mudbug madness

I mentioned You Ain’t No Picasso a couple weeks ago, and I think it only fair to give some props to the most marvelous masterpiece of a music blog ever created. Several years ago a good friend directed me to the three-man, highly Canadian, indie-focused music (mostly), art, and culture webeauty that is Said the Gramophone. Since, I believe I’ve visited this hideaway at least six out of the seven long days in every week. It never gets old.

I have always silently appreciated what StG brings to the music-loving, word-adoring, blog-reading world. Specifically mine. I admire the way they review an album like a place. A feeling. Those guys have an uncanny ability to creatively bridge a song’s colors and shapes so much so that the song becomes tangible. A song suddenly becomes the warmth of the sun creeping through nature’s shade onto my warm, smile-sore cheeks. Or as if I’m 350 miles off the coast and just awoke to find myself bobbing recklessly in the wake. But I’m comfortable. Or frantic. Lonely. Content. Invigorated.



People have mastered this before, true. Many before us have proven their ability to make a review of Louis Armstrong’s Potato Head Blues sound like a sweltering, filthy stroll through the olden-times streets of the French Quarter. But the challenge that the gramophone guys have tackled carries much greater complexity. In their reviews I’m actually strolling to the rhythmic scrape of a washboard, and I’m looking at the thin man’s sweat-beaded face, playing it for passerby’s nickels. There are others on the street with me, carrying overstuffed shopping bags. Smoking cheap cigars. They are colorful and each have their own heart-wrenchingly devastating stories, but no one’s talking today. It’s too hot. I’m smiling at them. Some are smiling back at me. Some only with their eyes. The setting sun is blinding me, but I’m unconcerned. My belly is full of crawfish etouffee, soft-shell crab po-boys and oysters contraband. The remoulade is still on my face and the creole still under may nails.

It’s an amazingly lovely thing they do over there on their little green weblog, I suggest you pay them a visit.



Speaking of crawfish, I've been craving those critters all season. Seeing as the season's almost up, last week I enlisted my foodie friends to scout out the best crawfish and local Cajun scene in the Austin area (besides Evangeline, which for some bizarre reason doesn’t sell those suckers by the pound). A few days later, we we’re at this crazy little BYOB dive off Spicewood Springs and 183, getting nasty on some creole crayfish.



Just so we’re clear on things … I’m not too old or too cool to play with my food. And don’t judge me, because you aren’t either. I mean you may be old, and probably cool, but I certainly don’t believe that either of those things in any degree have anything to do with playing with your food—or refraining from such activities.



Crawfish are playful creatures. They’re lifeless, yes, but so are dolls [creepy or otherwise], and each of us—blue and pink—played with those in our age of youth and innocence, before awareness of social stigma or etiquette adherence. Now I’m not saying we took these suckers out to the abandoned lot with a paper towel cylinder and went 6 innings with em. We just shook them around a little and gave them ridiculous voices. Named them. You know, typical crawfish-eating activities. We had a very diverse gang of blood-red bottom feeder buddies. Hanz, Lefty, Juliet, Lieutenant Dan, the Reverend Al Sharpton …



I think that one was Simon. [Not the guy with the wind wood. I didn’t get his name.]

I guess SamBet’s draws some serious stray cats. One guy offered us a free basket of mudbugs, asked if he could join us, pulled up a huge cooler to sit on—but before he did, opened it to offer us some Jameson whiskey which he presented a nearly consumed bottle of—slurred and struggled to focus his vision, asked each of us if we owned a vehicle because he would detail them for a good price. What price, he couldn’t say. He’d surely go to your car and give you a quote, though. Where are you parked? Did you drive? He owns a detail place ‘right down the way.’ ... I’m telling you. Cruisers.



And check these guys out. I don’t know why they pointed, and I’m reasonably sure they hollered something, but I’m not sure what. Lucky for us, “Could Have Been Anything” is one of my favorite games to play. Here’s how it goes: Look at the picture, and pretend they’re saying anything. Candid Camera! Celtics Suck! Zero Down, Zero Percent Financing! I’m Goin to Disneyland! Nickelback Rules! … See? Fun, right?





This little joint was a trip. It shares a strip mall with a huge Asian Market and a super shady looking hardware store, in front of which gathered pretty much the only cars in the lot. Ryan says the hardware bodega is known for crooked under-the-table transactions like selling glocks, conspiring against the evil regime, burning files, hating those fuckin pig cops, and other things that sound completely crazy. Ryan knows these things. None of us know why or how, but I’ve fact-checked his crazy claims many-a-time to find they’re completely legit. Did you know that red bull is made from synthetic bull urine?





