As the tall grass sways...

... the music of freedom plays...

Sure, I may have moved some readers to raise concern and/or commend yours truly for descending into a kiddie pool of mescaline following my last "post," but alas, no... tried as I did to channel HST, it was only the early PST and the Brothers Chivas that persuaded me to rant a "what if," last weekend... and this was only after I read a useless sun-rising blog about some corn husking band now riding the wave of MySpace popularity to Venice Beach and chance encounters with B-players on "The Hills..."

Ok, there I go again... time for a time-out... this post is really all about a trip, south of the border (but not two) where the landscape looked like Palm Springs and the slopes covered with hill-kites, pomegranates of burnt skin, and the optimism that holds the hands of all music festivals...

Here we go to find the Sasquatch...

Camping gear (of everyone but me) packed, the car loaded, and a departure time short a few hours, the pavement cruise to George (Michael) and Quincy (Jones), Washington was on... we met border guards dope on the power of a clip and joking about their girlfriend with Oil of Olay skin like Bigfoot, families with vacant sons likely fantasizing about Tech-9's in gym class while we devoured Taco Bell, and gas station attendants with 30 years of petroleum nails and pony tails, who didn't drink but had no problem selling six dollar cases of PBR so long as the Lord was praised...


And I said, Praise the Lord... for PBR...

Breaking land speed records with German engineering isn't hard... trying to see the landscape (of both the land and the lay) near your camp is a different story... disembarking with "Woo-hoo's" and cold aluminum in hand, the night sky said, "Hi" and we were ready for the sights, the sounds, the vibes, and the Honey Pots...

Saturday AM: New friends 20 ft away, who lived even closer in Vancouver... Paris and QC represented well, but the poutine was missed (as was ELSS)... ultimate flicks between tent cities and passing Land Rovers, the High Life in hand, while the grill was lit and camping with attitude laid out (who eats grilled chicken breakfast burritos in the middle of a camp ground of a scuzzy teenage wasteland? Yup, we did)...

The HP minus the TP line-ups started early, which we by-passed knowing the Blender was itching to go... driving past fields of burnt-out buses and bored cows, bungalow banks and cappuccino shacks, the liquor store looked like a military recruitment centre that was doing fairly well... Basra would be seeing the benefits of the Surge in no time... Pancho Villa in tow, we blasted back for hitch-hiker pick-ups, margarita madness, and sun burnt cities before the walk to the Gorge...

There was always a casual waft of the porta's on the way to the venue... the chemicals never being strong enough when the sun is out of the Raisin Bran commercial and you're looking to borrow his sunglasses... King cans and silver bullets awaited us on the long walk in, with screening techniques that would make JFK (Int'l) proud... "Um, can you at least put a glove on first?"

No hemp-making contests to be found, though, and limited friends named "Bianca"... somewhat disappointing, in terms of the meet n' greet... but if you were a fanatic of the back, calf, ankle, neck, and/or rib cage rose n' thorns tattoo set, you really couldn't find a better speed dating service... ok, the Scene is now established: how about the music...

The Hold Steady: the strip search killed any chances of seeing them, even after leaving 30 mins ahead of schedule... thanks a lot, Ashcroft... you created a country of plastic glove and lube lovers, even at music fest (I thought I'd get a shoe scan, but they were more interested in my Frisbee)...

Ozomatli: who?

Neko Case: straight from the studio to the stage, the woman is a wonder... a little too mellow for an early afternoon act, though... 2nd stage as sought after...

Viva Voce: A guy and his drums, a cowgirl and her double-neck guitar... taking notes from the Stripes, adding a dash of southern hard soul, and covering Allan Parsons without missing a beat, these two are ready for the main stage in 12 months...

Citizen Cope: barely coping with this snoozefest... and the king cans, evidently, get warm very quickly if you're not pulling double-shotgun duty under 31 degree heat...

Grizzly Bear: Who?

