Where Joaquin Came From, How He Got Lost, And Where He Turned Up Again

This is weird. Someone made this "video" using numerous images of/about Joaquin Murietta and it was forwarded to me. Bob and I wrote and recorded this song and it's included on "World Without End". It's not odd that someone used the song. That's quite common, as you well know, and a number of our songs have been used this way. I don't mind at all. I think it's interesting to see what people do with them: sometimes it's interesting, anyway (other times amusing, sometimes disturbing). But regardless it's always entertaining. And YouTube's a beautifully populist platform for anyone who wants to create anything with noise and images in it. So when somebody uses your song to do it, whether you're too hip to admit it or not, it's pretty fucking humbling.

There's great comments. One from a guy who says he likes the video but the choice of music was "strange". A few from Chileans who believe Joaquin Murietta to be an unrecognized Saint of sorts; their Robin Hood - a man who took on American citizens in California, stealing from and killing white miners (who'd killed and stolen mining rights and land from South Americans and Mexicans). He's loved by Chileans in much the same way as Santo Jesus Malverde (also known as The Patron Saint of Narcotraficantes), is loved by many Mexicans. Of course the Roman Catholic Church, my church, remains too boring and stagnant to beatify either. I guess it would be a hard sell: a marauding killer hell-bent on retribution and a thief hung in Sinaloa now asked for guidance and safe-passage by Mexican drug runners. Here's Joaquin: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joaquin_Murrieta And here's Malverde: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jes%C3%BAs_Malverde

What's weird about this video is that the actual recording is from the 4-track demos Bob and I recorded upstairs at his house as we wrote them. We then compiled them, edited them, etc., until we had the songs for what would become "World Without End". Only Bob and I ever had copies of the demos. I'm pretty sure that no one else even heard them. Almost positive. Because they were meant as reference, not something to listen to per se. They weren't ever meant to be listened to as "songs". Hell, I don't even have my copy of the demos anymore. I wish I did. So in that sense it's great to hear this. But I wanna hear the rest of them again. I don't even remember what the songs were like then (before they became the involved productions they did on the record). So it's strange. And kinda awesome. And disturbing. And all that....

A Beginner's Guide to Trench Warfare: Mr. Kevin Cubbins-Part 3 of a 4 Part Series

"Faith is the highest passion in a human being. Many in every generation may not come that far, but none comes further."

--Soren Kierkegaard

"I don't know."

-- Kevin Cubbins

Note: Please allow me this one potential misstep. I just watched the final episode of ‘Lost’ last night. Quite honestly I literally cried myself to sleep (then cried some more in the shower after I woke up today). I fully acknowledge the effect it is having on me and the myriad ways it may have effected what I wrote. Right now I really don’t give a flying fuck. And I think that’s a very, very good thing (though I’m fully aware of the likely possibility it’ll wear off soon - but I kinda hope it doesn’t). And yes: I watch television and enjoy it very much. I also often sincerely enjoy big budget Hollywood movies. And I don’t like Nick Drake (even if I’ve told you personally that I do). There. I said it. I feel a great weight has been lifted.

It took me a long time to write this. Not because I didn’t want to write it. Not because I’m lazy (though I am, of course). It took me a long time to write this because it isn’t inherently funny. It’s almost impossible to make it a joke, a knowing nudge of the elbow, a “blog post”. It took me so long because to write it in that manner would do a grave disservice. Not to Kevin Cubbins but to myself. It’s not that Kevin isn’t a truly funny person. Or entirely undeserving of ridicule. He is, but all that is very much beside the point. If I write about Kevin as I’ve written about everything else I would be lying to myself. Lying to you is fine by me. It’s entertaining. And I have always done that well (not entertained you - lied to you). I’d be lying to myself because I care too much. Working with Kevin has meant a great deal to me, has made me love music again, has taught me something bigger than I am entirely capable of understanding. And all that makes me look like a fool because today, in the era of irony-to-avoid-sincerity it means we (and me - all of us - that includes you) actually do feel, I become the potential pun at the end of a joke I never wrote, the asshole that cried in the theater at the end of a movie I took my five year old to see, an absolute idiot. I give up: enjoy my foolishness, revel in it, because it won’t come around again anytime soon. Kevin Cubbins is worth it. And no, Ashley: I am not going to steal your husband. Not yet anyway.....

There’s a reason it’s hard to write about Kevin Cubbins. Sure: if he was interviewed by TapeOp,  it might very well prove itself to be the most boring interview in the history of their useless, masturbatory, narcissistic, savior-making, cocksucking, shitty magazine (I hope you read this, Mr. Larry Crane - you suck ass). And yeah: Kevin is a weird guy. Not in the “I’m incredibly eccentric, please bring me my copy of (insert little known book - but known amongst the hippest and most discerning, self-involved, boring assholes) and try not to scratch my new Italian-made English riding boots”. No, Kevin is weird in the simplest (and ultimately the only honest) fashion (he wears sneakers and loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez - and writes short stories that are blindingly great). He isn’t obsessed with the idea of himself. Nor is he terribly interested in the obsessions of others. His obsessions don’t expand outwards in a way that makes him an easy target for a blog post. And I know, without a doubt, among all the other people I could have or already have written about, he could give a good goddamn.

You see, Cormac McCarthy’s “eccentricity” doesn’t come from McCarthy’s actual behavior. It comes from others’ ideas about Cormac McCarthy the person (as related to their “experience” of Cormac McCarthy the writer). It is born of their NEED to believe in his eccentricity, their perverse desire to live vicariously through the socially-constructed madness they’ve created for him (in lieu of studying their own). They do it because they are boring. They do it because they themselves are “mad”, as well, but are too afraid to face it. Cormac McCarthy has done virtually nothing to deserve the label of “eccentric” placed on him by readers, critics, and academics. Like Freud said, “We are so made that we can derive intense enjoyment from a contrast and very little from the true state of things.” If one wanted to they could do the same with Kevin Cubbins. They could call him an eccentric, an obsessive, an oddity. But they could just as easily call him a technician, an engineer, or (maybe the worst of all, the most mundane and un-musical of all, the most masturbatory, the words used by asshole music gear peddlers old dudes at shops who played in a band 20 years ago and are holding on desperately to their "record that would've hit big if the label had pushed it right") a guitar player.

