thursday tracks: maurice sendak meets carole king

There once was a boy named Pierre, who only would say "I don't care". From Maurice Sendak's 1975 TV special, with the "Nutshell Library" stories set to music by Carole King. View it here.

Mountain View

A few months ago, an editor I work with told me about Mountain View, Arkansas, a town nestled deep in the Ozarks where people sit around an old courthouse square and play folk and bluegrass music into the wee hours of the morning. Last week, after attending a wedding in Springfield, Missouri, Jennifer and I decided to go there.

Rather than take the quickest roads, we chose a winding path through the rolling hills of Mark Twain national forest. On the way we saw a bunch of lovely old buildings, like the defunct Ledbetter filling station, the Hercules church and a rundown dance club called "Faye's Place." Faye, however, appeared to have hung up her dancing shoes, judging by the failing condition of her little blue building. A man sat idling in a pick-up truck while we took photos, and we wondered if maybe he was a jilted dance partner who parked there each day with the hopes that one day Faye would return.




Welcome to Mountain View

We made it to Mountain View with enough time to check out some flea markets, instrument stores and courtsquare itself. I got to try out an autoharp, and Jennifer tried out a rocking chair that was big enough for bigfoot. There were lots of people milling around, and already a few bluegrass jams and hootenannies were in session.

If you're planning to go to Mountain View, there are a few things you should know. First of all, it might as well be the 1950s there, based on the look and feel of the town. A sign on the way into town said "Mountain View: 3 miles ahead and 50 years behind." That seemed pretty accurate to me, but not at all a bad thing. Prices were low, people were friendly, and the chocolote phosphates and coke floats at the soda-fountain were mixed just right.

Secondly, Mountain View is located in a dry county, so you need to bring your own hooch. Dry though it is, Stone County does not necessarily equal stone sober. We saw plenty of people walking around with cups that might have contained beer or liquor, but the only thing getting hammered on the courthouse square that night was a dulcimer.

It's also not the most diverse place. You can buy confederate flags at a nearby general store, and you might see one sewn onto a leather jacket here and there. The people we met were very friendly, so I don't want to portray them as otherwise, but I'm not sure how welcome I would feel there if I weren't white.

Mirror Lake and the Old Mill

Before settling into the evening's jamborees, we took a short drive up to the Ozark National Forest and hiked around to a lake and springs. We followed another path below the waterfall until we saw a stone building that looked like it was the ruins of an old church. We climbed around the window openings and used them to frame a series of photographs.




Once we picked up the trail again, a sign overlooking the building we'd been climbing in said it was an old mill that had been partially deconstructed during World War II. The window ledge we'd been taking pictures on was where the water wheel used to be.

Just Pickin'

The most notable feature of Mountain View, of course, is the music. Everywhere you look, there's several groups of musicians gathered in a circle and picking on some tune or another. I heard Hank Williams songs, country standards, and one rather large woman with an American flag bandana belted out a whiskey-themed song with the refrain, "And I won't go home with a wild turkey like you."


The most pleasant and intimate session we watched took place in a gazebo in a small park off the main square. About four or five guys held the session together, with a few coming and going as the night went on.

My favorite individual song was an original by one of these men, a guitarist who sang a slow number about how he's tired of chasing rainbows, because rainbows are so hard to find. Jenn's favorite was the violinist, an elderly man who treated us to the sweetest and saddest melodies we'd hear all weekend. After about 11:30, while the rest of them strummed on, he quietly packed up his fiddle and walked off into the shadows with a quiet wave.

Bean Fest

The Mountain View residents were met were very welcoming, and one lady told us about all the area's special attractions, including the Folk Festival, the comedy shows, and the most interesting event of all: Bean Fest.

Bean Fest, she explained, is a giant baked bean and cornbread cookoff that draws people from all over the region to Courthouse Square. Giant tents are set up, people start baking beans that morning, and at noon a bell rings and everyone has a big baked bean feast.

The cookoff and awards for best baked beans are followed up by the annual Parade of Outhouses. Different businesses sponsor teams who build decorated or thematic outhouses, and then they line up these "people-powered potties" and have a race just south of the square. First place is awarded with the coveted golden toilet seat.

Parting Shots

Traveling through the Ozarks and walking through Mountain View was a refreshing experience. We heard a lot of great music, and none of the players came across as flashy or competitive. The people we met extended a folksy warmth and humor, like the guy at the general store who said his wife told him, "the only good years we have are the ones on our truck."

On the way back, the roads were full of church billboards with messages like, "His blood washes away what no soap can," and more pointed queries like, "Are you prepared to meet Jesus?" Dear Lord, I thought, not yet -- at least not between here and Yellville.


We did stop once at the Buffalo river, and after a half-hour I succeeded in skipping a rock all the way across (it's farther across than it looks). We also stopped in Springfield to visit Jess, Dave and Oliver The Ferret.

The apocalyptic church signs were complemented by the smoke from pasture fires, and by the time we reached the big city, the sky was all the way dark. I don't know when I'll get back to Mountain View, but I'm sure I'll go back there sometime. I should very much like to see a Parade of Outhouses before I die.

photos by Jennifer Brothers. To see more from this trip, click here.
for more information about Mountain View, go to ozarkgetaways.com

the world's smallest man

To tide you over until I get around to posting some new stuff, here's a video of dance sequences performed by Nelson de la Rosa, the recently deceased Dominican gentleman who stood all of 54 centimeters. Thanks to Brett for including this clip years ago on a VHS copy of Tenacious D and a live Weather Report performance.

restructuring

I've finally figured out a few things about how the new blogger works. Over the next day or two I will be making a number of changes, including adding categories of my own posts and links to other people's Web sites, music and comics. Check back in a day or two and I promise you'll find a more user-friendly page.

tunes for walpurgisnacht

It's Walpurgisnacht, and what better way to celebrate than with some Black Sabbath, Andrew Hill, The High Strung and even a personal favorite by Friedrich Chopin. Have a nice holiday and a big shout out to all of you atop the Brocken.







BLOG SABBATH


A month or so ago Mr. Coates posted a comment lauding the awesomeness of the Black Sabbath song, "A National Acrobaut." Later that day, I dug my first guitar out of my parents' basement and joined brother James for an impromptu performance of that same tune. It was amazing how easily it came back to me. It's also amazing just how much Black Sabbath you hear these days in coffee shops and bars like the Replay Lounge in Lawrence.

