Monday, September 21, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Henry Butler @ Joe's Pub (Caveat Emptor)
Note: Before you begin, we here at the Tears strongly suggest spending a minute or two at the Wild Koba's Music Box. It does more to set the scene and preface the below then we will ever manage. And a special "thanks for putting me on the spot" to the management over there at the WK's Music Box.
Shortly past 9:30, with the assistance of an unnamed lass, Henry Butler made his way up the short flight of stairs and took the stage at Joe's Pub. The appreciative audience washed over him as he familiarized himself with those beacons, piano and microphone, of his otherwise permanent midnight. He wore a faux(?) gray alligator/lizard skin coat and sunglasses with the garish gold adornments so common amongst a certain set these days. He greeted us briefly...a few chord flourishes and he was off.
He pulsed,
he pounded,
he swooped,
he bounded,
he beep'd,
he bop'd,
he hiddie'd,
he ho'd.
His voice, at first only lending vocal mutterings to the instrumental pieces, began to thunder and shriek.
Then there were the captured moments, both polished and atavistic, played in time to the rumble of the lurching subterranean mechanism of public transport and ire.
The audience was his.
Hands clapped.
Heads bopped.
Lovers embraced.
Each and ever person was transported by whatever mechanism and to whatever place that...
Hey you!
You, with your store bought cosmopolitan!
Yes, you!
You, with your simple form and inviting curves that do little to combat your tepid ambivalence and dismissive mien!
You!
You, with your sweet sixteen rhinoplasty and methodical tangle of hip accessories!
Yes, you!
You, with your mother's severe chin and father's lack of rhythm!
Oh...now don't get me wrong my little wonderful.
No reason to furrow that brow.
I get it, this just ain't your thing.
Nah, your thing is the slice of cake you had the tempestuous waitress bring over, candle ablaze, in the middle of Mr. Butler's stupefying set.
Nah, your thing is inquiring as to the quality of the overpriced charlatan masquerading as an entree as the man takes to the ivory with the passion you never receive from your cold lovers on these warm summer nights.
Nah, your thing is that half eaten salad that you couldn't even shove around your plate in time to the fistfuls of dynamite that set that rancid dewdrop hanging low and sallow betwixt your legs aquiver.
I get it.
This ain't your thing!
Your thing is to be oblivious to the point of rudeness (a trait no doubt picked up from your obsequious parents) as you scroll through the latest obsessions made readily available via your electronic tether.
Your thing is, no doubt, to excuse your behavior by means of Mr. Butler's visual impairment.
That's alright baby.
I got my bag and you got your's.
So what if I want to stuff you in it and throw you in the East River.
Now some of you might think that this sounds awfully cruel. That acting ambivalent and even slightly disruptive to a performer (and the overall performance) is nothing new. It isn't. Without fail there is that persistent percentage of the audience, regardless of genre or locale, that puts themselves first. You know the type. The "I am not familiar with this song as it did not receive radio airplay so I am going to act loud and boorish as I polish off my umpteenth flat and overpriced brew and send shout outs to all my bros and hos in attendance" type.
So then, why did this ingénue with her candlelight emboldened looks deserve such treatment?
Perhaps it was the misfortunate happenstance that had her in my direct line of sight, acting as an obstruction between the stage, the man and I.
Perhaps it is because Mr. Butler is blind and cannot take note of these rude strumpets sitting within spitting distance.
Perhaps it was the complete disregard for the virtuosic flourishes that Mr. Butler seems to pull out of the ether...the notes stampeding, but never trampling one another.
Its that last one that has led me to the following conclusions:
1) Joe's Pub is a disgrace! I can no longer stomach these policy(d) venues of required consumption. These places, so set on the "business of art", have lost their way. There comes a point when you damn the policy and you give over to the musician. The cacophony of flatware set against imitation porcelain did Mr. Butler little favors early on in his set. True, Mr. Butler may have done some of his best work in places less polished then this (the sticky floors and greasy hips of strutting waitresses too thick for their outfits and thin on this month's rent keeping time). However, he has reached a point in his musicianship that he deserves the hushed reverential and even slightly snobbish silence that accompanies a recital. It should be man, instrument, and audience. Not man, instrument, and overpriced undercooked penne.
2) I am loathe to say this, so close to the source, the ecstatic wound still throbbing, but this may well have been the finest performance I have ever seen or heard. Through his entire set Mr. Butler had me vacillating between a tight lipped smirk of wonderment and the countless mutterings of that most blunt and effusive green eyed compliment, "Fuck you."
