Saturday, July 28, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
MORE MATT and ME
Harmonizing!
==================================================
Someday this period of my life will make sense.
Til then, I will gladly settle for music.
I have a feeling, though, that what's best in us emerges in our creations. Which is why people look to their children with such hope; they want to pass on what's best of themselves (honesty, honor, maybe hair color).
My music is often the "best Bill" I can put forth... in person, I'm the story of imperfection. My music can exceed my person.
Like many authors who have written odes that make the spirit soar, and in person they seem petty, ordinary or imperfect... poets of gorgeous delicacy who, in normal life, are misogynistic drunk bastards. Not to say I'm a misogynistic drunk bastard, or a poet even, just making an example.
Making "art" = reaching for the highest point of perfection I can achieve and taking a snapshot there to share with the world. Like leaving breadcrumbs (or raisins, or aspirins) for other travelers through life ---> "This way, dudes." Trying to sum up all I know of this world, everything I've learned.
Someday maybe my life will merge with my "art." My life itself will be the creation. Maybe it already is. Somerset Maugham kind of addressed that in "Of Human Bondage," talking of life itself as the final great masterwork, a bright weave of imperfection, beauty, life experience.
Makes me wonder if I should move to a far-off land and help starving children.
Time for another cup of coffee, maybe.
Monday, July 16, 2007
BIG ORANGE SAGA, PART 1
Big Orange is a studio space I started with the dudes in Sound Team. It was a dream many years in the making. This is the first part of the story.
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Listen to this while reading:
BIG ORANGE (MP3)
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Early Dreams
I worked on a Tascam 4track for most of my high school life, copying songs by Roy Orbison, the Beatles, the Butthole Surfers, Stealer's Wheel, etc, as well as writing a number of my own. Songs included: "Cross Dressing Cheerleader," "Testes," "Prometheus' Lament," "Shake that Ass," and others.
While others played sports, met girls, got drunk, lived "normal" lives being led around by their hormones, I slaved away on my 4track, learning through trial and error and composing many many silly, badly recorded songs.
This continued into college. I released a number of tapes to friends, slaving over 4track operas nobody would ever hear. Not even my friends to whom I had given the tapes. It felt martyr-ish, in a way, but I didn't want to be an "art martyr" -- I wanted to be heard, to be understood, to be enjoyed. And key to that vision, for me was a real studio, a place to experiment and refine the experiments and create masterworks. To ditch the silliness, just a little bit.
Sound Team rented a room at Musiclab for about two years, I think. The place smelled terrible, probably still does. I remember taking my dog in there one time and he took a shit in the middle of the hallway and I just left it there, just to see how long it would stay. I think it was there over 24 hours. What I'm saying: Musiclab = not the place to make your grand artistic statement.
Home wasn't an much an option anymore; I had tired of living-room recording. Sessions would start enthusiastically but after a short time, my roommate Maverick and I would be slumped in the couch, listening to Nick Drake and wondering what had become of our lives.
I needed a place where ideas could germinate. A real studio.
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END OF PART ONE
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Listen to this while reading:
BIG ORANGE (MP3)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Early Dreams
I worked on a Tascam 4track for most of my high school life, copying songs by Roy Orbison, the Beatles, the Butthole Surfers, Stealer's Wheel, etc, as well as writing a number of my own. Songs included: "Cross Dressing Cheerleader," "Testes," "Prometheus' Lament," "Shake that Ass," and others.
While others played sports, met girls, got drunk, lived "normal" lives being led around by their hormones, I slaved away on my 4track, learning through trial and error and composing many many silly, badly recorded songs.
This continued into college. I released a number of tapes to friends, slaving over 4track operas nobody would ever hear. Not even my friends to whom I had given the tapes. It felt martyr-ish, in a way, but I didn't want to be an "art martyr" -- I wanted to be heard, to be understood, to be enjoyed. And key to that vision, for me was a real studio, a place to experiment and refine the experiments and create masterworks. To ditch the silliness, just a little bit.
Sound Team rented a room at Musiclab for about two years, I think. The place smelled terrible, probably still does. I remember taking my dog in there one time and he took a shit in the middle of the hallway and I just left it there, just to see how long it would stay. I think it was there over 24 hours. What I'm saying: Musiclab = not the place to make your grand artistic statement.
Home wasn't an much an option anymore; I had tired of living-room recording. Sessions would start enthusiastically but after a short time, my roommate Maverick and I would be slumped in the couch, listening to Nick Drake and wondering what had become of our lives.
I needed a place where ideas could germinate. A real studio.
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END OF PART ONE
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Sunday, July 15, 2007
FUCKED-UP CONVERSATION AT WORK
"Andy loves women," Rene said. She paused for a moment. "He realllly loves, them you know? Hey, speak of the devil."
Andy walks in the room.
"Rene says you love women, Andy," I said.
Andy straightened the wrinkles in his shirt.
"I have the utmost respect for women. I mean, there's this story of this bull, he gets real excited and tells his friend, 'Hey, let
s go run and fuck a cow. And I said, let's go walk and fuck them all. I love females of every kind."
I had to think about that for a second, and it still didn't make much sense. Andy continued with his monologue.
"First time I got married, the bitch took everything. I mean, everything. Left me without a bank account, sleeping on a friend's floor. But the bitch fucked up the divorce settlement. She wanted 10% of the business but she got 10% of the gross adjusted income. So I pay her $3000 a year instead of $25000. Not bad, eh?"
Andy leaned over the counter. He was wearing 3 large gold chain bracelets and a several gold medallions around his neck.
"My second marriage lasted for 5 months. She really helped me through a hard time, with the divorce and stuff."
Andy squinted and looked in the distance.
"But this time, I got wise. Wrote a prenup. Her lawyer said 'Don't sign that, you ain't gonna get shit.' I had to re-write that prenup 3 fucking times. She finally signed. So when it all broke up 5 months later, she didn't get shit. She walked out of that coutroom bawling but I said, 'I don't give a shit.' "
"So did she get anything from the marriage?" Rene asked.
"Well, she got a $15,000 rock, a real nice ring, you know. Plus while we was married we went out to eat every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We went to lots of great restaurants, you know?"
Andy stood up straight, tapped the flab under his chin 3 times, ran his hands over his slicked back hair.
" Now I run around with about 15 women at a time. Variety is the spice of life, right?"
He looked at me. I shrugged and nodded simultaneously.
"It's like the old days, with harems and shit. I mean, I don't give a shit about bitches anymore."
Rene shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"I love me some females," Andy said slowly and softly, shaking his head side to side.
Andy walks in the room.
"Rene says you love women, Andy," I said.
Andy straightened the wrinkles in his shirt.
