Like a Rhinestone Cowboy, Castanets Are Riding Out on a Tour Through The West Coast

I always envied that Castanets guy. He tested out of high school at age 15! And then he traveled around the United States on a Greyhound bus for four years! This is like, my life dream! (Well, maybe I'd choose a train or a car instead of a Greyhound bus, but still.) Just imagine the diner waitresses and railroad tramps and wily bluesmen he must have encountered!

Not to mention the three amazing albums Mr. Castanets, Raymond Raposa, has released on Asthmatic Kitty Records. Sparse, haunting, and thoroughly lovely, the latest of these releases, 2007's In the Vines (TMT Review), is setting Raposa and friends on the road for a series of dates on the West Coast.

In the Vines features performances from frequent collaborators like Vanishing Voice's Nonhorse, Viking Moses, Jana Hunter, Phosphorescent's Matthew Houck, Rafter Roberts, and Shaky Hands' Nathan Delffs. The album was inspired in part by Raposa's experiences on the road and by a Hindu fable about the inevitability of fate.

Prefix opens story with brilliance rivaling Pitchfork: “The Smog, or (Smog) if you will, has lifted, and now we’re left simply with Bill Callahan.” I, on the other hand, am taking a class on Hemingway this semester.

The man sits down at the bar. There are three bottles to his right. They are empty. To his left is a woman. She sits lower than the man.

"I don't understand," says the woman. She says this as a child might, wanting instructions from a father.

"I have to go," says the man.

"But why."

"I love you."

"I can't believe you anymore," says the woman.

The man orders another beer and looks at his suitcase on the floor. It is covered with stickers of the places he's been. To the left of the suitcase is a guitar case. It is older than the woman.

"I don't know that you ever did," replies the man.

"If you leave, who will sing you to sleep?"

"When I leave you will no longer want to sing me to sleep."

"I still have my harp. Take me along."

The man takes three calculated sips. One is a taste. Two is a reassurance. Three is a goodbye. He looks at the door. It is the type that swings without the safety of a spring-loaded closing mechanism. It flows freely. He draws parallels. The man runs his fingers through the long hair of the woman. She reminds him of an elf.

"You are very pretty, but I must go."


EMI to Allow Live Concert Broadcasts in Movie Theaters for Those Too Lazy to Camp Out in Line for Tickets or Make Up Egregious Lies About Family Members Dying in Certain Wars

After the shame of having its ass bought out by private equity firm Terra Firma, EMI surveyed the wreckage and realized, "Hey! I still own the rights to these here Spice Girls and Coldplay, et al... let's whore them out a little more and see what they can do. Those dang scalpers won't know WHAT hit ‘em!" In this case, fans of said bands will be able to totally bypass that pesky live experience for a real-time streaming broadcast of the concert they want to see in movie theaters owned by Terra Firma, which holds the rights to Odeon/UCI, the largest movie theater conglomerate outside of North America. For all of you businessy types, this makes the bucks for EMI as such: "The format would be used to launch new albums, with fans, media and music executives invited to the screenings and given the option of picking up the CD or film of the concert on their way out of the cinema." Thanks, Mr. EMI Suit Man! You're so kind.

Now, I understand if you were all kinds of pissed that you couldn't seen Led Zeppelin's reunion show in London because, well, you didn't feel like going to London for one concert. That's legit. But broadcasting concerts live in the SAME city these acts are touring? Really? Could someone please help me understand the purpose behind physically standing up, walking out of your house, and going somewhere ELSE to sit on your tush and watch a concert? It's like going to a McDonald's drive-thru and going to Burger King to eat your Quarter Pounder. And I guarantee both practices will do nothing to enhance your cultural experience. Just sayin'.

Jens Lekman to Tour, Rocky Dennis Not to Tour, or: In 30 Years, I Will Wear Jumpers and Comfortable Shoes after Going to See Movies Featuring Diane Keaton

Dear Jens Baby Sweetheart,

Things could always be worse.

Like, for instance, rather than your likely frustration with the public thinking your name was “Rocky Dennis,” (due to confusion over the Mask-inspired song title “Rocky Dennis’ Goodbye Song to the Blind Girl” back in the earlier ‘00s), you could have, say, had your little sister Sarah agree with you when you mentioned that you thought in your old age you would look like your hefty, poofy-haired high school teacher of the past.

Crying shame.

Eating my heart out, aiming for 100 extra lbs, old and new tourdates:

[Photo: Kristin Lidell]

Henry Rollins Announces Tour, But Only The Confirmed Cities (Kidding)

I could give you the blabber on Rollins’ past and future endeavors (Black Flag, his TV show, other things I have no idea about), but that’s all better served by his website, Instead, what I want to talk about is Wrong Turn 2: Dead End, the straight-to-video horror sequel released this year starring Henry as retired Marine colonel Dale Murphy. At first look, the film has all the makings of a bland, formulaic, shock-gore throwaway flick. But with Henry Rollins in the credits, you might wonder if the trunk-necked pontificator is able to save the sequel from its seemingly preordained bargain-bin destiny.

While the film’s thoroughly disfigured inbred hillbillies -- its own West Virginia-inspired Texas Chain Sawers -- hit a bit harder than Black Flag fans circa 1984, unfortunately no amount of intestine splatter, no number of mutant makeout sessions, nor even an electronic music-hating 46-year-old could make the film any closer to being watchable. TMT wholeheartedly backs the advice of YouTube user pecker213323, who recently commented on the film’s trailer by asking, "are there any boobies in this? I'm not gonna bother watching this shitty movie unless a fine ass chick gets naked. (sic)" That would be a "don’t even bother," Mr. Pecker.

With that out of the way, I imagine this Rollins tour, Provoked: An Evening of Quintessentially American Opinionated Editorializing and Storytelling, will be essentially the same spoken word act he’s been doing for decades. You know what you’re getting into: a opinionated, rambling dude with a butt chin and a neck leathery enough to sharpen razors on.


Just When They Were About To Be Exploited, Bonde do Role Loses Marina Ribatski

Maybe this is for the best. With Rolling Stone and Pitchfork dedicating quite a bit of press to the favela stars, it could have only been a matter of time before Bonde do Role were forced to stop breaking U.S. copyright laws and stop singing about licking people's assholes. I believe very strongly that you should not stop liking a band simply because they begin to attract a wider audience, but my principles could have been tested if Bonde do Role had played the VMAs. “It is better to burn out,” they say, “than it is to record an album produced by Timbaland.”

Their recent press release explains that the band, now consisting only of D'eyrot and DJ Gorky, would be continuing under the name Bonde do Role and recruiting a new member. Perhaps they’ll actually get a guitarist, as they’ve mentioned in the past (I recommend going for Buckethead). As for Marina, she’s already made a solo appearance on the latest Go! Team album, so perhaps she can start a solo shouting career. The release also says that they are all still friends, so I wish them all the best, although I’m fairly sure that means nothing to them.