(though every now and then I know it's kinda hard to tell). So hello to everyone I don't see at the "other" place or evehn (shudder) in real life...been chronically busy as always, but that Beatles game is coming out next month and I do have an official connection with it. Get to watch sunsets from a very nice pitcha winda on Central Square. Hoping this will be a celebrated summer for one and all.

Over the weekend I partook in one of my favorite summer rituals. If you live in Boston, it's easy to do: Take yourself and your fellow music-geek friends to the Red Hat-- a quickly decaying tourist bar near Government Center-- and order up a picture of frozen mudslides (which one of said friends accurately describes at "a Fribble that gets you drunk"). Once you're feeling the spirit, you go to the bar's internet jukebox, deposit your dollar and try to select the song that will annoy the largest number of people in the shortest possible time.

We now have it down to a science: The winning song is invariably "Japanese Banana" by Alvin & the Chipmunks. When we visited the club last year, two tables full of tourists had selected a bunch of U2 and Pearl Jam songs, so we couldn't help ourselves: We went straight for the Velvet Underground's 17 minute epic, "Sister Ray." You wouldn't thik you could still shock anybody with a 39-year old record, but take my word, this one still works: We saw at least one square making for the door with his fingers in his ears. Unfortunately for the crowd, the jukebox was malfunctioning and doubling some selections, so "Sister Ray" was followed by...."Sister Ray" a second time. By now we figured it was safest to leave, so we didn't get to enjoy our followup selections of "Alice's Restaurant" and "In-a-Gadda-da-Vida." Sure hope somebody did.

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            …is in the middle of a club called Carrolton Station. Place just has that otherworldly rock-club vibe about it, a place that everybody doesn't know about; half the cab drivers in town can't even find it. Stand in the middle and you're facing a wood-carved stage that looks like an old meeting house, and a painted sign that explains the rules of the "chicken drop" (you don't want to know). But I always think of that little space when I think of ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />New Orleans, you can just sense the echoes of all the music that's been made there. They mix the drinks very strong, this year they gave me three beers when I'd ordered one. Last year I won $100 on the video poker machine. My first introduction to the place was around 15 years ago, when I wandered in from the other club (Jimmy's) next door, and found the stage occupied by the Pfister Sisters—three jazzwomen who look and sound like they were beamed in from the 20's. Thought it was a mirage and half-expected to find the rest of the city transported to 75 years ago when I walked out.

 

Seems I've only ever seen bands I love there—my longtime faves the Continental Drifters were the house band for a long while. It would traditionally be the last stop on my annual Jazzfest visit, I would make a point of going home sleep-deprived with my ears still ringing. One year Marlene and I waltzed in the courtyard while Susan Cowsill sang Donovan's "Catch the Wind". This year I made it twice, for Dash Rip Rock and then for Susan again. Her set turned into a Springsteen hootenanny and included Paul Sanchez doing the best (only!) cover of "Racing in the Street" I've yet heard. Susan herself turned "Girls in their Summer Clothes" into the 60's pop outpouring it needs to be. The night before, Dash managed to outlast me by staying onstage for two and a half hours—but while I was outside catching a taxi, I heard them say "the rock critic's gone, we can play all our covers now!" Nearly made me dump the taxi and stay another hour, but when I heard their hardcore-slamdance version of "Jambalaya" I knew I'd heard everything I'd come for.

1: Because I am dropping you the personal emails that I owe you. Honest!

2:  Nearly Jazzfest time, and nobody does a damn thing at Jazzfest time.

3: Cyril the cat won't let me.

4: Bought an Ipod. Seriously, the damn thing is addictive. Been importaing and rediscovering a million CD's I haven't played in eons.

5: Planning the massive move from Inman Square to Arlington.

6: Winter flu, dayjob stress, mundane things like that. But I'm doing fine. And you?

