Tag Archives: mitch

Spring is … psych!

Had the weirdest dream last night, Anti Lincoln. I dreamed I saw Joe Hill …. I mean, I dreamed there was snow all over the place, like it was mid January. Talk about unrealistic. Hey, pull up the shade … it’s kind of dark in here. What the …. WHAT?

Yeah, that snowfall took us all a little bit by surprise here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in frosty upstate New York. Somehow, after a freakishly mild winter (which I personally think was cooked up by our own Mitch Macaphee, mad science adviser), snow has returned in early April. Once again, I think Mitch might have had a hand in this. He’s got this big-ass smoke machine that shoots unnamed projectiles into the heavens – missiles loaded with I don’t know what the fuck, and lots of it. Mitch cranks it up, the sucker sputters and pops for a few minutes, then it starts snowing. Kind of. (That might be torn up fragments of Mitch’s membership agreement with the National Academy of Mad Science.)

Nice gizmo, Mitch.Okay, so let’s assume the weather has nothing to do with Mitch’s cloud bazooka. This is effed up, man! Remember now – we are squatters in this here hammer mill, see? And, well … the heat in this place is a little unreliable. Most of the winter we depend on an old wood stove in what used to be the shipping office. It’s the mansized tuber’s job to stoke the thing, and sometimes he falls down on the job a little. But most days we manage to keep the ice off the dishwater … though I don’t suppose you’re aware of how effective ice can be as a dishwashing medium. It scrapes, it emulsifies, it …. okay, I’m exaggerating. You have to look on the bright side when you’re freezing your ass off.

Winter is in extra innings. We can live with that. After all, we have spent weeks on remote planets, like Pluto, for instance.  We have traveled to the center of this here Earth. We have, I don’t know … done lots of stupid stuff. Certainly this is no stupider.

So, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and the mansized tuber are tasked with fanning the flames for another week. Good exercise, even for a robot. And an animate stump.

Virtual gig.

You really have to stop watching that show, Marvin. It’s not good for your electronic brain. And too much television can be bad for your visual detection sensors.

Hoo boy. It’s hard to be a father, sometimes. Not that that’s technically my role with respect to Marvin (my personal robot assistant). His birth father is actually our mad science adviser, Mitch Macaphee, but given the fact that Mitch is something other than fatherly (the term “grisly” comes to mind), I do sometimes act as a surrogate. Though admittedly, the role does not come naturally to me. Especially when your adopted son is literally made of brass. Anyway …

Marvin has taken to watching concerts on television. His favorite is Austin City Limits, though he does spend some time rolling through re-runs of Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert. A couple of hours of this, then comes the inevitable question: Why aren’t WE ever on Austin City Limits? How come WE never get booked for Saturday Night Live? That’s just his logic circuits kicking in; you know … Pearl Jam = band, Big Green = band, therefore Pearl Jam = Big Green. It’s not like math, Marvin! Not at all! (Mitch didn’t provide a lot of capacity for nuance, sadly.)

It's Sparks, Marvin. How the hell did Don get Sparks?Still, he has a point. It would be a kicker to go on one of these shows, particularly Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, since it would mean being transported back to the 1970s. I think our music would do much better in that decade, even if a lot of the songs pull from cultural references that would not have occurred yet. (On top of that, I could, maybe, save Salvador Allende and Oscar Romero from assassination!) Unlikely? Perhaps, but a man can dream. And dreams can be nightmares. And I had plenty of nightmares in the seventies, so … it’s not so impossible, is it? Huh?

Okay, so … that’s stupid. We’ll likely have to settle for something less than what Marvin wants. Maybe web concerts, or if we can pull it together, live gigs somewhere. We’ll have to meditate on this … if I can find a decent prayer rug around this joint.

Magnetists.

Right, so there ARE gravitational waves after all, disturbing the peace of the space-time continuum. Uh … I knew that. No news to me. Next question?

See, here’s the advantage of having a mad science adviser. (Every band should have at least one. Wilco, I believe, retains an entire gaggle of them.) Just casual hallway conversations yield amazing benefits. Turns out there are planets with negative gravity. True story. In fact, our mad science adviser Mitch Macaphee claims that he was born on one. The negative gravity of his home planet was so strong that it immediately shot him like a cannon ball straight to Earth. Fortunately, he was wearing a heat shield poncho at the time (his first invention, innovated straight out of his mother’s womb).

Mitch has an idea about how to manipulate gravity waves for casual amusement – kind of like playing with a galactic yo-yo. Only now he’s back in one of his funks, with the announcement of the gravity wave discovery by prominent physicists. “Everybody’s going to want a piece of this!” Mitch shouted upon receiving the news, and stormed off to his quarters. He’s been brooding ever since. Hard to keep a man like that happy. We gave him the best quarters available in this abandoned hammer mill, and at considerable personal sacrifice. (I myself have been forced to make do with dimes.)

That's some yo-yo, Mitch.Not much we can do except continue working on our music. Yes, music comes first around here – ask anybody. We’re currently producing a few more songs for the podcast, a couple of which may make it on to a collection at some point. It’s kind of the same process we’ve been going through for the past few years – write and track about a half dozen songs, throw them up onto the Web, then do it again. That’s how Cowboy Scat got done, for better or for worse. That’s likely how the next album will go, though at some point we’re going to knuckle down and record some of our older songs (at least one album of those), preferably before we punch our one-way ticket to geezerville.

Hold on … I think my applesauce may be warm enough to gum.