As absent as Sabbath has been from my playlist the past few years, that original fondness for it never goes away. Ever since my friend Peter gave me the "Paranoid" album for my ice-skating/basketball-themed 7th grade birthday party, I've been a big fan. I liked how their song "War Pigs" was paired with the instrumental freak out, "Luke's Wall." I liked the Halloweeny cover art of the first album, and I marveled at what a fine sample "The Wizard" made for Cypress Hill's, "When The Shit Goes Down" (You Better Be Ready).

Most bizarre regarding Black Sabbath was the appearance of frontman Ozzy Osbourne at Bush's White House correspondent's dinner a few years ago, where the President hailed Osbourne for making such recordings as "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath," "Face in Hell," and "Bloodbath in Paradise." Now I'm not the biggest Ozzy enthusiast out there, but these don't seem like the obvious songs to praise him for. Probably some rock consultant-speechwriter is to blame for the selection, but what would be even weirder is if those songs were really the president's personal favorites.

Regardless, the video I am here to present today is a fine one. I was going to include it last month to mark the 4-year anniversary of the Iraq War, but it's no less relevant (unfortunately) or enjoyable a month later. Regardless of how you feel about the war, it's hard to protest the pentatonic scale.

THE HIGH STRUNG


Last Monday we saw the High Strung carry on their Library Tour on the rooftop patio of the downtown Kansas City Library. There were snacks, including brownies, chex mix, coffee and apple juice. The crowd ranged from little tykes to grandparents.

The High Strung is a great band with good songs and a sweet color scheme. What's even more exciting to me is how they're inspiring kids to go out and do something cool, too.

After their regular set, the band brought the audience together to write a song on the spot. A library volunteer passed out books, instructing everyone to pick one line from each book that would then be used to make up the lyrics to an entirely spontaneous song. Percussion instruments were handed out to young and old before the song's performance, and a teenage girl from the crowd joined in on lead vocals.

To hear more about them, listen to this story about them on "This American Life" or check out their Web site. And thanks to the High Strung for letting me sing along on an impromptu cover of Pink Floyd's "The Gnome." That was so very kind of them.

DINU, FREE OF SORROW


If someone asked me my state of mind last week I would have had to play them a Polish Mazurka. Recent rainy days have whisked me back to my wanderings along the Eppendorfer Moor, a time when my iPod all but got stuck on a particular version of Chopin's Mazurka in A-minor Opera 17, Number 4. I've since listened to 30 second samples of 37 recordings of this song, but have not yet been able to identify who performs this specific version. The closest recordings I can find in tone and sound quality are those by the Romanian pianist Dinu Lipatti, who was regarded by his contemporaries as "the manifestation of the spiritual world, immune from all pain and sorrow." Listen to his version of a different Mazurka, and perhaps you'll feel the same way, at least for 3 minutes and 44 seconds.

POINT OF DEPARTURE


Virtuoso jazz pianist and composer Andrew Hill died this past week. I'll remember him for "Passing Ships," his 1968 recording that was not released on any format until 2003, but mostly for a night a year later when BWB and I stayed up and listened to no less than five of his albums in a row. For those of you interested in a similar experience, I've uploaded "Passing Ships" to rapidshare to give you a jump start. You'll need a winrar extractor, which you can find online for free.

LAST AND LEAST...

Today I dreamed that Nirvana released a censored version of "Rape Me," only the title and lyrics were changed to "Rape Seed." If Kurt were around now, at age 40, he might get a kick out of that!

Guest post by Fred Hölderlin (1770 - 1843)

TO THE YOUNG POETS

Quite soon, dear brothers, perhaps our art,
So long in youth-like ferment, will now mature
To beauty's plenitude, to stillness;
Only be pious, like the Greeks!

Of mortal men think kindly, but love the gods!
Loathe drunkenness like frost! Don't describe or teach!
And if you fear your master's bluntness,
Go to great Nature, let her advise you!

translated by Keith Hoeller


asking great nature for advice -- photo by natalya

This post goes out to everyone, especially two of you with April birthdays. For those of you who are at work and/or not in a position to seek advice from great nature and must instead seek idle amusement on the Internet, you might enjoy this story about a drunk man parking his horse in the foyer of a Sparkasse.

A nod to nerds

A week after the shootings, classes are back in session at Virginia Tech, and so I too thought I would return to blogging normalcy. Like some of you, I considered writing a post about the tragedy, but I didn't want to give any more attention to what was essentially a murderous publicity stunt for a some hate-filled video log.

Instead, I thought I'd stick to my strengths and write about more light-hearted fare. Though this site has been referred to in many prominent blogger periodicals as a "triumph of triviality," I prefer to think of it as a celebration of the small things. And it doesn't get much smaller than that most cult-favorited of candies, Nerds.

The particular Nerds sampling I would like to review today is a box of Apple-Coated Watermelon slash Lemonade-Coated Wild Cherry nerds of the "double-dipped" variety. I purchased the Nerds at the Ninth Street Presto! gas station in Lawrence (the one where the gas leak took place a year or two ago). The sun-faded yellow and red box suggested a long shelf life, but the taste was anything but stale.

The red Nerds were at once tart and sweet, and small enough to qualify as crunchy. The much larger yellow Nerds felt like eating boulders by comparison, though they were no less sweet to the taste.

As sweet as the experience of eating these Nerds was, the art on the box was even more spectacular. The image, a colorful illustration of young Nerds frolicking lakeside, recalled 19th century frescoes of the gay bathhouses of France, in spirit as well as form.

In short, the double-dipped experience supports the theory that -- culinary, spiritually and sociologically -- Nerds have more fun.


In other exciting Nerds news, Nerds Ropes are now 2 for a dollar at the Apple Market on 47th Street in Westwood, Kansas. What is a Nerds Rope? It is a licorice-ish sticky candy rope thing with a bunch of multicolored Nerds stuck to it. A bizarre but beautiful piece of candy, Nerds Ropes resemble an Everlasting Gobstopper in texture and color. Unfortunately, they don't last forever, but neither does anything truly good in this world.

At one point I thought it would be funny to write a story about a kid who hung himself with a Nerds Rope, but that actually seems kind of morbid, and besides Nerds Ropes aren't long or sturdy enough to play hopscotch with, much less form into a noose. I guess the story could end on a happy note, though. The kid could always just eat his way through it. Which is exactly what I recommend doing when the going gets rough or the news gets depressing. Nerds, Dweebs, Tart'n'Tinys, you name it. That Wonka stuff works wonders.

until soon,

LHW

Loft apartment lullaby

In my frequent weekend visits to the San Francisco Towers, I've spent untold hours gazing out at the Western Auto building, a structure I've admired since I was a boy. Inspired by the building itself, as well as songs like Toby's "Kansas City," I decided I'd write a little ballad about falling asleep on top of the building.

