Asa Brebner (1954 - 2019)

"Songs are just sort of feelings put into words, a marriage of the emotional and cerebral. And that's sort of the best thing you can do—express in words what you're feeling, hopefully in a way that's not too trivial or stupid." - Asa Brebner

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#Throwback Thursday: 2007

On "Performing Monkey Syndrome"

Throwing back to my 2007 interview with Jonathan Spottiswoode. - md

[EXCERPT]
Spottiswoode: Ah, the performing monkey syndrome. Lexi, it’s all about feeling alive. We all go through life in a numb state most of the time. Some of us more happily than others. Artists do what they do for various reasons. But mostly just to feel alive, to feel that they are expressing themselves in the moment, transcending their troubles. Of course, attention from fans can make you feel alive too. Everyone likes attention. It is incredibly rewarding to hear strangers ask you to play a song you’ve written, especially when you’re starting out. It’s a dream come true. I understand if folks in the audience feel that the artist is ungrateful if he or she doesn’t grant a request. Okay, here’s the other side of the coin…you’ve played a particular song in many places. You’ve had magical moments with that song, unforgettable even. The song is like a lover. If you play it too often, especially when you don’t feel like it, it can dilute the memory and the affection you have for it. The other thing is this: every set of music is an emotional journey for an artist, especially an artist playing their own songs. Each song you play means something significant to you (even the so-called “novelty songs”). And they mean something different to you on any particular night. This is the part about feeling alive.

SuperLowBudge: So it can be like a restaurant patron asking the chef to please pass the salt.

Spottiswoode: Perhaps you have played a few soulful songs and a few songs about past relationships. Perhaps that combined with the weather and the lighting etc. has taken you to a raw and melancholy place. At which point someone requests a funny song or an angry song. On a particular night, that song may be the perfect prescription for you to snap out of where you are and take the show to the next place. But on another night, it just feels wrong and dishonest and abrupt. Not to the audience, I understand. But to the artist as an individual with his or her own tired bag of emotions and memories. Each song in a set is an antidote to the song that came before. The wrong combination and you can poison yourself.
 
SuperLowBudge: That's quite deep.
 
Spottiswoode: Call me a low budget drama queen. ∎

[Go to full interview]

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The Elderly

The Elderly came over last night to practice.
They've got a show coming up at The Midway in JP.

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Soupcon, setting up to play somewhere in JP.

The weirdest thing.
Last night we went to a loft in Jamaica Plain,
where an artist was hosting a sort of eclectic music night.

"Soupcon" is Joe, Chris Barrett, George Hall (who are all in The Elderly together)
and Chris' friend Susan, who is a lovely person and a
seriously killer player.
I just met her tonight.
I was a total dork because I'm a total dork.

What's amazing is that Soupcon has only played together once
and there are no prepared songs.
They improvise by listening to each other. So it's like a musical conversation.
This can go so wrong in so many ways, but it didn't.
It was magical.
I've got some video. Maybe it'll end up in a Joe Show.

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Make Our Own Contribution

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Believe In What You Do

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Music Makers and Dreamers of Dreams

When I was 24 years old, I found it necessary to retract and re-submit my *theory about musicians and just what the hell is their deal anyway. This happened all in my head, in the high seats at Foxboro Stadium at approximately 8 o’clock on May 20, 1994. My theory? Please note, I was a wee bit baked, and Pink Floyd, on the Boston stop of the Division Bell tour, had just opened with Astronomy Domine, from their tragically underrated 1966 album Piper at the Gates of Dawn.
[*sex bots]

Aliens. Musicians are descendants of an enlightened alien race that landed an unknowable number of millennia ago and integrated (kinda) with early mankind. When expertly applied, especially at night, the mambo, the wang dang doodle, the rock and roll, the boogie woogie, are all syno for the same wordless body & soul communication: Sex! Music, singing and dancing all lead to sex. Maybe it's the other way around. Either way, inter-species hanky panky, moving and grooving with each other, resulting in mixed alien-human babies, means here we all are now: we are the incomprehensibly complex descendants of a rock & soul interplanetary bop and we have retained this cosmic knowledge. To compress massive volumes into one nearly indefinable word, we named that "talent." Some extraordinary talents just walk around earth, saying stuff, acting like everything they can do is normal. Granted, the reviews have been mixed.

