Rockstar's Log, Supplemental:

So, I go to get my teeth clean today, utilizing the last of my lovely quality healthcare grace period. Lavishing in the Republican luxury of proper dental care, but pressed for time, I decided to go with a dentist whom I didn't know in Pratt, KS. Making the short half-hour jaunt up there was not too much of an issue, but I quickly discovered that, in my hubris and ignorance, made a terrible error.

First, I am greated by a half-deaf and incredibly dense old woman for a receptionist, who promptly asks if I have dental insurance and hands me an identification chart that seemed to be absolutely ancient with type that was perhaps used on the first Gutenberg press. Of course, I did not have the proper dental card in my possession and was forced to enter into slow, painstaking negotiations to use a "phone" so that I could get the card "faxed" from my "mother." All of the beforementioned concepts seemed particularly hard for her to grasp, and I began to become a little short. The situation was quickly defused however by a particularly cute dental hygienist who interceded on my behalf.
Following my new best friend, she took me to the room where this dental service was to take place. Jesus fucking Christ. There are Republican Senators younger than a lot of the equipment in that shop. The chair looks like some torture device to be found in a Marilyn Manson video and the instruments look like flangical attachments on some early incarnation of Freddy's glove. Pastel puke green paint job and entirely mechanical (no electricity!), the device appeared to be operated on a foot pedal and complex series of ropes, wheels, and pulleys. Needless to say, I was a bit concerned.
Follow this with the entrance of Herr Doctor, an elderly, semi-retired man who seemed passably polite but eyed my teeth like some sort of jewels to be used to adorn a fine Russian shitter. Thankfully, he did a few painful pokes and relegated the rest of cleaning duty to the cute hygienist, with whom I pleasantly chatted with while she inserted a gigantic metal polisher in my mouth as I continuously drooled on her hands.

Last night I returned from my maternal grandparents under a moonless night sky with Sigur-Ros and a cool Kansas breeze. A long stretch of highway no one else is on; a world completely dark save the illumination of the path ahead. These short skips across amber waves of grain darkened by twilight have always filled me with contemplation and whimsical consideration of times long gone by. And in this time of reluctant ending and uncertain beginning, there may be no better prescription for heartache than a long Kansas drive.

So with some time off during submersion, I've been listening a lot to the rough mix of the record and trying to get outside as much as I can. To that end, I thought it might be a nice gesture to attempt to mow my mom's lawn. Now, this activity always filled me with dread in my youth, as for a good portion of it we lived in a trailer house on this enormous lot placed on a neary vertical rocky cliff that was next to impossible to mow and only was able to grow during scorching hot weather.

Not having actually touched a lawn mower in 4+ years, I thought it might be a nice excuse to get outside and breath some fresh air. The weather was pleasantly cool, the sky was sunny, probably the most perfect day I've ever seen to mow a lawn. I pulled out the lawn mower from the garage, fueled it up, and set my CD Player to Atom and His Package for a nice stroll about the lawn. However, once I pulled the start cord for the first time, I was suddenly sunk with the awful realization: I fucking forgot how to mow a lawn.

Suddenly, the unassuming device in front of me was incomprehensibly difficult to operate. I kept pulling and pulling at the goddamned cord, but for some reason it just wouldn't start. This is when I discovered a device known as a "primer." Apparently, I needed to press it 3x times in order to start the motor. Having down this, I went back to pull the cord. Again nothing... except this time included the distinct aroma of gas. Being not as dense as I seem sometimes, I remembered what the primer's function was and that I probably pulled a pretty decent amount of fuel into the motor already with my dozen pulls of the start cord. I had some downtime.

I took this opportunity to go ahead and attempt operating the weedeater. Having versed myself in the operation of the lawnmower quickly, I remembered how to operate the weedeater's choke and successfully got it running - on the first pull no less! Sadly, a weedeater requires some more delicate, artistic operation than a lawnmower. After destroying two different lawn ornaments and carving what looked like a happy face into one corner of the lawn, I decided I should probably just mow the lawn and call it good. I have a lot more respect for my horticulture major friends now.

Yet another in a long line of Bush Administration misnomers, I've just taken a look at Bush's road map for peace between Israel and Palestine. Finally, all sides are recognizing the right to an independent Palestinian state, but I wonder if this "road map" will include American and Israeli funding for actuals roads, communication lines, bridges, and all the other infrastructure the Butcher from Beirut has ordered destroyed on a regular basis during that past 32 months.

