For those not lucky enough to know Telegraph Avenue here in Berkeley, either through intimate familiarity or reputation, I’ll share with you a story to illustrate its color. I choose this one not because it’s any more representative of the Avenue’s quirkiness, but because it compliments a general subject that’s arisen this month from an e-mail and conversations with friends — baldness.

Why the subject of baldness has taken root (no pun intended) this particular month is beyond me. But it began when a friend of mine imparted that the collateral damage of his steadily receding hairline and complementary back of the head crop circle from the testosterone he’s taking is less problematic and troubling than a noticeable increase in nose hair. Another friend of mine struggled with the merits of growing out his thinning hair versus continuing to shave it, with the concern that a longer more shaggy look wouldn’t suit him and he’d cut it out of frustration before he could find out (inside money says if he tries he won’t make it more than a week). And then towards the end of the month, I received an e-mail from a cousin who — among other things — shared with me his appreciation of having dodged his family’s balding gene bullet, since having a full head of hair came in handy while vacationing under an ozone challenged Australian summer sun.

Aside from the anecdote I’m about to share and some sympathetic head nodding, my contribution to the subject was limited. I do notice a bit of a “Nicholson” forming on either side of my temples, but that’s hardly enough to qualify as going bald (not yet anyway). And since I’ve yet to get to Australia, I’m not sure what my full head of red hair will do for me if and when I get there.

The nose hair lamentation, however, I can identify with. Why the male of the sexes needs more hair in their nose (or ears) as they get older is an evolutionary enigma that’s had me stumped for close to a decade. Even more puzzling is why some gentlemen refuse or can’t seem to keep it under control — I’m a quadriplegic for God’s sake and even my paralysis hasn’t kept me from maintaining a regular pruning schedule. The way I see it, if I’ve got to suck up my pride and ask somebody to get up and in there for me, I don’t see how nose shrubbery on the able-bodied can be excused. I’m just saying.

But I digress.

The Ave.

Telegraph Avenue is filled with “interesting” characters. It’s Berkeley, after all. It’s an odd mix of academics, eccentrics, radicals and the homeless. Often times, you’ll find someone is a mix of all four. Some of these folks I’ve gotten to know quite well — some by name, while others solely by daily passing nods and hellos. When you’ve been here as long as I have, have red hair, use a wheelchair and have a red dog, you tend to stand out as much as anybody else and connections of familiarity invariably form.

Still, sometimes you come across somebody you’ve never seen before and not because they’ve only just arrived in town, but rather they’ve chosen to fly under the radar and not be noticed. Why this is, who can say, but when you meet them you certainly won’t be short on hypotheses.

When my watch died a couple of months ago I needed to find someplace within walking distance to get it fixed. I knew of a jewelry shop on the Avenue and so I thought I’d try that first. On my way there, not more than five stores from my destination, I discovered an actual watch repair shop that I’d somehow overlooked for all these years; a barely there storefront squeezed comically into what seemed like a narrow walkway between two other businesses. It wasn’t very inviting place — a steel cage fortified the door and it’s only small window was barred and covered with a piece of cardboard (admittedly, Telegraph has its sketchy elements, but it’s hardly Times Square circa 1978). Still, despite the Fort Knox like security, a “we’re open” sign hung prominently on the door and a note above a doorbell reading, “ring for assistance”, suggested they were actually interested in customers.

Having a broken watch on me, I figured I qualified as business and went ahead and did as the sign suggested and rang the doorbell. After waiting a couple of minutes, but hearing nothing, I decided to give it another shot and hit the button again. Just as I was about to turn to go, I heard locks — maybe four — one by one disengage from the door, and a tall, spindly man in his 70s with the worst toupee I’ve ever seen, opened it and leaned out.

“Yes?” He said, looking down at me briefly and then up and down the street to make sure I didn’t have an accomplice who could rob him.

“I’ve got a watch I need to have fixed”. I said.

“Give it to me. Let me see it”. He said, keeping his distance, but extending his hand and wiggling his fingers in an inpatient beckon.

