Memories of the State Fair

By SoDak

July and August always make me think about loud music, carnival rides, and the sickening scent of sugar, sweat, grease, and farm animal shit, even though it has been decades since I experienced all this together. The Rapid City Central States Fair, in the 1970s and early 80s, was overwhelming, as far as the sounds, sights, and smells. As a young child, my family spent much time looking at the 4-H exhibits, which consisted usually of animals in cages or pens. We attended the rodeo to see our cousins ride bulls and rope calves; and, sometimes, we got to see the demolition derby. My parents would give my brother and me a few tickets, so we could enjoy riding the Octopus/Spider, the Tilt-a-Whirl, and the Zipper. My father would play a few games, such as the ring toss or ballon darts, trying to win a silly toy or stuffed animal. He generally won when shooting the BB gun at the red star. Our fingers were sticky from eating cotton candy.

By the time that I was ten years old, my parents would drop me off at the entrance to the fair, so I could meet up with friends. We skipped the buildings with all the chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, sheep, and cows, making our way to the rides and games. The fair always consisted of quite a cross-section of the population, as folks from the rural communities mingled with everyone from the city. By the late 1970s, with deepening economic stagnation, there was a sense of desperation among many of the attendees and the carnies. Hard times were ever present. The fairgrounds seemed more dilapidated. My shoes stuck to the concrete due to the spilled beers and sodas. I collected aluminum cans from the neighborhood parks to trade for some extra money to supplement cash from delivering newspapers. 

As far as rides, the Viking was the main attraction. The swinging ship, in and of itself, was not the most exciting ride, but the music was always the loudest. There were big, mounted speakers, blasting hard rock and metal songs. I often stood close to the ride, in a spot where I could feel the vibrations from the tunes. I viscerally recall hearing “Highway to Hell,” “Back in Black,” “Fooling Yourself,” “Come Sail Away,” “Paranoid,” “Living After Midnight,” “Breaking the Law,” “Black Dog,” “Immigrant Song,” and “Rock and Roll” blaring over the sound system. This was one of the many spots and moments when I fell in love—with music. While riding the Viking, I got instant goosebumps when hearing Dio’s “Rainbow in the Dark” followed by “Holy Diver.” His voice was fucking incredible. These two songs made me obsessed, as I had to track down the record, so I could hear these tunes whenever I wanted to, which was continuously in the summer and fall of 1983. I think this was the same year I started giving the horns as a greeting and when saying goodbye to friends.  

Everything seemed sketchier and more dangerous on the midway, where teenagers played various games of chance. Dollar bills were shoved to the bottom of my pocket, as my parents warned me that if I was not careful someone would try to pickpocket me. Everyone seemed to be smoking cigarettes, and cigarette butts covered the ground. At each booth, the carnie would be playing loud music, adding an exciting edge to the experience. The prizes had changed, reflecting cultural shifts, as rock gods reigned. Among the roach clips with feathers, there were carnival mirrors with band names and album covers that could be won. At the time, I had no idea what the roach clips were for; I also did not know that the carnival mirrors were coke mirrors. I just wanted to a glass mirror adorned in rock imagery. The mirrors came in three sizes, 6" by 6", 8" x 8", and 12" x 12", with the larger sizes reserved as premium prizes. As I observed the games, I starred at the mirrors, almost overwhelmed by the possible prizes, as there were ones with images of AC/DC, Judas Priest, Rush, Rainbow, Led Zepplin, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Ozzy, Kiss, Bob Marley, Yes, Queen, Journey, Styx, Boston, Pat Benatar, Grateful Dead (at the time, I had never heard their music, but I liked the imagery), Quiet Riot, Def Leppard, and ZZ Top. I wanted as many of them as possible. After popping many ballons with darts, the carnie grabbed a mirror and handed it to me; I did not get to select the mirror—perhaps this was due to being a minor and not having any parents present. The cover of the first Loverboy record was on the small mirror. I thought fine band and record, but I wanted something more hard rock. Dejected, I stood there, as I did not have enough cash to keep playing the game. I also did not know how long it would take to win a desired large mirror with Rush on display. 

In the following years, I avoided the games with mirrors as the prize, as I did not want to waste money on the long con to finally get a large mirror. Instead, I wasted money on the games where the prizes were rock shirts, which you could select the desired band. In the mid-1980s, I won a cheap-ass Ratt t-shirt, which I wore for years, until it was threadbare. A couple years later, I saw them perform at the fair, even though this was still during their ascendency as a band. 

Today, as the summer heats up, I still get chills, whenever I hear:

When there’s lightning

You know it always brings me down

‘Cause it’s free, and I see that it’s me

Who’s lost and never found

I cry out for magic

I feel it dancing in the light

It was cold, lost my hold

To the shadows of the night

No sign of the morning coming

You’ve been left on your own

Like a rainbow in the dark

A rainbow in the dark.

Please turn it up, the louder, the better.  

Madi's Latest Knitting Project

 

The Rock Canon in a Small-Town Drug Store

By Null

As a working-class kid, I’ve always had to work. I started working on a dairy farm when I was in elementary school. I didn’t get a paycheck, but my parents loved me, provided room and board, and keep me warm in a 100-year-old farmhouse in the wilds of Michigan. As with many families at the time, Reaganomics put an end to the dairy farm, and we had to escape the collectors in the middle of the night. 

We landed in Arizona where I attended middle school. During this period, my only jobs were taking care of the lawn and making sure the pool was clean. The workload was considerably less compared to the farm, which was nice because it allowed me more time to obsess about music, become an avid reader, and explore the highs and lows of puberty enhanced social interactions. 

High school found me back in Michigan. This time we didn’t live in vast farmland; we moved to one her small towns. When I finally received my driver’s license, I was able to get my first real paying job at a tiny, little drug store in our tiny, little town. It was around this time that the cornerstone and foundation of my world began to coalesce. 

My meager paycheck would provide gas for my run-down Ford Escort. It ran on diesel, and I could fill the gas tank for about ten bucks. A full tank would last two weeks. I’d buy a few packs of cigarettes, a bottle of Pepsi, and a few glass bottles of Perrier. I would consume these while driving around listening to music or while sitting in my room reading. I began exploring the great novels in the canon of literature, fiction, philosophy, and poetry. I read history books. I continued to obsess on music. I discovered punk rock and realized that I wasn’t the only one whose heart the world was breaking. These books and albums changed my life forever. My friend, Jake, and I would drive to used bookstores in Ann Arbor to find cheap copies of books. The university kids read the deep stuff. 

I had a few bucks leftover, so I would go through Alternative Tentacles and Discord Records catalogs. These were real, paper catalogs, which would show up in punk fanzines, or in the mail. I would send cash through the mail and receive brilliant punk rock cassettes a few weeks later by Alice Donut, NoMeansNo, Tragic Mulato, Doc Corbin Dart, Fugazi, Minor Threat, and the like. The punk kids played the deep stuff.

If I wanted to get my hands on an album by Joy Division, The Cure, The Smiths, and the like, Jake and I had to drive south, closer to the big cities, where we could find record stores. There weren’t any record stores in our small towns.

However, the small drug store where I worked contained an anomaly. Inconspicuously placed between allergy medicine and Dr. Scholl’s Food Pads was a wooden cabinet made specifically for housing about 100 cassette tapes. It was crudely painted black, and many of the slots were empty. The cassettes inside were secured by two glass doors fashioned with a lock.

At the time, a new album on cassette cost somewhere between eight and ten dollars. Most of the tapes in the case were marked at $4.99, while others were priced even cheaper; some were $2.99. I immediately assumed they would be crappy truck-stop knock-offs of questionable quality. To my surprise, there were many newer tapes and a plethora of classic rock titles by such artists as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, and The Who. I assumed these were mispriced. As an employee of the drug store, I also received a 40% discount. It was a small town and there were not many people who worked at the store. I guess the owner, who was also the pharmacist, decided to show his gratitude toward his employees with such a generous discount. I’m pretty sure he was the richest guy in town; the rumor was owned his own plane.

I could buy these tapes for next to nothing, which was great for a high school kid on a budget. I still needed to send away in the mail for punk rock records and make the occasional pilgrimage to record stores in the big city. However, my classic rock knowledge was about to be greatly extended. 

I already had most of the classic Rolling Stones albums from the 1960s. I had also made the decision that the last great Stones record was Exile on Main Street from 1972. The drug store case contained Emotional Rescue from 1980. I only knew David Bowie from the radio, but I was very curious. The drug store case contained The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, also from 1972. I had a few Beatles records, but lacked a general knowledge of their short output. The drug store case contained the unheard Magical Mystery Tour.

After I got paid, I took the key, which was kept under the cash register. I grabbed these three cassettes from the case and locked it back up. When I went to the cash register to pay for them, I was informed that I did not need to wait until I got paid. I could buy anything in the store, at any time. It would simply be subtracted from my paycheck. This cassette case was becoming more magical by the minute. I could buy a $2.99 tape for $1.79. A $4.99 tape would cost me $2.99.

After work, I drove home on a moonless winter night. The few streetlights and porchlights of the smalltown smeared colors across the wet and worn pavement. I threw Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust into the tape player and when the desperation of “Five Years” hit my ears, I took a turn down the back, gravel roads to allow side one to play out. I finally realized why the album was held in such high regard. A few days later, I learned that The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour almost functioned as a continuation of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The instrumentals where a surprise. I then listed to my first post-1972 Stones record, Emotional Rescue. I could take or leave some of the songs, but the fact that the song “Indian Girl” would have gone unnoticed had I not bought this cassette seemed tragic; it remains one of my favorite Stones songs and indicted that there were more juicy bits after 1972.

