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October 30, 2002
Blog culture fires a lot of people up. It's still thought of as a "return to the written word" by some overly optimistic media theorists. But how can a culture "return" to the written word when it's the first society that benefits from much better technologies than the alphabet? To what extent is a blog a journal, and to what extent is it TV? At the risk of channeling G.W.S. Trow, most blogs are both: journals on TV. Blogs are absorbed thru square, illuminated electrical screens, the closest to being on TV that the average Internet pud will ever get. What makes them TV journals as opposed to real hide-under-the-mattress journals is the same desperate imperative of continuity that glues television together. The need to fill the space lest a fickle audience wander away. Most blog entries tell an imagined readership, "I'm sorry that this is here today instead of content." This is one of the perceived subtexts of TV commercials, although we of course see that the reality is the opposite: the ads are the content, and the shows are the filler. In both cases the lack of content IS the content. And as TV shows are the annoying interruptions between advertisements, so blogs are the optical trick that keeps the Internet afloat. Stare at this soliloquy about my crazy cat that thinks it's a person. That Flash advertisement in the corner of the screen should have disappeared into your blind spot. You can still see it? Damn, it "failed." Your retina is now closed for construction.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHERE TO GET A HAIRCUT?
Jingles are pretty much the best thing going on the radio these days. But the new jingle for Hair Cuttery is -transcendently- retarded. The music is a honky-ass, canned remake of "Rock the Boat" (the 1974 proto-disco hit by Hues Corporation), swapping the "Well I'd like to know where / you got the notion" line with, "Would you like to know where to get a haircut?" Ouchie, mommy. After a couple of reps you figure the music is going to dip down in the mix and make way for the straightforward radio-guy narration: "Come in this week and get a free dollop of gel, etc." But no - it continues into the chorus, somehow cramming the phrase "Hair Cuttery" in the space where "Rock the Boat" is usually sung. Try it right now - it's hard to imagine until you're heard it. Okay, NOW is it time for the radio guy to come in, please? Instead the jingle plows headlong into the verse, substituting sung ad copy for the original words. After an immeasurable amount of time it's followed by the Get a Haircut part again, which makes you feel like you got pinned in the mechanical door of a time machine, and half of you jetted back to 1977 while the other half is simultaneously in 1958. Kinda like watching CNN these days. Maybe our President should hire these guys to write a reelection jingle a couple years from now. Most disco songs were about getting a nice haircut anyway, at least peripherally, so the subject matter itself kind of fits. In fact, disco's afterlife as advertising music has vastly eclipsed its original function as social dance lubricant to the extent that when you hear a song from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack on the radio, you wonder what imaginary product each song must be selling. "How Deep Is Your Love" hawks condoms in some parallel universe. "Jive Talkin'" makes you want to find a cellular provider that ensures the accurate transmission of slang, especially when the slanger is dusted like a motherfucker. Forget sci-fi as the harbinger of future technologies - disco ca. 1977 is the market where everyone's buying but nothing's for sale for at least a quarter century. In the meantime, have a drink, relax, buy a house, etc.
October 29, 2002
THE COSTUME PARTY
that I went to the other night seemed like it was directed by Noah Baumbach. Which is to say it was a warm and witty gathering. [Dave and Chris's kitchen.] Chris: So who are you supposed to be? Mike: The Intergalactic Bastard! [displaying his crab-creature mask and t-shirt with “Hinckley Had A Vision” scrawled on it in red pen] Chris: Hmm. Dave: Cool. [brief pause] Mike: WWRRAAWWRGGH! [waving his hands around] Dave: …But there really isn’t any serious scholarship on soft-core… Alex [bursting into the kitchen dressed as Foucault]: BON JOUR! BON JOUR MIS AMIS! [begins kissing everyone] J.: Hey, Michel! Seth [bursting into the kitchen dressed as Philip K. Dick]: Here, hold this for a second… [hands J. a copy of a Gnostics text] J.: Hey, Phil! Seth: Philip K. Dick is someone else’s pseudonym. My name is Horselover Fat. [Foucault kisses Philip K. Dick on both cheeks] J.: Where did you get that outfit? [indicating Dave’s knee-length pinstripe tuxedo jacket] Dave: I went to this tuxedo store and said, “I’d like to buy the ugliest tuxedo you have,” and the gal behind the counter said, “I’ve got exactly what you want. I’ve been waiting to get rid of this thing for years.” [Dave and Chris’s living room. Junior-professorial-looking, with leather couches and Oriental art, except for the vast quantity of porn strewn about – Dave’s “research.”] Dave: Let’s put on some party music here. [turning off the Miles Davis CD] What do you want to hear? Matt: Anything but “AM Gold!” J. [looking up from a copy of Velvet across the room]: AM Gold? Let me check that out! Matt: Last time I was here they were playing this all damn night. [hands J. the CD] J.: Wow, this has “The Rain, The Park, and Other Things” on it! Michael [reading a copy of Hustler]: Look at the punchline of this cartoon: ‘Janet, get me that other temp who swallows and doesn’t puke.’ Ah hah hah hah hah! [starts laughing convulsively] Seth [flipping thru the mag]: Jesus, this is almost -aggressively- working-class.
