You are viewing pattytempleton

Tired of ads? Upgrade to paid account and never see ads again!

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

First…holy crap. Check out this Prince “Batdance” video. Love. Love. LOVE.

…Ok. I’m failing at blogotrons. Can’t seem to get the purple to rain for you via video. So…go HERE! You’ll get to see images like this:

prince batdance video gif

and this

prince batdance video gif

and this

prince batdance video gif

Which, I mean, is obviously…AWESOME!!! If Prince wanted to lean moodily in my direction while wearing a Joker suit, that’s cool. And if, while in his Joker suit and curled hair, he wanted to stare excitedly at my vagina through a black minidress extolling my intelligence through Frankie-Goes-To-Hollywood-lettering, that’s peaches to my cream.

I’m sure you all feel the same.

BUT! On to the purpose of this post!

Here’s what I published in 2014 that is eligible for awards:

There Is No Lovely End

Odd Rot, 2014

GoodReads, Amazon, Black Gate review

Eligible Categories: First Novel, Best Novel…and any award that has to do with self-publishing, horror, or beginning writers.

If you are a member of a voting association, contact me here and I will hook you up with a digital reading copy.

Thanks for stopping by.

High Fives.

::continues couch-dancing to Prince::

 

 

 

Tags:

In the Land of Mom and Cacti

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

It has been two years…TWO YEARS…since I have gone to Arizona to see my family. Blame it on money, blame it on whatever, but that is too damn long.

This song comes to mind:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2bo_u_YmW8

I now come home and both my mom and I are older than we’ve ever been. The time for us to go gallivanting on adventures…it isn’t coming to a close, but it is getting into the Region of Health Considerations and How They Affect Travel. I would be lying if I said it doesn’t freak me out. But that’s an inner monologue not yet figured out. Instead of draggin’ you down that strip, I will say…

Yes, I do still despise flying instead of driving.

i hate flying I want to write wingwalker stories and barnstorming stories and all manner of cheeky daring do related to early aviation…but for the nonlove of ugh…my controlling self doesn’t like being on a modern airplane.

Moving on.

Me and my ma went to Lolo’s for soul food and it was AWESOME. I had fried green tomatoes that were half a taste away from heaven. I also got to see my nephew for the first time in two years. Last time I saw the lil’ man he fit in my arms. Now he’s playing leap frog and being a general toddler showoff. Weird. Has this ever happened to any of you…you look at certain friends or family and are like HOLY SHIT…YOU HAVE A KID? And it is ALIVE? STILL? But that isn’t being fair to my brother. He’s been a responsible member of the human race for years now. He is no longer the miscreant rave-thrower of our youths.

out of the woos chris offuttIn other news, I started reading Out of the Woods by Chris Offutt and it is SO EFFING GOOD. It’s a collection of short stories, on folks who have left Kentucky. If you like authors like Frank Bill or Daniel Woodrell, you’d probably dig Offutt. I can’t wait to quit blogging so I can finish reading it. Then find more of his work. And he’s on twitter. Just. Followed. Him.

::looks at clock::

Shit. Gotta go. Meeting the moms for lunch. More later. Like about the writing that is going on. I am finally really getting into a serious draft of what is tentatively called “Ripley Nyms Versus the Hot Rod Witch Gang”…a lesbian Indiana Jones pastiche set in 1950s Chicago. HUZZAH!

Tags:

It. Is. 2015!!!

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE! Happy New Year!


2014…well…I didn’t spend much time on this blog. Instead I was over on Tumblr and Twitter and Instagram. Here’s a reminder of ME! With sequins. Because New Years!


Who am I kidding? No one. Even a blind dog would bark at that lie. Sequins are for ALL THE TIME!


patty templeton


And here is my promise:


To be around more.


BUT. Right now. Like this hot minute. I AM BUSY! I am making FAKE MEAT LOAF! And mashed potatoes! And green beans! I would take a picture of my stove, but instead I give you a more interesting Meatloaf:


meatloaf eddie rocky horrorIt is gonna be a good year, folks. I FEEL IT IN THE LOAF!


::jump high five::


::fistbump::


::rocks out over the stove::


Tags:

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

I have attempted slaying those shitty imps, but the slaughter leads to pitchforks, scales, horns, etc. not properly decomposing near my neck and collarbone. It turns to crunch, and, geez, a gal can’t win.

I feel as if October has been a hard month. I am glad it is over.

I have been busy. Ish. I have no idea. Lately, I feel as if I am mildly incapable of even simple tasks and list-making. My accomplishments are not as BIG! as I want them to be, but they do include moving into a new Iowa place, submitting a handful of shorts to random contests, helping a friend edit a novella, outlining my own novella, and…starting a job.

