Here's a sneak peek at Cats & Dogs, the book about Royal Trux, the first draft of which is now done. (Jon Pomerance is the author of letters signed by him): June 24, 2008 good sir:       I’m in a Boeing-brand airplane flying over a mineral leaching pond, probably in Nevada or Utah. There’s a straight-lined drawing of South Carolina, all in red, with white around it, and the white fades back into red, which is separated from a cleaner-looking blue by a fine smooth scrawl, whisps of white in the red. It’s common to look out the window in a musing mood, don’t you find, and to expect an echo from the outside. What does the lime-colored leaching pond like a skewed Canadian maple leaf have to say to my thoughts that range from skulking about new york, or the old memoried turf of my dad’s house? My gut aches, has for a few days, what’s that got to do with salt-whisps? It isn’t any stranger, telling you about Cats and Dogs, than the rantings we aimed at each other before. Broken, the link of the hand and the head, in this music.       After seven or eight years of hearing them sing, I still don’t know what the hell they’re singing about. But I do hear how they’re singing about, and the sing of the guitar and the slap of the trap kit. The head is wired and the mouth is sputtering, and the hands are lulling the head to sleep. Our heads missed the bus in the middle of Denmark and are staving off being alone by babbling. I stick my hands out in the black of a stuffy room, and the static electricity when you scratch a cat in the dark is the tone of one Hagerty guitar, and it doubles, one for each blind eye.       We fail to see past the faces, they are painted with our needs, we speak in forceful sentences, we languish longingly, we shout over each other’s heads, sir if you please, I do insist...is your glass empty? Garcon!...if you will permit me...I do say...we are each sitting at a typewriter, we are sweating in tuxedos, waving our arms to make a point about , and it is important that we employ clacking machines, we could sometimes send taped tracks of our machines writing the letters for us, we are playing the market, playing the horses, hedging out bets, and you are running the college phillies against each other, win place or show, and I have only two in the race, the white glowing sweet smelling Saskia nathless in shadow, the dark horse of Estelle coming up swift from the linoleum ditto machine vinegar corridors of high school disappointment with her flowered flaps folded over fat sheaves of pen-embossed papers, passing the mailbox of her marriage, over before it’s begun. She reaches to me as I wished she had, a lad, and Saskia recedes, I feel, grasping in the black room of the United States that separates us, things that feel like her, a throw soft as her pussy tuft, a ball-and claw foot chair like her two too-big eyes, and there doesn’t always have to be a third thing in every list. The mind looks at everything and the fingers feel everything they can, Neil’s mind is composing the scam and the excuse, and his hands keep the clock ticking so the trains run, his words are a wash and his hands are lines. From the screaming of Sister in my tape deck as I get out of the car, the door shuts, the music is off, the coffee cup is empty, and I sigh down to the black beach, fresh water runlets have carved themselves down to the salt, and the push and pull of the Pacific is the third song on this royal trux album. And the ninth song. And I am the seventh son. Gone.                                             Dan Dear Abby:       My girlfriend cannot tell the difference between Trux and White Stripes. At first I would explain the difference in semi-conceptual terms: that WS are more straight-ahead blues, they are tighter, you can understand the words, etc. Then I’d be playing “Thank You”, e.g., and the distinction would be lost. Then it was “well, RTX has a chick singing with the dude”, and Lexa would hear the one or two WS songs where Meg or somebody is singing. Finally, I just couldn’t spell it out. Now she just asks, “Is this that band you like?” What should I do? How can I explain something that’s so obvious to me? It’s driving me nuts!                    Signed,                               Confused Dear Dan,       It is a hot muggy afternoon here in Annapolis. It is an afternoon like many others this summer; lots of drinking, continuously listening to the radio, smoking endless cigarettes, reading War and Peace every now and then, and waiting for that special time to roll around when I go to work. And I asked myself today, “Is this the best summer vacation I have ever had?”       Yes, things are going well, but they are very tedious. I am the tediator, close cousin to the titillator, although in some respects we appear to be very removed from one another. The cigarette is the great god of tedium. If you’ve got a smoke, you’ve got something to do. I sell a lot of late-night ciggies to the wigs at the old Eastport Shell, many a midnight, many a 3 a.m. In fact, after sweeping the shop, while suffering through some of this ‘grunge’ the kids of today are listening to, I make myself a pillow on the counter and lay my head down, til some doomed soul raps furiously upon the plexiglass for a pack of Newports, soft or box?       And then seeing beaucoup of L--- F----, whose voluptuous curves have become the object of my hot, hot dreams. I say that I’ve been seeing a lot of her, but only rarely are we left to ourselves, because there’s always cards or just—drinking. Don’t think I haven’t tried to bring her out, I have. But now that I think on’t, I recall that I blamed the failure of my ouvertures to R--- R--- on the very same ability to bring her out. God, you know, this sounds so goddamned typical: “alky-rotter sitting in his dark kitchen is puzzled that he can’t have a good time with this girl—if he were only to leave the apartment, well then, something might come of it.” Hey, I’m a fun guy, I don’t care what they say!       Dan, I’ll be honest with you; I had to write this letter to you because, sitting here for interminable amounts of time, I have felt a slow tide of bile rising in my throat on account of the exceedingly long time I have spent doing nothing. Damnit – I have to create!! Every now and then I’ll arise and begin cleaning something or other in the apartment—it doesn’t really matter what it is—I’ve actually cleaned some incredibly arbitrary things around here. For example, I’ve gotten into the habit of polishing the little table in the bathroom every day or so with Pledge TM. Yes, I must create, and to tell you the truth, if I can do so without at the same time causing any offence, I have to do something besides typing out a constant stream of crap. Maybe I should draw something. Perhaps I wille draw a little wee pile of steaminge shitte.       Must draw, must create. Must do. Must do something. Must do something or I shall run screaming from this house, head in hands, brown and yellow and red stains streaking my pants-legs. Must do. Must create. Must make. Must bring-into-being, even if it is just a pseudo-existent that I will be introducing into the continuum. Must play along with the self-induced phantasy of the new. Must do. Must make. Must. Must. Must! Tomorrow.       Here’s another funny thing about L---- : I feel a spectacular lack of feeling for the girl. Don’t get me wrong--I’d love to. If you are shaking your head knowingly as you read this, and thinking to yourself “oh, you,” then, if at the next time we encountered one another, I will not destroy you, but I will remember it, damnit. For you also have looked into this abyss, you tyrant!       Anyway, I sign off here. Rest assured that the slightest tremor or event shall be transmitted to you in all haste, as I shall doubtless witness it with unnatural excitement.                                      Adio, J. P.S. Enclosed are some drawings I have made of notable Italian architecture. Please critique.

