So it's July again, when Internet readership drops off sharply and strange things happen on this blog while no-one's looking. Arguably the strangest is the annual Offering of Rock Groups Yearning to Be, that yearly list of potential group names posted for the benefit of literally anyone who wants one. (Full details here.)
Included in the deal is permission to reveal to anyone who enquires that your group's name was bestowed by a Zen hermit monk. And that all by itself is worth the price of admission. (Which is zero. Don't ask; it's a Zen thing.)
So once more into the breach. Extra credit to anyone who catches the literary, historical, scientific, and pop culture references that follow. In Google veritas.
Rock Groups 2025
The Window
Holgar
Tsunami Turtle
Der Pfeilstorch
Concrete Animals of Mexico
Einsatz
Exidor
Fala Does Mind
Hyōgaiji (may I suggest that you also take 丂 as your logo)
In this short meditation, Rusty Ring favourite Peter Mayer sums up the lesson we all should have learned long ago, but that many – perhaps the majority – of us are still sulking over.
Candid elaboration on the Zen notion of dependent co-arising, as applied to the human condition (a subordinate form I prefer to call co-dependent arising), the whole track consists of little more than Peter's own voice and guitar, enhanced here and there with a ghostly violin at the edges. It all adds up to power that commands attention, and a sedate simplicity our sort esteem.
Another cut from Peter's excellent album Heaven Below.
I've got this on frequent rotation these days, as I absorb demands to take arms against successive waves of faceless, vaguely defined offenders. Give it a click; see if it doesn't help to keep you on-task as well.
NOBODY ASKS
by Peter Mayer
Nobody asks to be born
They just show up one day at life’s door
Saying here I am world
I’m a boy, I’m a girl
I'm rich, I am sick, I am poor
Nobody asks to be born
No one is given a say
They’re just thrown straight into the fray
The bell rings at ringside
And someone yells fight
Some just end up on the floor
Nobody asks to be born
And no one’s assured
Of a grade on the curve
Or a friend they can trust
Or a house where they’re loved
And no life includes
A book of how-to
Because nobody has lived it before
So to all the living be kind
Bless the saint and the sinner alike
And when babies arrive
With their unholy cries
Don’t be surprised by their scorn
I had never heard of this alt hymn, or the artists who built it, or even the television series that launched it, before I first heard it on Celtic Music Radio some weeks ago. (Or maybe The Whip, or Folk Alley? Apologies to the unknown programme director with the sound judgement to add this track to the rotation.)
Which is probably for the best, as I understand the climactic scene behind which these poignant verses run would have superseded any connexions my own mind might have made.
And the work is deeply moving on its own.
In the meantime I've listened to it over and over again – I'm listening to it now – and suggest you do as well.
Listen without the lyrics. Let the chant flow through your skull. If the current moves you, listen a few times more before you engage your binary drive.
Just savour the oracular growl of Jake Smith (aka The White Buffalo), voicing the literary dexterity of lyricist Kurt Sutter. (While we're up, let's also note that the titular "murder" refers to a posse of corvids, not a capital crime.)
Those birds – crows, jays; ravens above all – were sangha during my forest ango; omnipresent, providing a guidance hard to quantify in the Red Dust World.
But you can take my word for it. These words–
Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
–arrested me.
Never mind that the story puts a darker spin on it; for me this quatrain encapsulates my experience on the mountain, taking me back to that time and place.
Therefore, for the good of The Order, I say in brotherly communion:
Let us clear our minds of discrimination, and contemplate this wisdom.
Wu Ya's commentary:
"Look, it's just a song."
–烏鴉
Come Join The Murder
by The White Buffalo and The Forest Rangers
words and music by Kurt Sutter
There's a blackbird perched outside my window
I hear him calling
I hear him sing
He burns me with his eyes of gold to embers
He sees all my sins
He reads my soul
One day that bird, he spoke to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles
Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king
On a blanket made of woven shadows
Flew up to heaven
On a raven's glide
These angels have turned my wings to wax now
I fell like Judas
Grace denied
And on that day he lied to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles
Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king
I walk among the children of my fathers
The broken wings, betrayal's cost
They call to me but never touch my heart now
I am too far
I'm too lost
All I can hear is what he spoke to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles
Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king
So now I curse that raven's fire
You made me hate, you made me burn
He laughed aloud as he flew from Eden
You always knew
You never learn
The crow no longer sings to me
Like Martin Luther
Or Pericles
Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king
Though it's generally unknown to Western Buddhists, Russia is one of the formative homelands of our religion. Not only has Buddhism been practiced there for as long as many another Asian nation – for example, the Volga republic of Kalmykia is the only region of Europe to have a historical Buddhist majority – Russia also hosts today what is likely the most fervent and productive conversion movement in the Eurosphere (i.e., nations with white majorities).