I've got $18.95 worth of credit left at Sweatlodge Studios, Lawrence that I aim to record this song with. But before I do, I wanted to open up the floor to lyrical and musical suggestions, ideas for new verses, or even entirely new compositions about this cosiest of cowtowns. (Snakin, Red, Coates, Cali G...I know you're out there). In the meantime, here are the lyrics. I hope you enjoy.

Let Me Sleep On The Western Auto Lofts

I want to sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
lay me down a top
of the lofts on a bed made of straw

If New York's the town that don't sleep
are we the downtown that doesn't wake up?
I think there's still lots going on
but the pace is just not so abrupt

There's shopping and dining
ballparks and parades
rock concerts and artwalks
pools and cold lemonade

So let me sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
lay me down a top
of the lofts on a bed made of straw

Should I grow up or sleep in
or go to the zoo?
or just walk down to Keno's
catch a Tivoli feature or two

For now I'll just relax
have a drink in the shade
once I make my bed on top
of the lofts, I'll have it made

so let me sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
right under the giant neon light
on a bed made of straw

We can wade in the fountains
by the old cabarets
and place our bets on boats
that never go no place

Life's as lazy as you make it
and this town's the same way
so let me sleep on top of the lofts
on a futon of hay

When the sign's lights go out
I'll close my eyes too
and fall asleep on the Western Auto lofts
and dream about you

photo credit: kspsylo

bike wreck

the hunt is on...

The entries in this year's lukaswetzel.blogspot.com Kids' Easter Comic Contest were a bit darker than usual. Probably because it is colder outside than it should be. Or perhaps it's that pesky war. Whatever the case, I wish you all a pleasant Easter. If you want a closer look at this year's winning drawing, click here.

Also, big shout out to bunnyman.

spring and all

Spring is here, and that calls for some new music, haiku, photos, anecdotes and updates about some of the tumultuous events sweeping the region.

The end of March was a catacylsmic time for people on either side of State Line. The week opened with this story about two men in Kansas City who drove around in an ice cream truck shooting at people. My fellow blogger Mabel and I thought this would be the ice cream pun-prone story that would catapault us to blogging superstardom, but after mentally running through all the requisite David Lee Roth, "I scream/you scream/we all scream for ice cream" and "Pop Goes The Weasel" jokes, we realized that, geez, guys with guns driving around in an ice cream van is actually sort of terrifying. But please don't let that stop you from chiming in with any jokes of your own.

On Wednesday night I thought I saw someone cruising through the QuikTrip parking lot on a wheelchair built of spare parts from my stolen bicycle, but my eyes were playing tricks on me.

In perhaps the strangest local news story I have read all week, government biologists have been trying to eliminate the feral pig problem by flying over Clinton Lake and gunning the disease-spreading animals down from their helicopter. So far this year, a statewide total of 257 hogs were killed by air and 75 were trapped and killed. If you thought the police presence was bad for Wakarusa Fest, put yourself in these animals' shoes. At the end of the news story, which also features a video, a man who lives near the lake mentions that there is still one 500-pound boar on the loose.

"Most of these are ugly as sin but somehow I'd say this has gotten to be kind of a pretty one," he said.

No matter how disruptive these boars may be to the area, the aerial swineicide taking place in my home state has inspired me to head out to Clinton to hold a special vigil. This will take place next weekend at the half-submerged picnic table just downhill from the outlook point, and will probably consist of some banjo-strumming, frisbee-tossing, and maybe the ceremonial lighting of a stundenbrenner.

Today's last tribute to the piggies comes to us in the form of a song by a renowned British pop group. No, it's not off the White Album, it's the Suede single Where The Pigs Don't Fly from their b-side collection, Sci-Fi Lullabies. It's sort of a spaced-out Brit-pop answer to "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." And if you listen to the lyrics closely, you'll find a reference to a stolen ice cream van.

Born to Adagio

On a cultural note, Jennifer and I went to the Kansas City Symphony last weekend for a performance of Mahler's Fifth. The performance, conducted by Isaac Stern's son Michael, was even more splendid than we expected. It's always a thrill to watch the musicians play, especially one of the first violinists, who was great with child. After Jennifer pointed this out to me, I said "Wouldn't it be neat if the lady gave birth in the middle of the performance -- and not just that -- what if the baby was born with a Suzuki violin in its hand and arrived just in time to play along with the Rondo Finale (in D major)?" I, of course, was greatly amused with this hypothetical scenario, but Jennifer found it distasteful, and in the end we both agreed it was unlikely.

Big Star, even Bigger Toad

Just because I have a keen appreciation for high culture, I don't want you all to think I've given up on the rock and roll. In fact, if you show up in a few hours to the Eight Street Taproom, you might catch me headbanging and playing harp along with the great pop-rock outfit Ghosty, who is doing a Big Star tribute tonight. If you can't go then, go see them play as themselves tomorrow at the Record Bar. And if you happen to work for a major label, you should sign them up and send them to Australia, where the World's Largest Toad has requested they perform as part of his "Check Me Out I'm A Frog The Size of a Dog" festival this summer.

Songs for Spring

In honor of the recent equinox and the official arrival of spring, here are a few songs to sweep you sweetly into a spring fever.

-- Spring Is Here by Dave Longstreth of the Dirty Projectors
-- The Seasons Reverse, by Gastr del Sol, which was Jim O'Rourke and David Grubbs. The other favorite tune on this 1998 album, Camoufleur, is the last one, Bauchredner
-- If you like Jim O'Rourke's fingerstyle playing, you'll certainly appreciate John Fahey's "When The Springtime Comes Again," a lovely instrumental number from his 1963 album, "Death Chants, Breakdowns and Military Waltzes."
-- Finally, no rainy season would be complete without at least one listen from the Marmalade classic, "I See The Rain," which even Jimi himself greatly enjoyed.

Hoops sorrow, and the heroic scooter scramble of Tim and Stepp

Oh, yes. In my spirited embrace of spring, I don't want to pretend last Saturday's b-ball heartbreak didn't happen. I watched the game in Lawrence, and the atmosphere following the elite eight loss could probably best be described as volatile. People were ready to party, and although they didn't feel like it anymore, they still decided to drink. My brothers Peter, David, Jenny (bros), Jacob and Sam Stepp decided to seek comfort and food at Rudy's Pizza, where we cashed-in the Wetzel discount for some Guiness and Beef-and-Sausage slices. The effect was an immediate rise to our spirits, and we convinced our friend Tim to drive his scooter up and down Mass. Street with Stepp sitting on the back, proudly waving his giant new KU flag. It was heroic, and inspiring, kind of like the end of Braveheart.

