Gypsy Jack

"I was born just after the Snowstorm of ‘87
Hit this town way back when
My name’s Gypsy Jack
They call me that 'cause I got dark skin and black hair
They call me that 'cause folks ain't never seen a foreigner in these parts and I guess I'm ‘bout the closest thing
Anyways
I signs my name “Gypsy Jack”
One time down by the old shoehorn
Got my leg stuck in the railroad track
Lord, had me a hell of a time tryin' to get my leg out
Pretty soon I start sweatin', you know?
Lord, had me a hell of a time
Tryin’ to pull that leg out from that track
I swear to God almighty, I hear that train coming
And I thought I’s gonna break down and cry
Heat o' the sun
Nobody ‘round
Things was lookin' pretty gloomy there for a minute or two
Anyways
I’m prying with my fingers
They’re all covered in dirt by now
Bleedin' a little too
Just a-trying to maybe lift whatever it is has got me stuck
How’d it happen?
Couldn’t tell you
But I sure had me a hell of a time tryin' to pull that Goddamn (beg pardon) leg out of there
Finally, I get free
Sweatin' like crazy you know?
I stumble down into the ditch and that train passes me by
Loud as anything
Jesus, I thinks
Could’ve been me dead in a minute there
Boy howdy.
Sure had me a hell of a time."

-As told to Peter Crickners at T-----, date unknown.

"Shivers" - The Boys Next Door

Nick Cave's first band, The Birthday Party, was originally called The Boys Next Door. Their first album was called Door, Door and it came out in 1979. "Shivers" is the only track I've heard from it. The lyrics are pretty great, I think, and it's inspiring to see that Cave was so good even at this early stage. This was almost thirty years ago--he was just twenty at the time--and you can hear a distinct difference in his voice. He's definitely crooning on this one, and one of the best moments is when he goes pretty flat on the line "My heart is really on it's knees." It's still really great though, and thinking about it now, I'm reminded of listening to "Lay Lady Lay" for the first time and not really believing it was Bob Dylan singing.





"She makes me feel so ugly
My heart is really on it's knees
But I keep a poker face so well
That even mother couldn't tell

But my baby's so vain
She is almost a mirror
And the sound of her name
Sends a perennial shiver down my spine."

SPY-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YINE!

"So Much to Answer For..."

Just got back from Manchester this afternoon. A fun trip out. First we went to see The Fall in the nearby coastal town of Morecambe (named after a comedian from the ‘60s). After the show we stumbled through the back door of the venue and into the band’s dressing room, where we met Mark E. Smith and asked him various questions like “Why don’t you like Pavement?” (I think he just laughed at that one) and “Do you like Subway Sect?” (Yes, it was the only band he liked from the post-punk era). They gave us free beer and were incredibly nice.

Next day we wandered around Manchester and chanced upon a few things here and there, such as the former site of the Hacienda club (established by Factory Records in the early ‘80s), now an apartment building. Went to a couple of record stores and at night popped into a club called Night & Day, where we talked with one of the bartenders for a while. According to her, Mancunian legends such as Peter Hook of Joy Division, some of the Smiths (not Morrissey), and Guy Garvey of Elbow come in from time to time for drinks.

The day after that, we took a walk over to Salford—Manchester’s smaller neighbor to the west. We did a great tour of the Salford Lads Club, the site where The Smiths were photographed for the inside cover of their penultimate classic The Queen is Dead. Next, we swung by Old Trafford before checking out the The Imperial War Museum North. At night we spent an hour walking around looking for a burger place before giving up and retreating to the kebab shop near our hostel.

In between the aforementioned events were more greasy meals, discount beer from Tesco, the closed down amusement park at Morecambe, the Costa in Lancaster, some place called Ruby Lounge (or something), and several near-death experiences involving Manchester’s Metrolink tram system. All contributed to a fairly rock ‘n’ roll holiday in and around Lancashire.

Indubitably,

Peter Crickners, ca. 2008


"Back to the Old House" - The Smiths - from the Peel Sessions
Buy Louder than Bombs from Newbury Comics!



The Fall live at the Dome, Morecambe



"Big Prinz" - The Fall

"Cold Son" - Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks

Stephen Malkmus's new album is called Real Emotional Trash. It's with the Jicks, just like his second record post-Pavement, Pig Lib. Janet Weiss is in the band now, she's in Quasi and used to be in Sleater-Kinney. Awesome, right? What about the music? Is it good? Yes my friend, it's real good. Real, real good. Well, what does it sound like? Godzilla (Blue Oyster Cult) destroys Williamsburg and Kurt Vonnegut rises from the dead wielding the sacred stratocaster?? Suh-weet!