These reviews were published in Bay Area Buzz magazine in 2003-04:

Andalusia    Around Three in the Morning (self-released) It’s unfortunate you slobbering reader-monkeys don’t get press releases with your discs, because half of the listening experience with up-and-humping (or downward-dumping) indie groups is the way they perceive themselves. And I quote, "This four-piece outfit calls the Bay Area home, but their feet are not-so-firmly planted elsewhere. It’s somewhere higher up, in that mysterious, indefinable, swirling layer of the atmosphere where dreams live." Jesus. Then it cites Godspeed!You Black Emperor, Cocteau Twins, and My Bloody Valentine as their "compelling" mix of influences. So this Suzi Maclay, the singer, her daddy musta worked at a reverb plant, and brought it home free every night or somethin’, becuz they appear to think that totally coking out your sound with reverb produces the intensity of GSYBE, the Rosicrucian moon ritual of the C-Twins, and that metallic-tongue flavor of acid shellacked by MBV. This is like Shouting the Poetic Fallacies of High School Journalkeepers through a $12,000 Mr. Microphone. Well, until someone gives Enya a distortion pedal, Andalusia will have to do.

Blood & Time    At the Foot of the Garden (Neurot) Don’t you ever get sick of hearing about the human condition? Let’s have more music that at least attempts universality, rather than a kind of ego overhead projector. As the name suggests, Blood & Time are bloody bodies stuck in time, and the minutes do drag. Unlike Michael Gira’s cathartic, ecstatic Angels of Light, B&T is lukewarm, not cold enough to be invigorating, nor hot enough to be cleansing. This disc may make you want to admire a giant fern.

DJ Irene    Fearless (Surge Recordings) When you’re dancing, something shifts between about 100 and 110 beats per minute. "Sex Machine," "OPP," "So Whatcha Want" (all under 100 bpm) encourage utmost freakiness and grinding of backsides. But house music—who dances to this? It’s too fast, it’s a job, it has no syncopation, it’s a workout, it’s plain yogurt. House music totally discriminates against fat people who want to have a good time, dammit! Anyhoo, DJ Irene certainly must be "fearless" of the repercussions as it were of her brand (as in name brand) of house on the world of human reproduction. I hear Ecstasy kind of kills the libido anyway, hence music that would only get a rutting dog in the mood. And hence the pacifiers, now that I think of it. And even krautrock generally doesn’t re-frickin-peat this much, just a complete plateau of intensity. 31 guest DJs on this disc and none of them produce anything but the occasional oscillator wash and single-stroke snare roll. How is this different from some Make-U-Sweat-Dance-Party-$19.95-through-this-special-TV-offer type three-disc set? Please write care of this publication if you can explain this stuff.

