"Americans used to say where there's a will, there's a way. Nowadays, it's where there's a pill, there's a way out." - - Burnt Toast
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts

Good Eats, Bad Music. . .

Last night a group of four of us donned our Sunday best and hit the streets in search of a good meal.  This, after 45 minutes of arguing over where to go and what to do.  Everyone had their own opinion of what and where and not, and it wasn't until during the stalemate of ideas I suggested a sackful of Krystal burgers and a trip to the bowling alley did we finally agree that Ely's Restaurant was the choice.

We arrived abound 8:15 without a reservation and we expected to have a wait, but they quickly slipped us into a cozy four top.  The waitress named Becca, Rebecca, some kind of -Ecca was attentive and courteous and quick with menus and drinks.

After a brief perusal of the menu, I didn't have a very good feeling about our choice as the menu options were fairly standard and nothing out of the ordinary jumped off the page to me with the exception of the appetizer of Baked Kibbeh, which did not disappoint with a depth of aromatic spices as it should have.  Of our group, only one other person ordered an appetizer which was the Seafood Bisque that lacked the depth of flavor and intensity one would expect from a bisque.

The entrees fared better with two Center Cut Filet Mignons topped with sauteed crab, one stuffed flounder and for myself, the Sesame Yellow Fin Tuna, medium rare.  The filets were cooked perfectly for my guests, that is if you like your meat absolutely bludgeoned to death until there is no sign of color left, but to each his and her own.  My tuna was fabulous and perfectly cooked and a bite of the flounder proved worthy of consideration for another dining trip.

The real highlight of the meal was the bottle of 2005 Far Niente Chardonnay which paired perfectly with the tuna and flounder and even complimented the melange of spices in the Kibbeh.  On the other hand, this is one of those places that likes to over garnish the plate so that dustings of spice and chopped herbs end up on the plate's edge which is a huge culinary no-no and a personal pet-peeve of mine.  You know what goes on a plate's edge right after it comes out of the kitchen?  Your waiter's dirty thumb, that's what.  And who wants a dirty thumb mingling with the garnish that might somehow end up attached to your food, fork and mouth?

And another thing.  Here is the a al carte asparagus I ordered:


Before I proceed, let me just say that the asparagus was cooked perfectly and had a delightful and peppery citrus aroma that blended perfectly with the earthy vegetables.  However. . .why serve giant asparagus in a giant coffee cup?  I understand that it looks more interesting, but it made for a rather awkward consumption experience as I was sure at any moment one or a piece of one was going to launch itself from the utensils and land in some inappropriate place.  Like someone else's lap, wine glass or hair.  Also, note the messy splattering of parsley along the saucer where someone's dirty thumb was likely to be.

I skipped desert as did my friends, but I couldn't pass up a glass of port as an after dinner digestif.  Fabulous.

Overall, I'd give Ely's a positive review and I am sure to return again as I would like to sample a couple of their other creations, but they really need to ditch the plate garnishing from the top of a stepladder because it is adding nothing to the appearance and delectability of the food and seems like a pathetic afterthought.  The wine was great, the service was prompt and acceptable and the pricing, well, maybe a little more than what we got in food, but hey, they are trying and there are scads of restaurants of there that don't even give it that much effort.

After dinner, our plans for a money game of poker was quickly replaced with the idea to go downtown to Fire for some live music.  Hey great I thought, I haven't seen a good local band since three years ago when I saw MissUsed tear the joint up.

The place was jammed packed with rowdy folks and I had no idea how to interpret the band's name which was Splendid Chaos.  One of our group knew the brother of the bassist or something and it was all she could talk about on the way to the club.  The bassist this, the bassist that.  I could only imagine from the back seat that this was not an encouraging sign for her date who was driving with a rather grim, hard-set look on his face.

When the band came on, I can only explain the scene as chaos but not of the splendid variety.  The music was loud and the vocals sounded like, well. . .stick your head in the toilet bowl or a five-gallon bucket and yell as loud as you can while you shriek from time to time.  I made it through five songs and was ok until the band thoroughly butchered a Tool song when I threw up my hands and announced to no one in particular that I was leaving and with that, I left.

