From: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org (fegmaniax-digest) To: fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Subject: fegmaniax-digest V6 #12 Reply-To: fegmaniax@smoe.org Sender: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk fegmaniax-digest Monday, September 22 1997 Volume 06 : Number 012 Today's Subjects: ----------------- Robyn on Piano ["Abra Cadaver" ] It Sounds Great When You're Mario ["Abra Cadaver" ] Ladies And Gentlemen...Andy Metcalfe!!! ["Abra Cadaver" ] Re: Robyn on Piano [Terrence M Marks ] Robyn on Piano ["Gene Hopstetter, Jr." ] Absolut Hitchcock [jeannine ] Re: Robyn on Piano ["Abra Cadaver" ] Re: Robyn on Piano [Bret ] The Doom that Came to the Feglist, Vol II [The Great Quail ] A travelogue and rambling mess. [Capuchin ] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 11:07:28 -0700 From: "Abra Cadaver" Subject: Robyn on Piano fegs, Does anyone know if Robyn has ever played any of his piano-based songs live? If so, did he play the piano part on them, or did Andy? Some of the songs I'm wondering about: Nocturne Cathedral Flavour Of The Night Executioner College Of Ice Thanks, - --g "Despite what people think of me, I have the heart of a child. I keep it in a jar on my desk." --Stephen King Glen Uber glen@metro.net http://metro.net/glen/ ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 11:07:29 -0700 From: "Abra Cadaver" Subject: It Sounds Great When You're Mario fegs, Listen to the piano part on "Sounds Great When You're Dead" and compare it with the music that plays during the dungeon scenes in the video game "Super Mario Brothers" for Nintendo. I think one of the programmers must have been a Robyn fan. Or maybe I'm just looped... - --g "Despite what people think of me, I have the heart of a child. I keep it in a jar on my desk." --Stephen King Glen Uber glen@metro.net http://metro.net/glen/ ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 11:07:28 -0700 From: "Abra Cadaver" Subject: Ladies And Gentlemen...Andy Metcalfe!!! fegs, While listening to EoL a couple days ago, I noticed that Andy seems to have several bass solos and leads on several tracks. Off the top of my head, I remember that Andy steps out front at some point during "Raymond Chandler Evening," "Winchester," "Bass," "Lady Waters & The Hooded One," "The Black Crow Knows," and "The Leopard". In addition, the bass extremely prominent in the mix throughout the record. So, I checked the liner notes. I knew Andy was listed as co-producer, but didn't realize he also helped to engineer the album. That explains a lot. I don't know what point I was trying to make with this posting. Just a mere observation, I s'pose... L8r, - --g "Despite what people think of me, I have the heart of a child. I keep it in a jar on my desk." --Stephen King Glen Uber glen@metro.net http://metro.net/glen/ ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 14:48:45 -0400 (EDT) From: Terrence M Marks Subject: Re: Robyn on Piano > Does anyone know if Robyn has ever played any of his piano-based > songs live? If so, did he play the piano part on them, or did Andy? > > Some of the songs I'm wondering about: > Flavour Of The Night Live at BBC 1984. Piano by either Robyn or James Fletcher. Live at Hope & Anchor 1984. Piano by Roger Jackson Live at Trax, 1990. Piano by Robyn. > Executioner Trax, 1990. Robyn solo on Piano. Terrence Marks Remember-Jesus is your friend. normal@grove.ufl.edu ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 14:56:54 -0400 From: "Gene Hopstetter, Jr." Subject: Robyn on Piano Abra Cadaver asked: >Does anyone know if Robyn has ever played any of his piano-based >songs live? If so, did he play the piano part on them, or did Andy? Yup, he toured with a piano during the 1992 tour, and the one before that (the solo one in 1991 or so...?), and he did in fact not only play it, but talked to and about it a whole helluva lot. I think. I do remember him playing a piano during some tour, sometime in the past. Andy did play keyboard(s) during the last Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians tour, but it wasn't your standard black wooden piano, it was 'lectronic. That was the Respect tour, I think. +++++++++++++++++ "I'll think about the English + Gene Hopstetter, Jr. + if you pay me." +++++++++++++++++ -- Bruce Adams ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 23:54:06 -0700 From: jeannine Subject: Absolut Hitchcock To All, I ran across one of those kiosks of free postcards at a video rental place here in Seattle, and lo and behold one caught my eye. It was a very simple all white Absolut Vodka postcard that was a takeoff on the famous Alfred Hitchcock profile silhouette drawing - basically 2 black lines. And at the bottom, the title, "ABSOLUT HITCHCOCK". no shit, has anyone else seen it? I grabbed about 20 or so not knowing what I'd do with them. I'm offering one or a few to anyone who wants 'em, to do with it as you please. I want to embellish one and send it to Robyn Hitchcock's Service, in