When I explained I was unable to get it myself and that he’d have to reach into the pack alongside my chair for it, he let out a groan and cautiously stepped from the door. As he leaned over me, a mix of sour body odor and cheap drugstore cologne entered my airspace and nearly made me gag. His toupee, from this closer vantage point, appeared to be backwards and was listing to one side, looking like a cheap, blonde Beatles wig from the sixties. I wanted to say something — to let him know his hairpiece was off and that perhaps in his efforts to get to the door, he’d placed it on carelessly, but not knowing how he would take such assistance (as it seems most toupee owners go to great lengths to camouflage the fact that they wear one), I thought better of it… that and the large side arm strapped to his belt. Anyway, I figured he’d either work it out later or that was the look he was going for — no sense in upsetting the man any more than I already had.

“Kinetic, huh?” He said, looking at the face of the watch and then flipping it over to scrutinize the back.

“Yeah. Can you fix it?”

“It’s a Seiko”.

“Yeah”. I said. But he wasn’t asking a question.

“Japanese garbage”. He said, putting the watch back in my pouch. “I don’t work on Seikos”.

But before I could say anything else, he was back inside and re-bolting the locks. What he had against Seiko or the Japanese, I can’t say, but even if he’d given me the time I don’t think I would’ve felt comfortable pursuing the issue — his side arm, rapidly falling toupee, nervous paranoia and quixotic distaste for timepieces from the land of the rising sun were all I needed to take my business elsewhere… no questions asked. The irony of it is, I bought my watch on eBay and so I doubt it was Japanese (or a Seiko) in the first place, more than likely it was a Chinese knockoff and probably the reason it wasn’t working.

And so ends my anecdote about Telegraph Avenue and baldness. The point of it all is in there somewhere and I suggest if you really want to find it, you look at it as sort of a “Where’s Waldo” kind of a deal. It’ll be more enjoyable that way and ultimately more rewarding. As for the watch, well…

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Pau.

This week’s recommended buys/listens:

Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon, Devendra Banhard Idiosyncratic freak folk.  A difficult one to pin down exactly; alternately comic and nostalgic, it’s a mix of 70s Laurel Canyon haze and modern indie quirkiness.  A favorite of mine in 2007.

Out My Window, Koushik 60s style sunshine pop with a hip-hop beat.  Though the two albums I’m recommending here are representative of modern nostalgia, they come at it from different directions. Here we have banging beats over fuzzed out guitars, B3 style organ and ethereal vocal runs.  it’s not production wizard pastiche, these are songs, but they definitely have a crate diving aesthetic.  Think DJ shadow meets Pet Sounds.

If there’s such a thing as the ideal surf conditions for a C 4-5 quadriplegic — and I now know there is — then Saturday, August 16th was it; 75° blue skies, 68° water, light winds and a 1 to 3 foot southwest swell. It had been 28 years since I last put on a wetsuit and sat on the sand waiting to enter a lineup — a palpable grom-like excitement snapped to attention by the smell of surfboard wax and neoprene warming under the morning sun.

From the moment that first doctor uttered the words, “you’ll never walk again”, this day has been the stuff of dreams. I’ve seen it unfold countless times — in various manifestations — in such detail and color it almost always felt real. Often I’d be standing — surfing as proficiently as I used to — doing roundhouse cutbacks, off the lips and getting barreled. While other times, I’d be wobbly, barely able to stand, as if walking for the first time since my accident. And still others, as I am now — paralyzed — but able to catch waves on my belly like a boogie boarder.

What rarely seemed to be in my dreams, however, was how it all came together. In my dreams, there was hardly any paddling, duck diving, sitting in lineups waiting for waves — any of that ancillary stuff. It was all about the surfing. But all that “ancillary” stuff is critical to catching waves, and it’s something I’ve given great thought to in regards to how I might surf in the real world as opposed to my imagination.

No matter what form they take, it’s a strange moment when your dreams come true.

This was a Life Rolls On and They Will Surf Again event, two organizations which — among other things — have made a mission of bringing awareness to spinal cord injury research and getting disabled folk out into the water to surf. At this particular Bolsa Chica event, there were about 150 volunteers — surfers, non-surfers, high school students, college students, parents, grandparents — most of whom were on the beach helping with registration, food, getting wetsuits on and off, etc, while others were in the water helping people surf. On this beautiful summer Saturday, it was inspiring to see so many people come together to help 20 individuals catch some waves.

Red. Blue. Green. Orange.

On arrival, surfers were put into four color-coded groups of five with the order the surfer would get to hit the water determined by where the surfer was on a list in their group. In other words, things were set up like a typical surf contest, with four surfers from each group in the water at the same time for about 20 minute heats. Once in the water, each surfer was accompanied by 8 to 10 volunteers who — depending on the surfer’s needs — were spread out in a boxlike pattern with spotters on the outside keeping an eye on the waves, spotters on the inside to get to the surfer if he or she wiped out, and a few others to help push the surfer into the waves (or over them as the case warranted).

I won’t lie to you and say I wasn’t a little frustrated by my heat draw. I was fourth in my group which meant I had to wait an hour before I’d get to enter the water, and this was an additional hour on top of my arrival time (did I mention the 28 years before that?). And while I’m not saying there’s a better or safer way to do it — perhaps because it was my first time they wanted me to check things out a bit before I got out there — as an ex-surfer, I knew with every passing moment the wind would become a little stiffer onshore and the conditions would slowly get bumpier. Less than ideal for the waves.

“Reminds me of your NSSA contests“. My dad said, sensing my antsiness and trying to comfort me a little. “A lot of waiting for a few waves”.

“Yeah”. I said, smiling. “A lot”.

And it was true, waiting is all part of the process. Sometimes you get an early heat draw, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you get it glassy, sometimes you don’t. But really, truth be told, I would’ve waited all day and into the next week if I had to; a little bump wasn’t going to turn this quad around. Besides it gave me a great opportunity to meet and talk with some of the other more experienced crip surfers who’d been to these events before.

Triceps are everything

There’s an expression amongst spinal cord injury crips that goes something like this: quads want to be paras and paras want to walk. I’d amend that slightly by adding, high quads want to be low quads, but otherwise — in my experience — it’s pretty right on. The thing is, the lower your injury is on the spinal cord, the more motor function you have. If we’re talking about the cervical vertebrae, the difference in moving the trauma up or down one or two vertebrae could mean the difference between breathing on your own or not, or being able to get dressed and get in and out of bed on your own or not. This movement over a very small amount of real estate can have a huge impact on one’s level of independence.

To illustrate this further and maybe paint a clearer picture for those of you who aren’t fortunate enough to know a quadriplegic personally, Christopher Reeve’s injury was sustained around the first two cervical vertebrae and thus he required a respirator to breathe, whereas Jesse Billauer, the founder of Life Rolls On and the godfather of quad surfing, sustained his at the sixth. My level of injury is between the fourth and fifth vertebrae, and the difference between Jesse and myself is that he has the use of his triceps, wrists and maybe some pectorals and I don’t. How this difference translates to surfing is that where Jesse is able to support himself on his elbows, lean from side to side to control the direction of the board and see straight ahead, I’m unable to do any of these things. The use of triceps in this regard is the x-factor.

As they were bringing me out into the surf for the first time, I was trying to get my head around how this was all going to go down. It was obvious I’d be prone, but how I’d see or stay on the board was a complete mystery. As I mentioned above, I don’t have the use of my triceps so holding myself upright on my elbows wouldn’t be an option. Also since I breathe with my diaphragm, being on my belly would make it difficult for me to take a deep breath, and when you’re surfing being able to take a deep breath can be very handy from time to time. Fortunately, the board I was using had a hard piece of foam duct–taped to it and this allowed me to keep my head — albeit turned to one side — off the deck and able to breathe air instead of salt water. It wasn’t a perfect design by any means, but I didn’t expect it to be — I was on the board and that was another step closer to surfing.

Still, as we got closer to the lineup I wasn’t without apprehension; the waves weren’t big, but I was concerned that because I couldn’t see ahead of me, I wouldn’t be able to take a breath in time if we needed to go under or over a wave or if I pearled and wiped out. It wasn’t drowning that concerned me — my friend Natalie was riding tandem with me and between her and all the other spotters I knew somebody would to get to me — I just didn’t want it to become a “pump the salt water out of the redheaded quad day”. I wanted to surf, not be resuscitated.

But like everything else that day, it was about teamwork — this kind of surfing isn’t possible without it. When that first wave broke in front of us and everyone shouted, “breathe!”, I knew another obstacle had fallen by the wayside. Even though I lacked something essential like forward vision, the team did their best to make up for it. They couldn’t take a breath for me, but at least they could tell me when and how long I should hold it.

