"But I Know, I Know, I Know I'm Not Alone..."
or spending an energetic evening with yoga loving Michael Franti

Last Saturday my work buddy, Sue and I travelled to the Carnegie Library in Homestead to be drenched in the shiny, happy positive energy of Michael Franti and Spearhead.

And, Dude! They sold alcohol! At the library. No shit. We got lit amongst the literature.

Brrrrrrrrrilliant!

Best. Bibliotecca. EVA!!

Randy Andy smiling approvingly at the lushes
amongst his literary legacy

The only draw back to this venue is the acoustics, which is kind of an important thing being a music hall. I don't know if we were in a dead spot, or the mix was wack, but every time he spoke in the mic it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher talking. "Wa Wa Wa Wa Wa"

I'm not kidding. I admit I have trouble understanding chatter at bigger concerts in general, but everyone in our section was having the same issue so it wasn't just me and my impaired hearing. We all just shrugged our shoulders and Woo Hooed along with the crowd, completely ignorant to what we were cheering on. Could have been a simple "Hello Pittsburgh!" or "those deaf chicks in the balcony are buying!!" It all sounded the same to us. Unintelligible.

The coolest man in the room

I fell in love with Franti's work after hearing his 2006 release, Yell Fire! and have been wanting to see him in concert ever since. His music and message is buoyant, upbeat and completely infectious. Even when he strays from his signature songs of love, peace and harmony into the political realm, he still manages to be positive in his admonitions. "El Presidente, you behave!"

He is uber cool and his optimism is ridiculously catchy. I absolutely cannot sit still during one of his songs. It's embarrassing. I awkwardly bound around the room with complete abandon. Good thing there's usually no one around to witness the horror of my Elaine Benis dance movements. The humiliation is worth it, because there is nothing like a big ole dose of happy feet to make you forget your sorrows.

a sea of white folk bouncing to the beat

Anywho, the theater is smaller holding probably around 250 people, but the stage is large enough to accommodate all the band members and their equipment while still leaving ample space for Michael to jump and dance around. Which he did... for two hours, only slowing down midway for a slower three song set.

Right out of the gate, as soon as Franti stepped on stage, the energy hit the roof propelling the audience to it's feet. He was non-stop pogo jumping, tribal dancing and belting out the good Ju Ju, effortlessly wrapping the crowd around his finger. He has incredible energy for a 40+ humanoid. He hardly broke a sweat and wasn't the least bit winded. Amazing. Must be all the yoga he practices.

The evening was spectacular, uplifting, energizing. The masses clapped and danced along with every offering from the stage. We were putty in his gentle hands.

One cat in the balcony was so into it, he just had to remove his shirt, terrifying...er, I mean treating us all to his pasty-white, beer belly in full glory.

Seriously. Why.

I ask you, why is it only white guys with big guts, farmers' tans and pants barely hanging on under there mid section are the ones who go shirtless? Why don't any of the gorgeous six-pack ab, tanned Adonises ever go au naturale? So not fair!

But I digress...

At one point he picked some people to join him on stage during "Shake It" to .. um, shake it with him.

a full-on dance par-tay

Shake it! Sh-sh-sh shake it!

He fearlessly cruised through the crowd during his bouncy "Hey Hey Hey"

fearlessly up close and personal 

ending up on our balcony to sing Happy Birthday to the girl in the hat before motoring on, successfully avoiding contact with the aforementioned pasty-white, sweaty, shirtless dude.

Is that a groovy gee-tar, or what?

 

Happy Birthday to her

Finally, he called everyone under 16 and over 60 to the stage for the big finale of his huge hit "Say Hey, (I Love You)".

"And I know one thing. I love you. Baby girl."

I didn't take any videos this night because of the whole Charlie Brown teacher sound factor, but here's a video of the finale from this summer's Bonnaroo Music Festival.



Besides being a purveyor of peace, love and positive vibes, Franti is a humanitarian. Ten years ago he performed in a third world country where most of the people living there never owned a pair of shoes. As a sign of solidarity he decided to go barefoot for three solid days. Ten years later he still doesn't wear shoes. To mark his anniversary, he created the Soles4Souls charity to collect money as well as actual shoes to send to those children around the globe who have none. He spoke with a family from Pittsburgh who are doing their part.



