So Runs the World Away

Hey, through a marvy chain of events, I got an exclusive So Runs the World Away sneak preview! in a hand-addressed package full of posters and stickers from Doug Rice at Tough Love Mgmt, I might add. So here is my review on Stereopathic: So Runs the World Away.

If you’re in town, you are invited to my razzle-dazzle album debut party at Brew-HaHa Coffee in Baton Rouge this weekend. Don’t forget to check NPR for a full album stream TOMORROW!

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Al James the Unfazed

The difference between Portland artist Al James the Unfazed and Al James’ larger group, Dolorean ? “With me, it’s much more direct,” says James – so direct that he tells you how it is and transfers a heart-wrench that puts you back in the moment like Patsy Cline or Hank Williams. Al James is right on top of the ability to make music with the authenticity of the old-timey crooner while avoiding the perilous trawl down memory lane that is the right-now move for alt-folk artists. His music walks down a highway at midnight because his lyrics naturally waft into night air without raiding the drug-store jukebox. Just listen to “Are You Really Real?”, several times. This music is all his own. Unphased, and unfad. I dig.

You can hear Al James live and in person at the Birds on a Wire Folk Festival in Pullman, WA, 26 March.

Here are his answers to a couple o’ questions:

-What inspired you growing up?-
“The main theme in all of these [interests] is that whatever I did I wanted to be really, really good at it. Halfway doing something always frustrated me. I’ve always figured that you should do or make something that has the possibility of being given to someone else, and maybe has the ability to last after you’ve gone.” -Hey, that is one good answer. Hip hip Al James!-

-What motivates you to sing now?-
“Currently, I’m motivated by the desire to better what I’ve done in the past and to simply write and sing the best songs I’m capable of creating. At this point my journey is completely singular and solitary. I have almost no social ties with other musicians or the scenes in Portland or the Northwest. I’ve outlasted lots of my peers, but am completely out of touch with the newer acts in Portland and the NW. I’m unknown to them and visa-versa. It’s a solo trudge from here on out.” -Good. Individual artist. Very sweet.-

-Hmm, what do you generally read or watch?-
“My favorite books are “Solo Faces” by James Salter, “The Human Comedy” by William Saroyan “Rock Springs” by Richard Ford. I like to read Non Fiction, Music and Film Biographies, Crime Novels, Short Stories, Graphic Novels, well written and researched Blogs, and U.S. Weekly. I watch movies like “The Hired Hand”, “McCabe and Mrs. Miller”, “California Split”, and “Sometimes a Great Notion” and lots of TV series on DVD… the ones everyone in the world loves – “Weeds”, “Sopranos”, “Mad Men”,”Sex And The City”, “The Wire”, “Freaks and Geeks”, “30Rock” etc…. oh and lots of Blazer Games when I can.” -EVERYTHING.-

-What is “dolorean?” is it the mountain chain in Italy? a link from an interview took me to an Italian tour-guide website, so I thought – mayhaps – there might – be a connection.-
“No that Italian site is just a cyber-squatter. I forgot to renew the website a couple years back and with the traffic they want a few thousand dollars to buy it back. So the new site is “doloreanmusic.com”… A lot cheaper solution. The word “Dolorean” doesn’t mean anything in particular. Just a word that felt good, sounded nice, and looked balanced when spelled out.” -Now you know. No googling Dolorean.-

-Do you have a dog or a particularly beloved pet?-
“No dogs or pets. Not around enough to be a good pet owner. Growing up I had two dogs although neither were particularly beloved because my mom wouldn’t allow them in the house… Bummer.” -Too bad those were before the days of cyber pets.-

-What is your favorite place in the world? or you could tell me what you really, really love about Portland.- “Portland is certainly not my favorite place in the world. It’s home or feels that way, but it’s not my favorite. If we lived in our favorite places in the world they wouldn’t stay our favorite places. They’d lose their luster. My current favorite place is either on Bainbridge Island in the Puget Sound on the West Side facing the Olympic Mountains…. Or out East in Fossil, Oregon during the summer when the swimming is really good on the John Day River…” -FYI: I have no problem living in really, really cool places and being quite at home. If you have an extra room in Paris, Sydney, London, or any Pacific Islands, feel free to give me a call.-

