I rolled into Public Assembly like a wheelbarrow full of suck. It was Thursday, and I’d worked late as the fourth day of the kind of week where even when I was ahead of myself, I was still behind (so much so, you might say, that I’m writing and posting this review over the weekend). Morale was low. What I needed was a bit of rock and roll revival, and in that regard, I was lucky it was The Midnight Ghost Train I was on my way to see.

The Kansas rockers you might recall from their stint earlier this year opening for Truckfighters (reviews here and here). They’re out touring — as they do, all the time — in support of their new album, Buffalo (review here), doing a US run before heading to Europe this fall. Simply put, they rip live. I liked Buffalo a lot when I reviewed it, and I still dig that record however long it’s been later (I thought I had it or I’d have picked up a CD at the show — more the fool I), but I know from the four or five times I’ve seen them over the last four years or so that they’re an entirely different beast on stage. Public Assembly paired them with local outfits Reign of Zaius and Eidetic Seeing, the latter of whom was just getting ready to go on as I arrived.

Some bands you can just feel the heat off the their tubes as they play, and that was the case with Eidetic Seeing. I knew nothing about the band — I could’ve easily looked them up beforehand, but frankly, I like going into shows sometimes without knowing what I’m going to get — and was pleased to find them a warm-toned heavy psych jam unit. The three-piece were still pretty clearly getting their bearings sound-wise, but it could’ve been much worse. There were maybe 15 or 20 people there when they got going, but Eidetic Seeing may have had the biggest crowd of the night, and the young lady who stood several feet in front of the stage seemed to love it.

They were, however, too loud for the room — which, if you’re keeping track, I believe makes me too old for the room. I like Public Assembly‘s back room. I saw Windhand and Pilgrim there with Magic Circle a few months back and dug the space, the layout of the darkened room reminding me of any number of dingy spots in and around Manhattan where these kinds of shows have happened throughout the last decade — the difference being that Public Assembly hasn’t been forced out of business as so many others have by the onslaught of corporately-owned or sponsored venues and promotion companies. Lucinda Williams was playing down the block at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. Obviously I don’t know what goes on behind the scenes, but at least on the surface, there seemed to be peaceful coexistence, and the bar between the two venues had live gypsy jazz, which, you know, is fucking awesome.

However, I only know about it because I went outside. Eidetic Seeing‘s wash of noise came through the Public Assembly P.A. as more abrasive than I think it wanted to be, so after several songs, I took my leave and took the air, chatting outside with The Midnight Ghost Train‘s guitarist/vocalist Steve Moss about how the shows were going, mutual acquaintances, and so forth. After a while, I decided to head back in, because I didn’t want to miss Reign of Zaius‘ start, and Eidetic Seeing were just finishing up. They had played a long set. I guess you can do that on a Thursday-is-the-new-Friday in Williamsburg, and they weren’t bad, just not really what I was looking for at the time — that being the aforementioned revival — so I won’t be surprised next time around when Eidetic Seeing and I run into each other and I have a deeper appreciation for what they’re doing.

One thing they had going for them, though, was their bassist. Please try to contain your surprise that I dug the bass tone in an underdeveloped heavy psych trio — something that’s definitely never happened before — but quality low end became a theme for the night. Reign of Zaius bassist Davis followed suit, playing through a fretless and being almost solely responsible for the thickness of his band’s sound. Not that something was lacking in the guitar of Brady, just that the band wasn’t geared on the whole to fuzz or showy about their distortion. They played relatively simple, straightforward heavy-type rock, however, called their frontman Viking and had an impressive, somewhat showy, drummer in the younger Brian.

Like Eidetic Seeing, it seemed watching Reign of Zaius that the band was still working out the kinks in their dynamic. There were a couple noticeable flubs, but nothing major, and overall their songs were inoffensive. The room as uncrowded as it was, it wasn’t going to be anyone’s best night, and as I pointed out in the very first sentence of this review, it wasn’t mine either. Nonetheless, cuts from their self-titled EP like “Cravings,” “White Horse” and “Revelation” gave a decent idea of the lack of pretense in their intent, and “Thick Thighs” had its own kind of charm. No shortage of it. Any band that lists Black Sabbath and the 1988 “Rowdy” Roddy Piper classic They Live among their influences is doing something right, and Reign of Zaius clearly were.

