9/19/09

Wake up at 7:15am. Eat some Organic Raisin Bran. Scrub nuts and brush breath. Mash up I-5. No traffic. Jam The Wash (three weeks running). Everett. ITT. Math. Trigonometry. Eight year wormhole. Back in high school. Time to set it straight. First quiz. Flawless. Nailed it. Annoying kid interrupts lecture. A lot. Bad jokes. Crickets. Apparently views class as appropriate forum to practice failed comedy routine. Gravely mistaken. Give clown a pass. Blows for next time. Literal punchline.

Get home. Eat pizza and watch UW/USC game with mom. Incredible. Can't sit still. Curse like a fiendish sailor on UW blunders. Mom says quarterback Jake Locker can't react like that. Tell mom that's why he's on TV playing football and I'm 25 living at home watching football. Illegally download new Rise and Fall album at halftime. Our Circle Is Vicious. Destroys. Surrogate 'til new Converge album drops. Final score. USC 13. UW 16. Contest in arbitrary context of rules and point system generates battle fervor. But a giant is a giant. And he has been felled. Exquisitely surreal.

Go to Oktoberfest with brother, his fiance, and friend Steve. Fiance brings two friends. One is mother of two. Other is Christian Scientist (not real scientist). Nice people. At least there is beer. Steve references "Dick In A Box". Christian Scientist has no clue. Likely confused. Definitely appalled. Familiar with Justin Timberlake? Steve asks. She has. Christ. Tiny glasses. 1/2 measuring cup. Righteous brews. Kona Porter. Tad thin. Dark enough. Elysian Pumpkin Ale. Wow. Pumpkin pie and beer had sex in mini-mug. Again in mouth. Not too sweet. Super thick. Jasmine IPA. Another Elysian. Sounds odd. Sleeper hit. Subtle floral notes. Alaskan Smoked Porter. A-1 jumped in my beer. Meh. See a couple friends. Old roommate's girlfriend. Bestows drink token. Bonus. Piss five times. Enormous lines. Almost go in pants. Twice. Main troth overflows. To the brim. Disgusting and hilarious. Extra Honey Buckets fork-lifted in. Heroic event staff.

Back at brother's place. One final piss. Probably shouldn't drive. Do anyways. Short distance. Not completely tossed. Still dumb. The Wash again. For composure. No sign of the beast. Pull in driveway. Enter house. Total stealth. Brush breath. Rip ungodly ass. Crickets. Smells like bacon, eggs and propane. In bed. Headphones. Pass out to Madlib. Shades of Blue.

The days are just packed.

For Josh

Crapulous in concurrent love and suffering at the thought of his omniscient creator, John Donne was (at best) a crappy poet.

Somebody call the wahmbulance.

New favorite word

Phonetics trump semantics here, but still...

Crapulous
1. given to or characterized by gross excess in drinking or eating.
2. suffering from or due to excess.

Shrinebuilder

Most supergroups are pretty unnecessary, failing to produce any vital material and leaving you to wish that you were instead listening to the members' original bands. Shrinebuilder is not that supergroup. Check the pedigree.

Scott Kelly (Neurosis)
Wino (The Obsessed, Saint Vitus, The Hidden Hand)
Al Cisneros (Sleep, Om)
Dale Crover (Melvins)

They just posted a new track, "Pyramids of the Moon", from their debut self-titled album here, which comes out October 20th. Doom, drone, psychedelia, and riffs you can ride like a mammoth. Spark the L to this one.

Lee Fields & The Expressions - My World

Truth & Soul

(2009)

Following the death of Michael Jackson, a number of ludicrous claims were made concerning the infamous superstar's legacy. One affirmation thrown around with reckless abandon was that he was a genius - an interesting assessment of someone whose biggest hits were written by others. Another prominent understanding is that Jackson established the pivotal crossover between R&B and pop music. This cannot be denied. However, the common sentiment tied to this fact induces nausea, requiring that one should be thankful for the contribution. Far be it from me to mock the dead, but I must decline feigning appreciation for he who opened the floodgates for R. Kelly, Usher or any other source of pedophilic slow jams.

Once a respectable form of music, R&B had a different name. Soul. Flourishing during the 60's and 70's, greats like Otis Redding and The Temptations continually charted hits that were indicative of the title given to music; it was a sort of carnal testifying. Lee Fields, a contemporary of this legendary generation, had a supporting role during soul music's pinnacle in the Memphis scene. While working with many big players in the game, Fields never broke through as a solo artist, attaining little more than a cult status with genre loyalists. Fortunately, patience has proven virtuous for this unsung hero, paying significant dividends this year.

Out of the current cesspool of inarticulate porno-speak, Lee Fields has come forth as a messiah, dropping the next great soul stigmata, My World. The word "throwback" fits the sound, which is akin to the aforementioned pioneers. Yet, it seems inappropriate considering Fields' history with the music; rather than switching up to a retro angle, he's just doing his thing - a thing he's been doing for quite some time now. And if one attempted to define the essence of that thing, it would have to be the seamless versatility of Fields' voice. Harnessing both the warm lull of Al Green and the tenacious bite of James Brown, Fields strikes an exceptional balance between smooth and rough. So well integrated are the two styles that they cease to be exclusive approaches to individual songs. Instead of trying to express this vocal paradox in musical terms, a hypothetical anecdote proves much more effective: Lee Fields could walk in your house, cold-clock you, bang your woman, have her make him a sandwich...and you'd still shake his hand on the way out.

Gracefully orchestrated and stunning in its arrival, My World takes the crown for 2009. Sadly, it's more probable that the record will end up as one of the diamonds in the rough, due to the dire poverty this music now resides in. While D'Angelo and John Legend may have updated it, and Amy Winehouse might periodically mirror it, Lee Fields proudly exhibits that there is no substitute for classic soul. Let's bring it back.

(Seriously, don't sleep on this.)

Poor Mount Vernon

It's bad enough that a d-bag like Glenn Beck could be the product of such a quaint settlement. But it's worse that their ignoramus mayor, Bud Norris, is awarding said d-bag the key to the city on September 26, further designating the date as "Glenn Beck Day". Against his critics on the decision, Bud stands firm: "This isn't about his political views. It's about recognizing someone who has a history with our city."

You're right, Bud. This is isn't just about his political views. This is about someone who couches brainless fear and hatred in his political views. How is it that you can so easily separate an individual from their words and actions? How can you celebrate Beck's success without taking into account how it was achieved and/or what he's actually "successful" at? Apparently celebrity status provides exemption to these issues, instead equating a high profile in pop culture with that of philanthropy. I guess I shouldn't be suprised. But if this is the case, respective city keys for Monica Lewinsky and Kato Kaelin are way overdue.