Alone in the parking lot, I wandered across the street to Martin's Restaurant and Lounge where there was a nice mix of college kids and old drunks in the filthy old place.  The featured band was Good Enough For Good Times who offered a neat funky jazz and rock vibe.  I felt better.  And it wasn't long before I was joined by two of the other three in our group.  The bassist girl was left behind to fare for herself and the remainder of us closed the bar out until there was nothing left to drink and no one left to drink it with.

Chaos being was it is, at the end of the night I felt good enough for good times.  And a good time it was.

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The RUSH. . .

It's not often the old guys get out there and do an interview, but here is some enlightening news from Rush.

Also, a concert in The Woodlands around my birthday, oh can't wait!  I am there!

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Suffering. . .


Who are you to wave your finger?
Ya' must have been out your head.
Eye hole deep in muddy waters.
You practically raised the dead.

Rob the grave, to snow the cradle.
Then burn the evidence down.
Soapbox, house of cards, and glass,
So don't go tossin' your stones around.

You must have been high.
You must have been high.
You must have been.

Foot in mouth, and head up asshole.
Whatcha talkin' 'bout?
Difficult to dance 'round this one
'Til you pull it out, boy!

You must have been, so high.
You must have been, so high.

Steal, borrow, refer, save your shady inference.
Kangaroo done hung the juror with the innocent.

Now you're weeping shades of cozened indigo
Got lemon juice up in your... EYE!

When you pissed all over my black kettle
You must have been HIGH, HIGH
You must have been HIGH, HIGH

Who are you to wave your finger?
So full of it.
Eyeballs deep in muddy waters
Fuckin' hypocrite.

Liar, lawyer, mirror, show me.
What's the difference?

Kangaroo done hung the guilty with the innocent.

NOW!
You'll weep or, change the cozened indigo.
Got lemon juice up in your high eye.
When you pissed all over my black kettle
You musta been!

So who are you to wave your finger?
Who are you to wave your fatty fingers at me?
You must, have been, out your, mind!

Weepin' shades of indigo
Shed without a reason
Weepin' shades of indigo

Liar, lawyer,
Mirror for ya,
What's the difference?
Kangaroo be stoned
He's guilty as the government

NOW!
Will you weep or, change the cozened indigo
Got lemon juice up in your, EYE!
EYE!

Now when you pissed all over my black kettle.
You musta been HIGH, HIGH, HIGH, HIGH.
Eyeballs deep in muddy waters
Your balls deep in muddy waters.
Ganja, please, you must have been out your MIND!

More lyrics: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/t/tool/#share

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Sleepless. . .

Damnit.  I just woke up out of a dead sleep, heart pounding, blood racing and now having trouble getting back to sleep.  Maybe a glass of milk will help.

But in the meantime while I have it on my mind, when I was a child I was exposed to classical music like many my age via Bugs Bunny cartoons and some of those songs have stuck with me for over thirty years.  A personal favorite is the cartoon called "Rhapsody Rabbit" in which Bugs, the piano virtuoso, takes on the incredible composition Hungarian Rhapsody #2 by composer Franz Liszt.  This is the most famous of the 19 Hungarian Rhapsodies Liszt wrote and in my opinion is one of the greatest piano compositions ever created.  Take that all you Brahms fans!

Anyway, I couldn't find the Bugs Bunny version in which he is tormented by a mouse who lives in the piano, but here is Taiwanese piano phenomenon Jung Lin performing the ultra-complex and moving piece minus the chicanery of a pesky piano-dwelling rodent.


And here is another wonderful bravura by Ms. Lin of another classic arrangement, Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp Minor Op. posth. 66.  I like how this song's tempo changes from the blistering allegro agitado to largo and later two more tempo changes including a key change to D-flat major.  Nobody writes music like this anymore and nothing will ever master these great and old compositions. 

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Significance. . .

I may not agree with John Cougar's politics, and this video is fucking terrible, but one thing is clear, this man can bring the music and in reality, that's all that counts.

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An Oldie. . .

. . .but such a damn goody!

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Saturday Night Lullaby. . .

lovely sleepy time crooning.

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How Does Your Garden Grow?

Pretty damn good in the Saturday afternoon rain, which, of course means that I cannot get out there to molest Mother Earth into making more fruit from my labor, dangit.