London I think, the new place mentioned on fegmania website. anyone want one? Jeannine ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 11:56:13 -0700 From: "Abra Cadaver" Subject: Re: Robyn on Piano Terrence M Marks dixit: > > Flavour Of The Night > > Live at BBC 1984. Piano by either Robyn or James Fletcher. Well, it would have to be Robyn, right? James Fletcher played the sax part. - --g "Despite what people think of me, I have the heart of a child. I keep it in a jar on my desk." --Stephen King Glen Uber glen@metro.net http://metro.net/glen/ ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 14:04:09 -0500 From: Bret Subject: Re: Robyn on Piano At 11:07 AM 9/22/97 -0700, you wrote: >fegs, > >Does anyone know if Robyn has ever played any of his piano-based >songs live? If so, did he play the piano part on them, or did Andy? > >Some of the songs I'm wondering about: > >Nocturne >Cathedral >Flavour Of The Night >Executioner The only one listed I recall having heard live is Executioner, and it was just played on the guitar (just????).......... I do love this song, but then again, who can blame me, as it is from Robyn's best record ever..... come on, I had to say it........I know how much you all love it when someone does that..... - --Bret NP: 'How I Learned to Stop Worrying, and Love the Ska' --The Suspects ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 97 16:02:07 -0400 From: The Great Quail Subject: The Doom that Came to the Feglist, Vol II THE DOOM THAT CAME TO THE FEGLIST Professor Fane's Recap: when last I wrote, I had narrated my tale up = to the point of watching the ghoul-vans recede into the night, = freighting away their dread cargo of faux-Robyn CDs. The truth had = just blasted my sanity when I saw the hideous quail statue, proving = that these cultists were under the power of very evil forces, indeed. = . . . I was just about to leave when the door opened, and a figure = was silhoutted in the light. . . . ______________________________________________ Part IV. ______________________________________________ I turned and faced my doom. . . . And its name was Woj. Framed by a globular pale yellow light, Woj stood in the doorway and = raised his arm to point directly at me, as if he could smite me out = of existence with merely a finger. And in truth, I quickly realized = that I was, ideed, rooted in place! Obviously this New Jersey devil = was exerting some sort of unholy and profane power over me, the way a = serpent is said to charm a bird, or the way a male really cannot stop = watching a Spice Girls video no matter how bad the music is. In abject fear, I watched as his fingers curled into an unspeakably = archaic gesture, and I felt tiny burning pinpoints of pain at all my = joints. With a flick of his wrist my body responded in turn, as if he = had magickally inserted marionette strings into my body! Utterly = against my volition I was jerked towards my new puppet-master. As I = got closer, I could see that Woj had . . . *changed.* If one could = say that he was more sinister, he was more sinister. If it could be = said that Woj's face was more ghastly, pale, and waxen, then his face = was more ghastly, pale, and waxen. His eyes burned at me like two = carious fangs, and the tight smile that played at the corner of his = thin lips was like that mocking tendency for grinning often found in = small lizards. When he spoke, it was not with his old familiar voice, = but with a voice hollow with a sepulchral emptiness, and lightly = brushed by an accent surprisingly reminescent of East Brimstead. "Professor Fane. I should have expected you. Of course, you are too = late -- but I still plan to force you inside, so I may tell you all = my evil plans and gain some small degree of satisfaction in watching = the growing apprehension of horror fill your features before I have = you disposed of in some painfully medieval fashion, one that, I would = expect, shall cause no small amount of blood to flow." Appaled at both his dire threat and his sophomoric diction, I = stumbled along behind him, an idiot dog following the heels of a = demented and insouciant master. The lighting was a harsh flourescent = glow, the kind of light made to dissect frogs under, and the walls of = the lab were covered by Far Side cartoons depicting various acts of = mad scientists and fiendish plots. Passing through a door marked by a = Star Trek bumper sticker and a friendly reminder to wear goggles, I = soon found myself in the heart of the lab. It was a large lab, stetching into space as far as my eye could see. = The air was permeated with the scent of old coffee, acetone, = mercaptanated methane, and that weirdly pleasant smell you get when = you first open a can of Play-Doh. The floor was rumbling slightly, as = if vast machineries were at work in the basement below . . . Perhaps = cranking out "Uncorrected Personality Traits" CDs, I imagined. My inspection of a Snap-On Tool Girls calendar must have incited = Woj's sudden ire, for he