Calling Twin Cities Bands: I Want YOU!

I'm starting a photography project with local bands that I'm super stoked about. Basically, I've spent the past year shooting live shows, and love it dearly, but I'm trying to dig deeper.

Here's the deal...

I love candid photography and am comfortable with it but I want (and need) more practice doing promo shots. I have always been interested in the intimacy of the rehearsal process (I spent 15 years in rehearsal as a now pretty much defunct theatre actor and director.) So the project is a series of rehearsal and promotional shots with local bands. If possible, I would love to come in during one of your rehearsals, photograph you and your band (or just you and your instrument...whatever is applicable) practicing for no more than an hour (and usually less than that) and then spend maybe 30-45 minutes doing promo shots around your rehearsal space...outside the building, in the car, in the grass, in the weird creepy attic, what have you. Rock'n'roll...hip hop...indie rock...punk...rockabilly...instrumental...I'm interested in a ton! It's cool if you rehearse in just a grungy room in a house or a studio space or whatever. I like the challenge. (Also, I'm dropping a bit of my tax refund on some new gear.)

Here's some examples with The Spaghetti Western String Co...












Click here for the rest of the photos from that shoot.

There would be no money involved in the initial session and you all could use the pictures for whatever you wanted (as long as I am always credited!) It's something that's really fun and beneficial for me and you all could get some shots out of it. Contact me at malexajones at gmail dot com if you are interested and we can hopefully make something work.

Seriously, I'm fun and respectful and quiet (during these shoots...outside of these shoots, I'm a uber enthusiastic banshee.) I swear!

DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!

xoxo,
Jones

Dress me up, Jason.

It is no secret that I've have been involved in a long standing love affair with the Drive-By Truckers. From the first moment that I put in and listened straight through to Southern Rock Opera on a drive down to Missouri three years ago, to blaring Zip City on my weekly walk home across the Hennepin Ave Bridge two years ago, to screaming my brains out when the band, playing at First Ave, broke into The Day John Henry Died on the stroke of midnight last year, the exact second it had become my 25th birthday. I fucking love the Drive-By Truckers.

And...

I have the biggest boner school girl crush on this guy.


(taken by cheap point and shoot)

No, he's not smoking hot but when I watch him play, I get all mooshy. He's reeeeeeeally cute, he rocks and he breaks my heart. His lyrics and voice are stellar. And THAT makes him dreamy. When I found out that this guy, this guitar shredder, wrote Decoration Day, Outfit, and The Day John Henry Died, which are three of my top 5 DBT songs, I pretty much ripped off my clothes, beat my breast, did some sort of Southern jig and wept. Yes, this crush is based purely on watching and listening to him sing as I know nothing about his character and very little about his life(besides the fact that he has good taste in books, movies and tv and likes cheerios...thank you myspace.) All I, M. Alexandra Jones, really need to know is that he's (one of) my rock-n-roll boyfriends(). I also know he's 28 years old (so young, so much closer to me in age than my rock-n-roll husband.) Though his myspace says otherwise (stop teasing my cyberworld), I know he's married (like that's ever stopped me) to Shonna Tucker who can jam, beat and drink me under the table. Not only does Shonna play bass, which of course means she's extra stealth and cool, but she plays bass in the Drive-By Truckers. I laugh hysterically at wiener dogs, would most definitely lose in a fight, and get tipsy off of one beer.


(taken by jealous cheap point and shoot)

Sadly, I also know Jason, as of April of 2007, left the Drive-By Truckers. I guess my dream of hearing Zip City live will no longer be fulfilled with him a part of that rock-n-roll monster. Yes, Jason and Shonna are still married. Yes, I am still in denial.

I didn't mourn the DBT departure for long. Jason Isbell left the band for a noble purpose, to pursue a solo career and thus released Sirens of the Ditch on July 10th. Last week, I returned a gift to Electric Fetus which validated my spending money on an album...I had three I was deciding on and Jason (due to the upcoming show and the fierce dedication to DBT) won.

Thank the beautiful breast beating gods because melikey.

I fell in love with Track 5, Dress Blue, when I first heard him play it when he opened for Son Volt a few months ago (and blew Jay Farrar out of the fucking water.) Track 4 and Track 10 have gotten me through the last week. I've listened to them over and over and over again as I've driven to and from work, to and from rehearsal, to and from shows, to and from reality.





