Garlic and mustard and linens and face creams - these are a few of my favorite things...

By Coco Hames

My friend always sends those quizzes around, you know the ones where it's a bunch of questions about you?  Whenever I've worked in offices, and been stuck at a computer, they're really fun to fill out.  You know, stuff like...

When's your birthday? May 4 (same as Audrey Hepburn and Julian Barratt).

What's your favorite color? Black or white or grey or a combo.

What's your favorite place?  Either the south of France or western North Carolina.

Who would play you in a movie? Alan Rickman or Jeanne Moreau.

Favorite sport? SEC football, but that's about it.

What word or phrase do you overuse?  I say "Oh..." when I don't want to answer something, in a scornful but playful way, like my Grandma Max did, which she may or may not have gotten from Agnes Moorehead in The Magnificent Ambersons.

Beach or mountains? Mountains.

Dogs or cats? DOGS.  Goddamnit I hate cats.

On and on it goes.  But they never give me enough room.

I like all-white linens because they are aesthetically pleasing (in that they are not aesthetically disturbing) and because you can bleach them.  Only partially because color towels look gross and it's gross to get pilly little red or black balls in your armpits after you've just taken a shower.  All-white linens are good for lots of reasons.  I've been known to fall asleep with a glass of red wine in my hand.  Bleached that right out.  No one's the wiser.  I've been in bed with someone who scratched a bug bite on their leg WITH THEIR TOENAIL and sliced it open, bled everywhere.  Bleach!  Also bleach just makes things SEEM cleaner, smells all bleachy.  Bleachy clean.

A good gift for me would be a seltzer maker because I drink a lot of seltzer water.  They have some Swiss machine at Williams-Sonoma that makes seltzer.  FYI - Christmas is coming eventually and all I'm saying is, it'd be a nice gift for me.

I love books and spend all of my money on them.  If you gave me $1,000 right now, I'd go directly to Amazon and buy all the books I want.  I love books and expensive cosmetics.  I don't see anything wrong with that.  I like things to feel luxurious, if I ever am able.  Just things.  Like the fabric on a sofa or clean hardwood floors underfoot.  I like high thread count sheets and exorbitantly priced face creams, but I wear clothes until they fall off my body and haven't gotten a professional haircut in like five years.  When I used to wear extensions.  Those were the days!  Actually I can't have hair touching my neck, it freaks me out.  I shaved my head in high school and pulled out all of my eyebrows and eyelashes.  

I compulsively touch my face when I'm talking, which I imagine is annoying to look at.  I hate things that taste sweet or smell sweet.  I don't like candy or ice cream.  I came around to ice cream briefly in Devon (of the famed Devonshire cream) where I had the most freakishly delicious fresh strawberry ice cream.  On the beach, in winter.  Nothing is more civilized than walking on the beach in winter.  Anyway, I'm lactose intolerant so anything with milk is just not going to work for me.

I like red wine very much, and believe I'm one of those "New World" people who like wines from California and South America better than wines from Spain or France.  But I do like Italian wine.  And you know what, sometimes I just like any old red wine, because I like tannins.  I like vodka because it tastes clean; I do not like rum or tequila or anything like that, retch.  My dad likes Scotch, which I do not like.  I like Irish whiskey, but only now and then.  My friend Christian gave me Irish whiskey in London in the middle of a party because that's what he was drinking, and I really liked it.  But it borders on too sweet for me, so I water it down a bit and take it on ice.

I didn't like ketchup when I was little, which doesn't make any sense, because ketchup is awesome, but maybe it had to do with the fact that ketchup has a surprising amount of sugar in it, and I don't like sugar.  I LOVE yellow mustard, probably one of my top five favorite things in the world.  Fancy candles, dogs, books, lemons, yellow mustard, those are my top five favorite things in the world.  I also love spicy food, especially vinegary spicy food, like hot sauces and things like that.  I like chiles; I grow some right now on my stoop.  I like many herbs, but not cilantro because one time in Gainesville someone put too much cilantro in the salsa and that was it, it was OVER for you, cilantro!

I like some movies but I hate horror movies because they give me nightmares.  I can be persuaded to watch a horror movie from time to time, but I will never, ever forget it.  I never, ever forget anything.  The difference in the color of several leaves I saw while driving in Georgia fifteen years ago, I will never forget that.  I don't like to think it's useless but sometimes it feels useless.  I get very upset if people talk in a movie theater.  I went to see Harry Potter and four stupid girls sat in front of me chatting away like it was hen's night at Applebees and I even said, "Shh!" TWICE!  But they didn't shush, and then the guy next to me started texting and his phone was SO BRIGHT, so I just started crying.

And it is not that I don't like coffee, it's just that you seem to have to do so much to it to make it palatable, so probably you shouldn't drink it?  I don't know, I mean because of the lactose thing, I HAVE to take my coffee black (unless there's soy, but a creepy actress in LA told me that it makes you gain weight in your womanly parts because it has something in it that mimics estrogen, but taste-wise soy's never strong as milk anyway) and so my only recourse is to add sugar?  Gross.  I like tea okay.  Yorkshire Red tea with soy milk.  But then again with the estrogen.

