Pazz & Jop '06 Illustration: First Glance

Willy DeVille, scooterdozing Cornell West.

Drums of Lust I:

People stop me on the street all the time. Some want money. Others, directions. But usually, advice is what they're looking for. The kind people fly in to get all the time, like special favors from an upscale dominatrix. Just yesterday, at Target, in front of the mouthwash, the Pope came up to me and said (in German):

"I beseech thee, wise master, to save my holy ass. What should be a trivial matter has me wasting away. I haven't slept in three weeks. I'm possessed. I can't even keep communion wafers down. Look at me. I'm not afraid to die. It's just that I'm not ready. You're my only hope. So here's my problem: I've been working on an album secretly for years. (I'd known since shortly after he started. -R.S.) My album is finished except for one track, a big, expansive instrumental, with strings, sampled cherubim, field recordings, and a melodica. I've already dropped some lighter percussion here and there. Still, something feels missing, drum-wise. I know what I don't want. I don't want an old-fashioned drum kit, I don't want loops, and congas are out of the question. What I'm wondering is, do you know anything I can use?"

Ten years ago, I'd have been shocked by what I was about to tell him. Or maybe not. I've loved a certain kind of drum like a cousin since well before puberty struck. A big drum, tunable. Played 'em in junior high and high school, loving resonating mallet strike. But what I loved most of all was the sound, deep and rich, with the power to cut through an orchestra.

I still haven't gotten over it. "Little brother," I said. "What you need are tympani. Try something orgiastic. Or maybe rolls. Or both. You might want to throw in a gong, too. But only once. If you need it, you'll know when."

The ecstatic look on his face didn't fade as he slipped me a hotel key. "Hyatt, room 326," he whispered. "Black attache in the closet. Pope outfit's yours, too. Thanks."

The hotel was only a few blocks away. I walked fast, sailed through the revolving door, nearly ran to the elevator. It wasn't the money I cared about so much. Somehow, I knew the vestements were going to be purple. I opened the door, scanning the sun-drenched room. He'd forgotten to mention one thing.

If I Did It II

I've been writing about metal alot of late. Listening to it, too. But I've been hearing the fruits of the recent past and discussing the future, for a Decibel piece about 2007's 25 most anticipated albums. Speculative criticism is enormously fun, but avoiding ruts over the course of 20 100-word, reflection-conjecture combos and five 300-word microfeatures is a bit of a challenge--the kind that demands a radical approach. It's entirely possible that I might have taken notes, then written the whole thing with Opeth's "Ghost of Perdition" on repeat. I'm not saying that I've done that. But what if I did, and it worked out for the best? It wouldn't be the first time.

I did something similar a few years ago, reviewing a British Sea Power album while, again and again, "Automatic Boys" by Lola Ray blasted behind me. It worked out beautifully. I knew all I needed to know and more about the album I was reviewing, including that I'd need to be immersed in something way more sonically and psychically robust to write about it without trainwrecking jokes. Thanks to the redeeming power of pop punk, I put in just enough, I think.

Another Day, Another Smelly Stuffed Animal

Whew! Garbology is hard work! I just spent 18 hours in my 48-unit building's dumpster, digging through stuff and grokking the luminous hive mind. At the very bottom, I found a few chicken bones, which I used to predict my future. I had to.

Voila!

For weeks, I've worried that this weblog's namesake would find out about my URL and accuse me of stealing his identity. Turns out he was more than willing to exchange it for a virtual lid, three hits of righteous invisible MDA, and exclusive use of the word "ballfreak." Meaning, I am now A.J. Weberman. Dig it.

True! I Swear!

When Matos was in Minneapolis last month, he made me swallow a bug.

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