I was reminded of this while, for the first time in years, rewatching the above video. I originally encountered this song via primeval Internet radio, and it first appeared on Rusty Ring away back in January 2011, at the bottom of my third-ever post. (Those earliest articles sometimes ended with a premium, called the Cereal Box Prize. When, inevitably, finding and formatting this treat began to eat appalling amounts of blogging time, I abandoned that quirk, though not without regret.)
But having listened to Не могу оторвать глаз от тебя again (and remarveled at that awesome video), I figure it's due for a 14-year bump.
Аквариум (Aquarium) are a seminal Russian pop group, with roots deep in the perilous (for rock musicians) Soviet era. Today they're one of a handful of contemporaries routinely compared to the Beatles. Although founder Boris Grebenshchikov's precise religious convictions remain elusive, he's published multiple translations of Buddhist and Hindu texts and has a long history of including consequent themes in his music.
Just what (or whom) he is singing to here is a bit enigmatic. That chanting refrain suggests your standard love poem; you know, to another human. But the moiling mysticism of those verses opposes that hypothesis.
Still, his repeated second-person appeal at least seems to rule out a Buddhist theme; the author is clearly addressing an interlocutor he can see and calls "you". Our religion generally, though not categorically, refuses to speculate on such things.
The Eastern church, meanwhile – Russia's majority faith – has spoken of and to God in tones very like these for two thousand years.
So there it is: the song is Christian.
But what about that video? Seriously, fellow Buddhists, what about that awesome video? That's not just patently Buddhist, that's outright Zen.
Bodhidharma if ever I saw him.
So maybe "you" is enlightenment. Or the Path. Or the Great Matter. Or Kanzeon. Or some other glib Buddhist euphemism for God.
I don't know.
(See what I did there?)
Anyway, it's in front of you. Watch it. Hear it. See if it doesn't key your bodhisattva nature as hard as it does mine.
The video is of slightly – if very – higher quality than the one shared all those years ago. I was unable to find better, even on our Currently Superior Internet. But no trouble; it still works.
More irksome is the lack of reliable English interpretation. I can grasp the thrust of these lyrics, but my Russian is not up to translating them, at least not accurately. But I can tell that the translation supplied here is a little better than several others I found, by a slim margin.
I'd bet all were generated by artificial ignorance. Buy human, folks.
But for the moment, it seems our only recourse is to accept the best of them, however flawed. Just bridge the gaps with your koanic intelligence.
Welcome, honoured sangha, to your annual festival of potential rock group names here on the Ring. This makes an eleventh year of this odd and inexplicable July ritual, which is offered in the cause of the entertainment of all sentient beings.
Those needing reminder will find an explanation, such as it is, of this phenomenon here, as it first appeared away back in 2013.
As for rules and regulations, I suspect the 2021 post stated them most clearly.
Remember that any suggested genres are just that; there is no obligation of any kind, moral or financial, associated with this list, in whole or in part. You're a group as yet unnamed, you grab anything you like, with no apologies.
Let's crack on, shall we?
Rock Groups 2024
Roobar (Australian alt-country)
The Riot Dogs
Synesthesia (acid rock jam band)
Visible Filth (seems like it's gotta be punk, but hey, why not a boy band?)
The Drop Bears
Albino Platypus
Palindrome
Head Cannon
None More Black (Spinal tap reference)
Farmer John and the Weeds of Concern
The Sea Lions
No Thru Traffic
Demogorgon (metal)
Prometheus (hair band)
Bedfellow
House Hippo (Canadian twee pop)
Fingerstop
Matthew
Drywall
Maßkrug (metal band too sophisticated for an umlaut)
Ziggy Says
Monitor (the lizard, not the teacher's pet or computer screen)
This is a July post – meaning it has little immediate relevance to Zen or hermit practice – but Tom has made it clear on his website that this incredibly generous gesture is temporary, so I need to get word out to other fans well ahead of then.
