Spirits in the Material World.

Lately, I've been flitting across the internets, going from transhumanist blogs to Buddhist journals like a metaphysical hummingbird. Today, I discovered This Is This, which is published by one Chris Jones. It's up for a "Blogisattva" award, which is a yearly honor bestowed upon English language, Buddhist-oriented blogs.

The first post I read was about The Police reunion, which I am unashamedly excited about.

Another favorite along these lines is Sentient Developments, which was nominated for the same award. If you bookmark one site this year, make it SD. I'm telling you, it's great.

Off to Higher Ground to judge this contest. UPDATE: Contest postponed or cancelled.

More Guitar Zero.

I'm sure you remember a few posts back, where I dismissed the Playstation game Guitar Hero II as an infernal tool of our corporate overlords. Mostly 'cause I sucked at playing it.

Well, Scott Ian of Anthrax isn't so hot, either. Here you can watch him tank repeatedly on his own tune, "Madhouse." Great stuff. My favorite part is when he asks his buddy if he thinks DragonForce play GHII. Given their fact that their music already sounds like a video game, the odds seem pretty good.

Guitar Hero... Or Zero?

UPDATE: I arrived home last night to find the latest issue of Newsweek in my mailbox. In it, Steven Levy takes a similarly dim view of Guitar Hero II. He, too, finds it devilish, but not for the same reasons as I.

My friend Matt came up from Boston this weekend for a surprise visit. He's a swell guy, a bitchin' bassist and a fellow newspaperman. We used to play in a band together years ago. He's still rocking out, while I've more or less permanently retired from live performance.

Anyway, Matty is one hell of a strong persuader. Over lunch and a few gazillion beers, he convinced me to purchase the shockingly popular Playstation game Guitar Hero II. I was rightfully wary — it's hardly the first time this silver-tongued bastard has cajoled me into something.

"Dude. You gotta get it. It's so fun. I've got my guitar controller in the car. We can totally play it together. At least we can go to Best Buy and check it out."

So, that's what we did. I was utterly unimpressed by the display version, which was manned by some Black Sabbath-rockin' redneck kid. The game itself looked chintzy and more than a little dull. But the next thing I knew, I was dropping 80-odd dollars on a hunk of cheap plastic.

Still, we played the thing all night. I even called my pal Jeb and asked him to come over.  I figured if there were more people involved — and if I got a lot drunker — it'd somehow be more fun.

Listen: I'm a guitarist. I've been playing since I was 14. My chops, while not exactly up to previous standards, are still pretty good. So why was this game so annoying to me?  I was OK at the verses and choruses, and atrocious on the solos. The exact opposite of real life, actually. The reason is that GHII robs songs of anything resembling nuance. I'm used to expressive fingering, and this thing was like a game of Simon. It's frankly easier for me to play with the sound off. That way, all I have to do is press the appropriately colored pad when the little *note* passes a certain part of the *fretboard.*

Now, I'm admittedly not a fan of games or puzzles. The only reason I bought a PSII in the first place was Grand Theft Auto. But that game is more about satire and hyperviolence and less about high scores.

I sensed something far more sinister in Guitar Hero II. With it, would-be six-stringers can be trained to play exactly like one another. Which is to say, mechanically and without any regard for subtlety. I mean, most "emo" bands could already swap out their guitarists without anyone even catching on. Well, maybe some fans would notice the difference in tattoos or length of bangs. But any distinction sure as shit wouldn't be musical. This game only cultivates further homogeneity.

It might be worth something as a sight-reading primer, though. Oh, and it does have a few decent songs. But you could always turn to one of our two local rock stations and hear the same tunes. Probably a few times a day, even.

So I'm gonna head back to Best Die sometime this week and dump the thing back on them. I love my bro Matty, but I need to trust my instincts more often. As BW sang, "I guess I just wasn't made for these times." Or maybe I just suck at fake guitar.

Spreading cheer!

I think we're finally gonna try to see Children of Men today.

Speaking of dystopia...

I've been doing some more pondering about the obstacles facing our species as we stumble towards the next paradigm shift, whatever it may be. I have serious doubts as to whether we'll even reach the finish line. There's a cruel irony to almost: "We almost had the foresight, creativity and discipline to avert Armageddon."

The hurdles before us are legion, but I've got a few faves.

Further environmental degradation could lead to mass-scale diaspora, violent competition for resources, reactionary authoritarianism and the re-introduction of 19th-century plagues. That's in addition to those sad polar bears. Maybe we should give cloud seeding a try.

