Posted By arodmcfoolish on June 18, 2009

Oh to be a Jew in 1989. Notice the surreal Jon Voight ultra-creepy stare-down at the :15 second point complete with Orthodox Jewish hypeman.

From this moment on, I will always refer to Bob Dylan as Moiche Rubenstein. I don’t know about you, but I’m waiting for the Chopped Liver reunion.

This WTF? moment has been brought to you by the Chabad Telethon, which seems to be an excellent organization both for its noble mission and for its use of great graphics like these:

For even more entertainment, confusion and disbelief, read the comments for this video. Oy veh.

Arod McFoolish

P.S. – While we’re on the subject of absolutely great Jewish things, check this out.

Category: Color Commentary, From the Mouths of Babes, Musicology | No Comments »
Tags: Arod, Arod McFoolish, Blog, Bob Dylan, Chabad, Chopped Liver, Concerts, Fishtonian, Fishtown, Harry Dean Stanton, Jew, Jewish, Jon Voight, Kensington, Moiche Rubenstein, Music Reviews, Old Jews Telling Jokes, Philadelphia, Philly, Robert Zimmerman, Schmuck

Posted By arodmcfoolish on June 18, 2009

In this installment:

South of the Border Kitchen Sink Chili

While I have mastered one of the most excellent red meat chili recipes of all time (maybe one day, after you complete your samurai sword training, I will teach you), this alternative was created one magical night when a package of ground turkey unexpectedly found its ultimate destiny…

Ingredients:

• 2 Tbsp Extra Virgin Olive Oil
• 1 Cup Diced Large White Onion
• 1 Cup Diced Yellow Pepper
• 3 Finely Chopped Garlic Cloves
• 1.3 lbs Ground Turkey
• 1 Can Del Monte Petite Diced Tomatoes
• 1 Packet “Chili Mix”
• Ground Cumin
• Chili Powder
• 1/2 Cup Roasted Pepper Sesame Sauce (Stonewall Kitchen)
• 1 Bottle Weyerbacher Blanche Beer
• 1 Package Frozen Corn
• 1/2 Can Red Kidney Beans
• Frank’s Red Hot Sauce
• Tabasco Sauce
• 1 Package Uncle Ben’s Ready Rice
• Sargento Four Cheese Mexican Mix
• Sour Cream
• Chopped Fresh Cilantro

First thing’s first: in my home, if you’re worth your salt, you can’t cook a good Chili unless you are listening to the Time Life Classic Country Box Set, or the songs contained therein. End of story. There’s just something about blending the ingredients and smelling the simmering salaciousness whilst singing along with Roger Miller’s “Dang Me” that perfects the process…

Roses are red and violets are purple
Sugar is sweet and so is maple surple
I was the seventh out of seven sons
My pappy was a pistol
I’m a son of a gun.

Mmmm… surple.

Anywho, start out by sautéing the garlic, onion and pepper in the olive oil for about five minutes in a sizable skillet, then add the ground turkey. After the turkey is browned, add the diced tomatoes, chili mix (any will do), cumin, chili powder, beans, Red Hot and Tabasco.

While these ingredients (minus ground turkey) are often standards in my chili creations, I decided to go all kitchen sink on this one and try out some new things. I received some lovely sauce/marinades from my Special Lady Friend for Christmas and decided that the red pepper sauce would get a chance to go into the game (that may be the only sports metaphor you’ll ever hear from me). And the corn, well, c’mon people, it’s nearly impossible to go wrong with corn. It’s a damn fine food product. But aside from the flavor and juicy crunch it adds to the chili, I have to say that the bright color may have been its best contribution.

I’ve used beer before, but never the exquisite Weyerbacher Blanche. A delicious beer and one of my favorites as a newly-dubbed “real” beer lover (a novice indeed, but an eager pupil), I felt confident that its citrus and spice would be a welcome compliment.

At this point in my mad scientist chili concoction, I stirred the mixture into a vibrant red and yellow lava, sampled it and balanced the ingredients accordingly, and simmered it to a bubbling conclusion as Jim Reeves crooned at his woman to put her sweet lips a little closer to the phone. Welcome to my world Jim.

I was very happy with the final results, and felt the need to gussy it up by serving it on a bed of rice with a dollop of sour cream, shredded cheese and some sprigs of fresh cilantro.

With a bottle of Weyerbacher, this chili made on hell of a meal. She weren’t that fancy, but she sure hit the spot boyItellyouwhat.

Dang me!

Arod McFoolish

Category: Fishtonian Foodstuffs, Homemade Fishtonian Delicacies | No Comments »
Tags: Arod, Arod McFoolish, beans, beer, Blog, Chili, Classics, Cooking, Country, Dang Me, Fishtonian, Fishtown, Grilling, Jim Reeves, Kensington, Philadelphia, Philly, Roger Miller, Summer, Time Life, Turkey, Turkey Chili, Weyerbacher

Posted By arodmcfoolish on June 17, 2009

Check out London outfit Fanfarlo’s album Reservoir. It’s only $1 on their website until July 4th. A delicious indie pop morsel that’s very Stars-like with hefty portions of David Byrnish vocals. Go. Listen. Frolic. Look up at the rain with your arms out and contemplate life or something.

