Urban

Folk
the zine on the
acoustic scene

Somer
in the City

Issue 12
Summer
2007
 Urban Folk, Issue 12 – the Summer issue
Well, Summer’s here, so, naturally, uh... Somer’s here. The winter doldrums, long gone, are replaced by a
damp, drenched sunshine that simply refuses to go away...It’s a good thing?
Herb Scher continues his outstanding run of covers, while Brook Pridemore continues his outstanding run of
getting into trouble out of town. Read all about Brook and Dan’s adventures in Canada – along with Dave
Cuomo’s adventures in Canada, as well as features on Brooklyn’s M. Lamar, Northern England’s Jenny
McCormick, New Jersey’s Dibson T. Hoffweiler, and AntiFolk’s Debe Dalton.
Our coverage of live events increases this issue and – hey! If there’s a show you think should be featured in the
zine on the scene, send a word out, a’ight? In fact, you know the drill: if you you’ve got a feature you’d like to
write, some reviews you think you can produce, photos or illustrations, just let us know. We’re hungry for you –
and cheeseburgers.

IN THIS VERY ISSUE:

COVER DESIGNED BY SENOR HERB SCHER 1

SOMER W HO DOES THIS CHICK THINK SHE IS?MADONNA? CHER? PRINCE? FIND THE ANSWERS... 4
GET IN THE MINIVAN BROOK PRIDEMORE HATES TEXAS. WHY? READ THE ARTICLE 8
EXEGESIS DEPARTMENT JUSTIN REMER (OF ELASTIC NO-NO BAND) EXPLAINS WHAT’S GOING ON IN “RUN-DMC” 10
“SILLY OLD COOT” FREDO FLINTSTONÉ ON DEBE DALTON 12
LIVE ! RELIVE SOME OF THE SPECIAL SHOWS THAT YOU MISSED . THIS TIME: ALLOY TV & WAGSTOCK ‘07 14
DEAD SOMER WROTE A SONG. IT AIN’T PRETTY 17
DIBS BLEEDS BANDS DO YOU KNOW DIBSON T. HOFFWEILER ? THEN HE’S PROBABLY IN YOUR BAND 18
W HITE PUSSY W HO IS M. LAMAR? NO, REALLY. WHO IS THIS GUY? ANSWERS AWAIT 21
JENNY MCCORMICK NORTHERN ENGLAND’S BEST AND BRIGHTEST SPEAKS TO SOPHIE PARKES 24
O CANADA Q: HOW MANY ANTIFOLKIES CAN GET IN TROUBLE IN CANADA? A: ALL OF THEM! 26
BAR 169 HAD A GOOD EXPERIENCE AT BAR 169? YOU MIGHT BE ALONE... 32
COSTELLO’S W EB OUR OWN DAN COSTELLO WRITES WEB REVIEWS ON THE ROAD. TRUE STORY 34
RECORD REVIEWS W ANT TO KNOW IF YOU SHOULD BUY TOBY, LINDA, OR JEFF’S ALBUM? THIS MIGHT HELP 36

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to be a more educated man.”
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Urban Folk, Issue 11

Available at:
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Urban Folk #12 ~ 4
 Hot Town, Somer in the City
Emily Moment
How many rock and roll musicians can say that the
Miss USA pageant had a direct impact on their life? I
know one that can. In 1975, he winner of the Miss USA
pageant, Summer Bartholomew, inspired a happy
mother-to-be to tuck away the beauty queen’s name
for future reference. Her husband, also fond of the name,
modified the spelling in honor of the actress Elke
Sommers and thus, eventually, Somer Ann Bingham
was born. Known today as just Somer, this petite but
powerful “electro-grunge” rocker with her sultry singing
voice and tough exterior is way more than meets the
eye. Blushing and giddy, she was teeming with girlish
excitement when she showed up to be interviewed. This
was quite a departure from the heartbroken, stormy, 28
year-old I’ve seen at the Sidewalk for a year and never
really known. For three hours she opened up about her
life’s highs and lows, her fears and her dreams and
asked about just as many questions as she answered.
She claimed she could talk about music for hours... so
we did.
Somer was raised in a tight-knit family with her younger
sister down in Orlando, Florida. “Yeah, Disney,” she
laughs, “I don’t like telling people that as if it de-legiti-
mizes my coolness.” Somer wasn’t really into music
at a young age and didn’t actually pick up an instru-
ment until college. Instead, the focus of her life growing
up was athletics. Both parents played in volleyball
leagues, and Somer was quick to pick up the game, in
addition to basketball and softball.
In attendance at a religious preparatory school
Somer became a Born-Again Christian. She remem-
bers worrying about whether her family would be saved
because, though religious, their beliefs were not quite
so radical as hers. But around the age of 16, when she
changed prep schools for a better Volleyball team, she
ended up in an unexpected religious crisis. Not only
was she for the first time integrated into a community
of varied religions, but the notion began to crystalize
that Somer was gay. It became very clear that if the
desires she had were sinful, then something was not
right with her faith. Soon after, she developed a ten-
dency towards deep depression, suppressed her ho-
mosexuality, and focused purely on her game.
Somer mentions casually on her myspace page how
she basically went to New Jersey to skip classes. Those
classes happened to be at Princeton University, this
year rated the top college in the country (beating out
Urban Folk #12 ~ 5
photos by Herb Scher
both Harvard and Yale). “The only reason I went there
was to play Volleyball. When I got in I didn’t have any
concept of Ivy league top-tier schools, I was just ‘sports,
sports, sports’.”
Somer chose English as her Major since it was the
only class in which she received a grade higher than a
“C.” It didn’t take long for her status at the elite Univer-
sity to take a nose dive. Junior year, she contracted
mononucleosis and, tired of traveling from bench to
bench, quit the team. Somer fell into a deep depres-
sion, and found herself in a self-destructive, borderline
suicidal tear of drugs and alcohol that ultimately re-
sulted in her expulsion. Though this was also when
she first picked up the guitar.
“College is just so weird. I feel like at that age we don’t
deserve that much freedom. Having been at such a good
school and not being ready to accept the responsibil-
ity, I blew that opportunity. It was a really tough time. I
flew home and told my parents I was kicked out of
school, I had a drug problem... and I was gay.” Though
she eventually ended up reapplying, convincing the
school to let her back to finish her degree, those years
of Somer’s life remained lonely and troubled.
Out of school with not much real direction in life, Somer
met Karen, her first girlfriend.
“It was the first time I was in love and my whole world
was just about this girl. I was traveling at the time and
I just wanted to follow her around. I pictured the rest of
my life with her. But then she broke up with me and
started dating this guy and I was just devastated. And
because up until that point I hadn’t been really serious
about music, I felt like I didn’t have anything, any mean-
ing, any thing to live for, then that happened and some-
thing snapped in me.” Ever since, music has been her
life, ironically leaving her grateful for the influential cata-
pult of the grief. “As I naturally got over her I started
writing about different things. And it was tough for fans
and listeners then because all my songs were about
love and heartbreak, but then I really began to evolve
artistically.”
After several years of traveling and writing, Somer fi-
nally settled in Manhattan. She purchased a wealth of
sound mixing and recording equipment and began
loosely playing in and around the city while doing office
accounting work to pay the bills. At the end of May
2006 she finally worked up the moxy to try her luck
at the Sidewalk Café.
Urban Folk: Tonight is your year anniversary at the Side-
walk. Do you remember your first night?
Somer: I was really intimidated because the Sidewalk
was supposed to be the Mecca of all open mics. I stayed
the whole night and I was floored by the talent.
UF: What has being a Sidewalk “Sound Bitch” taught
you?
SB: For starters it made me really appreciate Lach
because he makes it seem so easy. I see so much
music now. And I’ve learned that everyone has a song.
Everyone has that moment of perfect inspiration. That
hit or that thing that just taps right into the emotion, or
maybe it’s not even the whole song... it’s just that mo-
ment. Everyone’s got that awesome phrasing or that
cool chord change.
UF: Are there any musicians that you know personally
that you look up to?
SB: Definitely the Fools... anyone who listens to the
Fools gets them, and Daniel Bernstein (the artist for-
merly known as Dan Pinta), he’s poetic and sincere
and he’s got this crazy style of singing and his songs
catch me somehow. He just hits it.
UF: Recently you broke your arm and you had to be in
a cast.
SB: Yeah, I was snowboarding on a romantic vacation
with my girlfriend. That was really depressing to me.
Especially because the band – meaning me and this
sound guy – was just about to start playing rock shows,
we’d been practicing and we just bought a drum kit and
then I went and broke my hand.
UF: Did you make any artistic discoveries because you
were forced to have other people play for you?
SB: Dan (Asselin) was actually a rock star, he played
three shows with me. I’d never just sung before. And I
love it! It was incredible. I actually think though that
technically I’m worse when I’m just singing. Maybe sing-
ing with the guitar makes me sing from my diaphragm
better or something but it’s a whole different connec-
Urban Folk #12 ~ 6
tion with the audience. You have to look at them be-
cause you have nowhere else to look. It almost made
me think that I should bring someone else on to play
the guitar permanently. Although do you think it some-
how de-legitimizes the musicianship of it? As if when
you sing and play it makes you more authentic?
UF: You’ve either got the passion or you don’t. If you
believe it makes you connect better with the audience,
that’s what’s important. Better to take all the vulner-
ability that you hole up in your guitar and send it out-
wards. Isn’t amazing how collaboration can really evolve
your own style?
SB: Yeah, Dan heard me play and I had just gotten out
of the cast so I could only sort of manage. And he
started doing this thing with my song in dropped D –
which I never do – it was a whole new version of the
song that I never could’ve imagined.
UF: Do you concentrate on there being a through-line
or a message in your music?
SB: I think my music is a little schizophrenic. It’s like:
here’s my ballad, and here’s my Emo, my grungy, and
my electronic stuff. I feel like I have four or five songs
that are the rock songs. And in a rock set I’ll incorpo-
rate some ballads but make them faster to match the
set. I would like to do an EP that was sort of like Nir-
vana Unplugged. You know, with just a cellist, a drum-
mer and me in a room and make it dark and raw. For
now I’m starting to play out with someone who does all
the synths and the sounds and that’s kind of what I
envision myself doing for the next chunk of my career
and see how far I can push that.
UF: How do you write?
SB: I have all these thoughts bubbling over and I try to
put them on the back burner. I kind of write piecemeal.
I take lyrics from other songs I’ve written and put them
in songs I’m working on. Sometimes I take lyrics from
other peoples songs... God, that sounds really bad.
UF: Everybody does that. Besides a specific line or
phrasing can mean something very different for two
people. Meaning is so
relative.
SB: Yeah, I have no idea
what “Polly Got Away”
was about.
UF: Really?
SB: Yeah. I was listen-
ing to Nirvana Unplugged
constantly. And I was try-
ing to look at “Polly” from
her point of view. The
chords are very Nirvana-
esque and then the end
of the song – the “do it to me clean” part – I took from
another song I was working on. Musically I’m not really
sure that it makes sense.
UF: Where do you create?
SB: The studio is my bedroom... in fact it’s more of a
studio than a bedroom. It’s like the new-age starving
artists room... lots of high-tech equipment – no bed.
UF: Are you calculated and controlling about the type
of performance you give?
SB: No, sometimes I forget to write the set list. Some
people can just play. I like to have a little bit of flow to it,
but I’m usually so concerned about whether there’s a
battery in my guitar, or whether I should use reverb.
UF: Do you ever worry about what the audience is think-
ing or feeling?
SB: I remember I went to see The Kills, they’re really,
really, good. And after the show I felt stoned... I felt
alive and excited and depressed that it was over. If I
had someone feel that way after one of my shows that
would be incredible.
UF: If you weren’t playing music?
SB: Oh, don’t ask me that. I really don’t know. For me
it would be a worse experience than that first breakup.
Once you find something that you’re good at, it just
Urban Folk #12 ~ 7
becomes exponentially more and more something that
you can’t live without – even though I’m not quite great
at it yet.
UF: Are you insecure about your music?
SB: I’m not being true to it.
UF: What steps do you have to take to be true to it?
SB: It just has to be what I do all the time. For every-
thing I do to be focused to that. But I just don’t want it
to be so hard that it becomes a job... too forced... too
contrived. What do you think about lyrics over
emotion?
UF: That I guess you don’t have to worry about words
when you’re succeeding with a song where your main
lyrics are “la” and “hey.” (Referring to Somer’s shoutin’
diddy, “Hey”)
SB: (laughing) Yeah, that song is lyrically challenged.
UF: OK. Lets say you had complete and utter control
over your future –
SB: I do.
UF: Well, OK. But theoretically speaking, where would
you be in 10 years and what would your journey have
been like?
SB: I would be doing music every day, traveling, hope-
fully on tour. I don’t think any true musician goes out
and says I want to be on MTV, but you want to reach
as large an audience as possible... which is why I love
Myspace... People might rag on it, but man, it’s a free
website, I’ve met friends through it, I can keep track of
musicians I love, and I really like it... unashamedly. I
have all these side projects, the acoustic stuff, and
weird concept albums and if I had the means to be able
to focus on that stuff I would be really happy and I don’t
think it’s too far fetched. But as far as moving forward
and being motivated I don’t know where to draw a line.
Maybe I need to save up for more studio space but if I
do that I’m gonna have to keep the day job and if I keep
the day job I’m gonna have less time for the music.
She may not want you to know this in case it de-legiti-
mizes her coolness, but Somer’s a sweetheart. She’s
bright, easy to talk to, and I can pretty well promise
that if you track her down, she’ll be eager to discuss
and debate the vast universe of everything that is mu-
sic. Her eclectic style is ever-evolving and if you start
following her now, you’ll be lucky enough to take the
journey with her. This Fall, Somer will be in France on
tour, opening for “The X-Tra Pleasure Burning Band”
But if you’d like to catch her here, now, in the States
she’s got a bunch of gigs coming up all of which you
can track at . ’Tis the season after all... summer’s here.
 Get in the Minivan
All Hail Northwest Texas!
Brook Pridemore
Over the last couple of years, I’ve come to thrive off the
warmth of a roomful of kids who actually WANT to be
there at the bookshops, basements and living rooms
that account for the alternative venues of America. The
kid who invites you to his house, tells all of his friends,
and cooks a nice vegan spread for a pre-show meal is
a million times more gratifying to play in front of than,
say, a handful of incidental, angry drunks who would
rather be listening to the jukebox.
Just a few weeks ago, I experienced a 180 degree flip,
in which the bar worked out far better than the house.
In 2006, we heard a bunch of crazy stories about about
this showspace in Amarillo, TX called The Pod. It was
apparently a storefront that had been converted into
living space, and they put up shows for traveling and
local rock people.
May rolls along, and dAN Treiber finally got in touch
with the guys who do shows at The Pod. We feel pretty
psyched that they know who we are and are looking
forward to us coming. Day of show, however, and dAN,
Guitar Bomb and I pull into town to find a locked door,
Urban Folk #12 ~ 8
photo by Lauren Terilli
and a bewildered kid who didn’t believe we’d actually
show up. He thus did nothing to promote our show and
get people into the room. We wanted to yell at him, but
he got so drunk through the course of the evening that
he flew into a rage and broke his hand punching a wall.
Fast forward a year: all three of the same principles,
doing what they claim to do best. That is, me, dAN and
Guitar Bomb, on the same circuit West of Austin once
more. I get the email from dAN saying we’re going back
to The Pod, and I shudder. He swears new booker prom-
ises us better show. I maintain my reservations. Which
become increasingly more doom-apparent as we get
closer to date of show – the phone line has been dis-
connected, and several emails go unresponded. We
pull into town to an open door, and some random kids
milling around outside the venue, which doubles as re-
hearsal space for several local metal bands. The place
stinks like piss and vomit (not in a charming way), and
the poorly lit, David Fincher-esque lighting system be-
lies the beautiful West Texas afternoon outside. Matt,
the booker (who I remember from last time, he was the
guy who had the sense to call all of his friends last
minute and make them come over for the show), looks...
surprised. As if he didn’t believe we would actually show
up.
Or maybe he wants us to get the point. After an awk-
ward exchange between Matt and dAN, in which Matt
explains that it’s hard to get kids to come over to shows
on weeknights (which is bullshit on a stick – it was a
Thursday), I use the restroom while the others go out-
side. Matt, when asked who was playing the house
that night and having no idea I’m still inside, says, “I
don’t know. A couple of fuckin’ folk singers.” At this
point, everyone in the house except Matt leaves. We
cross the street and hang out in a park, swinging on
swings and trading acrimonious stares with the local
homeless and jobless, trying to figure out what to do
with the evening.
Around “showtime” we make the way back to The Pod
(which was renamed E.O.S. over the last year, but since
I don’t know what the acronym stands for, I simply do
not acknowledge the change), at which point Matt comes
out from his room and says he doesn’t think people are
gonna show up. He and dAN have a pretty tense ex-
change, the kind I like to leave the room for. dAN comes
out a few minutes later and tells us we’re leaving.
Now, it’s funny that my last column was all about hav-
ing sworn never to set foot in the city of Oakland again;
Urban Folk #12 ~ 9
if the story had ended here, I can imagine myself lifting
the ban on Oakland and settling it on Amarillo. But the
story doesn’t end, and it didn’t end up being a waste
after all.
The three of us drive downtown to the sports bar part of
town – you know, the “college” or “frat” or “bro” bars.
dAN and Mikey pick one at random that looks like it’s
got live music, and explains our situation. The propri-
etors of the bar are more than happy to have us play.
Mikey and I quickly set up the PA, making due playing
to the handful of people in the bar, most of whom don’t
seem to care about us, but at least aren’t rude. dAN’s
able to scrape together a few CD sales and a sizeable
amount of tip money. Now, these things don’t matter –
I should be writing about how awesome the night was,
how many cool people that I met, and how at home I
felt in the bar that night. This was not the case. It was
a sterile, chilly environment full of polite but indifferent
people who certainly don’t remember our names now.
Like every story should, though (at least one worth tell-
ing), this story has a moral, and it was something that
I said while I was playing that night: Sometimes it’s
better to play the place that sells beer, rather than the
place that smells like beer.
 Exegesis Department
“Run-DMC”
I don’t know what it is about hip-hop that appeals to
young singer-songwriter types. Maybe it’s the fact that
it’s the closest thing to poetry that pop music has got
going. Whatever the reason, I have gone to tons of open
mics and been inundated with white boys rapping while
playing acoustic guitars.
Now, in the abstract, there’s nothing wrong with a singer-
songwriter being inspired by hip-hop. For certain tunes
I write for my group, Elastic No-No Band, I take a lot of
inspiration from ‘50s rock, and if someone tried to tell
me that ‘50s rock had no relevance and I should stop
being inspired by it, I would tell them to fuck off and die
a painful death (I would say this most likely in my head
rather than out loud, but you see what I mean). There-
fore, in the abstract, there’s nothing wrong with that.
In the real world, and not in the abstract, there is some-
thing wrong: most of these folks suck at hip-hop. And
the ones who do the acoustic hip-hop thing for irony’s
sake score no cleverness points with me, because most
of them couldn’t make you laugh even if a funny person
told them a side-splittingly hilarious joke and then said,
“Repeat that.”
So why, after being annoyed by all these unfunny jok-
ers, would I write an ironic acoustic song with hip-hop
lyrics?
Well, duh: to show
them how it’s done.
Frankly, I find the
kind of language
used in old-school
hip-hop fascinating
– secret codewords
like “wheels of
steel,” “sucker
MC’s,” “biting,”
“illing,” and “ill” (the
last two of which
can mean opposite
things). This is stuff I used to hear on Beastie Boys
records that I now realize were picked up from Run-
DMC.
At the time I wrote this song, I was listening to Run-
DMC’s self-titled first album and Raising Hell a lot, let-
Urban Folk #12 ~ 10
Justin Remer
ting that wordplay and that sense of humor run around
in my brain.
Meanwhile, I was trying to work up a tune in something
other than 4/4 time, since I had just read about how
“Jocko Homo” by Devo (you know, the “Are we not men?”
song) was in 7/8 time. I felt lame and musically unen-
lightened for not writing anything in a weird time signa-
ture. I started strumming chords in funky patterns, un-
til I finally settled on 6/8 time (okay, so it’s not at all
weird, but it’s not 4/4 either).
I strummed, and I just started singing lyrics that
sounded to me like they could be old-school, like “All
you sucker MC’s be biting me, like I was a cheesebur-
ger.” The rest of the writing process followed quickly
and banally, so I won’t mention it here.
Some folks hear the finished “Run-DMC” and compare
it to Dynamite Hack’s slowed-down, folked-up cover of
“Boyz N The Hood” or that bluegrass version of “Gin
and Juice” by The Gourds.
My response to that is, “Pffffff, no.”
Of course, once I calm down and think rationally about
it, sure, I can admit we’re all trying to get some giggles
from the disparity between what’s being said and how
it’s delivered. But those guys seem to be making fun of
the words – “See what happens when you take these
ridiculous words and put them in a new context?” –
while I, of course, am celebrating the language’s unique-
ness, using it as a tool to create my low-key comedy.
I try to do what Run-DMC did. Their song “You Be Illin’”
is hilarious, but not because the slang is silly – it’s fun
storytelling with a specific, flavorful voice. I try to use
that kind of voice in “Run-DMC.” I just sing instead of
rap, and I do it over acoustic guitar-based music, in-
stead of a beat pattern or samples (although, I do ad-
mit that I think the song sounds in places like I bit
Leonard Cohen’s “So Long, Marianne,” but it was un-
conscious [yeah, right, isn’t that what George Harrison
said about “My Sweet Lord”{and where is he now}?]).
With “Run-DMC,” I call out all those terrible singer-
songwriters, because they are sucker MC’s. They may
not actually be biting me like I was a cheeseburger, but
after they hear this song, they might start trying.
 RUN-DMC
(J. Remer)