My spirits had picked up some by the time The Midnight Ghost Train had their gear set up. Since the last time they came through, the Topeka outfit jettisoned bassist David Kimmell, leaving Moss and drummer Brandon Burghart — who wore a Truckfighters shirt for their set — to search out a replacement. Before they went on, Moss told me they’d only been playing with Alfred Jordan, from Mississippi, for a few weeks, but watching them on stage, they were still easily the tightest band of the three that played, and Jordan‘s presence on stage, his dreadlocks tossed in several directions at once with each headbang, made a fitting complement for the already established dynamic between Moss and Burghart.

Moss introduced the band in his usual throaty affect, saying, “We’re The motherfucking Midnight Ghost Train from motherfucking Kansas,” pausing for a sip of water before adding, “That’s right, Kansas. Yes, we can read.” The Brooklyn crowd got a laugh out of that, and while I can’t imagine what talking like that with the kind of regularity Moss does so must do to your throat — if you’ve never seen them, think of any number of grizzled 85-year-old Delta blues players, then make it fast, and that’s kind of how Moss talks when he’s on stage — it’s clearly had no effect on his energy level over the course of the time he’s been doing it. The Midnight Ghost Train remain one of the most undervalued quality live acts in their genre, and at Public Assembly, they made a solid case for revisiting Buffalo.

The height of the stage at Public Assembly provides a little distance, and watching them closely, it’s pretty easy to discern the common patterning of The Midnight Ghost Train‘s riffing. They rely a lot on upbeat progressions, cycling through a riff, finishing it with a couple hits, then cycling through again, but what makes it exciting to watch live or to listen to on the album is that you don’t at any point know what they’re going to do with it, and they don’t always do the same thing. They are masters of the sudden stop. Burghart will mute his cymbals, Moss and Jordan will cut the strings, and even if it’s just half a second of silence, the raucousness that ensues following is that much stronger for the pause. Top that with Moss‘ hand-in-the-air raving testimonial vocal delivery, and Buffalo tracks like “Henry” and “Foxhole” wind up as exciting to watch as they are to hear.

Still, it was the slower “Tom’s Trip” that was the highlight of their set. Burghart played without a rack tom — his kit just the snare and bass drums and a floor tom, crash, ride and hi-hat — and that got me thinking about the balance for a drummer between stripping things down to force more creative play and oversimplifying. It’s easy for a drummer, provided he or she can afford it, to adorn a kit with extra toms, cowbells, wood blocks, china cymbals and the rest, but Burghart‘s minimal drumset worked to both his interests and those of the songs, and the play from the snare on his left to the floor tom on his right was a big part of what made “Tom’s Trip” so much fun. The song also reaffirmed that as bombastic and vibrant as The Midnight Ghost Train are on any given night, they’re also readily capable of locking in a stoner rock groove and letting it ride where and when they want it to.

All that feeds into the notion of their unpredictability, which is one of their strongest assets. They have a set context for themselves, but within that, you can never be quite sure where they’re headed. Shouts rose up when they finished for one more song, so they encored with “Southern Belle,” Moss rounding out the set by asking how much he should make it hurt, and then they were quickly done. With work in the morning and the drive back to Jersey ahead, I said a quick thanks and goodnight and split out back to my car, not knowing I’d spend the better part of the next hour in Holland Tunnel traffic.

And I won’t lie to you, there was a moment when — stuck in the tunnel after 1AM, having not moved for 10 minutes because of something no one could see or understand, as discordant chorus of car horns and New York-accented shouts rose up all around me — I really thought I was going to die there in that spot. There was a strange sub-harmony to the horns, and their futility — no one even knew what they were honking at — gave the anger driving them a melancholy edge. Sad, hopeless assholes, stuck in a tunnel together. No doubt after 12 hours, the weak among us would’ve been dismembered and eaten; my own flesh stripped off and cured, like bacon, for breakfast around what for the rest of the world would’ve been sunrise. No sunrise for tunnelfolk.

I barely escaped with my hide, and eventually got through to Jersey and back to my humble river valley, the driving rhythms of “Foxhole” still stuck in my head, where they remain. The Midnight Ghost Train were off the next day, and at The Station in Philly the night after (which is Saturday, tonight). All their tour dates domestic and abroad can be found on their website — they put them right out front. If the point hasn’t been made clear, they’re a highly recommended good time, and bound to improve whatever mood you might be in when you first show up.

Extra pics after the jump. Thanks for reading.

