Toward a comprehensive encyclopedia of The Hold Steady

I'm attempting to analyze and annotate every specific location and person referenced in The Hold Steady's three albums.

Mock me if you want, but I consider this my obligation to future scholars.

Below is an alphabetical list of places and people. Going through the lyrics, I've noticed certain trends: nothing good happens in California; Florida is the situs of ultimate decadence; everyone always comes back to Minneapolis.

If I can figure out a way to properly export a spreadsheet layout into blogger, I'll publish a complete account. I've omitted site-specific references to Minneapolis because they're so copious, and because I don't recognize many of them. The Hold Steady Guide to the Twin Cities is a brilliant resource on that front.

Location Song Album Bay City, MI Sweet Payne Almost Killed Me Beverly Hills, CA The Swish Almost Killed Me Bowdoin, ME Chillout Tent Boys and Girls in America California Hot Fries N/A California Modest Is Not That Sweet N/A Colorado Girls Like Status Boys and Girls in America Chicago, IL Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night Separation Sunday Dallas, TX Don't Let Me Explode Separation Sunday Denver, CO Cattle and the Creeping Things Separation Sunday Denver, CO Milkcrate Mosh N/A Edina, MN Hornets! Hornets! Separation Sunday Hollywood, CA Curves & Nerves N/A Hostile, MA Hostile, Mass. Almost Killed Me Lynn, MA Hostile, Mass. Almost Killed Me Los Angeles, CA Don't Let Me Explode Separation Sunday Massachusetts Banging Camp Separation Sunday Massachusetts Curves & Nerves N/A Michigan Sweet Payne Almost Killed Me

Minneapolis, MN Party Pit Boys and Girls in America Mississippi River Some Kooks Boys and Girls in America Mississippi River Stuck Between Stations Boys and Girls in America Mississippi River Stevie Nix Boys and Girls in America Modesto, CA Modesto Is Not That Sweet N/A Narraganset Bay, RI Some Kooks Boys and Girls in America New Orleans, LA Don't Let Me Explode Separation Sunday New York, NY Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night Separation Sunday Osseo, MN Your Little Hoodrat Friend Separation Sunday Pensacola, FL Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Philadelphia, PA Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Shaker Heights, OH The Swish Almost Killed Me University of Minnesota Stuck Between Stations Boys and Girls in America Virginia Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Western Massachusetts Chillout Tent Boys and Girls in America Ybor City, FL Most People are DJs Almost Killed Me Ybor City, FL Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Person Song Album Nelson Algren Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night Separation Sunday

St. Barbara Don't Let Me Explode Separation Sunday John Berryman Stuck Between Stations Boys and Girls in America Black Sabbath Hot Soft Lights Boys and Girls in America William Blake Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night Separation Sunday Kate Bush Hornets! Hornets Separation Sunday Johnny Cash Barfruit Blues Almost Killed Me Alice Cooper Sketchy Metal Almost Killed Me Andre Cymone The Swish Almost Killed Me Rick Danko The Swish Almost Killed Me John Darnielle Girls Like Status Boys and Girls in America James Dean Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Ellen Foley Certain Songs Almost Killed Me Drop Dead Fred Knuckles Almost Killed Me Freddy Fresh Knuckles Almost Killed Me Humbert Humbert Hornets! Hornets! Separation Sunday King James I Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Jane's Addiction Charlemagne in Sweatpants Separation Sunday Billy Joel Certain Songs Almost Killed Me Jesus Citrus Boys and Girls in America Jesus Your Little Hoodrat Friend Separation Sunday

Jesus Charlemagne in Sweatpants Separation Sunday Jesus Hostile, Massachusetts Almost Killed Me Jesus First Night Boys and Girls in America Jesus Sketchy Metal Almost Killed Me Judas Iscariot Citrus Boys and Girls in America Judas Iscariot Milkcrate Mosh N/A John F. Kennedy Don't Let Me Explode Separation Sunday Jack Kerouac Stuck Between Stations Boys and Girls in America Jack Kerouac Hot Fries N/A James King Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Freddie Knuckles Killer Parties Almost Killed Me Phil Lynott Most People are DJs Almost Killed Me Mickey Mantle Hostile, Mass. Almost Killed Me Meatloaf Certain Songs Almost Killed Me Freddy Mercury Knuckles Almost Killed Me Mary Tyler Moore Stevie Nix Separation Sunday Vladimir Nabokov Hornets! Hornets! Separation Sunday Nazareth Curves & Nerves N/A Stevie Nicks Stevie Nix Separation Sunday Jackie Onassis Don't Let Me Explode Separation Sunday

