Wednesday, July 14, 2010
"When I was seventeen I inherited my dad’s record collection. He wasn’t a frivolous spender and therefore not a frivolous collector. He wasn’t the type of person to spend money on a careless whim. My dad deemed many activities commonly thought of as normal and worthwhile to be extraneous to our familial lives (examples: vacations outside of northern Ontario, eating at restaurants, having friends that weren’t my sisters and cousins). Accordingly, his record collection is succinct, consisting only of music and artists that he loved and respected. (A side note on respect: my dad hated almost everything, so for him to express an interest in something meant that it had to be pretty special in his eyes).
My dad played guitar in a bunch of different bands from the time he was a teen until well into his 30’s. He and my mom met in a rock band called Bootleg that toured around Ontario and border towns like Buffalo and Detroit in the 70’s and early 80’s. Unfortunately, my dad’s rock star ambitions never came to fruition. Instead, he had a family and became a music teacher. The advent of middle age and obligatory fatherly duties sealed his fate and confirmed that his talents would go forever unrecognized by the listening masses. If he could do it over again I know he would pick our family over musical success, but I also know that this change in direction turned my dad into a bitter cynic.
His cynicism fueled many blasphemous rock music criticisms. Of the more notable are, “Robbie Robertson couldn’t play a guitar solo if his life depended on it,” or, “The only thing Jimmy Page was good at was copying other people.” Up until I was seventeen I was pretty sure my dad hated all music that other people liked. I don’t remember him ever listening to music. Not when I was around at least. He wrote songs and played his guitar, but never expressed an interest in artists or albums. That being said, I never really got to know my dad outside the relationship of parent and child. Because I was in my teens when he died, I didn’t know much about his personality aside from the stereotypically dad-ish, disciplinarian persona he exuded when he was alive.
Photo: Rory Gunderson
A year or so after my dad’s death, when my mom began cleaning out his solitary haven in the basement, I was given the responsibility of hauling his records up the stairs. My mom didn’t want to give them away because she knew how much they had meant to him. She suggested I hook up my grandma’s record player in my room and keep my dad’s collection up there. I obliged, partly because my seventeen -year -old brain thought vinyl was cool (although I really knew nothing about it at the time), but also because I was curious and wanted to explore this facet of my dad’s life that I knew nothing about.
Through his records I learned something about him that I never knew when he was alive: that he loved psychedelic rock bands from the late 60’s and early 70’s. The first record of his that I ever listened to was Spirit’s album, The Family That Plays Together. Shortly after I became acquainted with Son’s of Champlain’s 1969 release, Loosen Up Naturally.
Thanks to my dad’s collection I also discovered and grew to love blues guitarist Albert King. His album, Born Under A Bad Sign, piqued a previously unexplored interest in blues music. Another personal favourite is jazz and blues pianist, Ray Bryant’s album, Alone with the Blues. This record inspired me to actually practice the piano when I was seventeen, rather than spend my time playing half-assed renditions of Bryan Adam’s songs from the Robin Hood Prince of Thieves Soundtrack. Because most of these artists and albums were unknown to me when I pulled them out and dropped the needle there were some trial and error moments, but that was part of the excitement in discovering so much new music. My greatest discovery to date was when I pulled out Townes Van Zandt’s eponymously titled album where he’s sitting at a kitchen table on the front jacket. Like many of the other albums in my dad’s collection, I had no idea what it would sound like, but it’s now become one of my top five favourite records.
It’s too bad I can’t talk to my dad about how much happiness his records have brought me or how many musical interests we now have in common. Hopefully one day I’ll have a kid or encounter some appreciative person who will take my records so that when I die my collection won’t end up in the 0.99 cent pile in the Value Village home wares department."
Jessica Lanza - Time is Such A Cruel Device (Mp3)
Jessica Lanza - Normal, No Failure (Mp3)
Jessica Lanza - Round and Round (Mp3)
Authorized for download!
