Samuel Locke Ward On Nirvana

If you're like me, you wonder why on Earth Samuel Locke Ward kicked off 2014 with a complete reinterpretation of Nirvana's final studio record, In Utero. Even more curious was why this decision was made after busting ass to release a new album every month in 2013.

Was it the work of a hyper-accelerated work ethic?

Was it an off-the-cuff goof, meant to be heard as nothing more than a underhanded attack of the entire revisiting of Nirvana's brief cannon, setting to culminate with the 20th anniversary of Cobain's suicide in 2014?

Was it the product of Ward's own Cobain worship?

With interest in these questions, I gave S.L.W. a half-dozen questions and got the following response. The answer provided little in terms of the actual questions posed, but in relation to the question "Why?" it is more than generous.

"I recorded In Utero just for fun late at night over a couple evenings in September. I hadn't planned on releasing the record or even recording it. I just kinda started it and kept going while I should have been working on something else.

I'm too busy acting like I'm not naive.

I hadn't listened to the record for a long time and just kinda did it all from memory from learning those songs as teenager. After it was finished I decided to throw it online for free because, why not?  I am proud of how it turned out because it still is generally considered pretty lame to cover Nirvana songs - And I do assume some people thought it was lame.

But I also got some nice feedback from people who said they enjoyed the record. And I feel like its a fun and interesting record to listen to. I really enjoyed all 5 Nirvana records while growing up. But, like a lot of people, I've been burnt out on them for quite awhile just from over exposure and hadn't heard them in a long time. But they are all really great. This was the first time it really occurred to me how messed up all the lyrics on it are."

On The Death Of Phil Everly

I had a chance to finish I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon and learned several things about the artist. One of them was the fact that Zevon served as the keyboard player for none other than the Everly Brothers as their musical director. His involvement with them continued on after their infamous Knotts Berry Farm Farm gig where Phil Everly smashed his guitar and walked off stage, thereby ending the most important vocal duos of rock and roll history.

Zevon later worked with both Phil and Don as arrangers for both of their solo careers, tip-toing around the brother’s mutual disdain for each other while trying to get a handle on his own fledgling solo music.

This was later in the brothers’ career, of course, and the fact that their last concert together happened in a friggin’ amusement park only speaks to the injustice of how America treats its national treasures the moment they’re no longer shiny and new.

The Everly Brothers would later get an opportunity to have a second act, this time with a mess of popular (then) current artists who acknowledged the brothers’ greatness with their own talents, content with merely sharing the stage with the pair that inspired them.

Paul Mc Cartney was one of those artists that contributed.

That should be a clear indication of how important the Everly Brothers were to rock music.

What wasn’t clear was how important the Everly Brothers were to my own upbringing. I noticed how woefully inept my own Everly Brothers collection was; it consisted of merely four songs-obvious inclusions-and it failed to reflect the proximity of the Everlys to my own early years.

For starters, I remember how one of my grandparents had a portable record player-you could fold the thing into a plastic case-which I dutifully used whenever I visited. The only trouble was that my grandparents had an unbelievably limited record collection. It was mainly a few 78’s that they had kept from the 40’s, music that was inherently foreign to me, having been raised on rock and roll from the earliest moments.

There was a leftover 45 from my Dad’s era, an original pressing of “Wake Up Little Suzie” on the Cadence label. It was an awful record. Literally. The acoustic introductions were overcome with que-burn and the center hole was broken in several places, making the 45 adapter worthless. I was forced to place the record directly on the platter of the turntable and eyeballed its appropriate placement to the spindle.

For about three years, I lived in a small town in Southwest Iowa called Shenandoah. The radio station was started by seed dealer Earl May (his garden center stores still dot the Midwest) who built a small media empire, complete with a radio auditorium where national acts would come to town and perform. One of those performers were none other than the Everly Family. They maintained their own show on the radio station (KMA-AM, “Keep Millions Advised”) and began their professional career in that small Iowa town.

Phil and Don stayed in Shenandoah until their early high school years, when they move to Knoxville, Tennessee, got the attention of Chet Atkins and the rest is history.

Because of my own history with Shenandoah, I was brought up on Everly’s lore. The Everlys and Johnny Carson (who grew up in nearby Corning) were continually name-checked, giving the otherwise sparsely populated area a much needed ego boost.

Don't want your kisses, that's for sure.

The Everlys were so highly regarded that a “Welcome Back” reunion was featured in their honor in the 1986. That’s my ex-wife as a teenager standing outside of the tour bus that they rode into town during the Independence Day celebrations. She used to work for KMA radio too, as did her grandmother, who scored a Marconi Award for her contributions to the radio industry. She told me that the brothers were rude and, supposedly mean to their mother who accompanied them for the trip, but I have no personal account of this.

Rumors aside, it’s pretty clear that their original success was vital to the development of rock and roll music. 

There’s also a very real possibility that without the Everlys, The Beatles probably wouldn’t have existed. If anything, there is no doubt that The Fab Fours “Please Please Me” would not have been such a hit, as it lifts the sibling’s diatonic thirds harmony featured so prominently on “Cathy’s Clown.”

Except Paul and John had to practice at it.

With the Everly Brothers, it all came naturally.

Phil took the high notes while Don steered the lead with his baritone. You can’t help but remember that the Everly Brothers were apart for more years of their professional career than they were together. They hated each other only to the point where they couldn’t acknowledge their unconditional love for each other. They resented the fact that they depended on each other, but understood that their roles as elder statesmen of rock and roll afforded them the opportunity to ignore reunion requests. Paul Simon recalls how, after the effort he undertook in getting the brothers back together for a last hurrah, he was shocked to learn how Don and Phil hadn’t spoken to each other for nearly three years prior to arriving at rehearsals.

He also noted that, even after their lack of communication, the brothers effortless fell into their vocal roles, seemingly by instinct and as beautiful as ever. Sure the high notes weren’t so high and their baby faces had grown into a more grandfatherly appearance, but the glimmer of their magic history was still present.

They were the Louvin’ Brothers rock and roll cousins, a genetic marvel that declared that rock and roll music wasn’t all about rhythm and rebellion. You could get lost in their scales, studying something that was completely instinctual to them. And while my children probably have no idea about their impact, they most certainly enjoy a world that sound much more beautiful because of their presence.

Samuel Locke Ward Released 12 Albums This Year. What Did Your Band Do?

If you've ever had a child, you know that sleep deprivation and a substantial loss of income are also part of the package.

For Samuel Locke Ward, a newborn wasn't able to discourage the Iowa City artists from releasing a new album every month for the past year.

And what did your band do, again?

What's almost as remarkable was how each one had at least two or three really good tracks on them, which means S.L.W. can probably pull a good comp album out of the project which is what he seems to be doing according to his email announcing the finish line of the project:


Hey everybody, I finished the Lame Years. The final album of the 12 album series is called Back From Heaven. It is a slightly Cthulhu themed arena rock album. 

It ended up as 177 original songs and 2 covers over 12 albums. Thanks to everybody who listened all year long. I really appreciate all of the encouragement I got.

I am currently working on compiling a "Best Of The Lame Years" album that I will be pressing in early 2014.

