Palestinian Bluetooth

Emerson, Lake, and Arnold Palmer b/w Pineapple, Celery, and The Arm of Yahanaya

2010-07-04T10:02:00.000-07:00

Keith Emerson, Greg Lake, and Arnold Palmer walk into a bar. In a beefy tomato, beans, and toast English accent, Greg Lake says to the barkeep, “I’ll have a Bass.”

Keith Emerson follows with ease, “Well, mate, if wear dreenking what wear playin then I guess I’ll be havin’ me a ‘Games and Soda’ on the rocks with a trough load ‘a bitters.”

Lake, poorly hiding his bewilderment at his long time partner’s limp attempt at a joke, “Good one mate. You know I said Bass though, like the ale, sounds like the name of the fish.”

Emerson, slowly but precisely, raising his head as if attempting to peer through a periscope, surmises, “I was never a fan, don’t mind a good haddock and chips ever now and again, but I can’t stomach their music. I thought you would know that about me by now old friend.”

Lake, “You know I mean fish, the food, not the jammy noodle troupe.”

“Alright, there there. Has lih’uhl Greggie got his bass strings in a tangle?
What’s the uproar? What I shoulda said then was if wear dreenkin down what we playin on these days then I’ll have a ‘Tickled Ivories’ straight up yer arse!”

“And a yodelayhehoohoo is the pry-eye-aye-ieece of thee eearring,” all sung in a fake drunken Irish pirate/Popeye the sailor man voice not unlike those new indie bands from Brooklyn sometimes use to accentuate verses like, “Molly got her PHD but all she ever needed was what she learned at The Blarney on the street named Kiernan’s Knee and Joe was a whisky prick though he traded his father’s doctor’s smock for a frock of lamb’s wool from LL Bean and Teddy gets mean with his widow’s peek while trying to pinch a lass’ cheek but she laughs because all he’s got’s an MBA and on and on and Craigy Finney’s underpants and Peg Blue’s bustier while Taryn Snow sings love songs about mops. It shall be noted that Taryn Snow was brought into the business on the coat tails of her brother Terry Snow, who at his manager’s behest finally gave in and became known as simply, Snow, agreeing that maybe the whole feel of “Informer” might not register if it was known that his first name was Terry.

“Christ, I’m your friend, not your enemy you joyless soap dish residue. You flaking cock rash. You cricket bat smuggler,” Lake says as he tries to simmer Emerson down.

At this very moment Arnold Palmer, asserting himself via an exaggerated posture, arching his back, his arms wrapped around what seems to be a rather large Persian rug, asks in a Dean Martini/Moons Over My Hammy Davis Sr. inflection, “Do you two tea lovin’ sallies ever give it a rest? Want to lift up your feet Keith, so I can put this rug down? What do you say chappie?”

Keith Emerson, believing that Arnold Palmer is actually his drummer, Carl Palmer, and not Arnold Palmer the legendary golfer, says, “You know the drill, mate. Circle of fifths,” an obvious yet indecipherable reference to Arnold Palmer’s weird responsibility amidst the trio.

Greg Lake never had the heart to tell old Keith Emerson that Arnold Palmer was an amply adept, and not to mention iconic, professional golfer who was so good at golf that he somehow transformed his incredible skill on the green into a mild telekinesis that magically produces a delicious fusion of iced tea and lemonade out of thin air. Every time he takes a swing of the old 9-iron a glass somewhere is filled with the elixir that bears his namesake. Palmer explains, “When life hands you lemons don’t tell me that terrible AIDS joke, make Arnold Palmers instead, baby.”

So whenever Emerson, Lake, And… as they are currently known, because Lake recently forced the group’s manager to copyright the word “And” as part of the band's new and official trademarked moniker. The ruling granted ownership of the word And in favor of ELA and subsequently swept the entire gutless industry stripping ALL bands, past and present, containing the word And, or any symbol in their monikers connoting it, of it, forcing them in a display of musical totalitarianism to “revise” their catalogs, recalling all visual artwork, advertisements, publishing records, licensing agreements and so forth. Many were ordered to have platinum records commemorating sales re-engraved. For example, Gun & Roses became Guns Roses, Simon Garfunkel, Prince The Revolution, Loggins Messina, Love Rockets, Kool The Gang, and so on. In order to not upset or confuse all the old school rabid tweekers, the one way streeters, the plumply withered grey old cats on the scratching posts, and most importantly the lobster smurfs, Emerson, Lake, And played a free “awareness raiser” at the Mohegan Sun in Danbury, CT, one humid June night during the Solstice of 2010. Hot Tuna opened, or what’s left of them anyways.

So, Greg Lake, enmeshed in more webs than a spider in a spider whore-house, is not only concerned about not deceiving his supporters and preserving his legacy as progressive rock papacy but also about helping his friend live a lie, that being Keith Emerson’s belief that Arnold Palmer is the other original guy from their band. To keep the lie afloat Greg Lake just hires Josh Freese to fill in live outfitting him in golf attire to create the visual decoy. Live, Emerson doesn’t see or hear anything except the rug so it’s been an easy coping mechanism for all three of them actually, three people with one-third an unshared talent.

After Palmer finishes “dropping the rug,” which is what his responsibility has become whenever the old progsters decide to perform, go to a bar, dine out, or attend an awards ceremony, Arnold asks Keith, “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m having?” Keith Emerson, never having heard of any drink or man by the name of Arnold Palmer obliges, “Well, what are you having mate?”

Arnold, Palmer says, “Well, I’ll have an Arnold Palmer, naturally, Keith. You know, I get them free everywhere. It’s great. I never have to spend a dime hydrating the old pallet,” carrying on as Hammy Sr.

“I get it we’re making jokes about drinks you’re trying to make a joke about a drink. Seriously, what’ll it be mate?” Emerson is visibly agitated.

“You have no idea who I really am do you Keith?”

“I know who you are. You’re Palmer. No need for the old litmus test...”

The conversation comes to a halt as Keith Emerson, Greg Lake, and Arnold Palmer look up to the television monitor broadcasting above the mirrored wall behind the bar, a scene not unlike the back cover of Huey Lewis The News’, “Sports” album. The three look up to see indie celebrity Vick Winner doing a two step with a literal mop on the prime time reality television boogie competition, “Dancing With Scars,” a program which pairs modern day “celebs” with a dance coach to eventually throw down in a Rug Cuttin’ Royale. Greg Lake breaks the silence, “I think Vick Winner’s choice of the mop as his instructor and partner was purely calculated, a nod to his DIY ethic and artistic voice. Cheers! Although, I wonder, is there something wrong with the bloke’s neck, or is his head just too heavy to hold up.? I’ve shot my arm full of black tar dragon dust with a fourteen gauge spike and’ve been able to hold my head higher than that lad’s up there.”

Their drinks arrive as the bartender asks Arnold Palmer for an autograph finding it odd to encounter him mingling with the two others. Palmer assures the bartender, “I know my roots kid. I used to get all jintzed up with Jackie Gleason. I’m just horsing around out here, doing time for past infringements, paying in to the old karmic retirement fund so to speak for when I’m just another link in an endless trail of bones, gone, then forgotten, then reborn in disguise to repeat the whole damned tragic-comic episode.” The bartender changes the channel. Emerson, Lake, and Arnold Palmer collide their pint glasses and begin a conversation about Huey Lewis The News’ upcoming gig in Montclair, NJ, complaining about being snubbed as openers.

A living room in Los Angeles, CA, strewn with instruments, an upright bass, guitars, old and new, acoustic and electric, boxes of strings, amplifiers, and as few as three dogs at any given time, a pound and a half of freshly grown weed drying in a closet over a non-functioning toilet, small rat shacks with thin walls, a middle bedroom with a tractable bed which descends to half the room’s height in order to allow for storage and workspace underneath, which is comprised of an old mixing board, vinyl records, old tennis racquets. This room is also full of instruments, a faded stencil the size of the entire northern living room wall displays the impression of some original flag, a hole from the living room floor which leads to a hole dug out underneath the house which acts as storage for more instruments and amplifiers and also serves as a live recording room. Old surfboards, wet suits, bicycles, old shoes, and a bookshelf brimming with books occupy the enclosed patio's back porch. The backyard, accented with plumeria, overlooks the whole of downtown from a few clicks northeast of Elysian Park…

An old roommate once mentioned that celery and pineapple, when taken antecedent to a night of coitus, act simultaneously to thicken and sweeten the byproduct of a man’s ability to manufacture rope. In the laid man’s terms, “It makes the old butternut taste like it was washed with sugar while being squashed from way over across that there room,” Known in some circles as the Peter North diet, pineapple and celery are nothing less than delicacies fit for a decorator and guidos, or whatever you want to call them, on both sides of the Rocky Mountains, know this. In a conversation that inevitably veers into “fellatial waters,” a young woman who has recently undergone extensive jaw surgery is overheard saying, “You gotta please me before I do any of what I used to do,” a defense undoubtedly aimed at the gaudy innuendo offered by her macho companion, “How are we going to test this hypothesis?”

“Where else but LA?”

In college Yahanaya was a budding feminist and a card-carrying member of the Subterranean Penis-Stomping Movement wherein she habitually defiled photographs of random men performing random activities by X-ing out their johnsons with splotchy red ink. Unlike the johnsons usually hidden beneath the pants or slacks of Yahanaya’s random targets, Yahanaya herself wore her adolescent ‘lust rage’ not so much on her sleeve as on her polka dot lapel. A life of privilege had it perks, monetary freedom to use book money for designer drugs, alcohol, and plane tickets being one of them, an expensive quirky wardrobe meant to look inexpensive being another.

Admission to the SPSM was gained through recitation of the mantra:

Merrily
I tread
On dainty
Head
Of pink cock

Drinking was the prime activity and general “idea maker” in the SPSM. Driving while drunk, meandering off two lane highways at high speeds through cornfields, and physically challenging boys to fist fights were activities reserved for downtime and weekends. Yahanaya was not only known to piss out literal conflagrations started in her dorm room but also to piss in jaggedly halved aluminum Coca Cola cans while crouched in the back of a moving Volvo, the cans ripped and drawn apart by Yahanaya’s bare hands.

Yahanaya once sat on a boy’s lap at a party. “I hear you have a crush on me,” she said with eyes aflutter. Yahanaya leaned in for what the unknowing boy, undoubtedly stunned and speechless, thought to be an unsolicited kiss coming his way. Before the boy could close his eyes to pucker up, Yahanaya revealed a halved lemon previously hidden in her left hand and promptly squished it into the boy’s left eye. The boy, not so much enraged as shocked and stunned, his left eye a burning world of citrus fire, flung Yahanaya from his lap, her absence thereby revealed the hard on she had been responsible for, and yelled, “What the fuck? You just punched me in the face with a lemon?!”

Yahanaya, always using reverse psychology in situations of sexual affront, perceived nothing wrong with her course of action for determining whether or not this boy liked her. Yahanaya, with deadpan ease, put it in plain terms for the boy to comprehend, “If you have a crush on me you have to fight me FOR REAL in the backyard.” This is a challenge the boy would later regret accepting not because of the immediate and authoritative kicks to the left shin he withstood from Yahanaya's forthright boot, or the realization that he was actually in danger of getting his ass kicked FOR REAL by a girl, who tattered the boy’s shirt and knocked him to the ground before thoughts of how hard to actually approach a seeming lunatic, whom he really didn’t have a crush on at all, congealed in his mind. The boy, like all young fellows looking for the path of least resistance to the hole, fatefully decided to admit, “Ok. I do have a crush on you.”

The boy came to regret this admission via submission because it eventually lead to a year’s worth of sporadic unannounced visits to his bedroom in the middle of the night where Yahanaya dressed up like a superhero and incoherently drunk, would somehow shimmy her way through the boy’s window and curl up next to him in bed. After the first few times the boy no longer attempted to disturb Yahanaya’s slumber. Rather, once the boy awoke to find Yahanaya by his side he would instinctually get out of bed and leave his own apartment, aimlessly.

One night Yahanaya showed up dressed like Elvis, replete with wig, faux chest-hair, gold shades, glued-on side burns, jump suit open at the cleavage revealing medallions, the works. Not even reluctantly, as if she had meant to intentionally blur the distinction being that their names were only a few letters apart, Yahanaya admitted on that night that she looked more like a shitty Evel Kenievel than she did Elvis. Yahanaya, again deadpan but with a tinge of an accent a la “Aint Nothin But a Hound Dog,” inquired with the boy, “Do you want to know what it feels like to fuck the King baby?” Instead of fleeing, the boy for once decided to take her up on her offer. So, Yahanaya did her fair share of banana harvesting during her time with the SPSM. She relegated her aggressive concupiscence to the principle of, “Action for the cause, or a cause for action. I forget which one,” as she’d put it.

For years Yahanaya ran through ‘twos of ‘em,’ would love ‘em then leave ‘em both, then move on to the next pair. Usually the naïve sets of pals never knew what had hit them. A poor young man would be crushed when Yahanaya broke the news that she was now fucking his best friend and, “What to do,” or “How to be,” after so many honest heartfelt nights, and haunting low moments, were merely notions of false attachment. Through a sea of ale and ecstasy, once even crack-cocaine, Yahanaya’s self-ordained quest for enlightenment was, according to her, “an attempt to see things for what they really are and to abandon figments of false reliances and attachments borne by the ego.” Hers was a quest leading to a daunting and inevitable fork in the road, an early defining moment Yahanaya would later revisit psychically in AA for spiritual strength.

During a night of heated collegiate debauchery, Yahanaya, while attempting to perform a rooftop-pissing demonstration, leaned over a gutter from two stories above ground. The subsequent plunge brought Yahanaya to grips with her own mortality as the break she suffered in her arm thereafter would force her to sleep with nine cold metal plates in it for the remainder of her mortal life. This was a productive arm, this arm of Yahanaya.

These days, utter sobriety is the invisible but necessary cast for Yahanaya’s modified arm, an appendage steering a ‘fresh start’ life where looking back is to perceive the shadow-self, a different part of the soul that is never truly extinguished but re-channeled. A continual living reincarnation within the conscious mind is achieved by actively choosing NOT to revert back while also acknowledging the realness of a shadow-self representing the past as a not so jolly green giant chaos figure, imagine the alcoholic hulk, a force that can re-present itself and quickly wreak utter havoc on serenity, a Dionysus to utter sobriety’s Apollo.

After bearing her first child and long after the SPSM had spit her out, Yahanaya’s longing to re-channel the chaos deep within benignly awakens with a desire to once again create art and music on her own. At such a tender age Yahanaya peered deep within the chasm and kissed the mouth of the melancholic abyss, the limits of human consciousness, the incapacity to comprehend the causal structure of being, the inability to negotiate the parameters of reality, and the way things really are.

Yahanaya, a hyper-aware special breed of intelligence and creativity, possessed a passionate longing to be liberated from the attachments of the material world. Yahanaya was once paralyzed by the irreconcilable dialectic. A life lost in thought is a life misspent while a life with too much doing is surely ill thought. During the years of the SPSM’s operation, Yahanaya’s anxieties reared their heads like baby medusas and were manifested through an obsession with destruction, mostly psychic, but sometimes physical, a rebellion against the human condition enacted through inadvertent self-destructive attempts to commune with the black sheep of consciousness, the “other better half,” the beast within, humanity’s dark animal, the shadow-self.

The fire in the soul of the child is truer than that of the aged as years spent beating ones head against brick walls cause senility. Excuses to no longer want to know, laziness, and complacency extinguish the nubile ‘lust rage’ within that urges one to go beyond, “in spite of,” a very different notion than forging ahead, “because of.” As Yahanaya now looks back on her life she questions whether the balance necessary for achieving true fulfillment is contingent on this “in spite of versus because of” dilemma. Or is it something entirely different? Yahanaya now understands that it is not something different at all. Rather, growing into awareness, true fulfillment, and peace of mind are borne through an inner desire to live “because of.” It is in “because of” that one finds meaning and the power to transcend the limits of human understanding. “Because of” is the bridge from total awareness over the bottomless pit of loneliness toward liberation and enlightenment, a higher power for which Yahanaya traded what she deemed to be the misspent days of her youth. “Because of” is the pineapple and celery in the cum-shot that is life, sweetening it and making it go a little further.

Flyers Win Amidst Sea Of Orange

2010-06-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

I send a philly dog around the world to my man Jack "You Can't Make This Shit Up" Leto as Giroux sends them to the street elated while Jaroslavl Halak is playing golf and I'm thinking about waffles.

Beauty Ray

2009-09-07T22:25:00.001-07:00

Beauty Ray is Ramon Alejandro Pagan, a Puerto Rican American and Spanish male freestyle singer born in Staten Island, NY. In the summer of 1989, after a severe falling out with his then famous nephew, Noel Pagan, Beauty Ray undergoes a primitive yet successful cryogenic freezing with the intention of being unfrozen on the day after Labor Day in the year 2009 in order to restore freestyle to its rightful place at the pinnacle of music.

Download Beauty Ray - Actually (Cynthia Left Me)

Madoff Hitler

2009-06-29T13:54:00.000-07:00

Today a judge described Bernie Madoff's $65 billion Ponzi scheme as, "extraordinarily evil," while sentencing him to 150 years in prison. In his own defense Madoff addressed the court room and had this to say to some of the working stiffs he ripped off.

