Thursday, June 25, 2009

Late June, 09

D face,

What is it about music? Hard to figure. Some kind of fancy use of sound. Makes us feel good though, some kind of complex transference of vibrations or something. Huh. Weird.

We'll try out some of this so called music Thursday night, June 25, after trivia, with a band that call themselves The Moment and are chock full of hippy hop brio and Jazzy Jeff rap. $5.

Friday night begins we couple of songwriters at 7pm, Susie Ransom Wood and Eric Forsythe. $5. Then around 9ish we have Wisebird in the house. This grungy, stony blues band is making waves. We caught them up in Boulder last month and dug them. Check out a couple tunes on their Myspace and see how you feel. Help us welcome them to the D Note. $5.

Saturday night we have a going away party for our beautiful bartender Athena. Athena's been amazing these last 4 years at the D, but she's moving on to Chicago and so we're going to see her off in an appropriate style. Opening the night at 7pm is the groovy hip hop jazz vibe of The Saurus. Then we have special band from New York City called The Volunteers, an epic rock band. Thanks to Ivan Suvanjieff for helping direct them our way. They had a song on a recent MTV Real World episode, but that hardly recommends them. But how about this blurb from The Onion's critic Noel Murray, "The Volunteers' self-released, self-titled album serves up sleazy, indisputably wrong scuzz-rock." Perfect fanfare to send Athena off into the wild world. $5.

Start warming up for Jeremy D and Rico's Birthday Party next Friday night featuring a Jerry Garcia tribute by the excellent Mighty High Band.

catch you on the backside,

D tail

Extra Credit: We came across a beautiful little handmade book by the poet Kenneth Patchen called "Because It Is" in a used bookstore on Cape Cod recently. The poems inside all seemed like nonsense at first. But then a deeper look yielded some unexpected truth and beauty. Here's a sample, saved from obscurity and reproduced here especially for you.


Something in the climate of a hammer
Struck him when young. Call a
Sparrow a lamp, you'll still need
The liking of chairs to settle
What is at bottom only painted over
Cloth; and that flat cunning of plates,
How little it speaks above the soup's
So roundly directional bravura. Count the sky
A pan, you'll still be hard put to find
A flash in its like. But ah, alas, alas,
Lottipo...the mushy marshes, those tree-lined woods,
The so-small journeying, and the trivial occupants thereof...
These, too, and all else, alas, are only real. So may we
Remember once again how the grasses cause the wind to move...
Ah, alas, dear Toppilo, what then is this realm that seems
So like a cell, without jailer or judge, or witness even...?
And that we love! is this not a proof of something!
No, I admit--not necessarily of heaven...

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