Short North Observation

Lately at night I've seen a man around town. There's a reason it's always after dark and he's memorable. A rare disorder has caused boils to sprout all-over his skin. I'm not talking about a cluster of 10 or 20. Literally, every square inch of exposed skin is covered by small to large dangling sacks of liquid. His face looks like a giant raspberry with eyes and lips ... you can't even make out hair or ears. His head is usually covered by a fisherman's hat. He wears gloves and pulls his collar up, anything to help hide his terrible curse, playing the lead in a real life horror movie.

I'll never forget the first time we crossed paths. On my way home from work I'd stopped at the Dairy Mart for a pack of smokes. He was at the counter chatting with the clerk. As I walked in we made eye contact for a split second. Startled, shocked, afraid, a gasp my have even escaped my lips. I looked away and darted to the back of the store, feeling like a child who had just seen the boogeyman. No one could blame me. Nothing can prepare you for that. A visual sucker punch. I never saw it coming.

Despite my unintentional and unavoidable reaction, I was ashamed. I knew that everyday of his life he saw "that look" ... the one that had been on my face. The look of terror, than disgust and finally pity. My response was yet another drop in a depressingly full bucket. Who knows, maybe he enjoys scaring the shit out of people; a small level of payback for the awful hand God has dealt him. It's plausible he doesn't even notice anymore. At the places he frequents most are no doubt used to his condition but in his private moments, when he has time to reflect, he probably hates us all equally. Hates us because we complain about bills and girlfriends. Oblivious to real problems and deep anguish. Hates us because we're normal looking and he's not. He has every right to be the most bitter person that ever lived.

After sliding back into my car I watched him munch on his Cheetos and sip his fountain drink while waiting at a crosswalk. I didn't want to feel sorry for him but did ... deeply. Once the initial shock was gone it was plain to see he wasn't a monster at all. Just another human being roaming the earth. Enjoying a snack from the corner store. As the light changed a motorcycle stopped just in front of him. He was inspecting the bike as he passed through the intersection, an obvious admirer. Before turning his head and walking out of sight I'll be damned if I didn't see him smile. A few seconds later he was gone. I Turned the key and my car's engine roared to life. Shifting into gear, I'd forgotten whatever personal injustice I was worried about when I pulled up.


-J.R.

The Black Keys: Built in Akron, Ohio

"A sinister kid ... runs to meet his maker ... and that's me ... the boy with the broken halo, that's me, the devil won't let me be."
-The Black Keys, Sinister Kid




There's no cheating. You can only pick one. Name your favorite band. I'm only giving you 5 seconds. Go.

Maybe a handful of you could do it. Most can narrow it down to a select few, but it's nearly impossible the more you think about it. I've always struggled with this question. What genre are we talking? What era? I could say Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, or Wu-Tang Clan, even Radiohead based on these criteria. The question is much too vague. I could never give a straight answer ... well until very recently, when the solution inexplicably presented itself.

**************************************************

Walking to the Lifestyle Communities Pavilion, we sank into our trip slowly, the song of the summer cicadas clicking in our ears. The trek seemed to be taking forever. Traveling south on Neil Ave. the five of us merged into a gang with other anonymous concert goers. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. The shrooms and about six or seven beers (in an hour and a half) might explain that. All of us (but one) were big fans. The odd man out had never heard The Black Keys in his life and had no idea what he'd signed up for. I thought of what questions to ask later, intrigued to hear a first time listeners opinion.

I'd been into The Black Keys for over a year but I was still getting caught up with their massive catalog (10 releases since 2001, counting side projects). From the very start they grabbed my attention. The first time I heard Your Touch I knew they were very serious. Curious, I talked to Shooter, my roommate at the time, and asked if he was hip. He immediately burned me Magic Potion and Rubber Factory and I devoured them. Both albums played for a solid month during my drive to and from work. Another friend lent me Attack and Release, which I also enjoyed (all be it slightly less than the other two). I even got their newest, Brothers the day it came out.

All of this happened before I saw them at Bonnaroo, where they tied for my Best of Show honors. Live performance is the most important thing I look for when deciding how much I like a band. They were officially in my top-5 all-time after that. I scored tickets to their Columbus gig the day I got back. Headlining on Friday the 13th, in front of a hometown crowd ... it had psychedelics written all over.