Beastie Boys (Instrumental): remember when you find that mix tape in front of the building you take your piano lessons, and your buddy throws it into his blue and paynful Camry... and suddenly, you're taken to the burroughs of New York and you forget Robin's Doughnuts, and the hockey team, and you hear white guys playing funk and whammy bars and cowbell, and you think: CDs suck... and you will always remember that tape and that ride and thinking the Beasties were wearing horrible suits and Vans while they played this funk shit... and 15 years later, you see them doing the exact same thing live, and you know - damn, you were right back then... CDs suck.. and Beasties will not lose a single ounce of anything they've ever had...

Manu Chao: His Mariachi dropping into sixth gear on the acoustic guitar, Manu let loose a sea of world music that had friends wondering when Marx would be read aloud... I clapped at the demand to close Gitmo, to stop fighting terror with terror... but, still, I wished I understood more of what he sang... three languages after an afternoon of Elway's fave beu-vrage was slowin' me down...

And then... the arcade caught fire...

Arcade Fire: There is not a single band on the planet today that plays with as much emotion, diversity, investment, and imagination than Arcade... 10 members, all of whom playing musical chairs on their own instruments, sweating, swaying, and living the music they make as though it paid for itself... and it did... I was casually reminded today that I once thought Pilate was a more complete and original band... someone back me a loaf of bread and bring the PB... I'll eat it down in one sitting... The Arcade Fire is motivation, pure and simple, for that something so close to perfection...

The night: Cheetos, burgers, PBR, ringing ears, a tent that turned into a Turkish steam bath of heat, the morning of having to leave...

Day 2 was much of the same... swallowing porta fumes while cleaning dishes, handing out free soap and impressing new friends with something as simple as a bottle opener... barren martian landscapes and swims with 12 year old independents fishing and laughing at your lameness... tents packed, the Blender back in retirement, no more scalpers to tackle and threaten... just the sky, the dusty wind, and an afternoon of beats...

Blackalicious: Finally, a heartbeat to kick off the afternoon... 10 min freestyles and a keyboarder with sweeter moves than Sammy Davis, Jr... one of the best bands of the weekend...

Bad Brains: Ancient and respected punk/reggae/rock gods... their lead singer scared me... and he kept smiling...

Patrick Wolf: He looked like a "Patrick" with those suspenders, pale skin, and Pet Shop Boys affection... granted, he also looked like Conan O'Brien... with a British accent... and a flare for Rick Astley feyness... interesting?

And then it was over... the wind still blowing, the line-ups at the border still slowing, and the Cheetos still mowing... bags of seashells and nickels would await my wake-up... until then, a smile... for the sound, and for the tall grass that sways...

If I had a band... and a MySpace page... and a cameo on 'Entourage'...

Did you know sand feels different... er, sorry, differently... ha, nice one, Dad, Mr. Grammar Police... yeah, I got it, yes... anyway, especially after the rain gets it, like, you know, wet? Yeah, so different... er, "ly"...

Yeah, pretty weird... I mean, wow... I thought it was always, you know, dry... kinda, like the desert... in all of Africa... and Alberta...

Shit, we've come so far... I love you Fans... and Mom... and the words I read... and the Teleprompter at MTV... Can you believe how big our MySpace page is rocking out?! I mean, someone is totally going to wear our t-shirt in prison... Drew did it right on SNL... prison prime-time is the next big thing and we are front and centre... blow... is that with an "re" or "er"? Helllllooooooh??? Dictionary??? Um, need some help???

Anyway, since we got to La-ta land, I can't find my sticks and stones... the door to my closet is shut pretty tight and the voice on the other side only yells out at EMPTY, and Coco Puffs, and THE VOID... I wish I could feed it melodies and sour candies, or at least a trip to Vegas... I mean, we're so close to a profile on TRL... just shut up, Soul... please....

So I hope you can all come out to the show in Irvine... the rink will be dried out by then and the CD release will be monster... hey, it's the last "dry ice" show we have until Norway, and the first in Mexico since Disney's screening of "Cool Runnnings" in Latin America... wow, that must have been in '93... now we're expecting more cock fights and bird flu vaccine shots in Mexico than rocks and rinks, so get ready...

Before I forget, who are the celeb contacts for the release? Please tell me CODCO is a go... so what if the band knows about '4 on the Floor'?

Shit, I totally missed a "?" up there, didn't I? Miss Moore will be so pissed...

The Screaming Woke Me Up...

