Las Vegas Ruminations…Part II “The Elevators”

It’s Saturday night in the city of sin and a phalanx of nocturnal revelers shuffles impatiently in front of a pair of gilded doors. The doors open allowing successive entourages to push past the expectant crowd gathered outside. Eyes lock, coy smiles exchanged, and open-ended invitations are extended as the crush of people is reversed. Inside there is barely room to move and no place to move to anyway. Whispers can be heard above the music pumped in from overhead speakers. We’re packed in tight like perfume-scented veal. This is one of the best and most random of Las Vegas’ many playgrounds…the elevator of your favorite casino.

The elevator banks in Las Vegas casinos serve in many ways as a microcosm. They’re unavoidable and essential to your stay in Vegas. Yet, they rarely receive the attention I believe they deserve. They have an almost tidal quality. Early in the morning they’re a mix of families making their way to the pool, the buffet bound, and bleary-eyed remnants of the previous night’s odysseys. This time of day the elevators assume a more familiar atmosphere. Eye contact is either avoided or limited to polite recognition. Children shift excitedly from foot to foot, waiting for the doors to open on the day’s adventure. While others can’t wait for them to close the chapter on a story best left unwritten.

As the desert sun continues its rise, so to does the flurry of activity in the elevator banks. Like molecules when heated, trips to and from hotel rooms seem to have a reactive association to the outside temperature. One can only surmise the nature of these hotel room missions. Their soundtrack is the sound of flip-flops reverberating off marble floors to accompany the march to the elevator banks. Women shielded behind over-sized eyewear stand confidently in swimsuits. They pretend not to notice the men checking them out. It’s in these moments that small talk morphs into proposals for future rendezvous.

The end of the day means the elevator banks once again become clogged with families returning from the pool. Parents clutch their children, refraining them from the overwhelming urge to push all the buttons on the elevator panel. Married men sneak peripheral glances at the girls who are busy recanting pool encounters. An impatient pall has overtaken the elevator. People want to get back to their rooms to recharge for the night ahead.

The night really starts when you load into that first elevator of the evening. For the well-lubed hotel guests, fresh from pre-partying in their rooms, this is their first encounter in the “wild” for that night. You stand waiting, perhaps there’s a wager on which elevator door will open first. The ding, signaling the arrival of your vertical chariot, marks the first moment of anticipation of the night. Who will greet you when the doors disunite?

It’s important to try and match the energy of the elevator upon entering. They are like hyper-accelerated ecosystems, each with its own evolutionary trajectory. You can exist in complete silence from floors 35 to 23, and then suddenly, one comment can unleash a torrent of conversation - the ebb and flow of riders creating an atmosphere of chance that rivals the gaming floor.

There are a few different types of “elevator playas”, that are worth mentioning. The “Host” acts as if you’ve been invited to his personal party. They might pepper you with a few questions about your day or plans for the evening. The “Host” usually keeps the conversation light and innocuous.

Next we have the “Inquisitor”, who usually is very curious as to, “What your deal is?” They like to push the envelope, by asking provocative questions and making any manner of allusions. When handled properly the “Inquisitor” can be a valuable asset to the elevator party.

Lastly, there’s the “Comedian”. They like to take advantage of the tight confines and lack of exits to work on material. The elevator usually represents the acme of their comedy career. The best you can do is pray they’re funny or that you don’t have far to go before reaching the lobby.

So the next time you are in Las Vegas pay attention to your time in the elevators. Often it’s the time spent en route to our destinations that goes unnoticed. Las Vegas elevators are every bit as sportive as the places they are depositing you. Remember, you can’t have “what happens in Vegas” if you don’t leave your room…usually.

A Few Words On "Feeling Safe"...

There has been much lip service given by both political parties to idea that they are the ones best suited to "keeping us safe". As the election cycle winds to a close and all the hyperbole of the eminent threat to our safety gets ratcheted up, it feels as if those that I fear most are the very ones in charge of governing, legislating, and protecting me from the "Evildoers".

I think it might be beneficial to include media giants, corporate barons, journalists, politicians, celebrities, law enforcement, and middle America on the list of those intent on terrorizing our fragile post 9/11 mindset. What makes me feel unsafe is the continual erosion of our freedoms, the rise of materialism, consumer culture run amuck, and the freefall from grace our nation has experienced internationally.

The fact is our Presidential election has devolved into a popularity contest. Journalists no longer garner respect and the distinction of being "truth tellers". Instead, they are the puppets of corporate giants concerned with bottom lines and filling 24-hour news cycles. In order for a real change to occur, for a true sense of security to replace the fear mongering of the last 8 years to take hold, we need a wholescale change to what it is we value. We need to change what we stand for as a people and have been projecting to the rest of the world. We are no longer progressive thinkers but rather we have regressed culturally, socially, and politically.

I don't fear getting blown to smithereens by some terrorist plot, although it very well could happen. I fear shouldering the burden of decades of bad decision-making by my government. I fear corporate fat cats that dictate policy to the government I fear. I fear the status quo. I fear religion. I fear Hollywood. I fear "Reality TV". I fear cynics. I fear oil and it's stranglehold on our economy. I fear political expedience. I fear drug laws not drug users. I fear the police. I guess I fear that we just don't get it. I fear that we never will.

So who is going to keep me safe from all of these fears? Instead of looking to someone to "change" all of this for us, we need to not fear changing it for ourselves.

Well, now time passed and now it seems everybody's having them dreams.
Everybody sees themselves walkin' around with no one else.
Half of the people can be part right all of the time,
Some of the people can be all right part of the time.
But all of the people cannot be right all of the time. I think Abraham
Lincoln said that.
"I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours, "I said that.

Bob Dylan "Talkin World War III Blues"

Duvet's Daily Dose...ENOUGH ALREADY!

Alright, ENOUGH ALREADY! Duvet can no longer sit in silence in an effort to remain unbiased. I can only suffer so much non speak, ridiculousness, and denial. Sarah Palin is no more equipped to potentially run the United States, let alone a hockey franchise, than Duvet is to win a beauty pageant.

I was reading through my daily list of blogs when I came across this excerpt from Palin's much anticipated interview with CBS's Katie Couric on the Huffington Post. Couric is seeking clarification for a previous remark made by Palin in her interview with ABC's Charlie Gibson, regarding her foreign policy experience. She remarked to Gibson that her state of Alaska's proximity to Russian gives her insight into the minds of the Russians and uniquely qualifies her to deal with them.

Transcript below:

COURIC: You've cited Alaska's proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?

PALIN: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and on our other side, the land-- boundary that we have with-- Canada. It-- it's funny that a comment like that was-- kind of made to-- cari-- I don't know, you know? Reporters--

COURIC: Mock?

PALIN: Yeah, mocked, I guess that's the word, yeah.

COURIC: Explain to me why that enhances your foreign policy credentials.

PALIN: Well, it certainly does because our-- our next door neighbors are foreign countries. They're in the state that I am the executive of. And there in Russia--

COURIC: Have you ever been involved with any negotiations, for example, with the Russians?

PALIN: We have trade missions back and forth. We-- we do-- it's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where-- where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is-- from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to-- to our state.

I defy someone to decipher this non-answer and articulate just what the f@#k this puppet is talking about? This is no joke and the stakes are way too high to succumb to likability and politicizing gender as a means to scare up votes! "You've come a long way, Baby", to quote the advertising world, to devolve the legacy of women in politics to Sarah Palin.

The fact is no amount of briefing and media quarantining will qualify this tyro to be next in line to run the "Free" world. WAKE UP!! LISTEN!! PAY ATTENTION!! to what she says, not how good she looks saying it. Vladimir Putin is a REAL pit bull and Sarah Palin is really a "hockey mom". Do not confuse the two because we will regret it...

Why I’m a Yankee Fan and Why I Bawled Like a Baby on Sunday Night

Sunday night the New York Yankees played their final game in Yankee Stadium. The house that Ruth built and George Steinbrenner renovated has seen its last pitch. As I watched the game I found myself shedding real, heartfelt tears. I sat there watching Mariano Rivera close out the final home game of this season, a season that for the first time in 14 years will leave Yankee Stadium dark in October, and bawled like a baby. My wife commented on how cute she thought it was that I was so emotional but I was troubled. Where were these tears coming from? And, why a building made of concrete, steel, plastic and whatever else buildings are made of, was having such a profoundly emotional effect on me?

