Oh my god, he’s done it again.

Earlier this month Power Pop Criminal$ assembled yet another volume of their incredible tribute series, their first in fifteen months. Powerpop artists covering other powerpop artists. A Whitman’s Sampler of ear candy. (The three earlier compilations are available here).

Covers of  legends like The Beatles, The Beach Boys, T Rex, Nilsson, Elvis Costello, Badfinger, The Replacements and many more. Covers by esteeemed genre arttists including Superdrag, Dwight Twilley, Matthew Sweet, The Romantics, Teenage Fanclub and Cheap Trick – to name but a few.

Angelo and crew do incredible work putting these things together. Despite their site name, they are crystal clear that if any out-of-print albums they post become commecially available, they will pull them from the site (and I’ve seen them do it).

December alert: Pay attention to their site for the 2009 PPC Advent Wall of Sound. It works just like an Advent calendar where you open a compartment each day from December 1-24 to find a picture or treat. In this case we’re talking treat – a new powerpop rarity appears daily and only for one day. There are also some twisted holiday comps on the PPC site.

Hope you discover some new artists in the process, and if/when you do, please support them by purchasing their CDs and merch. It’s tough to survive in this business, and every dollar counts.

A Teenage Fanclub classic as covered by the Afghan Whigs, Idlewild, and J Mascis. Who do you think Flowed-it best?

The Teenage Fanclub original

Idlewild

Afghan Whigs

J Mascis (also includes cover of Pavement’s “Range Life”)

Blessed with three genius-level singer/songwriters, Glasgow’s Teenage Fanclub has been churning out chiming, harmony-laden power pop for almost twenty years.  Spin magazine memorably named TC’s 1991 sophomore album, Bandwagonesque, their album of the year – beating out Nirvana’s Nevermind. The magazine caught a lot of flack for that decision, but – whisper it – they were right.  When you need music that will cheer you up without being relentlessly twee and shmaltzy, the Fanclub is one of the best places to go.

The first is song is called “I Need Direction,” and comes from their 2000 album, Howdy! The second song comes from their 1997 album, Songs from Northern Britain, and it’s called “Ain’t That Enough.”

Well Iowa city, I have about three Radioloveless shows left before I leave the KRUI airways for good. Two shows will consist of my favorite tracks to hear, thus the title of my post. If you listen to the show, I’m sure you’ve heard most of them. Either way, the next two shows will be filled with my favorites. The last show will be my Christmas show, which is always a fun show to do.

I’ll be moving back east next year, after living and DJing in Iowa city for the past 6. I love it here, and I love KRUI even more. Listen in at 89.7 fm or online here. Here’s the show

1. R.E.M.’s Fables of Reconstruction (1985), Driver 8
2. Sebadoh, Bakesale (1994, oh and the naked baby on the cover is Lou Barlow), Skull
(It’s my favorite track from Sebadoh along with lots of other kids my age, thank you Lou for bringing this into my life.)

3. Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks, Pig Lib (2003), Vanessa from Queens
(Steve defines cool, even if I can’t figure out what he’s singing about)
4. Teenage Fanclub, Bandwagonesque (1991), Star Sign
(This just sounds like the 90s to me, makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and little.)
5. The Velvet Underground, The Velvet Underground, Pale Blue Eyes
(Uhm, who doesn’t like this song?)
6. Wilco, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002), I Am Trying To Break Your Heart
This is my favorite Wilco album, I keep coming back.
7. Wire, Pink Flag (1977), 1 2 X U
8. Yo La Tengo, President Yo La Tengo (1989), Barnaby Hardly Working
9. Catherine Wheel, Ferment (1992), Black Metallic
10. Black Tambourine, Complete Recordings, Pack You Up
This track is so short and cool, it just makes me want to go out and be their groupie if they were still around.
11. The Dandy Warhols, Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia (1999), Sleep
I can’t help it, I love this album.
12. Big Star, #1 Record (1972), Thirteen
Rolling stone said it was “one of the most beautiful songs about Adolescence.”
13. The Breeders, Pod (1990), When I was a Painter
14. Pavement, Crooked Rain Crooked Rain (1994), Silence Kit (awesome request for Sutcliffe Catering Song but was having issues with my CD.)
15. Built to Spill, Perfect From Now On (1997), I would Hurt a Fly
16. Cat Power, What would the Community Think (1996), Bathysphere
17. The Church, Starfish (1988), Under the Milky Way
18. Cocteau Twins, Head Over Heels (1983), When Mama was a Moth

19. My Bloody Valentine, Loveless (1991), When you Sleep
Pitchfork quoted Loveless as the best album of the 90’s, I might have to agree.
20. The Clash, The Clash (1977), Janie Jones
21. Sleater-Kinney, One Beat (2002), Combat Rock
22. Depeche Mode, Violator (1990), Blue Dress
23. The Cure, Seventeen Seconds (1980), A Forest
24. Archers of Loaf, White Trash Heroes (1998), Dead Red Eyes
25. Guided By Voices, Alien Lanes (1995), My Valuable Hunting Knife
26. Meat Puppets, Meat Puppets II (1984), New Gods

One of my favorite things to do in the 21st century is burn CDs for people. Partly, it is the narcissistic belief that I listen to cooler music than anyone else on earth (Not true! My friends constantly surprise and delight me with new and wonderful music I have never heard before.)

Anywhatthehellhappenedtonapster, I made a CD for a friend and I’ve pretty much been listening to it on repeat for a week or so. (Eventually, I will give her the CD – just.not.yet.)

So I wanted to share it with yalls tonight because obviously, in my infinite wisdom narcissism, I have chosen songs that are ideal for a nice, leisurely jog in the park. Some of them are new, and some are pretty old, but all of them are awesome.

My morning jacket – one big holiday (live)
elbow – the bones of you
matisyahu – one day
Del tha funkee homosapien feat. dinosaur jr. – missing link
Toots & the Maytals – Take me home, country road
Devotchka – queen of the surface streets
Wilco – Jesus, Etc.
Jimmy eat world – bleed american
Raconteurs – steady as she goes
Them crooked vultures – mind eraser, no chaser
The Shins – Phantom Limb
Deadboy & the Elephantmen – Stop, I’m already dead
dangermouse & jemini – ghetto pop life
Dropkick Murphys – Shipping up to Boston
Them crooked vultures – new fang
social d – dear lover
XTC – Dear God
de la soul, teenage fanclub – Fallin’

I go through phases – sometimes I’ll go for weeks on end listening to nothing but death metal, then I’ll listen to ambient/electronic. Then bluegrass. This week, I appear to be on an alt rock kick.

Pay special attention to Them Crooked Vultures – Keith Buckley of Every Time I Die says this band just might save rock n roll…

I think he’s right.

Au Revoir Simone, Indietracks 2009

Indietracks feels like Isambard Kingdom Brunel putting on All Tomorrow’s Parties, where the only downside is choosing between the gorgeous music and the unlimited steam train rides.

Virtual Festivals, July 2009

Now in its third year, Indietracks has sprung up from very modest beginnings to be one of the UK’s most endearing and eccentric festivals. Taking place at Midland Valley Railway Centre in Riply, Derbyshire, the event is a labour of love for founder Stuart Mackay, who combined two of his passions: restoring steam trains and indie pop, to create one wholly unique event. Indietracks isn’t just a great excuse to discover some great new music, it’s an opportunity to support the earnest restoration of our heritage: the festival acts as a money raiser for the museum, with everyone involved in the weekend volunteering their time for free.

The line-up represents the very best of the indiepop underground, many of whom would be lucky to even to grace the smallest of stages at ATP. Bands come from as far afield as Japan, Italy, Sweden, USA and Argentina; DJs from Berlin, Barcelona and Hong Kong. With Spain’s seminal indiepop label Elefant curating the main stage, there’s also a great selection of Spanish acts including Cola Jet Set, La Casa Azul and Cooper. For a festival that could fit comfortably inside Glastonbury’s Shangri La field, it certainly knows how to punch above its weight.