Just a little thing he does to give back. There's a lot of good karma floating around him. We could all take a lesson. We're all in this thing called life together. Like Michael says, "I know I know I know I'm not alone..." You can find out more on his website here.

If you're in need of a serious lift in your spirits, go buy his CDs here.  And be prepared to be moved, with or without your shoes.

Date Night!!
or spending the night with three of our favorite Irish blokes

Okay, so it's not technically "date night" since we don't have precocious progeny to pass off to self-absorbed, text-obsessed teens with raging hormones and gnat-like attention spans who charge a small fortune to tend to our cherubs every need in between G3 gossip fests... but still, we left the familiar confines of our house on a Saturday night to partake in a tasty Merlot and listen to live music amongst random adults in a crowded cafe. So, yeah. Date Night.

Anywho, as the years roll on it seems to take the threat of a ginormous stack of Acme dynamite under our buttocks to get Geo and me off our comfy couch and back out the door once we're snuggled in the bat cave. I'm usually up for almost anything, but Geo has much more discerning taste. The talented lads from the Emerald Isle known as Bell X1 fit his criteria.

It's been a year since lead singer David Geraghty and friends played our fair city. (See, I've learned his name since last year's post here. He still reminds me of Michael Cera though.) Instead of jamming all six band members atop the tiny stage, only three band mates toured this time around. Just a guitar, bass, keyboard and ... an iPod??!?

Yep. An iPod. It provided the back beat for their opener "How Your Heart Is Wired".

Technology kicks ass! Or in this case kicks a mean rhythm.

What we've learned by going to Club Cafe... less equals more. Less performers on stage equals more welcomed chatter with the audience. Dave answered inquiries tossed out from the crowd, pondered the term business casual regarding the dress code for their West Wing tour the next day and told some entertaining stories including one about Bono being heckled during a particularly pompous moment, but it was the music that shined brightest. His hypnotic delivery of old hits, Flame, Mr. Benn and of course The Great Defector as well as future classics, Velcro and Night Watchman from their yet-to-be-released CD, was brilliant.

Embracing their inner nerd, we witnessed a little background vocal pre-production to round out "Ribs of a Broken Umbrella".

Like last time, the merch guy pushed the tables up against the platform prior to the show leaving a singular narrow path to the stage making it nigh impossible for them to gracefully walk off the staging. Once again, we all played along as the guys pretended to leave for the encore, because really, what's the point. They had fresh, fan-bought beers so it wasn't like they had to go backstage to down a couple cold ones to soothe their parched throats. Plus there was that whole penned-in-by-the tables thing.

You remember how all the bands we saw this summer did a cover at the end of their shows? Alejandro Escovedo covered The Stones' "Beast of Burden", Ingrid Michaelson did Britney's "Toxic" and Guster regaled us with Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight"... Well in keeping with this trend, Bell X1 tacked on our favorite Smiths tune to their final song of the evening.

A perfect ending to another enchanting evening of music in a year filled with song.

When Burgers Are Posers
and other unexpected catalog fodder

And now for something completely salty... In an attempt to illustrate the mood swings of my literary stylings of late I present the following:

Okay, so it's that time of year when several dells are decimated by the parade of catalogs monopolizing our mailbox. Among the plethora of publications is a catalog called Solutions. It offers tons of crap which are supposed to make life's day to day duties easier. Believe it or not, some of it is actually useful.

While perusing through the most recent of the 2800 copies we get a year, Geo stumbled on this one-of-a-kind must have for the discerning picnic thrower. I give you... the Ham Dogger

"Make a hamburger with a "hot dog" twist--even stuff it!!"

That's right. A wiener shaper for your meat, because it ain't a party until your burger looks like a wang.

"Gee Honey. Our parties have been lacking a certain...je nez ce johnson."

Hey that reminds me...my "boyfriend" is on the fritz. Do you have a "solution" for that? No prob. Check out page 123.

What the?!?

Wha?!? So when the hell did Solutions become your place for personal "massagers" to *Ahem* soothe aching muscles? Tucked away in the later part of the catalog are all sorts of intimate accoutrement.