Fuck the clock... I smashed it weeks ago... it was the screaming that woke me up... too few posts, too many red pools... so it was the screaming , of those hit with the sledgehammer of bad luck, well-placed ball bearings, men with crocodile smiles, and monoliths burning football field tar pits of war machines and play money...

The Iraqis, the Sudanese, the Afghans, the Lebanese, the Israelis, the Somalis, the Pakistanis, the Sri Lankans, the Zimbabweans, and the Mexicans...

The Padillas, the Harkats, and the families of those lost souls near the green fields of Ireland...

And even "Yesterday"... yesterday screams, too, because tomorrow isn't looking that much better...

But why aren't we screaming back? Too busy shaking our heads at "real" criminals, like Paris, and Ben Mulroney? Are we too weak to lift up our hands and say, "What the fuck is this bullshit? I'm being led into what? I'm being led by whom? Sorry, buddy, but that's too far down and I can't swim that well..."

The remote is pretty heavy... the volume can go past 40... eventually, it's hard to distinguish the Screams from those on "24"...

You go, Jack... make us safe...

Yesterday screams, too...

Does everyone in the Bush Administration...

... free base?

Now, some may argue that I'm devaluing the rantola by suggesting that members of the Bush team take time out of their busy days (when not lying to Congress, threatening World War III, or engaging in book clubs with "thinkers" crazier than rabid badgers stuck in a cage watching "The View") to spoon up and ride the crack rocket, but let's take a close look at just how the world continues to burn, even with a Democrat-controlled Congress:

• Valery Plame Wilson - covert CIA operative working on counter-proliferation in the Middle East (likely Saudia Arabia and Iran), her cover blown by Dick Cheney's minions concerned at the size of their small penises and the fact that their back-room impersonations of Darth Vader would suddenly be brought to light by her husband's findings that Iraq NEVER sought yellow cake from Niger.

• The prosecutor firings, involving not just the "let-go 8," but also scores of others who were considered for dismissal by AG Alberto Gonzales and his wannabe law, er, theocratic university grads so that ultra (and I won't even defame the term "conservative") CRAZY and/or PARTISAN hacks could fill-in the gaps and turn Dubya's Justice Department into Taliban-lite

• The latest news that Gonzo and former White House Chief of Staff tried to get a quasi-comatose former AG, John Ashcroft, looped up on meds pre-pancreatitis surgery, to sign-off, from his hospital bed, on the illegal wire-tapping program targeting Americans suspected of having affiliations with terrorist suspects overseas. While I am no fan of Ashcroft, he berated the two White House lackeys before bailing into sleep land... and the White House still signed off on the program, without Justice Department approval as to its legality.

• Um, yeah... Gitmo is still open... remember what happens there?

• Riiiiight, so too is Bagram Air Base... but that place is pretty much an Afghani Chucky Cheese...

• And finally, the President of the United States of America is such a complete (criminal) moron that not only does he continuously bail off of sofas and bicycles, the guy can't even work a Segway... and is it just me, or does the pic make it look like he crashed into a 9-year-old girl's trike? Hey, Free World, we're all in good hands...

Only Go(oogle)d knows...

Here's a trippy, 000 hrs thought:


What if, one day, Google didn't just answer all of our inane questions... but actually asked us something in reply? What if there really was Something on the other side of the screen?

Guest Post: That Neon Glow...

Guest Post: More Brilliant than Neon

Alyson Saunders - Contributor

Think back to the last time you experienced perfection; an ice cold Heineken, a cloudless hot summer day, a fresh fall of snow on the eve of the first ski day of the season, a hidden $20 bill discovered in the bottom of a coat pocket. It’s obvious that perfection isn’t something that frequents most people’s lives, but when it visits, its unexpected appearance is even more pleasurable. Such is the case with the new album by Arcade Fire, "Neon Bible." Yes, there was an incredible amount of hype before this album was even released. But it goes well beyond the hype, introducing listeners to an entirely new and much needed sound, all the while throwing the disgraceful top 40 bands to the curb. Not only is the album perfect in itself, but the true perfection comes from the way this album emphasizes the lack of talent and creativity that exists in ninety percent of the bands today.

