Yesterday I went through all of the private messages I’d shared with Frank Gutch Jr, since I’d first encountered him. It was in 2013, just after I’d begun writing this weekly column, and right from that first message, it was as though we were separated at birth.
Strange, indeed, as proven by this laugh out loud Christmas video by No Small Children. You have to have followed the string of videos this excellent band has done over the past number of years, but if you have you will get it. Subtle. Very subtle. And funny. I cannot even begin to tell you the joy I have gotten from following their growth. One of the best three-piece bands I have ever seen.
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.
Only one. I was running combine for a small farmer outside of Halsey, Oregon and was hauling grass seed to a warehouse on the outskirts of Harrisburg. The warehouse was a stone’s throw away from what I considered a very nice ranch-style house with a big picture window through which I saw her the first time, a small girl… a waif of a girl, but so beautiful it took my breath away.
One down, two to go… Angharad Drake, as far as I know (I mean, I wasn’t there, Nanaimo being a lo-o-ong walk from Oregon), finished her one gig on Vancouver Island and is set to play two more in Vancouver before leaving for her homeland, Australia. Those will happen (barring God and Act of Congress— and we have seen how Congress has been acting lately) on Friday and Saturday, June 23rd and 24th. On Friday, she will play Trees Organic Coffee and Roasting House and on Saturday, The Heatley. Here is a sample for your listening enjoyment.
I was looking through the Book of Face pages the other day and ran across a post about The Sidewalk Scene. I remember them, friend Ray Brandes having been a frontman for them how long ago? Two years so? Three years? The post linked to a page which showcased four studio-produced tracks, all jangly and sixties-oriented. Music, in fact, that I remember fondly.
I just finished watching the documentary titled All Things Must Pass about Tower Records and their rise and fall and am going to try to tell you a bit about the record business in which I worked. First, though, a few people to whom I have talked about the film have made comments about Russ Solomon, the man behind the chain, which were none too complimentary. When I heard them, I didn’t say much because I had yet to see it and thought maybe the comments were more toward the film than Russ himself. So let me now respond to those few, none named because the conversations were private and thus not fodder for public consumption.
My goddamn computer ate my column. Four hours of work down the toilet! Luckily, I prepare my Notes section in a different file. This will be short, but there are some pretty cool things in here. Next week, unless my computer acts up again (I’m blaming Trump), I will be back on track.
But before we get started, it’s time once again to plug one of my favorite bands of all-time— those crazy elementary school teachers who change into demonic rockers at night: No Small Children. Coming off of a successful run playing the title tune from the movie Ghostbusters II, they pluck another rocker out of the air and it’s a beaut! Lay back (if you can) and listen to what the percentage of us not tied to our iThings are hearing. I Feel Better!!!
This morning was cold and wet with a chill that went to the bone, the clouds threatening, the rain off and on but somehow consistent. I knew it would be. Yesterday, my friend John Hicks had posted a message that Buck Ormsby had died. No way, I thought, because I had had contact only a few days previous— just a note, but contact. When I approached Hicks, he said that he had found out from Ormsby’s son’s page. He sent me the link and there it was. We are sorry to report… and the words became a blur. While it hardly seemed possible, Buck was gone. Is gone, for none of us will hear from him again and that is truly a sad thing.
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Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 