You see as much as this will annoy and inspire the derisive quips of many of my friends, I love the New York Yankees. I grew up in the Bay Area raised on National League baseball and the San Francisco Giants. I spent many a night shivering under a blanket with my family at Candlestick Park, watching the fog appear like some gray monster over the left field wall, intent on swallowing the stadium whole. The 70's and 80's were not kind to those Giant teams of my youth. They lost way more than they won and always seemed to be yielding to the dreaded Dodgers of Los Angeles come playoff time. The playoffs required that I choose another team to fill my October baseball void. It allowed me to extend my season and deposit the reservoir of pent up emotion into someone else's franchise.

The logical choice would have been to embrace the Oakland A's just across the Bay. But I went cold at the sight of the green and yellow jerseys they wore. Even though the A's were World Series champs in the early 70's, I still felt nothing, no allegiance bubbled up to the surface. I guess even as a little boy I knew nothing good could ever truly come out of the East Bay for me. My provincial SF-ness taking root, I ditched "my" American League franchise in search of another.

It wasn't much of a leap to take an interest in the New York Yankees. If you followed baseball even casually, you knew of the storied franchise and its players. Growing up in San Francisco you were taught two things: 1. The best crab in the world came from right outside the Bay and 2. Joe DiMaggio was the greatest baseball player to ever play the game.

I can remember my grandfather sitting in his backyard, within shouting distance of Candlestick Park, listening to the Yankees simulcast on the radio. He talked about the Yankees as if he had grown up in the Bronx all his life. You see the Giants only had existed for him recently, but the Yankees were the team he grew up with. Having immigrated from Italy to San Francisco via Ellis Island, New York City represented something to his generation of immigrants. It was that beacon of possibility, freedom, and liberty. New York City was the exporter of traditions for a vast, young nation that needed to establish a national identity. The Yankees were winners and America began to internalize this belief as well.

Those Yankee teams of lore would carry us through challenges and inspire us in the worst of times. In the thirties, during the Great Depression, when we became a nation of losers, the Yankees were winners. Reminding us of what we could accomplish with hard work, community, and belief in something bigger.

When our country was attacked and plunged into a World War in 1941, the Yankees won. We would win too. After the war, as our nation's prosperity swelled, the Yankees reflected this return to glory on the baseball field. The 50's and early 60's belonged to the New York Yankees. They wrote history on the baseball diamond as America was writing history as a nation.

But it was in the late 70's that I began my personal journey with the franchise. And perhaps more to the point, my intense desire to be one of those lucky ones sitting in the stands at Yankee Stadium.

The mid/late 60's and most of the 70's saw the historic franchise in a state of upheaval and turmoil. The cultural shift and chaotic change sweeping across the nation was being mirrored by the play of the Yankee teams of this era. Pennants were being flown above other city’s stadiums as flags and bras were being burned on the streets. By the late 70’s the city of New York had fallen into a complete state of disrepair and crime.

I was 8 years old in 1977 and baseball had become a major passion of mine. I still loved the Giants but found myself drawn to the shaggy players in pinstripes with each pack of baseball cards I opened. The uniform, with the big NY emblem above the heart, was both familiar and exotic. This team of scruffy renegades from a distant place beckoned to me.

Yankee Stadium itself seemed massive, a field bathed in light from light stands reaching high into the sky. The surrounding tenements and the subway cars appearing through the right field wall, seemed scary to me as I watched games from the comfort of my suburban home. Yankee Stadium might as well have been on the other side of the world, let alone on the others side of the continent.


It was in 1977 that the Yankees improbably won the pennant to face the hated Dodgers in the World Series. I had been following the Yankees all season long via the newspapers and “This Week in Baseball”. I couldn’t wait to watch my adopted team take on my enemy - I would learn that they were just as hated by generations of Bronx loyalists before me, when they played at Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field before moving to sunny, Southern California – on television every night for the next two weeks.

I can still hear Howard Cosell’s grandiose and incendiary voice calling the call. What was even more fascinating to me was the chaos and mayhem he detailed that was occurring outside the ballpark. There were blackouts, serial killers, and fires, “THE BRONX WAS BURNING!” I was captivated. The city sounded like a zoo and the stadium looked like one big cage. When the Yankees did the impossible and all the “caged animals” streamed onto the field, the catharsis reached my living room 3,000 miles away. I was hooked from that day on.

The 80’s were not as kind to the Bronx Bombers and my meddle was tested. Luckily years of being a Giants fan taught me how to deal with losing. Yankee Stadium would become my baseball Mecca, even if I went there only in my dreams. Over the years the building and all it represented, would fuel my desire to someday live in New York City. I would be one of those lucky ones to sitting in the blue plastic chairs.

The mid/late 90’s saw the Yankees return to glory with a run of four championships. When people asked why a guy from San Francisco was a Yankee fan? I parried their examination by stating simply, “I like to win.” But it was much deeper, much more personal than that.

My wife and I moved to New York City shortly after September 11th in 2002. I had been to New York City a few times prior and I was resolute in one day counting myself among its citizenry. I internalized the words Frank Sinatra sung in “New York, New York” after Yankee victories at the stadium. I was convinced, like many before me, that my destiny was tied to this great, American city.

The first time my wife and I went to the stadium, shortly after moving to the city, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep the night before. You See, I was fresh meat in a city of devout carnivores. I wasn’t sure what I had gotten myself into moving out East and was questioning if I could in fact, as the song said, “Make it there…” Taking the 4 train to the stadium my palms began to sweat with each stop going uptown.

The train filled up with the familiar black and white colors of the team. Hats proudly worn with the NY logo known worldwide. They call it Yankee pride and mine was beginning to swell and grow inside of me. We were all here for one reason, the New York Yankees.

Upon entering the stadium I felt a wave of history wash over me. It was breathtaking. The field that was etched into my mind came alive. The colors were sharper and the sound of the fans taking their seats was almost musical. I felt a strange calm beneath my excitement. For the first time since arriving in New York I felt like I was welcome, that I belonged, at least here, for next three or four hours.

I would go to many more games over the next four years. I would take the train that seemed so mysterious and foreboding to me in 1977. I sat in box seats just rows from the field. I would go to day games by myself and sit in the left field bleachers. I sat in the final row of the upper deck, high above home plate. Taking in the Bronx skyline in the near distance.

Once my wife and I sat behind the actor Philip Seymour Hoffman. We high-fived and screamed at the opposing team from seats that were worth more than I made all of that year. Every game was a dream realized. I never forgot how lucky I was to be sitting in that stadium.

Sometimes I’d go up to the stadium to try and get tickets from scalpers. I would walk around the entire stadium, just taking it all in and calling friends on the West Coast to make them jealous. If I couldn’t land tickets I’d sit across the street in a bar and watch the game on TV. The cheers would flood in the door as the subway rumbled outside above our heads.

Now that I’m back in San Francisco I get the Major League Ticket on digital cable. I watch as many Yankee games as I did when I lived back there. My friends still question the sincerity of my devotion. They are quick to remind me that I grew up in San Francisco and to, “Give it up already!” But what they don’t understand is that you don’t have to be from New York to be a New Yorker. You just have to live there. The city is made up of people who were born somewhere else but destined to live there. And if you no longer live there, just having lived there changes you. It becomes part of who you are, how you think, what you think about. The provincial thinking that leads to the diatribes I face during baseball season no longer affects me.

As I watched the final moments of Sunday’s game on my television, I was overcome with emotion. The team had gathered on the pitchers mound and their captain Derek Jeter was thanking the fans. The camera cut to saddened fans, some crying, and most looking kind of numb. That look you often see when someone has been told a loved one has passed. Jeter asked the fans to go next door with them and help build new memories. I look forward to the future and being able to do just that.

The team began circling the perimeter of the field, waving to the fans and doffing their caps. The end was here after 85 glorious and some not so glorious years. The camera fixed on a boy of about 8 years old wiping tears from his eyes. I sat in my kitchen doing the same. I thought about how lucky that little boy was to be there, and, how lucky I was to have been there.

I think the reason I was so upset was that Yankee Stadium represented a direct line to my youth, my hopes, and my dreams. As anyone living in an uncertain time can attest, change is a scary but necessary proposition. It made me think of all the things that have changed in New York in the short time since I’ve moved away. Yankee Stadium felt like a constant that connected the lives of anyone who had walked through its gates. It bridged the gap of generations and connected the dots of history. Yankee Stadium was more than a place where baseball was played; it was a home to big dreams.

I hope this will help explain my love for my adopted team and city.

Ruminations On Las Vegas....Part One "The Pool"

This past Labor Day I went to Las Vegas for a good friend's bachelor party. First off I should say that my friends and I are entirely too old to be engaging in this sort of "tradition". I mean we are just too old to be acting like hormonally challenged alcoholics, with our every perversion proudly on display. That said we soldiered on, and on, and on...

