Lowlife highlights

Dear folk(s): I'm somewhat sorry for the long silence, and genuinely sorry for leaving that goddamn poem about "goddamn" up for so long. God damn, but there's no topic more topical than "goddam(n)," what? Your arrogant narrator's been a tangle-limbed distractopus these many days, as he's sweated over contract work, underprepared to return to college this Wednesday, seen a buncha bands, and changed a googolplex of soggy diapers. Some highlights of the past few weeks include:

--Catching Iggy & the Stooges, the Decembrists, and Kinski with Messiahbomb Michael at Bumbershoot. Iggy's bellowed "motherfucker"s could surely be heard all the way to Kentucky.

--Seeing Dead Can Dance at the Paramount with good son Elric--our first show jointly attended, and long overdue for us both. Elric's heard them his whole life, so was a day of reckoning for us both. And such a show! Less than half way in, I stopped believing Lisa Gerard to be a human being. Nothing recorded even suggests the sublime terror of that voice--not needing a microphone at all except for the soundboard recording--which combined with her flowing robes and pulpit-like music stand to suggest a church service which God attended in the poor man's pews. And paunchy bald greybeard Brendan wasn't bad either.

--Attending the blessed wedding of Oomingmak and her beloved Jmichiko, or rather of their secret identities. The Genuine Right Reverend Messiahbomb performed the service, held at a rustic hunter's lodge in the wild woody east, where children romped on the lawn for hours and everyone remembered what love was.

--Attending New Model Army's show at the Tractor--a letdown from their last more stripped-down and immediate affair, but still powerful... and Jesus, Justin's eyes!

So much for pleasures. This week's the one to consume me. I'll do my best to be less stingy about the coming details.

For J. in Reno

must our origins absorb
again the best of us who'd fled
toward bright beckoning welcoming
(for instance toward the North)
only to lose, resoundingly lose
the dreams amidst the scavenging
for place and peace and love and food,
for cigarette nubs and beer money
and or the o'ercoming o'er
the lonely? our land of shameless
origin loves us not, and yet
the best the fragilest flock back,
as safety that's a lie is safety
still, and slow decomposition
beats starvation in a harness race,
I guess I curse I slurringly
conclude sans much a grudge--
I, remaining, steadfixed, stranded
and loving every strand of green
and raindrop and junky in this
city, understand I guess and
nod and say Godspeed your mad
steadfastness in my god damned
south home town.

Fanatic congratulations to Antony and the Johnsons for bagging the Mercury Prize, which they deserved in spades. Further congratulations to the Kaiser Chiefs for not winning the Mercury Prize, an outcome they also deserved. And tough shit, M.I.A.

Bumber breezes

Seattle music festival Bumbershoot is happening straight down the hill from me. I'm all set to go tomorrow, to catch Kinski, the Stooges, the Charming Snakes and other lovely stuff. Meanwhile I'm having my, uh, ear appetite well whetted by Talib Kweli, whose rhymes 'n' beats fly right through my window when the wind catches 'em right. Pretty astounding shit, for free especially. He's got some gorgeous backup soaring girl vocals now and again that whether sampled or live are astonishing. Plus hearing the word "motherfucker" barked rapidfire from a mile away is always thrilling. I love the idea of a whole neighborhood given forced exposure to quality hiphop, whether they like it or not.

R.L.I.P.

Via Largehearted Boy, I learned ol' R.L. Burnside's gone as of last Thursday. The Telegraph has a fine obituary, including this little summation of the blues:

"I didn't mean to kill nobody," Burnside later said of the murder. "I just meant to shoot the sonofabitch in the head. Him dying was between him and the Lord."

A lost verse to "Boogie Chillun"?

Also, God save New Orleans, and may the devil excavate an even deeper hell for our worthless leader.