The genre that pops up whenever I put this into the changer reads “General Blues.” That sums it up. Very generic sounding and I can’t help but think I am shopping in some high end clothing store when the album plays. Open mike night gone horribly wrong, this is what this record sounds like. “Hey Johnny! You still got that old geetar? Come on out to the coffee house and show the people some of your tunes! This stuff has got to be heard!” Yeah, I leave disgusted and hoping that the joint will be the victim of an electrical failure and the whole shithouse goes up in flames. Just make sure to get your kicks first by punching this guy in the face.’

www.myspace.com/amosleeofficial
www.amoslee.com

There is a party happening out there in the wilderness. A small house with a few close friends. Enya knocks on the door. Everyone is milling around, most are on the couch contemplating the same math problem. An overhead projector bulb pops, a strategically placed microphone catches all of this on magnetic tape. The phone rings, it’s on there. Who is on the line? “I want this looped and put a beat I can dance to around my head!” They all comply. I am having trouble breathing. The first thing that comes to mind is all the mistakes I’ve made in the last twenty minutes. This is the many moods. This is the many moods. I’m not in the mood. I’m not in the mood. I should get up and leave this party. In closing, you open that yogurt and the bottom of the lid says “Try Again.” You throw it away.

Keser website

You are alone in the basement with what’s left of the Allman brothers, they keep playing a tape over and over again. They ask you questions like:
“What do you think of this one?” “What do you think of that one?” “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Your head keeps telling you that the outtakes from the Karate Kid soundtrack or some self help book’s lost chapters is no way to build an album around. A sharp pain hits your foot. The dead Allman brother is repeating himself. There are moments when things feel allright but the majority of the time, you feel not so good. I want to hear some fury and power coming out of my amplifier, maybe when my moods change, this will come back like an old friend and we will talk and find out how much we have in common, but right now…I need some time to myself.

Jolly green forest giants with feet as heavy as lead and hands that find a chord and stick to it, like wolves these fingers mate for life. I see folks in a sweaty garage…who’s gonna play keyboard? Who’s gonna play guitar? Who’s gonna save me and who’s gonna save you? I hear a chord, one chord and then maybe one more, rammed into the ground till the tape runs out and starts to flip flip flip. Third track has Thom Yorke covering his good eye and hoping to hell they don’t come back here again, somebody’s doing his act and doing it better, much better. Small fires are breaking out in the distance, the arsonist stares at his yearbook photo and reads what his English teacher wrote years ago…”You’re gonna be famous someday…” Someone somewhere yells drunkenly GBV! GBV! GBV! Not much argument here but baby, his accent is REAL. Happy birthday. All in all, to qoute Meatloaf….2 out of 3 ain’t bad…..2 out of 3 ain’t bad. Tell me once again what constitutes failure….

Akin to scoring a ride home from high school with that cute punk rock girl you’ve had your eye on since the first time you roamed the hallways feeling those teenage kicks getting you out and over what was left of the dial. Bumming a few licks from the Sonic Youth vocal training school and the Mark Arm technical academy. The message I hear is loud and clear, at some parts not quite there all the way but enough to have you turn to her as she drives you home and you ask Who is this? She tells they’re called Blood on the Wall. She tells you they’re good, she’s seen them play. Your ears perk up and record every word, sound and inflection coming out of the speakers. Your street, your house and your goodbye come quicker than you planned. You thank her for the lift, grateful for a handshake, (you got to touch her at least, and you’re never washing that hand again.) You get out and walk inside. You pick up a pen and some paper. You write Things to Do at the top. Number 1: Get Blood on the Wall. Number 2. Bum ride from her tomorrow.