You Don't Mind Babe (Lo' Cup; Then Under) 5:38

This is The Beatles in five chapters.

Chapter 1:

A great movie has just ended. It’s that part of the film where the final shot fades to black and the credits start to roll on the screen. Audience members shuffle in the darkness to find their belongings and not kick over the last few ounces of coke-water left in oversize wax cups at the base of their seats. Lights undim and a line begins to form in the aisle as whispers move to speak. You should be annoyed, but you’re not. The fact that this is the routine every time you see a film has led you to expect such nuance. You remain motionless reading the actors billed fortieth and greater on the list. You wonder who they are.

You don’t know their name. How could you begin to look up their number?

“What is this music,” you think? “Who is this?” You know it sounds like The Beatles. Your music knowledge has put you that far. You think you could recognize the voices of John and Paul just about anywhere. But you wonder: “How come I have never heard this song?”

“It has to be The Beatles,” you say to yourself. You are amazed that you haven’t heard it before. As you join the back of the whispering chord of shuffling bodies ahead of you, so much of you wants to return to your seat and wait for the final credits where directors reveal the music in the film. You need to be confident in your attachment between song and group. With every inch you gain towards the up-ramp exit you look back over your shoulder hoping the credits have already gone through Key Grip, Best Boy, and the Vancouver catering crew.

Chapter 2:

You step out into the alley and spot a motley crew of swing jazz players on the midnight street.

An Asian man in Huckleberry Finn corduroys plucks at a standing bass. A rolly-mustachioed hipster in a bowler hat picks his way through a banjo. A humble acoustic hides on a milk crate in the shadows of a newspaper dispenser. A young lady in men’s trousers with suspenders and a white collar blows staccato into a French horn.

Noticing two homeless people high on meth dancing to your left, you think: “How surreal.” One is a tall black man in his sixties and the other--a white woman in her thirties. Possessed with both neurotoxins from the crank and the sounds of bluegrass jazz, the dancing duo swings off the sidewalk and into the taxi-crowded street eliciting a droning of car-honk.

You close in on the college quartet thumbing your way through pockets for loose change. A guitar case is propped open collecting coins like a shopping-mall fountain. The crowd is small, but the players are in it for themselves. You realize an eerie similarity to the song in the film.

You spot a Puerto Rican toddler holding his Abuela’s hand. You can see it in his eyes that this is the first time he has ever experienced panhandling. Realizing the immigrants don’t have enough money to be tossing into the street, you approach the niño and squat to eye-level. Placing two singles into his hand you point at the open case. Abuela nods to her grandson in confirmation. The bambino shyly steps forward and snowflakes the money from his hand. He runs back to his Abuela with joy and pride. You have already walked on.

Chapter 3:

You enter a hotel you have never been in before. The lobby is buzzing with social class and you feel like you have stepped back in time.

“Good Evening and welcome to Slaggers. Featuring Dennis O’Bell.”

A piano takes centre stage while Tom Collins’ clink and young ladies smoke cigarettes from long, thin holders.

“Let’s hear it for Dennis. Ha-hey.”

“Good evening,” he dares, and waits for attention.

“You know my name.” There’s a light applause, you included. “Well then look up my number.”

Frozen in your tracks, you pan the room in search for Gatzby. There is a grand bandstand in front of a velvet red curtain at the rear of the lobby barroom. A rotating stage centers the tuxedoed soloist. “Is this Dennis O’Bell?” you wonder.

The pianist is swanky. “Slick,” you say aloud under your breath. You think you recognize him to be a young Paul McCartney, but he is too distant to tell, and the crowd is too thick in between. They chop by you like blank faces on a moving train obscuring a good look at Dennis O’Bell. “Have I heard this song before?” you think. “I mean; other than tonight? I must have. But what is it?”

Piano chords three-beat to a pause. “Ohh. You know, you know, you know my name.”

Dennis O’Bell is losing his edge of cool and entering a carefree dominion. The bandleader/announcer is standing to the far left, really grooving. “Man—that look’s like a young John Lennon.” Everything’s got you thinking in quiz form.

He is singing along off mic, making faces that resemble a walrus. Having no consciousness of being watched by society’s finest, he lowers his chin into his neck and dips his eyebrows in search of new voices he didn’t know were there. The bandleader is goofy, a comedian more than a conductor. Dennis O’Bell smiles at him, dipping his chin to a raised right shoulder without breaking stride on the piano. The two of them are working in harmony like it was meant to be. The off mic bandleader barks like a dog. The music begins to fade.

“Ah, let’s hear it. Go on Dennis. Let’s hear it for Dennis O’Bell!”

