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...

Interview: Chicks on Speed.

Greetings from Mid-Wilshire. Not sure why I decided to post this, but here's a (previously unpublished) interview I did about a year and a half ago with all three members of Chicks on Speed. It was intended for a female-oriented music Web site, but I didn't go back and make the edits they wanted and the whole thing fell through the cracks. God damn, I'm lazy. It has been sitting on my computer unread. So here it is for all the world to enjoy. If you don't know who/what COS is, visit chicksonspeed-records.com or myspace.com/chicksonspeed.


Words & Interview: Mitchell Peters

Chicks on Speed have this little joke. Before the Euro-based trio -- Melissa Logan, Alex Murray-Leslie and Kiki Morse -- step on stage, their sound technician, Joe, asks, "Should I press the space bar?" Their reply: "Yes." (The space bar is what triggers the playback on the laptop that contains the threesome's trashy pre-recorded electroclash tunes and kicks off the live show.) COS fancied the ongoing joke so much, they named their fourth album "Press the Space Bar." And when COS isn't in the studio recording, they're either signing electro acts to Chicks on Speed Records, designing trendy clothes, erecting obscure gallery exhibitions, producing short films or promoting their book "Chicks on Speed: It's a Project!" The trio's philosophy is to exploit all facets of music and art.

COS chatted with [enter online music publication here] about the group's new album, what their parents think about their chosen lifestyle, and what it means to be a "fashion victim."


Chicks on Speed originated in Munich, where the three of you met at an art school in 1997. You've since moved to Berlin and started your label, Chicks on Speed Records. Why did you choose to settle in Berlin? (Alex has recently moved to Barcelona).
Melissa: When we lived in Munich we realized we had more friends in Berlin. We had also done everything in Munich that there was to do. It was just a move to a bigger town. It's more exciting [in Berlin] with the whole East opening up and these strange things going on. There's all this space.


What's the music scene like in Berlin?
Melissa: There's funny trash-rock -- a lot of weird stuff. Many people here do experimental things. It's OK to do really weird stuff, people don't get mad at you. They'll have a good laugh and be like, "That was pretty crappy, but the direction you took was really interesting." They're really lenient here, instead of these cities where you can't take any risks or do any weird stuff and people won't look at you anymore. That's why there's a lot of really strange experimentation going on here. Sometimes too much.


Alex, has your move to Barcelona made it difficult to communicate with the other girls?
Alex: No, we do a lot of our artwork over the Internet -- uploading things on the FTP site. It just changes the way in which we work. A lot of the projects we do are done in a gallery. It's like going into the studio. We work for months in the gallery space and that's where we make our new work. We don't have a studio in Berlin, we prefer to move around and be quite nomadic and creative. We meet up once a week anyway, it's only an hour away (by plane).


Your record label is home to artists like Kevin Blechdom, DAT Politics, Angie Reed and most recently ex-Raincoats member Ana da Silva. Why did you choose to start your own label?
Melissa: Because we didn't know where we wanted to release. We wanted to go to Mute Records in the beginning, but that didn't work out so we started our own record company.


Is there a particular reason the label's roster is fairly small?
Alex: We don't like to have one-hit-wonders. We're after nurturing a whole career. You can't have too many artists where you end up neglecting a few and they get annoyed, so it's not worth it.
Melissa: We're building it. Our company is not big but we want to keep our artists happy and satisfied.


Let's talk about your new album, "Press the Space Bar." How do you think it differs from COS' previous work?
Kiki: For the first time, we worked with an actual band. All of the songs were developed out of jam sessions. The whole approach was very different. First of all, this was only meant to be an EP, it was actually meant to be a side project. But after working with (musician/producer) Cristian Vogel we decided, "OK, we're going to make this an album."

Melissa: Of course it's very different. "99 Cents" (2004) was a really slick record and the production was a lot slicker. But we've also done rough things like "Re-Releases of the Un-Releases" (2000), but that was more of a collage. ["Re-Releases"] also had a lot of experimental stuff on it.

Alex: We took influence from the Shags, or the Violent Femmes or the Go-Go's. We wanted to just do jam sessions and get away from all that sort of Logic-based music and go back to the natural way of producing a record and creating a record that's influenced by the moment and not from loops and samples. There are loops and samples in there, but we try not to repeat things into loops. It was a lot freer.


How did you met the No Heads (Panoxa, Eric and Tony), the Spanish band that provided the backing music for "Press the Space Bar."
Melissa: They're not really a band. They are, but they're friends of Cristian Vogel, and studio musicians that were put together in Barcelona.

Kiki: I think he looked for a guitarist and then the guitarist happened to know another guy who played drums, and then so on. But [Vogel] didn't know them very well; they were just acquaintances.


Is there a running theme to "Press the Space Bar"?
Melissa: It became more political with what was, or is, happening in the world -- like with "Class War" or some of the political songs on the record. One can't hide from these things that are going on. But they definitely became a theme on the record. We let them happen consciously saying, "Let's make a more political record." If one is a person that things and looks around to see what's happening, one can't help doing that.


I hear the song "Wax My Anus" (from "Press the Space Bar") is about Courtney Love. Can I get an interpretation of the song from each of you?
Alex: I researched a lot on the Internet about Courtney Love and I've always been quite intrigued by all the gossip and stories. All the lyrics are things Courtney Love has said before -- they're quotes. It's not supposed to be against her, it's more of an intriguing analysis.

Kiki: It's about the media it's about the portrayals of rock singers in the media. But it's also got a lot of concrete things about Courtney Love. Alex collected a lot of material from the Internet and it's all quotes. Quotes of stuff she actually said. We didn't invent any of this stuff.

Melissa: It's a song about media trash. All the lyrics were found in the Internet and in bad music magazines. It was really collected gossip junk that was strewn together. That's how it was put together. But it's something about taking media trash and recycling.


If you were to describe COS' music to someone who's never heard, what would say?
Melissa: If a taxi driver asked me what kind of music we make, I'd just say electro-pop. For ["Press the Space Bar"] it's noisy-wave but it's also very song-oriented and not so much track-oriented like what we used to do.


How do you think your music has evolved the group first formed?
Kiki: I think we definitely have become more professional about making music. We've become more of musicians now. But we still don't lose our amateur edge. From doing so many live shows we've become a bit more professional and bit less nervous about being on stage.

We still don't take music that serious, it's still just one aspect of what we do. But of course, we have to promote our albums. And let's be honest, it's how we earn our living: through music. So it takes up a big part of our lives.


What does your family think about what you're doing? Is that where your artistic side come from?
Alex: My dad was a pilot and my mom was a housewife. I think it just came from somewhere else. My grandfather made films. My dad is pretty proud. He saw us in New Zealand the first time we played there. My mom likes it but I don't really think she understands it, which is OK. There's always some frustration with parents. They're on another wavelength. It's not often that you really meet parents that understand what their kids are doing.