I seem to write, over and over, that “so and so person” is an “enigma”. Maybe they are. Maybe they aren’t. It’s really beside the point because implying or saying something like that says more about the writer than the reader. It’s boring. And useless. And a lazy trick. Everyone is an enigma. But me? I’ve used the word so often it’s lost all meaning (at least for me, anyway). It’s become a lie. I like hiding behind lies. And generalizations. And quotation marks and parentheses. And bullshit conversations with bullshit conversationalists just like myself. If “all the truth in the world adds up to one big lie” I am basing my self-ness, my stupid freedom-induced “essence”, on the hope that the opposite is true as well. So I’ll use the word one last time. Just because it’s lost it’s meaning to me doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a carefully considered definition as a word brought to you by the 1913 Edition of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary: “an inscrutable or mysterious person”. I just wrote a lengthy and overly-wordy paragraph to do the opposite of what I’m about to do now. Because I know in this final use of that word it's true.

Kevin Cubbins is an enigma.

I talked to Kevin before writing this, talked to his long-suffering and generous wife Ashley, and talked to people I know much too well into writing things about Kevin or saying things about him so I could insert them into this blog post. It was all wildly entertaining. But I think I have (and had before I spoke to anyone) plenty to say about Kevin without using any of it. In most cases, as my wondrous and perfect (but sharply straightforward, caustic psychotherapist truth-spitting - painfully so) wife pointed out, I was looking for other people to say what I wanted them to say, and in some cases led them (by creating incredibly pointed questions) to say exactly what I wanted them to say. Because it would've been embarrassing to say it myself. Because I care too much. The stories I didn’t know, though, are definitely worth telling here.

Ashley told me how awkward Kevin was when he attempted to woo her. Amazingly, against all odds, he was successful. They decided to get married (I was really hoping to hear about Kevin’s bumbling proposition - there wasn't one) and they picked out a ring. To ensure that it was bought (only Christ himself knows what additional obsessions were controlling his riddled brain at the time), Ashley looked in his wallet one day when he was out of the room, saw that he had enough money in it to buy the ring, and said to him, “Why don’t we go get the ring today?”. It worked, of course, because Kevin is seriously crazy about his wife, but also because being the “mad professor” he is (Ashley’s words, not mine - though I entirely agree) it was the only way to redirect his attention towards it. Only their wedding was stranger. That in itself is another post (or more likely a lengthy short story published in The New Yorker that readers assume is a joke but is, in fact, entirely true). Noteworthy tidbits of the ceremony include:

1. Dokken was played so slowly on acoustic guitar, as to resemble classical music, until some musicians gathered in the church (one being myself) realized what it was.
2. A trumpet “wedding march” that, once the trumpet player missed a note, ended in the ubiquitous “battle charge” most often used at football games.
3. A small fox (apparently widely believed to be a “good omen” during a wedding) appeared through the floor to ceiling glass walls behind the altar that looked out over the Mississippi River. It was an incredibly adorable fox. Until it came closer to the glass and took a shit.

All of this took place before the reception that, though not as perilous for the couple, proved itself to be almost as funny (mainly because of Kevin’s perfectly compiled cd’s given to the DJ being replaced by the DJ’s own choices, beginning with the reception standard “Brickhouse” - primarily hilarious because of Kevin’s frantic and bewildered reaction). The wedding and reception stand, to this day, as the most amazing I’ve ever been to. Both because they so clearly adored one another and because it was so fucking hilarious. But I digress (and it was so worth it)...

I interviewed Kevin over the phone and recorded the entire thing. Do not be concerned: I have edited key portions and they will soon be available for your listening displeasure. Initially I attempted to play “bad cop” (though my wife has often said that not only would I make an awful cop but would most definitely make an awful “bad cop” because I imitate movies and television too much - and she says I often do this with many “characters” I attempt to play - she lies, of course). I thought I was rather good. Kevin did not. Lori thought it was awful. Kevin called back and asked me why I was being a dick. I came clean. I told him about playing the “bad cop”. He was relieved. Relieved!

Seriously: think for a moment about his reaction. Virtually anyone else would consider my behavior to have been utterly absurd; absolutely ridiculous. Kevin was relieved that I was only playing a part and not being a asshole. As the re-tread adage goes, “It takes one to know one”. My wife has accepted that I am certifiably insane (though I have not). It has taken many years of living and putting up with me for her to come to this conclusion. It took Kevin two seconds. Because he is crazy too. Not melodramatic (this is a common accusation thrown at me), not entirely absurd (I am often entirely ignored by my closest friends and family - unjustly), or hysterical in the classical sense (also aimed at me - also incorrect, of course). Kevin got it because he is “mad”. His brand of madness does not resemble mine in the least. But they are somehow half-siblings. And he instinctively knew it; organically accepted it. Magic! We are both unjustly ignored and scolded by our much better and far sexier better halves. We have discussed this. The common experience is so uncommon it comes full circle: it is our common. Oh the satisfaction (oh the confusion?)!

 I created a carefully considered series of questions for the second portion of the interview. These questions directly involved music (or some attempt at it on my part). Though it required a great deal of pulling teeth (and many root canals), eventually Kevin answered the questions as I demanded they be answered. But towards the end I felt interviewed and uncomfortable. I’ve tried jokingly to do this same thing with Tim Mooney, Bob Frank, and James Finch and have been entirely successful. This was not the case with Kevin. His answers were beautifully strange. And beautifully Hemingway-esque-ly direct and final. It was disturbing and comforting at the same time. None of the other interviewees ever made me uncomfortable; left me at a loss for words like Kevin did (and you who know me know that if I am ever at a loss for words I will make words up). Sure, it was disarming. But as before it proved something: some odd kinship and a shared madness. Though the madness’ are dissimilar they know one another; they communicate. So it was uncomfortable and disarming which, for me, was comforting and revelatory.

Then Kevin did something truly strange. He called back to add one more fact to the conversation. Kevin told me he had been the boxing champion at The University of Memphis, a school in a city filled with people at home with violence, people quite good at it. He wasn’t bragging. He was adding lost information. I thought this was hilarious. Because I assumed it was untrue until it was confirmed by a number of people and ultimately Kevin’s best friend of many years, Mark Stuart. Yes, in fact, Kevin was the boxing champion. And just as others I’ve known who are truly good fighters, I look at Kevin and believe I could easily beat his ass. I’d be very, very wrong. And a lot of people were. Partially because (largely because) Kevin doesn’t appear to be anything remotely close to a “street fighting man”. And it’s not that he’s stoic or “knows his strength” in some ridiculous Zen way. He just doesn’t ever think about it. Doesn’t care. Because it would take up too much space in his brain reserved for too many other obsessions. But I really would like to see him kick the fucking shit out of some truly arrogant and useless cocksuckers in the Memphis music “scene”. For my own satisfaction. It’d be a brilliant fight between good and evil and good would win out. And I love the underdog (or the person who by all appearances is the underdog).

