The Heiruspecs Show is on Saturday at Icehouse
It’s been awhile since Heiruspecs has played live and I’m pretty excited about. We are still quite good. And we will have vinyl for sale at the show. I guess what I’m saying is you should come to this show because it will make you happy. You should buy tickets for the show in advance here.
You should look at the poster for the show right now.
I’m at War with the Commenter Class
I’m a good leader, I’m a good follower. I can be a worker bee. I can hold the clipboard. I can grab the coffee. I can “write that down for next week”. I can “put together the plan”. I can “sketch out what that will look like if things go well”. I’ve done some great assisting work in my life. I’ve done some great leading in my life. I love a great leader, I love a great follower. And when I say great follower I don’t mean some human carbon copy situation where the person just rubber stamps the thoughts of the leader. No, a follower is someone who helps reach POINT B with innovation and ingenuity, but in collaboration with the leader. In fact, that’s what a leader is too. Here’s what I’m not about, the ever budding, ever growing and utterly useless COMMENTER CLASS.
I mainly see the Comment Class in the Star Tribune comment section. There are a handful of good people in the comment sections in general, but they are mostly outgunned by the laptop mafia who shout out directions and misspelled missives to people who most likely don’t read the god damn comment section anyway. If you’ve made a comment on an article in your life you are not immediately placed into my detested group of the commenter class. If you have a clever commenting name that doesn’t easily connect someone with your given name. . .you are in the commenter class. If that name is vaguely sexist, racist or just kind of. . . .gross. . .you are in the commenter class. There’s been a recalibration during my lifetime where suddenly the commenter class. . .matters? They don’t. It’s a fiction that deserves correcting. They are the 2023 version of the town mutterer. I don’t mean the commenters don’t matter cause their life stories don’t matter, or that they don’t deserve love and a positive home life. What I mean is that you should derive very little credit or clout from just jumping on what someone else wrote and repeating your stump speech over and over again. Naw, that’s not right. If you are just the peanut gallery and you don’t campaign, you just shoot out ideas with no sweat equity, no effort. If it’s easy, it’s usually pointless. These comments are pointless. You think you’re a leader in waiting, you think you’re a follower just waiting for the right leader. Nope, you’re a Commenter and your life is a bummer.
I also think the phenomenon of the Commenter Class is related to some of where we are struggling as a planet at the moment. There’s an epidemic of people who think the most important thing they can do is “chime in with their thoughts”. What a crock. Your thoughts matter, but if you aren’t leading, and you aren’t following, I don’t know what to do with those thoughts. Period. Can I show them to the OZONE Layer? Can I show them to folks struggling without strong schools in their zip codes? No. And again, thoughts matter. Inarguably, thoughts are the centerpiece of progress. BUT COMMENTS? Comments can kiss my ass. If what you think you are bringing to this world is a skeptical tone of judgment to articles you had not part in making, can you at least admit that it is making no difference? You might as well enjoy something else. Try gardening. Why are you fake helping? Probably cause gardening takes effort, takes forethought, takes responsibility. You stick to commenting.
There is work to be done, and we all have to play a role. But I don’t think anyone is recruiting for the role of “prime commenter”. Start a conversation, bring your thoughts, borrow a work ethic, study leaders, start following, start leading, stop commenting. It’s not productive.
Rethinking the Best Song I’ve Ever Been a Part Of
I’m very proud of the music I’ve made in my 42 years on planet earth. Not all of it equally, but I’ve been a part of some amazing musical moments. I just did a little Spotify spin snooping and for a song where I played a significant role the most successful song is Heiruspecs’ Heartsprings. Dessa, sit the fuck down with your Dixon’s Girl spins, Heiruspecs rules. But, the magic of that song has so much to do with the majesty of Muad’dib’s lyrical offerings. The band serves a purpose, and I was proud to write the music and help with some of the second verse, but that magic is really on Muad’dib. For me, though I had much less writing involved with the Ela song “I Don’t Know If It’s Helping” it for a long time has been the song I am most proud to have been a part of. I framed it like this this morning while fighting about this song with my instrumental group Big Trouble: if God or Questlove called me and said “I heard your talented, what is the best shit you’ve done?” I’d play em this song. It’s just amazing. Some history.
Bill Caperton is the nucleus of this song. Bill Caperton is not only a dear friend, he’s an amazing writer who delivered amazing musical moments, but maybe didn’t have the fucked up DNA you have to have to want to play challenging forward thinking music for a rock career. But, I played in Bill’s band Ela with Peter from Heiruspecs and we made an amazing record together in 2004 called “Stapled to Air”. It’s a painful break up record, it’s a quarter life crisis record and it’s the sound of a set of musicians reluctant to do cliche rock band tricks, but enthusiastic to contribute great rock performances. Bill was my roommate, and I still remember waking up from the squalor I slept in and him with a humorously small cup of coffee at the dining room and saying to me “I’ve got a great riff”. He played me the verse riff to “I Don’t Know If It’s Helping” and I remember thinking the band was all set. If you like Pedro the Lion and Death Cab for Cutie than you immediately know it’s a great riff.
Me and Peter had just learned a lot of tricks. I had been making my way for a long time in the world of live band hip-hop with Heiruspecs and lot of that journey had included Peter behind the drum kit. But, it took working with Atmosphere for me to learn a lot of production tricks that are more often delivered either by DJs live or by producers in the studio. Before working as a backing group for Atmosphere I had never dropped a one, and had never gone with “quiet snares on the 2s and 4s”. Now that you have read these two tricks you will listen to a lot of hip-hop music differently. If you’d like to hear the best set of production tricks rolled into an amazing song just check out Nas’s Street Dreams. This tune also features tricks such as “extra measure to breathe before and after verses”, “single quiet hit on the 4” “random double hit on the snare” and more. Even though I knew this production technique as a listener, I didn’t have a language for it until we worked with Atmosphere. We started packing too many of these tricks into a lot of our songs, but I believe the beautiful non-negotiable power of Bill’s writing had me and Peter using the right amount of magic.
Knol Tate gets the best drum sounds. We recorded this whole album across a couple days in 2003. We recorded it above the spot that was known as 4th Street Station or Ryan’s at the time. I think Mint Condition had a spot up there. Dave King used to give lessons up there. Our engineer/producer Knol Tate had a great scene up there. No mixing room, Knol right in there with the band. But holy shit, we just sat in this room with huge windows, smoked so many cigarettes that my fingers turned yellow and listened to the greatest drum sounds I’ve ever heard. I did a particular session when mixing this record where for whatever reason it was briefly just me and Knol and when we got to the section where it’s just Peter on the drums and the pad guitar sound sitting on the root I thought I was going to die I was so happy. I was humbled by the magic.
I Don’t Know if It’s Helping. Who the fuck hasn’t felt this sentiment just the way Bill does in this song? My brother, who has a gift for capturing the thesis of words that just feel good to me, mentioned that this song is some sort of ultimate portrait of that transition from lamenting the feeling of not knowing if it’s helping to raging at the certainty of your ignorance of if it’s helping. I also know this wasn’t a fucking prompt for Bill. I believe his heart had abeen scissored from his soul and then dropped back in about five months before this song came to. I remember him listening to Roberta Flack for days straight while growing a beard. I remember him going non-verbal up north when the pain was too much. He knew it wasn’t helping. But he was able to do that autopsy on the final death knell of a relationship. Thank you Bill. There is blood on the tracks and that’s how it got to be.
