A leetle morning moodmusik. This era Kinks is- to me- the best.

Howl On

I think I've stumbled upon the record that might soundtrack my spring and summer: Howlin' Rain's "Magnificent Fiend." Damn. There's something about the flag-like unfurling of the tunes that tug my heartstrings a little differently each time I hear them. No worries in the swinging Joe Cocker dirtbag jams, and that should be taken as the highest possible compliment. People have ventured into this territory before, but here we have something entirely different. Congas with confidence. As a person that spends so much time in the dusty bins of the past, it feels rich to encounter something contemporary that presents musik both familiar and utterly new. Right as Rain.

I think I might've seen an early gig by a different incarnation of these guys called something like Rusted Vultures? But this is a whole different bag.

Question for the day: Is it still a bro deal if they're always giving you a bro deal?

Lovely snakecharmer; hhumble wreathed snakesharmr.

More Lowell

More late-nite Lowell in white overall boogie mode. My hero. And is it me, or does Paul Barrere look like a cross between Terry Riley and El Topo?

H.A.W.K.W.I.N.D.

I was setting here at the table overlooking the expansive, leaf-strewn yard when my pal Rob said, "Hey man, a hawk just landed in the tree out there." And he pointed the hawk out to me and sure enough, it was a hawk. How very rad.*

It also reminded me of something else-- the fact that, in the last several months, I've plunged with headlong ferocity into the spiraling Hawkwind vortex. I'm talking the Space Ritual/Doremi Fasol Latido/Hall of the Mountain Grill/Warrior on the Edge of Time-era windowpane acid shaman music. Why now? That's what we must always ask ourselves. There must be something about their Michael Moorcock-inspired foggy dirges that appeal to me so acutely right NOW. I could just chill with the back cover of "Hall of the Mountain Grill" and a bottle of sake for a minute. I love the way those city lights are twinkling off in the distance in the lap of those purple mountains. And the moon hanging lazy up in the sky, like the kid brother moon of Herbie Hancock's "Sextant" moon. This is some Mervyn Peake shit.

The culmination of my Hawkwind obsession, thus far, has been the purchase of a pin (for $10) that says "Hawkwind U.K. Tour Winter '73/74" and then "Have A Good Time." I pinned it (appropriately, perhaps) to my black leather coat.

*Some addendums: While jogging, I saw an owl up in a tree looking down at me. She was huge, and dead serious. I was honored, but seriously hoped she didn't sink her claws into me.

When I told my postman (see earlier post) that I was into Hawkwind, he was like, "Ah, you mean like 'Space Ritual' and 'Doremi Fasol Latido'?" He never ceases to amaze me.

I found an awesome copy of the New Lost City Ramblers' "Remembrance of Things to Come" (adorned by Robert Frank's beautiful photo of the band) yesterday for $4.

This Guy

Respite from a Sunday nite slog thru Agamben (not that I don't like it). Do this.

The other night, while celebrating my pal Brendan's 30th birthday, we drunkenly went on a Little Feat "Sailin' Shoes" vision quest. Little Feat, with Lowell George at the helm, are the tuffest. Such strutting. Tell me they don't play the motherfuck out of this thing.




Lowell George's father was a famous furrier who raised chinchillas and sold furs to Hollywood motion picture studios.

(((And here's Mr. George talking to the Topanga Messenger in 1979, not long before he passed on to the spirit world during a tour in support of his majestic solo album "Thanks I'll Eat It Here.")))

Do you know this man? You probably don't, but you should. His name is Scott Hirsch. He is a very good friend of mine. He's taught me a lot. He's a humble man. We've shared so many experiences. We were together in Atlanta when someone bombed the Olympics. And we were together in New York City when 9/11 went down. We watched the Twin Towers fall down together. And of course years and years of many much more subtle events.

I also credit him with learning me the guitar. I distinctly recall asking him if he could help me change my strings when we first started playing together- this was a long time ago now. And we puzzled over how to accomplish such a task on the guitar I had at the time. He lives in Brooklyn now with his lady Emily (who is also awesome). I miss him, even though I talk to him regularly. Friends are tuff that way.

The Sunshine Is The Moonshine

Sometimes one just wants to drink and watch the rain come down over the trees- or perhaps take shelter under a tree (if you're a Rainbow Traveller)- and maybe listen to Terry Riley on an infinite loop. I'd recommend the above beer: Georg Schneider's Weisen Edel Weiss. It tastes like a meadow. It has narrowly edged out the Pinkus Mueller Pilsner in my life. I love the taste of earth and grass and trees.

I've been heavy into Mr. Riley lately. I can't get enough. Particularly "Descending Moonshine Dervishes" and "Persian Surgery Dervishes." Both worthy of unlimited devotion. Mr. Riley would like to take a moment to tell you about goats milk (and La Monte Young) if you don't mind. Listen closely.

This website, from which the TR and TMT documentaries are taken, is something else. Roll upon it.

The Moonshine is the Sunshine

Today felt like SPRING. Abby and I cleared our garden space (perhaps 75' x 75'- quite large) of rocks, sticks, and roots as best we could, and then June came and plowed with his old tractor. It smelt good; new, upturned earth. Now there are more sticks and rocks to pick out of the dirt, and then we will begin to plant. Around midday, it became very windy. I run indoors and begin to record some musik. But this seeming arrival of spring brings to mind many poets, including RYOKAN, who said:

Spring has begun!
Jewels and precious gold everywhere!
Please come visit me!

He also said:

Tonight the plum trees reflect the silver moon;
both are in full bloom.
Entranced, I did not return home until evening.

Last nite was also nice; we had a BBQ in the leaf-strewn yard, and drank sake upon sake upon sake.

Issa says::

One bath
after another-
how stupid.

((and))

Farmer,
pointing the way
with a radish.

((and))

Strong wind-
mother, suckling child
sheltered by scarecrow.

"...the greatest musician I have ever heard..." -Terry Riley

While performing some hard-won work attenuation (i.e. time-wasting) in between bouts of writing about low riders and trying to rid my work-area of the A&W root beer-scented air freshener odor that I mistakenly opened up, I stumbled upon some beautiful recent artwork that my pal Nat Russell has been working on. This one hit me in the gut. I'm 32, although most of the time I don't believe it or act like it. What would it even mean to act 32? Nat, if you're reading this, what's up? All travellers, see Nat's work in its natural habitat here.

Set the controls for the heart of Souleyman

June rolled his tractor yesterday while maintaining a massive leaf pile burn. Thankfully he wasn't hurt, but this is something you hear about, people getting injured or killed in tractor accidents. I know that Doc Watson's son, Merle, went that way.

Wild vegetables.

There is talk of planting onions in the coming weeks. There is now an empty plot of land where the leaf pile once stood. It gets a lot of sun. I'm pushing to plant sorrel there. I like the name and I've seen it growing in the medieval herb garden at The Cloisters, near the espaliered pear tree. How to keep the deer away from the sorrel?

Sickle moon on the rise.