It’s gonna be a long Friday night. Well, not so long as eventful and..what’s the word? ‘divergent” will suffice, I think. Ween are a difficult band to preach to the unbeliever, they’re that guy you’ve known since High School who is not only no-holds-barred hilarious, but his filterless and inappropriate comedic instincts (while seemingly oblivious to societal norms and the due diligence and restraint the rest of us instinctively employ) are derived from a place of rich cultural, intellectual and emotional intelligence. While he’s an anomalous, aberrant champion in this ridiculous existence 99% of the time, this is regularly lost on the general populace. There’ll inevitably be an occasion when you invite him to a house party and he’s already dispensed with the sixpack he threaded through his belt on the walk there, and he hot-knifes all the resin of one of the guests who couldn’t skin it up on his own, before being suddenly inspired to display his acumen for Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kune Do, but No Can Do; he attempts to execute the 7 foot, lightbulb-obliterating scissor-kick but misses spectacularly, the momentum of his upswung leg sending him collapsing onto the sofa behind him full of previously giggling girls , whereupon he’s instinctively repelled into a nearby Yucca plant before receiving a bony toed barefoot kick to the cheekbone by the middle class guy who looks – with his blond surfer curtains – like an understudy for that LBJ Ex President out of ‘Point Break’ (’91). You’re permitted to stay, but he of course has to go, so you naturally pledge inebriated allegiance to the exile and wander off together urinating into the cooling evening breeze onto the nocturnal golf course to climb trees and scream at the stars and divulge your innermost torments.
Apologies for being late, I spent three hours attempting to write a review last night but got no further than this:
Its getting very late on a Friday night in Blighty and I’ve been sat cross legged up in my attic randomising a digital list of music for 90 minutes or so, trying to think of a fitting description of that brown firework that goes off in your nose when you collapse on your coccyx and hoping desperately for inspiration to visit until an inflated bladder necessitates a descent. My autistic daughter is politely asking to go swimming in her sleep as some repetitive House-music-piano oscillates interminably through the wall from next door, forced into an arranged marriage with the vague leakage of some clarinet and crooning from the front room downstairs.
How it works:
1. I’ll start with a story from my past which happens to be the one and only time I saw David Bowie in concert
2. I’ll leave it open to the next author (whomever would like to continue on) to recall “That time when…” Perhaps then we can nominate? I leave it to the authors and my co-publisher Shawn Baker to decide.
3. The only catch: it has to relate somehow to the previous story. It could in a number of ways. For instance the setting for this story takes place at The World Music Theater in Tinley Park, Illinois in October of 1995. So a number of thing could spin off…the location, the year, Trent Reznor whom shared the stage with Bowie, or even Bowie himself. But there should be no repeats in your relations from story- to-story.
4. Continue our stream of consciousness.
I’m afraid that if you thought you were potentially entering an article detached from a world that’s gone bananas over Star Wars you’re mistaken, I went to see it today. At the risk of coming across like a thrift-store Sith Lord, today’s been a razor blade ticker tape parade. Over the past few months, when our schedules would allow, a few friends and I have been working our way through the previous six films in anticipation of the new release. Before the screening commenced on ‘Jedi night’ last Saturday, one of my friends casually announced that as fate would have it, he had a hospital appointment scheduled after the screening of ‘The Force Awakens’ to discuss a long running chronic complaint he’s been suffering since his early twenties. The upshot of this conversation was that a recent setback and hospitalisation had not been countered as well as medical professionals had hoped, and that beyond that unsuccessful course of action was a disconcerting lack of a plan. My friend said he was just looking forward to seeing Star Wars.
“I’m no synaesthete, but this album sort of sounds like intermittent sunshine over a beautiful deserted landscape.” I’m unable to attribute that quote to its originator having seen it as a tag on Last.fm, simply seconding the motion for lack of anything to rival it. I can come within touching distance of a million different mental images to describe this album every time I listen, but they’re mostly better left unsculpted. We do a lot of dancing about architecture on this site, but its always in furtherance of appealing for people to visit the places we’ve mentally vacationed courtesy of the Artist in question, and I don’t use that descriptive noun lightly when it comes to God and man’s daughter Bjork Gudmundsdottir.
There is a terrific recording studio located on Division Street just west of Western Avenue in the Humboldt Park neighborhood of Chicago. You know when you use a preset on a keyboard or recording application there usually is a default “Large Room” setting. I swear that setting is copied from this very studio also known as Strobe Recording. The room sound is as ideal as they come. Jamie Wagner, owner and proprietor of Strobe, occasionally hosts an event called “Strobe Sessions.” Well…he has for 63 times in the past 10 years! And Number 63 happen this past Thursday and I got to catch a terrific live performance of The Plastic Red Buddha including songs from Sunflower Sessions…this week’s Joup Friday Album. Local Chicago is good.
The title of “King” in regards to a craft or technique in the arts is often thrown around a little too loosely these days. That said, I’m going to use it here with the disclaimer that my application of the word is not hyperbole; for Jackie Mittoo, one of the founders of the legendary group The Skatalites and musical director of Jamaica’s label and recording studio Studio One, the crown as “Keyboard King” is earned and appropriate. I’m no aficionado of musicology (although I pretend to be sometimes) but I’ll tell you this: Jackie Mittoo’s importance to the development and influence of the numerous different styles of music that came from Jamaica during the 1960s and 1970s cannot be measured. With that I humbly give you this week’s edition of The Joup Friday Album: Jackie Mittoo The Keyboard King at Studio One.