• LUIS WOLF
• Greer McGettrick Trash-can abuser.

Greer McGettrick is the Mallard, and whether she's playing alone or with her backing band—currently Dylan Tidyman-Jones ("Boy Dylan") on drums/keys/vocals and Dylan Edrich ("Girl Dylan") on bass/guitar—the vibe is woozy, hallucinogenic garage rock that sounds like it was recorded from the basement through the heat vent in the upstairs kitchen. In other words, they're your new favorite band to listen to while getting drunk. The Stranger spoke with McGettrick the day after she had a minor mix-up with the San Francisco Police Department. Here's what she said on no sleep for about 36 hours.

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As I posted yesterday, I'm slowly trying to make sense of Jimmy Buffett's twenty-six studio albums, eleven live albums, sixty-seven singles, and long-ass career. I believe there is more to this man—who cites Mark Twain as his artistic polestar—than wet-brained "parrotheads" on one side and people who are too cool for him on the other.

I'll admit right up front that my affection for the high points of his career (and my strong revulsion for his low points) is personal. I am, in fact, the son of a sailor. My father-sailor's job took him (and my mother, brother, sister, and me) back and forth across the country, on weeks-long trips during which Jimmy Buffett tapes were on heavy rotation. For better or for worse, they're drilled into my brain.

And I have spent serious chunks of time (as a kid and as an adult) in the Caribbean and Latin America, in some of the places he sings about. And, per my experience, he gets them right more often than not. He nails their syncretism, their loosey-goosey relationship to the law, their multiculturalism, and the tension between the local communities and the expatriates, whether they come from North America, Africa, Europe, or Asia. ("Tampico Trauma," "African Friend," and "Twelve-Volt Man" are good examples of these themes, but I can't find good videos of them to post here.) He always sings from his perspective as a white guy, but is not blind to the experiences and perspectives of the people around him who are not like him. He is a pop-anthropologist of a sort.

Would it surprise you to learn that I did a brief stint in grad school at the University of Chicago studying anthropology, and won a research grant to hang out with North African immigrants living on the Mediterranean coast of Spain? And that my main interest was the mechanics of smuggling themselves from Africa to Spain on homemade boats? And that, viewed through the childhood Buffett-saturated lens, that makes perversely perfect sense? And that I quit that money-padded world to become a dirtbag journalist because that seemed like the more fun, more romantic path?

Anyway.

Most of all, many, many of Buffett's lyrics resonate with my experience growing up—living on the Gulf Coast, living in the South, and standing on the docks as a kid with other families to greet our dads as they came home from months away at sea. (I have an extremely vivid memory of standing on one of those docks as a boy, with my mother brother and sister and all the other sailors' families, watching my father's boat come in while it was blasting Jimmy Buffett's "One Particular Harbor"—which is about sailing, homecoming, and death, and has a Tahitian chant for its chorus—over the boat's loudspeakers. It sounds goofy, but it was a stark and emotional moment in my childhood memory. It still makes me a little misty when I think about it.)

Here is one song whose opening lyrics could be the opening lines to my autobiography:

I was supposed to have been a Jesuit priest or a Naval Academy grad.
That was way that my parents perceived me, those were the plans that they had.
But I couldn't get the part—too dumb or too smart—ain't it funny how we all turned out?
I guess we are the people our parents warned us about.

I apologize for the photos in the video—like Ani DiFranco and Tori Amos, Buffett is a musician whose fans are sometimes their worst enemies.

So. My interest in the Buffett canon is clearly tainted by childhood memories and silly personal stuff. But I still think his songwriting career includes moments that are worthwhile to people who aren't "parrotheads" and aren't me.

Writing a convincing apologia of the Buffett canon has been a years-long goal of mine. I keep putting it off because it won't be easy. Those twenty-six studio albums, eleven live albums, sixty-seven singles, and long-ass career include some serious flaws, absurd mawkishness, and spectacular errors in judgement.

Not to mention that, for some people, the man is morally problematic: romanticizing the early Caribbean drug trade, being ejected from basketball games for "cursing" too loudly, being detained in France for maybe/allegedly carrying a bunch of ecstasy, and playing high-paying mercenary gigs for corporate CEOs. Plus the chain restaurants. Plus the books. Plus the whole Margaritaville-merch insanity. But when the going gets tacky, the tacky get rich. For me, all of this only ups his self-proclaimed "pirate" cred. Pirates are mercenary by definition.

