Here’s the first of a foray into lossless FLAC conversion. Unlike previous 320 kbps conversions, nothing has been manipulated after the initial recording; no digital pop & click removal removal, no equalization, no nothing. If you’re lucky you might catch a spot where a piece of fuzz gets caught under the needle. It’s about as close to the actual vinyl as you’ll get.
Take a listen and make sure to post your comments. This album has a rich diversity of instruments, which should display FLAC’s increased musical capabilities. I hope you enjoy.
I love Halloween but always wait until the last minute to figure out my costume. In the past few years I’ve been a piecemeal Walker Texas Ranger, an abridged version of The Dance Commander (twice), a shadowy representation your mom, and–when my locks flowed like the mighty Mississippi–a shoddy Andrew W.K.
This year the problem remains the same–what to be, what to be.
Maybe a Steve Jobs zombie? But then the decision becomes which Steve Jobs to reanimate.
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Uncle Steve Zombie?
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or is it….
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Evil Steve Zombie?
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or maybe even….
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Prep Hipster Steve Zombie, complete with Apple belt buckle-wearing Zombie Woz?
I wish more than anything that Slim Whitman was my grandpa. His mustache, while somewhat sinister to the untrained eye, would have been a constant source of comfort. The scent of sun-heated Brylcreem would evoke memories of neighborhood baseball games. The feel of rough nylon garnering flashbacks of sweet Slim hugs.
Imagine a visit to Grandpa Slim’s house, if you will. You’re 7-years-old and visiting Grandpa Slim’s plantation house during an early summer in rural northern Florida, just far enough from the swamps and their pesky mosquitos but still clear from the ruckus of the interstate. It’s been a while since you’ve seen Grandpa because he’s been on an extended tour in England. They love him in England, almost as much as you do. Your ma says that’s where the Queen lives in her castle.
The morning starts with Grandpa Slim gently waking you by softly yodeling the intro to “Indian Love Call”. Him and Gramawmaw Rose Marie always refer to you as their little Geronimo, their little blue-eyed chief. Your room at the plantation is set up with cowboy and indian wallpaper, leather-tinted shag carpet, and a bunk bed that’s built to look like a trail-tested Conestoga wagon. The closet if full of white jeans and heavily embroidered, pearl-buttoned shirts.
The day starts as any other day would with Grandpa and Gramawmaw. Honey-cured bacon, jumbo eggs sunnyside up, buttermilk biscuits, grits with salted butter n’ sugar, white toast with blackberry jam, and buckwheat pancakes with pecan maple syrup that’s all washed down with a big, cold glass of whole milk. A growing boy needs a hearty breakfast to see him through a big day and there aren’t many days bigger than Founder’s Day. You’re gonna need energy if you’re going to win the potato sack race this year.
Grandpa Slim opens the Founder’s Day celebration with the most heavenly rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” the South’s ever heard. Even the town’s general store owner and self-proclaimed Jefferson Davis historian Jacob Pearson was seen wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. Yes, this year’s festivities are just going to be magical. You can just feel it.
As with every year the day starts out with the Daughters Of The Confederacy’s Annual Swamp Sunflower Pageant. There’s no prizes or ribbons given for the most beautiful Swamp Sunflower because competition is unbecoming of a southern belle. However, Gramawmaw Rose Marie assures you that if there did happen to be a judge on hand her batch of swamp sunflowers would give Miss Annabelle Johnson’s wilted abominations a thorough shellacking.
Pageant is followed shortly by Troop 334′s Soapbox Derby Race down Cutler Hill. You watch on with cripping jealousy as the older kids race at breakneck speeds down the county’s biggest incline. A boy from Grant Intermediate wins first place and you watch with hungry eyes as he’s presented with a trophy that’s almost as tall as you. Grandpa Slim musses your hair and gives you a wink. “Don’t worry, Geronimo. That’ll be you before you know it, as sure as I’m standing here. Your grandpa’s got some old racing tricks up his sleeve. Yes sir, some real whoppers.”
The hole left in your gut from watching some punk kid take your rightful trophy is soon filled by lunchtime’s smorgasbord of Southern cuisine. Hot dogs, hamburgers, pulled pork, brisket, fried chicken, and bar-b-que ribs serve as the stage up on which corned pudding, oyster stuffing, green bean casserole, sweet potato souffle, and coleslaw dance into your quickly ballooning belly. Just as your intestines are about to bust a seam, Gramawmaw Rose Marie sets a heaping plate of banana fosters and apple pie in front of your widening eyes. These delicacies soon disappear down a baby-tooth lined hatch, followed shortly tidal wave of Royal Crown Cola.
