Urban Folk: issue eight

An Ode to the Road: I’m writing this from Boulder, CO where I played a great show with an old friend last
night. Tomorrow I’m off to Albuquerque, then on to San Diego and up to Seattle before finally heading back east,
hitting all the towns along the way. As folksingers we come from an ancient tradition of traveling troubadors,
singing the stories and the news at all the towns along the way. You can give us cars and guitars that plug in, but
it’s nice to know that essentially the idea hasn’t changed. Back in New York, I’ll be singing about Tulsa, just like I
sang to Tulsa about New York. And so we bring you an issue dedicated to the road. Eric Warner gives us Brattleboro
Fest from the rambling anarcho-nihlist perspective, Mick Flannery shows us New York thorugh Irish eyes, and
“Caseless” Joe Scone looks at folk music at the end of the road, on the front lines of combat in Iraq. Enjoy, see you
when I get home! - Dave Cuomo, Editor
Contact us at urbanfolkzine@gmail.com
back issue pdf’s at urbanfolk.org
In This Issue:
Cover - illustration by peter nevins - peter nevins.com
Letters to the Editor – you speak, we respond
Iraq Correspondence – “caseless” joe scone reports on folk music on the front
Brattleboro Fest – eric warner’s tale of a wingnut conspiracy
Dan Fishback – andrew hoepfner explores the backside of outsider art
Cheese on Bread – jonathan berger mourns the end of an era
Drinking the Big Apple – mick flannery’s new york from the irish perspective
On the Road Again – jason rabinowitz on non-club venues for the alternative road hound
Urban Folk Birthday Celebration – photos by herb scher
Olive Juice - tony rubin goes behind the scenes with major matt
Win a Date With Alec Wonderful – the results are in! Be an Urban Folk friend!
Leo - paul alexander sits down with the ever eccentric artist myspace.com/urbanfolkzine

Larry Hammel – dave cuomo talks to the producer about recording on the DIY budget
Paul’s Perspective - paul alexander takes the local road to Long Island City
Get in the Minivan – brook pridemore on the open road, a double feature!
Praise Jesus! - grey revell on brer brian’s anitfolk infiltration of church
Singing to the Heavens - brer brian follows up with an interview with the flock
CD Reviews – david lk murphy, diane cluck, regina spektor, toby goodshank, and more!
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 Letters to the Editor send letters to urbanfolkzine@gmail.com

Dear Urban Folk, Dear UF,

How come nobody’s written about me in your
magazine? What do I do to get you to write about me?
Signed,
Anonymous
Dear Anonymous,
Well, with a name like that…
Really, the best way to be written about is to just do
what you’re doing. There are a bunch of writers these
days, and they’re inspired by a bunch of different factors,
so if, what you’re doing is of any worth, you’re number’ll
probably come up. Of course, Nobody here in the
editorial collective advises this, but you could pursue
the editors or your favorite writer at Urban Folk. You
could harass them, saying things like, “Write about me.
WRITE ABOUT ME!” or maybe, send a press kit with
what you feel makes yours an interesting story, like, “I’m
Finney McBob, and I’m the only boy to have left my
hometown in the last 40 years…”
See, if no one has written about you on the strength of
your music, your performance, or your inner charm, you
gotta give them a reason to, right?
Right…
How can I get back issues of Urban Folk?
Sincerely,
Rich Beyond Measure
Dear Rich,
The main editors keep a few copies locked away that
they’d be willing to sell to you at incredibly inflated prices
(charging as much as 300% more than the original cost).
Or you could just go on over to urbanfolk.org, where
there are PDFs of most of the old issues, available for free.
Yes, you read right. For FREE! If that’s not good enough
for you, send an $18.00 check to urbanfolkzine@gmail.
com
To Whom It May Concern:
That Jon Berger guy seems really cool. Can I be his
friend?
Dear Whom:
No.

To the people at Urban Folk,

Why?
Curious

Dear Curious,
Because we like you.

Dear Editor,
What’s gonna be in the next issue
of Urban Folk?
Love,
A Rumor Monger

Dear RM,
Whatever you write for it. Wanna
write about a show you really liked?
Send it along. Want to suggest that
Debe Dalton is an unpaid assassin
(she’s not, you know)? Print it out,
and we may publish it. It’s not
like we’ll take just anything, but
we do want your thoughts. It’s a
community paper, after all, so join
the community.
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 Iraq Correspondence
by Joseph “Caseless Joe” Scone

With almost 20 years of service, now serving in Iraq with the 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault), Caseless Joe
(left) is a folksinger as much as he’s a fighter. He writes to us about folk music on the front.

part 1: The Ojays

The American folk movement in Iraq is not underground
or even undercover, more like, underarmor. It is being
sweated out in 130 degree heat and screamed into four
dollar headset microphones in the acoustic sauna of a
plastic port-a-potty. Guys who would never consider
themselves musicians, never mind “folk”, are screaming
their nightmares into psychotic rhapsodies of an apple-
pie collage of conflicting nightmares. Born to kill, kill to
live, live to ride, ride to die, any pie left? Someone tell
me, what is anti-folk.
That was for Mom who would have said “So, you’re
some kind of hippie now?” I miss her.
Anyhow...
As an American soldier assigned to work directly with
Iraqi soldiers and their leaders, I wanted to get some
understanding of those people with whom I would live
and work. Many will agree that folk music is a peek into
the common moral aspirations of a society. Granted, I
am not one who would say that in a normal conversation
but, at the time, I had 11 months and 29 more days on
tour in Iraq. Therefore, I asked one of my interpreters.
“Eric, you know any folk songs?”
“What is folk?”
“Like old songs that everyone one knows the words to
when the old people sing.”
“We do not have this. Saddam-Hussein-killed-all-[
song ]-from-my-people and we-want-only-to-live-in-
 peace-and-brotherhood-with-our-beloved-American-
friends”
“Right, so … umm, you like Bob Dylan?”
Thus it goes. Everyone has an agenda. No one has
any shame about it. Ask a question about anything
and the first answer is [the other ethnic group] killed
off the [joy/spirit/love] of [whatever you asked about]
by [whatever method seems most dramatic; shooting
farmers in the fields; poisoning schoolchildren’s milk;
or driving a car bomb into the only hospital that treats
(my ethnic group)] BUT! They cannot kill off my faith in
my American-friend-to-whom-I-am-dedicating-my-life-
as-too-small-a-price-to-pay-for-the-gift-of-freedom-that-
you-have-brought-my-people. (Yes, it is often spoken
just like that, in one breath.)
I wonder what their music will sound like in 5 years.
Ode to American Forces
We love and miss you our American brothers
But you went home to your twice blessed mothers
And we prepared for power’s vacuum
Scratched these words onto Hope’s future tomb
Does your cultural ADD allow you to recall
Why the proud to serve had to fall?
Didn’t think so
Bye
<Attitude On The Side> Every event that I described
above did occur at one time or another during the 30 years
of Saddam’s oppression. I’m sorry that your high school
principal wouldn’t let you wear a miniskirt to class, or your
stepfather called you a fag, or your classmates harassed
you in the halls. You should try real oppression. It sucks.>
part 2: Burhan Marjeet
Then one day in Iraq I am doing some work with a
group of Iraqi soldiers when one of them slaps me on the
back and sings “Amozah, to bo min fahrzi “, (does it sound
like a hit yet?) “Amozah, to bala barazi”, then several
others fill in with alternate, amusing, and occasionally
obscene, lyrics, all in the Kurdish language. My poor
interpreter almost choked on his tongue by translating
and laughing in the manner of one who has just sung
“Froggy went a-courtin’” to a total social outsider.
Thus it is to pass that, fully armed with the knowledge
that there is a folk song surviving, in at least one of the
five local languages, it still takes three months to get a
set of lyrics.
You too can have a complete set of lyrics just send
$9.99 and a self addressed stamped envelope to
Amozah Lyrics c/o Urban Folk
306 Jefferson St 1R
Brooklyn, NY 11237
… or you can get them free at www.myspace.com/
caseless which is what I would have done if I could have
but of course I could not because I had not yet typed
them up, so there.
Nonetheless, I found a song, managed to get it written
in Arabic script, then had it translated to roman script,
learned how to mispronounce every word, found out
what the lyrics translated to in English, corrected some of
the pronunciation errors, practiced the run on sentence,
worked out a balance of English and Kurdish that was
acceptable to me, and eventually, recorded the song. So
what’s the rush? Death.
</macho on> Death is this big stupid rock that
sits up on top of the mountain teetering and tottering
and just being there because, you know. You know,
that eventually your number is gonna come up. The
average American has as good a chance of being hit by
lightning, twice, on the day he or she wins the lottery as
she or he does of being whacked by some terrorist SOB.
Unfortunately, I am not average. Neither is any other guy
who’s scribbling songs on the back of a MRE box, baking
in the heat, wondering how stuff can be so screwed up
in this part of the world. Even so, our chances are only
one, against the population of Scranton, Pennsylvania,
that I will never see this issue published. [Ask the guys
from the 109th PA Nat. Guard how that works.] So if I
have a song, story, or statement, that I want to be heard, I
must to record it, now. I must post it on some half naked

Question: What does it take to write a good folk song?

Answer: Many, many bad folk songs, and a Saaz

OK I predict that, at least in my house, the saaz will be to the 21st century
what the sitar was to the 20th. The saaz is a muti-ethnic instrument, that has
between 4 and 7 strings and a single bottom bowl that usually measures 7-9
inches across. That makes the sound chamber much smaller than that of a
mandolin. The neck of the saaz is anywhere from 20-36 inches. It is made
out of several types of wood but walnut seems to be the most common in north eastern Iraq. Oddly, the traditional
saaz is fretted with string. More modern manufacturing processes in Turkey are beginning to use brass or steel frets
but the original twisted grass string fret clearly defines the saaz as a shepherd’s instrument. A single bowl and a
straight stick neck with moveable string frets. If you don’t like the sound, twist a peg, move a fret, make it sound
good to you.
website, now. And you must play it now. </rant off> Christian. I recently encountered one song that will
serve as an appropriate example. The music consists of
part: 3 Bob Dylan an acoustic guitar strumming a C in a regular soothing
pattern. The first verse is a softly mumbled Lord’s Prayer
Now that it is firmly delivered in a classic
established that I descend American hum-drum
into madness every 340 lip service to church.
words or so, allow me to Second verse is a similarly
blurt this out. Don’t sell delivered Jesus Loves the
Pepsi if your alphabet does Little Children.
not have a letter P. With the third verse
<So who is your co- following the classic
pilot> ‘same as the first’ pattern,
The picture of a huge why does the song deserve
red faced army chaplain comment? The chorus is
screaming “there are no a non-melodic screaming
atheists in foxholes” sits of “Oh Fuck Oh God Oh
right next to the memory God Oh Fuck Oh My
of a too-cool little nubile Fucking God OK Fuck OK
num-num [I bet she thinks God Lets Go” delivered
I remember her name] who in an atonal screech,
tried to deflect my teenage redolent of fear, to the
advances with her statements on how wonderful a looped sound of AK-47 fire. The statement, God is real,
godless society would be. Well girlie, twenty years later, I am alive, Who’da thunk it.
I am certain of 2 things. First, you don’t fit into that
t-shirt anymore, and second, “there are no atheists in myspace.com/caseless
foxholes”.
There are a lot of Christian, Christian Alternative, and
Gospel song writers here. Sometimes the Alternative
part is a fair stretch of road away from what most call
 Brattleboro
Fest
tales from the
wing-nut conspiracy
By Eric L. Warner