So Why Write about this now Sean, just to gratify yourself? No. I was sitting with Bill a couple nights ago at the White Squirrel sorting it all out and I told him how I was going to play this song for Questlove or God and he said “I really wish I had taken that vocal again”. We had a fancy friend, a guy who could play in elite cover bands, a real guitar slinger, who heard a rough of this record in 2003 and told Bill he should take the vocal again. Kept on saying “you only make your first record once”. And for just a couple days the shit that has snuck into Bill’s head for 19 years snuck into mine for 4 days. Maybe you should’ve taken it again. The first half. The part where you’re tender. The part where the relationship hangs in the balance. But Bill, it’s perfect. Bill, you took a Polaroid of your shit when a lot of us would’ve just kept on growing our beard. Bill you took a Polaroid of your pain and gave the world something. Peter had huge hi-hats and a boomy bass drum. We had just learned how to drop the 1. And we dropped the 1. And I played a xylophone. And Knol Tate understands something about drums that no one else does. And it’s magical. And it’s been twenty years and you’ll still find eleven people in Minnesota who understand that this is some really great shit. Really great shit. Bill, I’m so glad you didn’t do another take.
Not Every Song Deserves a Diva. Delivering a song is a strange art. You don’t always want the best singer, it’s not always about the performance, sometimes it’s a bout the portrait. Sometimes it’s better for the writer to sing it. Sometimes it’s better for the singer to write it on the mic. Sometimes it’s better for the note to shake cause the guitar is shaking too.
Today in my basement, on a morning when I needed it I played “I Don’t Know if It’s Helping” a couple times to get it together. No Bill. Just Big Trouble. But we’re playing it at White Squirrel in a couple weeks. And it’s magic. And it will be magic. I’m putting God and Questlove on the guest list. I bet the last time I played this song was probably 2009 or 2010. I can’t wait. I know it’s helping. And I need it right now.
A Blues on the Fourth of July
It’s not a simple holiday. I don’t know how to tell my six year old while we sit outside of the Lunds in Eagan, up later than she’s ever been, what that complexity is. We are a country worth celebrating. I am a patriot. But, the capital P patriots who have staked out the word at best want stasis, at worst want backtracking. Many leaders of the Republican party, including Trump, have perversely made the present so bad that I now too want to make America great again.
Holidays invite you to remember that holiday from years past. I don’t remember much about the fourth from my early childhood. I more remember high school and early college, driving up to the West Side of St. Paul to park with Kevin and Meghan and get a good look at the 1st National Bank building, and see the fireworks. It wasn’t a simple holiday then, but my logic for America was haltingly simple: we were getting better, in fits and starts, but the arc of the moral universe. . .the bend. . . .the changes. . .the improving statistics. The steady march of humanity towards an honest, deep and abiding equality. An agreement to atone for sins, distant and in the present moment that were unforgivable. And fireworks ever year while we work toward that more perfect union.
People are quick to say Donald Trump is the worst President of all time. Not so fast. Andrew Johnson. Worth reading about. Dismantled so much progress, so much reconstruction. He’s in the running. George W. Bush is in the running too. You’ve got people in your life who aren’t here anymore, dead, from a war Bush started under false pretenses. My friend back in Massachusetts, her man has a big ass astronaut looking boot on his right leg for life because of Bush. For life. From a landmine. If he’s driving to Albany to see a concert, big ass boot. Kids got a soccer game, daddy’s in that boot. First dance at that kid’s wedding. Boot. And that is a drop in the bucket compared to what our brothers and sisters in Iraq and Afghanistan have, families, whole towns, gone, dead. On Bush’s watch and for what? For what? Here’s a grievance for me with Trump. I find many of Trump’s actions to be inarguably racist. Claiming you don’t want a Mexican judge on your case, calling a set of countries with primarily Black residents shithole countries. These are racist actions. Growing up, the Republican Party wasn’t lead by an out and out racist during my lifetime. Not on this level. Maybe if I understand Reagan more intimately I’d put him there, but he always seemed to me to be elusive with his evil. That doesn’t make it better, but it makes it less indelible.
Throughout my life, I thought the racists were the sideshow, the racists were the distraction, the racists were ultimately reprimanded. But I sit here, daughter on my lap, Midwest imperfection, 4th of July. 9:12pm, grass by the Lunds. One family tossing the Nerf football, one family in a vigorous and multifaceted game of tag. Everyone else waiting for the fireworks, talking, playing on their phone. My grassy neighbors: I know there’s plenty we have in common but I know there is shit we differ about severely. . .things we differ about on an existential level. I don’t presume camaraderie, I don’t know which weay the moral arc is bending anymore. I don’t know which way my neighbors are rooting for it to bend. Cause it’s bending a lot, and it’s not exclusively bending towards justice.
I’m sending her into a worse world. I’m sending her into a world with worst prospects for the environment, worst chances for wrongs to be righted, for my daughters to get a sound education and do something that matters to them and the universe. I want them to beat those odds, but I wish she didn’t have to beat the odds to exist. They start the tester fireworks, I remember seeing the fireworks at Disney World when I was a kid. It wasn’t the Fourth of July. But humor me. It was magical, I had my whole life ahead of me, lights splashing, loving my family, feeling good about life. Thinking that things were just getting better. I was young, Disney World was amazing, the fireworks were amazing.
Now it’s 20 plus years later. My legs hurt. My legs hurt when my daughter bumps into them. They hurt cause the veins aren’t all good. Every time they hurt I think about what I could’ve done in my life to not have my legs be hurting at 42 years old. But they hurt. They don’t hurt all the time. I tell my daughter that we are completing some circle, that I remember going to some place to sit outside with my parents to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July. I am lying, I don’t really remember that. I remember driving past a bridge as a kid with fireworks, but I remember thinking “I don’t think my family would do that”. My daughter asks me to tell her the story of my mom dying because she “loves that story”. I tell the story about my mom dying in the way a six year old might understand. She needed new knees, she rested for awhile after she got her new knees, she stood up, all the blood went to her chest, she died. My legs hurt. I think how much my mother’s legs must’ve hurt for those thirty minutes before the blood killed her. I cry. My daughter sees my cry. She tells me that Oma, the affectionate German term for my dad’s new wife, is “just as good”. My daughter doesn’t know it’s vicious to say that, and it’s not vicious to her, just hard for me to digest. My daughter her loves her Oma and her Oma is all she’ll know. I cry more. What does my daughter know? What do I know? I know my legs hurt. I know that our country is not at a crossroads. There’s a moment we didn’t meet. There’s a crossroads that we elected to ignore, going to down some path of split differences and false promises. I remember seeing all those Minneapolis City Council people in front of the 5 foot tall letters spelling out “DEFUND POLICE” and I remember thinking, “fuck it’s happening”. I didn’t think it was purely good, I certainly didn’t think it was purely bad. But I thought it was happening and I thought it was necessary. Did you see how big those letters were? It must be happening. Why was massive change a fever dream when massive problems were far from a dream? Where do the “Black Lives Matter” signs that used to be up on my neighbors yards sit? What does it really matter that I still have mine out? My wife still has mulch out from three years ago. Are we down or do we just not take shit down? And what are we down with? What is the goal now? Cancel student debt. Redistribute wealth. Put MPD under a consent decree. Reparations. My neighbors tonight, as we await this ritual, are they worried? Do they think it’s worse for their kids? Do they remember it differently? Did Lisa and Sam on the blanket think they were gonna defund the police? Do they believe the trajectory of the world is heading the wrong way? Or do they love fireworks, are they happy to talk their kids through the finer points. My legs hurt and I’m not gonna get the care I need. When I told the doctor that my left leg had hurt in one spot on and off for ten years he told me the right one looked bad, that was the one insurance would pay for. They fixed the leg that never hurts. I won’t get the care I need partially because I’ll get the care all fat people get which is the care you need tucked inside a big “fuck you fatty” sandwich they serve up at the beginning and end of every visit. Do any of my neighbors legs hurt? Any of them get charged for a colonoscopy they thought would be covered? “Lisa, are you worried we won’t get too many more 4th of Julys like this? Do you remember checking smoke conditions in your yesteryear summers?”