For those of you who have been listening each month please feel free to write in and let me know if there are any tracks that absolutely MUST go on the album. I am proud of how everything turned out and I know a lot of real good stuff is gonna not go on the record. Thanks again everybody and have a great holiday!

best wishes,

Sam

Why Record Store Day Black Friday Sucks

I'm beginning to think there are other options available for supporting Record Store Day without actually visiting a record store.

This epiphany came after visiting a record store on Black Friday, literally my only venture on the day after Thanksgiving. The rest of the day was devoted to watching the Iowa Hawkeyes beat the Nebraska Cornhuskers and napping.

I used to work in retail, and I still remember how Black Friday was the worse day of the entire year.

But somehow I thought that going to a record store would be somewhat therapeutic, and therefore immune from all of the nonsense that you see on the Friday night news. I'm speaking of the lead-off story found on every 10/11 O'Clock newscast that contains something about the crowds, typically with videophone footage of angry shoppers and the obligatory Wal-Mart chaos.

Fuck that noise, the record store should prove to be a better fit for my temperament.

I was at my folks' place in Des Moines, and ever since I explained to my old man what Record Store Day was all about, he's been on me to visit one of his town's record shops. He vaguely said something about one, but he admitted that he had never been to one since moving into Iowa's Capitol City and had no idea where they were located.

When I brought up the addresses, he encouraged me to visit one in particular, indicating that he had "driven by it" although he was far from useful in conveying what exactly made this store better than the others, aside from the notion that he visually saw it once.

On a related note, I did actually visit the location. It was clearly designed for collectors, as it had a large stock of memorabilia, most of which were priced high. Even the used records were listed at $16-$17 on average, meaning you'd be paying about three times as much for that worn copy of The Doors 13 compilation today than you would if you bought it new in 1969.

I left Wayback Records about a soon as I entered it, but the trip was not in vain: an old man hanging out under the stoop of the building's rear side and drinking a big soda gave me a wave as I pulled out.

ZZZ Records was the only store in town that appeared to be supporting Record Store Day, and as I drove by about twenty minutes before they opened, I noticed a line of about a dozen deep already forming in front.

I quickly joined the back of the line, putting me at a comfortable 15 bodies back.

The owner of the store nicely came out and explained the drill, advising us where the new releases were and hinting that the selections were limited. He suggested speaking to him directly if we didn't find what we were looking for as he could special order titles that weren't in the Dave Mathews section.

We all laughed, but the owner seemed very serious about the availability of Dave Mathews' Black Friday titles.

All I could gather was that everybody in line was after the Grateful Dead album, including one guy who came into the line after me who admitted that he didn't even own a turntable.

Although I can't confirm this, I don't believe ZZZ Records has a policy of limiting titles of one-per-person. Or maybe ZZZ Records doesn't have much pull in the number or which titles they could get. Just about everyone who made it in before me (by my math skills, that amounts to about 14 people) had armfulls of vinyl. By the time I made it to the "A" section, pretty much everything had been picked clean, including the douche that went to the other side of the titles and reached over to grab the one thing he wanted. Or the asshole who weaseled in behind me, wedged in between me and the guy to my right just so he could grab the last copy of the shitty Doors RSD exclusive.

I found the one thing I was looking for, grabbed an Electric Prunes record (purple vinyl!) as an impulse purchase (and a non-RSD item) and found one copy of Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds radio set. It was worth the trip, but the experience at ZZZ Records and the plentiful selection of the same kind of shit you can find at auction stores across the state, means that this would probably be the last visit to the store.

Even if the two copies of the Grateful Dead or the few copies of the Dylan record had gone with the first wave of patrons, you would think there would be plenty of other titles to ponder. But no, I counted just a handful of singles, a light selection of full-lengths, and not a goddamn Miles Davis record in the mix.

The new selection, which most stores have stocked up in preparation for the influx of new faces, was weak. I've been to RSD events where I nearly put back the limited edition titles in favor for some other sealed vinyl that caught my eye.

Aside from the Electric Prunes long player, that didn't happen today.

I got a report from my cousin that the store he visited in Chicago had a pretty good selection, but that the store jacked up the prices on some titles like a bunch of assholes. When he told me that the store was asking for-and selling-the Dylan record for $65 a pop (it's a three disc set, but still), I told him that the website we visit to pick up RSD leftovers had it priced for half that.

It's like these fuckers never learned. Here is a prime opportunity to get new people into your store, and they get rewarded with limited inventory and price gouging. Every goddamn title I was looking for was at this website, meaning that I could have completely stayed in bed Friday morning and gotten the remaining titles I'd been seeking at a fair cost, tax free, and with free shipping.

If it weren't for a sense of loyalty to the one remaining record store in my area, I would definitely sit the next one out and cherry picked my own favorites in the comforts of my own home. And who knows? If the event becomes anymore a clusterfuck than what it already is, my own Record Store Day may become a digital shopping experience since the real one is turning into another reason to hate retail shopping all over again.

The Ventures - Knock Me Out

Every summer for two weeks, my parents would ship me over to my grandparent’s house in a small town in Southwest Iowa, population 1,500 residents. When I went there for my grandmother’s funeral this August. Both sets of grandparents lived in Bedford, making it impossible to get away from the farming community whenever summer come around again.

To a kid below the age of 12, Bedford was not such a terrible place to visit. It wasn’t until my teenage years when the limitations of a town of 1,500 people became noticeable. Prior to that, Bedford was a fine environment for a kid. It boasted a big lake you could swim in, a small Main Street with a department store, and fireworks just a few miles to the south, right across the state line of Missouri where the incendiary devices were legal.

The only time when Bedford became kind of a drag was when I missed my record collection from back home. Both grandparents did not have much in the way of records, at least the kind that I enjoyed, so it was a real bummer when I had a hankering for some Queen and the closest match was an old Rusty Warren comedy album that one of my grandmother’s had stuck in the middle of all of her easy listening records.

The same grandmother did have a one leftover record from her kids, The Ventures’ Knock Me Out.

It was an instrumental offering from the band circa 1965 and it featured a few hits from the day as well as one or two originals. The cover featured a blonde haired girl who was “knocked out” by the Ventures’ sound, a sound that evidently was created by the Mosrite guitars, whose headstocks were prominently featured next to the girl’s swinging head.

This was the first type of guitar that I ever became familiar with, mainly because I thought it was cool that the Ventures were so well known back in the 60’s that Mosrite had an exclusive line of guitars made especially for them. When I noticed that there was a picture of Ricky Wilson’s Mosrite on the inner sleeve of The B-52’s debut album, I surmised that the awesome surf tone of “Rock Lobster” was the result of that two-stringed instrument that had the strap attached to it by a bunch of duct tape. I immediately wanted one, and still do to this day.

Some of the songs on Knock Me Out were instantly recognizable. The album begins with “I Feel Fine” and the distinctive feedback at the beginning of the song. “Love Potion No. 9” was another familiar cut, although the fuzz tone of guitarist Nokie Edwards on the Ventures’ version makes the track almost sound menacing.

At the end of side two, The Ventures actually sign during one song, “Sha La La.” As you can probably figure out, the extent of the band’s “singing” consists of them going “Sha La La” over and over, dutifully preventing the band from ever being compared with any of the vocal groups they covered. Like most other Ventures’ product, the guitars normally served as the same melody where the vocals usually were.

