Summer Solstice

Summer officially arrived a couple days ago, and in my boredom at work on Friday, I got to thinking about what exactly this meant. Typically for me, and for most college students, the understanding of seasons goes something like this: Winter (December-January), Spring (January/February-May), Summer (May-August), Fall (August/September-December). I'd say for most Louisianians the seasons fall along these lines: Winter (December-Mardi Gras, which falls somewhere in February or early March), Spring (Mardi Gras-June), Summer (June-October), Fall (October-December).

Summer as represented in popular culture is typically much different from summer in my personal experiences. I guess the best way to say this is far less Len- "Steal My Sunshine" and De La Soul- "A Roller Skating Jam Named 'Saturdays'" and far more Drive-By Truckers- "Bulldozers and Dirt" and Steve Earle- "Someday." The music of summer, in my mind, is always filled with a heaviness, a stickiness, and something a little dirty. The heaviness of Drive-By Truckers, Whiskeytown, and Steve Earle, the stickiness of "Spottieottiedopaliscious" by Outkast, and the dirtiness of The Meters always represent summer in my mind far better than the breeziness of all those "Boys of Summer" jams. This is mainly due to the fact that I have spent the past two summers, and now Summer 08, in relative isolation, working my ass off.

Summer 06 was filled with spinning Whiskeytown and Uncle Tupelo during dreary, sultry kitchen hours. Late-night drive homes following the closing of the restaurant fuelled on my 87th coke of the night and numerous "cigarette breaks" behind the restaurant (even though I didn't smoke) remain the most lasting images of that summer. Yes, it was terribly boring.

Summer 07 was spent working outside. I got paid cutting grass on a private golf course and driving a golf cart around an enormous piece of property doing odd jobs. I spent a lot of time careening around dusty back-woods trails and mindlessly cutting down fairway grass in the blazing June-July-August heat. I listened to a lot of Widespread Panic ("Chilly Water, "Driving Song," "Tall Boy") and Drive-By Truckers ("Carl Perkins Cadillac," "Bulldozers and Dirt," "The Southern Thing,"). I can vividly remember getting cans of "Sparqs" at 10 a.m. break and slamming them in mere seconds to get a morning kick (Godawful), drinking tall boys at lunch in the woods, and occasionally, when everybody else was away, sneaking copious amounts of Jack Daniels into my fountain coke and then spending the rest of the day driving around on a golf cart drunk out of my mind. It was a lot of fun, but there was nothing worse than working out in the fucking scorching Louisiana heat and humidity for 8, 9, 10, even 11 hours at a time. I have probably never sounded more like the Catholic-school middle-class poli-sci major that I am, but God did it seem like July would never end. I don't mind dust in my hair, dirt on my hands, or sore muscles, but I do mind that relentless sun and heavy air.

Summer 08 has been one of mindlessly shuffling papers and running files to lawyers. Nights have consisted of studying politics and drinking bourbon and whiskey. At work I mostly try to ignore the idle chatter of the office receptionists or the cheeseball girls talk about how many cheeseballs they cheated on their cheeseball boyfriend with. Perhaps the most memorable moment at work was attempting to convince the receptionist to go to the dentist and get a tooth pulled so that she could get a Percocet prescription, and then selling that shit to me. Alas, this failed.

Monroe is a perplexing town for me. I have spent nearly my entire life in the New Orleans area, one which is at least as French as it is Anglo-Saxon, and most of the time, way more French than Anglo-Saxon. This is not a minor triviality. Everything is different.

Chiefly involved with a budding poli-sci major from down south such as me is the approach to alcohol. Luckily this does not extend to my grandfather, who was finishing his second Bloody Mary of the day when I got out of bed this morning. On the other hand, I have found that few will laugh at jokes about the "Holy Spirit" and that many kids celebrate drinking by "drinking and driving at breakneck speed out in the sticks." Ooh, cheating death behind the wheel in Calhoun, Louisiana is sooo much fun.

But even the racism is different here. In New Orleans, racism is largely glossed over because people are not that overtly racist and there is so much cultural mix, especially when considering local festivals, the music scene, etc. In Monroe, however, I have encountered the word "ni**er" more times in a few short weeks than I think I ever have around New Orleans. Conversations constantly feature such statements as "Goddamn, that little ni**er can run" or "I don't know what it is, but I just don't like ni**ers." In Monroe, the black and white societies, are clearly, and I mean clearly divided.