The following weeks were filled with school, youthful mixed emotions, dreams, and despair. I stocked shelves and logged inventory in the back of the store. The days went by. I walked past the meager cassette display and found that there were new cassettes. I assumed that when it was restocked, the cassettes I bought would be replaced with the same titles, following the logic that if someone bought Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars there was a good chance someone else would also buy it. If you sell all cans of Coke, you don’t restock, or replace them, with milk. 

Yet, I found that Bowie’s Aladdin Sane, The Beatles’ Rubber Soul, and the Stones’ Goat Head Soup were the new tenants in the drug store. None of these titles were there last week. I quickly grabbed all three of them. As I took the cassettes up to the front, I asked the cashier working that night who stocks the cassette tapes. “Oh, some guy comes in every week or so. We don’t have anything to do with it.” Curious. I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t want to jinx what I was hoping would be a pattern.

I continued on with my life. I devoured these tapes along with the tapes I continued to buy at the expensive record stores closer to Detroit and the punk rock stuff I ordered in the mail.

A few weeks later, the pattern continued. The Beatles’ Abby Road showed up, along with Bowie’s Pin-Ups and The Stones’ It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll. In addition, John Lennon’s last two albums—Double Fantasy and, the posthumous, Milk and Honey—made an appearance. This is where I acquired a soft spot for Yoko Ono as she presented herself in the domestic period with Lennon and the looming sadness of his murder. 

The weeks that followed presented me with Bowie’s Station to Station and, my introduction to his “Berlin period,” Heroes. John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band, Imagine, and Mind Games also showed up in the consecutive weeks. I fell in love with these albums and equated them with the more “radical” lyrics of the political punk rock I was devouring in unison.

I was experiencing an explosion of art and ideas. I was beginning to grasp the ideas of humanism and radical politics in my reading of literature, philosophy, and history. I was making an outline of the canon of ideas, not only intellectually, but also musically, as far as popular, Western music was concerned. When I went to the big record stores to get the new R.E.M. release, I was also picking up titles by Violent Femmes and The Doors. I also began filling out the missing records in my Beatles, Stones, and Bowie collections. I needed to fill in the missing gaps, which the “mysterious drug store cassette dealer” failed to fulfill. 

I came away with a new appreciation for The Stones albums post-1972. Many of them lacked the excitement and fire of their 1960s records, but they made up for it with a world-weary nonchalance, which had its own defeated and depressing charm. It extended my Stones appreciation all the way to 1980.

I became well versed in all The Beatles albums and most of Lennon’s solo albums, the latter of which contains gems that no one seems to ever mention.

The awkward, other-worldliness of David Bowie became something I embraced. His “rock band period” from 1970-1973 is great. The band is on fire. The strange Station to Station has become one of my favorites, and Heroes is the best of his “Berlin period” with the uncomfortable, insular, and claustrophobic Orwellian lyrics.

Shortly before I quit the job, The Who’s Who’s Next and a few Neil Young tapes showed up, as well as Bob Dyaln’s Greatest Hits. Let us not forget Pink Floyd’s Relics and Works compilations, which introduced me to their early recordings. These were the parting gifts from my “tape fairy-godfather.” There were other titles I bought over my time working at the drug store in this sleepy, small town. The years have taken some of these memories from me, as my life has been filled with digesting seemingly endless amounts of music and art.

Later in life, when I would talk with other music junkies about jazz, punk rock, metal, and what-not, I was often surprised at my extensive knowledge of these monumental bands in the classic rock canon. It seemed a bit unusual. As I said before, I was a working-class kid. The only reason I was able to fill my obsession with these artists is because I got it all for dirt cheap. It felt as though they were gifts; the drug store made no money from me. 

Music and the recording process have always been magical to me. We could not stream music on the internet. If we bought a cassette tape, we listened to it. Even if we were not fond of it, we still listened to it. Some of the albums we learned to love over time. When we dislike an album, we had tons of reasons why we didn’t like it, because we listened to it a lot before we passed it on to a friend at school. Though music seems to be available to almost everyone now, it has also diminished in value. It can be deleted in a second. If it isn’t adored immediately, it can be replaced or eliminated in the second. Patience and understanding are both skills.

The last week I worked in the drug store, the pharmacist asked me if I could deliver some prescription drugs to an old lady. I was a bit surprised by this request, but I acquiesced. I took the paper bag full of prescription drugs and the directions scribbled on a piece of paper by the pharmacist. I headed down long country roads surrounded by cornfields. It was a hot and humid day. The sun was blinding. I kept checking the address on a piece of paper. I was sure I was lost. 

Finally, I came upon an isolated and timeworn farmhouse. I walked up the creaky porch and knocked on an old door with a tattered screen. A lady appeared who was hunched over at the waist. She moved slowly and made grunting sounds, embodying the pain it took for her move. I wanted to open the door and help her, but I did not want to diminish her dignity. I didn’t want to be presumptuous. I wanted to honor her space. She opened the door and walked over to a small kitchen table. The house smelled of old skin and unwashed fabric. I wanted to grab a chair and help her sit down. She took the bag of meds and sat at the table. She motioned to the other room and asked me to bring her a pile of mail in a voice that sounded like “sandpaper and glue.” She was difficult to understand. 

I walked into the other room and found a large dinning table covered in papers. The whole table was covered in mail, but I didn’t want to bother her, as it was clear that every movement was a chore. I heard her get up and shuffle over to the 1950s refrigerator. I scanned over the plethora of papers on the table looking for what would be an obvious stack of new or unopened mail. My eyes fell upon a letter wishing her a happy 100th birthday. It was signed by President Ronald Reagan. 

The Dead Kennedys flashed through my mind. 

I immediately wondered how or why this woman was living alone. I found a stack of unopened envelops with postal stamps. I grabbed them and walked back into the kitchen. She pointed at a letter opener, which shinned like a silver knife on the table. I picked it up and began opening her mail. She didn’t need to tell me. I put the opened envelopes on the table and asked if she wanted me to remove the contents. She shook her head “no,” and pointed at a jar of homemade pickles. I picked it up and opened it. She then pointed at the door and gestured for me to leave without a word. I immediately worried about how she would get the large, open jar back in the refrigerator or even get the lid back on. I asked if there was anything else I could do for her. She grunted at me and pointed at the door. It weighed on my conscious to leave her, so vulnerable in an uncaring world. I followed her wishes and walked reluctantly out the door, across the creaky porch, and sat in my car. It felt strange to leave this lady in her 100-year-old farmhouse alone. 

I lit a cigarette, which I was too young to buy. 

Patience and understanding are skills.

I started the car and the cassette began to play. 

John Lennon’s voice sang, “God is a concept through which we measure our pain.” 

I backed down the long driveway and headed out into the vast wild farmlands of rural Michigan.

The World Sighs with Relief at News that Hegseth Has Died

 By The Infidel Cowboys (Lusk, Wyoming)

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

On July 24, 2026, Hegseth was found dead in a stall in a barn in Kentucky. His skull showed evidence of blunt force trauma. News of his death was met with a mix of indifference and a sigh of relief. Nevertheless, there was some curiosity regarding the cause of his demise. The discovery of his journal, I Am a Warrior: My Domination of the Animal Kingdom, alongside his testosterone advocacy for U.S. soldiers to maintain the “leading edge of lethality” have generated much speculation regarding what transpired in the Bluegrass State. 

Hegseth’s journal was filled with cryptic notes, symbols, drawing of animals, and photos of his tattoos and his penis. On every page, the phrase Deus vult (God wills) was written, just as it was tattooed on his right bicep, with hand drawn images of the Jerusalem cross. He carried his right-wing Christian nationalist beliefs on his body and in his private thoughts, believing that he was a chosen one, moral in the eyes of God and above his fellow creatures. He hated feminism and the prospects of equality. He feared the democratic process. His hateful ideas were scrawled across the pages, as an exercise for the nonsense he stated in public. On several pages, he had a tally sheet, where he kept track of the women he had “fucked,” noting the dates and how he felt about his “conquests.” His infidelities were widely documented and contributed to his failed marriages, yet he strutted like a peacock, thinking he was special. As a self-described “nice guy,” he thought it was perfectly fine for him to sexually assault women. His disgusting behavior led his own mother to claim that he was “an abuser of women,” yet Fox News and her son quickly forced her to recant her statement and to claim that he had changed. 

Dozens of pages in the diary were filled with symbols, such as the Walmart Spark and arrows, alongside a list of various animals. In a column on a few pages, one word was repeated—Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat—on every line. Eventually, more details were included: Cat (Black), Cat (Ginger), Cat (Gray), Cat (Calico). Then the list started to vary, filled with types of dogs— Pomeranian, Poodle, Bulldog, Retriever, Labrador, German Shepherd. Following this, the list of animals varied between cats, dogs, sheep, and pigs. Next to the name of each animal, the Spark appeared with an arrow, two arrows, or three arrows hitting the center of the symbol. 

Investigators studied this section of the journal for a couple days, followed by reading his entries, where he made numerous declarations regarding his dominion over nature, especially all its animals. They determined that this list was another tally sheet. Here Hegseth was recording the types of animals and number of times he had sexual relations with these creatures. The arrows penetrating each Spark next to name of an animal detailed the bestiality. At first, there was some skepticism regarding this conclusion, but at the back of the warrior journal there was key, which unlocked a box filled with photographs of a familiar penis and Hegseth’s tattooed arm constraining God’s creatures.  