Anyone who shares a bed with me has to have their own blanket.  My body temperature is at a constant 105 degrees and I simply cannot stand to have that raised at any point.  Not while watching television, not while napping, and definitely not during a full night's sleep.  I don't like to touch very much at all.  I have a synapse misfiring or a general subconscious misunderstanding of what touching means, sometimes it feels like we're dating, and that is super confusing.  I am not good at holding hands, especially with friends.  Or linking arms or hugging or doing any of the things girls do together.  It freaks me out.

If you take your clothes to the cleaners and get them pressed, they look brand new.  Fear birds because they can make tools; they even use the bones of other animals - such as cuttlefish - to sharpen their beaks.  Every time you slice a piece of garlic, it breaks a cell wall in the structure of the garlic, which releases the enzyme that tastes so garlicky.  This is why garlic is milder sliced than whipped up in a food processor.  This is why you really only need one clove of garlic when you're making pesto, but you need to chop up a lot to make a pasta sauce, which is what I'm going to do right now.

***

Blurt "co-co-editor" Coco Hames fronts The Ettes - Hames on guitar, Jem Cohen on bass and Poni Silver on drums - whose album Look At Life Again Soon and EP, Danger Is, were released by Take Root. Their new Greg Cartwright-produced album Do You Want Power hits stores Sept. 29, and you bet we're gonna have a big feature on the band in our next issue. Check out the band's MySpace page for music and tour dates - a tour kicks off this week, in fact, on August 13.

Photo of the Ettes: Heidi Ross

Revenge of the Nerds, Better off Dead, Risky Business... to say we simply "watched" them would be an understatement. We practically wore the strip out on the Betamax, memorizing every scene, every line, every song. From Booger to Fronch fries to Swamp, these films became heroic keystones, handily defining us as proud children of the 80s --- perhaps in the same way that Zeppelin or the Beatles were iconic backdrops to my parents' upbringing. The Hughes' films of course being mandatory [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

RAIN, GOD, AND MORE VINTAGE GEAR: Wiyos on the Bob Dylan Summer Tour, Pt. 2

By Carl Hanni

August 4, Austin, TX: Fourteen days into a eighteen day run with NYC's The Wiyos across the country on the Bob Dylan/Willie Nelson/John Mellencamp summer tour. We're in Austin with a day off as part of a seven day/five show Texas mini-tour; a Texas five-step. The band jumped off the tour last weekend for two days to fly to Portland, OR, to play Pickathon, a study in contrasts for sure. I drove the van from Atlanta to Houston via Orange Beach, AL, where I hooked up with the Two Man Gentlemen Band, the fill-in openers for the tour on July 31.

Making good time, I dropped into New Orleans for lunch at Coop's on Sunday, which always has a good mix of locals and tourists who have strayed in off Decatur. This is the first time I've been to N.O. since Katrina; missing roofs, caved in houses and desolate looking streets can be seen from I-10, but downtown and the French Quarter look (and smell) pretty much the same. New Orleans is still, blessedly, New Orleans, in its humid, fetid, crazy-ass, dysfunctional glory.

The tour continues to unfold with its military-like precision. The marshalling of multiple semi-trucks full of gear, rigging, lights, staging and catering is carried out by a huge crew of road-tested veterans, many of whom have been with the various headliners for years or even decades. With separate production crews for Dylan, Mellencamp and Nelson, promoter staff for each show (often the same from show to show), a huge local production crew at each venue, plus security and catering staff AND three sets of band members (not counting The Wiyos) this is a huge rolling operation with many intertwined parts. After 2 weeks I'm getting a grip on who's-who, but still find someone new to meet each day that's been with the tour from day one. The Wiyos, with our five guys (including myself), are like guppies swimming with the big fish. But the tour has been great for the band so far, and they have been getting a good response to their opening half-hour set each night, making new friends and fans at each stop, selling CDs and planting themselves in the mind's eye of tens of thousands of music fans coast to coast.

The uniformity of the production is both necessary and terribly impressive, but the flavor of each city, crowd and venue comes through loud and clear.

Durham was a beautiful, urban/downtown ball park with a lively crowd that was ready to party, rock-concert style. Afterwards the band was put up by local friends, fellow musicians; a living room jam session kept everyone hopping till after midnight. Simpsonville, SC, outside Greenville, was a rolling green park of a venue in the heart of the conservative South, with a relatively sedate crowd that seemed a little less impressed with The Wiyos than other crowds; polite more than enthusiastic. A local evangelical gospel choir appeared backstage to join Willie for "Will The Circle Be Unbroken" and another couple of numbers; with their black suits and shoes and starched white shirts, they hung out outside backstage, seemingly completely peaceful in the crushing heat and humidity. A newscaster for the local Fox News affiliate was broadcasting live from the front gate and interviewed The Wiyos after the set for a spot on the 10 p.m. news. We camped at a local state park after the show, woken up at 7 a.m. by the first (but not the last) rain of the day. Rain has been a constant in the last couple of weeks; there may be a day or two that it hasn't.

The Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre in Alpharetta, just north of Atlanta, was blessedly a covered venue, and afforded the band our first, actual (air conditioned!) green room backstage, timely respite from the rain and humidity and general funkiness of The Wiyos' sturdy Freightliner van. Various friends and ladyfriends of the band appeared from Asheville and elsewhere, a mid-tour mini-reunion to help the band remember what life is like Off The Tour.

The band flew out at a very early 6 am for their shows at Pickathon, while I drove the van to Orange Beach for my rendezvous with the Two Man Gentlemen Band. The venue is an amphitheatre situated in a huge entertainment complex of shops, amusement park attractions and hotels on to the Alabama Gulf Coast, just off the beach. The area is incredibly lush and beautiful, half bayou and half not, with massive, kudzu- and creeper-draped trees dwarfing everything around. Churches in the area (and there are LOTS of churches) vie for having the most clever slogans on their signage out front - "Here comes the Son," "Beat the heat: instructions inside" and more witty come-ons. It's nice to see a little humor mixed in with their efforts to keep us out of hell; I wonder how many local church goers will be at the show tonight? Is this still "the devil's music" being played, or have we gotten past that?

The Gentlemen play a knockout set to a soggy crowd in the persistent rain, sign CDs and give away kazoos before hitting the road for an all-night drive to Nashville. Willie and Mellencamp play their standard sets, Willie spreading the love like only he can do. I finally get to see my second full set by Bob Dylan, whose voice is pretty rough at first, but warms up after a couple of songs. The band is incredibly tight, with guitarists Denny Freeman and Stu Kimball curling around each other like snakes in a pit and long-time bass player Tony Garnier swinging on the bottom end. Dylan is really mixing up the set-list from show to show, drawing on maybe 30 + songs for the tour. Tonight he plays "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding"), "Thunder on the Mountain," "It Ain't Me Babe," "The Levee's Gonna Break" and others before the standard three-song encore of "Like a Rolling Stone," "Jolene" and "All Along the Watchtower." Judging from a couple of his splay-legged leans into his keyboard, it looks like he might be having some fun on-stage; it's really sort of hard to tell, though.

After a Sunday sprint in the Freightliner that took me across parts of Alabama, all of lower Mississippi, Louisiana and into Texas (via New Orleans), I reach my nadir of the tour: Beaumont, Texas. I'm sure the people of Beaumont love Beaumont, and most folks were pretty decent all around, but I also got such the "you're not from these here parts" vibe from some of the locals at dinner (not the sweet waitress, thanks hon) that I almost had to check my calendar to see what decade it was.

Really guys: I'm not here to take, change or corrupt anything; just passing through and spending money. If you think I'm weird, you should see my friends. It all felt very Easy Rider for a moment. It's so humid that my glasses fog over when I step out of my hotel at 7 am.

After grabbing the weary Wiyos at the Houston airport (they knocked 'em dead at Pickathon, no sleep) we head to the beautiful (covered, thank you) Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion so they can jump back on the tour for the final twelve shows. They play through the exhaustion for a great set to a huge crowd and we hit the road for a late-night drive to Austin, for three evenings' worth of respite under a friendly roof, doing errands, hitting thrift stores, taking a dip in Barton Springs, and chowing down on Tex-Mex cooking (including my first salsa since leaving Tucson over two weeks ago). Time off in Austin: the perfect antidote to road burn.

Next: shows in Austin, Corpus Christi and Dallas/Grand Prairie.

***

Carl Hanni is a music writer, music publicist, disc jockey and vinyl archivist living in Tucson, AZ. He  hosts the vinyl-only Scratchy Record Show every Tuesday night at the Red Room in downtown Tucson, and spins records wherever and whenever he can. He believes that in a better (all analog) world all records would be released on vinyl, but takes good music from wherever he finds it--even on CD. His feature piece on legendary bass player/record producer Harvey Brooks was recently published in Goldmine.

The petty hierarchies of music - bands and songwriters

Let me premise this with saying that if I could, for every live show, I would list the musicians I'm playing with that night, as part of the billing. And in an ideal world there would be credits, like on an album, so everything was completely fair.

But why would that not work ? There needs to be a single name that tops everything, exclusively.

Well in jazz it can be different - particularly in instrumental, improvised jazz, where you sometimes see a list of musicians, as the band name. In that genre there is such an ethic of equality of musicians, that even 1 musician writing the songs, undermines the primacy of the players, so that's partly why it has to be improvised. They often eschew vocals with lyrics also, because they must know that words tend grab people's attention more than a pick hitting a guitar string.

You might point out that many classic rock bands are collaborative endeavors. But still there is the front person. Somehow there is that one person who enjoys being more public, and is in fact often better at it. Even bands with a strong stick-together ethic, will see just 1 or 2 people doing all the talking. Often there are the straight up interviews with the front person, and interviews with anyone else, will have a "behind the scenes" tone.

