Dostoevsky is Dead

Another Soon to be Aborted Blog?

2006-02-06T18:21:00.000-05:00

Maybe.

If you're very sad that this site hasn't been uppdated in nearly a year, then you might be the only one. However, here's some good news you, you one single person who probably leads a very sad life: www.dennisdiclaudio.com has just gone live, and it contains a blog section in which I blog about a bunch of bloggish stuff.

It's totally rad!¹

And, this time I promise to break the elusive 20 posts barrier.² (This, by the way, is post #19 for this site. So close.) I'll have to do something celebratory to celebrate.

So, what have I been doing since last March? Well, there's this. Yes, it's a real book published by an actual publisher. How did this happen? Your guess is as good as mine.³ But I try not to look gift horses in the mouth, or in any other oriface for that matter. (It should be noted that if I were going to look a gift horse in an oriface, which I wouldn't, it would almost definitely be the mouth oriface.)

Also, I helped my friends accidentally burn down a friend's house.⁴ That was kinda big, too.

^{1. Not guaranteed.
2. Please see here.
3. My guess would involve a lot of blind luck.
4. This really happened, and it was incredibly depressing.}

Three jokes about pirates

2005-03-10T18:57:00.000-05:00

Have you ever wondered what a pirate's favorite body part is?

Me neither. But you can find out nonetheless...

...by clicking right here ---> (this is the place to click)

Will on Glenn

2005-03-09T16:31:00.000-05:00

Will Oldham, writing about his love for Glenn Danzig:

At one point, I put together a huge collage of images pulled from school encyclopedias... voodoo and gargoyles, lots of blood and nastiness. I sent it to Glenn, along with a cow skull and ten dollars, hoping against hope for something to come back.

This makes me feel a little better. I mean, at least I haven't yet sent an animal carcass to the Drag City offices.

On the other hand, he was thirteen, and I'm thirty-one.

And I still might get around to sending that carcass.

mp3: Will Oldham - Last Caress (Misfits cover)

By the way, I still have your Songs: Ohia CD

2005-03-09T15:36:00.000-05:00

A former roommate of mine, one J. Edward Keyes, has a brand new weblog. (There's not much to see just yet.)

Just so you don't get confused, this is not the former roommate who moved away to Chicago. This is a former roommate who moved away to New York. Though, the former roommate who moved to Chicago actually also moved to New York as well. So, now I have two (2) former roommates who moved to New York; one former roommate who moved away to Chicago and then to New York, and one former roomate who just moved away to New York.

Anyway, Joe (most people call him Joe, since that "J." stands for Joseph) knows more about music than just about anyone I know, non-former roommates included. Which is handy for him, since he's been a freelance music journalist for, like, a million magazines and newspapers.

He also has the most spectacular CD collection I have ever seen. When he moved away to New York after three years of us living together, I cried three pints of tears; two pints for the loss of his company and one pint for the loss of his CD collection.

I don't know what Joe is going to blog about yet, but I'm going to try to get him to write about the time I screwed up and forgot to pay the electric bill and got us disconnected during the hottest three-day stretch in recent Philadelphia history. (I'm still suffering a post-traumatic stress disorder from that incident, and when I'm even a little bit late with the bill, I call my home phone, just to make sure the answering machine is working.)

One Month

2005-03-09T13:04:00.000-05:00

For a few months in 2001, after moving out of a friend's house in West Philly but before I moved into my current place in Bella Vista, I shared an apartment with a guy from my improv group. We had been planning on finding a nice two bedroom apartment, but for some reason which seems ridiculous now, the best we could come up with was a one bedroom apartment that a friend was vacating. It would have been a great place for one guy, but unfortunately, we were two guys. So, one of us had to take the couch. He had a girlfriend and I only had a retarded obsessive crush on a co-worker who really valued our friendship. So, it just made sense that he should get the bedroom.

Hence, I was stuck on the couch, crying myself to sleep and listening to what I fully believe was the loudest refrigerator that has ever been built. (I think it was designed to trick burgalars into thinking they were potentially breaking into a 747's engine.) Let me tell you: when you're really feeling down about yourself, questioning your self-worth and wondering if it's even possible for anyone to love you, the best way to pick yourself up is to go home everynight and climb under the blankets on your comfortable couch.