Do any of you have past experience with playing music?
Melissa: Kiki and I both went to a kind of weird school where you do a lot of the arts. So when we were children we always had to play a lot of instruments. I learned violin and saxophone. I just recently started playing saxophone again on stage from some of the songs. And basically from going out and dancing, one really knows what one likes and one really develops an ear for what one loves. We used those hours we spent clubbing as a reference.

Kiki: I have a tiny flute, and for the last album I played keyboard and a lot of different stuff. We all play keyboard and we composed different melody lines and bass lines.


Is there anything that inspires the music you write?
Alex: I think it's just general society around us and the newspapers you read -- and just everyday occurrences. It's really just the three of us observing society and the world we live in and putting those feeling together and pushing them out in a song.


Is it true that COS doesn't want to limit itself to just one style?
Kiki: Yes that's true. We were categorized into the "electroclash" genre for a while but this is actually not true. Our music has had elements or rock and pop, and it's not only this one thing of being '80s retro-sounding. We are influenced from all different kinds of genres.


Do you talk to many fans that have been inspired by your music?
Melissa: A lot of times at shows, one can see it. You get some people in the front row with big eyes. People have come up to us and said, "Oh, wow, that was really inspiring. I'm going home now and starting a band." People even say, "Oh, we just started a band right now." Things like that.


Who have you enjoyed touring with the most in your career?
Melissa: It was really fun touring with Le Tigre. We also toured with Peaches but it was a completely different audience, which was really interesting to see. All three of our audiences are very different and it's silly that we're compared to each other because the scenes that we have are different crowds.


How would you describe your fanbase?
Alex: You could call them arty, fashion victims and freaks. A lot of gays as well.

Melissa: I guess you'd call them arty. They're really individualistic. You know, fashionable, but not just fashion victim. It's also mixed. We have more dorky people, just more thinkers. You can tell they're not brainwashed people.


And what is a "fashion victim" exactly?
Alex: It's a really specific breed of person. It's a person who changes their clothes maybe two or three times a day. It doesn't necessarily mean you spend a lot of money on clothes, but it means you spend a lot of time looking for clothes and a lot of time getting ready. And you're very up-to-date with the latest trends or a trendsetter yourself.


What role does music play within all the facets of art (fashion, films, multimedia, etc.) you're involved with?
Kiki: For me personally, music has been really important. I listen to a lot of music at home and my family was very musical. The others swing around because they were trained in fine arts. I think they can imagine -- maybe more than me -- of stopping music. I couldn't imagine stopping because it's so much fun to do a live show. It's very rewarding.


Where do you see the future of COS heading?
Melissa: We'll see with the next record what happens. We come from techno-electro so that will always be part of it.

Alex: Maybe we won't make music anymore. Maybe we'll just makes clothes and shoes, [music] is just one element of the project. I can imagine that we end up just making short films. We want to make a feature film. So maybe we'll just end up making music for that film. I could see that happening. But in the near future, I don't think we'll go back into the studio.


What is your favorite aspect about making music?
Alex: All the facets that belong to it. Like the live show. When we do a live show, we have choreography and films and costumes. It's like a whole piece of art, which means all elements rely on another. This is interesting, because music isolated on its own is completely boring in my eyes and there's no way I'd want to do that. I can't relate to music alone.

It's about challenge and moving on to new ground. [We like to] forge new ways in which to perform and challenge our audience. That's where the new creativity lies.

August Sixth Through The Eighth.

When we speak, I will look at your eyes and not your mouth. The eyes are more interesting than the mouth. And when I look at your eyes as we speak, I will not be listening to what you are saying, nor will I be paying attention to what I am saying. Instead, I will be off in another place. One of amazement. Instead of listening and actually hearing the words of thought, which I am sure are intelligent and interesting, I will be lost in how those eyes came to be. Forgive my one-word responses, and please excuse my blank stare. It is not that you are boring. As I mentioned before, I am most positive your thoughts are interesting and intelligent beyond belief. But I am more interested in the movement of your eyes, and what they see beyond spoken words. Your vision is priceless, you see. It allows you to view the beauty and horror of what surrounds you. My sight is also priceless. Without it, I would not be able to question beauty.

***

... I love the way light shines on trees. I envy it in more ways than one. Natural light never meant much to me before I had to go a day or two without it. [Deleted words]. The darkness has found me. The light was closed by my five fingers. Well, one, actually. Maybe it burned out. I don't remember. Oh, will you look at how the time flies? It's already seven o'clock. Soon it will be ten. There's no telling where the night will have taken me by then. Maybe a place where thought isn't required, and my biggest fear is tomorrow. Sleeping is one of my favorite things to do, which begs the question of why I don't indulge in it more often. The night passes too quickly when you are asleep. At least if you stay awake until four a.m., the next workday approaches at a seemingly slower pace. The world these days is too fast. Cars rush past me in the hours of the morning before I've had my first cup of coffee. I notice myself gradually moving faster with them. But I don't know why. The faster we live, the faster we die? I don't meet many people who are eager to die. Maybe the people in those cars really love their jobs and can't wait to get crackin' on that big pile of work they save for a Friday afternoon. Yes, that must be it. I have answered my own question: People drive fast in the morning so they can get crackin' on the thing they enjoy most: paperwork that has been piling for weeks. If only every one of life's questions were this easy to answer. But where is the fun in that? We would all be miserable human beings if we knew the mysteries of earth and soul. [Deleted words]. They don't exist anymore, not in this world and not in the next. [Deleted words]. Notice the handwriting on the page, it's sloppier than it was before. You must be getting anxious to read what I write next. Has the writing taken over the man, or is it the other way around? Nobody can tell these days. You must hurry up and get that last thought on the page. Your eyes are half closed. Sleepiness enters, and even the strongest of energy drinks can't save you now. Simple words of beauty. [Deleted words]. I've been curious if the music one listens to while writing has any effect on the finished product. My guess would be "yes." And I'm positive many studies have been conducted. No doubt. [Deleted words]. I'll sit here alone and reflect on these words. I think it will make for an interesting Saturday night.

***

Why is it that every time I step foot into another country I either slice the shit out of my finger or get hassled by the passport people? Maybe it's the beard, or perhaps it's my suspicious eyes. I don't know. Yeah, I tend to make pretty good first impressions. Take tonight, for example. I met some guy and girl from Glendale (Calif.). The guy says something about "Greetings from [enter familiar name here]." Meanwhile, I have about a gallon of blood dripping down my hand. It almost makes you feel like a madman. But enough about that. Oh, shit. I think I was being videotaped. (Not by the government.) I'm not sure what the little arrow to the left is supposed to mean, but it doesn't matter. [Deleted words]. We drove down this street with a bunch of casinos. The guy sitting next to the bus driver called it the "Armenian Las Vegas." It was kind of funny, I guess. Not really, actually. [Deleted words]. I have a feeling these days will be strange. Do you know why? Because life is strange. Here's a thought: Maybe I should retire young and live in Armenia. That's pretty interesting. [Deleted words]. I'm in a hotel room. It's almost 3 a.m. [Deleted words]. I told you life is strange. So strange, in fact, that too many people take it seriously. This includes me. By the way, do you ever have the strange feeling you have cancer? Paranoia.

