WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Doug Gillard on WFMU mp3s

Back on October 3rd of this year, unstoppable indie guitar crackerjack Doug Gillard sat in on my program to shoot the f-sharp and enthrall the listenership with a few acoustic versions of songs off his brand new release, Call From Restricted, available now on itunes. For your listening enjoyment, some mp3s from the program (many thanks to Jason Segal for the digitizing):

Time is Nigh

Gibraltar

Gogol Was Rollo

Last night word was, he popped onstage as a surprise guest at night 2 of Yo La Tengo's annual 8 Nights of Hanukkah shows to electric-fy some pop covers and stoked fans. In January you can catch Doug rocking a residency for four Wednesday nights at Piano's in NYC.    (live tracks posted under a Creative Commons license)

BJM ATP WFMU

Although Iceland's answer to remaining financially solvent may not lay with it's new favorite son, Anton Alfred Newcombe, we at WFMU recognize that the man behind and in front of The Brian Jonestown Massacre has been more than charitable to the fans by providing most of his recorded music for free for years. In that spirit, we bring to you mp3s of the live performance at this year's historic ATP weekend at Kutsher's resort in Monticello, NY:

Intro Drone

Whoever You Are

Nailing Honey To The Bee

Here It Comes

Yeah Yeah

Banter

Vacuum Boots

Who

Hide and Seek

Banter

Nevertheless

When Jokers Attack

Swallowtail

this live recording is shared noncommercially under a Creative Commons license

Dr., My Ears/I'm Not Your F*cking Captain.

I can't quite put my finger on the reason why, but every time I hear that some radio personality somewhere has inexplicably ordained himself a Doctor or a Captain I'll first bristle, then shudder, then feel truly embarrassed and defeated to be a DJ myself. What in the name of Drew Pinsky can these people be thinking? Why would anyone be under any illusion that their educational and intellectual station in life has taken a sharp upward turn? Eh-Yeahh, I get the whole '60's Hippy references like "Dr. Dimebag" or "Captain Cannibis" or whatever but I would have assumed that at some point during WKRP's run that even starry-eyed radio wannabe's would understand how cliched giving yourself a title would sound. Yet, even in a quick google, I happened upon enough self-proclaimed Captains and Doctors in radio and podcasting to make me seasick. Just stop it already. Do something a little more original in the new century like -- use your own title. Your job description - the catchphrase you use on those forms. Why not call yourself "Copy Editor Joe","Front Desk Maggie", or "CPA Bob" or start out the show with a growling reverb'd "I'm The SALES ASSOCIATE of Psych"? That sounds alot better and it takes alot less training to get certified.

30 years ago When MDA really meant something else

I'm drifting off, it's 1978...Bob McAllister, my hero from Wonderama  Skip Stephenson is on the Jerry Lewis MDA telethon introducing Robert Shields, I mean Jobriath uhm err Peter Gabriel dressed for A Chorus Line rehearsal, it looks like he really does "...need this job"

Minutes later Richard Dawson exercises Extreme Smug Restraint and carries on with the show.

Renowned DJ Outed as Crippled Geezer

  Don't let Age happen to you, greying WFMU DJ population, lest you have your rickety ass splashed across the U.K.'s Daily Mail.

Norman Cook, a.k.a. Fatboy Slim a.k.a."hit 45" is apparently incapable of hauling shit around the airport anymore due to the years of wear and tear on his aged and slowly decomposing frame. He's been employing his wetnurse wife to help a funk soul brudda out. Maybe now would be a good time to talk to your Doctor about once-monthly Boniva or a hip replacement.

Applejack'd

I won't lie, I just wanted an excuse (it's my day to post on BOTB) to post these swell videos of The Applejacks and to stand on a stack of phonebooks to point out how neat-o bassist Megan Davies was and let's face it still is!

The Jesse Helms Wrap-Up

There have been a few mentions on the blogismord this week of the 1991 TAG Helms Seven action, coming on the heels of the death of Senator Jesse Helms. Our own Blog Prince Mark Allen (pictured in the middle/back on the right side photo) was a part of the team that wrapped a giant condom around the Senator's home. I say it's well worth re-reading his account of this brave and brazen protest on our blog here.

