Snap. Crackle, Pop...There Goes Your Food Budget

Once again, this Evil Science Experiment called "Life" rears its ugly head. Our food stamp allowance has been cut by two-thirds, from roughly $357 to $80, due to a household expense deduction that was erroneously given...whoops, we made a mistake, now it's you who's gotta pay! Heads, you lose, tails you lose.

Of course, considering the opaque language that often characterizes these notices, it's hard to decipher the rationale, so -- like any good citizen -- you contact the agency, and hope that someone can explain it in English. So I guess I should reserve judgment until I hear it. That's the rational response, right?

The other side is a lot tougher to negotiate, obviously, because it means scrambling to fill the gap. On one hand, it's not the end of the world yet, since I can pick up an extra gig or two to paper over the cracks. On the other hand, though...it's hardly a welcome development, since Squawker and I experienced a couple years -- relatively speaking -- of stability on that front.

For awhile, we could (wonder of wonders) actually plan out a good portion of the month. As any nutritionist knows, you'll eat healthier if you're not always fending off hunger, since you can get the appropriate ingredients, and work out meals around them. That's less likely to happen, however, if slim resources get pushed -- then snapped -- past the breaking point.

I only have to look at our grocery store for further reference: I can count the number of sales on the "better/premium" lunch meat, versus the high-fat, high-salt, high-risk-of-clogged-artery varieties...on which you always see deals, rain or shine. What's my conclusion? Only yuppie careerists, apparently, are entitled to good nutrition. Sound extreme?  Now you know what kind of day I've had.

What's especially galling about this particular shoe drop, of course, is that it comes with little or no warning. The same thing happened last fall, when our apartment complex's management suddenly informed us that we were going to pay a monthly water, sewer and trash bill. At this writing, that means seeing roughly $240 fly out the window every year that we could certainly better spend at the dinner table.

Such arrangements are part and parcel of the way America operates, however. As the above examples illustrate, the relationship is an Occupier-Occupant one. As the Occupant, you're summoned for whatever nonsense that the Occupier -- be it your boss, caseworker, landlord, or political hack -- can't wait to cram down your throat.

Naturally, you have no voice in the matter, although the decision will cause varying degrees of chaos and disruption. Your interests be damned: The Occupier's needs always come first, and that's that. No further discussion required. I got the same vibe this week in reading Days Of Rage, a fascinating look at America's largely forgotten history of violent '60s, '70s and '80s-era radicalism. 

I don't want to write a review -- that's better left for another post -- but you can draw striking parallels between today's society and the early '70s turf that much of this book inhabits. Then and now, you had a stagnant economy; a growing underclass cast permanently adrift (don't forget that Orwellian term, "benign neglect," coined during this era); electronic snooping that went unacknowledged, until a public outcry forced the issue; and an arrogant, unresponsive government that worked hard to stifle dissent wherever it could.

On a surface level, at least, it looks (and smells) like "deja vu all over again," though I won't have a lot of time to ponder the implications, personally...after all, I've got a crack to paper over. So it goes: wash, rinse, repeat. --The Reckoner

Humans Need Not Apply

Have you ever wondered why this not being addressed? How there are LESS jobs due to automation?

How do they expect people to BUY what is made when there is no jobs? Very few of the politicians are even paying attention to this. When I was young they used to say technology would bring more leisure and wealth to the average person. We aren't seeing this. A few are growing very rich while more are growing poorer and poorer. My day to day life really isn't any different then it would have been in the 1960s save for my Internet access.

We are just seeing more unemployment and a wide distance between the rich and poor. None of these technological wizards are even asking if they should do what they are doing. Wisdom is thrown out the door.

Some may even computer program themselves out of a job! I don't use self-check cashiers, I'd rather deal with a human.  Life is impersonal enough.

You have to do more of the work with a computer. It's you doing all the bagging of the food and moving it onto the scale.

One thing, it seems all the technology is bringing dystopian nightmares into reality instead of any new human renaissance of thinking and creativity. Have you noticed that?  Why aren't the machines freeing up the humans? They seem to just be enslaving us more.

