| EOM 1 | EOM 2 | EOM 3 | EOM 4 | EOM 5 | EOM 6 | EOM 7 | EOM 8 | EOM 9 | EOM 10 | | EOM 11 | EOM 12 | EOM 13 | EOM 14 | EOM 15 | EOM 16 | EOM 17 | EXILED ON MAIN STREET #10 Someone recently asked me if I believed in the Collective Unconscious, or some term like that, and all I could think of was Groucho Marx and his saying "I don't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." HAPPY NEW YEAR Ahhh, here we are in 1998. Yours truly woke up on New Year's Day in Number Nine around noon with NO HANGOVER, thank you. What a silly way to start off any new year. Thank goodness I stayed home on New Year's Eve instead of going to some party and hearing a bunch of folks blathering about resolutions and such. Here's my motto this year: "Dare to be Great in Ninety- Eight!" Cheesy? Yes! Effective? We'll see! But best I take this motto before some fascist corporation does. So what will this year bring for me? Nothing much changes here: I'llalso probably buy a bunch of CD's, see a bunch of bands, and live anddie with the Fighting Sioux hockey team. I'll also probably write a bunch of stuff, and when I'm not writing I'll moan inwardly about how I've lost my talent and how I'll never write again. As far as this zine goes, I'll keep pumping them out. (Here's the Top Five names to look for in these pages: Inga Hammond, Karl Goehring, Mark Stutrud, Alberta Watson, and Adrian C. Louis.) But I'll continue to leave crucial parts of the Real Me on the cutting-room floor. Then I'll get called "cynical," "sarcastic," and "anti-everything." When maybe, just maybe, I'm actually the innocent true believer. Think about it. Oh, and some of The Wyman Weekly cultists will continue to accuse me of selling out and having abandoned them. Sellout? So where's my suitcase of cash? Where's my supermodel girlfriend? ONE NIGHT ONLY Scared shitless, I stood onstage (actually just a floor) at the student readings at the Loft. Up second and with the momentum of an hour's worth of readings by various students in my hands, I considered doing some live-album opening bits to loosen myself and the crowd up. I could have ripped off the MC5's "I wanna see a sea of hands out there! I wanna see a sea of hands!", but that would also be ripping off Lester Bangs, kinda, and I do enough of that as it is. And Nirvana's "This is off our first record, most people don't own it" wouldn't work too well, nor would their "WOOOOOO!!! WOOOOOO!!! YEAHHHHHH!!! EHHHHHH!!! EHHHHH!!!" Without some street-proven rock 'n' roll references for comfort, it was going to be tough. Oh sure, you probably read this stuff I write and think I am an annoying blabbermouth to hang around. Truth be told, in the Homeroom That Is Life, I am one of the guys who doesn't say much. Everyone once in a while, I'll say something kinda witty, and then the guy in front of me will crack up, leaving everyone else in the room to wonder what made him laugh. Then after homeroom he tells them, and the effect is by then lost. So I go through school with a cult following of that guy only. Anytime I read aloud in writing class, I get nervous and read fast fast fast and the words lose their effect. So for me to get up onstage (on a floor) and read something I wrote was a terrifying prospect indeed. Which is exactly why I did it. Here's the transcript: I call this one: "When the ex-girlfriend whose Neil Young albums you didn't return is back in town" (I read my poem - which is too long to reprint here. Send me a SASE and I'll mail you a copy.) ...and that was it. I read the thing (kinda) calmly and (kinda) coolly. I thought I heard shouted requests for my other pieces "looking out the window onto 36th street late on a Saturday night" and "conversation with the unreinvented self while standing outside a record store looking in", but maybe I imagined it. I was only allowed three minutes of stage (floor) time anyway, so I walked off the stage (back to my seat) and sat down. Thankfully, nobody threw a Stroh's at me like they did to Iggy Pop at the end of Metallic K.O. I did head to the Uptown afterwards and throw back a couple of pints myself, though, and went straight to work on a design for my tour tee-shirts. ALSO KNOWN AS MY TOP FIVE REASONS I WAS GLAD TO BE ALIVE IN 1997 Due to the numerous requests for the following (hi Jim), here's my Top Five Live Shows of 1997. They're listed in chronological order. 1. Slim Dunlap, The Turf Club, January - Real loud and fun and we all danced. You truly can't ask for much more. 2. Sleater-Kinney, Seventh Street Entry, May - They started off with a little Go-Go's-like cheerleading ditty. What followed were passionate songs with good guitars, great vocals, and even better drumming. Sleater-Kinney is my bet to be a contender for Band of the Year from 1998 through 2010. 