The Sun Sets On Vegas.


I don't remember where we were, but I remember talking. It was one of those conversations you don't forget. It made me think differently about things. But I don't like thinking. It hurts my head.
...
The sun sets on Vegas. My stomach feels like shit. Ironic, I guess. I took a nap for almost an hour. After I woke up, I layed (laid) on the bed for another 30 minutes. Just thinking. No lights, no sound. But the thinking finally made me nervous and depressed. I'm in a hotel room. A woman in the room next door is talking on the phone, wishing somebody a "Happy Valentine's Day." I can hear this as I lay on the bed with two pillows stacked behind my head. During the climax of the conversation, she says something heartless. "I love you." I'm not convinced. But then again, I'm not convinced of a lot of things. From the tone of her voice, it sounds like she's from Los Angeles. I'm not all that fond of L.A. I couldn't really tell you why. Just not my type of town, I guess. My mind begins to wander to the half-empty pack of Parliaments that are sitting in the nightstand next to the Bible. Just two nights ago, I asked a friend why hotels always have Bibles in the drawers of their rooms. He gave me a theory, but I've already forgotten. After my 30 minutes of silent contemplation on the bed, I stood up and walked over to the window and opened the curtains a bit. Our view is pretty cool. It overlooks the pool and back patio of the resort. Think palm trees. Many of them. In the distance is the Las Vegas Strip. The sun sets behind it, but it's not quite there. It's 5:42 p.m. The lights are almost out.
...
Armenia is a place for cigarette billboards, beautiful women and suspicious men smoking smokes. It's a place for me to walk around lonely, trying to blend in. Yerevan is not home, which is a good thing. It's a city that takes your mind off working, and deadlines. In this world, concert venues with $25 million additions and fake rap shows don't exist. In a way, Yerevan is pure. It's a place that doesn't allow time for pain. You do what you do, and you don't look back. These people are interesting. Their lives seem meaningful and sound. Yes, I'm sure they have their worries, but not like people in the U.S. They all look the same. And I say that in a good way. The dress is similar and so are their appearances. I like it. The cigarettes don't smell stale. The air isn't as fresh as I thought it would be. Death metal is a sweet sound. The words on the buildings remind me of church. Museums are great.
...
Damn, I burned the popcorn again. There goes another night of sleeping well.
...
Here's one more: "Fuck you all, I haven't had a good night's sleep in a long, long time. If you cared, you'd turn my way but you're fuckin' gone." A lyric from Jaded's "Gone." Could be heard during late Sunday afternoons on the sidewalks of Sanger, Calif., circa '97 and beyond.

Sleep Well, Love.

Weren't you the one who made me smile?

No, I didn't cry that night. Not for you, the one who walked away, the girl who danced on the beach and jumped into the icy Irish water. You were ridiculous, or so I thought. Later I realized. You're a handmaiden of God. A kindred spirit of sorts. I saw you carve another name into the sand. You sent away the photo. Not to me. I saw it from a distant window. His name wasn't mine. There were too many letters. Whispers in the other room. I'll pretend to sleep on the couch. I should've foreseen it. But you made me laugh. One of three, maybe four. Nightly meditation doesn't work anymore. Who painted your portrait so long ago? Ah yes, our good friend. Leo Da Vinci.

Ecstasy, the drug, not the feeling.

When I walked into the courtyard under the black sky, I should've known you'd be waiting by the empty fountain. Behind the bushes. With tears running down the side of your face. Wasn't it Valentine's Day? And didn't you call him the same night you talked of dreams with me? Vacations on tropical islands. Yes. I won't let you forget it, babe. Not in a million years. Don't be confused, my darling. It'll soon be over. Time always tells. You were the one who taught me something. A lesson I'm still learning. Too many questions.

In the end, it was you I was thinking about while walking through the streets of Rome. Passed by a female motorcyclist. I didn't accept her offer for a ride. Wishing I had a match to light the cigaretten that dangled from my mouth for hours. Lucky Strike. It wasn't hand rolled. An almost full pack inside my jacket pocket. My lighter was taken. I was in a small pie of eighty thousand foreigners. Screaming with excited anger. The air burned my eyes. The cops held me back. I tried to retrace my steps but had no luck. For hours I roamed through the silent night. Alone at Twelve a.m. One a.m. Two a.m. Three a.m. Four a.m. Five a.m. Six a.m. Seven a.m. When I found my way back the hotel at Eight (a.m.) and passed out on the bed, it was you who entered my dreams. That silent film inside my head. Cappuccino in the afternoon, I must be an American. Not Italia's finest.

Those amazing brown eyes are so familiar. They bring back this feeling. No, not childhood. Every time I see them - even now - they take me to that place. Found in the pit of my stomach. We are standing in the doorway of my flat. You're wearing a pink top and carrying a backpack. A feeling runs through me that I don't recall. We walk for five hours through the city. Getting lost and not caring. Not only in the streets, but in each other's words. Unspoken thoughts. I would've walked with you for days. Through Park West; Marble Arch. Stopping for an occasional drink. Hot tea with milk. Did you think I'd forget?

A seven-page letter. You changed me. For a month or two. "Have you ever been kissed in a graveyard?" I asked. With Chopin, Wilde and Jim as my witnesses, I speak with honesty. The petals of the rose bush were moist. The morning mist trickled down. I saw your smiling face. It caught me off guard. Oh la la. Surprise. Shock. And finally, heartbreak.

I begin to write. I pull a silver hair from my head. You're my inspiration. I do it for you. To see that priceless glance. To hear your praise. Hesitation plays a role. Not a big one. It will later, and it causes destruction. Found by the river and the beach. Along the Western Coastline. I spent my summer there. In the mountains, sitting on a log. It's so beautiful out here, which makes it harder. God damn the beauty.

Snapshots in the photo album of my mind. We all have old memories. Walking through the shallow part of the ocean. Laying on my side, staring at you. Past feelings get washed away by the current. Maybe it was the salt in the sea that got to us. We are tangled in its weeds. Perhaps the breeze blew love away. It was sealed with a pastel letter. Goodbye from Seaside, you wrote. If nothing else, remember this: Your heart will always be on my wall.

Sleep well, love. Night passes quickly, and summer's almost gone.

Edit. Edit. Edit.

1. Dark faces. Lightened eyes. It's kind of weird how the sun beams shine to the ground. Feeling funny from those words I just read. The way they were placed on the page. The choice of phrasing. Fresh tunes. A song that doesn't last very long. Switches up in the middle. Throws you down to the ground and kicks you in the gut. Priceless feelings. Wasted talents. Eyes that could destroy the universe. My ears are begging for more. The talents just dont come fast enough these days. Songs written in minutes that last a lifetime. Often wasted. I couldn't tell you some of the things I've seen. Hopefully, you would do the same. Sour. Unanswered phone calls. I'm thinking about changing the tone of my voice. Those days are completely over.