So far, what I'm suggesting is known to everybody - it takes all kinds. And in music its: extroverts and introverted specialists, lyricists and instrumentalists. But the truth is, this makes things ripe for unfairness. And we all play into it.

If you argue that lyrics are especially important, or that the songwriter/composer are who really make the music mean something, you have to recognize that in most cases there's a pretty steep hierarchy involved. Songs and lyrics need to be realized, and without the chemistry and talent of other musicians, no one may ever have heard certain songs or lyrics. So there's a symbiosis there of all the people who go into recording or performing music. You can even say that not all the components are equal. But honestly, in the end result, they end up very - very, un-equal

For something so symbiotic as a musical performance, or recording, it's striking how much it's TOP-MAN-TAKE-ALL. But still, We relate to a singular name, and identity for something. So this petty hierarchy as I call it, is not likely to ever change

I say this from years of inside experience on both sides of the issue. Even as a record producer, my role has been similar to that of a another musician on the record.  And I have my own band, with a revolving group of musicians, so uuhh... we just use MY NAME.. it just "makes sense". But I stand to benefit very disproportionally from anything good that could happen - cause my name is right there at the top

I'll just end with this - Think of music history. History is written and remembered as a collection of those single names - TOP-MAN-TAKE-ALL. And everyone else is a footnote. Thankfully, there are those who really care to look in depth at everything and everyone that went into the music. So, that's something I suppose

You can find Martin Bisi's songs and live appearances on my Myspace: http://www.myspace.com/theendcredits

It is with much trepidation that I write of "beach music," a phenomenon that has consistently been making waves across America and the world (yes, Virginia, there are even "beach enthusiasts" in Muncie) since the early '60s.  Over the past three decades, I have become increasingly fond of a questionable musical consciousness termed "beach music".  Yet, I fear writing about it, not just because I still do not know what IT is, but because neither does anybody else.

One thing beach-nuts do agree on is that the sounds which inspire partying on the East Coast have absolutely nothing to do with California and surf music. In the East, a beach party means shuffling a little bit in the sand (a dance called, appropriately enough, the shag) and guzzling beer or sipping bourbon.  In the Wild West of the '60s, a beach bash implied some surfing, and required the sounds of the Ventures and the Beach Boys as well as many weird bands such as the Pyramids and the Trashmen. 

Beach music of the East Coast bears the light of nostalgia and beams it through the AM radio waves--a longing for a past that was never a part of the scene to begin with.

Unlike the music on the West Coast, which was by white kids on an instrumental warpath, beach music has always been primarily music by blacks.  What's more, whereas the classic image and style of surf music suggested a homosexual subtext (with rockabilly's similar subtext right on its tail:  Roy Orbison's "Domino" being the first example of rock music emulating the sound of the waves), the theme of East Coast beach music is heterosexual love and desire, often thwarted but always remembered.

Because beach music tolerates more than it excludes, it's not really a definable genre like surf music.  The beach music categorization includes rock 'n' roll from New Orleans (Ernie K-Doe, the Showmen), Philadelphia soul (O'Jays, Archie Bell and the Drells), Stax (Sam & Dave, Booker T & the MG's), Motown (everybody), disco (Trammps, Tavares), '50s R&B (Joe Turner, Five Royales), '70's smooth soul (The Floaters, Tymes)...and yes, even garage punk (the Gentrys, the Swingin' Medallions).  

It's a mixed-up, shook-up celebration of a musical past, of passionate summers spent on the beach.

This phenomenon has been documented on zillions of excellent compilations (see above for a good example), but it was officially and best presented back in 1967 by Atlantic Records on two volumes called--you guessed it--BEACH BEAT (still, never reissued on CD).  

Compiled in response to the demands of Carolina beach lovers seeking oldies amidst the dearth of psychedelia in the late '60s, these two packages contain the quintessential beach performers and performances--classics by the Clovers, the Coasters and the Drifters; Willie Tee's "Teasin' You," Lenny O'Henry's "Across the Street," and, courtesy of Chess, Bobby Moore's amazing "Searching For My Love."

Atlantic being one of the great R&B labels, these two collections was almost ready-made, and so, in a sense, was the beach music scene. Clearly, here was a programmed sensibility, not a phenomenon based upon stylistic substance but on a memory of a romantic lie:  that music once had a meaning it now completely lacked.

The East Coast beach music sound is easy to package but impossible to pinpoint.  It's like you have to be in on IT to get IT.  

Beach music has become an institutionalized form of party ritual restricted to the coastal resort cities and inland campus areas of the Carolinas and Virginia.  The majority of the black groups branded with the "beach sound" were never intentionally creating music for this East Coast circuit. Instead, they were consumed by a locale desperately in need of an identity during a time when pop music seemed to be running riot with hippies and weird sounds.