Early Day Miners    The Sonograph EP (Acuarela) This group is definitely some guys sitting in wooden chairs, running slides over their guitars, bent over and drooling due to endless fascination with a sweet little series of notes, really hitting the strings with just the right pressure, actual nighttime crickets of June chittering out back in one song, silhouettes of pine trees, the whole thing. The record starts with an introspective harmonikay-ed, piana-ed folk song, and from there the pace slows and the perspective widens, becoming less verbally articulate and more atmospheric and intuitive, and by the closing "Misrach," is just sweet amplified maple sap. This music is all those little moments that are just perfect, the light a certain way, or the air rising and falling, the way a room looks with your eyes almost shut, the old wooden wagon in the middle of a field. Somebody said we look for immortality in the wrong direction: it’s in the past. Somehow, who knows how, this ambient-slowcore unit succeeds in catching the fireflies of the past in a jar and keeping them alive.

The End    Within Dividia (Relapse) Slayer’s great and so is Mastodon—but does it need to get more extreme than Mastodon? Behind the gor-jus quadruple-gatefold sleeve of cracked glass-plate sepia photographs and under the interesting concept of the album—the relations of the creepazoid inhabitants of the "Dividia Estate"—this "extreme metal" group is another whiplash-fast, screaming bunch of great musicians playing insane parts based on 132-sided geometric figures or something. But you can’t make out a single word. What should we think when a group is described as "punishing but rewarding"? Let’s pretend I’m eight years old (the mental age of most people anyway). I’m being punished but rewarded. Have I been a good boy or a naughty boy? Would you rather watch a sleek panther take down a gazelle [metal] or do you want it to rip your throat out [extreme metal]? Or do you want four cyborg ox-machines to draw and quarter you [The End]? If the latter, The End is a great starter.

Mirah   C’mon Miracle (K Records) Old Time Relijun   Lost Light (K Records) Behold the sensuality of K Records spouting up with two plates by Mirah and Old Time Relijun that are, respectively, a shoulder-squeeze and a punch in that spot next to your bicep. Mirah’s sweet sobulish voice coos and burbles over cello, samba drums, warm acoustic, delivering heart-truths in a sweet medium, kind of like giving your dog a worm-pill in a spoonful of peanut butter. OTR’s Arrington de Dionyso, on the other hand, howls like Jon Spencer would if he weren’t such a poseur. Dionyso seems to be screaming out for any spirit, deity, or force, that happens to be blowing by to join the kettle-drums and klang-klang and raise some holy hell. Mirah’s instrumentation is all around soft and thumpy and pizzicato and although the whole cute-and-gentle-girl voice kind of wears after a while, there are two songs on C’mon Miracle that are alone worth the price of admish. "Lost Light" is spooky like the whole Tupelo album, but in a way that sucks you in. Nick Cave’s God floods a town and out of the fleeing populace comes Elvis; Dionyso can’t wait for God to dump a lake on him and destroy his naked ass in ecstatic fashion. While Mirah humbly whispers her wish for a miracle, Old Time Relijun demands it and is meanwhile making their own.

Stereolab    Margerine Eclipse (Elektra) Blink-182    s/t (Geffen) Stereolab, providing vicarious European urbanity since nineteen-ninety-something. Dear readers, you’ve all heard Stereolab. And if you haven’t, like tangerine sherbet, you can imagine the flavor. Gelato is probably a more apt comparison, since I’ve been a hound lately (Shattuck one block south of University.) Krautrock, Chambord, Francoise Hardy, gelato, Steve Reich, yum! "Dots & Loops" is pistachio, "Cobra Phases..." is espresso, "Margerine Eclipse" is champagne, and "Random Noise Bursts..." is some sort of heavy chocolate. So this is my Stereolato hierarchy. Pistachio all the time. Chocolate and champagne gelato are lovely—once in a while. As smooth and uniform as champagne is, it has some surprises and comes at your tongue from different angles if you take your time licking it and don’t wolf it down like a Peanut Buster Parfait. Which it isn’t—but boy is it tasty! One gripe: the la dee da la la la las are overabundant, Laetitia, n’est-ce pas? So I walked into FYE the other day and the pink and green graffiti cover screams, "Like, Buy Me! ‘kay?!" And I like totally pop it into the player in my Jetta, and totally flip-pa! Not really. But doesn’t it trip you out that millions of kids had that very experience and that, for some, Blink-182 is their favorite band? Well, a) whatever, it’s just music, get over it and b) this album’s songs don’t sound identical and c) what is there really to criticize this band for? Like Stereolab, you know what to expect, and your disgust equals delusion. The tunes, the lyrics, the playing, the arrangements: I couldn’t find any flaws that didn’t boil down to personal taste. Personally, this makes me cringe like a Goodwill Christmas sweater. The really disgusting thing, however, is what lurks behind bands like this. The radio and PR machines that make this stuff ubiquitous and bacterial. So okay, another gripe about Punk Rock 101 is merited: what’s with letting folks with cleft noses sing?

