Sunday morning, November 25, 2012
I neither believe nor disbelieve the Mayan prophecy of the arrival of a new epoch come December of this year. I do however, try not to take for granted that I personally have more time on this planet, or will somehow avoid strife and difficulties when such events come along. Each of us will have our own Waterloos, usually at times not of our own making.
This notion was furthered by the passing Friday night of Mathew Walker, a former smoking buddy and friend of mine from a past life in the tiny West Texas town of Balmorhea. Mathew was a big burly man with a booming laugh and a big smile, spiritual, a philosopher, a magnificent story teller of exceptional recall. My life is better for having known him.
I am sure he will be missed by many.
Back at the farm, our budded pecan crop has moved from being poor to a near-total failure. We quit the harvest about halfway through when it became apparent that yields weren’t going to cover the cost of gathering.
However, we continue gathering native pecans from river bottoms with some success and I am thankful to have them. I postulate that insects are at fault. With all the spraying and care we could offer, the thin skins of paper shell pecans proved no match, while natives with their smaller nuts and tough rinds made a crop with no help whatsoever.
We haven’t yet had a killing frost and our garden continues to produce a decent crop of fall tomatoes and peppers. We’ve eaten our first broccoli, spinach and Swiss chard is ready to pick; cabbages are forming heads. Carrots, turnips, beets continue to grow. Onions, shallots and garlic look good so far. We recently harvested a modest crop of sweet potatoes. Leah canned a huge batch of salsa, and hogs continue to get a share of the produce we can’t keep up with, not an insignificant amount.
As if we didn’t have enough already, I bought four more young Jersey cows. They were cheap and headed to slaughter for no good reason. I continue to milk two cows and Leah continues making cheese from the excess milk. Hogs also score on the milk whey produced as a byproduct of cheese making. The possibility/probability of a flood of calves and wet cows looms in our near future. We’ll cross that bridge if and when the time comes, good Lord willing.
I also agreed to purchase two more Percheron draft mares, one with foal, another expecting. The deal includes a set of driving harness.
I haven’t done particularly well at the horse races of late. Two well intentioned trainers told me the key to being successful as a trainer: keep yourself in the best company possible and your horses in the worst company possible. This thinking is contrary to my nature, evidenced by the silks any jockey riding one of my horses has to wear: horizontal black and white stripes. I detest the company of most rich people; my goal is to steal big money races with horses discarded from their game.
If you go down, go down in flames.
The sun is coming up, another day of hard labor waits.
My slice of paradise.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Hard times ahead
Sabbath eve, November 23, 2012
We’re saved! Or so says the TV anchor. Americans flocked to Wal-Mart and other similar stores on black Friday to buy and haul away semi-disposable plastic items by the cartful. If only it were so easy.
Meanwhile, a front passed through, dry again, the third in succession to defy prognoses of rain. We’re not terribly dry. Yet. But a look at the national drought monitor map reveals something disconcerting. Over 60% of the country is in some stage of drought, and among the driest regions are the Midwest states of Kansas and Nebraska, where significant amounts of grains for human consumption happen to be grown. Don’t ask me how I know, because I can’t tell you. I feel it in the air. We’re headed back into severe drought.
The Eagle Ford shale play just south of my home continues full-bore, pumping money into the local economy, but a surprisingly large number of people seem not to enjoy the benefits of this activity. It’s as though those that have lease and royalty money are fearful and socking away what they have rather than investing into businesses close to home. The money to drill and produce these wells comes from somewhere else; the money produced by these wells goes back where it came from.
Furthermore, the cost of producing shale oil is high, and activity will likely come to a halt should oil fall below $80/barrel, while anything above $80 oil seems to kill the rest of the country’s economy. We succeed at the failure of others, or visa-versa.
I’ve heard the depression of the 30’s described a want in a time of plenty. Version 2.0 will be more like want in a time of scarcity. (The words are not original, but I don’t know who coined the phrase.) Either you’ll have worthless money and expensive goods, or cheap goods and no money to buy them.
