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The New Old Noise: A Review, of Sorts, of “The Other Night At Quinn’s”

Michael Fournier reviewed The Other Night at Quinn's for Vol. 1 Brooklyn. Well, kind of. It's part review, part biography, and makes for a wonderful collage essay. Check it out!

Vol. 1 Brooklyn

 

 

 

 

Are You Receiving Me? #65 – The Mummies

By Mike Faloon

The Mummies
“Just One More Dance” b/w “I Don’t Like It” 7”
Pre-B.S.

Like many people, I found that my early twenties were a great time to be a music fan. By that point, I’d learned a little about the pop and punk rock underground that I enjoyed so much, and I was more open minded than I’d been in high school. It was the early ‘90s and I was also getting into the world of zines and had a growing network of friends with similar tastes.

All of these factors led to lots of lists. Flying Nun bands like the Chills and the Clean that I wanted to hear. Popllama bands like the Young Fresh Fellows and Fastbacks and their infinite offshoots. Local New York bands like the Sea Monkeys and Iron Prostate. There was also the burgeoning budget rock scene (Mummies, Supercharger). Like I said, good times. But I was also wading through the world of part-time work and was usually broke, so the lists generally just got longer.

The Mummies are one of those bands I read about but I couldn’t afford to track down their countless singles and hard-to-find albums. It was years before I bought my first (and so far only) Mummies album (Play Their Own Records!). I have a good paying job now (thank you, collective bargaining!) but Mummies records have become collector’s items, so they remain elusive (temporary end of parenthetical clauses).

Enter the 2016 Burger Boogaloo festival in Oakland. This was a chance to see the Mummies play live and—surprise, surprise—they had a new single for sale, reasonably priced at five bucks. Yes, please!

Both of the songs have quickly become summer favorites. I’ve listened to them five times today alone, which has generated another list.

Reasons I recommend the new Mummies single:

1. The Mummies have sealed the sleeve on all sides using “Budg-edge” technology. It needs to be cut in order to access the single. A little more work before the payoff.
2. The Mummies have included plenty of gags on the sleeve. They’re better seen up close than described.
3. The Mummies have included their mailing address: 30 Westline Dr., Daly City, CA 94015. I don’t know that I’ll write to them but I appreciate the sense of geography, being able to place them on my mental map.
4. The Mummies claim that this single was only available at the Burger Boogaloo, though these songs will probably be available again sometime soon. I base my claim on this disclaimer on the back of the single: “This here record is exactly the same as this one (image of “Go Ass Crazy” single). If you have a problem with that don’t buy this record. We don’t care.” (Ralph Nader seal of approval.) They’ve released ‘em twice, why thrice?
5. The Mummies rock; there’s substance here, too. Both tunes are ripe with high energy, big hooks, and low budget fidelity—cut from the same sweaty bandages as the band’s ‘90s output. Heck, maybe these are Clinton-era leftovers. I can’t say for sure. They’re new to me and they rip.

I look forward to my next Mummies purchase in 2026! 

 

 

 

Vol. 1 Brooklyn

My next book is nearly done. I've been saying that for two years but now it's true. I've been saying that for nearly two years, too, but this next part is new and different: the newest chapter has been posted at Vol. 1 Brooklyn. 

The chapter is title "Fuel Consumption Way Too Fast." It's based on a performance by the Jaimie Branch Trio (with Brandon Lopez and Mike Pride). The title comes from Chuck Berry's "You Can't Catch Me." Branch's nickname, Breezy, reminded me of the line "I'll be gone like a cool breeze."

I think I'm close to finding a publisher for the book. I've been saying that for awhile as well. In the meantime, dig this new chapter. I'd love to know what you think.

 

Are You Receiving Me? #64 – Spokenest

By Mike Faloon

Spokenest
Gone, Gone, Gone LP
Self-released/Drunken Sailor

Part 1: The First Three Listens

The other day at Grand Central Station, I attempted to buy a train ticket, a 10-pass, to be more specific. Summer’s here and the time is right for more frequent trips into my favorite city. Though expensive, $119, I consider the purchase of such a ticket to be routine; upstaters like me buy them all the time.

The bank my wife and I use, People’s United, disagreed that this purchase was routine. Their algorithms sensed some manner of wrongdoing was afoot and unbeknownst to me they suspended our account when I tried to buy the 10-pass. The ticket machine’s screen read “Unable to complete transaction.” I attributed this to a mechanical problems with the machine. Allie found out about the suspended account the next day at the grocery store when her card was declined. She called the bank.

Allie: “You have no idea what a disruption this is.

Bank rep: “We’re trying to prevent fraud. Fraud is a much bigger disruption.”

In addition to running through the “how”s and “why”s of what happened, the bank rep said that we could prevent this problem from happening again by calling the bank when we plan to visit the city. Financial institutions will tell you all kinds of things. I believe few of them.

Spokenest, comprised of Adrian (drums/vocals) and Daryl (guitar/vocals), make a lot of claims, too. One of them is that they sound like Superchunk. I don’t believe this. Daryl’s guitar sound is harsher; I hear more Sonic Youth in the six strings. And the dirgy breakdown in “Sense,” that’s SY > SC as well. Not that Spokenest lean too much in the direction of Kim and Thurston. Spokenest often opt for breakneck tempos, like they can’t play fast enough, like the whole thing is going to careen over the cliff and maybe part of them wants it to.

Part 2: Subsequent Listens

You know, on fourth thought, there is some early Superchunk here—like when they play steady eighths. And the slower part at the end of “Lose” with the poppy “oohs” sprinkled in. A bit of No Pocky for Kitty? Sure. And Spokenest’s lyrics are far too earnest to cozy up to Sonic Youth’s detached sneers. So maybe Spokenest can be trusted on this whole “we’ve got a bit of Superchunk” thing.

But now I’ve implied that Spokenest are a couple of Superchunk diehards aping their favorite band. There are traces of that on Gone, Gone, Gone but they have got moves a plenty of their own. “Tell Me” punches and kicks and tries to shake it all off, while “Reasons” mixes these elements—snarling and stomping and oohing and aahing—to a whole different effect. This one makes the summer playlist.