That’s our waitress, and the back of the owner’s head. Doug is his name. He is really something else. He came out, sat down. Looked at us all crazy-like. We introduced ourselves. Said nice things about the place. He told us that his cat had croaked earlier that day. I hugged him. More than once. Poor crazy Doug may not have had a hug in a long time. I would like to believe that I needed crawfish and Doug needed a hug, and somehow, everyone always gets what we really need.

If you’re feelin the need for some good crawfish eatin, the Alamo is doing a boil up in full style this weekend. Get after it.

Moms and Bobs

If there were 12,000 months in a year, my mother would deserve to be celebrated in each day of every one. So, being the officially deemed and nationally observed Mother’s day and all, I figured I should make a trip down to Houston so that she could see my face, and be reminded of the constant adoration I have for her that is written all over it every time I see her. I brought Kate along with me for this celebration of mothers, as Kate’s mum, Lynn, is in Susanville, CA (not a simple weekend destination), and mine considers her a surrogate daughter. It was a beautiful and memorable weekend.



Be it known that my mother and her mother are far from any archetypal mommy-type. She’s my rock, yes, and my compass, and sometimes my disciplinary and therapist, but she is in all honesty my best friend. In fact, she refers to our relationship as “junior and senior roommates”—a term of endearment rather than of residency. I’m not sure what other 25-year-old women and their mothers do to spend time together, and I’m sure there’s a vast array of mother-daughter relationship types, all individual in their own right, but if there were any normalcy that existed in these types of things, I’m quite sure that we don’t qualify.



When we’re together, she wears her pearls and I my tie-die skirt, and we get in her fancy little sports-suspension bmw and jam out to CSNY, Devendra Banhart, Van Morrison, Great Lake Swimmers, Dylan and Joni from any one of the countless musical compilations I send to her regularly in their painted packages … that she saves, as if she could ever have a use for them again, or believes they are truly pieces of art that will gain emotional and memorable value with time. I guess it’s that macaroni necklace syndrome that only mothers understand.



Every time I’m about to come see her she asks the same questions: “What kind of beer are you drinking these days?” (She’s not necessarily a beer drinker, but deeply respects my love for the craft.) and “Are there any shows you want to catch while you’re here?” (She will have already checked out local listings and give me the lowdown on the Houston venue scene for that given weekend.)



One of my funniest memories is a couple years back when she bought us NIN tickets, obviously without a clue of what to expect. However, to her credit, she held her own in her pale pink camisole and endured the hardcore, rambunctious fan base. Earlier this year she even requested we see Marilyn Manson at Verizon … But only if I thought I would enjoy it, of course, but she was just throwing it out there because she was sure that I would think it would be quite an experience. Well, didn’t I?

I alerted her when Aimee Mann came to Houston a while back, but something came up and I couldn’t make it at the last minute, so this amazing woman went by herself to the show. And bought me a CD. I’ll get calls from her while she sits a few rows from Ryan Adams and delivers her commentary about his performance.

Obviously, she’s fantastic.



Together we go to dive bars, museums, rodeos, dance lessons, live shows, thrift stores, funk clubs, fancy Italian restaurants, and seedy country western dance halls, but one of my mom’s happiest places is by the water. Just ask her. The sound, the salty aroma of the Gulf waters, the spirit of the sun-drenched surroundings …



There’s this wild solidarity about time spent by the never-ending ocean. Whether you’ve found yourself in the swell surroundings of a family-filled diaper-clad holiday weekend at an umbrella-dotted public beach, or perched on the farthest point of a fisherman’s jetty blinded by the salty breeze, or sitting on the dock of the bay joined only by your favorite book … just one long look out to where the water meets the sky miles out of merely estimated miles has always been able to take me to a place that is so remarkably personal. It may be the feeling of being so insignificant in the face of such a grand, vast, powerful body of water and life, or just the sheer bliss from an ocean breeze brushing your sun-kissed cheeks.



So as one can assume, we went down to the Gulf’s bay to celebrate her fabulous motherhood. We ate crab, shrimp, pineapple and snapper, drank my favorite Jamaican lager and Bloody Maria’s (that’s tequila with some Tabasco and tomato for flavor), browned our skin, swang on porchswings, dipped our toes in the beautiful chilly blueness, listened to a great live couple who played a bunch of folk jams, reggae, and Townes Van Zandt covers/renditions, tap danced in our heads to the rhythmic shucking of fresh oysters (well I did, at least), waved at the fisherman, witnessed a breathtaking bay sunset, and contently contemplated life’s complexities.





