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Friday, June 21, 2002
Tonight, I'll be seeing The Gloria Record play at the Unitarian Church in Philadelphia with some hardcore bands. I spent last night picking out films to use for the upcoming Reels of White Softly Flow shows. Today is the final day in TNI Books' Little Engines tour...enjoy.
an excerpt from Jesus Christ Lord of Hosts Meets L.A. County Jesus is walking down an empty stretch of road next to a poorly maintained farm dotted with scraggly yellow grass and dried-up shrubs. The sun beats down on His back and neck, unbearably hot, and finding a shade tree to sit beneath is becoming more important than reaching L.A. before dark. He knows He should have started off earlier this morning, but His ridiculous nomadic compulsions don't ever seem to occur at convenient or logical times. There is a small stream up ahead, running parallel to the highway, barely a trickle, but obviously steady enough to support the decent-sized group of trees crowding the banks. He picks up His pace and hurries toward the oasis, praying it's real, not some wicked mirage. It is not a mirage. Jesus kneels down on the sandy bank and splashes cool water on His face, on His neck, sucking up whole handfuls as quickly as He can. The trees provide more than adequate shade, the grass is soft here - His eyes begin to close against His will and He has to lie down. He sinks to the ground and rests against a pile of smooth gray boulders. Cattle have been here recently, their stink still thick in the air. Jesus notices that the boulders under His head feel soft, warm, and smell like yeast. He finds His stomach is not asleep. The flat, gray stone breaks off easily under His fingers. He puts the pieces to His lips, in His mouth, and gratefully swallows the warm pebbles, remembering to thank Him who is responsible for these impromptu miracles. "Hey, Mister," says a voice behind Him. He turns around, and two boys on bicycles are staring at Him. "Hey, mister," the taller of them says again, a freckled redhead. "Are ya lost?" "No," Jesus replies, but that isn't the end of the conversation. "This is my uncle's land," says the boy. "I don't recollect him invitin' nature freaks to camp out here." "I just need to rest a while and I'll be on my way," He answers. "I'm not looking for trouble." Jesus finishes His meal as He speaks, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. The boys stare at Him, at the gray crumbs on His face, the half-eaten boulders broken at His feet, and walk away slowly, backwards, facing Him until they are far enough away to leap on their bicycles and speed away. Jesus chuckles to himself and turns over onto His side for a nap. When He awakes, the boys have returned. They have brought three older men with them. Jesus sits up quickly, wary of their intentions. The men are dressed in flannel shirts and ripped-up jeans and have little or no teeth left in their mouths. One of them, a slightly-pinheaded man with a limp, hobbles up to Jesus and grins idiotically. "My name is John," he says. "Hello, John," Jesus answers. He holds out His hand. The farmer stares at it in puzzlement. Jesus lets the hand hang there for a moment, then drops it back down to His side. "My name is John," the man says again, then shuffles back to join his friends. Jesus scoots back a little against the rocks, nervous. John is kicking at little clods of dirt, the stupid grin back on his face. "You a magician?" ventures another one of the motley crew. "Why, no," Jesus answers, even more nervous. "Why do you ask?" "You eat rocks." The man gestured to the boulders broken up around Jesus' feet. "These?" Jesus laughs. "I don't know what they are, but they're not rocks. Someone dropped some bad bread or something. They're just dirty loaves of bread. See?" He picks up one small rock and finds that it is heavy, solid. He tries to find another of the faux rocks and decides that He must have eaten them all. The old man smiles triumphantly at his friends. "You eat rocks," he states again. "You eat rocks." -------------- This concludes the Electronic Reading Tour! Your regular website operator will return shortly. Thank you to all readers and all hosts of this tour. If you've enjoyed the week's stories and excerpts, check out the newest issue of LITTLE ENGINES in the online store.
