Th' Soulfinger Diaries: Airport Road Cafe, Hartford, CT, 1.19.06

Levy Pontchartrain makes reference to a fling with Ace McClintock's sister. While breaking down, Ace pulls the back of Levy's underwear out and doesn't stop until he's holding the top half. Ace then throws the fabric upwards where it hits the ceiling fan.

The fan launches the offensive semi-garment across the club and it lands on the bar on some guy's Sea Breeze. Hilarity ensues.

Oh. You think I'm making this up.


Lessons learned:

1. Keep dalliances with Les Femmes McClintock private.
2. Don't turn your back on Ace.

Th' Soulfinger Diaries: The Gristmill, Killington VT, 1.15.06

Band wants to do "Oh, Darling!" but I'm more on the side of doing "Hey Jude" the way Wilson does.

Ah, the crowning night at Killington. A nice early gig with a very hungover Ace and an equally contrite Levy Pontchartraine. Snap out of it, divas. Ha ha ha ha ha.

I love that we had to scramble to make a 5 PM curtain. Nothing like waking up and doing a show.

Here- here's a nice lullabye for a sleepy bassist and saxist. Here's Lightfoot on 11 after a nice long night's sleep and a sauna and steak tips. There's a couple of little dropouts (haven't paid for that mastering plugin yet) and a vocal accident or two but the feeling's fuckin' there. Gosh, this is actually kind of nice. I'll fix the dropouts and repost this when I have a goddamn instant. Listen to what Tito does on th' guitar solo. That guy is nuts. One of them savants.

Wow. This is my favorite. I'll fix this. I suck it at the end though. Cover yo' ears.

Drove Levy's Subaru back south with Manila Godown and Pontchartraine snoozing peacefully. Levy's got that Sirius shit and I listened to a lot of really bad comedy.

God damn Soulfinger. See you next month, Killington. Oh, we met one of th' upper management and we've got free skiing in Feb. Sweet.

Th' Soulfinger Diaries: The Gristmill, Killington VT, 1.13.06

Woaaah. It's exactly like that fucking Bing Cosby movie. A veritable polesmoking winter hinterland.

Soulfinger decamps for the weekend at a club at th' ski area. Accomodations are austere but warm; a postage-stamp sized two-room suite for 5 guys and a palatial slopeside penthouse for chanteuse Jackie Halliday. Guitarist Tito Corleone makes the two-hour drive up and back for every gig rather than have to in any way be privy to what is about to occur.

First night's good, man. The place is fairly hopping, if not packed. There's something about it being a family weekend because they have a show with those christing budweiser whatchamacallit horses. I'm still struggling to get back in full voice. I'm starting to hit that teflon-coated-good-to-go thing where you sacrifice your top half-octave and your bottom half-octave but you always have a voice for the show every night. For three or four hours. I'm a little unsatisfied with that because I like my head voice octave-above-middle-c stuff and I have to figure out how to get it back.

I did a preamble before "Let's Stay Together" about economical, masterful, understated singers who realize in maturity that they can do much more with less. I mentioned the unfortunate trends in singing, the histrionic Amphibian Idol crap with the oversinging and the endless cheesy melismas. And how I aspired to one day be more like Billie Holliday or Satchmo or Willy Nelson, just telling a story.

Then I took that gentle Al Green lilt and lit it on fire and stomped it around the stage for 5 minutes. I sang ALL the goddamn notes. Fuck, man- I know what they god damn want. Willy Nelson and Satchmo et al had a throng of enraptured people sitting at their feet when they opened their mouths. I have to compete with T.V. and alcohol and hookings-up.

Another standout was the nothing-to-sneeze-at "Hold On I'm Coming". I'd just as soon start posting shit when I'm back in monster voice but fuck it. It's "real". Listen mostly for the restrained mastery of Tito's rhythm guitar.

What the FUCK ARE WE DOING????

Man, I thought it was motherfucking this and that and the other thing back in August was going to blow the shit open. Then I thought it was that fuckwart Mclellan sticking out his shitass pussy Yale YRC booze-stained birdy lip and askin' some fucking reporter if "he was insinuating something" at some Christing White House briefing or another over this fucking Abramoff shit.

Then I thought for sure it was going to be this fucking domestic surveillance shit. See, now it's every day, baby. Some new humiliation. Some new scam. Some new no-bid contract. What a fucking nightmare. The way it's picking up steam.

And it dawned on me a few days ago that we'll put up with pretty much any fucking shit. yeh, unless they come for our flatscreen, man. Then it's Katy Bar The Polesmokin' Door, man.

It's like a day gig, man. It's like the fucking outrage is a pastime until motherfucking dinner. Or th' new season of Armenian Idle. Jesus fucking christ. What the fuck are we doing? What the fuck am I doing? I, me? huh? I ain't my brother's polesmoking keeper. Y'all do what you want. I'm living in a fucking glass house for sure. You know?

yeah, all very well and fine to be all Soulfinger-this-and-Sal-The-Feist-That-and- ain't-it- funny- the-other-thing but what the fuck good does any of that do?

It's all racing towards critical mass. The decision is going to be upon us. It really is. It's any, any, any fucking day now. You think I'm just Lightfootin' it but man this time it's for reals.

I'm telling you. I'm telling you you're going to wake up really fucking soon, maybe next month. Maybe in the spring. And you're going to have to decide. You're going to have to decide if you believe in your fucking house and your car more than what's fucking right for our kids and our fucking country. You fucking dig me? Because it might not be what we think.

