Hmmm. What’s the capital of Missouri again? Was it Kansas City? Can’t remember. I’ll just enter “undecided,” that will suffice. Okay, next question… how much does the moon weigh? Full moon or half?
Oh, yes… the blog. As you can see, I’m at loose ends here. Just killing a little time between sessions. Matt put down a vocal the other day. (I wish he’d stop putting me down, man. I’m trying my BEST!) Next it’s my turn, but first Marvin (my personal robot assistant) needs to go in there and clean up the tracks a bit, do a little of his magic. (What kind of magic? Can’t say. It’s magic, damnit!) So while I’m just sitting here, I’m filling out crosswords, completing puzzlers, and… well… opening our overinflated mailbag. Some of these things have been sitting in there for six months or better. (I think I spy a christmas present…. from 1970…)
Here’s one from Osmond of Reno, NV:
Dear Big Green:
I understand one of you lived out here at one time. Why did you do that? Are you trying to ruin our lives? Stop oppressing us!!
– Osmond
Hey, Osmond – I’m awful sorry about that, but it was a long time ago and sometimes it’s just best to forget these things. Let’s mark it down to youthful inexperience, okay? And if I ever come back, I promise not to wash dishes at the Country Kitchen buffet.
Here’s another one, from Madagascar:
Hey Big Green…
Who is this “George” and why does he want to bring Pangea back? We like being a large island nation off the eastern seaboard of Africa, and we wouldn’t mind having a word with this “George”
cheers,
Lord ‘Elpus
Okay, m’Lord, you see… “George” is a fictional character – a mad scientist, like Mitch Macaphee (who is, sadly, real). Not everyone in our songs is for real, okay? Sometimes we make up unlikely personages, like “Jane” or “Abraham Lincoln”, and sometimes we borrow them from other authors, like “Tarzan” and “Edward Teller”. And regarding the reclamation of Pangea, no worries… that will take some time, he-he-he…. sometime indeed…
Time for one more; this from D.C.:
Dear Big Green,
Hell no, you can’t!
John Boehner
House Minority Leader
Thanks, John. I was wondering about that. Great hearing from you, as always. Well, time to get back into the studio. Sounds like Marvin’s finished erasing everything we’ve done so far. Nice work, boy!
What’s been happening around these parts? Let’s see, now. A thing or two. We’ve got a crack in the earth going, as you know. Straight down to the chewy center. Less said about that the better, frankly. After all, we’re still officially squatters here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, and if the actual owners of this renowned property had any idea of the shape it’s in (let alone the fact that there is a major crack in the Earth’s crust contained within), they would see us evicted, convicted, etc. Then there’s those mongooses again – you remember them, don’t you? We had some problems with mongooses some years back, taking over our beloved lean-to, then invading the mill and trying on our galoshes while we were gone. Very pesky fellows indeed. Well, they’re back. C’est la vie. (I think it’s all the greasy cooking the man-sized tuber has been doing. More on that later.)
What about the man-sized tuber? Well, he’s given up politics. (It’s just too damn cynical for him.) He relinquished his post at the head of the town board and has decided to do cooking lessons out the back door of the mill. At first, he tried to keep us out of the loop on this, thinking we would want a cut of the profits. But you can’t keep us in the dark for more than a month or two, particularly when something is happening right under our noses. And I mean literally. The tuber has but one cooking implement, and that’s a frying pan. So whatever he’s showing people, it usually involves open flame, the pan, a gob of butter, and a whole lot of smoke. If he burns it to a crisp, he just cracks an egg over it and calls it done.
What was that sound I heard, coming from down below? Some kind of tectonic activity? A passing subway car? Or could it be….. a tuber in distress?
random, stupid detail about people’s personal lives of interest to no one other than themselves. We are certainly guilty of that. Yeah, I know the standard jibe. Big Green is all yak and very little music, right? Well…. right enough. Too much talking, not enough music – got it. And it’s been almost a year and a half since our last release, International House. So what the hell – time to get off our sorry butts and start strumming, pounding, screeching again.
them AND play them live. And what the hell – let’s do a powerpoint, besides. Matt and I have been knocking our heads together, and we’ve started laying down some tracks with Marvin (when he’s available) recording reference drums until John White returns from his extended trip to Madagascar. (Where do you rent a gas car in Madagascar?) The virtual reels are rolling… that’s what that freaking noise is.
Down and down and down we go, round and round and round we go… Ah, I forgot what comes next. Oh yeah – it’s either “ker-splash!” or “crunch!”