Since the machines lack souls, it's just making everything regimented. What happens in a world where everything is automated and there is nothing to do? What happens in a world where only a tiny segment of the population has a job? Mankind could blow himself up back into the Dark Ages soon which will make the computers a moot point but there are many in denial about how severe things are getting in the work-world. Very few people are asking if these are technological roads we should even head down? Overall, maybe this is an issue to be addressed if most people are unemployable, what kind of society will that be without major changes?--The Squawker

Hey this is our 150th Post! :-)

Property Ownership = Power: A Punk Rock Realty Lesson

<i>

Never forget: property ownership is power in America. The STORE CLOSING banner hanging outside my local Dollar General store provided yet another reminder of that particular lesson...if I needed one.

At first, I presumed this latest sour development had something to do with the continuing creeping yuppification of our town. After all, this Dollar General store sits across the street from a CVS pharmacy that's springing up as I write. That project that aroused quite a bit of local opposition, since it's situated in a largely residential neighborhood. But that's not the main reason, as a cashier -- soon to join the ranks of the unemployed -- assured me.

"Then what's going on?" I asked. "There's people coming through here almost every day, so I can't imagine that this store isn't profitable..."

"Oh, it is," the cashier responded. "We're always really busy. The landlord saw how much business we're getting, and decided that we could pay a little bit more." She paused for the punchline. "But the company doesn't want to pay it."

"So what happens now?" I asked.

"They might build another store here..." She finished ringing up my bottle of dishwashing liquid and pair of two-liter diet pops.  "This town can definitely support one."

"Good luck to you, then," I responded. "We'll just have to wait and see, I guess..."

"Yeah, I guess."

<ii.>

Another reminder comes from my current reading of 924 Gilman (see the last post). Tucked away in this sprawling 400-page tome is a Punk Planet article ("924 No More?": May/June 1999) that focuses on how gentrification has hurt the Bay Area punk scene. One of its sources is an October 1998 San Francisco Bay Area Guardian article ("The Economic Cleansing of San Francisco"), which quotes the average rent for a one-bedroom apartment as rising from $845 to $1,200, or 56 percent, over a four-year period.

Based on that statistic, a person earning $6 an hour paying the standard one-third for rent would have to work 143 hours a week to afford the median rent! I'd hate to imagine how that figure looks nowadays. The article further cites a tenants' union survey which shows that, among people who changed addresses in the past year, half left the city entirely.

Granted, these are 20-year-old statistics, but the point hasn't really changed, since the whole problem has grown exponentially worse. After all, rent is the reason why CBGB -- for all its cultural significance -- disappeared, once the disputes with its landlord (Bowery Residents' Committee), proved too toxic to overcome. (For an update, see the New York Times link below on promises of a revival...which will apparently focus on finding a building to buy: "We don't want to be a tenant. We don't want to be a victim of what happened before.")

These issues matter, for reasons that often escape people who don't pay attention, until it's too way late...take it away, Punk Planet: "The face of the region is culturally strip-mined. Rent control laws, once some of the strongest in the country, have been gutted. Artists, the poor, young activists and people of color are being displaced as the white-collar cyber-yuppies sweep in like a plague of locusts (emphasis mine)." And so it goes...wash, rinse, repeat.

Warning: 

You've Been Gentrified, OK? 

Now Pack Up Your Shit
And Leave.

<iii.>

I got another reminder of the "property ownership=power" equation several years ago, when a venue I'd played in the past several times shut down. Like many small businesses, things had gotten off to a fast start. The first couple bills I'd played, i counted roughly 40-50 people on a Friday or Saturday night.

The next couple of times, the audiences dropped off to around 30 people (including the performers and their friends). The last couple times, we had the proverbial "five people and a dog" to witness our efforts. It was painful, and you didn't need a detective to see the end coming. Sadder still, of course, was the loss of a sympathetic home for offbeat acts -- avante-garde, folk-punk, garage -- that would never get a foothold otherwise.

One of my strongest memories is the guy whose set consisted of Gameboy devices that he manipulated back and forth, to create truly otherworldly sounds...if you combined Joe Meek's EP, I Hear A New World, with video game noises run through a concrete mixer, this is what you'd get. Whether I dug all of it is beside the point...but it sure beats sitting through a generic cover band any day.

Once the venue closed, I casually inquired about the rent. I was curious how much money the owner had spent keeping his dream afloat. It's a small town, right? I figure. How much can it really cost?  Then came the sticker shock. "It's $850 per month," the agent told me. I practically dropped the phone receiver.

Still Here? 

OK...Start Working Your 

Five Part-Time Jobs 

To Pay Off The Landlord.