Posted by Scott @ 02:41 PM CST Thursday, June 20, 2002
It was downpouring when we got to the Phillies game last night, but we decided to keep on going. Maybe it was the thrill of baseball, maybe it was the lure of $1 hot dogs, maybe it was our own stupidity. In the end, my belly was full of processed meat and buns and the Phillies won in the bottom of the 9th, commonly attributed to my rally cap. It's true. Welcome to the LITTLE ENGINES Issue Three Electronic Reading Tour! Lifter Puller singer/guitarist Criag Finn, now lyricist for The Brokerdealer, sums up everything he has to say about Les Savy Fav in this anecdote: "We played with them in Detroit at this club called the Gold Dollar," Craig says. "The first band, a local band, was playing to a pretty much empty room. As part of their set, this band was auctioning off items from their living room. They attempted to get the bidding going on a lamp. 'Do I hear one dollar? Would anybody want to buy this lamp for one dollar…?' No takers. Finally, Tim Harrington, frontman for Les Savy Fav, stands up and gives him a dollar and takes the lamp… "Tim brought the lamp back to the Les Savy Fav merch table and put a Les Savy Fav sticker on the lampshade. Later that evening the club was full and the band was putting on a typically amazing show. Tim pulls out the very same lamp and says, 'Who wants to buy a Les Savy Fav lamp for $10?' He sold it immediately to a guy in the front row." * * * * lyrics: "hip hip for imperfection / I want to make a mess / I've got a secret theory / that disarray works best / and though it can't work often / oh my God when it does / watch as the outburst softens / it's had its way with us… These lines really say a lot to me about Les Savy Fav. As the band races in their tour van from San Francisco to Los Angeles to make a show that evening at the Troubadour club, where I'll be seeing them for the first time, I tell this to Seth, the guitarist in the band, by phone. "Really, that's awesome," Seth says. He relays it to the rest of the band: "He says that those are lines that really say a lot to him about us." "I could see that," Tim says. * * * * The wordplay of Tim's lyrics can be playful but it can also be dark. "Yeah, I feel that way too, I guess," He tells me. "I agree with that. Lyrically I like to do a sort of cheerleading, the idea of sort of like a bleak cheer. The kind of thing that you sing along and then all of a sudden you're like, 'Wait, what do those lyrics mean? Someone else might say, 'Well, it's heavy lyrics, it's got to be sung in a heavy manner.' Or everything's got to be just so sincere. I'm much more interested in this, sort of like the tension of, 'Oh, this sound sounds one way - the mood, the tone is more subtle, more complicated, so you have to do a cheerleading'… someone who would be like Cheerleader for the Apocalypse. Like, cheerleading bad news." He laughs. "Something you feel and you're like, 'Huh, that makes me feel good and bad at the same time.'" * * * * That night at the Troubadour, Tim is in especially fine fettle. He's wearing a gauzy scarf that he says belongs to his mom. "Does your mom dress you?" a guy in the audience says. Tim doesn't hear him. The music commences with authority and he hoists the weighty mic stand overhead, singlehandedly balancing it upside down before setting it back down and rushing the front of the stage. Apocalypse now. He crouches to shout lines in audience members' faces, which show surprise, exhilaration, wonder. Respect. The singer takes off his shirt and pats his protruding belly. He veils his face with the scarf then simulates a bra with it. The music is getting to him and he pours half a bottle of red wine over his head, vocally going off like a fringe character in a low-budget movie. He takes a big slug from the bottle and motions to a guy near the front to open his mouth. The guy shakes his head, no, smiling. Another volunteers and the wine is dribbled from mouth to mouth, with some success. Tim balances an apple on his head and stands at attention, then picks it off and chomps at it, pieces crumbling from his mouth. He changes into a shirt that says NEW YORK CITY, people cheering it. Was the prop an oblique reference to The Big Apple? Out come flashlights. Tim steps offstage into the crowd and collapses to the floor, still singing. Then he's back on stage. He goes into the wings and returns with a blue blanket, which he drapes over the shoulders of Seth like a cape. Posted by Scott @ 12:58 PM CST Wednesday, June 19, 2002
I added a new splash page with the postcard that was made for Denison Witmer's Philadelphia Songs cd/LP that will be out 24 September 2002. A few more titles were added to the on-line store, so be sure to check those out. Tonight, a bunch of us will be going to $1 hot dog night at the Phillies. Maybe I'll see you there...I'm really a Dodger fan, so I have a little more to be excited about than the Phillies' season this year, but there is a special place in my heart for the home town team. Welcome to the LITTLE ENGINES Issue Three Electronic Reading Tour! Letters to a Grade School Teacher Dear Mrs xxxxxxxx, I wood like to make one thing cler. I don't ate grad annd gas, and my besk is to small for me. * * * * I was not able to go to lunch to day because of what happened yesterday. And I really could not go because I was actting up right now. I could avoid it by listening to the techer. But I didn't and right now it is to late. * * * * I pledge alegents to the flag of you ninenets state of amarica untell this plubie wich in sante one nachon under god inviezabull untell this wich in public. -------------- Posted by Scott @ 10:42 AM CST Tuesday, June 18, 2002
A few more titles have been added to the online catalog. Search away. Some new works from Little Engines are up today, too. Welcome to the -------------- The Pockets "There is nothing that makes one feel so much at home in a foreign city as knowing a good bar: a place where on can feel comfortable quickly, and go back to, in the hope, if not the certainty, of being recognized." Let me give you this example: In Marrakech, at Tapster's, everyone knows my name. Because I tell it to them, straight out. In a way I instruct them, but totally without guile, mind you. I say to them, I say, Sound it out now. I say, Listen to me. I say, Watch my mouth. See my lips? It's easy. I say, Listen, a wise man once told me that no sound is sweeter to a man than the sweet sound of his own name. And I say to them, Ergo, because I like the sound of that too, Ergo, I will pay you, right now, right here, understand? to tell me mine. I've discovered that money, when strategically deployed, assists the process of memory formation and, in particular, promotes the cementation of certain long-term memories. The upshot there being that everywhere I go people know who I am. I carry all the funny little pink and yellow and orange currencies of the world, in my pants pockets, my wallet, and stuffed in my back-up billfold. Some I have zipped into my belt, in a discrete pouch. I line my shoes with the stuff; I walk all over it. In my hotel room, alone, before venturing out into the night, I sit on the edge of the bed and fan a sheaf of bills into a thin layer and spread it over my calves. The TV in the corner is tuned to VH-1, replaying an in-depth documentary history of rock history documentaries. My gold-toe socks, pulled smartly up and over the bills, hold the thin layers of currency in place. The wondrous elastic properties of my socks have never once embarrassed me. Disinterested third-parties have commented that the subtle effect on my legs' musculature is somewhat stunning, provocative even, so long as I'm seated just right, and there's the sort of light that not so much hides as forgives flaws and perhaps a little of that music they play, in the background, not blaring, never blaring, and so long as I have my one good leg dangling jauntily over the other, and then the cuff of my pants (worsted wool!) creeps up just so. It's quite perfect. You may have to work at it, but they'll remember your name provided you get a fix on their price. Don't let the "language barrier" grind negotiations to a halt. Use your hands, gesture if you have to, speak loudly. My name, I say, pointing to myself. My name, I repeat, thumping my sternum with cupped hands. Cupped hands being what you call your inclusive, gentle, and warm body language. I have inner pockets, coin purses, money clips, a beautiful chrome change machine hanging from a leather strap around my neck. My checkbook's the size of a photo album, one for a big family. Everything's monogrammed, embossed or engraved or otherwise emblazoned with the initials that spell the very names by which I'm known and are sweet for me to hear. These days I pad the shoulders of my suit with rolls of American quarters, which coin seems to be hot with the kids. Used to be nickels were. Even my pockets have pockets, and they're all full. My bad leg doubles as a bank safe. The Vault is what I call it. It's got a surgical steel, triple-tumbler combination lock machined right into the kneecap, just set right into the sucker. The combination changes each month. Has to, for security. Additionally, I possess a killer fanny-pack whose equal is not known, will not, in fact, ever be known, because I had it custom-tailored in southern Italy, out of Spanish leather and the finest Libyan thread. This southern Italian guy did the stitching using a fossilized pine needle from a rare tree found only near the very top of the western face of Mt. Sinai, he told me. You can hold your fingers up to show how high you're willing to go. For instance, two fingers means you'll give them two of whatever it is they happen to want most of all in the place wherever you happen to be at the time. My name, I say, gesturing openly and warmly, and then hold up seven fingers in front of my face. Then I look at my fingers outstretched like that, nodding at them from left to right, to emphasize the sheer plenitude of digits I'm abstractly offering in place of what they want most of all. When in Alma-Ata, Kazakhstan, you have to track down Lou's or Tip-A-Few if that's closed the night you go. The Kazakhs moved their capital last summer sometime, I think, or maybe the year before, so neither place is overrun with miserable administrator types anymore. You get a whole different crowd, friendlier and polite like you wouldn't believe, while still not compromising the frisson of danger thing I associate with all those breakaway republics. Which reminds me, there was a place on the island of Borneo, this is in the interior, that used to be called Olde Ale House. It got bought out five or six years ago by Slim's. Slim's is sort of a semi-local chain of similar independently-managed establishments in the western Pacific Malay region. In spite of the new owners and what have you, it's still good. They kept the same bartender on. Definitely worth the trip if you have time off in Jakarta and just want to get away from everything for awhile. In Cabo Frio, which I prefer to Rio de Janeiro - same coastal clime, same access to airports, same etc. - do yourself a favor and inquire about this place that's a bar disguised as a fully-operational eighteen-wheeler. It doesn't even have a name. Say the truck/bar is driving by, on the outside it looks every bit the spitting image of those trucks that carry the poisonous gases, all plastered with red signs and stern prohibitions, saying whatever 'notice' and 'warning' are in Portuguese. But inside they've got a teakwood bar that will quite simply impose a stiff excise tax on your lungs. The next time you're in Djibouti, try Ed's. I met an Account Rep for Barbasol in Gdansk who told me about it. He was there creating some new popular thinking about facial hair. And go to The Pub in Perth. That's what they call it, everyone'll know what you mean. At the South Pole, there's a little place, Eddie's Tavern. It's quaint but not too. Not so many people know about it yet. You can walk in there a second time with every certainty of being recognized as a regular. You don't get that whole expense-account crowd in there.