Tom Lehrer was the patron saint of my college years, thanks to a chemistry prof who brought The Elements into class on a cassette tape and played it for us as a study aide. (I aced the class. Thanks to Tom? You decide.) I subsequently asked for the album for Christmas, and my sainted mother got it for me.
Infection achieved.
I've since continued to discover and enjoy Tom's work, even though his musical career ended while I was in primary school.
In real life, Thomas Andrew Lehrer was an accomplished academic with an amazingly broad résumé, encompassing teaching positions in mathematics, music, and political science, at a long roster of Ivy League colleges. A secret life of virtue that remained generally occult to the legions who savoured his storied public career as a composer and performer of jangly, razor-sharp music hall satire.
(And if that's not impressive enough, he also claims to be the inventor of the Jello shot, which claim has not yet been debunked. A fact I share in Tom's patented voice, in tribute to his questionable influence on me.)
Anyway, 'way back in 2007, Tom shifted every one of his songs into the public domain, declaring that anyone can perform or record any of them free of any financial obligation to creator or corporate sponsor.
What's more, we are also encouraged to download any of his own recordings, among which there are many enduring classics, also free of charge.
And now he's actually made them available on his website, often in multiple versions, for anyone so disposed.
All 95 of them.
And all of his albums may also be streamed or downloaded there in their entirety.
This amazing act of magnanimity (or insolence, take your pick) is time-sensitive, as the author, who is 96 at this writing, warns that the page may be taken down at any time. So hurry on in.
For those who have lived in tragic ignorance of this seminal œuvre, may I suggest the following appetisers:
The Elements (where my own life took its dire turn)
New Year's is upon us again, and as usual I'm in a reflective mood. This time I've got the Cowboys Fringants' Ici-bas running through my head. Les Cowboys have an unusual gift for couching poetry in vernacular speech, and it only gains in power what it loses in polish. Since the group lost its lead singer to prostate cancer just last month, this song has been much in my thoughts.
The video itself is a significant, Cowboys-worthy bonus; like another, unwritten verse, pumping context into words that might otherwise read more grimly than intended. Note all the visual metaphors for growing up and growing old, and also the classic backstreet scenes from some Québécois town, all of which have an uncanny knack for being distinct and the same at the same time. This one – whoever it is – makes me homesick for my own.
And finally, of course, that heart-pulling winter: much more than a simple season, it's a kind of family member in Québec; a relationship hard to grasp beyond the Ottawa. None of which is hurt by an additional call-out to my enduring love of taking long walks through it, both in town and nearer home.
« Ici-bas » literally means the here-below, an expression that exists in English as well, but is much more current in French. It implies the fishbowl nature of the human lot -- its claustrophobic smallness, the impossibility of escaping it with our lives. And also the unity of our experience, whether we choose to accept that or not.
All of which made translating even the title tough. At last I went with Down Here, with its implied awareness of the great not-Earth, and the modesty of our little neighbourhood and our existence in it.
Follows the usual heartbreak of reclothing sublime images in clunky foreign syntax. Does « trafic » refer to backroom intrigue, or is it just traffic? Because it's both in French, and the writer almost certainly meant both. And what of « faucher » (to scythe), mostly used in these industrial times to describe what Death does. Strike down, we might say, but that would leave a richer metaphor by the roadside. Nothing English gets us there as completely and concisely; you just have to take your best shot and move on.
Any road, I suggest you first listen to the song while reading the lyrics and ignoring the video, to savour the full impact of the message. Then run through the video again, watching it this time.
Either way, it's a touching meditation on The Great Matter.
Best of luck in 2024, and may we remember and honour each other, here-below.
(Note: an English translation follows the French lyrics.)