That one's "Ultra Smooth" and has a daisy in it for the ladies who like to be romanced, even when it's by their own hand, so to speak. What gal can resist a glassed-in posey ticklin' her mitten? Now if it would mix me a mean Mojito prior to the "luvin"-- I'm in, BABY!

Can't you just hear Betty, your friendly Indian phone bank operator saying, "Please to suggest customers who bought de Ham Dogger also bought de Whisper of Destiny 'relaxer'."

Whisper Destiny
nubby in all the right places

Good thing the Ham Dogger and that battery-powered puppy aren't on the same page.

Ladies. Same old burger giving you the blahs? Got an itch that needs scratching? Have we got a Solution for you! But please, for the love of all that is freshly ground...don't confuse the two.

In Which I Ponder Mortality

Okay, so we had a scare this week involving my beloved Mum, Big Mar. She called me Monday in a panic, unable to breath.

There was no answer at her doctor's office--What. The. Hell?!-- so I opted for one of the new Medi-Fast walk-in clinics. I've had great success with these stand-alone medical facilities in the past and have been very pleased with their speed of service. These places are fabulous. They have X-rays, blood drawers and lab specialists on site to make diagnoses quick and painless. You can usually get in and out of there in about an hour.

Urgency dictated I bypass my usual Medi-Fast for one closer to Big Mar's house. What's the difference. They're all the same, right?

Wrong.

This particular clinic was ghetto. Oh it looked clean enough, but the place gave off a weird vibe and was jammed with ne'er-do-wells. We waited for about 45 minutes to get into a room, then when the doctor finally stopped by he stood as far away from my Mom as humanly possible while checking her lungs. I'm not kidding. I swear if he had Inspector Gadget Go-Go-Gadget Arms and a 20 foot stethoscope, he would have stood at the nurses station to do the exam.

Dude, if you're that freaked out by sick people, chances are you've chosen the wrong career.

Here's the best part, after waiting for another 25 minutes to get an   X-ray, Dr. Germaphobe pops his head in to tell us "oh, yeah...the      X-ray machine is broken, but you probably have pneumonia. You'll have to go to the hospital."

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

I looked at my poor, sick Mom struggling to inhale her breathing treatment and a tear rolled down my cheek. She looked so pale and frail and worn out. She's 89 years old, but she's still feisty, fun and full of life. Sitting there hunched over, she looked so weak and helpless. Right then the inevitability of her mortality hit me. I got up, sat next to her and hugged her to me, my tears streaming, wetting her hair as she leaned her head into the crook of my neck. 
I realized two things right then:

1) I'm not ready to say goodbye to her. Not yet. I don't know if I'll ever be ready, but definitely not now. I need her to be here for at least a few more years.
And 2) I feel completely ill-equipped to care for her properly.

I don't have kids. I'm the youngest of five. I don't know how to take care of myself let alone someone else, and yet somehow the tables had turned. I am now the "parent." I have no earthly idea what I'm doing, but I know I can't do this alone.

The second guessing going on in my brain was deafening. What could I have done better? Should I have taken her to see the doctor sooner? Should I have insisted she move in with me? God she would HATE that. She's too independent to ever accept moving in with any of us.

Fortunately my sister, Toni showed up at the hospital to endure the eight hour ordeal with us. I was so relieved to see her smiling face. I immediately felt the burden lift. She and I are the emotional ones in the family, but she has a very calming presence to both me and Big Mar. She's a doer, not a ponderer like me. Between the two of us, we're able to make a sound decision.

I'm happy to say me Mum is on the mend. She's still in the hospital, but the steroids and other meds are working wonders. She's back to her vivacious, effervescent self. I tease her that she'll be able to bench press 300lbs by the time she gets sprung. She's a tough old bird, and I love her with all my heart.

This scare with Big Mar (hey, that rhymes) has got me thinking about my own mortality. Geo and I don't have children so really, how much does our passing matter. My demise will be a mere blip in the Matrix. It's through one's children that one's impact in life is measured. Besides Geo, who's going to miss me anyway. Seriously.

