on the hill” has touched me, and it has nothing to do with life, death, stab wounds or beanies. It has only to do with one tortured soul with a gift. The rest doesn’t matter.

I guess me and Mark, my boyfriend, are sort of growing apart. He just moved in to a little house over in University Heights, and he is hardly ever here anymore. We still talk on the phone, but things are just, different.

So it came to no surprise to me that last night, instead of seeing a show with Mark, I saw a show by myself, because Mark was at a different show. We just have totally different taste. Though we both love Wilco and the Dandy Warhols and The Who, I’m a little bit Britpop and he’s a little bit Alt-Country. Last night Mark went to see Bob Dylan, and I went to Hollywood to see Clinic. Clinic are from Liverpool, and they are really, really weird. They have a totally unique sound and a sort of crazy energy with blasting piano and what I like to call Chris Isaak guitar. I had to go see them – it was mandatory.

Made sales calls all day, and then went and checked in to one of my favorite Hollywood places, the Best Western Hollywood Hills. I poured a glass of wine and turned on the five o’clock news because the L.A. news shows are so tabloidy it cracks me up. (Once I watched a segment where, during the holiday season, an escalator in a mall sucked up some people’s limbs, and there was mass destruction. I am serious.) There was a little bit on the escalating price of gas, and everyone interviewed had an SUV. One woman said, “well, my husband and I both drive all day for work, so there is nothing we can do about this…” Yes, there is, you silly cow. BUY A SMALLER CAR.

Anyway, after the news I went downstairs to my favorite place in Hollywood, the 101 Coffee Shop and ate a BLT and corn on the cob. I don’t know how they make that corn so good. They put this lime chili stuff on it, and it is seriously the best corn in Southern California, if not the world.

This left me at about 7:30 with some time to kill, so I went out into the night. I stopped by the Frolic Bar to have a cheap drink before getting raped by the cost of drinks at the theater. I ordered up an Absolut Mandarin and soda, and it tasted vile, like stale limes. There was a lime in my drink, and I fished it out. I have this little problem with my face, or making faces. Sometimes I make faces even when I am not aware of it – like a nervous tick. So the bartender comes over and asks why I am making a face. “Too limey!” I say. (The point being, if you are ordering Mandarin vodka, you want it to taste like orange, NOT lime.) “More soda?” he asks. DUDE. “No…” I say. “More vodka?” he says. Now that’s more like it!

I am such a picky, pain in the ass date.

The Frolic Room was sort of boring, so I left and headed to the Henry Fonda Theater, figuring I might as well check out the opening act. In line at Will Call, there was a couple behind me who did not look like the types who would like a band like Clinic. They reminded me, looks-wise, of Larry and Cheryl David from Curb your Enthusiasm. The guy even tried to be funny. As I pushed my confirmation from Ticketweb towards the box office person, he said “Ticketweb? Do you ALWAYS get your tickets from Ticketweb?” Huh? What kind of inane question is that? “Uh,” I said to Mr. Funny, “only when that is where the tickets are sold.” “Are they the same price?” He says. Ummm… what are these people doing at a Clinic show?

Thankfully, the bar was not far away. The bartender made me a rockin’ Mandarin and soda (Grey Goose this time) but for NINE dollars! Add a two dollar tip to that one, and it is shaping up to be an expensive evening. Damn, I had sort of forgotten what an expensive date I am.

The opening act, Sons and Daughters came on, and they were really good. They were sort of twangy and after awhile I realized, they were totally into Johnny Cash. The guitarist was SO into what he was doing – he kept staring violently into the audience during his solos. It was pretty damned hot, let me tell you.

After they were done I made my way to the rail because I hate having to look at the back of people’s heads during a show. There was a guy there, arms stretched out, saving a big space for someone. “Can I squish in?” I asked him. “I won’t take up too much room.” He had promised his friend not to let go of this space, and I totally understand because I always make people guard rail space when I am at a show. He let me in, though, so I offered to buy him a drink. Please, please don’t order a call drink, I thought, and was pleasantly surprised when he only wanted a Coors Light. That, and another drink for me, was only $13.

Eventually the friend of the rail space saver came back. She was a young hot thing who met the bass player from Clinic after the last show and got to go backstage. She told me the show would be weird, but like me, had some trouble describing Clinic. “They are really… antiseptic, on stage,” she said. Hmmm. Well, I understand how it is hard to find the right words.

Finally Clinic came on and something like forty minutes later they were gone. Just like their records, frenetic and bizarre. But I think I psyched myself up too much, because in the end it was disappointing. Even with their surgical masks and brown scrubs, Clinic were just Not Weird Enough. A great band, definitely in the studio, and I am sure they have put on some really amazing shows. But I longed for the intensity the guitarist for the Sons and Daughters had.