The Auteurs: "Fear of Flying"
In singer Luke Haines' mind, John Lennon survived a piddling assassination only to recede into a real "lost weekend" that made his escapades in Hollywood with Harry Nilsson look like a teen sex farce. Paul was only psychically able to pull John out after he watched Linda die, and then together they walked down Abbey Road once again in dusty coats. I think Luke wrote this song in a janitors' closet there: "You must be wary of ghosts in the dark / They know all your history they know all your past / All of the angels are doing their bit / Clearing the house of your animal shit." Ghosts are just animals that are afraid of flying. Why does anyone go to Abbey Road to make a record other than to confront the ghosts of the Beatles, dead and alive? The Auteurs did not picture themselves as the Fab Four, standing in Studio One with boxy headphones on. The red light came on and they were up on the roof like pigeons, chilly breath visible on the microphones, a jetliner streaking through the overcast sky. Below on the street an imaginary throng looked up at them like witnesses; from the roof, the aerial view of a hangman. "Fear of flying is eating you whole / I have no fear of dying at all." This song can make your breath visible in a warm room.
October 27, 2002
Two Quotes
"In the late 1980s, I was performing A-Ha's 'Take on Me' in a college talent show. These religious fanatics came in and broke our instruments and the furniture." -- Salman Ahmad, of the Pakistani rock group Junoon (Chicago Tribune, 10/25/02) "I think what happened is that since the '60s there's been an ambition that art merge itself with pop culture. At first it was an ironic stance, and then it became actually a real thing; people wanted to have art as a playground and as entertainment. And that's fine in good times, but when something terrible or powerful or meaningful happens, you want an art that speaks to that, that embraces the language that would carry us forward, bring us together, all of that stuff. I think that 9/11 showed us that as an art world we weren't quite qualified to deal with this. Not trained enough to handle it." -- Eric Fischl, on the removal of his 9/11 commemorative sculpture "Tumbling Woman" from Rockefeller Center (New York Times Magazine, 10/27/02)
October 23, 2002
SONGS FOR ALL OCCASIONS
Ever look at the credits for a movie and notice that among the various song copyrights, you sometimes see a credit for “Happy Birthday to You”? It’s pretty amazing to think that money is deposited in someone’s bank account every time that tune is drunkenly warbled out on film or in front of a mic. But speaking purely in monetary terms, I’d rather own the publishing rights to “Happy Birthday to You” than the rights to any Beatles or Rolling Stones song. Am I being contrarian? On the contrary. A friend of mine who works for Sony Music Publishing in New York once gave me a rundown on the astronomical fees companies are induced into paying for the rights to use a song like “Tomorrow Never Knows” or “Ruby Tuesday” in a schlocky TV commercial. Upon hearing the damage, account execs will usually mute the conference phone, turn to their twenty-something hipster peons, and say "You're into music, right, kid? Go find us a CHEAP song." The next time you hear a popular classic rock song in an ad, look at the company being advertised – it’s always one of the biggies, simply because they’re the only ones who can afford it. The rest of them have to make do with Cat Power and Trio. The ad industry can live without the Beatles or the Stones, especially when they can have Big Star or the Stooges for...well, for a song. But no one on the planet can live without “Happy Birthday to You.” Publishing-wise, it’s the musical equivalent of owning the patent to the cotter pin - sure it's banal and low-tech, but you can't make a chainsaw or a 747 without paying Mr. Cotter. Without this indispensable little ditty, what would people do when the cake with burning candles is brought out from the kitchen? Cough into their fist and mutter “wow, that’s, neat”? Whoever owns the rights to "Happy Birthday" is sitting on an empire, an empire built one-eighth of a cent at a time. There's money in banality. The library I work at was named after (and paid for by) the guy who invented the window envelope. And like a million other offices, there isn't a day that goes by working in Mr. Regenstein's library where I don't come into direct contact with his legacy. This is why I’ve always thought the real money in song publishing lies in composing those stupid but ubiquitous tunes that are universally linked with big occasions. Pop music tastes are fickle, but you’d only have to write one good 'occasion song' to retire in comfort or luxury. The investment is smaller too. You could hire some studio hacks to cobble it together for a couple hundred bucks, and then license it to the company that makes those “Songs for Special Occasions” CDs you see in the jukeboxes of Polish bars in Westtown. You could pick an occasion that is not only special (once in a person’s life), but is usually celebrated in bars anyways: Turning 21. I thought of this idea a few years ago, and the band I was playing with at the time took a stab at it. First we wrote the title: “Set One Up (You’re 21).” After that we had writer’s block. But we still kicked the idea around, and the more we joked about it, the better and more feasible it sounded. Any time someone orders their first legal beer, their friends and well-wishers will be pumping quarters into the jukebox to play the only song suitable for such a special night: “PUT ON THAT 21 SONG!” they bark, gesturing with sloshed beer. Pretty soon you start hearing the damn tune everywhere; you unwittingly memorize the lyrics (they're not hard to remember - they were written for drunks). Some middle-aged pipefitter is sitting at the bar, well into his cups, as the bard says, and he's listening to that fucking song for about the hundredth time. But now for some reason he starts thinking about his goofy teenage son, that lazy lump-on-a-log. When is that jagaloon going to get himself a job? Suddenly, though, the song sounds different to him, as he remembers his teenage years, and his first legal drink. “So set one up And knock it back Today you’re 21…!” Everyone in the bar is singing along with the cloying lyrics. His eyes begin to blur with tears. His bottom lip quivers a bit as his mouth turns into a moist grimace of regret and remorse. He resolves to take his son out on his 21st birthday, buy him his first beer – and put on that song. Stories like this start to accumulate. Even people who hate the song acknowledge it by purposefully doing something else besides draining a frosty mug in a fake Irish pub on their special day: “Do not even THINK of playing that fucking song on my birthday.” Teen pop stars of the future have their 21st birthdays trumpeted in major newspapers with the headline, "Set One Up, [aging teen star whose career is now up for grabs]." And so, ineffably, it becomes THE soundtrack for turning legal in America. (The British come up with their own ripoff: “Hoist ‘Em for Dicky”). On a slightly different note, there is a song that is already a theme for just about ANY current or as-yet-uninvented occasion. That song is “Oh Yeah,” by Yello. I get the feeling that these hirsute Swiss disco-alchemists were aware of this when they recorded it. If you don’t know the song by title, you know it as the true narrative voice of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” It’s also been used in a shitload of other movies, TV shows, and commercials, as well as countless sporting events (which is another good social occasion to hang your song on: Queen had it in mind when they wrote “We Will Rock You,” with its stadium-friendly stomp-stomp-clap rhythm). If “Happy Birthday to You” is the cotter pin of occasion songs - an indispensible banality - then “Oh Yeah” is its duct tape. It adheres to any situation it's applied to, rendering bizarre subtext from banal context. It's just that loaded and stupid of a song. Is there any occasion that can't be made more enjoyably ridiculous by its Synclavier ass-burbles, or by its vertiginous, pitched-down “OHHHHHH YEEEAAAHHHHHH”s? It immediately turns whatever visual it's associated with into failed pornography. I've revised my will. It now states that this song is to be played at my funeral. After a brief and tasteful service my coffin will be hoisted up by my pallbearing friends, while “Oh Yeah” begins to pump from a gigantic P.A. system at the back of the church, which no one had noticed 'til now. As my body reaches the threshold and overcast daylight, passing cars slow down to watch the recession to the hearse, mainly because the bass from the deep, throaty Oh Yeahs is rattling car panels up and down the block. There's a speaker lashed to a tree. I deserve to laugh, I'm dead. The song has military applications as well. If they ever cornered Osama Bin Laden and his henchmen in a cave somewhere, they could bring out the tanks with the municipal air-raid horns on top and hit Osama with some Yello. This ought to shake his morale and drive him out. The Al-Qaeda soldiers are bombarded with “Oh Yeah” for two straight weeks. The GIs are equipped with high-tech earplugs. Finally one of the Al-Qaeda guys grabs his AK-47 and screams, running toward the cave opening: [in Arabic] “I can’t fucking take it anymore! That song is driving me nuts! You sons of bitches! Who the FUCK wrote that? It’s irritating as hell! Have relations with your mother! [trans.]" He opens fire on the Americans, and his woozy brothers have no choice but to join him. A dense firefight breaks out instantaneously. But someone forgot to turn off the record, and a stray bullet deflects into the tank and knocks the record player into a skip-groove. Soon the battlefield is still. The crumpled and bloodied bodies of both sides lay strewn across the sand. “OHHH Yeah- OHHH Yeah- OHHH Yeah- OHHH Yeah- OHHH Yeah…” Later in the field hospital, shellshocked survivors describe “waking up and feeling like I was in a Vietnam movie directed by John Hughes…horrible…" There was a photo crew there, who testified when the GIs then sued the Government. In a Smithsonian exhibit a few decades later their images looked like placid Civil War daguerrotypes. As modern audiences are spared the screaming of the wounded, tourists blithely ignore the placards standing around the gallery. Each one reads "OHHH, yeah!" in a quaint early 21st century font. Still the beneficiaries of Yello are paid royalties for each gaze aversion, fair and square.
