But I’m going to talk just a little more because I don’t know what will happen to the “preview panel” of my blog if I put a link too close to the top.  See?  I’ve learned to respect my friend the internet.  The internet is a strange den and a fickle dominatrix that enjoys such lovely pastimes as horse porn and nerd rage and rage porn and nerd horses  (I will only link to “nerd horses” because the other shit is just fucking wrong on so many levels–the joke being that ‘nerd rage’ is… You know what?  Never mind… To explain a joke is to allow defeat and we don’t do that here).

So yeah, I’ve learned me some ‘puter skillz.  It took awhile.  I’m not very good with puters.  In fact, I have a hard time with them precisely because I call them “puters” and they tend to frown at me when I spit tobacco on them.  So therefore, I shall now, being a fucking computer GOD, call them by their given name of “headache-inducing, glowbox mystery thingy.”  But for ease of typing, I’ll just refer to them as “computers” from henceforth.

Moving right the hell along…

Yes, that, kiddies, was called “filler” and no one does it better or more randomly than yer ole buddy Jas!

This horse looks neither nice nor nerdy... He/she very well may look "snel" or may even be a 'snäll häst' but seriously... Who the fuck could tell? Swedish memes don't make sense... But all their base belong to us, so fuck it.

Without further ado… I give you… THE MAKING OF TRIBUTARIES!!!

Did it work?

Sweet.  I rock on computers, man.

Okay, so yeah.  I learned how to video edit.  I spent what seemed like an eternity on Lynda.com learning Adobe Premiere Pro and Adobe Bridge and Adobe Photoshop and Adobe After Effects and Adobe Audition and Adobe Soundbooth and so on and so forth.  I spent MONTHS on that shit, man.  Now, for all you wankers who’ll say “Months?  I sure couldn’t tell by your bullshit editing!”  I say only this…

THHHPPPPBBBBBB!!!!

Oh!  And YOUR MOMMA!

And other equally childish responses to childish statements.  But as is my wont, I digress…  I really didn’t mean, nor do I intend to write a long “normal” blog for me.  I really just want to take a moment and tell you how happy I am with the “documentary.”

I really worked hard on this and I hope it shows.  I want to thank Vicki and Jake Willemain and Sean Giovanni and John Constable (those cats also do Balcony TV Nashville) and Brad Bass and David Hall and Benny Quinn.  They all really were wonderful and facilitated the making of “Tributaries” to the best of their ability and beyond my expectations.  Thank you, All!

I also want to recognize:

The Record Shop Nashville

First Avenue Sound Franklin

Blackbird Studio

Benny Quinn Mastering

So much love to all of them and I had a blast making this album with them.  I’d definitely do it again and I have no doubt that I probably will!  But we’re not talking about the next album…

We’re talking about THIS one!

“TRIBUTARIES” BABY!

It comes out February 28, 2012.

BUT…

If you go to www.jaspatrick.com you can DOWNLOAD THE ENTIRE NEW ALBUM FOR FREE!!!!

(but only until February 27, 2012)

So feel free to go get yo’ FREE copy, baby!  Tell your friends!  We’re spreading the word for the upcoming shows and tour to support the new album.

We’re adding dates as we speak and if we’re not in your town, we may be close!  So check www.jaspatrick.com constantly over the next couple of days/weeks/months to see if we’ll be near you!

Mad love and respect to all of you and I promise I’ll write a more “me” blog soon!

Teaser:

Look for a bonafide actual music video from me very soon…

If you’re in Nashville or close, make sure you come to The Basement Nashville on February 28, 2012 for the TRIBUTARIES ALBUM RELEASE SHOW!!!!

7 pm

NO cover.

$1 ALBUMS.

See you there!

(you can always check here for upcoming Jas Patrick shows!!!)

A side note: We were nominated for Budlight's Band of the Week for Nashville on the Nashville Scene's blog the Nashville Cream! We were pretty stoked ("pure stoke" for any Nashville Creamers reading) and this picture was taken minutes after we realized we were in the magazine--Vicki picked up a Nashville Scene and opened it up and screamed "OH MY GOD, LOOK!!!" I nearly wrecked... I thought the alien overlords had finally begun their initial attack... Both outcomes would have been equally awesome.

Yes, a second honeymoon.  Decadent.  Oh, it was glorious, Dear internet dweller.  Sit down.  Relax.  I’ve got stories.

Many of you may remember that Vicki and I had our honeymoon in Gatlinburg, TN. last year.  We had a great time and even saw a bear.  Seeing as the bear didn’t kill us, Vicki decided that we should tempt fate a second time because fuck bears; so she booked us on another vacation in the beautiful smoky mountains just outside of Gatlinburg.

This year, Vicki went with a great company by the name of Pioneer Cabin Rentals–seriously awesome people and they really over deliver on their cabin offerings.  I highly suggest you work with them should you decide to go vacationing in Gatlinburg.  The cabin we went with was called “Blessings” and it pretty much lived up to its name.  Jacuzzi, pool table, hot tub, awesome view, two full bed and baths and they even decorated the whole place Christmas style–this may or may not work for you depending on whether or not you’ve accepted Santa as your savior.  We, of course, are a bit lax in our Santa-ism; but we always say our prayers for presents and promise to always be thankful for cookies.

We walked in and the place was spotless.  There was a ten to twelve foot tree all decked out in jolly club clothes–frigging trees these days, always dressing naughty–and they even stocked up the wood basket with wood for the fireplace.  Groovy times, kids.

Look at that tarty tree, just flaunting it all over town.

I’m getting ahead of myself, though; because there was a rather interesting hiccup on the way there.  We decided to take a more scenic route than staying on I-40 and detoured somewhere before Knoxville.  Now it wasn’t Sevierville, but it was close to it and for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the little town where it happened; but we stumbled upon a parade.

We’re driving along some country highway and all of a sudden, we’re stopped by a cop and a line of cars in front of us.  It wasn’t a long line; but we thought it may have been a wreck or something.  I looked around and noticed a small sign (copy paper letter sized) that said “Christmas parade 4:00.”  “No problem,” says I, ‘it’s only 3:00.’

Eastern time zone, dumbass.

FUCK!!!!

Yep.  The cop stopped us seven cars deep and I watched helplessly as the parade slowly started up a parallel road which merged into our lane and meandered off into the distance.  No shit, guys, the time was 4:00 exactly.  Vicki cursed me for my small bladder and swore if I ever drank during a road trip again she’d geld me.  I had no choice, I turned off the car and watched for over an hour as every resident in the small town paraded agonizingly slowly down the two lane road.

Even though we had gold to sell, alas, the parade would not let us pass...

As we neared the hour and a half mark (and the blood had begun to clot from the numerous stab wounds Gangsta Vicki had inflicted rather mercifully shallow) we finally saw the end of the parade.  Unfortunately, they had merged onto our road and were traveling the same direction we intended to go; so we inched our way forward behind Santa.  Everyone was on floats and throwing candy at the three residents who were either too old or too uncreative to have made a float and participate in the parade; so Vicki made me get on the hood recite useful information for creating a long term stock portfolio.  At the end of the parade, quite a few residents thanked me and told me they had already seen a few point increase.

Originally, we had hoped to actually drive up the steep mountain drive to our cabin in the daylight; but Santa is a vengeful god and it seems my little girl’s bladder was the means in which his will was done–he’s quite the exhibitionist, it seems, and well, I guess he just wanted an audience for his parade.  We didn’t stay for the sacrifice, though.

Santa's minions hunger.

Even so, there’s something to be said for driving through Pigeon Forge at night.  If you’ve never been, you simply must at least look it up on the internet.  I wouldn’t recommend necessarily going; I mean, if you’ve ever been to Mr. Gatti’s, you probably already know the thrill of a redneck Las Vegas; but oh dear Cthulhu, is it something to see!  Pigeon Forge is nuts.  It’s like if Willie Wonka sold out, bought a town and had a love child with Ronald McDonald and someone who almost made it as a cast member for Jersey Shore and they all got magnificently fucked up on cough syrup and planned a town based on the concept of “you know what’d be cool?”

Yeah… Plan your vacation now, bitches.

I kid, I kid.  I love Pigeon Forge.  Especially when I don’t need to stop for gas and I somehow manage to not stop at every one of the few thousand stop lights.  Seriously, folks, I’ll be here all week.

No really, it is kind of cool to see.  They have a reenactment museum/dinner theater of the Titanic–for those of you who enjoy icy drownings with your song and dance and Cobb salad.  They have an upside down dinner theater for those who prefer to spend fifteen bucks on chicken fingers in the most ridiculous way possible; and who doesn’t like miniature golf?  Pigeon Forge has more mini-golf per square mile than Nashville has churches–okay, that’s a huge exaggeration; but you get the point.

Nothing stirs the appetite like tragedy.

If you do ever find yourself in the Forge de Pigeon, then make sure to drive through it at night–it’s all lit up like a hillbilly on the fourth of July and half as subtle.  You simply cannot help but wonder what the city leaders were smoking.  Entertaining, to say the least.

But this isn’t about lights and goofball “world’s largest” anything; it’s about natural beauty and getting drunk the way Santa intended–in nature.

We finally got to our cabin and it was more beautiful than the pictures suggested.  We unpacked and quickly made our way to our favorite grocery store in Gatlinburg (the only one of which we are aware) the glorious Food City.  I know it may seem quite odd to be fond of a grocery store; but I’m nostalgic and the Food City was our honeymoon grocery.  It’s walled off by a huge natural rocky mountain wall with a sign that reads, “do not climb or police will be notified.”  With my grocery mountain climbing excursion dashed, I decided to instead purchase food.

After buying half the store’s stock of booze and all their steak selections, we made our way back home to our lovely cabin.  Upon arriving back at our cabin, we noticed our cat Phoebe had built a fire and was already half drunk.  I scolded her for making me have to catch up and sat down on the tiny area on which Phoebe had not called “dibs.”

Cats know how to vacation.

Contented sigh.

This is the life.

Most of the vacation went that way, actually.  We spent copious amounts of time on the porch and in the jacuzzi and we were amazingly lucky that while it was December, most of the week’s temperatures were in the sixties or seventies.  “Unseasonably warm and sunny,” said the weather man and ‘let’s have another’ said Jas.  It was incredible.

Since sitting around drinking makes for bad blogging, I’ll tell you that something else cool happened.  I shot the first video for my upcoming album during our stay.  The name of the song is “King For a Day” and corny title aside, it’s actually been getting a lot of love from the very few people who have heard it.  I wrote it right after our first honeymoon last year and we loved it so much (the song and the honeymoon) that we decided to put it on my soon to be released album–COMING SOON FEBRUARY 28TH 2012!

Man oh man, is the footage great!  Vicki and I invested in a great camera that doubles as a video camera–I don’t know the make or the model except that I call it “Mr. Badass Camera.”  Something about having a great lens and the sensor is awesome or some shit; it couldn’t be any less important…  Regardless, I have been taking online classes and tutorials to learn how to become a better video editor and after finally learning how to start the program, I have found that I have somewhat of an affinity for Premiere Pro, which is the editing software we’re using.  The cool thing is that after countless hours of tutorials, I kind of learned blocking, lighting and perspective and such as a byproduct of my original intent to become more proficient at video editing.  Who knew?

Smoky Mountains: making video editing easy for 200-300 million years.

Between the awesome video quality, the beautiful scenery, depth of field, my own humble skill and Vicki’s far superior camera work we came out with truly professional looking footage.  I couldn’t be happier and if I can ever figure out how the hell you get large files from a Mac to a PC (our new flash drive bought for just that purpose told me to go fuck myself) I will begin making the video.  Look for it probably around late January or early February.

Let’s see… What else happened?

We went to downtown Gatlinburg once (it was a very chill week, what can I say?  We’re not touristy) and if Pigeon Forge is garish, then Gatlinburg is quaint.  It’s actually pretty nice and it’s pretty fun to walk down the main street.  Lots of stuff to see and eat and nonsensical stuff to buy–if you want unusable weapons to hang on your wall then Gatlinburg is your knockoff weapon central!  Preserve stores, candy stores, beef jerky outlets, air rifle extravaganzas… It’s all there.

Jas and Vicki with bear photobomb in downtown Gatlinburg, TN. Right before they purchased air rifles and aluminum swords to knock over the beef jerky outlet.

We ate at the Little House Of Pancakes–our favorite breakfast joint in Gatlinburg; seriously, seriously good pancakes, for realz.  Their pancakes are just incredible.  They make you want to lie down in a bed of pancakes and then proceed to eat your bed of pancakes and order more pancakes cause you ate your bed and you may want to actually get some frigging sleep after eating all those pancakes.

We also discovered a brand new barbecue place which had just opened earlier this year and my friends, it fucking rocks!  The place is called Hungry Bear BBQ and if you find yourself in Gatlinburg, just go.  Trust me.  Delicious pork and pretty damn fine beef brisket–though, it ain’t Texas brisket (despite the claims of the wonderfully sweet lady running the joint) it’s still about as good as you can get without traveling all over the damn place.  The pork, though, was phenomenal.

Bears apparently take their barbecue very seriously--either that or he's off his meds. Regardless, if you see a sign like this, you eat the damn barbecue.

And what honeymoon or blog by me would be complete without slavish praise of glorious beer?  Well, we discovered a new one, kids and its name is Schlafly Coffee Stout!  Oh man oh man… If you’re a coffee drinker and you also happen to drink beer, this one is for you.  I, personally, cannot drink coffee as I am already far too high strung and drinking too much caffeine forces my speech to increase in speed to the point of infinite mass and results in the spaghettification of the listener (physics trolls may discuss below in the comments).

Regardless of my inability to prevent light speed speech after caffeine intake or my inability to pronounce “Schlafly” it is damn fine beer.  Roasted flavor, hint of coffee, a bit of kick and bitterness while remaining smooth and nutty, Schlafly is wonderful (note:  Schlafly, please make the check payable to Tiny Lion Records and we look forward to the 2012 Schlafly/Jas Patrick tour–though, I may be too drunk to perform).  Seriously though, check that beer out if you like browns/darks/flavored beers.

Pictured: Beer. Coffee beer at that! I like mixing my drugs.

