Diggin’ Thru Crates 2.0.1.5.

Record collecting …. No.

Music collecting.

To be specific, post 40’s popular music, usually genre’d with the word ‘Rock’ …

…these days is not as it was. Most types of beauty gain value as time passes, becoming collectible. These are objects de art, tangible things you still can not touch, due to glass or red velvet ropes or dudes. They put them in collections in huge well appointed palace-y looking places that name has escaped me.

Music is shareable, wholesale. To hear it is to have the experience, whether at a show or in your headphones. There’s no more to be gained besides aurally. Though physical too as the bass comes through. Sensory. You need not visit a foreign city to visit say … ‘You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling’. I have never owned a copy of it, I know every word, it’s a pretty grand installation in the pop mart. It’s art.

And I could buy it for $1.29. And I own art. I have a museum in my download file.

Museum. That’s the name.

Record collecting was sifting for gold through dusty crates at record stores, record shows, flea markets, consignment shops, pawns and tag sales etc. Finding albums by bands you liked or read about, scooping them up like a man with a secret, where only he knew the value of what he found….to him solely, of course…. as everyone has a list in their head of what they’re looking for.

By simple math, it doesn’t jake that everyone around you has your list in their head.

But…what…if.

It’s a delicious near erotic feeling tween a man and a record jacket.

It is a cheap thrill, but a damned fine one, thinking you got one over on the known universe by finding the music you need by digging for it. Primal.

Now i can have a demo piano or proven cover, proven cover acoustic, remastered or premastered, mono or stereo version at a digital inch.

Connnnnnn-flicted.

Epilogue: I bought Neil Young acoustic solo ‘Live At Massey Hall’ for $5.99 and called a a night.

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The Golden Age Of Porno (spoken word)

Go Here: https://soundcloud.com/jason-p-krug/the-golden-age-of-porno-spoken-word

You only get to turn 14 once a lifetime. I did it in the 80’s. It was rad.

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I Love Kanye.

It’s true too. I don’t say this simply to alienate my few remaining friends. I dig the cat. 

 
I will admit he is a hellish lil’ imp sent up to this World to irritate everyone, of all creeds, classes and colors. 
 
I do think he’s crazy, but a lot of real artists are. 
 
I don’t think I would want to hang out with him, but I’m a Van Morrison fan….I’m used to such dual dichotomies. I would sooner catch a Jehovah Witness bus (with multiple stops) than share a short cab ride with either of them.
 
I don’t care who he married or his motivations within that contract.
 
I am not so contrary that I would praise him simply to be out of step with my own peeps: white, older, confused, vaguely sickened by this performer. I do find HOW crazy he drives people fascinating. I’m not sure who else has become so universally disliked in a pretty short amount of time.
 
No. No. No. I speak of what he does, what he has done musically. He is lyrically outstanding. A truly original producer creating a sound that’s been stolen all up and down the Hot 97 dial’s. The act of taking some old, obscure soul record and bumping up the BPM until it comes off with sassy muppet sound and then layered big fat bass beats and chorused out snare cracks. 
 
He also speaks what usually moves me for artists I admire: he is passionate. He believes the bullshit he speaks. He owns it. Some of it, he created.
 
Consider:
 
‘Jesus Walks’: Overplayed? Sure, a lot of his best stuff is. Why? Cause it’s pop music. It’s not edgy. It;s not made for a limited audience. The reason you know his name isn’t cause he jacks award shows (or he would be Soy Bomb). You know him cause he sells records and is all over the radio, cross-overing into everything. He just cut a track with Paul McCartney. Chris Martin of that dumb band is on his records.
 
‘Jesus Walks’ with it’s stomping beat, sub gospel touches and cutting lyric about faith in these times of non belief. When he barks ‘God show me the way because the Devil trying to break me down’ do you think he’s playing? Eyeing the radio charts? Or just confessing into the largest microphone available. Its a haunting lyric, infectious march stomp rhythms and it is good.
 
‘Diamonds From Sierra Leone’: Have you heard this? The sped up 
Diamonds Are Forever’ hooks you into absolute indignation and personal self discovery related to what things that sparkles mean to him, and conversely, to the world. 
 
