This month's Big Trouble in Little 5 Points is going to play host to a ton of music from some familiar faces in new packages.

As always, the gig is at Star Bar on the third Thursday of the month (August 20) and is FREE!

Stuff I think about, but not thoroughly…

·         I was driving through Mobile, Alabama the other day and saw a flier for a hip hop group called “Mobil-anaires”. That’s pretty awesome. Right off the bat and they're already more interesting than the dreadfully boring Selmanaires.

·         Why does Janelle Monae always look so surprised in her photos…

Or doing magic. From Outer Space.

·         What the hell ever happened to Lil Jon? He’s probably off in his glittery lab trying to merge Crunk and country. Look out for “Crunktry” music, annoying people Fall of 2009.

·         And what the hell ever happened to the new Outkast record that was finished along with their two solo records!?!  Didn’t we hear about that forever ago? Forever-ever ago??

Get it together, boys.

·         Hoffman won for Rain Man. Penn won for I Am Sam. You play a retard, you win the Oscar. How the hell did Josh Brolin not win for W.?

·         The Audacity of Coke. That would be a great title for Bush’s memoir that I’m sure he’s not working on. But seriously, who's going to write that piece of shit?

·         The other day, my roommate was at American Apparel with Jared Swilley of Black Lips. They were hitting on this cute breezy behind the counter. So they ask if she’s going to the Black Lips show later that night. In all seriousness she shrugs, “Ughh… They’re old news.”

Now that’s funny.

In all seriousness American Apparel; nice, gold leotard. Exactly when did “clown hooker” get in style?

·         Speaking of haute couture: Snuggie Bar Crawl! Who’s with me?

·         My new #1 dude I’d love to get drunk with: Peter O’toole. Look him up if you’re not familiar. You’ll thank me when you see me out. 

He would look good in a Snuggie. Scotch in hand. Maybe the only person on the planet to make a Snuggie look kinda bad ass.

·         My old #1 dude to get bombed with: David Lee Roth.

He’s king of the 10-liners. A classic Diamond DLR quote, “I used to do a lot of coke in the '80s… now I do it in any temperature”.

·         I think a good band name would be "Weekend At Bernie Mac’s". Or maybe a good indie band name, “Vampire Weekend At Bernie Mac’s.”

So those are up for grabs if anyone wants them.

And I can't figure out who has the worst band name of all-time: Mudvayne or Staind. Atleast Staind doesn't try and be Beatle's clever and spell it Stayned.

Aight then AMG. Hope everyone had wonderful Zombie Day yesterday. See ya when I see ya. Seacreast OUT!

And I'll leave you with one more classic quote from the Diamond one,

"I used to jog, but the ice cubes kept falling out of my glass."

I'm beginning to like this whole Spring cleaning chore. Now let's move on towards the soul. Maybe someone should inquire what the rate at Cactus is for a bumper to bumper soul cleansing.

I wrote this piece last summer at seemingly the height of annoyance of local promoters (selves included). The "Topless" party went away after a month or two, Sloppy Seconds is all yawns now, and even the prickly Preston Craig has mellowed  a bit in the light of his own glow stick.

But recently, a running joke with some of my friends (yes, I have them) is starting to get old. Party promoter Caleb Guage's mass text assaults are at an all-time annoyance. Tuesday through Saturday he's lighting up everyone's Sprint bill like a Christmas tree.

And it's not necessarily the non-stop texting I mind, I'm all for anyone throwing great events in Atlanta, It's everything else about it. Not only do I not want to go to the W in midtown for $12 cocktails I can't afford with people who act like they can, but I don't want to be constantly reminded about it with text that read like a 14 year old girl on crack, "YO:Smoke & MIrr0rss// 2-nite// {W MIDTOWN}////+DJ P00p Sc00p on the tablez+DreSS -2- MOLESTE!!!<>"

I just wanted to get that out. Spring cleaning, is all. And yes, I do get the joke that i'm probably one of the all-time worst at shameless self promoting. But that's just it, a joke.

All that Twitter's isn't gold.

A PARTY WITH A CLOUDY VIEW

                Style over substance, form before function – these are the guidelines. Atlanta's professional partiers have taken their act to another level, in the literal and figurative sense.

                "Topless," the F*n Socialites new Thursday night weekly atop the downtown Glenn hotel is the spot to be for our cities hipster neon nation. Whether you want to actually look down on the people you think you're better than or party closer to the stars where some think they belong, the roof top venue is a fitting one.

Interactive technology has brought us together, while making it us less able to interact. Watching people text mid conversation, or overhearing deep discussions concerning of MySpace dramatics, It seems Generation Y has morphed into Generation TTYL (that's Generation Talk To You Later for you non-brevity texters). 

