Nightlight News

The silly thirteen year old boy in you is already titillated. But stand up and dust off your slack brain, because the fuzz of innuendo is getting in the way of your ability to understand - I am going to teach you something about nutrition. And it starts with the statement - sprout your nuts.
I have become increasingly aware that some of my favorite super-nutritious foods, are in fact, not very nutritious raw. yes - the raw food movement beckons you to not kill the living energy of the plant, don't cook away the spirit and life and vitamins being held so tenously in the fibers and tissue of the little kings and queens of photosythentic life. But, the crazy thing is, some foods like spinach in particular, actually contain chemicals and whatnot in their raw form that inhibit your body's ability to digest or otherwise absorb those precious nutrients. In the case of oxalic acid, it is the case that the chemical is like a nutrient transit system that binds to important molecules and compounds with the ease of a swoosh. Spinach is the awesome example of a food that is high in oxalic acid, but one that looses much of that content upon cooking. What am I really saying, but lay off the spinach salad, wilt that green, and eat lettuce, stay off the iceberg, no Shredders.

I'm not farting time away right now in order to tell you all about greens. Instead, I waxed authoritatively about the subject only as a prelude to a blip about nuts. The idea is soak them, sprout them, then eat them - a nut is but an embryo, a potential life. We destroy the shell usually, trying to free the little flesh, and chow down. Nuts make a good pre-dinner snack, providing loads of nutrients and helping spoil your appetite. Right, actually filling you up before the meal, but instead of filling you with simple carbohydrates or useless garbage (read -> Lays), putting iron and calcium and other goodies into your belly pre-gorge.

But, those unsprouted nuts contain phytic acid, which actually binds to important nutrients like iron, calcium, magnesium, copper, bulldozers, skirts, blankets. Sprout them. Or soak them in an acidic medium like whey or lemon juice. Ferment them, sour-leaven them, do any of these to neutralize the phytic acid and make them more digestible.

So many humans in America spend so much time trying to eat nutritious foods like
spinach salad or mixed raw nuts, totally unaware they are shooting themselves in the foot in the process and shitting away their hard-chewed lovely. Steamroll that through your apron, and let the light show blind you while your nuts soak at home.

Famous geminis include Allen Ginsburg, Wynona Judd, Newt Gingrich,Clint Eastwood, John F. Kennedy, Mark Wahlberg, Joan Rivers, Joyce Carol Oates, Boy George, Paula Abdul, Kathleen Turner, Paul McCartney, Venus Williams, Richard Wagner, Chet Atkins, Igor Stravinsky, Mario Cuomo, M.C. Esher, Steffi Graf, William Butler Yeats, Jim Nabors, George Bush, Anne Frank, Joe Montana, Nancy Sinatra, Barbara Bush, Prince, Paul Gauguin, Jessica Tandy, George V, Marilyn Monroe, Mel Blanc, Gladys Knight, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Claudio Monteverdi, Queen Victoria, Sir Author Conan Doyle, and so much more.

Geminis are adaptable, versatile, witty, excellent communicators, intellectual, energetic, lively, and well-spoken. They are also tense, nervy, inconsistent, superficial, cunning, and curious. The tension is between always a light and dark side. When on their bad side, they tend to be even the worse for their cunning and clever eloquence. Geminis tend to flit about, becoming easily bored with tasks, mastering them quickly and then moving on to new ground. This is equally true of their relationships with others, which are often superficial and intense. They are typically not excellent decision makers. They often fall short in efforts to be concentious and moral, in the widest sense. While able to be generous, affectionate, compassionate, and giving, this is only to the extent that their own interests and efforts are not compromised. Their mental agility is tempered by self-interested sullen moods, and a playful curiosity can translate to a decisive brood with a change in atmosphere or surroundings. They take little seriously, but can be succesfull at any number of walks of life.

Nevertheless, we love the Gemini with our hearts of hearts. Let's drink a toast to the twins we love, and come to booty shake to the jams of jams. Summer of . . .