Antiques Boy Show

Go ahead, ask any Red Blooded American Gal why she really sits down to watch Antiques Road Show  on any given evening on any number of PBS stations: It's the KENO BROTHERS!

Those adorable blonde mop-topped identical twins Leslie (he's taken, ladies) and (my fave - and apparently single) sibling Leigh Keno simply light up the screen with their animated appraising. There's something really compelling about the way these fellas aren't afraid to lurch around a giant sideboard extending their arms, waving their hands without ever really touching the veneer. These guys also are really great at finding hidden compartments you didn't even know you had. Seemingly the most often-interviewed of all the appraisers on ARS, there's plenty of Keno fan fodder on the internet. For now, let's watch Leslie inspect this woman's urm...Spice Box:

Rock out with your whatever out

When it comes to guitars, I'm what you would call a "looker", as in I Like To Look, and "Looky, what a cool guitar". When I get the gumption once a few decades, I might even spring for one, which is what I did just yesterday for a bass. I'm not gonna talk about the bass because then it'll get ugly with me and you guitar enthusiast types out there. Yeah, if I had $2500 I'd get a Rickenbacker bass, which would mean I probably had another $2500 somewhere and I'd have to have two Rics then. Well, I don't have that kind of scratch so I got something new but affordable. In my travels around the internet browsing and gazing at guitars recently though, the proliferation of the Girly Guitar has officially saturated the Guitar Dewd Marts around the country. With brands like Luna, Daisy Rock, and the Les Paul Goddess the ladies now have the option of specially-sized and brightly colored axes to play. This apparently now raises new dialogue about our die-hard perceptions of The Rocker and the esthetic of the guitar to the body.

WFMU's Ed Shepp Gets Gawk'd

< Here's a photo of our friend and WFMU associate, Ed Shepp in actual time as his reality begins to fold in on itself and create ripples into the fourth dimension. You see, this brilliant and perpetually excited young man (and by young, I mean younger than me) innocently placed this innocuous ad for a roommate on craigslistnyc. Who'da thunk the postiest-post mawdernz at Gawker would finally pick up the hotline on this guy (can you say HELLO??) years after his radio listeners, Time Out NY and Vice mag have, creating what Ed would surely term "gwakloads of melisma"!? I''ll simply disregard the faint essence of attitude-doody and rightfully bitter New York renter's comments on the Gawker blurb and push my way to the front to proclaim that Mr. Shepp is absolutely genuine in his pursuit of a reasonable rent-share and was even willing to learn about *gasp* New Jersey pricing!  I swear if I thought he wouldn't mind my regular drunken caftan'd and turbaned tirades ala Ruth Roman/Susan Hayward I'd move Ed into my spare room in Jersey in a Beep! Maybe this Other Ed Shepp can help our boy find his dream digs.

Nails Did.

Considering this explosive newsbreak in nail trends, we are reminded that it's once again the season for obsessing over the keratinous growths on the ends of our fingers and toes. The inevitable question comes up: What's hot for summer? The answer remains as transitory as fashion itself. The Celeb Set is all over the Neon Pink, while fashionista writers are screaming that Spring's navy blue trend has definitely gone the way of turquoise and other blue variations. There is however, no accounting for taste when such dictums invariable trickle and triple-filter down to the masses. Judge not ye ghetto nails, lest your own nasty nails be judged:

