∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ bad goody goody! ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
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Nappy-head
by Cripsy Duck 1-31-01
(printed in C-VILLE Vol.13, No. 6)

NAPSTER
UTRIS - THE NUNU - GIFT HORSE, VA.
LEO KOTTKE

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Just when I'd grown tired of reciting my favorite cyber-mantra: "the Internet is the greatest thing to happen to masturbation since the opposable thumb," Napster, those fun-lovin' give-it-all-away silicon superbros, saw fit to release an Apple-friendly version of their music "sharing" software. My shallow world was instantly rent asunder.

Suddenly-- as if by magic-- the Internet was made rich with musical possibilities, the world-wide wasteland brimming with free stuff I've always wanted-- free stuff that is, in many cases, very difficult to come by. I'm experiencing a bit of a personal crisis-- hornily staying up all night to take advantage of those low-traffic-hour speedy downloads, hunting for lost Supertramp B-sides and soundtrack scores by Bernard Herman and Gyorgy Ligeti. A little Jello Biafra spoken word rant here, a little classic Coke commercial there. My dutiful Macintosh Powerbook is, even now, slowly sucking down long-forgotten musical gems and playing them back to me over my stereo. I'm in Heaven. Heaven, I say. (Anybody want to buy a rather massive and ridiculously unwieldy LP and CD collection? Napster has come to save us all.)

Aw hell, Napster's the bee's knees, and as far as their legality is concerned, Metallica's Lars Ulrich can eat my lobster. (Rich bastard-- he's really getting robbed, poor thing.) But there was something equally cool if not just more regionally relevant that happened this week: Charlottesville's Annex Records had a showcase and reception for their new compilation disc at Starr Hill. (1/26/01) 'Twas a good show, at least the portion I caught.

Utris was onstage when I arrived, which was cool enough. I don't know if I see myself becoming a serious Utris-head (what is a "utris," anyway?), but I imagine they might feasibly cull a decent regional following-- especially with Annex' help which, judging from the tenacity of this event's producers, could prove a huge boon for many local acts. Utris, to my eyes and ears, is awfully "frat-boy-like," and a little bit silly... looking... but they do throw down a fat, if not too mind-blowing, brew. Silly bastards.

New York's the Nunu-- formerly the industry praise-garnering Interpreters-- came on next, and they were even sillier-- which worked for them. Hair all fucked up and clothes all thrift-store-ish-- like any big city rock band worth its case of Schlitz-- they did pumped-up mod-rock crap to the nines, convulsing and throwing their cocky 700 pounds' worth all the way into it. Some bowed to them as to prominent deities, some laughed and bobbed heads, and some, still, went to find decent cartoonists who could quickly caricature and thereby forever seal their timeless gutter-rock brilliance in ink.

They departed, and the boys of Gift Horse, Va., took the stage. Now, I've been pretty hard on these guys in the past but luckily that hasn't inhibited Annex from interacting with them, and I must say, I'm glad. I thought their set at Starr Hill was the best I've heard them sound-- very compelling-- and I left thinking "damn." Just plain old "damn." That's good.

The show seemed to be a success, and I've gotta say, more power to Sam Jacobs and the folks at the Annex Group for their effort to do something that this town has needed more of for far too long-- pro-active band production and promotion focused on building careers for up-and-coming talent. Bravo!


I was not at Starr Hill the following night (1/27/01), so I did not witness the (I'm sure) blissful work of the artist formerly known as the guy who "deserves-to-win-a-Grammy -and-make-love-to-your-mammy," nor his set with local superheroes Johnny Gilmore, Vic Brown and Darrell Rose, which is too bad, because I'd love to see Gilmore, Brown and Rose in this context, and I really hate to feel I missed something important. Instead, I hung out on the Corner and told really tasteless "Massa Corey" jokes all night. That's just the kind of pathetic scum I am. A real motherducker.

But all was not lost, for Starr Hill made plans to keep the hits coming, and the following Tuesday (1/30/01) they brought in another acoustic super-bro, a legend who it was a great honor to hear and laugh with for a couple hours, the one and only: Leo Kottke.

For those of you unfamilar with Kottke, he's going on four decades as a legendary fingerstyle guitar maestro with a very distinct style and sound, and an undeniably quirky-but-inpired dry sense of humor. Listening to Kottke play is like taking a very odd tour of a warped slice of American modernism guided by a slightly creepy but brilliantly bumbling philosophical expressionist. Between tunes, he would noodle on the guitar while recalling oddball anecdotes often literary in nature-- writer Flannery O'Connor and composer Bert Kaempfert being two subjects-- regularly losing himself in the telling for five to ten minutes while he stalled, thinking of what to play next. His weird stories are every bit as much fun as his remarkable playing, both being abstract and yet somehow familiar, and both drawing the listener in with a persuasive gravity. "Disarming" is a word that applies. I laughed heartily at his insightful stories, and found myself counting the beats on several tunes just to hear how far he'd improvise from the rhythm before surfacing perfectly on the "one." It was a rare and amazing treat.

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