Lookin’ Back (On What Was Said).

I'm not sure what to think about rock 'n' roll -- or those who play it. I don't know what inspires such music. And I really couldn't tell you who is infinitely moved by its melodic message, if there is one. It's a creation of strings, metal, wood, plastic, various wires and sometimes electricity. There are some occasions when none of those elements are needed. The music can be made from anything, or so we've been led to believe. It's a sound that can break hearts and give hope; fill arenas and cause riots. The songs bring life, as well as death.

My guess is that nobody really knows what rock 'n' roll is. Perhaps critics can write a creative recollection or give a clever theory, but nobody knows. These words are nothing but truth. Don't let those crazy rock critics fool you. Everyone is just trying to make a buck; gain respect. I commend the writers for trying to give an explanation, but we're light-years away from understanding. The feeling of rock 'n' roll isn't something that can be expressed through words, written or spoken. Rather, it's the chill that runs through your body when a chord is struck; when that first painful note is sung. A lyric that makes you remember the forgotten past. In short, it's the teardrop that falls from your eye to the ground.

I don't need to know what rock 'n' roll is, nor do I want to. It could be a movement that has already passed. Here today, gone tomorrow. Remember the '60s, man? Maybe it never existed in the first place. Could the Beatles have fooled us all? Was Mr. Presley (the King) a figment of our imagination? All these years the Rolling Stones have been living a lie. And Led Zeppelin, the Police and Van Halen are nothing but a laughing stock of decades past. Let us cash in before our moment in the sun has disappeared, friends. The old bluesmen are sitting on the back porch of the South, laughing at us all.

None of this is a concern. Just give me the raw emotion it brings and the words it can inspire. Let the music get you higher than you've ever been. I'd like to think there was a time in my life when I participated in the creation of rock 'n' roll. "Looking back on what was said, money lies and people dead." Words from a song written way back when, first on acoustic and later through distorted amplification. A rocked-up blues riff accompanied the lyrics, which spoke of a criminal act gone wrong. Along the beaches of Mexico.

I've since lost my train of thought, as the church choir that lives across the street has entered through my bathroom window (into my ears) and invaded my focus. If nothing else, dear reader, remember this. There are many rock 'n' roll imposters among us. And you may very well be one of them. On the other hand, you could be the savior we've all been waiting for.

How Quickly They Forget.

It will be a nice feeling when it's finally flushed from my system. When it has all gone down the drain, this sample platter of foreign emotion. Pause, rewind. The moment has ended, now play.

There is nothing quite like a sunny smog free twilight. Even so, there'll never again be one like her, the one who broke me in two. With eyes of a CocoRosie hue, capable of moving the dusty portrait. Nearby hills. Commanding armies: from the Pacific Northwest to the lower edge of southern comfort. Please, illuminate the snoozing city skyline for me. Breathe life into its charcoal-laced lung. Once more, before I go, allow me to feel the moistness we briefly shared.

She sits alone on the beach, her eyes fixed toward the sea. Too many thoughts crowd this one's mind. The plants, the trees and the crickets - they race at an even pace. Overwhelmed by love, a frown paints her face blue. Yet the wind continues to blow through her natural wave, whispering wisps of secret lies. Not everyone can understand the meaning of the coastal breeze, but her soft smile of loneliness reveals all. Spies in the house of love sit beside our precious handmaiden, their arms wrapped tightly 'round her pearl white shell.

A secret only for you. My dusty eyes blow safety into your dreams. Colorless rainbows, fearful sights.

Shelter needs no home. The safety it provides is priceless. Like the commercial, and split second of happiness that was sold to me. Bought at a fair price. Still paying off the debt. Don't want to make the bet. Investment involves risk, from what I've been told. You win some and then you lose, or so they like to say. Have you heard mention of hollowed heartbreak on Sunday Ave.? Sixth and First? Is there a residency doctor in the house? The emergency room is closed on this moonlit mourn. And another life has been lost, destroyed by the growling engine we've equally created. Its pistons show no mercy. A victim of venom, slowly injected into that heart of echoless beats. Let's meet somewhere in between, you and me. Perhaps a lunch, or dinner beneath the smokey oak tree.

Speak to me in those high phrases, even though it hurts like hell to hear. One more time won't kill me, I suppose. And for the record, my friends, the silence is perfectly golden. Sit still, be patient. The San Francisco panhandlers, bearded and non, would be proud of this moment we've shared. New York City flights. Crying babies and boiled eggs. You're a lovely little lady. In the city of night. The stale shell has broken. Shake it again for me, babe, like you did last summer. Then, when the time is right and the music is soulfully saturated, give a little rattle. Finally, after all is said and done, when this evening nears its intoxicated end, roll through your pleasant dreams. Don't disappoint the gods, they're everywhere.