In other news, it's Memorial Day. What this means for the country-at-large is a pleasant day off from the usual grind... Including the only place in town to purchase strings. I'm not sure what the hell I'm supposed to do without my guitar for the day. I'm going a little stir crazy and am considering arranging a fresh early summer bouquet of flowers that will match the striped wallpaper in this room. This is how desperate the boredom situation is becoming.

After a horrible fit of negligence, I just picked up the new Weird Al record. Besides a particularly uninspired and unfunny title "Poodle Hat," it is a pretty decisive rocker that was far too long in the waiting. Between this CD, Rob Zombie's Ramones tribute albumand not one, but *two* REM records coming out this fall, it is a damn good year to like the music I like.

Though the original song played with Ben Folds is pretty hype and "Hardware Store" and "Bob" are pretty clever, the original songs are kind of lacking from what I would expect from an Al release. The parodies, as ever, are dead on hilarious and "Angry White Boy Polka" is the song this music industry needs to hear right now.

All in all, I love this record like I love any Al album. However, this one has a very bitter aftertaste, mostly coming from the absolutely inflated $20 price of admission. It is very rare when I buy a major label CD, and even rarer when I drop $20 on any single thing that isn't a musical instrument. To make things worse, his label is Volcano, which you will remember as the rat bastards that ass-raped my favorite live band with no lubrication or warning. A funny Quicktime home movie montage or not, there is simply not enough value in this record to justify $20, particularly when fully half of the songs are borrowed tunes.

Project: Echo Log, Day 12.

Conclusion.

All tracking for the next release from Arturo Got The Shaft is complete, with the final supplementary parts arranging and backup vocals laid down today. The day was marked by pretty heavy humidity and temperature, resulting from the exhausts of both our rock energies and the heat generated by our respective computers. I shit you not, that basement was like a goddamned jungle today. Maybe Howie was on to something in finding resemblance of Kansas to Ghana. The owner of our underground stronghold today said that we could do this again any time, but I seriously doubt she is going to follow through with that offer once she discovers that her basement will reek of Shaft for the rest of recorded history. And, either literally or figuratively, that is never good.

For fans of Shaft heartbreaker "I Love You Too," I hope you are fucking happy. The record, for the most part, has been marked by cosmic coincidences that consistently fall in our favor, a synchronicity that will comes through in resonating clarity throughout the tracks. However, that particular son of a bitch (and, yes, that bitch was me) did *not* under any circumstances want to get made. Between losing an entire vocal take to a freak computer process and utterly obliterating a guitar punch requiring a complete redo, it was easily the hardest song to lay down on the album. This is not good for a song weighing in at a whopping three tracks.

Sequencing talk and reminiscing about the experience have predominated teardown, with Howie departing tomorrow before Aaron and I obliterate Medicine Lodge through rockioactive blast. Mixing will largely be done over the course of the next few months as howie&scott finish their next album, and we all get some time to step away from the songs and gain perspective. With these two sessions two months apart, distance has added perspective that gave the record all kinds of dimension. Hopefully, this effect will be the same for mixing... arguably just as important of a part of recordmaking as recording or songwriting.

Check back in a few days for a special sneak preview that I'm going to sneak past the submersion guards... I can't wait until people hear what we've done.

Project: Echo Log, Day 11.

The homestretch is here for our heroes, with the final vocal work getting cranked out this morning and afternoon. After working solidly on the record in a desperate attempt to catch up, these last two days allow us a bit of a breather and early evening - pay off for a record well rocked.

The natural frustrations of reality are beginning to set in a bit, especially after the high of last night. However, the Shaft remains undaunted in the face of cracking voices and unpracticed pipes. It occurred to me while singing today that, vocally, this is probably the worst of all possible times physiologically to be singing. With the absolutely *insane* last two weeks of class and graduation, my body is still going through the natural recovery that it always must go through at the end of a semester. This time around was even worse, however, because the long nights of paper writing after which I am usually able to slip into a coma afterwards were stolen by the time-consuming logistical planning of moving and getting down to Kansas.

But, after kicking the hack onto the goddamn roof on the first kick and a little frisbee, some quality vocal work was accomplished - in my opinion, the best the Shaft has seen. Tonight I'm going to take the new record and listen to it after a run through of "Yes, Ray." I imagine that we have all come a long way since then.