I could have hung out with Girly Girl and her friend, but instead I split – I am always nervous about possibly meeting the band, because I sound like such an idiot when I talk to musicians. I went back to the Frolic Bar, for no better reason than it was just too early to end my date. After a couple sips of another really nasty drink, I was like what the hell am I doing here? This drink SUCKS. Luckily I had some Doug Margerum Rhone Blend, half a corn on the cob, and some cold sweet potato fries back in the room.

Let’s just say, today I am sort of recovering. One last note, one more HUH? When I checked out, my hotel bill was $87, and I handed the hotel guy a $100 bill. He asked, “don’t you have anything smaller?”

HUH?????

I am fairly sure I was one of the first people to discover Pink Martini. Pink Martini the band from Portland, Oregon. I’ve had my share of martinis colored with drops of blood, too. But that is another story.

Pink Martini are so unbelievably great. They’ve only got one record, Sympathique. But that record is played all over the world, and has been since it came out in 1998ish. Just last month, when I was in New York, it was being played in a trendy restaurant. “Hey!” I told my friends. “Pink Martini! Have I ever told you about my Pink Martini Where Have You Heard Them Played Around the World Website Idea?” Of course they looked at me like I was totally insane.

Seriously, I think this is an idea right up there with Bookcrossing.com. Because you are probably as likely to hear Pink Martini in a cafe in Budapest, Santa Monica, Rome or Copenhagen, as you are to find a book at a pre-destined location. It’s true! When I was in New York, I swear, we heard Pink Martini AGAIN at another place the very next day. And this is six years after the record came out!

The reason Pink Martini is still being played, and at cool and trendy places, not to mention at my house right now, is because they are a band of hot percussionists and horn players (well, you wouldn’t know they are hot, but I do because I have seen them five times and I am telling you, they are) and a beautiful, sensuous singer named China Forbes. Well actually these are not the reasons they are being played, but they are good reasons to go and see the band. The REAL reasons they are being played after all these years, is that the record is beautiful, and rhythmic, both familiar and foreign, and besides being easy on the mind, makes your ears perk up and your legs tense, because you might want to dance soon. Only heard Doris Day sing “Che Sera Sera?” Check Pink Martini’s and China’s “Sera” out. Do you get off on “Bolero?” Well, you have to get this record. And it doesn’t get much better than “Song of the Black Lizard,” where China’s voice seems to morph into a trumpet solo that can only be called one thing – killer. As in so beautiful it will kill you.

I’ve seen them in the Great American Music Hall, when I could lick China’s shoe. I’ve seen them at the Hollywood Bowl, where I had to look through binoculars. But I’ve heard them all over the place. Someday I will start that website, and I’ll get more hits than this thing does.

Today, a day of complete freedom – boyfriend gone for the day and night, nowhere to be, nothing to do. So what did I do? Clean out my closet, and mop my floors, in the early part of the day, while it was still foggy. Somehow, even with two huge garbage bags of clothes and shoes ready for the Goodwill, my closet is still full. I can’t figure it out. I’m not really a clothes buyer. How come I have all these evening dresses? It’s fairly bizarre.

Getting back to the cleaning, though, to help me on my way, I popped a bootleg of Radiohead’s South Park concert into my CD player, and this was the soundtrack of my Sunday journey. Even if I am cleaning, I am listening, at the same time, to a truly stellar show. Life in 2004 = pretty damn good.

The Radiohead South Park show was on July 7, 2001. South Park is in Oxford, England, Radiohead’s hometown. The band had taken a long break from touring, and this was their first show in Oxford in a long time, and the show was a huge deal to the local fans who had followed Radiohead since the beginning. And about 45,000 of those local fans turned up. 45,000!

I’d already seen Radiohead twice in the months before the Oxford show – once in L.A. when they played only three concerts in the Fall of 2000 (Toronto, New York & L.A.) and again in Verona, at the Verona Arena in May 2001. So I knew how fantastic it was all going to be before I heard this bootleg of the Oxford show. Radiohead in the studio makes music that you listen to lying on your couch, stoned, entranced. Radiohead on stage reaches out, grabs your spinal cord, and makes you jump around like a deranged puppet.

But this Oxford show is beyond fantastic. It is more like orgasm. Radiohead comes home, plays a hometown gig, before 45,000 screaming, ecstatic people. It is heart crushing for someone like me, who is just way too into it to begin with.

The South Park bootleg is two CDs, an hour long each. Two hours of bliss, but at the end, the final song, something happens that always makes me cry. No, not cry but totally break down. That is how powerful this moment is.

In 1993, Radiohead got their big break with the single “Creep.” People who don’t know who Radiohead is (like many of the people reading this right now) would probably recognize this song. It made Radiohead into the radio star, but the band got sick of drunken frat boys screaming “play ‘Creep!’” at shows and after a while, refused to play it anymore. (Even though it is a really GREAT song.)

Fast forward to the South Park show, when after the two hours of bliss, the band were about to depart with a song called “Motion Picture Soundtrack,” a mellow, sweet love song. After ten seconds, they stop and Thom Yorke, the lead singer, yells “Fuck It!” After a minute, they launch into “Creep.” After years of not playing it.