Ici-bas
paroles et musique: Jean-François Pauzé
Malgré nos vies qui s’emballent dans une époque folle
Où un rien nous détourne du simple instant présent
Alors que tout s’envole
Avec le temps
Malgré la mort, celle qui frappe et qui nous fait pleurer
Ou bien celle qui un jour, tôt ou tard, nous fauchera
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas
Malgré l’amour celui qui nous fait vivre d’espoir
Qui parfois fait si mal quand on reste sur le seuil
D’une trop courte histoire
Sans qu’on le veuille
Malgré la haine qui souvent nous retombe sur le nez
Et les caves qui s’abreuvent de ce triste crachat
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas
Ici-bas
Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront
Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon
La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres
La lueur dans les jours plus sombres
Tant que mes pieds marcheront
J’avancerai comme un con
Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas
Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle
Ici-bas
Malgré les merdes, les revers, les choses qui nous échappent
Les p’tits, les grands tourments, les erreurs de parcours
Et tout c’qui nous rattrape
Dans le détour
Malgré l’ennui, le trafic, les rêves inachevés
La routine, le cynisme, l’hiver qui finit pas
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas
Ici-bas
Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront
Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon
La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres
La lueur dans les jours plus sombres
Tant que mes pieds marcheront
J’avancerai comme un con
Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas
Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle
Ici-bas
Down Here
words and music by Jean-François Pauzé
In spite of the way our lives spin out of control in this daft epoch
Where an anything can pull us out of the moment we're in
While it all flies away
Over time
In spite of the deaths that strike and leave us crying
Or the one that one day, sooner or later, will cut us down
I will plant my feet
Down here
In spite of the love that allows us to live in hope
But sometimes hurts so bad we remain stuck on the edge
Of a story cut too short
Like it or not
In spite of the hate so often blown back in our face
And the caverns storing up all that wretched spit
I will plant my feet
Down here
Down here
So long as my eyes still open
I will search the horizon
For the chink that will shine on my ruins
A light in my darkest days
So long as my feet will still walk
I'll forge ahead like an idiot
Hope in every step
Right to my last breath
Down here
In spite of the hassles, the setbacks, the ones that got away
The small wounds and the great, the wrong turns
And all that trips us up
In the detour
In spite of the boredom, the traffic, the unfulfilled dreams
The routine, the cynicism, the endless winters
I will plant my feet
Down here
Down here
So long as my eyes still open
I will search the horizon
For the chink that will shine on my ruins
A light in my darkest days
So long as my feet will still walk
I'll forge ahead like an idiot
Hope in every step
Right to my last breath
Down here
In keeping with our general July theme ("what the heck") here on the Ring, today I'm sharing something awesome, just because it is.
This time it's Pablo Busto's Esperanto counting song, Dek bovinoj ("Ten Cows"). After the lyrics below I've translated the last two verses (the first ten being largely self-explanatory).
As profound as the song and performance are, I think the embedded video, produced for the children's show Aventuroj de Uliso, also adds weighty philosophical dimension, so I suggest you watch along.
All in all, an entertaining 3 minutes, even if it doesn't have much to do with Zen.
And here we are again, with another Rock Group roll. Those joining us in progress can get filled in here; note as well the rules, such as they are.
For the rest, let us simply observe that 2023 marks the tenth July I've dropped this bomb.
Also, please note that there is now a group called Enumclaw. I'm not saying they got their name from Rock Groups 2018 – timing seems a little tight – but see Rock Groups 2018. Savour also the Washington locations in this video.
Here's a good meditation for sojourners my age. Here at the crossroads of life, when most of ours is behind us, and what we have and what we owe comes into sharp focus.
It's hard to miss the Zen implications of the title and refrain. In addition to a gift for a koanic line, Julian Taylor – Canadian son of a Caribbean father and Mohawk mother – also wields a remarkably evocative voice that manages to embrace a multitude of genres and tones. In this case it bears a startling resemblance to Don Williams', blending perfectly with the gentle, introspective lyrics.
Anyway, give it a listen. See if it doesn't resonate with your path as well.
