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When You’re Down

Indie Rock Needs to Cheer the Hell Up

originally published April 7, 2004

I've seen an unusual number (for me) of unsigned/ indie-type bands lately, whether because I was playing with them or seeing them open for some better band or actually going out and seeing a whole show of unsigned bands without personally knowing any of their members (!).
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At a certain point it really struck me how similar, despite their superficial genre signifiers, they all were, and in a way I didn't expect. (Regrettably, this point was then passed and I saw yet more bands of this type, which made me want to run, make a sign reading "I AM SO SICK OF INDIE ROCK" and parade out front of selected venues, but wisely - or not - this did not occur. I had a milkshake instead.)
As I say, they would seem to range in styles: one was sort of loud Coldplay-ish Britrock with keys and yelling, one was Joy Division-fixated post-punk (to the degree that they seemed to be trying to look like Joy Division, which was icky), one was Elvis Costello-y power-trio nerd-rock, one was hardcore-influenced indie stuff with a Sleater-Kinney/ Pretty Girls Make Graves vibe, etc., etc. None of these genre choices are themselves particularly surprising. The weird thing is the way they were interpreting these various styles. It was like all of them were taking from their influences, but they were listening through headphones with little filters over the ears labeled "sad."

The Long, Dark Shadow of Emo
For the sake of convenience (but not accuracy), let's call this the emo influence. You can call it whatever you like - borecore, mope-rock, etc. - but there's no denying that a discomfortingly large portion of the music being made today by "the kids" has a very gray undertone, a sort of assumed stance of despair. And not even desperate despair, which is interesting - just kind of, you know, despair. It's the musical mode as much as it is the lyrical: Sure, we're sort of unspecific yelling about Things Being Bad, but we're also throwing together a lot of muddled chords, indistinct melodies, bleeding basslines, sloppy drums. It hits a certain drone of loudness but doesn't really progress much, and never hits the spots I'm looking for.
Now, I could spend another six pages critiquing this reflex, but it also seems like a reasonably obvious issue - either it annoys you or it doesn't, and my ranting about it probably isn't going to change anyone's mind much. But what is interesting about it is the phenomenon suggested by the title: the way it's leveling out all of these disparate genres into this sort of sad glop, this common sound that ultimately unites seemingly unrelated projects.
The weird thing is that defaulting to depression wouldn't seem like an obvious thing to do. Look at all the styles I name-check above: none of them except for hardcore are even 50 percent sadness. For every mopey dadrock band to misinterpret Radiohead - more on that in a moment - you have a wholly joyous song like Idlewild's "Roseability." For every asshole who hasn't gotten over his depressed teenage years and ignores all the dance in Joy Division, you have the innumerable post-punk bands that traded in joy, or at least anger - Blondie, the Talking Heads, the Raincoats, Kid Creole, etc. For every band that can only hear the depression and romantic complaint in Elvis Costello and the Smiths, there's a whole pile of songs attesting to their rapture and irreverence. There's no particular requirement of genre fidelity to love these styles and sing sad songs. (Indeed, one of my great disappointments at dance-punk is its undifferentiated mood of Blah, which The Rapture at its best wholly overcomes.)
It seems particularly weird when you consider the bands that are supposedly at the root of all the emo-ness in the air right now: Rites of Spring and Weezer. But RoS, like most of the "old-school emo" brethren, were an ecstatic experience, full of unrestrained, passionate emotion; this didn't mean they were good, but it's far more reminiscent of that desperate despair I was talking about earlier. And sure, Weezer has some sad-ish stuff, but so much of it is so damn happy, and even the sad songs are clear, crisp and wonderful. "El Scorcho" is seemingly the apotheosis of the modern-emo inspiration, lyrically, but it's a giddy, screamy mix of confession and grinning guitar, with far more in common with RoS than Dashboard Confessional, and even more in common with Cheap Trick.

Hardcore, Grunge and Anger
I think the key to understanding why we're in this state comes partially in recognizing that a lot of the emo urge right now represents a simple repressed pop urge in the youth, and so mod-emo is an ideologically correct alternative that's really just mopey variations on what's come before in pop. But we can also come closer to an understanding by adding a few more musical requirements to this particular canon.
For one thing, there's the simple fact that hardcore, originally the enemy of emo, gradually enveloped its former nemesis in the hardcore aesthetic of contained aggression. Emo kids today get derided as pussies even by already pretty pussified indie kids, but Chris Carrabba isn't any more a threat to masculinity than the Cure or the Smiths, unlike emocore. Emocore wasn't a gesture of tragic romanticism like modern emo, but clutchingly embraced awkwardness and loudness simultaneously, and that loss of self would be way valuable to a lot of today's music audience and makers.
Also, no matter how they want to portray it, no emo kid got their entire musical education from Dischord Records; there were other major elements in their musical educations. One has already been tagged as an influence of rap-metal stuff, but I think that given the confluence here between modern interpretations of genres, we need to add it to the inspiration of the indieground: grunge. Grunge was, in its generic form, a celebration of heroiny moping, and that legitimization of self-indulgent self-pity (along with, again, a healthy dose of misinterpretation - if all you can hear in Nirvana is the self-pity, you're missing a lot of pop, a lot of giddiness) is certainly a key influence of the attitude you hear underlying a lot of the music being put out there right now "by the people."

Master of the Puppets?
I think along with Weezer and RoS, you have to add Radiohead as a key specific-band influence on today's sound. The band's most obvious influence has been on the Brits, who do soaring melodrama well anyway, but I think either Radiohead's attitude or the attitude that leads to Radiohead moving a hell of a lot of units is what's leading so much of this. Radiohead does a lot of things well, and so you can pick and choose, but as much as I see it as fundamentally happy and hopeful, let's be honest, it sure doesn't come off that way at first. Radiohead takes these semi-ambiguous (sometimes melodic and pretty, sometimes dour, sometimes discordant) backings and puts a grim top-level on it, usually in the form of the vocals.
But again, this is largely a misinterpretation: Radiohead can get away with it because the grimness is translated through Thom Yorke's voice, which can throw out a whole lot of beauty and hope and transcendence with even the most gray melody and lyrics. Very few people have his voice, but a lot of people are still trying to reproduce the Radiohead effect (though not the Radiohead sound, please note) with a different set of tools and coming out with sort of a bad pastiche of the way they make self-conscious dimwits feel.
But more so than any specific band or genre, I think the root cause of all this is a particular aesthetic assumption and a particular practicality.
The assumption is that sadness is more noble than happiness, and more real than anger; something sad is just, to many people's minds, more valid, more artistic, more worthy of attention. I think this is true for a good 75 percent of the audience for music, and it's truly unfortunate for the forward progress of the art form. I understand that it's sort of cyclical and that the attitude is in part a reaction to the smiling, plastic attitude that permeated the music of the late '90s (a time period from which, unsurprisingly, dour bands like the American Music Club and Red House Painters are now being critically extracted), but I still don't like it, and I still think it's gone on too far. I think people could really do interesting things with these influences, and I think people have, but by and large it's just not happening on a large scale.
The practical reality, of course, is that sad is easier to do than happy. We're still slackers at heart.
So yes, it's not that I don't like sad music, because I do, very much so - Dirty Three, Leonard Cohen and Cordero number among my favorite artists. But the "add-sadness" formula a lot of people seem to be applying to their music these days, I do not like so much.
And despite my restraint, enraged-placard-making-wise, I am getting pretty damn sick of indie rock, which seems to be one of two major loci (along with mod-emo) of the sadness-as-authenticity thing. (And yes, I recognize that getting sick of indie rock is a big part of being an indie kid, although this clearly crosses genre borders; I think it's legitimate, plus this feels like a real breaking point right about now, especially if I have to hear too many more goddamn unsigned bands.) It's this, plus the weird aesthetic morality about recording and playing live and anti-catchiness and community-over-quality and all that shit that make me want to sign to Columbia and call up Tom Lord-Alge and Bob Rock and Trevor Horn and the Matrix and Linda Perry and make a rap-rock-teen-pop album containing nothing but songs about various consumer brands. I will call it Pop Fucking Music and it will sell a million copies and you will all be sorry, suckers.

