This morning I was incensed by the revelations that the rap artist, M.I.A., wasn’t exactly who she puffed herself up to be which also confirmed my sneaking suspicions that the self-proclaimed voice to the young Tamil struggle in Sri Lanka was nothing more than a face (albeit a beautiful one) to an utterly disgusting pop-Frankenstein made up of lethargic, middle-class producers and engineers performing their ill-fitting duties as the cogs in a dying machine called the music industry. Frankly, I think Lynn Hirschberg at the New York Times let Maya Arulpragasam off way too easy, damning her with 9 pages of faint praise and contradiction.

Sure, the song ‘Paper Planes’ captured imaginations rocketing her to fame with it’s sampling of The Clash as a backdrop for her voice over rap – but it only stands to testimony that some things are classics and can stand on their own. And as she borrows here from the great Joe Strummer and company, Maya wraps herself in conflict and strife of the Tamil Tigers, falsely claiming their struggle as her own, and embossed that into the minds of many with that facile, para-military, ginger holocaust styled video in which we were assaulted with on the internet for her song, Born Free.

My first inkling that M.I.A. wasn’t all she said she was came when I was watching Real Time with Bill Maher and he interviewed her asking her about the plight of her native land, to which she seemed to know less to nothing about the Sri Lankan civil war than I did.

Chris Matyszczyk, at Cnet.com, summed up my sentiments this morning, reinforcing my dislike of M.I.A. and Twitter simultaneously. Simply put, Maya Arulpragasam, is a flaming jackass! I pity anyone who bought into her shtick and purchased any of her music. Her persona is like an onion, the more you unravel the layers, the more you are brought to tears, only to then be used to make Revolution Canapé.

Now, why does this even matter to me?

A writing teacher in college once told me, “Don’t write or produce work from the point of view that you know nothing about. It will be your own undoing.” These are words to live by, as an artist. Another one might be, “Don’t shit where you eat.”

I’m the product of my working class family and my environment. Historically, I’m also the first person in the last 200 years (perhaps more) of my family to attend a college and complete my studies. I almost dropped out of college after my second year because I ran out of money, and only when I begged the school to find some need based scholarship funds was I allowed to continue my studies to get my Bachelor in Fine Arts degree of which I have remaining $12,000 in loans I pay at regular monthly intervals. I bust my ass in a graphic design/printing job that sees me as little more than a skilled hand to press buttons, just so my right-wingnut boss can live just off a golf course and make ludicrous payments on a lease for his Porsche to keep up appearances at the country club or on his Match.com dates. I come home and I’m so fucking tired, that what little time I have for myself on weekends is spent doing battle with weeds in my garden or going out looking for somebody to fist my brains out so I can forget it all for a night when I should be making artwork for appreciative clients – not the ones who run magazines who collect thousands of dollars from beer or porn company advertisements or run gay shops in trendy parts of town who can’t be bothered to dole out paltry sums of money to artists trying to make it in this world.

Ask me again why I’m upset and I will keep pointing at charlatans like M.I.A. and the people who like to play the fool.

It’s been a little while since I was at a show last and a couple of months ago the Rancid show was postponed due to an injury in the band. Thankfully, the tickets were honored and a new date was set for the show I just got back from.

I’m probably going to crash in the next hour as one can only be so wired for so long before falling into a coma. Meanwhile, while I write this the 7 layers of funky, stinky boy sweat cools and dries on my skin. I’ll probably have a few bruises as well, but I don’t give a shit. The Rancid show tonight was a friggin’ blast!

SOMA, while not my favorite venue and an all-ages event, sure can pack them in. I worry that this place is a fire trap as I would hardly want to be in a building with all these people screaming and running for an exit.

Anyway, the opening act was on stage already warming up the crowd – Danny Diablo, a hardcore punk and rap act. Not my thing at all, but I guess teenage males with anger issues may like it. I dunno. What I do know is that he’s sexy in that hypermasculine way that you’d be hard pressed to show me a gay guy with that much swagger and testosterone and if he told you to suck his dick – you totally would. Besides that, the base from the speakers was so strong that it was hitting me right in the chest and I swore several times I was vibrating across the cement floor.

Buck-O-Nine were up next. San Diego’s local boys of ska-punk. They’ve been around forever and it was cool to finally catch one of their shows! Definitely a crowd-pleaser and a good choice for an opening act. Again, not my favorite band but glad I saw them.