2. That looped beat. What was the program you used again? Something you downloaded for free, no doubt. Some weird experimental shit, huh? What ever happened to those folk tunes you were once known for? Questions that never get answered are what makes life worth living. Sometimes. That's right, sometimes. Meet me at the bus stop. Classic. So very classic of you. Whatever you write seems perfect. I guess I can say that having known you for a few years. Or having once known you, I should say. Speaking of years, they're starting to pass quicker these days. 21,22,23,24,25, etc. Would you not agree, kid? Man, that one strike of the chord you do is infinite. Do you know that? I didn't think so. It has been a while since I've listened to this song. I can almost remember the first time. Almost. It wasn't that long ago, but it seems like a lifetime. Almost. I can honestly say I've never met anyone better. Maybe I have and didn't realize it at the time. In my heart, you'll always be the best. Don't know why, but it makes me sad. Patch. The lightning didn't strike twice. Too bad. These things pass us by and we dont even know it. Could've done so much more.

3. August 20, 2006. Just an ordinary day of doing nothing. Didn't go outside once. Heat. Heard it was hot. Don't want to upset my heart. Maybe it was a smart move staying in. Then again, maybe it wasn't. Last night's party: looking over a balcony at a dark sky. Lights scattered over the ground. Some orange, some blue. Stars were still in the sky. Tight skirts. What more could one ask for? I'm sure you could think of a few things. Nice eyes. I've discovered something about life. But I'm not going to tell you. You need to figure out on your own. If I were to reveal its secret, what would you have to strive for? Nothing. After all, isn't that why you're here? Lemme know when you find the answer. Here's me, trying to wink.

4. Instead of reading, write a letter. Address it to your mother or father who are living far off somewhere. Don't make it angry. The tone should be light. Handwritten letters are a thing of the past, unfortunately. They still exist in small quantities. Very small. I think the only people who write handwritten letters anymore are soldiers in distant countries and 80-year-old women - and maybe kids in summer camp. But thats about it, folks. There's nothing quite like sitting down with only a pen and pad, and writing down your deepest bullshit thoughts. So comforting. Coffee should probably be somewhere in that equation, too. Not decaf. My eyes are too tired to sleep. A curse of curses.

Ever thought about interviewing yourself? No? I have. It would be boring, and I doubt anyone would read it. They'd probably skim over the questions then move on to something else. I know I would. Why should I care about questions one wants to ask themselves? The thought is ludicrous.

5. "True Lies" is on the television. HBO, my favorite. I've seen it like a million times. Once more won't hurt. Oh, look, it's our Governor. Awesome, kids. I said it twice now, and I won't say it again. Sleep tight in this L.A. night. Damn those crickets.

Mitch on Famous.

Greetings. I was surprised to find that many of my stories/interviews were re-posted today on Fresno Famous as a "Mitch on Speed Retrospective," in honor of me moving to Los Angeles. Now wasn't that nice?

In other news, I just got back from San Antonio where I was visiting for a conference. Didn't see any music there but I got to visit the Alamo. I didn't get to see where Ozzy pissed, so I'm kinda pissed myself... Oh well. As far as music goes, within the past couple weeks I've seen Al Green at the Hollywood Bowl, Gris Gris at the Echo (I saw Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Karen O at this show -- at least I think it was her...) and the Great Northern at Sea Level Records. Hmmm, something just occured to me: Does anyone really give a shit what music I've seen in LA thus far? Doubtful, but I'm tellin' you anyway.

I'll be in Fresno this weekend (I think) to see family and go to a big Armenian wedding bash. Should be fun, although the drive up and back will suck. Don't know about y'all but I'm looking forward to seeing ADULT. play in LA early October... Some of you should come, Nicola and Adam would be honored.

Later on.

Madonna In Fresno.

As some of you loyal readers may remember, we here at the Mitch on Speed blog sometimes recruit what we like to call "guest bloggers."

And since Madonna performing two back-to-back concerts (June 5-6) at Fresno's Save Mart Center was like the second coming of Christ to some, I figured a review would be appropriate. Unfortunately, I could not attend. Well, it's not that unfortunate. I didn't want to go.

One thing this review doesn't mention is that Madonna allegedly slept on her private jet following her June 5th performance. I figured she would've just flown to L.A. for the night, and come back to "Fres-yes" the next day. Strangely enough, that wasn't the case. From what I heard, she doesn't stay in hotels that aren't five-star. Please, Madonna...

That said, let the Maddy madness begin...

Guest Blogger: Just Jenn

Ok, so I'm sitting here trying to write my review of last night's (6/5) Madonna concert. This is harder than I thought, but I'm going to give it my best try.

Madonna concert. Loved it! My girlfriend and I sat opposite the stage in the upper level. Madonna looked like a tiny ant from our seats, but her presence was so great, it didn't even matter.

The set list was awesome. I have heard several people complain they wanted to hear more of her hits from the 1980s. Which really makes no sense to me. She has a new album out which she is promoting, so it's pretty safe to assume most of the music is going to come from that.

While it was difficult to see all of the details of her costumes, I did get the gist lots of '70s disco throwbacks and '80s aerobic leotards. The visuals were stunning and larger than life. I could not take my eyes off the black and white horse montage that opened the show. I found my arms covered in goose bumps several times. I began to have those, "Oh, I get it moments." You know, the ones where you think music is all we need. I should stop my SUV gas-guzzling ways. Fifty pairs of black pumps are not necessary when there are hungry children in the world. So yeah, a little deeper conscious can often come in the strangest forms.

For those who were upset about Madonna's use of profanity, I can understand that. I dont make a habit of using such words, but remember: this is Madonna. She is the woman who became famous by singing about virginity. I'm not really sure we should have expected anything less.

And KUDOS to Madonna's people. I'm talking about the people who, as she rushes out on stage as the show is starting, tell her "You're in Fresno now." There have been mentions of Madonna's use of the word "FRES-YES." Ok, well her people obviously have done their homework and research. No one honestly believes that Madonna just came up with that while sitting back stage, right? Crafty people certainly were able to find Fresnos resurgence of self-esteem and frequent use of the term Fres-yes. Michael Jackson should have such people. The ones who tell him, "Hmm, yeah probably not a good idea to say you share your bed with little boys."

Ok, so quick recap. Set list, awesome. Visuals (this also goes for all the props she used) were fantab. Her dancers had more energy and moved so fluidly. It was mind-blowing. Madonna rocked the show for two hours straight (despite coming on stage and not giving an encore). The show was well worth the $120 I paid for my tickets, and I would definitely see her again in Fresno.

More Madonna concert info can be found at Mike Oz's blog (Fresno Bee music writer - duh.)

