Category Archives: Bradford Cox


_If you dig the mix then please feel free to pass & post it along; if you dig a particular artist then please support them and go out and pick up some of their stuff.

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Each snug within the confines of their own category—altogether most pop music seems to intimate an insular fear of an anonymous other. What is it but another manifestation of man’s ludicrous grasp for total control? Yes, as a teenager—and in all the turmoil that that entails—it was Locust Mirror’s seeming open seriousness that initially allured Mireille’s taste towards that band’s music. She was sure they mattered and cared.

About what?

She was never sure enough to put into words. Their music felt mysterious and smart, dangerous and true, romantic and sexy…creative. Weird—It hinted at opportunities.

But at seventeen and seated in a public library—Mireille felt bored.

She shoveled the books aside with a swipe of her forearm. With its dust jacket wrapped and protected by a clear film of Polyethylene Terephthalate, she slid the hardbound copy of Peter Bennet’s Last Against The Wall (Berlin 1961-1989) towards her. From between its pages she pulled out the latest issue of Turn-Turn Magazine, which she had taken from a crowded rack as she entered the library and had been using as an oversized bookmark. There on the cover was Locust Mirror lead singer, Christian Heath.

Perhaps categorized as a “black & white” photograph, the image captured by Dutch photographer Anton Corbijn and partly produced through a thin coat of emulsion and a high contrast truly resides somewhere between mercury and the brown of mineral rich dirt. The picture had been additionally lightly hand-painted in places to mimic the Technicolor palate of old Hollywood. Such was the case with the scarlet backdrop pocked with pinpricks of blue starlight. His tousled blonde hair spilled from a battered fedora as strips of bleach and greased shadows. The one eye not obscured by that mess was a hazel glint—a warm gloss of amber resin on a fractured green stone with a dark core. Through the black metallic smudge of mascara—that eye was aimed directly at Mireille.

Heath had been seized in an obvious, somewhat sorority cover-girl affected pose made all the more effeminate as he had one hand positioned upon his own popped hip. White with a stitched print of little blue flowers along its lengths, he wore his shirt unbuttoned and loose about his waist. This epicene stance was accentuated by Heath’s slight frame, boyish facial features, and the chipped lacquer along the nails of his right hand, which clutched the smoldering stub of a cigarette. Despite these evidently queer feminine put-ons, the image truthfully conveyed that old rock & roll communiqué of “Oh me, I don’t give a fuck.” Pitch-colored stubble on his chin and upper lip, his teeth white with a slight crook—his mouth was presented in an open smile as if he had been caught mid-sentence.

Probing this photo with her blue eyes wide, Mireille felt the press of a little heat. No, not quite a burn that fans the knees open; but, yes, a press of a little heat. There was a small swell to all of her systems. The snapshot revealed the slim muscles of Heath’s abdomen right up to his small pectorals. She had a private impulse to lick the cover there.

She of course would not do this. Instead—thoughtlessly—her tongue curled, pressed between a little nibble of her teeth and planted itself into the corner of her open mouth. There from that perch it would loll along to wet her lips. She found him so handsome and odd.

Abruptly aware of her fat tongue; her mouth agape; her eyes agog; and all the grotesque rest—Mireille felt herself shrink as she chewed at her lower lip. Feeling fully like some pudgy blot of inane skin lumped around wilted guts, with a toad in mud for a hypothalamus, Mireille let a pinched groan loose from her throat. She then sent up a silent appreciation that there were no mirrors or other reflective surfaces about for her to witness the origin point for what must have been such a gross countenance: her face.

Mireille wrestled a smile from the grip of anxiety and brought it to her lips.

“God, I’m such a goon.”

Mireille steepled her fingers before her mouth at the thought: God, I’m such a goon. Opening the magazine she flipped past articles concerning what innovative gadgets would soon change our day-to-day; what bands were going back out on tour; what senior rocker was soon releasing a country-tinged comeback record; what winter-fashion inspirations could be taken from famous peoples’ red-carpet ensembles; and a feature titled, Real Jeanius! 30 Denim Lifestyles for #Authentic Men & Women. Arriving at page 74 she found another full page photo of Heath. This one had been composed with a much more conservative sense, as the subject here captured in full color was seated cross-legged on a wooden folding chair in a near-empty room, dressed in a grey suit with a blue shirt buttoned under a black tie. Atop the wooden barstool before him was the teal-painted, cold-rolled steel colossus of an antique typewriter. From this distance its white keys of molded plastic resembled orderly rows of button mushrooms. Tethered to the silver fin of the typewriter’s carriage release lever was a lavender string of curling ribbon, which ran crimped, up, to hold in place overhead a solitary purple balloon. Hair combed, Heath’s face here was plain, clean, and straight ahead like a passport photo. The slivers and shards of green, amber, golden brown, and blue hues that comprised his eyes seemed to whisper out to her: save me.