The Yellow Press    Summer Tour 2003 EP (self-released) The new wave dance party currently in progress continues with The Yellow Press. Some synth, some peppy rhythms, songs to clap to from a band that’d be fun at a party. Not as good as Gang of Four, natch, but probably more fun. Does the lyric "I wanna see your ass on the ceiling/I think your boyfriend’s appealing" give you the gist?

Julian Cope    Rite Now (Head Heritage) Most bands either get better or worse, right? Ever since Julian H. slayed his ‘80s wuss-pop with the mighty “Jehovakill,” he has not only been getting better, but transcendent. Now he’s figured out what rock is really for: opening your third ear. Rite Now is the third in a series of albums: Rite is breakbeat-based tracks and Rite 2 is four wah/Mellotron shag-fests. The album is comprised of four expansive tracks that shed verse-chorus-verse temporal burn-out in favor of mane-shaking turn-out. As the liner notes point out, “This is shamanic rock ‘n’ roll that sparks ecstasy and awareness through freak-out to the sweaty pagan teen inside everyone.” The opener, “Twilight of the Motherfuckers,” is a steroid-al (or rather Ephedral) Neu-esque assault that clears the foul city air for “Give the Poet Some,” which, how shall we say, should make every groin in the vicinity grind. “Supernatural Agencies” is a whiplash-inducer whose title is the only thing that can explain Kevlar’s mother-fucker of a 15-minute guitar-shred, alongside JC’s hypnotic bass and chanting. The on-the-two closer “Ephaedra” is just…(sigh)…a tongue in your ear. Like Sly Stone and James Brown, Julian Cope makes me go “duuuhhhh...gaaaahhhh…brbbrrrbb.” Like “There’s A Riot Goin’ On,” you simply don’t need a second opinion to tell you this is great. So just buy it. Now!! Go!!!

Dropsy   s/t (self-released) Dropsy is an old term for “edema,” which denotes a swelling of the limbs caused by water retention. It causes people, basically, to look like vegetables. But unlike the disease, David Cooper has found a way to leak some of the immense amount of stuff, both poisonous and pleasant, which swells his modern mind. Through witty and arch lyrics, Cooper’s chocolate-shake vocals veer from a sharp rib-jab to perversion to sincerity with aplomb. The band is hecka tight (featuring, alas, too little of Cooper’s handy vibes chops) and have clearly been incubating in an oxygen-rich lounge somewhere in Hackensack, with the saxy Tom Griesser and drunk ‘bonist Tom Yoder taking young ladies and toothless geezers from the slick to the slimy, and just jazzing the hell out of the general populace. When you hear things like “Sheer force alone cannot chew the gum/of the fundamental hum” over a funky beat, what you’ve got is a group of Mensa fifth-graders in tuxedoes, and Dropsy does appeal to that need we all have for a laid-back Tom Jones.

Giant Value    On the Move Avec Giant Value (self-released) The sun flowing through curtains stirred by the breeze. Riding your bike down a tree-lined avenue. Water balloons, sparklers, and bubble wrap. An old Astrud Gilberto record playing on a Fisher-Price record player. Bar-b-qued zucchini, sangria, and pierogis. Wrestling your cousin on the lawn and giving him an affectionate flying elbow smash. This is the best description I can come up with for Giant Value’s second disc. GV’s easy-going wisdom shines through clever lyrics and hummable tunes. Since this came out, Vinnie’s tactful drumming, Dena’s Gibsonic finesse, and Bru’s bubbling bass and Farfisa action has had my head bobbing, mouth ooh-ing and aah-ing and la-la-la-ing, and much slapping of hands on dashboards. Throw your damned “Best of Bob Marley” no-woman-no-cry crap out the windah already and listen to this to be reminded that everything is eternally alright and beautiful. This is fun and thoughtful. This is the sound of two hands clapping.