The "Scene Celebrity" is a new breed. With the combination of party photographers and Facebook/MySpace, self promotion is at an all-time ease. Getting caught up in the hype, it's not hard to get a delusional sense of importance. Long time MJQ resident DJ Brian Parris sums the scene up, "None of those people are interesting, no matter how hard they try."

Photographer Midnite Socialite says that his group's vision for the Topless party is to eventually cater to the bottle service crowd. Typically, that would be the doctors, lawyers, and C.E.O's that are able to afford that lifestyle. The problem is, the party seems more of a mix of servers, retailers, and I.O.U's. The elitism just doesn't add up.

With a slight breeze blowing beneath the canopy's while being engulfed in the lit up skyline, you get a sense of being in downtown Miami during the Winter Music Conference.  If only the F*n Socials could replace West End with the Atlantic Ocean. Now that would be something to send a MySpace bulletin about.

Go for the spectacular view, stay for the effort you've already invested, leave when you get the joke. 

Raise some glasses and shake some asses, partying shouldn't have to be complicated.

For what it's worth-

Smoke & Mirrors

Every Thursday

W Midtown

Text Caleb for guest list

The first of Spring is upon us. In the midst of Spring cleaning I found an old outtake from my brief and disastrous CL days that's still applicable.  Enjoy… 

In route to the downtown Hilton, I’m listening to Dave FM, "I see a werewolf drinking a pina colada at a Trader Vic’s. And his hair… was perfect."

It’s meant to be. Warren Zevon says so. It’s the first day of spring. All the good people in Atlanta are jogging or riding their bikes in fear of bathing suit weather. Me, not so much. I go to a tiki bar.

Trader Vic’s is a place I’ve always heard about and wanted to go, but somehow never have. It’s a chain hotel bar. Chain as in places like London and Tokyo, not Stockbridge and Lawrenceville.

Inside the bar area, it’s smaller than I envisioned. But it definitely captured what I hoped it would be like. The décor is almost like a Pacific island version of the Clermont Lounge. Everything just seems so mid 1980s, it’s perfect. I keep waiting for Magnum P.I. to come in and question someone. Hopefully me. With my sport coat and obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt, I would tell him I was returning video tapes on the night in question.

Every Thursday, members of the local band Kingsized form the tropical group, Tongo Hiti. The five-some play odd instruments I can barely recognize, and they definitely all look like they play the bong. If weirdo David Lynch made a faux documentary about Jimmy Buffet, it would be Tongo Hiti.

From Celine Dion to Sade’s "Smooth Operator," and even my on the spot request for Van Halen (Diamond Dave, not Sammy Hagar), Tongo can do it all. They throw in a hilarious mash-up of Johnny Cash/The Who/then back to John Cash. All with a couple whip cracks from the whip crack player.

I’ve always heard Trader’s is pricey, but $5 Mai Tai’s seems very reasonable to me. And nothing else seems out of the ordinary for a hotel bar.

Along with the Pier 1 Imports/Party City motif, the tourist and mostly foreign wait staff adds to the sense of adventure. With a nice Mai Tai sugar buzz going, I chat with a couple from Tennessee, who are in town, along with 38,000 other people, for a girls volleyball tournament. This explains the seven 6’1’’ high school girls whom I shared an elevator with. And amusing sight I’m sure it was.

This will make two things I stay away from of the 6’6’’ Jerry. His water. And his daughter.

I love this time of year. The cherry’s are in bloom, the tourists are chatty, and the girls are in heat. If you have a place you’ve always wanted to go but never have, use the spring time as excuse to finally go. Not that you ever need an excuse.

And if you see a werewolf at the bar, be a good southerner and buy him a pina colada.

On behalf of AMG, I apologize this wasn’t written in a timely manner. But it took a team of six CIA translators to decode my notes taken from this event. All is written to the best of my ability. Scouts honor…

As of high noon, January 20^th, George W. Bush is unemployed. It’s both ironic and sad on different levels. And after eight years of stumbling and fumbling on Pennsylvania Ave, we celebrate this dipshit leaving office. Standing shoulder to shoulder, putting pints in the air at one of Atlanta’s oldest, and certainly most political, bars Manuel’s Tavern,  I get absolutely shit faced from 11 in the a.m., to 11 in the p.m. All for a former alcoholic, frat boy, cokehead do we celebrate in such a manner. Yes, both ironic and sad on many levels.

So, stumbling and fumbling on North Ave- Let’s get bombed for Obama!

Cheers.

10:50 a.m.           Riding around outside Manuel’s Tavern and I can’t find a parking place. Up and down side streets, wrong way on one ways, this place is more packed than George and Laura’s shit at 1600. I decide to throw it in behind the laundromat at Buddy’s. Fuck it. Surely they won’t tow me. Buddies don’t do that to one another, right?

