WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Virtual CBGB's

I kept peering around corners thinking I was gonna run into Vinnie Stigma, hopefully not in the bathroom. Link courtesy John Neilson (who wonders if maybe this actually the Vegas recreation being that it was lit so well)

Luxurious Domestic Garbage Pit

"We had a resident who had an outstanding balance for over a month and no one could get ahold of her. The Bookkeeper went inside after so many tries to leave a note and this is what we found..."

Matt Marsden- Junk Aesthete

Even though my friend and former roommate Matt Marsden lives around the corner, I rarely see him these days. We have both become workaholic hermits and rarely leave our apartments. Occasionally I make it over to his place about every six months and he bombards me with his latest record and book aquisitions as well as the new treasures he has pulled out of the trash. Matt is a lifelong garbage collector- not a mentally deranged packrat piling fecal encrusted newspapers to the ceiling but rather a junk aesthete. All of his garbage "bits", as he likes to call them, are meticulously arranged throughout his apartment...animal skulls, toys, rusty mechanical parts, old bottles, shriveled potatoes with attached wigs occupy every square inch of wall space. It's a wonderful claustrophobic museum packed into a typical Chicago apartment, although even the facade of the building is unique for the area's streetscape. Resembling a miniature castle, complete with turrets and balconies, the building was originally a fire house. I have been meaning to take pictures of Matt's apartment and write something about it for a couple months now but I was only able to get over to his place again on the 4th of July- his rooftop is one of the highest in Humboldt Park, making for a great  360 degree viewing of the city's fireworks.

I have moved Matt's museum of garbage a few times. I lived with Matt for six years in three different places. I met him through a mutual friend and we instantly bonded over a shared love of Lenny Dee records. We were both looking for a new place at the time so we moved into the garden apartment of a house in Wicker Park. As soon as Matt hauled his boxes in, he immediately went to work nailing his bits to the walls. I was still in school and living out of a few boxes of crap, a minimalist by necessity because I moved every six months, so I was amazed at the amount of stuff that soon filled the apartment. I was an occasional trash picker but I never truly had the patience for it and I certainly didn't have the obsessive mind that Matt had in approaching garbage. Every bit had a story, every bit was meticulously arranged in a shadow box like a Joseph Cornell piece.  It was a scientific organization that resembled some sort of cellular chaos. It was inspiring.

Jerry's Anthem

Jerry Murphy and I only share one thing in common: We both work in the housing industry.  From there, it's all pretty much downhill.  Well, for one thing, the guy doesn't like Young Widows or Sicbay.  Steeerike one.

Murphy (a realtor with Windemere West Valley Real Estate in Phoenix) writes a real estate blog--high and outside, steeerike two--from his hometown in Anthem, Arizona.  The irony of that city name is most definitely not lost on his Anthem, Phoenix, Scottsdale Real Estate Blog; It's the only real estate blog in existence with a sub-blog tackling Murphy's sincere and cerebral appreciation of rock music.  So sincere and cerebral he double linked it.  In Arizona Premiere Music Blog's June 12th post Murphy, with all the expertise and circumspection of Fuji Hakayito from The Super Dave Osborne Show, postulates that 1975-1985 was the most underappreciated and influential period in rock/pop history.  Surprise, surprise.  Somebody's been reading the Publicity Wire section of Billboard on a few too many business flights. 

Granted, big Murph is right about the diversity in genres and the influences that came before that drove and inspired the bands and solo artists of that period.  But his last "musical assessment" (aside from being completely gomer) is merely a symptom of how much so many people I know in the real estate field like Murphy whom I've met at compulsory office parties held at golf courses so orgiastically quarantine themselves to terrestrial FM classic rock they still think CD's just came out.  Ey, Murph, there's a great new band out I think you should hear.  They're called Fugazi.

And Peavy retires the sides.

Nature Slaughter Scenes

So I'm not a frequent blogger, but was feeling it was time for a post...sometimes it comes to me, sometimes it doesn't. Up to the other day, it hadn't. I was in the middle of my program last Thursday, playing a piece by the Squirm Orchestra called "Nature Slaughter Scenes" and BAM!! It hit me. But I'll give you some info on the catalyst before I go into another horrific story of something else I've seen in my life that was mortifying, and I just happened to be there - don't get that reference? Check a past blog post here. Squirm Orchestra are from the Indiana/Michigan area, are a sextet, whose improv electro hand-sewn cd: Somersaults Inside Ourselves is in the WFMU new bin right now. It's finely crafted both visually and aurally; nice! OK, now for the bloody stuff, goody!