The medical examiner hesitated to release the findings, but decided the truth must be known. She provided a detailed report, noting how Hegseth died from a swift kick from the horse that accompanied him in the stall, knocking him off the stairs that he climbed to rape the equine. A horseshoe imprint was clearly visible on Hegseth’s cranium. Blood saturated the hay that surrounded his naked body. His shriveled penis, which he seemed so obsessed with in his journal, was unremarkable. 

While many people snickered at the devious activities of Hegseth, the majority recognized him as a dangerous scumbag and were pleased that he finally got his due. The musician Willi Carlisle immediately wrote a song celebrating the horse’s precision kick, embodying the “leading edge of lethality.”

A Few Songs for a Night in Austin

By Jack Stephen

I met up with one of my oldest friends in Austin. We hung out at St. Elmo Brewery in South Austin; it is a cool scene in a great part of town. Austin used to be all about 6th street and all that nonsense. We used to check out some Texas blues act at the time-honored Joes Generic Bar, which was always fun. Tonight at St. Elmo, it was The Lost Pines bluegrass band. They were freaking solid. It had been a minute since I had seen some live music, so I was especially enthusiastic. The band consisted of an acoustic guitar, fiddle, mandolin, and standup bass. The musicians were killer. I’m not sure who was my favorite; it was a close race between the mandolin and the fiddle player. The musicians were so good they made it look easy, and they were sure having a nice time. 

What song did they play when we sat down? “Ain’t No Trouble to Me” by Guy Clark.

I thought this was a pretty good selection, as it is a fun song blistered by some great lyrics. Guy was one of those great country artists who not only wrote a number of songs covered by all kinds of artists, but he was also a mentor who helped launch a number of other great artists (see Steve Earle for example). My buddy threw the band a tip and requested they play his favorite fiddle song “Orange Blossom Special,” written by Ervin T. Rouse in 1938. I guess it features a pretty amazing fiddle part. Unfortunately, The Lost Pines didn’t know that one. Didn’t really matter, they were crushing.

What song was playing in the bathroom? “Big Iron” by Marty Robbins.

As I relieved myself, I thought about how this was the deep country cut I didn’t see coming. I recalled that I have his album Gunslinger Ballads and Trail Songs, featuring this gem and many others. Marty had a fantastic voice. Don’t forget about the musicians he played with, the guitar player rips on “Big Iron” and other tracks. As I walked out, I was kind of thinking about requesting “Big Iron” to The Lost Pines as a possible song choice, but figured I should just enjoy what they were playing.

What song did they play when I sat back down? “Queen of Hearts” by Juice Newton.

As they prepared to play, getting set on the right key and whatnot, the mandolin player remarked “it’s time for the top of the 1980s.” He wasn’t kidding. This song went to number two on the Billboard 100 for a couple of weeks in 1981. It is one of those tracks where I really have no idea what is being talked about, but I sure have a fun time singing along to it. I figured I better get us another couple of those frozen Mangoritas, which seemed prudent at this point. I sang, “blame it on the Queen of Hearts, though it isn’t very smart,” as I moseyed back from the bar. 

A Couple of Songs for a Show at a Sushi Bar

By Jack Stephen

I had a show in Denver, Colorado, at a Sushi Hai. This restaurant, close to the intersection of 32nd Avenue and Lowell Boulevard, is in a super cool area, which was bustling for happy hour on a Thursday. I wandered into Meade St. Provisions to grab something to eat before the show. The restaurant was a great spot, albeit expensive. It was thirty dollars for a “craft” turkey and cheese sandwich and a “craft” lemonade. Wowszer! Nonetheless, the soul-funk playing in the background was solid.  

What memorable song were they playing? “P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)” by Michael Jackson.

It’s almost impossible for people of my era to talk about the influential music of their formative years without mentioning Michael Jackson. While Michael was not the first Black artist played on MTV, he might as well have been (see the fun track “Pass the Dutchie”). It seemed like “Billie Jean” was played every 10 minutes or so. Next, we had “Beat It” on heavy rotation followed by the world changing “Thriller” video. Michael had many other awesome tracks and let’s not forget those great dance moves. Michael was mostly produced by Quincy Jones, who pivoted from his odd Jazz projects (see “Walking in Space”) to producer extraordinaire. Quincy and Michael formed what seemed like the perfect confluence of producer with artist, aligned with medium and Zeitgeist (the rise of MTV).   

Things began to turn for Michael perhaps starting with getting burned in the Pepsi commercial.  It was fairly clear at that point that the wheels were starting to fall off his superstar train. What followed was the horror of all the plastic surgery, and the weird relationships/pregnancy stuff (anybody remember “Blanket”?). And now, we are more than aware of his astounding predatory pedophilia. What was he thinking about singing “P.Y.T.”! How are we supposed to feel now that we know this superstar icon of our teens was actually a monster? It’s not just Michael either, there are endless examples (i.e., Harvey Weinstein, Paul Gauguin, etc.). Even though he probably had a preteen sex slave chained up in his Neverland ranch, is it okay to still think MJ had incredible music? I’m thinking maybe it isn’t our fault, there were plenty of people who probably knew about his predilections but looked the other way seeing this once in a generation talent and the massive dollar signs on the horizon (Quincy Jones?). I can’t ignore the great art people have made in a variety of mediums over time. I just wish someone could have given us a heads up. I suppose this is easier said than done. Regardless, “P.Y.T.” is a great song and there’s so many others, such as “Off the Wall,” “The Girl Is Mine,” and “Human Nature.” Also, don’t forget he wrote and was the catalyst for “We Are the World,” which was such an amazing idea!  Do famous musicians (artists) do things like that anymore? I mean amazing, incredible things and awful things as well?  

I was killing time walking around trying to get my head right for the show and I stumbled into Wax Trax records. What an incredible record store! I used to frequent the original Wax Trax on Capitol Hill, and I don’t remember it being this cool. I wish I had about two hours to thumb through the stacks. It was busy, customers were milling around and walking out with records! Screw you online music, vinyl is alive. I found myself checking out some Iron Maiden and would have liked to make a purchase, but $50 for a re-issue is…wowszer! I decided not to make a purchase, mostly because between the Iron Maiden and the turkey sandwich, I would have been down $80 and hadn’t even told a joke yet! 

At the show venue, in the basement of the Sushi Bar, I caught up with the other comics on the show. One of the comics also performs as a clown, another leads a Jewish women’s book study on “The Artists Way,” another had LSD for sale, and another, a last minute addition to the show, said when she got the late text to join the lineup she had just done a DAB and had broke out her vibrator, but didn’t have time because she had to get to the show! Comics are the best! 

What would have been a good walkup song for me? “Rock with You” by Michael Jackson.

Favorite Albums in 2025

 By Alec

1: Pile, Sunshine and Balance Beams.

2: Wednesday, Bleeds.

3: Prostitute, Attempted Martyr.

4: Geese, Getting Killed.

5: La Armada, De Vuelta a la Barbarie.

6: Jason Isbell, Foxes In the Snow.

7: Anna Tivel, Animal Poem.

8: Militarie Gun, God Save the Gun.

9: Shellac, To All Trains.

10: Willi Carlisle, Winged Victory.

11: Kal Marks, Wasteland Baby.

12: Flory, Sounds Like…

13: Palmyra, Restless.

14: Dave Alvin, From an Old Guitar: Rare and Unreleased Recordings.

15: Renny Conti, Renny Conti.

The Night Cheryl Eviscerated Kennedy

By SoDak

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

Cheryl stood in the middle of her bedroom, relishing the euphoric moment. Glancing around the room, she saw her reflection in the mirror. She was covered in blood; flecks of skin and slices of intestine were matted in her nightgown. A smile of satisfaction appeared, as she contemplated how this moment came to be, wondering if her act would inspire others.

As a mediocre actress at best, Cheryl was mostly known for saying, “Larry.” Her performances were generally forgettable, leaving many to wonder how she ever received acting roles. In December 2011, Larry introduced Cheryl to Kennedy. Throughout the night, Cheryl and Kennedy talked about chemtrails, antivaccination campaigns, HIV/AIDS denialism, raw milk, tanning beds, testosterone shots, and his conviction for heroin possession, for which he received two years of probation. He constantly mentioned that “it’s good to be rich,” as he was able to do anything that he wanted without real consequences, at least for him anyhow. As the evening progressed, Kennedy acted as if he was a rutting elk, grunting between his stories, leaning into Cheryl to bump midsections. Those bearing witness to this emerging courtship, pondered whether one or both had previously been kicked in the head by a horse—this could explain Kennedy’s general stupidity and Cheryl’s horrible acting and lack of awareness that she was falling in love with a jackass.

Following their matrimony in 2014, Cheryl continued to be known, well, for not really doing anything notable and worthwhile. Kennedy seized every platform available to spew bullshit and misinformation, which found an audience as many in the United States embraced reactionary politics. Together, they stood, as Kennedy was sworn in as the Secretary of Health and Human Services, only to systematically dismantle the public health infrastructure and usher in policies that will result in the deaths of fellow citizens. When Attorney General Pam Bondi dismissed charges against Kirk Moore, a physician in Utah, for falsifying COVID-19 vaccination cards (medical records) and discarding government-supplied vaccines, Kennedy proclaimed that Moore should be given a medal for his courage and commitment to healing. Within the inverted world, social murderers rallied around each other, declaring that they were promoting freedom, while they created the conditions that directly led to the premature deaths of the most vulnerable. 

