A collection of nothing
A complacent Jon does not make for interesting writing. It's probably a good thing that nothing recent has riled me up. I was already on pace to acquire my first ulcer before the age of thirty. I guess now that I'm grooving the mellow, I will have to meet an early, painful death in other ways, such as a motorcycle accident, or drinking myself into a flaming stupor. There will be, for sure, other news days that drive me into a relatively interesting tizzy, but for now, I'm relaxing, all max-in (shootin' sum b-ball outside da skool).
Life is currently spend in pursuit of new and fascinating, yet non-mainstream bands. I have currently, as of the last two days, been stuck in some kind of British rut. The British rut has allowed me melodious music such as Snow Patrol, and Keane, although the occasional American guitar grunt of Killer, Pinback, and most recently, the Stills, have given me some hardcore grounding. Believe me, my musical tastes have not been unmanned. They have simply fled to a higher plane and are perching up there, looking disdainfully perplexed at the greater mainstreamed tastes. While I'm extolling the greats of bands that you probably have never heard of (oh, aren't I the hipster?), I should probably throw in a passing mention of M. Ward. He's one of those musicians that I occasionally throw myself into foaming passions over, but eventually forget, only to re-discover after weeks of aural abuse. He's kinda low-key, and low-fi, like every other skinny boy with soppy hair and a guitar who likes to cry and write complicated lyrics. But, unlike every other skinny boy with soppy hair who likes to cry, M. Ward spins some serious tunes. I'm currently listening to a favorite by the name of Psalm, which probably could've been one of the cover melodies for King David's poetry. It's a simple melody (aren't all the bests?) which starts slow, then slowly climbs the scales and dips when needed, much like a good kiss. In fact, Psalm is a damned fine kiss; one of those slow, soft ones, which trace down your throat and gently down your chest. You had better believe there's some intense throbbing in the pants once he gets done with his five-string self-masturbatory session. Geez, fuck the bells, Angels get their wings on this song.
So, yeah, I dig M. Ward. It's funny how I came to be introduced to him. Oh, yes. It's time for another long-assed Jon story.
On the northwest side of D.C., between 18th street and Connecticut is an area known as Adams Morgan. It's also known as my favorite D.C. stomping grounds. D.C.'s status as a relatively small city with huge international presence, and an extremely stratified economic and cultural population has made for some interesting clashes that manifest in the form of isolated neighborhoods. Really, the idea of isolated neighborhoods in large cities is nothing new. Each major city has some form of ethnic and cultural colonies. But, these colonies, in cities such as Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and the like, often appear in the form of a Calder mobile. Each city possesses a major downtown hub (the loop, times square), with several spoke colonies branching off. There are neutral grounds between each neighborhood, and each neighborhood exists as an isolated entity. In D.C., however, the relative size of the city, compounded by its ethnic and cultural mix, creates interesting city schematics. Rather than the usual Calder design, the "neighborhoods" of D.C. can be represented by a shotgun blast at close range. So, yeah, walking through D.C. can be a rather trippy experience, provided you don't get your fool ass killed meandering through certain areas of the Northeast or Southeast.
Adams Morgan, as mentioned earlier, is a rather small cross-sectional of the Northwest side. It is a wonderful clash of cultures that manifests in import shops, art shops, jazz holes, blues caverns, trade shops, head shops, smoke stands, news stands, motorcycle gatherings, pizza places, chicken places, diners, and every sort of ethnic restaurant available. Messob (an sumptuous ethiopian dish) restaurants compete with sangria joints, curry palaces, sushi chefs, burrito barrios, hot dog stands, snail sauteers, Creole sauciers, and other less mentionable eats ($100 an hour, bay-bee?). Street musicians play under natty streetlights while the sweat-soaked run from club to club. The innocent are left in the gutters, while the cabs attempt to squish feet and errant rats. Short, Hispanic men wander from shop to shop, attempting to sell roses, because, come on, ese, pretty girl (or pretty boy) be needin' some pretty, too.
On any given weekend, you could find me alone, or with a friend or two, sauntering through the crowds, soaking up the atmosphere and attempting to catch a few strains of melody from the Madam's Organ bar next to the clean and homosexual-ridden 24 hour diner. It was living concentrated and imploded. I once told Miz Expresso that going to Adams Morgan was like having street music mainlined into a collapsing vein. Now that I think about it, that description isn't too far off from the truth.
