Chico Hamilton Quintet — Blue Sands


More majesty from the youtubes…

Among other sensations, I’m simply humbled by such flights of beauty and imagination. I’ve long loved the recorded version of this composition on Pacific Jazz (w/ Jim Hall on guitar), but to discover this live performance with John Pisano in 1958 is really a thrill.

I love the audience shots, too; a real class bunch. Man, Americans really used to have it. 

Thank you Mr. Hamilton (and a happy early birthday).




It was important to me that a brutal hangover not define the second leg of our visit. After eight or nine hours of deep convalescing and gagging back bottles of whole fruit puree and several cans of something called Kofola, followed by a triumphant-if-wobbly set of fifty pushups, I felt sufficiently resuscitated for exploration. Once out of doors, the crisp November chill was its own medicine, helping to further refortify my wilted zeal.

My immediate impression of Old Town Prague: a pewter-colored paradise, both beautifully grim and palpably affluent. My people came from this part of the world over a hundred years ago. It certainly felt like a place I might have some roots in.

Besides the Kafka and Mozart connections, I remembered Prague as being a popular gap year spot for all those spotty-faced philosophy and anthropology majors back in the nineties. For all I know, it may still be a going concern for that crowd. It was a little difficult for me to really get in to the place for the throngs of tourists; the place is just lousy with them. For contrast, there are the local commuters, recognizable by how they haul ass everywhere (scurrying for the sake of scurry, if you ask me). You cannot stroll through town without feeling conspicuously casual whilst in their harried midst. Meanwhile, the tourists were all day and night gawping and snapping pictures with their smartphones, as well as their I-Pads (which looks excessively dumb). Other than a few snaps of the ol’ lady up against some of the carved granite scenery, I didn’t take a single photograph; I wasn’t trying not to, I simply didn’t feel compelled. My sense was that Prague had already had all the mystique snapped out of it thousands of times over and counting. Other than proof positive that — Hey, lookit me in Prague that one time! — what was really the point? That’s all I witnessed around me: tourists collecting some Facebook fodder. Watching all the people strike their contrived smiles with a canned candidness induced in me a tectonic groan or two. I think, if you could stand the cold, the best time to see the clock and the square and the bridge and all that stuff would probably be around four in the morning on a Tuesday in mid-February, (or anytime during the next flood).


One thing that struck me about my first experience abroad, starting from Madrid and ending at Heathrow, was the near absolute homogeneity of all peoples everywhere, though particularly in their manner of dress. Everyone from rebel fighters in Syria to child molesters in Daytona Beach seem to agree: distressed jeans represent the sartorial zenith in bottom apparel, even if one or two un-evolved curmudgeons like myself think they make the double-knit lapel-a-thons of the seventies seem downright natty and individual in retrospect. I’m sorry, but I will never understand the idea of wearing what are meant to be utilitarian trousers with bizarre wear patterns blasted into them that both weaken the fabric and defy all physiological explanation. Maybe I’m just annoyed because I quite often find myself absentmindedly wondering what the wearer of said dungarees would have had to be doing for the last several years in order to have giant, perfectly rectilinear fade spots on the backs of their thighs, when I could instead be wondering about…other…more…Godly pursuits…

I’m not about to suggest that this quotidian creep doesn’t extend throughout Bohemia as well, but their brand of sameness was effectively mitigated by looking so collectively sharp. Seamlessly book-matched to the Gothic spires and up-lit edifices shrouded in cold fog were knee-high leather boots, scarves and dramatic wool coats. I mostly credit this to the frigid temperatures while I was there, but I fantasize about some broader, stylistic underpinnings. Even our cab driver was dapperer than the original Dan.