Chapter 4:

The piano rotates away from centre stage and two monkeys in German trousers with suspenders appear on tricycles. The bandstand transforms into a circus ring. Dennis O’Bell and the Walrus trolley from stage-left to stage-right and back again on a handcar pump you recognize from old Three Stooges and Charlie Chaplin skits. Dressed in blackface, they bob and roll across the stage. They are both acting silly for silliness sake.

The Walrus repeats every phrase Dennis O’Bell makes, mocking a parrot.

“Is this the same song?” you ask yourself as the charade continues. You can see it in the Walrus’s eyes that he can’t hold the skit any longer. His face cracks to laughter. They look you right in the eye.

“What’s up with you?” They laugh. “You know my name.” Freeze.

“That’s right.” Freeze again.

“Yeah.”

Chapter 5:

A piano solo leads in a high school musical like the soundtrack to Charlie Brown’s Christmas. A young kid who has just learned how to play the skins taps the high hat and stomps the kick drum.

The stage scrambles as young actors find their mark. The clowns and monkeys wave goodbye. The Walrus is blubbering. Thirty kids dressed up as ocean creature swim about the stage in a simple choreographed dance. The red curtain is raised to reveal a hand-painted blue setting that was done by Maxwell’s third grade class. An out-of-place hammer floats in the water.

Dennis O’Bell re-enters the stage for his final bow. He is back in his tuxedo now, but his blackface makeup has yet to be removed. The Walrus convulses around him making strange, gruntled noises. Miss Rigby, the seventh grade math teacher, plays proudly on her upright piano.

“How did I get here?” you ask. But you are not surprised at the oddity of your situation. It’s just been one of those nights. Dennis O’Bell grunts like a boxer.

“Heavy, heavy,” the Walrus groans.

Spotlights shine onto a xylophone and trumpet that have come onto the stage. It is the same band from the alley. They strut and circle Dennis and The Walrus who are pumping interlocked fingers on both sides of their chins. The dancers push back leaving the band and its actors to bow.

You can’t help but dance. You shyly sway your hips and move your arms.

The curtain drops.

A skinny little thanks to Rolling Stone

In a meeting of the minds last week at BreakThru Radio headquarters in Chelsea, New York one of the BTR interns read the letter that had been printed on the back of Rolling Stone Magazine’s last issue. The letter, titled “A Big Fat Thanks to Record Execs,” was actually a reprint of a stunt pulled by the magazine giant on October 28, 2002. Back then it was through The New York Times that they reached out, publishing the letter in a full-page ad in arguably the world’s most read newspaper. Here is the letter:

While the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) continues with its losing battle against P2P file-sharing, media Web sites, and bit torrents used by millions, it is Rolling Stone Magazine itself that I would like to address in this article, leaving the RIAA lawsuit editorials to legal blogs and tech-y sites.

To the people of Rolling Stone—tell me you see the irony in this overly sarcastic letter appearing on the back of a “music” magazine selling copies on the coattails of Katy Perry’s rack. The issue that featured the RIAA letter had a headline that read: “Sex, God, and Katy Perry.” Other articles featured on the cover were Michael Cera (not a musician), an Aerosmith comeback (really? that’s refreshing news to the music world), and Arcade Fire’s recent album success (okay, that’s a quality music story, but how can they be ignored?). Even Rolling Stone Magazine couldn’t overlook Arcade Fire; but notice how the band isn’t good enough to make the cover. Katy Perry isthough. Clearly her album must be so much better.

The joke improves. The very next issue published (the current issue) featureseven more nudity on the cover and within the pages. This time it is the cast ofTrue Blood who are naked and splashed with vampire blood on the cover. I mean, come on Rolling Stone, they don’t even have an album. At least Katy Perry attempts music. The headlines in this issue read: “They’re hot. They’re sexy. They’re undead: The Joy of Vampire Sex."

The street cred of Rolling Stone Magazine as an accurate voice for the ever-morphing music industry began to flounder years ago. To be completely and utterly blunt: it’s become a fuckin’ joke! Their most recent issue features top stories with headlines like: “True Blood’s steamy Rolling Stone cover shoot." It also includes an article called “Vampire State of Mind," in which writer Peter Travers “breaks down the best and worst vampires of all time.” Along with, “Bono Storms Back,” a report on U2’s return to the stage after Bono’s back surgery.

Is this really the same magazine that sarcastically derided the RIAA, claiming that “[b]ecause of [them], millions of kids will stop wasting time listening to new music and seeking out new bands.” Are you kidding me? Maybe you should be asked a similar question. What have you done for new bands recently Rolling Stone?