Cute, she thought, little, something to keep and carry in your pocket, only to be taken out when wanting a cuddle or something to alter the mood of your blue stupor.

The interview with Heath began on the opposite page. However, Mireille could not get herself to concentrate. She could only skim and skip across the paragraphs; if momentarily of a similar mental bent, you should of course feel free to do the same:

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Hello Goodbye – Soulful Strings

Anything We Want – Fiona Apple

Soundview – Shabazz Palaces

In My Tree – Pearl Jam

So Soon – Staple Singers

So Soon – Little Axe & The Golden Echoes

You Can’t Run Away From Your Heart – Judy Clay

I Got the Blues – The Rolling Stones

Pensacola – Deerhunter [photo by Robert Semmer]

Autoluminescent – Rowland S. Howard

Rococo – Arcade Fire [art by Burlesque Design]

Tip The Scale – The Roots (ft. Dice Raw)

Lilacs – Lilacs & Champagne

Life’s A Gas – T.Rex

Easy Ride – The Doors

Beautiful Day (Learning To Drive) – Scott Weiland [photo by Trevor Ray Hart]

Fine And Mellow – Billie Holiday [live rehearsal 1957, The Sound of Jazz]

Avalon – The Bryan Ferry Orchestra

The Way We Fall – Alela Diane [photo by Guy Stephens]

Something On Your Mind – Karen Dalton

Anyhow – Leonard Cohen

Delia – Bob Dylan [photo by Ana María Vélez Wood]

Glad To Be Unhappy – Frank Sinatra

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  • Hello Goodbye – Soulful Strings
  • Anything We Want – Fiona Apple
  • Soundview – Shabazz Palaces  
  • In My Tree – Pearl Jam
  • So Soon – Staple Singers
  • So Soon – Little Axe & The Golden Echoes
  • You Can’t Run Away From Your Heart – Judy Clay
  • I Got the Blues – The Rolling Stones
  • Pensacola – Deerhunter 
  • Autoluminescent – Rowland S. Howard
  • Rococo – Arcade Fire
  • Tip The Scale – The Roots (ft. Dice Raw)
  • Lilacs  – Lilacs & Champagne
  • Life’s A Gas – T.Rex
  • Easy Ride  – The Doors
  • Beautiful Day – Scott Weiland 
  • Fine And Mellow – Billie Holiday [1957 The Sound of Jazz rehearsal ft.  
    • Ben Webster – tenor saxophone
      Lester Young – tenor saxophone
      Vic Dickenson – trombone
      Gerry Mulligan – baritone saxophone
      Coleman Hawkins – tenor saxophone
      Roy Eldridge – trumpet
      Doc Cheatham – trumpet
      Danny Barker – guitar
      Milt Hinton – double bass
      Mal Waldron – piano
      Osie Johnson – drums]
  • Avalon – The Bryan Ferry Orchestra
  • The Way We Fall – Alela Diane 
  • Something On Your Mind – Karen Dalton
  • Anyhow – Leonard Cohen
  • Delia – Bob Dylan 
  • Glad To Be Unhappy – Frank Sinatra

<^>_ _ _ __=========================================     ______BOBBY CALERO

Again, If you dig the mix then please feel free to pass & post it along; if you dig a particular artist then please support them and go out and pick up some of their stuff.



Poor Man's Trinkets


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Hello All,

This post was to be a sort of continuation of the easy-breezy opiate sounds featured on the last MixTape, Easter Censer, but that will simply have to wait, as today I present to you my own take on “Fan-Fiction.” Having just recently finished binge-watching the first season of the HBO series True Detective, I was, to put it lightly, completely impressed.

Through and thru these eight episodes are a work of art: the subtle yet skillfully complicated performances by all the actors and the chemistry between them (particularly, it goes without mention, from Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson); The sensitive exploration of certain facets of the human-condition through writer Nic Pizzolatto’s narrative structure and dialogue; and of course the exquisite revenants that are the visuals provided by director Cary Joji Fukunaga and cinematographer Adam Arkapaw–the scenes are phosphorescent in their putridity.


