Music News

Music News

For the week of February 6th, 2002

'Round the Dial	by Tom Hallett
Bright Moments: The Best in Jazz	by Dan Emerson
Doane on the Street	by Donny Doane

'Round the Dial

by Tom Hallett

QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “Bennie & The Jets— that IS us. Yes! This is the answer to all my problems. The crowds and the ‘ludes and the smell of pot filling the air around me. Yes, I’ll sell myself to the crowds. I’ll sell myself to anyone for the chance to be Bennie.”
—Cherie Currie of The Runaways

SONG OF THE WEEK: “So You Want to Be a Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” by The Byrds

You know, I can’t think of very many “rock movies” I’ve seen that didn’t at least embarrass me a little bit. “Embarrass” is the key word here, because you can’t rightly be embarrassed by something as impersonal and inane as a silly movie about a specific lifestyle—in this case “rock”—unless you’ve somehow, somewhere, sometime, done something or acted some way that causes you to identify with the subject at hand. Do loggers or doctors get the same feelings watching Paul Bunyan cartoons or “ER”? I don’t know, but “rock movies” usually bring a few blushes to my cheeks.
    I recently rented the movie “Rock Star” on the half-hearted advice of a musician pal of mine who, I happen to know, despises everything that term stands for. I wasn’t expecting much.
    The plot of the movie is supposedly loosely based on the real-life story of Tim “Ripper” Owens, the salesman who replaced Rob Halford in Judas Priest in 1996, and let me just say that I let out a higher than usual number of huge, exasperated sighs, countless eye rolls, and several out-loud heaves of “Oh my God, this is bad!” during the tortuous couple hours it ran. Chris Cole (played by a buff—but like, totally spaced-out Mark Wahlberg, dude), a rabid fan of a British hair metal band (I thought they all came from L.A., but what do I know) called Steel Dragon, studies his object of adoration (lead singer Bobby Beers) to the point of obsession.
    He dresses like his hero, wears the same make-up, buys every album the band releases, goes to all their shows (my God, is this what I looked like to my parents when they caught my little brothers and I playing along to Kiss’ “Love Gun” with tennis rackets and ski poles?), and eventually forms a cover—oops—”tribute” band called Blood Pollution in their honor, becoming a home-town celeb in his own right.
    Then, miracle of all miracles, he’s spotted (and heard, and videotaped by a couple of groupies) in the crowd at a SD gig singing note-for-note along with Bobby, who merely looks taken aback for a moment before going back to the “lead singer strut.” Long (long, long, long) story short, Chris gets fired from his own tribute band for not being like, original enough, and like, only wanting to cover (er, “tribute”) Steel Dragon songs, so like, his buddies find a guy who can’t really sing as good as he can (and who just happens to have more expensive equipment to contribute), but is willing to do original tunes, etc. Zzzz.
    Anyway, his loyal girlfriend/manager, Emily (played by the magnificently brain-dead Jennifer Aniston) sticks by him, so things can’t be all bad, right? And his parents are cool—his dad knows the lyrics to Steel Dragon songs (no shocker there, the old duffer’s been hearing ‘em crankin’ outta his kid’s room for 12 years straight) and his ma wears black leather, man. Oh, there’s his big brother (this dude is as close to Chet from “Weird Science” as they could get), the fascist cop who’s jealous of him and calls him a freak for still living at home, but he can (and does) still kick his older sibling’s ass, so that’s no prob, dude.
    Suddenly, out of the blue, Cole gets a call from his faves, who’ve recently parted ways with their “flamboyant” lead singer. We don’t find out why, not quite yet. Steel Dragon invite the innocent, starstruck Chris to L.A., where he finds that he’s to audition for his hero’s role in the band. The hammer comes down—Bobby shows up at the audition and reveals that he’s GAY! (Yes, that actually happened with Halford and Priest.) That’s the real reason the band’s getting rid of him. Bet ya didn’t see that one comin’, didja? Several hilarious lines follow this revelation, which climaxes with Bobby ripping off his wig (oh, yeah! His WIG!) and stomping out in a very cliched huff. “And I’m just the queen!” he lisps, “Much to the horror of these closeted sausage jockeys!”
    So, ha. ha. That was kind of fun to me, as a guy who actually used to crank bad hair music with almost as much joy as Chris, but now books transgender acts like Glen Meadmore and cranks up All the Pretty Horses tunes. Probably not that funny to the real-life Chris, the “All-American Boy” from the local Kiss, Sabbath or Judas Priest tribute band (and I’m still not quite sure which of us was the movie’s intended audience) who brought his teased-haired girlfriend to see this flick and recapture his glory days, but funny all the same.
