The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes

Show# 9: "Death before Fame": Brian looks at four recording artists who received fame posthumously.

Play Show# 9

Klaus Nomi performing "Total Eclipse"

The trailer for the documentary The Nomi Song.

Joy Division performing "Transmission."

Trailer for Control, a film by Anton Corbijn.

Here is a pictorial tribute to Nick Drake to the tune "From The Morning."

Eva Cassidy performing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" live from Blues Alley.

If you think you might want to listen to some more of my podcasts - please click below:

Show #1: Variations on the classic song "Fly Me To The Moon."

Show #2: "Perfect: Part 1"

Show#3: "Perfect: Part 2"

Show#4: "Last Songs by 5 Great Artists"

Show#5: "Perfect: Part 3"

Show#6: "The Story Songs"

Show#7: "Bob Dylan: Part 1"

Show#8: "Perfect: Part 4"

"New" #1: King Khan and The Shrines/ O'Death

"New" #2: Dr. Dog / Caribou

"New" #3: Ed Harcourt

Dems Da Brakes (Episode 3)

Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.

Epiosde 3 "Golden Showers"

Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi

Setting:
A bench in Theodore Roosevelt Park

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Bedbugs XLI

Bedbugs XLI


Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.



There's a cockroach inside my girlfriend. That's why
I'm terrified of her. I've told you this before,
haven't I? I have a mellowed color patterns
stitched into its side won't stop me from anxiety
you could drop on the enemy, it's so potent. Even the paint
scheme in here screams filth and insects. I have
"help me" tattooed on the inside of my tongue. But
few will see or hear it. Must be a couple of numbers
missing. The chat not answering the question
will keep me here. I forget the conversation! All of
our heads are melting. She misses you despite
her lies and laziness and lethargy. I undo the stitches
they put on me to keep me quiet and tell her
the same- but she left while I was getting prepared. I
take it from its roots, a sort of honesty I
think. That's a color rarely painted in this room.
Violin and piano together=watch heart break. Still
sound travels, even in here. I still can't get
the stains off the ceiling. She'll be home soon.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that. When I'm asleep..
we finally fell asleep.



Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-they promised they'd heal her
-multiple copies of me in the field
-noises outside our door
-waiting through the rest pattern
-hear it only in my left ear
-embrace they paid for
-the hallways are covered in it


-Adam

Better Living Through Absurdity

Today’s Topic –Why Winning Friends and Influencing People Ain’t All It’s Cracked Up to Be

So, I’ve recently returned to the gym. I hate the fact that I wasn’t born with one of those metabolisms that seems like a caloric black hole, or limbs that stay well within toned or pleasantly rounded without going over into plump or heaven forbid, chubby. I hate that I don’t love downing water and vitamins and protein bars like a good healthy person is supposed to do. I LOATHE sweating –it’s horribly undignified –and because I am not one of the abovementioned types, I unfortunately HAVE to work out hard enough to sweat bullets before any damn good actually comes of it.

Must stop before seething bitterness sets in.

Anyways, so when I was realizing that now was the time to “go for the gold” or whatever, I decided I didn’t want to go to some stupid corporate gym with a contract and sign-up fee and where I could be attacked by some not-so-well-meaning athletic type with a pair of calipers (you know, FAT PINCHERS) and a disapproving frown. I didn’t want to be surrounded by pretty people and gym cruisers, I didn’t want to worry about getting my unseemly damp on one of the machines for fear I might offend one of the other ladies’ sensibilities. It’s bad enough that when you work out, your brain (and belly) are in direct competition with your body –I don’t need to feel like I’m competing against everyone else’s bodies as well. (Their brains are sadly no match for the most part.)

So –I chose a place that offered me the three things I wanted: Close by, low price, and a climbing wall.

Solution –The Broadway Armory, a former military base that was retrofitted into a place for various athletics. They have a nice basketball court, should you be so inclined (I’m not,) a gymnastics room that puts this entire place I work at to shame, and a small but well appointed workout room with treadmills, recumbent bikes, elliptical machines, various weight machines, free weights and some medicine balls. There is also a climbing wall though it’s out right now on loan to a school. Essentially it has everything I want for the low price of $25 for three months, courtesy of Chicago’s Park District. It’s not a meat market and it’s not swanky and you do sweat –in fact, they provide a bottle of cleaner and a roll of paper towels for you to wipe the machines off afterwards –they ASSUME you’re going to actually WORK OUT –ergo, you will SWEAT –and if you do, there’s no shame in it, just clean it when you’re done.

I can get behind this.

So I’ve been going and working out –and I like it. I met a couple of people the first time I was there and I see them occasionally, but for the most part, I go, do my workout, and leave. I like it that way. I know my body. I know my limits. I know that I’m never going to be a lithe water nymph with a body destined for plaster fountains and labels on the fancier kinds of cake soap. I’m okay with that. I just want to tone up and get healthy. And it’s been working.

