Let me start out this fine morn, a pristine one indeed on this, the rockiest Mount, by addressing an occurrence that is ever more frequent whilst I am out and about. Now, I'd hate to come across as less than grateful, because that I am, and very much so, but you all have to stop thanking me for writing this column. In reality, it is all of you who should be thanked. Very plainly, I could not write a single line on this town were it not for all of the unbelievably creative, talented and dedicated folks who keep thanking me for the scat I throw about!
Good Lord, someone even said I was more popular than John Hazlehurst, which terrified me considerably, especially considering that any of my future girlfriends (should my extraordinary wife finally leave me) haven't even been born yet! Ha! But, seriously, thanks to every one of us who puts their hearts and minds into this great community. Except Doug Bruce, that dude's a jerk.
Not a jerk, I hope, is the Indy's new music editor, Bill Forman, an actual writer, who just flew in from Cali-4-Nye-Yay. Now, I have only met him once thus far, but I found him to be fervent, knowledgeable, experienced and bluntly honest. That means no more pissing around the pot here, kiddos! We've really got to jam it into high gear and show him that not only do we got mustard, but that we can cut it, too! Welcome to town, Bill, I'll see you at the show!
Moving on, there is no material indulgence I hold more dearly than my beloved record collection. As a mere lad at just 29, I really should be more enamored with the eye-pods and em-PEE-threes, but how, by God, do I just love the vinyl. The big, bold artwork, the immense diversity of colors, shapes and sizes, the smell of fresh wax, just released from its cellophane entombment or better still the smell of vintage vinyl, seasoned with years of experience inspiring, entertaining and stimulating generations ... I love it!
To paraphrase my boy Sammy Clemens, the rumors of vinyl's death have been greatly exaggerated, and like Elvis, the King, vinyl is alive and well. It just happens to be hiding out in an elaborate underground railroad of secret advocates and protectors. This Saturday, Record Store Day, independent music retailers (that means record stores in English) across this fine nation will join forces against the big box/bandwidth/bastards by blasting live bands and throwing big deals.
Locally, there will be an entire day's worth of music, food and giveaways at Independent Records & Video downtown (123 E. Bijou St.), including sets from Summer Justice, Abracastabya, The Jack Trades and others, plus more fun with The Rem!nders at Independent's 3030 E. Platte Ave. store. Reclining Buddha Records will celebrate from its new location in Manitou Springs (128 Ruxton Ave.) with some deep discounts, and here at The Leechpit (708 N. Weber St.) we'll have some freebies, cheapies and acoustic performances by members of The Haunted Windchimes, and again, The Jack Trades, who obviously L-U-V the bricks and mortar. And, although nothing was planned specifically at this time, I still have to shout a little love at Earth Pig Music (1953 W. Uintah St.), where I picked up my latest gem, a little-known slab o' heaven titled Louisiana Red Sings the Blues. Four indie record stores? Are you kidding me?!? I love this town!
And I hate to just womp this down on you, but there are about a zillion great shows this weekend. Consider these: HOSS (Hooked on Southern Speed) with The Nicotine Fits, King Rat and, ironically, City Mouse at the Triple Nickel Tavern on Friday. The brooding talent of Ashley Raines, Tall City, Occams Razor and The Haunted Windchimes at the Rocket Room on Saturday. Smaug, Thruster, Kingdom of Magic, Colonial Excess and To Be Eaten at The Black Sheep on Sunday. And dont forget Kimya Dawson, Angelo Spencer and LOrchide DHawa at the Sheep on Monday!
Woo hoo, four-day weekend! Smell you later!