The Ken Kase Group will play two shows in April. They will be our final performances. We'll be at Lemmon's in St. Louis on April 4th and at the Spot in Chicago on April 18th.

We had a good run. We got to open for Chuck Berry. We got to play Chicago. We put out a really good single and even made a video. But a number of factors led us to the decision to throw in the towel. Running a rock band is a dicey proposition even in the best of times, and, like most people, the economic downturn has had an effect on our lives both personally and professionally.

But in the two years since I reformed the KKG, I have come to realize that fronting a rock band is no longer my ambition. I am happiest when I'm writing and recording or playing onstage in a capacity where the attention is less intensely focused on me. My love for making music has not changed, but my motivations have. I will continue to write, record and release new music because that is what I truly love to do.

I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to John Holt, Eric James, Paul Bordeaux and Steve Mortellaro for their often unrewarded but very much appreciated efforts to help me get my music out there. Although we had our share of struggles, we also had the privilege of making music with good friends.

--kk

After the St. Louis Cardinals won the World Series in 2006, I gave my TV away. I was right in the middle of a mass communication master's program at the time, and studying the sordid business of television made certain realities as crystal clear to me as an HD broadcast.

Faced with a medium that increasingly reveled in its own excesses, wallowed in its own history and congratulated itself for its own cultural relevance, I was convinced that I could be doing other things with my time. I put my viewing excesses aside, wallowed in my inflated, thirty-ish liberal sense of cultural superiority and congratulated myself for taking a stand against corporate hegemony.

As a result, I wrote more music, read more books, got in a little exercise, took up meditation and admittedly spent way too much time online, some of it watching TV shows. But at least I had my self-respect.

We watched a lot of television in my house when I was a kid, probably because my parents remembered a time when there was no such thing as television and were determined to make up for years of boredom, longing and imaginative splendor of a childhood spent in front of the radio.

In 1982, I saw Mommie Dearest, the sensational flop about Joan Crawford's innovative parenting methods, over twenty times. Why? Certainly not because it was a classic but simply because it was on twice a day and it was summer, after all. I also know the entire scripts of Kramer vs. Kramer, Arthur, Red Dawn, Blue Thunder and On Golden Pond by heart for the same reason.

The advent of paying for television instilled in many a maniacal desire to get value for money, and if the quality of consumer goods and entertainment were somehow lacking, then by God, the sheer quantity of inferior stuff we could consume would make up for it. I see that some things haven't changed.

Kate and I were house sitting for friends over the holidays. In addition to staying in a nice place and playing with the dogs, we got to watch hundreds of cable channels on a television bigger than God. In one week, I made up for lost time. I was ready to plunge into mindless viewing, mostly because my computer was broken. But, I reasoned, i needed to stay current in media trends or they'd take my degree away.

It's sort of like having to re-up your CPR certification every once in awhile to keep from killing somebody when giving them mouth to mouth. My quest from the couch was a refill on media literacy to preserve my credentials and reaffirm all the horrible things I believe to be wrong with the world. And what did I see...?

After two years of abstaining mindlessly flipping channels to find something, I was amazed at how little had actually changed. Bravo! still runs several hours of The West Wing every day. many of the new shows seemed much like the old ones--middle-aged housewives in Orange County, has-been celebrities competing for one last close-up and gastronomic porn via the Food Network.

With the onset of dire economic times, I wondered what would become of all the dicers, slicers, exercise machines and other crappy, poorly designed ephemera that would probably end up in a landfill but were still heavily advertised. The best ad was for an aerobic exercise program that taught women how to dance like strippers and lose unsightly inches. Women in body suits gave chair dances to nobody, and there was even an optional stripper's pole available. OK, maybe TV had changed a little.

I saw an amazing documentary about the rain forest on National Geographic that had brilliant, vivid photography. On the same channel, I saw a horrible documentary on the twelve deadliest animals of India, which basically consisted of a lot of footage of brown people re-enacting snake bites and pretending to be mauled by elephants intercut with stock nature footage.