And now for something COMPLETELY FUCKING FREE!

If you haven’t heard of Arts & Crafts, it’s the oh-so-wonderful record label out of oh-so-musical Toronto, Canada, started by the oh-so-ridiculously-fabulous Broken Social Scene. Anywho, check out this link on Amazon and download their free label sampler. You’re bound to find something you like. For serious.

Arod McFoolish

Category: From the Mouths of Babes, Musicology | 1 Comment »
Tags: Album, Album Reviews, Amazon.com, Arod, Arod McFoolish, Arts & Crafts, Blog, Broken Social Scene, Fanfarlo, Fishtonian, Fishtown, Free Music, Free Sampler, Indie, Kensington, London, Montreal, Most Serene Republic, Music, Music Reviews, Philadelphia, Philly, Pop, Record, Reservoir, Robocop, Stars, SXSW, Toronto

Posted By arodmcfoolish on June 12, 2009

Thursday, June 11, 2009

The Tallest Man On Earth
Johnny Brenda’s

A night out in the wondrous villa of Fishtown is always a sweet treat, friends. And when you add a mysterious Swedish guitar dynamo to the mix, it becomes even sweeter.

I can’t for the life of me recall the first act I went to see at Johnny Brenda’s (I want to say Like Moving Insects, but I don’t have the paperwork to back that up), but I do remember how blown away I was by the place. Excellent upstairs and down, great food & local brews, the perfect intimate stage, and a balcony overhead that provides birds-eye gazes upon the best of the best. It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend dropping by.

To start: dinner & drinks. JB’s, much like the Standard Tap (same owners), has an ever-changing menu that almost always delivers, and tonight was pretty close.

For appetizers, my Special Lady Friend and I sampled the BBQ shrimp served on a bed of rice. Interesting, but the rice was actually tastier than the shrimp. C’est la vie.

My entree, on the other hand, was just short of magnificent. Veggie Lasagna, heavy on the mushrooms. Now I am a hardcore advocate of all things delicious and once walking; however, lasagna has always been one of my major vegetarian exceptions (which I make up for around Christmas when Dad makes his famous Pepperoni Sausage Lasagna Inferno). I know that mushrooms are often a meaty substitute, and while I don’t mind them, I don’t love them either. Had JB’s chosen eggplant, it would have been the balls. But still, scrump-diddily-umptious. Along with some PBC Walt Wit and a savory Riverhorse Tripel, top notch eats.

On to the show!

I had heard a lot of hype about The Tallest Man On Earth (folky Swede Kristian Matsson), but hadn’t got around to listening. Then, Beth & I missed him opening for Bon Iver at the Troc when (WTF?) everybody went on exactly on time. But just hearing how blown away Vernon was talking about him made me grab the album the next day and, needless to say, it went on constant rotation. Everybody was calling him the Swedish Dylan and, while he had a lot of Dylan in him, was far from an imitation.

But I must say that watching him live was a different experience altogether. While the music draws more of an early folkier Dylan comparison, his bodily gestures and ultra-thin, tight-pantsed persona alluded more to the Barnaby Street houndstooth speed-addled Dylan. Funny that so many were quick to jump to the Dylan comparison with his record, but what immediately struck me was all the other legends he seemed to channel on that dim JB stage. There was the self-assured cockswagger of a young and virulent Elvis Presley/Elvis Costello (never have I seen the two like-named icons meld like this), along with the latter’s (and David Byrne’s) jerky mannerisms. There were wild-eyed looks directly into audience members’ eyes that brought to mind David Johansen and Iggy Pop. And while it might seem “out there,” the juxtapostion of his acoustic fingerpicking and his in-your-face from-the-diaphragm singing barks made me think of Hendrix playing voluminous Martian guitar licks to a stunned crowd (his initial bellows literally made the entire crowd jolt back like a cheap horror film scare).

He played with a wonderfully flawed fingerpicking style, which is to say that it was almost pristine, but just rough enough around the edges to make it matter. And when he played with a pick, he would end the song by throwing it against the floor, Chris Rock-style. He jittered back and forth from stage corner to stage corner, often sat down and stood up several times within a song, and never played with his capo placed below the fifth fret. The guy commanded the stage, and absolutely stole the show. Then, as if to laugh at all the Dylan talk, closed with “Moonshiner,” and made it better than the master’s. Classic.

I’ve heard John Vanderslice’s new album, and it was all right, but nothing to write home about, if you’re asking this guy anyway. After The Tallest Man On Earth, I just couldn’t imagine sticking around for anything else. And he had to know it.

The Tallest Man On Earth indeed.

Arod McFoolish

Category: Fishtonian Foodstuffs, Musicology, Philadelphia Music, Philly Nightlife | 4 Comments »
Tags: Arod, Arod McFoolish, Bar, beer, Blog, Bob Dylan, Concerts, David Byrne, David Johansen, dinner, drinks, Eatery, eggplant, Elvis Costello, Elvis Presley, Fishtonian, Fishtown, Girard, Hendrix, Iggy Pop, Johnny Brenda's, Kensington, lasagna, mushroom, Music Reviews, Philadelphia, Philly, Restaurant, Riverhorse, shrimp, Swedish, Tallest Man On Earth, vegetarian, veggie, Walt Wit

Posted By arodmcfoolish on June 11, 2009

In this installment of Fishtonian Foodstuffs:

Hot Potato Café
529 E Girard Ave
Philadelphia, PA 19125
215-425-0905

So my Special Lady Friend & Partner in Culinary Conquests and I were to meet her mother for lunch today, and she very fittingly pointed out that we had yet to try Hot Potato Café. I realized that for a big Irish starch-worshipping bruiser like myself, this long delay was practically sacrilege. So try it we did. And good god, there were potatoes.

