Must’ve been the spicy food. I had a whole bunch of weird dreams the other morning, vivid psychedelic dreams. In one, I was told by a sidewalk psychic that my dog was in danger of being sliced up by an expert swordsman lurking nearby, but not to worry; a moment later, the swordsman materialized, but the dog danced around the attacker and his swinging blade, repeatedly lunging up and chewing his face off in the process. We left the fool’s shredded body in the gutter, covered with a black blanket.
In another part of the dream, I was walking through a video gamescape, like an early Renaissance European city, and I wandered off the main course to examine a glint in the shadows. Next to a huge set of double doors, like a cathedral entrance, was a sparkly beggar, an Easter egg in the game, and when I reached out to touch him, the prize added to my inventory was a “magic porno carpet.” Suddenly I was airborne, naked, en flagrante delicto on a flying carpet, ravenously and gleefully humping away with a beautiful genie while, below, a Merrie Melodies version of the cityscape from The Thief of Baghdad whizzed by. Then I found myself back before the double doors, and where the beggar had been was a huge glowing gold cross like the ones on the sails of Columbus’ ships, which I touched, and the doors opened, and a glorious, luminous cathedral beckoned me in. “Not my time to go yet, San Pedro,” I said, then I shambled off down the road, looking for the next glint from the shadows.
I wish I had a magic porno carpet. Gosh darn, I’d settle for a simple old magic carpet sometimes, if it would give me temporary escape from this town. Not that I want to leave this town, mind you; I like it, and I like the sense of community here, and the friends I have and the people I know, but there are times when I have what are impolitely called “WTF moments,” and I wonder what it is that keeps me here, and why the hell I just don’t pack up what little I have and try for better luck somewhere else.
Case in point: There’s a nightclub up the street from where I type this, Azukar Lounge, which caters to the kind of oontz-oontz Hummer-limo crowd that, well, it just isn’t my thing. It’s the kind of joint that I really dig in principle, because its clientele is pan-ethnic and out to have a funky good time, a place where the mooks and mookettes from Jersey Shore might land if they deigned to host a Chicken Cutlet Guido Fist-Pump Night in our fair city (which just might motivate me into visiting Azukar if I could get by their stringent-for-hippies dress-code enforcers, but that’s another story). Azukar, perhaps Sacramento’s shining exponent of the Maloof aesthetic, recently got into a bit of a messy tête-à-tête with some skanky subterranean nightclub booking agency over a scheduled appearance by the spectacularly multi-talented Kim Kardashian, whose non-derriere-related assets somehow escape me, although I’m sure they’re there somewhere. I mean, when Spencer Pratt wants you to be the first non-Heidi artist signed to Heidi Montag Records, you know you’ve got some stellar assets, right?
So apparently Azukar thought they’d booked the spectacularly talented Quim Lardassian for an extra-special appearance on April 29, but there was some kind of mix-up, and Ms. Kardashian will not be there to recreate the golden scenes from her famous video masterwork with former boyfriend Ray J, brother of actress-singer Brandy. Now, Mr. Ray J himself is no stranger to Azukar; having appeared there last November. No report on whether he displayed any of the talents demonstrated in his screen debut with Ms Quim.
I guess if there’s some factor of butthurt on my part related to a local nightclub booking someone who’s claim to fame is that she was a demonstratively lousy lay in a celebrity sex tape — and I use the term celebrity loosely, because she seems to lack that iconic status of a Charles Nelson Reilly or a Jaye P. Morgan, both of whom actually did something other than going shopping and getting peed on by some rapper to merit their fame — it’s that Azukar was willing to pay her $11,000, plus hotel suites for her entourage and black Escalades to ferry them about, to make an appearance in their club. To me, that marks Sacramento as a monumental embarrassment in the milieu of popular culture.
Okay, it is a weird little world we live in, and I guess I’m having trouble living in a city that will pony up eleven grand to some Los Angeles turboshopper with a large ass and putatively not large brains, but can’t seem to support an original local music scene. Yes, apples and oranges; the people who go pay for overpriced drinks in oontz-oontz joints are not the same people who go out to see live music, and the people who go out to see live music are sitting around watching Lost and talking about their J.J. Abrams is a genius fixations. Or maybe they’re just not interested in the current crop of local musicians, or they don’t know about them, or whatever.
I have a vested interest in this, because even at the ripe old age of 55, I’ve discovered that what most I want to do is play and sing the songs I’ve written in front of people, and go into the studio and record the songs I’ve written, and generally just make a little joyful music. The world may disagree, or at least feign indifference, but I think I write some pretty good tunes. One of these days, I’ll finally push that boulder uphill far enough that I will release an album of my songs. Maybe I will find some people to back me up so I can get bookings outside of the solo singer-songwriter ghetto. I’m gonna keep at it, because for me to give up, I’d probably die a little too much inside, and I’ve already relived large parts of the Old Testament Book of Job over the past few years, and, dammit, I don’t want to give up. I would like to avoid moving to Los Angeles, or Portland, or Austin, or somewhere that might recognize and respond to what I have to offer. But I will, if I get to that point where I realize that trying to make it in Sacramento is an exercise in futility. Some days, I think I’ve arrived at that place.