Then Rancid come on with a 30 song set of old and new, B-sides and even an OpIvy song, whipping the crowd into a surprisingly controlled and well-behaved frenzy. The pit swirled and swayed from one side of the floor to the other, taking on larger and larger mass and I caught a few misplaced elbows in the ribs swirling around amongst the mounds of boy flesh (some men too) until I was drenched and high from the pheromones. I still am! The crowd was a friendly bunch, singing along and there were only a few dicks that needed a boot in the teeth, as Lars, Matt, Tim and new drummer Branden Steineckert (formerly The Used) hammered out the tunes and announced they’d be releasing a brand new album with the new line up very, very soon. As a long-time fan, you can count on me to be adding that to my collection.

Mohawk flopped down in my face and dripping with sweat, Rancid are coaxed out on stage for a two song encore – Ruby Soho and Timebomb. Classic stuff.

Now, the bad stuff. And it has nothing to do with the music, but people at the show.

Your camera on your iPhone can’t take pictures in a dark hall of stuff up on stage, you retards. This isn’t the goddamn red carpet so put all that shit away you suburban twats. I nearly fell over laughing several times watching the confusion on people’s faces as they tried in vain to take photos as they jostled about in a crowd that was not exactly still.

And to the girl in the wife beater t-shirt who scurried around like a rat looking for cheese, pushing people and jockeying for a better view. I almost felt sorry for you, being a short person and all, but instead of excusing yourself to get by people, you pushed people and I’m glad you got pushed back – hard. I hope you fell on the floor, you cow. At once point, you were so close I could smell you menstruating! I wanted to wretch! Can you not smell yourself!? Holy fuck! We all shouldn’t have experienced your heavy flow day with you. And yes, it was me who pulled your ponytail, you cunt. Next time I’ll rub your face in my rank armpit.

Probably and arguably my most tender and sweet piece ever – “The Kiss” – hot off the presses. Click it to see the full piece…

I’ll have it in the punk gallery soon enough. I’ve got about 6 other pieces to paint up and finish, including a t-shirt design and 3 skateboard decks.

Here we are now, at the bottom of the fresh hell my brother has unleashed – nearly 8 years in the making. A ‘disaster bomb’ if you will.

Because of my inability to remember the course of events back to the time when I fled Connecticut for the green grass of Missouri and Kansas and when I held what state license, my plea for logic in the case of my license being suspended and being on the national “DO NOT DRIVE” database, I am now forced to travel to Los Angeles on October 2nd to go to traffic school.

Traffic school for a crime I did not commit. A crime perpetrated on me by my brother that will go unpunished in the arms of the law, but will not go unpunished by the likes of myself. I paid $125 to ‘facilitate the paperwork’ in the Constitution State to only hit a brick wall and within days of submitting concrete proof I was not in the state I have no other alternative but to attend the class in Marina Del Ray.
A class which will run me $100 plus any fees to ‘facilitate the paperwork’ over to CT DMV to clear my name of any traffic violations they can NOT find on record as they only keep them for 3 years.

The mental anguish, physical toll, time wasted on phone calls and in line at the DMV, and the money spent are unlikely to ever be recuperated from my truculent and sorry excuse for a immediate blood relative.

Maybe it’s in the stars that not only my world be turned upside down, but in the government’s star charts as well (if you believe in that mumbo-jumbo) with our country’s economy on the brink of collapse from unregulated ‘yeee-haw’ capitalism. Seriously for a moment, if you vote for McCain – you’re no friend of mine.

All week I waited for Rancid to come to town only to have the show canceled/pushed back to December as Matt Freeman has hurt his arm and shoulder. Disappointed again, but no fault no foul, I hope he gets better.

In the meantime, I’m going to hold on to my sanity (and receipts) and mail them to my brother and family, with a nice note detailing what I’ve been through as they just don’t get it. The rotten cunt owes me over $200 and I’m going to get it back one way or another. Until then, my brother can suck a bag of dicks and I’ll wait for an apology from my family – but I won’t hold my fucking breath.

Otherwise, I’ll pretend I was adopted and forget they even existed.

Now that I’m closing in on the last couple of weeks before I am handed keys to my very first home, I took the time to go out and get some long needed time out from all the hectic bullshit and shop for music.

I’ve been chomping at the bit for The Slackers new release, Self Medication, hoping for some good summer tunes to ease me into the season – what I ended up with was a big disappointment. The Slackers are my all-time favorite ska band that still is together. I’ve seen them live more times than I can remember and after their mini-EP with strong lyrics and the great sound I’ve come to expect from this amazing band on International War Criminal in 2004 and the solid Peculiar album in 2006, one could see why I was eager to get my hands on their new release.

