8.28.2006
ALL PRODUCTO, ALL THE TIME I am in the studio, working with Producto. I love this band to a high degree. It's diverse, intense, beautiful music. It's an honor to work with them. I haven't had time to do, really, anything else. So there's not much else to say. I found a great band via a myspace friend request today, By Divine Right. Check out the great songs on their myspace page, incl. 'Kick this Bummer'. I did get some tennis in, with David from REM's office, and some schoolin' from my friend George, a talented instructor of the yellow fuzz ways I had dinner one night with REM's advisor Bertis, and with Mike Mills (thanks to all for those wonderful diversions), and it was wonderful to see them; any other time, I've been working on Producto. I did get Skype running, and found that very few people I know are on it, it costs the same to call Dom on it as it does on my cell phone, and basically it's an IM service in that case. Sigh. I thought I was going to call all my friends for cheap but if you are calling a cell phone in Europe (many of my friends don't even *have* land lines) it's no real bargain. Did I mention Producto is sounding good? Our last day in the studio is tomorrow. Love KS Athens GA
8.21.2006
VERY I ZONE WIRELESS Ah yes. Back in the states. Everyone's loud. Everyone's big. The guy who sat next to me on the plane, not an unfriendly sort by any means, but--was convinced I was foreign and have a strange accent. And he was a retired federal agent! I guess his senses have cooled a bit from his days on the team. The guy who took my bag from me at the baggage recheck after clearning customs in Atlanta yesterday stepped back, looked at me and said, to no one in particular, "Dude looks like he's in, like, a vampire movie or somethin'". I guess it's all funny. But what about the last week on ile de re? Swimming in the swirling post-storm Atlantic? Dining in a restaurant that's actually the home of a very talented chef, with just 3 tables, and drinking wine with the hosts? Having Aden steal a bit of Dom's croissant, just to give it to papa? Riding my bike thru vineyards on the way to check my email? And the delicious emptiness of Paris in August--you should have seen it as we took the taxi home Saturday night from the train station, and while I waited yesterday for the airport shuttle early yesterday morning. Contrast that to being from the Official Nation of the Bad Guys: falling on the wrong side of every conflict, especially the ones we start, illegally. I was remarking to Stephen from le Concorde that no nation has successfully sustained an invasion of a sovereign nation since the beginning of the 20th cent.--in fact, the results have been disastrous and unsustainable for the invaders in each case, and always reversed. Except for one, so far, that I can think of--China's invasion of Tibet. What a wonderful, exlusive club we are attempting to join. Love KS Athens GA
8.14.2006
VACATION, NOT IN QUOTES Last week I spent rehearsing and writing with the Disciplines in Oslo, and we made some great new songs, we should have an album's worth of stuff by the end of the year, and we are looking to make a record in early 2007. High energy, extremely singable Music for the People. During my stay, the Oya Festival was taking place (I count the Posies' appearance there last year as one of its highlights as far as my enjoyment is concerned, and I think we went over quite well indeed)--I had 3 artists on my agenda: Snow Patrol. Travel woes worked rather to my advantage, I hate to admit--the fracas at Heathrow meant that 40% of Snow Patrol didn't make it to Norway, and I joined them for an impromptu acoustic set--I played a ridiculous, not acoustic at all, 'workstation' and sang as much of Martha Wainwright's* part as I thought wouldn't be weird. I think SP was a bit down about it all, making the best of it of course, but not able to deliver the full effect, but I thought under the circumstances it was memorable, I played really well, and you can't keep good songs down. Thank you very much to Deus' friendly crew. Twilight Singers. I hadn't had a chance to see Greg Dulli's band yet, and was surprised to find they are into the burn, rather than the smolder their first album implies...hey, it worked for me. The live band is shit hot, and I hated to compare the drummer's looks to Noddy Holder, but it's just what I saw. He is a killer on the kit, don't get me wrong. I was happy to chat with Greg and with Mark Lanegan a bit, men among men that they are, they are very warm folks. Morningwood. They cancelled. Rumor has it they got such bad reviews in Norway that they didn't feel like coming, but I doubt this is true...they may have had their tour support yanked...their site hasn't been updated since last month and I didn't have the time to sift thru their forum for an answer. I was sorry they couldn't make it...fuck the press, let's art dance. I leave you with this excerpt from 'Black Lamb and Grey Falcon', then I'm going to the beach. "There are not only good men and bad men, there are bad good men and there are good bad men. A bad good man complies in each individual act with accepted ethical standards, but his whole life describes a pattern that cannot be pleasing to God. A good bad man may commit all manner of faults and crimes, but at bottom he lets nothing come before the duty of subjecting experience to the highest law..." --Rebecca West Love KS Ste. Marie de Re, FRANCE