The ironic thing is though, the racial problems in New Orleans, are definitely much worse. One only has to look at the example of Hurricane Katrina to see this. Through decades and decades of historical patterns, blacks in New Orleans simply do not have the same chances and opportunities. Thus you see the only decent schools in the city are the private schools filled with upper-middle class white kids and the stands at Hornets and Saints games are filled with suburbanites. Voting patterns in New Orleans are constantly, and by constantly I mean always, split by racial lines. The only compromise is a sort of white-friendly black-person, such as Ray Nagin pre-Hurricane Katrina. The two main political factions seem to be dominated by white business leaders intent on maintaining a business-friendly environment (which largely doesn't exist) and black leaders of the Jeremiah Wright type, neither of which do anything to move toward "the middle." This does not even begin to approach the drug problems in New Orleans that infuse the vibrant drug community. If one dwells on the subject of New Orleans for too long, it tends to get depressing.

However, New Orleans, is still far-and-away the greatest city on the planet. Perhaps in another post I will delve into this phenomenon.

The topic of drugs leads to some other thoughts. Just recently 16-people were busted for various drug-related crimes in Monroe. These ranged from some poor college kid having $100,000 bail for "conspiracy to distribute marijuana" (I am sure it was like 10,000 ponds of it, and he was probably pretty sinister, but I like giving the benefit of the doubt to people busted with weed) to larger-scale crack, cocaine, and crystal meth "operations." Being neither "inner city" or "small town, middle of nowhere," I have no relation or understanding to the crack and crystal method epidemics. My closest encounter with either is some hooker looking for drug money on Beale Street and the song "You and Your Crystal Meth" by Drive-By Truckers. But I can say that I am just as scared on a daily basis of Xanax-addled soccer-moms driving around gigantic SUVs as I am of anything (well maybe not bored kids drunk driving cause they ain't got nothing better to do).

But back to the original focus, summer. It involves so much waiting. Waiting for the new semester, waiting for something to happen, waiting to get out of this hell-hole (its not that bad). It also involves a ridiculous amount of reflecting, because there is often nothing better to do. In a present that is so slow and still, you can't often help but reflect on the past and the future.

As I reflect on this, I realize that seasons don't begin and end according to the moon, or according to the beginning of semesters, or changes in weather, or the dates of holidays. Rather they begin with personal "sea-changes." I won't get much into this, but I realize now that summer began in May, in Baton Rouge, when I listened to "A Ghost To Most" by Drive-By Truckers about 15 times in-a-row at about 4 o'clock in the morning, drunk on Shiner Bock and whiskey.

Real music posts will return when my grandparents get rid of their technologic isolation. But for now, one of my favorite summer jams, a real killer from Heartworn Highways. And some excellent live-Truckers.

Steve Earle- Darlin' Commit Me

I'll be posting stuff off and on from Heartworn Highways for the rest of the summer.

Via Wikipedia:

Heartworn Highways is documentary film by James Szalapski whose vision captured some of the founders of the Outlaw Country movement in Texas and Tennessee in the last weeks of 1975 and the first weeks of 1976. The film was not released theatrically until 1981. The documentary covers the artists who were singing songs they wrote in a style that was more like their grandparents' music two generations back instead of following in the tradition of the previous generation. Some of the main songwriter/performers are Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt, Steve Earle, David Allan Coe, Rodney Crowell, Gamble Rogers, Steve Young, and The Charlie Daniels Band.

Steve Earle- Darlin' Commit Me

Echoes From the Porch Swing

When I was younger, maybe 10 or 11, so about ten years ago, I remember sitting on the beach with my family in Florida. We had a radio out there with us and my father, uncles, and grandfather were all drinking beer and listening to music. I remember my uncle picked out four cd's for that entire week-long vacation: Anodyne, A.M., Trace, and Wide Swing Tremolo.

At the time Uncle Tupelo, Son Volt, and Wilco were names that meant absolutely nothing to me. The music didn't sound too bad, laid-back, a little twangy I guess, certainly different from whatever the New Orleans alternative-rock station was playing in those days.

Over the next few years I can remember several instances when the voices of Farrar and Tweedy would float out from the family radio. Summers visiting the family in Monroe, Louisiana were spent out on the back porch, jumping in-and-out of the swimming pool. We'd take trips together out to Destin, Florida. Inevitably there would be an evening where the family would all be sipping beers or wine out on the porch, looking out at the sea. More than once Son Volt provided the soundtrack for these scenes.

I got older and became "aware" of Wilco while sitting in a buddy of mine's car. The next time I saw him, I asked my uncle if he would burn me all of Wilco's cd's that he had. He only gave me a copy of A.M.

"Ryan, this is really the only one I like. Tweedy got into drugs or something and all his music got weird and way out there. Farrar though, that man can still write a tune," said my uncle to me, the 15-year old budding music snob.

I fell into the trap of shunning A.M. and laughing at the faltering career of Jay Farrar as I collected every Wilco album. "And to think people expected Son Volt to do better than Wilco," I would exclaim.

