First and foremost, let me apologize for not updating this frequently. I'm notoriously useless when it comes to stuff, and add in the fact that obtaining consistent internet in England is about as hard as my dick yada yada olsen twins fill in the blank.
So I recently (as in, mere moments ago) decided to play the game where you're exhausted and hungry and need some sustenance, but you gotta get really creative with it. As in, you're all out of beer, but since your paycheck malfunctioned for the last 4 months, you have no money to buy beer (don't worry, i'm gettin like 6 grand on the 30th... I'll live). When you want some cocktails that pack a Guinness worthy punch to the mind and gut, there aren't a lot of options open. Which is why you try to make hot chocolate with milk and the cadburys mix and the bottle of skol and it fails, but at least it's probably still doing a body good the way milk does. So I'm not really in need of nourishment anymore, but on the downside, I forgot what I wanted to post about.
Ok, remembered... oh man am I gonna drop some foreign shit on you guys. Like, smoking the hooka with the Kazaki bollywood enthusiast with the Turkish girl sitting on your lap as you throw down hard on the bottles of rose and listen to his playlist and terrify the belgian and indian neighbor chicks with your outlandish drunkenness and listen to the soundtrack of Dhoom2...
Wait... I don't want to get too out there too quick. I already went with Kino last time, and my faculties aren't operating well enough to post stuff recommended to me in a drunken haze, no matter how awesome I think they are. Also, I still don't think this blog is ready to feature an Andrew W.K. tribute article.
So we'll do this instead. A few years back, the greatest man in music today, Greg Cartwright stopped by a radio station in Milwaukee to shoot the shit with one of the DJs and to spin some records. He brought along his giant box of old 45s that he'd been saving since he was a little guy, and which basically shaped his musical identity (which, as anybody who knows the dude can tell you, is the perfect musical identity).
This is Greg Cartwright, in two parts, playing and talking about a whole butt ton of old garage, rockabilly, soul, doo-wap 45 tracks, and I can say without hyperbole, that this is probably my favorite ever compilation. In terms of variety, scratchy old school goodliness, and just generally enjoyable VINYL soundingness, this mix just slays. It'll give you alternate identities for Buck Owens, Ike and Tina singing about getting high (shocker), alternate-evolution psychosis, and it'll cure your asthma too (points for any non-Dargan that picks up on that ref).
Greg Cartwright Radio Show Pt 1Greg Cartwright Radio Show Pt 2
Hopefully I didn't fuck up the upload. If I did, just yell at me via internet and I'll try to fix it.
If you don't listen to Jay Reatard every day, you should get with the times fucker. No wonder, he was Greg Oblivian's boy. RIP.
Gotta throw out the meth thought: In the penultimate scene of Roadhouse... when Dalton had a clear shot at Wesley... and he was deeply and emotionally debating whether or not to do him in... would the ending have been better if he'd just have snuffed him out with one clean blow and walked away? The way it was filmed, the option must've entered the director's thoughts. Sure, we wouldn't have gotten the "a polar bear fell on me line," but damn. IMO that would've been the most badass possible ending to the already most badass movie ever filmed.
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