Moore Brothers    On & Out (Amazing Grease) I hate Simon and Garfunkel. I hate The Monkees. I hate Herman’s Hermits. So why, why do I like the Moore Brothers? Watching them and their rapt audience live is like seeing kids ogle puppies frolicking through pink cotton balls in the window of a pet store. Blaaargghh!! But then there’s no denying the beauty of Cheech and Chong’s, I mean Thom and Greg’s voices. The Bros.’ second release thankfully has more instrumental meat and diversity than their nearly-acapella live shows, and mostly makes the tunes soothers without being snoozers. The highlights are the three-hitter “Tiny Bongs,” the kind of warm, giggly thing they do so well; the rockin’ (with a small “r”) “Salton Sea,” whose driving guitar and drums balance nicely with the vocals; and the surprising treat “Emotional Rollercoaster,” with its bubbling beats. Overall, the brothers’ dynamic finesse and unique arrangements shine on this disc. Remember the Bugs Bunny episode with the orange monster and the bottle of ether? This is unwholesome but fun music, so take a huff.

Rykarda Parasol    Here She Comes... (Blood of the Young) Initially sounding like a peppy version of the Bad Seeds fronted by P.J. Harvey, comparisons of Rykarda Parasol to Nick Cave are inevitable. Dead lovers, whisky, love-as-narcotic-habit, thunder-and-lightning. RP’s deadpan vocals (the band is named for the singer) are backed by Josh Gibson’s appealingly loopy piano and organ, and generally spare instrumentation. Although her voice is alluring, its super-cool delivery undermines the emotion of her able lyrics, especially in “Lonesome Place,” about a woman’s lover who is lynched by klansmen: “They took me out to some lonesome place/They asked, ‘Do you believe in the great white race?” The most effective tune turns out to be a secret track after the sixth and last song, where Parasol’s wonderfully bored vocals recite a poem by Baudelaire about an opium den over a psychedelic wash of organ. These are engaging songs, and the passion that lies in wait in this ripening band will be something to hear when they let it loose. C’mon Rykarda, pull a Roxy Music on our asses!

Relic    Lift Up Your Gates (of Hell)…The King of Glory Shall Come In (self-released) Relic’s press photos, which show them performing with like nine keyboards and a bazillion toms in a marble rotunda somewhere in full armor—I repeat, full armor—seriously raised my hopes for their “medieval rock.” Preparing to laugh, I also raised my fist. While Relic’s lyrics are derived from 14th to 16th century poetry, their music is a mélange of ‘70s prog, ‘80s metal, ‘90s riffage, and moldy madrigal. People, this brew sounds awful on paper, but tracks like “Dance of Death” and “St. Stephen & King Herod” find the lads capable of lopping the heads off invading Normans (and indie “rockers”) with synthesized strings, arpeggiatic guitar shrieks, bizarre vocal effects, and Rototoms. The real beauty of Relic is the feeling that they’ll do whatever the fuck they want, which includes (between slabs of riffage) a whistling solo over synthesized choir voices in “I Want Be an Angel.” Relic has the aesthetic and the chops of Rush (shudder) minus the joyless pretension. I’ve never had headcheese, but this must be what it’s like.

The Blow    The Concussive Caress (K Records) The subtitle of this K Records LP is “Casey Caught Her Mom Singing Along With the Vacuum.” The Blow is also known as Get the Hell Out of the Way of the Volcano. The Blow is Khaela Maricich. What does anyone need to know except that Khaela has such a sweet and coy voice. What the sap boils down to is that this stuff is pure Grade A dark amber maple and I could listen, with pleasure, to her marathon-reading the Chicago phonebook. The Blow shares the “K” aesthetic and is also turned on by caves, Scrabble, and shucking clothes. But whereas Beat Happening is at-peace-with-W.A.S.P., The Blow has got groove, god beautiful grooves, ‘cello grooves, chamber grooves, stick-against-suitcase grooves. She’s got janky drums and layers her voice like a napoleon. She’s Missy Elliot and Timbaland all wrapped up in a wool blanket. She’s got synth parameters for your quiet epileptic fit. Half her songs are over before you can put your finger on them—the others you settle into like a greased bolt into a nut. Sometimes (“How Naked Are We Going to Get?”) her lyrics mean without trying to; otherwise, she pulls a Neil Hagerty with stuff that makes me go “Huh?” and wanna keep going “Huh?” and let her do it to me again and again and again and again. Oh!!