The Hot Potato has been quite the talk of the town lately as it was recently visited by one of those abrasive Brit TV personalities, Gordon Ramsey, for his new vehicle “Kitchen Nightmares.” (Correction: Apparently, Ramsey is Scottish. This fact makes me a lot cooler with him. – Ed.)

Now I was not in the Hot Potato pre-Ramsey, so I don’t know what (if anything I experienced) was his influence and what wasn’t. All I do know is that lunch at the Hot Potato Café, now, is pretty damned special.

Cozy Fishtonian surroundings, excellent waitstaff, and a potato lover’s dream menu await you there. Now there are non-potato-based items at the Hot Potato (one of the specials I considered was a Sausage Parm Sandwich), but I came for one thing: Potatoey Goodness. While I desperately craved the Shepherd’s Pie listed (made with minced lamb and rosemary with parmesan mash, sweet Jesus), it was an entree and I was there for lunch. After a long mull over the menu I went with the house Potato Soup and the “Traditional Loaded” Baked Potato (Sour Cream, Chives, Cheddar Cheese & Bacon: the four food groups). Beth and her mother both went with the “Sloppy Joe Loaded” (Minced beef, onions, tomatoes, peppers and cheddar cheese). And root beer, because hey, root beer!

The soup was delicious and sized somewhere between cup and bowl. I almost panicked when I saw no salt or pepper on any tables (potatoes with no salt? Heathens!) but was relieved by the special potato spice provided that seemed like a spicy paprika & slightly Old Bay-ish mixture. The soup was at just the right creaminess, and didn’t need to be overloaded with cheese or bacon (I’m sorry bacon).

Then… then they brought us loaded Hot Potatoes. I regrettably forgot my camera, but it looked something like this:

Yes, Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, I have seen the light.

Luckily, I don’t care when athletes are caught with insane amounts of body-enhancing drugs in their system, and I am likewise aloof to the fact that these loaded behemoths were obviously tampered with by some mad scientist. Some wonderful mad scientist. My traditional was loaded indeed, and of particular kickassedness was the cheddar cheese, which was a wonderful sauce consistency matching that of the soup. The Sloppy Joe loadeds had an added surprise of beans, because hey, when you ride this starch bullet train, you want to experience Mach 3. Take no prisoners.

Had I known how huge and filling this monster would be, I wouldn’t have ordered the soup. And that sentiment carries a lot of weight (pun intended suckers!) coming from me, a guy known to vanquish a lion’s share at any given sitting. I would also advise that you don’t operate any heavy machinery after a Loaded Hot Potato. Or make any important plans for the day. And have a pair of sweatpants and a pillow handy, because it’s NyQuil-nappy time.

Needless to say, after I pumped caffeine into my system, I realized that I had been driven home and visions of future encounters with Shepherd’s Pie, New Wave Potato Salad, Chorizo Hash and Fishtown Chowder still danced in my head. I’ll be sure to bring my camera, but not my dignity. Yay Potatoes!

Arod McFoolish

P.S. – That was the most I’ve been able to use the word potato in anything I’ve ever written, including my in-depth, 35-page critical analysis of Weird Al Yankovic’s “Addicted To Spuds.” Kudos.

Category: Fishtonian Foodstuffs | 1 Comment »
Tags: Arod, Arod McFoolish, Bacon, Baked Potato, Blog, Cafe, Chorizo, Chowder, Cooking, Eatery, Fishtonian, Fishtown, French Fries, Girard, Gordon Ramsay, Hot Potato Cafe, Keller, Kitchen Nightmares, Music Reviews, Philadelphia, Philly, Potato, Potatoes, Restaurant, Salad, Shepherd's Pie, Sloppy Joe, Soup, urbanspoon

Posted By arodmcfoolish on June 9, 2009

Actually, that is not me. Most can only wish for the smoothness and panache possessed by that inimitable comic genius and all-around groovy guy Freddie “Boom Boom” Washington and, alas, I am one of those masses, simply getting by and trying to hold my own amongst such stallions.

My nom de plume is Arod McFoolish, and here you will find news and pigheaded commentary on the many “Things What I Like.” My residence in the Land of the Fish is now officially one year old, and I wish to share with you, my loyal legions of readers (Hi Mom!), my musings on the neighborhood, its haunts, stomping grounds, watering holes, wares and such, as well as my usual brand of thoughts on all things.

So relax. Sit on your stoop. Have a cup ‘a joe. And subscribe to my blog, so I can feel better and more self-important about myself. You’ve stumbled onto this site, and therefore owe me as much. Seriously. Please.

I have posted updates to my Concert Calendar and have commenced the Summer Grilling/Cooking Season. Stay tuned for more such nonsense.