I also enjoyed my old standby favorites:  Shipyard pumpkin ale, Saranac pumpkin ale, Lakefront pumpkin ale, Saranac Black and Tan, Yuengling Black and Tan (oh hell yeah), Einbecker Schwarzbier and Köstritzer Schwarzbier.  Ahhhh… Beer.

Excuse me, Sir; but would you mind moving your mountain? I'm trying to look at my beer.

I cooked some incredible steaks and we had stuffed portabellas and I doctored up some spaghetti sauce into a fine meaty/mushroomy goodness which we proceeded to enjoy with tortellini.  Food, glorious food and then more glorious beer.  One might even say it was glorious.  It was.

In summation, if you’ve not been to Gatlinburg, make sure you go.  Tell em Jas sent you and then moon them when they say “who?”

Stay tuned for a “making of” video of, well, the making of my new album and a truly beautiful video for a song which is on said new album.  The album drops February 28th 2012 and presales are starting soon!  Check www.jaspatrick.com frequently over the next month to reserve your copy and tell your friends, family, enemies and random people on the street.

Jas Patrick and Tiny Lion Records are not responsible for any knife induced injuries resulting from talking to random people on the street.

Oh, so a few things I forgot to mention in the post…

I bought Vicki the Adele Live at the Royal Albert Hall DVD/CD package for an early Xmas present and I have to say, it was pretty damn great.  The band is excellent, the videography is top notch and Adele sounds pretty damn fine (you can hear just a touch of the upcoming throat problems she would soon have; but you either have to be a vocal coach or a singer to pick up on it so no worries for the casual listener–besides, Adele on an off day is better than many on their best so no worries, Adele, you sounded great, BooBoo).  If you’re an Adele fan, this DVD is a must.  Vicki turned me on to Adele a ways back and I’m glad she did–excellent singer and a wonderful stage presence.  Check it out.

For you Phoebe fans (believe it or not, my cat Phoebe has her some internet buds who always ask about her), Little Miss made it into the new video that I mentioned in this blog and you’ll get to see her little Communist ass as she makes her music video debut in all her glory.

Finally, I hope you all have a great holiday season.  Eat well, drink even better and enjoy every minute of it and I look forward to hearing what you all think of the new album in the new year.  Thank you for reading and be well, my friends!

Cheers!  Prost!   Salud!  Viva!  Kampai!  Skal!  A sia saide!  A vortre sante!  Nien Nien nu!

This is what happens when you save a horse and ride a cowboy... Still think country music is cool? (sorry for the bigger pic; but holy ape balls and donkey shit!!! This is seriously fucked up--and it's animatronic! The damn thing moves and talks! I haven't slept in a week...)

Nothing says Feng Shui like bear tapestries. Vicki and I argued on whether this was a post modern reflection of the art deco style employed by the salmon period of noted Native American, nah, I'm just kidding... We stole it and it's in our bedroom now. Roar.

Seriously, they use bears in all their decorating in Gatlinburg; but no bullshit, try the pancakes here.

Hell of a view, ain't it? If you're gonna wake up after passing out, there's worse views...

The only rainy day was the day we left. Santa wept.

If the cabin's rocking, please call structural support services.

Seductive bear is seductive.

December. In the mountains. Yeah, that's right. I have an "in" with Santa. He's my dawg.

When in the mountains, take only what you need to survive. (and yes, that's a full size fridge awwwww yeeeeah)

My idols were always close at hand.

Meeting them?  No problem.

Were they accessible?  Sometimes.

Joining their ranks?  Took a damn long time.

But I finally did it.  I got to share the stage with my idols.  In fact, I’ve been doing it a lot lately, it seems.

No, I didn’t time travel and lop off a few heads with Alexander the Great.  Ditto “no” on chilling with Wolverine or Link (Legend of Zelda); though, for a short time, I did think I might secretly be a wizard or a Dragon Lord until I realized I was just really really fucking wasted–and it was only that seven times.

Now I realize if these things didn’t go down you’re probably wondering who the hell else can you idolize?  Politicians?  Fuck that.  You’d be better off idolizing the Mario Brothers.  At least they don’t lie about their shroom usage and invasions of other countries in search of coin (besides, Night Elves are far cooler).  Well, then who, damnit, jas?!!

I’m a-gonna tell ya, pard.  Believe it or not, I idolized a country music band.  A long running, tight as a duck’s ass, badass group of mofo’s that played together for nearly twenty years.  I idolized the Clint Black Band.

Now they’ve had several incarnations over the years but the core remained the same for nearly two decades.  I grew up listening to those guys, practicing to their albums and studying them when I got to see them live.  I never took lessons on any instrument; but I sure as shit stole, borrowed and studied every lick I could master watching these cats all my young life.  They set the bar for what a band should sound like for me.  I measured every garage band I was ever in by their standards and never stopped trying to play as smooth and as rock solid as they did.  I was obviously disappointed a lot.  Those dudes have been accused of lip syncing, miming playing their instruments and using backing tracks more times than I can recount.  They were that tight.

But Jas… Why them?  Why not Zeppelin?  Or Rush?  Or Falco?

Don’t get me wrong… I studied them too (especially Falco–I mean, who DIDN’T pick up an instrument because of “Rock Me Amadeus?”)  Well, my friends, the answer is simple…  My father played in the Clint Black Band.

Makes a little more sense now, yeah?  But it wasn’t just proximity.  Those dudes can really play.  Besides recording a bunch of number 1 hit songs for Clint in the studio, they were also his band since before he had a record deal and before he was famous.  They stuck with him and were largely responsible for giving him that great sound that so many people loved then and now.  Clint will probably always be best known for his first album “Killin’ Time” and those boys outdid themselves on that album.  It’s a country classic and a pretty damn fine album, regardless of whether you’re a fan or not.

But I’m not here to give you a history lesson.  The album’s there if you want to check it out and Clint certainly needs no introduction from me.  No, I want to tell you about this past Sunday when I got to jam with three of the original five members.  It was the first time I’d ever been able to play with my mentor, Clint’s long time drummer, Dick Gay.

Now all name jokes aside (trust me, no one has funnier rips on the man’s name than the man himself) that dude is a fucking bad motherfucker on drums.  No flash, no frills, just rock steady, stone cold grooves.  That dude is so in the pocket they call him lint.  He literally got up and made every drummer there stop and just watch him play; and he did it without playing anything other than the groove and a tasty fill every now and again.

Sifu Dick Gay: "Jas, you must learn to bend like a reed in the wind and master your destiny... Also, stop being fucking taller than me. Now... Go practice!"

To say I idolized this dude is a fucking misnomer, almost a joke.  I cannibalized every single recording this man ever did and practiced to every track for hours and hours a day.  Between Dick, Frank Beard, Steve Gadd and Richie Hayward I was so immersed in the groove pocket that I literally walked in rhythm–the sandworms on Arrakis would’ve munched my grooving ass in less time than most hardcore songs.  I must have played “Put Yourself In My Shoes” ten thousand times–and I’m probably not far off with that number.

See, the thing is, I wasn’t always a singer or a guitar player–though, I’ve been a songwriter since I was fourteen.  I started out on drums when I was four years old.  It wasn’t too long after that dad started playing with Clint; so as a very young little drummer (and a rather poor one at that) I didn’t have a lot of ways to pick up new information that I could readily understand and translate into something that I could reproduce.  I’m a very visual learner and I don’t really have to be taught, per se, but it helps for someone to demonstrate, even if they don’t realize they’re demonstrating.  With most things, if I see someone do it, I can at least approximate.  It took me awhile to be able to just hear it and be able to play it–that came after building a more solid foundation, and that’s where Mr. Gay became my mentor.

I knew all the songs by heart because my mom jammed her some Clint Black around the hizzie.  I knew all the words, knew all the structures; but I didn’t necessarily (at first) grasp how to put it into play–no puns here, bitches.  So when we’d go to a show and/or a soundcheck, I’d just stand to the side and watch how Dick played all the songs.  The great thing was, if you watched them live, you might as well have been listening to the album.  Those dudes played extremely well together and Clint was very much of the mind (at the time) to reproduce his live shows very similarly to his albums.  It was the perfect way for me to learn and learn I did.  I practiced his stuff so much and had it so clocked that I was able/allowed to sit in with the band while they were soundchecking before a show.  I was about nine or ten years old.  The coolest part was that some of the stage workers and sound guys didn’t even realize Dick wasn’t playing.  I couldn’t have been happier about it.

But I never thought I’d ever actually get to play WITH him–Clint didn’t use two drummers and that’s not normally something that gets to happen very much.  Most country acts don’t emulate the Allman Brothers, ya feel me?  Enter my drummer Ed Simpson and his lovely wife Kay.

Good people, man. Seriously some of the best. Thanks to Ed and Kay!

Ed and Kay put on a house party/show every year and invite every damn awesome musician they can find to come and jam, drink and eat until everyone is falling over with fatigue.  As Ed and I had only recently met and started playing music together, this was my first year going.  Here’s where it’s cool…

Ed, besides being a phenomenally talented drummer, is also a phenomenally talented audio engineer and road manager.  He’s worked with Warren Haynes and Gov’t Mule, The Screaming Cheetah Wheelies, The Dave Matthews Band, Hole and a shitload more.  Well, back in the day, ole Brother Ed also did some work with Clint and the gang.  True story:  back then, Ed and my father talked about my father’s little son who played drums and was “amazing for a little guy who can barely reach the kick drum pedal.”  Flattered, obviously, but the funny thing is, who the fuck would’ve ever thought Ed would end up playing for me?  Small, wild, cool world.

So anyway, Ed always invites most of the Clint Black band to come to the party/jam and they nearly always come.  There I was, playing my music in front of all my idols.  Better yet, they couldn’t have been cooler and more into what I was doing.  Each one took the time to hang out and tell me how great they thought my stuff was and were all amazingly complimentary of my voice and songs.  It was a great day; but that even the half of it.

There were a number of amazing musicians at this shindig and we all took turns playing our stuff and jamming with each other.  Ed, being a drummer and inviting no less than five great drummers, had the foresight to set up two kits.  When Mississippi Millie (a crazy talented Delta blues singer and now a great friend) got up to tear it up with her set, Dick got up to play with her.  After he’d run a track with my Bro and sometimes drummer Tim Thurber (another amazing player) Dick yelled “where’s Jas?”

Brother Tim letting everyone know his favorite sports team is liquor--mine too.

You better believe my ass flew over to the other drum set and we rocked out a couple tunes together.  It was a dream come true.  I got to play with the guy who taught me more about drums just by answering a few questions and letting a pesky little kid hang around during soundcheck than highschool band and college band combined.  It was really a great day.

But the cool thing was, it didn’t end there.  Nope.

I have two more idols from that band.  The first, you already know if you know anything about me or dig my music.  You’ve heard his mighty-ass bass tone all over nearly every single track on both my albums–though, at the time of this writing, only one has been released.  “Working On My Soul,” my first album, contains no less than thirteen out of eighteen tracks that feature his playing–a couple I played bass myself and the others don’t have bass.  On my new EP “Tributaries,” he played on all the tracks (scheduled to release February 28th, 2012–PRESALE COMING SOON!!!  GO TO WWW.JASPATRICK.COM FOR DETAILS!)

I, of course, speak of the great Jake Willemain.

Jake is one of those bass players that simply cannot play out of time or out of the pocket.  If you speed up, he’s right there with you.  He’s so intuitively in time and in the groove that I sometimes fuck with the tempo just to see what happens… What happens is he makes you sound like you’re some sort of classical music conductor-maestro that has mastered the art of fluid timing.  Yes, he’s that fucking good.  But it doesn’t stop there, oh no–he also has tone for days and is as tasteful a musician as I have ever known.  Don’t get it twisted, he can fill any style, song or approach with as much or as little as anyone could want; but the beauty is he just always seems to augment rather than cover or overplay any groove.  I know, I know… I make him sound like a superman or some shit.  If I am, I apologize.  Superman couldn’t touch this fucking guy on bass.  Respect.

Now this is where the cool factor goes right the fuck off the chart, booboo.  Not only did I get to play with Jake, but I also got to rehearse with Jake a couple days prior to the party.  Jake and my main brosephus Ed got together and reached out to me to see about playing some of my shit at the party.  What’s cooler than that, amirite?  Simmer down now, chillen’s and let me tell you what’s cooler.  Jake is also in my band.

Pictured: Jake in a rare moment when not actively rocking your ass out; though, one look has been known to induce rhythmic head nodding in lab animals.

I’ve formed a new band.  For now, we’re calling it the Jas Patrick Trio and we’re booking shows as I type this–much love to Mac and Vicki for booking the shows… I couldn’t do it without you guys and I love you both.  The shows will be coming soon to a town geographically feasibly visited within a day’s driving distance from Nashville.  Awww yeah.  We’re coming to you, boo.  So make sure you keep an eye on my facebook and my website for shows in your town.

Scuse me whilst I bust a move.

Thank you.

Moving on…

Yeah man, I couldn’t be more fucking stoked.  I, little Jas, get to play with two cats who are two of the best players I have ever met and are most definitely two of the nicest, coolest and most easy going dudes I know.  I couldn’t be happier or more excited.  Oh, and wait till you hear us.  We had one hour and half rehearsal and we absolutely killed it at the party.  Everyone was jamming out, man.  It was really something.

We played my new EP in its entirety and gave the folks there a nice preview of what’s to come; but the coolest part is yet to be told…

On my new EP “Tributaries” I have a song that’s kind of a Latin, rock, Soul (vocal) burner–you guys know me and my world influences.  The cool thing is that it’s not obscure or “odd” at all!  It’s actually totally accessible and it will definitely get your ass moving.  The folks at the party loved it.  Everyone who has heard it loves it.  Think of a stone cold Latin groove like “Oye Como Va;” either Santana or Tito Puente–either will be fine.  Now, put a huge, straight, groove-rock beat over the very syncopated Latin groove.  Then, on the chorus, double the speed and feel and rock that shit out.  That would give you an idea of my song “Call It Home.”

In the studio on “Call It Home,” I played a ton of percussion–mostly Latin:  Timbale, guiro, claves, cowbell, shaker, congas and so on and so forth.  Well, for the party, I brought my djembe because I knew there would be a ton of drummers there and I wanted to make sure we could get some sick rhythm section shit happening.  This will come into play in a moment…

When I first got up to play, Ed and Kay asked me to play some old stuff, new stuff, whatever I wanted on my acoustic and just jam solo (Kay, Ed, I love you guys–thank you a million times over for all the support and friendship and encouragement; you guys are true friends and I can’t tell you enough how glad I am that we’re able to work together to make this music).  So, solo acoustic was the name of the game for a few tunes and the crowd couldn’t have been cooler–really made your brother Jas feel great and welcome.