I had some working years on 4ths of July. I ran high school music summer camps at McNally Smith. Final concert almost always on July 2 or 3. Most of the kids gone quick. But one kid is getting the flight on July 4. And sometimes that flight isn’t until maybe 2. And you get the kid there by who knows, 12:15 or 12:30. Get back to downtown St. Paul. The weather is so hot the streets are wavy with heat, you have to take the bus home, summer camps are over and you’re back to driving your own car. And even though Ted, the guy in charge of signing out the vans, could give two shits if I keep it on the 4th, I just want to be done with it, I’ll take the bus. Downtown St. Paul was on a real ghost town vibe everyday. That was magnified on the 4th of July. No one around, empty mainly. Maybe a drink at Amsterdam, but probably just waiting in that air-bending heat, thinking about getting home, wondering if the camp was good for the attendees. Happy Fourth. No fireworks, just lots of work to finish up that last day. And I think the moral arc is turning. Maybe the camps are part of the moral arc. We are offering good education. The camps were good.
Did my family owe me more or less adulthood in my childhood? Did they tell me too much about how fucked this world is or too little? Can I give my daughter the simple enthusiasm to love the fireworks, to wave a flag, to feel patriotic? Should I tell her how my feelings about patriotism are complicated not only by our past, but by our present actions? Should I wait til she’s the age that Ron DeSantis wants kids to be before they talk about race? Was it good I was treated like an adult when I was a child? Should I copy that, or is the best correction to bring in more of that parental figure energy?
I type these blues down. Cause I don’t know what we’re aiming at as a country, so I don’t know what we’re celebrating. I know my leg hurts. I know today hurts. But I know it’s something to stay up til 10:26pm and go home thinking about the colors you saw in the sky.
I Had an Excellent Sandwich Today
This is one of those days where a fair amount of people have the day off, and a fair amount of people are working. I took my kids to daycare with the other assholes and heroes who didn’t/couldn’t take the day off. I had a bunch of shopping to do for the house and I knew I would be at work late because we are doing a special live event. But, I had a little extra time for lunch and I went and had a beautiful sandwich. I love mock duck. I love Bánh mì. I like the ones from Lu’s on Nicollet. The bread is so good. So delicious. So cavernous. So containing. And that cilantro, that blast of flavor, the sliced jalapenos, not too hot, cilantro, cucumbers, carrots. The shit is perfect. Get the large, it’s a great ass lunch.
Heiruspecs’ Magical Block Party on August 19
For decades Heiruspecs has been on the bill on summer block party type shows. Almost always in Minneapolis, and about 23% of the time with Mark Mallman also on the bill. I remember doing the Barbette Bastille Day show in probably 2002. That’s 21 years ago. Mostly these have been beautiful shows. I feel all the energy of Irving and Lagoon, loading the gear. Seeing which band brought their tour van. Seeing Foxy Tann looking like a million and a half bucks guiding the crowds energy between sets and then hearing Heiruspecs get introduced. We start playing a loud loose slightly inebriated 55 minute set to a big ass crowd of people enjoying a great day of summer. After the show I’m trying to use my food tickets right as everything is closing up and hopefully trying to flirt with some women who just saw me looking all awesome up on stage. These are great memories, but these events are curated and risked on other people’s dime. Maybe it’s Kim Bartmann or Anne Saxton from the Barbette/BLB Universe, Corey from Pizza Luce, someone else launching one of these parties. No matter how cool someone else’s taste is, you don’t really have control over a situation unless you’re putting it together, taking the risk, making the event happen on your terms. I will happily cede some of that control over for the ease of just being told “here’s your load in time, send your stage plot, rock your show, here’s your money”. But as Heiruspecs makes the slow transition from working band to venerated institution we want to plant more seeds into events that we control, that we curate. We’ve got a good ass thing going with our Holiday Classic shows which goes down in December. We’ve been doing those since about 2003. (I can’t 100% confirm this but I actually think it was Patrick Costello from D4 who named those events Holiday Classic when he was booking at Triple Rock Social Club, if you see Patty, ask him about it). We control that, we book awesome bands and we have an amazing time. Wolf Lords, MaLLy, Carnage, Black Blondie, I-Self Devine, Guardians of Balance, DJ Dan Speak, Nakara Forje, Christian Fritz, Lady Midnight, Juice Lord, Hey Arlo - that’s just some of the artists who have played with us on these Holiday Classics. The joy I feel thinking about all the people who for years have been a part of these shows. It brings me joy.
Okay, I can talk for as long as I want cause this is my blog so here’s an aside. My overriding desire in my young twenties was to make a contribution to the world of music in the Twin Cities. To offer up songs, events, experiences that would be loved, remembered and celebrated. Walking in to a venue, saying hello to the sound person, making sure they have the stage plot, getting everyone paid, smoking a joint with the weed smokers in Heiruspecs plus our friends after the show around an unexplainable amount of shoe-boxes because everyone has to bring cool shoes for a winter show. It all feels special to me. I love our scene. I love the scene surrounding Heiruspecs in particular. And I love that we have put stamps on things, carved out spots for other great musicians, for great events. And the next chapter in that is the Summer Classic.
We started hunting around for a spot to bring the Summer Classic together right after the Holiday Classic. Peter Leggett, our drummer, cooked up the idea really simply and I started emailing around. It had to be in St. Paul. It had to be outside. First Ave didn’t have the capacity to take on an outdoor show. And let’s be clear, the economics of an outdoor show really work for significantly more popular acts. If you can get 3500 people to pay a serious ticket price, you can handle a lot of the infrastructure of an outdoor show. But we couldn’t get 3500 people to watch us if we paid THEM! But guess what? Free block party shows are the shit. You get folks who are iffy about your band but 100% in for a good time. You can spend your money on food and merch. You can take in that energy. There’s a certain pressure when you spend $50 on a show. . .”this better really be a good time”. It can choke the fun out of something.
There’s a dude in town who really gets Heiruspecs, gets our ethic, gets our music, gets the vibe. His name is Joe Alton, he booked us at a bunch of Beer Dabbler things back when he was a part of that organization, and he always treated us well. He went to Central, he understands the city, he knows everyone, he knows a lot about beer. And every time you see Joe Alton you’re glad you did. A couple winter meetings between Joe and Heiruspecs helped us sort out what might work for the event and he put is in contact with Clutch Brewing. Now I know Clutch, they’ve been using Trivia Mafia for a long time for their Thursday night trivia. But I don’t know them personally, I just know that if you choose to use Trivia Mafia, you’re probably an amazing brewery. But Joe put us together and we felt the good energy. The opportunity to put on something cool in Saint Paul. You shouldn’t have to leave Saint Paul to party during the day. These block parties shouldn’t all happen across the river.
