Another review for the chaps at Pantheon Magazine. Click below to give it a read!
Author Archives: Bill Tucker
About Bill Tucker
1700 Miles to Austin – Part 10 – Zoom, Zoom
After long hours of Internet searches, sleazy salespeople and confusing words like “residuals”, Jamie and I have a rocking new ride. Zim Zimma, who got the keys to my Mazda. Hmmm. Doesn’t quite work, does it.
Quickie post but we love our new Mazda 3 and the lovely people at Roger Beasley for making the process easy and painless! One step closer to Texas integration.
A car in our reserved car port spot. This keeps getting more and more surreal.
Ooohh...aggressive...
Ming seems dubious about the new purchase.
Eeeh, he's warmed up to it.
Danglin' the keys, holding a phone and controlling a leash. Thrownme a flaming sword to juggle and I'm all set.
Jamie vouging in the new whip. Do they say whip anymore?
1700 Miles to Austin – Part 9 – Arrival and the Apartment
At 1:30 CST Saturday, it will be exactly four days since we first pulled up to The Cliffs at Barton Creek in the Big Bad Budget. Four days since we signed and initialed fifty times on a new lease. Four days since eighty boxes, fifteen pieces of furniture and a fuzzy dog got packed into #7212.
It still hasn’t sunk in yet.
Well, maybe a little. A quick moment when Scott and Marie, like unloading robots, helped us heft an entire truck’s worth of stuff into our apartment. No joke, we completed the schlep in about an hour and a half. The reality wormed its way in as we began to methodically and painfully unpack box after box. When we spent five hours at a Toyota dealership getting every sales trick known to man thrown at us, I rediscovered my hatred for car shopping. All we wanted was a lease price on a damn Corolla.
Like all things strange, it’s dawning on me in fragments. It’s in the tangled web of highways, US routes and fly overs surrounding Austin. Frontage roads and freeway loops. The dichotomy of sprawling plains and massive sky chocked with two million commuters. The differences hit when I’m standing in the midst of a giant Walmart, looking out on an ocean of electronics, discount food stuffs and Taylor Swift jean shorts. The shock of a massive H.E.B. replacing New York’s Gristedes, Dagastinos and Food Emporium. It’s not like I didn’t grow up with Target Super Stores in Jersey. I didn’t expect I’d be back to them so soon.
The apartment itself is a mixed bag of strangeness and open bliss. I’m typing this from my office, a place where I can close a door and enjoy separated silence to work, write and dream. It’s all a big tradeoff. Swap the ability to walk ‘round the corner to grab breakfast for a bedroom of size and space. The place is lovely and we’re halfway done unpacking, but it doesn’t feel quite like home just yet.
Despite the newness, the little things are what bring me back to a place of comfort and familiarity. Mr. Ming running around squeaking the toy we bought him in Memphis. Jamie watching a Bones marathon on her iPad. The familiar clickity clack of my keyboard as I spew these words onto a Word doc. Mom laughing at over the phone stories of scumbag car salesmen. Emotionally recognizable elements shortening the distance. The space between Point A and Point B reduced to null. All things equal.
In the end the cliché holds true, no matter how many times you say it. Home isn’t the roof over your head, your seventies modern décor or the numbers in your zip code. It’s the people you choose to fill those walls with. Even if they’re 1700 miles away.
———
NOTE: For those looking for pictures of the new apartment, there are none. Not until we get everything in and everything up. Could take a few weeks, but I’d rather present the apartment as we want it to be as opposed to pics of how we found it. Besides, it’s not home until we make it so. Once done, there will be a whole multimedia presentation. Pics, videos, the whole schmear. Mmmm. Bagels with lox and schmear. Talk about things I’m going to miss…
1700 Miles to Austin – Part 8 – The Memphis Mishap
Last time on our Austin bound blog, we had escaped the dingy confines of a Bates Motel style Super 8. While we didnt have the forethought to take pics, we did snap a picture of one of the many abandoned buildings surrounding it. Look closely, and you may catch the ghostly blur of a long dead specter hovering in the darkness. Not really, but it’s fun to pretend.
Creepy...
In a word, Memphis is no Nashville. Full of history, most of it seeped in the struggle of civil rights, the city has seen better days. The abandoned buildings and wandering homeless of the Arkansas border town give the area an arua of sadness and want. We actually rearranged our schedule to spend more time walking around but quickly discovered there wasn’t much to see. If you don’t love Elvis (we don’t), Memphis has little to offer. Aside from a gibberish spewing homeless man trying to hustle tourists into paying for free parking and the solem yet beautiful Loranie Hotel.