Ten You May Have Missed in 2015

by Gary Pig Gold

Just on the off chance you’ve already made it through all 18 discs, 20 hours, and/or 379 tracks of Bob Dylan’s Cutting Edge Collector’s Edition, then may I suggest you now turn both ears immediately towards (in, as always, strictly alphabetical order)...

DRIFTING SAND
Summer Splash
Piña Colada Records

To fill that sonic gap in a year which saw exactly zero new Beach Boys or even Laurie Biagini albums, Rick Escobar and all his fellow Surfer Spuds from the far left coast produce thirty-four-minutes-thirty-four of sounds, sights and even aromas which conjure those Modern Lovers of yore hijacked by Keith “Beachcomber” Moon. Bravely mixing a clutch of entirely too-cool-for-words instrumentals – Dan Burdick’s lonely trumpet being particularly effective – with Muscle Beach Party-pedigree songs to evoke your fave rave Surfaris B-side, Drifting Sand can, will, and do rhyme “splash” with “such a gas,” “July and August” with “Robert August” (!) and, on “Beach Tour USA” alone toss an M.Love-ly sax solo over carnival barking unheard since our last visit to “Amusement Parks USA.” Top with an ultra-vibra-spaghetti-slappin’ cover of Hazlewood/Sinatra’s “Sand” and the end result may well be the sophomore Fantastic Baggys LP we never thought would ever reach shore.

P.S.: and guys? When you’re ready to do your next album, lemme know. Coz have I got a song for You!!

THE FLESHTONES
Wheel Of Talent
Yep Roc Records

Technically speaking, this 2014 beaut didn’t arrive in the sty, courtesy of our pals over at Rock Beat International, til just a few months ago. But no problem! ’Cause any year’s an ideal time for those Fabulous F-tones. And as ever and always, these veteran garage czars’ unfailing, unflinching embrace of all things rock and naturally roll are intact from the very get-go herein: “Available” blasts direct into the backyard on wings of brazen brash ‘n’ trash …yet with some incongruously appropriate cellos and violas to boot. Likewise, a good half of this talented Wheel – notably “The Right Girl,” “Tear For Tear” and “For A Smile,” the latter featuring the Southern Culture Skid-vocals of Miss Mary Huff – somehow bring a Shadowy Meek sheen of pure pre-Beatle UK pin-up pop to the proceedings (attention! John Waters) without sacrificing one iota of the oomph. Elsewhere, “Roofarama” speeds Jimi’s “Crosstown Traffic” all the way downtown, “Hipster Heaven” sounds tailor-made for the nearest USB latte turntable, and “It Is As It Was” manages to spin the entire Fleshtone fable in a Schoolhouse Rock! as opposed to School of Rock manner; Ghetto Recorder Jim Diamond professorially sees to THAT. And, for anyone left out there who all these years later still doesn’t get the message? Right there on Track 4, “Remember the Ramones.” Got it!

GARFIELDS BIRTHDAY
You are Here
Pink Hedgehog Records

Another holdover from ’014, “recorded mostly at home with files winging their way from Dorest to Yorkshire via Bristol then back again” in the words of the handy enclosed press sheet. In other words? The fourth, and positively most welcome to date collection of smart, stylish poppin’ rock from the British brothers Felton, Simon and Shane, this time with none other than Lucky Bishops/Schnauser man Alan Strawbridge on drums. And that’s an important factor indeed, lest the Feltons’ files end a tad too GarageBanded as they travel the virtual UK. To wit, as soon as their “Magic Bike” gets rolling we are finely assaulted with a great big meaty and beaty bounty – yes, this being Century 21 the Magic Bus has been downscaled somewhat, but the drive is every bit as present and potent. “Carpet Ride” similarly soars Armenia City’s skies with, and I quote, “one eye on the future and one foot in the past.” Witness as well how “It’s Your Lucky Day” somehow Cyrkles clear ’round those Basement Tapes while “Lunar Eclipse” happily weds Kurt Cobain verses to killer-kilter XTC choruses. Shane Felton’s fearlessly inspired lead guitars are a vital part of the equation throughout, but particular notice must also be paid to the other Felton, Simon’s, magnificent vocals …on “Oxford” (most importantly); a masterful performance, and song, whose files deserve to be shared this very instant with Art Garfunkel for starters. Which reminds me: visit the Pink Hedgehog for a copy of Simon Felton’s recent Emotional Feedback as well. You will be doubly glad you did.  

THE GRIP WEEDS
How I Won The War
Jem Recordings

With their latest release, the Grip Weeds have gone and done, by my count, two outstanding things: (1) claimed full lineage at long last to their Richard Lester-ized namesake, and even more importantly (2) made the best album of their career. Here’s how: As no less an authority as Phil Spector once explained, some artists sing ideas, and that the Grip Weeds always have. And it helps immensely, to say the least, that they most fortunately number within their ranks a member who is equally talented on the other side of the microphones too. That would be Kurt Reil, who once again has twiddled knobs brilliantly inside the band’s own House Of Vibes studio to create textures that are lush but not cluttered; bright but never brittle. Overall, the sounds this time out contain much more bite and snarl – in Kurt’s vocals, pointedly – which suits to a “t” the confusion, conflict and, yes, warfare which always seems to boil below the surface. Several short, mainly instrumental segue pieces play a key role as well in making this disc an end-to-end singular experience. Ah! The long-lost art of the Album as a totality. What a concept! But then about two-thirds in, beginning with the completely Zombie-able “Heaven and Earth,” comes a trio of more nuanced numbers which relax things to a whole loftier level. In fact one of these, “Over and Over,” not only serves as a much-needed truce during this great War, but thanks in big part to the lead vocal of Kristin Pinell – always the Grip Weeds’ not-so-secret-anymore weapon – may honestly be the highlight of it all. Which reminds me, Kurt and brother Rick: Where’s HER album already?!!    