However, another element of the show that netted me immediately was the soundtrack; particularly in the first episode with the use of a long-loved-by-me Freewheelin’ outtake by Dylan called “Rocks and Gravel” in a scene where Cohle speaks with the gaming girls at a truck stop bar. I was not surprised to find out afterwards that the man responsible for the music selections is none other than T Bone Burnett.

Along with being a fantastic musician, producer, and songwriter himself, the man has made an award-winning career out of having exceptional taste in music, an intuition for adding depth, and tact when creating the appropriate atmosphere.

Throughout the whole series Burnett’s selections are perfection; none more so though than with his choice of closing episode seven with the haunted tone of Townes Van Zandt‘s austere “Lungs.” The song arrives like a sharp blade through brambles: full of purpose even as it drives on ahead into mystery and sorrow.

Well, won’t you lend your lungs to me?
Mine are collapsin’
Plant my feet and bitterly breathe
Up the time that’s passin’

Breath I’ll take and breath I’ll give
And pray the day is not poisoned
Stand among the ones that live
In lonely indecision

Well, fingers walk the darkness down
Mind is on the midnight
Gather up the gold you’ve found
You fool it’s only moonlight

If you stop to take it home
Your hands will turn to butter
You better leave this dream alone
Try to find another

Salvation sat and crossed herself
Called the devil partner
Wisdom burned upon a shelf
Who’ll kill the raging cancer

Seal the river at its mouth
Take the water prisoner
Fill the sky with screams and cries
Bathe in fiery answers

Well, Jesus was an only son
And love his only concept
The strangers cry in foreign tongues
And dirty up the doorstep

And I for one, and you for two
Ain’t got the time for outside
Keep your injured looks to you
We’ll tell the world that we tried

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So, as I said, here’s my version of Fan-Fiction, which owes its inspiration to the work of T Bone Burnett on True Detective as much as it does to anyone else. I invite you to imagine your own scenes and narratives to these tunes.

To my mind this MixTape, Poor Man’s Trinkets, is the soundtrack to a lost episode buried somewhere within the seventh of the actual series. This would be one where Detectives Rust Cohle and Marty Hart rework the murder of Dora Lange from scratch, and thus are forced to revisit once again their own personal histories as well. Admittedly, this recapitulation of the entire series thus far wouldn’t make for very exciting television but through the filter and tension of atmospherics (and car-ride conversations through Richard Misrach‘s “Petrochemical America) it could further explore the show’s central yet elusive themes of patriarchy and its inheritance; the cyclical nature of existence; perceptions of manhood and responsibility; the art and guile involved in all forms of storytelling; companionship and male friendship; and the presence of Grace. This mix also corrects what I saw as the one flaw in Burnett’s work—not including anything by Mark Lanegan (because pretty much anything off of Bubblegum would’ve worked beautifully).

If nothing else, in my opinion, my mix makes for a pretty great soundtrack, no?

Well, as always –Enjoy Yourself—

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Poor Man's Trinkets


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POOR MAN’S TRINKETS (True Detective Fan-Fiction Episode 7.5)


  • The Gulf Of Mexico [snippet] – Steve Earle
  • The Lord Is in This Place…How Dreadful Is This Place – Fairport Convention
  • This Wheel’s On Fire – Atlas Sound
  • Mr. Mudd And Mr. Gold – Steve Earle (ft. Justin Townes Earle)
  • Werewolf Heart – Dead Man’s Bones
  • Cold Criminals – Pink Mountaintops
  • Milk Cow’s Calf’s Blues – Bob Dylan
  • Rake – Alela Diane (ft. Alina Hardin)
  • On My Way To Heaven – Staple Singers
  • Will The Circle Be Unbroken – U.S. Apple Corps.
  • Wedding Dress – Mark Lanegan
  • Get Back Satan – Rev. Roger L. Worthy & Bonnie Woodstock
  • Raised Right Men – Tom Waits
  • Golden Earrings – Peggy Lee
  • Mean Old World [edit] – The Heavenly Gospel Singers
  • You’re Goin’ Miss Your Candyman – Terry Callier
  • I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry – Steve Young (X-Mas Eve 1975 Ensemble version)
  • I Would Love You – Father John Misty & Phosphorescent
  • Waitin’ ‘Round To Die – Townes Van Zandt
  • Angels Laid Him Away – Lucinda Williams
  • Aphid Manure Heist – Beck
  • All Along The Watchtower – The Brothers & Sisters
  • Sleep With Me/Sleep With Me (Version) – Mark Lanegan
  • Lucifer Rising Part IV – Bobby Beausoleil
  • This Wheel’s On Fire – Bob Dylan & The Band

————————————BOBBY CALERO—————————————