Submit Best Costume!

Happy Halloween and Unhappy last day of Rock-Tober (OK, OK, all good things must come to an end)! It is always a bit problematic when Halloween falls outside of a weekend. Good parties need the weekend, but is dressing up on the Friday before premature? Not really, but then you end up dressing up again on Saturday and costume loses some novelty. Anyway you look at it, Halloween this year was less than spectacular for whatever reason.
Kristin and I tried, but all the parties were a bit "soft" despite our optimism. But we still had a good time at a local "raver" party in downtown Portland. Save for myself, which I'm not picturing for obvious reasons, everyone in our small group was looking festive. I was going to be my anti-hero, Brian Adams, but it just didn't come together. So I went as a failed "Dick Head" by dressing upside down...yeah, it was a stretch. But there was NO shortage of great costumes at the downtown party. My favorite, and possibly best costume I've ever seen, was a complete, flawless Star Wars Stormtrooper complete with gun. This "dude" passed me in the hallway and I thought for a moment that someone had drugged my water. The costume was impeccable and looked exactly like the picture posted above!

I encourage anyone reading my blog to submit this years' best costume in my comment section.

...and yes, I'm on my way down to the Lompoc brewery soon for one last pint of Rock-Toberfest brew.

Cheers.

A Title With No Puns!

Ok, Ok...it's been way too long since I've updated this because I know that millions of people check my blog everyday because my life is so much more interesting than anyone else's. I could blame it on a lot of things, namely the NSF grant I'll be married to this week. Ahhh....grants. This is my first of a long career writing to make my science sound interesting enough to have people throw money at me. Ok, so it doesn't really work like that; the American tax payers can breath a sign of relief that their money is not being thrown at a deranged burgeoning scientist like me, rather, your money is more likely being thrown on the dusty roads of Mideastern countries. But that's another blog entry. It doesn't help that Portland has been bathing in glorious October days. Last Saturday was truly the worst distraction to my work since the Legend of Zelda Gamecube release. Kristin and I did all things Rock-Tober that day, including a coffee-fueled drift through downtown, a couple of Oktoberfest pints at the Lompoc (yes, while working on my grant), and an evening with friends in the pun-adelic Amazing Maize Maze (I'll leave it up to you to figure that out). But today, it's cloudy! This is good news. I plan to stay indoors and distract myself as long as possible checking my e-mail, updating my meticulous iTunes playlists, and, of course, writing blogs.

Jacksonville's Bright Nights

After a solid seven days of listening, my review of Ryan Adams's latest, "Jacksonville City Nights," is ready. Jacksonville is up, down, left, and right, a country album; rather, it is a VERY country album. The late 90's experimental genre of "alternative country" has rightfully passed allowing Mr. Adams to dig deep into his southern roots. Surprisingly (at least to me), these statements don't automatically imply that the music is bad. Until recently I would have rather decorated my bean burritos with toenail lint than listen to a country album. But that highlights the genius of Ryan Adams, or at least his effect on me. Somehow, if HE does it, I give it a fair listen. I suppose a part of this reasoning is because I respect his omnidiretional -- if not schizophrenic -- talent. Not even two years ago the man released an album titled, "Rock N Roll," a three chord tribute to...well, rock n' roll. Yes, the irony is even ironical. But if you can swallow his irony, you'll see that Ryan Adams can write music. A lot of music. So when Ryan Adams writes a country album, I sheepishly put on my earphones. And listen I have. Week one: "wow, this is REALLY country -- GULP!". Week two: "Damn It! I'm at a stop light and I have country blaring...and "dude" over there is looking at me." Enjoying "Jacksonville City Nights" is like enjoying being a horrible bowler: the game gets way more fun once you accept that you suck. There is no doubt that Jacksonville is a good album, possibly a great one. The challenge is ditching the insipid expectation and letting yourself enjoy the album.

In addition to the music, there is the aesthetic to appreciate. Being a roots country album, the recording is rough. VERY rough. There are stray vocal harmonies, piano seat scuffles, guitar mistakes, et cetera. But all of these qualities (or lack of) are the difference between those green bananas loitering above your sink and Grandma's fresh banana bread. The magic is in the "how," not the "what". Furthermore, if there are any of my myriad albums to own on vinyl, it is "Jacksonville City Nights". The aesthetic is as warm as a 1960 Marshall amplifier tube; it is the kind of record that requires a glass of Cognac, a smoky fire, and a beautiful girl. The only disappointment I have are some of the songs' brevity. A great hook or slow dynamic build will tantalize, but then recede back out to sea as though it really did notice that zit on your nose. Songs like "Silver Bullets," "September," and "Withering Heights" are all excellent songs that seem to enjoy watching you beg for a kiss. Yet, others like the evanescent Norah Jones duet, "Dear John," the CMT blip "The Hardest Part," and the opener "A Kiss Before I Go" jump into your arms before you have a chance to know their name. Those points aside, there isn't a single song I skip on the disc.

Among the modern radio montage of musical inebriation, Ryan Adams could be the most sober musical icon out there. "Jacksonville City Nights" is about more than music, but at the same time it isn't not about the music (just say that one more time and it'll make sense). But it doesn't really matter anyway. Ryan has never been one for labels and will record whatever music his guitar sings him, whether country or rock n' roll. So I aptly give the album the a rating of an "H".

Happy Rock-Tober!

Feel that? That brisk autumnal breath is upon us, painting our landscape and skies with vigor. My good friend, Rock-Tober has arrived! I'm fortunate enough to live in a place exemplifying the autumn spirit, although I pine for those late Sioux Falls nights in my mom's backyard with good people, good beer, fire, and the watchful harvest moon. And Mike MaCock, of course (pictured below receiving plenty of love). I love reveling in that first seasonal taste of well-crafted, Rocktoberfest brews; having sweaters and beanies taped to our bodies; the crunch of leaves below; our primal fire swarming animated by a Chamberlain soundtrack. Ahhhhh....Rock-Tober.

October, contrary to social custom, is about life. It is a time to reflect on the year's passing as though to be reminded of the color amongst the brown. But unlike the leaves, the "Tober' theme became an immortal entity. What started as "RockTober" my junior year in college soon became "Mock-Tober" (in May), "Uber-Tober" (wow...don't even ask), "Re-Tober" (in response to the only rained-out Rock-Tober), "Cock-Tober" (again...don't even ask), and the sad, yet aptly titled, "Final-Tober" upon my moving to Portland. The stories and laughs that were had are shared by a select group of devout Toberites; and that is probably where those stories should remain. But fear not, the Tober theme truly is immortal. While home this summer, "Tom-Tober" was celebrated in honor of my best friend's marriage. And I suppose when all these laborious years in graduate school come to an end, "Doc-Tober" will be called upon.

But alas, there cannot be, nor there shouldn't be, any "Tobers" capable of supplanting the original Sioux Falls "Rock-Tober".

So in tribute, today is indeed Rock-Tober the 1st. I raise my glass of beautiful amber spirit to you all!