Sunday, May 08, 2011
Mothers Day Poppies.....New Books By Michael Hurley & Byron Coley
In my time I have told many Canadian jokes, knowed many Canadian jokes & quaffed many Canadian beers (even 'skunked' Mooseheads) so I think I can say without equivocation that the Montreal imprimatur, L'oie De Cravan, ain't none of these things. To prove as much, they's has up 'n flug out two great collections of written words by a couple've fellas that's know more about what happen's at third base than either Brooks Robinson or Eric Weber. And that's a lotta ground, hombre, so take notes.
First up is a slim volume by Michael Hurley, one of America's most well loved rascals.Everybody's crazy about him, from Cat Power in NYC (whose covered a tune're two I's been told) to Esto Setty over near Lynx Prairie (who sold him some cider blocks what I seen myself). And since I know's you's all know's who he is, I ain't gonna ramble on about his discography 'n such. It is without peer. This book what's title in English, (bein that these bks is from Montreal-the hub of the QC-they's also French translations as well, viz, bilingual) is 'The Words To The Songs Of Michael Hurley' & it couldn't a more handsome chapper. L'oie De Cravan done this up swell; alls calligraphed by Doc Snock himself + what's also occasionally accompanied by colorful illustration're two. My favorite'd be 'Ohio Blues' what's from the 'Sweetkorn' cd. Why? 'Cause I's been to Portsmouth O-Hi more'n enough times in my life & if Snock don't nail the grimness of that river town (& the desire to flee), then I ain't Kentucky's most forgotten boy. Dead on forward notes by Byron Coley too.
And speakin of Mr. C, this next book's all by him! It's name is 'C'est La Guerre; Early Writings 1978-1983' & it is a tottlin ride through the LUSH green pageantry've the Samuel Pepys of Amercian Punk. This fella damn near single-handedly chronicled EVERY vinyl spurt what was in the buddin years of Hardcore, not to mention carryin on about all manner've noise yokes what almost no one else gave shit, let alone champion. Neither Bushwacker nor Jayhawk, he seen the intrinsic GOOD in most all comers-no matter they's burden-& any what followed his hunch was better for it.What you's get here is some letters, photo's 'n illo's, cherry picked reviews what was run in NY Rocker, Take It! & LA Reader, basically an all encompassin tableaux into the burgeonin (yet already keen) mind of one the best set've eyes 'n ears ever to peep 'n pop in the dank culture of anyone's Underground. I would've liked to've reread that Flesheaters diary though, maybe next time.
Mike Watt waxes poetically in the introduction like the imaginary son of Jack Kerouac what ate one of Robert Creeley's Sunday chickens. I was near driven to a fricassee, but in honor've all's, I opted instead for a cauldron've poutine (extra curds if you will, Garcon! Gravy too!) & a confiscated keg (my people's in all the right places) of L'amere A Boire pilsener. After all, it is Spring. Gotta start thinkin LIGHT.
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