Tuesday, March 27, 2007

The value of bodily fluids

Covered in sewage is no way to be when you find yourself in the middle of the street, in the middle of Winnipeg, in the middle of Winter. Unfortunately, that is exactly where the small, but resourceful clan found themselves. They were soaked, and they needed shelter and quick. Sheila had the foresight to slather the thickest of the sludge on her bare arms, neck, and head. This seemed to provide a useful, albeit noxious barrier to the harsh winds. Ken, with his bullet wound found that his bleeding had slowed if not stopped. In addition, the bullet must have nicked his olfactory nerve as his sense of smell was non-existent. Bob, with blind-folded "CELLO" producer-cum -loudly in tow, used the Sundance "kid" as a shield to the elements. All Pingry could keep saying was "Bob, don't stand so F*%#ing close to me, man".
And Gail, shivering to the bone did not hesitate to break the side window of the closest car that appeared to have any kind of apparel in it. This later proved to be helpful.....

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Rising Up to Paradise

They surged ahead, slipping and clawing their way through the acrid slime to where Sheila stood illuminated by two garish shafts of red and blue light. There was a grate overhead, old and filthy, which begrudgingly allowed the unsettling glow to ooze in and down a series of wet, rusty rungs like an electric fungus.

''What light?'' came a muffled voice from somewhere near the armpit of Gail's t-shirt. ''Uh, you can probably take that off, Ken...'' Gail retrieved her bloodied garment as Ken blinked painfully, eyes stinging but bullet wound now staunched.

''I don't like the look of this,'' growled Bob, ''But we've got no choice--we can't hang around in this disease-infested hole any longer, and Ken's cheek wound could rip open any minute. Y'all get on up that ladder.''

They clambered up and out, the clammy grate offering surprisingly little resistance.

The sight that met their eyes above ground was nearly as terrifying as the dank underworld below: an enormous, crackling sign screamed ''Winnipeg Central Cinemas,'' its excess light spilling across a larger-than-life poster featuring a sullen Asian beauty, a hideously bloodied cello case, and--Steve.


''Jesus GOD,'' bellowed Bob as his startled brain strained to absorb the fact that the boyish mug of his fellow gunslinger-cum-producer was now plastered all over Canada, if not the entire Western hemisphere. ''Pingry, what have you DONE!!''

''No, seriously, wait, it was just a little college project, I mean, I sent it to Sundance like AGES ago but never heard back, and...'' Steve gaped, transfixed at the glorious horror of the predicament.

Bob ripped Gail's shirt back off and tied it firmly around Steve's head. ''Dude, congratulations and all, but now every joker in TOWN knows your face. And you WOULD have to call it CELLO,'' he fumed, glaring at the telltale instrument case Steve was now fumbling to use as an oversized cane, having become both famous and blindfolded in under 4.5 seconds.

Bob cinched the shirt down tighter. ''Keep this on your head at ALL times, or we're DEAD,'' he hissed through gritted teeth, adding a somewhat embarrassed ''Sorry, Gail.''

Thursday, March 22, 2007

A Way Out.

Gail managed to stop Ken's bleeding by tying her shirt around his face. The wound wasn't as bad as it looked. The bullet had entered his open mouth as he was blazing away, blasted a tooth, grazed the jawline and exited the cheek. He was going to be OK. Pain was another issue. The five of them trudged on through the sewer muck. Sheila had gone ahead, and soon they heard her call out from ahead... "LIGHT!" As they made their way to her, they could see her standing in a shaft of light. There it was, the way out.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

on the conflict of tendencies...

in true art, the end is always the beginning.

String Section PA Problems SOLVED!

Amps, schmamps--batteries, schmatteries. Check out THESE puppies!!!!

It's perfection!! And here you can watch a clip of one being played:

But wait, there's more...

Stroh guitars for Bobby and....

this is a
Stroh bass
for Kenworth.

I have yet to find a Stroh piano or drums, alas.

Anyway, whad'ya think, huh, huh? Let's grab convention by the cojones, discard those run of the mill things we're sawing away on and demand that the Getaway Driver arsenal reflect the true and splendid bizarreness of our collective selves!!