We'd made it in without incident after a short wait ... or so we thought. Once past the initial frenzy, we were down a man. Our gaze darted from face to face but they began to run together. Trying to focus on multiple moving objects is very difficult on serious drugs. The minutes began to accumulate. We grew anxious, the evil mushrooms slowly rotting our brains. The warm up band had finished. It was time to make an executive decision. Finally he answered his cell.

"I freaked out when we walked in and turned around," he said. "Too many bodies, too many staring eyes." In his defense, he's not a big hallucinogen user. Poor bastard never stood a chance really. I'm an experienced user and I was on the edge of a melt down too. Strong batch. Later, after we'd returned from the concert, we found him outside the apartment in the dark, wrapped in a blanket, still wearing sunglasses, writing his "Gospel" in a notebook. Some of it was hilarious but must was undecipherable chicken scratch. We would never let him live it down.

Obligatory phone call finished, we got beers and made our way to the lawn. The show had sold out and was even more packed than the last time I'd been to LC for My Morning Jacket. Drugs almost at their peak, everything made me giggle. This free and easy feeling wouldn't last long. We lodged ourselves next to an alley way, fairly cramped but not unbearable. Apparently some die hard Keys fans had camped out, arriving before the gates even opened. One couple had laid out a blanket beside us, claiming the small piece of real estate for themselves. We weren't encroaching but the woman was starting to get bent out of shape by the people who were congregating in front of her. Occasionally one would step on her blanket, thus invading the personal bubble she was trying to keep sterile.

"This is just ridiculous, you all standing in front of us like that," she said. "We've been waiting in these spots for hours!"

"Pa-leeeease lady," the drunkest of the three said. "It's a sold out show. Standing room only. As soon as the music starts everyone's going to get up anyway."

I could see both sides. She had been there first, they should honor her spot, like we had ... but at the same time she needs to understand that at a sell out, standing room only event you are going to be close. You are going to be sweaty. You are going to be touching people all around you who are totally drunk, stoned or both. That little blanket's worth of grass isn't included with the price of admission.

"If you don't move I'm going to start spitting on people!" she screamed. Arguing began and talk of the cops getting involved arouse. Ugly vibes. We wouldn't make good character witnesses in our current state, so we bolted to the restroom. While grabbing a last minute brew on our way back, we ran into some friends and managed to weasel our way into their spot. It was dead center of the lawn and much closer than where the lady had flipped out earlier. I didn't even want to know what happened to her and the drunks.

Multicolored stage lights clicked on and the two dweebs from Akron walked out to deafening cheers. The gangly one, all arms and legs, crawled behind the drums. The guy with a beard, in the awful plaid shirt, picked up a guitar and quietly said hello into the mic. He started tapping his foot and than smashed a power chord and held it till my ears popped.

The next two hours were probably the most memorable of any concert I've seen to date, easily better than their Bonnaroo performance. The two were in perfect harmony and pushed each others intensity over the top. I've said it before, but the level of sound and energy they put out, for just two men, is mind blowing. You keep looking around for another derelict on a musical instrument of some kind helping to create such racket. With each stomp of the peddle Dan Auerbach's guitar bounced back and forth from heavy Blues to smash mouth Rock 'n' Roll. Every note wailed, the auditory equivalent of getting slapped in the face. However, as a preform he was very introverted. Comfortable on stage with his instrument, but not with the crowd. He spoke very little in-between, his voice soft and sheepish. This was a stark contrast to his soulful and powerful singing. This dichotomy worked much to his advantage. The fact that he's an incredible guitar player helps too. Everything about them is loud and in-your-face. Fast and concussive were the drums. I could feel the reverberations in my chest. Patrick Carney made seizure faces, soaked in perspiration, smashing his sticks to the rhythm. He'd mic'ed his kit perfectly. My hearing was muffled for days.

Halfway through, they brought out the keyboard player and bassist who helped them out with the new album. After some tracks they sent them off and closed out as a duo, just like Bonnaroo (see Day 2 post). Unlike Roo, they came out for an encore after everyone in the crowd refused to leave, chanting "one more song" until blue in the face.

