some good gigging recently. lady of the barge had our virgin gig on thursday at chelsea’s. mellow crowd on a weeknight, but we played pretty well considering we’d only been practicing for a few weeks. eight tunes. felt good. onward and upward.

the flatbed honeymoon set went well after, although i was deep into the stellas at that point, and playing two gigs a night is always exhausting. after that first set, you just want to kick back. i would have loved to have been able to just watch flatbed’s set, you know? but it was cool, and tommy and sarah came by after and we wound the night down late laughing and listening to records and catching up on the exciting baton rouge social scene … … … i’m sorry, did i doze off?

friday, however, kinda sucked. flatbed had a gig in jackson. that’s jackson, louisiana, not the johnny cash jackson. we had to be there at five as it was a wedding, so … i slept like shit. woke up, had to get to highland coffee for a meeting with brooke. brooke was on fire, throwing around great idea after great idea for this paper we’re working on. i was equipped to do little more than take notes. we finished at 3:30 and i still had to go get the dog and drop him off at eli’s place. because i struggle to care for myself some days, i had yet to eat and was starving, hung over, late, and overall extremely irritable.

enter friday baton rouge traffic.

it’s not l.a., but the traffic down here is still terrible at times and something about the southern slowness seems to make it even worse. in l.a. at least people attack the traffic. they push the boundaries. run red lights. get shit done. down here, they can’t get out of their own way half the time. i find myself screaming, “GO! GO! GO! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! GO!” a lot on fridays down here. so it took me a while to get to eli’s. 4:30 by the time i left. still haven’t eaten. still have to get to jackson.

i decide to try to go to chicken shack on the way out of town. bad idea. i walk in, see the line, stand in it for about three seconds, throw up my hands and decide to hit the church’s fried chicken next store. worse idea. i don’t know, man. the fried chicken chains down here … they’re the slowest moving, most fucked up establishments (barely) functioning on god’s earth. i sat in the drive thru line for probably twenty minutes behind one car. nothing happened. nothing, no one, no food came out, no talking, nothing. schmitt called and said, “where are you?” i said, “getting on the freeway” as i escaped the line and raced down florida boulevard.

back in traffic now … in the rain … starving, cranky, later than late. i pass a popeye’s. now of all the southern fried chicken chains, popeye’s stands alone in terms of being slow and eternally fucked up. but i had to eat something or i was going to lose my shit. so i pull in and order. and despite the fact that the customer in front of me and the drive thru attendant had about a six minute conversation after their transaction was completed (i watched it all … they just … talked. chatted. for several minutes. unbelievable …) i did get my food in a (relatively) reasonable amount of time. of course the order was completely fucked up. that’s a given. i ordered a four piece chicken tenders and got two piece dark. thanks, popeye’s. go fuck yourself. i’ll be back.

once at the gig things warmd up. good seeing jimmy and denise and schmitt, and schmitt was in rare form. he set me straight. love that fucking guy.

a funny little note from the gig …

we’re waiting to go on and there are all these family people milling around. schmitt goes, “there’s actually a famous cnn newsperson here tonight.” i said, “shit, i hope it’s campbell brown, i have a huge crush on her.” schmitt says, “yeah, she’s the one! she’s right over there.”

no shit. partying with campbell brown. didn’t get a chance to talk to her, which was a bummer because i was going to ask her what the fucking deal is with lou dobbs.

we played a great set to a largely uninterested audience, got paid, and got out. the band actually got put up in this a.m.a.z.i.n.g. old plantation home, but i had to get back and get the dog. the place was chuck full of crazy beautiful antiques from around the world. supposedly the king of spain’s old bed (with linens) was in there somewhere. here’s some shitty iphone photos:

this is not the king of spain’s bed. but it could be.

both of these were shot to hell. but they looked cool.

this thing fascinated me. some kind of clock or timer? it had gears and 60 second and/or minute dials. some kind of moving contraption at the bottom, too.

this clock had amazing wood inlay in it. amazing. the ole iphone doesn’t do it justice.

posh.

clocks.

some old writing implement. marble. heavy. tits.

anyway, the place was fantastic. worth another trip someday.

i spent yesterday in a state of continual pajamas. couldn’t leave the house. didn’t want to socialize. watched several episodes of lost. damn that show. fucking completely stupid worthless can’t stop watching television.