    But this movie wasn’t made to be funny. Not really. Even though it was filed under “comedy” online. It was made to be ironic. “Heh. Heh.” I can almost hear the writer and director giggling Beavis and Butthead-style over bottled water and vegetarian burgers while Evan Dando’s latest bootleg warbles in the background: “Hey! Let’s make the obnoxious cockrocker a closet queen! Do you think people will get this one? Hee! Hee!” “I don’t know, but I say we throw Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax” into the club scene just for kicks!” “Yeh! Yeh! And then we’ll have Everclear’s Art Alexakis do the title song!” If they were real rock fans, they’d have known to stick Cheech & Chong’s “Earache My Eye” with lines like, “I’m in the closet with my sister’s panty hose!” in the movie. But they didn’t. Sigh.
    Here’s the crux of the matter, as is usually the crux of the matter with most “rock movies”: Whether you’re a dood or doodette who’s actually in a cov—oops—tribute band and you actually see yourself and your friends in this flick (rock on!) or you’ve grown up and out of Ratt and Kix like your mom did David Cassidy or Leif Garrett, or you’re a life-long indie music geek who’d be shocked and insulted to know that the movie’s producers actually used a Talking Heads song (does David Byrne know? And if so, does he think it’s funny? I’d like to know) in one scene, you simply feel absolutely no empathy for any of these characters, let alone the stone-faced Wahlberg.
    If anything about what these vapid dorks are doing seemed cool when I was 13, or 15, or 17, it’s completely moronic, self-serving, and downright embarrassing (there’s that word again) nowadays. No, I never took my rock obsessions to that level, but I can’t help watching these movies and feeling just a little bit stupid remembering myself banging my head, flipping the devil sign, and pounding on car dashboards in public places to songs like Kix’s “Blow My Fuse” and Ratt’s “Round and Round.” And that kinda bugs me. I mean, I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I don’t even know that I’d be enjoying Jay Farrar and Steve Earle tunes quite as much these days if I didn’t have bands like those to compare ‘em to. Would I? Either way, I’m not nearly as embarrassed by the hair bands as I would be were I 13 or 15 now and had to try and explain a Britney or Aaron Carter fixation to my grandchildren.
    But like I said, 99 percent of “rock movies” are embarrassing to me because I can see myself and my dorky, burnt-out buddies actually doing some of that shit. Ouch! Even worse, now that I’ve actually developed some taste and eclecticism in my music collection, I’m too friggin’ old to be sittin’ in the supermarket parking lot cranking it—”Hey! Everybody! Listen to this chord change in Dylan’s “Mississippi!” “Check out the way Annie Lennox’s voice cracks on this note in the live version of The Eurythmics’ “You Placed a Chill in My Heart!” “Isn’t this line in the new Randy Newman tune hilarious?” “Whoo-hooo!” I don’t think so ...
    Then again, do I look any more intelligent now, leaning thoughtfully (all right, drunkenly) over a bar, trying hard to decipher barely-whispered, “cryptic” lyrics from 23-year-old acoustic guitar players who’ve never been farther from the suburbs where they were born than just across the ‘Sconny state line on Sundays when they run outta beer? Naw. I don’t. At least I had FUN scaring old people with the opening riffs of “Blow My Fuse.” Ok, maybe I’ve moved a notch up taste-wise from the hair metal daze, but I honestly found myself glad to hear real rock songs flitting in and outta the movie when compared to the horrid noise Steel Dragon made.
    Stadium scorchers like Def Leppard, Foghat, Motley Crue and G N’ R might be dated and horribly overplayed, but next to those ungodly screeches they were a bloody symphony. Unfortunately, the film’s official soundtrack contains a whole gaggle of those SD tunes, along with radio-burned mega-hits from Crue, Kiss, INXS, and The Verve Pipe. (Huh?)
    Anyway, it turns out that the “real” band performing those rancid Steel Dragon songs includes Twiggy Ramirez, Sammy Hagar, Zack Wylde, Jason Bonham and Desmond Childs. Argh. You’d think that film scorer Trevor Rabin (yes, Bonham, Manfred Mann) could’ve done a better job than that, dontcha?
    Scratch that. Why didn’t they hire somebody who actually rocked back in the day, anyway? Then again, I ‘spose Jimmy Page wouldn’t have touched it, Jeff Beck was busy working on a car, and Lemmy—well, he’s still rockin’. I suppose I should thank the stars they didn’t get Clapton involved. And that’s only a bit less horrifying to contemplate than the fact that world-renowned “rocker” George Clooney is listed as the “executive producer.”
    But back to the movie. You can probably guess most of the plot—it’s the same one you’ve seen a thousand times before in movies like “The Rose,” “Eddie & The Cruisers,” “A Star Is Born,” “The Light of Day” (with Joan Jett, Michael J. Fox, Ian Hunter, and Dave Edmunds? Bad movie, even weirder soundtrack), yes, even “Grease” and “Saturday Night Fever” share the requisite bad “rock” movie moments.