Regardless of the band’s lack of vocal prowess, Knock Me Out is another example of the band’s instrumental dexterity and consistent chops. There’s no doubt that the band served an important role in the annals of rock music and Knock Me Out is another fine example of the band’s style and prowess. There are moments of intriguing tones, particularly considering the rest of the rock landscape from when the album was first issued in February, 1965.

The band puts together a taught collection of one dozen tracks that were probably better suited for my own collection rather than my grandmother’s. But at the end of the day, Knock Me Out stayed in Bedford as the only real permanent rock and roll fixture within my grandparents’ home, a brief reprieve from the over-abundance of mellow schlock that was played on their stereo during dining and whatever social occasions they listened to that garbage.

It only took another spin-several decades removed, and with a plethora of unlimited options available to me at my digital fingertips, before I fully appreciated the extend of Knock Me Out’s influence on my young ears.

Can't Live Without You: A Farewell To The Scorpions

Would you mind removing your hat, Klaus?

I do a mean Klaus Meine.

It’s true. Ask one of my co-workers (the ones over thirty, that is) and they’ll tell you how they’ve heard me yell—in my best World Wide Live voice—”Do you see the microphones in the air? Do you see them?! We are doing a live recording here toniiiggghhttt!” Because there’s nothing funnier than hearing a thin-haired German dude trying to work up a crowd in broken English.

But as much as I think Klaus Meine sounds funny, as much as some of the band’s lyrics are funny, as offensive as some of their album covers are, and as awful as their 1989 smash “Wind Of Change” truly is, I will stand behind the Scorpions and defend their awesomeness without a hint of irony. And to hear that they will be calling it a day disappoints me.

For me, it began with Animal Magnetism after Jim Turner gave a half-baked assessment of it during basketball practice. A few of us were talking about what records we liked when Jeff, who wasn’t even part of the original conversation, offered “Man, if you all want to hear some good music, it don’t get no better than ‘The Zoo‘ by the Scorpions.”

Jim Turner later went to jail when he and a pair of other classmates did a quick home invasion of an older couple who ran the local Dairy Queen. They broke into their house one night a demanded the funds of the ice cream place’s daily sales, oblivious to the fact that business owners generally put the store’s profits into the night depository box at the bank before heading home.

While Jim wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed when it came to felonious crime, he was correct in his recommendation of Animal Magnetism.

When Blackout came out, a friend of mine became so inspired that he wanted to immortalize it on his car, a 1969 Buick. He chose a line from “Dynamite” and carved “Kick Your Ass To Heaven With Rock & Roll Tonight” into the paint of his trunk.

Another friend admitted that he used the cover of Lovedrive as masturbatory material.

Thank God it wasn’t Virgin Killer [NSFW].

But even that album triggers a more recent memory. I was at one of those websites that lists the 10 or 20 most awful album covers of all time and it rightfully includes Virgin Killer on its list. Curiosity got the most of me and I finally decided to brave a potential Dateline: To Catch A Predator investigation and download a copy.

You know what?

It fucking rocks.

And so began my most recent exploration: Scorpions circa 1971-1978. It’s a revelation. Hell, it’s a completely different band. Thanks to the underrated genius of guitarist Uli Jon Roth, ’70s era Scorps are sonically heavier outfit with these weird flourishes of Hendrix-y psychedelic blues. Roth frequently quotes from Hendrix’s notepad, and he later married the same chick that was with Jimi on the night that he died. He is just one of three—count ‘em—three of hard rock’s all-time greatest guitarists that have played in the Scorpions.

When the band was just starting out, guitarist Michael Schenker was so good on the Flying V that UFO, a more popular band from England snagged him.

Kick your ass to Heaven, with rock and roll tonight!

After Roth and Schenker departed, Matthias Jabs—a possible contender for best name of a lead guitarist—managed to somehow continue the emotive soloing of his predecessors and combine it with the rapid-fire finger tapping approach of ’80s metal.

It was during this time when the band reached their heights with the commercial zenith of Love At First Sting, a record which prompted even my father to comment that “Rock You Like A Hurricane” was a “pretty good song.” Is it any surprise that my father’s approval proved to be the kiss of death that began the band’s dissent into worn out clichés (“Tease Me, Please Me“) and political ambassadors (“Winds Of Change”). Sure, the latter secured a place in the hearts of thousands freed from communist oppression, but for the rest of us, we felt the band had gone soft.

There were moments during the ’90s when I’d contemplate a new Scorpions album, but I never had the balls to actually buy one. It was too risky. “Wind Of Change” had done such irreversible damage that even the band’s notoriety as good-natured party boys seemed somewhat irresponsible. I can’t believe I’m suggesting this but, the Scorpions should have just stayed stupid.

There was a time when they served as an important reminder of the spirit of rock and roll: How does a rock and roll band build their chops? Gigs! What is the main reason why a fellow should start a rock band? Chicks! What should a band do during the hours off stage? Party!

They were the Beatles’ younger brother generation; a collective of teenage boys who saw The Beatles as a formula for a way out, and if it landed some tail during the process then all the better. One of the most important tools that they gleaned from the Fab Four was an almost Hamburg-like work ethic where the band got very good at their arrangements, to the point where even the most clumsy of English wordplay was overlooked.

While the Scorpions progressed exponentially on their craft, their lyrics remained a pubic hair above the seventh grade. They often seemed to rhyme things phonetically with a complete disregard for logic. And like a monkey writing Shakespeare, the band would occasionally mine gold, lending you to second guess that their apparent lack of smarts was part of the plan.

Plus, is there any way that a band with a track record that spans forty years could have pulled it off without a little bit of common sense?

No way.

So even though I haven’t heard much from the band in over half of that four decade career, I’m still compelled to visit them when they make their inevitable retirement tour that also happens to be supporting their final studio album. Up until now, there’s always been “the next tour,” with a sneaking suspicion that there’d be a cheaper county fair opportunity.

With their retirement announcements, it appears that the band will get to go out with an arena tour and with a certain amount of dignity.

What was that about playing dumb?

Thanks for the memories, Scorpions.

There really is no one like you.

This article originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

80/35 Festival: 2013 Recap

“That band from Cedar Falls is playing 80/35 this year.” Advised my father, a bastion of knowledge concerning Des Moines’ entertainment schedule.  His database is the entertainment section of the Des Moines Register and another local weekly that he keeps close at hand, usually underneath a decretive bowel that holds his remote controls.

The “that band” he was referring to is House of Large Sizes, a now defunct power trio that provided the Hawkeye state with some of the most intuitive and original blend of rock music during their initial run. Since going on hiatus over a decade ago, the band has re-formed sporadically for quick Iowa/Minnesota weekend reunions and for special occasions like headlining the Kum and Go free stage, one of three areas at the 80/35 festival with live music offerings.

The comment I made to my dad went something along the lines of “I don’t want to diminish the memories that I already have,” which is partially true as H.O.L.S. would qualify as a band that I’ve seen more than any other, beginning with their second gig ever over a quarter century ago. There is nothing like watching a band start from uneasy footing and progress into a remarkable one, and H.O.L.S. turned into exactly that.