10:55 a.m.           My friend Kool Keith rang me while I was preparing for the day’s events (i.e. sleeping) and told me Manny’s was a mad house. He wasn’t kidding. I can barely get in through the front entrance. I slide my way down the bar (being small has its advantages) and find Armando from MJQ. I try to post up and get the bartenders attention for my first pint of hooch, but this isn’t going to be easy (being small has it disadvantages).

11:00 a.m.           Right on time, Armando’s girlfriend nabs me my first High Life of the day. “Ahh, Miller Gold, breakfast of champions,” I say. Well … degenerate champions … of irresponsibility.

11:08 a.m.           Watching CNN from two tiny TVs up in the corner of each end of the bar, I get reminded that Manuel’s puts the “reals” in “no frills”. I’m just glad we don’t have to adjust the rabbit ears on those relics.

 The former President’s make their way out. George H. hobbles out with his grandmother, I mean, his wife, and its dead silent in the bar area. It’s so odd for 200 people crunched this close together to be this quiet. After a few moments, other people notice the awkwardness of the moment and laugh.

walks out, looking daper in his yellow scarf and tie, and a cheer within Manuel’s lightens everything. We almost forget that we’re here to have fun. Bill reminds us.

11:18 a.m.           Cheney’s and all his rottenness rolls out in a wheelchair.  Boos are followed by laughter. It’s hard not to enjoy the karma of the biggest scoundrel of them all, freezing his nuts off in wheelchair. Poetry on two wheels, kids.

                `               W comes out smiling and waving to jeers like the part the bad guy wrestler plays. All he needs is a diabolical goatee. But it’s not a bad as I thought it would be here. We all moan and groan, but it’s like this guy’s already irrelevant to us. We survived – barely. It’s almost like we feel sorry for the guy. Or maybe we’re just glad it’s over.

11:20 a.m.           Kool Keith finds me. He’s half through his first Bloody Mary. I’m assured it’s a more balanced and nutritious breakfast than the barely and hops in my hand.

11:23 a.m.           Obama makes his first appearance.  I think to myself, “This really is happening.” I imagine I’m one of millions having the same thought. I’m not embarrassed to say my eyes well up. But luckily, my tear doesn’t hit the floor – my smile catches it.

11:40 a.m.           Jesus’ homeboy, Rick Warren rocks the house with the prayer. Everything is moving along smoothly with the good word, till our boy rolls up on this line. “…And with Barack’s two angels… SASHA… and MALIYA!”

                                The only problem is, he says it like he’s trying summon strength from Kunta Kenti leaving a voice mail to Mahatma Ghandi. Absolute hilarity. Sorry about that Jesus. Rick cracked us up with his Def Comedy

NOON                   Even though he hasn’t been sworn in yet, Obama officially becomes President. Cheers, high fives, and hugs – tis is what we all came here for. We celebrate with another pint of

Milwaukee

’s finest champagne. It’s only fitting.

12:02 p.m.           I send a “: )” in a text to a cute little tomato I’ve had a crush on. I figure the J emoticon says it all … without my dumbass getting in the way.

12:10                     Barack takes the oath.  We all cringe when Justice Roberts stumbles and stutters like Bob Newhart on an 8-ball. I just wanted it to be perfect. But I did think it was pretty cool that Barack catches it and tries to correct him. It kind of reminded me when at some weddings, the groom is retardedly nervous, so the minister has to go word by word in the vows, “I”… “.” ‘”Jay Winter”… “Jay Winter” “Do…”Do” “Solemnly…”

12:12                     Aretha

Franklin

sings. She looks like a Christmas ornament on the world tackiest (biggest) Christmas tree. God bless you, Queen of Soul. Somebody let you leave the house like that.

12:27                     Original gangsta, Rev. Joseph Lowery gives the benediction. And wow, what a benediction. The Rev was one of the Dr. Kings boys back in the day, and I’m just glad he was around long enough to not only see today, but be part of it. Without people like Lowery, there wouldn’t be a President Obama.

                                Barely tall enough to see over the podium, he starts off slow and shaky. You almost get nervous, but you know the crescendo. In true SCLC form, he slowly builds and builds until he’s breaking rhymes off at the end, “and the yellow… can mello. Brown can stick around. AND THE REDMAN CAN GET AHEAD, MAN!”

                                Even better than his speech at Corretta King’s funeral. ATL, represent, fool.

12:30                     My cute tomato texts me back.

“: )”

Simple enough and enough said.

12:36                     Bush gets on Marine One for the last time. You can’t help but remember the wonderful moments this man has given us while making this very walk. Like the time he spit, or when he hit his head on the top of the door. These very Presidential moments will be missed.