    The lead actor/actress hits the big time (by the end of “Rock Star,” Chris is actually driving The Batmobile), changes their name (Chris becomes “Izzy,” as in—Izzy’s Revenge! I never did get that line. Izzy who? Izzy Stradlin? Izzy crazy? Or Izzy just stupid?), forgets who they are and where they came from (and everybody else who ever mattered to them, including their girl/boyfriend), throws TV sets out of hotel windows, sleeps with a woman who’s really a man (Oh! Another gay reference! Are they trying to tell us something?), discovers that fame ain’t all it’s cracked up to be (ho-hum), then they either die (actually, they usually die) or they relinquish the evils of the material world and fade back into obscurity. In the end, they’re dead legends or drug-addled madcaps, and everybody gets a reasonably pat ending. Cue credits, roll bad theme song by Everclear (ha, ha, geddit, they’re actually a sensitive alterna-band?), run a few quirky little outtakes—but wait! This movie doesn’t let it go at that! Nossir, somebody thought long and hard about this one.
    “Chrizzy” brings some original songs to the band, and those ole meanies just laugh at him. They don’t have any use for him other than that of fill-in lead singer. He’s expendable, and they’d never change their money-machine—er, “act,” ‘cos that would be letting the fans down! Our protagonist is crushed. But he gets his, man. During what turns out to be his last performance with Steel Dragon, he sees a kid just like himself (is this the true meaning of irony, Alanis?) singin’ along just like he did and livin’ the role that had been Bobby’s/his.
    You can see it comin’ a mile away. “Chrizzy” has a roadie reach down into the crowd (à lá Springsteen) and pull the kid onstage, at which point the two proceed to get their musical groove on. The rest of the band doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls the kid aside, and—oh, my God! He does the unthinkable and passes the torch! Yep, he’s lettin’ the kid take over the band, he’s quittin’, and nobody says a word. I guess it could happen. Let’s look at it logically. Say the guy Journey hired to replace Steve Perry had the same epiphany and handed the mike to some kid in the audience and just walked away. Or John Corabi at a Crue show. Or Gary Cherone at a ‘Halen show. Who’s to say that kid—or a thousand others—couldn’t do the same thing? Maybe even better, huh? Knowing the ego sizes of some of those hair bands, who’s to say that anyone really would even notice?
    Except the fans, of course. And that’s another problem. You don’t really think die-hard fans are ever going to be happy with anybody but the original, do you? We’re talking metal fans here, not blissfully ignorant fogies at the State Fair watching Paul Revere & The Raiders with just the original tambourine player left in the band. And it gets even worse—imagine those replacements for Perry, Vince Neil, or David Lee Roth lived in your town. Say you’d always been a fan of their Tribute music. Their METAL music, that is. Wouldn’t you be pissed if they gave up rock ‘n’ roll and came back to town to play wimpy acoustic alternative music in a coffee shop? Sheesh. Well, that’s just what Chris/Izzy does in Rock Star.
    Yes, he gets a bad haircut and gets his girl, his name and his self-respect back, plus a fresh shot at a solo career. A career strumming an acoustic, wearing a sweater and singing songs about whales and rain forests, true (not that there’s anything wrong with that, to steal a Seinfeld line), but hey, he’s somebody us “hip” folks can identify with, right? At least they’re original tunes, huh? I don’t know, man. Seriously. I think I would’ve been happier if he’d started a side project like Slash from G N’ R or maybe if he’d died in a tragic car accident like Kris Kristofferson’s character in “A Star Is Born.” Or even if he’d disappeared, like Eddie from The Cruisers, to return many moons later with songs that were years ahead of their time, except nobody would care anymore because that time is gone. Shit, this movie doesn’t even have a “Dark Side” or a “Tender Years.”
    Just to make sure you “get it,” the wonderful folks behind “Rock Star” include a few seconds of former teen pop sensation (Is that ironic? Or post-ironic?) Wahlberg’s ridiculous 1991 Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch hit, “Good Vibrations,” and a clip of him givin’ props out to rap—worrrd up, ya’ll—at the very end. He coo, yeh, he aw-ight, way more Nice, Nice den Vanilla Ice, Ice, baby ... Suddenly I’m not so embarrassed by my hair metal past. If Marky can still listen to THAT crap with a straight face ... still, I felt a burning need to douche those rotten Steel Dragon tunes outta my ears. Thank God I don’t have a DVD player.
    After the final credits (and the WHOLE Everclear “Rock Star” video—blechh!), I ran immediately to my stereo, planning on cranking up The Bottlerockets new album, Songs of Sahm, which is all covers of—oops! I mean a TRIBUTE to—the music of late Texas outlaw/troubadour Doug Sahm. Wait a minnit! Now that’s irony, right? How’d that Ratt tune go again? “Round and round / What comes around, goes around / I’ll tell you why, why, why ...” Screw the Bottlerockets, I know that Ratt album is around here somewhere ... Until next week—make yer own damn news. pulse