8.07.2006
DOG DAYS NEWS RERUN I put a *ton* of photos on the photo page--many from my/Posies tour in Asia, and more. Here's a piece I wrote for an Australian magazine recently; unfortunately it was too long, and (sniff) got rejected. ************************ Let’s get one thing straight: I have never taken much interest in the scholarly analysis of rock or other modern musics; the messages, the poses, the reactions are easily recognized as extensions and attributes of human psychology that our species has been displaying for all of observable history. There’s the fight for dominance in the pursuit of attracting the best mates; there’s the hysteria that manifests as the pressure cooker of fear and societal repression loses its lid; and so on. I don’t find modern musicians any more fascinating than, say, Mesopotamian farmers, and in reality, I would much rather read about the latter. So, let it be stated for the record that I’m feeling a slight sense of shame for contributing more words to a vastly oversized blatherverse. I hope that I can contribute something beneficial to our society in the future by thoughtful abstinence when next asked to opine or theorize. Sadly, it’s a consequence of Wikipedia and its ilk that non-facts are compiled by non-scholars and avidly referenced by non-critical thinkers. I am a performer. A songwriter, yes; this work is done in places you don’t see: at home, in hotel rooms, or in studios. A recording artist, as well—making the most believable-sounding, completely idealized version of me, to project my abject sensitivity from the most unassailable illusory precipice of Olympian perfection that technology can create for me. It’s all in good fun: I will point out that art in my view is a game to create the possible that could, should, shouldn’t or even might be in our future, or lost in a forgotten past. So, what do I hope to achieve when I perform? Is it the Snake Oil Sales Division of Ken Stringfellow corp.? You don’t have to believe me, but I’m not just trying to take your money and survive unscathed. I would like to create conditions for elevating the spirit, for suspending the loathing that humans naturally have for one another, and I would like to show that being a performer is no great shakes—teach a man to fish, as they say. We can conjure this apparent miracle with simple elements and the power of temporarily shared belief. Those that are in the miracle business would hate me if I in fact had any impact on said miracle sales. I offer an alternative, and, proving that the Catholic Church is more evil than Clear Channel, (CC and CC? Coincidence? Is it ever?) no one has ever tried to crush my nascent movement. I am not preaching revolution. When archaeologists dig up the 21st century, they will find lots of Christina Aguilera rubbish; they will be extremely unlikely to discover any Ken Stringfellow-oriented shards. They will conclude that Ms. Aguilera was one of the most important, provocative artists of the 21st century, and they’ll be right. By the same token we can conclude that Homer was the John Grisham of his day, and that the really interesting stuff that intellectuals were debating has long been lost, forever. I know--the only intellectual debating my merits happens to be me. When I perform, I am trying to join the audience—my position as focal point of the evening makes this an impossible task, but that’s my goal. And to do this, I must coax the audience to envelop me. One of the most isolating devices in music is the PA system. I mean, come on—we use essentially the same device that called us down to the principal’s office to deliver our messages to our listeners—I find that incredibly twisted. There’s nothing more pure than air you move yourself, customizing each oscillation and presenting it as a handcrafted item for each listener. I recently went to see the Fiery Furnaces perform in a club in Paris. I think their first album is a wonderfully unfocused document, a map made by blind mapmakers—its disorganization automatically leads the listener’s brain to make outrageous assumptions and bridge untenable gaps while listening, and that’s the fun. No two people will hear the same band when they listen to that record. Contrast that with a Backstreet Boys album—all the clichés are in place, everyone’s role—the straight girl, the straight guy, more or less—is clear; the actors in each of the stories do what they’re told, no more able to change than a train is able to turn left at any time. In concert, the FF’s abandoned just about everything that makes them interesting. They felt they should pummel us with a non-stop, balls to the wall, Foo Fighters-esque ‘for the kids’ kind of shtick. Now, I think when the Foos do this they do it with joy—I believe Dave Grohl likes his audience, and meets them where they expect to be met. He is not leading them anywhere, and that means it’s a day off from school—all sides are happy with the arrangement. With the Fiery F’s, (FF vs. FF—coincidence? Is it ever?) the disdain for their audience couldn’t be more apparent. It’s as if they came to a potluck but brought a bunch of old car batteries instead of food, and said, essentially, ‘eat shit’. The singer’s lyrics were completely buried--not even that Michael Stipe, just-enough-getting- through-to-draw-you-in-circa-1983 