A Nod to Our Brothers

In the midst of our own landmark project--rich, deadly satisfying and now with a full head of steam--here's a nod to some blood brothers on the Getaway Trail.

If the Getaway Drivers were rocking a swampy Louisiana tavern, then a few of us got shot and took out the power supply as we fell, we might sound like these guys. Or maybe we wouldn't, but our stories sure do:

Pistol with half a grip
torn white satin slip
ten yards of dirty drapes
stack of old acetates
die cast toy truck
picture framed first buck
buckle latch diary
greasy bag of recipes...

Let the moon shine, let the skin crawl, let the monkey jump, let it all go...

Kieran Kane, Kevin Welch & Fats Kaplin; from the album Lost John Dean. The best $15 you'll spend anytime soon, guaranteed to bring you almost as much neural bliss as the blistering vocals and savage mando Bob and Ellie put down on Billy in the last 48 hours.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Fire & Grace

The sweet, intoxicating current of music, whiskey and cameraderie coursed through the six like medicine.

Tongues loosened, hearts warmed, wounds healed and the spectre of the past few months' devastating run of illness, bad luck and uncertainty began to fade, giving slow but steady way to a fundamental, defining realization:

They were good. DAMN good.

The audience of freethinkers, dignitaries and fellow musicians had sat transfixed in the dusky saloon as The Getaway Drivers scorched through songs of fire and ice, love and loss, sweetness and destruction, the stage transformed into a whirlwind of flesh, steel, weathered wood and determination. They sounded finer than fine, they sounded like The Next Big Thing...

They sounded like they meant it.

Mangled Angles

Nice shot, but they could have chosen a more flattering angle in the interests of camaflouging our embarassing physical defects.

Steve's right leg, you will notice, has paled strangely next to his left, a precursor to it's melting off entirely (as had his right arm earlier, victim of ungodly temperature spikes in the postal van).

I have no legs, and am only kept aloft by freakish strength, balancing on The Cellist's head with my elbow. Despite what the photo seems to depict, neither his teeth nor remaining pinky were assisting me in any way.

Bob's loss of both balance and left leg (lopped of below the knee earlier in a mowing accident) are counteracted by the stabilizing gyro-like motion of his right hand and the jet-propulsion effect of the singing, so long as he keeps his lips pointed left.

Having boogied her own off onto the dance floor earlier, Gail gazes wistfully at Bob's posterior (yes, this is the body part Gail boogied off--what WHERE you thinking??) but otherwise looks pretty suave.

Ken's early-morning rampage through a Walmart pesticide isle has left him with most of his body eaten away; only a handsome face and disturbingly large right hand remain.

Ellie has four sound limbs, no visible equilibrium issues and very fetching magenta hair--odd coincidence that it was HER papparazzi snapping the photo.

Riddles in the Dark

Never had it been blacker or more rank than this. The Dudley Do-Rights at the Check Cashing place were Canadian Mounties. Someone tipped someone off. Bob scratched his head and thought about Scrapes. It couldn't have been him. He'd gotten them out, down into the sewers quick. After guns were drawn and in a blazing flurry of gunfire and smoke, Scrapes got them out the back and into the alley. In the dark, the images in Bob's head were clear: somehow, Sheila and Gail grabbed a shitload of cash as the stunned Dudley's dived for cover under the spray of Steve and Ken's tommy-fire. Then they were in the tunnels before the smoke cleared. Now there they all sat, or stooped, the putrid liquid lapping at their ankles. Ken and Steve were both bleeding- Ken shot through the jaw and out the side of his cheek; Steve nursing a flesh wound to the shoulder. Gail and Sheila had come out unscathed and tended to their injuries the best they could in the cold dark. Scrapes had gone on ahead and was now missing. It was black as Gollum's tunnels and the riddles were worse. How would they get out of this one?

posted by B-Man

Scrapes, Sewers and a Sick Plan

''It's bad,'' he rasped, his left eye squinting harder than usual. Scrapes had a permanent brow-furrow which at this partucular moment had become so deep that Ellie was compelled by sheer morbid fascination to thrust in an index finger.

''Goddammit, woman, we don't have time for this wacked-out Madison ''Berkeley of the damn Midwest'' spirit worship crap right now! Withdraw your digit or forever strum your sickly electric instruments nine-fingered!''

Ellie reddened and yanked out her hand. It was the longest utterance produced by the man in their 20-year partnership; the combined shock of verbosity and spontaneous brow-poking left her oddly dazed.

''Anyways,'' she muttered.

''ANYWAYS, the gang's in the sewers. Lost all sense. Scattered to the four foul winds like a bunch of wet, panicked chickens. Damn Mounties sprayed a tonne of Canadian lead, and that ain't no picnic what with the ricocheting, stink, slippery footing, foreign architecture and so forth. Small wonder they abandoned their wits.''

Ellie rubbed her finger absentmindedly and chewed on the news. Another fine, stinking mess.

''I'm gonna need a bigger amp,'' she growled suddenly, wheeling around to pull an ungainly, oddly-shaped instrument case off the flimsy motel dresser which had been sagging under the weight.

''Ellie, the crew's in the pits and this is NO time to drown your unfathomably twisted sorrows in equally twisted music...'' Scrapes choked, brought up short by the savage, determined glare the woman was directing at a point somewhere between his good eye and brow-furrow.

''I LIKED YOU BETTER MUTE!'' she bellowed in her inimitable baritone, shoving past him out the filthy, paint-chipped door. ''Like I said, a BIGGER AMP!!"

Back to the Getaway Drivers... The Mysterious Man

The long dusty ride in the patchwork car left them exausted and feeling mean. They pulled into Rivertown, an oasis at last. It had been ten days on the road and they'd run out of whiskey. Sheila's hyperactive cavorting had turned into a brooding frustration: as much as she liked her male band companions, it had been a long time since she enjoyed the company of a boy to have some fun with. They tumbled out of the car and into a dark bar. Then she saw him: tall, mysterious, handsome. He flashed a dangerous smile seemingly directly at her. She melted in the heat. The rest of the band seemed unaware and wanted only a beer and a place to rest up for the coming evening's gig. He stepped out from behind the bar and approached the band. Bob was already crumpled in the corner, still recovering from an earlier thwack on the head administered by Ellie for taking a wrong turn in Yankton. The rest of the band hung back, still blinking from the transition from bright sun to the dim saloon. Sheila was now leader by default. The gorgous man stuck out his hand. In a deep, sweet baritone voice he said, "Hi. My name is Candace. But you can call me Candy." Sheila cursed in Chinese. It was THAT kind of biker bar. Shit. The last time she got even so much as a goodnight kiss had been that stupid Irish boy in Boston who had passed out before they could get to first base. She stalked away, picked up her bow and sawed furiously on her fiddle. Let Ellie deal with him. Bastard.

posted by B-Man

Our next song

So I'm biking to work today, and up ahead is a 14-ish boy on his way to school yelling at the top of his lungs.

As I get closer it becomes clear he's trying to rap on whatever he's coming across in his environment - he stops and glares menacingly at a sapling, and I hear:

"Yo, yo, you standing there, TREE
YO, where you FROM, B??
I'mo KICK yo ASS....!!!!''

At which point I nearly pee myself laughing, only it gets worse because he bogs completely down, unsure whether to rhyme his next Pulitzer-winning line with ''tree'' or ''ass.''

Sondheim, move over.

[P.S. This kid here is actually Lil' Bow Wow, who makes as much as Sondheim and me put together, so I don't know why I'M laughing.]

(not so) kinky lee
(not so) kinky lee said...

