Out where people actually work for a living, the saying goes like this: Let's done get the job did. Or, past tense: We done got the job did. The rest of us just get lucky sometimes, get by. I'm about ten hours from deadline and I have no idea what to do with this week's coly (so what else is new?). The doctor says it's stress -- quit drinking coffee, quit smoking tobacco, quit your job.
Insider information has it that the major labels, at least one of them, are planning to cut their staffs, and, naturally, reduce their product unit output and artist rosters. There's nothing redeemable about people losing their jobs, but if this turns out to come true, I won't cry. There are enough bands -- right here in South Florida -- putting out solid music on their own.
Gary King and the Dream are about to head back north, where there's plenty of work, so make sure you catch them quick, like at Rose's tonight (Thursday) and at Van Dome tomorrow (Friday), where they'll play an hour set skedded for 11:00 p.m.
Speaking of Van Dumb A sorry. No hard feelings, say the boys from Mr. Tasty and the Bread Healers, but the recently plugged show at the club didn't happen, and they want everyone to know it wasn't the band that canceled. It was a club decision, and the Healers hope to play Van Dome in the future. Their next gig is May 18 at Plus Five.
And September30 would like their fans to know that their similarly plugged gig at Chili Pepper was similarly canceled by that club. "We received a message on Friday evening, far too late to notify folks that the show was off. We finally get a mention in your column and our credibility sails out of town quicker than Joe Gersten. Sorry." The Holy Terrors are allegedly booked to play the Chili Pecker this Sunday, but I'd call the club several times to make sure.
A disgustingly misogynist, obscene flyer (yeah, I love it) promotes the show by Colors of Illusion at the Plus Five tomorrow (Friday).
Guilty pleasure of the week: Whale's "Hobo Humpin Slobo Babe."
Hardworking booking agent Steve Mittenthal and his wife Merete are the proud parents of a new baby boy (eight pounds, eight ounces) named Miles. Congrats.
Tomorrow (Friday) Wendy Pederson and Big Art hit Tobacco Road.
So there's Todd "Sloppy Joe" Anthony, taking a little time off on a recent weekend to hit the beach. Mia Johnson of the Talkhouse also happened to be there. "The undertow was really bad," reports Mia, "and once I struggled out of the water, I told Todd, 'Why didn't you help me? You're certainly no hero.'" Twenty minutes later, she says, Todd hit the waves and spotted a guy drowning in the rough waters. Another swimmer reached the man first, and both of them went under. Todd came to the rescue and everybody was okay. What's especially remarkable is that as a swimmer, T. is a great basketball player.
Speaking of the Talkhouse, a big show tomorrow (Friday). Diane Ward, Muse, and Nuclear Valdez will be saving souls.
What a media circus has been the death of Kurt Cobain. Remember him? Forget that his memory's been kept alive in these pages A keep those angry letters comin'! The suicide also caused some whoopses in the national music-rag scene. Because of early deadlines and such, many a mag went to press thinking the Nirvana frontman would be alive by the time you read their pages. The worst was probably Request, with its piece about how it doesn't matter if rock stars, like Kurt Cobain, are jerks off-stage. Ouch. But Rip magazine (not to be confused with R.I.P.) is bragging about its coup: The last interview. Part two of the mag's chitchat with the now-dead man appears in the June issue, due out this week. Read between the lines.
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Dore Soul blows into the Zoo on Saturday.
Those Bud boys of I Don't Know are now publishing a "chainletter" and you should be reading it. Just drop them a note at 9805 NW 80th Ave., #13-O, Hialeah, 33016 or call the Shackline at 826-4299. Even I get a mention, in which they claim I have a clue. Thanks.
Dania Morris and Omine team in the Evolution Room of Button South tonight (Thursday) through Saturday.
Butthorn of the week: Not this again. A big b.h. to the Energy and Commerce subcommittee and its head (so to speak), Rep. Cardiss Collins, a democrat from Illinois. These yahoos, like so many before them, are attempting to censor music. The recording industry has, of course, told the reps that records with cussing and stuff already get stickered with parental-advisory warnings. Gangsta rap, Collins proclaimed at a hearing last week, "dehumanizes relationships" and such. Just to make things even stupider, a couple of cops in Houston, Texas, have filed a lawsuit against Rap-a-lot Records because they're allegedly included in an album cover photo. The shot features a dead black man, three black men in cuffs, with models dressed as cops behind them. The real cops are (supposedly) pictured in the background. The parental advisory sticker appears to be placed on a brick wall in the photo. The group is called Trinity Garden Cartel. But it's the album's title that says it all: Don't Blame It on Da Music.
The media circus: Channel 7's news show the other night spent about twenty minutes rehashing the Holocaust and about ten seconds reporting about the holocaust in Rwanda. In fact, with the exception of one prime-time teevy news mag, the coverage of the genocide in Rwanda has been scant. I mean, more than 200,000 refugees flee certain death in their homeland to camp in Tanzania and fight for handfuls of beans. Isn't that sexy enough? It's so bad in Tanzania that some of the people are going back to Rwanda, where they'll likely be hacked up or shot and tossed like rubbish into the River of Death, with its churning waterfalls dumping hundreds of corpses every day into the dark waters below. Here in good old America, we get all upset and wet ourselves because some lawyer smooched Fidel? We worry about our jobs and our stress. And we don't have a goddamn clue.