I've seen a fair amount of shows, but if I was forced (by, say, writing a post on the topic) to pick a local band everyone owes it themselves to see, that band would be No-Fi Soul Rebellion.

A husband and wife team based out of Bellingham, No-Fi Soul Rebellion is a little bit rock and roll, a dollop of funk, a handful of punk, and just a dash of mellow to even things out. From their website:

No-Fi Soul Rebellion was conceived by Mark Heimer while living in Alaska in 2001. Frustrated by tension in the band he was in, Heimer decided to write and record music for his own band. He alleviated any and all middlemen by playing and recording every instrument (bass, guitar, drums, keyboards, and vocals) himself. Opting to go sans band for the performance front, Heimer now performs his music with his wife, Andrea Heimer. The Heimers maximize their performance aspects live, turning the lack of other band members to an advantageous situation. Andrea wields a few backing tracks housed in the Soul System and sings backup while Mark lets his thunderous spirit of performance loose on the audience with wild vocal performances, screaming bass solos and a fifty-foot mic cord that allows him to make contact with each audience member. The resulting chaos is fun, barrier breaking and sounds killer.

Let's parse this, shall we?

No-Fi Soul Rebellion is, for all intents and purposes, Mark Heimer. A genius in tight white pants, he writes, records, and performs every part of every No-Fi song. And the songs are catchy, low-slung funk bass lines and 4/4 time signatures, looping synth riffs, narrated by a voice probably better suited to shouting at a softball game than holding a melody. It's an usual mixture, but in amalgamation, magic.

(...)

I'm shamelessly trying to drive up traffic at my Seattle P.I. music blog. Read the rest of this post there.

It was only yesterday that I received this call from my girlfriend:

Her: Hello!
Me: Howdy.
Her: What are you doing on October 13th?
Me: Nothing. Why? What am I doing on the 13th?
Her: How do you feel about Bob Dylan?

There's a thousand answers to that question. Here are a few: he's a grumpy munchkin with an old man's mustache, but still hipper than Jack White; he's the greatest song-writer of my and my parent's generation, and easily outclasses most of what passes for pop, folk, and rock music these days; he's written a lot of chaff that ekes by on Dylan's personality; he's a charlatan, a liar; he's a storyteller extroardinare; his show is often barely worth seeing; he's a great live act; he's going to die soon; Bob Dylan is timeless.

But what my girlfriend was actually asking though was this: How would you like to see Bob Dylan?

And to that, there is only one answer: Yes.

(...)

I'm shamelessly trying to drive up traffic at Blue Notes & Upcoming Shows, my new Seattle P.I. sponsored blog, so if you'd like to read the rest of this entry, please click here.

This was recently emailed to S.U. Irving, ESQ. of Pomohobo:

For those who don't know, I'm an honorary member of Pomohobo, as are a number of my friends, some of whom don't play instruments. There's only one song up on Pomohobo's page right now, and it's a spoken word monologue that takes its inspiration from Van Gogh's Starry Night.

How in the world this qualifies Pomohobo for a show, I've no idea. But I'm quite happy about it.

In other musical news, I mentioned yesterday that I'll be blogging for the P.I.  This is 100% true. Here is the link: Blue Notes & Upcoming Shows.

If you know of a band I should write about let me know. I've got a kitty pool going already, but I'm always open to suggestions.

Finally, I do have a thing about Racial Profiling, but it's not done. What are you going to do? I'll post it before the week is out, of that I'm sure.

XO,
- T

If you could watch any movie on the big screen right at this moment, what would it be?

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. A fact which brings me no small amount of annoyance as my local theater just did midnight showings of ALL the Indiana Jones movies and I missed every single one of them. I feel ashamed.

But damn, how cool would it be to watch Sean Connery and Harrison Ford at the top of their collective games?

My only problem with this video is that I wish he hadn't layered his voice during the explanation. Music theory is interesting, damn it. Other than that, you should check this out, post-haste.

What's your favorite song to sing karaoke-style?  If you don't have one, why not?

I don't really like karaoke--something to do with my debilitating fear of being in front of people singing, probably--but when I do, there's only one song to get me through.

You Never Even Call Me By My Name
as performed by David Allen Coe
Written by Steve Goodman

It was all that I could do to keep from cryin'

Sometimes it seems so useless to remain
You don't have to call me darlin', darlin'
You never even call me by my name.