felt the need to call my attention to the = most obvious feature of the lab, a feature which I had miraculously = been spared to witness due to the size of Miss August's, um, = spanners, which were completely occupying my gaze. "Ah-hem. If I may direct your attention to your left, you will see an = almost endless row of tanks filled with a translucent green fluid -- = there, over by the FAX machine, near the ficus." Indeed, he spoke the truth. And inside every tank was the floating = form of a naked body. Hesitantly, still probing the limits of his = control over me, I walked over to the tanks. The bodies floated in = the bubbly green goo like sleepers suspended in a sensory deprivation = tank. Men and women of various ages were trapped there, a few tubes = entering them at various uncontemplateable orifices, each tube = pulsing evilly with some sort of fiendish nutrient broth. The overall = effect was horrid, but I choked back my fear and spoke -- "Seems all a bit 'Mystery Science Theater 3000' to me, doesn't it?" My reply did not get the reaction I was hoping for. Woj merely smiled = an even tighter smile, ratcheting the taut waxen flesh of his face a = few notches so that it passed from the "vaguely ghastly" into the = "actually rather unsettling" range. Again, the graveyard voice with = its awkward locutions: "MST3K, yes, ha ha, of course. But you are = flattering yourself, Professor. Surely you must realize that you have = yet to look at the top of the tanks, where your much vaunted and = oh-so tediously postmodern experience in the realm of pulp horror = should have adequately prepared you for the inevitable shock. . . . = Yes, Hummmm?" My God. Of course. . . . I had forgotten the long slow pan to the top = of the tank! Slowly, feeling every inch of my flesh gather itself = into a chill blanket of goosepimples, I allowed my gaze to rise = upwards . . . To the name plates. Of course . . . Each cylindrical = tank had a nameplate, a steel plaque with the inhabitant's name = engraved in 125-point Fajita Picante. And the tank I was in front of = belonged to -- ? -- my eyes came to rest on the dread label: JAMES DIGNAN, NEW ZEELAND I was staring at James Dignan! Poor, naked, helples wretch, curled up = like a fetus and -- my God -- sucking his thumb helplessly as Woj = piped vile toxins into his noble veins. And the other plates . . . . = All Fegs! Each tank contained a Feg! And I tell you, my sanity would = have been blasted right there if it weren't for the fact that many = tanks were mercifully empty, the occupant's vacancy investing the = name plate with an aura of thwartably hopeful expectancy rather than = that of a grim and ineluctable sentence. But nevertheless, many were = still there, many of the Fegs I have grown to love and admire . . . . = Debora, Glen, Mark . . . All floating in the evil fluid, their blood = being saturated with God only knows what horrific chemicals. . . .And = the font, the fiendish use of Fajita Picante . . . So normally peppy = and cheerful, to be subverted in such a way! (*Could Bayard be = involved?* my mind screamed at me. *Remember the Glass Flesh CD!?!*) I turned to face the evil mastermind, resolved not to show my fear. = He would get nothing from me! But Woj looked at me, unimpressed with = my studied nonchalance. He tapped against the side of a tank labeled = LORD OF THE DANCE. (*So that's where he went,* my mind thought = frantically. *Perhaps RXBROOME is here as well?*) Woj spoke again: = "You see, even now I am cherishing the look of disappointment which = is so obviusly not on your face. The fact that you are hiding it so = poorly fills me with more glee than a thousand hours of your insane = shrieking could. You *know* you are beaten. I am filled inside with a = black sense of what I can only call joy. And to think, before my . . = . transformation, I had to listen to Diamandala Galas for this sort = of kick!" The Woj-thing (for no longer could I believe that Woj would = use such terrible prose) laughed, a sound like shards of coke bottles = grinding against a plate of oxidized aluminum. I say he laughed, but = in truth his face hardly moved -- it was more of a mask than any true = face. But still I was brave: "Disappointment, yes, oh Woj, I am feeling a = profound sense of disappointment -- but only that Susan's tank is = empty, so I won't get to see her naked after all." "You fool! You think Susan is destined for this fate? I tell you, the = Anti-Eb has grander things ahead of her." Suddenly I felt truly nervous. "And what about Eddie Tews? I bet he'd = never go willingly. He's probably waging some socialist warfare = against you right now, sending you tapes, communist newsletters, and = posters of Billy Bragg!" Finally, a palpable hit! The grin froze for a second, and his eyes = flashed wounded malice. "I see. I'm not sure how you found that out, = but never matter. Mr. Tews will soon become a part of the System. = Libertarian Agent A.B.R. and our Subversive Specialist G. S. Shell = will