KK Null    Atomik Disorder (Neurot) Mallet chunk beams wall fireblanket muck ruckus blunt croak spatula drunk grump bunk mung. Schist squeedle lickety blip whist click slip nip. Duck duck caboose sluice bubbles lob pit bobbing mine lurch slurry. Groom plumb aluminum react nibble tactile tictoc talc titmouse blink stick. Muffin twist bluff please stitch flakes simple cyst grange walnut tank umbrage bracelet pork plank sword swish. Grip stutter barge utter budge pimple plod plump dump seek sweep. Bleach kine needle pine beetle twiddle front wok scold chockablock. Loop Loplop sump point yodel idle worm whittle garter girdle burner. Bundle stretch bottle kit. Tongue bung king dumb zang pang pong.

Manitoba    Up in Flames (Domino) Imagine a campfire in which most of the instruments of the world are burning. While being consumed, they emit tones beautiful and pathetic, in shifting degrees of intensity. You watch the flames, mesmerized, as some orange sounds leap up, then fade as bluish and greenish sounds lick in their place. Suddenly a saxophone-log squeals and pops as pitch oozes out. There are four lads in chipmunk masks who look like pasty car salesmen heya-heying around the fire like Bugs Bunny Injuns, beating on the parts (including a leather seat) of a sea-foam green ’61 El Dorado. Whoa there , Manitoba is one guy. One guy with (shudder) a laptop! Despite that, Dan Snaith is, like Mahler, strong on orchestration and orchestral color. Like the self-sampling Freeform, he successfully frappes the eastern, the western, the bangin’, the random, the soft, and the grand into…uhh….a delicious frappe! Unlike many of the lap[top]dogs, however, he does it con brio, piu imaginativo, vivace, and scherzando. Rather than sounding like a software user plugging Spectrum and My Bloody variables into a logarithm, Manitoba is a geek going apeshit with fingerpaints. This shit is massive!

Nanang Tatang   Muki (Tiger Style) While listening to this, I looked up into the cloudless Saturday sky and saw, high up, a blue balloon floating from roof to roof. Funny how a reviewer needn’t invent images anymore to describe music. Comparisons of this superbly named pair to Low are about as avoidable as black flies in upstate New York. [Note to left-coasties: i.e., unavoidable]. But the similarity pretty much ends at the vocals. The minimal instrumentation, too, is there, but isn’t melancholy so much as taking its time, as if on the way to or from an afternoon nap. Parents Elizabeth Mitchell and Daniel Littleton (both formerly of Ida) seem to have taken some lessons from their new child about observing the world and themselves without bias or bitterness. The lyrics are sometimes like the pillow talk of a smart, half-asleep couple. This is a pleasant record, two years in the making, that you can easily appreciate as one made solely for its creators. The music wanders, repeats itself like rain, or reclines like a cat, as it wishes. If I drink a glass of warm milk, and feel my heart-rate flag, I can get into this.

Vervein    Vast Low Cities (self-released) Vervein makes me want to listen to another band, which isn’t necessarily a good effect for a band to have. That other band is The Breeders. Apart from some nice cello and squeaky-clean Rickenbackering, what makes Vervein different? Well, the Breeders are always ready to pull the rug out from under you. They’re a crazy but appealing bunch of flirts. Vervein’s pretty vocals and thoughtful playing keep coming through song after song, with lyrics that make you wonder and smile: “patience is the only thing/that comes to those who wait.” The line “slow and steady wins the race,” from “Mockingbird,” might very well describe them. The Deals are the super-cool rockers who will never go out with you, much less look at your sorry ass. Croonistas Jessica Congdon and Rachel Fuller, though, will throw you a nice smile as they look up from reading a Murakami book on a perfect day at a College Ave café. Or you’ll have an interesting conversation with them about nebulae at a party while everyone else is crushing Pabst cans on their foreheads. They’re pistachio gelato to The Breeders’ chocolate ice cream. Esther, Allison, Rachel, Jessica, sorry to go on about the Breeders in your review. Maybe you know how wallflowers always get shoved into a corner by the hipsters.