Rademacher (L-R): Brad Basmajian, Taruko Asami, Greer McGettrick, and Malcolm Sosa

Rademacher: the Fresno Famous Interview

Rademacher's Malcolm Sosa talks about the new EP, the national tour, and Central Valley music.

by Mitch on Speed.
June 1, 2006

If you live, eat and breathe in Fresno, you've at least heard of Rademacher. They're those indie rock sweethearts who seem to have a permanent residency at Tokyo Garden. The foursome - guitarist/vocalist Malcolm Sosa, guitarist Brad Basmajian, bassist Greer McGettrick and drummer Taruko Asami - have been around, in some form or another, for about two years now. I say "in some form or another" because Rademacher has had a rotating door of members since its summer 2004 inception. I have photos to prove it. But we'll save those for another day.

OK, fine, I'll tell you now. Basically, I got bored one night and decided to drive down to Bakersfield to watch Rademacher play. In the process, I snapped a few photos of them (when Niilo and Brianna Smeds used to be in the band). But if you want the really interesting photos from that night, you'll have to ask Mike Burnett (frontman of Fresno indie rock outfit, The Batteries). He'll gladly show you snapshots of the cheesy face-painted metal bands that played on the bill that same night. It was ridiculous, yet cool. After the show, everybody went back to James Brittain-Gore's (of No Cello) then-apartment in the Tower District and got drunk. No Cello was also on the bill that night.

Anyway. To date, Rademacher has recorded three EPs: Rademacher, Ice Age and its most current, Heart Machine. All three can be purchased on the band's Web site, rademachermusic.com. As many of us know, Rademacher is no stranger to performing at Fresno venues like Starline and Tokyo Garden. They'll even pop in for a live performance at Meatball Magic every now and then. But they don't stop there. The band has also ventured on tour stints up and down the West Coast.

Following Rademacher's June 1st gig at Tokyo Garden (Art Hop night), the four-piece will begin a 15-date trek across the U.S. The jaunt begins June 2nd at Flagstaff, Ariz.'s Hotel Monte Vista and wraps June 17th at Las Vegas' Beauty Bar. Countless gigs have found Rademacher sharing the stage with bands like The Joggers, Earlimart, and Man Man. Hell, maybe someday we'll see 'em headlining Pitchfork's Intonation Music Festival in Chicago, or even Coachella. Actually, Rademacher would probably fit in nicely on the European festival circuit. Stranger things have happened, friends.

I've mentioned Rademacher countless times in my "Mitch on Speed" blog. I could talk about them forever. But I won't. This intro was for the uninitiated. If you've read through this and still don't know who or what Rademacher is, here's a hint: During one of the band's live songs (the tune's name escapes me), everybody in the crowd stops what they're doing and sings along. It's like a drunken pirate ship singalong. It happens at every show. Some of you know what I'm talking about. If not, I suggest you make a trip to Tokyo Garden tonight and see for yourself. Even if you hate indie music, fear not, readers: Rademacher's music will get better and better with each sip of a large Sapporo.

Interviewed by Mitchell Peters

Mitch on Speed: Rademacher... Is that German?
Malcolm Sosa: Yes, it is a German last name. It's also a name shared by a very famous boxer from Yakima, a mathematics genius and a Google programmer. Like all band names, it sounds pretty dumb if you think about it or explain it too much.

Fair enough. Tell us how Rademacher evolved from you playing solo acoustic shows to what it is now.
To be fair, our first two shows were electric as a trio. Then people started getting busy with other things. Shawn Covert was the first bass player in the band, and he was working on a record with his band Bel and the Dragon. Brad Basmajian agreed to play some of the songs with me at a show at Tokyo Garden one night. I was nervous about the idea of playing a whole set by myself. Solo sets are hard.

You and (Fresno Famous Editor) Jarah moved from New York City a few years back. Were you playing in any bands while you lived there?
Yeah. I was in a few different projects. None of them were really rock-type things. I had a band called Los Vinos, which was a weird avante-salsa sort of thing. I found one of the songs on Myspace the other day. I think here. The old bass player from that band has it streaming from his site. It is called Ya Era Tiempo. Which translates to "It was about time". I was also in a classical guitar trio called the "Morgan Stop Guitar Ensemble" with Jason Jones, another Fresno kid who lived in Brooklyn. So it was a little different than the stuff I do now. Basically, I moved back here and I couldn't find anyone to play avante-salsa or classical guitar with me, so I started a rock band. I was inspired by Pinkeye.

Since Rademacher has formed, there have been several members who've come and gone. Being the frontman, how do you manage everyone's schedule and keep the band alive?
It's kind of fun sometimes to have change. Like a breath of fresh air. Especially when you know people aren't leaving 'cause they think the band sucks, but that they are inspired to go out there and do their own thing. If that makes sense. Other times, it is a little inconvenient. The current line-up - me, Brad, Greer and Becky - played our first show together in Los Angeles (or maybe S.F.) with five days of practice under our belts. It was fun. I don't know if it sounded good, but it was exciting.

How do you personally define Rademacher's sound? Does everyone in the band contribute in the songwriting, or is it just you?
I don't think anyone else has written lyrics or brought in whole songs. But there is collaboration for sure. I think of it as a giant coloring project. I bring in some boundaries, an outline, and then everyone goes to work coloring with their own instruments. And then we tell each other what we like or don't like and then we erase everything and do it over and keep working at it until it gets to a point we're all comfortable with.

How has living in the Central Valley influenced your songwriting, if at all?
I was thinking about that today. I don't know if the music from here has really influenced me as much as music from say - New York or the U.K. - but the mythology of bands like Granddaddy and Earlimart sure has. The little things like the fonts on their album covers. Song titles. The pictures of them in magazines. More important than that though has been the musicians in town and the bands that haven't been on MTV - like Gypsy Cab, Pine Marten, Pinkeye, Panty Lions. Other things that I think have influenced me are the way people from Fresno talk. The way people in Fresno feel about themselves and see themselves in relation to the rest of the world. Those things come through more I think. In the lyrics and vocals.

Who came up with the idea to wear jumpsuits and headbands as seen in the Rademacher press photos? It seems like classic indie rock.
Uhm. It was a rad idea. That picture gets used a lot in the press we do. It has been in the SF Guardian, The SF Weekly - people love it. I don't know how that came about. We wanted to sort of dress alike, I think that was the plan, and Brad had a jumpsuit and I had a jumpsuit and Becky brought those waitress type dresses out of her closet. All of a sudden it was a party.

Ha. And what about this "Malcolm Sosa" alias. How did that come about?
Oh God. I guess I just made it up one day. It makes it easier to talk about yourself in interviews if the person you're talking about isn't really you.

