Movin' On Up

Busily slogging through the finals steps of moving out of my apartment. Between getting the bro shipped off to Indiana (more on that another time) and various binges of packing, I've been working for three straight weekends doing the moving thang. I've had enough. Still, I'm going to miss this 'hood. (Prospect Heights, for those who don't know) Going to miss the James Brown-cool bum with the eyepatch who's always stationed by the Japanese health food shop. Going to miss waking up to the smell of morning cholesterol cooking at Tom's. Going to miss the crumbling supermarket with the cherry red facade, "DELI SUPERMARKETS FOR VALUES FISH."

But so it goes. Time to move on to new lands -- even if they're located only a mile down Washington.

On the music tip, please check out:
August Born
Bango

And DEFINITELY get yr ears around Rhino's new Stooges reissues, here and here. Yeah!

Psychic Paramount

I'm only a few songs in, but this record by The Psychic Paramount is killing me. Probably the loudest thing I've heard all year. The band is half (by the sound of it, the good half) of former NYC art-rockers Laddio Bolocko, one of the sickest groups to rise from this hobbled city in years. Anyway, this new shit is insane. The first track sounds like Kevin Sheilds and Matthew Bower doing battle in a warehouse full of broken FX pedals. Brutal My Bloody Valentine-like swathes of sound, probably the best display of MBV sonic sludge since Loveless. Seriously. And did I mention it's LOUD?!?

This record scares me...

100

It's creeping on 100 degrees in the city. Again. Man, I don't mind the heat, but this is getting ridiculous. All my free time spent hiding away in my 12x8 foot room, A/C blasting, music blaring. For the first few weeks I didn't mind being locked up. It gave me good time to read, listen, smoke my bro's stash and chill. But now I can't take it any more. Moody, sticky, headaches from the double-punch of dehydration and stale air. It's still hot as hell in here, but every time I step into the hall it feels like my building is on fire.

Ran into Cooley and James the other night. They were playing at Southpaw with Heloise and the Savoir-Faire Dancers. Wes, Mirela and I came stumbling out of a little Mexican restaurant, filled to the burst with enchalatas, and there was Cooley, sauntering down the fucking street with a guitar slung over his shoulder. The show was a benefit for some kid who had passed away, so I felt out of place in a crowd of mourning friends. Some shite bar-rock band -- that supposedly featured Joan Jett's guitar tech -- played for an hour. By the time Heloise and co. got on, M and I were so floored we only stayed for a couple of tunes. Sounded awesome, though. Terrific stage presence. And it's worth all the cash in the world to see Cooley rocking the monsterbass on stage, dressed in suit, sunglasses and fake 'stash.

More soberly, I've been really absorbed by thoughts of 9/11 again. Thoughts deep enough that I'm not going to even attempt to voice them here. Anyway, the New York Times has posted interviews with survivors of the disaster, finally released by the Bloomberg administration following a protracted lawsuit. You can read 'em here. Some (most, maybe) would think reading such material to be self-torture. I see it as a necessary -- though dizzyingly painful -- look into an incomprehensibly horrible day.

Peace, everyone. Think rain.

explanation

That last post, the photo of the NO PLAY, is the message I've been getting more and more often when I try to load discs into my CD/DVD player. It's become one moody machine. No Gary Higgins for two days now. No Wooden Wand solo (with the group is fine). Skipping the new Jack Rose and Bardo Pond.
Finally, I have the thing working, and am rocking to Richard Youngs and Andrew Paine's prog-psych project ILK. After fixing a pressing problem that ruined the first batch of CDs, the ever-lovable VHF records has put this disc out. Such wank-happy, ’70s-infused overblown rocking. Can't wait to hear Youngs' new one on Jagjaguwar.