see to that! Very well, Professor -- I *was* going to tell you = everything, but now I'm afraid I will just have to let you die in = unspeakable ignorance, like a terminally ill Jimmy Buffet fan." I realized that Woj was quite serious -- I had stepped over the line, = and I could see my fate looming large ahead of me. I had only one = feeble hope. "Fine, you dumb bastard. And by the way -- you spelled = 'New Zealand' wrong!" Seizing this opportunity, I lunged towards him = and pushed him backwards. With an audible "bonk," he hit Natalie=B9s = tank and ricocheted to my left. I ran towards the door -- And stopped. There was a woman there, a smiling woman with a guitar, and I = recognized her immediately -- Debbie Flosshilde. Debbie! My hopes soared. She had escpaed! Together we would put an = end to this vast and terrible plot! I reached out to grab her hand, = to pull her away, to -- Then I saw the Quail tatooed on her wrist, and her sudden giggle of = amusement filled my head with mad despair. TO BE CONCLUDED. . . . ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 16:31:01 -0500 From: nicastr@IDT.NET (Ben) Subject: Re: Robyn on Piano >fegs, > >Does anyone know if Robyn has ever played any of his piano-based >songs live? If so, did he play the piano part on them, or did Andy? > >Some of the songs I'm wondering about: > >Nocturne >Cathedral >Flavour Of The Night >Executioner >College Of Ice > >Thanks, >--g > >"Despite what people think of me, I have the heart of a child. >I keep it in a jar on my desk." --Stephen King > >Glen Uber >glen@metro.net >http://metro.net/glen/ At the Univ. of Mass., 9/23/89, Robyn plays "Ted, Woody & Junior" on piano. - -Ben ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 14:01:34 -0700 From: Eb Subject: Re: The Doom that Came to the Feglist, Vol II Quail fluttered: Woj spoke again: "And to think, before my . . . transformation, I had to listen to Diamandala Galas for this sort of kick!" Umm...never heard of her. Some sort of screeching post-goth singer who wails tirades about apartheid instead of AIDS? ;) The anti-Eb will never vanquish me. ;P Eb ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 07:25:18 -0700 (PDT) From: Capuchin Subject: A travelogue and rambling mess. My modem was broken. The list was down. It takes time to catch up on 284 messages. It's especially difficult with the verbosity of some birds. I originally wrote this ridiculously long story about my trip to Bumbershoot and everything I did and said in deep detail, but then I realized that you folks don't really need to hear that whole thing, so I cut it all out and started over. What's left isn't much better. So here we go. Feg stuff is first, followed by music stuff that isn't fegstuff and lastly personal stuff that isn't music stuff. Read only what you like, cancel at any time. For one, Bumbershoot was a good time. Yes, Eddie, I disagree and say it was a spectacularly fun setlist. Yes, Bayard, fegs are, in fact, some of the nicest people. Yes, everyone, Cynthia deserves thanks for her efforts. Yes, Chris, I'll get that tape to you (oh yeah, you too, Bayard). As any of you that have met me at shows before know (and that includes some of you that I may not know you've met me. Susan Dodge, for one. Cynthia informs me that you were the girl in plaid that chatted with me in front of the stage immediately before Robyn took stage at the Warfield last November. Small world.), I'm always looking for a cheap place to stay. I hit everyone up for suggestions. Most of the time my trips are so ill-planned, I fly to a foreign city with no idea where I'm going to sleep that night. It's fun, but only if you're alone. Well, I wanted Bumbershoot to be different. I wanted a definite plan. Cynthia's was open and I secured a place there before scouting out other places. I hunted around asking for rides up (fegtwins, Lobsterman, greyhound, etc.). Everything was going just dandy. Then my best friend Ian mentioned that his brother Brendan who lives in Seattle really wanted to be visited. I turned on my charm. I found a ride and a place to stay. Ian and I were just about to head up to Seattle (as in, packing the car and walking out the door) when my phone rang. It was Sayer Jones. Sayer Jones is the most interesting man I know. Sayer is a big scary punk guy. His face is scarred, his hair is unwashed. He's big. He's half Japanese and everyone thinks he's some form of native American. His favorite word is 'fuck'. His favorite phrase is 'so fucked'. His favorite sentence is 'Fuck you.' He was a law student and but changed and became an economist. He hops freight trains in the summer. He hops freight trains, rides them to D.C. where he works as a Congressional Aide, then hops freights home. He's one of the nicest guys in the world (right up there with me and Bayard). He has a plan for taking over a small town and driving out the existing population because, he says, "It's too much damn work to build a town yourself." He has no clue who Robyn Hitchcock