Seeing as Mr. Butler has taken up residence in Brooklyn he will no doubt make good on his threat to "(R)ock this thing!"
So, I implore you...nay...genuflect at the altar of your good grace...those few who are loyal to this place...seek out Henry Butler as often as you can...you won't regret it...and try the Caesar salad.
Shortly past 9:30, with the assistance of an unnamed lass, Henry Butler made his way up the short flight of stairs and took the stage at Joe's Pub. The appreciative audience washed over him as he familiarized himself with those beacons, piano and microphone, of his otherwise permanent midnight. He wore a faux(?) gray alligator/lizard skin coat and sunglasses with the garish gold adornments so common amongst a certain set these days. He greeted us briefly...a few chord flourishes and he was off.
He pulsed,
he pounded,
he swooped,
he bounded,
he beep'd,
he bop'd,
he hiddie'd,
he ho'd.
His voice, at first only lending vocal mutterings to the instrumental pieces, began to thunder and shriek.
Then there were the captured moments, both polished and atavistic, played in time to the rumble of the lurching subterranean mechanism of public transport and ire.
The audience was his.
Hands clapped.
Heads bopped.
Lovers embraced.
Each and ever person was transported by whatever mechanism and to whatever place that...
Hey you!
You, with your store bought cosmopolitan!
Yes, you!
You, with your simple form and inviting curves that do little to combat your tepid ambivalence and dismissive mien!
You!
You, with your sweet sixteen rhinoplasty and methodical tangle of hip accessories!
Yes, you!
You, with your mother's severe chin and father's lack of rhythm!
Oh...now don't get me wrong my little wonderful.
No reason to furrow that brow.
I get it, this just ain't your thing.
Nah, your thing is the slice of cake you had the tempestuous waitress bring over, candle ablaze, in the middle of Mr. Butler's stupefying set.
Nah, your thing is inquiring as to the quality of the overpriced charlatan masquerading as an entree as the man takes to the ivory with the passion you never receive from your cold lovers on these warm summer nights.
Nah, your thing is that half eaten salad that you couldn't even shove around your plate in time to the fistfuls of dynamite that set that rancid dewdrop hanging low and sallow betwixt your legs aquiver.
I get it.
This ain't your thing!
Your thing is to be oblivious to the point of rudeness (a trait no doubt picked up from your obsequious parents) as you scroll through the latest obsessions made readily available via your electronic tether.
Your thing is, no doubt, to excuse your behavior by means of Mr. Butler's visual impairment.
That's alright baby.
I got my bag and you got your's.
So what if I want to stuff you in it and throw you in the East River.
Now some of you might think that this sounds awfully cruel. That acting ambivalent and even slightly disruptive to a performer (and the overall performance) is nothing new. It isn't. Without fail there is that persistent percentage of the audience, regardless of genre or locale, that puts themselves first. You know the type. The "I am not familiar with this song as it did not receive radio airplay so I am going to act loud and boorish as I polish off my umpteenth flat and overpriced brew and send shout outs to all my bros and hos in attendance" type.
So then, why did this ingénue with her candlelight emboldened looks deserve such treatment?
Perhaps it was the misfortunate happenstance that had her in my direct line of sight, acting as an obstruction between the stage, the man and I.
Perhaps it is because Mr. Butler is blind and cannot take note of these rude strumpets sitting within spitting distance.
Perhaps it was the complete disregard for the virtuosic flourishes that Mr. Butler seems to pull out of the ether...the notes stampeding, but never trampling one another.
Its that last one that has led me to the following conclusions:
1) Joe's Pub is a disgrace! I can no longer stomach these policy(d) venues of required consumption. These places, so set on the "business of art", have lost their way. There comes a point when you damn the policy and you give over to the musician. The cacophony of flatware set against imitation porcelain did Mr. Butler little favors early on in his set. True, Mr. Butler may have done some of his best work in places less polished then this (the sticky floors and greasy hips of strutting waitresses too thick for their outfits and thin on this month's rent keeping time). However, he has reached a point in his musicianship that he deserves the hushed reverential and even slightly snobbish silence that accompanies a recital. It should be man, instrument, and audience. Not man, instrument, and overpriced undercooked penne.
2) I am loathe to say this, so close to the source, the ecstatic wound still throbbing, but this may well have been the finest performance I have ever seen or heard. Through his entire set Mr. Butler had me vacillating between a tight lipped smirk of wonderment and the countless mutterings of that most blunt and effusive green eyed compliment, "Fuck you."
