GIVE TIL IT HURTS!

For CA

So after noting WRSA’s post of what has got be one of Bob Dylan’s best-ever compositions (nota bene: I am NOT, nor have I ever been, a huge fan of Dylan’s), it occurred to me that I really ought to return the favor with what I think to be a considerable one-up: what has got to be the most beautiful version of said composition you’re ever gonna hear.

Gorgeous, simply gorgeous, si? So gorgeous, in fact, that you can practically hear your heart breaking. As perfect an example of the soul-stirring power of truly good music as you could ever hope to hear, this one is—especially on that last verse, when the vocal harmony line joins in and transforms the song from “pure genius” to “choir of angels” levels of beauty. Everyone involved with this arrangement, performance, and recording ought to be damned proud of their work on it.

Classy classical music

Speaking of feel-good posts, here’s one I think you’ll enjoy: the closing section (ie, the Rozek or Little Corner) of Leoš Janáček’s Moravian Dances for orchestra. It’s short, but so sweet it might spike your blood-sugar level to unheard-of heights.

I’ve heard this soothing, laid-back piece a bajillion times on the radio without bothering to find out anything about the composer until this very afternoon. Turns out, he was a fairly interesting fella, just as most of the other less well-known composers I was pig-ignorant about until I finally buckled down and undertook a little snooping on the Innarnuts.

Leoš Janáček (born July 3, 1854, Hukvaldy, Moravia, Austrian Empire—died Aug. 12, 1928, Ostrava, Czech.) was a composer, one of the most important exponents of musical nationalism of the 20th century.

Janáček was a choirboy at Brno and studied at the Prague, Leipzig, and Vienna conservatories. In 1881 he founded a college of organists at Brno, which he directed until 1920. He directed the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra from 1881 to 1888 and in 1919 became professor of composition at the Prague Conservatory. Deeply interested in folk music, he collected folk songs with František Bartoš and between 1884 and 1888 published the journal Hudební Listy (Musical Pages). His first opera, Šárka (1887–88; produced 1925), was a Romantic work in the spirit of Wagner and Smetana. In his later operas he developed a distinctly Czech style intimately connected with the inflections of his native speech and, like his purely instrumental music, making use of the scales and melodic characteristics of Moravian folk music. His most important operas were Jenůfa (original title, Její pastorkyňa, 1904; Her Foster Daughter), which established Janáček’s international reputation; Věc Makropulos (1926; The Makropulos Case), Z mrtvého domu (1930; From the House of the Dead ), the two one-act satirical operas Výlet pana Broučka do Mĕsíce (Mr. Brouček’s Excursion to the Moon) and Výlet pana Broučka do XV stol (Mr. Brouček’s Excursion to the 15th Century), both performed in Prague in 1920, and the comic opera Příhody Lišky Bystroušky (1924; The Cunning Little Vixen). His operas are marked by a skilled use of music to heighten dramatic impact.

His choral works also show his manner of modelling the writing for voices on the inflections of his native language, most significantly the Glagolská mše (1926; Glagolitic Mass), also called the Slavonic or Festival Mass. It is written in the liturgical language Old Slavonic, but because it uses instruments it cannot be performed in the Orthodox Church service. His song cycles Zápisník zmizelého (1917–19; Diary of One Who Vanished) and Řikadla (1925–27; Nursery Rhymes) are also notable.

Like I said, fairly interesting—even though he seems never to have

  • Robbed any banks
  • Got drunk as a boiled owl, ambled around aimlessly for a few hours, then curled up and slept on any sidewalks, just so’s he could say he did it
  • Punched out a cop for no discernable reason, then ran away with his cop-hat
  • Abandoned his devoted, patient wife and two kids to run off with some wanton hussy years younger than him
  • Caroused wildly at all-night parties he regularly threw at his home—the guest list consisting mostly of fellow rowdy-musician friends (bringing their instruments along for the inevitable enrage-the-neighbors jam session, natch) all of whom were every bit as wild as Janáček himself was, including a bevy of the aforementioned wanton hussies who were all ditto—closely aping the drunken, lecherous, scandalizing carryings-on of one Wolfgang Amadè Mozart, from his mid-late teens right up unti his tragic, mysterious death at 35 years too young—among plenty others of his type, class, and inclination towards madcap, pearl-clutchinjg revelry

Okay, okay, maybe Janáček WAS kinda boring, at least as far as the Intarwebz knows. It’s still a great tune he wrote; even if he fell way short of the lofty standard upheld by most of us party-hearty musician types, from his era right up until last night’s After Party. Ya gotta give the guy that much, anyway. He’s in pretty good compamy there: Grieg, Sibelius, Paganini, to name but three, were practically teetotallers themselves for various reasons, most of which boil down not to any personal aversion to intoxicating spirits, wild women, and/or over-the-top, all-night blowouts at some fellow musician’s pad, but simply that they had neither time for nor interest in such-like frivolities, being acutely single-minded and purposive regarding their art and/or career.

Heck-far, even the incredible Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky wasn’t a big drinker, despite being a born and raised vodka-swilling Rooskie—although a big ol’ passel of music critics, historians, and fully-credentialed Professors of Music, all widely respected, serious-minded, and well-regarded men, blame his untimely death in part on the effect of many years of not-infrequent overindulgence in alcohol. Then again, others insist that Tchaikovsky committed suicide by intentionally infecting himself with cholera, which seems pretty far-fetched to me, so who knows.

