This is so stupid but I absolutely love it. Like the title explains, it’s about a Dad who is also a hamburger.  That one joke is stretched out for 8 minutes but it works because of the casual tone. Example:

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“Oh you know, the usual. I got fired.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m a HAMBURGER.”

My friend Echo first showed this to me when I was visiting Seattle. I guess some kids made this, then they made a 45 minute version where the Dad and the son go on a roadtrip to get the son’s girlfriend back or something. You can rent it for free from Scarecrow video in Seattle.  Just ask for Hamburger Dad.

The show was incredible and served as the focal point for an altogether bad ass evening.  Pre-Deacon, I met up with some Austin homies I know from a Google Group that shares music.  They are all law students at UT and one of the law societies was throwing an end of semester party on a boat.  They invited me to stow away and so I got to enjoy a free boat cruise with complimentary beer and Mexican food.  Piracy rules!  My friend Brett smugled a life preserver off the boat under his sweatshirt and then wore it at the Dan Deacon concert. Watch out, I bet neon orange life preservers are going to be the new hipster neck wear in 2009. So long kefiyeh.  This recap is exciting too because A) it only took me 3 hours to do, which means I’m getting faster B) I feel like it is really focused and contains interesting themes that wrap around nicely C) even though having an editor is one of the best things about writing for Decider (having someone improve your writing by 10 fold is always nice) this piece went to print with almost no major modifications.  Pretty proud of that.

In Native American cultures, those that heard voices were given a special role in society.  They were shamans, witch doctors, and priests, sought after for their advice and guidance.  Hearing voices was considered a blessing, a sign that the gods had shown favor on you and given you access to the world of spirits.  In modern times, we give those that hear voices a different label.  We call them schizophrenics.
Christopher Lynn Good was born in 1962 in the small automotive town of Fremont, Ohio, about hundred miles from Ann Arbor, Michigan.  Like most of the men in town, Christopher’s father Daniel E. Good worked for Town Lincoln Mercury and was veteran of World War II, or as Christopher remembers it, “the one where they fought the Nazis.”  The Good family were Catholic and Christopher started school at St. Joseph’s, learning his fundamentals from the nuns.  When he was in 4th grade his father suffered his first heart attack.  A few months later Christopher had what he describes as his “fall from grace.”
Christopher and a friend from class, a boy named Tony Sheets, got into a fight over something that Christopher can’t remember.  Tony Sheets stabbed Christopher in the hand with a pencil, embedding a chunk of lead that can still be seen to this day, and both boys were expelled from St. Joseph’s.  Christopher ended up attending a nearby vocational school, and it was there that he had the experience that changed him forever.
“My mind used to be sealed,” Christopher says, “but then I blew out of myself, and now, my head is dead.”  Christopher was on a field trip when he ate what he calls, “the seed of life.”  He isn’t sure what is was, gypsum weed perhaps, but at the encouragement of his fellow classmates he consumed a handful of it.  “I felt dizzy, things were spinning.  Something happened and I woke up in a chair.”  Each time he tells the story, the details change, some minor, some major.  In one rendition there was an electrical storm, in another he saw an invisible Indian massacre.  Each version ends the same however; Christopher wakes up several days later as a different person, a person he can’t recognize, a person that hears voices.
Christopher Good is almost fifty, and his skin looks like wrinkled rose petals, permanently sun burnt from prolonged exposure to the Texas elements.  His facial hair is thick, the color and consistency of pale yellow straw, but it thins as it reaches up towards the crown of his head.  Most of the things he carries with him; a battered baseball cap, a dingy grey thermal shirt, a worn L.L. Bean backpack, he proudly proclaims as having salvaged from the trash.  The only thing on his person that is not obviously trash picked is the white medical bracelet around his wrist.  Without a moment’s notice Christopher splays his arms outward into a classic scarecrow pose, and demonstrates the unusual muscle shapes he has in his forearms.  Nodding at them proudly, he calls them his “artifice,” or his “grasshoppers.”  These unusual muscles are where most of the voices Christopher fights come from.
As Christopher talks, he repeats certain things, and it becomes obvious that he has difficulty constructing the linear narrative of his life.  He calls himself a “hand be down,” and admits that while he flunked out of his classes, if you show him how to do something, he can repeat it and do it till it’s done.  “I used to work, I stole before, I’d crawl through people’s houses and takes things,” he says.  He laughs for a minute and looks away.  “My father used to tell me when I was a boy, ‘Your last name may be Good, but there is no doubt you’re bad.’”
Christopher has been diagnosed with schizophrenic paranoia, or as he says, “I’m a paranoid defective, I’ve lost my powers.”  He fights the voices constantly and there are moments in conversation where he pauses, looking you dead in the eye, and you can seem him struggle with it.  “At this point, I’ve learned what to say; to my mom, to the law, to the people or whoever. No one is going to treat you right if you tell them you hear voices.”  In addition to his battles with his internal demons, Christopher has struggled against crack-cocaine addiction for the last twenty years.
“Crack-cocaine is like when you love something, and you do something everyday, that thing
breaks your heart.”  During a recent schizophrenic episode, which was caused in part by heavy crack use, Christopher ran into the streets and was begging cars to help him.  “Nobody loves me,” he says, “and whether or not it’s love, you still have to have somebody to touch.”  The police were called and Christopher spent almost three weeks in Dallas’ Timberlawn Mental Health Center.
In his own personal mythology, Indians play a pivotal role.  Many of the times he retells his “seed of life” story, he ends up going into a prolonged rant about the Commanchees, the Apache, and the natives from Africa- a different kind of Indian.
He points up at the sky and explains, “That’s my blue blood up there.  The sky is really auburn. It’s Apache land.  The Indians are all the same, except they’re different tribes that broke apart from the Earth’s crust. And even though I got blue eyes and blonde hair, I’m one of them.”
In many ways, Christopher is right, he is one of them.  The Native Americans of today exist as a shattered and displaced people, struggling for existence in poverty stricken reservations.  The old traditions disappear quicker with each generation, and the great-grandchildren of once powerful shamans fight against a different sort of evil spirit, alcohol.  In Christopher’s life, there are many evil spirits to fight; the law, crack addiction, drug dealers, and any others who wish him harm.  But in the end, he knows that the real enemy is within himself.  His eyes are wet with tears when he says, “I don’t like me when me messes with me.”