Looking back at the best shows I saw in 2007, I've got to say I've had a pretty lucky year. I caught Amy Winehouse before her meltdown (far as I could tell, she did not pull any illicit substances from her hair). I caught a couple of the big reunion tours—including the Police, who proved way better than expected (They left the tapes and keyboards at home and winged it as a trio, which made all the difference). I reconnected with my prog roots by seeing Genesis, more an emotional kick than expected. I caught up with some longtime favorites like Robyn Hitchcock (who thought he was having an off night, but he wasn't), Kristin Hersh and Steve Wynn. Went to the usual dozen Lyres gigs. Witnessed the resurrection of the Sonics. Had my heart stolen (again) by the Dresden Dolls two weeks ago. Then there was the Sound of Our Town party, which you're all sick of hearing me go on about. Still, there was one performance that at least stands out as the most unique that I saw in 2007. It wasn't even a band I tried to see: I was at South by Southwest conference in Austin last March, and ducked into a relatively quiet bar to get away from the musical overload. Ex-Dead Kennedys leader Jello Biafra was doing his spoken-word thing onstage; always entertaining if you don't mind that he'd still mad at Tipper Gore after all these years. Then Biafra introduced a few bands from his Alternative Tentacles label, the first of which was a Seattle band called Bloodhag Just the facts, kids: Bloodhag is a death-metal band that plays nothing but songs about obscure science-fiction authors. They precede each song with a brief lecture about the author in question; the intros sometimes run longer than the songs themselves. According to Biafra, they've actually played in libraries. They wear respectable white shirts and ties onstage; the hulking lead singer looks like he hasn't budged from his library stool in a year. They ran their set like a very hip classroom: "Okay, our next author is James Bish. He had the world's coolest day job, which of course is collecting urine from racehorses." Then they'd play a 45-second song about Bish, cookie-monster vocals and all, and move onto the next author. The brilliance of the concept was reinforced by their T-shirt slogan: "The sooner you go deaf, the more time you have to read." And their habit of throwing books into the crowd, something nobody's done well since Stryper was still flinging Bibles at their fans. It was the kind of show that reminds you why indie rock is still necessary. And it raised a burning question: If writing about music is like dancing about architecture, then what do you call music about writing?

Couple weeks ago, the Herald asked for a year-end wrapup, speifying a list of list of "best RELEASES of 2007" (instead of best albums, CDs or whatever), probably so we could deal with downloads and the like. I decided to get a little cute with the concept, so below is the unedited version of what I came up with. When it ran, the Herald left the "releases" bit out of the heading, so the joke was basically lost...Ah well. Here tis:

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1:  Amy Winehouse's release from rehab.  Soap operas aside, she made one of the year's few blockbuster albums that deserved it.

 

2:  Paul McCartney's release from Heather. Prompted some good jokes and Macca's best album in decades, "Memory Almost Full."

 

3:  The Sonics' release from oblivion. Eat your heart out, Led Zeppelin: The garage legends played the reunion show of the year at Cavestomp! in NYC.

 

4:  Danny Federici's health release from the E Street Band. A sad occasion, but his last Springsteen show (for now) at the Garden was one for the ages.

 

5:  Book release party for "The Sound of Our Town." A roomful of ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Boston legends made for a night to treasure at the Middle East in September.

 

6:  Scarce at TT the Bear's Place in September. A joyful release from start to finish.

 

7:  Neil Young releasing a full-fledged lost masterpiece, "Ordinary People", after leaving it in the can for 18 years—and then forgetting to play it on tour.

 

8:  Best CD releases of the year:  Kristin Hersh, Learn to Sing Like a Star, Danny & Dusty, "Cast Iron Soul",  Spoon: Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga  the Fiery Furnaces: Widow City; Graham Parker, Don't Tell Colombus.

 

9:  Best reissue release: Robyn Hitchcock, I Wanna Go Backwards (Yep Roc).

 

10:  Best DVD release:  This Is Tom Jones (on Time/Life). Check Little Richard and the duet with Janis Joplin.

 

 

 Backstage at last weekend's Boston Music Awards, there was one question on everybody's mind: Are we really going to get to talk to Bobby Brown? No such luck: The wayward R&B star, who broke out of Boston in the 80's before marrying Whitney Houston and hitting the tabloids, was in town to do a rare live performance and accept an award. But there was no getting to the man backstage, where he was off in a secure corner. Far as we could tell, ex-wife Whitney was nowhere in the house. Brown did make it onstage for one song, and got all teary when three of his kids gave him a hall of fame award. "I don't need Grammies, I need this from my hometown", Brown announced. Guess we'll keep the Grammy we were planning to send him.

