Purity of a Moment

Feeling it 8 feet high with a Telecaster in hand. *

The rarity of kissing someone new whilst completely sober at the time.

Having long hair solely for whipping around your face when driving 70mph screaming the chorus to "Spit It Out".

The breeze that bumps across a thousand heads as "House of Cards" is playing live in your presence for the first time at an outdoor venue. The air trickles from Radiohead to the potheads to your left, and you inhale this collective warm smile that doesn't require teeth, just no resistance.

Cinnamon whenever, wherever.

*Eastern Conference Champions


Currently listening :
Ameritown
By Eastern Conference Champions
Release date: 2007-07-17

Milk Dud

Ok, I'm up for anything most days, and today I read this blog http://chancingmyarm.blogspot.com/2008/09/ive-overdone-it-wee-bit-inrecent-times.html, which led me to this blog http://oyebilly.wordpress.com/2008/09/09/cleopatra-i-aint/ . So here is my contribution to the "bath of milk" photo chain. I used an organic carton of milk to scrub my pits in the tub. Glamorous and ecosmart...um, yeah. I threw in the second choice too, as you can't have a milk bath without a cat slinking around. I physically censored this by strategically placing myself in front of Scoob's naked body. My cat is a nudist, a freethinker, and he's a double major in mathematics and architecture. His favorite band is Radiohead and he's writing his thesis on the binary codes found within their songs. He smells good too.

Train in Brain August 7, 2008

"It's 4:00 a.m. I've got the Dr. Hfuhruhurr Ale
I've got nothing to lose so I'm pissin' on the third rail
Groggy eyed and fried I'm headed for the station
D-Train ride Coney Island vacation" Stop That Train - The Beastie Boys

It's strange what memories remain at whim to our instant recall. I often wonder what sparks the mental rolodex and why it can hang on so clearly to a snowy walk home, but yet block out a life changing conversation someone swears you had with them.

The weird shit that I've seen in the New York subway constantly frolics through my grey matter, no matter how long I've been away. It pirouettes through my thoughts at the oddest of moments. Two instances in particular.

The Broadway/Lafayette station in Manhattan has three levels, and a million stairs. Once you depart the train and go up one set of stairs, there is a platform where you can cross over to another track or more stairs to continue up to even more stairs (it takes approximately 5 hours to exit to street level if you're even remotely out of shape).

My ears were encapsulated in Radiohead's "OK Computer", when I bounced up to the semi-deserted platform after my jaunt on the D train. I can't recall why I was there that day, but I definitely remember my peepers zoning in on this man who could easily pass for Pavorotti.

Seeing Pavorotti in the subway, alone would make an interesting tale, but I hardly think it was him. This man was dressed exactly in his likeness though, and even had the Italian trench coat draped expensively over his shoulders, accented with a silky white scarf that probably cost more than everything I had on my person (including electronic apparatuses).

What stopped me in my tracks was what he was doing. He was "skooching", for lack of a better term, sideways across the platform, the way someone would sidle along a ledge of a high rise building before making veiled threats to leap to their demise. He was also sweating like a Republican congressman caught bare-backing a pierced up 14 year old boy behind a McDonalds.

Ironically, "No Surprises" had just entered my ears as I slowly moved past this gigantic panic attack that I so couldn't look away from. He was attached to some earphones as well, and when he reached the center of the platform, he just started bawling as if someone had whispered through them that Toby Keith was penning an all country music opera in German, and that Lincoln Center locked down a 2 year commitment to running it (assuming he liked opera - the mix of that and country definitely brings the idea of cochlear torture to a new disturbing level, not to mention the German aspect).

For some reason I can't forget this, but the last name of the 3rd guy I ever slept with is lost to the ether. (Does that make me a HO? F'excellent.)

The other event that lurks in my back catalog is when I was waiting for the 1 or the 6 at 72nd in the Upper West Side. I was going to rehearsal and had my guitar slung over my shoulder as I paced for what seemed like eternity (that's about 15 NY minutes) waiting for the train.

I'm not usually into hippy looking guys, but there was this one in a tie dyed shirt scoping me out, and he was kind of delish. He had shaggy blonde hair; kind of suntanned as it was summer, and a scarf tied around his head. He looked a bit like a Deadhead pirate from California, but with a great face (and a nice ass, I must say).

He circled around me twice and then went behind whatever those giant pillars are that keep the tunnel above your head (as opposed to crushing it to bits).

