Hail Hail

There are few things more American than the live NFL experience.  In fact, I’m pretty sure any non-American would either vomit or spontaneously combust when brought into this volatile mix of bravado and excess.  Well, actually, let’s take a step back.

In truth, live football games are not REALLY the American experience.  They are indicative of a certain, albeit large, portion of the American people, and it just so happens to be that this portion is what we’re known for all over the world.  Obnoxiousness? Check.  Portliness? Check. Let’s cut to the chase: excess of all kinds? Check!  If your average Frenchman makes 10 casual assumptions about Americans, and has never been here, I would be willing to bet that dropping him in the middle of an NFL tailgate would confirm at least 6 of those.

But that’s why we love it, right?  Football brings us together in our shared sense of American-ness.  Most of us, from our perch on the living room couch, can tune in on Sunday and feel as if we’re participating in some grand tradition.

Last Monday I had my first NFL tailgating experience.  I was in it, on the front lines, so to speak.  And if the NFL is analogous to war, and the game is the battle, then the tailgate must be some sort of bizarre, liquored, march – replete with meat and pent up aggression.

Actually, what struck me most about the tailgate, was how it so totally completed football’s gladiator mystique.  When in a tailgate, you are amongst this feverish horde – a veritable sea of humanity.  In this horde are people from all walks of life, but all focused on one thing.  Some are betting, some are drunk, some are eyeing the guy in the eagles jersey who just put his beer on the hood of their car – whatever their stance, they are in this horde, and they are gathered in the shadow of the coliseum.  When you’re in this shadow, you’re not in real life.  Kickoff looms, and the revelry dies down as it approaches.  The horde swells towards the stadium, and everyone is still the same person they were upon arrival, only they have escaped, and will continue to do so at the expense of someone else’s bloodshed.

I’ve never been to a gladiator match, but I have to imagine the scene played somewhat like this.  I can’t really be sure of how the actual events played out, or whether they did so in congruence with the NFL experience.  But I am sure of one thing that is true of both spectacles.  When the match ends, the people of the horde, that had been so blissfully lost in the carnage, will wake up.  They will realize that they are no longer allowed in the shadow of the coliseum, as it is not a place where one exists in the hours when things must get done.  So they will return to their shops, though still thinking about the next match, and dreaming of being in the shadow once more.

Low – Laser Beam

Beautiful. Haunting. Heartbreaking. A must listen for the later hours of your day.

Jimmy James

If I would live in a mansion, I’d probably just sleep out on the deck. – JJ

Lemmy K.

As any true rock and roll fan will tell you, there are few rock luminaries as legendary as Motorhead’s Lemmy Kilmister.  The man is 63 years old, still plays 150 shows a year, and has never softened his ways or his music – which remains as bloodthirsty today as it was 30 years ago.  I’ve been a follower of Kilmister’s for just under a decade now, and have read much about him, though nothing holds a candle to Mark Binelli’s piece in the most recent Rolling Stone (Madonna on the cover).  I’ll spare you the glowing rhetoric, and just cut right to a section I thought best surmised the majesty of this man.  If you like what you’ve read, I implore you to pick up this issue, and hopefully, a Motorhead album as well.

Adds [Ozzy] Osbourne, “Lemmy’s a one-off, believe me. I used be a wild guy, but Lemmy… on the Blizzard of Ozz Tour, he had a plaid bag with three books and a notepad.  No change of clothes. His fucking rider was eight bottles of bourbon, seven bottles of vodka, two bottles of orange juice, and that’s fucking it! And I’ve never seen him falling down drunk, ever.  He’s not grossly overweight, he never looks hung over or like he’s dying. He’s not fucking human.

Trust me, this is a fantastic article on a man who is the last of the quintessential, bullshit-free, rock and roll heroes. Make it happen.

The Overflow Tank

12.5.09

John Paul Jones Arena

Charlottesville, VA

I found the worm…

Fuck you.

Word of the Day

Morass…

*morass |məˈras; mô-|nounan area of muddy or boggy ground.• figurative a complicated or confused situation : she would become lost ina morass of lies and explanations.ORIGIN late 15th cent.: from Dutch moeras, alteration (by assimilation to moer ‘moor’ ) of Middle Dutch marasch, from Old French marais ‘marsh,’ from medieval Latin mariscus.

– courtesy of Apple dictionary.