After I had played a short-ish set, it was time for Ed and Jake to join me to play my new EP.  We rocked out the first couple of songs and the crowd was loving us.  Then we kicked off “Call It Home.”  As we’re playing, I start hearing this rocking djembe part and I figured Tim or another drummer had got up and just had some uncanny sense to know exactly what I played on the album.  I opened my eyes and looked over and lo and behold, there was my first idol.  The man who inspired me to play music and who has helped me grow into the musician I am today.  Hell, he STILL helps me keep the shit real and demand the best of myself.

People, I tell you, I turned around to see who the hell could possibly know my music which is unreleased and unknown to all but a few and looked my father square in the eye.  He had got up and was playing the conga line to my song which he could have only possibly heard a few times–and he was fucking KILLING it.  Just nailing it, man.  It was awesome.

I looked over at Jake and Ed and they were grinning and digging it.  I tell you, people… I could’ve have grooved that song for twenty minutes if I had had the foresight to write that song in a jam band style.  It just floored me.

Now, my dad is a remarkable steel guitar, dobro, lap steel, melobar and slide player–seriously one of the finest steel guitar players on the planet.  The man pisses excellence in tone, taste, style and melody.  I have never heard him play out of tune (a REAL fucking accomplishment for any fretless instrument, let alone steel guitar) and he is factually one of the only steel guitar players I’ve ever heard utilize the instrument for something other than the broke-dick, cry in your beer, whine fest in which it is usually put to practice.  No no.  This cat turned steel guitar into a fucking rock god’s wet dream.  You should hear him wail on that thing with some overdrive.  No faking the funk with this cat, no sir.

But the fact of the matter is, he’s a middling drummer at best.  The graveyard is full of middling drummers (thanks for the paraphrase HBO’s “Rome”).  No disrespect; but Pop ain’t no drummer.  Great timing and feel does not a drummer make if the “drummer” in question ain’t no drummer.  Yet, there he stood!  Fucking rocking the djembe like he was fresh out of a drum circle!  Couldn’t believe it, man.  So fucking cool…

Well, the night wore on and the jams got long and obscure and silly and just fantastic.  A good time was had by all and no one more psyched than yer ole buddy jas.  I haven’t had a better day in a long time.  It was truly a day I’ll always remember.

Not only did I get to stand on the same stage as my idols; but they also acknowledged my step into their realm.  I wasn’t just a little kid pulling their shirttails saying, “Hey Spike, Hey Spike!”  I was one of them.  I was a player.  The real deal.

Hell, if Clint would ever retire I’d hire the whole lot of them!  Just kidding, Clint, man.  If you would’ve been there, I would’ve written about getting to jam with four of my idols instead of just three.  But man, a full house is a full house regardless of whether you have kings or aces.

Insane love and respect and gratitude to Ed, Kay, Jake, Dad, Dick and all the other great players with whom I got to jam on Sunday.  You’ve got a fan in me and I thank you all for making this cat realize how loved he really is.

And, of course, if you’re reading this… Thank YOU for taking the time to read my words and make sure you get your free music–the link is in the top right hand corner of this blog or my website:  www.jaspatrick.com

I hope to play for you all soon and make sure to share this and my music with your friends and families and I hope you get to have a similar experience in your lives.  There’s never enough happiness to go around and I’m glad to be sharing mine with you.  Thank you for listening.

A great day.

Now, we know that I love beer.  Who doesn’t?  Beer is glorious.  Gangsta Vicki loves beer also.  She mainly rolls with 40′s and all that sort of thing; cause, ya know, she’s gangsta, dig?  But Gangsta-V, or V-Diddy if you prefer, kind of got me going on the more robust ales and hoppy dranks.  I’d always been a “cheap” beer kind of dude.  In college I drank “The Beast” and sometimes ‘Frat Light.’  Those, of course, would be Milwaukee’s Best and Natural Light.  Ah, yes… I loved those beers.  In fact, I drank “The Beast” red label.  Oh yeah, motherfucker… No light beer for this cat.  No sir.  Full bodied flavor for a skinny ass drummer dude.  I mean, more alcohol content and who gave a shit about calories back then, amirite?  I was totes “whatev’s” back in the day, dawg.

I thought Miller Lite was “good” beer.  Guess what?  I STILL think Miller Lite is a good everyday beer.  Hell, I drink Budweiser Select 55 as my everyday beer–either that or Michelob Ultra; but I still, to this day, get stoked when I realize that I can totally by myself a twelve of Miller Lite if I want to. You never lose that–I don’t think you ever should.  If it’s fancy once, it’s always fancy.  It’s when we grow too big to enjoy the good things in life and feel that we require the “good” things in life that we just miss the fucking point, in my very humble opinion.  I like all three of those beers and I don’t roll with beer snobs who insist on touting a microbrew as the reason they deserve the oxygen they breathe and/or validate lack of erections and absence of personality.  No offense to microbrews, either–I enjoy quite a few of them as well.  I just don’t get why if you view something as “better” than something else that you have to disparage the thing that isn’t quite as fancy.  Fuck snobbery.  It’s just another instance of someone knowing about something that you don’t know about–and believing this knowledge somehow makes them better than another.  Why that would ever make someone cool is beyond me.  Good is good.

Theobold McDouchebaugh, last seen wearing two popped collars and a sweater tied around his neck. Authorities believe he was beaten to death by a rogue band of six year old girls.

Moving right the hell along…

As I said, I love beer.  I also love wine; but I ain’t blogging about wine today.  Nope.  Today is beer.  And not just any ole beer.  No way, home-skillet.  No, today we’re talking about seasonal brews and a very specific seasonal brew at that… (yes, i’m lending gravitas to this because pumpkin ale is the shiznittobangbang)

And O’ Brethren and Sistren!  I speak of the glorious pumpkin ale!!!

Let me step off the pulpit a bit and tell you how I came upon this glorious concoction of spicy-alcoholic-goodness.

You see, four score and seven…  Yeah, I don’t exactly remember.  I just remember it was right around the time I got married.  You see, we loaded up our truck with booze to take to the mountains and one of the types of beer we took with us was Einbecker Schwarzbier.  Well, we loved that black lager so much that we decided to go see if they had any more when we got back from our honeymoon.  They didn’t… BUT, I saw something that would forever change my autumn drinking habits… Pumpkin ale.  Shipyard Pumpkinhead Ale.

-Cue glorious choirs of angels-

First off, it’s a badass looking bottle and label.  Second, it tasted crisp and spicy and pumpkin-y and awesome.  I LOVE pumpkin pie with whipped cream.  I love pumpkin seeds (roasted with garlic salt and pepper).  I loved carving pumpkins when I was a kid.  Fucking pumpkins are so much cooler than any other gourd-like squash in the entire fucking world.  Suck it, other gourd-like squashes!

Mostly, I was just stoked I had found a new type of beer that somehow made autumn better, ya dig?

If you know me or have read enough of this here blog, you’ll know that I absolutely love autumn.  Summer blows, dude.  Yeah, yeah, I get it… Chicks in bikinis, dudes in banana hammocks… No big whoop for me.  It’s too damn hot.  It’s fine if you’re outside a lot; but I’m almost always chained to a desk.  So fuck summer.  Besides, thanks to genetics, I’m at a higher risk for skin cancer and like, fuck that, ya feel me?  Not worth it.  I fucking love the beach; but last time I checked, Nashville is landlocked until Cloverfield or Cthulhu decide to bite off most of the states east of us.

Yep. That's apparently a very decidedly female Cthulhu and he... er, she is wearing a bikini. I thought it might be a longshot; but I should have been assured I'd find it on the internet. Never doubt the internet, my friends... And be careful in your searches; for that way lies madness.

Well, barring any Old God snacking on North Carolina (no pic of that, sorry), I am landlocked, I do not really love summer and I like pumpkin products and beer.  Moving right along…

At present, I have tasted four different kinds of pumpkin ale:

Saranac Pumpkin Ale

Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale

Lakefront Pumpkin Lager

Shipyard Pumpkinhead Ale

I like them all for different reasons.  I have been holding off writing this blog because I had not yet found a store carrying my beloved Shipyard Pumpkinhead.  But now, all that has changed…

I hold in my hand, an ice cold frosty mug full to the brim with the pimp of pumpkin, the Voivode of autumn brew, that difficult to find but worth the search ale known as the Head of Pumpkin.  Now.  Let us drink…

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…

Nutmeg.  Cream.  Pumpkin.  Cinnamon.  Light.  Rich.  Exactly as I remember it tasted.  Glorious.

“That’s all very nice, Jas; but this is a blog and we’re not drinking what you’re drinking so get to the frigging point, you ass-bag!”  I imagine is probably close to what you’re saying; though, you may have called me an ass-clown–sometimes my inner psychic stops listening when you get pissy.  Alas, you are correct.  I shall not bother to try to tell you how it tastes or dance and taunt you verbally while flipping you the finger.  No, dear friend… Not I.  There are many other blogs that will describe the taste for you and I will let them do it.  (clicky the link for a well-written synopsis of the taste of pumpkinhead ale.  I do not know the young lady who has written the rather apt ode to our beloved Shipyard; but she does a far better job than me and does it with nice words instead of naughty, potty-type like yer ole buddy Jas).

Rather, I shall continue the tale of how Pumpkinhead and I became acquainted.

As I said, we were back from our honeymoon and we had gone in search of more Einbecker Schwarzbier–also a more difficult beverage to find in Nashville.  Well, we didn’t find Einbecker but I looked around the store until I saw something that made my breath catch in my chest and my eyes widen in disbelief.  Pumpkin beer?  Not only that, but a bitching cool label of a headless horseman (only with his pumpkin head on his shoulders instead of chilling in his hand) brandishing a glass of his namesake brew.  Now, you know I love me some video games and shit and I love myths and legends; so this label really caught the attention of my inner young drunk.

Let us pray...

I said something along the lines of, “PURE STOKE!”  Or maybe it was, “MY!  WHAT A FUCKING LOVELY MOTHERFUCKING LABEL!  I DECLARE I SHOULD LIKE TO SQUIRT THIS SHIT DOWN MY TUBE!”  It was probably unintelligible and involved a lot of excited hooting and whining at my wife to loan me tree-fiddy so I could buy it–cause, you know, singers be shopping and musicians be broke these days.  Regardless, I cradled my treasure all the way home which is very hard to do and still drive; but I’ve seen people doing ninety on the interstate doing all of the following at once:

Smoking, drinking, eating, talking on the phone, changing lanes, flipping me off and applying makeup.

I figured holding my beer so no one looked at it wrong would be okay.

It was.

I saved the first drink for a special occasion so I could sit down and really dissect the flavor.  I didn’t want to rush into it and just guzzle it without really being able to enjoy the taste–or not enjoy the taste and try to figure out what would make someone make a pumpkin ale.  Yeah, I basically paced back and forth in front of the freezer until it was cold enough to drink–sigh… Okay, I’m lying.  I cracked it before my wife had opened the front door.  The point is that it was a flavor unlike anything I had ever tasted.  It tastes like autumn and honeymoon and holidays and a roaring fire and turkey dinner and my wife’s toes after wrestling in pumpkin pie after a few too many…

Ahem.

Too many pumpkin beers and your wife's toes are only the start of things you probably shouldn't mention in polite blog company.

It fucking rocks, Brah!

Yes, I realize that I may have associated the flavor with a good time in my life and therefore have a soft spot; but it’s more than that.  Shipyard is glorious.  No question.  Beer advocate does not agree with me.  That’s okay.  They’re excellent at what they do; but one should always remember to use a critic’s opinion as merely that–an opinion.  Hipsters hate Coldplay.  But I dig em.  It’s okay to disagree.  Drink what you like and what you like will… Ummm… Okay, so I don’t have an adage for that; but just trust me.  Critics can RAVE over complete dog shit sometimes.  They’re not always going to be right, especially in matters of taste.

Again, moving right the hell along…

I was only able to find one six pack of Pumpkinhead ale last year–by the time I knew about it and had luckily bought a sixer it was far too late to find any more.  Believe me when I tell you that I used the remaining five sparingly.  Unfortunately, six beers only last so long, ya feel me?  Therefore, I knew this year I should totally be prepared to buy up all the damn pumpkin ale I could find.  I succeeded to a point.  I found lovely and glorious Saranac and Lakefront and to a lesser degree, but still refreshingly enjoyable, Blue Moon.

Alas, it was not until today that I found Pumpkinhead.

For that reason, I want to give a very thankful shout-out to Lewis’ Cigars and Brews in Nashville TN.  If you are looking for a great cigar and beer shop, then this is your joint.  There are several places in town that I dig; but man, Steve over at Lewis’ C&B was just an awesome dude.  I called over there and not only did he have my Shipyard; but he had it at a great price and very amiably chatted me up about great brews and smokes.  The place is really nice and clean and comfortable inside.  When in Nashville, pop over there and tell him Jas says hi.  Oh yeah, join up on his email list and you get a 5% discount on your brews–%10 on your stogie.

Some schmuck touching my frigging Pumpkinhead ale. That guy just looks like trouble... But... Ummm... You should definitely buy his album.

So as before stated, I’m really not your guy if you like actual reviews or synopses about… Well, anything!  I tend to write in a stream of consciousness style and therefore suck it.  Ahem, what I mean is THHHHPPPPBBBBB!!!

I ain’t writing no damn term paper here!  I’m enjoying a nice cold beverage and giving shout-outs to other nice cold beverages.

But seriously, folks.  If you’re never tried a pumpkin ale before, then you’re missing out.  They’re all different and they’re (so far) all wonderful.  Saranac and Lakefront are just fucking incredibly great.  Shipyard Pumpkinhead is the very same.  If you’re more into just a hint of pumpkin and spice and not a fan of the sweeter varieties, then Blue Moon is your bag.

I don’t recommend drinking any of these one after another.  My thought on that is always more like, start with the heavier or sweeter or more novelty brews.  Have one or two.  Move on to your everyday beer.  These “nicer” beers or shall we say, ‘flavored’ beers really do taste better in single or double servings.  More than that and it starts to lose its panache, its character and moreover, you couldn’t fucking tell the difference between em after a few anyway.  Why waste them?

