More Miller, Less Filler

Good stage presence is often the difference between hearing a performance and being at a performance.

A nervous performer makes us nervous for them. And no matter how well they play, their unease on stage distracts from the music.

A comfortable performer can take you on a journey.
And that is what Scott Miller and The Commonwealth will do to an audience after plugging in their equipment and playing songs like it's the first and best time they've been performed. And that feeling is what made an hour-long set at the All Good Cafe on Saturday night seem like it was about two hours too short.

Miller was on the front lines of the alternative country music movement a decade ago with the much missed V-Roys. He broke off on his own and started playing solo about six or seven years ago. He knows a stage as well as the dog-eared United States atlas on the passenger seat of his tour van. And his specialty is taking his audience along for a trip through the places he's been.

Miller's music starts the audience out on the back roads of some a mid-sized Tennessee town where people have nothing else better to do on a Saturday night than look for trouble. The next song will take you to a Sunday morning church service where the sinners wonder if there's enough room on the cross for them. And then it's off to sleep to dream historical dreams about Sam Houston --- the wild drunken guy from Virginia who kept getting shot in the leg in battlefield skirmishes before helping found Texas and becoming the first president of the pre-state republic.

I've heard Miller perform his catalogue of songs at least six times now, and it never ceases to amaze me how his music makes me forget where I am. When he's not playing a song describing the smell of young love in a borrowed Chevy Citation (not as gross as you'd think) Miller will dispense a bit of his dry wit between songs. His bit last night was reintroducing introducing himself after each song as a 70's pop icon. "Hello ladies and gentlemen, I'm Rupert Holmes," and on to "I'm Neil Diamond and I'd like to play a song for you."

Like any road band struggling to make their trip profitable, Miller reminded the audience made up of people well past the age of 25 that he had T-shirts for sale. He also joked that he had some onesies for sale because most people he knows now have kids. They had a special message printed on them, he says: "'Scott Miller Hates Me'."

Speaking of hating, I have a tip for Mike Snider the owner of the All Good Cafe. I realize you are trying to run a business that serves up both food and music --- a difficult task. I know you have to make the rounds with your Sergeant Pepper's Drum to collect money for the cover charge while making sure the food comes out on time. It's hard to keep straight of who's paid the cover. But I was a bit insulted that you shook me down twice for $10 and then impolitely demanded to see my hand stamp like I was attempting to steal from you. So here's a little constructive criticism. Let your waitresses attend to the tables while you stand near the door and take money, a good 30 minutes before a band starts. If you've forgotten if you've collected money from someone who arrives earlier, be nice about it. Do that and you'll stand a better chance of winning the repeat business of music fans like me. Remember, you need me a lot more than I need you.

The Smiths in Portuguese

Nearly three years ago, I dabbled around with one of those friends sites called "Orkut". Orkut is a site sponsored by Google which is much like MySpace. The only difference is that its the only Google product that isn't wildly popular in the United States. I mean, everybody has a MySpace page in the states, even disgraced Republican Congressmen accuse of improper contact with Congressional pages. But Orkut, not so much.

So Orkut allows you to create and join different communities for people to belong to. I created a few communities just as a joke, like "White Trash" and "Cheap Ass Rides" --- C.A.R., get it? But one community that I created that wasn't a joke was a community dedicated to the legendary 1980's British band The Smiths. Over the course of three years, the community has exploded. The community currently has more than 30,000 members. And for some reason, nearly all of the members of the community live in Brazil. It's a bit perplexing. I get all sorts of lauditory emails directed to me from Brazilians --- at least I think they're lauditory, as they're written in Portuguese and I don't speak a solitary word of that language. In fact, a Brazilian member of that community posted comment in the blog below about The Smiths (I'm not sure how that person found me, but I hope he enjoyed my photos of Oak Cliff crack houses.)

My friend Will says Orkut became popular in Brazil because people there are extrodinarly close to their families and use the site as a way to keep in touch.

So a shout out to all Poruguese speaking people. Let's be (smooshing my cheeks together like Lane Meyer in 'Better Off Dead') frieeeeeeends.

Keep Out Dope Head

The craftier vagrants don't tear off boards on windows or doors to gain access to abandoned houses. Instead, they'll rip off the boards near the bottom of a house, crawl underneath and break through the floor boards. That way, patrol cops won't notice a house has been broken into when they roll by.