It’s 3:17 in the morning and I’m sitting in a dorm room

with a warning to watch ourselves and that if anything
in Towson, Maryland drinking whiskey and watching
got out of hand, they were going to come down on us.
over a beautiful passed out crusty named Ursula. In
At that point I decided that the cops, the mayor, and
the other room is my traveling partner, Ashley Martin.
the members of Building a Better Brattleboro, had all
When people ask us how we came upon this lifestyle,
already lost.
we tell them about Brattleboro Fest. Let’s just start from
On May 5th I got out of class and went straight down
the beginning.
to Harmony Parking Lot, the festival grounds. At first it
was a mix of the usual suspects and a few new faces.
On May 3rd, a friend from New York called up all his
Then people started showing up, one by one, then in
friends from Long Island and told them that he wanted
packs. We organized games of Capture the Flag in the
them to accompany him up to Brattleboro, Vermont.
parking lot. We played music in the streets. We had
With little to no knowledge as to what was going on
a robot parade down Main Street. Everywhere you
Ashley Martin got into the car in search of something.
looked, there were the youth of today, basking in the
She had been a part of a DIY scene in Long Island that
sun. The cops had found our encampment the day prior
had turned into a typical get-drunk-under-the-bridge-
and blocked off our access road down to the tracks so
and-bitch-about-how-there-are-no-more-shows scene,
we found new housing at the nude beach just outside
and was on a search for something new.
of town.
At the time I had mentally resigned from college life
That night, things exploded. I had left the parking lot
and was spending a large portion of time in the woods
at around 4 to go nude swimming down by the beach
down by the tracks in Brattleboro making patches,
and when I got back at 5 there were between 200-300
building robots, and helping find housing and food
people there waiting for the show to start.
for all the crusties and travelers that were coming into
The first band up was Endless Mike and the Beagle
town. Spirits were high, but unlike last year’s fest, the
Club. They were awesome and by far one of my favorite
cops had found a flier for this one and were on to us.
bands of the night. They opened with an anti-war poem-
They were trying to find out who was in charge so that
song that was sung through a loud speaker with vocal
they could have someone to arrest, as we had no permit,
distortion. For the first time in a long time I stood on the
no permission, and no desire to ask for either of those
staircase of Common Grounds looking over the crowd
things. Of course, no one was in charge. We had long
and saw radical politics mixed with nihilism in such a
talks at the town mayor’s office about how this is an
way that it made me feel like I was right, that we had
autonomous effort on behalf of the youth community
already won.
and everyone who comes is the leader, and by that
Next up was Mark Leonard who had an amazing
same measure no one who comes is. We were let go
set; his song “In Our Wildest Dreams” had the whole
town shaking. Sadly, I had left with a few friends to
go dumpster food for everyone, as well as visit my
polyamorous girlfriend, Penny. We returned in time
to see Johnny Hobo and the Freight Trains. I had seen
them play at least a dozen times that semester but this
was by far one of the best. With no stage and no PA, it
was just a mob in the middle of the parking lot singing
along so loud that it drowned out the band. From Main
Street you could hear 300 passionate and pissed off kids
screaming, “We aren’t revolutionaries, BUT WE ARE
THE REVOLUTION!”
At 10:45 the cops were threatening to arrest all the
minors, so we headed down to the nude beach to set
up a tent city. The bonfire was going within 10 minutes.
Soon after, we had jugs of wine, cases of beer, hard
liquor, and all the usual Brattleboro chemicals that keep
a party raging for days. I remember a mass circle of kids
hanging around the fire, some naked, some dressed,
some kissing, some snarling, some just being kids. I was
exhausted and felt obligated to take care of the ones I
had brought, so I spent most of my night baby-sitting
and making sure that minors weren’t getting alcohol
poisoning. I crashed out at about 2am and woke up
at six in the morning just in time for the arrival of the
Breakfast Beers. It was at the camp breakfast (bud light
and cold pasta) that I met Ashley. She was being hit on
by a sketchy guy from Connecticut and I decided to
barge in and help her out. That’s just the kind of guy
that I am. We packed our bags and spent the rest of the
day hanging out. We played kick ball in the park, four
square at the elementary school, and drank 40s down by
the river. We dumpstered about 30 Kaiser Rolls to feed
everyone and Penny brought a few cakes from her job
to help too.
The show that night was an amazing line-up but
extremely tiring. There were 11 bands, each with a set
list between a half hour and an hour. When Shannon
Murray played we decided to turn it into craziness since
she’s so used to playing stuffy intellectual coffee shops.
We whipped out the robot costumes and started moshing
and dancing, getting the crowd fired up. By the time
she played “Hallelujah! I’m a Bum!” and “Casey Jones”
everyone was dancing so frantically that Shannon got a
little scared and was asking us all to make sure no one
got hurt. Other bands who played that night were Bread
and Roses, Evan Greer, Uke Box, Mischief Brew, and a
ton of others that I can’t even recall due to many factors
including, but not limited to, not being there for the set,
being intoxicated during the set, or having my attention
on this gorgeous girl Ashley I had met.
I do remember Mischief Brew’s set, because it
blew my socks off. When he took the stage the place
exploded. Kids were tearing it up moshing, and I saw a
guy in a whole leg cast crowd surfing. Shannon Murray
took cover on a chair in the back of the room, which
slightly saddened me. She really believes in feminism
and making all genres of music (including punk) safe
for women, and I think that the adrenaline of the dance
hall had a little too much masculinity. I danced with
Ashley the whole set, stopping only to scream along
with “Thanks Bastards!” and “Roll Me through the Gates
of Hell.”
I never made it to the after party Saturday night. It
turned out that me and Penny were trying to hook up
with the same girl, so we talked her into coming back to
Penny’s house with both of us. I’m not going to go into
details about what happened that night, as its none of
your goddamn business... but I can tell you about the
camp that night, or at least what I heard second hand.
The camp was moved up the mountain because the
cops had found our tent city, forcing us to move again.
This time we had an 18+ rule that was sort of enforced
because we knew this party was gonna be crazier than
usual. A couple of travelers had brought dust and acid for
everyone, and we didn’t want anyone around that who
wasn’t old enough to account for there own actions. I
heard that a random middle aged guy dressed as a pirate
came in the middle of the night. Nobody knew him and
he sketched a lot of people out. Honestly though, we’re
all sketchy people. I mean, celebrating your sketchiness
is a foundation of the Wing-Nut conspiracy.
The next morning, we woke up and headed back to
the parking lot, I took Ashley out to breakfast and we
said our good byes. I told her that I would see her soon.
Who knew it would turn out to be a lot sooner than we
thought. I then went and lied down next to everyone
else in the middle of the parking lot in the sun for about
2 hours, listening to a few kids still tripping from the
night before talking about how life is a scam. Everything
is a scam! The hippies were a scam! I didn’t really follow
the logic but it was damn funny for about an hour and
a half.
I’m not sure what happened after that. I think it was a
mixture of the fest inspiring me towards a DIY lifestyle,
being fed up with school, and not wanting to work in the
system. All I know is 4 days later, my room was packed,
all my shit was in storage, and I was hitching down to
NY to meet up with Ashley. We left NY together and
have been traveling ever since. I gotta go now, because
we are squatting the empty (and unlocked) dorms
at Goucher College and security just came in to find
9 crusties drinking, smoking pot, and watching Boon
Dock Saints in a room where no one is supposed to be,
especially us. I think I should go pack.
Until next time,
ALL POWER TO THE WINGNUTS!
 Dan Fishback
sings it from the asshole
My first memory of Dan Fishback is watching one
of his monologues in which he recounts an episode of
rectal bleeding and the invasive doctor’s appointment
that followed. I squirmed in my seat as this indie geek
described shitting beautiful red ovals of blood that
rivaled Mark Rothko. Simultaneously, I felt shocked and
giddy. If the act of shitting blood could be treated in such
an open and funny way, then what was there in life to
really be so embarrassed about?
Fishback looked pleased as I congratulated him in
the moments afterwards. He mischievously grinned, “I
think I just alienated myself from everyone else in the
room.” Maybe he was right, but when the next open mic
musician dude took stage with his John Mayer imitation,
it didn’t seem to matter. I was wishing for more art like
Dan Fishback’s. I wanted a story to make me squirm,
by Andrew Hoepfner
photo by Herb Scher
because oddly, squirming had led to a feeling of
liberation.
“That monologue was supposed to be funny,” Dan
recalls two years later. “I felt like it was an audience of
people who really didn’t want to hear about my asshole.
And didn’t want to hear about assholes, in general.
Didn’t want to acknowledge that they had an asshole.
Wanted to think that people just had no holes at all.”
There are a lot of assholes in the world. That is to
say, there are plenty of topics relevant to the human
experience that make people uncomfortable and even
scared to acknowledge. Equipped with pen and guitar,
and an occasional dildo, Dan Fishback eagerly fills
the void. Whether its through songs about abortion
eating M.D.’s or theatrical performances regarding
the similarities between Egyptian criminal law and
gay sadomasochistic porn, the outskirts of taboo are
suddenly thrust out into the open by Fishback, in all its
terror and humor.
The thrill of shock is definitely enticing to artists. On
the other hand, mixing humor with very painful subjects
risks the chance of insensitively hurting someone in the
audience with whom the particular pain is very real.
The cheap thrill doesn’t seem to justify toying with such
a weapon. It’s payoff is brief and fleeting, an artistic
orgasm. To really be effective, shock needs to be rooted
in something deep and meaningful. The beauty of Dan
Fishback’s work is its roots in the human soul. As a gay
performer, his art seems especially in tune with the soul
of the outsider, the misunderstood. “My existence itself
is considered taboo by many people. And if they’re
wrong about me, what else are they wrong about?” he
explains. “I live in taboo, so it’s my responsibility to
guard that terrain for its other occupants.” Thus, Dan
Fishback emerges, a bold defender of assholes. Making
controversial art is a means of questioning the absolute
morality of the mainstream. With any subject that is
inherently uncomfortable to talk about, there is an
accompanying set of dominant morals that is limited and
harmful to the people who have a stake in that subject.
By shoving contradicting viewpoints in his audience’s
face, Dan is making an effort to debunk the myths and
assert truths that are more accurate, more respectful, and
ultimately more human. “That’s the ethical imperative of
being queer - to explore the fringes of acceptability and
make those fringes safe for everyone.”
In modern times, villains are everywhere. Hostile
homophobia and war-bent imperialism are rampant in
mainstream America, gagging unconventional mouths
and plugging unconventional assholes wherever their
seeds are sown. Fishback’s latest play “Please Let Me
Love You”, which just completed a successful run at the
Hot festival at Dixon Place, is in large part a response to
the political form of repression that has deformed civic
dissent into taboo. In a cascade of brilliant tangents,
“Please Let Me Love You” ties together Michael Jackson’s
pedophilic desires with George W. Bush, a distraught
Iraqi lesbian couple, clashing pro gay and anti-gay activist
mothers, and a dead American soldier with a knack for
lounge singing, to name a few. Through this playful
ensemble of horrific images, the audience is shown a
powerful connection between the misunderstanding and
abuse that occurs in our personal relationships and the
ways this same misunderstanding and abuse occurs on
a much more dangerous, international level, specifically
the war in Iraq.
“Please Let Me Love You” also presents the
uncomfortable suggestion that there may have been an
element of love between Michael Jackson and his 13
year-old lover, Jordan Chandler. “The last real boundary
when talking about sexual relationships between
adults and young people is that there are gradients of
unacceptability. That there could be a spectrum of bad.”
It’s undeniable that sexual urges happen long before
people are legally entrusted to act on them, and it’s
not difficult to imagine a positive sexual relationship
existing between young people and adults. On the other
hand, Dan notes, “The taboo against child sex abuse
makes sense to the extent that it is reasonable to say
that you can’t trust young people to make decisions for
themselves.”
In one of the play’s most striking confrontations with
child abuse, Fishback portrays a child who was raped
by a Catholic priest at a picnic while his family gathers
around and sings “Little Deuce Coupe” by the Beach
Boys. “How could you let this happen?!” he screams.
The juxtaposition of bizarrely silly imagery with
profoundly disturbing images can be deeply moving. It
invokes the strange uncertainty of not knowing whether
to laugh because it’s shocking or to cry because of the
intense pain it implies. The combination is stylistically
reminiscent of fellow New York City performance artists
like the O’Debra Twins, Jessica Delfino, and comic Rick
Shapiro, who are competent taboo humorists in their
own right, and hailed by Fishback as inspirations.
As an artist becomes comfortable dabbling with
taboo, they may run into backlash adapting to the real
world. Fishback admits, “I almost lost a friend by saying
that the government should subsidize animated child
pornography.” His perspective was that a pedophilic
feeling isn’t evil in itself, and if society acknowledged
that pedophiles who aren’t violently active deserve to be
happy, those people could be supplied with an outlet for
their urge so they wouldn’t harm anyone. The argument
has its merits, but remains a funny example of how life
on the fringes of thought can distort an artist’s concept
of normal and decent conversation.
With a body of work that places significant focus on
social and political issues, Dan creates art with the hope
that each bit contributes its own small effect on the larger
popular opinion. However, gauging the effectiveness of
politically radical art is not as much of a concern to him as
perceiving the counter effects of apolitical art. “It’s going
to have way more of an effect on the voting populace for
fucking Death Cab for Cutie to sing some dumb song,
or really beautiful song, about being home for summer
and seeing a girl and really liking them and thinking
that’s the hugest deal in the world. That’s going to be a
huge effect, because that’s going to inspire thousands
of kids to feel like their little romantic problems are the
most important thing in the whole world and contribute
to their apathy.” Dan urges, “The one responsibility that
anyone has making art is to be aware of the way their art
is going to translate politically, because all art translates
politically. To understand its effect and accept it and
consider it.”
Sometimes the political aim of Fishback’s art is less
concrete, and the moral of the story, less clear. His bluntly
named band, Dan Fishback and the Faggots, is a more
ambiguously directed experiment with the gray areas of
acceptable speech. Calling a band “The Faggots” exposes
the homophobic slur in all its cruelty and discomfort.
The value in this title is the chance to create a deeper,
more direct dialogue about homophobia. Yet the name
choice also holds a risk, that of giving a wide range of
people license to speak the word. Dan related to me the
conflict he felt upon hearing shouts of, “faggots!” erupt
from his audience at shows. Are any of them saying
the word with a mean-spirited, persecutory attitude? Is
it morally wrong to cause heterosexuals to scream the
word “faggots!”, even if they intend it with the most
enthusiastic, supportive attitude? Or should only people
like Dan Fishback be allowed to say “faggot,” because
they are faggots? Was that sentence morally acceptable
for me to write, as a heterosexual? These are the touchy,
yet intriguing reactions one has to Dan Fishback’s potent
expressions.
Fishback himself is unsure if one must experience a
specific oppression to be entitled to use its language.
“Even referring to my own band, whenever someone else
says it, there’s this tiny ping of, ‘Shut the fuck up! Who
the fuck do you think you are? You’re not allowed to say
that. I’m allowed to say that.’ Intellectually it makes no
sense to me, but emotionally, it’s just the truth. And I still
haven’t come to terms with that.”
The Faggots is one example of many overtly gay
expressions Dan has brought about. Others include
his previous theatrical performance, “Assholes Speak
Louder Than Words” and his retrospective series last
spring, “No Direction Homo.” Part of his motivation for
being so forthright about his sexuality is the desire to
expand the definition of being gay. “It’s very important
for a young person, or any person, who has just come
out and is trying to feel comfortable about themselves
to be able to easily see other gay people in the world
doing interesting things. And it’s particularly important
when the most easily accessible gay culture is so
commercialized and so anti-human.” The sculpted,
waxed gym enthusiast of Chelsea is a narrow stereotype
that gnaws at Fishback. “I’m so completely outraged that
people come out, look for something to accept them,
and end up finding something that is trying to chop
them up into a narrower slice of human being. People
told me, oh you’ll grow up, but I never get less mad. I
take it really personally.” There’s a host of variations of
gay folk that Fishback would like to see more visible.
“Very physically large gay men performing. Older gay
men,” he lists, “gay men with lots of body hair, all who
are also comfortable and happy and experiencing the
same problems as everyone else. Gay men of color. Gay
men who are total punks and don’t buy anything. Vegan
gay men. Even if I’m not that interested in their art, if
it increases the definition, then it’s worthwhile and I’m
going to support it.” Dan Fishback presents himself as an
inspiring alternative to any stereotype: a sweet, skinny
intellectual in glasses, immersed in the roughness and
fun of punk and folk music. It’s a unique personality that
you don’t have to be gay to be enchanted by.
In one of his recent mailing lists was an enlightening
thought about gay pride month. Fishback said he didn’t
necessarily believe in pride, but also definitely didn’t
believe in its opposite, shame. He wrote of favoring more
of a gay “presence” rather than pride. As I understood it,
Dan was talking about how the word “pride” implies an
unnatural obligation to have to stand up for your natural,
ordinary existence. Dan’s message was pointing toward
a better reality where gay people, like heterosexuals,
wouldn’t have to be abnormally proud of their sexuality,
but simply present. As a heterosexual, supporting gay
pride always seemed like a no-brainer. It’s a blessing
to learn from an artist who can take a good concept,
question it, and replace it with something even better.
Ironically, it was in front of a hip, urban, gay audience
where Fishback received the most shocked reactions to
his art. In June of 2005 at a blog reading series called
WizzyWig, he performed the first and last monologue
of “Please Let Me Love You”, which happens to contain
a large portion about assholes. At the reading, Dan
discovered that the shock potency of being sheltered
from uncomfortable subject matter is rivaled by being
intimately familiar with it. “The crowd freaked out! So
much!” he describes. “My performance went overtime
because I had to pause for these huge intervals between
lines to wait for the laughing and screaming to go
down.” In the piece’s climax, attempted anal sex goes
awry with the discovery of one partner’s allergy to the
lubrication. A very graphic, gross description of the lover
sucking shit and lube off the condom follows. “I think it
was because most of the people in the crowd had had
experiences with sex and shit at the same time, and they
understood the inherent terror and humor in sexuality,”
Dan reflects.
Somewhere out on the fringes of acceptable thought,
in a place where the sun don’t shine, is a magical merry-
go-round of taboo artistic expression. There’s something
very scary about it, yet very fun and enticing. Something
crucially important bubbles just below its amusing
surface. People will continue, and must continue to talk
about the topics that are off limits. The dismantling of
boundaries is just as unstoppable as their creation. There
is still so much to explore and learn from our collective
asshole. In these New York City days, Dan Fishback is a
fine teacher of such things.
danfishback.com
 Cheese on Bread
are they toast?
photo by Herb Scher
6/24 – Is it a sad day, or one of celebration? Is it an
ending, or a new beginning? Is this the death of a cool
band, or a renaissance for all of its many members? It
depends on if the cup’s half empty or full, I guess, and
there were lots of cups in varying states at the Bronx’s
Bruckner Bar, where Cheese on Bread played the last of
their farewell shows.
Born of the creative friendship of homosexual Dan
Fishback and girl Sara Fitzsimmons, Cheese on Bread
has played songs of silliness and sensitivity, charm and
chaos, melody and madness, for the last four years. They
started playing together at university, “Where we told