Good beer and wine are not for the guzzling.  They’re your fancy friends.  They’re your friends that you want to think that you’re a wine and sushi cat all week long.  Sip em.  Cool out with em.  Then go party with your club friends.

…

Holy fuck balls, dude…

I’m talking like a hipster again!

I need some cheap beer.

Excuse me.  I need to go turn on the foosball game and put my hand down the front of my pants.  GO TEAM!

In all seriousness, thanks and mad love and respect to Saranac, Lakefront, Shipyard, Blue Moon and Lewis’ Cigars and Brews; you all make and sell great products!  Thanks for being good sports.  Cheers!

I wrote a welcome blog when I first started jotting down dreck a few years back and it took a few years for me to transfer those thoughts from a notepad to this flashy-screen thingy we all love so damn much.  Vicki was pretty busy building my website and didn’t have time to get me all set up on a blog.  Yes, yes, I realize that a chipmunk can create their own blog these days; but she wanted to integrate it with the site and I’m lazy and a Neo-Luddite (not really–I actually champion science like it’s a religion.  Let us calculate…)

I swore to myself I wouldn’t be “cute” or ‘get into character’ like I normally do on here and I would really try to answer the question I’ve heard a time or two now… “Why the hell are you blogging, dude?”

The most obvious answer would be, “Why the hell not, dude?”

The rest is simply nuance and bullshit or personality quirk or bullshit.  I’m not entirely sure… But there I go, being “cute” again.  The fact of the matter is that my music and my writing are two very separate and very different things; but they’re both part of the same muscle, really.  The creative muscle.  I have to flex that muscle.  I have to flex it a lot.

Moving beyond sexual and juvenile connotations of the last couple of lines, I suppose I just love to entertain people.

“Well, why are you such a potty mouth and big meanie in your blogs?”  (This question I get quite a bit and it’s usually followed very quickly by something along the lines of ‘Your music is pretty and nice.’)

I could quote “Full Metal Jacket” and say something about the ‘duality of man;’ but it’s really just me being a character.  For those of you who know and have met her, you should know that my wife–lovingly referred to frequently in this blog as “Gangsta Vicki” and is usually supposedly either beating me or brandishing a firearm–is neither ‘gangsta’ nor violent.  She hates guns and usually only beats me when I deserve it–I kid I kid.  But, as you can see, that’s not how she really behaves, thinks or how people view her.  It’s just a character to add some color to my blog.  I like characters.  So do you.  Snooki.  Snooki is a character.  TRUST me when I tell you a lot of the shit you see in reality TV is scripted.

Not real.

I have “created” a similar character for myself.  Am I normally foul-mouthed?  Sure.  Sometimes.  Do I run around screaming the accolades of video games and movies at the drop of a hat and at great length?  Sure.  Sometimes.

You get the point, methinks.

Chances are, if you met me, you would think I was charming and friendly enough and wouldn’t think twice about it–I’m not Lady Gaga or anything (neither is Lady Gaga, for that matter).  I write this not only as a creative purge but also to make MYSELF laugh from time to time.  Honestly, I probably laugh more at my blog than anyone I know that reads it and that is undoubtedly fact.

You see, I can’t always be in the studio or be on stage; but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be.  As stated, I love to entertain people–I always have.  Sometimes I try too hard, this blog is no exception; but other times I’m in the zone and it all comes out great.  I know I’ve probably “said” something in this blog that may have gotten your goat or possibly even pissed you off; but that’s okay.  You’ll live.  So will I.  I think people are a little too uptight; especially internet people.

People on the internet actually go looking for shit to piss them off.  Think I’m wrong?  I’m guessing you’ve got a Facebook account if you’re reading this.  Has someone commented on your post or even more likely, just made a post of their own that you didn’t like?  Did you say something to them?  If not, then let’s go with them starting it… Did you fire back?  Did you spend more than 30 seconds formulating a retort–crafting the most perfect, kick-ass “burn” that would totally make the entire internet point at their stupidity and laugh?

Don’t lie.

Yes you have.

If it wasn’t Facebook, it was YouTube or some random forum.  SOMEONE pissed you off and you got into a little internet battle–excuse me, I meant an epic crusade against the foul denizens of a dark world known only as “online asshole central.”  Now, more to the point, after you wrote your awesome, come-back-bitch slap (that TOTALLY should go in the Louvre for its sheer wit) how many times did you check for a response from your victim?  I’m betting a whole metric shit ton of times, amirite?  Yeah, don’t lie.  You know you did.  I have done it.  Everyone has done it.  It’s okay… You’re amongst friends.

I kind of went down a rabbit hole here, so let’s just simply state that if I got your goat or pissed you off, it was both intentional and not personal.  Yes, I said intentional.  Character.  Remember?

I LOVE the angry nerd rants that abound online.

The Nostalgia Critic.

The Angry Video Game Nerd.

The Spoony Experiment.

Cracked.com.

Todd In The Shadows.

The Nostalgia Chick.

Sage Reviews.

Talent doesn't always come with a huge production budget.

All excellent, humorous satire sites/characters.  You may notice a similarity in style of my own meager writings with these guys and girls.  We’re all from a similar school of thought.  I love the embracing of “nerd” culture that online has created.  It’s made for some seriously wonderful entertainment.  These actors and writers and critics are all just rapping about shit they dig and having a blast doing it–and also, by proxy, pissing off loads of nameless internet dwellers.  They’re all famous for their blogs and I am not and I still get people taking jabs at me for blogs.  Funny really; but it couldn’t be any less important.  Trolls are gonna troll and they’re just a part of the landscape.  Besides, trolls with an actual point of view or a disagreement that they can back up beyond name calling are welcome to comment same as the rest of you.  I have no problems with discussion.

Pictured: The internet about to have a discussion

Meandering now a bit, sorry…

So anyhowdy, I write because I enjoy creating and it’s a little madcap or over the top because I find that a helluva lot more entertaining (both to write as well as read) than me telling you about playing the tambourine in the studio.  Now, I do let you know what’s going on with shows and when I’m finished in the studio or going back in; but there’s no reason to write seven blogs about seven different drum tracks.  That’s boring shit.  I find it much more interesting to talk nostalgic video games or muse on movies or tell you about a cool album I dig or whatever.

Fear not, though… I’m not some horrible person who hates homeless people and shacks up with a crazy gangsta chick while doing nothing but writing blogs and playing World of Warcraft all the live long day.

Nope.

That’s just fiction.

I don’t have very much time to play World of Warcraft anymore.

No.  I’m sorry.  It’s actually called “STOP LISTENING TO BULLSHIT, YOU POP-TART LOVING SIMPLETON!!!”

Shit.

I know I know the name of this damn blog…

I think I’m getting it confused with all the colorful comments and commentators which simply abound when one camp or another disagrees with semicolon placement–no bullshit, the cream readers (some of them anyway) can be rather touchy when it comes to music that other people listen to and write about.  You know how the internet do.

So back to the name… “Pavement?”

Nope.  But I’m close now, I can feel it.

AHA!  The Cream.  The Nashville Cream.  Daz it right dere!

Seriously folks, don’t forget to tip your waiter.  Moving right the hell along…

As I stated above with a linky-poo, I have written about the Cream before.  It was a bad blog.  I wasn’t very good at blogging yet–not that I am now, either; but shut up.  It was bad for other reasons as well:

I had only been reading the blog for a little while when I wrote it–now that may seem strange since the blog was dated from last year; but it was actually written years ago on a notepad and I decided to put it down for posterity.  Even then, I had far more than just a cursory understanding of what they do over there; but as stated, shut up–and also I wasn’t very good at blogging yet.

Therefore, the blog came off not as well as one would hope.  It sounds like I don’t like the Cream; when in fact, I absolutely do.  I STILL don’t know about all the bands they write about; but that’s the fucking point, nay?  They write about bands I don’t know about so I can have the opportunity to GET TO KNOW the bands they’re talking about.  What a novel idea, eh?  Yeah, I’m a schmuck.  I just didn’t know it before.

"We don't take kindly to yer type o' comments roun' these here parts... Best to move along afore we write out a three point thesis on YOUR MOMMA, BITCH!!!!111!!11!!1!!"

There’s another reason the original blog was shit and that’s because I was trying to be cool and snarky like what I envisioned the Cream writers and commentators were like.  Wrong again.  Well, maybe not “wrong” but I just didn’t do it as well.  See, snarky sells.  Hell, half the reason I kept reading the Cream was BECAUSE of the snark; but it’s real easy to confuse the comments with the content over there–it’s a real town meeting kind of feel and everyone is free to jump right the fuck on in and put in your seventeen cents.  For the most part, the writers and contributors do not really stoop to muck slinging; but the commentators most certainly do–and with very little provocation.  It makes it fun.  Believe it or not, it really is kind of fun.

Now, I know I’m a shit writer and I could give a rat’s ass, so no need to repeat that fact.  Having been a blogger for a lot longer (over 60 something published blogs at this point) than I was when I wrote the original Cream blog, I have learned that they’re actually pretty goddamn good at what they do.  I have reviewed a few albums now–well, “reviewed” is probably a more apt way to put it, truthfully.

I’m not really a reviewer of anything.  Nope.  I’m a satirist.  Or a prose-writer-guy-humorist?  Or maybe a neo-piss-off-with-your-classifications-thhppppbbb-person?  I’m also a bit of a stream of consciousness writer.  Stream of shit writer, sometimes; but shut up.  I learned early on that I have a problem concentrating on anything for more than I like Doritos.  It’s bloody hard to review something that someone has never heard/seen/felt/experienced and give them a sense of what to expect.  It really is.

Now, the Cream doesn’t do a helluva lot of reviews; but they do keep loads of fresh content up daily (week-daily).  Also, hard to do.

Hey, fuck it, my hat’s off and I wrote a shitty opening blog for them.  I’m showing integrity by leaving it up and also laziness as I could easily go back and edit the fuck out of that bitch and make it smell like noodles are good with garlic and butter–damn attention span!

So now that the Cream knows I love them and all is well with the world, let’s get to the point.  The Cream has turned Five Years Old!  Congrats, Creamers!

The Cream: "Yes, yes... I just turned five; but what concerns me is your 'playlist.' If I can call it that..."

They had themselves a nice little bash at Third Man Records.  I went.  I put on my best bandana and combed my hair before putting that bitch on, too!  We went with our former intern-turned-marketing-coordinator-turned-number-one-homie:  Rachel.  I won’t give you Rachel’s last name; but you can call her Rachel Pimpniblet.  You all know my wife, Gangsta Vicki–she brought her fancy, club-glock pistol.  Yeah, we were dressed up and ready to rock out with the Creamers.  And rock out we did.  Oh dear, Apollo in the sky with diamonds, did we rock out.

Apparently the shindig was sponsored by Heineken and they kept the beer cold.  Werd.

I was disappointed a little–I was expecting a total hipster fest and that the PBR would flow like diatribe…  No such luck.  I barely saw a single hipster.  Apparently, the mustaches have been shaven and they’re blending in–either that or the whole hipster Mythos is exactly that.  I was still rather saddened…  I wanted to observe them in their natural habitat.  Who knows?  Maybe I’d let them smell my hand and we could be friends or something, right?  That’s what you do with hipsters, right?  Don’t show your teeth and pretend like you’re eating if they show any signs of hostility?

Well, I was mad out of luck.

No real stereotypes to speak of and it seemed life would be, yet again, less of a easily classified 80′s sitcom and more of a nuanced, living experience; still, hipsters are cute little fuckers and you just want to pinch their cheeks, amirite?

ahem

I mentioned that everyone was rocking out, didn’t I?  Well, if I didn’t, then I am now.  Everyone was rocking out.  The night started with Evan P. Donohue rocking the Buddy Holly shades and also rocking in actuality.  I won’t even bother to try to “review” or explain the music of any of the bands–no offense to any of them; but I fucking suck at trying to explain music with language (either written or otherwise).  Those sorts of endeavors, I leave to the Cream.  Gangsta Vicki really digs Evan P. and we’ve seen him before at the Belmont Best of the Best Showcase 2011.  I’ve not yet gotten around to checking his album yet–again, Vicki-diggity really likes it; but I’m far too busy being delicious.  Seriously though, Evan, much love, Brosephus, I’ll get to it soon.  Regardless, the dude puts on a damn fine live show.  Well done, Sir.

Next, we were treated to a surprise–well, a surprise for me–Tristen absolutely blew me away.  Now, I have read about Tristen nearly every week for-freaking-ever on the Cream.  I’d not been to a show (more’s the pity) and all I’d seen is what I’d been linked to in a various Cream blogs.  You’d think I would have picked up on her talent; but for some damn reason, the only stuff I had ever heard out of her was a lot of old school country.  Like fifties shit, ya dig?  Look, I’m down with “Lovesick Blues” by Hank Williams Sr. as much as anyone–I’m listening to it now, as a matter of fact; but I mean, really?  Fifties-style country?  Meh.  Double meh.

I had no idea what that chica was capable of and she flat out pimp-slapped my totally clueless ass across the face.  Good for her.  I learned something yesterday.  Werd.

Pictured: Tristen keeping her pimp hand strong.

Yeah, I enjoyed her set the most out of all the bands last night.  Gangsta Vicki and I ended up at Grimey’s World Motherfucking Famous record store today–I love that place–and I was so taken with Tristen’s song “Eager For Your Love” that we bought her album ‘Charlatans At The Garden Gate.’  Great song with a great chorus and we’re looking forward to checking out the rest of the LP.  Easily one of the best singers I’ve heard out of the local Nashville artists and you know how tough I am on vocalists–they get away with murder in the name of “rock” and I can assure you, Tristen can fucking wail.  Go on with your bad self.

Finally, probably the most loved local band in Nashville now and for as long as I’ve payed attention–The Features.  Two things about these dudes:

They were tight.

They were loud.

Rachel Pimpniblet loved them.

Gangsta Vicki dug them; but they were at an 11 and she needed them at a 7.

