THE EDIT: 08/06

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A bite-size run-down of the best stuff of the week. 

1. Fried Shallots EP by Ty Segall

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Technically this came out last week (I, like you, also try to have a sad semblance of a life outside of work. Sue me!), but the most prolific man in rock has done it again. Only this time, he's using his gargae-punk-psych-glam wizardy for a good cause, donating all the proceeds from Fried Shallots to The American Civil Liberties Union.

All the tracks are bangin', but "When The Gulls Turn To Ravens" alone is worth the $5 price tag.

Yes the whole thing has been ripped and posted to YouTube. But like, don't be an asshole, man. BUY THE ALBUM. 

2. This Incredible Dissection of Alex Tuner Singing "Smooth" by Carlos Santana

Ok. I like Alex Turner as much as the next person—maybe not as much as these guys—but I'm a fan. When I'm a fan of someone, there are few things I love more than seeing them act a damn fool. It's humanizing, it's entertaining, and we can all have a big laugh together before I go back to remembering that they make millions of dollars, and I have devoted my career to sponging off the crumbs of their talent with my own derivative drivel. I digress. 

First of all, here is the video in question:

The video is great on its own, but I appreciate Noisey's analysis, which you can read in full right here. Basically her theory is that Alex Turner is embodying everybody's drunk dad. I promise it's worth your time.

A highlight: 

I will add here that you don’t have to actually be a dad (i.e. be the father of human children) to Be a Dad, do you know what I mean? Dad is a state of mind: it’s terrible jokes, it is being really sincere about liking Bono, it is getting buckwild after four beers, it is having questionable opinions, it is wearing ripped jeans in a last clasp at youth. It’s singing “Smooth” on karaoke and then falling over onto a sofa, basically. Alex Turner is embodying Dad.

3. Patti Smith Remembers Sam Shepard

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In sadder news, legendary and earthily brilliant playwright, actor, author, screenwriter, and director Sam Shepard recently passed away, leading to an outpouring of tributes from all corners of the artistic community that he permeated so boldly for decades. 

Patti Smith, Shepard's onetime lover and lifelong friend, penned my favorite tribute of all—no surprise if you know that Smith is one of the most brilliant writers around and is a bonafide member of my own personal Favorite People of All Time Hall of Fame. 

You can read the full tribute here. I will never get over the way she writes.

HHe would call me late in the night from somewhere on the road, a ghost town in Texas, a rest stop near Pittsburgh, or from Santa Fe, where he was parked in the desert, listening to the coyotes howling. But most often he would call from his place in Kentucky, on a cold, still night, when one could hear the stars breathing. Just a late-night phone call out of a blue, as startling as a canvas by Yves Klein; a blue to get lost in, a blue that might lead anywhere. I’d happily awake, stir up some Nescafé and we’d talk about anything. About the emeralds of Cortez, or the white crosses in Flanders Fields, about our kids, or the history of the Kentucky Derby. But mostly we talked about writers and their books. Latin writers. Rudy Wurlitzer. Nabokov. Bruno Schulz.

 

4. "All I Want Is My Baby" by Bobby Jameson

I heard this song in a coffee shop and Shazam'd it—as inconspicuously as possible of course—and got more than I bargained for. Turns out, Keith Richards and Rolling Stones associate Andrew Loog Oldham wrote this ditty, with Mick Jagger singing backup vocals, and Richards being listed as "Musical Director" on the Decca 45. 

Besides that little nugget of useless information, it's an amazing song. Listen up. 

5. This Beautiful E-Mail From Linda Montgomery

For those that don't know, I sometimes write concert reviews for The Orange County Register, a newspaper that forces me to see bands I would rather not, but actually pays me for my efforts. It's been a mind-expanding lesson on objectivity so far, and I regret not a moment.

I was on assignment earlier this week, reviewing The Band Perry at the Pacific Amphitheatre. Not my cup of tea, but the current leap their attempting to make from the safe womb of country to the moneybag$$ but cutthroat world of pop is interesting, and where I knew the focus of the story should be. The show was opened by a local lady named Alice Wallace. She impressed me with her freak yodeling ability but little else, leading me to mention her presence at the end of the story, as is usual practice. 

To my delight, I received this e-mail from a very concerned citizen the day after the story ran. I've recreated it verbatim, but I changed her first name because I feel like she's somehow going to find this and yell at me some more. 

 

From: Linda Montgomery

Subject: Alice Wallace

It would have been nice if you would have mentioned Alice Wallace in the article about The Band Perry. Alice is a super talented local artist. She lives in the city of Fullerton. I have been following her for 2 years. You should go to the Coach House in Sunday and redeem yourself as a writer for the OC Register. The Band Perry was awful and you wasted the written word on them.

Respectfully,               

Linda Monthomery       Orange, CA

 

It's my first official love letter as a writer, and I couldn't be happier. I would just like to defend myself with the following:

 

1. If you want to talk about someone redeeming themselves as a writer, Linda, maybe you should make sure that you spell your own last name properly.

2. Alice Wallace better watch out. I think she has a stalker.

3. I wish I could go to the Coach House "in" Sunday, but I don't know how to get inside a day of the week.

4. I was only present for Alice Wallace's last two songs because I was hungry and needed to get myself a damn hot dog. I'm not sorry about it.