Mike Barthel

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Soul Cultivation

Porch to the People Explores the Gospel Blues Roots

originally published April 7, 2004

Answer if you can,
Won't somebody tell me,
What is the soul of a man?
Blind Willie Johnson

Many moons have passed since the seed planted by early blues players blossomed into the towering, expansive tree of rock and roll. No matter how far and wide these branches of rock have grown and continue to grow over the years, their roots in the South remain as strong and vital to Southern culture today as ever.
While only a handful of blues groups playing in Athens continue to fertilize these roots,
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the majority of these players rely on drums and amplified guitars to get their message across. There are some among blues enthusiasts, however, that prefer to reach far below the surface to the elements that are the soul of the blues: voices, acoustic guitar, blues harp, and a little foot-stompin'.
Dave 'Freelove' Mundy (meet him and you'll understand) and Clark Vreeland are two local players that prefer to leave the pedals and reverb behind to instead bring the sounds of the porch to the people.
"The louder you get, the more gizmos you get," said Vreeland, one half of the blues-gospel duo Porch to the People. "There's no bells and whistles."
With Vreeland on acoustic guitar and Freelove on harmonica, the pair revives the emotion of the nearly century-old sounds of gospel blues in both their original and cover songs. They met during a show at the now-closed Bottleworks bakery/ café T'Cakes and discovered their common interest in this often overlooked corner of the blues. Ever since, they have been making their audience stomp, clap, and holler in the more singer/ songwriter-friendly, relaxed venues in town.
Upon listening to their live recording, one would think that the voices surely belong to aged, spiritual black men rather than two soulful young white cats. Among the folding chairs and dim spotlights of the cozy Flicker Theatre, the porch pair captures the attention of their listeners from the outset of the show. After five minutes at the show, it becomes pleasantly clear that Freelove and Vreeland see themselves and their listeners as equal participants in an experience that they've taken to calling "porch music." As the slide guitar, harmonica and sultry harmonies seep through the speakers into the atmosphere, the entire audience amplifies Freelove's stomp with the tapping of their feet or clapping of their hands.
"We're trying to eliminate the line between the performer and the audience," said Freelove. "We're trying to express the intention of healing through music and offer an invitation to heal as a congregation."
While the porch pair's passion for blues is apparent in their range of songs, Vreeland and Freelove are quick to express their appreciation and respect for the old-time blues players who preceded them decades ago. They lay praise on the musical confessions of long-passed blues legends, such as Sonny Boy Williamson III, Blind Willie Johnson and Earl King. They credit these innovators with helping to craft the pure, honest music that continues to move people nearly a century later. "Men of worth are often overlooked," Vreeland said. The duo's belief in the power and simplicity of the gospel blues drives their ambitions in their own porch music.
"The soul of the music is in the grassroots," said Freelove. "Blues is not about celebrating feeling bad. Gospel blues takes that feeling and gives it positive direction."
When discussing the history and present path of the blues, Freelove and Vreeland both are firm in their belief that the blues is an art form that is accessible to everyone and anyone. They blame the music industry for exploiting blues performers and molding the blues as a homogeneous music. As any blues fan knows, the music contains several different genres that are a reflection of the region in which they originate and is molded by the personal style of the player. "It's all mashed into one category because of the people who control and market the music," Vreeland said.
While many of today's players and fans are drawn to the loud electrified sounds of Chicago blues and modern Delta blues, they rarely explore the subtle simplicity of the gospel blues. Athenians attending blues shows often find that the main outlets for blues are larger venues with electrified bands. When the smoky bar scene and overpowering roar of a generic blues band begin to wane on your patience and eardrums, don't fret; there is a respite.
"The solution is going to be back-to-the-porch parties," Freelove said, "to where the people can have the music and own it."
Porch to the People is a well-versed, good-natured duo that wants nothing more than to bring the soul and culture of the South back to life and back to the people. Do your soul - and Freelove and Vreeland - a favor by helping them fertilize the roots.

Andy Grabel

WHO: Porch to the People, M. Luchtan
WHERE: Flicker Theatre & Bar
WHEN: Thursday, April 8
HOW MUCH: Call

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A Face To The Name

The Lost Art of Album Covers

originally published April 7, 2004

The notes screaming from Al Kooper's Hammond organ on Bob Dylan's "Like A Rolling Stone" opening Highway 61 Revisited are so perfect and haunting that even when listening to acoustic or stripped-down versions of the song, the phantom notes ring in the air. Likewise, it is equally hard to imagine any other cover to the record besides the one that lingers in our minds of a hyper-candid photograph of Dylan, lounging in what seems like a hotel room, togged up in a motorcycle t-shirt and perfectly contrasting blue silk button-up arguing for attention. His countenance implies exhaustion from his own coolness and in the background stand the legs and torso of a lingering photographer dangling a camera. This image, ingrained as the visual symbol of the record seems like an odd choice of photographs to use for a cover, an outtake, but works wonderfully with the new sound of the record in a time when Dylan was being labeled a traitor to the folk world. Some things become inseparable from the larger entity they compliment. So maybe it's not the best name, but what else could The Beach Boys have been called?
Nowhere is this inseparability truer than in the vast, and often overlooked, art of creating album covers. Imagine an alternate album cover to The Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers, Nirvana's Nevermind, Springsteen's Born In The U.S.A, or Led Zeppelin IV. What we know now as the cover of The Beatles' epochal Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, perhaps the quintessential album cover, was narrowly chosen over a less grandiose cover created by a different group of artists.
Album covers are probably looked at more closely than your average museum painting, often studied for the entire length of the record or more. And yet the artists behind them get very little credit. Particularly in Athens, where there are nearly more musicians than non-musicians, we are remiss to overlook these important contributions to the music. I dare you to listen to Automatic for the People and resist picturing Weaver D's now infamous sign, or play Neutral Milk Hotel's In The Aeroplane Over The Sea without seeing a drum-faced woman and a child wave good-bye (or hello, depending on your constitution) in early century beachwear, or the "Flying Victrola" on the record itself. The covers for albums by The Drive-By Truckers, The Packway Handle Band, Elf Power and Ishues are among some of the most impressive from local bands in the past few years.