I looked away and then back as I saw him peer out from behind the pillar. He smiled, opening wide to bare some fangs at me! Seriously, he had fucking vampire teeth! Not fake waxy shit either; he had the real surgically implanted (or veneers?) bite-bites!

Now a pale Goth doing this at two in the morning in the East Village would not have shocked me (it's almost a pre-requisite on St. Marks), but a tan hippy vampire dude at 72nd hissing about around 5pm? That completely flabbergasted me.

Some other guy interrupted my wide-eyedness to ask me what kind of guitar I had, so I quickly answered and then glanced back but un-deadhead was gone, and I never saw him again (thankfully).

If this kind of yip yap flutters through my brain's waking moments, you can only imagine what I dream about.

I just hope that whatever flashes before my eyes in the seconds before I draw my last breath has absolutely nothing to do with the New York Transit system.

Watch, I'll be killed on the subway now, simply because I wrote it. THAT would be hilarious.


Currently listening :
Paul's Boutique
By Beastie Boys
Release date: 1989-07-19

Wow or Never July 28, 2008

"Empty prayer, empty mouths, combien reaction
Empty prayer, empty mouths, talk about the passion
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world" Talk About the Passion – REM

From Wikipedia:

Passion (from the Latin patior, meaning to suffer or to endure) is an emotion of feeling very strongly. Passion is an intense emotion compelling feeling, enthusiasm, or desire for anything and often requiring action. Passion often applies to lively or eager interest in or admiration for a proposal, cause, or activity or love.

Passion can be expressed as a feeling of unusual excitement, enthusiasm or compelling emotion towards a subject, idea, person, or object.

I've got passion on my mind lately; in the broader sense, and yes, in the sexual sense too.

You may take passion for granted, as I have done, when it's been just another part of who you are, but when it's missing, YIKES.

My passion for music surpasses any other that I could muster. From gated snares to the mere act of shaking my itty bitty badonkadonk (in some Asian countries I would be considered bootylicious, so we'll run with that) to the pulsating vibrations that start their seduction with a full audio massage.

Music is never boring; it's forever changing except in one pivotal area. It consistently provokes the full range of emotions like nothing else. For that reason alone, I remain faithful and duty bound in a way that I've not been able to do with anything or anyone.

I think what makes some music go beyond superior is the passion that is behind it. What you put out there is what you get back. If uncertainty is lingering in your work, you get uncertainty back. If balls to the walls are what you put in, well, you get pixel right?

At the Radiohead shows I've been party to witness, the exchange of passion between the audience and the band was the most exquisite "back and forth" imaginable. The more we were into it, the more they were too, which made us even MORE into it. Frankly, I'm shocked that we all didn't just burst into goo by the time they played "The Bends".

You can't fake passion. You can fake an orgasm (well some of us can), and you can feign interest in someone, but you cannot fake passion.You can't teach it either; it's either there or it's not.

Now sexually, you have to teach mechanics to some people, sometimes. In my early 20's I didn't have the patience for that. I thought if a guy didn't know what he was doing, then we just didn't have any chemistry, but in my later years, I've found that if you teach someone the ropes, they will tie them just how you like =)

Unfortunately, some people are mechanically set; they know where everything goes and don't do anything really wrong, but are indeed mechanical. You can teach them the entire Karma Sutra, but if they lack the enthusiasm, you'd be better off just playing Twister (there's less clean up afterwards).

Passion is all reciprocity. I can't get into it if someone is about as passionate for me as they would be a math exam. Now I'm not speaking of LOVE (whatever that is), as I can have passion with people that are everything I don't want in a friend, but do want to be friendly with. (Pheromones? It's not a crime.)

If I had to choose between the guy I was friends with that laid there like a sloth on ludes, or someone I barely know that would fiercely (not violently, but definitely SAFELY) shag me stupid, girlfriend is all about the stupid then. Given the choice, I would rather have one weekend with someone that reset my clock and crossed my eyes, than some stale ass relationship where the guy lacked more WOW than the "accepted terms of agreement" you never read when installing a new computer program.

WOW is a look in their eyes, like they'd absolutely lose their shit if their skin doesn't get to frolic all over yours. You can't summon it (especially if they're using you for something besides sex –money, connections, whatever), it's reactive. Some simply are devoid of WOW. I didn't even know people could be like that till, well… that's neither here nor there.

