So Much To Tell You, I Race Through The Sky to Whisper a Message Into Your Morphine Drip

Had I been musically prepared for my return to Manhattan today, I might’ve posted some Einsturzende Neubauten.

Vacation: took kid to inlaws, swam, visited zoo. Cracked toenail in half. Watched Sarah Silverman’s Jesus is Magic (funny, eventually tiresome). Pulled significant muscle during the Organized Physical Activity on Friday night after sitting in an airplane all morning.

And Ken Lay killed himself. That was good, too.

Which brings us back to the music. While in the Land of Ice and Snow, I had no music, but then I enjoy going on blackout infrequently, just to clear the organic hard drive. At one point the child asked for music, and the mother-in-law’s collection’s only tolerable (barely) selection was Paul Simon’s The Rhythm of the Saints. I know, I know, but if you block out all things Simon, you get some treats, especially Milton Nascimento’s voice on one track which, of course, my tastemeister of an offspring delighted in hearing. To steal from Dave Chappelle, I sometimes look at her and say, in affectionate disbelief: you came from my balls.

My favorite Nascimetno work comes from his tenure in the Clube Da Esquina outfit (which inlcuded the wildly talented Lo Borges), specifically their 1972 debut. Milton’s the tenor-soprano.

Clube Da Esquina – Lilia
Clube Da Esquina – San Vncente
Clube Da Esquina – Tuod Que Voce Podia Ser

Also, since I’ve been gone enough to miss oodles of new stuff, you’re stuck with me digging in the personal bins in reference to what’s truly new; and I come up with the Gerladine Fibbers, for one, since head-Fibber Carla Bozulich has gone and made the smart move of making an album with Godspeed You Black Emperor!. The Gerladine Fibbers tried the experimental-alt-country thing way before guitar adventurer Nels Cline joined Wilco. Cline was in the Geraldine Fibbers. Take that, artsy farsty country guys. You’re ten years behind.

This is from the 2nd GF album, Butch, after which I suspect the GFs went kaput. The albums sometimes veered off the quality map, but for under seven bucks, you might get yourself a great used cd purchase out of them.

Gerladine Fibbers – Trashman in Furs
Geraldine Fibbers – California Tuffy

Warning: trabajo loco este semana. Short posts comng.


6 thoughts on “So Much To Tell You, I Race Through The Sky to Whisper a Message Into Your Morphine Drip

  1. < HREF="" REL="nofollow">Carla I<>< HREF="" REL="nofollow">Carla II<>< HREF="" REL="nofollow">Carla III<>


  2. Hey thanks, Mike. ‘Villian’ seems to know oodles about Ms. B. Please drop me a Carla link when they post some of the newest stuff. And –Ethyl Meatplow! Wow. Forgot about that. Makes Ms. B what, pushing 50?


  3. Mr. Parnell:While you were gone, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah took a piece of my heart. I am scared.


  4. No! Anonymous! Be very scared. You’re listening to nothing more than a rhythmn section. Their second album will stomp on your heart. Suicide had better bridges in their songs. Every song is in the same key, and it’s not a good key. Here’s how to wean yourself: See them live. Leave early. Insert Motorhead’s <>Overkill<> into your cd player, turn on the History Channel, and drink expensive Latvian beer. Perform barium enema. Repeat.


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