3. Curtiss A's Elvis Presley Tribute, First Avenue, August - Seeing this one reminded me that they called him The King for a damn good reason. The first set was dedicated to pre-Army rockabilly gems; the second to Las Vegas and movie songs. Mixed in were Curt's comments on Neil Diamond ("a fucking fucked fuck") and Jerry Garcia ("my tribute to him will be right after the show - I'll be smoking a big fat joint!") 4. Wilco, First Avenue, October - "Excuse us, we're heavily medicated tonight," Jeff Tweedy deadpanned at one point. Mixed in with Wilco's solid songs were covers of Dock Boggs, Led Zeppelin, and the Buzzcocks. One band member crowd surfed, as did a roadie (while singing the Zep tune.) Also included were Tweedy's verbal darts at Whiskeytown, who played the Entry afterwards. Whiskeytown's Ryan Adams jousted back, yet it was hard to pay attention as not only was Tweedy in the room along with members of Golden Smog, but so was Jay Farrar and other Son Volters. No hugs or fisticuffs exchanged to my knowledge, though. 5. Lifter Puller, Seventh Street Entry, December - All shows I saw by these guys were great. At this one during their last song the dancing/move-busting lead guitarist had to play keyboards, forcing him to turn his back to the crowd. No problem: between keyboard riffs he twirled and turned, pointing at the crowd. This show was special because I now owned their Half Dead and Dynamite album, and had many of the slice-of-twisted-life lyrics memorized. Do the same, and then you can mouth the words at their shows and be the envy of all around you. Honorable Mention - Dean Blais, Bradley Center in Milwaukee and ESPN, March - Prior to the NCAA Division I Hockey Championship, the pundits wondered if Blais' speedy University of North Dakota team could deal with Boston University's physical, trapping game plan. Outmuscling and outhitting BU, UND continued their brilliant playoff run. Their checkers scored, their speedsters checked, and their 18-year old goalie stood tall. Blais restored glory to the Sioux hockey program, bringing a sixth NCAA title back to Grand Forks. Fans of the maroon-and-gold witnessing this all studied their dictionaries, unfamiliar with words like "coaching" and "national champions." SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER, TOO In my face! I taunt Oasis, and then Noel Gallagher rises to the occasion with the following quote - which I have rarely seen in its entire class warfare-endorsing context: "I don't like the queen. I don't believe in the monarchy or the royal family. I don't believe that the working people of England should have to pay their wages and pay the rent on their houses and pay for their kiddies to be brought up either. I think they should all be shot." HARD CORE TROUBADOUR I got Steve Earle's Train A Comin' (1995) and I Feel Alright (1996) as Christmas gifts. Both feature brilliant songwriting, gritty REAL vocals, and solid musicianship. Another cool thing about Earle are his liner notes: Train A Comin's greeting ends with "this ain't no part of no unplugged nothin' - God I hate MTV," while I Feel Alright's notes start with "When I was locked up..." I've spent a lot of time with these albums lately, they truly affected me... I grabbed all my Honeydogs, Uncle Tupelo, Wilco, Son Volt, Jayhawks, and Whiskeytown discs and mailed them back to the respective alt.country artists that made 'em with a note saying: "Steve Earle makes you looks like little babies! Listen to the man and send some music back when you get it right!" I wrote letters to Billie Joe Armstrong, Alex Chilton, that guy from Material Issue, and all other American singers I could think of who have faked British accents, saying: "Steve Earle eats you for breakfast! Put yer tea down and sing like the American you are, ya dork!" I mailed 'em, then remembered that the Material Issue guy killed himself and I felt kinda bad. Then I popped in I Feel Alright, and I felt alright. (Alex wrote back: "ironic words coming from somebody who named his zine after an album made by British guys who have spent thirty-plus years trying to sound American.") I wrote a letter to Bruce Springsteen: "The return of Steve Earle in '95 no doubt prompted you to abandon your plans to either put out Human Touch, Pt. 2 or to break up the E-Street band so you could re-reform them and play a 45-minute set on Letterman. Instead, you made the great