With a year, House of Large Sizes became a very potent live band, and I can safely tell you that, while not every performance was transcendent, a large portion of them were and I can’t ever recall a moment where I wasn’t disappointed in attending.

Probably the only performance that came close to qualifying as a disappointment would have been one of those weekend reunions where many Iowa natives returned home to witness H.O.L.S. reunite. There was nothing to complain about from a music perspective, but from the audience it was quite unsettling watching your peers, visibly older, pretending to be in their 20’s and navigating the Mevlevi Order directly in front of the stage.

That’s a problem for me to address. Not the band. Not the 45 year-old fellow caught up in the time machine, screaming “I used to walk to school! I used to walk to school!” while H.O.L.S. tore through their first hint of awesomeness with their early standout track, “1½ On A Hill.”

The visuals obtained from these gigs were enough to have me keep my memories of this great band intact by abstaining from any further reunion shows or one-off engagements.

So when Dad dutifully mentioned “that band from Cedar Falls,” I confessed my predicament and admitted that there were really only two bands in 80/35’s schedule that I wanted to see this year-Wavves and Deerhunter-and out of those, only Deerhunter made me want to get my wallet out and purchase a ticket.

The two headliners this year were David Byrne/St. Vincent (Friday night) and Wu Tang Clang (Saturday night), both of which were not enough to save 80/35 from their lowest paid attendance since the festival’s first event, six years ago.

When I went to that inaugural show, I was a buzzkill. I was suffering from the belief that I had grown beyond the challenges that any festival event prevents (drunkenness, heat, lack of manners, etc.) and that somehow the festival needed to adapt to my expectations.

It’s a ridiculous complaint, and the only way around it is to simply make the choice not to attend, which I have done in the past. But each year the festival presents at least one or two acts that I would like to see, so I’m forced to make some form of compromise if I want to see them.

This year, that challenge came from the band Deerhunter, a band that I admire a great deal and one that has not touched Iowa soil since their inception.

I bitched and whined about my choices until the last day of the festival, where I finally headed over to Des Moines without a ticket, hoping to score “a miracle,” to use Grateful Dead parlance.

Leave it to my mother to save the day, handing me $50 bucks from her purse and telling me just to go and buy a ticket at the gate. I didn’t see the value in spending $45 for what would have been one band, two if I felt inclined enough to battle the heat and check out Wavves mid-afternoon.

But as temperatures hovered in the mid-90’s and my parent’s two new kittens falling asleep on my chest after a hard afternoon play, Wavves didn’t make the cut.

That left the agenda wide open, and only two bands remained in the running.

For everyone else, it was the Wu Tang Clan, who I enjoy to a certain degree haven’t paid attention to since O.D.B. died. This isn’t to suggest that his input isn’t as essential to the Wu as a creative unit, but you know, when does the point of a collective turn into the whims of a few select members? When does all of it turn into a money-grab after the solo efforts begin to not get the attention that they once did?

And when does it all turn into an ungrateful booking where the remaining members finally hit the stage 45 minutes after their scheduled start time?

I was long gone before this, so I don’t have a dog in this hunt. But I do get a bit defensive when an act comes in to my state without any evidence of respect towards the people who paid to see them. That includes festivals, county fairs, and any opening act that gets on stage and mocks patrons like those fucks in Los Lobos.

I’m glad Paul Simon ripped off your shit and you don’t make a dime off Graceland. You don’t deserve it, you smug fucks.

The sun had begun to set when Deerhunter-specifically frontman Bradford Cox-fought with some unruly guitar pedals and barked orders at the soundman before the set began. When the music did finally start-right around the scheduled time, so fuck you, Wu-the soundman had apparently done his magic, appeasing the crowd and Cox with some very luscious sonics.

Beginning with “Cover Me (Slowly)” > “Agoraphobia,” the set pulled heavily from Halcyon Digest, which is fine, because Halcyon Digest is most awesome. For some reason, I felt the need to tell anyone near me that I had driven from Cedar Rapids (2 hours) and paid full price ($45) just to see Deerhunter. “Really?” said one of my neighbors standing next to me, feigning interest. He moved before I had a chance to tell him that my mommy bought the ticket for me and pushed my curfew to Midnight.

Cox is looking older these days, and he was nowhere near as flamboyant as I would have liked him to be. He made the curious decision to wear a black Cramps t-shirt with dark green corduroy highwaters and sandals. It was the look of someone who merely woke up in Atlanta, GA, hopped on a plane to Iowa, played 60 minutes at a festival and then flew home.

This is exactly what happened, probably. But I’m sure the shocking blue Teisco Del-Rey he was manning came with him on the plane. Most awesome.

Bassist Josh Fauver is no longer in the band, apparently having grown tired of this type of thing (touring). This was a concern at first, since he had a hand in one of the most awesome Deerhunter songs of all time (“Nothing Ever Happened”) and it meant that it probably would not be a part of the set list that evening.

New bassist Josh McKay has a pretty nifty look about him, and as far as I could tell, filled Fauver’s shoes nicely in terms of the band’s increasing reliance on strong 4/4 rhythms

.

All the girls love guitarist Lockett Pundt, who worked “Desire Lines” into the evening’s most memorable moment. Fans of his reverb-laden Jazzmaster are advised to check out his band Atlas Sound, although I’m sure I’m speaking to the converted if you’re a fan of Deerhunter already.

Don't you cry, Timmy. There's a heaven above you, baby.

They have an additional guitarist, Frankie Boyles, who is actually the drummer in Atlas Sound, so go figure.

Drummer Moses Archuleta is pretty solid player, and I was impressed with his consistency.  His timekeeping was critical in matching the band’s more extended pieces into credible forms of translation. When they were on, they were perfect. When they were off-which was rare-they were nowhere near the troublemaking persona that made this show such a must-see-with-your-mother’s-money event.

The most tomfoolery that took place was Bradford’s banter with the timid crowd; most of their fans stood towards the front while the sourpusses waiting for Wu Tang Clan sulked in the back, discounting the weird white boy singling out audience members for some gentle ribbing.

“What’s with Nic Cage?” he asked, noticing that a member of the audience had taken the time to attach a big picture of Nicolas Cage’s head to a broom handle and brought it to Deerhunter’s set.

“What happened to Nic Cage today?” he continued to ponder, looking for an explanation as to why someone would find the need to bring a big picture of the star’s head to a rock concert. “You guys in Iowa like irony and humor, don’t you?” finding out that the gag really served no purpose other than to confound.

He then noticed a young man wearing a Black Flag t-shirt, who he promptly named “Timmy,” and complimented him on his attire. “Timmy” then suffered regular dedications and even a few alterations to song lyrics (“Don’t Cry” from Halcyon Digest became “Don’t Cry, Timmy” for example) on his behalf. Then Bradford noticed another youngster in a Swans shirt, complimented him on his choice, and then dedicated the next song to him.

“You guys have cool music t-shirts here in Des Moines.” He noted.

You could probably tell that I didn’t hang around for the Wu set, although I could sense it was going to be a long night for those that promptly made their way to the front of the stage just as Deerhunter’s fans were moving away from it. It would be an even longer wait thanks to the Wu’s poor time management skills.

