06:38 pm - Rock & Roll: Thy Name Is The Boredoms The Boredoms played the Filmore, Tuesday night. Transformed it, even. In the round. Surprisingly, the show didn't sell out. Still, somewhere around a thousand people managed to converge on the floor before the darkened main stage. A thousand people, shoulder to shoulder, encircling The Boredoms. Yamantanka EYE and his crew performed on a circular riser, there on the dancefloor. Out of that thousand, I couldn't tell you how many people shared in a common religious experience as old as humanity itself. No doubt some were thinking about crouching down waist-level and sneaking another hit of those sweet, sweet Northern California Heads. Some were thinking about their chances of getting laid. Maybe some were even thinking about leaving.
I wasn't thinking, at all, and I don't think I was alone in my non-thinking. It was that kind of rite.
The show definitely had the air of a ceremony to it, there was an invocation at the very beginning; A man dancing and waving two sticks--two burning sticks. . . and he began chanting/howling/calling. . . whether it was in Japanese or some other language or some *other* language that originated somewhere from the world within his skull doesn't really matter. His call, as I heard it, was a naked one, semantically and syntacticly void. . . no lyrics, at this show, just *pure* singing. It seemed like the burning sticks were microphoned, and played as if they were instruments. "Whoosh--BIZZIT! Whoosh--BIZZIT!" as a rhythm, and processed vocals ringing out. Echo, chorus, flange. . . all of those little toys, I'll bet, he ran his voice through them all.
That call to prayer was finished with the laying of the hands on a keyboard, and suddenly The Boredoms--the four of them--took off flying with the collective attention they had easily collected.
The attention-span of each member of the audience was a flower (a curvy, yellow one, maybe) that sprang up from a seed beneath the scalp at the top of the skull, blossoming and twisting it's stemmy, shaky way toward the group. And as these quivering tulips made their way to the little, circular riser, there on the floor, the group seemed to get higher and higher off of the fragrance. The sea of people, waves and waves of heads and shoulders shifting from purple, to red, to yellow and back again beneath the houselights, never seemed to recede, from my bird's-eye-view.
But does the flower grow into or out of the ground?
The Boredoms, these days consists of Yamantanka Eye, Yoshimi P. We, Hila Y, and Seiichi Yamamoto. In their present incarnation, the driving force behind the music is the driving force that's always been behind the music, *all* music--the drum. There are keyboards, tape-loops, six-headed guitars and other electronic doo-dads, but it's basically a percussion outfit. At times, they sound like a Kurosawa film's soundtrack played at times two. Others, they sound like a trip into the sun.
I'm hesitant to say too much about how they sounded Tuesday night. They either tapped into the source and presented us with MUSIC in its purest form or totally transcended MUSIC altogether. The group asked that no one use ANY kind of camera, at the show. I'm sure there are a few videos taken from that show, on YouTube, but I'm not going to link to them. What went down that night can't be filtered through a cellphone mic and then piped out of a set of laptop speakers. When four supertight drummers lock into a groove, you pretty much need to be there.
Hell, I'd love a recording that reproduced the feel I got off that music, but I have my doubts even something tapped from the soundboard could ever hit me the same. I've seen cellphone clips of The Boredoms, and wouldn't encourage anyone to seek them out.
The show I saw attests to the fact that some things are still sacred. We all go to concerts hoping that we might catch a good one, but it's rare indeed to attend a truly great show.
They've got a myspace page, though, and although the music offered there sounds nothing like the performance I saw earlier this week, it does offer a glimpse of where they've been before. While looking for cellphone videos to bag on, I found this experiment they conducted beneath the Brooklyn Bridge in New York. Thanks to Some Day Fire Productions.
The remainder of their scheduled Spring 2008 Tour is beneath the ( cut. )
I first heard Happy End on October 2nd, 2004, somewhere in the dark p.m.. Actually, that's not totally accurate. I only heard the songs of Happy End, as performed by other musicians. This tribute to Happy End I heard, called A Happy End Parade, is a miracle in its own right.
