Good day, beautiful people!
I have a dark and disturbing secret that emerges every spring like some perverse bud from a scarred and paper-skinned tree. I don't open up about this publicly too often for reasons that will soon be obvious, but, we're all friends here, right? This is a "safe space" as the kids seem to need these days, right?
I trust you like a crooked doctor, so here it goes. Every Spring cycle of this incredible, extensible planet's journey I am filled with an insatiable desire to listen to the Grateful Dead. I know, I know. It's true and, while I'm not completely ashamed of it, it's not my proudest feature.
Now, let's be clear for one second: I skip all the Bobby Weir tracks. ALL of them. Well, all of them except "Burning Shore" and a periodic "Not Fade Away". I can't abide by Little Bobby Weir, I just can't. But Jerry Garcia? Jerry in his pre-heroine, mostly Pig Pen-era guitar sound, composition and vocal stylings, he's almost unmatchable in any genre. Emotional, soulful, heart-breaking and entirely unafraid to not resolve a guitar phrasing. The fuzzy old freak at his peak was a wholly American genius. Never mind what we've done to the valuation of the word "genius" in these post 9/11 days.
Don't believe me? Fine. Go find a live version of "Morning Dew" (the Europe '72 version will work just fine) or a "Stella Blue" from around '75 or '76 (try this one from the Orpheum Theatre in 1976) and, if you remain unmoved, we don't have to talk anymore.
Now, all of this is to say that I've found my annual warm-weather habit completely upended by the release of Marc Ribot's exquisite new solo release "Map of the Blue City". Marc Ribot is best known as Tom Waits' guitarist on such albums as "Rain Dogs", "Bone Machine" and "Frank's Wild Years", but he also has a hell of a pedigree in the early '80s New York art-rock scene. He even played guitar for Allen Ginsberg on one of Mr. Ginsberg's questionable attempts at musicality.
Ribot is a guitarist like no other. Mixing jazz, punk and classical latino stylings into a sound that reminds one of the better days of the 1970's while dumping us in a parallel world where there's no currency higher than raw human emotion. I can't get enough of this stuff. And, in case you're wondering, this has absolutely nothing to do with beer other than, perhaps, reminding us of one of the great side-effects of all the best inebriants: the art of conversation and the joy of sharing joys.
It's a beautiful day today. Why not put Marc Ribot's new album on your pocket surveillance device and ride your bike over to IBW Lodge #1 and enjoy a pop or two with friends new and strangers old? That's what I'm going to do just as soon as I finish my little tractate here.
