Plastic Alto with Mark Weiss

I first heard about Howard Finster watching “Inside Out” about Athens music scene

Hmm.

Bonnie Raitt. Nikki Bluhm. Caroleen. Oh Boy. Howard Finster.

Portola. Tortuga. Hot-lanta, yeah yeah. Jerry Hannan. John Prine. Steve Goodman. Not Miya Masaoka but something that sounds like that. (Not my picture wearing Iris Chang rainbow Elizabeth shirt). Kataoka. Not Nakadate. Not Pumpsie Green. Not Ted Kluzewski’s missing sleaves. Not Slaid Cleaves. Not me and Robyn Israel with Jimmy Dale Gilmore, at Spangenberg not on a big round ball. Not of Montreal. True. Drue dyac but not Troy Dayak the black hawk.

Kristin Heath.

excuse me, Kristin or Kirstin Hersh not Heath:

Strange Angels tour

graphich design, by Donna Sharee but not Drue Kataoka

Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery (not Huntsville).

The other Jimmy Webb.

Make me a poster of an old rodeo?

Not a Hatch print.

Not Jack Hirshman talking about the best pitcher not catcher of the Tigers, I think.

More Marlowe than Shakespeare. (Prince Hal, Newhouser or To Be Or Not)

More Ariel Gore than Amber Tamlyn. (The Witches or thereabouts)

Sounds like a story.

outro: can I post a set of vines (small movies) from my stupid smart phone. And why my battery dry?

Happy birthdat SR. Not SR-71. That’s what he gets from using RU bootlegs.

The Loved Ones.

Who is that song by? That’s by us!

Note: I once visited Howard Finster’s compound 3 hours north of Atlanta and left a piece of found-object art there. I think I gave the cracked bat that I doctored — into a tikkun olam reference — to the blue eyed devils of Goodboy Bowwow and Salivastain. Chattooga County. Halfway or nearway to Tennessee. Where Nashville is. I’ve never been to Nashville.

He cleans up good. Edit. Omit needless needles.

spealing or spieling of which: kudos to Colin Kaepernick with a jew-fro on the cover of GQ. Gal Gadot, the gangster mol. Makes me wonder. (And this is before my moaning Joe– if there’s a bustle in your hedge row don’t be alarmed now).

Kudos to Joe Zirker from independent mid mid Menlo and his big shoe at or in Minnesota. With blue cheese naan — not to be confused with Liberty Street Nan.

These are just notes to self about doing research and posting about John Prine’s famous song about “Angels from Montgomery” mixed with boring sawhorse about Kristin Hersh Strange Angels tour fake sunie-e art and pun on Angles and Angles and Anglos and the true fact that we will be celebrating Ramen Nagi and 250th anniversary of Spanish pre-missionary position players naming a tree or our tree The Big Tree or El Palo Alto. Make me a drone that flies from Monterrey Bay naval research institute. Make me a fruit flea that stops at La Pulgas. I literally shot my dog in my pajamas yesterday. And believe it or not, not unlike Po Bronson, I am not the nudist on the night shirt but sitting on a towel in my new office — literally for the first time in 9 moths gestation period — posting before dressing — and dog-walking – just like Jefe said to do or he do. Duffy do or doo.

Again, do not read this. Wait for the polished simplified version. Waiting for God Damn!

I am comparing “Angel from Montgomery” song or covers to “Stange Angels” tour or album  or poster (the song mentions “poster”). ok?

The original title of this finished the sentence or subject predative by preserving original geographic reference with Montgomery Alabama swapped out for Chattooga, Georgia near Tennesse border, on way to Nashville. Jimmy Rodgers monument I saw signs of between New Orleans and Hunstville with Henry Butler, his driver and I, my first day on the job as his pm in 2002. Aren’t there two Jimmy Rodgers? So yeah it’s a hot mess. God bless his hot mess.

RIP Marsh McCall, former Oracle humor columnist and “Just Shoot Me” producer writer, who loved the Beatles. Seriously, folks.

I don’t know how we got from John Prine to Bart Davenport but here ya go:

The voice that launched a fuck-load of ships:

andand but not anand:

Flies in the kitchen I hear them buzzing, or is that the coffee machine and I ain’t done much yet today 8:16 a.m. but this rambling man post, but that’s about all I got in common with John Mayer (“my close personal friend” — I actually said this, just yesterday, 4th of Jew-lies, to my 2 brothers in law):

lord willing and the crick don’t rise I’ll swede in Ruthie Foster soon enough, speaking of Angles.

Lawdy lawdy lawdy, eddie to add:

Ok, there is a gratuitous and hard to register Jerry Hannan vibe here in that,for whatever reason by pocket rocket suggested I ring him early a.m. on 4th of The Jew Lies or texted him and he rips sounded. “Sounds like a story” I texted him, with a self-like likeness. He has an album or song of same name — but not one that I can call to mind the melody or hook. Howerver, and I write this next day or Friday on bar at Old Pro not Old Rodeo but Old Pro — shall we settle on Old Prodeo? — and after 2 French goals and some limp bacon and eggs as I re-read the above I got to sussin and realized that this very song — John Prine’s “Make Me An Angel That Flies From Montgomery” 1971 was used in the “Into The Wild” movie that has Eddie Vedder music and AND wait for it, music by Jerry Hannan (“Society” but also a deleted scene in which his Jerry’s lady Kelly Peterson sings another Hannan chestnut). The action in the movie is a duet or two-shot between and eidetic I think — the characters can hear or do say make the music — I mean diegetic — eidetic is when Japanese people see faces in their crab shells — including Alexander Supertramp the one who died in vain. In van. But not “Vans Warped Tour” a hat from which introduced me to just yesterday in front of Leading Fast Food store a young man from U of Oregon who is an illustrator and musician and critic and son of my Dartmouth contemporary and Paly High grad Brett Field ’88 and him being Bryant “Beau” Field. I axed that young man want he thinks or will think of Angels by John Mayer, Ruthie Foster, Caroleen Bedlam, Bonnie Raitt, and the Fens.