1:00                        The bar is fairly cleared out at this point. It’s a Tuesday and some people do have real jobs, I suppose.

               Four beers deep, I’ve set up shop In the middle of the bar. Kool Keith wonders back over       and puts his arm around me. We tap glasses and he kills the last of whatever number of bloody Mary’s he’s had today. He says, “We did it.”

“Yes we can has,” I reply.

He turns and says, “Well … I gotta go teach my class at Georgia Tech.”

I look at him likes he’s speaking Mandarin.

“But I’ll be back,” he adds in English.

               And off he went to mold minds on The Flats. Probably about as buzzed as a government issued crew cut.

1:05                        Sitting at the bar by myself, I realize I haven’t eaten anything yet today. I give the room a look over. I look at my fresh Stella. I look at my watch. I might need to look at a menu or pretty soon I’ll be looking at either this ceiling, the back of my eye lids, or about three of the person sitting beside me. 

“Never gonna give you up. Never gonna let you down. Never gonna run around and desert you”

Rick Astley had it right. Sure, he wasn’t talking about Atlanta radio – more than likely it was someone with a side spike and turquoise jean shorts. But it still translates. No matter how outdated and behind the times, some people will never give up what they’re familiar to. Like reading the AJC on actual newsprint rather than on a computer screen, or trying to make a “super booty dance party” playlist on an iPod you don’t know how to work. The unfamiliar can be quite terrifying.

                And what the hell is a Blu-ray? DVD’s still work, right?

                Whether it be Coke, Pepsi or Dr. Thunder, switching a brand can tamper with comfort levels.  Steve and Vicki were a running punchline in Atlanta for years in the mid-‘90s. They epitomized soccer mom lameness. After over a decade-long (insanely successful) stint at Star 94, they were finally pushed aside for a younger, zanier, “Morning Mess.”  And the replacements are just that – a mess.  A painfully domestic mess.

                But luckily Steve and Vicki landed down the dial on the older, more mature B-98.5. So mature that I don’t even think the B stands for anything other than the first call letter. No “Bitchin,” or “Baller,” or what I would’ve went with, “BOO-YA 98.” Just plain ol’ B-98.5.  And I take comfort in that. And even though Steve McCoy is about as hip and edgy as the “Family Matters” episode where “Myrtle Erkel” comes to visit, it’s still nice to know he’s there. Comforting.

                A divorcee in Lawrenceville is shrugging her shoulders.

                So things change.

 As much love as Fox 97 had, it did have its shortcomings. Even though its format had two decades of the greatest music ever smoked up and created waiting in its vault, it was some knucklehead in a suit whose idea it was to have a tiny and precise playlist. Maybe 200 songs on repeat. Of course everyone loved Dion’s “Run Around Sue,” but after you hear it three times in one week it starts to bother you. After 15 times in a month you really start to resent Sue. And after a year, you really start to hate that slut for running around on every walking boner at the soda fountain. You have to learn to keep away from Runaround Sue. Fox 97 only told you a million times.

So things change. Sometimes for the better.

There’s a new oldies station in Atlanta and it’s absolutely delightful. True Oldie’s 106.7. And no song considered to have anything to do with oldies is off limits, from the Junkie XL remix of Elvis’ “Little Less Conversation” to Billy Joel’s ‘80s tribute to ‘50s doo-wop with “Uptown Girl.” Whatever’s clever, they’ll spin it.

Sadly it’s not local; it’s a nationally syndicated station from God knows where. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s from beaming from a basement of what seems to be their only DJ. His name is Scott Shannon and he’s on every time I’m in the car – and I’d rather it be that way.  A true throwback that seems like he could smack down Bert from “The Bert Show” while choking out Ryan Seacrest at a Dunwoody TGIFriday’s, all while not letting the needle scratch on the Herman’s Hermits deep cut he was spinning.

Casey Casem is shrugging his shoulders.

So things change.

People in this town seem to forget how influential, powerful, and just plain outstanding 99X was. All the cool, indie, Cabbagetown kids will smirk at that statement, but screw them. I’m sorry you had a shitty childhood and you hated high school. While you were sulking to The Cure, kids all over Atlanta were out having the time of their lives at Mistle Toe Jams, Brouhahas, Big Days Out, On the Bricks, Downtown Rocks, Sinner’s Balls, Music Midtowns, Chinese New Years  and Unplugged in the Parks. So what you stopped listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers after Blood Sugar Sex Magic? There’s something sugary magical about having illegal Miller Lite’s with other high school kids from all over the metro area. All you needed was one fake ID and there you were, all tingly headed trying to get pager numbers from the Parkview cheerleader squad with Third Eye Blind blasting as your out of tune soundtrack.

