My New Year's Resolution...Evolution

I am slowly evolving back into a physically healthy individual. Balancing a full time gig and full time physio has taken me away from the blogsphere for what now seems an eternity!

Gonna try to blog at least once a week from now on. Thanks again to all who have left gorgeous comments, will try to get caught up with you all soon! Sending good vibes to ya and if hugs were chords, know that all the ones I am sending you are MAJORS!

Happy New Year, everyone!


Currently listening to: Into the Wild Soundtrack, RIP Christopher McCandless

The Ultimate Workout for Workin' it Out

"To Air is human, to Air Guitar...divine."
----Bjorn Turoque, Air Guitarist Extraordinaire

Fuckin' A.

On the Mend, Thanks Dear Friends!

It's been a bumpy bumpy coupla months...thanks to all who have left messages and beautiful words of support and encouragement...I've had to take a step back from the blog sphere for a bit and concentrate on gettin' back to the feel good. Not quite there yet, but hopefully someday soon I'll be rockin' the blog hardcore once again! Being hit by a car sucks. Being taken out by a VW Golf sucks even more. I would have preferred being propelled up up and away by one of those SA-WEET '70's muscle cars that handle like a dream and are driven by dudes with handlebar pornstaches.


Somewhere out there, right now, this shirt...exists.


But no...I was treated to a nice road rash facial courtesy of some lady singing along with Celine's Titanic torture theme, who when makin' the high note O-face, didn't see me in the crosswalk. Cross hairs more like it...

But c'est la vie as Robbie Neville once said, and continues to say in song, as the rest of him idles away with Terence Trent D'Arby in the files of, ya, you know..."where are they now". Hot damn, those files just keep gettin' bigger and bigger as music sees less and less of bands with real staying power. Those "where are they now files" are gonna need housing much like the airplane hangar size storage bunker seen at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

So thank, thank you to all who have left truly beautiful comments...you are so key in the recovery process...thanks for all your positive medicine!

Be back soon. With bells and muscle cars on.

currently listening to: The Thrills, Let's Bottle Bohemia

HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEWART COPELAND!!!

HAPPY 55TH STEWART!!!

I hear Klark Kent turns 55 today too! (hardcore Police fans laugh now)

currently listening to: The Police, Regatta de Blanc

Let Me Level (42) With Ya

I've taken a wee bit of a hiatus...Hi! Don't-hate-us 'cuz we've been gone so long...I suppose it's time to level with ya all. Saying that I suddenly hear Mark King's monster bass lines when Level 42 were king and that brother slapped and whacked that instrument sumthun silly. Dude played his axe at too high a level for my liking...armpit playahs just do not look cool; if they are gonna slap and whack at underarm level they should at least give us something lowbrow amongst all that sophisticated technique, and rip off a few hand in the underarm fart noises. And just for the record, I don't think mighty Jaco ever, ever held his bass that high (surely dangerously close), yet ironically enough, it was the waistband of Jaco's pants that was cause for worry.


Jaco pulled down some killer chops, but felt no need to pull down his pants to normal level.

Level. Right. I was gonna level with ya. The reason I have been away for a bit stems from needing time to get well. On Xmas Eve of last year I was hit by a car and landed very badly on my head. My head swelled to Elephant Man proportions and quite frankly, I was messed. Messed up badly. Black eyes, stitches, fractured leg...a full artist's palate of bruisey-bad colours. Purples, reds and greens and yellows and you get the picture. Nasty bit of bizness. Part of my therapy was to start this blog to get my brain kick started again, and happily, it has worked. Unhappily, I get tired really easy, and my week is chock full of trips to the old physiotherapist's office. I call it the physiothera-I'm-pist-I-have-to-be-here office. My leg is still effed-up royally and although I am off the cane, I still walk with a limp that makes me feel like some method actor in search of a stage. I just wish I could be at the end of my own personal "Triumph Against Adversity" movie of the week montage with the Rocky theme music playing. Strike that, I'd prefer my treadmill chronicles to be soundtracked by fuckin' Faltermeyer. Fuckin' Faltermeyer. Catchy name that. An indie rawk band coming to an itune nearest you. One good thing is massage therapy. Except the music is crap, and I can't do a damn thing to change it...what can I do? Bring my Uriah Heep Cds and say, "Hey Sister Knead and Rub, slap this shit in, and let yer magic fingers gliiiiiiiiiiide..."

Thank god she doesn't play Enya and that gawdawful "Orinoco Flow". I call that track "Orinoco Menstrual Flow" cuz it is the theme song of women, sorry, womyn, who go to New Age discussion groups and discuss how their cycles make them feel dizzy with the powers of the Goddess. Actually, ladies, that's called PMS.

Actually, a good massage song would be "Stranglehold", despite the title. And definitely "Because" by The Beatles. Massage therapists really need to broaden their musical arsenal. I, and my traumatized muscles would be super appreciative.

So there, I'm on the level. Thanks for reading. Thanks also to the wonderful, wonderful group of peeps who continue to inspire, amuse, delight, educate, and encourage me...Allan, Miss Viz, GW, Todd, Aaron, Erik, AC, Dave, Scott, Harbinger, and Pajo. If I have missed anyone, I just gotta blame it on the memory loss that I have incurred as a result of kissin' the pavement.