Next to the Heaven and Hell Bar, by Tom-Toms, was one of my favorite music shops. It was a typical D.C. music store; mostly local tunes with a bunch of used cds stashed near the mangy posters in the back. I believe the name of the place was DC CD. I know. Real original. But, I loved it anyway because it reminded me of the used CD stores I used to frequent in Chicago (nothing beats Chicago for music, other than...no. nothing beats Chicago).
One evening, a few hours before midnight and the general orgy that pervades the streets of 18th on any given weekend night (Thurs-Sun), Rosencratz and I were perusing the CDs. I was looking for another Coltrane CD, having recently melted one my first (Bluetrain... Ba dada duh DAAAAH). For some odd reason, DC CD didn't have Giant Steps, which sent me into an inner hissy fit. I angrily flipped through used CDs, looking for nothing in particular, and hoping that something decent would come on the overhead piping. Rosencratz was doing the Rosencratz shuffle, which pretty much consists of floating bored, from one random location to another. I guess during one of these bored floats he hit an epiphany, because he suddenly and uncharacteristically bolted to the listening station and cranked (these dials go to 11!).
I noticed this out of the corner of my eye and gamboled (in the wabes, no less!) my way to his corner. He was in some kind of orgiastic stupor. I tapped his knee. There was no response. I kicked his knee. He kicked me back. That, was a good sign. He was still alive. I went over to the next station and plugged in the Hives. The Hives were a bunch of Swedish noise. Good some times. Not at this particular time. A few minutes of guitar rock found Rosencratz tapping me on my shoulder. He indicated that I should ditch whatever shit I was listening to, and give his music a whirl. I did, and immediately my ears went into pleasurable convulsions. My eyes glazed over. My jaw went slack. I probably looked as if Nicole Kidman had burst into the store, sat me down, yanked my pants down, and went to work.
So, yeah. That was my first experience with M. Ward. To this day, I'm not exactly sure how Rosencratz knew about the guy. He wasn't exactly well known, and besides fronting for the more popular Bright Eyes, he didn't get around. It doesn't matter, though. M. Ward was majestic and yes, I'm shilling for him.
----
For those of you wondering about the beautiful song mentioned in this edition of Jon-can't-find-anything-to-write-about-so-he-gibbers-about-music, the incredible and immediately recognizable opening notes of Blue Train can be found in Cameron Crowe's Singles, which is another very cool movie about the early 90s, specifically the early 90's Seattle music scene. Groovy, baby.
Yes. I am a dork, especially when I'm bored and writing about something I enjoy.
-----
For those about to rock, we salute you!
Life is currently spend in pursuit of new and fascinating, yet non-mainstream bands. I have currently, as of the last two days, been stuck in some kind of British rut. The British rut has allowed me melodious music such as Snow Patrol, and Keane, although the occasional American guitar grunt of Killer, Pinback, and most recently, the Stills, have given me some hardcore grounding. Believe me, my musical tastes have not been unmanned. They have simply fled to a higher plane and are perching up there, looking disdainfully perplexed at the greater mainstreamed tastes. While I'm extolling the greats of bands that you probably have never heard of (oh, aren't I the hipster?), I should probably throw in a passing mention of M. Ward. He's one of those musicians that I occasionally throw myself into foaming passions over, but eventually forget, only to re-discover after weeks of aural abuse. He's kinda low-key, and low-fi, like every other skinny boy with soppy hair and a guitar who likes to cry and write complicated lyrics. But, unlike every other skinny boy with soppy hair who likes to cry, M. Ward spins some serious tunes. I'm currently listening to a favorite by the name of Psalm, which probably could've been one of the cover melodies for King David's poetry. It's a simple melody (aren't all the bests?) which starts slow, then slowly climbs the scales and dips when needed, much like a good kiss. In fact, Psalm is a damned fine kiss; one of those slow, soft ones, which trace down your throat and gently down your chest. You had better believe there's some intense throbbing in the pants once he gets done with his five-string self-masturbatory session. Geez, fuck the bells, Angels get their wings on this song.
So, yeah, I dig M. Ward. It's funny how I came to be introduced to him. Oh, yes. It's time for another long-assed Jon story.