It was an idea based on the belief that dancing to soul or doo-wop records would outlast the trendiness of the British Invasion and psychedelic rock.  And, oh, how right they were, those determined reactionary shaggers on the beach!

I live in Charlottesville, Virginia, where boys and girls at the University know how to party for weeks on end.  I have grown accustomed to the reactionary nature of beach music and its maddeningly nostalgic need to ignore the present until it becomes the past.  

I used to read loyally each new issue of the slick mag, It Will Stand, dedicated to the preservation of beach music, its very name suggesting the notion that the South will rise again.  I have listened faithfully to the old Rockin' Ray's "Hall of Fame" and "The Best of the Beach" radio shows on WBT in Charlotte.  And shopping for beach music has never been easier thanks to the Internet.

But still, amidst the beach hubbub, I have always felt that the meaning of its presence eluded me, and then one day I discovered why.

In the early '80s, I once had a long conversation with an A&R guy at Arista Records, Mitch Cohen.  Cohen was then compiling an anthology of beach music for the label called The Beat of the Beach (great title).  He had been asked by a higher-up at Arista to compile this collection because certain oldies were being consistently requested by distributors in the Carolina-Virginia area. Despite the invisibility of a discernible style, Cohen went for the job full throttle, talking with the editors at It Will Stand and oldies know-it-alls.  Never did Cohen assume that he knew what a beach record was.

At the time, Cohen agreed with me that there was no discernible style to beach music, but he did say that he understood that you had to be "on the inside" to properly pick up on the cultural codes and signs that distinguish a "beach record" from your ordinary oldie.  To know the shag beat may not involve a conscious effort but only an instinctual response to a manner of partying that has remained stable since the early '60s.

So, Cohen, in programming the anthology, went for the feeling of the record. In other words, he tried to hear exactly what a shagger on the dance floor would hear in the air, not what a rock pundit thinks someone should hear.

And what a shagger hears is so subjective it can only be compared to the gooseflesh twinge of recalling a lost love that is suddenly regained at the intimate moment of remembering. That a seemingly reactionary musical consciousness can be so romantic is a shuddering thought.  

But the idealism behind this love for an old record is also stirring:  For through the all-encompassing, albeit nebulous, harmony of the beach music scene, if a record was once loved, then there's the guarantee that it will endure.

You can find many of your beach needs daily at PopKrazy .
 

A timely, August-related guest post this week from legendary CBGB's engineer (among other endeavors) and friend, Robin Danar. FYI, Robin's recent record, Altered States is pretty freakin' unbelievable, a collaboration featuring up-and-coming indie artists you likely know (Rachel Yamagata, Pete Yorn, etc.). You should own it. More about Robin here.

Take it away, Robin:

Dear Hilly--

Well, it's been over 2 years since I've seen you and I think about you a lot so I figured I'd check in. I'm writing from Cali.....won't be in NY 'til around Xmas.

I'm actually still in touch with many of our old friends and associates via email and networks. It's fun to see that the deep impact you and CBGB's had on us in the 70's and 80's still exists today. I just saw the virtual tour that BG helped put together just before the club closed (http://www.bravadousa.com/cbgb/pano/pano.html) which was a pretty wild flashback. Every so often I’ll put on Patti’s closing show that was on satellite radio and yeah I listen loud!

Anyway, I owe a lot to you for helping this producer/artist find a direction. Since August 28 will always be a date I remember, I thought I’d send a copy of this NY Times blog I wrote a year ago. I look at it as a fun story with happy memories.(August 28, 2008 makes one year since Hilly passed away):

I was the sound guy at CB’s for years in the 70s and 80s. It was an amazing time and every so often I get sidetracked from what I’m supposed to be doing and end up spending hours looking at books, listening to music or just scanning the web and remembering. There are great books, amazing photos, YouTube videos and some classic stories, many of which are quite true and some that are, uh…… "lost in translation??"

I was lucky to be in NY for several months in 2007 and spent a bunch of time with Hilly before he went back into the hospital. He was tired. The chemo was quite a workout but I caught him on some "good" days and he was a bit slower but still moving along. He was never a speed demon anyway [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Every year, Jesus People USA (yup, that's the group's real name) puts on the annual Cornerstone Music Festival outside of Chicago. The event boasts six days(!) of Christian Punk, Christian Metal, Christian Rap and Christian Hardcore... and I can only assume Christina Ska and Christian Rockabilly. 

Call it the born again's answer to Lollapalooza.

In honor of this year's festival line up, what follows is a run down two of my two favorite 90's bands that Jesus took away from me.

