THEY’VE GOT THE GUNS, BUT WE’VE GOT THE NUMBERS
 
Having read Illinois State Senator Barack Obama’s Democratic National Convention speech a half dozen times, I’m still taken aback by this newcomer to the national political scene and the tremendous way he has with words.

In this speech, he gave a brief biography of himself.  How his rise from a Kenyan born immigrant and a Kansas woman to State Senator was both nearly impossible and strictly American.  And for all those rednecks who ask: what does Barack mean anyway?  Obama let everyone know he was “Blessed.”

Of course, he trailed off into bullshit pro-Kerry politics.  But he did discuss the reunification of America and did some ranting about Blue States and Red States. 

E pluribus unum – out of many, one.
 
Either way, he was brilliant.  What he represents is a symbolic achievement to the Democratic Party -- a true underdog who raised himself up from anonymity to greatness through sheer willpower of the soul.

Screw Hillary in 2008, my vote goes to Barack Obama.

NO ONE SOUNDS LIKE THE DOORS

I checked out the marvelous 1970 record by the Doors, Morrison Hotel and all I can say is nice recovery.

After their previous record, The Soft Parade, I was disposed to say that there was no way they’d ever make good music again, but I was definitely wrong.

Morrison Hotel is vibrant with colorful metaphors and hard rockin’ blues.  Morrison excels with lyrics like This is the strangest life I have ever known.  His raspy screams on You Make Me Real and Maggie M’Gill are riotous while Krieger again shines on guitar, playing some fuzzed out solos even Hendrix would be proud of. 

Twisted apocalyptic songs like Peace Frog and Ship of Fools are spliced with dreamlike velvety ballads such as Blue Sunday and Indian Summer.

Of course, no Doors record would be complete without the ridiculous drinking song.  Land Ho! tells the story of bitter sailor and his quest for love.

Morrison Hotel is the best blues record the Doors ever did, just give it a listen if you don’t believe me.  It includes a nice radio hit, Roadhouse Blues, and is available from Elektra/Asylum.  It retails for $9.99 at most places.  No one really buys it anymore.  But they should.

FREAKOUT 1969

So my friend hooked me up with a copy of The Soft Parade.  The Doors’ 1969 album sounds more like Chicago than a Jim Morrison vehicle.  Paul A. Rothchild goes over the top with lush horns and string arrangements, giving the bluesy rock of the Doors a very seventies early disco sound. 

The record begins with Tell All the People, a Vegas style rocker with Morrison chanting his pseudo messiah ramblings.  Tell all the people you see/follow me down.  The hit single Touch Me follows and leads into the strung out post-modern sound of Shaman’s Blues. 

Robbie Krieger (guitar) stands out as the most prolific musician on this record, penning nearly half of the songs, and playing wicked solo upon solo.  He even mocks Bob Dylan with a countrified chorus vocal on Runnin’ Blue.

Do It begins with a laughing Jim Morrison and burns into a powerful collection of fast paced rock and folk including Easy Ride and Wild Child.

However, Ray Manzarek (keyboards) and John Densmore (drums) are relatively quiet and steady on this record.  They remain drown out in the sound effects and orchestral arrangements.

The album rounds out with Wishful Sinful, a throwback to the early Doors sound and The Soft Parade, Morrison’s latest ranting burlesque piece.  This closing track tops 8 minutes and moves between baroque, broadway, and creepy funk.  What the group is exactly trying to accomplish with this final section is uncertain.  It dances around a new messiah and rebellion, but all the while fails to have any sort of cohesive structure.

Despite what the record's title suggests, The Soft Parade is hard rock, but not much of a traditional Doors testimony.  It seems as if they spent their time in the studio doing too much coke and booze and not nearly enough pot and acid.

WHITE MALES STROKE THEMSELVES, FILM AT ELEVEN
 
Ripe for the conquest of America, the Democratic National Convention kicked off yesterday in grand modern pop ideology.  The whole scene resembled a cartoon from some surreal cable channel, flashing lights coupled with the icons of the left danced against images of daily life and a color scheme of red, white, and blue.

The old guard spoke.  Jimmy Carter, Al Gore, and the Clintons.  Some joke that this will be the last time Hillary introduces Bill.  The rhetoric of the night was centered on foreign policy, healthcare, and the divided electorate.  They also beat the drum of the 8 year Clinton reign.  Redundancy was on the menu and the crowd feasted.

Across town, the Republican stooges sat in their minivans polishing their brass knuckles and clenching their teeth.  All waiting for the right time to pounce.  They sent volley after volley of spin from their “War Room,” waiting for the Democrats to say one bad thing about George Dubya.  He’s the President, you can’t say bad things about the President.

The Dems, scared of the retort, tossed out Carter.  So old and out of touch, he merely scolded the entire world, young and old with his ancient views and out of touch wisdom.  Someone should probably listen to him.  But no one really cares.  Where’s the guy that got a blow job?

What are we celebrating here? 
A former war hero and homegrown revolutionary?  Kerry sold out sometime in the 80’s.  Real scum of the Earth type.  Walking around, thinking he’s someone.  Maybe, he was.  But not anymore.

And Edwards is merely some hack lawyer with a Southern accent and a knack for public speaking--he talked his way into being a millionaire by asking people for their money.  Kerry just picked him to maybe get a swing state or two.