Last Night's Protest Against Varvatos

(pic left from Flickr page of Jeremoss). I for one have grown completely numb to the co-opting of cool culture for nefarious commercial means. If the Strangulated Beatoffs had a song appear in a McDonald's ad, I probably would not bat an eye at this juncture (though if they do decide to do this I sort of fear for humanity what the band would be doing with their check). So, while I am right onboard with everyone who feels that downtown's identity has been clomped over by the high-rent boutiques, wine bars and luxury condos, I can't really feel that the amount of creativity in the city has been scaled down, just sort of displaced (to places with varying degrees of accessibility). I was truly saddened by Tonic's demise, mainly because it was such a central hub of important activity for so many artists who are somewhat more scattered now, but I never got that weepy over CB's. The last show I saw there was the Chain Gang, a good couple years before it's closing, and I think I hadn't been there since 2000 before that. Hence, the fact that John Varvatos decided to buy the old CBGB space and turn it into a fancy retail outlet that happens to preserve the club's graffiti, stage, lights and postered icons amidst racks of $700 jeans isn't as appalling to me I guess as it is to all of last night's protesters down in the Bowery. The difference between 315 Bowery becoming this or a Starbucks is what seems to be really rubbing people the wrong way; I mean, if the current realty office that owns the old Pier Platters space in Hoboken decided to put a box of Flying Nun records on their reception counter I'd probably applaud them. Perhaps someone who has respect for the careers of Graeme and Peter Jefferies may be the kind of person I'd like to rent an apartment from, who knows. Regardless, I'm glad there's still a spirit of protest alive (who's headed down to the LES to get a slab of that Bruce Willis-as-roast pig effigy happening?), though I did get a laugh from a comment on Curbed, whether it be facetious or not (thanks Doron): "I can't wait to protest this abomination, I'll meet everyone at the Whole Foods on Houston at 8PM!"

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They’re Tearin’ Down the House I Was Brung Up In

I often get little messages from my subconscious in the form of song lyrics. I’ll be going along, doing something or other—taking a shower, walking to work, washing the dishes—and I’ll realize I’m humming a song, and then if I pay attention and figure out what song it is, it’ll turn out that the lyrics are making a little commentary on something that’s been on my mind. Lately I’ve found myself humming an old country tune called “They’re Tearing Down the House I Was Brung Up In,” and I sure wish I could post an MP3 of it for you, in case you’re not familiar with it, or at least put up the lyrics, but it seems that the whole wide Internet has never heard of it. But it’s a real song, I promise.

I guess the reason that song’s been in my head is that the people who own the Carpenters’ old house in Downey, California, are getting ready to tear it down. This is the house that was on the cover of some Carpenters’ album, and apparently rabid Carpenters’ fans (Who knew?!) are all agitated because they consider the house to be a SHRINE. It’s where anorexic Karen collapsed before she died! The fan who’s put himself in charge of saving the house calls it “our version of Graceland,” although apparently there are no guided tours, no souvenirs, no Richard Carpenter sightings—oh, wait: I think he’s still alive. Anyway, the people who bought the house are tired of obsessed weirdos peeking in the windows, crying through the locks, and they want to tear the place down and build a McMansion or something, while the fans are hoping the city of Downey will declare it a historic landmark. Maybe the fans should stage a hunger strike in front of Downey city hall.

A long time ago Sluggo worked the overnight shift as a proofreader at a big New York City law firm, but since he’s dyslexic he spent most of his time drawing pictures for the people he worked with. One of them happened to be an obsessed Carpenters fan, so one night Sluggo drew a picture of himself sitting on Karen Carpenter’s grave, eating a picnic. He meant it to be funny, but his colleague burst into tears and never spoke to him again. It’s kind of scary to think that if you get enough people like that together, they might make trouble for you, if you're the kind of person who would buy the former home of someone who sold a lot of record albums. In the 1970s.

Thanks for reading my blog post this week, and please give generously to the WFMU Marathon.

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