I put out the calls to try and lock down great artists for our first Summer Classic. AND WE DID! Some folks who would’ve been a great fit on the bill simply had to say no because of travel or other gigs et cetera. Some people said no cause people say no. But the groups that said yes. . . .are you kidding me? I’ve been loving Maria Isa since I saw her at the First Ave Mainroom for best new band nights with Leroy Smokes backing her up probably like 2002? I just remember being floored by everything about her. That night did I think she would be en route to being a State Representative? No, but I believed in her. Her old manager used to give out cards and say “we’re gonna change the world” and I absolutely believed her. And when I think about where Maria has gotten, that manager was right. Seeing someone like Maria still delivering the goods as an emcee (and one of the best freestylers in MN) and being involved in the political process. And not just involved. . .elected. It’s big. And I’ve never been disappointed by Maria Isa live because she gets live performance in a way that a lot of equally talented emcees don’t get. Live performance is a different muscle and Maria has those muscles. When I asked Unknown Prophets if they would entertain an offer for the show Big Jess basically said “no”. They got a new record out, but they haven’t blessed a stage in years. But I bet maybe seeing that it’s St. Paul, it’s outdoors, it’s with their brothers from Saint Paul, it all fit. I don’t know, I’m just touched that they would come back onto stage for our thing. Man, that’s amazing. They also still have it. The new music is the best they’ve made. They are actually more in their lane than they’ve been. They are such a fundamentally sound group. And then St. Paul Slim just tossed us the quick “yup” when we asked if he would host. We’ve known Slim since high school. We were all in the same program. To have him in the fold, it’s just perfect, it’s just the cherry. Seriously.
So at this moment on June 27 when the Star Tribune is saying nice things about our new record, the announce is out for our summer shows, it’s just a nice moment. I know there will be a million headaches, a million texts, a bunch of rehearsals, some weird trips to rental stores, a bunch of growing pains. But look, it takes work to do something magical. And it’s worth it. I’m really looking forward to this show, and to the show at Icehouse on Saturday July 22. I hope you come to both. I hope you drag your friends to the shows. I hope you make this summer magical. What is the other option? There isn’t one. Let’s just be magical.
Things You Don’t Want to Have to Clarify
There are certain things on planet earth where if I have to clarify that it’s not what you meant, you are probably already screwed. Yevgeny V. Prigozhin has done such a thing. When you are clarifying to the media that he wasn’t actually trying to storm Moscow and overthrow the government you are basically saying “I’ll be poisoned or thrown out of a window before the baseball season is over”. If you have to clarify that, contrary to appearances, you weren’t in fact trying to overthrow a sovereign state, you are in a shit ton of trouble.
Additionally, I’ve heard people claim that their sporting of blackface was “actually a tribute, like a celebration or an honor”. You’re an idiot one but two, you just need to shut up and take the hate. Because there is no one who was outraged at you for wearing blackface who now totally gets it, it was a tribute. That Venn diagram doesn’t overlap.
The Twin Cities Restaurant Graveyard
Q: Sean, in light of the tragic recent closing of Ethiopian food heaven Fasika, if you could bring five other out of business Twin Cities restaurants back to life which five would you choose.
A:
Sunny Side Up Cafe on Lyndale and 28th. Best French toast of my life easy. Best biscuits and gravy easy. Only cactus paddles. And just a great scene.
Figlio on Hennepin and Lake. Best calamari of my life. Best Bacon Cheeseburger of my life (they used this strachino cheese that was creamy like a mayonnaise spread, but it wasn’t mayonnaise). The bacon was insane. And they wrapped your to go food up into a tinfoil goose which at the time we thought was cool.
Original Little Tijuana’s on Nicollet and 26th - I like this place now, but it serves a different purpose. Little Tijuana’s was a no liquor license Mexican restaurant with an undying commitment to black olives, crayons and tatted up servers. But holy shit I liked that food. Including fish nachos. Loved it, loved it, loved it.
Porky’s - on Fairview and University - Best strawberry shake of my life, best onion rings of my life. Also was parked there once in the afternoon, was pretty high, was enjoying a milkshake, was listening to the Current long before I worked there and Mary Lucia was playing this Santana song with an incredibly long organ solo. I was sort of freaking out feeling like the world knew I was high cause why is there a ten minute organ solo on the Current at like 5:30 on a weekday. When Looch got back on the mic she said “don’t worry, that was a REALLY long organ solo”. It calmed me and weirded me out even more. It was one of the best radio experiences of my listening career.
Village Wok - Stadium Village - Iconic spot with late night Asian food that I used to go to and sit in the smoking section. Mountains of green tea, long arguments with Tasha Baron and Szechuan bean curd for the win. Miss it, want it. Stadium Village used to be a very different spot. Kids these days.
Blind Melon are My Most Over-Indexed Band
I co-own a trivia company. Chuck, the other guy I own it with introduced the term “over-indexed” too me. He says that Trivia Mafia over indexes on rivers. You grab 1500 trivia question from some other joe-schmo trivia company and maybe they’ll have four questions about rivers. We’ll have seventeen. We love rivers. And I’m the same way with Blind Melon. You ask for my top five bands, it looks a lot like yours. But Blind Melon is on there, and I bet they’re not on your list. Here’s some things:
Blind Melon combine the groove of southern rock like The Allman Brothers and the Band with the lyrical content of Sylvia Plath. I listened to Blind Melon a lot in middle school. I remember listening to Blind Melon on a Walkman while my Dad was driving my brother to a guitar lesson in Albany, New York. ‘Bout an hour drive each way for Steve to get a guitar lesson and for me to look at a bunch of Champion sweatshirts in the store next door. But, I never wore headphones on that drive. I wanted to hear what my brother was playing and picking to put on the stereo. But there was time’s where I just needed Blind Melon. I remember holding that Walkman like I was afraid it was going to leave me. I needed those words, I needed that spirit. I felt out of place so much in middle school. I felt artsy, ambitious and humorous in a school that counted all those as strikes. I knew there was a world of music. . .but it wasn’t where I was. Remember, we were driving an hour just to get a guitar lesson from a musician who was really out there gigging. In that first album from Blind Melon I found a kindred spirit in Shannon Hoon. He hit me in a way my other potential heroes, Vedder and Cobain, just didn’t. In Shannon Hoon’s lyrics I found this self-assuredness against a harsh, unforgiving environment. It comforted me. Throw on the song “Change” by Blind Melon.
I found something in this song.
I don't feel the sun's comin' out today
It's stayin' in, it's gonna find another way, yeah
As I sit here in this misery
I don't think I'll ever know, Lord
See the sun from here
And oh, as I fade away
They'll all look at me and say
And they'll say, "Hey, look at him"
"I'll never live that way"
And that's ok, they're just afraid to change
When you feel life ain't worth living
You've got to stand up
Take a look around, look up way to the sky,
And when your deepest thoughts are broken
Keep on dreamin' boy, 'cause when you stop dreamin' it's time to die
And as we all play parts of tomorrow, Lord no
Some ways we'll work, and other ways we'll play, yeah
But I know we can't all stay here forever
So I wanna write my words on the face of today
And then they'll paint it
And oh, as I fade away
They'll all look at me and say
They'll say, "Hey look at him"
"And where he is these days?"
When life is hard, you have to change
When life is hard, you have to change, mmm
This song is both about the validity and durability of your own way of doing things, and the fact that you’ll have to pivot from those values. What helped me in the tune was that combination: trust yourself, change is constant.
