ghettochicken

Yes, the main article at The Stranger this week brings back so many memories of my own. And this is Charles' finest piece (according to my shaky memory; I do remember a kick ass 'Solaris' review once too, and more). Around the time he was doing that, I was living in a Belltown very few of my current friends could even imagine, filled with howling junkies and outlaw businessmen and crazed art makers and dealers and despairing sailors and sensitive dominatrixes and some of the best writers who ever lived and created in the midst of what seemed like unstoppable, never ending chaos. Some of them were pals, and some were deeper enemies for no other reason than to be one.

The thing I thought most about, beyond all the communal living situations I myself used to have -- and I was Kali in my group house god incarnation, capable of doing all the dishes and tearing homes to bits in the same POV of previous housemates -- was how we live lives in the city in layers and layers, our experiences toppling on each other over again.

One day in 1990 and I've snuck into the Frye Apartments with a trouble-magnet redheaded doper I had a crush on and bought a black leather jacket for out of my first SSI check, to visit her weightlifting sponsor who made us instant coffee and played Neil Young on a stereo amp with a swastika on the side. She took me through the creepily dark lobby across the alley into the mutant-stuffed DESC where I watched two drag queens fist fight and have to be sent to opposite corners whilst we waited for a medical coupon. The day was so grey Seattle sad, but I was so happy not to be drinking and having my own SRO apartment with my own leather jacket hanging on the door, my two pairs of combat boots, my Kierkegaard and Bonhoffer and Catholic Study Bible, getting a hard on when she showed up to watch me lector at Mass the next Sunday morning in St. James Chapel.

Anyways, that Frye lobby, so dark in the daytime, was the creepiest place I'd ever been where people actually lived till then -- much worse than the DESC. Bodies were being taken out of there all the time. I was surprised Dawn's friend could stay sober in a place that depressing. Piles of keys dangling off the wall like scalps for the zombie tenants to reclaim. Drunken angry men waiting to work at the docks again but the economy, as Charles noted, was so shitty. Shit-birds of all type, like the guy I saw smoking crack as he squirted colorless feces near the dumpster outside the lop-sided, mountainous, utterly haunted looking tenement. The front desk man, getting through a double as he was the night shift guy but still working past noon, his skin dry but grey as the Seattle sky, looking like the toughest guy I'd ever seen -- the sin-eater at the center of the world, checking out keys and checking in keys from the dying and undead and all of us in-between.

Thirteen years to that day and I'm back there, the lobby is well lit now, but still dreadful, as it is 2 AM instead and I'm alone with 333 tenants and many guests upstairs, holding each other in dirty sheets, hurting each other in roach-filled kitchens, stealing each others' meds, holding bedrolls for their homeless pals who have earned their way out of the system, writing "Psychic Vampires" at the Frye Apartments front desk, transcribing interviews with Stephen Merritt and Tim Kasher talking about The Cure, waiting for Jason to bring down fresh printer's-gift copies of Bandoppler number three. Jim the graveyard guy died sometime in the 90s, at the front desk, and the office chair was filled by the other men working double shifts till I settled in to it around the turn of the century.

My grumpiness and almost agoraphobic behavior of late has finally been at least somewhat explained: The back pain is probably a hernia. Ouch! No wonder I've been such a bitch. Well, more-so, I suppose.

In the meantime, things that have been keeping my mind off the stabbing feeling in the guts:

1.) Damn, "Watchmen" (a friend let us in for free, woot) really captured the essence of the comic. Sure, I missed the subplots and more Hooded Justice and the 40s lesbian Goth chick and especially the pirate Droste effect; but it seemed like the director was probably missed about them not being in there, too. Yes, it should have been a 12 part HBO mini-series, but if it had to be a movie, it turned out to be a very sweet homage. What I love is that most of the people who aren't fans of the comic seem to not be into it at all (proof it is probably truly a comic movie for the comic geek, and not a mainstream-targeted act of four color evangelism), and that people seem really creeped out by the parts that should creep them out, the way Moore intended.

2.) This American Life, Season Two DVD, on sale $17.95 at Border's. The "Making History" episode especially, which too seems like great comics.