Speaking of heroic endings, I'm going to sign off now with some nice little Haikus for yous

spring is the season
when I'm hit by a monsoon
with waves of haiku

Vernal equinox
vestal virgins balance eggs
on their countertops

out in the country
hidden highways one can find
only by lightning

a secret clubhouse
like something from a children's
paperback novel

swinging singing chains
the green fuse is drunk-driving
Dylan's golden age

the moon is waxing
blooming dogwoods thought patterns
brightly develop

Elliot asks us
Is April the cruellest month?
maybe for Jesus

she went far away
she went to be with the whales
summer, she returns

Apollinaire says
springtime causes unfaithul
lovers to wander

The Jayhawks wonder
how long must March Madness last?
wait another year

Long must you suffer, Cyclops

photo from Patras, Greece circa 2005

It's hard to know what makes for an entertaining blog post, but at least one reader has requested something involving history and myth. Fortunately, I'm an armchair expert on mythological monsters, so I think it's about time I shared another view on the life and times of history's most famous cyclops, Polyphemus.

I recently reread the Polyphemus entry in Edith Hamilton's "Mythology" and found it full of several fascinating anecdotes about Poseidon's one-eyed son. My favorite of these accounts are the ones that portray him as a victim of circumstance, "not terrifying at all, but a poor credulous monster, a most ridiculous monster."

The basic story of the Cylops is that Odysseus and his men land on his island in search of supplies, only to wind up trapped in the monster's cave. After several of them are eaten, Odysseus hatches a plan to get the Cyclops drunk, poke out its eye and sneak out with his men by concealing themselves underneath his sheep.

However, in a new version of events not found in Hamilton's collection (one that perhaps was dreamed up by me during an Aegean ferry ride), the Cyclops is not blinded by Odysseus's men, he just gets drunk and loses his contact lens.

No sooner does he begin looking for his missing lens then Odysseus's men begin playing frisbee with it, skipping it across rock and surf. This really pisses off Poseidon, who like all sons of Cronus, hates being pissed off. In exchange for the attentions of a nymph, he hires Zeus to give his sight-challenged son emergency LASEK surgery with a special phototherapeutic thunderbolt.

Once the Cyclops acquires perfect vision, he does what any enraged monster would do: he bites off the heads of the offending mortals. This would usually be horrible and not-funny, except that in this version of events, the men of the Odyssey all happen to be decked out in anachronistic 1950s black and white striped bathing suits, lending the scene an air of aesthetic comedy.

But as satisfying as it is for a few mouthfuls, snacking on the sailors like so much celery loses it's appeal when Polyphemus realizes no sea nymph will ever love him if he continues to behave so barbarously. The cyclops, in fact, has more class than most poets give him credit for. And if he reacted in blind rage, well, he can't really be blamed.

Such is the life of a lesser deity. Your radiant parents watch your back, but they never invite you out to eat on Olympus. Still, Polyphemus does his best to hold things down on his island, which in many later stories was Sicily.

It is said that after an emotional breakup, Polyphemus recorded an album of love tunes for his neglectful nymph. But because this was before Gods were allowed to own their own record labels, it is thought that only a few bootlegged tapes survived. Perhaps they will one day be discovered and the Cyclops will take his place on top of the singer/songwriter pantheon, but most scholars believe this is unlikely.

Until then, he will neither be loved, nor famous. He will only remain Polyphemus.

save the planet/kill your blog

I relocated this rant about the state of MySpace/the blogosphere to a more appropriate location.

Thursday tracks: Here Come The Hawks, White Flight, feral camels and more

Hawk It To 'Em
Welcome to a special late-breaking edition of Thursday tracks, which will be enhanced with a couple of quick news items. Our first song is an explosive and especially timely number called "Hawk It To 'Em," brought to us courtesy of international journalist/DJ extraordinaire, Sam Hopkins. Sam found this 45 and did a write-up of it for Wax Poetics. This highly limited release by The Tips (backed by Gary Jackson and the Soul Messengers) was recorded to commemorate KU's 1969 Rose Bowl appearance, which they lost as a result of having too many men on the field. Thanks to Balagan for this fine find, which fans of soul music and KU athletics will delight in hearing. Here Come the Hawks, Y'all...!


Dirty Projectors
Monday night I went to the Record Bar to see one of my favorite groups of the past few years, The Dirty Projectors. I first heard the song "Lay Down Restless Bones" on my friend Andrew's annual mix CD. This beautiful, stirring and primitive tune from lead Projector Dave Longstreth's solo album led me to other songs such as this one called "Winter Is Here." Monday's performance by the band was excellent, if a bit short. Dave's caterwauling vocals and left-handed strat were backed up by two young women on bass/vocals and guitar/vocals, as well as a drummer of Deerhoovian ability. I bought a couple of EPs of theirs on vinyl, and they were kind enough to throw in the New Attidudes CD as well, which features this track.

I Could Never Fight A Cat Like That
Last but not least of today's musical offerings is this video from "White Flight." Not only am I a big fan of the White Flight record (more of which can be heard on www.rangeliferecords.com), this video was filmed at my girlfriend's house a month before she moved in. In fact, the scene when the guy meets the cat and decides to rescue it from the white hipster kids (one of whom appears to be Richie Tenenbaum) is filmed in her room. So if somebody asked me today, "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" I would have to answer: "In the purple-blacklit den of the cosmic kittie, of course."

A quick note about the White Flight record: Fuck what Pitchforkmedia says, it's a damn interesting listen. And while I'm on that subject of Pitchfork, I'd like to send out a friendly "fuck you" to those self-appointed arbiters of taste. I was going to write up an angry response to the White Flight review, but my feelings on the matter are best summed up in a quote from Kansas City DJ/Oxblood Records founder Robert Moore, who said this in an article last year in Lawrence.com:

“I could give a damn...they’re like nerds with attitudes. Who the hell gives them the power to make or break a record? The public has given them the power which just shows how a bunch of sheep are out there... Naah, Pitchfork is a bunch of shit.”

Now I'm not going to pretend I haven't enjoyed reading Pitchfork at times, or that I haven't been clued in to some good releases there. Pitchfork writers, including a friend or two of mine, are generally genuine fans of music who are able to digest and write about a staggering amount of bands every month. But when it comes to number ratings and evaluations of whether an album is valid or not, I don't trust them any more than I'd trust any asshole from Chicago.

Non music-related news:

Good question, postcard. The answer: not me. A severe drought in Australia has led to attacks on villages and aborigines by feral camels. Although the brunt of their attacks have been borne by inanimate objects such as toilets and air conditioners, their frequency and ferocity have led to calls by the government for a culling (a softer word for "killing") of feral camels, which there are over a million of in the country. At least one news story I read reported that camel hunters have been assigned to kill no less than 100 camels each week. So if any of you don't have spring break plans and really need an opportunity to satisfy your bloodlust, this could be a real opportunity for you.

Finally, here's a foto of me descending the banks of the Kaw to check out a sunken automobile I found there while chasing an errant frisbee toss yesterday. It is thought that the car might be a rusted-out Studebaker that was pushed into the river somewhere near Manhattan by my car-collecting ancestors, but I'm not for sure.


Photo, as usual, by Jenny.

Behind Every Good Woman There are Two Good Elves

A happier, more fantasiatic subject for Tuesday's drawing of the day.

foto of the weekend

by natalya

thursday tracks: song for aretha (and more)

There is a woman
Who brings...ahh, yes
Love and laughter
whenever she sings
to the people
standing beneath her
yes...
she gives strength to the weak
whenever
WHENEVER
she speaks
and her name
her name
her NAME
is Aretha
Aretha
ARETHA!

--from Bernard "Pretty" Purdie's "Song for Aretha," taken from his album "Soul Is...Pretty Purdie." To visit an online groove workshop and learn how to play the Purdie Shuffle from the man himself, check out this video tutorial.


As an alternative track of the week, try out Santo & Johnny's version of "Summertime." I listened to this on my headphones while walking by the new addition to the Nelson, which as usual looked fantastic at night. An appropriate tune for the setting, as the Bloch Building opens this summer. June 9, to be exact.

Finally, I posted about 10 new songs on the lukebox today. Click on the "direct download" link for each song and you should be able to stream them. Have a good Thursday and enjoy the tracks.

Public Service Announcement

I always enjoy posting writing by my friends, but what I want to share today is unfortunately much more serious than what you'll usually read here. Over a year ago, my friend Michael was responsible for a drunk-driving accident on State Line that resulted in the death of a motorcyclist. Mike and I grew up together, and I wouldn't have expected this to happen to him any more than I would expect it to happen to me. It was terrible seeing him on the news last year and to think about what he and his family must be going through. But Mike's dealt with it admirably, and this letter he wrote has been circulating recently. It's a message you've probably heard before, but for me, hearing Mike tell it hits especially close to home. Read it here.

the (mock) bloggicide of Lukas Wetzel

Right now I'm sitting at a table in the back of Bo Ling's Chinese Restaurant, alternately sipping from a purple taro milk bubble tea and a variety of colorful cocktails in big paper-umbrella-covered glasses. In front of me sits a giant platter of fortune cookies. One by one, I remove the cookies from their wrappers and eat them, without even bothering to remove the fortunes. As I do so, I look back on my career so far as a writer, blogger, and sufferer of much heartbreak and adventure...

There comes a time in every blogger's life when he must ask himself if he wishes to continue blogging. Few blogs these days survive their infancy, and a fitting epitath for many a blog might be, "No sooner am I done for/I wonder what I was begun for."

My own baby steps in the blogosphere were well-intentioned. I wanted to have fun, tell a few stories, show off some of my girlfriend's photographs and maybe share a song or two. But my path strayed into stagnation, schizophrenia and awkward silences, and a lack of comments spelled out a virtual vote of no confidence on behalf of my (imaginary?) readership.

To make matters worse, my friends' blogs began dying out, and I felt like my namesake Mr. Skywalker on Ice Planet Hoth, stumbling about half-blind on a cold and uncaring planet. Only instead of Hoth's wampas and tauntauns, a different set of predators thrives on the Internet. Unmanned spambots and porn drones patroll the premises, and celebrity smut-peddlers sell soul in exchange for advertising space. Honesty is a liability, and you never know for sure who is watching you.

These are hardly conditions to live in, much less a place to get any real writing done. But to be perfectly honest, I never intended for this blog to outlive my 25th year. As some of you may have noticed, the title of this site is a nod to Goethe's "The Sufferings of Young Werther," the 18th-century epistolary novel in which an overromantic hero does himself in when the girl he loves gets betrothed to some other guy. I figured that, because Goethe published this book when he was 25, I would bury my own Web log sufferings at the same age.

But as uncomfortable as I've grown in this online space, I can still remember what made blogging fun in the first place. You can write about whatever you want, you can make up your own rules, and you might even reach someone. So before I blow the brains out of "The Recently Updated Sufferings of Young Wetzel," I would like to bequeath a few tips to any aspiring bloggers out there who want to give this form of communication a try.

Have Fun With It
Otherwise there's no point

Don't Take It Too Seriously
Why should you?

Keep It Short
Never was my strong point, though I've come to see how brevity probably best suits this format. As my friend Mabel once said, "Sometimes I'll have 10 minutes at work and want to read something fun, so I'll swing by your page only to see some 12,000 word essay on godknowswhat, and I think...this isn't really what I'm looking for right now."

Take into consideration that blogs are publicly accessible (but don't let that cramp your style too much)
A anonymous, or semi-anonymous author credit is not a bad idea. And you obviously don't want to boast too much about doing drugs or committing crimes that might be traceable to your IP address. But don't be overwhelmed by the thought that you're putting stuff out there "for the whole world to see." Because that's actually pretty unlikely.

Be Consistent/Have a Plan
It's easier to maintain a blog, and often more satisfying for readers, if your blog has a consistent theme. My favorite blogs have been written by friends who are traveling, teaching abroad, or writing about a specific thing or place. Personally, I'm all about the variety blog, but with endless possibilities of what to write about, it can be hard to know where to start. Perhaps the most important thing, however, is to be sort-of regular about updating. Because we all need sites to check when our e-mail boxes our empty.

Don't Blog At the Expense of other writing
I found blogging to be a good way to keep my pen sharp and show off a couple of shorter pieces. But I've also noticed that sometimes the more I blog, the more erratic and sporadic my other writing projects become, which is unfortunate. Keeping a blog may feel like you're getting writing done, but it's not always easy to tell if you're making progress, or if it's just blogress.

Don't Blog At the Expense of your Life
Being out in the world, on the town, or with friends is ultimately more satisfying and will give you something to write about later.

Take it or leave it, but these are just a few things that I learned along the way. The most important one to keep in mind is to not take blogging too seriously or get sad if not that many people are commenting on your posts. The blogs that get the most hits are usually the anonymous confessions of some teenage call-girl in a faraway city, which get a million page views and a huge book deal before it's revealed that the person writing it is actually a middle-aged dude across town. Smut is hard to compete with for the public's attention, so don't even try.


I always tried to write as clearly as I could, to make it seem like there was a real person on the other end of the interface. On my better days, I felt like this guy; a display stand of sweets and a bringer of treats/smiles to help people's days along.