From daylight to dark, the seamless thoughts blend into one. Read closely to these musical words: luscious locks are here to stay. Indeed, curiously split ends have become close friends. Allies of axis. Evil is blonde. A block of words penetrated by pain. Inject my heart with your love; plant the needle deep. Exit with a cold silver strip. Let us not forget, sweetest one, how much has already been wasted. Go, for now, I'll see you in heaven's lazy morning. Later, in the evening, we'll sip wine. Divine in hell's after-party. Send me a postcard, kid, addressed to no one. I'll close my eyes and think of home. That piece of land, situated somewhere across the Atlantic.

The Land Is Full Of Shade.

It's quiet on the grassy hill. All of the trees have lost their leaves. No shade to be found in this land of shady people. The blues are sung from the top of the hill. Heavy effects are put over the vocals. It's an endless conversation. A blinding sun hides behind the weeds. And it's the same ol' blues riff I've been playing for ages. Coming straight from the soul. It's been done before, or so they say. The harmonies remind of the Rolling Stones. From the early days. The pause in the song. Just when you think it's over, the splash of the crash reminds you that you're still alive. But not for long. Because it all happens in the blink of a lizard's eye. Like those times when the snake is slithering across the white marble floor. Veins of gray. It's some sort of smooth stone. I sometimes hear the hawk calling me home. Flying in that circular motion, looking for me. Past the pines, among the needles. But I'm not around. So she sends the helicopters at night. Their spotlights beam down, searching for my shadow. It has disappeared, along with the sunlight. I can feel them coming, those dull October days, when the heat is perfectly hidden behind the beautifully miserable sky. I'm hidden under the roof an apartment building from the '20s. Almost as old as my ancestors. But not quite. Oh, here come those harmonies again. "An endless verse; an endless curse; from the kiss that you left me." Like it was yesterday, eh? Here come those salty water tears. Microwave dinners. A living space that is rarely clean. Barely there. "Her voice was soft and cool; her eyes were clear and bright; but she's not there." Some things are better off dead. Not to be resurrected for a few dollars. Even if it brings people joy. Memories aren't meant to be remembered. They die once they're gone. That's why I don't take pictures. No need to remember the past: the living or the dead. Yes, another rambling thought. They tend to come from time to time. When the moment strikes. A second later it's lost, falling through the cracks of my blind mind. "I am an American aquarium drinker." Where's the six-pack when you need it? The scotch is never around. Another night of sleeping sober. They happen too often these days. "What was I thinking when I said it didn't hurt?"

That Golden, Silver Screen Line.

I enjoy watching movies with characters who have one pointless line: "What kind of fucked up tour is this?" says a black man caged in a tiny jail cell while taking a tour of Alcatraz.

The movie is "The Rock." As the non-important man shouts this line in a most ignorant, sharp tone, I think of the actor's family, sitting in a middle-of-nowhere movie theater watching their son, brother or cousin while screaming with elated joy. It's more than likely that this will be the poor actor's only line in a movie today, tomorrow or ever.

While his family packs the first row of the Silver Screen theater, the actor waits tables in a less-than-stellar New York City restaurant, waiting impatiently for his next audition. No agent; no prospects. He has already taken on a second job to keep his studio apartment in Brooklyn. Every night, after work, he counts his meager tips and catches the subway home. It's at least an hour's journey, give or a take a 10 minutes. He's tired and depressed, but his mother and father are proud. Their one and only son is a true Hollywood star, rubbing elbows with the best of them, strolling down Sunset Blvd. with a woman on each arm. An Oscar will surely come, it's only a matter of time.

His life later passes, with an indie film role -- or two -- in the background. A failed TV pilot, and a few plays around the East Village. Toward the end of his long, storied career, the hard-working actor sits his grandchild on a tired knee. The now-retired actor tells the tiny tot of his glory years.

"Listen here, my boy. You've never made it in show business until you have a line in a movie that goes a little something like this: 'What kind of fucked up tour is this?'"

A Nightly Walk Home: Tales From Koreatown.