<iv.>

For those who think that gentrification is purely an urban phenomenon, get a reality check -- it's probably happening right around the corner...and may be way too late to confront by the time you finally notice it. We need to explore ways of controlling our destiny -- whether it's micro-lending, pooling the few resources we do have, or forming a punk rock realty company to pursue our best interests. None of these things will be easy or convenient, obviously.

However, unless we put our own skin in the game -- and get involved, somehow, at a basic economic level -- the hustle will accelerate at a faster clip, but nothing will change. I got another reminder of this concept when I interviewed a local music store owner, who's operated since the mid- or late '60s. These days, that's a lifetime in retail.

During our interview, he paused  to point out an antique shop across the street. He mentioned that the owner had been having a hard time, because her monthly nut is so crushing.

"How much are they asking her to pay?" I inquired.  "Last I heard, she's paying $2,500 per month." He paused to deliver the punchline.  "All I can say is, I'm glad that I bought this building...otherwise, I'd have been out of here a long time ago."  And so it goes -- wash, rinse, repeat. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Click Before Your Rent Skyrockets!):

Liberation Ink: Development Without Displacement:
Resisting Gentrification In The Bay Area:
http://www.liberationink.org/content/development-without-displacement-resisting-gentrification-bay-area

Planetizen: Is There Such A Thing As "Rural" Gentrification?:
http://www.planetizen.com/node/54684

Truth Out.org:
The Bleaching of San Francisco: Extreme Gentrification and Suburbanized Poverty in the Bay Area

The New York Times: CBGB Is Dead. Long Live CBGB:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/08/arts/music/cbgb-owners-plan-a-festival-and-seek-a-new-location.html?_r=0

924 Gilman: A Cure For The Cultural Blahs?

<i.>

The blockbuster business model is a crappy approach to commerce. In simple terms, I'm talking about the practice of relying on established faces to bring home your box office bacon. For practical reasons, I'll focus on the music side (although this discussion applies to any creative field). The appeal is obvious, from a pure gatekeeping perspective. It's simpler to maximize an entrenched act's earning power, rather than risk losing it on some new face who's can't generate immediate returns. Catering to minority tastes isn't cost-effective, right?

However, established acts only work for established money, which is why you'll pay double-digit ticket prices...and related crap, like paying double for drinks you don't want (and don't need), so you feel better about the trimming that your wallet took. Sooner or later, however, the model runs aground. A big draw or two suddenly breaks up, leaving no obvious candidate to fill the void. (Entertainers, like Third World dictators, don't like to encourage talk about who might replace them.)

Seismic trend shifts can also wreak havoc. It's the reason why Tom Werman, who produced some of '80s and '90s heavy rock's biggest names (Cheap Trick, Motley Crue, Ted Nugent) now runs a bed and breakfast...and why numerous lower-rung hair band-era denizens have grudgingly accepted wearing long-sleeve shirts over all those tattoos as the price of keeping their landscaping jobs at the country club.

[Gilman's famed "rules of the road"]

http://tanyatanya.smugmug.com/Music/Pinhead-Gunpowder-924-Gilman/i-GPF9fM2

<ii.>

However, not everybody needs to accept the blockbuster business model as the only option. I'm reminded of this principle in reading 924 Gilman, Brian Edge's sprawling 400-page chronicle of the all-ages club that opened in '86 to shake up the noxious equation that I've just described (entrenched acts + commercial venues + high ticket prices = passive consumer experience).

About seven years ago, I borrowed 924 Gilman from an out-of-town booker I was courting, doing the mating dance that keeps so many musicians circling the hamster wheel (Can I play here? Is there room for me on the schedule?)  Eventually, I did get to play this place -- but the book sat on the shelf. The length put me off for awhile, as did the reproduction of many key handwritten and typo-splattered documents from the era, in all their eye-straining glory.  (Put it this way: keep a powerful magnifying glass handy while you're reading.)

However, in writing about this topic, it only seemed natural to pull 924 Gilman off the shelf. The Squawker and I worked behind the scenes at a coffeehouse for a couple years, so I could relate to the struggles that Edge and company chronicle -- as well as the audacity For example, Gilman's masterminds initially did no advertising when the club started...to prevent audiences from planning to see only the most popular bands, while ignoring the rest.