Then I hit a snag.

It’s called “Thérèse’s misguided belief that she must be nice to people” –and believe you me, it’s a facet of my personality that I often wish I could toss into someone’s caloric black hole. Let ‘em chew on that for awhile.

So…

I’ve done my time on the bike (10 miles) and the rowing machine (20 minutes) and I’ve started on my weights workout. Now, mostly for my arms, I’m just toning because the biceps are already huge. But I wanted to work on my triceps, and to my wonderment, it turns out there’s a machine that can be used for a tricep workout –I watched another woman doing it earlier. So I go over, set the weight, and begin to go through reps. About into my third or fourth…um…pull or whatever, this guy stops me. I can tell by his gestures (and broken English) that he is trying to tell me I’m not doing it right. I smile to show I’m not offended by his interference and he shows me how to tuck my thumb in and then where to position my arms. Then he suggests 4 sets of 8 to start with. I thank him, smile and begin to get on with it. When I’m done I turn around and he launches into an explanation of how I should do squats as well. He demonstrates the free-standing squats which I tell him I can’t do because of an accident –but that I can use the machine to do them. He doesn’t seem to get this –or he’s disappointed by the fact that I got in an accident. He keeps trying to get me to try it, I keep smiling and shaking my head. Then, he says I should use the bike –I say that I do. He says I should use the bike. I say that I do –in fact, I had already done 10 miles that very day. He then says I should use the treadmill., I say I do. He says I have to use it every day –I nod politely. Then he says that I have to use it because, “Down there, you are bigger. Up here, you are fine, but down there you are bigger.” To emphasize his point, he runs his hands down me…not in a sexual sort of way –more like he was sizing up a horse…or a side of beef. I waited for him to ask to see my teeth. I fixed my smile in place, nodded and said, “Well that’s why I’m coming here. To work out.” He then begins to poke and prod my arms and my stomach telling me which machines to use, for how long each day and in what order. I begin to wonder if he has any idea how much the services of a personal trainer go for…

At this point he stops and asks me, rather brokenly, if I am embarrassed by his trying to help me. I say no, and I thank him for the advice and move to go away. He then says something like, “I like you because, you not, you no have the mean face when I talk to you. You know? Like some people here, they do not like it when you talk to them. They get the mean face. You don’t.” I smile to show I understand and he bursts into hearty laughter and embraces me, kissing my neck on both sides.

My courtesy has made me feel most common indeed.

He then asks if I am married. I smile brightly and say, ‘Why yes, for two years! Hard to believe!” and I’m kind of doing what I call the “killing time” chuckle –the one where you hope if you jolly it up for long enough and then slowly taper off, they’ll get the point and leave you alone. No such luck. He then introduces himself (I forgot his name but I do recall that he was mightily impressed that I pronounced it correctly) and I tell him a different name, and then he hugs me again and proceeds to do one of the most DISGUSTING and DISCONCERTING things I’ve ever gone through…which believe me, is saying something: Now, I’m sweating obviously, both from the workout and the fact that it’s 98 degrees in there. He begins to tenderly wipe drops of sweat off my face with his fingers –like they were tears. This is by no means endearing –it’s gross. This is sweat –refuse from my pores. This is salty, rejected by-product of exertion –it’s just plain icky. And he’s very lovingly wiping each drop as it falls –as though we were on a sidewalk while rain was falling and the drops were landing on my skin, to be brushed aside by him. Only we’re in a cramped room with weight equipment, a basketball game going on about 10 feet away, and some poor bastard on the elliptical machine looking like he doesn’t know whether or not to be profoundly disturbed and hence spurred to act in my defense -or whether to be profoundly disturbed and just concentrate on his calories per hour burned.

I try to wipe the sweat off with a towel –he once again asks if he has offended. He then says that he is newly arrived in Chicago. I ask where he’s from. He says “Iraq.”

*sigh*

Alright, so I tell myself, “Look, don’t be a bitch to the guy whose country we essentially firebombed. He’s not doing anything too horrible –just try to get out of there quickly. And for god’s sake, stop smiling!”

Thus armed with this internal dialogue, I do a few more reps and then pretend that my cell phone went off and that I’ve got to go to work. He of course is devastated. He also wants to know when I will be back and at what time. *looks at clock* I should be there now I think.

More hugging and neck kissing ensue following by hand gripping, hand kissing and “sad face.”

I beat a hasty retreat for the solitude of my car and drive home, letting the wind dry my sweat and praying that I can unlearn this most dastardly of skills know as “Winning friends and influencing people” –or put it to good use carrying out my even more dastardly plots.

Either way.

And now that my day here is done and the temperature has cooled off, I’m headed to the even cooler recesses of the movie theater.

More next week!

Happy Birthday Pete!!

P.R.,

Brian and I are probably off by at least a day,
because we're assholes. But you might have been
relieved since you don't like publicly celebrating.
So, in our best attempts at BBF creative compromise,
we forgot AND posted something on a public listing.