Take a browse through some of my old posts from The Pennypack Beer Distributor Times, and anxiously await the upcoming Fishtonian features, such as:

• The Fishtonian Repository – Home of Fishtonian Merchandising Merchandising Merchandising: where the REAL money from the blog is made!
• Fishtonian Foodstuffs – Reviews of the best eateries and drinkeries in the land
• Albums of the Week – Weekly reviews of new music releases
• Hardcore Barely Legal Videos – Watch Tawny and her friends get into some naughty business at her first sleepover when an impromptu pillow fight blossoms into a filthy fest of felching and fist–

Ignore that last comment.

Anywho, let’s on with it! And remember…

Arod McFoolish

Category: All About Arod! | 1 Comment »
Tags: Album Reviews, Arod, Arod McFoolish, Blog, Broccolini, Chicken, Concerts, Cooking, Eatery, Fishtown, Grilling, Introduction, Kensington, Merchandise, Music Reviews, Philadelphia, Philly, Port Richmond, Schmuck, Subscribe, Summer

Posted By arodmcfoolish on May 25, 2009

I felt it fitting to begin the 2009 summer grilling season on Memorial Day, the ceremonial gateway to summer. I cleaned my trusty steed a couple weeks earlier, and just yesterday took the trip to Lowe’s with my Special Lady Friend to pick up this season’s tank of propane and dreams. Delicious, blackened dreams…

The Menu:

• Baby Spinach Salad with Sun-Dried Tomatoes, Feta Cheese and Italian Dressing
• Grilled Chicken Breast with Tomato, Garlic & Basil Marinade
• Grilled Broccolini, Zucchini & Summer Squash with Lemon Juice & Garlic Butter

To inaugurate the grill, I thought it fitting to go with my go-to grilling choice: chicken breasts and grill-steamed vegetables. I have a big meal planned for today, so last night I wanted to give old Bessie a test drive with one of my standards.

My chicken supplier for years has been Sam’s Club. They sell huge bags of Tyson boneless, 99% fat free frozen breasts, and the size is excellent. However, the lack of any fat on this meat makes marinating a must to bring out the flavor and keep it moist on the grill. My preference for store-bought marinades is Grill-Mates line of packets that call for a mixture of water, oil & vinegar. I usually include some freshly ground Italian and Montreal Steak Seasoning as well. Last night it was Tomato, Garlic & Basil. I like to marinate for at least two hours.

My cooking method for these breasts has been to sear them on the direct flame for a little over a minute on each side to seal in the juices and get those gorgeous grill marks, then move them to the top rack for about 5 minutes on each side.

As for grilling my veggies, my usual method is to prepare a tin foil boat and add a mixture of your vegetables along with plenty of fresh lemon juice, salt, pepper, some Italian seasoning and, in this case, some homemade garlic butter (just grate a clove of garlic and mix with your butter). I throw the sealed pack onto the top rack as soon as I’m lighting the burners, giving it more time to cook while the grill preheats. After I sear the chicken I move the pack down to the direct flame.

Along with slices of zucchini & summer squash, Beth had me try one of her favorites, Broccolini, and I must say that I am hooked. It seems to be the perfect combination of broccoli and asparagus, and when cooked to a crispness was absolutely delicious.

To round things out, we did a baby spinach salad with some crumbled feta and sun-dried tomatoes. I’ve had a hankering for these lately, and am thrilled that I picked them up the other day. This winning combination, along with some light Italian dressing, really tied the meal together. It was the Dude’s Rug of meals. Thank you Donny.

I’m normally a beer man, but since we were all out, I served the dish with some White Zinfandel (classy, I know).

The deliciousness of the meal, plus the fact that a whole season of grilling is ahead (plus a couple glasses of wine) really made my evening.

Stay tuned for another episode of Grilltastica that will include Spiced Turkey Burgers with Apple Raita and my famous Beer-Baked Corn on the Cob!

Arod McFoolish

Category: Fishtonian Foodstuffs, Homemade Fishtonian Delicacies | 2 Comments »
Tags:

Posted By arodmcfoolish on January 3, 2009

Well look at that! 2008 is all over and now 2009 is underway! Doesn’t time fly! And before you know it, well it’ll be 2010, then 2015, and you KNOW what 2015 will bring, right?

What with Obama in the White House and all, goodbye oil crises, hello hovering DeLoreans.

But as VH1 teaches us, what better time to look back fondly with nostalgia on days past than IMMEDIATELY after they’ve occurred. So without further ado, here’s a look back on some things what I heard and things what I saw in 2008.

Artist of the Year:

Bon Iver

For Emma, Forever Ago
MySpace Transmissions (EP)
Blood Bank (EP)

Live:
1st Unitarian, 7/31
Trocadero, 12/15

Although his debut album was self-released in 2007, it was re-released on Jagjaguwar in ’08, and it knocked the ass right outta me. Intimate, solitarily moving and sparse, it reflects exactly the circumstances under which it was recorded: overcoming sickness and nursing the wounds of a band which moved away from him, Justin Vernon secluded himself in a Wisconsin cabin and recorded a low-fi masterpiece. And after the smoke cleared and he became a runaway success, Vernon assembled a touring band and expanded on his sound in what seems like an absolutely perfect way. Still sparse and haunting, the band that is now Bon Iver, as evidenced on the MySpace Transmissions and Blood Bank, seems to perfectly compliment his sound.