WIDE AWAKE
by Julian Taylor
It's a crazy world that we live in
The tide comes and goes so fast
Right now while I'm trying to be present
I'm still chasing shadows of my past
My father was born in the islands
My mom was born on the great turtle's back
They prayed for me when I'd go out in the evening
At least that's one of the rumours I'd hear
'Round Christmas time spent with my family
Over hot toddy sorrel and ginger beer
They did their best and they did it for freedom
They did everything they ever could for me
We went to church every single Sunday
We'd get dressed up and then go to granny's place
I'd run around that house with my cousins
We loved to race
There is an abundance of hope
That lies between the oceans of time
There's nothing singular about it
Yet it can be clearly defined
Yet it can be clearly defined
And I'm wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the heartache that I've had to face
And all the choices that I've had to make in my life
The greatest pictures are never taken
They're all stored in your memory
Me and my mom
We used to go to Good Bites and talk philosophy
We'd sit there just talking for hours
I once asked her why are good memories so heavy
She simply said
Aren't we lucky
And I'm wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the heartache that I've had to face
And all the choices that I had to make in my life
There is an abundance of hope
That lies between the oceans of time
There's nothing singular about it
Yet it can be clearly defined
Yet it can be clearly defined
And I'm wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the choices that I've had to make
And all the heartache that I've had to face in this life
July has ambushed us again, and you know what that means: another whack of rock groups.
As I've explained in the past, July is that month when readership plummets, Zen monasteries close for the summer, and I run about the house naked… figuratively, at least. Which is to say, I vary from the more serious business of this blog and indulge a silly whim or two.
Here's another great example of a video that adds striking dimension to the song it accompanies. Not that it isn't fine as it is; Vincent Vallières is among the most respected songwriters in Canada. But the juxtaposition of these images deepens the lyrics exponentially, turning Vallières' love song into a reflection on the temporal ground of being, and borrowing a few Zen references along the way. (Check out the Buddhist wheel of life at 2:32.)
It's no exaggeration to say that non-francophones could skip the translation (see below) entirely and just watch the video. With the music playing, of course.
Right from the first scene, the LP theme is genius. Not only does this medium literally spool out, turning 'round and 'round like life – till you wind down in the run-out groove – it's also legacy tech. The very sight of a phonograph record casts the mind back.
The vignettes that roll past thereafter will be recogniseable to anyone on the planet, but they have extra pathos for expats from la Belle Province: a rich reel of Québécois faces, places, and contexts that brings tears to my eyes.
Varying frame rates – slower than normal; faster; parameter – underscore the orchestral rhythms of life. It goes too fast; it goes too slow; sometimes it just goes, while we amble on unseeing. And it's all synchronised – wheels within wheels, out of our control, and for the most part beyond our comprehension.
Consider also that everyone in this dense little epigram is ten years older at this writing. The toddlers are in middle school; the small children are teenagers. The young adults have started their own journey, many including new children in turn. And some of the older subjects are almost certainly gone.
I never tire of this slide show. Another metaphor from my increasingly historical generation. As is the tone-arm return at the end, sure to provoke an emotional response in any who grew up on vinyl.
While we're up, it's also pointed Buddhist commentary on the nature of existence.
So for a tenth time, on this New Year's of 2021, I wish all my readers a promising and productive 2022, and hope to see us all back here again 12 months hence.