Trucker Love
Almost as distinctive as their inspired redneck rock are The Drive-By Truckers' album covers. Wes Freed is the artist responsible for their last two releases, Southern Rock Opera and
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Decoration Day. Based out of Richmond, Virginia and having grown up in Shenandoah Valley, Freed is a virtual scholar of southern oddities, drawing heavily on the strange people he met and things he saw as a child. The Truckers' album covers are good representations of his body of work: spooky narrative, comic-like pieces created with either pen, ink and watercolor or acrylic on board. Inspired by some of the underground comics of the '60s and '70s, visionaries such as R. Crumb and Robert Williams, and painters like Phillip Guston, it is the kind of art that would translate well into a tattoo (which has been done and displayed on his website). His art has the same intelligent and well-crafted, but pleasantly simple and accessible feel as The Drive-By Truckers' music.
Freed met The Truckers when his band at the time, Dirt Ball, shared a bill with them at a festival in Richmond. Right away he felt like they had known each other forever and his house became the crash-pad for the band when they would pass through his neck of the woods. The Truckers couldn't help but notice his artwork all over the walls and thought it would work very well for a record cover. Freed felt a huge connection to their music and was more than happy to lend his art to the project. He listened closely to the music and exchanged ideas with the band about what they'd like to see in the album art. The result is the empty highways, naked trees, crashed cars, and spooky owls found on Southern Rock Opera.
Having branded the covers of over ten releases with his art - for various bands including Cracker's Gentleman's Blues - Wes Freed is a veteran of album art. He feels what makes a good album cover is its relationship with the music, which is why he thinks his art lends itself so well to The Truckers' style. "When I first heard their music I was floored," he said. "I was hung over from cheap beer and it almost knocked me over. When I met them we just seemed to get each other. I think it is an accident that my art goes with their music and their music with my art, but a happy accident." Presently, Freed is working on projects including art for The Drive-By Truckers' upcoming record, The Dirty South.

Bluegrass Heaven
The cover of The Packway Handle Band's recently released debut album, Chaff Harvest, depicts the band's instruments laying in agreed focus toward the horizon amidst a sprawling wheat field.
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It is a beautiful scene with a humbling mountain of clouds towering over a flat western landscape. The unmistakably bluegrass album cover is an oil painting by Athens artist Phillip Adams.
Adams got his BFA in painting from UGA several years ago and has worked as an artist in town since. He has known members of The Packway Handle Band for years and was a fans of their work, and they of his. So when they needed an album cover, it just made sense to employ him for the job. When Packway first approached Adams with the idea, they didn't have the title yet, but one of them envisioned a field so he worked off of that theme. Chaff Harvest shows off Packway's original and traditional bluegrass built around strong harmonies and interesting arrangements with a crispness hard to find in a lot of bluegrass music. In this way, Adams' illustration compliments the music wonderfully with its rich colors and textures and wide-open feel.
Although the painting on Chaff Harvest is not very representative of Adams' body of work, it does contain elements of his unique style of abstracted presentation with a realist sensibility. One of his recent paintings, called "Star-Fishing in a Warrior's Box," for example, portrays an arm with just a partial profile reaching out of a staggeringly realistic cardboard box, holding a piece of string hooked to several stars resembling a child's drawing. Adams' paintings have the rare ability to make observers happy to be unsure of themselves and offer as much as they are willing to take.
Phillip Adams has lent a hand to several album covers including Kevin Smith, Peri Mason, and the BusBoat Compilation. Music plays greatly into his painting, songs having the similar ability to tell stories in the abstract and making words or images fit into the composition. He recently met up with The Packway Handle Band on their recent tour out West while doing some freelance work in Oklahoma City and rode along for the Colorado leg of the journey. He is presently back in Athens painting and working on upcoming album cover projects for Stories Below and BusBoat Records.

Creature Comforts
Even if you have never heard their music before, if you live in Athens, you have probably heard of the band Elf Power. Joanna Vass, the artist responsible for the dreamy, surreal cover of their 2002 release Creatures hadn't heard their music until they approached her about the project.
Vass received her MFA in painting from UGA in 2000 and regularly had exhibits up about town.
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The painting, which she now just refers to as "Creatures," was on display at Bottleworks around the time that Elf Power was finishing up the record. Andrew Reiger, the band's frontman, saw it and thought the piece would work well for the album cover. She confessed embarrassedly that she hadn't heard their music before, but she says they were gracious enough to give her an early copy of the album and invited her to see some shows. After hearing their music, she was more than happy to lend them her painting for the cover of Creatures and has been a fan of their music since.
She agrees that the painting and the music work well together, but is not entirely sure why. "I don't know why the painting struck Andrew," she said. "But I think that they share a surreal quality and that's what makes it a good marriage, although, independently of each other they would probably have different meanings." The Creatures painting is similar to what you might find in the rest of her work, often depicting amorphous creatures and a vulnerable figure, usually a child.
In her opinion, the thing that makes an album cover great is how memorable it is. Often, for her, it is simple and bold imagery, like the Warhol image on The Velvet Underground record that is most memorable. She doesn't think that her painting necessarily fits that formula, but is glad to have contributed to Elf Power's long tradition of top-notch album art. Joanna Vass is working on a long-term art project in Los Angeles at the moment but plans to eventually return to Athens.

Samurai Hip Hop
Chances are if you have seen a poster for local, rising hip hop acts like artist Ishues, or the group Herb and Skills, you have seen the artwork of Ron Lewis. It has an unmistakable urban-samurai theme,
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which is consistent with the albums of those artists. Lewis is actually a trained painter, working with both oils and acrylics, but uses pencil and ink to create the images. He began making t-shirts for the local hip hop label, Attica Sound, and by something of an accident became the label's main designer. The samurai images were actually just sketches that the Attica folks found and really liked.
When Lewis began working on Ishues' debut album, Reality Flow, he was very mindful of capturing the feeling that Ishues was striving for. He experimented with three or four different styles of drawings before he and Ishues felt good about the project. Only after working on Ishues' Reality Flow and Herb and Skills' The Gathering, did Lewis notice that other hip hop artists have employed samurai-type art in their work. He attributes this somewhat mysterious phenomenon to the fact that, "hip hop artists, like samurai, are fighting for themselves, just in different ways - and it looks good."
Lewis is one to know the importance of a good album cover, often buying a record based on that fact alone. Some of his favorite album art includes The Cars' Heartbreak City and the new cut-up, foldout Shins record. Right now, Lewis is creating an album cover for metal band, Dire'z Eve, and will continue working on upcoming album projects for Attica Sound.
It is possible that the images on an album are arbitrary and we simply add our own positive or negative associations with the album cover based on our feelings of the music it visually represents. But meshing music and art is an art form in itself. Perhaps the worst part of the vinyl-to-tape-to-CD transition over the years is loss of canvas size from the large LP cover, now replaced by the much smaller CD insert.
I was given this advice recently by a friend: "Always judge a book by its cover, because if the writer or publishers have no taste in art, what do they know about literature?" Although it seems somewhat counterintuitive, or at least contrary to popular advice and a deep-rooted cliché, I believe that to be true - especially as far as albums are concerned. When there are so many independent releases coming out all the time, adding to the endless sea of choices, the lost art of the album cover can lead your eyes where your ears long to go.

