Well, how about that?

I ran out of things to say. Can you believe it?

Wordless Wednesday.

AA Bondy @ Urban Lounge 6/23/09

Whispering as loud as I can.

Sometimes I wonder why I blather on and on about an artist or a song. There’s some part of me that is driven to share what I deem to be the good news and the good stuff, though, I have to stop and wonder … if I do it too much, does anybody listen? Do they stop caring? Do they go about disregarding what I have to say and feel like I’m just this half-crazed guy who always talks about music and can’t quite shut up about it?

Welcome to the inner workings of my pondering mind. It leaks out for all to see now and again.

Anyway, that aside, I can’t stop with sharing a semi-new artist to hit these ears: AA Bondy. He’s not all that new by the Internet’s standards (after all, he and his debut album, the very good and ultimately listenable American Hearts has been kicking around for going on two years now) and he’s not reinventing the wheel with his songs (he sings about the rain, the sea, vices and lovers and such), but what he does, he does really pretty well. His voice makes me think he’s adhered to and graduated from the Ray LaMontagne University of Longing Raspiness. What’s more, he wields himself a mean harmonica. Were he to sprout himself a beard, he and Ray could totally hang.

Mr. AA (not his real name) feels like some newfangled Western songwriting genius, only without the twang that attaches itself to the genre. Blame it on his Alabaman roots. This is the stuff the bars need to fill their new-fangled satellite jukeboxes with. It’ll keep the customers happy.

I listen to his album over and over and over and over again (that's four times in a row for the math-challenged). Not that you need my seal of approval on this thing. It's just that good is all.

But enough of that. Words, words, words. He’ll be here in Salt Lake City tonight at my favorite neighborhood bar, the Urban Lounge. He deserves your $12, too. Come sit at the feet of one of those budding around-the-campfire, storytelling sing-a-longing masters, won’t you? He’ll weave you some stories both new and old. You’ll leave the place a better person.

At least, that’s what I think.

For tix, go HERE
And to download some of his stuff for free (though you ought to be buying his album and praising it alongside me), go HERE

Ruminating on Wasatch.

So I ran the Wasatch Back last weekend, along with so many other fine friends (old and new), and can finally add the word FUN to the experience. I still wince a little when I have to walk and have a couple deflated blisters and some amusing tan lines to show for it, but I'm glad I did it. Real glad. Thanks for the invite, Emily! People keep asking if I'll do it again and, while it's too early to commit to that half awake deliriousness all over again, I can't say I'm ruling it out.

One thought I had was this: it's just amazing to me what the body is able to do when the mind has decided it's going to go through with it. On paper, tackling over 18 miles in under 24 hours' time on a whopping four hours of sleep is crazy talk. And yet, it happened. There was a steady diet of M&Ms and Vitamin Water to subsist on and cheering and encouragement and swallowing a good pound of dust down a few dusty miles of road, but we all came out the victors. We did it with laughing and joking and plenty of "that's what she said" jokes to pull us through. It all worked, too.

I recall having to walk a couple times up some steep hills just after midnight, under the quiet of a starry sky and, when in those few moments I thought it might be too much for me, a runner with a headlamp would pass me up and utter, "Good job." It happened more than once. My favorite, though, came from a lanky, bald man, breathing pretty hard, but managing to get out, "You're awesome" as he scooted by. Would that we could live life that same way, offering words of quiet strength to those who surround us.

Another thought? Never underestimate the power of old Metallica music to get you up a steep hill you probably couldn't get up otherwise. Sam Beam and his Iron and Wine won't do it, but Metallica will. It so will.

Richard Hatch is my doppelganger.

It's been sadly brought to my attention that I look a lot like a man who got famous by being naked and fat on the TV. Remember Richard Hatch, the guy who won the money, then took the money and ran? (See left.) That's the one. I wonder if this means I need to start running every day. Or cut dinners right out of my normal routine. Or maybe I just need to punch myself in the face. No matter how you look at it, this does not bode well. Not at all.

On a related note, if the choice was between those yellow shorts and wearing my birfday suit, I'd have to go and start a one-man nudist colony as well. Just saying.

Business Time.

