A Facebook pal sent me this. Sorry, have no info about where/how to acquire some, but here's a link to the Burnt Hickory Brewery website. Sounds tasty!
[Use the above link to hear Die Kreuzen perform a live version of "Man in the Trees". Maybe have a beer, too.]
I've always believed that the nutritional value of one's food roughly corresponds with the number of colors seen when gazing down upon one's plate. If everything is grey, your creation is probably on the low end of of the nutrition index. But a plate that's bursting with contrasting reds and greens and yellows... now that's a different story! As such, I opted to shatter the visual bleakness of this particular dish by piling all of the suggested variations into a singular creation. Which is to say, I added tomato, fresh parsley, grilled shrimp, bacon, and a bundle of asparagus that was about to go bad. Oh yeah, and about 3 times as much garlic as the original recipe called for. Y'all know that roasting garlic excises the bitterness from the raw stuff, right? Well, you should. You should also download Bittman's How to Cook Everythingapp for whichever mobile device is otherwise ruining your life at present.
Frontloading it with countless sexual references and double entendres wouldn't hurt, either. Exhibits A & B Below. WARNING: Major drink through the nose potential here!
Ferguson is such a refreshing break from the beta male personas who populate most late night TV. He's charming, handsome, hilarious, and totally willing to steer things in directions that would devour less talented interviewers. And as any lady (and honest man) will tell you, the Scottish accent is pure ear candy.
Like a lot of my peers who got hooked on weirdo music during the mid 80s, the arrival of the New Bomb Turks circa 1991 was something of a religious epiphany. At that time, I was a lowly fanzine editor who'd recently wormed his way into a DJ slot on Princeton's massive commercial college station, WPRB. In spite of my townie status, I thought of myself as already being pretty knowledgeable of the contemporary underground acts that PRB championed. As a result of that (misguided) assertion, I wound up spending countless overnights in the station's record library, often firing up the transmitter two or three hours after official broadcasting had ended in order to air a bunch of weird/old vinyl I'd plied from PRB's enviable stacks.
Among the coolest and wildest records I got acquainted with on those 3-6 AM musical odysseys were the Back From the Grave series of 60s punk compilations, released by the brazen Crypt label. Those comps, as has been noted by all sorts of rock royalty from Byron Coley to Johan Kugelberg, effectively retrofitted a miniscule slice of the past with a bold, new identity. More importantly, they became a springboard from which a new musical aesthetic (90s garage rock) was forged. As such, when Crypt Records released the Turks' debut LP in 1993, I'd unknowingly primed myself to be instantly hooked.
Here was a band that had clearly siphoned all the bad attitude and snotbrained cynicism of the Grave comps into their sound, and then had the nuts to pair it with equal parts grad school geekery (Song title: "Born Toulouse-Lautrec") and latterday punk rock fury. That they had one of the meanest guitar sounds ever to hit my eardrums, an utterly unhinged frontman, and that they nailed down the single greatest Wire cover of all time only sweetened the deal as far as I was concerned. So began a glorious decade of following the New Bomb Turks' every move via their innumerable 45s and incendiary live shows (mostly at Maxwell's, though the absolute best time I ever saw them was at Under Acme.) My fandom culminated in November of 2002, when the band taped a live session for my program on WFMU. By then, some version of the "garage rock" they'd championed for years had exploded into the mainstream via bands like the Hives and White Stripes, and as you'll hear through the music in this session and the interspersed interview segments, the perspectives of vocalist Eric Davidson and bassist Matt Reber throw a pretty unique light on the musical climate of that era. (Not to mention the scene's often dubious progenitors and kingpins.)
The Turks quit being a full time band a few years ago, though they do still play out from time to time. Eric Davidson's got a new book out called We Never Learn: The Gunk Punk Undergut that details the rise and fall of the 90s garage scene they helped ignite. Welcoming them to WFMU's Jersey City studios remains one of my proudest broadcasting moments, and I'm beyond thrilled to finally share the aural rewards of that evening. [Xposted from the FMA here.]
I dig nerdy space stuff, especially when it's coupled with quasi primitive flight sim graphics. Incidentally, Viking 2 entered Martian orbit 34 years ago today. I am still desperately hoping for a trilobite, earwig, rat-snail, or even a fucking microbe to be discovered there sometime before I die, as I think confirmation of alien life would effectively drag all of us down here on the monkey planet into some semblance of a promising future.
I swear I can hear the laughter emanating from Ikea Corporate HQ all the way from here.
Here's the only band I know of who've had a mixture of crustaceous meat blended with fat and minced into a spreadable paste named after them performing a song called "The Visitors". How the heck did I not know this song until recently?
Big ups to Scott Williams for motivating my quick action in order to get one of these—there are allegedly only 700 in existence! But oh the joy of coming home from my afternoon walk with The Kid and finding the peculiar brown package containing Big Blood's new Dead Songs LP thoughtfully concealed under the doormat by the mailman. In all honesty, I don't believe I'd been as excited for mail since my days of fanzine editorship, during which time the arrival of peculiar brown packages was commonplace, but regarded as something of a religious event.
I'm no collector geek, but the folks at Time Lag Records certainly went out of their way to fire off the vinyl fetishist synapses in my brain. This sucker is pressed on gagillion gram black vinyl and comes in what seems to be a hand-crafted heavy stock gatefold sleeve. I haven't yet listened to the whole thing enough times to declare an overall impression here, but Scott, ever the tastemaker that he is, quickly identified "The Archivist and the Archeologist" as a singularly spine-tingling selection, and one which is certainly on par with Big Blood's most commanding efforts—up until now, most commonly heard as digital downloads only. Here's a link to check out Scott playing that song on the radio. Yowza.
Word rolled in this morning that nearly every recorded Fugazi live show (and that's a number that's gotta be in the thousands, dear readers) may soon be available for download. According to a post on the fan-operated World of Fugazi website (seriously?), the band has made major strides towards digitizing their famously comprehensive archive of live shows and plan to make them available for download, possibly beginning as early as late 2010.
With any luck, the show advertised in the flyer at left—which was a rather crucial benchmark of my angsty teenage existence of the 1980s—will be among those that make the cut. (Seeing your favorite band play outside, in the rain, in their hometown, and on only ten minutes notice sorta does that to you when you're 19 years old.) However, even without consultation of the band or any representative of Dischord Records, I can personally guarantee the show advertised via the other flyer will not be appearing on the internet anytime soon. (I'll spare you the short and not-very-interesting story about two bored kids with a dopey sense of humor, a Sharpie, credit at the local Kinko's, and the 200 people who subsequently showed up expecting to see "Fugazi".)
In the meantime, I'll be hoping that whichever show this recording of the song "Suggestion" [Listen] originally came from (anyone know who that is on guest vocals?) will be re-upped in better quality than the hotly-dubbed Fugazi live/demos cassette that squeaked out of DC around 1989 and slowly made it's way up the coast via Teac. It was eventually dubbed for me by the bassist of a long-gone NYHC band I was chummy with for a short time, and it remains one of maybe six or seven cassettes that I can not bring myself to part with, even though I haven't had a working tape deck in eons.