We stayed at the Mandalay Bay Resort & Casino on the "Strip". A property that the majority of our contingent was strangely compelled to never exit. You would have thought the desert sands had been transformed into ocean water. Our shipwrecked crew of hapless, middle-aged manboys stranded on this remote island, at least it was in keeping with the hotel's theme.

Mandalay Bay is known for its enormous wave pool and the Moorea Beach Club, a 21 and over "European Style" beach experience. At $50 to enter Moorea Beach Club, the value is predicated on how "European" the female patrons are feeling. Our view from the 25th floor provided an aerial vantage of a "sausage fest" of the highest order. $50 dollars saved we opted to stick with good, old-fashioned, American-style sunbathing. The familiar repressed, Victorian ethos we had grown accustomed to would have to suffice.

While at the pool, I noticed the hegemonic trappings of a generation raised on the cultural exports of MTV's "The Real World". The pools were populated with tattooed twenty-something's, peacocking for imagined fans. Men with their chests jutting forward, the strain of looking cool taking its toll under the hot desert sun, patrolled the rim of the pools. Flat-billed baseball caps proudly displaying cities most probably live no closer than a hundred miles of, were pivoted on their heads by the slightest of degrees. It's easy to spot the guys from Long Island and New Jersey. Their skin is Halloween orange and their hair gelled up, forming an inverted mote designed to keep the "cool" from escaping.

Over sized, mirrored sunglasses, a la Paris Hilton, were the accessory du jour for both men and women at the pool. Another quick note, piercings and tattoos no longer signify otherness when everyone in attendance has them. The majority of the women prefer to opt for the "slut stamp" on the small of the back. Most display Chinese characters and tribal art, the significance of which will gradually fade as their their forties approach. Men seem to favor the nipple piercing; on most it draws attention to sagging pecs. Meanwhile, flashes of light reflected off tongue piercings, punctuating innuendo-laden conversations.

For all of Vegas' wild poolside reputation, I found the crowd subdued. Maybe most were sweating out the previous night's debauchery. Or, maybe, $12 Pina Coladas and $7 Budwiesers will work to mute even the most frivolous of vacationers. Whatever the reason, nary a chicken fight was witnessed. I felt sorry for those that paid $1,500 for a cabana rental. At least they should get some aquatic theatre for that price. I couldn't help but think that this was a far cry from the Vegas pool scenes of Entourage. I guess all the action is at the Hard Rock pool.

The attitude permeating the pool grounds was Entourage worthy however. Even the homeliest of ladies, squeezed into ill-fitting swimwear, had attitude. When did our culture propagate the notion that everyone is a "star"? And as self-fashioned celebrities, staring vacantly through whomever cross their line of vision, they further delude themselves. I know this sounds like bitterness and perhaps it is. I'm bitter that being bitchy is celebrated and engaging one another is an infringement on one's cool. I watched whole groups engaged in the ultimate community building exercise, texting! It sends the message that wherever you're at and whoever you're with just isn't cutting it. There is a better party out there, with way cooler people. What happened to, "It's Vegas Baby!" I guess it's not this part of Vegas or these "Babies"...

LE MINUIT FILM FESTIVAL

THREE PART SERIES ON THE BEST WHISKY DRINKING MOVIES
By David Becerra

PART ONE, “DRUNKEN ANGEL”


A whisky-drinking movie is pretty self-explanatory. It is a movie in which, when you sit down to watch it, you are compelled to drink whisky. What makes a movie a great whisky-drinking movie? There are a few key components, but mostly it’s a kind-of “I know it when I see it” thing.

First, they are black and white. Second, they are old. Third they are fun to watch. Whisky drinking movies take their time. They linger around and are not in much of a hurry or plot driven. They usually take place at night and focus on lowlife and amoral characters. These “anti-heroes” make fun of people with appointment books. Oh yah, and the people in them drink whisky, sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. They drink whisky, they talk about whisky; they hold their glasses up to the light and look at the beautiful whisky. Most importantly, they really enjoy drinking whisky.

One of the best whisky drinking movies is Akira Kurosawa’s “Drunken Angel” from 1948. Starring Toshiro Mifune and Takashi Shimura this film takes place in a run-down post war Japan. It’s about an alcoholic doctor who tries to get a gangster to get his shit together and take care of his tuberculosis. Really, that’s what its about.

So, here’s what you do. Go and order the movie. Netfilx I know has it in stock. When it arrives wait for a night when you will be home alone. For the people who spend most nights alone this won’t be a problem, but if you have a spouse, encourage her or him to go out sometime without you. It’s important to watch a whisky-drinking movie alone. This is true for several reasons, but mostly you want the freedom to feel lonely, drink a lot and get a little ugly. Once you have the place all to yourself, wait until it gets dark out, then go to your favorite all night liquor store and pick up a bottle. For Drunken Angel, I suggest lower end bourbon. Three good ones are Jim Beam, Old Crow or Old Grand Dad. For me Old Crow works best for Drunken Angel. It’s nice, drinkable bourbon, with an old WWII taste to it. When you get home, grab a glass, turn out all the lights and put the movie on. When the “Toho Studios” logo comes on, pour yourself a glass and start sipping.

Drunken Angel has a fantastic opening. The first shot is of a patch of swamp, bubbling and running over with scum. Ominous low music scales in and you know instantly nothing good will ever happen here. This is a good point to take a large swig. The shot hangs around long enough for the credits to roll over, then heavy score gives way to the soft sweet sounds of a distant acoustic guitar. Cut to a few prostitutes trying to stay awake. Next, we see the guitarist far off in the distance, playing under a low streetlight. The camera rolls back over the swamp, where we see some upside-down houses reflected in the muck. Then it pans up to some street thugs. It’s a hot summer night. They toss rocks into the swamp, light up some cigarettes and do their best to fend off the mosquitoes.

Man, what an opening! What a set up! Wouldn’t you love to hang out here, lounge around by the swamp, listen to that guitar and drink whisky! Let yourself feel the summer heat, the pacing and the stillness of the night. Take some more sips and let yourself be transported.

Our first interior shot is of a ramshackle doctor’s office. The Doc comes in, unshaven and scruffy. He is shirtless under his white smock, which is casually half open with the sleeves rolled up. He is followed by a young man, his patient who’s hand is bleeding and who turns out to be a local gangster. The Doc pulls out a bullet from the gangster’s hand. Then he patches him back up, no Novocain, -nothing. The gangster rolls around in pain and the Doc tells him he makes it policy to overprice hoodlums. The two exchange words and the gangster starts to cough. The Doc checks him out and it turns out our gangster has TB, bad. The gangster is in denial and fights with the Doc. This is where the shit starts between the two of them and the main narrative question of the movie is asked. Will the Doc be able to save this gangster from himself and his TB? The Doc hates what the gangster does but has a soft spot for him because he thinks he sees a glimmer of a heart way underneath. But he has to fight with the gangster to get him to take the TB seriously. Sometimes the gangster does. More than likely he only takes the Doc seriously because he is the town drunk, a fellow outsider like the gangster himself. (Thirsty?)

Often the two characters fight each other. The gangster throws the Doc against walls and down on the floor. The Doc throws a bunch of shit at the gangster and yells at him. But the two share some good moments too. At one point the gangster treats the Doc to some really good whisky and in one lovely, lovely shot with the camera behind the bar, the Doc slowly leans in, hands free and sips some whisky from a shot glass. He smacks his lips and savers the beautiful flavor of the prize whisky he rarely tastes. Pure whisky enjoyment! Make sure you taste some from your own glass when the Doc has his.

At this point you should be fully enjoying a great whisky-drinking movie. You should be knee deep into your bottle and deeply absorbed by the story, characters and personality of the film. You are experiencing all the sensations of a small corner of life in post war Japan. The whisky has taken you there, and for about another hour there is no place else you’d rather be.

Don LaFontaine, "The Voice of God," Hospitalized

In a world where movie trailers always contain the phrase "in a world where," there's unfortunate news. Don LaFontaine, nicknamed "The Voice of God," was brought in to Cedar's Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles Friday afternoon August 22 by his wife, Nita, after LaFontaine was experiencing shortness of breath. By Saturday morning, wife Nita had emailed members of the voiceover community to ask for prayers, stating that LaFontaine is "fighting for his life."

This news comes on the heels of an email sent from LaFontaine earlier in the month describing his year long battle with what he describes as a "suspicious growth" on his lymph nodes and left lung.