I truly hate the summer heat, when I walk into my messy, bare-walled apartment to find a fiery wave of air rushing toward me, worse than that of the L.A. rush-hour traffic on the mighty 101. It has been bottled in all day, and even the cracked windows don't allow for ventilation against the intoxicating light. My lovely shoebox of a home, with CDs and magazines scattered about, wrinkled clothes strewn here and there, and a neglected acoustic guitar with a missing D string rests against the arm of my uncomfortable couch. We had some good times, my friend, didn't we? Oh, those forgotten songs. My bed comes out from the wall; the baby-blue sheets are dangling halfway to the ground. Click on the "ovulating" fan to provide refreshing relief. It does nothing but tease moist skin with stints of semi-cool, repurposed air.

On this evening I park my car in the gated lot where I pay $60 per month to use, walk down the sidewalk, past the abortion clinic where the ghost of a cold-eyed silent man in a straw hat stands in protest every morning handing out pamphlets in a useless attempt to save the lives of unborn children, and reach the crosswalk that never allows me to cross. I make a diagonal dart to the convenient store where I only spend money on overpriced plastic bottles of Diet Coke. I stand patiently in line as a Korean couple ahead of me buys lottery tickets. I grow impatient waiting for fools who dream of unattainable riches. But I smile politely and quickly pay for my chemicals and caffeine before walking out into the pleasant breeze.

From the opposite side of the road I catch a glimpse of a man and woman standing near my apartment complex entrance. The woman is attractive with wavy hair, and I pay no attention to the man. By now, sadly, I've forgotten the loveliness of her face. I keep my head down, key in hand, and walk toward the locked door. "I love the way you walk," she says with sharp words aimed toward my direction. I give her a questioning look and reply, "You like the way I walk?" From there I remember nothing, other than saying, "thanks," and quickly moving on. She had a sassy way about her, so I receive the comment as sarcasm. I don't know who she is, and I'm not sure I want to. It's likely this mystery mistress lives within the confines of my own building and secretly spies on me as I depart from work every morning, peeking through her blinds or shaded screen door. I doubt I'll ever know.

Now I sit and write, endlessly delaying. Rest has become nothing more than a dream.

This 99 cent candle I bought a week ago is almost finished. I enjoy using matches to light it. And after I watch the thin white smoke gently swirl away from the now-useless matchstick, I set it down on the fake wooden table. Its purpose has been served.

The Lonely Words Always Stand Alone.

Listening to music in paranoia is never a good thing, but what could be greater than Cat Power performing on Austin City Limits? I'll tell you, if you'd like to know. It's her dance moves. Walk like an Egyptian. And if there's one thing I've learned in this half-century of mine, it's that there's never a bad time for a cup of coffee. One more thing, dear friends -- never trust a blonde boy wearing a black Public Enemy T-shirt with white bolded letters. I'm almost positive that nothing good can come out of a situation like that, especially if he's standing on a street corner alone after midnight wearing a baseball cap. It doesn't matter what day it happens to be, just trust me.

I was at Coachella the other day and guess who I saw? No, you wouldn't believe. I was standing in a sea of people, watching Amy Winehouse perform while holding a little red plastic cup, nervously sipping Tanqueray between songs. She's quite small and annoyingly thin. Well, I looked to my left, past the attractive bohemian girl sitting alone on the grass in the 100-plus degree Indio heat, and saw Ron Jeremy, the porn star with a moustache. Some fucking idiot stopped Mr. Jeremy in his tracks to take a posed, hi-resolution digitalized photo. The show was ruined for me. I hate big audiences. But I'm sad to report this is the second time I've seen Jeremy out and about in the L.A. scene. The first moment I caught a glimpse was while waiting for a bus to take me and a co-worker to the Playboy Mansion. But that's another story altogether. Maybe I will tell it some other time, perhaps.

Those birds never stop chirping, even after dark, when the monstrous helicopters sometimes roar over my rooftop. It's in the middle of the night, and I feel like I'm sleeping in the dewy South American rainforest. Do you ever feel like opening your busted window and yelling at the world in anger? I don't. What right do birds have chirping while I'm trying to get some rest? Silence, it's never enough. I wouldn't go insane without the annoyances. But if I could never listen to music again, I'm not sure what I'd do. Maybe die. There would be no other point to live. The feeling it brings cannot be replaced. I live adjacent to a man who never sleeps. He does nothing but toss and turn in his bed. Endless noise. I can hear every movement of his mattress through my paper thin walls. I can only imagine what peculiar sounds he hears from me, probably nothing. I'm silent like a blue-belly lizard, heavenly roasting on a stucco wall in the dead of the summer sun.

