gmezzy

Interview

How do you know Chris Earley?

How many MP3s do you have on your hard drive?

Write-Ups by gmezzy

For anyone who isn’t involved in music, hasn’t played in a band before, or hasn’t thought about the specific, varying aspects of music, there are certain beats and a certain way of playing them that leads to what I like to call “The Undeniable Beat”. This is a bass line or drum beat or overall groove that is constructed and executed in such a way as to make the listener feel compelled to dance, move, or at least, tap his foot or bob his head. Everyone has experienced this phenomenon in some way or another. Whether it be sitting in a bar, bored and half-asleep, when that magic jam materializes, and you are forced to grab your friends and hit the dance floor, or whether it be when you are driving to work and a particular drum break appears that makes you drive just a little bit faster, a little bit more competitively, the life-altering power of music is best felt and experienced, as it is impossible to truly define or explain.

(more…)

Music is not a competition. It is a delicate bird you must set free and claim no ownership over. It is a fickle mistress, who will present the world through a looking glass one minute, then taunt your advances and haunt your dreams the next. It can never be truly possessed, bought, or sold. All of its forms and permutations are equal in their right to exist, as they all spring from minds yearning to be lifted above and beyond this corporeal cage.

Having said that, Klaus Nomi’s music kicks everyone else’s music’s asses. He’s the emperor, while all others are plebes. He’s the captain, and we’re all passengers. Forget Bruce. Klaus is The Boss. He is King Shit Of Fuck Mountain.

Now, this is exaggeration, of course. In fact, his albums come across as terribly uneven. But the man was in a category all his own. Find me another opera-trained singing alien making synth-laden, New Wave reinterpretations of classic material best heard while dancing on a UFO. Find me another person who makes David Bowie say upon meeting him, “This guy is so fuckin’ weird. I’m going to have to nick part of his sound and have him perform with me.” Here’s the proof:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=y13rnq_oZp0

Now, Klaus’s life was terribly short and terribly sad. I won’t get into it here; that’s why we have wikipedia. Just know that this is another example of a beautiful person you’ve probably never heard of creating music you’ve probably never listened to who died alone before the public or anyone else had a chance to hear him. We all know and love people who are amazingly funny, talented, warm, clever, brilliant, and charismatic. As Peter Prato might say, “I love my friends!” Yet how frustrating that you and only a handful of people know, too? How terrible is it if they die prematurely, and you realize few ever got to taste their greatness? To have their memory fade is sad, but to be completely unaware of their existence is despair-inducing. How many countless others are there, long gone with a body of work we’ll never hear? Well, for our little community here, it’s Klaus’s turn and even if you never listen to him again, he’s now a part of your memory.

Klaus Nomi

-gmezzy

So, sometimes you’re drunk in an unfamiliar bar with some familiar friends and strangers, and you find yourself promising things to people that you wouldn’t promise a dying man had you been sober. But luckily, you forget all about it the next day, as that part of your mind has been wiped clean by the seemingly magical powers of alcohol, and you go about your day as if nothing ever happened, because that’s what your self-esteem and lack of time require. Imagine if there was some sort of mafioso angel hovering over you with a tire iron ready to crack you in the knees if you didn’t follow up on your promise! Who could take that?

But then, you’re in a record shop, because some sweet soul gave you $50 in gift certificates, and your life feels light and boundless. Then, as you’re thumbing through a bin of unalphabetized LPs, past Switched-On Bach and Richard Ashcroft’s solo records, you come across the Suicide Commandos, and the opening scene of the night before begins.
“You ever heard of The Suicide Commandos? Aw, man, they’re supposed to be one of the greatest bands from Minneapolis or anywhere else for that matter. They’re a guarded secret. I haven’t even heard them, as you can’t buy a CD anywhere. ”

And then you’re following this memory, past the time spent arguing with 5 other people about who the largest Native American tribe is (It’s the Cherokee), past the discussion about famous people from Minnesota (Who knew there were more besides Prince and Paul Westerberg?), right to the part where you said you would post on your friend’s website everyday until the end of the year. Shit. Well, I now have a few new records, a new favorite band, and the least I could do is tell you about them, like how my pal did for me. This ain’t even my favorite song, but it’s on right now. Please to enjoy: The Suicide Commandos.

-gmezzy

For whatever reason (and like most people), I tend to be flooded with spam. Those tricky bastards are inventing new ways daily to get past our e-mail providers’ filters. One way they’ve found is to write sentence fragments to give the spam the appearance of being a legitimate e-mail. Some people choose to immediately delete their spam, seeing it for what it is: an attack on their free time & money. Lately, however, I’ve been mining for comedic & literary treasure within this unlikely medium. I blame this habit on the fact I have some time, a love of proper grammar, and a habit of forcing meaning into the insignificant. This is the first installment of spam poetry.

From a spam e-mail entitled “Re: new lebod”

Diggin that thing for months now.