storytelling album The Ghost of Tom Joad. But now you're two records behind Earle, although to be fair he did cover your "State Trooper" the last time he was in town. (And plus he copped your "It's Hard to Be a Saint in the City" riff way back when with his "Back to the Wall.") Anyway, here's hoping you come out with an album soon. p.s. Can you get me some Rage Against the Machine tickets?" Most importantly, I wrote a letter to myself: "You, sir, are a fraud. You were big on Steve Earle from Guitar Town until he disappeared in the early nineties. He's put out three albums in the past three years, and you finally get around to getting a couple of 'em - and then only as gifts! What: you still waiting for that new Nine Inch Nails album??" By next issue, I hope to own Earle's most recent release, El Corazon. You've been warned. PRETTY VACANT Some days while temping at Big Department Store, I get sent to the sixth floor to work on some project that involves me staring at a computer and listening to the radio. One day, my biggest accomplishment was when it finally dawned on me that the same actress who plays Madeline on the La Femme Nikita television series was also the mom in Spanking the Monkey. Ooh-la-la. Anyway, on this floor is where all the buyers work, the guys all seem to like other guys (not that there's anything wrong with that); while the gals are all in love with themselves. These female lovelies (favorite color schemes for each and every one of 'em: black w/gray, gray w/black, black w/black) can barely contain their disdain for yours truly. The reaction when passing me in the hallway comes in two forms: 1) a frown; or 2) a quick look away. And one day, after a morning-long hate-a-thon from all these little fashion victims, while walking towards the exit for lunch, I got a good old-fashioned roll of the eyes. Amen, honey, amen. NAMED FOR THE 'MATS ALBUM Strolling through the Ridgedale Shopping Center doing my Christmas shopping, I passed Sam Goody and realized that I was smack-dab in the middle of the country that my main man Dick Schultz calls "Generica"... Another brilliant holiday moment for your favorite zinester: New Year's Eve morning, I was in downtown Minneapolis dropping off some stuff at a client's and walked into Let It Be Records at 10:01 a.m. Said hi to the owner, who had just opened the door for business, then browsed through some discs. Just me and a couple of workers, music on the sound system, and the morning light fighting to come in. Probably my last great moment of 1997; which being the best year of my life so far is saying something. I used to work a block from this gloriously downtrodden record store. Every time I read High Fidelity (and if you haven't read it, please set this down and go to the library or bookstore and get it; the author is Nick Hornby - you'll love it and thank me later), I imagine it taking place somewhere like here. It sure is nice to return here in my reinvented sense. I used to work a block from Let It Be, it was my stressed-out hideaway. On extremely bad days at work, I would cruise there on lunch hour or sneak there during regular hours. I felt like a dork in a tie always - a corporate hack doing something totally useless all day long - more so when within the friendly cool confines of the store. Not that every day at my Real Job sucked: just Mondays through Fridays. But now - now to walk in there with faded jeans on and my head held high, to cruise the racks for music that will lift me higher and not just keep me afloat - I feel like MacArthur or something. Indie record stores, like dive bars, are sacred ground. I remember buying the Stooges' Metallic K.O. on vinyl at Let It Be after searching for it on-and-off for a few years. I brought it back to the Big Construction office and declared it My Holy Grail Found. To which a condescending coworker said that his big accomplishment in life was being involved in the building of the Maul of Amerika. Shit, how could I top that? I couldn't and still can't... 