I hadn’t packed enough season-appropriate duds myself, so after day two, the urge to hide in the hotel room and eat free food was great — a temptation upset by all the mirrors placed throughout my quarters. A lot of hotels really like to jazz up their guest rooms by installing mirrors on every vertical surface without a window or door, making a person uncommonly aware of themselves from every angle. I don’t care how much of an Adonis you fancy yourself, (I do not), it really gets old. So, I recycled my one pair of long underwear and sallied forth to buy some coffees and Budweisers, both of which are entirely different beasts in the CR. Not unlike the Euros I pissed away in Portugal, I found it dangerously easy to part with the candy-colored Kronas, depicting hirsute men with impressively delineated eyebrow musculature. The money is downright psychedelic-looking in contrast to the grim granitescape in which I pissed it away, where the sun starts to go down at half-past three and where I saw almost nobody smile, laugh or flirt.

Alongside everything being dark and chubby and blocky and Gothic, (like a lot of the chicks you knew in high school!), the absence of foliage in and around the square really added to the post-apocalyptic gloom of the town. On my first trip to the astronomical clock, there was a crazy bagpipe/tablas/bass guitar trio performing drone-y minor key ragas in druid robes and long hair. They matched perfectly the mood of the place, much more so than the weird dixieland jazz & 80’s MOR I heard pouring out of everyplace else. It was actually some pretty good din for being in the heart of such a touristy area, and I kinda regret not buying their disc they had available for purchase.

And that wraps up my flea-bitten, rambling insights on Eastern and Western Europe. This will likely be as close to a travelogue as I’ll ever dare veer. I still don’t understand how people like Bill ‘n’ Ted travel in what amounts to perpetuity. I can honestly say I will never have passport envy, and I suspect even more than before that for a lot of people, world travel is more about the status than experience or personal edification; doing something exotic to say they did something exotic. Of course, there are still parts of this fantastic planet I need to investigate: the Outer Hebrides, the forested foothills of Mount Fuji, and maybe even a quick romp through Antarctica. Still, on the heels of this last adventure, I’m not in anything like what I’d call a hurry.

Exactly Like You


Some fine medicine for the doldrums here…John Lawlor’s tenor guitar playing is just so unique and sublime that it makes me want to run a lap around the world.

There is just nothing not to like here: I love Lawlor’s chording technique and tone; I love his great hair; his snazzy all-American kitchen; his bashful chuckle before he begins the tune…the whole thing just makes me happy.

A little research reveals little about the man himself. Not a showy guy in the least, Lawlor, who is totally self-taught, hid himself and his amazing gift away after gigging around with his brother throughout the 70’s. Apparently it was only at the behest of a friend that Lawlor allowed himself to be recorded and uploaded to Youtube. I’m really grateful that friends like that are out there in the world.

I’d very much like to see Mr. Lawlor lay down some tracks for a proper recording. If anyone out there knows John or can help make that happen, please do get in touch. (I am serious.)


HT: TK Smith

Tony Parsons: I Hate the Way You Hate


I’d never heard of Tony Parsons before, but when I first noticed this anti-tattoo screed of his off to the right of some other item, (a Top Ten war movie list by AA Gill, I think, which was actually quite good), I’d hoped I might be in for a treat. After all, everyone knows the finest invectives come clad in British Racing Spleen. What I was treated to instead was a growing sense of discomfiture as I waded through both pages; something on the order of walking in on a complete stranger doing something bizarre and vaguely unwholesome with themselves.

Like anyone easily bored, I’ve a weakness for brash characters with bold and even outrageous opinions on things (the more disproportionate the outrage to the thing, the better). I suspect that’s how Mr. Parsons fancies himself, but he so deeply, deeply sucks at it. I grant that it’s no small feat to take on any mainstay of popular culture, especially the tattoo, considering how almost no-one doesn’t have several; but I, for one, should’ve been an easy sell, as I’ve never thought tattoos elevated anyone’s natural beauty. I’m also no great fan of obviousness, and tattoos are nothing if not unsubtle — like wearing your jacket inside-out to expose a favorite lining. In spite of this seeming accord, Parsons managed to instantly and completely alienate me with his full-blast frighteningly high-proof jaundice that flowed throughout the entire piece.