Ok. Ok. So I quit working at the library at the end of February. For seven months, my main job was writing. In that time, I did the final edits of my novel and published it. I did a hellton of guest blog spots, interview writing, and marketing for it, submitted new short stories to several anthologies…and I’m sure there’s more. BUT I AM OVER-EXPLAINING.

I feel…not like a failure, exactly…but sheepish – because I quit an AMAZING library job to write full-time and now…seven months later…I’m working at a coffee shop that rhymes with “oh shucks”.

I am not working there because my savings are gone. They still exist, but I want to make them stretch. I want to make sure that I can do this whole writing full-time for another year.

I am only working 2 days a week – absolutely no more than 3 (and that’s if someone calls in sick or they hella need to fill a hole). The job is low stress, I never bring my work home with me, and if I leave Iowa next October (when the new apartment’s lease is up) I won’t feel bad. And! because I found a hella good deal on an apartment, by working 2 days a week, I cover most of my bills so I’m not depleting the hell outta my stash.

So it goes. We do what we gotta do to keep dreaming, right?

ANYWAYS!

Outside of that, hey look above. I took a horror selfie for the HWA’s thing. See thing here.

GAH! The library. (Gotta make them dollars stretch. No internet at home. Just at the library.) It is flashing its lights. They are closing soon. I gotta end this.

Happy Halloween, my Clowns and Critters. I adore you. Keep dreaming, even when it is hard and you are feeling down.

Tags:

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

I SWOON!

PEOPLE!

I SWAN!

I ADORE MEGAN STIELSTRA.

Full disclosure: Over ten years ago Stielstra was a teacher of mine at Columbia College. I can’t remember if I had her for Fiction Writing I or Fiction II, but I do remember that she was a constant source of encouragement, and – dudes, I was in need of hella support. My brother was in the Army and overseas and a combat engineer. I was a bag of shitty vibes who wrote about it here and there and Stielstra was kind enough to ask after him and me continually.

She was a good goddamned teacher.

Still a teacher, in fact.

And you should buy her personal essay collection, Once I Was Cool.

I mean, don’t take my word for how awesome she is. You can try out her work, over by here. Oh, and know that she was featured in the Best American Essays 2013.

I’m just gonna shove this out there. I forgot I gave a shit about essays. Megan Stielstra not only reminded me of an entire genre which I had been ignoring, but made me want to write my own essays. She showcases the poetry in ordinary moments, the humor in the horror of living. I fucking loved this book. It hit me on all levels

  • Assuaged my minor homesickness for Chicago? Check.
  • Contained such phrases as “got peed on at Faith No More” and “In a laundromat in Ypsilanti on Valentine’s Day.” Check.
  • Had badass opening lines to Every. Damn. Essay? Check. Re:

“Recently, I dropped a bunch of ecstasy and went to the symphony.” – Totally Not Ethical

“I just peed on the stick, and now I have to wait three minutes.” – The Walls Would be Rubble

“When I was 18, I accidentally went to bed with a guy who had a glass testicle.” – Those Who Were There

Do you listen to NPR’s Moth Radio Hour? Megan Stielstra performs at 2nd Story, which is like the Chicago equivalent. You can see her stage experience on the page. Essays move fast. Opening lines are killer.

She is a writer who uplifts emotionally and artistically. Stielstra puts her teaching experience on the page, not often writing about her students, but writing about her experience with source material that feeds her classrooms, such as her experiences with Kafka’s work and journals. And hell, it’s great to hear shit like Kafka saying “I will write again, but how many doubts have I meanwhile had about my writing.” or “My work goes forward at a miserable crawl.” Stielstra doesn’t so much echo Kafka’s desolation as show the work-through. Just make time. Just get shit on the page. Keeping getting words on the page, even if you have to sit in your bathroom with your laptop balanced on your knees because that is the only place you have alone time.

But I digress. Or do I? I don’t know. I WANT EVERYONE TO READ THIS BOOK. It talks about everything from Stielstra’s love of dive bars to postpartum depression to love stories formed out of brunch and a helpful waitress.

There is so much beauty and hope on the page. Like:

“Here’s the power of a story, someone hands it to me like a gift (I imagine it wrapped in shiny paper, with the bow, the handmade letterpress card – the whole nine yards). And in the gift, I find parts of myself that have been missing, parts of our world that I never imagined, and aspects of this life I’m challenged to further examine.”  - The Domino Effect

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSssss. Just yes.