"Ohio," Dan said with a large grin. "Damn it does feel good to be home!" They smashed two more and called it a night.

On the walk back I was dripping with sweat from dancing and carrying on. We'd all been blown away and began talking over one another incessantly, naming our favorite song or an unfulfilled requests. Our Key's virgin was silent, totally shell shocked. He didn't go to many shows and had nearly wet his pants in all the excitement.

"That was the best fucking concert I have ever been to!" He shouted. "I fucking love those guys! I'm down loading all their shit as soon as I get home. They are now my favorite band." I couldn't agree more, and I purchased everything I didn't already own the next day. That's when it hit me. After seeing them twice I still craved more. The show had only gotten better. They were officially number one on my list ... no doubt about it. I had my answer to the impossible question. It was more of a realization than a conclusion. Like it had always been that way, I wasn't making any new discovery, just excepting an obvious truth.

After hanging out for a bit and digesting the night's events, I could feel a incredible headache starting. The type that builds in pressure behind your eyes, later spreading out through the entire brain like octopus tentacles before squeezing the life out of you. I'd made the fatal mistake of drinking alcohol while tripping, without ingesting any water. Both severely dehydrate and I was now paying the price. I hurried home and chugged a gallon of H2O while laying on the couch, a cold wash cloth draped across my forehead. I had once again pushed my luck a little too far, had a little too much fun. Continued abuse of such substances would lead me to meet my maker sooner than later. But they awaken things inside of me and I can't simply let such things be. The pulsing pain was dull and constant. I drank more water. My skull had melted. Drifting off to sleep with feedback still ringing in my ears, I wasn't sure if the drugs or The Black Keys were to blame.


-J.R.

Worth More Than a Passing Glance ...

"It was not your fault but mine ...
I really fucked it up this time
didn't I my dear?"
-Mumford and Sons, Little Lion Man




The decrepit building is something out of Amityville horror, hidden on Summit St. amongst slum lord apartments and minute marts. The dingy hardwoood floors, crumbling finish, and black mold infestation are probably grounds for foreclosure. I had even heard tales that it was haunted by some former residents. Despite this, the front patio is inviting and when passing through the heavy wooden front door the first thing you notice is a life-size stop light set up behind the bar alternating between go, yield and stop. Chotskies hang from the ceiling and walls, covered with a decades worth of dust. Ruby Tuesday is a health inspector's worst nightmare at best but I have a soft spot for anything with miles, and this dive had its' share. It's also cash only. My first trip there I was the asshole waving his card around wondering why the bar tender wouldn't make eye contact. No one had warned me. He pointed to the ATM and I got the message. Luckily I'd remembered cash this time ...

I was there to see my buddy Mike's band. They called themselves The Glance and he played banjo in the six man ensemble. A $5 cover got you a copy of their new EP Matchmaker. The sound is assorted, mixing in acoustic/electric guitar and mandolin as well. They had a Cold War Kids vibe layered with the string instruments, giving it a Bluegrass after taste.

As I ordered a cold beverage there was a comedian on stage doing a bit about tripping, part of the nights entertainment. He had two stand-up spots, in-between set up for the bands. I'd seen him around town but never realized he was an aspiring artist. Sipping my beer I stood at the bar giving him a listen.

"So I ate a handful of mushrooms the other day ," he said. "I walked out my front door (starts humming the Super Mario Brothers music), crossed the street to get some cigs and fell down a manhole, dooo, dooo, dooo, dooo," (imitating the video game character squatting into a giant green pipe). I chuckled. He wasn't bad.

After a few more jokes I went outside for a smoke, where I ran into my friend Brett. We'd gone to high school together (same one as Mike ) and we were both there to root on our friend. Brett is one of the funniest people I know, manly because we share a similar sense of humor and because he's Jewish ... funnier to me as a people than gentiles. Obviously I'm biased, being half Jew myself but who's keeping track. We were discussing the dating scene and the pressure our mothers were putting on us to "met a girl and settle down", ( a Jewish mom ragging on her son, imagine that).