factor was present. She was just a shaggy chick in too-tight white pants taking up space. The guitar player cracked himself up at the ridiculous, Jay Mascis-meets-Yngwie-meets-Os Mutantes riffs he was throwing out. The drummer never looked at his bandmates. There was a bass player…I think. The worst part is, the place was packed, and I believe there wasn’t a soul there who even likes the band. They were there because they had to be there, simple as that. Enduring the Fiery Furnaces substandard, uninspired live show was exactly like enduring Mahogany Rush’s 25-minute version of ‘Red House’ in 1972. Oddly, people aren’t stupid, naïve, etc. as would be convenient for blaming them in their complacency. They’re not complacent. They’re scared. We all need to get laid, put sperm to egg and push our respective lines a generation forward. If we go off the migratory track, there’s more wolves than bitches, and skeletons don’t get laid. It’s hard to look appealing when a raven is digging your eyeball out of your skull, and you’re sitting their dead like an idiot, doing nothing about it. As for showbiz, I present you: Queen. Or, two Queens and 3 other guys. Now that was a show. In theory. In practice, it was the running of a mathematical proof—a theory becomes a maxim when the experiment produces the same results every time. Brian May is an amateur scientist, who could have gone pro if it wasn’t for the fact he believed in dragons and fairy fellers. But, he had to prove that the experiment would still work, and this he set up laboratory conditions in stadia all over the world. I think he, too, loves his audience. And misses them. He’s wealthy, he’s beloved and respected by his peers— so, why else would he drag himself around with a Chuck-Norris looking dude that doesn't even know the words to ‘We Will Rock You’ than to assuage a profound longing for the company of the people he doesn’t know but are sure to be seated in front of him when his band’s name is on the marquee? It must be love. I certainly don’t hate my audience. I admit I have a few showbiz parlor tricks I use to make each show go in the direction that’s most comfortable for me. Occasionally it doesn’t work, and that’s OK. I hope that even as I approach my autumn--and I’m hovering around Labor Day weekend right now, hoping that there’s a generous Indian summer ahead—I can be more explorer than performer. Performance implies replay—the car performs as it was designed to do. Exploration means that each mountain needs to be named, each cliff face needs some iron spikes driven in it to hold the next guy’s ropes, and that there will be cannibals and flat topped Venezuelan mesas covered with orchids. There’s every chance that I’ll slip on some mud and starve to death in a ravine. I’ll write my last journal entries in blood, and share my secrets with whoever finds the artful arrangement of my shredded clothes and mossy bones. Now that’s a performance. ****************** Love KS Oslo, NORWAY
8.02.2006
IN THE MEANTIME, THE REAL CRIMINALS/TERRORISTS GO UNPUNISHED: SEE 911TRUTH.ORG FOR FURTHER DETAILS. PREPARE TO BE HORRIFIED. ***Have you ever wondered how long information will be on the web? Like, this website, this blog—will it be maintained until my death? Or long after, if I create a legacy to pay for its upkeep? Or, will it be paved over with more urgent numbers, renovation, my humorous insights undone by urbane renewal projects?*** This last week I spent in general hard at work mixing, like a mix machine, the music I recorded with Minky. We worked at Wooly Mammoth studios, in Waltham MA. I took the Acela train from Stamford to Boston; Amtrak has certainly, with this line at least, made travel on their trains much more appealing. It was clean and quiet, and not too crowded. And that wasn’t even in first class. Minky picked me up at South Station—just by the Japanese Consulate that I visited twice in June—and we drove out to Waltham. Waltham is known as “the Birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution” as far as the chamber of commerce would like you to believe, and “watch city” more colloquially. The two names are related—the town’s centerpiece used to be a factory making watches, bomb fuse timers, etc. etc. The 19th century factories and mills are of course office space these days, but the town seems to have a lively center, with a diverse mix of shops and restaurants (apparently, a large Indian community here—and I mean Mumbai not South Dakota) and of course Brandeis University is large presence here. The town has a commons, a typical white-sided New England church (and an extremely frightening stone one) and so forth. It admirably fights off sprawl as far as it can. The studio is not unlike the place in Providence we recorded the songs in—it’s in an aging industrial building—this one happened to begin its life as a large industrial bakery. Now the building houses a number of concerns, and since one of them is a furniture restoration company, you can be loud and messy. Wooly Mammoth is run by a very nice fellow named David Minehan, who has played for some time in a band called the Neighborhoods. We got down to business, me keeping quite long hours, especially at the end, the work was around the clock basically—I slept on the studio couch (on the floor for a 3 hour break in the all-nighter, I gave Minky the couch). I left to get coffee in the