So, go buy it.

Tags:

Dance. Dance. Dance…and the Stars.

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BA BOOM!

…this was the sound of me jumping around in big ol’ boots (still dirty from Muddy Roots) at Dark Dance Des Moines, last night. Red sequins were worn and DAMN IT! Why didn’t a take a pic of my red and black eyeshadow cause DUDES it was glittery gorgeousness.

YEAH! I got to go dancing yesterday. It was HELLA RAD! I flailed. I sweat. I missed Manda, Banana, and J9, my Chicago Neo crew. BUT! I met new people. Yes, dear reader, I was sitting at the bar while Professor M. was outside smoking. Sitting there. Sitting there. And then I decided that I didn’t want to be alone or lonely in a big dang crowd. All I had to do was say hello to someone. So I did. A very kind couple. And that led to talking to the dude who runs Dark Dance Des Moines, who happened to be passing by, and later other folks were talked to (a DJ, a sound engineering student, a graphic designer, a rad vegan booknerd w/ a sweet beard)…I decided NOT TO BE SHY! and it worked. o.0!!!

Dark Dance is held at a bar called The Fremont. Not only are the folks who attend friendly, but the bartenders kick ass, too. Attentive, nice people. You walk into the Fremont and there’s a bar to your right,  pin-ups and motorcyclist paintings to your left, and if you go through the door at the end of the bar you enter a small room with a stage. DJs were set up and there was plenty of space for a solid crowd of dancers.

Professor M and I were there from about 10:30 till 2 in the morning and then it was an hour drive back home…but it was an hour drive along this empty stretch of black river road where the stars overwhelmed the sky. We ended up stopping the car to stargaze. M’s idea. I like to think that I’m dreamy and romantic, but I might be more practical than anything else. Last night, my brain was in get-home-want-to-fall-into-bed mode until M pointed out how big and bright the world above us was. I’m glad he did.

I’ve also found the perfect time to eat a pepperjack grilled cheese: 3:37 a.m.

GD delish.

*

Random last bit: Part 3 of 3 of my Self-Publishing Checklist went live. You can find it over here on Black Gate.

Tags:

Dance. Dance. Dance…and the Stars.

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BA BOOM!

…this was the sound of me jumping around in big ol’ boots (still dirty from Muddy Roots) at Dark Dance Des Moines, last night. Red sequins were worn and DAMN IT! Why didn’t a take a pic of my red and black eyeshadow cause DUDES it was glittery gorgeousness.

YEAH! I got to go dancing yesterday. It was HELLA RAD! I flailed. I sweat. I missed Manda, Banana, and J9, my Chicago Neo crew. BUT! I met new people. Yes, dear reader, I was sitting at the bar while Professor M. was outside smoking. Sitting there. Sitting there. And then I decided that I didn’t want to be alone or lonely in a big dang crowd. All I had to do was say hello to someone. So I did. A very kind couple. And that led to talking to the dude who runs Dark Dance Des Moines, who happened to be passing by, and later other folks were talked to (a DJ, a sound engineering student, a graphic designer, a rad vegan booknerd w/ a sweet beard)…I decided NOT TO BE SHY! and it worked. o.0!!!

Dark Dance is held at a bar called The Fremont. Not only are the folks who attend friendly, but the bartenders kick ass, too. Attentive, nice people. You walk into the Fremont and there’s a bar to your right,  pin-ups and motorcyclist paintings to your left, and if you go through the door at the end of the bar you enter a small room with a stage. DJs were set up and there was plenty of space for a solid crowd of dancers.

Professor M and I were there from about 10:30 till 2 in the morning and then it was an hour drive back home…but it was an hour drive along this empty stretch of black river road where the stars overwhelmed the sky. We ended up stopping the car to stargaze. M’s idea. I like to think that I’m dreamy and romantic, but I might be more practical than anything else. Last night, my brain was in get-home-want-to-fall-into-bed mode until M pointed out how big and bright the world above us was. I’m glad he did.

I’ve also found the perfect time to eat a pepperjack grilled cheese: 3:37 a.m.

GD delish.

*

Random last bit: Part 3 of 3 of my Self-Publishing Checklist went live. You can find it over here on Black Gate.

Tags:

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

Know what yer best friend is after a music festival rain?

jimmy fallon gif hay

Lay it down for solid ground and less brown splashing. Nobody likes brown splashing. OK, no one sober likes brown splashing. OK. OK. Maybe it was just me. I’m a priss. Keep your fucking mud splashes to yourself, you maniacs. I’m dirty enough.