This album sounds absolutely phoned in, meandering from a Beatlesque tune to a silly Vegas-like Elvis ditty with dubbed in crowd screaming and peppered with lackluster ska, reggae and rocksteady songs that are totally forgettable. The only song I vaguely liked was the first track, “Every Day is Sunday” but that even has a pallor of laziness about it. Long story short, long time fans and musical purists will be totally disappointed but if you are looking for something different, maybe this is for you. I’d save your money this time out and it kills me to say it that this one is headed for the Used CD bin at the record shop.

The Futureheads new release, “This Is Not The World”, is a high note after the last stinker I picked up. Released here in the States on June 2nd, I rushed on down to my local and snatched this one up having heard pre-release MP3s on their site and on Facebook.

From beginning to the end, the guitars and driving rhythms had me bouncing around and wanting to jump up and down. While some of it veers into a more pop territory than their self-titled album I initially picked up, what it sacrifices for a broader audience is minimal and I’m so glad I own it. It’s a quick listen, with sharp guitar riffs and vocals, which then leads me to just hit repeat on my player as I like it that much.

There are just some things you don’t ever touch – like cacti, an endangered rain forest, or Donald Trump’s hair. And the same goes for using subversive music or music loved and adored by subcultures to sell luxury vehicles.

It was shameful when The Clash’s “London Calling” was used in a Jaguar ad to lend an air to a car company that everyone thinks is elitist in 1992 – and Joe Strummer weakly explained why The Clash sold the rights to the song as a way of getting what was owed to them after all these long, hard years. I grumblingly accepted it.

But now, here comes Nissan with The Clash’s cover of Pressure Drop to pimp the “Rebel”! Rebel? That’s the name of the car? Even that is laughable. This is how I know there is no God because a just and caring God wouldn’t allow crimes against humanity. Originally, a Toots and the Maytal’s song (which is also wonderful) and also covered by The Specials, and now it’s advertising a butt-ugly car for stupid jerks who drive with their elbow’s because their hands are occupied by a mobile phone and a latté!

Pass me a bucket because I don’t know what end my sick is going to come out!

This is why advertising is evil. Soul-crushing, blood-sucking, offensively evil. I see and hear shit like this and a vein shoots up through my neck and into my forehead – roiling, throbbing, seething with anger. Jerks in the advertising field with extensive record collections need to be stopped at all costs.

Stupid things like this wouldn’t happen if people just made me Emperor.

Karl Rove quits. See you later, you arrogant, bloated cunt.

Finding Fred Perry shirts at Marshall’s for $19.99 a piece! Yoink! Mine. Mine. Mine.

Eating at Belgian Frie, Rama, Cafe One Three, and then some Extraordinary Desserts.

The trolley. Meaning: Me not raging behind the wheel.

CD shopping at Lou’s Records in Escondido.
Used, New, Punk, Ska, Surf… I spent hours there this weekend and grabbed some good ones.

New, giant pillows for my bed. It’s like laying your head on a nice piece of ass, although less sweaty and doesn’t respond at all to you being face first in them.

Reading Androphilia – and loving it. Self-reliant, empowering, and affirming. And it makes sissy boys really upset.

Gardening with cacti and succulents.

I bought some new music this weekend.

I decided to check out M-Theory Music, a smallish looking record store on the edge of Hillcrest on that big dive down Washington St. to Gelato Vero. To my surprise, they have listening stations there – which I always think better of a place that does that. I would have stuck around longer but I decided this was either going to work or it wasn’t. I’d go in and look for exactly what I wanted and if they didn’t have it then they didn’t pass the sniff test.

Happily and maybe 10 minutes later, I was the proud owner of The Aggrolites new release and Tim Armstrong’s solo release.

My first listen to The Aggrolites, Reggae Hit L.A., and I was pleasantly relieved over the improvement of the production values of this new album which is a truer match to the sound and energy you get from getting to see these guys live. The local boys do it again for me and crank out an nicely flavored set of songs that only a band like The Aggrolites can do. This album works for the purist and the newby alike, though a seasoned listener of ska and reggae can hear bits and pieces from other greats like Toots and the Maytals or the Upsetters to Alton Ellis. Most people, I think, are eager to write off ska and reggae as “party music” but this album smokes, strolls and swaggers it’s own way to favorite status. I’m glad I picked this one up!