Happy Birthday, hopefully not belated, to a man
ahead of his time, who never ceases to impress
or amaze us with his caring, intelligence, and general
madness(in the best possible sense, because the only ones
for us are the mad ones).

Now go unwrap your fucking shinebox.

Six Word Theater

Six Word Theater

Click here for last week's entry.

Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.

Feel free to "continue the story"
or start your own.

Today's entry:

"We have EVERYTHING in common!"
"Goodbye."


-Adam

The Story Slice: "Colleen"

This is the continuation of a story that began here:

Part 1: Maureen

Part 2: Maureen

Part 3: The Takeoff

by Brian Hughes

Cahil picked up his rental at the airport. After having thrown back some pink tablets to help settle his stomach, he attached his iPod and began blaring “Eminence Front” by The Who. The drums beating out the intro combined with pulsating, belch-like bass line of bassist John Entwistle demanded Cahil put on a pair of 80s-era aviator sunglasses – large and obnoxious – which he had purchased at the airport. Sitting them firmly on his nose, he turned his head and gawked at two brunettes driving in a convertible beside him, hair trailing behind them, California skin shiny and luminescent.

He had at once a desire to crawl through his windshield and re-enter the 1980s – only older: at an age where he could appreciate the dawn of MTV, new wave music, American moxy and prosperity. Cahil had little desire for the time he was living in, with all the superficiality, reality television, gossip rag mags selling at an all time high - with pictures of celebrities pumping gas and picking their nose, gasoline prices soaring into the stratosphere, and natural disasters across the globe killing thousands each week.

Cahil looked around at the hills, at the sunshine bouncing off of multi million dollar mansions, with sprinklers going off everywhere to keep the place from burning down: “Some people say this place is superficial,” he said to himself. “Exalt in your superficiality. I am superficial too. Let us be superficial together, shall we?” Cahil smiled, loving his shades, raising them up and down and looking at himself in the rearview – yes, he wouldn’t mind be superficial for a couple of days.

Cahil had some Depeche Mode blaring from his iPod dock. Cold cuts of American cheese, liverwurst, ham and salami were laid out on his hotel desk, displayed from their torn white paper wrappers. He made sandwiches not out of bread, but stuck everything between a couple slices of salami. With greasy fingers he typed out in a google search: “Heather Dupre naked”, “Alex Cobalt’s tits”, “Colleen McDonough nude” – and he came up with nothing. None of the three beauts appeared to have nude pictures of themselves on the World Wide Web. Why would they use their real names? It was no matter to him – he’d see them naked soon enough. He blew opportunities in the past – he wasn’t planning on fucking up this time. He had to do some more research before his interview with Brenda Burgundy, but instead opted to drop 39 dollars on a hardcore site and jerk off till he was sufficiently horny, holding off on his climax.

Colleen’s chat info was on her My Space page. He reached out …she was home:

cahilology: ive changed much since last we met
uc2004: can’t wait…
cahilology: I bought new shades today. I look bitchin in them.
uc2004: hot
cahilology: I have an interview with brenda burgundy.
uc2004: wtf! That’s so cool. That why you’re out here?
cahilology: no – you.
uc2004: awwwwww
cahilology: lets hook up – you pick the place.
uc2004: hummmm
cahilology: come on … im surrounded by the glitter and glam of hollyweird. no
friendly faces.
uc2004: poor boy
cahilology: I have a company card … come on … I need to see your pretty face.
uc2004: you know the coffee bean/tealeaf in woodland hills?
cahilology: yup

As he wound his way through the swirling roads of Topanga Canyon – destination Ventura Boulevard, he shook his head in glee at the thought of Colleen’s checkerboard Converse sneakers – and how the little white squares were colored in with pastel hues. He remembered her as a college girl who covered her sexy body with frumpy, oversized sweats. They both worked at a bookstore in Calabasas. Colleen always had a smile for everyone as she hustled coffee behind the counter of the café – her apron filthy with cookie batter and coffee stains. It almost seemed like the messier she became, the more turned on he became: the café baseball cap she had to wear, with her ponytail hanging out the back of it – something tomboyishly alluring about her. He hoped she hadn’t changed much. Fuck was he horny. He gripped the steering wheel, shook it, batted out a beat with his palms. Her Midwest accent, her small belly, her Irish cherry cheeks … always something there to remind him …

The raspy voice and Midwest accent he remembered had remained intact. She had died her hair jet-black and it fell across her face in a diagonal direction – in layers. They sat across from each other at a table – clutching their coffees – talking about general stuff – catching up. After she had gotten up for a smoke, they returned to the café and chose two lounge chairs to curl up on - more personal talk this time – relationship stuff. She had been hurt pretty badly recently. He encouraged her to divulge. Cahil had no intention of talking about his engagement, let alone Janeen. He named dropped some small time talent he had been interviewing recently – some of the bands she recognized. Colleen was impressed. He felt shallow resorting to name dropping, but he had his motives – a mission. He stared at her cute feet and her half gone polished toes. He imagined holding her feet while nailing her. His fantasies making him lose track of the conversation now and then, but more often than not he found a key word to get him back on track.