'Cept to say that I found Metallic K.O. at Let It Be, and in the Maul of Amerika, you'll only find Sam Goody - which doesn't, to my knowledge, carry might-be-legal imports. Metallic K.O. ends with "Louie Louie" and Iggy getting hit by a bottle of Stroh's. And I hope that when the Maul gets blown to smithereens come the revolution, I will dance on its rubble to "Louie Louie", sipping on a bottle of beer. And after taking the last gulp, I will toss that empty towards the sky, dreaming of that sunny afternoon when my dad and I saw Dave Goltz strike out Jim Rice three times. SISU After sitting in the sauna at my YMCA, I've decided that they should have two saunas: 1) a sauna for Finns and other hardy folk, and 2) a sauna for People Who Don't Know What a Sauna Really Is and Probably Don't Pronounce the Word Correctly Anyway. The sauna at the Y was set at 170 degrees and they don't let you bring water in to dump on the stove to warm things up. I froze my ass off and barely broke a sweat. Shit, I could have just sat out in the parking lot in a lawn chair with a parka on and got the satisfaction that this so-called sauna brought. All the guys in the place were gasping for air like it was the real deal, though. 170 degrees? Gimme a break... PSYCHIC TELLS ALL Here's hoping this is the year that the demand for Pearl Jam wannabes finally equals the supply, so that the Recording Industry no longer cranks out so many of 'em.* '97 saw the likes of Creed, Days of the New, and Marcy Playground, among many many others creeping onto playlists and into our consciousness. Is it just me that thinks all these bands are trying hard to sound like Pearl Jam? That Pearl Jam has got to be the most imitated band of the nineties? Bad enough these wannabes are on the radio all the time, but way too many people keep recommending them to me saying I'd like them because "they have guitars." Okay, sure. But better a Pearl Jam wannabe than an Alanis Morissette wannabe: my hope is that Meredith Brooks goes away this year. Me, I thought that Sprite radio commercial out-Alanised her easy! Also, I'm hoping a certain annoying kidstuff group fades away into obscurity this year. Hanson or the Spice Girls? No, I'm referring to Prodigy. Ooh - they're so scary! Congratulations to the Verve - By letting their Next Big Thing status go to their heads, they went and sold "Bittersweet Symphony" to Nike, and became the first new Nike schills of 1998. And I'm sure they'll have to share some of their dough with the Rolling Stones. On the positive side - Semisonic, Soul Asylum, Pearl Jam, and PJ Harvey are scheduled to release albums this year. There's little reason not expect these to be very-good-to-great so I'm guessing things go KABLOOOEEEEYY!! in my head upon listening, and then I try to con everyone I know into buying them. * With this sentence, I finally put my economics degree to use ten-plus years after attaining it. SHORT MAN'S ROOM I was at the 400 one night watching a band. There was a guy standing in front of me to my right, he was about six feet tall. His buddy, who was about 6-3, was standing about ten feet in front of him. The 6-3 guy came back to talk to the 6-0 guy. Of course, he stood right in front of me. I shrugged it off, happens all the time, survival of the fittest and all that, right? I mean, it's not their fault I lost out in the gene lottery - I'm 5-8, while my brother is 6-2. I continued to try to watch the band. After a short time, the 6-0 guy grabbed the 6-3 guy's arm and steered him away from standing in front of me. Gesturing towards me, he said, "that guy can't see." This was a first. Stunned, I shyly mumbled my thank yous. I know I'll sound like a name-dropping gossip columnist here, but I must note that these two gentlemen were members of Lifter Puller and the Rank Strangers. Classy, classy move on their part. IN CASE YOU'RE INTERESTED... Here's some stuff I've been enjoying lately: Scream 2 - did anyone else catch the movie concessions joke at the beginning? Bob Dylan, Time Out of Mind - the best blues album ever to be nominated for a folk Grammy? http://www.theonion.com - this is truly funny stuff; unlike, say, pretty much any "FW: This is Funny!!" email that folks send me. http://www.addict.com - lots of music news and reviews here, plus Greil Marcus has a monthly column. http://uscollegehockey.com - my favorite site about my favorite sport. One-half of the best thing about MSC, Frank Mazzacco, has a weekly column. Stats, polls, and news. INFO Everything written by me, except where noted. In an attempt to break even, print readers are paying $1.00 for each issue ($4.00 for five issues.) This is going out free to you email and fax readers as there are no postage or photocopying costs. However, cash donations are glady accepted. Correspondence: Bill Tuomala 3554 Emerson Ave. S. #9 Minneapolis, MN 55408 wyman23@wavefront.com send grammar and spelling corrections to someone who cares DISTRIBUTE FREELY | EOM 1 | EOM 2 | EOM 3 | EOM 4 | EOM 5 | EOM 6 | EOM 7 | EOM 8 | EOM 9 | EOM 10 | | EOM 11 | EOM 12 | EOM 13 | EOM 14 | EOM 15 | EOM 16 | EOM 17 | return to main page

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