I think this clip clearly illustrates a couple of things:

1. The ubiquity of surveillance technology is a GOOD thing.  Yes, the powers that be can spy on us, but thanks to home video (Rodney King), Youtube (this video went viral and totally outed the cop’s official report as a load of BS http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUkiyBVytRQ) and cell phone recorders, we can spy on them.  Without this audio this would have been one kid’s word against an organization that vehemently denies such allegations.

2. Fox News seems awfully concerned about civil liberties and “government run capitalism becoming fascist.”  Apparently, when Bush strips us of freedoms and rewrites the Consitution, it’s for the best.  But when some dick weed TSA officers fuck with a libertarian kid, obviously Obama is on his way to becoming Mussolini.  I’m no fan of conspiracy theories but it seems that news networks will create the spin in anyway they see fit.  If Gore had won and 9-11 went down under his watch, rather than 7 years of blind patriotic flag waving, we would have seen a lot of finger pointing and blame cast on the executive branch.

3. Fox News will always be Fox News.  Even when reporting a case where they denounce the authorities for trampling a citizen’s civil liberties, they do so because that someone is a fresh faced Republican supporter (Ron Paul is Republican by the way, people like to forget that) with an American flag behind is head.  The pundits practically say, “He was a white kid for crying out loud.  He was a white kid with money.  We’re supposed to be fucking with brown foreign guys with beards, what are you doing TSA? The kid is too white to be a terrorist.”