From an eartly age and throughout his too-brief life, Tchaikovsky struggled with extended bouts of depression; anxiety over his homosexuality; monumental, everlasting grief over the untimely loss of his mother from…you guessed it, cholera; deep, unattenuated doubts about his own musical talent and ability, exacerbated by his home nation’s repeated rejection of his work as just not good enough; vicious scorn and mockery for his compositions hurled at him by his music-playing and/or -composing peers, blowhard critics, and scholarly, snootily above-it-all music historians. With all that going on, it was a miracle the poor, sorely-beset man managed to write any music at all, much less the remarkable, unique, literally music-world-altering music he produced. Confronted by a raging torrent of condemnation and a virtual tsunami of self-doubt, Tchaikovsky persevered and doggedly kept at it, for which superhuman resolve the whole world can be thankful.

Think of it: Fantasy Overture to Romeo and Juliet? Swan Lake? The 1812 Overture? The Nutcracker Suite, fer Christ’s sweet sake? T’would be a dark, dismal world indeed had Tchaikovaksky’s critics prevailed, thus depriving us all of those classic, unforgettable works. Fuck me runnin’, but those four pieces alone are entirely gorgeous, so far removed from Ordinary as to be unparalleled,, profoundly moving, Platonic ideals of the composer’s art—whatever the critics back in the day might’ve thought, said, or done, the fuggin’ tin-eared morons. Sheeit, Christmas just wouldn’t be very merry without Nutcracker on heavy-rotation at every local classical-music radio station, regardless of where “local” might happen to be for you.

It’s positively stupefying to me; although I haven’t heard all of Tchaikovsky’s copious compositional archive (yet), everything I have heard—which is a fair and steadily-increasing percentage, happily—I’ve loved straightaway. That so many supposedly knowledgable, competent, serious-minded “professionals” would so cruelly, wantonly torment and harass this supremely gifted artist for his peerless creations—very nearly destroying the man, his career, and his prospective legacy apurpose—makes the mind boggle and reel, it truly does.

It reduces the mind to that distinctly unpleasant, dead-drunk, confused, can’tfindmykeyswherethebleedin’HelldidIparkthecarandjustwhichdirectionishomeanyway? state of cognitive dysfunction and/or disarray. NOTA BENE: this knee-walking-drunk sensation has been known now and again to creep up on people who haven’t so much as smelled any hard likker in a cpl–three days. So watch out, that’s all. Vigilance, my boy—constant, strict, untiring vigilance. It’s the only way.

High-school drunk or stone-cold sober; frequent over-imbiber or scowling, pinch-faced abstainer; day-drinking, breadfruit-beschnozzed old soak or active, card-carrying member of the Reinstate Prohibition NOW League; jolly, red-faced career barstool-holder-downer or prim and proper old biddy whose perfervid, passionate commitment to seeing any- and everything containing alcohol of any kind, in any amount (including but by no means limited to cough syrup, household cleaning products, rubbing alcohol, &C,) banned once and for all is as plaih as the knobby, saggy-skinned knees peeping out from below the hem of her nothing-special, dark-colored, so thick it’s completely opaque even to infrared devices, matronly skirt—if you haven’t experienced this dreadful phenomenon before, take it from one who knows whereof he speaks: it t’ain’t no fun a-tall. Not even a weency little smidge, it ain’t.

Illicit production and/or consumption of Satan’s Own HellBrew to be punishable, by the by, via swift and sure execution sans benefit of trial in open court before a duly-empaneled jury of the defendant’s peers—12 men good and true, as the old saw has it—presided over by (in my dreams) an honest, unbiased judge, unapologetically a strict Constructionist of the Old School, tough but unfailingly fair. Along with the (former, now expunged by decree of MADD) right to appeal and/or judicial review of the dangerous criminal’s richly-deserved and/or morally-impeccable sentence.

From the present-day perspective, the persecution of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky calls to mind a marauding pack of jackals swooping in on their slow, half-crippled prey—albeit much uglier, more brutal, more senseless, and more incomprehensible than previous mindless-pack style assaults. As Tchaikovsky’s reputation and appreciation for his work continues to grow—soar, even—the bitter, crazed attacks against the man and his music from then-peers, even the governments of several nation-states, come to look more and more bizarre right along with the sadly-belated jubilee of praise. Y’know, precisely as things ought to be but too rarely are, not once the slavering jackal-pack has begun to bay, howl, snarl, and snap.

Too bad said critics are well past their sell-by date, so tying em all up to a big ol’ oak tree, pouring honey over their shriveled nutsacks, and leaving ‘em to either starve to death or be eaten alive by whole colonies of hungry red ants, both worker-drones and Queens together, is right out, alas. Too bad, too, that sail foams and YewToob weren’t around back then either, so’s we could hire a ready-and-willing team of eager young cameramen standing by in shifts to capture and live-stream the final wretched agonies of the critics in real time—close-up zoom-ins on the screams and desperate pleas for a nonexistent mercy that will never come, if you please, with my humble thanks to one and all for the excellent work.