"I have the utmost respect for women. I mean, there's this story of this bull, he gets real excited and tells his friend, 'Hey, let
s go run and fuck a cow. And I said, let's go walk and fuck them all. I love females of every kind."
I had to think about that for a second, and it still didn't make much sense. Andy continued with his monologue.
"First time I got married, the bitch took everything. I mean, everything. Left me without a bank account, sleeping on a friend's floor. But the bitch fucked up the divorce settlement. She wanted 10% of the business but she got 10% of the gross adjusted income. So I pay her $3000 a year instead of $25000. Not bad, eh?"
Andy leaned over the counter. He was wearing 3 large gold chain bracelets and a several gold medallions around his neck.
"My second marriage lasted for 5 months. She really helped me through a hard time, with the divorce and stuff."
Andy squinted and looked in the distance.
"But this time, I got wise. Wrote a prenup. Her lawyer said 'Don't sign that, you ain't gonna get shit.' I had to re-write that prenup 3 fucking times. She finally signed. So when it all broke up 5 months later, she didn't get shit. She walked out of that coutroom bawling but I said, 'I don't give a shit.' "
"So did she get anything from the marriage?" Rene asked.
"Well, she got a $15,000 rock, a real nice ring, you know. Plus while we was married we went out to eat every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We went to lots of great restaurants, you know?"
Andy stood up straight, tapped the flab under his chin 3 times, ran his hands over his slicked back hair.
" Now I run around with about 15 women at a time. Variety is the spice of life, right?"
He looked at me. I shrugged and nodded simultaneously.
"It's like the old days, with harems and shit. I mean, I don't give a shit about bitches anymore."
Rene shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"I love me some females," Andy said slowly and softly, shaking his head side to side.
Friday, July 13, 2007
TEXAS MUSIC MATTERS // MOHAWK TONIGHT // TOUR DIARY
David Brown will be spinning my song "Sandy Says, 'Zombies'" on his program Texas Music Matters. Tune in on 90.5 KUT if you're in Austin, or on KUT's website if you're elsewhere.
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I am playing a show tonight at The Mohawk. I promise to give my best possible performance.
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Here is a journal entry from my last tour through the UK:
i woke up after edinburg with the bus parked in some bizarre parking lot out in the english countryside. green fields, horses bucking about, and elizabeth, our video pal, feeding them some carrots. I stepped off the bus and soaked the sunshine. fed the horses. the dominant horse, a big black stallion, had dreads in his hair. when i stoppped feeding him, he nibbled on my shirt. Given the smell of my shirt, he must of been quite desperate. Or perhaps these horsies like pungent odors.
Speaking of odors, I decided to bathe. Our bus had parked in front of a rather large warehouse, which emitted screeching and banging sounds every second or so. A car repair warehouse.
I marched to the restroom and found a small shower: soapdish fileld with brown grime, assorted glittery "bath gels" discarded on the floor, a large plastic bag of clean ( ? ) towels... I hopped in and scrubbed. Hadn't showered in days and felt quite recharged, not only by the shower, but by the bizarre refugee-like conditions.
Pulled into Leeds several hours later. The Cockpit, the club was called. A stank quonset hut right underneath a railroad overpass. Sticky floors, sticky couches with all sorts of disconcerting cartoons drawn on them. I did a short interview with a British music writer lady, fed her several beers and spoke ecstacially about British dairy products. Played the show, fairly well killed it, I think.
Spent the evening downing more beers. Beer, mmmm.
Woke today in a fairly bleak parking lot, somewhere near the city center of Nottingham.
Spent hours wandering about several of the city's malls. Not surpirsingly, they're much the same as American malls, only with "Jacket Potato" stands thrown here and there. Still haven't tried a jacket potato.
I bought several beautiful tambourines in the mall that I will smash shortly. I've been rather enjoying the whole "desctruction" aspect of my percussion playing. Certainly cheaper than Pete Townshend's habit.
The Nottingham venue was called "Rescue Rooms" and seemed a half finished club. The whole upstairs area was under construction; we sat up there with construction workers disdainful of our laptops.
Next day we had off: headed over to some ridiculous castle. The most ridiculous castle I've ever had the misfortune to visit. I asked for, and received, a refund from the ticket agent. Then went on one of my patented "walk-abouts" --- headed about 4 hours walking time in a southern direction, filming the graveyards. Amazing thing to me: the graveyards seem the best places for peace and quiet in the dense, congested British towns. I visited several graveyards, hopped a mossy stone wall, walked along a vagrant campsite area.
---------------------------------------------------------
I am playing a show tonight at The Mohawk. I promise to give my best possible performance.
---------------------------------------------------------
Here is a journal entry from my last tour through the UK:
i woke up after edinburg with the bus parked in some bizarre parking lot out in the english countryside. green fields, horses bucking about, and elizabeth, our video pal, feeding them some carrots. I stepped off the bus and soaked the sunshine. fed the horses. the dominant horse, a big black stallion, had dreads in his hair. when i stoppped feeding him, he nibbled on my shirt. Given the smell of my shirt, he must of been quite desperate. Or perhaps these horsies like pungent odors.
Speaking of odors, I decided to bathe. Our bus had parked in front of a rather large warehouse, which emitted screeching and banging sounds every second or so. A car repair warehouse.
I marched to the restroom and found a small shower: soapdish fileld with brown grime, assorted glittery "bath gels" discarded on the floor, a large plastic bag of clean ( ? ) towels... I hopped in and scrubbed. Hadn't showered in days and felt quite recharged, not only by the shower, but by the bizarre refugee-like conditions.
Pulled into Leeds several hours later. The Cockpit, the club was called. A stank quonset hut right underneath a railroad overpass. Sticky floors, sticky couches with all sorts of disconcerting cartoons drawn on them. I did a short interview with a British music writer lady, fed her several beers and spoke ecstacially about British dairy products. Played the show, fairly well killed it, I think.
Spent the evening downing more beers. Beer, mmmm.
Woke today in a fairly bleak parking lot, somewhere near the city center of Nottingham.
Spent hours wandering about several of the city's malls. Not surpirsingly, they're much the same as American malls, only with "Jacket Potato" stands thrown here and there. Still haven't tried a jacket potato.
I bought several beautiful tambourines in the mall that I will smash shortly. I've been rather enjoying the whole "desctruction" aspect of my percussion playing. Certainly cheaper than Pete Townshend's habit.
The Nottingham venue was called "Rescue Rooms" and seemed a half finished club. The whole upstairs area was under construction; we sat up there with construction workers disdainful of our laptops.