Is this true? Nope. It ultimately become a song of him bitching about his Industry. All subjects come back to point A: Nobody understand Kanye West.
 
Can you imagine a writer so self obsessed? (crickets….). Oh Right…lets move on.
 
Bonus point for letting this track out when Jay Z so clearly smokes him on his verse. That’s a sweet move for a megalomaniac.
 
‘Last Call’: 12 minute track. Its his origin story, told by him. It’s bold in that it is autobiographical and confessional and shows some real insecurities within him. It’s a track I always dreamed of writing…damning the Industry, damning everyone who forgot my name, recording it and letting it play for them. It’s cheap and arrogant and damned fine. 12 minutes. That’s one and a half ‘Stairway To Heaven’s. All about his rise and rise.
 
And maybe we are witnessing his fall. Now. Today. But I doubt it.
 
Genius rises always. But not as quick as madness.
 
Go West.
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Let’s Make A Concept Record! (says Nobody)

I have a story to tell and a need to tell it. It’s large and significant. Its not a blog.
 
Its a concept record. It’s an examination of how I have lived my life and how life has had its funny way with me. Its personal, deeply. And its coming to a store near you. Assuming winter ever ends.
 
The effect of having an admission and having to wait countless weeks to even cobble together the most basic frames of it was a complete freeze. Its easy to lay back in Winter and sink into the browned out frozen precip that is in every direction you look in. I liked it to living in the film ‘Fargo’ but its much closer to being hunted in ’30 Days Of Night’. Barrow time knows no real time.
 
I love concept records. I think I was fed a steady diet of them growing up (I remember when ‘The Wall’ came out as well as all those Yes records…) which bloomed into a real voyeurs desire to have an idea whats behind the songs, the words, the feelings on display.
 
My Faves include…but not limited too:
 
Richard and Linda Thompson ‘Shoot Out The Lights’: Maybe the real predecessor of what will come from me, where a divorce becomes the third member of this particular record. Songs like ‘Its Just The Motion’ and ‘Did She Jump Or Was She Pushed’ were thumbnail sketches of a machine coming apart.
 
Vic Chesnutt ‘In The Cut’: The most effecting record Ive bought in some time. Its a suicide note. From start to finish. With ‘Flirted With You All My Life’ with referees to the traditional ‘Oh Death’ just the most obvious tell. This story…Vic’s story….in particular moves beyond the coolness of concept into a real pain. Cause anyone out there who believes they have something to offer the World…and the World is less than interested….we are Legion. We are one.
 
The Mountain Goats ‘Tallahassee’: My favorite record in sound, concept and musical dynamic. A story that was long coming, from when John Darnielle first started penning / sending tales of the mystical Alpha couple. They’re fate was writ in rough, crazy demos and in the tale telling of between song banter. Its depressing. There are no survivors. (note: ‘The Sunset Tree’ album is right close…)
 
Bob Dylan ‘Blood On The Tracks’: The Dylan divorce record. Specifically what cuts in this collection is the anger, the resignation, the highs and low of love and hope. One of the great F.U. songs sleeps in these selections, being ‘Idiot Wind’. If your not effected by the voice, the passion, the anger of the ‘blood on his saddle line’, you need stop listening to music and take up more television. This World is lost on you.
 
David Bowie ‘Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars’: I learned (stole) more from this record than all the others combined. In sound and creation and story. Ronson Forever.
 
Lou Reed & John Cale ‘Songs For Drella’: This factored in early on my alternate band set up obsession. Being not the MOST huge Velvet fan, I wouldn’t think this would appeal to me. But I find myself still singing it all the time. Plus a view of Andy Warhol from dudes who actually knew Andy Warhol. Its a strange record, a lot of space within the tracks….but something beautiful within these oddities.
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Do The Fix/Destroy

A night of tumbling cylinders spring the psychic locks of head and heart. Certain rooms are finally opened, others walled away using the most delicate craftsmanship. Questions asked and answered. Knowledge where there was only a skid mark of sense. 

 
And the tumblers keep tumbling, the doors swing open and the windows shatter and allow years of ghosts to finally be free, be well, sayo-fucking-nara. 