But the cover you see here is from Happy End's first album. It was recorded in the summer of nineteen seventy two. And you can tell. The drums are mic'ed to sound like the Allman Brothers, the guitars are right out of Badfinger. Imagine Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young doing the Beatles, on the old CSN&Y equipment in the old CSN&Y studio. . . Only in Japanese. . . A relaxed, natural and pretty Japanese that's way beyond the bark and show of the sixties' fuzz and Rolling Stones covers. . . Sincere and plain, these vocals, unhurried and unstrained. The songs feature lots of backing vocals, as well, mixed right in there between Badfinger guitar and bright Columbia 78 basslines. big fat major chords in the key of A on a big old piano. All of it softly and warmly mixed. This record hits you like a warm gust of ( air. )
01:42 am - Working While High and Rocking When we first moved in, it took awhile for me to get used to the lack of jackhammers, screaming women, and street musicians. This neighborhood is the quietest I've ever lived in, and I've come to appreciate the peace and ease inflated rent affords. The atmosphere is occasionally disrupted, sure, but most of the time it’s welcomed. You get trumpets, laughter, kids yelling.
Maybe it was the second or third night, around two or three in the morning, we heard a car roll up. Actually, we heard the car rolling up from the corner. Prince, circa *Purple Rain.* "Darling Nikki," it was. The rocksteady beat and preening, wiry synthesizer riffs lingered out in the street for a full two minutes. We heard our landlord, who lives RIGHT THE FUCK NEXT DOOR, stomp down the steps and throw the front door open. The music didn't go anywhere.
After awhile it did, though, and we heard the landlord's door close, and his feet mounting the staircase.
waswas This kind of thing happened five or six more times. Always in the earlier hours of morning, always the booming stereo (and the guy's got a tricked out system), always with something groove heavy. It was always music that I liked, so the volume and obnoxious spirit working the dial never bothered me so much. I'm all for playing Big Black at three a.m. and telling the neighbors they can all get fucked.
But the then, the other night, I was finishing up with a movie and stepping out for a cigarette. I hadn't checked any clocks, but it was well after the bars had closed. To my left, came a rumble.
The car pulled up. Looked like a late-model Grand Prix. The door opened and a man got out. A huge man. Taller than me. Must've had at least a hundred and fifty pounds on me. He had a bald head, and he wore a black apron. He was carrying a rolled up newspaper. I said hello to him, and he only nodded in return, leaving a sweet, weedy wake behind him. Somehow, the fact that he was earning a living changed something. I wanted him to play his music louder. He didn't even bother closing the door.
He climbed the steps to our building and stopped in front of the landlord's door. He brought his heavy arm over his head, and whipped the newspaper down onto the doormat at his feet.
With grace, confidence, and what must have been a sweet buzz-on, he strode past me and sat back down into his car. The chassis sunk down, closer to the road. He drove away, and after a minute or so, there was only silence.
And it gave me a moment to reflect on just how badass the baseline to Sade'sParadise is.
Pink Lady was a Japanese pop duo that managed to get on American television. If I remember correctly, they were placed up against The Dukes of Hazard. Most Americans preferred watching Roscoe hit Enos over the head with his hat after losing control of his cruiser and slamming into a burning cross. That's the way it goes.
The sound and visuals on this are really good. Unfortunately, it cuts out just as the drum and bass kick in. Which is a shame, really.
The band's name is Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso U.F.O. "Paraiso," I found out, is a Japanese word similar to our "paradise." Makoto believes the Japanese variant suggests a temporary aspect lacking in English's "everlasting" sense of the word. "U.F.O." is shorthand for "Underground Freak-Out." So not only is the solace of the Underground Freak-Out temporary, but it's melting as well.
You can learn more about Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso U.F.O. by visiting their website.
I should probably take this opportunity to alert you all to the fact that I'm reviewing records, elsewhere. The name of the site is Diminished 7th. These guys are operating primarily on the East Coast and are doing a good job of getting a music site off and running. There are, at present, no advertisements. It's got a clean, professional look and the reviews, articles and features are all very well-written. You'll find my stuff under "Reviews." I'd urge you to poke around the site, a little. . . see if anything catches your eye. Dropping them some nice mail would, most likely, be very much appreciated. I feel that I'm very lucky to have been taken aboard on this little venture. I'm very proud of what I have, so far, contributed to the site, and hope to start doing a little more now that I'm settling in here. If you're shy about contacting them, or have some suggestions for me in particular, please let me know what's on your mind. I'd sincerely like to see this thing work.