None of what I’ve mentioned up to this point has involved anything related to my record, to the part Kevin has played in making it what it has become, or to the process of working with him. And I don’t care. There’s more time for that. And Mr. Kevin Cubbins is more than deserving of more than one blog post. If you haven’t noticed, this blog post is by far the longest I’ve written. And I like it best. And it’s just the first part of it. Kevin has recorded additional music for the record, has mixed it, and has co-produced it. He’s in many ways made it what it is today. But more than anything he’s made me like it again. I didn’t listen to it for almost a year. I’d convinced myself, for a number of reasons, that it wasn’t worth it’s weight. And it’s not that Kevin Cubbins sat me down and told me it was great. He didn’t really say anything at all. He just made me believe again. He made my own shit exist for me again. Not just in regards to this record (a record I know now is good -and believe in it- whether you will think so or not). I don’t need anything, really. And don’t take this as some enlightened bullshit. I still hate myself. Don’t worry. I’m kinda not kidding at all.

I don’t know what Kevin did. Any asshole with a board full of faders and knobs can do something with a record. That’s not what happened. Any charlatan engineer or producer can convince an idiot musician that they are “brilliant”, that they are a “genius”, that something that’s never happened before is happening right here, right now. Kevin didn’t do that either. Those blessed with real magic don’t need endless racks of outboard vintage gear. Fuck your Neve.Those capable of true magic don’t need to lie. A Neumann doesn’t change shit. That’s why it’s magic. And believing in magic is for fools and children. God bless fools and children. Lazarus walks, the Virgin shows up at Lourdes (and that’s in France of all places), and people in Arkansas don’t get bitten by poisonous snakes. Kierkegaard advocated a leap of faith saying, “Because it is absurd I believe”. I believe. I do.

I don’t know why. So that happened. I guess. Ask Kevin. Ask the living disembodied disappointing ghosts of the perfect “Layla, and Other Assorted Love Songs”. Just don’t ask T-Bone Burnett, Tony Visconti, or Glyn Johns. And definitely not Joe Chicarelli. Because the charlatans and gurus and uninteresting motherfuckers are still running their mouths to Larry Crane (and he prints every interview and every letter to the editor those goofy bastards write) and to any fuckwad that’ll listen (and that’s a lot of fuckwads). Ask Kevin. He’ll tell you he just does it and he doesn’t know why you keep asking so many stupid questions. Insinuating it’s more than that will only make him uncomfortable. My record is Kevin’s, too. Because I said so. Fuck you.

Footnote: Ashley is four months pregnant now and it’s a boy. Today Kevin told me the name they’re going with right now, temporarily anyway, is Jack. I was so touched, of course, because naming your child after me (though it makes perfect sense) is always touching. Then it occurred to me after we got off the phone: she’s thinking about Jack Shepard. Damn. Regardless, we’ve come full circle back to ‘Lost’. And that’s a beautiful thing. Because it’ll make you cry. Unless you’re too amazingly hip to own a TV or watch a mainstream television show. In that case, go fuck yourself. 

Kevin Cubbins: A man of vision.

A Cubbin's Family Star Wars

A Beginner's Guide To Trench Warfare. Part 2 of a 4 Part Series: Mr. Tim Mooney: The Audio

Below is a four part series of audio clips recorded by myself in the studio today with Tim Mooney. I'm currently producing Bob Frank's record and was able to frankly speak with Timmy about several items. He didn't necessarily appreciate it, but I found it painful, enlightening, and deeply profound. At some point I was told in no uncertain terms to cease recording. I find this odd as Tim records me and other people incessantly at his "recording" studio. Oh the irony...

The first is a prime example of "The Mooney-ism" as mentioned in my previous blog post. A rare emotional moment was recorded. It felt very much like finding Sasquatch.



The second is Tim's rebuttal to a statement I made in the previous post. As you can hear, I was heartbroken.



 "I'm gonna ask you a very straightforward question....."



Timbo "On Communication"

A Beginner's Guide To Trench Warfare. Part 1 of a 4 Part Series: Mr. Tim Mooney.

"They teach you there's a boundary line in music. But, man, there's no boundary line to art."

--Charlie Parker

"If it's good then it sounds like what it's supposed to sound like, not like somebody else's record."

--Tim Mooney

Since the mastering date of my record The Graceless Age is quickly approaching (May 5th), it occurred to me that discussing the two people (aside from myself) most responsible for the record was a novel idea. Honestly, it's more than a novel idea as most of the time the engineers and producers receive little credit for the music they craft (outside of the bullshit world of musician-speak). The relationship between musician and engineer/producer necessarily becomes blurry (if you're doing it right) and the record created is the product of a neurotic relationship between two people intent on creating art (or, even better than that, rock and roll). It's a battlefield, a war, a minefield of opinions... And when the producer is as strong-willed as the musician, unless it all implodes, sometimes magical shit happens.

Tim Mooney is perhaps the most aggravating man alive. He is the Marcus Aurelius of recording; the Clint Eastwood of the mixing board. I am a rambling and easily bored walking bag of neurosis. Though Tim is one of my dearest friends (inside and outside of the studio) and we share very similar musical aesthetics, psychically we couldn't be more different. This is 75% of why we work so well together.

Let me elaborate: over the last 5 years since I began working with Mr. Mooney (whom I have desperately tried to create an obnoxiously sassy nickname for - any ideas?) I have never once heard him say things like "that's brilliant" or "you absolutely got it on that take, man" or "I think this record is gonna be truly beautiful". Instead, you only hear things like "that was good" and "wanna come in [the control room] and hear it" or "that was fine". All spoken with no emotion, no difference in inflection, no Oscar Wilde-ish romanticism. Over the last five years I've learned that the previously mentioned "Mooney-isms" are actually high praise. On occasion (and especially if you're a misguided and often wrong reader of conversational subtext like myself) you catch on to the nuances. If he raises the pitch of the last two words of "that could be good" it means "that was shit". If he says "I dunno, wanna hear it back [while cocking his head a little to the left]?" that means you should put a bag over your head and punch yourself in your own face. "That was better" means "it still isn't good enough". But if he says " wanna come in and hear it back" it means "that was spot on, you nailed it". If he says he went home, listened to the rough mix, and has a couple of ideas it means he fucking loves the song. For the hopelessly emotionally needy like myself, this can be incredibly aggravating. Eventually the uncontrollable waves of neurosis began to lap against my brain.