I did the kissin', and now I'm doing the tellin'. Again, thanks for readin'.


currently listening to: Pavement, Slanted and Enchanted

Mem'ries, Misty Water-Coloured Fashion Friday

For this week's installment of Fashion Friday, I would like to pay tribute to Dwight Turner. The man! The myth! The Broadway musical! That's right, Dwight. Dwight Turner.

By now you are no doubt confused and are searching your brain filing cabinet for your file on this very person, and your inner dialogue is goin' "Who the eff is Dwight Turner?"

Well, I'll tell ya. Dwight is very much a real person, but to me he will always be that archetype, that concept, that Big Man on Campus who ruled da skool. The one who peaked in high school. The one who stood golden on top of the pyramid of social hierarchy, the one for which it was considered to have his locker and favourite cafeteria table bronzed after he graduated.

Yep, he graduated all right. But it took him a few extra years to do it. When I was in grade nine he was two years ahead of me, and yet there he was collecting his high school diploma the same year that I did.

I think he failed on purpose, and that he was trying desperately hard to stave off the inevitability of entering a world where he could not be David Lee Roth anymore. Or King of the Airband Competition. Dwight and his entourage took the Airband thang mega seriously; the year they won with Twisted Sister, they even had roadies with homemade laminates, wearing their mothers' old wigs; minions who were on constant standby in the wings to assist in case those cardboard guitars broke a fishing wire string, or needed a scotch tape repair.

Here's Dwight's yearbook picture, which is a true testament to his teenage power. No one else got to wear sunglasses or get a cool pseudonym.


Dwight, as A. Ferrari

In addition to being King of the Airband, Dwight was King Rock N Roll. He would often come to school wearing most excellent concert T-shirts, garments that made it pretty damn clear that he was rockin' it large on a school nite at all the best shows in the big city. I looked on with envy, looked on from my safe little world full of safe little decisions, like deciding "is it gonna be the Beatles Red or Blue album tonight?"

Here's Dwight's prom ensemble, that today would make a great Halloween costume. I call it a "Fuxedo", cuz it's a super formal tux on top and a Fuckin' A party all the way on the bottom.

*snakeskin spandex pants? CHECK.
*fedora? CHECK.
*white hightop sneakers? CHECK.
*Dwight's dignity 20 years later, looking back at this photo? That seems to suddenly have gone missing.



Incidently the blonde haired pretty boy in the photo to the right of righteous Dwight is Andy Stronach. Now the name Stronach may not resonate strongly beyond Canadian borders, but that name holds good or bad significance, depending on the average Canadian's political affliliation.



Andy is Belinda Stronach's little bro'; both she and Andy went to my high school. My public high school. Props to the Stronach parents for sending their kids to a free-for-all educational institution even when they could have carted them off to some elitist, super rich private academy catering to the schooling of the Roman Numeral Kids. Tyson Bennington-Howard IV. Spencer Cavendish-Huntley III. These names are made up. It's fun to make up Roman Numeral Kids names. My fave name-maker-upper is director/writer Wes Anderson. Raleigh St. Clair, Eli Cash, Pagoda, Steve Zissou, Royal Tenebaum...amazing.

Anyway, in high school Belinda gave no indication of an interest in politics. Hell, I don't even think she was on our student council. I do remember that she drove a pretty hot silver Z-28 and had perfectly feathered hair. She, like Dwight, wore cool rock t-shirts and was a couple of years ahead of me. But unlike Dwight, she graduated successfully on schedule. Many would say her failings would come years later.

Whatevs. She certainly knew her way around a curling iron.



currently listening to: Archer Prewitt, White Sky ( a top five, desert island disc...go find it NOW!)

Hello, It is the Clay Bust I'm Looking For

Like most music freaks I tend to wonder what has happened to certain items or artifacts that contributed to iconic musical moments and movements. I'm a freak that way. If someone held out King Tut's jeweled sceptre in their right hand and THE unused Kotex maxi pad that a blitzed Lennon apparently stuck to his head during his "Lost Weekend" in their left hand, I would be grabbing for that feminine product. Yeah, I know. I'm a freak.

Actually by now, like most peeps I am super tired of "LOST". They should do a series called "LOST WEEKEND" and have a bunch of rock gods stranded on a desert island, rock gods that curiously resemble Lennon, Nilsson, Moon, Ringo, Phil Spector and all of the smacked out session musicians that were hanging around during that crazy period of John's life. Oh, and have a May Pang-ish character too. Now that would be a show worth watchin'.

But back to the artifacts...if you are still with me, I ask you...