each other how bad we were at playing guitar. ‘I’m so
bad at it.’ “Oh man – I promise you I’m worse.’ Then we
saw each other play at an open mic. ‘Dude, you’re really
good!’ ‘Whatever man, YOU’RE REALLY GOOD!’”
The duo could have broken up when Dan graduated
and moved to New York, but, as he became enveloped
in the New York AntiFolk scene, his appreciation for the
COB project expanded, not contracted.
“I always wanted to be in a band,” Fishback stated,
“Sara and I met each other at the right time. I think we
were both nervous about making serious music, so the
idea of a ‘joke band’ felt appropriate.”
Adding fellow Philadelphians Matt Keesan and Kevin
Kelly, as well as AntiFolk’s own Dibson Hoffweiler, the
duo became a band, and much more.
“To me, Cheese On Bread is a band of course, but also
the idea of my friendship with the other four members.”
Dibs said, “Having Cheese On Bread end is really sad.
I’ve become very close to the other four members.”
Not all members are as pessimistic about the future
of the group. Kevin Kelly explained, “I really hope that
this isn’t a finite END, but rather a change in direction
for the band.”
So why is the word Farewell being bandied about in
the first place? Why did their promotion for the show
read: “This will be the last Cheese On Bread show for the
forseeable future. It marks the beginning of INDEFINITE
HIATUS.”
Is it an end, or a beginning?
“Kevin and I are moving out to the other coast,” Sara
Fitzsimmons explained, “but Philadelphia is still our
home and New York City is still our neighborhood best
friend. And Cheese on Bread has learned how to make
by Jonathan Berger
long distance relationships work.”
Kelly continued, “At the very least I hope that we can
make a really excellent record of the work we have
done as a full band, and maybe even do a little touring
to support it.”
That’s what everyone hopes, but that’s so far off. And
Saturday, June 24th might be the last night, as far as
we know, that anyone will ever see Cheese on Bread
again.
So hundreds of feet trekked out to the South Bronx,
to see the adorable duo that became a band, and to say
goodbye. Other bands on the bill included the Bronx’s
own the Lisps, as well as AntiFolk SuperGroup Urban
Barnyard, Schwervon!, and COB’s old touring mates,
the Bloodsugars. Each of their shows was spirited, and
everyone on-stage tried to keep their melancholy to a
minimum and kept the alternate reality hits pumping.
At eleven, the stars of the night hit the slightly-raised
stage, and did not one, but two sets of material from their
solitary release, Maybe Maybe Maybe Baby, and much
much more. There were two versions of “Samurai.” They
sang “Sally.” They brought up just about every person
who’d played drums for the band, and countless other
guests, to boot. The love in the room was palpable, as
was the heat. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in the Bronx
before,” I thought I heard someone say in passing.
Dibs, who had the honor of opening for his own band
COB in his own band, Urban Barnyard, had wanted
to make a speech during the earlier set, to express his
feelings about the breaking up ‘Bread. He wasn’t sure
he could say anything without breaking down. “I just
think it’s a shame that the band is ending at all,” he later
said, “Because of all the joy I have seen this band spread,
as both an audience member and band member. I don’t
know if I’ll ever have the privilege of being in a project
that makes people so happy.”
And what’s in store for the individual members? Well,
Matt Keesan is off to Washington DC. Dibs will focus on
solo shows and Urban Barnyard. Sara and Kevin have
formed a duo called Homesick Elephant. “It’s a much
more serious adult-like folk band,” Sara said, “So it’s a
bit of a change, at least for me.” Fishback, of course will
continue playing solo, along with his varying backing
bands, the Faggots and the Faguettes, as well as working
on his next record. “I’m working on a new play as well,”
he added, “But the rest of 2006 is going to be the year
where Dan mostly does just one thing, and really goes
for it.”
cheeseonbread.com
 How I Spent My Summer Vacation
an Irishman drinks the big Apple
I stepped on a bus in Cork City. It was bound for
Shannon Airport and was to be the first leg of a long
journey. Lee walked me to the station. As the hydraulic
doors eased shut our relationship officially ended. This
had been my idea.
All around me were traveling sales-boys and sales-
girls. They wore black suits and made nervous small-
talk. I hated them viscously. They feigned little laughs
and interest in each other while I wiped tears from my
eyes still looking at Lee.
I had to go from Shannon Airport, Ireland, to JFK,
cross to La Guardia, fly to Toronto, then on to St John’s,
Newfoundland for a week of gigs. Twenty-four hours of
plane signs and baggage reclaim. I was part of a group of
Irish singer-songwriters on a paid visit. Afterwards I was
to go back to New York and achieve outrageous fame in
the space of three months.
In St. John’s I felt very strange, alone, free. It was a
port town, built on hills. I liked it, and I grew very fond
of being drunk in it. The people were nice, the beer was
nice, and the gigs went well.
The drink got to me and I became extremely lonely.
On the third night I called Lee, tears were streaming.
She mentioned meeting me in New York. I didn’t say
anything. I left the hotel room and walked to the nearest
bar. A big friendly guy drinking whiskey offered me
hookers. I gave the prospect a lot of thought but didn’t
go through with it. On my last night in St. John’s a
woman much older than me named Brandy came back
to the hotel with me. She stayed but I was too drunk to
by Mick Flannery
do anything.
It was early morning when I arrived in New York. My
sister Sarah had rented an apartment on the Upper East
Side. I got a cab. “69th Street and 1st Avenue” I said, as
instructed, having no idea what it meant. I rang Sarah
and she came down looking all excited and full of life,
as usual. The apartment was fine, a room for Sarah, and
a room with two mattresses for me and my friend Dave
Macelroy who was joining us in two days.
Over the next few weeks I wandered aimlessly around
the city searching for the music scene. Sarah set me up a
few gigs, made up a demo CD, made all the calls, did all
the talking. She posted an ad on Craig’s list for a backing
singer. We timetabled auditions in the apartment. It was
very strange. Some of the girls that came were awful, I
didn’t know how to handle it. We chose a girl named
Leslie Graves. She had a nice soft voice and had a
natural way about her.
Dave Mac and I were doing a lot of drinking. I was
supposed to be concentrating on a career, he was meant
to be looking for work so he could save money for a
trip to New Zealand. The month was coming to an end
and neither of us had much money left. We had pissed
it away, mostly around Ludlow Street on the lower east
side. Meanwhile Sarah secured me a gig at CB’s Gallery
for the album release show.
Sarah was going to be leaving soon, and Dave and I
had to find a new place. He did more looking than I did
and that pissed him off. He was right. I didn’t have his
energy or confidence. Initiative is not one of my finer
qualities. New York weather had been aggressively hot,
though the city itself was very cold and hard. The city
discouraged me. I found it difficult to sleep at night.
I was calling Lee a lot. I told her how I missed and loved
her. She felt the same. She and Oanna, Dave’s girlfriend,
made plans to visit us for a week in August. We were
going to need a place with separate bedrooms. We, or
he, found a place on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg,
Brooklyn. Sarah had to put up the deposit for us before
she left.
We moved to Brooklyn. Dave found work on the
building sites. I would go to open mics, returning shit-
faced as he was getting up for work.
Bedford Avenue was awful. The people were mostly
rich kids with no natural or organic qualities to them.
They were artificial people, their own insecure clique,
with perfectly fashionable torn clothes, expensive shoes
and tattoos, all scared little mama’s boys and daddy’s
girls. Death. I spoke very little with anyone, I could not
relate. I went for long walks, I spent a lot of time reading.
I ate at a Polish diner -pretty waitresses, cheap food. I
liked that I couldn’t understand them. Most of the things
I overheard on Bedford nearly made me sick.
I couldn’t wait for Lee to arrive. She would hate
the place too, it would drive her crazy, and she was
completely irresistible when she was mad.
I had been spending Monday nights at the Sidewalk
Cafe, in the East Village. It had taken me six weeks to
find the most well-attended open mic. I had made a few
friends there. Dave Cuomo, good man, ran a small paper
called Urban Folk and had reviewed my demo in it very
favorably. Frank Hoier, John Sfara, Dan Costello, I knew
a lot of people there. I knew the bar-maid, Mericea.
I spent a lot of time sitting at the bar flirting with her.
She took a lot of my money. She made drinking even
more enjoyable. I never realized drinking was a waste
of money until I couldn’t afford it anymore.
Finally Lee arrived. When she saw me she ran and
jumped into my arms. People around sighed. The first
time a New Yorker was happy for me. I felt like someone.
She looked electric. I tried to hide an erection. We
mauled each other in the back of the cab, all the way
to the flat.
We went into my room. I loved her. I held onto her
like letting go meant instant death. That night I slept well
for the first time in New York.
A few days later Oanna arrived. She was French with
dark skin. Men longed for her.
The four of us did the tourist thing: museums, Ms.
Liberty, Empire State Building. The money was running
out. We went to Coney Island. Dave and Oanna fought,
Lee and I didn’t. Their relationship had fire. Everything
was out on the table. They were crazy with and about
each other. Lee and I had a tendency to let things fester.
A kiss, embrace, sex would make things go away. Forget
for a while. Our relationship got drunk as much as I
did.
Lee stood up from our perch on the beach and walked
off. She did not return for a long time. I walked along the
beach ten minutes before I found her sitting, sobbing.
She said I had changed. I had. I was tougher. New York
had done some of the toughening but me and my ways
had done the rest. Being alone got me used to being
alone. People adapt. Being alone also reminded me that
I am fundamentally a loner. I was distant but she was all
there, trembling and vulnerable and a long way from
home. She had come far to find me, to be near me, only
to find that geography wasn’t to blame for our drifting
apart. I was. She was confused. She knew something
wasn’t right. I consoled her. I told her I would come
back to Ireland in September and we’d work things out.
I didn’t really believe that but I didn’t know what else to
say. The relationship was shit-faced.
The girls left and Dave and I got drunk continuously.
He had to loan me money. When I was down to my last
$500 dollars I decided to withdraw it from the ATM with
one go. I punched it in. Nothing came out. Put the card
in again and repeated. The balance read $4.32. Fuck.
The next day I rang Allied Irish Bank in Cork.
“It’ll take two weeks before the account can be
reimbursed, maybe longer”
Fuck. I had 100 euro in my wallet for some reason.
I went to the bank with the machine that robbed me in
the first place to get it changed.
“Do you have ID?”
I took out various cards and gave them to her.
“These are all out of date”
“I don’t carry my passport”
“Sorry sir, NEXT”
Murder. Primal hatred. Ice-bitch. I walked out. Fuck
New York.
I rang my Irish bank for a loan. They gave it to me.
Bastards. I had been fucked in the ass by these people
and they were sitting back smoking a cigar watching the
interest run up. MURDER.
I got very drunk that evening on Dave’s hard-earned
money.
The album arrived to Dave, my second cousin’s, house
in Eastchester north of the city. He and his family were
lovely people. He called me to tell me the CDs didn’t
play on CD players. The company, fuckwits, agreed to
send CDs that played but would not reprint the booklets.
This meant we’d have to take the shrinkwrap off 1000
CDs and replace the duds with the good ones. Dave and
his family didn’t even give me a chance to help. They
did it all. They drove the CDs down to CBGB where the
CD launch had begun without them. Good people. I
owe them a lot. I owe a lot of people. Very few people
owe me anything. Artists are selfish.
The show had gone well. Later we all went to a bar
nearby. Cousin Dave spent a lot of money on us. He
was very generous. I felt like someone that night though
I held on to no one but my ego.
 Dave Mac and I couldn’t afford to pay anymore rent.
Dave needed all his money for New Zealand. My flight
home wasn’t for another three weeks.
Dave Cuomo let me stay in his apartment in West
Harlem. Dave Mac went to stay with Leslie in Park
Slope, Brooklyn. The luck of the Irish.
I slept on a small mattress in a small room at Dave’s
place. I boiled at night, there were roaches everywhere
but I didn’t mind. I was lucky to be there. The area was
poor. Toughened faces. To be white was to be out of
place, but I was ok as I was poor and could not hide it if
I wanted to. I had nothing to offer anyone and they knew
it. Young kids would call out “blancito” as I walked by.
This meant white boy I presumed. I thought it best not
to react in case they had nearby older brothers. At night
I heard lot of fighting, shouting, the place definitely had
more atmosphere than Bedford Avenue.
I liked Dave Cuomo. He was all there behind the
eyes, generous and full of life. He got me a day’s work
humping for some TV production company. Twelve
hours, $200, “O.K.”. Alicia Keys was to do some public
service announcement for the tsunami appeal. There
were swarms of busy pretty people with headsets and
a constant appearance of importance to them. I looked
like shit.
Due to complications with the landlord and rent at
Cuomo’s place I had to leave. I went to stay with Leslie
and Dave Mac in Park Slope. Three of us in a bedsit. Park
Slope was safe, too safe. It never got your blood running.
At this stage the money was so low I was busking in the
subways. I was hungry all the time. Days in Park Slope
drifted by with Dave and I doing a lot of drinking.
One night I went to do a gig in Brooklyn. The Mark
bar. I played to a bunch of Russians shooting pool. The
stage was in front of a TV screen that was three times my
size. It was awful. John Sfara came down. I appreciated
his company. I was to get twenty dollars from the bar,
a tip jar was to be passed and I was to drink for free.
No jar was passed (not that the Russians had been all
that interested anyway), the barman started charging me
after six beers and six whiskeys. Prick. I asked for my
twenty and left.
I wandered, walked into a bar. Polish bar. Two guys
were asleep at the bar. I ordered a drink. The barmaid
was nice enough to ask me where I was from. I told her
I was Irish and she directed me down to an Irish bar and
said I might be able to get a job off one of the guys down
there. I must have looked really down and out. I hadn’t
even told her I was unemployed.
The Irish Bar was black with smoke. At around six I
left, hammered. I found the subway. G train, ghost train,
fuck. I had entered at the wrong side of the station. I
decided I was capable of climbing down, crossing the
two sets of tracks and scaling the opposite platform. I
knew something was electric. I avoided the tracks,
stepped on the guard over the third rail, tripped. I
repeated this for the next set of tracks. Later I heard that
it was the third rail that carried the current. I was lucky
I didn’t get cooked. I got back to Park Slope two hours
after Dave had left for work.
It was coming near the end of my stay. Myself and
Dave decided we’d go to one of the big night clubs we’d
heard about. We started in Brooklyn around 5pm. We
were drunk when we walked in to the liquor store to
get a 40 each for the train-ride into Manhattan. Forties
finished, cab to the club. We paid something outrageous
to get in. It was outrageous we were allowed in at all.
We drank and danced with women. I don’t dance very
well, but Dave had it down. He always did well when
it came to women, fucker. At about 4am things were
wrapping up. We ordered two shots, talked shit for a
while, downed the shots.
When I came to I was outside a diner, I didn’t know
where. I decided to go in. I ordered an omelette and
asked how to get to the F train back to Park Slope. I went
outside and blacked out again. When I came to this time
I was standing over the Hudson on some kind of pier,
I could see the water below me between the timbers.
I ran. I was in complete panic. I eventually found an F
train and was so relieved I lay down and fell asleep. I
awoke to an announcement, “this is a Manhattan bound
F train the next stop is.. “ fuck. I had slept all the way to
Coney Island and back again. I had passed Park Slope
station twice. I checked my pockets. Everything present.
Dave Mac had done the same thing a few weeks back
and he was robbed. When I made it back to the flat,
Dave was sprawled out on the mattress that we were
sharing. I pushed him to one side and lay down. It was
very bright outside. I slept. When I woke up, Dave was
on the fire-escape smoking. He told me that he had
come to in a park somewhere in Manhattan and did not
remember how he got there. We came to the conclusion
that our shots had been spiked.
The day before my flight Leslie took me to Sony
headquarters to meet A&R head Beka Callaway. Leslie
had set the meeting up. She was a good friend. Beka
turned out to be too busy to meet me. I left a CD at the
desk and we left.
At the airport I didn’t quite feel like I had failed in
my mission. The homebird in me felt anticipation for
the known and comfortable. I kissed Leslie, gave Dave a
hug and went through security.
It’s been nearly a year since I went to New York. When
I returned to Ireland I did not feel myself. I went back to
my job as a mason. My drinking went out of control.
Lee and I broke up after only a few weeks. My drinking
got worse.
I have just about got myself together and have started
writing songs again.
mickflannery.com
 On the Road Again?
playing the places that are totally not clubs
So we know playing out of town can be quite hit or
miss, yes? If you want to spread your name about the
globe like so much Earth Balance, actually pay for your
gas, or even meet cool people and not drive 180 miles
to play for the 9 people who are at the bar every day
of every week anyway you may wish to seek alternate
places to book yourself other than “clubs”.
Is there an alternative? As they say in the red states:
You bet. Teen centers, “Art Spaces”, and community style
living arrangements are some fantastic places to play,
where, in general the people are psyched to see out-of-
town talent, you’re treated well by the establishment,
and you make friends.
The following is a list of amazing venues my band and
I discovered that are totally not clubs. These are absolute
diamonds in the rough.
The Firehouse - North Manchester, IN
This place is run by a man named Jabin who is a high
school English teacher in the town. In his early thirties,
Jabin is one of the sweetest people in the mid-west. The
firehouse is about 5,000 square feet and funky-looking.
It used to be a firehouse and was about to get destroyed
when Jaren bid for making it a teen center. He bought
the place from the town for a dollar (for real!) and the
rest is history! The stage and sound are great. It’s a
frequent stop in the mid-west for growing bands. A lot
of posters featured were of some great and well-known
bands. There’s a built-in audience, a guarantee, and a
hotel room for the artists, plus if you’re lucky you’ll get
some rollicking, shit-kicking, country karaoke with Jabin
himself after hours.
thefirehouse.net
Studeo 315 - Mishawaka, IN
This is an immaculate teen “art-space” that has all-
ages events. It was created and is run by a young married
couple, Jessica and Tim. There’s a “bar” that serves
refreshments, crazy art installations, and a table set
with any and all media you care to play with. Seriously!
Clay, wire, all kinds of paper, wood, and tools, not to
mention your normal cray-pas, pastels, crayons etc... In
fact, since there was no place to stay and crashing at
teenagers houses is generally a no-no, Jess and Tim let
us just sleep in the venue while they kicked our asses at
a Texas Hold ‘Em tournament...
myspace.com/studeothreefifteen
by Jason Rabinowitz
Fishtown Artspace - Gloucester, MA
Another teen art space. We arrived at noon to find
some kids drinking cheap wine out of the bottle and
skating around the parking lot. I guess that’s what you do
in Gloucester... We were treated well and placed on a
heaping, heaping bill (I think there were about 10 other
high school bands on the bill and we headlined at 9PM).
The kids were really talented and incredibly receptive
to us. I don’t think it paid particularly well, but it was
a great experience. One of the other bands on that bill
came to see us play at our next venue. The woman who
worked there offered us floor space at her house. She’s
called Sarah and she’s awesome. Shep is the manager/
director. A cooler cat you’d be hard pressed to find.
artspace.org
Arthouse - New Brunswick, NJ
The Arthouse rocks! It’s a house in a college town
with a stage in the basement and some great people
living there. There was a fantastic video installation and
some of the best music on the bill that we had the whole
tour... It’s mostly run by a fantastic fellow named Chris.
Sadly, I bet by the time of the printing of this article the
Artspace will have moved into different hands because
Chris is graduating.
myspace.com/arthousex
Meridian Underground - Meridian, Mississippi.
When we rolled into Meridian there was an actual
preacher yelling things about the devil to the Meridian
Underground. No kidding. The cops had to come to take
him away. Apparently he protests all rock and roll shows
there...
A stones throw from the Big Easy, this one-stop record/
clothes/art/head shop cum back-room venue, is literally
just that: the entirety of the underground in Meridian. All
the kids hang out there. And they represent en masse.
Very sweet folks down there, and they hold down the
scene for miles around.
meridianunderground.com
Now get on out there! Yee haw!!!!!
 Urban Folk
Birthday Bash
& issue 7
release party
Jonathan Berger caught with
May 19th, 2006 his shirt tucked in