A. Jack Tally

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Tickle Your Fancy

Lowery Gallery Presents "The Dildo Show"

originally published April 7, 2004

If Loop 10 is Athens-Clarke County's testicles, then Highway 29 North from the Classic City through Danielsville to the Lowery Photography and Art Gallery could be its erect penis. And how appropriate to travel the length of a long winding phallus in order to view a roomful of penis-themed art at its head.
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The majority of the beauty in "The Dildo Show" resides in the juxtaposition of the gallery's calm country setting with the exhibit's inherent racy implications. The physical location of this show appears as much a part of its content as anything else. It is unexpected, inconspicuous and a little bit tricky.
The hard part about making penises an art show's focus is the task of reconsidering, and perhaps even overcoming, cliché themes. For the most part, ideas of envy, power and greed do appear, making the show somewhat predictable, but entertaining nonetheless. Joni Younkins-Herzog commands attention with a five-foot metal penis as the gun barrel on an otherwise unimposing military tank. The anatomically correct rendering of a circumcised penis gives new meaning to the phrase, "That thing will poke your eye out." The simple wooden tank's yellow color gives the machine a relatively fleshy tone compared to its camouflaged counterpart. W's decorate the tank's midsection, transforming the sculpture from a general statement on war to an expression about America's current administration, the war in Iraq and the war on terrorism.
A series of five drawings by Wendi Flowers center around the image of a rooster, entitled "Cock." Nothing about this sketch even hints at the penis besides the picture's title. The bird stands erect in a field of white. There is no barnyard, no hens and no little chicks. Next to "Cock" hang "Wrestling Cock" and "Batman Cock."
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In both cases the subjects are fairly colorless relative to their imposing members and size-wise, Flowers is very generous in her renderings. The wrestler's red Spandex mask shrinks in comparison to his long pink cock bending up from between his legs. Meanwhile, Batman battles his thick, steel-rod-like penis, trying to beat it back into his gray Spandex uniform with a "TWUNGG!" It must be difficult to be a super-hero with a hard-on (probably causing more problems than are being solved). Flowers' drawings succeed because they are both comical and unexpected.
With her hanging sculpture, "Hand Tools," Theresa Marie Sporer gives the term hardware new meaning. Three screwdrivers, one Phillips and two flatheads with pink fleshy handles, hang on the wall. Not only are tools stereotypically associated with men, but these tools are particularly phallic too. The facts that screwdrivers screw and have heads make this piece as much a play on words as it is a visual statement. The most notable (and entertaining) things about works by C. Keen Zero and Mustapha Goldstein are the tongue-in-cheek titles and side notes accompanying the artwork. Neither Keen Zero nor Goldstein is afraid to have fun with their penises. For Keen Zero's "It Wasn't What I Thought," a little penis peeks its tiny head through the round opening of a big ceramic donut and he has also forged two pipes into penises for "Let's Get High and Fuck."
Relating to his art becomes less of a struggle because he refrains from being blatantly political or power-driven in these pieces. Goldstein approaches the subject in much the same way but has a number of pieces that play with politics. Two short, flaccid-looking penises entitled "George Bush And Dick Cheney Executive Action Paperweights" come with the directive: "Go ahead...play with them like they play with you. Feel their compassionate conservatism."
This exhibit should really be called "The Penis Show" or "Balls on the Walls." Technically, it does not involve dildos and isn't an interactive show (to the dismay of some friends), but it might just tickle your fancy anyway - depending on what turns you on. There will be a closing reception at the gallery on Sunday, April 11, from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m.