Five to ten million views in the first hour, I guesstimate, ratcheting up steadily from there as the agony intensifies; the screams alternating between louder, then more hoarse-voiced; the hunger pangs begin to really bite, HARD; and the utter hopelessness of their godawful plight starts to sink in for reals. Speaking as a guy who’s never watched a live-stream, podcast, or any other such space-age gimcrackery and has exactly zero (0) plans to rethink my grouchy-old-coot indifference towards This Modern World Of Ours And All Its Wonders at this late date, I’d definitely tune in to this thrice-worthy production and watch my own self, start to finish, until the point when my eyeballs were bleeding and my skull had cracked wide-ass open—the better to plop revolting, densely-coiled, whacking great gobbets of my own personal grey matter all over the pricey, ostensibly authentic Persian living-room rug with, my dear. Hey, gullible customer, we have paperwork out back in our warehouse which documents your beautiful new rug’s authenticity; give me just a few minutes to run on back to the warehouse and fetch it so’s you can look it all over to your own satisfaction, ‘kay? BE RIGHT BACK…

*Checks watch; checks watch AGAIN; forces himself not to look at aforementioned wrist-mounted timepiece until an excruciatingly sloooow five full minutes has elapsed before allowing himself to check watch one last time, just for old-times’ sake; shakes head ruefully, disappointedly; exits store; starts car; drives back home; pauses before struggling out of car to send up an audible, impromptu prayer conveying his boundless, most untrammeled, heartfelt, and sincere gratitude to Almighty God for His Heavenly Generosity in preventing His Earthly, steeped-in-sin servant from making a complete ass of himself for the umpty-leven-millionth time. So far this year, that would be.*

Bound to be the laff riot of the late 19th/early 20th century, I’m thinking—more solid yoks than a Catskills Jewish Stand-up Comics convention; more raucous belly-laughs than watching some fat old rummy weave, wobble, and blind-stagger his way to wherever he thinks (mistakenly, like as not) the closest Mens Room at the local dive-bar is situated, his protruding, flabby gut shielding him from potential injuries sustained in numberless hard, wicked-sharp collisions with the bar, the walls, the tables, other unsuspecting bar patrons—although, in a pinch, End-Stage-Middle-Age Rum-A-Dum-Dummy is perfectly happy to make do with the Ladies, provided he can sneak inside there without any of his fellow barflies noticing his at best marginally-stealthy Ladies Room duck ’n’ dive, a faux pas most grievous which is looked at very much askance amongst the more polite, tasteful, culturally-refined and highly-Evolved, most discerning elements of the broader Society, perhaps even straight-up illegal to boot; more fun, ultimately, than the proverbial barrel of monkeys, believe it or leave it.

D-Purp RAWKS!

For some bizarre reason, Doof elected to embed the milder, tamer studio version of Deep Purple’s crowning achievement, “Highway Star.” This inexplicable lapse has forced my hand; there’s nothing else for it but to showcase the best-EVAR version, from the greatest live album in rock ’n’ roll history: the incomparable, nigh-flawless Made In Japan.

I find this video double-plus awesome because the guy had gumption enoughl to take a stab at syncing up the Made In Japan audio track with video footage from the Live In Copenhagen DVD, which he did a bang-up job of too, IMHO. Regarding the Made In Japan album, what’s there to say? It still brings classic 70s hard-rock aficionados nearly to tears of joy with every successive listen. No overdubs whatsoever; recorded on a half-assed, el cheapo recording/mixing lashup (8 track? Dude, SRSLY?); an apathetic, indifferent attitude towards the project from the band members—who could possibly expect anything remotely good to come of this incipient disaster?

Then the album dropped, and a waiting world hardly even knew what hit it. Check it:

The band had mixed feelings about the album. Gillan was critical of his own performance, yet impressed with the quality of the recording, while Lord listed it as his favourite Deep Purple album, saying, “The band was at the height of its powers. That album was the epitome of what we stood for in those days.” “It’s still probably the best live rock ‘n’ roll album ever made,” declared Paice, who suggested that the shows were some of the group’s best. “And that’s putting everything Led Zeppelin have done, anything Black Sabbath may have done, Bad Company, Free… As a tour de force of innovation and living on the edge and great playing with a fantastic sound, nothing comes close.”

The response from critics was favourable. Rolling Stone’s Jon Tiven wrote that “Made in Japan is Purple’s definitive metal monster, a spark-filled execution … Deep Purple can still cut the mustard in concert”. Subsequently, a 2012 readers’ poll in the magazine declared the album to be the sixth best live album of all time, adding the band have performed “countless shows since in countless permutations, but they’ve never sounded quite this perfect.”

Recent reviews have been equally positive. AllMusic’s William Ruhlmann considered the album to be “a definitive treatment of the band’s catalog and its most impressive album”. Rock author Daniel Bukszpan claimed the album is “widely acknowledged as one of the greatest live albums of all time”. Goldmine magazine said the album “defined Deep Purple even as it redefined the concept of the live album.” Deep Purple author Dave Thompson wrote “the standing of Deep Purple’s first (and finest) live album had scarcely diminished in the quarter-century since its release”.

