Blonde Acid Coupe

If you've ever been drunker than a hobo tramp in a head on car collision on the mass turnpike in the dead cold of a Nor' easter and had yer head thrown into the windshield of a mid 90s bmw then you've experienced the impact of Blonde Acid Cult. It's like a shotgun blast to the chest or shakin' the pickin' hand of Lightning Hopkins or getting on the good foot with Jimmy Brown. Go back in time, move to New Orleans and you might understand. BAC is the beat generation, the delta blues, the british invasion, the highs, the lowsthe hearts and souls of American dreams lost and forgotten but resurrected to grab you by the throat and shake you until the blues leaks from yer socks while yer feet begin to shake. You'll get yer rocks off like the 4th of July in a midnight sky. BAC is the big dipper. Count the stars and you'll never forget the synchronized notation of a million dead poets grabbing you by the balls until you realize there's war and corruption all around you and BAC will open yer eyes to the beauty that still exists from the Harlem streets to the Big Sur bluffs.

Drinkin' Chivas Regal in a $4 room

Walking With Jesus

The sun was setting on Sunset Blvd and I was enduring my first lonesome drive on the Los Angeles freeway. September 19th, Spiritualized was set to play a private gig hosted by myspace at The Echo. Doors were to open at 8pm. I parked the Volvo in a lot on Echo Park Blvd just passed the grand fountain and adjacent to a festive farmers market. I shuffled my bones down a couple blocks then marched to the end of 100 dedicated supporters (or freeloading myspace freaks) waiting on the overpass. The sun was fading fast. I prayed to the heavens I wouldn't have to stand in one spot, continuously reaching in my pack of reds, for the next two gruesome hours. Fifteen minutes went by and then came strolling the bouncers with bracelets for all those who were smart enough to be there early. I got my free bracelet and walked by The Pioneer Chicken Stand to nearest liquor store. Grabbed myself a tall-boy of Bud before I went back to the Volvo. Put on the Basement Tapes and tilted the seat back until my watch made a rotation. The Mexicans were packing up the fruits and veggies at the market. I stopped for a whizz behind a dumpster. It was 7:45. I decided to take the back alley road back to the bar. I'm feeling like a bolt of lightening and cool as a fox. I rounded the corner and the line was now doubled in size. Only the first half of the line had bracelets on. I was curious to see where the end of these fuckers would stand. It was much further than the bridge I was perched upon an hour and a half earlier. I walked until I saw the last blind fated schlep working circles around himself wondering if he'll get in. I knew he wouldn't. I lit a smoke then walked back towards the door where I found a hole near the front of the line. It was 8:10 when I broke the threshold of the Echo. The bar was dimmly illuminated. There were a few green fluorescent lights on the surrounding walls. I grabbed a brew and stepped out back to the patio (where I saw Ukelear Winter jingle out there old time jug band tunes the previous Sunday) for a smoke. Sir Spaceman didn't step on stage until around 3 or 4 brews later. The bar was filled but still at no comparison to the Hollywood Bowl gig they played with Nick Cave two nights prier. They opened with "Soul on Fire" and that mine was. After an hour and a half of classic tracks like "Cop Shoot Cop" and "Come Together" they spilled the spirits on the crowd with an outstanding performance of "Lord, Can You Hear Me." Good luck finding Spiritualized at a 170 capacity venue again. Mahalo.

(photos by: Jeremy Weiss)

Hitler Loved Watercolours

The man had a mind and a terrible signature. His left hand trembled. He had syphilis and skin lesions. He was also said to have a serious addiction to methamphetamines and urolagnia. Nonetheless, he had a twisted smartness but was an incredible artist. And I heard he took ballet as a child.

HOIST THAT RAG, BOYS!

I dropped in on Diego in a kerosene dream. We went watching the sunbeams highlight the passer-byes. The pacific is fine for an afternoon swim. Best waves I've seen since Johnny Typhoon tried to drown me in that old rusty pond behind the casino. No buildings here are stacked by layered bricks. It's never cold like penitentiary blizzards beneath those bending branches on that dark cracked summer road. Stone blind love, boys. The tomatoes aren't nearly as big and juicy like the ones Willy and I ate from Bluelite's hidden garden planted 100 yards down the back lawn - all summer long. Anyways, I always hated that fake shit, Nayonaise, he put on his big red beauties. Could just as well have used tapioca pudding from an elderly housing project.