Other times, I didn't even know why I was blogging except to show off and call attention to myself.


But none of this matters now...

I slurp up the last of my soup and give the waiter the pre-arranged signal. He nods, walks over to the table and sets beside me a silver dish with a revolver concealed under a red silk napkin. I wave the waiter away without lifting my gaze from the table and set about eating one last fortune cookie. Only as I'm crunching on it, a bitter taste forces me to spit out the cardboard-tasting cookie and unravel the saliva-soaked fortune inside. "Stirb nicht," it reads. Do not die. I normally don't put much stock in fortunes, but the fact that it was in German struck me as profound, and I was touched enough by the cookie's life-affirming message to reconsider my bloggicidal plans...

There were many times this winter when I wanted to leave the world of blogging and never look back, but this all seemed too final, too grandiose, too self-indulgent. I didn't really want my blog to die, I just wanted to take a break from it once in a while, to give it a new name (without the increasingly inaccurate "young" in the title), and maybe relocate to a different server once I find the time.

Goethe once said of Young Werther, "I shot my hero to save myself." I had planned to do the same to Young Wetzel, but I didn't have the heart. So if you find me slumped over my table in a nice Chinese restaurant in the blogosphere, don't worry. I'm probably just taking a nap.

Black History Moth

Editor's Note: Today's offering is a guest piece by acclaimed fiction writer and illustrator Dave Coates. Dave graciously and laboriously constructed this account of one man's Black History Moth, and now the fruits of his labor are here for all to enjoy. So pull your chair up to the computer screen, and attend the tale of Black History Moth.

Black History Moth
by Dave Coates

Terry stepped onto the porch and lit his pipe. February made his bones hurt. The last, stubborn stings of a wilting late winter cold snap whispered through clicking, skeletal branches, as the seasons struggled to divine a balance. Terry sought a similar balance in his own life, and found within himself a certain stillness during his nightly visits to the porch. Standing, smoking, tossing the gnarled, burned matches in the bucket of sand Joanne had insisted he not only buy and assemble, but use, lest the house they'd worked their entire lives to pay off burn up because Terry's mind tended to wander.

He liked being the only one in the neighborhood awake, watching the moon pull the stars across the sky for an hour or so before getting ready for bed was a good way to sift through those things too frisky to properly address when he was otherwise distracted. The gutters. The transmission. The busted latch on the back fence. He puffed twice on his pipe, enjoying the tiny warmth on his cheek from the crackling tobacco. The smoke curled slowly into a feeble haze, hanging in the air as if it were unsure of how, exactly, to dissipate.

The screen banged against its frame, sucked inward as Joanne pulled open the heavy wooden front door. The porch light popped on overhead. "Terry, the neighbors will think you're a prowler. Come inside." Joanne didn't understand his recent predilection for solitude, and it made her worry.

"I'll be in soon. You go on up," Terry said, still facing the yard. Joanne stood in the doorway for a few seconds longer, perhaps considering whether to worry harder. Just as she had every night for the past few months, she closed the door and left her husband to his business, keeping the light on so if he didn't come in for her, he would at least eventually find himself unable to bear wasting electricity any longer. Terry smiled to himself, thinking of his wife. His pipe crackled, and the wind blew past the front of the house. Somewhere far, a train sounded a low, mournful whistle.

He looked into the frozen midnight at the perimeter of the porch light's range, stoic and immense. He puffed on his pipe, and the smoke again hung near his head, suspending him from the ceiling in a blue umbilicus. He closed his eyes and waited for the wind to blow.

Then: a voice in his right ear, tiny and wet, so soft as to barely rise above the sound of one's own conscience, "Lewis Temple (1800 – 1854) revolutionized the whaling industry with his invention of the toggle harpoon in 1848." The words were slipped into his brain so gently that it took him a full minute to realize this new thought was not his own. Startled, his eyes snapped open. The porch was small enough for him to determine that he was still its only occupant with the most cursory of eye-darting, but he was sure someone had just spoken. He peered over the railing on either side, finding only the garden hose and some empty flowerpots. The porch light flickered, and he looked up.

There, resting flat against the grey vinyl siding next to the bulb was a moth, small enough to be mistaken for a flower petal, were it not clearly a moth. After a brief interval, it spasmed, pushing off the ceiling and batting against the thin yellow glass of the porch light, making a little pinging sound each time it bounced off. Terry thought the weather was much too cold for wildlife to be stirring, but here, just a few feet from his face, was proof he was mistaken. He watched the creature, puzzled. The moth had a gravitas about it uncommon in most insects drawn to Terry's porch light. Until then, the only animal he'd thought to have a quiet dignity about it was the vanishing white tiger of Sumatra.

His eyes, tired from a day's glancing and scanning every single article in the newspaper, strained to stay focused on the moth. One blink, and the moth had vanished, having seemingly folded itself into the last strains of smoke from the dying embers in Terry's pipe. What a strange creature, he thought. What strange markings on its wings, he thought.

"Jazz."

That voice! Terry, his eyes open this time, was positive he was alone. What was happening to his mind? Surely, there were more subtle indications of encroaching madness besides hearing voices. An inability to feel secure in his hands' cleanliness, perhaps, or a growing suspicion of ferns. Disembodied voices were for those who had already displayed a mastery of facial tics, night terrors and a failure to determine whether pants were to be worn over the legs or casually draped across the shoulders. He had only retired two years ago, and had thus far enjoyed good health and zesty regularity. He foresaw the next, dim few years of his life, bumbling along with his brains dribbling out of his increasingly hairy ears until meeting a merciful end after mistaking an open manhole for his missing slipper.
"Jack Johnson (1878 – 1946), the first African-American heavyweight champion, patented a wrench in 1922." Oh, sweet Jesus. Again, already.

The moth fluttered just in front of his face, going about its mothly errands. Just before it left his field of vision, the insect turned towards Terry and, its' soft proboscis unfurling slightly, tooted, "Joseph Winters invented a fire escape ladder in 1878." This struck Terry as somewhat unworthy of historical merit, as every ladder is a fire escape ladder, if leaned close enough to a burning structure occupied by those in need of a less injurious route to safety than falling unguarded to the ground. The moth swam in place in the still night air, as if waiting for Terry to respond.

His scream, hollow and hoarse, could be clearly identified as that of an old man's by anyone within earshot. Younger men's screams can of course be mistaken for foxes, dogs, bottle rockets and a variety of pressure valves, depending on the proximity of the listener, but old men screaming only sound like old men screaming.