RICK HARPER
Pop Spaceman
HiVariety Recordings

Hey, have you noticed everyone and their roommate lately is not only a singer/songwriter/player, but a bonafide home recordist in addition it seems? Well, listen: Rick Harper, in case you hadn’t noticed – and you certainly should have by now – has been toiling at all that and so much more since ’way back in the primordial pre-laptop daze, I kid you not. Which is why he’s so damn good at it, dammit, as Pop Spaceman, the latest in his Demo Teasers series, surely demonstrates. Along with Erich Overhultz’s occasional keyboard, Rick sing/write/plays up a one-man storm of not only undeniable Songs for our far-gone Times (“Pax: Kiss of Peace,” “Wind Idiot,” and “Ca$h Poor,” you bet) but offers as well an unusually good selection of classic Rickenharper-clever chord and monumental chorus compositions (“Not About Us” and my favorite “Pretty Fool”). Each note is not only expertly played, but oh-so-properly placed as well: a supreme proficiency at the fine art of orchestration which is even more apparent during the 14-minute “Music From the Film, Cue 1,” a score of truly cinematic proportions which, for best results, requires secure headphones, a recline position, and lights right off. Interesting how this Pop Spaceman appeared on the ol’ Pig Player right alongside Eddie Cochran just the other night …and fit in just fine.

THE LEMON CLOCKS
Time To Fly
Jam Records

Rather than attempt myself to adequately describe the tight ‘n’ tart dayglo delights of this disc, let us turn instead to the wise words of the three Clocks themselves, Stefan Johansson, Todd Borsch, and Jeremy Morris: In the land of ELECTRIC TOMATOES we can always find the TIME TO FLY. When the FUTURE IS THE PAST we can bend the clock and make time last. We hear the RAINBOW ECHO all around. Our ring is a promise that is growing underground. We will WALK UPON THE WATER because you just CAN’T KEEP A GOOD MAN DOWN. It all happened JUST IN TYME during an UNDERWATER DREAM. AND I FOLLOW in TIME until we’ve FINALLY FOUND OUR HOME. Our lemon clock life is like a GROOVY MOVIE with a very happy ending. It’s full of peace and love coming down from above. So LET THE SUNSHINE IN and let it in your heart. You’ll be really glad you did! It’s THE BEGINNING OF THE END and it’s also THE END OF THE BEGINNING…

MIRIAM
Down Today
Norton Records

As if co-launching Brooklyn’s greatest-ever funzine (Kicks) then coolest go-to music stop (Norton), as well as providing big beats behind the Cramps, Zantees and A-Bones wasn’t more than enough already the one, the only Miriam Linna again steps from behind her Pearl’s to deliver what must be 2015’s rock-candy ear necessity #1! Alongside producer/multi-musician Sam Elwitt, a dozen sweet Sixties slices of strictly 7-inch caliber are fully reheated and served anew… but with nostalgia thankfully taking a distant back seat to respect and utmost finesse in both arrangement (Gregor Kitzis’ occasional strings, for example, always augment; never swamp) and performance (Miriam has added a definite Bazooka Joe as opposed to Bubblicious snap to her Lisa-Jenio-meets-Mary-Weiss pipes). To wit, the Dave Clark Five’s “Don’t Be Taken In” now sounds more like one of December’s Children, while “One More Rainy Day” – the flip of my favorite Deep Purple (!) 45, by the way – quickly turns, somehow, into a full-on Joey Ramone-opus. But after reveling in a half hour of such Evie Sands, Terry Reid, Neil Diamond et al chestnuts, it’s actually one of Mr. Elwitt’s two own compositions, the wholly ’67 Gibb-worthy title track, that just might steal the show. Yes, in yet another year when words like “power” and “pop” continue to be thrown around far too liberally, Miriam shows not only how it’s done, but precisely how it should be SUNG. Hear, here, for yourself.


ANDY REED
Relay Vol. 1
Futureman Records

This little seventeen-minute EP demonstrates the absolute best case imaginable for the wealth of miracles found lurking, quite regrettably, in the nether regions of that musical so-called subculture. Relay 1 happens to be Bay City, Michigan one-man audio factory Andy’s first solo release since 2008 (in the meantime, he is also a member of the Legal Matters who I raved of as one of 2014’s Missed); it, and Vol. 2 are apparently due together soon on an up-coming Futureman vinyl release. Til then, this digital trailer recalls, on say “Dreaming Of The West Coast,” Bruce Johnston by way of Eric Carmen… BUT, luckily, with only the most attractive vocal characteristics of both. “I Love A Long Goodbye” features an octave-leaping melody of Jimmy Webb proportions – and that’s one comparison I rarely get to make anymore! – while “Darlin, You Don’t Know” is a drop-down wonder; an around-the-wide-world trip of sound in three and a half minutes flat. In all, Andy’s work is smart and detailed, sometimes stark, sometimes dense. Someone get this man a gig scoring indie films, quick! Meanwhile, as we await that Relay vinyl, you should seek and love his Oddities And Entities collection as well, which holds over thirteen years’ more rare and precious gems.
    

THE WIND
Re-Wind
Cheft Records

Though it seems more like 300, it’s actually “only” been around thirty years since the original Queens-by-way-of-Miami, Lane Steinberg/Steve Katz/Stephen Burdick-model Wind last made us an album. And it HAS been worth the wait, for the trio’s deftly under-troubled skinny white approach serves as even more urgently-needed fresh air against our current century’s assaults upon ear canals. F’rinstance? “Fight Like A Girl” needs less than three whole minutes to perfectly encapsulate, then broaden wildly upon its Buddy ‘n’ Beatles For Sale history of every little AM radio thing. Spin the dial further and “Think On Your Feet” crouches in some recessed corner of an Emitt Rhodes session, “Which Part Of Goodbye?” really could be The Great Lost Wings B-side we’re still queuing for, “Baby, I Can Take A Punch” finds Todd Rundgren pillow-fighting Squeeze while “There’s A Clamoring” and even more so “Let Me Show You How It’s Done” point Badfingers in thoroughly the right direction. Still, Messrs. Katz and Steinberg roll their tan sleeves all the way up to mix “ambivalence” and “after-dinner mints” with some lo-gummed “Sugar Sugar” keyboard for “Yes And No” …and isn’t “Weak Spot” the theme from Craig Ferguson’s late late, extremely great talk show?! Whatever the cases may be, David Grahame’s co-production keeps all sounds – vocals first! – ice-clean, clear, and to-the-heart at all times; it does take a brave man, not to mention fabulous material, to mix this way. But that’s always been, and apparently continues to be, The Wind. Hopefully it won’t be another thirty years before another album blows our way.  