Actual courtroom transcript of Bernie Madoff's public apology:

I'm sorry. This is all just a big misunderstanding. I honestly don't even know what a Ponzi scheme is. Who knows what a Ponzi scheme is? Someone told me he's a guy, an Italian guy, right? Seriously everyone, I'm sorry. I truly believed that what I was involved in was called a Fonzi scheme, a really cool scheme like the guy from Happy Days. Fonzi not Ponzi. Cool not evil. Come on! I swear! The only reason I carried it out to such lengths was because this girl I was trying to impress told me there's this really cool scheme she heard about called a Fonzi scheme and that if I could pull it off she'd totally 'bro me down a hummer.' Really though, I'm sorry. I was just trying to be cool, make a little cash, and get a quick BJ from someone I wasn't married to. Since when is that a crime on Wall Street?

EAT'N AINT CHEAT'N

2009-03-26T12:45:00.001-07:00

I spent my formative years growing up in the kitchen of an Italian deli. My entire family worked there starting in 1975. My great-grandfather, grandfather, grandmother, mother, father, brother, aunt, uncle, and various cousins all did stints cooking, slicing salami, or delivering lunch at some point during the thirty years that the delicatessen remained operational. In its twilight the family establishment was kept going by my mother, grandfather, and grandmother. I would work there in between being on tour and unemployed.
I have fond memories of my grandfather’s reactions to certain songs played in heavy rotation on mainstream radio a few years after the turn of our current century. My grandfather once referred to a Weezer song as sounding African. He also assured me, upon asking his opinion of the song, “Would,” that if he ever met Alice In Chains’ front man, Layne Staley, he WOULD indeed greet him by hitting him in the face with a frozen mackerel. My grandfather and I saw eye to eye on the latter. The former always seemed a bit of a stretch to me.
A close friend and band mate of mine, D. Lee, once worked as a delivery person at my grandfather’s deli during the late 1990’s and received a complimentary yet accidental burn as a result of my grandfather mistaking D. Lee’s hand for a cup where scalding hot chicken soup should have been poured. With bubbles and puss emanating from his freshly wounded hand, D. Lee, still in shock, calmly suggested to my grandfather that he may need to leave to go the hospital, to which my grandfather replied, “Toughen up.” My grandfather’s remedy: to submerge D. Lee’s hand in the stagnant bleach laden water used for washing the day’s accumulated pots and pans, not exactly new age holistic practice.
There are countless tales attesting to my grandfather’s old world and colorful personality. For our purposes though I’ll refrain from delving too deep. Everyone who has ever met my grandfather knew him as a fiercely independent, passionately imaginative, and entrepreneurial-minded combination of Joe Pesci or Robert Dinero and Michael Landon, if Landon were Italian, of course. My grandfather loved his family more than anything on earth yet every other word that came out of his mouth was either “motherfucker” or “cocksucker.” As a result, I was allowed to utter curses as early as the third grade. And I’m not talking about the occasional, “Damn,” or, “Oh hell.” I was allowed to drop motherfuckin’ F bombs. And it ruled! I’ve always been thankful for that part of my childhood. But I digress. As much as I loved my grandfather when he was around, the method he employed for making tuna salad made me cringe.
The way my grandfather made tuna salad at the deli was the way I, in turn, learned to make tuna salad at the deli, which is the reason why I always urge close friends who reach for that tuna salad sandwich at the local Quick Check or 7 Eleven to strongly reconsider their choice for satiating afternoon hunger pangs. Keep in mind that the deli was established in 1975, the dawning of what I like to refer to as, “The No Consequences Era,” subsequently referred to as the NCE, during which most of my friends and I were raised. The NCE began sometime in the mid-seventies, hit its peak around 1987 with the release of Appetite For Destruction, and petered out around 1991 when everyone “got all grunge.”
The NCE is earmarked by a blissfully ignorant lack of foresight for any actions committed in the present as having negative effects in the future. For example, “If only one single tear is coming out of only one Indian’s eye then what the hell is so wrong with disposing of raw garbage in the middle of the street? Let’s litter away, celebrate with a hot plate of disco fries, and smoke a pack of Kool Kings to wash everything down with.” And of course there’s the typical, “These seat belts make it very difficult for me to drink while I’m driving. It’s bad enough that I have to slip these little plastic covers that have the Pepsi logo on them over my Budweiser can to now be able to drink while driving in the first place.” The late seventies were all about drinking while driving. In the nineteen-eighties, the focus shifted from drinking while driving to the calamities associated with drinking and then driving as seen with the formations of MADD and SADD. In other words, if you want to be down with Nancy Reagan then don’t drink before you get behind the wheel, just drink while you’re behind the wheel because the buzz won’t really kick in until you’re at your destination, so you’re good, but you might want to take a cab home and pick up your car in the morning. Thus is the logic of the NCE.
I believe that my grandfather’s method for making tuna salad precedes the NCE but becomes etched in stone as the preferred method throughout the NCE which is why it carries through as the paradigm for tuna salad preparation long after the NCE comes to an end and remains as such until the deli closes in 2005. The point here is that older generations can be set in their old world ways. More importantly, people lived through the late nineteen-seventies and the entirety of the nineteen-eighties without Purell anti-bacterial hand sanitizer.
Accordingly, when making tuna salad at my grandfather’s deli you went RAW DOG. You definitely didn’t wear a hairnet because your hair was too important to mess up just because some “banana” wanted a tuna salad sandwich, which was apparently a sandwich, along with turkey, that shouldn’t be ordered in an Italian deli anyway.
You washed your hands but you didn’t take your rings off. Did Liberace take his rings off whilst performing? Nope. Liberace put more rings on when tickling the ivories in order to provide himself with that extra strength that made his performances so breathtaking. Thus are the rings of the tuna salad artisan. When you pull that excess tuna from underneath the rings of each finger and throw it back into the salad batch you are infusing the flavor of the tuna, mayo, and celery with the power of the ore, all the trials and tribulations that those very gold bands, adorned with rubies and faux cat’s eyes, have withstood over the years.
Are you going to put that cigarette out just because you have to make a new batch of tuna salad? Why would you waste a smoke? As a garnish, ash easily passes for pepper. I’m not saying that pepper and ash are interchangeable. However, some existentialists believe that the universe is a random collection of accidents. So, if an ash from a Marlboro Light 100 accidentally made its way into the tuna salad it would surely be mistaken for pepper and the flavor of the batch would most certainly not suffer as a result.
When you’re at the bottom of an economy-sized vat of Hellman’s mayo how are you going to get to those last scoops when the spoon just won’t reach? You go elbow deep into that bitch because waste is a cardinal sin. So, when you throw that final mayo blast into the mix to get the right proportions, achieved by feel as opposed to actual measuring, you’ll then commence a final mixing of everything by the strength of your bare hands. Then, repeat the finger/ring cleaning ritual to avoid waste and lock maximum flavor into the newly married tuna. As one can ascertain here, making one serving of tuna salad for yourself in the comfort of your own home is an entirely different task than making tuna salad in bulk for sale in a delicatessen.
I recently purchased a couple of chicken cutlets from a local supermarket. This transaction occurred at the deli counter. I was simultaneously delighted and disgusted to witness a woman preparing tuna salad in plain view according to old world NCE regulations. Any tinges of nostalgia I felt for days spent with my grandfather in the kitchen of his deli quickly dissipated as a severe feeling of nausea washed over me.
The deli counter in the supermarket on that fateful day was understaffed. As a result, I was made to wait for the tuna salad artisan to complete her fresh batch before I could order the two cooked chicken cutlets. I intended to put the cutlets in a soup I had planned for dinner. As I’m waiting I come to realize exactly what the woman behind the counter is doing. Mixed emotions well up inside me and I begin to question whether or not I would be able go through with my intended purchase. The tuna salad artisan is indeed raw dog and elbow deep sans sanitary glove inside an economy sized vat of mayo getting ready to administer a final blast to her fishy mélange. As she is performing this task she is loudly making yummy noises, almost as if to taunt any onlookers, “MMM… MMMMM.” Then, shortly following the yummy taunts the tuna salad artisan lets loose two bellowing lumber jack sized sneezes, “BLAHCHOO…WHAGACHOO!.” She then turns around, wipes her nose with her non-mayo’d forearm, and walks over to the sink to clean the mayo off of her bare hand, tattooed forearm, and the tip of her elbow. While doing so she makes a few more quiet yummy noises.
I am utterly stunned at this point as I realize I’m in way too deep to abort my order because the tuna salad artisan has already addressed me saying, “I’ll be right with you hun.” It takes every ounce of strength I have left at this point to refrain from vomiting in my own mouth. “What can I getcha hun?”
“I’ll have two grilled chicken cutlets please,” I muttered reluctantly. The tuna salad artisan hastily weighs the cutlets, wraps them, and marks them with their respective total price. At this point, I am just itching to get the fuck out of there, not knowing yet if I will eventually be able to add these tainted cutlets to the soup I have planned for dinner. Moments before the tuna salad artisan is getting my order wrapped I notice in my peripheral a young pleasantly plump woman wearing blue nurse’s quarterlies waiting patiently holding a garden salad in a plastic to-go container. As I’m handed the cutlets I turn to walk away and hear the tuna salad artisan inquire, “What can I getcha hun?”
The pretty nurse raises the plastic casing containing the virgin garden salad and politely asks, “Can you make this a tuna salad?”
I scream wildly inside my mind, straighten my gait, and quicken my pace toward the door. So, even though cunnilingus is not adultery EAT’N can be CHEAT’N. In this case, the unknowing nurse would be CHEAT’N death if she lived to see another day after voluntarily EAT’N that modified salad of hers. Trying not to think about the blood on my hands for not stepping in after what I had witnessed I went home and added the cutlets to my soup pretending that there were no such things as sneezes while longing for the days of the NCE.

"No Thanks" Or "Cutthroat Greek Businessman"

2009-03-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

A good friend of mine once told me that rock critics are failed musicians and bloggers are failed rock-critics. Music is the joke that keeps us laughing. So, with the economy harshly wounded and the words “stimulus package” on the lips of every breathing bag of bones both sides of the Mississippi River, what better time to pack up, avoid responsibility, ignore all the world’s problems, and resume the “business” of being an American band prepared to “make it” at this year’s South By Southwest Festival? Ol’ Bluetooth got a severe makeover for the special occasion, new brakes, new tires, major front-end work, and a lube-job just so The Black Hollies could make the pilgrimage. When the repairs are all said and done I realize that if my mechanic was half as good at fixing vans as he was at method acting I wouldn’t feel so cheated. “You’re lucky I cut the rotors,” he says. “Those brakes disintegrated in my hands. If that would have happened on the highway you’d a had no brakes,” dramatically thrown in by the old time gear head to soften the blow of the bill being double the initial price he originally quoted for me. I don’t take the bait as I notice he can’t look me in the eyes.

With that being said, The Black Hollies have dubbed their current trek to Austin, “Cutthroat Greek Businessman Week.” For people such as the four members of The Black Hollies who have been taught that good manners are of utmost importance, “Excuse me,” “Sorry,” and “Thank you” go hand in hand as conditioned responses casually uttered with out even thinking, reflexes. You brush against someone in the street. You say, “Excuse me.” You accidentally step on an old lady’s toe in line at the local CVS. You say, “Sorry.” A waitress gives you the bill for food that you ordered and you say, “Thank you.” Why are you thanking her? You’re the one paying. We of good mannered stock are conditioned to mindlessly say, “Excuse me,” “Sorry,” and “Thank you,” so much so that these sacred phrases have been rendered meaningless empty gestures, especially amongst the members of The Black Hollies inside their van during a thirty hour trip.

As a result, Justin Angelo Morey recently instated a new game, albeit mandatory still considered a “game,” to be played amongst the members of The Black Hollies for the duration of the trip to and from Austin, TX. The game, which can be called either “No Thanks” or “Cutthroat Greek Businessman,” is to be played as follows. Any time a member of The Black Hollies says, “Excuse me,” “Sorry,” or, “Thank you,” to any of his fellow band mates, whether in English or a in foreign language, the recipient of said verbal nicety is granted carte blanche to punch the band mate thanking him in the arm with as much force as is deemed fit. In layman’s terms: he who is thanked administers hasty dead arm to he who thanks. It is important to note that the game is only played amongst band members and is by no means a license to exhibit bad manners against the general public. The Black Hollies truly value kindness, gratitude, and genuine good karma but for some unknown reason have grown tired of being polite to each other just for politeness’ sake. Also, certain discrepancies have been discussed and for the purpose of simplicity, “Thank you very little,” in place of “Thank you very much,” does not grant clemency to the thanker in breach.

So far, the best example of how to take “No Thanks” or “Cutthroat Greek Businessman” to its utmost limit is illustrated by a Morey/Wiley tag-team effort against Ferrante only a few hours after the game’s inception. On the road somewhere in Tennessee, Wiley asks Ferrante if there are any ballads on Zeppelin II. Morey feigns ignorance, and names The Lemon Song, casting the bait right in Ferrante’s vicinity. Wiley then dangles the bait, “The last song on side one I think. I can’t remember what it’s called.” Ferrante answers, “Livin’ Lovin’ Maid? Heartbreaker?” I notice Morey, who is driving, subtly clench his hand in the shape of a fist. Ferrante is deep in thought. Wiley goes in for the kill, “Yeah. I know those but I know there’s definitely a ballad on there. I can’t for the life of me remember what it’s called though. It’s killin’ me.” Ferrante eagerly cuts him off as if he just discovered a new equation modifying the theory of relativity, “Oh! Thank You.” Two punches immediately and simultaneously rain on each of Ferrante’s arms, one from Morey who is driving, and one from Wiley in shotgun. The entire band is in disbelief that the ploy is carried out to such length and that, in the end, Ferrante actually winds up taking the bait. Such is the justice of “No Thanks” or “Cutthroat Greek Businessman.” Two days after the game has been in full swing most members of The Black Hollis are having trouble lifting their arms. The Black Hollies highly recommend this game to be played amongst circles of friends everywhere as an experiment in weighing the qualitative value of “Thank yous” uttered against their quantitative value. After a dozen dead arms your friends will think twice about thanking you for passing the peas.

Lo and behold, karma can be stifling. After two entire days of continual driving and playing “No Thanks” or “Cutthroat Greek Businessman,” The Black Hollies arrive at their hotel. At the exact moment of inception Ol’ Bluetooth dies once again. It seems that either the van’s battery or alternator is on the fritz. The good news is that the band is playing its first 2009 SXSW showcase on Friday morning at 7:00 AM in the Sears Auto Center. WE PLAAAAYED. (To be read aloud in an exaggerated southern drawl.)

Beers In Heaven & The Rules Of Pigeon Racing

2009-03-05T14:57:00.000-08:00

Admitting sickness is a sign of weakness. I can’t count the number of times I’ve felt a hearty flu coming on only to have my admission be met with, “You know there’s something going around,” as if to say no matter how bad you think you may have it someone else is always more fucked, far out, and beyond repair than poor little you. A good friend of mine once shared a secret for continuous health; don’t stop to honor the symptoms. Carry on just AS IF. In other words, power through. Act like you’re not sick and don’t ever say you’re sick. It’s actually terrible advice but for some reason it makes me feel better sometimes. And keep in mind while at the upcoming “Dead Reunion” that no matter how much acid you take there will always be someone there who is more freaked out than you, someone who has taken more acid, and if I had to guess I’d say specifically, Jerry’s cousin, Terry Garcia. He’s the one who’s probably taken the most acid.

It’s not that easy to die. I proved this in the wee morning hours of March 2, 2009, as I foolishly yet reluctantly drove home from Scotch Plains while the worst snowstorm to hit NJ in two years was peaking. We timed it perfectly so as to be traversing the Bayonne Turnpike extension bridge running on fumes around 4AM during the height of the blizzard’s intensity. March can be a douche.

Jerry Garcia, pronounced GAR-SHUH, Kanye West, and an actual grizzly bear are standing at the gates of heaven. God says, “OK. So, I gotta ask you all, what’s with the bears? Bear, you’ve lived a life of hibernation and ferocity. Sometimes you bite through people’s skulls and rip their eyes out leaving them just enough strength to hang on with so they can later appear on television wearing cheap sunglasses only to remove them at the crucial moment revealing their face with eyes sewn shut. And sometimes you’re all cuddly resting up in caves. Kanye, first you were rapping with your jaw wired shut. Now, you’re wearing the wild scarves but the kid on the album cover dons a cartoon bear costume and he’s late for school but he still has time to register or change his glasses or something. Even though you’re always giving me mad shout outs in your jams I still haven’t understood why D. Lee believes you to be a genius. And Jerry… All of those cute little teddy bears and super savvy Grateful Dead merchandise items somehow got you into the ice cream business. The three of you are enigmas to me.”

The actual bear responds uttering a very bear-like growl.

Kanye quips, “Yo Peter, turn me up in the headphones. Yo, God, I give you shout outs ‘cuz you helped me power through. My obsession with cartoon bears in my artwork stems from a trip Jay Z and I took to Japan in 1993. We went to all these Japanese schools and we realized that all the little shorties were sportin’ these bags with all these lil’ green froggies on ‘em. Jay was like, ‘Yo, K, those lil’ motherfuckas are cute. Yo, do me a favor. Brush that frog’s shoulda off real quick. And check out that Hello Kitty gear all these little Beyonce’s are reppin’. Yeah, Jay, that shit is selling like hot cakes to boot. I think I’m gonna incorporate some of that in my packaging to help me sell more albums one day except I’ll use like a cute baby bear or something."

