The first record store I ever frequented was in Eugene, Oregon— Thompson’s. I wanted to put “Record Mart” behind it but I am not sure how they labeled themselves. A building on the north end of the city, not too far from Skinner’s Butte, it was small, square and as I remember it, white, with large storefront windows behind which racks of records were displayed, mostly 45s, a small wall of listening booths, and stereo equipment— lots of it. I have no idea how I found out about it, being a small town boy who hardly ever visited the big city (and to me Eugene was big and a city), but I found myself one day, after much begging and emotional pyrotechnics, entering this Taj Mahal of vinyl. I remember it like it was yesterday.
I think Phoebe Bridgers was twelve when I first heard of her. I had just discovered Kim Grant, then cranking up Grand Ole Echo shows in L.A., and those shows quickly became legendary to me. She (and a colleague, whose name escapes me at this moment) was booking everything below the radar in L.A. and many of those became inspiration for columns or reviews— Old Californio, I See Hawks in L.A., Pi Jacobs, Little Lonely, and so many more. Occasionally she would mention Phoebe in her newsletters— mere mention of a young girl threatening to become a serious musician.
…but I could never pull it together. Of course, when I was young I thought I was a musician, piddling with the tonette in fourth grade, drafted into the junior high band in the fifth grade because they badly needed a bass drum player, playing drums in what could be called a jazz band then (though we were really not good enough to be called that), playing drums in the high school band and in a couple of rock bands and carrying it on through college. I loved music and was always around it but I was never really a musician.
I wrote half a column about my father before I realized it was way too personal to put out in the Net, so I’ve decided to glean what I consider the best Notes I have posted over the past few years. Notes, for those new to my process, are the small items I usually place at the end of each column, usually the more newsy or just musical items. Lots of videos, a bit of news and a lot of fun to put together.
I am a lost Son of Canada. I must be. I love Canadian bacon, though bacon it not really be (except maybe technically). I love Jennifer Dale, an actor who deserved much more than she has been afforded, respect-wise (I reveled in her work on Canadian TV and film during Comcast’s all-too-short span of including CTV and CBC on their cable lineups in the ’80s). I love Due South, one of the most creative and funny-on-so-many-levels series TV has ever created (the transition of Ray to Ray— David Marciano to Callum Keith Rennie— a work of pure writing craftmanship).
Ah, Psychedelia! A musical underground which fed on the springs of youth. God knows where it came from or how it evolved (there are many theories based upon preconceived notions which may or may not have anything to do with anything except ego), but it most likely was a media conception: Old people trying to write about things they didn’t understand, looking at the new world through cataracts and prejudice, and that view taking hold.
You can’t blame me for being a little pissed. I just found Stone Darling last week and was looking forward to following them from that point on when what do I surmise? They’re not really the band that they used to be! Yeah! I scour their Facebook page and figure, hey, I’m going to move to the front of the line only to find that there is no line! They’re playing every Monday in August at The Satellite in L.A., it says. Yeah, in 2011! They’re rocking The Echoplex, same city, on April 7th. Again, 2011!
“That’s it.” That is the final word in this video Norton Records posted on Vimeo not long ago. Not, “That’s it, we’re done.” More like, “That’s it, there is nothing more to say at this time.” Head Nortonite Billy Miller had just given the rundown on the work being done to salvage as much as possible from the devastation they had incurred from Hurricane Sandy and a heartbroken Mirriam Linna had showed us the warehouse where boxes of vinyl lay piled in heaps like dunes on a beach (wall-to-wall) and, truth be told, that was it for those comments because they and a whole host of volunteers had and have a mountain of work ahead of them.
With a nod to Neil Young: “’Live music is better’ bumper stickers should be issued!” God knows how few of us realize what we are missing out there these days. The bars and taverns and music listening rooms are being stocked with an amazing array of excellent artists and we are either sitting at home with our fingers up our ass or hanging out in some bar with no music beyond that hooked up to stereo speakers on walls, bitching about there being no good music. For all of you who do that (and you know you do), I have a finger for you and you can bet which one.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 