OK...one of the chinks in the kinky armor is an affinity for rappy pop...'Wordy Rappinghood' was an epiphany. Now that I'm out of the closet, I think the rapping acolyte was vamping on Imani Coppola's 'I'm a Tree':

There's a tree in the city
It ain't lookin' pretty
Blessed with stress
Smog clogging feelin' shitty
There's a river on the highway
Things aint goin' my way
Turn around, go away
Come again another day
To the bed I go
Stumble to and fro
Tired from another day of lookin' for my glow
It's hard to get up
You can say I'm fed up
One things for certain
I gotta keep my head up

Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up girl, keep your head up
Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up girl, keep your head up

The sun aint hard to see
Just turn off your TV
Everything around you is just part of every other thing
I'm a tree

Why you gotta do what you do
Why you gotta tell me how to be
Gee, make me feel like you do
I'm tried of messing around
It's time to let these people know
A tree in the city
It needs somewhere to grow

River on the highway
I've never seen a grayer day
It's sad, its crappy, it needs somewhere to play
As for me, I'll sit under the tree
Cuz there ain't no better place to be

Keep your head up...

The sun ain't hard to see
Just turn off your TV
Everything around you is just part of every other thing
I'm a tree

Yo, what a freak
Are you all staring at me? I'm a tree
Yo, what a freak
I'm a tree! [no you're not]
I'm a tree! [stop lying]

Keep your head up-keep…

Who knows...

who knows what’s right
lily you don’t have to when you see the moon
you trust it’s light

the crickets sing loud
lily you can hear it in their voices how you’ve made them proud
at the top of your voice there is no doing wrong i swear
lily you be just who you are
southern skies
lily you’re connected to the stars and to the world tonight

~Matt Pond PA

June 1, 2006: The Saga Continues

The walking had gotten on Ellie’s last nerve.

“If we do not get WHEELS, and NOW,” she bellowed, “we might as well be the Getaway WALKERS, the Getaway TRUDGERS, the Getaway SLOGGERS. I can’t stand the frickin’ humiliation!!”

As they crested the hill in depressed silence, the magnificent beast revealed itself. Where most saw a rusted-out, crap station wagon surrounded by trash and weeds, sporting a canoe no one had even bothered to remove, Ellie saw a rusted-out, totally fixable crap station wagon surrounded by trash and weeds whose canoe she removed with one deft swipe of her beefy left pinky.

“Bobby, TIRES!” she hollered, and the strapping singer dropped to his knees and began to do what he did best; muffled, rubbery strains of “Wrecking Ball” joined the sound of the wind across the ground as he sang each tire back up to 35 psi.

Ken’s fingers, powerful and lithe from replacing so many thick strings on his thrasher bass, were already hard at work un-Kinking rolls of baling wire into long, smooth strands to be used later for securing the fender, doors and Sheila, whose hyperactive cavorting had been giving everyone headaches.

Ellie had by this time bitten the rusty barrel into neat, square pieces to be used as metal patches, but alas, no welding torch. “No WAIT, this’ll be the BEST,” yelled Steve, and grabbed his deadly cello-poon, the tip of which had been arcing like a high-wire ever since he put in the wrong batteries at the last gig. “Alohamora!!” he screamed, and a jagged, purple bolt of energy shot into the delapidated wagon, fusing the gas cap shut. “SHIT!!” Steve collapsed, hands clasped over a mysterious, bleeding “V” on his forehead; the Getaways would later debate vigorously as to whether it stood for “voltage” or “Voldemort.” ‘

Gail was no fool. She knew her mates would spend at least three full hours in such anarchical chaos before getting anything done; the perfect amount of time for her to invent a new fuel from wood distillate and carbonized sagebrush.

The cello-poon was humming pleasantly, with soothing, sympathetic fifths emanating from the wagon’s tailpipe and Bob’s recently-capped front tooth. Oddly calmed, the Getaways put the last finishing touches on the now-gleaming Plymouth, and held their breath as Ellie inserted the key…

The beast roared to life, and the Getaway Drivers climbed aboard in silent, awed reverence of their own capabilities.

A preview...

...of tonight's hijinks at the High Noon Saloon: Bob will perform a stage dive of unparalleled magnificence, and Ken will sport a radical new 'do and the latest in rock-star fashion, Stage Socks.

come on down and have a hot dog!

join us in celebrating the comforting return to the daily grind after another horrid and distasteful three day weekend! but bring your own hot dogs.

posted by the cellist @ 10:09 PM 10 comments

Seeleah said...