Jerry Garcia, in a southern accent not unlike one used by a member of Lynyrd Skynyrd, interjects, “Oh I get it God. This is a mash-up intervention, like healing through cross-pollinating the genres or something, right man? Very clever. Nice touch with the ice cream business comment too. I really appreciate that, man. I actually learned that the best way to smuggle the heroin I was doing all of those years on the road was in those little Grateful Dead teddy bears we’d sell for $19.95, pre-economic crisis, throughout the seventies and eighties, man. $19.95 then is the modern day equivalent of about $199.50. Do the math God. I think we honestly sold about two hundred and thirty-five million of those bears, man. That’s a lot of money for me to buy heroin with. We’d load those lil’ fuckers up, you know stuff the shit out of ‘em, and put them under our bus, man. Customs never had a prayer in detecting the truth. Hell, we had a dummy set of them too that our chief roadie, who’s name happened to be Cubby, would wind up offering to the customs agents as a token of gratitude. The customs agents of course thought they were so darned cute, and couldn’t resist bringing them home to their children. Ah, Canadians, so damn friendly sometimes. Bein’ a hippie was good for those kinds of things, man. You could literally get away with murder ‘cuz everyone always thought you were mellow. Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t really dabble in the lycergic though. I’d see freaky electric spider webs and shit. Heroin was MY champagne. After a nice laid back gig of taking way too much meth-amphetamine and making more noodles appear than a street vendor in Hong Kong, nothing was more relaxing than cookin’ up and tyin’ one off, man. You know I owe it all to those cute little tye-dyed teddy bears, man. I always thought we had a lot in common you and me, God. You’re omniscient and you allow people to feel comforted by letting them pray to you all the time. I was trying to channel that with my noodlin’ and sellin’ of ice creams.”

The overarching point here is not so much a punch line as it is a stark reality. Cute little animal characters sell millions upon millions of records and hippies get away with murder because everyone thinks they're laid back.

Eric Clapton: a hippie that got away with murder. How? The answer being the difference between an eight pound of cocaine and a baby. Thanks again D. Lee. How did they reward Clapton for writing shitty song upon shitty song during his sham of a solo career? With grammys and MTV Moonmen. Tears In Heaven, I would get so pissed when that video dominated MTV air play because it cut into Guns N' Roses' videos being played. Bad Love, nails on a chalkboard. Getdown Sally or Waydown Sally, whatever it's called, aurally offensive. After Midnight, terrible. I Shot The Sherrif, not only offensive, but celebrating the fact that hippies murder in it's very title, albeit a cover song from another laid back hippie's catalogue. Cocaine, nah-nah-nuh-nah... so-lame. Laila, co-written with a dude who bludgeoned his mother to death, the list goes on.

Barack Obama made history. There is certainly no question about that. But how did he do it? The Shepard Fairey “Hope” rendering of President Obama was a severely overlooked component to Obama’s Chester Cheeto-esque heist of power. By the way, the new Cheetos commercials, if anyone hasn’t noticed, are sinister. In one of the ads a person who has recently eaten an entire bag of Cheetos gets back at a foe by wiping her cheesy hand on the back of the unknowing recipient's white shirt. And in another, a gal uses Cheetos crumbs to lure a flock of pigeons to interrupt an annoying cell phone talker by swarming on her while she’s dining at a sidewalk cafe. The Cheetos commercials represent the dawning of eye for an eye renegade marketing which appeals to a base common denominator, revenge. The Cheetos commercials represent the 'reverse psychological companion' to the aforementioned fuzzy cute bears. The subliminal tactics of the Cheetos commercials serve the same purpose and can be just as effective for moving units. Case in point, whenever I'm rolling late night into a gas station there's no chance I can resist that huge three dollar and seventy nine cent bag of Puffy Cheetos. Is it the underlying promise of revenge that enables me to reach so freely for the orange bag or is it the craving for emulsified cheese powder? But I digress.

Evidence of the Shepard Fairey “Hope” poster’s efficacy recently came to light in speaking with my great-grandmother, a ninety-seven year old Italian-American. My great-grandmother confessed to me that the only reason she voted for our freshly elected president was because she believed McCain was running against none other than the Pope. Flabbergasted, I asked her what exactly she meant by that. John McCain clearly did not run against the pope. McCain clearly lost to Barack Hussein Obama. I assured her. I asked why she was re-writing history and attempting to pass it off as common irrefutable fact. My great-grandmother says, “Whadda ya talkin about? Everywhere I-a-look I see deez-a pretty posters that a-say “a-Pope-a” with a handsome guy on them. So I thought it was a bit strange that no one told me he was-a-finally a-running. But then he came to Yankee stadium and he went to talk-a to Bush so I just-a-figured, you know? But really those-a-posters looked so nice I thought nothing bad would come of it. I saw the real Depression. The only stimulus package the government offered then was a-steel-a-rod-a-home-a-Polio kit. I’ll be honest I was little bummed when I found out Obama wasn’t really the pope. I felt that Italian senior-senior citizens everywhere were cheated. But I read in a-Rolling Stone-a that he hangs out-a with-a Bruce Bon Jovi a lot and that he listens to the Grateful Dead so I think he’ll be a-pretty mellow. I’ll tell you what’s not mellow though, this a-toikey. It tastes a-like-a shoe leather.”

NO CARE PLAN: Hospitals VS Bars

2008-07-09T18:08:00.000-07:00

The amount of Americans currently lacking proper affordable health care is startling. I, myself, have been a card carrying member of the NO CARE plan since 2001. Leave one little job to follow your dreams and the electric blanket of co-payments and marked down dental work is replaced with the wet napkin of, "If it aint broke don't fix it. If it IS broke and you can't fix it yourself, you're fucked because YOU'RE broke." During the passed seven years I've willfully endured financial hardships in order to dedicate as much time as possible to writing and performing music. I've chosen to work countless, actually I could probably count them, freelance jobs in order to barely make ends meet and now consider this portion of my adult life without health care to be, "The Saving For The Big Operation Years." People who hate their jobs are sometimes afraid to aspire to something more in tune with their true interests and passions because leaving would ultimately entail the relinquishing of certain benefits deemed to be survival necessities, i.e. steady income, health care, pension, etc. These earmarks of stability are by no means anything to scoff at. I'm actually jealous because the "independent contractor" position down at the Bluetooth office doesn't exactly come with a built in benefits package.

I want affordable health care. I'd even take free health care and then tip the doctor, as if he or she are a bartender, depending on how personable, adept, and thorough they are. Then, the amount one tips determines how one is treated the next time one returns to the doctor's office just as how much one tips a bartender determines one's "buy back frequency" at any given bar. I'm running under the assumption here that the universal buy back round for all bartenders when serving a well established tipper is the second round. This, of course, is wishful thinking on my part. To follow suit, let's say one visits one's family practioner for a routine check up. During a previous visit one throws down a twenty spot as a tip for the old MD. A perfect world would have it that big tippers don't have to sign their names on waiting lists or make advance appointments. Big tippers can just roll up, "Yo, what up Huxtable? You mind taking a peek at my bum leg real quick? I don't have time to wait for an hour and a half. I gots hot tracks to make. Y'heard?" By this logic, a local clinic is considered the equivalent of a well kept neighborhood pub whereas a free clinic is akin to a dive bar. Hospitals can be compared to certain bigger bars/venues/clubs, the Webster Halls/Henry Fonda Theatres of the medicine world. Doctors with better booking agents get placed at better venues and eventually become big name surgeons. Seeing a specialist like a proctologist is the equivalent of going to a high end wine bar like Terroir. You're paying for the best, no surprises. Doctors cut off and refuse care to hypochondriacs just as bartenders use their discretion in deeming when a patron has had too much to drink.

It is not esoteric knowledge that paying for an emergency room visit out of pocket is not exactly cheap. It pretty much costs a thousand bucks just for them to clasp that little plastic bracelet with one's name and DOB to one's wrist. I went to the emergency room three summers ago, just finished making my fifty dollar a month bare minimum payments, and aside from making me wear the requisite assless paper half-robe the only thing they did for me was give me ass cream. The visit literally cost me eighteen hundred bucks. You scream. I scream. We all scream for ass cream, the expensive kind of course. On that day, amidst the pain, little did I know I would eventually wind up paying almost 2 G's for the Ben and Jerry's of ass creams, not cheap.

All kidding aside having no health care is no laughing matter. So, at the end of the day I can sleep assured knowing that, at the very least, I have the NO CARE plan going for me. Mark my words, you will hear about the NO CARE plan during the upcoming 808 Sounds Great Presidential Candidates' debates. Furthermore, the NO CARE plan at its very core is precisely in tune with Barack Obama's defining message of HOPE in that, "I HOPE my fuckin' thrombosed hemmorhoids don't fall out of my ass on Kennedy Boulevard because if they do I'm fucked." Have you ever seen a pair of Christmas balls the size of two grapes? One may pose the question, "Well if you knew you didn't have health insurance why the hell'd you go to the emergency room Einstein?" A fair inquiry. The easy answer is, of course, a question, that being, "If you looked at YOUR own ass and saw something resembling a Christmas ornament coming out of it where exactly would you go?" In times of dire circumstances when experiencing severe amounts of pain or in times of fear for your life the right thing to do is ALWAYS to seek immediate medical care. And surely the older one gets the less one wants to fuck around. It sucks that on top of experiencing the anxiety of not knowing what one is in for physically coupled with knowing exactly what one is in for financially one without health care is thereby forced to leave the hospital, no matter how much better one may feel, with brand new pains, courtesy of the hospital, in one's nose, from it having been paid through.

If all this works out and Palestinian Bluetooth's vision for a greater health care system comes to fruition you will be able to buy gift certificates for your husbands fortieth birthday colon examination at participating Outback Steak Houses across our beloved nation. It'll be great. The whole family will go out and suck down ribs and scrimps on the barbie with fudgie the whale cake for dessert or whatever the fuck... And then after the whole Outback staff sings Happy Birthday and little hubby blows out his candles the staff will say, "And here's your voucher for your free Outback Steakhouse Fortieth Birthday Colon Exam On The Barbie sir. Enjoy." Eventually one might even be able to earn reward points or frequent flier miles toward hospital visits under the Palesinian Bluetooth health care umbrella.

Palestinian Bluetooth's model for reconfiguration so that hospitals and clinics are more like bars while doctors and nurses are more like bartenders and barmaids can solve problems that extend far beyond our nation's current health care dilemma. Think about the repercussions for people's sex lives. Fellas, if you're really looking to impress that lady you've had your eye on at the office, who finally agrees to accompany you for an evening about town, don't foot the bill for dinner at Hearth. Take her to the emergency room of the local hospital and say you refuse to let her health insurance pay for it. If you think she'll be impressed when you splurge for that 2003 Bordeaux, how do you think she'll react when you start the evening off with a little His & Her saline IV injection? Buy two bags of IV and you're in there like swim wear. "How are you both doing? I'm Robert. I'll be your doctor this evening. Can I start you two off with some drinks? Might I recommend the saline IV apertif with a little hint of Nexium for the nausea?" For the price a hospital charges for a bag of fucking salt water you'd think you were being injected with Austria's finest Reisling.

In earnest, all I'm saying is that hard times call for reliable coverage. Perhaps it's time that we start thinking in different terms when thinking about coverage. Palestinian Bluetooth already has. I urge you to do the same. Ladies, and gentleman interested in female wigs, all the answers to your coverage problems await you at www.paulayoung.com. Learn more about "America's natural choice for beautiful hair." Considering that a wig company is in essence peddling artifice, the antithesis of 'natural,' one cannot help but be reminded of the old line, "Who are the ad campaign wizards that came up with that one?"
So, in closing, as the hairline of our current health care system recedes beyond repair we each need to ask ourselves, "If I were choosing a quick fix wig for myself, would I go with a wisped away kind of feel, with monofilament parts, open ear tabs, and a hand tied front with a neck extension while deep down inside knowing that I'm only masking the symptoms, offering the perceiver a seeming sense of 'all's good in the hood'?"

And furthermore, "Would I feel comfortable wearing a hair piece that bears a human name?" For example, "Hi, it's nice to meet you. My name is Rose. The wig that I'm wearing is named Iris." If you can answer these questions honestly then you'll be OK when it's time to cast your vote for 808 Sounds Great Presidential Candidates ElectorATEs.

Embracing Black Outs

2008-07-04T10:23:00.000-07:00

Justin Angelo Morey is a magnet for black-outs. On the eve of the thirty-ninth anniversary of Brian Jones' death me, Morey, and Wiley get caught in the maelstrom of a Pearl Studio power outage. We take solace in the fact that for once the absence of electricity is not caused by Morey's First Class hair drying apparatus. It turns out that the culprit is a faulty transformer which PSE&G apparently fixes the day before, apparently being the key word. We arrive thinking PSE&G's presence a second day in a row to be a bit strange. At first, the power in our room seems fully restored. The false sense of restoration lasts less than an hour. Lo and behold, the Black Hollies persevere against absurd conditions as the band finalizes a song arrangement in the hallway of their rehearsal space, at first under the hazard lights of the building's exit signs and then eventually in complete and utter darkness. The band notes shortly thereafter an investment in candles to be of utmost importance.

During the eve of the eve of the thirty-ninth anniversary of Brian Jones' death myself and Morey battle through a half-powered session trying to get ideas to tape without the availability of proper amplification. Our studio is barely lit by half dim X-mas lights as the air conditioner drools at an extremely weak frequency, kryptonite to Morey who is an admitted freon addict. Instead of calling it quits we decide to make due and hash out an idea by taking advantage of the fact that it isn't quite "rock o'clock" throughout the rest of the studio yet, meaning, "Dude, I punch OUT at five from the day job but I punch IN at 7 at the studio where me and the boys try to take it up a notch and let our neighbors know that the 90's were, and remain to this day, a very powerful time for music. Rock o'clock is the only time we can unwind after a long hard day of feeling Minnesota at the office." The jobless members of the Black Hollies prefer to keep early studio hours to avoid the off-putting rock o'clock hour at all costs. It is, at its worst, a time when the sounds emanating from other rooms in the studio produce a mock weight lifting, more specifically bench pressing or quad exercise motioning from either myself or Morey, meaning, "Hell, I drink Bud. I'm strong. My nation is strong. 'Aint no mistaken my fuckin' music is goan be strong. Raaaah!!! Riffs and spliffs, maaan. Candlebox rules!"

So, all the other tenants heed Joe Pearl's, aka the landlord's, notice that the juice in the joint is fucked. Apparently me and Morey miss out on the memo. Not a soul lingers at the studio so I place a phone call in a disguised voice to Joe Pearl's voice mail. I alert him of the power problem in case he is unaware of it. I say in a deeper than usual voice, "Joe, it's Tommy Plascko from The Boots band calling. There's something severely wrong with the power at the Forest street location. Just wanted to give you the heads up..." This way Pearl knows what's up but doesn't call anyone from The Black Hollies.

Distance from a landlord is crucial. It is important to note that myself and Morey avoid all things Joe Pearl related but not because upon first look Joe Pearl resembles a lost extra from the cast of Hillstreet Blues, sporting eggsalad yellow socks peeking over the cusps of a weather beaten pair of Spaulding high top sneakers which match his Spaulding sweatshirt, a paradoxical compliment to a pair of distressed blue denim cut-off shorts which bleed frayed white cascading shag just above the knees. In order to gain insight as to the particular vibes that Joe Pearl unknowingly channels please understand that Spaulding is to the 1980's what the Champion brand is to the 1990's. Pearl's hair is a relaxed curl congregation, the paradigm of Pert Plus in action. When checking any microphone Joe Pearl opts for the industry standard, "Two, two," sometimes straying and adding his own, "Hey, hey... Hey, two." The Black Hollies attempt to avoid all face to face encounters with Pearl because the band is admittedly first of the month challenged and suffers from a severe earning disorder which usually results in Pearl's outrage culminating in a voice mail left on Ferrante's mobile, the gist of it usually, "Nick, it's the 22nd of the month and I still haven't gotten a fucking check. I think you need to make a phone call. Click." To his credit though, Joe Pearl has been entirely flexible and supportive of every incarnation of band The Black Hollies have been involved in for the passed fifteen years, not to mention that Pearl can blow a mean woodwind.

Attempting to defy the power as it sporadically surges from the studio's damaged transformer, me and Morey record a sketch of an arrangement on the eve of the eve of the thirty-ninth anniversary of Brian Jones' death. We ignore the acid trip like swooping, swelling, speeding up, and slowing down sounds during playback thinking that the next day when the power in the studio is fully restored the aforementioned blemishes will remain undetected. After splitting a jug of southern wine we call it a night, encourage each other that we made the best with what we had, and look forward to working with Wiley on the arrangement the following day.

Deja Vu hits hard on the eve of the thirty-ninth anniversary of Brian Jones' death by drowning when the three of us listen to the previous session's distorted play back and go through the same emotions. We curse the lights as they die, not knowing when or if they'll be turned back on. At this crucial point, the easiest thing for the Black Hollies to do would have been to call it quits for the day using the excuse that the entire studio is maim as a result of not having any electricity. The funny thing is that the Black Hollies don't even discuss this option among each other. The band carries on sharing southern wine in the light's absence. While in the not illumined hallway we use cellphones to light our way in order to use the toilet. My camera's flash attests to how we each look ridiculous in the dark affirming once again that we're not dead but alive, not really knowing how far one of us is from the other, listening, and using our ears to determine which moves our hands will use to navigate the necks of our guitars. The best ideas often flow swiftly. So what a bummer it would have been to have to leave on account of a black out. More than ever we refuse to let go of our passion. After almost two hours of renegade operating the repaired transformer restores proper power to The Black Hollies' rehearsal space. The clock struck rock with the coming on of the lights as slowly but surely the other tenants arrived at Pearl to maximize their monthly rates. The Black Hollies celebrate overcoming the night's obstacle by sharing the final sips of southern wine together and putting to tape the structure for what the band considers to be it's most developed work, a testament to Palestinian Bluetooth's ethos that the easiest way is always the most boring and least fruitful.