And no, this is not a cheesy ploy to get all two of you to chime in with pronouncements to validate my existence. Although all testaments to my greatness will be gladly accepted, noted and listed according to level of adoration. 

I kid.

Okay, maybe only a little. Testament of one's importance on this crazy blue planet is essential to placating the fragile human ego. Validation. Affirmation. Confirmation of one's worth... Isn't that why people take to the stage, pen songs and write bloggity blog blogs? Aren't they all means to the same end? Just ways for someone to stand up and scream, "Hey look at me World! I matter!" We all want to believe our absence will leave a permanent gap in the Cosmos. Maybe people don't fear the physical act of death so much as the fading away from the human conscious.

Pondering my own mortality, I have to admit I've had a pretty good life so far. I have no regrets. Geo and I have experienced amazing things in our travels both here and abroad. I have friends and family who have enriched my life in ways too numerous to count. I've known the gift of being loved unconditionally as well as the unmitigated joy of loving to the fullest extent of my heart.

I guess what I'm trying to say is if it all suddenly went dark tomorrow and my spirit was freed from this mortal coil... I'd be okay with it.

"Show Me Penis!"
or the discombobulation of a game show host


Okay, so my crack staff of Internet scanners in charge of finding all things humorous, AKA Jimmy McParkway, presented me with a gem from the newly revamped Family Feud.


I have been a lover of The Family Feud since its start way back in my stone-age youth. You don't have to be a braniac like on Jeopardy. It's a simple game anyone with a pulse can play. Plus there's a touch of Schadenfreude watching John Q Pubic embarrass himself by spontaneously spouting  off-the-top-of-the-head-oh-my-GAWD-did-I-just-say-that-out-loud wildly inapproriate answers, leaving himself wide open to the comedic ridicule of the host. 

Don't judge me.

Over its long and varied history, The Feud has been helmed by an assortment of hosts like Louie Anderson and Seinfeld's Mr. Peterson, but hands down my favorite leader of the pack animals has always been the original, Richard Dawson. Suave, charming and quick with a witty ribbing when a family member combusted under pressure. He was the master.


Until now.


I give you the modern, what-the-ef-was-that? styling of Mr. Steve Harvey:



There's a new sheriff in town, Bee-yatch!

On The 70th Anniversary Of A Beatle's Birth

Yesterday would have been John Lennon's 70th birthday.

70th. Hard to believe, isn't it.

The Beatles were together only a short time and Lennon churned out a mere handful of solo efforts, but he and his band mates left an indelible mark on the music scene. I'm always amazed by the lasting impact of those four mop-topped lads from Liverpool.

Being a pre-teen during their hey day, my musical tastes leaned toward the lighter, pop fare of Paul McCartney. It was only with the passing of time and life experience did I come to appreciate and prefer the collective works of John Lennon. His wit, pain, and longing for a better world have stayed with me throughout the years.

The messages in his solo works like Whatever Gets You Thru The Night, Give Peace a Chance and especially Imagine are still relevant today. Whenever I see people doing questionable things, I find myself singing Lennon's Instant Karma!. It's gonna get you...

In addition to being a legendary lyricist, Lennon was also a terrific humorist. His collection of absurd short stories, "In His Own Write" kept my college roommates and I in tears many a night...with or without the help of Mary Jane.

Lennon struggled with his own personal demons for much of his life. It wasn't until Sean was born and he took on the role of primary care giver did he flourish and step into the lightness of being. Finally, at age 40 he had stared his demons down and came through more centered than he had been his entire life. He even put to rest his long standing conflict with Paul. He seemed full of hope. The promise of this new upward direction in both his life and music was echoed in his most positive work, Double Fantasy.

And then he was gone.

I remember so vividly the day he was shot. An incredibly sad day. Yet I find his death very poetic, romantic even. He spent so much of his adult life in inner turmoil. It had taken him almost 40 years, but he was finally at peace with his past and happy for the first time in his life.

When you think about it, isn't that the best way to leave this mortal coil... when you're content and fulfilled instead of angry and bitter.