So, Mr. Jason Galaz, ye who creates the fest, I appreciate your quick hay action. It was laid down as early as the first Sunday act.

Which was…

Dylan Walshe

Dublin-raised Dylan Walshe is a singer-songwriter whose meditative, bleak lyrics declaim a world of broken people and busted politics struggling to pull themselves together. There’s a tinge of Billy Bragg in his voice and a warmth to his soul.

I admit it. Sunday morning I was kinda in a meh mood. I was like GREAT. GREAT. WEATHER CHANNEL SAYS MORE RAIN.

Dylan Walshe totally changed my outlook. Seeing him as a Sunday-opener plugged me back into the cause…and the cause is seeing new, fabulous music – not bitching about sunburn or rain.

Matt Woods

You’re walking down a two lane road day-drinking a PBR. The only reason you have it is cause your ex threw it at yer favorite shirt when they told you to get the fuck out of the car. You hate your job. There’s a hole in your shoe. You haven’t done shit with yer life and you don’t know what’s next. Town is five miles and no shade away. All you want is someone to carry you home. The only thing keeping you from dirt-sitting and waiting to die are Matt Woods’ introspective, stripped-down lyrics running through your head, reminding you you aren’t alone.

Of course he killed it at Muddy Roots.

If you don’t know Matt Woods, find him here. Here. And Here.

Terry Harmonica Bean

Terry Harmonica Bean is a Mississippi man who’s been playing hill country blues his entire life. His daddy played the blues. His granddad made moonshine. He’s steeped in tradition and strives to blow his harp as badass as Little Walter did. And when he ain’t playing, he’s spieling…and his stories are pretty damn powerful. Re:

My daddy played the blues. He played with B.B. King, but he never did travel. My grandfather knew Robert Johnson well. And when you’re from Mississippi, you just grow up around people playing the blues…Up where I live – in the hill country – that meant people like Big Joe Williams, Bukka White, R.L. Burnside, Junior Kimbrough and people like that. Now, my daddy and granddaddy knew all those people. They used to come to the house and play house parties and at that time…”

Here’s me being a history dork, but…I AM NOW THREE STEPS AWAY FROM ROBERT JOHNSON! Step 1: I watched Terry Harmonica Bean. Step 2. Terry Harmonica Bean had a granddad. Step 3: That granddad knew Robert Johnson.

That’s what Muddy Roots does – it not only connects you to new artists, it strengthens your understanding and appreciation of the scene’s musical predecessors. It makes history feel a bit more real and linked to every day livin’.

 

patty templeton writer

Me and The Professor at Muddy Roots
Photo by Lisa Hendricks

The Dinosaur Truckers

The Dinosaur Truckers is a German 4-piece playing everything from atmospheric country to speedgrass. They bring rockabilly guitar to porch music. Hell. Yes. I’d never seen them before, but I sure as heck want to see them again.

Joe Buck Yourself

My friend Banana and I both believe that Joe Buck Yourself looks like a hillbilly Cryptkeeper and that this is goddamn hot. So. There’s that.

Outside of that…if you haven’t ever heard of Joe Buck Yourself…he’s a one-man band who makes the kinda music that could easily soundtrack everything from meth shed explosions to illegal boxing matches held in RV circles to stomping on the graves of your enemies.

So much love, I have for this man.

Everymen

I only got to a catch a bit of them…but from what I heard, Everymen are rowdy, house party roots music. The lead singer has a voice that reminded me of Laura Grace from Against Me, if you tossed her throat in a woodchipper and filled it with whiskey. For example, this badass song.

Imperial Rooster

You are always gonna win me over a little bit more if you give shoutouts to living or dead weirdoes in your music. The Imperial Rooster call themselves “gonzo roots music.” R.I.P., Hunter S. Thompson. You are missed. But yes, I see it. If gonzo implies energetic, first person storytelling with regard to self-satire and social critique, then Imperial Rooster is aiming high and getting there by-and-by.

Rachel Brooke

Rachel Brooke is always a crowd-pleaser. She’s the reigning queen of the roots music scene, singing everything form sexy slowdowns to murder ballads.

Joseph Huber

I have crowed on and on about Joseph Huber. I’m not going to do it again.

Or maybe I will.

Huber’s lyrics are innovative and poetic. I know they’re good because he makes me jealous as a writer. I half love him and half want to chop his brain out, eat it, and hope that I’ve soaked in his talent. His music puts hope and comfort in the world, even though that world is fulla hurt and hard times.

AND HE MAKES GORGEOUS FURNITURE.

His newest album is The Hanging Road and you should buy it.

