The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. XXVI

Feliz Navidad, muchachos (y muchachas.)

Album Title:  Tijuana Christmas

Album Artist:  The Border Brass Band

When I first stumbled across this gem in a thrift store, I nearly crapped my pants.  And that's something I haven't done in, like, twelve years.  Thereabouts.

Honestly, it's like this album was designed just for Yours Truly.  I mean, the cover itself looks like something Virgil Q's Dixieland Kazoo Revue would throw on their Christmas album (it's still in the works, fans.)  From the get-go, the hombre on the LP cover clearly catches one's eye, as it did mine when I was ruffling through stacks of Katie Smith, Mantovani, and Andy Williams.  Clearly this dude's getting into the spirit of Christmas.

Es muy bueno.

Badass cover art aside, this music collection is super badass, and I don't like to throw a multiplier like 'super' around readily, gang.  No, this really does earn the 'super':  instrumental arrangements of Holiday standards, given a Tijuana twist.  It sounds more or less exactly how I imagined it would.

This doesn't mean every track on here gets the mariachi treatment, mind you.  We've got some harpsichord interludes here and there in a few songs, as well as that spy-themed, swingin' '60s sound.  It might not sound like it'd blend well with the more Latin-ish, typical-Tijuana instrumentals (a la Herb Alpert, per se), but, if you think about it, an entire album of mariachi Christmas music might be a little too much.

Even for me.

This is the Christmas album they made for those movies where James Bond has to track down a Mexican arms dealer during the Holidays, and as he flies through the crowded streets of Tijuana in some sporty '60s coupe - with a hot-ass blonde sitting beside him in the passenger seat, exchanging machine gun fire with multiple banditos on motorcycles in hot pursuit, 007 learns the true meaning of Christmas.

. . .

Sounds like a pretty shitty movie, actually.  But at least we know now that it'd have a bitchin' soundtrack.

VERDICT:  9/10 - Cowabunga! (Aye dios mio! )

- REMAINS IN CIRCULATION -

A Grand Gathering of Dorks

Loftis always comes with food.  Always.

Hi America.

Every once and awhile, my old campaign buddies from the Sausage Pad and I decide to get together and share more than a few beers.  We compare grey hairs, talk about how annoying our kids are, and, more often than not, play Risk.

It's been nearly five months since we last hung out (when we sailed down the Muskegon River back in July, if you'll recall), so we deemed it time once again to get together down at Smith's house in Kalamazoo - my old college stomping ground.

Sure, it also happened to be Smith's 36th birthday, but that's besides the point.

Anyway, here's some pictures of a bunch of old dudes far past their prime, sitting around and playing a board game with an inflatable fish.

Like thugs.

Not a whole hell of a lot on TV (college basketball - blegh) but we eventually settled on Super Mario Bros. . . which is just as awful as you remember.

As usual, I'm the Grey Army.  So obviously I bring my own officer to command my troops in the field.

Suckie Fish:  the nation's most prolific inflatable fish, back for another tour of duty with the Sausage Pad.  We found this at Damon's mom's house during Central/Western weekend back in 2001, and over the years this inflatable fish has traveled across the country with us on numerous adventures.  The Baseball Road trip down the East Coat of the U.S. in '02, to Key West in '03, to just about every single one of our weddings, Tennessee in '13, and every ill-conceived adventure in between.  Needless to say, the dude's in pretty rough shape these days. . .

Smith's always so cheerful.

$65 scotch?  Don't mind if I do. . .

Loftis still owns his Virgil Q's Dixieland Kazoo Revue shirt.  I plan on being buried in mine.

Two Smiths in a Nursery.  These two are the last to have kids, but Zack's first will be here sometime in mid-January, so him and his wife, Renee, are in scramble mode trying to get their house ready.  Smitty, who runs a painting business, was more than happy to criticize Zack's recent paint job.

Suckie Fish found Smith's fifteen-year-old fisherman's hat. . . and 15-year-old scotch.

Seloske makes his move. . .

