Another Blast of New Music

As the week after Shark Week draws to a close

When the Beatles went to India to study meditation with the Maharishi, it was worldwide news. Maybe enlightenment required more than pop hits.

I'm sure that John Lennon and/or Paul McCartney wouldn't have been able to escape all the press and journey to neighboring Pakistan. I'm equally sure they didn't write a long-lost Beatle hit on a borrowed sitar there.

And I'm positive that the sweat from their hands did not fall on the sitar that day only to drip on the forehead of a young boy years later.

I'm sure none of that happened.

And yet...

There is no other way to explain the music of Tee-M, a Pakistani-born musician now living in Los Angeles. Tee-M's first album, the very tasty Earthiotic... songsfromaoneroompalace has the DNA of '65-'66 Beatles dripping from every track. Here's a taste:


Sure, Tee-M claims he spent his youth listening to rock radio on the short-wave (and to Pakistani street musicians. I like my story better -- even if there's not a chance in the world it's true. Go here to listen to the best song on the album, "And I Was Gone."

If you're a fan of pop music, you're going to want to get this album.



Speaking of Pakistan, floods there have affected more than 20 million people and killed more than 1,500. If you want to help, consider giving to the Red Cross's Pakistani relief effort (or to some other reputable charitable organization).

Stuffed Animal Plots Revealed

It's the Dark Underbelly of Toy Story

With a little more new music for the week after shark week...

Kids (and some adults) are fascinated by stuffed animals. We give them personalities, hold conversations with them, perform musicals for them, lecture them about etiquette (and 18th century German literature), and love them until their stuffing falls out (and then a little longer).

But what are these stuffed animals really thinking? Are they trying to get on Craig Ferguson's show? Telling all your secrets to Mommy and Daddy? Or doing something even more nefarious?

With budget cuts in social services, there's just no money to fund a proper investigation. At least not in this country.

Thank God there are still countries that care about kids. And stuffed animals.

Countries like the United Kingdom, home to investigative journalists and musicians I Am Not Lefthanded... who clearly are not afraid to follow the clues and learn the truth.


So what's going on with the band? In their own words: “We don't play pop music, we don't write music for art's sake, we don't represent any movements, we're not hip, we're not cutting edge, we don't dress to be cool. We manage ourselves, we write our own songs, we do our own recordings, we shoot our own videos, we design our own covers, we run our own website. We're not generally negative people. Oh yes, and we're not lefthanded.”

You gotta admire a band that can stay positive even in the light of boorishly bad behavior on the part of a stuffed animal I will not name (but that they knew and loved).



If you like what you hear, you can contribute to helping the band record their first full-length album and get cool incentives (for 250 pounds, they'll come to your house and bake you 3 different types of cake!). For more info, click here.

Bonus Friday Cake-Fighting Words

New Music Overflows for the Week After Shark Week

What? Two posts on a Friday? How can that be?

Brandon Schott, a fantastic musician, songwriter, and performer, recently took to the rooftops of Facebook to proclaim the cake-frosting-goodness of the pride of Omaha, The Mynabirds.

To completely steal Brandon's line, they're "Dusty in Memphis meets Shelby Lynne meets Carol King." This is from their cool album What We Lost in the Fire, We Gained in the Flood. Enjoy.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Kittens to the Right

Following the Breadcrumbs of Hipsters

If you've been into this band for the past 18 months, you are much hipper than me (and you've probably moved on to 6 other bands you like better, none of which I'll ever hear of).

But for the rest of us, it's August. And the back-to-school sales make us cringe even when we no longer have a summer vacation (or a school to return to in September).

So, as the world continues to lose its collective mind and the bozos keep trying to throw us all under the bus, it's important to sometimes remember that the world can still be a pretty great place. Maybe all we need is important is the warmth of the sun. And a devoted friend (who doesn't seem like a clown to you). And a good song.

Hey Ludwig

It's Enough to Drive You to Drinking

New Music Week After Shark Week rolls on...

Regular readers probably know that I don't like a lot of traditional country music (alt-country is another story). But there are exceptions to every rule... and this is one of them.

Lainie Marsh went to Berklee College of Music, but her sound is pure Appalachian Mountain Country. Her The Hills Will Cradle Thee is a wonderfully old-fashioned country album with layered, poetic songs about the simpler things in life.

Most of the songs are amazing, but "Hey Ludwig" stands out. And, like most songs I love, it's got a story associated with it (but this time not one of my stories). Marsh said she was in a bar and overheard a bartender cutting off a drunken customer by saying "Okay Beethoven, that's your fifth."

Now I admit I don't spend enough time in bars to know if that's a common expression. But wouldn't it be cool to live in a world where people say things like that on a regular basis?

I couldn't find an embeddable link to the song, but you can go here and listen to (and buy) the entire song... which is highly recommended.