When Squawker and I put together shows, we followed a similar policy by providing only a basic starting time in our press releases. In other words, we never said, "X, Y and Z bands play at X, Y and Z p.m." Like Gilman, we didn't want patrons planning their evening solely around the headliners. We wanted people to discover great things on their own, which gets harder and harder in this hyper-commercial-global infotainment scam called "the music industry." But I digress.

I also appreciate Gilman's stated attempt to give underdog bands a platform, which means rejecting the commercial power brokers' long-standing view of the underground scene as a "feeder system" for their manipulative purposes ("The club is not just another club on the bar circuit. The club is not the farm league for bands aspiring to play the I-Beam or the Kennel Club. We are an alternative to such clubs": 1988 guideline revisions, page 127).

And, also, the policy of helping underdog bands with gas money or expenses should be mandatory for anyone trying to cop the Gilman vibe. Why should it cost an arm and a leg to perform anywhere? Even if you're not massively popular, your time and travel are still worth something. This stance ensures a different vibe, especially when it's coupled with an all-ages, no-alcohol policy.

That's why I try to avoid playing in bars, because you're no more than background noise for mindless consumption (or, as Jesse Luscious memorably describes it on page 136, "a place for drunk adults to hit on each other to the sound of loud background music"). Instead, as Russell states, "It was interesting to see that the people running it were rather young.  I was used to going to clubs that were run by some mafia-type to launder money or something" (page 122).

<iii.>

Of course, utopia has its own way of running aground, too. Like Gilman, our alternative coffee shop aimed to operate on all-volunteer equity, but that often led to burnout -- and ill will -- since a handful of regulars usually wind up doing most (if not all) the work. I think that an all-volunteer system to work, but only if everyone goes into it with their eyes open, and an honest discussion of the implications. 

Like Gilman, we implemented a paid membership system, but most of the players paid rarely, or promised to pay later (as in, "never"). Ironically, the Squawker and myself were among the most faithful payers -- although we were living on disability and unemployment, respectively. Since we were a lot more involved, we paid every month, to set an example -- but, unfortunately, didn't see anybody rushing to follow our lead.

What's more, the people who contribute the least scream the loudest about wanting a say in running things. This situation diverted a lot of time and energy that could have been spent on day-to-day operations. Controlling the chaos proved difficult, since no real leadership structure existed beyond the owner bankrolling the venture, and the people heading up the various committees. 
As a result, people often worked at cross purposes, which also chipped away at our collective time, energy and enthusiasm. This situation also happened to me a couple times, when a band would appear -- from out of the blue, unbeknownst to me -- on bills that I'd put together. Since both nights ran well, I let the issue slide, but I felt irritated, all the same.

<iv.>

Why does this stuff matter? Because once people realize they don't have to accept "the way it is" -- whether it's a crappy job, rock club, or anything else -- that entity (or situation) becomes irrelevant. Think back to the fall of 1989, and how fast East Germany evaporated once the churches and the youth vented their discontent on the streets, despite the initial risk to their lives. Funny how that works, right?

That situation emerges as a common theme in 924 Gilman, too. Some of the most interesting testimonies come from those who walked away -- such as Orlando X, a former security person who questions if punk rock utopia is everything it's cracked up to be ("Some bands can get shows there very easily, play all the time, other bands send demo after demo, make call after call, and rarely get to play there at all. There's a lot of favoritism": page 114).

Like many of the book's voices, I also find myself at a crossroads, since the values that I uphold (collaboration, creativity, innovation, inclusiveness) aren't reflected in the working world, political atmosphere or cultural scene of my humble hometown. As a result, I don't feel badly about turning my back on these things, at least until I devise a more sensible alternative.

A couple weeks ago, for example, one of our local libraries held a reading to coincide with National Poetry Month. I decided to skip it, though. I'd held readings of my own there in the past, but struggled to get a consistent attendance. If people didn't support my events, why should I support theirs? There's a reason why people trout that old saying, "No good deed goes unpunished."

On a similar note, there's a group that holds quarterly spoken word events of their own. They must draw a crowd, because the admission is usually $15. There's two segments: an open mike, and one for the featured artists. However, I skip these events, too, because I probably wouldn't get more than an open mike spot -- and nobody's explained how you'd work your way up into a featured slot.

