I’m enjoying a good steam and swelter here in Lincoln—105 today!—while I bomb around town in my dad’s Toyota Tundra, obsessively punching through the radio stations, looking for something asskicking and anthemic so I can sing along, pounding out steering wheel drum solos at the red lights.

I have satellite radio in my car, so I’m spoiled for choice, with several NPR stations and all those finely calibrated playlists designed to tickle the ears of the most targeted markets. Late-model Dylan? Check! Sadfuck grindcore with emo overtones? You bet! Godchaux-era board-recordings? Drillbit-assbait techno tunage? Lite rock covered by opera stars? CAN DO! It’s the musical equivalent of fetish sites, where you can parse your longings down to the subtlest erotics. But my car’s still in San Francisco, waiting for me to figure out where I’m headed next, so I’m strictly FM for now.

The radio airwaves here in Lincoln are hostage to the mainstream country stations, heavy on the pro-forma bootstomping and winking homespun, along with what seems like a crap-ton of Christian outposts oozing ecstatic idolatry in the guise of sappy love songs to Jesus (some of which sound promising until they start wailing about “kingdom” or “father” or “glory”), and a million dueling purveyors of classic rock, all named using the article-manly nature noun format: The Eagle, The Rock, The River, The Hawk, each doling out your required daily allowance of SUPERHITZ in Triple Play Weekends and 90-minute Rock Blocks.

You know the tunes, they’re in your bones by now: all those Dixie-fried outlaw stompers, metal classix rendered as heavy as tinfoil through too many listenings, psychedelic riffage that takes you back to bonghits in basements and flaccid revolutions, and all forms of progrock nerdery. (Speaking of which, I had to sit in the driveway the other day until the very last chord of “Tom Sawyer.” I’m not proud. And I’m not ashamed. I also play a mean air flute when certain Jethro Tull songs coil out of the speakers.)

Something about piloting around this amphitheater of truck makes me want bigtime bombast, the propulsive drive that comes from beaten skins and resonating wood. Here’s the hope of radio: that the next song, the next station will give me everything I’m looking for, and right now that’s a head-bangable beat, a thrillingly familiar chorus that’s not so known I can’t stand to hear it again, and the possibility of hair-band slut-shimmying in the driver’s seat. I want my Cherry Pie, my Dirty Deeds. Bring on the boyrock!

Of course, if I had a little cash, I would start up a station of my own and call it The Pebble or The Wren. We’d play only fragile and lovely singer-songwritery tunes: your haunted americana, your dead Buckleys, your lesser-heard seventies-era Laurel Canyon folkrock obscuranta.

What’s your favorite guilty listen? Which songs have you heard too damn many times? And whose tunes would you play on your imaginary radio station?

roadtrip, scrapbook, rock-on amulet, bird stylus

I headed out on Friday morning, feeling all stretchy and hopeful, banging my hand on the steering wheel to a great run of music on satellite radio. Often, I’m all about the voices when I drive, but I needed something with a beat and NPR ain’t got no rhythm.

In fact, I spent most of the trip singing along to the radio as I traveled through the Nebraska flatlands of my youth (ours is a subtle beauty, as grandma-at-the-ranch always said), the large scapes and even larger weather of Wyoming (I swear that state has it in for me), the curve and line of Utah (where you begin high and alpine and end flat and salty), the sleepy majesty of Nevada (which always makes me starey and spacey and voted most likely to drive off the road), and the glorious swoop and roll of California (where you move from evergreens to palm trees on your journey west, and I start to smell the ocean from many miles away).

The first day, just after I heard from the title agent that the closing was over and that I was no longer a homeowner, I made a pilgrimage to Ole’s in Paxton, where the meat is charred and the wildlife is stuffed:

And occasionally judgmental:

My dad always speaks of Ole’s with wolfish glee; I think it has a level of tasty kitsch that just tickles him. It’s not greens and quinoa, but it’s well worth a visit if you’re on your way through.

Past Paxton, the Nebraska landscape starts to get interesting, but by the time it actually gets exciting along I-80, you’re probably already in Wyoming. I’m not sure how it happened, but I missed the welcome signage this time. I knew I’d crossed over the line, though, because I came around a curve and saw this:

And then, a few curves later, I saw this:

Followed by this:

Thank god I’m headed west, I thought, looking at the long line of stopped traffic in the eastbound lane. And look what Klassy Multitaskers we are in these parts. So practical: cocktails and clean laundry!