Debbie Michaud

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Landslide

A Report From The Street

originally published April 7, 2004

"I'm a Pisces. The fish, they say, that swims against the current and makes it to the top of the stream enjoys great success. Like going against the flow of life: everything that gets put down to you to accept - rejecting it instead - and finding the truth of yourself. That's real hard, and it's going against the current all the way."
As John Newsome speaks, the city writhes around us. A hundred cars on Broad St. growl their way past, as dozens more sit in waiting on College. Passersby go about business as usual:
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into Barnett's Newsstand for the new paper and some cigarettes, across the street to Blue Sky, Planet Smoothie, or Starbucks. It's about 2:30 in the afternoon, and Athens is at its busiest - save when the sun recedes below the horizon, and a different breed come out to celebrate the evening.
"Okay. Right on off, becoming aware, I realized that society is not where it's at. You live a nice, comfortable life, but it's not - really not - where it's at. It's not the truth; it's not the knowledge of life. It's - well, what leads to these other things."
John looks at me to see if I'm paying attention, and I look back at him: a mop of blonde hair that doesn't seem to be quite the right color hangs down in front of his sun-burnt, weathered face. He has all of his teeth, as far as I can tell, which is more than can be said of most homeless people. A silver cross hangs around his neck on a small chain, resting on his shirt; his arms are resting on his camouflage pants; his hands hold a cigarette in their long fingers; uncut and dirty fingernails flick the filter, sending ash into the breeze to find a spot on the streets of Athens.
Almost everyone who walks by is going somewhere. They may check out the windows of storefronts or the specials of the day at the restaurants - written in chalk on boards placed near the doorways. John doesn't do any of this. Even if he wanted to, he would not be allowed inside any of these places. The streets are the only place for him, the only place to stay.
Three years ago, John's mother died. He says an aunt got the estate and now denies John and his brother the right to speak to their father. He and his second wife split up, after nearly a decade and a half. John gave her everything without a fight, on account of his two sons, aged 14 and 11.
"I just didn't want to do anything to hurt them. When my mother died, it was like a domino effect, and I ain't recovered. I just got weak and down with everything. I ain't even tried to recover, really. It's just, like, see how far you can fall. Now I'm out on the streets for the third time in my life."
In the '70s, after Vietnam, John returned to Atlanta with only one thing on his agenda. "My intentions were just becoming a heroin addict," he laughs, "That was my goal. I done that. It had some rough sides to it. I ended up in prison."
He became well known in Atlanta's drug culture. He dealt to support his habit. "But," he maintains, "I sold to dealers. I didn't go to schoolyards."
Living on the streets then, and again after he split up with his first wife, was more a matter of choice than John's current downfall.
"It's all experience," he explains, "Any other time, I could recover when I wanted to, but this time, it's like, I'm so far down I can't get up. Everybody is turned on me; every door's been closed. Some of these people make it a lifestyle, a way of living. With me, it's not been that. I mean all this, to me, has a meaning. I'm not gonna be down, you know, never for a long time. I'm being taught lessons for something I've gotta do later. It's not a common thing, I mean, tailspin, and all."
Now two police officers walk down the street toward us, one tall and lanky, the other short and stout. The tall one seems oblivious to our presence, but the short one tries to stare us down through his too-cool shades. I look right back at him, though, not aggressively, just looking. He turns his head to maintain eye contact, almost to the point of turning around and walking backwards. I wonder if it even crosses his mind to just nod hello.
"Continual hassle," John says. "I mean, you're out here, and you're homeless. None of these businesses will let you even use the restroom or anything. It's hard to even find a place to shower. If you go to the only place you can for natural functions, that's an offense to go to jail. If they catch you back in the bushes just drinking a beer, that's an offense to go to jail. That's open container. And you have nowhere to go; what are you supposed to do?
Nobody wants you around. Churches will try to sometimes do a little something, because they know they're supposed to - the Bible says they're supposed to; but for the most part these people got their lives, they got their houses; they don't care. Out here on the street the only life there is is to eat and drink, and pass another day and try to stay warm when it's cold, stay dry if it's raining. I mean, those are basic facts of existence. Humans are animals, just like every other animal, no matter who wants to color it how and place themselves wherever. I mean, we all need to eat, have to release our food, and it's all animal. It's all, you know, fucking animal. This is just a more animal existence than what most people lead."
We take a break, just sitting and smoking our cigarettes. A sign is stuck on a window across from us, reading "No Restrooms," only someone has placed other stickers over the "No." I point it out to John, and he laughs.
"Yeah, that was my buddy, just fucking around... You know, Jesus Christ was homeless, himself. Let's not at all forget that. Most of those that are of Christ come in a similar fashion to him, whereas man's law, and persons of society just look down their noses at 'em and put 'em down. Jesus Christ said, after people done him the way he was treated, he said, 'We shall see how they shall treat the one that I shall send.'
Nobody enjoys this, man. Nobody likes being put in jail. Most homeless people go to jail over and over again. Nobody enjoys this; that's why they just get fucked up all the time. But it's just a part of life, just like being rich is a part of life. I mean, it's two different things entirely, but they're both things. Having money ain't no crime. I'm not against rich people; I'd just like to see hearts aright. I'd like to see everybody do unto others as they would have them do unto them. But this world has never learned that lesson. They never listen to the most wise being that ever passed through the flesh. If they did, then we wouldn't have all these problems: ill feelings, wars and fights. You can't straighten out or make something right that is wronged by the doings of people and the hearts of people. Hearts are either hardened to destruction, or hearts are softened unto mercy. Most of the hearts in this world are bent on destruction. They're hard, man... they're hard."
After a few more minutes of small talk with John and his friend, Frank, I remember that I only had a dime for the parking meter. I say good-bye as rain starts to fall and head back towards my car. Pedestrians are walking faster towards their destinations or huddling under the canopies of shops lining the street. As I get into my car, out of the rain and wind, I see John across the street, pulling on his hood and taking a drag from his cigarette.

Greg Cole

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The Oconee War

Georgia's Push Into The Hunting Lands Of The Creeks Causes Conflict (Part One)

originally published April 7, 2004

The Oconee River basin - with the future site of Athens at its upper end - was the beloved and essential hunting ground of the Creek people. In the period between the end of the Revolution and the formation of the United States of America, Georgia, was a part of the loose national government under the Articles of Confederation. It was a frontier state growing north and west from the coast as new settlers poured in after the war. In this series writer Steven Scurry traces the conflict between the land-hungry Georgians and the Creek nation.

Gathering Storm

Georgia's desperately won independence came with a price after the American Revolution: a frightened citizenry, displaced and homeless war refugees, and a shattered economy. New state officials faced armed and war-tempered veterans impatient to get the lands promised them for their martial services. These ominous pressures moved state leaders to cast land-hungry eyes west across the Oconee River.

Steven Scurry

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Desire for Oconee River lands had played a role in the colonial government's downfall. Even before the Revolution, Georgia's land lust had largely alienated the confederated tribal towns of the "Creek nation" who held the Oconee lands dear as a hunting preserve and a buffer between their towns and the white settlers.

British officials had played on this alienation to encourage a Creek-British alliance in opposition to the rebelling Georgians during the Revolutionary War. That war had only magnified the friction over the Oconee lands, and Georgia was now determined to get them by whatever means.

Reporting to the state's Executive Council in the summer of 1783, Georgia Governor Lyman Hall stated that Creek leadership had "utterly declined" to part with Oconee land. He cited recent incidents of citizen aggression on visiting Creek peace delegates as well as the ongoing incursions into Creek country. Governor Hall warned, "… that unless some conciliatory plan is adopted, we shall soon be precipitated into a war, which will greatly distress if not ruin the present settlers of this state."

New Georgia settlers were frequently called "Virginians" by the Creeks, citing their country (state) of origin. But use of the term gained currency as an insult among the Creeks. To be called a "Virginian" was to be associated with greed, aggression and incivility.

Infamous Treaty

Instead of pursuing the conciliatory policy strongly recommended by Governor Hall, upstate leaders in Augusta took an aggressive tack with a smaller, more pliable Creek trade delegation. Facilitated by the incorrigible Elijah Clarke (for whom Clarke County was named), a re-proposed treaty made peace and trade conditional on a Creek land cession. The Creek delegates represented only two confederated towns (neutral during the Revolution) and for these towns held authority to confirm peace and restore the war-interrupted trade. The proposal became a demand on the surprised and reluctant chiefs, and while they pointed out their obvious inability to represent all interested Creek towns in matters as grave and hazardous as land transfers, the Georgians were compelling. They wanted Oconee land and without it they would deny a regular peace with the Creeks. Such was the pretense of these rogue treaty-makers that their "proposal" included a cession of land in the upper Savannah River basin previously ceded to South Carolina by Cherokee leaders.

A three-day detention in Augusta, assisted by that ubiquitous lubricant of treaty making, rum, ended when the homesick town chiefs "stained the Augusta Treaty with quill marks."

The delegates, in a more collected frame of mind, subsequently reminded Georgia leaders of their conditions for taking the Augusta "talks." Tallassee King insisted that the proposed cession would not extend west of the Oconee's "first water" (the north fork), while Nea Mico of Kasitah, preserved his town's hunting rights to the area, at least until homes were built. For these men, the fulcrum of the Augusta talks was trade, pushed by their towns' growing frustration over the lack of it from Georgia. As for land, they both urged the necessity of a sustained Georgia lobby in the form of an agent sent into the nation to promote the treaty for a general confirmation.