The other CD I snatched up is the solo release from Tim Armstrong of Rancid and Operation Ivy fame. Tim has enlisted the help of the Aggrolites to back his venture into solidly rocksteady and roots reggae and of course it’s a hit. I’d heard bits and pieces on his MySpace page and it’s gotten some pre-release radio play that had me very interested. When I heard he was doing a non-punk album I wondered about his trademark mush-mouth, raspy voice over a ska backing, but I was totally relieved that it was a stunner and not absolute crap like the Transplants experiment/releases were. The songs cover the gamut and range from the pop-ska rump shaker “Into Action” featuring Canadian Skye Sweetnam to the rocksteady “Translator”. I found a few problems with the album, and this could be a pet peeve of just me but, I hate songs about how cool a songwriter/singers favorite city. Given that, I like it. Initially, I really liked the idea that it came with a DVD with videos for each song, but it’s all done in that black and white, Fischer-Price Pixelvision technique, but I’m kind of undecided on that.

Saturday, it was a day of firsts.

Friends of mine from the UK came to visit. We had a good meal at a local Japanese place where we spent a lot of time talking about food. After filling up on sushi, we went to the Symphony.

The Symphony?

Yes. I’d never been to the non-descript office block type building nor had I ever done valet parking. I had no idea that I was to tip somebody for driving off in my own car, which I think I later paid for not doing. I’m always willing to try new things, so this was really different. I’m not big on classical music, so I spent a lot of time people watching. People had gone out and gotten their hair done and picked out their fancy dress clothes (well, some did) and came out to listen to an orchestra.

I worried about whether to buy a hat to cover my mohawk or how nice I should dress, which I think amused my friends. I amused myself with staring at old ladies who clutched their pearls as I walked by. I felt out of place, but it was in a way that I found humorous. I dressed in simple black.

Overall, these people didn’t look like they knew how to relax. At one point in between the set of music, somebody coughed loudly, which sounded like a dog barking, and I had to concentrate on not laughing out loud. In fact, lots of people were coughing when there was no music, which only ignited my half-joke, half-fear that I may contract tuberculosis.

The inside of the building had been decorated as if old achitecture was brought in to class up the place or the glass and steel building was organically grown up and around an existing structure. Who knew this was here? I certainly didn’t.

During the intermission, we retrieved our pre-ordered drinks – they with gin and tonics and myself with orange juice (I was driving). Lots of people milled about, people on dates, elderly Republican couples out late on a Saturday night, and what we deemed to be a “sugar daddy” and his college age cohort.

Will I do it again? Hmm… maybe not, but at least I can say I did it.

We waited around watching everyone get their car before I got mine. I guess if I had given the rest of my $20 to the attendant, I may have been pushed up in the queue.

I said goodnight to my friends and debated going out. I came home. Probably a good thing, as the next day I spent most of it cleaning my house. Now, if I wanted to have people over, I wouldn’t feel embarrassed.

I was a little stunned this week. I love when I can let an artist’s work wash over me, consume me and put it’s grip on me. Usually a musician has a couple of good songs that I obsess over for a good period and I add it to the stack of my ever growing collection. With Amy Winehouse, I think every song resonates to the very fiber of my being.

After searching 5 different record stores to have only found the area where this CD should be empty, I started to feel a little concerned that I wouldn’t get my own copy. This thing must be flying off the shelves! Strategy would need to be used and I’d call places to see if I could perhaps get one of the clerks to hold a copy so some doofus who saw she was at the SXSW Festival this year couldn’t put his dirty little mits on it. I managed to track down one where I was sure I wouldn’t be paying some outrageous price for it. Two copies left! So I grabbed it and marched over to the counter and handed it to emo dork clerk.

$12.99 + tax later ($7.99 on iTunes), I had Back To Black, the second release but first American debut for Ms. Winehouse, and I’m literally blown over by the depth and raw power of this 23 year old’s voice. How can somebody so young belt tunes out like that? Lyrically sassy and dripping with emotion, I sit listening to some of the most well crafted pop music I’ve heard in my lifetime and I don’t mean any disrespect. The arangements that harken back to the day of Motown classics such as the Supremes or thick walls of sound from the Phil Spector produced Ronettes are somehow made current and it’s not just that the music lacks all this hisses and pops that one might hear from going through your mom’s and dad’s vinyl collection either. Every song has plucked the sweetest bits from doo-wop, soul, jazz, and ska.

Right out of the blocks, you are confronted by the hip-shaker “Rehab” – a song written in reaction to her management company telling her she drinks too much – so you brace yourself for what you have to get ready for on the rest of the recording.

Despite what may or may not be going on in Amy Winehouse’s personal life, which seems to be all the tabloid press in the UK can talk about, the vocals, arrangements, quality and love for the music genres that have been tapped for this album come highly recommend as this body of work is for anyone looking for something different. If this record doesn’t chart there is something seriously wrong with American ears.