FRANK ZAPPA
Roxy: The Movie
Eagle Rock Entertainment

Delayed even longer than the mighty Wind is this nifty, sometimes tough, and often quite bitchin audio/video record of Frank and his Mothers’ three-night stint at the Roxy Theatre in Hollywood during December of ’73. Why it’s taken sooo long to reach us is – Surprise! – NOT the usual legal morass ‘n’ molasses which coats most things Zappa. No, this time it was a simple [sic!] case of technology sufficient to sync the Roxy audio with the Roxy video not being at hand until just a couple’a years ago. Meaning we can all finally not only hear, but see FZ sucking down endless Winstons, seated on-stage in chair having make-up touched up as George Duke pulls a “Big Swifty,” watching Ralph Humphrey drum duel Chester Thompson with a lot of “Cheepnis,” then even manning an extra set of traps himself to help beat off the “Uncle Meat” variations. Later Bruce Fowler and Napoleon Murphy Brock go trombo-a-saxo too all over their “Be-Bop Tango” before Carl and Rick and Jane (then Lana, Brenda et al) are coerced on stage to, um, dance to it …a sight even more unsettling than I’d imagined all those years ago under headphones spinning Side 4 of Roxy & Elsewhere when I should have been doing my homework. Caveat Emptor however: as Gail Zappa (RIP) of the esteemed Zappa Family Trust says (admits?) in the accompanying liner notes, Frank indeed “shows up here at his geekiest,” as many of the fiercely wrought arrangements, not to mention between-song “announcements” attest. Of course, a mere five years pre-Roxy such a disclaimer would NEVER have been necessary regarding the original Mothers of Invention and those things they did, but…         

I Think You’re Totally Wrong: A Quarrel by David Shields and Caleb Powell — A Review in Four Parts

Photos: Stills from the film trailer for I Think You're Totally Wrong: A Quarrel by James Franco.

Our writing group meets once a month. We’re an agreeable lot, so when the need to procrastinate arises it’s easy to find other topics to discuss. New episodes of WTF, old New Zealand pop bands, what to make of Hawkwind. But all consensus and no conflict has its limitations. Enter the books of David Shields.

Opinions of Shields vary greatly. I’m the most vocal advocate in the ranks. I’ve been circulating his books since Black Planet and recently passed around one of his newer books, I Think You’re Totally Wrong: A Quarrel, a collaboration with Caleb Powell.

The premise of I Think You’re Totally Wrong is that Shields and Powell, a former student, meet up for a weekend of discussion and debate. The central argument is this: is it better to pursue a domestic life or one of creativity? They each write and have families but balance them differently.

I Think You’re Totally Wrong is a compelling tug of war. I enjoyed feeling my allegiances shift back and forth between Shields and Powell. I did expect that there would be a range of reactions within the group. I did not expect that the book would be ripped upon its return, having been thrown across the room.

— Mike Faloon

* * *

On October 20, 2015 I sat down to write my portion of a collaborative review of I Think You're Totally Wrong: A Quarrel by David Shields and Caleb Powell. According to Goodreads, I finished reading the book more than eight months ago. I remembered little of this “provocative” and “entertaining” “romp of a...book.”

In the name of relevancy, I thought I might instead review a newer Shields book, That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields, but was too embarrassed to purchase a book with a title this explicit. The library, which I perceived to be less judgmental (PATRIOT Act notwithstanding), held only an e-book, for which I needed to download an app called Overdrive. I spent the next hour unsuccessfully attempting to download the e-book onto my phone and became increasingly agitated.

Brett: I attempted to check an e-book out with Overdrive. The process is a bit frustrating / not intuitive. I'd like to check the e-book back in but I do not see a way to do that.
Gail: Librarian 'Gail' has joined the session.
Gail: Hi Brett, did you download to a device or is it just checked out in Overdrive?
Brett: I downloaded the Overdrive app on my phone and selected NYPL -- I clicked bookshelf, signed into NYPL, and the book is there but I cannot get it into Overdrive.
Gail: you don't see a button to download?
Brett: No, unfortunately not.
Brett: the buttons are "Disable eNYPL PDF" and "Read (in your browser")"
Gail: oh, it may be because it is PDF it is not compatible with the app
Gail: sorry about that
Gail: I can return for you if you are not interested, just need your card number
Brett: 14698015782832 -- thx
Gail: sorry, I am not able to return for some reason... it will disappear from your account after the borrow period on its own though
Brett: OK, as long as I will not be fined. I do appreciate you help.
Gail: no fines for digital materials. Have a great day, thanks for using Ask NYPL.

I turned to Life Is Short — Art Is Shorter: In Praise of Brevity, a collection of short essays and stories edited (with extensive commentary) by Shields and poet Elizabeth Cooperman. My initial instinct was to “review” this book in a Shieldsian manner — collage, appropriation, faux documents — until I realized that had been done already by an actual writer (“Life Is Short Reviews Itself,” by Dinty W. Moore in PANK Magazine). I was reminded that shorter ≠ easier or lazy or a middle finger to the reader. I was moved to tears by George Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant”:

I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool.

— Brett Essler

* * *

I threw I Think You’re Totally Wrong across the room, hitting a bookshelf. But it wasn’t a reaction to the book. I had been reading it on the couch while my two-year-old daughter was climbing all over it, and me, when she smacked her head into my chin. You know, where the teeth rattle and the pain traces your jaw. 

Picking up the book, I saw the spine was damaged. About halfway through at this point, I pretty much skimmed the rest of it for book recommendations and other bits of interest. Whenever My Dinner With Andre or The Trip was mentioned, I would want to watch that instead.   