It all began with World Without End, a record I had convinced myself was good before we even started recording (I was still green to the whole studio thing to some extent - everything still sounded amazing to me on big studio monitors). I pretty much made it through that record without losing my shit. I didn't know at the time that I was a little Dutch dude unconsciously holding my finger in the dyke to stop the flow of madness.

With The Gunplay EP the shit began to hit the fan. Like a little kid who'll take any kind of attention they can get, when I became bored during mixing I would act like I was humping the back of Tim's head while he had his hands on the mixing board, desperately trying to ignore me. He could only contain his anger for 15 minutes or so at a time. When he stopped the playback and told me to cut it out the first time I was thrilled. I'd never felt such accomplishment. Needless to say, I faux-humped the back of his head daily (until he became seriously furious) for the rest of the mixing process. I felt triumphant and guilty all at once. It was like getting one over on my mom and then getting grounded. Worth it? I still don't know (about Tim or Tootie).

Soon after recording The Gunplay EP Chuck Prophet and I came up with the idea to record Waylon Jennings' Dreaming My Dreams from top to bottom in a far kinkier way. It was all done completely live and there were a minimum of five people in the live room at any given time. all playing together. No overdubs. J.J. Weisler was the engineer. Tim's only duty was to play drums. Being only a guitar player in the midst of actually talented guitar players (Chuck and Max Butler) my own self-loathing and paranoia reached it's pinnacle. The live headphone mix was muddy as hell because so much was going on. I began to believe my guitar was being intentionally cut out of the mix. I started saying I couldn't hear it between takes. Finally, mid take, I threw them off and started screaming "I can't hear my fucking guitar! I can hear everybody else. Turn my fucking guitar up! Are y'all even recording it, assholes?!?!". Chuck went back to the control room to talk to J.J. and see if it could be brought up. Chuck said, "don't worry, I can't hear mine either". I called him a liar. Tim got up and I assumed he was taking a piss. A year later Chuck told me Tim had in fact come into the control room and told Chuck not to try to turn up my guitar or to baby me and told him, "this is good for John". When Chuck told me that I knew Tim loved me. I had already fallen for him. Head over Redwings. Schoolgirl shit. It was still later that I heard the stories. Never from Tim himself, though I'd always ask him to tell me the whole story himself later.

At one point during the recording of Brinkley, Ark. & Other Assorted Love Songs I simply decided to light into Tim. I told him he was a dick, told him he was disconnected, told him I respected him and he showed no respect for me. I did all this in front of the studio intern. Tim smoked and barely avoided laughing. I told him he wasn't responsible for shit, that I was the tortured genius here (wow, what a lame and obvious sign of self-hatred and the deep-seated belief that I'm completely untalented), and that he needed to 'fess up to it. He needed to fucking TALK. I quit after about thirty minutes. We went back to mixing. The next day I told him I was sorry. He said, "Well maybe you just had to get it out. It's alright. I believe in ya.". I got pissed all over again. Why wouldn't he fight correctly? I sat for days wondering what was wrong with me. See? That's what Dr. Tim Freud does. Goob? Bad? I don't know. Thinking about it now I wonder if it's genius or if I should be upset still. That's the brilliance of it all with Tim: total ambiguity.

Here are a few of the more interesting tidbits. I will now disclose a few things in the hope that it doesn't embarrass the Mooney. At the same time I hope it does. Either way he'll have to get emotional with me.

1. Tim dated a pre-Cobain pre-completely-psycho Courtney Love. At the time they lived in Portland. They moved back to the Bay Area and were planning on living together. When Tim's momma met Courtney she told him in no uncertain terms that the bitch was crazy. Tim, always the family man (no shit - he loves his kid, his wife, and his parents and is a seriously involved father), listened to her and promptly dumped Courtney. Good move, as she mighta killed him later while dressed like Nancy and worse, he have seen Hole formed. I found out second hand at least a year after I'd known him.

2. Tim has been in a multitude of bands over the years. Since leaving American Music Club he has only played live with one person's projects - mine. When I figured that out I knew our marriage would make it through thick and thin. Tim has shared the stage with some of my heroes, namely The Clash, Bob Dylan, The Gun Club (while dating the slide guitar chick from that band), and The Bad Seeds. He never told me. He has played with an innumerable number of infamous people. You would know them all. Again, Tim never told me any of this. Others told me.

3. While at a show in England Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead, coming off the release of Pablo Honey, announced to a dismissive Tim that Radiohead had a new record coming out called The Bends and that they had intentionally written a song imitating American Music Club and, in particular, Tim's drum and percussion stylings. Those songs were Nice Dream and Planet Telex. Once again, The Mooney-a-nator DID NOT tell me this necessary to know information. And again, I found out from someone else and verified with Timbo later.

4. Timmy learned recording from Mitchell Froom via Tchad Blake. Holy fuck.

5. Perhaps this personifies him best: When a certain Memphis troubadour (who will remain unnamed) was recording a record in San Francisco and attempted to impress Tim by showing him Joe Chicarelli's phone number in his cell phone, Tim replied, "It's been in mine for too long too, but who'd wanna call that guy?" with absolute deadpan seriousness. Tim isn't a namedropper. He's also not a popular-music-making-people hater. He's an enigma. He simply doesn't care. Not "I don't give a fuck". Just doesn't care, either to impress or to insult. It's very frustrating. When I wanna get my hate on he'll kinda chuckle and talk about how it'll go away when I get older (which only makes me crazier). When I wanna talk about the same record over and over, though, he'll become as engaged as me.

.There's a shitload of other stories, but I'm afraid to embarrass the guy. You'll have to find them out for yourself. Or wait for someone to comment on this post and tell some more of 'em.....