The title track of the album, “Black Mirror” tricks the listener into thinking that this song has set the overall tone of the album. While the track is one of the more darker songs on the album, all of the 11 songs flow smoothly from one to the other, blending a mix of upbeat rock with dark, melancholy notes. “Intervention” is a moving track, filled with deep organ chords, awakening the listener to a somewhat religious, euphoric melody where one is almost motivated (but not quite committed) to attend the upcoming Sunday service. Besides the unique harmonies that the band is so expertly capable of creating for each one of the songs on the album, the eloquent lyrics are really what wake up the listener, allowing you to embark on a profound journey, making you question your own thoughts each step of the way. Maybe Bush should consider quoting some of the band’s proverbs in his next speech and then at least we could be guaranteed a somewhat more intellectual dialogue.

Although the songs describe a variety of mixed tones, it’s clear that Win Butler is using this album as a forum for his discontent with worldly issues, particularly with the American government. In “Windowsill,” he blatantly expresses his opinion of the USA with his lyric, “... and I don’t want to live in America no more...” He goes even further with his comment when speaking of the state of music and its promotion with the lines, “MTV what have you done to me? Save my soul, set me free. Set me free, what have you done to me...” emphasizing the celebrity-obsessed and self-destructive culture in which we live.

Personally, I haven’t come across an album as solid and creative as this one in a very long time and it should be an essential component in any true music devotee’s collection. The band’s line from “Interventions” perfectly describes the instability that exists among us all - “Singing Halleluiah with the fear in your heart.” Not only does this album press the listener to face the exceptionally strong anxiety that exists in today’s society, but it pushes you further, forcing you to actually feel and experience it. More bands need to understand the essence behind Arcade Fire - their belief that music is meant to hurt, uplift, inspire ,and intrigue. And with “Neon Bible,” this exceptional Canadian band does it perfectly.

The Full Nelson...

... on "Half Nelson"...

I watched the first 80 minutes of this "critically acclaimed" movie and couldn't help but wonder when awkward interactions between characters and 80's drug collapse cliches suddenly fell into the "critically acclaimed" category of film, well, critique.

The "Brando-esque" comparisions were a little much for Gosling's portrayal of Dan, the high school teacher-junkie... he likes crack... he likes cocaine... as the lead drug dealer in the film notes, he's a true "basehead"... and while the whole "scene" looks pretty "cool" when he's snorting blow and macking on two co-eds at once in the back of some dance club, I was expecting an NBC, "The More You Know," public service announcement with Phylicia Rashad to creep up like a dirty sanchez and really bring me back to reality... "Whoa, crack smoking is bad? Whew, good thing you caught me when you did Phylicia... Wow, do I feel better now."

But like my word of the day, "Half Nelson" really is half of the the full - it's a "slow burn"... and by the time you hit the 81st minute straight through to its, again, awkward yet touching conclusion, you know you've watched a kaleidoscope of Americana that shines the magnifying glass on the burning ant called the Void.


That's right - the Void. Summed up in the void of race relations (no way Katrina could happen... oh wait, it did, and centuries of inequality blasted to the front pages yet again); the void of the presidency (while I thought that side of the film was hugely "try-hard" when the first rant against Dubya was thrown out by Dan as he did blow and slow-danced with some tricked-out soccer mom, maybe that's the irony - really, this void was generational, between his family's Vietnam ties and his emptiness to anything current involving Iraq); the void of the family (Dan's telling night out at dinner with his family, all of them sloshed on wine and rum, while he rolls his eyes and grinds his teeth to the James Taylor records in the background, only to leave and dive head first into a crack house night of shit-stained sheets and cheap lingerie... a scene that also tied into his student, Dre, and her lack of a true set of support mechanisms - the facade and cliche of her family that is comprised of a nice-guy dime bagger and a mom working triple shifts); and the void of what is Now, the Present (Dan, so preoccupied with his history class, revolutionaries, and how fucked we all in this Century of 21st's... and yet, he can't pull himself away from the crack long enough to make sure his cat hasn't pulled a self-taxidermy move on his bedroom floor).

"Half Nelson" may be an incomplete film, but its message is loud and clear. The Void is Here. Now what do we do to fill it?