At least I think not. I haven't done many show reviews, but often disclaimers skew the opinion of readers, or set up a false expectation in any direction, so perhaps it is best if we just start from scratch by saying that this weekend was a Nightlight weekend.

Friday May 25th -
Little Howlin Wolf
Kohoutek
Boyzone

This night had a playful air of frivolity and mystery, imbued in the fragile attendance and easy space. Boyzone opened, (me, Ryan, Galen Line-up with Lauren Ford on the Tights welcome back from Argentina) and it had a subliminal air, a deeply familiar Boyzone feel which often tags shows which seem to be thrown as afterthoughts. The music was brief, dull, throbbing sex glisten - homeless cats can do no better at any other club at town, so it goes without saying that Nightlight throbs like no other bulge. Agonizing squeals and deliberate bashing of the electric board by Galen brought about a thoroughly testy moment, which lacked only in deep bass notes. Histrionics ensued in classic style, including a skylight monkey stunt by yours truly and alien suit spider man costume stilo by Ms. Ford.
So ended Boyzone, venue relatively unaffected and band fairly satisfied, leaving Kohoutek to begin what seemed to be a deliberate exercise of tension building anticipation for a moment when one figured they would break into the most agonizingly groovy slash'n'burn. Twangy no, but the guitars had a certain definition and pronouncement of tone that belied an underlying country. United States, I guess.
Anyway, the buildup was not for an intense groove or some kind of funky breakaway, ala jams of olde. Rather, Wolf (Little Howlin Wolf - Wolf for short - James Pobeiga - Sweet Jimmy) emerged from behind one of our proud speakers. Well, the speaker did naught to hide him.
He emerged wielding two saxophones like giant submarine sandwiches. He walked casually but intently to the head of the stage, in front of the band, turned back to the crowd, paused but for one second, and then whirled to enter into a simul-sax blast that had Roland Kirk written all over it. The sax blasts were loud enough to blart fart all round, unlike fog horns they more megaphoned over the Kohoutek jam, and then the individual sax blurts and scales, diddles, added a certain whiff of life that was a little gone during the hornless jam. All told the psyche medley was but only a precursor and segue between the pointless monochrome of Boyzone to the jaw-aching entertainment of Wolf.

With help from two enterprising young lads, Wolf set up behind a bass drum, high-hat, with a guitar resting on the lap and a harmonica perched on the chin, ready for a set of free-form blues, comedy, and a serious stream of wisdom subconciousness. Wolf truly does spout out some mind-blowing observations, and has a way of making the misogynist, or unpatriotic, or blathering, into a statement of down-to-earth pavement love. The burst of guitar flowed between twangs and chords, letting a musical story evolve that spoke of the blues, but also spoke of an influence that was only Wolf. I mean to say simply that the man has a style that (although perhaps I posit this observation only because of pre-informed leanings) seems to be gained only through playing what plays well in his mind. Like he just took a guitar and spent enough time strumming on it to develop a cadre of expressions that complement the deep, deep gravely echoes of Chicago, of cold, of finger-tip push-ups and bull hearts ripped right out with bare hands. I'm saying the man has stories to tell that make you question things like fat people, Islam, 9/11, music, the blues, beer, lips, and so much more that can be told.
Turns out, you have to tell him to stop playing or he could literally go on for hours, which perhaps is part of the point. When you play in the street for money, you learn that playing is the only way to make the money. I can't stand a beggar, but I love a saxaphone, so therein lies the trick - entertain me fool, my money is earned, your money shall be earned too, at least if you're asking me. What use is a beggar without a trick, without an original story, without an axe or a horn or a band strapped to her arms and legs.
I'm tired of the same old story - my mom lives in Fayetteville, I'm just trying to get bus fare, she has cancer, I have cancer, my leg is broken. All these things may be true, yes, but then again, they could be crack lies. So what can you do to set yourself apart, to earn the money of the passing consumers, the consumers of urbanity who throw silver into empty instrument cases like so many empty cups in the gutter? Learn to express what is most likely true - you have the blues and it's not my fault. Perhaps my jaded attitude towards the poor could be misinterpreted as not caring, but to the contrary, I feel deeply. However, I have grown to disbelieve in the worth of throwing money here and there to the passers by and the sly looking beggars.
Wolf knows this, and he has had more than enough time to see some shit, think about it, and learn how to entertain. I mean, my face starting hurting cuz I kept smiling so much. He's a real hoot, and a real challenge. A challenge to your notion of where conversation starts and then, where does it go. The typical hi how are you isn't sufficient when Wolf approaches. Rather, an open-mind and a willingness to say the last thing that comes to mind first will help you with a take-away that is at once liberating and at the same moment bewildering.
And his set was the same way. When he wasn't drinking, sighing, giving a Bronx cheer approval, deriding those whose attention spans couldn't last the veritable hour plus that he played, well, he was doing something that stuck like glue to the right brain. As the set went on, and we neglected to tell him to stop (Realy for Death could have played after all), he begin breaking into some seemingly unprepared improv, lightly tapping high-hat, errantly banging the bass drum, and just strumming and picking all over the neck of the guitar, sounding better than the Godz.
Wolf came and saw our little joint, guess he had a good time. Seems like he mostly has a good time, but maybe not, because then how do you get the blues so good? The gibberish was beautiful, and I think I actually understood it. It was nonsense to be sure, but spouted with such practice and intent that it really took on a greater quality of language.
I had heard the recordings, or at least the first collection of 45s that Carly put out on Heresee. But Wolf recorded those himself, providing all the instrumentation, and I guess he had a four-track. Although some of those versions, like Stranger Mon or Sunny Come Early have a live feel with no overdub or track manipulation, so I guess I sorta had a sense of what to expect at Der Lieber Nacht. But really, I didn't have a clue, cuz I didn't realize that Wolf was part Eddie Murphy and part Lenny Bruce, part Americana, part Immigrana and I guess all Wolf. You can pick out these little elements here and there that remind you of some other classic artist - some say Ayler, I say Godz and Abner Jay, others same Abner Jay too, or outsider (which is a term I don't quite get or agree with, but may roll with). All the same to me, because it is actually really real.
Jesse said it about halfway through - tear the arms off that motherfucker. I bet Wolf probably could, because he's a big guy, but he's also the Little Howlin Wolf. Either little because behind the sunglasses he wore there are little eyes, little eyes that say a lot about living on the hind legs of a streetlamp. Taking the sunglasses off left a pitch black room, so sayeth the Wolf. I believe him.

Running out of steam, can't do the Raccoo-oo-oon review, except to say that the three piece after Sean peaced out was awesome, fierce like Acid Mothers Temple. I wanted them to play it again, but backwards. Feral Ponies Rainbow Muck Parade was everything I wanted it to be. Cory Rayborn left too early, that's what I say. But then again, what reason does a dude like that have to stay around and listen to some band full of local yokels that he's never heard of with a silly name like Feral Ponies Rainbow Muck Parade? I don't know, you tell me. I just wanna have fun.

Did you realize we have a bevy of humdingers coming right the hell up?

Tonite - Z'EV / SIKHARA / Clang Quartet - Z'EV is legendary (and he's coming to Nightlight?) Seemingly random, but in fact proof of god's grace. (liitle g). Chris Toenes already wrote quite a bit, I'll defer to his words like this->CLICK HERE. Since I am, in fact, only marginally familiar with the music of Z'EV, i'll instead attempt to impart my impression of what to expect - words like wonder, trance, mystic, rare, and unique pop to mind. Don't spare your change - scrape it together and come on out, please don't waste this opportunity to learn about the roots of music - in this case the roots of industrial and a demonstration of years, and years, of hard work and effort culminating in a performance that is rife with individual invention and (for the plain and simple set) full of homemade percussion that resonates in an amazing way.