Me and ShawnaBanana and a whole slew of other folks danced our asses off when he played.

Calamity Cubes

I’m not schooled in the accomplishments of Kansas, but they gave me the Calamity Cubes, and for that, they’re in my Top Five States Ever list. Hard driving, anguished, and thoughtful, the Calamity Cubes are soulful sonsabitches who will always give you a good show. Accidental murder of a lover? Amiable breakup songs? Civil war stories? The one that got away? Skateboarding? Whole hearted, no matter the consequences? That’s the Calamity Cubes.

Bobby Bare

I’m a damn heathen and hadn’t ever heard of Bobby Bare before. Plaintive crooning, poise, and narrative songs that tend toward (or have become) country standards…Bobby Bare’s a helluva a talented and interesting man.

Viva Le Vox

Viva le Vox is a surreal, rock, swing, roots outfit that ranges from a two-piece to a full band. This Muddy Roots, Joe Buck Yourself was on standup bass and Tony Bones held down lead vocals, guitar, kazoo, and random other.

Ever accidentally rob a laundromat at 2 a.m., wearing only tightie whities and a cartoon skull mask? I’m just saying, if that has or is to happen, Viva le Vox should be playing in the getaway car.

Lydia Loveless

I’m a fan. Or I was a fan. I don’t know what I am, right now. Though some folks gave Ms. Loveless good reviews at Muddy Roots…and I’ve adored seeing her in the past, this round…something just struck me as off. As suck. As kinda shitty. Maybe it’s that I dig quirks and blemishes and Lydia Loveless has polished all those outta her music with her newest, NPR-adored album, Somewhere Else. But it’s more than that…I can deal with polish and sparkle…for god’s sake, it’s not like I hate all pop music. I think it was because it seemed like she didn’t give a shit about being where she was and she was constantly pissed off at the sound issues. Sorry, man, it downpoured on equipment. Shit’s gonna go wrong. No need for bitch face and muttering in the mic about it.

I think she’s talented and she’s so young that, damn, she’s got a big career coming on, but I left the main stage as soon as I heard that the Hooten Hallers were setting up.

The Hooten Hallers

Let us pause to reflect on the brassy, batshit crazy beauty that is the Hooten Hallers:

They play bathroom trashcan, hillbilly, rent party, ass-swaying soul.

It was a helluva juxtaposition to go from the Starbucks-appropriate country of Lydia Loveless to the grinding bones and antiestablishmentarianism of the Hooten Hallers. To each their own, but I’ll always choose the music that cracks me open and makes me want more outta life than the smooth path.

The Hooten Hallers are the kinda band that I want to constantly thank for existing. Their energy gives me more energy. Their creativity amps my own. They make my life a better life by making their music.

Goddamn Gallows

The Goddamn Gallows rode into Muddy Roots on a graveyard train and hollered on rot, ruin, and renewal. If you’ve never heard of them, you can watch this, or you can carve 47 crosses on a door, knock on it thrice, and when you open it, the Goddamn Gallows will walk through red-lit fog into your room. They are theatrical upstarts who began their careers as Old Scratch’s house band. They still hold the record of being the only musicians the Devil didn’t burn to dirt outta disappointment.

You. Need. To. See. Them. Live.

 

 

…and that was it. Muddy Roots 2014, over and done. Once again, Jason Galaz put on a world-widening, gd marvelous fest.

Y’all should meet me there next year.

Oh! Also. LOOK at this FAB, numbered print I bought! SO RAD!

muddy roots print

PS – MEGA PS – Somewhere in there, early one day, Rachel Kate also played. Holy shit. Love her. Lover her. LOVE HER. Buy all her things. See her live. SO GOOD.

 

EDIT! Here is Day 1. Here is Day 2. In case you missed ‘em.

Tags:

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

Everybody knew it was going to happen. The rains, man, the rains. Weather Channel said there was a ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CHANCE of rain. Ugh.

Which meant…I was carrying around a poncho and umbrella for most of Saturday. They ended up being near useless. When the Weather Channel stated “rain,” they meant to say “torrential downpour.”

It proper-fucked the music schedule. BUT this is the kinda fest where people deal with the shit and keep going.

No, seriously. There was shit. Not much, but some. In an unfortunate moment of planning, one of the port-o-potties was at the bottom of a hill in a bit of shallow land. When the rains came, the water rose, and whoa-geez, though the port-o-potty remained standing, it, um…overflowed. From then on, it was either taking a high road up the stage hill or walking way-far-around to avoid the Shit Zone.

