I have a very strong problem with things like this:



That there which you see is the late, great artist John Martyn. An artist I only just discovered in the past year... the year of his death. I won't take time here to go into his astonishing career here. You can easily do such things on your own with a Google search. I should say my problem with performances such as this is my absolute disbelief that one can create something so splendid and just... be ok, I guess, with life... with being. Maybe it's just me, but I can't simply accept something like this into my ears and my brain and my soul and feel alright with life or being human. It's too good for existence. It's too good for breath. It's too much for my small mind to take. Does that make any sense?

Let me see if I can elaborate. Have you ever done a drug that was so good it made you want to rip your skin off? I ask this because 1) I don't do drugs. I get high on rhythm and melody so I'm well aware doing drugs, of any kind, would not be in my best interest lest my drug provider want me climbing and humping the walls of their downtown loft or something 2) I know some of you people have done HELLA drugs so you can understand this reference.

This is what recordings like this do to me. It's like I've done some seriously underground and amazing drug that has me speaking in tongues and figuring out a way I can have sex with myself and every other human being in the world at the same exact time. It makes me want to lick the carpet and pour red wine all over my naked body. I mean, are you watching John Martyn? That's not just 'doing' music. That's 'being' music. This feeling I feel watching this clip trumps any questionable and inappropriate feeling I have had for his miraculous rendition of Solid Air, a song he wrote and arranged for another musical genius gone too soon - Nick Drake.

There are individuals that sing music. There are individuals that make music. There are individuals that compose music. Then there are individuals that ARE music. John Martyn is a man who is... was... music.

Then there's the Transatlantic Sessions - a folk music collaboration of top artists from Ireland, North America and the UK. You know what? Seriously, you can just tie me up, gag me and bake brownies in the room you're holding me captive because torture like this are just too much for me. I mean, I don't want to be over-dramatic (I lie. My life IS over-dramatic) but this video makes me ill. It literally makes me sick to my stomach with beauty.

Take a look at this:



Do you see what I'm seeing and hear what I'm hearing? That's Rufus Wainwright and the silver queen, Emmylou Harris, herself taking part in a rendition of Hard Times. I don't know about you, but I think I just shat myself.

I think I've gone too far on this post.

My main message here, shat comment and all, is simply my way of communicating the fact that some collaborations, some artists, some compositions are beyond words, beyond thought, beyond feeling, beyond life.

I don't believe in heaven or hell. I'm not sure if I believe in any sort of afterlife. So, when I take my final breath on this earth, the saddest most tragic part of that moment is that I shall feel nothing but the intense loss of music as beautiful as this.

I shall die heartbroken. I surely shall.

Labels: Hard Times, I Don't Wanna Know, John Martyn, Shat Myself, Transatlantic Session

In January of 2009 I moved from a studio apartment with an annoyingly bright non-covered skylight to a junior one bedroom apartment. I say "Junior" one bedroom because, although it has a separate, darker sleeping area, it is only separated by a hallway, not a door.

While the newly remodeled aspect of the space, separate sleeping area and fantastic kitchen were welcome changes the loss of wall display area certainly was not. The living room - if you could even call it that - is a challenge to say the least.

I have a bit of an obsession with displaying my musical library. Why? Because it's better than yours, that's why. Seriously though, while this may be about 79% of the reason, the conversation my musical library starts is the other 21%. George Chikiris' self titled debut album (with full color portrait suitable for framing, thank you very much) can be one serious conversation starter, lemme tell ya.

"zOOMMGGGG! I didn't know Bernardo made albums!"

Why, yes. Yes, he did. You never would have known that in your lifetime had they not been displayed ever so wonderfully on my music wall. You're very welcome.

This new space has caused me much perplexity. When someone suggested I place my cd's in a booklet and my albums in a crate in the closet I politely asked them to leave my home and never return. I mean, HOW... DARE... YOU.

However offended at such a notion, I came to the realize the cd's would have to move to a storage booklet or box or closet of some sort. There just wan't room enough to place on shelves and display anywhere in my five step wide living area.

