Albums of the Year of the Month

There are so many things I want to blog about, but sometimes even I don't care what I think about these things. I fear that the tour diary will never come (tour was amazing, life-alteringly so), so no Steve Coogan story, no career-based musings, no fulmination on the transitory nature of all things.

Instead, how about a list of records I really like? This is what my 2006 has sounded like lately.

Scritti Politti-White Bread, Black Beer (has led, incongrously, to listening to the early and middle period Scritti records, too. That's more '80s dance funk pop than I am accustomed to. I love it. Anomie and Bonhomie in particular. Apparently, it has also led me to use the abbreviation "Scritti.")

Lady Sovereign-Public Warning (finally)
Racetrack-Go Ahead and Say It EP (sigh)
Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus 3-Ole Tarantula (obvs)
Bruce Springsteen & the Seeger Sessions Band-We Shall Overcome (the only Bruce record I've ever liked)
Lupe Fiasco-Food and Liquor (why do i love this?)
Goldfrapp-Supernature (swoon)
The Decemberists-The Crane Wife(kind of undeniable)
The Trucks-The Trucks (sorry, RT, it basically rules)
Let's Go Sailing-untitled, coming soon (not a moment too soon)

...aaand.... whofuckingcares.

Care to Judge a Book?

Coming very soon.

My Blood is now Throat Coat

My poorly voice is much mended, thanks to the advices of the great Sarah Rudinoff and the ministrations of throat coat, which I have been drinkinging constantly for days. More news later, but the shows are amazing (Canada was a good time) and I'm hanging in. MANY THANKS for all the kind thoughts and supportive words. They have mattered. They will continue to matter. Until Hoboken. Then all bets are off.

There I Go... Turn the Page

Tour is an unbelievably intense psychic crucible. The shows are profoundly rewarding expressions of mutual love and appreciation between us and the people who have stuck it out all these years waiting for us to play. They show up. They fly across oceans to be there. They know all the words. They request the deep cuts. They thank us for not playing that song. They are perfect. Perfect.

The camaraderie in the van (a rented Euro-style Sprinter!!!) is unprecedentedly positive, fraternal, and fun as well. It feels like a healthy, real band on tour for the first time ever. And I mean ever.

Everything seems poised for triumph.

And then I get fucking laryngitis? There's no pain, no other symptoms, no nothing; just no voice. Fighting the monitors at show number two (goddamn college sound guy), I sang myself completely out. Now, I'm popping steroids, swilling Throat Coat, and obeying a strict regimen of not speaking at all, which feels like a punishment sent down from Zeus--the perfect torture for a ceaseless yammerer like me. But to not be able to sing. AFTER ALL THIS. Why bother being alive? We almost cancelled Chicago, at Schuba's (one of the best clubs in America), which was SOLD OUT, for fuck's sake. My sound check was disastrous. But it was too late to cancel, so the show went on, and with the help of prednisone and the very palpable love and support of the people, I summoned up the last scrap of trouper spirit and sang my heart out (it felt like literally) for an hour. A short show, but legit. Now we have to cancel Buffalo so I can save up for a power home stretch of Toronto, Montreal, Boston, Motown Philly, NYC, and Hoboken.

I honestly don't know if we'll make it, though I intend to spend every last second worrying.

Nothing, but nothing, is ever easy. Not being able to talk is hell. Not being able to sing is a whole other matter. It's kind of all I have. Will advise.