If you’re reading this as a humble call for some kind of help, you’re probably right. —Jackson Griffith
Ever wish you could clone yourself into maybe three or four or five different versions, so you wouldn’t miss anything? Last night that magic number was at least four — five, if you count my occasional venturings into cocktail lounges frequented by flight attendants in the guise of Vladumb i Vladumbr, a semi-moronic double agent from the Slovenivakian Embassy in Fresno, which is a reasonably pointless place to site an embassy, but the premier of Slovenivakia — or maybe it’s Slovakivenia; these details are too easy to forget — a former minor functionary from the old Soviet Union’s Ministry of Medium-Sized Dogs by the name of Dopero Doperovich Plitplov, became convinced that the real capital of the United States was wherever freerepublic.com was located, so that’s why Vladumb i Vladumbr was working out of there, at a Clarion Inn near Highway 99, well outside a walking radius from any decent Chinese restaurant. But I digress.
Went out to see music last night. Would have liked to be in Brooklyn to hear my pal the great singer, songwriter and beverage expert Sport Murphy wow ’em with his brilliant music, and maybe some of that will show up online. Also wouldn’t have minded seeing Kevin Seconds play with 7Seconds in Berkeley. And, locally, JD Valerio was at Luna’s, and I’d promised him I would show up, but I know he’s gonna play Naked Lounge at 11th and H on Sunday, April 25 with David Watts Barton, who’s sitting mere yards from me in that other Naked Lounge at 15th and Q as I type this on a wet Sunday afternoon, so that’ll take care of seeing two people I really want to see live again, if I can make that show. And, of course, I will.
I’d wanted to stick around the Urban Hive at 20th and H to see Dusty Brown‘s DJ set, and I went by there early and hung out and talked a bit, but where I really wanted to be was Clubhouse 24 over on 24th Street just off J — first, because my pal Warren Bishop was playing with his trio the Onlymen (which usually is a foursome), and also because there were two acts on the bill that I’d been wanting to see: Musical Charis and Boulevard Park.
I’ve known Warren ever since I put an ad in the News & Review around 1991, looking for people to play music with, and a pal of his named Rich answered, and we got to talking, and he kept saying a musician buddy of his who’d moved to Orange County was moving back, and then their band would be getting under way. The buddy turned out to be Warren, and the band was called Mojo Filter, or at least it was later on. Dunno whatever happened to Rich, but I’ve gotten to know Warren over the years. I kinda recall his band the Onlymen were called the Holy Men or something, but a name like that can work against you unless you hire a few strippers to join you onstage from time to time. Which is what I’d do in that case, but again, I digress.
Last night Warren was joined by Kevin Gaffney on drums and, well, I forget who he told me his bass player was, but it wasn’t Larry Cox, who left the band. Warren plays the kind of music favored by white guys of a certain age who remember seeing the Beatles play on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964 and got forever warped, and before you accuse me of being ageist, I’ll just say that it takes one to know one. Warren and I both were huge fans of NRBQ, this band that was kind of an amalgam of the Beatles, Thelonious Monk and Soupy Sales with maybe a little Buck Owens, or more accurately Don Rich, thrown in of Big Al was manning the Tele, and that sensibility comes out in his music.
By mid-set, about half the audience looked like Musical Charis, so it kinda blew my mind when Warren lauched into an original called “Hipster,” about, he later told me, a local poet and a performance artist; he seemed a little apologetic in reassuring the audience that the song was not about anyone in the room. My advice? Get in your face about it, and tell them that this is about every one of you little fuckers, and if you don’t like it, well, fuck you. But that’s just me, and Warren’s light years more diplomatic than I am. So there.
He also apologized for living in Citrus Heights, which has more pentecostal cranklabs than Midtown and Land Park combined, plus it has purple street signs, which would please The Artist Formerly Known As Unpronounceable Dingbat. Do I apologize for being from Stockton? Fuck no. The Onlymen closed with, well, a song about the first iteration of the True Love Coffeehouse closing, a Bic-lighter moment that’s called “Kicking The Walls Down” or something like that, and forgive me for being too lazy but I tried to look it up, I really did, but it’s that kind of a day and I need to keep typing and not get too bogged down with anything resembling, erm, accuracy.