Familiar labels, fanzines and club nights – such as Fortuna Pop, Twee as Fuck and Lipstick on Your Collar – feature throughout the weekend, either DJing, running workshops or generally getting accosted by indiepop enthusiasts screaming, “oh my God, you’re from Talulah Gosh!”

Part of the charm of Indietracks is the ability to actually explore the heritage around the site. From having a drink at the bar in an old buffet car, to standing right next to one of the massively-intimidating locomotives, to the free and unlimited steam train rides – some of which actually feature gigs by some of the acts – it’s hard to walk around without feeling a sense of satisfaction that you’ve discovered something very special.

Tickets for the festival are priced at a very reasonable £55, but there’s a catch – it doesn’t include camping. For this you have to book separately at the nearby Golden Valley Campsite (£20 each per night for two people, a car and one pitch) or further afield. Although the campsite itself is beautiful, clean and very close – only a ten minute walk up a nice, leafy lane to the site – if the festival organisers could make a deal to include camping in the ticket price Indietracks would be almost perfect.

Getting there and back

For a festival built around trains it’s a shame you can’t rail it all the way – but then you can blame Richard Beeching’s desolation of the network in the 1960s for that. The nearest railway stations to the Midland Railway are Derby, Nottingham or Alfreton, with regular buses to the site Monday to Saturday (the Nottingham route drops off at the nearby town of Ripley; from there it’s a short taxi ride). The H1 service from Alfreton takes you direct to the Golden Valley Campsite.

Gas-guzzlers have it easy – Ripley is minutes from the M1 and A38. Parking is free and Indietracks have a Freewheelers Page (linked from the Indietracks website) where you can arrange a car share.

Site

Tiny and intimate, the site centres around Stanwick Junction on the Midland Valley line. As well as the main stage – which only this year has been upgraded from a lorry trailer – there’s an indoor stage in an old railway shed and a lovingly restored church, hosting some of the more intimate gigs (a fourth venue, hosting DJs, is housed at the Golden Valley campsite). A narrow gauge railway runs right through the site – manned by two of the friendliest railway workers you’ll ever have the pleasure to meet – while you can jump on one of the regular steam train rides from Stanwick Junction itself. You can also explore the locomotives and old mail trains in the gargantuous exhibition hall and marvel at the restored diesel trains that litter the tracks around the site. A bar in the shed offers a ridiculous array of real ale, but food wise there’s only a small-but-tasty curry stall and a café, which serves the kind of food that would make Hilda Ogden proud, but hardly the health-conscious.

Atmosphere

A festival on train tracks full of twee poppers is a sure-fire bet to bring ridiculous grins to the most cynical of people. The atmosphere is happy and easy-going rather than the frantic craziness of, say Bestival.  The low capacity means that the vibe takes a little time to pick up each day, with the main stage crowd dispersing in-between bands in favour of the workshops and other stages – an idea would be to draft in some of the great DJs on site to fill the void. However, by dusk – and especially in the late discos in the Shed – the atmosphere becomes excitingly electric.

Music

Au Revoir Simone – 7/10

Headlining Friday’s Elefant stage Annie Hart, Erika Forster and Heather D’Angelosway are a perfect opener to the weekend, delivering their purring gothic synth-pop from behind individual keyboards with dreamy abandon. Still seemingly lacking from onstage confidence, their presence is limited to softly-softly swaying to the ethereal harmonies. But while the shyness is often captivating they’re still crying out for something else – if only they’d do something like twirl around the stage like Alice In Wonderland every now and then, it would compliment the gothic tales they’re so good at relaying.

Teenage Fanclub – 8/10

The Fannies have still got it. Headlining on Sunday, the rustled post-punk guitars and absorbing, swirling harmonies still sound as relevant as when ‘Bandwagonesque’ hit the shops in 1991 with its Big Star-inspired greatness. New songs, like the country-tinged ‘Baby Lee’, are delicious but classic Fanclub-jangly and they close with a swooning ‘Neil Jung’.

La Casa Azul – 9/10

You’d never think a guy dressed as the Stig from Top Gear would make so many people gush and dance with happiness, but Spain’s La Casa Azul absolutely storm the place on Saturday night. Combining the anthemic disco of Abba with kind of rich production that made the Beach Boys so tantalising, La Casa Azul feature five members but only one of them – the deliciously named Milkyway – ever appears live. The backdrop becomes a massive video console for entire set, sometimes displaying the AWOL members of the band singing and playing, sometimes featuring Space Invaders pixels dancing along to the fresh, addictive choruses. La Casa Azul are like a wild and tropic mix of the Go! Team, Pizzicato 5 and the Scissor Sisters and their joyous, skyscraping cover of ‘Love Is In The Air’ is the absolute highlight of the weekend.

MJ Hibbett – 9/10

MJ Hibbett is an Indietracks favourite and he proved his worth this year by piling a hundred people into a moving steam train carriage and singing songs about how his boss used to be in an indie band. Hibbert is like Billy Bragg with a smile and a belly full of real ale. His tales are endearing, rich and funny, his delivery perfectly-timed. At one point he recounts the panic of fellow passengers faced with a group of revellers on the way to Gay Pride on ‘the Gay Train’. Later in the evening Eddie Argos pays his own respect by repeatedly shouting “MJ Hibbett … Top of the Pops!” during Art Brut’s set. It’s worth fighting for the return of TOTP just to make that happen.

Little My – 7/10

They sound like an explosion in a primary school music cupboard. They look fresh from the pages of ‘Where The Wild Things Are’. They feel like watching ‘The Flumps’ inside a tambourine. Little My are a mess of indie kids from Cardiff and tonight they pull grins around your silly face faster than you can say Fisher Price Orchestra. Dressed in bear suits and animal ears and playing the most charming twee pop their only musical benchmark is surely ‘Alberto Frog and His Amazing Animal Band’ from seminal 80s kids show ‘Bod’.

Art Brut – 8/10

Far from tiring of all the sweet indiepop, by Sunday evening you just need a little wry sarcasm; a little showmanship; a little post-Fall battle of your senses maybe; a little Eddie Argos. As ever, Eddie doesn’t disappoint, leaning ever closer into the people, marvellously spitting those blunt, loser tales out and over the Shed audience. Behind him the rest of the Brut stylishly grind away at the scrappy, scratchy anthems, as much a match for the eyes of the crowd as Argos’s intoxicating endeavours.

Uppers

All Aboard!

Trains! Everywhere you look there are steam trains, diesel trains, old rustic rolling stock, even a demonstration signal box where you can watch the main stage from – have you ever watched Camera Obscura from a signal box? You can even ride right past the main stage on a little narrow gauge train, while the super-friendly Midland Railway staff wave you on.

All Online!

The Indietracks website and blog – probably one of the best festival websites out there. It not only gives excellent information on the location, directions and band timings, the blog features interviews with most of the bands and workshop organisers, plus plenty of MySpace links so you can research the line-up and pick your must-sees before you get there. There’s even a train timetable so you can plan your train rides in advance.

Downers

The ying and yang of the Golden Valley Campsite

The campsite itself is beautiful and well looked after, offering a café, bar, refreshing showers, electric points and some friendly staff. But there seemed an underlying crabbiness aimed at the people attending the festival – from the initial phone call to make the booking to the ludicrous decision to charge £5 to get in to the disco marquee each night. As a result DJs that had come all the way from Berlin were faced with less than a dozen people on Friday night. By Sunday the campsite had seen sense, offering free entry which accommodated an incredible final night party, but treating people – who are already paying money to camp and drink at the bar – like this is disgusting.

Random Events

The campsite revolution on Saturday night when a load of Indiepoppers barged into the marquee when the security dropped their guard for a second. Twee as fuck indeed!

Cineplexx

That Argentinean born and current Barcelona resident Sebastian Litmanovich is joined on Picnic by Norman Blake of Teenage Fanclub, Jad Fair of Half Japanese and Duglas Stewart of BMX Bandits, is really all you need to know about Cineplexx. But if you’re still inquisitive, Picnic sees Litmanovich guiding the C86-inspired lo-fi through rippling landscapes that take in the Vaselines, Magnetic Fields, Gruf Rhys and Camera Obscura along the way.

