http://foggedclarity.com/2012/04/still-life-with-infidels-1/

This is the theoretical first piece in a series of related short stories from what will eventually be a collection called Still Life with Infidels. Some of the other pieces from the collection have been previously published, but I’m not posting links to them here. The main reason is that, as far as the collection is concerned, there are things I need to change in the versions that have been published so far, and not just that I changed the main character’s name from Rob to Ryan.

But if there are any future M. David Hornbuckle scholars out there looking for a thesis, feel free to search for them.

That first night I heard him play a few of his songs, and I was instantly fascinated. Performing solo with just voice and acoustic guitar, there were elements of Dylan-esque country/folk with the surreal lyrical sensibilities of Robyn Hitchcock. That was the obvious part. On faster numbers, George strums in syncopated patterns, and on the slower ones, he picks in a folksy manner with lumbering bass lines and bright sterile harmonies. He croons with a slight vibrato about space travel, malaise, food, and sex. His voice is as solid and splintery as a hickory log.

But then in some songs, George would go into this sort of free improvisation, which even with just acoustic guitar sounded almost like some of the more outward experiments of Sonic Youth. When Tym joined in on electric guitar, things got even more strange. What struck me most about it was that George was writing essentially pretty simple but catchy tunes, but he was also open to this noisy psychedelic chaos.

I learned later that he was an unrepentant Deadhead (and I never could get him to repent), but his method of improvisation was always much more in the vein of free jazz like Sun Ra and not so much jamming the way the jam bands jam. It was George that introduced me to the music of Sun Ra. Also the Fugs. Also Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. This is George’s range, and you can hear all of this in his songs.

Over the past two years, George has been playing in the studio, recording an album that reflects all of this influence. His session musicians are some of the best (and weirdest) in the business. A few weeks ago, I posted a video from what I still think is the stand-out song on the new album,
“Nothing Good.” I think this one song encompasses all the things I like most about George’s songwriting and about his vision of what the songs would sound like under ideal conditions.

Those ideal conditions are really what this album is about. Because our old bandmate Tym Cornell now runs Wild Honey Studios in Birmingham, George had virtually unlimited access to a professional studio with a very talented engineer and producer. And because of his many years of involvement in the Birmingham music scene, he also had access to some incredible musicians, including guitar virtuoso Davey Williams, Allman Brothers bassist Oteil Burbridge, saxophonist Marshall Allen from Sun Ra’s Arkestra, as well as some of the best session musicians around Birmingham like Jason Bailey and Matt Slocum.

Fans of Colonel Bruce Hampton and Widespread Panic will enjoy the country fried psychedelia, but folks who don’t get into noodling solos or cacophonous jazz noise should not fear this record. Fans of Robyn Hitchcock will admire the absurd sense of wordplay in the lyrics. Anyone who appreciates smart, hummable songs should give this a listen. You will be hooked from the first track.

My only complaint is that it doesn’t include Ride the Beard.

And now, a track-by-track (p)review.

01 Devil in a Bottle – This first track is a catchy, funny folk tune about the struggle with the bottle, which features hot mandolin solos throughout by Birmingham newgrass hero Jason Baily. Pretty simple and straightforward, but totally addictive like that devil in the bottle itself. The hand claps at the end give it an epic quality.

02 I Remember – Here George takes a song that could be a poetic and pretty but not especially noteworthy ballad and twists it into pieces by having Davey Williams and Marshall Allen flit around the melody like insane dragonflies. The slightly-off stereo vocals add to the haunting and disturbed sense of nostaligia that the lyrics invoke.

03 Oh Megan – This jaunty country-ish tune cuts a middle path between the first two tracks. It would sound like something straight off of Workingman’s Dead if it weren’t for some freaky deaky guitar work from Davey Williams and Scott Grant.

04 The Weasle of Bad Axe Magee – The musicians credited on this track are the group “The Bad Axe Magees.” It’s clearly an improv piece, George (and his two songs Edward and Franklin) messing around in the studio. But it’s interesting to see the curious angles he takes when performing off the cuff. Beefheart fans won’t flinch.

05 If You Were an Elephant – A waltz with Davey Williams playing slide guitar. The first line “If you were an elephant, I’d love you a ton” gives you the general idea. The lyrics are silly but clever, a love song that declares that his love would not fade even if you were a monkey, a skunk, or a pop song. The shock surprise ending is heart warming.