Things stayed like that for a few months, until our lease was about to end. My roommate decided to persue the improv scene in Chicago, and I decided that there was no way I could afford the place by myself. For one full month, I had the place to myself. Even though my roommate took the television and a lot of that time was spent worrying about my impending homelessness and staring at the deathly quiet telephone, I have very fond memories of that month. I was on my own. I had a bedroom and a bed. I had a TV stand and a CD player that didn't always skip. I felt kind of sort of like an adult. I was starting to feel like maybe I wasn't completely undeserving of some affection from perhaps a girl with not-terribly-low standards. It was a good time.

Here's a song from a pretty rare Will Oldham EP called Western Music, and I must have been listening to the shit out of it at the time, because it instantly pulls me back to that one month, sitting alone in my apartment, banging on my fucking CD player so that I could hear one fucking song all the way through. (I deserved at least that.)

mp3: Will Oldham - Jump In Jump In, Come In Come In

Quote-Unquote

2005-03-08T18:43:00.001-05:00

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a violent person. But if you wrong me, I'll kill your fucking ass, and I'll spend the rest of my life in jail. I'll kill your fucking ass and you can count on it; depend on it."

- Harry Crews

Excerpts from my inbox (or Why go through all the trouble of thinking up a post when you can get your friends to do it for you?)

2005-03-08T16:33:00.000-05:00

(What follows are genuine excerpts from emails that I have received.)

Did you make any progress on your weird story?

Well, not knowing you before, I couldn't tell if you were drunk or retarded.

But once I took a train all the way from Tuscaloosa to Mystic.

It wasn't the kind of rain that smacks you in the face and runs down the back of your neck.

My hopes, dreams crushed.

Not that there's anything wrong with cynical dogwalkers.

I'm hoping to regain some of my sass soon.

A friend of mine here at work and I have become obsessed lately with apotemnophilia.

Who doesn't appreciate the love between a giant duck and a cavewoman who's handy with a laser pistol?

You go over to his house, and he'll be clapping his hands and laughing, pulling books down by the handful.

Oh yeah, and I'm trying to pass this stone.

Seriously, she should at least be hot if she's going to be on TV talking nonsense.

Sometimes I have to read books in a funny way.

I am just overwhelmed with relief that you're not just grossly offended.

Do you eat cheese steaks?

Nobody likes a dead cat

2005-03-04T00:51:00.000-05:00

It's true. Nobody likes a cat that is dead. Not even cat people. Not even those crazy cat people. You know that lady who sits a few cubes down from you at work? The one who has pictures of her cats all over the walls of her cubicle? The one who refers to her cats by their names, as though you were supposed to know what the hell she's talking about? Yes, her. Even she doesn't like a dead cat. Don't take my word for it. Tomorrow, walk over to her desk and drop a dead cat onto her keyboard. Watch her reaction. See if you get a St. Patrick's Day card with a picture of a dyed green kitten on it from her this year. Go ahead, just see.

For one thing, dead cats aren't very cute. They're actually rather grotesque. I don't know if you've ever seen a dead cat, but it's like the second they die, they go from being very cute to horrifically ugly. The calm relaxed manner of their faces are stretched thin into masks of terror. Their lips pull back to expose their teeth. Their jaws lock into place. It is not a coincidence that you can't find many pictures of dead kittens on crazy people's cubicle walls. There is no graceful passing into eternity for cats.

Also, they are not fluffy. Their fur becomes matted down and eventually falls out. Their muscles grow rigid and hard. You can pick up a dead cat and its position will not change from the way you found it on the ground.

Also, they smell.

Also, they are often stuffed full with maggots.

Also, they are no fun. You can't play with a dead cat. No matter how many times you roll a balled-up piece of tin foil or toy mouse across the floor, a dead cat will not chase it.

Speaking of mice, there are far better chances of a mouse eating a dead cat than being frightened away by it. So, you can add "not good at scaring away mice" as one of the things that are unlikable about dead cats.

I can think of only a few good things about dead cats. You don't need to feed them or change their litter boxes. You don't have to let them outside every ten minutes. You don't have to hear them meowing outside your bedroom door while you're trying to take a nap. You can invent a game with them in which the object is to bounce them off the wall and into a wicker basket. You can drop them onto the keyboards of people you don't like. But that's about it.

In conclusion, if you are in the market for a new pet, I would strongly recommend against getting a dead cat. I'd opt, instead, for a goldfish. Or maybe a lemur.

The Plastic Bag Sketch

2005-03-03T15:57:00.000-05:00

I perform with a Philadelphia sketch comedy group called The Waitstaff. Because other people in the group have done a lot of hard work, once a month I get the opportunity to perform in front of a rather large and accepting audience. It is my reverent belief that this is an opportunity one should not question in great detail. It is also an opportunity to do many stupid things--such as singing folk songs about sacrificing and eating babies (four people exited the theater during this song)--that one does not normally get to do.