From the start, Tony wastes no time flipping back his rug to expose some very ugly bugs. An example from early on in the piece: She […] had a flower dribbling down her leg like some bloody anal discharge. Now, honestly, why would anyone resort to conjuring such base mental imagery in order to convey such a terrifically minor point? (Not to mention, I’d been attempting to enjoy some breakfast while reading this; fucker.) Even darker cacophemisms follow with some out-and-out misogyny in what Tony clearly considers his literary money shot: Even the men I know who love a tattooed lady [think] tattoos make [her] look like a dirty slut. Y’know…suddenly, this isn’t really about tattoos anymore — is it?

It’s hard to pick a favorite bon mot, but if forced to, I’d probably have to go with this: Why does covering yourself with crap cartoons give you the moral high ground? And why are the rest of us obliged to like it?

Moral high ground, eh? Reaching just a bit there, Tony? After all, you’re getting paid to lambast a fad which only seems undying because it can’t be retired as easily as your own past indiscretions; people can’t fling their tattoos to the back of the closet like your nylon tangas, or drop them off at a Sally Army hopper after a spring cleaning. And just what is it you’re being forced to take, exactly? Sharing this planet with people who aren’t following the same schematic as you? Yeah, that is rough.

It’s a pity, too, for a good hatred can be good fun. More than once, a well-turned polemic has really helped get me through the day — certainly more effective than any platitudinous tripe. On occasion, rants can even prove illuminating. After all, with heat sometimes comes light. Not so with Parsons; his low-grade hatred burns too hot and puts off a lingering stench with a lumen value of naught. Instead of metering his loathing with precision-aligned spleen vents, Parsons prefers to yank the choke out and mash the pedal to the floor. One could never imagine his words being narrated in a velvety lilt by the late George Sanders — the least one hopes for from any seasoned Brit journo. One instead envisions the author red-faced and snarling , Earl Grey’d phlegm spraying from his snout as he stamps his feet and hurls fragile heirlooms across the room between paragraphs like a ten-cent Elmer Gantry; but, no, there’s not even that much energy here. It’s a lazy repugnance Tony dispenses with, and incidentally, not unlike the worst tattoo in its way — a fatuous overture to all the things he adores: big money, big muscles and small minds that clunk and hiss along the same warped tracks as his own. And that’s another thing: his high-foaming allegiance to wealth and power is scummier and more feeble than anyone with a pair of gonads ought be allowed to be in print. I mean, when he writes things like, For so long the province of the stupid and the poor, tattoos are now sported on people with good degrees and a black AmEx, my asshole literally twinges, and I think seriously about getting it tattooed with Tony’s likeness.

A more elegant tack might have been a denunciation of the quotidian creep in western culture for which the tattoo serves as one of the foremost hallmarks. Hell, I suspect most ink freaks would rally behind you — at least the old schoolers. That’s because the ubiquity of the tattoo has undermined what once seemed like a maker’s mark reserved for the outsider. You couldn’t make a film like The Illustrated Man nowadays, because the tattoo connotes little more than a suburban dalliance with the not-so-wild side; long gone is any sense of menace or intrigue they once aroused. At best, tattoos have been reduced to a trim option alongside other unfortunate frippery. In other words, they’re safe. Personally, I’ve not lingered on or analyzed anyone’s tattoos in years — not even those of friend’s. All I see are random clusters of distortion scattered across the dermal field which my brain then registers as: tattoos. Beyond that, they’re honestly invisible to me.

And how about the ever-loathsome consumerist angle? After all, people shop for tattoos, and they aren’t exactly a cheap form of self-advertisement (though they certainly lack the basic utility supplied by other durable forms, be it clothing or even automobiles). In the late nineties, I was living downtown near one of those trendy ‘urban’ boutiques where I’d watch from my kitchen window the droves of trust fund dorks filing inside to piss away their pennies from heaven. When it came to image, this place was like a John Deere — a real testament to America’s manufacturing prowess. It was a huge space, too — an REI-like one-stop-shop for the cut-’n’-paste crowd who’d been convinced that cool was merely a retail concern. They had it all: tattoos & piercings in back; DJ equipment, 12″ singles, and the latest sneakers up front — all swaddling necessary for marketing themselves to one another. Living next to that homogenizing plant engendered in me a quiet but very real sense of misanthropy. I sometimes wasn’t even sure I wanted to make art anymore. Fucking conformists!