Apparently, the folks on East 12th Street in Oak Cliff are wise to this dope loving vagrant.

Neglected Beauty

The uniquely American Craftsman bungalow began dominating the landscape in the United States just before World War I. This style of house began popping up during a housing boom that started when banks offered home mortgages for the first time.

The architecture on these houses are simple, stylish, warm and functional. For millions of people, this was the first house they ever owned --- including me. I owned a house very much like this one and was the coolest place I've ever lived.

Because these houses were built during the growth periods of cities, most of these one-time dream homes are located near downtown areas on what is now less-than-desirable real estate. As middle class people moved to suburbs, lots of these homes were left behind to become crack houses. That's the case for this house on East Eleventh Street in one of the very worst parts of the Oak Cliff area of Dallas. This house has all of the classic elements of a great Craftsman bungalow --- a wrap around front porch with two seperate entrances, a fire place in the living room and very cool Dutch windows on all sides of the house. As evidence of how shitty this neighborhood is, a window pane on one of the front windows is riddled with bullet holes.

The Road Warrior

When the apocalypse happens, you'd better believe I'm going to be behind the wheel of a primer grey 1971 Dodge Charger. It's the only sensible vehicle to drive while foraging for gasoline and raiding abandoned Wal-Marts for beef jerky.

Video Surprise

Popping in a new remastered copy of the second Madness album, Absolutely, I got a really nice surprise. The CD immediately cued up four Madness music videos --- three I'd never seen before. Madness came across my radar screen like a lot of early 1980's bands from England. They were wildly popular in the U.K. but Americans were completely ignorant of Madness and ska music in general. That was until Madness' "Our House" video started getting played in heavy rotation on MTV.

Madness got videos right. Videos are supposed to make an image of a band and project the one thing you can't get off an audio recording --- images of the band plying their craft. In the case of Madness, the videos all featured the band bashing on their instruments in some working class section of London. The videos almost always featured Madness members sporting short hair cuts, mirror sunglasses while performing wacky jerky caucasion-style dancing. At some point during the video, Lee "Thommo" Thompson would always jump up on top of a table and play a tiny plastic saxophone. The videos were always fun. And they must still be having an effect on me because I chopped all of my hair off earlier this year so I could look more like Graham "Suggs" McPherson, the bands lead singer.

Suggs is now on a BBC Channel 4 show called Salvage Squad. He and a group of other people meet up with owners of messed up machinery, like a 1931 Morgan car, and restore those items. Not as cool as if he starred in "Bastard Squad" the favorite show of the flatmates on The Young Ones. Suggs and Madness once appeared in a Young Ones episode in which they performed "House of Fun" in bar. When Rik asked Madness if they'd play a Cliff Richard song, Suggs threatened to punch him in the face. "I'll just go sit over there then," Rik replied.

Extreme Overuse

While watching an NFL game broadcast, listen to how many times the word "standpoint" is used. The over/under on the use of this word by a color analyst or a goof sitting behind the desk is at least 10 times per game.

It'll drive you crazy.

Fixed

After three trips to junk yards, two visits to electronic retailers and one trip to a glass shop where I watched my truck get repaired along with Scarface, my truck is finally fixed. It actually looks better than before the vandal broke in and crowbared the stereo from the dash.

In a way, the thief did me a favor. Now I have a stereo with an auxiliary jack that allows me to plug my MP3 player into the Ranger. So now I can roll down the road with 5,000 songs at my disposal. I'll probably never use either the radio or CD player functions on this head unit. So thanks again for the thievery, asshole.

The White Haired One

Plenty of people today are likely discussing their encounters with one of the most famous Texas Governors, Ann Richards, who died from cancer at the age 73 yesterday. Here are some of mine.

In 1991, in her first full year in office, I was the lowest man on the totem pole in the Capitol bureau in Austin for a big Texas newspaper. While I rarely ever covered any big political stories, my job was often to do the leg work for other reporters when I wasn't attending lame press conferences or obscure state agency meetings.

One of my duties was to get quotes from the governor on the issue of the day. Performing this task meant standing at a side door to the entrance of the Capitol Building at 5 p.m., rain or shine, when Richards usually emerged with two body guards who ushered her into a white Lincoln and drove her over to the governor's mansion.

Sometimes there would be other reporters waiting with me --- especially if some politician had taken a shot at Richards and we needed to hear a response from her own lips. But more often, I'd get sent over to stand outside by myself to ask her what she thought about the school finance bill negotiations or if she was leaning towards calling a special session to pass a lottery bill.