I assume what these randy galactic travelers were trying to do was bring to earth a universal language so that mankind could communicate irrespective of spoken word. At first with just voice, sticks and rocks. Then animal hides, bones and gourds. Then wood, ebony and ivory and Mozart. Then electricity and steel and Jimi Hendrix. It gets quite complicated after that, because technology and Bob Moog and those guys we don't think of as "rock stars" but nevertheless changed the world. [See also Chapter 5, "Cosmik Debris," search term "giraffe filled with whipped cream," Chapter 7, "Movers and Shakers" search term "Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy," Chapter 10, "Gods and Monsters," search term "Tonto," all of Chapters (Prince symbol) through 😭 and in fact most of the rest of the book.]

Musicians manipulate the air, causing particles to collide and vibrate into what they call "notes." They control the rate of these vibrations by shaping time into specific pulses they call "beats." It gets more complicated after that, I'll do a diagram or something later. But this talent is as close to magic as you can get, is it not? Within and between the notes and beats is a mysterious kind of unteachable "something." Music can bring people together, convey wisdom and trigger memory. Music grants courage, provides comfort and nurtures love and laughter. Music can define, amplify and connect ideas. This is a force so powerful that it frames time and space, defines entire regions and speaks for generations.

In theory, any of us likely have some degree of talent somewhere in the bloodline. Think of your worst cousin who can somehow play the spoons for some reason. But in reality, it doesn't always work out. Sometimes you'll get the musical talent without the proper gift of expression. We call those "teachers" or "sound guys" and they're great. But sometimes it's the other way around, and we call those "writers" or "comedians" and they should not be picking up the guitar but they do so don't leave one around when you invite them over. Sometimes there's no obvious explanation, which is when you get a Michael McKean and have to sort that out for yourself. All of these talents are all terribly important and should be thanked and appreciated often. Pay them. Bring them food. Tip them. Offer coffee. PAY THEM. Share your weed. Get Cheez-its. You wanna watch out for that horn section. Don't go to sleep on them drummers. Pay. Them.

Attempt to live without music for one hour. Don't even hum for that hour. Tell someone about that hour. Then consider buying music from one of these independent sex aliens from another planet.

We idolize our rock stars. But generally speaking, oddly enough, we've endured roughly a century of disrespect for future rock stars. Stop making that noise, cut your hair, go work in a bank, you're a bum unless you're getting paid for your time, and conveniently, through an unexplained series of events, nobody wants to pay for music anymore. Like it ain't no big thing. Dare to dream the dreams, future rock stars. As though anyone could stop you.∎

Paypal

Do you like this so far? I really hope so.
Paypal $1 or $10 would help a lot and I'll make sure you get the book! I promise I'll write it. Trust me, I'm a writer. I'm also making some little gifts for $50 and up...

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It's A Miracle

Pam had an extra ticket to see Cyndi Lauper and Boy George at the Wang Theatre. Guess who got to go? ME. That kind of thing never happens to me. Thanks, Pammeke! And thanks, person-who-couldn't-make-it-whose-seat-I-took!

First of all, I love The Wang. It's one of those right proper old art deco theatres. You know, decked out with red velvet and gold trim, ceiling paintings, sculptural detail and fancy chandeliers. It opened in the 1920s and holds 3500 delighted Gen Xers. Pam scored orchestra seats, row M for Motherf*****, how'd you score these seats?

Pam and I just wore what we'd worn that day, but the audience in general is largely to be commended on their various get-ups in the style of generic 80s, or costumed as Cyndi or George. Some of them went all out, down to the fingernails! It looked exhausting. I imagined fishnet imprint in the back of my thighs and was glad I was just wearing my normal clothes. Then again to re-assess "Pam and I just wore what we'd worn that day." My beautiful friend was in a funky green patterned retro-dress, tights and boots, and a biker hat. I was in a red tunic and a lacy scarf over black & white patterned leggings & my old Doc Martens. An authentic pair, and I'm not just referring to my boots. My boots, and Pam and I, have crossed the decades with this music. No costume required.
On this mini tour Cyndi and George are switching who goes first, according to the bellowing doorman whose primary information could have been accomplished by a sign. "Cyndi goes on first!" and "Will call to the left! If you have your tickets, go straight up the middle!"

Cyndi wore all black with a corset, her hair these days an aggressive busby of bubblegum pink. She's in fine voice, the band sounds fantastic. She opened with "She Bop," her naughty "this is really about masturbation" song. But it seems this tour, the bubbly chanteuse is in a melancholy "cowboy song" mode. She did Patsy Cline's "Walking After Midnight," and one or two more from that era. She did "When You Were Mine," a Prince tune she's been covering for decades. All told, a very intimate "storytelling" style of set, with like a 20 minute lead-in to set the mood describing when she first heard rock n' roll, growing up in "Ozone Pawk, where there's a lawta people who tawk like me." Two encores, the first was a loud one she launched into with a yell, "Are ya ready?!" and the band swung into "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." There may have been someone who didn't leap up and sing along, but I didn't see that guy. Great set!  The final encore was "Time After Time," a gift to the lofty space and met with a respectful resounding quiet, as she performed it solo on just her lap dulcimer. She closed with an amazing version of "True Colors," and the audience went wild when she held a "power to the people" pose for long enough to matter. Superior set, and I goggled at Pam that after that magnificent show we still get to see Boy friggin' George now?

His crew got set up fast, including a full drum kit and a percussionist, in fact the young dude playing records while we waited got his set cut short! I'm sure he didn't mind, because here comes Boy George. George came out wearing I think his own clothing designs, if not his then a contemporary -- a tunic & leggings with cartoonish motif, couldn't tell exactly the detail even from row M, a funky black jacket and quite a large yellow hat. I couldn't love him any harder. George was in fine voice, these blues in high heels never sounded better. Three backup singers doing the parts Helen Terry did in the 80s. They were fantastic. Unbelievably he mined the back catalog! Dude had a whole career after 1989 but only did one song from post-Culture Club (Bow Down Mister), everything else he pulled from Colour by Numbers or Kissing to be Clever, plus some cover songs. I thought it was a good move. He probably figured with a twin bill of 80s icons that the crowd would be appreciative of a retrospective. I loved it, didn't expect it because Culture Club just came thru here a few months ago. He was jokey with the front row, a little bitchy with the crew but in a lovable way. "Shall I sit down here like this, in this position? Could we do better? It's not that expensive, is it?" For the last song (of the set, there were 2 encores) Cyndi came out, resplendent in a loungey track suit surely made by the designer of George's tunic set. Together they led the delirious audience through a raucous "Karma Chameleon."

Boy George Set List (Boston: May 21, 2016)

Fun Time (Stooges cover)
It's a Miracle
I'll Tumble 4 Ya
Church of the Poison Mind
The Jean Genie (Bowie cover)
Do You Really Want To Hurt Me
Miss Me Blind
Karma Chameleon (w/ Cyndi Lauper)

Encore:
Bang a Gong (T Rex cover w/ Cyndi Lauper)
Bow Down Mister

Encore:
Imagine (Lennon cover, quiet duo w/ Cyndi Lauper on her dulcimer)

Dirty Sweet 'N You're My Girl

Walking to the train after, I confided to Pam that I felt like I had some spiritual communing with Genine, gone from this plane just over a month now and still on my mind daily. I'd read Genine's Obituary and traded some messages with others from high school who were lucky enough to get into her warm light for awhile, but I didn't go to the memorial service and didn't feel like a proper goodbye could be achieved. At the Wang I fucking thought I saw her. I know for sure I felt her. Then I realized with a surge of happiness that I'll always feel her whenever Boy George sings a song. That's magic. Pam and I sat on a low wall sipping Starbucks late-nite teas and talking about the gifts the universe brings, trading stories about things that happen that can't always be explained, but you just need to keep your heart open and let it happen. It's nice when you find others who "get it."

So. Pam had an extra ticket to see Cyndi Lauper and Boy George at the Wang Theatre. Guess who got to go? Muggins here. That kind of thing never happens to me. Thanks, Pammeke! And thanks, person-who-couldn't-make-it-whose-seat-I-took! And thanks, Genine. Because of course.

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Dirty Sweet 'N You're My Girl (Eulogy For An Awesome Chick)

Genine was a high school friend. Brief, bright and deep, that was our love, from about mid-freshmen year to the summer of junior year. I wish I could find my goddamn yearbook so I could see what we wrote into the blurbs on each others' pages at graduation. Was it "remember when we..." and was it promises to keep in better touch? It's things like that you grasp for, when you find out a one-time friend is gone.

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High Fidelity

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Top Ten Tiger Beat Stars, Redux

This one's for my girlfriends and all the 80s kids, my big-haired comrades-in-legwarmers, a delightfully shrill roving army on rollerskates. We wore neon and spandex and acid-washed baggy designer jeans, and we launched the careers of our Tiger Beat Star boyfriends. Oh yes, Rick Springfield, you're nothing without us! Same for you, Johnny Depp. You're welcome, John Stamos. And all of these dreamboats whose faces wallpapered our bedroom walls. Pulpy pin-ups gleefully clipped coiffed and pouting and posing alongside important articles such as, "Be The Girl Who Understands Him Best!" Like, fer sure. 

1. Elm Street, Jump Street, Easy Street

Johnny Depp, he of the sky-high luxurious locks, chocolate brown gaze and the pout'iest pout of the decade, appeared on my teenage radar with his roles on 21 Jump Street and Nightmare on Elm Street. In the former, Johnny played a narcotics cop that looked young enough to pull off posing as a high school student, and in the latter, he was one of the hapless victims of Freddy Kreuger -- a bed ate him up. As we both grew older I grew to appreesh Mr. Depp for more than just his face. The dude knows how to pick a script. With so many stupid movies launching the careers of pretty young men, it was endearing that Johnny Depp was holding out for more complex roles, demonstrating a respectable preference for artistry over easy money.  Edward Scissorhands and Ed Wood were wonderfully strange projects where the actor's portrayals were above par for the times, over the top but complex, and then he'd go all understated and quiet for roles such as What's Eating Gilbert Grape. He's a bit odd, sure. Bought an island and lived there for awhile, plus he's cultivated that odd "actor's accent." Rumor ihas it he's now got a house in Woodbury, CT near where my parents live.

2. Androgeny Progeny

Grade school teachers love to torture us with writing assignments like "What I Want For Christmas," "What I Did Last Summer" and "My Hero: _______."  In 7th grade my hero was Boy George. Having been raised on a musical diet of soul and R&B, this golden-throated creature and his "blues in high heels" knocked me out of my Buster Browns. In my essay I babbled for six pages, front and back, fangirling from the bottom of my heart all the reasons George O'Dowd (I recall adopting the tweenager's superior tone for simply knowing his real name) deserved to be my hero. I'm sure a great many words were merely attempts to state the importance of his androgynous style, something that I'd never seen before but which shaped my entire world from then forward. I've adored Boy George through decades of mediocrity, too, signing off emails with his lyrics and dressing up in his peerless 80s styles for costume parties. In the 90s Boy George, a complex individual, had run-ins with the law, did community service, went through a drug phase, a fat phase, Jesus Christ alone only knows what else. But it's 2015 and he's back in fine voice and full-tilt boogie awesome. I hope Boy George is fixing to resurrect his fabulous former pop & soul elegance. Just the idea makes me and my inner 7th-grader deliriously happy.

3. Getting Better

In Earth Girls Are Easy Jeff Goldblum sidles out of that salon steamroom door and into our fangirly dreams. If you missed the movie, that's okay, it is pretty dumb. Geena Davis, in real life a Mensa society member and award-winning archer, plays a ditzy underachiever who discovers that a spaceship has landed in her swimming pool with three furry aliens inside. It's an early role for Jim Carrey and Damon Wayons, who are both totes adorbs. But Jeff Goldbum, though. Geena Davis and her girlfriend, played by Downtown Julie Brown, help the alien dudes blend in with the population of the Valley in the 80s, so Julie, a beauty salon owner, shaves them and gives them clothes. Emerging shorn and swarthy in a cloud of steam, Jeff, all cheekbones and lips, gazes at gobsmacked Geena and asks, "Good?" Um, yeah. Very good. Hes like some kind of feral man-beast. Damn, bitch, Jeff Goldbum was a fine ass alien. Throughout his career he delivered performances both awesome and forgettable, sometimes sexy for being sexy like in Jurassic Park ("I bring scientists, YOU bring a rawk stah!")  and sometimes sexy for being brainy like in Independence Day, and oh why not, The Fly -- with the beautiful Geena Davis again. "You're getting worse!" "I'm getting better." Role to role, he's consistent, funny, sincere and always with that unmistakably awkward, distinctive Goldblum-ness. His latest is a Microsoft commercial where he coaches disappointed gift-recipients on how to fake-act appreciation. Hopelessly charming.

4. The Brat Pack Representin'

The "brat pack" was the name used to define the "it crowd" of the 80s, playing upon the term "rat pack" that defined the gaggle of entertainers that surrounded Frank Sinatra back in the day. The term "brat pack" managed to convey both the huge star power as well as the snark and swagger of the decade's young Hollywood elite. Who were they? Go to imdb.com, start with Emilio Estevez in 1985, and do a 6-degrees thing -- that's them. Molly Ringwald, Judd Nelson, you know the Pack. Of all the Brat Pack faces that melted the decade's most jaded hearts, Rob Lowe is the clear superlative. Strong jaw, sincere smile and piercing baby blues for days. Over the decades, from The West Wing to Parks and Recreation, Rob Lowe has managed to maintain the shimmering, flawlessness of his glory days, and is it just me or is this guy improving with a little gray hair and a few wrinkles? I think yes. I have proof. Recently uttered by one of his Parks and Recreation colleagues that may or may not have been Nick Offerman, "His face is magic."

5. Laughing In The Purple Rain

The dude may have spent the better part of the 80s running around in purple velvet and white lace, made up in heavy eyeliner n' done up in an astonishing busby of slick curls. And sure, a fog machine seemed to follow him around. But Prince Rogers Nelson was the shit, and remains the ultimate in badassery to this day. Prince ruled the stage on high heels, gyrating and staring lustily into the camera. The man was not afraid to use his tongue to get a point across, right? Prince blended the sexy licks and swagger of Jimi Hendrix with dance and funk, coming up with something quite new. I absorbed Purple Rain into my blood. Killer songcraft, guitars for days, and he was so prolific he even penned songs for pop stars like Madonna and Sinead O'Connor. Admittedly, in the late 80s Prince went a little overboard, experimenting with long form concept records and new personas, changing his name to a symbol and weirding everyone out with all the God stuff -- pretty much refusing to perform his former sex-driven discography amid rumors of inviting women over to pray. But based on recent appearances, he's made something of a return to pop culture and seems to have found the inner peace he was clearly seeking. Hope so. God makes people so weird. Hope the purple one comes back strong.