Then there's the religious folks  — most of humanity, with pockets of resistance — whose inability to break out of their eschatological programming is driving civilization to the brink of all-consuming conflict.

WMDs, astronomical impact objects, lack of clean tube socks — I could go on and on.

Each of these issues could prevent us us from identifying and implementing necessary correctives, creating the grimmest feedback loop of all — a self-perpetuating, ever-accelerating engine of destruction and confusion.

I believe that most, if not all, of the problems facing humanity can be solved, but I worry that we're too distracted to do so. Our "waking up" point should have already happened. What's the big holdup?

Then again, I'm hardly an enlightened being — most of my brain power goes towards debating the pros and cons of the new iPhone. There's a little space left for Wired Magazine. Say, wasn't their last cover story called "The Science of Human Enhancement"? Damn, I haven't even read it yet. See what I mean?

This is ostensibly a music blog, but there are other topics to consider. As much as we value art, there has to be something resembling a stable culture for it to exist. I mean, at least Dostoevsky had his gulag.

On a positive note, I've become rather intrigued by M-Theory — the "what, me worry?" of Elegant Physics.

More vacation crap.

I'm still on vacation, but that doesn't mean I don't have a lot of crap to do. First are these gear reviews for this magazine. Then I'll master an album for a friend in Indiana. After that, I'm gonna try to get in touch with gd about that STN article.

Say, I forgot to tell you something about the trip: We had the privilege of watching an orangutan repeatedly eating his own vomit! At one point, he decided that licking it up was not befitting behavior for a primate of his evolved stature. So he fashioned a spoon from a piece of paper he'd been drawing on with crayons. Making tools! How long before he steals an election and gets our military stuck in an illegitimate and unproductive war?

Preparing to confront the bad guys.

Advertising is for everyone!

Monkey!

Brooke on bridge.

Random Precision.

A handful of things I've been too busy to mention:

#1: I was interviewed for the Music Edition of VPR's Switchboard, which aired on Tuesday. Murf from False 45th phoned in to school 'em on the new Yo La Tengo, who they subsequently referred to as "Yellow Tangles" no less than three times. They eventually realized their mistake, but it was pretty funny while it lasted. I do believe you can stream the archive from the VPR link.

#2: Speaking of False 45th, today's '06 celeb retrospective features Ben Maddox of Farm. Yesterday was Tanner & Ben from from Nest Material.

#3: Steve Coogan is really funny. Who among you watches Saxondale?

#4: GWAR is sold out, suckers.

#5 My refined year-end faves ran as a feature on Dusted today. The list is somewhat different than the one I originally posted here, as I took more time to ponder. In addition, the prose is modified to affirm my position as an all-important musical-linguistic analysis operative.

#5: I saw a commercial for Yoplait with two ladies dishing in a spa. This thing could send the feminist movement back by at least a decade. The ad is generally offensive, but when the *actresses* get *deep* it becomes unbearable. Here's an honest-to-goodness example of their exchange:

"Yoplait is like Zen wrapped in karma wrapped in chocolate."

Apparently, this product is akin to the state of stillness that reflects the thusness of all — manifest and unmanifest — combined with the all-penetrating law of binding causality that subtly affects all — manifest and unmanifest — mixed with a sweet foodstuff.

I came up with a bit of copy for their next campaign: "Yoplait is like the ten thousand things wrapped in Kalki's sword of obliteration with a vanilla creme demi-glaze." Feel free to post your own version in the comments field.

I thought I'd be the first to go wide with this one, but evidently other bloggers find it ridiculous, too.

Does anybody remember laughter?

Flatlander at False 45th sent me a link to these recordings of safety workers at the Burning Man festival. Hi-larious! (It's via BoingBoing, of course).

Then there's this half-lame, half funny piece of musical/political satire:

Why I can't get any work done.

Culture Club on Boy George: He's gone too far!

That's Culture Club's new singer. I dare you to watch the video on their pimped-out MySpace page.

MySpace Will Sell You Out.

Just recieved this curious press release:

Baton Rouge, LA (November 6, 2006)

With no advance notice or explanation, Baton Rouge indie rockers Bones have lost their long-established MySpace URL (www.myspace.com/bones) to the FOX Television show of the same name.  Bones, the band, has used www.myspace.com/bones for nearly 2 years, racking up close to 20,000 profile views, over 21,000 song plays and over 2100 MySpace friends.