Sal Paradise Stuck Between Stations Boys and Girls in America St. Paul Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night Separation Sunday St. Paul Saints How a Resurrection Really Feels Separation Sunday Steve Perry The Swish Almost Killed Me St. Peter How a Resurrection Really Feels Separation Sunday Mackenzie Phillips Cattle and the Creeping Things Separation Sunday Porky Pig Hostile, Mass. Almost Killed Me Jada Pinkett Sweet Payne Almost Killed Me Lionel Richie Charlemagne in Sweatpants Separation Sunday Right Said Fred Knuckles Almost Killed Me Robbie Robertson The Swish Almost Killed Me Johnny Rotten Knuckles Almost Killed Me Neil Schon The Swish Almost Killed Me Rocco Siffredi Most People are DJs Almost Killed Me Beverly Sills The Swish Almost Killed Me Nina Simone The Swish Almost Killed Me Patty Smythe The Swish Almost Killed Me Phil Spector Milkcrate Mosh N/A Bruce Springsteen Barfruit Blues Almost Killed Me Rod Stewart Stevie Nix Separation Sunday

Izzie Stratlin Chillout Tent Boys and Girls in America Alfred, Lord Tennyson Chillout Tent Boys and Girls in America St. Theresa Your Little Hoodrat Friend Separation Sunday St. Theresa Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night Separation Sunday The Times Arms and Hearts Boys and Girls in America The Trix Rabbit Cattle and the Creeping Things Separation Sunday Tuscan Raiders The Swish Almost Killed Me William Butler Yeats Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night Separation Sunday

Dumbasstic days

After a busy, stressful, eventful, happy and boozy weekend, it's hard to do anything but recuperate on Monday.

My weekend was not as excitement-filled as last weekend's, in which cookies were kicked, breakfast bars were obtained and consumer electronics were purloined. It was not without it's charms, however; Bourbon, cards, football, old movies _ you know, the usual suspects. I was not without my dumbass moments, however. Betting too eagerly on one hand left me short-stacked and desperate and I was the first one to bow out after a necessary reach with a 7-10 suited. On Saturday night I had to walk down a cold and windy seventh avenue before sprinting for a crosstown bus because I left my cash and ATM card at home. A friend and a goodly quantity of libations were waiting patiently for me at my local tavern. Yesterday, the day I bet myself out of the game, I spent mostly riveted to football on the TV, and an excellent movie called "12 Angry Men", which I recommend unreservedly if you like talky, thoughtful movies that confirm both your faith and despair over the state of humanity.

After all that, today has been blessedly restful and restorative. I made myself a near-perfect goat cheese omelette for breakfast, then followed up at dinner with some sausage, with napa cabbage I quartered, dredged in olive oil, salt and pepper, then stuck in a pan, flat side down until the edges of the leaves turned nicely brown. Some fresh-grated parmesan and a bit more salt and pepper, and I was in kitchen-improv heaven. Sometimes these thunderclap inspirations fall apart, either from a lack of execturion or a failure of imagination. But this is one of my most successful. I think I've just added a new dish to my repertoire. Monday has earned its keep after all.

Two questions

1. Will anyone who made definitive statements about the supposed innate inability of Peyton Manning and/or the Indianapolis Colts to win a big game be re-examining those statements?

2. What's everyone's ballpark figure on the number of TV's shot out in Houston and the greater Harris County area in the seconds immediately following Reggie Bush's incredible catch and run against the Bears?

How a rock n' roll show really feels

I'm taking advantage of CrimeNotes' sleepiness to write our blog's review of Thursday night's The Hold Steady concert. No, seriously. I'll keep it well under 3,000 words. If I leave out something my co-blogger considers important, well, that's his problem for choosing to dream about ... whatever it is he dreams about. One assume's it's a letter from Michiko Kakutani thanking him for being the only one who understands what it's like to be her. (Enclosure: a photo of her ta-tas.)

So anyway, the concert. And the part I'll remember the rest of my life: I was on stage at the end of the concert. No shit. I was on the fucking stage. With a couple dozen other people. It was amazing. That's one more thing I can cross off my list of "stupid shit to do before I turn 30 and it becomes borderline juvenile." I was on the stage at the end of a rock and/or roll show. During the last song of the second and final encore (right after the much-requested "Knuckles") Craig Finn invited people in front to join him on stage. I pushed CrimeNotes forward and said "Dude, you have to do that?" He (being over 30) demurred. So I tucked the T-shirt I'd bought for Effervescent Shorty (at the request of her fiancee, Crunk Raconteur) into my back pocket, and told CrimeNotes to hold my coat. Then I clambered gracelessly onto the stage, where I could "Woooo!" my heart out as Finn declared that we all were, in fact, The Hold Steady.

It's tough to beat that, but as as for the rest of the show. The venue was Northsix in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It was tiny, intimate and absolutely awesome. There were maybe 400 other people in the place. I can't think of a better place to see this band than some bar off I-94 between Madison, Wis., and St. Paul, Minn. And speaking of Williamsburg, I just have to mention that yes, on the walk back from the show, I actually saw someone wearing a Pabst Blue Ribbon trucker hat. I assume it was meta irony, because otherwise, that's just a bit too on the nose, isn't it?