I did manage to get some purple basil, Genovese basil, globe basil, lemon thyme and a tricolored sage (salvia) planted before the rain rolled through.  And thankfully, after a three week battle with riding lawn mower blades and drive pulley belts which i won three days ago, I was able to cut half of the acreage yesterday evening.  Now?  All wet. :(


Alas, here we are.  So hey, let's listen to some music to cheer our sad souls!

First is a boo-bap-ba-dee-bee-bob rendition of Donald Fagan's 1982 calypso melodrama The Goodbye Look  as performed by Mel Torme.  Yes, I dig Mel Torme and strangely, was digging Donald Fagan in 1982 when I was 12 years old.  Sue Me.

I know what happens
I read the book
I believe I just got the goodbye look 


Our second selection, in keeping with the island theme is the beautful collboration of Buena Vista Social Club performing El Cuarto de Tula (Tula's Room).  A lovely construction with so much going on in the music that my head just lolls with the beat.


And finally, for those who don't remember Donald Fagan's 1982 album The Nightfly, which includes the song New Frontiers that could quite possibly compete with my top Rush favorites, here is another one that you probably will remember, I.G.Y.


For you younger viewers who may not know, that revolving contraption above is called a record player.  That's what we had before laser beams and shit.

P.S.  I would really like to embed the New Frontiers video here, but since Warner Brothers gets it's panties in a wad over copyright, no one is allowed to post it anywhere outside of YouTube, which to me is ignorant.  Simply by sharing might possibly mean more revenues for WB in the long run.  But what the fuck do I know, after all, The Nightfly, written by one of the whitest crackers in music reached #24 of the Black Album charts in 1982, which is a conundrum enough in itself.

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Late Night Musical Interlude. . .

Can't find sleep tonight, so let's admire some music together.

Alex Lifeson, as some of you may know, is the highly accomplished yet underrated guitarist for the Canadian rock trio Rush. My favorite band incidentally.

In 1996, Alex released a solo project simply called Victor, a name taken from a poem by W.H. Auden. Many critics blasted the album for it's dark and sometimes rather disturbing content, but one thing is clear, this is NOT a Rush album.

I like the eclectic mix of the music and below you will find two of the fine instrumentals from the album. Clearly, Alex is burning on the guitar on these two catchy and well-orchestrated works. I bought this album on release and it is no longer in print, so Nils if you still have my copy, I'd like to add it to my collection of music.

Anyways....all you late night owls, skeezers, static-humming panel beaters, dopers, and pumpkin heads who prowl the internet late at night, enjoy two wonderful songs by Alex.


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Simply Amazing. . .

Music for the soul.

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Friday Bang!



Tickles me to death to see a black guy screaming in a metal song. Take notes Kanye. This is music.

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Arrrghhhh!

Hey, who let all these spiders in here!

Yeah yeah, I know, where the hell have I been? Well, wouldn't you sorry sacks of lizard lips like to know!

I'm in a musical mood and I've been up working since midnight on two hours of un-fitful sleep, so I'm feeling a little, oh, what's the word? Deranged? Must be, cuz today's first musical selection in none other than the polished forehead of Paul Anka breaking down a big jazz horn rendition of Bon Jovi's It's My Life. Yeah, no shit.



Today's early morning second selection is a big brass, woodwind groove, wonderful arrangement from the Eastwood/Sheen vehicle The Rookie.



And lastly, the only song I can still play on the piano, start to finish, after years of childhood lessons, the theme from the wonderful movie series, The Pink Panther. Screw the cowbell, moar horns!



Killing that triangle, drummer!

Hell, let's do one more for my good pal and semi-functional nutcase in Costa Rica, Sean-Sean, The Girl From Impanema.



Top shelf! Ace on the marimba there.

Well, good morning all, wake the fuck up, there is shit to be done, don't let life pass you by. By the way, how y'all been?

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Like Father, Like Son. . .

This morning while I was driving to work severely disappointed by the lack on entertainment on my favorite sports program. I flipped around the dial looking for something. Anything! The local classic rock channel features John Boy and Billy in the a.m. drive time (sucks) and the rock/metal channel has three local dopes who are seriously not funny at all (sucks even worse than howling rednecks John Boy and Billy), so, in desperation I flipped over to the "best" country music channel for some relief.