“Losing our URL was a complete surprise to us,” said Michael Miller (upright/electric bass, vox). “We logged on one day and found David Boreantz staring back at us. It sucks because we’ve used that URL for almost 2 years to build our band name and fan base, and it’s on all of our product and posters.  We’re as indie as it gets and can’t afford to reprint everything.”

“The crazy thing is, once you pick your MySpace URL you are warned repeatedly by MySpace that you can never change it,” said Scott Campbell (drums/synth bass/graphic designer).  “I guess someone bigger came along and wanted the URL we’ve been promoting for 2 years.  No one from MySpace will get back to us about how this could have happened, and they’ve now stuck us with www.myspace.com/7483383 which we can not change.”

Huh. Guess Rupert Murdoch's ruthless bottom line is starting to be felt.

UPDATE:

In a startling turn of events late last night, Baton Rouge indie rockers BONES received the following message from "Tom" himself:

"I heard about what happened with your URL. I gave it back to ya...Sorry about that! As we grow in size, sometimes people make decisions I don't know about. This was obviously the wrong decision. The Bones URL is yours once again. :) "

Reaction from the band: "We're shocked!! And grateful," said Scott Campbell.  "Not only did Myspace give us back the www.myspace.com/bones URL, but we received a huge outpouring of moral support from the whole indie rock community over this.  It went from being a really horrible experience, to really amazing, and we just want to thank everyone. See you on the road!"

More dumb Halloween stuff.

It's almost All Hallows Eve. Here's another goofy thing to check out.

Comedy for you.

Halloween Podcast: Still here. Still spooky.

I have a million other things I could post, but they'll have to wait until later, 'cause I'm on deadline.

Here's a bit of fun I received from the publicist for Wooden Wand. Apparently, it was created by someone in the group.

INDIE BAND LIFE-O-METER

Your garden variety, moderately successful indie band lasts an average of five years. Chances are, if you're not already on Matador or Sub Pop, yours won't even last that long.

What will break your band up, you ask? Well, if it isn't the oft-cited "creative differences," or the excruciating tedium of touring the United States, it'll most likely have something to do with sex or drugs. It's anyone's guess, but don't wait for anyone to, because no one cares.

But let's give you and your band the benefit of the doubt. We'll start with a generous TEN YEARS and go from there, adding and subtracting as needed.

No cheating.

Start Now:

SUBTRACT ONE YEAR for any two people in the band who identify themselves as a couple, and TWO YEARS for each additional couple.

SUBTRACT THREE YEARS for any two people in the band who used to date, but now just glare at one another through bitter, stoned, accusing eyes from the rearview mirrors of rented minivans.

ADD ONE YEAR for anyone the band with access to their own studio who may actually know how to engineer. But…

SUBTRACT ONE YEAR if said member regularly writes sardonic, Comic Book Guy-caliber letters to Tape-Op and wishes Steve Albini produced Abbey Road.

SUBTRACT SIX MONTHS for anyone in the band who likes to listen to jazz when they drive.

SUBTRACT THREE MONTHS for every soundcheck that ends with someone using the 'F' word.

ADD ONE YEAR for each member who's been in a moderately successful indie band that's toured before, and knows to keep his expectations very, very low. But…

SUBTRACT SIX MONTHS if he is the shadenfreude type - a bitter, jealous, shit-talking troll who's convinced he is a misunderstood genius because his previous band got dropped from Kindercore.

SUBTRACT ONE YEAR if someone in the band's uncle has in any way *subsidized* the band by lending any money for a van, recording time, etc.

ADD ONE YEAR for every attractive girl in the band. Add six more months if she doesn't play bass.

ADD FIVE YEARS if someone in the band's dad is in ZZ Top, Santana, or any of the half-remembered bands on the Nuggets box.

SUBTRACT TWO YEARS for anyone in the band addicted to heroin. But…

ADD FIVE YEARS if he dies tragically between your first and second albums.

SUBTRACT THREE MONTHS for each vegetarian in the band who worries that the Waffle House hash browns are "cooked with the meat spatulas."

SUBTRACT TWO YEARS for anyone in the band has a job back home that he or she is unwilling to leave.

SUBTRACT TWO YEARS for anyone in the band has a spouse back home that he or she is unwilling to divorce.

SUBTRACT FIVE YEARS for each band member with any kids that he or she even gives the slightest shit about.

SUBTRACT TWO YEARS for every band member who cannot, will not, or should not drive.

ADD SIX MONTHS if you're traveling with your own soundman. But…

SUBTRACT THREE MONTHS if he frequently drinks himself mute and is currently facing statutory rape charges.