is, not even Balloon Man. I hadn't spoken with Sayer in maybe six months. He says to me over the phone, "Hey, you crackpot!" "Oh, Hi, Sayer. How's it going?" "Hey... let's have lunch, huh?" "Are you in town?" "No. I'm in fuckin' Northern Ireland or some fucked up place. Come get me." "OK... Ian and I are going to Seattle. Bumbershoot and all. We're just leaving. I'll meet you at the square and we'll get lunch before we head out." "Alright, cool. Ian. Fuck yeah. When?" "Right now. Half an hour." Half an hour is the closest I get to saying 'now'. If I'm less than thirty minutes late, I probably thought I was supposed to be there an hour earlier. "Cool. Seeya." And that was that. Ian and I drove downtown and found Sayer standing in almost the exact center of the square smoking a filthy looking hand rolled cigarette and listening to headphones, waiting. I waved and he noticed and headed for the car. When he got there, I noticed he had a backpack in his hand. He said "Seattle. Fuck yeah. David Byrne's going to be at Bumbershoot. Let's go." And then there were three. That's Sayer. It was a long drive. Ian had his mother's BP card. That means more than free gas. That means free BP Food Mart. I think we hit all of them between Seattle and Portland going the short way around. Anyway, the next day we hit the 'shoot. I found Karen and Carole right away. I think I just reached out and grabbed Carole's arm as she passed. I certainly hope she wasn't purposely not noticing me. I hope she wasn't avoiding me and my grabbing her foiled her plan to not run into me that day. Sheesh. Scary thought. Anyway, found them and somehow lost Ian and Sayer. Found Ian and Sayer and finally we headed around to the PROPER entrance. We got in line and I decided I'd scan the frontal regions of the line for fegfolks. I said "I won't recognize anyone, though." Karen said "Eddie is bald and wears glasses and claims you can't miss him." That's good enough for me. I ran up the line. About thirty folks from the front of the line stood a bald fellow with glasses wearing a floor length purple vest (yeah, there's probably a better name for it) and holding a large pink sign depicting Thoth. "You must be Eddie." Hands shake. "Yeah. Are you a Feg?" He's very excited. "Um, I guess so." "Oh... oh... from the list?" "Yes." I fear I'm unclear and speak a bit more carefully. "What's your name?" "Um... Jeme." "You're a lurker?" Now I feel insignificant. "No. No no." "What's your last name?" He's lost now. "Um... Brelin. I never write my first name. Usually just J." "Hmmm..." then he's struck. He becomes animated. He smiles and his head snaps upright as if he were one of those plastic animals connected with string and someone just let go of the spring loaded base. He stiffens. "KaPOOchin!" He emphatically mispronounces. "You're the MAN!" He shakes my hand again. "Um. Yeah." I nod and it's my turn to look lost. "I guess I'm the man." I explained that there were folks back in line and went back to get them. I ran back and the bunch of us joined the few of them. We chatted for a bit. Eddie took some pictures that are now said to be dark. The next time I bothered to turn around, J. Barrington J. (AKA Lobsterman) was standing behind me. There was a quick "Hey, John." and a round of introductions. Cynthia and Bayard and Daniel were there in Viva SeaTac, Viva SeaTac II and Jasper, this one's EVIL! shirts respectively. More chatting. Sayer looked down upon all of us (with the possible exception of John because few can look down on one so tall). Ian felt like a pork chop at a kosher wedding. Eventually we were let in. More line waiting. Ian and Sayer made me hold their places in line while they went off together. I played with my yo-yo and, I think, hit Karen like six times. It was a new string. The quarters were close. I've never hit anyone on accident. I didn't say that out loud. Folks discussed recording equipment. I wasn't really in on that. We were let into this enormous room leading into the Opera House. We were only allowed to stand around the edge. Something funny happened, but I don't remember what it was. Ian and Sayer came back. Eddie decided to hunt for fegs. He pulled out his sign and ran around screaming something or other. I guess he was just gauranteeing that 'you can't miss me' thing. Eventually we were let in. We got good seats. Second row center for me, Ian, Sayer, Daniel and Cynthia. The others sat just stage left. Ran into some of the folks I'd met at Viva SeaTac II. Gave Bjorn that $4 I owed him. Soon Tuatara began and Ian, Sayer, and myself promptly fell asleep. I don't know, it just wasn't interesting. It was rhythmic, I'll give it that. But it ended there. Any melody was ruined by this sappy, crappy saxophone that I abhor. Just plain yuck. There was a bit where Peter stepped forward and appeared to be honestly inventing something, but again, the piped up, ran with it, and ruined it. Anyways, we waited a while and soon enough (OK, not soon enough. Never soon enough.) Robyn