ON VA S'AIMER ENCORE
par Vincent Vallières
Quand on verra dans l'miroir
Nos faces ridées pleines d’histoires
Quand on en aura moins devant
Qu’on en a maintenant
Quand on aura enfin du temps
Et qu’on vivra tranquillement
Quand la maison s'ra payée
Qu’y restera plus rien qu’à s’aimer
On va s’aimer encore
Au travers des doutes
Des travers de la route
Et de plus en plus fort
On va s’aimer encore
Au travers des bons coups
Au travers des déboires
À la vie, à la mort
On va s’aimer encore
Quand nos enfants vont partir
Qu’on les aura vu grandir
Quand ce s'ra leur tour de choisir
Leur tour de bâtir
Quand nos têtes seront blanches
Qu’on aura de l’expérience
Quand plus personne n'va nous attendre
Qu’y restera plus rien qu’à s’éprendre
On va s’aimer encore
Au travers des doutes
Des travers de la route
Et de plus en plus fort
On va s'aimer encore
Au travers des bons coups
Au travers des déboires
À la vie, à la mort
On va s’aimer encore
Quand les temps auront changé
Qu’on s'ra complètement démodés
Quand toutes les bombes auront sauté
Que la paix s'ra là pour rester
Quand sans boussole sans plan
On partira au gré du vent
Quand on lèvera les voiles
Devenues d'la poussière d’étoiles
On va s’aimer encore
Après nos bons coups
Après nos déboires
Et de plus en plus fort
On va s’aimer encore
Au bout de nos doutes
Au bout de la route
Au-delà de la mort
On va s'aimer encore
Au bout du doute
Au bout de la route
Au-delà de la mort
On va s'aimer
When we look into the mirror
And read the stories in the wrinkles
When there are fewer of them ahead
Than the ones we've already got
And when we live peaceably
With the house paid off
When the only thing left for it is to love each other
We'll still love each other
In the doubt
And the crosswalks
Stronger and stronger
We'll still love each other
Through the triumphs
And the reversals
For life, till death
We'll still love each other
When our kids all move away
When we've seen them grown
When it's their turn to build
Their turn to build
When our hair turns white
When experience is ours
When no-one waits for us anymore
When the only thing left to do is to fall in love again
We'll still love each other
In the doubt
And the crosswalks
Stronger and stronger
We'll still love each other
Through the triumphs
And the reversals
For life, till death
We'll still love each other
When the times have changed
When we're completely out of style
When all the bombs have exploded
When peace is here to stay
When, without compass or chart
We'll run before the wind
When we raise sails
Now made of stardust
We'll still love each other
After our triumphs
After our reversals
Stronger and stronger
We'll still love each other
At the end of our doubts
At the end of the road
On the far side of death
We'll still love each other
Where the doubt ends
When the road ends
On the far side of death
I've loved this song for years but only recently searched out the video, which adds incisive context to the lyrics.
It's a detailed elaboration on the Irish saying, "The first thing to do when you're in a hole is stop digging."
The scenario of this short film is exactly how I used to feel after a break-up, like something of Great Import had happened and I had to lug this massive torch around against everybody's advice, while the world placed bets to see how long I could keep this shit up.
(Fifty-two years, as it happened. That's how long. So maybe there's a winner out there.)
Therefore, for the benefit of others like me – not such slow learners, I hope – here's a brief meditation on the smallness of your suffering and the worth of your life and time.
Don't wait for CNN to show up before you figure that out.
The lyrics themselves bring some Zen of their own to the party. I especially like, "‘Cause it turns out hell will not be found \ Within the fires below \ But in making do and muddling through \ When you've nowhere else to go.
Finally, listen for the drums; they're especially well done.
The Way I Tend To Be
by Frank Turner
Some mornings I pray for evening
For the day to be done
And some summer days I hide away
And wait for rain to come
‘Cause it turns out hell will not be found
Within the fires below
But in making do and muddling through
When you've nowhere else to go
But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be
Some days I wake up dazed, my dear
And don't know where I am
I've been running now so long I'm scared
I've forgotten how to stand
And I stand alone in airport bars
And gather thoughts to think
That if all I had was one long road
It could drive a man to drink
But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be
‘Cause I've said, "I love you," so many times
That the words kind of died in my mouth
And I meant it each time with each beautiful woman
But somehow it never works out
But you stood apart in my calloused heart
And you taught me and here's what I learned
That love is about all the changes you make
And not just three small words
And then I catch myself
Catching your scent on someone else
In a crowded space
And it takes me somewhere I cannot quite place
But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be
Ah, July. That glorious month when northern Zen loosens up and Rusty Ring vacates from seriousness.
Seriously. I look forward to this.
And each year our flagship foolery is the annual Rock Group Survey, in which I gather up all of the group names that the gods have revealed to me since my last Cortex dump.
The rules have not changed. They are:
» That all names here-under are available to any taker. I hereby repudiate all ownership, and offer them freely to anybody who wants one or more for any reason.
» That such takers must however verify via thorough search of the Information Superhighway that in fact no existing group currently fights under the desired name, as I have not already done so. (notresponsible
fordukkhaduetopreviousownershipofnamesorconceptswriterisnotanintellectualpropertylawyernoranintellectualnorpropertynoralawyeralwaystakeeverythingyoureadonlineoranywhereelsewithacaskofsaltyourenlightenmentisyourresponsibilitynotliableforkarmicconsequencesresultingfromassumingIwaswiserthanyouareseriouslyareyoublindaswellasstupid?)