Then I start doing some math: even If only 100 people show up, they're clearing $1,500 -- once you subtract the venue's cut (which typically averages 30 percent), that's a fair chunk of change I'm helping somebody else to earn after my five or 10 minutes onstage. That doesn't make sense to me, either, so I don't show up.

Whether I have the time and energy to cook up my own Gilman-style experiment remains to be seen, but -- as the book reminds me -- when you've seen the alternative, you really don't feel like going backwards. If that means standing still for awhile, so be it. I've seen the blockbuster business model often enough. But I don't think I'm really missing anything. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (You Hipster Indie Nerd, You:)
924 Gilman Official Website: http://www.924gilman.org

The Arlingtonian:
Upper Arlington High School (Upper Arlington, OH):

Are UA Hipster?: UAHS Takes A Closer Look
At What It Means To Be A Part Of The National Fad

http://www.arlingtonian.com/archives/5239

The DIY Musician:
Why Music Venues Are Totally Lost:
An Open Letter From A Professional Musician

http://diymusician.cdbaby.com/2012/02/why-music-venues-are-totally-lost-an-open-letter-from-a-professional-musician/

Talking With The Taxman About Poetry (Take II: Send Out For The Advocate)

Yes, I hate to say it:
April.
Of course.
In which a tiny agent
at a tiny desk
with a gleaming
pinprick for a pen

crunched her numbers,
pored over her forms.

--Laura Kasischke, "April"

<i.>

For many Americans, it's safe to say that April 15 amounts to a day of mourning. Who looks forward to completing those forms, beyond those with a dog in the fight...all of those accountants, collection agents, tax attorneys and related apparatchiks whose labor greases the system? Of course, like so many moments in our stilted national conversation, you won't hear too much honest discourse -- beyond the usual stereotypical hand-wringing about our collective angst over how much we owe Uncle Sam (Scam?).

Then again, fewer societies force their citizens to work so hard -- and so long -- for so little benefit. As the above cover suggests, the IRS's rank and file is struggling with similar issues. Apparently, about half of all taxpayers' assistance calls go unanswered, because there aren't enough agents to handle all the traffic. If you've ever tried to get a human being at an IRS call center, you know what I mean...eventually, you'll get one, but only after a long time. (Half an hour isn't unusual, in my experience.)

It's hard to imagine any business surviving with a 50 percent "go begging" rate, but we should remember that a pro-biz publication like Bloomberg Businessweek often tells only half of the story. Behind the government-bashing ("Same ol' feds, can't even get on the horn to tell you how much ya owe -- nyuk-nyuk-nyuk, snark-snark-snark") are the same dark forces playing those sneaky panther power trip games with our lives...spending untold billions to create the best Congress that their money can buy...which is why the tax code has now ballooned to a mind-boggling 73,954 pages (versus 400 when Americans first began paying it in 1913).

Of course, that's no surprise, given all the goodies that special interests keep demanding. My favorite example is the honey subsidy, which I learned about during the early 1990s. I can still remember our congressman telling me that only 200 people nationwide got this particular tax break. Now, given all the panic about the Incredible Shrinking Honeybee, this hot little item might seem justifiable today...but how many other giveaways still lurk somewhere around the margins? The federal budget -- if you can call it that -- is larded with this kind of stuff.

"And it is for this reason that it is so important for you and me to start organizing among ourselves, intelligently, and try to find out: What are we going to do if this happens, that happens, or the next thing happens? Don't think that you're going to run to the man and say, "Look, boss, this is me." Why, when the deal goes down, you'll look just like me in his eyesight; I'll make it tough for you. Yes, when the deal goes down, he doesn't look at you in any better light than he looks at me." --Malcolm X (After The Bombing [of his home]: Speech At Ford Auditorium, February 14, 1965)

<ii>

Of course, there's always another side to the story.  Will Bloomberg's cover story make me get out the hankie and start shedding rivers of tears for all those poor IRS agents tasked with shaking me upside down?  Um...the verdict is...not quite. Or, as a certain urban ghetto clown used to say: "It almost brought a tear to my eye. I said...almost."

From a strict customer service standpoint, my encounters with the IRS's Finest have been hit and miss. Last winter, for example, I wrote to inquire if it was possible to reduce our federal IOU (which is somewhere around $6,200 and some change, give or take) based on hardship (since I'm also a caretaker).  What did I get for my trouble? A boilerplate form letter stating that, as far as the agency could tell, I hadn't been assessed incorrectly -- plus a pamphlet in the mail. Gee, thanks, Mr. Wizard!