Yet another phone break.  I don't think we actually got around to finishing our game of Risk, come to think of it:  we decided to head out to a couple bars later on in the evening, and shortly thereafter Loftis had to start his third shift at Meijer.  Nevertheless, I was positioned to end up in second place, based on the board's layout.

This is the most random, out-of-the-way bar in the greater Kalamazoo area.  Just two female bartenders and one elderly drunk were there when we rolled in and pleaded for a round as they were vacuuming up the place around us.  No idea why, it was only midnight. . .

Gingers.

No idea.

- Brian

Fondudes

Happy Quasi-Post Holidays, Internet.

I know Christmas is technically over and done with already, but there's still Yule to be had, and this year the Houghs added a festive footnote to our 2014 Holiday season.

Fondue with the Voigts.  A Christmas staple.

Check it out:

Preparing for a post-Christmas, fondue night at the Voigts. 

Alayna's really been enjoying the make-up kit she got for Christmas - she volunteers to do Abby's make-up all the time. . .

Again, I could poke fun of this, but it's better than what I could do, so I'll stop.

Jack can't eat chocolate fast enough. . .

Not healthy.  At all.

Kris loves doing dishes.

Abby awaits snacks.  Not so patiently.

Virgil Q's Dixieland Kazoo Revue, version 2.0

Stop.  Hammer time.

Abusing Adam is a favorite past-time while visiting with the Voigts.

I can't begin to explain how happy I was that they were pestering Adam for this and not me.

Funned out.

Pajama party.

The Cannonball's always so Goddamn cooperative for posed photo ops. . .

Voigt/Hough Christmas '15

- Brian

Rise of the Padawon JamMasters

What's up, gangsters.

I guess it should come as no great surprise that the daughters of a licensed JamMaster should grow up with a desire to play music and perform on a stage.  Makes sense - music's in their blood.  I've tried encouraging this as much as possible, too; I've started giving Alayna piano lessons (introductory ones, mind you - she's still only four) and last year I bought her a small ukulele (if you'll be so kind to remember) so she could follow in her ol' man's footsteps.  So far she's shown considerable interest in both, which is awesome.

Adventure music, ca. 2002

Thanks to our princess friends at Disney, she's also grown up with a desire to sing - dramatically - on a stage.  The other day I gave her an old microphone that had seen action during my years serving as a JamMaster with the legendary Virgil Q's Dixieland Kazoo Revue.  It had been broken years ago, so I had no qualms handing it over to a preschooler - it still looked and felt like the real thing, and there's nothing she could do it that hadn't already been done to it by a bunch of drunks.

So, armed with her new microphone, the Cannonball has been treating us to a slew of 'concerts' around the house lately.


Here's an example:

 

- Brian

Seven Years

What a horrible anniversary this is.

On this day, seven years ago, Virgil Q's Dixieland Kazoo Revue played its one and only show at Newton Court. And while that was definitely an event worthy of marking down on a calendar and observing on an annual basis, it holds even greater significance for yours truly:


That was the last time I ever played on a drum set. I'm serious.



Big whoop, you say? Yeah, it kind of is. Its weird coming to grips with the fact that its been seven years without so much as sitting down behind a set, especially seeing how drums used to be such a major part of my daily existence throughout my teens/twenties. Equally weird is this being even feasible in the first place, considering how Goddamn good I was at wielding drum sticks.


A freak occurrence, rest assured. First there was two years of service in Africa (which would obviously prohibit me from throwing a drum set in a suitcase) and the near-simultaneous abduction and disappearance of my dear Colossus Maximus. Then came my return home, only to spend four years dwelling in apartments (which, as a rule, aren't the greatest places to set up drums). Finally, seven years later, I once again have a house... only now, due to a quasi-cruel twist of fate, I have roommates in diapers that aren't, shall we say, of the 1214/Sausage Pad caliber.

Here's hoping that it won't be another seven years before I end up with sticks in my hands once more. Cross thy fingers.

- Brian