As anyone who knows me can tell you, I don’t go NEAR the 1st Unitarian (not counting the Sanctuary) unless the act is incredible. If you haven’t been to the 1st Uni, just imagine being trapped in the Death Star’s trash compactor with hundreds of unbathed hipsters during a Sahara heat wave. And THAT’S in the dead of winter. On July 31st, it was easily 120 degrees when Bon Iver took the stage and, incredibly, didn’t die. The fact that I stayed until the end says more than I could ever describe with the written word if you know of my intense hatred of all temperatures above 72 degrees. (Check out performances here, here, and here.)

As you can see from the video, Bon Iver was relieved at the cool, December Troc show as he reminisced about the fact that he survived to tell the tale. And I don’t know if you’re too familiar with the Troc, but if you are, you can imagine how bizarre it is that the entire audience was silent and entranced, until we all sang a tune with Bon Iver in unison. Also, they managed to make Outfield’s “Your Love” into a liltingly romantic song. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Local Favorite of the Year:

Like Moving Insects: Burn Your Bridges

Runners Up:

Fan of Friends: From the Desk of Fan of Friends
Joshua Marcus: Reverse The Charges
Adam Arcuragi: Soldiers For Feet (EP)
Brown Recluse Sings: Black Sunday
Whales & Cops: Great Bouncing Icebergs (EP)
Tickley Feather: Tickley Feather

As I am repeatedly reminded by the incredible Local Support podcast, Philadelphia has a ridiculous music scene. Often having members intermingled throughout bands (as does LMI, FoF and Joshua Marcus), there’s quite a hodgepodge of tones and styles here. And my favorite continues to be Like Moving Insects, even though they have officially dissolved into the ether. And while it’s disheartening to think that I may never hear one of their otherworldly live shows again, I was thrilled that they posted their last effort as a free MySpace download. And what a Swansong it is.

80s Flashback of the Year:

M83: Saturdays = Youth

Runner Up:

Cut Copy: In Ghost Colours

Both of these albums are just really accurate time warps. I mean they really cover all the bases. But while Cut Copy delivers an album that’s a bit more modern and danceable, M83 totally commits to a recreation, yet simultaneously manage to not sound dated or kitschy. Perfect sound portraits of John Hughes films, Tangerine Dream, Kate Bush and teenage goth-angst are ably delivered and hard to stop listening to.

Folksy Whatnots of the Year:

Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes
Bonnie “Prince” Billy: Lie Down In The Light
The Tallest Man On Earth: Shallow Graves
The Dodos: Visitor

This one’s a four-way tie as I immerse myself further and further into the “freak-folk” scene. And while some of these may not be according-to-Hoyle freak-folkers, it all hits the same vein with me. Fleet Foxes blend so many genres and sounds from the previous five decades of American music so well they’re hard to pass up. Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s last outing is not only a warm, inviting, fun record on its own, but also plays a wonderfully optimistic foil to his bleak, downtrodden I See A Darkness. The Tallest Man On Earth is often touted as the “Swedish Bob Dylan,” and doesn’t disappoint (this coming from a Dylan Connaisseurus Freak) with his imagist-invoking lyrics and fucking spot-on fingerpicking. And the Dodos… well you just have to hear the Dodos. Bizarro Folk.

Old Old School Release of the Year:

Polk Miller: Polk Miller & His Old South Quartette

I found this little gem at A.K.A. Records, and have been so skeptical as to the “Realness” of certain things due to a certain Master of the Fine Art’s interactive artwork that I was convinced its age was a fabrication until extensive research proved otherwise. A great album of crackly, old-tymey goodness that also appears on this list to represent the other gems I unearthed and grew obsessed with in 2008, like Reverend Gary Davis, Lonnie Johnson, Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, Blind Lemon Jefferson et al.

All Out Rockout of the Year:
(Also Best Album Cover of the Year,
Best Album Title of the Year)

King Khan & The Shrines:
The Supreme Genius of King Khan & The Shrines

Live: Johnny Brenda’s, 6/28

Runner Up:

Vivian Girls: Vivian Girls

OK, so if you can honestly look at that cover, and you can see that album title and not realize why it’s the unmitigated number one ayotollah of rock ‘n rolla, than you cannot sit down and enjoy a jukebox with a rock-drunken Arod. Don’t get me wrong; there are a great deal of greasers who would throw down a smokescreen like that for the pure effect and then, obviously, not be able to deliver. But King Khan… here’s a guy, to quote John Madden and Big-Lebowski-Era Sam Elliot, here’s a guy who straight up, no holds barred, prime time picks up James Brown’s cape from the dusty floor of Rock ‘n Roll oblivion, twists his feet on the superior funkthrust of the jammin’-on-the-one count and lets his audience know that all is not lost, and that the heart still beats. The 12-piece band’s live show is, frankly, the reason there are still live shows.

And the Vivian Girls aren’t that bad either.

