It's not exactly danger, it's... oh, I don't know. Something oppressive... like thunder.

Right now on NPR they're playing every cover of Louie Louie.
It just make me think of the Home Movies episode where Louis Braille meets Louis Pastuer.
This weekend the other half of the duo was in Washington, D.C. at Savor, so I've been left to my own devices.
Which pretty much meant Kennedy's Fried Chicken time. I don't know what it is about their food, it's not quite addictive because to actual sit and think about it is stomach churning. I cut of hood Chinese from my diet (too many risks) so Kennedy's is probably the only unhealthy vice in our neighborhood.
Today is the second half of the 9th Street International Food Festival. I'm going to get fucking Overeaters Anonymous on the Texas chili tent. I saw them setting up this morning, and the gleam in the chef's eye from Good and Plenty To Go made me feel confident.

hour later update: The Good and Plenty guy was swamped. I totally got a Crepe. I hate Crepes, but this one is banging like an West L.A. late afternoon BBQ where the meat is about to run out and people are getting together for some backyard party elsewhere.

Apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.

Sunday's have been regulation days for me to get coffee at Amy's Bread and spend an hour reading The Village Voice.

Erin and I spent a rapid fire week were where we only spent a total of ten hours home. After work I spent the afternoon in line to see Ironman with Jacob and Rob. That took a while since it was sold out every time we tried to go. It was awesome. I'm glad Marvel has a real dick of a character and that they're not P.C. about dumbing down Tony Stark at all.

I've been traveling back and forth to Bed-Stuy (Amy's old neighborhood!) to feed Rob and Diana's cats. This has given me a chance to play Grand Theft Auto IV and mess around on their Wii. Actually, I just watched cable tv for about thirty minutes. Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom was on. I couldn't help myself.
Bed-Stuy, their area at least, is really quaint and postcard-ish. It's a nice trip (30 minutes, tops) so it's not bad. Get to see a lot of far off Brooklyn.
Yesterday we partcipated in the NAMI Walk to raise awareness on mental illness in NYC. It was a short jaunt from South Street Seaport halfway up the Brooklyn Bridge and back. A good stroll for a Saturday morning. We then trucked it out to Astoria to the Bohemian Hall and Beer Garden, but we were all to tired to get tanked.

Today is laundry day and going to watch West 47th Street, a documentary about where I work. Fountain House is a radical offshoot of typical nental health services in the U.S. It was and still is a very controversial place. I suggest everyone check it out.

Oh yeah, go here if you're in Bushwick.

Damn you Tad.

Finally had my two days off from work.
Friday was spent sleeping-in and cleaning the kitchen/microbrewery. Had dinner at S'Mac. There are a number of Macaroni and Cheese themed restaurants throughout Manhattan, but this place is still the best.
Saturday was probably one of the instances you do as a couple that really defines your status together.
We went wedding shopping for a friend.
Not MY friend or coworker (I don't have many of those getting married) but for someone at Skyhorse. We went to Bed Bath and Beyond and milled around with other packs of twentysomethings, wide eyed and frightened that someday they may be getting something from that home emporium.
It wasn't bad at all, but owning that stuff...all that stuff...knowing that you have...stuff. I dunno. I've never been a person that really thought about owning a food processor or products with that little outline of a chef guy. I prefer to stay not attached to things like that. It means you have to go home to that stuff, just sitting there.
Good things that came out of the Saturday outing include a trip to Skyline Books and chatting with an older man and his daughter about an $11,000 refridgerator. We were deemed creative types because of our shoes.
Saturday night left me with bad chinese food sickness and a gem of a bar, The Wreck Room.
It doesn't have the ambience of Ft. Worth's Wreck Room.

I'm about to buy Maps and Legends.

More on Warcrafting. Later. Damn you Tad.

My Chevy painted tropical, a wima way, a wima way

Thanks Young Dro for bringing back that African melody that everyone enjoyed on oldies radio stations all across America.
Song is wiggled it's way into my psych.

So, I watch a lot of Frasier, and jointly Erin and I own a couple of seasons on DVD. So, yesterday I was leaving Amy's Bread and heading back to work across the street when I say David Hyde Pierce. Dr Niles Crane.


We tried to go bowling after work, at Port Authority Bus Terminal. First, Port Authority is the worst fucking place in NYC. Even the Dallas Greyhound station is better. But apparently they have a great bowling alley. So great it has a bouncer and if you're not on a reserve list, you can't get in. That was our situation.
So we went to Rudy's and a shit ton of free hot dogs and drank.