"It's terrible out there I tell ya," Brett said exhaling tobacco smoke. "The last date I went on was so bad, I almost sent her a bill." I laughed out loud. Now that's fucking funny. We went in and toasted with the house shot called a Trailer Park. Don't ask me how they get away with calling Kentucky Tavern and an RC cola chaser a house shot. I was familiar with KT and didn't mind but Brett was not a fan, tears swelling in his eyes after swallowing. He cursed me under his breath, so I order him a Tall Pibber to make amends.

They came onto stage with a sparse but growing crowd. It was the official release show so they played the EP top to bottom. I loved the build-up in Preen and Mike's Banjo work on Quiet and Poor but Happiness in Pills struck the loudest chord with me, ("In an age of pain ... we're hurting everyday ... consume our happiness in pills"). It had a disturbing but relevant message sung eloquently. They also mixed in an excellent cover of Hang Me Out to Dry. Lead singer Travis Bunner sounded just like Nathan Willett of CW Kids. He pranced around, barely taller than me with the help of the stage, not just hitting the notes, but giving them presence ... CRUCIAL for any front-man. A bow, and much applause.

They closed with another cover, Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons, a fast paced romp, perfect for their eclectic sound. I had never heard the song before but I was enthralled. By the end Mike was on his knees raking his hand across the banjo strings so fast I thought I saw smoke. I spun a lady on the dance floor as the crowd got loose to the rhythm. A few days later, after I downloaded Mumford's whole album, I was amazed how dead on his solo was. With just over twelve months on the instrument, Mike was a regular savant.

Afterwards, we all had a few more and stayed for the last act, Matt Monta and The Hot Coal Band. Monta reminded me of a much larger Anton Newcombe from Brian Jonestown Massacre ... similar voice and look. The band had a twist though ... cello. The player was beautiful, blond with quite large and perky tits. She played maracas and sang back-up as well. With ever shake and wail her wonderfully perfect breasts giggled just right. Definitely not implants. She was my dream woman. I was in love, if only for the night. One line they sang really caught my attention ... "Every man has his price and we're always for sale." I wonder if she had a price as well. I finished off my Tallboy and made a trip to the basement bathroom.

Stifling odors of mildew and piss. Crypt-like; a very large, dimly lite room with junk piled up against one wall, and two red doors. The only signs of life were faint voices and footsteps from above. Ducking through the one with a little man, I realized I was the only person down there. The temperature seemed to instantly drop five degrees. Looking around at the aged wooden walls it began to feel like I was in the belly of a pirate ship, a slow trickle from the urinal sounding like seawater leaking through the hull. I was starting to believe the joint really was haunted. How many people had lived, drank, even died inside its' walls, possibly in this very room? If something happened, could anyone hear me scream? Zipping my fly, I hurried upstairs to join my friends, looking over my shoulder along the way, a feeling of someone watching raising the hair on the back of my neck.


-J.R.

Profile: Brody Ryan

"The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast...
As the present now
Will later be past ...
For the times they are a-changin'."

-Bob Dylan, Times They are a Changin'



Brody Ryan unpacks his bags for the second time in less than a year, wondering how long it will be until he just fills them up again. His only constant is change, traveling over 3,000 miles in less than 12 months, settling in Arizona for a bit before returning to Ohio. He should be through rushing around, he should be worn out and ready to relax ... but an opportunity has presented itself and there's no time to hesitate. He's just started making moves.

A few weeks later we sat in the living room of his new condo. Well actually, it's a new "old" condo. It was his grandfathers (who recently moved to assisted living) and he is staying there with his girlfriend Samantha until his family can sell it. She is an aspiring model/writer herself and the two make a perfect pair. The place has a very heavy 70s vibe; the small rounded sectional couch with crazy floral pattern, palm tree lamp, and shag carpet. There are even some knick knacks in a display case. I had a flashback to my Grandmother's Boca time-share. But rent was free and it was still a very nice place, all new appliances, clean, even if the decor was dated. They had moved from Tempe (Samantha's home town) and were eager to save some money and pursue their dreams together in a new environment.

"Being a huge fan of music, one day I decided to not just be a fan but to create my own," he said over a few brews. "It wasn’t until I shared my music with a close friend and his enthusiastic response ignited a hope and the decision that others might enjoy my music as well." He goes by the name Shy F.A.M.E but he doesn't just sing and rap, he's a one man army, doing all his own lyrics, most of the beats and production ... while maintaining his own graphic design/photography website (http://shyfame.com/) as well. "Steez-O is my producer," he says, not wanting to take all the credit. "He mixes it all down."

