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April 2004
April 26, 2004
There's a special altitude your nuts attain when you arrive home to find a special agent of the FBI has left his card wedged in your doorjamb with instructions to call, "at your convenience." I'm hoping my boys come back down sometime around dinner, tomorrow eve.If this is really pedestrian or really embarrassing, this is the last you'll hear of it.
On the plus side, I could presently take a front snap kick to (the area that used to be) my balls and live to tell.
April 16, 2004
And so it begins...
April 13, 2004
I work in a building that shares a great deal of common space with one of Boston's largest convention centers. Often, there are conventions. Also, often, this common space is positively saturated with convention goers, all moving slowly, all seemingly transfixed to the point of stopping-dead-in-tracks by things you and I might take completely for granted: a Dunkin' Donuts, daylight, taupe.You can often guess the theme of a convention without even glancing at the strung-up banners trumpeting the arrival of "New England Seafood Suppliers Expo 2004!" For example, the soccer-association-of-some-sort convention a few months back filled our halls with sporty types in track suits. The dental convention kept us well-stocked with fake-tanned older gents with faker teeth accompanied by either attractive young dental assistants or attractive young prostitutes. Or both.
This morning, I could only think to myself, "Huh. Who knew they had a convention for elderly lesbians?"
That was, of course, before I noticed all the habits.
April 11, 2004
Saw Lost in Translation. Critical darling blah blah.
We've all had those times in our lives when the sole constant is supersized ennui. If you wanna sit through 102 minutes of a coupla rich people lollygaggin' around Tokyo's finest luxury hotel and realizing, shit, life ain't all grande, this is your movie. Do yourself a favor and rent the Limited Edition Director's Snooze Cut DVD with deleted scenes, including:
- Bill Murray's character yawns (I & II)
- Scarlet Johansson's character tousles her hair
- Scarlet Johansson's character looks out her taxi's window and sighs
- Scarlet Johansson's character looks out her hotel room window and sighs
- Plus, 35 extra minutes of Bill Murray's character aimlessly channel-surfing Japanese TV (Wow! Other cultures sure are different! And, well, funny!)
Me? I'd feel a whole lot better if I could get that time back, thanks.
April 5, 2004
As a whole, jazz guitar is a piss poor vessel for carrying a solo. Whenever I hear a jazz guitarist step on out, it always sounds to me like taxes. Like, this guy, I mean, shit, he's talented, don't fucking get me wrong, but I can fucking hear him thinking, "Lydian, #4! Lydian, #4!" like fucking Rain Man counting down to Wapner. I don't want to hear strategy, I want to hear sweet, sweet music. In contrast, a decent jazz pianist or sax player... holy shit. The fucking notes cascade outta those instruments like there's no place to keep them tucked inside. Jazz guitar solos sound like me taking a pass at "Me. Llamo. Marcos!" while keys and sax breaks sound like a fucking Mexican soap opera. Dizzying in their facility of the language.
I don't feel the same way about rock guitar, and it's not just because I used to be a Rock God of the 37th Order. Rock guitar wailing doesn't have the same, "this solo was sponsored by my protractor, an abacus, and a solid understanding and of The Rules of Improvisation" feel. Maybe it's the cheat that a wall of smoldering Marshalls provides (what would Eruption be without days, weeks and calendar months of sustain? (well, Spanish Fly, actually, but... that's not the point)), I mean, it's easy to sound like you've got more flow than a gal on day 28 when screaming sustain is providing ample cover. Typically, jazz guys are working with all the overdrive of an '85 Chevy Chevette.
Apparently, there is no true play without God Tone.
At least, I used to think that way.
Enter the Django. Django Reinhardt is one of those names that most rock guys know, because we're supposed to. Everyone cool cites him as an influence, so you make it your business to check out his stuff - for about thirty seconds until you realize there're no Marshalls, no Tube Screamer, no aunch to be found. I must've gotten all mature in the fifteen (ouch) years since I last took a listen, because holy sweet Jesus Fernandez (my mail carrier), the guy can play. And not just solos, his rhythm work is fabu. He doesn't so much comp or vamp as he does bounce. The big, springy chords just come straight at you like Jaws 3(D). There is no fuss nor muss in Django's playing. It flows like a breath in one fell swoop from him, through his guitar, to your ears. The lines are loose, easy, free.
Hard to believe he pulls it off primarily with just two fingers on his left hand - having lost most of the function of the other two fingers after suffering debilitating burns from a fire.
Eat that, Tony Iommi.
April 2, 2004
Listening to Courtney Love's new album earlier today, I could only cast mine eyes heavenward and lament, "One more shell, a single pump, and a banana peel... One more shell, a single pump, and a banana peel..."
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