The other shows were put together
in descriptors most apt by mr. Josh Willis, to whose prose I now defer-

It is odd, in my opinion, that frat guy has become a pejorative term used to describe any young white male who fits, through mass coequality of vestment or consistency of behavior, into that predesignated and most deplorable of stereotyped social segments. Most individuals, especially those who would not self-describe using said moniker, know how to identify a frat guy - baseball hat worn a certain way, slightly saggy khaki drawers or shorts, polo or oxford shirt, it's all pretty banal and vapid fashion, but serves the purpose of allowing an easy conformity and acceptance. Even if you can't see the male in question, you can tell through sound that a frat guy is around - they talk loud at night. They differ from rednecks, not by much, but have an increased relevance for us, the residents of Chapel Hill, home of the University of North Carolina thereof. They act dumb, funnel beer, spank each other in hazing rituals, drive too fast for short distances, have had giant SUVs bought for them, and are destined for jobs in arms sales or middle management.

More soon, but it is important to note that seemingly, the frat guy (even if he isn't actually in a fraternity, he still gets lumped into the set) usually acts like a buffoon, seems to hate gay people or doing anything that might be construed as gay or faggish, drinks in excess, follows sports with a bullish machismo and reckless fervor, hates or disdains bicyclists (in my experience), maintains poor dietary habits, and retains very little respect for his own living quarters beyond their function as a repository for empty pizza boxes, beer cartons, video game equipment, pornography, sports regalia, and mundane trash. The antagonists from the Duke lacrosse debacle could be construed as those types of guys, for their lacrosse club seemed to behave in ways that are typically fratty. Someone in the Creativeimprovisationmas parade one had a fake gun pulled on them by some "frat guys". They ridicule my bike. They may have been responsible for more than one anti-gay hate crime in this town. You know the drill - they suck, even if they are people too, and perhaps could be nice guys when isolated outside of their comfort zone (maybe).
(Note: I have deliberately avoided discussion of the frat guy's female counterpart, which I am not sure how to name, for various reasons including lack of information. If you have comment, please amend as you see fit.)

Having defined the frat guy loosely, it then follows that segmenting that part of the population clearly allows those who disapprove of the behavior of frat guys to avoid them - for if you know what they look like and how they act, and you figure out where they hang out, then you can avoid ever going there. And to be sure, for most of the non-frat set, those hang-outs overpopulated by the frat guy are abhorrent. So what's a frat guy to do? What's his recourse with society now that his homophobic, self-destructive, blunted, violent, base, moronic behavior has netted him poor social standing beyond his own set and a host of incidents that reaffirm his status as village idiot, especially in our collegiate hometown of Chapel Hill?

Eliminating the drunken and moronic nonsense that characterizes so much of the stereotypical frat guy behavior would accomplish that goal initially, but, if there is no will being auto-generated from the class, then motivating factors like a sense of diminished self-worth derived from ostracism is unlikely. Perhaps the lack of motivation is a result itself of the malaise of the affluent-to-absurdly-wealthy conservative suburban young male, honed through years of binge drinking and tasteless dude mags like Stuff and Maxim that have been their sustenance. It seems that their only recourse to a lack of cultural and experimental stimuli beyond the macho sports world and the mind-numbing video game world, the warped female exploitation world and the conservative American wormhole, is base ill-advised schmuckery. By not stopping idiotic behavior and, instead, perhaps actually displaying some originality of thought beyond those typically fratty outlets of expression (to delve in repetitive self-destruction, dulling the pain of a meaningless and vapid existence), the frat guys have alienated themselves from anything that might evanesce their typifying behavior (so they don't risk losing that support system that is predicated on stupid drunkenness, excessive lust over sports and busty women, hating gays, and general boorish nothing). And they aren't even all in fraternities, which is what makes the term itself something of a misnomer. However, it's convienent and easily understood, so we'll roll with it.

Those poor louts really need to step up and show their peers that Animal House is not their only information available for self-direction, but before they can do that, they have to care. However, the line of people ready to reach out to frat guys is not very long, and is probably populated mainly by fundamentalist Christians and military recruiters.