There were some bright spots. The Peabody Hotel is an oasis of high luxury and old fashioned Southern gentility. As the Old Man from Pawn Stars would say, “Now, this is class.” Complete with a special Jack Daniels blend for cocktails, beautiful vaulted ceilings and a flock of mallards swimming in the fountain, the Peabody was a lovely break from the dingy depression of downtown Memphis.
We also had some of the best fried chicken on the planet at Gus’s. Crispy, spicy and tender, the food made me forget we had to walk through the set of I Am Legend to get there. So yummy, I wrote an entire paragraph in their out of town guest book.
Sun Records and Graceland were no shows due to a lack of safe parking and our giant truck but by then, we’d had enough. Memphis wasn’t gross. It was sad. A dried out flowerbed with a few gastropubs and boutiques trying to sprout from the dust. Problem is, without a water source of economic growth to clear out the weeds, it’ll be a challenge for Memphis to reclaim Southwest Tennessee.
Right now, we’re southbound on US 79, two hours from Austin. Essentially, we’re over the trek. Over the noisy truck cab, over $100 fill ups at the gas pump, over the steady stream of suicidal insects splattering against the windshield. It’s been an adventure but we’re ready for it to end. We’re ready to go home. Our new home.
1700 Miles to Austin – Part 7 – Moonshine, Johnny Cash and the Case of the Moldy Bedroom
Note: I’m lacking pictures because everything was taken on my proper, non cell phone camera. Pics will be added eventually
When you pull up to a hotel after hours on the road, your first thought should not be, “Where the hell are we? I think we’re going to get killed.”
The culmination of miles on the highway, Motel 6’s and fattening road food, the Downtown Memphis Super 8 was the final sucker punch to a tired twosome who just wanted a place to rest. Without the window sills of dead flies and the stench of mold.
Earlier, we were in Nashville, home of the Grand Ol’ Oprey, CMT and Demo’s, a shining example of Tennessee charm and fantastic cookery. Their bacon wrapped steak made Uncle Jack’s look like grade D dog food.
Nashville was cozy, a standard metropolis with the standard sections. Financial buildings, towering condos and a bustling Broadway jammed with day drinking locals and tourists. Music burst from every barroom and the overall atmosphere was one of good natured revelry. They even had a mobile taproom. If you’ve ever wanted to pedal a roving bar down a main thoroughfare whist drinking PBR, this is your town.
We toured the Johnny Cash museum, sipped moonshine to covers of Merle Haggard and walked the city streets with our fuzzy dog in toe. When we jumped into the truck for our three hour zap to Memphis, we felt good about Tennessee. Slightly rejuvenated.
Until we hit the Super 8.
Situated under the overpass of highway 55, the motel had the bedraggled aura of hookers, filth and Mother’s toasted cheese sandwiches. Ignore the creepy lobby that inexplicably played ominous music as we walked to the elevator. Don’t look at the dead beetles lining the outdoor walkway. Forget dirty walls and the moist, sticky carpet as we walked in. It was the mold. A wet hanging blanket of throat clogging mildew. It smelled like old coffins and rotting wood.
Needless to say, we escaped. Gathered up our stuff, got our money back from the desk manager (who admitted the room had a leak) and, after some frenzied phone calls, found ourselves at a La Quinta. You would have thought we landed at the St. Regis.
Today brings the heart of Memphis. Sum Records and the like. Here’s hoping the rest of the city trumps our first impressions.
1700 Miles to Austin – Part 6 – The Work Day
Mr. Ming steeling himself for the adventure ahead.
The apartment looks twice as big when there’s not a damn thing in it.
The last thing I thought when I closed the door to 490 East 74th St wasn’t waves of nostalgia or reminiscing about my three plus years in NYC. It was the practical matter of how my voice echoed in the empty living room. The ocean of space and opportunity a vacant apartment presents.
That’s the story of Day One. Practicality. The steadfast work of loading up the truck with everything we own. Jamie’s kung-fu kick to the box spring to get it down the stairs. The $200 payoff to the guy whose driver side mirror we wrecked pulling away. To our credit, he was double parked too.