However, the years have passed and my feelings and opinions have changed. Much of Wilco's music has become rooted so much in time-and-place, Mandeville/Covington, Louisiana 2000-2005, that listening to Tweedy and co. just isn't the same anymore. I'll never be the same kid I was the first time I fell asleep to "Pieholden Suite" or the first time I sang along to "The Late Greats."

Over the last 6 months or so I have Son Volt gradually creep their way into my playlists and music selections. Recently, Trace and Wide Swing Tremolo have been my first choices every time I've gone to my back porch to have a beer and read a book in solitude.

This summer I will be returning to Monroe for work between semesters. I have been told how bad of an idea this is. ("You'll be getting $60 shwag" some say). But I am rather looking forward to sitting poolside with a little Jay Farrar, and maybe a cold Shiner.

Son Volt- Medicine Hat
Son Volt- Strands

Soaps, Powder, and All That Other Shit

The Last Waltz, one of my all-time favorite movies was on tv this morning when I woke up. I really can't think of anything more pleasant when waking up than the pairing of The Band and The Staples Singers on the song, "The Weight." I had the pleasure of seeing Mavis Staples sing "The Weight" on the Sunday of Bonnaroo, and I was blown away by the power of her voice.

Neil Young's performance of the song "Helpless" with Joni Mitchell and The Band reminded me of a Whiskeytown cover of the song that I love. Whiskeytown opened up a 1998 show in Eugene, Oregon with a hilarious cover of "Helpless," but the lyrics of the song were changed so that the whole song was about a laundromat in North Ontario and doing laundry. Ryan Adams fucking around doesn't always yield great results, but Whiskeytown's cover of "Helpess" is excellent.

Neil Young with The Band and Joni Mitchell- Helpless
Whiskeytown- Helpless

Beneath the Bebop Moon, I Wanna Croon

Well I moved back to my hous in Baton Rouge a few days ago, thank God. Just being back causes me to be 100 times lazier, thus explaining the lack of posts lately.

I caught couple of concerts over the weekend, and neither really lived up to my hopes, but that's not to say that they were bad.

Gregg Gillis aka Girl Talk played The Spanish Moon in Baton Rouge last Friday night. I saw Girl Talk at Bonnaroo and had an incredible time, so I was looking forward to this one for a while. Unfortunately I drank entirely too much before the show and was way too fucked up and really don't remember much from the actual concert. I still remember the Bonnaroo performance vividly, and if it wasn't for that, I'd be mad for not remembering much of the show. Oh well.

I went Sunday night to see Neko Case at The Republic in New Orleans. It probably would have been one of the best shows I had ever been to if it wouldn't have been for the fucking insanity of traffic on I-10 going into New Orleans Sunday night. You'd think traffic would be a breeze at 8:30 or 9:00 on a Sunday evening, but no, they were doing road work and all traffic was merged into one lane. We didn't realize what was going on until too late and ended up missing the first hour of Neko's set and only caught the last 45 or so minutes. Despite that, Neko was absolutely wonderful. Her voice is absolutely enchanting. I've seen few performers as fixating on stage as Neko Case. Her backing band, led by Jon Rauhouse, and backing singer Kelli Hogan were hardly outshone. The band's sound was clinically precise, and their sound filled the club better than any band I've seen in a venue that small (with the exception of My Morning Jacket). Despite the disaster of missing the first hour, the Neko Case show was excellent.

I first listened to T. Rex's Electric Warrior back in February. For whatever reason it didn't really catch my ear. I put on "Hot Love" earlier today though, and all of the sudden it clicked. I've now listened to Electric Warrior all the way through three times in a row. Its funny how sometimes music works like that.

T. Rex- Hot Love
T. Rex- Mambo Moon

Got A Box Full of Letters

Yesterday I mentioned Wilco's debut album A.M. It seems like people either love or hate A.M. I know people who think everything after A.M. is druggy crap, and people who barely even acknowledge that A.M. exists as an album. Rarely is A.M. ever judged fairly. Too many people expect to hear either Uncle Tupelo or the Wilco of the Summerteeth/Yankee Hotel Foxtrot days.

A.M. was the first Wilco album I ever heard, and I really liked it. It didn't blow my mind, but it was still really good. It certainly had nothing that compared with the first time I ever heard "A Shot In the Arm" or "Poor Places," but as an album it was still very strong.

A.M. is not an album that is going to blow your mind over and over again, but it really isn't supposed to be. There's a few duds ("It's Just That Simple") but the album rebounds with undeniably catchy country-rock. "Box Full of Letters" and "Pick Up the Change" caught my attention immediately. Both are examples of a precise merging of pop rock and country, something that Jeff Tweedy began to do in the later days of Uncle Tupelo.