All you sucker MC’s be biting me

Like I was a cheeseburger
You step to the mic, clear your throat
But you should go no further
You pose like you’re a hero
But you’re a villain
You think your rhymes are ill
But you’re just illin’

You don’t know...

That Run-DMC are from Queens

You say I’m ridiculous

And you probably should
Ask any of the ladies
They’ll say I’m ridiculously good
I astonish and amaze
With my stylistic touches
While you’re chasing after cleverness
Like a fat girl on crutches

You don’t know...

It’s not pronounced Eric B. and “Rah-keem”

Like Bobby “Blue” Bland

And Mr. T
I pity the fool
Who’s a sucker MC
You’ll never make the A-Team
You’re always third string
It’s your fault, ‘cause you’re ignorant
You don’t know a thing

You don’t know...

That Run-DMC are from Hollis, Queens.

“Run-DMC” is available as a free download at

www.elasticnonoband.com

Urban Folk #12 ~ 11

 Fredo’s Rant
“silly old coot”
Fredo Flintstoné
“Don’t you think you’re a little too old for that?”
The first person who usually asks us that is
our mother, when we’re teenagers, and she
finds we have reverted to some prepubescent
behavior like sleeping with our beloved teddy
bear or watching reruns of Full House on TV.
What can I say? I always did have a thing for
those Olsen twins. Blondes will get you every
time. It seems, no matter what our age, we
always want to go back and relive our childish
past, much to the chagrin of others. Some-
times though, while it may seem to others that
we are trying to “recapture our youth” as it were,
we are really just trying to be whom we are,
children at heart.
One day at the quarry, after the noontime bell
whistle chimed out, I was laboring over my over-
flowing lunch bucket when I overheard some
of my quarry-mates talking about a club they
had gone to the previous weekend. According
to these guys, the lone band that played that
evening “sucked ass” and they each had to
shell out a $15.00 cover charge to boot (they
paid fifteen bucks for a shithole in the
Village?). A good time was not had by all, not
by anyone in fact. Not being one to keep a
good thing to myself, I strutted over to my ex-
cavating cohorts and told them of the AntiFolk
music scene – taking place in all the five bor-
oughs and everywhere else folk have an inter-
est in good music. At first, they all scoffed at
me, the fools. What could a “silly old coot”
like me possibly know about music, let alone
good rockin’ music? I offered to show them
what I knew about good, rockin’ music. They
relented, just as I knew they would, once my
offer included my buying the first – and every
other – round of drinks.
Much to the delight of my co-workers, now bo-
som buddies, I was correct. The AntiFolk mu-
sic scene rocked! Tell me something I don’t
already know. Once I let my eyes scan the
crowd, however, I did feel like the “silly old
Urban Folk #12 ~ 12
photo by Herb Scher
coot.” Kids, nothing but kids as far as the eye
could see. I was surrounded by twenty-some-
things, teens and tweeners - you know,
young’uns. They were loud, uncouth and
children. Could it possibly be that my younger
co-workers were correct in their assessment?
Was I just a “silly old coot” trying desperately
to recapture my youth? And then she took
the stage.
There’s a lot to be said for age, and the un-
derstanding that comes with it. Some things
you can pick up parts of through reading a
book or taking a class, but when you want to
take it to the highest level, make it a part of
you, then you need to experience it first hand.
There are so many different facets of life that
to take something, anything, down to its bar-
est essence you have to live it, live it long and
live it hard. No shortcuts. Taste it; smell it,
breathe it, feel it, become it. And she had done
exactly that. She, with a voice so full of a sweet
and pure wisdom that ran so deep it could
only speak the truth and nothing more. She,
with hair colored like a bright rainbow bounc-
ing off downy tufts of cloud after an intense
spring storm. She, a woman of age and of
knowledge. She, knowing and doing some-
thing no one half her age could possibly know
or hope to do. No one else around can come
as close serving Stephen Foster’s finest mo-
ment as a composer. It was brought to life
solely through the performance of Miss Debe
Dalton. All I could do was sit back and listen
to her voice and her banjo as she played “Oh!
Susanna.” Oh, she made my heart ache. I
wanted to book the next flight to New Orleans,
find Susannah myself and make sure Miss
Debe found Susannah so she wouldn’t surely
die.
When Miss Debe finished her song, all my
co-workers could muster was a collective,
“Wow.” She had taken not only my breath
away, but theirs as well. We were all awe-
struck by her performance. I was on my way to becom-
Myself moreso a few songs ing a “silly old coot,” be-
along when I realized that cause for the life of me, I
here was another human didn’t recall seeing any “hot
being alive who knew that blonde” at the show that
1927 was the very year that night. I had to find out if my
the Carter Family drove over eyes were starting to fail
to Bristol, Tennessee to au- me. I excused myself from
dition for the new recording the rockpile Romeosfrom
industry. Now if only she my quarry, turned tail and
knew they were each paid a made my way back into the
whopping $50.00 for their re- darkness of the bar to see
cording and… be still my what “hot blonde” the
heart! I doubt any young’uns young’uns were talking
know that little bit of trivia, about. I let my eyes once
let alone who the Carter Fam- again get accustom to the
ily were. Yes, there’s a lot to dark and then I scanned the
be said for the experience crowd looking for that “hot
and knowledge that comes blonde.” Did she look, per-
with age. haps, like Mary-Kate? My
eyes finally fell upon golden
On the way out we passed a locks and it only proved I
slew of young’uns jabbering needed to pay more atten-
away at the bar. I wasn’t pay- tion when eavesdropping. It
ing much attention, but the turned out the “hot blond”
term, “hot blonde” jumped out was none other than Frank
and caught my ear. I raised Hoier. Oh well, maybe next
an eyebrow. Hmm… maybe time.