But that's not the point. The point is looking across that long-ass discography and seeing its (often obscure) highs as well as its (gaudy and public) lows.

Take "Havana Daydreaming," for example, a record that Robert Christgau (of all people) gave a B.

I have no idea why the YouTube video for the song is all about Hemingway. Hemingway spent time in Havana, but the song doesn't have anything to do with him:

As Christgau wrote about this album:

Undeniably, this romantic individualist has staked out his surf; perhaps it is because his utopian sunland is Florida (rooted in the South) rather than California (headed toward the Orient) that his songs are so adult, skeptical, and closely observed. He doesn't sentimentalize in any obvious sense—the outsiders he sings about (including himself) are neither pitiable victims nor heirs of unacknowledged privilege.

There's more to the man than wet-brained "parrotheads" and the sneering and bile of the cool kids who loathe him.

But if I'm ever gonna make that thesis stick, I have my work cut out for me.

And disses the Parents Television Council, the New York Times Magazine, Pitchfork, Guantanamo Bay, and the NFL. It's a good read. Do it.

There's a store in the Westfield Southcenter Mall that sells mostly Bob Marley tapestries and t-shirts. As a genre of music, reggae is pretty misunderstood.

I'd reckon the common person doesn't know much more about it than weed leafs and use of the word "Jah." I've had friends become incensed (har har) by this, firing off names like the Wailers, Lee Perry, King Tubby, & Coxsone Dodd with a fury. They'll yell at you for not even knowing the soundtrack to The Harder They Come. I know that soundtrack! It's really great!

• You Can't Get It If You Really Want.

Last night, I was reading about the history of Morrissey's alleged racism. One missive claimed that the lyric "burn the DJ" in the Smiths song "Panic" was aimed at black disco DJs of the time. Morrissey's flirtation with skinhead imagery in 1992 didn't help his cause. In 1985, Morrissey declared that "all reggae is vile," sparking cries of racism. Later he claimed that the quote was just a joke and that he was a fan of reggae music.

I made a drawing of a t-shirt with Morrissey's quote drawn on the front and posted it on the Internet. People really liked it! Maybe not because they liked the drawing but because they hate reggae. I cannot tell, that's why I'm asking you. Is reggae vile?

"THIS IS THE BEST THING IVE EVER SEEN" - Lelah Maupin, 2011 (h/t Joe Rufa for the above video)

I guess this is as good a time as any to unleash the power of Hannah's Field's "Puff Puff Give" video (according to YouTube, 132 likes / 912 dislikes):

My friend Hannah Woodroofe is getting her PhD in Anthropology from the University of Chicago. She's been living in Youngstown, Ohio for the past 4 years studying urban decay. Last week she sent Emily Nokes and I a box with two terrifying masks that she'd her friend Aspasia made from canvas, paint and rubber bands. Lacey saw the masks and figured how to make replicas so we could have a roving gang of people in masks. I bought a Victorian night shirt on eBay two years after seeing the movie The White Ribbon. I never really wore it because it's pretty rigid, so I used that as the rest of my costume. I put it on and Lacey Swain and I rolled around in wet dirt in my front yard.

My favorite part about Halloween in Seattle is the party at Keith Whiteman from Grave Babies' house. There's always the best people, a bonfire, and super good bands. We found a secret parking space labeled "FOR TERIYAKI MADNESS ONLY." We got there just in time for Rachel Ratner & Matt Nice's new band Wimps, a three piece who totally ruled. They're somewhat like Rachel's last band, Butts, but with one more person and more serious songs. Sweet guitar leads, great double vocals. That basement room smells like cat pee, but music sounds really good in there. It's what I always imagine as the best place to see a band at a party: sweaty, loud, people swaying. Jordan T. Adams was doing his point dance. Cousin Brian had a flask thermos of vodka. I handed people packages of Whoppers and Dots.

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Metallica postponed what would be their frist ever concerts in India when they deemed a barrier between the stage and the crowd to be insufficient. Naturally, fans stormed the stage and trashed it, and organizers for the Delhi show were arrested for "cheating people and breach of trust." Good morning America!

Via

Stranger reader Eric Baugh just submitted this:

Here's the un-colored-in version, if you want to throw your skillz into the ring (click to enlarge!):

• Derek Erdman

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