Courtesy of David Byrne's journal. 

As is the case with any 80/35 main stage act, Deerhunter’s set was restricted to the allotted 60 minutes and it was clear that there would be no encore when the stage crew began shutting of the amplifiers still omitting feedback and tearing down the microphones.

The night was still young and the early July evening was shaping up to be a very beautiful thing. I decided to take a look at some old friends at the Kum & Go stage, a poorly named convenience store here in the Midwest that even David Byrne noticed when he was in town the night before, performing and riding some of Iowa’s extensive bike trail systems.

House of Large Sizes had already begun when I made the three block trek to the stage. The street directly in front of the stage was packed. There was a higher proportion of older people at this show, but a pretty big crowd for an act that hasn’t been together for the past decade.

The band tore through a catalog now measured in decades, and it seemed like they were trying to cram everything into an abbreviated set (again, one hour). I remember a few early gigs when HOLS was gaining popularity in the region when I loudly lamented to their drummer at the time that the band was losing speed by the end of the set.

He didn’t appreciate that comment from me, and I probably had no right in saying it.

I can safely say that this is never a problem with drummer Brent Hanson, who keeps the proceedings fit ‘n active by propelling a bunch of these classic cuts into double-time territory. Seriously, it was like those stories about the Ramones and how they managed to trim the fat on every tour, to the point where they would keep tabs at how quickly they could pound through a set, often ending a tour a full quarter-hour faster than comparable sets towards the beginning of it.

Hanson spends his time these days laying the foundation for metal bands in the Twin Cities area (see the badassed Bastard Saint for more insight into his skin work) when he isn’t commuting down to Ioway for HOLS practice on one of their regular reunion shows.

Good thing too: Hanson exudes enthusiasm with nearly every beat, transforming HOLS into a clarion of ass-kicking rock that’s inspiring to the crowd under the age of 30 who hasn’t been swayed away with EDM soundtracks and safe surroundings. House proved to be incredibly dangerous during their set and just as powerful as any other gig they may have implanted into our collective memory.

Barb Schlif. Tuck-and-Roll.

Bassist Barb Schilf jumped and twirled her braided ponytails around like a woman possessed, and I caught at least a few moments where she turned to face her ginormous Kustom cab like she was challenging it, the speakers pushing the air with so much intensity that her eyes began to roll back. The music was literally transforming her into La Dame Blanche right before us in a transfixing display of performing from a completely different space and time. That moment alone made the brief walk to the Kum & Go stage completely worthwhile and it made me miss the fact that House was no longer around  full-time  to recreate this kind of supernatural magic on a regular basis.

I was reminded of when this band started. Barb was still learning the instrument, and many performances found her looking down at the frets, making sure her fingers were on the proper location of the neck. There is none of that anymore, as Schilf has the notes embedded inside of her, but it’s the joy of executing those rumbles that practically make her the focal point of House’s live show.

This fact takes nothing away from the band’s designated driver, Dave Deibler, who commandeered the proceedings like an old pro. He joked with the crowd concerning his age, fibbing that he recently celebrated his 40^th birthday recently. After receiving a few bits of audience approval, he then admitted that he subtracted 10 years from the figure, which only made the speed that HOLS was chugging along with that much more impressive.

What I feared would turn out to be just another nostalgic offering was instead an honest attempt at getting old-school natives like yours truly to miss the possibility of what this band could accomplish with just a few more years of navigating the circuit. Mission accomplished, but with Dave and Barb now committed to their family and their businesses, it would be hard to have them justify a return when they’re making a bigger impact with the gear tucked away.

Big as a house and twice as wide, indeed!

Not only was my opinion of House of Large Sizes changed, but so was my overall opinion of the 80/35 Festival. It is a small-scale festival that regularly brings healthy support from fans of music from across the state. And while that may not seem like much to any fan of music that has a major music festival within a short drive of their home, for us in the Hawkeye State our options are limited based on our population and perception.

The only way around this is through events like these, where financial supporters and the festival organizers put their money and time on the line and we come out and participate, even when we have multiple reasons not to.

Iowa is hot around the 4^th of July and it can stay brutal like that for weeks afterwards. But it can also be a place where we use excuses like that to stay at home, only to whine when the heat breaks that nobody ever comes here to play. Des Moines is changing that with some really active venues, and the organizers of 80/35 are a big part of putting our state on the radar.

My issues with the event are of my own prejudice-a natural part of the aging process that grows tired of large crowds and drunken shenanigans. But the moment you have confined yourself from opportunities simply because you're unable to control the actions of others is a sign that you’re moving away from the very appeal of music: the ability to enjoy the human experience through song.

Don’t get me wrong, if I’m in the middle of a heat wave, I’m going to find shade (and if there are no shades like there wasn’t during Fucked Up and Dinosaur Jr.’s 100+ degree performances during last year’s 80/35Festival, then I’ll lather on sunscreen and drink water like it’s going out of style). If there’s drunken revelers, then I’ll stand clear of the mouthbreathers and find a calmer area.

And if I can’t find a cheap ticket, I’ll ask my mom if she can grab her purse and help contribute to one our state’s best outlets for good music.

Peter Case - As Far As You Can Get Without A Passport

I wrote the review of the Peter Case performance before I read his first book, a brief autobiography about the early days when he rolled out of his hometown of Buffalo, New York and made it to San Francisco without any real plans of what he would do when he got there.

To do such a thing today would be seen as foolish. I remember telling my father once that I was going to move out west, hang out with some friends and become a recording engineer-a pipe dream, for sure, but a solid enough explanation in my mind to justify packing up and moving.

Almost immediately-like any good father, I suppose-began to dismantle my plans, pointing out the blatant lack of planning and how I would have no reliable source of income when I arrived to my destination.

I didn't care, man, I wanted to be free of all of this oppression man!

It's a common trait that many from the Midwest throw up, this notion that the region is so backwards and stifling that it somehow prevents a young person from achieving their dreams. It's nonsense, of course, because the reality that you can actually make your dreams in an area not known for it's culture and social agenda. Instead, living in the Midwest only means that you'll have to work harder in addressing the very superficial reasons you have that are pressing you to leave.

For years, I was bitter at my old man for telling me the truth. The reality is, if I was truly ready to pick up and split, I would have done it. But my dad's concerns made real sense to me, and yes, I'm an only child, so the idea of moving so far from the nest at that time also weighed heavy.

I looked at friends that had made similar choices, and was impressed at how little they ultimately used their new surroundings. It was an endless barrage of part-time jobs just to keep a roof over their head, and all of the shows and social events that they promised to embrace suddenly became something they couldn't afford.

Then there were those that completely abused their lack of a family safety net. They met with other lonely souls and brought their lives to the brink of addiction, some of whom are very lucky to be alive today.

Me? I stayed home. And although I'm not suggesting that my decision was one that everyone should adhere to, it is a choice that worked for me and one that I don't regret making now that I'm in a place where I love and around people that I love more than my own selfish needs.

And while I have no tolerance for those who depart because they feel the region somehow suppresses their dreams, I can abide those whose dreams require them to leave. In Peter Case's world, California was a different planet compared to Buffalo-and it came at a time when a lot of young people were doing the exact same thing.

