I know it’s the longest of long shots, but.

I don’t even know if anybody who reads/looks at/listens to/scrolls past the shit I put up here is from England, but on the off chance one or more of you is, here’s this:

Hey Sholay, gentlemen and scholars all, have had their van and all of their gear inside of it stolen. It was parked at their rehearsal space in Rotherham. There is no longer a lot of gear where there once was a lot of gear:

Transit van - reg: ML05KPP - choice equipment - juno 60, 2 vox ac30 amplifiers. One ampeg valve head and trace elliot cab. Fender 1952 telecaster, gibson sg - heavily customised es335 with ‘rosie’ laquered to it, custom electronics, epiphone lucille with nicrophone input. 4 kaoss pads, four pedalboards all customised with various boutique pedals. Pearl export drumkit and sabian cymbals. Korg ms2000b synthesizer, cased, three stands, trace elliot bass cab, Fender 1950’s Reissue Precision Basses, Electro Harmonix Synth pedal. The Bass head was a brand new Ampeg SVT 7 Pro.

Eyes & ears open, kids. These dudes are super cool and took me out for a night in Brighton — I’ve moved some of this gear! Their new album is called ((O)) and is exceptional. Go buy it so they can get new stuff if they have to. Also go buy it because it’s awesome.

If any of y’all are British or have a whole bunch of British folks following you, could you be a doll and reblawrg to help take a bite out of crime? Also, to help keep the rock rolling? Cool. Thanks.

johnpaulkeith:

“LAST BOOK READ: How To Use A $20 Million Recording Studio To Produce The Sound Of Scratchy 78s by Blind Boy Strummer.”

Dave Edmunds, CREEM, November 1980.

[Courtesy of Jack Oblivian]

YEAAAAAAAH DAVE YOU TELL ‘EM.

Happy birthday to arguably the most important guitar in music.

The Fender Stratocaster was patented on this day in 1956.

These three singles? They rock. There is not one bad cut amongst them. I am so glad they came home with me from work today.
Go forth and purchase them. If you can. I have 404, 250, and 78 of 500 each.

These three singles? They rock. There is not one bad cut amongst them. I am so glad they came home with me from work today.

Go forth and purchase them. If you can. I have 404, 250, and 78 of 500 each.

explodingdog:

the never ending party

All day every day, Crazy Monster. All day, every day.

The New Yorker: Jukebox

By Susan Orlean, as published in The New Yorker.

 

I’m very excited about my new Spotify account, which gives me access to twenty gazillion songs any time, all the time. The day I opened my account, though, I sat there perplexed. How would I figure out what I wanted to hear? The music I already know and like, I already own; the music I don’t know, I don’t know. I stared at the Spotify Web site for about ten minutes and then logged out and walked away. That night, I thought wistfully about listening to the radio, which I did just about constantly when I was growing up. There was a great radio station in Cleveland—WMMS—and it played album sides and new rock bands and bootlegged concert tapes; it was the soundtrack of my entire childhood and teen-age years. What was un-Spotifyish about it was that there were DJs in charge, muttering to us in their slightly stoned, intimate way, urging us to listen to new music and bands, talking about the concerts they’d seen; serving, essentially, as an older sibling who was turning me on to cool new grown-up music. Those DJs changed my life: they pushed my taste in unexpected directions and personalized music, making it make sense in a context.

I love the Internet, and I am definitely going to figure out how to manage now having what is essentially the biggest jukebox in the universe and a lifetime supply of quarters. But like so much on the Web, the one thing that is hard to replace is that intimate voice. I don’t mean having ten thousand “like” buttons clicked on a band: I mean the person who seems a little more knowledgeable and a little bit further inside, picking the best there is and convincing me to listen, murmuring in my ear as I drift off to sleep.

Again, this is why we do it. Turn off your fucking iPod, unplug your headphones, and find a radio. I promise you, it’s not all that bad.

We’re not there because we like hearing ourselves talk. We’re there because we want to help convince you that radio isn’t the enemy. We’re not trying to shove the same 20 songs through your ears and down your throat. There is an immense world of music out there, and as responsible DJs, we’d like to show you some of it.

billboardingparty:

April 28, 1973

Think about rock and roll, from both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, from the years of roughly 1965 to 1977 with piano in them. The piano line from The Stones’ Monkey Man? Clapton’s Let It Rain? Every piano note on The Who’s first album My Generation? Quicksilver Messenger Service’s Edward The Mad Shirt Grinder? The Airplane at Woodstock? Volunteers?

I could go on. The list of credits that Nicky played on is extensive and exhaustive. He’s one of those players, (like Bruce Hornsby and Randy Newman) who are immediately identifiable. You know when Nicky laid down a piano track. The man was a genius.

And it’s a beautiful day in Boston. Wherever you are right now, tune on in! I’ll be on until seven this evening, and then again tomorrow at noon to interview Sarah Blacker, and finally from 4-7pm tomorrow afternoon as well.

It’s a big end of the week here in radio-land. Rock and roll, kids.

oneafter909:

That’s a good quote.  I thought it was going to be easier than it was.  Much more difficult when you actually start learning how to play.  Sidenote:  for a while I thought Taylor Hawkins was a blonde clone of Dave Grohl.. I swear to God Clapton.

Man, no joke.

Look kids, you get up behind a kit. Move both your arms and legs at different times, doing different things. Count to sixteen when everyone else is counting to four. Hold shit together when no one else has any idea where they are or what’s going on (musically or literally). Control the entire dynamic. Make it punchy. Lay back. Can you solo on something that doesn’t play any notes? I can. Can you play notes with something that can’t play any notes? I can.

Don’t even start talking to me about throwing singing in, too. That’s a whole other ballgame.

The best part is when someone talks shit, or assumes it’s easy, so they sit down at your kit and demand that you teach them something. Sure. Count to four. Move your foot on one and three, your left hand on two and four, and your right hand on every count. Too hard? Can’t do it? Sure, just giggle and walk away.

I don’t want to sound bitter. I’m just very proud of what I do. I’m proud to count myself amongst the number of drummers that have rocked before me. I’m proud to be able to teach someone to count with their whole body.

And besides, playing drums is just fuckin’ fun.

(via oneafter909blues)

crumbler:

copycats:

Don’t Go Breaking My Heart by Frightened Rabbit (w/ Craig Finn)
originally by Elton John & Kiki Dee

A wonderfully funny cover, reblogged primarily so I might point your attention to the following correction from the Guardian (emphasis mine):

Our panel listing the expected highlights at Glastonbury this summer catapulted into the festival’s headliners a band not so much obscure as unknown, even to those expert in Judaic contributions to rock (Taking the stage: Sunday, 15 April, page 3). The group Frightened Rabbi should have been the Scottish band Frightened Rabbit.

Two of my favorite things.

The James Marshall Hendrix Experience and a proper Lotus Elan.

The question though, is this: if Noel and Mitch are riding in the car, what happens to Jimi? Can the two of them even fit inside with all their hair?

(via oneafter909blues)