Next day we had off: headed over to some ridiculous castle. The most ridiculous castle I've ever had the misfortune to visit. I asked for, and received, a refund from the ticket agent. Then went on one of my patented "walk-abouts" --- headed about 4 hours walking time in a southern direction, filming the graveyards. Amazing thing to me: the graveyards seem the best places for peace and quiet in the dense, congested British towns. I visited several graveyards, hopped a mossy stone wall, walked along a vagrant campsite area.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
"YOU AND ME MAKE 3" VIDEO
Just uploaded another copy of this video, a little better resolution on this one, I think.
I spent many hours making this video.
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I spent many hours making this video.
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DAYTROTTER INTERVIEW
A few weeks back, the kind folks at Daytrotter posted an extensive interview I gave.
You can find it here.
There are also some solo acoustic songs for download.
INVENTING MARK TWAIN
AN EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK "INVENTING MARK TWAIN"
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Traditional interpretation of the man dictated that Clemens had such a large personality that he needed a separate persona in which to carry it. That premise seemed… fundamentally false. Anyone who has ever performed, whether on the stage or at a dinner party, knows that maintaining a false persona places a huge strain on one’s ego. The larger the ego, in fact, the more difficult it becomes to sustain the invention. To live as someone else, to fully inhabit an invented self, the root self must have nearly no ego, or at least one so handicapped by insecurities that it might as well not exist. It became clear… that Sam Clemens could play Mark Twain to such success for so long only because his fundamental self was so unstable and uncertain. This hollowness at Clemens’ core resulted from the odd configuration of his childhood.
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Traditional interpretation of the man dictated that Clemens had such a large personality that he needed a separate persona in which to carry it. That premise seemed… fundamentally false. Anyone who has ever performed, whether on the stage or at a dinner party, knows that maintaining a false persona places a huge strain on one’s ego. The larger the ego, in fact, the more difficult it becomes to sustain the invention. To live as someone else, to fully inhabit an invented self, the root self must have nearly no ego, or at least one so handicapped by insecurities that it might as well not exist. It became clear… that Sam Clemens could play Mark Twain to such success for so long only because his fundamental self was so unstable and uncertain. This hollowness at Clemens’ core resulted from the odd configuration of his childhood.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
QUICK NOTES ON TRAIN DRIVING
Show up each morning at 9am, lube the chains and wheels, set the hydraulic brake system, rev engine until air pressure reaches 120, check / add engine oil and transmission fluid, check emergency brakes and brake pads, check pins under cars, sweep the train, dislodge rocks from switches, lube switches with goopy red grease, dig out railroad crossings, start selling tickets at 10am for 10:15am train, take tickets from smiling happy kids and sunglassed parents, give a short speech abot dos and donts of train travel (Do scream and yell, DONT stand, litter, smoke, etc), drive train and follow certain speeds depending on whether I am rounding a bend, moving in our out of a switch, driving through a tunnel, or passing by groups of screaming unattended children. The track is several miles long and 25 minutes round-trip drive.
On the job, my full attire: untucked train depot shirt, striped conductor cap, no socks, cut-off shorts, hidden smile. During the day, between drives, I read newspapers, philosophy and short stories, listen to NPR and classical music radio, solve crosswords, stare at people and wonder if their children will end up just like their parents; sometimes it's hard to see similarities; sometimes I want the children to turn out better than their folks.
Feelings on the job range between bliss and boredom.
On the job, my full attire: untucked train depot shirt, striped conductor cap, no socks, cut-off shorts, hidden smile. During the day, between drives, I read newspapers, philosophy and short stories, listen to NPR and classical music radio, solve crosswords, stare at people and wonder if their children will end up just like their parents; sometimes it's hard to see similarities; sometimes I want the children to turn out better than their folks.
Feelings on the job range between bliss and boredom.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
OLD SOUND TEAM TRACKS
At the urging of my friend Paul, I'm compiling some old Sound Team tracks from 2002-4 that I sang on for a sort-of "greatest hits" compilation, although I would hesitate to call it a "greatest hits" since we never had a hit. I will likely put it out on cd-r in the next month or so.
Some of these tracks kind of made me choke up with emotion, thinking of all that's passed. These tracks are completely obscure and were never properly released, though we did try. Enough time has now passed that I can pass a few tracks out to the public.
Glad Tidings
Cover of a Van Morrison song. I think this is probably the peak of early Sound Team.
Beef Captain
Written very quickly... I wrote and recorded the basic tracks in 10 minutes before picking Matt up from work. The words were a scrap of paper I'd found on our living room floor... one of Matt's poems. We wrote the 2nd verse together.
Paint It, Orange !
This track's melody was adapted from the Byrds' "Change is Now." The words are kind of pretty and simplistic. You can actually hear Matt, Sam and I harmonizing on the track. I really like the ending of the track. Over my many objections, this track was never released. Sam is playing bass, I am playing 12string, Matt on guitar, Michael Baird on moog, and Willis Deviney on drums.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
JULY 4TH SHOW
Due to weather concerns, the show tomorrow night has been moved from Johnson City back into Austin.
The address is 3222 John Campbell's Trail. It's in southwest Austin, near Westgate Blvd.
Here's the schedule:
5:00 Shrew
5:45 New Science Projects
6:30 John Rose
7:15 Cedarwell
8:00 Ghost Night
8:45 A Drum And An Open Window
9:30 David Israel
10:00 Dustin and the Furniture
10:45 {{{Sunset}}}
11:30 Ryan Anderson
The address is 3222 John Campbell's Trail. It's in southwest Austin, near Westgate Blvd.
Here's the schedule:
5:00 Shrew
5:45 New Science Projects
6:30 John Rose
7:15 Cedarwell
8:00 Ghost Night
8:45 A Drum And An Open Window
9:30 David Israel
10:00 Dustin and the Furniture
10:45 {{{Sunset}}}
11:30 Ryan Anderson
NEW NAME / BIO / ETC
I have renamed my musical project yet again. This time will hopefully be the last. Can't make any promises, though.
Here is a complete "bio," copied from my MySpace page.
=================================
=== BILL BAIRD AND SILENT SUNSET BIO ===
=================================
BAND MEMBERS:
Bill Baird = vocals, guitar, lapsteel, electric piano.
John Kolar = drums.
John Musil = acoustic guitar, bells, and vox.
Sam Sanford = bass and vox.
Sam Miller = acoustic guitar and vox.
Willis McClung = pedal steel and vox.
Cliff Brown, Jr. = keys, acoustic guitar, and vox.
Occasionally: Tim, Dave Longoria, Jim Fredley, Martin Crane, Will Patterson, Jordan Johns, Joey Koehl, Eric Katerman, Jason McNeely, and Zane Ruttenburg.
DISCLOSURE: Hi, this is Bill. I am just going to go ahead and refer to myself in the 3rd person for the duration of this "bio." I put the word in quotes because I have a little disdain for hyperbolic music-industry boilerplates; I've often called "bios" the "obituaries for those ain't dead." Anyhow, I will heretofore refer to myself as "Bill," in 3rd person form. I realize that, if somebody were doing that whilst you were talking with them in person, it would be incredibly strange and even creepy. Hence my full disclosure.