Let me take a moment to say, aside from the very manageable and pretty laughable incident above, the port-o-potties were AWESOME. Nobody likes pissing in a hot plastic box, but the company that ran the waste company was AMAZING. They came out every morning to clean the bathrooms.

I’m spending a helluva lotta space here talking deuce-crates, but it’s IMPORTANT. The only thing worse than bowel-dropping in a sweatbox is trying to do that same function late in a fest after some jerkwad has pissed all over the toilet paper and it smells like a pile of vomit Frankensteined itself alive long enough to menstruate over a dead rat. The port-o-potties at Muddy Roots were just as clean on Sunday as they were Thursday night. That’s frikkin awesome.

Moving on.

 

MUSIC! There was so much GOOD STUFF!

But here, I apologize again. I didn’t see everything. I didn’t even see some of the headliners. The weather was rain or drizzle rain or drizzle. By the end of the night I was feeling wet and cold and like I wanted to sit with new friends and listen to the music from my hill with food and shelter. I am a wuss. So what. I still had fun.

Here’s what I saw!

 

Joey Henry’s Dirty Sunshine Club

What a beautiful goddamn man, Joey Henry is. His projects – The Dirty Sunshine Club and the Calamity Cubes – remind me of Ray Bradbury saying, “You must stay drunk on writing, so reality cannot destroy you.” Henry writes of life’s setbacks and halleluiahs. His lyrics are earnest, existential, and imaginative and often feature relationships at the forefront. The clarity of his commentary on the power of love…He puts me in awe and jealousy, as a writer.

Rickett Pass

Imagine if Dell McCoury had a loveable shithead apprentice with face tattoos and a band…there’s Rickett Pass. Cocaine, blame, heartbreak, swayable slowdowns, feverish livin’…definitely worth checking out live.

Dead Soldiers

Dead Soldiers are the type of band that start playing and, BANG, it’s like yer cannon-shot into a movie William Gay wrote. (And if you haven’t read the great Southern writer William Gay – HOLY SHIT, come on. Dark…but no without hope.) They have an ambitious sound that ranges from woozy sing-a-longs to grim-graced introspective numbers. I like this one.

…my only problem is that, WTF…when did they start? I came from Rickett Pass expecting to see Blackbird Raum and Dead Soldiers were on.

…when Blackbird Raum did go on, they had to shorten the hell out of their set. I know it was a common theme of the day, but this was before the big rain happened.

Blackbird Raum

Were pretty damn gracious that their set was pushed back and then cut short. But it’s a fest. Muck-ups are gonna happen.

Don’t know Blackbird Raum? This is them:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qECZ7EL1Wxs

Hands down, they were one of the bands I was most excited to see. Anarcho folk punk. Hell yes. They killed it. With literate lyrics that don’t shy from shouting the wrongs of the world, Blackbird Raum continue to be a cathartic, raging reminder that the world is what you make it – so get off your ass and do something.

Lou Shields

One night, Ramblin’, Catastrophe, and Coffee sat around a fire.

Ramblin’ said, “Where the hell we going?”

Catastrophe said, “Dunno, but I got some disasters for when we get there.”

Coffee said, “Hmph.” She was too satisfied with herself to notice anything else.

Lou Shields appeared and sat fireside. He drank the coffee, pocketed ramblin’, and constrained catastrophe under his hat. Then he got to singing as he walked away.

Helluva bluesman, right there. And – look – he makes art, too.

Last False Hope

I was weak-kneeing for food by the time that Last False Hope came on. I watched them from my hill kingdom of Snack and Drink.

If you don’t know of Last False Hope, they are one of the punkest bands yer going to find in the roots scene. They are a feral, shout-it-out Americana act with an impressive fiddle player and madly energetic live shows.

Maybe because the weather has started to turn autumnal and it’s putting me in a monster movie mood or maybe because I have a morbid storybrain all the time, but I can totally imagine their song “Two Dollar Pints” being played in a horror movie while a serial killer is rhythmically macheting folks apart while line dancing.

The Weirdos

First wave punk oddities who prove that 30+ years after the fact, you can still be pissed at the world, strange, and out to have a good time. Booyah.

Hangdog Hearts

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I only caught part of the first song…because I realized it was 9 p.m. and at 9 p.m…

reverend beat-manReverend Beat-man

WENT ON!

By this time, the world was wet. Very. Very. Wet. Which made under the tent at Beat-man a mudpit. I hipshakeswayed on the edge of all of it, but here we are – two weeks after the fest – and my boots are still covered in Tennessee clay.