I enjoyed watching them and appreciating how polished the sound and show was but GAWDDAMN dem mofo’s was fucking loud, brah!  My molars were rattling in my head–no shit, my fucking teeth hurt.  I had to roll out after the first set–they did an encore.  I’m in the studio, yo…  Shit that loud fucks with your “highs” and ‘mids’ and you won’t be able to sing for shit when you lose your hearing.  I can appreciate a tight band; but I’m not fucking up my ability to hear my own compositions for anyone.

The light of this is that they sounded fucking great outside.  They sounded fucking great inside as well; but who the fuck could tell?  Just picture festival/stadium sound in a smallish club–yeah, ouch.

That shit aside, I dig The Features.  I like the scream voice of the singer–he sounds best when he’s screaming his ass off.  The drummer and bass player are great.  I especially dig the drummer.  Bro-hammer can play.  You’d dig him.  Laypersons love it when drummers are animated and making a “show” of it–dude does all that and more.  Great drummer.

Key player?  Sorry, dawg… Couldn’t hear you for shit, brah… Too much goddamn kick drum and guitar.  Maybe next time.

As per my usual, I am now at near 2000 words… I believe I’ve given credit where it was due and I am now tired of blogging.  My blogging beer is nearly consumed and I now hunger for Chicken Tikka Masala.  I shall be fed.

In summation, the Cream party was a real blast and we all enjoyed ourselves immensely.  If one or more of the above bands are not your cup of tea, then simply check out the other ones.  If none of them float your boat, then look up at the top upper right hand side of this screen–you should be able to see a link that will allow you to download my entire debut album FOR FREE.  If you don’t like that either then there’s simply no hope for you and you should probably just listen to Michele Bachmann screech about how she has the power to make the gasoline fairy lower gas prices and end the long time problem of the world-not-having-enough-chicken-mcnuggets.  Cause, you know, there’s probably a totally rad remix of that somewhere on the interwebz.

"And for my next illusion, I'm going to need some help from EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!!!!"

This being said, I have no real intention of reviewing this album either.

Boom.

Aw, come on now!  You KNOW me.  What the hell good would I be if I didn’t ramble and rant and rave and joke and toss about jolly good witticisms and other assorted asides?  BULLY!

So yeah… I’m in a good mood.  You can always tell with me.  Basically, I can’t keep on a single train of thought for less than a sentence worth of Doritos taste good but they just so TOTALLY go right to my thighs.   Chicken fried steak.

See?

Good mood.

So let’s talk about this pretty rad chick colloquially known as Adele.  She is known as this because that is her name.  You may refer to her as “Elle” or you may possibly also say, ‘ELLO, ADDY!  OW’S YER BUM, LOVE?!’  At which point, she may very well pull out her well documented shotgun that she always carries and blow your simple ass away.  I read a lot of wikipedia and I’m quite certain she’s the one who carries a shotgun.  Whatev’s… Don’t piss off Adele is the main frigging point here, people.  It’s probably not nice to ask random people about their bum regardless–remember, you heard it here.  Jas=etiquette.

Is the good mood permeating your eye-holes-to-yer-brains yet?

Meh, piss off if you’re grumpy.  Let’s continue.

So me wifey, Gangsta Vicki, tells me about this great album.  As she slammed my head in the car door and put the gun muzzle down my throat, I started to think that I might maybe should listen to this joint.  But FRIGGING SIGH!  A girl?  Really?  I have to listen to girl music?  Really?  Do I have to?  Can’t you, just… You know… Shoot me?  (This is the part where she curb stomped me a few times until I learned to behave myself and not be a sexist ass-bag)

As I lay there in a fetal position, whimpering, I thought to myself:  Alright, let’s give it a listen.  Everyone seems to really like this lovely lady and I might as well drink the Kool-Aid and take my place amongst the faithful.

Pictured: Not Adele. Not Kool-aid. Not comfortable. Definitely something you can say you've seen, though... You win?

Now, those of you who know me, know that I fucking LOATHE following the fucking crowd on music, movies, food and lists of three.

Which is why:

I make my own music (which you can download for FREE–only for a limited time–on my website now.  DO IT.)

I watch weird, classic, genre-changing anime that only hipster-video-game-nerd-pimps understand (not always; but I SO want to be cool).

I eat food, because most people eat corporate, “not-food” that totally sucks!  Okay, okay… You got me… I’m totally shilling one of the first blogs I wrote on here.  It’s not really good; but I do want you to see how “far I’ve come” in my blogging endeavors. It’s not that I’m “good” now; it’s just that I was REALLY bad back then, amirite?

Moving right the hell along…

Adele, damnit.  I shall stay on topic–at least until the topic is established.

I had heard about Adele and I had read about Adele and basically all I knew was Adele was the new Winehouse.  For cave dwellers, I mean, of course, Amy Winehouse.  You know, Rehab and won’t go go go and all that?

From this point on until I tell you otherwise, you may want to not actually read this blog… Now, how the fuck you’re supposed to know when to come back in without actually reading is going to be a challenge… But as Adele says:  “I’m willing to take the risk.”

So for pansies, piss off–this means you.

…

…

Are “they” gone..?

Good.

Let’s continue.

To call Adele the “new Amy” is a fucking insult.  No.  NO. FUCKING NO OFFENSE INTENDED.  I understand Amy has recently passed and believe me when I tell you, I think it’s an absolute waste.  No, when I say it’s an offense, I mean that to both the Ladies.  That’s like saying that Eddie Vedder was the new Chris Cornell  (for the absolutely un-rocked, they are, respectively, the lead singers of Pearl Jam and Sound Garden).  The fucking point being:  There is simply NO comparison.  They are vastly different singers singing vastly different music.  Go ahead.  Dispute it.  I absolutely fucking dare you.  Trolls welcome (no bots welcome under any circumstances).  Any rational human being will understand the comparison is absolutely fucking ludicrous.

Okay, okay… Soul.  “R&B.”  A type of “throwback” to a certain ‘Motown’ or ‘Stax’ ‘sound.’  This doesn’t fucking qualify them for Siamese Twin award of the year, now does it?  Listen to them.  Just fucking LISTEN to them.

Nothing alike, brah… Not even in the same fucking ballpark.  Same sport?  Maybe… But let’s be serious here…

Pictured: Not Amy Winehouse. (big hair notwithstanding)

There are not five female soul singers on the frigging planet; so let’s not act like that is the fact, okay?  For realz, dawg… Get your head out of your ass.

Now that we’ve moved beyond the ridiculous, cursory comparisons to other artists (which, of course, have about as much bearing on a person’s art as their goddamn underwear–unless you’re talking psychologically:  in which case the cavalier attitude of tiger striped boxers show a tendency towards… Fuck you, psychology) let’s move even further on, shall we?

I know you, internet…  So I cannot fucking move on without saying the following… But before I do, I want to say that for a collective of nameless people who unabashedly enjoy women defecating in cups and different women (or the same women, cause, like “fuck it” right?) enjoying a nice little ‘romp’ with a frigging farm animal, you certainly are touchy when it comes to saying something about ‘REAL’ people, right?

So, with your delicate sensibilities in mind, I say that I mean no disrespect to Amy Winehouse and I am sorry to see her go.  It was a shame and I realize that my awful naughtiness in writing a blog about Adele without completely dedicating it to Amy Winehouse is absolutely criminal.  I suck.  I’m sorry.

Internet?

Go fuck yourself.

Moving right the fuck along…

HEY!  YEAH YOU… THE ONE WITH THE DELICATE FUCKING SENSIBILITIES!!!  IT’S OKAY TO COME BACK IN, YOU FRIGGING NANCY-BOY!

Are we all here?  Nice.  Have some cookie-woompums and let’s continue.

Adele has a MASSIVE album on her hands.  You don’t need me to tell you that.  Wait for the Grammys.  Susta is gonna take home some little phonographs, that’s for sure.  For those who think the grammys are shit, just listen.  She really can bring it.  There’s emotion.  There’s pain.  There’s hope.  There’s energy.  Is it “produced?”  Yes.  Is that a bad thing?  Only if you hate everything that anyone has heard about besides you–in which point, you’re a fuckwad and it’s not about them, it’s about you.  Admit it.   You just want to talk about you.  That’s the douchebag ethos, is it not?  Now, I love me some hipsters… Fuck me, I AM a hipster in a lot of ways…

ahem

double ahem

Pictured: Me. (but you wouldn't recognize the subtle statement that I'm trying to... You know what? Kick my ass.)

Silliness aside, let’s make this about Adele for a second.  Little Sister has got some amazing pipes.  As stated about a thousand words ago, I had heard some of her first album “19.”  I thought her voice was fantastic, even then; but there was something not necessarily “there,” if that makes sense?  “Chasing Pavements” is a cool enough song; but beyond her voice, it’s simply not something that grabbed me by the sideburns and bitched slapped me around into listening for more than a few listens.  The world loved it; but the world loved lots of things I didn’t like.  Nah, I’ll decline on listing them because I’m lazy.

You would think that I would learn by now that sometimes the world “gets ‘it’ right” sometimes, occasionally but not usually sometimes–by the way, that sentence sums up why I’m writing about an album in August when it came out in January.  You may remember that I had a similar experience with Radiohead and with Arcade Fire; it’s really nothing personal to the artist/band/movie/food/style/etc.  I just have a real problem with being told I simply HAVE TO like something.  Why?  Because fuck that.  That’s why.

But as usual, though not nearly as bad as usual, I digress… I recently gave Adele’s latest album “21″ a shot first and foremost because my lovely lady, gangsta-ass, wife told me she absolutely loved the album.  Fair enough, darling… But unfortunately, I lack ovaries and therefore am unable to enjoy female music–which, historically for me, is utter bullshit.  I’ve loved me some female musicians; but for some damn reason, I seem to be resistant to THINKING I’ll like them.  I have the same damn problem with country music.  I am nearly positive it has to do with being TOLD it’s good–possibly it’s because there are less female bands/artists than males and therefore I hear about a female artist before I actually hear them?  Who knows?  Maybe I’m just a sexist bastard–which will be sad for me; because quite honestly, I have always had exponentially more female friends than male and I’ve always been told I wasn’t a piggy.  Possibly they were saying I just wasn’t as piggish as the next guy?  Sigh…

Well, that’s why personal growth isn’t called “personal do it for a few years and get a medal,” right?

Adele… Right.  Back to it.

You know what I think I like best about Adele?

Squawk.

That’s right.

Squawk.

She BRINGS it.  It’s like listening to a female David Ruffin (a personal fav) or a female Joe Cocker or something like that.  She has grit and huevos.  I dig it.  I don’t get to hear a lot of female artists (popular around the world, I mean) that have growl and attack and spit lyrics with power.  Now now, I’m not talking about diva screaming either… It’s different.  Bark is different than scream.  Grit is different than screech.  If you don’t know what I mean, then here:  LOOK AT THE KEYS!  LOOK AT THE SHINY KEYS!!!

-jingles car keys-

Yeah.  Moxy.  Balls.  Guts.  Chutzpah.

Chick is bad.  Awww yeeeahhh…. Adele is a bad mutha–WATCH YO MOUTH–I’m just talking about Adele!

That’s right.  And I love it.  Yes yes, easy to know why, of course.  Adele sings like I do.  Big balls, going at it with all phasers on incinerate and the shields be damned!  Now now, before you get mean and nasty–I’m not comparing myself to Adele.  She is a remarkable singer and at the time of this writing, I’m an unknown schmuck with only mostly regional (and a tad of international) love.  All I’m saying is I like big, bluesy, soulful voices and that’s been used to describe us both–so suck it.

Chutzpah.

I suppose I should mention something about the album now…

Well… It’s pretty fucking good.  How about that?

Key tracks for me have been:

“Rumour Has It,” ‘Turning Tables,’ ‘He Won’t Go’ (fucking phenomenal), ‘One and Only’ and ‘Someone Like You.’  But they’re really all pretty good–those just happen to be the ones that she puts some real stank on.  Either that or I just dig those for some reason?  Meh.  Fuck it.  Just listen and pick your own favs.

I do have to say that I’m not crazy about “Don’t You Remember.”  Just a personal thing.  Vicki loves it.  I’m pretty meh on it.  I mean, it’s not terrible, just not my thing.

Also, “Set Fire to the Rain” sounds like a Katy Perry tune–not that there’s anything wrong with that; but ovaries are a necessity for that sort of music.

I kid, I kid.

But seriously, that song is really feeling slightly out of place on this album.  The whole thing is either a piano ballad, personal, emotion-drenched, diary excerpt or a Motown tune.  Or both.  “Set Fire to the Rain” (besides being a silly hook) is just a very ‘now’ pop dalliance.

…

Holy.  Fucking.  Shit.

I AM a hipster…

I must now commit seppuku.

I suppose in summation, just let me again say what a really talented singer I think this Chica is and what a worthwhile listen “21″ has been for me.  I’m really glad my wifey suggested it at gunpoint.  You should all listen to this disc.  More importantly, you should all listen to MINE.  Look up at the top right of this screen…  It’s free.  Now go tell your friends.

Seriously, Adele rocks.  And if you’re reading this, love; well done.

Ahem.

Games.

Who likes games?  Why, as established, there’s a like a billion or so, right?  I mean, I know I just read that somewhere..?  Yeah, a billion gamers.  Sounds good to me and it is probably WAY accurate.  I’m going to assume that you’re one of the billion believers and recipients of the chosen word and therefore an anointed of Father Mario and a disciple of our savior Linkus christ–which obviously means you’ve been saving your game for quite some time (are these religious/gaming puns working for you?).

I’m not going to bother laying down an ultimate list or a top ten or top eleven or best of or any of that shit.  Nope.  Enough people already do that and I’m not that organized.  What I will do is run down some of the games that I really dug/dig (dig dug) throughout the years and maybe a few of the reasons why.  If it’s a SUPER popular game that everyone loves; I’ll just give it a mention and move right the fuck along because, honestly… Who didn’t fucking worship Super Mario Bros?  I mean, come on…

Pictured: Father Mario. Give nice Father Mario a hug and tell him what you want to be when you grow up... An altar boy, right? Why wait..? You can be Father Mario's altar boy right now... Suuuuuuure you can. Just follow good Father Mario to the little room behind the altar...