6. Just a Good Old Boy

Be still my 9-year old heart, the crush I had on Bo Duke! Our whole family watched The Dukes of Hazzard on Friday nights. My brother and I loved The Incredible Hulk, Different Strokes, and Happy Days, but we lost our shit over The Dukes of Hazzard. The dumbest of all prime time shows, we worshiped those Duke boys, especially surfer-boy, blue-eyed Bo with the dreamy smile and flop of blonde hair. Bo always drove the General Lee, making sweet jumps and going up on two wheels. The show holds up not-at-all from an adult perspective, from the ridiculousness of two punk-ass cousins constantly baiting the local cops and causing havoc around town, to the specious lifestyles of these Dukes. What did they do for a living? Why did they drink buttermilk, can you even DO that? And why did they weld their car doors shut? But in those days, nobody minded. These days, formerly round-chinned, angelic John Schneider is a chiseled, ruggedly handsome actor playing bit parts on TV here and there, including a reprisal of Bo Duke in a TV commercial along with Tom Wopat.

7. Domo Arigato, Mr. Shaw

Mr. Roboto was one of the first videos I saw when MTV first launched. Really, thank God for MTV. One of the benefits of music video was introducing a person to a band she may not have otherwise discovered. In those days, my parents were raising us on an awesome and steady diet of soul and R&B with some jazz and classic pop like The Beatles and Donovan, and my eldest cousin introduced the heavier rock like Ozzy, Van Halen and Led Zep. But if not for MTV I wouldn't have been introduced to bands like The Cars and Styx. I grew to love Styx, and found my first guitar god in one Tommy Shaw. I tore out a full page from Hit Parade and pinned the blonde shredder to my bedroom wall along with my other boyfriends. He has changed a lot, but today's guitar wizard is still a major dude, older and wiser with just the right amount of scruffitude, and the man still wails like a demon on that guitar.

8. The Fresh Prince

Way before The Fresh Prince of Bel Air came on TV (1990), Will Smith appeared on MTV along with DJ Jazzy Jeff and Ready Rock C, making a sensation with the hit single "Parents Just Don't Understand." I was more used to the edgier, politically-charged rap style of trailblazers like Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five, so The Fresh Prince brought a more fun, accessible rap to a white Connecticut teenager at just the right time. Will Smith helped provide a cultural handshake, always a stroke of brilliance in a musical artist. And man, did I love me some Will Smith, so yeah, I watched The French Prince of Bel Air in college. I learned all the lyrics to the long version of the theme song (it's longer than you think) and even though we were both no longer teenagers I somehow still feel like I "grew up" with the Fresh Prince. These days, he's still a huge talent, still presents as a super nice guy, still keeps himself in great shape. He goes skydiving, plays basketball, and he's raising some very talented, gorgeous kids too. I will watch Will Smith in anything.

9. Success Hasn't Spoiled Him Yet

I don't recall if it was Jessie's Girl on the radio or the appearance of Dr. Noah Drake on General Hospital, but my friends and I wigged out over Rick Springfield. We listened to Working Class Dog and Success Hasn't Spoiled Me Yet, on vinyl, over and over, we danced to every song, we knew his dog's name, we called each other squealing on the phone whenever Dr. Noah Drake did something amazing. We heard he lived in Glendale, California so we looked up Glendale on the map at the library, which is a very very old sentence to say. We felt a teenage girl's ownership over the guy, and if memory serves we made our parents take us to see him in concert three times. Right now he's in a movie about a band's life on the road, starring Meryl Streep as bandleader. I will probably see it. I should also check out some of his music after 1987, I have been remiss. Sorry Rick, there was a lot going on, but I'll getchoo, boo.

