Wherine everyone’s favorite deliveryman sits in for the whole cast as they talk at great length about the Mini Me sex tape, Brangelina’s newest spawn, take some quizes and discuss good vs. evil…sorta.
As always it can be found right over here, or on iTunes for cheap as free.
Get a beverage of your choice and ponder miniature scootie with me,
E
you married into money and pills…
There are certain songs, certain artists that can take a body back to a time and a place in a way more visceral than is probably reasonable. It’s a time warp of chords and keys, of bridges and bass lines that I’ve always feared would forever remain more powerful than any movie I’ll ever see or create.
For me there is no more substantial way-back machine than Mr. Butch Walker. Every single time I hear his voice it’s summer in
Not that he hasn’t found success, he has to be sure, but the fact that Def Leopard and Clay Aiken have far outsold him is a tragedy of irreducible proportions. The kind of crisis that, in a just world, should have UN/NATO joint taskforces out en masse handing CD’s and Vinyl’s to the public at large like the artistically bereft refugees they are; afloat in a sea of mediocrity, pandering and country-western.
But damn that man brings me back to a time when, maybe, I was the most free I will ever be. Flush with the particular brand of disposable income one finds only at a time when bills are just something your parents complain about. The summer before college, the year before I let somebody get her fingers into me, 48 months before I would decide to spend my life trying to make people laugh. Steering my boy Edwin’s jeep from the passenger seat, doing 85 down the ATL freeway as he climbed into the back to fix the canopy which was perpetually loose. Before the words, “revenue corridors” and “lawyer” were even in my vocabulary. (Edwin is now a lawyer, by the way, though not one of mine.)
Hands in the air, feet on the sloped ground of the one-time-cinema-turned-concert-hall only long enough to bounce back up again, ready, along with a few hundred others, to flip a bird according to tradition, according to the lyrics.
I’ve seen hundreds of bands live and hundreds more on video and Butch remains the most captivating frontman I’ve ever laid eyes on. If the Devil does exist, he’s probably a little something like Butch Walker. A little cleverer, a little smoother than seems terrestrial, with a glint in his eye that suggests he knows something you don’t, and you’d follow him just about anywhere if only to see what happens next.
But if The Devil does exist, and he does go down to
The first time I saw Marvelous 3 (Butch’s old band) it was by accident and, hand to God, I can’t even remember who we paid to see.
I bought my first M3 record that night from the hands of the man himself. A little small talk as the money goes from my pocket to a six-dollar lockbox, the transaction sealed with a handshake and the understanding my soxors had been ineffably roxored. And maybe that’s the way records should be sold.
I bought my second M3 record just the same way a few months later. And in the days before CD burners were household objects I would make tapes for my friends. For Edwin I believe I made a ‘Mini-CD.” Anyone remember those things?
I’m 28 now and I’m in The ATL less than once a year. I haven’t seen Butch live in seven or eight years and I buy my records on iTunes and Amazon. But I still know every word to every M3/Butch record, and I still sing them very loudly and very off-key whenever I’m in need of either some good old fashioned cock-rock, or just some music that doesn’t suck. Or when I want to remember.
And it’s always
Get a beverage of your choice and trip down memory lane with me,
E
I could change if you could change…
Hey, everybody. Just wanted to drop a quick note to let you all know that I can now be found wasting time over at twitter. So far it’s been a blast…for the two people who follow me there.
Anyway, happy fourth of july everybody,
E