We've returned from another weekend of group splat, this time in the red land of Finnster, R.A. Miller and St. EOM to name a few of our forefathers. Justin and Matt of Le Chateau Noir were kind enough to add us to an already killer bill featuring local and traveling acts like Pony Bones, Mars Killed Mary, Curious Hair, and Butterfly Eaten Horse Head. The chateau is a jewel all its own, think grey gardens, but late 50's stone mountain klan mansion and you'll spook yourself properly.
We performed "The Cockfight," sparrow and myself cloaked and masked, nearly eaten by the tribe of loose dogs who humped each other in fits of homosexual beauty all night long. Then we proceeded to lay down a quartet fit--sax, guitar, clarinet, toms, live sound manipulations courtesy of Other Voices, Other Rooms (who I keep encouraging to start a myspace page!). I lacerated both index fingers punching a floor tom, but it seemed right. Did I mention the room we played in was outfitted in creep lodge cedar, cathedral ceiling and enough cat piss to purify a wiccan tabernacle--as the french say, perfect! I thought we stumbled upon a moment of butthole surfers (GA era) hoof vibe somewhere in the middle of the set. Then it was time for teary revery as we sent a wave of love toward the resting place of Abner Jay, sparrow on bass pedal, ms. pace gwine round the bend on the harmonica, ovor jockeying the found sounds, me whipping a banjo with a cello bow, before iggy-ing myself on the rancid floor along with some weirdo and a cpr doll (there's video of this). I sang "Suwannee River" through a gallon of tape delay.
I'd like to think we spun a significant wasp nest in the corner of the barn, but such a feat was no easy task given stellar sets by Mars Killed Mary and Poney Bones. MKM really took the proverbial cake, subverting NWA moves to better explore Current 93 headwind, and fractured tone boogie not too far from Ms. Rylan's jamband. I was impressed, which if you know me, means something. Poney Bones got down to it as well. I once remember reading a Guitar mag back in the early 90's which had a schematic for building an ace frehley smoking pickup--not a tone mod, but actual fire. This backissue was most likely tossed before the members of Pony Bones had bought their first cd, but the connection is figurative anyhow. They smoked guitars without stupid face paint. It really put my mind to work, and I started to sweat.
It turns out that Justin, who lives at the chateau and runs the Sounds from the Pocket label, is Acid Mother's Temple tour dude, and his father paints some mind numbing post surrealist landscapes, with skulls and nude majorettes! He keeps a few of his dad's paintings displayed on the walls, and while I'm not the critic ms. pace is, it was some of the most surprising and counfoundings works I've seen in the "contemporary" era. The night was full of stars including Tom Smith from To live and Shave in LA, and a one-time guitar player in Harry Pussy whose name I've forgotten, but mind blowing just the same. Elyse Perez, who has made some rock vomit with Cock ESP, screamed most of the night but passed out before she could do it into a microphone. To make a long story short, Atlanta has some great music going down, but you'll have to travel to stone mountain to hear it, and why not?  Art is not easy. Besides, even a paremecium couldn't blow its mind at the fucking Star Bar.
Saturday it was on to the Caledonia Lounge in Athens, which is rumored to be the site of the original 40 Watt, so if you're into romance, dig it. Athens used to be the kind of place where you could drink beer in a strange bar, play the tall dwarfs on the jukebox, and buy a Muslimgauze lp at 2 in the morning, but alas all bad things must soon be made good! Even X-Ray Cafe is somewhat grown up. I guess you could say that this, plus the bad time Astral Blessing had when we played the Caledonia (due to the management's refusal to let the magik markers play--don't worry they played thanks to a coup de etat), plus the relatively useless shows Hildegard has played in Athens in the past, had put me in a sour mood. However, I was completely honored to have Creston Spiers of the legenday Harvey Milk on drums. Bad mood and heavy drumming plus inspired moonspank from everyone contributed to a heavy carousel ride. Check for yourself as the incredible Kevin Lane recorded the set and expediently posted it to his site http://kplaradio.blogspot.com/. I listened to it on my way to the grocery store today and when I came back to my car 30 minutes later, all I had in the sack was Tab and Draino and 100 bendable straws. But don't take my word for it, see for yrself.

When I woke up sunday morning, I was greeted by an article on Freak Folk donning the front page of the NY Times Art & Leisure section. After reading the nut graf, I was glad that H.S. Thompson blew his brains out before he could read the proto-commune disease speak wafting from the  crystal  sacks of  today's most hallucinogenic folk acts! Please  kids, if you feel the desire to tune in to  "freak folk" (which is neither by the way), resist the urge, and instead go to ebay or your favorite darkened platter  joint, and  buy anything by  The Dead C,  The Strapping Fieldhands, Borbetomagus, Del Reeves, The Sir Douglas Quintet, Harvey Milk, The Red Krayola, Funkadelic, Ornette Coleman. Stop by your local rare books dealer and ask for some Pasternak first editions. Once he's filled your perscription, head over to your best friends house, tell him to remove that Vetiver cd at once, tell him you've got some bone breaking shit, pack the bubbler and dig in. Once he's sold his custom new weird america cloak on ebay for 50$ more than he paid for it, he'll thank you for reaffirming the age old maxim..."you can't hide a redneck under that hippie hair!"


yours truly,
William Tecumseh Sherman,
or Lucky Strike as they call me in old Atlanta