August 2009

August 31, 2009

Prelude to the open road

By Fredrick
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Even at the time I thought it was a little suspicious how early dusk came about that night, but now it's painfully clear to me that the sudden darkness was simply the re-emergence of that spiteful dark cloud that seems to haunt my every automobile endeavor. It should have been obvious from the difficulty I was having simply releasing the battery contacts that this wasn't going to be the seamless transition I was hoping for; yet rather an ominous foreshadowing of the struggle to come. Still, I cut the check and took the key; if anything it puts me at least one step closer to goal of unfettered travel - a goal which, even now, seems perpetually out of reach.

The whole situation started when I spotted a lovely car in the parking lot with a 'for sale' sign in the window. It was a stunning car, an unblemished grey 2001 Hyundai Accent, and it was priced modestly for its condition. I snapped a picture of the sign in case the car was to travel off somewhere, and sat on the information for a few weeks. I didn't have the money to buy the car upfront, and most people these days aren't trusting enough to make payments. As time dragged on the car sat right where it was, serving as a constant reminder of what could be. Eventually I decided to give it a shot and gave the number a call.

The guy on the other end of the line was a swell character; very enthusiastic to get rid of his car which only served as dead weight to a fellow who now lived in Connecticut and was situated only a block away from his office. I didn't even need to convince him to take payments, he seemed happy enough just to have someone that was interested. This was several months ago, but the wheels were set in motion. For many weeks I sat around waiting for the next step to happen, and every call I made to him to check up on the status felt like a step backwards in progress. We waited on the title for several weeks, and then I waited several more for him to free up the time to come to New Paltz. All the while we were experiencing the wettest summer of my life; one that saw rain almost every day during the month of June and heavy showers straight through August. This whole time the car was sitting stationary in the parking lot.

Two days ago I finally met the man who held the title to the lovely Accent I looked out on every morning from my bedroom window. He showed up late with a new battery. Everything from the battery contacts to the bracket that held the battery in place was rusted tightly shut, which is to be expected when a car sits dormant for so long. I tried wrenching the tiny bolts lose with a pair of jewelry pliers to no avail; luckily the more hardships we encountered, the more tools he found in the trunk. Though I managed to get the contacts off, the bracket wasn't going to budge and we were, then, working in total darkness. He had a date to get to and I was supposed to go to dinner with Miranda, so he left me with a car, and I sent him off with a check for my entire savings. Over dinner I told Mira that it would be fine and she said that for all the things I remain so pessimistic about, I retain a hopeless optimism about matters of transportation.

The next morning I woke up early, eager to drive that car in circles around the parking lot. The advice I got from my mechanic was to carefully break the bracket, and the most careful thing I could muster was to bend it forward allowing me the space to take it out. At last! I popped the new battery in and slid the contacts on. While the negative cinched up, I realized that the positive bolt never moved in the first place. Somehow it loosened up enough to take it off the old battery, but getting it to close tightly around the new one was impossible. What was once a bolt and a nut was now a tangled knot of rust - it wasn't going to move. It was, however, touching enough for me to start the car.

There were a thousand potential problems running through my mind when I put that key in the ignition. I expected a struggle, I expected to turn it over several times, I expected to pump the gas, to grit my teeth, even to bang my head against the steering wheel and ask myself why I'm so naïve. But it didn't happen. It started, first try, and it sounded spectacular. It wasn't silent by any means, which serves me well considering the only time I drove a truly silent car I wound up going 90 mph through a speed-trap. It was smooth, though, and it was quiet enough; but could it move? Despite the loose battery contact I couldn't resist the urge to move. So I did. I pulled out of the space, and the resulting sound was as if some monster was ripping through the Earth's crust. I was told that would be normal, but even that knowledge didn't make me feel safe when I applied the break and heard a sound like someone chewing a mouthful of rocks. I could feel everything.

Not wanting to wake the neighborhood up with my cacophonous car, I put it away and went inside to take care of bureaucratic nonsense. Insurance and DMV forms were still waiting for me, and with each came an exorbitant price tag. My insurance came to four times the amount I was previously paying; for example, insurance on my 1985 Volkswagen Rabbit was $42 a month. This car is costing me $200. In addition I also had to pay sales tax on the $1,800 I paid for the car. With all the hidden costs, I wasn't just investing my savings, I was investing everything. I wasn't sitting pretty before, but this investment has me submerged in poverty. I was okay with that, though, because, like college, it's something you invest in today with hopes of a better tomorrow.

