Electric Flannery-land?

It might be a stretch as hazy theories go, but it seems that bands like My Morning Jacket, Lift to Experience and the Drive-By Truckers are the best examples of the nouveau Southern Gothic lit experience. Half-baked, I know, but damn it if they aren't all fine bands (all of whose albums run about 100 yards long, time-wise). They're strange things, "Southern Rock" and "Southern Literature", and trying to pin them down as representing any one, specific feel or point of view is a tragic mistake, but lord if you don't know it when it's true and can smell the stink of it when it's false.

My New Hero

Happened upon a copy of Skin Graft #67, the 67th release by the Chicago record label Skin Graft. A-doy. Not an interesting story, essentially, but there's a catch. This CD is a soundtrack by the band Cheer Accident for a 16-page comic book called "The Mystery Treasure of the San Miguel Apartments", which stars a cat (literally, a cat) named Gumballhead, and Gumbalhead is... well he's a mean-as-fuck, cigarette-smoking, cheap beer-drinking, dirtbike-riding, stone-cold BADASS, and his adventures are the stuff of glue-sniffing legend. I was having a terrible, sorry-ass day before I discovered Gumballhead, and now my life is that much the scummier. And funnier. Here's a preview of the story mentioned above, as well as a couple of other examples of his lowlifery.

Chapterhouse Guardian

As an occasionally avid reader of the Manchester Guardian, I'm also occasionally finding little bits of grace hidden on the paper's fantastic website. Today, I discovered their meager, but intriguing, archive of articles that deal with science fiction books. Funny, informative and eminently readable, for the most part.

Movie Reviews

I could watch Bill Murray react to shit all day. In other words, Lost in Translation was a fine film.

Oldie

Wrote this back in 2000 (!) for insound.com, about my friends White Hassle. It's... okay.

White Hassle’s Tin Pan Dance Party
by Gabe Soria

Over a noisy midnight dinner, the members of White Hassle are discussing the dancing phenomena at their shows (people actually dance- that’s the phenomena), and the role their stripped-down sound plays in it:

Dave Varenka (funky drummer, soup-pot percussionist): "We enjoy playing to make people move their butts and feel a little soul."

Matt Oliverio (focused guitar Buddha): " Fuck yeah. I think that things have become way too plush and lush, and things need to be counter pointed by that. People want to hear what was good about rock music in the first place. It’s almost like de-evolution. Maybe back to basics is better right now."

And finally, Marcellus Hall (arch vocals, scratch guitar, Stevie Wonder-harmonica): "By no means would I agree that’s the absolute right direction. It’s just a pendulum swinging in another direction. Just because people are tired of angst-ridden grunge music doesn’t mean that sexy, funky music is the answer. I don’t wave the flag one way or the other."

It’s a comment you can’t really classify (is Hall downplaying one of his band’s strengths--their uncanny ability to play sexy, funky music with spot-on skill--or is he commenting on trend-hopping?), but that’s White Hassle all over. Sardonic without being superior and smug and a bit hard to pin down, these are guys who appreciate both a good joke and getting on the good foot. Together since ‘96 and staffed by half of the currently inactive industrial-blues outfit Railroad Jerk (Hall and Varenka) and the semi-recent recruitment of Oliverio (Varenka quips, "His parents have a really good basement and they have a van."), they’re New York’s premiere Dance-Folk (or is that Back Porch Funk?) band. White Hassle fuses together John Mayall-esque harmonica riffs, loopy punk guitar-craft and rump-shaking backbeats (and the occasional guest spot by a turntable specialist, sax and trumpet players, violin, organ and backup singers) into an unexpectedly badass rusty ‘n creaky Frankenstein’s monster of soul. As Matt says, "People have got to realize that good beats are good beats, no matter where they’re from."

And White Hassle’s new EP, Life Is Still Sweet (Orange Recordings) upholds that credo. It’s a weird record; listening to it, you’re struck by the notion that it’s multi-purpose: couples can screw to it, strippers can dance to it, but if you want to, you can sit around the house and drink beer to it. What else do you need? A little irony? Marcellus earnestly/sarcastically chimes in, referring to the EP’s title, "We were a little bit worried at first because there wasn’t enough irony [in the title], but we went for it, we took the plunge. All human beings have a moment, once or twice in their week, their daily lives, when they aren’t ironic and I think we wanted to indulge in that." Live, there’s no room or need for irony. White Hassle is hair-raisingly good on stage, so good that they wipe your memory clean of a million drearily competent shows you’ve been to, when all you could do was cross your arms and think, "This is all right, but Jesus, I could be at home watching television right now." The boys fulfill the promises they make on their records with obvious pleasure, as witnessed at their recent record release gig.