Another important piece of understanding Tim comes from understanding his diet. Tim has retained his perfect indie rock fighting weight his entire adult life. He ingests almost solely Fritos and black coffee. Lots of Fritos and coffee. And even more cigarettes. I believe myself to be a heavy intake nicotine dude. I smoke and dip. I go through a can and a half of Skoal and 18 or so cigarettes a day. Tim, without causing himself bronchial distress, can smoke three times that many cigarettes in 12 hours. And he does, everytime we work together. But at home he only steps out to smoke occasionally. He can suffer self-abuse and endure self-inflicted pain more than anyone I've ever met (and not just for those reasons). He's the St. Joan of production, mixing an odd purity of self with non-self-aggrandizing martyrdom. If you order pizza he'll eat one piece. He'll eat a burger but no fries. He's never on a diet. He just doesn't eat anything regularly but Fritos and coffee. When it's a particuarly funky day in Mooneyland he'll spring for some Fifth Avenue candy bars, which only adds to the weirdness. Bob Frank loves to bring whole bean coffee to Tim. It seems to be the crux of their relationship, the bond that holds them together. They both light up over that first pot of new coffee, more so than they ever do while making music. I don't drink coffee. I have always felt left out.

I could describe the process of creating The Graceless Age now, I suppose. It's too involved and frankly too insane to discuss now. It's a post of it's own primarily made up of an interview Chuck Prophet did with me over the course of the recording of the record. Look for it four posts down the pike. Coming next is an audio post of a discussion between Tim and myself about Tim and myself. It is sure to entertain. Look for it Tuesday.

What I will say is this: without Tim everything I've written, every idea I've come up with, every note I've played in the studio wouldn't be what it's been. And, with no hint of arrogance, I can honestly say it's all been good. Though Tim will never tell you so. Certainly not if I'm in the room. Maybe he believes that by forcing humility; by forcing me to embrace my own self-loathing, I will do what I can do as well as I possibly can. Of course, that may all be based on my subtext reading Freudian bullshit. Tim's an enigma. I began in awe of him. I'm still foiled psychically by him. When he means nothing I look for what's hidden. When he means something I don't listen; I don't hear it. It's the neurotic mismatch that allows for the struggle. The struggle makes you bleed. And you have to bleed to make anything of any worth. How I'm allowed the struggle and the friendship I don't know, but I'm grateful for both.

You've read part one of this four part series. Up next is the previously mentioned audio of the discussion between time and myself. Next, look forward to part three, an in-depth profile of the equally strange and neurotic Kevin Cubbins, the man reasonable for the mixing of The Graceless Age. The final post, the hilarious part four, will consist of audio recordings of voicemail excerpts from Kevin to me, excerpts of emails between the two of us, and text messages sent back and forth between us.

Following this series, after the mastering date of May 5th, I will post (along with two streaming songs from the new record), the story of The Graceless Age with the interview between Chuck and myself and the opinions of both Tim and Kevin regarding the things I said in the interview. Honestly is not always the best policy, but sometimes it is the most hilarious. This is one of those times.

Until then, enjoy these Mooney-related youtube clips:

Tim as young and shirtless drummer with The Sleepers, playing the great "Sister Little":

A ridiculous video made by some random dude for American Music Club's "Patriot's Heart", from the only American Music Club record produced and recorded by Tim (w/Tim on drums):

The video for "Boss Weatherford, 1933" off of Bob's and my record World Without End. It was produced and engineered by Tim, with Tim playing drums.

Don't Let 'Em See You Cry, Kid......

“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”  --Oscar Wilde

"It's alright to shake to fight to feel." --Stephen Malkmus (yes that one, ok?)

Perhaps most people are other people. And I know what Mr. Wilde intended when he wrote that. But it's hard to believe that deep down (down, down, down there) wherever *there* is people aren't, at the least, capable of acute intermediate periods of unbridled emotion. Lori and I often take our daughter to see a movie on the weekend. To see adults secretly cry and choke back sobs during PG movies as their children wiggle in their seats proves something, no? They refuse to look left or right, afraid they might be caught mid-breakdown, pretending they aren't seen. They wipe their cheeks and slink out of the theater, kids in tow, hoping no one has seen their "silly" tears. 

I know two sisters who, when alone in the safety of their own homes, will bawl during the opening title sequence of "Legends of The Fall" simply in anticipation (yes, in anticipation!) of the heartbreak they know is coming. But they are embarrassed, like the parents I mentioned above, to let anyone know. And rightfully so. Any display of emotion, of passion, of real feeling, is a sign of weakness today. Our modern selves adore the idea of stoicism. We strive for it. We chastise ourselves for feeling too much, for telling too much, for being too much. Of anything. Of everything. Until we all become Customer Service Representatives in our daily lives. Modern Marcus Aurelius'.

It's been proposed by recent revisionist historians that Abraham Lincoln was gay. His diaries and letters have been re-examined, re-compiled, and thoroughly re-considered by a generation of younger PhD's with too many books and not enough passion. Their own lack of emotionally charged relationships with people of their own gender has led them to believe falsely that Lincoln was on the downlow. The belief is centered around simple enough evidence: he told his closest male friends he loved them often, spoke at length about the depth of his own demons with them, discussed his feelings for them at length on occasion, and while traveling with them even they even (gasp!) slept in the same bed. By this logic Bob Frank and I are deeply committed homosexual lovers. On tour we have more often than not shared the same bed. Every phone call we have we end with a "love you", and we have discussed everything under the sun (somehow always coming back around to the subject of carnitas). Yes people, Bob and I are now gay. We've been outed.

Passion is a bitch. Today only the mentally ill are given a pass for displaying it openly. Love between friends (and often within families) must go unspoken, lest the speaker be branded a loon. Yet as modern as we may believe ourselves to be, humanity hasn't changed one iota since Lincoln's day. Passion, at the end of the day, is all we really have. It's all we have of any real worth, anyway. We each need our soapboxes. We deserve them. And we ought never step down for anyone, much less a faceless misnomer like "society". After all, what is society but a collection of neurotic individuals (thank you Mildred Dubitzky, my Freudian college professor, for that one). Indulge me this, a quote from William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech: "I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking."

So I will continue my own puny and inexhaustible rant by giving some examples (and two awesome/one pathetic youtube clips) of people as themselves. And in these three cases they are of "people as themselves" and their failures when acting as, pretending to be, or attempting to re-create themselves as "other people". Or perhaps their acting, attempts, and re-creations are in fact "real". You be the judges and jurors. Seriously, post some comments, I wanna know myself. I'm a walking ball of confusion here, and it's now 1:30 in the morning.

Example 1: 

Eric Clapton. 