WTF? of the Year:
(Also Album on My List that Bob B. Will Most Enjoy Berating)

Doveman: Footloose

Seriously, WTF? I was reading a random blog one day in ’08 and discovered that someone had gone and covered the entire fucking Footloose soundtrack. And it wasn’t the Bacon Brothers. Talk about a re-creation. This Doveman guy has taken an entire album of throwaway (a word synonymous with) Kenny Loggins material and turned it into a bleak, heart-wrenching anti-powerhouse dedicated to his friend’s dead sister. I love when people take certain music and totally make it their own (or in Dylan’s case, makes it his own again), and in this case, Doveman has succeeded. So fuck Columbia Records right in their fucking ears for issuing a cease and desist order. Really?! Were sad-bastard emo fans really on the fence about whether to buy a Kenny Loggins vehicle or an album of a weepy guy playing a piano?

Other Random Favorites of the Year:

Broken Social Scene Presents Brendan Canning: Something For All Of Us
The Toronto Uber-collective Broken Social Scene never disappoints me. This time around the project was headed by BSS co-founder and bassist Brendan Canning, and stands as a nice contrast to Kevin Drew’s BSS Presents. It’s obviously got more pronounced bassline grooves, is a lot less noisy and cluttered (although Drew is a master at clutter), and still throws down that BSS sound that has drawn me in ever since I discovered and became obsessed with the pop masterwork You Forgot It In People, and with it, the indie universe.

The Felice Brothers: The Felice Brothers
A smooth album that may be a little too smooth, but fuck it. With a sound attempting to conjure Dylan and, in my mind, Dire Straits, the Felice Brothers succeed in making an album perfect for idyllic drives and beer sipping. But not at the same time.

Human Highway: Moody Motorcycle
I was drawn to this one because the frontmen are alumni from both Islands and The Unicorns, not to mention Jim Guthrie is the grandson of Woody, but the album is the last thing I would expect. Laid back, filled with great harmonies and truly beachworthy (the beaches that exist in my head that are no hotter than room temperature and contain no sand, that is), it was a favorite in my 2008 rotation.

Mount Eerie, Julie Doiron & Fred Squire: Lost Wisdom
A weird, lo-fi affair, I really dig the recording quality and the electric guitar that distorts but doesn’t overpower throughout the album. And the sad-bastard duet vocal stylings don’t disappoint.

TV On The Radio: Dear Science
The kings of funk-groove-meets-social-commentary-meets-experimental-pop-and-hiss (a small genre, indeed) continue their line of fine albums. This is what Prince would sound like if he was worth a damn (yeah, I fucking said it).

The Walkmen: You & Me
This entire album sounds like it was recorded in a submarine, full of glorious deep dark sweating hallway echo and booming ocean floor bass. Only Hamilton Leithauser’s wailing brings it to the surface.

Guilty Pleasure of the Year:

Kings of Leon: Only By The Night
Every arena rock cliche imaginable (and a few that only exist in Bono’s head while he masturbates) took a massive shit all over this album, but I’ll be damned if I don’t find myself continuing to listen. And while doing so, my head struggles between bopping to the beat and shaking/eyeball-rolling in disbelief.

Runner Up:

Masturbating

Shows To Which I Goes of the Year:

Rock Plaza Central: St. Stephen-in-the-Fields Church (Toronto), 5/1

Along with the three above-mentioned shows, this was an ultimate show of 2008. Whilst tooling around Toronto on my two-months-becomes-one-week walkabout, I got to see one of my favorite area bands in a beautiful setting reminiscent of the 1st Unitarian Sanctuary. I mistook their lead singer as a fellow fan before the show, talked to him about how good RPC is (luckily), and laughed with him about it after the show (I should look at band pics more). Then I met some cool Torontonians and walked through the rain and found a bar and got drunk with them. On a lonely trip, it was the unabashed highlight.

Comedy of the Year:

George Carlin: It’s Bad for Ya

Runner Up:

Bill Burr: Why Am I Doing This?

2008 saw the death of the comedy legend to end all comedy legends (If you disagree, you are simply wrong, and Air Marshall Carlin says “Go Fuck Yourself.”) Like many others, I have fond memories of sneaking downstairs and discovering the “Seven Dirty Words” on my parents’ turntable. And in 1992, Jammin’ in New York began one of the most unbelievably funny AND brilliant career runs in existence. Buy his books. Listen to his albums. Remember him fondly, but don’t think he’s “up there… smiling down on us.” Shit. Piss. Cunt. Fuck. Cocksucker. Motherfucker. Tits.

Flicks of the Year:

Frost/Nixon
Låt den rätte komma in (Let the Right One In)

Runners Up:

The Dark Knight, Burn After Reading, Quarantine, Religulous, Cloverfield, The Strangers, Doubt

Let the Right One In had everything I love in a movie: isolated loneliness perfectly mirrored by a bleak yet gorgeous winter setting, a child vampire, a beautiful tween romance, violence, and Swedish dialogue. Okay, reading that back, I guess I don’t usually look for most of those things. Still, this movie was great for all those reasons. You should see it just for the pool scene. You’ll thank me.

Also, I literally just got back from seeing Frost/Nixon, and, FUCK, that was an incredible film. I have to say it’s my favorite Ron Howard film since Parenthood. Some of you who know me also know that I have a somewhat unhealthy obsession with the Cold War and Nixon, and this movie nailed my reasoning for the latter. Richard Nixon is exactly the kind of character Shakespeare wrote about, and if he were alive today, he would have done Nixon. And he would have had Frank Langella play him. He went balls out. I’ve heard people say they thought Langella was a bad choice, but those people are wrong. Oh Nixon, how I love to love and hate you.