The Women Of Home Depot RIP

2008-07-03T10:08:00.000-07:00

Lest you believe that Palestinian Bluetooth is not working overtime to bring you, it's beloved readers, what you crave, guess again. Truth be told, there has been a severe stonewalling regarding one of Palestinian Bluetooth's most revered segments, The Women Of Home Depot, which initially began as a pitch to the Home Depot corporation urging them to manufacture a yearly calendar bearing the moniker, paying me for the idea of course, but turned into a spotlight on blue collar, hard-working, everyday women, actually one woman, Jackie Velasquez. My honest intention was to turn my meeting with Jackie into a monthly segment wherein different women of Home Depots nationwide get the chance to have a little fun, share a bit about themselves, and show people of all walks of life that a woman's place is indeed everywhere. This is not to say that Palestinian Bluetooth garners secret funding from feminists, wink wink. One would think that Home Depot would be into the idea as the megalith itself has been forced to close some of its locations this passed year as a result of fiscal laggings.

During the last week of May, about a month into The Black Hollies passed tour, I eagerly anticipate our arrival to Los Angeles, not to play shows or see friends, but because I have the perfect location planned for the month of May's Women of Home Depot, Sunset Boulevard. Much to my dismay I am shunned by their management as I plead and explain upon deaf ears, those happy kind of deaf ears that love to NOT transmit information from ear to brain to mouth to the saying of yes being uttered from aforementioned mouth. I plan to redeem the segment in the month of June and leave the Sunset Boulevard Home Depot in LA thinking of my failure as a minor set back.

As June begins with a day off in Prescott, Arizona, I figure it as the perfect day to pick up the broken pieces of what The Women Of Home Depot segment has become. I arrive and make contact with one willing female employee who shall remain nameless. I am lead on to believe that I'll have my scoop. Then the always ill fated words, "Let me run it by my manager." Needless to say Palestinian Bluetooth is forced by management to leave the Prescott, Arizona, Home Depot empty handed. Strike two.

After returning from The Black Hollies tour a friend of mine who goes by, The Reverend, voices his disappointment to me regarding The Women Of Home Depot's absence from Palestinian Bluetooth. So, as July swallows June, I venture out to the new Home Depot located just outside of the Holland Tunnel in Jersey City, NJ. I delight in the fact that this particular location is virtually void of customers and believe that I shall redeem Palestinian Bluetooth's lost segment free of hassle. I encounter four female employees congregating in a down time cluster. I introduce myself, explain what I'm there to do, and kindly ask if any or all of these lovely women would care to contribute by offering information about their interests, what they value as individuals, their positions at Home Depot, and whether or not they can offer a comment about the new location in Jersey City, NJ. Again, for the third time, the actual women of Home Depot are ready to bring the heat but their "higher ups" in management burglar the fun for everyone. So as a result, Palestinian Bluetooth is left with no choice but to say, "Strike Three Home Depot. You're motherfuckin' OUT!" Do I have time to spend my days scouring Home Depots for female employees willing to contribute? Actually, I do because I don't have a job... But I won't do it anymore on principle. From here on out it's strictly about The Ladies of Lowes. Home Depot, you blew it. We could've been something together. We could've turned those calenders into Hollywood Gold.

Gratitude Adjustment

2008-06-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

A chance encounter with Casey Bonham Leto last night reaffirmed my belief that there exist people and things that are inherently good. The kid is destined for greatness. Watch him grow under The Others link. Underneath all The Black Hollies' belly aching and at the root of all the band's psychedelic comedy is a deep sense of gratitude indebted to all of our friends, family members, and audiences who have lent us support in trying to get this operation off the ground. The recently completed tour was certainly deemed a success. On behalf of the Black Hollies Palestinian Bluetooth would like to send out the sincerest of 'Thank Yous' to everyone at Ernest Jenning, our amazing friends and audience in Baltimore, the Nouvellas for playing with us in NYC and performing a truly inspirational set, Greenflower, Dan Rumain, our amazing friends and audience in Memphis, especially Dirk Kitterlan for allowing us the privilege of entering The Stax museum on the arm, Jonathon at The Hi Tone and The Bulletproof Vests for making the Buccaneer show come together in one day, John at The Mercy, John Forsdahl for taking Palestinian Bluetooth to Autozone in Grapevine, TX, Adam Schrader and everyone who took care of us at The Raven Cafe in Prescott, AZ, everyone who helped make our two Los Angeles shows come together in less than a week's time and all of our friends who came out to support us there, especially Bryan Brown, Jim Brown, Dave Clifford, Cliff Meyer, Paul Fig, Miles Wilson, Cara Heller, Mande Whitaker, Megan Barthalomay, Jessica Gronvold, Nina Tarr, Woju, Emily Meyer, Uncle Gerry, Jessica Simpson, Switched on Audrey, Nicole Claudet, Jennimatz & Lambskins, our friends who came out to the Hemlock in San Francisco, Jesse Carew, Phil Manly, our friends, amazing audience, and incredible staff at The East End in Portland, John Sherman, Kelly Hinkle, Dead Meadow, and our amazing audience at The Comet Tavern in Seattle. The Black Hollies know that the positive response from every individual the band had the pleasure of performing for is precisely that which carried the band home safely.

The Black Hollies are currently working on new material and hope to perform overseas in the immediate future. In the short term, the current dilemma is figuring out how we're going to put food in Foodman's mouth, a fair question. Another question I am often asked is, "What's a grown man doing spending so much time driving around in his grandmother's 1988 Lincoln Continental?" The car baffled on lookers on the show room floor of a Lincoln demonstration in '88 when the hood was opened to reveal an engine the size of a pea powered by a 9-volt battery. The short answer, well, time's are tough. The long answer to the aforementioned question is a question itself. That being, of course, "What's a grown man doing spending any time at all wearing his grandmother's wigs?"

Morey's Weapons

2008-06-27T11:32:00.000-07:00

What does every musician want to wrap his or her hands around each time he or she opens a door? A Yamaha seven string guitar neck, not unlike the one that Steve Vai uses to battle Ralph Macchio in the late 80's disgrace of a film known as Crossroads. That's right, a Yamaha guitar neck. Aside from smelling like day old vomit and an alcoholic geriatric uncle's day old feces, known in some circles as 'Bud Mud,' The Off Broadway club in St. Louis also knows what musicians want to grab onto when opening doors and has made it a point to adorn every door in the joint with a Yamaha guitar neck. The main entrance, men's bathroom, women's bathroom, and greenroom all offer Yamaha guitar necks as entrance enhancers. Above, Justin Angelo Morey taps his way into Off Broadway as he prepares to perform for a crowd of six, not including the bartender, soundman, and doorguy.

Speaking of Justin Angelo Morey...

There are two types of people in this world. There are people who refuse to reveal their own birthdays. And there are people who love their own birthdays. Justin Angelo Morey is one of the latter. In fact, Justin Angelo Morey is the East Coast chairman for the "I Love My Own Birthday What Are You Getting Me?" support group. And guess what today is? If you guessed Morey's birthday you're only half correct. The correct answer in it's entirety is Justin Angelo Morey's birthday as well as the beginning of the three and three quarters of a month countdown to the Yellville Turkey Trot, within which occurs an actual Turkey Drop, a yearly event held during October in Yellville, Arkansas, where roughly 10 live wild turkeys are dropped from low flying airplanes. The maimed turkeys that survive the drop on account of being half-inclined toward flight are often snatched up and raised as pets by the local folk. The turkeys who eat it are oftentimes eaten saving lucky carnivores the trouble of breaking the turkeys' necks themselves in preparation for the hot pot. In honor of Justin Angelo's special day, the Yellville Turkey Trot, and to coincide with Palestinian Bluetooth's return from a two and a half week long dentist's visit let us be the first to say, "Happy Birthday Turkey!"

How does he do it? How does a man who subsists on wine, liquid hot fire, researching Northern soul records, and belaboring over crafting tweaked out psychedelic song arrangements remain cool during the summer months? 'Morey's Weapons' is a brief Palestinian Bluetooth expose designed to shed light on the aforementioned question.

The Hair Dryer: Before leaving the house each day the hair dryer dictates when Morey's feet will actually hit the street. If when picking up Morey noon is the agreed upon time of inception prepare to arrive at the earliest 1:30PM and await his offer to come up to have some peas or green beans while he finishes up "shuffling."

Thee Hot Sauce: This particular hot sauce is referred to by Morey as the definitive hot sauce, El Yucateco. If Morey went to the movies he'd put hot sauce on his Milk Duds. Justin Angelo Morey refuses to attend movie theaters.

The Freeze Out: Song writing sessions for The Black Hollies are conducted behind the Ice Curtain in a 10X12 room that fluctuates between the actual temperatures of 58 and 62 degrees. Both Ferrante and Wiley have taken to wearing the poncho during rehearsals not as a fashion statement but as a literal source of warmth. Carlo Rossi jugs of Paisano wine provide the warmth for Morey and Gonnelli. The logic of the Ice Curtain is such that the frigid temperature acts as a sound proofing agent against a neighboring room which houses a band that Justin Angelo refers to as, "Motley Brew." The colder it is in The Black Hollies' room the less offensive are the sounds emanating from that of Motley Brew.

Karma DEPENDS On Adult Diapers

2008-05-30T13:11:00.000-07:00

For the second time in its history as a touring steed Palestinian Bluetooth is wounded in battle, down but not quite out. The Black Hollies stop at a convenient store in an unknown small town in New Mexico in order for Nick to use the facilities. Wiley is behind the wheel. We notice a creepy elderly gentleman who resembles the Quaker Oats guy from This Old House begin to approach Bluetooth. The old creeper eventually makes his way to Wiley's driver side window and sticks his head in.

"Do you know me?" This Old House interrogates Wiley.
Wiley firmly responds, "No. We don't know who you are. We're from Jersey."
At this point, me and Morey straighten up and stand guard.
The old creeper then asks Wiley for change so that he can go to a store and buy a pair of Depends, adult diapers, without a doubt the weirdest pan handle I've ever witnessed first hand in my entire life.
"I'm sorry. We're on the road and we're broke. We don't have any change," says Wiley.
This Old House responds, "Well, I'm gonna go home and see if I can't get some money together to get someone to go out and buy them for me."

Ferrante is still inside the store. Me, Morey, and Wiley are stunned as we question each other asking if we're dead. I feel comfort in knowing that my friends hear the exact same words as me. This confirms the fact that I am indeed not dead but alive, not dreaming but awake, and not crazy but sane. The adult diaper pan handle attempt is extremely off-putting. We recount it immediately to Ferrante who is skeptical at first but then accepts it as truth when he ascertains the conviction in my voice as I explain the odd encounter. Wiley attempts to back out of the convenient store to get back on the road and Palestinian Bluetooth bizarrely stalls. It starts up again and we get back on the highway harboring an eerie feeling.

About ten minutes later the overdrive button on the gear shifter starts blinking, something that's never happened before. A loud grinding noise accompanies the loss of Wiley's power to accelerate. He immediately pulls Bluetooth over to the right shoulder. The band exits the van as our first inclination is that the engine is on fire. Smoke bellows. I open the hood to investigate, no fire. Wiley's initial explanation for the van's malfunction is karmic retribution for not contributing to the Depends adult diaper fund. The band thinks it over. The Black Hollie agrees that Karma doesn't boomerang that quickly and Bluetooth's fall is attributed to some other previously outstanding karmic debt. We wait patiently on the side of the road under a star spattered New Mexican sky.

Wiley confides in me that previous to the Depends incident while driving he notices a raven fly across Bluetooth's path. He silently ponders the symbolism of the black raven and makes it a point to look it up as soon as he gets the chance. He thinks about it a second time and then notices two black ravens cross the path of Bluetooth. Wiley ponders the symbolism a third time and shortly thereafter a group of three black ravens swoop across his field of vision. Wiley's fourth silent inquiry echos his spotting of a group of four black ravens crossing the path of Palestinian Bluetooth. Wiley wonders whether the first raven he sees is part of the final quartet he perceives.

The Black Hollies sit in darkness awaiting the arrival of a tow truck. The gentleman who shows up is named Lloyd, an incredibly personable and helpful father of three. The band squeezes into the cab of his tow truck. We share stories of being on the road. Lloyd listens as we explain the principles upon which the Black Hollies are founded, musicianship first and foremost, using the song as a grass roots way to communicate and reach out to all walks of life with the hope of bringing people together to forget about their everyday worries in order to have a good time. Lloyd mentions that the exact spot on Highway 10 where he retrieves us is somewhat of a cursed location. Without fail Lloyd always picks up the broken down from the very same location where Bluetooth falls. Lloyd transports Palestinian Bluetooth to his family's recovery yard on the outskirts of Las Cruces, New Mexico, where the band has the chance to meet Walter, a half Bull Mastiff junk yard dog in the traditional sense, meaning that if Walter's not on a leash and one crosses his path one's ass gets torn the fuck up. Lloyd then drops us off at the nearest Hampton Inn in Las Cruces which is ironic because in our minds we picture ourselves being dropped off from a hard night of giggin' in a limousine. Pulling up to a hotel in a gigantic tow truck snaps the reality brackets of each Black Hollies member back into place with a sobering definitiveness.

Palestinian Bluetooth is on life support, under close watch, and suffers from a sever case of transmissionitis. The medical bill will run The Black Hollies somewhere upwards of $2500, a small price to pay in exchange for making it home safely. With the insane prices of gas and our sometimes guarantee of $200 we should be dug out of this hole by around 2010. By this time music will be administered to children through a cable that comes out of the wall and is fastened to the back of a child's neck, a musical straw so to speak. Touring in a van will be a lost art and far too expensive for any normal blue collar band with out the backing of General Electric.

"Oh that's really cool. You guys sell calendars!"
"Actually, those are LP records, vinyl."

The Black Hollies extend our sincerest apologies to anyone who is planning to come to the shows in Austin and Dallas, Texas. We are hoping to get out of Las Cruces by tomorrow night if we're lucky. We may be here until Monday. We promise to come back to Austin and Dallas as soon as possible. Please understand.

Three Stages Of A Face Melt

2008-05-30T10:03:00.000-07:00

It is now imperative to distinguish between the yarnix and the face melter/close talker for the sake of deepening The Black Hollies' lexicon. As mentioned previously, the yarnix is always a malignant fun smasher while the face melter/close talker is often times benign, unaware of the temperatures emitting from their mouths as a result of the proximity to one's face from which they are speaking. The close proximity is usually a result of the close talker's good intentions in reaching out but can take a detour, as if to say, "Great job up there. I enjoyed the show. Now here are some intricately detailed facts about me you may or may not wish to learn. And to boot, I'm pretty much going to french kiss these facts into your ears." A benign face melter gets in and gets out but still talks close. A malignant close talker can go on for a long time holding the victim's face in place with the hot fire bear claw that is the face melter's breath.

The Black Hollies are highly skilled in detecting if a band member is being melted from across a crowded room. There are certain hand signals The Black Hollies use to communicate with each other to gauge whether a save is in order. A simple walk over to the band mate caught in a cross fire asking the question, "Is this person melting you?" is usually all it takes to administer a save. However, in my two attempts to help my band mates and thwart face melters on this tour I notice that The Black Hollies in distress are too nice to admit that they are being melted. In this case, I leave them to absorb the final heat blast on their own and offer a benign diagnosis to the situation. I have been in several situations during this tour when I have been in need of a save from a face melter. My hand signals fall on blind eyes and I'm left to save myself. I find that talking even closer and louder to a face melter who is close talking me often works to diffuse the situation. Remember, it is important to take control of your own destiny. It's a jungle out there so if you wind up in a situation where you feel uncomfortable don't feel obligated to suffer from fear of thinking that a complete stranger is going think you're an unfriendly person. Just extend your right hand, offer a firm shake and a shoulder pat, and say, "It is a pleasure talking with you but I have to go do stuff." Honesty is always the best policy.

I am lucky enough to have specific documentation of the three stages of a face melt which occur at The Replay Lounge in Lawrence, Kansas, after a Black Hollies set there a few weeks back. It shall be noted that after the photo documentation I immediately fly in to offer Ferrante an out. He waves me off claiming the melt is benign. At this point it is every man for himself.

Phase 1: The Approach

Notice the angle of Ferrante's neck. His head seems to be parallel to his shoulder. This is a sign that Ferrante's ear is extremely hot. Too nice of a guy to say, "Look I need to pack my drums up, my tech has the night off, can we talk in a minute?" Ferrante willingly takes the plunge.

Phase 2: Taking The Bait

Notice Nick's expression. Benign close talkers often have interesting stories to tell. The particular FM under observation here is actually a great guy, a Lawrence local who owns the bar across the street from The Replay Lounge. Ferrante feels his flow and goes the distance until....

Phase 3: The Melt

Luckily eyebrows grow back. How fucking hot is Ferrante's face at this point? Immediately after snapping this photo I intervene but Ferrante assures me the conflagration is benign.