Bill has been writing and playing songs for a while. The early songs were "lo-fi" and contained numerous recording experiments. Lots of backwards flange pedal. These tapes were given to friends and sold to foes. "Sounds great, Bill," they would smile out the words through gritted teeth.
Besides engaging in 4track experiments, he also began "jamming" with his dad, who passed along a love of old blues (Robert Johnson, Hound Dog Taylor, Mance Lipscomb, Leadbelly, etc) folk (Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez), and 60's pop ( Beatles, Beatles, Beatles). Some of their jams even made it onto Bill's tapes, notably a cover of Elvis' classic "Little Sister."
Bill played out a number of shows of a "performance art" style, meaning he and his "bandmates" would find any way possible to make the audience feel uncomfortable and unsure of why they'd attended his show. "What is art?" they might ask themselves after a particularly riveting Bill Baird performance. Or not. Most people said, "Why is that guy screaming a Madonna song and banging a coat hanger on his lapsteel guitar?" Bill was banned from a number of clubs in the Austin area during this early "performance art" phase.
He had already put out several tapes and cd-rs when he met Matt Oliver and they started SOUND TEAM together. For the next few years, Bill concentrated mostly on ST material. As time progressed and his vocal duties diminished in ST, Bill started writing and recording on his own again.
So Bill compiled some song-y, folk-y, strum-y, pop-y songs and called the album {{{ SUNSET }}}. He simultaneously compiled a whole bunch of instrumental ambient soundscapes and called that album SILENCE !
Bill also made a DVD, "Candlelit Television Eyes," the 1st in a genre he calls the "DIY DVD" --- take the same DIY spirit of self-released tapes, cd-rs and zines and apply that to our new, YouTubed, media-overloaded age. It's like a zine, except you can watch it. Same basic idea.
Anyhow, back to our "bio." After releasing {{{ SUNSET }}} and SILENCE !, Bill toured the country, playing to small crowds all over this great land. He played taquerias, open mike nights, parking lots, Taco Cabana, sheet metal factories, historic statue plazas, you name it.
Upon returning to Austin, Bill assembled a group called {{{ SUNSET }}}. Bill originally intended on naming his stage act after his latest release. Like if Michael Jackson had called his band "THRILLER." You get the picture.
But this proved an unsatisfying approach, and a search was undertaken for a new name. In the end, Bill decided to conflate the names of his two recent releases and keep his own name at the top. This conflation represented his hope for the group : a combination of the ambience, experimentation and "New music" of SILENCE with the spontaneity and folk songwriting of {{{ SUNSET }}}. This delicate synthesis is still a work in progress, but their shows have been interesting and even occasionally engaging. Sometimes they march through the streets like a parade. Sometimes random crowd members join the show. They played a show outside the Clear Channel World Headquarters, which was pretty strange.
BILL BAIRD AND SILENT SUNSET are currently working on a full length album which, in my personal opinion, is going to be just great. They are also playing lots of shows in your area, if your area happens to be Central Texas. If not, they will probably hit the road sometime in the next few months. Keep your eyes / ears peeled.
PREVIOUS BAND NAMES INCLUDE:
{{{ SUNSET }}}, Bill Bard, Bill Bird, Will Weird, Bill Baird and Family, Buck Stephens, Stitch, Strum Strum Here We Come, Acoustic Alchemy, Base Elements and Acoustic Alchemy, Cabeza de Vaca, the Uncollected Hand, etc.
It is a project still very much in its formative stages, and will probably remain that way for the duration of the project. Beginnings of things tend to be the most exciting times. We strive to keep that excitement always!
Here is a complete "bio," copied from my MySpace page.
=================================
=== BILL BAIRD AND SILENT SUNSET BIO ===
=================================
BAND MEMBERS:
Bill Baird = vocals, guitar, lapsteel, electric piano.
John Kolar = drums.
John Musil = acoustic guitar, bells, and vox.
Sam Sanford = bass and vox.
Sam Miller = acoustic guitar and vox.
Willis McClung = pedal steel and vox.
Cliff Brown, Jr. = keys, acoustic guitar, and vox.
Occasionally: Tim, Dave Longoria, Jim Fredley, Martin Crane, Will Patterson, Jordan Johns, Joey Koehl, Eric Katerman, Jason McNeely, and Zane Ruttenburg.
DISCLOSURE: Hi, this is Bill. I am just going to go ahead and refer to myself in the 3rd person for the duration of this "bio." I put the word in quotes because I have a little disdain for hyperbolic music-industry boilerplates; I've often called "bios" the "obituaries for those ain't dead." Anyhow, I will heretofore refer to myself as "Bill," in 3rd person form. I realize that, if somebody were doing that whilst you were talking with them in person, it would be incredibly strange and even creepy. Hence my full disclosure.
Bill has been writing and playing songs for a while. The early songs were "lo-fi" and contained numerous recording experiments. Lots of backwards flange pedal. These tapes were given to friends and sold to foes. "Sounds great, Bill," they would smile out the words through gritted teeth.
Besides engaging in 4track experiments, he also began "jamming" with his dad, who passed along a love of old blues (Robert Johnson, Hound Dog Taylor, Mance Lipscomb, Leadbelly, etc) folk (Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez), and 60's pop ( Beatles, Beatles, Beatles). Some of their jams even made it onto Bill's tapes, notably a cover of Elvis' classic "Little Sister."
Bill played out a number of shows of a "performance art" style, meaning he and his "bandmates" would find any way possible to make the audience feel uncomfortable and unsure of why they'd attended his show. "What is art?" they might ask themselves after a particularly riveting Bill Baird performance. Or not. Most people said, "Why is that guy screaming a Madonna song and banging a coat hanger on his lapsteel guitar?" Bill was banned from a number of clubs in the Austin area during this early "performance art" phase.
He had already put out several tapes and cd-rs when he met Matt Oliver and they started SOUND TEAM together. For the next few years, Bill concentrated mostly on ST material. As time progressed and his vocal duties diminished in ST, Bill started writing and recording on his own again.
So Bill compiled some song-y, folk-y, strum-y, pop-y songs and called the album {{{ SUNSET }}}. He simultaneously compiled a whole bunch of instrumental ambient soundscapes and called that album SILENCE !
Bill also made a DVD, "Candlelit Television Eyes," the 1st in a genre he calls the "DIY DVD" --- take the same DIY spirit of self-released tapes, cd-rs and zines and apply that to our new, YouTubed, media-overloaded age. It's like a zine, except you can watch it. Same basic idea.
