12:05 AM, January 1, 1967.
Lower Haight neighborhood, San Francisco, California.
The Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows” emanates from a dilapidated house on an otherwise quiet street. The house’s windows glow with soft orange light. Darkness bathes the front porch. A match flame pops into life and illuminates the face of a prostitute named Sunshine as she lights a cigarette while standing on the porch steps.
Sunshine takes a drag, arches her back against the railing and exhales languidly into the night air. She can see herself perfectly in her mind’s eye, the way the curves of her body silhouette against…
Dear Mr. Pickles,
Two months ago I figured out who you really are.
I’m not sure you even know who you really are, Mr. Pickles, but that’s okay, because I do.
I figured out what you’ve really been trying to tell me, as well. All those lessons about “keeping the tomatoes ripe” and “maintaining healthy soil”…I know now.
It’s the people with the backpacks, the ones who pass through town every summer. They aren’t what they appear to be, are they, Mr. Pickles?
I ask that playfully, because of course you already know the answer. …
Part 2 of the Ballad of JC Hibbing
Midday, June 05, 1967
Middle Earth Club, London, England
Except for the false eyes and teeth, it looks just like Naked Lunch novelist William S. Burroughs — no surprise considering the fact that Burroughs summoned the thing into our dimension in the first place. Daddy Burroughs: sire of the insectian demon-spawn that now hold a rather sizable stake in the war for reality, may his contributions to global consciousness be forever remembered.
To that old junkie’s credit, he did try to warn us. …
That night, after the auditions and the impromptu party that followed, the residents of the Sunset found that their trailers felt too cramped and cold for habitation. They filtered back outside, fired up grills or started fires in backyard pits, and got the thing going all over again.
Fireflies blinked in and out of the darkness while kids chased each other around and their parents sat playing cards or listening to music. …
Granville Automatic is one of the most unique music acts working today.
I don’t mean unique in that vapid, sensationalistic way that has become so common today that it’s not even unique anymore (face tattoos, sex tapes, shirts made out of bologna). I mean unique in a substantive, intellectually stimulating way. Unique with integrity and depth.
Granville’s songs dive deep into history to bring people’s stories to life with poetry and emotion. Not too long ago I interviewed them about their album Tiny Televisions, which tells tales of the history of Music Row in Nashville, Tennessee.
I’m the sort of…
Residents filled Grady’s yard in less than an hour. Some waited in line to try out for a role, others simply milled around, chattering or bragging about the parts they’d landed. Either nobody noticed that every single person passed the auditions, or else they chose not to say anything about it.
Jason and Wes carried glasses of lemonade and water around to keep people cool in the summer sun. They tried to look tough and indifferent whenever anyone remarked about what nice and thoughtful boys they were.
A buzz swept over the Sunset the next morning as news spread of the audition posters stapled to all the telephone poles. Clusters of people gathered in yards to trade gossip about the movie and about Grady’s cancer. No one had the guts to be first in line, however, until Patty Schuster and Nicky Coles, both fourteen and fearless, brazenly strode into the driveway and announced that they wanted roles.
“Great,” Doug said. He looked at the blank sheets of paper in his clipboard and tried to figure out…
Cruising the back-alleys of the slipstream via YouTube the other day, I happened upon a sparkling gem of ’60s psychedelia titled “The Days Grew Longer for Love.” How the song has eluded me until now is a testament to the persistence of my ignorance in the face of all efforts to hear every album made in that Golden Age and Golden Genre of rock music.
The talent of Adwella’s Dream is apparent from the song’s very first guitar strum. Sometimes, great musicianship comes through in the most minute gestures. Such is the case here.
There was a lot of junk…
I’m not in the Matrix. I AM the Matrix.