But enough with that shit _ the show was at a tiny, 400-person venue. CrimeNotes and I were probably 25 feet or so from the stage, if that. The show was pretty much incredible start to finish. They started with a Positive Jam, and then like 10 minutes later, they were already leaving the stage before their first encore. Actually, it was well over an hour, more lik 70-80 minutes, but it felt like no time at all had gone by. The songs that stood out to me afterward were a particularly blistering version of "Chips Ahoy!" which included the entire crowd singing backing vocals, and an excellent "Stuck Between Stations." I think the second song was "The Swish" and yes, I recall bellowing out the line about skirts, tights, and shaking it up in Shaker Heights. In fact, I probably screamed half the lyrics to all the songs along with the band. Actually, half is a conservative estimate. I can't recall a recent show I've gone more bonkers for. I can't recall a show I've gone more bonkers for even in high school or college, actually.

But I'll refrain from further giddy babble. The only point left I want to make is this: I've always understood on some level why CrimeNotes sways back and forth during The Hold Steady concerts as if he's listening to some charismatic preacher, but now I get it completely.

And after tonight's show, I'm going to have to go read Molly Bloom's encounter with Leopold to cool myself off.

Great Moments in Dumbassery

When you're a dumbass, life is never dull ...

Saturday, 2:30 a.m. I'm over at my friend Mr. Met's apartment, watching The State on DVD while he burns me some CDs. A friend of his comes over with a sixpack of Brazilian beer she purchased at a drugstore. She's tipsy and tired after going on a date. She starts to play cards with us, but falls asleep on the couch after making macaroni and cheese. My friend and I drink all her beer. Also, I have some vanilla pudding (about 60 cents worth) and hum "Porcupine Racetrack" to myself.

Saturday, 7:37 a.m.We're standing in a cold drizzle as the sky grows a lighter shade of gray. My roommate, Emmelle, has arranged for work purposes to have a group of her friends stand around in the background of a TV segment on the South Beach diet. And so we're milling about and trying not to think of how tired we are while standing near a giant turquoise truck. The truck is a rolling billboard for the South Beach Diet. It has a clear box on the chassis containing a bamboo bar, some stools, a sandy floor, several beach balls and two models in shiny blue swimsuits. I offer to jump into the truck and drive off while the morning show anchors are in the back, in exchange for all $50 Amex gift cards we're getting for showing up. It would be like the dumbest "Grand Theft Auto" trick. There are no takers. I wind up managing not to get on camera, and go home with my pockets full of South Beach Diet bars (peanut butter flavor). I now have breakfast for the next two weeks, plus $50 which can be exchanged for goods and/or services. Not bad for two hours' work.

Sunday, 2:15 a.m. CrimeNotes, several of his friends and I arrive at a West Village hole in the wall we've been seeking for close to 45 minutes. I've steered everyone wrong, despite being the only sober one in the group. (Stupid West Village; I used to know my way around you so much better). Roughly 45 minutes later, everone is sated from beer and burgers, and it's time to go home. Even CrimeNotes, who dragged me out there in the first place less than two hours earlier is ready to call it a night. Yes, we know: Baby's tired.

Sunday, 11:45 p.m. We're standing outside a bar on first avenue in the East Village. It's me, Mr. Met, voidoid and his friend from college. We were drinking and playing Euchre for the past couple of hours, but now we're attempting to kick Oreo cookies across First Avenue. It's the only way to take the sting out of a loss.

I don't have much success with the cookie booting. My most earnest attempt goes sailing off the side of my foot at about a 70-degree angle, landing hilariously close to me. I blame the beer, because I wasn't this drunk after the Ohio State game, when I could clear Second Avenue on the fly. Although "less drunk" is a ludicrous understatement at this point. I think at least 98 percent of Ireland is less sloshed than I am. We're talking somewhere between Paula Abdul live on Seattle TV and Orson Welles shooting a Paul Masson commercial drunk at this point.

Monday, sometime around 4 a.m. Naturally, in our current state, the only thing to do is go play some video-game football. Voidoid and friend beg off. So Mr. Met and I go to my place and wind up playing for Floyd of Rosedale. He's almost as drunk as I was, but not too drunk to wait for me to call HB Direct (never a long wait). He switches his controller over from Iowa to Minnesota and takes the snap directly backward, all the way out the back of the end zone to give himself a free safety. I was laughing too hard to breathe properly, let alone summon any indignation at this point. I respond by driving the field on his ass, scoring, and converting the two for a 29-26 lead late in the game. His field goal attempt as time expires went wide right by the slimmest of margins. Instant karma, fucker.

Monday 3:30 p.m. I wake up.