When he reached Chicago, a man boarded the train on a cold winter night after Case. The two were remarkably similar: both had long hair, army bags full of clothes and a guitar case. Both were heading out West to begin whatever, although the gentleman he sat with was a couple of years older than Case and had been out to California on a few occasions.

He offered Case some advice: keep to yourself.

If it seems like I've spent a large amount of words talking about myself rather than As Far As You Can Get Without A Passport, it's because of the book's brevity than my own need to tell you the intimate details of what a chickenshit I am. Peter Case is someone who made the journey, and someone who made it for the right reasons.

Of course, that may be easy to say since he later became a renowned singer-songwriter, making the journey worth the hardship. But what makes the book so great is that you never get the sense that everything will end out alright. There are hints of Case's talents, but since he's very good at talking down his own abilities, there's always a sense that he could easily get shipped back home at any point. I mean, he lives in a junkyard at one point. I don't recall any Dylan stories where he's sleeping in retired vehicles.

At 51 pages, I finished As Far As You Can Get Without A Passport in the amount of time for a lengthy bowel-movement. And while I didn't actually read it on a toilet, the ending did have me holding my breath somewhat, with Case and his friend holed up in a small, Mexican seaside town with no gas, no money, and no skills in the Spanish language.

All he has is a guitar.

I believe As Far As You Can Get Without A Passport is a precursor to a larger book, or maybe it will be released in various increments, like a kick-ass e.p. Whatever comes next, I'm hooked. Even if I know how this story ultimately ends, I want to read about it and live vicariously through Case's own will to keep moving.

Peter Case Live In Cedar Rapids

Peter Case

Live At CSPS, Cedar Rapids, Iowa

June 4, 2013

Peter Case’s life is one that has been in constant motion.

And the years and the miles are quite apparent in the man’s appearance; his face now detailed with lines and a mound of grey on his chin. It’s quite a difference from the shaded hipster of The Plimsouls or even the still-boyish look of the cover of The Man With The Blue Post Modern Neo-Traditionalist Guitar release.

The last thirty years have seen him traveling the roads of “almost recognizable” and “cult favorite.” He has probably hit a bunch of the same venues over and over again, making his career seem like a sequel to Groundhog Day than the places of interest for a well-traveled icon.

This would be only his second visit to our state professionally. While contemplating the number of times he’s been in Iowa, Peter remembered a story of a gig in Missouri that he missed, primarily because he became lost while patrolling the Hawkeye state’s back roads.

As an Iowa native, I can say from experience that some of those roads lead nowhere.

For Case, the road helped shape his experience and that own experience began when he told his parents-both of whom were schoolteachers in the Buffalo public school district-that his next step would be to drop out of school.

And with plans like that, you can imagine the next item on the “To do list” was to find new housing accommodations. Teachers don’t respond well when their kids tell them they’re dropping out. It tends to be somewhat of an insult to their profession.

Case got his G.E.D. and got the hell out of his parent’s house. He traveled from the cold Buffalo climate to the warm, inviting arms of California, where he ended up a street performer in San Francisco. He looked closely at his new surroundings, and from those observations, he turned the stories into songs.

His first encounter with notoriety was while he was in the band The Nerves, an early punk rock entry with pop overtones. Green Day would make similar advances more than a decade after The Nerves split, but they always acknowledged how it was bands like The Nerves that did it first-and some would suggest, did it better.

Case later got more exposure as the frontman of The Plimsouls. They cracked the Top 100 with a song called “Million Miles Away,” an infectious piece of power pop that it not only got added to the soundtrack to the movie Valley Girl, it also got the band a cameo in the film.

The movie would become Nicolas Cage’s first starring role in what would prove to be a very successful career, but the band’s fortunes were not as great. The Plimsouls were actually in the process of breaking up when Hollywood called, but since Hollywood was just down the street from their home turf, it wasn’t glittery enough to keep them from splintering just as their popularity was growing.

I remember discovering The Plimsouls through that film, but I also remember something more striking when I took the obligatory step to learn more about them.

By the time I noticed, Case had already embarked on a solo career. What I didn’t know was how far Peter had moved from his power pop past with his debut release Peter Case.

It was a very organic and rootsy affair. Peter Case is an Americana album before such a name even existed.  “Old Blue Car” was the leadoff track from that record, and it featured a loose beat, sparse arrangements, and Case honking on a harmonica in between his passionate ode to an old car and its most important accessory: a pretty woman around his arm.

During a time when pop music embraced the processed digital chill of a state of the art technology that sucked the life out of most recordings, producer T-Bone Burnett kept it simple. And Case went back to the music that caused him to question authority and drop out of school to begin with, so the pairing is mutually beneficial.

Case has stuck to this style of music ever since. More important than his commitment to  authenticity is the man’s true passion for the history of music itself. He peppers his records and set lists with songs from the past, paying close attention to identifying every performer in case you want to look into their work after the gig.

Case is an obvious follower of Mr. Zimmerman and he has made a point to carry on the tradition of lone troubadours like him. And while simple inspirations like sex, drugs and rock and roll would also fuel his younger passion, when the day came time to make a choice for a career as a rock and roller or just a simple folk journeyman, Case chose the one that was more closely aligned with his own muse.

Right out of the gate, his worked gained him a Grammy nomination. “Old Blue Car” became a left-field curio because it sounded so different when compared to the college charts he was accustomed to. The record company liked the attention that his album garnered, and they complimented it by throwing large sums of money to pair Case with notable session players and expensive producers.

As he noted in one of his stories before hitting the material, the moment that he delivered an album that cost next to nothing even while maintaining the critical accolades that followed him throughout his career, was the moment when the label dropped him. The large costs would keep him tied up in legal paybacks for many years to come, so an album recorded with the utmost efficiency only stacked the deck in Case’s favor.

Peter Case starring as Merle Haggard

Ironically, when Case began scaling back his musical approach as a cost-cutting measure,  his music suddenly blossomed. This was the approach of his idols, but more importantly, it was an approach that complimented his clever storytelling skills to no end.

Before too long, he was better known for his commitment to the American roots than the Paisley Underground. But for some like myself, his proper start began with rock and roll, but it is obviously his talents as a songwriter that places Case at the top of the artistic food chain, regardless of what genre he associates with.

On Tuesday night, Peter Case’s skinny tie was a neck holder for his harmonica, his chiming Rickenbacker turned into a refurbished acoustic 12-string, and anything that required electricity was either left behind or not working (spoiler alert!).

He’s sitting down for most of his performances now, and when he raises up from his seat, Case’s back instinctively slouches over with age. His smooth face from the days of his youth is now comprised of wrinkles and a grey goatee that he occasionally tugged at.

Case is approaching 60, and if it’s not enough that a man his age is still pulling weeks of one-nighters in intimate settings like CSPS, what does make this fact a little more frightening is how heart surgery was the only thing that seemed to sideline him from his constant tour schedule just a few years ago.

He acknowledges the toll, but the passion in his acoustic performances also acknowledges a musical history that requires a never-ending commitment. For example, Case approaches a song by Sleepy John Estes with such unbridled enthusiasm that you wonder if the preservation of the songs and stories of our country’s music is more important to him than his own self-preservation.

