Sunday, March 26, 2017

Give America Gumption Again

[This video is dedicated to Kathleen Murphy, whose support of our boys is as constant as the sun]

If you're new in these parts, Unorganized Hancock is an Intergalactabilly Band from Maine. If you're a regular reader, well, Unorganized Hancock is still an Intergalactabilly Band from Maine. The band consists entirely of my two sons, a plywood bass player named Laverne, and a whole lot of gumption. I call them The Heir and The Spare. Sunshine and Ravioli. Garlic and Gaelic.

This video is fresh off the assembly line, but they recorded Go, Go, Go! sometime in 2015, I think, when The Heir was hey nineteen, and the The Spare was eleven years old. The Heir sings and plays the guitar, bass, and keyboards, and The Spare plays the drums and tells jokes.

It's a song about gumption, as I said.
[guhmp-shuh n]
noun, Informal.
initiative; aggressiveness; resourcefulness:
With his gumption he'll make a success of himself.
courage; spunk; guts:
It takes gumption to quit a high-paying job.
common sense; shrewdness.
My kids have gumption, and recognize it when they see it, hence the video, but that dictionary definition is way off. It takes gumption to quit a high-paying job? That's like telling me it takes gumption to rope and brand a Sasquatch. Let's stick to the possibles, as the cowboys used to say. It takes gumption to keep working for peanuts. It takes gumption to keep going when it's hard, not to quit when it's easy.

The Heir and the Spare know all about that. They recorded this song in an attic room without heat or electricity. They dutifully dragged an extension cord down the hall whenever they wanted to play. That's gumption.

What's Unorganized Hancock Up To Now?


Stay with me, and I'll explain. In 2015, the boys entered a contest to write and perform the fight song for the local minor-league hockey team, the Lewiston-Auburn Fighting Spirit. The couple who own and operate the team are some of the nicest people I've ever met. It's hard to run a semi-pro hockey team in an out of the way place. It takes gumption.

The contest was promoted by the local radio station, Z-105.  They're in Auburn, Maine. They have an affiliated station called WOXO, too, which broadcasts from Mexico, Maine, just over the river from where we live. They also have a studio in Norway. Norway? Mexico? Maine's funky, isn't it? It takes gumption to live here.

The children were interviewed on the radio station as part of the promotion. I was amazed by the people that own and operate that company. It's nearly impossible to make a go of it in the radio business in this day and age. They manage it while being pleasant to everyone. That's impossible, I know, but they do it all the same. They have gumption.

The universe still rewards gumption from time to time. My kids won the contest with another song they wrote called Spirit Score!. The hockey team loved it. They were all 19 years old or so, and wonderful young men. They treated The Spare Heir like a little brother, and made him feel ten feet tall. One of the greatest moments in my life was standing in the concrete runway between the rows of seats in the Lewiston Colisee and hearing Spirit Score! blaring over the PA system when the team skated out onto the ice, and again every time they scored. They scored a lot. That team has gumption.

Unorganized Hancock signed a contract to have the song played for one year at the rink, to make it all legal. The following year, the team had another band write another fight song. The hockey team refused to play unless the old fight song was restored. It was. That took gumption.

Which Leads Us To 


My boys were interviewed on Z-105 a few more times after that. The station noticed that The Heir had a sonorous voice, and he had the kind of aplomb that radio hosts need. They hired him. He's now on the air six hours a night, five nights a week. He sometimes hosts call-in shows on the weekends, too. That takes gumption.

The radio job was too far away from our home for him to drive back and forth, so we lost him to the world. It's a hard thing to raise your children to leave you. It takes gumption, and breaks your heart a bit.

The Unorganized Hancock YouTube page recently passed 100,000 views, a notable milestone for them, I thought. Their performance of Minor Swing has over 25,000 views, although their live version of the song is, er, livelier. But Go, Go, Go! is their own thing. It encapsulates their approach to life. They have gumption. I hope the Go, Go, Go! video helps to Give America Gumption Again.

Say, that's a cool slogan. We should make hats.