One other phone encounter from last summer also sticks out, when I had to add another year to our installment agreement. For those who don't know, that's something you wind up doing when you can't pay in full. Your monthly amount typically goes up, which also raises the interest and penalties that they tack on -- which is how people wind up working (literally and figuratively) forever to pay off the same monster that gleefully ships jobs overseas and keeps wages frozen at subzero levels....but I digress.

Anyway, when I explained that we'd have to add another year on the current agreement -- which, if you believe the IRS website, is a fairly straightforward process -- the agent got really huffy. I've dealt with some brittle customer service representatives in my time, but nothing like this woman, who didn't have a chip on her shoulder...more like a towering inferno. I've blacked out most of the play-by-play, but essentially, she said that as the overall amount got larger, "we get really particular about things like that, if you're paying on multiple years..." 

I gently pointed out that, as a practical matter, the "or else" ultimatum might not lead to a positive working relationship...especially since my income fluctuates quite a bit...which means that by the time all that government machinery finally creaks into gear...there's not much left to collect.

No matter. She pressed on and on: I had an obligation...blah-blah-blah...which means the following consequences, real or implied...blah-blah-blah...so therefore, you need to consider...blah-blah-blah. Which, roughly translated, means: "We're the biggest, baddest motor scooter...and, by God, you'll do it our way."

Someone forgot to slip Jam Master Jay that particular memo, evidently...when he was murdered, it came out that he owed the IRS $500,000. Actually, the original amount was $100,000, but once all those interest and penalty rocks dropped...you get the picture. Heads, you lose, tails, you lose.

<iii.>

In the months after that conversation, I responded in two ways. On those rare occasions when I did have to talk with someone at the IRS, I'd continue the conversation if the voice sounded like an older white or black man. If a woman or someone with an accent came on the line, I'd "lose" the call and re-dial. It's nothing personal -- I follow the same policy when I negotiate on my phone bill. When you've been snakebit, your first response is to avoid any creature that starts hissing and flicking its tail.

This month, when the Squawker and I trooped off to the United Way for our annual assistance with our tax return, we asked the volunteer preparer what sorts of options existed for our particular situation. My overall income had dropped roughly 30 percent from the year before, reducing the overall rattling of coins falling into the Man's bucket. (Then again, after the conversation I've cited above, would you feel like taking another run on the hamster wheel, and keep busting your hump?  Like the clown said: "I don't think so.")

Our thought a moment, then pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote something down on it. He handed it back to me, saying: "Try the Taxpayer Advocate's Office. They're a sub-agency of the IRS, but they don't actually work for them, or get their money from them. I've written down the regional number for you."

The Squawker and I looked at each other, and that same refrain crossed our minds: "I'm from the government. I'm here to help you."  We thanked our volunteer preparer and went home.

We've heard that refrain before, but who knows, maybe there's something to it this time...we'll have to see.  I'll call them up next week and see how it goes. I won't hold any expectations, pro or con, until I hear what's involved. Hopefully, I won't get another brittle woman with a towering inferno on her shoulder...but, like the song says: "You cannot win if you do not play." --The Reckoner

Links To Go (I Owe, I Owe, So Off To Work I Go):
The New York Times: Tax Break
(At Tax Time, No Accounting For Poetry):
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/15/opinion/sunday/at-tax-time-no-accounting-for-poetry.html?_r=0

And -- How We Got Here From There:
Forbes: IRS Gone Bad: Are Things About To Get Worse?:http://www.forbes.com/sites/kellyphillipserb/2011/10/26/irs-gone-bad-are-things-about-to-get-even-worse/

The Washington Post:
Declining IRS Workforce Leaves Calls Unanswered
As Tax Day Approaches, Union Says:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/federal-eye/wp/2015/04/06/declining-force-of-irs-employees-leaves-calls-unanswered-as-tax-day-approaches-union-says/

Guest Review: Chairman Ralph: Bristol Boys Make More Noise (Various Artists)

You've got the book, you've heard the CD, now buy the T-shirt...
(Bristol Archive Records: Facebook Page)

VARIOUS ARTISTS
Bristol Boys Make More Noise!: The Soundtrack
(Bristol Archive Records)

Let's face it: secondary cities don't get a lot of attention from their capital area cousins. The plus side of that situation is the freedom to develop as you wish – grow up in public, so to speak – before the heavy industry spotlight gets a bit too harsh.