Seeing as Mr. Butler has taken up residence in Brooklyn he will no doubt make good on his threat to "(R)ock this thing!"
So, I implore you...nay...genuflect at the altar of your good grace...those few who are loyal to this place...seek out Henry Butler as often as you can...you won't regret it...and try the Caesar salad.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Kako! (Ode to the Wild Koba)
We here at the Tears have put our summer sabbatical on hold (no fears all you frenzied denizens, we are presently exploring other artistic endeavours and a collaboration or two that may yield greater exposure for this intrepid flotilla of schemes and stillborn dreams) to pay tribute to the patron saint of mongrels...the Wild Koba.
Most of you are no doubt familiar with his exploits as they pertain to this little corner of the ethereal binary world. To date, his back story has been well documented by countless tabloids...filled with scandalous images, both real and augmented. His picture has graced milk cartons and post office walls. His name alone, spoken in the right place at the wrong time, can open many a door that otherwise would remain sealed. He is often heard, but not seen...a sign of things to come and a sign that it is too late.
So, in honor of the anniversary of his siring we here at Tears wish to repay the tribute he so kindly bestowed upon us nearly two years ago (sheesh) by presenting a selection of appropriate tunes...a selective soundtrack if you will, into the man, the myth, the lesion.
(Note: A special note of thanks to the Captain for his invaluable input and appropriate selections)
from the Captain:
- the beatles, "piggies" (the beatles (aka: the white album), 1968)
this works on a couple levels
1)there's of course the gourmand like lust for all things porcine which are braised, battered and bbq-ed
2)then there is the murk that resides just below the surface....that malevolence...that slant of the grin
(Caveat: the above link leads to cartoon violence and a Charles Manson entree)
- elvis costello, "radio, radio" (this year's model, 1978)
it would have behooved both the Captain and I to have listened to this track on the radio as we strained to hear the chords from our distant perch in the ruins of the baths located near the saratoga performing arts center. alas, the closing discordance of '(what's so funny 'bout) peace, love, and understanding?' would be the only portion of the set we could claim to have been on the grounds for. you are still not forgiven for this...anticipate traffic next time!
from the Tears (aka "a."):
- ernie k. doe, "here comes the girls" (ernie k. doe(janus), 1970)
with no disrespect to monogamy and lovely significant others, this song is as anthemic as they come. each morning it is easy to fathom that he dresses to that NOLA cadence and throws back the deadbolt to the that final "oh water...i don't need...no lemonade!", greeting the world to the fading pleading repetition of "girls!"
- major maker, "in the middle of the night" (2009?) - link is to myspace page
this speaks to the malevolence (that lurks) mentioned in the Captains' picks. don't let this upbeat number fool ya. if this sucker gets picked up by a commercial or movie we may have another "every breath you take" on our hands. although, i can't see many couples using this one for their first dance as husband and wife.
- cher, "half-breed" (half breed, 1973)
(comment withheld)
Most of you are no doubt familiar with his exploits as they pertain to this little corner of the ethereal binary world. To date, his back story has been well documented by countless tabloids...filled with scandalous images, both real and augmented. His picture has graced milk cartons and post office walls. His name alone, spoken in the right place at the wrong time, can open many a door that otherwise would remain sealed. He is often heard, but not seen...a sign of things to come and a sign that it is too late.
So, in honor of the anniversary of his siring we here at Tears wish to repay the tribute he so kindly bestowed upon us nearly two years ago (sheesh) by presenting a selection of appropriate tunes...a selective soundtrack if you will, into the man, the myth, the lesion.
(Note: A special note of thanks to the Captain for his invaluable input and appropriate selections)
from the Captain:
- the beatles, "piggies" (the beatles (aka: the white album), 1968)
this works on a couple levels
1)there's of course the gourmand like lust for all things porcine which are braised, battered and bbq-ed
2)then there is the murk that resides just below the surface....that malevolence...that slant of the grin
(Caveat: the above link leads to cartoon violence and a Charles Manson entree)
- elvis costello, "radio, radio" (this year's model, 1978)
it would have behooved both the Captain and I to have listened to this track on the radio as we strained to hear the chords from our distant perch in the ruins of the baths located near the saratoga performing arts center. alas, the closing discordance of '(what's so funny 'bout) peace, love, and understanding?' would be the only portion of the set we could claim to have been on the grounds for. you are still not forgiven for this...anticipate traffic next time!
from the Tears (aka "a."):
- ernie k. doe, "here comes the girls" (ernie k. doe(janus), 1970)
with no disrespect to monogamy and lovely significant others, this song is as anthemic as they come. each morning it is easy to fathom that he dresses to that NOLA cadence and throws back the deadbolt to the that final "oh water...i don't need...no lemonade!", greeting the world to the fading pleading repetition of "girls!"