some random phone shots.

in honor of the new los duggans cd i received in the mail yesterday (thanks, whiskey).

these are dexateens.

swamp.

look! on the gunnel! (it’s a very wee swamp frog.)

gun.

i, grover, et al

the car was still packed full of drums and amps and i hadn’t showered and i was wearing a chunky sweater and no socks and before i could even pull to a complete stop in the parking space, some freak starts approaching the car. he looked worse than me. little short guy with a big belly, wearing sweatpants and a ripped grey t-shirt with a neck hole that was so stretched out you could fit a fucking watermelon through it. caked around his mouth and sprinkled down the front of his t-shirt were white crumbs. he was smoking a cigarette. he had a lazy eye. when the car stops, he’s standing immediately outside my door, and when i get out, he says this to me:

‘he man, can you break a $100?’

guy’s holding a c note right in my face. fucking brilliant. i shoulda had him buy my a coffee …

good night last night. good day, actually. i woke up late again after a night of dollar high lifes at the happy note (cheers to shippy) followed by late night back on the moon porch with two a’s and one b.b. i woke up to my dissertation director and her dog standing on my front porch. we had plans to watch ‘lenny bruce: the performance film’ together and let the dogs play. brooke is very cool in that she can show up at your house with you in a state of serious hungoverness and kick it until you’re able to think. so we sat on the railroad ties out back while chaplain and lefty ran around and shot the shit until i got it together, and then we watched dirty lenny and made notes about iterability and installing the subject as the origin of the speech act and the undoing of temporal progression and performative politics.

followed by a stellar practice with the as yet still unnamed band with tom and shippy …

followed by a bath …

followed by 37 minutes lying supine on the couch watching lebron go fucking mental against the knicks in the first quarter. it’s too easy for that guy at this point. he can do whatever the fuck he wants, whenever he wants …

followed by a gig with the new flatbed honeymoon at chelsea’s. gotta love chelsea’s … the sound is fucking great, they give the bands free draft beer all night (i.e. i had to tell the bartender after my umpteenth stella that i was approaching a point where i would be, from here on out, unaccountable for my actions), and we played with polly pry who are always fucking brilliant. lots of good friends came out and it was a top night all around …

followed by the after party at schmitty’s, where eric played boz scaggs songs on the piano and denise sang moonlight in vermont and shippy played the harp and jimmy was the only one playing like he wasn’t drunk, and all was right in the world …

followed by a very well intentioned kidnapping … sorry, and thank you, and you’re welcome.

cheers.

if los duggans isn’t playing a gig at the same time, when the dexateens take the stage they are the greatest living rock and roll band.

this is not typical kevin casper hyperbolic rhetoric.

i’m dead serious. they’re the second greatest living rock band. i saw them at chelsea’s saturday night, and i speak the truth.

swagger. early 70s. three guitars (one of which is cut from that beautiful cloth that produced ronny wood and mark ford. here he is:

that guitar player with the country bends and the crazy warm tone and the taste and the taste and the flair and the taste). a little bit of that sloppy golden smog beauty, some punk energy. great songs. great voices. southern as hell. swagger.

don’t believe me?

go to their website. download their new record ‘lost and found’ for free.

i bought 2008’s ‘hardwire healing’ on vinyl at the show. they give away the digital and sell the vinyl for $10 (which is how god intended it to be).

if you don’t like it i’ll buy you some meat sticks.

back in black from a fortnight traveling through the barren wasteland known as illinois. actually, it was a lovely trip and even mother nature kept her big yap shut for a change. cold, oh yes, but sunny and still and pleasant enough for this thin-skinned southern boy to endure without too much complaining. i drank a lot, too.

i took over 700 photos.

recapping backwards:

played a gig at chelsea’s last night.  nice way to settle back into my life down here.  plus, chelsea’s held the draft beer taps wide open for us all night.    southern hospitality is right.  god damn.  free stellas and $20 pocket money.  home at last.

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flatbed honeymoon got some nice press while i was gone. their cd (of which i had nothing to do with) was called “the second most intriguing cd of 2008″ by the local culture rag 225. makes you think of that woody allen movie where sean penn is the second best guitarist in the world next to that gypsy django what’s his name.

anyway, the short review can be read here.

graceland is next …