Vinyl Sunday

Chores (with the exception of the lawn which I am chalking up to “uncooperative incremental weather”) have all been accomplished and HRH  and I finally get to settle down together for some “unplugged time”.  Of course, by “unplugged time” what I’m really referring to that she simply watches YouTube videos without volume and I don’t bug her.  Our vinyl selection for the evening then is usually the backdrop to any number of  random Internet bullshit from movie trailers to quick cooking minuets to the whole “Scientology” of dinosaur ca-ca.  The fuck?  Whatever, as long she’s quiet and intent and the music can play on and she’s not all “I’m bored”, it’s all good.  And, tonight, it’s very good indeed.  This evening it’s something a bit more, shall we say, mellower than we have become to in recent days.  In fact, tonight its straight out of Uncle Lance‘s “must have” archives, the ‘Dirt Farmer‘  album by Levon Helms.


Yup.  You read that right, I confirmed it.  This is one of the albums from Uncle Lance’s own Desert Island list of albums.

During the Band’s original run (from 1968 to 1976), Robbie Robertson may have been the group’s premier songwriter and the main idea man behind most of their best work, but Levon Helm was truly the group’s heart and soul with his tough, sinewy Arkansas vocals and his indomitable, loosely tight drumming.

an absorbing look back at his roots as the son of a farm family in the rural South. ‘Dirt Farmer‘  was produced by Larry Campbell, a session guitarist and member of Bob Dylan‘s road band, in collaboration with Amy Helm, Levon’s daughter, and they’ve assembled a solid but clutter-free acoustic band for these sessions, and the simple but iron-strong backdrops and superb songs are just what was needed to bring out the best in Levon. And it did: it won the Grammy Award for Best Traditional Folk Album in February, 2008.

Usually it’s somewhere around here that I start to wax poetic about album shit, or maybe go track by track and blah, blah, fucking blah…but I’m not going to do that tonight.  No, sir!  Nope.  I’m not even going to go through the hassle of taking any snazzy ass cooler-than-fuck digital money shot bullshit for the image because I’m just too damn impatient to do it right now, so Google images it is!

The album is good.  Very good.  Trust me.

Uncle Lance was right.

Instead, I’m going to go and sit quietly and have some “unplugged time” (or what I actually do, which is to go sit quietly and read the random partnerings of vowels and consonants to form words which are then printed on bound collections of paper, in different patterns, to spell out sentences and paragraphs and chapters and shit, all ultimately lending themselves to the eventual conclusion of one defined, succinct ending to a greater story*) and enjoy old-timey ditties about Levon looking back and reminiscing on his roots as the son of a farm family in the rural South.

And that means ‘Zip it, kid...’

…Zip it!

*I’m pre-“old school”, for schizzle beotch.



About crazytigerrabbitman

I am a fat guy and always will be in the same way they say that “once an alcoholic; always an alcoholic”. Eventually I got upset about my poor health and ballooning body frame so I decided to change things for the better. Some people sign up for Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, or whatever fad diet program it is that happens to be occupying the majority of air time on the boob tube. Other people prefer to run out and purchase the latest, fold away, piece of shit being hawked by some celebrity has-been. Me? I decided to take up triathlon. I had abused my body over the years with bacon cheeseburgers, pints of beer and double-dipped donuts, and the time had now come to abuse my body with physical exertion, perseverance and hard work instead; penitence in it's purest form. The time had come to kick my ass. I am Terry Nash and I am the “fat and the furious”.
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