You don't have to call me Waylon Jennings
And you don't have to call me Charlie Pride.
You don't have to call me Merle Haggard, anymore.
Even though your on my fightin' side.

CHORUS
And I'll hang around as long as you will let me
And I never minded standin' in the rain.
You don't have to call me darlin', darlin'
You never even call me by my name.

I've heard my name a few times in your phone book
I've seen it on signs where I've laid
But the only time I know, I'll hear David Allan Coe
Is when Jesus has his final judgement day.

CHORUS...

Spoken word breakdown:

Well, a friend of mine named Steve Goodman wrote that song
and he told me it was the perfect country and western song
I wrote him back a letter and told him it was NOT the perfect
country and western song because he hadn't said anything about
Momma, or trains, or trucks, or prison, or gettin' drunk.
Well, he sat down and wrote another verse to the song and he sent
it to me and after reading it, I realized that my friend had written
the perfect country and western song. And I felt obliged to include it
on this album. The last verse goes like this here:

Well, I was drunk the day my Mom got outta prison.
And I went to pick her up in the rain.
But, before I could get to the station in my pickup truck
She got runned over by a damned old train.

CHORUS:

So I'll hang around as long as you will let me
And I never minded standin' in the rain. No,
You don't have to call me darlin', darlin'
You never even call me, I wonder why you don't call me
Why don't you ever call me by my name.

It's heartache on a cracker, this song.

What is your favorite way to relieve stress?

I hunt children with a bow and arrow.

So I disappeared down the rabbit hole of reality for a while. I could pin the blame on life, responsibilities, low energy, but that would be skirting the issue. The real reason I was gone for three and a half weeks is this guy, and even more specifically this post:

Earlier in the delightful afternoon, a challenge was issued to me in a rather bold way.    

A "friend" of mine, who for the purpose of this account we will call T. Lynn, no, no, that's too simple, we'll call him Tyson L., anyway, this guy did some downright dusty shit!    

He began our conversation by insulting my mother's virtue, via means of comments that I found to be quite lewd. As anyone who is acquainted with me knows, I am very easily offended: and this anus exploited that. Now look at that, I'm sinking to his level!    

After the preliminary taunting, he began engaging me in conversation about the occult, and that's where I drew the line. He would later teach me that it was not one line, but actually a series of lines that form the pentagram (but that's a story for another day). By this point, I had had enough, so I hit him where it hurts!    

He's always bragging about his "precious English degree", flaunting it like it was the last piece of cake at fat camp. So I says to him, I says, "Hey Tyson L., why comes yous gotta write those blogs alls the time? Pappy Jee! Yous writes those things every day!"    

Tyson L. then, in a daring move, offered a shocking rebuttal. "Yeah, well you hardly ever write any!" Chilling, absolutely chilling.    

So I says to him, I says, "Why yous gotta bust beans alls the time?" You can imagine where the conversation went from there. I allow you a second or two...    

.....Okay.....So, ready yet?     To make a long story as long as I damn well feel it should be, Tyson L. challenged me to write more blogs. So here I am. Booyah! In yo mouf!

....I'm sorry, that last part was uncalled for.

Actually, it was my first time being called out on the internet. I didn't know how to feel when I first read it. Bemused? Besmirched? Bespectacled? I mean, I had my contacts in, but it still counts, right? As I continued to ponder the myriad meanings of the post by that little man, I slipped deeper and deeper inside my head, my countenance grew slack, and my eyes--O my eyes--deadened to the world.

This is what some call a vision quest, but what I call a really horrible movie about wrestling.

Speaking of movies, I'm totally devoted to netflix. Wholly. I am a netflixian. Or netflixer. Or nubian. Something like that anyway. There are 500 movies in my queue as of this writing. I wasn't even aware that I knew of 500 movies I wanted to see. The beauty of the Netflix set-up is that you put a movie in the queue and they recommend another 20 you might enjoy.

Why yes, I'd love to get that and that and--Oh!--I haven't seen that in ages, and before you know it you're wearing a cardigan, eating a granola bar, sweaty, frantically clicking on little pictures of movies. It doesn't matter how many movies are in your queue, you'll still only pay $15. It's like shopping, but better.