His sets are so open and filled with enticing narrative that an evening with Peter Case on stage is probably the same kind of evening with Peter Case in your living room. You become enraptured by his stories and passionate picking that even when Case flubs a note or the proceeding story begins to ramble, you remind yourself that he’s traveled a few thousand miles just to play here. I’d say he’s allowed to stretch out, miss a fret, and refer to his career in self-deprecating terms.

Even a non-functioning keyboard would only interrupt the set for the amount of time it took Case to work his way back to his acoustics. And when he was advised later in the set that the keyboard was now working properly, Case only used it for one song. He doesn’t like traveling the same road twice, so the idea of the keyboard was an exit from several miles before. He used it for maybe one or two songs before returning to the acoustics.

He’s an excellent picker, but he is far from being a perfectionist, allowing the flubbed frets and missed runs to act as moments of integrity. Case can be showy when it’s necessary, but he also peppers it with moments of self-deprecation just to let you know that he’s good enough to make a living at this thing, but he’s not good enough to be a star.

That’s the only frustrating thing about him, because he should be a star. When he dismissed such a notion after a bit on banter from yours truly, he was speaking against the title in its most superficial of terms.

A star in my mind is someone with the kind of chops that can influence others to pick up an instrument and run with it. Case certainly has the power to do that, and he’s patient enough to acknowledge his own stars. There’s not a doubt in my mind that Case would view some of the same artists that he covered that evening as “rock stars,” even though they probably never even saw an electric amplifier.

By the third standing ovation encore, Case didn’t even bother to return to the stage. Instead, he hoisted his acoustic guitar up and walked around the front row of tables, sans microphone. He sang the most honest version of “Beyond The Blues” ever, and it transcended everything else he did that evening at the Legion Arts hall.

And after two-hours of stellar music that already made the evening a perfect encounter, his final selection only confirmed what I yelled from the crowd earlier: Peter Case is indeed a rock star. 

Record Store Day 2013

Shortly before the doors open. Photo courtesy of their Facebook page.

I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t just more than a bit excited about Record Store Day, even when there was not a whole lot of things I noticed on the pre-sale list for 2013’s offerings that I felt I “had” to have.

But succumbing to the rare and exclusive aspect of R.S.D. is the thing that makes you mark the date on the calendar-conveniently located on 4.20 this year and further reminding you of how awesome it was to go to the record store, find a title with a double-gatefold sleeve which immediately served as your pot tray when you got back up to your bedroom.

The real joy of R.S.D. is indulging in the experience of going to a retail store devoted entirely of physical items that hold the music of your life and treating that time with care and devotion. This shit is like the Rosetta Stone for some of us, so let the luddites have their day.

The rest of you can download the shit.

I speak with no hint of cynicism or snobbery when I tell you that there is nothing like the experience of placing down your hard-earned money and buying a record. Like the 4.20 coincidence hints at: this is drug dealing. I’m convinced that that burst of scent, which happens the first moment you pop the cellophane seal possesses narcotic qualities. To the point where I’ve often caught myself grabbing a few extra whiffs before the smell dissipates and you’re left with the task of translating the grooves to memory.

The allure of the rarities also creates an environment similar to the Black Friday early risers. My place of worship-the incomparable Record Collector-always sports a line outside its entrance before it opens on Record Store Day, and like clockwork, I try to time my arrival immediately after the initial rush subsides.

I lovingly call these folks “amateurs,” because they rush the joint, grab their shit and go. It’s like fucking a girl with no hint of foreplay, and it’s wrong. Ideally, you want to grab your shit and hang out to shop for stuff you had no intention of purchasing.

But even that idyllic scenario has its exceptions.

Some collectors become so enamored with the items that they’re purchasing that they simply can’t wait to get home to listen to them. I’ll make an exception for these folks because they’re obviously junkies. Mama always told me “Never trust a junky” so best to have them adhere to the old “in-out” for fear that they’ll grab that Avenged Sevenfold vinyl right out of your hands.

And, no shit, there were Avenged Sevenfold rarities abound on R.S.D. Apparently, people take them seriously now.

The other exception are those experienced shoppers who know that to hang around a record store only means trouble. Like I said, they are drug dealers, and before you know it, you’ve moved from buying a big bag of dope to jamming condoms full of heroin up your rectum and driving back to the border at Tijuana.

I’m getting to this point, because after circling the R.S.D. center racks in the back of the Record Collector and lifting what was left from my list, I found myself mindlessly lusting after things that I don’t need at all.

At one point, I was eyeballing a sealed vinyl reissue of Iggy Pop’s The Idiot, drooling over its still sealed state for the simple reason that it would bring me closer to the experience of actually being excited about getting a new Iggy Pop record, circa 1977.

It’s crazy, I know. It’s almost like my ulterior motive was to later put Werner Herzog’s Stroszek on the Netflix queue and enjoy a nice quiet evening at home, fretting how my turntable won’t allow The Idiot to keep endlessly spinning like it did when they discovered Ian Curtis’ hanging corpse.

Before I was left to my own devices, I handed Record Collector owner Kirk Walther my handwritten list, immediately pointing out the title that possesses the biggest urgency, a picture-disc single of Gonn’s 4-song e.p. Est.1966.

Gonn are from my hometown of Keokuk, Iowa, and 45 years ago, they released a single “Blackout Of Gretely.” It was recorded in a studio with one microphone, and the results were sufficient for the track to get included on the wonderful Nuggets reissue that Rhino put out years ago.

I’ve written about them before, but my interest in Gonn was renewed a bit this past New Year’s Eve when I noticed that the band had put together a 50^th Anniversary package at a hotel near Keokuk. The package not only included overnight accommodations at the Comfort Inn & Suites in Fort Madison Iowa, but guests also received a pair of tickets to Gonn’s 50^th Anniversary performance that evening (and into the new year!), complementary champagne and party favors, plus a free Gonn 7” single.

I really wanted to go, but who watches the kids overnight on New Year’s Eve while your miles away watching a bunch of 65 year old guys playing a bunch of garage rock?

Targets acquired!

“I think we still have this one” Walther offered while stepping in to the center rack of R.S.D. goodies. He pulled out the sole copy left, reaffirming the feeling I had that I was the only record buyer gunning for the exclusive R.S.D. picture-disc edition of “Blackout Of Gretely.”

“The original copy sells for over $1,000” Kirk offered as he handed me the object of my desire. “Brother, everything else I get today is gravy!” I replied, thanking him for making my Record Store Day a success.

Here’s my complete list in no-particular order of preference, just a guide of what to look out for, providing some semblance of order until I circled the store twice before I realized the futility of it all.

That Iggy Pop record will have to wait another day.

Totale’s Record Store Day List:

Tame Impala – Tame Impala e.p.

Sold out almost immediately, which I guess should signify that these guys are officially big shit in college towns.

Pink Floyd – “See Emily Play” 7” (mono version)

Why do I even bother with these? It’s these kinds of releases that have people waiting in line before the door even opens. I already have this version on cd anyway, so this was nothing more than nostalgic jive, anyway.