Part of the reason I was there — and not sausaged into an ugly and ill-fitting thrift-store leisure suit in a dive bar laying horrible double-entendres served up with a craptacular Slavic accent on flight attendants and other intoxicated women — was because I wanted to really grasp the whole Musical Charis thing. I mean, they’ve been playing everywhere lately, and every couple of days it had seemed, and people, including Blvd Park’s Brian Ballentine, were raving to me about how great they were and I kept going, hmmm, I dunno, in that cynical way I can get sometimes when the contrarian impulse arises. The reason that recalcitrance kept coming up is that there’s something very cute about this young band, like they were the coffeehouse combo in an ABC Afterschool Special about how the kids at the local junior high were beginning to evade responsibility by getting all buzzed on smoked bananas.
Last night, the audience that showed up to pack the joint looked a lot like the band — frontman Blake Abbey, keyboard player Jessie Brune and four others, including the bass player from Blvd Park and a conga player, because the drummer had to work or something. Which is to say that it was a house full of attractive young people who looked like a circa-1975 Disney movie about hippies, where everyone was a bit too Partridge Family to look like the kind of lowborn bong-hitting scum I was losing brain cells with back in that particular day.
Musical Charis sings really well together, or Blake and Jessie have very nice harmonies. Their music is upbeat, positive and bright, like the pop-song equivalent to a series of brightly colored photographs of flowers, heavy on intense primary and secondary hues — no dark or gritty tertiary industrial palette here. The chords tend to be all major — the two or three basics like I > IV > V — which, to a chronic and unabashed Brian Wilson addict like me, can throw a wet Neptunian blanket on my perpetually Uranian craving for surprise.
Which is to say that I really didn’t hear anything that knocked me out, musically, in the way that their contemporaries Adrian Bourgeois or Ricky Berger tweak my eardrums, but I got that I really liked them anyway, and as performers, they really connect well with their audience. “This goes out to you beautiful people,” Blake told the crowd on several occasions — and not with oozing Las Vegas hackery, but what appeared to be authentic sincerity. Indeed, Blake broke down that invisible wall between band an audience several times by offering random tambourines to people. It’s always good to get that crowd involved, no?
They were digging it, young and some older Charis-heads, too. But, like I’d mentioned, I have trouble sometimes when the contents of my own head get in the way of me giving an act the tabula rasa to win me or lose me, but fortunately there’s this old quote attributed to British philosopher Herbert Spencer that appears at the end of an appendix on “spiritual experience” in a book I’ve gotten pretty familiar with over the past two decades, and it goes like this: “There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance — that principle is contempt prior to investigation.” Thank whatever deity for that, because it’s pulled my critical bacon out of the fire many times.
Which is to say that there are things I like very much about Musical Charis, and they’re a sweet bunch of kids, and I’m gonna miss them when Blake and Jessie move to Corpus Christi, Texas next month to record an album in a lighthouse. But the band is playing a final show at Harlow’s on J east of 27th, on Wednesday, April 28.
Where the Onlymen are concise and Musical Charis is forthright, Boulevard Park — or Blvd Park, dunno which is right — is shambolic. And where the Charis is church-socialesque, where everyone looks like they’re dressed for that crucial first day of school, Blvd Park is relatively skanky. First, the well-scrubbed Charis crowd bailed, and a new bunch of folks came in, after a giant hand-painted backdrop was squeezed through the door and installed in the window, behind the corner where the bands were playing. Unlike the contemporaries of my adult daughter that made up the Musical Charis audience, the ladies that followed Blvd Park in were a shade trashier, which perked my libido a notch. It was fun wondering how many of them might have “tramp stamp” tats under their clothes, and trying to calculate what the house percentage might be.
I’d hung out with Mr. Ballentine a few nights earlier at Old Ironsides, where he was playing with a stand-up bassist. Both of them were now onstage, along with, um, a snare drummer, two blonde backup singers, another guitarist, or maybe a keyboard player, a violinist and a trumpeter with a mute. Oh, and there was a white pit-bull terrier. Ballentine’s got a raspy voice, so it was like seeing Steve Earle backed by Dan Hicks’ Hot Licks after the time Dan dosed Herb Alpert with LSD and coaxed him onstage with Petey the dog from the Little Rascals. The music had a loose and thrumming quality, like a peyote-marinated Mexican jarocho banda.
By mid-set, I had a bad headache, though. It wasn’t the music; it was the onset of April allergies, coupled with barbeque fumes wafting in from a smoker outside — three years of not eating meat, and now instead of my mouth watering when I smell beef ribs and links, I get kind of janky. Plus I get claustrophobic when there are a lot of people in a small enclosure with me, and I get kinda crossed-up conditions when there are too many active drinkers around, because I’m kind of a club-soda enthusiast, so to speak. So, I went outside and hung out with Warren, who commented on the dog’s contribution to the Blvd Park sound by recounting a story about a bandmate who’d brought a live monitor lizard to a gig at a local club and thought it would make a nice decoration onstage. Which may be the dumbest thing I’ve heard this year, or at least the dumbest thing outside of everything coming out of Glenn Beck’s mouth — some real what-the-fuckery there.
Anyway, I thought this was going to be much more terribly cynical. I must be in a good mood. —Jackson Griffith