Yeah, it's pretty good. Wanna hear something? Here, clicky. Clickety-click.

Click:
"Cold Son" - Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks


from the album Real Emotional Trash, Matador Records

Buy it hurr: Newbury Comics


BONUS!

"Post-paint Boy" from Malkmus's last LP, Face the Truth

Budapest, Hungary

Near the Museum of Agriculture


Allegedly dubbed the “Paris of Eastern Europe,” Budapest, Hungary is a city you should get out to as soon as you can (it adopts the Euro in a year or so). Compromisingly situated upon the Danube, and full of fantastic sights, it’s a wonder that it hasn’t become a more popular travel destination. That said, there’ll be aggravations anywhere you go, and Budapest’s got a good-sized handful—mostly in the form of its elderly museum caretakers.

I arrived at Ferihegy International Airport early Wednesday morning with my friend Caleb, dog-tired but eager to jump into the sights the moment we put our bags down.

First things first, we grabbed some breakfast at a little sandwich place not far from Deak Ter metro station. Greedily I selected several open-faced monstrosities loaded with all kinds of counterintuitive toppings. Hard-boiled egg halves, decoratively sculpted pepperoni slices, olives, peas, cucumbers: you name it, they had it, and it was delicious.

Anyway, we moved on to the hostel, which was tucked away on the second floor of this gloomy apartment building just around the corner from St. Steven’s Basilica. It’s called Central Backpack King, and it’s a fantastic little place. If you’re ever in the city, look ‘em up. Friendly folks, most of whom are attractive young women, work the desk and are always eager to help out. Can you ask for more?


So, that all settled, we started roving around town. We popped into the Basilica to take a peep at the mummified hand of St. Steven (which is pretty overrated and cannot actually be seen directly) and then hopped across to the Buda side of the Danube. The city’s divided into two sections: historic, residential Buda, and commercial, happenin’ Pest. Once in Buda we checked out the age-old castle, which sits on a commanding hilltop overlooking plains to the east.

We spent a few hours at the castle and checked out the Military History Museum. The next day we returned with the some NYU in London comrades whose travel plans just so happened to coincide with ours. Waiting for them to show we caught the National Museum, filled with exhibits on the history of the city’s development. I received a silent finger wagging from some constipated usher for sitting down in what looked remarkably like a real-life seating area. Later when the London posse showed we caught the labyrinths (reeking of sulfur or vinegar or whatever) and then descended to the riverside.

Next day we rode the metro to Heroes Square in eastern Pest. We observed the motley architecture of the Museum of Agriculture and viewed some of the peripheral works of the French impressionists over at the Museum of Fine Arts. At one point, silently fuming over being followed with prejudicial attention by the burly crones that guard the place, I lost it and rolled my eyes at one. She promptly gestured for my ticket by attempting to grab it from my back pocket. I just stared at her in mild disbelief, wondering if I was being sexually harassed. Everything was in order, but my tolerance was at an end, so we moved on to the nearby zoo (miles better than some throwaway Monets any day of the week).

The highlight of the trip was unquestionably Friday night at a nightclub/bar/music venue called Kuplung. If you imagine a party in a rundown courtyard, with Christmas lights hanging from rafters, graffiti on the walls, dogs padding by nonchalantly, you’ve got a pretty good image of this place. It’s converted from an old bus garage, and has a big bar and lots of tables, though a lot of people were sitting on the floor, Indian-style in little campfire circles, so we did the same. We were with some awesome fellow travelers staying at the hostel that night, including a couple of Californians, some Mexicans, and a fantastic Serbian couple who are some of the friendliest people I’ve met in my travels thus far.

It was a brilliant night. I remember lights everywhere, on the way there, in the club, on the way home…

I got talking to the drummer of the band Blues/Vers, a blues rock quintet that got the crowd dancing with a weird mix of rockabilly, glam, and even early punk. In remarkably good English (that sounded as if it’d been learned watching hours of interviews with British bands), he told me something to the effect of, “There’s this famous Hungarian children’s writer, yeah? Well tonight’s songs are all about these poems he wrote about fucking.”

Other interesting characters included a concert organizer from Berlin and a cute girl from Portland, OR who I remember trying to impress by mentioning Karl Blau and Anacortes, Washington.

The night wore on. I drank several glasses of something called Zlaty that was on tap. We all watched the band and raved about East Europe. The Serbian couple, Milan and Milana (no joke), told me upon my asking a little about the consequences of the conflict with Bosnia in the early ‘90s. They were surprisingly objective and in no way self-pitying.

Afterwards we all had the greatest gyros ever to grace this tiny, disgraceful planet and stumbled back to the hostel.

Overall it was a fantastic trip. Go some time.



Paris pix up on: FLICKR