You can download an MP3 of Go Go Go! at their Bandcamp page for 99 cents if you like:

Of course you're welcome to listen to it for free by hitting play on the YouTube video, too. Unorganized Hancock just wants to get a little more gumption out in the world, and doesn't care how it happens.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Life, The Universe, Errol Flynn, and Erryting

So, the universe presents us with this.

That's a performance at the Sydney Fest from 2012. Sydney's in Australia. It's the antipodes. Or as they say around here, you can't get there from heah. The band's name is the Jolly Boys. They're from Jamaica.

They're playing a Steely Dan song. Steely Dan was a Horace Silver cover band from New Jersey. Close enough. The original version of the song features a solo by a computer programmer playing an electric sitar, because of course it would. The computer programmer is famous, if that's the word I'm looking for, for helping to produce a compiler for ms-dos programs. This may not turn out to be a growth industry if Microsoft Windows becomes popular. You never know, Windows might catch on.

Why are the Jolly Boys playing in Sydney? Because Errol Flynn. Errol Flynn was a Tasmanian devil, until Hollywood made him famous and he became American, which is a sideways move, I think. He got rich playing English people in American movies, because Russell Crowe and Mel Gibson weren't available. In 1946, Errol Flynn took his Captain Blood money, bought an island off the coast of Jamaica, and threw a party that only lasted for ten years or so, with a couple of bathroom breaks. He liked some of the local musicians who played mento music, which is the zygote of reggae. He hired them to play at his party, and named them The Jolly Boys. The name stuck.

I was going to say that Errol Flynn eventually died from cirrhosis, a bad back, drug abuse, hepatitis, alcoholism, tuberculosis, malaria, several venereal diseases, none minor, and the lingering shock of seeing Dolores del Rio naked, but I figure it will save time if I just say Errol Flynn died of a severe case of Errol Flynn.

So a Jamaican guy wearing Richard Nixon's bowling pants and Tony Manero's Qiana shirt is singing a New York song at least figuratively about Las Vegas in Australia, while a guy in Maine watches it. He is a brand of awesome. He survived Errol Flynn. Even Errol Flynn couldn't manage that.

Friday, March 24, 2017

How To Play Sunny on the Drums

As you may recall, I have determined -- announced, really -- that Sunny by Bobby Hebb is the official song of the twenty-teens. I will brook no contradiction on this point. I don't know what trout have to do with anything, but stay with me here.

This is the procedure for playing Sunny on the drums. The fellow in the video gets it. Follow his method and you'll be famous on unread blogs the world over in no time:
  • First, learn how to play the drums real good
  • Second, steal some drums
  • OK, that second thing maybe should be the first thing
  • Now kill your Shop teacher and take his eyeglasses
  • Then go to Himmler's barber and ask for the men's regular
  • Get a brick wall to play in front of
  • Get a Kia Sephia with a trunk big enough to haul your drums and your brick wall
  • Don't worry about bringing your OSB wall, the bass player will bring his
  • Remember, the guitar player is really just the hood ornament on your bass drum
  • Lift an eyebrow about two minutes in
  • All the chicks. All of them
The Official Song of the Twenty-Teens

Thursday, March 23, 2017

A Real, Live, Time Machine

When I was little, I wanted a Raleigh bicycle.

A Raleigh bicycle was exotic. It came from England. My neighborhood was full of Schwinns and Columbias, as elegant and useful as tanks. They were the transportation version of a three-legged stool. I wanted a fauteuil.

Raleigh bicycles were only owned by WASPs. WASPs were exotic, in their way. Not many of them passed through the world I lived in. The few I encountered seemed to own everything by some kind of subtle transubstantiation that turned one person's wealth into another's. They had money without working, a kind of magic show to a little kid. They went to school to learn things that weren't practical, another astounding thing to a drudge like me. They rode Raleigh bicycles and thought nothing of it.

Well, there's the Raleigh factory. I don't see anyone who looks like a toff working in there. They all look just like I did, when I went to work in a big factory at the age of eighteen. The movie (that's what it is) was a Signet production. In America, that would have been a Coronet film. They were shown in schools, generally when the teacher was hung over and wanted to sleep for a solid half hour, instead of fitfully like they did during a regular school day.