I like all kinds of games, I really do.  From World Of Warcraft to Grand Theft Auto to The Legend of Zelda to Madden (any year) to Worms to you get the frigging picture.  I have always loved video games, ever since I was a wee, little tadpole of a musician.  I remember standing in front of the arcade games in the grocery store (yep, they totally had them in grocery stores and not even nice arcade rooms like Walmart has these days) and just watching the credits and demo screens cause we was po’.  Mom would give me a couple of quarters if I was an extra good boy–whatever the ever-changing requirements for that title entailed–or if I earned them doing slave labor for video game money.  Hmmmm… Come to think of it, apparently I had an addiction.  Well, I’ll be.

Anyway, so after being exploited for incredibly cheap labor, I would take my quarter or two and then try to best decide which game was the game for me.  Even when I was a such a little dude I couldn’t even reach the damn joystick and single button very well, I was still a savvy gamer.  Which game boasted the best graphics?  Which game had more character development and storyline?  I mean, we all know Pac-man must eat the dots/pellets/ghost droppings; but why?  What led Pac-man to this eventuality?  Is he in Pac-hell?  Is it Pac-punishment?  Pac-Purgatory?  Is he seeking Pac-redemption?  Truly, Pac-man is a story for the ages–and as a young gamer with only one quarter (who has already played Pac-man to fucking death) I really needed more than “move the little pac-fucker around and avoid the ghosts… Oh yeah!  And eat fucking fruit.”

I know this is probably making the psychologists out there scratch their epically bearded chins, take another snort of cocaine and deeply desire to ask me about my relationship with my mother (yes, I tend to generalize a profession as a “certain kind of person”).  But, hey, like I said!  When you only have one frigging quarter, you frigging make it worthwhile, man…

Fuck you, Galaga… You can kiss my ass with your stupid shoot-through-the-shield philosophy and boring ass gameplay!

No no… Galaga would not do.  It had nice sound–the explosions were particularly good; but I was not a fan.  Nope, I liked games with DEPTH.  I was particularly fond of the Nintendo offerings back in the day:  Donkey Kong Jr, Popeye (my dad’s favorite), Mario Bros and of course later, Super Mario Bros.  I was not really a fan of Donkey Kong.  Not sure why?  Just wasn’t interested.  Donkey Kong Jr. was far superior in my incredibly young eyes–maybe it was because of more colors or better graphics or something..?  Who knows?  I was an embryo for crissakes.

There are a couple of games that I absolutely adored, though… They were different.  They were magical.  They were like electronic happy and I stared at them whether I had quarters or not.  If I had quarters, I always reverently watched the demos to try to get an idea of how one should attempt the game.  Many times the demo would play perfectly; so I had an idea of the absolute preferred method of play.  Other times, the demo was sucky or it was random and these too were valuable tools to discern how best to approach the quest of not blowing my single or one of two quarters–remember:  we was poor.  It was imperative that I not get flattened in two seconds.  I don’t know about money; but I certainly learned the value of 3 lives with no saves, let me assure you.

So the aforementioned “couple” of games would have to be as follows:

Yie Ar Kung-Fu–Oh man, oh man… This fucker was just plain cool, dude.  It’s a fighting game and the little dude (never knew it at the time–I was just barely out of diapers, ya know?–his name was Oolong) you controlled could jump as high as giraffe’s ass.  It was just like the old Hong Kong flicks!  Also, the graphics were just incredibly superior for the time.  We’ve established that I am a bit of martial arts nerd; or a “nerd who fights” as it were–so it shouldn’t be too much of a shock that I dug this game also because it was one on one martial arts action, yeah?

"Come here and let me talk to you a moment, Street Fighter... There's something you should know... I.. Am your father..." -Yie Ar Kung Fu

Amazingly enough, this game came out only two years before Street Fighter (the original, obviously, not the second one most of you a probably thinking about).  It worked on the exact same premise.  You, Oolong, fight a bunch of fuckers bent on whooping your ass with whatever the hell they want.  (You don’t give a shit because you can jump like you have a rocket ship up your ass)  There are ten opponents:  Buchu, Star, Nuncha, Pole, Feedle, Chain, Club, Fan, Sword, Tonfun, Blues–with the exception of maybe Buchu, Feedle and Blues, the names are absolutely self explanatory.  Chain attacks you with a chain.  Fan attacks you with a sweet relief from your hot day.

Buchu is a big ole sumo wrestler dude that fights nothing like a sumo wrestler or even a wrestler, for that matter.  Feedle does not, in fact, bust out a hoedown and play out of tune until you die (hey fiddle players… BURN!).  Nor does he pull out his penis and helicopter it at you until you give up…  Nope.  It is actually a bunch of dudes who look the exact same that come at you from either side of the screen in multiples of whatever and die in one hit–very much like Kung Fu on the original Nintendo (Kung-Fu Master in the original arcade).  Blues, the final boss, is pretty much a mirror image of Oolong (once again like Kung Fu) and there ya go.  Yie Ar Kung-Fu, ladies and gentleman!

Dragon’s Lair–Holy fucking fucktastic fuck, man… Seriously.  I was WAY too small to reach the joystick on this one (we already made altar boy jokes; so let it go); but man was this the absolute epitome of cool!  I mean, it was a movie, wasn’t it?  Just look at that shit!

Pictured: Dirk the Daring looking mutha-fracking badass as all hell... Look. At. This. Shit. There was never anything like this at the time. If you have not nerdgasmed, then your nerd testicles have not dropped and you're going to get beat up by the nerd jocks.

Dragon’s Lair was hands-down the most popular game of the laserdisc type games and was an absolute anomaly at the time of its release.  There was just nothing like it.  The first time I saw it was in Houston at an arcade/Chuck E. Cheese-type venue that my mom took me to on some sort of special event (I think I had pooped in a receptacle other than my pants or some shit–pun intended– and going to this joint was my reward).  If memory serves after all the blogging beers/blogging wine, the name of the place was “Games People Play.”  I did a little internet research and I can’t find shit; so I can’t verify that name, but I’m pretty damn sure.  Games People Play had go-karts, batting cages, an arcade and all the “grown-up” kid stuff that Chuck E. Cheese didn’t have.  It was sweet, dude.  Maximum sweetness.  Awwww yeeeah.

So we walk into the place and I’m looking around all coy and unsure until I saw the video game section–then it was like, “MOVE BITCH, GET OUT THE WAY!”  Yeah, I’d get gangsta if you were blocking my path to a video game…  I saw all my favs–above mentioned Nintendo classics–some stupid ass pinball joints and then… We have fucking lost cabin pressure, bitches.

Dragon’s.  Fucking.  Lair.

I did a double take.  I wiped my eyes.  I looked around at Mom to see if she too saw the glory mine little eyes had just beheld… Nope.  She was finding a comfortable chair in which she could keep an eye on me and the clock to leave at precisely an hour later (cause moms are all like, “fuck video games, son!”)

Seriously, I think I might have peed a little.  You younglings today simply cannot fathom what it was like.  “Yeah, yeah, Jas, you old fuck…  It wasn’t cool at all, it was a stupid ass cartoon and that shit is weak…”  No.  No it wasn’t.  Let me try to put it in perspective:

First:  I was like 4 or 5.  EVERY-FUCKING-THING is cool at that age.

Second:  It would be like, you’re used to playstation 3 or xbox 360 and then all of a sudden a bro brings over a console that fucking sucks you into a virtual reality world (tron/matrix-style) complete with the physical sensation of being in that world.   Yeah, go ahead and imagine a warcraft blowjob tavern or throwing a touchdown pass while receiving a handy–I know where your sick ass minds go whenever anyone says virtual reality.

I know what you’re thinking now, too… Oh man, it’s nowhere near the same thing… Yes.  Yes it is.

Our standard at the time. Nay... The pinnacle of what we knew to be a "badass game."

So yeah, that’s all we had.  That was the best.  Generally, even at the time, considered a perfection of gaming.  Now let’s look at the difference… (and don’t even give me the “gameplay” horseshit)  Imagine you were in kindergarten or elementary school and your idea of the 360′s best was the above picture and then you saw the picture below… ALSO, remember there was no internet and the only way to hear about a new game was through your friends or a magazine or some shit… Yeah, a truly barbaric time, I know… Shut up and look at the picture above again and now look at this motherfuckering juggernaut:

Obviously, the game developers blew Satan to gain the game developing knowledge to harness this witchcraft for our gaming amusement... Wait a minute... It costs HOW FUCKING MUCH TO PLAY?!!!! SHENANIGANS!!!!

Truthfully, I’ve heard it said and I pretty much realize that gamers nowadays, especially younglings (god, I hate that fucking word), simply do not understand the whole “cool graphics” craze that we went through.  All their games look amazing with incredible sound these days; so apparently it’s just a non-issue for them–except when they think the graphics suck, then it’s an issue.  Believe you me, we definitely went apeshit when we saw a game with decidedly better graphics than another game.  I mean, that’s all anyone ever talked about during the Genesis/SNES wars and what not.  TurboGrafx-16 and Neo Geo basically made graphics their whole sales pitch!  I remember all the kids could ever hope for was a game that looked like a movie.  When cinematics came about, we all flipped–Ninja Gaiden, anyone?  Yeah, that was the absolute dog’s bollocks.

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that kids went completely batshit insane for Dragon’s Lair.  Another interesting point about Dragon’s Lair was the fact that it was one of the first (if not the first) game to cost more than 25 cents.  It cost 50 cents.  I hated this fucking game for that, I really did.  It was one of my first lessons in corporate greed.  I honestly never forgot it.  It seemed so unfair to me then and now.  How could they make it so expensive to play?  Didn’t they know that I could barely get one quarter, let alone two?  And dude!  If I had two, that meant I could play for twice as long or maybe even sample a couple of games!  That’s high living right there, Brosephus… Fucking extravagance.

I know, I know, poor me… But seriously.  It was a good lesson for a kid to learn, ya know?  Everyone wants to shower their larvae with gifts and make sure the little fuckers never hear a naughty word and all that bullshit–yet, TRUST ME… Your kids are more like South Park than Little House on the frigging Prairie.  Truth.  They’re not holy relics.  It’s sometimes a good thing for them to go without or be challenged.  Seriously.  Sure, I’m bitter; but fuck you.  See?  I’m well adjusted and I handle my rage very well.  I routinely beat the piss out of punching bags, strangers and my friends in Krav Maga and I cuss like a hungover, samurai-sailor.  Fucking even keel, baby.

Okay, I’ll be serious… So seriously speaking, it was good that I went without or only had a few quarters at a time.  Why?  I remember one time I saved up quarters and went all out to get as many goddamn quarters as humanly possible.  I think I ended up with like three dollars or maybe four.  It was NUTS.  I was like… “HOLY SHIT!  I’M GONNA PLAY GAMES FOR TEN HOURS STRAIGHT, MAN!!!”

Pictured: A quarter.

Yeah.

Didn’t happen.  Why?  I was cavalier with my quarters (good name for an album).  I blew through those fuckers in NO time.  The problem?  When your pocket is full of change, it’s hard to keep a good eye on how fast you’re blasting them into the machine (any slots players out there?).  I remember messing up a lot more than I ever did.  I made stupid mistakes.  I died too easily.  I got distracted.  I had an almost arrogant attitude about it as well–at least at first.  “No biggie,” I thought.  “Plenty of dough to round out the night.”

…

Yeah.

Didn’t happen.

I reached in after about twenty minutes or so and there were three quarters in my pocket.  I panicked.  I started checking my other pocket and looking around on the ground.  I retraced all my steps.  Certainly there’s been a mistake.  I had a hole in my pocket.  Someone, a pickpocket that mom and dad always warned me about perhaps, had robbed me blind of my fortune.  There’s no way…

Gasp.

Realization hit me…

I started to well up with tears.  I was four, remember…  I had been a spendthrift, though I didn’t know what that meant at the time.  I went to the restroom (it was a bar/restaurant/live music venue in Texas called the Texas Tumbleweed at which my father and his band played music) and tried not to cry or let anyone see me cry.  I never forgot that lesson as silly as it may sound.  I’m not a tremendous fan of money–I just want some so I don’t have to worry about it anymore.  Point of fact, I pretty much hate money; but what’s a musician to do, right?

"Oh good! You're already crying... Okay, kid, take this down: 'Santa's a lie, you were an accident, most people won't like you and those who say they do are probably lying, it hurts to get old, you'll work harder your whole life than you'll ever get to play and you're going to die.' There, that about wraps it up. Now you go have fun, kid!"

Anyway, from that point on, I’d always take it real slow–whether I had an “excess” of quarters or not.  I’d play like every quarter was my last (or only) and after every final life had been lost, I’d step away for a few minutes.  It used to make me nuts; but I did it nonetheless.  “Nope, Jas, you fucking just stunk up the arcade with that performance… You don’t get to play again for ten whole minutes while you think about how you could have jumped that bottomless pit just a little bit better if you’d been using your damn head!  Now go think about what you’ve done and then you can have another go!”  I was like a stage mom to myself.

There’s only been one other thing in my life where I have been so exacting and so surgical–and that is my music.  Anyone who has worked with me will tell you that.  They might also tell you I’m a pain in the ass; but I’m never a mean shit.  I might be demanding; but I’m far harder on myself than anyone with whom I work.  Besides, what do they know?!  I NEED A PUNCHING BAG!!!

ahem.

The Texas Tumbleweed tale of sorrow leads me to the game that taught me such a valuable lesson–Gyruss.

Gyruss–Now, Gyruss is a strange game for me to love and I will take great delight in explaining exactly why that is… You know me, long-winded as ever.  You see, I typically am fairly ambivalent if not outright “meh” on shooter games.  Now Contra, rocked.  But Doom, meh.  R-Type was sorta meh and sorta okay.  Zaxxon (which is more a distant idea than a real memory–I mean, I remember playing it I guess… But not really) was pretty cool.  I think the theme here is that the shooter has to have some sort of “different” theme or play control or… Hell, I don’t know, man… I just don’t normally love shooters.

Any-frigging-way, what I loved about Gyruss was the planets were involved:  Neptune, Uranus, Jupiter, Saturn (my favorite planet when I was a kid), Mars and then Earth.  I never made it Mars, I don’t believe… I made it to Saturn, I remember that.  It took me many times playing the game to get there; but I made it there.  You see, for me, getting to a level or beating a game were my greatest accomplishments in life at the time–I proudly told anyone who would listen my great video game exploits!

…

Shit.

I still do that.

Facepalm.

Oh well… Fuck it.  I’m helping you get through your workday, so shut up.