Finally — this is just bad writing! A tautological screed that reads like it was bashed out hastily by some chair-ass’d dweeb a half hour before deadline; a shitty little man squatting in first class with his smelly black nylons kicked-up, brain sodden with endless cups of generic Bordeaux as his bloated extremities clack about the qwerty, straining for one of those classic Parsons zingers! Example: A few lines down from the quote above about tattoos being the province of the stupid and poor, Tony trots out this bilious gem: Tattoos were once the province of the rump of the working class – men and women who made a mark on their body because they would never make a mark on their life or the world. Yet another pale turd flung in the face of the working class, for which Tony must think he’s keeping it real by repeatedly unloading upon, and…it’s nearly the exact same wording as the line above! Talk about belaboring your own vitriol. I recommend researching the concept of attrition, Tony.

One other point: is this really a subject that merits two pages of consideration in a major periodical? I know, I know — it’s only GQ — but Tony enjoys a public stage with a sizable audience, (or so I assume), and this is what he chooses to train his cross-hairs on? An unfortunate but ultimately benign trend? With all the endlessly interesting bullshit taking place around us, it makes me a little depressed. That, and that he or anyone else could fancy this man a writer. He is not. There is no love of letters evident in this slush. Tony Parsons is an unmitigated hack suffering from the laziness and conceit that comes from banking exclusively on one’s brand. I am certain if we were face-to-face, and I called him on the carpet for being the mildewed, status-crazed joke that he so clearly is, he’d turn cataleptic, brandish his CV, (likely as padded as this ridiculous piece), and begin spewing about how much blacker his AmEx is than mine.

Worst of all for me, Parsons has sullied a perfectly good pet hatred by hating it with all the gusto and slobber of a horny adolescent. In so doing, he’s diminished the thrust of my own loathing for a rather loathsome trend, if for no other reason than my not wanting to be affiliated with the Tony Parsons of the world. Thanks, bastard!

I Want My Threshold Back

I try like hell to be judicious with my attention, pricing my mental real estate far beyond the means of most mainstream media outlets. As such, I initially tried to avoid all the coverage of double-dimpled cop killer Chris Dorner’s bloodbath across Southern California; but since this is a uniquely insane story, and I’d been in that very same area not even one week before on my way out to the high desert, I made an exception.

Then the other day I heard about something called Team Dorner, which is apparently a social media movement coming out in support of the killer (and if reports are to be believed, a physical movement too, as there were supposedly some supporters picketing the area around Bear Mountain). As someone whose been on the business end of police bullying more than a few times in my youth, I readily share in a healthy disgust for any uniformed authority who overplays their hand at the whole command presence bit. However, the idea that anyone — let alone a team could identify with and endorse Dorner’s ultra-violent batshittery* and feel uninhibited enough to publicly vocalize it is very fucking disturbing to me. And yet, perhaps most disturbing of all is that I’m really not surprised. I should be, but I’m not.

After all, this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed this kind of thing. Joe Stack springs to mind: Stack was a domestic terrorist who registered a complaint with the IRS by landing his single-propeller airplane in the lobby of one of their regional office buildings here in Austin, Texas back in 2010. I remember worrying at the time that he may not be such a unique case. A week before the incident, I was sitting in traffic discussing the financial headlines of the day with my wife when I wondered aloud how many ticking time-bombs were being created as we spoke, (thanks to the economic fallout then unfolding courtesy of the ongoing circle jerk between DC and Wall St). I might not have guessed one would go off right in our backyard a week later, but in the end, again, I felt little if any surprise at the deed itself.