Making a Grand Entrance 
or my favorite band boys usher in their new CD, The Grand Theatre, Volume 1 


(get it..Usher...Theater...Grand...groan)


Okay, so two things you know about me already: 
1. I'm just a schlub, not an experienced music reviewer 
2. I absolutely adore the Old 97's and speak of them ad naseum. 


If they were a cult, I'd don the purple robe (even though it clashes horribly with my "naturally" red locks) and drink the funky Kool Aid. 


Okay, I wouldn't drink the nasty elixir unless it had vodka in it, and I'd probably strong-arm them into going with a cult-friendly red or a lovely french blue robe because, you know, everybody looks fetching in blue. But I do evangelize to anyone and everyone about their greatness. So prepare for the great fan-girl gush.


You've been warned.


The new Old 97's CD, The Grand Theatre arrives on doorsteps next Tuesday, but the nice folks at Public Radio KXT in Dallas are streaming it live for all to hear here. 


Triple Yay!!


Brevity is not in my vocabulary when it comes to discussing all things Old 97's and Rhett so you may want to get comfortable and grab a cocktail. This is going to be long and verbose, much like the start of this post.

Well, I've had a few days to listen repeatedly to The Grand Theatre and all I can say is this...

OMG!!! I LOVE this record! 

It has so much muscle. I'm not kidding. It is so strong its bulging biceps are tearing up the paper packaging! 


Some online folks have called this collection indie, raw, powerful. Whatever. It's full of life. Bold and tasty and filled to the brim with Rhett's signature smart, witty, heartbreaking lyrical genius accompanied by driving drum beats, guitar licks and baselines to die for. 


It's so different in the very best of ways. I get a strong sense of urgency about it. It has a passion and energy, even in the quieter songs, that most studio productions lack. Kudos to producer Salim Nourallah for successfully capturing that which makes seeing the Old 97's play live so intoxicating.


It's criminal how underrated and overlooked this band is. They deserve so much more attention than they get. Perhaps this offering will change that. Anywho, on to the main event...


Okay, you ready? Are you comfy? Got enough to eat and drink for the long haul of this track-by-track review? Good. Here goes...

The Grand Theatre has a great Clash sound and feel to it. It comes at you full force then quiets to a hum before surging on to the end. Great start to get the blood flowing.

Every Night Is Friday Night (without you) is so much fun! Its driving power punk beat gets in your head and propels you to the dance floor. And Murry's baseline is a thing of beauty. It kicks! I confess I don't really have a clue what the lyrics mean outside of the chorus, but who cares. I can't sit still or stay quiet for this one.

The Magician is another fantastic mover originally intended for Katy Perry. The lyrics are brilliantly uncomplicated in their desire and have a compelling rhythm, especially the chorus making it impossible not to sing along. "You ask what I want and I say you.." *sigh* Major swoon worthy. Ken's guitar work is full-on impressive. I love the speed. A great rocking trifecta to start off the album and get you amped up and moving. Miss Katy's loss is definitely our collective gain.

You Were Born to Be In a Battle - Usually it takes me a longer while to warm up to Murry's songs, mainly because they're a little more country than I like, but I'm okay with this homage to Johnny Cash. I like its steady rhythm. A good breather
after the amped up start.

The Dance Class - Agoraphobics in love. A familiar theme of unattainable love cleverly cast out in a very different net. It's manic and panicked and full of doubt. The line "I'm here on edge. Trying to make it with a beautiful girl that I got no chance with in the dance class" makes me laugh out loud considering the universal appeal of its author.

Let The Whiskey Take The Reins - I am so IN LOVE with this song! Rhett told us at one of his shows that he made a flippant remark one night on stage that he was just going to let the whiskey take the reins. His good friend thought that would make a great title and bugged him until he wrote this. We should all thank her for keeping at him. It's smoky voiced, liquor-ladden lament is irresistible, especially accompanied by Ken's soulful guitar wail. Throw in Philip's steady cymbal-less cadence, Murry's baseline and Rhett's quiet, sultry vocal... this song smolders. It is perfection!