Myself, I bought …Japan at my uncle’s drugstore in 1974, when I was all of 14 years old. I loved it then, I still love it now, and across all the intervening decades (!) have neither stopped playing it nor gotten tired of hearing it. Drop the needle anywhere you like, you won’t be disappointed; there’s not a dud song or performance to be found. Incredibly, the allocated recording budget for D-Purp’s magnum opus was a measly $3,000, which trifling sum translated to £49,995 as of 2023.

As time rolled ever on, a major label would blandly shell out a few hundred G’s just to have an upper-tier band hump their gear into the tracking room without so much as batting an eyelash. Now, with the lightning-fast proliferation of PCs, digital recording, and affordable home-studio equipment, the music-biz landscape has undergone yet another radical shift.

As for Made In Japan, all in all it’s pretty dang impressive for an album that still enjoys brisk sales today, as it has throughout the 50-plus years since its initial release. Looked at from that angle, “impressive” doesn’t even BEGUN to cover it, wouldn’tcha say?

Outlaw in a place where Outlaw is more than just another pose

Our bud S47 hips us to the punk and metal haps in Rooshya, Kazakhstan, and Georgia. Damned intriguing stuff, if you dig this sort of thing. Which, y’know, I do, actually. This offhand remark caught my eye but hard.

I think this next band is from Novosibirsk or someplace like that, reminds me a lot of Fetchin’ Bones, a band from North Carolina back in the 1980s:

Fetchin’ Bones, HA! Although her musical tastes, interests, and proclivities never much coincided with my own—too jangly-pop and avant garde to suit me by a long yard, meaning no offense if that happens to be your bag—I’ve nevertheless been good friends with F-Bones vocalist Hope Nicholls and her bandmate/hubby Aaron since just about forever. Friendly, warm, unpretentious, soft-spoken; they’re good kids, boih of ‘em (Kids? Hope was born almost exactly a month before I was…OOF!).

Years ago, I read a similarly-themed article about the punk rock underground in some of the more obscure corners of the old USSR, can’t remember where. Kerrang!, Spin, Maximum Rocknroll, perhaps? Some other glossy mass-market publication or hand-Xeroxed, stapled-together fanzine? Creem? Circus? Tiger Beat? Rolling Stone, Gawd help us?

Wherever it was, I must say the grim, true-life accounts of quasi-legal obstacles; constant harassment and/or abuse by omnipotent authorities; unpromoted small-venue shows being shut down by platoons of nameless, faceless, truncheon-wielding goons; arrest, incarceration, vicious beatings, etc made me feel like a contemptible, spoiled little dilettante by comparison.

After expending scads of time and effort convincing oneself how horribly you’ve suffered and sacrificed for Your Art, learning about people who have really had it tough can make one feel mighty dang small.

Down on the farm

Don’t recall exactly how or why, but I ran across this gem the other day, which came with an added kicker ere all was said and done.

The BPs covered this butt-rockin’ classic RaB tune for many years—a strict, straight-up rendition without any embellishment or “improvements,” not even in the guitar solo. It always got a solid response from the crowd, getting people out on the dance floor with a quickness to shake their booties joyously. But that additional kicker I mentioned? It’s in the YewToob comments section.

Crazy, man, crazy! As Fate would have it, Poe and his Poe Kats have a pretty storied history their own selves, which goes well beyond big Al Downing and “Down On The Farm.”

Bobby Nelson Poe, Sr. (April 13, 1933 – January 22, 2011), also known as The Poe Kat, was an American musician who had a long and varied career in the music business.

Bobby Poe was born in Vinita, Oklahoma. In the mid-1950s, he formed Bobby Poe and The Poe Kats, which featured African-American piano player Big Al Downing, lead guitar player Vernon Sandusky and drummer Joe Brawley. Bobby Poe and The Poe Kats were also Rockabilly Queen Wanda Jackson’s first Rock and Roll backing band. They toured with Wanda and can also be found on her early Capitol Records recordings, including the Rockabilly classic “Let’s Have a Party”. Bobby, Wanda, Big Al and Vernon are all members of the Rockabilly Hall of Fame.

Bobby Poe and The Poe Kats came to the attention of Sam Phillips of Sun Records with their first recorded track, “Rock and Roll Record Girl”. Based on the music of the old standard “Chattanooga Shoe Shine Boy”, “Rock and Roll Record Girl” was at first blocked from release by Wesley Rose of Acuff-Rose because of that fact. By the time all of the legal hurdles were cleared, Sam Phillips was no longer interested in releasing the track. Instead, Dallas, Texas radio personality Jim Lowe stepped in and released the single on his White Rock Records label. “Rock and Roll Record Girl” backed with “Rock and Roll Boogie” became a number 1 single in the state of Texas.

After one more single for Jim Lowe’s White Rock Records entitled “Piano Nellie”, under the name of Bobby Brant and The Rhythm Rockers (which was shortly thereafter picked up and re-released by EastWest Records), Bobby Poe gave up his career as an artist to become an artist manager. His first client was Big Al Downing. In the 1960s, Poe moved to the Washington, D.C. area and expanded his operation. He managed and co-produced The Chartbusters, which featured his old bandmate Vernon Sandusky. The Chartbusters scored a Top 40 hit in 1964 with their recording “She’s The One”. Tom Hanks was quoted in People Magazine as saying The Chartbusters were one of the influences for his film “That Thing You Do!”. Vernon Sandusky went on to play guitar in Country Music Hall of Famer Roy Clark’s band for over 20 years. Bobby Poe also co-managed The British Walkers, which featured Bobby (sometimes spelled Bobbie) Howard and legendary blues guitarist Roy Buchanan.