Sidewalk Cafe
photos by Herb Scher

Andrew Hoepfner sings with

the Creaky Boards

Dan Penta
Cuomo! Belowsky covers Andrew
Hoepfner with hair goo

Dan Costello Ching Chong Song

The Expectant Crowd Rick Shapiro

 Olive Juice
Matt Roth
You get some sun on the lower east side if you live on
a high enough floor. That’s the case today in Matt Roth’s
fifth-floor walk-up. I’m sitting in the Olive Juice Studio
control room that is also the nerve center of Olive Juice
Music. He has the web site open on his computer, and
he’s looking at requests that have come in from half-way
around the world for OJ products. The day before he
had spent 14 hours recording Jeff Lewis. In a few hours
Toby Goodshank will be arriving to work on his next OJ
release. In fact, Matt has been so busy that I had a hard
time getting him to sit down for this story.
But that’s today, in the East Village, with a cat named
Gummo on my lap getting ready to attack. Let’s go back
a little bit. Try 1994. A young man from northeastern
Kansas, leaves the University of Kansas to see a bigger
piece of the world. Like so many have before him (even
Dorothy ended up doing it in the books), he leaves
Kansas behind to search for Oz., which turns out to be
New York. A relationship – not a tornado – draws the
by Tony Rubin
photo by Herb Scher
boy to the big city. The relationship ends, but Matt’s love
of the city and the anti-folk music scene lingers.
Working first at Tower Records and then at a recording
studio, Matt wrote songs while attending the weekly
Antihoot at the Sidewalk Café - and thinking about
making CDs. His first album, under the name Major
Matt Mason USA, (Me Me Me) was released in 1998. “I
learned from Fortified Records and Lach (founder and
head of that label) about the world of distribution. That
album was a very expensive endeavor, and ultimately
not very fulfilling on a profitable level. I learned very
quickly how pointless it was to pursue the ‘industry way
of doing things’ at this level. The world is so big. Just to
take a tiny bit of space – square inches of space on a
chain record store shelf – the amount of investment is
comparable to investing in a nice car.”
That experience became the catalyst for Olive Juice
Music. “I think originally it was what everybody sort of
does at a certain point.” he said. “Somebody tells you it
looks better if you make up your own label – labels seem
to matter, as opposed to just saying this is your demo.
But then everyone was doing that and it sort of defeated
the purpose.” Matt’s solution was simple: “I was thinking
maybe a better way to trick people into thinking you are
more legitimate was ‘why don’t we all get together and
agree on one name and try to do it as a collective’ and
so that felt really cool.”
For Matt, there was a dose of altruism as well: “I learned
from the experience with my record that there was so
much great music out there that should be available, but
the only reason it wasn’t was that the artists didn’t have
all that money to blow at the time.”
Matt got together with Williamsburg-based engineer/
songwriter/performer Tom Nishioka (who performed as
Never Louder than Lovely) to form the original collective.
“Tom was willing to put Olive Juice (Matt named it after
a beloved dog that had died of cancer) on his CD, too.
And then we started involving more people: Randi
Russo, Mike and Dina of Prewar Yardsale. We tried to
make it sort of a collective.
“I was working at a sound studio at the time - this
was 1999, 2000 - and I started recording people there
in the off hours. Prewar Yardsale’s Lowdown album was
the first one done that way. I was just sort of learning
what to do and they were up for just seeing what would
happen.”
The collective label started to take shape. In the
early days the decisions were done by consensus, and
expenses were shared: “We tried to meet once a month,
we had dues that would help pay for the website and we
even tried to do a print catalog. And we put on shows.
We were sharing resources – some people were making
their own CDs by hand – or some people were using
short-run CD manufacturers. Not everybody even had a
computer. And the same for booking gigs – some people
didn’t really know how to get a gig. There’s power in
numbers. Nobody was doing that for us so it just made
sense. I was trying to think of all the things that people
complain about – people say ‘if I could just have a label
– or distribution.’ We all learned how to make our own
CDs and put them out.”
As more people became involved, the label suffered
growing pains. “We would all vote – it was pretty cool
but also it was a real good lesson in how that kind of
stuff is very difficult – true socialist-democratic type
processes where everybody sort of votes on everything.
Some things were majority vote, but when it came to
inducting people it had to be unanimous. That was very
difficult. I wanted things to happen much faster than
they did.”
Matt saw the potential for Olive Juice to be more than
just a fake record label for everyone’s demo. He thought
it could have a life of its own, and was clearly on a
different path than the rest of the collective. “ I had left
my job and I was freelancing, and I had more time on
my hands and I was ready to spend a lot more energy
on it. Most of the other people had regular jobs – we’d
try and schedule one meeting a month and I’d get all
psyched for it and then people couldn’t make it and I’d
get really pissed. It was frustrating because I thought I
was putting in more work.”
By early 2002 he decided that having one person in
charge could help push the label further. “We joke about
now like it was a coup. But actually it was just an email I
sent to everybody. And people just said ‘Oh, OK.’ I guess
I sold it to people as ‘I’m working for you now’. I’d like
to involve more people on an administrative level but of
course I can’t afford to pay them.”
Matt became the dictator, but a reluctant one. He
just wanted to get things done, and had the time and
resources to do it. “I had saved up money that allowed
me to buy a computer and start recording stuff at home,
and then spend time putting a database together of all
sorts of different resources.”
As he put more thought into the label, he found more
responsibilities to take on. Among them, “focusing on
the web site, along with promoting the label. And I
wanted to do the distro – a section of the website where
you could sell other people’s CDs too. A lot of people
don’t know how to do that. And we got into that when
that technology was somewhat new – the idea of Paypal,
which made it much easier and cheaper for small
businesses to sell things over the web.”
Matt has purposely kept the financial structure simple
– he takes a straight percentage of the retail price to act
as the non-exclusive distributor, and the bands make
their own product and send stock to OJ as needed.
The increase in business over the last few years has
been incremental but steady. The website is known
worldwide by underground music aficionados, helped
in no small part by the OJ message board, an uncensored
free-for-all that slips seamlessly from the state of the world
to the state of the minutiae of an individual’s mood that
day. Europeans, especially, have been supportive of the
label, due to extensive touring (Schwervon!, Jeff Lewis,
Prewar Yardsale, and Matt himself regularly travel the
Atlantic).
And Olive Juice Music is the center of it all. “It’s such
a great ‘web’ for things to come in and go out – it sounds
cheesy, but that’s what I really get off on. To feel like you
can really expose somebody to something – some really
cool music. And you can also get turned on to other
people through it. And often times when people become
part of something they become better. I love to watch
that happen.”
OJ has also begun streaming OJ Radio and there are
plans for podcasts which people can subscribe to and
download. People are even sending demos in hopes
of being signed. “It’s kind of sad because they don’t
realize its just one guy sitting in his apartment – and
I can’t really do anything for them except put them on
the website. But on the other hand it’s kind of exciting:
‘Wow, someone thinks we are a real label’” And some
of those demos have resulted in OJ distribution – for
instance North Carolina’s The Wigg Report, or the
French band The Futures.
Matt loves to put unusual bands that he likes on the
web for distribution, but he warns of the business. “I
feel I have to be honest with them – it’s hard, it’s no
different than having a job, you have to work for people
to hear you – it’s no different, and probably harder than
any menial job.” But there is a payoff for OJ’s director
as well as the bands: “I’ve sold plenty of things where
people just went to the site and read about it. That’s
really exciting to me. Maybe its like an ego thing – it
makes me feel like some kind of cool dude – at least
I’m promoting stuff that I really think is cool. It’s like a
real transaction, I’m not tricking someone into buying
this in a glossy display at Tower Records.”
And what about the music that Matt is not tricking
people into buying – is there an “Olive Juice sound?”
A full roster of quirky, self-effacing singer songwriters
and charming boy-girl duos? He doesn’t think so. “I
don’t have a conscious check list. A lot of them are just
friends. Mainly I see the label, and especially the distro
as an opportunity to help friends and other people
whose music I like who maybe couldn’t afford to do it
otherwise. I can dedicate an hour of my time to helping
them put it out.”
While Matt works to give many artists a leg up, he
does not appreciate everyone’s art equally. “The people
who are actually on the label, those are people whose
music I love. But I can really fall in love with music if I
really like the people. Admittedly there are a lot of duos
– I like couples, I like that balance of the sexes. I like girls
that rock, and I like girls that rock with guys together.
I don’t think rock has to represent the misogynist ‘sexy
anonymous experience’. I can understand that music
and sometimes I enjoy it. But to be in a monogamous
relationship and still make rock and roll – that’s really
interesting to me.
“But also I think even with the bands on the label there
is a lot of diversity. I love folk music. But I really love
challenging avant-garde jazz as well. I’d like to think
that our artists are not afraid to make some statements,
both personal and political – some substance there.
Novelty can be a big trap in the anti-folk world – you
can get a lot of attention – but then there has to be
some real substance there. That’s what I hope we are
bringing to people.”
Matt’s monogamous-duo bandmate Nan Turner
arrives at that moment, and Toby is on the phone
wanting to be let in. Gummo (the cat) leaves my lap,
biting my wrist as part of his goodbye. Another Olive
Juice evening. I make my way toward the creaky
tenement steps, passing under a sign that reads “Always
Make New Mistakes”.