Movies of the Year in Which the Previews Alone Made Me Ill:

Mamma Mia, Repo! The Genetic Opera, Don’t Mess with the Zohan, The Love Guru

Movies of the Year in Which Will Smith Once Again Shits Upon an Excellent Premise:

Hancock

Friend of Mine Currently Living in the Oakland Area of the Year:

Dan Sanders

Runner Up:

Stanley Kirk Burrell

Category: Musicology, Philadelphia Music | 2 Comments »
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Posted By arodmcfoolish on April 29, 2008

So here I sit in a seedy Niagara Falls Budget Inn on zero sleep, waiting for the rain clouds to disburse and trying to avoid Room 218’s “stain gallery.” You know—regrouping. How did I get here? It already seems like a blur. A fascinating, soggy blur.

My journey westward, or rather northwestward, began routinely enough with a nice scenic slice through the Keystone State. In the seven-and-a-half hours it took me to do so, I witnessed various wonders, which for me means a plethora of decrepit old buildings, train stations, barns and what have yous. I even caught a giant hill of scrapped cars that stood as a fantastic monument to all things American and colossal and steel. All in all, a grand ole drive.

The roads became smaller and hugged more mountainous territory as I approached the Allegheny State Forest, and smaller and windier still as I made it to my first stop of my journey: Willow Bay Recreation Area. There at the gate, I met a man who, at first glance, appeared to be your average surly, grizzled mountaineer. He introduced himself as “Bob—Bob Frank. You got a minute?” Little did I know that a minute meant all night and that this may be the most interesting character I would ever meet.

After he spelled out the situation for me, Bob explained that he was actually a camper at Willow Bay and that a friend had hooked him up with some odd jobs here and there in exchange for free space, water and electric. He would be staying to fish for the next five months. He told me that Barbara, his woman, thought he was just going out for some smokes and was none too thrilled to hear that he would be gone for nearly half a year, but he didn’t much care—he’s used to flying her places when he needs a good blowjob. Okay. He said he had a sweet spot by the lake and that I could camp by him.

I went to check out the site and the lake, and beautiful they were. They were also signal-less. It seemed that I was completely cut off from civilization—except for Bob, Bob Frank. Proceed with caution.

I told Bob that I would take him up on his offer and paid my fee. He told me he was in the same boat with the shitty cell phone coverage and instructed me to drive just a mile or two past the Pennsylvania border into New York to catch a signal. After I checked in with the usual subjects to tell them destination reached, I headed back to my nice little campsite and started to set up camp. Bob invited me to join him for dinner. Pasta and sauce with mushrooms and peppers. That beats my canned chicken noodle. Nice.

After I finished with my tent, I walked over and started to chat with Bob over the steam of pots spewing delicious smells. I figured I was in for talk about fishing, hunting, and also fishing. Little did I know the unbelievable history of Bob, Bob Frank.

Turns out Bob has left his suit-and-tie place in society for the wilderness, and it was quite a place at that. Originally from Montana, Bob ended up running a congressional investigative committee out of Ohio whose job it was to call out and put away corrupt judges, litigators, businesses, you name it. Threats to his life? Yup. Myriad bribe offers? Uh huh. But none of it phased Bob. He got right in their faces when no one else dared, and from the cut of his jib and the language he was using, I believed every word. Including when he claimed to use contacts in the FBI and CIA, and to go on local TV shows and name the crooked bastards on the air.

Bob told me about setting up a meeting with the head of the Ohio Mafia to get an OK to take down judges who were in his pocket (the Mob head’s response? “Fuck’em!”) and threatening him with his pure Sicilian roots and his brother’s connections with the New York Mafia (including Frank fucking Costello).

According to Bob, his exploits got him a private job in California investigating a business scam. Tired with the ridiculousness of people, he got out, hinting that he took some money and ran.

He told me of Barbara, his special lady friend of 10 years who he met through a friend and fell in love with over their mutual love of horses (“she brought out one from her stable that was about 17 stone and told me she was gonna teach me to ride and said “I am gonna fuck the shit outta this woman!”). But he also told me about his daughter from a previous marriage who got into drugs way out in Lacrosse, Wisconsin. This one is a doozy.

Turns out Bob traveled out there with his Vietnam Vet buddy (Bob was a marine who was in for 2 tours of course), not knowing where the hell she was, determined to track her down. Within 27 minutes of being in town, Bob got the address he needed. Because Bob is fucking BADASS. Then he bought a large knife and proceeded to said address where he told the two miscreants living with his daughter, “I’ll make this the worst last day of anyone’s life if you fuck with me.” Needless to say, he went home that night with his daughter. Also needless to say, I resolved to be extremely polite to Bob and not make any sudden moves. Luckily, he seemed to like me, or at least the company out in the middle of nowhere.

As he went on, it grew dark until I couldn’t make out his face and I kept thinking of those shows when people are saying things they shouldn’t and their identities are hidden. He told me how the judicial system makes barrels of money from DUI scams, he told me that after this trip he would take one more to Alaska and then give away all his equipment, and he even told me a great recipe for Italian pasta with garlic, anchovies and peppers. Then I took my leave of him. Bob, Bob Frank. Holy fucking shit.