A biopsy on the lung indicated the tumor was benign, but during the procedure, his lung was nicked, causing it to collapse and air to be released into his upper body several times over multiple days. Further tests found a growth in his colon and a tumor under his lung that threatened to encircle his Aortic Valve.

LaFontaine's doctors began chemotherapy over several months which eventually led to his being able to return to work. However, the radiation therapy had spread to his lungs, making it virtually impossible for him to draw the breaths he needed to even walk, let alone work as a voiceover artist.

His email describing his year comes to a close with this plea, highlighted in green:

"But the real point of all this is the Genisis [sic] of the condition. I was a smoker, on and off, for thirty years. I quit nearly twenty years ago, but that crap has a tendency to lie doggo in your system. It finally caught up with me, and as you've just read - it ain't pretty. For those of you who are in the Voice Over business, and you think that smoking is adding some wonderful quality to your instrument - WAKE UP! Quit! Today! Whoever you are - if you smoke - Stop! All you are adding is garbage to your vocal cords, and a nice deep layer of tar and poison on the linings of your lungs."

LaFontaine's wife, Nina, asks today for thoughts, prayers, and well wishes be sent out for him, and for his daughters.

The Rodeo

The Rodeo This story would probably be better if I was some left wing PETA type nutjob renting a houseboat in Sausalito. But I'm not, so when I went to the Truckee National Championship Rodeo a few days back, I was beside myself. I was throwing back Kers Light like I belonged. I scratched my balls, not sure that's a "rodeo-centric" thing, and let loose a yeehaw! Though I fashioned it on Jim Morrisons primal scream in "The End." Everything about the whole thing was great. Teenage girls with big ole belt buckles, Wrangler jeans, bucking broncos, a mean ass bull. Even a bunch of hippies who had no problem watching a calf get a rope around the neck, but did take a moment to remind my son that pointing guns, even a cap gun, at people is bad. True, hippie-types, but shove it. He's five. Let him bust some caps in people while it's still fun.The only major issue with the whole Rodeo thing is the MC. That mofo talks and talks and talks. Won't shut up. The Rodeo, start to finish lasted 2.5 hours. He made it seem like a week and a half."All the people in the audience who served in the military stand up!"Two dudes stood up. God love them. But the MC makes it sound as though these two guys single handedly ended WW2 and through serious crisis management, averted WW3."Look at that would, you. Brings a tear to your eye."Two F-ing dudes stood up!!!! I'm not tearing up over two guys!The MC went on and on. If you thought vaudeville was a dead art, go to a rodeo.Regardless, the rodeo is fun. You drink beer, talk to people you never would imagine talking to, and feel you are a part of something that passed you by.Here's a link to the Truckee Rodeo. Maybe. It was my dad's 74th birthday tonight, and I've got a bit of a heat on.
www.truckeerodeo.org

Perfect Days...

Sometimes perfect days creep up on you. You go about things, daily things, and unexpected moments pop up. The weather wants you to fall in love, all the people who live in your city decide to stay home and out of your way and then before you know it, it's the end of the day. You find yourself having a cocktail over looking the pacific ocean while listening to part 4 of that 27 part song about being in a closet and you think, "Wow, what a perfect day."
Then there's other days. Days you wake up and say, I'm gonna blow off life and head on down to the beach club. Next thing you know your playing a little frisbee with Ryan O'Neal, watching budding starlets express themsleves all over each other, then crack open your 14th can of Tecate and watch the sun set while tending the teriyaki chicken skewers roasting on the BBQ.
At some point in the middle of Perfect Day Number 2, I realized, Los Angeles is just like anywhere else in the country. Granted, people in Witchita aren't swimming naked with super models at the Roosevelt, or watching dolphins do double back flip gainer thingy's while having lunch. But they are having lunch. And hell. All roads lead to LA. Soon all those peeps in Wichita will be out here. The cute ones, at least. So I'm gonna help. For starters, I'm going to give people the inside scoop on the good and the bad and ugly of LA. Though, I'll tell you right now. There's nothing bad or ugly about the dream factory. Worse case, you end up in some sort of Star 80 scenario. But even that would be cool.
Anyway, if I find something, I'll let you know. If I don't... I tell you something funny my kid said. He's always saying the darndest things.

12 Galaxies in SF Closing Its Doors...Get Ready For More of This

I came across this the other day in SF Weekly's Blog and I can guarantee this won't be the only club to close it's doors in the "City by the Bay". My sources are telling me that clubland is taking a big hit in the current downturn in the economy. In cities like Chicago, Los Angeles, and New York, high rents and club patrons tightening their belts could result in some of your favorite live music venues going the way of the dinosaur.

Another factor that is weighing on club owners is major corporations like Live Nation are buying up clubs or offering acts more money to play their venues. This effectively prices out the "mom and pop" club. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL!! They need your help...

One of the Mission's few live music venues -- and the only one of its size -- is closing later this month. Robert Levy, owner of 12 Galaxies since the club opened five years ago, says the financial climate is too rough for him to continue to keep the space open. It's some sad news for music lovers, as there have been some amazing shows at 12 Galaxies over the years -- from Lightning Bolt to Jay Reatard to Kelley Stoltz (and that's just off the top of my head), not to mention the fact that it removes one of the bigger venues in a neighborhood packed with young music fans. -- Jennifer Maerz

Two Ways Out, Indeed…Darker My Love Grab at the Brass Ring.

Down the street from my house there is a breakfast place called Mama's. Everyday I pass the restaurant and the line out front stretching down the block. And everyday, as I pass the line comprised mostly of guidebook-clutching tourists and yuppies (who love waiting in line for things more than anything else in the world), I ask myself the same question, "It's just eggs right?"

What does this have to do with Darker My Love and their record release party at the Independent Tuesday night? Over the last few months there has been a big push by both their label, Dangerbird Records (home to 2006's surprise breakout Silversun Pickups) and local promoting behemoth Another Planet Entertainment, in the run up to their sophomore release "2". After completing a month long "West Coast Residency" of free shows at hipster clubs (the Echo, Popscene, etc.) in both Los Angeles and San Francisco, Darker My Love emerged onto a stage lined with photographers. As I listened to the feedback slowly giving way to a pounding psychedelic riff, I found myself asking, "It's just a rock and roll band, right?"

DML’s sound has always drawn heavily from late sixties psychedelia and early nineties shoegaze. They, along with Wooden Shjips, The Black Angels, the Warlocks, and Brian Jonestown Massacre, are part of decade long revival to bring back that retro drone. DML were formed in 2004 and its members hail from both LA and SF. They have built up strong local followings in both cities, signing with LA based Dangerbird Records in 2006. Tuesday night’s material drew heavily from the new album “2” and their self-titled debut.

In an interesting marketing ploy, a copy of “2” was given out free to those that purchased a ticket to the record release. I see this as an attempt to energize the hardcore base of the band. By giving local scenesters and tastemakers “free” music, the hope is that they in turn will go forth and evangelize on behalf of Darker My Love. The 2/3rds capacity crowd gathered at the Independent were primed.

Darker My Love seems to suffer from a split personality. On one side they are confident purveyors of wah inspired, freak out jams, however; they seem less comfortable negotiating the tighter structure of the pop leanings on the new record “2”. Live, you can get away with less polish on the longer, jam-oriented pieces. Grooves emerge out of the rubble of constructing and deconstructing the three chord patterns laid down by Tim Presley (Guitar/Vocals), Jared Everett (Guitar), and Rob Barbato (Bass/Vocals). But the more tightly written and hooky compositions require a tightness that was not quite there.

That’s not to say there wasn’t moments of trancendence. The band, anchored by Barbato’s rich, round bass parts, hit you in the hips. I’m sure this is one reason why there were so many women in attendence. DML’s songs contain a sexual undercurrent that leaks out of the fuzz. Songs build, then release. On the popier songs, like the single Two Ways Out, airy vocals take over. Presley and Barbato sing very well together, hitting a nice, easy harmony. Two Ways Out has the potential to be a huge hit. It’s simple, infectious, and you can dance to it. It’s the kind of song that will undoubtedly surface in a commercial.

One pet peeve I have with DML in the live setting is how under utilized Will Canzoneri: (organ, clavinet) is, his playing buried in the mix. I’ve seen too many bands that have organ players relegated to atmospheric filler, rather providing another layer of texture to the music. If you’re going to lug a vintage organ onto the stage and mic it, let me hear it!