God damn it. I'm having a harder and harder motherfucking time writing this polesmoking blog. I'm getting a little tired of bein' a hoot. can you tell? I'm gone for DAYS. I look at that god damn screen and I think what do I really add to anything? Best I can do is preach to the choir. Preach to the fucking choir. Not that there's anything wrong with the polesmokin' choir, of course. I'd hate to offend EITHER of my readers thus.

Look, man. I'm singing "What's Going On" to fat white fucks that have funny things written on their t-shirts with words like "cunt" and "Arab". And my little rebellion is to say, "what the fuck! Let's bring 'em home!" during the guitar solo. I'M A REGULAR MOTHERFUCKING ABBIE HOFFMAN, MAN. I'm like a white, non-filanderin' MLK Jr.!!! WOOOO-HOOOOOO!!

I'm fucking ashamed of myself. I mean, I've got the don't-play-the-man's-game, thing down. Doin' all right there, you know? All that means is I don't have shit. Got that part. But I don't have the nuts to go ALL THE WAY DOWN, DOG.

IF I HAD A NUT IN MY SACK I'D PULL THE FUCKING RIPCORD RIGHT THE FUCK OFF. BOBBY LIGHTFOOT AND THE ORCHESTRA OF SWEET REGRET MY FUCKING ASS. YEAH, ONE MORE TORTURED FAILURE SONGWRITER ANGSTING ALL OVER THE PLACE IS GOING TO BRING 'EM HOME. YEH. YEH.

Well, at least I do more than that tosspot Bono. THAT fucking guy. Jesus Christ.

Although he did set some "painless" mouse traps in our attic last week when I had him over to TEACH HIM A FUCKING OPEN G CHORD. Guck.

so what THE FUCK ARE WE DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT AM I DOING? Look, people, we HAVE TO DO THINGS THAT RENDER US UNATTRACTIVE TO POLITE SOCIETY, MAN. We have to BE FUCKIN' BRAVE.

I'm going to go do SOME REAL DRUGS, MAN. Some BIG BOY DRUGS. Some WHITE drugs. Like they used to when MEN WERE MEN AND TH' PIGS WERE SCARED. Then I'm going to get myself ORGANIZIZED. And then...then...once I pay th' electric...and th' cable...and th' payment on th' flat screen...and...and....and....

YOU SEE? SEE HOW THE MAN GETS INTO THE FUCKING DRINKING WATER??? EH? EH?

I'M GETTING APPENDICITIS FROM THIS FUCKING SHIT. I'M GETTIN' A MITE PIQUED. A LI'L VEHRKLEMPT. Aaaah, I curse the FUCKING DAY I entered the world of Men. What a disillusionment.

It's so hard to be counterculture registered trademark anymore. God damn it. Unless you want to move some fine GAP products. Dammit, now I'm crying. No, wait, that's just flopsweat. From th' white drugs. Ooooh...but they was good for a half hour. Now I have to sell my stereo for more. Wait, people don't even have stereos anymore.

PEOPLE DON'T HAVE STEREOS ANYMORE!!!! WHO'S FUCKING AMERICA IS THIS? WHEN THE CRIMINY FUCKING CHRIST DID THIS HAPPEN?

AND OUR CHILDREN!! WHAT HAVE WE TOUGHT THEM???? DRUGS ARE BAD?? DRUGS AREN'T BAD, MAN!!!!! GUNS AND LIES AND OIL AND SHIT AND MONEY AND WALMART AND POLITICS AND CEO'S ARE BAD!!! COME ON!!!! You're going to tell me next to THAT FUCKING LITANY THAT DRUGS ARE BAD? I'M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THAT? Our little brownshirt children are BUYING IT. BUYING IT. Oh, God.

JESUS AM I TH' ONLY ONE WHO'S JUST FIT TO BUST A GUT!!!!!!!! GET UP OFF IT! GET UP! STAND UP! DON'T GIVE UP TH' FIGHT! IT WORKED BEFORE, MAN! BACK IN THE DAY! FIRE ONE UP FOR ABBIE! GOD DAMN IT!

DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN COUNT ME IN?

out?

What's that say, huh? Does it speak to your Quality as a Provider reg. tm.? Your Q.P. quotient?

Just means you're a good consumer times 4, baby. That's what it means. You roll the dice and you flip the coin just like the rest of us, every day pissing a little more ozone layer away, baby. Off th' grid with the lot of us, daddy. Toot Polesmokin' Sweet, baby.

Can't even feed a family anymore without signing on the fucking dotted line, man. How's that sink in, Mr. Casual Friday? How's THAT shit working for you? I know this guy in god damn Holyoke who has 11 aunts and uncles and is working class. Can you imagine trying to have a fuckin' brood like that now? Guh---uh---uh. You'd have to be that pussy metrosexual hair-gel devouring human monument of greed and avarice Richard Branson to sink that many damn pucks.

See, what I'm trying to say here is that really the only way I can think to stab out at The Man is to be borderline motherfucking homeless. You ride the rails, you show up in towns and agitate. You take the fight to The Man. I guess that's O.K.

When you get that mysterious feeling that you -j-j-just can't get it UP to earn like a good little American Worker.

Ah, well. We all have our crosses to bear. Mine just needs paint a little more'n yours. Fuck it.

Fuckin' Bono. Jesus Christ. Pussy hairdresser metrosexual bitchass. I bet he listens to Th' Blackeyed Peas at home.

The Blackeyed Peas! Ha ha! That's what we have! We earned it! You get what you deserve, my dearies!

What you deserve!!!! Whatius Youius Deservicus, as Illiad would have said. The great prophet.

The Blackeyed Peas. The soundtrack of madness. My madness.