 
And it allows us to finally orbit the real issue, the not available option, grayed out on the screen. 
 
Do The Fix/Destroy. 2-3-4. 
 
Do The Fix/Destroy…and kick.
 
Its a new dance craze. A new cuisine fusion-ed from inedible elements. 
 
Its a new form of literature that can’t be read or a beautiful new sun discovered that is bearing down on us, will surely kill us, growing daily. 
 
2-3-4.
 
Now….and option is a choice. And we don’t have any. That’s the magic of this new viral sensation The Fix/Destroy. It has a set standard within the linguistics of the phrasery:
 
You cant fix one thing without dismantling another. 
 
We can’t fix us without destroying them. 
 
And kick.
 
There is no choice’s within these choices 
 
2-3-4.
 
So take my hand, my friend, and twirl with me. They’re calling this one just for us.
 
And kick.
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Outside Is Overrated: Friday Netflix Pix

As a public service (and occasional space filler) I will be recommending (or de-reccommending) useful ways to waste the weekend safe in the arms of our new streaming Master, Netflix. These opinions are strictly those of the author. Despite that, they are correct and if you disagree, you embarrass yourself, go take a shower.

If you come across this list on one of the few remaining viable social media platforms, add a few of your own. We’re trying to create a culture here, Bucky.

1) Marina Abramovic: The Artist Is Present
As is the way of Netflix, we peruse, we add, we often forget why we added, we delete. Life is fast, time is short. I take a wide view and narrow into what fits my particular tastes. Usually documentaries. Arts based where I can find them. Hopefully worthy of staying awake through.

I was completely unprepared for this movie and the longer lasting effects of it, the questions it kicked up in me: what is performance? does art need to be witnessed to be art? Where was I the first couple of decades of my life in that this artist…this art is brand new to me. And intimidating as fuck.

Marina Abramovic is a performance artist and the real deal. Her career is chronicled and often disturbing to watch. Being a performance artist is an interesting gig: you don’t create, in a traditional sense. You make provocative and unforgettable moments for others to witness. Each person watching creates what they will from these acts. The meaning is a strictly personal thing.

And this is really the crux of the movie, since it is about her upcoming art installation which involves a career retrospective (played by a younger set of provocateurs) and the artist herself sitting at a table in a room. And each patron sits across from her for 15 minutes of mute staring.

And somehow…somehow….it is absolutely beautiful. I can’t speak too where…or why this movie touched me so deeply, but it still has me asking the same questions on a loop in my brain. What is performance? Does art need to be witnessed to be art?

Watch this movie.

2) History of the Eagles
I am not an Eagles fan. Things that are ‘laid back’ irritate me. I am New English, I am to clever, to emotionally trickster-ish. Take a dislike of The Eagles….now make it over 2 hours long. What are the chances I would enjoy this?

100%. And for the same reasons mentioned. I don’t like The Eagles. And The Eagles don’t like The Eagles, clearly. Cause they let this movie make its way out of the camera and be viewed. I think they have much money.

A pretty honest take on the career of the laid back Kings of Self Absorbed Almost Rock Music, with more warts than all. Don Henley and Glenn Frey are dicks. Spoiled, over see, once-pretty boys who clearly can give a fuck about whose playing bass or who wrote what song. But I admire them now…I am FORCED too…because they’re take in the doc is such a admission of such greed, you just need to respect it.

The history is there, as noted, up to and past the first consumer raping ‘Hell Freezes Over’ tour. The first of it’s kind but not the last.

The absolute gall to be such a bloated rock star prima donna…and then have it explained in an over two . 5 hour movie? That you need to hear The Eagles music throughout?

God Damn Them. Damn there overly tanned asses. Watch The Movie.

3)Lars and the Real Girl
Just the worst kinda indie sludge. Stupid, fantastical, irritating. Pointless. Dull.
Delete This Movie.

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Friendship Is Never Having To S.T.F.U.

I am rich with poverty and poor in everything else, but i do have my treasures, my precious things.

I have a cabal of weirdos and free thinkers flanking me who I call friends. And I don’t pretend that plural is toooo plural: they number few and are rare like a flea market Rolex.

I trade quantity for anxiety. Gladly.