Tensions continue to brew worldwide. Supposed fixes to the economy address symptoms while ignoring the underlying disease. It took thirty years of theft and fraud to get where we are; those that committed these heinous acts remain in power. There will be no solution until these grievances are addressed, and even then the damage done is irreparable.
It’s easy to call for a debt jubilee until you consider that each unpaid debt has at least one counterparty, and many holding the notes are not those responsible for the fraud, but instead are pensioners and innocent investors that socked away life savings into what they thought were safe investments for retirement years. When it comes down to it, even deposits in banks will be in jeopardy once the daisy chain begins to fail.
I don’t know exactly how this mess ends, but I can tell you we have fixed nothing and that we remain in critically dangerous territory on so many fronts it’s hard to keep up.
I’d say plant a garden, but it may be too late for that. Perhaps you’d be better off stocking a panty with canned and dried goods. While you’re at it, get to know your neighbor.
Hard times lie ahead.
We’re saved! Or so says the TV anchor. Americans flocked to Wal-Mart and other similar stores on black Friday to buy and haul away semi-disposable plastic items by the cartful. If only it were so easy.
Meanwhile, a front passed through, dry again, the third in succession to defy prognoses of rain. We’re not terribly dry. Yet. But a look at the national drought monitor map reveals something disconcerting. Over 60% of the country is in some stage of drought, and among the driest regions are the Midwest states of Kansas and Nebraska, where significant amounts of grains for human consumption happen to be grown. Don’t ask me how I know, because I can’t tell you. I feel it in the air. We’re headed back into severe drought.
The Eagle Ford shale play just south of my home continues full-bore, pumping money into the local economy, but a surprisingly large number of people seem not to enjoy the benefits of this activity. It’s as though those that have lease and royalty money are fearful and socking away what they have rather than investing into businesses close to home. The money to drill and produce these wells comes from somewhere else; the money produced by these wells goes back where it came from.
Furthermore, the cost of producing shale oil is high, and activity will likely come to a halt should oil fall below $80/barrel, while anything above $80 oil seems to kill the rest of the country’s economy. We succeed at the failure of others, or visa-versa.
I’ve heard the depression of the 30’s described a want in a time of plenty. Version 2.0 will be more like want in a time of scarcity. (The words are not original, but I don’t know who coined the phrase.) Either you’ll have worthless money and expensive goods, or cheap goods and no money to buy them.
Tensions continue to brew worldwide. Supposed fixes to the economy address symptoms while ignoring the underlying disease. It took thirty years of theft and fraud to get where we are; those that committed these heinous acts remain in power. There will be no solution until these grievances are addressed, and even then the damage done is irreparable.
It’s easy to call for a debt jubilee until you consider that each unpaid debt has at least one counterparty, and many holding the notes are not those responsible for the fraud, but instead are pensioners and innocent investors that socked away life savings into what they thought were safe investments for retirement years. When it comes down to it, even deposits in banks will be in jeopardy once the daisy chain begins to fail.
I don’t know exactly how this mess ends, but I can tell you we have fixed nothing and that we remain in critically dangerous territory on so many fronts it’s hard to keep up.
I’d say plant a garden, but it may be too late for that. Perhaps you’d be better off stocking a panty with canned and dried goods. While you’re at it, get to know your neighbor.
Hard times lie ahead.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Eating humble pie
Friday and Saturday night, Leah and I drove to San Antonio to watch our horses run. We’d only recently acquired Badness, a five year old mare, through a claiming race. She had previously run at higher levels, even winning a stakes race in January of this year, but had dropped in class of late. Figuring to take at least one shot at a valuable allowance race, we entered her to see if she could return to past glory and earn a dollar or ten in the process.
Badness drew outside post position, not good, considering her running style. Badness runs best on the lead, with an uncontested pace. Away from the gate she got into a speed duel with another horse and was carried wide through the first turn. Badness hit the home stretch after the second turn, battling for the lead, and got caught by closers. The outcome, though not to be unexpected, left me a bit pensive, but still hopeful. I had another shot the following day.