Project: Echo Log, Day 10.

Sweet Jesus, this record is going to rock. Hitting the midweek turn in the second session, we finished all the electric guitar rhythm and lead tracks to absolutely astonishing effect. The songs have taken a very advanced state and their final shapes are almost palpable.

About mid-day I broke a string on the electric which led to a horrible 3 hour fiasco in an attempt to get back the tone that we so carefully nutured out of my Frontman amp. To make things worse, the break occurred just as I was about to pound out the second to last electric track on the record. Son of a bitch! After two different sets of strings and a whole lot of intonation fucking, I finally got the tracks done... and done to very good effect.

Tonight we did a little preliminary vocal work on the punker tracks... I have to admit I've never felt so good singing before. Finally, the symphony that has been playing in my head these past two years in the Shaft has materialized in full band glory. I'm trying to remain as objective as possible in this, but I am very serious when I say this is going to be an incredible record. All bullshit and arrogance and personal bias aside, this record is going to rock your socks off.

Project: Echo Log, Day 9.

Bottom line: we came to play. The second day of the second session chronicles our heroes overcoming mighty foes of blazing Shaft songs and distortion tone. Banging out the last of the acoustic rhythm tracks in the morning and finding proper tone for the wickedly punk electric were the main preoccupations of the second Shaft day, which began most appropriately enough with a Gateway Shuffle followed by a Ballad of Fallen Angels.

Spirits are high as we enter midweek; we've kept on top of our game and the move to Kansas seems to have facilitated that greatly. With the exception of an occasional game of frisbee and a wonderful pasta meal, absolutely no distraction has been allowed to interfere with the production of the record. In fact, only one visitor has come by... Mike of Mike's Bar, at which I'll be playing with Aaron this weekend. He was a bit alarmed at seeing two grown men answer the door in our pajamas, but we assured him, no we were not gay, and that we had been up since 9am rocking this mother.

Project: Echo Log, Day 8.

The first full day of recording for the second session was a grueling 12-hour affair with Slavemaster Howard whipping his lackey into shape. The brutal Kansas weather reflecting the atrocities occuring in our underground rock bunker, I got my ass *romped* today.

The day began innocently enough. Waking up at the crack of dawn (or 8:30am), I went on a cosmically-assisted search for a bass with which to finish the last three album tracks. I wanted to rent but ended up borrowing from Darryl Schiff, who actually had both a five-string bass and the *exact* same bass amp we had used in the earlier Fireflies session. After banging out the tracks in the morning, we went back to return the rocked out item when we discovered a further synchronistic coincidence: Earthwood strings that I had so desired for the acoustic. Rock indeed!

The afternoon and evening (until literally 10 minutes ago) were filled with laying down acoustic track after acoustic track for this dense, texturized record. The afternoon's results were less than desired, but Howard will not take "Sir, I cannot rock any longer" as an answer. Tomorrow we have four of the trickier acoustic tracks to lay down, leaving the rest of the week for me to fuck up with lead guitar, voice, and sampler work. We are now back on track to completion.

Project: Echo Log, Day 7.

The mission continues.

The first day of the second Fireflies session was occupied primarily with moving vital rock-making equipment to our secure, undisclosed location in the wilderness of Kansas. Secluded and far from any distractions, our rockstar heroes will be galvanizing themselves to the task of finishing this record in a week without the tangental shows either performed or attended.

In traveling to our secret underground lair, Howie mentioned that if one were to remove the rampant industrialization, change the climate, add ubiquitous deciduous growth, and change the population to predominantly black people, Kansas would resemble the coastal plain of Ghana a great deal. The resemblance, needless to say, is tenuous at best.

Gear will be set up into the wee hours of the night in the anxious anticipation of a solid day of rocking on the morrow. The second session has officially begun.

I've spent a few minutes trying to write the "Woo! I graduated!" post.

I don't think there's any way not to be cliche, so I will say it has been the most extraordinary gift I have received and leave it at that.

And that's it. My academic career has officially been completed at 3:23am by finishing my final paper for my final class in my final year at Hastings College. It is only fitting that on the last day I complete my final obligation, and I can only wonder if anything like the rigors of this small liberal arts college will be able to be found anywhere else. 17 hour writing binges, staying up on little more than Dr. Babcock coffee and the threat of a looming deadline. It is a skill that can't be placed on a resume and an experience that can't be purchased anywhere else, this ability to pull the shit together on crunch time.