No, I don't love every song on the album. But I adore some and thoroughly enjoy almost all of them. I can't stop listening to my Magician do the Chicago Promenade. I can't wait to see what comes of Jason Isbell's solo career.

I can't wait for his in-store appearance at the Fetus tomorrow. I can't wait for his show afterward at the 400 Bar. I can't wait to have my camera with me. I can't wait to stand there and get all (calmly and subtley...I swear) mooshy. I can't wait to have my heart broken by my Southern singer.

TOMORROW IS JASON ISBELL DAY!

EDIT: Kyle told me at the in-store that Jason and Shonna divorced. I actually turned red. RED! I AM APPARANTELY A TEENAGE GIRL! More to come...

What Ike Said, What I Saw

Last Friday, I crouched behind Tony Nelson in the green room of The Cabooze as Ike Reilly, his groupies and his band sat in front of us.

Tony snapped portraits as I manned the light box. Ike, who I had been introduced to about ten minutes prior, looked drunkenly, directly at me.

"You are very put together," he remarked.
"Thank you," I answered quietly, smiling.

Tony swiveled around laughing, "Was he talking to you?"

I sorta answered but stayed focused on observing, occasionally attempting wit but mostly staying silent, trying to learn, dressed in my light blue western shirt with stars and sparrows, a navy blue bandanna, and bright red lips.

Focused and accessorized had thus translated to put together. Flattered and sweaty, my feet were scratched and sticky from a beer bottle that had been broken and fallen against my Chaco's, my ears rang from a lack of plugs (IwilllearnmylessonIwilllearnmylessonIwilllearnmylesson,) and the bright red long-wearing lipstick had actually cracked and coagulated on my lips.

In other words, I had just witnessed one helluva rock show.

At one point, as I was snapping a (few) hundred live shots for my archives, my musical WonderTwin and her HowWasTheShow review, Tommy Odonnell's mic stand began to fall from the stage towards the audience and specifically right onto me. My first instinct was to cover my camera and, by doing so, the stand hit me right on the head. I lifted up one hand and my audience neighbor lifted it the rest of the way up. Everyone else danced and cheered along, unfazed.

I was completely fine, it felt like an awkward, embarrassing tap, but Tommy looked down from the stage, horrified. He reached for my hand, grabbed it and shouted above the music.

"I'M SO SORRY! DID I HIT YOUR CAMERA OR YOUR HEAD???"
"MY HEAD...BUT IT'S BETTER THAT WAY!" I screamed.
"BUT I CAN BUY YOU A NEW CAMERA! I CAN'T BUY YOU A NEW HEAD!" he screamed.
"IT'S FINE! I'M FINE!" I screamed.

One helluva show.







I knelt down and just kept observing a photographer and a rocker. Many girls and a few boys lined up to get their picture taken, meet him, say hi. Ike and the band remembered some and welcomed others. Girls piled on top of each other just to sit close to him. Everyone except me and Tony seemed drunk, especially Ike, who rested against the fake wood paneling in his wife-beater, torn jeans, and slicked back hair, like a lost cast member of Grease.

"Are you seriously okay?" Tommy asked again.
"Seriously, I am. I'm really hard headed. But I'll send you any medical bills," I answered.
"Sure, the Ike Reilly Insurance Policy will cover any damages!" he answered back, smiling.

I kept watching Ike with his doting fans and I got this overwhelming sense of third party observer. It was like I was watching who I had been with so many of my rockers whom I love and follow (and hoping I wasn't that drunk or doting.) I was watching me the first time I met the Bielanko brothers. Ike was awesome and I had a great time at that show but I am just a casual fan. I don't own all his albums, don't know most of his songs and this was only my first concert of his (though not my last, for sure.) I just couldn't stop thinking of Marah, which makes me want this NYC/Philly trip to happen with every fiber of my rock fan being. It's not Bruce because I've never met Bruce, only shook his hand and watched him through his tinted van window (that is not/maybe is a little as creepy as it sounds.) Meeting the Marah boys in Brooklyn '05 was my first real experience with musical idols becoming real people to have drunken conversations with. It was awesome then and an awesome site to observe now.

"Thanks guys so much!" I waved as we left, lugging all the camera gear around my dirty shoulders. "That was so awesome! Have fun!"