Litmanovich’s lush, subtle, Spanish lends Cineplexx an absorbing warmth, while light, ethereal bounce and 60s psychedelic conjures up an absorbing setting where the Velvet Underground and Gorky’s Zygotic Mynchi hang with Belle & Sebastian and Gilberto Gil. It’s luscious stuff and very easy to get sucked into the fuzzy ether. But that’s all the fun.

Cineplexx – Hojas

Nirvana were the first band I ever saw live. They played the King’s Hall, Belfast on Monday 22nd June, 1992. Everything about the experience was eminently exciting. I remember that a school friend had to get his dad to buy the tickets on his credit card. I’d never heard tell of credit cards. Already this was proving a novel experience for me. The tickets cost the princely sum of £14.25. Roughly one and a half times my weekly pocket money. I spent the weeks leading up to the show in an almost permanent state of excitement, playing my cassette copy of Nevermind time and again and being continually amazed at how the music seemed to migrate from the left to right headphone. It was as if the sounds were using my head as a bridge from one side to the other.
My actual memories of the show are hazy, I remember walking through Musgrave Park towards the King’s Hall. Along the way we met some older boys sitting on a bench, surreptitiously drinking a carryout. They quizzed me on my Nirvana t-shirt, a market knock-off whose colour, and image of a guitar wielding Cobain would quickly fade. Outside the venue there was a thick swarm of people. Inside, it was dark, sweat and cigarette smoke creating a fetid, overpowering aroma.

The show itself passed me by, Teenage Fanclub and The Breeders played support. I remember the surge when Nirvana themselves came onstage, being pushed against the huge metal crush barriers which appeared at intervals throughout the venue. Everyone around me seemed enormous and so much older. It was intimidating. It was also unbelievably exciting. I lost contact with the friend I’d come to the show with. I seem to recall that, at one point, Kurt mentioned something crudely complimentary about Courtney Love. I don’t remember too much more by way of specifics, but what did linger from the show was a sense of power and energy.

I literally ran for home after the show, I found my friend ahead of me. He told me that Kurt had thrown his guitar into the crowd and that he had caught it, but had then handed it back. I’m pretty sure he was lying. But, he bought me a tin of Coke from a garage, which the dehydrated me was extremely grateful for. Another friend, who wasn’t there, told me that his older sister had looked after Cobain when he was admitted to the Royal Victoria Hospital after the show. I think he was lying, too. The official line on Cobain’s hospital admission was that he was suffering from stomach pains. Later it was revealed that he’d overdosed.

A few years later I’d hear that Kurt had turned a shotgun on himself. I was strangely unmoved, or rather I’d moved on. Looking back in later years, I realised how fortunate I was to have seen one of the great bands, even if Nirvana did give me somewhat unrealistic expectations of live performance. I’d got tickets for The Sultans of Ping F.C. next. They never stood a chance.

Bleach [Deluxe Edition] is released November 2nd on Sub Pop / Warner

FRANCISCO NIXON

Cuando me da por sacar la grabadora, ya llevamos un rato charlando. Francisco Fernández (Gijón, 1971) ha surcado la columna  vertebral del indie patrio desde algunos de los mejores barcos – Australian Blonde, La Costa Brava- y ahora empieza un segundo viaje a bordo de su catamarán Francisco Nixon. En el céntrico café Manuela dibuja nuevas travesías, recuerda viejas batallas, y saborea su conquista principal: la paz interior.

Su Perfecto Caballero Británico- ¿Por qué empezaste tu blog?, ¿Qué te aporta?

Francisco Nixon- Lo empecé después de un concierto de La Costa Brava en el Contempopránea de 2006. Busqué por Internet si había salido alguna crítica del concierto, googleé y saltó un blog de una chica, Patata (Ana Serrano), que comentaba una pijada: que a las siete de la mañana se encontró a un tío pedo, buscando a alguien que le llevara al hotel. Que ella se ofreció sin saber quién era el tipo, y luego se enteró que había llevado al cantante de la Costa Brava. Ahí me di cuenta de que no necesitaba esperar a leer qué coño decían de mí, que podía contarlo yo mismo. Para hacerme autobombo, me lo hago yo.

El blog me ha dado la disciplina de escribir todos los días. No hace falta tener un tema especialmente interesante, sino que tengas una forma de escribir entretenida. Llevo tres años con él, y es una ventana independiente ante la visión de los demás. Intento que sea entretenido, hablar de las cosas que leo, que veo, que escucho. Es un contacto directo con la gente.

SPCB- He leído una respuesta tuya que me ha llamado la atención. Que en el boom tras el Pizza Pop, echaste de menos consejos desinteresados ¿Cuáles?

FN- No haber hecho el anuncio de Pepsi, por ejemplo. La gente lo interpretó como que éramos unos vendidos. Cuando eres joven y tienes éxito, ves las cosas a corto plazo y sin perspectiva. La gente quiere sacar todo el dinero posible en el mínimo período de tiempo, y sabían que esos grupos están arriba dos años, y luego desaparecen. Tampoco quiero que parezca que quiero reprochar nada a nadie, todo el mundo trabajó de buena fe…

SPCB- …la propia industria es perversa…

FN- …claro, es un mecanismo en el que buscas el dinero y olvidas que éramos tres colegas que nos juntábamos para pasarlo bien. Al final acabas haciendo cosas que no te gustan ni entiendes.

SPCB- ¿Por ejemplo?

FN- Suspendimos una gira de Pepsi donde tocábamos en sitios donde se distribuía la bebida. Nos llevaron a una discoteca de Benalmádena para gente de cincuenta años. Pensé que estaban allí ligando, y que nosotros les íbamos a cortar el rollo. Tocamos antes de fiestas de electrónica… no sé, fuera de contexto…

SPCB- Pero hay cosas en las que también erais responsables.

FN- Claro, de repente dices “hostia, tengo la posibilidad de estar en la lista de Lo mejor del año de Rockdelux, pues voy a hacer un disco que le guste a los de la Rockdelux“. Se generan unas expectativas absurdas que hacen que todo se desinfle, y las decepciones personales en el grupo salen a relucir. Ahora disfruto mucho más, hago lo que me da la gana.

SPCB- ¿La bajada de Australian Blonde fue chunga?

FN- Sí. Es doloroso que la prensa independiente que te había apoyado te retire el apoyo, y que el gran público conozca el Chupchup, pero a los siguientes discos no les haga ni caso. Te ves sin apoyos. Tuvimos momentos chungos, pero creo que supimos encajarlo.

SPCB- Y conociste a Sergio (Algora)

FN- Sí, la verdad es que el componer en inglés me limitaba. Probé en castellano y a la banda no les gustó ni lo que contaba, ni cómo, así que me hice unas maquetillas en un cuatro pistas. Conocí a Sergio, y conectamos tanto, que la idea de montar un grupo fue la excusa perfecta. Ellos estaban con el bajón de Muy Poca Gente y yo con el mío. Ellos pusieron la banda y yo las canciones, porque casi todo el primer disco de La Costa Brava las tenía compuestas para Nixon.

SPCB- La Costa Brava es un grupo gigante, pero tardasteis en entrarle a la crítica…

FN- Sí, no entendían qué tenía que ver un tío de Australian Blonde, con otro de El Niño Gusano. Con el tercer disco llegamos a tener buenas críticas.

SPCB- Componer canciones tan redondas y perfectas como Adoro a las pijas de mi ciudad… ¿Mola, o es un lastre?

FN- Mola mucho. Soy hijo de un taxista e iba a colegio jesuita, así que siempre tuve la sensación de que estaba fuera. Las chicas que me gustaban eran así, porque no conocía otras. Me río de ellas y de mí, con cariño. Cuando hice ese disco, con Trentaitrés, Ronaldo, Las pijas, fui consciente de que estaba haciendo lo mejor hasta el momento, y lo sigo pensando. Creí que esas canciones me gustarían dentro de veinte años. No he superado esas canciones. A veces creo que repito un poco el esquema, pero por lo menos ya no compongo con la ansiedad de antes.