Rabbit Silly

Beware the countdown to Global Digital Domination!  I wanted to have my shit together a little bit ahead of the 17 million Americans like me who are either cable service refusniks or in the lower socio-economic quarter who utilize Old School Rabbit Ears to catch the news, Gossip Girl, Access Hollywood, PBS, Fox, Montel and our "stories".
I planned it pretty well, ordering my government discount coupon two months ago, finally recieving it last week. It looked more like a debit card, pretty sophisticated I guess. I'm also guessing the government can now confirm that I'm a cheap asshole. I sat through an online tutorial that explained how easy this was going to be once I purchased and installed my converter box. How I'd suddenly get a bunch of channels I didn't even know I could get. They also mentioned the converter boxes were between $40-$70. In my naivete I figured since my coupon was worth forty bucks that I could ostensibly find a free deal. The truth was, the government's caveat was that I was only allowed to shop three vendors with the coupon and their cheapest boxes were $60 plus tax on the whole amount. So twenty-five dollars later I had my unit. Once I got home, I found out that this sleek little box had nearly a half dozen outputs that needed to be connected to my T.V. which, thank you very much, where almost all being utilized for things like my dvd and vhs players. I'd also suddenly discovered that I must've become catatonic at a key point during the online tutorial because -- no friggin' way -- I STILL NEEDED RABBIT EARS! Once I got everything up and sort-of running, I'm still fucking around with antennae trying to re-animate Katie Couric and get the cubes out her mouth during the CBS Evening News. Forget NBC - The Office and all that crap. I now no longer have that station or their local affiliates despite the appearance of The Magik Box and having my hands Reynolds Wrapped. I expect the typical "you shouldn't be watching that brain rot" and "go read a book" comments dear readers, and evidently I'm not really having my civil rights violated because it pretty much works, but I do feel just a little less fabulous about the transition than I thought I would.

White Mic Fever!

Diasporic Stradivarius

For my money, there's no better validation of life's futility, beauty, desperation, grief and surreality as the analogy of a lost violin.
We hear about these stories in seemingly increasing numbers over the years. Just how many rare 17th century violins can there be and exactly how are they managing to flee from their owners? Like sweaty defectors at the airport these sensuous instruments are obviously yearning for something better, hoping to rewrite their centuries-old history and escape the enslavement of their destiny. Perhaps there exists a Shangri-La, a Violin Isle-a-Land where piles of violins bake off their oppressive veneers in a tropical paradise.

As I ponder this possibly preposturous premise, let me direct you to a spooky Strad story  by J.Meade Falkner.

My Secret Garden (the weird alienated one)

I sometimes hear guys talking about how mystified they are by choices women make when it comes to a hetero partner. Frankly, even as a broad, I can offer little insight into what goes on in the minds of women myself. I just know that girls start a hell of alot earlier than you may have been led to believe when it comes to creating a sexual inner life. Add to that mix the fact that most boys find girls icky until they are almost thirteen and you've got yourself the first giant chasm in the gender gap.
As early as the age of four back in the late sixties/early seventies my preoccupation with and crushes on celebrities were a mental tsunami drowning the village of my own potential. Worse was the fact that my crushes were on personalities so incredibly unsexy to other young girls who dreamt about the classic version of Prince Charming that I could not even share during girltalk, leaving me left out of that whole female bonding thing. The endurance of each of my manias made Wuthering Heights look like a Peanuts cartoon. Meanwhile other girls flipped their crushes as quickly as they thumbed through the latest Tiger Beat. Similarly when other little girls collected 45s, I sat transfixed with my LPs stacked on the return arm of the stereo.                                                                                                            
For the sake of some (any) logic, I've lumped my pre-teen loves into three different categories. Mind you, some of the celebrities are literally shoe-horned into these groups but I'm trying make things easier for you people. Anyhoo, there are "The Nice Jewish Boys", "The Pan-Sexuals" and "The Feel Funnys".
In the first category, I give you Barry Gordon From A Thousand Clowns, one of the more influential films for me as a kid. I guess I related to Barry's geekiness. He plays Larry David's Rabbi now on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then there's Wes Stern. You might remember him from Getting Together with that douchey Bobby Sherman, and also The Mary Tyler Moore Show, where he played Lou Grant's nephew who wanted to lose his virginity to Mary. Later I think he grew up, changed character and did it with Brenda Morgenstern on Rhoda. Scott Jacoby was the Nice Jewish Boy who played Bad Ronald, one of the greatest '70s TV-movies ever. There's quite a bit of Scott up on youtube and I still think he was pretty hot back then.
Inevitably, we come to Gene Wilder in this first group. When I finally did get a friend by the sixth grade, she and I fought over who was going to marry him first. I really resented her for this. Can I just say a million dorky girls like me were really really happy when he married Gilda Radner because we actually could relate to her just a little bit more than say, Farrah Fawcett-Majors? 