Today:
St. Marks and Beard Papa.

The Count of Monte FISTO

I've never really listened to the radio here in NYC.
In the windowsill of our office sits the tinniest speaker hooked to a stereo (who's original speakers stopped working sometime during the Bush/Gore presidential debates) that blasts people with names like Tweety and Dannity Kane.
I think I know that Dannity Kane was something that involved P.Diddy.
I think.
So far today's work festivities included me reading about this story. And playing with the office mascot, an orange tabby named Daisy.
Erin has a blog now, and she's a much better blogger than I am. You can read it here.

here's some links for your weekend:
The Natural Gourmet School
Muxtape.com

Turntables In Her Eyes

I wonder if that pregnant man on Oprah the other day hears a lot of Junior jokes. Because that's the first thing I thought of.
But it's cool because she's a cool dude now with a baby, and living granola style up in Bend, Oregon.

A lot of good birthday stuff. Sort of just really waiting for my mom to be here this weekend and to deliver a lot of my DVD's and other accoutrement. It'll be nice to see her too.
Erin and I rang in me turning 27 with the best Indian food in Brooklyn (great Naan) and a blueberry cheesecake from D'Aiuto's in Chelsea. Fucking delicious.

I finally got around to seeing Devil's Playground. I've been reading Eric Brende's Better-Off: Flipping The Switch on Technology.

Now, leaving for LaGuardia.

Concentrated energy...The longer it is built up, the more devestating it becomes!

I made this weekend a thing.

Since Erin's been out in Indiana doing it up Hoosier style and the like, and me being tired of waking up and listening to the construction people yell at each other in Spanish, I set out to make Saturday/Sunday a thing.

First, called up Fish to discuss Belgian Fries (which are just regular fries, but you get to put whatever you want on them). So, not to get gussied up or anything, we head to this place across the street from Tompkins Square Park. We ate in silence because there was just too much fries to be had for conversation. I watched a man put on a fake mustache and chase a girl around chess tables.

Feeling the need to see Amy before she left for Amsterdam, we rendezvoused at Barcade where I got tens times of all imbibed on something called Old Crustacean. I played the hell out a game called Tapper.

Woke up with a massive headache and in mid AIM argument about what is the smallest character on a keyboard. I don't know what we decided on, but I said it was (`).
Anyway, Neal locked himself out of the apt. and called me eight times. A good friend (and current housemate) took us out to eat soul food. He tried to explain to a German tourist girl there that she was the definition of fine and she just laughed at him and kept texting and wearing weird Soccer Adidas.

I'm a cleaning dervish though, I got Erin's apartment spic and span so's my mom doesn't have to bunk with the dregs of Brooklyn.

All of the true things that I am about to tell you are shameless lies.

So, after much bellyaching I found a new job.
Still here in NYC, a few blocks away from Borders in Hell's Kitchen.
Fountainhouse NYC.

A very certain thing I'm interested in getting.

Best label ever.

You're about to meet a hypochondriac. Witness Mr. Walter Bedeker, age forty-four, afraid of the following: death, disease, other people, germs, draft,

Egads.
Fucking around on Gothamist I found this: How To Dress Like Brooklyn.

Bummed around Park Slope most of Saturday, dropped by Brooklyn Hero Supply Co. to see my friend Matt. Spent the day with Jared and Jen planning a game day next week with Bocci(?) in the park.

I watched Palindromes as well.

Humdrum?

I got a lot of sleep.

The way that she moved, well, I was aroused.

McKibbin Lofts is the new new hotness.
I've never been anywhere that the floor was always about to give way to the weight of the people there. We were told to "tread lightly" by someone named Baghdad.
Anyway, got to see Slasher Risk and a few other bands out of Cleveland. Got a keepsake (Japanese Keroppi glass) from Dawn. I came in my room this morning and it's still full of red wine. Good sign.

I'm going to drink this wine, find some more wine and watch the Sigur Ros film, Heima.
Trailer:

Down here, this is our time

Go read Marvel: 1602.
Neil Gaiman wrote it, and I don't think I've enjoyed anything as much by him besides his work with Terry Pratchett on Good Omens.

Temporal Funk as of late. Subsiding with a fierce quickness. I tend to let things get to me at times, and I can't control how they affect my mood. Dwelling is a better way to put it. Too many "What If's?" in my mind at one time.

