Ok, I forgot about these guys. They’ve done stuff in the last five years, I don’t think they were around six years ago. Hmmm, I don’t think they were recording six years ago, it’s not like they were off planet or in the well of souls. Whew, I feel less out of touch.
I know, they do covers, as far as I know they don’t do originals, but, c’mon, a punk version of fire and rain? Genius. I also like Gogol Bordello, they are fairly recent too. It’s not that I’m a big fan of punk or anything or like punk is even a real genre. Sure by 1980 they had fancy costumes and hair-dos, but fuzzy fx and broad stroke crunchy electric quartets have been around since the first guitar was ever plugged in.
As far as covers reclaiming a song for genre cred, the following is my favorite example;
That whole new wave fusion thing was short lived, but, shit-fire and fuck-nation some cool shit came out of it. Like the talking heads or, say, blondie, though they skirted the edge they did lick the same envelope.
There’s new no news on the daughter front, but that’s a quieter entry. There is a certain point at which one should count their ducklings (chickens if you’re a traditionalist with you’re clichés) or your swag at the table (money if you’re Kenny Loggins) or blessings. How can you believe it’s a jinx if you don’t believe in ducklings, swag or blessings? Sometimes no news is good news; all the time no news is no news. For a moment we were out of the woods.
A few thousand years ago when I was a fresh-more at the little U on the park blocks, I was dizzy for about a month. Literally not, um, the way you assholes are thinking. I went to see the folks at the med clinic there. I think you needed a HS diploma and your own lab coat to work in the clinic, but I’m not positive the diploma was necessary. Someone gave one of those clowns a prescription pad and they wrote me a script for valium because I was so very obviously stressed out by my intense 12 credit load of Lit classes, drama 201 and some other cake walk with the same number of chairs as asses (I’d say under-water basket weaving, but, honestly, that sounds hard and the prof probably has a chip on his or her shoulder ‘You maggots thought you were signing up for a cake walk … this is where we separate the talkers from the doers. Put down your hand Mr. Dawg, what?’ ‘Um, sir or ma’am, I’ll take a Dewars.’)
When I woke up a few days later, dizzy, I went looking for a more fulfilling diagnosis. The guys and gals at the naturopath college had me fast for a day then drink the orange syrup pop (if you don’t know what that means that’s a blessing you didn’t even know to count. It’s not cryptic, it’s the exact test for hyper and hypo glycaemia). I was told that though the blood work showed a mild reaction my funky chicken dance was profound enough to call me hypoglycemic. For a couple of weeks I quit coffee and had five small meals a day. Since then whenever I feel a bit woozy I have a snack or another Dewar’s.
Oh, wait, what? Yeah, still not the right entry, but they are at the stage with my daughter where they think underwater basket weaving is stressing her out. If I ever were to teach medicine to med students (wouldn’t that be a hoot?) I’d tell them to leave the medical history in the paper and ask about personal history. Between the beginning of that sentence and the end was an hour long phone call. Besides wreaking havoc with my rare and delicate paw, I lost my train of thought. I think the flagman was waving down the double EE’s and switched tracks on me.
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