Music, micro-fiction, recipes, and reviews.
In perfect honesty, my only reason for going to the fair was that I looked at the schedule last night and mentioned to The Crazy Broad that the most impressive event listed was the Doxie Derby.
“The what?”
“It looks like greyhound racing. Only with dachshunds.”
The slightest of pauses. “I’m down with that.”
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So, I was in the gym last night, trying to earn the banana split coming my way later in the evening. The seven o’clock hour (mountain time) is a time of slim pickings when you’ve left your iPod in the car and have to make do with the TV screens in front of you for entertainment. Once The Simpsons is over, the athlete is faced with a terrible choice: one screen one, baseball. Not even a proper match, but a home-run hitting contest. Screen two shows Wife Swap, in which a very short, very laid back mother swapped families with an ultra-competitive… well, whatever, I wasn’t watching it. On screen four, there appeared to be some kind of reality show about picking a woman out of a zillion choices. Fox News Read the rest of this entry »
I’ve had Strange Names and New Sensations
It’s terribly pretentious to write a review of one’s own gig – almost as pretentious as referring to oneself as one. But since the gig was at the Haufbrau, a bar from which I have had occasion to turn away on account of the fistfight taking place in the doorway, I feel a modicum* of pretense probably gets me back to my normal level of poshness. Read the rest of this entry »
Dogs chase cars, men chase dreams
The dogs are the more practical, it seems
Steve Forbert is a slightly unlikely folk hero.He’s too big, for one thing, and isn’t anywhere scruffy enough. He jerks his head back and forth as he sings, perhaps the reason behind the title of his Rocking Horse Head CD. He’s a folk hero… but he rocks.
The Turning Point is about the most intimate – read cramped – venue I’ve seen anyone play in. According to the sign on the wall, it seats a maximum of 69 people; it seems a few short of that number, but is still cosy. Uncomfortably so, given the lack of respect for personal space shown by the nearby New Yorkers who have obviously come to have a crummy time. The voice of a nearby folkie carries along the table: he too appears to be hoping for a poor show so he can say he wasn’t as good as when he saw him at the Gaslight in 1978, or something along those lines.
The most surprising thing about the Gallatin County Fairgrounds Sales Barn is that is doesn’t smell at all like farmyard animals. There are nods to its usual use, most notably the big sign thanking contributors to the Carcass Competition (frankly, I dread to think), but otherwise it’s the kind of quirky, intimate venue that intelligent singer-songwriters ought to thrive in. Seating probably 200 people on uncomfortable wooden slats, it’s hard not to find a good seat.
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