Urban Folk #12 ~ 13

 .
! ed..
ve iss
Li s you m
how April 19, 2007
es
Alloy Radio’s YouTube Launch
th Bar Matchless
...
Alloy Radio is an internet radio site featuring indepen-
dent New York musicians, founded by Jeff Schram.
Alloy has quickly become known for the quality of its
music and innovative design. It has also been instru-
mental in bringing people together from various local
scenes and communities.
Alloy decided to embrace its visual side with the launch
of a new TV channel on YouTube. The first episode
was filmed at Matchless. Matchless is rapidly becom-
ing a hot spot for live music in Brooklyn. The mid-size
room is a great fit for both singer/songwriters and bands.
It’s also a welcome alternative for the performer who is
ready to ditch the dive bars with their crappy sound
and rude staff, but not quite up to packing Galapagos
or Warsaw.
When I arrived at Matchless, the back room was al-
ready bustling with activity. Two video cameras were
set up to capture live performances. Emily Rawlings, a
local artist and photographer, was preparing to take
pictures (some of which are included).
Leaning against the back wall, I watched Sami Akbari
take the stage. Sami is diminutive, but don’t be fooled.
She can belt out a note when she wants to, and her
personality can only be described as “feisty.” Her hu-
morous banter between songs had the audience crack-
ing up, yet she made the transition to a song about
heartbreak seem perfectly natural. Her smooth, jazz-
inflected vocals were flawless.
Jeff Schram and Sami Akbari (Emily Rawlings)
Urban Folk #12 ~ 14
Tom Hayes (Emily Rawlings)
Next up was my favorite Irish gentleman, Tom Hayes.
Tom’s voice slid effortlessly through melismas rolled
over finger-picked guitar. He drew the audience into his
world, where ordinary, overlooked moments are trans-
formed into achingly beautiful memories. The set con-
cluded with an a cappella piece that was handed down
to him, a ghostly Irish folk song that seemed to strip
away the distance between continents and generations.
Tom was followed by Here Lies Pa. With several
months of continuous gigging under their belts, Here
Lies Pa has perfected their sound while maintaining a
rousing organic quality. The band made skillful use of
dynamics while Paul Basile’s seasoned voice easily
shifted from a murmur to a growl. “Beverly Road” was
particularly striking, with a driving bridge leading up to
a surprisingly understated conclusion.
Finally, the night wrapped with a performance by Jeff
Schram. Jeff is one of those rare folks in the local scene
that fills several roles including promoter, web designer,
pod-jay… the list goes on. It can be difficult to main-
tain your identity as a musician, while so otherwise
occupied, but Jeff has achieved a healthy balance. His
set showcased new material from his upcoming release,
Season of the White Crow. The new songs are far and
away his best work, with relentless energy and irre-
sistibly singable hooks.
Check out Alloy TV on YouTube at youtube.com/
alloyradio. (Jessi Robertson)
alloyradio.com
jeffjeffjeff.com
samiakbari.com
myspace.com/tommyhayes
myspace.com/hereliespa
myspace.com/emilyrawlings
 June 21, 2007
.
! ed.. Wagstock ‘07
e ss Wagner’s Cove

Liv s you mi
On June 8, 1936, the Carter Family went into the studio to record a song that
surveyed the hardships of our world and contrasted it with the joy of the sweet

ow
hereafter. “For fear the hearts of men are failing,” the song began, “For these are latter
h days we know.” 79 years and 13 days later, Annie Crane sang these exact same words as

thes the final song performed at Make Music New York’s show at Wagner’s Cove, a picturesque
.. . corner tucked away deep in the center of Central Park along the 72nd Street parallel. You won’t find
it on any map – I passed by it three times and asked several clueless park rangers before the popsicle
man directed me up Cherry Hill, from which I found the secret rustic path that led down to the shaded grove
that borders the park’s Lake. Standing at the water’s edge is a small wooden shelter, built in memory of a Mayor
Robert Wagner, from which the Cove gets its name.
Folksinger Annie Crane and AntiFolk singer Elizabeth Devlin were drawn to this spot when they each signed
up for Make Music New York, a startup program that organizes musicians to play free shows all around the city.
Pooling their time together, Crane and Devlin decided to fill out their allotted three-hour slot with Eric Wolfson
(myself), Rachael Benjamin, Soft Black, Frank Hoier, a fermata, Dan Costello, and other friends and
surprise guests from New York’s folk and AntiFolk scenes. What follows is one performer’s account of the show,
in estimated real time.
5:30 PM: Some people find their way through Central
Park to Wagner’s Cove for the show’s scheduled six
o’clock starting time; most people remain lost in the
endless tangle of the Morgan Chase company mara-
thon, happening at the same time.
6:34 PM: Dan Costello steals a Gatorade bottle from
the marathon table, but is disgusted that the lemon-
flavored “water drink” is not simply water.
6:46 PM: Enough people have now arrived for the show
to start, but rain starts instead. Everyone gathers the
blankets, instruments, and bags into the Cove’s small
wooden shelter. Bemused by the idea of a bunch of
musicians’ outside concert getting rained on, I dub the
show “Wagstock.” It sticks.
6:59 PM: Bets are placed for how long it will take for Dan Costello up a tree (Annie Crane)
the rain to let up; Annie Crane wins with eight minutes.
7:38 PM: During my set, one of the two random hipster
7:07 PM: Wagstock co-founders Annie Crane and Eliza- kids who followed us down to the Cove laughs at my
beth Devlin introduce the show and each sing a song esoteric “I talked to Grover Cleveland two non-consecu-
to start it up. Annie plays it straight, singing a lilting tive times” joke in “Talking Dead President Blues.” I
folk ballad called “Seneca Falls,” while Elizabeth calls decide he’s the smarter, although not necessarily the
up her sister Rachel to sing a song that uses the names cooler, of the hipsters.
of sea creatures in the place of regular nouns and verbs.
At first I could follow Elizabeth’s jokes, and then I lob- 7:51 PM: Rachael Benjamin opens with a protest song
ster. – about how her husband won’t let her get a dog.

7:23 PM: Dan Costello follows the Devlin sisters’ care-
free lead and climbs onto the large diagonal tree trunk
at Wagner’s Cove and sings about a land where corpo-
rations only want to hire a rich son of a snob and vice
presidents ignore their duties to go on hunting expedi-
tions where they accidentally shoot people. In other
words, America.
8:01 PM: I search in vain for a vendor selling Gatorade
before deciding to grab two Gatorade bottles from the
company marathon – one for myself and one for Frank
Hoier. I never ask Frank what he thinks of the liquid,
but I don’t find it nearly as repulsive as Dan did. Al-
though I would have preferred the “Frost” flavor, the “Free”
flavor is ultimately the best.

Urban Folk #12 ~ 15


Soft Black (Annie Crane)
8:10 PM: Soft Black comments how beautiful every-
thing is and how he wishes he could think of a beautiful
song to play; I suggest “The Light in My Eye” and he
complies with a smile. It’s a lovely moment, but I still
wish I could remember that hilarious joke he had made
a few minutes earlier making fun of the Morgan Chase
company marathon. Not that Soft Black can remem-
ber it either…
8:15 PM: Debe Dalton follows up her bittersweet ballad
of unrequited love, “Anytime,” with a rousing version of
“She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain,” a song that
was popularized by railroad workers in the 1890s, first
published by Carl Sandberg in the 1920s, and sung by
Pete Seeger in the 1940s, before being recorded by
Barney the Dinosaur in the 1990s. Happily, Debe drives
the song back to its roots by including a verse that
Barney never sang: “We’ll have to hide the liquor to
make her leave even quicker!”
8:17 PM: The rain comes again, this time longer and
harder as the night grows colder and darker. Many of
the performers and listeners retreat into the Cove’s
wooden shelter; Soft Black stands contently under an
umbrella, a fermata sits contently under the open sky,
and Frank Hoier stands contently by the trees with an
open bottle of wine, drinking from a plastic cup with
Feral Foster.
8:21 PM: Frank Hoier and Feral Foster perform blues
rags in the rain, as the water soaks into their clothing
and the wine soaks into their livers.
8:29 PM: A fermata asks to use my guitar to play his
own set in the rain – “Sure, just don’t get it wet,” I tell
him. He proceeds to play some of the most mystical
and beautiful music my guitar has ever made, with lots
of fancy chords that my guitar will probably never feel
again.
8:37 PM: Elizabeth Devlin plucks a haunting song on
her autoharp while Costello shelters her with Dalton’s
umbrella; “The rain is up to my lips,” she intones as the
Urban Folk #12 ~ 16
water laps right up to the edge of the Cove’s small
wooden shelter, “And I’ve gone and left my raincoat at
home.” Somewhere, in New Orleans around 1927 – or
2005 – a woman lives these words out in a way that I
can only begin to comprehend them.
8:57 PM: Annie Crane closes the night with the old
Carter Family song “No Depression,” leading everyone
in the redemptive chorus that contrasts the earthly hard-
ship of the song’s
verses. Little does
Annie know she’s
minutes away
from her own
dose of
earthly
hardship
when she’ll
learn that
while she
performed,
someone acci-
dentally kicked
her cell phone into
the Lake. Author & Photographer
9:03 PM: The musicians and their friends pack up to
leave. Among the people left listening is a homeless
man who has been sitting in Wagner’s Cove’s small
wooden shed for the better part of the night, with a
suitcase that holds his worldly belongings. On top of
the suitcase rests a wrinkle-paged Bible that the ele-
ments have kept open throughout most of the show. As
far as I know, nobody asks the man what his name is,
even as we say goodbye and leave him alone in
Wagner’s Cove, but then again, nobody bothered to
see which page his Bible was opened to either.
9:07 PM: It’s still drizzling as the performers walk away
from what they decide will be the first of many annual
Wagstock shows. When Greil Marcus covered
Woodstock for Rolling Stone almost 40 years before
we held our little festival in the rain, he wrote that “It
was a confused, chaotic founding of something new,
something our world must find a way to deal with.” Time
will only tell if the same can also be said about
Wagstock, but everyone left the show with a smile on
their face and a song in their heart, as their minds softly
played a Depression-era tune about looking ahead to
heavenly joy in the bleakest of worldly conditions, be
they wind or rain or obnoxious corporate marathons.
(Eric Wolfson)
myspace.com/anniecrane
myspace.com/elizabethdevlin
centralparknyc.org/virtualpark/southend/cherryhill-
wagnercove
“Sean’s Song”
Somer Bingham

If I could live and die like you

I’d be happy, I’d be so content
to sing to someone new
long after I am dead

I promised not to cry, I lied

I let you down this one last time
I let you down
I let you down

I’d like to sing a song

in hi-fi stereo, at your burial
Think of all the things
we should have done
Maybe next time,
maybe in the next life
The poets & the dreamers all agree
it seems to me that
only the good die happy
Even the good die young
Only the good die happy until then
I’ll be content to dream
‘Til then I’ll be content to hum along

Today I poured my heart into a hole

covered in handfuls of fresh soil
and watered down with shots of
whiskey from the flask you gave me

I promised not to cry, I lied

I let you down this one last time
I let you down
I let you down

I’d like to sing a song

in hi-fi stereo, at your burial
Think of all the things
we should have done
Maybe next time,
maybe in the next life
The poets & the dreamers all agree
it seems to me that
only the good die happy
Even the good die young
Only the good die happy until then
I’ll be content to dream
‘Til then I’ll be content to hum along
Urban Folk #12 ~ 17
 Dibs Bleeds Bands
on Dibson T. Hoffweiler
Deenah Vollmer