Lazy Boot Lady was entered into an allowance race Saturday night. According to form, she should have been considered one of the race favorites. Our filly broke a touch slow but made up ground and was in perfect stalking position just off the lead coming into home stretch. A hole opened on the rail, the jockey pointed her to it and….
She backed out of contention.
After the race, we discovered she had injured a knee and retired her from racing.
The pecan crop I had such high hopes for a few weeks back is failing to deliver. The nuts are large but yields are low, just barely enough to justify harvesting in places. Insects, disease and climate issues figure into the equation. We’ve had one mechanical set-back after another. Harvesting by modern methods requires an array of equipment; any one piece that fails sidelines the entire operation and damn near everything we own has broken, some multiple times.
I’ve had personal issues of late, some of my own making, some the work of others. Living with myself has never been easy, getting older doesn’t seem to help much.
As I young man I thought I’d maintain strength through exercise. A few months back, I tore a tendon or a ligament in my left knee and it’s not going to repair short of surgery. You can’t exercise muscles attached to worn out joints. There was a time, not so long ago, when I did squats with hundreds of pounds on my back; nowadays getting down to and back up from the toilet has become a painful chore.
As I smile at my predicament, realizing full well the issues I face are minor, you may notice I’m missing two front teeth.
I suppose I should be thankful. I can still smile.
Badness drew outside post position, not good, considering her running style. Badness runs best on the lead, with an uncontested pace. Away from the gate she got into a speed duel with another horse and was carried wide through the first turn. Badness hit the home stretch after the second turn, battling for the lead, and got caught by closers. The outcome, though not to be unexpected, left me a bit pensive, but still hopeful. I had another shot the following day.
Lazy Boot Lady was entered into an allowance race Saturday night. According to form, she should have been considered one of the race favorites. Our filly broke a touch slow but made up ground and was in perfect stalking position just off the lead coming into home stretch. A hole opened on the rail, the jockey pointed her to it and….
She backed out of contention.
After the race, we discovered she had injured a knee and retired her from racing.
The pecan crop I had such high hopes for a few weeks back is failing to deliver. The nuts are large but yields are low, just barely enough to justify harvesting in places. Insects, disease and climate issues figure into the equation. We’ve had one mechanical set-back after another. Harvesting by modern methods requires an array of equipment; any one piece that fails sidelines the entire operation and damn near everything we own has broken, some multiple times.
I’ve had personal issues of late, some of my own making, some the work of others. Living with myself has never been easy, getting older doesn’t seem to help much.
As I young man I thought I’d maintain strength through exercise. A few months back, I tore a tendon or a ligament in my left knee and it’s not going to repair short of surgery. You can’t exercise muscles attached to worn out joints. There was a time, not so long ago, when I did squats with hundreds of pounds on my back; nowadays getting down to and back up from the toilet has become a painful chore.
As I smile at my predicament, realizing full well the issues I face are minor, you may notice I’m missing two front teeth.
I suppose I should be thankful. I can still smile.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Notes on the election
I must confess: I no longer believe in Democracy.
I didn’t arrive at this conclusion in one fell swoop but instead under a prolonged barrage of compelling evidence.
I won’t bother you with a laundry list, but a few recent encounters may serve to defend the logic:
The current meme among the Limbaugh crowd is that Barak Obama, being a Muslim, won’t kill other Muslims. Evidence espoused says Obama issued orders to stand down so that Muslims could kill our ambassador to Libya in Benghazi.
Ignored is the fact that Obama has trebled the number of drone attacks since Bush’s day, nearly all of which are directed at Muslims, killing not only suspects, but also innocents. To add insult to injury, under Obama’s administration, our military has instituted the practice of double tap—that is shooting missiles at the original target site shortly after the first attack to kill any first responders that may be, (or conversely, may not be), sympathetic to the intended target. Considering the surroundings, the one sure bet is that these first responders are Muslims.
Night before last I watched a show on National Geographic TV called Seal Team Six: The Raid on Osama bin Laden, which describes in detail the plan that led to the killing of Osama bin Laden. I suspect it’s an accurate portrayal; it’d be hard to tell such a tale in false light without a number of participants jumping up to deny the story. Obama and his administration are depicted as judicious Muslim terrorist killers, albeit, killers intent on not harming innocents in the process of killing the bad guys.