Nor was I surprised by the headlines that followed, including: To Some, Suicide Attack on IRS Made Pilot a Hero. Once upon a time, any attempt to frame such a troubled, vengeful soul as a martyr would have been considered at least as insane as the act itself. I mean, even as un-takeable as most graduate students are, nobody went around thinking Charles Whitman was a hero — not even Charles Whitman. The biggest difference between a killer like Whitman and these other two is their anti-authoritarian manifestos, which really amount to little more than promotional narratives  for heinous misdeeds; copy created to market their sloppy hatreds and indiscriminate blood lust as something protagonistic. How about the victims who were never allowed the luxury of such solipsism? I’m thinking specifically of IRS employee Vernon Hunter — a family man and Vietnam veteran who was there at work the day Stack dropped in. I’ve always envisioned Vernon sustaining himself through the weekday drudgery of his government job with thoughts of the coming weekend; of getting home to his wife, or to his favorite meal that night, or to a project in the garage, or to his tunes. I’ve been that guy before; maybe you have, too. Only I was fortunate enough not to have some grandiose asshole who took himself way way too seriously come along and suddenly edit me out of the thing. “Oh, sorry…were you using that life? Yeah, I’m a hero with this really big point to make, so uh…if you could just skooch over there into oblivion for me…yeah, perfect! Thanks!”


Maybe I’m not surprised by these twisted shits and the people who love them because I’ve been buffeted by grizzly headlines long enough now to have grown a pretty hard bark; or maybe I’m not shocked because I fancy myself somewhat enlightened on the subject of human behavior. I certainly do feel I understand the fragile balances within the human psyche better than someone for whom human behavior is not at least a pet interest. I understand that every man and woman alive has the propensity for craziness and/or evil. I know we can all freak-out and behave irrationally if we have our buttons depressed in just the right configuration. Our thresholds differ, and in the case of Dorner or Stack, there may have even been a gland firing too much or not enough of something. And maybe that’s true of their supporters, too.

When that series of hurricanes tore through Florida a few years back, leaving hundreds of households without electricity, domestic violence in the region spiked. No cold beer; no TV; no AC; no internet connection. Erase these buffer mechanisms and a surprising number of seemingly rational people suddenly seem much closer to their tipping point than you might have ever realized. [Side caveat: a sizable percentage of the public are miserable, imbalanced and delicate — so watch your ass.]


A neighbor of mine at the time who was a law enforcement officer was visibly depressed as he relayed some of the awful scenes he’d been called out to; but like me, he didn’t seem especially surprised. I almost felt the urge to feign as though I were so as to seem less desensitized. What’s more, I kinda wished I genuinely could be.

I’m not longing for innocence lost or anything like that. It just seems to me that, as a society, our moral baseline is being moved at a rate which suggests undeniable decay. The nightmare scenario then is that the more these bloody infractions against humanity are received with calloused resignation — or warped veneration — the less pronounced their real and very negative impact upon civilization might seem, thereby contributing to a vicious downward spiral (and an ever intenser desire to steal away someplace small and sleepy and watch old Delmer Daves flicks).

* I’m nuts about Bernard Hermann scores, tall brunette women, and late 60’s VW Beetles; but I’ve never been a member of Team Bundy.

Here I go

It is not without some lingering reservations that I fling myself into this already cramped corner of cyberspace referred to as the blogosphere. For me, it’s like walking barefoot down a busy street I’ve only ever occasioned to convey by automobile at high speeds — certainly interesting, if not always pleasant.

More than a foray into blogging, I’m using this WordPress thing as just another clearinghouse for disparate thoughts, gripes, random ideas and various items-of-interest I come across but might otherwise forget. I’m writing this first post as an impromptu disclaimer, in the unlikely event that some poor slob researching the wonderful world of cardboard stumbles across my mess here.

This is bound to be a lo-fi effort. Good spelling and basic HTML are likely as fancy as it’ll ever get. If there ends up being anything useful for anyone else within this pile of wreckage, fantastic; but I make no apologies because, frankly, I just ain’t blogger material.