With all my forms filled out and everything else in order, I packed my bag and boarded a bus to Kingston. Of course, it wouldn't be easy enough to go straight there - I had to take a bus to SUNY Ulster, transfer, and the go to Kingston Plaza before I could walk to the DMV. I took a number and sat there for half an hour, and when I finally got to the window the lady attempted to turn me away, saying I needed a bill of sale. Through firm insistence I assured her it wasn't needed and she conceded and gave me my plates. I was filled with joy, truly ecstatic. I could have skipped out of the office whistling zippity do-da. I was in such good spirit that I didn't let the hour I spent waiting for the bus back to New Paltz get me down, despite the fact that the crazy lady to my left was telling everyone she was Marilyn Monroe, and the super morbidly obese man to my right had a belly so saggy that it hung well below the bottom of his shirt. I must have second-hand smoked at least a pack of cheap cigarettes, and the strip mall expanse wasn't very inspiring to look at. I was just thrilled when the bus for New Paltz showed up.

I ran straight from the bus stop to my apartment, giddy at the thought of putting those plates on and rolling around these foreign hills, and consequentially rolling towards the familiar hills of western New York in the next few days. I was told that taking the car downhill and riding the brakes slightly would free the brake rotors of the neglectful corrosion. I pasted my registration on the window, screwed the plates on the bumpers and with a dreadful screech pulled out of the parking lot and right onto South Chestnut. I went up and down and rode the brakes gingerly, but the clockwork clunking didn't cease, in fact it got worse. The shrill scraping was joined by a reminiscent sound of metal-on-metal dragging - something had come loose. I wanted to stop and turn around, but when I applied pressure to the brake I was surprised to find that nothing happened. I pressed harder, harder, straight to the ground. There was a slow to my rolling, but a pull to the left. At the crest of the hill was a parking lot which I was able to slow down enough to stop in.

Time for advice again, I relayed my current dilemma to the only person I know that I can trust, and he had me run around and evaluate things. It wasn't a problem with the master cylinder, which seemed like a good thing at first, until I peaked under the car and saw a river of brake fluid flowing from the passenger side wheel. Fantastic, there's no where I'd rather be than the top of a steep hill with no brakes. I composed enough bravery to roll myself down the hill and hopefully into my parking lot, but when I tried to start her up, nothing happened. I had forgotten completely about the lose battery contact, and had come off when I slammed the hood closed after the cylinder inspection. So I began an unamusing game of fix this fix that until I managed to get the car running, at which point I carefully rolled out onto the road.

As you can imagine, since I'm writing this now, I made it home alive. There were no casualties, automobile or otherwise. The only thing that sustained any damage was my hopes. There was no longer any room to look at the situation in any way other than reality; there were problems, and unfortunately these problems couldn't be postponed until I made it to Corning, I wasn't even safe driving a few miles.

So what's a guy to do after he sinks everything into a little glimpse of hope, only to find himself in the same situation he was in before, sans the savings? That's what I'm attempting to decipher now. While I want, so badly, just to analyze the problem and fix it myself, I also realize that I have no mechanical skills and no tools; I don't even have a jack to lift the car up with. I guess I'm just going to have to take this day by day.

August 29, 2009

Corey Cooking a Burger and Dip

By Fredrick
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Back home, in Western New York, I have several extremely talented friends. Chaz, who is one of my oldest friends, is an amazing artist who is on the verge of finishing his first cohesive graphic novel; Max, who I'm still certain will become a famous musician; and Corey, who really can't be summed up in words. In a house out in Dryden, NY Corey and Max have been making culinary delights for the last two years, and so thoughtfully have been recording the process so as we, too, might recreate these savory dishes.

You don't need to know these guys personally to understand the sense of humor; simply know that this on-air persona is hardly a stretch from the real man. He swears more often than not, likes a good beer, and loves burgers. If you'd like to learn how to make other foods in that peculiar Corey fashion, check out a collection of videos here.