Everyone dreams of a time machine. They want to go back in time to rule it, or forward in time because they assume, incorrectly, that they're more wonderful than their contemporaries, and would fit in better on Star Trek than they do on the subway.

Well, there's your time machine, boys. Time machines lie thick on the ground, but you're not interested. Look at it and weep. I testify to you, right now, that I could climb in that time machine, and perform any job in that Raleigh factory, including drafting by hand. Could you?

Instructing the troglodytes you meet after you step out of your time machine that if they would simply listen to reason, and get an autocad set up, put guards on the machines, let you stop every fifteen minutes to take pills for your imaginary ailments, let you hold a binky bottle full of sugar water in one hand the whole time, allow you to stop every 30 seconds or so to use a telephone, and that they'd have to ban gluten from the cafeteria that doesn't exist, so they better set one up, would be of doubtful utility.

They'd hire me, because I'd tell them that I thought I could be vaguely useful to them, I had always loved Raleigh bicycles, and I wanted to earn enough money to buy one. 

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Chef, Or The Greater Creep Theory of Internet Success

My wife and I watched Chef last night. We enjoyed it. Movies, TV shows, and websites about cooking as serious bidness are thick on the ground these days. We are studiously unaware of them. The milieu was brought to its perfect form by Big Night, and hasn't required any care and feeding from me since then.

I have seen the TV show with the screaming Scot, however, and enjoyed it. Not the execrable American thing. Before he was Intertunnel famous, there was a British version where that wasn't a total fake. There were failing food businesses, he went in and told them how they had screwed the pooch, and showed them how to fix themselves. They rarely did. The reason they all failed, no matter what the hectoring pict did to help them, was that it's easy to know what to do, but hard to do it. The not very lovable losers all secretly liked their lack of success, because it put no pressure on them. Customers are a pain in the arse, after all. They all wanted to have a restaurant to lord over, with no pesky customers or creditors to bother them while they did it.

The American version of the show was more like looking for the restaurant version of a homeless person who was begging on a street corner for a crust of bread, but instead of giving them a tenner for a square meal, you bought them a brothel with a food court in the lobby. No thanks.

Chef isn't about cooking porn, although there's plenty of that in there. Favreau knows he has to put Iron Man in Iron Man movies, and Iron Chef in Iron Chef movies, and he does his duty. The movie is about honest work, which I appreciated, and the movie properly portrayed the mystification of a boy, not yet grown, presented with parents living in separate places.

The movie is trite in the right ways to suit us. Its stereotypes are gentle, and the people in it long for the right sorts of things, and get them in the end by exertions that seem mildly daring but mostly rely on a shoulder to the wheel approach to your circumstances. It's more Aesop than Shakespeare, but a lack of swordplay and mutual suicides never hurt anyone.

For all its cartoonish qualities, there are many accurate details in the movie. The movie gets one thing absolutely right. The tweenish son understands social media, but the father does not. The father participates in it in an off-hand way, but is quickly made to understand what a sewer it is. The child is wary of social media accounts like Jitter and Friendface. He knows about them, but doesn't care about them. He likes Vines.

If you're not familiar with Vines, they were the next big thing in social media for about ten minutes, and then disappeared without a trace. The service archived five-second videos. I suspect they weren't able to prove their value to an insane investor class by hemorrhaging billions every quarter fast enough to look important. They probably didn't have a ball crawl in the boardroom, or a ten-ton chrome panda in the lobby or anything. I bet their CEO didn't even want to go into space.

I can testify that my little son has no interest whatsoever in Jitter and Friendface, but he loved Vines. He watched very wholesome people making quick little jokes that suggested flash fiction written by the Three Stooges. It was all very amusing and harmless. When Vine disappeared, my son was so distraught that he made his own on his desktop. He wrote and recorded hundreds of them on his own. In the Chef movie, Favreau got one detail wrong. When his character watches the Vine compilation his son made from their Crosby/Hope/Leguizamo road trip, he doesn't cry. No man is that strong. Believe me, I know.

The accuracy of that detail highlights a rule about the internet. If you want to know how successful something will be on the internet, judge it solely on how creepy it is. The creepier and more degenerate it is, the more likely it is to prosper.

