Eric saves the blog

I am presently in the midst of revising (FTYPAH: "studying") for exams, so blogging has fallen way down the priority list -- still above housecleaning but well below watching "I'd Do Anything" (a). So, I was all set to let the blog go into its usual other-things-are-happening languishing state, but now Eric has given me something to post.

Here are a few videos from a recent performance of the Secondhand Ska Kings at Minneapolis' Fine Line. It's a group of people in their 30s pretending they are still in college. But they are betrayed by the fact that they are in tune:


On this one you get to hear funky, funky Eric sing. An interesting thing to note is that Eric is always like this. Watch his mannerisms and this is pretty much how he acts all the time. No, really. Go to his house and you'll see him acting like this while he's watching TV, making food, etc. Actually, don't go to his house. His wife would not appreciate my sending a load of people over to visit.


Apparently, the fellas have taken on Markéta Irglová. What's with the chick on keyboards? Who is that? Do I know her?

One of my favourite things about Secondhand Ska Kings is that I know most of the members. Eric has been my best friend for 20 years; Matt (the guitarist who hides to the left of the screen) used to live next door to me in Ballard Hall (b); Bryce (the trumpet player) used to live across the hall from me and Matt; Scott (the other trombone player and singer on two of the songs) is the guy who always riles me up by suggesting that Welsh is really Klingon. I am hoping that I do, in fact, know the female keyboardist and that I have shagged her.


(a) Yes, I realise that every time I admit to watching these shows I fall a little further in the eyes of Chris and Jenny. By now they almost certainly regret ever having let me stay in their home.

(b) Note that this is an all-male residence hall. Trust me, it's even worse than it sounds.

Oh, we were cool

A quote from me, age 12:

"Yeah, but I liked Metallica better when Jimi Hendrix was their lead guitarist."

I can't ever decide which I like more about that quote: that Eric bought it; or that I didn't know I was totally full of shit in saying it.

Happy Birthday Alicia Cordes!

This is my old friend Alicia Cordes. Her favourite hobby is stealing babies. I'm not entirely comfortable with this behaviour, I'll admit; but, really, who am I to judge? I can no more disown her than I can my white grandmother.

When I refer to Alicia as an "old friend," I mean that I have known her for a long time -- not that she is actually old. We knew each other in high school, which, for our friends in the Home Nations, is something different than what you call high school. High school in the United States generally encompasses those terrible wonderful years from age 14 to 18. Terrible in a wonderful way; wonderful in a terrible way. Like the strange ecstasy that comes from diarrhoea.

Alicia's locker was next to mine for those four years. Shoulder to shoulder for four years, on average seeing each other 30 minutes a day, five days a week. Roughly, that works out to 300 hours spent in close contact over the course of our high school experience -- 12.5 days. Easily longer than any number of romantic relationships I've had.

Anyway, today -- March 20 -- is her birthday. Alicia is 32 years young.

I am able to recall Alicia's birthday, despite my shockingly poor memory, because she and I were born on exactly the same day.

Is America ready for the Secondhand Ska Kings?

The other day I saw Suggs advertising fish fingers ("fish sticks" for those of you playing along at home) on television, which elicited a howling response from myself and a sort of roll of the eyes from the child bride. She did this because she knew that no matter what she did, I was going to insist on telling her who Suggs was.

My head is a Rwandan minefield of useless pop culture references -- it is almost impossible to hold a two-minute conversation with me without my working in a joke about some person or band you've never heard of. I don't really have a good reason for doing this. When you think about it, it's a stupid way to hold a conversation. What's the point of a wacky reference to Phyllis Diller (a) if it is no more relevant to the listener than a reference to Valerie Bell (b)? But I can't help myself.

"Dude! Suggs!" I shouted, when I first saw the 2 Tone icon on screen.

After a bit of giggling to myself in such a way as to convey that I was thoroughly amused, but not so thoroughly that I would refuse to field questions about the source of my amusement, I decided that perhaps my wife hadn't heard me, despite her sitting three feet from me.

"I can't believe Suggs is shilling fish fingers," I said, being sure to annunciate.

The child bride knows that I pride myself on retaining useless crap information and I live to share it with other people. After a long pause and an exasperated sigh, she asked: "Who's Suggs?"

"Cultural icon," I said, happily, knowingly. "I suppose you could blame him for Gwen Stefani."

And that's pretty much ska in a nutshell, isn't it? Suggs and Madness took the Jamaican sound, Anglicised it, made it poppy and sold a load of records in the UK. The 2 Tone sound carried over to the United States a few years later and fuelled the early 90s ska revival that gave us No Doubt.