3.) "And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Our Vinyl" book, about Jews and LPs. Insanely wonderful religion-culture-fetish object culture study, just out, $24.95. The writing is superb, the cover album reproductions perfect, and you would never know this was a "website based" spin-off book by its quality and substance.

4.) Drinking whiskey (Pies n Pints), talking about the fabulousness of the German language and bebop jazz with Vegan warrior Andy Werth as we worked on bio materials for his new album. Maybe the smartest guy I've met in the music scene, and is unafraid to play pure pop for any people.

5.) Dengue Fever DVD sent to me for review ... which I need to.

Back to the hernia, I have another ultrasound today (the first one they did was for kidney stones, which it didn't show), which as a guy feels very Parenthetical Girls or David Cronenberg (young women shoving a dildo-like device into my bloat). They make the ooze stuff warm now. Maybe that's just for guys.

Harvesting the orgiastic energy of the fan who geek-gushes is a full time occupation. Perhaps an Albert Brooks fan club founding would make things more clear, but the world must recurrently catch up with Andy Kaufman (hey, Mr. Phoenix.) I achingly appreciate, I roil with enjoyment at what you create, and you tend to either pleasure me in return with understanding-laced pity, or somewhat openly despise me. Think hard and I might remind you of a character in a Morrissey song or something. However, I can probably beat you up. That's kind of twisted, isn't it? I think this persona is sort of an anti-Sociopath -- a Sociopath who uses his need to manipulate forces into appreciation as opposed to derision or attention-seeking conflict. But I guess that's still a Sociopath, right? A good song to listen to would be "Dagenham Dave" by The Stranglers (funny how Morrissey wrote a song with that same title, but it wasn't the same song about a Number One fan who physically assaulted people for his position before leaping off a bridge -- "I'm not going to cry / I bet he hit that water high"). Dame Darcy is in town. I can't read a fucking thing she writes but love her Otto-described "overflow of meaning." She is everything she loves. Therapy is trying to become less gasoline to the match of the world. Art is often an attempt to douse the match itself and hoping it still catches flame.

Proof that "Waking Life" was completely a death hallucination is confirmed by the end of "Waltz With Bashir" -- "Waking Life" remains animated throughout (we never see the numbers on the clock in focus).

+++

Yes, I went on a two week absinthe trip -- to celebrate its recent legalization -- that put my next zine "Get Well" off due to a strange new pain in my guts. There is a now a licorice scratch and sniff patch on my cortex too.

+++

Anyone have bootleg tickets to L. Cohen they can sell me?

Check this out:

http://www.slate.com/id/2211068/

I was tagged in the period that it really crystallized as 25. As the author of the article states, this may have been the perfect number to inspire responses and subsequent tagging ("a perfect square"). I chose not to participate on Facebook for the simple reason that it would take too long to come up with 25 interesting responses. I probably would have done it if it had been 16 (another good figure for getting people involved), or, even more so, eight. Although that might have taken too much thought too, since I would be narrowing "random things" down a little too much.

I have often wanted to reconsider my position and participate, but the truth about this "selfish meme" is that no one probably wants to read these things now (well, maybe a couple of my friends would care). That is significant to note as a publicist for obvious reasons.

+++

I have just worked an album with a lot of passionate emotions involved with its creation over a wide stream of people who push things along. The fact that it was the right cause is awesome. It succeeded in many ways and continues to do so, which is wonderful, considering the triumph and tragedy behind it.

I worked another album I think could have been huge in another era, when people were still interested in dark, mournful music -- and the story behind that record, its "noteworthy" veteran co-producer, is exactly the formula an editor of a magazine picked on as being the worst pitch in album PR. Of course, these factors were confirmed as much as the CD above.

One of the best things I've read all year:

http://idolator.com/5152159/shhhh+it-idolators-super+secret-music-interview-talks-shop

+++

I was listening to "Daysleeper" yesterday on the bus before meeting H. to go through the International District, causing gastric mayhem and giggling at fun toys. I was remembering my old night shift job, which was just nearby in Pioneer Square, and how deeply this REM (!) song I now had on my iPod pleasured me by being ABOUT me in that horrible, magical period. I probably listened to the song for a half hour, over and over again, on my way downtown yesterday.