I never used to trust Canadians, but that all changed last weekend. It sometimes happens when trusting eyes hit you. And it doesn't hurt if those eyes belong to curiously smiling lips that have good taste in music. That's all I have to say about that, other than a single moment can sometimes change everything. But if that moment isn't realized, which so often seems to be the case, then there's no point in having placed your trust in those eastern Canadian eyes. I'm still waiting for my gift, and thanks for the free ice cream.

Say Good bye Before leaving.

My greatest thoughts come at night while I lay in bed. By morning they're gone, unrecorded.

I didn't start biting my fingernails until about six months ago. And the gray hairs that now sprout so freely from my head weren't there six years ago. There could be a specific reason for all this, but I don't know why. Oh, wait, I do seem to remember now: I'm a journalist. I'm 25 years old, almost 26. I feel older than that. But at the same time, I feel strangely underage. Must everything be so complicated? Here's the funny thing -- life isn't so complex. But I would have nothing in this life if it weren't for my ability to complain. As I sit here on my tacky-colored couch at 11:39 p.m., I hear nothing but police helicopters in pursuit of a madman who is surely trying to kill me. It doesn't seem as if the authorities are having any luck finding this escaped lunatic. Let us thank the good Lord above that my rotten door that hardly ever closes properly has three full-proof (or foolproof, if you prefer) locks. Yes, my existence is in good hands, rest assured. I can finally have a good night's rest. I just peeked through the dusty white blinds. It looks as if the rowdy helicopter is circling somewhere in Koreatown, but it could be as far as Downtown. I've never been a good judge of distance. But I hope they catch the fucker soon, be it a man or woman, because this noise is driving me insane. My yellowing teeth have been brushed and I am all ready for sleep: that place I like to go before the morning sweeps me into a zombie-like mode of reading monotonous music blogs and drinking coffee from little white Styrofoam cups. The good life, some might call it, but not I. Living like a hog has never much suited me. I've owned a hog, and while they are without a doubt disgusting creatures, I can't help but pity and envy them at the same time. What other animal can get away with living in such filth and at the same time taste so good? It almost makes me think, but doesn't quite get me there. I have far too many other important thoughts to ponder in this short little window of a day God likes to tease me with. Such foolishness. Hold that thought, but only for only a second. The magician makes himself disappear, with nothing more than a cheap black wand.

Sitting In The Waiting Room.

I am a patient boy. I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait. My hair is still wet, resting politely on my two shoulders. For warmth is a soft burgundy sweater I wear for Christmas, given to me by my mom and dad. All of my grandparents are dead, resting silently on the clouds. I'm sitting on a hole that grows deeper and deeper with each day. Decomposing foam. I should either get it fixed or cover it with silver duct tape. It's dark outside and I'm driving down Vermont, headed toward Hollywood Boulevard, a street I've learned to hate. At least it's better than Wilshire. Mexican roads. Going to a party that's leading up to one of those big music awards shows. Starts with a "G" and ends with an "s." You know the one of which I speak. My fading Jaguar-Racing-Green truck doesn't have a radio. Well, it does, but music doesn't speak from its dash; only talk radio, which can sometimes be annoying during a Friday evening on the town. As usual, I use my iPod to illegally listen to music while I steer. Peeking up every second or two, I scroll through the backlit-blue screen of my white music box. I arrive at Fugazi, a Washington, D.C., outfit I didn't expect to listen to, but thought would be a nice change of pace from my usual ballads of depression and assaulting electro-punk thrashes. Fugazi: "13 Songs." The one with the red cover; black writing. The rolling muted bass takes me back to the summer of 2003. Writing in the sprial green notebook about those "authentic Armenian eyes." The ones that have since found love and marriage in France, by way of Los Angeles. I'm on Sixth Street in New York City. Manhattan. The wet sidewalks smell of garbage roasting in the sun. East Village monkey bars found in Tompkins Square Park by the basketball courts, across the street from the bakery where by the night's twinkle veggie burgers are cooked and sealed, and by day wedding cakes are manufactured for a little extra cash. That shithole Cherry Tavern down the street. Little India, they call it. Thin fluorescent bulbs highlight the doorway. Only $5 for a shot of Montezuma Gold Tequila and a cool can of Tecate, with a lime. "Waiting Room." Whiskey and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Oh, the memories. But I won't forget that song, or the jukebox from which it came -- ever. And I'll remember forever that evening in the dive of all dives. I seem to recall a cute, petite bartendress with a nice ass. Isn't that right, Herb? But I wouldn't live through it again, man. Not in a million fuckin' years. Can't place a price tag on nostalgia, can you? Function is the key, and that's hard to do after three Red Bull and Vodkas.

Those Sunny Days.

I look down from that place in the sky and see the ones who are still there, trying to make it through another day. It is a realization of the one most precious treasures that can be possessed: a selfishly beating heart. It works effortlessly in a motion that makes no sense. A generously given gift -- unwrapped then tossed aside. It is nothing to be explained on paper or in thought, but rather a deep lingering feeling. A voice from the silence is but an echo in the cave of doves and wolves. The night sky understands the soft words spoken to the pale clouds, and the Sun turns away in shame as the dry light caresses the yellowing weeds along the empty rows of the Vineyard. The shallow water of the canal flows slower these days, with leaked chemicals poisoning whatever goodness that once flowed through its path. But what does it lead to other than a narrow ending?

The elder Tree brings comfort to those who observe it on those rare days after the rain has stopped and the sky opens to the blinding light. The ground has a sharp silver quality, and the puddles provide a soothing scent reminiscent of how this world used to be. The crispness of the chilled air is enough to make one sit still in silence, and the White Mountains in the painted distance are exposed for a moment or two. A sight of beauty, you say? Indeed, for those who are blessed with this vision will live to a happy end. Now lay yourself down on the moist blades of grass and shed away all love and fear held within. Let the freedom go. Release it from that rusty cage. Eyes closed, the mind drifts and dreams of nothing. Escape those thoughts carried from day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year. They are no longer needed. What a foolish question it would be to ask why. Trust nothing but those mysterious shadows that follow you in moments of weakness. And listen for the cry of the hawk that sits atop the tallest pine in the land. It will surely lead you through this inescapable journey.

Christmas Tree Dead: Tales From Koreatown.

Along the sidewalk, among the stains and cracks, was a small Christmas Tree. No tinsel or ornaments, just a bare and lonely tree. Laying on its side unable to move, with no water in sight, the once beautiful Christmas Tree didn't have much longer to live. The needles slowly dropped from its branches. It sacrificed itself to give someone -- maybe even a whole family -- aesthetic pleasure during the holiday season. The young tree rose to the occasion and provided decoration during a time of love, joy and happiness. And now, after its purpose was served, the helpless tree was tossed onto the cold January pavement, left for dead, as if it had never existed. By now, small neighborhood dogs had probably used the Christmas Tree to urinate on. And Koreatown dwellers such as myself had rushed by the tree without notice. If one did look upon the tree, it was only a sudden glance of disgust. "Somebody needs to pick up this thing and dump it into the trash," I thought to myself one night while walking to my apartment after work. It was the first time I noticed the tree -- probably a week or so after Christmas Day. "The person who thoughtlessly tossed this tree onto the sidewalk must be cruel and ignorant." As the thought passed through my mind, I began to pity the pathetic tree. But I did nothing, and kept walking. That's life, I suppose. Each morning as I'm driving to work, I look to the streets and see many old Christmas trees left on the curb for dead. Used then abandoned. A sign that another season has passed. Let me fall asleep and awake the day after Thanksgiving. Sign me up, sweetheart. I simply can't wait.

The Life And Times Of Peni James.


Words & Interview: Mitchell Peters

Peni James truly is a punk-rock poet. He always has been and always will be. The singer-songwriter lives in the quiet town of Fowler, Calif., and makes some of the best rock'n'roll music these ears have ever heard. Peni James (aka James Z) and I are friends. In high school/early college, we played music together in Jaded, a hard-rock-death-grunge-metal band based in Sanger, Calif. Later, we shared the stage during open mic jam sessions and coffee-shop gigs throughout Fresno and Central California. I've observed the evolution of his songwriting and still can't get enough. He is, hands down, my favorite musician in Fresno. But that's not the reason I've decided to post random interview questions with him. To be honest, I don't know why. Maybe I just admire his honest, intelligent responses that sometimes make me laugh or smile. That said, listen to his tunes and read this interview. The questions weren't asked in any sort of order, so let us call it an improvisational interview among musicians and friends. It'll all make sense soon enough.

Do you think you were born to play music?
Nah. I wasn't born to do anything. It was just something I grew up loving and ended up being able to do. Growing up in average environment during the '80s and '90s, I was exposed to a lot of average things -- listening to the radio on the way to the mall, watching MTV between cartoons. There where some variables that got thrown in though. I've had a few really special teachers that kind of pointed me more in that direction.