After lunch you listen to a little guitar strumming, courtesy of Grandpa Slim. “It aids with the digestives,” he says. Grandpa Slim lays down a hoppin’ little diddy, left-handed on his six-string acoustic. The missing fingers on his left hand, the fingers that (according to your Uncle Billy) got cut off turning a steer into a cheeseburger, always freak you out a little bit, but in a good way way. He’s like Frankenstein a little bit and Frankenstein’s pretty cool.
A little digestion is just what you needed because, after all, who wants to run in the Founder’s Day potato sack race with a full tummy? Last year’s second place finish was truly heartbreaking because that cheater Jimmy Willard used a Yukon Gold potato sack. Rules state only Idaho potato bags are allowed in the competition, everyone knows that. But when you cried foul Jimmy had already switched out bags. You don’t know how he did it without the judges seeing but he did. The sly little grin he poured down on you from from his advantageous position on the podium will be forever burned in your memory.
This year, though, Jimmy won’t be a problem because Jimmy’s dead. He took an unfortunate fall off of the big slide down at Seminole Park at the end of last summer. Only thing is, nobody knows Jimmy took that spill, nobody except you and Grandpa Slim. After you pushed him as he summited the slide’s last step, something you did with that sly little grin blinding your better judgment, Grandpa Slim had been there to clean up the mess.
With the same shovel he used to dig the concrete foundation for your basketball hoop, Grandpa Slim to buried Jiimmy Willard beneath the big oak that supports your treehouse. It’s Grandpa Slim’s and your little secret. Now, every time you go out to play secret agent in the treehouse you say you’re “going out to play with Jimmy,” and you and Grandpa Slim always have a good laugh.
With Jimmy now feeding that big oak you’re sure to win the potato sack race. Cheaters never really win, Grandpa Slim always says.
He really is the best Grandpa in the whole wide world!
The awesome album cover copy on the Environments discs never ceases to amaze me. It’s always unintentionally serious and hilarious at the same time. You can check out another one posted on Rebuilt Tranny here and here.
The following copy is from the back of the album cover for volume three.
Side 1
Be-In (A Psychoacoustic Experience)
Sheep Meadow, Central Park, New York City
April 6, 1969
34 minutes, 17 seconds
Before the terrible fire. Details below.
The 1969 Easter Be-In in New York’s Central Park has come to be regarded as a sort of high-water mark for the new almost vanished Love Generation.
The tremendously diverse crowd kept growing and gathering momentum until almost everyone marveled at this spontaneous “thing” that had taken place in the park.
This Be-In was certainly not the biggest gathering of young people to take place in 1969. However, there are many things that happened during this recording that make it a rare, magical moment.
The recording captures with honesty and total realism this particular instant in time which in retrospect seems more than a bit unreal.
Be-In is the real experience of running barefoot in the grass on a beautiful spring day, surrounded by thousands of half-innocents exhibiting little, if any, trace of paranoia or guilt.
If you were ever at a massive, totally spontaneous gathering in 1969, we think you know the feeling we mean.
This particular disc is unlike anything you’ve heard before; we call it a “psychoacoustic” experience”. It recreates an event with such realism that it actually seems to be happening again. We think that once you experience the total immersion of this encounter, you’ll agree with us that Be-In is something special.
The following video is an example of a rare, magical moment at Central Park in 1969.
Side Two
Dusk at New Hope, Pennsylvania
August, 1970
36 minutes, 51 seconds
Imagine a warm summer night deep in the verdant backwoods in Eastern Pennsylvania.
An infinity of sound stretching out before you. The steady, yet constantly changing drone of countless tiny insects, reminding you of the serenity and timelessness of nature. For in the distance, a hound occasionally barks.
You feel as if you are a thousand miles from the annoyances of city life.
If you can imagine such a night, you pretty much know what our recording of Dusk at New Hope is like.
This highly realistic stereo sound took almost a year of location work and patient testing to perfect. In its present form, it is a perfect compliment [sic] to other natural sound recordings in this series.
In an urban setting, we think you’ll be amazed by the profound changes that take place when you play the disc as a background sound. Many people find that the sounds of night in the country are second to none in creating a setting for increased interpersonal relationships.
Dusk at New Hope can be left on for very long periods of time without inducing fatigue or boredom. Once you become familiar with the sound, we are certain that you will find many new uses for the effect.
How do you make more crickets?
Bonus copy excerpts from the album gatefold.
Be-In
Later in the day, there would be rock throwing and confrontations with the small contingent of policemen nearby, and a terrible moment when a nude dancer leaped into a roaring bonfire, but for this moment in time, frozen on a real of magnetic tape, everyone seems together and happy.
