Sunny, Sunny JpK and The March To Mac 650, Middletown

Its is the First Day Of Spring (expect snow…..) and we find our selves 2 weeks away from the first public performance of the Jason P Krug and Julie Kay performance at Wandering Uterus Opening Night Gala (lalalala) at Mac650 Gallery, 650 Main Street in good ole’ Middletown, CT.


Though this news is playing quiet on the National News cycle, it is the Hindenburg of my Heart. Or something less terrifying.


Hmmm…Im a rather dark MoFo. I’ll circle back to that.


Having spent Sunday locked away in an underground bunker with Cello J, I think it’s safe to say we’re bigger than the Beatles. Oh, and Jesus.


Cocky as that sounds, its absolutely true. I have incontestable proof in my pocket. Reach in and grab it.


What were doing…is unique…and yet a sound I have heard in the hinterlands of my consciousness. Deep, sensual, setting its own pace to one tapping (or stomping). Lyric driven, plain spoken.


Im proud of what were doing. And if you live in the continental United Sates, you have little reason not to get to Middletown CT April 3rd.


But this brings me back to my original point: Re-branding. (Note: skeptics will believe I had no point at all and just stumbled upon it in my meandering prose. To that I reply a succinct ‘w.e.’)


Coming from The Grimm Generation experience (which I’m not prepared to discuss yet without aid of doctors and anatomically correct puppets…) how does one go from a charming rogue standing next to a redhead to being the redhead?


Well, you start a blog for one….



You come correct, with honesty. You dance like nobody is watching…you fine tune your craft to fit what you are now, what you’ve learned to get here and what you don’t need anymore. You re imagine the franchise, you get all alternate Universe on that bastard and you come with a story to tell.




In this self exploration, Its been mentioned that I rarely expound about my more actually human characteristics. Or the less detestable ones.


(such as egotistical, self involved, and lack empathy)


I considered this.


So some fact about your author he would never reveal if not for the purposes of warming the cockles of yer heart.


1) I like dogs. As an appetizer.
2) I regularly help the elderly. For money. It’s called ‘my job’.
3) I believe in Love. Truly. I believe it is the highest calling.
4) I also believe in divorce.
5) I am exceedingly polite.
6) I am cutely self conscious. Unless I’m right about something, then I am terror defined.
7) I like you. Do you like me?

I Know Life’s A Bummer, Baby….

Looking for direction? Advice? Validation?  Fresh out.

Want to take on this day with the appropriate gravitas that would accompany a bad ass Clint Eastwood style space God?  I gotcha.

1) wake up.
2) remember where you are. Look around for clues. Is that your alarm clock? OK, you’re at home.
3) morning ablutions
4) headphone up.
5) find a mirror.  stare onto your own muddy eyes.
6) press play on Monster Magnet ‘s song ‘Bummer’.

(Note: have song cued to play before you get to the mirror. We are creating a small scene, a lil’ delusion. Drama is your friend.)

(Also buy ‘Powertrip’ record.)

7) keep staring while the otherworldly whoops and hollers sink deep into your cortex.  See the scary. Be the scary.
8) when the drums kick in, spin with military precision. Don’t be afraid of flourish.  Again….drama.
9) let your head bob. In time. Let your steps fall in mechanical time.
10) consider that opening line. ‘Your looking for the one who fucked your Mom…’. Consider it again.
11) step outside.
12) look around at all these familiar sights. Now squint.  You can now see the thin plastic seams that run up the back of everything: home and hearth and horizon. And it all becomes clear. Some great force you can not understand has imprisoned you. They created a Carbon copy To keep you transfixed. Immobile.
13) ride into work. …but look around.  There’s seams on every building, stop light,  blade of grass. Let righteous indignation steer the way. This can’t stand.
14) when you get to work,  quit. Walk out forever.
15) make the bastards pay. All of them.


Last Letters From The Land Of The Midnight Hour (1)

Darling Emma,

I found my way to the Windsor depot today and what a treat to receive your letter and parcel of girl scout cookies. The cookies were delicious and to answer your questions:

1) yes I think using your dwindling inheritance to open a poorly planned restaurant is an excellent idea.

2) no, my schedule does not allow I listen to the new or any Pink Floyd album.

3) ‘candor’ and a ‘can do attitude’ rarely sync.

4) no,  I have not heard from Bass Mike

I carry on here on the hinterland, steeling myself for the ticking down disasters that weigh on my pride and ever growing crop.

I have grown real wings. Then moved to an Undersea Kingdom. 

The skills I gained back on the farm (song structure,  salt-on-the-table lyrical imagery, good hook making and melody) go starving in this town of dance remixes and (shudder) jazz.

I came to share and communicate and be one with the people. But I am cursed cause I don’t know how to get the ladies on the floor.  Cause I can’t vamp a chicken dance if you spotted me a beak and feathers. Cause I don’t know the traditionals like ‘Mustang Sally’ and ‘Whose Makin’ To Your Old Lady (While You Were Out Making Love)’.

I came to provide that soundtrack to a thousand personal victories and horrors, freeze dried in time, awaiting an audience that relates to them. Maybe even needs them, requires them. But I fill my choruses with too many words,  I fear, I ignore natural rhythms for 6 more syllables. 

While the world goes about its business and gets on the dance floor for the repetitive verses of ‘In The Midnight Hour’. Which gets played morning,  noon and night, 365, 24/7.

Repetition is Hell, someone brighter once spoke.  It certainly wasn’t Wilson Pickett.

And I soldier on, my optimism dinged up but functioning.  I have one thing I was brought here to do. Too late to go back to school.

Emma….think on me, when time allows. See me here with my hands in the dirt trying to dig….something.  Panning for gold in dead river beds. 

Yours Truly

PS: No, I don’t use Twitter.  It sounds like an endless bazaar of bullshit.


Your Own Personal Ontario

Riding among the dirty frozen prehistoric ice and slush turned to dirt and Neil Young solo acoustic playing. And the corner gets turned and the sun crashes in and he’s singing ‘Helpless’.

And I understood Canada all at once.

Joni and Leonard and Neil. …for all the value of a summer listen are February singers. Each comes with heat or light or gentle confusion and it’s music that works beyond aural. It’s simmering in intensity that comes from seclusion and study. It’s sensual and quiet and absolutely moving, given a decent context, and a desire for real April.

And this is bliss. A slice. And a promise.

And I send this to you, international, to your own personal Ontario.


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. 
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 
So take my hand, my friend, and twirl with me. They’re calling this one just for us.
And kick.

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


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.