olivejuicemusic.com
 Win a Date with Alec Wonderful
the results
alec with flowers - self portrait
Last issue, Alec Wonderful initiated a contest:
Win a Date with Alec Wonderful.
Most of the queries went direct to the illustrious Mr.
W’s website, and we’re told the response was simply
tremendous. Now, our hero, Alec Wonderful, keeps us
apprised of the results.
Well, my surprise tour of Indonesian, Micronesia, and
SouthEast Esia has left me reading only the cream of the
crap that my New York handlers (Thanks, Ron!) have sent
me. And, while I was impressed with the range of styles
and ideas involved in the entries, I think what struck me
most was the unilateral devotion to me, Alec Wonderful.
What can I say? It was Wonderful to see! Here are some
of the entries I picked out among the rest because, you
see, I liked them best.
Alma Subasic wrote an epic poem. At least, I think it
was a poem. It was in some Slavic tongue. I don’t speak
Slav. The shape of the sentences were pretty impressive,
but I’m not even positive if it rhymed. I’m really just
guessing it’s a poem, actually…
Bruce Kalen explained what he would do on a
date with me – listen to me play guitar, take notes on
my philosophy of life, photograph me in a variety of
positions. He explained quite clearly that he was not
gay, so there would be nothing sexual going on our date,
which, frankly, was something of a disappointment. I
haven’t had a gay experience since I did research for
Alec Spectacular’s “I Am Curious Homo,” back in ‘00.
Patrick Grant, on the other hand, suggested something
a little less chaste. I don’t want to go into the details of his
personal predilections, but Pat had in mind candlelight,
dancing, and 18 hours of glorious fisting. Certainly, the
boy made the short list.
Delores Kimball sent photographs of her three-story
brick and mortar display, which read, in blazing red, “I
WANT TO DATE ALEC WONDERFUL.” Simple, to the
point. Very clear. Not, unfortunately,
visible from outer space, but a very good effort.
Bill Gates retired from his job in order to better
devote himself to all things Alec. Instead of flowers he
would buy me the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. He said
he would take me around the world to places where the
things he wanted to do to me weren’t illegal. Of course,
I’ve already been around the world, and what about
Melinda?
Sun Tranh Tsien choreographed the Hanoi Nationalist
Dance Troupe’s semi-obscene “The Wonderful Dance,”
which involved positions and acts that could not be
performed by the two of us. If the rest of the dance team
were part of the deal, then we would have had a winner.
No such luck.
Ben Krieger wrote a song, entitled “Why I Wanna
Date Alec Wonderful.” Good tune, but a little too
derivative of my 1983 B-Side, “Why You Wanna Date
Alec Wonderful.” That was a really good song. I had
something to prove back then (everyone was still talking
about Thriller). Anyway. Krieger was biting my act; not
bad, but he’s out.
Alicia Wonka sent a pictorial display, not unlike the
winning contestant from the eighties. Almost identical,
in fact. I’m wondering if she paid someone in my staff
to give up the plans of the earlier entry. I have to respect
that level of dedication, and, anyhow, there are several
positions that I’ve yet to take on. I’ve been working out,
though, limbering up, and I’m ready to give it a shot. So,
without further ado, I declare Alicia Wonka the winner.
She gets to Win a Date with Alec Wonderful. Just contact
my people, and they’ll iron out the specifics, Alicia. I
look forward to meeting you, perhaps as much as you
look forward to meeting me.
To the other contestants: congratulations on trying. I’m
sure you had fun in the process. Now leave me alone.
 Leo
in his own words
by Paul Alexander
Leo is an artist’s artist. Folk legend Odetta has covered
his work, as have The Boys Choir of Harlem. Jefferson
Thomas, too. Some of the best acoustic players in the
city, Bruce Balmer and Amura, are happy to back him
up at gigs. Paul DeCoster, another occasional band
member, asserts that Leo “understands the yearning
people have for something greater in themselves and
can tell many stories to support that – it is an honor to
perform with him.”
Hearing Leo play, whether at one of his shows across
the five boroughs, or at his frequent forays into the world
of open mics, is always a treat. Having amassed many
songs in many genres over his lifetime of writing, Leo
rarely plays the songs you’ve heard from him before
– he’ll throw in brand new compositions composed on
the way to the gig, or on a cocktail napkin while listening
to other artists. Sometimes, he’ll play the song you
loved so much a few weeks before, but it’s reimagined,
reinterpreted, reinvented. Leo is a writer’s writer.
The artist known only by his first name joined the
New York acoustic scene in 1996 or so, around the
time of the demise of the Fast Folk movement. Initially
playing with a group Leo coined DeMix, he dropped
out of music for a while after 9/11. “I had no desire to
play or write music for quite some time as it seemed the
height of irrelevance and self-indulgence,” he explains.
Leo eventually returned to playing out again, this time
solo. He reintroduced himself “to the great undying
open mic scene around town.” As a performer, Leo has
played solo dates in New Jersey, on Long Island, and
even upstate in Woodstock and Saugerties, such as the
Bethel (Woodstock) Festival. Leo served as the lyricist
for a rather ambitious album and concert project a few
years ago called Sounds of A Better World. Woodside’s
own Thomas Patrick Maguire admires Leo because “you
can see that over the years he’s taken genres such as
folk, punk, and old school rap, and applied them to his
music.”
Perhaps Leo inspires so many others because of his huge
range of influences. Leo claims Ray Davies, Prince, Joni
Mitchell, the Who, Conway Twitty, the Harry Smith
Folkways collection, and Motown as models. He also
finds “inspiration that comes from nature, art, film,
photography, dance, a good book, a good book title,
and from listening to different kinds of music – other
writers, other performers, other genres.”
Leo is a performer’s performer. “I’ve always been a
firm believer in blowing minds whenever and wherever
possible – and this is probably based on some of the
rather astounding shows I’ve been lucky enough to see
over the years. In the late 90s, Ed Hamell was someone
who was just so charismatic, and that quality of just
drawing people in – but not just drawing them in, but
doing it again and again – that’s something I aspire to…
really just to be entertaining. Clubs come and go… from
Fast Folk to the C-Note. Still, even as things change,
I continue to walk into open mics and have my mind
blown.”
Songwriting comes easily to Leo, but “you still agonize
over the details, and you have to go thorough a lot of crap
to find the stuff that’s good – you have to reinvent the
wheel.” He adds, “I realize that the idea of ‘progression’
often seems to help people define and understand the
work of an artist. But I don’t think ‘progression’ counts
for much. People want to put things in periods or stages
or phases, but you can paint a masterpiece at 19 or at
91. If it’s timeless, it’s timeless – it doesn’t matter when it
was done. If you are able to write stuff you can write at
any point in your life – not that you can’t get better.”
As far as Leo is concerned, “sometimes lyrics answer
questions even better than prose can…an artist’s work
speaks for itself.” As the line in Leo’s song “Artist” goes:
“I like to go out / I like to go ‘out there’,” suggesting Leo’s
constant quest to have his artistic voice heard, even if
he isn’t the one directly delivering the message. In
recent years, Leo has written songs with groups of senior
citizens, with children from all over the world, with the
homeless, and the mentally ill. Leo is looking for more
musical experiences. “I’d like to hear my songs recorded
by other people, or used in films or TV, or hey, even used
as ringtones or PlayStation sound
effects. I’d like to record – with
strings, horns, orchestras, smashing
funk bands, ancient bluegrass bands,
world-beat percussive ensembles,
wailing instrumental virtuosos,
hordes of hot background singers, or
just alone, with maybe a couple of
good guitar players. You know, I just
want to be found, to have someone
take me seriously.”
And take him seriously, many do.
New York musician Jana Peri says,
“With his broad facial expressions,
floppy hair and sometimes a faux
English accent, Leo comes across
a bit like a Muppet who swallowed
Ray Davies, but don’t let the warm,
fuzzy exterior fool you. Leo is not
for kids. This guy pens some of the
cleverest songs around, with lyrics
that will sneak up and quickly rip
through you like a drive-by shooting.
He thinks of things you wish you’d
thought of and brilliantly crams
them into the smallest, catchiest
musical space, thereby maximizing
their impact. If you ever thought
that hard about anything, you’d hurt
yourself. Leo’s generously done all
the work for you.”
“Music is my life,” Leo says, “and
on a good day, life is my music.
No, even on lousy days. Regular
jobs? I have had all kinds. But even
music can turn into one if you’re
not careful, or even if you get lucky.
There’s a spoken line from a great
Kinks tune called ‘Top of the Pops’
which says ‘I might end up a Rock n’
Roll god / It might turn into a steady
job.’
“My own take on my music, on
this ‘serious body of work,’ is that
hopefully it’s a series of hit songs
– depending on how they hit you, or
what kind of hit you’re into. Some
are hip-hop epics, some are tongue-
in-cheeky Brit-rock, some are
brooding melancholia songs for the
mad and lonely, some are straight
ahead power-pop, some are rootsy,
pro-folk, country songs.”
All of these sounds come up on
Leo’s most recent effort, Dime A
Dozen. Like Leo, it’s eclectic and
good. According to bandmate and
fan Amura, “Leo is an excellent
songwriter and poet or maybe an
excellent poet who’s applied his fine
writing style to music. His songs
take the listener to other places
and settings and this includes the
listeners in the audience as well as
the musicians who play with him.”
How Leo goes about this varies
on a song-by-song basis. “There’s no
one answer as to how a song should
come together. Music was made
to help us achieve and maintain
that beautiful big-beat brain-dead
state, and hopefully some of mine
does. Music was made to help
us muddle through, understand,
and maybe even transcend that
bewildering, dispiriting state, and
hopefully, some of mine does that
too… ‘Don’t you ever take the fall
/ All for one and one for all / Just
beat beat your head against the
wall ‘
“There are advantages to
performing and stardom, etcetera,
but there are so many pluses to just
being a songwriter. I’d like to reach
artists who’ve already gone through
the crooked climb to commercial
success or who are still on the
way, and see if they might want to
record some of these songs.”
Leo admits that, for all his
prowess as a performing songwriter,
he, like many open mic regulars,
sometimes leaves an evening
thinking “I just heard someone at
an open mic, or just heard a great
record, and feel like – damn they’re
so good, so why bother?” Still, Leo
realizes, “it’s ultimately got to go
back to going out just for the value
of going out. Get out and play – it’s
worth it to go out and play as much
as one can, as going out has value
in and of itself, and I’ve learned not
to listen to ‘when you gonna grow
up?’ or ‘when are you gonna get a
real life?’ It’s a wheel – you leave
the scene, you get married, you
have kids, then you go looking for
another open mic.”
myspace.com/leosongs
 How to Record an Explosion
making great albums on an indy budget
interview with producer Larry Hammel by Dave Cuomo
Larry Hammel has been working in the music industry since the eighties, and has been a first hand witness to the
massive industry changes brought on by the digital revolution that are now radically altering our concept of how
music will be produced and what makes a career musician. Now with his own studio and record label, he is on the
front lines of helping artists negotiate this new world. We sit down with him here to get a better understanding of
what this all means.
Ok, let’s get a short overview of how you see the
industry changing for the new generation of artists
coming in.
Well, initially the business and the major labels
evolved around studios. Sun Records was a studio.
Atlantic Records was a studio. Motown was a studio.
Basically when the recording technology first began,
the labels started up because they controlled that. It
was an evolution of technology that gave rise to the
record labels, just as a revolution in technology today
is giving rise to dissemination of the major labels and a
flourishing of small labels and independent artists. The
new technology has allowed bands the ability to not only
record their own music much cheaper, but also able to
distribute and promote it and act as their own record
labels. Also the internet makes it possible for the indie
labels to have more clout and be far more successful than
they could have been back in the day. At the same time,
it is making the major labels less viable and important in
controlling the purse strings and career guidance of new
artists. They still are extremely important in distribution,
and to a lesser level, in manufacturing and promotion.
The trend in the business is less reliant on CD sales and
more on the artist’s over all ability to generate income
through other avenues, such as licensing, publishing,
and live performance. The majors are now trying to take
a larger piece of this. CD sales themselves are going
to become increasingly less important, which was the
labels traditional economic base.
Mp3’s seem to be not only changing the nature of
the industry, but also the idea of an album as an artistic
piece. It’s different than buying a CD used to be.
Completely. A record and a unit sold was the
commodity of a record label, it’s all they had. When
cassettes came out and people were able to tape stuff
off the radio, yeah it took away from sales a little, but
it wasn’t a major thing. You still wanted to own that
album. It seemed like it came directly from the artist.
You wanted the artwork, something real on your shelf.
It was a tangible item in your hand, where an mp3 is
not. That’s a huge difference. People today don’t seem to
care, the entire paradigm is changing.
Are we going to lose something as we make that
conversion? First, quality wise, and second artistically, is
it possible to make a collection of mp3’s carry the same
weight a concept album had?
CD & mp3 is almost as big as the difference between a
record and a cassette tape. It isn’t quite as bad, cassettes
were far worse, but in the end I don’t think people care
as much with the quality of the delivery medium as they
do the quality of the actual music itself and the message
it’s trying to put across. Be it consciously, lyrically and
musically - or unconsciously, the production that went
into actually trying to put forth the message. In the end
the quality of the production and the message must still
shine through.
For those of us trying to become career musicians, can
we still hope to make a living in the new decentralized
landscape? Or without the traditional major label money
and promotional power is it going to be a lot harder to
expect that?
Where in the old days Nirvana was being discovered
and striking it rich overnight, today’s Nirvana is making
a steady living at music. You’re not waiting around for a
producer, or a manager, or a record label to come along