I realize that the novelty wears a bit thin and life happens, but I think we can possibly take our cue from music and learn to keep things at a level where you aren't just phoning it in after a while.

If we can keep songs forever entertaining and growing, maybe we can do that in every aspect of our lives.

Art is reflective of people that are reflective of art. Back and forth. Talk about the passion.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Yesterday, I had the grim task of making rounds with a funeral announcement for a lifelong friend who lost his battle with cancer this weekend. I don't remember not knowing Dennis, whose passion was his family and mountain bike racing. My association with him and his family made me a better person in ways they will never know.

Life is short.

If yours is lacking passion, it's time to get lit, man. Don't stay with people you can't get it up for. Don't lock yourself down out of obligation. Don't let rigidity or boredom consume you.

Bite life in the ass! If nothing else, you'll leave behind some interesting teeth marks.



Currently listening :
Murmur
By R.E.M.
Release date: 1992-08-06

Outsomnia June 25, 2008

"Up in my lonely room when I'm dreaming of you. Oh what can I do? I still need you, but I don't want you now." *

I can't f*ckin' sleep lately. Well, I can from like 7am-3pm, but I prefer the 4-noon shift. When I do sleep, the dreams are very annoying. It's bad enough that certain people have to taint your waking life, but when they chase you down into slumber land, oy, that blows.

My first night in New Mexico I dreamt of someone I so didn't want to, it's like my own subconscious despises me. Maybe I have an autoimmune brain, that might account for all the crazy (gotta blame something right?).

"When I'm down and my hands are tied, I cannot reach a pen for me to draw the line. From this pain I just can't disguise. It's gonna hurt but I'll have to say goodbye" *

I think it's harder to sleep when you don't like to be alone with your thoughts. Music, TV, books, and other people can be miraculous distractions from our worst enemy - ourselves.

"Up in my lonely room when I'm dreaming of you. Oh what can I do? I still need you, but I don't want you now." *

I can kill the lights and stranglehold my pillows, but the thoughts just keep ruminating, sticking a violent elbow into that divide between awake and out cold (or "out hot" for my reptilian readers - my fan base is about 20% lizards and 7% smiling gators).

Last night, the song quoted above (in addition to thoughts of barely legal, rocker boys) was bouncing around my grey matter for whatever reason, fueling my insomnia. The song's about 5 years old, but never loses its flavor with me. It blatantly rips off "My World is Empty without You" by the Supremes, but that doesn't piss me off for some reason. I have an exceptional ear for picking out who rips off what, but to my chagrin, it's not even a somewhat lucrative skill. Along with it, I also have some sort of Tourette's related problem causing me to tell people who they steal from, which is not always welcome information. It's bought me a few enemies, but some people surprisingly respect my awkward bullets of truth (my aim is rather low so it shouldn't hurt THAT bad).

"Two Ways Out" by Darker My Love rips off Supergrass' "Alright". My precious Radiohead has ripped off a few songs by The Hollies, Beethoven, and even something from the musical "Jesus Christ Superstar", (those thieving bastards!), but it's allowed. Monsieur McCartney certainly borrowed from Procol Harum when he wrote "Let it Be" (the chords in "Salad Days", which has the best line, "Your skin crawls up an octave"). The list of leeches could go on forever, or at least until you fall asleep.

Ok, back to the manorexic rocker boys in those tight fitting, low rise jeans…no rest for the wicked. =)


* Dreaming of You - The Coral



Currently listening :
The Coral
By The Coral
Release date: 2003-03-04

Dumb Tongue 5/14/08

I have a low tolerance for bullshit (an even lower one for dogshit, but horseshit is ok by me - interesting how Microsoft allows "horse" and "bull" to be connected to "shit" with no static, but "dogshit" brings up a red squiggle).

I'm the person that will call someone out on taking CUTS, and I'm definitely THAT snippy snip who tells you to shut the fuck up if you're yapping next to me at the movies (if your cell rings during a flick, I'll destroy it without blinking).
It's gotten my ass kicked a few times, no question, but I can't seem to help myself.

Once, I was driving with a friend to Orlando and between there and Tampa the exits are a bit creepy (a la "Deliverance"). We stopped at some gas station called "Skeeters" or some such name that most assuredly had "Bob's" as the suffix (Jim-Bob's, Joe-Bob's, or Bob-Bob's), and I went in to pay alone.

I got in line behind 3 little girls, who were next to buy candy behind some non-descript woman. Just as said woman was finishing her transaction, this gi-normous trucker came in and blatantly inserted himself right in front of the girls like they were invisible.