So those indie kids can smirk all they want at mainstream radio. I loved my childhood. I had my Freeloader card. And I was 99X. And I’m really happy for you that your bicycle doesn’t have gears.

Someone at Estoria 97 is shrugging their shoulders.

I think Leslie Fram’s on-air personality is very phoney. Off-air, very calculated. But damned if she isn’t brilliant. Basically, without management’s approval, she and Sean Demery at then Power99 switched formats in the cover of the night from top 40, to a new, alternative grunge sound that was generating from Seattle. 99X was literally born from their personal CD collections. Not sure what you call that, but that’s a pretty gangster-ass, punk rock move if you ask me. You have to nod and tip your ATL cap.

 Launching bands and careers over the next decade, it was her shrewd knack for the industry that had every station in the country looking to 99.7 to see what could move the needle. She had the brilliant vision and ear to hire talent like Jay Harren and Fred Toucher. As much as she gets under my skin, for reasons that I can’t really explain, I have tremendous respect for her. And how could anyone ever put up with the lunatic, pistol-toting, tennis-loving, ego monster Steve Barnes for so many mornings is beyond me. Plus she canned pompous Jeff Clark from his Sunday night show.

Damn. Maybe I should rethink this whole hating Leslie Fram thing. She made our city better, and I’d have to hug her for that.

But things change. Sometimes for the worse.

99X eventually waned and was sold to media giant Cumulous, and the likes of Jay Harren, Toucher, Dekker and Jimmy Baron were all eventually let go to roam free in a bleak radio land. Leaving only Fram and the recently brought back Demery to go down with the ship, their grungy, flannel wearing baby.

The ‘90s are shrugging their shoulders.

Part 3 will conclude my indulgent trip down the radio dial. We here at AMG will leave no nail salon, Pottery Barn, or synagogue unsearched in our quest for the truth as to why Bert Weiss rarely wears a shirt in prom shots. We will also try and figure out if Ryan Cameron has ever said anything funny… even though he laughs at all his jokes.

POST SCRIPT: Ahh, wait up, I remember why I don’t like Fram. She brought the bozo Jenners into Atlanta’s radio sphere. That unfunny dip shit made Q100’s Jeff Dauler seem like Richard Fucking Pryor.

I don’t have a CD player in my car. As a matter of fact, I don’t even own an I-pod. Hard to believe that a happening 28-year old dude rolls around the city on the same tech-wave as your grandparents. Cruising to Clark Howard or the Kimmer, getting news and traffic on the 20’s- That’s 20 minutes to and from the hour, not 20’’ rims.  And that’s me. Hip to be square. 

Huey Lewis is shrugging his shoulders.

I’ve had an I-pod before, but it was stolen when I left it backstage for a few days at MJQ in my record bag. They left the shitty records, though. Thanks. I didn’t care much either way. Whether it be a Walkman or a girlfriend, if you really care about something, you probably shouldn’t take it to MJQ, much less leave it in a back room for a few days.

Tape decks were supposed to kill radio. You could fast forward through the weak filler on a Cruë cassette that could fit in the back of your Bugle Boy’s. Then CD players, shit, you could go right to any song you wanted, and you didn’t even have to flip them over.  Satellite radio, the future, right? Right, I think I knew a guy once who had XM. Or maybe it was Sirius. Payola scandals hurt the industry, but they were more or less irrelevant. And even President Bush’s ridiculous F.C.C. Wyatt Earp-like policing of the air waves failed to nail the coffin shut. Although, many a good disc jockey are in marketplace 160-something now, or selling insurance because of Janet Jackson’s left boob. But radio survived.

 Really, the only thing that has mainstream radio on its last leg is the corporate thieves and raiders themselves. It’s the good people from Cox Communications or Cumulous buying up mom & pop stations like Susquehanna ,who owned 99X, and giving them the Gordon Gecko love squeeze.

Elvis Costello is shrugging his shoulders.

I’m one of the proud, the few who actually grew up in metro Atlanta. An actual native.  I’ve been listening to local radio ever since Major Tom and “yo, yo, this is Domino” were giving spins to Rick Astley on Power 99. Just like the ‘Monster Plantation’ at Six Flags, or an F.O. at The Varsity, “I am 99X” is just as ingrained in us as asking for “The Wolfman” or Donna at Gallery Furniture. Although, I don’t know anyone who’s actually ever been to Gallery Furniture, much less bought the black lacquer with gold trim bedroom suit that seemed to be in every commercial.