How sweet of you to ask!

I wasn’t, because I wasn’t there.

Soon, I ordered her not to reveal her presence to Iron John.

Had to shout the last words to live.

A glowing outline revealed that there was a metal door.

Your temporooter, a device that has been constructed for burrowing an interesting green color.

“Go to work, now. Do what you’re told, selling something that is nothing to our beautiful world.”

The soldiers crowded close, hanging on kind to me.

Mata shook her head in wonder. You are, indeed, most perspicacious.

“In reference to time, could you ever believe that you would learn this slow?”

This is your chance to be cleansed for I have shown you the true Way.

I had little choice, but to go along with him.

I moved centuries ago. There is no more war.

You are…

“21st Century Man”

-Andrew Gomez

So, I’ve spent the last two hours on this gray Sunday afternoon rolling doobies and listening to “A Line You Can Cross” by the NYC art collective Lansing-Dreiden. Now, I haven’t been smoking these doobies, just rolling them, but I’m not going to pretend that what I’ve been doing has been cathartic or meditative, as people often do when they’re involved in a repetitive act. You’ve heard it before, as in, “Me? Oh, nothing much. I’ve just been alphabetizing my CD collection. No, it’s not boring at all. Actually, it’s kind of like a form of meditation.” Ugh.

No, I’ve been listening to the same song and performing the same act, because it’s all the stimulation I can take in this post-St. Patrick’s Day world, but it’s important (for the purposes of this post) to note that I’m not hungover, and I’m certainly not depressed. This is just one of those days when your spidey senses tell you to stay in, lay low, and don’t rock the boat. If I actually ever read my horoscope, I’m sure today’s would be, “Today is a shit day to start a new project. Go back to bed,” but I rolled out of bed at the confusing time of 3:30pm, so here I am, taking a break from rolling joints to write about rolling joints.

When rolling a fine marijuana cigarette, it is imperative to include a crutch. For the uninitiated, a crutch is a tightly rolled piece of cardboard inserted into either side of the joint. This simple device turns an activity typically thought of as the vice of hippies and deadbeats into a regal pleasure reserved for the connoisseur. A joint sans crutch is a vulgar, ugly thing, which will invariably become a wet, resinated piece of smoldering filth. The smoker(s) will view it and immediately feel a pang of guilt for engaging in such a debased habit, and rightly so. I imagine it to be similar to what a binge eater must feel when looking at the empty ice cream cartons, the crumpled bags of potato chips, and the half-eaten turkey carcass littering the kitchen table. Once the immediate gratification has subsided, the poor soul is left alone with the stark evidence of his addiction. Also, there is always a look of confusion in the roach-holder’s eyes. “Should I throw this away? Should I save it to smoke later in a pinch. I know that’s a bit fiendish, but still…” Please, avoid this scenario altogether and include crutches in your joints. When a be-crutched joint is finished, the smoker knows by the faint taste of paper and can dispose of the lightly-browned remnants with no confusion, fear, or shame. He has just enjoyed one of life’s simple pleasures and can relax, safe in the knowledge that the extra two minutes he spent crafting his marijuana cigarette has given him an air of sophistication no other method can create. One wouldn’t drink a fine Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion 1996 in a styrofoam cup, so roll your doobies with pride and include crutches.

Remember, it’s this:

classy

Not this: bad smoker

Brought to you by the American Council For Joint Health

Dear Parking Enforcement Officer,

Come over here and sit down. Let’s have a chat. I appreciate the fact that you bring additional revenue to San Francisco, this fine city I call home. I also undertand that you probably get a lot of shit while you work, when you’re just trying to make a living, much like the banana slug is just trying to chew up leaves and animal droppings to recycle into the soil. What I’m saying is: I recognize you both serve a purpose in a functioning society/ecosystem. No matter if you both bleed purple blood that beats from your black hearts (Yes, slugs have hearts.); no matter if I find you grotesque mollusks intent on besmirching the beauty of nature; you are as integral to the survival of our ecosystem as water or air. But, if I’m parked on a street that is completely level for two blocks in either direction, you may not give me a ticket for not curbing my wheels. An earthquake can pick me up and toss me 50 feet, and I still wouldn’t roll anywhere. Don’t be a dick. This city ain’t that hilly, ya fucker. Now, get out of my sight.

-Andrew Gomez

I am Larry David.

On New Year’s Eve, after a Cons (my band) show, a friend of a friend came up to say goodbye, and that she enjoyed the show. I gave her my winning smile, a “thanks, see you again”, and a friendly pat on the shoulder. Problem was I missed her shoulder, and ended up slapping her breast, instead. What do you say after you accidentally spank a stranger’s tit? This is rhetorical. There is nothing you can say or do, because you will now be viewed as a klutz, a pervert, a lout, or worse, all three. Just disappear and hurtle yourself towards the next embarrassing moment in your life.