One of the things I’ve always loved about the music biz is the wild, wild stories lurking behind even the most ordinary-seeming artists. More unexpected twists and turns than the most remote mountain blacktop, that’s for sure.

Solid GOLD

Been rocking out with my cock out the last cpl-three days to some seriously good 70s style classic-rock stoner jams, with a sprinkling of punk rock thrown in, as churned out by the one, the only Fu Manchu. Git some

Drums pounding; bass throbbing; fuzztone guitars squalling in sweetest agony; vocalist shouting monotonally; ultra-plush 70s conversion vans a-rockin’ (don’t come a-knockin’!); vintage Ford Rancheros turning donuts; heads bangin’ and long hair flailing about, all in grainy, old school black and white—I ask y’all, what’s not to like here?

The thing I noticed right off about these Cully-forny boys when first I beheld ‘em soundchecking at CLT’s storied Snug Harbor dive bar/music venue long, long ago is how incredibly adept they were/are at working a miles-deep stoner rock groove calmly, patiently, relentlessly—painstakingly crafting a breakbone musical climax out of next to nothing at all in the way of raw material. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything quite like it, neither before nor since. This next selection is a pluperfect example of the Fu-Mu process.

See what I’m talking about, people? The song is built around one (1) single fucking NOTE, droningly recited throughout by the second guitar—although the bass and lead git-fiddle elaborate on the basic (!!) theme a bit, while never straying too far away from that one urgent note, that one crunchy-ass chord. Nonetheless, by the time the band brings the song’s unlikely climax crashing down over your heads, I defy any right-thinking rock aficionado to NOT be banging his head furiously in time with the music. It’s a joy and a wonder to behold.

KINDA-SORTA CAVEAT: Throughout my musical life, I’ve always felt that the fade-out was the last refuge of a rock and roll scoundrel. Having been raised on the Ramones, my firm rule has always been that you dive in, you hammer through it, and you get the hell out…but there must always, always, ALWAYS be a discrete ending. In most every rock and roll subgenre, fade-outs are cop-outs, to my way of thinking. They don’t do ‘em in classical; you hardly ever hear one in jazz or trad country or blues or big-band or rockabilly. So what makes the classic-rock crew, whether pioneering originals or latter-day revivalists, think they ought to get a pass?

Nope, nope, and NOPE, they shouldn’t. By my (slowly dimming) lights, the fade-out is and of right ought to be the exclusive province of stupid-ass, radio-friendly pop/disco crapola, old movies and/or TV shows, and, say, Frank Sinatra—and that is absolutely, positively IT. Although of course and as always, YMMV.

That said, the fade-out which wraps up “Laserbl’ast” works like a charm, even for my overly-exacting, picksniffity ass. In fact, it’s difficult to imagine this one ending any other way, really. So I suppose I’m willing to grant a special dispensation here, just this one time.

Ain’t but one way to properly enjoy rock and roll this tasty, this outstandingly scrumpdillyicious, and that’s cranked WAAAY the fuck up through a set of subwoofer-enhanced compooter speakers capable of toting the Fu Manchu load. The linked system is the one I have myself, and it’s been well worth every last penny of the measly sixty bucks I forked over to Amazon for it too, and then some. At only 50 watts, Lord knows it’s stout enough to drive my poor cats into hiding for the last few days.

1

Austin clawback underway?

P’raps possibly, yeah. T’is a consummation devoutly to be wished for what was once a helluva fun Texas town.

Austin started to lose population in 2023, as the crush of exhausted citizens fleeing the “blue dot in a red state” started to exceed the number of incoming settlers. It wasn’t a huge number, just 2,500 net out-migration that year, but it was still significant in that the net incoming tide of people had been reversed.

While news of Austin losing population was shocking at the time, the trend has continued to accelerate. There was a net loss of 13,400 people in 2024.

With residents fleeing, there is a glut of houses for sale, and prices are plunging as the real estate bubble bursts. This is also deflating prices on homes in the surrounding suburban and exurban counties.

To the tune of ~20% or so in some places. Too bad, so sad. Onwards.

It is my hope that some of the depopulation is because of blue state colonizers returning to their natural coastal habitats, thus leaving Texas a little bit redder overall. Of course, there is also a steady exodus of regular people from Austin – those who just can’t take it anymore. From personal experience, I know that it is a goal of many normies to leave the oppressive and theocratically woke eco-leftism of Austin, as well as the social disorder it has wrought. My wife and I were among them.

Back when Austin was simply weird, it was a delightful melting pot of politicos, educators, hippies, rednecks, musicians, and regular suburban Texans. Music bound those groups together. I can attest that I spent a lot of evenings in my younger days at joints like the Broken Spoke, Continental Cafe, and Green Mesquite, catching great new acts, some of whom went on to significant success.

Unfortunately, Austin has also been pretty effective in killing off its legendary music scene. Apparently, tech bros and AWFLs just don’t foster a music scene the same way that hippies and rednecks once did, and now even the legendary SXSW Festival is largely ditching the music aspect that got the whole thing going.

