TVP fans and more prep their PayPals for the late great Syd Barrett estate sale. Frenzied bidding already for...

'Syd's' artificial Christmas tree and decorations, comprising mostly of tinsel and baubles. Removed from the back bedroom upstairs.

Syd's' basic tool kit, comprising a hacksaw, mallet, plane, chisel, hammer, screwdrivers and a spirit level, all contained within a red plastic tool box. It was with these basic tools and few power tools that 'Syd' created his furniture and modified his home.

'Syd's Chair', A cream leather reclining armchair. The chair was in the kitchen and was clearly used a great deal by 'Syd', as can be seen from the dark stain to the back rest.

How sad and gross! One day left to sign in.

Per LA Times: Riled blues pianist H-Bomb Ferguson passes away Sunday. Says Ponderosa Stomp, which hosted Ferguson in notable late performances:

Born May 9, 1929 in Charleston, South Carolina, H-Bomb's father was a strict minister who nevertheless encouraged his sons' interest in music, even going so far as to pay for piano lessons. While the future blues singer's repertoire was limited to sacred songs under his old man's roof (Ferguson once recalled that if he even so much as hit a couple of blue notes while practicing, his father would deliver the admonition, "That's the Devil's music! God's gonna strike you down!"), he'd sneak away to a friend's house where he was free to practice the boogie-woogie that he so much adored. He began guest vocalizing in nightclubs as soon as he looked old enough to get in the door and at nineteen Cat Anderson offered him a spot in his blues orchestra. Ferguson didn't have to think twice; he chucked some clothes into a paper bag, snuck out his bedroom window and threw his hat into the blues shouter racket.

In 1950 he found himself in New York City where he waxed his first sides for Larry Newton's Derby label. By the first few months of 1952, ads in the trade magazines hawked H-Bomb recordings on at least three different labels, Atlas, Prestige and Savoy. He was most prolific at Savoy, producing a smattering of classics such as "Bookie Blues," "Tortured Love," "Hot Kisses," "Slowly Goin' Crazy" and his first gold record, "Good Lovin." Savoy insisted on recording him in the style of his professed idol, Wynonie Harris, leading to Harris often referring to H-Bomb as his son during "Battle Of The Blues" shows where the two shouters pitted themselves against one another. After brief stops Sunset and Specialty, Ferguson cut "Hole In The Wall Tonight" for Decca with a seventeen piece orchestra and then vacated New York for Cincinnati, where he still resides today. There he formed the Mad Lads with guitarist Big Ed Thompson and recorded singles for local labels such as Finch, Big Bang and Arc before signing with King/ Federal at the end of the decade.

The Cincinnati recordings all featured H-Bomb's keyboard antics for the first time on wax; a style that began to be known around town as "Thelonius Monk-style blues piano." The results were some of the best records of his career, the zenith of which was the totally out-of-control "Midnight Ramblin' Tonight." His prolific recording career came to a screeching halt after he became disillusioned with the lack of royalties coming his way, but throughout the sixties he remained a popular nightclub attraction, touring with Varetta Dillard, Big Maybelle, Big Mama Thorton and his old Federal label mates, Hank Ballard and Freddy King.

Retiring from music in the early seventies, five years later H-Bomb was back on the scene, wilder than ever. Since then, he's never seen on stage without his series of crazy looking wigs. "The wigs are there to shake them out of their troubles and to reflect the mood I am in," H-Bomb recently told journalist Mick Rainsford, "If anyone in the audience is so wound up that they can't hear me, then they can damn sure see me and if that makes them laugh, then it opens up their minds to the music, to the blues."

More bio here. Apparent bio-pic in production here and if you wanna get his music try this though it's missing "Midnight Ramble" which apparently just slides around on dodgy comps. Like the Jook Block Busters series available here which you should completely get but I bet you won't.

It's been a few slow days for blogging 'round here (what could I possibly show you that Brit-Brit already hasn't?) so I let our rockin' intern Miles Clements do a little work while I took a four hour lunch. Let's read what he has to write:

There needs to be more bands willing to crank out good ol' fashioned rock & roll. Almost every Orange County band I've come across recently sounds like its gunning for a spot on The O.C. soundtrack, for some imagined scene where a pair of young lovers first spot each other at a party and share a delicate kiss on the balcony. Ugh. (Note to said bands: Stop. Please.)

