The Last Candle

Meet the Flatwounds:

…in just two packages. <p/> Package #1: flatwound, 12. Was looking forward to getting the fretless, mellowed sound that flatwound strings offer…until I botched setting the low E. Instead of a mellow Metheny tone, it rang against the first fret like an angry hornet. <p/> Tried to fix the damage, but ruined the string instead — I clipped it too short, so the string wouldn’t fit stay in the nut, slipping out during tuning. Put the rest of the pack of strings aside with the dire hopes that I can find a low E flatwound string strewn somewhere on the sidewalk tomorrow. <p/> Package #2: Pure nickle, extra polished. Noted on the package to have a good 50’s rock sound, which sounded alright to me. I’d take any kind of sound as long as I was able to play the darn guitar. <p/> Set the first low E — fit fine, length was right. Clipped the extra tail off, and searched inside the little plastic for the next string, the D. Somehow, I couldn’t find the D string…until I looked at the low E packed I had just used and discovered that I had accidentally and completely unknowingly pulled the D string out the flatwound pouch and fitted that as the low E instead of pulling the low E from the nickle pouch. <p/> Now I needed to find both low E and a D flatwound strings along the side of the road. <p/> Package #2, attempt 2: Brought out the actual nickle strings. No confusion this time in string types, since I’d buried the remaining flatwounds under a heavy blanket to deter further misfortune. <p/> Brought out the low E — tied a perfect 90° at the nut, and tightened, tuned, tensioned the string… <p/> …and it snapped and unravelled at the neck. Ruined and unplayable. The apartment was fresh out of low E’s. And guitar practice was over before it started. <p/> Did I say yesterday that I was really tired these days?

I think this August ranks up there in my life as one of the most busy and action- and adventure-packed months in the duration of my curly-headed existence — for those of you who suspect curlers were involved somewhere along the line, here’s an easier graph: 24 straight years of Rome. <p/> But yes, a terrific month: as the outstanding event, there was both a lovely wedding for my old and excellent friend Ben, and a bachelor’s party to match. <p/> The setting of the bachelor’s party was not 200 yards from I-131 south out of Grand Rapids. The constant blunder of vehicles down the highway didn’t stop us from bringing out the artillery, and the evening consisted of four hours of firing potatoes and apples from the PVC tips of spud guns, blasting black powder out of a teeny but incredibly and awesomely loud cannon, and taking in a very healthy amount of liquid bread. The number of times that Dennis, one of my pals at the party, fired off a shotgun-style array of apples into the nearby barn and silos, or blasted a potato or appleshot volley less than a foot from my head were countless; the beers drank were many (and the number of falling-down drunks: one); and the good times innumerable. <p/> The wedding was one of those church things where everyone looks so pleasant and plush and joyous — vows, lovebirds and lovebands, and all that. In a deft move that would have made Vidal Sasson jealous at its cunning, I wore a tie that matched the color of the bridemaids’ dresses. I also did a little ushering along the side, but best and most happily, I saw my good pal sent off into happy matrimonial pastures. <p/> There was also in August, of course, the Mount Pleasant trip before that, the one I enjoyed but subsequently groused noisly at due to the sake of a somewhat nasty cold that afflicted me upon returning to southern Michigan. <p/> Finally, coming right up to the near-past, yesterday was the witnessing of a nearby Civil War. While the Civil War history hasn’t grabbed me yet — so far, only the number 1066 has — the re-enactment of the Battle of Chickamauga was a terrific spectacle, with the 12-pounders expelling thunder and sulfur, the Confederates howling their Rebel Yell and charging the Union’s outpost at the top of a lean hill…while a few hundred Michigan spectators sat behind a Caution ribbon on lawn chairs and blankets, gnawing on elephant ears and taking in the glorious scene. <p/> But ‘lo, here comes the end of August. There’s one more adventure to be had, however: this Thursday, some chums and me will be embarking to Minnesota to see another chum, to spend a few days out of state and enjoy the long weekend. While text-blogging will not only be avoided, but shunned completely, I’ll try to update the much-ignored moblog with several pictures a day of our Thousand Lake escapades. <p/> That’ll top it off pretty well, I think, and be the end of a very busy month. In a way, that’s too bad, but in another way, thank God: I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired as I have been for the last three days. Busy season’s right around the corner at work, so I intend to lock away the first half of September into a cozy, fireplace-lit den where there’s no phone and no knocker on the door, heavy curtains on the windows, and plenty of Woodchuck cider to drink.