Tomorrow night, I will be performing what I call "The Plastic Bag Sketch." If you will oblige me, I would like to explain the simple genius of this piece of performance art. I am on stage. A plastic bag lies on the stage beside me. For a full minute, neither I nor the bag moves at all. Then, I make like the bag is attacking me. I pull it over my head and flail about the stage, pretending like I can't get it off until I finally fall to the ground and feign death.

If you think it sounds not-funny written out as such, I can tell you, your instincts are not incorrect. The first time I performed this sketch, more than a year ago, it received no laughs. That's zero points of laughter (numerically: 0.0). The audience watched in confused silence and then politely applauded when I was finished.

When we were choosing sketches for this month's show, I innocently suggested "The Plastic Bag Sketch," fully believing that it would be immediately vetoed. It was not. No explanation available.

(Note: The rest of the group is very very funny. I swear to God.)

On the philosophy of Mendelssohn (not really)

2005-03-03T14:31:00.000-05:00

Has it really been a month since I last updated this site? (A: Yes.) Man, so much has changed since I last posted. I feel like an entirely different person. Let's see... well... um... yeah, I did... no, that was last year. Oh, wait; I got a haircut.

Yep, I got my hair cut, and I feel like a new man. Woo boy! There is nothing like getting your hair cut to enliven the ol' blood in your veins.

Yeah...

This sucks. I suck. I really wanted to be a better blogger this time around. I don't know how many times I've promised myself that I would make a concerted effort to post something every day. Then I thought if I at least updated once a week, just to let people know I have fallen into a wheat thrasher, that would be okay. Now, I've let a whole month slip. Somebody should really punch me in the neck. (Note: Please don't punch me in the neck.)

Oh, here's something that's actually kind of new and exciting if you get excited about geeky things: I have a whole new band to obsess over.

A few months ago, I ordered I Am a Cold Rock, I Am Dull Grass, the Will Oldham tribute album released by Tract Records, and it came with a sampler CD of some of the bands in Tract's catalogue. And they're all really good. Low Fi. DIY. My kind of thing. (For some reason, I'm really into music that sounds like it was recorded in the towel closet of my bathroom.) I'm slowly making my way through it, but one of the bands has already jumped out at me; The Strugglers.

Actually, the Strugglers are for all intents and purposes, one guy named Randy Bickford. I went to their website, downloaded a bunch of songs and then ordered two CDs, which just arrived on Monday. They are now getting regular airtime on my iPod. It reminds me a bit of Smog, for no intelligent reason, but it's what I'm going with.

Here's the song that totally sold me.

mp3: The Strugglers - On the Way to the Grave

Whiskey and iPods, be the death of me

2005-02-03T10:58:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry, but this is going to be a very boring post. My apologies in advance. If you're looking for something more intertaining, I suggest you spend a few minutes watching this guy dance, and then check back here later on.

So, I totally eff-ing love my iPod, and when I say "eff-ing," I mean "fucking." I fucking love it to death. I take it with me everywhere I go, even if I'm just walking to by cigarettes. I honestly don't know how I survived such a sad and empty existence for the 30+ years before I had it in my possession. One of my favorite features on the beautiful thing is the alarm feature. I've hooked the iPod up to my bedroom stereo system and set the alarm for 7 am (well before I'm usually (or ever) awake), so that I can wake up every morning to commercial free music that I don't hate. One less reason to contemplate suicide each morning.

Recently, I discovered ephPod, a program which functions the same as iTunes, except that it allows you to pull music off your iPod (a feature I thought was retardedly missing from the actual iPod software) as well as put it on. "Great," I thought, "Now the pieces are falling into place, and soon I will rule the world with a harsh and majestic fist!" Except...

...well, there's an "except."

You see, if you use ephPod software, for some fucked up, crazy, horrible, stupid ass, dumbshitfuck reason, if you use ephPod, it disables the iPod's alarm clock feature. And ONLY the alarm clock feature. That's the one drawback. It does all this cool shit, but it kills the ONE thing I really loved about the iPod. (You can wipe the iPod clean, and reload all the software to get the alarm, back, but then the next time you use ephPod it's gone all over again.) So, I had to choose between being able to pull songs off my iPod and being woken to the sound of music.