10. Uncle Jesse

Another General Hospital heartbreaker, John Stamos joined the show as a mad, bad dude they called Blackie Parrish. That is literally the only fact that I can recall. They don't exactly write soap operas for longevity. Blackie Parrish offered a titillating combination of babyfaced cuteness along with this dark, swarthy bad boy thing, and given his perpetual seething anger, he was a big hit with girls of an age -- my age -- where we wouldn't have known what to do with him if he suddenly showed up at the skating rink where we spent our Saturdays. These days the same girls would probably just give him some nice soup and tell him to use a coaster, but tell him in no uncertain terms that it's absolutely ridiculous how handsome he still is all these years later.  John Stamos is, right now, starring in a new TV show as a grandfather who didn't even know he had a kid, let alone a kid with a kid. I won't be watching it, because...why would I watch that...I'm betting it's canceled by the time you read this. However, fantastic casting in an actor of grandfatherly age who does not look like anyone's idea of a grandfather. I mean, really, John Stamos, what the hell, pretty boy.

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Before I go, there was one young man that, had he gotten the chance to make it out of the Hollywood drug scene, would be at the top of my list. I'm sure of it. He was an exquisite beauty and a fine actor. My age exactly, River Phoenix died when we were 23. His death hit me hard personally, and it felt like the world at large had suffered the loss of a genuine talent that never even got the chance to develop into greatness. What a shame. Forever young, rest in peace, River.

River Phoenix

1970 - 1993

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Now I Need A Punch Bowl

Mel Torme
Born: Sept 13, 1925
Died: June 5, 1999

Joe has something of an infatuation with the late great Mel Torme, who would have been 90 this September. We've been talking about having a birthday party for the Velvet Fog, with music, drinks and dishes from the crooner's heyday. "We'll definitely make up a few pitchers of a Velvet Fog drink...oooh, maybe a punch bowl to fit the era!" You guys, I've been looking for an excuse to get a punch bowl for a long time. My justification at last!

"And fondue. Fondue-bee-doo-bee-doo. What else..."

"Encase something in Jello." Well, no...no Jello mold or in fact mold of any kind. We'll put out a Facebook poll for ideas that aren't revolting.

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Back In The Saddle

Joe posted on Facebook about how Aerosmith's free street show today is happening right outside our old building. We lived at 1315 Commonwealth in The Peerless. One of the local rock stories is about how the next building over, 1325 Comm, was where Aerosmith lived when they were a local Allston band, too. I didn't walk over to Comm Ave, because I was at work, but I took a screen shot of the live feed while it was happening. I added an arrow so you can see where me 'n Joey would have been today, if we didn't move to Lower Allston two years ago.

You know what would have been funny?
If we still lived at 1315 Comm, but weren't aware of the Aerosmith event.
Imagine waking up to this throng and Steven Tyler's voice outside.

The Peerless (1315 Commonwealth Avenue, Allston MA)

This is a photo of our building from March 2010.
I'd researched and was excited to find out that The Peerless would turn 100 years old in 2011.
 I'd started a private Facebook Group for the Peerless residents,
like a combination "good neighbor" group and "history of the building" thing.
But only one guy joined so I took it down.
Then we moved.
At least I made one new friend.

Related: Peerless Life in Allston Rock City

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She's Lump

Presidents of the United States of America had this hit, Lump, in the 90s. I lurves them.

The "Lump" lyrics have long been a source of delight and amusement, even amongst the brilliance of the rest of the POTUSA catalog, this 'un is a fantastic nugget of irresistible pop goodness. BUT, the lyrics are mystifying. I'm sure there's about a kajillion Google results if one were to search for "She's Lump meaning." But I have never done this search, because I just need some things to remain points to ponder.

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munk Live @Best Buy

Best Buy - Boston (the one near Berklee)

I don't always go to Best Buy when it's sleeting pellets of ice.
But when I do it's because munk is playing.
These are my big salty New Rock boots.

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