Saturday, March 7, 2009

The Twit Has Hit the Fan

I am now on Twitter. I am now on the crack cocaine of the internet.

Feed my habit. Be an enabler.

www.twitter.com/eepalmer

Currently listening to: Blitzen Trapper, Furr

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

I Just Want The Fuckin' Free TULL Poster, Man.


I've been a-go-go-going though a big Buddy Miles kick (drum) lately. Who can't relate to "Well, my mind is goin' through them changes" ? - I ask you all knowingly without a hint of concern, cause change just broadens the range, y'all. Amen.

So the Buddy love is hot and heavy right now, and I'm ready to lay my bets that if he and Billy Preston had ever engaged in a full fathom afro-turf war, my man Buddy would have emerged victorious. It's an easier and quicker ambush to pick up, aim and javelin-toss a coupla drum sticks than it is a Hammond B3. I know this from experience.

Years back, I can remember my Dad mentioning he had jammed with Buddy after Monterey. Here Bruce was go-fishin' with major musical history, and all I probably asked him was "do you have any eights and why was your solo album so weird?" Regrets. Regrets.

So here comes vintage Circus to pick up my disrespectful slack. Shit man, feel-good from the Circus magazine? Who would have thunk it? To me Circus will always be Creem Magazine's stupid, horny, jerking off-in-the-backyard tree house younger brother. I close my eyes and just see glossy Circus centerfolds of Maiden, Priest, Crue, and somehow the images just instantly, and as if on cue, morph into a 14 year old with bad skin and a paper route. And I love it. Nuture your inner 14 year metal kid. He is a do-gooder. He fights off those times you find yourself about to toe tap to Yanni at the dentist office.

Anyway, so in the above issue of Circus came some deets I liked to read. I needed to read.



Cool. I'm pretty sure the uber-jam was LSD fuelled. Playing for 14 hours straight? Correction on the straight part. Playing for 14 hours wired and high as fuck. Cool.

Today at work I was staccato headbanging to my dearest Jaco (GENIUS) and a straight co-worker said, "Erin, your parents must have done some serious drugs".

Yeah. The male parental. But he jammed with Buddy Miles.

Life's little trade-offs.

Currently listening to: Fleet Foxes, S/T

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Mitch Kramer FOUND at Starfleet (foxes) Command

You remember the end. Wooderson, Pink, Slater and Simone are cruising down the long stretch of road towards Aerosmith tickets and towards their individual fates. With "Slow Ride" blasting. Perfection. I tip my (fog)hat to director Richard Linklater for such fantastically soundtracked symbolism.

To paraphrase the famous Wooderson quote, that's what I love about the characters of "Dazed and Confused", I get older, they stay the same age.

Forever frozen on celluloid, the embodiment of fresh faced freshman, Mitch Kramer wore an ADIDAS (All Day I Dream About Sex) logo and a curious expression that hinted that the freshness wouldn't last long. Fake wood panelled rec room walls obscured by clouds of thick pot smoke were gonna figure pretty heavy in Mitch's future. As was an impeccable record collection where I'm convinced, Jeff Lynne figured prominently. I ELOve it.


Mitch Kramer, the official pinup of Sassy Magazine (RIP)

Hell, let's go one further and say Mitch became a successful musician; successful in that he avoided a Yamaha DX-7 and a Flock of Seagulls haircut.

Hell, let's go another one further and say Mitch found a time machine in the same vacant field were the infamous all night kegger was held and fast forwarded, guitar in hand, and became the lead singer of Fleet Foxes, Robin Pecknold. When Fleet Foxes are on SNL this weekend, I'm gonna just see my beloved Mitch all grown up and delivering us from the evils of Miley Cyrus and an Up the Creek Without an Auto-Tune Kanye.

So there. I ELOve it.


Robin Pecknold, the official pinup of Pitchfork Journos and asexual indie record shop clerks scouring eBay for first generation Sub Pop LOSER t-shirts

Currently listening to: Bon Iver, Blood Bank EP

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

My Two Santas

Happy Holidays one and all!

Two of my favourite "Santas" of all time:

1. Santa Reed





This is quite possibly the best clip on YouTube so I hardcore encourage you to watch it in its entirety. I'm convinced that half of the view hits are from me as I worship at the altar of Ollie, and can never get enough.


2. Santa Mascis



People would say that J looks more like a Gandalf the White doused in a vat of Essence du Thrift Store, but since he has been gifting the world with quality music for what seems like an eon, I think the Santa comparison is more apropos. Now if I could just get someone to gift me with J's signature model Jazzmaster...did you hear that? That's the sound of a hint dropping.

Hell, at this point, I'll take the girlie-gurl Daisy Rock bass that lovely Lou is hawt-rawkin' in the above pic...I'm sure Thurston M. is mad he didn't think of this first. The race to transform something from lame-o to primo is a competitive one indeed.