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO:
**the bitchin' SG Townshend threw out in the audience at Woodstock?
**Moon's "Pictures of Lily" drum kit?
**Morrison's stinky rank leather trousers that he supposedly never got cleaned but got creamed aplenty?
**Dylan's lyric cue cards from the "Subterranean Homesick Blues" clip? (I want the ones that say "Fleet Foot" and "The Vandals Took All the Handles")
**the crazy ass mic stand Julian Cope was ridin', and climbin' over like it wuz a set of monkey bars in the "World Shut Your Mouth" clip. That boom stand was a work of art, a marvel of ergonomics and I am shocked that there ain't more like 'em out there today...
**the clay bust of the teacher/stalker of blind chick character Lionel Richie played in the "Hello" video. Man, that thing is boss, applesauce. I would place it in a Radio Flyer and pull it all around town so that everyone could have a chance to see and enjoy its brilliance. Then I would have smaller replicas made and put on key chains and hand 'em out for free. That's what I would do. But obviously that ain't gonna happen. Surely the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the Smithsonian are in a bidding war for the fuckin' thing. Aw, hell put it the Louvre, right across from the Mona Lisa. Give the old broad a real reason to smile.



"Hello, it is me you're looking for?" --"HELL YEAH it is!"

currently listening to: Nancy Sinatra, Greatest Hits

American Beauty, Mad Beauty

Hendrix's version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" was the best thing at Woodstock, natch. The fringe was good; you could drive yer vehicle under his arm and get a good quality carwash.

Hendrix was one of the best guests Dick Cavett ever had and certainly one of the most lively, unlike a certain Jerome Irving Rodale, who just sat there and did nothing. Okay, if you click the link you will see that old Jerome had a good reason for being somewhat less than entertaining.

I love the way Jimi defended his "unorthodox" interpretation of the anthem by stating simply, "I thought it was beautiful." Equally stellar was Hendrix's mad freak out all over Dickie, givin' the oh so perfectly coiffed talk show host a much needed dose of "mad beauty".

Happy 4th of July!

currently listening to: American Beauty Soundtrack

Caught By the Fuzz

I finally called the cops on the assholes down the hall who play godawful, repetitive, tailor-made-for meth heads, "music" at heavy high volume at all hours of the night and day. I had had enough. Telling them politely to turn it down wasn't so effective. I had considered knocking one more time to ask them:

"Hey you fuckin' E-tards, do ya take requests? If ya do, have you heard that supah-dope deep house cut called "If ya don't turn that souless shit down I'll have ya kicked out of the building?"

Imagine, for just a moment, the shittiest dance music you have ever heard and then multiply the shitty factor by a thousand. That would get you right there, right at the sort of aural punishment I have been subjected to for months. At high volume. Manufactured bass and drum pulse and pound like continuous boots to the head at 180 BPM.

What kind of fucking drugs to you have to be on that makes that music sound good? Oh right, chemical kinds that fuck up your perceptions so much that some woman's shrieking vocals streamed through a vocoder suddenly sounds as gorgeous as Maria Callas doing Madame Butterfly. Riiiiight.



The Vocoder, astounding effect either used brilliantly, or abused horribly depending on the genre

The police did a good job. It's silent now.

But for how long?

currently listening to: SILENCE

Happy Canada Day, Happy Memories of America

Last week I was slipped a copy of SiCKO. I waited until Canada Day to watch it, knowing full well that it shone a light quite favorably upon the Great White North, and upon the universal health care that our government provides. I waited until Canada Day to watch it so I could feel doubleplus proud of my home and native land.

It's somewhat tough to digest when your patriotism flows from a place of comparative analysis; when you are moved to think and then conclude, "God, I am so glad to live here and not there." It's a natural reaction, but an altogether unfair one, if you just leave it at that and don't explore the issue further. It would be unrealistic to suppose that there isn't a least one Canadian out there who derives their pleasure from being Canadian on the basis that they aren't American.

This is the Canadian who delights in telling the stories of Americans who sew Canadian flags on their backpacks while travelling abroad, in order to have an easier, more welcoming journey. This is the Canadian who somehow blames the whole of the U.S for seductively luring the brightest lights of Canada south of the border into permanent American residency and citizenship, like anybody could force Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, or that whole whack of brilliant Canuck comedians to do anything against their free will. It's called a career move, idiot, not a political statement.

Frankly, what I gotta say about that sort of issue is, thanks America for taking "Now lives in L.A.vril L.A.Vigne" off of hands, we owe ya one large! In exchange, we'll be happy to take "The Nuge" off your hands and throw him up to the Yukon Territory, under the proviso that he doesn't hunt and kill any of our wildlife.

But seriously, Canada would be worthy of all the accolades that we receive for being the kindest nation, if a certain percentage of our citizens would wise the fuck up and not buy into the effed-up notion that feeling pro-Canadian comes solely from feeling anti-American.

I think for this Canada day, I wish to celebrate Americans. Because they are us and we are them. Yes, our money here in Canada is colourful and apparently worth a little less than the boring, not-colourful-at-all U.S. dollar, but at the end of a hard day we all just want to feel like we have lived and that we have loved and have been loved.

I can remember going to down to Memphis back in '97 a couple of weeks after Jeff Buckley died to pay my respects. I didn't have much of a plan, I just needed to get there to "deal" with his death and grieve in my own way. I just threw some clothes in a bag, and went.