Amidst the ongoing developments of neofascism and rearguard mobilization, Cheryl simply smiled for the cameras and defended her husband. At the same time, she wanted to rekindle her dying career. Most of her colleagues did not want to associate with her given her close connections with the stormtroopers. However, she did get one offer, in which she would play the choir teacher in a reboot of Glee. She couldn’t sing, but that did not really matter, as this would add to the follies, in what was sure to be another subpar series. Nevertheless, Cheryl hoped other acting jobs would follow. She told Kennedy about the offer. He nodded his approval, while chewing on a nicotine pouch, as he prepared to inject some testosterone—he was ready to rut, yet again, so he started grunting indecipherable words, thinking he was a desired trophy.

Several weeks later, Cheryl was excited when she received the script for the pilot. She quickly thumbed through the pages, reading her lines. She paused when she saw that she had to sing a mashup. She was familiar with the Dixie Chick’s “Goodbye Earl,” but thought it was an odd selection for a television series. This song was paired with another by Cannibal Corpse, “Evisceration Plague.” “What is this? What a horrible name? I have never heard of them.” She remained nervous about having to sing, but she was filled with consternation about not knowing one of the songs. Terrified about messing up this chance to be back on television, she decided that she had to learn the songs and practice the mashup.

Cheryl first listened to “Goodbye Earl” over and over, reading the lyrics. She hummed along to the upbeat song, memorizing the words about how the wife, along with her friend, poisons her abusive husband and dumps him in the lake. From time to time, she chuckled, thinking about how the husband was despised by everyone. “It’s kind of clever,” she remarked to herself after practicing it for a week. Cheryl took a deep breath, as she contemplated listening to and learning the next song. She looked up the record online, downloading it onto her phone. She grimaced when she saw the frightening figures on the cover, “what the hell have I gotten myself into?” Hesitantly, Cheryl played the song. The mid-tempo, thick riffs fill the air. She shuttered and stopped the song once Corpsegrinder’s guttural growl started. “What the fuck?” Shaking her head, she paced the halls, “how I am supposed to pull this off? It is frightening.” As she steeled courage, she returned to the song, determined she needed to learn the lyrics, figuring the mashup would involve her singing “normally.” Unable to decipher the vocals, she read the opening lines:

Experimental pathogens, a devil’s design

The dark side of science breeds a weapon of war

Contagious killing and internal distress

Homicide or suicide will be the cause of death.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I've lost control.

“Jesus Christ, what is this about.” She started to sweat, wondering if she could pull this off and what it would mean for her career. After a few passes through the lyrics, she settled into the rhythmic delivery and started to hear the words within the song itself. She nodded her head to the chugging riffs. With renewed confidence, she returned to the script to see how the mashup was put together. The writers titled it, “The Evisceration of Earl,” starting off with the Chicks, leading to Cannibal Corpse, with a little back and forth at towards the end. Musically, the mashup primarily followed “Goodbye Earl,” but it was more foreboding and got more intense, as the song progressed.  

Mary Anne and Wanda were the best of friends

All through their high school days

Both members of the 4H Club

Both active in the FFA.

After graduation, Mary Anne went out

Lookin’ for a bright new world

Wanda looked all around this town

And all she found was Earl.

Well, it wasn’t two weeks after she got married

That Wanda started getting abused

She put on dark glasses and long-sleeved blouses

And make-up to cover a bruise.

Well, she finally got the nerve to file for divorce

She let the law take it from there

But Earl walked right through that restraining order

And put her in intensive care.

Right away, Mary Anne flew in from Atlanta

On a red eye midnight flight

She held Wanda's hand as they worked out a plan

And it didn't take’em long to decide

That Earl had to die.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I’ve lost control.

Beg for your life, you won’t escape the knife

Your fate was sealed today

Disease has spread, you pray for death

Evisceration plague.

Stabbing compulsion overwhelms my mind

Terrorized screaming follows the thrust of my knife

I wrench the blade from the chest to the crotch

Organs and entrails fall to the ground.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Unable to be seen but with visible effect

Virulent disease causing outbreaks of violence

They tear themselves apart, offal covers the ground

Viscera torn forcefully from the abdomen.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Intestines slick with blood cannot escape my grip

Surgical incisions give way to frenzied carving

Delirium has taken hold, disembowelment is complete

Horror grips my mind, entrails are in my hands.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Aw, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Na-na-na.

By the time of rehearsal, Cheryl knew every word. With renewed confidence, she embodied the song, making the performance visceral. She found that she was singing the song when she was not at work. She mauled over the arrangement and words, thinking about her husband; it was as if the veil had been lifted. “He truly is a piece of shit—a horrible, disgusting human being.” At the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, he did not give her a second thought, as he was rushed to “safety,” leaving her “unprotected.” That evening, he took a blue pill and some testosterone, grunting at her, thinking his erection was a cure for her displeasure. Turning her back, she walked down the hall to lock herself in a spare room, pondering what to do about the “fucking pig” she had married.

Over the next several months, she filmed the pilot, impressing all who saw her act. However, the truly impressive performance was at home, where she pretended to care about what her husband had to say, nodding along to his rambling. On the night when the episode was to air, she skipped the viewing party with the cast. Kennedy and Cheryl snuggled in bed, watching the show. Following the mashup, Kennedy was worried. What would his powerful chums think? Why was Cheryl so passionate in this performance? Why was she mouthing the unsettling words while they were watching the show? What was this song advocating? He turned to ask Cheryl why she agreed to take this role. He was startled to see her smiling, and then he felt extreme pain, as Cheryl drove a knife into his torso, running it “from chest to the crotch,” repeating the action several times as “organs and entrails” fell “to the ground.” With each cut, she sang “Goodbye Kennedy (na-na-na-na-na).”

How John Prine’s Death Broke Me

By Jack Rafferty

I discovered John Prine’s work around 2017, with the track “Angel from Montgomery,” and I still remember that moment well. I was working in the field at the time, and my crew lead put this song on while we were driving through the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. We were navigating a two-track road amid really tall sagebrush, and a jackrabbit darted across the path as the song played. I was floored by the honesty and originality of it, and I knew that I had to seek out more music from him as soon as I could. 

This led me to listening to his self-titled debut in full, not long after, and falling completely in love with it. This is one of the few nearly perfect albums that have been made, in my opinion. The fact that it was his first album is all the more impressive. For about six months, it was the majority of what I listened to, just putting the album on repeat back-to-back as I traveled to Tucson, when I was digging holes in the desert heat for work, and when I was at home, sipping whiskey under a chitalpa tree. I listened to his albums one by one, some better than others, but I always found something to love on each of them. 

Three years later, in the early months of quarantine during the COVID-19 pandemic, John’s songs were what got me out of bed in the morning. I would wake up and grab my phone from the side table to pull up one of his songs, just so I could listen to it while staring at the ceiling trying to find a reason to start the day. His equally serious and unserious approach on the common struggles that humans face, and the humorous yet deeply empathetic way he had of conveying his struggles in his unique songwriting, gave me the strength that I needed to face those hard days. Songs like “Sour Grapes” and “Summer’s End” reflected my overall mood so well that I would simply sit on my porch and play them over and over, while some of his more lighthearted songs, such as “Spanish Pipedream,” “Pretty Good,” “Fish and Whistle,” “Aw Heck,” and so many others were at times the only things that got me through the day. 

I was in a dark place then, as many were. I was waking up and drinking liquor as early as nine in the morning. I was lucky, in that I was able to work from home, and still had a steady income to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. Nevertheless, the myriad simultaneous social and ecological crises that worsened daily coupled with the deep alienation of having to quarantine alone for months on end put me in perhaps the worst mental state that I had ever been in. John’s music wasn’t just a minor reprieve from all this, it was an anchor tethering me to humanness in a time of unprecedented isolation and inhumanity. 

I can’t really put into words how hard the news of his passing hit me on April 7, 2020. The fact that he died from COVID made it even more painful. It felt like a close friend who had been holding my hand through all this hardship suddenly slipped away and was gone before I could turn around to see them disappear. I had never felt so emotionally tied to someone I hadn’t personally known before, and I’m sure my mental state during this time compounded this feeling, but I was inconsolable for days after this. I would stand at the kitchen sink and stare out at the sun setting through the city haze, thinking about everything and nothing at once. It was around this time I wrote a poem, which had the lines “windows above the sink / become dull mirrors for unkind thought” as I would spend hours just looking out of that window, until the light became so dim that all I could see was my sullen reflection staring back at me. 

Over the course of weeks and months, I wavered between better and worse, and kept listening to John’s music throughout. It seemed like time stopped having any meaning, and everything started to blur together. I tried to ground myself in little things, in morning coffee, in watching birds, staring at the clouds, short walks. It was only when I connected with my partner later that year that things really improved. The dread of what was happening in the world was still there, but at least I had her. 

I’m very grateful that I made it through this point in my life, and that I was able to stay relatively healthy when many others could not. It is strange to feel like the world has just moved beyond this happening, our employers all clamoring to get us back in the office, back to the rat race, when none of us have had time to properly process or heal from such a collectively traumatic occurrence, which in truth has not fully ended, and has only been swept under the rug to maintain the unending death march of capital. 

I’m in a much better place now, which I owe to my loved ones and community. I still listen to John all the time, practically every day. No matter what is going on in my life, his music is in the background in one way or another. Thankfully, it doesn’t often serve to remind me of those awful times, and rather continues to inspire me to keep my sense of humor, to treat others with kindness, and to have a gentle disposition. When I’m seeking to still the feelings of bitterness and hate that form because of so much in the world that feels like it rips my heart out daily, I turn to John’s music to remind myself of the importance of not losing myself in those feelings, and to remember my love for the people and the natural world. John reminds me to continue being human in conditions that seem increasingly hell bent on tearing what remains of that away from us. John says in “Angel from Montgomery,”

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go 

So I guess this piece is mostly my way of saying thanks to John for giving me one thing that I could hold on to, in a time when I needed it most. 