Out of reflex, I playfully blurted "Hey, no CUTS Cowboy!"

He turned around, looked at the girls, then me and smugly replied "I don't see nobody." (Let me note for visual and political purposes that the kids were black, I was about half way through my "Goth" phase at the time, and the trucker looked like someone that ceremonially licks confederate flags when whacking off.)

My 5'2 stature doesn't even intimidate a feral cat, let alone a 6'4, redneck racist, but somehow my mouth missed that judgment call, and I completely unleashed on that ass hole. Nothing gets my hackles up like racism, except sexism, but they usually go hand in hand (most racists are sexist and homophobes to boot, it's a package deal…check for details at your local Wal Mart).

I didn't want to make it about race in front of those kids, so instead, I called him a "dickless piece of shit that only feels like a man when demeaning females" hoping to give it a sexist angle. Not that sexism is any better than racism; no one likes to feel "less than" in any capacity, but at least if it was sexist, it didn't paint the girls as the sole targets of his sick rudeness.

"Dickless" seemed unfettered by my barbs, at least I thought so till he made for the door and casually slammed me down into a rack of genetically modified goods along his way. The force knocked me pretty hard, and when tailbone meets cement floor, it's so not a party. It's more akin to that funny bone pain (x 10) one gets that completely stuns you, momentarily seizing your breath. Being on the receiving end of a "back punch" has similar results. Anyone with siblings can attest to that.

I walked away with a bruised tailbone, some cuts, scrapes, heaps of disappointment, and a buttload of shock. I usually got away with shooting my mouth off. Not this time. You'd think being batted around a bit would deter me in future, but the Chihuahua in me that's unaware of size differences, is in full belief that verbally expelling at any injustice is standard protocol, despite the consequences.

Last week at the Radiohead concert (yeah I'm never gonna shut up about them, ever) the seats to my left were no-shows, till these drunken behemoths filled them half way through "15 Step". I was standing, happily glued to my binoculars when the WIDE one slammed into me, imposing himself right into my line of vision. I didn't even pull the binoculars from my eyes as I swiftly shoved him out of the way. A knee jerk reaction, and a mighty pissy one at that, but it was my seat, my band, and NOTHING was gonna knock me around without threats of a possible skull fracture that evening.

Luckily, he wasn't a total tool and he apologized for his clumsiness, of course, not till after I Satanically coughed and sneezed all over him (should be filling his script for Cipro about now, sinus infections apparently are contagious-oops).
I suggested that since he was bigger, he should get situated behind me as the rows were quite wide. Then he could flail around all he wanted. We switched places, and rainbows shot out of both of our asses in tandem. All was right with the world once again, sans bloodshed.

Odd how initially getting physical worked out better than the verbal. I guess next time someone takes CUTS, I'll punch them in the throat.

Wreckoner 5/8/08

(I would recommend reading my previous blog "It Wasn't Pablo's Honey" before this one, if you haven't already. Makes more sense that way.)

I went out last week, and I ran into this guy that asked me out a while ago. I did want to hang out with him, but not yet. Just wanted to be by myself for a bit, but I thought he was pretty cool. When I saw him this time, I told him I nearly didn't make it out because I was hawking eBay for some Radiohead tickets. He responded with a very flamboyant, dismissive "Oh please", as if I had just asked him to down a limburger shake.

(Buzzer sound) Thanks for playing; we do however have some nice parting gifts for you, mainly this middle finger.
You don't get me if you don't even try to GET me, ya got me? I can handle if you don't dig exactly what I dig musically, but you don't have to act like I just peed in your salad when I mention one of my favorite bands EVER. WTF?

The next day I scored on eBay (I think that's the only place I will ever score). Two pavilion tickets, center, "buy it now" $44.00. Discover card, cash back at the end of the year, do-able. I offered up one ticket on myspace, but NO ONE wanted to go. You're all fired! Nahhh, some of you already had tickets, that's fine. I put it up for $40 on Craigslist and sold it in minutes to some rugged looking English dude (I half imagined him showing up in a cricket uniform, but he disguised himself as a surfer instead).

So yeah, I paid a whopping $4, which ironically, is the most I've paid to see Radiohead. The previous 4 times, I merely had to shell out for my own transport, though this was also the furthest away I've ever had to sit too. Not nosebleed, but certainly nose pick. Actually, nose DRIP as the most horrendous head cold jumped me Sunday and as I write this, I'm still breathing out of my mouth like some Napoleon Dynamite Neanderthal.