Yesterday I wandered into the Luling City Market, my favorite barbecue establishment. While at the bean counter (not to be confused with those that count money), I asked a woman behind the counter who she liked in the election. She said she would vote for Obama.
An older black man waiting alongside chimed in as well. Me too, he said. We don’t need those Bushes back in charge.
The woman then proceeded to explain that Romney was going to take our tax money away. Or something like that, she added.
I haven’t a clue what that means, but the evidence was strong enough to convince her.
Nevertheless, I am told I have no right to bitch unless I cast a ballot. So I plan to go to the nearby polling booth in Belmont, Texas, where I will cast a ballot on a real piece of paper (as opposed to a voting machine that may be fraudulent) where I will vote for Gary Johnson.
I hope like hell he loses so I can maintain my right to bitch about the outcome.
I didn’t arrive at this conclusion in one fell swoop but instead under a prolonged barrage of compelling evidence.
I won’t bother you with a laundry list, but a few recent encounters may serve to defend the logic:
The current meme among the Limbaugh crowd is that Barak Obama, being a Muslim, won’t kill other Muslims. Evidence espoused says Obama issued orders to stand down so that Muslims could kill our ambassador to Libya in Benghazi.
Ignored is the fact that Obama has trebled the number of drone attacks since Bush’s day, nearly all of which are directed at Muslims, killing not only suspects, but also innocents. To add insult to injury, under Obama’s administration, our military has instituted the practice of double tap—that is shooting missiles at the original target site shortly after the first attack to kill any first responders that may be, (or conversely, may not be), sympathetic to the intended target. Considering the surroundings, the one sure bet is that these first responders are Muslims.
Night before last I watched a show on National Geographic TV called Seal Team Six: The Raid on Osama bin Laden, which describes in detail the plan that led to the killing of Osama bin Laden. I suspect it’s an accurate portrayal; it’d be hard to tell such a tale in false light without a number of participants jumping up to deny the story. Obama and his administration are depicted as judicious Muslim terrorist killers, albeit, killers intent on not harming innocents in the process of killing the bad guys.
Yesterday I wandered into the Luling City Market, my favorite barbecue establishment. While at the bean counter (not to be confused with those that count money), I asked a woman behind the counter who she liked in the election. She said she would vote for Obama.
An older black man waiting alongside chimed in as well. Me too, he said. We don’t need those Bushes back in charge.
The woman then proceeded to explain that Romney was going to take our tax money away. Or something like that, she added.
I haven’t a clue what that means, but the evidence was strong enough to convince her.
Nevertheless, I am told I have no right to bitch unless I cast a ballot. So I plan to go to the nearby polling booth in Belmont, Texas, where I will cast a ballot on a real piece of paper (as opposed to a voting machine that may be fraudulent) where I will vote for Gary Johnson.
I hope like hell he loses so I can maintain my right to bitch about the outcome.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Too big to fail will fail
Sunday, October 28, 2012
What passes for a cold front nowadays went through my neck of the woods day before yesterday, bringing relief from late season heat. Pecan harvest season looms.
We’ve been preparing harvest machines, picking up limbs and mowing river bottoms in preparation. Tomorrow, we begin shaking trees and gathering nuts, good Lord willing, that is. I take nothing for granted in this world (and when I do, I shouldn’t).
The native pecan crop is decent; the budded nuts a mixed bag, with some varieties looking good and others almost non-existent. I am told we were in danger of nuts sprouting in the trees due to the unusually warm fall weather. I for one was glad to see cooler days arrive.
The Chinese have developed an affinity for pecans over the last couple of years and a good portion of what we produce may well end up crossing the pond to that market. There was a time when I felt a twinge of resentment about that arrangement, considering many Americans can’t afford to buy what we produce, but in the end, the common man in China should not be blamed for the powerful elite that control his or her life, any more than poor working folks in this country can be blamed for those that steal their labor.