Dibs is so great. I know; I’m his ex-girlfriend. But it’s Dibs wore that pin-flared coat when I met him. It was a
cool, we’re friends. He may be the reason I am in New stormy night at a cheap Japanese diner. He was with
York right now – I’m not sure – but he is definitely the his college advisor who also happened to be my friend’s
reason I got thrown into this wild music scene. guitar teacher. My friend was Sharon, who I knew since
elementary school. It was March 2005 – spring break.
Last Spring, Dibs went to Germany to tour with the
I was visiting New York to investigate a small school I
bands Huggabroomstik and the Wowz. He left his black
was considering transferring to called Gallatin, part of
winter coat in my closet. The collar of this coat is flared
NYU. Dibs went to Gallatin, Sharon found out when
with one-inch pins. When he came back it was sum-
she said hello to her guitar teacher. I was introduced.
mer and he didn’t need his coat. Then Dibs got a new
girlfriend. When it got cold again I lent the coat to my Dibs had thick dark hair tied into a ponytail that he
friend Austin who is often under-dressed for the weather. would later cut and grow again and black plastic framed
Dibs doesn’t often ask for his things back. And though glasses that I would one day break in half. He’s cute,
I’ve offered him the jacket many times, Austin always Sharon said. I agreed.
seemed to be wearing it and otherwise cold. I’m cur-
rently in possession of Dibs’ nylon-stringed guitar, Dibs has a show tonight, his adviser told us. We’re
though he came over the other night and told me to really good, Dibs said. I was looking for something to
keep it. He just moved in with his girlfriend and be- do. Sharon wasn’t. She was tired. I went alone.
tween the two of them they have nearly ten guitars. I thought it
would be a good
way to meet
Gallatin stu-
dents. I was
wrong; Dibs
was the only
student there. It
was cold and
hail shot side-
ways so I had to
hold my um-
brella straight in
front of me like
a shield. I got to
the club on Sec-
ond Avenue, pre-
sented my fake
ID (I was 19),
paid five dollars,
and descended
into the cavern-
ous basement
of the club.
The Dream
Bitches, the
Urban Folk #12 ~ 18 band of Dibs’
then-girlfriend, were playing when I arrived. They re-
minded me of the Moldy Peaches – a band I knew from
a burned copy of their album my friend Aram once played
for me on a ride in his old pick-up truck to the Joshua
Tree desert – but with two girls. Later, I patted myself
on the back for the apt comparison since the Moldy
Peaches were musically very relevant.
The Jeffrey Lewis Band played after Dream Bitches and
Cheese on Bread played after that. Dibs played acous-
tic guitar in Cheese on Bread, a band that also reminded
me of the Moldy Peaches – musically and lyrically less
crude, but just as hilarious and fun. It may have been
the best show I had ever gone to up until that time. The
music mixed all the genres I was interested in: folk,
punk, indie-rock, and blended them into something in-
tellectual, new, and what I considered to be very “New
York.” That show convinced me it was OK to move to
New York. There was something for me to do there and
I could, in fact, make friends.
After the show, Dibs and I kept in touch with a steady
flow of emails, which later increased to real mail when
he sent me two of his solo records, an Urban Barnyard
CD called Nay, Whoa, Let’s Go! and a mix called The ‘I
didn’t have a Cheese on Bread CD For you’ Mix Disc.
From the mix CD I particularly liked Huggabroomstik’s
“Extinction Event” and Urban Barnyard’s “The Whale
Room Whale’s Big Vacation.” Both bands feature Dibs
on guitar. I think that Dibs played banjo on that particu-
lar Urban Barnyard song, and “Extinction Event” may
have been recorded before Dibs even joined
Huggabroomstik, but this still proves a good segue to
discuss why Dibs is in so many awesome bands.
First of all, Dibs is a guitar virtuoso. He is also a killer
drummer. He is also one of the nicest people around.
He is responsible, reliable, thoughtful, and a terrific lis-
tener (no wonder I went out with him!). He is mentally
very stable, at least outwardly, and he tries to make
everybody feel OK (See his “It’s Ok” linocuts). He
seems nonjudgmental, but he really is,
which is pretty awesome. Additionally, he
is a computer nerd and an informal re-
cording engineer, which make him tech-
nologically sought after. He is great at
what he does and he does a lot. As a
social being, he shies away from
drama, which is a valuable quality in
a drama-filled scene. He is the guy
you want around to play on your re-
cordings or to eat eggs without
ketchup with at brunch (Note: Dibs
hates ketchup).
For Urban Barnyard, the four-piece
Urban Folk #12 ~ 19
power indie-rock band that only sings songs about ani-
mals in New York City and trades instruments and
genres in practically every song, Dibs shows off his
shredding electric guitar playing, as well as his untrained
tight drumming, his booming low-vocals and scream-
ing high ones, and his funny and tender songwriting
about gay penguins and Crayola cows (Note: “Crayola
Cows” was co-written by Dashan Coram, former mem-
ber of Urban Barnyard). With Huggabroomstik, Dibs’
psychedelic electric guitar playing provides musical
stability in the circus ensemble of noise, rock and roll,
power ballads, and childhood. Dibs is a solid member
of this three– to fifteen– piece degenerative and accel-
erating hectic underwear fashion group based around
the songwriting talents of Dashan Coram and Neil Kelly.
Though rarely at the forefront, Dibs is easily the most
sought-after guitar player in the Olive Juice Music com-
munity. In addition to the bands listed above, he is a
member of Dan Fishback’s rock band The Faggots,
his own short-lived band Dibs with Machines, and a
guest member at one time or another for almost every
band in the community. He is a musical pillar is some
of the best groups around and his own songwriting has
developed into charming, mature, brilliantly constructed
and very weird indie-folk-grunge songs. His three solo
albums increasingly show his capabilities as songwriter,
musician, and self-recorder. He performances are not
to be missed if only to see his long, hypnotizing fingers
superlatively conquer the guitar, giving the prettiest
music to earnest and surreal songwriting.
I moved to New York the August after the March that I
met him in, learned his real name was not Dibs (Dibs,
23, is the nickname of Dibson T. Hoffweiler, a pseud-
onym for a true identity I will conceal), and months
later we began dating for many of the reasons listed
earlier. We broke up because of reasons not listed.
Last April when he went on tour in Europe I met up with
him in Berlin, a city that is divided like us now (Roman-
tically, I mean. I wouldn’t be writing this if we weren’t
friends). That’s the trip I broke his glasses. He pulled
my hair, so I punched him in the face.
The break-up happened like this: We went for a walk
in the neighborhood of Friedrichstein. We told our
friend Hikool that we’d be back in 20 minutes. It
took longer. Sorry we’re late, we told Hikool, but
we were breaking up.
I told Dibs he should write a break up album about
me and I would sing on every track. It never hap-
pened.
dibson.net
 White Pu$$y
A Meditation on Capitalism, Gang Rape and Opera
with the iconoclastic M. Lamar
Max Vernon
In all the weeks I have been going to the Sidewalk Café’s AntiHoot, M. Lamar has not missed a night. Over six
feet tall, dressed in a uniform of dapper, confoundingly tight garb, M. Lamar typically saunters onto the stage
somewhere between the hours of ten and one, sits down at the piano and, leaning forward and bearing a small
sliver of his ass crack, proceeds to take the audience on an affecting emotional journey. To the initiated, Lamar’s
operatic takes on negro spirituals and eclectic lyricism are both expected and appreciated. Those who have
never heard M. Lamar before are typically polarized by his music – when he performs, he aggressively tackles
his songs, striking the keys of the piano and throwing his face towards the microphone, frequently nearly biting
it. The juxtaposition of Lamar’s fast, classically trained vibrato and this confrontational style of performance
(veering on performance art) communicates an eccentric stage presence that leaves little room for ambivalence.
One thing for certain is that M. Lamar is not easily forgotten, and is to be experienced. On a Tuesday night I
dined with the hard-to-categorize M. at a local vegan Chinese restaurant. We feasted on scallion pancakes and
plum wine. We discussed many things.
of this sold out gangster hip-hop that really buys into
Urban Folk: It seems that a lot of your work deals with
capitalism.
racial identity. You have songs like “The Masters Whip,”
“Nigga Spectacle,” “Plantation Fantasy.” Do you think UF: You’re saying they’re slaves to the system? Don’t
your music carves a niche within the group of artists you think they’d argue they’re doing all right?
describing the black experience? Is that something you ML: Well, what you can say is that any kind of radical
feel comfortable with? vision of Martin Luther King Jr. or Malcolm X that was
M. Lamar: I don’t really think I know what you mean by critical of capitalism has been thrown out. We’re adopt-
that – is racial identity a genre of music? I’m really just ing the values of everyone else. Gangster culture is a
observing the world around me, like any songwriter. value system that comes from white people – black
people didn’t invent the gangster. That’s what “The
UF: Well, for example, in “Master’s Whip” you’re sing-
Master’s Whip” is really all about – it’s us saying okay
ing from the point of view of a slave. It seems at times
we’re going to give up any idea of a radical revolution-
more like you’re channeling emotions from the past
ary ideology or politic and just try to get paid. And also,
than the present.
that people don’t want to try and think up anything else
ML: Well, I am doing that, but I’m also very concerned anymore cause, it’s too hard! When I say, ‘This op-
with what history has to do with right now. pression is everything to me,’ (from “The Master’s Whip”)
UF: How are you translating history into your modern I’m saying people these days are making their identity
experience? the Gucci bag that they just bought. I’d like to suggest
ML: Well okay, the song “Nigga that it’s not.
Spectacle” for instance – what I’m UF: Well, since you’re so criti-
talking about is very contempo- cal of capitalism, how do you
rary. You can easily find the spec- intend on distributing your mu-
tacle in rap. I would go to these sic? What are your career am-
clubs and see all these white bitions?
hipsters dancing to hip hop and ML: What it’s really about are
R&B making a spectacle out it – values. I mean some people
there are undertones of racism… make music with a market in
If there’s a point to what I’m do- mind – I don’t work like that. I
ing it’s to say that all the stereo- think about the career of
types of Jim Crow and the con- Diamanda Galas – she doesn’t
text of slavery are still with us and sell many records, she’s tour-
there’s a lot of cultural vampirism ing, she’s probably struggling,
going on. The hip-hop going on but she’s been making uncom-
(photo by Magali Charron)
now isn’t Public Enemy, it’s a lot promising work for twenty five
Urban Folk #12 ~ 21
years, and she’s still growing as an artist. I think I just
want to sing for a really long time. It’s not a career, it’s
my life. It would be great if I sold records, but I’m not
thinking about that. I just want to be as good as pos-
sible – I’m still training.
UF: When you perform there’s such an element of spec-
tacle. Are you consciously incorporating shock and
spectacle into your music?
ML: Well I mean you say it was such a spectacle the
first time you saw me, so what’s the spectacle the
second time?
UF: Seeing the reactions of the people in the audience
seeing you for the first time.
ML: I mean I was thinking about what my work is trying
to do – and some of my music is about remembering
and mourning, but it’s decadent too, and about plea-
sure – the decadence being sexualized. I think that
what our culture is, you know? “Drink the pussy like
it’s the finest champagne” (from “White Pussy”) But for
me there’s no shock value, there’s no shock to wake
up and be myself everyday, or play a song about gang
rape. To be quite honest, I don’t care about people’s
reactions to me; I’m more concerned with having a re-
velatory, cathartic emotional experience when I play.
UF: What’s the significance for you of the cross be-
tween sex and violence in our culture?
Urban Folk #12 ~ 22
ML: Well when I think of someone like Paris Hilton –
UF: You wish she was being gang raped?
ML: (laughs) No, no. I just think there’s an element of
violence to the way people expose and exploit them-
selves. I don’t mind the sixteen year old skinny white
boys that take pictures of themselves in their towel –
but there’s a danger to the way our culture consumes
people. People are detached from the emotions of sex,
and so things are becoming pornography.
UF: I’m getting the sense that a lot of your work is
about going against that sense of detachment. Detach-
ment from racism, violence, sexuality, etcera.
ML: I’d say that’s accurate – you know I was once
approached by this guy who worked at this record com-
pany who asked me to summarize what I do – and
when I did, he lost interest and said I needed some
kind of “one sentence thing” to market myself. It’s a
perversion of what music is. It’s detachment from the
music. I’m so happy when people get that “White Pussy”
is a sad song. It’s about how we’re all forced to be-
come detached from ourselves – trying to pursue cer-
tain ideals. All white women, black women, gay men,
have to be a certain way.
UF: Do you think most people get that? Or do they
latch on to the word “pussy,” laugh, and then become
everything you’re writing against?
ML: I just think it’s funny that
my songs are about the
emotional embodiment of all
these negative things, and
yet people want to
commoditize that. So I
guess the work is doing what
it’s supposed to do if people
have that response: “Oh
white pussy is so good!” But
it’s not really in my hands
how people receive my work.
The movie Salo, based on
the writings of the Marquis
de Sade, is highly influential
to my work. That movie puts
a lot of graphic imagery out
there and then just kind of
asks, “OK, so what do you
do with this?” My songs are
similar – I’m not trying to tell
you anything in particular; I
just show you something.
UF: Wait, if we’re going to
go on a tangent about
Pasolini, let’s make it about
your music – Salo, which is
banned in overly fifty coun-
tries, is obviously exces-
sively violent and sexualized. Do you believe in the whole music necessarily has to appeal to a gay crowd. I don’t
Artaud, Theatre of Cruelty school that says artists have even think most gay people really like my music... But
to punish their audience to enlighten them? I think I felt abandonment perhaps more than oppres-
sion. My dad wasn’t around; my mom was emotionally
ML: Again, I don’t think music is a postal service that
unavailable – I’m sure that probably informs my work in
just delivers messages. I think I’m a modernist – I be-
some Freudian way. But none of those things are ma-
lieve in transcendence. I think that the music I’m mak-
jor issues in my life anymore…I’m more concerned now
ing can take you somewhere emotionally. It’s emotions
with just living my life.
instead of polemics. It’s an experience; you have to go
there. The singers I love were able to transform you – UF: You’ve just recently been playing songs with drums
like Marion Williams: by the time she was done sing- and synth and I think it really brought out an interesting
ing you were changed. element in your work. Is there anything else you’d like
to add to it?
UF: To make you believe in God?
ML: Well I’m not really interested in ever doing a band
ML: Well, I definitely don’t believe in God. But I believe
experience again. But, I think it would be interesting to
in the spirituality of music and it’s ability to transport
incorporate images and projection into my show. But,
you somewhere, which is maybe why I was drawn to
I’ll have to figure that out. In general, collaboration isn’t
opera from an early age and not gospel actually. I wasn’t
my favorite thing.
listening to Mahalia, it was Jessye Norman, Kathleen
Battle. I think my childhood was a horrible place to UF: Is there anything else you’d like to say to the reader
exist in; I needed to be transported. who might not know your music?
UF: You discuss oppression quite frequently. What were ML: Well, first go listen to it. I feel like I’m at the turning
your personal experiences with oppression? point of something creatively – there’s a lot going on
now and I don’t really know where it’s going to take me
ML: (laughs) I think a lot of the black community has a
but it’s very exciting. I’m looking forward to seeing what
hard time accepting my form of masculinity, but I don’t
happens next.
see why I can’t be accepted as a man. Or why my
myspace.com/mlamar
Urban Folk #12 ~ 23
 Jenny McCormick
English Rose
Northern England is best known for its weather and the
demise of its Victorian industries. Manchester is no
exception. In fact, to the English, Manchester is the
epitome of this Northern vision – rain, and derelict cot-
ton mills.
But it’s a leafier part of Manchester where Jenny and I
meet, with its age-old sycamore trees and large houses
turned into flats. It’s still no English Country Garden,
though. Strange, then, that Jenny, a well-known voice
on the Manchester music scene who has honed her
craft very much in and around the city, should choose
such a title for her latest album.
Urban Folk #12 ~ 24
Sophie Parkes
English Country Garden. It is a title with a million and
one connotations – from the jaunty song often attrib-
uted rude words, to an elitist cup and saucer setting –
but an urban music scene isn’t quite one of them.
“I was just singing it in the kitchen one day, and I
thought that would actually really work as what I do is
country influenced,” Jenny explains, “but it is really
English folk. I suppose I was taking the title for what it
means, word by word.”
It would appear, then, that Jenny is conscious of the
pigeonholing practice all too prevalent in the music in-
dustry. Especially in the big old bad world of folk, where
if they don’t like you, you’re labelled a “singer-songwriter”
and cast out into the dingy nightclub circuit to make
your trade. If you’re a folk singer, however, you’re one
of them and welcomed into the secret network of folk
clubs, arts centres and growing number of festivals.
“How I’m defined does depend on who is reviewing me.
Folk reviewers do tend to call me a folk singer as I’m
drawn to the old ballads and the storytelling side of
things,” she accepts, “but I’m certainly a cross-over as
I don’t just listen to folk. As I said before, I listen to a lot
of country, more alt country and Americana stuff, so I
get a bit of that creeping in.”
Jenny states that the Manchester music scene hap-
pily allows for this; in fact, it actively encourages it.
“Manchester has an eclectic and intelligent music scene
and I know that if I sing a traditional song in any venue
in Manchester then people will like it. Everyone’s really
open minded and knows their stuff, and I think the music
scene in Manchester is more of a music scene – for
people really into music, rather than one particular style
of music.”
And Jenny seems to know everyone. As we enter the
room for the Red Deer Club’s Second Birthday Bash, a
night well known for its penchant for off the cuff folk and
acoustica, it’s a wave here an a nod there. Just as
Jenny performs regularly on the scene, she is there to
appreciate and support others just as frequently. It’s
something that’s paid off, as many Manchester musi-
cian friends found their way on to English Country Gar-
den – oh, and her Dad.
“Yeah, my family have always been a massive influ-
ence. My Dad plays and my mum’s really into it all.
The first gig I ever went to was Crosby, Stills and Nash
with my family. At sixteen, my dad taught me a Paul
Simon song and from then on I began to plays songs I
liked with my dad and brother.”
For many families, this learning and playing
together would be warfare in the making, but not for
the McCormicks.
“They hear me writing at home so if they’re critical I
know that they only want to make sure I’m playing my
best. I actually work really well with my dad, particu-
larly arranging songs.”
It is impossible to comprehend that Jenny has only
recently – in the grand scheme of things – begun to
perform live.
“When I released my first album, I simply didn’t play
live. I was very shy about music, and about my music.
I didn’t know any musicians. This time, I’ve relaxed
into it, I’ve had more fun doing it, so I’m much happier
Urban Folk #12 ~ 25
with outcome.”
Jenny doesn’t speak favourably about her first album,
Me I Prefer the Moon. However, it was this that got her
a slot at Cambridge Folk Festival. Keeping in touch
with contacts made through Cambridge meant that
English Country Garden – though self-funded, produced
and promoted with a little help from friends and family –
will be distributed by Proper. And along with a recent
support slot for Alasdair Roberts, Jenny must now be
firmly embedded in the true folk tradition.
“Well, I’ve left it too late for any of the festivals this
year, so I’m seeing what gigs come in. I’ve done a few
gigs at traditional folk clubs, but it’s something I defi-
nitely want to do more of in the future.”
And now that folk music is a bit more in the public eye,
surely things will be a bit more high profile?
“It’s all very encouraging. I’d like to think it’s resurgence
in the interest of our heritage and history, but I’m sure it
just boils down to a love of music, of live music. That’s
what it amounts to in Manchester anyway – a love of
music.”
jennymccormick.com

da On
na the drive
Ca
North
Vancouver I ap-
O proached ecstasy, hit-
ting complete euphoria
like a free natural high. I yelled
madly to the empty car, composed
ridiculous songs to everyone I knew. I
cried for joy and despair at the same time.
Who knows what caused it? Maybe it was lin-
gering sadness from the one night stand I’d had in
Eugene and the lonely feeling of watching her drive away
afterwards only to fall asleep alone in my car. Maybe it
was the last few nights of driving around that town piss
drunk, knowing I shouldn’t, ashamed I’d sunk so low.
Eugene reminded me why I hate college towns and how
depressing it can be making small talk about your major
while holding a plastic cup of bad foamy beer. Maybe it
was the two unpaid bar gigs I’d played, or the bitter
fight I’d just had over the phone with my ex-girlfriend.
Maybe it was all that, and then getting to drive away.
Vancouver was to be a highlight of the tour. With four
days before my next gig, I picked a city to hang out in
where I had no show, no friends, nowhere to stay, noth-
ing except complete freedom and a million possibili-
ties. I had the address of an open mic. I figured a whole
adventure - a whole universe could spiral from that.
Romance, true love, drug addictions, fame, fortunes to
be made and squandered... it could all begin from there.
At least somewhere nice to stay with a new friend or
two, I figured. I’d been sleeping in my car for most of
the last week and was definitely in need of a shower
and a hot meal.
I hit the border all smiles and friendliness, ready to love
Canada and even Canadian police, known internation-
ally as cheerful pushovers. Walking into border control
I was greeted by six cops forcing a middle eastern look-
ing man to his knees. “I have a heart condition!” he
screamed while the cops beat and shocked him with
tazers. “Stop struggling then!” they yelled down at him.
Eventually they dragged him to a back room where I
could still hear shouting. I tried to smile at the woman
behind the counter. She wasn’t having it. I couldn’t tell
her I was on tour or I wouldn’t be allowed in the country
without a work permit, but it quickly became obvious
my little white lies weren’t adding up as to how I’d been
Vancouver
Urban Folk #12 ~ 26
able to travel so far on a cook’s meager savings. She
questioned me while the sounds of struggling still came
in from the back room. I told her I was coming to stay
with a musician friend.
to
“I’m going to need to call your friend and verify he’s
expecting you,” she said coldly. I looked at her a little
dumbfounded. I could’ve given the name of the kid who
booked my next show, four days later and an hour out-
side of Vancouver. I was sure he’d cover for me, but I
only had his myspace link, no phone number or ad-
dress. She kicked me out of Canada, telling me not to
come back until I had a phone number they could call,
an address, and a bank receipt proving I had 50 dollars
for every day I’d be in the country.
I spent two hours in an abandoned parking lot on the
American side of the border calling every folk singer I
knew who might have the kid’s phone number as it
grew dark. I called his house.
“Um, hi. Mrs. Geddes? You don’t know me, but I met
your son online. Will you vouch for me with border con-
trol?” I clearly remember the ridiculousness of the re-
quest coming out all wrong.
“Oh sure,” she somehow said, “it’s not a problem.” At
last, some of the Canadian friendliness I’ve always heard
about.
Back at the border checkpoint I proudly showed my
bank receipt and nervously watched as she called the
Geddes. She hung up and I was ready to grab my pa-
perwork and still try to make the open mic. She asked
for my keys.
“You can wait here while we search your car,” she said
with a glare. Shit, I thought. I did a mental check list of
everything in the car. Definitely no pot, the half empty
bottle of whiskey was in the trunk. That isn’t illegal if
it’s not in the cab is it? ...Were 100 CDs enough to get
me in trouble with customs...?
Yes. We argued some more, but my story seemed
even less credible now.
“Are you not going to let me through?” I finally asked.
“I didn’t say that.” She looked at me firmly. “You cannot
work or sell anything in Canada. If you sell one CD,
perform in any way, get one ticket, or arrested for any
reason, you will be deported and barred from Canada
for life. Do you understand?”
Dave Cuomo
I smiled. “Yes, of course. Thank you!” I grabbed the
paperwork and practically ran to my car.
It was after ten. The highway was quiet, the street signs
were all the wrong shape and marked in kilometers
instead of miles. I was severely put off and scared of
being pulled over just for having a license plate from the
wrong side of the continent. I felt like a foreigner and a
stranger – exactly what I was. I imagined every pass-
ing car was angry at my existence while the rain and
darkness did nothing to help my uneasiness. I went 5
kilometers under the speed limit, too late for the open
mic and too spent for euphoria. True love, fortunes, and
adventure all lost. For lack of a better plan, I drove to
Commercial Drive, supposedly hipster coffee shop row,
to try and find somewhere to sit and warm up, maybe
make a friend or find somewhere to stay. All the coffee
shops were closed and the street was mostly empty.
I thought for a second, then did what I always do when
I need something interesting to happen. I lit a cigarette
and stood on the sidewalk trying to look as open, inter-
esting, and harmless as I could. Half a cigarette later a
woman walked up. She was in her late fifties, short,
mildly overweight, with close-cropped salt & pepper hair.
“Got a light?” she asked me in a rough nasally voice.
She sounded pissed and hurried.
“Sure,” I said.
“Yeah, but I need a cigarette.” She said it like I should
have known. I rolled her one. She took it, looked it over
then looked at me quizzically. I lit it for her. We stood
there smoking in silence for a minute.
“I need a drink,” she finally said, taking out a crumpled
$20. “I have this money. Will this get us a drink?”
“I think it might.”
“I’m not going to fornicate with you though. I don’t forni-
cate. Got technology for that.” She said it seriously in
her harsh way then laughed and flashed me a knowing
smile. “Where are we going?”
Missing copies of old Urban Folks? Get ‘em online!
Or you can order print copies for two bucks each, payable to:
urbanfolkzine@gmail.com 1119 Longwood Avenue Bronx NY 10474
Urban Folk #12 ~ 27
“Is there a bar or anywhere open?” I asked.
“Yeah but what key is it in? I don’t play guitar.” she said
as if she was answering my question. She laughed
again then started walking. I followed. She was obvi-
ously batty, drunk maybe, but looked clean and taken
care of. Deciding she was probably harmless, I led her
to my car.
We drove around while she mostly talked nonsense. I
enjoyed the insane verbal sparring, while trying to find
some coherent strain or wisdom to her. She sang the
alphabet, laughed and asked what key it was in. She
repeatedly warned me that she didn’t fornicate, hadn’t
for years, then either laughed, looked stern, or gave
me a sly smile. It was all a little odd, but amusing.
We finally found an open bar, a large corporate looking
place that was mostly empty. She bought us each a
beer and gave me the rest of the change to run across
the street for a sandwich. “Where’s your mother?” she
asked as we sat in a booth.
“Connecticut,” I said.
“Where are you from?”
“New York.” She nodded like she understood every-
thing. I took this to mean she was putting me up for the
night.
We found a tiny smoking section in the back no bigger
than a closet. It was crowded with five men and a chok-
ing cloud of smoke. I sat and watched mostly in si-
lence as the men talked about bluegrass and folk mu-
sicians I’d never heard of, sang some, and made corny
jokes about life. Sometimes one of them would hit on
the woman, to which she’d sing the alphabet and tell
them she didn’t play guitar, then look at me and nod as
if I understood perfectly well. I liked to think I did. As
weariness finally got the better of me she caught my
glazed eyes and announced we were leaving. She nod-
ded curtly to the men, one of whom asked for her phone
number. She asked him what key it was in and took
my arm as we left.
urbanfolk.org
Jon Berger
Back at her apartment she poured us some wine and
put on Leonard Cohen. “Now I would,” she paused for
emphasis, “fornicate with Leonard Cohen.” She grinned
and raised her eyebrows at me. I smiled too just for the
pleasant ridiculousness of it all. She started dancing
and I joined her for a slow dance. It was nice, the wine
was excellent, we could smoke in the apartment, the
music was good, and I had somewhere warm to sleep.
I was content. We danced for a while until I admitted
my exhaustion. She pulled out a mattress for me then
went to her room looking back and smiling as she went.
I laid down in my clothes, not even taking off my boots
for fear of smelling up the apartment. I hadn’t taken
them off for days.
Five minutes later I heard her door open. She walked
up to the edge of the mattress. I feigned sleep, too
tired and drunk for any more inane banter. Without blow-
ing my cover I peeked at her. She was completely na-
ked with her hands on her hips looking at me. I can’t
say I was entirely surprised. She spoke some gibber-
ish, not even coherent sentences at this point. I laid
there with my eyes closed until she went back to her
room. Five minutes later she came back out, still na-
ked. I was surprised to realize she didn’t look half bad.
She spoke some more gibberish, then clumsily fell to
her knees on the mattress in front of me. Face down, I
played dead, unsure of her intentions or if she was even
coherent enough to have any. She let herself fall right
on top of me. I could feel her breasts on the small of
my back, her bare thighs on my shoulders and I real-
ized I wasn’t disgusted. Still I lay there motionless.
What is the proper protocol in a situation like this, I
wondered. I thought she didn’t fornicate, but this seemed
a little direct. Maybe she thought I was Leonard Cohen.
She was covering me like a blanket and I could feel her
breathing in time with my own. The line between trying
to hide as deep into the mattress as I could and snug-
gling comfortably under her became as indistinguish-
able to me as the difference between what was obvi-
ously wrong and what might be a pleasant adventure.
Whatever did or did not happen next I don’t think I should
say here. I remember when she first lay on the mat-
tress I was held back only by the last vestiges of nor-
mal and rational thought. She was over twice my age
and to all appearances, bat shit insane. But that kind
of thinking wasn’t what I left home on such a ridiculous
and haphazard tour for. I had run away chasing adven-
ture, to flirt with insanity, and come back having lived
out a good story to all its logical conclusions. Here I
was, literally flirting with insanity and finding myself at
the climax of a great story. 3,000 miles from home, at
the moment of truth, who was I to trade a beautiful
perfect ending for something as mundane as normal
and rational thought?
Urban Folk #12 ~ 28
I woke up in the morning to the sound of coffee brewing
and my hostess offering me a mug and a towel for a
much needed shower. I made us breakfast from her
refrigerator and we sat around the apartment smoking
and talking. She was still a little off, but I was happy to
find her much more coherent by sunlight. Her apart-
ment was scattered all over with books on feminism
and radical theory. She said she had been a women’s
studies major and now spent all of her time reading.
We discussed politics, life, music, love, and all the
other usual topics that go well with cigarettes and cof-
fee. When I left she wrote down her address and phone
number, saying I was welcome to stay as much as I
needed while I was in town. We hugged warmly and I
kissed her on the cheek.
I spent the next four days writing letters and reading in
coffee shops hiding from the rain. The coffee in Vancouver
is amazing, so thick and strong it almost tastes like
chocolate. I kept mostly to myself and contentedly slept
in my car. On the last day I finally went for a walk around
the harbor, getting soaked from the rain and splashing
in puddles. I wrote my first song in six months singing
to myself out there, and marveled at how deserted a
large city could feel. It was one of the more pleasant
vacations I can remember. I didn’t see the woman again.
There was no apartment number on the address she’d
scribbled down and my phone didn’t work in Canada. I
could probably have found my way back, but took it as
a sign. With the experience sitting warmly in my stom-
ach, reading and drinking good coffee was all the ad-
venture I needed. I still have her address safely in a
box, though, partly as a souvenir, but partly too be-
cause I just might be back that way. It’s a good bet I’ll
be just as badly in need of a shower and still lacking in
whatever rational logic might hold me back from an-
other lovely evening.
An earlier version of this essay was printed in
In the Raw
 “Don’t
da worry,
na we’ll find it.”
Ca
The cop at the
Guelph Police Service
walks from behind the
O counter and goes to look for
Brook’s license in the Blond Officer’s
locker. A sign on the wall lists the rea-
sons a person may not be discriminated
against in Guelph. It’s called the Guelph Human
Rights Code. The police in Guelph are not allowed to
discriminate against people due to Country of Origin.