"Oh, I see you want to watch 500 movies. Is that right?"
"Why yes, yes it is."
"Do you have room for 500 movies in your house right now?"
"Uhm, no. Not really. Well, I mean, Sally wants a dog, so we've got space, but I don't think she'd be happy if I fashioned a dog statue from DVD cases or anything."
"Well, then, howabout we just send you a couple at a time then?"
"Can you do that?"
"Can we! We'd be happy to, and then later, once you're done watching them, you can just send them back to us and we'll hold on to them for you."
"That's right neighborly of you."
"It's what we do."

Whomever invented Netflix deserves a medal, or money, or a big sloppy hug from a stripper. The kind where somebody's finger slips and you both smile. You know what I'm talking about. Anyway, lately, I've seen The Squid & The Whale and Strings.

Written and directed by Noah Baumbach, The Squid & The Whale provides a semi-autobiographical account of divorce in the '80s. The script is honest and understated, yet somehow manages to be both slyly hilarious and almost embarrassingly visceral. I liked it, but will probably only grow to love it once I become comfortable with the fact that ugliness is a great part of beauty.

The soundtrack, however, is amazing. If you love Wes Anderson's tastes, I can recommend it to you without hesitation; if downtempo songs done acoustically don't move you, you might do better elsewhere.

Strings is a whole 'nother ball of wax. Here's the synopsis:

The Emperor of Hebalon dies a dramatic death, taking a terrible legacy with him to the grave; for it is widely feared that the Zeriths, the Hebalonians arch-enemies, have fanned new heat into the embers of the murderous enmity that has existed between the two nations from time immemorial.

Martial Law is declared, and the heavy gates in the city of Hebalon are locked firm. No outsider can gain entrance.The Emperors young and untried son, Hal Tara, who is now the heir apparent to the throne, is charged with avenging his fathers death. Disguised as a common slave, he leaves the protective confines of the palace, and, armed with his fathers sword, fares forth to seek out the implacable Zeriths. A warrior is about to come of age.

But Hal is unaware that his kingdom is threatened from within, where traitorous and malevolent elements are planning to overthrow him; nor is he aware that he has abandoned his court and his beloved sister to a cruel and perilous fate behind the citys iron-clad gates.

Hal manages to gain access to the Zerith camp, but he is no longer so sure who is friend, and who is foe. As Hal gradually starts to come of age as a warrior, he falls deeply and passionately in love a love which proves to be as blind and unreasoning as hatred itself. It will take a moment of revelation before he is finally able to distinguish between his true friends and his true enemies.

How are babies made? Well, you'd have to carve it first, wouldn't you? What if you lose a hand? Just take a captured slave, knock out the hinge pin, take his hand and attach it to you. Simple. Hell, the gates are nothing more than a bar across the top of the wall, because it stops the strings. It's ridiculously well thought out, and frequently captivating.

Captivating is a phrase often used with Chan Marshall, also known as Cat Power. Other descriptors commonly associated with the mighty feline are eccentric, flaky, and crazy. Shows consisting of her breaking down and storming off-stage are so commonplace that you run even odds on not actually seeing her when you buy a ticket.

So I bought a ticket. Two, actually, for Ms. Marshall's late show at Neumos. Doors at 9:30. An hour and forty-five minutes later a solo Chan finally hit the stage. If you've never been to Neumos, you have no idea how hot it can get. You could bake things in there, if you were so inclined.

Cat Power @ Neumos

The people behind us are making bread when Chan asks us all to sit. "You're going to have to squeeze in. Make room for everyone," says she.

We do, but it's about as comfortable as a rape kit given by Capt. Hook. Some dude's feet are wedged beneath my ass, another man is leaning against my knees, I'm sweating like a midget stuck in a dryer on tumble dry, and all the while Chan is singing what I guess you'd call medleys--infrequently modified strumming accompanied by Marshall's voice, nice and pure, singing as many songs as she can remember in the same key.

When I went to see Bob Dylan last year, I had trouble figuring out the songs he was singing. Why? Well, first (and most obviously) Dylan was never a singer and his age hasn't improved his abilities much. Second, he was doing all of his songs in this ridiculously grating bar-band honky-tonk style that cooked the personality straight out. They all sounded the same.

Cat Power is the same way. The songs are often built on a I/IV change that repeats ad nauseum until the song is over. Don't get me wrong. Chan can sing. Lordy, can she, but it often feels like you could randomly pick any song, any key, and she would muscle through. Half the time it feels like that's what she's actually doing.