SWEET lil' poster - hold them up to a window and they GLOW! Too cool.

the cellist said...

except i got the address of the venue wrong! Its REALLY 701 E Washington Ave if it makes a difference to anybody!

Seeleah said...

'Tis okay, you're only a postman :)

Says the foul-spoken linguist.

Seeleah said...

For it is written: "Let the postman, if he be also the cellist, change the address of an edifice at the time and place of his damn choosing, as it be his perogative; and let no man, nor maiden, nor manservant nor stranger within the gates cast him asunder, for sundering a postman sorely vexeth the Lord thy God, and his Wrath shall be upon the heads of the Sunderers."


Yeah, go ahead. Make our day. If you come down to the High Noon next Tuesday, we'll give you drugs that will make you see everything just like this.

Six pm, not high noon, at High Noon, next Tuesday, May 30th, $3 damn dollars that will be well spent and pale in comparison to the amount you'll spend on beer. Prostitutes get in for free. No charge for the hallucinogens.

posted by B-Man


My father in the late '60s, predicting the size cable [Big Ass BA-613] it would take to handle the terrifying volume of Getaway Driver fan calls.

Somehow he knew even then that his wee daughter (at the time refusing to walk for reasons never determined) would overcome her initial trepidation of The Big Scary World and join a Big Famous Rock Band.

And thus and for that express purpose was the BA-613 designed, only NOW to be hastily deployed on its maiden mission of responding to the post-WORT Block Party 2006 Getaway Fan Invasion.

All wiring jokes aside, tons of people came up to me yesterday raving about our show. And they weren't even relatives!!!! Well, I spose they were SOMEbody's relatives.

Through the BA-613 the misunderestimated linguist hath said.
[Stealing it one more time, Stevie.]

→ → →

Holding onto the railing I was...wet.

Anyway, what on earth do you figure was the purpose of this particular structure?? Just something to break your stride in case you got the sudden urge to hurl yourself down the jetty and into the sea? Is it less unsightly to do that at 10 mph, stop, climb and leap, or just get it over with at 10 mph?

Hittin' the Road

Travel breaks down a kind of inner structure we have. Stripped of our props, deprived of our masks, we are completely on the surface of ourselves.
- Albert Camus

May 14, 2006

Yeah, baby.

Candace said...

Remember when we could put 52 cents worth of gas into Dweezil and make it home?


So get this. The oil companies make about 9 cents per gallon profit. The govt maked 50 CENTS per gallon in taxes. Who's relaly gouging us??

Is that too political? We can go back to ticks. . .

Hug a tree, get a chestful of ticks embedded permanantly in your supradermal layer.

10:54 PM

the cellist said...

this isn't even about the GAS!

that is most surely the package store you hid behind when you were hanging out with your old friends, isn't it?!?

...you're in SOOO much trouble!

Seeleah said...

Bingo, Cellisto.

Has anyone noticed how hard it actually is to hide in your covers?

Yet every generation will spend the first 10 years of their lives believing it is not only achievable but effective. Some much longer.

Anyway, Montreal is for sissies.

be a getaway unto yourself

Once again we are faced with the irreconcilability of the old and the new.

The framework is tawdry and unconvincing, no?

posted by the cellist @ 7:23 AM 5 comments

Seeleah said...

I'd rather be tawdry than unconvincing.

9:38 AM

Greensward said...

You rather just be tawdry for the hell of it.

11:11 AM

Seeleah said...


What if didn't know an artist was meant to 'create' 'art'?

What if I were to think 'art' was just paying attention?

What if I were to forget to think about 'art' constantly?

What if I only had a vague idea about 'art', but didn't know the conventions that told me I was in its presence or was making it?

What if I were digging a hole? Would that be 'art'?

What if I didn't know about audiences or publicity? What if I were to just go to work? Would that not be 'art'?

What if I didn't realize that 'art' happened at certain times and in certain places?