Moving right the feck back along (and yes, I meant to type “feck.”  Sometimes I don’t fucking want to cuss, righty right?)

Gyruss.  I loved Gyruss because it was unique to me then and fairly unique overall in the sense that it was what they apparently called a “tube shooter.”  Tube shooters are apparently not all that common.  Thank you, Wikipedia.  This simply means that it’s not a side scrolling shoot em up as are many many MANY more games in that genre.  Nope; you find the camera view from behind the protagonist and you get the effect of moving into the center of the screen from the outside–stars that you are passing start in the middle and move to the outside of the screen.  Sigh… This is hard to describe.  Just trust me, it looks different.  Well… Okay, maybe we’ll go with the tube thing to give you an idea.  Imagine a paper towel roll.  Look in it like a telescope.  Your eye is the foreground and the other end is far away, yeah?  Your eye is the ship, moving towards the other end.  Voila.

If you can’t imagine that, then go look it up.

Or, you know... You could just look at this. Just saying.

As stated, I loved this game because it featured something different–ACTUAL space science.  Yes.  It had the planets.  I know, big freaking whoop, right?  At the time (still am, guilty as charged) I was a space nut.  I LOVED the planets and any picture I could get my hands on of outer space or planets or the sun or the moon was some cool cool shit to me.  I’m still that way and I LOVE reading about new NASA missions.  If I could, I’d play benefit concerts to help NASA and indeed, any worthy space program out.  Lol, I’m quite certain a few of you out there just went into internet rage mode and are about to tell me how many other worthy programs there are out there to put money into or help and you’d be partially correct.  There are indeed many worthwhile programs in which one can donate time, money, etc.  But there are more than one and you shouldn’t think one is “better” than another.

“But, fuck Mars when there’s homeless here and now!”  True.  It would suck to be homeless.  Truly, desperately terrible.  You know what I used to do all the time when I drove by the same homeless guy day after day?  I gave him a bottle of water.  You know what he did?  A couple of things…

When he was sober enough to understand that I wasn’t the great hotdog spirit giving him a vial of rainbow, pony juice–he sometimes/rarely-ever thanked me for the water that I gave him in 100 degree, miserable, Satan’s ball sack-hot, Tennessee summer weather.

When he was not sober or straight, he could barely get his arm or hand to move to hold the water or accept it with anything remotely resembling understanding of spatial relation.

Most of the time?  He gave me a pissy look and said “thanks” so sarcastically that I wanted to snatch back the water I bought with money that I received from not following my animalistic desire to just eat, fuck, do drugs, drink and never work.  In other words, I gave him water from a most assuredly, not overflowing cup and he practically spit in my hand.  Human nature, baby… You’ve got to LOVE that shit!  The simple fact of the matter is this dude didn’t want to be saved, helped or anything else.  This dude wanted to FIX.  He wanted to fucking shoot China white until he fucking thought he was Zantar, the Lord of all the Cheeseburger-Pony-People.  He wanted to drink until the act of standing up would require a doctorate and then three more years of specialization.  He wanted to blast off so fucking high, so fucking fast that he’d fucking stand on the corner to ask for change until he could.  You smelling what the Rock is cooking here?

Food?  Nah, crack please.

Water?  Fuck that, I need some muthafucking LLello (yayo/yeyo/mutha-fucking chocaine, sucka)

Clean underwear?  Well… Maybe… Nah!  I’m just fucking with ya!  More heroin please!

Oh, I know, I know… I’m a mean fuck.  Well, Mr./Ms. lefty-bleeding-heart… I TOO am a lefty-bleeding-heart; but I also don’t fucking think humans are holy relics.  Life is a choice, except when it is not.  Don’t preach at me about saving the masses–the fucking masses do not want to be saved, trust me.  Go read some internet comment sections, forums, YouTube or Facebook if you don’t believe me (and those are typically the “productive members of society).  If you tried to save the world, they’d call you a “fag” and steal your identity in a frigging heartbeat.  Sucks.  I know.  But that’s the way it is, unfortunately.

BUT…

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to save it either…

HENCE…

The motherfucking space programs of the world.

“But, Jas… What do the motherfucking space programs of the world have to do with arcade games?”

Nothing.

But I’m ranting and I shall not be deterred until I am done.  Suck it dry.

I support most scientific research for the betterment of human kind and I most definitely support anything regarding space or space travel.  I do not support time travel–though I, like most, think it would be cool.  But time travel is a whole different thing and far too weighty a subject to get into for a myriad of reasons–ethical, practical and the hard scientific “facts” of what we know about how the universe works.  Go ahead and get over the idea of going to meet Jesus or chilling with dinosaurs.  Unless a velociraptor made a flux capacitor, you ain’t going back any further than the exact minute your time machine was built–FUCK YOU, QUANTUM PHYSICS!

Yes. You. Fuck you, Dream killer...

The other, glaringly obvious problem with time travel is imagine your (or any other) government with the capacity to traverse time… Yeah… NONE of us would exist–but you can fucking bet that Nixon would just suddenly have been god-emperor of planet Nixonia with that kind of fucking power.  Forget grandma-fucking or killing your great, great grandpoodle.  Imagine Hitler with the ability to stuff his coffers full of Egyptian gold or come back with Gatling guns, stealth bombers and internet porn… Yeah, scary shit, huh?

Enough about time travel!!!  You caught me nerding all over my internets… Sorry.  This is exactly the kind of shit that goes through my head and makes me forget to turn off the stove.  Sigh… Being a nerd brings with it a great responsibility…

Space travel.  Yes, we were talking about space travel.  Why?  Because it’s my fucking blog, that’s why.  Aside from that, I have to tie in my nerd ramblings and get back on topic–why I have to do that is really beyond me… Will the internet police correct my WordPress meanderings with an interrogation session accompanied by the content Gestapo?  Hmmm… That’s actual plausible; so let us continue!

Space Travel.  Not only cool shit in the movies but abso-freaking-lutely necessary!  Unfortunately, it’s going to be MAD harder than we expected and is only getting harder and harder by the millisecond (the universe is expanding–so just imagine the TV remote and your beer running away from you at all times).  Which also promotes another interesting point about time travel… If you were to travel back in time, there would have to be some sort of interstellar/interdimensional/extradimensional/chrono trigger/GPS that could locate where you INTEND to wind up.  Think about it… If the time machine stayed in a fixed position–vis-a-vis “The Time Machine” by H. G. Wells–when you went back in time, the planet would move and your ass would be floating in space.  But we’re not done… Oh no… Tell them what else they may have won, Bob!

Sure thing, Rodney!

For traversing time and breaking the rules of physics (and somehow figuring out how to travel through time) while being dumb enough to make a time machine that remains in a fixed position, you will find yourself outside of normal space time!  That’s right!  You’ll possibly time-travel into hyperspace or the “stuff outside the universe.”

Don’t bother correcting me.  You don’t know and neither do I.  If you know enough to argue, then you already know you can’t go past the point of inception at the very furthest; so be happy that you’re reading a musician’s blog that actually acknowledges basic physics.  I never claimed to be scientist; just a nerd.  Nerds are frequently wrong and loudly proclaiming misinformed opinions.  Therefore, I am acting completely within the realm of my parameters and am no threat to the system.  At this point the nerd in me is receding and the road-worn musician is coming out and I say, “Suck it dry.”

LIES!

Moving on…

Space frigging travel!  Jesus!  Can we not get beyond this?

Okay… So why is space travel such a worthy concern?  Why, oh why would I say that a “stupid program about finding water on Mars” matters?  (verbatim quote from an idiot)

I’m going to say this once…

And then I’m going to say this fucking sentence as many damn times as I possibly can in as many blogs as I possibly can that hopefully get read by as many people as possible…

Here we go…

ahem.

A SINGLE PLANET SPECIES CANNOT SURVIVE.

Truth.

Done.

Finito.

Just relax and think about it.

Asteroids, super volcanoes, chemical/biological/nano warfare, reality TV… Dude, we’re fucked on a long enough time table.  Does that matter to you?  To me?  Probably not.

Our children?   Probably not.

Our children’s children?  Probably… ummm… Probably… umm… not?

No one can say.  Hell, it might mean a GREAT DEAL to us tomorrow, for crissakes.  We have plenty of time to riot, do all the drugs, eat all the nachos and off ourselves if it’s an asteroid.  No worries there… But a super volcano?  Nope.  No time at all.  No warning. (at least in any meaningful sense–at present)

But this isn’t an alarmist blog.  I’m not a Chicken Little or even a conspiracy theorist.  Nope.  Just a nerd who reads way too many damn science journals on too many damn topics.  Don’t get all worried… Just rest assured that if “it” does happen, there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.  Nada.  So Hakuna Matata, motherfucker!  It’s all gravy, baby.

But how the fucking hell does that tie into space travel, Jas, you non-focusing, bastard?!!!

One day, I will replace this graphic with an absolutely badass graphic that we have put on a t-shirt and will be available for sale. Until then, I'm going to use it for the lamest thing I could find when I searched "lame" on Bing image search. Ladies and gentlemen... Jar Jar Binks.

Simple.

A single species planet cannot survive.

Established.

Fact.

What do we do about it?

MOVE.

Simple.

We just fucking move.

I know, I know… You were expecting something more grand.

It kind of reminds me of “Life of Brian;” but then again, not really…

“Life of Brian” was an amazing movie, though–you should really check it out.

So anyway, Brian (Graham Chapman) is confused by the people as their christ and they are trying desperately to follow him.  He doesn’t have any of the answers and can’t lead them; so when they ask him, “What should we do, O’ Lord?!”  He says, “FUCK OFF!!!”

They promptly ask him, “How shall we fuck off, O’ Lord?”

See?  Kind of doesn’t make sense; but then again, it does.

How shall we move?  Well… We just move.  Just that simple.

The planet is doomed.  If the planet is doomed then the species is doomed (along with all the other ones as well).  If the species is doomed then we have to try to save it, do we not?  (Well, a reasonable race would agree, I suppose)

Or… Well, perhaps an enlightened one might disagree…  But then, would they ACTUALLY be enlightened?  Or would they simply be selfish?  Could benevolence exist or would they be Antinomianists?  Which wear the cooler hats?  What does it all mean?  WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T “LOST” EXPLAIN ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING?!!!!  SHENANIGANS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  LAZY WRITING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ahem.

Now back to Gryuss…

Gyruss was pretty freaking cool.

Next game…

So we’ve been in the depths of my beer blogging, distant past and brought up some murky old memories of a toddling Jas and his love for 8 bit, 2 bit, 1/2 bit, no bit–whatever–type games.  Let’s fast forward a little bit (sigh… pun not intended) because I truly didn’t have many arcade loves beyond these games until the advent of a single game…

You see, when I was itty bitty, I loved arcade games because those were the games that spoke to me; but then the lovely, glorious, life-saving, electric happy of the Nintendo Entertainment System happened…

-Hallelujah Chorus-

As before stated, I am not going to go into the super popular games that everyone loved; what would be the point?  Do I really need to tell you how amazingly popular Mortal Kombat, Super Mario Brothers, After Burner, Final Fight, etc. were?  Yeah, yeah, I just picked some random ones off the top of my head–if you want to list some in the comments, then by all means, please do so.  I’m always happy to talk games.

So yeah, the answer is an obvious “no.”

I am going to recognize one game, though… One amazing, glorious, beautiful, friend-of-a-lonely-nerd game.

Street Fighter 2.

Street Fighter 2–Pretty much hit right when I was in that phase where martial arts and wanting to be the badass were at their height.  Most of my young life had been a fight or an avoidance of a fight and I couldn’t get my damn parents to put me in a martial arts school (even when they had the money to do so–remember, this is the same kid who thought 75 cents was a fortune for crissakes).

NOTE TO MOM AND DAD:  I ain’t mad atcha… I’m sure you’ll say, “You never showed much of an interest…”  And it very well may have seemed that way; but you should know, just for future reference and what have you–if your son watches all the shitty Jean-Claude-Schwarzenegger-Stallone-Seagal-crapfests that he can set his eyes upon, he’s either a homosexual or he longs to be a ninja… Just saying.

*Incidentally, his proclivity towards anything resembling a female since the age of “embryo” should have pointed towards the whole ninja thing as well.  hmmmm… A nerd who digs boobs and karate… Why, there can’t be many of “those types” around, can there?

-THE INTERNET RAISES ITS HAND-

Manly.

I watched the action movies and simply salivated over the ability to jump kick or do flips and shit… Hell, I STILL want to learn Shaolin Long Fist so I can do a fucking butterfly twist and shit.  Granted, Sanshou (or Sanda) is obviously the more applicable system; but after all the years of boxing, krav maga, kick boxing and so on and so forth… I honestly just want to learn some damn taolu/kata/do hyung/hyeong/forms that are beautiful, ya know?  You don’t always have to train to fight; sometimes, you can just train for health, beauty and appreciation.

“So you want to flip and dance?”

Yes.  Yes, I do.

But let’s talk about another beautiful thing… Street Fighter 2.  I first saw this game in a Gamepro magazine.  I didn’t realize it was a fighter at the time.  I just thought it was an incredibly beautiful game.  The graphics were insane and it was obviously about martial arts–which was the shiznit, in my book at the time.  I thought it was just another Final Fight type game–side scroller, beat em up.  I didn’t realize it was 1 on 1.

You know, that sounds like a write-off and I simply don’t want it to be… Final Fight was an absolute landmark of a game.  I LOVED that fucker.  Beautiful graphics, fun gameplay, excellent control, decent enough 90′s bullshit storyline, a choice of characters, fast paced action and a real sense of itself and its audience… Final Fight was the shit.  GREAT game.

Returning to Street Fighter 2–after seeing it in Gamepro, I promptly forgot about it.  Then, my family moved to Nashville and my mother thought it’d be cool to get us season passes to Opryland.  (martial arts training would have been cooler, but whatevs)  Now, before you’re like, “opryland hotel season passes?”

No.

Not Opryland Hotel.

There, once upon a time, was an actual Optyland with roller coasters and shit.  And dippin’ dots.  They had a lot of dippin’ dots.  I liked Dippin’ Dots.  Moving on…  So yeah, we went to Opryland and rode roller coasters and shit like that.  Eventually, we got our bearings on the theme park I found the arcade (absolutely the BEST thing about that place, man).  I walked in and with a coy look around (I hadn’t changed much, apparently) I slowly strode the perimeter of the room gauging their wares.  Then I saw it…

Street Fighter 2

Bow your heads... Let us fight...

