Music

One the first times I thought about Aesop Rock, I ended up looking at sculptures by Alberto Giacometti after listening to “Shere Khan” on the acclaimed rappers 1997 “Music for Earthworms” Ep because he referenced the Swiss artist when describing fragility.

The last time I thought of him I was sitting at Front Row bar looking at a T-Shirt that emblazoned his current album cover for “The Impossible Kid.”

I'm assuming The T-shirt was purchased at this month's Columbus stop @ the A & R bar. Aesop Rock performed mostly new material with the help of Bobby Freedom and DJ Zone. Columbus, Ohio's own Blueprint came up on stage to rap at some point.

Aesop Rock was the most confident I'd ever seen him. The room was sold-out. He was scheduled to appear on a Late Night Television show backed by with Yo La Tango the next night so fragile was not how I would describe him anymore.

Study a picture of Jesse Hughes, my fellow old-timers. The lead singer and funny man of Eagles of Death Metal reminds you of who?

To this loving son of the '70s, I see in him:

--first and foremost, one or two members of Foghat, the quaalude boogie band spin-off of England's venerable blues-jazz band, Savoy Brown. A little bit 'Lonesome Dave' Peverett and a whole lot of Tone Earl, drummer. Unreconstructed long-hairs who couldn't hide their musicianly machismo if they tried, while at the same time being, you know, being skinny, unaggressive musicians.

--Diamond Jim Dandy of Black Oak Arkansas, the first of the flamboyant talent-less southern American home-grown boogie bone-heads. More on that in a bit.

--'Diamond' David Lee Roth, the king of such entities, and the greatest of the ass-less chaps set. Without peer. And yet a true original.

In concert at the Newport May 28, the EODM with the third great 'Diamond,' namely Hughes, put on a show of insouciant '70s-esque cock-rock the likes of which makes you realize the cliche 'everything old is new again' is an evergreen phrase of eternal usefulness.

In last month’s article, I made the statement that the Electric Guitar is one of only two true American instruments, the other being the Sousaphone. Of all of the dumb things that I have said in print over the years, this one may have generated the most outrage. I was inundated with messages proposing (at times aggressively) other instrument candidates for Americanesedness. So to preserve my hard-won reputation for keeping an open mind, I have determined to explore the suggested candidates and rate them on a scale of 1-5 Bald Eagles.

To define American instruments, we must first define what “American” means.  Primarily to save space, I have decided to use the Drunk Republican Uncle on the Fourth of July definition: the original 13 states after George III got the heave-ho and the other states upon their admission to the Unionas states. That is, if Wyatt Earp invented a new type of trombone while U.S. Marshall for New Mexico Territory in 1878 he's out of luck.  

Without further ado, the candidates (in no particular order):

I’ll admit it. I built this month around watching the Cleveland Cavaliers in the playoffs while scrolling Facebook and IG on my phone.

1. I like the idea of LeBron coming home and getting the title more than I like the idea of him not winning the title and having to move. How heartbreaking would it be if he doesn’t get a title in Ohio?

2. LeBron is the co-owner of Blaze Pizza on Campus. Blaze Pizza is a pizza start-up that boasts LeBron James as an owner. It’s similar to Chipotle, Piada or Subway where  they make the food in front of you.

It differs from Subway, Piada or Chipotle in an important way for me. Blaze Pizza offers vegan cheese as an option with no extra charge. So when you watch the Cavs game while eating a pizza with a zillion toppings you can thank LeBron for going the extra mile if your vegan.

If you’re not vegan: I’m sure there is something special about the pepperoni, anchovies or whatever.

This is a left-wing paper. The above was a vegan paragraph.

In 2008 I visited the lovely, dangerous Helmand Province in our 51st state, Afghanistan, as a guest of the 23rd Marine Expeditionary Unit and my hero, Dick Cheney, during which I was wounded by a Taliban tape worm and had dysentery for more than a month. For which I earned the marines' coveted Gomer Pyle Media Dumb-Ass Award.