Visually, the band employed a huge backdrop with images projected onto it. They were severly reminscent of the late sixties. The ink blotter designs replaced by digital images achieving the same effect. The band members themselves, in appearance, embody the split-personality character inherent in their music. Half the band look like they were cast in a mid-sixties mod tribute. The other half sport the bearded visage du jour, the latest trend in indie rock. Which in itself is a wink and nod to the seventies. All these elements work to produce a simulacra of a band out of time.

Time will tell if “2” is the record that will make Darker My Love a household name. I think the band will benefit from the intensive touring breaking an album will entail. The buzz generated by label, publicist, and promoter with the new release will subside and then the hard work of converting those that the press attracts, one town at a time, begins. Maybe one day a line will be stretching down the block outside the Independent for Darker My Love. If you find yourself in it, you might want to ask yourself, what it is your waiting in line for?

The Real State of Real Estate...

This month, we're going to give you investors the simple, knock-out combination for creating your real estate legacy. Caution, this may cause your great grand-children to raise a glass anytime your name is mentioned.

Buy SFR's. Most of you know that SFR stands for "Single Family Residence". But for some savvy investors, their SFRs are making them So Filthy Rich.

Now, we're sure some of you are saying; "SFRs? What about units? I want units!".

Here's why SFRs:

- NO RENT CONTROL: Avoid relocation fees (up to $17,000!), impossibly low rents, and bad tenants you can't get rid of. SFR's aren't subject to LA's lovely rent control laws. Hooray!

- Easier To Rent: Most renters would choose an SFR over sharing walls with some stranger any day. And most are willing to pay a premium for it.

- Higher Rents: See above.

- Fewer Expenses: Have your SFR renters pay all their utilities. Water, gardener, etc. Plus you can lock in a home warranty that will cover the costs of minor break-downs to keep you from having to run out and fix a clogged sink at 1am.

- Friendlier Loans: Anyone trying to get a loan on a non-owner occupied income property right now? It ain't easy, especially anything over 2 units.

Lending on an SFR is far more user-friendly.

- Better Re-sale: There are more buyers in the market for an SFR than income units. More buyers = greater demand and we all know what that means.

Food For Thought: "Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now." Goethe

This is an opinion and should be treated as such. Investing in general carries significant risk. You could lose your entire investment.

PAST PERFORMANCE IS NOT INDICATIVE OF FUTURE RESULTS.

This means that just because a particular investment worked in the past does not mean, in and of itself, that the same indicators will cause a similar profitable effect.

WE MAKE NO REPRESENTATION OF CLIENT PROFITS.

Unfortunately we cannot guarantee you profits. There are no guarantees of profits in real estate or in any other investment for that matter. In fact, in many cases customers suffer a loss of all or part of their investment dollar.

INVESTORS CAN AND DO LOSE MONEY.

Every sale produces a winner and a loser. Money is not created or destroyed, it just changes ownership. If investing will alter your style of living in any manner to the worse, do not invest.

But is it Batman?

Here's what I know about Batman, having lived on Planet Earth in the latter half of the Twentieth Century. Stop me if I come up with something you've never heard before.

"Batman" is the alter ego of millionaire Bruce Wayne, who lives in Wayne Manor. His home base is a place called The Bat Cave, which is located below Wayne Manor, where he keeps his Batmobile and other assorted Bat-objects; plus he can do crimesolving on computers he keeps there.

Have I lost you yet? Anything new so far?

Batman's secret identity is known by his faithful butler, Alfred. It's also known by his ward, Dick Grayson, who tags along with him to fight crime under the name Robin. This dynamic duo has a liaison in Gotham City police with whom they trust, a police commissioner by the name of Gordon.

Still with me? Are you saying "yeah, yeah, I know all this" yet?

Batman, with the assistance of Robin and Commissioner Gordon, fights criminals in Gotham City. When there's trouble, Commisioner Gordon calls for Batman by using a big arclight that shines the Bat Signal into the sky, alerting Batman about criminals who dress up in costumes and have clever names. These individual villains usually have accomplices who dress up in similar costumes. One of these villains is named The Joker. There's one called The Riddler, and one called Catwoman, and one called The Penguin. When Batman captures these criminals, he sends them to a looney bin called Arkham Asylum.

Hey, bet you didn't know the name Arkham Asylum. Or did you?

You know, I liked that new Batman movie. I like that it's called "The Dark Knight," which hearkens me back to the day I sat and read the entire Frank Miller graphic novel "The Dark Night Returns" in trade paperback format back in 1988.

References abound in Miller's tale - some I was aware, some slipped past me while I raised my eyebrow. I could not look up on Wikipedia who this baddie was or that reference was - I just had to read the story, and wonder how much deeper my enjoyment would have been if I'd spent 40 years reading Batman comics. But in truth, I didn't need to. The story was so engrossing, the tapestry so well woven, that his more obscure references simply inspired me to want for more - I didn't feel left out of the tale being told.

And so now here is a movie that may just be the second highest grossing film of all time. I didn't love it. It didn't grab me and compel me, like my experience with Miller's untouchable piece. We can talk about Heath Ledger, who, yes, does an amazing performance and actually seems like The Joker. But as with anything, that which is written on the page will always be greater than what is on screen, because of the individual readers' tailored imaginations filling in the pauses. Miller's vision overcame my imaginings and overwhelmed them - Tim Burton's did not. Nolan's have not. The latter has come close. But the last two Batman movies, to me, haven't seemed like Batman.

Don't get me wrong - I liked them both, and I saw Dark Knight twice in subsequent Sundays. I enjoyed it the second time far more than the first screening, mainly because I wasn't sitting so close to the screen and I had preemptively peed. As it began, I thought for sure we were starting out on the right foot - The Joker had henchmen who dressed like him, and he puts a grenade in a guy's mouth that poofs out colored smoke. It's the familiar in a new way.

What entangled and snarled me in Miller's book is all that was familiar to me already was presented in a new, dangerous, and exciting way. These new movies are filled with new, but not so much of the familiar. After the big opening sequence, very little of what I already know comes through again. Sure, there's a batcycle, of sorts, and once again we get a filmed version of the story of Two-Face. But why do we never see Gordon's daughter? So we can cast the part later? Is there anyone on earth who doesn't know who Barbara Gordon becomes?

You know what - maybe there is. But my guess is most people know everything I wrote at the beginning of this. Sure, we can keep making film after film to tease out the story over multiple years, but you know as well as I do that Nolan and Bale won't keep making them; we've got one more, at best, that is any good. Isn't it time we had a movie that is as good as this Dark Knight AND includes everything we already know about Batman? In a new and daring way?

I keep waiting. And if you are, too, then go pick up Miller's book - it's the best Batman movie ever made.

"Ever Get the Feeling You've Been Cheated?" Malcolm McLaren Takes Over Times Square...

Seminal punk rock impresario, inventive musical stylist, and evocative visual artist, Malcolm McLaren recently commandeered the "Crossroads of America". McLaren was conscripted by New York City art collective Creative Time to produce something for their upcoming video art presentation in Times Square. The result is McLaren's take on this year's theme, "Shallow", with a series of "musical paintings". On display on MTV's giant HD gilded screen, between 44th & 45th, McLaren's envelope pushing films, which feature slowed downed pre-coitus clips from porno films of the 50's, 60's and 70's. These films are to be accompanied by musical "cut-ups" created by the artist. The films will be on display from June 25th through August 14th.

“Take off that jumpsuit, you look like Grace Slick…” Camper Van Beethoven Celebrates 25 Years at the Fillmore, San Francisco

Nostalgia is a funny thing...it forces us to examine the life we are currently mired in while at the same time celebrating the one we abandoned. Now, fill a room full of people who are experiencing similar existential quandaries, add alcohol and other substances and finish it off with the soundtrack of their youth. San Francisco's legendary Fillmore on Saturday June 28th hosted such an event. Honoring their 25th Anniversary, Santa Cruz's Camper Van Beethoven played a glorious 2hour plus set, singing "songs of the fecundity of life and love."

A reunited Catheads got things off to a rollicking start. The Catheads are one of San Francisco’s forgotten gems and were clearly excited about playing the Fillmore. Their sound can be a bit hard to classify, given the fact the there are four distinct songwriters in the band. Songs range from Country to Folk to Rock with a psychedelic bent. There is a loose vibe inherent in their music, peppered with lush harmonies. For me, the Catheads always seemed to encapsulate all that was great about the San Francisco music scene back in the late 80’s to early 90’s. They were at once the engineers of highly crafted pop songs containing a foggy beauty reminiscent of their hometown, while live, they acted more like conductors on a runaway train struggling to stay on the tracks.