J Mascis Signature Model Jazzmaster, unveiled Summer 2007


They need to make a stocking big enough to fit a guitar in. I'm sick as fuck of the yearly Lifesavers Sweet Storybook.

Season's Greetings!

Currently listening to/watching: The Dusty Towne Christmas Special, SCTV

Sunday, December 21, 2008

You Disappoint, Urban Outhouse Shitters

If the Monopoly man was a hipster dude, he would jampack hipster hotels and Urban Outfitters on Boardwalk. The hipster market would feel quite at home at this most prestigious bit of real estate, as there doesn't seem to be an issue with accepting a $50.00 price tag on a cheap, cotton, and mass-manufactured T-shirt featuring Jimmie Walker exclaiming "Dynamite!"

No. "Dyna-rip-off!"

Who needs anymore Indiana Jones sequels when one can walk into a real live Temple of Doom seven days a week, shopping hours permitting? Urban Oufitters is fucked up like Jerry's kids, where you can buy a book that will tell you that saying fucked up like Jerry's kids is awesome for shawsome (that's in there too).

Fuck. The joy of being a pop culture junkie is in the unique, individual, and often accidental ways we stumble upon really fascinating stuff. Here the Indiana Jones parallel comes into positive play...you feel like an archaeologist...you can almost feel like you've discovered something put on this earth solely for you. Foolish and misguided thoughts indeed, but the fun is in the denial that millions of people already caught and sailed the boat long before you got there...

I don't want shit laid out for me by some dickwad buyer or merchandiser who is working towards a degree in media studies, and working their way through the White Album, wondering where the hit singles are. I don't want my tastes to be dictated by the iPod shuffle generation, thanks very much, and no, I won't be taking that $100 book that tells me I need to listen to Burt Bacharach before I die. Me and Burt are already good and firm, thanks to the vinyl bins at Goodwill.

So why this rant? One of the oldest reasons in the book. A glimmer of hope extinguished. I went in there to find some tube sox (I figured they would be a shoo-in for the long ones with retro racing stripes) and while I was browsing, some pretty incredible music came on. Wow, cool, maybe I will take away something infinitely more substantial than a pair of socks. So I asked the saleshipster what was playing. She gave me a dumbfounded look and said she would check. I was pretty baffled, I thought that was part of the gig, as a representative of hipsterdom, she would be required to know. Long story short, she didn't know. She came back and said that she couldn't find the CD cover and that the CDs were just blank-labeled company burned copies. Well, yeah, I felt burned by the company alright, and by the blank-label of a facial expression worn by their employee.

Damn. So I never got to find out which band was making this great music. I'm not about to go into a music store and ask the clerk, "you know this song? It goes...la la la la la shoo bee doo, etc." I've been on the receiving end of those requests, and after I Shawshanked my way outta record retail I vowed I would never subject that sort of torture on those still in the record racket. Feigning excitement day after day over those creepy Jonas Brothers (Jonai?) must be torture enough.

The Judas Brothers... selling out and wiping out the momentum of 50 years of pop music for a bag of 30 million pieces of silver, a bag made out of a pair of girl knickers tied up with a scrunchie.

The power of the scrunchie and it's impact upon culture and society cannot be underestimated. Go to Urban Outfitters. There's a whole book that will tell you so. For $35.95.

Currently listening to: International Velvet Soundtrack, Francis Lai

Thursday, December 18, 2008

4.5 Outta 5 Panamas


Thanks Clint, for giving the majesty known as the Gran Torino back its dignity and its hip as fuck cachet. Who needs an everlasting image of David Soul doin' a tuck and roll across the hood of the red Torino in a gawd-awful cop/buddy tv shit-fest. That shit doesn't even rate on the "so good it's bad" scale. I'd rather listen to a scratched up 45 of "Don't Give Up On Us Baby" a thousand times, and played on a crappy '70's Radio Shack turntable with lint on the stylus than watch an epi of S&H. S and H and...I...T.

So Clint's movie was aces. How a man who sounds like he masticates on sandpaper 24/7 can play so smooth and rocksteady is beyond me.

So I give "Gran Torino" 4.5 Panamas outta 5.



Fuck the thumbs up or thumbs down system. I'm for permanent closure of the balcony on that one. The uber fan from the "Panama" vid mouthin' "AW-RITE" whilst swimming in a sea of Halenheads is my fuckin' rating system. I wonder where this guy is now? He's probably at some bar called Snoozy McDoozy's or some shit like that, figuring out how to steer the conversation around to how he and a renegade hairdryer were once featured players in the greatest rock video ever made.

Good for him; in this great big, overcrowded world, everyone deserves to be a "Where's Waldo" at least once.

Shine on Waldo of Halen World. (Not to be confused with the Waldo from the "Hot for Teacher" vid.) Maybe I'll just call him 2 minute, 55 guy and leave it at that.



Currently listening to: Under the Western Freeway, Grandaddy

Thursday, December 11, 2008