I’ve done a lot of short-lived musical projects with shaky and questionable premises. The full moon tonight reminded me of one I haven’t thought of in quite some time: Werewolf Sonata.
Werewolf Sonata lasted two very drunken songwriting sessions and one and a half recording sessions (the result of which was two charmingly raw live tracks). It was all a bit disappointing to be honest: I had this dream where we would tour with Vampire Weekend and, like, only play gothic cathedrals on full moonlit nights in the Romanian countryside on lots of LSD.
File Under: Lycanthropic Psychedelia
CLICK THE PICTURE TO LISTEN TO THE ONLY TWO LYCANTHROPIC PSYCHEDELIC COMPOSITIONS IN ALL OF EXISTENCE, MAN! AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I don’t think Walt Disney intended for Pinocchio to be an absolutely terrifying experience for his audience, but to me it certainly was. Living wooden puppets with bugs for consciences and creepy old men who are really into making said puppets and also other creepy old men that are really into taking said puppets and turning them into slave donkeys and some fairy chick who essentially just popped in from time to time when things get especially fucked to say “I told you so” and bail?
I’m pretty sure that movie was my first drug experience.
I was about five or so when I first saw the film and heard the song “I’ve Got No Strings,” but it wasn’t until my early twenties that I got anything out of either (aside from sheer terror). In college, I developed a fondness for the Bildungsroman and picaresque novel, two forms of storytelling that I related to on a personal level. Read the rest of this entry
I just remembered I did this radical electro-thrash-punk project in 2007. We played gay bars in the Tenderloin and purloined drinks off of old chickenhawking men. It was pretty rad from what I remember (not much). Think Le Tigre with a couple more sex changes and some PCP.
CLICK THE PICTURE TO LISTEN TO SOME JAMS AND TAKE A TRIP DOWN MYSPACE MEMORY LANE!
Scroll to the bottom to play the song that this piece concerns.
It was summertime and I was riding the bus to Santa Ana. I was dressed in denim from head to toe, despite the fact that there were ninety degrees of dry heat outside and probably at least a dozen more inside of that bus. I was sweating straight through my denim, but it wasn’t the heat—I was fiending.
Riding the bus to go pick up is a hellish endeavor no matter what the weather: four hours of slow window-gazing, plus a couple of transfers and however long the runner makes you wait when you finally get there. Sing those shaky, sweaty, sickly summertime blues, kid—ain’t no cure but the cause, dig?
Yeah, I dig: unemployable, clothed in rags, carless, and reduced to hunting down highs on a glorified Greyhound bus.
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I became obsessed with Warren Zevon in college, although I first heard him when I was just a boy. My father loved “Werewolves of London,” which was the biggest hit Zevon ever had. My old man used to get especially excited at the line “I saw a werewolf drinking a Piña Colada at Trader Vic’s—and his hair was perfect.” He thought that was just the best. And so did I, which makes this instance one of the only things my father and I have ever agreed on.
By the time I made it to Berkeley, I had become a werewolf of sorts myself. I preferred straight rum to Piña Coladas and my hair was far from perfect, but I would find myself transforming into a beast rather frequently nonetheless. Empty bottles were my full moons, and Warren Zevon became my patron saint of lycanthropic alcoholism.
The first friend I made at Berkeley was a Zevon enthusiast and he quickly converted me. We were both artistic and misunderstood (by our own reckoning), and we related to Zevon, whose creative genius and reckless exploits we worshipped. The two of us talked about Warren as if he were a close friend of ours; we felt like we knew him intimately and that he was with us in spirit at all times. Despite the fact that Zevon had been dead for years, his cult of personality was alive and well in Berkeley, and we even started our own religious order in his honor: Zevonism.
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A real rough demo I recorded today of a song I wrote yesterday. It’s about a peeping Tom in 1950s America after a bomb is dropped. I may stretch this concept out into an entire record. But for now, I’m focusing on getting the first one out on wax this fall on my own label (Balladeer Bedlam). Stay tuned.
This is also my one hundredth post. Congratulations to me.
I wrote this last October and recorded this a couple weeks ago, but neglected to post it here. Alas, I am a mess as of late.
For full text, click here.
I apologize for the severe lack of writing activity on my part as of late. I have been extraordinarily busy with many things, one of which is recording an album. There will be much more writing to come, but for now, here is an unmixed track that I just about wrapped up today. Dig it.