06 The Train – A deceptively straightforward song about a train in trouble. It’s not a standout track, but it’s catchy, and I’m a sucker for a train song.

07 Nothing Good – A surprisingly funky, soulful slow tune featuring Davey Williams, Oteil Burbridge, Marshall Allen, and Matt Slocum. The lineup would be enough to make this my favorite. To call out the clever wordplay of the lyrics seems almost redundant–all of George’s songs have that, but this song is George doing what George does at his best as a lyricist. Since I happen to have heard some of the original tracks, I also know Tym pulled off a near miracle in mixing this one.

08 Marty’s Two-Step – A twangy, dance-able ode to one of Birmingham’s most revered after hours hangouts. The song itself is reminiscent of George’s old band Partial to Mable, a band that was a staple at Marty’s in the late 1990s and early 2000s. The arrangement sounds so much like a Grateful Dead song that the reference to “Hey Another Saturday Night” floats by almost unnoticed.

09 Some Kind of Pelican – Another studio improv. Cute, but about twice as long as it needs to be. George’s characteristic giggle at the end says it all.

10 Can You Tell Me – Much like “Oh Megan,” this could be a Dead song, if it weren’t for Davey’s guitar. More Grateful Dead references in the lyrics. It is a nice tune though with lovely solos by Jason Bailey and Matt Slocum. It has an easy loping pace. Makes me want a margarita.

11 The Road to Laredo – Totally oddball. Totally George. “I was on the road to Laredo / looking for a baked potato / when I saw a real tomato.”

I happened to run into him at a bar last night and hope he’ll read this.

Cheers, Professor.

I wrote the short story below while taking Day’s classes, and I wrote the song “Make Reference” a couple of years later while thinking about things he had said in class. The refrain “Is there something between me and the tree or is the tree in my head? Is the tree too big for my head?” is practically lifted from one of Day’s lectures on how reference works.

Click here to listen to “Make Reference” as recorded by PopCanon in 1999

This short story has been published several times–in a Birmingham zine called Isms, in a national journal called Nanofiction, and in my collection The Salvation of Billy Wayne Carter and Other Stories.

Bertrand Russell Sees a Man

I. A Man Viewing a Sunset

Let (x is human and x is male) be true where (x=x) is always true and (x has the name “John”) is sometimes true. Let (s=the visible atmosphere of the earth) be true if and only if the sun appears from position(x) on the surface of the earth to rest on the edge of the western horizon such that s:x is fragile and delicious as a warm cookie.

II. A Man in Love

Let x have the property L(x) where (L=the certain combination of active neurons which results in giddiness) is always true. Let (g is human and g is female) be true where (g=g) is always true and (g has the name “Mary”) is sometimes true. Let L(x) occur if and only if x:g results in the property B(x) where (B=an intensional relation [belief] that L(g):x reciprocally) is always true. If L(x) is true and B(x) is true then LB(x) results in the property F(x) where (F=the certain combination of neurons which result in the intensional relation [feeling] that L(x):g is fragile and delicious as a warm cookie) is sometimes true.

III. A Dead Man

Let L(g):x be false if and only if x:g results in the property D(g) where (D=the intensional relation [disgust] that L(x):g) is sometimes true. If L(g):x is false then not x.

The first of these is tonight, March 29, at Bottletree, featuring Voices in the Trees, the High Fidelics, Ghost Herd, Red Mountain Family Band, and Opera Sextronique. The bands start at 8pm (despite what the graphic to the left says), and the cover is $7.

The second show is at the Nick on Wednesday, April 4. That show will feature Jerolyn, Devour by Infection, Throng of Shoggoths, Thothamon, and Braineaters.

On April 14, we will be hosting a show at Metro Bar with Mile Marker Seven, John Elrod, and other acts TBA.

If these shows go well, we will probably continue the series. Some shows may be fundraisers. Others may just be regular shows that we curate. Still others might just be themed parties or mixers for people in the Birmingham music industry. Our inimitable all-things-BFP-Music guy Lee Waites has many ideas about directions this series might go.

Click here to buy a copy from lulu.com.

You can also check out our classy promo video:

It was probably partly because the more I learned as a musician, the more the potential of blues became limited for me. It was also because I was never comfortable with the idea that privileged white people like myself had what it takes to really play the blues. I got tired of trying to fit into that mold, and I got extremely tired of watching and listening to other middle class white musicians playing Clapton-like solos over a 12-bar blues progression and singing about how hard life is, then going back to their day jobs as attorneys. The blues for my white suburban experience became garage and punk rock, and I left the blues far behind.

You see, the old blues masters earned it. These were blue collar guys, or often even lower on the socioeconomic scale than that—itinerant farm hands who were just barely not homeless. Life for them actually was hard. But on a Saturday night, they could put their resources together, get some cheap whisky and some old guitars, and they’d let loose.

Gip Gipson is that kind of a blues man.

At Gip’s Place in Bessemer, ten miles down County Road 18 from my neighborhood in Birmingham, on any given Saturday night, there is an old style blues party going on—working class people drinking cheap beer or hooch and living it up because it’s Saturday night, and that’s just what folks do around here. I felt a little like a tourist or a voyeur at times, but there were a lot of other tourists there like me too. Many of the performers there are the same white baby boomers that drove me away from blues music in the first place. They are, most of them, well trained, expert, and experienced musicians. I can appreciate watching them play for sure, and I was having a good time. It was pretty much what I expected.

What I didn’t expect was what happened after the headlining act was done. Gip himself comes out, helped onto the stage by an assistant. Gip is 90 if he’s a day. His Facebook page says he’s a gravedigger by profession. They have to help him into his chair, hand him his guitar, adjust the microphone for him. He has a little paper shot glass, and the assistant pours something from a mason jar into it. Gip downs it, and then launches into his first song.

He plays a very old style of blues guitar, a straight off the farm kind of finger picking where he drones a simple bass pattern with his thumb while plucking out a rough melody on the higher strings. The melody of his vocal line matches the melody he’s playing on the guitar. There’s no “blues scale” or “12 bar blues chord progression” for Gip. He plays one chord until he feels like moving to the next one, and I’d bet he doesn’t know or care what that chord is called by studied musicians. He has at least two strings out of tune, and he’s foggy from drink, inconsistent with his tempo, but it’s still somehow amazingly listenable. It’s because he has earned it.

And because he is there, still alive despite everything, against all odds, he represents so much that is today extremely rare to find. And it’s Saturday night, and that’s just what he does on Saturday night. He is selling transcendence at $10 a head. It’s a bargain. I’ll never be a blues man, but I’ve rediscovered what I initially loved about this music.

After a couple of songs, he looks longingly at his empty shot glass. My friend Ian goes up the stage with his flask, pours a little whisky in the cup, and now Gip is his best friend.

Ian asked Mr. Gip how he learned to play the blues. He said that he had been travelling with Robert Johnson (yes, that Robert Johnson), and they were in New York. He was talking to a woman and said he was from Perry County, Alabama. At that, the women slapped him. “That was the moment,” Gip said, “when I decided to become a blues musician.” It’s possible that none of this is true. It doesn’t matter much.

At two in the morning, all the other musicians have packed up and gone home. Gip is back on the stage, and there are five of us still sitting there in awe. He’s still doing shots of whisky. He’s selling us on Jesus between songs. He will make it to church on Sunday morning. He never misses it.

This should be a once in a lifetime experience, but it happens every Saturday night. For now. Just one more thing about Alabama that is full of mysteries and wonders.

George and I were in a band together called the Freeloaders in 1993-94, along with Tym Cornell and Don Thomas. We have written many many songs together, and I still perform one or two of his songs once in a while with Ghost Herd.

Tym produced this album at Wild Honey Studios.

This track also happens to feature some of my all-time favorite performers: Davey Williams, Oteil Burbridge, and Marshall Allen.

The Office Party

(1) IVAN WURKINONDA REILRODE

Ivan is alone, the first to arrive. He turns on the lights and walks over to the punch bowl. Empty. Green and yellow streamers hang like cobwebs from the ceiling. The garbage cans are overstuffed with paper plates and broken styrofoam cups. He bends down to feel the dark stains on the carpet–still wet. Moving closer to the floor, sniffing like a hound, he stretches his tongue out for a sample of the offending liquid. “Piss,” he says to himself. He springs to his feet yelling, “Piss! Piss!” He loosens his tie and takes off his shirt. “Piss!” The tiny gray hairs on his chest stand on end from the sudden chill. He growls. He takes off his shoes and throws them the left one at the punch bowl and the right one at the fax machine. The machine falls with a clank to the floor, and a note flies from it like the last feather of a gunned-down bird.