Drummer Melanie Clarin’s radiant smile proved contagious as I looked around at the hauntingly familiar faces enjoying this rare occurrence. The band benefited from the good will projected from the audience but not from the sound mix. The mix was muddy, leaving the guitars buried. Sam Babbit’s creative, meandering guitar lines were almost inaudible. De facto front man Mark Zandedera broke a string, had trouble imbibing “fake” champagne, and suffered from general discombobulation. I caught a woman’s eyes, lost in the strains of the Catheads kind of college radio hit “Upside Down”, I felt exactly as I had some twenty years earlier. It was as if nothing had changed for those few fleeting moments.

There I was, body pressed up against the stage, an underage teenager at the Berkeley Square, standing in awe of the four musicians on stage. My friends and I were painfully self aware, trying to blend in with the “adults” as they flirted and tossed back magic elixirs. I studied the musicians as they went about self-consciously setting up their own equipment on stage. We would factor in watching this pre-show ritual into our arrival time. It added to our anticipation of the event we spent all month fantasizing about. “Do you think they’ll play Crash Landing?” I asked my friend Dennis, momentarily knocking him out of his fixed gaze on the pretty drummer as she set up her kit. When the houselights dimmed we all shot up to attention. Looking side to side to see if everyone else was as excited as I was, I noticed a girl looking over at us. She gave a nod and a knowing smile and I was hooked. The music started and off I drifted.

The ghost of Rock shows past had deposited me back onto the Fillmore floor. The cruel joke being that everyone was not frozen in time but rather wore its ravages instead. I wonder if the Catheads knew then that they were inspiring me to don a guitar and pen my own tunes. I wonder if they knew how important their music was to my still developing sense of self. I knew that women dancing across from me understood.

Camper Van Beethoven took the stage to a near sell out crowd. Eager to share the amazing accomplishment of a Silver Anniversary, the audience was tingling with anticipation. As Jonathan Segel bowed through the intro riff of “Pictures of Matchstick Men” on his violin, the crowd let out the collective exhales of a joint they had been sharing for the past 25years. I watched as a father in front of me told his teenage son of the subtleties of holding ones ground on a crowded concert floor. “Get your elbows wide,” he said. I laughed to myself thinking how things had changed since the first time I saw CVB on the campus of UC Santa Cruz back in 1988.

It was Kresge Day; a music and arts festival held by one of the art colleges nestled in the woody hollow of the University of Santa Cruz. We were visiting my friend Pete who was attending school there. I had no idea who Camper Van Beethoven were but he assured us they were “trippy” and that we would like them. “Oh, and take these…” he said, as he handed us a handful of psychedelic mushrooms procured for the day’s events.

I remember bubble machines, the smell of patchouli, smiles given freely by pretty hippie girls in patchwork dresses, and that same melody reverberating off the stucco dormitories. I was transfixed and sniffing around the rabbit hole that would lead me to this spot in front of the stage. Here beneath CVB’s leader David Lowry’s feet, as he strummed his guitar on the stage of the Fillmore.

The members of Camper Van Beethoven have always been stellar musicians. This skilled musicianship was on full display during “Eye of Fatima Parts 1 & 2”. The band coalesced around Victor Krummenacher’s pulsing bass line. Again, I found myself being transported back in time.

Here I was sitting on the edge of my friend Allan’s bed. He stood in front of me bass guitar in hand. His nimble fingers matching the notes that poured out from the boom box speakers in perfect time with the recording of, the then brand new Camper record, Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart. I would ask him to play “Eye of Fatima” over and over, as I marveled at the deep, jaunty melody driving the song. These were the days when I was still mystified by my musical heroes. It was as if Allan had cracked some kind of code my clumsy fingers would never be able to decipher.

The funny thing is that this connection to the past doesn’t mean that the band hasn’t continued to evolve. New recordings, like 2005’s highly acclaimed New Roman Times, are unmistakably CVB but also possess a maturity and depth of experience that are absent from their earlier recordings. Live these songs provide a tonic to the lyrical playfulness of earlier songs like “The Day That Lassie Went To The Moon” or “Club Med Sucks”.

It is perhaps in the lyrics that most of my memories associated with the band are ineluctably tied. Principal songwriter David Lowery, in both Camper Van Beethoven and his other band Cracker, has always been gifted at creating a cinematic “mis en scene” with his lyrics. The characters that populate his songs are from all walks of life (usually fringe characters with dreams bigger than the small towns they inhabit). The qualities that I have most appreciated in Lowery as a writer are his sharp eye for detail and his economy. Anyone who has ever written before knows that this balance is hard to strike.

His growling delivery can snarl or long, make snarky asides or philosophical observations, soothe or condemn, all with honesty and aplomb. Nowhere is that more evident than in the song “All Her Favorite Fruit”, off the amazing Key Lime Pie. This song has always been a live favorite. And the crowd gathered at the Fillmore became almost reverent as the band began the slow build of the opening measures. The interplay between Segel and lead guitarist Greg Lisher has always been a hallmark of the CVB sound. “Fruit” typifies the scale based lead work of Lisher, an inventive and under appreciated talent in Rock music. As Lowery delivered the opening stanzas under the changing colors of lights cast down from above…

“I drive alone, home from work
And I always think of her
Late at night I call her
But I never say a word…”

My mind wandered, finally settling on my first love Michelle. We moved in together around the time Key Lime Pie was released. I would play “All Her Favorite Fruit” and make her listen as I acted out the lyrics. I knew she was not as convinced as I was that these words were pure, revelatory genius. But she humored me, in fact isn’t that what young love provides, the abundant capacity to humor one another. I could she her slipping her dress “over her head and let(ting) it fall to the floor…” The hugeness of young love spilled from the speakers in her bedroom and washed me up on the Fillmore’s then, distant shore.

CVB has always mined many musical genres and folded in these diverse and seemingly combative musical styles into their music. When I first discovered the band, I was initially drawn to their “hippie punk” aesthetic. Songs like “Take the Skinheads Bowling” and their cover of Black Flag’s “Wasted” managed to be punk without all the familiar posturing. But as I listened to their first two records on Pitch-A-Tent, I was exposed to Country, Eastern European waltzes, Polka, and Free-Jazz freak-outs. They were the gateway drug into worlds I had yet to discover.

“Sad Lover’s Waltz” had the crowd lolling back and forth in ¾ time and “Border Ska” transformed the Fillmore into a Polish dancehall. Few bands are able to navigate this kind of musical terrain without feeling schlocky. Fewer still have as dedicated a representation of these genres. The Fillmore was transformed into a honky tonk, the carpeted floor dissolving in sawdust.

My wife and I watched the show from the long bar off to the side of the stage, I thought about how influential CVB was in my own development as a musician. Launching into the opening chords of “Good Guys and Bad Guys” my fingers instinctively mimicked A, D, and E.

Now I was sitting on the edge of my bed, bottom bunk, with a beat up hand-me-down acoustic guitar. Wondering if the rigormortis in my fingers would ever subside? Laughing to myself, and feeling subversive as I sung the line, “…just get high while the radio’s on…” My younger brother would walk into the room we shared and shake his head, silently saying “give it up already.” The prevailing family doctrine of accepting one’s lot in life and daring not to dream already perverting his developing perspective, while I strummed against the household tide.

Leaning against the bar strumming on my pant leg, I began to notice the effects the alcohol and marijuana were having on the forty somethings in attendance. We watched as people stumbled past the bar and into one another. Surefootedness gave way to widened steps that suddenly crossed diagonally, ending in a half pirouette. Nostalgia will also make you forget that you are no longer twenty-five.

More standouts from the set included “Turquoise Jewelry”, a raucous shuffle with shades of the Big Band era in its arrangement. An amazing rendition of “One of These Days”, also off Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart, followed. This song has always been one of the more encapsulating CVB songs. It brings together a hooky guitar melody backed by a ska rhythm. Segel builds a swirling violin part, which gives way to a pensive vocal delivery. The band locks into a tight groove that highlights drummer Frank Fanaro (alum of Cracker, Joey Ramone, and the Dictators). His ability to effortlessly negotiate between the varied styles and meters of CVB’s set is a thing of beauty to watch.

Wrapped up in the moment I looked to my wife Halli, who was also rapturously enjoying herself, swaying in time with the music. This had been another of the songs I used to associate with Michelle. But after I hard sold Halli on seeing Camper at the Bowery Ballroom when we first moved to New York City several years ago, the song began to reflect my feelings and devotion to her.