 
Despite this haberdashin’ prose, I am a cartoon curmudgeon. I am that slightly cool, slightly angry character writ into a million sitcoms: I’m good with quick funny line, but don’t hug me cause I have issues. I am poorly written in the flesh. 
 
In order to realllly ‘get me’ (and as proven by Facebook, few are interested in that investment) you need put me in the proper setting. Caffeine’d up. Not terribly straight. Steered into subjects I can speak too (music, relationships, the sad state of horror) and given the freedom of enough rope to hang, I will pontificate and perform naturally. I will be funny and something close to charming. I speak and rant till the words just spin around me and I feel myself lift from the ground (note: not terribly straight at all). 
 
And my friends are similarly wired. Each has a windmill to tilt at. Each has a strong opinion on things and will, state it with grace and humor. Certain friends will spin along with you, on their own separate trail of destruction (or construction if your feeling generous) and the effect is two separate conversations lost in the sound of spinning…but every advice gets through, every question gets answered, in an almost natural cadence of osmosis. 
 
Its a hard trick. But if you work these mechanics long enough, its the only way to fly. It’s a new language. Its real flesh and mind interconnections, quicker than digital, more stable than Plymouth Rock,
 
Ultimately this is about freedom. We don’t choose where we were born from but we choose where we really live.
 
And today….I wish these things to you all. We can all be millionaires even after the money is nothing but colored paper. 
 
Keep your friends close. Fuck your enemies.
 
Ka-Nuckles, Champagne.
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I Am A Post Modern Dancer. (I’m not bitter.)

(this started out as a by request blog about the new Belle and Sebastian record from Dame Champagne…and devolves into a bitter and angry/envious rant about dancing…. Ill wait till Stuart Murdoch writes about my new record.)

 
I can’t dance. But when I did dance, it was to Belle and Sebastian. But not their new record. Which I like a lot, btw.
 
No. I was being beguiled and beaten down by a graceful friend in a fairly enclosed space. She moved with liquidity, perfect poses in 4/4 time. And I sat there. Watching. And if you can’t dance (and we know some of you can’t. Sorry. Consider this the cold splash of reason). 
 
And if a graceful friend dances before you, you have two choices: get out a roll of singles or try and dance. This was not that kind of graceful friend, so I (appropriately knackered) gave it a go.
 
I stood and moved close. I looked fairly beguiling myself. Right up until it was time to start moving.
 
Damn these feet. The stupid German clodhopper feet. Heavy as Chaney’s Frankenstein, immovable as the Sphinx. From the knees up, I am a Mighty Fucking Baryshnikov. Admire these champions calves (I have the calves of a greek God…OK, calf. Just the right one. No clue why.). I can keep time with a walloping stomp (for reference, I will note the entire Grimm Generation catalog). I can shake a maraca and tambourine in perfect time.
 
My feet are my Achilles heel. In my personal geography as well as popular usage.
 
I know this. I slow dance with a lot of eye contact. Just to distract from my feet dragging zombie-ish to and fro. I go to shows and shake a leg, stomp a foot, never let the wild rhythms carry me so far as to move my hips. What would the Guv’ner say? I calculate my moves so as to appear like actual movement versus the slow draw across the songs finish line.
 
But in such an enclosed space, with a single other party goer, it was harder to hide. But the lechery of watching her move and sitting and smiling just got creepy.
 
So I stood…and she started to sway…and I started to sway. My hips were in check. Shoulders slunk appropriately. Still lots of eye contact like I was trying to hypnotize her into a nice cuppa tea. And my feet never moved, like they were providing personal protest to the whole series of actions. My feet are dicks. Opinionated dicks.
 
The music was ‘something dancey’ which personally cuts a wide swath from Donna Summer to Kid A. (‘dancey’ music basically means ‘music I don’t understand.’). But on shuffle. I worked though the song, my graceful friend was sweet not to laugh out loud (though her bemused looks were almost bursting through her skin) and I just looked and laugh chock full of embarrassment.
 
Suddenly curious where my roll of singles was. You gotta dance with the one that brung ya.
 