Ian Svenonius is an anomaly in the world of underground music, he’s managed to not only stay in the scene for over twenty years, but remain relevant the entire time.  Other alternative luminaries make their name, and then live off that nostalgia for as long as possible.  Svenonius made his name back in 80s with the Dischord post punk outfit Nation of Ulysses, and has since continued to trade and upgrade that reputation, forming and fronting genre redefining groups like The Make-Up and Weird War.  His writings, essays on the symbolic, esoteric, geo-politcal ramifications of rock and roll, have been compiled into the widely praised, and criminally out of print, little pink book, The Psychic Soviet.  He also hosts an interview program on vbs.tv, Vice magazine’s video site, called Soft Focus.  That last bit scares the crap out of me, he’s a pro-interviewer so he’ll spot all my mistakes a mile away.  Oh well, he’s also a dangerously smart pop philospher who has put forth theories about the maternal symbollism of the Soviet Union, broken limbs during live performances, and recently, espoused an anti-freedom agenda in reaction to the perceived negative consequences of the spread of America’s so-called “liberty.”  So at least he has something to talk about.

For anyone interested, Fluxtumblr assembled this excellent unofficial anthology, showcasing the best of Ian’s past projects, including Nation of Ulysses, Cupid Car Club, The Make-Up, Scene Creamers, and Weird War. This anthology is the perfect introduction to the Svenonius sound; his signature frontman crooning and call and response provides a common thread to this mix of paranoid punk, soulful organs, dance rhythms, and angular guitar.  Tracks to check out: “Pow to the People” by the Make-Up, “Grape Juice Plus” by Cupid Car Club, “A Kid Who Tells On Another Kid Is A Dead Kid” by Nation of Ulysses, and “Baby It’s The Best” by Weird War (featuring the always excellent Neil Michael Hagerty on guitar)  Download and enjoy.

DOWNLOAD IT!

Also enjoy this video of Weird War playing for a primary school in New Zealand.

So pros: I really like the way Brad Pitt says Nazi, and I like Hitler throwing a tantrum at the end. Also, it has Neal from “Freaks and Geeks” which will be weird, but probably awesome. Probably some kind of Red Badge of Courage thing going on there. Cons:  At one point, I heard a rumour that Leonardo Dicaprio was going to play a super sadistic Aryan uber-Nazi.  Apparently that is not true. Bummer.  Also Mike Meyers is in it which could be cool, as long as his character doesn’t have a retarded accent.  Finally, I thought Death Proof was decent except that all the Tarantino-dialogue felt really awkward and tacked on.  This movie does not need long speeches about the difference between Fanta and Coke and Captain America’s symbollic importance to the resistance. Stick to scalping Nazis and it will probably turn out fine.

I am fucking stoked about this. Written by Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers, this trailer makes it look like they managed to craft an original story that incorparates the original Maurice Sendak classic, without bastardizing it (a la Cat in the Hat) or losing all novelty by hugging desperately to the source material (cough cough Watchmen).  If I had a little kid and knew how to sew, I would be all about making him a hooded Max outfit.  Good use of the Arcade Fire too.

Determined not to let another Austin event pass by without my attendance I scanned the blogs for weeks in advance, bookmarking every show with either free alcohol or bands I wanted to see. With nary a badge or a wristband I planned to descend on downtown, not for the purpose of watching films by the newest indie-outsiders or sets by blog hyped hipsters, but to lie, sneak, and bullshit my way into every open bar I could find. The start of the week was rough, little went on during the day, and I had to work hard to gain access to events as paltry as Decider’s VIP balcony at the Mohawk. But once Wednesday arrived, it was officially on.

Up, awake, and downtown at 11AM for the sole purpose of gratis breakfast tacos and bloody marys out of a bucket, I was ready to start my first SXSW. Mob mentality blocks out any of the usual warnings signs; I felt fine double fisting tall cans of Lonestar in the early afternoon because the girl next to me was doing three, carefully balancing a backup in the crook of her elbow. I spent the day alternating between well vodka mixed with promotional juice, beer from unknown breweries, and 20 minute sets from guitar shredders like Marnie Stern, Wavves, and King Khan and BBQ Show. As my blood alcohol level rose, the sun began to set, and the lines in which I was cutting got longer, and longer, and longer. I began to feel like a reverse-vampire, incoherent and out of my element against the night-walking badge holders. I retreated.

