1/31/08

How to Not Get a Job (or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Cave Bear)

I come to you now, hat in hands, offering a repeat entreaty. Do you seek employees? I seek employment. Maybe my people can talk to your people...

If you can use someone who knows music, then I can be of service to you. I know movies pretty well, but music is definitely my strength. I'm the worst kind of addict. I not only love and devour music, but I also make it. There's this never ending quest to surround myself with music in my life and work. Something about working in a place that sells CDs appeals to me, but I can't put my finger on exactly what.

My flexible is schedule (?). As things stand, I have a full time job and am looking to scale back and rearrange it in favor of doing something new. Specifically, pushing pertinent music on an unsuspecting town (seditious!). See, I'm the last survivor of a strange breed: the compassionate music snob. I can turn people onto The Good Stuff without making them feel inferior. We were nearly hunted to extinction in the '80s, and if you're nice I'll tell you my secret identity.

I've been told, when I've applied before, that you'll want to know my top five movies and albums. This is hard. I had the toughest time limiting to five (and couldn't always trim my list down), but here's what I came up with.

Sights:

Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

City of God

City of God (again)

Godzilla vs. Gigan

the Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou

2001: A Space Odyssey/Dr Strangelove (tie)

Sounds:

Red Sparowes: Every Red Heart.../At the Soundless Dawn (tie)

Tom Waits: Frank's Wild Years

Pearl Jam: Yield

Liars: Drum's Not Dead

Gifts From Enola: Loyal Eyes Betrayed the Mind

I left out some choice music. Maserati, Explosions in the Sky, Sleater-Kinney, Godspeed! You Black Emperor, Mogwai, Lake Trout, the Black Angels...

***

Anyway...

I'm reliable, honest, and hard working. I learn fast and can defy gravity at will. I invented the telephone, the fax machine, and the helicopter. These facts-or any others-can be confirmed or denied by _________, who knows me pretty well.

So I can tell I need to close this bizarre diatribe before it collapses under its own weight. Please let me know if you can use me!

With clarity of intention of cleanliness of shirt...


-HS

1/11/08

Six Questions of Death: Jeff Blinder (published Feb '08, G-Vegas Magazine)

There’s a fresh buzz going around the national music scene, a buzz that you don’t hear much in Greenville. We’re the last to know, really, when something big breaks. People from the more cosmopolitan spots are quick to pick on us, the small towners.

But now there’s a paradox. The buzz is about Greenville, specifically, the Greenville underground. In the know, locally, are a few original bands (no cover acts!) and maybe two hundred music connoisseurs. In the know, nationally, are dozens of bands in varying stages of success who love Greenville.

They love the Spazzatorium, they love 21 Eleven and Sociology. People who don’t even know that this is a college town (not making this up) will come back again and again to play the underground, will brave the mindkilling seventy minutes of 264, will knock out their alignment on 14th for the sake of a homemade stage and the most responsive audience in the state (probably).

The Spazzatorium Galleria is exactly that... an art gallery. It’s not a bar or a club, and it’s run in a fan and musician-friendly way. No one will make a fortune playing there, but it’s more satisfying than blasting a tired old Eagles song over last call at some doomed bar.

Jeff Blinder knows very well that music is art of a most sacred form. He books the majority of the Spazz’s acts and, with the help of a cadre of trusted locals, keeps the Spazz alive. I talked to him at his house one balmy December day. Comedy was in the air as his roommates shouted absurdities up and down the stairs. Coolest thing ever… kind of like giving an interview in the middle of a Mel Brooks movie.


Hawk Season: What is the coolest thing ever to happen onstage at the Spazz?


Jeff Blinder: There's a band, Kiss Kiss, who were pretty rad. It was kind of a more popular band, but they really let loose, and they ended up breaking a guitar and a violin and a guy was swinging from the rafters. It was one of those bands where I really wasn't expecting it because they kind of were this indie band. I knew that their music got pretty hectic, but I didn't know that their actions could be like that. Afterwards they were telling me that it was a release for them because they had some touring problems and they usually don't get that crazy but at the Spazz they felt like they could let loose a little more and it ended up with them breaking some expensive equipment. They were okay with it.


HS: Who, or what, is your biggest inspiration in how the Spazz is run?


JB: New Jersey basement shows. That was my first foray into the do it yourself scene in New Brunswick, New Jersey, and seeing bands that I'd heard about from friends play these little basements...not like big venues where I used to go, and just seeing how they got it done. (I didn't like) not feeling like I was in an environment where I couldn't just relax. At a basement you can do that.


HS: People tell me the Spazz doesn't have enough money. How real is the danger?


JB: Being a donation only place, and not making any profits, it's month to month. We have had excess money in the past, but that has run out, so December's looking real tough because we don't have a lot of shows. Basically it's just a month to month endeavor. We can never be as comfortable as we want to be, but that kind of makes it exciting too, you know? Keeps you on your toes.


HS: Who would you book if you could book anyone?


JB: I would be booking the Avett Brothers, Valient Thorr. Then I'd be looking for some of the bigger acts, maybe the Mars Volta or something like that, but those would be shows that would kind of have to be secret...There's a lot of bands I missed out on, who were kind of under the radar and then they got on the radar...They were in that spot where they would be willing to come through and now they've got booking agents and it's hard to get bands when they have booking agents.


HS: Like, which acts?


JB: Aids Wolf, that's one from Canada that I really liked and then they got a booking agent. Genghis Tron is even hard to get now, they've come through before.


HS: The Spazz wouldn't work in most towns. Why does it work in Greenville?


JB: I would say because it takes commitment from the people who are doing it, but also... I don't know. It really is an anomaly. As long as we can have music coming through and art and all that good stuff we'll do what we have to... even if we have to not do it there. There's a fight for survival, I guess. I don't know why it works, but I'll keep doing it as long as I can.


HS: The weirdest thing is the audience participation being so good and bands hear about it through the touring circuit.


JB: I just think it's, like I was saying, the comfort factor. It's not feeling like you're in an environment where you feel like you have to be kind of stressed out, kind of let loose. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that it's like a house show, but it's at the gallery. I go out of my way to make sure everyone's having a good time and that no one's excluded and say “hi” and “thanks for coming” and all that, so I think they see that we like what we're doing and that the bands like to come here. With those two factors I think it makes them more comfortable and the audience reacts by participating more.


HS: All right... your sixth question of death (and the most deadly question)... the Spazz is Han Solo. Who are the Ewoks?


JB: I don't know who it would be. They'd have to be cute but kind of annoying...Some of the regulars, but not the girls. I don't know, I don't want to call out names.


Jeremy (a roommate -hs): I like to think of Jeff as Yoda.


HS: That's a good one.


JB: Donate, you will!


***


Go to myspace.com/spazzgallery. Check the schedule, yo. You might just find true love.

Anyway, until next month I’ll be drifting down the Tar in a tricked out rowboat and a Larry Bird jersey, drinking PBR tall boys and posting endearing gibberish at hawkseason.blogspot.com. Feel free, nay, encouraged to drop me a line. It's HawkSeason@gmail.com, kids.

Put on that pimp hat, it's going to be a long night. Until then....

1/4/08

cocktail napkin scribble (observations on a loser)

Fear drives the barhound...

Staring at dozens of TVs @ 4:pm on a Friday, offering commentary to his sidekick. 45 & embarrassed, wearing the official mustache of 1985... He knows that he can get on the train w/ the future at any time but has convinced himself of the opposite 22 years ago. It's easier, somehow, living in constant defensive cockiness, pretense @ full strength.

YES,

MOTHER FUCKER,

I AM HAVING THE TIME OF MY LIFE & YOU WISH YOU COULD PARTY THIS HARD.

1/1/08

New Year's Revolution

return of the peroxide blonde*this town needs a shithead*abject terror and more abject terror*Hawk Season 2012: a president for all seasons.*this nation needs a shithead

I have to tell you a story before I can tell you what happened. Sit down.

I've been up all night, racking my brain. I've been adrift all New Year's, wandering the usual spots with no luck. Turducken was doomed. Downtown was evil. Serpents and devils and shit buying drinks for other serpents and devils, the undead speaking in reverse tongues... working on their anagrams with renewed zeal.

See, three years ago I escaped Paris Hilton Island with my life and my life only. I had been there seven months, an idiot trapped by the promise of reality tv-delivered riches. I had been scalded with burning oil and set out in a fire ant hill. They made me eat sewage in a stunning $4,000 outfit and I still DIDN'T FUCKING WIN.

Since then, I've looked over my shoulder in dread that the Island Guard will find me and drag me back. Every time I hear a Justin Timberlake ringtone or a Honda Civic's glass pack I freeze and drop, paralyzed with fear.

But now it's the New Year. Several have passed since my unlikely escape, but the fear has yet to fade. I can't help the feeling that they'll be muscling me back soon, my fingernails clawing the ground as they pulllllllllllllllll.

So I've been drifting the defeated town, my face obfuscated with surrender paint, wondering if this will be the year we are all set free from Paris Hilton Island. The parties were death, the bars were vicious. I was surrounded by strange vampires, waiting to suck the fantasies out of my head and sell them to shitty authors. Panicked friends tried to fight, tried to stand beside me, but were all eventually thrown to the wolves. I wander this terrible town, mind clouded with bad thoughts, eyes clouded with the old year, begging the new one to come. Then, come the new one, I don't recognize it.

It's a wolverine in the nursery, gray at the edges of my optimism. It's the sweet taste of napalm on toast, the breakfast of a day already in shambles. Will this year be better than the last? Really, every year we say "it should be," but are never given cause to consider anything a win.

Next year I'm having a private New Year's. All my introspection this year took place in absolute crowd, and that just doesn't work. I hit all the wrong conclusions.

What I do realize, though, is that the beginning and end of a year are absolutely relative.

That said, I'm going to celebrate the Chinese New Year. By then I'll be ready.

Peace.