H. and I had sublime anniversary fun, then went to Elliot Bay Bookstore, where I picked up a signed, second edition of Henry Rollins' terrific "Fanatic" book (his DJ list notes) and Steve Waksman's just-published University book on the clash between heavy metal and punk. (Highly recommended, though I haven't read it yet -- his "riff" on BOC's "Summer Of Love" last year at the Pop Con was a huge highlight.)

As I was taking the books to the counter, Peter Buck walked by with an armload of books as well.

+++

As H. and I walked through the International District, a Real Change seller looked at me and went, "Ian Anderson! I'm Jethro Tull!" And we realized he must have been referring to my "Aqualung" looks. I told H. I needed to hook up with Bob from The Blakes, and find out where to get some get old Tull on vinyl for cheap. (I bet it sounds great.) I could just see scoring that anti-mysticism rant for a buck someplace nearby in my head. Bob is superb at finding great records for almost nothing at stores around town.

On our way out of downtown, Bob got on the bus, and I told him the story. He said, "Jive Time. Someone just unloaded a huge amount of classic rock like Tull and Pink Floyd there on Cap Hill, and I got 'Aqualung' yesterday for 99 cents."

I will dare anyone to go to a funeral for a loved one on a grey, overcast day, even if it's just barely raining, and not think of what seems like a hundred Tom Waits songs (maybe even all playing at once).

+++

Suddenly the poor and the rich all think, somewhat alike, "We have to DO something, we can't /just/ buy stuff."

+++

I would be an anarchist, but that's far too much thinking about civics.

+++

There exists a Tom Disch rap song somewhere, according to Jake from Bloodhag. He did some ambient noise behind it. (My mind reels.)

+++

There is rap music for Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, to remember mnemonics like "WISE MIND" and "SUDS" and other Borderline Personality Disorder-helping treatments. (The least covered sub-genre of "psyche-rock"?)

+++

Soft rock -- I am negotiating to work a big, bold soft rock album. It is adorable. I have become pre-punk completely. I can start again. Stay tuned.

+++

Valentines for your friends: I like how girls remember to do that.

http://slog.thestranger.com/slog/archives/2009/02/05/_when_you_re_a_working_class

+++

"Get Well" is ready to print. Oh fuck I forgot how to make a zine. Help? Anybody want to cut and paste it with me and take it to Kinko's at 3 AM on absinthe from Gainsbourg's and then go eat sprinkled Top Pots and drink Jager as a licorice trajectory as the winter sun rises sitting fat and happy on our stacks of smelly new zine goodness?

+++

I am working with so many great new bands right now I'm tingling with excitement. As that commences, come party with me at my favorite hot spot (and try the whipped oysters) to celebrate the release of John Spalding's one and only solo album, Love Land, "The Beautiful Truth."

Love Land CD listening party - with copies for sale
February 16, 2009
Gainsbourg, 8550 Greenwood Avenue North
8 PM
Free, 10% of proceeds of drinks and food to the Memorial Fund
DJ sets by Erin of Minus The Bear and others

Rumor has it there are some posters left.

Why do MSN news stories always have titles that make me want to write screenplays?

+++

"The Itching Stick"

I have been informed by my spouse that this is what the TV remote is NOT.

1.) Drink and graffiti.

2.) Say leeringly to pals, "Well, I'm not a voter, but if I WAS one he'd be the guy I would have voted for ..."

3.) Violently plot to overthrow the State just a little bit less joyfully.

???

It's so strange that since John passed away so many new friendships have started, in the light of his joy and the meaning of his life. We are preparing for some wonderful shows in the new year in his honor and to help out his widow Jody. Here's what we have so far:

Friday January 9th, The Showbox at the Market presents the John Spalding memorial concert featuring Minus The Bear, Rocky Votolato, Past Lives. and other artists TBA. (Got a big local one for you if you pay attention.)

All Ages. 7pm doors. $20 advance tickets available at all Ticketmaster outlets and at The Showbox box office.

All proceeds and donations will go to the "John D. Spalding Medical Fund," to which deposits can be made at any Bank of America nationwide.

Details so far on the other benefits:

The Comet on January 3rd
Slender Means
Jeff Suffering

January 8th at The Sunset
Headliner TBA
Helms Alee
Born Anchors
Patrol

January 9 at Showbox at the Market
Minus The Bear
The Cave Singers
Rocky Votolato
Past Lives
More TBA
All Ages. 7pm doors. $20 advance tickets available at all Ticketmaster outlets and at The Showbox box office.