Until Widespread Panic plays at Nightlight, you won't be seeing them in our neck of the woods, because, well maybe, we're weird, vaguely or explicitly gay in a lot of ways, and difficult to pin down. We don't support boorish drunkenness with quite the same insipid ebullience that they do at typically fratted undergrad haunts. We don't show sports, and we don't book jam bands. This is a comfort to our patrons, who for the most part, would be nonplussed were a heavily inebriated contigent of frat guys appear in the middle of a set by say Clang Quartet or Esperanto Bat. Then again, they probably wouldn't fork over the cover, or even get beyond the head poke stage of entry.

Nevertheless, I ask our readers to consider the plight of the frat guy, for as poorly as they behave, and as disapproving our estimation of them, they are a cultural adjunct in this town, and for the sake of wholesale improvement in all late night travel past the corner of Church and Rosemary, we ought to begin seriously brainstorming ways to create a mass conciousness upheaval of this ill-advised sect.

If it were possible, I would suggest some sort of giant laser that could eliminate each drop of testosterone from their bodies, leaving them incapable of reproduction and reducing to nothing the horomonal factors that aggravate their already debilitated mental state.

In the absence of such a laser, I recommend an "adopt-a-frat-guy" program targeting those young college age men beginning to experience doubts. Just like streams and highways, frat guys need to have the litter of their mental pathways removed through diligence and public service. We could each take one under the wing, showing them the wonders of burlesque, drag shows, noise music, doodling, improv jazz, art rock, indie hideaways, and years spent slogging the sidewalks of Chapel Hill with a staple gun and show flier. Or other wholesome activites like sewing, knitting, bike repair, clothing swaps, craft nights, walking in the park, insect study, native plant identification, communal home-cooked meals, picnics, trips to the rope swing, tea time, cocktail parties, basement dance jaxx, anarchy, etc. Maybe they'd hang up their pink polo, rainbow flip-flops, team garb, and adopt the non-specific vestments and attitudes of a newly reinvented weirdo, free to puruse their inner dragons with an eliminated risk of ostracism at the hands of their peers (which is usually derived from nothing less than an ill-informed confusion over motives or actions) bought through a wholesale denial of their past life, which has been newly left behind in favor of social experimentation and unique personal expression.

Why can I say all this in confidence? Because I was too, once, a "frat guy".

Turns out - getting a liquor license is damn expensive - no wonder you can't just waltz into any old Carrboro saloon and order nickel shots! We have opted for wine, the fermented juice of any number of different grapes, in order to expand the thirst-quenching conciousness-altering sex-enabling choices for our humble and flushed customers. Revel in the variety - each grape is its own wine - Pinot Noir - Film Noir - Cabernet Sauvignon - Sauvignon Blanc - Mel Blanc - we feature a German Riesling, Chilean Merlot, Australian Shiraz, and a Californian Chardonnay. Revel in the variety - get slishy folks! Just don't come knocking for that bolt of wine if yer under the magic number, cuz ALE will sizzle you hard after they come down on us like Blue Ridge Parkway rock slides. This interesting compromise bodes well for our patrons, and the bands, for if the wine selleth, and the patron is less apt to bolt for the neighbor bar, which steals our patrons at the whiff of a shooter or the mention of draft beer, then the bands make more money - it is logical, for we make a fukkin pittance selling beer - noone's getting rich selling spirits and foam at the Nightlight - mark my words. Thus, we must take a portion of each dollar given at the door in cover charge form to help subsidize our base expenses, which include speaker repair, sign replacement (theives will burn in hell), rent, ceiling repair, bench repair, you can see we take a lot of abuse, no? Nightlight doth break even, and not much more, and much private investment has come at the hands of our cadre of volunteers, well-wishers, and low-income party people. GET DRUNK AND SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL CLUB -> INEBRIATION = CLUB SUSTAINABILITY!!! (minors - please save your allowance for the next show and save your drinking for behind the old milking stand, not on the floor nor from a flask and have some taste ditch the MD 20/20 and don't get drunk at the hands of a styrofoam cup, that's just wrong...)