So it goes with Bristol, whose rock 'n' roll legacy is typically summarized in terms of the Cortinas – whose teenage lineup included Nick Sheppard, who'd join the Clash during its twilight era (minus Mick Jones) – or its later reputation as the “birthplace of trip-hop.” But there's plenty more to the story, as this cracking 22-track compilation from Bristol Archive Records indicates.

The proceedings get to a flying start with Magic Muscle's “Free As A Bird” – whose dueling guitar solos and falsetto harmonies will leave you cold, or elicit a knowing wink and a nod (depending on your mood, and tolerance for older heavy rock). At 4:52, this song also ranks among the longest here (except “Sparkle,” by the colorfully-named Fabulous Ratbites From Hell, which clocks in at 5:48).

The pace ratchets up with the Cortinas' “Defiant Pose,” one of three indie singles that they issued before signing to CBS – whose clanging guitars and coda summarize the incoming mood, Year Zero style (“1977's got a hold on me!”). Sheppard also figures in the Spics, whose politically incorrect monicker shouldn't stop you from enjoying “You And Me,” and “Angels In The Rain.” Both tracks are poppy affairs featuring terrific male/female vocal interplay that underscores the angst on display here (“When I get outside, I feel no pain/When I get outside, I feel on shame”).

Of course, half the fun on any compilation is the unheralded stuff. My top vote goes to the X-Certs' “Queen And Country,” which boasts a propulsive riff – once you hear it, I guarantee that it won't leave your brain. Sadly, the lyrical concern hasn't dated an ounce (“Uncle Sam needs you/He wants your body for a sandbag, too”), in view of the never-ending Afghan and Iraq wars. The song's topicality could well have given the Jam a run for its money, had it earned a similar degree of attention.

Other underdog highlights include “New Blood” (The Media), a classically declamatory punk anthem (“You sold your passion for the truth you hid”) powered by a gliding bass line; “Unlucky In Love” and “Time Of My Life” (Various Artists), whose glistening pop hooks should have reaped bigger rewards; “She'll Be Back” (The Vultures), which suggests a more defiant response to the heart's dilemmas; and “Sheep War In A Babylon” (Shoes For Industry), a deft reworking of the dub idiom that would elicit a smile or two from Lee “Scratch” Perry.

Like any compilation, you'll feel more inclined to revisit some moments than others – such as “Bleak Grey Skies” (The Sidneys), whose lyric consists of one couplet (“Bleak grey skies/is our way”) that's repeated over a bed of chiming guitars and buttery female vocals. The music's fine – I just can't get a handle on what it's about, basically. I also felt likewise about “Yellow Runs Forever” (Joe Public) – which boasts some nifty guitar lines, as well as an equally foggy lyrical style (“Who can say if yellow runs forever?/I'm not sure”), which inspires me to say: “Answers on a postcard, please, when you find the time.”

But such quibbles are part and parcel of the comp experience, and relatively minor ones – the whole idea is to get you digging deeper, once you figure which tracks struck your fancy. Based on the goods here, Bristol had plenty of talent – dark horses, why-nots and might-have-beens who made their marks to varying degrees of success – so if you want to investigate further, this comp is definitely a good starting point. --Chairman Ralph

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Life's Little Injustices (Take VI): The Customer Is Always...Last In Line

<i.>

I remember poring over the images in my sixth-grade social studies textbook.  Our latest unit, "Life Under Communism," offered no lack of photos to distract a young boy like myself: the cardboard grey tract housing, the supermarket shelves looking so threadbare and empty, the never-ending lines to buy basic items created a pretty striking visual effect...one that suggested, "The Soviet Union? Not a cool place to visit, and you definitely don't want to live there."

The images of those serpentine lines piqued the most curiosity. If you grew up with a fully stocked refrigerator during the '70s, as most of us did, you couldn't imagine lining up to buy staples like bread, milk and eggs. If you wanted something, you asked Mom for it, and hoped that she'd remember to put it on the shopping list...that's how it seemed to work, anyway.  So why, we asked our teacher, did our Soviet counterparts line up for hours to buy goods they couldn't afford, or wound up being unavailable? 

"Well, that's because..."  Our teacher ventured.  "Everyone knows there isn't enough to go around, and most folks don't make enough money, but they still need certain things...so they line up for them, anyway."