Anyhow, back to our "bio." After releasing {{{ SUNSET }}} and SILENCE !, Bill toured the country, playing to small crowds all over this great land. He played taquerias, open mike nights, parking lots, Taco Cabana, sheet metal factories, historic statue plazas, you name it.
Upon returning to Austin, Bill assembled a group called {{{ SUNSET }}}. Bill originally intended on naming his stage act after his latest release. Like if Michael Jackson had called his band "THRILLER." You get the picture.
But this proved an unsatisfying approach, and a search was undertaken for a new name. In the end, Bill decided to conflate the names of his two recent releases and keep his own name at the top. This conflation represented his hope for the group : a combination of the ambience, experimentation and "New music" of SILENCE with the spontaneity and folk songwriting of {{{ SUNSET }}}. This delicate synthesis is still a work in progress, but their shows have been interesting and even occasionally engaging. Sometimes they march through the streets like a parade. Sometimes random crowd members join the show. They played a show outside the Clear Channel World Headquarters, which was pretty strange.
BILL BAIRD AND SILENT SUNSET are currently working on a full length album which, in my personal opinion, is going to be just great. They are also playing lots of shows in your area, if your area happens to be Central Texas. If not, they will probably hit the road sometime in the next few months. Keep your eyes / ears peeled.
PREVIOUS BAND NAMES INCLUDE:
{{{ SUNSET }}}, Bill Bard, Bill Bird, Will Weird, Bill Baird and Family, Buck Stephens, Stitch, Strum Strum Here We Come, Acoustic Alchemy, Base Elements and Acoustic Alchemy, Cabeza de Vaca, the Uncollected Hand, etc.
It is a project still very much in its formative stages, and will probably remain that way for the duration of the project. Beginnings of things tend to be the most exciting times. We strive to keep that excitement always!
Sunday, July 01, 2007
LIVE AT KVRX
Here are some mp3s from a Local Live Session I did with my band, Bill Baird and Silent Sunset. Yes, that's a new name. I think I like it better than just {{{ SUNSET }}}. Any thoughts? Comments are appreciated.
Civil War
End of the World // Got to Get You Into My Life // Tomorrow Never Knows // On the Road Again (medley)
New York Love
The World is Awaiting
I will post the rest of the tracks soon. Meanwhile, here are some photos from our show in Marfa, courtesy of Ben Sklar:
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
KVRX Local Live -- SUNDAY !
Hello,
I am performing on KVRX Local Live this Sunday with my group called Sunset. In the group, we have John Kolar, Sam Sanford, Cliff Brown Jr., John Musil, Sam Miller, Willis McClung, possibly Dave Longoria, possibly Sarah on backup vocals, and maybe Mark Armstrong making some drone noises.
We will be playing live on the air tomorrow night -- 91.7 FM here in Austin.
Elsewhere, you can stream the show on the website, KVRX.org
or
download the podcast here.
Check out the Local Live site here.
I am performing on KVRX Local Live this Sunday with my group called Sunset. In the group, we have John Kolar, Sam Sanford, Cliff Brown Jr., John Musil, Sam Miller, Willis McClung, possibly Dave Longoria, possibly Sarah on backup vocals, and maybe Mark Armstrong making some drone noises.
We will be playing live on the air tomorrow night -- 91.7 FM here in Austin.
Elsewhere, you can stream the show on the website, KVRX.org
or
download the podcast here.
Check out the Local Live site here.
Monday, June 11, 2007
west coast tour, part 2 - LA continued
So after finishing updating my blog, Mavis, Will, Jordan and I rolled to a house being watched over by Faye's brother's girlfriend. Mavis carefully balanced a glass of cotch in his lap while we hit speeds upwards of double the speed limit, meaning, well, probably 80 or so on smaller residential streets. To his credit, he never spilled the drink and even took a few long slugs, draining the glass long before our arrival to our destination. And what a destination: huge metal gates led to immense green sculpted plants, paved courtyard guarded by naked faux-Greek statues, through large wooden doors into the house and the real prizes: piles of cheese, fresh mixed drinks, white and red wine, a whole huge spread laid out before us, spliff rolling, standing around a pool lined with spitting fountains. The places we find ourselves in... man... being plied with beer, liquor, homemade food and marijuana joints. We had truly arrived; tour showed yet again capable of complete surprise.
Will and I wandered about the house, looking at the ancient books on the shelves, probably unread. Who would want to read a book that was on the verge of falling apart? Perhaps such a physical challenge would actually contribute to the reading, perhaps providing a sense of danger. I guess I'd rather read a plain old paperback worth several dollars or less.
Will and I wandered past the library and into the front hallway, perusing rows upon rows of smiling family photos resting on tables, shelves, hanging on walls, and --whoa-- the showstopper----->>>>> what appeared to be a normal picture frame instead housed a video screen that scrolled through a whole pile of digital family photos. Beach photos fading into smiling little league shots. Felt like a scene from Bradbury's "Martian Chronicles." We drifted back to the main party, smoked more spliff, Will spilled a drink on the oh-so-nice piano bench and we played our newer tunes for each other. Will Patterson, that kid is a shaggy high school wizard who will change this world, you mark my words!
We cleaned our plates and hit the road again across the great wide expanse of L.A., flying past empty streets and parking lots, scuttled back up to Mavis' warehouse paradise and dreamt of art, creation, big city expanses, open horizons, reclamation of dead urban space for creative sun and fresh air from creative brains.
Next morning, Will, Jordan and I explored the neighborhood, lost ourselves in a sea of taquerias, downed some bean and cheese tacos and gulped down some coffee. Jared stopped by Mavis' pad to pick up his organ. Ah yes, we'd stopped in Vegas and picked up Jared's ebay purchase organ from inside an insane cookie cutter neighborhood. Drove through miles and miles of enclosed neighborhood, bright green lawns, mini-malls, some very suspect seafood restaurants with names like "Island Paradise." It's all part of that city-- so completely unnatural, a complete fabrication, a reproduction of other parts of the world. But really what would most people celebrate in Vegas? The brush, the cactus? These things excite me and stir thoughts of Jesus wandering the Israeli desert, or maybe the Pueblo Indians finding waters amidst cliffs and cracks of rock. But most people flock downtown to the casinos and we were heading through a mess of yawning suburban sprawl to pickup an organ.
