June/moon/croon
Loon? June is shaping up to be busy and a lot of fun. School is out, A's all around - the resourceful Hannah got us press passes for Bonnaroo courtesy of Daytrotter, so look for Hannah Clemens and Aaron Sheehan in a Rolling Stone near you. Scratch that, Rolling Stone sucks. Um. NME? Paste? The Oxford-American music issue? Eh, just check out Daytrotter for hopefully daily updates on the festival. I will also hit the quarter century mark whilst there, so presumably my car insurance will go down. Finally, Hannah is coming here for a fun filled 10 days, that will include seeing Radiohead live on the bay in downtown San Diego.
I finally can cease my quest to see a good movie. Last night I caught The Proposition, written and scored by Nick Cave, and set in frontier Australia. A very violent, fly-covered, dusty, hot Australia peopled by bad men, lawmen, and drunks with bad teeth. The acting and script were fantastic and a lot of the plot was not explained directly - and was left to the ability of the audience to piece together through context and interpetation. We were shown, not told. I recommend it highly if you're fortunate enough to live in a city that's showing it. To see if you are, you can go here.
I attempted to write a music review of Murder By Death's CD in the form of a song. Great conceptual idea - totally bloody useless. But I like what I wrote, so I share it here with you all, in hopes that someone among my readers has a voice like a gravel mixer and maybe some time in prison. Alan, the time you were in a holding cell at Grady Memorial doesn't count. If you don't know MBD, imagine Johnny Cash's singing this, and you'll understand.
Voila:
Starting Over Again (In Hell)
It’s hard to think of water, drink of water
In this heat
And it’s hard to call to Father, walk to Father
Down this street
One boatman’s not enough, his ferry’s stuffed
With cursed men
We all called the Preacher’s bluff, we were tough,
And scoffed at sin
And there is no sun in Hell
For the heat comes from the ground
Dug a trench and sunk a well
Black burning oil is all we found.
I guess Old Scratch forgot us, once he bought us
For all time
Our jailers never see us, never beat us
For our crimes
We tried to build a town, it fell down
Upon the sands
You can’t build a home, from rags and bones
And sinners’ hands
And there are no stars in Hell
All their light gets swallowed up
A good man will always fail
When there’s whiskey in his cup.
At night we hear the sounds, from the ground
Of voices raised
A bell is ringing, choirs singing
Hymns of praise
God’s forgiveness, that He gives us
After gavel’s fall
If only we had meant, that last repent
Our gallows call.
And there is a moon in Hell
It’s a pale and baleful eye
Pins us down like a nail
To cheat death, all you do, is you die.
I finally can cease my quest to see a good movie. Last night I caught The Proposition, written and scored by Nick Cave, and set in frontier Australia. A very violent, fly-covered, dusty, hot Australia peopled by bad men, lawmen, and drunks with bad teeth. The acting and script were fantastic and a lot of the plot was not explained directly - and was left to the ability of the audience to piece together through context and interpetation. We were shown, not told. I recommend it highly if you're fortunate enough to live in a city that's showing it. To see if you are, you can go here.
I attempted to write a music review of Murder By Death's CD in the form of a song. Great conceptual idea - totally bloody useless. But I like what I wrote, so I share it here with you all, in hopes that someone among my readers has a voice like a gravel mixer and maybe some time in prison. Alan, the time you were in a holding cell at Grady Memorial doesn't count. If you don't know MBD, imagine Johnny Cash's singing this, and you'll understand.
Voila:
Starting Over Again (In Hell)
It’s hard to think of water, drink of water
In this heat
And it’s hard to call to Father, walk to Father
Down this street
One boatman’s not enough, his ferry’s stuffed
With cursed men
We all called the Preacher’s bluff, we were tough,
And scoffed at sin
And there is no sun in Hell
For the heat comes from the ground
Dug a trench and sunk a well
Black burning oil is all we found.
I guess Old Scratch forgot us, once he bought us
For all time
Our jailers never see us, never beat us
For our crimes
We tried to build a town, it fell down
Upon the sands
You can’t build a home, from rags and bones
And sinners’ hands
And there are no stars in Hell
All their light gets swallowed up
A good man will always fail
When there’s whiskey in his cup.
At night we hear the sounds, from the ground
Of voices raised
A bell is ringing, choirs singing
Hymns of praise
God’s forgiveness, that He gives us
After gavel’s fall
If only we had meant, that last repent
Our gallows call.
And there is a moon in Hell
It’s a pale and baleful eye
Pins us down like a nail
To cheat death, all you do, is you die.
Good stuff, Aaron! Maybe you should return to open mic night and perform it...dressed appropriately, of course...hmmm...I see special effects possibilities...a box of dry ice...a bit of subsonics...some very old limburger and a strategically-placed fan....
If you do this, get pix! (and post!)
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Anonymous |
11:19 AM