Eggs, Pancakes, Bacon, Sausage, Hash Browns and Coffee

Still More New Music

There was this place. It's gone now, so don't bother looking for it. All you'll find is chic clothing boutiques. But once, long ago... it was something.

In Cambridge, across the street from Somerville and a few blocks down from Arlington, there used to be a place called "Vic's, the Breakfast King." Like many breakfast joints, Vic's had specials. And regulars. And ill-tempered cooks who chain-smoked.

But unlike most breakfast places, Vic's was only open from 2am until 8am. They knew their target audience: kids who'd been to clubs and weren't ready to go home. Drifters who had nowhere else to go. The occasional trucker fresh off a haul from points west.

When it opened, there weren't many places to eat in the middle of the night in Boston. Naturally, the hipster crowd flocked there. And the larger wannabe hipster crowd. And then the so-unhip-they-may-actually-be-hip crowd, led by Tip O'Neal, longtime Congressman and Speaker of the House. Whenever he was in town, Tip would show up 15 minutes before closing and buy everyone coffee. (I never saw this happen, but it was in the Boston Phoenix, so it had to be true.)

For months, I wandered by during the day. I peered in the windows at the old banquettes and the wallpaper left over from the Eisenhower administration. And I dreamed of the fascinating conversations that must take place there every night. Surely Vic's was some kind of magical place.

If I could only hang around until 2am (or get up really early), I could experience the magic.

It took months, but I finally made it in. So at 2:30 one morning, a friend and I straggled up the street, drawn by the yellow neon sign with the giant cracked egg on it.

From the street, you couldn't tell anything was happening. But when we walked in, the place was packed. We got the only open booth and tried to drink in the atmosphere. But no one wanted to talk to us. Maybe the magic started later.

So we ordered. Some cholesterol-laden stack of greasy food and syrup. Not gourmet, but great bang for your buck.

And the jukebox was playing something vaguely familiar, but hauntingly hard to identify. Looking around, I realized it could be any time in the past 40 years. The crowds would look the same, the food would be the same, and the decor at Vic's would be the same.

I half expected to step out into the street and find it was 1958. But it wasn't.

And I went home and slept a heavy, carb-laden sleep.




Freddy and Francine, a duo consisting of two people not named Freddy or Francine, makes the type of sweet music that seems to have come unstuck at some point in the past and gently floated down the years until you noticed it.

Bianca Caruso and Lee Ferris began writing and performing together a few years ago, but you could close your eyes and swear these songs date from 1968. Or 1973. Or 1989.

Maybe it was their song playing at Vic's that late night years ago.

But I'll never know. Because a few months after my only visit, Vic's closed for good. The neon sign with the cracked egg came down. Some Yuppie in Lexington bought it and put it in his basement above the original bar the Yuppie had bought when his favorite punk club closed in 1982.

Last year, I was visiting Boston. And I found myself walking down the block, trying to figure out exactly which boutique clothing store had once been Vic's. But I'd waited too long. The memory had faded and the magic was long gone.

I was about to give up when I looked down on the sidewalk and saw a single tile among the concrete. It had a cracked egg on it. I looked around for someone, anyone to tell, but no one was interested.

Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I should wait on that spot. Surely Vic's would reappear at 2am and I could walk through the door, wade into the crowd, and hear that song again on the jukebox.

But...

I had a plane to catch. I had things to do and places to go.

And sometimes maybe it's better to let magical places live on in memory instead of trying to force them into a world where they no longer fit in.

Finest Worksong

Proof that I like Music that's less than 20 Years Old

New Music for the Week After Shark Week continues:

Some bands are just bands. They make music. They tour. They make what used to be called "records" (which used to exist) and now make something else (which exists mostly in cyberspace and on hard drives).

Other bands function more as movements, rallying their troops.

I know little that's true about Evangenitals (aside from the fact that their name is simultaneously the best and worst band name ever). Sure, there's stuff on their website about vegans, preachers, drunks, hillbillies, Johnny Cash, and the fine madness of late-night bowling. But is any of it true? Maybe.

Still, they can spin a fine yarn, and that counts for a lot these days.

In my mind, Evangenitals (apparently the "the" was removed when they were ten days old in some kind of musical circumcision) gather at sunset on the holiest of holy days, climb to the highest point in whatever city they find themselves in, and shout to all who'll listen of the agony and ecstasy of modern life. The result is sacred, profane, funny, insightful, serious, and shallow. All at once.

And if I had the power to do so*, I'd pass a law that every indie film made in North America about twentysomethings (and half the indie films made in Europe about twentysomethings and thirtysomethings) would have to include this song:




Locals in L.A. can catch Evangenitals next Saturday at Kulak's Woodshed, an amazing place to hang and hear live music. Non-locals will have to settle for watching the live webcast, which is still pretty cool.

* And let's all take a moment and think how much better the world would be if I did have that power.