My sweet mother is so incredibly beautiful, and I am so incredibly lucky to be hers. Happy Mother’s Day for 12,000 months and more to every mom out there. You fools amaze me.



Also—and entirely off subject—if you haven’t heard the Andrew Bird cover of Dylan’s “Oh Sister” you most definitely should. I kind of despise Dylan covers. This one is perfect. Plus, Dylan turns 67 on Saturday. Cheers, Bob.

The comfort of chaos

I undoubtedly have far from a ‘normal’ daily routine. No one I know would accuse me of that, I am sure. However, I’ve got my normality in some regards: Sleeping through alarms, coffee and cigarettes, admiring the peacefulness of morning, more coffee, and cigarettes, tardily nuzzling into my chaotically comfortable office, catching up with the world via the New York Times, Toronto Star and BBC, and keeping up with other news of various interest at my favorite online stops—arguably the most subconsciously, regimented, and enjoyably consistent part of my weekday. My fellow eight-to-fivers know the routine.

You Ain’t no Picasso is one of these regular stomping grounds, and here is exactly why: Great music reviews and sample tracks, artist interviews, heads-up on happenings in the independent recording world, words that teach you things, and thoughts that make you think. Recently they interviewed musical mastermind and drummer extraordinaire, Martin Dosh. When asked about the first live show that ever blew him away, he offers an amazingly beautiful response:

“The first concert i saw that totally, absolutely blew me away was the Grateful Dead in Albany, New York in 1990 … I liked some of their songs, but i was not really prepared for that show. The parking lot. The way people cheered after songs. The lights and the sound. Holy crap, that was probably, to this day, the best live sound I’ve ever heard in a room that big. The music was so fragile and beautiful. I couldn’t figure out how it was holding together.”

Dosh describes his first experience with the deadhead community with passionate intrigue … as if he had stumbled upon the start of a passionate love affair or some personal revelation. Ironically, his description bears an uncanny likeness to how I felt wandering about the streets of San Francisco a few weeks ago. I’m not talking about this comparison on any kind of musical level (that comes later) but truly about the city itself.





It was my first time to this strange and wonderful place, and I’m not sure if anything could have prepared me—or any other first-time visitor to the Bay City—for what it bestows. I was confused by and simultaneously in awe of the fact that this city was, in fact, holding it together. Not necessarily because of any fragility, but in a sense of chaotic rhythm that just seemed to work harmoniously.





The sounds of this majestic city, possibly uncomfortable to the green visitor, were haunting, overwhelming, familiar, intriguing and sedative all at once. The clatter of the cable cars, the staccato of chatty Chinatown bag-lady passengers, the barking of sea lions that have taken over the pier’s marina, and the hollered sales pitch of vendors at the fresh fish market all combine to create a fragrant, exotic bouquet—beautiful in ways that even the most experimental florist could never have anticipated.





The night before I left for my west coast adventures, I stayed over with Tenley Sage and Kate Hanna, two Northern California girls whose sense of adventure and love of exploration led to them to become Austin transplants. We talked over Chinese take-out about everything that NorCal had to offer and they inundated me with the best of’s and must-sees: unforgettable Indian cuisine, North Beach Italian, Haight Street cafes, pier spots for fresh crab, bay view look-out points, gardens, parks, bookstores, museums, architectural masterpieces, market street fare…



With to-go boxes empty and minds, hearts and bellies full, we realized that we had (in good fortune) each been given two cookies within the sweet crispy folds of which our fates could be determined. Always weary of unfavorable fortunes that pose questionable warnings or induce theoretical regrets, I saw hope in this double opportunity. If in my first attempt, the cookie crumbled to reveal some looming message of ambiguity, at least I still had another nickel in my pocket for one last shot at the jackpot. I may never know whether positive mindset breeds positive outcomes or if the stars were in my favor, but on this fateful night of Vietnamese spring rolls and edamame, I was granted a double whammy.

Happier days are definitely ahead of you (duh, it doesn’t take a Taoist philosopher to figure that one out. Any joe blow could come up with that by glancing at my flight schedule.)

… and then the doozie: Be prepared to accept a wondrous opportunity in the days ahead! (With an exclamation mark, no less. The cookies don’t lie.)



