Back to In Search of The - I bounced around the InterNet and found the reference to Hatboxghost Music on Dan Monti\'s site. The name also goes with other recent releases, so I\'m puzzled too. The others were issued through TDRS, so I\'m thinking we need more order boxes on the site pretty soon.
I\'m still in the Mac Stone Age for computers and try not to become proficient. Looks like the same label as Pepper\'s Ghost, released yesterday, don\'t want to know what an eye-toon does, there\'s got to be a CD for sale. Where?
Badgerbot gets thread all to self, kind of spacey . . . listening to quieter parts of Kind Regards. Reminds me of that time, right about this part of the year, before Halloween, when we were on the Island of Lost Minds on a cloudy night. Seagulltron and the Guardsman were there.
Music drifted over the ridge and we started up the bluff from the Bay of Beliefs. The soft, alluring tune was of a peculiarly expressive quality. Vivid impressions arose, those of loss from a distance, the sorrow of discord, and final reparation. As we topped the ridge, the melody waned to hauntingly mesmerizing, a baptism of solitude.
A peaceful, picturesque cemetery covered the hillsides as far as the eye could see. The tide was coming in beneath the necropolis. The immense graveyard was still and the music had stopped.
A lanky scarecrow wearing a white pail was posed, propped up, beside the grand arched entryway to the cemetery. Beyond the arch, a city of tombs, citadels, crypts and memorials was defined in gray hues. A flock of chickens pecked at the ground beneath the macabre graveyard greeter. Tall, thin, and dressed in denim jeans and a yellow parka, the motionless mannequin\'s arms were hugged close to its sides. A white guitar was slung over its shoulder, matching the pale featureless face and . . . bucket?
The Guardsman strode to the gateway and asked the scarecrow for directions. Beneath the white pail on its head, there was no change of expression on the porcelain visage. Suddenly, however, Buckethead hunched forward and unslung his guitar. He seemed to be returning from a disembodied state. Flexing long dexterous fingers, he continued the former melody, and his last rites transformed into a spell of gypsies.
As the melody continued, concepts and images crashed forward . . .
The strangest adventures happened on that Island, but I digress. I\'m sure the others have lots to say about more recent events. Those were goods days, though.
Then again, Children at Play takes me right to the concert scene. I\'m standing there again, all over, but at home. Brings back a concert on a certain full moon equinox where Buckethead upgraded the biorhythm of my nervous system. He had white filters in the eyes of his face and I thought I was before the Great Sphinx. The part that\'s seared into my consciousness started with the Bucket playing Hendrix right at me point blank from about five feet away. His leg stretched waaay out to press a pedal and looked sort of like one of those old "Keep on Truckin\'" drawings. Most surreal. I can\'t quite describe what happened next. The experience defies verbiage, but will always be with me.
Hrmmm . . . seem to be having discussion only with self again . . . happens a lot in the two million acre forest. Otternaught likes "Bug Spray," he\'s a playful stream dancing sort of bot, and Seagulltron likes the "Joan" follow up. No disagreement.
Thanks, guys. I wondered if I woke up on the wrong planet last week. Better now. I grew up listening solely and perpetually to Alex Lifeson. He is the single greatest musical impact on my frame of reference in this life other than Buckethead. The Bucket\'s playing the rest of the soundtrack to my time here, which has decades left to it. I think I have good taste, whatever planet I\'m on.
Man . . . did four and one-half days go by already? Having Ham and Noodles with my Kind Regards tonight, great stuff. Last time I listened to a new composition for this long, nonstop, don\'t want to turn it off, think about getting up tomorrow to turn it back on while still going to sleep, it was when I got Somewhere Over the Slaughterhouse and Pieces - I Need 5 Minutes Alone at the same time. I was gone for days. I feel sort of the same as then, but different, and it\'s so nice. I implore all you young enthusiasts to give an old battered badger this simple joy without grumbles.
Sunny day outside! Big blue California sky. Listened to Kind Regards, really loud, all morning, with big smile on face. Anybody else figured out what those songs contain? Geeez. This sort of mind-blowing originality is exactly my reason for listening to Buckethead.
I find that the Buckethead albums I play day and after day and year after year don\'t end up being the ones that folks talk about on the boards. If you count individual CDs, I\'ve got almost 100 buckets. The albums I really find myself listening to all day long while working and playing are not the usual answer to "I\'m a new Buckethead fan, which albums should I get first?" I write a lot as an attorney and author and I do it all while listening to Buckethead. This may give me more patience for slower experimental material. Anyhow, coming up on two weeks of banjo binging, I\'ve listened to the Clock every day so far. The musician I admire the most is also the only guitarist I\'ve ever heard of making an all banjo album. The Clock is a treasured part of my large collection of the Bucket playing every style and genre and scale and note and rhythm I can imagine, much to my delight. I think it will stand the test of time for me. It has so far.