I heard this song this morning by Rodney Atkins called Watching You. I don't normally listen to modern country because it all seems contrived and lacks the outlaw panache (never though you'd see those two words used together, did you?) of older country music. In a word, today's country music just seems boring.

No country boy can survive. No tears in my beer. No whiskey rivers. No faded loves. It's a dried lake bed of boredom littered with the carcasses of folks like Billy Ray Cyrus.

Anyway, the lyrical structure of this Rodney Atkins song included multiple pop culture references to chicken nuggets, Happy Meals, orange soda, Scooby Doo and buckaroo, a word that should never be used again except in reference to the great Peter Weller's sci-fi spectacle The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzi Across the 8th Dimension. A phenomenal cult classic if there has ever been one.

Back to the country song. This ditty, although replete with sugary crossover country lyrics, has a fairly deep message relating to father-son relationships and the chorus has a particularly melodic carriage that continues to be stuck on repeat somewhere on the deep recesses of my partially pickled gray matter. Might have to listen to some King Diamond shortly to break the loop.

I appreciated the message once I held back the initial gag reflex to the soapy lyrics and I pondered on my own relationship with my dad. We had lots of good times, bad times and he managed to pull off some great boners which made him look like a totally inept alien creature-idiot. Like the time he tried to set a 55-gallon drum full of brush on fire with unleaded gasoline.

We had been at deer camp during the summer cleaning up around the cabins and getting ready for the next hunting season. We had stuffed the "burn barrel" full with clippings, brambles, braches and various other wastes during our day of work.

Come evening time, Dad, the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful, went in search of the charcoal lighter fluid to start the fire. Unfortunately, we didn't have any. But we did have gallons of unleaded gasoline for the lawn mowers and various other implements. Dad grabbed a jug of gasoline and poured a liberal gallon or so all over the contents of the barrel and reached in his pocket for matches, but they were not there.

This led to a few minutes of mumbling curses as he stalked the matchbook and once found, Dad returned to his post beside the barrel. He removed a match from the box, struck it and tossed it. Dear Fatherly Father was standing about four feet from the barrel and the match made it no further than six inches from his hand when the fumes from the gasoline ignited on that scorching July afternoon.

The explosion was swift, loud, fiery, and spectacular! The concussion was immense, like a mortar bomb, and sent thousands of burning projectiles in all directions. My brother and I stood on the front porch of the cabin in mouth-gaping awe as it rained down fire all over the place. But, it wasn't long before we were laughing as Dad scurried around in random circles smacking his head and face that were smoldering from the blast.

He approached us in a rage, hair singed away, an eyebrow missing, his face black from the flames and red from the blood pressure, but my brother and I could not stop laughing. And of course, once you get started. . .it only get's worse.

Dad fumbled around for words as brother and I hung onto each other gasping for breath between guttural spasms of laughter. Finally, Dad composed himself enough to speak and let it be said, once Dad proclaimed something, write it in stone because it the the Word and the Will, the Light and the Way.

I'll never forget, even 30 years later what my father's prophetic words on that fateful day. He said, "Let that be a goddamn lesson to you boys! Don't ever start a fire with gasoline!"

And so it was written. To this day, I have never started a fire with gasoline.

But maybe a little diesel here or there never hurt. . .

I reflected on that as I appreciated the things my father has done for me. He provided for all of us kids, the grandparents, my Mom, various other sundry characters and the occasional stranger. I learned from him more than I could ever quantify and certainly more than I was able to admit or understand as a child. Sometimes he seemed like a rambling old man. . .

I said all of this because when I got to work this morning I read an article about the son of a porn mogul in California who was recently arrested for beating his girlfriend to death with a baseball bat after his daughter's 1st birthday party. His father was a piece of work also who served half of a six-year sentence for killing his brother and business partner. 3 years for double murder? WUT?

And of course, porn mogul's son has never had a job because he inherited a bundle from the old man's profession and apparently has been a worthless piece of crap ever since. I bet he could have used a Happy Meal or two and a camping trip as a child.

So, thanks Dad, not only for being a dope sometimes, but for being a real man and teaching us the merits and value of hard work and taking care of ourselves. I'm lucky I guess. I could be in prison somewhere with the blood of a loved one on my hands.

