1. July 30, 2017, Jane Weaver, Justin Bieber, Starcrawler

This week I’ve been sampling a lot of music. Sampling in the old school sense, that is.

Jane Weaver is a British artist who’s been around in one group or form or whatever for over twenty years. Her recent solo work has become beloved of the psych-folk crowd, the same people I suspect who get giddy over Joanna Newsom, Meg Baird, and whatever. Her new album is World Kosmology. Whoo, there’s a title that any self-respecting punk in 1997 would have called pretentious twaddle. But these are more generous and inclusive times for fans of outsider music. Boris fans may be Margo Price fans may be Kendrick Lamar fans. Weaver combines trippy analog synths, motorik beats (4/4 time, but rigidly mechanical, favored by Krautrockers), chiming electric and strumming acoustic guitars and her own ethereal vocals. It all works because the songwriting is fetching. Give it a chance and it charms. It probably sounds great fucked up on pot, although I haven’t tried that yet.

I hear Justin Bieber has come to Jesus. That is all.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXPhANmnAdM (Starcrawler video - they wouldn't let me download directly. Poo.)

Starcrawler rule. Two minute songs. They sound like the Little Killers to me, but with more Rodney-glam influence. They take songs and verses at chugging punk tempos, throw in Thunders-y solos, then throw down a Black Sabs bridge (half-time, nasal, minor sounding). If they aren’t the greatest thing since the Ramones, maybe they’re the greatest thing since the first Broncho album. Fill in your own superlative. Three guys and a girl, Arrow De Wilde (… noms de rock, just like Poison!), who sings with bored assertion in a voice with indeterminate gender. Free to be you and me. Starcrawler are, on the basis of the two songs I’ve heard - “Ants” and “Used to Know” - the greatest rock ’n’ roll band in the world.

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Cancer Rising, Goodnight Grant, So Long Jessi

A few weeks back my urologist cut something out of my bladder. A papillary carcinoma, I think it is called. One more box to tick off on my Medical History, one more reason I’ll never buy life insurance: Cancer. Oh, I’m alright. Doc’s pretty sure they “got it.” Of course, having a cam and a cutter crammed up my prick may be a little more frequent feature of my life. But, so it goes. It goes, that is, until you’re gone. Grant Hart is gone. 56, cancer. Jessi Zazu is gone. 28, cancer. I scroll through my Facebook friends – Jesus, lots of gone ones. Most gone to cancer. Devin, Greg – hell, so many. Shit’s in my family, too. My in-laws and my sister-in-law have had their battles with the stuff. My mom was lost to cancer, at 73. She’d be 100 in October. My dad followed her three years later; he was 87. He would have been 109 yesterday if he was from the Caucasus Mountains and ate lots of yogurt. Cancer? Nope. Heartbreak. It happens. Saul Bellow understood. Oh,...

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The resurrection of Peter Perrett

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