January 21st at Chop Suey
Damien Jurado
David Bazan
See Me River

January Date TBD at El Corazon
MXPX
Amber Pacific
TBD
Nazca Lines

January 25 at the Cha Cha Lounge
These Arms Are Snakes
Elephant Rider
$5 suggested donation and a percentage of the proceeds from the bar go to door.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oqhGSeOIBcQ

But when I hear that third verse, I'm not sure "guilty" is (enough) the right word for it.

+++

Not so guilty pleasure at all:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-ChrDUCr8w

1.) She was a good waitress, it's true, but the bill was fourteen bucks and you gave her a ten dollar tip, you freak. Like you can afford that.

2.) The guy who fixed the faucet in the kitchen sink gets paid for this kind of shit, he may want to be a musician but doesn't deserve your back issues of Arthur.

3.) If a band has somehow seamlessly blended prog-rock, yacht rock, and indie rock, then does a Black Sabbath cover, they are asking to be heckled, even if you are working the merch table for the headlining band. Come on, they'll understand. That's why you represent them.

4.) The band that sent their album for review with a dollar less than what should have been for postage, and when you went to the P.O. to pay for it because the mail man doesn't trust you, and found out it was a crappy CD-R containing the worst music you have ever reviewed, with a hyperbolic one sheet, and remember you paid for it, and then the publicist emails you about "getting on that release, make it happen!" -- remember, this pays you back for the Johnny Cash Sun Records box set you got and never wrote up (NOT my fault). Though they should really get an earful, you pussy.

5.) Still haven't contacted my family, so I have some sack left.

LoveLand, "The Beautiful Truth": "We've Already Stuck Our Heads Up And Now It's Time To Swim"
by Chris Estey

I saw John Spalding for the first time playing guitar for Ninety Pound Wuss at Seattle’s historical all ages club Velvet Elvis in Pioneer Square back in the late 90s. He was a tall, handsome, blonde, and sleek panther of rock and roll strength and class. His strong hands squeezed out harsh walls of noise from his instrument and then created sinuous, multi-layered melodies that were both catchy and weird. Within just a couple years, Goth-meets-hard rock, -meets-post-punk “arty hardcore” evolved with NPW and the more intense Botch and soon we were all thrilling to harsh post-hardcore to more pop-accessible bands like Blood Brothers, Pretty Girls Make Graves, These Arms Are Snakes, Minus The Bear and others. John was a contemporaneous creative inspiration for those bands as much as he was a brother to many people in them.


At the time, John would sneak into the Tooth & Nail offices, in Pioneer Square as well back then, and give me ferocious back-rubs (probably because he could tell how stressed out I was due to my boss, the legendary/notorious owner of the label). We would chat in my office and then he would go out and charm the hell out of everybody else, especially the ladies. Ninety Pound Wuss was about to tour behind their third album, “Short Hand Operation,” which would be the last for the label. I was editing a rock magazine for T&N at the time (due to a lack of “secular press” -- instead they lard Alternative Press with ads for coverage now) and we went out for a long lunch at Dome Burger and I interviewed him for it. Soon he would come by and we would go out to his car and he would play me his own music, which was very different from the abrasive angst of his work with Jeff Bettger, leader of NPW, and their next band, the notorious performance art-infused Raft Of Dead Monkeys. It was, well, funky and strange and yet still fully rock and roll. It was art-rock made by a sweet spirit, positive and almost searingly honest.


Flash forward to a month ago, and John, who has been suffering from terminal cancer that originated in his colon and spread to his lungs after almost uncountable rounds of chemo, got back in touch after a lengthy absence. He wanted to play me an album -- his album, under the moniker LoveLand, which he has titled “The Beautiful Truth.” Struggling through the joy and pain of a marriage tragically shadowed by sickness shortly after he wed, poured out of a life full of love experiencing extreme ontological decay, John did what every writer, musician, artist, and songwriter aches to do -- creating their statement, their lasting mark on reality.