Then…then….shuffle Gods rejoice. I believe it was ‘Sleep The Clock Around’. It coulda been ‘Judy and Her Dream Of Horses’. Belle and Sebastian gallops in. And though I’m not convinced this is dance music…I am dancing. Maybe the sleepy rhythms awoke my sleepy feet. Maybe it was just because I love this music so deeply, I forgot I couldn’t dance. But suddenly Im doing The Pony and Im doing The Hop, a full body dance. 
 
My graceful friend was stumped. Apparently Belle and Sebastian is NOT dance music. I think this broke her spirit just a bit.
 
But I just put the full ‘If Your Feeling Sinister’ and ‘Dear Catastrophe Waitress’ records and moved. I may have lifted my arms at one point. I may have whooped. And that was my last dance lesson.
 
My point: Belle and Sebastian puts out a new records informed by Joy Division keyboards and disco beats and they are hailed as ‘brave’ and ‘pre post modern’ (i think I made that up. Patent Pending!).
 
But the real hero is me, dancing to Belle and Sebastian was a psychic trick proving I am a seer of great power and a master of predicting the culture. Your welcome, creepy Scottish kids.
 
Note: If you see me at a wedding, look away. Just walk on by….
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The Mind Is A Terrible Thing.

Consider….(dramatic pause…..still…..) that every bit of magic, every grand mythology, every Alien generated space, every ghost, every Yeti, every religion (all of them) every bit of every Extra Sensory Perception, ever coincidence, every deja vu, every haunted hotel and ghost heavy ghost town, every wonder, every secret society, every spook story ever told everywhere were all just tricks of the mind. Rumors that have been retold millions upon million till the science develops around the myth of it.
 
Does this seem so impossible? Then you don’t have enough respect for your mind.
 
Consider Love. Where against all logic and odds, against the science and stats of the idea of everlasting being proven ‘unlikely’ you set yourself up hand and hand and ride into the sunset. But the sun never sets after the credits, the film never stops and the real adventure begins. Its unwatchable.
 
Consider Hate. Not the hate of an enemy, someone you know who done don’ you wrong. I’m speaking on the racism, imperialism, nationalism tip (yo’). Do you believe your team is any better, smarter, more genetically reliable than their team? Really? C’Mon, really? No. We are all the same, planet wide: good dudes and assholes.  That’s not related to the duskiness of ones skin or beard-i-ness of ones God.
 
And speaking of God…c’mon. Seriously? Are you going to Heaven? White wings and old dogs? Really? Or perhaps Hell. Eternal fire.
 
We make the magic, people. We are the magic. These brains combine and make great things.
 
Take credit for it. Give yourselves a round of applause. God Bless The Mind. (see what I did there? I’m awesome)
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The Confessional JpK 1

I make a patchwork of my present days. Reflective threads (for the dark bits) and ties that bind get stronger. I find myself thankful within this unforgiving frost. Not exactly blessed but leagues from cursed.

I take on the coming Spring with a voracious appetite and plan a feast for Kings and Commoners alike. I will not break as the ice collects around me. I will not bring down the power lines with my weight. I sweep and I evaporate into spirit and then regain composure and drink deep of the flesh, of the benefits skin and matter offer.

I’ve been hibernating / surviving. Ive been cursing the ice while simultaneously becoming the very stuff. Ive been asleep while my body has kept my appointments. Very German of my body.

But now. The everlasting now. The incomprehensible now. I’m cracking. I can move first in tremors and then in thought and then walk, sprint, run. I feel the ground start to soften into an unknown April. I’m ahead of the game. My florid brothers and sisters still sleep below but I have been below to long.

Now. I gather my armies around me. Now. I take the high ground, in geography if not always in thought.

Today’s the Day, Dave. Today.

Jason P. Krug #popidle free listening par-tay

https://soundcloud.com/jason-p-krug/sets/jason-p-krug-popidle

Only available on Soundcloud, a collection of loops and live musicians, sex and drug stories, rock and roll mythology, tributes to those deserving such, spoken word and electro beats, New England fetishizing, cautionary tales i learned nothing from, bedroom recording and late night gossip, true confessions and some lies mixed in, cigarettes and ashtrays, poverty and the wealth of nothing to lose, personal reconstructions of standards (no rights reserved), songs about me and likely you, handmade and poorly captured. In short, a peek behind the curtain of Jason P Krug.

