Don’t call me Man. Don’t call me dude. Don’t call me ma’am. Tonight is all we have. Word is spreading downtown and out. There was a was a bunch of poetry tumbling out of the car window after I drove away from that building that we used to work in. Wait, that is from the cassette of an early mix of the second album by Falcon Eddy called “No. 2 Record” that I need to bump up the volume on as that glass building burns itself back down to sand in the rearview. Oh shit, I forgot to pull that guy I used to work with up off the floor after that fast food Fast Times at Ridgemont High bathroom wave he gave me made out of neon and gas fell as I exited. I need to go back. I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back. Pillars, all of them now as I hop on the 10, maybe those ghosts have reversed and turned into glass. An old song in my head underneath this one by Falcon Eddy duets with “Don’t look back, you can never look back”. The fact is that even if the rewind worked on this deck or this car or your phone or that stickered Bubble Yum laptop, I wouldn’t employ it. I have this cassette in the sternum console, stuck and not only don’t I want to perform surgery to get it out from the pin and spinning rubber wheel that is keeping it in, but I don’t want the loop that we are in to end. “No. 2 Record” by Falcon Eddy has twelve songs on it just like “No. 1 Record” has a dozen songs. I have to drive with the one on and the other in my mind making comparison and contrast notes in the dust of the dash. That post bend pop in your ear, when you can finally hear clearly after hopping on a dirty scrimfoot, warm salt water down the nape of my neck from that canal. The two records I am on about both have that quality. It is a note perfect flawed record from a friend that retains enough off the cuff reed and spit that you know it is legit, legit like that episode of Combat that Altman did on TV, like Cassavetes guesting in a Hollywood Bowl episode of Columbo. Bumping the McLuhan mediums up into top drawer grade A’s.
One more thing.
The new Falcon Eddy is available on bandcamp right now, and there is some shit about someone or other waiving fees and all sorts of comma dash hiccups that aren’t quite of my understanding on street date, September 4th, but the point in my panting is that it is available now & for some time after that. Steve Folta not only plays on the thing, but lovingly recorded and sweated over months of mixes. Amy Maloof’s songwriting and lyrics offer surprise at every turn. Why is this song already over? How did I get from Philly to Yemen during that ninety second song in my mind? Oh right, I followed the pixel dotted script that rounded me through the atlas of thought and time. Maloof is hard at work on a follow up release due out next year on Shrimper in the duo version of Falcon Eddy with band mate Erica Tyron.
“One more thing; I noticed your corsage fell off before you hit the stage at the Hollywood Bowl, maybe just after the sound check. We found an exact match at the scene of the crime, your fibers on it.” Cassavetes slumming, we do that too, but at night we moonlight with the second job that we have. That job rules. “No. 2 Record”. Falcon Eddy. I burn every building I drive by with the spark of each song exhaling. I am doing sixty in a twenty five, unnoticing.
When I die, I will purchase it at Diablo’s Discs and Guns in Jupiter, Florida, maybe Departed Platters in Tempe or the Secondary Sister Store of Mercy in hell as though the earthly version of those bricks and morticians are gone, in the afterlife, they live on. Here in this purgatory non physical world, buy it here: