Urban Folk: issue six

Urbanfolk.org! It finally happened... I won’t say it’s the fanciest site around, but it’s there, with a downloadable pdf
of the latest issue for you to enjoy at your leisure. Read it on your computer when your boss isn’t looking, or print it out
and you can still read it on the can. Send us an email and we’ll put you on the list to be notified when new issues go up. It’s
a subscription that nobody has to pay for. Free for you and me! Spread the word. All ads and web addresses will take you
straight to the artist’s website with the click of a mouse. Very soon we’ll have back issues, staff bios, and maybe even some
music. In other news, enjoy the issue, the end of the year laments are over and we’re celebrating new and wonderful things.
New albums from Hamell on Trial, Brook Pridemore, and The Bowmans give us plenty to be excited about. Also, welcome
Gonzalo Silva, the smooth singing bass wielding underground hero as our new subway stories writer. Don’t forget, we’re
turning one year old next issue. Keep your eyes out for the extravaganza... -Dave Cuomo, Editor

Contact us at urbanfolkzine@gmail.com
Send all mail to Urban Folk at 306 Jefferson St. 1R, Brooklyn, NY 11237
In This Issue:
On the Cover - hamell on trial (photo by lippe)
Letters to the Editor – tellin’ it like it is
Hamell on Trial – jonathan berger explores the legend
Myspace Song Picks - dan costello bring us into the 21st century
Curtis Eller– dave cuomo finds a method to his madness
Brook Pridemore – andrew hoepfner bears witness to the birth of a masterpiece
Erin Regan – paul alexander puts a story to the pictures
Ching Chong Song – dan costello introduces us to anitfolk’s newest insanity
Exegesis Department – pastorman benjamin squires finds god in hamell’s song
Folk You! – dave cuomo tells of leaving and lost friends
Subway Stories – introducing gonazalo silva Be an Urban Folk friend!
Rock the House - darren deicide tells us how it’s done myspace.com/urbanfolkzine
Alec Wonderful – reviewing the works of juanburgesa and the undisputed heavyweights
On Trial Travels – ricki c. goes on the road with hamell on trial
Get in the Minivan - brook pridemore finds the redundancy that is the joy of recording
Paul’s Perspective – paul alexander reconciles himself to the never ending task of recording
Puzzle Contest - deborah t proves herself the mistress of enigmatology
Winner’s Feature - brian mathius! intrerviewed by deborah t
CD Reviews – brook pridemore, the bowmans, tim fite, ian thomas, and more...
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 Letters to the editor send letters to urbanfolkzine@gmail.com
Dear Urban Folk,
What is up with this ‘Editorial collective?’ Who are these
people of which you speak? It only seems to come up around
the Reviews, and I want to know who panned my demo.
Love,
Lithuanian Louise
Hey LL,
It’s none of your damned business who the Editorial
Collective is. They listened to your crappy 3-song demo,
and, probably, you shouldn’t have two cover songs on a
songwriter’s demo (although, considering the original,
maybe it should’ve had more). The point of the Editorial
Collective is to share opinions and come up with consensus
on the releases we hear. The shield of anonymity might seem
cowardly to some, but then again, if you don’t like it, write
your own damned reviews. Or don’t submit to Urban Folk.
Or something…
Dear Urban Folk fanzine,
I couldn’t help but notice, in UF #4 (with the Bowmans on
the cover), there was, in Dave Cuomo’s article about Pay to
Play scams, some quotes from an Englander named Emily
Watts. Then, in the next issue (you know, with Beat the
Devil on the cover), there was an article by a Londonian
named Emily Wasp.
Just how many Brits are polluting the Urban Folk scene?
Sincerely,
Sussin’ it out in Sussex
Dear SS,
You caught us. Emily Watts and Emily Wasp are one and
the same; both proudly back in the UK and missing the US
massively. If you can hear us all the way over there, Emily,
please know that we miss you, and we want you to return
that package of crisps right away.
Oh, and could you send us some fags?
Dear Urbanics,
What can I do for Urban Folk?
Thanks,
Tenaciously in Tenafly
Dear T’n’T,
Contribute, contribute, contribute.
Here’s what we want from you: Pictures, words (reviews,
poems, articles, interviews)…
Here’s what we want from you: Money, ads, connections to
others who want ads, location to drop off copies…
We want your help. We need your support. Bring it on!
Dear Urban Folk magazine,
How do you spell Bellowsky? Is it Buloski? Or Belousky?
How do you spell Bilowski?
Wearisome in Wichita
Well, W in W,
That’s something of a sore point. We misspelled the great
poet Stephen Belowsky’s name when referring to him. Had
we only checked his website, http://belowsky.com/, then
we would have known exactly how to spell Belowsky. We
could also have read more poetry from the guy.
Oh well.
Dear guys at the best magazine ever (who aren’t Jann
Wenner or George Plimpton),
I can’t help but notice that there are different open mics on
Tuesday night, hosted by different writers at Urban Folk.
Why is this? Is it some sick folk music conspiracy? Should I
begin wear tin foil hats or purchase bottled water?
Signed,
Suspicious
To whom it may concern,
You’re dead to rights. A conspiracy is in the works: a
conspiracy of fun!
Paul Alexander’s been hosting his Creek and the Cave on
Tuesday nights for close to a year now. He’s opened up Long
Island City as gigging locale for many many musicians. But
now that Dave Cuomo has taken over Jezebel’s music night
at the Lucky Cat, we have dueling events. Each week, the
hosts contact each other at the end of the night and compare
notes on the number of sign-ups, the number of audience
members, the number of drinks sold, and the number of
arrests made. Last week, Paul won.
Next week? Who knows?
Dear Urban Folk,
Who writes these letters?
With care,
Curious in Canada
Dear C in C,
Who do you think?
 Hamell on Trial by Jonathan Berger
Hamell on Trial is the epitome of AntiFolk. Of the delivery, his heartfelt lyrics, his aggressive acoustic playing,
innumerable artists that have been in and inspired by the Fort, and his sweaty bald head, and, in 2000, they played some
Hamell has been the most consistent, the most powerful, and, dates. It went well, and Hamell opened more and more
in certain ways, the most successful. Hamell on Trial, the DiFranco shows, to larger audiences. It was a turning point.
one-man acoustic punk band fronted by Ed Hamell, started After years driving across the country, playing cozy rooms
seventeen years ago as a lark for a benefit gig. to enthusiastic drunks, Hamell’s luck was changing.
“I had never played solo before and never really listened Then in May, 2000, driving through Hershey, PA, Hamell’s
to acoustic music,” Hamell recalls. “Every musician in town car tumbled off the road. He sings about the experience on
was going to be there, 2003’s Tough Love, on
so… to differentiate the track “Downs:”
myself from the James “Almost died in a car
Taylors of the world, I accident, they cut me
decided to call it Hamell from the wreck / Flew
on Trial, figuring it would me to the hospital with
be a one-time deal. After a brace around my neck
the show, I was offered a / Said I would relearn to
record deal from a local walk, my wife sat there
label… so even an idiot and cried / I thanked God
like me realized I was for what I had and what
on to something, and the they had prescribed…”
name stuck.” The pathos, the
And a career was humor… none of it lost in
born. The Syracuse New the accident. Time was,
Times said, “Knowing though, and momentum.
and witty, as romantic While his body healed,
as a leather jacket and his braces removed,
as realistic as an upstate Hamell, laid up in Upstate
day job, Hamell wraps New York, considered his
his raps up in what’s professional future.
been called an attack- “The accident, well, I
dog acoustic guitar. The mean, I travel so much…
package is irresistible.” Hundreds of miles a day.
Further compliments And I’m a good driver,
abounded. Praise came but odds are, I would
in forms like “the Clash have had a crash sooner
boiled down into one or later. I started thinking
upstate New Yorker,” about a show, in a theater,
“Beck meets Jello Biafra” in a city for a few weeks
or “one-man tornado.” in a row…”
Descriptions often took This thinking became
the form of absurdist more pronounced after the
mixings (“Uncle Fester birth of Detroit Hamell,
on crack”), to elemental Ed’s son with long-time
forces (“sound like a wife, Linda. Songs were
thunderstorm”). Still, the typical amazement at the live written. Gigs were played. The plan was hatched.
show never translated into record sales. Since then, Hamell’s released four albums: 2001’s Ed’s
In the last ten years, Hamell’s recorded for Mercury, for Not Dead, a live album (taken from those early shows with
Evangeline, for his own Such-A-Punch label, and, most Ani DiFranco), 2003’s Tough Love and Yap (a spoken word
recently, for Ani DiFranco’s Righteous Babe Records. disc), and now, the brand spanking new Songs for Parents
Hamell met DiFranco seven years back after she caught an who Enjoy Drugs.
intimate show at Avenue B’s Manitoba’s. The album, produced by DiFranco, and featuring her
DiFranco was impressed enough by his motor-mouth voice and playing on numerous tracks, is bound to increase
Hamell’s profile – as is the stinging political nature of the not previously road-tested, Hamell stops between each verse
album. “This album is for all those liberal-minded people and gives a hilarious description of the events just referred
who can’t fathom raising a child in this world of non- to (not unlke Urban Folk’s Exegesis column). Offering
tolerance,” Hamell explains in his press kit. Songs like history and perspective and detailed information, he explains
“Coulter’s Snatch,” desperately trying to float rumors about everything you wanted to know about the fourth apartment
right-wing icons, “Civil Disobedience,” which implores Hamell shared with his wife, and far, far more. He explains
“Fight for what’s right or else you are a putz,” and “Values,” just why the door falls down in the third verse, just how the
which presents President Bush as the worst possible role drug dealer paid the thieves to beat him, and how it feels to
model for children today, all present precisely what Hamell’s listen to Elvis’ earliest hit 400 times in a row. It’s the kind
politics are. of thing that could only have happened at a Hamell on Trial
Hamell doesn’t think he’s really that far to the left. “I’m show, but never has. It’s the sort of thing he’s saved for this
a moderate,” he says on-stage, “I’ll tell you how I know. I special occasion.
like to roll down Pennsylvania Avenue, like in Apocalypse “I’ve got a place in my heart like Apartment #4,” he
Now, and I want to see all their heads on pikes… but here’s finishes to riotous applause.
how I know I’m a moderate: I want them at all the same “Tomorrow, you’re friends’ll ask you about the show,” he
height.” While the audience laughs, he adds, “I’m a Libra says, then continues, enacting both parts of the conversation.
– I like order.” “’Was it theater?’ ‘It was punky theater.’ ‘What was the
Songs for Parents is a frosty blast of funny frenetic fury. show about?’ ‘It was about love, and redemption, and don’t
“This isn’t one of those Barneyed-out, ‘I’ve got a kid, isn’t be a big dick.’”
that precious’ kind of albums,” Hamell comments. “I’m The audience reacts. When he leaves the small Knitting
trying to make the point that us left wingers have to breed. Factory stage, the audience claps, shouts, stomps. Eventually,
There’s too much breeding going on with the right.” The a consensus is drawn, and they cry, as one, “Ham-ell. Ham-
album re-imagines Hamell’s songs (which, played live, are ell! HAM-ELL!”
always presented solely by the 51 year-old singer and his Bald head bowed, he returns to the stage, to continue a
‘37 Gibson) with keyboards, drums, sound effects, and, tour that never seems to end.
frequently, Ani DiFranco’s voice. The songs rarely suffer in
comparison to his live show. hamellontrial.com
But the live show is the best thing you’ve never seen, photos by Lippe
which is why it’s so exciting to hear that Hamell is finally
presenting his years-old idea of a one-man show. Debuting
at Knitting Factory and entitled “An Evening of Politics,
Polemic and Pills,” the series will feature the furious
playing, the obscene jokes, the skuzzy stories – pretty much
everything you’d expect from a typical Hamell on Trial
show. So what makes this one-man show different from the
one-man band?
Hamell explains, in the Old Office of the Knitting Factory,
before the gig: “Marketing.
“I’ve been thinking about this for years,” he clarifies, “but
I do love to tour. I can do 200 shows a year. Now, I’ve got
this record, and I’m trying to get it licensed, and the guys in
Europe are saying, ‘Great. Hamell’s got a new album. What
else is happening?’ So I’m thinking, if I raise the profile with
this show, get it into a theater, do something bigger, that’ll
make all the difference.”
But, really, how is the show different? “It’s a tough sell,”
he admits, “Descriptions don’t do it justice. I don’t say that
in an arrogant way. It just sounds weird when you reduce
its elements to, ‘It’s a bald guy with an acoustic guitar, and
he’s funny, and it’s political and filthy dirty and loud as hell
sometimes, and embarrassingly quiet sometimes, and it’s the
most value you’re going to get for your money anywhere,
and if you’re feeling down, he’s going to pick you up, he’s
like a gas station attendant in that regard, getting you from
point A to point B…’”
Perhaps the answer resides in the show. Performing one
of the new tracks, “Apartment #4,” a Songs for Parents cut
 A Hamell Discography
In the last ten years, Hamell on Trial has released a song about a crazy friend, and all the things he used to do.
numerous albums for numerous labels. Before that, there “The Meeting” is, as Hamell calls it, his “raison d’etre,” and
were other records, but those listed below are the ones you it explains what his art is all about.
have the best chance of purchasing. All but the first two are
available through Hamell’s
website or Righteous Babe Choochtown (2000):
Records. If you have any of Recorded for less than $500
the other albums, I want ‘em. in his basement, Choochtown
features the song-cycle that
could be called Scenes from
Big As Life (1996): the Toddle House, a diner
Originally recorded for that houses the events and
Doolittle Records, Big as Life characters that link “When
was purchased by Mercury, Bobby Comes Down,”
then presented to a public that “Choochtown,” “Joe Brush,”
was resoundingly uninterested. “The Mall” and “Shout-Outs.”.
There are lots of overdubs on This self-released album is
the album, but without drums, the epitome of Hamell as a
the dubs replicate the wall of hard-boiled story-teller, and,
sounds that makes up Hamell’s while the budget seems kind
live show. There’s certain of obvious on a couple of
muddiness to it all, but, of all tracks, it is probably his most
the studio recordings, Big as successful record to date.
Life most closely represents Highlights: “When
how Hamell actually performs Bobby Comes Down,”
his material. “Choochtown,” interconnected
Highlights: “Sugarfree,” songs, describing, like noir
“Harmony,” representing the Roshomon, a series of events
hyperactive kinetic energy of through multiple points of
Hamell’s songwriting. “Open view. “The Long Drive,”
Up the Gates,” a touching an excellent noir detective
ballad to his mother. “Blood story, told in song. “Hamell’s
of the Wolf,” a potent story- Ramble,” another in a long
song – if song it may be called. line of signature songs with a
“Dead Man’s Float,” which killer riff that is so menacing,
rocks – hard. so threatening, I’m afraid to
even talk about it any more.

The Chord is Mightier

than the Sword (1997):
The only album recorded for
Mercury, The Chord paints
with a wider palate, recorded
sometimes with a band (i.e. “In
a Bar”), sometimes solo (“John Lennon”). There are many
of the story-telling songs that make up much of the early
albums, though the studio experiment “Mr. Fear” is very
different, and very good. Beck’s Odelay seems an influence,
with stylistic changes abounding.
Highlights: “Mr. Fear” has a full band sound, plus a
hint of hip hop flavor. “The Vines,” a story of mindless
government work over an acoustic groove. “Red Marty” is
Ed’s Not Dead; Hamell
Comes Alive! (2001):
Released on the heels of
Hamell’s 2000 car crash, this
is the album that most perfectly
represents Hamell on Trial. While taken from several shows,
it seamlessly blends them together, as if you’re listening to
the artist from behind a column at an amphitheater. There
are three new songs, but mostly it’s just the ‘hits’ from his
prior albums. One man, and one guitar, with all the smartass
jokes and comments you could’ve heard on-stage.
Highlights: Tracks one through sixteen. This is the perfect
Hamell on Trial album, at the apex of his ability.
 Mercuroyale: The Best of the Mercury Years (2002):
England’s Evangeline released a collection of songs from his
two Mercury albums. Most of the content of the individual
albums are here. If you can’t get your hands on the two
disks, this is an affordable and feasible supplement.
Highlights: See above – except for “Mr. Fear,” which,
inexplicably, didn’t make the cut. .
Tough Love (2003): The first studio album after the
infamous crash, the first album after the birth of his son (the
last track on the album is “Detroit Lullaby,” for his first kid),
the first release with Ani DiFranco’s Righteous Babe Records.
Despite the multiple producers and studios involved, there’s
a consistent feel to the whole CD. Numerous songs hint at
the politics he increasingly embraces in song and story.
Highlights: “Hail” presents a heaven where tolerance
reigns supreme. “Tough Love” retells Natural Born Killers
with tuba. “Dear Pete” is an epistolary Elmore Leonard-style
story. “First Date” recreates an ancient hit from yesteryear
while recalling the worst first date imaginable.
Yap (2003): The spoken word album. Representing the
other main aspect of Hamell’s live performance – the story-
telling. Some of these stories, or variants thereof, have been
road-tested for years. There’s a couple of musical cuts, but
mostly it’s a distinct change of pace , released concurrently
with Tough Love.
Highlights: “The Disconnected,” about an out-of-town
show and the future of rock and roll. “Glover’s Eulogy,”
about a deceased drinking buddy and roadie, his big heart,
and his joie de’vivre.
Songs for Parents who Enjoy Drugs (2006): Produced
by Ani DiFranco. Political and familial, Hamell exploits
his relationship with his son to discuss and harangue the
American machine. Most of the songs have more players
and arrangement than is typical for Hamell’s live show. They
seem more fluid and work better than usual, when Hamell
messes with his style. Lots of surprises, songs unfamiliar to
even the most regular Hamellhead.
Highlights: “Coulter’s Snatch,” featuring the line, “There
are some douches that’ll never fail you lest they come up
against Ann’s genitalyou..” “Civil Disobedience” declares
war on the authority. “Jerkin’” declares Hamell’s monogamy
on the road. “Values” declares the president’s a schmuck.
“Inquiring Minds,” starts off the record, declaring how he
fully plans to lie to his child about his storied past (just hope
the kid doesn’t get his hands on the album).
 Invisible Noise
myspace music picks
by Dan Costello
OK, so the digital revolution is well under way. Thanks to digital download sites and networking sites like myspace.com,
a person can listen to more music now than ever before. With the great power of the human race, we have networked
ourselves silly. I’m not trying to blow smoke up in here, but the Urban Folk reader, simply put, is smarter than your
average bear. You can actually use these sites to expand your mind and not just your imaginary social circle. Using that
beacon of silly networks, we are positioning ourselves on the cutting edge. Here are ten tracks you should go listen to on
myspace.com, right now.

“Miss You More” by 13 Scotland Road. Bill’s impressive
guitar work, and Aaron’s flutes balance each other nicely.
Their lyrics are simple and poetic.
myspace.com/13scotlandroad
“Edward is Dedward demo” by Emmy The Great. She’s a
UK antifolker, full of sweet sounds and often biting imagery.
She actually reminds me of Dave Cuomo, if he was a girl.
myspace.com/emmythegreat
“Make It Last” by The Bowmans. Their album is coming
soon, but ‘til then you MUST listen to this. Their vocals
rival the best. No, they are the best.
myspace.com/thebowmans
“Girl Beer” by The Hazzards. Quirky girls, unafraid to
poke fun at themselves or others. Apparently another of their
songs was a Euro-Pop hit. You can hear that here, too.
myspace.com/thehazzards
“Start Your Engines” by Ching Chong Song. (See feature
on these guys). But I can’t talk about this duo enough. I’ve
been listening to this track at least once a day for forty two
years, and I swear I’m healthier for it.
myspace.com/chingchongsong
“Dairy Milk” by Spinmaster Plantpot. A capella singing
– or is it rap? Or noise? What the fuck is this? Well, it’s one
of those things you just have to hear. I have quite a bit of
respect for anyone who gives Chaka Khan a shout out.
myspace.com/ppot
“Without You” by Milk Kan. These guys just opened for
the Violent Femmes. Some of the lyrics might make more
sense to Brits, but the sentiment is loud and clear.
myspace.com/milkthekan
“Scarecrow” by Erin Regan. (See feature) Why doesn’t
this girl have a record deal yet? Someone’s gonna make you
pay for these songs someday, get ‘em now while you can!
myspace.com/erinregan
“Don’t Love You Anymore” by Carl Creighton. Repeat
all of what I said about Erin (except where the ‘she’s become
‘he’s). The sweetest boy voice you’ve never heard – unless
you have already heard it, in which case you’re probably
hooked.
myspace.com/carlcreighton
--compiled by Dan Costello (who, of course, can be heard
at myspace.com/dancostello)

“Somebody Else” by Rav Shmuel. Listen to Rav, and

you’ll be one of the smart people saying, “Matisyahu?
Shmatisyahu!”. This guy is the real thing: a beer-drinking
songwriting Rabbi.
myspace.com/ravshmuel
 Curtis Eller
american storyteller
by Dave Cuomo
A banjo is a strange instrument. It comes to us “It’s funny, even
from the darkest parts of American history. Beginning though it was in antifolk
as a stringed gourd instrument brought over by that I first found a
West African slaves, it was used by whites as a home, they are the ones
symbol to mock the slaves in caricatures, frequently who usually don’t get
drawing big lipped grinning figures playing a banjo it, they seem to think
with simple minded glee. For the slaves it was one I’m just being retro,” he
of the foundations that jazz was built on, offering a says, “the punk crowds
moments’ freedom, at least in song. Times changed get it the best, the older
and it became a symbol of independence for turn of the folkies too, but the
century women to pick up the instrument of the down punk crowds are a lot
trodden, as if it had been created to speak to those more fun to play for.”
who weren’t always allowed to speak for themselves. Setting him apart from
In a convoluted course through drunken Southern other ironic or kitschy
jams into the modern world of respectable bluegrass, throwback musicians
today it comes to us as an emblem of nostalgia and is the sincerity and
folk authenticity. It is a symbol of pure Americana, darkness behind Eller’s
containing our largest sins with our most persevering art. Looking beyond his
and hopeful characteristics. arrangements, he has the
It is the instrument that Curtis Eller could not emotional personality
ignore. He grew up around it, playing it as a kid, then of a contemporary
trying to forget about it due to its notoriously unhip singer/songwriter in
nature. He worked in the circus, dabbled in theatre, his lyrics and melody
and played rock n’ roll, but nothing ever felt as natural craft. When he sings
as the banjo. Finally he allowed himself to claim it about his long gone
fully, falling in love with the hollowness of the sound, subjects, he does it with
the way the notes die instantly leaving an awkward a deep intimacy and
space behind for the audience to contend with. He understanding. He uses
plays it in all manners that it can be, fast and wicked, them as icons, but he
hollow and forlorn, bright and alive. Whether or not he has fallen in love with
makes the instrument hip is open to debate. Certainly the icons and carries on
it is enjoying a revival from both the flourishing a personal relationship
bluegrass world, and the modern roots and folk revival with them. The nostalgia is so sincere that a song calling out
scene just sprouting up, although from the latter one gets for Buster Keaton to come back and revive a Hollywood that
the impression that the unhipness is precisely the appeal. has been floundering “since they started in with the talkies,”
It would be easy to look at Eller’s music and see this kind sounds as emotional and heart tugging as a forlorn song to a
of irony as a part of his aim. He performs in suspenders lost lover. Similarly in a song about Stephen Foster he tries
or strange fitting suits that call to mind nineteenth century to reconcile himself to what it means to stand in the place
evangelists or tonic salesmen, matching up with the pictures where Foster died mysteriously, and have no one else seem
he frequently uses for posters and as album artwork (created to care and remember. In “Coney Island Blue,” he vividly
by his wife Jamie Wolcott) which call to mind creepy old paints the picture of Luna Park’s former glory before calling
time carnivals and freak shows. In the middle of songs he out repeatedly “Don’t no one remember Luna Park?” adding
will perform contorted acrobatics, stretching his legs into “How I wish I’d been there/ in 1903 after dark/ when they
impossible positions without skipping a beat. His songs on would light the place up like the day time.” In what must be
first listen sound like a throwback to the earlier parts of the the maddening feeling behind his nostalgia, even he can’t
last century, the banjo taking prominence and his wailing connect completely to the past he is holding on to. Curtis
preacher’s voice accompanied by a tuba, squeezebox and Eller becomes a bit of a conundrum, a preacher sounding
call back old time harmonies. The subjects match up, as he retro singer trying to make us remember our past with the
tosses around lines about Abraham Lincoln, Buster Keaton, diligence of a bitter history teacher.
and Stephen Foster. In the same way that the banjo had to travel through the
worst aspects of our history before coming out the other side,
so too Curtis has to take us through the dark sides of where
we come from before showing us the good. Much has been
written about his song “The Execution of Black Diamond”
from his first album 1890, with good reason. It is a creepy
and intriguing song, about a subject Curtis loves to glorify,
the circus. It is based on the true story of a 1929 circus
elephant whose trainer was hired away by a woman in Texas
to train her horses. Two years later the circus traveled back
through the town, and the elephant recognized the woman
and killed her in a rage. In retaliation it was paraded through
the streets and eventually shot, with the mayor firing the first
bullet. It’s a bizarre story whose implications of guilt run too
numerous to count, leaving not even the elephant innocent.
In the same way he likes to fuse modern technique with an
old time sound, “Taking Up Serpents Again” the title track to
his most recent album draws the lines clearly from the worst
parts of our past to the worst of our present. “Just like that
son of a bitch gonna wind up in the Whitehouse every time...
And the war between the States was just a bell they had to
ring/ You can bet it was a sure thing.” Despite the glorifying
look at our culture found in many of his songs, he seems to
find that the dark side of our society is as undeniable in the
past as it is today.
Folk music is traditionally about story telling, a
designation Curtis is perfectly comfortable with, often
breaking out into an extended tale from American history in
between songs during a performance. “Playing in America,
I like to remind people where we come from, that it’s not
all bad. There are really amazing parts of our culture that
we need to remember when we don’t like the direction our
country is going,” he tells me. Given the current state of
affairs it is easy and a little simple minded to look around
and decide that all things American are bad, but “if we can
be proud of parts of our culture, it can inspire us. Always
walking around and hating America won’t do a whole lot
of good. We need something to build from.” In Europe it
serves a similar purpose, reminding other countries that we
aren’t all bad. “I guess in a way I’m sticking up for us,”
he says. This optimism means more in the light of all the
terrible things he acknowledges in his songs. It makes sense
that one must look the old racist banjo caricatures honestly
in the face and understand where they came from before we
can finally thin the overdrawn lips and turn the impish grin
into a human expression. He is an artist whose own bio touts
him as trying “to capture the spirit of the Harford Circus
Fire of 1944,” a horrifying disaster that killed 167 people.
It continues “Although there are sure to be many acts of
heroism by performers and crew alike, ultimately it will
prove to be the greatest disaster in circus history.” So maybe
he’s not an optimist, but he is doing what he can anyway. In
the end that’s all any society could ask of him.
curtiseller.com
artwork by Jamie B Wolcott: jamiebwolcott.com
 Uncontrollable Urge
recording in the poconos with brook pridemore
Everybody gets soul sparks in their heads, heartbeats
from their imaginations. Musicians are fantastic, because
their urges are overpowering, giving them little choice but
to obey. The sound in their skulls must be echoed in its
complete, genuine form. A group of folk artists revealed this
to me out in the Poconos the day I watched Brook Pridemore
record an album.
“I’ve had like a hundred jobs or something.” Brook
Pridemore shakes his head. “Just bottom rung, you know,
pushing carts. Swinging warehouse bags and stuff. So to be
honest, I don’t have any idea what I’d do if I wasn’t playing
music.” Pridemore has followed the call of sound a long way,
from Detroit, to New York, and across America’s lonely bars
and haphazard living rooms. The music has been driving him
some time, and his new album, The Reflecting Skin, proves
there’s still has gasoline in the tank. The title track rolls down
a blurring highway with the thunder of a stampede, melting
ten thousand memories and miles into one bright, blinding
riddle. Frantically rattling guitars, a hungry, relentless snare,
and a steadily humming outer space omnichord all echo the
headfirst journey that Pridemore has embarked upon. At
the steering wheel, the singer’s quick, nasal lyrics narrate
by Andrew Hoepfner
lost ponderings and split-second epiphanies, jumping back
and forth between sense and nonsense. With a resilient grin,
Pridemore sings of the downtrodden, where nothing feels
good, but you’ve gotta keep moving. Suddenly, on the third
line of the chorus he interjects, “There’s a bathroom on
the right,” a left-field reference to the infamous Credence
Clearwater mistranslation. Quickly, the song ties back
together by juxtaposing, “And I’ve not seen nothing in
my life that is good without a fight.” The smart maneuver
between punchline and heartfelt truth is a reoccurring trick
throughout Pridemore’s songwriting. The singer is constantly
throwing out lines for the audience to catch, messing with
your head, playing with words that make you laugh and
guess, playing with words that move you deeply.
Dan Treiber, who runs Pridemore’s label, Crafty Records,
has offered me a ride to the recording studio in his CD-
strewn van. He, too, is Pennsylvania bound, at the mercy
of the folk punk songwriter’s wandering muse. My friend
Steve Seck, Pridemore’s accordion player, waits with me on
the frost bitten curb of 14th Street, and soon the three of us
wind down the Jersey expressway under gray overpasses,
past the skeletons of trees. Talkative and hospitable, Treiber
gives us a brief education on the constant struggle
of promoting and releasing indie records. He
describes how he rented, broke down, and
borrowed a total of five vehicles on Pridemore’s
last US tour. “So it was sort of like, we had no
choice,” he explains from the driver’s seat. “We
rented a car, and we finished the tour, but I had
to put all this money into an engine that didn’t
get us anywhere. This was just a series of bad
luck, you know, who woulda knew? But it was
a blast.” After 8 releases and a widening abyss
of debt, the stress of running Crafty Records
was heavy, and Treiber was about to call it quits.
Yet amidst the lightning fray of seeing Brook
Pridemore live once more, the head of the label
again felt that creeping urge. The songs have a
contagious fighting spirit inside of them, bright
eyes and sharp teeth. Upon listening, Treiber knew
that he had to keep Crafty Records going, if only to amplify
Pridemore’s music. Financially, the odds are stacked against
these labels, kept alive in basements and bedrooms. But
small labels operate like the unwavering musician, driven
by a heart full of love for creation, not dollar bills. Treiber
shares with us the satisfaction he had in tinting Pridemore’s
last album cover, First Name/Last Name, in the Minor Threat
shade of red. He speaks of a punk rock kid in North Carolina
who had homemade Crafty Records patches waiting for him
and Brook when they toured through. These are the real
rewards for the label’s hard work. Five more albums are set
to be released this year. Dan Treiber can’t resist.
Our tires crunch over January snow as we park at the
isolated forest cabin that houses Brook Pridemore’s -
recording efforts. Inside, a small collective of AntiFolk
music-makers are buzzing, melding their creative energies.
Upstairs it’s like a band motel, where Pridemore and a
shifting cast of guests have been sleeping for ten days now.
It’s still morning, and nobody’s washing up. Everyone’s
all got stubble on our faces and dirty socks on their feet.
A giant pot of coffee awakens us from this strange slumber
party, and into the day’s work. Over on an electric keyboard,
Dan Costello is rumbling and composing. David L. K.
Murphy constructs an impromptu slide guitar part, tracing
up and down the neck, searching for the right line. Steve
Seck heads downstairs to smooth out a chord on one of last
week’s sessions. Scrolling from left to right, a rainbow of
sound waves display on the giant monitor in the studio’s
control room. Pridemore, in a plain winter hat and gruff,
blonde goatee, presides over the situation, guiding people
through their vocal harmonies, making sure the piano part
doesn’t come in until the second verse. We are inside that
slow, focused process that it is to record a studio album.
Hours pass. Everyone here is under the same spell,
our wheels eagerly spinning with expression. Murphy is
hunched upon a bed in the backroom working on a song
of his own, lassoing an airy melody that’s eluded him since
August. Later, Costello will drive me home down the BQE,
talking about the day job he’s abandoned to follow music.
I myself manhandle an armful of tripods, cameras, and
keep a voice recorder in my pocket, trying to capture the
feeling that’s infecting the day. The impulse that led us all
into sound booths, clapping hands, clutching headphones,
releasing into microphones.
The big stereo speakers fall silent when nighttime falls.
As I sit down with Brook Pridemore to reflect on what’s
happened here in rural Pennsylvania, the darkness makes
way for a quieter, contemplative side to the musician. I
become aware of a grimness underlying the recording, as
he shares that he’s been dealing with the suicides of three of
his friends. I asked Brook what he thought had caused the
deaths. Hesitatingly, he makes his best guess. “I think you
get to a point where, you get done with the things you’re
supposed to do, you have to go to school and you have to
get a job. It seems like all three of these guys got to that
same point where they didn’t know what to do next. It’s a
pretty depressing thing that I think I went through at one
point. I kind of lost my rudder for a couple years, there.” I
see clearly now the intersection of Brook’s broken, bleeding
lyrics and his catchy four chord choruses that gleam of
sweaty, punk rock youth. The words are Brook Pridemore’s
struggle, and the major key is his way out. “And that’s the
point of music,” observes David L. K. Murphy. “Look at the
blues. That’s about triumph. And what a good name for a
person, Pridemore,” he adds. “Pride not in the sinful sense,
but in the, almost, grateful sense.”
Maybe after a day of intense concentration, releasing
into laughter is inevitable. Or maybe Steve’s accordion just
sounds like the ocean. Whatever the reason, the six of us
finish off the Poconos sessions by retreating to a large couch
and belting out a loud, rowdy sea shanty. In a fireplace
circle, each of us invents a verse, pretending to be grog
swilling, eyepatch wearing, sexually frustrated pirates. And
this ridiculous song fills me with joy, for the day has ended
as it started, with music breaking out in an irrepressible and
free way. We are singing because we have to.
brookpridemore.com
 Erin Regan
Southern Belle
by Paul Alexander
Raised for the most part in Northern Virginia, Erin Regan had to get out of there." Regan's art stands on its own for its
first appeared in New York City on a fateful Sunday at the sincerity and power, but strike even deeper when you realize
Underground Lounge in November of 2004. Erin came she's sharing actual experiences.
to New York City because her aunt offered her a couch to Not all of her experiences with family have been
sleep on, because she found no meaningful musical outlets horrendous, though. Erin's Aunt Maura O'Connell only
in Virginia, and because in her words, "I wanted to leave gave her a place to live, but she also helped Erin develop
a part of my former life connections to generate
behind." It's a story demos and create press
familiar enough to many kits, and, eventually,
songwriters in New play at the Living Room,
York City, but as anyone Arlene Grocery, CBGB’s,
who has spent even one and the Bitter End. Yet,
evening listening to even after what many of
Erin Regan probably us would consider a more
could already assume, than moderate amount of
the life Erin is trying to success, Erin still loves to
"leave behind" has been play at the Sidewalk Café,
one many of us only where she appreciates both
write about secondhand. “the vibe and supportive
Regan began frequenting atmosphere."
Lach's Monday night It’s at the Sidewalk where
Anti-Hootenanny at the she gets most feedback
Sidewalk soon after she and the greatest sense of
moved here, and despite community. Erin considers
drawing a high number herself a writer first, and as
and sitting nervously in such, reads a fair amount
the back her first time, by of poetry. Currently, her
her second appearance, favorite poem is "Getting
she had booked her first You Drunk" by AntiFolk’s
show in New York City. self-proclaimed poet-
"I've always written," laureate, Jonathan Berger.
Regan explains. From Perhaps it’s the poem’s
an early age Regan was subject matter, perhaps it’s
fascinated by the poverty the meter or word choice,
she saw around her and photo by Jamie Ferri or because Erin just thinks
took pen in hand. "First "He’s a hottie." Whatever
stories, and then songs." After picking up the guitar at the connection, her appreciation of other’s art is profound,
the age of 14, Erin quickly applied her poetic talents to as is her own focus on lyrics.
songwriting, changing media, but maintaining the same self- Mesmerizing as an Erin Regan performance can be,
reflective motifs. It should comes as no surprise that Erin especially the first time you witness it, the show becomes
has experienced her share of hard times. Born into a family all the more poignant as you concentrate on her lyrics; small
stricken by rampant drug and alcohol abuse, Erin lived in stories of intense loneliness and suffering. With lyrics like
foster care for a brief period, and she has moved from one "When we get thirsty we'll go to 7-11 like Elliot Smith in
relative to another for most of her life, encountering many 'St. Ides Heaven'" from "Mom's Car," Erin weaves a tale
forms of abuse along the way. "When I moved in with my she admits comes from a period in her life which generated
mother’s sister, they had to leave their bedroom, and they most of her material. At 17, Erin moved in with her two-
moved into their basement, which was cold and dark, and year boyfriend. Three years later, they broke up – badly.
her boyfriend hated me, and every day, would ask if I was Erin, who had given up songwriting during the relationship,
still there. After a month of me living there, he moved out. I moved out, attempting the near-impossible feat of "staying
friends." Following the break-up, Erin began feverishly
writing again, resulting in "Mom's Car," which virtually
transcribes one of her trips back to Virginia. "There was
no one else to stay with, so I was at his parent’s home. He
came to visit me there, so we got stoned in his Mom’s car,
and he dropped me off while he drove away to see his new
girlfriend. He’s pulling away to get some, and I’m drinking
tea with his mother!” Bittersweet and incredibly personal,
Erin finds a way not only to tell a powerfully personal story
of memory and pain, but to also to reference one of her
greatest influences, the late Elliot Smith, while avoiding
being derivative of the similarly gifted wordsmith.
Two items that come up often in Erin’s songs are heartache
and alcohol. Erin denies being an alcoholic, though, with
a quick "What songwriter doesn’t drink?" Erin's "Two and
Twenty Years" briefly deals with the demons of drinking.
As with the lyrics "I'm two and twenty years, nine and
eighty tears, and two beers away from dying," Erin admits
that consumption helps compensate for insecurity and
self-prescribed "lack of social graces." Still, to those who
critique her, to all of her new "hangers-on," who "don’t
really understand the rough life it took me just to be here
today," she speaks directly in "Two and Twenty Years"’s
chorus: "You say you know me."
Not all of Regan's art is autobiographical. "Silhouettes
of Trailers" or "SofT" as she affectionately calls it, has Erin
musing about what it must be like living in the trailer park
she often saw driving into Virginia from North Carolina,
where she briefly lived while undergoing physical therapy
for a boating accident that left her almost unable to walk.
“‘Cause the park looks so dark from 95,” she sings over a
haunting melody. Erin says that she has always “really liked
the dirty details in life,” stating “perfection scares me…
wife beaters and ash trays are more real.”
In addition to the obvious influence of Elliot Smith, Erin
has always found solace and influence in the music of
Fiona Apple, another talented female singer/songwriter
whose lyrics suggest that, like Erin, she’s been through
more than her share of hardships. Raised on a healthy
helping of both Neil Young and the Grateful Dead,
Erin credits both artists along with Joni Mitchell for
helping her understand both the power and the craft
of self-confessional composition. In addition,
Erin also has very clear folk inspiration from
her time with her Uncle Michael O’Connell
worked on Grassroots Stages, a documentary,
about the Shakori Hills GrassRoots Festival.
At the North Carolina festival, the sight of
many young performers playing washboards,
jugs, and other traditional Appalachian folk
instruments really struck a chord in Erin. Now,
she has her own accompaniment in the form of
Steven Brown, the maestro of the mandolin.
Being a girl in a songwriter scene primarily
populated by guys must be difficult at times.
Nevertheless, Erin Regan takes her position
in stride, secure that she writes songs as
well as any guys on the scene. Still, she’s willing to play the
sex card, falling into the role of "sex pot" both to shock and
to control her audiences. At the same time, drawn to those
as passionate as she, Erin sings, "I never date musicians,
but I fuck them all the time." In an unfinished composition
Erin asserts, "What’s the deal with all you metrosexuals? I
don’t know if you want to fuck me or go shopping." Still,
she claims, "I don't want to be seen just as a girl with tits
singing about sex." But, influenced by the AntiFolk scene,
she speaks more bluntly than previously. An early poem
states, "I saw a man today, in the Tastee Freeze, he had on
a NASCAR hat, shirt, and jean jacket. He ordered the tater
tots, but I know what he really wanted. I know."
Despite all Erin’s successes at East Village clubs, and
numerous demos floating around her home and Myspace.
com page, there are no albums available. Soon enough, that
may change. Erin has been doing quite a bit of recording
just outside of Woodstock, NY at a studio called the Make
Believe Ballroom with the help of producer Tom Mark. In
all, she estimates that she’s recorded between thirty and
thirty-three songs at Make Believe, and if she can get the
money together, she hopes to remix a handful of these
tracks, add a few other musicians to them, and put out a
short album. "I need to be a little more stable in my rent
situation, so I don’t have a lot of money to spend right now."
However, she’s already come to question some of her songs.
Like so many who immerse themselves in such a talented
musical scene, Erin feels some of her older material seems
"cheesy." Erin is always furthering her craft, working to
capitalize through composition on the concept that "there’s
something beautiful about simplicity, though you have to
work to find a new way to say ‘I love you’ or ‘you broke
my heart.’"
All in all, Erin is more than content continuing
along the path she’s begun to pave in the New
York music scene, and vows to continue
visiting her "homestead" at the Sidewalk
every week. Even still, she’s also setting
goals for herself, among them putting
out an album, playing and writing even
more, and just managing to live her
life on her own. Preoccupied
with not sounding "arrogant"
to other songwriters, Erin
says, "I write songs because
it's cheaper than therapy,"
adding that she couldn't
stop writing if she wanted
to. "It's kinda like taking a shit
– you just have to get it out, and
I'm not thinking about what anyone
will think, I just have to get that shit out
– Of course, I also want people to like
me."
erinregan.com
 Ching Chong Song
A Big Little Duo Called Ching Chong Song
Julie LaMendoza wants to be Carmina Burana. “I’ve
always wanted to be an opera singer.” Her voice lends itself
to high drama. Along with Dan Gower, as the duo Ching
Chong Song, she sculpts songs of indescribable passion -
when they repeatedly sing “I live in a house and I want to
fuck my landlord,” with each repetition there is a change
in perspective, something slight, something funny or tragic
grows with the song. An audience listening to this leans
forward, searching for every nuance. It’s right there for the
taking. There’s nothing to hide: A piano, a saw, a boy and
girl singing. Sounds simple, right?
Wrong. Ching Chong Song is like nothing you’ve ever
heard in your life. They are complex. And they are not for
the faint of heart.
Dan Gower grew up in
Spokane. He went to college
for music composition and
became a fan of famed
Argentinean composer
Alberto Ginestera (look this
up - he’s worth a Google).
Also a big fan of the Indigo
Girls and REM, Dan moved
to Santa Fé for a year and a
half, was in a million bands,
and finally, last year, settled
in Bushwick. Meeting Julie
was a revelation. “It came
together really fast, and it was good right away. It wasn’t
arduous.” With his short, cropped hair and thick-rimmed
glasses, Dan looks like a composer. His piano playing is
tremendous – tender, vicious, and technically wowza. His
compositions are insanely complex and at the same time,
completely familiar. “Start Your Engines” has an off-kilter
ivory rhythm that most musicians would stumble over. Add
the serious vocals, really tight harmonies, and what happens
couldn’t be written on the page by even the most technical
writer. It’s sheer magic.
The smiles on the faces of these performers will tell you
how much they enjoy their process and performance. At
times tender (listen to “Who You Sleep With”), at times
dreamy (“Cigarettes”), their personality constantly shines
through. In “Old Man,” Julie mourns the loss of her friends’
love. It has a Kit Kat Klub piano, a Frankenstein saw,
and a moaning lyric that evaporates like glycerine into a
showstopping moralistic finale. Upon hearing a song that
travels as far as this one, a listener might think, “Is there
anything these two can’t make music about?”
It’s refreshing when incredible collaborators truly love
each other. On meeting Dan, Julie is more exactingly
by Dan Costello
graphic. “It was like my sphincter dropped out and my heart
dropped out of my mouth. It was like I peed my pants. I
got a blister from running to him, because I was running
to him all my life.” They met through friends. On their
first outing, Julie suggested a preferred pastime – sledding
down the concrete slope under the Brooklyn Bridge on milk
crates. Dan didn’t want to go. Julie remembers, “I totally
said, ‘If you don’t want to live life, OK... ‘” Dan laughs at
this reminder, as if to indicate this philosophy has pervaded
their time together. It’s another sign that their musical
revelation is a personal one.
That “Live Life” philosophy has taken Julie around the
world. She performs with her whole body, she’s one of
those free-spirit performers
who obviously could tell
you stories all night, but
instead just embodies them.
“I’m a drifter. I slept on
couches for ten years.” She
grew up in the Midwest and
was involved in theater and
music. She cites Daniel
Johnston, Lucinda Williams
and Afroman among her
influences. Why does she
sing? “It’s the thing I’ve
been doing since I was little
and I love it. It’s kind of
what I imagine praying would be like.”
“Being a piano player is tough, guitarists can play
anywhere.” Dan has an upright in his apartment, a hefty
piece of furniture that occupies one entire wall of the living
room. Dan just bought a toy piano to accommodate this
issue. “But it’s not the same.” When they played The Glass
House in Brooklyn after Dan Fishback’s excellent theater
piece, the toy piano was a hit.
While they both live in Bushwick, they’ve been getting
some East Village play. “I came to AntiHoot three years
ago, when I was passing through New York” recalls Julie.
“Lach was telling some funny jokes. I came back this year,
he’s telling some of the same ones. They’re still funny. It’s
so comforting. And sure, out of fifty performers someone
might suck once in a while, but that’s when you grab a
cigarette. There’s always something incredible to listen to.
It’s insane how good it is.”
On a late night in 2005, Ching Chong Song was the
revelation. Those of us lucky to be in the audience remember
it vividly. Lach, who founded AntiFolk and has been hosting
nights of music in the East Village since 1983, considers
it a watershed moment. “Halfway through their first song,
I knew I wanted to book them, I knew I wanted them to
play the AntiFolk Fest, they were just delightful. One of the
things that’s kept me doing this so long is that on a Monday
night, you never know when an act like Ching Chong Song
is going to show up and make it all worthwhile.” They have
moved from two songs on a Monday, to packing the room.
They begin a residency at Sidewalk on March 10 and play
every two weeks until they leave for Berlin to play some
shows and record an album.
How do they write? Julie sleeps with a tape recorder next
to her bed. “One song, ‘Rorisa,’ came totally from a dream.
She was eating sticks of butter and everything, I just woke
up and taped it.” Dan’s a bit more elusive. “I don’t think
I really know where the song comes from.” Dan’s talent
with the keys is matched by Julie’s adventurous saw skills.
There’s a horror movie element, but her saw isn’t a sound
effect - it’s an instrument. Julie solos on the damn thing.
And frequently, as they listen intently to each other, Julie
and Dan can finish a song in perfect tune. It’s miraculous.
Now what’s with the band name? From Wikipedia:
“Ching Chong is an ethnic slur directed at people of Chinese
nationality or ancestry. It is most frequently encountered in
the United States and Australia... In 1917, a ragtime piano
song entitled “Ching Chong” was co-written by Ted Baxter
and Max Kortlander.” Julie grew up with a player piano at
home, one of the rolls was “Ching Chong” and she loved
the song. There are also many offensive nursery-style
rhymes about “Ching Chong Chinaman,” some involving
whorehouses and the spread of venereal disease. It’s not
hard to see how this might become a problem.
“The band name just came to me” says Julie. Recently
they started getting hate mail on myspace, from angry Asians
who think they’re insensitive (one letter went something
like, “My grandmother was called that her whole life....”)
Sick of the drama, on a whim, they changed their name to
Nung Song Sam. Really? I had to ask each of them why.
Julie’s response: “I made this girl at work cry. I don’t mind
feeling like an asshole, but I don’t want people thinking
we’re ig’nant. It means ‘One Two Three’ in Thai”
Dan? “It’s not malicious.”
So Nung Song Sam it is. For a second. The next morning
I received a voicemail from Julie. “Ummm, I think last night
we told you we changed our band name. Uhhhh, we were
really drunk. We’re still Ching Chong Song.”
Thank God. For a second I thought this wasn’t the
most liberated band I’d ever met. The songs aren’t afraid
to offend and nothing is off limits. Everything with these
two is honest, just like the interviews we had. It’s a totally
appropriate name. Their onstage presence is like a party, like
a jolty piano roll on an old Wurlitzer. You have to see them
live to understand. Their shows are like good sex. When it’s
done, you catch your breath and wonder if it could ever be
that good the next time. With these two, the songs and the
shows always are. Don’t miss them. Ever.
myspace.com/chingchongsong
 Exegesis Department
justify the music
Benjamin Squires,
Please explain Hamell’s song...
Don’t Kill
God called down from the mountain,
God called down from the sky.
He said, “I told you, I told you, I told you.
Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill.
Don’t Kill for lovin’, please don’t kill for hate.
Don’t Kill in My name,
Don’t Kill for heaven’s sake.
Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill.
Once again you didn’t understand Me,
Or you disobeyed from all I can detect.
From what I remember I did more than ask you,
I commanded it, from what I recollect.
Thou Shalt, Thou Shalt
—what part of ‘Thou Shalt’ don’t you understand?
Benjamin C. Squires on Ed Hamell
Was it the ‘Thou’ part that threw you?
Thou means you.
Was it the ‘Shalt Not’ part that confused you?
Shalt Not means DON’T.
Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill.
There are no divinely sanctioned murders.
Who’d know better than Me?
I’m God, why don’t you hear Me?
I’ve been saying the same shit for centuries.
You say it’s Me that you worship.
All you Christians, all you Muslims, all you Jews.
I’m going to say it one more time, DON’T KILL YOUR
NEIGHBOR.
Jesus Christ, this shouldn’t be news.
Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill, Don’t Kill—I thought I etched this in
stone!”
© 2003 Trial Size Publishing/ASCAP.
 “Don’t Kill” by Hamell on Trial is the perfect song for
teaching the Fifth Commandment in Confirmation class.
However, play the song for your seventh graders, and you’ll
probably have a long line of parents and elders at your door.
“Just what are you letting our kids listen to?”
Given that danger, I only use this most perfect song for
teaching the catechism with our older confirmands, what I
call AltConfirmation (students in high school needing more
individualized discipleship). The song really catches the
attention of students who are on the verge of throwing in the
towel on this whole church thing.
Hamell on Trial is a crazed, acoustic punk artist that pulls
no punches. His 2003 album, Tough Love, opens up with
an electrified, acoustic, throw down blues punk song from
God Himself. When you think of God’s reaction to murders
and wars, do you ever really realize just how frustrated God
must be? Hamell does. On “Don’t Kill,” he puts outrage,
sarcasm, frustration, and judgment on the lips of God.
Sure the song is tongue in cheek at times, but it certainly
drives home the point that God doesn’t condone killing.
With all of our hand-wringing over violence in TV shows,
movies, music, and video games, “Don’t Kill” is the
kind of song that we need to say it forcefully, repeatedly,
unabashedly, passionately, and with a little dose of sarcastic
humor, that God said, “Thou shalt not kill.”
While in the United States we’ve been quick to condemn
Islamic fundamentalists for killing in the name of Allah,
Hamell actually calls Christians to remember that killing in
our God’s Name would be wrong as well. Even though God
gives the power of the sword to the government, “Don’t Kill”
reminds us to watch our rhetoric. Are we turning the war in
Iraq into “divinely sanctioned murders”? Hamell combines
the role of both folk singer and punker, protesting society’s
ills. Here he cautions us from assuming God is on our side
of the killing; God’s desire is that there would be no killing.
That seems so apparent (“What part of ‘thou shalt’ don’t you
understand?”), but we need reminders like this song.
The problem is that this song uses one cuss word. That’s
where you’ve got to be careful and know your situation
before using this song in class. However, I think the judicial
use of a cuss word actually helps drive home the point of
this song, since that is how we show our frustration. If God
can call our sins “menstrual rags” in the prophets, it doesn’t
seem that far of a step to think that He would use a cuss
word to get our attention today.
Now Hamell also uses “Jesus Christ” in a double entendre
in the last stanza. Here God could be addressing Jesus, but
it also looks like God is using His Son’s Name in vain as
many people do today. It’s clever, but of course, breaks the
second commandment even while trying to call us back to
following the fifth.
Finally, you may have trouble at first, because the song
addresses Christians, Muslims, and Jews, equating all three
religions. However, used in the context of a conversation
with your students, here’s room for a side discussion about
how people view the differences between religions and why
someone might conclude that these
three religions specifically are all
worshipping the same God.
If you can set all of this aside,
then definitely use Hamell on Trial
for teaching. After “Don’t Kill,”
the album only continues to take on
edgy subjects, using questionable
lyrics. However, much like “Don’t
Kill,” those other songs with their
rude language, drug references,
etc., actually point towards positive
decisions and even Christ-like living.
Even if you’re not planning a Bible
study or hot topic discussion, listen
to Tough Love. The album rocks in
a way that some full electric albums
never do. Hamell uses all of his
energy to lay havoc on the strings of
his acoustic guitar, banging around,
looking to protest like a prophet
calling attention to our sins.
Benjamin Squires is Associate
Pastor at Redeemer Lutheran
Church, Manitowoc, WI.
This review originally appeared at www.
musicspectrum.org.
 Folk You!
an exegesis of sorts...
I ran across the CD while going through and importing
my old collection to put on the ipod I had just gotten for
christmas. It was a CD-R with the band name “Milkleg”
written on it with a sharpie in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
It had to be older because all the local demos I’d gotten in
New York were meticulously cataloged already. Curious, I
put it in to hear a haunting acoustic intro that didn’t remind
me of anything I remembered. Skipping ahead to a full on
metal song, the voice gave it away. Rachel! Of course, how
could I have forgotten? She had a beautiful voice, similar
in style, but ten times better than Evanescence, whose song
was all over the radio during our short friendship. Filled
with the desire to write to her
and tell her all about New York,
maybe even try and sell her
on the idea of coming out here
with her band, (I have a habit of
doing that with my old musician
friends) I googled Milkleg to see
if I could find a website with any
contact info. The band’s website
was the first to come up, but the
tagline under the title threw me
a little sideways. Entering the
site I was struck dumb for a few
minutes. I thought I had to have
made a mistake, but there was
no doubt I was at the right site.
It felt like a scene out of a bad
sci-fi movie, staring at a terrible
possible future in an alternate
reality that had to somehow be
changed.
I was playing a love song on Pearl St. on a sunny afternoon
in Boulder when I first saw her standing there. What month
or time of year it was I have no idea, the last six months or
so in any town are always a blur when I know I’m leaving.
She was short and cute, with an open and friendly face. She
walked up and tipped me a dollar. She was young, dressed
in grungy fashion, with large trusting eyes.
“That’s a really good song,” she said with a sincerity that
allowed me to appreciate the flattery.
“Thanks,” I said, always happy to be approached by a
cute girl. Not wanting her to walk away, I tried to think of a
conversation starter. She beat me to it.
“I just moved here, I was hoping to meet some other
musicians. Do you know any good places around here to
play?”
“What kind of music do you do?”
by Dave Cuomo
“I play acoustic right now, but I’m in a metal band. The
rest of the band is moving up here soon.”
“So you play solo acoustic metal?”
“I guess so...”
“That’s awesome. I go to a few open mics around here
that are kind of fun. I could take you sometime.”
“That’d be great, thanks.” We traded phone numbers.
“What made you move here?”
“Our town in Texas was kind of small. We wanted to
come somewhere we could have a chance at really doing
the band.”
“So you came to Boulder?” I couldn’t help but feel a little
worried about her decision.
“The only bands that make
it around here are hippy jam
bands. Me, I’m moving to New
York as soon as I can.”
“Well, we’re in Denver
really.”
“Still. Huh.” I realized I
didn’t want to tell her that she
had just uprooted her life to
come to the wrong town, and
I could see a little worry creep
into her face that was turning
defensive.
“We’ve found some other
cool bands already and some
good clubs. I think it’s ok.”
“No, yeah I’m sure. I’m
sorry, I have a habit lately of
thinking that everyone should
go to New York. Hey, how about playing me a song before
you go?” I always made it a point to encourage others to
play when I was out busking. I considered it part of my job
in spreading the joy of music. She took my guitar and started
playing dark metal sounding leads that came out pretty
awkward on an acoustic. She moved into power chords that,
while she played them well enough, still gave good evidence
as to why solo acoustic metal is a relatively untapped genre.
Then she started singing. It was amazing; sweet powerful,
and worked like a pro. It made me want to drag her in front
of whoever signed Evanescence and tell them that no, this
is a voice, and one with a hell of lot more to say than those
over produced christian mannequins would ever have.
Over the next few weeks, she took me to metal shows in
the suburbs while I took her to open mics in Boulder. At the
open mics the reaction was usually the same. She’d start off
with a long awkward acoustic metal guitar intro, at which
point the host would look over at me as if to say “what the
hell is this?” Then she’d start singing and everyone’s look
would change to one of adoration. It worked like a charm. If
she could just get over this metal thing, I used to think, she’d
make a damn fine folk singer.
She had her heart set on the metal though. It turned out the
band was comprised of a drummer who was staying in Texas
and her boyfriend of many years, Cody, the bass player who
was supposed to be moving up to join her soon. This came
as only a small disappointment to me. While I may have
harbored a small crush at first, we were becoming good
friends and I was just happy to have a songwriting buddy.
On warmer evenings we would sit down by Boulder Creek,
playing each other songs, and work shopping long into the
night. Like any good workshop it became a sort of therapy
for us both, as we delved into all the issues and drama that
created the songs in the first place. She was younger, and
seemed a little naïeve at times, but she was sharp too. As
time wore on she began to worry about the absence of her
boyfriend. It was obvious how much she loved him, she
spoke of them like soul mates, but it always seemed like
it was becoming longer and longer before he would move
up and more of an uncertain fantasy that he might come at
all. They were both beginning to get restless. Meanwhile
I was just beginning to fall for Jennie, which was nothing
but a bad idea, considering she was older, taller, and much
more punk rock than I would ever be, not to mention that
we both had plans to skip towns in different directions soon.
Before I had really even admitted my feelings to myself, I
had already finished a song about it, which I tried to regard
as fiction. Rachel too was coming up with lyrics she didn’t
want to admit might be true. We commiserated our mutual
love sicknesses, over beers and by the creek, always with
the songs as the backdrop, helping each other find the lines
we needed so badly to sing. We’d go out to the bars together
and I would bring Jennie as my friend and Rachel started
bringing an older guy who seemed like a dopier version of
her descriptions of Cody. We lived out those songs together
as much as we sang them. Once or twice I warned her of the
awful habit I had of flaking out on new friends after awhile. I
never knew why it happened, all I knew was that sometimes
I would become scared to pick up the phone when someone
called who I actually really liked and cared about. After not
answering a few times I became too embarrassed and guilty
to call or pick up again. I had lost more than a couple friends
this way. I hoped that in telling her it would somehow make it
not happen. She seemed amused but not overly concerned.
One night we traded CD’s. I gave her the ep I had just
recorded at home and she gave me a copy of her band’s
album they had recorded back in Texas. We happily agreed
to give each other honest critiques. I was really anxious
about what she would say. At the same time I tried putting
on her CD a couple of times and always got distracted
before being able to give it a full listen. I think I just didn’t
know how to listen to metal. I avoided her for a little while,
embarrassed by the fact that I hadn’t taken the time to listen
to it, and not knowing what I’d say. When we finally did
hang out again, I avoided the topic as long as I could, but of
course it came up. I didn’t want to hear about my own CD
anymore. The reviews coming back from my other friends
weren’t that great, and I didn’t really want to hear anyone
else tell me that it didn’t sound honest and came off kind of
didactic. She was polite but didn’t say much better. I tried to
stammer through anything I could think of to say about her
CD, before giving up and admitting that I hadn’t really had
the time to give it a fair listen. I promised to do it before we
saw each other next.
Finals and graduation hit. I lost touch with my friends as
I scrambled to fit most of a semester’s work into a couple
weeks, making sure I could pass everything and graduate
on time so that I could still move before the fall. Once I
was finished up with school my life became consumed with
preparations for moving and the reckless yet miraculous
beginnings of a relationship with Jennie. I purposely
distanced myself from many of my friends thinking it
was kind of silly to go through the motions of keeping up
relationships that were going to be over so soon anyway.
Rachel would call and I would feel a simultaneous pang of
guilt that I still hadn’t listened to her CD, mixed with the
understanding that every time she called and I didn’t pick
up it became less and less likely that I ever would or that I
would call her back. I would stare at the blinking caller ID
while the phone rang knowing I was doing exactly what I
always did, and that she would know because I had told her
all about it. Soon after, I left town.
I stared at the picture on the website for a long time. In it
Rachel was smiling contentedly and Cody, who I had never
seen before, was holding her close and either laughing or
grimacing in terrible pain. The headline over the top read
“In Loving Memory, Rachel and Cody” The fact that Cody’s
laugh looked so much like a grimace only drove home the fact
harder, and I could almost see them and feel the pain of what
happened in his expression. I clicked on the “about the kids”
link and scanned through the sentimental remembrances to
find what I wanted to know. “Rachel Wicks, Cody Vargas,
left this earth January 22, 2005 in an auto accident,” it read,
“Someone was in a hurry.” The site was being run by their
parents as a memorial, still selling the band’s CD’s and t-
shirts.
I couldn’t bring myself to believe that what I was seeing
was real. I racked my brain to find some way that it might be
a mistake. I looked through some of the pictures and came
across one of Rachel sitting contemplatively by a river,
much like I remember her. My denial faded like a wave
washing over me. Whenever I had left a town or lost friends,
I guess I always pictured them as someone to run into down
the road sometime, in five years or twenty, to sit in a diner
with and share experiences over a cup of coffee. I couldn’t
understand that she was really gone forever. For a moment I
felt guilty for the way we had left off, but I quickly realized
how self centered this was. Wherever she was, I doubted
very much she was concerned by it. There was something
about how her and Cody had been together, not that they
had both died, but that they had each other in the end. I
pictured them the happy couple of the spirit world, free and
content. Unconsciously I had the urge to write her and ask
about how they had gotten back together. Again the feeling
of permanent loss washed over me. I thought of her family
and what it must have meant for them. They had moved up
to Colorado with her to devote themselves to helping her
follow her dream, and now that dream was dead. I found
the fact that they were selling her CD’s online through the
website so touching, and so terribly sad at the same time.
I’m sure any artist would have wanted the same.
A year and a half after she had given it to me I put on
her CD. Laying back on the couch I listened to it start to
finish in focused silence. It was better than I had thought.
The angst and impatience in their lyrics and music were
eerie, as if this world had never been enough for them. Full
eloquent comments and critiques formed in my head. The
more things that popped into my head to say to her about it,
the more watery my eyes got. After I finished listening to the
album, choking on the words I wanted to say to her, I saw
her parents email address at the bottom of the website. The
least I could do was write them a letter. Even a year after
she had died, I figured that sharing my experiences with her
might offer something. Her dad wrote back quickly and said
he wanted to post it on the message board on the website.
We emailed back and forth, with him sharing openly what it
had been like to go through and how they were coping now.
They were carrying on, but they sounded lost.
I spent the rest of the day reading the message board. It
was sad, touching, and yet it filled with me a strange kind of
hope and optimism. At the beginning it is saddest, showing
friends and family mourning and unable to make sense of
the tragedy. As it goes on the tone begins to change. People
begin writing directly to them like letters to a far off friend,
they are missed, but still an active part of their lives. The
letters change from nostalgia to something inspired by the
lives of the kids, almost prayers, relating hopes and wishes
to the kids as if they could read them and inspire them from
the spirit world. The more I read, the more I thought, who’s
to say they can’t? It may have been a random tragedy, but
those close to them were creating a meaning out of it that
was inspirational and beautiful.
I realized there was one way I could speak to her, the same
way we used to speak to each other when something was
impossible to say. I could write a song. The idea filled me
with dread. Always plagued with doubts about my abilities
and chronic writer’s block, I knew this was something I had
to do, but at the same time if I got it wrong or couldn’t finish
it I would feel terrible as if I had disrespected their memory. I
tried to talk myself out of it, thinking that performing a song
about this for applause from a stage would only cheapen
their lives. We were songwriting buddies though. She would
have chided me for not doing it. Reluctantly and scared I
began the laborious task of sorting through what to say.
It took a month. It was a month of depression and
agonizing, lying face down on a mattress sometimes for
hours feeling empty and useless, unable to find anything
real or honest to say about something so blindingly real
and necessary to sing. I forgot how to write entirely, what a
verse or chorus was supposed to do or be. I started it twenty
different ways and deleted all of them. It called into question
all my artistic ability and everything I wanted to think I was,
everything I was scared I wasn’t when it came down to it,
everything she seemed to be so purely and easily in my
memory. John Sfara told me to remember that people always
glorify the dead as if they aren’t real people, turning them
into saints and golden caricatures. “Real people are full of
dirt and problems,” he said. “At my funeral,” he told me, “I
want to be berated.”
Rachel was no more the perfect poet than I was. We had
struggled next to each other with our writing the same as I
was doing in her wake. Perhaps I really was speaking to her.
I started the song one more time determined not to delete in
the pursuit of perfection. By this point though I had thought
about it too much to remember what were my real feelings,
what was honest and not clichés I was trying to borrow in
pursuit of a good song. It had to be honest, but I didn’t know
what that meant anymore. I looked outside and began with
a metaphor about the weather. If I couldn’t attack it head
on and write truly, I would approach cautiously from the
side and hope that my real feelings could poke their head
through in the imagery. I finished it and found it pretty, but
again I was angry at myself for still not being able to say
anything real to her, for hiding behind pictures of snow and
not even being able to give her a mention in her own song.
Whether or not it was poetic, I hated it for having been too
scared and incapable to say what I wanted except in the most
abstract sense. “If that’s what you’re feeling, that’s what you
should say,” Jennie told me. She was right, we had been
friends in our writing and she would’ve certainly understood
what I was going through. One last time I approached the
blinking cursor in front of an empty line, and wrote honestly
about what was wrong with what I’d written. As I said it, my
fingers kept typing, and in frustration I blurted out onto the
screen jumbled confused rhymes about what I wanted to say
instead, finally approaching my memories of her, spiraling
down into the helpless frustration of trying to find something
meaningful in what had happened. They are as clumsy and
unwieldy as my feelings around the matter. I stopped. I can’t
say I felt satisfied, but I finally felt like I had found her in the
lines. I’m still not sure if I got it right, whatever that means,
but I do feel like a little piece of her and our songwriter’s
friendship with all its shared frustrations is alive in the
lyrics. Honestly I think that’s all I really wanted, a way to
keep a part of my friend alive where I could reach her. A
song cannot change things or make them ok, but in singing
it I could feel it where I needed it most. I like to think she
would’ve liked it.
whod’ve thought that winter wouldn’t come
we always thought it’d be there
with it’s cold familiar sun
and I just bought a brand new coat
oh, did I look good in it
ready to fight the cold
but now it’s just a decoration
hanging on the wall
every snow will turn to slush and turn to gray
but nobody was thinking this
when the blizzard finally came
we threw open our doors
rushed out in the freezing wind
and though it only lasted for a day
that’s all we needed
we just wanted one more day
Rachel, I never meant to leave forever
I guess I always thought you’d be there
when I came home again
no, I never said goodbye
and I still don’t want to have to
so I’m keeping you alive
the best I can
well yes, you died in winter
but still this song feels kind of pitiful
as if some kind of metaphor could measure up to you
but still I think you might’ve liked it
probably would’ve done the same
but you’d have screamed it like a banshee,
all pissed hollow and naked
before you turned around and sang it
sweet enough to raise the dead
Rachel, I could say
you’re the snow that never grays
that it’s so easy to be innocent
sitting pretty in a grave
but you’re not the snow, you’re not a season
you were an anxious angel bleeding, singing pretty
over empty chords, unsure and always waiting for
the demons you created, trying to turn it into gold
and sometimes near succeeding, but
you didn’t
you were cut short
and left your audience here standing, staring
dumbly at an empty stage,
trying to find some hidden meaning
in the shattered broken bones
all scattered random on the floor
milkleg.com
more stories at myspace.com/cuomomusic
 Subway Stories by Gonzalo Silva
The Meaning
I went into the subway
to perform my songs with
the naïve notion I would
get discovered. Little did I
know I would be doing the
discovering.
I’m a Taurus/Gemini. I
don’t particularly follow
astrology, but according
to what I’ve read, I fit the
profile. I’m supposedly
stubborn and extreme.
This tenacity might
explain why I’ve chosen
and endured the life of
a street-musician. Had I
known in the beginning
what the past ten years
would be like, I might
have gone to law school
instead. Nonetheless, here I am. The Attraction
I once told a guy what I did for a living, and the first When I was 9, I was mesmerized by a juggler performing
thing he said was, “You’re a ‘busker’.” Busker? No, “street- outside Faneuil Hall in Boston. It was not the performance
musician.” The word occasionally popped up, but I simply so much as the crowd he attracted with just a couple of
ignored it. To my ears, it sounded funny. I thought it was bowling pins. At the end of his act, he flipped his fedora and
Old English. Busker. I found myself sometimes uttering the collected dollar after dollar with a certain ease.
word with a Cockney accent. While traveling through Spain with my family at age 11,
Not too long ago, I was browsing the Web when, out of we walked past a man jamming away on an electric guitar
boredom, I decided to look up ‘busker’. Sure enough, several in the middle of a plaza. He seemed oblivious to the world
pages pertaining to the art of street performing appeared. To around him despite the fact he was obnoxiously loud. I was
my surprise, hidden in a random page, I learned that busker transfixed. My parents had to drag me away. That was all I
is derived from the obsolete French word ‘busquer’, which thought about for the rest of the trip.
means to search. One time when I was a teenager visiting relatives in
I’m a searcher? What is a street-musician searching for? Chile, I spotted a guy strumming a flamenco guitar on a park
Spare change? Seemed like an odd word to designate what bench. He was a bohemian, an alternative presence. He was
I thought was a straightforward pursuit. surrounded by friends and pretty girls and didn’t have a care
Looking back, I must concede, I’ve been “searching” in the world. I envied him.
all my life. Whatever compelled me to become a street- It wasn’t until I enrolled into Berklee College of Music that
musician, came from an inherent tendency of jumping the idea of performing on the streets became an obsession.
from one extreme to the other in search of what works At the time, a singer/songwriter by the name of Mary
for me. In all the time I’ve spent stubbornly pursuing my Lou Lord was creating a buzz around town. She was known
passion underground, I have also sampled countless books, for playing outdoors and underground all over Boston
philosophies, disciplines – you name it – in search of my and Cambridge. Donations never ceased to flow into her
identity. guitar case. When I heard a rumor that major record label
By now, with a pretty good idea of who I am, why I’m executives were going into the subway to check her out, it
here, and where I’m going, I feel I have something to say. was clear what I had to do.
Also because we live in uncertain times and my fate as an
artist has yet to be realized, I figured it would be wise to The Messenger
record my soul. Just in case. I play bass. The electric bass, in my opinion, is the most
This is my story. versatile instrument in the world. Unlike the piano, you can
take it anywhere. What other instrument can you play a
single note on, or a single line motif, and truly make people
dance? The most muscular instrument in an ensemble, it
can pivot in any direction and assert the course of a jam.
It’s half of the rhythm section, but it can also jump forward
and solo. Always supportive, but can it be supported? You
can pluck it, pick it, pop it, slap it, strum it, do anything you
want to it. If you can’t fully compose on it and accompany
yourself with it, someone should tell me before it’s too late.
I love it.
The First Time
My first subterranean performance was on January 4,
1994, at Park Street station in Boston. The subway system,
known in Boston as the T, is comprised of four lines: Red,
Blue, Green, and Orange. Park Street, located in the center
of town, is where the Red and the Green lines intersect. With
connections to the other two lines, Park Street is always
teeming with activity much like Times Square in NYC.
There are three platforms on the Red line. The center
platform between the inbound and outbound sides is the
main stage of the underground scene. This prime real estate,
which is rarely vacant, was where I nervously headed on my
first day.
I couldn’t bring myself to play there, so I went upstairs
to the Green line in search of a less conspicuous location.
I settled on a small bench at the far end of the platform.
My knees were shaking. I took forever to set up my gear.
Eventually I dove in with what I considered to be the best
song of the few I had written so far. No reaction. I tried
another tune. Nothing. I was about to quit, when a woman
in front of me casually tossed a few coins into my case.
Victory. I played on. I don’t remember how long I stayed,
but I played each song more than once. In the end, I made a
total of $5. I was elated. I was hooked.
In the beginning, what I heard inside my head was not
necessarily what came out of my mouth. How I survived
my first years underground, I don’t know. I’m a singer,
because I’m a songwriter. My
songs are my children. To keep
them from being adopted, I’ve
taken it upon myself to sing the
best I can. I’m not a naturally
gifted singer. Although I could
have taken lessons, it is the
self discovery of my voice that
fulfills me. It is through the sheer
repetition of my songs that I’ve
acquired any proficiency.
The Good, the Bad and the Lovely
Although I perform to a vast sea of indifference, I’ve had
the pleasure and the pain of experiencing every imaginable
reaction to my music. It goes with the territory. While the
good has outweighed the bad, it only takes one person to
dampen the day.
Donations aside, I have been pleasantly surprised by the
many different ways people have expressed their appreciation
towards my music. For starters, body language.
I’ll take anything I can get down there. Whether it be a
smile, a wink, a thumbs up, a gesture of silent applause,
or even a shrug of the shoulders of those who wish they
had spare change. I’ve had a handful of strangers walk by
through the years who’ve given me a pat on the back. I’ve
been hugged by men and women. One time, a woman paused
me in the middle of a song and gave me the most thrilling
kiss on the lips.
Of course there’s no better expression of approval than
full-on applause. Understandably it takes a bit to go out
of one’s way to make noise in this sea of indifference, but
when someone does, it’s greatly appreciated. It’s usually one
person who sparks a flurry of claps amongst the timid. Once
in a rare while the whole platform joins in chorus of hands,
and everyone seems happy.
I’ve acquired numerous tokens of appreciation: cards,
notes, drawings, poems, photos, and sometimes the most
elaborate works of art expressing appreciation for the cause.
I once received a dozen roses inside a beautifully adorned
box. The roses were not real, but fashioned from poems she
wrote. I can’t begin to imagine the work she put into them.
In the beginning, my naïveté did a good job of protecting
me from negativity I would encounter down the road. Had
I been aware, I probably would have given up. Fortunately,
my blinders gave me a couple of years to get my feet wet
before reality reared its ugly head.
There is the roll of the eyes, the shaking of the head, the
hands on the ears, the sudden retreat to the other end of the
platform. The scowls, the cringing, the laughter. Yes, the
laughter. There were times I would have rather been spit at
than laughed at. And yes, that has happened too. I’ve been
given the finger. I’ve been told to shut up. Some have yelled
“you suck!” My favorite? “don’t give up your day job”. If
they only knew it was my day job.
No one has ever inflicted any significant pain towards
me, but I have come close to experiencing the wrath of
some highly disturbed people;
schizophrenics yelling at the
top of their lungs, among
others. But just as many
are afraid to express their
gratitude, many are afraid to
express their disdain. Those
who speak out, usually do it
under their breath and won’t
look me in the eye.
The beautiful thing is,
looking back, both extremes
have always existed. No matter how hard I try, it has taken
me this long to finally realize I can’t please everybody. With
that realization comes freedom.
more stories at: gonzalosilva.com
 Rock the House!
“A new year is coming, and this is a sad issue of goodbyes before we start fresh in ’06…in every ending there is a new
beginning as they say…” –Dave Cuomo, Issue #5
Sure, we took a beating at the end of ’05 with the shutting
down of many great venues and the loss of great acts. But
the lamenting is over! Hope you got it out of your system,
everybody, because it’s time to start talking about those
“new beginnings”.
Now before you roll your eyes, turn the page, and poop out
another turd in disgust at the notion of another opinion piece
(yes, I read Urban Folk while I take a dump too…it’s ok),
this rant and rave is aimed not solely at the musician. This
also goes out to the audience…you the audience that truly
appreciates and thrives off folk art…you who don’t settle
for glossy pretentiousness in their music and only settle for
raw energy and stripped-down talent…you who are sick and
tired of mass production passing for creativity…you who
think that our mass, corporate culture has gone too far in
its quest for superficiality and thinks we need to return to
simplicity and honesty. You are truly the connoisseurs of
culture.
How many times has this scenario happened to you?
One of your favorite roots artists is playing at a New York
City club. “Cool, now I have something to do on Thursday
night other than trying to concoct some sort of new recipe
out of these 6 year old noodles and this red pepper that has
somehow turned brown,” you think. So you take the first
train to the show and arrive on time. The crowd is a bit
restraint, you notice, but you go with flow anyway. You
order some beers and quickly pound a couple down in the
hopes that things will loosen up. The first act goes on, and
the crowd watches with a cold trepidation. “I bet I could’ve
made something good out of that rotten pasta and vegetables,”
you think. Damn, you’re hungry. So you order something
and shovel that down fast. You’re favorite act goes on and
puts on a killer performance. The crowd reluctantly clapped
in some parts and laughed at a few jokes, but the show ends
with you feeling like it was a mediocre experience at best.
“I have CD’s for sale if anyone is interested,” your fav
musician says. “Cool!” you think to yourself. You’ve been
waiting for an opportunity to pick their CD up. You open
your wallet…broke! “Holy crap! What happened to the
$50 I came to the show with?!” And you didn’t even feel
like it was really worth it. Well, after the door price, food,
drinks, and tips, you figure that you did spend that much
money. You go home wondering if the little bit of fun you
had outbalanced the amount of money you lost.
Musicians…how many times has this happened to you?
You just landed a gig at a New York City club and feel like
an opportunity landed right in your lap. “Right on,” you
say. “Finally I can get some props for all those times I spent
gigging at open mics. I’m finally playing a show where I’m
by Darren Deicide
billed,” you think. So you take the first train to the show
and arrive on time. The crowd is a bit restraint, you notice,
but you go with the flow anyway. Besides, a bunch of your
friends and family showed up to cheer you on, so this will be
a great chance to show off what you’ve been talking about
for all these months. You play a blazing set despite the cold
trepidation felt from the audience. “I have CD’s for sale if
anyone is interested,” you say as you’d only expect donations
for your homemade CD-R’s. Still, nobody buys any. The
other musicians pull off equally great sets, but nothing
seems to move the crowd in a meaningful way. “Well, I
guess I should grab my door money and be on my way,” you
say to yourself. “Next time I’ll get even more people out.
This is only the beginning,” you encourage yourself. You go
up to the proprietor to get your cut and he says, “Well, the
turnout was a little lower than we expected, so all we got for
you is this $5.” “$5!!” you mentally scream. But you just
turned out at least 20 heads that you are certain came from
your friends and family. You even recall seeing all of them
drinking and eating food from the venue. They didn’t come
there because they love the food and drinks of the place.
They came to see you! Besides, it cost you more than $5
hopping all the trains to get the gig, not to mention the night
that you lost where you could’ve been working that crap
shift at your wage-slaving job. One hour of minimum wage
is more than this! You go home wondering if the little bit of
fun you had outbalanced the amount of money you lost.
Those who have been to an amazing roots show of any
kind know that what this art form has to offer compared to
other genres of music is that it creates genuine moments
between a musician and an audience. Most other genres
don’t do that. If you go to a dance club, there is barely
any interaction between a DJ and the people on the dance
floor. When you go to a hip-hop show, you’re either
concentrating on the MC’s flow or you might be involved
in a break dance cipher on the floor. When you go to a
metal show, the deepest you may connect with an artist is
by throwing the two pronged metal hand sign in the air and
banging your head. But a great roots show is a different
kind of atmosphere. A great roots show is made not by the
musician…it really is made by the audience. Without that
connection, a roots show can easily miss its full potential.
At a great roots show an audience might be stomping their
feet, clapping their hands, and the musician is fighting to be
heard over their raucous. Sometimes at a great roots show
an audience might be quietly and stoicly grabbing on to
every word of the artist, as if the artist is saying something
to them that they always knew was true, but never had the
words to express. Coming from a roots-rock musician, let
me tell you non-musician audience members, we know
when those moments happen. It’s something different in
the air. It’s almost like you can taste or smell it. And that’s
what I mean by connection. The great roots show is not
made by the artist to be consumed by the audience. It is a
moment created by everyone in the room. Those moments
don’t happen all the time, but when they happen, they really
do show what this music is all about.
I have experienced those moments quite rarely in your
typical New York City club. But I have experienced those
moments more often than not at the house show…a cleared
out living room, a cleared out basement, or a cleared out
attic with a homemade bar, a packed room, and sometimes
a potluck. The door price is low, and it has all the enmities
of a New York club. There is no need for a PA because the
venue is intimate enough where it’s completely unnecessary.
We’re talking totally acoustic! Within blues, a whole culture
was built around it called the “juke house” or the “juke joint”.
Eventually, riverboat casinos and white entrepreneurs saw
the profitability that the jukes had and seeing its potential
they built their own establishments to grab those audiences.
Eventually, the culture would be co-opted into these new
venues, and the juke would exist as a side note for the more
underground blues musician. The same happened with the
advent of punk. Kids wanted rock music to go back to an
original feel it had lost. They wanted it to be loud, fast, and
they wanted it to rebel. So they had shows wherever they
could, but mostly in basements and garages. The same thing
happened again. Entrepreneurs saw what was going on and
realized they once again missed the boat. So they signed up
all the bands they could and built their own establishments
and the basement and garage show was relegated back
to being the place where underground bands developed
themselves.
Fast forward to the year 2006. Once again, there is a
stranglehold on dominant culture, and not much seems to be
exciting in mainstream music. Everything is overproduced
and meaningless, and acts are manufactured and molded into
preset ideas of what a quintessential music idol should be. A
young generation feels alienated by all of this. There’s no
connection to what concerns them, and they see right through
the charade. So they want to go back to simple musicianship
that speaks of the very real problems and anxieties that we
face in the world right now. They save money and start
to buy cheap, used and beat up acoustic guitars from pawn
shops. On a rare occasion, a kid will revisit their love for
some obscure instrument that their mom forced them to take
lessons for, like an accordion. They spill their hearts out
and sing from the gut. If their voice is gravely or raspy,
well, that just adds character. Besides, the point is the heart
not the standardized way of singing that’s being forced upon
everyone. What I’m describing is what is a burgeoning
scene that is rooted in a network of house venues. Some
people call it roots-rock. Some call it folk-punk. I’ve even
heard it called “neo-roots” music. Whatever it is, it is folk
music all the way. But this scene has discovered something
that I feel our New York City-based roots music community
has not: the power of the house show.
I sincerely believe that the moments that I was describing
earlier in this article that rarely happen, but are the essence
of roots music, rarely happen because most of the time that
we play clubs, we’re bending over and getting screwed
really good by people who don’t care about this art form.
They only care about how they can make their pockets fat by
using musicians who are desperately looking for any outlet
for what they wholeheartedly believe in. And how are we
supposed to lighten up, have fun, and connect to this music
when we know this is going on? Everyone is getting the
folked out screw…audience and artist alike. I don’t want
to go to a show and drop $50 only to realize that the show
wasn’t that good. I don’t want to play a show knowing that
the venue is running out the backdoor with my audience’s
good-willed financial support.
But there is an alternative. We can do what the jukes did
and the punks in the basements and garages did. We can
connect to the house show network. When I go to a typical
house show I can expect a no more than $5 cover, and I
can expect the majority of that money going to the artists.
I can also expect booze and food. If there’s none there, I
can dip to the corner store and get my own and bring it in.
I can expect an atmosphere that fosters what roots music
needs… a lax sense of community, and a genuine and deep
connection between the audience and artist, so much so that I
can expect to be blown away at least once by a performance.
And if we do this as a scene, the NYC clubs will take notice
and will have to pander to our buzz, much in the same way
it happened with juke joints and the basement punk show. If
they refuse to be fair about how musician and audience alike
are treated, then we can create a competitive market that
will force them to be fair, because if they aren’t, we will pull
their support base “rug” right from under their feet.
“Alright Deicide, so you think the house show is the
way to go huh?” you may question. “Well, how come you
ain’t doin it yourself, you hypocrite? See, it’s not as easy
as you thought huh?” Actually, it is pretty easy. All you
really need to do is talk to your neighbors and hand them
your phone number, so they call you instead of the police
if there’s a problem. Then clear a sizeable room out, make
some flyers, and send out some emails. That’s really all it
takes. And, I am doing it, smarty pants nay-sayers. Soon, I
will be doing PA-less shows in Jersey City at my house, and
I hope to really make it a place where people can enjoy great
roots shows. In fact, this summer, I’m planning on putting
together the 4th Roots N Rock Whiskey Party but with a
twist. I think it’s gonna be converted into a summer BBQ.
So cmon! Let’s rock the house.
darrendeicide.com
myspace.com/darrendeicide
 Judge, Jury and Executioner Reviews by Alec Wonderful
JUANBURGUESA
Kinesis
I like Jon Berger. He’s a nice enough kid; servile,
obsequious, smart enough not to argue with me; I respect
that in a journalist. I even like his poetry – sometimes.
He’s clever, and occasionally funny (of course, that
doesn’t mean his words bear up to repeat listening. I
mean, once you’ve heard the joke, what more is there
to get?). I’ll occasionally go out – in disguise, of course
– to see his gigs (he calls what he does stand-up poetry,
or ADD art, or performance poetry), and I have a good
enough time. I consider it a mitzvah to do good for others,
to be supportive in this community that I virtually created.
Sometimes, I even learn something. alec wonderful; self portrait
In fact, I learned something listening to his debut
worth. Who knows when Berger could again earn that 37
recording with his band, JUANBURGUESA, called Kinesis.
cents?), he keeps going on for measure after measure, while
I learned that just because someone’s a poet doesn’t make
the band struggles to find the end of his spiel, so they can
him a lyricist – even if he rhymes.
transition into the chorus. And it doesn’t even seem like the
Jonathan Berger’s style is a breathless rant, full of sound
lyrics of verse one connects to verse two. I mean, they’re all
and fury, signifying loneliness. It’s energetic, and somewhat
about love gone wrong, and the use of technology to rectify
spastic, and comes out in tiny spurts, as if he needs to get
the situation, but is that a narrative? None that I can see.
all the related thoughts out before catching breath. It is not,
About half the tracks suffer from that level of disconnection.
to say the least, rhythmic. The band is. JUANBURGUESA,
They’re words from the writer’s short-attention span canon
made up of all former AntiFolk regulars Andrew Heller
that have been sewn together to create song-length works of
(from the Heller Theory), Sanjay Kaul (from Lunchin’), and
art, but the stitches are completely visible to any and all.
Aashish Pathak (from the Heller Theory, Lunchin’, and Size),
The stronger tracks are those that maintain a singular
are a pretty tight group, both live and in the studio – where
identity, like “Wendy” and “Yes,” coincidentally, the only
it’s much easier to pull off cohesion. Here, on Kinesis, they
two tracks that maintain any rhyme scheme whatsoever.
walk the line between rock and funk, creating a style that
Two other tracks are worthy of note. One is the
could perhaps be called frounk, but, in the final analysis,
aforementioned “Gingerbread Man,” which is the only song
probably shouldn’t. They create good music you can tap
on the album that is sentimental, and entirely devoid of what
your toes to and perhaps want to steal (too late, though; I
Berger might claim was “humor.” Also recommended is the
already did). They sound good, and make stylistic jaunts
snaky and insidious “Preteen Girls,” which somehow evades
into coffee house jazz
admitting anything that is blatantly illegal, but it still just
(on “Go Man Go”),
wrong. There is an excellent marriage of lyrics to music on
50’s-style ballads
that one, even if it sounds vaguely familiar. But then again,
(“Tina’s Song”), and
I have heard most everything under the sun. After all, I am
atmospheric folk
a genius.
(“Gingerbread Man”).
But maybe that’s the problem. Could I be reviewing
More often, they
this record by the wrong standards? I mean, this is only
adhere to the party line
the debut release of this poor young kid, and here I am,
of party pop, creating
judging it by the Wonderful Yardstick. I wonder why
music to groove to,
people would bother with anything less than my art, but
and what is placed
they still buy records by Eminem, the Stones, and Mozart,
powerfully above it?
so there’s no accounting for taste. Who knows? Maybe
The whining white-boy
I’m just out of touch, and this kind of thing is the voice of
arrhythmia of a Mister
a new generation, the art that everyone in the world will
Jonathan Berger, who
unaccountably love.
keeps talking and talking, no matter where the beat is.
No, it’s just crap.
I swear, on the Primus-influenced “Modern Technology”
(I say ‘influenced,’ but I just hope that Les Claypool never
jonberger.com/weblog
hears the track, else he sues JUANBURGUESA for all they’re
 Undisputed Heavyweights:
Past, Present, Future, Domination
I just don’t get it. The Undisputed Heavyweights, made
up of Wes Verhoeve, Jeff Jacobson, and Casey Shea, have
this whole gimmick about being the greatest thing in the
world. Their website is betterthanelvis.com (Bigger than
Elvis would make more sense; even at his peanut butter
and banana biggest, Elvis didn’t weigh as much as the
three guys in the group combined). They write lounge-
inflected acoustic pop material, some of which come from
their individual songwriting careers, and some from their
collaborative efforts.
It’s fine enough, though really, their charm is strongest
in performance, where Casey Shea
plays rockstar while the whole outfit
(occasional adding a rhythm section
to the mix) suits up to perform
sophisticated pop.
But the name, the website, their
entire shtick is about how great and
famous and superior they are. I don’t
get what they hope to accomplish
with that. I mean, sure, it’s fun to
play a room the size of Rockwood
and scream out, “Hello, New
York!” Maybe there’s even some undisputed
psychological benefit for the fans to
think that they’re in the presence of
greatness. But it’s all a ridiculous sham, isn’t it? The biggest
room they’ve played so far is Southpaw, which, no mistake
is a larger, more prestigious room than the upstairs’ space at
Pianos or the Sidewalk Café, where they debuted over a year
ago. But superstars? Come on. There’s an interview on their
website with Eric Clapton, about his former involvement
with the band. It’s fake; I checked. I asked Clapton while
verifying quotes on my memoir piece in Urban Folk’s last
issue. He has no idea who they are.
So who are they to have such pretensions of greatness?
What kind of sick little minds would go to such effort to give
their ego such reign over their promotion?
It’s sad, really, Sad, and delusional. They’re songs
aren’t bad, though. “Roll Your
Windows Down”? Good tune.
Nice harmony. I could have
written it.
Coming up this year, there
should be more than this two-
song thing with some interview
at the end. Maybe by then,
they’ll give up all this ridiculous
behavior, and just play the damn
songs.
heavyweights betterthanelvis.com
 On Trial Travels
Ricki C., is a singer-songwriter from Columbus, OH who goes on the road with Ed Hamell, and sometimes writes about it.
March 1996
Austin, TX
I first encountered the phenomenon that is Hamell On
Trial at the South By Southwest Music Convention in Austin,
Texas, March 1996, at a huge outdoor Mercury Records
showcase (10,000 people in the street on a gorgeously warm
Texas afternoon/evening). Ed was signed to Mercury then,
Big As Life had just been released, and they were using him
to keep the crowd occupied between the other performers’
sets. While roadies scurried around changing out amps,
drums, etc. Ed would play from the very front of the stage,
maybe five songs at a time, three sets in all.
From the very first dive bomber kamikaze guitar strums
and the staccato spitting delivery of the best lyrics I had heard
in years it was rock & roll love at first sight. The next day I
lucked into seeing him at a really, really small coffeehouse
in his allotted South By Southwest slot. I was there to see
the act following him and had arrived early to snag a good
seat. While Ed was setting up I thought to myself, “Cool,
this is the guy I saw yesterday at the outdoor show, but how
the hell is he going to play this tiny coffeehouse? He’ll have
to tone the act down so far it won’t work.”
Only he didn’t tone it down. He played a fifty-seat
coffeehouse at exactly the same manic intensity and nearly
the same volume he played the huge outdoor show. People
walked out of the place holding their ears during the first
song. I, of course, was in six-string sonic heaven. This was
everything I had been looking for since I quit playing in
bands and started doing solo acoustic shows: extreme
volume and attitude, great lyrics, a sense of humor. This was
fiercely intelligent rock & roll played on an acoustic guitar
with no hint of lingering folkie kum-ba-yah-ism.
He played for about a half-hour at that breakneck go-for-
broke pace, doing a lot of the same songs he had played the
previous day. And just when I was almost ready to write him
off as really, really good but as something of a punk novelty
act, Ed paused, looked at the audience and said very simply,
“This is a song for my mother.” He strummed into “Open Up
The Gates,” one of the warmest, most beautiful sentiments I
have ever heard anytime, anywhere from any songwriter, let
alone from this bald, sweating punk madman.
I was floored. I looked at the total stranger next to me
whom I had been talking to a little before the show and his
mouth was literally hanging open. I said, “Can you believe
this song from this guy?” and he just shook his head no,
he couldn’t even speak. Then after the song (which, kinda
typically for Ed, manages to threaten God in the midst of a
heartfelt tribute to his mother) he roared into “The Meeting”
and it was over. I tell you all of this just to point out that, as
by Ricki C.
transfixed as I was by the music, I was cringingly afraid to
go up to the guy to tell him how much I had enjoyed his set.
The Hamell On Trial stage act is that of a madman and Ed
plays that part well.
I saw him again in March 1997 at South By Southwest.
He had a whole set of new songs potentially even better than
the ones I saw him play just a year earlier. (including “The
Vines,” the song that ended my 20-year career of warehouse
work and sent me into music full-time.) In August of ‘97 he
played Columbus and I cadged my way onto the bill as the
opening act. I got to the club early, watched his soundcheck,
screwed up my courage and walked up to him as he was
packing up his guitar. I held up my CD covers to Big As Life
and The Chord Is Mightier Than The Sword and said, “Hi,
I’m your opening act and I just wanted to get the gushing fan
stuff out of the way. Could you autograph these for me?”
I was fully poised, balanced back on my heels, ready to
take off if he growled, “Motherfucker, do you think I don’t
have anything better to do than sign your little CDs?” Instead
he smiled and said, “Ah, you got my CDs. Do people know
who I am here?”
I said, “Yeah, you get airplay on our local NPR station, I
think it’ll be a good crowd.”
I thanked him and started to walk away after he signed
and he said, “Hey, come on back to the dressing room and
we’ll talk.”
I replied, “No, I don’t wanna bother you.” (First rule of
opening acts - Never bug the headliner.)
Ed said, “I’m in that car eight hours a day, every day, by
myself, I never get to talk to anybody, come on back.”
I looked around. “Don’t you have a roadie?” I asked.
“Do I look like I can afford a roadie?”
It turns out we bought all the same records in all the same
years (Lou Reed, MC5, Stooges, Patti Smith, Jim Carroll,
Mott The Hoople, the New York Dolls). We’d both seen The
Who in their prime, ‘68/’69 when Moon ruled the world. We
lived very similar rock & roll existences (i.e. played in bands
for years, then going solo acoustic). We had the same kind
of working-class reprobate rocker friends - him in Syracuse,
New York, me in Columbus, Ohio.
When he was going onstage that night I said, “Hey, I’ve
seen you play before. I know you’re gonna break strings.
Why don’t you show me where your extra strings and
tuner are and I’ll switch them out for you if anything goes
wrong.”
He just stared back at me and said, “Really?”
“Yeah, doesn’t your opening act offer that wherever you
go?”
Ed said, “No, nobody ever offers anything, anytime.”
 I played roadie that night. I helped out around the
Midwest after that. When the Ani Difranco tours came up I
got a tryout and made the grade. I stuck around.
October 1999
Gettysburg, PA
It’s the second night of Ed’s first tour with Ani Difranco.
It’s a little 3-date tryout that leads to longer tours with Ani
and eventually culminates in Ed being signed to Righteous
Babe Records, Ani’s label. (By the way, for those of you
scoring at home, I’ve been involved in music as either a
guitarist or roadie since 1968 and have never met anyone in
the music business nicer than Ani Difranco.)
We’re sitting in Ed’s dressing room after his opening set.
Ed’s toweling off sweat and I’m making a peanut butter
sandwich for dinner before I head out to the merch table and
I suddenly feel very unglamorous and un-rock & roll.
“Somewhere right this very minute Oasis is snorting
cocaine off groupies’ stomachs and I’m making a peanut
butter sandwich.” I say to Ed, “I’m not sure this is how the
big-time rock & roll tour is supposed to go.”
“No, I like this.” Ed replies, “We’re not cool.”
I’m enormously heartened, I go back to my
sandwich.
that to Schuba’s.
And, of course, when we finally exit it’s a fucking ghetto.
The kid asks us to run him all the way home because he
doesn’t feel safe here. “Hey, it’s your neighborhood,” I say,
“deal with it.” I pull into an open gas station with a pay
phone and the kid whines, “It’s only another 10 minutes.”
There’s something about the repetition of the ten minute lie
that seals the deal and Ed, notoriously soft touch that he is,
tells the kid to call a cab if he’s that scared.
As we pull out of the gas station the kid is walking to the
phone under the baleful gaze of two black thugs blasting
DMX from a Dodge SUV.
“He’s going to be killed, isn’t he?” Ed asks.
“Oh yeah, he’s a dead man.” I reply as I gun the rental car
onto the freeway and we head home.
He brought it on himself.
Sometimes it’s cold in Chicago, even in August.
More info on Ricki C., at: folkitup.net/ric/ricwords.html
More stories at: folkitup.net/hamell.html
All material © 2004 by Ric Cacchione, all rights reserved.

August 2001
Chicago, Illinois
Ed plays Schuba’s. The show goes ballistic, as
it so often does at Schuba’s. Great sound, a clued-
in crowd, all the stars align, it’s a killer night.
After merch I’m packing gear and the crowd
of well-wishers that always forms post-show
boils down to one 20-something kid.
He wants to help pack gear, which I always
hate because I don’t want amateurs fucking with
the equipment. I’m sorry to come off like Mr.
Pro Roadie here, but the guitars and amps are
precious to me and you wouldn’t let Hitler baby-
sit your kids, would you?
Anyway, the kid hits us up for a ride when
we’re leaving. He says his friends took off without
him since he stayed to talk to us, intimating that
it’s somehow our fault he’s stranded. I point
out the El is still running, but of course he’s
broke. We’re tired, we’ve gotta drive all the way
back to Columbus, then do a radio interview in
Cincinnati the next morning, the kid lives in the
opposite direction, but Ed’s a sucker for a sob
story, so off we go.
We tell him before we leave that we don’t
know Chicago; that we’re dropping him at the
bottom of his freeway exit, then getting right
back on, that we are not taking him to his door
and he agrees.
Of course the drive he claims will take 10
minutes is more like 40. I’m fuming, Ed’s even
a little pissed. The kid lives closer to Wisconsin
 Get in the Minivan by Brook Pridemore
This month I traveled to Mountainside Studios, in Mt. Pocono, PA, to begin/complete
work on my The Reflecting Skin, my “difficult” third album of original songs for Crafty
Records.

This is not traveling in the sense I’m used to. Stuffing a DVDs and Playstation.
bunch of crap in an overnight bag, driving all over creation When I was there in 2004
in a cramped minivan, night after night dropping into to record First Name/
progressively crazier bars, houses and used cardboard box Last Name, Rich even
stores: I can do this. Endless cans of gross, generic beer, left us a porno DVD,
days on end without a shower or kitchen, broken strings, but I don’t think anyone
bleeding fingers, catching a random throat oyster in my got use out of it. Time
mouth while I’m singing: all worth the effort in order to passes in a weird way at
meet a few new kids who get what I’m doing. Holed up Mountainside. On one
in this Fortress of Solitude, day after day, banging out the hand, there’s the waiting,
same chords, words and melodies over and over again until the sitting, the breaks
everything is note/letter perfect? Not what I’m used to. for lunch, the watching
First of all, there’s the waiting. Rich Rescigno, owner, TV, the same bed night
proprietor and sole staff member of Mountainside likes to after night, all the things
do rough mixes between takes, in order to get a clear sound I’m not used to. On the
of what the final recording will sound like. While this is a other hand, there’s all
helpful rubric, it also adds up to a lot of sitting there, playing this endless stimuli, a
air guitar and going, “Can I sing now? How about now? new decision to make
Now?” every few minutes. Time
I moved to New York to play music, but there’s another flies while you’re sitting
reason: Subconsciously, I never felt comfortable growing up around doing nothing.
in the turtle-paced Midwest, where leisure time is paramount My friends the Ghost Mice came all the way from
to all other aspects of life. Like an ADD kid with a sugar Bloomington, IN for the last day of recording. Chris and
buzz, I have to always be going and doing about a hundred Hannah have been making music for over ten years in one
things at once. This is very conducive to touring in a van, band or another, but neither of them had ever been in a
where you’re pretty much always sitting, but somehow “fancy” studio. I got a huge kick out of getting one of my
always moving. At the studio, it seemed like we’d barely favorite bands to come be on my album, and I think they got
get one vocal done before somebody’d be calling for a a huge kick out of playing on the session.
lunch break. By about the third day there, the local Chinese One of the last nights of recording, I came up from
delivery lady knew my order by heart, but still seemed the basement studio to find Dan Costello, Steve Seck and
befuddled by all of my specifications. (Doesn’t everybody Andrew Hoepfner singing a ramshackle sea shanty they’d
order General Tso’s Tofu in Mt. Pocono?) apparently made up out of thin air. The song caught Rich’s
Steve Seck spent the first weekend with me, laying down ear, and he suggested we put it all together and make a lo-fi
his accordion parts over my unaccompanied voice and recording. Using David LK Murphy’s laptop, Dan, Steve,
guitar (this is another slap to my face: studio albums are Andrew, David, Dan Treiber and I belted out a verse each
typically recorded one instrument at a time). Overnight, we of blue/inane pirate humor. Arguably some of the most
each became obsessed with Larry the Cable Guy and old pointless music ever set to tape, this is probably my favorite
episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000, debating who snapshot moment of the experience: A bunch of kids making
was the better host, what was the best episode, etc. Steve their own fun to break the tedium.
told me that the last time he visited our native Detroit, he I am very happy with the outcome of the Reflecting Skin
couldn’t seem to get away from people in t-shirts bearing sessions, and, although it doesn’t make for very exciting
Larry’s signature phrase, “Get ‘er Done!” This revelation storytelling, I’m thankful I got to be there.
made me realize that I’d left Detroit almost ten years ago.
I’d think time would pass slowly in such an isolated brookpridemore.com
situation. I had the place to myself (or with whoever was
there for the night) after Rich went home, but he keeps his
studio stocked with entertainment: Digital cable, plenty of
 Paul’s Perspective
the never ending story
The first question most people ask me these days is
“Where the f#@k is the album!?!” A fair enough question,
as I have indeed been working on said “masterpiece” for
what is going on a full calendar year, and talking about it
for even longer. So, after selecting songs, writing new ones,
bickering incessantly with my producer, recording backing
tracks, hiring musicians, re-recording backing tracks,
accepting that my producer does know best, singing lead
vocals, taking voice lessons with Don Lawrence (expensive
– but worth it!), and re-recording lead vocals, I have still yet
to complete my album. That’s right. As of this moment in
time I have finished all the “tracking:” Tambourine parts
1-4 have been laid down, the kazoo solo in track 6 has
been ironed out, and all of my hidden messages have been
imbedded into the songs, and yet, there’s more to do! How
can that be, you ask? There’s no good excuse, but there are
some real reasons it’s taken me so long.
First off, had I paid for this album by the hour, not only
would I never have been able to afford the amount of time
I’ve spent in the studio, but I probably would have been
finished with the entire project in a matter of a month or
so — which, in hindsight, seems like a better option. That
said, since I paid my producer one flat rate for whatever
amount of time it takes to complete the album, I have been
both blessed and cursed with the privilege of placing my
project on a Chris Martin-esque schedule. From second-
guessing certain performances to questioning my choice
of songs, producer, and musical contributors at times, and
basically allowing perfectionism coupled with the fact that
our perspective inevitably changes with the passing of time,
I have wasted entirely too much time and effort making
changes to an album I would only later go back to change
again. I have been to accept my tracks as they are, failing
to recognize that they will serve as a “snap shot” in time
if I just let them be.
Besides that, I have also been so wrapped up in the
music that I have let other details surrounding the creation
of an actual album slip by me. It’s not that from the
beginning I didn’t give endless hours of thought to the
fact that album art has often defined some of my favorite
albums, it’s just that, for all my sketches and brainstorms
and conversations with artists and graphic designers, no
design has yet felt like it “fit.” So, because of the same
perfectionism that has left me undecided between such
titles as Once Around the Sun, Call it Good, Who I am,
and Still Life, even after my album has been mastered
and is ready to be pressed, I’ve still got innumerable
decisions to make before it can be released.
Finally – and this my last excuse now – despite saving
by Paul Alexander
money on production, a substantial day job, in order to do my
mastering with Benjy’s good friend, the Grammy-winning
mastering engineer Scott Hull, pay a graphic designer, get
some new photos taken, and then pressing copies of the final
product, I am left in dire need of more capital, more bread,
more currency, more money — you get the idea?
So, if you want to make a donation to support the cause,
feel free to contact me through my website. Otherwise, just
check out a show – one of these days, it’ll be my album
release party.
It’s not that I’ve hated all of the time I’ve spent working
and reworking and reworking my album; I’ve actually had a
really good time. Spending so many hours with my producer
has proven invaluable, as Benjy King has become more a
friend and mentor than a producer. I suppose the biggest
reason I haven’t finished this endeavor is because I try to
live by the sentiment that once Miles Davis expressed: “The
joy is in the pursuing, not in the attaining.” Yet, as my now-
mentor Benjy has taught me well, as selfish an undertaking
as creating an album can be (and a “solo album” at that!),
albums are made for the listener even more so than for artist.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, thanks for continuing
to ask me about how the f#@king album is going… it’s been
so long I’m glad you still care.
And despite the fact that this album has taken me “once
around the sun” and provided all of you Urban Folk readers
and “Crowin’ at the Creek” regulars what seems like a never
ending story, I promise to do my best to find a way to enjoy
releasing this album as much as I have had making it, and
get it to all of you as soon as possible.
palexandermusic.com
 Puzzle Contest with puzzle editor Deborah T.
Clues
1. The Cover-Ed L E P S Y T I N U M M O C Y M
2. Anti-conventionalist, wanderer -Or- Slacker?
3. It’s Free for You and Me! H A D E K S B O H E M I A N A
4. Shared Environment S U I I R F E S U A L P P A S
5. Anxiety About the World or About Personal
Freedom (Common Theme in # 22)
I R A R T S T K C H O R U S T
6. Non-commercial Publication S B G O T O P R I D E M O R E
7. Performers Frequent Them E A P T R N R E N M A U C H R
8. End of Set Sound… Hopefully
9. Refrain G N O S G N O H C G N I H C P
10. (Staff Writer) Paul Always Seems to Have One E F E Y O S E L F T V E V K I
11. Lyric Poet, in Medieval Times; #1 May Be a
Contemporary Example
X O T A R M U U L V I J P C E
12. This is the Sixth One E L R W Z I N E S E J V F O C
13. The work of Jon Berger or Belowsky (or Belowski, L K Y B T S G N A S M D E R E
or Bellowsky, or…)
14. Justifiable Self-Respect, No Less! (A Last Name T R O U B A D O U R I A Q K S
in AntiFolk) F J E S A E L E R D C N H N R
15. Crowning Achievement
16. Sibling Taunt: “I’m Not ____” -Or- One CD
C O N T R I B U T I O N S U E
Review-ee U O Y G N I H C U O T Z W P V
17. # 9’s Counterpart
18. Ineffably Delightful Musical Duo (Hopefully You “Saw” The Feature)
19. Debut of a Recording, Often Accompanied by a Party
20. A Glimpse Behind the Lyrics
21. Our Transit Tales Feature
22. Music Genre: Originally, Antiestablishment; Typically, Frank and Abrasive
23. What We Want From You… In the Form of:
A. Your Money. Buy Ads!
B. Your Time. Write Something!
C. Your Love. Keep Reading!
24. Now, If You Think You’re Right, Send Your Solution to Deborah T, the Puzzle ____.

Tips:
1. Read Urban Folk! Seriously. -No, seriously …I mean it.
2. Take a few stabs at the clues, and THEN try to find those words. –Mental stabs!
3. Make sure you find the ENTIRE answer in the puzzle. -Check for plurals too.
4. Clues can be found backwards and diagonal. -In addition to the “baby” way.
5. Work in pencil. -Or carefully with a highlighter… ‘cause it’s prettier!
6. Work with your friends or your band. -We can always have a group thing...
7. Be a winner! -Or, if that’s not possible, just solve the puzzle correctly & get interviewed in Issue # 7.

the rules:
be the first person to email or snail mail (submissions handed to us in person will not be accepted) the
completed puzzle to urbanfolkzine@gmail.com, or 306 Jefferson St. 1R Brooklyn, NY 11237
the prize:
be featured here! You will be interviewed by Deborah T. and win a short feature in the next issue of
Urban Folk
 We have a Winner!
Out with the Bad Habits... In with Brian Mathius
It’s a mild January evening. I meet Brian Mathias at Odessa Restaurant on Avenue A. He orders the pierogies. I get
tea. There is the rumble of thickly-accented conversations on all sides. There is the cash register zinging behind us. There
is the server coming over to check on us every 10 minutes …every time, it seems, that Brian is mid-answer. One time, she
comes to ask if he would like more pierogies, and he thinks she’s asking him if he’d like cocaine… It must be the noise.
Brian is calmly smiling in the corners of his mouth. He’s soft-spoken. He rambles like ivy when you get him started. He
tears napkins into teeny, tiny pieces. We get started.

DT: Brian, you have just returned to

New York to give music a go. How
would you describe your music to
someone who’s never heard it?
BM: Like acoustic folk/rock/blues…
Those are the three genres that I
generally give people. And I’m,
you know, a singer-songwriter, who
blends those three genres because
those are my main influences.
DT: Do you have any bad habits…
besides tearing up napkins?
BM: One of the things that terrified
me about moving back into the
city was that all the bad habits I
did have would be tempted… and
magnified… and multiplied.
DT: So, they wouldn’t get you a keyboard?
DT: What sorta habits are we talking about here, Brian?
BM: No, no, they did. But they really wanted me to use
BM: You know, just partying.
it, and I did... I messed around on it for a while, but it
DT: …Cocaine?
wasn’t… I mean, guitar you can really teach yourself. I
BM: Pierogies! It was pierogies that I was doing! Um…
was in like sixth grade I think, when I got the keyboard. I
(Silence) So, I quit drinking, which has been really good
was into the Beastie Boys and Run DMC, and I was like
for me. Not that I was out of control drinking, it was
putting the beats on. I was making up little raps with the
just… well, there’s so much opportunity and so much
keyboard.
potential for good in New York, and growing… But,
DT: Do you remember any of the songs that you wrote, or
there’s also opportunity for screwing up. So, I made a
subject matters you dealt with?
pact with myself, that I was gonna quit drinking before
BM: I think I was just talking about other kids in the sixth
I moved to the city. That’s been really good. But it’s
grade. And, I had this crush on this girl. And, I had some
funny, as soon as I quit drinking, I developed this horrible
beef with another guy. I was probably posturing, and
sweet-tooth, …and I swear, I swear …I didn’t drink every
y’know, doing whatever you think is cool in sixth grade.
day, or anything …but I started eating sugar every day…
I don’t know…
LOTS of it. So, now I’ve had to quit sugar, because I quit
DT: So, is there any of that influence in your music now?
drinking… it’s becoming like a terrible cycle.
BM: Well, there’s not much posturing, and there’s not a
DT: Right, so what’s gonna replace sugar?
lot of beef in my music, now… I think it’s a little more
BM: Tearing napkins… It’s like plugging a dam with your
introspective and sorrowful, now. I’m pretty confident
fingers… You put a finger in the dam, and you know,
that I don’t try and impress anyone when I write music.
somewhere else the water starts comin’ out, so…
It’s a pretty honest process for me.
DT: Did you grow up with music in the house? Did your
parents expose you to music as a child?
You read it here, Urban Folk readers; Brian Mathias is
BM: Yeah, my brothers …I have two older brothers, and
off the (metaphorical) beef, off the (imaginary) cocaine, off
they were always bringing it home. My mother actually
the alcohol, and duly off the sugar. However, he can still
sings in the Buffalo Philharmonic Chorus. But, in terms
tear into a good napkin.
of playing music, I kind of had to find it. I made attempts,
you know. I begged my parents for a keyboard, and they
brianmathias.com
were convinced I wasn’t gonna use it or something…
 CD reviews
send your cd to 306 Jefferson 1R, Brooklyn, NY 11237
The Bowmans
Far From Home
The Bowmans have a lot to live up to on this album,
having played these songs around the city for the last year,
fans are expecting a certain aching beauty comparable to
their live show from the recording. The key to their sound
has always been the striking harmonies that Claire brings
to Sarah’s melodies. They have a contemporary poppy folk
sound combined with a bit of an artsy flair. The songs are
catchy, usually fairly soft and easy in the melodies, but fun
where they need to be, lightening up just enough to keep the
ear from becoming fatigued over the course of the album.
Both of the sisters are excellent singers, and Sarah holds
her own as a writer and arranger. Pretty songs occasionally
become amazingly beautiful such as on the room silencing
breakdown to “The Kitchen Song,” which was inspired by
her background in classical music including an understanding
of Gregorian Chant. All at once the music stops and Sarah’s
lonely vocals float delicately out alone before Claire joins
in with an ancient churchlike lift that slowly rises back
into the rhythm of the song. They sound their most natural
when backed up by a simple acoustic arrangement, perfectly
complimenting the sound of their voices. It is the difficulty
of music like this that despite how pretty it might be, to be
content to stick to slow acoustic songs with lush harmonies
would become redundant. Fortunately they balance out the
soft beautiful moments with catchy upbeat tracks that are
enjoyable and carry the album along. The production is well
done especially considering that Sarah learned the necessary
engineering and mixing skills on the fly to complete the
album mere hours before their last tour. The arrangements
contain instruments and layering too numerous to pick
out much of the time, but it is put together tastefully,
without getting in the way of the songs and the singing.
Whether or not all of the layering adds to the songs, is
difficult to say. The songs are striking enough on their
own that I’m inclined to think that they are best when
left bare, again though it helps to keep the album moving
forward to see them trying different things. The fact that
their back up band was composed of friends such as
Alex Lowry, JD Benjamin of the Creaky Boards, Osei
Essed and Will Orzo of the Woes, Peter Hess of The Greek
embassy, Jeff Jacobson of the Undisputed Heavyweights,
all talented musicians and songwriters in their own right,
helps the feeling of raw inspiration on the album, as friends
coming together can bring out the best ideas in each other.