In songs like the gorgeous and gut-punching “Father” (about his wife Jody’s losing her father while he was on tour and couldn’t be there at home to comfort her), the typically (for him) loving affirmation “Girl Get Pride,” the get-high-on-the-roof-as-the-sun-rises anthem “Beautiful Girls Have Beautiful Apartments” (about hanging out with Jody when she went to art school in Boston), LoveLand’s “The Beautiful Truth” has the kind of soul that indie rockers don’t even usually attempt. It reminds me of when I first heard Betty Davis, and when I was publicizing her first two albums for Light In The Attic -- this is a merger of organic rock with electronic dub, entirely unique and compositionally daring.


“I’m not afraid of anything, that’s why the album is called ‘The Beautiful Truth,’” John Spalding says about the twelve song odyssey. John wrote much of the material on their only released full length “Thoroughlev,” and now he is finally putting out a solo work that is anything but solo.


John’s beloved friends from bands Minus The Bear (singer Jake Snider), Pretty Girls Make Graves (Andrea Zollo), These Arms Are Snakes (Steve Snere and Chris Common), Botch (Dave Knudson), Morgan Henderson (ex-Blood Brothers, Past Lives), well-known recording geniuses like Matt Bayles (Pearl Jam, Mastodon, Minus The Bear, Heather Duby, Isis), Ben Verellen (Helms Alee), and Common (Minus The Bear, These Arms Are Snakes). Bayles mixed and mastered the entire album, and one of the places it was recorded was at legendary Litho due to the grace of its owner Stone Gossard, who blessed John with donated (expensive) studio time.


Andrea Zollo, the vocalist from PGMG and now drummer for Triumph of Lethargy Skinned Alive to Death, sings on the album. She describes his music as “eclectic and beautiful as he is. He is a sick guitar player! He is incredibly passionate about music and people and life, and I think that comes through in the songs. He is completely submerged. John has such an incredible uplifting energy about him, like standing next to the sun. I can feel that energy come through in his music as well. It is honest. And honesty and candor is something that he really taught me to value over the last year.”


Ben Verellen (Harkonen, Helms Alee) recalls seeing a tumultuous show John was playing when he first met him. “I'm not really sure when I first met John, but one occasion sticks out in my memory. I think sometime mid to late 90s, Raft of Dead Monkeys played a show with a band I played in, Harkonen. I remember the venue was a short lived spot in downtown, and somebody forgot the keys that day. While all of the bands waited on the street, somebody broke in a window or something and we had the show. I remember John having a bizzare, awesome guitar style, and rocking the fuck out.”


“He is dealing with some pretty heavy subject matter and while it is serious, there are uplifting moments in the music to offset the serious side of the album,” is how album catalyst and overseer Bayles puts it. (Matt is planning on putting out a limited run of the album, with help from friends.) That simple explanation leaves room for the listener to invest their heart into it, and “The Beautiful Truth” rewards that investment.


While John's family and friends surrounded him this past weekend with their love and constant attention, John left this world. And not long before his final moments, when I sat by his side at his bed in his living room, with his wonderful wife and terrier Scooter looking on, he asked how people are responding to the album, proud to have accomplished something true and beautiful, as he was put in this world to do.


Donations can be made to the John D Spalding Medical Fund at any Bank of America.

Sorry, my friend, we won't be on the Ave tomorrow. But would you come to this:

http://www.threeimaginarygirls.com/blogentry/2008nov/chunkletsrockbiblefromthesonicboompulpitthissunday

Near your neck of the woods and there's that great Thai place nearby ...

The leader of a band I publicize, Saeta, will be playing tomorrow night at the Chai House in Ballard. I'd love for anyone reading this to catch up with me there as well:

www.saetamusic.com

(7.) Hot Happy Hour squid and chips at Neumo's Lounge when the night is blurry and cold.

(6.) Crisp five dollar fried rice from Wild Ginger on a square plate like the rich folks at a Triple Door show featuring one of our dear friends playing out.

(5.) Crunchy mushroom Vietnamese sandwiches at our secret place on the Ave on her lunch hour.

(4.) Big soft gushy curry Hum Bows up the street from there with large icy taro bubble tea on a break when she's shopping for art supplies.

(3.) Paul and Terry bringing over tacos and mild chilis from the stand in their neighborhood on a night when most people are hitting a show or walking up and down Broadway.