It all felt so normal, like I was a part of this musical world. It was normal and huge at the same time.

Before I was a rock fan, I was Little Miss Broadway. I was raised on trips to the theatre in downtown Kansas City. For a good eighteen years, that was what I loved, that's the majority of music that made me cry and yelp with joy. My dear biotech's recent blog entry not only had me aching for a return trip to NYC but reminded me of one of the greatest examples of Jonesie ridiculousness.

An EXTREME guilty pleasure in my past (and still sorta current) showtune loving repertoire is the song Mr. Mistoffelees from Cats. For some god awful reason, it just made (makes) me happy...further evidence that I am indeed a flaming homosexual in a woman's body.

Hello....GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY (and creepy)!



Jonesie Ridiculousness: My parents took my sister and I to Cats a few times growing up. One of those times, we were about ten rows back. I fell asleep some time after the show started. Head down, dead asleep. Until that bone rattling drum beat/horn blow when Mr. Mistoffelees comes flying down from the ceiling.

With the mancat flying down from the ceiling and the orchestra swelling, I was jolted awake, flew back into my seat and I crossed myself, Eastern Orthodox style. What. the. FUCK!?!?!? I have no earthly idea why that was my first instinct. I'm not sure who else saw me. All I remember is being completely disoriented (and yet completely mesmerized.) It's almost as if the gods were speaking to me through the power of the cats and their giant codpieces. I blame it on that mysterious pussy power.

That is why I'll never be as cool as Ike Reilly.

So walk tall or baby don't walk at all

On Thursday, April 26th, I stood in The Varsity with my camera. It was Stook! and Chris Koza opening for JoAnna James. I took over five hundred pictures that night.



I danced around, twisted around, bent on my knees to try to get the shot I wanted. Capture Stook!'s infectious joy, Koza's understated sense of cool that melts away at moments. Katie, an old work friend, sat behind me as I ran around. She clutched onto her seat. Steve and Jim stood beside me at different points in the show. It was a wonderful night of music all around and it ended with JoAnna soulful pipes reeling with angst and pain and beauty and joy. At one point, Jim was cheering for JoAnna and I look up at him and say "this night is magic." He grabs my shoulders and kisses my head. I take more pictures. Martin walks by, a musician, head of her record label Eclectone Records, and he is choked up. Tears are welling up in his eye.

"I'm so proud of our girl," he says to Jim, "now I have to sing."



The show ended and I said goodbye. In a daze, I stood at the back of the Varsity for a moment. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want it to end. One of my favorite parts about traveling for Bruce Springsteen shows and staying in hotels near the arena is that the 3.5 hour party that happened on stage most certainly continues in the lobby, in the bar, in the rooms of the hotel. One night, in Chicago for Devils & Dust, someone was banging away on the piano and everyone, 20, 30, 40, 50 some odd people, were singing along to Thunder Road.

I wanted the party to somehow continue. But then I was overwhelmed with this sensation of needing to run outside, be outside away from everyone. I walked through the doors, mofoed Stook! and walked on to the parking lot.



Tears welled up in my eyes. I got closer to Brucie the Honda. And they started to pour. I opened my car doors and sat inside and I wept. Pulling away in a cloud with tears streaming down my face, listening to JoAnna's "Back of my Mind" EP, driving around the block that surrounds The Varsity because I couldn't leave it just yet. So happy, sort of distraught, cathartic. At that moment, I was entirely sure I had made the right decision to stay in Minneapolis and not move to New York. For now. For awhile. For I don't know how long any more. This is right. I called Laura and talked to her about art. This is my home, a place that inspires me, challenges me and brings out my current best. I knew that wholly as Back of my Mind
blared from my player.

This past Tuesday, my computer was stolen. Several people told me they understood my pain cause, you know, if there were a fire in your house, you would grab your photo albums first. My house, my art, burnt on the inside. The frame is what is left.



On Thursday, I bent behind the counter at work and started to cry for the zillionth time this week. I was overwhelmed again for the zillionth time this week. My finances were really fucked up. The Department Store hadn't paid me for Indiana vacation time I had requested, my rent check was going to bounce and I didn't know how to take care of that. But I did. I fixed it. And it knocked me down again in trying to fix it. But I had just talked to my mom and she had given me some extraordinary news. Without my asking, for my birthday, my mom and dad were going to buy me a new Mac laptop. I am not too proud right now to accept this gift that I can currently in no way pay for myself. They are just public school teachers. But they have given me a gift that I will use everyday, not just because internet is my crack but because that is the home to my pictures.