I did some online research to see if other people had solutions for this problem, and I tried some experiments, but none of them worked. Finally, I said, "Fuck this. I'm gonna figure this out on my own." So, I put on my goggles and my lead-lined jacket out of storage and went to work, using all manner of tools and gadgets, calling upon the ghosts of my anscentors and bargaining with demigods for the rights to my soul. Eventually, I cracked it. (The problem, not the iPod.)

Simply use the ephPod to pull mp3s off your iPod and iTunes to upload music onto your iPod. When you exit ephPod, it'll ask you if you want to save changes. Click "no."

Problem solved.

Fuck yeah!

2005-02-02T14:13:00.000-05:00

For my taste, there's just not enough cursing in modern music. I don't know when this change happened. Those old Verde and Mozart operas were mostly just streams of obscenities shreiked over some pretty music. "You fucking cunt! You put poison in my fucking wine! You miserable bitch, I'm fucking dying now!" (That's why you really need to read the translations to fully appreciate the songs.) Somewhere along the way, we've become very conservative.

Anyway, I was really happy to discover the eponymous single Martha Wainwright's debut EP, Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole. Man, it is some sweet sweet cursing. And she has a real way with it. Some people curse well and some people don't. I think that I curse like a champ. I know my mother does. And Martha Wainwright does as well.

The thing is, though, it's actually a very pretty song, even without the sweet sweet curse words.

mp3: Martha Wainwright - Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole

My president wasn't inaugurated yesterday

2005-01-21T13:06:00.000-05:00

I'm rather pleased with myself today. I managed to get nearly all the way through yesterday with hardly a passing thought to the fact that it was inauguration day. This may not seem like such a fantastic achievement to you, but for me, it's huge. In the weeks leading up to Black Tuesday in November, I allowed myself to become rather obsessed with reading about, talking about, thinking about and worrying about the election, to the detriment of my job responsibilities and my writing schedule (which was going pretty smooth at the time). I stayed up all night long after most of the results came in, while the country was still teetering on the fence between hope and despair. And then when the great state of Ohio tapped us on the shoulder and we fell headlong into that dark chasm, I allowed myself to wallow for a few more weeks in self-pity, confusion and disgust.

Now, however, it seems that I'm back to my old apathetic self. But I learned a valuable lesson...

Caring is for losers.

51% of the country thought that a man who couldn't find oil in Texas is a good choice to lead the most powerful country in the world? Who cares.

US soldiers are being forced to serve multiple tours of duty in a war that is completely unfounded? What's on HBO tonight?

220,000 killed in a South Asia natural disaster? Sounds like the beginning of a pretty funny joke.

It's nice being stupid and American.

mp3: David Bowie - Candidate (demo)

I hope this doesn't turn out to be sadly ironic

2005-01-20T02:42:00.000-05:00

Just in case I should happen to die in the middle of the night due to what could possibly be faulty wiring that may or may not be the reason that my roommate suddenly does not have power in her bedroom and could very well ignite a fire in the walls while we're asleep so that I wake up in the amber glow of my hardwood floor smoldering beneath my bed, I thought it was important to write this post now.

Blogger's been kinda slow for me lately, so it's unlikely that I'll be able to get this off before my lungs fill with scalding fumes and I pass out from asphyxiation.

I just want you all to know that in the event of that situation, this is the song I want played at my funeral...

mp3: The Moldy Peaches - Downloading Porn with Davo

(Update: Well, it appears that I did not die last night, so instead, I'd like that song played at my wedding.)

A Pleasant Surprise (or My old CEO has eight fingers and eats babies)

2005-01-19T16:27:00.000-05:00

Just before the stock market crashed and all the dot-coms imploded and smoldering embers rained down from the heavens upon the pathetic masses of post-collegiates, Xlibris was a pretty decent place to work. It was a print-on-demand publishing company, and it appeared to have a okay business model with an admirable philosophy (making publishing affordable for average people). For some reason, the CEO was missing two-fingers on his right hand. Some say he was born that way, others say it was a science experiment gone awry.

At the time, it seemed that if you were young and/or cool and/or attractive and/or talented, you probably worked for Xlibris (or you knew someone who did). I also worked there. It felt more like summer camp than a place of employment. There was a lot of drinking and a lot of hooking up and a lot of foosball going on. But then the bottom dropped out, day turned to night, our CEO started feasting on the flesh of newborn babies, and everyone quit or got fired. (They've recently located most of their business to the Philippines, where they can practice slave labor and cannibalism with impunity.)