Ain't been the same since, literally. But the V.A. wouldn't help me and nobody bid when I put the medal on Ebay. Probably because it doesn't exit. And if you don't know that by now then let's get together so I can sell you one slightly used record store on High Street.
 

But I did get to briefly meet Fox News commentator, Oliver North of Iran-Contra infamy, in a tiny grimy little marine combat outpost 50 miles from the Paki border. We exchanged Geraldo Rivera jokes. We didn't share MRE's. He had his own Humvee.

Went to our gloriously funky Columbus Symphony's Latin Fiesta (Homage To Tango) at the Southern Theatre, Saturday May 21, and man, was it muy tremendeso (please forgive my pidgen Argentinian language problems, I mean, they do speak Espanol down there, don't they or is it Portuguese; Doris, hon', google dat for me, wouldja, babe? Thanks so much!).

Back in my record store days, I never listened to tango all that much and when I did, I didn't listen to a lot of it. It was--if you can believe this--actually too moody for a guy like me. Which is nuts. Because even I know I'm musically at least one of the moodiest sonsabitches on the planet. Chuck Berry's got nothin' on me.

By press time, it might well be that everything there is to say about Prince had been said, and then some. Forgive me though, if I take a couple of minutes to talk about not the performer, but about his favorite instrument, a knock-off Fender Telecaster.

There is a movement on to educate the world that Prince was not just a pop star, but a great guitarist as well. Even a cursory look around the internet should convince you of the truth of this. Of the live footage out there, perhaps the most stunning is his solo on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” at the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame ceremony inducting George Harrison. Yowsa. What are these wild and strange blues, and why are they emanating from a guy who is famous for smoothly produced pop music?

Two things.

Used Kids is no longer on the OSU campus. Used Kids moving to Summit/Hudson is momentous because the record store was the last visible bastion of campus counter-culture. I feel bad for the students. Sometimes it seems like OSU doesn't like music.
 

The second was that I missed the Vic Mensa show at OSU. I saw Big Sean last year, and it was pretty amazing. He rocked with complete emcee dominance to 6,000 kids with the use of a band and deejay.

I guess it just depends where you stand.

Used Kids' relocation mostly seems inconvenient to people living in the dorms, given there are several venues and record stores off-campus. But since I don't live in the dorms, Used Kids moving doesn't really affect my life. They're moving to the area where Rhumba and Wild Goose are, so I feel like new experiences will occur.

Weirdo well-established solo electric guitarist Buckethead could easily run for president this year. He's got gimmicks galore--let us count the ways we saw at his recent sold-out, truly standing-room-only Woodlands show:

1) The upside down KFC 36-piece bucket atop his head. This has been one of his two standard trademarks since his coming on the scene nearly a quarter-century ago. An upside down KFC 36-piece bucket? Why, that's nearly as brilliant as your own obnoxious reality TV show which appears on your presidential candidacy resume. Buckethead wouldn't fire you, though, he'd instead ask you to pile your KFC skins farther away from him--integrity of piles, you know.

  In the great energy field called the universe, there are many energies. When a musician expresses his, we can use any number of hoary old cliches to describe what they do. Hendrix's was fire; the Stones, sex; the Beatles, melodic rainbows; Black Sabbath, devil's feces; Tori Amos, cramps; Allman Brothers, southern rivers; Bon Jovi, hairspray; Pink Floyd, hallucinatory drift; the Grateful Dead, burning braided armpit hair.
    Et cetera.
   With relative newcomer 36-year-old Kurt Vile of five albums to his name, the word 'vibe' comes up a lot. And I must concur. I spent the evening with him recently, Saturday, April 3, to be exact. It was in a nice-sized room, the ageless Newport specifically, but it could have been a broom closet. I haven't felt closer while standing farther from an artist. Something about that boy, I must admit, makes it easy to breathe the same air he does.