So, back to L.A. -- Jared came by with Mitch and Stevie, picked up the organ, marveled at Mavis' art space, we hung for a few moments and they headed onwards. Jordan Will and I headed West on I-10 to the magic sands of Santa Monica, leaving the van parked high in a garage, jammed down the pier, laughing at the games and music and general obvious tourist-trap-ness of the place, so obvious that it almost seemed alright. Will and I hopped in the waves, Jordan dipped a toe, Will body surfed while I napped and dug all the California people, the skater folks, the East L.A. baggy pants crew, the tourists snapping photos of themselves in front of the lifeguard stand, locals all staying clear of this place, probably. Red flags rose and lifeguards urged caution. I guess he was urging this to Will only, cuz he was the only one still swimming. Will headed up, we fetche dthe car, headed back to Hollywood, double-parked in front of the El Rey Theatre, met tourmates Au Revoir Simone, 3 ultra-babes with cool hair and reckless keyboard pad action, stumbled inside in my bathing suit and slippers, received props from Ramesh on my beach suit, pulled all our gear from the van, parked along a side street and found a pile of "giveaway" materials -- a fax machine, mop, books and books galore. I grabbed "Chant and Be Happy," a Hare Krishna guide to happiness featuring extended interviews with George Harrison and John Lennon; also, "Fast Food Nation" and a spare fax machine I planned to smash onstage that evening. And, of course, Christmas lights! Those came in handy on this tour, the poor man's light show.
Then back to Mavis' for a quick can of chili, a few mellow moments, some Scotch whisky, then back to the club. I hauled a portable turntable up to our dressing room and we all danced and hollered to Fela Kuti's "Roforoto Fight." Au Revoir Simone played and slayed the crowd ultra-babe-ness.
Will and I wandered about the house, looking at the ancient books on the shelves, probably unread. Who would want to read a book that was on the verge of falling apart? Perhaps such a physical challenge would actually contribute to the reading, perhaps providing a sense of danger. I guess I'd rather read a plain old paperback worth several dollars or less.
Will and I wandered past the library and into the front hallway, perusing rows upon rows of smiling family photos resting on tables, shelves, hanging on walls, and --whoa-- the showstopper----->>>>> what appeared to be a normal picture frame instead housed a video screen that scrolled through a whole pile of digital family photos. Beach photos fading into smiling little league shots. Felt like a scene from Bradbury's "Martian Chronicles." We drifted back to the main party, smoked more spliff, Will spilled a drink on the oh-so-nice piano bench and we played our newer tunes for each other. Will Patterson, that kid is a shaggy high school wizard who will change this world, you mark my words!
We cleaned our plates and hit the road again across the great wide expanse of L.A., flying past empty streets and parking lots, scuttled back up to Mavis' warehouse paradise and dreamt of art, creation, big city expanses, open horizons, reclamation of dead urban space for creative sun and fresh air from creative brains.
Next morning, Will, Jordan and I explored the neighborhood, lost ourselves in a sea of taquerias, downed some bean and cheese tacos and gulped down some coffee. Jared stopped by Mavis' pad to pick up his organ. Ah yes, we'd stopped in Vegas and picked up Jared's ebay purchase organ from inside an insane cookie cutter neighborhood. Drove through miles and miles of enclosed neighborhood, bright green lawns, mini-malls, some very suspect seafood restaurants with names like "Island Paradise." It's all part of that city-- so completely unnatural, a complete fabrication, a reproduction of other parts of the world. But really what would most people celebrate in Vegas? The brush, the cactus? These things excite me and stir thoughts of Jesus wandering the Israeli desert, or maybe the Pueblo Indians finding waters amidst cliffs and cracks of rock. But most people flock downtown to the casinos and we were heading through a mess of yawning suburban sprawl to pickup an organ.
So, back to L.A. -- Jared came by with Mitch and Stevie, picked up the organ, marveled at Mavis' art space, we hung for a few moments and they headed onwards. Jordan Will and I headed West on I-10 to the magic sands of Santa Monica, leaving the van parked high in a garage, jammed down the pier, laughing at the games and music and general obvious tourist-trap-ness of the place, so obvious that it almost seemed alright. Will and I hopped in the waves, Jordan dipped a toe, Will body surfed while I napped and dug all the California people, the skater folks, the East L.A. baggy pants crew, the tourists snapping photos of themselves in front of the lifeguard stand, locals all staying clear of this place, probably. Red flags rose and lifeguards urged caution. I guess he was urging this to Will only, cuz he was the only one still swimming. Will headed up, we fetche dthe car, headed back to Hollywood, double-parked in front of the El Rey Theatre, met tourmates Au Revoir Simone, 3 ultra-babes with cool hair and reckless keyboard pad action, stumbled inside in my bathing suit and slippers, received props from Ramesh on my beach suit, pulled all our gear from the van, parked along a side street and found a pile of "giveaway" materials -- a fax machine, mop, books and books galore. I grabbed "Chant and Be Happy," a Hare Krishna guide to happiness featuring extended interviews with George Harrison and John Lennon; also, "Fast Food Nation" and a spare fax machine I planned to smash onstage that evening. And, of course, Christmas lights! Those came in handy on this tour, the poor man's light show.
Then back to Mavis' for a quick can of chili, a few mellow moments, some Scotch whisky, then back to the club. I hauled a portable turntable up to our dressing room and we all danced and hollered to Fela Kuti's "Roforoto Fight." Au Revoir Simone played and slayed the crowd ultra-babe-ness.
Monday, May 28, 2007
tour thus far
Well well well,
what an insane time. I will start from the top.
With an insane amount of errands chores and other miscellany, I moved my way through Austin, beating down doors, returning dishes to their cabinetry, matching screws in hardware stores, duplicating discs, ignoring talk radio shows. A high-speed navigation of city life, done in fast-motion. And why with such velocity? I'd received 4 free tickets to teh Animal Collective show that evening in Marfa, home of Minimalist cowboys and caffeinated revelations by dozens of art tourists.
So I rushed about town, dealt with issues, concerns, and to-do lists, and hit the road West. Speeding on caffeine and freeway rushing by, I move from Hill Country to West Texas desert. Chihuahuan desert, more specifically. On the way, made dozens fo calls and messages to all friends fom home, and turned off the phone. The journey had begun.
Two or so hours from Marfa, insane lightning storm lit the desert-scape, five bolts landing together, rain and hail pelting the van. I drove on.
Arrived to the show, watched Animal Collective do their insane looped yelps, awash with harmony, reverb, and the occasional thumping drum. The Liberty Theatre turned into more of a rave scene than I'd envisioned, and on more than one occasion somebody mentioned "wishing they'd taken ecstasy." I wished the same at moments, but felt glad to have my wits and senses competely intact. I gulped beer instead and moved about the room, my bright orange pants practically lighting the way for me and eliciting comments from the locals. The girls dug them pants, boys scoffed.
After the show, ended up in a converted bus station, ate some fancy cheese and olives some nice strangers offered me, and warmed my hands next to a roaring fire. I slept in the van outside the "station."