Just look at the arrogant tone to the letter of discussion. While its message may be valid, its sender is questionable. RSM is more interested in naked photos of Katy Perry, Anna Paquin, Stephen Moyer, and Alex Skarsgård than anything to do with the music industry, especially when it comes to “new music.” Under the music tab on rollingstone.com, its featured articles are about Steven Tyler joining American Idol, a new Neil Young album, and a lawsuit between an LA clothing designer called “Material Girl” and Madonna for allowing her daughter to design under the same registered trademark. Slow down on the “new music” coverage Rolling Stone, these “millions of kids” can’t read it all fast enough.

The irony is that Rolling Stone Magazine is just as guilty for marring the music industry as the RIAA. They don’t give a shit about “new bands” anymore than major record labels do. They’re only purpose is to sell magazines. And what sells a magazine these days better than slutty photos of Katy Perry,interviews with True Blood cast members, and editorials on vampires.

The millions of kids referenced in the letter on the back cover don’t even readRolling Stone. Why would they? Nothing in its pages appeals to them. Rolling Stone Magazine is nothing more than a prop to the college frat-boy bro whobuys it so he can get laid. What college chick doesn’t want to sleep with the guy who is “into music” and reads Rolling Stone? The magazine has becomean ornament on the beach at Spring Break right along with a straw cowboy hat and barbed-wire bicep tattoo. I could go on with the imagery, but you get my point. There is really only one thing left to do...

Eye One Too (3:03)

Notice I have now embedded the YouTube video right into the blog. I guess I am getting smarter. Click play and begin reading. Remember--don't stop reading once you start. You can always go back and do it again. Enjoy!

Dylan just poured snare into my coffee.

Saturday morning diner in Hell’s Kitchen and the blonde in the booth ahead of me keeps looking over. Her eyes conspire against her boyfriend’s who is flirting with his omelet. Beads of sugar rain onto the table as if searching for a necklace they were never a part of. I wonder how many nights make up a “later.”

The guilty undertaker sighs.

The lonesome organ grinder cries.

The silver saxophones say I—

Should refuse you.

But I don’t. Instead I take on the persona of all three. Counting death around me in exchange for hope. Seated alone surrounded by a staircase of keys and puddles of pedals that soak my feet. I hear blown tenor notes that I know are against better judgment. But there is harmony in discord too.

He doesn’t just want her. He wants her “so bad.” But he knows he can’t have her, and he’s forced to sing his petition to the lonely hustler on the street rather than the muse of his lyrics.

There will be no savior to the politician either. There will be no interruption. The only thing left to do is get drunk with his audience of degenerates. Yet he can’t even do this. His cup is broken, forcing the wounded wanderer to face the streets under the bleak and honest cloud of sobriety. Like Coleridge’s ancient mariner his song is ignored by the one who needs to hear it most. The up-tempo of the tune set to illustrate the street of ignorance around him rather than the weariness of his fight. Harmonica swings at the end of each chorus reminding us of the masochistic pleasure of rejection.

Honey, I want you.

The fathers of the streets are gone now. I am left alone to seek out the regular alleys for the broken angels. All I find are message-less glass bottles and cigarette butts smoked down to the filter. Daddy’s girl-daughters continue to put me down and I try not to think about it.

What is there left to do but turn back to chance? The ‘Queen of Spades,’ lady luck herself--a metaphor for putting the chips back onto the table and raising the stakes. Not to be afraid to look another “her” in the eye, even if she is the black mamba. She’s always been good to me. She sees right through me. Her and her three sisters. And no matter where I’d like to be, we both know it doesn’t matter.

Not a whole lot of choices left for our young poet. Shuffling toeless chucks through the filthy gutters, it’s either listen to the wail of the sax or be seated around the table of sharks. They’re all holding full houses, ladies over jacks, and he knows that. And yet he still musters the gusto to blow on his harp to the falling escalator of down-beat organ notes and peccadillo guitar plucks.

Everyone else in the world is dancing. Why not our singer?

Was I good to you? Was I?

Unsure of himself, he is humiliated to seek approval from her. Even though you lied. The whole time taking me for a ride. And now not even time is on my side. I march on to the beating of a silent drum invisible to the world, but what is even of more consequence is that I am invisible to reflection. A sinister cloak wrapped around my shoulders conceals me from the eyes of hope. From the ears of discord. From the vagabonds of jeopardy. From the sirens of chance. From the players of thievery. And from the arrows of Phoebus.

Sweep on harmonica. Sweep on.

The Vinyl Ritual

This week, Thompson Davis invited me as a guest speaker on his Thursday afternoon show Geek Out. The topic of the conversation is the age-old argument, or belief, that the best way to hear music is through vinyl. But is it really? Or is it just part of a purist’s nostalgic attitude that is hard to shake, like stories from a retired army Sergeant who complains that combat “just ain’t like it used to be.”