And I know sometimes I don't know how to ask for help when I need it, from my family and friends. I've lived so much of my life working towards a sense of ecstatic self, a sense of independence. I know how to take care of myself, to live by myself, to completely immerse myself in this life. My life. To use an overused cliche, I pride myself on being able to stand on my own two feet. But sometimes I can't stand up. I can't walk. I fall. And so many people are there to help me, to hold my hand, to talk to me, to let me ramble about Bruce Springsteen or tell my ridiculous stories, to accept me.



The people in my life have supported me endlessly this week. After my computer jacking and last post, I woke up to several texts, myspace comments and messages, voice mails. They've continued this entire week. I was offered a hand hold, an ear, a shoulder, constant condolences, old computers, a new computer, hard drive space to download my photos, Adobe, a bouquet of lilacs, a loan, pictures from Spain that my family had taken, burnt CDs of pictures I had taken that I had given to others. Even a freaking employee at the Apple Store that I chat with on an almost daily basis gave me a dorky but incredibly endearing hug when I told him why I was trying to figure out how to download my songs from my ipod back to a new computer. Not one person judged me for reacting so strongly. Everyone understood. I was seriously overwhelmed by how awesome so many people acted towards me. I know the best people in the world!

On Friday, I danced at Zenon, then drank with some friends at the 331 Club as JoAnna James played again. I talked to her for the first time. She hugged me. She loved my photos of her show, she had said in her myspace message, and wanted to buy me a drink. She said that they made her choke up because they reminded her of how great that night was at The Varsity on that Thursday night, how special it was to her. She had forwarded them onto her family and friends. Her mom told me how happy they made her, how often she has looked at them. And I'm just glad to be able to give something back to an artist, artists, who have given me so much. As friends, part of my Minneapolis family, people I dance with, cry to and laugh around.

Stook!'s record is called A Soundtrack to my Minneapolis.


This afternoon, I pulled up to work and there were enormous black clouds billowing around the lot of the employee entrance...my first thought was...HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLY SHIT...THE DEPARTMENT STORE IS BURNING TO THE GROUND...MY WISH HAS COME TRUE!!!!!

Alas, it is in tact, but it was like a holiday with all the drama circulating. A car had actually exploded, blowing out the windows and hood of not only the fire ball itself but a few cars around it. Luckily, no one was hurt. As much as I (the anti-confrontational girl from a funny farm in Missouri) want to punch about a dozen people that work there, I don't really want them to burn to the cement ground.

Anyway, on Monday, my Anna/Little Lamb leaves for the summer. So it was her goodbye party tonight. I peeled away from The Department Store in a cloud of smoke and arrived at the house. I saw Anna in one window and Genna in another window. They live in the same building down in Seward. I spend more time in that house than I do in my own.

I stood outside and yelled Litttttttttttle LAAAAAAAAAAAAMBIE! Genna tells me she sees me. Then, Anna peeks her head and tells me to wait. I stood there, first in the grass then in Genna's living room, enjoying a smoke (of what...Mom...if you are reading this...by enjoying a smoke...you know I don't mean cigs...cause I'll never ever smoke one of those again...by enjoying a smoke, I mean reading passages from Wuthering Heights.) Genna told me they were finishing the surprise. Genna peeks her head out and whispers something across to the other apartment. They're ready.



I walk to Laura's door. Anna has been staying there too as she had no place to stay for a month before her summer in southern Minnesota doing Shakespeare (Willy Willy Boom Billy...an utterly pointless statement to write but I keep saying over and over again in my head because it's FUN!) I heard Thunder Road playing and I, of course, loved that and got really excited. The door opened, I saw people, mine and Anna's friends, sitting or standing all around.

Anna points down, "Happy Birthday, Jonesie!"

I see the Born to Run record spinning on the turn-table.

"Awwww...I love Born to Run...I could definitely use another copy of this album...because the only one I have is framed on my wall right now. Wait, I think I actually have another under my desk. But that's still a cute gift!" I thought.

"Yeah. I love Born to Run!" I said.

"It's all yours, Jonesie!" Anna said.



My stomach dropped.

"The record player?" I muttered.

"YEAH!" she said.

"HOOOOOOOLY SHIT! IT'S MINE!??!?! THIS IS AWESOME!!!! MY HEART IS BEATING IN MY THROAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ALGLHJSJGLH:A:kgh:jheouwlkj:lak:ly:tuoeowpyaajAKDJHLFSKAJDFHLKJSA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed.

Everyone was smiling and I almost started to cry. Seriously. Y'know...for the zillionth time this week.



I haven't had a record player since I was a little girl. My sister and I used to spend the weekends reenacting the Annie musical, lip syncing and dancing with full costume and props. I was always little orphan Annie, naturally. But I'm convinced it's because really my sister just loved to play the drunk Miss Hannigan. Naturally. And this was all to the Annie record my mom had. And, by the way, god bless my parents for sitting through a bazillion cheap karaoke productions of Annie.



I don't know why I never bought a turn table. It just hadn't happened. UNTIL NOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOO!

The only records I own are almost all of Bruce Springsteen's albums (including one Dancing in the Dark single where he's completely gaying it up on the cover in this amazing dance pose,) one Southside Johnny album & that Annie album from my childhood. I completely regret giving all my parents old records to this deejay I had dated because I thought I would never actually use them. DJ, can I have them back, please?


Sidenote: not a picture of the deejay...but I like that he's looking at me in this shot...cause the deejay definitely looked at me with this sorta creepy, sorta intense stare. Reason number zillion the thing with the deejay ended.

A few of my friends pooled their hard earned cafe cash, planned and searched and investigated for a long time, and bought me this totally kick ass turn table. This is by far one of the greatest presents I have ever received!!!!!!!!!

So this hell week has such a brilliant ending. Because shit goes down and, as trite as it sounds, I have constantly been overcome in the past five days by the support I have received. Because of everything. When my mom called me to tell me about the birthday gift they would be giving me, she also told me my grandpa, who is 87 years old and not in the best of health, wants to send me a little check to help me out after my loss. And that set me off again. Mom then told me she loved me, she knew this work, what I spend time seeing and doing, is important to me. And thus important to her. I have seen over and over again, in every possible way, how amazing the people in my life are. So thank you everyone!

And the fact that another of my pictures made The Photo of the Week at www.howwastheshow.com has made me continuously happy throughout this flipped out week. This discovery was last Monday. It is a picture of JoAnna James. From that show I left in those good tears.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK FOR 5/6/2007!!!


It was from the last set I was able to download and upload before everything was stolen. It is a set I am extraordinarily proud of. It's the set that has accompanied this ramble. On a different note, it's strange but I'm really afraid of falling out of love with photography, maybe getting burnt out and not caring about it like I do right now. I go to shows. I see the picture in front of me. Will that change? Will I lose interest in this like I did with theatre? God I hope not. It's hard for me because I feel like I have to take a first picture all over again. And once I do that, then it really will be real that they are pretty much all gone. But I'm going to because seeing those shots this week and not taking the photo was worse. Because, like I said, I love being able to give back to the people that hold me up.

Wow, cheesy. But true. CHEESY BUT TRUE! Just like Jonesie...MWAHAHA!

Anyway...a special THANK YOU to Anna, Laura, Genna, George, Kevin & Ben...the friends behind the turn table!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I need this. The music is everywhere for me. And now it will have the beautiful, hollow, crackling sound accompanying it.

I'm so good right now. Tired because I stayed up until seven in the morning to write and look at all the photos I have on flickr. I'm so ready to spend my grandpa's gift on some coffee and new records! I'm so ready to take my first new photo!

Seriously, WHO WANTS TO GO RECORD SHOPPING??? YAAAAAAAAAAAY!

Godbless the Neverending Hoot

Cheers to the eternal party. May the music never end.















Photo of the Obsessed! by Stacy Sandstrom

I Don't Like Mondays

The first time I heard that Boomtown Rats song (when it actually left an impression) was last summer during the preshow of Wonderland at the MN Fringe Festival. I remembered the lyrics and ran home and typed them into google and found it. I downloaded it. I listened to it over and over and over again for at least a month.