If you read my last blog, you might be wondering if maybe I have some weird karmic connection with snot and Radiohead because it's becoming thematic. First, I get a goob hacked into my head, now I am drowning in goob. At least it's my goob, and I had tickets this time. Whatever, I didn't care if my skin was melting off into goob with maggots clinging to it, I was going!

It kind of sucked being a walking sneeze-fest in a situation where the guys outnumbered the girls about 15 to 1, and most of the other chicks there were with their boyfriends. It was me in a sea of males who all liked Radiohead enough to forgo a paycheck to get tickets, and there I was with a redwood's worth of Kleenex, looking like someone took a cheese grater to the skin between my upper lip and nose. Charming.

I would venture to guess that I was the only one who was sober in my section, so that in itself was entertaining. I was pretty hopped up on cold medicine and Captain Crunch, but I still felt like a zombie. Maybe I got a contact high from the forest fire ablaze behind me, ah…memories.

I, of course, brought binoculars and some assface was all "what do you need those for? You can see them on the giant screens." Yes assface, you can see them on the giant screens, but you can't tell what kind of amp they're plugged into or if they're playing a Strat, a Telly, or a Rick, ASSFACE! This shit matters, one must see the holy tools that transmute the precious sounds from fingers to ears! Assface! (One too many? Seems like you can never overdo "assface", maybe it's just me.)

Regardless, every word, every note…I'm hard pressed for a description of the performance I witnessed because the words don't carry the strength needed for such a feat. The breeze that rippled across a couple thousand people in love with the same song would be easier to pen.

"You had to be there" isn't an overused expression for nothing. To say it was "INSPIRING" seems diminutive and stale compared to the reality of something that moving. Even though I felt like a physical disaster, I never wanted it to end.
After 24 magnificient pieces, it did end, and I figured I'd wait a while, write a few lines as everyone else floated away (you don't walk away from Radiohead, it's in their rider - you either float or glide, your choice). Plus I was parked in Lot Buttfuck, and I really didn't want to be doing the bumper to bumper whilst driving a stick.

I struck up a chat with another straggler in my section, but we were both so WOWED that words seemed like they were in the way of any real conversation.

We were glowing. =)

It Wasn’t Pablo’s Honey 4/29/08

One week from tomorrow (May 6), Radiohead will be gracing Tampa with a concert, and I don't have a ticket. =( I guess I got an attack of the "schmucks" when they went on sale, thinking like I was back in NYC where the formal buying of such commodities was next to impossible. Even if you camped out and were 3rd in line with your cell phone speed dialing Ticketmaster, in Manhattan, this means nothing.

"Sold Out" only sounds good when it's your gig; otherwise it's a car door slamming on an already cold hand.

When I first moved to New York, Radiohead was touring, but raising John Lennon from the dead for a square dance would have been more feasible than getting tickets to see them. I even went to ask Satan in Newark (if there is a Devil, he for sure lives in Newark, New Jersey) for a possible selling of the soul, but he was all "Sorry bitch, even if you had one of them soul thingy's, ain't NOBODY gettin' no Radiohead tickets up in here". (This evening, the voice of Satan is brought to you by Ru Paul, the only girl I'd kiss with tongue, and even then…)

I went down to the venue the night of the show anyways, in hopes that someone maybe got jilted, stuck with extras, or maybe I'd just kill a scalper and take what he had on him. Alas, there was nothing.

I felt so dejected, I usually am pretty resourceful and I really love Radiohead, but maybe I was never going to get to see them LIVE? My head sunk right down to my belly button and just rested there on my belt buckle as I reluctantly drowned in Lake Give Up. It's in Midtown on the West Side, if you're ever in the neighborhood.

I can't recall who all was with me, but I remember leading the pack when we finally decided to bail. I walk fast, and on this night I was doing that bitchy, impatient, "everyone get the fuck out of my way" stomp one does when disappointment so nonchalantly pisses on them.

On approaching the crosswalk, there was a cluster of people facing away from the street. Traffic was light so I stepped off the curb early to get around them. At the precise moment my boot heel kissed pavement, one guy from the cluster quickly did a 180 counterclockwise, completely unaware that I was directly behind him in the street preceding this act.