This is big business, capitalist greed, and evil Romanesque self destruction at work.  The Democrats are just as decadent and ridiculous as the hordes of money-thirsty Republicans that wait in the wings, their just naïve and make peaceful people follow them blindly to the dogs.  And so it continues…

The Slaves work.
The Partisans party.
And Caesar? 
He’s at his ranch in Crawford, Texas, falling off a bike.

Aw, hell, my knee!

TABU, PLUSH, AND SINISTER URGES

Friday, June 25 and the place to be was Tabu in the Warehouse District of Minneapolis. The club was loaded with the sharpest looking guys and most attractive women in the Twin Cities.

They were there for Josh Wink, a DJ of note who just released his latest album, 20 to 20. I was there for the $5.75 gin and tonics. Very strong.

Plush and Sound in Motion sponsored the show, per usual, and presented a wide range of House and Trance spinners. The main act came on around midnight. Wink was solid, mixing house and acid and making the onlookers generally irrational. His set culminated in a giant Sesame Street monster, covered in pages from Michael Moore’s new book, dancing his way across the floor and onto the stage. This was probably the most surreal experience of my life.

I decided to go upstairs and have a cigarette. There was a half dozen warm bodies on the entire level and a laptop DJ playing in the corner. I can’t quite remember his name as it was something fairly unremarkable, but I do remember a certain song he mixed into his set. Godzilla by Blue Oyster Cult. This was the most frenzied pulsating twinge of electronica I’ve ever heard and I was one of five people to enjoy it. Sad really.

Afterwards, we drove out to some Minnesota Supply Warehouse and partied. The admission was far too expensive for the two rooms of mediocre techno. Although I did hear Dr. Evil, who rocked with a breed of noise and beats that I’ve never been privy to.

All around, I found that the audience I once knew in the electronic scene and with Plush in general had seemed to give way to a barrage of hormone controlled drunks using the scene to attract the opposite sex.

I’m not saying this is bad, I’m just pointing out the fact.

I’M GONNA CATCH ME A CHICKEN, COZ I’M A CHICKEN HAWK

Scurrying along in a little Ford Contour, we arrived at Battle Lake, in Central Minnesota near the nights sunset.

The drive had been tedious, long bouts of meaningless highways interspersed with stops into dickwater towns where chicken hunts and beef jerky is the flavor of the week. Seriously. Chicken Hunts.

In one such town, Brandon, near Devil Lake, I had to use the restroom only to be greeted by the worst sight imaginable. The toilet was overrun with male excrement, the floor was sticky with urine and the bathroom mirrors had been slimed over in some hillbilly goo the likes of which no one on God’s Earth should be privy to.

This is the backbone of Amerika.

Onwards to Battle Lake, the site of many major Ojibwa/Dakota conflicts before and after the white man landed on the beaches. History has it that in the penultimate battle, the Ojibwa mustered enough men and courage to drive the Dakota from the lakes forever, forcing them west and into the hands of the savage Union cavalry.

In town, a 25 foot statue still stands today. Large and impressive, it shows an Ojibwa warrior, decked out in the most luxurious feathers and beaded loincloth dazzling against his red skin, pointing out over the site of this final, deciding conflict.

Battle Lake is also known for Granny’s Pantry, a really rad candy shop with homemade fudge and ice cream cones. Mmm Mmmm.

I took a boat tour of the lake. Watched jet skiers do their thing and was privy to just enough yuppiedom that if the case of Labatt’s Blue were not there, I would have murdered one of them for show.

After Battle Lake, it was back to the Twin Cities, but not before embarking on the Central Minnesota Tour-de-Force, a trip to Alexandria and the legendary Kensington Runestone.

The Runestone was found Olaf Olafson in the late 1800’s and presents the story of a Norse Expedition to Douglas County, Minnesota in 1362, a full century before Columbus. Along with the stone were remains of spears, battle axes, firestones, and other Viking wares.

Fort Alexandria, formerly the northern-most outpost in the U.S. Army, had been converted to the Runestone Museum to house the famed artifacts.

Minnesota’s long history is explored here. Taxedermists have preserved the local wildlife on exhibit. Wolves, bears, hawks, owls, bobcats, deer, moose, porcupines, etc. Ojibwa and Dakota objects are on display, including some of the finest beadwork in the state. Early settler artifacts and weapons were there, along with the obvious Norse historical items, including a 40 foot replica of a Viking longship donated by the Smithsonian.

After leaving the fort, we stood under the gaze of yet another giant statue, Big Ole. A 28 foot statue of a Viking, protecting Alexandria and branding a shield that reads “Birthplace of America.”

True, this may be the first place where an American mutt was first conceived, given the blonde-haired Natives that early settlers came in contact with.

Either way, as I left Central Minnesota and returned to the comfort of Minneapolis, I returned with a greater understanding of the chance outcomes of Minnesota history. How one generation gave way to another and intercultural contact was pivotal to American development. The land began as no ones, the Indians watched over it for us and then, almost suddenly America arrived. The ways and means are not trivial, and this nation was founded on blood. But this nation was founded and freedom was NOT slavery.

For all the bad, there is good. We are one people made of many. A salad bowl. A melting pot. A mess in the microwave. However you want to think of it, we are Amerika. Chicken hunts and all.