We were homesick after moving across the country and missing friends and family in the Bay Area, when I saw the listing for Cracker and CVB in the Village Voice. My excitement sending me into full “pitch” mode, as I began laying the foundation for why this show (on top of the hundreds of others I’ve evangelized) was the show we needed to see. I‘m amazed that after 10 years my wife hasn’t gone numb to my pleas. As soon as they hit the Bowery Ballroom stage she instantly understood. She saw and heard, what I saw and heard. It felt as if old friends had come to visit. And I was glad to be able to share this band with her.
New York City can be a lonely and isolating place. You get caught up in the constant, relentless grind. Until that moment when Camper hit the stage it felt as if I had been holding my breath my entire time out there. The music reminded me to exhale. I could feel myself relax as a sense of calm took over. The people in the room began to feel familiar. Stepping out into the night and into a cab after the show, the city seemed less cold, more embracing.

Since then we have seen CVB and Cracker several times, often at her behest. So when I caught her singing the words, moving beneath the chandeliers of the Fillmore Ballroom, I no longer felt nostalgic for the past. I was enjoying the present, this moment.

As the set was coming to a close, the band in the throes of Pink Floyd’s “Interstellar Overdrive”, I peered over my shoulder to see Melanie Clarin dancing with friends behind me. Admittedly she was an early crush. I wanted to go up to her and tell her how much the Catheads songs meant to me. How good it was to see them one more time. But I was overtaken with the same shyness that had been hibernating inside of me for twenty-five years. I was star struck, just as I had been the first time I saw her behind the kit at the Berkeley Square. I mustered a feeble smile when she noticed me looking at her in mid dilemma. I turned back to the stage and rejoined the freak out unfolding in front of me. The memories and feelings associated with them rippled through me like a gentle creek.

Judging by those at the Fillmore celebrating Camper’s Silver anniversary, this is a welcome diversion from the realities of parenthood and middle age. To quote Lowery, “And life is grand, and I will say this at the risk of falling from favor, from those of you, who have appointed yourselves to expect us to say something darker...” For one night we can all pretend the world is not as dark a place as we know it to be. We can go back to that imagined, simpler time. We can take comfort in the fact that at one time we were carefree and cool..

Rebirth Brass Band breathe life into North Beach at Mojito on 6/15/08

As I descended down Grant Ave from Telegraph Hill, I could see the nighttime skyline shrouded in fog. The clamor earlier in the day comprised of the odd mingling of muffled music from Washington Square Park and the hollered enthusiasm of twenty-something’s hosting parties in apartments through out North Beach. Gone were the thousands, who just hours before, were weaving their way through the North Beach Fair below. It was Sunday night and save for the walking dead gathered in front of the now tomb-like clubs on Grant Ave, there was a pall in the air. The North Beach Fair was dead, at least for another year. So it was only fitting that the remaining diehards still celebrating should have a proper send off.

New Orleans' Rebirth Brass Band led the second line from inside Mojito. Billed as "secret show" by Sunset Promotions, whose president is owner and booker for Mojito, capped the previous two night's sold out performances at SF's The Independent. The Rebirth Brass Band spelled the death shudder of the North Beach Fair, replacing it with a life-affirming hybrid of jazz, funk, and soul. The nine piece brass and acoustic drum ensemble tore through a 2hr plus show.

Tuba player Philip Frazier founded rebirth in 1982 along with his brother Keith Frazier and others from the New Orleans neighborhood of Treme. That same year they would play the New Orleans Jazz Festival and would emerge as one of the (along with the Dirty Dozen Brass Band) preeminent practitioners of a style of music called "second line". Second line has its origins in New Orleans’s funeral processions, where the dead are celebrated in music and dance as the procession makes it way through the streets. Sunday night's show at Mojito was a perfect venue for a band that still plays a regular Tuesday night gig at a similar size venue in New Orleans, the Maple Leaf Bar.

Rebirth Brass Band's sound can best be described as joyous. The aural bouillabaisse is at once reminiscent of James Brown, Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis,and Nas. There are elements of Hip-Hop in Rebirth's sound but more in a periphery nod. This is "Roots" music that grows deep in Bayou Country. Frazier's tuba playing teamed with Derek "Big Sexy" Tabb's dexterous snare work make it impossible to stand still. The horn section weaves Dixieland melodies and free jazz, coalescing into tight Parliamentesque staccato punctuations. Rebirth Brass Band are clearly adept at throwing a party and do so by example. The end result is an undeniably infectious groove.

Initially, it looked like this "funeral" might be poorly attended. But by the middle of their first song, the audience had filed in off the street, gathering in tight around the band. Judging from some of the "dancing" on display several exorcisms were taking place simultaneously. An inventive re-working of Fats Domino's "I'm Walking" sent the audience into a frenzy. As I waited in line to use the bathroom (where even there, dancing was mandatory), a "relieved" attendee crouch skipped up to me. "This is what New Orleans sounds like!” he shouted, continuing his slouch dance and disappearing in to the crowd. I left Mojito with the trumpet blare now fading in the fog. The neighborhood that seemed to have flat lined on my descent, was now pulsing once again.

He Knows, You Know...Fish at the Great American Music Hall 6/09/08

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Former Marillion lead singer, Derek "Fish" Dick, once asked in the song Fugazi, off the 1984 album by the same name; "Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets..." To the almost exclusively middle-aged men, outfitted in Marillion and Fish tour shirts, at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall on Monday June 9th, the answer could be found on stage. "Fish" as he is commonly known, hadn't set foot in SF in little over a decade. That's a long time to wait for their Rock-n-Roll messiah, and he did not disappoint the faithful.

Touring behind the recent release of 13th Star, his ninth solo album, Fish delivered an energetic, theatrical, and engaging performance. The singer who recently turned 50, seemed truly appreciative of the warm welcome. Originally this show was slated for the Fillmore but due to poor ticket sales was relocated to the smaller, more intimate hall on O'Farrell Street.

The set drew largely from 13th Star and Fish's last record with Marillion, Clutching At Straws. The material from 13th Star is built around the singer's previous female relationships. Particularly, his recent break-up with 29-year-old Heather Findlay, singer of British band Mostly Autumn. Always a gifted lyricist, Fish is something of a Progressive Rock bard. His voice was better suited to this new material. Standouts included: Circle Line, Dark Star, and Arc of the Curve, which the singer joked was charting in South Germany.

Still a riveting stage presence even if his voice has lost a bit of punch. The diehards in the audience were treated to a suite of tunes from 1987's Clutching At Straws. Hotel Hobbies, Warm Wet Circles, and That Time of the Night had the balding, parents on reprieve in full air guitar rapture. Sonically the band delivered a nuanced performance of these Marillion compositions. Fish's touring band was one guitar player short due to visa issues but they ably stepped up to fill the void. Which was even more impressive considering they were severely jet-lagged,having just arrived in the states earlier in the evening.

What I was most struck by is how protective and loyal his fan base is to the singer. During Faithealer off 13th Star, the singer stepped down from the stage, working his way through the audience to the center of the floor. With some performers this feels orchestrated but with Fish it feels necessary. Many I spoke with felt that they were part of a community. Their numbers may pale in comparison from those surrounding a Dave Matthews or the other, more famous Phish, but they are just as devoted. These Prog-Rock devotees were warm, friendly, and excited to compare notes with one another about tours past. I was shocked to find out just how much street cred I had for having seen Fish perform with Marillion on the "legendary" Misplaced Childhood tour in 1985. I felt like I belonged, if only for the night.

Japanther at the Hemlock Tavern 5/25/08

Brooklyn's Japanther played a late show at the Hemlock Tavern in San Francisco on Sunday night. Emerging from the Brooklyn underground club scene (The Silent Barn/Death by Audio/Roof in Bed Sty) with a decidedly artistic lean, Japanther has a budding following nationwide. Tour mates The Pharmacy, from Seattle WA, got things going. The show was running a good hour behind schedule but the trio's high energy fuzz pop quickly got the small room going. Both bands were coming off a Saturday night gig at LA's art punk warehouse The Smell. The Smell is rapidly becoming the West Coast's answer to the Williamsburg art punk movement.

There was another lengthy delay in between bands, that found the audience vocally agitated and on the verge of turning on the Brooklyn duo. Japanther worked out their technical kinks and quickly won over the crowd. Their high energy, drum, bass, and tape loop constructions, have a crystallized focus that bound the room together. Free of the guitar, Japanther uses the bass to drive the melodies. The live drums augment and infuse the taped beats with added punch. Tandem vocals are shouted through amped up telephone receivers. This lo-fi, albeit slightly gimmicky approach, is what gives this band their unique sound. Japanther has a surprisingly crafted pop sensibility. The songs generally maintain a thunderous squall with arty deconstructions, unloading into a revved-up Ramones meets Suicide stomp.