The truck loading champions: Drew anf Jamie
It was the three hour trek to the Lincoln Tunnel. Two hours to go fifteen New York City blocks, during which I was able to walk to a hardware store, buy a lock for the truck, pick up some food stuffs and walk back to the vehicle. No worries, traffic had moved a block and a half. Could have had a full dinner if I wanted to.
It was the burst of adrenaline when we first broke free of the 495 slog and sprung onto Turnpike South. Exit 6 to the PA Turnpike and $20 tolls. A 9:00 Burger King dinner in an empty King of Prussia rest station. Bad food in worse lighting never tasted better.
Showing off the guns
As we settle down in a Pottstown, PA Motel 6, I can’t help but think of how much was done in fourteen hours. Drew Gilchrist’s heroic box moving. Bobby’s selfless dedication to lugging the heaviest furnature. The guy in the toll booth who said, “Must have been a long day”, when we pulled up to pay.
It was young fella. It was.
The only New York sadness hit unexpectedly. Driving along somewhere around hour six, the local radio station started playing Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys. I looked up at a driving Jamie and said, “Awww. New York.”
Sometimes, even in the most practical of days, there’s a little room for old fashioned thoughtfulness.
Oh, and the truck looks tiny when there’s piles of crap resting in it.
The Hunt (2013)
In the madness of planning a cross country move, I still find the time to review the occasional flick. Either that, or I’m fulfilling my obligation to the fella who run Pantheon Mag. Not quite sure which…
Mads Mikkelsen readies his rifle in the Danish heart-breaker, The Hunt
Click Here to Read My Review of The Hunt!
1700 Miles To Austin – Part 5 – The Less Than Two Weeks Panic
Note: Many of these posts will be hammered out on the road in short style fashion. Please forgive the potential brevity, lack of entertaining images and dubious punctuation.
————————-
You’re never quite sure when the second shoe drops.
The footwear fell when Jamie and I spent a afternoon pulling DVD cases and whatnot off the walls of old 490. Sitting with the growing stacks of boxes and packing material, the apartment, for the first time in almost four years, felt emptier. Like it was when I first moved in with little more than toys, goalie equipment and boxes of unopened kitchen stuff from IKEA.
My thoughts drifted back to those days of uncertainty. Alone for the first time in my life. The days turned to months and as the clock swung circular, New York became my home. With my new found freedom, I made new friends, found the love of my life and made my share of mistakes. With all of New York’s opportunities, it’s still an emotionally dangerous place. A place where nobody drives and cabs are the norm, it’s easy to get trapped sipping whiskey at 3 AM on a Tuesday. New York doesn’t love a drunk. It ignores them and lets them be.
But now we’re leaving, headed for the security and safety of the Austin outskirts. When visiting, I told myself to not compare it to New York. Nothing’s New York, for better and for worse. And Austin is super cool. Trendy, weird and diverse, Austin is about as close to a Texas Williamsburg as you can get. Again, for better and for worse.
But there’s something strange about retreating to the living style of my Jersey up-bringing. Compared to the constant energy and temptation of New York, Austin is safe. Almost serene. My fear turned to losing the forward thrust generated by eight million people pushing towards a personal goal. Waves of humanity crashing against the shores of the East River. Fail to move with them, and you risk getting swept away.
So is that what were doing? Escaping the tide because we can’t deal with the undertow? Even the word suburban indicates something inferior. Broken down, it reads “sub urban” as if to say, “Oh, you couldn’t hack it in the big city? Well come on down to the sub urban. It’s safe and easy down here.” The prospect of working from home and a quiet place to write is wonderful but my fear became one of inspiration. What good is a home office when you run out of things to write about.
I knew this would happen. The eventual, “Holy shit, we’re moving to Austin” freak out I alluded to in my first post. But time and thought has helped quell the anxiety. Moving to Austin isn’t going to stifle my storytelling. It’ll give it a place to breathe. Open expanse where my mind can swell and dream. A tighter community of artists with whom I can network and learn. A place where my girlfriend can smash the shackles of her current career and grow. Every time I imagine Jamie walking through the door around 6:00 with a smile on her face, the sacrifices instantly become worthwhile. Chill out, brain. We’ll make it work here.
When big changes come to town, the second shoe has to drop at some point. It’s inevitable. But when the footwear stops wobbling and rests next to its partner, things always settle down. So long as you learn from the madness, the panic is more than worthwhile.
Mayhem Fest 2013 – A Concert Review From Someone Who Knows Nothing About Metal – Part 2
My review of Mayhem Fest 2013 continues! Check out Part 1 here!