In fourth grade, I had a teacher who was an Americana nut and just musical. It was like "The Music Man" or "The Sound of Music," or even "Mary Poppins." Someone just came out of nowhere and taught the class about Woody Guthrie and old folk songs -- like "Erie Canal" and even some Peter, Paul & Mary. He even taught us how to recycle and how we could all be driving cars with tires that would never wear out.

There were a few other teachers down the road that were like that, and they sort of cultivated my love for music. And I think out of that love I grew the ability to make and play music. But seriously, I wasn't too good at it until these incredible people helped me out. I had a saxophone teacher when I was 11 who had me struggling with the Peter Gun riff to playing 12 Bar Blues solos overnight. These were just regular community schoolteachers.

I'd love to believe that the ability to play music is natural, but it takes a lot of love and work. Everybody starts from scratch. I bet even Mozart did. But he just had that love and passion for it.

You're a huge fan of Bob Dylan. If you met him, what would you say?
I'd tell him that -- besides all the music he wrote -- the thing that impresses me the most about him is his knowledge of the music he writes. I'd ask him if he'd take me as a student. The stuff he knows is worth more than all the tea in China.

Is there a lot of tea in China?
Not anymore. It's mostly pirated American stuff I hear.

Anything else you'd tell Dylan?
I'd ask him why "Ferdinand the Imposter" is all messed up, fidelity-wise. Then I'd tell him I think it sounds all right anyways. But seriously, I'd ask him to teach me the foundations of what he knows. It would be like... until he started to teach me how to write a song, I had never known how to write a song. I've already learned a lot from him, and where it comes from. But he probably could show me more, mathematically wise.

What music have you been listening to lately?
Nineties indie radio. Stuff, like Sebadoh, Sonic Youth, Broadcast, Cat Power and Guided By Voices. I found an all-Pavement (Internet) radio station. It has been a few years since I've listened to Pavement, so the songs have the same vibe they had the first time I heard them.

And what vibe is that?
Like, "It's only teenage wasteland."

What's the first thing that pops into your head when you think of "rock'n'roll"?
Blue jeans and girls dancing. No, wait. Loud guitars and girls dancing. Honestly, I think of the music. The rhythms and melodies. The different songwriting methods used since people like the Eddie Cochrane or Buddy Holly up through John Spencer Blues Explosion. The mix of blues and country. The echoed vocals, treble guitars, rolling basses and dance beats.

The image thing is sort of an afterthought. And it's sort of different now, too. People really can't rebel with image anymore. All you can do is just be yourself. I guess that's still rebelling against conformity. But it's not like back then where you could really get in trouble for looking weird.

But the music to me is still extensions of 12 Bar Blues with wild stuff going on. It still has the same sort of spirit about it. Rock'n'roll kind of came together from fractions of other styles of music, and it has sort of been re-dissected. But it still has that spirit in its new forms.

You know, if you would have asked me this question a few months back, I would have said rock'n'roll reminds me of a secret weapon. Slip it into a stiff society -- paranoid and on the verge of self-destruction -- and the next thing you know, you've got people stuffing daisies in muskets and world leaders who got there by writing pop tunes. If you ask me, it's the reason the Iron Curtan fell and part of the reason why humanity still has a chance. You can't kill a spirit.

Which artist(s)/band(s) do you think best represent "rock'n'roll"?
I'd go with Bob Dylan and The Band. They know more about what rock'n'roll is than anybody. From pure rock'n'roll music knowledge to stuffing the songs with poetry and ideas. They're real rock'n'roll geniuses. I heard that Marlon Brando once said the two loudest things he ever heard where The band and a freight train going by.

Kind of a morbid question, I guess, but who is your favorite dead musician?
Keith Moon -- he lived and died for rock'n'roll [laughs]. Nah, nobody should abuse themselves like that. But man he was cool. Syd Barrett and Jimi Hendrix are a close second. I was going to say John Lennon, but it wouldn't be fair to George Harrison. Rick Danko is pretty awesome, and dead, too. But I don't know if I really have a favorite. There's this really long list and I really love everybody on it: Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones. It's tragic, but they're not without their legacies. They left some powerful music with us. This sucks. Now I feel like listing every dead musician I like. I should have just stuck with Keith Moon.

Which song on your MySpace page would you recommend to a first-time Peni James listener?
Either "Green" or "Le Buss Stop," if they're on there. At this very moment, I'd suggest "Minds Eye Blues."

Why that one?
The lyrics are playful and the music is simple and fun. "Minds Eye Blues" has a cool sounding middle. They also have a pop edge to them.

To Be Continued...