I thought of how I could produce and equally gratuitous and exciting show called Twelve Deadliest Appliances at Ken's House , in which I re-enact confrontations with household items. Half-blind people wrestling with simple domestic chores and battling with appliances would surely be funny to someone. or at least offensive.

Most of the same movies aired endlessly on HBO in 1982 were still on, apparently running continuously while I graduated high school and college, wrote and performed music, got married and divorced, made albums and wrote copy. I watched some old favorites again, like Paul Newman in The Verdict--a film I had always liked, but appreciated much, much more twenty-odd years later. The movies and indeed the whole medium of television hadn't changed much, but I realized that I had.

That's about all the wisdom I can wring out of that premise, folks. But what do you expect from me? I've been watching television for one week straight!

Happy New Year, everybody. I promise I'll get back to blogging regularly in 2009.

In the summer of 1990, I worked at a trashy, strip mall record store in Cave Springs, MO. My job was to keep the classical section organized (the very skill that got me hired) and to sell Bel Biv Devoe cassettes. The manager gave me quite a start on my first day when she asked me to talk to her in her office. She was in her late thirties and I could sense that she was more than a little out of her mind. I think she enjoyed scaring the shit out of timid twenty-year-olds.

"Ken, I think I should tell you that I suffer from PMS and there will be times when you just have to give me some space."

Years later, I now realize that what she was really saying was: "I'm going to mask my hostilities and contempt for everyone in the whole world in the guise of an affliction beyond my control. By absolving myself of responsibility for how I act, I can therefore justify my horrible, bullying behaviors and put you in a position where you have no method of recourse--no matter how hard you try to please me, and no matter much shit I dump on you."

At the time I felt a rush of adrenaline akin to the lion tamer who walks into the cage on his first day, unpacking his hat and whip and hoping to God he is able to sustain his limb count by the time the whistle blew at five o'clock.

People used to try to pull scams there all the time. The burnouts would dig out a Blue Oyster Cult tape from the floor of a '77 El Camino with no case and no receipt and try to con me into a refund. This would lead to a five minute argument, during which I would invariably point out that the tape in question did indeed look as though it had been found on the floor of a '77 El Camino. If they needed beer and weed money that badly, they might have considered getting jobs. Such was the economic infrastructure of St. Charles County back in the old days.

I remember this one kid in a denim jacket who lost one of these pointless, mind-numbing arguments. "You fuckin' suck, dude!" I actually smiled and chuckled. "Sorry, man." I was impervious to Spicolian epithets, however expediently timed.

But at twenty years old, even I wasn't the becrusted and jaded tunesmith who stands before you now. Before the weight of the world put the squeeze on my idealism, I was a comparatively naive kid, and my eagerness to please sometimes led people to the false assumption that it was OK to push me around.

I left the record store to go back to college. My next job was in the Webster University cafeteria. The great thing was that it was a job I couldn't possibly screw up no matter how hard I tried. I put the salad bar out, served food, washed dishes and emptied the suggestion box. The suggestion box yielded many priceless gems of wisdom like, "The mashed potatoes are always cold," "This food fucking sucks," and my personal favorite, "Ken Kase should be required to wear a hair net. He is disgusting and I will not eat food served by him." Since I was in charge of the suggestion box, I dispatched my responsibilities, sending on those suggestions with the most merit. It's good to be king.

The most intriguing character was the head chef, who happened to be French, believe it or not. He was a short guy with a neurotic twitch that seemed to come from his whole body. He walked around in his big white chef's hat and spoke in a silly French accent that betrayed the gruesome truth of his stature and station. He was, after all, a French chef whose primary responsibilities were pizza, industrial soy burgers and tuna casserole. He talked with his hands and blurted out inappropriate modifiers, and walked around as though it was the kitchen of Tavern on the Green, routinely losing his mind over the hot dogs being served at less than optimum temperature or the shoddy way in which the Rice Krispy treats were cling wrapped. What, after all, did we know about fine food?