I was aiming for Rock Springs that first night, which was as much of a sweaty ballsac as before, although the Econolodge has gone downhill since my last stay. I can hang with a certain funk and slop, but even I don’t want to sleep in the stink of strangers who’ve left scuff marks on the wall above the bed. And I don’t want to discover someone’s else’s used tampon applicator next to the toilet. And although I know what it is to travel with road-weary dogs, I do not want to have to think about the legions of incontinent poodles who’ve come before. Also, the microwave was busted, which meant I had to make tea at the Flying J before I could get on the road the next morning. Luckily, I had my traveling snax along with me, so I was set for breakfast:

This was better than the sort of trucker fare that’s available on the road, although at least these delights have a sense of humor:

But that’s not all I saw on my many stops. Before I left Wyoming, I confirmed that my plain single-syllable first name is ridiculously out of fashion in a world of Madisons and Makaylas:

The best part of getting on the road super early is that you’re five hours in before you’ve really woken up.

And on Saturday, that meant I was crossing the Great Salt Lake, my absolute favorite part of the drive:

As you can see, there was plenty of high-speed cellphone photo snappage through the bugdirty windshield.

I stopped at the Bonneville Flats rest area to go tromp on the sand and take some pictures with my big-girl camera, but unfortunately (for posterity and my poor shotglass bladder), my key decided not to come out of the ignition until Elko, Nevada (because every proper trip needs at least one check engine light on or suspicious rattle near the passenger door).

I did do a quick strafing run to the john in Wendover, leaving the keys in the ignition and the window cracked. (A girl has needs, about every 150 miles or so.) On a later stop in Puckerbrush (a name which inflames my inner 11-year old), I found I could get other needs met, as well:

You know, in case I want to avail myself of the Lord or kneel for Jesus or commune with my longhaul brethren around the Good Word and the Epic Drive.

Now that I find myself homeless, I’ve been thinking about how I might want to live. Suddenly, a little camper doesn’t seem so grey-hairs-on-tear anymore, especially if you could feature your spirit animal on the back. Here’s mine:

Don’t mess with this bitch. The bunny’s got my back.

I ended up in Truckee at the end of day 2, staying with an old friend (hi, Tari!) and meeting a bunch of her friends (hi, Evan, Josh, Marc, Amy, Harrison, Zeb, Abby, and that very nice girl whose name I’ve forgotten! I blame the rose´and the road). I came at just the right time for the inaugural rinse in Tari’s new shower. But really, we could all fit in there together:

Next party, perhaps. I have a bunch of great shots from that night, but I’ll save them for another post. Staying with friends was a much better way to welcome myself to this next phase of my life. Being with people over tri-tip and wine kicks the ass of a skeevy room by myself at the Reno Motel 6; really, there’s no contest.

I woke up on Independence day and did a little hanging out, then was on my way down the mountains by 9 am, still singing along to the radio. Then I finally rolled into SF just after noon, where I promptly took a nap with the kitties I’m sitting for the month of July. (Life is short, people—be sure to get plenty of rest.)

There’s probably more to say about this journey and where it’s taken me, but that’s another post on another day. For now, I leave you with all my love and this big white az:

Fearsome warrior rabbit via

This Gil Scott-Heron cover of a Smog track is my new theme song:

Check this cat with the sly-fighter eyes, that worldly smirk unfolding across his face like a lover who’s got your number and can really add you up. Such ease takes time and living to acquire, you’ve got to wear yourself into that groove.

Or maybe I just have a bigoldthing for low-voiced lanky men.

I did not become someone different
That I did not want to be
But I’m new here
Will you show me around?

No matter how far wrong you’ve gone
You can always turn around.

Like I said, this song—no, this version of this song—is my new anthem. It fits where I’m at, and guides where I’m going. Stay tuned for more on that.

That’s about all she sang, folks.

Yeah, that’s right. Look closer. Then go listen to this.

Found the picture in the wilds of my reader not 5 minutes ago, but exactly where I could not say. I am full of regret. And rosé.

I’ve been thinking about Girl Talk lately, that dude who strings together familiar little flavor packets of beat and melody into an overprocessed stew. I know people who love his stuff, but I find it aimless, like dropping a thousand quick hits of acid and going nowhere. It’s all hook and no ladder; there’s nothing there that takes you higher, there’s no room to stretch, to wiggle your hips in anticipation of those three essential notes or that unstoppable chorus coming back around. If music is the space between the notes, it’s also the time you’re forced to wait for your payoff. For me, anticipation is everything and merely cherry picking the best bits ain’t enough. Or maybe I’m just old-skool.

These two clips are as old (skool) as I am, so maybe that’s why I like this so much:

But this mash-up feels like 2010 in a way that harks back to every year I’ve ever lived, and isn’t that what now is all about? Aren’t we living in an aleph that endlessly references everything else? I like that this piece has a sly haunt and taunt to it, and that you get such a different take on the coy connection between Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell when it’s filtered through the factory drone of all those disaffected New York art punks with their concealed gazes. Ain’t No Mountain is never allowed to resolve to the bright side, because it’s brewing in all the dissonant chant of Venus in Furs. And that tension works for me, because we get to sit with it, because we’re soaking in it. Unlike Girl Talk, there’s an unfolding payoff, even if it’s more oddball than good groove.