TIME JUMPING, SEEK BUTTON

96 Rock’s heyday seemed to be in the late 80’s. I distinctly remember the car tags everyone had, simply because everyone put them upside down on the front of their Camaro’s, S-10 Blazers, or whatever the hell they were driving. The 96, became, well, a 96. Clever enough. It was kind of an unspoken thing you did- Like a graduation tassel hanging on your rear view. No real explanation on the car tags, though.  It’s just… what you did. Like a few years ago, high school kids all seemed to have Hawaiian lays hanging from their rear view mirror. I never really understood that one. 

96Rock became Project 9-6-1 for no real, particular reason other than to give the illusion that it’s hip, relevant, and somewhere near the “edge”. You can turn the name upside down, but it’ll still be 96Rock to most people.

FOX 97. Because this is what most of our parents listened to when they drove us to the 8th grade dance , this was our first, real allegiance to any radio station. Falling in love the first time Lennon & McCartney said they wanted to hold our hand. Chuck Berry. The Beach Boys. Sam Cooke. Motown. British Invasion. They were all there. Love at first listen. Songs you can still hum by heart when the Muzak comes on in the Ingles. “She was just… Seventeen…If you know… what I mean…”

Going to Turtle’s on a Saturday morning to get Ultimate Oldie concert tickets was a once a year rite. They’d always trot out some washed up fat dudes on stage trying to hang on to their waistline and a pay check. And instead calling themselves “The Temptations”, it should have been, “The Temptation”. Or, “The One Top”. Cause that sure the hell ain’t the other original three Top’s. And sure it wasn’t all The Beach Boy’s, but it was still fun watching old people get boozed up and act like they’re in a Cialis commercial.

Or listening to Randy & Spiff in the morning. Randy the straight man, Spiff the goofball, kind of creepy uncle type. I always pictured Spiff a close talker with bad breath. I don’t know why.

Fond memories of my first radio station. Good Times & Great Oldies.

Fat Elvis is shrugging his shoulders.

TO BE CONTINUED…
Part 2 highlights include Bert from “The Bert Shows” nipples, ego-maniacal Leslie Fram, who has the worst band name, Mudvayne or Staind, and shit talking, rival Christian stations.

BEST OF THE REST

This week Creative Loafing’s biggest issue of the year came out, The Best of Issue. I was asked to pick and write 5 categories for CL’s own critic’s picks. Well, they printed a couple and couldn’t find anything about Deerhunter or Janelle Monae in the others.

I kid, I kid.

It is nice to see my words in ink again. But seriously CL, bring back the music section!

Raging Election outtakes…

Best Bar to Hook Up: PEACHTREE TAVERN

      Been striking out at trendy, V.I.Look At Me clubs in midtown? Well, put your Polo shirt and flip flops back on and give Buckhead the ole college try again.

      Peachtree Tavern is a bare bones, bar stools and beer signs party bar. Caring less about aesthetics and more about the simplistic needs of today’s youth- sex, Jägar, and rock n’ roll.

      If the karaoke and Cruë cover bands aren’t holding your evening’s attention, simply walk 30 feet to the adjacent bars (Moon dog’s and Hole in the Wall) for even more talent rich square footage. And if you leave your "A" game at home, no worries. With the unpretentious crowd, your "C+" might have you rounding second with a former Auburn sorority girl by your second round of shots.

      Game on.

Best Weekly Club Event: BRITPOP WEDNESDAYS MJQ

      As much as things change, including the ongoing gentrification of Ponce de Leon Avenue, It’s nice to know some things stay the same. Clubs and trends come and go, but Wednesdays at MJQ still reigns as the best club night in the city. The no frills former parking garage is approaching it’s12th anniversary, and every week you get exactly what you expect from the old stand-by. From the break dancers in the cafe, Poppy pissed at someone at the front door, or the old dude who’s the first one on the dance floor every week in the main room, the Q still delivers. The new faces keep the club fresh, and the regulars make the place still matter. Here’s hoping the legendary hole in the ground can fend off the Chipotles and Urban Outfitter’s for just a few more years.

      It’s still free, DJ Brian Parris still delivers, and the Q still matters. Mod’s, Jew’s, and Queer’s, everyone is still welcome on Ponce.

Best College Bar: MOE’S & JOE’S

      Cheap beer equals college kids.

      It’s a formulaic equation that’s been in the curriculum forever. Being one of Atlanta’s three oldest hooch establishments, Moe’s & Joe’s has had things figured out for a while. And with the highland bar being famous for its ridiculous $4 PBR pitchers, it didn’t take long for some of the smartest kids in the city (Emory students) to figure out where to go.

      The Emor-ites come in packs on Tuesday nights. Mostly with out of state I.D.’s (hopefully the face resembles the picture), and dad’s Visa card, things can get pretty loose with America’s future doctors and lawyers. And if you get tired of drinking the Blue Ribbon, either walk next door to the Cavern, or across the street to Fontain’s for liquor drinks and liquored up post-grads. The trifecta of bars creates a Tuesday night Emor-ite triangle. But it all starts at Moe’s & Joe’s.