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Two Old Anglo’s vs The Sharks vs The Jets: ‘Romeo and Juliet’ by Dire Straits

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I have noticed that as the culture grows old, we get more self referential in what we do and how it relates to the larger world of ‘doing’. We have plays about painting, movies about songs, photos reference classic icons of the brush.

And specifically in the form of songwriting, it allows a perfectly cultured control freak to be the film Director of their little scene, concocting every grain of salt, every gray scale of the light that filters in, perfect actors of our own design (but in someone else’s image, invariably) speaking meaning with a an awesome and only fictional gravitas, well timed and posed.

I look to Costello with his references to cast and players, Springsteen whose best work sounds like a Hollywood pitch for a movie you may or may not want to see. Joni Mitchell who brings you into focus, into frame and you can see the dust in the desert or the snow on the mountains (or river to skate away on) as only someone who is not simply influenced, but informed, by cinema.

And thus we have ‘Romeo and Juliet’ written by some long dead anglo, and re imagined by a still alive anglo into West Side Story. And despite the plunder of our American classic culture, it works.

Not a Dire Straits fan. Despite that, due to timing of their ascendancy with ‘Sultans Of Swing’ all over all radios and I seem to recall seeing their ‘Skateaway’ video about 30,000 times, so Id bet that’s MTV.

In short, I think they are a great band someone else should love.

I think I was originally turned onto ‘Romeo and Juliet’ via The Indigo Girls. I had a mad crush on them. I know. The Indigo Girls first album was great and earnest and songs with hooks and great counter harmonies. Lyrically solid. I had a picture of them I used to moon over. I know.

And on some Indigo Girls B-Sides collection I heard them cover ‘Romeo and Juliet’. And I was caught by the opening line. Writing a great opening line to a song is an art, something that immediately engages your imagination, concerned with what was just said to you.

A lovestruck Romeo sings a streetside serenade
Laying everybody low with a love song that he made
Finds a streetlight, steps out of the shade
Says something like, “You and me babe—how ’bout it?”

And if there’s any question left, its answered by this

Juliet says, “Hey it’s Romeo. You nearly gimme a heart attack”
He’s underneath the window; she’s singing, “Hey, la, my boyfriend’s back.’

I just have no defense against referential rock and roll used well. By the time he hits that Angels line, it paints such an absolute film cell frame around the drab West Side Story bop that these characters occupy.

And I forget, I forget the movie song

Like that. There. And then into two deep and beautiful verses that visit the same neighborhood as Tom Waits, some Bruce Springsteen….desperate and impassioned and killer lines piled upon each other ending in:

“Oh Romeo, yeah. You know, I used to have a scene with him.”

And then Mark Knopfler pulls back the POV and you see it pretty clear. This isn’t Shakespeare. This isn’t Bernstein. This is a kid who has learned how to act by actors. Learned how to feel by people projecting feeling. He has no real function except to be the blank screen for petite dramas play out across.

I can’t do the talks like they talk on the TV
And I can’t do a love song like the way it’s meant to be
I can’t do everything but I’ll do anything for you
I can’t do anything except be in love with you

And he plays on…

Juliet, when we made love you used to cry
You said, “I love you like the stars above, I’ll love you ’til I die.”
There’s a place for us, you know the movie song
When you gonna realize it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

And its a song. So that’s where it gets left. Fill in the blanks yourself. It winds away back to the opening lines…effective…maybe chilling. While Leonard Bernstein either spins or harmonizes from his grave. While Shakespeare lives to see another day.

While the listener just….exhales.

Authors Notes: ‘Bad Is What We Do’ – JpK

All Hail The Id. Praise it.

I dont take no truck wit’ no trad psychology, but there’s something in the selfish nature of people that blows bigger winds than the workings of Freud. Or maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know. Take a class.

But we know some basics: we are going to Heaven or Hell. And neither of these places actually exist.

Heaven is where you get when you don’t do unto others as hard as they did you, when you don’t follow your instincts and hold to a standard…a reasonable and fine standard…. that allows you to feel better about the time we spend here. And in the end….the BIG end….halo’s and wings and never need shoes again.