I usually throw photos up on hump day, but I'm not too excited by anything I've taken of late. Besides, hearing and seeing the new Gaslight Anthem video for "The '59 Sound" (and it's about time already) is plenty more exciting anyway. If you haven't heard of them before, they're more than worth checking out. That becomes blatantly obvious once you turn your little computer speakers up as loud as they can go, but I'm just saying. Seal o' approval, right there.

Wake Up to Lullatone.

I’ve never been the type that needs help falling asleep. If I have any superhuman powers whatsoever, it’s that I can fall asleep pretty much anywhere at any given time. Don’t need drugs or blankets or warm milk. Don’t need nothing. Just give me a space to sprawl out on and I will out-snore you in seconds flat.

However, if I did need such a thing—and perhaps my bleary-eyed, insomniac friends should take note—I might pop in some Lullatone. Around since 2002 releasing what can best be described as soft ‘n twinkly lullaby music, this husband-and-wife duo prolly isn’t one you want to take in while at work. It’s quiet and dreamy and sorta sounds like it was composed on clouds, only with a Casio instead of a harp. Step into their world and your blood pressure goes down pretty much automatically.

Currently based in Nagoya, Japan, melody-maker Shawn James Seymour creates the landscape that wife Yoshimi occasionally sings on. She’s got one of those tiny voices, the kind accustomed for not waking anybody up. Ironic, too, considering he started out writing songs in the wee hours of morning, while she slept. It works, too, even if her lyrics sometimes border on being a little on the funny side (try “Good Morning Melody” for an example).

Close yer eyes and listen to "A Mobile Over Your Bed," just not while driving.

To hear more or to buy the latest compilation (for all of $5!), aptly titled “We Will Rock You… to Sleep,” visit their site and knock yourself out. It’s prolly lots cheaper than your Ambien prescription, after all.

http://www.lullatone.com/

Nowhere to hide.

I’m probably crazy and, well, I’ll cop to that. Case in point … I had a bunch of friends in need and I have decided to offer them my legs. I guess I’ve had them long enough and it’s time to put them out to pasture ... more or less.

This Friday, I’ll be running the Wasatch Back Ragnar Relay (otherwise known as the WBR, otherwise known as certain death).

People like to rattle off how you should do something everyday that scares you. I wonder if they ever follow through with it? I wonder if it’s just something fun to say or forward to your big e-mail list of friends? I even wonder, if they ever actually do it, how scared they actually allow themselves to get? But? But! Signing up for this race absolutely terrifies me. It has since I learned it existed.

See, for the past 2-3 years, there has been an opportunity for me to do this, as would-be runners constantly fall off the teams left and right as the date gets closer. Life happens like that. And it seems that, if you have done, say, a single 5K in your life, others know that about you. They sniff you out and come asking you to be their proverbial spare tire. Without a dozen runners, they just can’t do it. It isn’t possible.

I can get behind the whole team effort of this, I certainly can. And maybe I’ll believe that this is actually fun at some point (should I survive with my knees intact and stuff). Truthfully, though, the sole reason I am doing it at this point is because it has scared me for at least three years in a row. I want to tackle that. I want to conquer it. If that means I have to run uphill for more than 8 miles at 3 in the morning wearing a headlamp to guide my way (which it certainly does … that and then some), so be it. I aim to come out the victor in this thing.

So, starting Friday morn and ending sometime on Saturday, I will run three legs for a combined total of 18.1 miles, the lot of us running a grand total of 188 miles (!!) from Logan to Park City. If you want to check out the course, click here. I’m trusty Runner No. 6.

Best part about this has gotta be the name of the team, though … and the subsequent T-shirts that will be part of this whole ball of wax. We are … (drum roll please) … TITANS! Oops. I mean ... we are ... TED DANSON WITH WOLVES! Boo-friggin-yah.

click HERE to see the fancy shirt design

Friday is better with music.

Little joy? Nah, this gives me plenty more than that. They should have named this band Big Joy. And, according to one of those international friends of mine, I think this is footage of the band hanging out around Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Recorded on an 8 mm, no less. Look, listen and like. TGIF, eh?

Wordless Wednesday.

Summer X-Rays.

I know we're having one of those belated Spring seasons, I really do ... and it's okay, you know, because I never felt that season got a fair chance in Utah. Stretching it out some hurts no one. I'll temper my warm days with my rainy ones. I'll even be okay with mixing the two together (like today) and choosing to run in a damp fairly abandoned park versus a bright in the morning speed walker one. Still. Summer has my heart. Here are some words that help me remember why.