Monday, 6 p.m. I'm about to settle in for an early, hangover-curing dinner when I realize my remote control is not where I left it. It's not under the coffee table. Or the entertainment center. Or either couch. Or in my room. I even look in the refrigerator. Remembering how quickly Mr. Met skedaddled the previous night, I text him. He calls back to report that he checked his coat and indeed does have my remote. It's just as I suspected. When you lead the life of a dumbass, there are some things you just know.

Subjunctive Hooey

Just watching SportsCenter getting the blather bellows loosened up for this weekend's NFL action. The show was employing some deranged, sportscasterly form of the Socratic Method in which one talking head would toss out a question, which would then go up on the screen while the other answered it, while highlights and music played (for the kids, you know).

Anyway, under the rubric of "QB who will be most talked about Monday" the response was Peyton Manning, whose Indianapolis Colts play the Baltimore Ravens on Saturday. The reason the NFL's tub-thumpingest QB will be the "most talked about" one?

Because if [the Colts] win, it will have been a spectacular performance, Peyton will have taken on a great defense, and hammered them and played well and thrown touchdowns and got them in rhythm and put the ball in the end zone. ... but if they don't win, you know what we're going to say? No matter the result, is it's going to be Peyton Manning's fault according to everybody and boy, he didn't win the big game, why can't Peyton win the Super Bowl? Peyton Manning is the reason this team's here for the most part. They will win because of him, not in spite of him if they do. He must perform in this game.

This is an excellent example of what Bob Somerby, if he wrote about sports media, would call "script typing." It's when the media collectively decides what the reasons for something happening will be before the event actually occurs, and then as events unfold, slots data points into the preconceived narrative. This is more than infuriatingly lazy and dishonest, especially for a profession that likes to talk about providing the first draft of history. It's simple eisegesis.

The emperor has no clothes _ and even some blow-dried, fourth-string dope working for ESPN can see it. (Five bucks says he goes and uses one of those storylines anyway when Chris Berman and company take his temperature on the matter after the fact). I could go on for several spittle-flecked pages about how much this whole practice baffles, angers and saddens me. But I'll spare you all the Cotton Mather treatment and just go grumbling off to the liquor cabinet, which has Bourbon to soothe my soul.

In conclusion: Tennessee fans should shut up about how Peyton deserved the Heisman over Charles Woodson.

Also, this would be an excellent time to add Fire Joe Morgan to our list of recommended reading. Lo, it is done.

It's not you, it's us

There are certain blogs I look forward to checking every day. The new posts are like nice little presents, and when the sites aren't updated, I feel mildly disappointed.

Hopefully, Cole Slaw Blog does not inspire that level of affection.

But in case it does, I thought that I'd issue a little explanation as to posting frequency and the recent lack thereof.

When I'm not posting regularly: I'm being crushed by all-consuming work duties. I think that if I posted about my work life, this site would get 10,000 hits a day and I'd have a book deal. But I'm a professional first and a blogger second, so at times like these, I just can't post.

When Flop's not posting regularly: He's just being lazy. Also, it probably means no one has spoken ill of Cleveland recently.

I hope that this clarifies matters.

Rude awakening

Over the past couple of weeks, I got used to waking up around 10 a.m., having my mom make me poached eggs for breakfast, and spending the next couple of hours reading or watching TV. After that, it was time for a nap. I'd wake up, have lunch, annoy my dad, watch a shitty bowl game, and then take another nap. My biggest stress was waking up when other people would rudely have a conversation while I dozed on the living room floor.

Back at work today, everything reverted. As I left tonight, Adagio for Strings piped overhead. I staggered bloody out to the sidewalk, only to see the helicopter of life soar off without me. I would die in the jungle.

New Year's resolutions are ridiculous, but I think mine is to move to my parents' house.

Simply the worst

I'm sure that copious amounts of criticism will be directed at Fox's typical yahoo coverage of the BCS bowls, so I'll just choose one instructive example of how appalling the whole spectacle was.

Before the start of the Orange Bowl, the coin-tossing duties were attended to by the three "honorary captains" representing Wake Forest (Arnold Palmer), Louisville (Muhammad Ali) and the region, not the school, of south Florida (Dwyane Wade).

Some poor overmatched director, apparently with network notes like "show the crowd" "make it feel like a special event" and "let the images tell the story" let the cameras linger on the disease ravaged Ali, who appeared to have no idea where he was, why he was wearing a Cardinals football jersey or why the fuck Tina Turner's "Simply the Best" was blaring at what must have been inhuman decibel levels.

And when I saw David Brent's motivational speech in "The Office" I thought that would be the most uncomfortable I would ever be while hearing that song.

Wishing you and yours a smashtastic 2007

Ugly Betty is for girls, but I know a photo when I see one.

Love,

Your friends at Cole Slaw Blog