October 21, 2002
Radio Zero
Everybody tune in Thursdays between 10 a.m. and noon for Radio Zero, my new show on WHPK 88.5 FM, Chicago. Mike o'F and I will play the best gestalt rock what can be got.
October 20, 2002
grilled cheese sandwich
George Foreman probably wasn't the best fighter ever to have lived, but I can see why they wanted to channel his image in the marketing of the Grill named after him. It can lay waste to a grilled cheese sandwich in record time. It can pummel a grilled cheese sandwich senseless. The commercial should say, "If you owned one of these, you'd be eating RIGHT NOW." Fact is, they move these things even without the hard sell. People end up with one in their apartment not remembering how it got there. George Foreman would have been the best fighter in the world if he moved like his Grill did. What is it with this thing? This is the first object I've encountered in my life where I can't figure out if it's a houseware, an appliance, or a piece of furniture. It doesn't look right anywhere you put it. You stand in your kitchen looking at this angular thingamabob, steam rising silently from its Teflon jaws, and wonder what you should do for it; what CAN you do for it? You chomp on another perfectly-grilled bite of grilled cheese and cock your head thoughtfully. Have you ever noticed, George, that the 'essence' of American Cheese is that it's wrapped in plastic? If we have American Brie that emulates real Brie from France, I'd like to go to a specialty store and buy some of that French 'American' Cheese. The vacuumformed plastic has a subtle European quality to it that you and a lot of other people might not be sensitive to. The distinctively American trademarks of convenience and utility are gone, thank heavens - it takes a good five minutes at least to unwrap one slice. I start to assemble a neat floral arrangement to put next to the still-warm George Foreman Grill. But my mouth waters just thinking about a grilled cheese sandwich made with French 'American' Cheese, grilled in a fat baguette on the appliance named after the French equivalent of George Foreman. The appliance is covered in leather with inlaid Art Nouveau ornamentation, and you open it like an old dictionary to expose the Teflon cooking surface. You feed it and it radiates the smell of hot pewter and tanned horsehide. You have exactly 60 seconds to savor it. Then, voila!, bon appetit!, and other Franco-Ameri-Franco exclamations. You begin to scrub the Grill as the cheese-wrappers flap their plastic wings and escape through the kitchen window.
October 19, 2002
In the car crash I felt that old saw about trauma: things that are instantaneous and unexpected seem slow-motion and scripted, like a dream. 'Traum' means dream in German. In my memory I see the crash in slo-mo, but hear it in real time. The indignant roar of the tires as they were suddenly forced to move perpendicular to their usual direction. Then silence as the right wheels began to leave the ground. I remember thinking in some subverbal language that here comes that old part where the car flips over. There was a quizzical hanging sort-of moment. Then a huge crunch. All the windows blew out and the maps and cassette tapes that were on the floor shot past my face in every direction. My own weight was pinning my head against the upholstered roof, and the car was still going about 35 mph, but upside-down and spinning. The sound of pavement ripping past metal was inducted directly into my eardrum, like a contact mic. I felt like I was caught in a garbage disposal. It took forever to come to a stop. When the cops showed up, one of them asked me if I go to church. I said no. He said, "Well, you better start." My friend who came to pick me up said, "He's Jewish, officer." He asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. We went to a bar instead, and I put ABBA on the jukebox and drank Wild Turkey, picking pebbles and pieces of glass out of my hair and putting them in the ashtray next to my cigarette.