Clapton wrote "Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs". The heroin-addled recluse wrote the brilliant album to woo Patti Boyd, his friend George Harrison's wife. He'd fallen in love hard, like a fifteen year old with sweaty palms. That singular goal, his friendship and artistic dependance on Bobby Whitlock, and perhaps even his inability to remain sober for more than five minutes at a time, allowed Clapton to create with such fire that he was capable of ignoring his own insecurities entirely. It eventually worked and Patti left her hubby, then sitar-loving culture-vulture George (don't worry, he got better later).  Then a heroin-free but drunken Clapton, the same "God" the English had branded and the Americans had embraced, recorded an incredibly soulless appropriation of Bob Marley's "I Shot The Sheriff" for an equally awful album. Maybe Clapton did shoot the sheriff. He should've shot himself and taken post-Genesis buddy Phil Collins out with him.... It would've prevented "Journeyman" and his entire post-Derek catalog, collaborations with 'ol Phil, and Phil Collins entirely. Damn. Sorry for that (sorta). 

Example 2:

Thomas Pynchon. 

Korean War vet Pynchon. wrote "The Crying of Lot 49". It's no secret that I generally (and that's being generous) despise post-modernism (and all the post-post-posts, too - keep the meta vomiting going...). Yes, yes: I know at times I act as if it is my personal duty to dispute it's relevance and show it's inherent dishonesty as an art form and as a philosophy. But back to Tommy, the man in question. "The Crying of Lot 49" is a heartbreaking work of staggering genius (you better believe that cruelly awesome pun was intended and that I'm crazy proud of it). A postal conspiracy: true. I've mailed things. There is a counter in the front and super secret work happening behind walls decorated with holiday stamp promotions and labeling instructions and restrictions. Written as a secret organization, well.... Faceless and soulless Oedipa, the bumbling and confused Mucho? Brilliant. The inclusion of goofy pre-New Age Berkeley, California as it's partial setting? Very, very satisfying. All of this is hard to admit. After all, any 22-year-old with a freshly printed English Degree would call Pynchon one of the fathers of the (more modern) post-modern lit movement. Then there was "V.", "Vineland", "Gravity's Rainbow", and countless other works of pure and unadulterated shite. Did anyone actually read "Mason & Dixon" in it's entirety (or just buy it when the paperback hit the bargain shelves immediately after it's release for less than 5 bucks)? Strangely, there is a twist. My father gave me "Inherent Vice", Pynchon's newest, and it's good. Go figure. But the facts remain. His "spark" was a flash in the pan (that may be sparking again, but still...). 

Example 3:

Werner Herzog.

German filmmaker Werner Herzog has been compelled, seemingly since birth, to both terrorize and enlighten his audience and to make sense of the world around him by using the tightly focused lens of his own thought and existential experience. His documentaries, since his earliest days with the camera, have been brilliant. Werner is capable of taking the ordinary, the mundane, and the (often to me, anyway) plain boring and turning it into something else entirely. Something greater even than the sum of it's parts. Herzog, in my goofily proud opinion, is more capable of exposing the violence of nature, the cruelty of humanity, and the indifference of the universe than any documentarian alive (or dead). He is capable of doing so while also shining the brightest of lights on the beauty of the world, the quixotic cry and indignant commitment of the human spirit, and the ambiguous grey area where everything genuine in this forsaken place exists. He's only able to do this, though, as a documentarian. Instead of hiding behind the camera, he inserts himself fully in the drama. It's his own philosophizing and his own struggle to understand himself in relation to his subjects that makes his work so brilliant. Herzog is always his own subject. And his subject never fails to both illuminate our world and force the viewer to uncomfortably examine the ambiguity Herzog examines. He has been, at times, a brilliant filmmaker, too. "Fitzcarraldo", "Stroszek", and "Aguirre: The Wrath of God" are masterpieces. Two of these, however, are aided greatly by his dysfunctional personal and working relationship with the insane (and insanely talented) Klaus Kinski, his "Best Fiend" and the greatest actor Werner ever worked with. The majority of the rest are utter shit. I know many of you will disagree. I respectfully (sorta) disagree with you. "Rescue Dawn", with it's plot lifted directly from one of his own documentary subject's actual experience as a POW, couldn't even be salvaged by Christian Bale's central acting role. "Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans" is simply terrible. That's all on that one. And "Nosferatu"? Even Kinski couldn't salvage that turd of an idea. Anyone who knows me, though, knows that I love Herzog's work deeply, though. So it's with great difficulty that I criticize him at all (notice how much I wrote about the dude?). I mean, this guy literally ate his own shoe on film in front of an eager theater full of people to make good on a promise. This guy is the real deal. But when he falls he doesn't catch himself with his hands. He hits face first. Really, really hard.

"Anyday"

Derek & The Dominos
eric as derek = genius.




A German dude reading from Pynchon's "Against The Day".
A shitty book read by a German guy with some serious teutonic toughness.
I am begging you to just watch the first ten or so seconds. Hilarious.
Must I say anything else?


Werner Herzog eating his own shoe.
A man of integrity questioning the idea of integrity.
Why I love Werner:

A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words (a song has a bunch of 'em in it)

"Abstract Art: A product of the untalented, sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered."
-- Albert Camus

I tend to agree with 'ol Al there. Dali makes me want to puke in my mouth. Picasso seems obnoxious to me, and not in a "it stirs my unconscious so deeeeply" kinda way. But sometimes I get confused. Hey: I like what I like....


I've struggled my entire adult life to understand almost all visual art. I've been told what I should see in specific pieces, asked what I think of others, and been given primers and maps to categorize the rest. If I didn't get it (read: didn't like it, wasn't moved by it), then why would I care after I've read about it or been told about it's place in our fictional collective history? Is anything worth, well, anything, if it has to be defined in relation to something else? If it can't stand alone then should it have to be bolstered by things like it's time in history, it's place in a movement, or by the works of others?

Now don't get me wrong, I may not have graduated from high school and may have gotten a strange BA from a now defunct school, but I'm not a luddite entirely. Mama didn't raise no fool. I love photographs and have been moved by many of them (though I can't seem to create any worth the price of processing myself). When I see Goya's human violence and obsession it is never lost on me. Neither are Bosch's landscapes of cruelty and horror painted against fever dream visions of a fluid paradise. Occasionally even something more modern makes it's way into my memory. Lucian Freud's "Double Portrait" and "Girl With a White Dog" are sinister and alluring, full of both beauty and pathos. It doesn't hurt that he is Sigmund's nephew, either, or that, as the Screamin' Jay Hawkins of the art world, is rumored to have sired over 40 illegitimate children.