      Go Eagles!

Best Hotel Bar: TRADER VIC’S

      With Atlanta being a convention city, there’s two things we have plenty of- strip clubs and hotels. And the best place for us locals to get weird and party with tourist is Trader Vic’s.

      Sure, it’s a chain, but it’s a chain in places like London and Tokyo, not Stockbridge and Lawrenceville. Located inside the downtown Hilton, Trader’s is almost like a hip Pacific Island family version of The Clermont Lounge. Everything just seems so mid 1980′s, it’s perfect. You keep waiting for Magnum P.I. to come in and question someone.

      Thursday’s is definitely the night to go. With the band Kingsized reformed as Tongi Hiti, giving their tropical versions of songs like Sade’s "Smooth Operator", or on the spot request for Van Halen. And the $5 Mai Tai’s and giant rum bowls will have you sugar buzzed like a 10^th grader with out of town parents.

      The tourist, wacky motif, and the mostly foreign staff give us locals a sense of a mini vacation in far away, exotic downtown Atlanta. And if you see a werewolf or a ghost of Warren Zevon at the bar, make sure you buy him a pina colada.

Best Club Event: FRINGE FACTORY

      Tune in, turn on, and slip into your dancing boots, brothers and sisters. It’s time to take a trip. The Fringe Factory girls step out of their monthly time machine to give us one of the newest and hippest nights in the city. It’s a 60′s dance party that’s right on time as a refreshing alternative to the standard club music. Held inside the equally hip and now revived Highland Inn Ballroom, it’s a poetic place for the Factory girls to revive some of their old records. And all the weirdness the party provides is fitting for a ballroom that looks like it’s held everything from bingo to Bat Mitzvahs. And the heavy handed bartenders don’t hurt either.

      Like FOX 97 used to say, "good times and great oldies".

      Now let’s get out of this stupid war and impeach Nixon!

I joined the Black Lips in their studio last weekend for some drinks and camaraderie. So much much camaraderie that only half my notes were legible by the time we left for a party…

MOVING ON UP In Studio with Black Lips

It was at last years SouthxSouthwest. The one where the Atlanta music scene became known from sea to shinning sea. I was at a taco stand one morning looking at Black Lip’s Cole Alexander front and center on the cover of the Austin Times . I fold the top of the paper down and there he was standing in the parking lot. Right in front of me, breakfast burrito in hand. He was wearing a "Bart Sanchez" t-shirt from Tijuana that had our antagonist Bart with a sombrero, knife and bottle of whatever "XXX" is.

So many parrallels. Perfectly weird.

It’s two years later, and after going twice the world over, repping ATL every inch of the way, the boys are back in the studio to follow up 2007′s "Good Bad, Not Evil". They’re doing it themselves this time. They even have their own digs, setting up shop at New Street Gallery in Decatur. Taking the whole place over, I can barely get in the door with microphone stands and random junk in the way. Junk that I’m sure at one time was necessary to someone. The place is spacious and awkwardly bright. The 15 ft cinder block white walls are lit with florescent lights that give it an uneasy, sterile vibe. I imagine nothing could actually be sterile in this place though. And why would you want it to be. Nothing in rock n’ roll should be clean and orderly. Not gigs, not van rides, not meals, drugs, girls…. Leave that to sober Aerosmith, or Sugarland, or whoever.

There are guitars lying everywhere, outnumbering the band and the few friends that are hanging out. Guitar booths are sectioned off- There’s an Obama t-shirt draped over one. Pictures of morally challenged young ladies ripped out of gentleman’s magazines are tacked up on others- For inspiration, I suppose. We’re mostly around the bar talking about the new record. Drinking Evan William’s and Coke out of plastic Solo cups with no ice (ice is for phonies in Brooklyn) Jared Swilley tells me the name for the new record is "Ancient Egypt". I guess he reads my reaction and immediatley follows, "It’s a working title, though."

In a make-shift control room, Ian St. Pe’ and producer Mike Wright are listening to Ian’s "Moving on up". It’s like a charming, sweet double A-side sequel to Ian’s "Feels Alright" from "Good Bad". After Mike rolls back the reel and plays it for the 4th or 5th time, it still hasn’t lost it’s in your face charm.

"Taking life aspirations from dream to reality. Teachers. Grandparents always asking "When you gonna get a job?"…," Ian explains. "Well, I’m movin on up, don’t move it on down."

"When I go, "ha, ha, ha", he says of the background vocal in the hook. "I mean it- I’m moving on up." And I believe him.