It wasn't the mystery of how a guy like him got the job. It was the mystery of what job he had to have completely blown to end up as a French cafeteria guy. What culinary crime did one have to commit to traverse the journey from crepes to crapes?

Certainly his fall from grace was due to incompetence, not malice. In years to come, I would see malice practiced on the job, and it was not pretty. For a time, I bussed tables at a greasy spoon on the graveyard shift. I had a couple in a booth nearby the working station and I was dutifully pumping a young woman full of hot coffee. I poured her a cup that sat next to the saucer on the table. She looked up disapprovingly.

"I can't believe you just did that."

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"That was really bad, pouring it into the cup next to the saucer like that. Bring me a new cup."

"Well, fuck you!" I said. Well, OK--not really. But I was thinking it so loud that it could have been mistaken for speech by even the most dull-witted telepath sitting anywhere in a five mile radius. I apologized again and said I would get her another cup.

"Hey," she said, "just trying to help you get good tips!"

"WELL, FUCK YOU!" I said. All right, I didn't. But I don't take kindly to bullying, and such an outburst was utterly justified.

I went back to the waiter's station and told one of the overnight waiters what had just happened. "Can you believe that? She's getting all bent out of shape over the fact that I poured coffee into a cup that wasn't on its saucer--and isn't that her responsibility?"

"That bitch," he said. "Fuck her."

He had a glint in his eye that signified opportunity recognized--that mischievous sparkle of inspiration beyond traditionally held beliefs related to good and evil, existing in the realm of moral absolutes and inevitable action.

Ten minutes later, he clasped my elbow and whispered in my ear. "You won't have to worry about her."

"Why?" I asked with a slight grin of anticipation.

"I put a little bleach into her coffee. When she gets home, she should be on the toilet for a few hours."

My grin turned into the open gape of horror. "You did what?"

"Just a little bit of bleach. It won't hurt her."

"Well, you really didn't have to do that, man. I wasn't that pissed at her!"

"Don't worry. She'll be fine. Fuck her, anyway."

I then realized what too many years in food service could do to a guy. It could turn you into an absolute psycho. Don't piss off your servers, people. It's a policy that I've adhered to very strictly since that fateful day.

Not that anyone ever worried about pissing me off. There aren't a whole hell of a lot of near blind people working in food service--not, at least, waiting tables. But wait tables I did at the legendary Wabash Triangle Cafe. I was freakin' Superman with a tray full of entrees, able to deal the right dish to the right customer without tripping or spilling anything. I was the blind equivalent of the guy on the Ed Sullivan Show who used to spin the plates, except with food on them.

One day, I accidentally bumped someone's elbow, prompting him to say, "What's the matter with you--are you blind?" I smiled stupidly and walked away, while Calvin, the owner and proprietor gently whispered that yes, in fact, their server was blind. I'm told the look of guilt and anguish across the customer's face was too perfect for words. I got a nice tip. We laughed ourselves sick after they left.

So there you go--one moment of sweet and appropriate revenge that didn't cause anyone to rush to the john or get me punched in the face. Many people work their whole lives without that kind of vindication, and although I may piss and moan about my work history, I know in my heart that I'm luckier than most. A little petty vindication beats a capful of bleach in your coffee any day.

People don't move to St. Louis for the climate

Summer in St. Louis can turn erudite, educated, civic-minded and respected men into Stanley Kowalski. Stripped to the waist, once eloquent community leaders bellow from fire escapes with hearts full of lust and their hands full of the cool condensation from an ice-cold can of Budweiser, pleading with Stella Artois and raising their fists in the face of an unmerciful God who is quite obviously Belgian.