I've always admired the drive you have to promote your band inside and outside Fresno. With Rademacher, you've created press kits, demos, press releases - what role has self-promotion played in Rademacher's success thus far?
I like that you use the world "self-promotion." It seemed like the natural thing to do. After I learned to play a few chords on guitar I wanted to write songs. After I wrote a few songs I wanted to make an album. After I recorded a few EPs, I wanted to tour. I wanted people to hear this music that I had been working on. It would seem silly not to take that step after I had done all the rest of it. At the same time, I wanted to be good at it. I try to do it with a level of excellence that is comparable to what I was doing with the writing and the performance. Does that make sense? I don't want to sell myself short. To not do that part of the whole thing would be like making yourself the best cheeseburger in the world and then not eating it.

Your band has also gotten a lot of "ink" in various music blogs around the country. In your opinion, how influential do you think blogs are in today's indie music scene?
I hope very influential. But it is hard to gauge. It can't hurt none. I read them. A lot of them are my friends, so that may play a role in why I read them. I like getting free MP3s. My personal favorites are Sixeyes and My Old Kentucky Blog. And of course Stereogum. Oh and Indie Can't Dance. There are a lot of good ones.

In a couple days, Rademacher will embark on a 15-date nationwide tour. So far, the band has only toured up and down the West Coast. What are you hoping to gain from this tour?
We're hoping to find out how influential music blogs are.

Nobody really cares about a band's BEST SHOW EVER. So tell us what Rademacher's worst show has been.
Worst show ever ... Bakersfield. I think. Or Stork Club in Oakland. At one show the only people in the audience were wearing insane clown posse style makeup. At the other there were only four people watching us. And a dog.

Some would argue that Rademacher plays too often in Fresno. What's your response to that?
If the rest of the bands in Fresno would play more, then we wouldn't have any place to book shows, and we wouldn't play Fresno as much. I would love to just play Tokyo the first Thursday of the month and not play any more than that. But usually, people in town really want us to play with them. Because we have a good draw I guess. Also, bands we meet from out of town want to come to Fresno and it's one of those band courtesy thing - if they host us, we host them. And we play out of town a lot too, so there's a lot of favors we owe people. And between the two, we have a lot of shows. We'll stop doing shows once people stop showing up to them.

Do you ever want to be on a record label, or would you rather do it DIY-style and ship albums out of your apartment?
DIY makes way more sense to me. A label would be great because then we wouldn't have to work that hard at the promotion, the organizing and the planning. Or at least there would be someone there to be like, "That's a good/bad idea." We pretty much shoot in the dark most of the time with the way we do things and hope for the best. We're learning a lot about recording and stuff as we go along, but there are a lot of mistakes that could have been avoided. Plus, it would be nice to have someone else footing the bill. DIY works for us because we just really enjoy writing music. A label isn't necessary for us to do that.

What's your favorite current band and why?
I don't know. I like Mates of State.

Tell us a little about the new Heart Machine EP.
It is the best four songs that we have ever put together on the same disc. We recorded it with Matt Orme and Shawn Covert at (Fresno's) Gardenside over the course of a really long time. It took forever. Not that we worked on it that long, it was just months between recording dates - forever. I'm glad it's done. We're proud. Like parents. We love it, but we're ready for it to move out.

Rademacher's already conquered Fresno pretty much. Where do you see the band in five years or so?
Playing sold out shows in Vegas with Let's Go Bowling.

Rademacher plays tonight at Tokyo Garden. For more information, including tour dates, visit myspace.com/rademacher or rademachermusic.com.

Review: Anarchist Prom Night.

I know most of you won't read this whole thing. I don't blame you. If I were you, I wouldn't read it, either. To be honest, I'm just in the mood to write. No more, no less. But once you get past the bullshit two-graph intro, I actually talk about music. I promise.

Man, I'm really tired. Maybe it's because I'm on my second glass of red wine. It's sitting on a TV tray to my right. What's funny is that sitting directly in front of the wine is a cup of black coffee. I'm drinking both simultaneously. A few minutes ago I had some cheese from Italy. It was tasty. I'm not lying.

There's some family over. We're all having dinner. Armenian style. The only way. This is the reason why I'm drinking wine and eating cheese from Firenze. The wine, by the way, was a Christmas gift from a co-worker. It's good stuff. While I'm waiting for the lamb chops to cook, I sit at my computer. I'm doing two things: working on an interview for work and checking Myspace. No messages. A sad day, indeed.

Last night (Saturday, May 20, 2006) I went to a weird show. Weird in a good way, I guess. Apparently, it was to raise money for this community center on F Street. 935, to be exact. I paid a five dollar "donation" for several bands. I'd say it was well worth it. I got to see my buddies from Rademacher, They Call Me Greyhound, and Needy Eevy. The theme of the show was "Anarchist Prom Night." I think. If you think I'm fooling you, I still have the "A" with a circle around it (anarchy symbol) on my right hand. I was branded with a Sharpie as I paid and walked in. But if you want to see it, youd better act quick: it's fading by the hour.

The whole atmosphere of the show reminded me of that scene in "American History X." You remember, when that little kid from "Terminator 2" (Ed Furlong, I think) was at that Nazi skinhead party and his brother - a former skinhead - comes and starts some trouble. Sorry if you don't recall. And if you haven't seen the movie, I suggest you stop reading this foolish blog, go to Blockbuster or whatever, and rent it. (For the record, Anarchist Prom night was NOT a skinhead shindig, nor was it affiliated with anything of the sort.)

Anyway.

Last night's show didn't remind of the movie because it was a skinhead shindig. To be honest, I can't explain why it reminded me of that scene. It just did, OK? Now that I think of it, there was this really drunk guy who was being obnoxious. He kinda looked like a skinhead. I don't think he was, though. That's a good thing. Moving on...

As I mentioned above, the theme of the show was "Anarchist Prom Night." Everybody dressed up in weird looking prom gear. I didn't. Why? Because I'm not fun. Plus, the tux shop screwed up on my measurements. Two things I won't forget about last night: most of the guys were wearing dresses (for which I have no explanation), and another guy (Logan, I think) was wearing see-through underwear and suspenders. Nothing else. It was quite the spectacle. I wish I could erase it from my memory, but I can't. Oh well.

It was an all-ages show, which is good. The only thing that sucks for a person of almost 25 years is that all-ages shows usually don't server beer. Instead, Stephanie kindly offered me a Tecate. Too bad there weren't any limes. It was good, nevertheless. Thanks.

You (the reader) don't realize this, but I took a short break from the time I wrote "It was good, nevertheless. Thanks," to what I'm writing at this moment. Approximately 30 to 45 minutes. You see, I went and had dinner with various members of my family. And, Jillian: If you're reading this, my parents and aunt & uncle mentioned their past trip to Argentina during our casual dinner conversation. I had to tell you. You'll make it there someday, I'm quite sure. xo.

It's nice having dinner with family. You (the reader) should try it sometime.