I also was really connected to the Blind Melon song “Drive”. This was a rare 90s song for me that was basically a third person story. It’s a song about a lovable guy who is slipping away into the dark side of the drug life. It’s harder still to know that just a handful of years later it’s drugs that would kill Shannon himself.
But the music actually having a Southern groove to it, so important. The band is mostly from Mississippi with Shannon Hoon coming from Indiana. Brad Smith and Glen Graham are a hell of a rhythm section. Glen Graham gives me strong LeVon Helm vibes all over this record. And I’ve never loved the Rock with a Capital R experience. I’m not falling hard for The Foo Fighters or Aerosmith. But rock with some syncopation, some sass and some focus on prioritizing groove over bombast. . .I’m in. Man, just writing Aerosmith reminds me how much I don’t enjoy Aerosmith.
That music that you get at the beginning of your journey. . .I’ve spent so much time with this record, with these drum fills, with these grooves. Take some time with Blind Melon today and see what you find.
The Who Are Less Than the Sum of their Parts
I’ve been spending a bit more time with local singer-songwriter Trevor McSpadden as of late. We have similar dispositions, music business feels and strangely similar wives in regards to demographics and to some extent vibe. But man, we are different about The Who. He really likes the Who, a lot. It runs in the family for him. And I kind of like the Who. But the Who are better on paper than on record and that is no way to be a great rock band. The Who is a band that in their original lineup that had arguably the best bassist, drummer and vocalist of their generation in England. There’s competition, but Entwistle, Moon and Daltrey are in that conversation to be certain. And there is a strong argument that Entwistle, Moon and Daltrey are the weakest link compared to Townsend. Pete Townsend is a visionary, a guitar master and a dreamer who saw angles for how to deliver rock music that were absolutely groundbreaking. And guess what, the catalog doesn’t live up to THAT. It doesn’t live up to bananas talented individuals with a visionary at the helm who can write a hell of a song. The Who are better than 96.5% of rock bands in the history of rock. BUT they get treated like the cream of the crop when they are more the milk of the crop. I’ll toss off a couple half baked ideas for why and then wait to get roasted by the WhoHive.
Tommy is a great rock opera, but it creates a difficult high water mark in their recording career. Tommy rules. The record rules. The 1975 movie rules. I saw it on Broadway as a kid, it rocked my world. But I think it makes some of their post Tommy efforts anticlimactic. And if you tell me Quadrophenia is better I know you’re trying too hard. I am having slightly the same issue with Beyonce’s “Lemonade”. Beyonce has made albums since Lemonade, but I’m stuck on Lemonade. The album was such a masterpiece that I have a hard time believing she’ll top it and I don’t think Renaissance did.
I Don't Believe the Who. I like a messy band. Some fights, some tensions, some issues. But I also like a band with a code, with a shared and argued over vision. I like the fights to matter, to materialize and revolve around the music. I like Rage Against the Machine. They seem torn beyond comprehension for where they are heading as a group. But, they seem to have some sort of moral compass that pulls them in many directions. The Who seem to be drawn in one direction. . .straight to the fucking bank! It just seems like a cash grab with a record every 11.5 years to grab another big pile of cash. They’ve denigrated their legacy for the vast majority of their career. This is doubly vexing to me because I feel like Pete Townsend might have a code, but it’s hard to decipher it for me.
I’m Supposed to like the Who. Your cool drug dealer likes the Who. The guy with the motorcycle likes the Who. Your guitar teacher likes the Who but he likes the Kinks even more. The Who has always seemed like the hipster contrarian favorite. That’s why Trevor McSpadden’s deep love of The Who was confusing to me. McSpadden comes off as the people’s champ, the crowd pleaser cheer leader. So what’s with the Who.
The Who are Pizza Hut. Pizza Hut has great ideas, their pizza kind sucks sometimes. Stuffed crust? Great. The Big New Yorker? Great. Everything you all did with misspelling calzones and getting more cheese into that doughy pocket. . .well done. But once ya’ll innovate I’ll go eat the fruits of your labor elsewhere. If pizza had the copyright laws that music did. . .we’d all be eating at Pizza Hut. But we aren’t. We are eating Pizza Huts ideas elsewhere. The Who, you are a great idea factory. Rock opera, good point. Synthesizers and sequencers on rocking ass songs, check again. Drums that double as an earthquake, massive. But you are Pizza Hut. I think there are other groups that have eclipsed those.
My Dad Didn’t Seem to Really Like the Who. I’ve given you all my high falooting fancy blog ideas about this but fundamentally, my dad made it clear to me when I was real young that we weren’t a “The Who” family. We had Live at Leeds. We listened to Tommy a bunch. When Pearl Jam started playing Baba O’Riley we definitely got some assigned listening. But I always held the Who at a distance.
I’m going to try to listen to the Who with some fresh ears, with an adult attitude about seeing where the band is at. But, I had to get my misgivings off the proverbial chest.
Heiruspecs is back at it
Most everything musical and professional in my life starts with my journey with Heiruspecs. So when we are back doing something it’s a ray of light in my life. We are back at it with a show at Icehouse on Saturday July 22. I can think of no better way to celebrate Kevin Hunt, Josh Herbst and Jenna Weisser’s birthday one day early. Come on out to Icehouse and help us celebrate the vinyl release of our new album! We’re with MaLLy and Ms. Lakesha. Buy tickets here.
Some Highlights from the Pilot
An amazing Wednesday was had by all on June 7, 2023. A magical day turned into a magical night. Magical times share a unique ratio of mandatory and leisurely. The greatest nights of my life were not 100% free form. Those days where it’s just friends all day, there’s no friction, there’s no story of minor hardship. A day of moving an apartment is usually a subpar experience. Too much sweat, not enough laughs. The day where it’s one hour of moving one mixing board, a ping pong table. That’s a good ratio. And sometimes just having a plan . . .like we have to pick someone up at the airport at a slightly inconvenient time like 10:50pm on a Tuesday. It’s a simple action, but it gives the night a contour. And the contour of the night counts.
For Wednesday the fun started early. Business meeting with Chuck for a trivia thing at 10:00am. Haven’t done a business meeting with Chuck in months. There’s a “just like old times” vibe for Chuck and I. Chuck and I have done a fair amount of meetings with a lot of the “PEOPLE” in this town. Event people, media people, private party people, political people. What I’m saying is Chuck and I have been “forgot to bring business cards” cowboys for about fifteen years. But this level of cool is very subjective. There is a small sliver of this town who knows that “I met with Alexis on the Sexes at Northeast Social” is Minneapolis lingo for “I’m over thirty five”. So a memory lane vibe. I like owning a company with Chuck, some great times making Trivia Mafia really go. That’s big to me.
I got to a hang out with an old co-worker who had also left the radio station. Shop talk. When’d you last see him? Did you hear? Do you think that’s why? Is that what they said? Had two Cavas. One coffee. You have to take the day off to have two Cavas before Jeopardy airs, but it’s fun when you can. One coffee refill. So sunny that day that no one even offers to move if you put your face all the way over your face to shade someone. If I move over there, it’s the same, the sun is still right there. Sitting outside, construction all over. Goodbyes.