What if I were to lie in bed imagining things at four in the morning? Would that be the wrong time and place for 'art'?

What if I weren't aware that 'art' was considered more marvelous than life?

posted by the cellist

A few magpies, a raven

"Too thin to plow, too thick to drink," he said.

"But we'll drink it anyway."

I wept because when I was twelve years old I had stood on a snowy riverbank as he became a shadow on the ice and waited to see whether he would slip between the cracking floes into the water.

posted by the cellist @ 10:24 PM 1 comments

Seeleah said...

WOW, I remember that dress!! You know, that morning I's thinking those damn stripey socks just weren't gonna cut it but I says to myeslf "Aw what the heck, it's RADIO for God's sake!"

COTTON-PICKIN' paparazzi photographers - who knew.

Agghh, those socks--my sartorial shame immortalized for all of history. It's a DAMN good thing the music rocked.

Dead or deadly?

So my thought is, if the worms are after me. . .there's just no point in going out with a whimper. Time to trade the last, tattered vestiges of Adventism for some tight black leather & lace, score the above fiddle/nuclear-harpoon, add several strategic bling-piercings and punch out of the chrysalis. As what--who the hell knows. Something deadlier than a 4th-generation missionary to the formerly free Hong Kong.

Shall we gather by the river??

May 1, 2006: Happy Bealtaine!

Happy Bealtaine (Celtic May Day) everyone! The day whereon we welcome the return of the sun with fire, feasting, frolicking, and other general festivities beginning with that letter.

[C'mon, you know I meant felting.]

Lá Bealtaine Iontach Mhaith Agaibh - Have a Wild and Happy Bealtaine!

Apr 29, 2006: Wherein we R*O*C*K Zoma

to rock: Middle English rokken, akin to Old High German rucken, to cause to move.

1) to daze with or as if with a vigorous blow
2) to move forward at a high speed
3) to significantly disturb or annoy
4) to sing, dance to, or play rock music.

YES, last night Bob Manor & the Getaway Drivers ROCKED Cafe Zoma, whose deceptively small door opened to reveal a deceptively small coffee house with this startlingly ample rock stage in the back yard. All sound and lighting was provided by Zoma, as well as Fair Trade coffee and beer, and a Fair Trade soundman who promised to accept only what payment his services are worth in his native Papua New Guinea multiplied by the difference in I.Q. between his president and ours. Although this last bit wiped out our entire fee, door, and required us to forfeit several unfinished bottles of beer, it was still a good night.

you don't want to sound like they do, you should want to sound like you

If you weren't already aware, the Getaway gang is destined for a coffeehouse showdown this very evening at eight o'clock.

Here's our setlist-

You should join us!

posted by the cellist

top fifteen suggestions for different names while retaining the same endearing acronymic initials!

Badly Miked and the Genetically Anomalous Decompression Society!

Bad Manners and the God Awful Dorky Singers!

Big Mamma and the Galloping Ass-Dragging Slopbuckets!

Bilge Monkey and the Guilt Admonition/Damnation Sect!
Burnt Mother and the Gag And Drip Society!

Bowel Movement and the Gastro-Antestinal Disease Syndrome!
Bilge Mange and the Grunge and Dungeon Society!

Black Market and the Generally Acceptable Deviant Scoundrels!

Boring Music and the Geeky-Ass Dumb Shits!

Bonanza Mable and the Gorey Anal Dagger-Sitters!
Brilliant Minds and the Grossest, Awfullest, DOPE-est Strings!

Brillo Microbes and the Germy Antiseptic Dung!

Basket Mung and the Glad-Ass Dildo Stackers!

Bangladeshi Myanmar and the Guatemalan-Albanian-Djiboutian-Somalians!

Butt Masher and the Gluteous Anal Derrière Seats!

many thanks to see-laahhh
are we missing any?
you be the judge

posted by the cellist

First Class Wheels

Stevie's truck, post-kidnapping, in the process of being converted into the The Rolling Getaway Shack of Musical Love.

A whole new branch of federal service.