- major maker, "in the middle of the night" (2009?) - link is to myspace page
this speaks to the malevolence (that lurks) mentioned in the Captains' picks. don't let this upbeat number fool ya. if this sucker gets picked up by a commercial or movie we may have another "every breath you take" on our hands. although, i can't see many couples using this one for their first dance as husband and wife.
- cher, "half-breed" (half breed, 1973)
(comment withheld)
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Lost Tapes
Everyone seems hopeful.
It is a collective hope, shared by dubious medical professionals and career laymen alike.
Our latest attempt at recovery, from the most recent airborne threat, here in the______ Mountains seems to be taking. So much so that the nuns have given me access to "the machine", as Sister Margarete refers to it. The connection is in doubt as the snow capped peaks, which ring the valley and keep the billowing nimbus at bay, are responsible for varied anomalies...those of a technological and biological nature.
So, I am forced to be brief.
The nuns have been kind.
First came the leeches and two days to bleed.
Then came the blankets and the ecclesiastical advances.
Sister Margarete insists that this is the treatment everyone receives here at______.
I trust her smile, but little else.
From the widow's peak of the main house, where we spend most afternoons, I can see Sister Margarete exiting the smokehouse. Her habit, bejewelled and sequined, shimmers wild sapphire in the afternoon sun. She hoists the cured carrion that is to be our supper into her crude poplar wheelbarrow. She claimed, one night over a cup of bland milk soaked tea as her adorned habit blinked pale indolence, that the smoking process releases the meats curative powers.
There are seven of us now.
There were nine.
Gemma Galgani (we have all been given the names of saints to protect our anonymity...even amongst ourselves) was finally consumed by her consumption last Thursday.
Her lips were cocaine blue.
Lawrence of Brindisi left a day later via airship (the only means of access to the valley) fully cured and ready to once again claim his lofty perch amongst the glitterati and propeller jet set.
The limp should work to his advantage as it is of a heroic sort.
The Three Bells are tolling.
It is almost time to take to the waters.
The stream, with its northwest bend, tastes of alkaline and is the color of magnesium. Legend has it that it is the fifth river of Eden. One can follow it to its end where it slips beneath the mountains like a hand between silk and skin.
It is time to go.
So without further ado, as a means to keep up the appearance of keeping up appearances, I bring you a transcript from the master reels of the ill conceived and daftly brewed Library Full of Tears Radio Hour. Recorded under the direct supervision of legally qualified and trained personnel, the tapes suggest an enthusiasm that the public did not share. Although, rumor has it that a band of Somali pirates have been using the thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds of the program that made it to air as motivation at the onset of every mission. (They say it has something to do with the timbre of my voice, a creature of local myth, and the similarities therein.)
The transcript is warts and all as my time with "the machine" will not provide for a proper edit. Until next time...
"...he's more clean shaven then she is.
(humming - flat and sparse)
Let me know when we are rolling Jimmy.
What's that?...oh...well we can just edit that out in post.
(clears throat)
Closing Homily, take one
(dead air - four seconds)
The mind is never more creative then when set upon anothers destruction
And the longer you live the greater the influence of inconvenience
Not even incandescence's mellow entreat or spring's slippery retreat can stoke a muses diminishing flicker
'You're gonna sing with her, but he's gonna fuck her.'
She spoke of brevity and misguided levity
'Take me now as I shed the last vestiges of youth!'
You...
(tape cut)
...ward the end. What do you think Jimmy? Put more emphasis on "reptilian whore" next go round? Alright...let's pick up after the fourth stanza. Ready, Jimmy?
You devalue my worth?
Well, I spit on your wisdom and poison your vine
But I ain't no fool for beggin' for what you're sitting on
And knees ain't just for beggin'
I am surprised by your...
(off mic chatter)
What's that?
(off mic chatter)
No man, that's over in Studio B.
(off mic chatter)
No worries.
Are we still rolling Jimmy?
(cough)
OK.
I'll pick it up from the interruption.