I come away, as usual, with the impression that David Shields elevates his own change in taste / ideas about writing and reading to some sort of universal cultural standard everyone is supposed to ascend to. Also he seems to claim to be doing something new while simultaneously citing ancient, or French, precedent for all this new newness. (I think Caleb Powell brought this up on Bookworm.) I find myself thinking of recent (to me) great books if they had had some “reality” stapled onto them. Umbrella. Hawthorn & Child. Autobiography of Red. I suspect that the Reality Hunger thing is a dressed-up version of someone saying “I just don’t like all that made up stuff.” 

Which is not much of a review of I Think You’re Totally Wrong, I know.

— Brendan Kiernan

(Note: It’s a complete coincidence that when I returned Brendan’s copy of The Saints’ Wild About You the booklet was rain-damaged and the CD case was shattered. — Mike)

* * *

Addendum to Review

Dancing with Myself
Author: Billy Idol (David Shields)
Simon and Schuster, $28.00 USA

Allegedly written by Brian Cogan

David Shields’ style of cultural appropriation reaches a new nadir in his new book, Dancing with Myself. (Typical of Shields’ questioning of the certainty of authorship, his name does not appear on the cover, or anywhere in the book.) Although Dancing is typically full of outside quotes (lots of history this time, it's almost as though at one point Shields was seriously injured in a motorcycle crash and went to rehab and had a lot of free time to read up on basic European history, albeit mixed in with self help quotes).

What's most, or actually not surprising, is how much Shields’ comments on the fluidity of identity in this work. The reader has to question: Was Shields really a part of the early English punk scene, rubbing shoulders with everyone from Sid Vicious to Gene October, or is he hinting that all punks create their own legend? Surely the fact that Shields adopts a pseudonym in this work, a "punk name" if you will, ties the reader closer to his overindulgences as gleefully admitted in this book. While I have seen Shields enjoy beer and wine before, I had no idea about the extent of his addictions to cocaine, heroin and various other drugs until this book.

It's in the latter half of this autobiographical new book, where Shields takes his critique of celebrity and identity to a new level. In his rock star persona, he travels the world, crops his hair, dies it bleach blonde (pre-baldness, or a wig perhaps?) and tours as a modern Idol, singing intentionally ridiculous songs about weddings and dancing. This is where the book finally brings his critique about literary deconstruction to its logical conclusion. We (the audience, also the idol) and Shields (as reader and idolized rock star) wade together through intentionally forced prose and digressions, forming a non-linear garden walk through a miasma of literary tropes about rock and roll excess. By the time "Billy," as Shields calls himself in the book, puts out a record called Cyber-punk (the name of late eighties/early nineties literary movement, as epitomized by William Gibson), it is also clear that Shields is now using cyberspace theory to prove that we are all avatars, all role playing and all with a cocaine habit and a penchant for Thai hookers.

The book ends not with redemption, a rehab is hinted at but never really discussed. We have gone through Shields’ veiled comparison of the author as rock star and the malleability of memory and reality in what seems like a pointless journey, but in reality is a masterpiece of modern literary deconstruction. And that Shields chose to write the book as though he was being pressured by an angry book publisher eager to recoup their advance adds to the urgency of the prose. Highly recommended. 

 

The Other Night at Quinn’s: Mary Halvorson & Ches Smith

By Mike Faloon

“No more guitar heroes!”
—The Clash, “Complete Control”

The pine tree outside our dining room window is being cut down today. Last winter its branches—sagging with snow and ice—started snapping off and plummeting, falling fifty or sixty feet and spearing the ground. My son and I are glued to the window when the tree cutters arrive, hypnotized by the crew chief’s ascent and the sight of the first broomstick branches falling. As he scales skyward, the chainsaw clipped to his belt, slowly swaying, always running, hangs a few feet below his boots. He digs his ankle spikes into the bark and pushes higher.

***

Ches Smith’s equipment forms a semi-circle. The drums face stage right, electronics straight ahead, vibraphone stage left. A cross section of the inner sanctum, like a Jack Kirby diagram of the Baxter Building, or those scenes in Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou that show a cut away of Zissou’s ship, the Belafonte.

Smith concocts snare/bass combinations that pulverize, and the way he favors syncopation over speed allows you to savor each pop and punch. When he rotates to the synth/iPad, he plays with one stick, holds the other in his armpit, goes into a holding pattern, before emerging on the other side with something completely different. Then he returns to the set, this time with mallets, digs into increasingly abstract rhythms, climbs upward.

***

The larger branches have dinner plate diameters. The crew chief ties off them off and lowers them to the ground. The other crew members guide the branches to graceful landings. The sky opens up, shades of blue replacing browns and greens, the ground illuminated by direct sunlight for the first time in decades. The crew chief reaches the top of the tree and slices into the trunk, cuts into the very structure that’s keeping him aloft. The falling pieces grow larger, the thumps louder, the sunlight brighter. 

***

Smith rolls on his snare, discharges a blast of synthesizer then turns to the vibraphone. He runs tests and gathers results, takes stutter steps before unleashing full runs. He starts a rhythm, repeats and alters it, plays along with one looped rhythm, then two. Smith builds on and tears down traditions, cuts into the structures he’s leaned on.

Seeing him move from one instrument to another is like watching Steve Zissou aboard the Belafonte, leading a quest to find the jaguar shark, going from station to station, checking on the sauna and the lab, up to the library, and down to the editing room. Each has developed a unique system, fueled by the unpredictable, in the relentless course of running down, engaging with, and releasing something bigger than himself.

***

In the late 80s my cousin was stationed in the navy in San Diego. Near the end of his hitch he needed to get his car back to Syracuse but only had a few days. I flew out with his brother and the three of us drove back across the country, sprinted east to west in just under three days. We spent a day at Mission Beach and then drove through the night, arriving at the Grand Canyon just before dawn.

***

Mary Halvorson moves from side to side, rocks back and forth behind a hollow body guitar. Her glasses slip to the tip of her nose as she dips and dives, rises and rolls across the covers from her solo debut album, Meltframe. There’s something hypnotic yet barbed in the tones she summons. Her songs have an intimacy that might seem at odds with their circuitous paths. She moves full steam ahead before skidding to a stop, smearing the sound, momentarily reversing course before resuming forward motion, like a DJ scratching a record.