To make a long story short, once I got off the train in Memphis, I met an American who took me into his family home, where I was warmly received by his wonderful wife and daughter. They fed me, let me take a bath, drove me everywhere I needed to go, and because the gentleman knew the history of this glorious city so well, I received a first rate guided tour, complete with a stop at Graceland. Talk about grace. This American family personified the word.

Grace.
Kindness.
Generosity.

Thank you America.




currently listening to: Jeff Buckley, Grace

Table Cloths and Toques, Worn with Verve

Oh glorious day! The Verve are gonna call a truce and reunite for another album! That's the word on the street, and let's hope the music originates from that same great place of clever, streetwise cynicism and from that same sort of street Ashcroft walked down while singing those unforgettable lyrics from "Bittersweet Symphony". Yep, singing and aggressively body checkin' anyone who got in his way. Ya rude bastard, workin' out yer probs while workin' it out on the sidewalk catwalk. Nice one.

I adore Ashcroft. I feel for Ashcroft the same warm and squishy that spotty gamer nerds feel for Lara Croft. You look and you think, "Yeah, that's perfection." Ashcroft is real and Croft isn't, but Richard does have that surreal, almost cartoonish quality to him, as if someone asked a illustrator to design a "quintessential British pop star", and whiz bang, Richard appeared on the easel perfectly rendered and easy on the eyes. What a face the man has...all angles and sharp turns, pouty Jagger lips with a softer/easier vibe of Keith Richards damage.



Ashcroft's first solo album, "Alone With Everybody" was the first CD I purchased when I moved to Europe, and now every time I listen to it, I am transported back to breakfasts in Milan, lunches in London, dinners in Paris, and late night snack attacks in Amsterdam.

Alas, it was hard to readjust to the partaking of sustenance in Toronto, where you are often served your meal with a "healthy" dose of Bryan Adams with a side of Nickelback.

If you haven't heard Ashcroft's solo stuff, go on, get to that particular music buffet table and load up. Satisfaction guaranteed.


Richard, baby, and wife Kate (formerly of the band Spiritualized), photo from liner notes, "Alone with Everybody", 2000


Check it, brother is wearing a Monkees T-shirt. Fookin' brilliant. The man gets it. The Monkees are totally underrated as a band. Particularly Mike Nesmith. Man, you need only listen to trax like "Love is Only Sleeping", and "Door Into Summer" to be convinced that the Monkees, once they took the musical reins, and cut the puppet strings, deserved some heavy props.

Plus Nesmith was hip to the power of the toque years and years before Seattle claimed it as the official headgear of the sludge and grudge, flannel shirt tied around the waist and wasted on Mudhoney and Pabst Blue Ribbon set.



Micky should also be afforded some deep 'spect for having the cajones to wear a table cloth. True story. Good idea actually, I hear ponchos are making a come back. Why spend mega bux on a ready made version, when all you need to do is cut a hole-for-the head in a table cloth from Target? Crafty!



Micky, in addition to being resourceful fashion-wise, was also pretty hip gear-wise. He was one of the first owners of the Moog Synthesizer, and the track "Daily Nightly" was one of the first songs to feature this revolutionary piece of gear.


"You have reached the Moog Switchboard, how may I connect you?"

Yep, the Monkees were boss. Plus Nesmith's mom invented liquid paper. Again, true story.

Tablecloths, liquid paper, Moogs and toques. Bittersweet symphonies. Just another Fashion Friday, here at HIWATT central.

currently listening to: Nino Rota, Original Score, Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet

Attention Readers from the UK!

How lucky are you in Britain? You get a Big Brother contestant like raver TRACEY. I don't watch TV, but I happened upon clips from the eighth season of Big Brother UK. I'm officially obsessed. Expect regular Tracey updates.



GO TRACEY! Please don't vote her off!

currently listening to: The Stone Roses, S/T

I'm Trying to Get Past My "Bono is a Dick" Phase

I loved me some U2 and Bono...and then it all went horribly wrong.



Cuz I'm a slacker baby my "Spring Cleaning" usually gets underway later in the hottie hot months. So just yesterday, I'm cleaning my drawers (the ones with handles, and not the ones for wearing) and I find an old ticket stub for seeing "Rattle and Hum" in the movie theatre. Hot damn, why do I insist on keeping such things? Of course, I have managed to fuckin' lose stuff of true value, items I would kill to have once again (whoever ended up with my "Ghost in the Machine" 3/4 sleeve and my "Synchronicity" sleeveless tour t-shirts, Eff you and don't have a nice day.)

Man, I saw "R&H" three times on da big screen. Jesus, I think that was the first time I saw the whole "group walking side by side in slo-mo" money shot. You know the kind of shot I mean. The kind of technique that when applied, renders the subjects deep and poignant because it's all done in artsy slow motion. Shit, I think the savvy bastard who filmed the opening credits of "Melrose Place" pulled this action, because suddenly all those airhead/fuckwit characters looked heavy, man. I swear to Goddess, you could film The Pussycat Dolls walking side by side in slo-mo, add some Pachelbel's Canon in D for music and you could almost believe the skags discuss Sartre and Camus in between pole rides.