While Georgia leaders usually clung to the exclusive working of a treaty's written form, the Creeks tended to synthesize all official talks into an understanding of new arrangements and relationships. For Creek leaders, these meetings were not simply matters of ink-stained papers in coded language, but, more significantly, symbolic exchanges of gifts and tokens (decorated belts, prized feathers and pelts) meant to fix the speeches in memory. Held during a talk, these tokens, when offered, obligated the recipient to the conditions, maintenance and remembrance of the talk. A sad refrain, too often heard among the Creeks, was that Georgia leaders had thrown their talks away.

Rebuffed by other interested Creek towns, Georgia officials broke wise and long established protocol in their Creek diplomacy to endow the Augusta Treaty marks with an authority representative of the whole Creek leadership and society. Back in the nation, a very sober council of over 30 towns excoriated Nea Mico and Tallassee King for their dealings with the land-hungry Georgians. The council sent the state another rejection of the proposed cession and pointed out that the men were clearly not invested to cede Creek land. The council strongly implied that conflict in this matter was the state's to avoid or invite. Lyman Hall's warning was prescient.

Oconee Lands

An early 18th Century Creek war with South Carolina, ignited by unscrupulous traders and suffered by Charlestown citizens, ended with the relocation of several Creek towns. Afterward, the Oconee basin served as a buffer between the expanding tribal towns centered along the Chattahoochee River to the west and the fickle English settlements over the Savannah River to the east. By mid-century the Oconee themselves had generally left the basin, establishing settlements in the Florida peninsula and later becoming a nucleus for the emerging Seminole communities.

During this period, the Oconee basin became a focus in the Creek leather trade. European markets valued deerskin leather for myriad uses, and the brisk transatlantic trade brought manufactured goods and textiles into the Creek towns.

The trade was central to meet the changing needs in Creek society, and so hunting preserves were aggressively protected. But devotion to the land was more than economics and security. The land was distinguished as "Beloved," a cultural designation reserved for the singularly exceptional. This bond was highlighted in candid testimony before a United States Congressional agent sent among the Creeks to investigate the escalating conflict. Yoholo Mico, a principal chief of Coweta, recited a detailed history of English settlement to orient the conflict with the state. With particular reference to the Oconee he concluded, "Our lands are our life and breath. If we part with them, we part with our blood."

The one provision in the Augusta Treaty that Georgia officials were determined to realize was the state's new land claim. "Virginians" were already marking trees in the basin and implicated Georgia leaders were growing anxious over Congressional inquiries into the state's treaty-making adventures.

Relentless Pressure

Determined to accelerate the pace of Oconee settlement, the Georgia legislature modified a 1783 land law the following year to open a special land office court in Augusta. The president of the state's Executive Council, John Habersham, supervised. Such was the land craze that riots threatened on the streets outside. When survey warrants were slated to be issued, pandemonium broke out as a mob rushed the land office, grabbing fistfuls of warrants. The stunned office personnel could only step aside to safety and watch hundreds of warrants fly out into the dusty streets of Augusta. Reporting on the ordeal, the land office clerk, David Rees, observed, "... I degrade the most unruly tempest by a comparison with the savage disposition and brutal temper of lawless and ungovernable men, subject to no control, strangers to order and regularity, and averse to everything that opposes their will."

John Habersham demonstrated the political dissonance that prevailed in the state, dividing his busy schedule between the land office and visiting Creeks led by Nea Mico. After reassuring these Kasitah townsmen that the state still intended to fulfill the trade talks according to the recent treaty, he hastily ended the meeting with a generous gift of rum.

Drawn by the clamor outside the land office, Nea Mico fell in with the impatient and protesting settlers, freely sharing his liquid fortune. Habersham's unintended "keg party" trumped even Elijah Clarke's best efforts at order. But events soon took a more dangerous turn when the murder of a Kasitah hunter on Oconee land proved the lie: the Augusta Treaty was invalid and unenforceable.

Forty thousand acres of Creek land, leased and sold, would initially fund the University of Georgia's endowment. By the school's delayed 1801 opening, the blood price was far greater. What bitter irony that the university colors, red and black, were the Creek colors of war.

Trade And Guns

At the close of the American Revolution, Britain withdrew from the Florida peninsula and Spain resumed jurisdiction over St. Augustine and Pensacola, two of three major ports in the Creek trade. The new political dynamic was met with typical if not fully intended adroitness by the Creek confederation. In serving their own trade and security needs, the towns played off competing American and European interests. Tallassee King's early efforts to restore a Georgia trade were failing, and his own tribesmen were deriding him as "all talk and no trade." The state's poverty and its aggressive settlement policies were proving inimical to Creek interests, and regardless of who held the governorship, the "Virginians" were on the move.

To effectively counter Georgia incursions, Creek men needed arms to match the Americans. The Spanish, eager to be in good standing with the Creeks and also concerned over American expansion, were willing to provide them. These issues were worked out in a Pensacola conference in the summer of 1784. In gaining Creek allies, the Spanish were more secure in their Florida holdings. British merchants were permitted to continue trade through Florida ports and the Creeks were assured the firepower to defend their lands.

The Pensacola conference was largely authored by the enigmatic Creek mestizo, Alexander McGillivray - "Alec" among his Creek countrymen. His father had been a successful Scots trader and merchant before the war. His mother was a member of the influential Wind clan and by Creek matrilineal custom gave Alec family and allies throughout the confederated towns. Educated in Charlestown and employed in an Augusta trading house, he returned to the Creek country a loyalist during the Revolution. His lifestyle there, if not his sentiments, would come to more resemble that of a Carolina planter than his fellow Creeks. Financial ties with Florida merchants led some to accuse him of conflicting if not sinister interests, but he had few economic options (he was no hunter) short of abandoning his mother's homeland or renouncing his father's lifestyle. In this he embodied a growing class schism which had serious, long-term consequences in Creek society. Lingering resentments from the Revolution shadowed his dealings with Georgia, but following that war his was certainly not the only ax to grind. Whatever his personal motives may have been, he found and forged common cause with other Creek leaders.

Alec's unrivaled ability to arm the Creek towns and to open trade for them was the basis of his influence among his tribesman. His education and diplomatic talents fixed his reputation among American and European leaders, but while he charmed members of Congress and later the President, he enraged Georgia leaders into plotting his demise.

McGillivray's numerous letters reveal a personal struggle with an emerging American identity concerned with questions of autonomy, authority and the uncertain future. These pertinent concerns weighed heavily in the minds of his fellow Creeks as they struggled to adapt to sweeping continental changes. In a letter to James White, a U.S. agent to the Creeks, he wrote, "I aspire to the honest ambition of meriting the appellation of the preserver of my country, equally with those chiefs among you, whom from acting on such principles, you have exalted to the highest pitch of glory and, if, after every peaceable mode of obtaining a redress of grievances having proved fruitless, the having recourse to arms to obtain it, be marks of the savage, and not of the soldier, what savages must the Americans be, and how much undeserved applause have your Cincinnatus, your Fabius obtained."