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Posted by Jon at 11:24 AM
Post-40 Watt show, it was clear that Polk and I were in hang-out, drinking mode and Matt and Dave were in "sleep would be cool" mode, so the guys went to a local Days Inn and Polk and I stayed at the 40 Watt until they kicked us out. Caught a lift back to Polkie's with Jeremy (bass player from Venice is Sinking) and his wife Anna (with whom I bonded over our common Russian backgrounds). Did I mention I was vodka-drunk? The vodka analogue to whiskey-dick is vodka-smarts. Much is said that sounds intelligent, penetrating, and sensible—only to crumble in light of daylight sobriety (see the Athens entry of the tour diary). Crashed at Polk's on a futon—periodically roused by the 170-car CSX locomotive that barrels through Polk's living room, but slept quite well. Polk and I awoke to hangovers nonetheless. Even feeling like he had a javelin lodged in his head, Jon was witty, mellow, and generous—offering me coffee, juice, a shower, newspaper. What an asshole.
Soundcheck, Atlanta: Matt attempts to turn down the blinding red sheen of our gear
Met up with Dave and Matt, ate a terrific brunch at the famous Grit, bopped around Athens, record shopped, souvenir shopped. Took Hipstamatic pix. Drove to Warmlanta in the afternoon (Polk to catch ride with Venice folks).
Much of the weekend, I had a very confusing text dialogue with DC's own Dave Mann—he of Mittenfields and Twins of a Gazelle, DC indie scene mover and shaker, and all around nice guy. He asked about our touring and why we weren't coming to Atlanta. I told him we were, indeed, coming to Atlanta. He didn't appear to grasp what I was saying; I figured it must be me being obscure. The odd dialogue continued every once in a while and I would comment on it to Dave, Matt, and Jon: "Either Dave Mann is drunk, thick, or dyslexic or my texting skills have really fallen off because we seem to be communicating in different languages."
Michael post-show (Atlanta) all walk-of-the-cock
Get to Warm . . . well, let's call it Hotlanta. Unload, meet up with some old friends at Moe and Joe's in the Virginia Highlands. Our friend Anthony Fernandez just moved to Atlanta from DC last week! It's like we never left home! Go the club, The Drunken Unicorn, which is unmarked, grungy, and dark. I'm getting a good vibe. The bar attached to the club is playing songs from Face To Face, one of the first great Kinks records. I have a Ketel One on the rocks. Happy, right? All of a sudden Dave Mann plops down next to me and goes, "What's up, bud?" He'd been playing me like a Takamine acoustic-electric all weekend. He was visiting a friend (Patrick) in Turner Town, opened up Creative Loafing, saw we were playing and couldn't believe his timing and luck! When he said, "I can't believe I'm seeing one of my favorite bands in the world out of town!" it meant a lot to me. It's like we never left h...
With that DC energy and good liquor, we played the kind of set we've come to expect from ourselves: dark, mean, smooth, swaggery, and with a healthy pinch of sugar to make it all down like pink lemonade. It was a blast. Relaxed, great sound, and a really nice, buzzing audience. Venice is Sinking also seemed to thrive off the vibe (read: chilled-out) and played a lovely set. Both bands were happy with the evening.
Dave and our friend Anthony Fernandez
Marketing note: we play a new song called "You'd Smile Back," which was going to be on Discontinued Perfume before my February mental breakdown stopped progress on that song. Polk's like, "I love that song; I can't believe it didn't make the record!" To show my own marketing savvy, I look right at my man and go, "Jon, two-and-a-half words: post-album single." He smiled and nodded. Our hangovers were gone, it was 138% humidity outside, and we had the world by the shorthairs.
The drive back to DC was pretty smooth, except the part in North Carolina where, as we were pulling back onto 85 N, and Dave's hatch flew open (I'm talking about his car) and spewed a guitar, a bass guitar, and two pillows onto the ramp. Dave rescued the guitars, me the pillows. Everything was fine and we had a good laugh over it once we got our heart rates back down to 115 bpm or so.
This Sunday, we stick at home: Galaxy Hut on Sunday, July 18.
Posted by Jon at 9:12 AM