01:49 am - "Come on, Detroit, 'cause The Blues is still number one." On May 26th, 1995, I was introduced to the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion by a fifteen-year-old Iraqi girl, although to be fair she was a dual citizen. She'd been introduced to the group by her big brother. He studied law at Oakland University and was a music snob. His little sister and I aspired to be like him, though we were both well on our way.
It was a Friday night and we were on our way to see Johnny Mnemonic at the Novi Town Center, about forty-five minutes from our houses. We were idling at the intersection of Union Lake Road and Richardson, right where the old drive-in once stood. Last time I was back in town, I believe I saw the old sign still standing. Anyway, we were there. It was about seven in the evening. And she told her cousin, who was behind the wheel, to put *Orange* in.
BAM! BAM! Followed by those taught strings, just hanging there, wavering, then Judah Bauer's leads came in, and then Spencer starts doing his slow-mo, Jerry Lee Lewis on Presley-strength meds. . . And with only the first minute of "Bellbottoms," I knew I'd stepped over and through a threshold. I uttered some foul-mouthed expression of awe and she told me the song wasn't even a quarter over. The hairs on my neck stood on end, my toes went alight, neural synapses started popping off, there was a Chinese wedding going on in my Floyd soaked brainpan. I felt like I'd just crested the first hill of the Mean Streak.
The physiological responses I enjoyed at the introduction of novelty goes a long way in explaining the size of my record collection and my library.
01:19 am - The Floppy Boot Stomp The fuckers down the street are partying tonight. Partying on a Thursday night, I've got a soft spot for that. You get back into drinking your rhythm on Thursday night. You don't overdo it. A few bottles of beer. Pint glasses of draught if you can afford it. Maybe a tumbler of bourbon, if you want to get a head start on a moderate buzz. You accomplish some shit on Friday night, and then you're ready to do some real damage come Saturday night.
Thursday nights are alright for drinking.
But these fuckers, they're going about it all wrong. The girls are out in the front yard. I can hear them clearly from a block away. They're not talking about anything important. Their heads hurt from being in class all day, most likely. They're old enough to drink, but young enough to still giggle. The boys they're with are just loud. Just loud. I can be loud. But usually I'm loud and offensive. At least. These jerks are just loud. Loud and stupid. Lots of the big laughs from the bellies. Much of it forced.
Our neighborhood is quiet enough, though. Its got enough quiet to drown these fuckers out.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to a party on my block. I was outside and I heard a trumpet playing. Very dark outside, the moon was hidden. You could feel the beginnings of an autumn chill. Faint beginnings. The trumpet cut through the air at just the right angle, and it me just right in the ear, and I couldn't help smiling. I went back inside, tucked a beer into my jacket and went to the house.
I play music with some of the house's inhabitants, sometimes.
I twisted my way through the trees, between the chainlink fences, and heeled and toed it over the dead leaves, broken concrete, and rotting wood into the backyard. It was fenced in by these planks that were infested with bugs and over six feet tall. Trees were somehow packed into this backyard, tall ones that spread their branches out, blotting out the murky-urky sky with leaves that reflected the bonfire in a wavering brown and, my God, it was so pretty. . . but how did they all grow so close together.
We all sang songs. A fireside singalong, with accoustic guitar and muffled trumpet. Like finding a little hippie oasis in the woods. About twenty people gathered in that little yard, sharing beers, joints, stories, music. And no one was raising a voice. The laughter was subdued, but there were more smiles than laughter. And the only thing I was able to catch as I was walking away, was the horn.
I can hear some music beneath the fuckers at the end of my street, this evening, and there's an appalling lack of slide-guitar in it. Fuckers.
You can check out his website, here. You don't have to send this guy any money, you don't even have to send him nice email (although, if you haven't sent anything to Dave Fischer, you totally should, he'll write you back). Mike the Pod probably wants you to buy some of his shit, though. He seems pretty multi-talented. I prefer the series of comics, mentioned above. But he does some nice animation and he's a musician, too.