Discipline under Desperation.
With my graduation, it is now my motto.

I am breathless currently for one of two reasons.

Reason the First: Matrix Reloaded. Damn.

Reason the Second: Continuing in an age old Weyerian tradition, I and a few nameless cohorts shamelessly participated in what has now become name of very legend - The Boxer Run. Clad in only boxer shorts - or in the case of a particularly demented colleague a wool *sock* - we marched proudly, heralding our arrival to every corner of campus... or at least the ones we had the breath to run to. Gathering many a picture and tooting many a horn along the way, I feel now as though my college career is complete.

Now, and not before, I am a man.

In a mere 3 hours, copious amounts of beef will be sacrificed over an open fire in sacrifice to the most heinous, perverted, and decidedly unholy piece of media since the Necronomicon - Carry That Weight, the debut CD of some-time Shaft percussionist Colin Sandall. Appear near the sacred halls of Weyer at 6pm for this event of total deviance, and be prepared to purchase said CD for a mere $5 down payment on the principal of your very soul.

In other news, I have fucking cat paw prints all over the hood of my car. Keep an eye out for a cat around the parking lot. I think it is what I'm going to be having at the CD release party.

Hoo buddy. Some pretty significant meterological pain awaits those east of Eden - or as the rest of the world likes to call, Hastings. Nedderman and I started playing hackeysack because the power went out on his block, and I had a pretty decent view of the ass end of this ugly beast. I can't remember the last time I've seen clouds so tall.

If you're living in a trailer anywhere east of here, I guess you'll be showing up on the lawn in about half an hour. I'll bring some jello.

Kicked out a rocker at Club Friction tonight. Special thanks go out to Sarah Miller for being the sole geek rockstress in a sea of Shaft virgins, though unfamiliar with the band they rocked with much authority.

Submersion now officially begins. I'll see you on the other side with a new record in my hand.

Alright Norfolk. It's on like Donkey Kong.

You don't know me and I don't know you, but I know that I am going to be prepared to rock with magnificent extremity tonight. If you know what's good for you, you'll do the same.

One of my favorite clients just came by the shop today, an elderly fellow by the name of Ralph Trausch. My pet project for the past couple months has been putting together an adaptive technology solution to allow him to use a PC with his moderate essential tremors. Unfortunately, his use of the computer is greatly inhibited as he can't use a mouse or a keyboard very effectively. To solve this problem, I researched some technologies and employed a voice recognition/dot tracking solution that I presented to him today. I must admit a personal vested interest in the project, not just because it would allow him to answer his email.

Ralph has collected over the course of his extensive world travel a huge collection of slides from his journeys; one that I have personally witnessed in awe. Huge bookshelves just full of slides from what I can imagine are literally millions of amazing stories. And, I have the good fortune of hearing some when he comes by. Thankfully, the man, like me, is wont to digress and tell a tale of his experiences, for which I am more than willing to sit and listen. I think its the same reason I loved Ireland so much. All one has to do is buy a pint and sit quietly, and a great story will come out with little effort at all.

Ralph said he'd be back next week. I confess I can't wait.

For your reading pleasure, the uncut version of my review of the latest 2SJ album, Sexy Karate.