Inevitable Conflict

Diplomacy was not Georgia's forte. While state officials dismissed Creek protests, expressing little concern for new Georgia settlers, Creek leaders took the initiative to directly warn the intruding Americans of their trespasses.

There were no surprises when the Creeks took action in the spring of 1785. They did as they said they would. Settlement removal was their intended strategy: fire was their principal tool. The looted and burned houses encountered in the basin. They seized horses and cattle as property of the towns. The strategy was noteworthy for its emphasis on minimizing bloodshed. The Creeks were not seeking a blood feud with the Georgians, but settler obstinance and aggression were consistently met with violence. The wise fled, as the fires clearly demonstrated to them, that in spite of Habersham's assurances otherwise, Georgia authority over the Oconee was a myth. The state managed to field some hastily organized and poorly outfitted militia. They did little more than survey ruins, though made great fanfare of some hunting camp raids. In this, they would eventually specialize.

United States officials viewed with trepidation the growing crisis in the southern borderlands. Major General Nathaniel Greene, on a Florida mission to meet Spanish Governor Zespedes at St. Augustine, sounded out the shape of relations with the Creeks. He learned enough there to later advise Georgia officials against aggressive land claims.

Finally exercising authority in American Indian affairs, Congress appointed commissioners to secure peace with the Creek nation and delineate its border with Georgia. The state, now defensive over its infamous Augusta talks, moved to preempt Congress — selectively inviting Creek leaders to come mark the border with their own commissioners. Competing talks circulated through the towns, creating confusion among Creek leaders. This confusion was manifest when opposing U.S. and Georgia delegates met at Galphinton — on the edge of the Creek nation. The dependable Nea Mico and Tallassee King were present with some curious witnesses, but it was clear to the U.S. agents that this was not effective representation. Their departure gave the Georgia agents a chance to make a bad situation worse.

Unconcerned over the particulars of representation, Georgia Governor Samuel Elbert wanted another treaty. The militant and persuasive Elijah Clarke and General John Twiggs were the chosen commissioners to make this happen. With Congress out of the way, they surprised the bewildered chiefs with the news that rather than marking the border, their true interest was in getting more land from the Creeks.

With state legislation, including the University of Georgia's charter, hanging on the Augusta Treaty, the new agreement focused on a confirmation of the earlier land cession and proposed another one south of the Altamaha River. The wording of the Galphinton Treaty reflected a strategy shift for the state as it sought to preclude federal involvement. The treaty declared the Creek people now members of the state with a territory in reserve under the authority and at pleasure of the same. For expenses accrued and for this service to the state, Clarke was awarded another land grant, adding to his considerable holdings. Tallassee King did not share a similar regard back home. Angered by his Georgia dealings, Creek men burned his home, perhaps suggesting in this way, that he should go live among his Georgia friends.

Literally and figuratively, Clarke left his mark throughout the Oconee crisis. With some propriety, these early documents could be called the "Clarke treaties." Not only did his name grace these documents, his signature was also found on hundreds of land petitions certifying the holder's veteran status. A Clarke signature nearly guaranteed a land grant to the holder. If the variety in spellings of his name on these petitions raised suspicion, it was only spoken privately, if at all.

Following the winter hunts, the Creeks counciled at Tuckabatchee. McGillivray outlined recent correspondences with Congress, the Florida governors, and Georgia. Hunters returning from the Oconee reported tree-blazing on the near side of the river. Cattle grazing had damaged important bear habitat and, adding insult to injury, they found evidence of deer hunting and even fishing in Oakmulgee (Ocmulgee) creeks in the river basin west of the Oconee. With Georgia intransigence demonstrated and the state unable to restrain its citizens from helping themselves to the Creek commonwealth, the towns prepared for a more assertive campaign.

(To be continued in Part Two)

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Alone Again Or

Kevin Barnes Goes It Solo For Of Montreal’s Latest Album

originally published April 7, 2004

With a new record out on a new record label, things are moving for Kevin Barnes, the essence and heart of Of Montreal. Satanic Panic in the Attic sees a return to form for the whimsical pop group, as the joyous songs feature a cast of characters reminiscent of early Of Montreal
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recordings like The Gay Parade or the early Cherry Peel. Barnes decided to do most of the recording for the new album alone - Flagpole recently sat in the grass and discussed the decision, the direction and more.
Barnes spent about four months in his home studio recording most of the instruments himself, although he was helped out by cellist Heather McIntosh and several other current and former Of Montrealers. "It's just something I wanted to do really badly, and the rest of the guys let me do it - which was very nice of them. It's sort of like that thing when you first start making 4-track songs and lose yourself in the headphones. It's a really cool experience that you miss when you record a record with a full band. I wanted to immerse myself in the music... [Home recording] takes a little longer, but then each song has its own sonic character that bands who go into the studio for a couple of weeks just don't get the chance to make."
Of Montreal's albums have always told the stories of a number of characters. From ailing grandfathers to dispirited boxers, the colorful names and events in the songs suggest a child's picturebook, until analysis of the lyrics reveals a decidedly mature outlook on life. "A lot of the songs had been written before recording was started," says Barnes. "In a way our last record [Aldhil's Arboretum] was a lot less playful than the one before that [Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies, a Variety of Whimsical Verse]... I wanted to do something less crazy and out there, but not quite as... straightforward, I guess, as Aldhil's Arboretum. I definitely wanted to get back to the cinematic storytelling.
"I think that just to stay active, to continue writing songs, you can't always write songs about your emotions or about girls in your life; it just gets boring. I'll think, 'I need to find some different subject matter,' I'll invent a character and see what happens to them. I'll create a scenario, and it's a fun writing exercise.
"A lot of times, daydreaming and role-playing in my head helps a lot. I've made characters out of people I see walking down the street or at the post office. There are a couple of story songs on the new album, like Chrissie Kiss the Corpse and How Lester Lost His Wife."
Satanic Panic in the Attic features a number of direct love songs, and none are more direct than the sweet and pointed "Your Magic is Working." The song plainly sets out emotions for all to see, and it's a straight from-me-to-you message.
"I was really cynical for a while, and kind of disenchanted," says Barnes. "The last record shows that disenchantment, I think. But then I fell in love, and so everything turned upside-down - I was happy again! I wanted to write some love songs for my wife. I had all this happiness, so I wanted to create something that was a lot more positive and gentle."
In the past year, Of Montreal's seen some lineup shifts. Andy Gonzalez has been committed to his Marshmallow Coast project, and Derek Almstead recently decided to go full throttle with Circulatory System. Barnes is joined on this upcoming six-week tour by Dottie Alexander and Jamey Huggins, both longtime Of Montreal members, The Late B.P. Helium's Bryan Poole, the band's original bassist and current touring guitarist, and Casper & the Cookies' Jason NeSmith and Nina Barnes.
"It's cool," says Barnes, "in a way, to have so many new members, because we were so strong before as a five-piece with Andy and Derek, that in a way it's been helpful to start from scratch again. It's a humbling experience, but refreshing at the same time. We hooked up with Polyvinyl through our booking agency [the Kork Agency]. When we were looking for a label, Polyvinyl stood out. We were talking to Minty Fresh and Future Farmer, but we went with Polyvinyl because they especially bent over backwards to make things work for us the way we wanted."
Satanic Panic in the Attic features a stronger sound than previous Of Montreal albums. The bass and guitar make their distinct presence felt, and the songs groove and glide more than ever before with rock and electronic effects blended into the sugarpop. Barnes attributes this to his solo work.
"I'd never had programmed drums before," says Barnes, "and I played around with them on some songs on the album. This might sound ridiculous, but for the first time I was aiming for a sexier sound. I've been listening to a lot of '70s African funk and late-'60s, early-'70s Jamaican dub... they're just so sensual and groovy, and I tried to incorporate that feel into the album... I was also getting into Manitoba, Mum and other contemporary electronic records. For the longest time I was only listening to the Kinks, the Beatles, Os Mutantes and other '60s psychedelic pop albums. I don't know if since I played everything myself I was able to express my ideas better... it's just one person's ideas, so maybe it seems a little more concise."
So with such a positive solo experience, what's the future hold for a combined-efforts Of Montreal album? "There's a great momentum you get recording with a full band," says Barnes. "If you lose your way, someone else will come in with an idea to inspire you, and it just bounces around like that. So going back to a full-band record is definitely going to happen. I don't want everyone else to get nervous!