-Can you explain your relationship to Dolorean?-
“If I understand the question right, I’ll explain the difference between myself and ‘Dolorean’ the band…Dolorean was always meant to represent more than just me. It’s always been loose. It’s always been the name of the group of musicians playing the songs I wrote. It’s been a pretty consistent group over the years with an occasional cast of excellent contributors that help out when needed. It’s wide open when other musicians are involved. Tempos change, arrangements are different, and it’s never the same twice…

“When it’s just me it’s much more direct. The focus isn’t on the arrangement or playing or even the guitar… It’s just about getting the words out to the listener in a meaningful, engaging way. Sometimes I’m on, other times it’s more of a struggle, but that gets us back to the first question… Can I get better and better as I go along… I hope so. That’s the goal…”

-Thank you, thank you, Alex James. You are unfazed, and your music is first rate. Are you really real? I like it, I really like it.-

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Gush.

Covington: it’s home. I haven’t found a chai worth mentioning or a yerba mate to speak of, but it has other things. Gush. Mud. Rain. Creeks that ooze through nondescript neighborhood parks and meander into magical forests. Storms – wind – thunder. They’re all real. It makes me remember what a real rainstorm is, and why you would be afraid of thunder. The trees speak in the wind because there are pines to talk to one another.
These are considerations of things that the northwest is without.

In Baton Rouge on Saturday Kathleen and I walked about her neighborhood, and down by the creek. Plash. Did my heart just leap at a turtle? Yes it did. I haven’t wanted to strip off my shoes and stockins for a muddy creek in a long time – but we went on a turtle hunt. The minnows were elusive brown slips. The algae sparkled, discs of green life layered on living brown water. It bubbles! Jeremy is gleeful and thrilled by bubbles. Me too. This is a real creek.

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See Hippo Swim

While I’m putting up old posts, I might as well add this… it’s kind of cheating because it’s prolly coming out in “Fermentations,” but, oh well – - -

An enormous grin alights Jeremy’s intense two year-old face as we step up the floor of the humid concrete cave to the indoor hippo house. There they are – right there: two four-thousand pound tubs of bristled plum gray blubber, four feet away. Jeremy stops his fidgeting, riveted by the weight, the bristles, the blubber. Jeremy will watch hippos sleep for half an hour straight.
Tonight, the hippos do tricks. They stand up; they clobber to the gateway like over-grown pot-bellied pigs on their short pug legs. Abe Lincoln is reputed as saying that you only have to be tall enough for your feet to reach the ground. For hippos, this is only applicable if it gives your tub belly at least a three inch clearance. These two are fine. They squeeze through the gate, one at a time, and lumber down the plank. See hippo swim.
A pair of arched eyes beckons at the horizon of the great gray greasy water, one glaring at me, the other glaring at her mate. The line of her gray back echoes the arch of her eyes. Her nostrils are flared like a mustang’s. A line of her graces the water’s edge – beneath it, she explores and reigns in a watery world that I don’t fathom despite the shallow depth.
This, my friends, is a water-horse: a mythical creature christened by those bizarre ancient Greek-people who thought in a world of which ours is only an echo.
“Throw apple at hippo!” says Jeremy suddenly, breaking the reverie. Foappo atippo! His two-year old talk is Greekling. “Hahahaha,” he chuckles. This is his latest and favorite joke. He repeats it several times a day in a tiny guttural voice, grinning wickedly. But now he stops, mesmerized again. There are two gigantic gray stallions rippling at the water’s edge, turning a watery turf in the concrete pad.

The moment just makes me think that we ought to consider what we know more as cryptozoology than to a closed coloring book left in preschool when you learned how to distinguish a hippo from a rhino – but please, please don’t relate this fancy to Sir Nikola Tesla or to too much yerba mate chatting in Manitou Springs! I only wish I had gotten the cam earlier to show you what I mean.

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Status Quo

I caved. I finally gave up on my schnazzy digital Polaroid that never ever works, and my parents gave me an early birthday present. A new cam – that works! Calloo callay. I got it before I left Colorado… and so it’s became the new excuse for not blogging. I need to download pix – and then
I need to find a wifi connection to put them up – and now, I’m going to blog sans personal illustrations. Boring. But they’ll come at some later point of organization which pictureless posts should push me to, so cross your fingers.
A picture of cookies which I did not take.

