Weeknotes: January 6-10, 2025
Monday January 6
Outside the giant home decor superstore shreds of yellow caution tape flap like pennants, suggesting unknown drama. Scant cars punctuate the desolate parking lot. Grim is the word that comes to mind. In Chris Frantz's Talking Heads memoir (which I've stuck with, and am now enjoying) he recalls how Johnny Ramone used that word over and over to describe their shared 1977 tour of Europe ("Oh shit, man, this is gonna be grim").
I don't go to this store very often. It's one of those wastelands of excess that makes me feel edgy and cynical. It's like a blander Pier 1 without any curation, a shelter for the world’s decorative vases and wicker plant stands to live out their days in a heady fug of candle store aroma. I'm in the market for new bathroom rugs that will pair well with the tricky seafoam walls and faux driftwood floor covering I inherited when I rented the house. Last winter I spontaneously bought a complete set of grass green rugs and matching towels which I pretended to like for a couple days before recognizing I'd turned my bathroom into a 1980s Holiday Inn. January is when I'm most inclined to tackle these problems. Aren't we all working on our interiors this time of year?
Tuesday January 7
The utility trucks arrive promptly at 8:30, creating a small industrial village outside my window. I've prepared the basement for the plumbers who will replace our antique galvanized water pipe and feed it to the trench that's about to be dug in the front yard, connecting with the main pipe. Thankfully, I've also arranged to get the hell out of here and work somewhere else. The operation hasn't even begun and it's already chaotic. I would have been too distracted and Islay would be out of her mind with the noise and so many strangers coming in and out of the house.
Wednesday January 8
I spend the morning listening to Julian Cope's 2024 record, Friar Tuck, which someone has mercifully uploaded to YouTube. The bulk of his 21st century output has been self-released by his Head Heritage label whose distribution outside the U.K. is very limited. I have been a Cope fan ever since my brother brought home a copy of Peggy Suicide in 1991 which, along with its successor Jehovahkill, blew my mind into a million pieces. He has remained a favorite throughout my life, an unfailingly individualistic cult artist whose esoteric music has stayed consistently weird. Even Cope's brief commercial period was interesting; his lone 1987 hit "World Shut Your Mouth" is a college radio classic and its success was essential in begetting the epic run of outsider albums that completed his Island Records tenure.
I don't know if younger fans pay attention to record labels much anymore. You don't really get any sense of them in the online world. It was very much a visual thing when I got into music because you saw the labels' branding and once you started building your catalog, you began to notice the relationships and which ones you vibed with. Just the other night I put on a Bryan Ferry record and noted the familiar green and orange Atlantic label of the '70s which for some reason I've always disliked. On the other hand, the little rainbow tab on Island's CD spines usually meant something great was about to happen. Owner Chris Blackwell sold the label to Polygram in 1989, but that's just about when I came to them. For me, that little rainbow stripe meant the Pogues, Julian Cope, and Tom Waits' edgy '80s classics. Similarly, Rykodisc's coke bottle green-tinted jewel cases were also a big turn on for me. They launched right as I was becoming a music buyer so I have a special nostalgia for them. They resurrected Bowie's catalog for the digital age and turned me on to Nick Drake, June Tabor, Morphine, Frank Zappa, and many others. That distinctive green tint usually indicated something unique and out of the mainstream. Ironically, Blackwell bought Rykodisc after he left Island and it soon began its decline.
Anyway, the new Cope album is great. There is no one like him.
Thursday January 9
I wake from a dream in which I've joined an amateur choir. We're on some kind of festive group walk through town which involves browsing at local businesses. We're not drinking, but it feels like a pub crawl. One of the songs we're learning is based on a best-selling book which I keep seeing in shops. In someone's yard I make friends with a wily raccoon. We arrive at a large cathedral that is also a sports center. I walk inside to find a man with a headset mic leading a sing-along of the book song, but he is also a referee and the janitor. He keeps interrupting the lyrics to narrate his actions. "We're cleaning Kevin's locker now."
Later I listen to radio reports about the L.A. wildfires and drive to Royal Oak. It's 20°F and sunny here. Tom at Guitar HiFi has given my old Ampeg Reverberocket an overhaul and replaced all the tubes. It had been in rough shape for several years. I play for a little while when I get home, but I have new upstairs neighbors and don’t want to push it on their first week here. There is nothing quite as underwhelming as playing quietly through a tube amp. Maybe I'll bring it to my solo gig on Saturday and play a few electric songs.
Friday January 10
A decent snowfall in January. It's so rare these days it seems novel. I adore snow and am a defender of Michigan winters. I sometimes feel irritated by the complainers. In a temperate climate, every season is a gift with its own personality, its pros and cons. To me, parts of July can feel just as bleak (or as joyful) as January. As each season winds down, I find myself gladly looking forward to the next one, even though they're all starting to blur together from climate change. While I shovel my sidewalk, it's not lost on me that California is on fire right now. I can't imagine losing everything. There's too much of that in the world right now.
So I'll enjoy what I can, while I can. I go for a run and pass a group of college kids playing ice hockey on the frozen EMU koi pond. The snow coats my hat and melts on my face. I feel invincible. Later I put on all my favorite woolen gear: a heavy plaid hunting jacket I bought at an antique store in Northern Michigan, a scarf from a street vendor outside Edinburgh Castle, and a knit cap from Ireland. I lace up my winter boots and walk across the Forest Street Bridge up to Depot Town for a cozy drink with friends. If this is our one decent snowfall of the year, I want to make the most of it.