“Why didn’t you ever ask me out?” Colleen asked.
“Who the fuck knows? Well … I shouldn’t say that. I know exactly why. I was so fucked up back then. I had no confidence, no car, and very little money and for most of the time I was seeing Loraine. Remember her?”
“Oh, yeah … the French chick.”
“Yeah, yeah … what a disaster, the stuff of three novels.”
“Oh, no …”
“Yeah.” They both laughed. “I wanted out of the relationship, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t have the courage. I’m a monogamous guy and I had a lot of guilt, I wouldn’t have even thought of cheating on her. My luck, it ended when I had already left California, so …”
“And now you have this new found confidence.”
“Yes … and I think I realize what I have lost.”
She smiled.
“Interesting. So you are still single.”
He looked down at the sticky stains on the floor.
“Yup. Indeed.”

They flirted here and there, then Colleen invited him to a party her friend was throwing in Chatsworth. He followed her in his car – pulling up to Colleen at lights and making funny faces, smiling, more flirtations between cars. There was an excitement in his belly. His balls were aching – they needed a release. The party held many options. He was sure glad he was going. It had to happen tonight for Cahil still had to get in touch with Alex and goddess Heather and his time was limited.

The house was a large, one level dwelling which four of Colleen’s friends shared. All the doors were open; pot and barbecue smoke was rampant. Colleen removed Cahil’s aviator glasses from his face and put them on as they entered to an uproarious welcome. Other than one other guy who looked like Jerry Garcia, Cahil was the oldest one there. He liked that. A popular Emo band was blaring from the stereo. He hadn’t interviewed them, but lied and said he did. Colleen held onto Cahil, squeezing him around the waist as she introduced him to her friends. Colleen liked to drink – she began throwing down Jagermeister bombs to Cahil’s dismay. Cahil fake drank. He’s pretend to pour a lot of liquor in a glass, than he’s fill most of it with coke, club soda or ginger ale. “I can drink ya all under the table!” he gloated. “Someone make Cahil a Jagermesiter bomb!” said Bevin, a tan, bow-legged, big breasted dame. “Nah … keep that kids stuff away from me, I’m a writer, I only drink bourbon – hustle more bourbon over.” “How can you drink that stuff?” another friend said. That was just the response he was looking for.

The girls had a Nintendo Wii game system. “Playing the Wii when you’re stoned is awesome!” Colleen said as she took another drag. The Wii is a video game system that allows you to physically play out games with your full body, rather that hit some buttons on a video game controller in some zombie-like state, like more traditional game systems. It’s designed to get you off your fat rump and become more active in gaming, and it’s an expensive money making machine attempting to get this nations overweight children into exercising. “Who has time for video games, I don’t with all the deadlines I have. Believe me, I wish I had the time, but I’m so in demand – it’s hard.” Once again Cahil was bullshitting. He got a Wii for free off someone’s truck some time ago, and liked to play tennis and golf on it when he wasn’t able to write, or didn’t feel like jerking off. Actually, was just borrowing the sentiments of his fiancé Janeen, who couldn’t understand why a man over 30 years of age would be interested in such trite entertainment. Colleen and her friends played around on it for a while, while the two old fogies, Cahil and the Jerry Garcia look-a-like, who for some reason was called “Dr. Sergeant”, looked on.

After a time, and some encouragement from the young lads, Cahil and Dr. Sergeant decided to grab the controllers and play. “I’m sure I’ll be awful at this. I don’t play video games,” Dr. Sergeant said with a friendly smile. “You and I both,” replied Cahil. Boxing was first on the bill. As if the video game gods interceded, Duran Duran’s “View to A Kill” started playing on the house iPod. It was as if Popeye had been given four tons of spinach to take on Bluto. Cahil clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. There was no room for losing now. He would have to attack with a “view to a kill.” Dr. Sergeant was in big trouble. The game began and both men started flailing their fists. Cahil was younger and quicker than Dr. Sergeant. The Dr was less interested in how good he was, rather he was overwhelmingly amazed at such technology. The mood was different with Cahil as with each round of punches, he moved more intensely toward the widescreen television, punching with left crosses, upper cuts, and jab, jab, jabs. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! You’re going down! Down! Yeah!” Cahil’s voice had dropped to a low, guttural scowl. “Yeaaaaaaahhhhh! Dr. is gonna end up in the emergency room. Yeah! Get this Dr some life support! Oh, yeah!!!” The good Dr. went down in less than a minute. The bell rang and the match was over. Cahil jumped up and threw his fists stiffly into the air – throwing a quick flurry of fists at the television for good measure. “Yeah! Yeah! Who’s next to try me?”