You can never go home again, but I’ll always enjoy that musical legacy. Which reminds me, I probably need to put some Rusty Wier or Jerry Jeff on my stereo bluetooth, it’s been too long.

Jerry Jeff Walker, Rusty Weir? No offense, but screw that noise, buster. You want a true taste of the good old Austin music scene, now sadly defunct, ain’t but one place you really need to look for it.

Gott DAMN, man: Jimmy Vaughan, Preston Hubbard, Fran Christina, the inimitable Kim Wilson? Texas blues just don’t come no more Texas blusier than that right there.

I was privileged enough to have the great Kim Wilson autograph not just one but TWO (2) of my beater-classic Ford dashboards after we opened for the Fab T-birds, the 61 Galaxy and, later on, the 67 Fairlane. Should be pics around here someplace or other, but damned if I’m gonna go digging around on this hard drive to find ‘em right now. Enjoy another T-birds clip as compensation.

End of an era

And good riddance.

BLM Plaza in DC dismantled after 5 years as bill threatens to withhold city’s funding
Work to dismantle the Black Lives Matter Plaza street mural in Washington, DC, that was put up in 2020 following the killings of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor began on Monday.

Reconstruction at the site of the huge, yellow-painted letters close to the White House follows calls to withhold the city’s funding unless it removed the mural and renamed the location “Liberty Plaza.”

“The mural inspired millions and helped our city through a very painful period,” Bowser said.

“But now we can’t afford to be distracted by meaningless congressional interference. The devastating impacts of the federal job cuts must be our number one concern. Our focus is on economic growth, public safety, and supporting our residents affected by these cuts.”

Plans by House Republicans to scrub the divisive BLM mural were revealed in a Post exclusive earlier this month.

Monday’s dismantling of the mural was greeted with triumph by many conservatives — and slammed by those on the left.

“The world is healing,” wrote the Libs of TikTok account on X, run by pro-Trump influencer Chaya Raichik.

“The only people celebrating the dismantling of the Black Lives Matter Plaza in DC are racist fragile white people,” wrote another.

Let’s see now: racist, check; fragile, check (if you hit me in the face with a brick, do I not bleed?); white, check. Yup, ya got me—guilty as charged, on all counts. NOW what, fuckface?

New category for this sort of thing, inspired by the awesome, blistering Minor Threat song.

Update! For more of the impossibly brilliant DC hardcore of the legendary Minor Threat, check out this complete MT discography on YewToob. All the Minor Threat classics are here: I Don’t Wanna Hear It, Filler, 12XU, Small Man Big Mouth, Bottled Violence, Screaming At A Wall, et al. There really never has been anyone quite like ‘em, I must say.

Personal pet peeve

This one has been making my teeth grind for years now. To wit:


See that “honeypot” bushwa? Near as I can make out, it was Rush Limbaugh who originally popularized this verbal faux pas. The correct term used by the intel community since forever is honey TRAP, not POT. Please make a note of it, lest you wind up putting yourself on the fightin’ side of me.

Man, that Roy Nichols sure knew his way around that sweet sounding Tele of his, didn’t he?

A tragic loss

Hopefully only a temporary setback, but still truly horrible news from an old and dear friend.

“I cannot play guitar.” Rockabilly legend Brian Setzer reveals he has an auto-immune disease that prevents him from playing guitar
Setzer said the effects of his illness became apparent during the Stray Cats’ 2024 summer tour, the group’s first road stint in five years

Brian Setzer announced he has been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that prevents him from playing guitar.

The rockabilly electric guitar legend made the news public on February 13 via Facebook:

Hi everybody,

I just wanted to check in with you all. Towards the end of the last Stray Cats tour I noticed that my hands were cramping up. I’ve since discovered that I have an auto-immune disease. I cannot play guitar.

There is no pain, but it feels like I am wearing a pair of gloves when I try to play. I have seen some progress in that I can hold a pen and tie my shoes. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I was at a point where I couldn’t even do that. Luckily, I have the best hospital in the world down the block from me. It’s called the Mayo Clinic. I know I will beat this, it will just take some time.

I love you all,

Brian

Although there is no cure for autoimmune diseases, their symptoms can be mitigated with a range of treatments. With any luck, Setzer will be able to play again soon.

Setzer is by the far the best-known and most successful rockabilly guitarist in rock and roll history. He first found success with the Stray Cats in the 1980s, when he helped relaunch the rockabilly genre decades after it has fallen from popularity.

“Rockabilly is so near and dear to my heart,” the guitarist told Guitar Player in 2023. “There’s just something exciting about it, and it never goes out of style. You can always add your own wrinkle to it and take it somewhere else.”

Truer words etc. Brian, I doubt you’ll ever see this, but in case you do please know that my thoughts, hopes, and prayers are with you, brother. You’re one of the very best guitarists I know or ever have known, so I know it’s a bitter pill indeed to have to swallow—Depuytren’s Contracture left me unable to play anything but the most rudimentary, primitive licks as of about 5-6 years ago or so myself—even moreso when music has been your life, for most of your life, as it has been for you and me both. Hang tough, never give up the fight; I just know your tremendous courage, determination, and strong heart will see you through in the end.