morning and dinner in the evening. And we kicked ass and made some great mixes. After the all-nighter, which was the last night, we found ourselves wrapping up at 9 on a Friday morning. The intense heat had let up a little—many days in the studio I was drenched in sweat. Minky and I hit the coffee shop for one last visit, and he drove me to Logan. Clear skies, no lines to speak of. Couldn’t be that easy. I checked in, no excess fees, no waiting in fact as I have moved up to Premier status on United (that they ever dropped me is a bit of a mystery, with all the traveling I do). I went to the gate after buying some magazines and a NY Times, and waited. It ended up being a long freaking wait. We got on the plane, we got off the plane. We sat around a bunch. What should have taken us an hour took us more than four with all the waiting, and I missed my connection to Paris. I argued, pleaded, researched—no other options available. Not one to let circumstances (or airlines, tho’ they ceaselessly try) to get me down, I consulted eroberparker.com, and found his recommendations for restaurants in the DC area, and found that one, Citronelle, is in a hotel. So I booked myself a room at the Latham Hotel in Georgetown, and hopped a cab. My bag was technically in transit, and having been inspected was not to be released to me until we each arrived in Paris on what would now be Sunday. So I had the clothes on my back (more on this later) and my computer bag, passport, etc. No toothbrush. Phone battery almost dead. No problem. I checked in and made my way down to Citronelle as soon as I dropped my ‘stuff’ off in my room; meaning, there wasn’t much to put there but I went thru the motions of taking possession of my room and went back down to the main level. Of course, there’s a dress code at Citronelle—no sneakers strike one and no (Iggy or otherwise) t-shirts strike two. No problem—the maitre d’, very friendly, set me up in the lounge area, and I soon found 2 things that helped my night immensely: the sommelier is a fan of Iggy Pop; and, the maitre d’ is originally from Tours, Dom’s hometown. Both were music fans. Yes! For Brian, the sommelier, ‘s part, he picked out a gorgeous, intense, mind blowing white burgundy; plus he presented me with a glass of Chateauneuf-de-Pape, a glass of vin de paille…you get the idea. I woke up the next morning unable to even remember paying the bill! I sent them a thank you email…hope they got it. The next day headed to the airport for my second attempt at going home, the driver of my town car was an extremely nice man, Mauricio, from Chile. We had a great time chatting on the way. I checked in, again, with no apparent problems. After I was done I noticed I was being shadowed by a couple of police officers. They waved me to come closer. Evidently my Iggy Pop T-shirt, which says RAW FUCKING POWER on the back, is breaking some kind of law. In fact, they demanded I change it or turn it inside out. Give a break. Not wanting to miss the flight, I complied, but…hey, as if I needed more reasons to scratch my head at the big question mark that is American morality. Kill lots of people, innocent or guilty by association; start unprovoked wars; all that’s cool, just don’t wear a t shirt that has a word that any 12 year old uses on a daily basis, and is in countless movies and TV shows (yes, I know it’s not allowed on network TV, but that is the condition of a granted license—I don’t need a license to wear a T-shirt—yet). And the obvious question: DIDN’T THESE GUYS HAVE SOMETHING BETTER TO DO??? I mean, aren’t there bigger, potential shoe-bombing fish to fry—and again, can someone email me and tell me what law I am breaking specifically?? I’m sure there are obscenity statues…er…I think? As soon as I was on the plane I turned my shirt right side out again. Dear lord. Yes, many people in France know what the word fuck means even if they don’t speak English as their first language. I would even say most do. And no one cares. NO ONE. In Japan Kurt Bloch told me he saw a billboard advertising the band Thee Michelle Gun Elephant that said FUCK YOU in 5-foot high letters. NO ONE CARED. I wore the T-shirt in Waltham, walked thru a park, had coffee, spent 4 hours in Logan airport, a few hours in Dulles, had dinner in a top, top restaurant, checked into a luxury hotel, walked around Georgetown for 2 hours and ate at another restaurant. NO ONE CARED ABOUT MY SHIRT. So...conclusion? Police solve the crimes they can, and this was an easy one. I really am never moving back. At last we landed, early even; my bag made it; I got the bus to Montparnasse, the train to La Rochelle, and Dom was there to pick me up. I spent 24 + hours with Aden & co., and couldn’t have been happier. Playing, swimming, cuddling, making jokes, giving presents—these are certainly my happiest moments. Monday evening I headed back to Paris, I’ve been making some new music with some French colleagues. More as it develops. Love KS Paris
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The latest release by Ken Stringfellow is a split EP with Spain's Muy Fellini, featuring never-heard-before music incl. Ken's take on Bob Dylan, released by
King of Patio records
in Spain on Oct 8, 2009.
Order it directly from Muy Fellini here www.myspace.com/muyfellini
10" VINYL ONLY!!!
older news :
8/3/2003
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