“You’re just a big bowl of wrong.” —Jeff Garlin

-Andrew Gomez

At Zeitgeist last night, I overheard, ok, eavesdropped two young adults talking about Alzheimer’s Disease. It was a gripping tearjerker of a story about one of these people’s friend’s grandfather’s gradual decline into dementia. I felt really bad for this girl’s friend’s grandfather and was beginning to wish I hadn’t eavesdropped at all. That is, of course, until I really started listening to how she was pronouncing Alzheimer’s. She was saying “Old Timer’s”. I shit you not. It took the power of all the gods just to smother my fits of laughter into silent convulsions. Thank you, random girl, for taking a sad story and turning it into the most hilarious thing I’ve heard all year. Well, it is only January.

-Andrew Gomez

Perfect Song(Hot + Laughs) x Whiskey = Make Out

I am presently working on an equation that could rival Einstein’s
Theory Of Relativity. I guess you can call it Gomez’s Theory On
Getting It On. Am I missing something? And, if you say flowers or a
barrage of desperate phone calls, you have obviously never gotten it
on.

-Andrew Gomez

I awoke with the words “I love you” ringing in my ears. It was as if a record player was playing this in an endless loop, and I could even hear a worn-out needle digging into the vinyl behind the androgynous, semi-robotic voice. I wondered what I had been dreaming about, and whether this might have serious implications regarding my life or at least the rest of my day. I can sometimes over think mundane events, as if they might hold some insight into the larger frame of my life, and when it comes to dreams, I tend to think of them as either A. our brains taking a shit after a long day of constant thought, hence the meaningless jumble of oddly familiar images & sounds, or B. a formless, non-linear episode unifying our body, mind, and spirit, which can reveal the essential truths about our own experiences. It’s always a toss-up as to whether the cynic or the endlessly pontificating hippie will show up to analyze an event.Anyway, I didn’t have much time to ponder all the implications, as I had something to do. What it was I couldn’t quite remember, but it made me anxious and started to gnaw at me. Questions leapt from my troubled mind, and I spoke them aloud, but they disappeared and new queries arose before the preceding ones could even be fully comprehended, let alone answered. Do I have to be at work? What day is it? Am I late for school? I’m not even in school anymore, am I? Who’s gonna be pissed off if I don’t show up? Is “this house sad, because he’s not inside?”

What the fuck does that mean? What do these syllables I’m uttering mean? Mean. Meeeeeeeeeean. Muh-muh-muh-muh-mean. What a strange word. I began to feel a curious weight in my neck spread out over my brain, and I wanted to give my neck a crack to release the strain. “Where does he hide when someone comes?”

I had to get out of my apartment and fast. I ran for my door, knocked over my ashtray, spilled a glass of water on the ground, and elbowed some books and DVDs off of a nearby table. My hands and feet felt three times their normal size and must have been as more and more items found their way onto my floor. There goes a nail clipper, a pack of cigarettes (I don’t smoke, do I?), the remote control, my cell phone. It certainly wasn’t carelessness or excessive speed that led to my clumsiness, because I had the distinct feeling I was moving through water. After two and a half minutes of walking like a guy in one of those old-timey diving suits with the huge helmets attached to a tube, I traversed the 8 feet from my bed to my door. I swung the door open and was finally outside.

I regained my normal agility and started running to I’m not sure where. A driving mélange of bass drum and toms propelled me to a healthy pace, as I was keeping time with my feet. In my peripheral vision, I could tell the sky was rhythmically flashing reds, oranges, and purples in some sort of heavenly light show. A beautiful spectacle, indeed, but I remained unfazed. I saw an old woman crying, but ran right past her. Somehow, she managed to whisper into my ear, “There’s no one to say, ‘Meow’, kitties.” Meeeeeeow…. meeeeeeeow….. meeeeeeeow…. I turned around to ask her what the hell that meant, but she had her back to me. All I could see was the back of her loosely-knitted, floral cardigan, but it was clear she was petting something. I squatted next to her, certain she was not aware of me. The old woman was lightly stroking some azaleas, and cooing in a monotone, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

I awoke with the words “I love you” ringing in my ears. It was as if a record player was playing this in an endless loop, and I could even hear a worn-out needle digging into the vinyl behind the androgynous, semi-robotic voice. I wondered what I had been dreaming about, and whether this might have serious implications regarding my life or at least the rest of my day. I can sometimes over think mundane events, as if they might hold some insight into the larger frame of my life, and when it comes to dreams, I tend to think of them as either A. our brains taking a shit after a long day of constant thought, hence the meaningless jumble of oddly familiar images & sounds, or B. a formless, non-linear episode unifying our body, mind, and spirit, which can reveal the essential truths about our own experiences. It’s always a toss-up as to whether the cynic or the endlessly pontificating hippie will show up to analyze an event.

-Andrew Gomez

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