Mr. Bono Vox peaked in '88, with "Rattle and Hum". The hum then seemed to mutate into an annoying buzz that seemed most appropriate, as he donned the dark bug glasses and "The Fly" persona. Not to mention tacky PVC.

Aw... fuck the Fly. Shoo fly don't bother me. I swatted my copy of "Achtung Baby" in the direction of the second hand CD store and didn't look back. Actually, I did look back. To Bono and the boys' back catalogue pre-Achtung, which to this day, I treasure most deeply, and admire most fervently.

So as it stands now, if Bono were to say yet again, "Am I buggin' you? I don't mean to bug ya", I would have to answer with a qualified "Yes you are, and because you DO mean to bug us all again and again, I'm outta here!" I would like to leave on a positive note however.

Bye Bono. Thanks for "The Unforgettable Fire" and for U2's stage stealing coming out like a beautiful debutante performance at the original Live Aid.

This time I'm waving the white flag, Bono. No harm no foul. Peace out.

currently listening to: Ryan Adams, Easy Tiger

It's a Braid New World for Fashion Friday

I would like to see more men sporting braids. No no no, not the single, hanging-down-the-back braid...that one is too too typical, and can be too easily seen swingin' to and fro', keepin' time like a metronome, on the heads of guitarists givin'er on the chicken wing circuit at a roadhouse near you. You want a single braid and a CCR hit single? Go to the roadhouse, children. No cover charge and always a cover band. A fantastic cover band on stage and an elastic band around the old single braid.

I would like to see more double duty braids. Two braids all Swiss-Missy, and worn with pride, by a man who gets and understands the beauty and intrigue behind the concept of androgyny. But really, when did the whole rockin' the dualbraid action become the sole domain of women? Anyone familiar with North American Native history could easily pose this question.

This installment of Fashion Friday will pay tribute to a a few notable dualbraid do-ers that have carried on this beautiful and bold "men with two braids" tradition.


Willie, you and your strands are FINE!


Dave Grohl, I loved your "Everlong" locks!


Shannon Hoon, so very sorry you and your braids didn't stick around longer.

I was never a Blind Melon fan. That fuckin' Bee Girl shit played a bad game of fingernails on the chalkboard with my head. But Shannon seemed like a decent, open, and nice person. I have a pleasant memory of him loping over to me and saying that he liked the sheepskin coat I was wearing. He was wearing a lovely pair of cords the most gorgeous shade of Kelly green and I complimented him on them. A few years later he took a swan dive into the great "Needle and the Damage Done" swimming pool, a scary place where there never seems to be any lifeguards on duty. Sad.

Darn, and this was supposed to be a fun, uplifting post! From light to heavy in just a few paragraphs.

But life's like that.

currently listening to: Beck, Sea Change

Thanks to A. for the inspiration!

Reel to Reelly Cool

Danish Composer Else Marie Pade

Okay, I was meant to find this pic on the net. How cool was this woman? So I looked her up.

Eighty-two-year-old composer Else Marie Pade is a phenomenon in the history of Danish music. As a child she was often ill and bedridden. She would listen to the sounds around her... on the stairs, from the yard and the room next to hers. This is where her audio universe began. During the Second World War, she was arrested by the Gestapo and placed in solitary confinement. Rather than despair, she began composing music on the bare prison walls, where she scratched the notes with the fasteners on her garters. After the war and her discovery of the concrete music of Pierre Schaeffer and the French avant-garde, she realized that the sounds resembled those she had heard in childhood, and that this was the music she really wanted to compose. She became the first Dane to devote her life to concrete music-and to electronic music-but had to wait fifty years to be "discovered."
--from the International Festival of Films on Art website

Wow. That's inspiring. The next time I read some sob story from some current twenty something, upper middle class born, emo troubadour who claims he/she went through hell and its hand basket to get their music written, recorded and heard, I think I'm gonna shed a single tear. Not for them. For the mere thought they can't see past their own level of "comfortable suffering" to realize that there exists pretty substantial history of musicians before them who genuinely had to struggle to make it through.

I dunno. Maybe I'm being unfair. A bit bit-chay. But maybe "I wrote this number one emo hit to deal with a breakup" just pales in comparison to "I wrote my music on a prison wall to avoid a mental breakdown".

Anyway, I got some heavy home work to do on this great Dane of a dame, Else Marie Pade. Inspiration is best enjoyed when it is discovered by accident. Funny, I was just googling "pastries", and she was the Danish to emerge. Kidding. But you knew that. I had meant to type in "pasties".


A more current pic of Else Marie, from the documentary, "Sound On Life"

currently listening to: Wendy Carlos, A Clockwork Orange, the Complete Original Score

"YOU SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!"

Paul and precious baby Mary

Happy 65th Birthday Paul!

He was the considered the most beautiful Beatle. He wrote the prettiest songs, but blew us all away when he ruffed and gruffed it up for "Why Don't We Do It In The Road". He spun killer yarns about raccoons, and the beginning segment of "Band on the Run", is still one of my fave Paul moments.