It had been a great first day indeed. Satisfied, I retired to my tent for a good night’s rest. And that’s when the shit began to fit the fan.

I hadn’t packed my little airbed because my friends with the pump no longer had it. I figured if it was bad I’d pick one up on the road. Well it was pretty fucking bad. As the rocks dug in, I attempted to sleep. Eventually, I drifted off. Then, about an hour later, they started. The noises.

Frightening noises. Animals in the night, determined to rip out my neck. And nibble on things. Creatures bumped against the tent as they scurried by, and I tried not to scream like a little girl who skinned her knee. Then there was the sound that I interpreted as chomping on wood, that is if a beaver-like animal had been mutated by the government and developed as a weapon. Amidst all this, I realized a few things:

1. While I told people what park I was around, nobody knew the actual camp area I was at,
2. real camping is not tenting it with a bunch of drunken, stoned hippies at Bonnaroo, and
3. enemies of Bob Frank had finally tracked him down and were going to kill the both of us. A lot.

Then the rain started. And continued, and escalated. And then I realized that the cheaper, smaller tent that I had substituted for my trusty, wonderful larger tent due to size had been leaking. Until a little moat of sorts surrounded me. Luckily, the one thing I did right was not move the car to the correct lot over in Bumblefuck. I could’ve knocked at Bob’s little cabin, but visions of violent ‘Nam flashbacks danced in my head. With my valuables and delicates under my poncho, I made for the car in the pitch black, freezing, rainy night.

Safe in my airtight, comfortable car, I had a revelation: I OWN A FUCKING AIRTIGHT, COMFORTABLE CAR! Why the hell was I bothering with tents? This thing is assembled, it can’t be brought down by a wind gust, and I can leave the key in and flee when Bob’s “associates” make their way to Willow Bay. Well at least I learned something.

So on no sleep, I had a cup of coffee with Bob, Bob Frank, said my goodbyes and headed out to Niagara. And I jacked myself up with so much coffee as to not pass out on the road (New York should change its slogan from The Empire State to The Poorly Paved State) that once I made it to this hazardous germ farm, I still couldn’t sleep.

Despite my troubles, I feel that this has been quite a fantastic voyage so far. Man, that Coolio was a fucking genius.

“Just slide, slide, slippity slide
Just forget about your troubles and your nine to five…”

Arod McFoolish

Category: All About Arod! | 3 Comments »
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Posted By arodmcfoolish on December 20, 2007

Well hey there hi there and ho ho ho there to you, fine readers! It’s that time of year again when the entire country gets together in a spirit of peace and harmony to celebrate the majestic virgin birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ whilst gathering our collective faith in the Christ-Child as ammunition against all those worshippers of heathen idols as we condemn them to eternal hellfire!

But seriously my little elven brethren, I would like to take this time out to wish all eight of my readers (my goal is to DOUBLE that figure by 2009—keep your fingers crossed!) a very jolly holiday season. To truly get yourself into the Christmas spirit, I first invite you to stroll down memory lane to the ghosts of Christmas Past.

As for this Christmas, I found a very quaint little story in the news about some scuttlebutt regarding the Canadians and their “Letters from Santa” program. Yeesh, those Canadians!

Unfortunately, they did not provide any examples of these so-called “nasty” letters. Well I say humbug to that! So now, without further ado and in keeping with the generous spirit and warmth of the holiday season, I present you with my imagining of one of these chestnuts. Enjoy!

Dear Billy,

Ho ho ho! Well, from the lovely letter you sent me it sounds like you’ve been a good boy this year! In fact, I can still smell your sweet boy-scent on it, wafting ever so gently into my cherry-like nose and my dark, dark dreamscape. Why just the other night, I was nestled all snug in my bed, while visions of Billy danced in my head! Do you like to dance, Billy?

Anywho, it certainly seems like you like that new Nintendo Wii game! Boy, you sure want quite a few of those games, and I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Santa’s elves in the workshop can barely make them fast enough, and there aren’t many to go around. That being said, Santa doesn’t want to accidently deliver Wii games to the wrong house. So to make sure I don’t make a mistake, I’m going to need a bit more information about you than what was provided in your last letter.

What color are your eyes, Billy? Are they piercing blue, emerald green, chocolate brown? I don’t know if you know this about Santa, but he certainly enjoys the brown eye! No matter what color they are, I’m sure they’ll certainly give a lustre of mid-day to objects below, if you catch my meaning. And how about your hair? I need to know how it would look all mussed and unkempt. Do you have rosy red dimples too, Billy? I’ll be right back.

OK, I’m back. Sorry about that, but in my pants there arose such a clatter, so I sprang from my desk to “see what was the matter.”

Well Billy, I anxiously await your letter. Remember; be extremely descriptive so Santa knows who to deliver all these wonderful toys to. I long to see you late Christmas Eve, all hung by the chimney with care. I’ll be just like a peddler opening his sack! But the key word will be quiet, Billy. Remember, not a creature stirring, not even a mouse. You’d be amazed at the things you could do with a mouse. Do you know who Richard Gere is?

Merry Christmas,

Category: Xmas is Xere! | No Comments »
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