Tag Archives: Mitch Macaphee

About the ‘cano.

2000 Years to Christmas

There’s always the chance it could be legitimate. Why not? Must we always be so damn cynical? What happened to those happy-headed funsters we used to be back in 1978? Wait … we were never happy-headed funsters? Well … at least that explains what happened to them.

Once again, you catch us in the midst of a philosophical debate, an exquisitely complex conundrum that has confronted us in our COVIDian solitude. Well, perhaps I’m being too generous. Let’s just say we’re having a little difference of opinion. Nothing too weighty, you understand – after all, these are austere times, and we’re trying to be economical with our emotions (as we have little else to be economical with). Why don’t I describe the debate we’re having here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, and you can decide whether it rises to the level of a philosophical discussion? That I shall do.

As you know, when it comes to the matter of commercial success, Big Green is a smoking failure. We are so obscure, you’d think we spent the last thirty years trying to be unsuccessful (which, I suppose you could argue, we did). Nevertheless, we have resorted to various forms of representation. The first was Hegemonic Records and Worm Farm, the Indonesian corporate label that nearly clapped us in irons and threw us in a dungeon somewhere in Jakarta. Then we mutinied and set up our own label, Hammermade … but of course, that’s just a name, so we’ve had to work with actual distribution companies to get our albums out where people can find them (or not find them, as the case may be). That means we use the same digital distribution networks that most acts use, though i suspect those with decent representation and name recognition realize a better return on their streaming plays, downloads, etc., than we do. Fuckers!

In any case, every week or so we get stats from our distributor, and our numbers are usually somewhere halfway down the toilet (except for around the holidays, when Pagan Christmas takes off like a rocket, thanks to our pagan listeners). Then last week, we saw higher than usual numbers on the track Volcano Man, from our second album, International House. My initial reaction was the same as my reaction to everything else: “What the hell?” Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was immediately of the opinion that the song had finally found its mythical audience – that elusive unicorn of a loyal listener cohort that has been the stuff of speculation since we first donned our Big Green hair-hats and bark suits. (Marvin’s little video screen flashed the word “eureka”.)

That's what we're talking about.

Hey … you expect robot assistants to be a little over-enthusiastic, right? But then Anti-Lincoln and Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, jumped in on Marvin’s side, so Matt and I had to disabuse them of their delusional optimism. Turns out there’s a rational explanation for everything – there’s a new song/video called Volcano Man that’s from an upcoming Will Ferrell movie entitled Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga. People were obviously looking for that Volcano Man and not our Volcano Man, which is quite different, though similarly ridiculous. Marvin’s not convinced – he thinks it’s all a coincidence. Anti-Lincoln is leaning more towards a conspiracy theory, which is totally like him. Not sure about Mitch – he’s moved on to another project.

Where was I going with this? No place special. Always wanted to go there.

Make good.

2000 Years to Christmas

Well, we don’t have any more guitar strings. Used the last set in early April. And those used ones on the bureau are from 1997, so they may be a little dull. How about some electrical wire? I’ve got some decent coax in the cupboard.

Oh, hello. Welcome to the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in upstate New York, adopted home of Big Green and burgeoning center of innovation. And by innovation, I mean making do with what you have at hand. Which, I know, is not the same thing, but hey …. “innovation” sounds more, uh … innovative. In any case, provisions are running a little low around here, there being a Great Depression under way. I suppose you could argue that we’ve been experiencing a kind of Great Depression for a good many years, just within the rubric of our commercially failed alt-pop group project. That said, the tumbleweeds are blowing down the dusty street in front of the hammer mill. In the distance, you can hear a banjo playing. Somewhere a dog was barking.

Okay, so … we’re out of milk. That’s one thing. Fortunately, we don’t drink milk, so the fact that we haven’t had any for six or seven years hasn’t significantly impacted our quality of life. Pork chops, same deal. (Actually, Mitch Macaphee claims to have invented some kind of faux pork substance, but I can’t vouch for its authenticity.) The real pinch, though, comes from lack of instrument accessories and supplies. We were discussing guitar strings earlier. That’s not the only thing that’s missing around this dump. Patch cords. Stomp boxes. Tubes. Other tubes. Speaker cables. Batteries. And keys, damn it … replacement keys for my dumb-ass Roland A90EX, which has missing teeth right in the freaking middle of the board.

Joe being helpful around the mill.

We were thinking about starting a GoFundMe, but given our reputation, we just assumed it would have quickly transitioned to a GoFuckYourself. Besides, passing the hat has never been a big winner for us. I remember back in our busking days, sitting around random street corners with an open guitar case set on the sidewalk, waiting for coins. Mind you, we weren’t playing any music. Fact was, we were even poorer then, so we didn’t have guitars, just guitar cases. So we would sit there and wait for people to drop some cash in the hole. In a way, we’re sitting there still. (Sometimes I get on Google Street View and wander through our old neighborhood in downtown Albany, NY just to make certain we’re not still there. That would be freaky, but not beyond the realm of possibility.)

Oh well. Little we can do for the time being, except strum rusty guitar strings, plunk on broken keys, and watch inspirational corporate TV ads that start with reverb-y piano notes and solemn voices.

There’s this baby, see?

2000 Years to Christmas

So what the what? And is that really the way it ends? God damn it. Six bucks down the drain. And in THESE hard times! All right … time for Planet of the Apes.

Oh, hi. We’re just endeavoring to entertain ourselves here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our COVID-19 quarantine site in this time of pestilence and putrid infection. What better way than to make use of Netflix or some other streaming service, eh? Except … well, we don’t have anything like that, as we are as poor as church mice … except that even THEY have the run of the donation basket and the leftover sandwiches from the parish volunteer society luncheons. In other words, we’re poorer than church mice. Just think of us as Mill Rats, scrounging for crusts and little fragments of entertainment. (Call me crazy, but when the mouth sits idle, the eyes need to work overtime.)

Well, fortunately, we have our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee, inventor of Marvin (my personal robot assistant). I asked him this week if he could engineer some kind of hack that would allow us to watch Netflix movies for free. He retreated to his laboratory, then came up with a kind of solution. Actually, it was like those old rabbit ear antennae they used to put on old-school television sets … except much, much bigger. Fifteen feet tall, actually. A little intimidating, to tell the God’s honest truth. Anyway, Mitch planted it on top of our borrowed walnut console TV and hooked it up to the coax. He messed around with the array a little bit, squinting at the static-choked screen as he worked. Suddenly, a stable image appeared. It was the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. We hooted a bit, congratulating Mitch, but he quickly explained that this was not, in fact, Netflix, but actually the reverberations of ancient transmissions of movies that have been bouncing around the solar system for the past fifty years. Hey … potato, po-tah-to, right? What the hell difference does it make, so long as there’s something to occupy our down time.

Still kinda fuzzy. Try the vertical hold, Marvin.

So, we’re watching 2001, and it brings back memories of when it ran in theaters locally during my childhood. I went to see it with my dad, as I recall, who provided a running commentary about features of the moon and astronomical facts (many of which a father in the seats next to us repeated to his offspring). My sister, I believe, talked about seeing it and some dude was explaining the strange end to the movie to his companion, starting with the phrase, “There’s this baby, see? And that baby … is God, see?” Why am I thinking of this while watching this antiquated and quite strange movie? Well …. because it’s kind of freaking boring, and besides, the reception of television signals bounced off the Kuiper Belt is a little fuzzy to say the least. Yeah, I’m letting my wits wander. As long as they don’t get lost, it’s okay.

Well, that took care of Friday. What do we do with ourselves next week? Suggestions? Send them our way. (Play music, perhaps?)