That, and about twenty other factors including age, race,
and appearance, are written, on the wall, across the
desk from the people who have misplaced Brook’s li-
cense. We can’t get back into the US without it.
The Blond Officer is Dave Cauley, a 21-year-old looking
gentleman cop who trailed us from the bar, after our
gig. We drove four blocks ‘til we missed a turn and
pulled into a driveway to turn around.
Brook tries to back up but a cop has
stopped directly behind us, no light
flashing, not even headlights. As its
unclear what is happening, Brook
gets out to ask for directions. The
sirens never flashed, the flashing
lights never spun.
“What are you doing out of your car?”
“Sorry, officer. I need directions.”
“I don’t know how they do it where
you’re from, but up here you stay in
the car when you get pulled over.”
Still, no lights.
Brook gets back in, and the officer asks for license and
registration. Brook had one pint at 10PM. It’s now 3AM,
we’ve just left a long night at Jimmy Jazz, a bar in
Guelph where we played our hearts out, not once, but
twice, playing early and late sets. We hung out with
Paul Macleod, who was in the 90’s Canadian pop band
The Skydiggers. He’s been playing Mondays at Jimmy
Jazz for years, but with newly cracked ribs, he doesn’t
play very long and needs a lot of opening bands, hence
our presence. We made about 100 Canadian dollars, if
you include CD sales and tip money. Not bad, consid-
ering twenty-four hours before, this was supposed to
be an off day with no income.
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
Guelph, Ontario
Urban Folk #12 ~ 29
“One beer, officer, earlier in the night.”
“License and registration.”
Brook hands his license to the cop; we scour for the
vehicle’s registration but only find an expired one. While
we continue looking, he actually says, “It’s all right,
you don’t actually need to keep looking for that.” We
go into detail about where we’re going, where we’re
staying, and what we’re doing.
“Would you mind stepping out of the car please?”
Brook follows the direction, and when asked if he’ll take
a breathalyzer, he agrees to. No worries, after all, he
only had one beer at 10PM – FIVE HOURS AGO! Now,
the breathalyzers in Guelph have letter ratings, and
Brook blew an “A,” which means “Alert.” This implies
that Brook had SOMETHING to drink tonight. It means
his blood alcohol level is somewhere between .05 and
.079, which is below the legal limit of .08. At .08, you’re
drunk driving. But if you blow a breathalyzer between
.05 and .079, up comes the A. You’re not D for Drunk,
you’re A for Almost drunk (or Alert), and are at risk for
drunk driving. and being a men-
ace. You are a potential potential
danger. While they are adminis-
tering the breathalyzer, the lights
start flashing. As if they need to
flash them as part of their train-
ing. As if they realize they forgot
to flash them earlier…
The punishment for blowing an
Alert? Your vehicle is towed and
your license is suspended for
twelve hours. They don’t even let
the sober girl in the back seat
take the wheel (My partner Rachel, who did not hit a
joint behind the club, like I did…). No one can drive that
car. We’re supposed to stay with our pal Lucas in
Kitchener, about 20 kilometers away. We’re not gonna
get there tonight. While we wait for the tow truck, I call
Chad, one of the other performers from Jimmy Jazz.
He agrees to meet us at the club, and give us a place
to crash about two blocks from the venue.
The truck arrives, we collect some belongings from the
van, speak with the officer. What did we do wrong? We
drive a Plymouth minivan, a popularly stolen vehicle.
We are from out of state; we were leaving the down-
town area. We don’t have a light that shines on our rear
bumper license plate (due to an electrical issue in the
van which also prevents the front passenger window
from rolling down). It’s like the guy is reading from a
Dan Costello
D
a
n
textbook, a textbook that he probably got quizzed on
in the last few days. He’s such a rookie. It pisses me
off. I wanna hit him. I’m not that stupid. We have him
make an official list of all the equipment in the van. We
take our money and our laptop. We leave our guitars,
our keyboard, our PA equipment and our merchandise.
We also take the bottle of Jim Beam that we had
stashed under the seat, for long afternoons of NOT
DRIVING in strange towns.
We watch them tow the vehicle and start back to Jimmy
Jazz. Chad and Aaron meet us and they roll a sympa-
thy joint. We take some Tylenol PM, all still congested
with a head cold that’s circled around the van at least
twice already. Rachel and I go to sleep. Brook can’t
sleep and I completely understand. He gets shaken up
easily, and this of course, is his record label’s van, and
he is feeling very burdened. It makes him sick.
I sleep soundly until about 2PM. Chad has a radio show,
and has apparently reported our towing woes, playing
some of our songs. His roommates make us a lovely
breakfast of eggs, potatoes, beans and veggie dump-
lings. We walk past Cornerstone, a wonderful coffee
shop full of familiarish local punk anarchist kids eating
spinach salads. We get mediocre coffee drinks, and
keep walking to the Guelph Police Station to pick up
the license and liberate the van.
You know you’re in a small town when the guy claim-
ing his property at the police station desk isn’t wearing
Guelph, Part Brook
2
Pridemore
...So, having been stranded in a foreign city, with no ID
and no vehicle (a van I’d been living out of for almost
two months), I was left feeling like a man without a
country. The Constable had assessed my body type
and weight, and decided for himself that I was lying to
him about how much I’d had to drink. He called us a
cab to Kitchener without our asking. We had had the
fortuity to hold onto a phone number of one of the
evening’s other performers, a guy who lived in town,
and although he had no idea who we were when we
called him, he was happy to let us stay at his house.
Standing outside the club, waiting for our friends, we
heard other performers lament about how Guelph is an
old mafia town, how the police fleece out of town visi-
tors out of their hard won gig money through impound
fees and traffic tickets. Locals park their cars at home
and walk to the bar. Everyone knows what’s up, and
laugh semi-good-naturedly at our misfortune. I can’t help
but think about Summer of ’05, a twice-exploded van
Urban Folk #12 ~ 30
a shirt. We’re in the air-conditioned waiting room when
I hear that Creaky Boards has lost two members.
Michael David called last night, and left voicemail. He
never leaves messages, so I knew it was important. I
call him back, having forgotten last night in the wake of
our towed van, and now, waiting with nothing to do but
chat with our new friend Chad about everything we do
in New York, Creaky Boards came up and I remember
to call Mike. So that happened.
And we’re still waiting for them to find the license. Upon
arriving at the station, the gentleman behind the desk
has the tow certificate, but no Brook license. “The of-
ficer will be in at midnight.” We have a show in Toronto
at ten! I’m incensed. I say, “We’re traveling, we need
the officer to be held accountable for this. I mean, it’s
bad enough he trailed us from the bar….” Rachel and
Brook snap my mouth shut with their stares and the
desk officer says, “Stop, I don’t need to hear that.” And
now, we’re still waiting for the license and they’ve called
blond rookie Cauley in from his nap to locate it. He’s
just arrived; Brook intends to glower at him when he
finally gets some face time.
And Brook is also plotting his victory dance, intending
to walk shirtless up to the van. Rachel is readying her
camera. Chad is waiting with us all this time, just to
buy a copy of the Anticomp Folkilation, our 2-CD set
on Crafty Records. I’m blogging, and readying my blind-
fold for Brook’s Victory Dance. Who knew that the Vel-
vet Clown Victory Tour would be such a ride?
and State troopers chuckling at our misfortune while
we wait for the wrecker.
Back at Chad’s (for that was our friend’s name, the
other performer), for the first time in a very long time, I
was completely turned off by the prospect of imbibing
any further drugs, and curled up into a ball to try and
sleep. I ended up shaking with rage and sadness
through most of the night.
Next afternoon, at the Guelph police station, I realize
for the first time that Canadian cops are not called “Of-
ficer.” They are called “Constable.” This makes the
whole ordeal feel very archaic and foreign – as though,
at any moment, King Lear may come out of nowhere
and demand a blood sacrifice, or at least, offer me a
mug of English Breakfast and some Poutine fries.
The desk officer – excuse me, CONSTABLE, told me,
calmly and with no sign of remorse or interest in mak-
ing things right, that I could have my car back, but they
have misplaced my ID. I could come back at midnight
and speak to Constable Collie, the arresting officer, when
he comes in for his shift. He waved me off with a flick of
his hand.
At that moment, in my head, I became a Falling Down
Michael Douglas. I took out years of repressed anger
on this pig’s face. I was blood and sinew and relentless
violence, in my head.
Out loud, Dan said something about the Constable fol-
lowing us from the club to make his quota, and the
desk Constable, Rachel Devlin and myself simulta-
neously said, “Shut up.” The desk guy got Collie on the
phone, telling him to come into work early to find my
ID. Having finally realized we were foreign citizens be-
ing held without legal ID, everyone started to move a
little faster. Collie and the desk guy going back to the
same distant evidence rooms to check again and again,
to no avail. Three
hours passed, and
we run later and
later for the gig in
Toronto. Collie put
a call through
INTERPOL to
Sault Ste. Marie,
letting them know
I’m on my way in
the morning. The
Guelph police de-
partment agree to
pay for my new ID
when, and if, I got
home.
The tow guy, still at
work fifteen hours
after he took our van, got us change and a receipt with
a big smile on his face, as though we were paying his
rent.
I remember little about the evening in Toronto except:
1. We were on the wrong side of town to get the
veggie dogs that were in abundance last time
we visited.
2. The proprietor made us some very good
samosas and gave me a few Mike’s Hard
Lemonades (I know, I know).
3. People were very respectful and gener-
ous with money and friendship. Except the
guy that got mad at Dan for saying “Canadia.”
We rolled out of Toronto very late in the night,
somewhere between 1am and 4am. The realm
of time that I, as a frequent road-tripper, have
come to refer to as “O’ Dark Thirty.” Rachel and
Urban Folk #12 ~ 31
Dan alternating be-
O
hind the wheel (since I
have no license, I can no
Ca
longer drive). It wasn’t un-
til we were at the border, be-
ing questioned by Customs as
na
to why I had no license, that we
realized we’d anticipated the
da
wrong border, and were, in fact, sev-
eral hundred miles away from the
border where Interpol was expecting us.
Customs, for me, was a fairly blasé or-
deal. Several questions about my life were
answered for me:
Customs: “Did you ever live in Kalamazoo?”
Me: “I went to college in Kalamazoo.”
Customs: “What was your last address there?”
Me: “I don’t recall. It was a long time ago.”
Customs: “Was it 815 South Westnedge Avenue?”
Me: “Yes.”
Dan and Rachel’s questioning was even simpler:
Customs: “Guys, what’s up with all the CDs in the
trunk?”
Dan: “We’re on tour in the States. We didn’t play in
Canada.”
Customs: “Oh.”
We were released across the border with no fanfare,
no red tape, but I couldn’t help but think they were
following us. Waiting for the right moment to spring the
trap and reel us back in. To what? I don’t even know.
Dan then treated us to breakfast near Frankenmuth,
MI, the Christmas capital of the world, where a local
working class guy assumed that Dan and Rachel were
expecting a child. I can only think to myself that, while
that weekend wasn’t scary enough to keep me from
going to Canada, it’ll probably be a long time before I
drive a car up there.
(photos by Herb Scher)
 Bar 169
musicians, take note
Live music is thriving in New York City, especially in the
showcase clubs on the Lower East Side, Brooklyn,
and Long Island City. Bar 169, named after its address
at 169 East Broadway, benefits greatly from this boom.
Led there by the booking of two of my songwriter friends
last summer, I paid the ten dollar cover and enjoyed
plenty of good music and a lively crowd. The sum of
both experiences, though, has left me with mixed feel-
ings.
I liked the place: its unpretentious atmosphere, the long
bar, the pool table in back, the bowls of unshelled salted
peanuts. There isn’t really any sawdust on the floor,
but you get the impression it’s there anyway. There’s a
good balance between what seems to be arranged and
what seems unplanned. The resulting space is easy,
comfortable. But I didn’t like the way the management
treated my friends. In fact, I really wonder about the
discrepancy between the down-home appeal of the place
itself and the rather unprofessional attitude taken by
the manager.
From what I’ve seen, I’m guessing it’s the owner who
deserves credit for the way Bar 169 is set up and its
solid, relaxed feel. Unfortunately, the owner must also
take responsibility for the way his manager rides
roughshod over some of the musicians who go there to
play.
Drew Torres is an instrumental genius whose master-