One thing I've really learned living here is that small things matter in big ways. I count on a lot of little things to really make my day. Say, getting to cook for or with Erin. That's a major plus. Hanging out with Amy, another plus. Going to The P.I.T is always a guarantee. Things like that really make my life here better, and I don't think about how much struggle there is. I mean, I'm coming from a place where my rent was less than $200 and I always had enough money to do anything I wanted. It's weird to see how some people live by filling their shows. Watch the movie The Super, see what I mean.

In a ray of sunshine news, there's a Kennedy Fried Chicken in my neighborhood. Cheap ass fried Chicken 24/7, prepared behind bullet-proof glass.

A sable coat, maybe a hat, how I wish I could be like that

The show was spectacular.
fucking spectacular at that.

It was held at 123 W. 43rd, NYC Town Hall. Theater seating, large crowds, dummy pipes. The opening act was a group of men who recreated a sci-fi short story, a throwback to old radio shows. It was great, a seemingly haunting and staccato-ed accordion to build suspense, a man with plungers and a narrator who was spot on.
Lights fall, and the The Magnetic Fields.
I can't remember the set list as it goes, but they played a lot off Distortion and 69 Love Songs.
It was terrifyingly emotional for me. I can honestly say I was moved, and that doesn't happen often (except for when Erin told me she bought the tickets while standing in front of a Polish liquor store, I was quite struck with her).

Now tonight, the agenda goes as this:
1. Write Battery Recharger review for their MySpace.
2. Continue to work on the mass of short stories accumulated on my desktop (once their finished I move them to My Documents) so it's fucking cluttered right now.
3. Check job posts.

I feel phenomenal right now.

The blog in where I try to break down my love with The Magnetic Fields

Really, I remember the day I got to hear 69 Love Songs.

Spring, afternoon, I remember because in Denton the Crepe Myrtle were rubbing their branches together to wake up.
I was walking with Chris, and we were talking about how we both liked Knapsack and Karate, trying to out-obscure indie rock with one another by asking each other if we had it on vinyl or CD, scoffing at the other for not really "owning" the music.
He roomed along with Ktrey and Candace in the one apartment where so much had happened in Denton. George O'Neal getting scurvy, the Pointy Shoe Factory forming (and then later, breaking up) and of course Mikey Sweets' shrinking room.
Due to poor architecture-ing, the farthest room from the street tapered off in the corner, an optical illusion that forced you to have all of your furniture pushed against one wall, uncomfortable for some company, quite alluring for others.

I've digressed.

Yet, background is important when talking about life changing events, and this one still rings out in me.
Reno Dakota was the very first song I heard. Vocals- Claudia Gonson, Music- Stephin Merritt.

Since then I've associated every aspect of my life with Stephin Merritt's music as best as a depraved indie rock schlub can. It's all in there, every emotion that I feel I always connect it with lyrics or a song from the entire catalog.

It's blissful, it's painful, it's full. And tomorrow night I'll finally get a chance to see Stephin Merritt & Co., courtesy of Erin.

You may think you do but don't you?

Nothing but drinking.

Friday for Raven's birthday and then yesterday just because. Erin's friends from when she lived in Dublin. Great apartments on the west side (actually near Rudy's).

Today is laundry/cleaning apartment day. Work doesn't start until 9am now, and I feel like I've been given a golden ticket.

Looks like a roadmap to infection

David Byrne's Survival Strategies for Emerging Artists — and Megastars

Full disclosure: I used to own a record label. That label, Luaka Bop, still exists, though I'm no longer involved in running it. My last record came out through Nonesuch, a subsidiary of the Warner Music Group empire. I have also released music through indie labels like Thrill Jockey, and I have pressed up CDs and sold them on tour. I tour every few years, and I don't see it as simply a loss leader for CD sales. So I have seen this business from both sides. I've made money, and I've been ripped off. I've had creative freedom, and I've been pressured to make hits. I have dealt with diva behavior from crazy musicians, and I have seen genius records by wonderful artists get completely ignored. I love music. I always will. It saved my life, and I bet I'm not the only one who can say that.

What is called the music business today, however, is not the business of producing music. At some point it became the business of selling CDs in plastic cases, and that business will soon be over. But that's not bad news for music, and it's certainly not bad news for musicians. Indeed, with all the ways to reach an audience, there have never been more opportunities for artists.