Back to the show. I got there about 10:30, hoping to leave around 12. I left at approximately 2:30 - that's my alibi, at least. I wasn't even going to go, either. I had planned on spending a nice evening at home doing nothing. I came home at about 9 after having playing a few games of chess with former/future guest blogger, Seb (K), who always manages to defeat me. It's quite frustrating. I beat him once or twice back in Armenia, though. The quote of the game came from me: "I wonder if Dostoevsky was a good chess player?" The reason my buddy Fyodor's name came up is because I brought with me to the chess game "The Great Short Works of..." There are some great stories in it: "White Nights," "Notes From (the) Underground," "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man," etc. I suggest you either buy or check it out from the library. Short works my ass.

So yeah. I got back home around 9, checked Myspace bulletins, and saw that They Call Me Greyhound was playing. I hadn't seen them perform in a while, so I called up "Greyhound" Mike - who plays keyboard in the two-man show - and asked what time they were going on. He said about 10:30. I showed up around a quarter till and spotted "Greyhound" Mike, who told me they weren't going on until later. Luckily, I got there right in time for Rademacher, who seems to get better and better each time I see them. Boy, I'll tell you. They had the crowd going good. It was like watching a real band. I think Fresno finally has a group that looks and sounds like a band.

Speaking of Rademacher, I had a good but short conversation with the band's guitarist, Brad. He's the guy who kinda looks like me (not that many of you reading this actually know what I look like). And the reason we look somewhat similar is because we're related in some way or another -cousins, to be exact. If you still dont know who Brad B is, he's the one in Rademacher who's either wearing a headband or flip flops. Long hair, beard, etc. The memorable quote of the conversation came from me, asking: "So, is anyone in your family a farmer?"

Anyway. He talked about Rademacher's upcoming nationwide tour. I was rattling off questions about it like some kind of reporter. Ha. He told me all about how they're renting a mini-van and playing 15 shows in 17 days. I have very much respect for Mike M and the rest of the Rademacher crew. They've put a lot of effort into making this tour happen. And they did it all on their own - no booking agent. I love people who start from scratch. It's the only way to learn.

Unfortunately, the conversation between Brad and myself was cut short because of his allergies. What was it he said? His allergies haven't been this bad since he was in fifth grade? Something like that. Hope you feel better, man. And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Brad's excellent car-reversal skills. As he was leaving the show, he managed to back his car out of a very tight spot. It was extremely impressive.

Another interesting conversation I had was with Brad's girlfriend, Greer, who also serves as Rademacher's bass player. Greer and I go way back. We met at Fresno State several years ago. She and I shared an MCJ class. Before we get to the aforementioned "interesting conversation," I just remembered something else. As we stood watching Fresno's Hop Skotch Heros perform a cover of Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl," Greer reminded me of the time I burned her a copy of Bikini Kill's Reject All American. Man, that's a great album. Go buy it. Don't download it - BUY IT! Or I will be forced to tell Kathleen. Hanna, that is.

Since you've all waited so very patiently, I'll reveal this "interesting conversation" Greer and I had. It's not certain or anything, but she's hoping to open some kind of independent record store in Fresno. At first, I didn't know if it was such a good idea. You know, because CDs are slowly going the way of the Dodo and downloading is in full force. But after some thought, I think this could be a really cool thing for our humble city. If it ever does happen, I expect each and every one of you to buy CDs from her. That means no Tower Records, no Best Buy, no Amazon.com and certainly no Soulseek! (that goes for you, too, Cuckoo.) Deal?

What else happened at the Anarchist Prom? Well, this band called Tree Wizard was really pissed because they didn't get to play. Needy Eevy was the last band to go on and, apparently, Tree Wizard was supposed to go on before them. I heard the guys ranting and raving in the parking lot about how unorganized the whole thing was. Eh, shit happens. Sometimes you get screwed. It sucks, yes, but that's the price you pay for being a rock 'n' roller.

This is totally off subject but before I forget I'd like to mention what happened during a visit I made to Starbucks (aka: Satan) today. I went there to work on this interview I'm doing for work. I had my laptop and everything. I went to the counter and ordered a medium-sized black coffee. The reason I say "medium" is because I can't bring myself to say the ridiculous name they use for "medium." I believe it's some Italian word. Another interesting thing. After I ordered, the girl working the counter said: "Wow, nobody really orders straight coffee anymore." To which I replied: "Do they usually all that mochacino crap?" And she answered: "Yeah."

Aside from that, while working on my interview, I had a fantastic listening reunion with my old pals L7. Oh, how I love L7. Remember when they made a cameo in "Serial Mom"? Fabulous, simply fabulous. After seeing L7 in that flick, I went out and bought the cassette soundtrack the very next day. Please tell me: how can one beat songs like "Pretend We're Dead," "Andres," "Drama" and "Shitlist"? One can't. Simple as that.

I'm getting tired of writing, so I think I'll wrap this baby up. On the way home last night, I listened to Tapes 'n Tapes. I like the second song called "The Iliad" on their latest album, The Loon. In no way is this an endorsement for the band. I pretty much only like that one song. And since my car doesn't have a CD player - or FM radio, for that matter - I'm forced to illegally listen through my iPod and/or portable CD player. That means headphones. I've never understood why it's illegal to wear headphones while driving, but it's perfectly legal to talk on a cell phone. One will never know. I won't lose too much sleep over it. Believe me.

Interview: Mercury Bullet.

Hmmm. Not sure how to start this blog out. I don't want to offend anyone with what I say. I guess I can start off by explaining why I wanted to interview Fresno "rock/metal/pregressive" band Mercury Bullet.

I was browsing through the bulletin posts on Myspace not too long ago, and I saw something from Mercury Bullet saying they wanted their fans to name their upcoming CD.

"Name our upcoming CD!!!!!!!!!" I believe that was what the bulletin's subject line was.

I thought this was really weird. Why would a band want their fans to name their CD??? Isn't the whole point of being in a band to create content that will be interesting for your fans? What's next, letting your fans write your song titles - or even your songs?!?!?! If I were in a band, I sure as hell wouldn't want my fans naming my CD. First off, I wouldn't trust them to come up with a cool title and, second, it just seems wrong.

The bulletin post gave a link to a blog posting on Mercury Bullet's Myspace page. I suggest you read the blog so you can get an understanding of what I'm talking about here.

After reading the blog, my first reaction was to write my own blog, explaining how ridiculous I thought the concept of letting your fans name your CD was. Instead, I thought I'd try to be fair and let Mercury Bullet explain why they were doing this. Hence the whole interview thing.

So I came up with a few questions and asked the band if they'd be interested in doing an e-mail interview. The band's drummer, Jeremiah Dasalla, wrote back saying he'd be the one answering the questions. Upon checking my e-mail box this morning, the answers came from Andrew Beasley, Mercury Bullet's guitarist. So I don't know who the hell answered the questions below.

Maybe I wasn't clear enough in the questions I asked, but the answers I got were very disappointing. I was hoping the band would go a little deeper into why they wanted fans to name their CD. They gave a pretty simple response. You'll see...