The Richards you got at 5 p.m. on a Thursday evening was not the one you saw on T.V. The quick quip and heightened Texas twang that made Richards' image was usually absent when she addressed the moppy headed 24-year-old newspaper reporter wearing a stupid pair of shoes. She was tired and just wanted to go home. But she always stopped to talk with me, even though I'm sure she'd have rather just brushed by me and my incredible insignificance. But no matter how obscure a question I had for Richards, she always had a thoughtful answer. She never needed a handler, a speech, or an adviser when it came to dealing with policy matters or the business of government. And the main reason for that was because she genuinely cared about the State of Texas and took her job seriously. I didn't always agree with her decisions or her appointments to office but I was never embarrassed to say she was the Governor of Texas.

Neighborhood Creepfest

The Dallas Morning News did an excellent series about this mansion that's located a few blocks from my house on Swiss Avenue. Essentially, the story is everybody's worst probate law nightmare --- the family is fighting a couple of antique dealers who allegedly got their hooks in the elderly lady who lived there and got her to sign over the house just before she died. It's a mess.

So last weekend, there was an estate sale at the old lady's mansion. I really didn't want to buy anything --- not even a souvenir, which I assume the lines of people waiting to get in wanted. The recent articles about the house in the paper certainly brought out the crowds --- somebody had even posted the stories on the front porch of those who hadn't seen them to read. All I wanted was the chance to a peek at the 1917 three story brick Prairie-style house because I'd heard that it is totally unchanged from the day it was built.

Through all of my real estate hunts in which I've looked at hundreds of historic homes, I've found that the purest examples are always the houses owned by either old ladies or people who could barely afford them. The reason is neither of those types of people are likely to go on wild remodeling sprees and fuck the house up beyond recognition. That's happened to most of the houses on Swiss, where if the grand homes weren't cut up for apartments in the 1940s, they were ruined by wealthy people who tore out the original mosaic tile out of the bathrooms because they didn't like the color, painted over stained woodwork, or put a bunch of stupid looking cabinets in the kitchen when the street got popular again in the 1980s.

The lady who owned this house was both old and unable to afford to change anything --- which had some bad consequences. She couldn't afford basic repairs so the roof is in terrible shape, the porch overhang is about to collapse from wood rot, and water leaks inside have caused the plaster to fall from the ceiling, especially in the dining room. But the inside of the house --- oh my.

The mahogany floors have never been refinished and are in good shape. The woodwork on the staircase and banisters are amazing. There are tiled fireplaces in just about every room. The bathrooms are untouched. Nobody tried to make the kitchen fancy (rich people never spent time in their kitchens, only the help did, so food prep areas were always minimal). And there are painted frescos on the walls of the parlor that are stunning. As far of visions of restoring the house, you don't have to imagine what it should be like because everything is there ---- all of the fixtures, chandeliers, built in cabinets, tile work. There's even a ballroom on the third floor that is rumored still be decorated for a child's party from the late 1940's (we weren't allowed on the top floor or in the basement). But the place is absolutely filthy --- it doesn't look like anything has been cleaned since 1952. The upstairs tiled shower is covered in grime, there was water on the floor from a leaking fridge, and the carpet on the stairway was rather gross. I would have taken pictures inside, but there were people everywhere screwing up any potential for decent photos.

My next door neighbors who have restored their 1925 house to a condition that is likely better than when the place was new think it would take $700,000 to properly restore the Swiss house. I think that's an insane overestimation. But as I was leaving the house, I made a mental checklist of everything that would have to be done to the place, just like every time I leave a historic house that's for sale. I imagined myself painting every room, repairing wood work and cleaning everything to a high shine like I did at my place. And I imagined in that Swiss Avenue house, I'd be at it for a good three years.

That made me tired and glad I have no means to acquire this house.

Say Hello To My Little Shoe

While waiting at the auto glass shop for my junk yard scavaged window to be installed, in strolls this guy wearing these sweet Scarface Nikes.

Like nearly every customer at the auto glass shop, this guy was a victim of vandalizm. He drove up in a Buick Roadmaster, a car that really didn't fit this guy's gangsta shoes. But a Roadmaster gets a bit more thuggish when you put big ass speakers in the back and pump bass through them. But a Roadmaster gets incredibly gangsta when it's sporting what appears to be three bullet holes in the front windshield. On closer inspection though, the holes were really courtesy of a tire iron. I asked him if his girlfriend got pissed at him, and he nodded in the affirmative.