Now Suggs is selling fish fingers and Stefani is No. 4 on my List Of Women I'd Like To Keep In A Shed For Personal Use. Funny how life works.

But the point of this post is that sound: ska. These days it is all too often the sound of concrete basements and cheap beer; the sound of Welsh-language activists who are too untalented to master or develop their own folk music. But occasionally it will show up in an Amy Winehouse or Lily Allen cover and I'll grow all wistful.

Whereas interest in ska had ebbed elsewhere by the late 90s, it was the sound de rigeur of Midwestern college bands. It was easy to play and easy to dance to. The quirky/catchy Midwestern brand of 2 Tone was the soundtrack to my Moorhead years. And whereas I suggest that most modern purveyors of ska are crap, the ska I was listening to in those days was great. It was great because everything is great when it's in the past and because most of my friends were in ska bands. And as we all know, people who are in bands are cool; if you have friends who are in bands, you, too, are cool. So, I was great. Everything was great in Moorhead and I never wanted to leave.

Not really. But the music was good. Long-time friends of the blog will remember my tome to 3 Minute Hero, one of the bands of the time.

Anyway, a few years ago, guys from 3 Minute Hero and Suspect Bill and The Smoking Jackets decided to relive the good old days, when they could jump around on stage all night and not wake up the next morning with aching backs. They formed Secondhand Ska Kings and started playing gigs mostly to their ever-suffering girlfriends and wives.

Things have moved on a bit and these days they occasionally play to crowds of people with whom they have more than one degree of separation. Sometimes these people even give them money to play. As evidence of this big-time success, the band has released an album, Ale to the Kings (iTunes), and I think you should buy it. Here's why:

1) The music is actually good. What they've done for this album is something that's a bit different from what a lot of ska bands do -- they've practiced. You can spot this in the lack of chipped notes.
2) Four of the guys in this band have bought me beer. If you buy this album, they will probably buy me beer again.
3) The guitarist, Matt, once nursed me back to health when I got the flu. If you buy this album, you will be supporting the idea of my being alive. If you are one of my ex-girlfriends, you should buy the album anyway.
4) Trombonist Eric has been my best friend for almost 20 years, is a frequent commenter on my blog, and is the guy that everyone loved in the documentary about me. If you buy this album, you get to hear him implore a woman to "take that, take that skirt off."
5) The cover art is cool.

For the low-low price of $9.99 (less than the cost of a pint in many London pubs), you get 44 minutes of the good-time sound that was in part popularised by a man who now sells fish fingers.

Perhaps one day a strangely impossible-not-to-look-at beautiful girl will be inspired by the Secondhand Ska Kings and will produce music that is at once brilliant and insufferable. It's not that far off an idea. Matt's first band, Ten Cent Fun, is mentioned in the liner notes of one of No Doubt's first albums.

(a) Female stand-up comic whose career peaked in the late 1960s and early 1970s
(b) Girl I had a crush on in kindergarten.

Precious moments

I added a link to it a few days ago, but I want to draw your attention to my favourite blog at the moment: Overheard in Minneapolis.

It's actually a collection of things overheard in the Minneapolis-St. Paul metro area, but that probably wouldn't have as nice a ring to it.

The quote that had me laughing this morning was this one, which I imagine is the sort of thing that Eric's wife, Kristin, would say if she had children.

Fire Hydrants 1 - Bulls 0

Man, bulls are so stupid.

Di-chwaeth

Often there is a thin line between public expression of grief and buffoonery. I think that this picture takes a Phillips Idowu-style leap over that line.

(FTYPAH: Idowu is a British triple-jumper who currently holds the European record)

L'Étoile du Nord

In watching/reading news coverage of Wednesday's bridge collapse, and e-mailing back and forth with friends, I have been reminded of the things that endear me to the state and area that I am wont to call home.

On this side of the water, more often than not when something happens in America, news crews manage to find the dumbest person in town and talk to him. If this were one's only exposure to the United States, it would make sense that some people don't like the Yanqui -- seemingly Americans are incapable of putting together coherent sentences. So it was refreshing to see so many Twin Cities residents speaking coherently and without the sense of melodrama we've come to expect in these sorts of things. If you watch this video clip of survivors, you'll notice a lack of "Oh my God!"-type exclamations. By and large this is how Minnesotans are. They're not comedy stoic as Garrison Keillor portrays them, but there is an overall tendency to take things in stride.

It's something that often manifests itself in the Minnesota sense of humour. Eric's response to my e-mail yesterday was simply: "Want to come over tonight and grill some meats? Don't take 35 to get here."

Post tragedy, that appears to be the biggest concern for Twin Citians at the moment -- how to get around. The core road network (the Twin Cities is deceptively named; it actually consists of dozens of cities stretching out across 13 counties and two states. So when one speaks of "the core" they are generally speaking of the 15- to 20-mile radius with Minneapolis-St. Paul as its centre) was established in the mid- and late-1960s, when the Twin Cities were more aptly named. According to Sara's dad, who has worked in a municipal function for some time, when 35W was first laid out some people suggested making it bigger than necessary, so as to deal with any growth in the city's population. The general response to such a plan, however, was something along the lines of: "Who the hell would move here?"

Back then, the population of what is now the core was just a bit over 1.2 million. These days, the same area holds some 2 million people, with an additional 1.5 million in the surrounding areas. Good times.

The road network as it runs through Minneapolis appears to have been drawn up by a drunkard. And for people commuting from north or south of the city, at least once a day they think to themselves: "Cripes, is this really the ONLY major north-south route? Who the hell thought this was a good idea?"

Or, rather, they used to think that, because now that route is gone. It's not completely gone, but it is seriously disrupted at a key point and it's going to be that way for years. The thousands of people that used to travel across the 35W bridge will now be dispersed to other routes, all of which were frustratingly slow and outdated before the collapse.

Unfortunately, lack of investment in public transportation (the whole of the Twin Cities area has only a single 12-mile light rail line*) means that there isn't really any alternative to driving and sitting in traffic. Add to this the fact that the Twin Cities has the second highest rate of congestion growth in the United States, and you're talking happy, happy fun time for all. Suddenly Arriva trains don't seem quite as bad.

*Before the collapse, optimistic types were hoping to see a second line built by 2014. That will almost certainly be pushed back as money is diverted to inspect and improve the state's bridges.

Thinking of home

To my knowledge, I don't know anyone who was injured last night (local coverage). Pretty much everyone I know back in the Cities works in other areas. So, at 6 p.m. they would have been elsewhere. The child bride used to drive across that bridge every day to get to work.

The I-35 (the road that collapsed) is easily the busiest road in the metro area. From Burnsville to Forest Lake it is almost always slow. Where it collapsed, in the heart of everything, traffic would have been at a standstill even if things hadn't been reduced to one lane. That factor only means that fewer people were affected than would have been.

This is a huge shock if not simply because in the Twin Cities people pride themselves on doing things properly. When you drive around, occasionally you will see signs in people's yards that say "Happy to pay for a better Minnesota," indicating the resident's willingness to pay more tax and maintain the quality of living that makes one forget about the miserable weather. Road projects are constant in the Cities -- they take too long and cost too much money and frustrate everyone, but in the back of your head you always console yourself by thinking: "Well, at least all this time and money means it's being done properly."

Something now has gone horribly wrong, and in probably the worst place imaginable. I-35 is a major artery, so the effect of this disaster will be felt for an extremely long time. And whatever political ramifications that arise will likely be felt severely.

For those of you playing along at home, I hope you're alright.

Midwesterners: Please help

Suddenly I can't remember the name of the furniture outlet that has that whore-like blonde selling hot tubs during Vikings games. I think she also does the same in Indiana. I don't actually NEED to know this, but it's bugging me that I can't remember.

EDIT: My dad reminded me that the woman is Jennifer Eichler, the Watson's girl.

Reminder

For those of you living in the Minneapolis-St. Paul metropolitan area, remember that the mighty 3 Minute Hero will be performing tonight (Friday) at Bunkers and Saturday at Fine Line. If you don't go see their show the terrorists win.

I say spider, you say monkey

Sometimes the world is not fair. We all know that, but sometimes it is more glaringly obvious. Sometimes the unfairness of this life looks you square in the eye and doesn't even flinch when it stabs you in the gut.

Such is the case that 3 Minute Hero never became famous.

They were good. I mean really, really good. Originally formed as yet another ska band, their horn section was just too powerful for such staid musical confines. In its prime (1997-2000), the horn section was fronted by two trombones -- instruments that, when played right, produce a brutal sound; a sound that punches and leaves you standing dumb like Peter Manfredo Jr. against Joe Calzaghe. This was supported by trumpet and sax and keys that swirled around the jabs and pulled you in. The whole thing fell together so perfectly that you found yourself not really hearing the different instruments, just this immense, immense sound. It was a sound that you could feel in your chest, a sound that felt too large for your head.

Fuelling the immensity was the sort of if-Animal-were-real-and-angry-and-100-feet-tall drumming you would expect from a guy who taught himself to play by listening to Kiss records. Atop it all was a larger-than-life frontman who stood as ringmaster, wailing and bellowing through the songs.

Obviously, with such a dynamic sound they were difficult to categorize. They were sort of a cross between stadium rock, Barenaked Ladies, Mighty Mighty Bosstones (circa Let's Face It), Parliament, and the first time a girl let you put your hand up her shirt. The lyrics were rapid-fire funny and brilliant, the music was incredible, and their shows were explosive in energy. They remain my favourite band of all time.

OK, true, I went to high school with three of the band members, one of whom has been my best friend for 19 years*, and I wrote the lyrics to one of their songs. I am biased. Even in the face of this they were good. In my mind, they had everything they needed to be big and I very seriously believed that one day everything would drop into gear and they would be touring around the world.

That never happened, of course. They played in bars in forgettable towns in forgettable states, bounded across North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin in an old school bus that they had won in a battle of the bands competition, until growing up became inevitable. The band split in 2000 and the members became husbands, fathers, home owners, teachers. A few of them joined other bands and achieved equal levels of success (most notably Jack Brass Band, where the two-trombones-kicking-your-ass-with-sound format was again used), but the 3MH experience remains wholly unique in my eyes.

The story of 3 Minute Hero is an almost bittersweet tale; evidence that incredible talent can exist and go unnoticed. It forces you to realise that there are authors more brilliant than Shakespeare who will never be published, songs being sung that would fill your soul but that you will never hear. It's unfair.

But there is hope: They're back, bitches!

Well at least for two performances. One will be in St. Peter, Minn., which became a sort of spiritual home for the band, and the other will be at Minneapolis' Fine Line. Their meteoric rise to fame will still probably never occur but at least a few more people will get a chance to finally hear the greatest band they never knew existed.

3 Minute Hero's Fine Line show is June 9, so you can expect to see me going on about this for a while. I am very serious that when I got the e-mail from Eric today I spent about half an hour trying to figure out if it would be at all possible for me to fly back to the U.S. to see the show (sadly, ignoring the $1,500 cost of a flight, I still have exams at that time).

There are a goodly number of Upper Midwesterners who read this blog, though, and I would encourage them to make the trip. No, really. This is a band worth driving several hours to see. Tickets are only $11, so you should have some extra money to buy Eric a beer.

*19 years, Eric. We are old.

Already known as the cultural capital of the Midwest

University work is kicking me in the face and then making fun of me at the moment, so I continue to involuntarily abstain from blogging. All I am capable of is posting links to videos that you can and probably already have found for yourself.

I know that the bread and butter of* blogging is simply linking to other things, or, ideally, linking to someone else's linking of other things, but it seems a bit 2004, doesn't it? I feel this need to produce original content.

Despite that, the whole point of this post is to link to this video. I don't know why, but I really think that Jenny and Chris will enjoy this video the most.

My dad sent me the link**. It's 4:30 of joy over the wonderful land that is the Twin Cities Metro Area. What I love about it are the random conditional facts, like, "Valley Fair is the largest amusement park in the Upper Midwest." That style of making something sound impressive by reducing its perimeters is a popular tactic in tourism -- "Pen y Fan is the highest peak in south Wales." "Arriva Trains service is the most reliable amongst train services that begin and end in Cardiff." "I am the strongest man in my house."

My favourite conditional fact comes at 3:30.

*FTYPAAH: The British love to describe things as "the bread and butter of" something. For example, failing to live up to expectations is the bread and butter of the England football (FTYPAAH: soccer) team.

**He described it as the "cheesiest voice-over since the death of filmstrips."

Reasons to love Cardiff

I don't really have a list of reasons to love Cardiff, perhaps I will make one some day. Somewhere at the top of that list will be the fact that it's not this place.

The picture was taken by a former co-worker of mine, Maggie, who asks the question "What city is this??" rhetorically. It is a picture of downtown Minneapolis. The frustrating aspect is that in this city that serves as the cultural heart of the only state to not vote for Reagan in 1984, there is massive (and, let's be honest, tacky) Americana propaganda and a Rush Limbaugh billboard framed by the omnipresence of Borders and the Target Corp.

I am thinking of putting this picture on a T-shirt, with the words, "Not The America I Grew Up In," across the top.

For everyone who's never been to the Twin Cities, this picture probably looks like exactly what you would expect to see from an American Midwest downtown -- wide, relatively empty dusty streets, minimal pedestrians and unabashed conservatism. But for those of us who know the place, it's incredibly depressing -- it's a picture that makes me want to go out into the garden and hug the sweet Welsh earth.

Random memory

Our first summer in St. Paul was particularly hot and our apartment did not have air conditioning. One day I came home and found the child bride making dinner wearing nothing but an apron.

I responded as you would expect -- with glee. But when I attempted to grab her she was having none of it. She hadn't been naked to be sexy, but because she was that hot.