***

The park was cloaked in darkness as we approached the canyon. We pulled out blankets and waited, chilly and bleary-eyed from the all night drive, second guessing the wisdom of spending so much time on a sight that remained hidden beneath the night’s shadows. Then the expanse began to reveal itself. As first light trickled in we were struck by the depth, twenty, fifty, hundreds of feet down, no bottom in sight. Then we became aware of the width, yards then miles then lifetimes stretching further and further. Then came the awe. The dimensions melted together, could no longer be considered in isolation. We were speechless before the splendor.

***

Halvorson’s next piece opens with distress signal urgency, exhilarating fretboard dances that quickly evolve into free form freak outs, on the precipice of being too much to ingest. Then she jump cuts, slows the pace and allows her tone to mushroom, wondrously large and enveloping, inducing a subdued euphoria. A rack of pint glasses rattles beneath the counter as Halvorson continues conjuring a six-string version of that Grand Canyon sunrise.

***

I assume that Halvorson’s set is the end of the show. She and Smith are on a “double solo” tour, traveling together but playing solo. Except tonight. While setting up earlier they overhear Steve and James talking and realize that the Quinn’s contingent thinks that the guitarist and drummer will be playing together. “There was a generous spirit in the house and they responded by doing a third set together,” Steve later says. “Everything I’ve seen about their subsequent shows seems to indicate two solo sets and no more. We were privileged.”

There’s so much momentum from the previous sets that I expect the duo show to be bigger, more explosive, a relative summer popcorn blockbuster. Instead Halvorson and Smith opt for a character driven collaboration; it feels like we’re privy to a private dialogue. Across the way a woman shakes her head in disbelief while the man beside her closes his eyes and nods just behind the implied beat. The guy next to me orders a hot dog but doesn’t eat until the set’s over, waits for Halvorson and Smith to finish before taking a bite. We’re mesmerized—staring, basking, monotasking. The music gradually expands and the collective astonishment dilates in synch, Halvorson and Smith breaking down and building up, fostering continuous cycles of depth, width, and awe.

Welcome to the NSA, 2.0

By Brian Cogan

A sneak peak at the upcoming promo video for the new warm and fuzzy, but cool and edgy National Security Agency.

INT. NINETEEN-FIFTIES STYLE OFFICE - DAY

Stodgy fifties/early sixties educational film music plays over stock B&W footage of a large office w/massive analog computers and men on phones. A deep-voiced NARRATOR speaks in voice-over.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

For over sixty years, the National Security Agency has been there for you. Watching for national security threats abroad…

Stock footage of Stalin playing with a kitten

NARRATOR (V.O.)

And at home.

Stock footage of a nineteen-fifties ‘party line conversation’ including a switchboard operator.

INT. MODERN OFFICE - DAY

The NARRATOR appears, with a suit and haircut appropriate for a man much older than his age. He walks by a dull office scene full of middle-aged men on headset phones working in grey cubicles with glowing computer screens.

NARRATOR

We’ve been here for you since your grandfather’s time…working hard to keep America safe and secure.

The Narrator walks slowly past bored older men listening to headsets and jotting down notes on a pad.

NARRATOR

Sure, we monitored your calls…

C/U of man barely listening on a headset phone.

NARRATOR

…and read your mail…

WS: An older bored woman w/large IN and OUT boxes on her desk opens mail from the gargantuan IN box and glares at it before putting it in the almost empty OUT box.

NARRATOR

But we did it for your own good. Someone had to watch and listen intently.

                                    (to an OFFICE WORKER)

Hey Bill, Anything good?

MS: Bill sits at a desk looking bored. He glances at a dot matrix printout.

BILL

 Still yapping on about Aunt Mary’s bunions.

NARRATOR

Keep up the good work, Bill! And on behalf of the American people... thanks!

MS: Bill smiles at the camera.

NARRATOR

Big Brother? I don’t think so! More like a big old goofy uncle. The one who’s always there for you!

VISUAL CUE: Screen starts to look like old scratchy film going off reel.

MUSIC CUE: Sound of needle scratching across record. A new NARRATOR with a younger voice takes over.

NARRATOR 2.0 (V.O.)

Big Brother? No way! More like…Jaeger bombs for all of my bros!

MUSIC CUE: New Contemporary hip-hop plays loudly.

INT. NEW OFFICE - DAY

A much younger NARRATOR 2.0 (same actor, now w/o makeup and wig) comes into frame (office still a bit obscured). He wears an expensive but stylish suit w/o a tie. PBTR office is now a contemporary office with an open floorplan. Impossibly young adults on skateboards and treadmill desks work on ipads and laptops around shared communal tables.

SOUND CUE: Constant cacophony and youthful exuberance.

NARRATOR 2.0

Hello to all my Bronies and welcome to the NSA…2.0! We’re still catching the bad guys, but this time via apps, algorithms and bulk data aggregation! This is not your daddy’s NSA!

Two background actors high five, fist bump, exchange elaborate handshakes and body bump shouting ‘boo-ya!’

NARRATOR 2.0

Look, we gotta catch the crooksters and the hamburglars, right? S’aright. But apparently, stealing your data for our own nefarious purposes isn’t cool anymore. You talked, and we listened!

Quick insert shots of the home pages of Facebook, twitter, Instagram, tumblr, snapchat, Google, etc.

NARRATOR 2.0

            You’ve told us that bulk data collection by itself is ‘wrong.’

                                                (uses air quotes)

Nowadays, the American consumer wants value for giving up privacy and we in the NSA believe in giving back. That’s why we have all kinds of cool swag…for free! Like apps that tell you (and us) where you are on a map! How cool is that? And better yet, you get to be Pacman or Ms. Pacman!

Cut to graphic of Pacman on a map of Bushwick Brooklyn.

NARRATOR 2.0

Free games!

A souped up version of the eighties video game ‘Spycatcher’ appears as a graphic.

NARRATOR 2.0

 And our own improv group, the Patriot Act!