Where are things going? Well, some people's charts look like this:

Some see this picture as a dire trend. The fact that Radiohead debuted its latest album online and Madonna defected from Warner Bros. to Live Nation, a concert promoter, is held to signal the end of the music business as we know it. Actually, these are just two examples of how musicians are increasingly able to work outside of the traditional label relationship. There is no one single way of doing business these days. There are, in fact, six viable models by my count. That variety is good for artists; it gives them more ways to get paid and make a living. And it's good for audiences, too, who will have more — and more interesting — music to listen to. Let's step back and get some perspective.

What is music?
First, a definition of terms. What is it we're talking about here? What exactly is being bought and sold? In the past, music was something you heard and experienced — it was as much a social event as a purely musical one. Before recording technology existed, you could not separate music from its social context. Epic songs and ballads, troubadours, courtly entertainments, church music, shamanic chants, pub sing-alongs, ceremonial music, military music, dance music — it was pretty much all tied to specific social functions. It was communal and often utilitarian. You couldn't take it home, copy it, sell it as a commodity (except as sheet music, but that's not music), or even hear it again. Music was an experience, intimately married to your life. You could pay to hear music, but after you did, it was over, gone — a memory.

Technology changed all that in the 20th century. Music — or its recorded artifact, at least — became a product, a thing that could be bought, sold, traded, and replayed endlessly in any context. This upended the economics of music, but our human instincts remained intact. I spend plenty of time with buds in my ears listening to recorded music, but I still get out to stand in a crowd with an audience. I sing to myself, and, yes, I play an instrument (not always well).

We'll always want to use music as part of our social fabric: to congregate at concerts and in bars, even if the sound sucks; to pass music from hand to hand (or via the Internet) as a form of social currency; to build temples where only "our kind of people" can hear music (opera houses and symphony halls); to want to know more about our favorite bards — their love lives, their clothes, their political beliefs. This betrays an eternal urge to have a larger context beyond a piece of plastic. One might say this urge is part of our genetic makeup.

All this is what we talk about when we talk about music.

All of it.

What do record companies do?
Or, more precisely, what did they do?

· Fund recording sessions

· Manufacture product

· Distribute product

· Market product

· Loan and advance money for expenses (tours, videos, hair and makeup)

· Advise and guide artists on their careers and recordings

· Handle the accounting

This was the system that evolved over the past century to market the product, which is to say the container — vinyl, tape, or disc — that carried the music. (Calling the product music is like selling a shopping cart and calling it groceries.) But many things have changed in the past decade that reduce the value of these services to artists.

For example:

Recording costs have declined to almost zero. Artists used to need the labels to bankroll their recordings. Most simply didn't have the $15,000 (minimum) necessary to rent a professional studio and pay an engineer and a producer. For many artists — maybe even most — this is no longer the case. Now an album can be made on the same laptop you use to check email.

Manufacturing and distribution costs are approaching zero. There used to be a break-even point below which it was impractical to distribute a recording. With LPs and CDs, there were base manufacturing costs, printing costs, shipping, and so on. It paid — in fact, it was essential — to sell in volume, because that's how many of those costs got amortized. No more: Digital distribution is pretty much free. It's no cheaper per unit to distribute a million copies than a hundred.

Touring is not just promotion. Live performances used to be seen as essentially a way to publicize a new release — a means to an end, not an end in itself. Bands would go into debt in order to tour, anticipating that they'd recover their losses later through increased record sales. This, to be blunt, is all wrong. It's backward. Performing is a thing in itself, a distinct skill, different from making recordings. And for those who can do it, it's a way to make a living.

So with all these changes, what happens to the labels? Some will survive. Nonesuch, where I've done several albums, has thrived under Warner Music Group ownership by operating with a lean staff of 12 and staying focused on talent. "Artists like Wilco, Philip Glass, k.d. lang, and others have sold more here than when they were at so-called major labels," Bob Hurwitz, president of Nonesuch, told me, "even during a time of decline."

But some labels will disappear, as the roles they used to play get chopped up and delivered by more thrifty services. In a recent conversation I had with Brian Eno (who is producing the next Coldplay album and writing with U2), he was enthusiastic about I Think Music — an online network of indie bands, fans, and stores — and pessimistic about the future of traditional labels. "Structurally, they're much too large," Eno said. "And they're entirely on the defensive now. The only idea they have is that they can give you a big advance — which is still attractive to a lot of young bands just starting out. But that's all they represent now: capital."