Swell

I’m currently at a wild, but not necessarily exotic place in my life.  I keep reminding myself that I’m young, though I can’t help but see the glaring realities of my situation: I’m unemployed, dispassionate about the plan I had formulated for the last year, and not quite sure where to go from here.  I suppose I’m comforted by the fact that many others are in a similar dilemma.  But still, imagining this untangible doesn’t make waking up every morning any easier.

I’ve always been a person who lives heavily in his own head.  I share constantly, because to do otherwise would cause either my heart or my head to spontaneously combust.  I’m the kind of guy who NEEDS a solid relaxant that I can always return to.

In this case, and in so many other similar instances, I turn to my Martin guitar.  Cheesy though it is, I have a real emotional connection to my instrument.  First of all, to me, Martins are not just any guitar.  Like Ford, Coke, or John Deer; Martin is an American classic.  They are as integral to the American musical tradition as any other single factor, and so I react with equal amounts of pride and awe while playing my own.  Moreover, my guitar – though I suppose it could be any guitar, really – allows me to fully escape the mental pitfalls of life.  As I play, I’m at once completely physically present, though I couldn’t be further away mentally.  It is almost impossible to talk with me while I’m playing.  I’m really gone in a lot of ways.  And while I wish I could parlay my passion into a career, I’m content to just use my guitar as an agent of escape.

There’s a lot that could go wrong in my life at this point.  The stakes are higher than they’ve ever been, and I’m surrounded by people I love, whom I desperately don’t want to let down.  I think about this every morning that I wake up.  It’s heavy, very heavy.  However, I will admit it’s all palatable, well, in a lot of ways, but most readily because my Martin guitar is among the first things I see every morning.  So while I’m probably thinking dreadful thoughts, at least there is a solid anchor nearby to keep me from floating off into a morass of self-doubt and insecurity.

Howard Stern – Artie’s Ash Wednesday Story

One of the great discoveries I’ve had since being home is that I can illegally download entire Howard Stern Sirius broadcasts, and commercial-free no less.  Say what you want about the man, I’ve always been a Stern fan.  There’s no doubt  he’s not for everyone.  That’s established.  I can see why you think he’s sexist, I can see why you think he’s insensitive, I can see why you wouldn’t think naked pornstar trivia is worth your time.  But that’s not why I listen.  I’m hooked on Stern because I, like the rest of his fans, know that we’re listening to smart, caring person, who loves his family, loves his co-workers, and has revolutionized his medium.  To be clear; the innocent, New York-y, Jew-y banter between Howard, Artie, Robin, Fred, and Baba Boowie is where it’s at with Stern.  When they are all locked into a good story, there’s simply not more entertaining talk radio around.  It’s like being a fly on the wall during a conversation of 4 of the most hysterical people you know.  The clip above, where Artie describes meeting his bookie at a McDonald’s on Ash Wednesday, is one of my favorites.  I hope that you can see that a Stern free of anal beads and sex jokes is, actually, the better Stern, and the reason he’s come as far as he has.  Oh, and for the record, I’ve listened to a lot of Stern, and I’ve absolutely never heard him laugh as hard as he does here.

1:25 is when it really gets good.

Art Brut @ the Black Cat 10/18/09

Last night I saw a band called Art Brut, whom I had never heard, that totally rocked my face off.  Let me first say that I’m not sure I would have enjoyed this band on record.  They are overtly British, which is not a bad thing, but just not a scene that I ever particularly gravitated to.  They are overtly tart, though I suppose that comes with the British territory.  In any case, I had no confidence that it would be a GREAT show.  I promised a dear friend I would attend, and so I figured reuniting with him would make the night what it was.  But look, this band fucking rocks in concert!  The music is driving, accessible, and airtight; and the lead singer has a presence the size of the whole room.  In an indie scene that is so totally dedicated to desperately earnest approachable everymans, Art Brut keep their distance by proving that they remember what it’s like to feel as if you simply don’t exist on the same plain as the gents cranking it out on the stage.  They remember what it was like the first time they saw Morrissey, Mick, Freddie, or Bowie make it all happen.  They weren’t normal people, and in my opinion, nor should any self-respecting rock musician.  After all, what kind of artistic greatness did normal people ever achieve?  (I’m sure there are a million arguments to the contrary, but fuck them, and fuck you.)  So, will I buy an Art Brut album?  Maybe so, but maybe not.  Will I hesitate to drop whatever cash is necessary to see these guys the next time we’re in the same city?  Absolutely not!  100%.  They are a one-of-a-kind live band.  Plus, they have a female bassist, which, I think we can all agree, is undeniably bad ass.