Woke early the next morning, started ingesting insane gallons of coffee, washing down my egg burrito, reading a newly purchased profile of the great lyricists of the 20's and 30's -- Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, etc. Met the Marfa radio station operator, gave him music for spinning, picked up Will and Jordan and crew, and headed onward to Balmoreah, where we swam with the fishes and dove through bright blue waters. Continued North into New Mexico, ending at Jemez Springs, on the Jemez Indian Reservation, about 40 miles Northwest of Albuquerque, stopping only for the purchase of a pint of Kentucky's finest bourbon. Arriving at the springs, Will and I hopped out and passed the hiskey between us while Jordan slept.
A shiny SUV pulled up and out hopped a man clearly outfitted for an intense excursion through the mountains -- every inch of his body garbed with high priced Patagonia expedition gear. Edgar, his name. He claimed to know the path up to the hot springs, and would lead Will and I. He introduced two older ladies and fat man with a camcorder. I forget their names. We ascended to the springs.
Our intrepid guide led us immediately off the trail and we scaled a very steep dirt and rock surface. The ladies turned back, we continued. Hopped in the water, started more on the whiskey. The ladies arrived, shed their clothing and started talking about sensuality. It was very nauseating.
"Movement is sex, sex is movement. Everything is one. Everything is where is needs to be. Everything is perfect."
Hmm. Some cosmic slop. The fat man started asking us questions about the meaning of life. I told him I thoguht everybody was already dead, in that we're all dying and being reborn every second of our lives. He liked this and handed me a business card with some obscure references on it. Apparently we were to be part of his film.
And then: got drunk, then drunker, sloshing around the pool for nearly 6 hours, fended advances off from naked, older women with 4 children, yelled "Fuck You" at them repeatedly, stumbled back to our van, felt my head spinning, walked around the parking lot and accidentally kicked a dirty diaper.
Will had his talked off by our intrepid guide about his former life as a pill addict, going into severe detail about a month-long stint in his apartment which culminated in staring at a clock for a full day, watching the seconds tick away. Sounds vaguely depressing.
Woke the next morning, stretched my bones and led Jordan back to the spring. This time, several meth-heads had comandeered the hottest part of the pool. They all had missing teeth and severe cases of "meth mouth," a condition in which the teeth rot away to the consistency of silly putty, and eventually just fall out in your soup. Twas one man and tow women in the pool, and as we entered, one of the women asked if the man would "clean up the condoms." Cringe.
The man stood and revealed a rash running right up his ass. Mmmm. The girls seemed like the normal sad meth heads I'd seen in rural areas on a number of occasions, with skin pulled back across the face like thin paper over a skeleton, veins and tendons revealed in a neck that seems perpetually stretching.
A pile of beer cans and wine coolers lay scattered about the pool. Good times had been had, apparently. I never did see the condoms of which the women spoke. Perhaps floating in the water? We didn't stick around to see. I stood and hawked a loogie, and accidentally spit it on their towel. A large yellow loogie. Well, hopefully they were enjoying themselves so much that they would just shrug it off when they saw. Luckily they didn't see me do it, and I didn't draw it to their attention.
And then I realized they probably wouldn't see it, even though it was very large and stood out against the dark towel. Oh well.
We continued down the road, back through the mountains, past pines and creeks, stopped at some tourist trap cafe that kindly heated my canned chili in the microwave, sipped a gallon of watery coffee and continued towards Las Vegas, where Will and I were to play a show that evening in a record shop. Sped through NM, through Arizona, past the large red rocks and wide open sands, down through the cool canyons. Stopped at a welding shop on the AZ / NM border. The welding shop doubled as a hamburger stand; the proprietor, whose name I never caught, was an elderly Native American, a smiling Indian, sizzling ground beef in buns for hungry workers from all around. He finished his cooking and tried welding a latch to our van's back door; didn't work so well, though... he set the door in flames and melted the latch. I ended up using a metal plate spinning very fast to help fashion a new latch. Oh, and the door handle mechanism and lock inside the door were completely melted in a black goopy mess that stunk up the van for the remainder of our drive.
Crossed Hoover Dam in a 3 mile-long line, gazed at the monster of human progress and water control that has consumed some of America's best places, sped over the hills, and Las Vegas spilled out in front of us with millions of blinking blazing dots. What a strange city, with everything being a replica of some other part of the world -- replcias of Manhattan, the great Pyramids, Rio de Janeiro, a circus.
We headed over to the record shop, two hours late for our own show, and the massive Zia Records was completely empty, save for a few employees killing off the hours til closing. Will and I played a song-swap set, taking turns, one song at a time, while Jordan dubbed out the vocals with the hosue p.a.'s built-in effects. Bryan, a record shop employee, took us back to his apartment for some homemade chili and a free floor to crash. I had now eaten chili 5 straight meals.
Woke, drank coffee, sped onwards towards the great oasis, Los Angeles. Mavis had agreed we could crash on his floor, plenty of space, so we sped on with high hopes of spliff, sun, and beach. Battling insane Memorial Day traffic, we arrived to a particularly desolated strip of downtown L.A., the only person a sight a visibly tweaking / trembling man stumbling down the middle of the street. Will and I rolled a massive tire along the sidewalk until the tweaker approached. We ran inside to Mavis' den of art and industrial space. We visited the adjoining pornography studio and saw evidence of many successful shoots -- vibrators, dildos, video editing stations, a deconstructed mechanical sex doll. The head lady, who we met and was quite friendly, apparently has a PHD from Yale in philosophy. Hmmm.
Mavis himself has quite the pad. Huge industrial space with a dozen projects in mid-finish. High-priced scotch and wine flowing into cups as we made our way inside, cigarettes dangling from lips, flapping mouths discussing all matters and everything. Which brings me here.
what an insane time. I will start from the top.
With an insane amount of errands chores and other miscellany, I moved my way through Austin, beating down doors, returning dishes to their cabinetry, matching screws in hardware stores, duplicating discs, ignoring talk radio shows. A high-speed navigation of city life, done in fast-motion. And why with such velocity? I'd received 4 free tickets to teh Animal Collective show that evening in Marfa, home of Minimalist cowboys and caffeinated revelations by dozens of art tourists.
So I rushed about town, dealt with issues, concerns, and to-do lists, and hit the road West. Speeding on caffeine and freeway rushing by, I move from Hill Country to West Texas desert. Chihuahuan desert, more specifically. On the way, made dozens fo calls and messages to all friends fom home, and turned off the phone. The journey had begun.
Two or so hours from Marfa, insane lightning storm lit the desert-scape, five bolts landing together, rain and hail pelting the van. I drove on.
Arrived to the show, watched Animal Collective do their insane looped yelps, awash with harmony, reverb, and the occasional thumping drum. The Liberty Theatre turned into more of a rave scene than I'd envisioned, and on more than one occasion somebody mentioned "wishing they'd taken ecstasy." I wished the same at moments, but felt glad to have my wits and senses competely intact. I gulped beer instead and moved about the room, my bright orange pants practically lighting the way for me and eliciting comments from the locals. The girls dug them pants, boys scoffed.