The force of Terry's yelp sent the moth tumbling end over end for a few feet, before it could right itself and make its way back to Terry's still-screaming face. The pipe fell from his mouth, crumbling tobacco erupting as it punctuated the moment with an exclamation mark, clattering to Terry's feet.

The moth struggled back to its place in front of Terry's face. "Where did you come from?" He asked the creature. The moth said nothing, and after a few more seconds, turned and flew away into the midnight horizon beyond the reach of the porch light. Terry stood, baffled at what had just transpired.

Just then Joanne came to the door, terrified. "Terry? What on earth happened?" She had fear in her eyes. Terry snapped out of his confused fog and attended to his wife, reassuring her that he'd just had a bad cramp in his side, like he sometimes got when he stood for too long. He knew that whatever had just happened wouldn't be understood in the next few minutes, if ever, so he chose to keep the mystery to himself for now, and try solving it tomorrow, or maybe the next day. He followed his wife inside, then up to bed, sneaking downstairs once her breathing become low and even in deep sleep to turn the porch light back on.

The moth returned the following night, informing him just as he was about to give up waiting for its arrival and head up to bed that Jan Ernst Matzeliger (1852 –1889) invented the Shoe Lasting machine, which connected the upper part of the shoe to the sole. This invention revolutionized the shoe making industry. He turned his head to face the moth, which was at his left ear, but as soon as he did, the creature fluttered off, leaving him alone with this latest factoid. Perhaps the running theme of African-American historical figures in each of the milestones was the key to the puzzle, perhaps not.

As the February nights fell into one another, Terry's interactions with the moth were no less frequent, but no more involved than every previous night except for the first. He learned that Quincy Jones' middle name is "Delight," and that Minnie J. Lee Elders (1933 – ) "Jocelyn" Elders was the first African-American to serve as the United States Surgeon General -- her term lasted for 15 months (1993-1994), but nothing about the moth: the greater cultural significance of these figures and their accomplishments, the issues that existed then and now that made their odds-beating resolve and unwavering dedication remarkable and astonishing, respectively, and how what the moth had to share was supposed to change anything, even though he couldn't fault its validity or right to share and tout, tout and share. He sometimes felt, though, that the moth's regular visits were lapsing into shallow ritual.

Still, a moth so full of facts and so committed to inspiring a continued bridging of racial divides wasn't something he minded having around, really. But he didn't see what Queen Latifah had done to deserve a mention.

Eventually, Terry felt the moth sort of ran out of steam, and while it visited him nightly, it seemed like it had noted the predictable hat trick of heavy hitters, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. early on, quickly came to never manage to inspire more than a passing "You don't say" as the month wore on.

The days were growing slightly longer with each sundown. It was not an easily perceptible change, but as Terry spent a good portion of every afternoon at his desk reading the paper, he noticed that he had to switch his reading lamp on later and later, and it wasn't too far a logical walk to figure out that more light outside means less light needed within. That, and he'd lived plenty of years. Some days, he felt like too many. He'd had all the time in the world to get a sense of how things worked.

Tapping the tobacco from his pipe on his wrist one night, Terry was surprised to notice that the moth, who was usually so prompt and persistent with his arrivals, had failed to show up yet. It was much later than the moth had ever arrived before, and Terry began to worry.

An hour later, he was beside himself. He'd never meant to take the moth for granted—what it represented, the progress, the setbacks, the struggles and triumphs— honest, he didn't—he had just begun to develop admiration fatigue.

Terry made it a point to not go out after supper, a mindset that grew out of the days when the kids were little. Errands and social calls on weeknights served only to take him away from his family, so he simply resolved not to allow the outside world to ever come before those under his roof. As he'd grown older, this rule had grown more expansive and oddly restrictive, keeping him not only from going into town, but more and more, keeping him from even leaving the porch.

Though he'd never admit it to Joanne, he stayed close these days just as much out of habit as because the world beyond the glow of his porch light seemed different and more menacing than the world with which he'd always felt such a kinship. He didn't see the light of commonality in peoples' eyes, even at church. He didn't see people even bothering to be decent to one another anymore. And the cars on the road that ran in front of his house went so very fast, even though there were children in the neighborhood. Damn teenagers.

Without thinking, he walked onto his lawn, looking for the moth. It was still mighty chilly, but the moth had braved much worse for little else than a quote from Al Sharpton. Terry crisscrossed his yard until his neck hurt from looking at the sky for so long. He stopped on his driveway to rub it, slowly rolling his head from side to side. It felt good, and when he closed his eyes, he could see a reverse cutout of the stars in the sky on the inside of his eyelids, fading and red. He held his hand over the back of his neck, pushing his head gently downwards in order to better stretch his neck muscles.

Then, without even the tiniest sound of dusty, panicked wing-beats or smallest movement of air around it to give away its approach, a moth moved in close to Terry's ear, and told him, "In 1960, Jacqueline Cochran broke the sound barrier by flying an F-86 over Roger's Dry Lake, California, at the speed of 652.337 miles per hour. Eleven years later, she flew at a speed of 1,429.2 miles per hour, more than twice the speed of sound."

Terry's eyes snapped open behind his reading glasses. Women's History Moth had arrived.

the man behind the camera

Is turning 26. I'm not sure when exactly it happens/happened, but if you see this guy at the record store, library or on the beach, tell him 'happy birthday.'

thursday tracks: Joplin Rap!

Last month Joplin Globe columnist and friend Jeremiah Tucker issued a challenge for readers to write a rap about Joplin, Missouri. Even though I'm not from there, I've spent a lot of time there with Jennifer and her family, so I had enough good experiences (mostly restuarant visits) to draw on for some quality rhymes.

The rap itself focuses on places to eat in J-town, and also draws attention to some notable regional landmarks like George Washington Carver's birthplace, the tri-state mineral museum, the skatepark and Eccentrix, the used record/book/movie store. I might type up the lyrics and post them in the comments section, but they should be pretty easy to understand.

Jeremiah praised the rap's quality and said it would have been a lock for first, but unfortunately we were a week late. So no prize, and no glory, even though he says he'll post it in the paper's online edition. Still, recording the J-town rap was a fun experience. I got to work with up-and-coming producer/brother David at sweatlodge studios (Dave produced the backing track, lifting a bit from the People Under the Stairs' "San Francisco Knights"). Plus, it refreshed my respect for hip-hop. Not that I didn't respect it a lot before, but trying to record a rap of my own really makes me appreciate those who do it well.

Without any further ado, here's the JopCity Rap. Hope you like it.

a salute to the imperial truffle

I have a saying about businesses in Kansas City: Never get too attached to any one place, because as soon as you do, it will close down. Well the phrase rings true once again, as my next door neighbors, Annedore's fine chocolates, will be closing shop on March 1st.