A few of Colleen’s lady friends took the challenge and Cahil fell them with his fury of arrogant violence like an Andy Kauffman of the Wii gaming world. “Why do you have to be such a douchbag about winning?” one of Colleen’s friends said. Her name was Dorothea. She was muscular and won an MVP and state championship for her rugby team in college. “I could kick your ass without these controllers. Why don’t we step outside and see what you’re really made of.” Cahil stood aghast – staring at Colleen with his mouth open. “Would you believe this shit? What a sore loser. I’m sorry if I’m a competitor. If you can’t take a beating like a real champion, you should not play.” “I KNOW ABOUT COMPETITION! THIS is NOT competition! It’s a FUCKING VIDEO GAME!” Dorothea replied. Colleen calmed her friend down, but the tension was undeniable.

“I’ll take you down in tennis – let’s go,” said a jock friend of Bevin’s, with big muscles, no body hair, and little sneakers with no socks. His name was Brad. He arrived sometime during the Wii hysteria. Cahil hadn’t even noticed. Brad chugged down a beer and grabbed the controllers. “Sure,” said Cahil, “just don’t get all pissy when I kick your ass.” Brad’s nostrils flared as he shot Cahil a look of pure venom. “Let’s GO!” Brad howled.

Cahil, with little to no bombast whatsoever, coldly took Brad in straight sets. He placed the controller on top of the TV and gave Brad a look of cool confidence that said, “I told you so.” “Fuck you!” shot back Brad.

Colleen was dead to rights on liquor in one of the bedrooms. Everyone else had either left or were passed out. He had some wrong thoughts flying through his brain as he stared at Colleen lying vulnerable on the bed. For most, there was no decision to be made: the night was over and no sex was to be had, but Cahil just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Looking about him to see if anyone was looking, he quietly walked over to the bed where Colleen laid and slowly lifted up her shirt and bra. These were the tits he had imagined – longed for, dreamt about for years. He ran his hand across both of them, his cock rock hard. Cahil got a good feel them put them away and left the room.

Back in his rental, he tried to start the car and it wouldn’t turn over. “Fuck!” he said, as he turned the key in the ignition over and over again, only to get the sound of a death rattle. After a few minutes of expletives, he opened his phone and scrolled down to Alex’s phone number. It was real late in the AM, but she was young and beautiful. There was no doubt in his mind she would be up and available to him.

Two by Brian Hughes

Beauty:
as in being chauffeured
down the west side highway
finally
as newlyweds.

Beauty:
like a fortunately composed piece of
music which
silhouettes moving celluloid.

Beauty:
this cigar,
this present moment which
finds these words being
written in spite of myself.

Beauty:
the luminous glow of
flames from the eyes of
an arsonist.

Beauty:
the spine line down to
your ass.

Beauty:
the grain of sand planet
Floating in darkness;
you and I
loving each other inside it.

Beauty:
what couldn’t save the
20-year old model from
taking her plunge to
the Water Street pavement
below.

This one is dedicated to her,
but most of all-
to my wonderful wife;

And to all the horrors and joys of the world-
and the beauty
that lies
comfortably
between
them.

*******************************************

For these reasons, we will make you

The welcoming lights of your city
your town-
your home-
after having been away for some time.

The lovers that will
lie in wait
for you
as you exit the shower

The poetry and miracle of
Improbable moments
In sports, in music,
In the genes of us all.

The humbling concept that
we all suffer and experience joy
together
on this grand sphere floating in the dark.

The enormous self-satisfaction
of a job well done, and
that others may
benefit from that work.

The scrumptious, palate-exploding
foods others will
cook for you,
or perhaps will happily cook for yourself.

The smell and feel of a
really important book, and
the words that will
inform and reverberate in your subconscious.

The heartache of love departed and
the rapture of that
unexplainable connection
when finding that someone
you will spend the rest of your days with.

And yes …
the child you will create with that someone,
whom you both will show off proudly to friends and family, and
Perhaps create a glorious poem about.

For these reasons and
so many more too mysterious and
numerous to mention -
will we
make
u.

Dems Da Brakes (Episode 2)

Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.

Epiosde 2 "1200-1500 words"

Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi

Setting:
A stoop on the Upper West Side of Manhattan

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Bedbugs XL

Bedbugs XL

Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.




Don't expect any sympathy. None from any smile or expression.
Riding up the blue rock was interesting. Is there comfortable with
nobody here? Snaps to make sure it's working.
Back on the page, victims lined up
for the chance to declare how it's never
their fault. Why don't you just vent? The roundtable's
attendants have everything here as I
grin at my reflection dance the disease as
time flies; there should be a better way to do this.
Three men in lab coats agree. I remember ranting
underneath and not letting it show. Special?
Taking shots of mountain fog is healthier. The
endeavor presented here is dying. How to fix?
Fairly weak but deeply felt.



Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-mellowed color patterns stitched into its side
-must be a couple of numbers missing
-not answering the question will keep me here
-she misses you
-take it from its roots
-sound travels, even in here
-finally fell asleep


-Adam

Better Living Through Absurdity

This Week’s Topic: Soothing Savage Beasts

Driving around Chicago, I’ve begun to notice something…they don’t like Hank Williams III. Or rather, his music disconcerts them. Now, when I drive with Hank III, I’m happy. I have the volume up loud and I’ve got one arm languidly draped out the window with a cigarette in hand and I can’t help but smile at the audacity of his lyrics and the interplay of fiddle and banjo. But I have come to realize that in a city like Chicago, it is not expected that you’re going to hear loud hillbilly music battling your Top 40 hits or your pounding ghetto bass rhythms. It’s all well and good if you pull up next to someone who’s blaring Kelly Clarkson and you attempt to overpower her with Rhianna* or if they’ve got Marilyn Manson blasting you try to out-angst them with Pennywise or what have you. That’s all strictly aboveboard. Radio songs are like kosher goods –they aren’t questioned. You won’t find a hog anus or cockroach bits in your aural hot dog, no sir.

But you throw Hank in and suddenly all bets are off. The altar has been desecrated and the well tainted. Imagine if you will, a car pulling up in rush hour traffic. The strains of what sounds like a Negro spiritual are drifting out the window, something about Satan and how he will lead you astray. Then suddenly, an evil, demented laugh cuts through the song and in rush a banjo, guitar and fiddle to liven things up. You glance over and see a young, white female, manicured nails, nice makeup, hair done etc –and she’s tapping her fingers and smiling and singing along with lyrics like these:

“Well my worn-out boots are taking me downtown
and I'm looking for trouble and I wanna get loud.

Serve me up a drink and I'll shoot it right down
and I'll jump up on the bar and holler "One more round!"

I'm going straight to hell
Ain't nothing slowin' me down
I'm going straight to hell
so you just better get me one more round!

Well back in the day with my uncle Jed,
he kept a lot of moonshine out in the shed.
He taught me how to drink - how to be real proud
of my hillbilly ways and my outlaw style.

I'm going straight to hell
Ain't nothing slowin' me down
I'm going straight to hell
so you just better get me one more round!”

You begin to get rather nervous. What are these strange instruments? Where’s the synth or the poppy drum beat or the re-mastered beats from 1970? Where are the empowered female vocals or the soulful sensitive man-wimp croonings? Hell, where’s the bass fueled screaming thrash metal or even the accordion-driven Mexican music that so many favor? What the hell is this hillbilly shit?

Then a new song starts –this one with lyrics that openly discuss taking drugs and being so high you have no idea what’s going on. There’s no metaphor here. Nothing is covered up with symbolism. There’s no misdirection. Plain and simple –this is a guy who likes to get stoned, drunk and wasted. While driving a truck down a muddy dirt road.

“Well, I've been awake for eight days straight:
Well, it must've been them pills I took.
I been twitchin' an' turnin' an' seein' visions:
It must've been them pills I took.

Well, I don't know what they were an' I don't know where I got 'em,
But they sure did make me feel good.
They kept my heart from feelin' blue,
An' kept my thoughts away from you.

Well, there's blood on the carpet an' holes in the walls:
Well, it must've been them pills I took.
Yeah, the mirrors are all busted an' someone's cryin':
It must've been them pills I took.”

I love it. No, screw that. I FUCKING love it. What can I say?! It just puts a big ol’ grin on this city gal’s face. Sure, I don’t have the freckles or the hat, I don’t have the daisy dukes or the checked shirt. I don’t have the drug or alcohol addiction and I’ve never had the inclination to screw anybody’s wife before od’ing on cocaine –but that doesn’t mean I don’t FEEL it. That doesn’t mean I don’t have the desire to throw caution to the wind and get in a bar fight, go home with a stranger, have sex, get high, go driving to another bar outside of town only to get kicked out after start another fight and going home with another stranger. I want it too Hank –I really do! I want to be that gal who’s 5’10 that you want to take down a road of sin –pick me pick me!!! I want to sit and drown my sorrows with the likes of David Allen Coe, Johnny Cash, George Jones, Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings. I want to do some finger-pickin’ and washboardin’ and hog tyin’ and and and and…

Well you get the point.