You can see the rest of the Ween comic by looking under the
Zvuki Mu. The name sounds like “Svookie Moo,” to me. That doesn't matter. The only person on this planet who can say these two words of Russian properly is my friend, Dennis. He introduced me to this band somewhere around the autumn of 1999.
It was one of those instances when the music finds you at just the right moment. Just when you're ready to hear it. You know you're ready to hear something new, you have a vague awareness that you haven't been struck by anything in awhile. Nothing's been getting through. Suddenly, something comes your way over the airwaves, or maybe a friend introduces it to you.
I remember thinking, back then, Mr. Bungle's California was something special. I still do. I was very fond of records that contained a lot of skipping around between genres. The idea that you shouldn't let your music get bogged down in a single style is as old as good musicianship.
I suppose, all I had to compare Zvuki Mu to was Tom Waits(Big Time), Ween (The Pod, Pure Guava and Z-Rock Hawaii), and early King Missile (plus Dogbowl). Now, all I have to compare it to is Can (shorter, earlier pieces), Captain Beefheart (definitely), and Faust (VERY).
aum posted this video clip of The Residents. I like it. It's basically a clip of them doing some kind of promotional video (I guess) for their cover of “Jailhouse Rock.” Basically, they take the song and temper it with moods more readily imagined behind bars. . . those of menace and fear. That's a big part of what The Residents do.
But, after the “Jailhouse Rock” clip, you get a more recent (and complete) video. It's them at. . . well, I don't know where they're at. But it's them doing “Wonderful,” off of their “Demons Dance Alone” record. The video, I think, is great because it shows you just how much they put into their shows, theatrically. And it's a damn good song. They even changed the lyrics from the album. . . totally changed the lyrics from the album, too.
Totally.
The other Friday night, I was sitting down in my classroom with my two older students. Mr. Lau and Thirteen. Mr. Lau watches MTV, occasionally, and doesn't care for American videos. I assure him that he shouldn't. Thirteen is a young woman who likes historical novels. She recently read the Da Vinci Code. . . translated into Chinese. (Ain't that a shame? All of Dan Brown's nuanced language. . . lost on an entire audience! ( Talk about an injustice )
03:06 am - Who's Your Evil Lord? I used to wonder about this guy. I'd watch him wheel an old woman around in chair. I watch him dash out for cigarettes at four in the morning, braving gale force winds. I thought about him smoking his cigarettes down to the filter, sitting in a rocking chair fashioned out of lacquered bamboo. The woman in her chair, a few feet away from him. They'd be looking at a Taiwanese variety show on an old television set. Every forty minutes or so, some gag would hit them in the same way, at the same time, and they'd chuckle together.
I had the feeling that there was a MORE to this guy's life, and for some reason I wanted to see it.
I'd heard it before actually seeing it.
This guy puts on a suit, picks up this two-stringed banjo-like instrument, and sets to walking our neighborhood when the sun goes down. He chain smokes, and usually smells like the hard shit.
Sometimes, he's just too crocked to get it rolling. He's camera-shy, too. In this picture, he's playing the same riff, over and over, punctuating with a howl. There's a Taiwanese bridge, in there. I'd heard him "on," before. . . The trick is to keep him from knowing you're there.
03:40 am - Heart Attack I opened a Myspace account. I've started recording some music and they allow you to post four MP3's at a time. I can't say I'm a big fan of Myspace. I hate the ads, and the "Cool New People" displayed on my home page don't seem that cool to me. Moreover, the interface is slow and glitchy. . . That being said, things are pretty easy on your end. Just click on the link below.
By the looks of it, people seem to like "Old Lady Semple." "Breakman" was thrown up there, tonight. Have a listen. I'd appreciate any feedback you might have.
Taipei's Rapid Transit Cooperation has just lobbed a giant lump of cash into that swirling, zero-sum vortex known as PR. As if the citizens of Taipei needed more incentive to ride the MRT, The TRTC is going balls-out in a incomprehensible move to promote it.
Check out this crappy song they put together. (The song itself is there, but it takes a little while to download.) It's got singing children, druggy synth-lines, and a moving guitar solo that could bring Huey Lewis to his knees, weeping openly and professing his hatred for his father.