Update! A little inside-the-music story that illustrates one of the biggest reasons I think so highly of Setzer: my brother has always been quite close not only to Brian but the entire Setzer family, enough so that when Brian’s dad passed away the fam insisted on flying Jeff up from NC for the funeral. Myself, I’ve never met Brian’s dad OR mom, nor have I ever been out to the Setzer clan’s Old Home Place out on Lawn Guyland. Whereas Jeff, y’know, has.

Anyhoo, the thing that always got me was, ever since then each and every time I’ve run into Brian, opened for the BSO, whatever whenever wherever, the very first words out of Brian’s mouth to me have been, and I quote: “So how’s Jeff doing, Mike?” No exceptions, not a single one. That always impressed the heck out of me, made me feel good, and brought home forcefully what a decent, thoughtful, just plain good guy Brian is.

I gigged regularly with a half-assed little side-band trio in NYC which included oldest Setzer sibling Gary on drums for a year or thereabouts, and played little brother Kenny’s wedding after-party down in Miami with another side project of mine—a party Brian and his lovely wife also attended, hanging out at our big ol’ table drinking free open-bar booze and shooting the breeze with us well into the wee hours.

Now, for some bizarre reason I’ve been informed many times over lo, these many years—as is also the case with Mike Ness and, truth be told, my own self as well—by people I neither knew nor wished to know that “Ohhh, that Brian Setzer is such an asshole, what a dick!”

Who even knows the reason why, I certainly don’t. Some too-drunk chick trying (and failing) to coax him into a fast Green Room, tour bus, or parking lot fuck? A random dude who felt himself short-changed in the attention department in the impromptu post-show grip ’n’ grin line, perhaps? Don’t know, don’t care. In any event, you’ll never, ever get me to put a yes to that “Brian Setzer is an asshole” proposition. I know firsthand that it simply ain’t so.

Good luck and best wishes for a full and speedy recovery, Bri. God willing, you’ll pull through and have the last laugh on everybody ere the end.

Enduring classic(s)

Lakeside Joe posts the renowned Dave Brubeck chestnut, “Take Five,” the one and only hit record I know of written in 5/4 time. Joe calls it an “enduring classic,” and that it most certainly is. Reminded me of another good ‘un I’ve been hearing of late on the local jazz station I resort to when the Wokesterism and PC horseshit ceaselessly pissed out by my usual classical station starts to work my last nerve.

Great melody, bangin’ arrangement, and the brass and wind sections are dialed in tighter’n Dick’s hat band: enduring classic? I’d say so, yeah.

A blizzard of Ozz

C’mon, man, who DOESN’T love the legendary Ozzy Osbourne? How could anyone NOT love the guy?

Ozzy Osbourne announces final show with Black Sabbath amid health struggles: ‘This is his full stop’
Ozzy’s out.

The British rock star, 76, announced on Wednesday that the original members of Black Sabbath are reuniting for the first time in 20 years for his final show.

The “Back to the Beginning” charity concert will take place July 5 at Villa Park in England. Tickets go on sale on Feb. 14 at LiveNation.

“The all-star event will celebrate the true creators of heavy metal and will see @OzzyOsbourne play his own short set before joining with Black Sabbath for his final bow,” read the announcement, shared on Osbourne’s X account.

Osbourne himself said, “It’s my time to go Back to the Beginning….time for me to give back to the place where I was born. How blessed am I to do it with the help of people whom I love. Birmingham is the true home of metal. Birmingham Forever.”

The lineup is truly…well, talk about your Who’s Who in the metal/hard rock world.

In addition to the Black Sabbath members (Osbourne, Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward), the performing lineup also includes Metallica, Slayer, Lamb of God, Alice in Chains and Anthrax.

The concert’s music director, Rage Against the Machine alum Tom Morello, was quoted saying, “This will be the greatest heavy metal show ever.”

The advance poster for the show:

Yep, that’s pretty much everybody who’s anybody, I should think. Bet my old friend Brent Hinds from ATL is thrilled all to hell and gone to be on this incredible bill.

Dancing through the tears

 Crank it up. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.

“Every night it’s the same/I feel your heart turn cold as rain…” DAY-UMMM. As perfect an example as can be imagined of how truly powerful a good country-song lyric can be, with that fat baritone guitar riff driving the point home from intro to outro and at all points in between.

Update! How envious I am of my old friend Eddie Angel, who as Emmylou’s lead guitarist for a good few years had the signal honor and privilege of playing this wonderful song onstage all those nights.

Short and Sweet for The Last Day of 2024

No comment needed
Beauty in Australia

2

CF Archives

Categories

Comments policy

NOTE: In order to comment, you must be registered and approved as a CF user. Since so many user-registrations are attempted by spam-bots for their own nefarious purposes, YOUR REGISTRATION MAY BE ERRONEOUSLY DENIED.

If you are in fact a legit hooman bean desirous of registering yourself a CF user name so as to be able to comment only to find yourself caught up as collateral damage in one of my irregularly (un)scheduled sweeps for hinky registration attempts, please shoot me a kite at the email addy over in the right sidebar and let me know so’s I can get ya fixed up manually.