was on. Then it got fun. You see, all of the Robynhype in the Bumberpress seemed to focus on storytelling. In fact, very rarely was he simply Singer/Songwriter Robyn Hitchcock. He was "Storyteller and Singer/Songwriter..." in most every publication. Storyteller FIRST, even. I thought that was odd. In fact, it was something of an injustice. Then I noticed that The Stranger actually said "Australian Storyteller and Singer/Songwriter Robyn Hitchcock". That was just plain offensive. I think Robyn read this. I think he felt the same way. Robyn openned with something like "I can't see a thing. It sure is dark out there. As far as I know, there's nobody here at all." The crowd roared in attempt to affirm its own existence, I suspect more to itself than to Robyn. "As far as I know, there are no people out there at all... just an enormous aphid with many tendrils." People laughed, but not with much strength. "Anyway, that's the sort of thing I'm expected to say, so I said it." Brilliant. Good songs that everyone could put a handle on and take home. Tunes you can carry around that damned fairground all day without having to shift the burden from shoulder to shoulder or put down when you got a three dollar lemonade. Music for fegs. Music for Tuatara fans. Music for people that neither wanted to see Built to Spill nor to stand in the hot sun. Music for people expection an Australian storyteller. Stories that have no meaning but still require meditation. A nearly endless stream of words, thoughts, and notes from the stage, the crowd and your head. I had a good time. And who's to say the Egyptians didn't live in two dimensions? And if they did, surely it was to save space and it makes perfect sense that on a bad day one might roll up like a broken windowshade. I'm fine with that. And St. Nicodemus was last seen getting off a bus in the neighborhood where a single house sat with a real estate agent's sign out front for 200 years and a mummified burglar in an upstairs bedroom. That world is perfectly acceptible to me and at least as likely and easy to believe as a world where an embalmed cowboy can hang in an amusement park house of horrors and nine million people can be exterminated yet thousands of people truly believe it didn't happen. And I leave it to you to decide which is more pleasant. After all is said and done, that's what you're going to toll up on your deathbed. I walked out of the auditorium happy. You can't ask for more than that. A slightly larger group than entered together gathered again on a lawn and Eddie's friend took a group shot with the Space Needle pointing to the sky behind us. Silliness abounds. Good fun. We all agreed to show up at Cynthia's after the Beck show. I was late. I'm not going to attempt to explain why I was late. Cynthia already described to you what happened when I tried to explain why I was late when she said "Jeme arrived at about 11 and entertained ius with a constant monologue until 4am." I've written too much already. You don't need that kind of grief. But I think I have a storyteller's heart (in a jar on my desk) if not a storyteller's talent and contrary to all evidence in this post, I am not dull. Ian and I are very old friends and play off of one another in such a way that outsiders are usually taken aback. And while I'm a storyteller, Ian's a wit. I'll spin a yarn that keeps others shut up, but the punchline will follow from Ian. Bayard was quite impressed by one comment of Ian's in particular and for those of you that didn't write him separately as he requested, here it is (if you've read this far, you'll put up with anything): I was trying to relate to the the fegs present exactly what kind of horrifying, backwater, redneck, inbred, ignorant town it was that Ian and I spent our formitive years. The population of this town is either 1970 or 1790 depending on which end you drive through first. I conjectured that one sign was updated while the other was not. I was trying to be positive. I was giving the morons the benefit of the doubt. However, the signs have NEVER changed for as long as I've noticed them. That's like 20 years. So who knows. Ian called my optimism. He pointed out that the signs were likely meant to say exactly the same thing and they just screwed it up. And he said in his best HickBoy voice "Numbers? You mean them funny lookin' letters that don't spell nothin'." It was pretty damned funny. Cynthia showed us her bathroom. It has posters of Robyn. There's a funky Thoth stained glass thingie. She's proud of her bathroom. Eventually we got kicked out. Ian was kind enough to give Carole and Karen a ride back into town to their hostel. I had to counter that kindness with the greatest cruelty of which I am capable: I sang on the ride back. Ian and I did Lucky Ball & Chain in staggered and painful two part harmony. I felt terrible after we'd let them out... I realized what I had done and was ashamed. I'm just glad this happened in the car and not while other fegs were around. I could have had my