He can be forgiven for his gawdawful mullet circa 1972 (Lord love Linda for getting a matching she-mullet) and for the "Give My Regards to Broadstreet" movie debacle, because, well...he's Paul. And because the beautiful brilliance of "Mother Nature's Son", "Blackbird", and "I Will" together will cancel out any ickiness and syrupy sentimental rubbish he has thrown our way ("Michelle, ma belle, sont les mots..." EWWWWWWWWWWWWW).

But then again, that sweet and sappy McCartney-esque approach was such perfect foil for the more caustic and cynical twists of Lennon.

Damn, it's so hard to find fault with our doe-eyed Macca.

Well.. Heather Mills. Not such a good move, Paul. The one-legged gold-diggah tried to sully your forty-five year legacy.

The Maharishi may have been disingenuous, but unlike Mizz Hussy-on-a-Stick, he didn't do a press tour when Paul left him.

Many happy returns Paul, thank you for reminding me everyday:

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make"

Sigh.

currently listening to: Paul McCartney, Ram

1946-2004

This is one of my fave pictures of my Dad. He's second from the left, rockin' da hood over da head look. He's 20 years old, happy, and digging on hanging with his homies.

Dad passed away a few years ago. I miss him madly.

currently listening to: Nick Drake, Pink Moon

quiet LOUD quiet LOUD

---photo taken by me, outside Abbey Road Studios, Summer 2001

I continue to wonder daily, if Kim said "Yes". I'm sure she did, Larry is probably one hep, Beatle-lovin' cat.

Remember the whole quiet-loud-quiet-loud song dynamic that was all the rage? (Whoa...it suddenly smells like teen spirit around here...) I'm just going through my quiet part right now. Will be back louder and more obnoxious than ever.

Catch ya on the flip side, y'all! Be back in a few days!

currently listening to: The Beatles, Revolver

K.I.S.S. and a Little KISS for Fashion Friday

David Gilmour, Rocking the T to a T

I love the saying "Keep It Simple Stupid". As much as I get a kick out of elaborate stage costumes and makeup, I much prefer the simple T-shirt and jeans look. This laissez-faire attitude is always a sure sign that a player will pull out complex, intricate, and well thought out licks that will surely devastate in that good way. K.I.S.S. stylers have more important things to do like invent new musical direction, experiment with new gear, redefine the term "production", and most importantly, continue to learn and evolve into exceptional musicians. I mean, how can one possibly contribute towards the creation of a great concept album if one is more concerned about matching their Hannibal Lecter mask to their Texas Chainsaw jumpsuit? How 'bout the next Thomas Harris installment be entitled "Silence of the Slipknot"? Yep, that works for me.

It's not like we are going to look back and rave, "Yes, the band Slipknot, and the whole Nu-Metal scene was perhaps the best thing ever to happen to music." If there is someone out there that would be comfortable saying this, I would suggest a self-imposed exile into a room with a turntable and every Pink Floyd and Who album within easy reach. Oh, and bringing in a monster truck size bag of Cheetos is acceptable since you are used to digesting fake, processed and poisonous crud, empty and devoid of anything slightly enriching.

Don't get me wrong. Theatrics and pyrotechnics, and suits of armour or chainmail can be very entertaining. But if a band relies only on these to sell records then this is the music that should be deposited immediately into the delete and garbage bins, like a spent down to the nub stick 'o greaspaint.

At least KISS had the chops and the killer riffs behind the Schtick. Like any good grunge girl, I carried a lunchbox in lieu of a purse, and yep, you guessed it, it was a KISS pail. Still have it too, although it now serves as a great storage bin for all my ticket stubs, laminates, passes and important guitar picks. The picks I don't wanna lose...I have 3 Dava picks that I am holding on to for dear life, as I don't think they sell them up here in the Toronto tundra.


Pete, Hip and Hot in the T-Zone

Just one more thang...please indulge me here, a girl has got to gush every so often. This is perhaps the most beautiful portrait in the history of the rock.


David Gilmour, 1975

This is damn near as beauteous.



HIWATT DG103 Head, The David Gilmour Signature Model, based on the original Custom 100W

Hella pricey. I could never afford something like this. Even when I worked in the gearshop, the staff discount wouldn't have made any dif. "I worked in a Gear Shop and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

One more little T note:

In my T, I'll take Cream (Clapton and Co.), Sugar (Bob Mould and Co.) and a whole lotta Floyd.

currently listening to: The Sea and Cake, Everybody

More Weebles...and a Dazzling Pearl

Two more Weebles for two more hardcore wobblers. I hate to say it, but drawing these have been really fun. Good times. Recent events in the life of Lohan have forced me to depict her double fisting a couple of Ginsu knives. And Britney, what could be better than a price tag still attached to the wig; a tribute of sorts to Minnie Pearl, who unlike fellow Southerner Ms. Spears, proudly embraced her country bumpkin status. Minnie also didn't try to gloss her hickness over and disguise it after one hot and heavy round with a Bedazzler. Britney? Girl was born to Dazzle to the Be. And Dazzle to the Re. Re-hab that is.



Rest in Peace Minnie, I'm sure your tag actually read "PRICELESS".



currently listening to: Dusty Springfield, Dusty in Memphis

Weebles, The New Breed

Weebles are such a bitchin' toy. Egg shaped little peeps who break it down and wobble to and fro, but never, ever fall down. Wheeeeee...such fun! Such plastic innocence, just waiting to be corrupted!

