winter, more end of year rekkid shit, lawrence rawks

it finally got cold (as in freezing) down here. we were at fred's last night watching the electric mountain rotten apple gang and the temp musta fell about 20 degrees in an hour. and me walking, with just a thermal 'n' t-shirt. feh. terry's firepit helped, but after that i smelled like woodsmoke (explaining why the cats were so happy to see me when i got home, i guess). decided on a quiet night at home, since the next coupla wks are full of holiday obligations. came home, showered, watched apocalypse now redux. the 'riginal was better, except for the bit where they steal robert duvall's surfboard.

so now i'm sitting here procrastinating on starting an article i need to ghostwrite by tom'w, waiting for my dtr to come over for early dinner. was sitting on the crapper earlier reviewing old arthur ishes and noted a coupla recs i prolly wanna cop: akuma no uta by boris and it's only yonkers by michael yonkers.

boris is a japanese doom-metal trio that's existed for many yrs and released scads of recs, most of which are scarce as hen's teeth here in the states. i got a burned copy of akuma no uta from jon teague, but as my house eats cd-r's, it appears to have gone the way of all flesh. it's a goodun, tho. leadoff track is all stately plod 'n' sludge, giving way to raging dee-troit inspahrd ramalama and other flavours. made for a boss listen cruising around downtown while waiting to pick up my sweetie from the tobacconist in the sinclair bldg before she quit smoking a yr and a half ago.

yonkers is a '60s gtr dude from minnesota who went thru the same evolution (surf to brit r&b inspahrd garage snot to psychedelia) as cats like randy holden and merrell fankhauser did. he cut down his telecaster to a plank yrs before steinberger gtrs were even thought of, and recorded an alb ca. '68 that re-emerged on de stijl and sub pop labels a coupla yrs back sounding like feedback-laden early punkrock skronk -- def lightyears ahead of its time. he made another in 2004 that's apparently more o' the same. (nice when these old dogs don't lose their teeth over the yrs -- kinda like the late link wray, r.i.p.)

p'rhaps i'm so favorably disposed toward mr. yonkers because of the way i was introduced to his music. that'd be two yrs ago, in lawrence, ks, where i'd gone to play a gig with nathan brown at the 8th street taproom. i'd been out with nathan a coupla wks earlier and we did so well at the taproom that when he invited me up to play a second gig, i said, "sure." i left the fort around 8pm the night before, drove until i yawned three times, found a rest stop somewhere in oklahoma and crashed, woke up the next day and drove up through the seemingly endless rolling plains o' kansas to lawrence, the sleepy li'l collegetown where ol' bill burroughs lived 'n' died. (i saw his house, a remarkably unassuming little red clapboard structure in a quiet neighborhood.)

the cat who booked us at the taproom was one jeremy sidener, a longtime lawrence resident (he sniffs contemptuously at ppl "who think _ohio_ is in the midwest"), rekkid collector and muso (bassist in the danny pound band and arthur dodge and the horsefeathers). i spent a very pleasant afternoon with jeremy, waiting for nathan to show up. i was sitting in the middle of a vacant lot across the street from the taproom, reading a book i'd just copped at borders (dumbshit, lawrence is full of _real_ bookstores and i go to the local tendril of the evil empire from ann arbor to find something to read while waiting), when i saw jeremy lock up his bike in front of the bar and come walking towards me.

he was heading to borders to pick up some beach boys ceedee reish that'd come out that week. we went for beers at a local micropub and a great old 19th century hotel, scarfed some fine messkin chow at a family-owned local eatery (lotsa ppl o' mexican heritage in kansas 'cos of the railroad, apparently), then back to the taproom, where i sat 'n' read in a booth basking in the drowsiness-inducing afternoon sunlight as it filtered thru the dusty bar window while jeremy swept up and spun recs on the turntable behind the bar (featuring a sign that read, "we don't take requests -- just enjoy what we play"), including the yonkers microminiature love slab. while it's doubtful i'll make it back to lawrence anytime soon, i still harbor fond memories of that room and hanging out at jeremy's crib after, listenin' to rekkids 'n' shit. many thanks and much respect, bro.