Via Andy over here.

Pretty much every boyfriend I’ve had has been a musician; either that, or musically pretentious, collecting band facts like some dudes follow baseball stats. (This must have something to do with the male brain, a slightly autistic organ of data collection and single-track obsession.) Many guys I know are completists; they groove on the minutest detail and they like to collect all four, in box. Plus the rare Japanese reissues. And the 12-inch singles. And yeah, yeah, I’m lumpsumming the species, but its after long and tawdry acquaintance, so hear me out, then listen to The Left Banke sing their biggest, maybe even only-est hit.

Here’s some pretty-pretty for you on this waning day (and thank the good lord, she’s a friday):

This song takes me back to a couple different relationships where the boy came to me bearing a record album or CD (today it would be an mp3, most likely ganked off the internet and sent via email) and told me of his secret love for this band. There have been a million of these me-to-music introductions: Fred Neil, Nick Drake, Talk Talk. That’s how I find the coolest tunes, when it’s some guy’s musical heart path and he shows me the shortcut. Although the relationships are over, the music’s still there, unspooling in memory and as good as scents at taking me back.

What’s your remembering music? And who do you think of when you hear it?

PS: Now listen to this one: yeah. the one behind this link. Makes me want to pretend I’m the girl in the music box, twirling in a circle when you open me up.

PPS: That lead singer is quite the pocket popstar. He looks like a more knowing Scott Baio, or Bud Cort’s pussy-magnet cousin. Amirite?

What’s the most random thing you’ve done today?

Me, I cut a cheap wig badly. My sweetie’s in a dead celebrity bowling tournament tonight—some work thing—and his team’s all overdoses, so he’s going as Gram Parsons. Hence the hair, although after my kind attentions it’s looking a little Prince Valiant meets That Girl. He’s got a cowboy shirt, and I’m trying to convince him he needs a sharpie heart tattoo on his forearm that says “Emmylou Forever.”

If I had joie de anything right now, I’d try to transform myself into the lovely Miss Harris and go cheer him on. But he’ll have to settle for all us grievous angels wishing him well instead. Bowl good, baby!

Ok, now you: your most random, unexpected, story-behind-it action of the day…GO!

I went wilding at Leonard Cohen’s merch table before Monday’s show. Hell, I even bought the totebag. Here’s me in my new Beautiful Losers t-shirt:

If The Subtle Boyfriend had allowed me to post my favorite shot, you would know that the only size they had left by the time I showed up was a women’s extra-small. “It’s a little, ah, NSFW,” he told me. Also, I was making mirror face, a pouty-frowny thing I do that gets me teased by pretty much everyone who knows me well. “Why can’t you just smile?” he asks, sounding like my mother. (That’s so hot, honey.)

As some of you may know, I am a diehard photo-phobe, so this qualifies as the first time The Subtle Grill has graced these shores (although I did show up here that one time—Hi, Bossy!).

And since it’s wednesday, this qualifies as a GPOYW. I’m so internetual.

Be gentle.

And be jealous. I also bought the men’s extra large, so I’ve got one for slut and one for sleep.

PS: I know I look like Joey Ramone with nungers. Haircut’s happening soonish…

The largest experiences take the longest for me to tell. I’m ten kinds of wrecked today, after spending three and a half hours in the tower of song. I could string a list of superlatives together, but that would never capture the ecstatic catechism of last night.

It’s enough to say that I now understand why deadheads taped different shows, because as I was walking out with the crowd after the umpteenth encore, I considered rushing the sound dude and begging for a board recording.

More later…for now, here’s the setlist. Gotta fly to Denver soon.

“Feels so good baby, just to wake up in the morning by myself.
Cup of coffee in the kitchen, fire up a little danger to my health.
It’s like the same old broken heart but it feels like it belongs to someone else.”

Here’s a new song by Leonard Cohen, the man I most want to see in concert and the one I will no doubt miss on tour. I get the narrow-eyed bitters if I think about it too hard, so I’ll just sing the blues along with Leonard, instead.

I’ve been a fan since I was old enough to read poetry. I’ve been a fan since I took the bus downtown to Dirt Cheap records and bought a copy of his Greatest Hits LP. I’ve been a fan since the needle first hit the grooves on Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye.

He taught me that a few words in the proper order could slay me, could slake me, could console and embolden. And he showed me that deep voices send a shiver through my hipbones and hook a barb into my heart.