The moment the show begins, you know that you’re in for something special. The audience actually moves to the front of the stage, unashamed for once, not afraid to let their standing room only neighbor know that moving is not only an option, it’s an imperative. Hall flails around on stage like a punk rock student of James Brown, Little Walter and Prince, dropping to his knees when necessary, then springing back up as if on strings, blowing his harp and playing his six-string with grinning abandon. Varenka’s ramshackle drum kit (traditional hardware mixed with odds and ends from the junkyard) is pushed to the fore of the stage, and he shares the spotlight with Hall, ripping it up and hollering along. Oliverio focuses on his guitar, studious, looking up occasionally to throw a goofy-happy grin at his band mates or the onlookers. They’re having the time of their lives, testifying to what a blessing it is to be playing a good set of dance music to a diggin’ it crowd on a Saturday night. By the time they get rolling on their closing number, the colossal harmonica/big beat instrumental workout "Futura Trance" from the EP, the crowd is thoroughly worked over and won over. If they wore choir robes, played tent revival shows and passed the hat around, White Hassle would be Baptist millionaires.

They also have a knack for choosing imaginative and surprising cover songs that they don’t simply play, but also take out for a drink and respectfully reinterpret (heard recently: the aforementioned Stevie Wonder’s "Signed, Sealed, Delivered", BTO’s anthem (and Homer Simpson favorite) "Takin’ Care of Business", Lulu’s "To Sir, With Love" and the Everly Brother’s weep-fest, "Let it Be Me"). To explain their gleeful raiding and reworking of songs they love, Hall puts a (mock?) swaggering tone into his voice lays it down, "We were going to cover "Darling Nikki." We talked about it. Fucking White Hassle, we can cover anything, that’s the credo we live by. It’s part of the idea. We can strip down any song and do it."

Dave and Matt sip their beers and nod their agreement, as if already figuring out how to best arrange the song for two guitars, harmonica and trash can lid. Their version will probably give someone a heart attack in the best way possible.

If Your Picture Is on The Cover of a Book That You've Written or a Book That is About You...

...and you are not dead, then perhaps you should be. This goes double for books by political pundits of all stripes and affiliations. I mean, really, get over yourselves, you fucking egomaniacs. Exemptions? Some music biographies and autobiographies (especially if your name contains the words "Iggy" and/or "Pop"), some cookbooks (although how many times can a reader see that same "leaning against the counter with my smug arms folded because I'm such a better cook than you are even though I'm smiling and looking humble and pimping recipes that my grandma never gave a second though to" pose that seems to be the first thing taught in cooking schools nowadays) and that's pretty much it. Triple-death points are awarded if your book is a work of fiction that has nothing to do with you. Why'd you even bother writing the novel, asshole? And if you've written a biography of someone and you've subtitled it "...a Life", then I hope you have the decency to punch yourself in the stomach.

This is all apropos of nothing.

Dat Old Man Ribber Has Gots Me Under Its Spell

I cannot stop listening to Down the River of Golden Dreams, the latest record by Austin-based band Okkervil River. River river river. Sad bastard country-pop at its best. The melodies? Sweet! The production? Sweet! My review? Retah-ded! Go. Listen. Watch. Buy. Eat chocolate cake.

Things Completely Unrelated to Yours Truly

My ol' buddy Paul Cullum recently wrote an article for the LA Weekly about the incredible New Beverly Cinema in Los Angeles, perhaps my favorite movie theater ever. Ever. Themed double features that change three times a week? For six bucks? When someone tells you that Los Angeles has no culture, tell 'em to shove it up their ass.

And some cat at Pitchfork went and reviewed a mixtape he made a decade ago using the record collection of my friend Marshall Gause, one of the greatest gentlemen to ever grace the soil of this goofy planet. So there you go, folks. Happy reading.

Pigeon Guts and Sad Planet Tales

So yesterday I'm walking down Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, off to the corner store to get a six-pack, when I see a stupid fucking pigeon get hit by a car. Blammo. A sickening, dull 'thunk' and the car drove on, leaving the writhing little beast to squirm in the street for a few moments, its insides hanging out, its body twisting in a slow circle until it finally came to rest. D-e-d ded. I felt really bad for the poor sucker. Two hours later, passing the same intersection, I saw that its body had been completely flattened by passing vehicles. Such is a pigeon's life. Ashes to ashes, dumb bird to dust.

On the same walk, I ended up purchasing a book called Bible Stories for Adults on a whim at a local used bookstore. Great title, good cover blurbs ("The best short fiction by James Morrow, 'the most provocative satiric voice in science fiction' -Washington Post), and low-cost. Read a bit of it on the train into work this morning and I'm not afraid to admit that the collection's second story, "Daughter Earth", almost made me cry. Beautiful stuff. I'm a sensitive, science fiction-lovin' man, dammit. Go forth and investigate, my children.

Oh yeah: The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra looks absurdly great.