Thursday afternoon found me in a parking lot behind Urban Outfitters, sipping Pabst with the v-neck crowd. Some corporate promotions seem tenuous and far fetched and I have a hard time believing that Scion sales are going through the roof due to free Juan MacLean concerts. But Urban Outfitters, PBR, and bands with either “crystal” or “girls” in their name united in a Pitchfork wet dream, sticky and hip. Best of all, the volunteer bartenders neglected to open the beer for you. When it came time to head downtown, my messenger bag was full of cold, corporate sponsored cans.

Lines are for losers and disorderly day lines are easily skipped by stepping three quarters of the way towards the front, and then engaging someone in conversation. Where are you from? Who’s next? Is there free booze in there? Soon you’re fast friends on the fast track inside. I used this technique to slip inside the Parrish in time for Dirty Projectors, then relaxed in the dark with my contraband. By the time Blitzen Trappen and the beer were both done, I was already off to the east side to enjoy the other perk of being an Austinite during SXSW, out of town friends.

When your out of town friends are alcoholics, professional photographers, and dirty Dixie country musicians, it gets out of hand pretty quickly. Soon we were catching up on old times by tearing through six packs and taking dirty digital photos. Time blurred and hours later I was on my way downtown again; soaked in beer and green with grass stains.

This is the point where things start to get seriously disjointed. As I entered my eleventh hour of heavy consumption I simultaneously entered Ballet-Austin for the KVRXplosion. The venue’s blank grey walls, twisting corridors, and my own high level of intoxication made me feel like I was trapped in that scene from Spinal Tap where they are lost backstage. I wandered about from room to room, and sipped bottom shelf vodka Red Bulls while trying to avoid stumbling into equipment. Right before my memory cuts off I remember yelling at dreamy LA pop star Jeremy Jay about our mutual friend’s cats…

Through interviews with friends and text message date stamps, I’ve calculated my time loss to a half hour period, somewhere near two in the morning. The moment I regained coherence I was limping out the front door and bleeding profusely from the shin. I sat down next to a guy I vaguely recognized and pointed to my severely lacerated leg, “Check it out! How metal is that shit?” He confirmed that it was, indeed, metal as fuck, but also that it looked really bad and I should probably go to to the hospital. He was right and a few hours later I was having sutures, staples, and 20 something stitches put into my three, deep, vertical gashes.

It has been four days now, and I still don’t know what happened. No one I’ve talked to saw it go down, and even the doctor couldn’t imagine what would make my leg look like it got, in his words, “attacked by Wolverine.” I’d still love to know, just to quench my curiosity, but at this point I’m chalking it up to line-cutting karma and a life lesson in moderation. In the midst of SXSW’s four day blitz of non-stop live music and free alcohol it is easy to lose track of common sense and submit to the bacchanal. But while some leave with shwag, others leave with scars, and next year I hope to catch a few more bands and remember that, even if it’s free, day drinking is never a good idea.

Tuesday Nov 11th – sBach – Emo’s

w/ Eagle Claw, My Education 10PM

Tuesday Nov 11th – Kraak & Smaak – The Parrish Room

w/Rose, MC Seb, L.A.X.  8Pm all ages $15

Thursday Nov 13th – Of Montreal – Fiesta Gardens

w/ Icy Demons 8PM all ages $18

Friday Nov 14th – Ghostland Observatory – Stubb’s

SOLD OUT! Bummer.

Saturday Nov 15th – Cheech and Chong – Austin Music Hall

8PM $$$expensive$$

Saturday Nov 15th – King Kahn and BBQ Show – Mohawk

w/The Crackpipes, Harlem 8PM all ages