cones revoked. Sleep was good. The next day was record shopping. I found the Beautiful Queen single for fifteen bucks. Yay. I was supposed to meet up with Bayard and Chris and Cynthia for meal. I was late. Fortunately, they were as well. But that was because they'd eaten. Hmm. So I got something to eat. We walked for a while seeking a record store that Cynthia insisted was "just a few blocks further". We never found it. We went to the Crocodile Cafe and found no show. We went to the Two Bells and were told there would be no "Artist" (because they "don't have Musicians.. they have Artists." Seattle is Oregonian for 'pretense') We ate. Would you like to know what we all ate? I almost wrote it. How sick is that? Anyway, before we ordered, the waiter said something like "I KNOW you're all of age here, but I need to check ID all around." Bayard didn't have his ID. What was he thinking? Just as the waiter was about to let it slide, I asked "OK, so if an official from the liqour control comission comes in, what should we tell him, that you didn't ask or he didn't have it and you let it slide? I mean, which would be easier on you?" Yeah, I had to ask. "You know" said the waiter, "the more I think about this the worse it sounds. Can you go back to your car and get your ID or something? No no... oh geez. Because it's either a $50 fine or I lost my job." I felt stupid. "Forget I asked." "Yeah, ok. I'll be right back with your drinks." I started to think how stupid this waiter must be. He's risking all these things knowingly. He's fully aware of the negative consequences of his actions, and yet he moves forward with them. That's cool and everything. What made me think he was stupid was that he didn't have a good lie. I mean, I'm all for breaking the rules and knowing what could happen to you if you get caught, but I would only do such a thing if I was sure I had a plan for convincing the authorities that that's not the case at all. Goodness. The waiter came back and half redeemed himself. "Alright, if someone asks, I asked for your ID and all five of you showed it to me and you're all legal." (Chris, Cynthia, Bayard, Jeme? Five?) "And then your stupid cousin had to take off and your wallet was in his bag." Fucking brilliant, I say. Smart guy. Half-redeemed. While he was a good liar, he was not a good waiter. He brought me the wrong beverage. We talked for a couple of hours. Just as we were settling the bill, as has been said many times, Robyn came in. Cynthia kind of flipped in her own very reserved way. But she was the one that got up and dragged the poor man to our table to ask about playing tonight. "So... are you going to play?" "Um... yeah, but they don't know it yet." Robyn went to the bar and briefly exchanged words with someone behind the counter. "So, how did you people know I was going to be here?" We all tried to answer simultaneously. It somehow was conveyed that the words "Two Bells" were mentioned somewhere at the Bumbershoot gig. This also happened to be the place Robyn played in a few nights before Viva SeaTac II with Scott and Peter... the show nobody attended but me, eight people that had no idea what was going on, and about twenty close personal friends of Robyn, Scott and/or Peter. OK, it didn't just 'happen' to be the same place. I'm pretty sure the events were related. "Oh really? Hmm. So, were you here the last time, then?" "Um, yeah... I was." "No, he was." That sort of thing. "Yeah, well... um... so, it'll be us, I mean, if you know who that is..." he then mumbled some names... one was Peter and one was Scott... but I'd swear he said something like "Syd" which kind of got Bayard and me jumpy. "The same old people. We'll be back at about ten o'clock... if we don't get too drunk first." And that was about that. Yeah, white jeans and a firefly.com T and a belt and shoes and hair and two eyes and stuff. We went back to Cynthia's Rover and grabbed Bayard's recording equipment as well as identification. There was a ridiculous amount of debate as to whether the car should be moved close to the venue. It was. We went back to the Two Bells. I called Ian and Sayer. They showed up a while later, but left a bit into the gig. So Robyn did eventually show. They shoved some tables out of the way and pulled unamplified acoustic guitars from cases. It was just Robyn at first playing Cheese Alarm and Gene Hackman and some others that I don't readily recall. Scott joined him and they played some very strange tunes indeed as well as Viva SeaTac, Queen of Eyes, Chinese Bones and some other good old songs. There were a good number of people there that, I think, had no idea what kind of special thing they were witnessing. They thought, I suspect, that he was just some britboy with a guitar that pops into small bars and plays novelty tunes and cover songs. Some people just ate and talked through the whole thing. Others looked actively annoyed by the proceedings. I'm sure there were a dozen folks there that would have been very surprised to find