If you know how to rev a Polaroid, please, let me know and in exchange I will bake you cookies.

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Tesla: The Sequel

Here is a quote from the movie to put you in the mood for black capes, twilight, and Hugh Jackman, or at least mega magnetism and electricity:
“Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called “The Pledge”. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course… it probably isn’t. The second act is called “The Turn”. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you’re looking for the secret… but you won’t find it, because of course you’re not really looking. You don’t really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn’t clap yet. Because making something disappear isn’t enough; you have to bring it back. That’s why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call “The Prestige”.” – Michael Caine, The Prestige

When I rang the doorbell to the “vintage” b&b that houses the museum, I felt like I was an accessory to the pledge of a magic trick. It struck me as an eerie piece of dramatic flair. The museum entrance was the turn.
The inn-keeper gave us a tour of the b-and-b. The rooms include prime balcony views of Pike’s Peak, romantic sunsets from the hot-tubs, and authentic steam showers. These produce hot water like other modern appliances, but are powered by steam – just like a calliope, which is also powered by steam. Factoid compliment of the host.
After awkwardly pausing at door-ways and exploring the honey-moon get-a-way rooms, we trooped downstairs to the basement. And what awaited? Downstairs, the lights were off. The room was unheated. The table was covered in books and light-bulbish things, and fronted by a row of chairs. The room definitely upped the ante that the door-bell had slapped down. The museum master was the prestige.
He was a man who looked like a Monty Python Hitler in rumply black jeans, a tightish zippered black polo, and black Nikes with a white logo, just like a badly-dressed high school science teacher with a great grey greasy mop of pepper-and-salt hair. He was so awfully glad to see us he didn’t know where to start, and so excited to continue that he didn’t know where to stop.

By the end of the tangled web of conspiracies I actually was overpowered by a burning desire to know about Tesla. After a while I couldn’t resist. My hand shot up again and again. I was the prize student, the one that everyone really hates. I knew – or at least I should have known – all that St. Tesla wasn’t, because the Tesla Ex had made that very clear. Right now I am pretty sure that he was from Mars. But what was the name of the cat?
That was when the Tesla Ex turned on a movie and left me to it. I’m going to have to read one of those 500 page biographies, I guess. But I was his favorite. He asked ME to lick the light-bulb. It was a fuzzy taste, with a furry zap – like licking the swing-set in a playground. Like really, really dirty iron that has a nice zing.

When we left the Tesla Ex asked us all to return to be a part of Tesla: The Movie: a production to be filmed this summer. But since the movie won’t have a heroine so I can’t be her, and besides all of that sexy Hollywood jazz is a b.s. conspiracy, I’ve instructed my agent to decline.

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Abra Cadabra!


Nikola Tesla (July, 1856 – January, 1943) was a mad Serbian genius. During childhood he was fascinated by lightning, by wind, by the fact that the fur of his cat would spark and light a dark place. He was touched by the devout Roman Catholicism and mystic Spiritualism of his family and the darkly forested land. He went to school with his best friend. There is no girl friend to speak of, although scads of girls angled for him, viied for him, and slit their necks for him, but Tesla was a devotee of celibacy for the sake of science, as well as a devotee of pigeons. He would special-order seeds for his favorites in Central Park.
As an adult, Tesla experimented with the electro-magnetic field, and is acclaimed for the invention of alternative current. His entanglements within the field of scientific inventions led to rivalry with Thomas Edison, and a great friendship with Mark Twain. He invented several things. He might have invented several others. He also might have thought that these were inspired by UFO.
His life was, and is, peppered with conspiracies and riveting, ravishing El-Dorado-almost conspiracy theories. Murder and betrayal nipped his heels like a terrier, and we sat in a row of at the back of the table while the Tesla Ex filled us in on nearly every one of them at the Tesla Museum Tour. “Tesla opened the doors to ‘Men in Black.’”
At length Tesla was chased to Colorado Springs, and inspired a great deal of the magickery in the movie The Prestige, which you should all watch again to catch the allure of the Tesla Museum, which is officially closed, but opened for us upon very special request. Cf. Tesla: Part II. The Sequel.