SPCB- Tus fans son recalcitrantes…

FN- Me los he trabajado. Acabé un poco quemado de estar pendiente de las modas, que es muy pop, pero vi que debía conectar con los fans de uno en uno…

SPCB- …de la crítica tampoco tendrás queja…

FN- Creo que es porque he generado tanto discurso, que contradecirme les va a costar mucho trabajo (risas). En el fondo la crítica forma sus criterios con muy poco tiempo, lo que te hace caer en el prejuicio. Pero en el fondo el crítico es una persona un poco insegura de lo que escribe, porque conoce esa limitación. Las críticas malas me afectan mogollón, pero yo creo que, en el fondo, la crítica es publicidad encubierta, si un crítico ataca algo, es porque hay algo detrás, rencillas contra la discográfica, o lo que sea.

En realidad vendo mil copias de mis discos y llevo quince años de carrera, ¿A quién le va a interesar atacarme?

SPCB- El equipo pobre que siempre cae bien… ¡Eres el Sporting de la música!

FN- (risas) ¡Exacto! Esas cosas me hacen simpático de cara al mundo de la música. Si dices que mi disco es una mierda no te vas a colgar ninguna medalla. Soy caza menor. A mí no me gusta Radiohead, por ejemplo, pero no se me ocurre decir que Radiohead sea una mierda…

SPCB- …y en este barrio menos… (estamos en Tribunal, nido de la modernidad oficial madrileña)

FN- … ya ves.

SPCB- ¿Qué estás escuchando?

FN- Pues vengo de escuchar en casa el The Gilded Palace of  Sin, de los Flying Burrito Brothers. Escucho mucho clásicos. En los noventa mucho grunge, mucho noise…

SPCB- ¿Cuanto más viejuno, más clásicos? Como nuestros jodidos padres…

FN- ¡Es que todos acabaremos siendo nuestros padres! Y es porque es imposible manejar la cantidad de información que maneja un crío de dieciséis años. Por ejemplo, mi grupo favorito de los noventa eran Teenage Fanclub. Yo no conocía a Big Star, no conocía a los Byrds, y cuando me hice mayor empecé a escucharlos, porque habían influenciado a los Teenage… y al final vas para atrás rellenando huecos… te das cuenta que la vida es limitada, y vas a los discos importantes…

SPCB- … y reivindicando a los Beach Boys, que se ha puesto de moda…

FN- … a finales de los noventa, ahora lo que se lleva es reivindicar a Joy Division.

SPCB- Aunque te parezcan insufribles.

FN- Claro, pero es por puro esnobismo. También es parte de la cultura pop lo de que los grupos suban y bajen.

SPCB- ¿Cómo te gusta escuchar música?

FN- Antes llegaba del cole, me tumbaba en la cama,  me hundía en la autocompasión y lo flipaba. Ahora sólo puedo escuchar en viajes o en el metro con el mp3, o en casa cuando hago la comida, o limpio. No tengo tanto tiempo, soy más selectivo, estoy menos al día. Cada edad tiene su música, es patético el rollo de “eh, que yo sigo en la onda“…

SPCB- … ya, es como las cincuentonas que visten del Zara…

FN- …eso es, que van con la minifalda.

SPCB- Convertirnos en nuestros padres es una derrota, Fran.

FN- No tío, estar en la onda no es tan importante. Yo escucho a los Flying Burrito, y sé que ese disco se hizo para mí… Eso sí, tengo el oído educado, cuando hay algo bueno lo pillo al vuelo.

(tras unos minutos divagando sobre la vuelta a lo artesanal en la música, los públicos muy parcelados y lo viejos que somos tan jóvenes…)

SPCB- Las referencias que sacas en el blog... ¿Te tiras el mocazo un poco, no? ¿O de verdad lees a Stanislav Lem?

FN- Joder, pillaba los libros de ciencia ficción de mi hermano. Me mola mucho Lem, es un tío que le ha dado la vuelta a todo. También soy muy fan de Philip K. Dick, que ahora lo están reeditando todo…

SPCB- De hecho el mundo entero tal y como va parece una enorme reedición de Philip K. Dick…

FN- Sí. Luego te das cuenta de que es uno de los pocos que no tiró por las máquinas, sino por la información, las drogas, los psiconáutas… mira Lost, Matrix y todo eso… es un tío que ha sido muy saqueado…

SPCB- ¿Cada cuánto vuelves a Gijón?

FN- …uff… intento volver cuando… cuando puedo…

SPCB- … ya, me suena…

FN- … llevo cuatro meses sin ir, la verdad. Una de las razones por las que quiero tocar menos, es para ir más a Asturias.

Me ha encantado hablar con él. Nos despedimos en la puerta, cada uno lleva un camino diferente. Fran se pone la sudadera gris con capucha, yo me ciño los pantalones, él baja y yo subo, así que nuestras trayectorias desabrochan la calle San Vicente Ferrer.

Fran escribe en el blog : francisconixon.blogspot.com

Y ha publicado “El perro es mío”, en el sello Siesta.

Y quiero que se haga rico.

So Merge Records is going thru all this 20th anniversary stuff. There’s been concerts, boxsets, books, etc. And why not? It goes w/o saying that they are a label that gives actual meaning to the concept, yeah / no?

Logic demands a Merge Records installment of the popular Epitome series. We’ve still not explained exactly what this series is, but this should make it more evident.

Even though the 7″ defines their aesthetic, Merge has released some of the best EP’s in the biz.

Polvo’s Celebrate the New Dark Age was originally released in 1994 as a triple 7″. I remember standing in the Cat’s Cradle at the merch table, a naive youth, early of my first thrift store record player of my non-fisher price years (the needle was trash), confronted with the consumer’s dilemma: I thought I was being precocious when I decided that the triple 7″ format would be impractical (6 trips to the arm!); I would get the cd. Both the EP and the decision burn.

Now cd’s are the 8 tracks of my generation.

Spoon’s Love Ways: Their return to indie love and terminus of their route to mainstream fame. It’s like a post-punk musicology. Some Sun Records, some Stax/Volt, some Beatles & Stones, and so on… Building the constellation even then.

So seek those out. There’s probably some more in their hollowed discographic halls.

Anyway, on to it:

1. Spoon – All I Got Is Me

2. Superchunk – Throwing Things

3. Butterglory – Alexander Bends

4. Teenage Fanclub – It’s All In My Mind

On this day five years ago, John Peel was getting ready to present another episode of his radio show. Unfortunately, it would be his last as a heart attack would take his life a few weeks later while on a working holiday in Peru. He had been best known as a disc jockey and champion of the musical underdog on BBC radio. His Peel Sessions gave many bands their first chance of airplay and a load of them went on to have successful careers in the music business. Sadly, I never got to hear his shows as it was not possible for me to listen to BBC radio when he was around. Nevertheless, I’m grateful to him for giving a first chance to many bands that I count among my favourites. For example, he once announced on air that he was feeling a little peckish. A cheeky chappy from Essex heard this and he delivered a Biryani to the studio along with a copy of his demo! He was offered a session straight away and Billy Bragg has become a very respected songwriter with loads of albums under his belt

He gave The Undertones’ Teenage Kicks its first airing and then returned the needle to the start of the groove and played it a second time! The song became his favourite and would be played at his funeral. He was also a big football fan and had been present at Heysel Stadium in 1985 when dozens of football fans lost their lives. He stopped attending matches for a few years after that and was also upset by the Hillsborough tragedy in 1989. In 1991, he appeared as himself on the long-running BBC radio soap The Archers and was awarded the OBE in 1998. To tie in with Football & Music’s tribute to the great man, I’ve put together a mix of some of my favourite Peel sessions and songs by bands that Peelie championed

A Legend in His Time

Transmission – Joy Division

Bread And Butter – Ivor Cutler

It wouldn’t be the same if this blog didn’t just grind to a halt for a month or so every now and then, would it? I’d originally intended to rest it for a week or two while I delved into the Beatles remasters but a week leads to a fortnight, a fortnight to a month and, well, you know how it is. Quite a month, mind, including the live return of one of my all-time favourite bands, Massive Attack. If the new songs played on that drab night in Sheffield are anything to go by, the new album will be everything people have hoped for and a little bit more. There’s one new track, (I have no idea about the title, I’m afraid) sung by Horace Andy which may well be one of the best things they’ve ever done. The ‘Splitting The Atom’ EP emerged last weekend as a digital download and it’s a pretty impressive quartet of new material. The lolloping title track belies the fact that Damon Albarn has been involved this time around, while ‘Pray For Rain’, featuring vocals from TV On The Radio’s Tunde Adebimpe, has a wonderful gear change about four minutes in which elevates it to ‘special’ status. You can sample it for yourself over at Spotify, purchase it as a high-quality FLAC download from 7Digital or even shell out £20 for a spangly vinyl edition from those Monkey-box-set-making-types over at The Vinyl Factory.

Beatles expenditure limited the funds for new music last month, but a few splendid things snuck though, such as the latest offering from Richard Hawley, ‘Truelove’s Gutter’, which is a muso’s dream and the very definition of a ‘headphones album’. Coming off the back of the really rather polished ‘Lady’s Bridge’, (hmm, that sounds slightly wrong) an album with only eight songs, two of which scrape the ten minute mark, it’s an absolute delight to listen to and it may well be his best. ‘Remorse Code’ is a remarkable beast, languidly atmospheric and beautifully recorded. ‘Open Up Your Door’ may have spent some time with ‘The Ocean’ from ‘Coles Corner’, mind. There is meant to be a deluxe double vinyl edition with free CD and signed photo springing up at some point but, with every additional week’s delay, I wouldn’t hold your breath.

The NME has a new editor in the shape of Krissi Murison and she’s already made a few changes. Icky changes, largely speaking. Making me actually wish Conor McNicholas hadn’t left after all kind of changes. The most unforgiveable change is the removal of Mark Beaumont’s weekly column, which was as good a reason as any to shell out £2.30 a week. Thankfully, Peter Robinson Vs has been retained, tucked away at the back now, or I may have had to have said goodbye. Again. Oh, who am I trying to kid. Still, it’s a shame as Beaumont was a witty and acerbic observer of the music scene, something the NME was always good at and I’m not sure how that hole will be filled.

The Radiohead deluxe editions for the latter half of their EMI tenure proved to be delightful additions to the collection, containing some splendid B sides which I’d never previously spent any time with and selected visual highlights from this wonderful, wonderful Later… special.

Put aside an hour and treat yourself. It’s really rather special. While I’m talking about all things Yorke, if you’ve not yet sampled the two tracks recently released as a (bloody expensive) heavyweight vinyl 12” single, you’re truly missing out. Click here to sample ‘FeelingPulledApartByHorses’ and ‘The Hollow Earth’, the latter track being one of the finest things I’ve heard all year. It’s in the same, slightly skittery vein as ‘The Eraser’, with a nagging hook and a thumping beat. It’s almost worth the insane amount the 12” costs. £10, by the way.

I’ve been ploughing through my record collection for the last few weeks, attempting to assemble a list of some kind ready for the launch of the previously trailed, ‘Just Played – Albums Of The Decade’ feature, which will be arriving fairly soon now. It’s been lovely to be reminded of albums like Daft Punk’s ‘Discovery’ and Air’s ‘10 000Hz Legend’, alongside Teenage Fanclub’s ‘Howdy’ and Rufus Wainwright’s ‘Poses’. There are some absolute certs for the final list, but it’s been interesting to realise some of the records I’d totally forgotten about that are thoroughly deserving of a place. More on that soon.

Oh, and there were those remasters I briefly mentioned at the start. I haven’t got an awful lot to add to the millions of column inches offered up over the last six weeks (and largely bought by me) so I’ll not say much. (On the other hand, recent convert, Dan of teatunes, says plenty here) Suffice to say, the more expensive of the box sets, ‘The Beatles In Mono’, is an absolute delight, with the sound punchy and remarkably clear. I feel obliged to inform you that you haven’t heard ‘Rubber Soul’ until you’ve heard the mono mix at a fair old volume – it’s a rather special moment. The packaging is wonderful and a serious step up from the fold-out card things used for the stereo reissues. As for the more widely available stereo mixes, I found that box a slight anti-climax, what with it arriving four days after the mono box had had its chance to seduce me. That said, it’s still a beguiling collection of music and those albums only available in stereo sound pretty impressive to these ears. I’ve certainly never liked ‘Abbey Road’ more than I do now. I love their catalogue now more than I ever previously have, but that’s probably no great surprise. For anyone who takes their music listening seriously, you really should get at least one of these boxes, if you haven’t already, as they are the definitive versions. Sod the money, on this occasion. Buy a few less takeaways or £40 games and treat yourself.

Oh, and if you’ve still not heard the new Maps album, sort yourself out, eh?

250 years ago, Arthur Guinness signed a 9,000-year lease at £45 a year to rent St James’s Gate brewery in Dublin. Tomorrow, September 24th, has been designated as Arthur’s Day and will feature celebrations all around the world. Unsurprisingly, the biggest party will take place in Dublin as dozens of bands will converge on Ireland’s capital city to raise a toast to Arthur. The day begins at 17:59 with an invite-only concert at St James’s Gate itself featuring Tom Jones, Kasabian and Estelle. Four Dublin venues (Vicar St, the Academy, Tripod and Whelan’s) will put on gigs that will include Richard Hawley, Lisa Hannigan, Davis Gray and the Undertones. And Live at the Local sees Noah & the Whale, Mick Flannery and dozens of other acts perform at 28 Dublin pubs throughout the night. Sounds like it’s going to be a busy day. For those of you who’d like to celebrate Arthur’s Day early or in the confines of your own home, here are a few drinking songs to accompany the creamy pints of stout

Song’s For Arthur’s Day

01 Alcoholiday – Teenage Fanclub

And here’s an appropriately entitled instrumental from a man who’s fond of a pint of two of the black stuff:

Last Orders – Richard Hawley

I’ll be straight with you. I have lost my copy of ‘Bandwagonesque’ by Teenage Fanclub. Having recently moved to Scotland, this could be a dangerous admission to make. After all, that album is Scotland’s riposte to ‘Nevermind’ and ‘Loveless’. Although the rivalry is a little strange – none of these albums is similar, musically. As far as I can tell. But then, I am a stranger in these parts.

But not a stranger in the way you might think. For in this particular town – St Andrews – it is North American, not Caledonian accents that you are more likely to overhear. A short walk will reveal the extent to which the locals have embraced the perma-tourists. Tours of this, authentic that. St Andrews is not the only place in the world to capitalise on its history, but it feels one of the most peculiar. You have the feeling, walking around, that the entire show is a re-enactment of an already-vanished culture. Where is the Scotland of today, or at least of the modern day? The one evoked in the melodic pop of Banwagaonesque and it’s soundalikes.

Perhaps we must face up to the fact that this, too, is an illusion, constructed by more Caledonian-centric wings of the music press. There is an irrepressible urge to catalogue things – people, cultural products, evens – as part of some wider movement, which might be OK judging them from a distance of a century or more, but quite unneccessary and self-delusional when done ‘in the moment’.

As an aside, this is arguably the root cause of everything that is wrong with religion. But I digress . . .

Today’s growth religion is that of the self, in which our ancestors acquire some sort of primordial grandeur. They are the Titans, and the relics of their age are those of another world. In our haste to explore this world, we will happily pay as much as is asked to preserve these sites in their advanced states of decay. And who is more willing to pay for this than North Americans – whose culture is so recent that nothing Europeans built there has had time to decay. Certainly not so spectacularly.

Something like this operates in music too. There is a particular kudos to using antiquated recording equipment, antiquated instruments, with all their imprecisions and crackles. Having exhausted the myths of the ancients, we are now creating our own.

Everyone is likely to have their own ideas on what constitutes good music, what it is for. But it does sometimes seem as though modern musicians have spent too long reading The History of Rock rather than just getting on with things, like the people they idolise. But then, what do I know? Teenage Fanclub were notable for the clarity of their recordings, and who’s talked about them recently?

Scottish Culture, in reality, has always been a varied and imprecise concept. That is the nature of cultures. And an objective study is impossible, since the observer would themselves need to be removed from all cultural awareness and societal mores. So perhaps it is not so bad that the contemporary form seems lacking here; after all, if it were here, how would we recognise it? No Platonic idea of it exists – in the way that it can for solid objects, chairs, desks, potatoes.