The Wind Beneath My Weed

2008-05-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

I suffer from a severe syndrome known around The Black Hollies’ camp as “Jumping The Gun,” or simply JTG. JTG is a combination of reacting first then thinking rationally after the fact. The side effects of JTG include an accelerated deterioration of one’s short term memory which often times results in the misplacing of important personal belongings as well as the flat out loss of valuables. Luckily, most times what is deemed lost is shortly recovered, met with any of three other Black Hollies’ response, “JTGG, Jump The Gun Gonnelli.” Anyone who jumps the gun is punished by adding their last initial to the acronym, JTGW, Jump The Gun Wiley, JTGM, Jump The Gun Morey, JTGF, Jump The Gun Ferrante, and so on and so forth. It is a great feeling to realize that what one believes to be lost is really not. However, it is crushing and difficult to accept the moment when one must move forward knowing that a personal item of irreplaceable value is gone forever. The grueling time frame of a low budget rock and roll tour often forces one to forgo vital search missions in the interest of making it to the next gig within the optimal arrival window. Why have a day off when you can play Jimmy's Crab Shack in Baton Rouge? There's no guarantee at the door but maybe you'll sell some merch. You get all the shellfish you can eat. And you can wash down that crawdaddy with a free round of Pabst Blue Ribbon from Jimmy the owner. Where do we sign up?

The Black Holllies celebrate the birthday of Nicholas Albert Ferrante in Denver, Colorado to a crowd rife with Ferrante enthusiasts, aka Nick’s old friends. The Black Hollies play to an appreciative crowd at 3 Kings Tavern, a dynamite venue. Colder Than Fargo, the openers, are a great bunch of fellows, extremely friendly. The Black Hollies’ performance culminates when three buxom women step on stage during Hold Tight Go Out Of Your Mind to shake it. The dancing women, no strangers to the stage, are known around town as the OO LA LA Girls, a burlesque dance troupe. Ferrante’s birthday bash is a success. The Black Hollies are entrusted with a parting gift from one of Nick’s friends, an eighth of homegrown Denver chronic. Two hits are enough. Anything beyond that, one risks a trip to Vietnam. The gift takes the heat off the following day’s spirit crushing eight hour drive to Salt Lake City, UT, dreaded because of its length but more so because of its final destination. Driving eight hours only to arrive in Salt Lake City is like behaving all year long only to have Santa Claus give you a huge pile of donkey turds on Christmas day. It is worth digressing here to note that in 1982 Herbert Joseph Wiley V’s baby sitter tells him that Santa Claus isn’t real. Young Wiley V is five years old. He, in turn, shares this information with his entire Kindergarten class the following day, only to be punished by his mother for telling the truth.

The Black Hollies prepare for their trek to Salt Lake by immediately purchasing a 5L mini-keg of Heineken in order to put it on ice for eight hours to ensure maximum refreshment upon arrival at the evening’s venue, Burt’s Tiki Lounge. Passed experiences in Salt Lake City dictate this fortifying of provisions as essential. Even though the Mormans renounce polygamy in 1890 it is still easier to legally marry eleven women in Utah than it is to find strong drink. There’s no way The Black Hollies are going into the trenches without back-up. I return to the Hampton Inn in Littleton, Colorado with the mini-keg on ice. In my excitement over the previous evening’s parting gift I ask Wiley for the bag. Severe winds pick up outside of the hotel which according to the weather report are at times in excess of 20MPH. I take the bag of natural medicine from Wiley and in the true JTG fashion of attempting to do four things at once I place the bag in the front passenger seat of Palestinian Bluetooth. I turn my back for less than a split second. Much to my dismay the bag seems to be misplaced. This is extremely odd as I don’t leave the front seat of the van where I place the bag. I desperately ask Wiley if he takes the bag back to which he replies, “Stop JTGing. Serioulsy, where the fuck is it?”

Sustaining the loss of valuable weed is a difficult blow to recover from. At first, I refuse to accept this outcome and rack my brain for possible explanations of how something could disappear into thin air. Is it deus ex machina, the hand of God intervening to let us know that the particular bag in question just isn’t meant for our enjoyment? Did I jump the gun and throw it in the trash by accident? The Black Hollies scour the entire hotel parking lot, pick through all the garbage cans, and tear apart the van for at least an hour before departure. A new acronym is born, JB, short for Junkie Behavior, which ties in nicely with the previously mentioned excavation wherein Justin Angelo Morey actually digs in the desert with a sliver of a blown radial tire in search of Dead Meadow’s natural medicine. The expression on Wiley’s face during the Denver search mission is what I imagine his expression to be in 1982 when his baby sitter tells him Santa Claus isn’t real, an expression of utter dismay. After going as far as to investigate a construction site about three hundred yards from the hotel parking lot I accept full responsibility for the band’s loss, a sad case of JTG at its absolute worst. I couldn’t just wait to get out on the highway right? The only explanation The Black Hollies agree on is that the angle of the van’s doors being open along with the severe gusts of wind cause the weed to be whisked away by the powers that be, perhaps a blessing in disguise.

Most of the ride to Salt Lake City is completed in dead silence. Acceptance slowly creeps in around the sixth hour. The Black Hollies arrive at Burt’s Tiki Lounge with enough time to tap into Bluetooth’s mini bar. Traveling without weed is a double-edged sword. It’s smart because in states like Utah where Mormanism flows like wine police do not generally look kindly upon the sweet leaf. Ganja’s absence though is a good way to reach out to new people. However, not having a personal stash places one at the mercy of the blend of the newly acquainted. In situations such as these proper discretion is essential. One needs to be wary of local lacings with angel dust, meth, crack, roach killer, embalming fluid, etc. The Black Hollies keep this in mind at Burt’s Tiki Lounge but take the plunge regardless considering the dire circumstances of the early afternoon. A few friendly folks turn us on before the show. When asked if it’s mellow or Vietnam they ensure the band that it’s good saying, “You’ll be able to function on it.” I wind up not be able to sleep until about five in the morning as I roam the streets around our hotel. I literally come within a pussy hair’s length of getting hit by a car. I witness police clean up a drunk driving accident. I’m wearing a pale yellow t-shirt and white jeans. My night concludes with a crackhead asking me, “Are you an impressionist because you look like mustard and mayonnaise?” I make my own conclusion regarding the local lacing.

The Black Hollies’ performance at Burt’s Tiki Lounge is noteworthy because it marks the second time during the tour that Justin Angelo Morey vomits in his own mouth as a result of the odor emanating from inside the bathroom. The first incident occurs at The Replay Lounge in Lawrence, Kansas. I witness both incidents. During the second incident I am in the middle of taking an aerial dump pretending that I’m camping ignoring the shooting pains in my knees. Anyone who believes that putting a toilet paper nest on a toilet seat in a disgusting punk rock bathroom is going to prevent one from contracting whatever disgrace is festering on the seat is gravely mistaken. Such logic is akin to believing that Nyquil cures AIDS. During the first incident in Lawrence, Kansas, I’m about to exit the bathroom as I hear Morey’s first dry heave. I turn around and ask if he’s alright to which he replies, “Please don’t leave me in here.” Morey then promptly vomits in his own mouth. In a mock wild man southern drawl, “But dude, WE PLAAAAYED!”

I Am Not Afraid Of Kokomo But I Am Aware Of Kosovo

2008-05-29T11:23:00.000-07:00

Advice to the Beauty Bar: Stop franchising. The Black Hollies paid the owner's fucking rent in San Diego on Memorial Day. Two drink tickets a piece is laughable if not disgraceful. Spend twenty dollars on three beers at the bar or gamble with your life crossing the street to buy a couple of 22's at the 7-11, a hotbed for crackish activity in San Diego's El Centro district under watch by continual police presence. Morey opts for the former while I choose the latter. Who wins?

The bartender at The Beauty Bar is friendly but getting a buy back from him is much like milking an utterless cow. Promoter Sarah is personable as is soundman Marshall, truly genuine people. The crowd is amazing except for two yarnixes who perform the aggressive and always ill-fated two man crowd surfing routine, two hits of total bummer. The other bands on the bill, A Beautiful Noise and The Physics of Meaning, are great as they exhibit proper musicianship. Not getting paid a single dollar from the five dollar cover at the door is simply FUCKED UP, the equivalent of showing up to work after a long hard week and your boss saying, "Yeah, about that paycheck... We don't have it for you this week."

The irony is that The Black Hollies agree to these shows, fully aware of what to expect, nothing short of implicit financial masochism, a consensual monetary whipping, or, if you will, a fiduciary caning. Douche indeed. For what? The answer is pure; to remain true to the principle that it is never right to punish those who come out to see the band whether few or many. To pamper the aural cavities of all who listen with sonorum glorium is the task at hand. The Black Hollies are yet to receive any complaints and pride themselves on honoring their end of the deal night after night.

As a result, the price of drinkable beer should not be directly proportional to the price of gas for a band like The Black Hollies. When this occurs the work relationship deteriorates to the status of an “extended drinking vacation.” The Black Hollies arrive to perform not to patronize. Alcohol is a component, what we like to call “part of the works kit,” not unlike a stapler or a fax machine in an office work environment. It helps to put things together, facilitate transmission, get organized, get tight, and eventually unwind. Don’t make us pay through the nose for it especially if we’re not getting paid a god damn dollar at the end of the night.

As we bring bitter hour to an end it is worth mentioning a thing or two about the dilemma of pay to play versus cheapening the name of a solid band trying to spread its music via old time grass roots methods. The Black Hollies learn a valuble lesson from friends Dead Meadow during a chance encounter opening for them at Iowa City’s Picador a couple of weeks ago.
After talk of shakedowns and the obvious choice between a Koa wooden five string bass and headstockless four string Steinberger, let it be known that Steve Kille opts for the Steinberger, Jason Simon shares a great story about a bygone Dead Meadow show in Iowa City. Apparently the promoter for the evening comes up short with the band’s guarantee. The promoter is promptly driven to the nearest ATM by the band and advised to withdraw the evening’s financial short fall from his bank account.

Hats off to Dead Meadow for providing bands across the land with hope and proving the importance of holding people to their word. Aside from turning in a stellar set, both Kille and Simon play effortlessly while McCarty’s drum tones evoke those of Zeppelin I, Dead Meadow also divulge priceless information regarding specific coordinates for obtaining one of mother earth’s medicinal treasures. Two weeks later, The Black Hollies are currently enroute to unearthing an ounce of unnamed goods buried at a certain mile marker across the Arizona state border. Dead Meadow receives word a while back from friends passing through that the Arizona police are letting the doggies loose. As a result, Dead Meadow bury the hatchet so to speak. The Black Hollies plan to dig up the jar, take a hit, and re-bury it as a timepiece symbolizing solidarity and friendship.

The excavation is more difficult than expected. The Black Hollies spend at least an hour attempting to gauge the correct burial site. Several mile markers are pilfered but in the end Black Hollies fail to exhume Dead Meadow's holy relic.

Optimal Arrival Windows, Defining Yarnix, and How Not To Say Thank You

2008-05-15T16:47:00.001-07:00

The only way to combat a morale breaking long drive is to draw it out as long as possible, especially if the band is unskilled in early departures. When you know you're going to be late don't just be 10 minutes late. Take it to the limit. However, in order to prevent anger on the part of venue and promoter use the tour itinerary/day sheet to strategically determine the optimal arrival window. For example, The Black Hollies know that driving from Chicago to St. Paul takes roughly six and a half hours. Already too late to get an early jump, a 2PM departure is agreed upon. Coaxing certain Black Hollies to leave the comfort of a hotel room is akin to pulling a cat with unclipped nails away from a cat post laced with kitty heroin. This is phase one in combating a long drive and will subsequently be referred to as The Smashing of The Nest Phase.

Once in the van, the band determines what time load in, doors opening, sound check, and set time are scheduled to be by looking at the tour itinerary. So begins the art of crafting an Optimal Arrival Window. If load in is 6PM, sound check 7PM, doors 8PM, and set time 11PM The Black Hollies plug this information into a GPS-like device called an Optimal Calculator Simulator, OCS. The aforementioned information when plugged in produces a 9:30PM result as the optimal arrival time. One may ask, "How does the OCS arrive at such a conclusion?" Fair enough. The Black Hollies forgo all sound checks as a result of "knowing how we sound" which makes a check of it moot. A 6PM load in and a 7PM sound check are then redundancies.

In defense of early birds everywhere, and out of respect for those gracious enough to take a chance on booking you, it is always best to arrive before doors open. A failure to do so can rightfully result in serious attitude from particular promoters. However, sometimes one is left with no choice but to risk this which can be a small price to pay if the performance goes over well. Have fun or eat worms? The Black Hollies choose fun. The 8PM show time and 11PM set time tip the band off to the fact that there are several local openers on the bill. Toby heard The Black Hollies are playing so he has to get his band on the bill. And then Toby's cousin from across town hears that Toby's band is playing. He then does everything possible to secure the opening slot because his band is alt rock so it wouldn't be right to play after Toby's band which employs the quiet, loud, scream, quiet, loud, scream, double power chorus, rap-rock middle eighth, double power chorus, outro dynamic. A 9:30PM arrival serves to preserve one's ears and overall stamina which is of utmost importance on bills that are over stacked. Furthermore, a 9:30 arrival for an 11PM set time, leaves an appropriate amount of time for the right amount of drinking to occur without resulting in sloppiness. Many times a too early arrival results in over-consumption.

One may fairly interject here. A 2PM departure for a six and a half hour drive should produce an 8:30PM arrival putting The Black Hollies only a half hour late. Herein lies the rub and secret to The Black Hollies art of calculating an Optimal Arrival Window. The end of a morale crushing long drive, especially one against the clock, deserves a reward, just as one would wind down after a hard day at the office, slip on some isotoners, and have little snackski. Usually if the band hustles to get to a show, one hour away from the destination becomes the perfect time to sit down and enjoy a hearty dinner. The OCS puts The Black Hollies an hour outside of St. Paul at 7PM. This means that dinner follows from 7PM to 8:30PM, the absolute latest. If there are no boutique wine shops or exotic cheese houses in the vicinity, The Black Hollies are forced settle for some kind of reputable chain restaurant. Denny's has recently been crossed off the list of viable options on account of recent severe bouts with the crab apple splatters experienced by certain Black Hollies. Eating on the run is no fun. Proper digestion allows for the band to recap the previous evening's highlights, make some last minute transitional set adjustments to the evening's performance that lies ahead, and offer predictions for the current night. Most importantly, sitting down to collect each other's thoughts allows The Black Hollies to remain in tune with that which it values most, the present moment and enjoying each other's company. The dinner usually lasts about an hour leaving a half hour for miscellaneous dealings. Hence, the Optimal Calculator's 9:30PM arrival time.

The Turf Club in St. Paul is a top notch venue with a superb basement bar. Ryan, our promoter for the evening, treats The Black Hollies like family. Ryan is incredibly professional, hooks the band up with some pizza, books a solid DJ as an addition to the bill, and proves that he truly values staging "happenings" with the intention of expanding minds and promoting an overall good time vibe. The Black Hollies share the stage with St. Paul stalwarts, The Conquerors, who perform a brilliant version of Joe South's Hush. Justin Angelo thanks the DJ, Jennie, for spinning The Flirtations Northern Soul classic, "Nothing But A Heartache" per his request.

Minneapolis is a stone's throw away from St. Paul. The following evening The Black Hollies perform at The Hexagon Bar, established in 1934. Rose, the show runner/ultimate bad ass woman in charge gathers all four Black Hollies in order to explain to the band the way in which the evening will commence. Rose is a colorful character who cut her teeth in the mid-Sixties as a waitress at Minneapolis country bar, The Flame, where she fed the likes of Johnny Cash, Waylin Jennings, and Charlie Pride. When asked to share some of her fondest memories of performances witnessed she cites Lil Jimmy Dickens, Farren Young, Buck Owens, and Loretta Lynn as some of those that moved her back in the day. Rose exudes confidence while her experience and history are both a testament to the fact the she knows well how to treat a traveling band. Rose sums it up in saying, "Bands fight to come to see me and play here."

The Black Hollies meet bartender and talent buyer Tattoo Bob who refers to St. Paul as Shelbyville, a reference to the friendly rivalry between Springfield and Shelbyville in The Simpsons. Tattoo Bob assures the band that The Hexagon is a primo old school venue that is worth playing because there's no cover charge, plenty of parking, and The Hexagon boasts the cheapest drinks in town. Bartender Angela is more than welcoming to The Black Hollies as is sound guy Gabe. Annie from The Awesome Snakes performs in The God Damn Doo Wop band who headline. It's always a pleasure to hang with Annie.

A noteworthy incident occurs during the end of The Black Hollies set. The audience at The Hexagon Bar is the most enthusiastic of the tour, dancing and appreciative while facilitating a good flow which is met by The Black Hollies with a ground shaking performance. When alcohol is involved and human beings are excited into a trance-like frenzy via music and dancing the Dionysian urge can often times overpower the individual inevitably leading to destructive situations. The Black Hollies are all for sex, drugs, and rock and roll but there are certain boundaries that must never be crossed especially when pain is involved.

The particular example in question concerns the psychic pain of beloved Black Hollies drummer, Nicholas Albert Ferrante. A certain audience member, who will remain nameless as The Black Hollies admittedly don't know the guy well enough to forgo giving him a second chance if a personal apology is administered to Ferrante, gets on stage while The Black Hollies are performing (Hold Tight) Go Out Of Your Mind. The problem arises when said dude, the epitome of a Yarnix, starts putting his arms around Ferrante which in turn severely hinders his ability to perform. At first, no problem. However, the Yarnix is unrelenting.