Lord knows we benefit from the hard work they all do for very little money.
I’ve felt unease lately with all the political talk surrounding the upcoming election. In Texas I hear people say that electing Romney is going to somehow save the day. In so-called liberal bastions like Austin, keeping Obama in office somehow saves our skin. Are any of these people actually watching and listening to the same debates I heard?
The troubling part: I know and interact with people from both camps. They’re decent folk, as people go (the argument can be made than none are decent). But I think most are deceived by propaganda, unwitting vassals in someone else’s grand game.
Consider this: if the plan calls for privatizing profits and socializing costs, implementation requires allowing one side in for a time—those that believe strongly in private property rights, low taxation, etc. When things go bad and all that accumulated wealth, by capitalist rules of operation, should be lost or redistributed through bankruptcy proceedings to more viable entities, the other side comes in to save the day with bailouts and stimulus plans which, in effect, socializes losses, thereby allowing the rich and powerful corporate interests to remain rich and powerful. A bone gets tossed to the poor and dispossessed in the form of limited social programs, requiring at some point, higher taxation. Unfortunately that taxation is applied to wage earners rather than those that derive their wealth from ill-gotten gains like theft, fraud, the selling of unnecessary wars, market manipulation and outsourcing, (modern version of slavery). The fucking is complete.
No one goes to jail from the elite class, except perhaps for some token scapegoat. They keep the goddamned money, regardless of how it was acquired. And we who work for a living get to pay for it.
This is precisely why so few bother voting. Most that do vote are afraid to rock the boat, because they derive their somewhat comfortable existence from the system, not unlike inmates in a minimum security federal prison camp. Piss off the jailers; they’ll reduce recreation time or send us to a hard core joint.
Real change will require something quite a bit more painful than casting a ballot in a rigged election. I think things will have to get quite a bit worse before people become desperate enough to take those risks. Don’t worry (or should I say, do worry). Things will get worse; people will rise up.
When they do, they’ll be punished.
The plan calls for bigger and bigger, regardless of the popular political flag you wave.
The law of entropy demands otherwise; the two forces are in direct violent conflict.
Too big to fail ain’t too big to fail. So it will.
When and how remain the only two unanswered questions.
What passes for a cold front nowadays went through my neck of the woods day before yesterday, bringing relief from late season heat. Pecan harvest season looms.
We’ve been preparing harvest machines, picking up limbs and mowing river bottoms in preparation. Tomorrow, we begin shaking trees and gathering nuts, good Lord willing, that is. I take nothing for granted in this world (and when I do, I shouldn’t).
The native pecan crop is decent; the budded nuts a mixed bag, with some varieties looking good and others almost non-existent. I am told we were in danger of nuts sprouting in the trees due to the unusually warm fall weather. I for one was glad to see cooler days arrive.
The Chinese have developed an affinity for pecans over the last couple of years and a good portion of what we produce may well end up crossing the pond to that market. There was a time when I felt a twinge of resentment about that arrangement, considering many Americans can’t afford to buy what we produce, but in the end, the common man in China should not be blamed for the powerful elite that control his or her life, any more than poor working folks in this country can be blamed for those that steal their labor.
Lord knows we benefit from the hard work they all do for very little money.
I’ve felt unease lately with all the political talk surrounding the upcoming election. In Texas I hear people say that electing Romney is going to somehow save the day. In so-called liberal bastions like Austin, keeping Obama in office somehow saves our skin. Are any of these people actually watching and listening to the same debates I heard?
The troubling part: I know and interact with people from both camps. They’re decent folk, as people go (the argument can be made than none are decent). But I think most are deceived by propaganda, unwitting vassals in someone else’s grand game.