August 14, 2009

Ulster County Fair

By Fredrick
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County Fairs are a great place to go to reflect on yourself. The promise of fried foods and carnival rides brings everyone out of the woods, and city folk and hillbillies alike, everyone has a good time. It's no place for condescension; you might have more teeth than the guy next to you, but you're all standing in the same mud, paying the same price for the same bad food. You're both waiting in the same long lines for the same dangerous rides, and paying the same high price to win the same cheap toys. The County Fair is also a great place to get in touch with the agricultural side of life. Goats, chickens, horses, and cows are all in plentiful attendance, both in the dingy food stands as well as guests of honor in the 4-H stables.

The most compelling attraction to me was the blacksmith's shop. Tucked quietly behind the BBQ Rib shack is a tiny log building with an ancient bellows and an old fashioned man with a big ol' moustache. If you manage to find him, if you have the time, he'll make something cool out of scrap metal. In fact, everything in the shop is hand made, save for the anvil (which was salvaged from the bottom of the Hudson River). There are extravagant polished ladles forged from railroad ties, elegant hooks, hinges, and handles crafted from scrap metal. Even his hammer is made from the axle of an old truck. I was informed that every blacksmith tool is handmade, and assured that the person who made the first hammer probably had a hell of a time. I don't have any video from my visit to the blacksmith's shop, but I have great memories. You should have been there, sorry.

Olde Fashioned tunes by The Zombies.

August 9, 2009

New Paltz Over Easy

By Fredrick
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So last Thursday my friend Eli, my girlfriend Miranda, and I snuck into the Mohonk Mountain House. It's a giant snobby Victorian castle turned resort for the mega-rich at the top of the hill outside of New Paltz. By telling the folks at the entrance that you need to speak with the front desk about lodging, they, in turn, give you a 1 hour parking pass. This gets you in without paying the $18 charge. While the grounds are certainly worth the $18, nature should always be free.

When we went up there, I thought we'd probably just jump in the lake, which is notoriously warm, and maybe just get belittled by the guests at the castle. When we got to the shore of the lake, however, none of us were compelled to get in. Looming always in the distance was the Skytop Tower, a sort of symbol for New Paltz. The Mountain House is the only place you can access it from. It was then decided we would climb it.

At the foot of the mountain you have two choices, the skytop path which is a wide paved path directly to the tower, or the labyrinth which is a difficult rock scramble. Compelled by both the name and the term 'rock scramble' we opted for The Labyrinth. Within a few moments we felt safe we made the right choice. Scrambling has you using your hands equally as much as your feet, and though they have occasional guide arrows, the path is all up to you. Those dangerous cliffs and shaky boulders are no longer fenced off; they are the way.

Though we were ill prepared, Eli in his loafers, Mira going barefoot a ways because her sandles were more of a burden than a help, and my shoes which have worn so thin on the bottom you can see my footprint, we had an incredible time. The views were surreal, and climbing through narrow gaps and miniature caves was thrilling. By the time we got to the top, the tower didn't matter anymore, that trip was the focal point.

Music by Bonnie 'Prince' Billy

August 3, 2009

Say Hello to COOKIES!

By Fredrick
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I don't often find myself ahead of the musical curve among the indie elite. It was 1998 before I dropped, for the most part, my fascination with mainstream music in lieu of something deeper. By the time I latched on to most of the bands I cherish most now, they were already old news (and as it turned out most of them all hailed from the same Georgian town). In the case of acts like Love and Frank Zappa, I find myself late to the game by 40 years. However, these days I find myself singing, constantly, the praises of the most exceptional band that no one seems to have heard of... yet.

It was over 10 years after of Montreal's debut album, Cherry Peel, that Rolling Stone awarded them the honor of being a 'hot new band to watch'. Of course this declaration came after the release of over 8 solid albums and a handful of collections and EP's, as well as several prominent stylistic eras and countless band line-ups, including a young gent named Jason NeSmith. Jason was onboard long enough to see the release of an ill-fated single that was nearly washed away by Katrina, and struggled to find an identity on stage with a band which seemed over capacity even before he joined. It was this brief stint with a band that has recently come very much into vogue that has perpetually pinned the suffix (ex-of Montreal) to every mention of NeSmith's band, Casper & the Cookies.

