Ol' Grubbsy kicked Jim to the curb. "Gastr del so long, MOTHERFUCKER!" God damn he made a record that rivals any O'rourke/Grubbs collabo. I knew you could do it Davey.


Gentlemen, grab your guitars. Six string soliloquies. Bull's "Blend" is an amalgamation of gaggle of styles. Nassan's "Jam" is a nickel plated freakout.
You be the judge.


Mogwai with surf guitars and Farfisa. Still a really cool band with vox nowadays. This is instrumental only.


If Nuno can't bother to name his tracks
I can't bother to tell how primitive and intriguing these analog/electronic abstracts are


I remember when Papa Pajo kept his mouth shut. That was gravy. Then he started dropping EPs with tentative lyrics. And minting his own coins? Mutinous! "Whatever, Mortal" came along and assuaged all tensions. My late-night Masspike album circa 2002.


Thank you Bill. I was beginning to think honest and fresh improvisational music died a lonely death somewhere in the New England foothills or an Ole England museum. Yet, who could that be? Strapped with a dilapidated guitar and a telephone on the hook? Mr. Ex-Harry Pussy himself, of course.


Rough hewn psychedelic edges on a rather smooth Japanese folk. Gives me the East River Pipe shivers.


A car travels with purpose down the highway and the asphalt ain't getting no drier. The sky is smeared grey all over. The destination: honeymoon cottage on the ocean. "Just married" splayed 'cross the rear window of the car. A string of cans fastened hastily from the bumper, pulsing arrhythmically behind them, playing catch-up. The couple speaks only briefly. The waves await them, lapping slowly against the beach. Mick Turner is 1/3 the Dirty Three. Mick Turner is 3/3 Marlan Rosa.


I know, I know. This album isn't blessed with the whiskers of JD Samson. Still, we have Kathleen Hanna, so takes interminably dope. I'm forever prostrated at her altar. I still have my first Metrocard.

My take on Cassavetes:
Deceptacon, Phanta, What's yr take on..., My My Metrocard


His guitar: like the twinge you get when you bite into something too sweet. I guess Clapton owes this dude a drink or something. He played the axe southpaw, but never restrung the darn thing. TAKE THAT James P. Hendricks. Bonus!: sings like I'd imagine Aunt Jemima might belt a tune.
Doin' the laundry:
Crosscut Saw, Personal Manager, Laundromat Blues


John Maus tastes like Suicide. "Too Much Money" akin to "Frankie Teardrop", aesthetically. He's chums with A. Pink, so that's a neat plus. His 2011 joint is where its at, cop-kill that if you can.

Teacher, teacher:
Too Much Money, Heaven is Real, Rights for Gays


I guess Girl Talk was a rather big thing 'bout 3 or so years ago: some dude from the snotty hamlet of Pittsburgh. He was slurped critically here and far, simply for pandering to those 30 Something's crushing desire for unadulterated nostalgia. You know the "I LOVE THE 90'S"shit ... Groan....
Joseph is like a brother from another mutha. Like an ADD Fahey was his pops and says :"lets see whats on the radio"



Neil Hamburger

Hot February Nights


America's Funnyman, opening act for Tenacious D on this live disc. This is the blue Hamburger. Appalling jokes about rape, celebrity, celebrity rape, etc. Horrible timing. Throat cancer. I'm a definitely a fan of the way he constantly antagonizes the audience. I'm shifting uncomfortably.

Shits and giggles:

Why did God give Smashmouth three top ten singles?

Well, it was a clerical error -- he meant to give them all AIDS.


Grass Widow

Past Time


One of my beefs with the Raincoats is how tinny the recordings are. I believe Grass Widow rectifies that situation. Tighter, brighter, beefier? You betcha.

Mostly the voice:

Fried Egg, 11 of Diamonds, all the rest


Stephen Malkmus

Face The Truth


All of the Malk-man's solo attempts are of some utility. His first post-Pavement platter is a goofball's affair, quirky pop gems that McCartney might manage. Real Emotional Trash sated his masturbatory guitar wankery needs. His most recent is the obligatory "Beck must produce my album in 2011" jammy. This is the middle, this one solves the riddle. Short-stuff, long-form, solo shredding, double tracked pop yumminess. Its all here and there. And all done with his clever lil twists of phrase. I'll proffer two cents.

The Yoga Olympics:

Pencil Rot, It Kills, I've Hardly Been, No More Shoes


Black Moon

Enta Da Stage


So many ensembles with the moniker "Black ____" that they all get lost in the Icky iTunes Shuffle. Not these motherfuckers. Boom bap? Yep, I love the hard drums and this is chock full 'o nuggets. Phat/fat baselines? Its like Slip n Slide and those things are sooo banned. Hard ass rappers that I'm sure filmed real gritty black n white thugged out videos in Carhartts with cock-eyed glares and about 75 cats in a cypher outlined in chalk. Its Yourz!

No intro:

Who Got the Props?, Buck Em Down, Son Get Wrec



Ahhhhh…. Movietone. This is one of my favorite night time albums, smooth. Each Movietone album has a gimmick, this one being recorded to 16 track, live, in a Starbucks!!! Not quite, but a coffeehouse nonetheless. Grab a Venti triple shot mocha latte and sit down, cross-legged, clove in mouth, with smooth sexy-zombie Nico-esque vocals and sparkling guitars/piano with husky clarinet (#uselesslandscapes). Why this crew don't get no DAP is beyond the sand and the stars.

The blossom filled songs:

Sun Drawing, Useless Landscapes, Noche Marina