Years later, fundamentalist paranoiacs and Satanists alike would misconstrue ''GADS'' as ''Guy and Doll Sex.''

The Unkinkifyin' of Kinky Lee

Coffee Beans...that explained the faint rustling instead of rattling glass every time the old gal lurched through a pot hole. Come to think of it...the pickup joint bore no similarity to any of the usual grungy dives where we loaded in the 'shine. Smelled faintly like a corn roast with a hint of patchouli, too...not acrid sour mash and cigarettes. And the folks weren't shifty or dangerous at all, actually kind of friendly despite the tattoos. They did brew a mean cup of joe, though. Powerful stuff, not that weak dirty water that typically fueled The Drivers.
So Kinky found a new home, and struck a deal without consulting the boss and other drivers:

An acoustic evening with Bob Manor and several (if not all) Getaway Drivers...Cafe Zoma...Friday, April 28...8 pm to 9:45 pm. Oh, yeah...coffee is not the only beverage served, but is all Kinky drinks!

The Getaway Drivers @ High Noon, March 2006

For no particular reason

Yeah, there's just nothing like a good kick in the belly between friends to let off steam.

'Course sometimes it's hard to tell
who's winning.

Belgian Waffles

A 2005 review from Belgium, in Flemish (or Dutch) of Ghosts of Yesterday, translated by an online doohicky. I emphasize points I found particularly hilarious:

Originating Madison, Wisconsin and with "Ghosts or Yesterday" already to its third album. In 2002, "Blue Sky Falling" appeared and executed year had he, however, a very original gift on the occasion of 40 the one year old marriage of its parents. Old time country gospel album, "That gospel Line" featuring rollicking piano, rag stalk, organ, and acoustic guitars with among others two original gospel tunes and traditionals such as “Amazing Grace” and “Old Rugged cross.”

With its link “The Getaway drivers,” Ellie Erickson (rag stalk, mandolin), Know Keeley (bass), Steve Pingry (violoncello) and Peter Fairy (drums), taps singer/songwriter Bob Manor from a complete different barrel on "Ghosts or Yesterday.” “Acoustic Rock with folk and country flavors thrown in for good measure….The writing style and instrumentation are reminiscent or Mellencamp, Springsteen, Tom Petty and Steve Earle (CD baby).”

We looked at thus a lot aroused curiosity from to this recently appeared album. With acoustic Addiction prayed, “Wrecking Ball,” pareltjes the "River's run Dry" (with a masterly violoncello and dobro geluidje) and "Stuck" (harmonica, mandolin), spicier of slide jet ear something provided "John Baker's Toil", not mis but Ellie on the mandoline on "the Sweetness" and banjo gepingel on "Sun beat down" gets we already a first voorproefje of Manor's manner of singer/songwriting.

Storytelling songs which obtains a level that effortlessly can compete with the material of here above mentioned names. The something smoother country twang number “Don't Walk on me” and “Out or Dead” deserve VRT 1 radio hit and it become headstock/rock/number. “Nobody But You” with piano/violoncello/mellotron are the only strange eendje in the bijt. Apparently was that gospel gedoe with the previous album fallen in very fertile ground (Praise the Lord).... "Why Shouldn't It" will have thought Bob and for which not once more repeating with nicely pumping pianootje as surplusje.

With an extra thanks for vriendje Jeff Knight and the report that he not for wedding festivals/personeelsfeestjes but for Take Root - Blue Highways - Roots or Heaven are book, "newcomer" concludes Bob Manor this splendid album. “These are songs from the Heartland we like to call Americana.”

Strings--stroked & strummed

First Madison, Now the World

My fortune 36 hours ago--whoa!

April 4, 2006: No Sound...

...but the wind across the ground.

March 31, 2006: Aprilhem, Mayhem

may·hem ('hĕm', mā'əm): A state of violent disorder or riotous confusion; havoc.

[Middle English maim, mayhem, from Anglo-Norman maihem, from Old French mahaigne, injury, from mahaignier, to maim, from Vulgar Latin *mahanāre, probably of Germanic origin.]