For one reason or another, I’ve spent the past month or so obsessed with social media.

I can’t quite pin down the root of the obsession itself, but I have some basic ideas as to its factors. For one, and the most obvious one, is that roughly two months ago I started a band. Since I was nineteen, I have not been a regular member of any band, let alone the frontman and guiding force for any band. I’ve spent my time producing records, engineering bands both live and in the studio, earlier on managing an artist and running a small record label, and the occasionally appearing as a sideman on other people’s shows.

The point is, along with having a band of your own, comes the responsibility to let people know about your band. Being an occasionally social, occasionally antisocial, occasional butterfly, occasional anxiety-ridden misanthrope, I’m struggling to keep up the enthusiasm to constantly let people know what’s going on with my band on what should be a near-daily basis. As it turns out, when I’m being totally honest with myself, I’d say I like it exactly the same amount as I deplore it.

Regardless of the relative waxing and waning of my enthusiasm for self-promotion, my need for constant attachment to the social media of the day is not going away anytime soon (seeing as though my band isn’t going away any time soon), and its necessity in my life has ultimately led to a sort of near-constant obsession with the medium itself (that’s right, the medium of social media).

And that brings me to why I’m writing this blog entry now, in a blog that nobody really knows I have, and that hasn’t been updated in who-know-how-long, and is certainly not being read by anybody. The ultimate reason is that I’ve become somewhat enamored of the possibility for self-expression unearthed by this “internet” thing everybody’s talking about. And so I’ve decided to take blogging a little more seriously.

I’ve made this promise before, not only on this page, but within the past year on a short-lived site called postpulp (defunct), and years ago on a somewhat longer-lived and vaguely successful site called The Village Broadsheet. Seeing as though none of my previous efforts have stuck, I have no reason to believe (and nor should you, dear reader–that is, if you even exist) that this one will last either, or that I will find any reasonable amount of time to devote to writing anything more than this pale and ill-conceived manifesto.

In any case, here it is, my thin-skinned and poorly supported promise to you (of whose existence I am still unsure), and myself (of whose existence I am only vaguely more certain): This is my blog, I will write in it.

Best of luck in the arena of existence,
Eric

This post is old news. Old old news. Seven years old news. The reason I’m posting this now is twofold:

A) It’s completely fucking hilarious (in a sad sort of way) that someone of Chubby Checker’s past exposure and reasonable success could so blatantly and unfortunately prove himself to be such a fucking lunatic.

B) I’ve introduced this story to lot of people recently, some of whom have tried, in vain, to track down the primary source material online. So I figured, instead of sending out a link, I’ll just present it on my own. I think copyright won’t be an issue, as it is, theoretically, still newsworthy (or it never was…. ok, it never was).

The story goes like this:

In late August, 2001, Chubby Checker took out a full-page ad in Billboard Magazine containing an open letter suggesting, nay demanding his induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. That would have been bad enough, but at least somewhat predictable, as no one truly expects aging pop stars to be humble (I’m not saying it’s right). As it turns out, though, the letter (addressed, as it were, not only to the R&RHF, but also to the fucking Nobel Prize Committee), is completely batshit insane.

The letter appeared briefly on his website, and then was taken down (I’m guessing by a concerned family member). Some blogs caught hold of it before its removal, and it is from one of those blogs that I have copied the contents below.

My feeling is that it can be presented largely without comment (uhh… except of course for those in the preceding paragraphs).

Enjoy.

This is my message to the Nobel Prize nominators and the nominators of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Should you choose me I’ll consider it honorable. However, I have conditions for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

To Place the “Twist” symbol that’s on Chubby Checker’s Beef Jerky, this statue on top of a thirty foot or so pedestal in the courtyard of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I would like to be alone thank you. I changed the business. I am often call the wheel that Rock rolls on as long as people are dancing apart to the beat of the music they enjoy. Before “Alexander Graham Bell” … no Telephone. Before “Thomas Edison” … no Electric light. Before “Dr. George Washington Carver” … no Oil from seed or cloning of plants. Before “Henry Ford” … no V-8 Engine. Before “Walt Disney” … no Animated cartoons. Before Chubby Checker … no “Dancing Apart to the Beat.” What is “Dancing Apart to the Beat?” Dancing Apart to the Beat is the dance that we do when we dance apart to the beat of anybody’s music and before “Chubby Checker” it could not be found!

Elvis Presley is the King of Rock & Roll, no doubt, and we love him. However, Rock & Roll was already here. He just became the King of it. The Beatles, who we all love so dearly, their likeness was done by the Beach Boys, Buddy Holly and the Crickets. But it’s evident that they did it much, much better. Hank Ballard wrote and recorded the “Twist”. The inner city kids made a dance to that song. The record died on the radio. Radio stopped playing the record. The “Twist” was dead. No one was going to hear the record and no one was ever going to see the dance. We re-recorded the record and campaigned the song and the dance at DJ record dance parties in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Radio stations started to play the “Twist” by Chubby Checker. We finally made it to American Bandstand and showed the world what it was. Chubby Checker changed everything. He gave movement to a music that never had this movement before. The styles changed. The nightclub scene is forever changed. Chubby Checker gave birth to aerobics.

He game to music a movement that could not be found unless you were trained at some studio learning something other than dancing apart to the beat. It’s easy. It’s fun. The “Twist” the only song, since time began, to become number one twice by the same artist. Oh yes, we’re talking about the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. But lets face the truth. This is Nobel Prize Territory.

The “Twist” is very recognizable when you dance apart to the beat. But “The Pony”, two on one side and two on the other side, the dance that I introduced in 1961 is the biggest dance of the century. They do it to everything, in the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and now 2000’s. And what about my “Fly”? To explain it better, throw your hands in the air and wave them like you just don’t care. If you “Fly” you automatically do the “Shake”. From 1959 to this moment it’s either the “Twist”, the “Pony”, the “Fly”, the “Shake” or some other nasty stuff in between.

Please I urge you not to look upon my comments as self-centered, proud love thy self. This is not what this is about. Since I have such a unique situation in the music business, I feel only I can explain it. If the music industry knew or understood this reoccurring phenomenon, that’s renewed every time the beat begins, they would have explained it through the decades. Yes, “Dancing Apart to the Beat” is Chubby Checker. Everybody is doing it everyday, every month, every year, since its discovery in 1959. Chubby Checker’s given the music business something great. Now he wants his greatness returned.

I want my flowers while I’m alive. I can’t smell them when I’m dead. The people that come to see the show have given me everything. However I will not have the music business ignorant of my position in the industry. Dick Clark said, and I quote, “The three most important things that ever happened in the music industry are Elvis Presley, the Beatles and Chubby Checker”. Now I ask you. Where is my more money and my more fame? God bless and have mercy. You know I Love You.

Yours truly,

Chubby Checker

Actor, salad dressing mogul Paul Newman is dead at age 83.

This is incredible, and very helpful.

http://www.mccainpedia.org/index.php/Count_the_Lies

Just think of all the people who don’t know (and there’s a fucking buttload of them) exactly how ridiculous the core of McCain’s central campaign strategies have become. Everybody lies, but McCain is finding himself suddenly swimming in the rotten stew of the post-Bush era of political malfeasance. This shit is incredible. Even Karl Rove seems to think so (which seems somewhat akin to Barry Bonds admonishing you for not playing fair).

So that Mingus-ey song I played you last time turned into this:

 

 Man Of Obstacles [2:54m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (1994)

I got together with Nick Webber (of Nick Casey), Crash (of Lowry) and we cut this song in a couple of hours the other day for this film. We love it. The film’s producers love it. It’s in the film (in a chase sequence), and is also slated to appear on the soundtrack (should such a thing wind up existing).

While we’re at it, I guess I never mentioned (in my seven month blogging hiatus) that they used a song off of Good Breeding (the Scotts Roger record I made about 150 years ago) in “Cult of Sincerity”. Supposedly it was the first feature-length movie to premiere directly through youtube, which I suppose is sort of vaguely interesting in a mundane internet-history sort of way, but that’s not the point. You can watch the whole movie if you’re feeling feisty, or you can check out the trailer–featuring the entire damn Scotts Roger song “Way To Go Me”–right here:

Jim James might have a mild Jesus complex (see left), but then again, he may deserve it a little bit. My first time ever at Radio City Music Hall for My Morning Jacket on Friday yielded the following insights:

RCMH is still an amazing venue (fucking duh).

Rock and roll may not be as dead as previously believed.

My Morning Jacket’s greatest achievement–outside of their rampantly unapologetic co-opting of everything from Grandaddy to Talking Heads to Phil Collins–may well be the legitimizing effect their existence has had on the legacy of the (thankfully) deceased jam band gene pool. Seriously, what these guys are doing onstage is not all that different from every outdoor festival I didn’t want to go to in 1997. It’s just that Jim and Co. are doin’ it with vibe and verve and life and generally B+ songs, and that makes all the difference in the world.

I know, it’s like I never post anymore. I don’t really know why. Sometimes, I’m connected. Sometimes I’m not. Now that I’ve got this new computer, and this new home, I’m feeling sort of more connected, so I want to jump back in, stilted, awkward language and all.

The problem, of course, is that now I feel like the first post has gotta be big, important, momentous. It doesn’t, and I know that, intellectually. It just needs to get me back on my feet. There’s a thing I like about reaching out to the world this way, through this medium. It just takes some time to get the wheels spinning again after a long hiatus.

Whine whine whine.

So, then. In the interest of a general update, here’re a few nuggets from the general interest department:

• February was a long time ago. Then again, I haven’t updated this damn blog since… holy shit, since last October. I suck. Let’s not make a thing out of it.Anyway, February… In February, my friend Pete Moses (of The Selfsame) got together to individually compose fourteen songs in one month. It didn’t work (I fell deathly ill with the flu around the ides of the month and couldn’t finish), but it was a fucking amazing experience while it lasted (the songwriting, not the flu).

  The upside of the process was manifold, but there’s also some long-term results that may come from it. For one, many of the songs Pete wrote will likely appear on his next Selfsame effort (produced by yours truly).Secondly, the songs I wrote will eventually comprise their own EGO PUPPETS record, tentatively titled Thirteen Songs About Hate). Don’t look for it anytime soon, but I’ll let you know.

• This past week, I worked with Nicholas Webber on a piece for a film score. They hated it. We love it. It’s here:
   

   Donkey Shell [4:51m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (1807)
  
• John Cusack’s message regarding Senator John McCain is simple, and correct. Everyone should see it. I’ve been thoughtful enough to include it right here:

Ok, I think that’s enough for the day. Seriously, I’m back, I’m gonna do this more often. Really. I like it. I know nobody’s reading this shit anyway, but it makes me feel better.

Since I’ve spent the last few days sucking the proverbial cock of the new Radiohead record, I haven’t been reading much, writing much, eating much, sleeping much, or sustaining my body in any way other than constant exposure to Nigel Godrich’s burly hippocampus. Yeah, it’s that good. If you haven’t purchased it yet, you have no excuse (especially considering the price is, well, whatever you want it to be). If I had some more time, I’d be espousing the virtues of Thom & Co.’s noble experiment, but for right now, I’m just here to along this bit: Stephen Colbert is smarter and funnier than you.

Not that it takes all that much to get the jump on Maureen Dowd, but here’s we go: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/14/opinion/14dowd.html?ex=1193112000&en=324313cb38939fe2&ei=5070&emc=eta1

He’d definitely get my vote. That is, assuming that Thom Yorke isn’t running. Thppfft.

 

 Man Bites God [10:26m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (1862)

Episode four, wherein I report casually on a strange lawsuit, meander aimlessly and with little purpose or message, and play an Ian Thomas song.