NEW MUSIC NOW

Jr. James & The Late Guitar sends out 4 new recordings, 14 best-of slices of the past, and one special bonus track on OPTISMET, available March 4. Click on image below to view site and hear the music!

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Yo!

Somebody remembers our holiday compilation (thanks, MountainXpress!).

Mashed!

Mixologist Qubic put our cover of “Egyptian Reggae” and the Violent Femmes’ cover of “Crazy” into the sonic supercollider. Thanks, Quibic!

Crazy Egyptian

Evidence Room

Well I might be guilty, but I know my rights
What happened to the evidence they took that night?
If the police can’t produce it in a court of law
I guess the judge will just have to let me walk

Evidence Room, Evidence Room
Things are getting messy in the Evidence Room

The district attorney really blew his top
When he found out how they’ve been keeping shop
Papers stacked here, boxes scattered over there
Innocent and guilty clutter everywhere

People’s reputations and their lives are at stake
The marijuana farmer might have just caught a break
That cute little anarchist who smashed a glass
Now might have a better chance to save her ass

Over 300 oxycodone pills
Twenty-seven guns and other valuables
Thirty-four packets of cash money
Why not just set the captives free?

All the Council members tried to clean up the mess
“This is horrendous” said the mayor to the press
We didn’t see it coming and we never knew a thing
We were busy dealing with that skateboard ring

Well I know you think I cheated, baby, Saturday night
Believe me when I tell you everything is alright
That wasn’t my hat, wasn’t my guitar
You can’t trust a witness who smokes cigars

Evidence Room, Evidence Room
Things are getting messy in the Evidence Room

Well I might be guilty, but I know my rights
What happened to the evidence they took that night?
If the police can’t produce it in a court of law
I guess the judge will just have to let me walk

velvet brown

 

The One-Man Band

With a suitcase full of contraband, she walked into the club and asked the man behind the bar where could she set up.

“You must be with the band,” replied the man behind the bar.

“I AM the band,” she said.

“Yeah, of course, sure you are. Well, since you’re here already, go ahead and do your thing. Just let the soundman know before you start to sing.”

She unpacked her suitcase and proceeded to plug in several little boxes and an electric violin.

“I don’t really sing,” she told the soundman with a grin. “What I do is more abstract— kind of like Laurie Anderson.”

“I’ve never heard of them,” the soundman said, perplexed. “But go ahead and play and I’ll try to get a good mix.”

A couple of hours later, a few old punks straggled in and waited like prisoners for the show to begin. The violinist pushed a button and looped a crazy beat.  Then she scraped a bow across the strings and unleashed a sonic beast.

The audience whooped and hollered, and the club owner was impressed. “Let’s book you again next month— a weekend might be best.  The only thing you need, the only thing I would suggest, is add a bass player . . . and a drummer . . . and a keyboard player . . . a rhythm guitar . . . and a horn section . . . some backup singers …”

The one-man band, well,  she contemplated, and–to everyone’s surprise– she said, “OK, you know the music biz, I’ll follow your advice.”

So the club owner  printed flyers and informed the local press of the big return engagement of the Sonic Abstractionist.

Saturday night, the club was packed, a line around the block.  The crowd let out a touchdown roar when the house lights went dark.  And there up on the stage, for every hipster to see, was the one-man band plus seven, rockin’ to the beat.

The sound it was colossal, heavy on violin. But on closer inspection, there was something odd about the band.  The players all looked like twins, and they never seemed to breathe.  Surely this bandleader had something up her sleeve.

Right about then a roadie turned on an electric fan,  and the horn section blew over, face forward,  on the bandstand.

The club owner quickly pulled the plug on the strange, virtual band,  and said, “Don’t ever try to pull a stunt on me like that again.”

Well, the violinist packed her suitcase and set out on the road.  She never (ever) tried again to pretend to do what she was told.

Now her career is taking off,  and her solo gigs have doubled.

All because she learned the lesson that bands are always trouble.

The Serenader