ful acoustic guitar playing had captured my attention
on open mic night at the Creek and the Cave in Long
Island City. My first trip to Bar 169 was to see Drew,
scheduled for an 8:30 slot. I arrived half an hour early,
ready to hear him and anyone else who was perform-
ing. Around 8:30, Drew was informed he wouldn’t be
going on stage for another hour. Not too long after that,
he was told it might be 10:30. It was close to midnight
before Drew finally got on stage.
I’d planned to get my money’s worth by staying all
evening anyway, and I wasn’t disappointed with any of
the music I heard while there. But why did Drew get
bumped further and further back? Was it to sell more
beer to Drew’s audience, assuming they’d all leave once
his set was over? Did the management think maybe
Drew would perform better after having to wait so long?
Could anyone who’s heard Drew Torres perform imag-
ine how his playing could be improved? No, being dis-
courteously delayed three and a half hours definitely
did not help the show.
Urban Folk #12 ~ 32
Efraim
Thomas Patrick Maguire is a folksinger from
Sunnyside Queens, a good friend of mine, and author
of some of the most potent and infectious songs on the
current underground New York scene. My second trip
to Bar 169 was to hear Tom, scheduled for a ten o’clock
slot. I arrived by nine, and Tom and I traded rounds of
beers while we waited. A little after ten, he was told
that it would be eleven before he could play. At eleven,
there were suddenly three more sets preceding his.
The first of these three acts took almost half an hour to
set up their sound equipment. Tom didn’t play at all
that night, at least not at Bar 169. Maybe he won’t play
there ever, and that’s Bar 169’s loss.
Once it became clear Tom was suffering the same fate
as Drew, I decided to find out just where the manage-
ment was coming from.
The manager identified himself as “Mark,” and seemed
willing enough to talk. In my first question, I took issue
with his way of handling the schedule: “Do you realize
you are creating resentment among the musicians
when you bump them back in the schedule like that?”
“Oh yes,” he responded, “musicians are always get-
ting upset and bad-mouthing me about it.”
“Aren’t you concerned about not honoring your com-
mitments when you make changes in the schedule?”
“Musicians often don’t keep their commitments and
don’t show up when they’re supposed to... or maybe
not at all. I’ve been dealing with this situation as a man-
ager of clubs for a long time, and I’m pretty successful
at it.”
“But don’t you think that the resentment might eventu-
ally have a negative impact on business?”
I could see a faint smile beginning to appear on Mark’s
face. “No,” he said, “not really. There’s stuff going around
on the internet all the time, and there have been a dozen
or so articles saying boycott Bar 169 and how horrible
we are. As you can see, it has no effect on business.
We’re doing just fine.”
His smugness was beginning to irritate me, but I wanted
to get as much information as I could. “Well, how do
you decide who gets bumped and who doesn’t?”
“We just do a head count at the door to see which acts
are bringing in the most people, and we schedule them
accordingly.”
I wondered whether this was true, and later found out
that Tom had brought in more people than at least one
of the acts that he’d been bumped behind. “You know,”
I said, losing patience, “you could avoid most of the
negative stuff if you simply told the musicians up front
how you operate and what to expect.”
That got to him, and he snapped back: “I DID tell you
guys when you came in that you’d have to wait!”
I don’t actually remember him saying anything like that,
and even if he had, it was beside the point. Telling them
after they’re already there is hardly being up front, but I
wasn’t in the mood to discuss it further. I’d gotten all
the information I was going to get from Mark – and way
more information than I wanted about him.
Bar 169 uses a booking agency to actively recruit mu-
sicians over the internet. This works well in finding
musicians who are looking to showcase their music
and in putting together a great variety of talent. It pro-
vides the paying customer a good evening’s worth of
entertainment. The problem begins with its practice of
gross overbooking. Overbooking is only mildly dishon-
est per se, but it’s important to understand that the
club overbooks on the theory that musicians are an
unreliable lot, not to be trusted to show up on time or
sometimes, at all. According to the manager, his expe-
rience has proven to him that he needs to protect him-
self from no-shows and late-shows by keeping an ex-
cess of musicians waiting in the wings. He then juggles
the schedule once the musicians are at the club by
bumping certain acts to later and later time slots as
the evening proceeds.
The manager of Bar 169 is coming at the whole enter-
prise from a position of distrust, augmented perhaps
by an adolescent desire to impose his personal prefer-
ences at will, regardless of what commitments he or
his booking agency may have made. I consider his at-
titude to be less than professional. By hiring a third
party to do the booking, he at least partially evades
accountability for whatever the agency may have told –
or not told – the musician. When you show up on time,
ready to play, as agreed, he can then slip in an inno-
cent-sounding comment about the schedule running a
little behind and that there may be a delay. If he sees
you accept a small delay easily, he figures maybe you’ll
accept a longer delay and so on.
The United States of America is still a free country –
believe it or not – which means that the manager of a
private enterprise has every right to manage as he
pleases. Granted, a certain level of flexibility is advan-
tageous for all in running a successful evening at a
club like Bar 169. But by not being up front about his
intention to juggle the schedule, the manager is de-
manding that all the flexibility be on the part of the
musicians. The question here is not about the rights of
the management but about how much musicians are
Urban Folk #12 ~ 33
willing to take. The bottom line issue for performers is
that this kind of careless mishandling of artists is bad
for business. Your friends won’t appreciate being kept
waiting for you to get on stage (whether they admit it or
not), and their unpleasant experience then becomes
associated with you. A lack of professionalism by man-
agement can damage your image and end up hurting
your business.
If, as a musician, you rely too heavily on the word of
the booking agent or the manager – without any further
discussion or clarification – you might be setting your-
self up from the start to be bumped out of your time
slot. You can’t assume you’ll actually get on stage at,
or even close to, the promised time merely because
you’re assigned that slot.
My suggestion to musicians who are considering play-
ing at Bar 169 is to make clear to the booker that you
take your commitments seriously and you expect the
same. Make sure they understand that your audience
will consider any excessive delay to the agreed-upon
time slot to be a discourtesy and a release from your
commitment. Then tell your friends to say at the door
that they are there to see you play at a certain time
and will want a refund if you aren’t allowed to appear at
that time. Arrive well before your scheduled time, and
inform the manager you are showing good faith by do-
ing so. Explain that you will consider any unreason-
able delay in the agreed-upon time to be a release from
your commitment and that you have told your friends
to ask for a refund of the cover if you don’t appear on
schedule.
It’d be a lot more fun not to have to make such rigid,
legalistic stipulations. Bar 169 could avoid the neces-
sity of doing so if they’d just be more up front with
musicians about how they run their evening schedules
– but that would imply a certain level of respect toward
those who come there to perform. Too bad the respect
is lacking. And in the final analysis, Bar 169 doesn’t
really need a good review from me. What they DO need
are you – the musicians – for their success.
 Costello’s Web
hits the road....
Dan Costello
Great songwriting outside New York City? No, wait, there IS! Imagine me, little Sidewalk Dan Costello, waltzing
around the US in a minivan with Brook Pridemore. There is good music happening in other places; there are
notable artists, who, if they stumbled into an AntiHoot, would feel right at home. Let's hope they come by soon
so they can score a gig.
derbox, a collective studio/performance space right on
Evan Greer the main strip. Pat The Bunny (formerly of Johnny Hobo
Evan is part of the Riot Folk collective, who are "Hell- and the Freight Trains) has been a central figure in this
bent on MAKING FOLK A THREAT AGAIN." He lives in scene. His brother, Michael Schneeweis, has this band
Boston and has wistful songs about changing the world. with punk vocals, pop drums and guitars, and classic
I usually hate that sort of "We will march" acoustic rock style bass lines. He's learned some things from
punk, but Evan's songs are honest and pretty damn Pat, whose new outwit the Wingnut Dishwasher's Union
singable (listen to "I Want Something") . He's doing features Brook Pridemore. But his melodies and struc-
great things in social action, including animal ture are more youthful, romantic, and clever. Highly rec-
liberation, and we played a vegan pizzashop ommended is "King Kong vs. The USA" on Plan-it-x
fundraiser for him and a couple kids ar- Records and myspace.com/
rested for height- ening michaeljordantouchdownpass.
awareness about in-
justice. Check Evan and Chris Yang
all the Riot Folk kids out,; There's something in the water of
these are people who are Guelph, Ontario, where one in
doing things, not just talking every 5,000 people is a
about it. riotfolk.org great songwriter. I think
it's above the provincial av-
Pyramid $keem erage, cuz more people in
I was only too drunk to see a Guelph turn into rookie cops, or
band one night of tour, in Port- cute coffeehouse matrons, than
land Maine. I played first at a great songwriters. Chris Yang is a
show in a bookstore that had soft-spoken fire breathing acous-
things like "Nancy and Ron tic punk. The people who watch him
Reagan's Home Videos" for a are amazed by his intricate guitar,
dollar and seven bands to per- changing meters, and lingering
form. After drinking too much chord extensions. His lyrics toe the line be-
Jim Beam and playing a pretty tween abstract and compellingly revealing. Buy his CD
lame set, I spent an hour talk- ing with my May All Yr Children Be Dragons, produced by fellow
brother, smoking a joint in the vestibule of the First Guelph superstar Richard LaViolette, at
Bank of Portland. Brook comes out after what he says www.burntoak.ca. .
was an hour, and said, "I can't believe you missed that!"
I checked out Pyramid's page the next day. I'm sorry I Ooh De Lally
missed the show. Everyone else that night was just It's not just my love for Disney's Robin Hood that draws
sorta okay (exception below), and this guy (real name me to this band. But they do have a great CD wrapped
Todd Kessler), with his high concept rap, tongue in cheek in construction paper and sewn together with the phrase
"as seen on TV" attitude, is fucking great. At the end of "Ooh Da Lally, Golly What a Day!" Maybe it's Frances'
the night, it wasn't just Brook, EVERYONE was talk- saw-playing and accordian skills. We saw lots of pretty
ing about this guy. And I was asleep in the corner. good bands with similar arrangements (tall bass player
myspace.com/pyramidskeem dude, quirky girl with fun instruments, endearing singer
with guitar) in people's living rooms. None of them had
Michael Jordan Touchdown Pass a song as worthy of attention as "As The River Flows."
Brattleboro, Vermont is home to some damn fine ched- myspace.com/oohdalally
dar cheese, good weed, organic bread, and The Tin-
Monkeyface
Urban Folk #12 ~ 34
We're in Pittsburgh, we have a 5 hour drive to Philadel-
phia and it's already 10PM. I'm ready to get in the
minivan. But there's this one more performer, the last
of ten (myself included). It's night-time in a park, and
by illuminated frisbee she reads her lyrics and plays
solo bass guitar. Her name is Hillary. She seems like
she was destined to live in a Art Loft, walk her Boston
Terrier and join the Fourth Street Food Co-op before
heading out to play packed Brooklyn parties. What's
better, she has strong, sensitive, well-written songs like
"Dragonflies and Butterflies". Her voice can sound
overdriven, and also really sweet. Fans of Misha and
Deborah T. would enjoy this fantasy mash-up. Sorry for
the VERY confusing URL: www.myspace.com/
wwwmyspacecommonkeyface
Mischief Brew and LavaSpace
When you're less than 100 miles away from home, the
engine light's on, you're running low on canned goods,
money, deodorant and patience, it's great to meet a
truly good person. And Erik Peterson, also known as
Mischief Brew, is a truly great person. That counts for
a lot, but doesn't by itself warrant mention in this col-
umn. Erik played the last set of the night at lavaspace
(go to lavazone.org to read about this well-run collec-
tive) while Rachel Devlin, Brook and I alternated smok-
ing cigarettes and manning (womanning?) the merchan-
dise table. This song "Devil of a Time" came wafting
pleasantly through the air, and after a long three weeks
of travelling, I finally felt like dancing again. Listen at
mischiefbrew.com.