Jimi Hendrix Experience - ”Hey Joe” 7” (mono version)

See above. For some reason, I’ve had a real hair up my ass thinking that I need to get the UK mono version of Are You Experienced? for no other reason than the fact that it’s available on vinyl in a reissue, and because I never had that edition. Don’t argue with my logic.

Shearwater/Sharon Von Etten – “Stop Draggin My Heart Around” 7”

Acquired! Admittedly, the end results of this live track aren’t as good as I’d hoped. It’s a bit rough around the edges, which probably means that this was something else live in the flesh, while the recorded results only prove how good the Heartbreakers are. The flip, “A Wake For The Minotaur” is where it’s at, making this purchase worthwhile.

Gonn – Est 1966 7” (picture disc)

Acquired! The “Blackout of Gretely” b/w “Paint In My Heart” another cut from 1966, which. according to the picture disc notes on the flip side, is featured in some movie from last year called Joint Body. No idea. There are two additional songs per side that are, evidently, new tracks recorded last year from a record called Fully Loaded. While I would hesitate at recommending such a title, the new cuts did little to get me excited about a 21^st Century Gonn while not so bad that I lifted the needle off the record early. Record 215 out of 1000!

Trashmen – Live At The Whiskey A Go-Go St Paul, MN 1966 7”

Sold out. This one hurt a bit and I even circled a few extra times to see if I had accidently missed this garage rock nugget.

David Bowie – “Stars (Are Out Tonight)” 7”

Put it back in the bin. “Stars” was the A-side b/w “Where Are We Now.” Since I have both versions already on CD, vinyl and MP3, I couldn’t justify the expense of the 7” that offered nothing new in return. I later saw a guy about my age clutching the last copy that I had put back. Good for him.

Chet Atkins – Black Jack 7” (e.p.)

Acquired! Probably the second most sought-after item on my list, so go me! A pretty penny too, at $15 I half expected a complementary Gretsch guitar for the purchase price. A 4-song set of unreleased Atkins tracks, including an alternate version of “Boo Boo Stick Beat,” that infectious music bumper you hear on N.P.R.’s All Things Considered. Released by Sundaze on an old RCA logo, this big-holed single has clear red vinyl and is packaged in nifty 50’s nostalgia. Not for sale.

Superchunk – “Void/Faith” 7”

Acquired! A friend of mine in northern Minnesota sent an urgent s.o.s. to be on the lookout for this one for him. A guy navigating the record bin with his infant reached for the same section where this find was sitting out in front at the same time as I did. We both withdrew our hands at the same time and I submissively asked “Did you want this one?” Thankfully, he did not, even when I clarified that I wasn’t speaking about the Shearwater/Sharon Van Etten single. This is Record Store Day, man! Be aggressive! Besides, how would I explain to my friend “Yeah, they had that Superchunk single you wanted, but I was a pussy and gave it up to a dude holding a baby.” Clear vinyl! Great song(s) (Fuck yeah, I played it)! I’m now planning to keep this one for myself. Fuck you, Jason! Record 186 out of 1000!

Orange Juice – Texas Fever (e.p.)

Sold out. The guy holding an infant got my hopes up when he told me that he saw this on the other side of the record bin. Mama didn’t raise no fool. I knew he was only trying to distract me from the section that contained the Superchunk single above. Besides, when I finally made it to the other side, it was not the title in question, but the last Orange Juice album before they split. I didn’t want that one.

Tegan & Sara – “Closer” 12”

Don’t give me no shit about my T/S fixation. This is one of a very select breed of artists that the entire family tolerates together. The little one likes to come down to the basement, the refuge of many a domesticated male, and ask me to play a record. I figured this one, featuring remixes of Tegan and Sara’s lead-off single to Heartthrob would get the little one dancing around the room with me. Well, there’s always Men Without Hats!

 

On the drive home. That's my badassed 4-Runner behind the tree. Jealous?

Aerosmith – Aerosmith

Reissued on 180-gram vinyl. But for $25?! Fuck that noise. I put this shit back because I know I can probably find an awesome original copy for tons cheaper. I know it’s probably not Aerosmith’s fault for the pricing, but it’s so easy to hate on them. Particularly for the past 30 years of shit they’ve done.

Black Milk – Synth Or Soul

Acquired! A badassed instrumental effort from this Detroit hip-hop producer, emanating from luscious cream yellow vinyl. This will get plenty of late-night spins and insure the spirit of 4.20 gets additional dates on the calendar.

Various Artists – Rough Guide To Latin Psychedelia and Rough Guide To Psychedelic Brazil

Acquired! Both of them! No idea why I placed these two compilations on my R.S.D. list, having never heard any of the artists before or experience with the songs included on these well-appointed collection. I’ll let you know how it works out.

That’s what I had on my list, but as I said before, half of not coming across as just another “amateur” on Record Store Day is spending some extra time circulating through the titles that were there before, and after, the special marketing drive ends.

I make sure to sniff around the used cd collections too, which are proving more and more to be a goldmine of good finds as people begin dropping off their cumbersome collections and Seven Mary Three titles.

Which is why I nearly wet myself when I noticed a copy of The Headless Horsemen’s Can’t Help But Shake, a title that I have-no shit-been on the lookout for the last quarter century.

The Headless Horsemen were a garage rock revival band hailing from New York City in the mid-to-late 80’s. They dressed in retro suits, but their music would fool you into believing you were listening to an honest-to-God Nuggets-era band that came and flamed with the best of them, leaving their bones to be haggled over by garage band collectors.

There’s now another outfit from the N.Y.C. area that’s using the Headless Horsemen name, this time a duo made up of Conner O’Neil and Fareed Sajan, but they are not the badassed purveyors of fine garage rock that I speak of.

Can’t Help But Shake was originally released on the now-defunct Resonance record label and adorned in kitschy 60’s attire, this is the real deal and I’ve finally found it. I originally had a copy of it on a treble-heavy eq’d cassette that’s probably at the bottom of some lost moving box somewhere, when it needs to be back in heavy rotation again.

It will be now, thanks to some extra navigating around the Record Collector, and is yet another example of why I need to spend more time in record stores, besides the requisite annual expo.

Waiting for the obligatory post-game cheeseburger  @ Lincoln Cafe in Mt. Vernon

If anything, and this was most certainly true for this year’s event, R.S.D. gives me an opportunity to devote at least one day to this lifelong obsession, obtaining a carte blanche morning by myself and my hobby without the interference of family or people who tag along. You know, the kind of people who hover behind you, signaling the hints that they’re ready to go while you’re keeping a running tally of the growing purchase price in your head.

Speaking of, I overheard Kirk and the other Record Collector staff members taking a look at the receipts after the first wave of purchases, comparing the tallies of some of the regulars who came in when the doors opened, dropping at least a car payment at the store before they left.

It sounded like a few regulars had even traveled to places like Chicago for Record Store Day, assuring that some titles would be available (the store-as is the case every year-sometimes gets overlooked on quantity and titles in general, losing them to higher volume stores in larger cities) to their greedy little hands at the stroke of midnight.

For me, my area record store (a half-hour commute away from my driveway) was enough, and the titles I did manage to grab were enough to warrant an obligatory spin of Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” before the shrink-wrap was cut open with an X-Acto knife.

Before the first inhale of that sweet, vinyl smell.