October 18, 2002
M.C. DOPE-SICK: Let Me Hold Five Boss VHS
I was at a dollar store on 53rd Street looking for one of those things you attach to your dish-drying rack to hold the utensils. I looked down the aisle. There was this dented-up cardboard box on the floor. It was piled to the top with videotapes. I started pawing through the box, and found that they were all the same. A plain VHS tape with a white sticker and the inscription “M.C. Dope-Sick.” I felt a small cold flare of pity. This was some aspiring rapper’s promo tape. It’s one type of face-slap to find a copy of your band’s CD in the 99-cent bin at Reckless. It’s another galaxy of humiliation altogether to know that there’s a boxload of your life’s ambition gathering dust down at the Dollar Market. Probably several Dollar Markets citywide. Crammed unceremoniously between the Mexican prayer candles and the unicorn salt n’ pepper shakers. I can see M.C. Dope-Sick himself WORKING in a Dollar Market now; he’s maintaining an edgy nonchalance as dudes like me wander in and buy his dead video. I was gazing at the VHS tape in my hand. Man oh MAN, this guy has just about the most unfortunate stage name I’ve ever heard. I put the tape down on the counter alongside the utensil dryer, $2.16 total. Dollar-store shopping is a perverse bargain: what you save in money you take home with you in an equivalent quantity of mute tragedy. Dollar stores sell dead dreams of all shapes and utilities. While the dishes were drying in the kitchen, I popped the video in. The auto-tracking on the VCR went haywire for a few moments, and then a grainy image emerged on the screen. An underlit shot of the interior of a nightclub, as far as I could make out. Followed by distorted bass thumps so poorly recorded they sounded like giant blobs of congealed gravy slamming against the bottom of an empty Dumpster. My suspicion that this video must have been entirely assembled in someone’s basement for a hundred dollars was confirmed when a garish, community-TV-quality graphic suddenly hijacked the screen: “M.C. Dope-Sick…Let Me Hold Five Boss!” The font was so obnoxious it physically changed the timbre of the soundtrack. A muddy overdub then blasted out of the TV speaker - a nervous wail that reinforced the already overbearing text my eyes were just beginning to recover from. {{{LEMME HOLD FIVE, BOSS!!!}}} I jump-tumbled out of my seat for the volume on the remote. M.C. Dope-Sick wandered out to the front of the stage to the utter apathy of the sparse audience. His appearance was atrocious. His filthy, matted hair was dented in on one side like a mutilated car panel. Even with the ultra-low resolution of the videotape I could make out the twin rivulets of snot flowing out of his nose and into his mouth. Cascades of sweat ran off his head, but the languid rhythm of breath underneath his shirt was like REM sleep. This made him look like a track sprinter just gaining his breath back after a trying run, as well as someone abruptly awakened from a two-day nap. As he stepped beneath the path of a stagelight, his inside-out pants-pockets lit up for a moment and resembled a pair of white rabbit ears. The gravy-bass thumps seemed to grow more distorted as he drifted toward the mic stand, moving like a damp shirt drawn in from a clothesline. There was a glare off his forehead for a second. I noticed he wasn’t wearing any socks. “EXCUSE ME, everyone, I’m sick. I’m going to be sick. I’m very sorry. Please. If I could have everyone’s attention, I’m sorry,” he began, more or less in syncopation with the crusty thud of the bass pulse. He seemed about to pass out for a second, gripping the mic stand for feeble support. But then, almost as an afterthought, he grew to the microphone once again, stared tenuously at the crowd with some incomprehensible personal horror, and bleated, “HOW’S EVERYBODY DOIN’…?!?” It had the cringing hollowness of funeral parlor business-talk. People glanced at one another in embarrassment. Shadows shifted in the foreground, suggesting club patrons snuffing out cigarettes and calling it a night. I myself lit up a cigarette, leaning forward on the futon-couch, nailed in place by a pathos I’d pretty much invited into my own apartment but in regards to which I couldn’t even exercise the basic flight instinct being displayed by the live audience I was now watching on the TV. People who were now filing out of the live room of some South Side club, blurred figures in hulking black leather waistcoats, fleeing a burning sweatshop with embarrassed decorum. It was a bellows for M.C. Dope-Sick’s chemistry-deprived furnace, and with an explosion of rancid sweat, he unleashed a grotesque litany of desperate rhymes, the upshot of