Time for a fish sandwich you’ve known about for years but have never had. When people say “first you eat with your eyes” I have to say, for folks with young kids. . .you eat with your ears for years before your eyes have a taste. People will say “we have to visit that bakery again with the sour cream glazed donuts” and I’ll hear that three times at three different parties across two years before I so as much see a to go bag from this place. I’ll follow the whole story of a restaurant that was open for two years that I never, once, never once (sic) went to. I can say things like: “and that’s when they tried to go mostly vegetarian right” even though I don’t even know what color their toilets are. I just know the place from all the words my friends said about them and the plates of the food that I would see on Instagram.
Anyway, World Street Kitchen has a beautiful Tofu Yum Yum Rice Bowl. And it so alluring and so rare for me to get over there for a meal that I end up always going back to that Tofu bowl. I just want it again. But I love a fish sandwich. I know I’m kind of on the rare side. If you tell your friend “we have to go to my favorite fish sandwich spot . . .”, your friends might come but at best one of those guys is getting the fish sandwich.
That’s right, that’s not photoshop, those sesame seeds tasted amazing and they look even better. Love a tasty fillet, quote me on that shit. Quote me on any of this.
If you are from Saint Paul and you have elected to raise your kids in St. Paul you have also resigned yourself to see your former classmates as co-parents. You will be talking to someone at a full backyard elementary school gathering with food trucks and be thinking “did we see each in Winona when you were a senior at college and you came to a Heiruspecs show”? Now just imagine if the response is “I’m from Portland, I moved here in 2018, what is Iron specs? I don’t understand what you’re saying”. But mostly it’s just meeting people and trying to remember what class you had together. I went to class, but my memories are all outside of class. I don’t always remember the people that I had a particular class with. Especially with science. I never did anything in science class. Or rather I did the bare minimum and made sure it was known to my teacher and my group that I would be doing the recording of results for the experiments thank you very much. But we are at one of these gatherings and it’s great, you meet a couple people, eat Kowalski’s deli food. Which, by the way, is nor worth every penny, but it is still, pretty honestly nice for a little outdoor situation. There’s always the weird overlap that very few people can follow due to siblings, where a mom will say “your oldest was in the summer program with my oldest as the counselor and the youngest as a camper” . . . “no, again, I never went to Winona”.
A walk home from the school brings us to the babysitter connecting with our kids while Rachel and I disappear to take in the Saints game in under the CHS lights. This night is vaguely a “Trivia Mafia” night. There was a ticket code. We are running trivia on our app. There are some reasonable amount of Trivia Mafia enthusiasts, like maybe seventy. This is absolutely insane when you take it in. I’m not involved in the company in any day to day way, but damn if I miss a cool event we are a part of. I got into this for holiday parties and gatherings. That refills my cup. There’s also a moment when I realize that it’s just a perfect amount of people you kind of know. I walk around and just talk it up, or grab a pretzel for the wife. But at some point I decide to just do a walk around the field. That’s an undertaking at a Twins or a Timberwolves game but here, it’s just nice walking, not too long. And today I had rekindled my love with the Pusha T album “Daytona”. I popped the song “The Games We Play” and hit the loge. Don’t they call it the loge? I don’t know what they call it. I ran into a couple folks who listen to Jazz88. It warms my heart, I feel like we spend quality time together. We listen to great music, a nice variety, hear the news together, get through the afternoon together. I love being the Captain of the Afternoon Cruise. Had a medium length hang with Christopher Proczko and my new fast friend Trevor McSpadden. Trevor and Mary Cutrufello run a happy hour weekly at the White Squirrel which has turned into one of those weekly that asks you about: “have you been to the White Squirrel on a Tuesday”? McSpadden has his kids, Girls maybe 11, 6 and 3. Whatever kind of night we’re having, they’re having twenty times that right? Little helmets filled with soft serve, the first time you see the unique light of a minor league baseball game. The inside jokes. Seeing your daddy playing guitar outside for the people as they’re walking into the ballpark. That sibling energy. The snacks. The short ride home taking turns picking out songs on the phone. It’s after this moment that I might be having one of the great nights of my life. My wife is making time with the Trivia Mafia set, I’m walking the outfield, with doses of Pusha T, McSpadden and some solid base hits. I don’t think the Cubs ever had much a lead but it was a close game with excitement. I am very thankful for the culture Trivia Mafia has created. I am grateful for our employees, I believe we are good employers and we are receptive to suggestions for how we can be better. We try to look at things that are patently stupid at other companies and not do them. We try to make the experience of working for us reasonable, fun and kind of hilarious. I love that all. I feel it all. A woman who works basically full time for Trivia Mafia laid this compliment on me about Trivia Mafia: “everyone cares the right amount”. Damn, isn’t that what you want at a job? And on the flip side. I think we provide a beyond solid service for our customers. Our hosts are the best. Our questions are the best. Our ideas about how to solve your needs for events are the best. When we can crack a joke we will crack it. Guaranteed. And I ran into this “on every stage in town” player named David Feily. This man gets all the calls, plays all the guitar and bass and delivers the goods with a scary efficiency and enthusiasm. And turns out the dude is in on Trivia Mafia and his lady friend and her friend is in on an even bigger way. And Feily tells me that him and his crew can feel the love from what we’re doing over at Jazz88. That they see the spins, the interviews and the enthusiasm. It feels really good. Trying to make this as awesome a town as possible to be a musician in. And some of what we are doing is being felt by some fine players.
Had one of those great things. My lady says “we gotta get going and head home, we only have the babysitter til 9:30”. But you point out that for this one you started a half hour later and then hit that with a 10pm end time. It rings a bell and she realizes we got that nice extra 23 minutes to be comfortable. Perfect. Wrapping the farewells. A couple folks clearly diving into the baseball side of things. Chuck and this guy David Cava can actually talk about the players on our team. They are active Twins, they’ve been in Target Field this season, they’ll be back in there. It’s great conversation, I can follow almost none of it. But I’m in, just enjoying the cadence, if you can’t appreciate two folks talking just a little baseball, I don’t know what to tell you.
When we get home I make a beeline for that neighborhood happy hour. Since the pandemic, like so many people, the neighbors are the backbone in a way that feels really good. Actual friends, actual trips, not lip service. So a small version of a happy hour crew with one wild card is assembled on the porch of the cross the streeters. We are basically a dorm of forty year olds. And the wild card is a visiting friend of Silas. And you get to bounce new ideas off the wild card. You toss one wild card in a conversation of constants and you still arrive totally different places than you would without the new guy. And at some point, we get into the business about neighbors exploring polyamory, long ass sex sessions, ethical non-monogamy. These ideas are no longer laughed out of the hang and that’s for the better. Online dating has changed shit. There’s going to be this line in the sand in my opinion between the “we met online” generations and the “we met through a place in the real world” generation. A thick line. I know the young people are having less sex than they did 20 years ago. But, man, the single folks my age are ruining the curve. In the best way. Get those cheeks. Live that life and get out there. Why not? Why not? Have some more fun, feel some more things. But there’s laughing, there’s hypotheticals, there’s asides, there’s that exploratory porch evening energy. The night ends with the short steps across the street to the home at the very late Wednesday hour of 1:13am. It’s all just a little bit more special tonight. The whiskey went a little higher in the dram tonight. The doubles became triples for the Saints. The world lifted up a little like it is wont to do on a Wednesday in early June when you least expect but most appreciate it.
First iced coffee of the day
June 4. Grand Old Day at J&S Coffee with Martin Devaney after a vigorous Pickleball morning.
Observations About Podcasts
What’s with all the marimbas?