Once-threatening waters are receding from the steps of the Arch, but dread doesn't recede quite so quickly from the hearts and minds of St. Louisans. The character-building climate sears resolve into the furrowed brows of a a weary but tenacious people, and the old familiar distinctions between cop and crook, sinner and saved, dandy or down-and-out, melt away in the heat of the day and simmer under cover of darkness. Regardless of status, whether real or ascribed, we are brothers and sisters baptized in sweat. In this heat, it doesn't matter where you went to high school.

But wait! There comes a glimmer of hope! The Ken Kase Group is releasing their new single! The proud men and women of St. Louis have patiently waited eight years for a sign of hope, and in the midst of uncertainty and despair, their prayers have seemingly been answered.

On Saturday, July 19th, inflation woes will seem trivial. Rising gas prices will seem a mere dawdle. The housing market crisis, credit woes, presidential politics, the nagging thought that you might have left the oven on when driving to work, the rising cost of foam packing pellets, the inevitable magnetic reversal of the poles, global warming, the switch to digital TV, the Middle East crisis, corruption, that funny smell in your car that you can't quite identify, violence, the A-B buyout, recession, missing socks...will all be forgotten when the weekend arrives.

The Ken Kase Group's CD release party for "Shiner" is scheduled for Saturday, July 19th, at 10:00 PM at Cicero's, 6691 Delmar in the University City Loop. Tight Pants Syndrome will open the show, and Tom "Papa" Ray, KDHX's harp-wielding Soul Selector himself, will perform with the band on "Chocolatown".

These are the first new KKG recordings in eight years, so come on down and join the fun! The Ken Kase Group is a great hedge against angst and a welcome antidote to existential summer ennui.

--kk

Since MTV appeared in the summer of 1981, many have assumed credit for creating the first music video. But such credit carries with it the baggage of blame, and nobody wants that. The most likely precursor to the music video as we know it came during the 30s and 40s in the form of "Soundies"--short performance films by the big stars of the day that played on jukebox-like contraptions that loaded up a film of Fats Waller for ten cents.

The Beatles' "A Hard Days Night" trumped all other jukebox musicals of the day. Richard Lester's experiments with newly developed lenses, intuitive and spontaneous direction and ingenious editing set the tone for the promotional films that would soon follow. Tiring of the road and countless television appearances, the band started to issue mimed performances of their latest singles. Since then, such promo films became more common, especially in Australia and the UK in the late seventies.

The epoch of music videos was ground zero for the battle between style and substance in popular music--a dialectic that has evolved in the medium of popular song since the beginnings of Tin Pan Alley to the present day. The age of MTV forbade true rock and roll realism and ugliness in favor of slick and easily marketable screen stars who may or may not play, write or sing. It proved to be a very effective placebo for hyperactive teens who stared at MTV for hours, and thus an effective means of social control. People in Iowa discovered Thomas Dolby, The Jam, XTC and Talking Heads until the record industry started pouring money into production when Michael Jackson embraced the new medium.

Since then, MTV has become much more about game shows and reality television than music videos. But music videos are still around and still an effective promotional tool for indie artists. Put your vid on You Tube and anyplace else you can think of and you can direct people to your music.

Todd Kennedy Mattson is a filmmaker who just so happened to be a bass player in the Groupers with me and John Holt. He suggested making a video for us and we quickly agreed to a shoot to promote our upcoming single, "Shiner".

Unfortunately, I got a very severe cold just before shooting began. We set up in John's basement, our usual practice space, which has decidedly cellar-like in decor and climate. Over two nights, we sat in an enclosed, humid space with 1000 watt studio lights and mimed "Shiner" nearly thirty times before we were done. Had I known what I was truly in for, I would not have worn a black wool suit jacket. My head felt like it weighed four hundred pounds. It was a tough shoot, but we were all good sports.

So I guess it was an indie band rite of passage. Although I've released discs before, I've never had a professional video shot, so this should be interesting. Interesting, if only to see how well our youthful but experienced visages will be in serve to the promotion of the music. Maybe it's better that they don't see us, but I'm optimistic. If we accomplish nothing else, our mothers might get to see us on television. Hi, mom.