Friends, terrible news: the band once known as Rhapsody, lauded throughout Earth and several fantastical kingdoms for their symphonic-classical-unicorn-cupcake-bombast metal, that by their last album included a 50-person choir, a full orchestra, a cast of real elves and trolls…is no more! <p/> Actually, they just changed their name. Gotcha! Luca Turilli, the Italian group’s songwriter & goof guitarist, has been busy churning out absurd neo-classical anthems about dragons and trolls and evil gods, same as always. The name, however, had to go: citing copyright issues, presumably with the online download service of the same, the old title has been cleaved in twain and put to rest. <p/> Unfortunately, the bad news hasn’t been dissipated a molecule, because the name itself is the bad news. This new moniker Luca drew out of a feathered bonnet is weak, weaker The Band Once Known As Rhapsody’s last album (and it was really weak). <p/> And so: what was once Rhapsody… is now Rhapsody of Fire. <p/> On the web page, keyboardist and songwriter Alex Staropoli comments, “The name Rhapsody Of Fire better represents the energy that has always been present in this band and its music.” <p/> Or, more likely, it represents more evidence that Luca Turilli has run empty on good ideas. <p/> I understand not changing the entire name to something completely different. Do that, and a big chunk of the audience is instantly lost because they aren’t aware of the name switch and can’t find any new albums under the old guise. Heck, DragonForce wasn’t originally “DragonForce” either: they were originally DragonHeart, and changed their name because of similar reasons, or because DragonForce sounds less stupid than DragonHeart, or because they wanted to distance themselves from that horrible Sean Connery film. <p/> But “DragonForce” isn’t a bad name: it’s brutish, cliche, and a little over-the-top, but so’s the band. “Rhapsody of Fire” is just plain uninspired and limp — again, much like Rhapsody on Fire’s (ugh!) last album. <p/> My friend Paul suggested that “Rhapsody of Ice” sounded better. I agree: it’s a minor change, but it sounds marginally better than “of Fire.” Besides, the fantasy saga that Rhapsody of Fire has been working on for the past ten years had a major character called the Warrior of Ice. Ice! And yet they choose fire. <p/> The new album by these Rhapsody of Fire folks, Triumph or Agony, is out in Europe on September 25th. (“Triumph or Agony,” aye? Talk about review fodder. “Rhapsody of Fire’s latest Triumph is anything but. At least they got the Agony part correct, as guitarist Luca Turilli’s newest soundscape forays into the didgeridoo are less than welcome…”). <p/> Come late September we’ll see if Luca and Fabio and the rest of the boys regained the spark of their old excellent compositions — Dawn of Victory is one of the greatest power metal albums ever — or if the “new” group is just a cloud of smoke and ash. <p/> Oh man, the jokes on this one are endless.

Spied in Amazon’s reviews section for Blind Guardian’s A Night at the Opera comes this powerful combination of hyperbole, simile, a little bit of insanity and a quirk for accurate reviewing:

This album is a massive, overproduced wall of great music. However, that strength also happens to be the albums worst flaw. Here’s the only way i can describe it. I happen to love iced coffee (let me finish). This album is the equivalent of a tsunami of iced coffee surging directly at me. While its quite delicious, I’m gonna take a few sips and get the hell outta there while i still can. <p/> - ripley ferris