CUT TO: UCB stage with actors dressed like powdered-wig-wearing Revolutionary War soldiers, but with sleeve tattoos and hipster mustaches.

CUT TO: Three bored looking teenagers on a tablet, a laptop and a cell phone.

THREE TEENS (in unison)

            Boring!!!

NARRATOR 2.0

                                                (laughs)

We knew you kids would say that!

                                    (stops laughing)

No, seriously. We knew.

CUT TO: Three mid-twenties kids on couch, same technology, looking more involved.

NARRATOR 2.0

What people want these days is added value. That’s why we installed the Ask-NSA app to everyone’s phone! Iphone? It’s on it! Android? On it! Cheap Chinatown flip phone? We’ve got you covered!

INSERT SHOTS of various phones.

V.O. NARRATOR 2.0

            Yes, yep. Yeparooni.

Return to NARRATOR 2.0.

NARRATOR 2.0

But, we’re not here to spy, we’re here to hang! Say, how many times has this shit happened to you?

SPLIT SCREEN: Two BROS argue on cell phones.

BRO ONE

Jeter batted at least .300 in 1998, bro!

BRO TWO

No way cuz, even though I’m not really old enough to have watched or cared at the time, I disagree!

BRO ONE

Bro!

BRO TWO

 Bro?

BRO ONE

Only one way to settle this! Yo, NSA?

Screen splits in three: NSA operator in upper screen

NSA

 Yes Bro-tizens?

BRO ONE

 A little help, bro?

NSA

            Got it covered. Jeter hit .324 in 1998!

                                                BOTH BROS (in unison)

            Thanks, NSA!

NSA

Least I can do, citizen bros!

Back to NARRATOR.

NARRATOR 2.0

But wait, there’s more! Act now, and we’ll throw in free monthly upgrades!

                                    (and)

Well, even if you don’t act now you still get them, how cool is that? And for your folks, we still have a version of NSA 1.0 available!

WS: A Man in a suit and tie, dark glasses and an earplug sits watching older couple silently eat in a diner for two solid minutes.

NARRATOR 2.0

And for our Muslim friends out there, don’t worry; we’re not targeting you in particular. Heck, we still only have two guys that can even read Arabic and Hank here barely even knows Urdu!

CU: Hank, a painfully white guy wearing an Iraqi soccer jersey, shrugs goofily.

EXT. WHITE HOUSE - DAY

All of the NSA employees are lined up outside the White House, led by Narrator 2.0.

NARRATOR 2.0

So remember, bulk data collection is not spying. It’s just a cool new way to give you all kinds of free goods and services! Right, Zuck-meister?

PBTR Mark Zuckerberg in his trademark shirt w/NSA stenciled on it.

MARK ZUCKERBERG

 Right!

FADE OUT

As scene fades:                       

NARRATOR 2.0 (V.O.)

 So, how do you say that in Mandarin?

MARK ZUCKERBERG

            Figure it out for yerself, dude!

NARRATOR 2.0 (V.O.)

 On it. We’re on it.

Are You Receiving Me? #63 – A Wailing of a Town – An Oral History of Early San Pedro Punk and More 1977-1985

By Mike Faloon

A Wailing of a Town – An Oral History of Early San Pedro Punk and More 1977-1985
Edited by Craig Ibarra
End Fwy Books

Several years ago Craig Ibarra co-produced a compilation album of San Pedro punk rock (The Reactionaries 1979). On the back of the LP’s jacket, tucked in the corner, was a note about a forthcoming book, A Wailing of a Town – Ignored History of Early San Pedro Punk. 

The book is now out, but with a new subtitle, An Oral History. I think the revised subtitle is more apt but the defiance implied by Ignored History fits really well--There was so much going in San Pedro; we’re going to be heard.

The easy route for this book would be to focus on the Minutemen, the town’s best-known export, and seek out music biz luminaries to serve as talking heads, sharing stories of when they first heard the band and how they were inspired by them. The Minutemen are legendary and they crossed paths with plenty of well-known bands.

But No Wailing is much more than a band history. It’s really about the ethos developed and practiced by the town’s bands and writers and artists, friends and followers: everyone should be involved, and there was a particular emphasis on developing a unique sound/voice/perspective. Whether hosting a show, publishing a zine, or offering to drive a band home after a draining night, there was no need to just watch from a distance. No Wailing is about the Minutemen on the surface, but it’s really about a group of working class kids and the art projects they churned out.

So it makes sense that Ibarra would steer clear of celebrities and talk with the rank and file, the people who were in closer proximity. In that sense this is the punk rock book that Howard Zinn would have written. That’s certainly noble in theory but such an approach presents a different set of risks. What if you didn’t see the Dialtones at a backyard barbeque or read The Prole or get you haircut at Ivica’s New Wave Salon? Might that slam the door in a reader’s face? Leave us on the outside looking in? In lesser hands, perhaps, but Ibarra’s up to the task—he’s gathered a lot of clay, sculpted it well, and invited anyone who’s willing in for a closer look. Ibarra is a San Pedro native and a longtime pro-Pedro activist. He knows the landscape well. His scope and sequence are rock solid and easy-to-follow, and he knows when to let things run long and when to cut them short. 

I admit that whenever non-Pedro bands were mentioned (Go-Gos, Meat Puppets, Sonic Youth), I expected the next quote to come from a member of one of those bands. It’s a set-up/delivery structure absorbed from other oral histories and documentaries. But those bands remain on the sidelines, referenced but not heard from. They weren’t from San Pedro. Instead Ibarra focuses on local musicians, friends, and family members. He introduces and elevates a wide range of different voices. I’d never heard of Gary Jacobelly but his insights and phrasing had me looking online for his books. (None to date.) All I used to know about Linda Kite was that she was driving the night that D. Boon died. But hearing her side of the story, I was struck by the courage it took to revisit the days before and after that tragic event, grappling with what happened.

In the end, Ibarra is not an outsider reporting on the past. He’s an insider welcoming us in, which makes A Wailing of a Town a page-turning, Let’s-do-it-too read.

Additional updates on A Wailing of a Town 

The Other Night at Quinn’s: Daniel Levin, Juan Pablo Carletti

By Mike Faloon | Photos by Michael Bogdanffy-Kriegh / Studio MBK

Some improvisers warm up, take a reading or two at the start of a set, check their bearings.  Others plunge into fathomless depths, react and respond more than think as they plummet, pulling all bystanders, innocent or otherwise, in with them.  Daniel Levin (cello) and Juan Pablo Carletti (percussion) have clearly chosen the latter.

Levin thumps his fist on the body of his cello, then saws away, excavates intensely satisfying, reedy sounds.  How does the wood withstand such pummeling, not splinter?  Carletti’s mallets roll like thunder across his floor and rack toms.  I need a chance to breathe but Levin and Carletti will have nothing of it.  The surface world is quickly fading from view and with it so many of the elements we usually use to guide ourselves.  We’re sealed in for a delightfully disorienting ride.

***

Comic book artists use the term “gutters” when referencing the white space between panels.  I’d never given them a second thought before reading Douglas Wolk’s Reading Comics.  He details howgutters give greater definition to the panels that precede as well those that follow.  They also call on the reader to do some of the lifting.  “The gutter is where the fun happens…readers get to fill in the lapse in time.”

***

Every time I look at Carletti he’s moving something different across the top of his snare drum—bells and chimes and cymbals.  He even leans back and puts his foot up there to mute the drum before bending out of sight to uncork something that I mistake for a harmonica.  When he pops up, still on high alert, he’s back to the brushes.  Meanwhile, Levin bear hugs his cello, and shakes his head from side to side as he wildly pursues rich, dark sounds.  He and Carletti push each other downward, past the point where sunlight reaches, down near the hydrothermal vents where water gushes out at 850 degrees.

***

Maine, part one: One of my first record buying experiences was in Bangor, visiting my fraternal grandparents.  We went to a department store, and I found a bin of  $3.99 albums.  I bought two.  The Genesis record, …and Then There Were Three, was clogged with gobs of syrupy keyboards; I couldn’t find the songs.  The E.L.O. record, an early best-of, was full of Roy Wood’s mad man cello antics; I couldn’t escape the songs—those woofer-punishing frequencies glued themselves to my psyche.

*** 

The duo pulls back.  Levin plays it lullaby sweet and soothing, then delicately plucks.  Carletti rotates his sticks, holds them vertically, and stirs the perimeter of his floor tom, then trades for a mallet to gently tap the top hi-hat cymbal.  Calm at the center of the storm, a gutter. 

***

Maine, part two: My friend Mike lives in Orono.  He had friends visiting from New York and they went into a gas station convenience store (ironically called The Big Apple).  The friend, accustomed to city-sized delis and bodegas, was blown away by the amount of unused space in the store, the vast acres between and at the end of aisles.  He felt like he’d landed on another planet. 

***

I used to have an aversion to white space.  In music, on the screen or on the page, blank space amounted to wasted opportunities.  I sought out music that was full throttle, full time.  When friends and I worked on fanzines every square inch was crammed with material—clip art, lists, captions, random minutia.  I loved zines like Rev. Norb’s Sic Teen, hand-stapled pages buzzing with squint-till-it-aches four-point fonts and impenetrable layers of clip art, marathon sentences and parenthetical clauses that were like funhouse mirrors.  I disliked, maybe even resented, the abundance of empty space often employed in fancier, bound magazines like Punk Planet.  The choice seemed egregious, almost boastful—We’ve got space—and by extension, money—to burn.  I didn’t recognize the thought and expression in their aesthetic, nor did I see my opportunity to slow down and absorb.

***

Carletti removes the top hi hat cymbal, strikes it as it hovers like a slow motion flying saucer and sets it on the floor tom.  Levin reaches down and pinches a string near the bridge.  A moment later he lifts his cello on to his lap and pushes his bow across the leg that usually supports the cello.  Now he’s holding two bows, playing above and beneath the strings.  The duo’s first set is comprised of three pieces.  The second, so far, just one.  Fewer gutters.  Quicker pace.  More time beneath the surface.

***

Jacques Cousteau once tried, in the early-to-mid sixties, to develop an underwater colony.  The first of these continental shelf stations, Conshelf I, was set ten meters below the surface off the coast of France.  The goal was to allow small crews—aquanauts—to live and work there for weeks at a time. 

***

The way Levin and Carletti exchange ideas so fluidly, so often without pause, sounds like two parts of the same instrument.  Talking with Levin he says, “it’s like I think (Juan Pablo) is playing cello.”  Or at least I think that’s what I hear.  Later I follow up with Levin.  “I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it is more to do with navigating our improvisation using a common language of rhythmic ideas and gestures rather than cello vs. drums like a traditional tenor sax vs. drums scenario.  Much more like I use the cello percussively.  Juan Pablo provides a backdrop landscape and I paint over it in large brush strokes.” 

 

Their collaborations feel like a very long, very wide panel, a panel continuously drawn on paper as it comes off the roll.  Or maybe a Wes Anderson scene where the camera leads a character across the horizon, allows us to move with them.  Or perhaps the inverse, a Spike Lee dolly shot, the character stationary and the camera back pedaling toward us, allowing us to see their world as it passes by.

***

Costeau’s underwater experiments were largely successful.  The researchers were active and content as they conducted experiments within and beyond their underwater dwelling.  But they learned that they were unable to remain submerged indefinitely because they couldn’t live without sunlight.

Tonight Levin and Carletti have built the latest version of Conshelf: Quinn’s, and even now, as the show comes to end and we hang out and run post-game analysis, it seems sustainable.  I see Eric for the first time in weeks, finally pass along the book I’ve been keeping in my car.  Steve gives an update on his house renovations and introduces me to Dan who knows the same pool of Central and Western New York punk bands that I came up with in the nineties.  The night moves on and we’re content in the cozy confines Conshelf: Quinn’s.  Then this:

“Every shing-a-ling-a-ling

That they’re starting to sing’s so fine”

Damn it.  Someone’s playing the Carpenters.  Sincerely and loudly.  We’ve sprung a leak.  The bubble’s going to burst, and there’s no choice but to resurface.