I must listen to hundreds of albums a year— at least sample that many— and there are few which really floor me. I try to write about the ones which do, though even then the words sometimes escape me and those reviews remain unwritten. It isn’t easy, writing reviews on a constant basis, so when an album comes along which I not only love but wish I could have been part of— or at least been privy to some of the creative process— it is rare.
Goddamn Jim of Seattle… I no sooner put last week’s column to bed and here he comes along with an album which has had me up nights and all weekend with “We are the Elders… We Are the Elders… We are the Elders…” running through my head on a constant loop. I can’t stop it and it would drive me crazy if I didn’t love it so much. See, ol’ Jim came up with this idea… well, maybe I should tell you about his last album because sure as shootin’ you either have not heard it or have forgotten.
One hell of a year for music. Not so much for musicians— at least the musicians no longer with us. Hard to balance a year like that, pluses and minuses popping up like ads from a virus, canceling one another out or piling one on top of the other ad infinitum until the system collapses from the weight. We all felt the weight whether we all know it or not. So many musicians now on the other side but, lucky for us, so many new musicians taking their places. Jesus. My head spins.
Shari Ulrich, in her latest blog, talks about the future from a perspective of the past, her point being that she had not even an inkling of what was to happen while it was even happening. To live in the present is, in essence, to live in the future because time has no on and off buttons. Every second we live is another second into the future and another second away from the past. We experience it on an ongoing basis, the seconds ticking away into minutes and then hours and then days and then weeks until we are at a point we stop (though it never really stops) and look back, wiping our brows and wondering, where did it all go? And wish that we had maybe paid more attention.
Here I go on one of my cerebral journeys, most of which run into a brick wall and consign themselves to the ash heap. I, like most of the world, have a very short attention span, it seems, and while I have bursts of genius (I swear!) little of it makes it to the outside world. This time, the message(s) is(are) spurred by a link posted by friend Greg Phipps, with whom I worked at Peaches Records in Seattle in the 80s (Phipps, btw, records under the name Palestinian Israel-Jones, should you desire to visit his planet), who has been on a roll finding and posting or reposting questions and videos worth my, if not your, attention. For instance, a couple of weeks ago, he asked about the negativity toward celebrities “selling out,” whoring their wares for profit.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 