This is an inspired album showcasing great songs performed
excellently, retaining a sense of fun and fresh creativity
wrapped up in a mature sounding production. That fact
that they do all this with an independent spirit not waiting
by the editorial collective
for labels or agents to begin booking national tours and
promoting, instead always working harder than they should
have to doing it themselves, only adds to the allure and their
chances of success.
thebowmansmusic.com
Brian Bergeron
The Closer EP
Full of smart arrangements and bold dynamic changes,
Brian Bergeron leads listeners through a musical journey on
this ambitious EP. Brain may believe as he states in “Time
Is On Our Side,” that “I don’t have the kind of voice for this
song,” yet his voice is as rock solid as the album’s cover
art throughout the EP’s five well written compositions. The
guitar work by Brian’s co-producer, Andy Renault, does
much to move the songs along, and behind Bergeron’s
memorable melodies, this short work more than makes up
for its limited track number, by replaying itself in your head
hours after your last listen. Nevertheless, beautiful backing
vocals and competent hand drums aside, anyone who has
had the pleasure of seeing Brian Bergeron live during his
ever so brief residency in the New York City area, knows
without hearing a note of this recording, that it is Brian,
with his own passionate guitar work that helps quickly draw
audiences to a song like “Speed,” and as Brian is returning
to Boston all too soon, for the time being at least, this EP is
all The Closer to Brian’s captivating live presence anyone
here in New York is going to get.
brianbergeron.net
Brook Pridemore
The Reflecting Skin
What has Brook Pridemore
done this time? Only made
the best album of his career.
This may be no great stretch,
of course. “Metal and Wood
is basically stuff I don’t
play anymore, but people in
Michigan seem to like it. First
Name/Last Name isn’t bad, but
this one…” The Reflecting Skin, Pridemore’s latest, is a big
sprawl of a record; chock full of 11 songs, all of which have
been heard throughout New York and Pridemore’s hundreds
of touring destinations. All these songs exist here with full
arrangements from strange players, including the usual
suspects (David LK Murphy, Toby Goodshank, Dan Costello,
Andrew Hoepfner) as well as Mountainside Studio regulars
and Indiana idols the Ghost Mice (most notably on the subtle
“Sensormatic.”) All of the typical Pridemore strengths are
here: crazy energy, desperate sentiment, opaque lyrics, but
added to the mix are instrumentation, arrangement, sonic
offerings unparalleled in his past. It fleshes out his material,
and consistently makes the album much stronger. “Hand
in Hand (Foot in Mouth)” has a glorious Replacements
moment in the chorus. Paul Westerberg’s sense of mid-
western desperation clearly means something to Pridemore,
as evidenced by the following “Someone Else’s Life is
Hanging Over my Head on a String.” “I’ll be Here All
Night” is beautiful, with a barbershop quartet of AntiFolk
artists, “John Darnielle,” named in honor of the songwriter
inspiring the song, shuffles along with more drive than usual,
leading directly into “The Fake Joie/DBG Song.” Pridemore
has been a standard-bearer of the DIY spirit as long as he’s
been in New York, but with The Reflecting Skin, he forgoes
DIY for DIT (Do It Together), collaborating with a growing
cast, building a larger community of artists. This would be
a good thing, even if the album weren’t – but it is. It’s real
good.
brookpridemore.com
Grey Revell
Little Animals
The first song Grey Revell played in New York was “The
Crows,” featuring the memorable line, “There’s no telling
where we’re going; there’s no telling where we’ve been.”
Since then, Revell’s been a bunch of places. With a nouveau
SoCal style, Revell was born and bred in the suburbs of LA.
He left New York three years back to return to his roots,
and yet, has never recorded an album in his hometown.
Revell, along with his AntiFolk songstress wife Patsy
Grace, lived in another LA (New Orleans) until they got a
little concerned about the weather. It was in that Big Easy
city that Revell recorded Little Animals, his fifth release,
and the first with every single sound recorded and produced
alone in home four-track studio, while his family slept mere
yards away. This is a family production. His wife designed
the CD package. His son’s fingerprints are throughout the
release. Revell’s lyrics, always atmospheric and imagistic,
now seem more mature, more resigned, as if written through
the haze of fatherhood. This is the most mature album of
Revell’s career. His vocal delivery seems tired, melancholy.
There painstaking effort put into every single sound on
the minimal Little Animals. The poignancy throughout the
title track and “The Devil’s Boots Don’t Creak?” Moving.
Powerful. Bittersweet. “Redesign me?” Heartbreaking, and
a little scary. Immediately followed by the Big Star (Alex
Chilton was a fellow New Orleanser. New Orleansian?
Does it really matter now?)-flavored “I’ll Still Remember.”
Another beautiful love song is “I Love the Way You Hold
My Head,” with the traditional Revell charm: “Baby you
are such a thing, dancing with your feet of fire.” Around the
seeming exhaustion (all recorded in the months immediately
leading up to Hurricane Katrina), there is hope. There is
beauty, no matter where else he may go.
greyrevell.com
Ian Thomas
Live at Rockwood Music Hall
I’ve seen Ian Thomas live several times and I don’t say it
lightly when I proclaim that one of those performances was
the most powerful and awe inspiring sets I have ever seen in
my life. That was live and in person however, and it’s hard
to capture something like that on a CD even if it’s a live
recording. This recording from Rockwood Music Hall gives
you a glimpse of what I’m talking about. If you have grown
accustomed to how some of his songs sounded on his first
release “A Young Man’s Blues” then you will be surprised
(perhaps pleasantly, perhaps not) to find him playing some
of those older songs a bit differently. It’s not that they’re not
necessarily as good versions, they’re just different, and not
necessarily better. If you have never heard of Ian Thomas
before then this CD will floor you regardless. Some may
call Thomas’s music a throw back, but that is near sighted
and unjust. He is first off perhaps the best young songwriter
in or out of New York. His guitar playing is so masterful
it comes off sounding like two people playing at the same
time. In fact when I first heard him on CD I was almost
convinced that he double tracked some guitar parts; later
when I saw him live I understood just how good he was.
On this recording he showcases all that and his ability to rip
the reeds off a harmonica; not to mention he can also play a
mean kazoo. Thomas takes the melodies and sensibility of
timeless American folk and blues and brings them barreling
into the 21st century. On songs like “Lonesome Blue Ocean”
and “Halfway Gone” he captures love lost as well as anyone
can. His voice on tracks like “Open Letter To A Lover” and
“Ain’t Gonna Dredge” can send a chill up your spine. There
is something about the delivery of these songs that gives
you the feeling that he is not simply singing them to you so
much as he is revealing some secret gospel. Don’t get me
wrong though, Thomas can also throw down some powerful
stoppers that make you wanna get up, clear the floor and
start a fucking hoe down.
ianthomasmusic.com
Jessica Delfino
Dirty Folk Rock
Jessica is a comedian first and a musician second, a fact
that comes across quite well on this album. She can be
funny, although her range is quite limited, pretty much to
her vagina. The album opens with a live track she introduces
as being one she likes to play for anti war protests. She then
breaks into a song about leaving a guy because as she tells
us repeatedly in the chorus “You don’t eat my pussy right.”
The second song has a different angle exploring the fact that
“once a month for a week we bleed from our vaginas.” The
third one moves into new ground about excrement as sex
and the love it breeds, or fails to keep alive. Clever rhymes
ensue. The rest of the album follows a similar pattern, even
on a more “political” track, the chorus “Fuck the FCC,”
can’t help being followed up by a “Fuck, suck, cunt”
refrain. The glaringly obvious thing about this album is
that Jessica’s musicianship doesn’t live up to the high brow
comedy. The tracks are either simple, awkward, and badly
recorded voice and guitar, or an even more awkward Casio
sounding electronic backing. Either way, they don’t help get
her message across. So what is her message? On “Jessica
Jokes” she does an extended monologue about women,
body images, and media fueled materialism. Perhaps this is
all a feminist way of reclamation. This would make it more
noble and possibly give it a point, but honestly one track
does not make a concept album (or concept artist, as all
her other work seems to carry the same theme). Other than
that one moment, all we’re left with is “Get it, I said Vagina
again!” We got it, we’re moving on. She has a DVD coming
out soon though, here’s to hoping she has more to say in
her stand up. In her CD liner notes she makes a desperate
Sally Struthers style plea for people to send her the random
quarters hanging around their houses to fund her various art
projects. She even provides an address. That’s actually kind
of funny. There is hope.
jessydelfino.blogspot.com
Luke Kalloch
Four Songs (A Demo)
Low fi and lush all at once, original and familiar. Artfully
arranged, despite bearing a disclaimer that states, “all
instruments played (for better or worse).” I left this album
glad Luke did his own grunt work, as everything that I loved
about Sonic Youth, the Smashing Pumpkins, and other bands
who wrote melodic songs that rocked rather than piano
ballades, while capturing some of the great parts of what
makes rhythmic 80’s dance pop so popular right now, came
out in Luke’s four song demo. And just think this is merely
a “demo,” who knows what great work is yet to come from
this new transplant to
our scene.
lukekalloch.com
Marco Argiro
not coming home
Outsides of the music,
the layout to this album
is a little funny. Not
only is Marco the center
framed focus of every
surface, he also felt
the need to write after
every track “words & music by Marco Argiro.” Somehow
it seems that once at the end would have sufficed. Actually
the album is quite good. Especially for an independent
self produced project almost entirely recorded by Marco
Alone. It’s a little sterile and slicker than it has to be, but
for a young independent musician this sounds extremely
professional. Stylistically it borders on the emo/ pop punk
line, with touches of acoustic influence. His melodic sense
is good, taking a lot from The Beatles which always serves
music like this well. The songs sound rich and fully textured
adding a decent energy to the sound with full rock band
arrangements. To be honest most of these songs wouldn’t
sound out of place as a background on The OC, which you
can take how you will. A little lacking in innovation, but
solid and well done for what it is. The one thing I’d say
is that even though there is good energy in the recording
there sounds like something small is missing. The tracks
sound lonely and in a way you can’t put your finger on you
can tell that this album was created by one person trying to
create a full band feel. Something of the spark of joy that
people create together is missing. It’s as if all the elements
are in place, but the electricity to give it life is missing, that
spark that can’t be fabricated. Really he does fine on his
own, but with that little extra push that a band’s presence
might add to his already more than competent songwriting
and musicianship, Marco would be on to something truly
exciting.
marcoargiro.com
Mark DeNardo
Doppelganger
Seeing Mark DeNardo live was an experience. He got
on stage with his acoustic guitar, plugged in his PSP and
told us “This song’s about Brooklyn. It’s the story of two
intergalactic spies facing off in their final epic battle.”
“How’s that about Brooklyn?” someone asked. “Oh yeah,
it’s set in a midevil Bushwick.” He pushed play on the video
game system starting an elaborate series of bloops, blips,
and a low pleasant humming. Over the top of the twenty first
century electronica, he played a perfect punk influenced folk
song with powerful vocals and acoustic guitar. The strange
sounds emanating from behind him backed the song up
surprisingly well. The video game influence on his lyrics and
music was amusing for being so enjoyable. Doppelganger
carries much of the same idea, combining electronica
with solid songwriting, but with few exceptions minus the
acoustic guitar. On this recording, the electronic layering is
thicker and more prominent, sounding bluntly like a video
game on much of the album. The sound becomes a bit much
for my taste and I miss the balancing effect that a guitar
or other form of natural instrumentation has on too few of
the tracks. The biggest problem with the production is that
it often overshadows his songwriting which is really quite
good. It’s catchy offbeat and not as angular as one might
expect from a project like this, but just enough so as to give
it an artsy flair. This is an older release, so there is hope
from his current live show that he is reaching a new level
of balance where the songs can come through the quirky
sounds that give him his character.
markdenardo.com
Muaddib
s/t
An amazing guitarist and talented musician, Muaddib
creates a strange ethereal sort of music. Recording all the
music solo, there’s a lot to be said for the talent that went into
the production. It is an eclectic mix, from spanish guitars,
to bits of heavy metal and hardcore, and always the thick
haunting vocals. It jumps tracks and rhythms easily showing
off his composition talents. The amount of artistry that went
into this is apparent especially considering it was all done by
one person. Eclectic percussion
mix with nylon string flamenco
guitars, mathematical bass
lines, and indy rock influenced
electric guitars create a zen
like atmosphere that sounds as
Eastern does anything Spanish
or Western. Taking into account
the thick vocals, the obtuseness
of the arrangements, and the
ethereal quality that makes the
melodies hard to hold on to, this
isn’t always the easiest album to listen to. It sounds as if his
talent as a musician doesn’t quite live up to his songwriting
skills. But skipping through the more difficult songs we
come to “The Mojo Song” at the last track. A sweet melodic
folk song of farewells it shows Muaddib as a writer plenty
able to construct an accessible, enjoyable song. It doesn’t
showcase the same amount of talent that the earlier tracks
did, but it is more fun to listen to. We wouldn’t want to
suggest that he hold back his talents any, but perhaps he
might be able to find a way to fuse the two, creating more
accessible songs that he could layer his musicianship over to
accentuate rather than dominate the music.
muaddibmusic.net
Seven and Counting
United in Rivalry
United in Rivalry starts off with a good bit of fun and
promise with a hard hitting straight ahead alt country song
that makes you want to move. These guys are here to have
fun and try to make you dance, drawing on the classic
Americana traditions of soul, rock n’roll, and country. There
is nothing showing off any extraordinary virtuosity, or
clever artistry, but that’s not the point. It sounds like a group
of people who just like music too much to not be compelled
to form up and play it. The first and the last song are the best
and most alive, the last one a nicely arranged full harmony
chorus of repeated “glory, hallelujah,” that makes a perfect
ending note. In the middle of the album it can be pretty hit
or miss. They all trade off vocals and some of the songs have
a slightly awkward and amateurish sound. The highlight is
when Mayteana Morlaes kicks in as the lead with a sweet
and powerful voice. It serves to me further evidence that
their aim is mostly to have fun and enjoy what they do, that
she is not the permanent lead singer, being the most talented
and obvious choice for the job. But when you’re having fun,
who doesn’t want their turn at the mic? I’m sure these guys
can rock a late night bar, after you’ve put a few back and
forgot that you don’t actually know how to dance, but don’t
really care anymore.
sevenandcounting.com
Tim Fite
Gone Ain’t Gone
Tim Fite is quite a character. In his bio he claims to
have been born without any blood, something I don’t
believe literally, but it fits in nicely with what he does.
He is a collector of lost and forgotten bargain bin CD’s.
If it cost more than a dollar, he won’t use it. His album
is composed almost entirely of these CD’s sampled and
pieced back together from their instrumental sections.
Much of what he samples is alt country or Americana,
giving a rootsy feel to the album. According to his press
materials he has created “a hip hop record that sounds
like folk music, a loop based record that feels organic.”
I couldn’t have said it better. The samples all feel very
organic, mixed to sound fluid rather than cut and pieced
together as many others who dabble in the art do. His voice
accents his musical choices perfectly, alternating between a
lazy drawl and a Brooklyn based hip hop feel. Usually they
are good and melodic in a folky country way, again making
him sound less like a sampler and more like a songwriter.
At times his lyrics become self aware of what he’s doing,
such as on “If I Had a Cop Show” a pure punk track with
his voice over stating “If I had a cop show, this would be the
theme music,” then going on to describe all the tough cop
things he would do during the opening theme like shooting
a naked girl, sliding over the hood of a car, beating a man
and spitting on him. On “Not a Hit Song” he begins with
a lazy flanged country twang guitar part, singing “This is
not a hit song, not even a good song... It’s not a sad song,
might even be a bad one.” The awareness slightly breaks the
illusion the rest of the album holds of organic recreation, but
it personalizes the album and idea, making it easier to accept
what he’s doing. It is an infectuous album, catchy, with good
hooks and strong grooves, a little strange and bizarre at times,
but with a voice that hooks you in and makes you not want
to care about much, a pleasant apathy. Maybe the sampling
is just part if this laziness, but it feels good and sounds good,
so who’s to complain? The album artwork is almost worth
the price alone, obtuse pastel colored drawings of pieces of
fingers over random shapes and lines, with a thick booklet of
striking and bizarre doodles that say nothing.
Anti- Records
timfite.com
Touching You
Lovely Songs
Lovely Songs is an album containing intriguing song titles
such as “Laser to Anus,” “Kill a Newspaper Editor,” “ Death
is the Answer,” “Gandhi’s Last Words: ‘Pacifism Doesn’t
Work,’” “Kill a Newspaper Editor Pt. 2,” “Homosexuality
is Wrong,” “Humans are Shit,” “Subjugate Your Tits,” “I’m
a Colored Person,” & “Christians Cheer Sept 11th.” If that
sounds like your thing, there are ten more waiting for you.
mayorbrodeur.org