I am surprised by your suppression and attempts to claim my mind
Your breeze betraying your subterranean ambitions
Its just that you don't do me like you used to
So, get your tongue out my mouth cause I'm kissin' you goodbye!
(dead air - ten seconds)
I think once or twice more and we should have this Jimmy.
Hmm?
What's that?
(dead air - six seconds)
Brian?
Really?
(dead air - two seconds)
Oh, I'm so sorry Brian.
(dead air - seven seconds)
Then who the hell is Jim...? "
(end tape)
It is a collective hope, shared by dubious medical professionals and career laymen alike.
Our latest attempt at recovery, from the most recent airborne threat, here in the______ Mountains seems to be taking. So much so that the nuns have given me access to "the machine", as Sister Margarete refers to it. The connection is in doubt as the snow capped peaks, which ring the valley and keep the billowing nimbus at bay, are responsible for varied anomalies...those of a technological and biological nature.
So, I am forced to be brief.
The nuns have been kind.
First came the leeches and two days to bleed.
Then came the blankets and the ecclesiastical advances.
Sister Margarete insists that this is the treatment everyone receives here at______.
I trust her smile, but little else.
From the widow's peak of the main house, where we spend most afternoons, I can see Sister Margarete exiting the smokehouse. Her habit, bejewelled and sequined, shimmers wild sapphire in the afternoon sun. She hoists the cured carrion that is to be our supper into her crude poplar wheelbarrow. She claimed, one night over a cup of bland milk soaked tea as her adorned habit blinked pale indolence, that the smoking process releases the meats curative powers.
There are seven of us now.
There were nine.
Gemma Galgani (we have all been given the names of saints to protect our anonymity...even amongst ourselves) was finally consumed by her consumption last Thursday.
Her lips were cocaine blue.
Lawrence of Brindisi left a day later via airship (the only means of access to the valley) fully cured and ready to once again claim his lofty perch amongst the glitterati and propeller jet set.
The limp should work to his advantage as it is of a heroic sort.
The Three Bells are tolling.
It is almost time to take to the waters.
The stream, with its northwest bend, tastes of alkaline and is the color of magnesium. Legend has it that it is the fifth river of Eden. One can follow it to its end where it slips beneath the mountains like a hand between silk and skin.
It is time to go.
So without further ado, as a means to keep up the appearance of keeping up appearances, I bring you a transcript from the master reels of the ill conceived and daftly brewed Library Full of Tears Radio Hour. Recorded under the direct supervision of legally qualified and trained personnel, the tapes suggest an enthusiasm that the public did not share. Although, rumor has it that a band of Somali pirates have been using the thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds of the program that made it to air as motivation at the onset of every mission. (They say it has something to do with the timbre of my voice, a creature of local myth, and the similarities therein.)
The transcript is warts and all as my time with "the machine" will not provide for a proper edit. Until next time...
"...he's more clean shaven then she is.
(humming - flat and sparse)
Let me know when we are rolling Jimmy.
What's that?...oh...well we can just edit that out in post.
(clears throat)
Closing Homily, take one
(dead air - four seconds)
The mind is never more creative then when set upon anothers destruction
And the longer you live the greater the influence of inconvenience
Not even incandescence's mellow entreat or spring's slippery retreat can stoke a muses diminishing flicker
'You're gonna sing with her, but he's gonna fuck her.'
She spoke of brevity and misguided levity
'Take me now as I shed the last vestiges of youth!'
You...
(tape cut)
...ward the end. What do you think Jimmy? Put more emphasis on "reptilian whore" next go round? Alright...let's pick up after the fourth stanza. Ready, Jimmy?
You devalue my worth?
Well, I spit on your wisdom and poison your vine
But I ain't no fool for beggin' for what you're sitting on
And knees ain't just for beggin'
I am surprised by your...
(off mic chatter)
What's that?
(off mic chatter)
No man, that's over in Studio B.
(off mic chatter)
No worries.
Are we still rolling Jimmy?
(cough)
OK.
I'll pick it up from the interruption.
I am surprised by your suppression and attempts to claim my mind
Your breeze betraying your subterranean ambitions
Its just that you don't do me like you used to
So, get your tongue out my mouth cause I'm kissin' you goodbye!
(dead air - ten seconds)
I think once or twice more and we should have this Jimmy.
Hmm?
What's that?
(dead air - six seconds)
Brian?
Really?
(dead air - two seconds)
Oh, I'm so sorry Brian.
(dead air - seven seconds)
Then who the hell is Jim...? "
(end tape)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
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