The variety of Chinese used is a bit poetic. With the help of my dictionary, and my limited knowledge of Chinese, I've attempted to translate it, here. (I'm sorry that I couldn't give it some kind of rhyme scheme.)
Some of you may remember woquinoncoin picked up a little 8-Ban, Inchophone, 4-AA-Powered miniature record player. Yeah,that one. The day after she bought it, we got Bowdu and. . . well, let's just say I'm still wondering what the charming and endearing children's songs sound like.
The other week, though, Cindy pointed out some special 8-Ban news. It seems that The White Stripes released a small set of their radio hits on 8-Ban. The list includes, "Hotel Yorba," "Blue Orchid," "Fell In Love With A Girl," "Dead Leave And The Dirty Ground," "Seven Nation Army," "The Hardest Button To Button," and "Top Special."
I think I've done karaoke once in the states. It was at a shitkicker bar off of Elizabeth Lake Road. From the songbook, I had my pick between "Burning Down The House," by Talking Heads or "After Midnight," by Patsy Cline. I took the later and did the shriekingest, thashabilly take on it I could, given the low consumption of alcohol and narcotics, that particular evening. It ended with a lot of hooting and clapping. Some chick went up two songs later and did a note-for-note rendition that was spot-on and soul-less and got polite applause. Shortly thereafter, a drunken patron tried to stick his finger in my ear, either trying to show some form of warbling, alcoholic solidarity or repressed homosexuality.
And that's how the Japanese do it, too. You go into a bar and you put it out there and if some drunken, unemployed auto-mechanic tries to make a pass at you, you take it in stride and hope the local rednecks don't try to beat the shit out of him.
02:40 am - Taiwan Rig Recently, aum made a post about Kevin Shields and what he uses for onstage antics . Since I got that new guitar today (that one, right there), I'm posting this in the hopes that other friends will throw some shots of their gear up.
As an aside, you might want to follow the link above and investigate what your favorite guitarists use. . . I was surprised Seth found Kevin Shields on this "guitargeek." They didn't have listings for Michael Karoli, Kawabata Makoto, Bob Log III, or even Dean Ween. . .
I went to Tony's Music last night. I had about a half an hour to browse. The place was pretty dead. I was looking for a Fender guitar. . . a Fender with some tremolo action. Fender's are tough to buy in Taiwan. For some reason, the Fender sound just isn't "in." Places that do stock Fenders are usually overpricing them hundreds of dollars. Imagine paying a grand for Thinline Telecaster--Japanese reissue--and you''ve got some idea.
So I'm going through all the bullshit they have. Guitars shaped like Gundam weapons, guitars shaped like dolphins, you've seen most of the crap on Cindy's journal before.
Yeah, well, I found this Japanese Jazzmaster. Sweet, right? Not as sweet as it could have been. The pickup arrangement was different. . . there was a humbucker thrown on by the bridge, between that and the neck was an onboard speaker.
I thought it was worth checking out, but it was getting too late and everybody there wanted to go home. You got the "let's get the fuck out of here," vibe from ( everyone. )
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rjhudson's journal
The Boredoms played the Filmore, Tuesday night. Transformed it, even. In the round. Surprisingly, the show didn't sell out. Still, somewhere around a thousand people managed to converge on the floor before the darkened main stage. A thousand people, shoulder to shoulder, encircling The Boredoms. Yamantanka EYE and his crew performed on a circular riser, there on the dancefloor. Out of that thousand, I couldn't tell you how many people shared in a common religious experience as old as humanity itself. No doubt some were thinking about crouching down waist-level and sneaking another hit of those sweet, sweet Northern California Heads. Some were thinking about their chances of getting laid. Maybe some were even thinking about leaving.
I should probably take this opportunity to alert you all to the fact that I'm reviewing records, elsewhere. The name of the site is 
On May 26th, 1995, I was introduced to the 
To your left, there, is a panel from a centitled 
I opened a Myspace account. I've started recording some music and they allow you to post four MP3's at a time. I can't say I'm a big fan of Myspace. I hate the ads, and the "Cool New People" displayed on my home page don't seem that cool to me. Moreover, the interface is slow and glitchy. . . That being said, things are pretty easy on your end. Just click on the link below.
Recently, 