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Kudos to L.A. by way of New York by way of Paris by way of the desert by way of reverb rockers Blaak Heat Shujaa on the announcement of their signing to Tee Pee Records. The band is hard at work on the follow-up to their impressive self-titled debut (review here), and the news of their assignation just came down the PR wire.

To wit:

BLAAK HEAT SHUJAA Sign to Tee Pee Records

To hold a place between 2011’s Moments in Vacuum full-length and the forthcoming You’re all Invited long-player due out this fall, Brooklyn heavy psych trio Eggnogg release the four-song Louis EP through Palaver Records and continue to refine their approach to funky rhythms and heavy riffs. In the time since Moments in Vacuum was issued, bassist/vocalist Bill O’Sullivan also released his first solo album — Phillip’s Head, also on Palaver – and based around two shorter tracks and two longer ones, Louis makes a strong follow-up to Moments in Vacuum, continuing Eggnogg’s penchant for quirk and making deceptively complex stylistic turns sound both natural and smooth. As was the album, the subsequent EP is roughly produced, playing up Justin Karol’s cassette-ready grunge guitar into an aesthetic choice to go alongside the surprisingly prevalent bass of O’Sullivan and the still lo-fi drumming of Ryan Quinn. When O’Sullivan comes in particularly as EP opener “Baras Mogg,” the effect of the band’s dynamic sound is startling, and by that I mean that the quiet parts are so quiet they trick you into turning the volume up and then the rumble kicks in and Eggnogg bludgeon you with thickened tonality and massive lumbering riffage. The first time it happens, there’s hardly a hint given that it’s coming, such is the trance the far-back drums, guitar, bass and O’Sullivan’s crooning puts you into while listening. Wah persists through bluesy guitar and it’s just before two minutes into the song’s total 8:31 that the chorus lands its first weighted blow. They trade off again into quiet, but especially after a few listens, that chorus proves infectious on almost a primal level, O’Sullivan switching to more of a shout and playing off contradictions in the lyrics, “Sing on high, I think I’ll sing it low,” etc., while Quinn slams hard on his low-mixed, compressed-sounding cymbals and Karol holds notes so long you can hear the waves in their sustain for each line.

Instead of a third cycle, they break into a quiet solo section that leads to an onslaught of undulating riffing, topped by more echoey shouts and an irresistible bounce. Already “Baras Mogg” is six minutes in and it seems to still be establishing its course, which, almost naturally, Eggnogg promptly abandons. That post-solo pounding is basically the apex, but then the trio just rumbles into oblivion over the course of the next couple minutes, checking in here and there on a riff (see 7:19), but never committing fully to one direction or another. If it wasn’t so clearly on purpose, or so the beat wasn’t so well sustained by Quinn, it might fall flat, but the last minute seems almost to be headed toward driving home an ending riff, and then, gleefully, they chug out a measure and end “Baras Mogg” cold, giving Louis a start that’s delightfully unpredictable despite telegraphing most of the moves it’s making. Karol, O’Sullivan and Quinn continue to expand their scope on the brief but maddeningly funky “Vermicious Knidds,” which sounds as much like Seas of Cheese-era Primus as its title might suggest and its opening Twin Peaks sample might contradict. Thickened guitar squibbles, tom rolls and what sounds an awful lot like slap-bass ensues for a quick 2:23, but though the song is short, its effect on the overall atmosphere of Louis is much more lasting, bringing a lighthearted, fun feel to the heaviness that “Baras Mogg” proffered. It too ends abruptly, but works well feeling into the nine-minute “The Squid/The Fandangler,” which continues the Primus-vibing as O’Sullivan starts the song off on bass before Karol’s guitar and Quinn’s drums kick in. A verse is quickly established that sets up the EP’s most driving chorus – the opening line, “Here’s the way it goes,” seeming very much to be indicate of Eggnogg’s commanding directionality – and as with “Baras Mogg,” verse and chorus are cycled through twice (a solo between acts as bridge) before a longer break is embarked on. In this case, it’s a plotted kind of jam that sounds pieced together from improvised parts to have a build.

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I’d have posted the above clip for “This is Where You End” by underrated late-’80s psych rockers Loop before I cut out on Friday, but a call came in and I had to split on the quick to go look at a potential house to rent. Like most of the places The Patient Mrs. and I have seen so far, it was a dump. A dump on the outside of what we can afford for rent. It’s been about two months now that we’ve been looking in earnest for a place to move from where we are currently, and it’s been demoralizing on any number of levels.

This house (2 beds, 1 bath) in particular I’d called the guy on last week to see if I could see it, and it wasn’t ready yet, but he’d have it good to go by the weekend. I was supposed to go Saturday, but Friday at 4PM, as I’m sitting at my desk at work basically just waiting to leave, I got the call and he was like, “There are other people coming at 6:30, so if you want to see the house first, you need to come now.” Kind of bullshit, but not really out of line. At least he called and offered the chance.

So I hauled ass home, vacuumed a couple rugs because company was coming (which only added to the rush factor) and picked up The Patient Mrs. to go check it out. Turns out it’s right on the banks of the mighty Passaic River in a town called Wayne. Flood zone. “How long’s the place been unoccupied?” “Since the hurricane.” Gradually it came out that every spring it gets about a foot of water and you have to park up at the pub at the end of the street. Might as well live there.

It was a decently private piece of property, but basically just waiting for the government to come in, declare it unlivable because of flooding, and buy up the land, which would put us out on our asses anyway. In the meantime, a ceiling leak here, a hole in the wall there, a few ants crawling around the kitchen so narrow you can’t open the fridge door without bumping it into the stove, and “Thanks, we’ll be in touch” as we walk out and the next round of potential suckers willing to shell out $1200 a month to breathe in that kind of mold come in. The floors were soft. How am I supposed to put my CD collection on a floor that feels like stepping on wet cardboard?

That was Friday after work. That night and Saturday were a bit lighter of spirit (though heavy of beer) with some good friends come north for the evening and staying over until Saturday night, and then Sunday was work. Ultimately, it was a fast weekend, but good for the soul despite any real estate woes. There’s another place we’re going to look at this week. I’m pretty sure it also is in the same flood zone. Beware of places near rivers advertising their new kitchens.

Hope you have a great week. In a little bit I’ll have my review of The Company Band‘s gig from last Thursday in Philly posted, and we’ll do another Album of the Summer of the Week as well. Tomorrow marks the premiere of Ben Ward‘s long-awaited column, and on Wednesday I’ll be putting up a full stream of the new release by Portland dueling-bass specialists Lamprey. Reviews this week of Wight and Sanctus Bellum too, among others, so plenty to stay tuned for. I’m trying to line up an interview with Scott Kelly about his new solo record, but I’m not sure if that’ll come together by Friday yet. We’ll see.

The thing about listening to Sons of Otis is that, if you’ve ever heard them before, you probably know what’s coming. The Toronto tone merchants have trafficked in densely crushing psychedelia since before the release of their first album, Spacejumbofudge, in 1996, and despite lineup tumult, extended breaks between records, and one retirement from live performances, Sons of Otis have remained largely loyal to their aesthetic over the course of their six full-lengths, the latest of which is the aptly-titled Seismic, on Small Stone. If there’s a more fitting descriptor of guitarist/vocalist Ken Baluke’s fuzz, it would almost certainly have to involve the cosmos – “space-tectonic,” perhaps, but that’s not quite as catchy an album name. In any case, the sound of the 51-minute/seven-track outing makes a fitting inspiration for the title Seismic, and while, again, that’s nothing new for Sons of Otis, they do seem to have coalesced and refined their sound somewhat, even from 2009’s Exiled (review here). Exiled had a lot in common with the sprawling, lurching riffage that songs like “Alone” and “PK” present on Seismic, but there’s a more prevalent blues edge in Sons of Otis circa 2012 that comes across in the first two tracks here, “Far from Fine” and “Lessons,” which both follow a smoked-out course of dirt-covered regret and self-loathing. “Far from Fine” launches with a buildup of amp noise and the exasperated lines “Here I go again/Nothing’s gonna change,” in Baluke’s familiar echoing gurgle, while “Lessons” finds him repeatedly asking, “When will I learn?” over a descending bassline from Frank Sargeant.

That addled sensibility isn’t necessarily new ground for Sons of Otis – one recalls songs like “Losin’ It” from 2001’s Songs for Worship or “Nothing” from 1999’s Templeball – but what the band does better on Seismic is balance that head-down sorrowfulness with hazy jamming and weighted psychedelics. Also the shortest apart from the Mountain cover “Never in My Life” on the album’s second half, “Far from Fine” and “Lessons” are the two shortest and more straightforward songs on Seismic, and they’re well placed at the front. By the time the noise-infused eight minutes of “Alone” kick in – drummer Ryan Aubin thundering the song’s beginning with what I can only assume are toms wide enough to drive a truck through – it marks a change of mood almost in spite of itself, and “Alone” follows suit. It’s slower than “Far from Fine” and more droning on its riff. There’s still a stoned sense of hopelessness to it, as there is to everything Sons of Otis puts out, but where Exiled was murky as regards its purposes, Seismic seems to be more – dare I say it? – clearheaded about what it wants to accomplish. I don’t think it would be fair to paint the picture of Baluke, Sargeant and Aubin as being suddenly mature as artists – Sons of Otis have never seemed particularly unclear about what they want to be sound-wise, but their presentation of the album is nowhere near as mud-soaked as their rumble seems to be. The first two tracks cross that line that Bongzilla did on Amerijuanican between riffy sludge and abrasive blues, and “Alone” follows with noisy psychedelic expansion of those ideas, culminating in a cymbal wash and amp freakout that serves as a firm reminder that it’s more than a little bit about pain.

“Guilt” is a minute shorter than “Alone,” but no less lysergic, creeping along its low-end dominance. To go by titles only, “Far from Fine,” “Lessons,” “Alone,” and “Guilt” might be enough to make one think Seismic follows a messy divorce (from what I hear, they’re all messy, but we say it anyway), but that’s pure conjecture. In any case, the downer spirit is maintained, and with “Guilt,” Sons of Otis force the realization of just how long they’ve been at this and how many have followed since trying to capture a similar tonal feel. Templeball was out by the time Ufomammut released their first record, and Sons of Otis have managed to develop their sound without letting go of their creative impetus. “Guilt,” as the end of the first half of the album, presents a wash of Echoplex swirl toward its finish, but though its guitar and bass tones are always central, it’s Aubin who really delivers the standout performance. Like everything else on Seismic, he sounds huge and in headphones, utterly encompassing, which is rare for drums. But even they seem to be tuned down, and each resultant thud is, well, I think you can guess the word to use.

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Fresh off a three-week tour that ended in Providence, Rhode Island, on July 6, ever-progressing Massachusetts trio Elder — guitarist/vocalist Nick DiSalvo, bassist Jack Donovan and drummer Matt Couto — have already released the follow-up to the sophomore outing they were out supporting. A limited 12″ vinyl (450 copies), Spires Burn/Release builds on the heavy psych intricacies of Dead Roots Stirring while keeping the crucial heaviness that has run a thread through Elder‘s work since their 2008 self-titled MeteorCity debut.

Spires Burn/Release is the first vinyl to be issued on the new label imprint of Armageddon Shop, which has physical stores in Boston and Providence (I’ve been there a couple times). The move into releasing music aligns Armageddon with the original label tradition — the first record labels were stores that wanted to sell music from artists around them; this is how the distribution model as we know it came about — and as Elder follow a similar aesthetic imprint of looking back for inspiration in their forward thinking, it’s all the more fitting that the two should join forces on this 12″. And at a full 22 minutes with a song per side, it’s not exactly a quiet entry into the market.

Both tracks on the offering, “Spires Burn” and “Release” have a clear path set out, but like with Dead Roots Stirring, Elder do well to obscure their linear structures with flourishes of elements from modern heavy psychedelia. Very quickly, the trio is becoming something that no other American band can quite claim to be, and as acoustics blend into the finishing moments of “Release,” the will for exploration and sonic expansion — not necessarily a surprise at this point in their career, especially after the last album — is nonetheless plain to hear. If they were to embark on a new era of krautrock-fueled progressive heaviness without losing sight of the groove at the base of their rhythms, well, I think that would be just fine.

Today I have the extreme pleasure of hosting Spires Burn/Release in its entirety for an exclusive stream. You’ll find both tracks on the player below, followed by some info on how to obtain the vinyl from Armageddon Shop even if you’re not in the Northeast and a few thoughts from DiSalvo on how it all came out. As always, I hope you enjoy:

[mp3player width=460 height=150 config=fmp_jw_widget_config.xml playlist=elder.xml]

Spires Burn/Release is, in my opinion, one step closer to our own sound we’ve been cultivating since Dead Roots Stirring. It’s both more “traditionally” heavy at parts and more experimental in ways, incorporating our personal influences of everything from krautrock to doom. Lyrically, the songs take a turn for the darker from DRS as well, and I think the variety of moods conveyed in the songs makes this our most dynamic release to date. — Nick DiSalvo

Elder‘s Spires Burn/Release is available now from Armageddon Shop at their online store. The striking cover art (click image above to enlarge) is by Fred Struckholz. Thanks to the band and label for letting me stream the songs.

Mirador is an easy candidate for a summer album. Sungrazer‘s fuzz is so warm, and the vibe of their second album (released on Elektrohasch last year; review here) is so mellow even in its heaviest parts, that the overall affect is languid almost to the point of sunshiny sleepiness. A song like the 13-minute “Behind” is as fitting for a July day as an ice water. Like I say, this one’s an easy candidate, and I guess you could say the same for a lot of post-Colour Haze (their time will come in this feature) European heavy psych — thinking of groups like The Machine or maybe even My Sleeping Karma — but Mirador‘s balance between nodding riffs and exploratory jams is my pick for the best yet to come out of that scene.

And in terms of placing the album, I’ve found that it not only works so well in the summer, sitting outside in the yard, enjoying the good company of The Patient Mrs. and a few delectable fermented beverages, etc., but in addition to that, Mirador is an especially good listen in the morning. I’ve constructed a long theory as to why this is so, including placement of the sun and the alignment of Earth along its axis — sometime I’ll show you the Powerpoint presentation I made; it’s got 36 cards! — but basically what it comes down to is Rutger Smeets‘ guitar tone and the ping in the ride cymbal of Hans Mulders sounds like the start of the day, and Sander Haagmans‘ Rickenbacker (previously lauded here) is the afternoon to come.

Sungrazer reportedly have a new album in the works, and they’ve been playing new material live for the last couple months at least, so it’ll be interesting to hear how they follow up and expand on Mirador‘s encompassing psychedelia when the time comes for the next release. One to look forward to. That said, though it’s only been out for a year, I’ve no doubt the trio’s sophomore outing will be a staple of many summers to come. It’s an album worth waking up for.

Here’s “Behind” to get your day started, whatever time it might be where you are:

Bless their industrious hearts, Sungrazer are currently on tour in Europe. Keep up with them and their many doings at their official website.

Closing out with Swiss psychedelic instrumentalists Monkey3 covering Ennio Morricone (because why not) and signing off early this week. I’m heading out in a few hours to go to the Saint Vitus Bar in Brooklyn to see Droids Attack, and I don’t know why, but I have the feeling it’s going to be a really good night. Most shows at this point I’m kind of here or there on actually leaving the house to go to, but this time I’m legitimately psyched. I’ll probably get hit by a bus on my way into the venue.

Droids Attack tonight starts off a pretty busy couple weeks of show-going. On Monday, Radio Moscow and The Dirty Streets hit the Brighton Bar in Jersey, Sons of Tonatiuh play Brooklyn next Thursday, and next Saturday, Halfway to Gone will be at the Brighton. I have an interview in the can with bassist/vocalist Lou Gorra from Halfway that’ll be up the week after next (want to get pics to go with). That show is the same night as Mike Scheidt in Brooklyn, so I was thinking maybe I’d drive south to see him in Philly the next night (could be tricky on a Sunday), but later that week, The Company Band are coming through, and I can’t make the Brooklyn show, so could be another trip to Philly for it. Everyone decided to hit at once, and most of them decided not to hit Jersey. What else is new?

I’ll sort it all out and get to as much as I can get to, and in the meantime, next week I’ll also have that free Mos Generator download posted. The band has taken some new press shots and there’s a press release to go with now, so we’ll do it up. I’ll also have an interview with Bathory obsessives Ereb Altor about their new and more blackened third album, Gastrike, that’ll be posted, and I’ll be picking and announcing the winners of the Kadavar giveaway, we’ll have another album of the summer of the week, and a new column either from Tommy Southard or Woody High, as well as (presumably) the explosion-filled finale of the Kings Destroy European tour diary. One can only assume even more tires will be destroyed in the making of it.

Much to come, and of course I’ll be working all weekend as well, but I’ll let Tomorrow Me worry about all the shit that he has to do tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to go out, watch a good band, have a beer or two and enjoy myself in as bullshit-free a manner as possible. I’ll keep you posted Monday on how it works out.

As always, I hope you have a great and safe weekend. I’ll be kicking around periodically on the forum, zapping spambots like I do. Hope to see you there and back here Monday for more whipped cream, also other delights.