I hate the joking about the script variety of promos for podcasts. The new New York Times podcast “Matter of Opinion” is decent, but the promo is absolute trash. All the promos involve fake laughter and flubbed lines and strange pauses. I just imagine a Pepperdine grad working as a producer just saying “keep it fresh! just have fun, they said this one is not journalism with a capital J. Have fun, seriously!” But honestly, if Ross Douthat is the funniest person on your podcast, you’re way screwed.
Don’t act like it’s a radio show. It’s not a radio show. I promise you I’ll remember what we were talking about thirty seconds ago before the Air BnB ad. It was thirty seconds ago.
Stop telling your guest you want to have them back again. You don’t. Even if it was great. Even if you do have them back again.
There are so many topics that people say they could do “two hours on that”. NO YOU FUCKING COULDN’T. I wish I could go fact check em. Hey Domonique Foxworth, you said you could do two hours on the difference between NBA lockerrooms and NFL lockerrooms? Two hours? You got some gas in the tank on it. But two hours?
Ezra Klein, do you remember when you derailed your podcast for eight months because you basically asked every guest some variety of the question, “does this involve polarization?”. That was shit.
Ezra Klein, you’re not as funny as Ross Douthat, but you make a vastly superior better podcast.
I didn’t like Jane Coaston doing “The Argument”. You ready for my take? You never had takes, you never had insight that opened my mind. You knew the shit, but you didn’t know YOUR shit. With minor exceptions I felt like you didn’t go deep enough on the topics, and the format didn’t permit you to bounce off someone else.
I don’t mind long episodes, there’s a pause button. I’m good, keep going.
Can we make a word for that thing where a podcaster does an open where they tell a little dumb story about their week before they jump in? I love that.
Derek Thompson is doing it. You respect your listeners time. Your guests almost always sound right. It’s those little things. For a podcast you never have to “fill time”. Just keep it going or play some spectacular music and reach out.
I’m in the You’re Not Alone Business
I’m not as personally afraid of our AI overlords as you are. I don’t have an amazing imagination. I am very creative, but I do believe those are different qualities. Creative means ideas, imagination means possibilities. I don’t do a great job of imagining possibilities. The first time someone described to me the possibility of a “stream the entire history of music from your phone” reality to me I thought that dude was crazy. His name was Ron Sobel, a semi-big wig in LA. I believe he might have signed the first publishing deal for Alice in Chains. Anywho, this is maybe 2009 and I still couldn’t fathom the idea of all of music being available to you while you’re sitting on the beach with your lady, which was the future he was envisioning.
So, couldn’t picture Spotify in 2009 and in 2023 my imagination doesn’t permit me imagine a dystopian or utopian AI future in enough detail to shock me. I can read the stories but I can’t metabolize it into the fear that I likely should. But there’s another thing. The big offer from AI of course is right in the name. . .intelligence. I’m not afraid of being outgunned by intelligence. Or rather, I’m inured to being outgunned by intelligence. (boy am I fucking proud of using the word inured, yes I did look it up to make sure I was using it right). From the day I was born, I was next to someone with more than intelligence than me. There’s not a test I’ve seen that my brother couldn’t outscore me on. Ditto for sports. Ditto for trivia. Ditto for music theory. And my Dad is right in the same space, maybe not so much music wise, but he’s a smart motherfucker. My mom, a little more down to Earth as far as book smarts, she was someone who found ways to give to the world that didn’t involve raw intellectual horsepower. My parents made the mistake of assuming I was smart cause I was related to many smart people. They also made the mistake of thinking I’m smart cause I am pretty smart. But that doesn’t mean that’s me, that doesn’t mean that that is my lane. My mom used to say actual shit like “put a helmet on your head, cause you’re not gonna get paid for your looks”. Guess what Mom, fuck off. Maybe I am gonna get paid for my looks. Maybe there’s nothing going on up here, I motion to my brain. The thesis statement of my family was “we’re smart, that’s a substitute for hard work”. My thesis statement is “I’m brave, dedicated and I have an amazing heart”. When our AI overlords really let their nuts hang, they will be smarter than us. But they don’t have an amazing heart. My distinguishing qualities have always been distinct from my intelligence: I’ll say something true on a page, or to a person, or into a microphone that will sting, that will penetrate, that will help you and me feel something we couldn’t apart. It took practice, skill, lessons, studying, reading to get here. But I’m here, I can deliver the goods when I communicate. I’m about to get META. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .that’s why you’re here. You’re reading me cause you hear me when you read me. And when you hear me you hear a human, a scarred human, a hilarious human, a loving human and yes an intelligent human, but I’m not putting that first on my job application. The heart, the spirit, the creativity, that’s been the bread and butter in my professional life.
I’m in the you’re not alone business. You should join me. Business is good.
Music - I am the leader of Heiruspecs. The magic of that group is the togetherness that a band can bring to a genre that doesn’t always have the supportive sound of a live band. And beyond being a live band, we’re a band with multiple voices. When you hear Heiruspecs you hear a group, you can be together with that group. When you listen to us, you aren’t peering straight into the journal of one person, you’re peering into a rehearsal, a meeting, a function. You aren’t alone, you’re at the party. And the bread and butter of what I’ve done in music is the live stuff, that’s the center of me and what I offer.
Trivia - Trivia Mafia is killing it, I’m not involved in it anymore besides for owning half of the company and counting my tens of dollars every quarter. But business is good. The reason it’s good is because it’s a together place at a time when those are falling by the wayside. I bet you a solid 30% of our players are work from home all stars. We create an environment where with minimal outlay you can be connected with your friends in a meaningful way on a weeknight. You aren’t alone with Trivia Mafia and the business of bringing people together. . .business is good.
Radio - This is the one, this is the one I think about cause the bigwigs are creating technology designed to take DJs out of the equation, to take music curation out of the equation, to take locally programmed stations out of the equation. But listen, there are enough people on planet earth right now who want the adventure that is radio. . .where are the songs falling? What are the news stories? What happened in the DJs day? What events are coming up this weekend? What’s the weather like? It’s new music next to random chat, it’s classic music next to a brand new story. It’s surprise within structure. It’s safe adventure. It’s company. It’s you’re not alone while you gotta be alone for work or another obligation. If you do it right you’re drawing people closer to something than they could get all on their own. I had to walk a long ass way today to get my car back and I rocked a funk playlist from Spotify. The songs I knew, I enjoyed. The songs I didn’t know, well Spotify isn’t going to offer those ones to me. I knew all the songs, I enjoyed em, but I was alone. I was alone on my walk until I got some radio going. I’ve always wanted to be around people. And now in some sense I spend half my work day physically alone in hopes of actually sharing my time with more people thanks to the broadcast.
You’re not replacing two people having a conversation with AI. There is a navigation between two souls that I don’t think a computer will muster (caveat, I have a bad imagination). You’re not replacing the adventure of people who are animals, who shit, who poop, who ejaculate, who steal swans and eat them. Why am I better than a robot? can a robot make shit come out of his anus? The answer is no? A robot can’t. I can. Ergo I’m better.
Find a job, find a life that isn’t all about intelligence. You’re about to be outgunned by intelligence. . .like. . .soon. Soonish. Four years? Eight years? And even when you first get outgunned, you’ll stay employed, you’ll stay relevant, but soon. . .you’ll be outgunned. You’ll grow inured to it. You’ll find your heart. And you won’t be alone.