My first idea to display my album covers was to purchase a digital frame and upload the entire library. This way, each cover image would continually flash before my eyes as a digital artwork of it's very own. Then I thought my landlord, who pays the all utilities, wouldn't be so happy with that and nixed the idea entirely.

My current thought is to attain a jpg. of each album cover image and put together a large scale poster to print out and display on a wall just near the entry door. This way, the entire collection is visible and, collectively, serve as a a singular artwork that jazzes up the white walls of my little apartment.

I think that's a fine idea. Until I purchase new music and have to change the artwork entirely, that is.

Any other idea on how to interestingly display my library in a tiny space is more than appreciated.

Oh, and yes, that is a cover of the Bee Gee's album "Spirits Having Flown" on the right wall, there. It's an awesome album with an awesome red and black cover; and red and black is my color scheme.

I know I have issues. No need to tell me this.

I'm fairly depressed to say that the year of 2009 has only included me attending one concert and that concert was a gift from a friend who had tickets, but was unable to attend (Seriously, I haven't thank you and your awesome hair enough).

Unemployment and the loss of my concert buddy has placed an unbelievable damper on my live music activities. It's not that I couldn't. It's just that I know I shouldn't. If I spend the entirety of my savings accounts on concert tickets I'd be one sorry, yet musically gifted, bitch. I really couldn't see myself responding to my future financial advisor's inquiries with "THE PRETENDERS WERE IN TOWN, OK?!?!?! Damn. Why all the questions on what I did with my savings?!"

It hurts. I can't even pretend to act as if it doesn't. Many times I've thought of standing on the street corner with a "Will Work For Concert Tickets" sign in hand.

I miss the sound of ringing ears. I miss the buckets of sweat that pour from your body after you've danced uncontrollably to a two hours set on a packed Fillmore floor. I miss the overpriced drinks at the Shoreline. I miss taking grainy, fuzzy photos of my favorite artists with my crap-ass digital camera. I miss the Great American Music Hall (Nothing specific here. I just miss the Great American Music Hall).

Concerts are like the elusive boyfriend that has eluded me (or run frightened and screaming) for the past nine years. They soothe me. They comfort me. They provide me entertainment. They make me smile. They make me just let everything go, give in and surrender myself to the feelings I have. They make me do things and movements with my body that I seriously regret the next day due to the amount of pain I'm in. They make me yearn to do those exact same movements again the very next night.

Among the artists that have recently played in SF or will be playing in the near future, below is the list that I cry myself asleep every night to for missing:

Swing Out Sister (June 2rd, Bimbo's)
Zap Mama (June 18th, Bimbo's)
Little Dragon (May 20th, The Independent)
Robin Trower (July 8th, Fillmore)
Gregory Isaacs (August 13, The Independent)
Gregg Allman (July 21st, 22nd The Independept)
Tortoise (July 13, GAMH)
Bonobo (July 18th, Hotel Utah)
Blue Oyster Cult (July 20th, Slim's)
Colin Hay (August 1st, Red Devil Lounge)
The John Corbett Band (July 22nd, Red Devil Lounge)

You know what, I hear you silently judging me for the John Corbett show and you can suck it. It's only $15 and he's hella fine, ok? I don't know jack about his music, but I know the dirty dreams I've had about him are enough to get me to cry myself to sleep for missing him while in town.

I like how my itunes suddenly started playing "7 Screaming Diz-Busters" just now as if to taunt me.

Labels: "Too depressed to create a label"

Did you know that this band:




Did this?


It's like someone took sleep and the ability to eat chocolate and combined them together into the greatest joy that life could ever ever ever EVER offer.

Goodness knows I have always had a fondness for Level 42, one of the funkiest blue-eye-souled Brit bands to command the eighties airwaves. You add the second funkiest television theme song to their credit (First, of course, being the theme song to Barney Miller) and it's all over. Stop the world I wanna get off 'cuz that's just way too much for my fully overworked and overloaded brain to take.

::stepping off world now::