Many people have asked me about the guitar that I'm usually seen with onstage and in the studio, so I thought I'd write this little piece. My tolerance for gear chatter is incredibly low, so if you don't know about guitars, you should read on anyway. I don't know much either, and this piece is more philosophical than anything.

I'm so simple minded that I can't stand anything that doesn't consistently get a great sound every time I plug it in. If I have to work at it, then I can't be bothered. Going to the music shop is like going to the dentist for me. I just can't stand it. My knowledge of musical equipment is rudimentary at best. I can't roll off a list of guitar makes and models and their attributes like some people can. Go into any guitar shop in the country and you'll hear guys standing around talking about guitars and amps as though they were used cars. I was never into cars, either, which may explain my apathy towards gear banter. To me, an instrument is only worth the music that's made on it, and the guitars I have are merely tools to be used, not relics to be worshiped.

A lot of players cover up the fact that they have limited musical knowledge by immersing themselves in the facts and figures of equipment. When you go into a guitar store, you're expected to be able to speak that kind of language and then back it up by plugging a guitar into something and wailing your ass off to ensure status. Such prick waving is tiresome to me, and I can't be bothered going in anymore. Our very own Eric James is a rare breed. He has a jones for gear, but can back it up with formidable chops. I've taken to sending him in when I need something, since I'm so delicate.

I've been using the same sound for nearly twenty years. I can play reasonably well, but as a songwriter, my main goal is to get instruments to make the sounds necessary to fulfill the needs of songs that I write. If I can't make them do the job, then I get somebody like Eric to do it.

In 1992, I had enough money to buy my first really high-quality guitar, and I decided that the guitar would be a Rickenbacker. I learned about Rickenbackers the way most people have since 1963--by seeing the Beatles pictured with them and hearing their records. Like most people, I was entranced by their uniqueness and elegance. Given the fact that some of my favorite artists used them--Harrison, Lennon, Pete Townshend, Roger McGuinn, Paul Weller, Peter Buck--I just knew it was for me, and I sought one out.

Back in 1980, I was quite the young Beatles fan, and I had the good fortune to attend a Beatles convention in New Haven, Connecticut at the age of ten. While I was there, there was a guy named Tony Saks who was displaying a Rickenbacker 365 model made in 1964 which was autographed in gold by all four Beatles. I remember standing in front of him as he spoke to the crowd.

Much to my surprise and shock, he looked at me and said, "Put out your hands." I put my hands flat out and he put the Rick on top of my palms. He said, "You're holding a guitar that was held and played by all four Beatles before they signed it." I was in awe, but my only wish was that he would take it back before I dropped it!

I mention this because I've been reading a really interesting and fun book by Andy Babiuk called "The Beatles Gear" which details all the instruments used by the Beatles with pictures, documentation and backstory. As I read about the 365, I had a moment of clarity..."Wow! The first Rickenbacker I ever saw up close and held was that autographed 365! No wonder I'm a Rickenbacker nerd!"



Twelve years later, I bought the Rick you see pictured here. It's a 1992 330 with a Mapleglo finish and black pickguard and name plate. I ordered it by mail from American Musical Supply for $880, including the case. A good deal, especially since they go for almost twice that now. Like everyone else, I wanted either black or red with white plastic, but they were out of them. But I had to have it, regardless of the color! I ordered the natural wood version, and I'm so glad that I did. It's really striking and distinctive. Most other maple finish Ricks I've seen have white plastic instead of black, so I assume that this Mapleglo and black plastic combination is somewhat rare.

I love the way it sounds. I'm primarily a rhythm guitarist, and the 330 has a cutting, growly chug-chug necessary to make my little songs go. It feels great--incredible action on a slim neck, not too wide for my little fingers. I've never had a lick of trouble with it. I plug it in and it plays fine, sounding consistently the same every single time through just about any amp. It's the primary color in my palette, and my ten year old self would be astonished that the grown up Ken actually owns one. I have other guitars I use for other purposes, but this is my main guitar that I will never get rid of. Not great for leads, but I have other guitars for that in the studio. My Rick 330 is a true prince among frogs.