Wilco- Pick Up the Change
Wilco- Dash 7

The Summers Here Are Hot

It wasn't until last summer that I really jumped into alt-country/Americana/whatever. I had been a fan of Wilco for a few years, but besides A.M., I had never went back into Jeff Tweedy's past songwriting. At the beginning of last summer though, alt-country really clicked for me. Immediately I ate up as much Uncle Tupelo, Whiskeytown, and Jayhawks as I could.

Last summer I worked in the kitchen of a local restaurant, and for the most part the radio in the back was playing either classic rock or club rap. Now classic rock was cool with me, that's what I had cut my teeth on, but the club shit annoyed the fuck out of me. When the nights were closing down though, or when the afternoon came and business slowed down, I took over the radio.

For me closing time always meant playing "The Long Cut," "Gun," and "Chickamauga" as loud as was tolerable. At the end of the night I wanted something to push me all the way to the end (a 12-14 hour day was not uncommon). The afternoons were sleepy time though.

My co-workers always hated my afternoon stuff. Sometimes it was folky acoustic Dylan, but most of the time it was Whiskeytown. The kitchen manager once complained "I feel like I'm in the high hills of Tennessee" as Faithless Street played in the background. The days were long, and incredibly hot, and became increasingly defined by Whiskeytown songs. When "16 Days" came on I would sing the number of days of work I had left in place of 16, and I always felt Ryan Adams's loneliness in "Black Arrow, Bleeding Heart" and "Desperate Ain't Lonely." For whatever reason though, it was the Ryan Adams-Phil Wandscher collaboration "Factory Girl" that became my defining song for the long afternoons. "O the summers here are hot, and all she seems to do is work and sleep and wish that she was still with you."

Man, that was my summer, and it sucked. Thankfully this summer was a lot easier. Today was my last Monday of work, and Friday is my last day until I move back.

The songs below can be found on the Faithless Street reissue. For more Ryan Adams and Whiskeytown info check out Answering Bell.

Whiskeytown- 16 Days
Whiskeytown- Factory Girl

There's Somethin 'Bout Mondays

Hate Mondays? Hate your job? Yeah me too. As Steve Earle would say, "There's somethin 'bout Mondays that always makes me blue."

Rocking out to Steve Earle's workingman's blues in "A Week of Living Dangerously" doesn't cure the Monday blues, but it does feel pretty damn good.

Everybody needs a week of living dangerously every now and then if you ask me.

Bonus: This footage of a young Steve Earle from Heartworn Highways is incredible.

Steve Earle- Someday
Steve Earle- A Week of Living Dangerously

One For The Bossman

Before my iPod reached its death a little more than a month ago I never worked without my iPod. When you are a student stuck at a shit job cutting grass at a golf course between semesters, you aren't listening to the poppiest stuff all the time. For me the music I listened to at work was split between Drive-By Truckers and Widespread Panic (with a little Steve Earle, Uncle Tupelo, and Tea Leaf Green thrown in there too). When work sucked it was the boys from Alabama. When it was going alright, I was listening to Panic.

I like my boss a whole lot (he's my roomate's dad after all, and jokes that I'm a part of their family), but whenever "Nine Bullets" came up on my iPod, I couldn't help singing along to "One for the bossman ridin' my butt again..." Fuck work indeed.

This past Friday I was changing a tire on a boat trailer (one of my numerous non-grass cutting duties), and instead of actually changing the tire I started spinning it around on the axel to procrastinate. I looked at where the flat was and saw a huge brown spider. Intrigued by its size, I caught it in an empty water bottle. Only 15 minutes later while moving cinderblocks (oh boy!) I looked down on one and saw another interesting looking spider. It wasn't full grown, but I caught the red-and-black spider anyway. Not long later I confirmed via the wikipedia that the brown spider was a Brown Recluse and the other was a Black Widow.

Drive-By Truckers- Nine Bullets
Drive-By Truckers- Box Of Spiders

I've Got a Halloweenhead

I've had a month now to sort out my thoughts on Easy Tiger, the new release from Ryan Adams. Easy Tiger is probably the safest record Adams has ever made, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes you don't want Dead-soaked jams as in Cold Roses or throwbacks to vintage country like in Jacksonville City Nights.

Anybody who listens to Ryan Adams is distinctly aware of how much talent is just oozing from him. The man is beyond prolific. This is why its so disappointing when you stumble on songs that are just plain mediocre. Easy Tiger has a few "bleh" moments, but no real duds, and of course a few gems that remind you how talented Adams is.

On a related note, I put this cd on at home one day, and my Mom happened to be around and asked who it was. When I told her it was Ryan Adams she said, "Oh yeah, I saw they were selling his cd in Starbucks."

Dig the video for "Halloweenhead" and listen to two of my favorites, the folky "Pearls On a String" and Heartbreaker-esque "Two Hearts."

Ryan Adams- Pearls On a String
Ryan Adams- Two Hearts