There are a lot of real live people out there who are doing their fair share of wobbling back and forth, but as long as they have a captive audience, they will never really take a fall. The world watches, fascinated, as certain individuals weave an unsteady path towards self destruction. The media loves their playthings, proving that no matter how old we get, we still love our toys. And we love to deny that our constant invasion of their privacy has something to do with playing a hand in pushing them back and forth.

I decided that it was time to offer up a new set of Weebles that will be considered the most unsteady of the bunch, and will feature media darlings that have been known to wobble bigtime if the toy chest is stocked plenty large with plenty of party favours.

I'm in the process of designing Weebles-The Fuckup Collection. I'd like to have half a dozen, so any suggestions would be much appreciated. The Amy Winehouse one will be double the size of a standard Weeble in order to accomodate the beehive. The Pete Doherty and Kate Moss ones will have magnets so they will be inseparable. However, every Weeble will have an unscrewable top which will reveal a secret compartment for concealing stashes of all kind. Hell, would airport security even think to look inside a harmless looking toy? I think not.




I'd like to keep the Weeble roster to musicians (Kate qualifies as a musician's muse and accessory). I guess this means that I can't do the queen of wobblers, Lindsay Lohan. Wait, didn't she release an album? A highly forgettable, and a highly stanky one I'm sure, but hey...that means she qualifies.

Back to the drawing board! Suggestions please!

currently listening to: The Monkees, Headquarters

An Open Letter to Those Who Rule Muppet World

I think it's about time The Muppets Empire created a new superstar band. C'mon, Henson puppet people, as much as I adore Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, it's time for y'all to design and execute a more contemporary bunch of music stylin' puppets that are more about the guitar rawk and less about Zoot's saxophone squawk. And, give Animal a break. He and I would both appreciate it if he was sent to the Island of Misfit Toys for an extended vacay. Send Teeth downtown for a more updated grill while yer at it.


In choosing a band to model these new puppets after, look no further than the incredible Swedish outfit The Soundtrack of Our Lives. This group is absolutely the best gift Sweden has given to me, even above and beyond that Ikea lamp that has somehow stayed with me throughout 8 moves of house. The lead singer, Ebbot Lundberg, sort of reminds me of Dr. Teeth, except for the gold tooth...Ebbot doesn't have one, but bass player Kalle certainly does. Check out TSOOL's vid for "Sister Surround" to see for yourself. Make sure you pay attention around the 1:31 mark where Ebbot takes a kick right in the Swedish Meatballs. Ouch.


If I were to hand a shopping list worth of perfect qualities to the deity on high workin' it out on music's Mount Olympus and were to say "Make it So...once you are finished destroying Britney", the band eventually delivered to my doorstep would be, without a doubt, The Soundtrack of Our Lives.

Sheer perfection of song and of style. So what if the one guitarist is cribbin' from Townshend right down to the windmill? So what if the lead singer is wearing a crazy Sherwani and looking slightly Brian Wilson "The Stay in Bed Years"? At least he knows that slimming black hides a multitude of sins. So what if the drummer is pulling trix with stix bigtime so as to draw attention away from his comb-over? These are the very things that make this band Muppet Worthy. Look at the gear! An SG, a Ricky and a Firebird V? Get outta town! White amps? It doesn't get much better than this, folks. Such energy, such animation, with loads of personality. And fuckin' top haircuts. The bass player is the first dude who can play his axe propped up at nipple height and still look cool. Each band member has got his own thang goin on. Sweden definitely has got it goin' on too. Obviously.

So please, rulers of the domain known as Muppetworld, please use TSOOL as your prototype for your next puppet music group.

The Swedish Chef would be down with his fellow countrymen joining the ranks.


"TSOOL? Ja, ja! Bork! Bork! Bork!"


currently listening to: TSOOL, A Present from the Past. Obviously.

My Top Ten at 10

My dear and charmingly deviant partner in pop culture crime, Mr. Samurai Frog Esquire, tagged me for a music meme that involved picking the top 5 toonz (according to chart action) from the year that you turned 18. You then were to offer commentary and critique, some yay or nay, some boo or wahoo! Then you could choose 5 of your own faves from that same year, and go crazy with some personal anecdotes that were soundtracked by these very selections. "This is Your Life" with a locked and loaded jukebox.

Of course I have to change the rules. Please forgive me SF; sometimes a sistah just has to mix things up. There's a reason why most of my report cards stated, "Very creative, but appears to have trouble following instructions." It wasn't that I had trouble following, I just didn't want to. The "problem" still plagues me today. But being the rad individual that he is, I am confident that SF will not be giving me an "F" on this particular project.

I've decided to do my top ten when I was 10. As a way of introduction, here is my class photo when I was a ten year old tomboy, surrounded by my posse of little men who let me play their reindeer and rainy day games. I'm in the front row, second from the left, sandwiched between ma man Jamie with the rad motobike shirt and between the naughty naughty Steven, who as you can see was more than happy to give his opinion on class photos. Stevie's Inverted Flippin' the Bird action had many horrified parents calling the school. Of course he became hero of the playground, and the favoured boytoy of the one girl in our class who actually needed a bra, f'real.