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Pikes Peak Part II: The Bottom of the Top of the World

The base of Pikes Peak springs up from Manitou Springs, the Mecca of Colorado and well of CO spiritual life since time began. The first mile of this base is called The Incline, and I heard from several different sources that it’s the Stairmaster from Hell. Did I believe them? Nooo! and so a couple of weeks after coasting up the Peak in a motorcar, my Colorado Springs buddy Daniel showed me the local’s way up, The Incline

Of course I didn’t believe them. There was no way it could be as hard as they said. I told people I was going up The Incline for a week before I actually did it, and they were properly impressed. The guy at the gym told me the gruesome story of his divorce with his ex-wife, a tale beginning when she wimped out on a similar trail. Beverly Hills chick, pshaw.
You know what? It was every bit as hard as people said it was. I was prepared for ridiculously steep and tall steps made for people with 6’ legs, and I was even forewarned for the 68% grade. Did you know that the steepest road grade is 8%? Or 12%? Something like that. Just keep it in mind. The average Incline grade evens out at about 41%, and yes, really cracks down at 68%. But I hadn’t quite grasped exactly what a difference an extra 1,000 feet of altitude or so makes until The Incline made me feel it.

It’s hard enough to walk in straight line uninebriated on flat ground. Here, I was pretty much sauced on lack of oxygen, and I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. In fact, let’s be realistic. I was stumbling up like I’d started the day off with one too many and I nearly fell to my death from the edge of the trail and died a sad death of being trampled by the hordes of athletic old ladies and their athletic dogs. I felt ridiculous. It was ridiculous. I looked completely ridiculous. I had to stop every 15’ feet.

The Incline Club’s lack-of-oxygen tee and diagrams make me feel a little better.
As does the fact that the trail down is a cautious slope of switchbacks that covers 4 miles to The Incline’s 1 mile distance. But by the time we got to the switchbacks, I was so dizzy that I could barely walk on solid ground, and the wooden rails on the downward trail that usually seem to be crawling with germs and their offspring were a great idea.
Ah, The Incline, what a great, local, empowering thing-to-have-done. I’m even strongly considering getting the I’ve Done the Incline tee. I loved it: the top gives a panorama of the city that looks like a pen-and-ink from the 60’s.

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Pikes Peak Part I: The Top of the World

Addie and the kids and I drove up Pikes Peak a few weeks ago to see the natural wonders of the surrounding area and to sing Sharon, Lois and Bram on the way up. The natural wonders were very wonderful. The top was rather – excruciatingly – windy.
Lucille & Molly at the Peak
Jeromy spilled his hot chocolate on the lodge floor, two times. The clerk who had to clean it up was a total jerk before the spill, so he deserved to get the mop out twice. Teach him to know everything and to be too cocky to sell a coffee! Lulu and I almost fainted in the girls restroom when she needed a quick try because it was sauna-warm and mineral-smelling and the lights were the kind used to torture Communist POWs. No postcards. How cliché is Pikes Peak – no, really, I didn’t want to get out my license AGAIN for the mop-boy who would have totally made me do it, too.
So we finished our hot chocko in the car after some quick pix in the wind on the view points, and, while the kids basked in the warmth of the Lumina, I had a quick dash around the perimeter by myself. Wow. It really is breath-taking, strolling around the edge of mountain that is on top of America, on top of the curve of the earth. So what that you can see five states. This is the world. This mountain peaks the land, it’s an ultimatum of the good earth, rumbling together from hundreds of miles away into this graceful, aquiline crest of rock.

I lost a glove in the field of Mars rocks before the earth falls away and all of the dashing around looking for it made me really, really dizzy. Amazingly, I found it. Happy ending. We drove down through the Garden of the Gods – a really great group of rocks that looks like a collection of blood-orange baked Play-Dough statues, complete with kissing camels and all, and were back by 12.00 in the afternoon. We went to the top of the world and back by noon.