While I adore of Montreal with all my heart, every time I see the Cookies represented in this fashion, it makes me cringe. To reduce the merit of all Casper & the Cookies have accomplished to a petty comparison to a hometown rival isn't just a crying shame, it's a damn crime. Unfortunately this isn't the only misrepresentation that dogs the band; their cutesy name and association with Athens, Georgia based record label Happy Happy Birthday to Me has mentally cataloged this intelligent and skilled band as a twee act. Whereas the genre typically indicates that between the members of the band, they know what a drumstick is used for (and scarcely much else), the Cookies have been criticized for being 'too professional' - whatever the hell that means.

I was first introduced to Casper & the Cookies several years ago through the joys of social networking. A little green bird, which has now found a permanent home on Kay Stanton's arm, delivered a message to a friend of mine who played in a local band that was kind of a big deal in Upstate New York. "Do boy birds have nutsacks?" it asks. This inquiry is less bizarre; considering the band's name was Scrottum (they played their first gig in my South Corning living room so many New Years ago). This was the first time I paid attention to Casper & the Cookies - procuring a copy of the band's debut album, Oh!, from Max that very week.

Though you'd never hear it from the band themselves, Oh! is a little bit brilliant. When the gently crooning voice welcomes you to the album, insisting that it is a true pleasure to be performing for you, you feel the sincerity in the words. From that launching point, the album springboards into a silly romp - often making use of cute lyrics and smart rhymes. While the theme of the album seems to be a light-hearted look at the world through the lens of childish innocence, it never seems condescending or inaccessible, but rather envelopes you in a world where things just don't have to be so damn serious all the time. The crowning moment comes in the form of the song 'My Heart is in My Head', which I still request at every live show.

My first encounter with the band themselves came at the 2006 Athens Popfest. The entire trip was a whirlwind of excitement and a groundbreaking adventure that I undertook with three complete strangers. I was overwhelmed by the stellar line-up that included Athens big-timers like Circulatory System and The Apples in Stereo as well as several visiting acts and a slew of up-and-coming locals. With the list in front of my I went through with a highlighter to make sure I didn't miss anything I'd regret. Among the important acts I noted, aside from the headliners, were a few local bands generating buzz, a few who had little more than an interesting name. There was one exception to my estimation, as there was one name on the line up I was already familiar with.

The show, as I remember it, was amazing. It was the first time I got to see Jim Hix in action, which, for those of you who've yet to experience his stylish dancing, is quite the spectacle. They were up there on stage, celebrating the release of The Optimist's Club which had dropped less than a month prior. Jason was wearing the most wonderful shirt, Jim was decked out with a fake moustache and fake eyebrows (which would later give way to the fabulous false eyelashes they've become associated with), and Kay was waving women's panties at the crowd; bright pink get-ups embroidered with the word YES in bold type across the front - optimists indeed.

Optimist's Club was leaps and bounds ahead of Oh!; sophisticated and witty, it details New York experiences as if they were written by locals. Kay's haunting vocals, which open the album on the track Krötenwanderung, make it perfectly clear that this isn't going to be a rehash of the previous record. Indeed, if the album has any flaw, it comes from the fact that the opening tracks are so strong, they take attention away from the closing tracks, which are equally as potent. Learn How To Disappear was my theme song during my first couple months in New York, as I had effectively found a city to live in with no one I knew, and the overall New York flavor was a great soundtrack to exploring the big city.

After that show in Athens, I must have seen the Cookies tour with The Optimist's Club ten times or more. The next time was at The Bowery Ballroom as they opened for The Apples in Stereo (a perfect combination). This was the first time I really met the band, which now included Joe Rowe on the drums, and they left such a good impression on me that I've been to every NYC area show since. From the HHBTM CMJ showcase at The Tank, to the pitiful (at no fault of their own) show in the back room of Galapagos at 2 A.M. where Joe did an Echo and the Bunnymen cover. The following day we met for burritos in Ditmas on Cinco De Mayo. One night at Maxwell's in Hoboken there wasn't a single person standing still as they closed their set with "Hey Mr. Superstar". Semi-local rockers Arizona helped me rile the stiff Jersey crowd into an all-out dance party.