Time will tell if Japanther is able to expand the songwriting beyond their minimalist, rave Rock. Bands like Britain's Klaxons, have borrowed from the community driven, intensity inherent in the Nu Rave movement. This scene captures Punk's attitude and simplicity while also drawing on the Rave culture's tribal mindset. If the sold-out crowd of barely twenty-somethings gathered at the Hemlock is an indication, Japanther is tapping into a mercury laced mother lode. The audience bounced in joyous unison the entire evening.

Links:

SleepWhenDead

Japanther

The Hemlock Tavern

The Smell

Klaxons

The Pharmacy

The Last Hurrah of So and So...

"Well played my good man"...he said as he lingered just below the threshold. "I thought you might try to persuade her to stay but instead you..." his pause was studied, meant to be meaningful. "I guess I don't know what I expected really."

This was not the sort of conversation either of them was used to having. Especially not with each other. If he could only force the words out he might have some relief, some resolution. The air simply escaped past his lips with a barely audible hiss. He turned to make his way down the stoop and into the night. At the last step he felt the tendons and muscles tighten through out his entire body. It was as if every cell had suddenly gone on strike...he simply ceased to exist.

Why bother with bothering he thought to himself? I mean if that was how the divine designer imagined his retribution, who was he to argue. He knew it was over. He knew she had never really been his. And perhaps more telling he knew he never really cared one way or the other.

Noise Pop: Leave the PDAs at Home Generation Text!

Noise Pop: Leave the PDAs at Home Generation Text!

This past weekend I attended the 16th annual Noise Pop (http://www.noisepop.com/2008/index.php) festival in San Francisco. I have been attending the weeklong indie music and arts showcase since its debut in 1993. Noise Pop is now a nationally recognized platform, on par with SWSW, for some of the biggest names in “alternative” music. The organizers still book an eclectic mix of international and regional talent but the crowd often seems to blasé to appreciate this annual gift.

Friday night found my friend Dennis and I at the Bottom of the Hill (http://www.bottomofthehill.com/) to see Holy Fuck headline a sold out show. When we arrived Austin Texas’ White Denim (http://www.whitedenimmusic.com/) was just about to take the stage. Admittedly, I had no idea who they were or what they sounded like. I was pleasantly surprised by their energy and less-than-obvious influences. White Denim is a three-piece that reminded me of the spastic, amped-up blues of Alvin Lee and Ten Years After (http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll). Their angular rock pulsed through the full house and GASP! Actually had people moving in front of the stage!

One big reason why I chose Friday’s show was to see Brooklyn’s A Place To Bury Strangers (http://www.aplacetoburystrangers.com/). Billed as the loudest band in NYC and citing My Bloody Valentine and Dinosaur Jr as influences, I was intrigued. “Strangers” did not disappoint. They began their show by pumping in a London-worthy amount of fog onto the stage. The band remained unseen through the first half of most of their songs. This placed all the focus on the wash of noisy glory unleashed from the stage. Guitar player/singer Oliver Aukerman designs his own effects pedals and he is truly gifted at creating a perfect distorted squall. The band’s muscular set blew ears and minds from where I was standing.

Toronto, Canada has been cranking out a lot of excellent bands over the last few years. Holy Fuck (http://www.holyfuckmusic.com/) being one of the most unique and buzz worthy. They mix live instrumentation with effects, knob twiddling to produce a hybrid alt-rock/electronica. I was surprised to see how sedate the audience appeared, everyone intently watching two guys twisting away at knobs. Again, what does it take to engage the youth of today? Perhaps when the audience went home to download the show off their camera phones, they will take a little time to shake what their mothers’ gave them, in the safety of their own homes.

We left midway through Holy Fuck’s set to go to 12 Galaxies (http://www.12galaxies.com/flash.html) where some Noise Pop alum were playing a non-affiliated show. The band Hot Fog is comprised of members of Carlos, Oranger (http://www.oranger.net/), and Overwhelming Colorfast (http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=37667436). They crank out high-decibel covers of obscure 70’s & 80’s Hard Rock/Metal. Their cover of Deep Purple’s Fireball (http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=10:difexqr5ldke) got my head bangin. It’s a shame that these musicians who helped put Noise Pop on the map were not asked to contribute to this year’s festival. There seemed to be a solidarity formed among those there to see Hot Fog. A sentiment expressed with eloquence, by former Colorfast singer/guitarist Bob Reed, who quite deadpanned; “Fuck Noise Pop.”

Lastly, the Mission district has seen a dramatic rise in hot dog vendors! Thank God! I can remember circling blocks I probably shouldn’t have circling in search for the famous “Heart Attack Dogs”. Now on the two-block walk to 12 Galaxies from our parking spot I saw at least three carts open for business. For an interesting article about this culinary phenomenon, check out this link to the LA Weekly (http://www.laweekly.com/eat+drink/dining/the-bacon-wrapped-hot-dog-so-good-its-illegal/18276/). There is no better way to cap an alcohol soaked evening of Rock-n-Roll than with 1,000 calories of grilled goodness! Ask yourself is it better to smell of bacon or beer? The debate rages on…

Saturday night my wife and I made our way to the Independent (http://www.theindependentsf.com/). The headliners were The Mountain Goats but the band I was most excited to see hail from Boston, Mass. Tulsa (http://www.myspace.com/tulsamusic)is a three-piece fronted by Carter Tanton. They mix the amped up jangle of Crazy Horse with the haunting melodies of Echo & the Bunnymen. Tanton’s soaring vocals filled the Independent, mixing perfectly with the sonic landscape emanating from the stage. I really fell in love with their album, “I Was Submerged” and highly recommend it. During Tulsa’s set I noticed two things about the audience: 1. The poor state of vision amongst the indie concertgoer, with everyone sporting very fashionable rims and 2. The dreaded ubiquity of handheld devices being attended to during the show.

San Francisco’s own David Dondero (link) was up next. The elusive singer/songwriter has recently been touring in Europe. My wife has become a huge Dondero fan and the only complaint she had after Saturday’s performance was that, “he didn’t play long enough.” He debuted a new song, which debated where the best Po Boy could be had in New Orleans. This song is indicative of the often obtuse and quirky narratives that have become Dondero’s staple. He is also an inventive guitar player and charismatic performer. I highly recommend searching for David Dondero on iTunes. He navigates in a similar vein as fellow San Franciscan Kelly Stoltz (http://www.electriccity.org/). Both have a knack for observational lyrics with inventive low fi recording techniques. Dondero’s short set left the sold out crowd feeling good and primed for the headliner.

Lo-Fi giants The Mountain Goats (http://www.mountain-goats.com/)took the stage to delight of the sold out room. The Goats were playing four nights over the course of Noise Pop. After seeing John Darnielle, the driving force behind the Goats, bound onto the stage I was struck by how many in attendance looked like distant relatives. Most of the men looked like a cross between the Simpson’s Millhouse and author David Sedaris. The Mountain Goats are purveyors of quirky, overly intellectualized love treatises. Darnielle presides like a newly crowned King of the Dorks. The Google sect there to cheer on their ringleader would seem more comfortable if the Independent had been sub-divided into cubicles. At least that way those consumed by their Blackberries could work in more familiar surroundings.

Increasingly I bear witness to an ever-disaffected audience. Tapping away at PDAs or viewing the show by occasionally peering above the tops of cell-phones. When not engaged in this behavior they stand arms folded across chest, scowling. I remember when Rock shows were a place where people interacted. The club was charged with an energy specifically designed to help further the species. When did it become cool to go out on a Friday night, stand shoulder to shoulder and pretend to not notice one another?

These are the same people that count hundreds as their friends on My Space and Facebook. When actually confronted with someone who is living his or her profile out in the wild, they form a moat around a piece of the floor. Talking with the two or three people we came with, we miss the opportunity to connect with one another. It begs the question; “What good is alcohol anyway?!”

One guy was basking in the digital glow of his handheld, intently texting away while his agitated girlfriend sat next to him. Finally succumbing herself to punching away at the keys of her phone. Maybe she was trying to reach him? All the while the band played on…

Generation Text or People 2.0, whatever moniker describes The Mountain Goat fan, seemed to be having a virtually good time. I guess I can’t help but reflect back to the years before all this technology. I know I’m supposed to be more connected to my fellow man than I was then, but tell that to Millhouse’s girlfriend…Noise Pop shows of lore were filled with scensters bouncing off of each other like atoms or drunken sailors. Now any human contact seems incidental and meaningless. Until you post it on You Tube.