SCORING:

-20 years – 0 years: Consider yourself lucky. Walk – don't run - to the nearest technical institute and learn how to weld or something. Remember to thank me later when your deathbed is NOT a cot at the YMCA.

0 years – 5 years: Congratulations! You've managed to really make something of yourself: a blip on a radar that itself is less than a blip on the radar to most of the civilized western world. At least you can look forward to Casual Fridays.

5 years – 15 years: The odds seem to be in your favor, buckaroo. When your life eventually flashes before your eyes, you will be treated to a montage of drink tickets, Super 8 motel rooms, studio vending machines and an anonymous gaggle of surly soundmen all named Eric. Wowee zowee!

15 years or more – You are R.E.M. You probably took this test with a pen and paper. Kill yourself.

Resistance = Futile.

This should increase my hits by at least 75%.

It's pretty lame to link to a PitchforkMedia news blurb when anyone who reads my blog has likely already seen it.

But I can't help it when the headline screams, "Scarlett Johansson Recording Tom Waits Covers Album."

Scar-Jo is officially over-exposed. But I did enjoy her, umm, spread in this month's Esquire. Hey, it's a free subscription, OK?

Say, did you somehow miss this earlier post? Trust, me it's worth it.

Keane Contra Nietzsche.

To forget one’s purpose is the commonest form of stupidity.

It's about damn time.

Thx, Candleblog!

It's Monday.

I'm violating a cardinal rule of blogging: Don't Post Unless You Have Something to Say.

Whoops!

Anyway, I spent the weekend in a semi-laid up state, due to a weird lower back spazz. It's still kind of messed up. Not sure why — I missed a few days at the gym, and the body is having its revenge. I'm walking like a 70 year-old looking for the public restroom.

The Trachtenburg Family is tonight at HG, but standing up for any length of time will likely be painful.

Thanks to everyone who gave their opinion about my podcast! The next one will be that much better for it. Speaking of, I already have the theme and most of the tunes picked out. I'm gonna keep mum for now, though. And that's hard for a guy like me.

What else? Sue & Nick of Video Pigeon are blogging from their new Berlin (not New Hampshire) digs. Lucky bastards. I think...

This Weekend.

Well, my social calendar is full!

Pal o' mine Arthur Adams is in town for Bill & Emily's wedding (that's Mr. & Mrs. Candleblog to you), and he's staying with me through Sunday.

Tonight, B&E are having a little welcoming shindig; then there's the James Kochalka Superstar CD release party at Club Metronome.

Tomorrow, Art and I are gonna attempt a Contrarian/Blammos collaboration on the ridiculous Beach Boys number "I'm Bugged at My Old Man." We'll see how that goes. I also have to cook some stuff for Sunday's reception. Yes. Me. Cook.

Later that night, he's gonna do one of those epic, Lazy Songwriter/Blammos jamz at Radio Bean.

The next day is the wedding.

It's a whirlwind of activity. Hope I can get my beauty sleep.

Home sweet home.

Wanna buy Syd Barrett's house? It's up for sale.

Sloganeering, etc.

I saw three great bumper stickers in the last 24 hours, two of which were on the same vehicle.

The first one was yesterday afternoon. It read simply, "If you're in a folk song, DON'T GO TO THE RIVER!"

So true. How many acoustic ballads have ended in romantic tragedy by running water? A damn few, for sure.

The next two I peeped this morning. One said, "Ban Republican Marriage," the other, "Practice Compassionate Impeachment."

Cathy just reminded me of the "Republicans for Voldemort" sticker/tee shirt. Arch.

On another note, I'm realizing that my musical tastes are extremist. On the one hand, I can't get enough of Harry Nilsson ballads. On the other, I think the new Gorgoroth (thanks Chris!) is the best black metal album of all time.

If Stevie Nicks joined Sunn O))), I'd be all set.

The name of this blog is Neil Cleary.

Flatlander of VT blog False 45th posted a live review of Neil Cleary's recent Montpelier performance.

Check out the picture of Herb rockin' a T. Rex shirt.

Hot stuff.

Hey, were any of you aware that Rex leader Marc Bolan published a book of poetry? It's called The Warlock of Love. I shit you not. Here's an excerpt:

We hide behind the masks of the Orient,

Because the sullen lumbering shapes of

The western world strike fear and terror

Into our limbs, and all is ungrown.

Legends we long for and legends there

Are in the east of our heads.

So perchance Gods dwell unseen in the

East of the world.

Man, that rivals Morrison for drugged out, quasi-mystical gobbledegook.

I want a copy!