Those 45,000 people go Totally Insane. The noise is like the roar of a thousand lions on Ecstasy. It is an incredibly beautiful sound – 45,000 people, all so totally happy. At that point, it was raining on them, but they could not have cared less.

And they were singing. They sing along all the way through the show, but they are louder here than ever – it’s as though Thom Yorke doesn’t even need to bother. They – the mass of people and the band – sing together:

I wish I were special
You’re so fucking special

But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here.

But they all DO belong where they are at that moment. Sharing an evening of bliss with a LOT of other people, with a band who really cares. I had to sit down on the floor once again at the end of the CD and cry.

The house clean, and my tears dried, I went down to the beach and watched the ocean in silence for awhile. Thinking about the noise of the crowd, the whole time.

I am ecstatic, because today the new Wilco record was released and now I am listening to it on my CD player, not my computer like I have been doing for two months now.

Sounds that pierce me, rhythms that resonate within me. This record is definitely the best I’ve heard so far this year. There is something oh, so satisfying about that first listening on your player, loud, and the knowing that indeed, this is music that you are going to play over and over and love for a very long time. Music that will make you look up from whatever mundane task you are doing and make you think, as long as sounds can make me feel this way, life is worth living.

It’s true I love to eat, and drink, and to travel. But I must admit, if there is one thing I could not live without, it is music, and especially these nights of discovery, where I am buried in sound, and sound that I can bury myself in over and over. It is a clean addiction, one that won’t kill me, or break me financially. So bury me in sound, and make it really, really loud. No, louder, please.

I spent my formative years listening to music. I remember listening to Elton John’s “Madman Across the Water” when I came home from the first grade, and the first record I played on my plastic Playschool record player (or at least the first record I want to remember owning) was the Moody Blues “Days of Future Passed.” On my 8th birthday, instead of “Happy Birthday to You” I heard the Beatles “Birthday” song. Let’s just say I have never let go of my rock and roll roots.

I also love to cook, to drink, to be a quasi-gourmet, to pretend to be a jet-setter. These are all fairly un-rockandroll things, except for maybe the drinking. I read Bon Appetit and Gourmet. This is extremely non-rocking.

So imagine my surprise when I turned a page in my new Bon Appetit tonight and found a picture of non other than Joe Perry, guitarist of Aerosmith, hawking his new hot sauce. I’m sorry to say, my stomach turned. It seems things have been going steadily downhill since Led Zeppelin sold out in that Jaguar commerical (or whatever car that was. Let’s please not talk about Sting.)

Joe Perry! I remember when he used to be so unbelievable cool. So distant, so remote, and such a slaying guitarist. I always had a thing for him, and was totally devasted when I saw him in a Gap ad.

I mean, these guys don’t really need the money from a Gap ad, do they? Don’t they already have gazillions from the bazillion records they had sold? The ninety nine World Tours?

And now, to see Joe Perry in friggen Bon Appetit. Maybe I am getting old. Maybe he is getting even older. Maybe Bon Appetit thinks they have totally scored. Joe Perry looks uncomfortable in the picture. It’s all very sad and confusing to me.

Sometimes all we have got is the memories of the coolness we have seen, heard, and known. I wonder if the kids of today see Justin Timberlake in the same way I used to see Joe Perry. I guess you could ask Joe Perry’s kids. I wish I could tell Joe’s kids how I used to listen to “Train Kept a Rollin” when I was fourteen and how Joe was like a god to me. I wish I could tell them how that could never happen to me now that he is hawking hot sauce in Bon Appetit.

My morning ritual these days is, get up, go out for a walk, come home, make coffee, and listen to the new Wilco album, streamed over the internet. Then I go to work. And since I work at home, I can stream Wilco all day if I want to.

I love Wilco. I love them because they are always changing, and I think that is what music is all about. There is nothing worse than the same band churning out the same stuff. Music is suppose to be about the creation of something new.

I also love Wilco, because they have been streaming their new album, A Ghost is Born, two months before it is released in the stores. This is a band, a very popular band that sells out shows from coast to coast, giving their music away. It just slays me.

On a Wilco message board, I read a review of a show Wilco just did, and Jeff Tweedy (the frontman, Mr. Wilco) asked the crowd how many had heard the new album. Everyone went ballistic. Everyone had heard it. Everyone knew that all the new songs were going to be fantastic live.

Wilco’s last album, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, was also streamed on the internet, because their record label at the time hated the record and when Wilco would not change it, the record company dropped them. YHF is Wilco’s masterpiece, to me anyway. I could listen to it daily. It went on to be an indy hit and made it onto most top ten lists. It is an exceptional album, the kind of album that everytime you listen to it you hear something new.

A Ghost is Born is totally different than all Wilco has done before. It’s full of scratchy guitar and the Beatles and lyrics like

Saxophones started blowing me down
I was buried in sound

Buried in sound, indeed. Thank you, Wilco, for making my mornings a better place.