I arrived in SF with my favorite travel companion and we rented a yellow VW beetle and headed up the coast. My mom used to live in Marin County (just across the bridge on the other side of the bay) in the seventies when she was a flight attendant for TWA. Though it’s definitely not her first time back, it is her first time there with me. As we drove through the rainbow-clad tunnel and welcomed Marin County, she told me of her first time in the city, and how it was at that very moment entering that very bridge that this little girl from small-town Michigan screamed and stomped her feet all alone in a rented yellow VW beetle because of the sheer thrill of immediately falling in love with a place and a feeling, and knowing without a doubt where you belong.





The windows down, we soaked in the fragrant smell of eucalyptus and I soaked in the happiness that was all over us all the way to Sausalito. Sausalito is a quaint little town full of quaint little boutiques and quaint little cafes. Stretching out into the bay is Scoma’s, a charming restaurant with the freshest seafood around. We sat in a casually elegant dining room that looks out on the city like a little sister admiring the staggering beauty of the bustling metropolis just a ferry ride away.





After we had stuffed ourselves with lazy man’s cioppino (a delightful fisherman’s stew overflowing with fresh crab, prawns, scallops, clams, fish and bay shrimp) we hopped back in our yellow carriage and headed up the coast toward the wine country. Sonoma is an unassuming little agricultural community of grape-growers, wine-makers and wine-drinkers. One of Sonoma’s resident vineyards is Deerfield Ranch Winery. Robert Rex, the winemaker at Deerfield, invited us into his beautiful home for a lovely afternoon of tasting and talking. As these things go, tasting turned to drinking, and as the afternoon progressed so did our blurry happiness.





Robert Rex is unlike anyone I’ve met. Although many winemakers of his kind could be considered studied wine geeks, Mr. Rex’s demeanor does not fit this mold. He is intelligent and passionate, yet warm, funny and approachable. From underneath an incredibly legit handlebar mustache, his smile consumes his entire face. After hours of eating, drinking, laughing and discussing complexities of grapes and the science of viniculture, he invited us to his bat cave where we met his precious wife, PJ, and saw where all the magic happens.







We also toured the Benzinger family winery and had a beautiful dinner there on the property. On the tour, our guide informed us that they are a green winery and use no pesticides, that they harvest their own insects to aid in natural horticulture, and that when the winery began back in the sixties and seventies, they used to grow cannabis.



Another vineyard worth noting is the B.R. Cohn winery in Glen Ellen. Sure they make great wine and incredible olive oil of countless flavors, but my personal interest in this particular vineyard is of a musical sort. Winery-owner/professional party guy, Bruce Cohn, manages the Doobie Brothers. They host big charity event festivals annually out on the property with lineups that include the Doobies, Loggins and Messina, Little Feat, Willie Nelson, Journey, Steve Miller … you name it, they’ve probably played there.



Though it is the wineries that bring most of the city's visitors, the Sonoma square is the heart of the town, lined with chocolatiers, cafes, boutiques, and bars. On my first day wandering along the Sonoma square, a plump, giddy little pug came trotting out on the sidewalk in front of me, caught my attention and led me right in to the first ‘shop’ in the town that I felt completely at home in. It’s an unpretentious dog-friendly dive bar called Steiner’s Tavern. There’s no wine tasting here, but they’ve got a great selection of beer on tap and Creedence playing from the weathered jukebox. I took a cab back that night to catch a free rock and blues show by the SF-based Whiskey Thieves.

I assume it is usually pretty sleepy around the Sonoma square, but the week we were there was a different story. It was the 11th Annual Sonoma Valley Film Festival. An ultimate celebration of film, food and wine, this festival boasts of presenting the “best of the best indie films.” The festival provided great wine tasting, cuisine sampling, and even better people watching. Turns out, when you group together premieres of several foreign films, foreign visitors come too (imagine that). I was able to catch a great British film, Love and Other Disasters, at the Sebastiani Theatre, a 67-year-old legendary movie house in the center of Sonoma’s square.



After days of wining and dining in Sonoma, we headed back down the coast to meet up with my sister, Cybil. She had just come from a surf competition in Santa Cruz to tag on for the end of our trip. We met her at the airport, and it was a trip to watch our cabbie (a salty old merchant marine) try to fit her board in his rusty old Cadillac. Unlike Southern California, you don’t see too many San Francisco cabs adorned with roof racks. I guess SF doesn’t see too many surfboards … or chicks like Cyb, for that matter. She’s quite the character.



On our final days in the city, we were solely concerned with spending time together. This city was no longer a massive cultural hub of life, chaos, and sights to be seen, but a kind, windy, lovely playground … A colorful stage for us enjoy ourselves on, and the people all characters in the play … The beautiful background in our photo memories of times we shared in this city, which is everyone’s city.











Thank you, San Francisco.