Stara Nova    demo (self-released) Listening to these four songs is like eating a piece of frozen wedding cake: a reminder of a blissful moment long gone. The music is centered on the pitch-perfect vocals of Karina DeNike and Jessica Grace, whose superb harmonies float on a dark current of Eric Garland's restrained and textured drumming and James Frazier's guitar, which triples as bass and astral projector. Paced like Sunday afternoon, the songs are stars, cold and beautiful from afar, white-hot up close. "The Burn," feeling like an uncomfortable break-up talk, exemplifies the music's ambiguity. From arch and cool verses ("you think that you're hot/but your star is falling fast/to this cold earth") erupt passionate choruses ("don't you leave me alone"). With Garland's vibraphone finesse, "Outside Looking In" is a dilemma between comfort and vulnerability. With a killer drum outro, "Sleeping With the Enemy" swallows regret, duplicity, and lust in one bourbonic (but ladylike) gulp. Akin to Massive Attack, Bjork on a mild sedative, and better than Portishead, Stara Nova's songs keep a polite distance, but aren't to be taken lightly. After getting sucked into this disc a dozen times, you may be hesitant to put it in. It's that good.

Here's a rather (in retrospect) Capra-esque piece, published in Voices newspaper, where i was staff photographer and occasional writer/theater critic, Sept. 2000: Go Video Closes, Future Uncertain By Dan Nelson SOUTHBURY-WOODBURY - After 15 years of offering new movies, foreign movies, classics, obscure television series, video games, a knowledge of film and friendly, down-home service to people in the Southbury area, Go Video has gone out of business.            One night in the mid-80s, Brookfield resident Ed Maher left a video store after being treated like dirt and decided right then, he told Voices, to open his own store. Relying on his desire and ability to interact well with people, he made it his mission to create a store where he would try to make every situation work, in a word: to help people. Thus Go Video was born.            When a Heritage Village resident, for example, called asking how to use a VCR, Ed would head over to the house and show the caller how to install and use the machine. Even at the store on an average day, Ed's helpfulness would shine through as he paused mid-sentence in a conversation to direct someone to a section of the store.            In addition to offering new and classic releases, Ed stocked the shelves with plenty of esoterica. If you wanted that Korean one about the food-crazy woman who lived next door to the woman who never ate anything and then served up her boyfriend's dog to him, he had it. If you wanted the third Ronald Reagan film, he probably had it. You sought a squash instructional video? He probably had it.            Take the friendly staff - you probably watched at least one of them grow up, maybe another was a friend of your son or daughter - who knew how to navigate the dozens of categories, throw in the poster giveaways, the Playstation set-up where you could try out a game, the rental and repair of VCRs, the incredible variety of Ed's catalog - and even the karaoke machine - and you could hardly have asked more from a store. Ed hadn't even raised the prices since opening.            When asked how the end of Go Video came about, Ed has a one-word explanation: Blockbuster.            Ed Kaczynski, owner of Woodbury's Video World, agrees that, combined with other factors, the presence of a store offering numerous copies of the newest releases makes competition at least difficult, if not impossible. Other factors include the Internet, the great variety of other forms of entertainment and, in Ed Maher's opinion, the popularity of dining out. According to Ed Kaczynski, most of the movies at Blockbuster and other franchises are acquired, as in movie theaters, by revenue-sharing: film companies loan movies to a store, the store rents them, keeping 60 percent of sales, for example, and giving 40 percent to the film company. In this way, the store avoids paying the average wholesale price of $70 per copy for new releases.            Most independent stores, such as Go Video and Video World, do not participate in revenue-sharing and choose instead to buy new releases and attempt to recoup the money through rental. Ed Kaczynski explains his decision thus: "When you opt for revenue-sharing, then they [the film companies] have you right where they want you. You're under their thumb." The fact that film companies partially finance the production of movies from the prospective video rental profits indicates the size of profits from both revenue-sharing and regular sales.            The availability of new titles at franchise stores, their renting power and the general emphasis on the newest, latest thing seems to create and nurture what Ed Kaczynski sees as a mania for the new. "See this movie this week, because in a week or two you might not be able to," he says, characterizing a video marketing strategy based on that of theatrical releases. "You show someone a movie, especially kids, and the first thing they want to know is, 'When did this come out?,' and if it's a year or two old, they usually put it back."            A young woman and man bring two newer film versions of the Joan of Arc story to the counter. "Which of these is better?" In a characteristic gesture, Ed Kaczynski's finger vacillates between the two as he pauses momentarily. The words he chooses turn out to be shrewd: "Well, this one is more graphic," he says, pointing to the newer one. "Yeah, that's what I want," says the man.            The two Eds have known each other since Video World opened in 1990 and spoke often over the past year about possible ways in which Go Video could survive. A combination of about three decades of experience in the business brought no successful answer.            When asked how he sees his own future in the business, Ed Kaczynski shrugs. He foresees neither the gradual shift from video to DVD, nor technological developments merging the computer and television, as a loss of business, but he isn't strapping on a party hat either. He would like to broaden his catalog with more adventurous fare, but must always keep the demand for such films in mind.            Ed employs young people whom he has seen grow up and who work for him sometimes until completing college. He teaches them to overcome their shyness by directing them to make eye contact with customers. He seems to remember the names of most of his customers and sometimes their numbers. Far from the humming computer systems of chain video stores, where names and rental histories are sold (generating significant profits) to direct marketing firms, Ed flips through a catalog of 5x7 cards to see which movies are late.