Hell? That’s where were all going.

There’s no such thing as a false sense of well being.

https://soundcloud.com/jason-p-krug/jpk-bad-is-what-we-do

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Bob Dylan: Genius or Drug Gobbler?

Dylan is a genius. Right? Yes…..well….right. Right?

The answer is ‘right’. He is. He has written lyrics now part of our nations canon. He invented not only the singer songwriter style, but most of indie too. He wrote ‘Just Like A Rolling Stone’. Right.

There are perceptions about our American truculent troubadour. He was caught being a protest singer in the 60’s and dodged the rap immediately claiming he was no generation’s spokesman. And he really wasn’t. He wasnt political, just played rallies and wrote some beautiful protest music (Hattie Carroll) but he wasnt Woody Guthrie or Phil Ochs. He was no Billy Bragg. 

I dont say these things to damn St Zimmerman. I say them to praise him.

Cause what Dylan did do was create a language, a style, painted pictures in fractured images and odd lyrical left turns. He challenged the people to follow him, while creating impossible word trails.  

He created small little dramas within a song. Each verse, syllable by syllable, strum by strum, lines catch you and knit into the next…  

Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet?

We sit here stranded, though we’re all doin’ our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin’ you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there’s nothing, really nothing to turn off…

Right? Just a perfect slice of perfect scene and color, to me bathed in dim amber noir. You get the sweet recall and the certain dread. I find myself getting lost in these words and rethink them while the record plays. Its a use of language that needs to be considered deeper. An opening of consciousness within the song. The track continues and you are elsewhere. 

And it reminds me of something. Of being high. Which has happened.

And I focus on how fun it must have been being Bob Fucking Dylan and to play with the language, knowing that whatever he put out would be considered genius, by the fact that a genius is doing it. I have no idea if Dylan smoked pot but when you look deeper at the continuing ‘Visions Of Johanna’, I consider at what point he was just having a laugh. If youve ever heard Dylan bootlegs where the room busts up laughing, he has a boisterous laugh. He was probably fun to get high with. Assuming.

 

See the primitive wallflower freeze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say, “Jeeze
I can’t find my knees”

 

And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev’rything’s been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes

Lines that are consciously off meter chock full of weird words that confound.  Religion-a-cana. . Fish truck? 

I put forth this: Bob Dylan was a genius.

Who may have smoked pot.

But defintely invented an entire new alphabet for people who smoke pot to write with.

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Become Part Of The Problem

ABOUT
‘THE ZEN OF LOSING’ BY JASON P. KRUG
‘Krug released his debut solo effort in 2016 and The Zen of Losing may just be the perfect soundtrack and the perfect antidote for the year that many of us were glad to see end. Loss is part of life, but sometimes the magnitude and the volume of loss can be overwhelming. Jason P. Krug faced his personal losses and found his artistic voice in the most amazing way. ‘

2016 Artist Of The Year – http://ear2theground-music.blogspot.com/

‘If you are into storytelling within a song, then Jason P. Krug is the singer/songwriter for you. There’s always a story in his music, you’ll meet a character and visit a new world each time within his songs.’

Give me that Indie Folk: Jason P. Krug and the “The Boy King

“Krug is unabashed by laying it all on the table with this album….raw and thought provoking”

http://www.spreadingtheseed.com/post/147538776069/alt-country-artist-jason-pkrug-brings-it-to-the

“Jason P Krug is another artist who will suck you in to their entire repertoire on Soundcloud against your will.‘

http://milkcrater.com/2016/05/19/milk-crate-49/

‘Hushed and desperate, haunting and believable. And you’ll find yourself singing it unconsciously.’

give5aspin: The Neon Desire, Xavier White, Josh Warren, Radio Skies, Jason P. Krug

‘The Zen Of Losing’, Jason P. Krug’s latest release is available on:

AMAZON: https://www.amazon.com/Zen-Losing-Jason-P-Krug/dp/B01EJVAL2W

BANDCAMP: https://jasonpkrug.bandcamp.com/

ITUNES: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/the-zen-of-losing/id1105653438

SOUNDCLOUD: https://soundcloud.com/jason-p-krug