So here we gooooooooo...
1. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Refugee. I also had the version recorded by Alvin, Theo, and Simon Seville. Which was awesome.


2. Pink Floyd. Another Brick in the Wall Part Two. THE anthem to sing when you are ten years old and facing detention.
3. Styx. Babe. I hated that tinkly keyboard intro, but it was the song for Moonlight Skates for Couples Only at the rollerama.
4. M. Pop Muzik. "Boogie With a Suitcase". What a lyric. I laughed then. I laugh now.
5. Paul McCartney. Coming Up. This was released around the time Paul and Linda were busted for dope. I had the 45 and I remember my sister drew joints hanging out of Paul's mouth on the picture on the sleeve.
6. Pretenders. Brass in Pocket. I idolized Chrissie. Twenty odd years later face to face, she broke my heart...but ahhh...that's another story for another time...
7. Fleetwood Mac. Sara. Still in heavy rotation on my ipod. The drums just kill me.
8. The Rolling Stones. Emotional Rescue. Every year in class we had to do a speech in front of everyone for a public speaking project. This girl named Krissi did one on Mick Jagger. It was horrible and she probably just copied all that she recited from Creem Magazine. She should have just recited the lyrics from this particular song. "I WILL BE YOUR KNIGHT IN SHINING AHHH-MOUR". That shit is hot.
9. Olivia Newton John. Magic. Man, sweet innocent Sandy from Grease totally Ho-ed out. Every girl in my school wanted a pair of those black spandex Sandy-Slut pants. I didn't. I was more into kickin' it Kenickie style.
10. The Sugar Hill Gang. Rapper's Delight. I had this entire "rapic" (rap+epic) memorized. I would say I have managed to retain about 54.8% of it. The balance was kicked out of my headspace by years of listening to Sabbath hardcore. Something had to give over and make room for War Pigs.

So there it is. My top ten at 10, when I caught my pre-teen buzz droppin' da needle on da record.

Hey wanna have some fun? Try this. Find a know-it-all ten year old and ask them what THIS is...



It's nice to know that in this one respect, I am smarter than a fifth grader.

currently listening to: Nik Freitas, Voicing the Hammers

I Just Can't Forgive You Carl!

Thank you Allan for sending this. Tell Carl it's not gonna happen.

currently listening to: Son Volt, Wide Swing Tremolo

Attila, the Funny

Earlier this week I had professed a bit of concern that Dylan was morphing into Captain Morgan.

Apparently, Sportin' a Morgan has proved to be a bit more common that I had previously suspected.



Does the Morgan clone on the left look a bit familiar? Before he started crashing into supermodels and poor defenseless trees, Billy Joel was crashing jazz and heavy metal dramatically together as part of a duo known as Attila. Sorry...ATTILA!! (I hear a big gong crash in my head after I say the name.)

I definitely hear a drum roll in my head as I present to you the incredible front cover of the Attila album....



TA-DA! It's like The Beatle's "Butcher Cover" meets Frank Frazetta meets Conan the Barbarian meets yes, Captain Morgan. There's something so low rent about it as well, like Billy stole his granny's old fur coat from her apartment in the Bronx and cut it up and added it for extra flourish to his "Crazy Al's Costume Rental" getup. I'll bet Billy had a buddy who worked down in the meat packing district who probably said, "Yeah man, come down around 3 in the morning and I'll sneak you guys and your photo guy in."

Bet those helmets are cheap plastic too.

Atilla didn't last long. Their album bombed bigger than Hiroshima and legend has it Billy started a fire in the skirt of his band member's wife, running off with her after shouting "ME, TAKE YOUR WOMAN!"

Joel of course made leaps and bounds musically, and moved up the evolution scale to suit wearing sophisticate who defined the New York 1970's soft rock sound. You know the sound...just picture a New York street at midnight, steam escaping from a manhole, and in the distance, comes a tinkling of a Fender Rhodes 73...GOD, I HATE THAT SOUND! I hear the introduction of "Just the Way You Are" and I instinctively do the bite into a lemon face. I'm a big Joel fan, but this particular piano sound is just a slab of Velveeta, and a sound that when manufacturers program this patch into the brain of Casio portable keyboards, it automatically depreciates the instruments' value 30%.

I also have a hard time digesting sonically the New York sax sound, Clarence Clemons be damned. Gimme Springsteen stripped down; gimme Springsteen alone and with his guitar. Gimme Nebraska, you can have New York.

But only in this case. I will take Manhattan in a New York minute. The New York City of Woody Allen wanderings and of Warhol happenings. Of Lou Reed's brilliant lyrical meanderings and of Jackson Pollock's method to the madness splashings.

But I digress, this is supposed to be a Fashion Friday installment. Let me make it up to you. In tribute to the bands that have thrilled us all with their roguish and swashbuckler fashion, I give you now the best of the best.



Don't say I never gave you anything.

currently listening to: Marianne Faithfull, Broken English