Functional Strength/Core

Seeing as how HRH  is home sick, that also kind of nix’s my planned trip to the gym this evening.  So much for some spinning and weights.

FML.

To compensate then, I’m staying home and doing this functional strength/core set that I used to do fairly regularly but have since fallen off the radar.  So, maybe this was an omen of some sort.

Whatever.

The other bonus to this is that I can now listen to another album from our vinyl collection, the ‘Little Seeds‘  album by Shovels & Rope.

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It’s also on pretty 180g red vinyl which matches my yoga mat.

So there!

Released just this month, the husband and wife duo of Michael Trent and Cary Ann Hearst continue to raise dust on this, their 3rd album in two years.

Sonically, it’s little different from its predecessors; a mix of unruly guitars, rattling drums and harmony vocals, with Hearst’s surging voice to the fore. Cut in their home studio (largely thanks to becoming new parents, meaning they had to often tiptoe around the wee one’s slumber sessions), the album’s visceral quality – even on its acoustic excursions – perfectly matches songs that confront such discomfiting topics as Alzheimer’s disease (‘Invisible Man‘), childhood medication (‘Johnny Come Outside‘) and the recent church massacre in their home town of Charleston, South Carolina (‘BWYR‘).  The shadow of mortality hangs over ‘This Ride‘  (written after a friend’s death), where the duo conjure joy from darkness.

Kinda like the joy I’m likely supposed to be getting from this workout…

NOT!

The opening track, ‘I Know‘, is a crunching tune that’s awash in overdrive, as Hearst and Trent disassemble the façade of an unnamed musical dilettante brick by brick. Sonically, the track has more in common with T. Rex than with anything on the Americana charts. But such is the way it goes with this band; one of the reasons why I love them so I suppose.

St. Anne’s Parade‘  finds the duo musing over an itinerant life in music, and with a simple mandolin part and delicate tremolo guitar accompanying their weary voices, it’s as strong a road song as anyone has written lately. ‘The Last Hawk‘  reads like a tribute to The Band, possibly delivered from the perspective of Garth Hudson.  ‘Botched Execution‘  is equally relentless, though it’s driven more by the rapid-fire lyrics — about a convicted killer on the run — than by guitar riffs. The duo depends more on junkyard percussion than a conventional drum kit for its beats, which makes the rhythmic momentum all the more impressive.

My only real peeve with the album is that the album’s 13 tracks take up three sides of a two record set, meaning, that one whole side (Side D) is left blank.

Booo!

If you’re going to put your shit on vinyl (and thank you for doing that!), hey, you may as well fill the whole album.  Knowwhatimsayin?  How about including a few B-sides or outtakes,some  live shit, whatever.  Don’t just leave an entire side virtually unused and therefore wasted.

Bad form, guys.

Anyway, this evenings set comprised itself of lots of planks, push-ups, crunches, squats, pirouettes, clams, and a whole host of other shit.  I hated every minute of it, even though I know that these  are exactly the kinds of workouts that I need to somehow figure pout how to get back to more regularly.  And given their particular degree of difficulty this evening, sooner than later would be ideal.

Hopefully, this is my first small step in that direction.

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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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