After the show, ended up in a converted bus station, ate some fancy cheese and olives some nice strangers offered me, and warmed my hands next to a roaring fire. I slept in the van outside the "station."
Woke early the next morning, started ingesting insane gallons of coffee, washing down my egg burrito, reading a newly purchased profile of the great lyricists of the 20's and 30's -- Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, etc. Met the Marfa radio station operator, gave him music for spinning, picked up Will and Jordan and crew, and headed onward to Balmoreah, where we swam with the fishes and dove through bright blue waters. Continued North into New Mexico, ending at Jemez Springs, on the Jemez Indian Reservation, about 40 miles Northwest of Albuquerque, stopping only for the purchase of a pint of Kentucky's finest bourbon. Arriving at the springs, Will and I hopped out and passed the hiskey between us while Jordan slept.
A shiny SUV pulled up and out hopped a man clearly outfitted for an intense excursion through the mountains -- every inch of his body garbed with high priced Patagonia expedition gear. Edgar, his name. He claimed to know the path up to the hot springs, and would lead Will and I. He introduced two older ladies and fat man with a camcorder. I forget their names. We ascended to the springs.
Our intrepid guide led us immediately off the trail and we scaled a very steep dirt and rock surface. The ladies turned back, we continued. Hopped in the water, started more on the whiskey. The ladies arrived, shed their clothing and started talking about sensuality. It was very nauseating.
"Movement is sex, sex is movement. Everything is one. Everything is where is needs to be. Everything is perfect."
Hmm. Some cosmic slop. The fat man started asking us questions about the meaning of life. I told him I thoguht everybody was already dead, in that we're all dying and being reborn every second of our lives. He liked this and handed me a business card with some obscure references on it. Apparently we were to be part of his film.
And then: got drunk, then drunker, sloshing around the pool for nearly 6 hours, fended advances off from naked, older women with 4 children, yelled "Fuck You" at them repeatedly, stumbled back to our van, felt my head spinning, walked around the parking lot and accidentally kicked a dirty diaper.
Will had his talked off by our intrepid guide about his former life as a pill addict, going into severe detail about a month-long stint in his apartment which culminated in staring at a clock for a full day, watching the seconds tick away. Sounds vaguely depressing.
Woke the next morning, stretched my bones and led Jordan back to the spring. This time, several meth-heads had comandeered the hottest part of the pool. They all had missing teeth and severe cases of "meth mouth," a condition in which the teeth rot away to the consistency of silly putty, and eventually just fall out in your soup. Twas one man and tow women in the pool, and as we entered, one of the women asked if the man would "clean up the condoms." Cringe.
The man stood and revealed a rash running right up his ass. Mmmm. The girls seemed like the normal sad meth heads I'd seen in rural areas on a number of occasions, with skin pulled back across the face like thin paper over a skeleton, veins and tendons revealed in a neck that seems perpetually stretching.
A pile of beer cans and wine coolers lay scattered about the pool. Good times had been had, apparently. I never did see the condoms of which the women spoke. Perhaps floating in the water? We didn't stick around to see. I stood and hawked a loogie, and accidentally spit it on their towel. A large yellow loogie. Well, hopefully they were enjoying themselves so much that they would just shrug it off when they saw. Luckily they didn't see me do it, and I didn't draw it to their attention.
And then I realized they probably wouldn't see it, even though it was very large and stood out against the dark towel. Oh well.
We continued down the road, back through the mountains, past pines and creeks, stopped at some tourist trap cafe that kindly heated my canned chili in the microwave, sipped a gallon of watery coffee and continued towards Las Vegas, where Will and I were to play a show that evening in a record shop. Sped through NM, through Arizona, past the large red rocks and wide open sands, down through the cool canyons. Stopped at a welding shop on the AZ / NM border. The welding shop doubled as a hamburger stand; the proprietor, whose name I never caught, was an elderly Native American, a smiling Indian, sizzling ground beef in buns for hungry workers from all around. He finished his cooking and tried welding a latch to our van's back door; didn't work so well, though... he set the door in flames and melted the latch. I ended up using a metal plate spinning very fast to help fashion a new latch. Oh, and the door handle mechanism and lock inside the door were completely melted in a black goopy mess that stunk up the van for the remainder of our drive.
Crossed Hoover Dam in a 3 mile-long line, gazed at the monster of human progress and water control that has consumed some of America's best places, sped over the hills, and Las Vegas spilled out in front of us with millions of blinking blazing dots. What a strange city, with everything being a replica of some other part of the world -- replcias of Manhattan, the great Pyramids, Rio de Janeiro, a circus.
We headed over to the record shop, two hours late for our own show, and the massive Zia Records was completely empty, save for a few employees killing off the hours til closing. Will and I played a song-swap set, taking turns, one song at a time, while Jordan dubbed out the vocals with the hosue p.a.'s built-in effects. Bryan, a record shop employee, took us back to his apartment for some homemade chili and a free floor to crash. I had now eaten chili 5 straight meals.
Woke, drank coffee, sped onwards towards the great oasis, Los Angeles. Mavis had agreed we could crash on his floor, plenty of space, so we sped on with high hopes of spliff, sun, and beach. Battling insane Memorial Day traffic, we arrived to a particularly desolated strip of downtown L.A., the only person a sight a visibly tweaking / trembling man stumbling down the middle of the street. Will and I rolled a massive tire along the sidewalk until the tweaker approached. We ran inside to Mavis' den of art and industrial space. We visited the adjoining pornography studio and saw evidence of many successful shoots -- vibrators, dildos, video editing stations, a deconstructed mechanical sex doll. The head lady, who we met and was quite friendly, apparently has a PHD from Yale in philosophy. Hmmm.
Mavis himself has quite the pad. Huge industrial space with a dozen projects in mid-finish. High-priced scotch and wine flowing into cups as we made our way inside, cigarettes dangling from lips, flapping mouths discussing all matters and everything. Which brings me here.
Monday, April 23, 2007
JEFFREY LEWIS
I'm pleased to announce an awesome show at Big Orange, this Thursday evening.
The line-up will be as follows:
Real Live Tigers
Me
Jeffrey Lewis
For those unfamiliar, Jeff crafts fantastic comic books and "anti-folk" music. According to Wikipedia,
Anti-folk combines the raw, abrasive, and frequently politically charged attitudes of the punk scene with the sounds of American folk tradition.
Jeffrey has his own website, which provides a glimpse into the world of this awesome dude. His prolific creativity inspires me, to a total extreme of big-wash hair.
Beautiful song by Jeff
Global Warming
Communism in China
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