I was reminded today that I can hear a song a hundred times, thousands of times, and never understand what it actually means. Because maybe I only listen to certain phrases or the chorus or whatever. It's really hard for me to learn lyrics as it is and mostly I'm singing some distorted version of the song. Usually I just take bits and pieces of song and make it my own, connect with it how I need to for that phrase or line or word or instrumental climax. Of all the millions of times I've listened to most of (all of) Bruce Springsteen's repertoire, I really only know Born to Run like the back of my hand.

I had no idea I Don't Like Mondays was about a school shooting until today.

I listened to the song after work on my iTunes with that lump in my throat and the tears welling up in my eye. It was such a chipper, bouncy staccato song to me until I heard it for real today.

All the playing's stopped in the playground now
She wants to play with her toys a while.
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning
And the lesson today is how to die.
And then the bullhorn crackles,
And the captain crackles,
With the problems and the how's and why's.
And he can see no reasons
'Cause there are no reasons
What reason do you need to die?

When I was checking my email and MySpace as per usual at the Apple Store today, announcement of the tragedy was smeared across the Yahoo homepage. It didn't seem real. It seemed far away. It seemed like it was the anniversary of something that happened 40 years ago or 8 years ago. Then, a split second later, I realized it was real. And I opened up the link and read the article and saw The Boomtown Rats reference. And that, no matter how trite it seems, is when it was real to me.

My heart breaks for the students, teachers, staff members, family members & friends of Virginia Tech.

I don't know that pain. I pray that I will never know that pain. Loss is inevitable but not in this way, at this time, at this place.

When I saw that, my body began to slightly react like it did on September 11th when I called my mom in the Student Center of my own college and started weeping. On that day of my junior year at St Olaf, some boy, who I never knew and whose face I barely saw, rubbed my back as I sobbed with my mom on the other line. Today, when I felt that same distress began to creep up, I thought "Oh Shit", got out of the Apple Store and breathed. My reaction today did not even come close. The mall, the Apple Store boys, The Department Store were spared my seemingly melodramatic tears. I walked back to my friends at the counter. I didn't even know how to say what had happened because I didn't want it to seem like I was spreading some insane gossip. Saying it out loud would also make it that much more real.

Then, when I went back, the numbers had grown and now it has become the worst shooting incident in US history.

I hate that this happened. I hate that tragedy of this magnitude happens all the time on the other side of the world. I hate that the mother of my Vietnamese boss often wishes she never came here because, right now, "life is just better over there."

I don't hate this country. I just don't understand it.

Right after September 11th, Bruce was walking down the street when someone shouted from their car "We need you Bruce." When I went to my first Springsteen show in August of 2002, I saw a man in the audience holding up an American flag and I started to cry because it was the most honest, decent, genuine form of patriotism I had seen in a really long time.

Bruce isn't god. I know that. I'm not THAT crazy. But his music has helped me at my most difficult times.

I hope that those families and friends at the University find what they need whether that be religion, another person, nature, a song, a phrase...whatever it may be, I hope they find it. I hope it brings them a bit of solace.

There's a moment in a song, that one second, where the entire tune opens up. The music or the phrase climaxes and it could be quiet or loud. Give me a song and I will find it. It is one of my favorite challenges. When that moment jumps out at me, I will look down and memorize the exact second. I will rewind it to that second and make sure I have the exact second. In the past, it has been:

3:31 of King Without a Crown from Matisyahu's Live at Stubb's
3:02 of This Way from Dilated Peoples featuring Kanye West
3:16 of Mr. November from The National's Alligator
1:21 of Your 8th Birthday from Cloud Cult's The Meaning of 8

Last month, my friend Kevin and I sat in his car in downtown St. Paul as we waited for the doors of the theatre to open. Giddy and relaxed from the brownies, listening to Arcade Fire's Neon Bible, we pass the time.

"I'm waiting for that moment where it opens," he says.
"It's right here," I say a second later.

1:16 of Neon Bible from Arcade Fire's Neon Bible

7:56 of Jungleland from Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run

And that song means something extraordinary and painful at this moment...

Beneath the city two hearts beat
Soul engines running through a night so tender in a bedroom locked
In whispers of soft refusal and then surrender in the tunnels uptown
The Rat's own dream guns him down as shots echo down them hallways in the night
No one watches when the ambulance pulls away
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light

Outside the street's on fire in a real death waltz
Between flesh and what's fantasy and the poets down here
Don't write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand but they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland

There is freedom for me in that second of all those songs. Where is that freedom for others? Where is that peace?