which was to loan him five bucks, I’m ASKING you. It was hands-down the most amazing “freestyle” I’ve ever heard or witnessed in my entire life. Something else shuddered through the dancefloor as well. The consideration of rappers getting rich by convincing people they already are, so now they deserve it. This poor son of a bitch, by contrast, is simply asking you to give a guy a break for the love of Jesus. M.C. Dope-Sick drank in the ambivalence like it was the last beer in the fridge, leveling a barrage of pathetically bomb-ass rhymes at the crowd, pausing only when folks broke out their wallets with solemn nods. During these moments the fucked-up bass farts flooded the soundtrack like a headache, as Dope-Sick silently watched each patron count out the bills with the lobotomized anticipation of a turtle-race spectator. He eventually lurched back to the crummy stage, and gazing blindly at the crowd through glistening eyes, introduced his DJ with a rheumatic semi-extension of his arm: “D.J. Crackhead, y’all.” Navigating the crowd had sapped him of what little energy he had left, and he knelt at the edge of the carpeted stage completely spent, muttering and dry-heaving. M.C. Dope-Sick was like motherfucking Dick Cavett compared to D.J. Crackhead. The spotlight swerved over to him, illuminating him behind his deck, and he jerked up like a deer picked out of the darkness – though not nearly as cognizant as a beast who understands its own death in an unforeseen flash of fate. He had been known as a skillful cutmeister at one point, but he had long since hocked his rare beats n’ breaks records, sometimes trading them outright for rocks. Now he was now stuck with a milkcrate full of lame, scuffed-up soft-rock albums he had managed to scavenge from behind a nearby thrift store. He had just begun spinning a Bread album. The subtle ambiguity of the riff he picked - some kind of suspended-minor folk arpeggio – became annoying almost instantaneously. With the other turntable deck, he was half-assedly scratching on the opening line from a Jim Croce song: “Well the South Side of Chicago is the baddest part o’ town.” How can I describe it? It was hands-down the lamest thing I'd ever heard. But just as the audience was beginning to gather its distaste, the music abruptly stopped. The blinding sting of a spotlight apparently triggered some kind of psychosis in the wreckage of D.J. Crackhead’s brain, and he bolted from behind the turntable deck, tearing at his stained Cingular t-shirt and screaming “GET THESE FUCKIN’ SPIDERS OFF ME!! Get 'em OFF!!” He fell off the edge of the stage, sprained his ankle, and began howling and rolling back and forth on the sticky floor. He landed near the table of a young, well-dressed black couple who merely continued to stare in the direction of the stage, blithely nodding their heads as if part of him were still up there, laying down ghostly beats. M.C. Dope-Sick just watched the entire time with the bored interest of a rush-hour commuter, defeated, his microphone hanging dourly from one hand. An ashtray thrown from the audience knocked the Bread album into a skip-groove. The glare from the stage was anemic; it seemed more desolate with him standing up there than it would if it were devoid of any human presence altogether. Dope-Sick had left a lazy trail of crumpled dollar bills across the stage, and in the winsome glow of the spotlight, each cast a small yellow shadow on the carpet. [to be continued]
October 17, 2002
I Ain't Lazy
I hadn't posted anything for a while because I'd been having technical problems with the blog. Now everything's fixed, and while I was at it I put up a lot of crazy crap on the walls, like a Bennigan's. Now folks can leave comments, and receive email alerts when I've posted something new (which is handy, since I tend to be pretty erratic about my blogging). Enjoi!
October 08, 2002
Bars In Germany
The Beatles played bars in Germany. The Beatles played bars of boogie-woogie in 4/4 time. They played metal, wound in strings. The sound of metal strings traveling thru metal cords to bars in Germany. Metal chords in German bars. Bars after bars in 4/4 boogie time, screaming English words in German bars. Screaming German girls, like metal wheels on metal tracks. English girls too. Screaming chords, sounding English to Germans. Beatles screaming in German bars. Traveling thru metal cords to bars in Germany. Bar after bar of "Komme Gib Mir Deine Hand" in German bar after German bar. In English, too. Beatles screaming at girls. Girls screaming back. Bar after bar in German bar. Bar screams back. Metal screams thru metal. Sounds like English in 4/4 boogie time.
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