The extent of my guitar fetishism is not too far away from that of others. It was my first real American-made guitar and I was so proud to own it and use it. It has been a consistent presence in my life, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't fanning my feathers a little when I play it on stage.

So that's the story. But one more thing: For God's sake, it's pronounced RickenBACKer, not RickenBACHer! You can look that one up.

This past weekend, we took the band to Chicago for the first time in the 13-year history of the KKG. While we knew that we would have fun, we didn't know just how much of a warm reception we would receive there. IPO Chicago was a blast, and I've posted an album of photos you can see.

I took a few extra days to see friends and do some last-minute promotion for the gig. My life in St. Louis has become increasingly entwined with the city of Chicago. I do some writing for businesses there, and I have a group of friends who live there--some of whom I have known for over twenty years. That association with Chicago has intensified in the past year, and I'm quite at home navigating the city via public transport. It's great to get around, and I love doing business and having fun there.

The night before the gig, I made plans to visit the club we were playing. The Abbey is quite a nice venue, holding about 500 people and boasting a fine sound and stage set up. I caught the L from a neighborhood on the North Side on the way to a meeting place to see my good pal, Tom. As I rode the train, an announcement informed me that the train would stop running at Grand due to an accident. I wasn't worried, because the stop I needed came before the temporary end of the line.

My friend coordinates disaster response for the city of Chicago and, fearing he might be called in, told me what was happening. A guy in an 18-wheeler came screaming off the Dan Ryan Expressway at full speed and slammed into the Cermak/Chinatown L station, killing two people and injuring 21. It was truly horrible. Since it made national news, I put in a call to home and left a message on Kate's machine:

"Kate. It's me. Just in case you turn on the news, there was a terrible accident with a tractor-trailer mowing into an L station. I just wanted you to know that I was not involved in causing the accident, nor was I a victim of it. Just thought you should know, sweetie."

Having dispatched my responsibilities at home, I set my sights on the task at hand, which involved checking out the club. The rest of the band would be along the next day and I wanted to tell them what it was all about. Then it was off to an Irish bar in River West for car bombs and conversation in what Tom and I consider to be our natural environment--that is, sitting on bar stools before a stout yeoman pulling Guinesses.

The next day, Tom and I drove to Algonquin, Illinois--a cool fifty miles or so away, so Tom could buy a motorcycle. Not exactly on the itinerary, but I'm a spontaneous guy. In fact, it gave us the chance to talk some more and enjoy the sunny drive out. He had his eye on a Ducati--a sexy Italian racer in a lot full of hogs and Kawasakis. It was a thing of beauty--a true pearl before swine, a fine Chianti in a beer hall, a tuxedo in a closet full of Hawaiian shirts. As he worked out the details, I was descended upon by sales guys attracted to my all-too-evidently blossoming mid-life crisis and good credit rating. I said no, thanks, although I would support getting motorcycles for the visually impaired. People would get out of the way.

The show was a lot of fun, and bringing the band to Chicago was a great personal triumph for me. In the thirteen of-and-on-again history of the band, we never played Chicago. We had played in other cities, but I just never had the opportunity. The other bands and the audience were gracious, and I think we performed extremely well. There were several friends on the bill, and Doug Bobenhouse from the Sun Sawed in 1/2 (in the old days) and the Effingways sang with us. Doug has done backup vocals with me ever since we recorded the Sun's Bewilderbeest album, and it felt good to have him up there with us. I was proud, and I couldn't wait to do it again.

I have managed to hold onto friends who have meant so much to me for decades whose support has never waned. I brought the group to Chicago to show them what we can do. I ate a whole pizza with Sopf, walked down Clark in Andersonville with Rachel singing "I Love to Singa" at the top of our lungs, and generally did some badly-needed living for a few days. I realized how truly fortunate I am. These folks have done great things and are still going strong. They have been so supportive and enthusiastic about my music and writing. But I don't think they know how much I am proud of them. I have no doubt that we will all continue to do amazing things. My talented friends--in St. Louis, Chicago and all over the world-- continue to thrill and delight me, and I am proud to call them family.