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Chai in Boulder

I acclimated myself to Boulder with a chalice of frothing chai at the Dunshanbe Tea House, a Tajikistan palace imported into an open park in downtown Boulder. Although Dunshanbe is a full restaurant, it is known far and wide as the best cup of chai, and nowhere in all the land is there to be found a tea with as much warmth or as nippy a snap. I sat at the mahogany bar with my chai; the silver-screen perfect waiters get five stars.
Dunshanbe is a marble courtyard, palmed and candled. In the center is the fountain of the Seven Beauties, seven princesses of a fairy tale inscribed in the scrolls of the poet Nezami Ganjavi in the 12th century. In the Nezami translation that I found, the hero is beset by a quest to find his love and hindered by tasks and a strong Victorian voice.

A hundred arms were weak on block to move
Of thousands, moulded by the hand of Love
Into fantastic shapes and forms of grace
Which crowd each nook of that fantastic place.

Love grants me powers that nature might deny;
And whatsoe’er my doom, the world shall tell,
The lover gave to immortality
Her name he loved – so fatally – so well!

This fountain is a replica of the seven princesses, and the seven princesses set the tone for Dunshanbe. Pourquoi – Dunshanbe, Tijakistan presented the city of Boulder, Colorado with a teahouse to cement the sister city ties in 1990. Let’s hope that Boulder did right by them and built them – I don’t know, a nice frat house?

Incidentally, Dunshanbe is “Monday” in Tajik because the capitol grew up around the Monday market place. Now you know. Go have some chai.

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Collide at the Fox Theater

Howie Day
The Fox Theatre is wooden and open, with levels and standing balconies, and a wooden bar in the back. It’s small and private and smack in downtown. I came in to it to Serena Ryder wailing like that train in the distance, a running smokestack haunting and lonely in the Canadian wilderness, sometimes harmonizing and sometimes screeching off the tracks. Her hair is chunky and untamed. All in all she’s independent and Wild Wild West chunk-streaked with French punk drama singing into the wind.
Serena hits some very well rounded notes, she tosses out some well-rounded lines. Her is heavily punctuated and makes “heh heh heh” precisely onomatopoeic as it nips obnoxiously after her Lucky Strike voice. It would do well in an SNL skit. Despite the laugh, the lights flash purple on her black spanks and her dress mushrooms, reflections of her visit to Paris. She sweeps you into the atmosphere of a New Age bookstore with heavy incense on a flame behind her that creates a mood for the tarot cards at her merch table. Serena is a magnificent choice of tourmate for Howie Day because her fatality and cynicism fits the many pockets of hurt singles that are waiting for him to tell them how it was. But this is all I can really say for Serena Ryder because, although she was happy to talk and I could have had my palm read in the meantime, I opted for Howie Day and left Serena’s time slot free for an infatuated groupie.
It’s not that I object to mainstream pop, it’s that mainstream pop crowd tends to draw a mainstream crowd, most of whom were drunk or at least buzzed by the time Howie Day stole the stage. It was a party of tipsy, nicotine-coated Michaels, Kellies, and Andies from The Office, with Ryan up at the front leading them on in a theme song – every person in that audience was five, ten, fifteen years older than me, and it seemed a given that either Collide or She Says had carried them through every deep water in their lives.
But of course he would be absolutely charming. Howie Day is the boy next door… the one that hooked up with Britney Spears while they were in in rehab. These days, he is taming the tiger and his new album, Sound the Alarm, is a collection of reflections pondering life’s pathways. Day says that represents “the end of one era and the start of another.” Despite the new leaves, he’s still the same sweet, sensitive artist that attracted Britney.
The boyish smile speaks camaraderie: the man is good with a crowd, and Day is a master at packaging mainstream sentiment honestly and humbly. I could practically float on the vibe he evoked in all of those pre-midlife crisis victims. “Everyone loves to love a lie.” The revelation? Popstars and celebs have feelings too, and Howie Day seems to have an aptitude for being the spokesman. It fits with the rebel persona. And in the crowd, listening to him, all I could think was that he is speaking for a lot, a lot of people who may not have particular depth, but who certainly have a lot of what they do have. The tipsy two-stepping women in their mid-40s that I skirted around seemed to agree.