And then

I want to tell you that being in the ocean again — in this capacity — for the first time since breaking my neck was like a trip home. I want to tell you that after we punched through that first wave — the sound and sensation of the cool whitewater rushing over me — that everything came flooding back and I felt supremely comfortable. I want to tell you these things, because the ocean is my heart and soul and does feel like home. But what I was feeling was much more than that and conflicted as well. Wrapped up in my elation and stoke to be in the water again was a profound sense of vulnerability, that while foreign and uncomfortable, felt strangely appropriate.

I’ve always had a tremendous respect for the ocean, but I’ve never felt vulnerable in it — even when things got really heavy. The day I broke my neck, the day I floated there in the water — my home — unable to swim or save myself, as waves broke around me, was a humbling moment. Coming back to those sensations — that awareness (I still can’t swim to save my life) — felt more electric I suppose because of where I was now. I’ve pushed my boundaries before — confronted my fears — and I know those feelings well, and this wasn’t one of those feelings… this was not adrenaline. This was something far greater. This was — for lack of a better way to put it — the moment. And it was a lifetime in the making.

The three waves I caught that afternoon were small, but to me they couldn’t have been more perfect. On each wave I could hear my family, my friends and the team cheer as Natalie and I cut and rode towards shore. Most of these folks had waited as long as I had for this moment and the fact that they could be there with me — sharing it — meant as much to me as the experience itself. I’ve surfed alone on many great days and had many great sessions, but the days I cherish most — good or mediocre — were the days I shared with loved ones. This day was no exception and I’m forever grateful they could all be there.

A picture is worth…

Later that evening, I saw some photos my sister and cousin had taken of the event, and one in particular grabbed my heart and made me a bit dusty. It was of my parents — together — watching me at some point in the afternoon — either putting on my wetsuit or catching a wave — and both of them were crying. I’ve tried to imagine on numerous occasions what it must be like for them to have had their only son break his neck and how intensely they must feel both my challenges and successes as I’ve grown and lived with my disability. But truthfully, this wasn’t what got me about the photograph — though it’s making me a bit teary now — what got me about the photograph, was that I believe for the first time after all these years they truly — in the deepest, most profound way possible — felt and understood what surfing means to me.

Don’t get me wrong, my parents were supportive of my surfing at a very young age. They were always aware a good part of my drive and spirit were formed by surfing. They have adopted sons and my sisters have additional brothers because of surfing. My dad often got up before the crack of dawn and took me to my contests, my friends and I to Baja, Trestles and countless other surf breaks beyond the range of our bikes and skateboards. And my mom — God bless her — rarely said no to me going to the beach by myself in my preteen years, something a lot of parents wouldn’t dream of today (in her defense she always thought I was going to meet somebody). But still, given all this, deep down I don’t think they ever really, truly got surfing… not really. They knew I loved it — obsessed over it — but like most people who’ve never surfed, the sport — in all its entirety — was beyond their understanding.

Surfing — for me at least (and a lot of others around the world) — has always been a spiritual experience; if you don’t surf that’s near impossible to get your head around. And if you do, well, it’s nearly impossible to explain. Surf culture is about community as much as anything else, and when we have a profound experience within a warm, embracing community that experience can be magnified infinitely. What I saw in that photograph was the accumulation of all my parents’ experiences with surfing — years of being around it, seeing it, hearing about it, living it — reaching a place of understanding in an environment that was the perfect catalyst for just such an awakening. Take that and combine it with everything else about that day, our history and our love for each other and you have yourself a couple of parents who at long last found the true meaning of stoke. They may not surf, but they’re now part of the tribe. Who wouldn’t shed some tears?

Still, I suspect even now if you asked them what it was that made them so emotional in that picture, they might say something completely different from what I’m suggesting here. And that’s fine, because don’t believe it’s one thing. But I also don’t believe they would’ve had quite the same reaction had it been basketball, fishing or even a skydiving I was doing for the first time since my accident.

Recently I’ve given it a lot of thought as to why — at this age — these sports — surfing, skiing, sailing, skateboarding — still have so much resonance in my life. There’s no question aging or all those years spent in bed nursing pressure sores has something to do with it, but I think it’s much more basic than that. I broke my neck at a time when these sports literally meant everything to me and it was like having a meal snatched away before I’d even finished — my belly still growling and hungry. That said, I don’t pine for these things or feel my life is any less complete because I’m not doing them the way I once did — quite the contrary. Not being able to do them has sent my life on an incredible trajectory that I never would’ve been on otherwise. In many ways — though this might seem like a strange metaphor given the obvious — it’s like losing your sight and finding your other senses have become more acute. Now when I see or do these sports, their meaning and impact feels far more significant and — in a way I never would have expected — become a springboard to much higher heights.

And the future?

Unlike my skiing experience where the equipment is pretty much dialed in for my level of injury, this surfing experience was a “go with what we’ve got” type of a deal that ultimately worked, but could be greatly improved upon. Since that afternoon, I’ve begun brainstorming on how to do this, as I want to get out in the water again as soon as possible. I figure any solutions I come up with will benefit not only somebody like myself but ideally somebody with less function as well. And ultimately that’s the goal — making the experience as accessible and enjoyable to as many people as possible. If you know any shapers or anybody who wants to participate in this endeavor, point them in my direction. Contrary to popular belief, you can never have too many brains in the broth.

Epilogue

I’d be remiss in my duties as a blogger if I didn’t close out this piece with a little something about inspiration and its effect on action. As you’ve come to understand from above, my desire to surf again was a pretty heavy one. But because of my level of injury and my inability to swim, I could never quite figure out how to make it work and it eventually became a back burner fantasy — prominent and ever present, but nevertheless back burner.

The first time I saw that video of Jesse Billauer surfing many years ago was a watershed moment. Not only did it move me to see an ex-surfer get out there and ride waves, but as a fellow quadriplegic and champion of all things bold and pioneering, it’s significance wasn’t lost on me. Not only was it one of the heaviest things I’d ever seen in the sport (try negotiating whitewater or going over the falls when you’re unable to swim and have no use of your legs), but perhaps one of the most inspiring as well. Suddenly what was once difficult to wrap my head around, now seemed possible and it was only a matter of time before all the right pieces would fall into place. Our disabilities may have been different, but that hardly mattered, he had broken down the door and this is where things would start to happen.

Fast-forward many years, several adventures, some life-changing opportunities and a return to a location not far from where I broke my neck, and as I was sitting there on the beach waiting to get wet, surrounded by dynamic and beautiful people, I was entirely aware that this event, the 19 before it and others like it taking place elsewhere around the world, were the result of a single spark started by one individual.

This was inspiration evolving into action, and if there’s anyone out there who still doubts your individual power, I suggest A) you reread this blog and B) you check out one of these events.

Aloha and big mahalos to volunteers everywhere.

As August comes to an end, and I suppose symbolically summer as well, I thought it was only appropriate to close it out with a music posting. Concert wise, it’s been a slower summer than I’d expected — only one show at the Greek Theatre so far — but like most things in life it’s not the quantity that matters but the quality, and the one show I saw certainly bore this out; The National, Modest Mouse and REM — 3 bands I dig for the price of one (sometimes quantity does come into play).

Radio Free Berkeley

The first time I saw REM was back in 1982 and the last time I saw them was at the Greek Theatre in 1986, a show that was eventually rained out and rescheduled for the Oakland Arena a month later. Of course, the intimacy that would’ve been felt at the Greek wasn’t at the Oakland Arena, and despite the band’s ability to fill the space sonically, it wasn’t a very memorable show.

That was not the case with this most recent show, which in many ways felt like a celebration and a homecoming; both in the bands REM chose to support them and the love shared between the audience and this seminal group. They were clearly happy to be back in Berkeley and that enthusiasm seemed to fuel their performance, as they blazed through a two hour plus set of classics and mostly everything off the new album, Accelerate. The only time things lagged was strangely during the hit “Losing My Religion”, which despite the inspired sing-along, felt a bit sluggish and by the numbers. They ended the night with a rousing version of “Man on the Moon”, which was one of those transcendent rock show moments you put on a top ten list. They may be in their early or near 50s, but it was great to see they could still turn it out.

And then…

Now some of you might’ve been expecting something else this week, and I assure you that’s on its way, but for now I wanted to give you volume 2 of my 365 albums project and share a few juicy nuggets that you may want to add to your iPod and end of summer/start of fall life soundtrack.

Click here for the entire list: 365 albums vol. 2

Sound Opinions

London Calling, The Clash. A masterpiece. If you consider yourself a self-respecting music fan — open-minded to all genres — then this is one of two albums mentioned here you should already have in your music collection. Rolling Stone deemed it the best record of the 80s and that’s not hyperbole. The production, song writing and passion behind London Calling, find The Clash on the verge of becoming one of the most important rock bands ever. I got this on vinyl as a Christmas gift in 1979 and have since purchased it twice more (the most recent being the 25th anniversary Legacy Edition).

Silvertone, Chris Isaak. When I first came to the Bay Area back in 1985, Chris Isaak and Silvertone were the first local band I fell in love with. The live shows at that time seemed like a monthly necessity — with Isaac mixing inspired music, comic stories and a tiki party like atmosphere into a can’t miss event. And while the music on Silvertone doesn’t exactly capture the experience of those shows, the odd blend of Sun Studio style rock ‘n roll and reverb drenched surf guitars makes it an eerie, good listen. The influences are clear — The Ventures, Elvis Presley, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash — but the record never feels derivative or retro. In my opinion Isaak’s smooth, soaring voice has rarely sounded better. An excellent debut.

Roots, Curtis Mayfield. Choosing my favorite Curtis Mayfield album would be a lot like choosing a favorite child — you love them all for different reasons. Roots was the album I selected for this section of my project and if you’re looking to start with one in particular, this certainly wouldn’t be a poor choice. His signature wah guitar sound, that beautiful voice, the poignant lyrics — it’s all here.

Midnight Organ, Frightened Rabbit. Frightened Rabbit aren’t the first band to write songs about loneliness, sex, or post-relationship misery — they aren’t even the first Scottish band to do it — but their jangly, chiming guitars and mournful melodies effortlessly dig their way into your heart and you’re happy to commiserate. Fresh on the heels (literally) of their wonderful 2007 debut Sing the Greys, Midnight Organ is less raw and punk driven, but no less powerful. In fact, the cleaner sound fits the band nicely and makes me wonder if there’s been a couple extra sunny days in Glasgow this past year. Definitely one of my top 10 albums of 2008. Brilliant.

What’s Going On, Marvin Gaye. The second masterpiece on this list. Put together during the Vietnam War and after the deaths of Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X. and Bobby Kennedy, this is the quintessential example of an artist being moved by suffering, chaos and revolution and creating something transcendent and illuminating. This album never ceases to blow my mind with the journey it takes the listener on and if you truly give yourself over to it, it’ll both inspire you and bring you to tears.

The Odd Couple, Gnarls Barkley. Darker sounding than the first album and perhaps less accessible, The Odd Couple nevertheless musically surpasses what Green and Danger Mouse did on St. Elsewhere. The album feels more cohesive and the songs explore a richer territory. Lyrically, Green hasn’t been better and Danger Mouse keeps it as funky and surprising as always. One of my top 10 albums of 2008.

La Pistola y El Corazon, Los Lobos. This 1988 valentine to the music that moved and influenced them — huapango, ranchera, etc. — is bar none my favorite Los Lobos album. In Spanish and largely acoustic — guitars, guitarrón, violin, and accordion — this collection of original and traditional songs, has an intimate and live feel that’ll both squeeze your heart and move your feet. One of my favorite albums of all time.

Saturdays=Youth, M83. Somewhere between nostalgic, tongue-in-cheek and absolutely sincere, Saturdays = Youth might be the musical equivalent of a John Hughes movie. That said, this 80s influenced electro-rock album is the real deal. Individually the songs are melodic shoegazing anthems, but where they really shine is when they’re taken together as a whole. After my first listen I didn’t quite see this, but after the second and then third I was blown away by how much it worked. Alternating between quiet and bombast, the album is a surprising success.