Dropping him into the crevice is like dropping a potato down a well. In fact, I don’t know why I’m using a simile – it IS dropping a potato down a well, waiting to hear the splash. I know what you’re thinking, but just remember… the man-sized tuber did nothing but oppress us as mayor of our little town, and so he owes us, in our estimation. (No, I don’t have a mouse in my pocket. I’m referring to the entire Big Green entourage.)
some ‘splainin’ to do, as Tom Coburn said to Justice Sotamayor. Take, for instance, this little number by Matt called “Edward Teller”:
Oh, hi out there in TV land. Just attempting to plumb the depths of what has become a rather large rend in the garment of our adoptive home, the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill here in upstate New York. We’re just getting a preliminary read here, but I’d say this sucker goes down pretty far. Maybe to the center of the Earth (or, to use the term New York-based geoscientists commonly employ, the “oit”). In fact, I have some pretty good evidence that this crack goes straight through the nougat to the chewy center of our lively little planet. What evidence, you ask? The first-hand kind… as in robot hand… as in Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who volunteered to, well, dive down there and take a look.
technician – Marvin’s creator, Mitch Macaphee – and asked him to program into Marvin the willingness to volunteer for such a dangerous task, which Mitch did in a trice. No problem for an experience mad scientist. There were a few glitches, of course – in essence, Marvin’s mouth was saying “I volunteer” but his legs were pedaling in the other direction. (Those magnetic-drive casters produce some torque, let me tell you.) That aside, we managed to get a rope around him, strap a flashlight to his forehead, put a cell phone in his claw, and lower him down into the abyss. Fortunately, Marvin’s eyes double as web cams, so we were able to see the underground landscape unfold before him – fascinating journey, as that Australian interior designer might say in a totally different context. Care for a Foster’s? (Product placement – hey, got to keep the lights on somehow, right?)
seventy-five, or even one hundred miles below us. But as far as I’m concerned, anything down there belongs to US. That’s right… a pie-slice shaped vector of earth stretching from the perimeter of the hammer mill down to the core of this planet – a colossal spike of mineral wealth – belongs to us, at least as far as our new legal advisor Anti-Lincoln can tell. Yes, I know what you’re going to say… why, WHY would we consult someone as untrustworthy and disreputable as anti-Lincoln, the literal antithesis of our most revered president? A man with no scruples, no ethics… what kind of a lawyer could he possibly be? OUR kind.
The thing I’m seeing (as opposed to the thing I’m sayin’) is this massive crack in the foundation of our beloved Hammer Mill. Never noticed it before, actually. Funny what you run across when you’re snooping around the place, looking for discarded foodstuffs (abandoned sandwiches, leftover fruit, etc.). Pretty soon you’re picking up on all of the stuff that’s been going on without your noticing it. I always thought that Mitch Macaphee’s experiments in plate tectonics might have some regrettable consequences. Now I can see that I was right. What has Mitch been working on, specifically? Funny you should ask. It’s this thing he picked up on in one of Matt’s songs, a little number called “Why Not Call It George?” The chorus goes like this:
Now, I would be the first to caution people against taking song lyrics seriously. After all, look what happened with that Manson thing – and all because he was reading too much into Tommy James and the Shondells’ Crimson and Clover. (You know… “Crimson” – blood! “Clover” – on the graves of the dead! “Over and over” – MANY dead!) Well, Mitch has gone and done it again, trying to recreate the mother of all continents through some strange electromagnetic process that only HE understands. Hard to believe he is the inventor of something as, well, intellectually challenged as Marvin (my personal robot assistant). (Don’t tell Marvin I said that. Just attribute it to someone else, please – he’s very sensitive lately.)
working on a few songs… actually a sackload of songs. Not doing the lounge lizard thing any more. No sir, the next time we perform, it will be our own ridiculous tunes, not someone else’s. And we will have a powerpoint presentation handy to explain each one, so no one makes the mistake of misinterpreting them like Manson did with “Crimson and Clover” or whatever the hell song. Matt and I have been working furiously on this project, now that we know the potentially disastrous consequences that may result from mere un-footnoted performances. What the hell – we played “Why Not Call It George,” and now the Earth may be destroyed. Who knew?
Oh, hi. You caught me haggling over the incalculable bounty of a bunch of bananas. Somehow, twenty years ago, I never pictured myself spending any serious time trying to convince a rogue mongoose that a twice-discarded piece of fruit belonged to me, not him. (I had no vision, no foresight.) And yet here I am, on the cobblestone street outside the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, engaged in this literally fruitless enterprise. No, my friends, I am not hungry. We of Big Green are not wanting for sustenance. We have our art to feed us, our music to fill our bellies, our powerpoint slides to use as sandwich slices, our amplifier heads to employ as toaster ovens, our… our… man, I’m hungry! 
Pavlovian response for me. Still, I don’t want the banana for snacks. We are working on concepts for the next Big Green album, and one of the many, many useless ideas involves bananas. (Only one? you may ask.) Not sure – I think Marvin (my personal robot assistant) may have come up with that one. Hire an old phonograph somewhere, he says. Get a banana, he says. Put the banana on the phonograph turntable, he says. So what do I do? I go and listen to him, that’s what. Who’s the fool here, eh? The fool robot or the fool who listens to him? Oh, well. We grab ideas wherever we can find them.
spiritual/artistic food? In truth, it’s not very satisfying. And bananas are better than what I can usually wrestle away from the local mongooses. (Mongeese?) Typically that’s a breadfruit rind or coconut shells. I mean, if I’m going to have a spartan dinner, I would prefer it not be something that has to be eaten with vise-grips. Hard times indeed. We’ve been trying to put our meager minds together on how to yank ourselves out of this pit of poverty and obscurity. (Leave us face it – we have a following like the fictional band played by Flight of the Conchords.) I don’t know. Hootenannies? Open rehearsals? Slide shows? Bake sales?