SCIENCE!

So the other evening, I decided to wear these beautiful, super high heels my mom got me (because they're blue suede, get it? My mom gets it.) because they make my legs look long and I think they're super cool, but I can't really DO heels, because I'm really, really, really clumsy? Well usually, when I wear heels, I do it for a photo shoot or a cocktail hour, and kick them off as soon as I can (I AM from Florida, barefoot is my modus operandi) so I can return to earth, but the other evening I kept them on exceptionally long. I was quite proud of myself; they didn't even hurt! So when I got home, I went into my bedroom and was leaning over to plug in my computer, so you can imagine, I'm leaning over to grab my computer cord, so my face can't be more than two feet from the ground. I slip in them heels, and since I had things in both hands (cord in one, laptop in the other) I took the fall completely on my face.

Now, I have a really small nose. I'm Cherokee and Scottish, so I don't know to which I can attribute this factor, but I do have a phenomenal circle-head (in that, it's relatively angle-free) which I do attribute to "Florida-face" aka, no jawline, aka Britney Spears. But I done broked it, y'all!! So now I have a really charming Owen Wilson thing going on (at least for now, with the swelling and all) and my mom goes "YOU HAVE TO GO TO THE DOCTOR!" (like, really yelling) but I hate doctors, I really, really do. I'm going to pay money to wait to humble myself to the presence of some smug asshole who's going to tell me to put ice on it? Fuck you. No way. Not now, not nevuh. But she's like "they have to do that thing where they shine a light in your eyes and see if you have neurological damage"... this, because she is familiar with the process, because I've had six concussions. A friend's dad fudged my medical sheet in high school so I could compete in athletics, because you're not allowed to have more than three, so... well now it's seven, but so what? AND here's the thing.

All swolley, and dazed and falling in and out of consciousness, I (of course) rested, stayed in, ice packed it up... basically BECAUSE I hate going to the doctor, I have a solid frontier-style approach to all injury and illness. Keep things clean, take powders, rest, and incorporate pure grain alcohol. And let me tell you something... it works. I was hallucinating and unable to talk and all of that stuff, and then I got up some gumption (and my ball of no-pride, because waitresses look at you funny when you have two black eyes and an broken nose) and went to get drinks with some friends. We had the intention of going to see Sofia Coppola's new movie Somewhere at the Belcourt Theater here in Nashville, but MOVIE TIMES DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! So instead we just kind of... kept drinking? And guess what? I'm better.

What I think happens is that alcohol thins your blood (which is why I was bleeding so freely when I first fell and smashed my face, it was so, so funny to me, Jem's expression) therefore, I figure, swelling is because of an abnormal rush of blood to the site of injury (I think I'm right, here) like... your red blood cells are the ones who go after invaders like bacteria and viruses, right? So they also go to invaders like, injuries? So I figure, swelling is a rush of blood responding to the injury, and then alcohol thins your blood (as does ibuprofen) so if you ingest both, swelling is BOUND to be substantially reduced? Do not hold me accountable medically, but I find this to work.

Hehe I just thought about going to the doctor and when they carelessly ask about symptoms, running through a list of complaints like Bill Murray in What About Bob? "... cold sweats, hot sweats, dead hands, numb lips, fingernail sensitivity, pelvic discomfort..."

Booze. Causes problems and cures them. Namaste.

- Cokes

OH! A BREATH OF FRESH AIR!

One should VERY RARELY Google themselves. Just as a rule. You don't want to do that. But my sister just asked me which day the Ettes were playing in Orlando next month (where we're from and where she lives) and I said "Oh, I don't know, lemme check" and I Googled "ettes orlando" and this piece came up. And for all of shammy lammy nonsense that goes fadoodling around the Internet, I just want to share with you 1) possibly the Ettes first review ever, and 2) proper, well-researched journalism as delivered by the music-lovin' consummate professional journalist, Fred Mills. Fred Mills is now a good friend of mine (7 years on the same scene will do that to you) and I respect him because he's FO REAL, good at his job, and an all-around awesome human. Even when he takes digs at me on paper, he's usually (always) right and I respect him, even when we disagree, or he slams me for being lazy or ripping something off or whatever. He knows me (music) better than I know myself (music). Just saying, I'm proud of this accurate, knowledgeable, 7-year-old review. Possibly because it makes me sound cool, but mostly because REAL MUSIC JOURNALISTS STILL EXIST AND DO THEIR JOBS AND AREN'T LAZY FUCKWITS WITH AN INDIE STICK UP THEIR ASS AND HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT, AND ARE SO, SO, SO NOT ROCK AND ROLL AND WOULDN'T KNOW ROCK AND ROLL IF IT SUCKED THEM OFF IN THE BATHROOM AT THE MELODY INN IN INDIANAPOLIS.

- cokes


The Ettes
Shake the Dust
[Sympathy For the Record Industry]
Get It at Amazon

Sick of the all the latest "highly touted" garage/punk outfits who wouldn't know Raw Power from Vans Warped 'cos they're too busy trying to get added to Fall Out Boy's MySpace friends? Meet L.A.'s Ettes, the real deal.

Formed in 2004 by fetching frontwoman Coco Hames, an Orlando ex-pat who went west in a quest for the perfect guitar amp, plus drummer Poni Silver and a gal bassist, the band took off when, in a stroke of estrogenuity, they arrived at their memorable moniker, a femme-positive nod at the classic "-ettes" girl-groups of yore. Eventually a guy, Jem Cohen, assumed bass duties, but rather than denting whatever conceptual resonance the name carried, his male presence brought a touch of yin/yang balance to the mix. Ladies, he looks great in tight pants, too.

Shake the Dust is, technically speaking, the Ettes' second record, although since the earlier Eat the Night was the product of a wham-bam demo session yielding embryonic versions of much of the material destined for Shake, it's fair to call Shake the band's official debut. Recorded in England at Toe Rag Studios by White Stripes/Billy Childish cohort Liam Watson, the platter's got a primal timelessness about it -- these are songs for the new millennium, yet they trigger sense memories of late nights spent as a kid with ears glued to the AM radio, soaking in the Stones, the Yardbirds, Motown and the classic productions of Phil Spector.

"Reputation" opens the disc on a tidal wave of Ramones/Sonics chords, Hames alternately pummeling upon and pleading with a paramour; in a pouty Jagger/Johansen flourish the title word rolls off her tongue as repp-you-tay-shawnn. "Alley Cat," with its sultry vocal, fuzz guitars and locomotive thump, suggests Nancy Sinatra backed by the Cynics, or the Runaways reborn as a power trio -- or a distaff Reigning Sound. Speaking of which, a turbocharged cover of R.S. anthem "We Repel Each Other" provides a mid-disc high. And near the end "Beggars" cues up, an astonishing monolith of scuzz-twang that's like an unchaperoned date between the Ronettes and the Jesus & Mary Chain. In it, Hames' vulnerability slowly peels away to expose raw nerve-ends of hurt: "My body aches/ My hands are shakin'/ I've run right out of things to say/ I'm beggin' you/ You once begged me too/ And I gave you everything that I had/ But you needed even more/ Now I'm bleeding."

Even jaded music consumers who count on one hand the number of new garage bands worth listening to will want to reserve a digit for the Ettes. Three, actually -- one each for Coco, Poni and Jem, coming to your town to help you party it down. They are, make no mistake, a goddam American band.