Git Down, Girl, G'on 'head, Git Down

So, I really like the Kanye West record, and I really enjoy Lost on the DVD. I am now officially a boring white cocksucker.

Minor mitigating factor: I tried, but really don't like the new Paul McCartney record. Will that stop me from seeing him at the Key Arena? Will it, fook.

In other news: Between sales and (official) downloads Little By Little... is on the fast track to surpass the total audience of King James Version in just the first three weeks of release. Without getting too deep into dollars and cents, I can disclose that the budget for recording and promotion between the latter (released on a major label, with the full muscle--or at least the illusion of that muscle--of WEA distribution behind it) and the former (fully funded by the band, with limited national distribution exclusively in independent record stores) is roughly 20 to 1.

If I had any pride left, I would definitely be proud at this point.

(in other news, on day 5 of week 6, I finally got my own desk at work today. good times.)

And then, in 1966, time stopped. The End.

You know I'm gonna buy the DVD of a Dylan documentary directed by Scorsese, especially when Dylan goes on camera and on the record (and even looks suspiciously like a human being when he does, inchoate 'tache notwithstanding). And yes, it is glorious, GLORIOUS, especially all that Eat The Document footage reconstituted into something coherent. All the archival footage, all cleaned up and chopped and stacked (or whatever you motorcycle people say) is well worth the $25 or however much I paid yesterday (P.S. I tried 3 indie record stores, then eventually had to go to Barnes and Noble, 2 Barneses and Noble actually, to get that thing; when I go shopping, I want it NOW). HOWEVER: why is it that the record on Dylan only ever goes up to 1966 and then stops? I absolutely think that 66-76, while less zeitgeisty and revolutionary or whatever, are every bit as important for understanding the legacy of self-invention. Even the poor records (John Wesley Harding, Self-Portrait) are necessary components.

In other news, I promised I'd give this job six months. Today is day two of week six. There's no way I'm going to make it.

Five Years (and one day) Later

Little By Little... is officially released today on Phonographic Records.

Five Years Ago Today

King James Version was released on London-Sire Records.

Droppin' Names Like a Teflon Glove

I realize this might sound like name dropping, but here is the line-up for the recording session I worked on last night: Robyn Hitchcock (guitar, vocals), Peter Buck (guitar), Scott McCaughey (bass), Bill Rieflin (drums), Chris Ballew (piano, backing vocals), Me (backing vocals), Kurt Bloch (producer/engineer).

This is, of course, not to be confused with the show I played last Friday night at the Crocodile, which, by night's end, featured the following band on-stage: Robyn Hitchcock (guitar, vocals), Peter Buck (12-string guitar), Mike Mills (piano), Bill Rieflin (percussion), Aaron Huffman (bass), Michael Welke (drums), Rob Knop (keyboards), Me (vocals). The math breaks down, roughly, as Robyn Hitchcock + [1/2 of REM + 4/5 of Harvey Danger]=ROCK. This line-up performed "Queen of Eyes," "Viva Sea-Tac," and "Listening to the Higsons." Earlier in the night, RH joined HD (performing that night as The Fell Swoops, our all-purpose pseudonym), for a somewhat misbegotten cover of "A Day in the Life" (which was redeeemed the next day at Bumbershoot by a joint rendition of "Viva Sea-Tac"). Then, the RH, PB, MM (this time on bass!), BR (drums), and Me index did several Robyn songs, including "She Doesn't Exist," "Flesh #2 (Beatle Dennis)," "Oceanside" (my new favorite), and a truly inspired cover of "Eight Miles High." I also Garfunkeled to RH's Simon on "I Feel Beautiful" and "Alright, Yeah."

I AM JUST SAYING.

Kanye for President

I will not lie. When I saw the e-mail from Kerri Harrop about Kanye West's off-prompter tirade, I half expected it to be a throwaway moment (with an invitation to a DJ dance party at the bottom). I now feel that it represents one of the most significant moments of commentary in years, an intrusion of honesty of Howard Beale-ian proportions. Kanye's process, from stammering, uncertain, inarticulate, passionate attempt to express the fullness of his heart and mind (while his heart was undoubtedly POUNDING in his ears and throat; *you* try going off script live on network TV) to perfectly concise, what-do-i-really-need-to-say-here line of the decade, is and was awe-inspiring. Though, as my comrade Josh Feit notes, you can watch Kanye collect himself on camera, the really exciting thing to imagine is what was going on in his head for the hour before he took his mark next to Mike Myers--in the limo, in the make-up chair, in the green room, surrounded by his entourage and a retinue of producers, PAs, directors, lighting people, and go-betweens. You have to wonder at what point he decided to get real and say what any reasonable man might say when confronted with the opportunity to insert a dose of reality into the paltry coverage of this horror. You have to wonder if he could even hear his handlers ask him if everything was all right, if he even considered reading the script, or whether his blood was so hot in his veins that he just decided right then and there to say fuck this and fuck you, I must communicate what I believe. Give that man an Emmy. Give him the Nobel Peace Prize, bitch!

The most amazing thing about the aftermath of Katrina, I think, is the degree to which it has proven that all of our systems for dealing with real calamity are just abstractions which, when tested, fail to become real. It has proven that the Republican small government industry is, and has always been, a venal lie, no better than casino gambling. It has proven that television news (in the absence of the instantaneous sentimental bathos that was 9/11 coverage) is too paltry to contain the reality it pretends to capture; even the anchors are starting to lose it. And now, here, it has proven that sometimes, the fake-ass platitudes that celebrities are always called upon to deliver in times of collective anguish are trascendable--that sometimes famous musicians are not completely full of shit.

So, yeah: