Where We Belong

My younger brother was over for a visit on his birthday. We decided that we would go on a wee pub crawl and tour the illustrious drinking establishments that can be found in our little neck of the woods. Instead, we ended up giving him one of the most special birthday gifts ever: Karaoke Fighting.

Our first stop was a little pub called the Angerstein. When we walked in we immediately felt like the youngest people in the room (strangely when we left we felt like some of the oldest). Worse than that, however, it was Karaoke night - lest you forget Karaoke still upsets my stomach. We watched as a pair of ghoulish women were preparing the stage, while we quietly sipped our pints. We knew it was show time when one of the largish pair donned a pair of sunglasses and lit up a cigarette and they began to maim a Sugarbabes song (or some sort of rubbish like that). I would like to make this clear to all: wearing sunglasses in the dark has not actually been a cool thing since the Blues Brothers did it, so unless you are blind please refrain.

When the Banshees finished the sacrificial rite, the one with the shades and the cigarette and the superfluous chin got angry at the crowd for paying no attention to the piece of performance art that had just occurred. Strike that - everyone payed attention as there was no choice (one simply can't ignore a train wreck that is happening in the room one is sitting in), she was angered due to the lack of response, which I actually found to be a quite polite gesture by the tortured crowd. As the duo began another, I lovingly named the shaded one Uncle Fred.

The only other person that we saw sing at the Angerstein was an older fellow who did "My Way." The crowd liked it, and applauded quite graciously. This ired Uncle Fred who then berated us. No, really, she specifically pointed out the triad of which I was a part, this was probably due to the zealous applause we had given to the nightingale of a gent. As much as I loved Uncle Fred, though, my wife hated her, so we left as she began to do hari-kari on a Dixie Chicks number.

We moved on down the way to the Pick Wick. These pubs might be 3/4 of a miles apart, yet somehow it was Karaoke night there too. I was feeling as though my head might explode, but as we went into the pub I was put at ease. There on the stage a man was singing "An American Trilogy." This was good, we settled down to our pints and it all began to happen.

Recognizing us, the bar tender comes over and asks my wife (who has sung at this very establishment before) to do a duet with her friend who has no one else to sing with. The request was agreed to, and the little slip of paper turned in. Singing would commence.

Finally, Ricky and Kathryn are called to the stage. As the music begins and they chat about how this song should be sung, I notice a small commotion off to the side. It's mostly load talking but it seems to be growing. Uncle Fred would have been really pissed if people were doing this during her song (I can see her raging now). I see, though, that the bartender hasn't bothered to stop serving drinks, so I decide it is nothing. I was wrong, because, about then, Ricky, from the stage and into the microphone, says "Terry, mate, no..." and then begins to half heartedly sing.

The bartender is still serving and some older gentlemen have moved over to the small knot of people, surely this is nothing, but, suddenly, Ricky leaves the stage and bounds towards Terry as a bunch of men begin to do the push around the bar dance. Kathryn (with more demeanor than Uncle Fred) stands quietly with the Karaoke man. The melee swells as more and more do gooders jump in to keep the pugilists apart, but I sense that there is some confusion as to who exactly the pugilists are, but the bartender has still not stopped serving drinks (to the peaceful onlookers who watched over the fight much like those picnicers at Gettysburg long ago).

Then I hear it over the speakers, Kathryn has stepped in to do her part. The music swells and her crystal voice extends out an olive branch, "Love lift us up where we belong/ Where the eagles cry..." My brother is in hysterics and is clapping an laughing like an autistic child. Fearing the "what are you looking at syndrome," I request that he cease and desist. The bartender has still not stopped serving drinks. "...On a mountain high/ Love lift us up..." At this moment a man, a pool cue, and a bar stool all land at my feet. I think all three are broken, but he hops up and takes half of the pool cue back into the fray. I kick the rest out of the way. "...where we belong."

The bartender is still serving drinks. As thethe song ends they have cleared out at least one half of the problem as the fighting has stopped and Terry can still be sighted wandering about (having the priviledge of remaining he gets to tell his side of the story). Suddenly, Kathryn jumps up and runs over to the Karaoke man and then to another guy. I later find out that she had to go and ask the pub's owner for permission to do another song. She retakes the stage.

I wish my younger brother a happy birthday and apologise that we took him on a two pub crawl. The music begins, and on that crisp cold Charlton night, through the animosity of the broken glass and violence of the smashed stools you can hear her singing...

"Tuuuurm around, Every now and then I get a little bit lonely...."

Every Now and Then I Fall Apart

Charlton, London, England. February 15, 2007. A Bedroom. My eyes popped open and a voice in my head sang, "Turn around...."

Charlton, London, England. February 14, 2007. This year I started off Valentines day by taking down a half bottle of champagne with a late breakfast. We'd just moved into a new flat in Charlton, and fulfilling every expectation I could possibly have of a letting agency, the flat had not been cleaned and there was no hot water. Champagne seemed like the only answer. Beer seemed like the answer at midday. Wine was definitely the answer all evening long.

In the midst of all this a music video TV station was airing the 100 Greatest Love Songs of All Time. As one might imagine this made for very entertaining TV. Example 1: did you know that in the video for "Nothing Compares" Sinead O'Conner's ears wiggle whenever she hits the big notes? Its actually very scary as the bulk of the video is a close up of her face and those dreadful ears to which nothing compares. Example 2: Meatloaf in "I Would Do Anything For Love" is he supposed to be a vampire or the Hunchback of Notre Dame?

But it was down somewhere in the forties that I found myself watching the most psychedelic bit of footage ever released: the video for Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Trippier than anything they ever attempted to film in the 1960s or 1970s, it is a night time fantasy in which Bonnie Tyler sings amongst ninjas, football players, men dressed like John Travolta in Staying Alive, and choir boys. The freaky choir is led by a young boy who has "bright eyes," which is more than metaphorical as he looks like he has sun flares emitting from them. I was well into the wine by the time the video came on and I found myself transfixed by the song and the images and the history...

Athens, Georgia. Summer 2006. Walker's Pub. Karaoke is a terrible sport. You get there sober and all the people that can sing are passing the book around. Then the pressure begins with the inevitable "what are you going to sing?" You excuse yourself to avoid the question and go to the bar. You do this multiple times. Soon you are no longer avoiding the question but seriously looking at the Karaoke book scanninf for a song that is more or less keyless. More pressure mounts as you know the deadline to get your entry in is up coming. You know that you can't live with not being part of the fun, but you'd like to let the deadline pass so you can escape without another miserable "I Shot the Sheriff" experience. You excuse yourself to go the bar again. Now though your thinking is muddled and you find that pen and paper in your hand and you are scribbling words that you will regret and blaming tequilla for this transgression. You think hard. Only one song is in your mind "Tuuurnnn Arrround..." Then your musical wife is agreeing to a duet. You are saved as all you have to do is sing "Turn around" she'll "need you more than ever" and "we'll never be wrong together..."

Cambridge, England. Summer 2003. Pub Unknown. Karaoke night. I'd been drinking pints for quite some time and been dragged to Karaoke. I have been babbling at the table and avoiding answering the question: "So, what are you going to sing?" (the correct answer is, "nothing...if you are lucky"). I look over and a man takes the stage. He is small and when he sings it it is flat and monotonal, but he is singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Within seconds of the first "turn around..." the whole bar is singing. This was the night that a bitter sweet romance began between Bonnie Tyler and me.

The next day it was stuck in my head. Throbbing there. I realized though that the only words I could remember were "turn around." I walked around for the rest of the day singing: "Tuuuuurn Arround nananananaaana Tuuuuurn Arrrroud...." Soon I learned another fact about my new favorite song. Regrettably, if I woke up with the words "turn around" racing through my head I would be in for a hellish hangover. This lasted the summer and I never bothered to learn the words. I made for a strange sight at the Buttery of Downing College. Greenish pale, matted greasey hair, bloodshot eyes, and hovering over a plate of beans on toast in a Zen like trance while trying to use the bit of Yoga that I learned in my Introduction to Acting Class to control my internal functions and conquer breakfast and quietly humming my mantra "Churn around...."

Marks, Mississippi. Spring 2004. Tio Pepe's Mexican Restaurant. Karaoke night in a small small town. Kathryn is begging the Karaoke Man for the last song, which she dedicates to me. I sway as she begins to crack each note. I think that she is singing it poorly because she is jealous of Bonnie. "I need you more tonight, I need you more than ever..." The bar quickly empties as she implores the people paying their bill to dance "because it is my birthday" (it was not her birthday). I turn around and am the only other person there. It is just me, the wait staff, Karaoke man, Kathryn, and Bonnie Tyler whose presence can be felt in this old depot in the middle of Cotton Country in the Delta. "Forever's gonna start tonight," but first the tab...

Charlton, London, England. February 15, 2007. Its still dark outside. I reckon 3.00 a.m. I know what I am in for this morning, Bonnie always liked "love in the dark." It happens whenever we drink champagne together. "Tuuuurrn Arround, every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming around..." At least now I know the lyrics so I'll just be sick instead of sick and annoyed. Happy day after Valentine's Day Bonnie. I love you.

Relearning the Language

Don't talk with a fake British accent
A southern man tells better jokes
-"Outfit" The Drive By Truckers

I'm four pints in at a pub babbling at some people and thinking about how I can't seem to use the word "cheers" correctly in a sentence. Whenever I say it it sounds forced and strange - maybe its my accent . . . who am I kidding of course its my accent. Now, I'm not trying to pull a T.S. Eliot anglicize my voice into new realms of pretentiousness, but when one is living in a foreign place its helps to use the vocabulary a bit (e.g. I say queue instead of line in England just as I wood say cervaza instead on Beer in Mexico).

Picking up a bit of the Queen's makes things go smoother, because it is a different language. For example. I am at a reception for LLM students, who are for the most part international, and I am talking to a guy from Pakistan. We have most intelligent discussion about literature and politics when he says, "Is my English OK? This is the first time I have ever been out of Pakistan?" Up 'til this point it hadn't occurred to me that English is not a language spoken in Pakistan. Later, though, this same guy asks me if I find the locals hard to understand. Intolerably hard.

But anyway I'm in this pub and I saying CHeers, chEErs!, CH!eeRs, cheerSS, over and over in my head trying to make it sound genuine, when I hear a sound from the back of the pub. It was a tornadocoming through a back door I didn't know that this pub had. No, check that its my wife, the same wife whom I just directed to this pub and has never been here before. She sees me and steps into the circle of people I'm standing with and says "Hiya!" to all of them. There is a beat of silence where everyone looks confusedly at the smiling girl standing in the midst of them and struggling her coat, scarf, gloves, and hat.

"This is my wife, y'all." (Yeah I use y'all over here, and even more than usual despite that it is essentially a nonsense word that gets stares . . . I just can't stop . . . its a subconscious rebellion I'm sure). Everyone looks relieved as earlier that week a drunk sat down at my table and wanted to discuss the Bermuda Triangle with me, and there were all hoping that I hadn't attracted another psycho (little did they know...).

As she introduces herself, I realize that she is talking in a full British accent. Not like when I talk in a British accent and I sound like a bad rendition of a Monty Python skit, but like a real Briton. I watch in awe as she meets a girl from Slovenia and asks, "Do you love it?" Not something that would occur to me to ask about Slovenia (don't get me wrong I'm sure it has its nice parts).

I am standing there stunned trying to figure out where she learned English (and how exactly she is pulling off that "cheers" - she does so very well) when she admits to me that she has been taking part in a transformative British activity with her coworkers.

"I've been having pints on the train," she said.

"Cheers, to that."

The Life and Death of Drunk and Furious: Unauthorized and Unleashed

Wick "Biscuit" Cauthorn 1977-2006 R.I.P.

I must for this post turn my attention state side, because Today in the little Town of Athens, Georgia. A band died. A new maturity level has been reached in the Classic City, and the members hammered the final nails in the coffin today. But as with all tales we must start at the beginning.

Drunk and Furious all started in a bottle of Whiskey. Many critics have argued over exactly what type of whiskey. The is a large number that claim that it was most definitely a bottle of Wild Turkey as it was apt to be around at that time in the careers of the five young gentlemen who were to form the band. I however ascribe to the theory that its was something of lesser quality, something with more grit, more raw emotion due to its tendency to burn the lining out of the esophagus. I personally think it was the Evan Williams in the green bottle.

The original members of the band were (the names have been changed to protect the innocent): Wick (vocals), Will (guitar and vocals), Rupp (Banjo and vocals), PJ (guitar, kazoo, vocals), and Drew (maracas and vocals). All of these members drank for the same putrid bottle of whiskey. All were drunk all were furious and it was good.

After many impromptu sessions the band was booked for their first show by John "The Greaseball" Nijawin at JRs Bait Shack. The band arrived early for a show that was in the upstairs bar which was empty while they set up. The first of their rock star tendencies was to go behind the bar and to begin to pour themselves drinks. All were drunk all were furious and it was good. They then played the set barely able to stand or hear themselves. The crowd seemed to like it, even the girls sang along with "Two Black Eyes," a postmodern piece about the fragmentated existence of man and wife. They also unleashed their hit single "Tijuana Rose" for the first time. The maracas whipped the crowd into and Orphic frenzy.

Soon, after this the band became associated with D.T.'s Downunder. They became more or less the house band (more in their eyes, and less in DT's eyes). They played a series of shows there that has been likened to the Grateful Dead's 1980 Summer Run. One critic was noted as saying. "It was a completely existential experience. One could not deny the raw energy that was felt on the stage. The more furious the crowd got the drunker the band got. It was a pure experience of two groups challenging each other to make the nest move. Drunk and Furious always made the next move." The band during this era debuted the vocally complex "She Wet the Bed," a song which addressed a fear that lurks within all of our hearts.

The band's direction at this time was steered by three main factors. First, Drew left the band. To this day it is unclear why, he just didn't go to the stage one evening. Second, to fill the new gap, the band associated with Downtown Calvin. A likeminded songwriter, who brought such musical triumphs as "Swamp Kitty" and "The Creepy Crabby Crawlies." The influence of this musician should not be underrated and Calvin became an intinerate singer with the band, much like DJ Logic's role with Medeski Martin and Wood. Finally, the band decided to get back to their roots and began to spend time at a trailer in the country where they sought out bucolic Georgia as inspiration for their everwidening tastes in music. For example this led to the melding of country life with traditional Chinese music in their song "Asian Persuasion."

The next momentous thing was when they won to Flagpole Music Awards. They were awarded as best roots rock band and also as best up and coming band. All were drunk all were furious and it was good. There has been some debate as to whether these awards were rightfully earned. It should be cleared up for the sake of historical fact, that every voted that was counted for them was cast for them. These winning moments were followed up by a string of shows at Athens' Tasty World.

The good times were not to last as a member would soon be pushed from the fold. PJ would soon leave the band. There are competing claims as to why. He has always maintained that the band took the Syd Barrett approach and failed to notify him of upcoming shows. The bands official stance was that a Yoko Ono type influence forced him to leave. This commentator shall not enter into speculation.

The band then released their first and only album, the critically acclaimed Acoholyspe Now. In the words of the Rolling Stone Critic: "This is Rawk. To think that the South gave us both moonshine and this underground phenomena befuddles the mind. Drunk and Furious is the next revolution in music: mature immaturity. Not since Copeland walked onto the scene have we heard music like this. Its like that mythical David Allen Coe album that no one owns, but we seem to all know someone that does, mixed with the angst of the Sex Pistols, and the art rock influences of Emerson, Lake and Palmer." [editor's note: This review was never printed in Rolling Stone due to the reviewer's tardiness in turning in the copy, but he went to a show to see the band and found himself in a weeklong bender.]

Soon after this release the band's personnel would get shaken up again. This time it was Rupp would left the band. He left to pursue a career in jailing people like himself. Also, Calvin by this time had broken his ties with the band and floated back off into that mysterious haze of women that he floated out of. Luckily the band had been throughout all of this been the developing the Drunk and Furious Orchestra, which was a full on rhythm section. They at this point, developed a heavier more complex sound and were playing regular shows at Last Call. There was new anger in the music during this period, this has been attributed to the skunky and mislabeled beer at Last Call (much like fermented bread has been blamed on the witch scare in Salem). This commentator's facts are somewhat incomplete during this phase of the band as he was studying the blues in Mississippi.

One strange sidenote is that a cover band played a one night stint in Cambridge, England under the name Drunken Furious. It ended with the lead singer telling the crowd that in they didn't know the song "Suck my !&@*%" then they were probably all a bunch of Communists.

But, back to today, and the real subject of this little walk through history lane. Drunk and Furious touring schedule has waned significantly and sources close to the band have stated that the band is all but done. Still though many of their most ardent fans held on to the idea that they would have a resurgence. Today, December 15, 2006, I can assure you Drunk and Furious is no more to the death of Singer Wick "Biscuit" Cauthorn. Today, he finishes a decade long career in search of the most complete English BA ever, and as he moves that tassel across he will die and Wickliffe J. Cauthorn will be born.

What does this have to do with Drunk and Furious? Its quite simple really. The new found maturity level Mr. Cauthorn would give the whole band a hollow sound. He would know in his heart that a man of his stature should be playing special candlelit shows and singing such classic hits as John Secada's "Do You Believe In Us" or The Eagles "Love Will Keep Us Alive." Elvis never went back, and neither can Wickliffe. Like a fine wine he has matured into a new sort of singer. The other musicians in the band won't be left in the cold though, they are all involved in side projects, and the no that they can't stop this butterfly like metamorphosis from happening. As Will said when questioned about the experience: "Our little Tyke is all grown up now."

Cultural Learnings make for Great benefit

It was a modest proposal, really. "I want to eat a three month old baby." Of course in context it was a bit more ridiculous, as it was said:

A) in a pub
b) by a large Irish woman
c) at a table entirely inhabited (barring myself and Kathryn of course) by Catholic school teachers
d) I was eating a kidney pie

Then I found myself engaged in a conversation with one of these teachers about whether Axl Rose was a necessary member of Guns 'n' Roses (as an aside I must say that he most certainly was a pivotal member of the group at its apex. While this did not help to slow his fast spiraling descent into abysmality, he was the essence of the band. A phoenix that brought them to full glory and to full suckiness, only they did not rise again, which I suppose makes him quite unlike a phoenix, but all this of course is neither here nor there). The problem is that these Catholic teachers just don't get Glam Rock at its finest.

The next night I found myself in a park with a fair going on. It had the usual rides and fair games. At these fair games though you could win liquor and cartons of cigarettes at the ring toss...just what the kiddies need. There was even a portable casino. In the Casino Kathryn and I learned just how fast we could get rid of those stupid two pence pieces.

At the end of the night we all stood around a bonfire, upon which the effigy of Guy Faukes was burned. To sum it up in the words of one astute Briton: "It a day that we all celebrate a man that failed to blow up Parliment even though we wish he did." As his body burned we all learned the dangers of blowing up Parliment...we also learned that our flasks were empty.

So, I have learned and hope to spread these thing back to my home culture. The Catholics should eat more babys (or maybe just the Irish) and learn a splash more about heavy metal between the years of 1980-89 (to avoid the problem as I see it of too much Black Sabbath and not enough Warrant). Fairs should give out liquor before people go on the gravitron. Finally, burning a man in effigy every year since 1605 because he was pro-Catholic can be fun when mixed with booze and gambling, but one must ask is it any better than eating a baby?