And that's why I'm glad Bumbershoot is this weekend. You know why? Feist. Feist will be there, and I'm so excited I could break a branch with my O-ring. That's probably too much information, but it's true. Last time I saw her, she had someone come up on stage and do a tap solo. A TAP SOLO. And it worked.

By the way, if you'll be at Bumbershoot this weekend, give me a shout. I've got press credentials and a photo pass; I'm going to be EVERYWHERE.

XO,
- Tyson

Also available here.

When we last saw our intrepid reporter--me--he had just pulled back on the yoke of the Cessna 172 and taken to the sky. I am on an introductory flight lesson; we have already covered the plane in theory, now we're putting it through its paces.

I am flying with Regal Air, a flight school out of Paine Field in Everett. My instructor is Matthew Jolley. A long-time lover of flying, Jolley maintains a steady roster of students and often compliments his teaching with charter flying. He is calm and easy-going, the perfect combination for instilling confidence in his students, or in this case, me.

In the email detailing my flight lesson, I'm told that I may receive a call to reschedule if the weather is at all questionable. As a student pilot, I am not allowed to fly if I can't see where I'm going; only pilots with an instrument rating--i.e. the ability to read and understand all the dials in the airplane's dash--can take to the skies during inclement weather. Luckily, I awoke to an azure sky, cloudless in all directions. A perfect day to learn to fly.

Now we are heading West, traveling at 3,000 feet over islands and inlets, towards the ocean and quickly away from the runway that sent us into the air.

The headphones we wear are tight and relatively sound-proof; the lack of noise makes the experience even more wondrous, stripping the mechanical elements away and leaving only the elated feeling of flight. Jolley's voice crackles in my ear.

"Make a medium-grade bank here, and head towards Mt. Baker," Jolley instructs me. We check over, under, and around the plane for possible obstacles--following visual flight rules--and seeing none, I initiate the turn. The plane shifts easily into its new heading, and I feel like I might have what it takes to be a pilot.

Of course, getting one's license is hardly as easy as making banking turns. In addition to all the other requisite skills--taking off and landing, for instance--students must also complete at least 40 hours flying time, with at least 10 of those done solo.

Prospective pilots must also pass a physical, an FAA knowledge test, and a 90 minute flight test. Then, and only then, will you be issued a license.

In case you were curious, the FAA does issue plastic licenses similar to the ones you receive at the D.O.V. Currently, they are multi-colored, understated, with the pilot's information and rating printed over a picture of the Wright Brothers.

When flying, the pilot is required to carry his license along with the plane's title and certification of airworthiness. Should a pilot get ramp-checked, the FAA's version of a police pullover, penalties could be enforced if they weren't carrying their papers, much like you would if you were caught driving without your license, insurance, or title.

"We've only had that happen once here at Paine Field and the pilot asked for it," says Jolley. "Our resident FAA inspector was explaining ramp checks, and this gentleman wanted to know how likely it was to occur. The inspector asked if he'd like to be ramp-checked, and he did, so they went out and did it. It really only comes up if you're behaving strangely, recklessly, or illegally."

We are behaving like none of these things. I follow Jolley's instructions, completing another set of turns back towards Paine Field. Jolley thankfully takes over this part of our flight, explaining his actions as we continue to descend, steadily losing both speed and altitude.

Finally we land, none the worse for wear, and once again, I weave us back and forth across the center lane, the toe brakes still a mystery, as we return to our parking spot. The plane is secured, and my first flight lesson comes to a close.

It was an amazing experience, one I would recommend to anyone without reservation. Should you want to continue on after the introductory lesson, you can earn a Private pilot license with as few as $3,000 in costs and 40 hours of training and practice flying. Even a more typical 50-70 hours in the air can cost as little as $4,000 - $7,000 depending on your needs and the school you attend.

Better still is that a Private Pilot certificate is good for life and purchasing an airplane is optional. More than half of all pilots rent planes, for as little as $89 per hour including fuel.

What you do after you earn your license is up to you; you can make local sightseeing flights or learn to fly aerobatics for competition or even work your way up the licensing ladder until you're qualified to fly commercial commuter jets.

Your choices are as open as the skies. Come fly them anytime.

...

If you'd like to learn to how to fly, or just want to know more about becoming a pilot, then visit the Project Pilot website at www.projectpilot.org or visit Regal Air's website at www.regalair.com