Scott Alexander Makes Friends

Scott Alexander, enthnomusicologist and vegetarian, has released a three-song EP, but don’t think of it that way.
Think of it as part of his globe-spanning plan to, as you probably already guessed, make friends. The songs,
ADD-influenced and occasionally driving (like a super-cerebral Dufus), seem to do little to aid Alexander’s plans
to befriend the universe. But the shows, and the website, and his general non-New York
demeanor, well, they do the job nicely. Alexander’s website promises a hotline, a col-
lection of recipes, requests for genuine interaction with his fan – sorry, his friend base.
Scott Alexander’s new disc covers subjects near and dear to all, with titles like, “Fucking
Technology” and “Unfortunately Fat.” He plays excellent bassoon and adequate guitar.
While you can buy the album from the man and some electronic sources, you can also
download it for free at his site, where you can see some entertaining audio & video clips
as well. The album may be the focus of what Alexander is doing, but it is defniitely the
website that makes him great. (Jonathan Berger)
scottalexandermusic.com
Urban Folk #12 ~ 35
 Record Reviews
Want to have your record reviewed? Mail to J. Berger
1119 Longwood Avenue, Bronx, NY 10474
Linda Draper: Namesake
AntiFolk veteran Draper (she once produced her own
fanzine about the scene, AntiZine)’s album sounds very
familiar, and why not? Recorded at Olive Juice, co-pro-
duced by Major Matt, featuring local talents Danny
Fastfingers, Soce the Elemental Wizard, and the
Leader’s Sam Lazzara, this disc is even released by
Planting Seeds Records, recently home of the Voyces
- and mastered at the Engine Room. Linda Draper’s is
a voice deep in the heart of New York’s acoustic com-
munity. It is made up that which we know, but it also
sounds different.
Part of it is her voice.
High and sweet yet star-
tlingly mature, Draper
serenades; each word is
clear and evocative and
beautiful. The entire al-
bum is mature, a sub-
stantial step forward for
an act that had nothing
to prove. Perhaps,
though, there is intent to add layers to Draper’s already
substantial style. On “Sunburned,” a track on which
she plays everything, she sings, “I’m too old to be con-
cerned about the point of no return / or the respect I’ll
never earn / It’s all right...” She continues, “Leave your
bucket and brush at home because as far as I can tell
/ it already has all gone to hell.”
This is Draper’s first album away from long-time pro-
ducer Kramer (Shimmy-Disc), and the first she’s been
involved in the production. This might be reflected in
the title track’s lines, “Behind every great woman is a
great man no one understands / Behind one of these
three doors is a great prize waiting for you / And behind
every great prize is a great loser to see you through /
Just like I used to.” Who cares? The low-key charm of
Draper’s latest makes me want more of the same.
(Jonathan Berger)
lindadraper.net
Toby Goodshank: Everything Intertwingles
On his twenty-somethingth album, and the first since
last fall’s sublime Mogo on the Gogo, Toby Goodshank
steps to the plate and grand slams it out of the park
before casually shaking dirt out of his shoe. Kirk Gibson
style, like it’s no big thing. The fucker.
Urban Folk #12 ~ 36
Everything Intertwingles splits the difference between
the absurdist humor of early discs like Follow Me if You
Want to Fuck and the more abstract lyrical imagery of
2005’s Jyusangatsu and Di Santa Ragione. Here, the
blank verse poetry of “Babylon Molehill” stands hand in
hand next to the goofy, potty-mouthed hip-hop of
“Italiano,” as though the two were mismatched but per-
fectly comfortable neighbors.
Much more of the same twinkling, stratospheric acous-
tic guitar abounds here, with lyrical overtones that of-
ten make little to no sense on the surface - the subject
matter only becomes apparent after multiple listens.
The point, from where I sit, is to listen to the music as
something of a sound collage. Psychedelic effects with-
out psychedelics. Guest appearances add greatly to
the aural sensation, most gracefully by Miss Tania
Buziak and Gregory and the Hawk’s Meredith Godreau.
In fact, it’s Miss
Godreau’s voice and vio-
lin playing, specifically
on “More Than One” and
“Carry On” that lend a
great deal of the psyche-
delic effect. On first play,
I was surprised that Mr.
G was able to exceed
my expectations by
changing directions. I’m
still pretty surprised.
(Brook Pridemore)
tobygoodshank.multiply.com/
Jeff Jacobson
Before there were heavyweights to dispute, Jeff
Jacobson was already crafting memorable melodies,
and contending in his own right in the Williamsburg
songwriter contest. For years Jeff has been playing his
well structured, well executed masterpieces across the
five boroughs, and yet other than a short EP and the
occasional compilation, he had not released much –
until now. Jeff’s debut album is comprehensive. It in-
cludes tracks that Jeff’s been playing for years, and
also offers equally impressive new material. I’m a bit
biased, as I’ve been looking forward to a Jeff Jacobson
album ever since I met the man four years ago, but
Jeff’s debut – sans the Undisputed Heavyweights – is
everything I thought it would be and more. Anyone who’s
ever seen Jeff Jacobson play will say that he writes
poignant, polished, well-executed pop
songs full of memorable hooks and
exquisite guitar lines. Still, Jeff has
truly outdone himself on his self-titled
Family Records album. Created with
the help of producer Benjy King (who
also helped me produce my album),
Jeff’s disc may have taken a year to
create, but it is well worth the wait.
From the opening guitar on “Let You
Down,” Jeff draws listeners in and
does anything but let you down over the next nine
tracks. The production complements Jeff’s already well-
crafted compositions, as subtle electric guitars, key-
boards, and even guest vocals from fellow Heavyweight
Casey Shea make the album such a joy to listen to
again and again. Jeff has unquestionably always been
a superb guitar player and songwriter, but on this re-
lease, it’s his vocal performance that really struck me.
Jeff’s voice sounds strong and soulful across the board,
taking listeners in from mellow tracks like “Your Cali-
fornia” and the acoustic “Pretty Picture” to the more
rocking “Falling Backwards” which begins with the line
“You say I am holding back again.” Jeff does everything
but hold back, delivering top-notch vocal performances.
Classic Jacobson songs like “Halfway to Summer” bring
me back to the first time I saw Jeff perform at Amy
Hill’s mythic DTUT open mic, but years later, the new
production gives even this and other classics such as
Urban Folk #12 ~ 37
“Castles” a fresh new sound. On “Who
We Are,” Jeff prophetically pontificates,
“a change is coming…” This could well
be a reflection on how people view Jeff
Jacobson. As a humble and talented
member of so many other songwriters’ en-
sembles, Jeff Jacobson’s solo work has
certainly been overlooked from time to
time, but he is nonetheless a heavyweight
in his own right, and this is hopefully only
the first of many great solo releases to
come from this standout solo artist. (Paul Alexander)
jeffjacobson.net
Don McCloskey: Northern Liberties
McCloskey’s latest is like his last, 2004’s Bombs Over
Bristol (he still plays a variety of styles: 60s style folk,
hip-hop, rock and soul), but unlike it. The styles he
affects has been limited. Gone are the anglophilic
excusrsions, there’s less outright rapping. This disc is
less expermental musically, but makes up for it in other
ways. McCloskey plays with a band all over Liberties.
He writes more sensitive, meaningful material. “Buried
Alive” is a subtler song than we might expect from the
bombastic Big D, featuring delicate keys, multiple Dons
harmonizing, and a thought-out high concept high-tech-
nology rant: “Fax me a photocopy of your pen / With a
text message that says, ‘Rmbr wen / We usd 2 use
ths thngs bck wen we wer 10?’ ...you’re on my buddy
list so you must be a
friend / Because I don’t
think therefore I IM.”
“Son of it All” features
rap, an anthemic cho-
rus, and lyrics that tell
a multi-generational tale
of hope and faith. “My
Föcken Glöckenspiel”
is a sorta hip-hop track
going out “to all the hep cats keepin’ it unreal.” “Foun-
tain of Youth” is am MOR hit just waiting to be heard.
And “This Just In” is McCloskey as protest Dylan via
Highway 61. McCloskey is still trying stuff out, mixing
things up, and making us dance. This time, though,
he’s also making us think. (Jonathan Berger)
enormousd.com
Jenny McCormick: English Country Garden
Jenny McCormick is a storyteller, as the best folk sing-
ers often are. The album opens with the excellent “Go
From My Window” where the female protagonist tells
her lover exactly that. However, it’s more a sexual warn-
ing. She wants “a harbouring” and undoubtedly so does
he, yet the harmonics and whispers tell us that this
lady is not to be messed with. The lover would do bet-
ter and take her words at face value. Jenny is excellent
at creating an atmosphere, but better still is the literal,
almost onomatopoeic manner in which she employs
her words and music. For example, the double bass,
although sparse, is continually creaking and groaning
like the trees camouflaging her window.
The second track, “Don’t Be Cruel,” makes compari-
sons with Northern English folk singer Kate Rusby un-
derstandable. Here the Northern English elongated vow-
els come out, more than when Jenny speaks. Although
the scene depicted in the song is very English country,
with haystacks and horizons, the banjo and harmonica
introduce an American folk and country twang which is
to quietly resonate throughout Jenny’s repertoire.
Similarly, “The House Carpenter” is very much derived
from English balladry, but the lead guitar licks are es-
sentially American. Again, the woody double bass,
creaking and groaning, is like a prevalent warning un-
derneath. For Jenny, it’s not about virtuoso playing or
clever lyrics. It’s about telling it like it is, and
emphasising meanings through subtle musicianship.
Highlight of the album is also the highlight of her live
set, “Hey Joe.” Its country swing touches on Lynyrd
Skynyrd, as the bass is no longer premeditating and
ominous but instead playfully skips between notes.
Most fascinating, though, is the way in which the singer
intones the title line. Jenny’s voice soars between the
most unexpected pitches so that it is impossible to
Urban Folk #12 ~ 38
sing along – for the first few listens, at least.
The album also has a naval theme, with a few of the
songs conveying tales of woe from the sailors and the
lovers they leave behind. Here, the music gently lilts
and Jenny’s breath bounces as over waves. The songs
are often desperately sad, but somehow you know
Jenny’s not a dark, brooding Morrissey type. She’s just
someone who can empathise well with her subject mat-
ter. (Sophie Parkes)
jennymccormick.com
Jeff Schram: Devil Ain’t Got a Chance
Leave it to a guy who runs an internet radio station to
realize that although album presentation is nice, it ain’t
necessary. That’s right, even without pretty packaging,
the mastermind behind Alloy Radio and plenty of art-
ists’ breath-taking websites (check out
caseysheamusic.com for just one example), Jeff
Schram reminds us all that his talents are multifac-
eted. His three-song EP Devil Ain’t Got a Chance is,
as far as I know, exclusively available in electronic form
– a revolutionary idea for any artist, myself included,
who lives with far too many copies of their albums in
already cramped New York City apartments. Still, it’s
not just Jeff’s progressive distribution plan which makes
his EP noteworthy. His bluesy hook-laden release pro-
pels listeners through its high energy cuts, delivering
just what it promises in the title track. Jeff claims, “You
better watch yourself, little girl, when I grab hold of you.”
The songs move you to dance, and then move you to
start the album all over again. The production value of
the EP is strong, yet it retains a very raw and very real
quality which helps the songs stay so sincere. Pro-
duced by Uri Djemal at MadPan Studios, Schram
comes off fragile yet powerful, as his well-orchestrated
compositions blend into each other as a cohesive state-
ment of passion, desire, and drive. An important force
in the New York songwriter community, Devil Ain’t Got
a Chance reminds us all that Jeff Schram is much more
than a wizard of the web, he’s also a hell of a singer/
songwriter himself. (Paul Alexander)
www.jeffjeffjeff.com
Soft Black: Blue Gold
Blue Gold is the culmination of two years of songwriting
and performing from New Jersey’s Lone Perm, Vin
Cacchione, and it was well worth the wait. A long-time
punk making big noise with his old band, Give Us
Barabbas, Vin’s sound has mellowed out over recent
years, but still knows how to rock the fuck out.
Lyrically, Blue Gold is a lesson in deep, world-weary
sadness. The sound of someone who got down to the
bottom and is just now starting to see the light again.
Vin’s voice shares not a few similarities with David
Dondero’s, and his wavering, plaintive tone makes the
most of lines like “Let me die with the light in my eye.”
It is not an easy task, deciphering the subject matter
of Soft Black songs - it’s more something that FEELS
sad, rather than SOUNDS sad. Either way, sometimes
the greatest sadness produces the greatest beauty,
and I would daresay that this is the case on Blue Gold.
Under the almost ubiquitous guiding hand of producer
Dan Costello, the band sounds a lot like The Band
herein: plenty of piano and organ abound, with some
very well-played but mostly tasteful electric guitar weav-
ing in and out among the rhythm section and Vin’s own
acoustic. In fact, the only major gripe I’d have about
Blue Gold is the occasional point where the atmospheric
folk songs get suddenly shoved out of the way for Mid-
70’s style extended guitar interludes. This is, however,
a small complaint about a big, classy collection of
songs. Highly recommended. (Brook Pridemore)
myspace.com/vincentcacchione
Chris Yang: May All Yr Children Be Dragons
I don’t know what they put in the water in Guelph,
Ontario that makes it such a Mecca in an already amaz-
ing part of the world. It may be a mild sedative, but it
may also just be that the people in Guelph know how
good they have it, and want to preserve their small town
lifestyle, while occasionally introducing small clusters
of outsiders.
Urban Folk #12 ~ 39
Chris Yang is one of the more prominent members of
Guelph’s Burnt Oak Records, a little label responsible
also for releases by Richard Laviolette, Slow Hand
Motem and Griffin and the True Believers. Chris’ new
platter is a delirious, gear-shifting collection of sweet
folk songs about whales, chemical imbalances and girls.
Yang’s angular, largely finger-picked acoustic guitar
playing and the occasional plunking piano lay an easy
bed for his unassuming, gentle baritone. However, in
the vein of any good post hardcore album, the serenity
often disappears at the drop of a hat, jerking Gang of
Four style into screaming cacophony, especially on
tracks like “Once I Was a Whale,” and the voices-as-
train-whistle effect on “Brooklyn.”
The finest moments on May All Yr Children Be Drag-
ons - and there are many - come on the more loveworn
songs, like the gear-shifting “Landscapes” and the
drunken, jamboree style “Don’t Know What.” Indeed,
“Landscapes” features one of the saddest single lyrics
I’ve heard in years - one I desperately wish I’d written
myself: “If you’re so good at convincing yourself/con-
vince yourself, convince yourself to stay.” Grab this disc
as soon as you can, and try to see Chris the next time
he visits New York. (Brook Pridemore)
myspace.com/chrisyangchrisyang
Out Now On Family Records!
((stereo))

the bootleg series volume 1

The Undisputed Heavyweights Live From New York City
Money \ Lartigue \ Bitches Be Trippin' \ Roll Your Windows Down \ Back To You \ Just For Laughs \ A Girl Like You

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Jeff Jacobson

Cross-Pollination: The Mixtape

The Mixtape Vol. 1

Volume 1 (FR-002 / Digital Only)

Features free, exclusive downloads from some of
the most exciting past performers that were part of
the weekly Cross-Pollination concert series at Pianos.
Includes My Brightest Diamond, Jeffrey Lewis, Kevin
Devine, The Undisputed Heavyweights, Matt Singer,
Wakey!Wakey!, Jay Mankind, Cloud Cult and more.
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Download now for free at LiberatedMatter.com

Coming Soon
Wakey!Wakey! - Make A Fist Inside Your Pocket (The Bootleg Series Vol. 2)
Casey Shea - Alive & Welll (The Bootleg Series Vol. 3)
Seth Kallen & Friends - TBA In Philly (The Bootleg Series Vol. 4)
Jukebox The Ghost - TBA Full Length
Matt Singer - TBA EP
& More

Also from Liberated Matter

Cross-Pollination : A weekly concert series featuring some of the most exciting talent
NYC has to offer. Two artists each play an individual 40 minute set, followed by a 3-song
collaborative set, leading to unexpected and often spectacular musical results.
Every Tuesday at Pianos (158 Ludlow St. by Stanton), 8-10pm, FREE! 151 weeks and
running! For info on releases, schedules, music placement, concert promotion and more
visit LiberatedMatter.com
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