So where do artists fit into this changing landscape? We find new options, new models.

The six possibilities

Where there was one, now there are six: Six possible music distribution models, ranging from one in which the artist is pretty much hands-off to one where the artist does nearly everything. Not surprisingly, the more involved the artist is, the more he or she can often make per unit sold. The totally DIY model is certainly not for everyone — but that's the point. Now there's choice.

1. At one end of the scale is the 360, or equity, deal, where every aspect of the artist's career is handled by producers, promoters, marketing people, and managers. The idea is that you can achieve wide saturation and sales, boosted by a hardworking machine that stands to benefit from everything you do. The artist becomes a brand, owned and operated by the label, and in theory this gives the company a long-term perspective and interest in nurturing that artist's career.

Pussycat Dolls, Korn, and Robbie Williams have made arrangements like this, selling equity in everything they touch. The T-shirts, the records, the concerts, the videos, the BBQ sauce. The artist often gets a lot of money up front. But I doubt that creative decisions will be left in the artist's hands. As a general rule, as the cash comes in, creative control goes out. The equity partner simply has too much at stake.

This is the kind of deal Madonna just made with Live Nation. For a reported $120 million, the company — which until now has mainly produced and promoted concerts — will get a piece of both her concert revenue and her music sales. I, for one, would not want to be beholden to Live Nation — a spinoff of Clear Channel, the radio conglomerate that turned the US airwaves into pabulum. But Madge is a smart cookie; she's always been adept at controlling her own stuff, so we'll see.

2. Next is what I'll call the standard distribution deal. This is more or less what I lived with for many years as a member of the Talking Heads. The record company bankrolls the recording and handles the manufacturing, distribution, press, and promotion. The artist gets a royalty percentage after all those other costs are repaid. The label, in this scenario, owns the copyright to the recording. Forever.

There's another catch with this kind of arrangement: The typical pop star often lives in debt to their record company and a host of other entities, and if they hit a dry spell they can go broke. Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, TLC — the danger of debt and overextension is an old story.

Obviously, the cost of these services, along with the record company's overhead, accounts for a big part of CD prices. You, the buyer, are paying for all those trucks, those CD plants, those warehouses, and all that plastic. Theoretically, as many of these costs go away, they should no longer be charged to the consumer — or the artist.

Sure, many of the services traditionally provided by record labels under the standard deal are now being farmed out. Press and publicity, digital marketing, graphic design — all are often handled by smaller, independent firms. But he who pays the piper calls the tune. If the record company pays the subcontractors, then the record company ultimately decides who or what has priority. If they "don't hear a single," they can tell you your record isn't coming out.

So what happens when online sales eliminate many of these expenses? Look at iTunes: $10 for a "CD" download reflects the cost savings of digital distribution, which seems fair — at first. It's certainly better for consumers. But after Apple takes its 30 percent, the royalty percentage is applied and the artist — surprise! — is no better off.

Not coincidentally, the issues here are similar to those in the recent Hollywood writers' strike. Will recording artists band together and go on strike?

3. The license deal is similar to the standard deal, except in this case the artist retains the copyrights and ownership of the master recording. The right to exploit that property is granted to a label for a limited period of time — usually seven years. After that, the rights to license to TV shows, commercials, and the like revert to the artist. If the members of the Talking Heads held the master rights to our catalog today, we'd earn twice as much in licensing as we do now — and that's where artists like me derive much of our income. If a band has made a record itself and doesn't need creative or financial help, this model is worth looking at. It allows for a little more creative freedom, since you get less interference from the guys in the big suits. The flip side is that because the label doesn't own the master, it may invest less in making the release a success.

But with the right label, the license deal can be a great way to go. This is the relationship Arcade Fire has with Merge Records, an indie label that's done great for its band by avoiding the big-spending, big-label approach. "Part of it is just being realistic and not putting yourself in the hole," Merge cofounder Mac McCaughan says. "The bands we work with, we never recommend that they make videos. I like videos, but they don't sell a lot of records. What really sells records is touring — and artists can actually make money on the tour itself if they keep their budgets down."

4. Then there's the profit-sharing deal. I did something like this with my album Lead Us Not Into Temptation in 2003. I got a minimal advance from the label, Thrill Jockey, since the recording costs were covered by a movie soundtrack budget, and we shared the profits from day one. I retained ownership of the master. Thrill Jockey does some marketing and press. I may or may not have sold as many records as I would have with a larger company, but in the end I took home a greater share of each unit sold.