So I guess I learned something.

As Kate and I slept this morning, St. Louis shook. A 5.2 magnitude earthquake centered about 125 miles east of the city rattled the midwest. I didn't know this at the time, but when I awoke I read of the quake in the news. I was appalled that I had missed it. It had apparently been a good one, lasting 30 seconds. And there I was, dreaming away.

I settled down to work at my desk. At 10:15 AM I felt an insistent vibration. Often, a large truck driving by will cause my house to shake. But this went on a bit too long. I felt an insistent pulse going through my body--one that felt like it was produced mechanically. I placed my hands flat on my desk and straightened up my back, feeling the waves go through my body in an up-and-down motion. I smiled, caught up in the novelty of the sensation and the triumph of at least feeling the aftershock, if not the quake. I wrote to friends in Chicago. Those who work in high rise buildings felt the aftershocks even more distinctly.

The thing is, it's not our fault. The epicenter of the quake was located on the Illinois/indiana border in the Wabash Seismic Zone. St. Louis lies perilously close to the New Madrid fault--a continental wound that last threw a tantrum in 1812, temporarily reversing the course of the Mississippi river, ringing churchbells in Boston and swallowing up entire towns along the river. The still largely virgin countryside of the former Louisiana Territory was sparsely populated, and St. Louis was just a little town. Now, it is a different story.

In the years since the last great quake, St. Louis became a boom town. After a 19th century fire akin to that suffered by Chicago, wooden structures were no longer permitted. St. Louis became a town of iron and brick. Yes, brick. We're lousy with it. The whole town is made of brick laid by master German artisans with narry a thought to the fact that the city sat on a giant fault line with a bad attitude.

When small quakes erupt, people get nervous around here. A sizable quake could cause a human disaster of epic proportions. With virtually no earthquake-proof structures (except for the Arch, which is a pity because no one lives in it), the city of St. Louis would be shaken as if through a sieve in the hands of a grizzled 1890's gold prospector, shaken down to its most bare and essential elements as the dust and mortar of two hundred years passed through like sand. Or so they say.

Hey, I live in a wood framed farm house from the turn of the century that was built on a spot that wasn't even in the city a hundred years ago. The city has since surrounded my quaint little farm house, enveloping it in a labyrinth of brick and cement. Mine may be the last house standing in my neighborhood if the shit really hits the fan. It has withstood tornadoes, ice storms, urban encroachment and now, another small earthquake and the resulting aftershocks. I feel pretty good about my chances. Existence in the midwest is predicated on many tacit truces with nature, and such events remind me that we are merely renting the land upon which we toil, and the deeds to our properties are merely temporary.

Between the tornado sirens, the floods and the earthquake tremors, signs of the impending impermanence of our mailing addresses are always in evidence. We are brought to attention on our toes, and then succumb to a blissful amnesia that allows us to make increasingly elaborate development deals on riverfront property, design new housing developments of brick and mortar, and gives us reason to ask what exactly went wrong. Again, we pace inside our homes like Norse gods clutching crumpled eviction notices, aware of our tenuous footing on the terrain of home, yet somehow convinced of our immortality and imperviousness to the very elements that rattle us.

Hey, everyone. I wanted to share a little something with you. My wonderful girlfriend, Kate has started a new blog. She's quite the chef and her blog is primarily about (but not limited to) the delicious and interesting food she makes. In addition to being a marvelous cook, she's also a very funny person, and her creations and recipes and such are peppered with her wry and dry wit. Go visit her blog and check back often for new stuff.

Visit Strange Cookies on Blogger and see for yourself.

I hope everyone is well and happy. Be good. Take care.