The Obituary of Charlie Kirk’s Corpse: June 31, 2026-July 4, 2026

 

By Chastity Morgan

It is with great sadness and heavy hearts that we announce the rising of Charlie Kirk’s corpse on June 31, 2026. According to the official White House calendar, Charlie Kirk rose from the dead at the end of the government fiscal year to celebrate the United States semiquincentennial. Kirk’s resurrection was about a month and a week shy of Jesus’s 40 days on Earth before ascending into the clouds. After only four days (depending on which calendar you follow), Kirk’s corpse’s soulless bag of rotting flesh descended back to the 8th circle of hell with all the other hypocrites and false witnesses following a not-so-freak deliberate act during a Civil War reenactment.

On September 10, 2025, Charlie Kirk exited this world the first time with a bang in Orem, Utah. His death caused massive uproar, especially amongst the pervert right who used his assassination as an opportunity to double down on their obsession with American teens and their genitalia. The transgender community became a target, once again, of Kirk’s hateful rhetoric even in death. Media outlets in search of one of the millions of reasons for Kirk’s assassination fanned the flames with their inability to sort out fact from rumors. 

Following Kirk’s death, employees in private and public industries throughout the country had their First Amendment rights violated. Roughly 600 people were fired or suspended after their social media comments about Kirk were characterized as “disparaging of his legacy.” A year later, spineless universities like the University of Tennessee—Knoxville settled lawsuits for the wrongful termination of its professors. This outcome reminds us that it’s perfectly acceptable to call a person an asshole in life and death.

Kirk’s death wasn’t dismal for everyone. Turning Point chapters started popping off (no pun intended) in colleges and high schools. As the male loneliness epidemic runs rampant, Turning Point promises a camaraderie based on misogyny, purportedly “Christian values,” and a weekly circle jerk. Erica Kirk is also living her best life with her organic sweet almond cream decaf matcha venti lattes with a shot of espresso. There are even talks amongst the pervert right of making Erika Kirk J.D. Vance’s running mate for the 2028 presidential election. 

Just this weekend, on the 250th anniversary of the Fractured States of America, Charlie Kirk’s corpse descended back into its fiery inferno after being staked through the other side of the neck by a Robert E. Lee reenactor. A Ulysses S. Grant reenactor relayed the events preceding Kirk’s corpse’s death. According to Grant, Kirk’s corpse was ranting on about poverty being a byproduct of low moral character and women’s only purpose being for procreation. After about 15-minutes of incessant rambling, the Robert E. Lee reenactor picked up a wooden stake and stabbed it through the non-hole side of Kirk’s corpse’s neck. Lee was relegated to the only weapon he had, a wooden stake, because according to the National Civil Association, “The possession of live ammunition, either period or modern and/or the possession of modern weapons in camp are prohibited.” When the Lee reenactor was asked why he did it, he simply said, “His values were too conservative for the Confederacy.” In an unlikely turn of events, the Grant and Lee reenactors shook hands over the corpse’s corpse because stabbing Kirk’s corpse was the only thing these two could agree on throughout the whole war. 

In lieu of hate speech please consider donating to Planned Parenthood (https://www.plannedparenthood.org/get-care/our-services/gender-affirming-care).  

Two Gallants, “Waves of Grain”

By SoDak

Patriotism is nauseating. But it is particularly sickening around the Fourth of July. Homes are adorned in red, white, and blue bunting; Old Glory dangles from flag poles; and the song “American the Beautiful” is played over and over. The image of Mount Rushmore flashes across television screens. The President holds his hand over his heart. This display of romantic glory—this conception that fortune has been bestowed upon the United States—is empty. This settler nation was forged through genocidal practices and chattel slavery, expropriating lands and lives. As an imperialist country, it expanded its reach overseas through the Spanish-American War. The U.S. empire rolled on imposing widespread death and destruction around the world. Lest folks dismiss all this as being in the distant past, despite the ongoing bombing of other nations, it is worthwhile to read David Michael Smith’s Endless Holocausts: Mass Death in the History of the United States Empire, where he uses established sources to document the mass deaths and various forms of social murder that can be attributed to the United States. “Between 1945 and 1980,” Smith writes, 

Major U.S. wars in Korea, Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia killed twelve million people. Washington also shared responsibility for the 1.7 million people who died during the rule of the Khmer Rouge, and the U.S. proxy war in Afghanistan led to the deaths of at least 1.5 million. U.S. support for the Guomindang in the second phase of the Chinese civil war, for the French campaign to reconquer Vietnam, for the anti-communist exterminations in Indonesia, for the Biafran war, and for the Pakistani government during the Bangladesh War implicated Washington in the deaths of almost 11 million people.

Smith indicates that it is also necessary to account for other deaths for which the United States has direct or shared responsibility given its policies and actions. He concludes that during this period, the United States contributed to the deaths of over twenty-nine million people. Of course, the horror and atrocities continued. Smith explains,

Between 1980 and 2020, two U.S. wars and sanctions in Iraq and the U.S. war in Afghanistan killed more than two million people. Washington’s proxy wars in Angola, Mozambique, Rwanda, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Syria resulted in roughly nine million deaths. U.S. military interventions, support for client states and rebels, and related famines in Sudan, South Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia, and Nigeria cost the lives of another five million people. The U.S. Empire’s role in the collapse of most socialist regimes made it partly responsible for well over seven million deaths.

Given other U.S. military actions abroad, between these years, it is estimated that the United States is associated with causing more than twenty-five million deaths between 1980 to 2020. The death toll is staggering, and it increases each year. Since 1991, the United States has launched over 300 military interventions/actions, solidifying its recognition as the “most warlike nation” in human history.

In 2006, during the protracted American war against Iraq, the Two Gallants closed their record What the Toll Tells with “Waves of Grain,” a nine-and-half minute haunting mediation on how American citizens had become complicit in the devastation that was being waged upon the world. The Two Gallants sing about how the tragedies continued to culminate, yet they were hidden behind jingoism and religious piety. The plaintive voice, filled with cynicism, marks each word, making sure that they linger, as if begging listeners to comprehend what type of world was being created. As the music builds and the voice is more strained, the song seems as if it is trying to lift us up to act, to resist, to fight for the future. The song is unsettling and powerful.

Pray betray the deceased

Such an infamous freedom

Such a militant peace

How dare they distrust

Do they know who we are?

And your progeny’s brave

Their track houses waiting

Pre-plucked and pre-paid

To the ends of the earth

Wife, kids and a car

But oh no no

I see them falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And your children are reared

By panic and fear

But what when all your fields are rotten?

Your waves of grain

Amber waves of grain

And your word is yet done

Inbreed us ‘til we’re all the same

And your collection of tongues

Keep framed in your parlor

With your bibles and guns

The fetus of Christ

With a fistful of scars

And your vision is clear

While you blind your own kind

In a curtain of fear

Your words twist skywards

Distracted by stars

But oh no no

The sky is falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And you pour out your prayers

And weep ‘cause you care

But what when all your fields are rotten?

Your waves of grain

Amber waves of grain

And you hide the dead

While my friends had to die in your name

And this playground is yours

Spoke God when you met

Behind closed doors

Gesture your hand

And the pond shall subside

And though you play alone

You never get lonely

But oh no no I see them falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And even I can’t pretend

We’re not near the end

But what when all your fields are rotting

Your waves of grain

And the waves of grain

When your days are done

I hope you’ve had fun with your game

And you accept it as fact

Behold a white horse with you on its back

A bow in your hand

And a crown through your head

And the oceans shall rise

And slap on the shores of mountainsides

Great waves of progress shall wet the air

But oh no no the sky is falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And you fools in the back

With your heads in your hats

What when all your fields are rotting

Your waves of grain

And the waves of grain

And my words won’t be done

They’ll never be done till the end.

This Fourth of July, the 250th anniversary of the United States, I will listen to this song many times, contemplating the sham of the day. In my hometown, Rapid City, South Dakota, unfortunately characterized as the City of Presidents, statues of U.S presidents can be found on the corners of many of the downtown streets. It is a truly despicable display, as if Washington DC took a giant shit in the middle of the country. A proper accounting of history would involve hanging a placard around the neck of each of the statues with a list of the crimes against humanity committed by each president—the lists would be very long. The statues are there waiting for this artistic and truthful presentation, rather than the nationalist claptrap that generally takes place among those who travel to the Black Hills to see Mount Rushmore. In the meantime, strike a match and burn the red, white, and blue, as they are unfortunately plentiful this time of the year. 

Gene Pitney, “(The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valance” (1962)

By SoDak

Sometimes when I run my tongue along my teeth, I recall the chipped “baby teeth” that I had when I was young. These teeth were jagged and sharp from sparing with my neighbor Matt, when we were six years old. Neither of us were tough—then or now. For some reason, his father had two pairs of boxing gloves, which we found in the basement. We figured, what the hell, let’s box. We timed the rounds by playing forty-fives, which had two- to three-minute songs per side, on the record player. One of our favorites was “(The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valence,” sung by Gene Pitney. We stood on opposite sides of the room, waiting for the needle to drop and the song to start. When the strange violin part in the opening sounded, we stepped forward holding up our gloves. As the slow gallop started, the match commenced with playful jabs. Whenever the triumph chorus arrived—“many a man would face his gun and many a man would fall, the man who shot Liberty Valance, he shot Liberty Valance, he was the bravest of them all”—we would throw a few punches. The chorus occurs twice, so we had a couple dynamic moments each time the song played. The occasional punch bloodied a nose and chipped a tooth, but there was never any malice. I think we mostly enjoyed listening to old records, as we would hum and sing along, as we “fought.” At the time, we did not know that the legendary Burt Bacharch and Hal David wrote the song; we did not know who Gene Pitney was. We just relished listening to the song. I still get excited every time that I hear this simple song and get to sing along to the chorus. 