On the northwest side of D.C., between 18th street and Connecticut is an area known as Adams Morgan. It's also known as my favorite D.C. stomping grounds. D.C.'s status as a relatively small city with huge international presence, and an extremely stratified economic and cultural population has made for some interesting clashes that manifest in the form of isolated neighborhoods. Really, the idea of isolated neighborhoods in large cities is nothing new. Each major city has some form of ethnic and cultural colonies. But, these colonies, in cities such as Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and the like, often appear in the form of a Calder mobile. Each city possesses a major downtown hub (the loop, times square), with several spoke colonies branching off. There are neutral grounds between each neighborhood, and each neighborhood exists as an isolated entity. In D.C., however, the relative size of the city, compounded by its ethnic and cultural mix, creates interesting city schematics. Rather than the usual Calder design, the "neighborhoods" of D.C. can be represented by a shotgun blast at close range. So, yeah, walking through D.C. can be a rather trippy experience, provided you don't get your fool ass killed meandering through certain areas of the Northeast or Southeast.
Adams Morgan, as mentioned earlier, is a rather small cross-sectional of the Northwest side. It is a wonderful clash of cultures that manifests in import shops, art shops, jazz holes, blues caverns, trade shops, head shops, smoke stands, news stands, motorcycle gatherings, pizza places, chicken places, diners, and every sort of ethnic restaurant available. Messob (an sumptuous ethiopian dish) restaurants compete with sangria joints, curry palaces, sushi chefs, burrito barrios, hot dog stands, snail sauteers, Creole sauciers, and other less mentionable eats ($100 an hour, bay-bee?). Street musicians play under natty streetlights while the sweat-soaked run from club to club. The innocent are left in the gutters, while the cabs attempt to squish feet and errant rats. Short, Hispanic men wander from shop to shop, attempting to sell roses, because, come on, ese, pretty girl (or pretty boy) be needin' some pretty, too.
On any given weekend, you could find me alone, or with a friend or two, sauntering through the crowds, soaking up the atmosphere and attempting to catch a few strains of melody from the Madam's Organ bar next to the clean and homosexual-ridden 24 hour diner. It was living concentrated and imploded. I once told Miz Expresso that going to Adams Morgan was like having street music mainlined into a collapsing vein. Now that I think about it, that description isn't too far off from the truth.
Next to the Heaven and Hell Bar, by Tom-Toms, was one of my favorite music shops. It was a typical D.C. music store; mostly local tunes with a bunch of used cds stashed near the mangy posters in the back. I believe the name of the place was DC CD. I know. Real original. But, I loved it anyway because it reminded me of the used CD stores I used to frequent in Chicago (nothing beats Chicago for music, other than...no. nothing beats Chicago).
One evening, a few hours before midnight and the general orgy that pervades the streets of 18th on any given weekend night (Thurs-Sun), Rosencratz and I were perusing the CDs. I was looking for another Coltrane CD, having recently melted one my first (Bluetrain... Ba dada duh DAAAAH). For some odd reason, DC CD didn't have Giant Steps, which sent me into an inner hissy fit. I angrily flipped through used CDs, looking for nothing in particular, and hoping that something decent would come on the overhead piping. Rosencratz was doing the Rosencratz shuffle, which pretty much consists of floating bored, from one random location to another. I guess during one of these bored floats he hit an epiphany, because he suddenly and uncharacteristically bolted to the listening station and cranked (these dials go to 11!).
I noticed this out of the corner of my eye and gamboled (in the wabes, no less!) my way to his corner. He was in some kind of orgiastic stupor. I tapped his knee. There was no response. I kicked his knee. He kicked me back. That, was a good sign. He was still alive. I went over to the next station and plugged in the Hives. The Hives were a bunch of Swedish noise. Good some times. Not at this particular time. A few minutes of guitar rock found Rosencratz tapping me on my shoulder. He indicated that I should ditch whatever shit I was listening to, and give his music a whirl. I did, and immediately my ears went into pleasurable convulsions. My eyes glazed over. My jaw went slack. I probably looked as if Nicole Kidman had burst into the store, sat me down, yanked my pants down, and went to work.
So, yeah. That was my first experience with M. Ward. To this day, I'm not exactly sure how Rosencratz knew about the guy. He wasn't exactly well known, and besides fronting for the more popular Bright Eyes, he didn't get around. It doesn't matter, though. M. Ward was majestic and yes, I'm shilling for him.
----
For those of you wondering about the beautiful song mentioned in this edition of Jon-can't-find-anything-to-write-about-so-he-gibbers-about-music, the incredible and immediately recognizable opening notes of Blue Train can be found in Cameron Crowe's Singles, which is another very cool movie about the early 90s, specifically the early 90's Seattle music scene. Groovy, baby.
Yes. I am a dork, especially when I'm bored and writing about something I enjoy.
-----
For those about to rock, we salute you!
posted by Jon at 5:40 PM
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