Chris Hassiotis

WHO: Of Montreal, Marshmallow Coast, Casper & the Cookies
WHERE: 40 Watt Club
WHEN: Thursday, April 8
HOW MUCH: Call

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Remembering Mark Segura

"Coach" Was A Man Of Many Talents And Interests

originally published April 7, 2004

It's certainly never a cinch to write "in memory of" columns. Obituaries are easier, if a writer works for a regular newspaper, because they involve straight news writing - and a-thousand-to-one that writer won't know any of the people; a detachment as one writes, then, is par for the course.
In this case, the people-knowing part makes the difference.
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Bigtime. How do I tell y'all how much I'll miss a guy I rarely saw except to "howdy-do," but whom I had known and cared about for over 30 years? That's longer than many of you reading this will have been alive. Amazing, when you stop and think of it, isn't it?
And "amazing" was a good word for Mark Austin Segura. His vast range of interests and abilities are legendary among his friends and acquaintances, even those whose lives he barely had the opportunity to touch. I knew him well beyond that merely epidermic, "outer layer" level.
We now set the controls on The Wayback Machine to 1972. The FM station that is now 104.7 "The Fish" was then located in Athens; it operated from studios on the second floor of the building next to The Georgia Theatre as WDOL-FM. The manager of the station was the late Herschel M. Rivers; the format was oldies - it was one of the first such stations in the South, and one of the most pivotal employees was Mark Segura.
His air name was Easy Mark. Many times I heard him play his theme song, "The Clouds" by The Spacemen, and sign off by saying "Do as I do - take it easy." I ran across a duplicate copy of that on the original Alton label 45 and presented it to Mark. He was overjoyed; he'd been having to play it off a compilation album. That 45 is probably still somewhere in his stuff. He continued to use the same theme during his several years on WUOG, doing the show that was the predecessor to "Who Put The Bomp."
Now, folks - if you think I have a mind like a steel trap for odd record trivia, I play second fiddle to Mark's first violin. He could reel off the personnel of all-but-forgotten Rhythm & Blues groups (West Coast artists from 1950–1958 were a specialty with him), revealing where each one went after the group broke up - that kind of thing. Once we had quite a talk about the late Jesse Belvin. "He died in a car wreck," I informed Mark. "Car wreck, yes, but he was murdered," he replied. "I know for a fact that he was murdered." Upon researching this possibility, I discovered that Belvin died in an auto accident - not on an L.A. freeway, as I had thought, but on U.S. 79 near Hope, Arkansas, after playing a sold-out show in Little Rock the night before. Mark would have been five-years-old at the time, so evidently he did some research on the subject after the fact and before I ever did. That is only one tiny instance of his prowess. (I'm still working on the Jesse Belvin story, by the way.)
Mark referred to our long-suffering chief engineer at WDOL, Wade Boland, as "Herschel's 'Shabbos Goy,'" meaning pejoratively (but not at all anti-Semitically) that Herschel stuck Wade with all the dirty work around the station. That Yiddish/ Hebrew expression is not commonly known among us of the Goyim; I had to ask my father, a Presbyterian deacon, what it meant. "Truly Orthodox Jews must do no work from sundown Friday until sundown Saturday," my dad replied. "They hire someone to come in and answer the telephone, take out the trash, do incidental cleaning, cooking and so forth." He paused for a moment. "Sounds like your friend Mark has constructed a fine parallel usage for the term, except that it sounds like Wade has to fulfill that role oftener than one day a week." My dad was no slouch at making such comparisons; he got a huge kick out of Mark's usage.
Only once did I ever throw Mark a curve he failed to catch. "There's a tiny hamlet in Louisiana on U.S. 90 near New Iberia - I don't think it even has a post office - named Segura," I informed him. He was amazed. I produced a map and showed him the flyspeckish dot. "Well, I'll be," he allowed. "It's certainly not named after my relatives, though."
There was a part of Mark's ability I unfortunately never tuned in to: I never managed to taste any of his "Coach's Soup." (Nor did I ever discover where his nickname came from; I never used it anyway.) His interest in cooking may have come about in part due to a short stint he spent in Fayette, Iowa, where his mother was teaching in some teeny little college. "There was only one restaurant in the town," he recalled. "Its name was Lucy's Garden Of Eatin'. It was terrible. I mean, here we were, out in the middle of the prairie, with farmlands all around, and they had the audacity to serve instant mashed potatoes - and not very good ones at that."
I'd never doubt that his time there germinated a seed within: "Hey, I could do better than that - blindfolded," he might have thought, and from the looks of it, he would have been right! All I know is that I've heard people rave about his soups for years and I never once got around to sampling any myself. Shame on me. Bigtime.
The saddest aspect of his passing, to me on a personal level, is that I have recently begun developing more of an interest in music from the period he preferred: the earliest days of the beginnings of rock and roll. Just recently I acquired a small group of discs that I meant to tell him about; now that opportunity is gone. The only suitable thing for me to do, then, is to volunteer for Break Radio at WUOG at the earliest possibility and bring those records and more - tossing my copy of "The Clouds" by The Spacemen in with them, then play them all just as he would have enjoyed hearing me do - or done himself. It's the very least I can do for a guy who meant a lot to me, whom I knew for 30+ years, who always was a gentleman to me, who always had something interesting to say, something witty, something intelligent.
I will sorely miss his presence and his intellect and ability, and I know I am nowhere near alone in that department. Let me tip my nonexistent hat to you, Mark. Thank you for being a friend.

William Orten Carlton

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