Posted by Scott @ 10:38 AM CST Monday, June 17, 2002 Denison is on tour on the West Coast with Rosie Thomas. Make sure you go see the shows in your area. I added several new releases to the catalog, including the btv autumn releases that will be available starting in July from the on-line catalog. We're participating in the TNI Books online tour for Little Engines #3. You can get any of the TNI Books in print from the btv online store. We'll have some sort of deal to get Little Engines #3 at a discount with orders once it is released. Hello! TNI Books (tnibooks.com) has occupied this website for a brief period of time. It will be over before you know it, and odds are good that if you've come here in search of something interesting, you won't go away disappointed. Burnt Toast Vinyl (along with 30+ other website operators) has volunteered to donate an e-venue for an electronic reading tour. This exercise is designed to introduce readers to a magazine called LITTLE ENGINES. Should you already know about LITTLE ENGINES, do not fear! You're allowed to enjoy the coming events as well. LITTLE ENGINES is a magazine built like a book, with 128 pages bound between a beautiful full-color cover, designed and produced with careful grace. The contents of the new issue of LITTLE ENGINES include: one excerpt from a new book by a rogue rock and roll critic, ten panels of Olav Kahovec and his 4-D mentality, one clever comic strip, seven shortish pieces of fiction, one interview with and story about a band whose lead man sometimes pours red wine over his own head, and five letters to a grade school teacher from anonymous students. For the remaining four working days of this week, material from the brand new issue of LITTLE ENGINES will appear on this website for your reading pleasure. Should you have any questions about this tour or the magazine, please feel free to get in touch. Tomorrow, we'll begin with a story from Paul Maliszewski. It'll be a good time. Come back and see. Obviously, this tour would not be possible without the help of all the website operators kind enough to lend a helping hand. For a complete list of all the fantastic participants in this tour, go here. You can find out all about TNI Books and buy a copy of LITTLE ENGINES or any of our other titles here. Thanks for reading. We'll see you tomorrow, Adam Voith & TNI Books DISCLOSURE: We stole (with permission) the idea of an electronic tour from SoNewMedia, who came up with and executed the concept brilliantly for a book they recently published. SoNewMedia, like TNI Books, is a tiny independent publisher who longs for new ways to tell you about their good wares. In the same manner that zines spread the love of great underground rock bands before television ruined music for everyone, so too might weblogs, livejournals and small company websites tell the world of a seething group of souls selling great new writing in the form of books and magazines in online stores and limited bookshops around this great nation. Hurry up! Find us! Before Barnes and Noble ruins it for everyone! Posted by Scott @ 11:38 AM CST Wednesday, June 12, 2002
All show listings for Denison's tour dates with Rosie Thomas have been posted. There are a few updates since the original posting, so be sure to check that out. Posted by Scott @ 03:17 PM CST Tuesday, June 11, 2002
Greetings from sunny Puerto Rico. I'm here for work, slaving for the Man. Denison Witmer has started his tour with Rosie Thomas (Sub Pop), so hopefully all of you West Coasters are getting your Witmer fix. Check the tour dates to see where he will be and go see the shows. Posted by Scott @ 11:48 AM CST [ Archives ]
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