» That any group assuming one of my identities is entitled to claim they were personally bestowed same by a Zen hermit monk, who will for his part back up any further legend concocted in connexion with the aforementioned claim.
As ever, where entries include parenthetical commentary on possible genres, that's just me talkin'. You want it, you take it. No questions asked, no takings tasked.
So hey, summer's a-wastin'! Dive in, dude!
Rock Groups 2021
Caman (Scottish rock)
Glastonbury Thorn (British folkrock)
Hollowstate
Serpent Zed
Bangjang
Asparagus
The Sea Monkeys
Grate
Runnin' Jump
&c.
Telstar
Pork
Overkill
Bitten Kitten
Wombat
Headwind
Ctrl-Z
Airlock
The Big Happy
The Murder Hornets (a bit shamed I didn't come up with this before there was an actual thing called that)
Mission Creep
Peña Ajena
Drudge
Электросталь
Bad Bread
Mother
Halftrack
Catshark
Wally Cleaver and the Dam-Rats
Ronin
Gelatinous Mass (in Gothic lettering with Catholic imagery)
Uploaf
Hillary
Gary Seven and the Timewarp
Killswitch
Spork
Monongahela
Egress Window
The Surfin' TERFs (grrrl group)
The Sandpapers (punk take on the Sandpipers)
Konïgstraat
Rocksalt
The Cul de Sac Kids
Rory Chesterfield and the Lowboys
(Photo courtesy of Bekir Dönmez and Unsplash.com.)
The guy's catalogue is replete with complex, insightful meditations on the nature of life and suffering; incisive depictions of human reality with occasional flashes of enlightenment around the edges. And the self-mocking that signals that.
This one's a case in point. On the surface it's a straightforward portrait of the enlightened mindset, which I might boil down to "people are not the universe".
But hovering just beneath that is something else, that truly emerges into full sun in the last verse.
Considered in order, what you got here is a meditation on the nature of enlightenment practice. And a worthy memorial to my brother John, who died last year of the 2020 plague, and wrote this song when he was 14 years old.
Sour Grapes
by John Prine
I don't care if the sun don't shine
But it better or people will wonder
And I couldn't care less if it never stopped rainin'
'Cept the kids are afraid of the thunder
Say sour grapes
You can laugh and stare
Say sour grapes
But I don't care
I couldn't care less if I didn't have a friend
'Cept people would say I was crazy
And I wouldn't work 'cause I don't need money
But the same folks would say I was lazy
Say sour grapes
You can laugh and stare
Say sour grapes
But I don't care
I couldn't care less if she never came back
I was gonna leave her anyway
And all the good times that we shared
Don't mean a thing today
Say sour grapes
You can laugh and stare
Say sour grapes
But I don't care
Here's another burst of insight from that cagey lot down at Monty Python.
This time they put humanity in context with a song drawn, fittingly enough, from The Meaning of Life. One fated from the outset to become a seminal text in my spiritual training, because I too have long asserted that this whole Great Mind thing is just a largish vaudeville show. And here Eric Idle (aka the Pythons' resident Zen master) confirms my suspicions.
For the rest, kindly note that the figures cited in the work are scientifically demonstrable. (Making this is a rare example of a novelty song that contains, like, verifiable data, and is therefore acceptable to Wikipedia, among others.)
And that Eric's knack for a penetrating conclusion is the most electric since Lennon and McCartney.
Follows the tablature:
GALAXY SONG
by Eric Idle
Whenever life gets you down, Mrs. Brown
And things seem hard or tough
And people are stupid, obnoxious, or daft
And you feel that you've had quite enough
Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving
And revolving at nine hundred miles an hour
That's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned
A sun that is the source of all our power
The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see
Are moving at a million miles a day
In an outer spiral arm, at forty thousand miles an hour
Of the galaxy we call the Milky Way
Our galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars
It's a hundred thousand light years side to side
It bulges in the middle, sixteen thousand light years thick
But out by us, it's just three thousand light years wide
We're thirty thousand light years from galactic central point
We go 'round every two hundred million years
And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions
In this amazing and expanding universe
The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
In all of the directions it can whizz
As fast as it can go, the speed of light, you know
Twelve million miles a minute and that's the fastest speed there is
So remember, when you're feeling very small and insecure
How amazingly unlikely is your birth
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space
'Cause there's bugger all down here on Earth
God help us, here we are again. There but for the grace, &c. And if ever we needed rock groups – as many rock groups as possible - this Periodic Year of Spontaneous Karmic Adjustment is it.