He puts his shirt back on and walks into the kitchen. Someone is there, waiting in the dark.

(2) ALDA LIVELONG DAY

“No one is bringing any sweets,” Alda laments as she scans the volunteer list. “Everybody is bringing salties. What’s a Christmas party without sweets?” She gazes around in wonderment, ignored. She turns to Kent at the next desk. “Excuse me, Kent.”

He turns around.

“I hate to bother you, but do you think you could bring something sweet to the party instead of this?” She points on the list to an item, Dill Weed Oyster Crackers, next to Kent’s name. “I know your wife makes wonderful chocolate cake and rum balls–you brought them last year. I wondered if you could bring something like that instead, ’cause everybody’s bringing salty things, and nobody’s bringing sweets.”

Kent shrugs. “Well, I’d have to call her and ask, but I hate to do that since she’s moved out of the house and all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll ask somebody else–don’t you worry about it.”

“Oh, no. Wait. I’ll ask her. Really.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Kent. Just don’t worry about it. I need to ask other people anyway. Dinah, are you off the phone? Good. Now tell me, just what the heck are Creamy Weenies?”

(3) IVAN WURKINONDA REILRODE

Everything he hates. Why he condemned himself to this purgatory, he can’t remember. First time he’s been around average joes since he was in high school–never had to deal with people like this in college. Forgotten how warped their values were–how susceptible to television culture they were. Disgusted, he quietly leaves the party. He can’t even bear to look at them.

As he turns the corner, he passes a newsstand where three men in suits are talking on cellular phones. “Stand firm,” one of the men says into his receiver. “Don’t let them talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.” Ivan enters a coffee shop on the left side of the road. His head begins to itch.

Something he was supposed to do. People on park benches. A slip of paper in his pocket, which he now decides to read. “Shit,” he says, and he turns back toward the office. For a few seconds he runs, then he walks.

(4) JUSDA PASDA TIMAWAY

“Every Friday we have mahi-mahi. Grilled mahi-mahi, baked mahi-mahi, barbequed mahi-mahi, blackened mahi-mahi, broiled mahi-mahi with lemon pepper sauce. Mmmmm.”

(5) KENT YAHIR DEWISSELBLOEN

“Rhiza, this is my roommate, Ben DaCapenschouten.” Rhiza is so butch. She’s his idol. Lord, it’s warm in here, he thinks. “Good to meet you, Ben. My, you both have such unusual last names. How funny that you would end up as roommates. What do you do?”

“I’m in the food distribution business, in management,” Ben tells her, smiling. He points to his necktie, motifed with the Taco Heaven emblem.

“That must be interesting,” Rhiza says wryly.

(6) RHIZA NUPP

“I can’t stay too much longer. One of the girls on my soccer team is having a period party tonight.”

Alda says, “Is that similar to a costume party?”

“No.”

(7) EARL E. N. DE MOURNE

Earl finds a slip of paper that has drifted onto his desk. He looks around to see who had left him the leaflet, but he can not determine the distributor. Shyly, he reads it.

Earl folds the memo and places it in the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket.

(8) KENT YAHIR DACAPENSCHOUTEN

“Earl, do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Kent. What’s up?”

“Well, I need to have my name changed in the computer system. Since Ben and I got, you know, married, I had my last name legally changed to his.”

“Sure, Kent. Just fill out this form, and I’ll take care of it.”

(9) DINAH BLOYER-HORNE

“What are these called again?”

“Creamy Weenies,” Dinah says with a sigh.

“Gee, they’re good,” says Alda. “Before you leave, I’ll have to get the recipe from you.”

“Sure, Alda. No problem. They’re really easy.” Dinah walks toward the kitchen and waits.

Here’s something from deep within the M. David Hornbuckle archives:

Started in 1991, Quentin’s Bridge was my first serious band after high school. Far too serious for our own good, actually. I’d later go too far in the other direction, and I think I still have trouble balancing the intellectual and the goofy. The band was named after an incident in The Sound and the Fury, where one of the main characters drowns himself in the Charles River during his first year at Harvard. We’d first called ourselves The Dismembers, but we soon realized we weren’t metal enough for a name like that.

We recorded a couple of demos tapes but never made an album. We were pretty sure we were about to become rock stars.

Some samples:

Salome’s Last Dance

Shooting for Irony

State of the Universe

Telephone

Whoa

Midsummer

Can’t Escape

Waiting in the Walls

Peace