Consider this: if the plan calls for privatizing profits and socializing costs, implementation requires allowing one side in for a time—those that believe strongly in private property rights, low taxation, etc. When things go bad and all that accumulated wealth, by capitalist rules of operation, should be lost or redistributed through bankruptcy proceedings to more viable entities, the other side comes in to save the day with bailouts and stimulus plans which, in effect, socializes losses, thereby allowing the rich and powerful corporate interests to remain rich and powerful. A bone gets tossed to the poor and dispossessed in the form of limited social programs, requiring at some point, higher taxation. Unfortunately that taxation is applied to wage earners rather than those that derive their wealth from ill-gotten gains like theft, fraud, the selling of unnecessary wars, market manipulation and outsourcing, (modern version of slavery). The fucking is complete.
No one goes to jail from the elite class, except perhaps for some token scapegoat. They keep the goddamned money, regardless of how it was acquired. And we who work for a living get to pay for it.
This is precisely why so few bother voting. Most that do vote are afraid to rock the boat, because they derive their somewhat comfortable existence from the system, not unlike inmates in a minimum security federal prison camp. Piss off the jailers; they’ll reduce recreation time or send us to a hard core joint.
Real change will require something quite a bit more painful than casting a ballot in a rigged election. I think things will have to get quite a bit worse before people become desperate enough to take those risks. Don’t worry (or should I say, do worry). Things will get worse; people will rise up.
When they do, they’ll be punished.
The plan calls for bigger and bigger, regardless of the popular political flag you wave.
The law of entropy demands otherwise; the two forces are in direct violent conflict.
Too big to fail ain’t too big to fail. So it will.
When and how remain the only two unanswered questions.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Matt King—Apples and Orphans
Matt King is a modern nomad. A scribe, recording, describing whom and what he sees as he roams. Like Samuel Clemens, Matt captures the landscape, the irony of a world gone mad, only done with fewer words and music, for greater effect. His visions are strained through Appalachian roots, sung with the voice of and hewn by the hands of a modern day mountain man, where such is no longer allowed.
He’s not a prophet; his words are delivered without expressed ideology or judgment, but the pictures they paint go a long way toward verifying prophecies of others. Some make me smile, because smiling is more fun than crying, but the ground between the two emotions is scant. We live in tragic times.
His songs remind me of a trip through some old vaudeville traveling circus, complete with whores, card sharps, thieves, snake-oil salesmen. A juggler tosses balls, another guy rides a big wheel bike in circles, a monkey grinds a hand organ with one hand and jacks off with the other, when he’s not picking your pocket. There’s incest, murder, polluted landscapes, con-artists; bizarre sounds lure you in and then in the next minute scare hell out of you. Moonshine can be had, maybe even a line of white powder or psychedelic smoke, though Matt no longer imbibes. Painted Gypsy women lay you down, read your fortune or caste a spell if you prefer; junk men wait to haul off anything not nailed down or that won’t start; passing trains ferry hoboes through abandoned farms populated by shotgun toting squatters that by-God want to be left the hell alone.
If by chance any part of this menagerie creates a twinge of guilt, well, there’s a snake-charming preacher ready and willing to sell you a dose of comfort for the right price.
The tracks wind through dying factories and wastelands that once kept us alive and continue killing the earth in some sort of psychotic dance of daredevils. Wars abound. There’s mercury in the water, acid in the air. Atlas shrugs, Jesus weeps. There’s hell in the hen house, blood in the barn. Ghandi, Martin Luther King and Sister Theresa kindly die and shut the fuck up; in so doing, become heroes.
Elsewhere children cry; a young woman ends her own life at thirty-three. But the cars keep rolling, mama bakes her biscuits and daddy plants a seed.
Despite all, life goes on. Hope refuses to succumb and from amongst the ruins, people find a way to sing, play and dance to good songs.
Matt King has created a wonderful album, a wide-sweeping vision of our times, set to music.
This will last a long, long time.
The CD is not yet available, but a digital album can be had through Matt's web-site.
He’s not a prophet; his words are delivered without expressed ideology or judgment, but the pictures they paint go a long way toward verifying prophecies of others. Some make me smile, because smiling is more fun than crying, but the ground between the two emotions is scant. We live in tragic times.