THE SMOKING POPES

Though they are now back together, the reason the Smoking Popes broke up in ‘99 was because singer Josh Caterer decided to embrace Christianity. Not just show up at church every now and then, but the "I'm-going-to-quit-rock-and-everything-it-stands-for, turning- my-back-on-everything-I've-created-fuck-the-fans" kind of embrace. A great band cut down way too early. A couple years ago, the band decided to get back together to play a handful of shows and record a live album. In an interview around those shows I asked Josh about the whole God thing and he said he simply wasn't happy with all the drugs and drinking that surrounded the band. He became born again and quit rock music all together for awhile, focusing solely on uplifting religious tunes. Crater slowly got back into rock through a new band Duvall, then finally realized God probably doesn't necessarily hate good music and got the band back together. I caught one of their comeback shows at The Masquerade in Atlanta and they were amazing (though Josh did take the opportunity to preach a few times from the mic, making the others in the band visibly squirm). The Smoking Popes had a decent comeback record last year, but still not quite as stellar as their earlier efforts.

SUPERDRAG

OK, this one took me by surprise. The Knoxville power pop band turned out a slew of brilliant records in the 90's and early 2000's. (Though "Sucked Out" is still the only song people remember.) I found out, like the Smoking Popes, were doing a series of reunion tours last year (which, by the way makes me feel old as shit when bands I dig are now qualify for reunion shows). In doing research for an interview, I discovered front man John Davis had another one of those spiritual awakenings that seem to be going around, again thanks to booze. Copying off of Josh's paper, he also started working exclusively on Christian songs. I finally spoke with Davis in 2008 and he was super cool, but I chickened out and didn't ask him about God (so no big answers for you. Sorry). Like the Smoking Popes, they also had a decent, but not great comeback record out this year.

AND HERE'S A FEW YOU HE CAN KEEP...

Former Korn guitarist Brian Welch

In his case, I think he's just using his sudden conversion to Christianity (I think it's Christianity) and cult-like new life as an easy excuse to walk away from a truly crappy band.

Alice Cooper

The same guy who used to guillotine himself on stage in the 70's is now a golfer, PTA dad and (gulp) Republican. He's also found Jesus. Again, in this case, I think he woke up one day and realized that he was a washed up irrelevant former rocker whose biggest accomplishment was playing "School's Out" on an episode of the Muppet show.

So after given this a little thought, I'm left with two separate conclusions to the question of why rockers turn to Jesus:

1.     Years of hard partying and meaningless groupie sex makes you search for a deeper meaning.

2.   God is actually a roadie, converting the masses, one musician at a time.

My Dinner With Tad (or, Adventures with Option Magazine, Pt.1)

By Johnny Mnemonic

"You finished with that?"

Tad Doyle, lumberjack frontman for his eponymous Seattle band Tad, comes into focus as my head slowly swivels to the left. Flecks of pasta and spaghetti sauce decorate his thick black beard like the glittery remains of a visit to the dance club. This ain't no disco, however, and he ain't foolin' around, either: Doyle is poking a Cuban cigar-sized finger at my half-eaten plate of lasagna, and the look on his face is the same kind of look a Looney Tunes wolf gets when it's gazing at some potential prey and doesn't see a duck or a bunny at all but a steaming, home-cooked meal smothered in tasty sauces.

"Um, yeah, uh, I, uh, guess so," I stammer, and with a bright, "Cool!" Doyle reaches across, picks up my plate, and summarily dumps the remains upon his plate, which has already been so scrupulously cleaned of every last crumb that to the casual onlooker it would appear Doyle hadn't even received his initial order yet. My hand reflexively shoots out to grab my soft drink before it, too, can pass into the public domain.

In our dining party: the entire Tad band, plus their roadie/driver and a photographer friend of mine. The 2 a.m. wares of this 24-hour Italian-Greek diner located a half-mile away from L.A.'s Sunset Strip appear to agree with everyone, not the least of them being Doyle, who I swear is now eyeing his bandmates' plates, too. Bassist Kurt Danielson chuckles at my discombobulation, winking knowingly at guitarist Gary Thorstensen as if this is just another on-the-road mealtime ritual. It might not be a coincidence that Danielson, Thorstensen and drummer Steve Wied are rock-star thin, in striking contrast to Doyle, who to my untrained eye clocks in at around 300 pounds.

The occasion of this late-night pasta picnic is an assignment from Option magazine. It's the spring of 1991 and Tad's second full-length, the Butch Vig-produced 8-Way Santa, was released a few months ago by Sub Pop, and everyone from the label to the music press to the musicians themselves is counting on this to be their breakout record. Option, while having positioned itself over the course of its half-decade tenure as a kind of indie music bible, somehow managed to discount the subterranean rumblings emanating from the Northwest over the past few years, and as a result early Sub Pop acts like Green River, Mudhoney, Afghan Whigs and even Nirvana all got short shrift from the magazine. Now, though, with even mainstream publications starting to turn their gaze towards Seattle, Option can't afford to remain behind the curve so the Tad piece is essentially the magazine scrambling to play catch-up.

(Truth be told, Option, in its drive to become a musical tastemaker and a so-called alternative to the alterna-likes of the ‘mersh-tilting Spin, has gradually adopted a somewhat provincial attitude towards the more hirsute, blue-collar, hard-rock leaning elements of the Amerindie underground. This development is both a source of mirth and frustration among the magazine's pool of mostly unpaid writers. There's a lot of really, really great heavy-ass music cropping up all over the country and not just in Seattle, but much of what we're sent by the magazine to review is of the twee/K Records and home-brewed "cassette culture" variety. The upside is that a number of the writers have started up their own fanzines and writing about what they're really into. But that's another story, for another day.)

