Please go here to read part 1 of my interview with Joseph Crachiola. It sounds like…
Music
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Joseph Crachiola is from a small town outside Detroit that got swallowed up by the suburbs (same story for me, except replace Detroit with Chicago). He worked 15 years for suburban Detroit newspapers and 22 years as a corporate photographer before he got bought out and decided to move to New Orleans about 2 years ago. He recently served as road manager for the Pinettes Brass Band in Turkey, and photographed the Umbria Jazz Festival in Perugia, Italy.
I was on a state highway in Texas. It was about 10 PM. I listened to the radio for the last 40 miles into Denton.
It sounded like the Texas I knew, all right. Twang, metal, hype. How ‘bout them Cowboys!
I was going to Denton to shoot some videos and record some songs with Bob Hate and Stephen Thomas, roughly two-fifths of The Eddy Band.
Stephen’s first band nickname was so obscene it actually became cool over the years. It was succinct and entirely filthy.
It cannot be written here. But sometimes words you leave out are just as good as words you leave in, I think.
A student documentary about the history of New Orleans jazz.
My knowledge of Nottingham, UK, extends to the Robin Hood movies I grew up watching as a kid courtesy of WGN Family Classics (featuring Douglas Fairbanks) and Disney (with a cartoon fox). I don’t know much of its music scene, yet I’ve been obsessing lately over instrumental recordings from a pair of bands that hail from there — Kogumaza and Souvaris.
Engineered and produced by Chris Nicholas at Popaholic Studios, Jackson, MS. Remastered by Bob Hate in Albuquerque, NM. All rights reserved.
How could I find myself enjoying the unfolding insanity? How could I listen to a song about a man who beat the woman he loved? Why didn’t she just throw gasoline on the scum-sucking pig while he slept? Those wife-beating screwheads deserve what they get! This was scary stuff; it reeked of sado-masochism, domination, dog collars, whips, chains, bondage, black leather, motion lotion, and edible underwear. Creepy stuff!
I did half a post or something on The Rolling Stones a couple of weeks ago. A friend of mine had griped he should not have to teach college freshmen who’d never heard of the Stones.
This complaint was communicated to me via a one-line text, a little ping of middle-aged misery between two pals, both veterans of too many bar bands.
The joke was on us, of course.
The music industry has been dying. So what? People will still make music. And what we’ve been spoon-fed by commercial radio and the celebrity hype machine won’t be missed.
There is an inverted relationship between the number of units a band sells and how much I enjoy them. It is more the rule than the exception. I don’t say this as an elitist music snob, but as someone who truly loves seeing a band up close instead of a Jumbotron.