Hell, they must be doing something right. The guys have like 50 million "friends" on their Myspace. I just keep wondering what ever happened to the good ol' days when bands came up with their own creative album titles. But maybe Mercury Bullet is on to some kind of fan/band interactive relationship that will raise their awareness. I still think it's pretty lame.

And like I said above: I'm not trying to offend anyone with this blog. I'm just stating my opinion. If Mercury Bullet or any of their fans reads this and gets upset, it's all good. I just think it's something worth pointing out and investigating. To the five-piece's credit, I totally respect the fact that they're playing tons of shows and working hard. More power to 'em.

P.S. Before we move on to the questions, I just wanted to let everyone know that last night I had to pay five freakin' dollars for a large black tea at Tower District's Teazer tea house. I was shocked. I expected to pay $2 or $3 at the most. But when it rang up "$5.13" I thought the guy workin' the register was trying to screw me. Anyway, that is freakin' ridiculous - $5 for a cup of tea!!! What is this world coming to?

Anyway... Ladies and Gentlement, Mercury Bullet...

Mitch on Speed: Whered the name Mercury Bullet come from?
Mercury Bullet: Well, it is something that can't happen. You can't make a Mercury Bullet 'cause when mercury gets too hot it melts.(We're nerds! lol!)

Now let's get to the whole point of why I'm doing this interview. In your band's Myspace blog, you're asking fans to choose a name for your upcoming full-length CD. I find this odd. Explain why you're doing this.
Well, we are playing music for the fans. So we figured this new CD should be all about the fans, so why not have them name it for us.

So far, approximately 60 fans have left comments in your blog, giving title suggestions. Have you picked one yet?
We haven't picked a name yet, but there's been some really good names. And we want to thank everyone who gave us a name. Keep them coming!!!

How will you decide whose suggestion to choose? Will you make them sign a waiver?
Well, we are going to pick the one that we think will refelect the music on this CD the best.

I have a title suggestion: Mercury Bullet (self-titled). What do you think about that one?
LOL. Good one! But that's what the last (CD) one was.

You mention in the blog that the 2004-released Mercury Bullet record didnt have a title. Why didnt you give it a name?
We figured that we would just not name it and let the music speak for itself.

When is the album coming out?
Either late October or early November.

Are you self-releasing it, or will you be on some kind of label?
Yes, we are self-releasing it. We aren't on a label but if anyone is interested in signing us fill free to! LOL!

Is there a tour in the works?
Yup. We are planning one for July. Up through Northern Cali and Washington. In Washington, we are planning on playing a festival called Tomfest.

What is Mercury Bullet's short & long-term goals? Just curious.
We plan to do lots of touring all over the U.S. and continuing to play music. As long as people will listen, we will play.

Closing comments?
Thank you to all our fans. You are the reason why we do this. Thank you Mitch for the interview, and everyone expect a surprise when the new CD comes out!!!

Interviewed by Mitchell Peters

91 Years.

1915.

Young. Ottoman. Turks. Systematic massacre. One point five million, silently remembered. Denied. Shhh, don't worry, we won't tell anyone.

Yes, it's a good day for a "so-called" Genocide.

Waylon and Me, Two Geminis.

Howdy.

In honor of the this next blog, I've decided to scroll my iPod all the way down to Waylon Jennings. If my reader isn't familiar with the music of Jennings, the original country outlaw, then I advise the reader to find his/her way to the nearest music retailer and/or file sharing software and buy or steal Waylon's album, Honky Tonk Heroes. Don't think about it, just do it. It's golden. I suggest track numbers 1,8 & 9. God damn.

Most of the songs were written by Billy Joe Shaver, but the songs wouldn't be worth a damn if Waylon weren't singing them. Trust me. I've heard Billy crooning some of the same songs and they don't even come close. One probably wouldn't think I'm a big country music fan, and they'd be right: I'm not. But Waylon Jennings holds a special place in my heart. Not only because he was (hes now dead) fucking awesome, but because he's one of my dad's favorite artists.

My dad doesn't listen to much music. In fact, I almost never see him listening to his music. Most of his record collection consists of old Neil Diamond and Waylon Jennings albums. There's a couple Beach Boys and CCR in the mix, but that's about it. My dad wasn't really into music when he was growing up. Neither was my mother or either of my older sisters. Don't ask me why music is my main passion. I wouldn't be able to tell you. But somewhere along the line it caught my interest.

Anyway. A few years back, I overheard my dad listening to some of his Waylon records. He had always tried to get me to listen to them with him, but I would refuse. The idea of country music didn't appeal to me, so I automatically closed my mind to the idea. But this wasn't country music, it was "Outlaw" music. I guess there's a difference. This ain't the shit you'll find on CMT. It's authentic. Kenny Chesney and Keith Urban got nothin' on Waylon. I doubt Chesney and Urban share a crash pad to get wasted on booze and pills. Waylon and Johnny Cash did. Maybe those two country glammers do have a crash pad they share, but I seriously doubt it. But I'm sure theyre too busy refining their cheesy lyrics and fake accents. (But they do sell a shitload of albums, so I guess they're doing something right. That, or their listeners are ... ).

After I finally got around to listening to Waylon, I understood why my father would say, "He's got the best voice you'll ever hear, son." I don't agree with that completely, but it's pretty damn good. Ask around and many will agree. I know I would. Its good. By the way, I forget to mention that my dad is the nicest person you'll ever meet in your life.

I got excited about a year ago when I had the opportunity to interview Waylons son Shooter Jennings. Shooter is the hot new thing in country music. He's not nearly as good as Waylon, but I think daddy's name has helped him along a bit. There reason I was excited to interview him is because I knew my dad would think it was kinda cool. As I expected, he did think it was cool. I later gave him a copy of the article I wrote about Shooter.

Um, since this whole blog is getting kinda long, I'll get to the point. About a week ago, I was Googling the date of my birth: June 15. At the top of the search results was a Wikipedia link. (Wikipedia is a free online encyclopedia.)

The link gave a bunch of info about past shit that's happened on June 15 (birthdays, historical events, deaths, etc.). As I was looking through people who were born on June 15, guess whose name I saw on the list? Yep, Waylon Jennings. Twin Geminis. I got a chill. It was strange that my father's son was born on the same day as his favorite singer of all time. What's more weird is that the father doesn't really like music, and the one artist he does happen to adore was born on the same day as his only son. Hmmm. Coincidence? I think not.

Now, I don't know what this means but I'm convinced it's something. Maybe a sign. Perhaps God just works in mysterious ways. There's also the possibility that I'm looking more into this than I need to be. I doubt it. I'm sure it'll hit me someday. And when it does, I'll be ready.

At least now when people ask when my birthday is, I won't have to say: "It's the day that falls between Flag Day (6/14) and 2Pac's birthday (6/16)." I will simply say: "It's on the same day as Waylon Jennings'."