There is so much love in my life, sometimes I feel like I'm going to explode. I need to always remember that.

I am reminded about how much I need to embrace those who give me so much love in return. I need to not be so afraid to say I love you and to deal with the painful and wonderful repercussions of meaning it.

I took this picture on Thursday night. Ice Rod and ZibraZibra were opening for Leslie & the LY's at The Entry. It was a hilarious night with a great friend from my college. Though in a couple moments, Ice Rod aka Michael Gaughan would perform a kickass rap about the glories of the booty, this picture makes me sentimental. Cause right now, it means what I need it to mean.



Maybe we'll someday learn to turn the Mondays around.

I work at a mall. Ask me how I survive?

I've always hated malls. I love to shop but I've always hated malls. They are nasty and dirty and mallrats drive me insane and I would burn a place down based purely on the fact that Abercrombie & Fitch exists within it. I grew up in Kansas City where The Plaza is mecca. Beautiful, classic, interesting mecca. Most importantly, it's outdoors. And not in the strip mall Fashion Bug next to a nail salon that will eventually get busted for meth and a mexican restaurant that will eventually get busted for illegal immigration (both happened.) Now, after years of working behind a computer, I work at a mall (for the past year and a half.) And I still hate malls. I just love my coworkers and flexible schedule and the fact that I go to work to stare off into space, occasionally touch someones face, wander around, befriend the Apple Store dudes and look at the bright colors because that makes it worth all worth it (most of the time...for now.)





Yep, I graduated from St. Olaf College, a school that was not cheap, and did well at St. Olaf College, a school that was not easy. And now I work at a mall. But...like I've said...and I still believe...it affords me my rock 'n' roll lifestyle. And that wherein lies the challenge and awesomeness of life. Yeah, The Department Store is a big place, with lots of shitheads, but the good outweighs the bad. And the good will always mock the bad with fierce intensity once the bad gets all the way up the escalator. Someday, I will write a book about the ridiculousness I've experienced working at a mall (oh god the mall hair, oh god the lack of genuine conversation, oh god the camel-toe and belly shirts I have seen...all from workers at The Department Store.)






Plus...like I've said...and I still believe...I have some seriously awesome coworkers.

In school, we probably wouldn't have been friends. Except work Danielle, who became one of my closest friends (then she moved to AZ,) we never do much socially (except that kickass time they all came to the Marah concert with me.) We don't have a ton in common. But we spend all day together and thus we have become family. And we bicker and laugh like sisters. And it surprises me when I come to the realization that they know me REALLY well.

We play games to pass the time...

For instance:

1) If you were a food, what would you be (work Danielle was not happy when I said she would be beef)?
2) Chuck, fuck or marry this hideous manager, this hideous manager or this hideous manager?
3) Where do you see yourself in five years?
4) What kind of guy do you see each other with? (To quote Radwa: "Alexa, you are gonna end up with a guy that is sexy...but in that homeless kind of way." I fell over in my chair that I wasn't supposed to be sitting in, laughing so hard that people walking by thought I was having a medical emergency)
5) Oh...and there was that time I asked my vegan/animal rights activist coworker if she would rather
1) Eat a huge McDonald's hamburger?
OR
1) Kill her beloved pit-bull Ginger?

Uhhhh...she started tearing up at the idea of killing her pet and I realized that the games had gone a tad too far...but I don't think I really learned my lesson. I never do.

Last night, at the Son Volt show (where Jason Isbell, formerly of the DBT, opened), CoworkerKristin and I were sitting at a table as I was scarfing down some vegan banana bread that tasted like flavored toilet paper rolls. We were playing a game of "Do you see anyone in the vicinity who you are attracted to?" As we are both attracted to the same type of guys (and we are both extreme pussies with these type of guys...or any guys who we would eventually like to "know"...thus we have bonded), the answer seemed to always be...

no
no
no
no
no
yeah definitely not
maybe
no
no
no

Then I saw him walk by and I inhaled sharply. He looked at CoworkerKristin. And he looked at me. Right in the eyes. My hand clutching the vegan toilet paper crust was shaking a bit. It was Jason Isbell standing by our table and I was star struck. Under Bruce, the Drive-By Truckers are in my next tier of awesomeness (with a few others.) I've had a violet and soothing love affair with them the moment I heard Zip City for the first time. I have been rock 'n' rolled to the core with this band. And Jason is a huge part of that (or was...wahhh...sniff...wahhh.) He kept walking and I whispered...loudly...