And so, in continuing public service to my suffering species, I offer yet again, with gratitude and unbowed defiance, the list of pre-born groups still waiting in the bardo as of this date.
With respect, please liberate them.
The rules again, for those distracted:
• All proposed names are available to any taker. I hereby repudiate all ownership, overt or implied, of any of them, nor is any trademark, copyright, or other legal superstition attached.
• However, do recall that nefarious others sometimes steal my ideas without informing me, often – and this is particularly low - before I've even had a chance to think them up myself. So if you find something you like, be sure to Google the crap out of it to verify it isn't already somebody else.
• Now how much would you pay? Don't answer yet, because you also get the added privilege of telling reporters that your group name was bestowed by a Zen hermit monk. That alone oughta get you press.
For the rest, names that suggested genres when they occurred to me are so identified in the list below, but you aren't bound to respect that. If you fancy an entry, but sing another song, just smash and grab.
Therefore, look smart, demons that bedevil us. For here comes…
Rock Groups 2020
Kino Neutrino
William's Axe
Black Like Him
Raging Atoll
The Kill Count Kiddies
Kiss Mary Kill
The Xiphoid Process
Third Bird
Ouroboros
Whipsnake
2020
Mainframe
Bob War and the Post Pounders (alt country)
Hammerblossom
Energetic X
Häzmät
Ghillie Dhu
2Ys
Juggler
Wildebeest
Logical Lizard
Spindletop (Southern country rock)
Sporadic E
Headbone
Earthstar
Leatherhead
The Mongrels
Satanic Panic
Aero-Dynamic
Rinderpest
Tubafor
Dire Wolf
Dachschünd
C. Klamp
Rubber Feat
Isometric
The Practice Babies
Numb Chuck
Anorak
Buffalo Jump
Hat Trick
Экраноплан
Bang
OEM
C-Horse-7
(Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com and a generous photographer.)
(I've never been a stain guy. I don't know why; boatbuilders just tend to prefer oil or varnish. If we deny ourselves the natural beauty of the wood, we opt for full-on paint.
But my mom needed an amendment to a piece of furniture, and this was the only way to get it into the ballpark, finish-wise. So I bought a likely can and set up to practice before pitching in to her project.
Above is my turntable platform. It's just an off-cut of cheap Canadian plywood, glued up from truffula trees or some damn thing. Since I've been using it unfinished, I thought, "Beauty, eh?"
But the instant I laid down the colour, the 1970s - stained era if ever there was one - jumped out and started doing the Hustle. And a torrent of PTSD flashbacks came, well... flashing back.
If I'd'a known my turntable would end up like this, I'd'a bought some Chicago to play on it.
If you've ever been to a Zen centre or monastery, you will immediately recognise this man's genius. What you're seeing here is a conservative Zen take on a Beatles song. And not even one of the "deep" Beatles songs; rather, one of the fun inane ones. You know, with a Ringo lead.
I don't know what possessed my brother to turn this Western pop hit into a sutra, but I'm glad he did.
The best part is that it seems to be a sincere offering; with allowance made for a subtle playfulness, Kossan's spoofing neither the music nor his religion. Just what you'd expect from a Zen monk and musician. (One with classical bona fides, no less. If you click on his channel, you'll find he's a shamisen devotee.)
In short, he's offering us an opportunity for insight. The meditation at the end drives the point home, and elevates a merely brilliant performance into an awesome one.
So it's July again, when Internet readership drops off sharply and strange things happen on this blog while no-one's looking. Arguably the strangest is the annual Offering of Rock Groups Yearning to Be, that yearly list of potential group names posted for the benefit of literally anyone who wants one. (Full details here.) 
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