I wish I could tell you that our eyes met and that we now breed Andalusian horses together in Spain, or that a bus hit me and from the waist down I am now bionic and can leap over mid-sized SUVs while eating cheese fries. But no, that's not what happened.

Look to the right of this page and you'll see my avatar photo where I'm brushing my hair back with my hand. I was doing that exact thing when this clusterfuck turned around and hacked a goob right into my freshly revealed ear!
I screamed so loud, my future self in 20 years felt it. The chill in the air compounded the feeling of warm, wet, foreign goob (as if "friendly" goob would've been any better) leaking down onto my neck as I fell to my knees like I had been shot. One's hand wants to immediately clutch where the assault has taken place, but my fantastic aversion to snot/phlegm provided a small force field so instead, I probably looked like I was doing "jazz hands" with one hand while the other was pointing at the HE that took me down.

I don't remember his hollow apology or how long I convulsed over it, but the thought of it gives me the skeeves to this day, man. ICK! All my poor ear wanted that evening was to hear "Fake Plastic Trees" live, which it did do eventually (three times), and hopefully will again.

My trip to New Mexico next month totally came together today so maybe fate will keep smiling my way and send me a great seat (not lawn-bugs yuck) next week in front of one of the only bands that can totally generate the WOW for me. =)

Under the Coverz 2/22/08

I’m extremely picky about cover songs, it’s music snobbery protocol that all musicians follow, I imagine. Nothing brings out the arms-folded-across-the-chest stance more than when an original band whips out a cover tune.

Whether it’s a tribute to your influences or a way to show off your "chops", as it were, the choice of cover is very revealing. When playing out, I always made sure the covers were of something unexpected like The Sex Pistols’ "Pretty Vacant", or "Do It Clean" by Echo and the Bunnymen which is older and somewhat obscure to most people. Then, of course, you have to occasionally go with relevance by doing U2’s lesser known classic "Running To Stand Still" after a heroin addict steals a PA system from your practice space (it happens).

One of the best live covers I ever witnessed was Supergrass doing "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)". Phenomenal.

Most live cover blunders are forgivable, but when one RECORDS a cover, oh I shiver just thinking of what can only be described as audio STAINS that some bands have offered up under the guise of "modernizing" a song.

Recorded covers of The Beatles’ songs should not be allowed without my approval. You can’t ever do The Beatles better than they did, EVER! It’s sort of sacrilege to let your tiny pea brain consider that you can even attempt such an endeavor. I’ve heard some recordings that don’t entirely piss me off (Candyflip’s dance version of "Strawberry Fields Forever" comes to mind), but I stand by the premise that outside of the former band members themselves, only George Martin can update their work via the studio.

If I ever hear of anyone redoing "Hung Up on a Dream" by The Zombies, or the Stones’ "Child of the Moon", I will most certainly be personally overseeing their sadistic execution - leave PERFECTION alone!

I threw up a little in my mouth when I heard Sia’s version of Radiohead’s "Paranoid Android", not only did it feel "too soon", but it also emanated the desire to slap that Anna Nicole-like vibrato right out of her quivering throat. Who allowed this? If only there was legal recourse one could pursue when their eardrums are violated thus.

Ok, so yeah, a cover can make people really hate ya, but it can also make someone respect you a little too.
This was the case with Pearl Jam, whom I’ve never been a fan of but I stumbled across their live version of "Throw Your Arms Around Me" by the Hunters and Collectors. It’s an old song that I really, really dig, so PJ gets semi-props for that one.

Covers of The Velvet Underground’s stuff have most always been alright with me, especially Nirvana’s rendition of "Here She Comes Now". I completely lose my shit every time he hits that higher octave bit. The build up...I wish I knew some compliments in Italian as I feel that language would properly exude more passion in describing it.

Obviously, Hendrix did Dylan just fine. Radiohead can do whatever they want and I’ll probably lick it up, geeze… there are so many great ones, I couldn’t possibly get to them all here. I’ve put a few on my profile play list, Ben Gibbard’s version of "They Don’t Know" is awesome. He must’ve been spying on me because I play it that same way, fucker! Stephen Malkmus (of Pavement fame) also did an ok version of my favorite Dylan song "Ballad of a Thin Man", it’s on there too.

The cover you do is a layer you put on a work that was considered finished by somebody else at some point, so don’t leech, it’s much more admirable to add something. Take a sad song and make it better. =)

Currently listening : VU By The Velvet Underground Release date: 25 October, 1990