I learned a long time ago that folks are darned uncomfortable with music that doesn’t seem to fit –and so as a result, I take a great deal of pleasure in forcing them to be exposed to it. For example, when I used to go through the Grapevine pass in CA, and traffic would get slow and you’d just be there, on a hill, surrounded by other hills, other cars, it’s usually hot and you start to get cranky. So I get out my tape of Swiss Yodeling music –and proceed to play it very loudly. Because of the hills, the music kind of echoes around you –and much to my great joy and amusement, I can see people sticking their heads out of the windows, looking upwards, staring at each other in complete befuddlement, looking at the car next to them to see if perhaps it has been commandeered by a troupe of dirndl and lederhosen-wearing freaks who are just so damned happy to be stuck on the Grapevine that they’re gonna sing about it. When one is in a very ultra-hip neighborhood like a couple we have here in Chicago, blasting Paul Robeson or Harry Belafonte tends to make the skinny-jeans wearing, faux-hawked sporting, tattooed, pierced and complete with ringer-tee that has an Atari logo on it populace, hang back further in the shadowed doorways, smoking their cloves and imitation Gauloises and muttering about Foucault or Derrida or what’s on sale at UO (that’s Urban Outfitters for the rest of you cretins) or talking about what band is going to be playing at the Empty Bottle or Double Door. If you drive down a really wealthy neighborhood or through the Loop and you’re playing opera –well, it isn’t the music they have a problem with so much as it is WHO is playing it –and if indeed, you aren’t doing the music some sort of disservice by playing it in your Oldsmobile rather than a Bentley or Aston-Martin or the good old family Rolls.

Bottom line –I play what I damn well please. Maybe I’m not a alcoholic outlaw, maybe I don’t want to smoke morphine, maybe I’m not on the lam with a gun –but dammit, I’m a rebel too –just like Hank.

Now, where the hell is my homemade tattoo gun, crack pipe and copy of Jugs?

*I had to look up some of the latest names in top 40 hits -sorry if these are dated -I'm not really up on the hippest and hottest.

Six Word Theater

Six Word Theater


Click here for last week's entry.

Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.

Feel free to "continue the story" or start your own.

Today's entry:


Small town...
metropolis...
Europe...
still lonesome!


-Adam

The Boxpress "NEW" Music Time Show with Brian Hughes

A musical series in which Brian delves into the current music scene. The idea: put into big, neon lights new and exciting music.

This week Brian delves into the multidimensional music of Ed Harcourt:

Play Podcast

Here are some videos of Ed Harcourt:

Interview at SXSW

"Until Tomorrow Then"

"The Last Cigarette"



If you think you might want to listen to some more of my podcasts - please click below:

Show #1: Variations on the classic song "Fly Me To The Moon."

Show #2: "Perfect: Part 1"

Show#3: "Perfect: Part 2"

Show#4: "Last Songs by 5 Great Artists"

Show#5: "Perfect: Part 3"

Show#6: "The Story Songs"

Show#7: "Bob Dylan: Part 1"

Show#8: "Perfect: Part 4"

"New" #1: King Khan and The Shrines/ O'Death

"New" #2: Dr. Dog / Caribou

Dems Da Brakes (Episode 1)

Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.

Epiosde 1 "Gang aft agley"

Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi

Setting:
NYC, Somewhere in the 30's

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Happy 4th of July (and 200th post) from the BBF

next week, The BBF shops at IKEA. (probably)

Bedbugs XXXIX

Bedbugs XXXIX


Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.




Put off living until you're dead. It's emptier being with her
than being alone. Party of one in my head. Don't wait
for permission perfect weather in these times is no
fucking guarantee of anything. Its quiet friendship
contracted under duress makes a huge emotional
mess of everyone around you. When she thinks deeply
I smell plastic burning. Better than turning
eye contact forbidden during his rant. The
music stuck in his brain marches on. Come and
keep me warm is all you have to say. In the end
it's all up to me. Driving off a cliff is alluring.
Hopefully "I'll have a cup of your coffee" was
what I think the voice in the woods said. Whisper
softly in my ear if you're going to threaten me.
Verbal sugar. All bullshit. Asphyxiate
aurally while holding your breath and leave me
in a metal room with only mercury to drink. Goes
down bitter. Afterwards you don't care. They
say they're your friends. They all do.
You can't see behind a mask until you jump off
the edge and just trust...nothing and
everything are conspiring against you. Wait for
the beep and get back in line. I lost my
place, wasting time with a purpose.



Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:


-comfortable with nobody here
-victims lined up for the chance
-the roundtable's attendants have everything
-dance the disease
-ranting underneath
-taking shots of mountain fog
-fairly weak but deeply felt



-Adam Barnick

Six Word Theater

Six Word Theater


Click here for last week's entry.

Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.

Feel free to "continue the story" or start your own.

Today's entry:


First drafts are all I write.


-Adam Barnick

The Post 5am Post

I'm trying to remember...

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-Peter Rinaldi

Better Living Through Absurdity

This is going to be something along the lines of a Better Living Through Absurdity Quickie. I have been remiss in my columns for the last couple of weeks due to a hectic work schedule and then also being on vacation (where I got to see my fellow contributors in PERSON!) Next week I intend to get back to things with a vengeance but I thought that the least I could do is toss you a bit of something as an apology and to tide you over till the full column appears in all it's glorious ridiculousness. So, without further ado, I present...