From the west coast to the Far East the Cookies championed the new sound; touring extensively from Athens to New York, to California and everywhere in between. Early in 2008 Jason, Kay, Jim, and Joe packed their bags and took a flight to Japan in support of The Optimist's club. The group, guided by their Waikiki label mates Elekibass, took a condensed super tour of Japan. Caught in a whirlwind of foreign oblivion, the Cookies found themselves in a surrealist mix of careless stardom and jet lagged delirium. Most of this is documented beautifully on video in an 8 episode mini-series. When they landed back in the United States the line-up took a dramatic shift as Joe Rowe left the band. Despite what you might have heard, Joe wasn't fired to lighten economic burdens. Joe wasn't fired at all, he left to care for his family and focus on his own musical aspirations. His band has been working on some material. From what I've heard, it sounds great.

The summer before the band split the country, something was happening at their live shows. New songs were popping up in the set lists; tributes to the avant stylings of a fictional jazz-loving mime, throwbacks to the bug hunting childhood of the group's tomboy, exaltations to the asshole in everyone's life (you bumbling retard). One night at the Cakeshop Jason serenaded my friends and I on the tailgate of their tour van with an acoustic version of Chocolate Cake and Coffee. Then came the Daytrotter session (for the second time), sedating the people anticipating the next album - Modern Silence. Coupled with the amazing live sets and the three preview songs from the Daytrotter session (a fourth which didn't make the album is a holiday song - but with cussing) it was clear that the upcoming album would be the strongest yet.

There was still a long wait between the debut of the new material and the May 12^th release of Modern Silence, but the anxiousness was alleviated slightly in October when the band debuted one new track every week in anticipation for the new album. The first track was Little King (which has an animated music video coming soon, swear to God), a wonderful track about the joys of being under 21 followed by Sunshine Girls, a bright number as lovely as Kay Stanton who sings it. The third song was a soulful ballad from Jim Hix that evokes the spirit of Culture Club. As a final treat the band released the track You Love Me, an epic collaboration between all three of the members.

Though it felt like ages had passed between the days where I'd play those same four tracks over and over again at work in that famous Brooklyn burger restaurant, the release day of Modern Silence finally came, and there wasn't an ounce of disappointment in me. Each song was a living entity, and through the complex weave it all comes together beautifully before devolving into the experimental Post Modern Silence suite.

While the power players on this record are obvious; Little King and Sharp are both forerunners for single status, and the refreshingly eccentric Pete Erchick Bicentennial Service Area is, strangely enough, as accessible as it is unique. Little Lady Larva, a song from Kay's archives, still gets me going and Hix's Nagoya, about the aforementioned tour through Japan, is one of the most fun tracks on the album. The highlights to me come in quiet whispers among the shouts as NeSmith drops existential lines like "Why give birth? Why get born? Why give hope to your fellow man and start the pain again?" in a song about an affair, or the charming quaintness of Keep Talking in which the protagonist falls in love with the way a foreigner speaks. New Day Zero is another example of a track that might get overshadowed by its bolder companions, but the beauty is far from lost.

It was a bold move to release a true double LP in the age of iTunes and the ever-shrinking attention span of the typical American music listener, but clearly there isn't a single filler track to be found. When examining this sort of masterpiece, as with epic novels like Don Quixote and movies like There Will Be Blood, you have to come to terms with the fact that great things just take longer to express. Jason NeSmith is the Daniel Day-Lewis of pop music. The ellipsis of Modern Silence is the looming three track colossus at the end of the album; the Post Modern Silence suite. Much like Frank Zappa's "Help, I'm a Rock!" on his album Freak Out! I Am Gone shares more in common with Return of the Son of Monster Magnet than the track time, however. Both songs are stunning examples of song-smiths taking a huge lump of raw material and crafting it interesting and textured collages. Whereas Zappa used Hollywood Freaks for his experiment, NeSmith relies on a huge stable of talented musician friends and neighbors.

Perhaps the biggest crime committed against Casper & the Cookies was that they came into this world at the wrong time. While their music retains a timeless quality, it also seems ahead of its time. Their work ethic is unrivaled by most modern band (if you doubt that, look at the extensive tour list from 2007), and NeSmith's painstaking quest for perfection leaves the material lacking only one thing - crap. And while you might not have heard of Casper & the Cookies prior to this, there's no time like the present to get on board. Modern Silence is available now on CD, double vinyl LP, and as digital download.