Nothing says Christmas like a curmudgeon and nobody is more of one than Jaimie Vernon which makes me wish I knew some of the stories behind his long career in music and, also, in life. Regaling you with tales of chicken wire and whoopee cushions would make this a lot easier to write— nothing like fart jokes to liven up your reading— but it is Christmas season and I must put aside the slings and arrows, as humorous as they might be.
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.
I know it’s true because I have just had an epiphanic weekend (and a few naps) and can see clearly now (with a nod to Johnny Nash, whose I Can See Clearly Now has indeed stayed the same for decades). It has been a flashback in more ways than one. The music, of course, for I have been handed some of the best retro I’ve heard in some time. A few thoughts came to mind too, thanks to Jaimie Vernon‘s reactivated Bullseye Canada Records and a bit of time trying to figure out exactly what happened to the old music industry paradigm, and while I see a bright future for music I see a constant morphing happening as well. The print side of music is also showing signs of life again, though not yet for writers, who will have to suffer the bread lines for awhile longer if not forever.
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 