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Manitou Springs

CoSprings is great, but just right around the corner is even better. Manitou Springs is a mountain hippie community, a former commune that’s now a yuppie hang-out. I’m at the Matte Factor, the commune capitol. A mountainous hippie cult, which I’ve been told is some sort of separatist Christian sect, started this wee hideaway and peopled it with spiritual baristas and a spiritual beverage to make the new Eden. An entire coffee shop devoted to yerba matte: what heaven is this!
I’d love to know more about the commune, so maybe that story will come later.
This is a golden afternoon. In the square outside is a circle of djembists and musicians playing soundtrack music. A friendly native offered to show me the town and so I got to see a bit of the park and the old-timey arcade gallery with gorgeously tacky pinball machines and squealing town kids – I could almost hear Musee Mecanique in the background. You should ref to the article below to the full story according to ME, as transcribed after a heart-rending midnight interview.
Back in the Matte Factor, the yerba sanctuary, I’m sitting again at my little wooden table by the window over the stone bridge, where I settled after I had hidden in a booth and been seated with Amanda, a girl who was zenning out while knitting at a table by the door. There is a very helpful doorman who just moved here too, from Mountain Home, Ark, – the same little scrabbleville near Springfield, Missouri that is the home of Motorbikes, right? He actually arranged my things and plugged in the laptop so that people wouldn’t trip on the cord to make up for the resettling.
Barista one was great, but Barista II wins hands-down for friendliness and interesting conversation topics. This is an ideal place for catching good tidbits – not only is it a tiny shop, but there are actually interesting conversations going on everywhere about things that you’d actually want to hear about – UFO, nutritional horrors, conspiracy theories. I could write a novel here. I should write a novel here! Barista II has very blonde hair that frisks up around his ears in that full-of-fun fly-away natural look that kills on Ashley Green, aka vampire Alice Cullen, as you can see, but it’s loaded down with Brill cream like a civil war general’s. Actually, I think he might be Custer’s incarnation sipping yerba matte.
“Look at that llama!” says the intellect behind me. I look out the window at the stone bridge and see a man leading a very large snowy white llama across the bridge. The llama is plodding, and a very large, white llama-like terrier trots after it. Manatou Springs is now my favorite place ever. The houses are climbing the hill and hippie chic shops are lining the street colorfully; it looks like Wallace, Idaho, will when it’s discovered. Hey, maybe I should be the one to develop it and cash in! This place is great.

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Musee Mecanique

Oh the joys of the age of modernity that was. Sean Ogilvie and Micah Rabwin of Musee Mecanique are touring with Laura Gibson, and I talked to them after their Friday night performance. It was about 1 a.m. in the morning, we were all slightly sleepy, I was slightly hypnotized, and their music still has me entranced. This is what you play to make a rabid cobra nuzzle your hand like a kitty. Look out for my article/iview on Stereopathic

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Jubilee

The watery blue indie jazz of Jubilee began in Seattle with Steve Harden’s love for drums and wee-hour talks about life-stuff. “One of our conclusions was that, regardless of what art is, [the artist] gains a voice,” Harden told me, “that’s part and parcel to the whole thing.” Jubilee was started with the self-conscious purpose of sayin’ somethin’ good and fighting slavery.
Steve elaborated that “slavery exists in a lot of different forms whether its people forced to work in a brick factory or a chocolate cocoa farms or a rice mill, whatever, you find it all over the place. You find it in the United States – there’s over 150,000 slaves in the United States. These are people who are told that if you don’t work for us, we will kill you or we will beat you, or we will hurt your families.” Jubilee, officially registered as a 501 ©(3) non-profit organization, gives 50% of all proceedings to helping these victims, and their Myspace

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FFR

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The Helio Sequence

When I wrote Helio Sequence to ask them about themselves in prep for their up-and-coming show, I didn’t expect to be showered with a kaleidoscope of thoughtful responses that ranged from French philosophy and family picnics to babies and War and Peace – kept together, of course, by the awesome thread of the sound of Helio Sequence. Thoughtful and thought-provoking, just like their music, that’s my conclusion. check out the interview here: http://www.stereopathicmusic.com/2009/02/the-helio-sequence/
I can’t wait to hear them!