Then Scarface asked me what happened to my truck. I told him about my stereo getting jacked. And for some reason, I borrowed a line from Pulp Fiction and added:"It almost would have been worth it them doing it if I could catch them.''

Scarface answers, "Yeah, and put some slugs in they ass."

Auto Repair, Fred Sanford Style

Attempting to repair the damage done to a 1983 Ford Ranger usually involves a trip to the junk yard, the only outlet for long forgotten parts.

Junk yards are sad, creepy and extremely dirty places and I love them. I wonder who owned the vehicles which have been abandoned for vultures like me to scavenge. And I wonder why those people gave up on their cars. In one junk yard, I found a row of about 5 mid 1970s 280 Zs that looked like were not that far removed from road worthiness. In another yard, I saw a 1970 Spitfire. Those cars are fun to own and people enjoy keeping them running. The row of left for dead minivans, well, I can understand that.

I found a row of Rangers and amazingly enough there was one that had a dash that was in pretty good shape --- usually padded dashes don't last long in the Texas sun. I got a gauge bezel and a vent window out of another Ranger. Then I paid about 45 bucks for my purchase and left. I was covered in about an inch of dirt when I walked out of the gate, but that was free.

Cell Phone Ghetto

Here's my favorite line in the recent article concerning the arrest of 50 Cent, who got busted by the fuzz after hauling ass through midtown Manhattan in a Lamborghini.

At first he refused a police order to get out of the car, instead making a call on his cell phone, tourist Ian Parvess said.

Another fabulous ghetto move --- have a cell phone planted on the side of your head at all times. It's a way of letting The Man know:"I'm using up all my minutes before I go to jail."

I Hate People

I was having a really good night last night. I went to a party in Oak Cliff, and then went with some friends to the ultra swank super cool Belmont Hotel for a few drinks.

When I got back to the street where I left my truck in front of the house where the party was, this is what I found. Somebody broke my side window, got into my beloved 1983 Ranger and took a crowbar to the dash to steal a fucking $99 stereo. Really, who steals stereos anymore? I was even planning to get rid of that stereo anyway for one that has a Ipod jack. So on the drive home, I was happy that at least they didn't heist the entire truck. I also calculated how much it's going to cost to repair my truck --- replacing the torn up dash is way more than a new stereo.

It's not been a good week for me crime-wise. I forgot my debit card in an ATM machine on Tuesday and someone took it and proceeded to take out $100 before attempting to use the card 13 times more before I reported it stolen. And then this morning, somebody took my Sunday newspaper from my front yard.

I did take comfort in the belief that the little cocksucker who burgled my truck, the asshole who used my debit card and the jerk who stole my newspaper will all have career paths that include trips to the state penitentiary sometime in the near future. Have fun attempting to have rape free shower guys while I shop for a new stereo.

Red

Like an automotive lemming, I got lured to a Ford dealership this morning because the company is offering zero percent financing again. That makes getting a new Mustang very very attractive. And there were plenty of nice GTs to choose from on the lot I perused.

I quickly realized what a foolish move getting a new car would be. In three months, I will make my last payment on Red, the current Mustang I'm driving. Come November, with no car payment and if I drop down to liability insurance, it'll be like earning an extra $400 a month.

Red is the 10th Mustang I've owned. I bought her in November of 2001, coincidently, when Ford offered zero percent financing for the first time. Oddly enough, I didn't bite on zero percent financing then either to get the keys to a new Mustang. Instead, I walked across the street to a Carmax and got the then three-year-old Red, for half the cost of a new GT. I took out a low interest loan to make the purchase, marking the first time ever I've taken out a car loan.

Red now has 91,000 miles on her and has taken me on at least 50 long road trips. We've been to Austin for work, to Wyoming for no good reason other than to say I've been to Wyoming, to Kansas to see a rock show and to Colorado for loads 'o mountain fun. Red has satellite radio, cruise control, a 5-speed transmission that makes holding mountain highways easier, and a V-8 engine that will blast me past tractor trailers that block my way. The car has always been a fun car to drive and fits me and my driving habits like a glove.

Besides the economic reasons, I'm just not ready to give Red up. She has at least another 70,000 miles in her, maybe more, before the engine will start to get tired.

So here's to a whole lot more road trips with Red.