For those who are unfamiliar with the term, a Yarnix is that crazy wildman who's so drunk that he's gotta piss in the sink because there's only one urinal in the bathroom but he aint gonna wait. GG Allen didn't wait, man. The Yarnix aint gonna wait. A Yarnix knows no boundaries. Trying to talk sense or reason with a Yarnix is the equivalent of driving a smart car down a narrow one way street until colliding head on with the ever approaching Mack truck. A Yarnix is a human cyclone not to be confused with close talkers/face melters whom are usually benign in their unknowing invasion of one's personal space. Like a face melter though, A Yarnix can have good intentions but they inevitably come out all wrong on account of ossification. The Minneapolis Yarnix in question painfully illustrates this notion and crowns himself The Ultimate Yarnix when he simultaneous bear hugs and screams in Ferrante's ear while the poor guy is playing drums mind you, not during a song break, as The Black Hollies are only offered breaks while Ferrante drums unaccompanied, that he loves Ferrante so much that he has to fart in his face. Ferrante tolerates the Minneapolis Yarnix like a true gentleman, keeping his cool the entire time , and finishing the set like a bona fide professional.

I am unaware as to the extent of The Yarnixing during The Black Hollies set as I focus on playing. I believe Rose diffuses the situation by eventually getting The Yarnix off the stage allowing for The Black Hollies to finish their set unmolested. Had I been aware of The Yarnix's psychically damaging statements while they were occurring I would have been more than happy to donkey kick the Yarnix in the back of his Yarnixie skull. In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't because, truth be told, the only way to diffuse a Yarnix is to immediately walk away. However, this option is unavailable if you're in the middle of performing. Essentially, you become the Yarnix's prisoner and tonight Ferrante is sentenced to three to five minutes in Yarnix jail, an eternity. Absurdly, after the performance that the crowd severely shakes one down to, a few people apologize for Yarnix assuring us that he meant well and really likes us and that was just his way of showing it. Trust The Black Hollies, there are countless ways to show your appreciation for the music. Buy us a drink. Buy our record. Simply compliment one of us after the performance. Smile. Enhance the vibe so people of all denominations feel welcome and are encouraged to dance. Have fun.

Thank the lord for Rose. Without her regulating it could have gotten ugly. And many thanks to the wonderful Minneapolis audience. Nothing makes The Black Hollies happier than feeling the crowd diggin' it. In the end, The Black Hollies get out of The Hexagon Bar in one piece. Yarnix, thanks for painting a poignant picture of how not to thank a good band. Palestinian Bluetooth urges you to tighten up and offer Ferrante a personal apology, fucking hammerhead.

Empty Bottles

2008-05-13T18:45:00.000-07:00

The Black Hollies roll into Chicago. The Empty Bottle is a classic venue, not snobby, just aware that it's a great venue and that most band's suck. They have high standards. This is a good thing. However, the Black Hollies, no strangers to the hierarchy of roadhouse politics proceed immediately to the liquor store down the block once they learn The Empty Bottle offers only half priced drinks to the band for the night. Being on a tight budget is no fun but drinking inside your van as if it's the green room at The LA Forum is. Justin Angelo returns from the liquor store with half a dozen 22 ounce imported beers. Palestinian Bluetooth posts up on the residential block perpendicular to Western Avenue where The Empty Bottle is located. Wiley joins us "backstage." Minds are bent as well as spirits consumed.

Just as the band gets in the pocket, a vehicle with a blinding search light approaches the van going the wrong way down a one way street. The Black Hollies realize the search light is attached to a cop car headed toward the van at a slow and steady creeping pace. At this point, it becomes every man for himself. Wiley turns into a vapor trail quicker than one can utter, "Two eggs over easy." Morey exits the side door expertly concealing his empty bottles in his boots. I exit the driver side door finishing my beer quicker than a sorority girl at a collegiate basketball victory party hiding the empty bottle underneath the van. The cop car stops and the officer in the shot gun seat interrogates Morey and myself without getting out of his car. He notices that Bluetooth is without proper residential parking credentials and advises that we move the van ASAP otherwise it may be eligible for a summons, to which I reply, "You mean you're going to write us a ticket?" The cop responds, "Yeah, a ticket. People on this street call us all the time about cars parked without permits." Morey and myself thank the cop too many times for the information. We move the van without incident and park it on Western Ave adroitly following the officer's suggestion. Upon doing so we run into Sean Towey, an old friend of ours from Jersey City, and Glass Trees band leader, who now lives in Chicago. The Towey encounter immediately raises spirits. The band and Towey proceed downstairs to the actual green room of The Empty Bottle for some last minute tweaking before show time. The band's performance to about 30 goes over well.

After the show a black cat from the headlining act gives Ferrante guff about The Black Hollies leaving their guitarists' pedal and cord cases in the middle of the floor hindering the cat's ability to get her drum set on stage. The cat says, "Yo, buddy, what's the deal with these fruity cases in my way? Whatta ya got make-up in there? Do me a favor. Pick 'em up and scram!" Ferrante, who usually confronts aggression with aggression, is speechless. He picks up the two cases and clears a path so the cat can set up her US Mercury kick drum. Ferrante later attributes the cat's harsh forthrightness to a natural competitive streak that lies deep within every drummer, whether human or feline.

I settle up with the extremely hospitable and friendly Kara, a bartender at The Empty Bottle. We get on the subject of her hometown, Richmond, VA. Immediately we discuss the origins and present whereabouts of infamous Richmond painting, Necktan, which Kara refers to as simply, Neck. Necktan is a found painting which exhibits an incredibly disproportionate face to neck color ratio, hence the moniker, Necktan. It's original curator, Martin Key aka Marty Violence brought this amazing work of art to prominence in the mid-90's by staging punk shows around viewings of Necktan, which gains a cult-following as a result. Kara claims to not know the current whereabouts of Necktan. I question whether the painting is at some point stolen only to resurface back in Richmond. Anyone with information regarding Necktan is encouraged to contact Palestinian Bluetooth.

The Black Hollies return to their hotel room to a find a special surprise of only one bed inside. Four Dudes In A Room is taken to new heights tonight.

Non-Ironic Vibe Assessment Of Peter DeLuise's Present Situation In 2008

2008-05-13T09:34:00.000-07:00

The original show in Columbus at Cafe Bourbon Street falls through on account of the owner's eviction. Luckily, The Black Hollies succeed in last minute bill-swapping over to Carabar, an excellent venue across town. The band arrives early. Co-owners Cara and Ron roll out the red carpet. Justin Angelo is treated to a sampling of the venue's hottest hot sauces; akin to dying and going to heaven for a man who can't sleep in a room unless the temperature is well below 60 degrees on account of all the hot sauce percolating through his veins. In defense of his freeze-out tactics, Morey attests, "When you have four dudes in a room, the COLDER it is, the CLEANER it is. Heat incubates germs. The freeze-out is the anti-incubator." The rest of the band treats each night of lodging under the "ice curtain" as an outdoor late fall/early winter camping trip and comes equipped with thermal pajamas and at least two layers of blankets which at times may be pulled over one's entire head on account of the nose becoming cold enough to turn mucus to ice. A genuine Black Hollies freeze out is incomplete without a severe "opium factor." The Black Hollies fortify the frozen room against all sources of light that may pierce through the window's curtain come morning. This permanent darkness creates an atmosphere not unlike that of a Chinese opium den and facilitates band rest throughout the early afternoon. This, in turn, contributes to a better performance come midnight. The band is well-received at Carabar this evening. Ron and Cara make it very easy for The Black Hollies to tie one on. Hospitality like this never goes unappreciated by the band.

The most important event of the evening occurs during The Black Hollies' load in. Ron and band begin a serious discussion regarding the seminal late 1980's hit show, 21 Jump Street. Ron makes a valid point in attributing the show's downfall to the cast addition of Richard Grieco. The band and Ron agree that Grieco is the ultimate frown-burger. Landing the coveted Jump Street gig is not enough. Grieco's logic is, "If Depp can do it then so can I." Grieco perceives his inclusion in MTV's 1990 Rock And Jock softball game as the beginning of his rise to the top. In 1990, Rolling Stone magazine quotes Grieco as saying, "Yeah, whatever, me and Johnny never had any beef, I guess. And I know that him leaving Jump Street really hurt Peter DeLuise alot. I mean, I was there late at night on set picking up the pieces. If Depp wants to be a big shot and get all method, become a serious actor and shit, then I'd like to remind him not forget his roots. I challenge him to face me on the mound of this year's Rock And Jock softball game alongside such greats as Mark Slaughter and Kip Winger." Needless to say Grieco's challenge is unanswered as Depp turns his back on the entire cast of Jump Street. Griecos's attempt to emulate Depps rise to prominence on the silver screen is a hideous failure that doesn't transcend B-status. Also, Booker, the 21 Jump Street spin-off, which revolves around Grieco's character, Detective Dennis Booker, a young loose cannon with a bad attitude, inevitably dissolves. In Grieco's defense, I encounter Johnny Depp about 10 years ago in LA's Black Market Music, a store that deals used vintage musical gear. I silently observe as Depp tests out a plethora of expensive vintage guitars through a Roland Jazz Chorus amplifier. My ears bleed as it sounds as if Edward Scissorhands himself is stumbling through a few bars of Johnny B. Good.

In the end, when all the dust is settled, who suffers the most? The short answer is Peter DeLuise aka The Man In Many Shadows. Peter Deluise spends his childhood in father Dom's shadow. Being the son of a famous Italian cut-up does indeed have it benefits though, seemingly making it easier for Peter to get his foot in the show-biz door as early as 1975 later followed by a couple of appearances on Different Strokes and The Facts of Life. Landing the Jump Street gig is a dream come true for Peter Deluise. He truly feels that he comes into his own independent of his father Dominic's influence. With meeting two new actors, namely Johnny Depp and the Vietnamese born Dustin Nguyen, Peter feels to be part of something bigger than himself.
All this changes during the wrap party for the infamous "Fraternity Hazing" episode of 21 Jump Street wherein Depp carries a drunken fraternity pledge over his shoulder up a ladder taking a shot of alcohol at each rung. During the wrap party, Depp drops the bomb on Deluise that he is hitting the high road and heading for the green pastures of the silver screen, something about a guy named Burton wanting to put him in a picture about an autistic kid named Eddie who has scissors for hands. DeLuise thinks Depps news is some kind of a drunken joke poking fun at kids with autism. DeLuise swings at Depp and lands a right hook. Before Depp can counter, Dustin Nguyen gets between the two actors begging them to drop it on account of them being best of friends. Before DeLuise can muster a word, Depp pushes himself away from Nguyen and yells, "I'm gonna be big DeLuise. You'll see! I'm outta here man. I'm sick of this 21 Chumps Street which really aint nothing but nursery school nap time. Have fun with your new co-star, Grieco. I hear you guys worked on the Facts of Life together. Lose my number, DeLuise. And tell your dopey father, saying something in an Italian accent does not constitute a punch line. You need an actual joke to have a punch line." This fateful moment marks the last time Depp and DeLuise speak as Depp immediately resigns hitchhiking to Hollywood with a twig and a red handkerchief, a considerably long distance being that Jump Street is filmed in Canada. All things considerd, Peter DeLuise is alive and well in 2008. However, the quesions begs, "Has Peter DeLuise come to terms with his past, being in his father Dom's shadow, and his bitterness toward Johnny Depp and Richard Grieco?"

Beachland Tavern Cleveland, OH

2008-05-10T17:47:00.000-07:00

Beachland Tavern in Cleveland, OH, is a dynamite venue. Although, Ken, our hospitable promoter this evening, immediately debunks any myths about Monday night at Beachland being a Grand Marquee event. The band appreciates Ken's candor, takes the news in stride, and proceeds with the evening's festivities by staging a cooking expose via Diary of a Foodman involving Beachland's talented and friendly in-house cook/classically trained flutist, Leia. Ken passes out drink tickets as if they're Kool-Aid rebates for the Jonestown Massacre. In hindsight, The Black Hollies note that in lieu of the on going Zagat-esque survey there are instances where an overabundance of free drinks can impede the band from a hasty exit once the, "LAAAST CAAWL...IF YOU 'AINT FUCKIN' THE BARTENDER GET THE HELL OUTTA MY BAR," death knell is rung.

The Black Hollies perform to an audience of three, not including Ken, Leia, and soundman, Clint, who late in the evening after the band is caught smoking in the basement long passed any paying patrons are left in the bar, says, "I wish I got paid to stand here and do nothing but I gotta go man." The Black Hollies oblige, apologize to Clint for frown-burgering the situation, sing a quick chorus of "Four Dudes In A Room," and call it a night. The band inadvertently makes the terrible Jackson Browne song about giggin' and packing up a reality. The surplus of drink tickets still in existence at the end of the night contributes to this as does the band's performance in front of a three person audience which comes off as a performance before a three thousand person audience. One of The Black Hollies' favorite past-times is treating performances in nearly vacant clubs as if they're performances in expansive theaters packed to the rafters with excited fans. In other words, every note counts. Following the show into the evening and continuing into the next day, The Black Hollies always make it a point to preserve this past-time and treat themselves as if they've recently sold out The Fillmore West. Activities which commemorate self-appreciation amount to taking long drawn "Calgon Take Me Away" style baths, ordering imported cheese plates accompanied by expensive French wine, paying for high end new age holistic massages, and booking four separate hotel rooms only on nights where the band takes in less than $30 at the gate. The Black Hollies are paid $27.00 for their Cleveland performance, $27.05 if one includes the envelope that Ken presents the band's money in. So, four rooms it is.

The following morning the Black Hollies celebrate the previous evening's till with a trip to Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Black Hollies receive free admission on account of presenting the Rock Hall with a copy of Casting Shadows and one recent press clipping from Rolling Stone Magazine wherein the band receives print, not in the form of a review or as one of a dozen bands to watch, but rather as a one-fifth ingredient to Rolling Stone's Top 5 Least Grossing Tours Of 2008 recipe, right behind Boston and Harold Faltermeyer. The magazine cites the signature Black Hollies guarantee of "refusing to perform for more than ten people while concurrently refusing to be paid more than thirty dollars" as reason enough for the inclusion. The listing which appears in the magazine's 'Smoking Section,' a random document of celebrity canoodlings, impresses Cleveland's Rock Hall which, in turn, accepts the band's cd and press clipping as a dual tribute granting The Black Hollies unfettered access to Stephen Stills' poncho which is normally kept behind a glass encasement. The Black Hollies extend their sincerest gratitude to everyone at The Beachland Tavern, especially Ken, Leia, and Clint for treating the band well and making it a memorable night for all.

Bohemian National Home, ?Love, and The Talking Donkey

2008-05-09T16:42:00.000-07:00

After succeeding in spending Canadian money as quickly as possible, The Black Hollies cross the US border at Windsor and get back on American soil in Detroit, Michigan, home of The MC5. Palestinian Bluetooth spans the Ambassador Bridge which is one of the only privately owned international crossings in the world. Owned by billionaire suburban Detroiter, Manuel J. Moroun, The Ambassador Bridge is the busiest commercial border crossing in North America. This information as well as a great restaurant recommendation are passed along by the friendly and informative, Jennie Carol, a musician/bar tender at Detroit's Bohemian National Home. The band arrives at the venue a bit early and rings what seems to be a bell as the doors are firmly locked. Upon pressing the bell a real live loud dog barking sound is heard. At this point the band deems it necessary to head over to the hotel in order to let the dog cool down and to let the Bo-Natty Home get tight.

After checking in at the hotel, The Black Hollies notice ?Love exiting the elevator sporting his signature pick-in-'fro hair style, fresh to death. Too quick on the move for PBT to secure an interview there is speculation as to whether ?Love is headed to the corner of McComb and Brush which is located a few blocks from the hotel. The band learns that ?Love is in fact in town to DJ this evening but not at the corner of the aforementioned intersection.

The Black Hollies return to The Bohemian National Home where Joel, the owner, treats the band amazingly. Joel shares information as to the history of the venue and welcomes the band into his personal living space, a distressed work of art itself which displays his father's personal art work. There is a 600 capacity space upstairs. The smaller room down stairs feels like a spacious living room with couches, a beautiful old billiards table, and two sturdy pianos. The vibe is great as the band happily supports the cause forgoing the free cans of Miller to pay top dollar for New Castle Ale. The crowd this evening is few in numbers but deep in soul. The openers, The Dial Tones, are a fine group of young musicians. The Black Hollies meet and greet each person in attendance, connecting with The Muldoons, a great familial rock and roll trio out of Detroit. The Black Hollies extend their sincerest gratitude to all who attend the show at Bohemian National Home.

Before retiring I perform one aggressive walk through a casino close to the hotel. With hands shaking I deliberate over whether or not to let The Black Hollies' $60 net from the evening's performance ride on black. I gain my senses, exit the casino without betting, and eventually cross paths with a donkey. I ask the donkey if he'll give me a ride back to the hotel for a penny. My inquiry is met with the donkey's startling reply, "What are you kidding me? It costs the United States 1.4 cents in copper just to make a penny these days. If you think I'm giving this ass away for anything less than that you're outta you're fuckin' mind brother!" The conversation ensues into a discussion about our country's current gas price crisis. Mental note: Detroit, lots of midnight creepers as well as talking donkeys.

The Black Hollies cross paths with ?Love one more time during evening's end as they notice a brand new Mercedes Benz parked outside of the hotel lobby. The Mercedes is flanked by two beautiful women anticipating someone's return. As ?Love is spotted sporting a speedy gait across the lobby floor it is apparent that these gorgeous women are waiting on him. At this point Justin Angelo poignantly observes, "?Love rolls deep while The Black Hollies weep." The statement is made in conjunction with the singing of the final song of the night, "Four Dudes In A Room," usually the encore performed after the night's official closer, "Techin' and Giggin.'