ALSO NOTE: You MUST use a valid, legit email address in order to successfully register, the new anti-spam software I installed last night requires it. My thanks to Barry for all his help sorting this mess out last night.

Comments appear entirely at the whim of the guy who pays the bills for this site and may be deleted, ridiculed, maliciously edited for purposes of mockery, or otherwise pissed over as he in his capricious fancy sees fit. The CF comments section is pretty free-form and rough and tumble; tolerance level for rowdiness and misbehavior is fairly high here, but is NOT without limit.

Management is under no obligation whatever to allow the comments section to be taken over and ruined by trolls, Leftists, and/or other oxygen thieves, and will take any measures deemed necessary to prevent such. Conduct yourself with the merest modicum of decorum, courtesy, and respect and you'll be fine. Pick pointless squabbles with other commenters, fling provocative personal insults, issue threats, or annoy the host (me) and...you won't.

Should you find yourself sanctioned after running afoul of the CF comments policy as stated and feel you have been wronged, please download and complete the Butthurt Report form below in quadruplicate; retain one copy for your personal records and send the others to the email address posted in the right sidebar.

Please refrain from whining, sniveling, and/or bursting into tears and waving your chubby fists around in frustrated rage, lest you suffer an aneurysm or stroke unnecessarily. Your completed form will be reviewed and your complaint addressed whenever management feels like getting around to it. Thank you.

CF Glossary

ProPol: Professional Politician

Vichy GOPe: Putative "Republicans" who talk a great game but never can seem to find a hill they consider worth dying on; Quislings, Petains, Benedicts, backstabbers, fake phony frauds

Fake Phony Fraud(s), S'faccim: two excellent descriptors coined by the late great WABC host Bob Grant which are interchangeable, both meaning as they do pretty much the same thing

Mordor On The Potomac: Washington, DC

The Enemy: shitlibs, Progtards, Leftards, Swamp critters, et al ad nauseum

Burn, Loot, Murder: what the misleading acronym BLM really stands for

pAntiFa: an alternative spelling of "fascist scum"

"Mike Hendrix is, without a doubt, the greatest one-legged blogger in the world." ‐Henry Chinaski

Subscribe to CF!

Support options

Shameless begging

If you enjoy the site, please consider donating:

Correspondence

Email addy: mike-at-this-url dot etc

All e-mails assumed to be legitimate fodder for publication, scorn, ridicule, or other public mockery unless specified as private by the sender

Allied territory

Alternatives to shitlib social media: A few people worth following on Gab:

Fuck you

Kill one for mommy today! Click to embiggen

Notable Quotes

"America is at that awkward stage. It's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards."
Claire Wolfe, 101 Things to Do 'Til the Revolution

Claire's Cabal—The Freedom Forums

FREEDOM!!!

"There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but they mean to be masters."
Daniel Webster

“When I was young I was depressed all the time. But suicide no longer seemed a possibility in my life. At my age there was very little left to kill.”
Charles Bukowski

“A slave is one who waits for someone to come and free him.”
Ezra Pound

“The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it’s profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater.”
Frank Zappa

“The right of a nation to kill a tyrant in case of necessity can no more be doubted than to hang a robber, or kill a flea.”
John Adams

"A society of sheep must in time beget a government of wolves."
Bertrand de Jouvenel

"It is terrible to contemplate how few politicians are hanged."
GK Chesterton

"I predict that the Bush administration will be seen by freedom-wishing Americans a generation or two hence as the hinge on the cell door locking up our freedom. When my children are my age, they will not be free in any recognizably traditional American meaning of the word. I’d tell them to emigrate, but there’s nowhere left to go. I am left with nauseating near-conviction that I am a member of the last generation in the history of the world that is minimally truly free."
Donald Surber

"The only way to live free is to live unobserved."
Etienne de la Boiete

"History does not long entrust the care of freedom to the weak or the timid."
Dwight D. Eisenhower

"To put it simply, the Left is the stupid and the insane, led by the evil. You can’t persuade the stupid or the insane and you had damn well better fight the evil."
Skeptic

"There is no better way to stamp your power on people than through the dead hand of bureaucracy. You cannot reason with paperwork."
David Black, from Turn Left For Gibraltar

"If the laws of God and men, are therefore of no effect, when the magistracy is left at liberty to break them; and if the lusts of those who are too strong for the tribunals of justice, cannot be otherwise restrained than by sedition, tumults and war, those seditions, tumults and wars, are justified by the laws of God and man."
John Adams

"The limits of tyranny are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress."
Frederick Douglass

"Give me the media and I will make of any nation a herd of swine."
Joseph Goebbels

“I hope we once again have reminded people that man is not free unless government is limited. There’s a clear cause and effect here that is as neat and predictable as a law of physics: As government expands, liberty contracts.”
Ronald Reagan

"Ain't no misunderstanding this war. They want to rule us and aim to do it. We aim not to allow it. All there is to it."
NC Reed, from Parno's Peril

"I just want a government that fits in the box it originally came in."
Bill Whittle

Best of the best

Finest hosting service

Image swiped from The Last Refuge

2016 Fabulous 50 Blog Awards

RSS feed

RSS - entries - Entries
RSS - entries - Comments

Boycott the New York Times -- Read the Real News at Larwyn's Linx

Copyright © 2025