New Faces Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

I headed to Denver to compete in The New Faces Competition at Comedy Works. The annual New Faces competition receives over 200 applicants and accepts 168 people. Over 6 months or so, the field is whittled down to the top 40 comics for the semis. Then, there is the finals and finally the crowning of the champion. This was my third year competing, and my sights were set low because the comics competing are top notch.

What song was on the radio as I drove down to Denver from Loveland? “Honky Cat” by Elton John.

Elton John, what to say? I’m not sure I’m the biggest Elton fan, but I’d have to admit he has put out some incredible songs. I read his autobiography, ME, and it sure was interesting. Perhaps with a bit of serendipity, he decided to partner with songwriter Bernie Taupin—otherwise he probably would have been relegated to a life as a session piano player or a lounge act. In his early twenties, he was the biggest pop star in the world. Another interesting tidbit in the book was that one of his rock bottoms, before he decided to get sober, was a night of pounding martinis with Duran Duran, which sounds like quite the evening.   

My favorite Elton songs are probably “Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters,” “Amoreena,” and the obvious “Levon” (choice lyric, “Jesus wants to go to Venus”). There’s another three I might list on a different day, as they’re all filled with passion and presence. My favorite track of his was the one with minimal piano on it, “Philadelphia Freedom.” This song was a tribute to the tennis superstar Billie Jean King, who started a new tennis league trying to get women paid fairly, sponsored by Virginia Slims cigarettes! It is a big groovy pop song, especially awesome to have him paired with an orchestra. While Elton had some duds (see the album Caribou recorded in a studio outside of Nederland, Colorado), overall, he’s a genius musician with an epic career.  

But let’s come back to “Honky Cat.” I guess it’s about a redneck who was trying to navigate upscale New Orleans? He realizes he needs to “get back to the woods.” At one point, he mentions “he’s read some books and magazines”—yeah, that’ll show those upper crust ladies! Let’s bring back the term “Honky Cat.” It sure is a crack up as far as white monikers go. This is a song that really gets stuck in your head. Elton nails the ragtime piano better than Scott Joplin or Jelly Roll Morton ever could.

What song should I have played as I drove down? “Philadelphia Freedom” by Elton John. 

There’s a bit of time to kill before the show. I parked in the garage across the street from Comedy Works around 6 (you must check in before 6:30), and the show wasn’t going to start until 7:30. 

As I sat in my car, what song did I play to get ready? “N.Y. State of Mind” by Nas.

I recently discovered Nas, and what a fantastic find. His album Illmatic is killer; it kind of reminds me of early Ice Cube records. It’s one of those simple rap albums; lay out a great loop/beat and let Nas do his thing. He was in a great headspace on this one, perhaps in a “N.Y. State of Mind”? I played it a couple of times and got it stuck in my head; I was there—this audience was going to be rocked.  

I checked in and paid my $20 entry fee. I shot the breeze with the comics loitering at the club and then walked around in Larimer Square. I was trying to stay loose and not get worked up.  Around 7, I sat in the back, watched the patrons file in and get seated for the show.

What song were they playing? “Don’t You Evah” by Spoon.

I really like Spoon. They were one of the Austin bands that caught the 1990s wave of indie rock and have been riding it ever since. Much like the bands The Shins and Built to Spill, they have a super unique sound and vibe. They kind of remind me of Jeff Buckley’s music, well, maybe, if Jeff Buckley had lived long enough to start an indie rock band. I would say Spoon would be the top for me in this genre, whatever it’s called. So many cool tracks, especially on the album Gimme Fiction, which included the gems “I Turn My Camera On” and “The Beast and Dragon, Adored.” Thanks Spoon for the music, nice to hear you tonight while getting set to rock this room.

What song do they play when they start the show? “Battle Without Honor or Humanity” by Tomoyasu Hotei.

Almost every show at Comedy Works starts with this song, at least the ones I’ve attended anyway. It is probably most remembered from the Quentin Tarantino movie Kill Bill: Part 1. It is certainly a good one to start a show. The song is used in the movie when the Bride is preparing to take on O-Ren Ishii, as O-Ren is entering the tea house with her gang. The scene devolves into a pretty epic blood bath/battle scene, which goes on for about 30 minutes and the blood never stops spewing across the screen. I guess this is a good song to set up a comedy show as well?  Killing and crushing on stage is pretty awesome, albeit less gruesome. 

Tonight was the first night for group A, and twelve comics were going up with a five-minute set. This year I was equipped with the ultimate pro tip; my buddy was going to give me a light at four minutes. Comedy Works doesn’t light for the contest, so the timing can be problematic. If you go over your time, your mic is cut. This can be especially challenging, as the room is red hot and most comics aren’t used to the long laugh breaks, which can mess up your timing. Five comics in my group got their mic cut, missing their closer, which is usually their best joke.  

Going up fourth, my set was going great. I settled in and was relaxed. The pops were popping.  The crowd was on my side. I was able to ad lib and get into the moment. I even had time for my trademark deadpan comment “It’s a fun crowd out here tonight.” Then one more joke, and into the closer, no problem—hit just like it should. It felt great, but I thought my chances were slim.  The competition was tough. I watched the rest of the comics and the headliner. It was time to hear the winners, so I headed backstage. We milled around. The judges announced the wild card winner. Then they put forward two other winners, which were no surprise—crushers with great sets. It was time for the last spot. They called my name; I advanced to round 2! I took the stage a bit lightheaded with a loopy smile. 

After they took the winners picture, I headed out hitting fist bumps and heard the compliments along the way. I walked to the parking garage and some guy got the door for me and said, “Dude you are fucking hilarious!” I got in my car, yelled, and cried a little bit. “You fucking did it!” As I paid for my parking, I was laughing a strange looney laugh. I turned down Larimer Street and stopped at the light. I put my window down—still smiling. I saw some people from the show at the street corner waiting to cross. I hear one of them exclaim, “Hey, that’s the guy,…there he goes.”

What song was on the radio? “Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is?” by Chicago.

Chicago was such a cool band. They embraced a location with the band name, much like their colleagues Boston and Kansas. Of the three, I would say it’s a close race with Boston, but Chicago probably wins by a length or so. They just have a deeper range and overall better songs, but let’s not forget “Carry On My Wayward Son,” which is a great Kansas song. Between the horns, the super creative songwriting, and Peter Cetera and Robert Lamm on vocals, Chicago nailed it. With a perhaps bit of synchronicity, the choice lyrics in this song punctuated tonight’s experience for me—“Does anyone really know what time it is? Does anyone really care?”

Social Distortion, Born to Kill (Epitaph, 2026)

 

By Null

“Is anybody listening? Testing, one, two, three.”—“Partners in Crime” by Social Distortion.

When I first laid eyes on the cover of the new Social Distortion record, I thought, “Well, it’s another Survivor’s Greatest Hits collection featuring ‘Eye of the Tiger.’” 

Then, as the yellows and fluorescent pinks soaked into my retina, I realized that the cover looked like the logo for a new Jane Fonda line of athletic wear with the tagline: Ferocious Cougar—The Jane Fonda Collection. 

I come from a time when album art was important, especially concerning punk rock. An album cover was a big part of the overall message. Inside were lyric sheets and info, a connection to other humans. I hate streaming music; I like to hold it in my hand. The cover of this album was different. Missing were the classic cars, leather jackets, 1950s pin-ups, tattoos, and alters built to old guitars, which have adorned Social D album art since their conversion to more mainstream and traditional rock ‘n’ roll following Mommy’s Little Monster and Prison Bound.

Something about this was new. 

Social D is solid, like a rock. The nuances between albums are only evident to close listeners who have traveled the Social D road many times. These listeners know the terrain well. What rises above the surface and keeps fans coming back is, not only an emotional connection to the lyrics, but also the hooks and subtleties of textures. Thus, to have this for an album cover was not very subtle. 

It was kind of exciting.

Despite emotional links to the past, I hadn’t been excited about listening to Social D in quite a while. This isn’t because they don’t mean anything to me anymore, or because their albums weren’t good. It was more a falling off due to general familiarity. Social D isn’t math rock. They are more about guitar tones and are a “light a cigarette, turn your back to the wind, while giving a despondent side-eye to the world at large” kind of band. They’re not Crass or the Dead Kennedys, but they have their place. 

For me, they are the comfort food of punk rock. I mean, they are “punk rock” because of their history; but they are really a band emersed in traditional rock ‘n’ roll and country, in the most general way. When I put on Social D, I like that fact that I already know what I’m getting. That’s where the comfort comes in; I want catchy melodies with familiar tropes. I want guitar solos that are relatively simple and don’t stray from the melody. I want to know what’s going to happen next. Like a well-balanced Mozart, you can feel the change coming.  

If Social D is boring, it’s because I’m not in the mood. I’ll grab a Miles Davis Quintet or Iron Maiden album instead. The problem isn’t Social D. It’s me.

Social D is nostalgic, sentimental, romantic, and traditional in the best ways. Consistently.