Somewhere along the line, we have forgotten to live our own lives.

Oh yes . . . Mr Bones & The Dreamers are very good. Check the old iTunes!

The Art Of Hanging Out [2004] <-Download

O escocês Francis McDonald é mais conhecido como ex-baterista do Teenage Fanblub, embora já tenha gravado com BMX Bandits, Pastels, Belle & Sebastian e Eugenius, entre outros nomes ilustres de seu país. Tocando todos os instrumentos e sob a alcunha de Nice Man, Francis lançou-se em carreira solo no começo desta década. O debute, Sauchiehall & Hope, de 2003, é uma auto-intitulada Opera Pop sem contra-indicações para quem gostou dos últimos trabalhos do Teenage. O disco foi lançado no Brasil pela Slag, e até rendeu uma turnê por aqui. The Art of Hanging Out saiu no ano seguinte, e traz melodias mais felizes, guitarras mais distorcidas e letras um pouco mais otimistas em relação ao amor. A sonoridade elétrica é fruto da companhia dos Bad Boys, que em faixas como Mine Mine Mine restabelecem um elo não tão perdido entre o Teenage Fanclub e o shoegaze.

Mine Mine Mine

Hey Slinky

Teenage FanClub:

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=HHDS0QUR

New York Fashion Week- 3.1 Phillip Lim – Spring 2010 Men’s Collection

* you sure have changed since yesterday- without any warning. 

3.1 Phillip Lim - Spring 2010

Um. Oh. Wait a sec…

(You can read the rest of this entry at my new blog here.)

i understand/like everything about this photo.

the boy/shirt/shorts/pose/background/ground- it’s subtle and so good. 

i‘d be wearing that shirt. i have a thing for expensive oversized white shirts. 

VIA SNELLA- SPRING/ SUMMER 2010 CAMPAIGN 

VIA SNELLA- SPRING/SUMMER 2010

Los domingos por la mañana, me da por leer los periódicos con calma, y en fijarme en estadísticas estúpidas. Bueno, innecesarias; una estadística nunca es estúpida. A lo sumo, absurda. Como que, desde que tengo Last.fm, he escuchado las mismas veces (241) a Radiohead, Coldplay y Kings of Leon. O que duran lo mismo (2:41) ‘I fought the law” de los Clash y la versión que hicieron de ella Loquillo y Fito. O ‘About you’ de Teenage Fanclub. O ‘The Delaney’ de los Libertines. O ‘La sociedad es la culpable’, de Siniestro Total.
De lo que he leído hoy, me ha llamado la atención esto:

Eduard Punset:
Los españoles pertenecemos a la categoría de colectivos a los que tradicional e históricamente preocupó mucho más la diferencia de clases y la injusticia social que las libertades individuales. Se perdona mal a los ricos y empresarios la ostentación y el agravio, mientras que los funcionarios públicos pueden difundir secretos, realizar escuchas, propagar infamias y otras mil maneras pergeñadas para el abuso del poder.

Suso de Toro:
Vargas Llosa con “Millenium”: Yo pensaba que no era obligatorio leer la trilogía “Millenium”, ni siquiera recomendable, dejándolo a los gustos del lector, pero Vargas Llosa entiende que es muy recomendable. No pensamos lo mismo, pero no importa, no es necesario que todos pensemos ni leamos lo mismo.

Alberto Núñez Feijóo:
“No me acuerdo por qué fue. Pero vamos, lo normal que hace un chaval a los 12 años es pelearse, digo yo”

Javier Gómez:
-¡Voy vestido como un gilipollas! ¿A cuánta gente matamos nosotros al año? ¡Ni lo contamos, coño! ¿Y qué tenemos a cambio? Esta ful de casa en una urbanización de virus A. ¡Me cago en el virus A y en el puto reguetón!

Quique González:
Pregunta: ¿Te preocupa que el disco, como soporte, acabe por desaparecer, me refiero al disco físico?Como me siento y me veo como un coleccionista de música, creo que siempre vamos a ser unos cuantos “freaks” que vamos a seguir comprando música, seguramente, en las tiendas pequeñas. Y, desde el otro lado, como alguien que hace discos, pues sé que siempre va a haber unos cuantos “freaks” que lo van a querer, y para ellos seguirá teniendo valor. Pero de las cosas que no puedes controlar, no te puedes preocupar.

Miguel Ángel Revilla:
“¿Por qué soy noticia? Porque soy un tipo normal, hasta tal punto, que soy pequeño, bajo, con bigote, con cara de mala leche” De repente, se embala y desvela la fórmula de la normalidad: “Me gusta un buen chuletón, una buena película, ir al fútbol y llamar cabrón al árbitro, ir en la albarcas el día de San Cipriano”.

Lucha contra el narcotráfico
Cerco policial a la “maría”
Las aprehensiones de marihuana aumentan durante las últimas semanas del verano ante el inicio de la época de cosecha y por la mayor vigilancia debido a los incendios forestales.

Y por cierto, nos dábamos cuenta hoy por Twitter Milleiro y yo, sobre cómo los periódicos se están volviendo cada vez más prescindibles. Si no fuera por las colecciones, (y por los bares-peluquerías-consultas de médicos y dentistas), ¿cuántos periódicos se venderían?
Ya tengo (tenemos) la taza de Abbey Road. Ahora, le he echado el ojo a esto:

TRACK 6:
TEENAGE FANCLUB, “THE CONCEPT”

“She’ll drive us home if there isn’t a bar, oh, yeah”

sunday, july 17, 1994
10:15 p.m.

The last thing I typed tonight, around eight o’clock:

CORVALLIS — James Thomas belted a last-second four-run screamer over the left-field wall to lift the Mid-Valley Rockets to a 5-4 comeback victory over Richey’s Market in Class 4A baseball action Friday night.

“I’ve always envied those people who were old enough to see Bobby Thompson do that,” said Rockets helmsman Greg Potter, referring to the famous “Shot Heard ’Round The World” that sealed the New York Giants’ 1951 World Series win over the favored Brooklyn Dodgers. “It always sounded so grand; the footage never did the excitement justice. Tonight, James Thomas was my Bobby Thompson, and I can tell people for the rest of my life that I personally witnessed one of the greatest moments in mid-valley baseball.”

Thomas’ stellar numbers led the Rockets: The West Albany senior brought in all five runs on only three plate appearances. Teammate Clayton Draper went 2-for-3 with a triple, and Larson Hugh doubled. For Richey’s, Hague Stefanski went 3-for-4 with two RBIs, while teammate Jake Cooley doubled in the team’s third run.

Both teams were evenly matched defensively. Market moundsman Paul Garey limited the Rockets to nine hits with nine strikeouts and a pair of walks. Pitching foe Ben Webster fanned seven Richey’s hitters, walked two, and kept their offensive drive to seven hits.

“It was a fantastic all-around performance from all the kids,” said Richey’s coach Dom Tomlinson. “Hats off to both teams. They turned in a classic night of baseball.”

The Rockets, 4-1 in league and 7-7 overall, head to Lodi, California, this weekend for tournament action, while Richey’s Market, 3-2 and 9-4, rest up for a Saturday non-league home contest with Astoria.

At Corvallis High School
ROCKETS 5, RICHEY’S 4

Rockets            001      000      004      –         5          9          2
Richey’s           030      100      000      –         4          7          3

W—Rockets, Webster (2-0). L—Richey’s, Garey (3-1). 2B—Rockets, Hugh; Richey’s, Cooley (1). 3B—Rockets, Draper. HR—Rockets, Thomas (4).

Why did I bother to remember this? Because like the young James Thomas, I too had a memorable night. Actually, I crept back into the Herald office, revived the computer, accessed the file, and printed that sumbitch as evidence that the night actually happened — an event unrelated to Mr. Thomas’ heroics, to prove the world keeps spinning and spits out equally worthy dramas and triumphs.