My cousin, the immensely talented artist Charlie Buckley, once posited to me that, "Beauty is truth and truth is beauty". As much as I trust and adore my dear cousin, I only find the second half of that statement palatable. Incidentally I've asked him to write a post here to expound on the idea more fully (and in relation to music) because I could be misunderstanding his meaning (after all, he holds the MFA...). But still, "Beauty is truth" sounds too much to me like Plato's assertion from The Symposium: "The true .... is to begin from the beauties of earth and mount upwards for the sake of that other beauty, using these steps only, and from one going on to two ... until from fair notions he arrives at the notion of absolute beauty, and at last knows what the essence of beauty is". Plato's belief that there is such a thing as absolute beauty (God's objective beauty) is ridiculous.

Unless you are certain there is a God - and if you are, might I meet 'em? - then what might a human illuminate about a God he claims to know but who's mailing address they keep misplacing (much less a reliable cell phone number, which would certainly begin with 662 or 601). Even for those of us who try to believe in something, we can't be sure. We can definitely never be sure of God's intent, lest we paint ourselves in God's image. I'll stop now before I'm pegged as an inquisitor or an all-knowing being. But you get the idea (of my idea, anyway) right? "Perfect" has no reference point in this world and neither does God, whether God exists or not. If this is true (and it is), then no work of art (be it visual or musical or a signed urinal) can do anything more than illuminate the human heart and the condition of man (and ladies, don't forget the ladies). Anything that strives to or claims to approximate divine vision (except for William Blake and a handful of others) is necessarily vacant. As Andre Malraux said of Goya, "He revealed his genius from the moment he had the courage to stop trying to please. His loneliness cuts right across the chatter of his epoch.".

So, if beauty has no mooring in this world then beauty really is "in the eye of the beholder". Of course, the beholder and their eye may both be ugly. They could even have an eyepatch and a crazy cane. Or a glass eye they can magically see through. Your decision. Mine too, please don't leave me out..... The battlegrounds of "taste" are too wrought with fun and awesomenesss to be passed over. Maybe our judgments of the hard rawk loving meathead aren't founded in anything outside of "taste", but that's enough to make for a damn good time!

As if I hadn't said too much, rambled on for too long, and not mentioned Dylan even once(!), I am continuing. Not by writing more useless shite, but by pairing paintings and songs. Just three. You'll make it. Welcome to "Rock and Roll Art History 666", students. Take a seat and get out your #2 pencil and college ruled notebook, please.....

NUMBER 1:

Hieronymous Bosch

Ship of Fools

and

Aretha Franklin

Chain of Fools

NUMBER 2:

Francisco de Goya

Third of May

and

The Rolling Stones

Street Fighting Man

NUMBER 3:

Rene Magritte

(see, there are exceptions!)

#21 Golconda

and

The Afghan Whigs

Gentlemen

--John Murry

Honestly, I Love You (but a few suggestions?)

The age of facebook has allowed anyone (at any time and as often as they so choose) to post youtube clips of songs to entertain (or annoy) those who receive them in their feed. So, outside of the long-armed reach of facebook, I'd like to post a few suggestions. Earnest suggestions. Type "1" songs (see below). I'd like to post a few clips with the hope that they receive consideration from you outside of any vapid forum and in the clear knowledge that I am posting them because I love the songs. See, the way I see it is this: there are three types of song posts on facebook. Let me clarify my methodology and list for you:

1: These are the songs posted in earnest. The songs that the poster can't stand to keep trapped inside their lil laptop's monitor. They're stuck in the heads of the people who post them all day long (perhaps on endless brain loop for days, weeks even). They are loved songs. They are brought out only when company visits. They're played for new lovers on that third or fourth or whatever date when the listener is studied intently (but secretly) for reaction, and when the listener does (or doesn't) react appropriately, well, I dunno.... Are they really that good looking?

2: These are posted to prove wit. These are the posts one would expect from members of They Might Be Giants or some similarly over-learned under-feeling NPR porn band. They are posted to caress the ego of the poster (is that considered psychic masturbation?). They are, simply speaking, "Isn't this ironic?!? HA!" posts. Of course, sometimes things are posted for sheer hilarity. If the poster thinks old ladies falling down is funny, so be it. Their disdain for the world is a necessary consideration. These types of posts must be judged on the basis of:

     A) The trustworthiness of the poster (isn't there another word for "poster"? Shit.)

     B) Level of funniness. This is a dangerous area, listener. As your mother said a gazillion times, "Be careful, children. Remember: F-u-n rhymes with g-u-n". She didn't say that? She should have. Unless she regularly packed heat. Regardless of what your mama said, funny is funny. Sometimes a "hee" sometimes a "ha" and sometimes, just sometimes, it's truly hilarious. But regardless, these types of posts are unreliable. They are not earnest, though they might not be arrogant either. (Disclaimer: I'm a fan of the funny for the the sake of the funny).                                

3: These are unreliable posts due to simple chemical abnormalities (or normalities, depending on your friends). These clips are posted under the influence of chemicals, be they notable drugs (like, oh i dunno, crack cocaine or the lesser considered substances like Tylenol PM). Of course, not knowing your "friends" personally, perhaps these clips are posted on psychiatric drug holidays (brief vacations from substances that may make the "friend" less insufferable, whether they be suffering themselves or not). Sleep deprivation can also complicate a post. It's a clinical fact that psychosis slowly sets in when sleepless nights accrue, and though it may not seem it, your friend is certifiable. An innumerable number of factors could be at play, and while it may entertain both of us for me to further illuminate these many and varied possibilities, I am becoming bored with myself now so I'm moving on.


And so, dear reader, I submit to you (absolutely unapologetically) these three songs. I am not submitting them for the video included necessarily, but for the love of the song. No irony is intended or implied. I've nothing to prove. I was never and will never be a member of any modern-day novelty troupe (unless it pays well, then all bets are off). I have taken all my medication as directed (even took the last one with a full glass of water! Just as directed!). Nothing has entered my bloodstream that ought not be there (unless enchiladas are now known to the state of California to cross the blood-brain barrier). These songs are stuck in my bones. They aren't the "greatest", the "most relevant", the "most underrated", etc. I just love them. Now. Today. Please: let me know what you think. Even better, gimme some of yours. After all, these are what real recommendations are (and by "are" I mean I really get off on this shit and I hope you will, too).