Twitter is really, really creepy. Uber was creepy long before you found out exactly how it was creepy. The only human thing about anyone who worked there was their hamhanded attempts to grope the help, now that I think of it. When that's the top of your interpersonal heap, Dante Alighieri should write your yearly reports. Facebook, and the avaricious little twerp that runs it, is the creepiest thing I've ever encountered on this world, and I've renovated apartments that had a dead body in them. Google is creepy turtles, all the way down.

Snapchat prospers, if you define success as the ability to use up borrowed money for a longer period of time than your creep competitors before the laws of supply, demand, and plain old addition and subtraction start to apply. Snapchat gives their users the impression they can get away with being a creep on their service. Being creepy is the appeal. Google Glass failed because they lied, and said it wasn't supposed to be creepy. Snapchat makes the same thing, and touts creepiness as a feature, not a bug. That's how you do it fellows. You'll be able to borrow another half-a-tril with that approach.

Virtual Reality goggles can't work. Because of the way your brain and eyes work, they will invariably make you physically ill, or deranged, or both. So what? They are immensely creepy, so they will be a success. People will drug themselves, or vomit and go back to them, for another suckle on the creep tit.

You can tart it up any way you like, all you Singularitarians with a dream of a WestWorld honey, but you're just humping a knothole in a dress dummy, and always will be. It's a supremely creepy concept, so you can't go wrong dumping your 401K into it. Your broker will just dump it into another Creep Unicorn if you don't.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

The Sippican Cottage Musical Test dell'Acidità

Everyone likes what they like. They don't know why they like it. They assemble reasons to explain their affection after the fact. It's a weird form of post hoc ergo propter hoc. Because things happened in sequence, the first caused the second. With pop music, it's a sequence of one thing. I like it. Fire up the confirmation bias furnace. Unroll your cart-building plans after the horse steps on your foot. He couldn't do that if he had a cart in front of him.

I mentioned pop music, but music is no different than any other topic in this regard. Everyone works backwards. It goes something like this:
  • I like it
  • If I like it, it's good. No way I could like something bad
  • If I like it, there must be a good reason
  • I am wise, so the entity that produced the thing I like must be important
  • Liking important things makes me more important
  • If you do not like what I like, it's because you're a philistine
I have never successfully convinced another human that it's perfectly OK to like dreck. I have pointed out many things that are dreck to persons who liked them, but did not think they were dreck. This always led to one of two reactions, either of which resulted in enmity towards me, not the thing itself:
  •  You're right, it is dreck. I can't like dreck, so I can't like it any more. I hate you for ruining my fun
  • It's not dreck. [Insert name of person with no talent here] is a genius, and [insert name of magazine here] says so.
The whole mindset leads to 50 year old men telling you that Motorhead is Mozart, and Camille Paglia telling you that Madonna is Moliere.

So, to make things easier, I've invented the Sippican Cottage Musical Acid Test:

If you're from Liverpool, and your composition is played Santuario-di-Madonna-di-San-Luca-skiffle style by five Bolognese men a half a century after you wrote it, you're on to something with your approach to songwriting. That's as far as I'll go.

Monday, March 20, 2017

Getting Fresh and Familiar

There's a concept in design called something along the lines of, "Fresh, But Familiar." It means in order to be the Next Big Thing, you've got to organize familiar things in a fresh way. Or more likely, you add a single novelty, while the remaining 99% is the usual stuff and junk. People will go crazy for a small excursion from a well-beaten path, but they're wary of truly new stuff. I used to explain the concept as, "Pioneers are the fellows you see lying by the side of the trail with arrows sticking out of them." That has too many words, so we'll stick to FBF. Alton Ellis covering A Whiter Shade of Pale is FBF to the max, ain't it?

FBF is a very important concept for people who attempt cover versions of very familiar songs. Being an essential concept doesn't mean anyone who wants to cover A Whiter Shade of Pale is going to listen to me. People dutifully try to copy what they like, usually with their tongue in the corner of their mouth the whole time. It never occurs to them to bring anything new to the table, because their table of talent wobbles too much to keep anything on it anyway.