From Reuters News Service
Jeans factories have given jobs to thousands in the city of Tehuacan, the heartland of Mexico's denim industry, but they are pumping blue chemicals into rivers used to irrigate corn fields downstream.
Read More (despite the potentially humorous leading communique, the issue is actually quite serious - my solution - don't ever ever buy brand new clothes except for occasions such as court, or a job interview, and only as needed given corpulent episodes or weight loss associated with X-treme jazz-r-cise - there are already a ton of clothes out there! Exceptions to da rule - new sneakers for foot care (careful buying is difficult although you could go for the "crazy guy on the bus look" ex) -> Made in the USA homemade shoes OR buy one of the ethical sneakers that looks just like a Converse All-Star {hmmmm-why no originality??})

The heat is on Coca-Cola. Watch your ass Nestle. Grovel and weep Mars Inkorporated. Your favorite target market is going to die off from congestive heart failure or the complications associated with adult-onset diabetes. No more jail-bait sweet tooth cigarette style marketing campaigns. And get the hell out of the school cafeteria (more below). Square and rectangular slices of pizza can stay, but school districts are gonna, they're gonna, get you CEOs.

All those cartoons with their cute little party creatures - Candies the color of neon death - Taste the rainbow of your huge ass while you sit around getting a tummy ache from all that fructose, you helpless youngsters. GREEN KETCHUP??? Who will come to your aid and protect you from the vile intentions of these candy and junk food purveyors?

CONGRESS!!! They have asked the Institute of Medicine to devise new standards for school lunches, and this is indeed a moment too late (not a moment too late, but many, many moments too late). Kids are already way, way overweight. The figures out there tell the tale - the obesity rate for children 2-5 and adolescents 12-19 has more than doubled in the past 30 years, and for the unfortunate 6-11 year olds it has tripled. Of course, green ketchup is not only to blame. Blame a complex set of factors, which may in fact require an interdisciplinary advanced education such as a Master's Degree in COMMON SENSE. Kids - they like to:
Perhaps in that order. None of these factors really act as a mitigating alternative for an epidemic outbreak of childhood obesity, and you don't have to have a surgeon general-style beard to understand what is going on. What you may not realize is that the school lunches are being controlled by moustache-twisting corporate board room Illuminati types who are making big bucks off of things full of soy protein, gluten, and dextrose, fructose, sucrose, corn starch, stabilizers, saturated fat, trans fat, packaging, all produced through processes that practically bleed greenhouse gases and subjugate developing countries to our militaristic trade policies for the benefit of crazy ass fictional characters like this guy -
Now I love bunnies, don't get me wrong! However, our friends at the Institute of Medicine revealed that over $10 Billion Dollars a year is spent marketing foods and beverages to children, most of which is not nutritious. But I would hate to have to be the person to break it to our wild-eyed friend above us - "Mr. Silly Rabbit - you are a pawn in the game that controls the health and safety of our nation's most precious asset - children!!" The rabbit probably gets paid nothing for his effort, most likely because he is purely fictional. Sen. Tom Harkin of Iowa - from a top-ten corn growing state (corn being an important ingredient of everything any kid really wants to eat) - has suggested including rules in the next farm bill that would basically ban junk food from schools. It would be up to the USDA to enforce the rules. It would be a new-anti-fat butt food pyramid. I like this Mediterranean Food Pyramid that some enterprising food nerd came up with.
Well, we'll (me and some other folks with lots of time on our hands for such purposes and RSS power) be keeping a close eye on the Farm Bill proceedings, it's been five years since the last one - this is like the World Cup for food and agriculture policy dorks. I have recently discovered the small joy in actually reading the proceedings online. Check out this beauty - testimony by John Queen of Waynesville, NC, President of the National Cattleman’s Beef Association, testifying on the market structure of the livestock industry. Fascinating!