If you have local music news/gigs/events that you’d like to see listed in this column, or you’re in a TRIBUTE band to Cave Music, Bernie the Trailer Park Queen or The Amish Armada, send replies to TMygunn777@aol.com. We need to talk.

Bright Moments: The Best in Jazz

by Dan Emerson

Dave Douglas > Witness (Bluebird)
Trumpeter Dave Douglas is a modern composer in the best sense, given his admirable disregard for generic boundaries and penchant for mixing disparate elements. Blending a variety of musical styles together isn’t difficult; the trick is finding compatible elements that blend naturally, rather than seeming pasted together, and Douglas really knows how to do it. Elements in the mix here include mainstream jazz, modern classical (with woodwinds and strings), Balinese gamelan music and a few sampled sounds—and even the booze-and-cigs rasp of Tom Waits on the composition “Mahfouz.”
    This “concept” album, intended to honor freedom fighters and idealist/activists on a number of fronts, features several absorbing Douglas compositions performed by a nine (sometimes 10)-piece ensemble.

Various Artists > The Philadelphia Experiment (Rope-A-Dope)
The Philadelphia Experiment is a reunion of three old Philly pals who have each gravitated to different corners of the music world: drummer Ahmir Thompson, who founded the Grammy Award-winning hip-hop group the Roots; acoustic and electric Christian McBride, a mainstream jazz guy who’s never tried to hide his affinity for old-school soul music; and keyboardist Uri Caine, who’s been a composer, bandleader and valued accompanist in both the jazz and classical worlds. The three seem to share a fascination with the decade of the 1970s—a fascination common to those who aren’t old enough to remember what a lame decade it really was. (Some of the music was okay, though.)
    The group reworks Marvin Gaye’s “Trouble Man” and the old Grover Washington smash, “Mister Magic,” and inject cheesesteak soul into the Elton John oldies-radio staple “Philadelphia Freedom.”
    Several original compositions by Caine sound like outtakes from Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew-era sessions, with Caine on Fender Rhodes and guest trumpeter Jon Swana along with another Philly great, six-string wizard Pat Martino.

Charmin Michelle > Hot (Independent)
While jazz and blues are joined at the roots, and the dividing line some people place between them often seems artificial, most vocalists—especially in the Twin Cities—tend to stay on one side or another of that imaginary demarcation. However, Minneapolis vocalist Charmin Michelle’s new self-produced CD shows she thrives in either “camp.” “Hungry Blues” is the only pro-forma blues, but Michelle also brings an innate bluesiness to jazz standards like “A Flower is a Lovesome Thing,” and “What a Little Moonlight Can Do.”
    The high quality of this album offers more evidence of the wealth of jazz talent in the Twin Cities. Backed by saxophonist Doug Haining and his group the Twin Cities Seven, Charmin Michelle serves up an exuberant “Rock Me to Sleep” and “Bli Blip”—an obscure Ellington piece—among others. The rhythm section (drummers Gordie Knutson and Dick Bertolussi, bassists Steve Pikal and Keith Boyles, pianist Rick Carlson and guitarist Kent Saunders)
deserves special notice, perfectly re-creating the effortless swing of the late Count Basie’s classic groups.