Reverend Beat-man…I just. I –

::swoons::

::face first into rhubarb toast and coffee::

::wakes up::

::slurps coffee off placemat::

Word on the street is that the god Apollo, after hearing Surreal Folk Blues Gospel Trash, Volume 1, challenged Reverend Beat-man to a music contest. Now Beat-man – he didn’t give a shit that Apollo had given Pan donkey ears in a comparable competition. And Beat-man didn’t fuck that Apollo flayed Marsyas in a cave and nailed his hide to a pine tree after a similar challenge. Because Beat-man knew that he had motherfuckin’ sway and not even Apollo could out filth him in goddamn rock and roll.

Apollo ain’t gone because Greek gods disappeared over the millennia due to commoners’ lack of belief. He’s gone because he hung his basic ass after Beat-man owned it.

Read it on a bathroom wall, plain as day in sharpie. It’s gotta be true.

 

…as for The Blasters, Gravelroad, Mudhoney, and Legendary Shack Shakers, you were goddamn gorgeous, too. But I was cold and wet and enjoying the company of folks under shelter…so I heard y’all from my hilltop.

For those that don’t know The Blasters…their song “Dark Night” was in Tarantino’s From Dusk Till Dawn. I KNOW! So hot. That song. Goddamn. It makes me want to write dirty, sexy, roadhouse erotica for fun and profit. They have Many. Good. Songs. Find them. Listen. Love. Send me your sexy dance videos.

And the Shack Shakers, sweet Eris, they are a hella fine band. Find them. See them. Buy all of their things. You want a crowd-walking crazy stage show with the best agridustrial, almost carnie leadsinger of all time? Go see Wilkes perform w/ the Shack Shakers.

 

SO MUCH GOOD MUSIC.

Hitch yer horse back here in a coupla days for Day 3.

 

EDIT! Miss Day 1? Here it is. And here’s Day 3.

Tags:

Originally published at Patty Templeton. Please leave any comments there.

Everybody knew it was going to happen. The rains, man, the rains. Weather Channel said there was a ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CHANCE of rain. Ugh.

Which meant…I was carrying around a poncho and umbrella for most of Saturday. They ended up being near useless. When the Weather Channel stated “rain,” they meant to say “torrential downpour.”

It proper-fucked the music schedule. BUT this is the kinda fest where people deal with the shit and keep going.

No, seriously. There was shit. Not much, but some. In an unfortunate moment of planning, one of the port-o-potties was at the bottom of a hill in a bit of shallow land. When the rains came, the water rose, and whoa-geez, though the port-o-potty remained standing, it, um…overflowed. From then on, it was either taking a high road up the stage hill or walking way-far-around to avoid the Shit Zone.

Let me take a moment to say, aside from the very manageable and pretty laughable incident above, the port-o-potties were AWESOME. Nobody likes pissing in a hot plastic box, but the company that ran the waste company was AMAZING. They came out every morning to clean the bathrooms.

I’m spending a helluva lotta space here talking deuce-crates, but it’s IMPORTANT. The only thing worse than bowel-dropping in a sweatbox is trying to do that same function late in a fest after some jerkwad has pissed all over the toilet paper and it smells like a pile of vomit Frankensteined itself alive long enough to menstruate over a dead rat. The port-o-potties at Muddy Roots were just as clean on Sunday as they were Thursday night. That’s frikkin awesome.

Moving on.

 

MUSIC! There was so much GOOD STUFF!

But here, I apologize again. I didn’t see everything. I didn’t even see some of the headliners. The weather was rain or drizzle rain or drizzle. By the end of the night I was feeling wet and cold and like I wanted to sit with new friends and listen to the music from my hill with food and shelter. I am a wuss. So what. I still had fun.

Here’s what I saw!

 

Joey Henry’s Dirty Sunshine Club

What a beautiful goddamn man, Joey Henry is. His projects – The Dirty Sunshine Club and the Calamity Cubes – remind me of Ray Bradbury saying, “You must stay drunk on writing, so reality cannot destroy you.” Henry writes of life’s setbacks and halleluiahs. His lyrics are earnest, existential, and imaginative and often feature relationships at the forefront. The clarity of his commentary on the power of love…He puts me in awe and jealousy, as a writer.

Rickett Pass

Imagine if Dell McCoury had a loveable shithead apprentice with face tattoos and a band…there’s Rickett Pass. Cocaine, blame, heartbreak, swayable slowdowns, feverish livin’…definitely worth checking out live.

Dead Soldiers

Dead Soldiers are the type of band that start playing and, BANG, it’s like yer cannon-shot into a movie William Gay wrote. (And if you haven’t read the great Southern writer William Gay – HOLY SHIT, come on. Dark…but no without hope.) They have an ambitious sound that ranges from woozy sing-a-longs to grim-graced introspective numbers. I like this one.