At any rate, earlier in the evening I witnessed Tad positively slay a normally jaded Hollywood crowd, testimony that the so-called "grunge explosion" isn't just hype. Little does anyone in our dining party realize that before 1991 is out, "hype" is going to be an operative term as regards Seattle - next year, a documentary will anoint 1991 as "the year punk broke," and filmmaker Cameron Crowe will release his romanticized take on the Seattle scene, Singles - thanks to Tad's scruffy labelmate, Nirvana. The Nevermind album will blow across the music universe like a typhoon, randomly raising and capsizing many of Nirvana's contemporaries; in the latter category will be Tad, who despite landing a major record deal during the ensuing bidding wars won't be able to live up to the aforementioned hype, sales-wise, and after a series of label and lineup shuffles, will split up in 1998.

The Tad Option piece never happens, which in hindsight is a lot less annoying than it was at the time since I now view the situation as emblematic of Tad's career - a doomed trajectory also foreshadowed by the band's unplanned legal woes (a lawsuit filed by Pepsi over Tad's unauthorized use of the cola giant's logo for the "Jack Pepsi" 45; another suit on the part of the guy depicted on the sleeve of 8 Way Santa grabbing his girlfriend's boob, the gentleman having subsequently become a born-again Christian and not exactly digging the fact that a long-forgotten photograph from his former life had resurfaced).

My Tad story was actually an extremely solid one, full of colorful, telling details about the band and the region that spawned it, not to mention some pretty funny quotes collected at the meal. And I filed my copy on time, too; as this was still the pre-Internet era, I personally delivered it to the Option office along with a bundle of photos and negatives the photographer had taken of Tad (my favorite was of Doyle in the middle of a dumpster, glowering, while his bandmates chucked in bags of trash).

But by the time the issue containing the story would have appeared on newsstands, Nirvana was blowing up nationally. The editors, not wanting to make the magazine's bandwagon-hopping appear too obvious with back-to-back Seattle-themed pieces, canned the Tad feature and hastily located a writer to do something on Nirvana.

Of course, this story isn't really about Tad, or about Nirvana, or even about the grunge era - since the name of the blog you're reading is "Music Journalism 101," this story is about Option.

To be continued...

***

Johnny Mnemonic is the pseudonym of a "highly-regarded" national writer with, he advises us, over two decades' experience working as a music critic, reporter and editor. We've never met him face-to-face, and he further advises he will be delivering his blogs to us via the "double blind drop-box method," whatever that is, to ensure his anonymity.

ROAD-DOGS, HEAT, AND VINTAGE GEAR: Wiyos on the Dylan/Nelson/Mellencamp Tour

By Carl Hanni

July 27, outside Duck, Outer Banks, NC: Leaving New York City four days ago in a driving rain, the signs of rock ‘n' roll start immediately, with billboards for Creed and AC/DC. If this is a signifier of some sort, it's a bit obtuse: we're off for 2 1/2 weeks of touring, and there will be some rock ‘n' roll, but little of the hard-rock varietal.

I'm here on a 17 day run with The Wiyos, NY-based vaudevillian string band extraordinaire. They are booked to play 28 out of 33 dates as the opening act on the Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp summer tour, which started in Sauget, IL, July 2, and finishes in Stateline, NV, August 16. With a couple of exceptions, the tour is playing minor league ball parks/stadiums all across the country. I jumped on the tour five days ago, in Lakewood, NJ, and will ride it through the show in Dallas (really Grand Prairie) TX August 7, as Wiyos tour manager, publicist, merch wrangler and all-around boy-Friday. I'm delighted to be here in such fine company and out of my scorching home base of Tucson. Not that it's much cooler out here, as I soon realize...

The Wiyos played to a remarkably enthusiastic bunch of die-hards the other evening at First Energy Park in Lakewood, bunched up in front of the stage trying for some respite from the downpour, faces framed by a rainbow coalition of colored ponchos and soggy cowboy hats. The Wiyos have 1/2 hour every tour stop, from 5:30 till 6 pm, to play, make new fans, greet friends from the stage and put in a plug for their new CD. Then there's a quick 10 minute turnaround before Willie Nelson takes the stage for an hour, followed by John Mellencamp, followed by Bob Dylan. The exact same routine every show, different venue, for 6 weeks. The whole production is as smooth and tight as a long-running Broadway show or a military parade. This is a professional operation in every possible detail.

After three shows (Lakewood, NJ; Aberdeen, MD, outside of Baltimore; and Norfolk, VA), truisms and patters quickly manifest. For one thing, the catering is incredible. Cast and crew are fed lunch and dinner every day, and it's had to overstate how great the spread is. Copious, endless amounts of tasty, healthy and inventive food, drinks and deserts appear twice daily, including fruit, cheeses, coffee and teas, soup, salads, cold drinks, multiple deserts, vegetarian fare, vitamin supplements and more. I mean, really.