Marble Sack Shuffle Causes Toronto Blackout

2008-05-05T16:15:00.000-07:00

It is no secret that the hair of Justin Angelo Morey has its own zipcode, 1-Double-0-1-STR8. While Wiley's secret is in his diet, Morey's secret is in his hair. How does he do it? The answer lies in what The Black Hollies refer to as Morey's Black Marble Sack Shuffle. The Marble Sack Shuffle is a daily ritual wherein Morey showers, blow-dries, and then straightens his hair with surgigcal precision. The MSS usually clocks in at about an hour but can sometimes last up to an hour and twenty minutes, never less than fifty minutes. First, Morey lies down on the shower floor. Then, much like a baptismal rite, the water rains o'er him from above, cleansing the previous evening's impurities. How much time is spent on the shower floor is directly proportional to how many pints Morey consumes the night before and whether or not he attains a proper "soak-up" which usually amounts to a couple of burgers from Jack-In-The-Box or a frozen "Bomb" burrito from 7-11. Neither delicacy is ingested without exorbitant amounts of hot sauce which Morey deems a necessary deterrent to all impurities. Justin Angelo Morey bleeds hot sauce. The band refers to the first segment of Morey's Marble Sack Shuffle ritual as the "Elizabeth Shue Phase," derived from a scene in Leaving Las Vegas wherein Shue takes a similar kind of shower.

Upon shower's end, Morey dries himself, applies some kind of unidentified talc, and slips into a pair of "titey-blackies," aka the black marble sack. Morey performs the blow-drying phase of the MSS upright in front of the mirror in the hotel bathroom. Towards the end of Phase II the other band members either need to use the bathroom or shower themselves. At this point, Morey relinquishes his stronghold over the bathroom as a king abdicates his throne.

Morey performs the third and final phase of his MSS sitting cross-legged on the floor. Morey switches from blow-dryer to heated straightener and usually needs to power it off of an extension cord so as to reach the power outlet in the bathroom. Just as a painter puts a finishing touch on a painting, Morey tweaks his straightening work with strategic combing and product placement. It is at this point that Morey rises and slaps on some pants henceforth bringing the Marble Sack Shuffle to an end. When asked to comment on the necessity for such intricate attention to detail Morey states, "Even though I firmly believe that 'Oh What A Night' is one of the top five most heinous songs ever written or performed in the entire history of music, I really can't take anything away from Vali. When it was time for him to step on stage he dresses to the nines. That's what got him as far as he went. Yeah, Vali was a ma-moni but he built an entire career on bryl creme." (Contrarily, Morey cites Vali's Northern Soul monster, "You're Ready Now," to be a great song. He also cites Vali's, "Let's Hang On," to be one of the greatest songs ever written.)

On May 3, 2008, Morey's Marble Sack shuffle goes too far. Me, Ferrante, and Wiley decide to dine at the hotel bar before the evening's show at The Silver Dollar in Toronto, Ontario. This gives Morey the window of time he needs to shuffle, about an hour. As we bite into our entrees the power in the entire hotel suddenly goes out. People are confused. A Canadian woman seated at the table next to ours offers the classic joke, "OOH. That's my leg, ay." I get up to survey the situation. As I come back to our table I notice Wiley sipping his French Onion soup in utter darkness as if nothing is awry. Barely able to see each other, Ferrante raises an eyebrow while I shrug my shoulders as if to say to each other, "What did you think he was going to do, let the soup get cold?"

After fifteen minutes elapse the dining room is illuminated to lukewarm applause. I inquire with the concierge, "Sir, do you know what happened?" The concierge replies in a French accent, "It seems there was an electrical short which emanated from room 7209 that, in turn, caused a momentary glich in our mainframe." My eyes widen as I keep to myself the fact that 7209 is The Black Hollies' hotel room. The band attributes the exact cause of the hotel's electrical short to be a direct result of Morey not utilizing the proper adaptors necessary for performing a Marble Sack Shuffle on Canadian circuitry.

To Morey's credit he does forsee a possible Canadian circuitry mismatch and attempts to transport a power converter across the Canadian border. Immigration officers confiscate the converter deeming it "hazardous materials." Morey baffled, presses the issue asking the officer in charge, "If we really wanted to blow up Canada with a hair dryer," pointing to Ferrante, "do you think he'd be wearing a vintage Rush 2112 concert t-shirt?" The immigration officer, now less than impressed, makes it his mission to scour our records for any inkling of a spotted past. At this point Ferrante realizes that he supplants his US passport with an old head shot from his audition as Silvio for the original Sopranos pilot. The band laments that crossing the Canadian border is akin to visiting a priest in a Catholic confessional. In both cases dudes behind glass attempt to make you feel guilty. After the immigration officer finally relents, on account of admiring the Sopranos for its accuracy in decpicting Italian-American life in NJ, he issues the band a penance of two hail marys, an our father, and a special request that The Black Hollies promise to only dine at Tim Horton's, referred to by some Canadians as Timmy's, for the entire duration of our trip. We oblige and are granted admission into Canada.

With the border and Marble Sack Shuffle incidents the band arrives at The Silver Dollar in Toronto considerably behind schedule. Dan, the show's promoter, seems a bit perturbed about this. The band worries but then realizes Dan is not at all angry. He's an ex-journalist with a low tolerance for crap and an appetite for the mind-blowing, a hardcore lifer and a great guy. Colin and Cameron from The Disraelis quell any anxiety the band harbors as they reach out to The Black Hollies with open arms. Tthe Disraelis make the band feel more than welcome and assure that the night will be fun. This kind of outreach goes a long way especially when you're in a town where you don't know anyone. The Black Hollies not only gain new friends in the Disraelis and Dan, who after our set is entirely blown away and in spirits higher than an entire housing project, but also manage to turn on every single person in The Silver Dollar this evening. Women dance. Dan Dances. After their set the band converses with most members of the audience riding the high of being well-received.

Not to belabor the point because I know that he's been getting alot of ink in Palestinian Bluetooth as of late, but The Black Hollies realize that mentioning Dave Coulier is hands down the best ice-breaker in any Canadian bar. Most Canadians are blown away by an Amaerican's appreciation for one of Canada's forgotten comedic heroes. The Black Hollies would like to thank everyone who came out to The Silver Dollar in Toronto, especially Dan and The Disraelis.

Why Coulier?

2008-05-03T00:10:00.000-07:00

How does a guy like Dave Coulier keep it fresh in 2008? I don't know but The Black Hollies receive word today that Coulier is alive and well and can be found cutting it up at The Laugh Factory in Montreal on a bi-monthly basis. Is Coulier Canada's hidden treasure? You would think so. I talked to a few Canadians tonight about this and they are well aware that Coulier is gold and openly admit they are not trying to hide him from anyone.
On the other hand, Tim Horton's is to Canada as The Olive Garden is to Italy, except that Tim Horton's isn't some bastardization of proper Canadian food. Time Horton's IS Canadian cuisine. Happy families go in there and eat donuts together while discussing the episode of Degarssi The Next Generation where Emma gets gonorreah in her throat from giving blow jobs and consequently has to miss her big school recital because she can't sing on account of the bum throat. I overhear a mother, father, and two kids in their early teens hashing this infamous episode out over a couple of Glaze Au Chocolats. It's been a while since I've brushed up on my French. So the family may have been talking about something else that I botched in translating to myself. Degrassi the Next Generation is pure Canadian television, not afraid to tackle real issues and not afraid to leave a little length in the back while doing it. You can actually walk into a Canadian hair salon with a head shot of Dave Coulier, sit in a chair, and the barber just lets the scissors do the walking. Montreal, the center of it all, is not just a France cover band but a France tribute band, real French but not really France.

On their way there The Black Hollies encounter a sun beam on an otherwise rainy day. Liz, the district manager at The Stewart's chain in Schoon Lake, NY, lost a bet about a month ago during the last freeze of the season. Liz bet the members of her staff that they couldn't sell 100 milkshakes in one day. If she loses she dresses up like an ice cream cone and pumps gas for the patrons. Surprisingly The Stewart's chain turns out an astounding number of shakes and malts on the day of the bet proving that sub-zero temperatures are no deterrent to the people of Schoon Lake wanting to suck down vanilla shakes. Even though Liz loses the bet she still loves it. She pumps our gas with an ear to ear grin which proves contagious as the members of the band feel her flow and carry it across the Canadian border. The Stewart gas station also offers a "Milkshake Mention" sale/give away. If the staff doesn't tell you shakes are $2.25 between the hours of 2PM and 4PM you get one free. Lucky for the band we arrive to gas up around 3:45PM. Lo and behold the staff forgets to mention the milkshake sale to none other than HJWV. Wiley promptly collects his reward. See Diary of a Foodman for further details.

The show tonight is at Casa Del Popol. It goes over well as the band performs to a warm and welcoming crowd. Great venue, great staff. The band is fed and properly soaked. Evan and Dominique go out of their way to make it a special night. I'd highly recommend washing down the delicous Samosas with a pint of MacAulison's Creamy Ale. Not a bad do.

George Clooney v.s. Chris Burke

2008-05-01T23:07:00.000-07:00

The night begins with a band meal certainly worth mentioning. The Black Hollies venture to Frank Pepe's in New Haven; great pizza, que fack sucker staff. Kirsten Dunst walks in. The first words that leave my mouth are S-S-Suddio. I reach out and invite her and her friends to the performance. Dunst politely accepts the invitation. I set up what I believe will be an exclusive interview for Palestinian Bluetooth taking place later in the evening at Cafe 9. Our old school italian waiter, aka Allen Town era Billy Joel with Lenny Dykstra's helmet for a haricut takes notice and proceeds to treat us less than civil... He gets all Frank Stallone on us but with a dry venomous undertone promoting an odd vibe. The band does not appreciate this. Perhaps we should have paralytically gawked at Dunst as if the Twin Towers were crumbling before our eyes precisely mimicking the wait staff. Had it been Montel Williams we would have extended the invitation as well. We're friendly human beings. Had it been George Clooney or Chris Burke we'd reach out. Who would Dykstra trust in the emergency room, Clooney. We'd take Burke based on his Dryfire Walkoff performance alone. We'd love to one night anticipate Blair and Joe from The Facts of Life arriving at our show after being put on the guest list. Dykstra and his waitstaff/cohorts, especially Kieth Hernandez, successfully smash our fun. Especially when Dykstra refers to our band as The Black Olives probably on account of my mumbling not fully recovered from the S-S-Suddio encounter. Lenny Douche then attempts to convince us that Montreal is a twelve hour drive from New Haven. The band exits Frank Pepe's with a bitter taste and predicts a Dunst no-show.

The show itself is a success. The entire staff at Cafe 9 in New Haven are solid folk. Paul, Dan, Uber, and Warren are amazing 5 out 5 Zagat-esque treatment. The band plays to an enthusiastic crowd of 35, gets paid, and commences merriment.

Morey converses with the woman who performed the Poconos Mount Airy Lodge jingle back in the day. Ferrante relaxes coming off a hectic red eye flight from Vienna to JFK then on the puddle jumper out of Teterboro into Hartford. Wiley finishes out the night illuminating subjects such as Merkabas, the theft of Geronimo's bones, the Skull and Bones Society, MK Ultra, and worm holes through Time. Kirsten Dunst's absence from the show is felt as it marks the last chance for a Palestinian Bluetooth exclusive. We're holding Lenny Dykstra accountable and teaming up with Tony from Lombardi's in NYC to buy out Frank Pepe's and fill it not with pizza but with head shots of fogotten stars from the 1980's, specifically Dave Coulier, the parapalegic actress from Different Strokes, Bronson Pinchot, Nell Carter, Blossom and Joey Lawrence's father, Valerie Burtinelli, Craig T. Nelson, Paul Resier, the kid that played Winny Cooper, and Judge Rienhold.

AS220 Providence, RI

2008-04-30T20:27:00.000-07:00

The band arrives in Providence with an incorrect address for the venue. We shimmy 'Ol Bluetooth into a tight alley where we believe the optimal load door to be. Ferrante performs what the band refers to as his aggressive walk through in order to make assertive contact at the bar. Myself and Wiley are ten paces in tow. I witness Ferrante mime words to a barman in the distance. Upon looking to my left I immediately notice a 10X12 framed collage of oiled up full-frontal musclemen bearing scholngskis. Wiley and I exit in accordance. This bar is not the venue AS220. Ferrante figures it out and exits shortly thereafter. We later find out it's a gay bar called Shakers not unlike the name of female go-go bar and IRINA Agency host, Shakers, in Carlstadt, NJ.

The band obtains new information from a toothless man wearing army fatigues. The live space for AS220 is two blocks away. We arrive at the actual venue and decide it imperative that the band attempt to hock its beaded cab-driver seat cover as a result of it being more hinderance than comfort. (Three days earlier the band decides to jettison a jumbo citrus air freshener that emits what is refered to as an "old person's bathroom" scent which heavily relies on unused fragrant soaps from the early 70's. In the aireEntering AS220 there hovers an apparent odor of onions, vinegar, and human musk, not unlike the fragance one might encounter attending a Buzz Oven show in July at ABC NO RIO circa 1992. The odor is of unidentified origin.

We meet space manager Mike at the door. The bar and restaurant seem to be a separate establishment. I inquire with bartender Susana about food and drink for the band. She informs me that drinks are half price and the kitchen is closed. Luckily we were given a gift from someone we met in Seekonk, MA, the previous day, a 5L mini-keg of Heineken. The first pirority after unloading the gear is obtaining ice, as the band travels with a portable cooler bag. The van doubles as a bar and the band doesn't anticipate a problem with setting up their own bar on stage as opposed to buying half price drinks.

The two opening bands play deafening experimental noise scapes of warfare to the smell that still hovered in the room, divisive.

As 11:30 rolls around the The Black Hollies set up and commence performance to a thin but extremely appreciative crowd of about nine, including MIke the friendly space manager and Frank the helpful sound mixer. A few people dance to the songs while both audience and band are more than appreciative. It is equally important that a band perform as gracious for few as a band would many. In the end, the night proves fruitful in performance aspect yet deteriorative in financial aspect as The Black Hollies receive nada dinero. No stranger to gate sales proving a bit short come evening's end, the Black hollies attribute the low turnout as resulting from the people of Providence, RI, getting word that the band's cover of Your Better Run by The Racals is in breach of AS220's "No Covers" policy.

The bathrooms are clean and the stage is spacious. AS220 vibe is not uptight or lacking humor just a bit dry. Zagat-esque sleeps on it.

The band's day off is spent discussing eschatology. The day also marks Justin Angelo Morey's first stint as headlining act for Palestinian Bluetooth's, "What 'Choo Gonna Do? Drive! Fest." Ferrante, the festival's usual headliner had to cancel due to a Wine Spectator's all expenses paid trip to Austria where he is slated to receive the magazine's "Critical Appreciation Award" for his poignant descriptions of Austrian Reisling's bouquet. Wiley serves as main support in the shotgun seat which also marks his first appearance as a driver/co-pilot.

The Middle East Cambridge, MA

2008-04-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

The drive to Boston is its usual snail paced trot. Gun Hill Road is always a false point of alleviation. Rubberneckers love it when garbage trucks catch fire. Why keep driving? Gotta see how close you can get to the disaster without your own car catching fire, right? Connecticut nevers lets us down and continually earns its title as "The Parking Lot State." The band begins logging Wiley's food consumption in a serious attempt to get closer to his secret. The link can be found in The Others under HJWV Diary of a Foodman.

After a solid six hours the band finally arrives at The Middle East. At this point, The Black Hollies deem it fitting to conduct a Zagat-esque survey/rating of every fine bar, arthaus, nightclub, restaraunt, roadhouse, and crabshack in which the band is slated to perform with the sole intention of doing a service to bands across the land because in the end, "Even though we spent $75 on alcohol and only got paid in Twizzlers, at least WE PLAAAYED."

This is how it works. The venue receives an overall star rating out of five possible stars. The factors the band will consider are the following.

1.)Sanitary Conditions of Bathroom:

Whether a particular bathroom is "shittable." Does it lock? Is it without proper stall coverage? Do you need your bandmate to stand guard outside the door? Does it only offer cattle trough style urinals? Are there feces on the toilet seat? Did that special wild man, aka Yarnix, really have to piss in the sink right before your very eyes? The condition of the bathroom will be properly documented with before and after photographs.

2.)Hospitality:

How friendly is the bar/wait staff, doorperson, sound mixer, promoter, etc? If offered, how good is the food? Are the beer taps dirty? Dude, we can't pay you tonight but we'll gladly buy you a round of PBR. Is an actual dog or cat tapping the kegs behind the bar? If your rider is crossed out with an X and faxed back to your booking agent just settle for getting high on life that night. Smiles and a good all around vibe go a long way especially when you have the shakes.

3.)Stage/Greenroom Conditions:

Are you performing on top of five milk crates that are still standing from when Die Kruezen rolled through in '83? Are you singing into a microphone that wacky Robbie, the loose-cannon front man from the opening band, just had to rub on his ball sack? Is your greenroom the bathroom?