Published on the Pride of Baltimore II web site, spring 1998: Rhapsody on a chart            It seems that the ti leaves that we lashed to both ends of the boat to insure a peaceful voyage are so far turning out to be, um, too effective. Since there's not much to do during night watch on this slow boat to China, I often take a long look at the small scale, i.e. big area, chart of the north Pacific. After looking only at maps of land masses in the atlas for most of your life, you (like me) probably assumed that there "wasn't much out there" in the Pacific ocean. There are usually only two pages devoted to the Pacific that show some islands - Hawaii, the Marshalls, Guam, and the islands on which big battles were fought in World War II - but not much else. And as far as features of the bottom, it treats the ocean as if were a swimming pool!            But on the chart (which highlights features of the ocean), there are reefs, atolls, mountains (called seamounts), valleys (called trenches), even rises. And in a twist of justice, it is the great land masses (like Asia and North America) that are barren of features. They're represented only as flat yellow shapes with irregular borders. The islands, atolls and seamounts are surrounded by the kind of lines you see on small topographic maps used by backpackers. These show the height, incline, and contours of underwater mountains and hills.            The other night, a great find: Kapingamaringi Atoll. It is written in Roman characters (our alphabet), but such a word would never originate on the lips of an English-speaker - not even Lewis Carroll! Here's some more atolls: Rongelap, Jabwot, Eniwetok, Ailinglapalap, Tabiteuea, Nukufetau, Vaitupu. And moving further west away from Polynesian lands over the Caroline and Mariana Islands toward Indonesia, we find Senyavin Atoll, Truk Island, Anatahan, Saipan, Guguah, Alamagan, Ulithi, Palau Island, and - what's this?!?! – Lady Elgin Bank?? There are, finally, some names from which I cannot even deduce what is signified, such as Selat Makasar.            And who ever said there were only seven seas? Have you heard of the Arafura Sea (it laps the southern coast of Indonesia), the Banda Sea, or the Sulawesi Sea, which is framed by the Indonesian and Philippine Islands of Mindanao, Sarawak, Kalimantan, and Sulawesi? The Sawu Sea, the Coral Sea.... You can only appreciate these names fully if you try to pronounce them, for it is naming them that makes the music. That is where their foreignness and, consequently, their appeal lies.            The crazy depth contours are hard to describe. Many spots hundreds of square miles are just white blots with a single number in their midst: 3042 (meters). Near the island chains there are massive trenches whose sides descend steeply to depths that are hard to imagine: 566, 2763, 3932, 4872, 9396, 10915 meters - that's thirty-three thousand feet! Again, the swimming pool image, "Twelve feet at the deep end, people!" These are depths at which light does not penetrate, and has never penetrated, inhabited by creatures who have, instead of eyes, organs which sense the electrical fields emitted by other creatures. There - somewhere - fish swim through valleys and among mountains, over which sail ships that, to them, would seem to be floating in mid-air, driven by beings emitting incomprehensible sounds and frolicking in an element, a dimension, they cannot even perceive. So who are the aliens in this scenario? This reminds me of a remark Amy made during our departure ceremony in Baltimore to the effect that, "It's like we're going to the @*#!@&! moon or something!"            But then I go up on deck and there are the same scattered cumulus clouds and the same gentle swell we've been seeing for a week. Even though we will sail over depths of thirty thousand feet, we will probably not see a single one of these islands. So what's the appeal of looking at a chart? Perhaps we will see more exotic things even than these, for they are only on the way! I'm not a teacher, so I admit that I don't really know why it's appealing - except for the mystery. Anything which places you near or before the unknown - that's why we're on this trip - to see what we cannot predict we'll see. The waters on the chart, at least as far as depth and contour are concerned, are clearly laid out. It is the land that is blank. So, of the water we will know nothing more than its surface. Of the land? Not an enigma, but close.            If I do not see any of these islands and atolls, I can still mumble their names as I peruse the chart, and imagine what they might look like, what their people look like and how they dress (if they do dress!), and what sounds and sights one might experience there and nowhere else on the planet.            The ship herself is an island, moving among islands, with her own ways, her own language, and beings who dream what no other beings dream - and one being who dreams of Kpn Damar.