“Fuck You, We Quit!” is the title of the farewell tour of the frequently snubbed Skinnees, fresh from major label trouble and career wrecking debt. Maybe the worst casualty of the Capricorn buyout by Volcano, 2 Skinnee J’s are surviving just long enough to tour in promotion of perhaps their final release, the self-produced answer to 21st Century social condition - Sexy Karate. Always a bee’s wing from the elusive carrot of mainstream success, 2 Skinnee J’s left Volcano and generated the record completely autonomously, a seeming step backwards for the band that may be the only one from the 90’s not to capitalize from the fusion of rock and hip-hop.
However, Sexy Karate speaks volumes of the band’s relationship with their former label. Conspicuous in absence are any of the Sugar Ray-clone radio ready pop tracks that mysteriously appeared in the second release of their last album, Volumizer. A clear answer to their former big music woes, the independent release is, essentially, the Skinnee record everyone expected from Volumizer. The dashed hopes created by corporate influence are directly addressed in Sexy Karate with songs like “Friends Don’t Let Friends Listen to Rap Metal” and “Next Big Thing.” If Volumizer was betrayingly pop, Sexy Karate is compensatingly hard loaded with the cynicism reflected in the title of their promo tour.
“Get in the Van,” the avowed anthem for the “kid who stuffs his clothes in the bag just to play rock n’ roll” sets the tone for the rest of the album with minor crunch riffs immediately followed by frantic lyrics about the angst of rock n’ roll. Followed by the effective music industry commentary of “Deal of the Century,” the listener is set for what may be the most hip-hop record of 2SJ’s career. Heavy beats reinforced by massive rhymes mark the record even in the CD’s radio ready single, “One Summer.” With the failure of the last single, “Grown Up,” the J’s declare that getting on the radio doesn’t have to mean getting rid of your conscience.
The liberal political leanings of earlier records, largely missing in Volumizer’s forced and likely force-fed post-production baggage, finds a front seat for Sexy Karate, criticizing the Bush Administration’s foreign and domestic policy, taking “court side seats to Armageddon” and lamenting the “them stick-up kids in ties and white collars / who worship the Almighty Dollar.” Holler, indeed.
However, the big beat evangelism is interrupted with softer gems like the folk-inspired “Love Like Mountains” and crown jewel “Inside My Room” to keep the record from becoming too preachy. Though the 10-track record is miles away from farewell pretension, this is not to say that the fall from label sponsorship went without a few scars. Usually models of production prowess, this offering trades the band’s usual polished mix with organic sound, leaving the sound muddy and a touch more empty than previous releases. Additionally, record’s light 36 minute weight leaves it blessfully bloat-free, if a bit short for a full length investment.
As a whole, Sexy Karate makes the head bob like no other Skinnee record and with a sound accessible enough for any funkless wonder to participate. Arguably for the first time in their career, the unparalleled energy of the live show finally breaks through the plastic barrier to produce a farewell as frenetic as 2 Skinnee J’s tour reputation.
Who Should Listen: Ears weary of rap metal and metal rap and the whole hoary host of horrors in between will find block rockin’ party solace in Sexy Karate.
Who Should Buy: You promised to buy Volumizer. You never did. Time to hook a brother up.
Where to Go: Homer’s Music, Lincoln and Omaha: http://www.homersmusic.com/ A&E Distribution: http://users.rcn.com/aemerchandise/SexyKarate.htm
Grade: B+

Lando, Nedderman, and I saw 2 Skinnee J's last night in Omaha in what was the best live show I have ever attended. After gaining notoriety in the Skinnee community for talking enough smack on the message board to appear in their mailing list newsletter. My expectations were high and I was pumped to a level as of yet unattained in my long history of rocking.

Those expectations were thoroughly shattered. I was initially concerned that the show was going to be lackluster as seemingly no one was interested in the opening bands. The entire show started at 8pm with several good opening acts, but generally speaking the mostly empty Ranch Bowl was very lackluster. Fearing the worst, I convinced Lando we should secure a spot near the stage anyway in the event that some last minute rush occurred when the J's were due on stage.
In the space of ten minutes between freekbass and the J's the smallish venue filled with folk, all as prepared or better than the three of us to rock. Then, they took the stage.

Entering the room first was the band, dressed in slick business suits or, in the case of Stevie Spice (synth keytar player), in a German military uniform. Following shortly thereafter MCs Special J and J. Guevara enter in space suits. After executing a short dance number and shedding their spacesuits, Special broke into "The Best."

And for the next two and a half hours, I was in the air much longer than I was on the floor. The *entire* room exploded from front to back in response to 2SJ's unparalleled energy. Pushed and pulled among a constantly moving maelstrom of humanity, screaming and sweating against each other in a show that rocked harder than I have ever had the privilege to witness. And, afterwards, I introduced myself to the band who were all greeted me enthusiastically, effusing affinity for my shit-talking posts on the website. It was so damn cool.

And today, I walk heavily with a body sore from overextension in a desperate attempt to keep up with the huge amount of rock engaged during the day. I've never rocked so hard in my entire life. I only regret not going to a show earlier, and can only wish that Sexy Karate sells well enough to convince the band that they can continue to make a living off of rock n' roll.

I just watched X-Men 2 followed by the final issue of Birkwell Street Diary.

Pardon me while my brain fucking explodes.