and make you millions of dollars anymore. If you’re an
artist and you’re waiting for that, you’re nuts. Except
for American Idol, that just doesn’t happen. The labels
can’t afford to, or don’t want, to take chances on new
artists anymore. And, except for the pop stars, artists
aren’t consistently selling millions of albums like they
used to. The trend in the industry over the last ten years
is less superstars, more niche artists. Millions are now
hundreds of thousands even on the majors. And labels
are looking to sign already established artists, rather than
breaking new ones. If you’re looking to actually start a
career at this, you’re expecting to do a lot more of the
ground work yourself at first, play a lot more live shows,
and you’re hoping to make about $40,000 a year. That’s
doing really well. It sounds less exciting than the old
rock star fantasy, but probably more musicians will find
themselves able to make that kind of income off of their
music than were able to strike it rich in the old model.
So, in a way it’s a good thing. It opens up the door and
makes it less about luck and more about putting in the
work. Like you said, without the promotional power
of the majors it’s nearly impossible to sell a million
records. At the same time there is a lot you can do,
and it’s far more possible to sell thousands of albums
profitably on your own than it ever was before. You don’t
get to be Rod Stewart anymore. God bless him, we’d
all love to just be a singer and not do anything else,
have a hundred million in the bank and just worry about
your hair, but those days are ending. Artists now have to
start by doing more of what the labels have traditionally
done in the past, artist development, promotions, even
financing the recording itself. Eventually you may get to
the point where you can hire people to do some of that
for you, but as far the idea of someone coming along
and handing all of it to you in the beginning, it’s over.
So on a DIY or small indie label’s budget, can we
still afford to make art on the scale of some of the great
albums we grew up on with? Is there a danger of the
overall quality of music starting to suffer?
Ok, what would it cost you to make a great album?
You may need two months in a top studio at $1,000
or $2,000 a day, so basically you’re paying $100,000
to make that record in a great studio. That’s probably
not possible without a large label behind you. So you
go to a smaller boutique studio, more like what we do
here. You’re never going to achieve what you would
at a million dollar facility, but you’ll spend a tenth of
what they would have charged you and still be able to
get something incredible. Here you may spend $5000,
$10,000 or $20,000, depending on how much time
you need, how many engineers it’s going to take, and
what musicians you might need as sidemen. But you
can still make a great album. So let’s say your budget is
$25,000. Now you have to press the CD’s. Probably get
5000 copies for around $5000 and the graphics cost you
another $2000, so now you’re up to $32,000. Then you
get some promotional materials, posters and all that. So
say for a round figure you’re up to $35,000. But you’ve
got yourself a great record in your hand with no label
to worry about. Now you have to sell it. Sell ‘em all for
ten bucks, you’re up fifteen grand. Your fixed costs stay
the same, go press another 5,000. Now you’re making
a living.
I have to admit that still sounds too pricy for
independent artists.
I always tell people, credit cards. Think of it like
investing in opening your own business, because in
essence it’s the same thing. You can only make your first
album once, but you can pay it off for the next three
years. But still even with that, $35,000 is probably more
debt than an artist can take on. Let’s move down to
the other scale, $5,000. Now we start compromising.
Whereas we might have taken a month or two to record
this record with preproduction and everything to really
get it down the way it should have been, now you have a
couple days of preproduction and rehearsal in the studio.
Hopefully you’re well rehearsed and hopefully all your
musicians are on spot. But yeah, with a prepared artist
it’s possible. You’re not going to get the same amount
of time or creative license to play around and create
something new right there in the studio. You’re not going
to be able to record several different tracks looking for
that perfect guitar tone. But it will be good enough that
the essence of the music can come through. If you’re
rehearsed and know what you’re doing, you’ll be able
to take the time to get it right and we’ll be able to make
it sound great for you. I’d say for that kind of money you
can still do something ground breaking and memorable
if your music itself is of that quality, and if your band is
polished and ready to go.
What’s your best advice for those of us on an indy
budget, but still wanting to make a memorable album?
I remember a Michelle Shocked record that came out,
I think it was of campfire songs, that was recorded on a
walkman. It was mastered and released, and that was
her first record. Anything can be a record. It depends
what you’re looking for. Me as an engineer, I look for
the essence, the nuance, the muse, what’s going on
with the artist and how to recreate that sonically. To
me the most important thing is that all of the artist’s
emotion and passion, their essence, comes across on
the recording. That’s a difficult thing to do. How would
you record an explosion? There could be endless ways,
it depends on what you’re going for. Do you want a
low ominous rumble that steadily rises? Do you want a
shocking impact that obliterates everything on the first
hit? It depends on what the music is trying to do. That’s
what we’re trying to capture on tape, and it’s going to
be different for everybody. But hearing that explosion
should make the listener feel what it would have been
like to have it happen right in front of them. That’s
why it’s of so much importance to me that the artists
who come in here have the resources they need and
reasonable expectations. Yes, it is harder these days, and
there is less money floating around for experimentation
and music in general. But we need to make sure we
don’t short change the art itself with all of the changes
going on. A well recorded fifteen second explosion will
have more impact than a whole album of, maybe good,
but lifeless sounding songs.
deepwavemusic.com
 Praise Jesus!
Anyone who likes soul music, performance art, the
Lord, hot urban black men or women, Brer Brian, or all of
them slammed together must do themselves the service
of attending one of Brer Brian’s Sunday gospel services
at Faith Worship & Praise Deliverance Tabernacle in
Bed-Stuy.
If you’ve ever seen Brer Brian, itinerant artstar, then
you can appreciate the Dada-esque insanity of the deal:
his gospel-soul organ playing kicks like a mule, backing
up a rabid preacher. It’s like the Dirtbombs but heavy on
the Jesus. The drummer, at fourteen, is very, very good,
providing a great bed for Brer to lay down the religion
on some northern fried organ licks that’ll make you think
you’re way further south than Bed Stuy. I lived in New
Orleans for almost two years; believe me when I testify
to Brian’s organ chops. He could have gotten a gig in the
Quarter any night of the week.
The creative tension between Brian and the preacher,
Pastor Crooms, is intense. You can’t ignore it: the Pastor
asks for more strings on the keyboard, Brian pretends he
doesn’t hear it. The preacher makes it a point to mention
Brian at least two or three times through the sermon,
and maybe once or twice during the service, as in “Jesus
loves you! Yes, you too, Brian!” The man is on a serious
mission to save the Brer-inator, but Brian will not give
in. He remains a soldier of hell, who plays organ for
Jesus on Sundays, and everyone’s better for it. Once the
percolating call and response between preacher and that
distorted electric drone board begins, the Pastor Crooms
starts frothing, foaming, and before you know where
you’re headed, you’ve arrived at the bubbling stew that
gave us rock and roll. Listening to the black spirituals
and unrepentant white freakboy antics, wrestle, vie for
control, violently argue, simmer, marinate, and finally,
marry into something that puts the whole game into
perspective, that’s a once in a lifetime chance – unless
you go again next week.
There was more of this in more innocent times. The
race line wasn’t so thick and hard to cross in the days of
the MGs, the Chambers Brothers, the early lineups of the
Family Stone. You still find musical miscegenation here
and there, like with the Dirtbombs, mentioned above, or
LA’s great the Negro Problem, or the unhip yet beautiful
old Hootie. But if you want to see it in front of your eyes,
struggling to be born, barely making it, week after week,
that little church on Bedford and Jefferson is as close as
it gets these days.
Be prepared. You’ll hear the phrase Praise Jesus more
than ever before, unless you’re Dina Dean, Erin Regan, or
someone else with a southern church background. It can
be disconcerting to the agnostic/atheist demographic,
by Grey Revell
maybe a little weird for our Jewish friends, especially
when the Preacher comes in close and starts slaying his
parishioners.
“Good Lord, are you saying he kills them?”
“No, of course not.”
Being slain is nothing more than having your man of
god place his hands on you and receiving an almighty
jolt of pure Jesus energy that knocks you on your
repentant ass, physically. On your ass. I saw about six
people hit the floor and stay there. Being raised in the
mighty Church of Rome, my only concept of being slain
was what God would do if he read my fourteen year
old mind, sitting next to Jill Sandoval, during the Liturgy
of the Word. So I had never been slain, spiritually or
otherwise, but when the preacher placed his hands on
my heart, and told me to receive Jesus, I almost wanted
to fall.
“What the hell,” I thought, “believe in unicorns,
resurrections and all that, man. Get slain!”
But Brer Brian was feet away, sitting at the organ,
silently chuckling. I figured, “No, I’ll stand, thanks.”
As a New Orleanian, a recent receiver of Hurricane
logic, and an evacuee, I was singled out for special
treatment. I was also the only other white man in the
place, aside from the antifolk organist.
The woman in the back, a small dark mama in a
blinding white dress explained that she was told by the
Holy Spirit that my family needed a bigger place to live.
I could always use a bigger place. If Jesus wants to hook
it up, then cool. Thanks, Christ; I’ll take it.
The preacher was open and friendly after the service,
an amiable engaging earthbound shadow of the dervish
I had been watching for almost two hours. In fact,
everyone in the place was genuine, and really quite
beautiful, and if they all find something to love in that
crazy mixed-up Brer-brain, then maybe, just maybe,
he’s really beautiful too. A scary thought for all the Brer-
bashers on the Olive Juice board.
The service rocks. Brer rocks. The hot Brer-lette girl
back ground singers, led by Chaniqua Brathwaite, rock.
The Preacher rocks like a demon. Hell, Jesus rocks
hard… in Brooklyn.
Faith Worship & Praise Deliverance Tabernacle
1183 Bedford Avenue
Pastor Crooms
11am – Sundays
 Singing to the Heavens
I Don’t Know What
You Come To Do
by Brer Brian
In certain segments of American society, white
children are raised by black people. Much to
everyone’s surprise, I became a part of this tradition
relatively late in life, when, at 27 years of age, I was
adopted by a Black Protestant church in Bedford-
Stuyvesant, and they put me in front of the organ.
I didn’t exactly know what I was doing or what I
was getting into, but the experience of joining the
Faith Worship & Praise Deliverance Tabernacle
permitted me to be schooled and humbled by a
variety of seasoned Gospel masters, as well as
young prodigies such as bass-player and drummer
Robert Booker, who, at 13, has already performed
at Julliard and Jazz at Lincoln Center.
Three years later, I finally might be settling into
the role. If anything, the experiment has been a
wildly successful experiment in seeing how well the
God who delivered black people from segregation
and slavery would care for a homeless, supposedly
unemployable antifolkie/artstar.
Here are some brief interviews with the church
folk, in an attempt to bring you their stories.
photo by Herb Scher
(Pastor Crooms is the church’s worldly leader.
He is 47 years old, has been married twice before his Q. What role did the churches play in the Civil Rights
current wife Cheryl, and has five children, including movement?
stepson BJ Hyde and a 23-year old daughter. He also A. Gave the leadership and confidence that the task
heads up the Urban Angels children’s program, to which and need had God’s Blessing.
I’ve been inviting artists to perform.)
Q. What issues do people face today, and how do the
Q. How long have you been pastoring? churches help them?
A. 14 years A. Family and teens, single family, negative music,
lost values of the American way of life as and Christian
Q. What kind of trouble did you get into as a younger nation. (The church) remains a moral foundation for all
man? the above answers.
A. Fights, stealing, sexual sins, drinking and
drugging. Q. What role does music play in a worship service?
Should musicians who want to play in church be saved
Q. Why is having a church family important? first?
A. Three - Support, knowledge of the way of God, A. The music of the Church is Holy with the goal of
study and worship or walking in together because of ushering the people in the very presence of God. The
agreement. musician of the Gospel is not there for entertainment
as secular musician are. They should be saved for the
service of their God.
 Q. Can secular music serve a divine purpose?
A. No, God does not need secular music for his
purpose in the life of his creation.
Q. What’s wrong with Hip-hop? Were the Last Poets
better than Ludacris?
A. The industry has no concern for its violence and
negative culture... The Last Poets voiced a revolution not
a party. Ludicrous question to put him (Ludacris) in the
same thought of the Last Poets.
Q. Who’s just going straight to Hell?
A. Not my problem. That decision is left up to Christ
Jesus.
(Mandel is 14 years old and plays the drums in church.
He is witty and spry, but his smart-alecky comments earn
him frequent reprimands from church elders.)
Q. How many different instruments do you play?
A. Drums and Steel Pan.
Q. What AP classes are you taking?
A. Biology and Computer Science – yea!
Q. Do you feel that your time in the church has helped
you become less annoying over the years?
A. Sorta... It all depends... I think so, after all the
speeches we get. Yes, I got a bit better.
Q. Are you still driving your mother crazy?
A. You bet your bottom dollar.
Q. What do you imagine yourself doing for a living
when you become an adult?
A. Um, something with science or debates, maybe a
lawyer. Who knows...?
(Scott and Chaniqua Brathwaite are one of the church’s
young married couples. They have a charismatic son
named Judah, who, at 1 years old, is already an aspiring
keyboardist/drummer/preacher/MC. Scott’s been away
for military training, but I was able to ask Chaniqua
some questions about his time in Iraq. )
Q. How long was Scott in Iraq for?
A. One year, from January ‘04 to January ‘05.
Q. How did he spend his downtime?
A. Movies, like crazy, on the portable DVD player. I-
tunes on the I-pod. He read the Bible a lot.
Q. What does he think is going to happen there in the
long run?
A. He doesn’t really expect it [the U.S. installed
