One, six, nine o'clock, three o'clock rock!

Okay now. The holiday orgy of 2000 is over. I hope everyone is enjoying the beauty of business as usual. Once again, the possibilities are unlimited. It's a blank piece of paper. Don't think "new year's resolutions," think, "fun and adventure." Today I thought about riding my bicycle and listened to Okinawan music. I love Okinawan music. I've been listening to SHIMAUTA, an album by a singer named Sadao China. Once when we were performing in Japan we visited with some Okinawan pop bands. One of our favorites was Rinken Band. I hope they're still together. To me, this music is somewhat trance-inducing, especially the traditional stuff. But, then again, I'm not distracted by the stories (lyrics) in the songs, since I can't understand the language. And the minimalistic nature of it may mean something different to me than someone who grew up with it. Maybe some people dance wildly to it. Maybe some people don't even consider dancing to it. Maybe some people hear only the words. Sometimes we play concerts in halls or theaters that aren't conducive to dancing and everyone is just staring at us. That's okay, we enjoy the unique challenge. We can be more subtle. We can play with the dynamics more. We can be more visual. We can feel self-conscious and wig out more easily. Speaking of wigging out, if you're ever at one of our shows and it's obvious that something's not going well, stick around. We may eventually play some of our best music ever. Anything could provoke us to play especially well. Bad sound. Poor attendance. Unresponsive audience. Adverse weather. Rude venue management. Most of the time everything meets at least minimum expectations, but the unpredictable can always happen. Happy New Year!

Speaking of the new year, I have a great movie sequel idea. 1984 vs 2001! They're both years that didn't live up to their hype. Well, of course, 2001 is just beginning, but I don't think it will quite get there, though we do have laptops. Anyway, the movie could involve the two years duking it out in New York City and Tokyo and Paris and Moscow, knocking over famous buildings and landmarks. Maybe 1984 could be a decaying corpse with super strength and a super stench. And 2001 could be a clueless radioactive baby bouncing around like a runaway cue ball, burning up everything it bangs into. Did you ever see the movie, KING KONG vs. GODZILLA? My movie would be like that without all of the stupid stuff.

On Friday, January 26, at the Czech Club, in Dallas, we celebrate the release of our new CD, ALL WOUND UP. You know, it's supposed to be a children's album, but I'm pretty sure adults will dig it, too. Unlike most of our CDs, there are no songs about screwing or killing people. No clever references to heroin or alcohol, either. It might make you feel like dancing. But, if not, that's cool (see paragraph #1). Our collaborators, Cathy Fink and Marcy Marxer have just been nominated for a Grammy in the children's album category for their 2000 release, PILLOW FULL OF WISHES. Congratulations to them.

Speaking of such things, our year of being the Polka Grammy darlings is coming to a close. We feel like Miss America, about to pin the tiara onto the new winner's head. It's been a very interesting experience. Both extreme love and hate have flooded over us as we've been accepted and rejected. Most of the things associated with winning the Grammy have been positive, for sure. We became hipper and more mainstream at the same time. It works that way with the obscure categories.

Speaking of blatant sexually-suggestive candy bar advertising, I was amazed at a display box for Santa-shaped Milky Way bars that I saw at a store over the holidays. In fact, I was so amazed, they gave it to me. I don't know how to describe it, except to say there's a photo of two chocolate Santas positioned in a way to create the look of one typical sex toy. I am so sure of Milky Way's intent, I don't know what to say. Am I a prude or watchdog for some radical blossoming underground? It's both funny and sad. Let's see, if we can combine the three addictions, food, sex and Christmas into one package, sales should be orgasmic. This is too easy. I'm definitely depressed about it.

But the depression is short-lived. I'll just have a pleasant and significant memory. When I was in the seventh or eighth grade, I went with my brother to see The Yardbirds (British rock band). Our parents drove us to a high school gymnasium in Magnolia, Arkansas and we sat in bleachers and watched the show (I had been to see Paul Revere and The Raiders at this same place about a year before). Anyway, it was DICK CLARK'S CARAVAN OF STARS. There were several acts on the bill, including Sam The Sham and the Pharaohs and Gary Lewis and the Playboys, but I was there to see The Yardbirds. I was way into The Yardbirds. They played blues-inspired psychedelic pop, spawning three of the most influential rock guitarists ever; Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page. Before the show I was excited about seeing Jeff Beck, but the torch had already been passed to Jimmy Page. At first I was disappointed, but they played their hits and looked marvelous, especially Jimmy Page; long wavy black hair, purple bell-bottoms, puffy-sleeved shirt, skinny as a toothpick. By Southwest Arkansas terms, freakish. The CARAVAN OF STARS seemed sort of like an old-time traveling freak show. I think they transported the stars in cages, and handlers whipped them and shot guns in the air. And at one point in every show some of the lesser-known stars had to walk a hastily assembled tight rope. Most of the audience was outside eating popcorn while this was going on. Whatever, I liked distorted guitars and mod fashion. A couple of years later, I saw Jimi Hendrix in Shreveport, Louisiana. The Soft Machine opened the show. It was always cool seeing actual rock stars right there in front of me, looking and sounding like themselves.

We are just starting to mix some tracks we recorded on Halloween 2000 at our show at the Beachland Ballroom, in Cleveland, Ohio. Legendary engineer, Gary Rhamey and legendary trumpet player, Hank Gusevich drove up from Youngstown, Ohio to record us. It was a totally groovy scene, though I think it freaked out our new drummer, Paul, a little bit to be making a live album on his seventh gig. As we were leaving the club that night to drive 24 hours straight home, the juke box was playing "Come On In," an eerie song by another one of my favorite psychedelic pop bands, The Music Machine. I knew something in my heart.

2001 is the year of submission. Submission to pain. Submission to glory. Acceptance and peace. The tattered whipping boy known as polka will continue to surprise us with it's resilience and eternal beauty, no matter what the mood, style or politics are. Polka is a signpost, a way to go and a way to think. And an admission that we don't know everything. Nothing is ever cooler than that. Altogether now, close your eyes with me and enjoy not knowing. Adios fellow babies.