Jobless and Gaga

I'm jobless again. After two tumultuous years of working like a dog with canine compulsive disorder, the powers that be finally put me out of my misery. When the news came down friday, I stared bewildered into the teary eyes of the two that get paid to bring the pain. Only I had no lump in my throat, no waves of emotion. I was complimented that I was acting incredibly professionally at such a horrible moment.  One friend, laughing at this story said "Hadn't they figured out how incredibly cold you are?" Actually, any one of my colleagues would tell you that I was incredibly hardworking and managed the worst of the worst of our clients with aplomb.

I had often remarked that this was the first job, after a lifetime of work (literally stretching back into childhood) where I truly enoyed the company of my co-workers. Prior to this gig, I had worked for 16 years for the most American of corporations, opting to take a severance out. Surrounded by my weeping Union brothers and sisters, I remember checking the clock dispassionately waiting for an opportune moment to walk out the side door without fanfare. For the next eight months I enjoyed, for the first time in years an incredibly happy, healthy and creative time. I just didn't have a job to go to.

I am by no means a lazy person. I live alone in NJ suburbia and wake up on any Saturday morning around 8AM. That's after waking up at 6AM and remembering it's the weekend. I don't have to get up to milk cows or feed babies, I simply put in my 40-50 hours a week. I manage a home with the usual bills, mortgage, and taxes and have even scraped up enough to have some savings in an IRA. I probably have a little more than most of my friends, who have their own struggles.   

Three from Old Школа (School) Russia

1972 Belorussian Folk-Psych under what appears to be extreme pressure:

Static traffic cam on a major intersection in St. Petersburg:

"His Wife Is A Chicken:"

Cows and Beer, Best Before:

This photo recently came to the attention of myself and partner-in-crime DJ Diane Kamikaze via Dan Kubinski from Milwaukee's finest hardcore group ever, Die Kreuzen. It's a crowd shot from the stage at CBGB, taken by Dan just before he told us of Cliff Burton's death after this show, September 27th, 1986. Take a look a this motley bunch of glumsters and doofuses. That's me and Diane up front to the right anticipating the time of our lives, like every time we went to see Die Kreuzen. It's odd to calculate that this was 22 years ago and to imagine what everyone else in this picture is up to now. Steve Albini encapsulated that very year, himself and this band in this article from Forced Exposure. Here's a couple of musical clips courtesy of Mike Lupica's show to enjoy as you read here and here.                                                                                    

Captain Kleenex and The Green Sputum Cowboy

Granted, I'm no health care professional, nor do I even resemble one of those gratingly cutesy actresses that pass for one on television, but I'm calling the last 30 or so days as I see it: a pandemic! More to the point: a feverish puke, sweat and shit filled phlegm fest. I gratefully managed to avoid the norovirus which struck about 70% of the people I know who either live or work in New York City. Victims were vomiting curbside while hailing a taxicab only to shit their pants on the way home due to the total absence of free public restrooms in the greatest city on earth. Meanwhile in the outer 'burbs, strange sweaty outbreaks were randomly occurring in the population accompanied by dizziness, a slight cough and general fatigue. The symptoms would seem to dissapear, in reality only going into remission gathering steam for the big kahuna -- an ass-over-teakettle upper respiratory smackdown with complementary bronchitis and a suffocation of the sinus cavities making one ponder the possibility of having been quiescently teabagged by an epileptic bricklayer. After see-sawing in and out of illness for three weeks, I was finally prescribed Levaquin and promethazine with dextromethorphan syrup. Then I really got sick. Unbeknownst to this humble host organism, a detrimental colonization was ON...

The Seize-ing Sounds of Sean Paul

This story is making today's headlines about a woman who had brain surgery because "her favorite artist" almost made her swallow her tongue. I don't know where to start -- is this a condemnation of the monotone white boy from Kingston or is Sean Paul's publicist trying to make a nice salmon mousse mold out of grey matter?

Honestly, how can you even claim to enjoy music fully without the occasional symptoms like: grand or petit mal, incontinence, anxiety attack, priapism, low frequency nausea, chest pains, boogie fever, cold sweat, and the like? Tell us your symptoms!