5. In the manufacturing and distribution deal, the artist does everything except, well, manufacture and distribute the product. Often the companies that do these kinds of deals also offer other services, like marketing. But given the numbers, they don't stand to make as much, so their incentive here is limited. Big record labels traditionally don't make M&D deals.

In this scenario, the artist gets absolute creative control, but it's a bigger gamble. Aimee Mann does this, and it works really well for her. "A lot of artists don't realize how much more money they could make by retaining ownership and licensing directly," Mann's manager, Michael Hausman, told me. "If it's done properly, you get paid quickly, and you get paid again and again. That's a great source of income."

6. Finally, at the far end of the scale, is the self-distribution model, where the music is self-produced, self-written, self-played, and self-marketed. CDs are sold at gigs and through a Web site. Promotion is a MySpace page. The band buys or leases a server to handle download sales. Within the limits of what they can afford, the artists have complete creative control. In practice, especially for emerging artists, that can mean freedom without resources — a pretty abstract sort of independence. For those who plan to take their material on the road and play it live, the financial constraints cut even deeper. Backup orchestras, massive video screens and sets, and weird high tech lights don't come cheap.

Radiohead adopted this DIY model to sell In Rainbows online — and then went a step further by letting fans name their own price for the download. They weren't the first to do this — Issa (formerly known as Jane Siberry) pioneered the pay-what-you-will model a few years ago — but Radiohead's move was much higher profile. It may be less risky for them, but it's a clear sign of real changes afoot. As one of Radiohead's managers, Bryce Edge, told me, "The industry reacted like the end was nigh. They've devalued music, giving it away for nothing.' Which wasn't true: We asked people to value it, which is very different semantics to me."

At this end of the spectrum, the artist stands to receive the largest percentage of income from sales per unit — sales of anything. A larger percentage of fewer sales, most likely, but not always. Artists doing it for themselves can actually make more money than the massive pop star, even though the sales numbers may seem minuscule by comparison. Of course, not everyone is as smart as those nerdy Radiohead boys. Pete Doherty probably should not be handed the steering wheel.

Freedom versus pragmatism
These models are not absolute. They can morph and evolve. Hausman and Mann took the total DIY route at first, getting money orders and sending out CDs in Express Mail envelopes; later on they licensed the records to distributors. And things change over time. In the future, we will see more artists take up these various models or mix and match versions of them. For existing and emerging artists — who read about the music business going down the drain — this is actually a great time, full of options and possibilities. The future of music as a career is wide open.

Many who take the cash up front will never know that long-range thinking might have been wiser. Mega pop artists will still need that mighty push and marketing effort for a new release that only traditional record companies can provide. For others, what we now call a record label could be replaced by a small company that funnels income and invoices from the various entities and keeps the accounts in order. A consortium of midlevel artists could make this model work. United Musicians, the company that Hausman founded, is one such example.

I would personally advise artists to hold on to their publishing rights (well, as much of them as they can). Publishing royalties are how you get paid if someone covers, samples, or licenses your song for a movie or commercial. This, for a songwriter, is your pension plan.

Increasingly, it's possible for artists to hold on to the copyrights for their recordings as well. This guarantees them another lucrative piece of the licensing pie and also gives them the right to exploit their work in mediums to be invented in the future — musical brain implants and the like.

No single model will work for everyone. There's room for all of us. Some artists are the Coke and Pepsi of music, while others are the fine wine — or the funky home-brewed moonshine. And that's fine. I like Rihanna's "Umbrella" and Christina Aguilera's "Ain't No Other Man." Sometimes a corporate soft drink is what you want — just not at the expense of the other thing. In the recent past, it often seemed like all or nothing, but maybe now we won't be forced to choose.

Ultimately, all these scenarios have to satisfy the same human urges: What do we need music to do? How do we visit the land in our head and the place in our heart that music takes us to? Can I get a round-trip ticket?

Really, isn't that what we want to buy, sell, trade, or download?

David Byrne is currently collaborating with Fatboy Slim and Brian Eno. Separately.

Chart Sources: Jupiter Research, Recording Industry Association of America, Almighty Institute of Music Retail, Wired Research



Two things arose from me reading over this:
Do you think that the same thing can be said for writers? Do you think that it eventually could lean to more and more writers going DIY over trying to seek out major publishers?

and...

Brian Eno's real name is Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno.

I don't want to know about it.