--kk

Please don’t take it in sleight that I have neglected you, my brothers and sisters in blog. I’m working on a swell essay for you, but a bit if shameless self promotion and and perhaps a welcome peer behind the scenes at the life of an indie pop band (which is actually what this blog is supposed to be about, anyway).

Our energies are currently directed towards delivering a good set in Chicago on April 26th, as well as developing artwork and such to promote it. This is a great opportunity to present our music to a concentrated crowd of folks who really enjoy what we do. Taking that into consideration, one might think that our advertisement for the IPO festival program is a bit strange. This is the handiwork of ace bassist Paul Bordeaux, who also happens to be an ace graphic artist. Every indie band should have one--and in fact, I think every indie band does. If you don’t, you’re pretty much sunk.

Although a little sinister, I love the expression on the woman in the contraption--a big smile--and the hum-drum, all-in-a-day’s-work demeanor of the scientist. One could interpret this as symbolic of our efforts to play this music. We smile although it’s taxing, and after all these years, writing and performing is par for the course.

All right, that’s a bit much. Even for me. But getting the band together again has been an unqualified success so far, and those of you who signed on in the early stages of getting this page together have seen a transformation from historical repository to palpable reality.

Last year, when I threatened to start rehearsals again, I was struck by the fact that sticking around all these years has really turned out to be a good thing. The musicians I work with are all people I’ve worked with on and off and in various configurations for the last twenty years. In that time, we’ve all become better musicians and more effective strategists in terms of the banal chores of preparing and promoting the music. The KKG has seen the likes of some truly gifted musicians, and every step forward we’ve taken over the last thirteen years has been the result of their collective efforts. Whether it’s tenacity or masochism, the beast has been reawakened, and our task now is to provide it with sustenance.

To a large number of folks in the world, some of the songs I’ve been performing for years are all brand new, and the response we’ve been getting from around the world indicates that there are people out there with whom our music resonates. This year, we’re engaged in many efforts to make that music more readily available to those who want to hear it while building and maintaining a community of people who hold an appreciation of our music in common. We’re glad to have you along for the ride!

Rehearsals are going well, and now that the new band has largely mastered the old song catalog, newer songs are coming to the fore. This group is developing its own identity and sound, and the new songs reflect the coming of age for the current lineup. Plenty of fodder for new recordings, which we’re shooting for this year.

The Playback StL show at Cicero’s has The Late House and Music for Animals on the bill, and we’re looking forward to headlining this show. Damn good practice for our Chicago set next month.

Doug Bobenhouse from the Sun Sawed in 1/2 and the Effingways will be singing with us at the Abbey in Chicago on April 26th, by the way, thus completing a crucial circuit in the St. Louis pop band schematic.

The Maxtone Four is one of the best bands in St. Louis, and we love playing shows with them. Our Cicero’s show is on Saturday, May 23rd, and the nicely balanced double bill should be a good show.

Anyway, that’s all for now. Below is a list of gigs coming up in St. Louis and Chicago. Hope to see you at at least one of them.

--kk

Tuesday, April 1st
w/ The Late Hours (Edwardsville, IL) & Music for Animals (San Francisco)
Cicero’s | 6691 Delmar | University City, MO 63130 | 314.862.0009

Playback StL Showcase
The Late Hours (9:15-10:00)
Music for Animals (10:20-11:05)
Ken Kase Group (11:25-12:15)

Saturday, April 26th
International Pop Overthrow-Chicago
The Abbey | 3420 W Grace | Chicago, IL | 773-478-4408

7:30 The Pranks
8:00 The Smith Bros.
8:30 The Sonnets
9:00 The Nice Outfit
9:30 Swinger
10:00 Ken Kase Group
10:30 The Backroom
11:00 The Redline

Saturday, May 23rd
Double bill with The Maxtone Four
Cicero’s | 6691 Delmar | University City, MO 63130 | 314.862.0009

9:30 Ken Kase Group
11:00 The Maxtone Four