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Twee with a Twang: Sundance Kids

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Low vs. Diamond

hils, lucas, tad, molly, anthony, brian

hils, lucas, tad, molly, anthony, brian


Coldplay has announced that they will retire gracefully after their next cd. Of course I will miss them. My life would have been entirely different without Parachutes and A Rush of Cold Blood to the Head. But I respect their judgment and the fact that Chris Martin should have family time with Gwyneth and the children. The demise of this titan will leave a tremendous void. Alas.
yah-huh.

yah-huh.


But I think I know the band who is going to step up to try their shoes on for size. Low vs. Diamond may be small for the time being, but they are getting a giant rush of critical acclamation. Rolling Stones picked them up for their golden list of Six Artists to Watch in 2008

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M.R.Az in Spokane

=~)  memorable

=~) memorable


He’s the best of both worlds. He can take you down, and lift you back up again. Based on his body language that I’ve been reading, Jason Mraz is the most eloquent person I’ve ever come across. His style is quite selective, but has he got IT. If you don’t know that IT is, go to a concert and watch the screen rev you up for his performance as the film shows googles of licious polaroids until it is at the countdown when it gives you a glimpse backstage to where HE is rockin karoake running up the stairs and… on … to… the… stage – and, here we are. here we are. we’re still here.
allow me to say I was not prepared for such a performance? the wait was SO worth it.
After the earth-shaking performance, Toca, drummer, world-class chillin’ pro, and best friend of Jason, was so kind as to come back and take a polaroid phot-o with us and tell us about his friend The Gnome, who he carries with him everywhere. The Gnome is awesome because he goes all his favorite places Toca tells us – in fact, “he goes anywhere he wants; he’s got TONS of stories. He go got lost in the Salt Lake City airport once: spent a whole day sitting at this girl’s office who I just happened to call… and she says, is he wearing a pair of green pants, a yellow shirt, and a red jacket? yeah. and she goes, ‘he’s sitting here at my desk.’ No way would I ever have been able to find him.”
Toca met Jason in San Diego. No, no, “Jason met me. He just walked up and said ‘I don’t have a guitar but I’d like to play some songs,’ and my brother said, ‘here, take my guitar,’ and he sang some songs.”
And since then they’ve been everywhere. Carlos Sosa, sax-eteer, said that he really digged Singapore. Australia also was cool. “The show was great. Just a memorable show.” It’s always about the people – and that’s how it is with Jason. “He just makes an effort to be a good person” says Carlos. Jason is a natural – not so usual. :)

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groupies

soundbites from our stint in the life of a groupie…
Cat filled us in on Jason’s early romances. She goes way back with Jason. They are practically from the same hometown. If only he knew…
Cat: “This is Cat. I’m very upset because I’ve known Jason since before he was a Somebody. I’ve known him since he was a Nobody. I loved him. I adored him. I know people who know him and I know people who have dated him. And basically I’m a Virginian, he’s a Virginian, and we should be Virginians together.
“So I totally know the girl who he totally leaned in to kiss, and I think she started it all. Her name is Melanie. She is in Broadway. They were down in Alexandria, down near the river, and he leaned in to kiss her.”
WHY NOT? WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?!?
“She was petite, beautiful, blonde, blue eyes, everything Hitler would want.” Thank you Cat.
“I drove all the way from North Dakota to Montana, flew to Spokane, and I’ve been camping here since 4:00. I KNOW I’ve come longer and loved him more and longer than anybody else here.” -Miss North Dakota, passionately, desperately. She was a sweetheart.
Toca came out and took a few pictures.
“I wish I was you [to Toca] because you get to harmonize with Jason Mraz. That’s my dream.” –adoring fan
“&%# **** hmmmmmm.” – filthy groupie
“Don’t cross the line! no, no, no! I see you!” -bodyguard to line-crossing fan, sternly.
Me to the Bodyguard, professionally curious: “What was your scariest experience ever?” Kindly Bodyguard, thoughtfully: “I got mobbed by a group of… women who were ‘the Other Way.’ [chuckle chuckle] That’s what we used to say at least – I’m old-fashioned. This one punched me and started going after me – I didn’t want to tackle her, but I had to. They were getting dangerous.” (was this at a Janet Jackson concert? I don’t know.)
“I want to …….” – slutty groupie – give us a bad name.
“We can sign your autograph, we’d be happy to!” – random guard-person, giddy.

Ye Kindly Bodyguard

Ye Kindly Bodyguard

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