Summer X-Rays
by Nina Cassian

I.

Fabulous days
with endless swims,
with algae around my waist
and convex tears on my cheeks.

Far away on the shore:
children shouting,
dogs with golden rings
circling their muzzles,
and rumors of abandoned memories.

I know what's awaiting me—
the winter of my discontent.
I have a reservation
outside on a hard bench
holding a bag of frostbitten potatoes.

That's why I swim so far out,
willing prisoner
inside the sea's immense green magnifying glass.


II.

Despite all my inner crumblings,
I'm still able to recognize a perfect day:
sea without shadow,
sky without wrinkles,
air hovering over me like a blessing.

How did this day escape
the aggressor's edicts?
I'm not entitled to it,
my well-being is not permitted.

Drunk, as with some hint of freedom,
we bump into each other,
and laugh raucously
on an acutely superstitious scale
knowing that it's forbidden.

Could it be just a trap
this perfection
this impeccable air,
this water unpolluted by fear?

Let's savor it as long as we can:
quickly, quickly, quickly.

Falling.

It’s been one of those weekends to remember, the first camping trek of summer (and, to be sure, the first of a half-planned many). I am too sunburnt and sore and worn out to wax very poetic about it. To be truthful, I am doing this from my bed and, even now, I can feel everything in my being practically urging me to shut out the light already. My eyes are slits.

I did, however, want to give a very brief rundown. Let’s see how far I get.

There were a few dips in the Mystic Hot Springs in Monroe, the ones owned by a Colorado native hippy (and his four old, but friendly dogs) who makes sure the hot water running into the five or six actual bathtubs have the right level of heat to go with them. Camped out in a nearby field that night and easily found the Big Dipper. Walked all over Bryce Canyon and hiked down into some of the most amazing rock structures I’ve seen in some time (though I don’t suggest ever doing in jeans). Made it to Escalante after a good lot of driving around and camped on what amounted to incredibly soft beach sand at Calf Creek, within earshot of said creek, no less. In the morning, there was an immediate hike to the 126-foot nearby falls. Would that it were a warmer day so that some swimming could have happened. Instead, we marveled and pondered and shot a few photos that will likely never do it proper justice.

You know, there was a time not more than two weeks ago that I clambered into a friend’s hammock in his beautiful back yard, not far from another nearby creek. I looked into the sun through the leaves of the trees that surrounded me on that Sunday afternoon for a long time. Somewhere inside those moments, I felt as if I were being hugged by God. That’s the best way I can explain it. To be exposed to that sort of beauty ... it practically knocked me clean off my hammock. I hung onto that feeling for as long as I could.

This weekend, there were moments like that. They came when I saw the full moon come out last night amongst the red rocks. It happened as I stared at the baby trout in a river as clear as glass. And almost every time I looked at the huge stacks and rows of clouds—fickle storms fill them right up and make them impossibly gorgeous—I tapped into that emotion.

I even felt that way once more as I walked down a street this early evening and smelled the perfume of a recent rainstorm. I simply could not breathe deep enough.

This old world is a beauty, she really is. I am thankful for the eyes to see it, smell it, experience it and taste it. I’m so incredibly glad she exists to be discovered and appreciated.

Three Thao Tour.

photo credit: justin hackworth

About a month ago, I did something I’ve never done when it comes to the music going, concert attending realm. Considering I’ve been a part of that world for at least a couple decades now, too, that’s saying something. For no other reasons aside from the facts I’d a) never done such a thing and b) the idea lodged itself into my head and never got around to leaving , I decided to expand my horizons some. What was it, then? I saw a rock band play three shows in three nights in three different cities. I lived the life of a groupie for all of three days.

As the band I chose to follow was Thao & The Get Down Stay Down, I began calling it my own personal Three Thao Tour (repeated, in the same way they sing the “three hour tour” part of the Gilligan’s Island theme song). All things considered, I’m glad I took it upon myself to make that plunge. It was a fairly impulsive move on my part and it tired me right out, but I’d do it again, should the opportunity present itself.