Atlantis: Hymns for Disco, K-OS. This is hybridized conscious hip-hop that will get you thinking as well as shakin’ your ass. I love it. So far I haven’t been disappointed by anything this Toronto rapper has done. Atlantis illustrates K-Os’ proficiency at twisting and blurring genres, while continuing his contribution to the expansion of hip-hop’s boundaries. Put on “Sunday Morning” or “Valhalla” and see where your day goes. Few albums work on as many different levels as this one.

Accelerate, REM. The return of REM to its old form? Perhaps. But unlike the general consensus, I haven’t been disappointed with the band’s output since drummer Bill Berry’s departure. In fact, I appreciated the band’s attemps to go in a different, more experimental direction. C’mon, they lost a key member of their group — where else would they go? Where Accelerate returns to form in most people’s eyes is in its energy — it rocks in a way the previous three albums haven’t. Because of this, a lot of folks have compared it to Monster, but I think that’s confusing energy with enthusiasm; I see more in common with Lifes Rich Pageant than Monster. For me, Accelerate sounds like a band that loves playing together and the songwriting and performances reflect that. It’s a brisk, solid album whose songs work especially well live. One listen to “Houston” with its growling organ and melodic chorus and you’ll understand where I’m coming from.

Seun Kuti & Fela’s Egypt 80, Seun Kuti & Fela’s Egypt 80. Following in the footsteps of his late father before him (and older brother), Seun Kuti has delivered a startling debut in the best sense of the Kuti afro-funk tradition — funky brass, layers of picking guitars, call and response choruses. And even though using his father’s most recent band, he’s still managed to deliver something fresh, hard-hitting and politically potent. This is a youthful, groove filled Africa-centric wake-up call. Another of 2008’s best.

Trip Tease, Tipsy. OK, so throw Esquivel, Raymond Scott, Tricky, a crate diver like DJ Shadow, Cut Chemist or Madlib, some martinis and a few tikis into a pot or studio, mix it all together and you might get something that resembles Tipsy. Maybe. Weird, wonderful and above all danceable. I do love the 21st century. Pastiche at its finest.

Vampire Weekend, Vampire Weekend. Due to the crazy hype for this album, I didn’t feel any real pressure to rush out and get it fearing it couldn’t possibly live up to the stratospheric fawning. What I’d read about the group’s sound certainly piqued my interest, but since my monthly music budget was already in the red, Vampire Weekend was relegated to wait status. But then when the backlash began with the same fervency as the hype, my curiosity won out and the emergency reserve was dipped into. First, let me just say it’s a fine album — nothing earth shattering — but it’s a lot of fun. Think Afro-pop meets Haircut 100 meets Pavement and you’ve got the idea. As far as the backlash goes, well, if you’re truly interested you can google for it. I, for one, like to let the music speak for itself. If others like it, fine. If others don’t, that’s fine too.

Please Panic, The Vulgar Boatmen. I first heard this group back in 1990 when my buddy Chris and drummer of our then band A Small Parish turned me on to their debut album, You and Your Sister. From the opening notes of that LP I was smitten; it was both familiar and folk-based, yet wholly original and energized. Since then, they’ve released only two albums Please Panic in 1992 and Opposite Sex in 1995, with Please Panic arguably being their masterwork. Describing their music is difficult because it somehow transcends the folk rock genre it most aptly fits. It’s sparse, sweet, sonorous, deceptively simple and above all moving. Why the band in the heyday of alternative rock never rose to great heights is a complete mystery that’s forever baffled their small but very loyal fan base. There are some great songwriting duos out there — Lennon and McCartney, Johnny Marr and Morrissey, Elton John and Bernie Taupin, Difford and Tilbrook, Isaac Hayes and David Porter, Holland and Dozier, George and Barbara Gershwin — but none of them have written a more affecting and plaintive love song than the Boatmen’s Robert Ray and Dale Lawrence’s “You Don’t Love Me Yet”. Opinion? Perhaps. But it’s an amazing piece of music.

And there you have it. Hopefully I’ve inspired you to check out some of these artists or any of the others I’ve included on my list and that you enjoy what you hear. If you do, or have any recommendations for me, please leave a comment — I love the feedback. Also, as an added bonus, I’ve included some links to the music of some friends of mine. Again, if you like what you hear; purchase it, download it or simply let them know what you think. It’s good stuff.

Travis Callison
ekTek
3.1
Dayna Stephens

pau.