(2.) Walking up and down Broadway on a Sunday afternoon for toasted bagels or plump gyros or those thin noodles in vinegar sauce.

(1.) Our own cooking this morning -- scrambled eggs and Naan and baked eggplant patties -- while watching the third season of Anthony Bourdain checked out of the library.

+++

Show! Show! Show! More soon!

PLEASE LOOK:

http://gargoylestatuary.com

We will have a friend singing opera for two sets that night too! (Juliana of Rotary Bear.)

"But when it comes to using Obama as a platform for completely irrelevant self-promotion, as always nobody does it quite like music publicists ..."

(1.) Yes, the publicists who used the election to hype something are at best socially retarded.

(2.) Most publicists are not self-promoting, but actually promoting the work of someone else. That's kind of hard to do. Maybe you could have a little sympathy for people trying to get the attention of people who are usually very busy and sometimes often quite narcissistic ("My opinion is the one that counts, dammit!").

(3.) Are publicists more 'completely irrelevant' experts of self-promotion as opposed to say, cranky, oblique bloggers and stylistically impotent music 'journalists'? Or is it more or less?

(4.) Ha ha, stupid people trying to tell ME what music to listen to!

(5.) Oh shit, I just realized most of the albums I loved this year I first heard about from ... publicists. And if it was from someone else, a publicist might have told them. Somewhere in the chain a publicist was involved to get your attention for that (new or reissued) album that you love. What hacks! Fuck those guys!

I may have been a little rash in my gloating this morning.

Sorry, Whitey.

Uh, have a good day!

http://www.threeimaginarygirls.com/filmbooktheatrereview/2008may/soundunbound

(Hey, I'm FRENCH! That excuse actually worked for a higher grade in college, believe it or not ... just need to fit in some more of those ellipses I suppose ... like that, see?)

But at least they printed it. It's a great book. Wish I'd been at the One Pot DJ Spooky hosted at Neumo's the other night ...

Oh, if you have a hundred or two, come help me report on this for the KEXP Blog:

http://blog.kexp.org/blog/2008/11/04/grammy-musictech-summit-08-november-6-7-at-mccaw-hall/

Always great to see Dave Allen and Tim Quirk and worship Megan Jasper from afar. And you know what? I've never officially met Slim Moon, as far as I can remember. Hearing him speak should be fun.

Is there anything better than a good book, that is, a book with a voice you can sympathize with, learn from, argue with, love, pity, and think, "Someone like me went through something like I did, only different, and this is how it must have felt."

Belated R.I.P. to Studs, whose books were in anyone's collection I respected as I grew up. His awkward, utterly essential literary children -- "Blood of Strangers," "Legends of the Chelsea Hotel," "Black Flies," "Drugs Are Nice" -- are what give me the most joy in this world, besides maybe a great pop song, or a shot of good booze with a friend, all of which have much in common (because we all have much in common).

+++

I hope none of you see this till Wednesday because we were all busy voting today. I woke up at 5 AM anxious to do the deed.

So I throw back a shot, and then write some, and then I notice whether or not the asshole who was here before was gentleman enough to leave a shot for me. This is the game I will be playing throughout November to get this shit written.

Monarch: $9.99 a plastic bottle.

"Stay In Control" the label says, in small letters.

Manuscript finished: Priceless.

+++

Five Places I've Created A Zine.

(5.) My parents' bedroom, which I was living in when a friend of my mother's from Chicago visited and stayed in my room. On my first Selectric, God bless its clanky black soul.

(4.) My grandmother's attic, with vanilla candles burning around me as I meditated in my black turtleneck and Dickies. Looking at my letters from Wilum and Jessica and afraid to call them. "Sandinista!" and The Cure's "Happily Ever After" purchased at the Roosevelt record store playing on my grandmother's record player; and the first Bad Brains tape on cassette I listened to on headphones out of respect for her nerves.

(3.) Taking speed with Corey the Wank, in someone's living room where he was crashing, mutually goaded automatic writing as we were up for days on end. Had to black out several paragraphs before we could steal the Xeroxes and distribute. "Husker Du are the band of the future" and he was right. He was no longer a wank either.

(2.) With a cop on LSD.

(1.) With a girl, and two black dogs, in the woods, at the end of the world.