So far, the crowds have really been digging The Wiyos. They generally play to 600-800 concert-goers in front of the stage, with thousands more filing in and spread around the bleachers. Most in the crowd may not know who they are coming in, but they sure do going out, and CD and t-shirt sales have been steady. The Wiyos, versed in everything from busking on street corners to playing to sit-down crowds in theaters, know how to work a crowd, and needless to say they are making the most of a fortunate situation that most other acts would love to find themselves in. They do what they need to do and what they have been hired to do: connect with the crowd and warm them up, give them a taste of what they are all about (think a 1930's vaudeville act crossed over with a modern take on old-timey music), then bust everything off the stage lightening fast and make way for Willie. Come back the next day and do it again.

For the most part everyone on the tour (to one degree or another) is friendly, helpful and supportive. Production and promotion staff, stage crews, sound and security are all working like clockwork. As the next act up after The Wiyos, we see lots of Willie's people, especially his stage crew and harmonica player Mickey Raphael, a prince of a guy. Members of Mellencamp's and Dylan's band have been stopping by to chat and talk shop. The Wiyos definitely have a curiosity factor going for them: who are these young lads with the vintage clothes, washboard, standup bass, steel and resonator guitars?

Willie's show is as loose, casual and intimate as a camp-fire sing-along for 10,000 people. He plays the hits ("Crazy," "Nightlife," "Whiskey River") and the crowd sings along and revels in his Willienesss. Willie Nelson occupies a completely unique space in the popular culture, and it is this: EVERYONE digs Willie Nelson. How does he do this, the great leveling of all the country into his corner?

Well, he's WILLIE NELSON, and no one else is. As has been pointed out over the years, he could probably run for president and win in a landslide.

John Mellencamp's show is rocking. The volume goes up - way up - when he takes the stage, and all of a sudden we're at a rock concert. Girls in halter-tops and skin tight jeans suddenly appear, butts suddenly begin to boogie. This guy has enormous populist appeal, a bunch of hit songs that are also cultural signifiers, and an ace band. When he's not on stage he hangs out in his Airstream trailer (the one with the motorcycle in front) in the holding area in back.

I've only seen one entire Dylan show so far, in Norfolk. We watch the show with The Maybelles, friends of The Wiyos that appeared just in time for the beginning of his set. Bob looks incredibly natty in his tailored country gentlemen attire and white, flat-brimmed hat. His band, a casually road-worn bunch of veterans, is almost as sharp in matching white jackets and black hats. Dylan's voice is somewhere between well seasoned, ragged and deliciously ravaged in a sexy, older guy kind of way. In Norfolk he kicked in with "Rainy Day Women # 12 and 35" from Blonde on Blonde; in Aberdeen it was "Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat" from that same joyful record from 1966, a good sign for sure. Tonight's songs run from older numbers like "Highway 61 Revisted," "It Ain't Me Babe" and "Like a Rolling Stone" to more recent ones like "The Levee's Gonna Break" and "Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum" plus "Jolene" (from his new Together Through Life CD).

The title seems telling; if there's anyone we've been together through life with in America, it's Bob Dylan. He switches from guitar to keyboard; he cues his band with glances; he does not, of course, address the audience. Dylan's "stage presence" in front of an audience is much like it is off stage, an impenetrable wall that only lets out or takes in exactly what Dylan chooses. He's earned the right to be and do exactly as he chooses to be and do. The quality of his song-writing both over the years and in the last several years pretty much puts him beyond reproach.  What you take away from one of these shows is in a large part determined by what you bring to it; he's certainly not going to tell you what to feel or think.

We're here on the coast relaxing with a couple of days off before picking up the tour again tomorrow in Durham. Will report more down the road.

***

Carl Hanni is a music writer, music publicist, disc jockey and vinyl archivist living in Tucson, AZ. He  hosts the vinyl-only Scratchy Record Show every Tuesday night at the Red Room in downtown Tucson, and spins records wherever and whenever he can. He believes that in a better (all analog) world all records would be released on vinyl, but takes good music from wherever he finds it--even on CD. His feature piece on legendary bass player/record producer Harvey Brooks was recently published in Goldmine.

Good peeps, it's not very often that I ask something of you. But today, I am.

Perhaps some of you are still wondering what the hell The Daily Dose is all about (because we STILL can't figure out how to get our app to show up on our Facebook Fan Page. Argh. It is NOT easy).

The deal is this: wine, cheese and music. New music. Old music. Stuff I can't live without. And together, it's kind of like George Costanzas' TV/sex/food thing... a perfect trifecta.

The hope is to get other people to dig it as much as me and hopefully, you. Every bit counts. So, to all of you who've e-mailed the link around your friends, asked them to join us on Facebook, embedded the widget on blogs, retweeted our tweets [...]


A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.