You have to understand… Galaga was STILL (and probably is STILL) in the arcades at this time–along with those goddamn pinball machines.  One moment to say this…

Ahem…

PINBALL MACHINES ARE NOT MOTHERFUCKING VIDEO GAMES!!!  THEY’RE A FUCKING LIE!!!!

End ahem.

I don’t dislike pinball.  It’s fine.  Especially ones with over the top flashing lights and multiple decks and shit.  Very nice.  Golf clap.

Doesn’t make it a goddamn video game, holmes.

Not even fucking close.

Wrong generation.

Metal balls and flippers for bars.  Preferably with bikers and shit.  Pool tables.  A surly bartender who doesn’t quite look like he likes your type round these here parts.  Fine.

Not in a fucking video game arcade.  Same thing with the claw-teddy-bear-grabbing-waste of money-blah blah-stupid-ass-prize machine.  NOT okay to be in arcades.

Arcades are for games.  Arcades are for gamers.  Chuck E. Cheese is for the frilly shit.

End rant.

So I suppose the point of that was that Street Fighter 2 was pretty fucking awesome; but you already knew that.

Next.

TIME KILLERS–Now, a lot of people discount this game.  Why?  Come on!  “SINGLE” BUTTON FATALITIES!  (okay, you had to press 5 buttons; but you only had to press them ONCE–and you could perform the fatality ANY time during the fight… Nice)  Suck it, Mortal Kombat.  But seriously, folks, all jokes aside; Time Killers was a good game.  The graphics were fairly unique as they went with the cartoonish look–everyone was mad for the “digitized photograph” look of Mortal Kombat at the time.  What you really had to love was the background graphics; which were just insanely over the top.  For instance, in the caveman’s epoch, you see a dinosaur in the background.  Normal for a caveman, right?  WRONG, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!  THERE WERE MILLIONS OF YEARS OF SEPARATION BETWEEN “CAVEMEN” AND DINOSAURS!!!!

ahem.

So yeah, cavemen and (cough) dinosaurs.  Like, living together and what not.  Sigh…

Moving onward towards an ending that makes more sense than the trophic level of two apex predators who duke it out in Summerslam for Yeah, Didn’t Happen That Way…  Couldn’t Happen That way… And, my personal favorite, You’re Five, Read a Book, It Gets Better…

*Secondary Note:  I understand that the above sentence or two makes me sound like a condescending ass bag… Do not be confused–or if you prefer–don’t get it twisted.  If I were to say, “Oh gee!  Snooki should totally curb her drinking habits because one day she’ll be arrested for public intoxication!”  Or… “My, Oh, my!  Amy Winehouse is in dire peril of running afoul of a fate which one might consider tragic and sad.”  You’d undoubtedly tell me to “get with the times” or maybe you’d tell me to ‘go kill myself’ or that you hoped I got ‘hit by a bus.’  Or maybe you’d be a classy one and just call me a “nice man who doesn’t read the news.”  Who knows?  The point is this:  It’s been established–if you’re not a fundamentalist Christian (I capitalized and said nothing mean; so be nice if you are:  jedi hand wave… This is not the blog you’re looking for…)–so yeah, established… Dinos and cavedudes were nowhere NEAR the same shelf on the history bookshelf.  I, unfortunately, am not able to use the title “scientist.”  That doesn’t mean I can’t check in with the archaeologists, physicists, medical doctors (far more difficult and convoluted), historians and Nintendo Power to hear the latest developments in human book learning.

So there’s this big ass herbivore dinosaur in the background.  No big whoop for a caveman fight club (in la la land); but the big difference, and what made this game cool as shit, was that the dinosaur had no fucking head!  Yep.  Chopped right the fuck off… Dinosaur guillotines, bitches.  These cavemen meant business and you were fighting their chief badass.  Sweet.

So, you pick your warrior–garnered from the best killers throughout time (hence fucking “Time Killers”… Do I really need to spell this out?)–and you straight up murder motherfuckers.

So what?  What’s the difference between this and Mortal Kombat?

Not much.  The “Time” thing, for one.  Weapons for another.  You’ve all got swords and shit.  I suppose that’s not much different from Samurai Showdown; but… Well… It was cool because you could cut off the arms and legs of your opponents.

Yep.  That was it.

So, dig this… You have five buttons (aside from the joystick–no pecker jokes, for cripes sakes)  and each button corresponds to a limb.  Sigh… No.  There were no “boob” buttons.  Boobs aren’t technically limbs, you internet dweeb.  Let’s stay focused.  A button controls your head for a headbutt.  One button is your left arm, one button is your right leg–you get the frigging picture.

I like my cartoons bloody, like I like my... Ummm... Like I like my... British slang..? No wait! I got it! Ahem. "Time Killers!" For a simpler time; when cutting off limbs was all the vogue... Like En Vogue and... You... Totally... Ummm... Had to be there, cause... A sphincter says "what?"... Yeah. Burn.

Now, if you fucked up an tried to headbutt a dude/chick as they’re swinging their sword head-level, guess what?  They cut your throat and you’re stunned/bleeding out.  At which point, if they pushed all five buttons at once, their character would go insane-gangsta on your ass and proceed to chop you into kibble.  It was fucking brutal.  We’d never seen anything like it.  Awesome.

Ahem.

Yes.  Blood and guts were far more acceptable in the late 90′s.  Shut up.

We didn’t have Mortal Jersey Shore and beat our opponents senseless with emotional fatalities.  We just straight up ripped out your spinal chord (intact, I might add) and brandished it to all would be comers.  Deal with it.

So yeah, Time Killers was sweet.

Crude, violent and sweet.  I feel guilty for liking it as a lefty humanist and shit; but fuck it… Blood, boobs and sneaking cigarettes was all a brother had to do besides practice drums back then, okay?  Go easy and give me a break.  I’m sure your ass wasn’t curing cancer back then, were you?

Moving on…

FIRST STAR WARS VECTOR GRAPHICS GAME–Simply called “Star Wars,” this is one of which I have the dimmest memory… Jesus, it was so long ago.  I don’t know that I actually played it; maybe I did?  I remember dad holding me up so I could “play” it; but I think maybe he just controlled the ship and I just pressed the “fire” button (attack button).  Shit man, who knows?  I just wanted to say it was cool.

I distinctly remember hearing “YAHOO!  YOU’RE ALL CLEAR, KID!”  Which would have been Han Solo and the whole proton torpedo nonsense–fuck the GPS, Luke!  Pull it out of your ass, baby!

Ahem.

I thought that was cool.

Or maybe I didn’t.

I can’t remember.  It was so frigging long ago that I might have thought it was cool and then pooped my pants.  I might have thought THAT was  cool as well…

Now I’m equating pooping my pants with Star Wars.

Were they that bad?

7000 words.

THAT’S how REAL nerds do.

Awwww yeeeah

Oh yeah… I finished recording my EP.  It will be for sale soon.  For now, look towards the upper right hand of this screen.  See that?  It’s a FREE album.  Download it.  Listen to it.  Share it with your friends.  Come to a show.  Introduce yourself and tell me your dirty secret about your love for video games.  We’ll have a beer and lie to each other about high scores–and that we both beat Ninja Gaiden.

You owe me that much.  7400 words about video games and you STILL haven’t started what your boss told you to do 3 days ago.  Do it after lunch.  Download my album.  Do it.

Werd.

This is just a short, little, tiny blog commemorating a great show that was a damn fine time had by all.

Much love to the Hideaway Saloon for booking us (and other Nashville bands that we dig such as The Captain Midnight Band–shout out to those guys!).

Much love to the crowd who apparently have all kinds of mad stamina (that place goes WAY late night, holy shit, dude!) and showed us all kinds of love–I’m looking at you dancing girl, Scott, Mark, Thomas Power, Kansas and the day-glo birthday girls.

Love and respect to Mark for doing such a great job opening for us as well–thanks, Brosephus, we really enjoyed it!

And a final shout out to my bro from a million years ago, Shaun–good to see you, man!  Nice to meet your wife and look forward to hearing from you soon!

So a quick rundown… We played a long night, over three hours.  We made it to Louisville in about 2 and a half hours (not too many pee pee breaks, you see).  We loved everybody we met and everyone loved us except for the piece of shit, dick-lacking, fucktard who keyed our van while we were making everyone inside smile with music–Hey asshole, instead of being a dipshit not even Buddha loves, why not go inside and listen to some tunes next time?  Either that or wait for us to come out and witness you do it.  Don’t be such a chickenshit… Own up to it, bitch.

Moving on…

We really did have a great time though.  I wish we could have stayed longer; but we had to make it back… Next time, Louisville, next time… The beer selection there was pretty off the hook; so we’ll definitely chillax and toss back a couple and play sleepover next time when there aren’t so many prior commitments to getting home.

The band played excellently and we really locked in the groove most of the night–which is pretty cool, considering we’ve not really played together that long.  Well done Q and Ken!  You dudes, rock!

So anyway, I just wanted to acknowledge a really fine evening and make a note about a really cool little place–the Hideaway Saloon.  If you find yourself in Louisville and you want to go check some music in a cool little place and you’re thinking you might wanna burn it down all night–then look no further than the Hideaway Saloon.  Tell them jas patrick sent you and then fist pump and scream “JAS PATRICK RAWKS!” three times.  You should totally do that.

Here’s some pics for that ass.  Enjoy:

(editor’s note:  That is one cool ass picture!  Well done, Vicki!)

How dare you ask for a soundcheck?!!! Okay, I will soundcheck... But only because I want to.

Get your haircut and then go see Jas Patrick at the Hideaway Saloon. Do it or you'll get the razor...

(Jas tunes while Q suntans… Ken and hihat were playing cards)

Check out them-there badass shirts, folks! Coming soon! You know you want one... BUY BUY BUY!

The captain midnight strikes back with the return of the jas patrick... I don't know what that means; but it sure is some fine chalk drawing, ain't it?

Fuck.

Oh well…

So anywerd, today is my mother’s birfday!  She is 29 years old and has been for about 20 something years.  In a few years, I will be older than my mother; but I have a few years to go on that since I am only 22.  Vanity, thy name is the Patrick family…

Seriously, folks, try the soybean burgers!  (veal is evil)  I’ll be here all week!

Yeah, so my mother’s birthday is today and my father’s birfday is Saturday.  (Dad is 33 or something like that–I only guess because to ask after my parent’s age was to court being accused of having “idle time” and finding yourself sentenced to things including cutting grass and mulch… I learned very quickly to shut the fuck up.  I have since lost this skill; but I remember that I was quite the master of making sure all the fucks were shut back in the day.   Yup yup…)

I digress–but I’m supposed to digress because this is one of “those blogs” where I get to go straight the hell down whatever rabbit hole happens to present itself at any given time.

I had a haircut today.

My first blogging beer was a black and tan.

Yuengling.

I’m enjoying a few moments of rest.  I’ve been busy as hell.  I shall now tell you how busy I’ve been…

I have been in the studio.  I have been rehearsing with my band.  If you live in Louisville, Kentucky, we have a show that you can come to and we will attempt to melt your face–this is a good thing and you want this, so bring your friends and come to the show!  The show is at the Hideaway Saloon on July 16th.

As I’ve stated (click the links above for more info) I’ve been working on the new EP which is due out this fall–it’s really some pretty awesome shit, my friends… No lie, it’s gonna be a great EP; so I look forward to hearing what you think when it’s out.  I’m stoked about it; but I’m a tad on the tired side.  I’ve been in and out of the studio and in and out of band rehearsals and now we throw in that my car is a tad on the fucked up side right now–overheating… Fucking sigh…

Fuck yo' car, dawg... The people's eyebrow has spoken.

Yeah, we’ve been going back and forth on fixing it or getting a new fuel efficient ride (trust me, this plagues us every single day… We’re working on it, I promise)–but the payments will really hurt because every spare dollar goes into the business of recording new music and keeping the lights on and driving to shows and all that jazz.  Tough decisions, ya feel me?  But it’s all good; because it looks like the car can be salvaged for a bit and no new payments are necessary which means no delays in recording music and moving forward as planned.

Band rehearsals…

Let me tell you something… This band is a great great band.  These dudes and one chica can bring it.  We’re going to kick the shit out of your eardrums and give them a nice rub down at the same time–yeah, it’s such a good thing.  Seriously though, we’re putting together something really special and I can’t wait for you to hear what we do–Louisville, you cats and chicks are first, baby…  We’re coming for you.  Nashville, you’re next on the list…

For show information, go to www.jaspatrick.com for the latest…  Do it.

But yeah, tight grooves, chunky jams, phat tunes and badass sounds are what await you when you come to see us play–Yes, I can speak this way because the entire time I’m thinking of the band as a whole and not myself personally… Sure, sure… You think I’m an arrogant ass; but you’d be selling yourself short.  You need to see this band.  Period.

That there is how it is…

So what else has been going on?  Well, I went through an ordeal… Yeah.  It was cool as shit, too!  Apparently when you test in Krav Maga, you are subjected to a testing unlike anything I have ever seen in any other martial art… The point is to make you fatigued, stressed and then see if you can react to the situations that may arise and be surmountable with your particular skill level… Fucking genius, man!  The test lasted nearly three and half hours and they just made us work our asses off the entire time.  Pretty awesome, if you ask me…  It’s a smart way to test.  No one but who is actually qualified makes the cut.  No welfare graduations.

Awesome sauce.

I passed.

Because of the way it is made to happen, you actually feel like this is an accomplishment.  Nice.

I no longer feel the need to tell the interwebs things about what has happened lately; therefore I believe I am done.  Thank you for reading and I’m sorry it’s not a 3000 work “normal” blog for me.  It’s random, yes; but it’s also a very positive blog and I seriously am stoked about you gals and guys hearing my new music and our band–I truly think you’re going to enjoy both very much.

As a farewell parting gift I will give you a tiny little comic I made in honor of my parent’s birthdays.

Happy birthday, Mom and Dad!  I hope you have a wonderful day (respectively speaking, of course) and I look forward to coming over and getting to spend a bit of time with you!

Thank you all for reading and thank you all for listening.

I remain, your ever faithful musician, composer and blogger,

jas patrick