Don Braden > Brighter Days (HighNote)
A smooth-toned tenor player, Don Braden’s kept a pretty low profile for someone who’s recorded 11 albums as a leader—most of those for small, obscure labels, of course. Brighter Days includes four Braden compositions: the title track; an affecting ballad written for his daughter; “Sweet T,” a bluesy swinger in memory of the late tenor star Stanley Turrentine; and “Under-ground Groove,” a tenor-drum duet built around Cecil Brooks’ polyrhythmic, Latin-tinged beats. Brooks also contributed one composition, “Montclair,” a lighthearted shuffle. Pianist Xavier Davis and bassist Dwayne Burno, both part of Braden’s regular performing group, round out the combo.

Bobby Previtt and Bump > Just Add Water (Palmetto)
This unusual sextet features two trombonists, with guest Joseph Bowie joining the always expressive Ray Anderson, who’s a regular member of the Bobby Previtt mob. Along with the leader, the other players include Marty Ehrlich on tenor sax, pianist Wayne Horvitz and Steve Swallow playing electric bass. Drummer Previtt composed and arranged eight of the nine tracks, the only exception being ”Leave Here Now,” written by Horvitz. Like most Previtt projects, the results are interesting, especially the percussion work.

Abdullah Ibrahim > Ekapa Lodumo (Enja)
South African pianist Abdulla Ibrahim has been performing in Germany under the auspices of NDR (the North German Radio network) since the late ’60s. He’s frequently collaborated with the sparkling NDR big band, which masterfully delivers arrangements of Ibrahim compositions prepared by Steve Gray, an English pianist, and veteran Austrian jazzman Fritz Pauer.
    Big bands can be overbearing in the wrong hands, but this one truly honors the material, with the kind of call-and-response orchestration typical of the best jazz arrangers, such as the late Gil Evans, or Duke Ellington, who seems to be Ibrahim’s major influence as a composer and pianist.

Milt Jackson and Wes Montgomery > Bags Meets Wes! (Riverside)
Not all the great jazz of the late-’50s-early-’60s era was recorded on Blue Note. The unfortunately short-lived Riverside label issued many great sides, many of which are being re-released on CD by Fantasy. This 1961 meeting, of not just two but five of the era’s major instrumental talents, produced a classic. The unbilled luminaries (pianist Wynton Kelly, bassist Sam Jones and drum-master Philly Joe Jones) shine just as brightly. Jackson and Montgomery are particularly well-matched, each possessing a rarified combination of technical skill and bluesy expressiveness. pulse

Doane on the Street
Pulse’s Rock ’n’ roll soldier
patrols the local music scene.
for your own good.