I guess the owner is having a baby or something and doesn't want to do both. Plus, there's a Starbucks that just opened up nearby. Which I swear I'll never go to. Not so much because I hate Starbucks but because Annedore's already had the best coffee in town.

I've only lived in Midtown since November 2005 and I've already seen quite a few of my favorite local places shut down: Recycled Sounds, The Music Exchange, Joe Joe's Italian Deli, even the Osco Drug. But at least there are plenty of unofficial crack dealerships in the area. I don't mean to sound so bitter, but without my weekly dose of imperial truffles (pictured above), I don't know how I'm going to cope.

Well, I guess I can think of a few ways. Like walking my chocolate dog around the neighborhood, taking shots of expresso from a dark-chocolate shot glass, calling up my friends on my chocolate cell phone and lighting up a chocolate cigar before speeding off on my chocolate chopper. That's a pretty tall order, though, and even with the current sale it's going to cost a pretty chocolate penny. So I better get to work. So long, Anne D's.

sunset over 43rd street, Annedore's is on the right. Photo by JLB.

my state school mascot love/hate child

A few months ago, some friends and I attended the annual "sunflower showdown" football game between Kansas and Kansas State Universities. We walked to Memorial Stadium from the Lawrence student ghetto, and on the way we passed several loyalty checkpoints (drunk college kids of both schools demanding to know who we would be cheering for).

This should have been a no-brainer. I went to KU, lived in Lawrence for four years and attended a bunch of football and basketball games. But when faced with the "KU or K-State?" question point-blank, I didn't know what to say.

You see, I grew up a K-State fan. Both my parents went there, as did several aunts, uncles and cousins, and my grandfather is a professor of chemistry there. When I was little I'd go so far as to paint my face purple before the basketball games. I'd draw pictures of my favorite players while listening to the K-State Jazz band's recording of the fight song, and when a friend came over and accidentally broke the record, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.

Eventually I dried my eyes, grew up and applied to state college. Only when it came time to pick a school, I decided I'd much rather spend four years in Lawrence then in Manhattan. KU had better programs for what I wanted to do, gave me more scholarship money, and Lawrence was a fresh and exciting place.

In my years at KU and since, I've been a big KU fan. I went to a lot of games, kept up on their performance when I was out of the country, and even started an unofficial Jeff Graves fan club ("the graveyard"). But in all honesty, it's never been too difficult to be a KU fan. They've always got the best players and coaches, and there's nowhere more exciting to see a home game than Allen Fieldhouse.

K-State, on the otherhand, has been an unworthy B-Ball rival for as long as I can remember. They've lost 32 of the last 33 matchups, and if things go as predicted, they'll lose yet another tonight. As much as it pains me, I'll watch the whole thing from beginning to end. On one hand, I'd hate to see Kansas lose, but on the other, watching them beat-up on the boys in purple just brings back too many painful memories of being taunted by my childhood Jayhawk friends.

This brings us to the illustration you see at the top of the screen. I drew this years ago when I was out of the country and the whole idea of people a few miles apart hating on each other so passionately seemed particularly absurd.

It isn't beautiful, and some of you may even find it offensive, but the Wildhawkjaykitty is me -- the imaginary lovechild of two sworn enemies; an awkward emblem of state school-sponsored schizophrenia.

thursday tracks: valentunes

These should be working again now, but if not, let me know and I'll hire these bands to play your birthday party. Though that might be kind of tricky since some of them are dead.

Yesterday I was recalling the Valentine's Day a few years ago when Jacob kept playing the Palace Brothers song "Valentine's Day" on his radio show as an introductory tune before he announced what songs he was going to play next. I thought maybe I would provide a link to that tune and add a few others while I was at it. So I did.

Unfortunately, I didn't wind up having enough time to post this love mix yesterday. But love, after all, should not be confined to one calendar day, so just take these tracks as an incentive to keep those loving feelings (including regret, wistfulness and sadness as well as exuberance) flowing all year round.

There are a lot of songs out there about love. This is by no means an authoritative list. Just a bunch of favorites that happened to be on my iTunes yesterday. Enjoy!

I Remember When I Loved Her by The Zombies
It's always best to start Love-themed mixes off on a regretful note.

And I Love Her performed by the Wailers
The Wailers did a hell of a pop number in their early days.

Love You So by King Khan and BBQ Show
From the band whose concert here in October was maybe the best show I saw all year.

Love by Virgin Sleep
This was on somebody's psych mix. It got stuck in my head so bad that I thought I was going to have to buy a sitar to strum it away.

You Don't Love Me Yet by Roky Erickson
For all of you at Kief's.

First Girl I Loved by The Incredible String Band
The Incredible String Band were from Scotland. This is among their most wistful and tragic of numbers. "Well I never slept with you/But we must have made love a thousand times/We we were just young/And we didn't have no place to go." Heartbreaking -- even more so because it's about a redhead.

I Was Made To Love Her performed by Jimi Hendrix
An instrumental with all the fire of Stevie's original.

Sure Know How To Love Me by Darondo
From my favorite album reissued last year. Not a bad song on it.

When Love Comes
by Susan Christie
Another reissue I found at the Love Garden. The whole album is lovely.

Does Anybody Love You? by Todd Rundgren
Who knew the album with the world's ugliest cover could yield so many catchy tunes?

No One's Gonna Love You by Nicole Willis and the Soul Investigators
(At least not as much)

I Found A New Love by Magic Sam
The obligatory blues number. They didn't call him Magic for nothing.

Prove Your Love by Fleetwood Mac
Jay put this on a mix for me last Winter. At the time I thought he included it because it's such a good song, but now I realize he might have been trying to tell me something. Jay -- I'm sorry. Please allow me to prove my love by buying you a welcome-back greek salad at the mediterranean restuarant of your choice.

"When I Die" by Motherlode
I'm breaking the "love has to be in the title" rule for this tune because the chorus has an extended "I love you" in it, and also because it's a sadly appropriate number for the man whose music I found this in. This was on a collection of songs J Dilla sampled for his "Donuts" album. Dilla -- also known as Jay Dee -- died February 10, 2006, just a few days after "Donuts" came out. This bittersweet number reflects the excitement I felt upon first hearing J Dilla's music recently, and the sadness at learning the man passed away at such a young age.

Must Have Been Something I Loved by Lee Hazlewood
I'll give Lee the last word on the subject for now. This is from his 1970 breakup album, "Requieum for an almost lady." I love the humor contained in the title. It's like he's saying, "Must have been something I ate." Only it's actually something he loved.


above photo by jennifer brothers, taken in christiania. top photo taken by LW across the street from rheinallee 37-43.