One of the people I ran across during my tenure was Mike Kiley, an actor/singer/songwriter, who went to front a local band called Cordalene. Mike and I were always friendly, but we were never friendly-friendly. (We never hooked up or anything.) When we see each other in a bar or on the street, we'll usually stop and catch up. One day, a few years ago, I was doing my serious-writer-struggling-with-brilliant-ideas-in-a-coffee-shop thing (probably writing something about pirates or robots, really), when Mike walked in. He told me that his band had recently released an EP of new songs. I said, "That's cool," and nodded my head in that non-committed "I'm probably not gonna buy it" way. And then he reached into his bag and just gave me a copy. "Cool," I said and nodded my head in that non-committed "I'm probably not gonna listen to this" way. Then he left, and I went back to being brilliant.

When I got home, I don't know why, but I listened to the EP. And it was really fucking good. I don't mean I-don't-have-to-lie-when-I-say-that-I-don't-hate-it good. I mean I'd-actually-go-out-and-spend-money-on-this good.

Now, when I see Mike at a bar or on the street, we'll stop and catch up, but I'll usually spend way too much time talking about how much I like his music, and he'll usually look uncomfortable about my creepiness and try to slip away without hurting my feelings.

mp3: Cordalene - Ghost

(Update: If you live in New York, you can check out Cordalene any Wednesday night at Pianos through February 17th. If you live in Philly and you're reading this, it probably means you're me, so you should get off your lazy ass and finally see them live any Thursday through the 24th at the Khyber.)

Bad Name, Good Song

2005-01-19T15:27:00.000-05:00

If you've been over at Scenestars recently (and really, if you haven't, I'd like to know why; Scenestars could kick Dostoevsky's ass any day of the week), you've probably noticed that they've got supposed links to these Harlan T. Bobo songs plastered all over the place. The problem is: the links don't work. (I was just going to link to their page, call it a day and start injesting my Tylenol 3 early today.)

I downloaded a song called "Too Much Love" from there back in the summer, and I loved it so much that I almost finally got around to buying the whole album. (Except that the Shangri-La Records website is tacking $6.40 onto the $11.99 CD price for shipping and handling. What the fuck? It doesn't cost me $6.40 to send one CD across state lines. How are they sending it? By vampire bat? Gypsy caravan? I don't mind paying for music that I want, but I don't so much enjoy getting bent over and raped. I do however need to get the CD; I just haven't figured out my strategy yet.)

So, anyway, in case you missed it the first time around, here's the song, garbled lyrics and all. (Is he saying, "And it's all that niggah-high cocaine!"? And, if so, what the hell does that mean?) And I do think that Mr. Bobo has a point: there is far far too much love in this world. Someone should do something about that.

mp3: Harlan T. Bobo - Too Much Love

Update: As you may find in the comments below, there is some small controversy about whether or not the Scenestars link to Mr. Bobo's mp3s work or not. It turns out, they do, so feel free to go there and download his other song, "Stop." (It's my suspicion that Scenestar Rachel fixed the broken links just to make me look foolish.)

Excuse me, but I have to sweep up the shattered remnants of my ego.

For My Very Special Lady

2005-01-18T14:19:00.000-05:00

This post is officially dedicated to Matthew Tobey, and if you're reading this, you probably know why. It's highly likely you arrived here via Mr. T____'s flying hyperlink.

You may have noticed that he calls me "brilliant," which is absolutely true, provided you take the word at it's original etymological meaning: "borderline autistic in regards to hoarding certain fringe genres of music." (From OED.)

You may have also noticed that he totally puts me in my place for being such a suck-ass blogger, and he's completely right. My very first attempt at blogging was called "I am the Stallion," an ill-conceived mixing of diary entries with Ween obsessiveness. (It was worthwhile mainly for the mp3 links, and even then, only if you're a Ween fan.) The page went through long periods of neglect followed by short bursts of activity, with new names and themes such as "I am Jean Luc Godard" and "I am Trapped in an Elevator." (I'm certain you can imagine the infinite possibilities available to those two ideas.)

Anyway, I don't have the best track record for keeping blogs up and running.

But I've got a good feeling about this one...

(sigh)

So, being for the benefit of Mr. Tobey, here's some extra-fine, super-rare Ween. It's the demo version of an outtake from their exquisite 12 Golden Country Greats. (How's that for obscure?)

mp3: Ween - I Got No Darkside

All the demos tracks for 12 Golden Country Greats are available on the excellent weenftp.org. What's really fun about these demos is that, if you know the album (which was atypically well-produced with Nashville session players) you can see how a "Ween song" can turn into an "almost normal song" with just a little spit and polish. (Note: I almost didn't post this link. Because now, really, what good am I?)

