a note from drumanji...

the following email is from andrew hamilton...

Gentlemen:

Please excuse any misspellings, exaggerations, or
otherwise eccentric behavior.

I am drinking
the whiskey.

First, the Bayou is a Bayou no longer. The mighty
magnolia has fallen; no shade falls on the sacred
roof; the tender semen smell laces the cool morning
air no more; the leaves do not litter the path;
possums do not swing, nor waddle, nor twitch; and the
landlord's grandmother turns in her grave. Perhaps she
waits for the troubadour, Jesse Gloyd, and his
promises of evening love for the dead, as strummed on
a bandaged guitar.

Or,

Perhaps not.

One thing we know for sure. The Bayou, as we have
known it, is gone. Much too much pale light changes
the atmosphere; no better, no worse, only changed.

In other news, Iraq has been returned its sovereignty,
Michael Moore continues to prove his stupidity on a
national scale, and a new Bevmo has officially opened
in Pasadena. And yet there remain those who doubt the
existence of a God.

Disagreements:

Jesse: In continuation of our real time porch
conversation of last night, and picking up the pieces
of this virtual one, David Fricke, despite his (what
you call) boyish, and (what I call) frighteningly
preserved and (ultimately) bizarre looks, is
definitely not our generation's Greil Marcus. Greil
Marcus is first and foremost a social scientist. He is
a semiologist who bridges pop culture and philosophy.
He is a connection-maker by trade, signifying the
hitherto mundane or merely factual. David Fricke is a
music critic, albeit a usually very good one; with the
exception of his wasting 5 stars on Adrock and the
After School Crew. Greil Marcus on the other hand, is
a critical theorist, much like Lester Bangs, Roland
Barthes, and David Hickey.

There is, my dear boy, a difference.

Of course, too be fair, the only writings I have read
of David Fricke are those in his tiny column in RS. He
(usually) has good taste in music. He (according to
the blurb in italics, apparently) has been to more
shows than I have. I am sure that the 500 words he
gets per month are not a qualitative sampling of his
thoughts on pop culture as we know it, and, were he to
have a few books, or even a longer section, I might
change my mind. But, until he convinces me otherwise,
I will not hold him as my generation's Greil Marcus.
Instead, I pass that mantel on to either Nick Hornby,
or Jon Singleton. Whom, come to think of it, are
probably closer to Greil Marcus's generation. So, oh
well.

On to other thoughts...

Old Music or New Music?

Is there anything worth listening to these days?

Do they make it like they used too?

Can there be such a thing as new music, given the
range and subconscious influence of music history?

Considering the existence of the blues, has there ever
been any such thing as New Music?

If there is such a thing as New Music, that is, music
that has no place, only new, nothing to tether it to
the long corridors of tradition and influence, music
that uses nothing that anyone has ever used before, if
there is this New Music, what does it sound like?







Ok.

Enough.

I am getting a little big for my britches, a little
dogmatic.
After all, there is so much goodness to be enjoyed,
why question it?

As long as it makes you want to

a) scream
b) cry
c) smile
d) quiver
or
e) motherfuckingdance!

it's ok with me.

In other
news...

Andy:
I continue to pray for you.
Matt: You too.

A & M: Don't get discouraged. No matter how many
teenage love handles you see, never forget that while
you are being paid (albeit ten dollars a day, or
whatever), to travel around the country and play the
rock and roll, some other people don't get to do that.
Not that some people mind that much. No, but
seriously, I can understand why you guys might get
discouraged, and I'll be praying for you. That must be
draining.

Matt: Is there a concrete plan for your B.P.? If no,
do you want there to be? J-Glo and me gots plenty of
time on our hands, if you want a plan to be in the
works. Also, I heard about the rehearsal dinner
situation with your mom. I am sorry, and I am praying
for you too.

Jesse: I have nothing to say to you. Oh wait, yes I
do. Thanks for the CDs. Bill Evans kicks so much ass.
I am burning you some selections from my collections
that you might appreciate.

And, I am officially tapped out. I take my last drag
of cigarette,
, pat Matt on the fur
coated shoulder, (pat-pat), pee in the dark because I
believe the light bulb is burned out in the bathroom
again, , and, collapse into a bed writhing
with Sylvia fleas. Good night boys...

-Andrew

P.S. Jesse, I read today that white sage is an ancient
aphrodisiac. Supposedly, if you bottle the smoke and
then sniff it through a straw, it will make you very,
very "potent," if you know what I mean. You should try
it.

P.P.S. A&M: Mustaches? Are you mustachioed? Oh god I
hope so...

kisses,

a.