Here’s what happened:

‘Twas a summer Sunday — a day of rest and lawn care for all of practicing suburbia, pure death for a small-town paper’s sports department — so I rolled into work in the late afternoon, checked the prep schedule, which burped up only one game, from the day before: the heated crosstown baseball contest, a once-a-summer event. What I typed above was backup; the assistant sports editor had covered the game and most likely interviewed both coaches at length — probably not the most scintillating verbiage in either case. So what I typed was probably no more revelatory than what my boss heard with his own ears as he frantically scribbled shorthand while his captive interviewee, arms folded lazily, leaned against a dugout pole and stared mooshy-eyed into the dying horizon, his mind picking hoary laurels from the ether and gathering them for a bullshit harvest.

Our Sunday softball game was called on account of rain. It rains a lot in Oregon, but not as often as people think. Summers are usually pleasantly warm, with invasive showers seasoning the streets about 10-15 days on average per year. I’m the only sports guy in tonight; I called everyone beforehand and told them not to bother, because I was the only one without a life. But it’s cool; I got to milk my part-time hours for every drop of cash, sucking back Pepsis and staring dumbly at reruns on the newsroom television.

Around 6:30 p.m. I heard the authoritative clack of a key entering the side door, then a vacuum rush of air. This was always an exciting moment wracked with suspense; I couldn’t see the door from where I was positioned — my view was obstructed by an interview-room wall stretching a hair beyond the entryway. It always took a few seconds, roughly six footsteps, before the mystery guest materialized in the flesh. It was a fun game. You could always tell the janitor by the sound of his jingling keys and the thin whistle of a nonexistent tune. The editor’s identity was usually betrayed by the steady ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti of his 12-speed. Others came quietly, their footfalls soft as gossip.

Tonight it was the head photographer, Gary Ewen, his bulky equipment slapping against his six-foot frame as he made a quick beeline for the darkroom, where there’d be the ritual clatter and ringing and pop music for the next two hours as film was unloaded and washed. He was followed by holy shit Deanne Santos, reporters notebook in paw, arriving at her desk and coaxing her PC to life. I pretended not to notice either of them. Way too cool.

“Hey,” I heard her say as she flipped the disc drive’s butt switch. “What are you doing here on a lousy night like this?”

“Oh,” replied way too cool I, “I had a few things.”

“Big feature, huh? One for the boys at Pulitzer?”

“Oh, naw. Loose ends, you know. All the glamorous stuff you envy. The usual.”

“Yeah, well, I just spent the last two hours at a church dedication, which is like boredom in a sweet candy shell. Shaped like a cross.”

“Fun stuff,” I quipped, playing at her level.

“Timber Carnivals, church dedications — gotta tell you, Mr. Puddice, this town needs a newspaper like a stoplight needs a toothbrush. It concerns me that nothing newsworthy actually happens here. It’d be a nice gesture if y’all murdered somebody before I leave.”

“Last murder, I think, was 1983. We’re not due for a while,” I said. “Well, I take that back, actually. It wasn’t a murder, just a rumpled-up coat.”

She began consulting her notes. “Yeah, well, I can see why reporters all turn into raging alcoholics. Nothing to do between homicides.”

8:02 p.m.

She’s standing over me now.

“Need a lift?”

“Huh?”

“Finished my story. Most brilliant thing ever written by anybody. Need a lift? It’s still pourin’ out there.”

I plaster on the false disinterest. “Nah. I’m OK.”

“Come on, Mr. Cool. It’s comin’ down pretty hard.”

I hear the rain, pelting the building with a zombie fervor, like God dumping nails from the sky. Fucking Pacific Northwest.

“No, really,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t sound like nothin’ to me. Sounds like it’d cut you to pieces if you weren’t wearing a coat, which you’re not, because you’re a big ol’ macho dip.”

“Did you just call me a dip?”

“How far you live from here?”

“Um,” I reply, adding a couple extra houses, “about nine blocks.”

“Lemme get my purse. Y’ain’t goin’ out in this.”

I make my way to the door — quickly, but not so quickly I can’t be stopped. “Really. I’m fine. Thanks.”

She shotguns her purse strap over her shoulder and darts after me. “Don’t make me use my Southern hospitality to kick your ass.”

8:33 p.m.

We don’t exactly make it back to my place. We race to her car, a Pontiac 3000, about two models and 700 years of evolution beyond the hunk of Smurf-colored shit I drove for three years (currently a corpse in repose in my apartment-complex parking lot, its insides picked clean by vagrants). The headlights come on, the heater harrumphs, the engine hiccups into existence, the KRKT country station mushrooms mid-song, the wipers slide elegantly down the windshield, and we’re off on the jaunt to my front door.

“Sorry about the mess,” she says. I’m sitting amid piles of notebooks. Other than that, the interior is immaculate, a far cry from my own ride, which, before its clearance sale, was a newspaper stand and cassette-case graveyard.

I pluck a tape from atop her dashboard. “Ah. Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.”

“Yeah. Ever heard of ’em? They’re pretty good. They played that state fair I covered a couple weeks ago.”

“Ever heard of ’em. Shit. Will The Circle Be Unbroken? ‘Hand Me Down That Can O’ Beans’?”

“What? Oh, come on. You made that last one up.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You totally made it up!”

“I’m totally serious.”

“Bullshit.”

“The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band were in this movie called Paint Your Wagon with Lee Marvin and Clint Eastwood — ”

“Sing it.”

“What?”

“Sing it.”

“Fuck that. You kidding me?”

“Sing it.”

“No.”

“I’m gonna think you’re full of it until you do.”

“It’s a ridiculous song.”

“It’s nonexistent, is what it is, Mr. Puddice.”

“I really don’t want to sing it. Take my word for it.”

“Quit stallin’, you big dumbass. Now I’m gonna think you’re purposely wastin’ my time just so you can make somethin’ up.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“If you don’t sing me the song, you owe me five bucks.”

“How do I owe you five bucks?”

“Texas bet.”

“A what?”

“Texas bet.”

“What the hell’s a Texas bet?”

“A Texas bet is a bet that happens whenever I say it does.”

“We didn’t shake hands. There wasn’t — ”

“Don’t have to shake hands. A Texan’s word is enough.”

“What about my word?”

“You’re not from Texas.”

“How about we just rent Paint Your Wagon —”

“How about we don’t?”

“Yeah, but that’s proof, though.”

“Sorry, it violates the bet.”

“How does it do that?”

“The stipulations of the bet dictate that you, as a man about to be five bucks short, must convince me, a natural-born Texan, that there’s a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song about some beans, while in this car.”

“Turn left here,” I say as we reach the corner of Fifth Avenue and Madison, near Pop’s Branding Iron, serving kidney-twisting breakfasts 24 hours a day. She sees my hovel, its sewage illuminated by dying streetlamp.

“This it?” she asks, pulling toward the curb.

“Yeah,” I groan, going through the motions of a man about to escape. “Hey, thanks for the — ”

My passenger door suddenly locks.

“Sing the song.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I still got a half-tank left, plus enough cash in my purse to fill up again. We can sit here to daybreak if you want, but you’re not getting out of this car until I hear that stupid song.”

I exhale with the gale force of Jack Frost. “You,” I say, “are the most sadistic woman I’ve met this year.”

“Thank you. But compliments don’t unlock doors.”

An era of silence passes between us, the motor chortling quietly. It’s obviously on her side.

“OK,” I capitulate. “Promise not to laugh?”

“No.”

I sigh.

“Fair enough.”

I clear my throat, then pinch my diaphragm to make my voice as nasal and tinny as humanly possible. My hands go into hambone mode, slapping my knees like a drunk tumbling in the gutter. I pretend Deanne Santos is nowhere in sight, that maybe she’s not even real, that her smirk is just a trick of light, a weird tree branch in the distance, silhouetted in shadow against a full moon. My mouth opens and it all comes pouring out:

Hand me down that can o’ beans
Hand me down that can o’ beans
Hand me down that can o’ beans
I’m throwin’ it away
Out the winder go the beans
Out the winder go the beans
Out the winder —

I feel a hand on mine, with the cushion of five bucks between the flesh.

“Enough,” says the hand’s owner. “For the love of God, please stop.”

I nod in victory and take the easy money. “Not bad for a night’s work, huh?”

