Program Notes 36

Up at Rock Solid the day after Xmas you get Resurrection, Raped Ape, and Demonomacy, the last of whom are currently recording their new demo at Tapeworm Studios. For Tapeworm info, call 633-6940.

Noodles has joined the Baboons, but she won't be able to play their next gig, tonight (Wednesday) at Squeeze. I hear Ferny from I Don't Know might sit in (on clarinet). The "Celebration of Spirituality" show also features Basketcase.

In Dade County tonight, two Browbands, two great bands, Vesper Sparrow and Black Janet, play at the Talkhouse.

Butthorns of the South Florida Rock Awards: Me, for not going (I literally fell asleep -- exhaustion is my paycheck) and the staff at Plus Five. After hearing rumors the next day (this is what they pay me for), I phoned up Rob Elba, singer for one of the Southeast's best live bands, the Holy Terrors, and elicited this tale: "During our set I mentioned that we were playing at the Zoo the next night, which means we can't play here. [Plus Five has an exclusivity rule.] The crowd cheers, whatever. Afterwards, I'm told the owner wants to talk to me. So I go back there, to a backroom, and inside is him and another big guy and a bouncer. I start to walk away. Another bouncer pushes me in, closes the door. They say, 'We're not gonna hurt you.' Then they start yelling at me, 'Who the fuck you think you are?' and 'This is not a political thing.' I told 'em they take it too seriously. They say, 'Your band's shit.' I say, 'You guys really want to beat the crap out of me, don't you?' They said you and the rest of your band get the fuck out of here right now." Remember the old you-can't-get-out-if-you-don't-go-in rule.

Butthorn of the week: MoJazz Cafe and any other clubs using the ol' slip-'em-a-bill trick. This week's nomination comes from two people who dropped by MoJazz late the other night to hear some music. They ordered two fancy coffees. The bill came to $17. They thought there might be some mistake. Yeah, theirs. They failed to notice the table stand that alerts especially attentive customers to the fact it costs five bucks to sit at a table. You'd think waitstaff might mention this hidden charge to nonregulars. Oh, by the way, our spies add, the music was great.

The media circus: I don't know, stocking stuffers? What to do with printed words. scrape #10 is out, still free, looking good with great new graphics (as Greg Brown might sing) and glossy cover. It includes a fantastic avant-interview with Stiff of Tampa's Stiff Pole Records. If you're wasting your time reading this lame-brain excuse for a column, you damn sure should be reading scrape. And now there's tip -- publications just don't capitalize their names any more, I guess -- which mixes rap and dance and all kinds of stuff, including in the December ish a Nil Lara profile (profiling Nil Lara, what an idea!). And on the national tip, a mega rag called Grand Royal that mixes rap and b-ball and Bruce Lee -- a lot like this column I suppose but bigger and better.

Pet corner: First, may I suggest the perfect Xmas gift: spaying and neutering of all companion animals. And second, may I offer my condolences to Kevin Cornish upon the loss of his friend, Buddy. Buddy was just a little lost kitten who wandered into Washington Square one night about two and a half years ago. Kevin did what any decent human would do -- he took the feline home. Ten days ago Buddy fell off the eighth-floor balcony. Rushed to the vet, Buddy survived a full day. "My hope was renewed," Cornish says. "I thought he might pull through." The next morning the vet called with the bad news. I remember Blondie, the most intellectually gifted and sweetly loving cat I ever knew. She died on the vet's table too, of some horrible ailment that made her suffer for no good reason. And Kimba, a long-ago companion who taught me about philosophy and magic A he used to vanish from our second-floor apartment. We could never figure out how, so one day I asked him. The big cat jumped up on the balcony railing, walked to the wall between units, twisted around it, tightroped a few more feet of railing, sprung high into the air, soared up and out about twenty feet, and crashlanded in a nearby tree, spreading his arms and legs so as to be caught in the branches. Then he shimmied down. When we fed the strays people dumped at the apartment complex, big Kimba would sit there in the parking lot by the Dumpster and make sure the smaller of the strays got a turn at the food. A regular catcher in the rye. Found him one morning in the front yard, dried blood trailed from his mouth, he died violently, cold and alone. Have a merry fucking Xmas one and all.

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