2 Things I Heard While At the Airport, Waiting for My Flight


1. While waiting to leave Chicago, I purchased a cup of coffee and a bagel from Starbucks, along with extra cream cheese. I sat down at my gate and proceeded to put the cream cheese on the bagel with a level of neat precision that kind of frightens me. At any rate, there I was, wholly absorbed in my task when suddenly this conversation cuts through my calming zen waves of food prep. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple, probably early thirties, most likely culled from the "up and coming businessperson" category ("wannabe junior executive just sounds mean) given their casual yet still name brand attire, the tans that ALMOST look real and the presence of sunglasses, large purse, a man's travel sack, laptop computers and snappy cellphones. Anyways, these two are chowing down on McDonalds...a lot of McDonalds. And in the midst of chewing on what appeared to be a double quarter pounder with cheese, the girl sighs and says, "I have to detox this week." The guy mutters something unintelligable. She continues by letting him know just what this process entails. "No liquor, no fat, no grease -just raw fruits and vegetables. I've got to get this crap out of my system. I'm going to have to buy a lot of cabbage. You know cabbage soup is what they use to detox celebrities. I love cabbage." The guy, who to my eyes looked profoundly disinterested, seemed to suddenly realize that he'd at least better ACT interested so he chokes back a bit of burger and says, "Really? Cabbage? Wow. That's cool." She continues chewing and nodding and then begins to relate how much she loves salads and salads mixed with cabbage and then she says, "I also love brussel sprouts. I steam them in chicken broth and garlic and it's sooooo tasty." At this point the guy looks up in amazement -genuine as far as I can tell and says, "Really?! In chicken broth? Instead of water?! And with garlic?!" as though this is a totally foreign concept with potentially earth-shattering possibilities. I was holding in laughter so hard that I almost pitched my bagel off my knee where it was precariously balanced. She nods sagely and launches into a speil about various foods that she likes that hey, guess what, are good for you! Like for instance, did you know that carrots make a good snack? Or that fresh fruit can make a huge difference on your diet? And that leafy greens are excellent for your system and have lots of vitamins? I'm sure if somehow you managed to miss all of that in elementary school, you'd have been as surprised as I was. I was waiting for her to tell him that milk somehow can help make your bones stronger...and then for him to smack her for being such a know-it-all little prat.

Eventually the McDonalds bag was emptied, thrown in the proper "We Recycle" bin (though I have no idea if paper soaked in grease is really recyclable) and then they set off in search of a chocolate bar and some coffee. I finally allowed myself to laugh, startling the woman across from me who had watched me most intently as I cream cheesed my bagel. I think perhaps she was trying to determine if my meticulous knifework proclaimed me to be a sociopath or worse, someone with a severe case of food OCD. I laughed even more as they walked away because somehow they missed the Starbucks which happened to be IN our gate.


2. This was just one of those random snippets that you overhear which makes you shake your head with absolute wonderment.

A man was sitting in one of the terminal chairs, taking care of some paperwork, checking a few things on his laptop and generally exuding the air of "important person with important business which is conducted on expensive and important technological gadgets" -he too was tan, though his was quite real, owing most likely to the vacation that he'd extensively described in a prior phone call. I would have listened to the whole thing a little more thoroughly except after the sentence, "So yeah we just got wasted and took the boat out" I tuned out. It amazes me how much the douchebag teenager never quite leaves even the most competent of businessmen. I hardly need to point out the serious lack of responsibility you must possess if you honestly think that taking a boat out after getting trashed, especially in a heavily-trafficked vacation spot, is a great...nay...kickASS idea. This is the same kind of jerkwad who splashed kids at the local pool...

I digress. So after the vacation call he's gone back to doing work and I've gone back to semi-reading my book. His phone rings again and he picks it up. Apparently it was one of the guys he vacationed with -some of them stayed on for an extra week I learned. He's kind of doing that muffled, mumbled type of "yes I am listening, please continue" dialogue. Then suddenly he leaps up and says, "Oh fuck -Joey got attacked by a shark?!?!! Oh fuck man, is he okay? How the fuck are you so calm about this? You just call me out of nowhere to tell me this?!" which of course makes everyone in the vicinity look up in various states of amusement, shock, horror, confusion and just plain whaaaa?!

Then his face clears and we all hear, "Ohhhh, he's over at the park. Cool." followed by a slight clearing of throat. Everyone kind of snickers and shakes their heads and returns to whatever was previously occupying them.

See, it's things like that which reinforce my love for airports.

Okay enough for now -I'm melting over here and I can actually leave work early so I think that's just what I'm going to do. More to come next week!!!

Bedbugs XXXVIII

Bedbugs XXXVIII



Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.



Hidden mental poisons threaten to creep in as soon as we’re sure of
ourselves and our rightness and our confidence- keep away from
all of us is what we want to shout back but it’s already been
released and it’s time for torrents