Behind the scenes, it involved some pretty extreme measures ... like driving five hours to Boise one night to take in a $5 show, crashing on a friend of a friend’s blow-up mattress afterward, getting up five hours later to catch a beautiful Idahoan sunrise on the way back and making it back into work by lunchtime ... but that was all part of it. It helped give me the boost of adrenaline I craved and needed to pull through that stint of time. It made it about more than just the music for me. Sure, it was hands down fantastic to see a band I enjoyed so many times in a row, but having the handful of experiences to attach to the music means I won’t soon forget the singer or her band or even her last great album (and it is) anytime soon. I’ll hear that beat boxing happening at the start of “Bag of Hammers” some future someday afternoon and, all at once, it’ll take me right back to that dive of a bar in Boise, with the crazy, writhing, bouncing, singing, dancing man not five feet from Thao’s face and her doing that song, then casually segueing into a cover of Salt ‘n Pepa’s “Push It” like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You know what it’s like? It’s like trying to pair a very small portion of an unpredictable life with the same things they were putting across to us, the listening audience, night after night. We hear the songs that many times contain snapshots of a songwriter’s life and, if we’re observant enough to dwell on our own long enough, we can easily do the same. We end up comparing our notes to theirs sometimes. Ever do that? I think, in a sense, it connects us. I wonder if the Deadheads ever felt that way (or if the ones still following Phish this summer do)? If I run into one of ‘em any time soon, I’m going to bring this line of thinking up. I’m going to ask them.

And, sure, I became friendly with the band and enjoyed talking with them and trading stories when they weren’t necessarily clocked in, singing and strumming and rocking and dranking (ah, the life that accompanies the rock ‘n roll), but that’s not what it was about, not entirely. I mean, I can’t say I did this because I am a Superfan of the Thao (though, don’t misunderstand me, I like her plenty). Seeing her last year, when she was kind enough to stop by the radio station and power through some of the hits in her catalog, that was something of a revelation for me. She didn’t just sleepwalk through her songs, as many in that setting are wont to do. She thundered through them. She writhed and yelled and showed all of the same intensity in her face as she does on up on stage. There was absolutely no separation from singing a song and performing it. I admired her for that. She couldn’t go about doing it any other way, not if she tried. That aspect alone is what made me want to be witness to what she did three days in a row.

Yeah, I liked the songs and the band and its easygoing vibe. And all of their shows were within a few hours of flying or driving from here as well (Boise-SLC-Denver). Bonus again. Maybe I was looked upon as a bit of a stalker of sorts, but I’d rather choose terms like, oh, “uncommonly supportive” and “curiously dedicated.” Those work better for me. This whole thing wasn’t because I was trying to confess my undying devotion for her, as some were too quick to suppose, and it wasn’t because I think their music is apt to change the world somehow, because it probably won’t. I did it because, well, I guess it allowed me to borrow their eyes a spell and catch a quick glimpse of what their normality is. And, just like that, my empathy has expanded some. A life lesson to store away, one that comes with a soundtrack of its own. Should you ever get the chance and have the means to do so, try it out. You might even walk away with a new perspective as well, along with more thoughts than you know what to deal with.

At the very least, you’ll have a concert T-shirt, at least one new CD and some bragging rites to hold on to for a while. And if that’s all you get, maybe that’s enough.

All Linked Up

Okay, so all of that said, I wonder if my going to this teeny festival would win me Fan of the Year award? Thao and her band of non-brothers will be there, after all. There’s river rafting, no less!

To read even more ... a review I did of the Salt Lake show for City Weekly a few weeks back ... head thissaway.

Lastly, if you want to read an excellent interview my friend Heather conducted with Thao out in Denver not so long ago, click here and bask in its glory for a spell. It really reads rather well. Kudos!

best Wordless Wednesday ever.

Riffin' on Sasquatch.

Sometimes I write in places other than here. Actually, well, I do that plenty. Lately I haven't spent much time writing at EEU as The Job has been demanding me to write more for them instead. I hate it when that happens.

In fact, I went to the Sasquatch Music Festival last weekend and wanted to write about it much sooner than I actually did, but time and exhaustion were such that it never quite happened until a couple days ago. Anyway, I wrote about it elsewhere, but if you want to read all about it and see some of the video I shot in George, WA, well then ... I'm a proverbial open book.

Go ahead and CLICK HERE to fill up your eyes and ears some and drop me any thoughts you have. I really had just planned on reviewing the festival, but a lot of other thoughts came out along with that. That happens sometimes.