His songs remind me of a trip through some old vaudeville traveling circus, complete with whores, card sharps, thieves, snake-oil salesmen. A juggler tosses balls, another guy rides a big wheel bike in circles, a monkey grinds a hand organ with one hand and jacks off with the other, when he’s not picking your pocket. There’s incest, murder, polluted landscapes, con-artists; bizarre sounds lure you in and then in the next minute scare hell out of you. Moonshine can be had, maybe even a line of white powder or psychedelic smoke, though Matt no longer imbibes. Painted Gypsy women lay you down, read your fortune or caste a spell if you prefer; junk men wait to haul off anything not nailed down or that won’t start; passing trains ferry hoboes through abandoned farms populated by shotgun toting squatters that by-God want to be left the hell alone.
If by chance any part of this menagerie creates a twinge of guilt, well, there’s a snake-charming preacher ready and willing to sell you a dose of comfort for the right price.
The tracks wind through dying factories and wastelands that once kept us alive and continue killing the earth in some sort of psychotic dance of daredevils. Wars abound. There’s mercury in the water, acid in the air. Atlas shrugs, Jesus weeps. There’s hell in the hen house, blood in the barn. Ghandi, Martin Luther King and Sister Theresa kindly die and shut the fuck up; in so doing, become heroes.
Elsewhere children cry; a young woman ends her own life at thirty-three. But the cars keep rolling, mama bakes her biscuits and daddy plants a seed.
Despite all, life goes on. Hope refuses to succumb and from amongst the ruins, people find a way to sing, play and dance to good songs.
Matt King has created a wonderful album, a wide-sweeping vision of our times, set to music.
This will last a long, long time.
The CD is not yet available, but a digital album can be had through Matt's web-site.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Ryan Bingham--Guess who's knockin at the door
I wanted not to like Ryan Bingham’s latest, Tomorrowland. Dude quit answering my emails a couple years back. I figured he got too big to speak to common folk like myself after the major record deal and the Oscar.
I also figured Ryan landed in a soft spot after moving to Los Angeles and would likely be spouting worthless shit by now to make more money to pay for the all the bling.
I was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Dead fucking wrong.
Bingham sings from the street—hell, not even the street—from the gutter, the land of the lost, the forsaken, the forgotten. The feral.
It’s a poke in the eye, a knee to the gut, a kick to the balls.
Once again, the rhyme is awkward at first, but there’s method to the madness, and after a few times through it couldn’t be any other way. There’s soul in the words, big time soul.
It’s art of the deranged, like a Van Gogh painting, strokes of genius from a man that probably couldn’t construct a sentence to satisfy a seventh grade English teacher if his life depended on it.
Bingham’s Tomorrowland is produced by Axster Bingham records. Axter is Ryan’s wife. The CD is recorded at Fred and Anouk’s house in Los Angeles.
I don’t know what happened to the Lost Highway deal or the big shot T Bone Burnett.
But I know damn well that this record is the kind that makes editors and music executives cringe and run for the door. No way they’re hanging their balls out on something like this.
This is going to scare the hell out of folks.
My hat’s off to Ryan Bingham.
I also figured Ryan landed in a soft spot after moving to Los Angeles and would likely be spouting worthless shit by now to make more money to pay for the all the bling.
I was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Dead fucking wrong.
Bingham sings from the street—hell, not even the street—from the gutter, the land of the lost, the forsaken, the forgotten. The feral.
It’s a poke in the eye, a knee to the gut, a kick to the balls.
Once again, the rhyme is awkward at first, but there’s method to the madness, and after a few times through it couldn’t be any other way. There’s soul in the words, big time soul.
It’s art of the deranged, like a Van Gogh painting, strokes of genius from a man that probably couldn’t construct a sentence to satisfy a seventh grade English teacher if his life depended on it.
Bingham’s Tomorrowland is produced by Axster Bingham records. Axter is Ryan’s wife. The CD is recorded at Fred and Anouk’s house in Los Angeles.
I don’t know what happened to the Lost Highway deal or the big shot T Bone Burnett.
But I know damn well that this record is the kind that makes editors and music executives cringe and run for the door. No way they’re hanging their balls out on something like this.
This is going to scare the hell out of folks.
My hat’s off to Ryan Bingham.
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