<ii.>

My mind drifts back to the late '90s.  I'm cooling my heels in a pastel gray suburban Illinois DMV office, in an equally pastel gray suburb...where strip mall after strip mall after strip mall zips by your window, and the main streets run indefinitely, to little effect.

I have no choice, though. I'm taking the postal exam next week, and -- having moved from another state -- need a license with the Illinois seal on it. Otherwise, my chances of driving one of those blue and white postal trucks might look pretty iffy.

The line snakes out of the DMV office and onto the sidewalk outside. It's like those scenes I often witnessed in college, when folks camped outside the hip record store, hoping to snag a ticket for the tour of their choice...why did all the good shows seem to happen in the middle of winter?

By 10 a.m., we're finally inside, but the line barely moves an inch, because only three stations are open. But the employees don't allow us to cramp their style. We see them fill in for each other, so they can take their 15-minute breaks. Still, the line barely moves.

An older guy behind me starts making conversation. "I've just moved here from Iowa, and it doesn't take nearly  as long...it shouldn't be this hard." He rolls his eyes, and so do I.

Around 11:30 a.m., I finally get my turn. Apparently, my old license is suspended over an unpaid ticket, but never got a notice. This is Chicagoland, after all, whose mail service is renowned for sucking like a wind tunnel.

The doors close behind me at noon. I have some detective work to do, it seems, but that'll have to wait till Monday. I catch a bus to the farthest available point, and end up walking the remaining mile or two home.

Unlike in Chicago, bus service is a more limited proposition here, because the suburbanites don't want to make it easy for the riff raff to show up. This means me, I suspect.

[Sorry: This Space Reserved...

...For Someone Standing In Line.]

<iii.>

Fast forward to last Saturday, in my old hometown.  I have to mail a payment to the IRS, and I need the postmark showing it's gotten out by the due date. It's the bureaucratic version of Willie Wonka's Golden Ticket...minus the chocolate.

I tell The Squawker to stay home. We're going out for lunch somewhere, but it's 11:45 a.m., and our local post office doesn't close until 12:30 p.m. Plenty of time to bound in and out, right?

No such luck. The scene looks eerily familiar as I walk inside, where just one postal clerk -- there's three windows here -- struggles to expeditiously tackle the needs of these dozen-odd customers, myself included. She's pretty efficient, but hard-pressed.

At one point, a woman struggles to lift an enormous box back onto the counter for processing to its destination.  "You can put it there," the clerk says, pointing at the second window. "I've almost thrown my back out once already."

Another woman exiting the line stops to rattle off a number at the bottom of her receipt: "Call this line and tell them to get more people in here on Saturday!"

Nobody bothers to scribble down a digit. We've all seen that movie before, haven't we? I tell myself. Their teeth click-click as they cluck in sympathy, but nothing ever seems to happen, so... 

I stand on tiptoes as the line inches closer. Normally, I can see the clock positioned behind the clerk...but not today, though. It's gone, taken down by the painters working inside the building. Damn! 

When my turn finally arrives, the clerk glances at the envelope that I've dutifully pre-stamped. "Next time," she says, "you can just walk up and hand it to me."

I flash a weak smile.  "Now I know, I guess."

I walk down the ramp outside, and pause to look at the bank clock across the street. It's now around 12:20 p.m. "Squawker will love this one, I'm sure," I mutter under my breath.

[Keep Calm...Hurry Up And Wait.]

<iv.>

Over and over again, government agencies and businesses remind us -- in the same crisp, solemn tones that Winston Churchill used to reassure a wear-weary British nation -- that the customer is always right, your satisfaction is the number one priority, and so on.

Of course, it all rings hollow when they pass the inconvenience to you in a heartbeat. How many times have you fidgeted at the automatic checkout in some chain grocery store, only to find yourself standing in line -- yet again -- when the machine's whistles and bells don't work as they should?

I never did get around to driving one of those blue and white postal vans. I wonder what it would have been like...it's too late to find out now, of course.  Ah, well, I tell myself, at least we can still make our lunch date.

I switch on the ignition and try to push those grainy social studies textbook images out of my head. I've seen enough graying bureaucracy for one day.  --The Reckoner

[Congratulations....You've Just Finished This Post. And You Didn't Need To Stand In Line To Read It!]