Peter Ponders the Painted Lady

In last last week’s column, some of my language was a bit salty. However, if you are more offended by that than you are about the threats to our democracy, freedom and tolerance posed not only by neo Nazis and white supremacists, but by extremist ideologues (on both sides), well then maybe you’re part of the problem. As far as neo-nazis are concerned, I will not attempt to disguise my distaste, disdain and disgust for those thugs, those losers who apparently venerate “Hogan’s Heroes” as a World War II documentary.

So now let’s lighten up and talk about some music. I dedicate this week’s column to all the people who whine “There just isn’t any good music being made anymore!” There is, you just aren’t looking in the right places. (It’s actually all around you.)

Peter Picks a Peck of Players

One of the things that most impressed me about Frank Gutch Jr’s “nose for noise” is that he started finding this great music before the Internet, almost before electricity, in fact 😉. The Internet has made such a difference in our lives, connecting us mostly for good, but sometimes for bad, sadly. In any case, it has certainly eased our access to music of all kinds, genres and eras.

Peter Falls for Local Music

Friday night at Lee’s Palace,  there was some outstanding musical talent on display. I was there for most of it. The show marked the public debut in Toronto of “My Favourite Filter”. I had seen “MFF” previously, at a small venue, and I am pleased to report that their performance translates well to a larger venue.  Expect big things from them, my friends.

Peter Picks the Local Music YOU Need to Hear

In a recent interview with Classic Rock Magazine, Robert Plant was very frank about a number of things, including the possibility of writing his memoirs (nope) and the possibility of a Led Zeppelin reunion tour (not happening). When it was asked, he used the latter question to segue into something which I believe very strongly. “It shows you that people have nothing else to write about, obviously. And that’s kind of sad. All these magazines and internet platforms should be supporting new music and helping new musicians to find an audience, instead of dwelling on the old crap all the time. It’s like there is nothing new and exciting out there any more, when in fact there is. So stop living in the past. Open your ears and your eyes. It’s not that difficult, is it?” (The full interview can be read here.)

Frank Gutch Jr: Danny Schmidt, Carrie Elkin w/ Maizy— Thoughts Before and After Junction City; It Is F**k Trump Day at Dbawis; and the Notes You May Have Been Awaiting (because “waiting for” would bring out the Grammar Police)

I met Danny Schmidt at The Sisters Folk Festival nine years ago.  He had invited me to attend, though I am sure he forgot it right away.  I know I surprised him.  My first words to him as he passed by to play a set in a tented area were “The Longhorns suck” which brought the Look of Death for Danny was and is a fervent Texas Longhorn fan, him having grown up in Austin and all.  I realized my mistake right off.  He had no idea who I was, having never seen me before.  And it wasn’t his best day.

Frank Gutch Jr: 2014 – A Look Back…..

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.

Frank Gutch Jr: Help! I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Reach My Turntable! featuring Jubal Lee Young, Anna Maria Rosales, Caitlin Canty and a Cast Of Thousands! oh, and notes too…..

Indiana Jones has nothing on me.  That big rolling ball chasing him?  That’s nothing compared to the mountain of carnivorous beasts chasing me in my dreams every night, each vying for that elusive review I promised what seems months ago.  It is the music reviewers equivalent to no pants in the schoolroom, the albums fighting one another to get to me, to rip flesh from bone, to make me pay for what they see as vinyl manslaughter— vinylslaughter, if you will— an offense so terrible as to consign innocent artists and albums to a certain death, so vile as to blast dreams to smithereens, so ghastly as to be— well— ghastly.