I'm usually pretty cynical about this event, but this year they asked me to present an award, and got Aerosmith's Joey Kramer to present me presenting it. So an actual Aerosmith member is going to say something nice about me in the very same theater where I saw them play on New Year's Eve 1985? Too good to miss, and I'll admit I was grinning hard.  Didn't see a lot of my other local faves present, though I did bump into the Dogmatics on the way to the stage. And the Dresden Dolls looked fetching with Brian in a black cocktail dress and Amanda in full Amanda regalia.

Wish I could report that I'd seen a bunch of drunk garage bands break beer bottles all over the backstage area, but unfortunately, that kind of thing stopped happening in the 80's. The closest I got to rock decadence was drinking whiskey with Casey Desmond at the after-party. If there was one thing everyone appreciated, it was that event sponsors Jamison's were being generous with free samples.

 I was looking forward to getting to stand onstage at the Orpheum—in fact, I had scoped out the stage so I could stand in the very same spot where I once saw Elvis Costello stand in one of the best shows I've seen in my life (That would be the "Spinning Songbook" show in '84). But that was not to be: They had me stationed at a "radio studio" they'd constructed in the upper boxes, where I had a real mike and a bunch of prop records. I briefly considered throwing all the records into the audience—"Alright, who needs another copy of Saturday Night Fever?"—but then I imagined the lawsuits that might result if I hit someone at the wrong angle from 20 feet above. I'll do that one next time, after I get a bunch of drunk garage bands to break bottles in the dressing room. Think the Dogmatics are still available?

 

            I'd been warned about the WFMU record show, which happens in New York every year. It wasn't the first time I'd been there, but in previous years I had too little money on hand to worry about what I'd be buying. This time I made a point of saving up for a few months, so I could go a little wild within reason. With dozens of record dealers on hand—and the very real possibility that any record I'd ever craved was in the room somewhere—the real problem was knowing where to start. And that is indeed a problem: Knowing that I could easily blow a few hundred at every table I passed, I kept delaying the moment. So I'd been there for three hours, my friends were getting bored verging on pissed off, and I still hadn't made a single purchase.

            The table that drew me strongest was the guy in the far-left corner, who had nothing but 60s and 70s singles, all Northern soul and garage/psych, all genuine collectibles priced at 50 dollars or more. I figured I could treat myself with one, but the knowledge that everything there could be an undiscovered gem proved the most overwhelming. Which tracks did I already own on compilations I'd long forgotten about? Should I trust the dealer if I just asked for a great garage record? Forget it—I just left his stock behind and moved on.

            Most of my purchases were done in one frantic 45 minute sweep, but quite a productive one. The good folks at Norton Records had some reissues I'd long desired, so I got their "Stomp/Shout/Work It On Out" series of 60s Northwest garage. My other favorite reissue label Sundazed also had a table, where I snagged the Byrds double-10 inch outtakes disc "Another Dimension" for $16, half of what I'd seen it going for in Boston.

            Those I could have found anywhere, but I did unearth some rarities. I'd been on the lookout for the 70s albums by Jessie Hill, the New Orleans R&B master best known for "Ooh Poo Pah Doo," but who got into a more modern funk style during the 70s (I can vouch that nobody in New Orleans has those for sale, but I scored in NYC). From a cheaper singles dealer I found a disc that Johnny Rivers cut for the Big Tree label in 1971, which had never been on an album. And a mere seven dollars got me the Roulette album by the Au Go Go Singers, the folk group which sent two of its members to the Buffalo Springfield. From a table full of ultra-obscure UK import CD's a grabbed a two-fer of the first two albums by the English jazz-rock band If, who recorded for Capitol in the early 70's (ever hear "Your City is Falling"? You should). Best of all, one table had an assortment of soft-core porn records that were big in 60s bachelor pads; these featured Playboy type nudie covers and suggestive songs allegedly performed by the cover models. Most of these went for a hundred dollars or more; but $20 got me one with a beat-up cover. I would hate to speculate how it got that way.

