Amoeblog

hysteron proteron: part one

Posted by Whitmore, August 7, 2007 10:22pm | Post a Comment


The great Amoeba Hollywood enigma that is  “The 45 Room.”  Some simply refer to this veiled   room as the “used 7 inch pricing room,” but for others, sweaty with desire: “Vinyl Shangri-la.”

Does it really exist, and if so, where? What goes on in there? Who are they? Why is it invisible to non-believers?

Questions abound yet few answers come into the light under ampoule fluorescente compacte.

Inquirers try to penetrate this mysterious place of secret societies revolving/evolving from a dim tiny room, but to no avail.

There are so many myths. Startling tales and conspiracy theories abound, sounding not unlike the outlandish yarns associated with Area 51, Skull and Bones, the Bohemian Club or the Maury/Vashon Island incident of 1947 (look that puppy up!!) ….

One extraordinary 45 room rumor involves a holy modal ceremony around a stack of power-pop 45’s sacrificed at the feet of a giant forty-foot statue of Murry Wilson (aka Daddy Beach Boys). Can this be true? In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king ...

What about the reported appearance of “men in black” or "suits" canvassing, i.e. shopping, in the death metal area and the complex chain of events dating from last July 2, on what would have been Murry Wilson’s 90th birthday -- and my birthday no less -- once again, there are no coincidences…. Management promised those fellows were just from Accounting. Really? Since when do accountants afford such nice threads? There is more, trust me ... but reprisals loom ... but many answers are encrypted in the art work below, just use your Amoeba decoder rings.

the genius of Sam Ott

Continue reading...

AMOEBLOG-MASHUP IN WHICH JOB AND EVERYONE GETS SAMPLED

Posted by Billyjam, August 2, 2007 09:35pm | Post a Comment
david bowie
So the other morning as I am sipping a latte, watching TV, reading Emails, listening to Bowie's Hunky Dory at the wrong speed and pitch -- - 8 on 45RPM -- and typing up an AMOEBLOG... multi-tasking, I guess you could say... who should stop by my mountainside cottage but my dear friend Zsa Zsa? She (as usual) makes herself way too comfortable at my place -- pouring herself a large glass of my fresh squeezed orange juice and munching on my very last fresh croissant as she reminded me that David Bowie was one of pop music's early cutNpaste, deconstruction, post-modern type, lyric sampling artists. "Huh.  Say what?" I asked confused - stopping typing for a second.  As she explained (and a little bit patronizingly in her know-it-all-music-fact way) how Bowie back in da day (the day being the early seventies)  would reportedly just flip through books and magazines and literally cut out sentences randomly here and there, and literally paste them all together in any which order - and viola -he had "Panic In Detrot"  "Queen Bitch" or "Life on Mars" etc

 "Wow" I said - not about Bowie's lazy songwriting techniques but the bright shiny blue pageboym.i.a. wig I just now noticed she was wearing. I quickly pointed out that M.I.A., who was just at Amoeba Music Berkeley last Saturday to a packed house, also wears a blue wig...just like that but that MIA has been wearing hers for longer - at least for as long ago as she took that single publicity shot that shows up in every story on her these days.  .And, somewhat smugly I admit, I noted that so does that Aussie woman chef/baker in the East Bay (Bettie I think her name is) who does a great baked chicken, I hear, and who was featured in the front page of the Food Section of this past Wednesday's San Francisco Chronicle.  But that the stylish baker woman's blue hair was not a wig at all but her own real hair - dyed blue of course. All of this I rattled out as I continued to type that day's AMOEBLOG with my back turned to Zsa Zsa.  And when I finally swung around in my suede swivel chair expecting to see a look of some kind on her face I realized that I had been talking to myself (again) because she had already split...gone for who knows how long . But I noticed that she had left a magazine on the purple sofa in the hallway. It was one of mine that she had borrowed and on its cover had a picture of a former friend of Madonna's.

Now before you start second guessing that you clicked on the right blog, I’ll explain myself. While I’m known to ogle a pretty gal now and again, the reason for my purchase is for one woman in particular: Sandra Bernhard. There’s a small chance that you and I don’t have the exact same tastes in everything, right? Maybe you don’t think that “Love & Rockets” is one of the finest works of literature in the history of mankind; perhaps you’d disagree that beholding a Rothko in person can be an emotional experience.  If you are under 25 and you are reading this, remember this; I think I’ve finally found an answer to the ol’ question “When did the attitudes of the freewheelin’ 60’s shift in the 70’s, and is there an exact date when it was nailed into the proverbial American forehead?” As it happens, you may not always realize what an important moment it is. It may be months or years later when you look back and reflect on that pivotal moment when you first heard some song that you are now obsessed with. I am a big fan of the hand claps. But only if they really work with the songs.

Continue reading...

(In which Job wrestles with his subconscious mind and recommends an album.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 30, 2007 08:17am | Post a Comment
It’s seven-thirty in the morning; I’ve just rolled out of bed after a weird and ultimately unhelpful dream about being accidentally tossed off the Thunder Mountain Railroad ride at Disneyland, after which I ended up drenched in water and yelling at Timothy Dalton, who was working as a security guard, for not believing that their stupid ride malfunctioned and landed me in a private parking garage.

Seriously. That’s what I was dreaming. Is it any wonder I’m awake an hour before normal? I mean, who needs that kind of crap? I am like, totally giving my subconscious mind the silent treatment today.

Two things are helping salvage my mood. One is writing this to you, of course. The other is listening to Jobriath.


This dude’s story is mostly tragic; one of the casualties of the music industry. He was glam at a time when glam had just started retiring. Bowie had already reinvented himself as a Zoot-suit wearing soul singer. Even so, Jobriath was promoted by Elektra Records as though his debut album would be more popular than The Beatles, and subsequently, God.

His half-naked frame was plastered all over cities at a time when we weren’t used to seeing such things. (I mean, nowadays it’s like, “Oh, a huge billboard of two, scantily-clad beefcakes frolicking in a pool together… in an advertisement for Toilet Duck.”) Jobriath’s first album was inescapable, and it hadn’t even been released.

So that, when it finally did hit the shelves, though it was critically acclaimed by many, it couldn’t live up to the hype that had come before it. Jobriath was eventually abandoned by his management and lived the rest of his life out in relative obscurity; his major legacy being an example to record companies on how NOT to handle a new act.

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