Denzel Washington is going to take over Walter Matthau's role as Agent Z and John Travolta will be Mr. Blue.



Plus, hell in the form of snow and rain has descended upon the east coast.

Because He's Living In Some B-Movie

Where the lines are so clearly drawn.

I fell asleep after work earlier, and somehow woke up browsing at Good Records and listening to traffic outside. I remember thinking this is the exact time of day I fell asleep in New York as it is here right now.
Pangs upon waking.
Right now I'm listening to Camper Van Beethoven, something I would do on any long car trip between home and Denton. It was during my stint of learning that I was going to call Denton home more than Big Spring that I feel in love with Key Lime Pie(1989) and Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart(1988).
I pine. I know I do. People around me know I do.

And that makes me think of all the things going on in Denton right now, with Fry Street basically being mowed over and the inevitable waves of commercialism that are rolling in. For a long time Denton was that beaming star of independence, forget Austin. You could buy the same records there, eat at the same restaurants (The Green House) and go to the same parties that were happening down there.
With Alter Ego Vintage becoming the next husk, along with Kharma Cafe, Mr. Chopsticks TJ's, Uncommon Grounds and The Tomato, it seems that my home has left me, not the other way around.
Not to say I wouldn't move back to Denton. It's a thought that pops into my head quite often.
I dunno. It's an off night.

The one where I talk about beer.

Tonight I'm going to my first Brewpub. Now, gone are the days of smoky, standing room only dirty toilet drinkeries, and welcome are the days of soft leather chairs, British delicacies and beer with enough hops that it could kill you.

Wostyntje...

Fantome Saison...

Hansje Drinker Tripel...

These are the new beers that are entering my life. I'm not going to lie, I'm totally ok with Shiner, Kronenburgs and Stella Artois. Especially Stellas. Very cold, crispy Stella Artois (a great memory is sitting in a darkened theater, The Inwood, and watching Stella Artois advertisements).
Now, I will try beers in which I can't pronounce, but taste amazing. This is coupled with Erin and Ryan turning the apartment in Bushwick into a microbrewery so much that the smell lingers. Their beer is very tasty though, and I'd drink a lot of it. Wait, I drink a lot of it anyway. Free beer in NYC? Doesn't matter what it is. FREE BEER.

This is where I am going tonight.

Local Booksellers Union 582

Fucking cold weather. I can't feel my hands as I walk down the street.
I left my gloves somewhere, or they fell out of my pocket in Penn Station, or they're just missing. Fuck.

So, the contest with Erin is holding up well. I've gotten through three novels so far:

Paul Auster- Moon Palace
Upton Sinclair- Oil! (basis for There Will Be Blood- the newest PTA film)
Patrick McCabe- Breakfast on Pluto
and currently reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

The roomates are practicing and it sounds fucking amazing. Heartrapers would be jealous.

At work we've been listening to the Dethalbum (Dethklok) nearly everyday, at least twice a day. I think I need to make a grindcore/death metal mix, and I need suggestions.

And since Netflix is still my best friend forever (sorry Jacob.) This is my current queue:
Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991)
Swampthing (1982)
Freaked (1993)
Critters (1986)
The Gate (1987)
Tapeheads (1988)

It's very Proustian for me to watch these.

Tastes like New York.

As I type this from my penthouse view of Central Park, watching women push strollers down the large, clean sidewalk and the multitude of joggers as they weave in and out of the foot traffic, I think to myself, "How lucky can one guy be?"
I return to my living room, set my tumbler of some expensive scotch I've never even heard of but tastes like paint and admire my TV. So fucking big, and it has channels they don't show in America. Channels where I can watch people compete for household items, or television shows in Moroccan French, about saucy young people who's lives rival mine as they sit and complain about the increasing prices of muffins.
And then I think of my expensive sports car parked somewhere in Midtown, probably between 5th and 6th avenue, and the doorman downstairs that always calls a my favorite cab for me to drive me to my car. Dinner tonight is probably going to be Goat Cheese and Wild Mushroom Blinchiki or Braised Rabbit Pelmeni downed with an expensive glass of Chardonnay as I nonchalantly fall in and out of consciousness with whatever my date is talking about.
Afterwards, I'll return to my penthouse, check my e-mail, my blackberry, my Venus phone and my regular mail that's been presorted into corresponding piles (thank you to Lisa, my personal assistant) before retiring to bed so In the morning I can do 5,000 situps and stare at my thinning hairline.