They boys take a workman’s like approach. Basically working 40 hours a week the last couple months while taking weekends off to hop to Europe for festivals and free swag (Cole gave me some free sun glasses). This IS their job, and they know it. And it really seems to be a democratic process. Everyone contributes. And with as much success that has come their way (through talent and tireless work), it’s refreshing to see ego’s kept in check. But I guess therapeutic outlets contribute to that given all the side projects these boys have going.

On all the reels they have stacked up, they have about 25 songs in the can. And speaking of hard work, they prefer to record on reel tape other than go digital. It’s more expensive and takes longer to record. Actually, it’s a hassle. But it pays off. It helps give that magical, buried in a cave for 40 years sound that they own. "Hey, if it works, don’t fix it", Ian smiles.

As he’s fidgeting in and out of the room and conversation, Cole adds, "It’s worked for 250 years. Why not?"

And as for the 25 songs in the can, they’re due in the Vice office mid October right after 3 weeks of Europe and the west coast. Vice will have it’s say and then prep it for a February ’08 release. ‘Ancient Egypt’ or not, it’s just in time for punk flowers to bloom.

"Can we do a double album", Ian asks rhetorically, "Yes we can!" Always grinning.

Cole’s all over the place. I always wonder what’s going on in that head of his. I’m probably looking too deep into it. As he’s having conversations, I can just see a thought bubble out of his head like Garfield, It would probably just be a picture of Bart Sanchez playing a Gameboy, or something. He is sort of the antagonist of the group, not really always up to something, more just opportune moments. Like recently setting off a fire extinguisher ruining the Atlanta Magazine photo shoot for the ‘We Fun’ documentary. But it serves the magazine right, their demographic is Sandy Springs soccer mom’s, what do they want from Cole Alexander?

He seems too me like a weird, mischievous little brother you have. Except he’s more insecure. He’s intelligent enough to put his insecurities on as an act, but I don’t buy that. He really is a sweet heart. You want to hug him every time you see him.

But not too close. I’m sure the Colombian Bart Sanchez in him might see an opportune moment.

And as far as the new record goes, "Is it better than ‘Good Bad’?", Ian smirks and gives a nod, "I ain’t washin’ dishes anytime soon".

Movin’ on up. -J. Winter

WAYFARERS OF SUMMER

  I was in the car and Don Henley’s "Boys of Summer" came on. I’d forgotten how great of a song that was/ is, no matter how big a prick Don Henley was/ and probably still is. My Favorite line is near the end, "I can seee you. Brown skin shinnin’ in the suun. Ya got yer hair slicked back… way-farers on baaa-by".

God, I love that. It gives you such an amazing visual. At least to me it does. And it’s a great thing when a song can add that sense to it as well. You can hear it AND see it. Chills.

It’s beautiful how some songs can give you a cinematic moment. Like when you read a book, you make your own movie in your head. Springsteen comes to mind. But I’m less talking about entire stories put to music, more just a one line in a song that gives an image that you’ve swear you’ve touched. You know you’ve been there.

I watched the Republican National Convention the other day at a bar with no volume on. It did help to not have hear all the bullshit patriotism, but without sound, it was quite strange. Watching the faces of the delegates, they just seemed like a tired old bunch. It seemed so sad in that arena. The haunting music of "Boys of Summer" should’ve been overdubbed for a new video. Surely some of those cold hearts in those conservatives had a warm summer. Somewhere. Sometime. A restless, maybe misspent youth that they wanted hold on to. God, I hope so. And you have to believe there was at least one deadhead sticker on a giant SUV Cadillac, right?

With music and lyric giving imagery, you wish technology would give us added sense of smell. A scratch & sniff radio, if you will. I can almost touch the brown skin of the girl in the wayfarers. I can see the bottle of Panama Jack tanning oil as my mind pans up. I want to smell it. I want to smell the whiskey and cocaine in a Stones song. I can hear and see it, why not scratch and smell it?

Jeffery Lebowski probably said it all when he groaned, "I hate fuckin’ Eagles, maaan". Just like he said Metallica were a "bunch of assholes" on the Speed of Sound tour. Don Henley’s probably a prick, but I thank him for writing "Boys of Summer". Somehow it made my day. Reminded of how great this summer has been. I’m just sad it’s coming to an end. And yes, just like in the song, I want to hold on to it. Along with youth. And innocence. And you best believe I’m going to try.

Maybe my hair won’t be slicked back, But I’ll definately have my wayfarers on.

- J. Winter

The Mayor of Ponce wants to know what songs, or a line in a song gives you the same feeling. A lyric that makes an image pop into your head. Whether it be something personal, or it’s like reading a book, and in your head, you have your own video for the song. Comment below!