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Friday Music. . .

Today is a sad day in the music world. Lynyrd Skynyrd's bassist passed away yesterday at his home up in Lowndes County, Mississippi. Donald "Ean" Evans was only 48 years old and was struggling to overcome and terrible case of cancer. As is the case in many cancer patients, Mother Nature won.

To all his family and friends I say God bless and thank you Dan for keeping the musical legend of Lynyrd Skynyrd alive. He will be missed.



And in the cold irony that is life, Donald is now the fourth member of the band to die in Mississippi.

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Monday Hootenanny. . .

Good morning world! We, that would be me, at the Burning Toast would like to offer this public service announcement concerning swine flu:



That is all.

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The Righteous. . .

As Washington continues to crumble under Hope and Change, I've run across another fantastic blog.

Visit Screw Liberals for some more insight into the inner workings of the liberal mindset disease.

And while I'm at it, another musical favorite of mine.



El Cuarto de Tula by Buena Vista Social Club

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Pick Me Up. . .

Hour fourteen of work on four hours of sleep and I'm feeling it. Tried to leave for lunch earlier and had to make no more than three return trips to the desk. Keys. Wallet. Brain. Uh, uh. . .sunglasses.

Did you see that?? I think Obama is rubbing off on me!

I know you friendly friends get tired of my constant musical selections of Steely Dan and Rush. And not in that particular order. Sometimes I put Rush before Steely Dan just to shake things up. And every now and then a King's X video. Or some Maynard.

My musical tastes actually vary wildly, from classical to French rap, which is genuinely more inventive and palatable than it's American cousin. At a minimum, it's in French, so they could be saying stuff like "slap you ho down" and whatnot, but would we understand?

Heck, you can say anything in French and people immediately begin to fall victim to their amorous instincts. It's simply that seductive. Just look at this example from a menu perhaps:

Goujonettes de Sole, Julienne de Carotte et Nouilles Chinoises

. . .means fish sticks of sole with Chinese noodles and julienned carrots.

Or another........

Cervelas de Brochet de Choucroute au Genievre

. . .means Pike Sausage with Juniper flavored Sauerkraut.

I'd almost eat that if someone put it in front of me and said it in French.

Anyway, I've totally lost point here.

Oh, Nils, what was the name of that French rapper we used to listen to? My memory has faded. Probably all that time we spent on the roof of 438 38th.

While I wait for his response, I'll jump in the wayback machine and travel all the way to 1993. A fine year! Here is Terrance Trent D'Arby (as if his name wasn't odd enough then, it's now Sananda Maitreya) performing She Kissed Me from his album Symphony or Damn.

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Monday Morning Music. . .

This is what my Monday feels like.



After a weekend of dreary, dull, wet weather we need some Vitamin D!!

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As Buckwheat Once Said. . .

. . .here I is!!

Back safe and sound in the confines of Worksville.

Let me just say that sometimes I'm smart. And sometimes I'm really smart. And other times I'm really really smart. This ain't one of those times.

At the Jackson airport this morning, after a rather uneventful flight, I wheeled my bag out to the parking garage to find that some dumbass left his truck window down all weekend. That'd be this dumbass right here. Yet, thankfully it appears that the innards were unmolested. Even the crumpled up dollar bill tucked under the armrest/console thing was still there, crumpled up.

So, thanks to all the people who walked past my truck and didn't steal my all-important dollar. Or my Gourmet magazine. Or my dirty workboots. Or last week's Clarion-Ledger.

In celebration of the goodness of humanity and my return to slavery work, let's play a personal fave of my by The Pretender's, Back on the Chain Gang.

Indeed.

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Thoughts. . .

Alex Lifeson, the guitarist and half of the music writing duo of Rush, has never been properly appreciated for his guitar virtuosity and it saddens me to no end. His skills are worthy enough to have produced some of the most groundbreaking musical compositions over the last 30 years, a longevity surpassed by few and envied by many.

I haven't listened much to the new Rush album, Snakes and Arrows, but I happened across a bootleg of a live performance of an instrumental track called Hope. If this doesn't open the eyes of the general and musical public to his abilities, then nothing will.

A beautiful work Alex. Thanks.



Gives me happy thoughts and a longing for a certain someone. . .

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