I began seriously collecting vinyl about three years ago. Like almost anyone in this trade, I started with my parent’s old collection, rummaging through the boxes of records in their basement. Like a fashion designer in a fabric factory, I flipped through each cover with intent and fury; selecting only those LPs‘good’ enough to appear in my collection that I was determinedwould be more about quality than quantity.

Of course there is the obvious need for a record player as well, but I had that problem covered thanks to an extraordinary Christmas present from my sister (a Crosley Collegiate Stack-O-Matic—a leather suitcased beauty with built-in speakers and a seven-LP stacker). Today, my record collection has grown considerably and ranges from 1932 recordings of Duke Ellington’s band on old 78s (those super thick, ultra plastic records) to Radiohead’s In Rainbows including full digital recording technology. My new music hobby was found, and there is no feeling in the world like going through a box of LPs at a garage sale or flea market and finding a mint-conditioned Let it Bleed or Blonde on Blonde. But does thatreally mean it sounds better?

Also, you would think moving to New York City would furtherincrease this purchasing habit, but I find it to be quite the opposite. New York's music sale industry knows the large market for collectors and purists like myself, which creates a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the selection is incomparable. Record stores exist all over the city with a massive collection creating the strong chance that you can find anything you are looking for at least somewhere in this town. On the other hand, album pushers know the severity of the habit, and mark-up the prices considerably making it too easy for the addict to find the junk they are after. This takes the entire thrill out of the score. Buying a first edition copy of Thriller for $25 from Bleecker Bob’s just isn’t the same as buying the same record for 50 cents from a guy selling items out of the back of his car at a farmer’s market in small town USA.

Over the last few years, I have even managed to convert some friends. My girlfriend in Toronto at the time now has a record player and plays records, as does my old roommate/cousin. I used to think it was the sound that made records better, but now I am leaning toward another reason as to why I prefer records to digital. It is the process.

To me the difference between playing music on records and playing it through your computer or iPod lies in the ritual of the act. Playing vinyl personally involves you with the listening process, and you become a part of the whole medium of the artistic expression. The effort of thumbing through stacks of records to find the right one for the mood you are in is plentymore engaging than having Pandora Radio choose songs for you.

One also finds that they are less likely to skip songs on a record, because of the effort involved to lift the needle and find the correct space in the groove between the desired track and its predecessor. This forces the listener to hear the entire side of an album as it was intended, in order, as opposed to hitting the “skip” key on his/her computer, stereo, or listening device. As well, the “shuffle” mode is completely out of the question, and if you want to keep listening, you will have to continue to select new albums approximately ever twenty to thirty minutes. All of this involvement just for a little background music, what BTR Program Director Chris Hatzis calls “wallpaper music,” as you cook or chill in your apartment may be annoying and not worth the effort to a lot of people, especially when you do have the option for something as simple as Pandora Radio, Grooveshark, or your very own iTunes library on Genius mode.

I completely sympathize with the music lover who prefers the ease and simplicity of a digital catalogue over a vinyl one. I am extremely guilty of this myself. I probably listen to BreakThru Radio and my iTunes library, skipping from song to song, more than I do my vinyl collection. But I don’t always. It is more engaging to select records to play, especially when you have one or two people over to your place and you do it together, than to listen to Pandora and have the music your playing soon equate the camouflaged drone of the air conditioner or the water from the dishwasher.

There is also the feel of the record in your hand. Holding the actual object, admiring the artwork, and reading the, ahem, liner notes on the back ascends the music from something that is intendedjust for one sense (our ears) to a piece of art made for all thesenses: our eyes; our fingers; our taste (in the ‘preferred’ sense of the term); and even our noses (like the smell of old books. Who doesn’t love the smell of old records?).

Ultimately, there is the sound an old record makes that helps conjure the idea that the recording sounds warmer or softer, orthat the device playing the recording makes it ‘sound’ better. The word ‘better’ is so subjective that the argument becomesimpossible to win and therefore shouldn’t even be had. As Chris Hatzis discussed with me in a casual conversation a few weeks ago, the argument that records “sound better” is just a music purist’s myth. The recording technology is just that much better at picking up and amplifying every single sound, not to mention the software affects that can be added. If we can dispel the idea that a scratchy undertone to a song makes it better, then the argument for analog over digital is moot.

However, the argument presented here, the physical and mentally involved process that goes into the selection and playing of music through a record player, holds fast. There is nothing passive about flipping though a pile of albums, coming across an old beauty you forgot about or haven’t heard in a long time, and then maneuvering the needle over the rim of the vinyl until you hear that vintage needle sound through a set of old mono speakers. It is that moment, the ritual, that makes listening to records “sound better” to some, than the click of a mouse.

(For anyone interested in looking at Crosley Turntables as mentioned in this article, CLICK HERE).