“Nope,” she smiles. “Now you can buy me a drink.”

“What?”

She shrugs apologetically.

“Texas bet.”

8:47 p.m.

NOTE: The following was transcribed from memory less than two hours after the fact (around 10:15). Its veracity cannot be fully verified.

SCENE: Buzzsaw Lounge, along the Willamette River, near the railroad tracks on the ass-wiped end of town. The Buzzsaw conceals two indentities: redneck trough by day, heavy metal coke den by night. Its two patron classes would confuse and scare the shit out of one another. We arrive between the two shifts: a Bon Jovi cover band — with its arsenal of memory fodder for coppa-feel prom nights — won’t take the stage for another two hours; the restaurant/bar area is sparsely populated by an otherwise normal Sunday crowd.

DEANNE: Y’have dinner yet?

ERIC: Well, I actually grabbed some crap from the store—

DEANNE: (reading menu) Crap, huh? Sounds healthy. You know what sounds good right now? One of these pepper-jack burgers.

ERIC: Well, I’ve never really eaten here, so —

DEANNE: If I got one, would you eat half?

ERIC: Probably not, I mean, I’m not that —

DEANNE: Well, I’d like at least a little something. I haven’t eaten all day.

ERIC: You can have the burger.

DEANNE: Yeah, but it sounds too big.

ERIC: And I have this thing with burgers, anyway, where I don’t like a lot of extra stuff —

DEANNE: How about fries? How does that sound? We’ll order some fries.

ERIC: Oh. Sure.

DEANNE: Are there waiters here?

ERIC: I don’t know.

DEANNE: This is your town, Mr. Puddice. You’re supposed to, you know, just snap your fingers, know your way around.

ERIC: Heh. I wish.

DEANNE: (waving) OK, there’s somebody. Hope he works here. If he doesn’t, kick him in the nuts and take his wallet.

ERIC: You don’t want to make a new friend?

DEANNE: I make friends everywhere I go. It’s part of my sparkling personality.

MAN: (arriving at table) Yes?

DEANNE: Yeah, um, I don’t want you to get offended by what I’m about to ask, but are you the waiter? Are there waiters here?

MAN: Actually, I’m the bartender, but—

DEANNE: See, we’re from out of town. We don’t understand the protocol.

MAN: I understand.

DEANNE: I mean, it was OK that we seated ourselves, right? I didn’t know.

MAN: (laughing) Of course. So. What would you like?

DEANNE: How big are the fry baskets? Are they in baskets?

MAN: I’d say there’s enough for two people.

DEANNE: All right, let’s get one of those.

MAN: OK. Would you care for anything to drink?

DEANNE: Well, it’s early yet. Corona?

MAN: OK. And you, sir?

ERIC: Um, Guinness?

MAN: Is that everything?

DEANNE: Yes, thanks.

MAN: I’ll be right back with your drinks.

(lingering, loitering pause)

DEANNE: So. What’s your story, Mr. Puddice?

ERIC: Story?

DEANNE: Yeah. Tell me about your life. Say more than five words to me at one time.

ERIC: Oh, my life story.

DEANNE: Yep. Everything from conception to the moment we crossed paths tonight.

ERIC: Well, it’s pretty boring.

DEANNE: Except for the conception part.

ERIC: Well, yeah, but I don’t really remember that. The lights were off.

DEANNE: Carson was probably a rerun…

ERIC: (laughing) My God, you are mean!

DEANNE: I wanna hear about what it’s like to be born in a town like this.

ERIC: Well, actually, I wasn’t born in this town. Or this state. In fact, it’s one of my dirty little secrets.

DEANNE: Ooooo, what’s that?

ERIC: I was actually born in…San Diego.

DEANNE: Oooo, little Cali boy on the sly, eh?

ERIC: Matter of fact, I lived in California until I was seven years old.

DEANNE: Get out!

ERIC: It’s true. I’m more sophisticated than you think.

DEANNE: Do other people know about this? I mean, was your family forced to hide in shame when they moved here?

ERIC: No, my dad found work pretty easily, but every time they brought up the sales tax, we had to watch our backs.

DEANNE: So you were born in California, moved to Oregon, how’d you get here? I mean, why are we sitting here together?

ERIC: Well, I lost a fixed bet.

DEANNE: I meant how’d you get into newspapers, numbnuts.

ERIC: I’ve graduated from dip to numbnuts.

DEANNE: I break out the two-syllable words for people I like. Three syllables, you get to slip a little ring on my finger.

ERIC: I got into newspapers ’cause I like to write.

DEANNE: Really? What kinda stuff?

ERIC: Um, social satire, music essays—

DEANNE: Zzzzzzzzzzz…

ERIC: Hey!

DEANNE: I just noticed that numbnuts almost rhymes with Puddice.

ERIC: Yeah, I guess it kinda does.

MAN: Here’s your drinks. The fries’ll be right out.

ERIC: Oh. Thank you.

DEANNE: Thanks. How do you spell that, anyway?

ERIC: Spell what? Oh, um: N-U-M—

DEANNE: Your last name, dumbass.

ERIC: D-U-M—no, seriously, it’s P-U-D-D-I-C-E.

DEANNE: Hm. Kinda sounds like pumice. I don’t know if I’d walk around with a name like that.

ERIC: Just think of it as mostly pudding and all ice.

DEANNE: You musta caught all kinds of hell in school.

ERIC: Tell me about it. I was Pumice, Pudlicker, Pudwhacker, Pudwhacker on Ice, Pudlice, Pudding Dice, Pudding Dick, Pudding Dick with Bill Cosby on Top, and Pud Nuts. Most of my friends still call me Pud Nuts. In fact, no one’s called me Eric since I was about 13. And that was my mom.

DEANNE: Actually, Pud Nuts is kinda cute. Sounds like a little cartoon dog or something, with a squeaky lisp and a captain’s hat.

ERIC: Well, I don’t know if it’s that cute.

DEANNE: I think it’s cute. Can I call you Pud Nuts?

ERIC: Are we friends?

DEANNE: I’m your best friend.

ERIC: Then go right ahead.

Here’s what I’ve pieced together about Deanne Santos. She was born in Bulverde, Texas, on October 22, 1972. So, like me, she’s 21 years old and has similar stories about being the Last One in her Roving Gang to clear all the adult milestones. She’s the youngest of six children. Her dad’s an architect; mom runs a jewelry counter at some JCPenney. In order of attendance: Bulverde Primary School, Wes Sisson Memorial Elementary, North Bulverde Junior High, Bulverde High (go, White Stallions!), then on to the University of Texas at San Antonio, where she majored in journalism and minored in English Lit. Slow four-year roll, then she applied for the TeddCities internship program, which has dragged her on a year-long tour of its most dailies, including ours, followed by the mighty Los Angeles Times before she settles back home at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, where she hopes to score a full-time gig. She got into journalism back in junior high, scribing the usual insipid chatter found in those mimeographed wonders that pass for the student rag, but never considered it as a career until her sophomore year among the Stallions, where she joined the yearbook and newspaper staffs simultaneously and found the discipline agreeable and repartee enticing. She ended her senior year as the newspaper’s editor, having snapped the yearbook connection like a useless limb (“Shitty backroom politics,” she dismissed with a wave, her nostrils recoiling as if detecting a lingering hint of said scat), and was still proud of her accomplishments. Under her supervision, the paper won three major high-school investigative reporting awards — quite a feat for a sheet previously known for jamming its many voids with arcane school trivia and robotic crowing over the installation of new vending machines in the boys’ locker room (“‘Now the jocks can choose between a post-game Pepsi or Coke!” she hiccoughed, smiling sourly at the memory of this yellow huzzah. “It’s a marvelous time to be alive and thirsty in America!”). She hopes to someday land in that executive emperor’s suite for a major metro. I believe she might do it.

For all the probing magazine articles written about our generation — our slackness, our apathy — they’ve been fooled. There’s restless ambition beneath the patchouli, a drive laced in our Doc Martens. Secretly, I am no exception. Openly, neither is Deanne Santos. Truthfully: goddamn.

(Read “Track 4″ here; visit “Track 1″ here.)