            Not a bad haul. My next stop was the Sonics reunion at Cavestomp!, reminding me why I love records and music in the first place.  

When I hit town in the 80s I used to dream of bring featured in Boston Groupie News....Took some time but that fine publication has done a nifty photo spread on the book release party here: http://www.bostongroupienews.com/BrettsBookBash.html

For best results, pull out the T-shirt you wore when you last went to the Rat, put your Neighborhoods, Lyres and Nervous Eaters discs on shuffle, and enjoy.

 

 

            Alright, it's now two weeks since the Sound of Our Town release party and my head is just about clearing. What do you say about one of the best nights of your life? After all those weeks worrying about what would go wrong...nothing did. I already know I'd have a great time but I wanted this to be a proud night for Boston, one where the local legends could bask in the glory, and I think we pulled that off. As for me, I got my favorite people in the crowd and my favorite bands onstage- I felt like a kid at the best birthday party ever. Or like Jan & Dean hosting the TAMI show. Here they come from all over the world. House is already half-full at 8pm, air conditioner has long since stopped working, Marlene looks even more like a film star than usual..We're ready to go.

            Muck & the Mires drew the opening slot and bless their hearts, they packed a half-dozen songs into a 15-minute slot. Always loved these guys' mix of garage blast and Mrseybeat tuneage, and they provided the first breathless moment of the night by kicking into Richard & the Young Lions' "Open Up Your Door" as the caper. Second breathlss moment came when Robin Lane led the Chartbusters into "Send Me an Angel," to my mind one of the most beautiful things she's written. Love that vulnerable catch in her voice when she sings the chorus. Good to see Asa Brebner on guitar for the first time this evening; he'll log a few hours onstage before the night's over. The Twinemen make things slinky and funky; Laurie sounds great and I like to think that Mark Sandman jhas entered the room through Dana's vocalizing.

            MC Pat McGrath is in his glory, introducing everyone according to which pages they occupy in the book. The night is quickly turning into a blur. The Nervous Eaters blast through "Loretta" and "Just Head" before Andy Pratt joins them, the first big surprise of the night: Hadn't heard him in years, but he's doing "Avening Annie" 40 years later with the falsetto absolutely intact. I grab him on the way offstage and say something like "Wow, you've still got every high note." "Yeah, of course I do," he replies. Of course. Meanwhile Willie Alexander is doing "At the Rat," I scan the room and see Eric Martin hanging with the Bristols, Rat owner Jim Harold is in the crows somewhere…

 I make it to the side of the stage for the "house band" set; hang out with Angeline's Linda Viens and the extremely busy stage manager Wayne Podworny. The next 45-odd minutes have me in awe ad more guests take the stqage: the Classic Ruins rocking up "Heart Attack," Rich Parsons in formal dres doing Unnatural Axe's "Summertime," Liz Borden harking back tyo her Axes days…More highlights keep coming: Barrence Whitfield comes in from his niece's graduation to do "Big Fat Mama," a meaningful tune if there ever was one. Dennis Brennan looks dapper and summone primal energy on the Remains' "Don't Look Back." Mickey Clean comes out of retirement and nearly steals the show. John Powhida channels the Cars and reminds us of the joys of Rockworld; the Charms' Ellie & Joe are rock monsters and sex symbols. Nothing can follow that but Peter Wolf, who does "Pack Fair & Square" with the trademark Wolf moves. Amazing. And it's still not even eleven yet.

            I run interference during Andrea Gillis' set and link the Shods up with Real Kids leader John Felice, who we'd tried to reach before the show and couldn't. Fortunately  the Shods can do "All Kindsa Girls" perfectly, so that collaboration turns ut to be another peak, withSHods leader Kevin Stevenson grinning while Felice takes the lead. A pair of all-time faves, the Neighborhoods and Lyres, both play short but impeccable sets; I get a "Hookwinked" dedication and Lyres do one of the best of the million "Help You Ann" versions I've heard. It all winds up with the Gravel Pit, who invite friend and Figg Mike Gent up for a Boston classic by the Dogmatics. And so a few decades of musical and personal history ends up with "Pussywhipped." Too perfect.