Machine Head
Finally, a band I had heard of and, more importantly, the metal inclined members of our group wanted to see. From the first song, it was obvious these guys had been doing this gig for two decades. Tight chord progressions, quality song construction and some good, old fashioned aggression made for my second favorite performance of the night. Plus, the lead singer commented we had the heart of lion as he pounded his chest in classic rocker style. The kind of music I imagine bikers would dig, Machine Head was worth hanging around for.
Score: 4 crusty leather jackets out of 5
Children of Bodom
The crowd was psyched for Children of Bodom but we had to use the potty, so we politely hit the loo and made our way to our seats under the great concrete roof of the Arts Center. Yes, friends. Seats. The young and bedazzled may like to stand around all day, but us over thirty types like a place to plant our keisters. Look it up. I’m sure there’s a Buzzfeed on this phenomenon out there somewhere. As a result, I’m giving Children of Bodom an incomplete as we got through one song before leaving to empty our bladders.
Score: Incomplete
Amon Amarth
Nestled cozily in the comfort of our plastic chairs, we were psyched for what Amon Amarth had to offer. Large Viking ship prop where the drummer was set up? Awesome. Lead singer with a burly beard and long hair? Classic. Hailing from the only country where death metal truly matters? Yup, they’re Swedish. Sadly, the result was uninspiring, causing my brother, my girlfriend and I to leave our seats and grab some food. We then sat in the setting summer sun at a picnic table chomping on bad chicken fingers and worse hamburgers. With the faint sounds of guitar fuzz coursing through the outdoor arena, it was almost serene. Somehow, a discussion on Tori Amos erupted.
Score: 2 heavy metal versions of Cornflake Girl out of 5
Mastadon
We returned to our seats just in time for Mastadon, a metal name of real promise. The reality was worse than Amon Amart. Be it the effects of a long day in the sun or the constant “so same it’s scary” drone of the genre, I found myself cutting Z’s twenty minutes into the set. While I’m pretty sure I didn’t fully fall asleep, my sister’s boyfriend, an actual fan of this musical style, was caught snoozing. Despite an exceptional drummer, the rest of the band was flat, monotonous and fully unimpressive. My ears were ready for Parkway North and the long commute home.
Score: 2 cartoon sheep jumping cartoon fences out of 5
Five Finger Death Punch
FFDP’s set was fraught with issues. They opened with a knuckle busting song showing promise. Problem was, nobody could hear it. The only sound coming from the stage was screeching feedback from the speaker rack followed by silence. Only the sound of the monitors could be heard. The crowd grew restless. So what did lead singer Ivan Moody do? Kick over the monitors so the audience could hear something. Bad ass. When the audio recovered, Death Punch delivered the finest performance of the festival. Wicked leads, ferocious percussion and some memorable hooks cemented them as the only band from the show I’d pay money to hear again. It also didn’t hurt the set had some true variety to it, rare amongst the white noise of the other musicians. Hell, the man did an acapella number. Ben Folds would be proud. Finally, after searching all day, I found a band that made me believe metal could be more than raw aggression and makeup. Kudos.
Score: 5 kung fu death blows of hard rocking business out of 5
Rob Zombie
Before the final act of the night came out, I was surprised Zombie was only given 75 minutes to headline. My brother’s response? “He doesn’t have much more than that.” Sadly, he was correct. Rob Zombie has been riding the success of 1995’s Astro-Creep 2000 and 1998’s Hellbilly Deluxe for almost two decades. Pick up his greatest hits record, and that’s all you need to know of his entire catalog. Luckily for fans, Zombie’s live performances have been more about spectacle than the music, and let’s be honest, if you can’t rock out to Superbeast, you’re dead inside. Unfortunately, the old spook show is starting to show some age. The fireballs and confetti can no longer mask the fact Rob Zombie is pushing 50. It was almost a touch sad to see the old rock and roll ringleader breathlessly pant through Dragula and More Human Than Human. Can’t blame the guy. But as time moves on, bands need to move with it and the theatrics of the stage show can no longer mask the rust on the singer. Along with some head scratching filler that made the lack of content even apparent, Zombie’s set was an entertaining but slightly disappointing end to Mayhem Fest 2013.
Score: 3.5 “Hell Yeah’s”, smoke machines and fireball launchers out of 5
thesurrealityproject 