The Magic Carboard Box

2005-01-18T09:18:00.000-05:00

In the employee lounge of the Borders at which I used to work, there was a cardboard box into which the managers would dump all the promotional books and CDs (that they hadn't already set aside for themselves). The scene that would immediately follow one of these dumping rituals was violent and distasteful and I'd rather not go into it in detail right now. Let it suffice to say that I'm not such a great scrapper, so I rarely pulled out anything of immediately recognizable value. But my attitude was "Fuck them if they think I'm not gonna bring something home with me," and so I was able to stock myself full of spare jewel cases.

However, because I was forced to forrage, I ended up finding some really good bands that I would never have listened to otherwise. I would scan the CD case, looking for anything that might give a hint toward what could be expected inside. My general rule at the time was that I saw reference to an accordian, Wurlitzer or buzzsaw, the CD would get stashed away in my locker. (I was definitely slouching toward some kind of musical interest that I couldn't quite define at the time, and is perhaps still a little hazy.)

It was in that way that I discovered The V-Roys. (I think the CD case said somebody played a slide guitar or something. Close enough.) I think they had a strong following in Knoxville, but they only released two studio albums and burnt out before they ever got the chance to acquire much of a national following. They weren't straight country, but had more honky-tonk in their indie-rockishness than I was familiar with at the time, so the CD really intrigued me. It's not a CD that still reach for often, but I view it as a stepping stone toward some of my favorite albums, and one track, "Mary," has made it onto a multitude of mix tapes since then. (I'm particularly fond of the lyric "Blah blah something for cigarettes and I've got the cancer in my lungs." [ed note: gibberish mine.] )

mp3: The V-Roys - Mary

Please Don't Do That

2005-01-15T09:19:00.000-05:00

It was kinda cool back in college when I absently left Nevermind playing and after eight-or-so minutes of silence, during which I'd thought the CD has spun to a stop, "discovered" its hidden noise track. As far as I knew, I was the only person in the world smart enough to accidentally leave the CD playing. I was filled with an sense of excitement and achievement, which I can only describe as being akin to how Ponce de Leon must have felt when he landed his ship on the coast of Florida. It wasn't the greatest Nivana song ever, but it was secret and it was mine. But, you know, that was fourteen years ago.

Much like the zoom lens of '70s cinema, the hanging ending of so much post-Carver short fiction, and Paris Hilton, hidden tracks were interesting little novelties that had their place, got boring and then got totally overused to the point of being obnoxious. They're not cool anymore. They don't fool anybody. They're just annoying.

a. I don't enjoy fast-forwarding through increasingly numerous minutes of silence just to hear a three-minute song.
b. It really messes up the flow if you're listening to several CDs or many songs in a random playlist.
c. I hate having to manually edit a song's wav file, just so I can stick it on my iPod.
d. Please stop.

Now, for some reason, Will Oldham (whose music is very close to my heart) seems to be one of the biggest breachers of etiquette in this concern. Just off the top of my head, I can tell you that on the last track of Bonnie "Prince" Billy Sings Greatest Palace Music, the last track has about ten minutes of silence leading to nothing, followed by a three-second track of also nothing. On Guarapero: Lost Blues 2, an alternative version of "Apocalypse, No!" is (rather ingeniously) hidden in the negative time of the first song, so you have to put the CD on and rewind to find the song. (I couldn't find it for the longest time, and it drove me insane.) And on Amalgamated Sons of Rest, an EP he released with Jason Molina and Alasdair Roberts, the very best song on the album won't be found until approximately twenty or so minutes past the last official track. There's almost as much silence as there is album.

I don't suspect for a moment that Oldham is doing this because he thinks it's cool. I think he's doing it because he knows it's annoying. I suspect that, like changing his stage name eight or nine times, he's attempting to alienate his audience. Why? I can't say. Probably to stave off celebrity. But I won't be alienated.

For the general well-being of the rest of the world, I offer to you the hidden from Amalgamated Sons of Rest. Whereas the rest of the album is Oldham, Molina and Roberts fill in harmonies and instrumentation for each other's tracks, "I Will Be Good" seems to be a real collaboration, with each singer taking a verse and then all coming together for the harmonies. It's really worth listening to so long as you can just push "play."

mp3: Amalgamated Sons of Rest - I Will Be Good