that this fellow performing before them was a Warner Brothers recroding artist, let alone one with a few dozen albums to his credit and a mailing list filled with obsessive fankids. That bothered me. But other than that, I was just happy to be there. We left and I got sleepy and therefore started talking some more. This talk was all Robyn related. I found that others share my "Queen Elvis is the best and I simply NEVER listen to Black Snake Diamond Role" attitude. I think we all told our Discovering Robyn stories. We agreed that we should get together again. We also decided that Bayard will be the most met Feg by the end of his tour. And I made a secret promise that I now know I cannot keep in the time I gave myself because of those personal things at the bottom of this post (just double the time frame, for those of you that recall the promise at all). I have no idea how true any of that is. We parted happily. (Well, I parted and they were happy about it, anyway.) And that was the end of Bumbershoot Feg adventures. There was much more Bumbershooting, but no more that had anything at all to do with Robyn or my fine feggy friends. OK, next up. I'm going tell you all that you should buy Uncorrected Personality Traits. No, not because there's some special remix or remastered version of some song that you've already got on a thousand recordings. No, not because there are liner notes mentioning some of your listy friends. And no, not for lovely photos of Robyn and trains. You should buy the album for the same reason you should be buying tapes for friends instead of recording them. Robyn could use the sales. He's in it for the money. He's in it because there's a market for him. Buying his stuff makes his record company want to produce more of his work. Keep it profitable for the record companies and they'll keep it profitable for Robyn and he'll keep doing it. It's that simple. It's a small price to pay for the enrichment Robyn brings to your life, no? And until artists figure out how to produce and market things for themselves without charging an arm and a leg, we have to deal with this kind of mess. Keep Robyn in print. Keep Robyn in our record stores. Keep Robyn in the studio and on tour. Buy buy buy. Thanks. I know you folks don't mind spouting off about this, that, or the other band that has nothing to do with Robyn on this list simply because you'd like to share your tastes in music, but that's not really my style. However, I'm going to break from that for just a moment to tell you all to buy the Brian Dewan album that came out a couple of years ago. He has a new one coming soon that is fantastic (if his live shows are any indication) and the first album is just amazing. He plays an electric zither that he built himself from old guitar parts and sings sometimes creepy and interesting songs in a wonderously talky voice. And I think of Robyn every time I hear him sing "Feel the brain... feel the brain... warm and wet and wonderful." It's just good stuff. And now on to the garbage nobody's really interested in: I lost my job. My SO ran back to a former lover. I lost my lease. Things have been sticky this month. So anyway, I'm moving and helping my friend open a cafe and set up a computer network and going back to school and such, so things are hectic. That's why I'm relying on a modem and that's why it took me so long to get back on list and that's why I can't keep my promise. That's all. If you read this far, thanks. If you didn't, I'm proud. If you have any questions (like perhaps I left out some important piece of information in favor of a trivial detail), go ahead and write to me. Bye bye kids. I'm sleepy. J. Oh yeah... I'm listening to Meat Puppets right now. I like to say they're the thinking man's speed metal, but that's not entirely true. I just love 'em and they're full of brilliant lyrics. "Last hand I shook was a boat that floated on its back all day in the middle of a song about trees that are scared of the dark. I wait until you're gone to steal some thoughts from off of the shelf to trade for hats with holes that let the night shine through. Exchange our fears for little glass holes and broken dreams of bent-backed trolls. Who'll tend the trees and what's in between. The sky above is aglow with evil love. The boat sank offshore in a birdbath dreamt by a broken wheel and left by the side of the road right where night slipped and fell. And if I hever had, they couldn't tell; if we were they didn't know. She might, but if he did, they can't, you must, I won't. Turn our tears to little black holes to light the way for three blind moles. Who'll tend the trees and what's in between. The sky above is aglow with evil love." ________________________________________________________ J A Brelin Capuchin ________________________________________________________ - -- _O_ woj@remus.rutgers.edu |< friends don't let friends drive sport utility vehicles ------------------------------ End of fegmaniax-digest V6 #12 ******************************