Ryan's days usually start early. Around 8 a.m. he makes breakfast, has some coffee and a smoke, collecting his thoughts on the second floor balcony. He'll write a little or rehearse lines in his head. Then it's straight to recording and he won't stop until he has a substantial base to work with. He spends the evenings tweaking, adding loops, effects, and planing the next days session. If he's up late he works on the website or his photos. Building your rep is a full-time job, if you want it to be.

The master bedroom closet has been converted into a recording booth. Sound proof insulation and a studio quality mic and two laptops to store the takes. "I just come back here and get in the zone," he said smiling. "In my own little world." He grew up outside Columbus, a middle-classer. The public school, varsity basketball type until college at Bowling Green where he found his interests were in fashion, photography, design and of course music ... he still dabbles in all freely. It's obvious from the start that he is very passionate about WHATEVER he is doing.

However, there's a bit of that boyish wonder in his eyes when he mentions his under construction mix tape New Dawn New Day, or any other artist's work he is feeling at the particular moment for that matter. We talked for hours about the finer points of The Black Keys and Kid Cudi (Shy F.A.M.E. and Cudi ran with the same crowd in Cleveland before Kanye brought Cudi up to the major leagues). He even introduced me to some music I'd never heard before.

"You like the Keys? Then you have to check these guys out," he said, jumping out of his seat. He played a couple tracks by a band called The Sugar Thieves. I was digging it. We sipped on our Red Stripes and got back to the topic. He played me a party song he'd just finished up that day. It had swag.

"Haters creepin' in acting like they love us, eatin' all the peaches out the hairy buff tubes, but it's all love, let them live it up it's the weekend." The beat was original and the hook was quite catchy. It was easily better then Soldier Boy and that slop is on the radio all the time. He has been working extensively on the New Dawn New Day for the last 4 weeks and hopes to have it available for download later this fall.

It's not Brody Ryan's first attempt at putting out a record. Under his alias, Shy F.A.M.E he's already released Dawn of the X-Ordinary with help form his sponsor T.I.T.S. clothing (http://www.shoptits.com/) earlier this year. Check out Body So Cold and the Tom's Diner remix. Both will be stuck in your head for the next 3 days. The EP is getting heavy buzz on the internet thanks to the outer space rock/hip-hop/club infused cuts which are un-classifiable, constantly changing ... Radiohead meets Kool Kids with a Daft Punk backdrop and other elements that aren't on the periodic table. Truly extraordinary ... but as I've said he's wasting no time, not ready to simply ride a small wave of success. He want's bigger and better.

"I only have this situation (no rent, minimal bills) for so long, so I'm not really working other than on my music so I want to make as much as possible." He feels like he is on the clock, living on savings until he either breaks through or has to get a day job. There's also a video for his Starry Eyed remix set to shoot the following week and so fine tuning the concept is weighing on his thoughts as well.

"My soul is rising up," he explained. "The sun is shinning through me and I can see the tears in everyone's eyes shine like diamonds ... starry eyes. It will be on the new tape as well. I'm trying to continue innovating. Definitely more soulful, some dupstep, electronica, maybe some guitar riffs ... more experimenting." He has input or a hand in every aspect of his work, from the songs, to the photos, to the logos and so on ... something most established artists wished they could say. Anyway, it's nice to know nobody can make you look like an ass. Stay up to date at http://iamgogone.com/, his website for all news Brody Ryan related.

Of course music is abundant ... everywhere these days. So how do you separate the quality from the sub-par when making download choices? Why believe me when I say cop that new mix tape? Everything is constantly changing, evolving, cross-breeding ... so wriggly it's impossible to pin down a genre on anyone. Like many, Brody Ryan is a budding artist who is just finding his voice and his audience in a sea of noise but the difference between him and the worms peddling shit is simple. He's up before the early bird and he burns the midnight oil, putting in the time and energy necessary to make his dreams a reality. His brand and his reputation are growing ... he's no doubt working on both as I type this. Drive, vision, and talent will get you far in life. The only question now is how far? The clock is ticking ...


-J.R.