government] to work out.
Q. What was the last movie you both saw?
A. X-Men 3.
photo by Herb Scher
 Paul’s Perspective
On the Road to Long Island City
by Paul Alexander
As the home of the modern art space P.S.1 and many up, cafes are growing
visual musical artists (like Andy Stack, Chel O’Reilly, out. There’s even that silly
Sukato and, of course, myself), it’s safe to say that Long little beach by our piers. I
Island City is home to a vibrant artistic scene. I’ve been don’t mean to sound like
excited in my years in Queens to see L.I.C. growing in a commercial, but I’m
its reputation as not only a place to live, but a place to getting more and more
see and create great art, especially music — a second excited about my own
weekly open mic has even sprung up in L.I.C., hosted neighborhood.
every Thursday night from nine to midnight just down Silvercup Studios,
the street from the Creek and the Cave at Dominie’s right next to the bridge,
Hoek. Crossing the East River may not be as glamorous produces the Sopranos.
as crossing the country, but Queens – well, specifically There’s a growing number
Long Island City – offers all us urban folks an out of town of special high schools to go along with LaGuardia
opportunity, right in our own backyard. College. Wonton Foods has the largest fortune cookie
Trust me, after a year as the host of the weekly factory in the States. And don’t get me started on Socrates
“Crowin’ at the Creek” open mic, I know just how Sculpture Park…
hard it can be to get friends and fans from Manhattan You should consider making the short trek out to Long
or Brooklyn to make what they consider the arduous Island City, if only to see the growing scene. LIC may
(and sacrilegious) trek from their homes to Queens. always be in the shadow of Manhattan’s skyline, but we
Nevertheless, even without your regulars, there are lots won’t be overshadowed for much longer. Get on the
of places to play with built-in audiences throughout the road, over the bridge, through the tunnel. Come on out
borough (After all, Queens is the second most populous and see how the other boroughs live.
part of the City). And Long Island City, in particular, is a
readily accessible alternative for amassing new admirers. For more info on the neighborhood:
Queens is closer than Philly or Boston, but clearly less
expensive to travel to, and it’s teeming with the widest licnyc.com/
cross section of future fans-to-be than any of the other queenswest.com/
boroughs.
So, rather than spending your
hard earned payola on a road trip
with your favorite backing band,
get out your Metrocard and
Paul Alexander’s
make a five minute pilgrimage to
what I, for one, hope will soon
(www.myspace.com/palexandermusic)
be known as New York City’s
newest musical Mecca: Long
Island City. After all, in a city
with a population of just over
Album Release Party
8 million, more than 2 million Saturday October 7, 2006
reside in the great borough of
Queens, and they want to be 10 pm
entertained… by you.
Ask anyone who gigged in
the remote region we now call
Williamsburg not so many years
The Parkside Lounge
back how great it was to nurture
a new niche, and then think
(www.parksidelounge.com)
about all the development going
into LIC. Buildings are going
 Get in the Minivan
I. Big Town, Small Town
“You’re gonna love Austin,” my Dad told me, “Great
music town.” Having just retired from the Air Force, he’s
been around to a lot more places than me (at least for
now). I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d already
been to Austin, and it didn’t do that much for me.
Nothing against Austin. Quite the opposite. Cheapo’s
is, without a doubt, the second coolest record store
I’ve ever seen, with endless racks of used cds to sift
through, and countless handmade, out-of-print Wesley
Willis albums to marvel over. The Hamilton Pool, the
now-defunct Austin Music Co-op, and Lone Star Beer
(the National Beer of Texas. Making fun of the band
we played with at Trophy’s. The cokehead that kept
screaming at me to play Neutral Milk Hotel, then blew
out the monitors during his own set. These are all great
memories I have in Austin, and I always have fun when
I go.
But as a touring musician, and a struggling,
independent one at that, Austin’s a hard sell. It’s a town
of sixty thousand people, six thousand of which are
gigging musicians. In a town that small with that many
musicians, and that many choices, Austin’s a hard little
shell to break into.
Having heard what I’d heard about Texas-that it’s this
big, stinking cesspool of bigoted, angry rednecks, I’m
surprised how much I like going down there. But I prefer
the road less traveled, Amarillo, Lubbock and Denton,
for example. Towns where there’s the same demand
for music, but a more limited supply. Generally, towns
that aren’t as “fun” tend to make their own fun, and it’s
usually a bigger, more rambunctious fun than what you
get treated to in the bigger cities.
For Example:
Kearney, NE. Ivan Sandomire and I were driving from
Oregon to Chicago, after our van had thrown a piston
and left us stranded on the West Coast. We had rented
a car for the week, then driven back and started east
with a new engine. Just outside Kearney, the engine
threw another piston and caught fire. Stranded in a
hotel room for the night (which we hate), we spent the
next day waiting for this guy Delroy to bring us a car
we could get home with. Dan struck up a conversation
with a kid in a Minor Threat T-shirt, and asked him to set
us up with a gig for the night. The party that we played
at the Minor Threat kid’s house ended up being one of
the best, most fun gigs of that tour, and Kearney is now
one of my favorite places to go back to.
by Brook Pridemore
Moscow, ID. A Sunday night. We had left Salt Lake
City at 7:00 that morning, driven twelve hours through
the mountains of Idaho to get to this house show.
For a few days, we had been dealing with promoters
forgetting to put our fliers up in their venues, which is
a big deterrent on draw and enthusiasm in each town.
Pulling into Moscow, we drove up this reallly steep
street to the venue, and noticed crazy, hand-made
fliers leading us to the show. We knocked on the door,
and we were greeted by four complete strangers who
proceeded to treat us like their long-lost childhood best
friends. We played a pretty wild show in their garage,
complete with a dog running around under my feet
while I played, and Mikey closing out the night jamming
out with our friends on a cover of “Now I Wanna Be
Your Dog.” Next morning, I woke up and walked
around town, and it started snowing (in MAY). Six days
later, ON A SATURDAY NIGHT, we were in Oakland,
CA, where all the “cool” kids from San Francisco live.
Mikey and I gamely tried to play to the two people who
didn’t wait outside until we were done, and we were
rewarded with hostile stares, and the indignity of said
crowd filing in and sitting down the instant I strummed
my last chord.
Brewster, NY. At the end of me and Mikey’s This is
our Day Job Tour in 2004, we played at this coffee bar
about forty minutes north of SUNY Purchase. After
some confusion over whether we’d get to play, they
worked the two of us into the show. It was a big mash-
up of acoustic punk songwriters, benefitting a local
independent newspaper. I saw a copy of that paper,
and its lead article was about the dangers of too much
soy in a vegetarian diet (I wish I could remember more,
because it struck me as pretty crackpot). After my set,
this girl named Heather came up and bought one of my
cds. It turned out that she hadn’t even seen the set, she
just wanted to support us because we were from out
of town. Two years later, Heather’s boyfriend Jay looks
me up online and asks me to come to Rhode Island, all
expenses paid, and be there when he proposes to her.
He tells me she listens to that CD all the time, and that
it would really make a special moment for her if I were
there.
Now, I love New York City, but nothing like that is
ever going to happen here.
brookpridemore.com
 CD reviews
send your CD to 306 Jefferson 1R, Brooklyn, NY 11237
Amurá
The Best Part of Me
Over a quarter of the songs on Amurá’s sophomore
disc end with the word “blues,” which is no great
surprise. This guy is, after all, an older black gentleman,
and he wears a hat, so of course he plays the blues,
right? Well, despite what this album suggests, he’s a lot
more than that.
Amurá, who hits the open mics as often as his second
shift job allows, is an impressive guitar player – which
is understandable, since he’s had over forty years of
practice – and an exciting experimental songwriter.
It’s clear this cat spends time practicing his craft. This
release, though, seems to take fewer chances than the
performer traditionally will on-stage. The tracks are all
Amurá and guitar, and hew fairly close to the blues path.
His more rocking numbers aren’t as fleshed out as they
could (should) be. Certainly, his worn, elder statesman
voice burps the blues, but the artist’s experiments seem
less evidenced on album.
Luckily, there are highlights: a sultry rhythmic solo
on “Love Sick Blues,” and the beautiful “Blackbird”-
lifted guitar riff on “The Way of Things.” Then there’s
“Help Me Out”’s hard introductory sound, and the
closer, “Walkin’ Shoes,” a perfect ending for an album.
There’s an earlier release from Amurá, released back in
another century. Maybe that one has more variety, more
of what we’re used to at open mics and gigs throughout
the boroughs. Everything on this disc sounds good, but
it doesn’t seem like it’s the Best Part of Amurá, just a
part of him.
amuraunlimited.com
Darren Deicide
Temptation and the Taboo Part One
Is it time to give up
on modern blues? It
tends to be a terrifying
variety of sound,
stocked to the brim
with dull musicians
wanking soulless
guitar solos. On
Temptation and the
Taboo, Darren Deicide
pushes his creativity to
demonstrate that there
are still new, exciting
by the editorial collective
things to do with American roots music.
On the cover, Darren’s last name, Kramer, has
vanished, and his moniker, Deicide, has been removed
from quotations. His old liner notes consisting of amateur
photos are replaced with beautifully illustrated album
artwork. Accordingly, his music has also evolved, and
takes more chances.
Darren comes off as a cool character. To keep the
rhythm, he places a microphone on his stomping tap
dance shoe. This colorful approach is applied to Darren
Deicide’s musicianship across the board, and has proved
most fruitful in regards to his uniquely sly style of guitar
playing. Rather than focusing on complicated solos,
Deicide slowly hones in on strange dissonances hidden
along the fretboard. “Little Ol’ Snake” is a perfectly
titled demonstration of this slithering guitar, which is
distinctly blues flavored, not folk. This musical snake is
present throughout the tracks, and may be the album’s
most delicious offering. Deicide’s love of his instrument
and pride of his craft are unmistakable.
Bordering on being a concept album, not every
experiment works on Temptation and the Taboo.
The three slow starting tracks, though carrying more
creative push, can’t seem to compete with the fourth,
where Deicide returns to the catchy blues-punk style of
his previous album. In his high snarl, he seems most
comfortable spouting straightforward, Iggy Pop-esque
lyrics over straightforward raucous music (“Nothing’s
gonna stop me from what I want!”). The Day the Man
Went Down delivers in similar fashion. Part of the
problem is that Deicide’s lyrics don’t seem to be strong
enough to hold their own on slow, sparsely arranged
tracks like Loneliness and Fear. His softer, lower vocals
are also lacking in power.
There are places where Deicide’s creativity pays off.
On “A Night in Journal Square”, a psychedelic spoken
word piece about sparing change, kettle drums rumble
and emergency sirens shriek to convey Deicide’s
psychological conflict.The poetry can get overwhelming,
but the sounds are definitely adventurous and fun.
Even better is “Dreaming to Live”, the album’s final
track, where Deicide finally strikes paydirt. Chaotic,
sagging blues guitar sucks the listener inside Deicide’s
abstract and apocalyptic dream. If Darren still intends
to make a Part Two, this could be the right direction
for his creative itch. It’s offbeat lyrics, structure, and
production head exactly where Deicide is working
towards: enjoyably expanding his own artistry and
consequently expanding blues music.
darrendeicide.com
 David LK Murphy
Goodbye
The first word
that comes to mind
with this album
is: beautiful. Take
the opening track,
Gone. A driving
rolling snare softly
in the background
accents an equally
soft marching guitar
rhythm and a just-occasional-enough-to make-it-tense
bass drum hit. Then David’s voice comes in lonely over
the top, pure and sweet, just for a second in a simple
pretty melody line joined just a moment later by layered
harmonies that (somehow, don’t ask me how) tastefully
start to resemble a church choir. It is an impressive effect,
very impressive. A little abstract in sound, almost a little
proggy, but definitely accessible. We always knew David
was good, his voice is dark and pure, his guitar playing
is excellent, and his songs are impressively composed.
Still we see him maturing into his own skills on this
release. In the past his voice could become too thick
to be able to hold on to, or the technically impressive
composition of the songs wouldn’t leave much room
for an enjoyable melody. Here we don’t see those
problems. His voice has all the character it ever did, but
without too much thickness, the songs are sweet too,
with still impressive melodies that are distinct enough to
rest easy on the ear. Then there’s the production. This is
where the word beautiful earns itself. The sound is soft
and muted, with much of the backing band blending
together in a way that makes me think this might have
been recorded analog. With a drum kit, acoustic guitars,
cello, and some other string and horn padding, we
have an incredibly lush and warm sound. Subtlety is
the key here, with no instrument really taking the lead,
instead the arrangement working seamlessly together as
a united mesh, where the smallest variation can change
everything. This is a short album at only seven tracks
and the one thing curious is that despite all the beauty,
I find it had a hard time holding my concentration the
whole time. With the hypnotic lushness of the sound
holding steadily across the whole album, after the first
few songs there aren’t a lot of surprises here or much to
redraw your attention. If there were some variance from
the original idea, something to change tracks or move
things in a direction once the initial sound had been
explored I think I would have an easier time going all
the way through. Still, this is again a beautiful album
and one I put on frequently, because in the end it’s like
Reggae. It may start to sound like they’re always playing
the same song, but fuck it, it’s a really good song.
dlkm.com
Diane Cluck
Monarcana
Diane Cluck is
often romantically
and artistically
linked with antifolk
cabdriver Barry
Bliss. Although
their appearances
as a pair have
waned lately, their
sonic resemblance
persists.
This spring, Barry Bliss’s improvisational record stood
out as something unique and beautiful. Monarcana by
Diane Cluck enchants with similar charms. Both are
sparsely arranged, lofi experiments that refreshingly
(and insistently) come across as art for art’s sake.
Throughout the album’s 23 tracks, Diane creates
unsettling, three-part vocal harmonies, toying with
the illusion that she is all three Sirens at once. Her
discordant mix of sung tones are the centerpiece of
