The end of a home electronic era that deeply saddens me. My vintage Sony Walkman D-EJ958 — metal case, beyond durable construction, never skipped and, coupled with an Airhead amplifier, produced the richest portable sound I’ve ever heard — had a terrible flaw: it was powered by rechargeable batteries that, after years, stopped recharging. And Sony didn’t make them any more. By a miracle, I tracked down a set of rechargeables that precisely matched the originals. After years, same problems.
The glorious hope is that the player could use an external power adapter that used regular AA batteries. Little more cumbersome, sure, but it worked many years longer than both the rechargeables combined. Then last week, it went haywire and began to get hot as hell with the batteries in it. Not. Good. And the final terrible development is that Sony has discontinued the external power adapter.
This was my favorite portable source since CDs were the raging rulers of music. Sure, I already have a second Walkman set with an Airhead, but it is decidedly the acceptable-plus backup player.
Canned Heat was the first rock band I saw — an MSU concert that was as uptight as you might imagine. But already the prime songwriter and lead singer was gone. He wrote strange turns of phrase and intuition that suggested the English and even Roots America investigation into the blues was stubby. Never will know what he might have gone on to discover. I see his beach death scene in dreams.
Was at an event with media-design crazies who work all day online, who were explaining their methods and motions to a crowd of about 40 UX fascinateds. The panelists mentioned Medium a number of times (with notes about its shortcomings as a source of information). So I told my whole story about Medium and my “How I Capture Rapture” piece and how they stopped paying people.
Did I say who I was? No.
Did I name this blog? No.
Sure hope this is (Old) Beauty Mud.
I mean, imagine if any film contemporary were used to sell product now. Charlie Chaplin who?
Now I have to put the lovely artwork of this CD in the Never-Play Shitpile with the Nuge.
Hey, the rain today wasn’t a ferocious as predicted …. got to see modern dance presentation at the Isabella Stewart Gardner and get one of my good ganders at a painting of a demon by someone who believed they were real.
(It’s “Saint Michael, Archangel.” The demon does not look like any clever monster-mashups from scary creatures. Really suggests something not from this universe.)
For a long time, I argued that a prime paradox of Blaze Foley is that you both had to know him and not know him as a person. Except for individual songs, those who wrote tributes and assembled documentaries about him included bumps of sentimentality and drunken mumbling (even the Morlix tribute) (even the Duct Tape Messiah soundtrack). Maybe someday, somebody who never met him would assemble a perfect retrospective.
Now I’ve been persuaded that this new Blaze movie is a worthy wild thing and I intend to see it (though may have to be on the small screen). But if it’s your introduction, I have to insist that what you pick up first is Live at the Austin Outhouse (Lost Art, 1999) and next the Duct Tape soundtrack and if you still need more, try to get an advance listen to the movie score.
Is the selection of tunes on Austin Outhouse ideal? No, nope, no. But every track is outstanding, it stays alert and forms a beginning-middle-end program.
Sometimes the ocean in which we are the merest of ripples can deliver tiny joys. Today on our walk through the park, after seeing the rather yucky slug on the walkway, I mentioned that it seemed like years and years since we had seen any Woolly Bear caterpillars and how I remained fascinated (in fun) with their ability to predict the upcoming winter.
We then proceeded to see six of them, all very small, four edging along and two squished. Still have a little tingle from my words made fuzzy flesh.