The first is the Sparklehorse song most often stuck in my head. It's from Linkous' 2nd record Good Morning Spider, maybe the least remembered or critically loved (but who really knows or cares - I never claimed to be a critic or historian, just someone who likes rock and roll). And since Mark Linkous died Saturday it's been stuck up there:


The second song is a Spiritualized song full of musical violence and brilliance that was released on a record that began their exit from the hipster critic lovefests (they're out of vogue now? so what...) called Let It Come Down. But the song stands alongside anything they've done and, in my mind, Jason Pierce is still making great records (Songs in A & E absolutely has it's moments) But I unabashedly love this song (and yes, in this case the I adore the video as well). And I know it's super sentimental and all. I love it for that. Here goes:


The third and last I first heard on an Oxford American magazine sampler cd. Google "Jim Ford". His story is too amazing to not research further. Raising Brando's kids, hanging with Sly Stone, appearing in cartoon form in Playboy, writing Harry Hippie for Bobby Womack... This guy did it all. Then died in a trailer north of San Francisco working on Fiats and afraid to leave the house. The song oozes soul and the man is as white as they come. Go figure:



So that's it. I did the best I could to write this post and then post for y'all the first three songs that came to mind. Refreshingly honest, you say? I imagine most of you know me too well to mix the "h" word with my name in conversation (except in jest). But I did, quite simply, post the first three songs that occurred to me to post without any consideration, so there ya go. I'm sure they'd be different tomorrow or maybe five minutes from now, but doing it this way is the closest I'm gonna get to "givin ya what I got" or something like that. Adios.

--John Murry

Surviving The Revolution ( "I'm Not There" But You Are Definitely HERE)

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and open a vein."

-- Walter "Red" Smith

Just like any other musician or any music lover, I've spent hours in discussion with "audiophiles" dissecting the sonic merits of every album that's made any reputable (see: acceptably hip) "Top 100 Albums of All Time" list. Over the last several years almost all modern references have fallen out of these discussions, with any recently released album being replaced by another "vintage gem", perhaps even one that no one bought and listened to in it's own day and that's only found on the shelves of the most discriminating indie shops today (shops that have been all but replaced by iPods).

I'm not attempting to defend either the vinyl or iTunes cultures or to illustrate how any grander cultural or economic force has changed what we listen to. The reason I'm not is because I don't believe it has, at least not to any important extent. In fact, we are now living in an age in which even if you are dead broke you can, at any given moment, download any band's complete discography with the click of a mouse (if you own a computer, of course). If you have even the slightest interest in hearing something you've never before heard you can go to a myriad of websites for free, read what Pitchfork or PopMatters has to say, and download the next newest thing all free of risk (hey! it's free, right?). So why, then, in this brilliant age of constant communication, during the height of the satiation of the generation of entitlement's reign, are we talking less and less seriously about anything being released today and more and more about things we've been discussing since 1990? Because we are confused? We no longer know what we like?

No. Now that it can all be had instantly we have too much and we know that not as many people have the same albums as we do (ya know? it's a product-to-people ratio kinda thingy.). In the studio when we search our lobes for references for the music we want to create, our tiny little primate brains stutter. We don't have the nerve to say things like, "Something kinda like the intro to that LAST Dylan record". Instead, we start talking about "Blonde on Blonde" (or "Tonight's The Night" or "Hunky Dory") or any number of records made before 1980.

Man, we talk about Dylan ALOT. And rightfully so, but never about anything after "Blood On The Tracks", lest we receive a slap on the wrist for breaking this grand and unspoken rule. Rarely are lyrics even mentioned. My personal least favorites that have weasled their way in most recently are Joni Mitchell's "Blue" and Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks". Now don't get me wrong, both have their value and are "masterpieces", whatever the hell that means (though I'm not a fan of Joni Mitchell at all, really), but they weren't being mentioned ten years ago AT ALL. And yes, I have one dear friend who sees "Blue" as the very gateway into his own music making (and he makes it quite well). Of course they were talked about in music circles but, in my experience, they were never mentioned as reference points in studios and have seemingly, by something akin to divine intervention, been referenced over and over (and over and over) more recently.

And yet those two albums and a myriad of others discussed ad infinitum have had little effect on the records I've seen made (and little to none on those I've heard at all). In the 80's people wanted to sound like someone on SST and in the 90's it was SubPop and if they were "talented" (if they had something, anything) they ended up sounding a bit like those bands but ultimately sounded like themselves. When Sam Philips recorded Elvis I seriously doubt he said, "Mr. Presley, what I'm hearing here is a kinda (insert something here) crossed with a bit of, you know, (insert something else here). Berry Gordy went looking for teenagers to sign (who certainly weren't studying Mom and Dad's records at home in preparation).

In his book "How The Beatles Destroyed Rock and Roll" Elijah Wald blames it on the over-synthesizing of disparate musical forms and on there not being enough of the intangible(the "it feels good!" stuff) in all things after the Brit invaders washed ashore for good. I think Mr. Wald is right in his assertions, for the most part. But I think the scourge of modern music (or indie rock, anyway, cause hip hop hasn't lost it yet) is the endless meta-analyses that float around in discussions and the disuse of the body. As rock star neurologist Oliver Sacks has said, "Certainly it's not just a mathematical experience, it's an emotional one". Rock and roll (the name itself) is a bawdy old reference to gettin' it on (literally).

My thesis, my manifesto (here, today, right now anyway), is that we are analyzing and referencing and counter-referencing the heart and soul straight out of rock and roll. We are taking up so much oxygen running our mouths that we are choking out the intangible and the magical. We are, by talking too much about what moves us musically, not moving ourselves at all. We are too afraid to tap our feet, too afraid to shake our collective ass, too thoroughly post-modern to let anyone know we love something (I mean REALLY love it). Musicians are becoming scientists. And strangely scientists (like Dr. Sacks) are becoming musicians. Like sportswriter Red Smith (the Michael Lewis of his day) says above, to create art you have to do much more than synthesize or imitate. Ya gotta bleed. You have to inject yourself into it (awesome pun intended).

So go home, illegally download GNR's "November Rain", and wait for Slash's solo to kick in. And then, without any hint of irony, play the shit out of your air guitar and give your girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife/friend/pet that knowing nod (you know what I'm talking about). Because yes, people: deep down we all know it just feels right. And any song or album that doesn't ain't worth shit.

--John Murry