the album, and swirl like smoke over distant, usually
isolated instruments. A piano is chosen for one song,
an accordion on the next, acoustic guitar on the third.
Sometimes, Diane’s lyrics are comprehensible, and
dwell on cryptic imagery smelling of pagan curses and
soft, lonely madness (“Lucifer told me that I should go
easy, that I should lay back and let slack water take me”).
In other places, her words are lost in a spiral of wailing
sounds, and become more atmospheric than narrative.
The songs are not easily distinguishable from one
another, which casts the record as a singular, eerie mood
rather than a series of memorable, separate ideas.
Somebody once told me that a common feature
of Barry Bliss and Diane Cluck is that they are both
intimidating in their own ways. How receptive you are
to Diane’s intimidating presence will determine how
much you enjoy this album. Is she exotically elusive, or
just calculatedly aloof?
unicornsounds.com/diane.htm
Dylan Nirvana
Pentagonal Flower
Dylan Nirvana’s got a name that polarizes people, but
it does get people talking about him. And some of what
they say is, “An acoustic player? Where’s the Nirvana?”
Now, with this EP, those same people are probably going
, “This music sounds cool, but where’s the Dylan?”
These four songs are really produced, and sound
pretty cool. The ringing harmonies in “KT-88” are great.
The guitar sound throughout? Gorgeous. The lyrics have
some poetic sensibility, and there’s some humor in
there, too, but the name alone can do nothing but bring
up comparisons (Why didn’t Tom Verlaine suffer such a
fate? Or Mike Rimbaud?), comparisons that DN’s high-
pitched, sometimes screechy voice can’t successfully
resolve. It’s a little surprising that such a well-produced
disc didn’t do something to sweeten the artist’s voice,
but otherwise, DN and Walter Manning did a really
good job. The music sounds great. Soon, there should
be a full album. Maybe the voice will be improved by
then.
dylannirvana.com
Leo
Dime-a-Dozen
Anyone fond of
Leo’s eclectic musical
musings will be
pleasantly met by
his Dime-a-Dozen
album, initially
released several years
ago. The arrangements are intelligent and supportive,
adding interesting counterpoint to Leo’s well crafted
compositions while leaving room for the listener to
digest the essential elements of each track. Songs like
“Love Is Big Business” have choruses which will ring
in your ears for hours, but it’s often Leo’s more fleeting
lines such as those he raps in “Gone with the Wind”
which ultimately prove more poignant — staying with
you for the long run. Always a bit “self referential,” as
per his song, Leo nevertheless manages to tell “other
people’s” stories with equal emotional impact, as he
proves with track 6 “Teenagers of Carbondale.” And
though I do love to see Leo play with Amurá on lead
guitar, I must admit that Charles Bascombe’s lead guitar
work on this album is superb, nicely complementing
each composition, adding to rather than detracting from
each song’s impact. Covering more genres than there are
tracks on the CD, Leo certainly seems to wear his many
influences on his sleeve. All in all, it’s nice to finally find
a songwriter whose above average songwriting skills
match their above average ego.
Regina Spektor
Begin to Hope
Spektor, who performed regularly at Sidewalk Café
and other downtown clubs in the 2001 and 2002 era,
writes spare, pulsing songs that at first seem mysterious
and enigmatic. “This is how it works/It feels a little
worse/Than when we drove our hearse/Right through
that screaming crowd” she sings.
But gradually the songs start to come into focus.
Out of a blur of words, music, sounds, and Spektor’s
idiosyncratic vocals and piano playing emerges an
almost painfully moving sense of longing and need for
human connection and love. These thoughts can be
pinpointed in individual songs like “Better” in which
Spektor sings “If I kiss you where it’s sore/Will you feel
better, better, better/Will you feel anything at all.” But it
is really from absorbing the album as a cohesive whole
that its penetrating effect is realized. The disk seems to
release clouds of ideas and emotions that linger for a
long time after it finishes playing.
There’s a kind of loopiness to some of the songs.
“Hey remember that time when I found a human tooth
down on Delancey….Hey remember that month when
I only ate boxes of tangerines (so cheap and juicy!) .”
Spektor seems to be singing about very specific shared
memories, ones that any two friends or lovers might
have. Although enigmatic, the oddness of the lyrics
somehow makes the song more tangible.
Unlike many artists who are stronger in some areas
over others, Spektor’s songs rely on a balance and
interweaving of words, composition, vocals, piano
playing, and other instrumentation and sounds. She
utilizes a variety of vocal effects including yelps,
unusual pronunciation, hypnotic repetition, and a
lilting style that lays a rich texture over the frames of
her songs. Her piano playing ranges from spare and
gentle, to classically influenced to gospel-tinged, as in
the shimmering, beautiful song “Field Below.”
With the support of a major label, Spektor has been
able to draw on more elaborate production elements than
on her previous self-produced disks. Where in the past
she most often accompanied herself on piano, on Begin
to Hope she draws on a wide range of instrumentation.
The sound still seems to fall very much within Spektor’s
characteristic musical style, although in a couple of
cases she draws on some distracting electronica.
Sometimes Spektor can be a bit too precious and one
or two or her songs are just plain annoying. However
most of them are things of beauty and integrity. Although
it might take a while to penetrate their surface, the songs
sparkle with sound and meaning.
reginaspektor.com
Riot Folk
compilation
Evan Greer
Live In Cambridge
I was hoping that the music from an anarchist
collective called Riot Folk would at least give me
enough angst to spray paint a few giant A’s around
the neighborhood. Where are the snarling, dangerous
vocals? The earsplitting, overdriven acoustic strums?
Disappointingly, the recordings on the compilation
sound deflated and flat, and the bulk of the sounds here
come off as a little wimpy.
Riot Folk’s progressive ethics are definitely their
greatest virtue. The songs cover important, though
familiar, topics, including dissidence towards the Iraqi
war, union picket lines, and exposing the underbelly of
America’s tyrannical history. Keeping the flame of social
discord alive with overtly political music is admirable.
The criticism that these protesters lack originality and
artistic flair seems mean-spirited, however naggingly
true.
Listening to Ryan Harvey’s “About the Only Thing That
Governments Have Done” and Evan Greer’s “Picketing
Song”, it’s clear that Woody Guthrie is a big hero to the
Riot Folk collective. The musical sensibility is there,
but missing is the lackadaisical wit that gave Guthrie’s
legendary songs their spark.
Out of the eight musicians, Tom Frampton’s potential
shines the brightest on the compilation. His two loudly
belted songs sound the most like a genuine riot. “5-
string”, Frampton’s ballad, weaves conversations with
Guthrie and John Brown into reflections about the
singer’s deceased grandfather and his own shortcomings.
Sparing the backing by a solemn piano, this song has a
musical beauty to complement the lyrical.
On Evan Greer’s live album we get a much better
picture of what Riot Folk is all about. Here there is all
the energy missing from the compilation. Riot Folk is all
about the live show. When we hear a crowded room
singing along to the political choruses, it gains a power
that lacks on a lo-fi recording done alone. It’s inspiring to
hear a mob singing about change and makes it easier to
believe in such a thing, like hearing unity happen. Evan
also feeds off the energy of the crowd putting some of
the punk back into the sound with a raw and passionate
performance. Being in the crowd at an acoustic show
where the kids genuinely care about the message and
dance and sing along with fists in the air in a crowded
basement or open performance space, is a whole different
type of folk show from the typical coffee house style. It’s
refreshingly alive and a striking contrast to sitting down
and listening to someone singing about their feelings.
The trick for Evan and Riot Folk will be to figure out how
to translate this live energy onto recording. The simple
lo-fi recordings make sense with the DIY ethic, but still
we are losing something artistically if we can’t capture
that energy and power onto a studio album. Even trickier
is the fact that simply making a full band produced
version of this music would cheat it just as much as the
lo-fi solo recordings do. It seems important they stay true
to the folk DIY ethic even as they try to create better
albums. There work is cut out for them, if only because
what they’re doing and the audience they’re building is
inspiring, and something that deserves to be heard in a
way that gives credit to what they are.
riotfolk.org
Six7
s/t
Six7, after hearing the pseudo-R+B female vocal
singing the words “psycho bitch,” over and over, on
your song “Psycho,” I really wanted to write a horrible,
scathing review that compared your self-titled CD to the
worst parts of towheaded, mysogynistic rock bands like
limpbizkit and Korn. I wanted to find a bunch of really
awful adjectives for your semi-rapped, growly singing. I
wanted to say that the full band arrangements stripped
away all of the irony and charm of the solo acoustic
performances that I remember.
But then I found myself tapping my toes, and I knew
it would be unfair to just dog the album.
In some places, the irony shines through, especially
when Pat Six7 makes Jay-Z-style boasts like, “You’re
Microsoft? Well, I’m Macro-hard!” over what sounds
like a riff straight from the first Clutch album on “We
Don’t Care.” I am also especially partial to the line, “A
bunch of asses in my hole-zone,” on the cheekily pat-
on-the-shoulder opener, “Me.”
The Six7 bio draws comparisons to Frank Zappa and
Captain Beefheart, which made me scratch my head
when I first put the disc on. I got to thinking about it,
and this might be close to what the guy from Dufus
would sound like fronting a more conventional rock
band-straightforward enough, sure, but the eccentricities
shine through just the same. Danceable tunes, with just
a little squirt of Green Slime to keep it interesting.
In conclusion, this is a decent rock album that is
well-played, goofy in places, and slickly produced. The
charm of the solo live performance leaves a hole, but it’s
a hole that can be chewed around.
PS: Six, never ever call a girl a “bitch.” But if you
decide you still have to, have the juevos to keep the
word in the song’s title.
six7rock.com
Thomas Patrick Maguire
Woodside Lanes
Somewhere between the ultimate demise of his
Modern Lovers, and before the beginning of his solo
recording career, Jonathan Richman spent years travelling
around, singing kids songs at elementary schools,
where he felt his wide-eyed songwriting would be best
appreciated. A decade and a half later, in between his
Noise Addict days and his slick-pop-rock albums, Ben
Lee recorded a couple of ultra lo-fidelity albums on his
4-track. Both Jonathan and Ben wrote simple songs
about the Ice Cream Man, turntables and the insecurity
of going shirtless at the beach. Both sounded like they
were nostalgic for an idyllic past that never existed.
Thomas Patrick Maguire sounds like that childhood
Ben Lee is finally old enough to go to the pub. Still ultra
lo-fidelity, still simple songs, with a little less wide-eyed
wonder on songs like “Christian Mob,” and “My Own
Personal Earthquake.” This is mostly guitar and vocal,
but still summery, with some lyrical passages consisting
only of oohs and aahs. My only real complaint is that
(excepting opener”The Remedy) “Woodside Lanes” Toby Goodshank
lacks the drums that moved TPM’s previous CD, “Pissing ‘di Santa Ragione’
Streams,” along at a steady pace.
thomaspatrickmaguire.com For his umpteenth album of semi-free verse poetry over
angular acoustic guitar, Toby Goodshank has put together
The Silent Comedy a near full-band outing. Drummer Dave Beauchamp
Shoehorn Paraffin factors heavily into the arrangements, providing a four-
on-the-floor beat beneath the increasingly intricate guitar
With the acoustic/roots/folk movement being so melodies and multilayered vocals. Toby’s sister (and
heavily predominated by singer songwriters, it’s refreshing Double Deuce bandmate) Angela Carlucci carries a
to hear an acoustic band where that actually sounds like heavy prescence here, serving as a grounding point to
a cohesive band. Rather than just accenting the chords the often-roaming lyrics. The fleshed-out arrangements
and lyrics, the musicians sound tight like the songs were work best on “The Death of My Enemies” and “Effigy,”
composed together as a unit. The closest comparison I with Angela repeating the acronym “F-I-G” beneath
could make here would be O’Death with a little more the lead vocal. Subject matter ranges from the endless
Jerry Garcia, and a little less punk rock. Opening with possibilities of blank CDs to the La Bamba soundtrack to
the more than danceable (and aptly titled) “Carnival an endorsment of a favorite local band “Army of Love,”
Song,” Southern California’s The Silent Comedy give us but the biggest story on di Santa Ragione is told in “The
a full sound of acoustic guitars, organ, drums, and an Death of My Enemies,” with only the words “I have
incredible fiddle playing an energetic and danceable you now, it’s amazing.” Sometimes, the simple stories
carny song as catchy as it is driving. As if to drive the are the easiest to remember, and it is those six words that
point home that this music is about fun and meant to be stick out the farthest in my head and in my ears when
accompanied by a festive atmosphere, mixed low into listening to this album. Considering the volume and
the background are the sounds of people whooping it quality of Toby Goodshank’s recorded output, di Santa
up and and partying, sometimes shouting along with the Ragione is not the best album he’s made to date, but it is
music, sometimes apparently involved in their own side definitely as good a starting point as any.
conversations. Beyond this initial festive feeling, there olivejuicemusic.com/tobygoodshank.html
is somehing dark and poetic beneath the rhythm
and the songs on this album. It starts with the fiddle
which is an almost constant presence drawing out
soulful melodies in all manners, from the dark and
hellish when required, to a nostalgic appalachian
feeling. The playing is excellent and brings out the
emotions of each song as only a well played fiddle
can. From there, the mandolin touches, deliberate
guitar strumming, and vocal melodies all build
this into an album that can be moving even in its
festivities. “I Know Something You Don’t” bridges
that gap the best with a yearning lyrics and melody
over the appalachian fiddle sound and a heavy
beat with the band. The Tuba Song takes on a
plodding haulting rhythm, with a drunken chorus
shouting along lazily to the vocals which sound as
unconcerned as they do sad. While we don’t say this
here often, a better produced recording probably
would have helped this album to get across the
full energy that it sounds like they’re capable of.
Luckily, I’ve heard such a better recording is in the
works. I’ll give ten to one that the live show is what
this band is all about and a raucous affair worth
checking out.
myspace.com/thesilentcomedy