Dusk at New Hope
A little known fact about field crickets is that it is possible to determine the ambient temperature of their surroundings to a fairly accurate degree by simply counting the number of chirps in a fifteen-second period and adding forty. Thus, we have deduced that the temperature at the time of the recording was approximately 65 degrees Fahrenheit. This formula works quite well for field crickets between the temperature range of 55 degrees and 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Above and below these temperatures the cricket no longer sings.
First, I need to say that you have to get this album. It kicks a million asses eight days a week.
Now that that’s out of the way I can start. This album contains a song you might all know: “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer.” Initially this was to be the focus of this album, and still is. However, what I decided to change was the types of alcoholic beverages highlighted in the post. The original idea was to pick my favorite bourbon, scotch, and beer and discuss their merits. However, this doesn’t make much sense given the context of the song.
Second, “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” is a cover of John Lee Hooker’s version, which is in turn a spin on Amos Milburn’s 1953 hit “One Scotch, One Bourbon, One Beer”. I was unaware of this for the longest time so here’s a video for the uninformed:
Third, I don’t want to neglect any of the other equally good or better songs on this album. However, I’ve never been to Delaware, so I don’t really have any clever quips about “Deleware Slide”. I’m not going to write about how things songs sound, because it would do the song, and every other song on this album, a huge disservice. But it still deserves, no, demands a listen. So listen to it, goddamn it. And feel free to preview the few featured on this post.
Ok, enough lollygagging. One bourbon, one scotch, one beer. Which ones would you drink if you were broke, womanless/manless, and hitting an enviable 3 a.m. last call? Keep in mind all of the picks have to be cheap because you’re broke, remember? So, here are my picks:
One Bourbon
Bourbon snifter not included.
During my years in Cincinnati and Covington, KY I had a lot of experience with Bourbon. I mean A LOT of experience. I’ve tried over 50 types of bourbon since I was, ahem, 21. The actual number is locked away in a barrel in the back of my head. So, if I remember correctly, I’m kind of an expert.
During most trips to The Party Source or one of Covington’s 2 billion liquor stores I’d pick up a bottle of Old Heaven Hill Bonded. Bonded Bourbon’s the assortment that’s been stored in a government-secured storehouse for at least 4 years and packs 100 proof (50% alcohol) minimum. Old Heaven Hill’s aged for 10 years and only costs $9 for a fifth in Kentucky, which is absolutely ridiculous.
Heaven Hill is a major player in the distillery world and produces many of the finer Bourbons (Elijah Craig, Evan Williams, Fighting Cock, Henry McKenna, J. W. Dant, Old Fitzgerald) but its lowly Heaven Hill varieties rarely make it out of Kentucky. I’ve tried Heaven Hill Gold Label, Green Label, Black Label, and Old Heaven Hill Unbonded. They’re all great Bourbons for the buck and aren’t sweet like most cheap Bourbons. I need to get a few handles sent out West post haste.
That and a case of Ale-8-One: Kentucky’s soft drink and the absolute best mixer for Bourbon.
One Scotch
J&B
Ok, so not the cheapest scotch available, and I know I’m broke, but I still have to have some standards. J&B’s available at nearly every bar in the United States, is about the price of Jim Beam, and doesn’t taste like turpentine or swamp bog, which is what many expensive scotches taste like. J&B is all right by me.
Plus, it’s the favorite drink of Patrick Bateman. Patrick’s a man with a taste for Huey Lewis and the News, fine dining, and viciously murdering prostitutes. He’s a man who knows what he wants.
One Beer
Red Dog: A Class Act
Last night I met a brewer from Barcelona at one of the bars near my place. He’s in San Francisco for Beer Week and just wanted to talk and talk about his beer. It was really hard to figure out what he was saying because he was very drunk and had a super thick Catalan accent. Basically all I could understand was, “I love good beer, I love the hops!”
He kept pouring beer from one cup to another in attempts to aerate the brew and bring out the flavor. The only thing he succeeded in was spilling beer on the floor over and over. While this was happening his non-English speaking friend, who was wearing a turtleneck sweater and a backpack, danced like a 3-year-old in front of the soul-record-spinning DJ.
This wasted Barcelonian kept asking if we wanted to smoke weed or hash. Every now and then he’d slyly pull out these little nickel bags full of the stuff and give us a shit eating grin that said, “I’m a naughty boy, I love the herb!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that you could light up a fat blunt on a school bus here and no one would give two shits. Seriously, I can’t walk a single block without smelling pot in this town.
I also didn’t have the heart to tell him that I used to only buy 30-packs of Red Dog in Kentucky for $13 dollars.