…my only problem is that, WTF…when did they start? I came from Rickett Pass expecting to see Blackbird Raum and Dead Soldiers were on.

…when Blackbird Raum did go on, they had to shorten the hell out of their set. I know it was a common theme of the day, but this was before the big rain happened.

Blackbird Raum

Were pretty damn gracious that their set was pushed back and then cut short. But it’s a fest. Muck-ups are gonna happen.

Don’t know Blackbird Raum? This is them:

Hands down, they were one of the bands I was most excited to see. Anarcho folk punk. Hell yes. They killed it. With literate lyrics that don’t shy from shouting the wrongs of the world, Blackbird Raum continue to be a cathartic, raging reminder that the world is what you make it – so get off your ass and do something.

Lou Shields

One night, Ramblin’, Catastrophe, and Coffee sat around a fire.

Ramblin’ said, “Where the hell we going?”

Catastrophe said, “Dunno, but I got some disasters for when we get there.”

Coffee said, “Hmph.” She was too satisfied with herself to notice anything else.

Lou Shields appeared and sat fireside. He drank the coffee, pocketed ramblin’, and constrained catastrophe under his hat. Then he got to singing as he walked away.

Helluva bluesman, right there. And – look – he makes art, too.

Last False Hope

I was weak-kneeing for food by the time that Last False Hope came on. I watched them from my hill kingdom of Snack and Drink.

If you don’t know of Last False Hope, they are one of the punkest bands yer going to find in the roots scene. They are a feral, shout-it-out Americana act with an impressive fiddle player and madly energetic live shows.

Maybe because the weather has started to turn autumnal and it’s putting me in a monster movie mood or maybe because I have a morbid storybrain all the time, but I can totally imagine their song “Two Dollar Pints” being played in a horror movie while a serial killer is rhythmically macheting folks apart while line dancing.

The Weirdos

First wave punk oddities who prove that 30+ years after the fact, you can still be pissed at the world, strange, and out to have a good time. Booyah.

Hangdog Hearts

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I only caught part of the first song…because I realized it was 9 p.m. and at 9 p.m…

reverend beat-manReverend Beat-man

WENT ON!

By this time, the world was wet. Very. Very. Wet. Which made under the tent at Beat-man a mudpit. I hipshakeswayed on the edge of all of it, but here we are – two weeks after the fest – and my boots are still covered in Tennessee clay.

Reverend Beat-man…I just. I –

::swoons::

::face first into rhubarb toast and coffee::

::wakes up::

::slurps coffee off placemat::

Word on the street is that the god Apollo, after hearing Surreal Folk Blues Gospel Trash, Volume 1, challenged Reverend Beat-man to a music contest. Now Beat-man – he didn’t give a shit that Apollo had given Pan donkey ears in a comparable competition. And Beat-man didn’t fuck that Apollo flayed Marsyas in a cave and nailed his hide to a pine tree after a similar challenge. Because Beat-man knew that he had motherfuckin’ sway and not even Apollo could out filth him in goddamn rock and roll.

Apollo ain’t gone because Greek gods disappeared over the millennia due to commoners’ lack of belief. He’s gone because he hung his basic ass after Beat-man owned it.

Read it on a bathroom wall, plain as day in sharpie. It’s gotta be true.

 

…as for The Blasters, Gravelroad, Mudhoney, and Legendary Shack Shakers, you were goddamn gorgeous, too. But I was cold and wet and enjoying the company of folks under shelter…so I heard y’all from my hilltop.

For those that don’t know The Blasters…their song “Dark Night” was in Tarantino’s From Dusk Till Dawn. I KNOW! So hot. That song. Goddamn. It makes me want to write dirty, sexy, roadhouse erotica for fun and profit. They have Many. Good. Songs. Find them. Listen. Love. Send me your sexy dance videos.

And the Shack Shakers, sweet Eris, they are a hella fine band. Find them. See them. Buy all of their things. You want a crowd-walking crazy stage show with the best agridustrial, almost carnie leadsinger of all time? Go see Wilkes perform w/ the Shack Shakers.

 

SO MUCH GOOD MUSIC.

Hitch yer horse back here in a coupla days for Day 3.

 

EDIT! Miss Day 1? Here it is. And here’s Day 3.

Tags:

Profile

pattytempleton
Patty Templeton

Latest Month

May 2015
S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930
31      

Tags

Syndicate

RSS Atom
Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Tiffany Chow