Some Blues for YaYa
About six months ago Rachel and I started fostering an older dog named YaYa. They just put her down a couple days ago and even though we just had six months with her, I’ll still miss YaYa. We have our steady dog, Warren. Warren started out as a rescue, but we adopted him years ago. We knew that this new dog YaYa was probably not getting adopted by another family. She was older and she looked old. Dogs who are old just have little tags that grow on them, little chunks of their body that are just kind of wrong shaped. This dog looked like she had seen some shit. And she had. When she was found and rescued she was covered in blue house paint. All I can hope is that people who covered beautiful YaYa in paint was a bunch of young kids. Kids who didn’t know better. Kids who don’t know how many chemicals are in house paint. Because if some grown up or group of grown ups covered a dog in blue paint you just have to know those humans are the worst, lower than low. Vermin. But it was probably kids.
But YaYa rolled with the punches, I don’t know everything about her life. But I think she had gotten a lot of punches. By the time we started to take care of her she was deaf, she was tired, and she was really overweight. Rachel worked on getting her on a better set of food and getting her more comfortable taking some walks longer than a block. What came out kind of quickly was that LaLa was awesome. She pooped when she wanted to. Exactly when she wanted to. She was house trained. But if I was late with that walk, she dumped where she was. Dogs are usually somewhat choosy about where she would poop. Not YaYa. Sidewalk, great. Some pile of wood that was in her path. Now it’s poopwood. She liked to chill a lot. She liked to sleep. She liked to eat. She liked to eat food she wasn’t supposed to eat. She liked to bark when Warren barked. I don’t think she generated much barking energy herself. But she channeled the energy and zest for life into just being a good dog. She liked to watch TV. She liked to chill. She slept a lot.
I hope for the last couple months, she was enjoying her home. I hope she was feeling good, she got along with Warren, she laughed with us. She knew the neighborhood. In the end she started struggling to breathe. They figured out that it was this huge mass in her throat. Too huge. They couldn’t remove, it would kill her. They offered to wake her up, so we could say goodbye. And maybe if we had known her longer, maybe if our kids were a different age. But what are you going to do, wake her up, remind her that she’s in pain. Look her in the eyes, tell her we love her. It was better to just let her stay asleep, she was down, and then she was gone. I don’t know everything about her life. I don’t know about her previous owners. I don’t what was at the center of her life. But I am thankful for the last couple months I got to spend with her. Maybe some cruel humans poured paint on this beautiful creature at some point. But my kids treated her nice. My other dog treated Yaya nice. I sing some blues for you Yaya, cause you are gone to us, and you were incredible. And you are gone. I love you Yaya.
A Fragment
I remember telling you I was going all the way to Chicago and across to California and coming back on 90 and all you wanted was a brown lighter from Kum & Go.
The First Cool Person I Ever Met
I’ve tried this conversation out on my friends and enemies a couple times now and it always falls flat. But of course, I blame them, not the conversation itself. Maybe I just divide the world up differently than them; I feel like finding out about the existence of actual cool people in your real, non-media consumption life was a very important part of my development as a human being. I grew up in Williamstown, Massachusetts. It’s a town of 8,000, the center of the economy is a mercilessly preppy college that my dad taught at called Williams College. It’s super famous but not everyone has heard of it. It wasn’t a place where you were supposed to be at if you were cool. If you were cool and you grew in Williamstown, especially back then, you moved somewhere: Northampton, NYC, Boston, Pittsfield if you must. But you didn’t stay around there. I grew up with parents who had cool tendencies but by the time they’d popped two kids out, gave up smoking pot cause they couldn’t find a dealer in Massachusetts and started hanging out with the other professors from the Economics department they’d washed a lot of that cool person dust off. So, through their record collection, through MTV, through magazines I got the sense that there was a cool world somewhere far away from my world. In my world there was just kids and parents. Neither group is cool in the way that unimpeachably cool people I saw on my TV were. And this wasn’t necessarily because the people on my TV were famous, this was sort of a guilt by geographic association: if you were hanging out in Berkshire County, Massachusetts in the very early ‘90s you were definitionally not cool. . .if you were cool you would leave.
But at some point, you’re going to meet a person in real life who is cool the way people on the TV are, doing something cool with their life, living their life in a slightly unconventional way, and the first one I saw had a huge impact on me, even though I did not realize it it at the time. It was the town photographer from the local paper, the North Adams Transcript. Her name is Gillian Jones, I just found her online. Go take a look at her and read her bio, she is still cool and she looks cool.
I never knew Gillian’s name until fifteen seconds ago when I searched for her online. But when you grow up in a small town before the internet some lady from the paper would come take your photo maybe once every two years for some reason or another. I think Gillian first took my picture when my second grade class planted a tree in front of our school. She came and took the picture of our swim team when I was in middle school. And every time I saw her I knew she was cool in ways that my parents absolutely were not. She wore a scarf when it was warm out. She kept her scarf on while she was taking a picture of the YMCA swim team inside our hot ass pool area. IT WAS A DECORATIVE SCARF. It was a fashion scarf. She had fashion things. Brown hair, zero hairspray, which was a statement in the Berkshires in the early 90s. I think just a simple ponytail while she was taking pictures. She had a cool bag for her camera. It was canvas. She wore long, loose dresses that went to her ankles. And more significant than any of that in my opinion. . .it looked like she cared immensely about the quality of her work. I remember her valiantly trying to rearrange Mrs. Sullivan’s second grade class around this little sapling to try to actually show all the kid’s faces and show the tree. She had an assignment and she delivered. She was the town photographer. It was noble work. She did it well, she did it with pride and she was fucking cool. Now reading her biography I feel like I see it all, born in ‘69 in Queens, grew up in Long Island until moving with her parents to Berkshire County in 1982. Probably wasn’t too psyched about coming to Berkshire County in her middle school years. . .duking it out with O’Bannion Dazed and Confused types while graduating from Mount Greylock in the mid 80s. I’m guessing she wasn’t an out and out supporter of the move. . .but she found something. And really just a handful of years later, she’s running around the county with one of three cool jobs into the entire 413 area code.
Gillian, when I was a young boy, just trying to figure out what it was to be cool and how far away I’d have to move away to be cool.
I saw you and I saw a window into a life filled with clove cigarettes, jazz records, films with subtitles, long instrumental breaks before obtuse lyrics, travel by train, arguments about divinity, un-bankable college majors, backstages, skinny dipping, girlfriends who can roll a joint while driving a car, brunches, people crashing on couches, idiosyncratic tattoos, patchouli incense, jewelry that told a story, red wine at a gallery opening, herbal tea, zines, cyphers with amazing rappers, road trips to see bands you’ve never heard of, records that sell 4,000 copies but everyone in your world knows about them. I looked hard for that window Gillian because my life was full of people who didn’t seem to love art, who loved Snapple and mountain bikes, who loved dipping tobacco, making varsity. and making fun of me. I needed that window and your spirit, your energy, your scarf, your asking me to move slightly to the left so you could get the picture just right. . .you were the window to where I wanted to be and I can say I got there cause I saw you. I live in a cool city. I’m one of the cool motherfuckers in this city. I play in an amazing band, I’m the music director and afternoon host on a jazz radio station. I’ve played on all sorts of great stages. My friends are even more amazing. I love the cool world I live in. Gillian, I found the life I wanted and the first time I saw it was when you took my picture.
Big Trouble Show Cancelled Today
Due to unforeseen circumstances we have to cancel today’s Big Trouble show. I’m still celebrating my 42 birthday over at White Squirrel. If you’re free, come through.