I put the needle on the new record, Born to Kill, and didn’t stop listening for a week. The first thing I hear is a beautifully distorted guitar bursting with manic energy. It was glorious. I was playing air guitar before any other instruments even kicked it. It’s pretty fuckin’ punk rock. The title track burns the house down. I knew this was going to be a great album.

I wasn’t wrong.

The album slows down a bit but is still filled with rock ‘n’ roll energy. Mike Ness pontificates about feeling trapped. He waxes poetically about times that used to be, and, in doing so, he sounds like an old man. With full self-awareness, I nostalgically agree with every word. Just because something is cliché, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Allow me this sentimentality because I’m old enough that my parents and friends are dying.

The song “Tonight” is the most stereotypical Social D song on the album, but it also quickly became my favorite. My beloved Saint Bernard dog died suddenly right around the time I picked up this record. The song became my goodbye song to him. I did not see this coming. I listened to it on the way to work for the following two weeks after my dog’s death and shed a tear every single morning as the sun rose over the Rocky Mountains. This is what a typical Social D album can do. It provides time-tested songs to time-tested human emotions. I’m not the first guy in the world to lose a dog he loved, and this isn’t the first time Social D wrote a song that sounds like this one. It doesn’t matter. In the moment, it feels distinct and unique.

The album then takes a startling turn into a paint-by-numbers country song, “Crazy Dreamer.” At first, it comes off as a little boring, but it is no different than any classic, short Tammy Wynette or early Loretta Lynn song. It’s not actually boring, it’s just Social D having a fever dream at the Grand Ole Opry. It provides a nice segway to the second half of the album, an intermission, if you will. “Crazy Dreamer” also sets up the next song perfectly: a cover of Chris Issak’s “Wicked Game.”

Wait. What? I wasn’t sure what to think of this when I saw this song on the track list. It’s going to be awful. No, it is perfect. It’s the kind of song Mike Ness wishes to write. Luckily, the latter was on point. Social D does to Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” what Johnny Cash did to NIN’s “Hurt.” Social D owns it. It fits like a glove. For me, it is the official version of “Wicked Game.”

From here, the album just delivers one great song after another. It’s a damn near perfect record.

If you like Social D, you’ll love it. If you don’t like Social D, you’ll hate it. Social D are like the Ramones, Les Thugs, Neil Young and Crazy Horse, or even Oasis. They’re not here to reinvent the wheel. Love them or hate them, they are here for the four taps, a few tears, and a bit of connection and release. Mike Ness isn’t a sage or a revolutionary. He’s a guy who is trying to stay sober who ran out of places for new tattoos. Social D is a respite, but not an escape. That’s OK; we still have our Crucifucks and Conflict.

I became obsessed with this record, which brings us back to the cover. It’s perfect. The colors of the tiger really pop. They are vibrant with a touch 1980s ridiculousness. Ridiculous like a roller-skating rink in 1984 and, underneath, just as sad. The textures and guitar solos, in particular, pop out. Some are psychedelic, while some are dreamy. Some add tears and emotion, while others set the amps on fire. The album, Born to Kill, feels more colorful and alive than the Social D I remember. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because I watched a short video of Mike Ness talking about surviving cancer and feeling a new gratitude for the limited days we old fuckers have on Earth. I feel that. I can’t separate it from this album.  

Speaking of the 1980s, I think Social Distortion should make a Trapper Keeper with this album cover on it. I’d get one to house the obituaries of my loved ones.

Dave Mason (1946-2026)

 

By SoDak

I first stumbled across Dave Mason’s Alone Together (1970) in the late 1970s when flipping through records in a shop. I paused looking at the strange, rather ugly, cover of a man in a top hat standing against a desert cliff. For two decades, I repeated this activity, whenever in a record store, wondering who the fuck is Dave Mason? But I never gave this more thought, except each time I saw the record. In the late 1990s, a neighbor was throwing out a stack of old records with the trash, so I asked if I could take them. There ended up being five Dave Mason records among the sixty slabs of vinyl. Given that I was about to move across the country, I did not spin these records until a few years later. When I finally got around to checking them out, one of the first songs that I heard was “We Just Disagree.” Holy shit, I thought, I know this classic song, but I have never known who sang it. Then there was “Let It Go, Let It Flow,” which I also knew. I am a sucker for 1970s, melodic rock. So, again, I asked, who the fuck is Dave Mason? I found out he was the guitar player and occasional singer in Traffic, a band that I never devoted much attention to, except for a few songs. I suppose that I should have known this, but I did not know anyone who was a Traffic fan—I still don’t. After listening to three Dave Mason records, I was completely hooked by the time I played to his first solo release, Alone Together, the one with him in front of the cliff. It opens with “Only You Know and I Know,” which has catchy strumming acoustic guitars with electric guitar accents. Released at the start of the 1970s, this record consists of a great mix of folk-rock and blues. Dave Mason plays some great guitar solos throughout the record. “Shouldn’t Have Took More Than You Gave” has a nice psychedelic vibe incorporated into the song. But the song that really floors me every time is “Sad and Deep as You.” Accompanying Dave Mason’s acoustic guitar is Leon Russell on piano; the combination is hauntingly beautiful, providing the perfect set up for the soothing vocal delivery. The lyrics are simple, recounting lips, a smile, eyes, and tears that “tell a story, as sad and deep as you.” The simplicity hits the heart, and I sink into the beauty of the song, appreciative of those who craft such songs. 

John Miller/J. Waylon Porcupine (1979-2026)

 

HinckleyHadAVision:

The first time the Reddmen played at my folks’ house Ramon might not have been more than 12. They were all young teenagers at best. Their older brother gave them a ride to my place. We all thought—let’s give these kids a chance. They proceeded to blow us all away with their talent, and they went on to become a powerhouse in the local music scene for the next three decades. Johnny’s sheer talent, unbelievably prolific songwriting, and unstoppable stage presence were unmatched. One of our mutual friends, Jack Batchelder, noted that he never felt cool enough to be around Johnny; I always felt the same way. But the incredible presence he carried—the light and the life—we, all of us, need to carry forward into the world. Johnny lives on in our collective memories—the community who knew him. Let’s keep all the positive things he showed us alive by taking the inspiration and sharing it forward.  

SoDak:

The last time that I saw the Reddmen play was in Salt Lake City in 2022, when they played a series of dates as part of a reunion tour. Johnny Miller’s unbridled energy was infectious from the first guitar chord to the closing crescendo of their set. While I was rocking out, I caught myself smiling almost the entire time, enjoying the performance, just as I did in the mid-1990s when the Reddmen first started playing shows in Rapid City, South Dakota. I am not sure how many times I saw Johnny play with the Reddmen and Friends of Cesar Romero, as well as other bands such as the Weather Machines and Clause 83, but it was numerous few times over the decades. I never saw Johnny put on a bad show. He was a force to be reckoned with, as he erupted on stage, jumping around, and hammering on this guitar. Johnny and his brother, Miyo One Arrow, were electrifying, creating beautiful music. Johnny was unbelievably prolific writing hundreds of songs, finely crafting the structure, the guitar riffs, and the melody. He wrote catchy punk rock tunes that had complex chord progressions and emotional hooks like the Beatles. When he played live with the Reddmen and Friends of Cesar Romero, the influence of the Who was on full display, as far as a high-octane performance. I loved talking about music with Johnny, given his extensive knowledge of classic rock, country, and soul music. We shared a deep love for the band J Church, marveling at Lance Hann’s productivity. Johnny was a kind, inspiring, beautiful, and funny friend. He was a treasure, who enriched the punk rock community in South Dakota. I will miss him dearly—much love. 

Alan Sparhawk with Trampled by Turtles, Alan Sparhawk with Trampled by Turtles (2024)

 

By Jimmy (Explosive Diarrhea) B

Before digging into an analysis of this album, I ask that you indulge me momentarily so that I can complain about myself. I purchased this album expecting to get a Low album, Alan Sparhawk was one-half of Low after all. I wanted a dark, moody, and sparse masterpiece. Upon my first listen to the album, I was disappointed, so disappointed that I put the CD on my pile of unwanted albums to dispose of later. What bothered me most was that the sound was full compared to Low, and Sparhawk’s vocals didn’t sound right without Mimi Parker—for those that don’t know, Mimi died in 2022. 

A couple of weeks after grumpily setting the CD aside, I grabbed it from the rejected music pile, and gave it a second listen. This time the album clicked with me; I got it. What did I get? I understood that Low was over, that the Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker magic was done, and that an album by one-half of Low was good enough. Sparhawk had clearly put a lot of mental energy and likely mental anguish into this album, one that I initially dismissed. I was aiming my anus to shit all over what I now think of as a good album.

It is not a perfect album; I have complaints. On their own albums, I find Trampled by Turtle’s pop bluegrass style tolerable but annoying. To their credit, they played to the intent of the songs/lyrics. There is only a hint of their weak bluegrass fluff. The powerful song, “Screaming Song,” could have been better if the back-up vocals had been dropped and if The Trampled ones had allowed a little more space for the vocals to set the tone. There is one song, “Get Still,” where Sparhawk’s voice doesn’t work. The vocals move in and out of falsetto with a lot of vocal accompaniments; it is disruptive to the flow of an otherwise good song. 

I had read the lyrics to “Screaming Song” before listening to it. The lyrics put into song exactly how I imagine it would feel to lose a spouse or partner—Mimi Parker was Sparhawk’s spouse. The message is powerful and painful. Sparhawk’s grief made me imagine my own future misery if I were to outlive my partner. Here is an excerpt: “When you flew out the window and into the sunset, I thought I would never stop screaming. I thought I would never stop screaming your name and I started screaming even louder but I ran out of breath, so I took in some more, and I started to scream even louder.” Fuck me—that is depressing.

For the most part, my original critique of the album was bullshit. Alan Sparhawk has created an emotionally charged album with just the right amount of bleakness to get across the mental images he wanted to present to the world.

Low has come to an end. Alan Sparhawk, the solo artist, is still here, and his album must be evaluated and enjoyed in this light, something I was eventually able to do.

This album was too depressing for me to tickle my taint, but I definitely enjoyed it.

Laramie Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

It’s spring break 2026, and I have become a feature comic. All it took was a solid fifteen-minute set, and I’m getting booked. Of course, it took about three years of consistent open mics and workshops, but who’s counting? This week I’m featuring for my buddy in Laramie, Wyoming. It was a really pretty drive up through northern Colorado at sunset on the edge of the Great Plains—rolling plateaus and striking vistas. All that and a couple of comics heading to do a couple of fifteen-minute sets, talking things out on the way.

A vignette: I am riding my bike along the west side of Boyd Lake at Boyd Lake State Park. I match speed and direction with a sea gull. I tried to identify the bird later and thought it was a Black Backed Gull, not that it matters but good to know anyway. This morning is as stunning as a spring morning could be yet depressing with the lack of winter we’ve experienced. Especially startling is the lack of water in Boyd Lake, it’s so low there are parts of it you can now walk, literally, right across the lake at several points. Terrifying! Well, no matter for the Black Backed Gull, he and his flock looked like they didn’t have a care in the world.

What album is in my head? Souled by José Feliciano.

This is one of those albums that no one really talks or knows about. It is a perfect album, at least by my estimation. It is produced by Rick Jarrard (producer for Harry Nillson, Jefferson Airplane, and many others.) José really finds a cool groove on this one. He’s most known for the epic “Feliz Navidad” track, but he did so much more as a musician. He often performed on stage with his seeing eye dog, pretty excellent! Check out the songs: “You’ve Got a Lot of Style,” “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” (Dylan cover), and “Sleep Late My Lady Friend.” Feliciano wasn’t the best guitar player or the best singer, but he always played with so much “soul.” Side 2 leads off with another great track, “Hitchcock Railway.” The opening lines: “Two train tickets to LA, one round trip the other way.” He’s singing about taking a train to LA and leaving his girl behind! Then the Hammond B-3 organ comes in, yes Rick Jarrard knows what he is doing and so does Jose for that matter.  

The scene in the movie Fargo with Steve Buscemi out with a hooker at a Feliciano concert in Minneapolis really sums up his music for me. Give Souled a listen, it’s a real gem.

A vignette: I am in the organ chamber above the narthex at the First Presbyterian Church in Abilene, Texas. It’s the point in the service where the benediction is played. The church organ is quite the instrument. You play the chords with both hands and feet. There are massive organ pipes, some probably 10 feet tall or more. Really, when you get down to it, this whole church is designed for the organ. Sitting up high, the organist holds the real power in the church playing opposite the preacher, perched down below. The sound reverberates throughout the church, just like the architects intended, I’d guess. As the song plays, the whole congregation is standing in respect. Just once, I wish I could have been there to hear the sound—like my grandmother, who played the organ for over 30 years.

Songs I’m a bit obsessed with right now:

“Found a Job” by the Talking Heads.

This is an awesome track, on the B side of their album More Songs About Buildings and Food. Produced by Brian Eno, they crushed this one. The Talking Heads were one of those bands I really liked but fell out of favor with because I had a friend who made a greatest hits mix tape and it was filled with a bunch of their songs that were meh (see: “Psycho Killer,” “Take Me to the River,” and “And She Was”). Years later, I found an original pressing of More Songs About Buildings and Food and was a fan all over again. This album is so unique and fresh. It’s one of those records where the musicians are in the zone—don’t bother us with what you think. Choice songs on this album include the aforementioned “Found a Job,” “Artists Only,” and “With Our Love.” This album is a perfect example of a vision and the ideal producer/musician collaboration, quite the rarity with all those egos!

“She Lives on My Block” by Chicano Batman.

With Bad Bunny’s epic Super Bowl performance, I have been listening to some Latin artists trying to keep up to speed with the latest music. This track is off the Chicano Batman 2023 album Cycles of Existential Rhyme, which is a legit album. One song in Spanish and one in English, great textures and beats supporting both languages. I especially like the keyboard/guitar interplay. The lyrics on this song hit home, a time growing up and you had some school age crush on the neighbor girl. It’s sad story but a fun stroll down memory lane. Also cool, Chicano Batman covered the Talking Heads track “Crosseyed and Painless.”

“Empty” by Metric.

Canadian band Metric sets the bar with this track. Off the album, Live it Out, what an opening track! I don’t know much about record engineering or mixing, but this song seems like it would be the textbook example of how to properly mix and engineer a song. It sounds incredible on 180-gram vinyl. It has a haunting quality that kind of reminds me of Portishead. I mean, if Portishead ever dialed up the metronome and decided to shake their heads a little bit.  

“Ostinato” by Herbie Hancock.

I’ve been super obsessed by Herbie and doing a bunch of dives into his catalog. As deep as it is; it’s taking a minute. This track is on Mwandishi, and it is pretty far out of bounds, so to speak. This song is so cool; it opens with a bass clarinet, who does that! While I missed the recent Sun Ra documentary on PBS, this song reminds me of Sun Ra. Maybe a song Sun Ra was envious of, or a track I can see Sun Ra playing as he was trying to find some inspiration. I’m no Sun Ra, and I like to play it looking for inspiration.

  

“Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” by Traffic.

I get it, most people think Traffic was a pretty stupid band. It was led by Steve Winwood, the epitome of 1980s cheese (see: “Arc of a Diver”). Perhaps, he is a bit maligned? I think his work with Traffic was top notch; I always thought they were a fun band. The saxophone (played by Chris Wood) was such a well-placed addition, especially to have it featured in almost all of their songs (notably, “Glad”). I think their real connection problem was the fact that Winwood’s voice was a bit grating, overshadowing his excellent piano playing. 

On “Low Spark,” he crushes it at several points, and adding the fuzzbox to the song was quite the production choice! My brother and I caught Traffic at the old Fiddler’s Green in south Denver back in the day. It was cool to hear all their hits even though Fiddlers Green is not a great venue by any stretch. We did a bunch of blow, so it really didn’t matter all that much.

“B-Boy Bouillabaisse #18” by the Beastie Boys.

I was really late to the game on the Beastie Boys. They were one of those bands I chose to be a “hater” of, mostly because all my friends were playing them nonstop. “Brass Monkey” and “Fight for Your Right (to Party)” were on an endless loop. I was trying to mock the mainstream, but I maybe could have picked a worse overplayed artist. (I still stand by my hatred of Pearl Jam though, they’re like the Seattle grunge version of Coldplay.) “B-Boy Bouillabaisse” is done in brief snippets at the end of the epic Paul’s Boutique album. All these tracks have a little something, deep layers and experimentation. I think my favorite version is track #18 with the sample from the Isley Brothers song “Who’s That Lady”—a sample also used on the Kendrick Lamar track ‘i.’ It’s a super funky track almost guaranteed to have you “feeling it.” Sorry for the early hate Beasties, you and Rick Rubin made something special.  

The Ruffed Up Duck bar in Laramie is about how I envisioned it. Their slogan is: duck in/waddle out. The shuttered WYO theater across the street looks like it could possibly be a better venue, but nobody asked us. Off the main drag, the bar was in some random lot. It was pretty packed on the last Friday of spring break. The bar was steamy warm, not sure if it was the 85-degree day or the sweaty drunks. The crowd was reticent when I got my set going, following the three opening comics. I had a good callback to the comic before, but I was going too fast, slow down! I looked at the clock, I had only done 4 minutes and whipped though a bunch of material. I cut my legal weed bit because another comic earlier tried some weed jokes and they bombed. Once, I was able to slow and relax and gel with the crowd, things went well. I went into my closer at 13:30 and finished right on time. After, I went outside and hit some fist bumps with the comics as we milled around a 5-gallon bucket filled with cigarette butts and whatnot. I went back to the bar and with one of my wooden drink tokens ordered a white wine. As I sipped from a wine stem glass, one of the locals said to me “Fancy!” 

What song did they play after the headliner wrapped? “Shoot to Thrill” by AC/DC.

If I keep hearing AC/DC all over the place, I’m gonna have to drop the “hater” and come around at one point. I just find them annoying and so default. Almost always, there is a much better song that could have been played. Except for maybe, “For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)?,” I’d say they have a good point there. I endorse this track because saluting those about to “rock” is about as good of something to salute as anything.

What would have been a good song as we walked out to drive back to Colorado? “Goodbye Stranger” by Supertramp.

Off the album Breakfast in America, my wife and I have always been huge fans of this track. I think it charted pretty good when it came out, but who cares? It’s an amazing song. I was discussing Supertramp with a guy I used to work with and I didn’t realize their accents were so thick they could hardly be understood in interviews (probably reminiscent of the works of Scottish author Irvine Welch). Nevertheless, they always added very unique vocal elements to their songs, such as singing in the round and whistling. Supertramp also had some songs that made you wonder what they hell were they thinking (see their biggest hit “The Logical Song”). But overall, Supertramp is an excellent band with some genre defining tracks. And, of course, most important, “Goodbye Stranger” had such a memorable chorus:

And I will go on shining

Shining like brand new

I’ll never look behind me

My troubles will be few

Goodbye stranger it’s been nice

Hope you find your paradise

Tried to see your point of view

Hope your dreams will all come true.