by Donny Doane

Naturally, you’re all wondering what I’ve been up to—at least those of you fortunate enough not to have witnessed it. You know, the intoxication, the audacious defiance of certain physical “laws.” Being told that you probably should have gotten stitches for that, and then coolly replying, “Yeah, I know.” The calm and ultimate embracing of the fetal position as my own special yoga. That kind of shit ... the usual. No big deal.
    So yeah, man. Keep me pent up for months on end—you’d better expect a handful, maybe even a little tongue in the ear. With Valentine’s Day a mere fortnight away, I feel this is a fine theme under which to work, for two reasons. Number one: Smooching is hands-down one of the finest pastimes around. Number two: Valentine’s Day marks the one-year anniversary of my tenure as a Pulse columnist. Sure, I’m a little bitter by my official income status as “non-employee compensation,” but then again, I’d rather be a whore than a pimp any day.
    Over the last year, I’ve relished the opportunity to be doing what I’m doing. And when Tommy Hallett wrote in his column last week about a certain establishment (The Uptown) being the “Best venue to be served by guys in rock bands,” that was me, baby. Oh yeah, and Owen, Marv, Mike and Anthony, too. ‘S right. I play in rock bands. More than one. My steady is the Centurions, but we have an open relationship. Yup, like most musicians around here, we’re a very promiscuous lot. We all slut around, so it makes perfect sense that my side salad is called the Cheaters. A couple weeks ago, however, I found myself, as usual, a rock ‘n’ roll outlaw orphan on a Friday night. Here follows an account of my night with the guardians of rock.
    On Fri., Jan. 18, the 7th Street Entry was the setting for four rocking bands made up of veterans and new meat alike. Unveiling his latest incarnation of garage power pop was former Magnolia and Pushback, John Freeman. The new band is called Action Alert, and features Ten Ton Bridge’s Don Dietz on lead guitar. Sweet name, dude! Rounding out the lineup, is J.C. Superstar mastermind John Hile on bass and former Run Westy Run drummer Bobby Joslyn, one of the area’s finest. In fact, three of the four bands playing that night were backed by three of the best and most well-regarded local thumpers.
    Filling in for the Melismatics’ regular drummer, Chris McGuire, was Mighty Mofo Mike Reiter. The ‘Matics laid down their Euro-leaning pop noise in superb fashion. During sound check, when their lead guit-guy unsheathed his damn near six-foot long effects pedal board, we were all like, “Geez, would you look at that thing,” to which Mike bemusedly replied, “Yeah, I know. But he makes a good noise.” Right you are, Mike, for a psychotic pedal driven-solo was one of the more ear-tickling moments of their set.
    Opening the evening was John Eller’s latest act, Covergirl. Ex-Mag and Blue Violet drummer Tom Cook steered this hot chick while Eller sweated through one joyful solo after another. As their name would imply, the set was pretty cover-heavy, but well-done nevertheless, and it made for the the perfect punk to ignite all four bricks of firecrackers that snapped and smoked in the tiny dark room. Rounding out the bill were local hookmeisters Betty Drake, who exhibited all their pop-rock charms.
    Wed., Jan. 31, saw the annual Cover Band Contest in both the Entry and the First Avenue Mainroom. Attendees were treated to The Unbelievable Jolly Machine (fronted by Brian Herb), reforging the Smiths. Their performance was top notch, and Brian made an excellent Morrissey—so much so that they took the prize.
    Speaking of Brian, he’s quite the busybody these days. He runs his own recording studio, Mother of All Music, has great voice and writes really cool songs in his own band Housebreaker, so go see ‘em sometime. Other delights included Arcwelder tossing Prince around the Entry stage and the Mammy Nuns in the big tent with their hilarious and most certainly red-eyed treatment of Cheech and Chong “hits.” Cough.

Hit That Street a-Runnin’
Here are a couple suggestions for local tune-seekers with some time and money to spend. On Wed., Feb. 6, First Avenue is hosting “England Swings”: a retrospective of British popular music and benefit for MN Children’s Heartlink and Roy Castle Lung Foundation. Participants will include Curtiss A, the Mofos, Pamela McNeill, Ol’ Yeller, Roger, the Beatifics, Dan Israel and the Cultivators, 2 Ton Crutch, the Wag and the Gap Minders. It’s a fine serving of talent serving a fine cause. The very next night in the very same room, be sure to catch the North Mississippi Allstars as they bring their heady, dirty white blues up from yonder hollers. The trio is comprised of producer Jim Dickinson’s sons, guitarist/vocalist Luther D, younger brother drummer Cody and bassist Chris Chew.
    I’m sure most Replacements fans remember that daddy Jim produced the ‘Mats first Bob Stinson-less album, Pleased to Meet Me. Seems as though Luther laid down the solo on the blistering “Shooting Dirty Pool” as a mere teenager. Top that, Mr. Lang. Although the Allstars’ first release Shake Hands With Shorty was a more expansive and experimental foray into hillside boogie and acid rock explorations, their latest, 51 Phantom, is a bit more refined in order to display their studio chops. Unlike the White Stripes (who I like just fine), these guys are all natives of the vast bowl of jambalaya where the true roots of American blues rest, and I reckon they ain’t copping a gimmick and riding the hype. So ya better git.
    Well, that should just about do it. As I peer into my crystal ball, I see an upcoming feature on The Crush. I finally got my mitts on their Tonight Will Ruin Tomorrow (on Blood of the Young), and I would suggest that fans of supercharged, tuneful punk do the same. Also expect something on the new flock of rock as I sit down and shear some Sheep, who’ll be playing the Uptown Bar on the Ides of March.      Okay then, this sweetie pie outlaw poet would like to extend all my love to everyone in hopes of spending Valentine’s Day with a sweetie of their own. pulse

I, of course, encourage all Valentine’s to be sent to donnyd66@hotmail.com. Candy and flowers would be swell, but I wouldn’t feel cheapened by cash. Xs and Os.