It’s OK to sell things here

Eli is selling his bass because he has two. I feel I can’t point
people to the spot where I’m selling my gear not because it’s
duplicate gear, but because it’s aesthetically inert gear.

My reason seems not as admissible as Eli’s.

In fact, the whole thing seems like a crime. I’m cast into a woodcut that shows some dark usury going on, if only one could get a better look at the foxed print. It is as if to say:

If I had the patience, talent, or self-esteem, I would learn how to use this gear in acts of remarkable self-expression.

Musicians who sell their gear give an air of distress. Somehow, the practice of their art isn’t sufficient to bridge the gap between
responsibilities and resources. The only people a musician wishes to sell the gear to likely cannot afford it, being similarly distressed.

So now I’m worried about selling to a non-musician.

I hope it’s how a horsewoman feels when she sells a pony to a indulgent parent.

If I could plant the gear and have it grow something someone else needs to eat, I’d do it.

The way I’ve set it up, I can only look forward to the money in an
amount that’s slightly less than satisfying.

make me wanna shout

I think I can put together a compilation of songs that all anchor around a moment when there’s a unison performance of odd numbers of eighth notes.

Yeah, of course you need an example.

When it happens, I feel like something really important is happening and I jump around and pretend to be part of the unison performance from where I sit or stand. I actually think my lip curls up like…

like…

like Billy Idol’s in White Wedding (granted any Billy Idol song would do).

But would odd-numbers of unison eighth notes qualify as stadium chant fodder?

STADIUM CHANT FODDER YEAR TO DATE

  1. now only the rhythm track from Queen’s We Are The Champions
  2. slightly imprecise responses to the call and response of Gary Glitter’s Rock and Roll Part II
  3. that dance track with chorused male vocal that makes me think I’m in central europe at some festival with a million or more attendees
  4. oh for fuck’s sake

Baseball players walk to the plate to the strains of their individual theme music, like Shaft walked through his movies. Who is picking this music? The aspiring musician-pro-ballplayer? His overestimating girlfriend?

So I axed MZ what his batter box theme music was and he waved the question off, like, with his hand, I think. I know what mine is, I said, eagerly, aren’t you interested to know? Aren’t you dying to find out? Isn’t it peaking your curiosity?

Fugazi, I said, kinda extra loud in case somebody could overhear me and be even a little more impressed than MZ.

Reclamation, I added.

People Laugh When The Shoes Get Stolen

I keep going to shows knowing I could never go to them all, knowing other people are going to other shows in the very same instant, knowing some of the shows are packed, and other shows have tumbleweeds blowing through the space where the people are supposed to stand. I think about the shows going on in places where it’s a crime to put on a show. I wonder why people are going to a big show when a little show increases their chances of enlightenment. I think we should all be putting on our own show, and, now that I think of it, I know we are and that’s part of the problem.

Upcoming Shows | Show Me You Care:

Wait A Minute. They Make Nick Cave Dolls?

I want one.

About to wrap my head around a cocktail party in Piedmont immediately followed by incarnations of Mike Keneally in shan franshisky. They go together about as much as they don’t.

I’m thinking about what to wear to the cocktail party, focusing on how good it will be to take it off. Shall I stuff the outfit in a garbage can in the tenderloin on my way to the show? Leave it on the corner where its complete lack of style can outrage a passing sex worker?

This isn’t whining, per se: it’s just a moment of regret. I could have openly indicated that I don’t do cocktail parties, but I dint.

Hello Death. Goodbye, Avenue A.

Life recorded is double lived.

I used to drink Steinlager in big green bottles from the corner gas station at High Street and San Leandro: my ersatz 40. Thee Parkside actually sells it on tap, which is kind of like selling Hamm’s on tap, but without the attractive price of 40 cents per glass. Guess what?

Exactly.

I drink it anyway.

Here Are The Facts You Requested:

1. thomas richard morgan, etc. has a wee time management problem

2. the beatles ruined it for us by successfully recording without the support of a tour

3. it approaches the ideal to be surrounded by friends without having died first in order to get them all in one room

4. even the littlest stages permit jumping around

5. rca video cameras from the mid-80s do just fine, thank you

6. when all the members of hatfyr sing together, it’s an ethereal polyphonic birdcall.

7. transcender/hatfyr/transcender is so way much better than the creaky no legroom thanks to mr. frith interpretations of cecil taylor, maddeningly performed while cecil taylor hung out in the back somewhere. If the performers had degraded themselves a little (perhaps with steinlager) they would have portsmouth symphonium-ed. Sadly, no. I left at the intermission, choosing to fail to find ice cream rather than listen to more. Come to find out that during the second set the expressive vocalist (apparently spontaneously) decided to run straight into a wall and fall to the floor. I am such a day long sucker for physical comedy, and it is a rare feature in cecil taylor performances, that I kind of kicked myself for not hanging in…

…then I unkicked myself.

Sue says Dead Moon at the Bottom of the Hill friday night. She has a thousand and one reasons one should go, but I just realized they have the same compass on their website that I had tatted onto the top of my head.

Kismet.

The Ballad of The Way Crossed Singer

Which is about a tedious moment when a
woman singing on stage was so involved it
appeared as though she might tip over
backward. She didn’t, but I imagined she did. I
imagined she hit her head on the edge of the
kick drum, fell into a coma, and never
recovered. I thought about the note that sent
her backward and how she would hear it
forever. I imagined you could see the note
swimming in the still pools of her eyes.

shirley and spinozad