The Middle East in Cambridge, MA, is a top notch venue all around. As a result, the venue is rewarded a 5 out of 5 Zagat-esque rating. The entire staff did their very best and were hospitable. The cook actually came inside to watch The Black Hollies perform a couple of songs. The bartender, Roger, recommended the lamb cous cous as the restaurant's primo fare. The dish was outta sight, perfect amount of spice and the lamb fell right off of the bone while not being too gummy. Dick from The Prime Movers, our main man upstairs, was incredibly welcoming. He greeted the band with a positive vibe and offered sage-like advice with regard to touring in general, recommending that the band get over to France and Spain ASAP. DJ, the sound mixer, was a true professional throughout the entire night. Mark, the door person, was friendly and prompt in settling up with the band at the end of the night. The other bands on the bill, Nudity and Scout Niblett, were an absolute delight. And the bathroom held strong for the entire night. The Black Hollies would like to extend our sincerest gratitude to The Middle East. The band can't wait to come back in June opening for The Lyres.

PBT Street Team

2008-04-29T11:29:00.001-07:00

After we pick up Wiley from Bayonne en-route to Cambridge, MA, The Black Hollies are blessed with a sign from above. We meet Myrzah walking along the corner of 5th and Hobart. The band acknowledges meeting Myrzah as an indication that the tour will prove fruitful.

Taylor Hamas, Egg, and Cheeserrorism

2008-04-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

I noticed this sign while driving along Route 17N in Carlstadt, NJ. For a split second I thought someone might have laced my taylor ham, egg, and cheese sandwich with LSD. I even pinched myself to make sure that I wasn't in West Texas anymore. Then I laughed, not because I think extreme nationalism is funny, but rather because the words, "Osama You're Up," conjure a very specific image in my mind.

Picture a stage manager wearing a head set at the Laugh Factory, LA's "premier" comedy club. The stage manager comes to a green room door adorned with a Hollywood star, under the star reads, "Binny." The stage manager opens the door ever so slightly, peaks his head in, and utters, "Osama, you're up."

Osama Bin Laden takes a final bite of a carrot topped with hummus from a catering tray, finishes looking at himself in the mirror, gets up, and walks through the back stage hallway just as a prize fighter approaches ringside before a title bout. He is patted on the back by members of his entourage and handed a microphone as he steps out on stage to an erupting crowd.

What follows is an abridged transcription of Osama Bin Laden's LA comedic debut at the Laugh Factory, exclusive to Palestinian Bluetooth ( translates best if read in a mock Canadian accent):

Yo LA! What up? OBL in the house. How's everybody doing tonight? At first, I was reluctant when my agent at William Morris told me that she booked me at the Laugh Factory because of the Michael Richards incident. But I figured when am I ever going to get the chance to open for Jon Lovitz? So I jumped on it. It's great to see Bob Saget in the audience tonight. Hey Bob! A little known fact about me, I was a huge Full House fan in the 80's. I guess you'd call it a guilty pleasure. Really though, Full House was the only thing that brought solace to my soul while fighting in the Cold War. I had the biggest crush on Laurie Laughlin. It really choked me up when Uncle Joey and Uncle Jesse's jingle composing partnership fell to shit. But hey, who could really blame Uncle Jesse? I'd want to play congas with the Beach Boys on Kokomo too.

Speaking of congas, I know exactly why the same thing is happening in Eldorado, Texas on the Yearning For Zion Ranch with the FLDS cult that happened on David Koresh's Seventh Day Adventist compound in Waco. Another little known fact about me, I used to kick it with David Koresh back in the day. We actually used to jam together. We had a kind of instrumental jazz-fusion thing going on. I played congas. Koresh played a five-string koa wooden bass, hence the nickname I gave him, Koaresh. We could never agree on lyrics though. He would always want to sing about Christ and I would always want to sing about Allah. We decided to focus on the rhythm like Gloria Estefan and not fight over a message. We called ourselves Blind Faith Too.

Man... Koresh was one of the best slap-bass players this side of Corpus Christi. We were gigging along the local circuit for a while. And then one day Koresh hears about this new festival starting up in Austin, TX, called South by Southwest. Koresh submits a press kit with a couple of demos we put together. He tries to get us on a showcase at Stubbs opening for The Soup Dragons, Ned's Atomic Dustbin, and who else but The Jesus and Mary Chain. Blind Faith Too was rejected from the inaugural SXSW, something about copyright infringement regarding the name of our band. Koresh was devastated to say the least. I went to bat for us saying it wasn't infringement because we put the Too at the end of Blind Faith rendering it an entirely different band than the one with Clapton, Baker, Winwood, and Grech.

In the end, SXSW didn't go for it and shunned us. I got over it, moved on, and started doing hip-hop stuff, Dj-ing and MC-ing with a group of rappers called Taliband, kind of like a Middle Eastern Audio Two. The last I heard from Koresh was that he was trading his an entire back-line for semi-automatic machine guns and a jumbo bread maker. We went our seperate ways. Then one day, I was watching CNN in the early 90's and I see Koresh's entire compound being bitch-slapped with tanks and tear gas by The United States' Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. There is no doubt that Koresh going bonkers was a direct result of Blind Faith Too not being accepted at Austin's first South by Southwest.

So, I'm going out on a limb here and begging the committee in charge over there at that god forsaken festival. When FLDS cult leader Warren Jeffs submits his band this year for the Arcade Fire opening slot at Stubbs just let him play the damn show. You'll be saving the American taxpayers a helluva lot of money. And you guys thought I hated your country. he he he.

Speaking of cults and extremists, I was recently in Lincoln, Nebraska, doing a one off at The Lincoln Laugh Box, and I came across an article in USA Today over a sausage and egg sandwich at The Hampton Inn near the airport. I read that the extremist hate group Hamas wants to bolster its perception to the public because its enrollment numbers are dwindling as a result of the group being too extreme. This cracked me up, not because these motherfuckers have been biting my style for quite some time now and claiming credit for shit that me and my boys were trying to keep hush hush, but because the irony of an extreme hate group trying to appear nice in order to attract more members is beyond rich. It's fucking loaded. I'd love to be a fly on the wall at that conference. What are they going to do? Offer the members of Hamas a 401K benefits package? he he he. Here's them, "No, we don't want you to stop blowing yourselves up. We just want you to enjoy yourselves a little more when you're doing it. Maybe do like a funny dance right before you detonate or something like that. We're a pretty laid back hate group you know. Maybe we should only blow ourselves up in places where people aren't partying like we did in Bali that time. Nobody likes a fun burglar. Let's just blowup ourselves in places where people aren't doing fun things this way people know that we, Hamas, like fun things too. Or maybe just let the women show a little leg every once and a while. I really don't know. I'm at a loss." Here's my solution Hamas. You want to tailor your perception and entice more Hamas hopefuls? You need to hire the same publicist that orchestrated Pope Benedict XVI's trip to Washington, DC and Yankee Stadium. I saw Benedict XVI on Page Six canoodling court-side at the Nets game in between Beyonce and Jay Z. You can't pimp like that without a good publicist. I think either Surefire or Nasty Little Man handles Pope Benedict. I can look into it for you Hamas.

Laugh Factory, that's my time. My name is Bin Laden. You've been a fantastic audience.

The transcription ends here, as does not being on the road for The Black Hollies. Tomorrow marks the inaugural show for the band's second full length tour at where else but The Middle East in Cambridge, MA.

The Women Of Home Depot

2008-04-24T10:23:00.000-07:00

A few months back I went to a Home Depot in Los Angeles to buy Quick-Crete. While traversing the aisles I noticed that most of the employees were women. I'd even go as far as to say that in every different Home Depot I've been in since then I've noticed a considerable tip in the scales with regard to the ratio of female to male staff members. It empowers me to know that, in light of America's current unemployment rate and looming recession, women, who have been shunned from the currently male dominated flight attendant industry, but not this industry alone, are fighting back and hijacking the formerly male dominated tool selling industry.

To celebrate, Palestinian Bluetooth is in the process of teaming up with Home Depot to market an exclusive line of calendars for 2009 entitled, "The Women of Home Depot." The executives in Home Depot's corporate branch are yet to return my phone calls regarding this matter but I am entirely confident that once they've read this blog we will be conducting business together. As a consolation, I went to the Home Depot in Secaucus, NJ, today, not to buy anything, but to talk to some of these lovely ladies and find out if my assumption is true. Here's who I met...

Jackie Valasquez, our honorary woman of Home Depot for April 2008, is a sales representative in the tool rental department at the Secaucus, NJ, branch where she has worked for ten years. Her home town is Union City, NJ. Jackie's main hobby is bike riding. Her main interests and concerns are health issues. Jackie participates in walks to help raise awareness and money for children who are diagnosed with illnesses such as cancer. When I shared with Jackie my assumption regarding the ratio of female to male Home Depot employees she was surprised and didn't agree as she has been working at Home Depot for a decade. However, she did mention that there has certainly been an increase in the hirings of female store managers and female sales representatives in the tool rental department. Jackie is beautiful, polite, intelligent, and extremely pleasant to speak with. If you're in need of renting some tools, I'd highly recommend paying Jackie a visit. Don't go on Tuesday or Friday though, as those are her days off.

(side note: The flight attendant industry, once dominated by women, is only one industry among many wherein women have been "heisman trophied" by men. If only audiences at Black Hollies' shows could be less "flight attendant industry" and more "tool selling industry" we'd die a happy band. Without getting too far ahead of ourselves the band does indeed realize that the ratio of actual dogs and cats to humans in attendance at Black Hollies' shows needs to be adjusted, in favor of humans, before the band can even begin to imagine adjustments regarding the guy/girl ratio).

Nouvellas = Van Halen

2008-04-21T08:21:00.000-07:00

Most reviews of records today are a product of lazy, inaccurate, and unoriginal writing. I'm not saying that it's easy to describe music via the written word. On the contrary, it's a difficult task because it negates the very essence of music which transcends language itself. I recently read a review of The Black Hollies' Casting Shadows LP describing the band as "gutter psychsters." At first I chuckled to myself but then felt an immediate sadness when I asked myself, "What does that mean?" The answer, of course, is plain. "Gutter psych" means absolutely nothing and gets the reader of the review no closer to imagining what the group actually sounds like. It's akin to describing the new Gnarls Barkley record as "funnel-cake trip-hop." I'd eat it. I probably wouldn't listen to it. In short, it irritates me that just about anything is passed off as "good press" in our current blog-worshipping milieu.

With this in mind, I'd like to offer a review of the Nouvellas new Satisfied 45. I'll spare the description of what it sounds like aside from saying that when I hear Satisfied I feel great, amazing actually. You won't believe that this song will be the best single released this year, but it will be. Remember Hey Ya?

Now that I've reviewed the record according to today's standards let me point something out that most may not have noticed. There is absolutely no distinction between Nouvellas and Van Halen. I will prove that Nouvellas and Van Halen are one and the same band, or that Nouvellas at least modeled their working frame work after that of Van Halen.

First and foremost, both Nouvellas and Van Halen are held up by the back-bone of a dynamic sibling combination on drums and guitar. Van Halen boasts the brothers Alex and Eddie on drums and guitar respectively while two-fifths of Nouvellas are the brothers Pierce, Andy and The Reverend Dennis, on drums and guitar respectively. When recently asked why he prefers faster tempos A. Pierce stated, "Do you think Alex Van Halen got on the cover of Modern Drummer by slowing down?"

Van Halen's original bass player has two first names, Michael Anthony. Nouvellas original bass player also has two first names, Justin Angelo. With Justin Angelo's recent departure from the group the band will employ The Reverend Dennis Pierce's son, Debussy Brahms Pierce, as its new bass player to mirror Van Halen's current line-up which features Eddie's son, Wolfgang Van Halen, on bass.

Lastly, both Van Halen and Nouvellas were/are fronted by two wild singers with golden sets of pipes who love to party. Jamie Kozyra has recently been endorsed by Stolichnaya and has launched her own line of customized vodka to compete with Sammy Hagar's brand of Kabo Wabo Mas Tequila. Leah Fischman finds her counterpart in David Lee Roth. Fischman cites Roth's solo work on Yankee Rose as a major influence on her singing, performance, and clothing styles. As can be perceived from the aforementioned evidence it's plain as day that Nouvellas and Van Halen are the exact same band.

Blame Muammar al-Gaddafi

2008-04-20T09:17:00.000-07:00

I came to a dark realization last night during a Black Hollie's rehearsal. The band listens to 45's during our breaks from musical sports, exercises in rearranging the already rearranged during which the band members learn that, "as long as you play fast enough no-one will ever question it." Any song writer should seriously consider this tenet when the time calls for Hollywood Gold. Last night's DJ set included "Right On Track" by Breakfast Club, "Broken Wings" by Mister Mister, and "Immanence Front" by The Who to name a few. But it was while listening to "Monkey" by George Michael that I had this dark realization.

Most would probably scoff at the notion of intentionally listening to a George Michael song in the year 2008, especially one that refrains, "Who's that? Don't look back. There's a monkey on your back. Why can't you do it? Why can't you set the monkey free? Do you love the monkey or do you love me?" Why scoff? Is it because "Monkey" is a "bad" song. Is it because George Michael is a fucking asshole? Do I have disgraceful taste? Thoughts such as this went through my head as I realized that Michael's "Monkey" was hitting my musical g-spot in a major way, especially after a couple pulls off of Wiley's mind-bender. I was enjoying the song so much that I went as far as to demonstrate to my bandmates how to properly execute a dance move called the "Roger Rabbit" transitioning into a crossed legged knee-drop spin as a finishing move.

Then, I felt extremely frightened because I didn't know if I truly liked the song that I was apparently enjoying. I felt a severe solipsistic disconnectedness in realizing that whether music is good or bad has absolutely no bearing on how certain songs make one feel because certain songs from one's childhood are so ingrained on one's sub-conscious psychic make-up that it is impossible for one to unlearn that song's melody, lyrics, beat, chorus, or what-have-you. Even though I haven't heard "Monkey" by George Michael or "Broken Wings" by Mister Mister in over ten years I somehow know every nuance that unfolds in these songs. Liking these songs, or whether these songs are good or bad, becomes entirely irrelevant. These fucking songs are IN me and I didn't choose for them to be there.

This very notion is comparable to being born into a religion that you didn't choose to be born into. You learn all the rituals and symbols at such a young and formative age. You eat the cookie, you drink the blood, you don't eat the pork, you don't handle the money or drive in cars once the sun goes down, you face the east every time you pray, you behave in this life so you don't live again in lesser form during the next life, and so on, ad infinitum. But once you are cognizant enough to question whether these rituals, symbols, and roadmaps for negotiating reality are really the right ones for you it's too late to unlearn them even if you conclude that they're wrong for you. Unlearning them thus must become irrelevant. One can choose new symbols and rituals to navigate with but those new symbols only pile up on top of and add to one's psychic make-up as opposed to erasing, reprogramming, and providing one with a clean slate.

The same notion holds true for avid listeners of music. If you loved Noel's "Silent Morning" when it took the Freestyle community by storm in 1987 but now your musical diet consists of a strict regiment of Jimmy Roselli's Saloon Songs one doesn't supplant the other but rather both inter-lock to comprise your musical make-up even if you're trying to front and say you don't think "Silent Morning" is a good song anymore. If in 1988 you wanted to play drums to emulate your hero, Steven "Popcorn" Adler, but in 2008 you model your drumming after a more modern hero like Taylor Hawkins, so much so that you use the same fan settings live on stage to get your hair to blow at the same angle as his, that's OK. Those sentiments can co-exist. There's no need to dismiss "Popcorn" as being a shitty drummer because your tastes and sensibilities have changed and grown. Poor Adler shouldn't be perceived as a skeleton in your closet but rather a key that unlocked certain doors during certain times and places along your musical reality's formation.

We were a confused generation growing up in the 1980's during times when Z100FM, aka the Z-morning Zoo, would broadcast parody songs like "Kill Gaddafi" to make sure that it's listeners were American enough. And then, as children, when we would sing those songs in class our teachers would yell at us telling us we were wrong for singing them. "But Mrs. Allen, a-Scott-y Shannon-y and a-Mr. Leonard-y a-told a-me that a-these-y songsies were OK." So, you tell me who's fault is it that I think "Monkey" by George Michael is an OK song? And, before you ask, YES, that is my grandmother's wig that I'm wearing in the photo.

Roses Are Red, Violets Are Bluetooth

2008-04-16T17:24:00.000-07:00

The term Palestinian Bluetooth was coined while driving on the Dan Ryan Expressway on March 21, 2008. I was driving from St. Paul to Chicago en route to a Black Hollies show at The Note. In bumper to bumper traffic I looked to my left. I noticed a woman incessantly talking on her cell phone while both of her hands comfortably maintained the "ten" and "two" positions on the steering wheel. I was blown away by the fact that the entire cell-phone was fastened to her head, held in place with an elegant cultural head wrap. Seeing this kind of absurd ingenuity inspired me. Hence, I give you Palestinian Bluetooth which by its very essence refers to the use of any kind of renegade rigging to attach an entire cell phone to your face in order to go hands free, beautiful because it represents the refusal to take the easy way out. I had to exit the Dan Ryan immediately after coining this term because the power steering went out as a result of an important pully in the engine going on the fritz. The band magically coasted along surface streets leaking oil profusely and stopping at exactly the front door of The Note where the band's first extended tour would end. Two thousand dollars and three days later The Black Hollies would eventually make it home. Considering the circumstances under which the van broke down and the fact that the van itself is a light shade of gray-blue, the band is thrilled to announce that it has decided to name it's van Palestinian Bluetooth as a gesture of good faith and a reminder that the easiest way is always the most boring and least fruitful.