Champaign, Illinois - In leaner years long ago, driving their van on a dark road in the middle of the night, Rhett wrote his own lyrics to Bob Dylan's Desolation Row in an attempt to keep himself awake while his band mates slept. It may be Bob Dylan's tune, but it's all Old 97's charm. I don't miss the harmonica one bit. Although it might be fun to see if he could play one. Ha Ha!
(side note: unlike other Old 97's offerings, this is the only song on the CD that mentions death)

You Smoke Too Much - I like this Murry tune... a lot. It shows hints of his pop influences. It bounces. 

The State of Texas is just a great Old 97's song and a guaranteed crowd pleaser in the largest state of the lower 48. The energy makes it appealing to the rest of us. It's a rollicking good time.

Love Is What You Are is just lovely. There's a beautiful underlying sadness in his devotion. "Love is what you are, not what you do. I know what you are, and I love you."

Please Hold On While the Train Is Moving - Again so different for them. I love how it's rocking full-throttle (like zipping on a bullet train) then derails into this trippy little pop song (the layover between flights perhaps) before jumping on the next crazy, head-spinning mode of transport (a Boeing 747). It really conveys the hectic pace of one whose life is constantly on the move, racing through one terminal after another to get back home just to turn around and do it all over again. The big breath at the very end says it all. That's a very nice touch. Sounds like Rhett's life. I suspect this is the most autobiographical song on the album. 

The Beauty Marks - At first I wasn't so keen about this one, but it's growing on me. Mr. Miller sure knows how to set an atmosphere! When I listen to this, I feel like I'm sitting at the bar in a smoky pub, sipping a cocktail to stave off a chill from the rainy night, watching these two flirt and dance around their desire. It's an interesting choice for the last track. This song is the complete opposite of the start of the album in style and pace, which was probably the goal.
Ken summed it up well...The Grand Theatre begins with a roar and ends in a whisper.

I'm not just saying this because I'm a huge fan, but this is a brilliant collection of work. If you don't believe me you can read a real critic's review here and I pinky swear I wrote this before I read his.


Unlike most bands who've been together for 15 years, my boys get better with age. They are hitting their stride, big time and this is only half of their effort. Volume 2 comes out in May! I can only imagine what awesomeness awaits us all then. 


2011 is going to be HUGE for them...and us. We're lucky to have a ticket for the ride.


Please hold on because this Old 97's train is moving!! 
 

A Boob In The Hand...
or man's best friend

Okay, so Friday my work gal pal, Beets finally joined me in the land of the big 5-0. (Cue the big wave) In celebration we headed West to this ginormous outdoor flea market nearby in Ohio. There are all kinds of vendors unloading new and used merchandise, farmers peddling their freshly picked wares and food booths where you can buy turkey legs the size of your head to satisfy your inner Flintstone. No shit. The size of your f*cking HEAD!

Right Said, Fred!

WTF?! Who the hell says "Oriental" anymore?

There is no way this abomination is going anywhere near my zip code
and neither is that hideous dummy
I kid. I kid because I love

Anywho, several years ago a group of Chinese nationals started setting up shop throughout the venue in the form of countless boxes filled with worthy and worthless $1 items. Most of it is just shit, but still strangely compelling. Naturally their sections are always swarmed with gobs of Goobers in search of that perfect piece of lead-paint laden plastic whatzit that will change the course of their pathetic life... or at least a decent lighter for a buck. (btw, they sell ladies gutchies out of cardboard boxes. major ewwwwwwww!)

Being a Goober myself, I scanned around the unwashed masses, and there it was. The Holy Grail of useless flea market finds... the pot of gold-plated garbage at the end of the rainbow... the arc of the kitsch covenant...

Ladies and Gentlemen I give you ...

The Squeezy Rubber Boobie!!

(boobies, YAY!!!)

A must have for any red-blooded American male who prefers breast over leg in both chicken and women. The consummate straight male pacifier. This malleable mammary is now the property of my ever-lovin' Geo... to keep him company when I'm away.

You know this thing might hold societal merit. I believe it has therapeutic powers. For instance, it could be a perfect way to stem road rage. Think about it. Instead of flipping the bird over the lunacy played out before him, a man could just reach out and squeeze his way to a clearer thought and gentler action. Because honestly, what Cat isn't calmer copping a feel?

Squeezy Rubber Boobies. Road tested, Doctor approved.