That was Jason! THAT WAS JASON ISBELL!

It very much reminded me of the time Marah walked by in Chicago at my first show in 2005, before they knew me as "Minnesota!", and I had a mini heart-attack.

CoworkerKristin looked at me and said...

Oh My God! My first thought when he walked by was "No. Not him"

As in, she wasn't attracted to him either.

JASON! MY SOUTHERN EYE CANDY!

But then he started his set...



(Disclaimer...those shots are not from last night...they are from May 17, 2006 when the DBT played at First Ave the night before my last birthday...my fancy schmancy camera isn't allowed in First Ave and I can't bear to go back to my point and shoot yet for these shows...It kills me every time I see some bad ass pose or facial expression or lighting effect that I cannot capture.)

With his boyish looks and wide Southern smile, you'd think he wouldn't be capable of rocking the shit out of song. How could someone that looks that young instill so much soul into his music? But he did. The songs of his new record blended well with old DBT songs. And while it is hard to come to terms with the fact that the force of nature that is the Drive-By Truckers are not around him, I am thrilled to see where Jason takes his solo career.

Plus, when he sat down to play the keyboard for his final song, I totally checked to see what side he sets his Southern charm on. This is a habit I blame on my college days when some of my profs wore really tight pants. And I was just a lonely girl from Missouri who only got drunk once her senior year of highschool and went to prom with her hairdresser's nephew.

After Jason's set, CoworkerKristin looked at me with eyes wide open.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I EVER SAID NO!

Mission Accomplished. A fellow Jason lover was born.

See...the thing is...when I really think hard about last night...I just enjoyed Jason Isbell more than Son Volt.

I love Son Volt's records. Windfall is (almost) right up there with DBT's Outfit & Decoration Day. And I really enjoy his newest album "The Search." This was the first time I saw Son Volt in concert and I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. I've been schooled in the ways of Jay (and his extreme seriousness) before. But Jay Farrar just didn't seem to enjoy himself up there. Yes, he takes what he has written very seriously. Yes, he has written some killer tunes. But I literally turned to CoworkerKristin halfway through and made a bet with her that he wouldn't smile once during his show. I lost the bet because there were a couple slight smirks towards the end. And to quote CoWorker Kristin...

He hasn't changed his hair since 1994.

It was seriously the shaggy hair club up there on that stage.

I realize this is part of Jay, part of Son Volt, part of his persona but I have seen painful, serious music performed with so much soul that it makes my heart and tear ducts burst. I couldn't decide if he just seemed confident, like this was something so normal that he didn't need to put on any sort of production, or just arrogant. And I cannot stress enough how much I hate arrogance.

I am pretty sure, in the end, that Jay, though riding the fine line, ends up on the winning side with confident.

I didn't hate Son Volt by any means. Hearing Windfall live was awesome, as was Action (which is my current favorite song from the new album) and hearing the Uncle Tupelo song Life Worth Livin' kicked some ass. His set really picked up for me about halfway through when I became obsessed with the sneer on guitarist Chris Masterson's face and the way that bassist Andrew Duplantis just attacked those strings. I kept imagining the calluses peeling back from the tips of his fingers and the stringy muscle underneath that would just keep playing. Chris, with his sculpted Edward Scissorhands haircut, would just grimace, playing hard. Andrew, with his surfer dirty blond shag, would just smile, attacking those strings. It was like the devil and the angel on either side of some distant, stoic stranger.

In the end, though all extraordinarily talented, they only seemed to really mesh as one band a small handful of times. When they interacted with each other, gave to each other, they opened up to the audience and that's when I personally got those rock concert chills. When Jay would project that seriousness outwards, the music spilled over us and I really believed him.

I just really love Jason. Because I want my dirty rock music to have some infectious joy connected. And palpable (remember...new favorite word) pain.

Oh and back on the subject of work...I will always love to poop on the clock. It's all part of my Southern charm.