Thankfully, there's the Henry Clay People, a group of young lads (read: my age) [Editor's note: he's 21!] who crank out concise and catchy rock songs. The band says that they pull from the Replacements, Pavement and Neil Young. All good references, especially since I can hear a dash of each of those. But there's one influence that the band neglects to mention: Conor Oberst. Vocalist Joey Siara more than echoes the slurred lisp of Oberst, and while it's a little over-the-top, a bit brash and even polarizing, it'll elicit a reaction at the very least.

Like all good rock bands, the Henry Clay People are best seen live. Whether they're accompanied by a PowerPoint presentation in a university lecture hall or donning some ridiculous Halloween costumes, rest assured that there'll be lots of energy and youth. And there's no substitute for that. [Sad, but true.]

As an added treat, this weekend you can discover what happens when you throw them into the mix with a few beers and some bowling!

Henry Clay People play the Eagle Rock Sunday Night Bowling and Drinking Club, 4459 Eagle Rock Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90041. Sun., Dec. 3, 8 p.m. $5. 21+.

Via the fascinating English Russia:

Here is a little photo-session of an abandoned city. When the Soviet Union collapsed, government didn't have much funds to support some small cities around strategically import objects. People of these cities were left all by themselves. Nobody could support them because any communication with this places terminated after the army decided that they now don't have money to support those objects.

America take a lesson here. Also note that this little photo essay is tagged as "russian humour". More ruins of tomorrow at the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. More Russian can-do-it-tude here. Your official guidebook for your tour here. And here is your tour guide Mr. Dock Boggs, who says he hopes he lives for a few more days. I tried to find Blind Willie Johnson but looks like no one ever youtubed him.

In 1957, a student named Keith Waldrop found a mysterious book called In Sara, Mencken, Christ and Beethoven There Were Men and Women written by a mysterious man named John Barton Wolgamot. It was a book of names:

Blue cloth binding: four and three-quarter inches tall by seven and three-quarter inches wide. Published in 1944. The right margin is unjustified in a way that suggests verse-but it is clearly prose. The first thing one notices, opening the book, is clusters of names-names of men and women, most of them writers, many well known. But then, even more striking, it becomes obvious that each page contains only one sentence, and it is always-except for the names-almost the same sentence.

Slowly Waldrop and friends would conclude that Wolgamot's book was one of the greatest lost works of the 20th century. Ubuweb has two essays detailing this history. Here are the full articles and below is a fragment:

We can hardly understand today the depth of a commitment to such a project. It makes Wolgamot seem a mad man. Wolgamot was not a mad man. He was one of the sanest and most visionary persons I have ever met. But he lived and worked during a time and in a place where such a commitment was the only possible expression of his genius. All over America, before we became homogenized by the media (and by the ability to travel!), people lived in loneliness and dreams. This was a new people. And especially in the vast (endless) Midwest, where the European-Americans were cut off from their roots, a "civilization"-that is, a collection of memories that make sense of the present-had to be invented.

I have seen this invention in many forms, and indeed most of the forms were a form of madness: the "collectors." (Example 1: A tiny town in Wisconsin where my car broke down and I spent a few hours in the "museum"-admission 25 cents. A huge shed, probably formerly a commercial chicken coop, filled with hand-made boxes about 18 inches in each dimension, with a glass front, stacked six feet high, each box containing every kind of thing the collector had collected in his life-matchbook folders, safety pins, pieces of broken glass, breathtaking banalities-each item elaborately labeled and dated. Hundreds of boxes. A history of civilization. Example 2: A woman with a house full of cheap ceramic carnival prizes-Mickey Mouse, vases, dinosaurs, etceteras, which were put out on the lawn every morning in a new display, a new configuration, and taken in every night and cleaned and polished.) These museums existed in the hundreds. Everybody could tell me about their favorite one. I thought for a moment that I should specialize in this history of America, and make a museum of museums. But of course I couldn't. I think they are all gone now. Still we do not have a civilization, but the museums of memories are gone.

More here. And here is Robert Ashley's sound piece based on Wolgamot. CD re-issue of Ashley's piece here and WFMU interview with Ashley and Waldrop here.

Providence's Elvis Perkins plays Club NME at Spaceland tonight, along with Pernice Brothers.

Perkins' despondent (yet somehow soothing) vocals are somewhat reminiscent of crooners Jeff Buckley, Colin Meloy (eh) or Rufus Wainwright—but minus all that excessive theatricality. And recently signed to XL Recordings (home to indie powerhouses Devendra Banhart, M.I.A., Basement Jaxx, Thom Yorke, Ratatat, Peaches and Tapes 'n Tapes), we've seen Perkins' name exalted in all the major music blogs in the past few months. Or maybe—just maybe—you recognize the name from his tour opening for local pseudo-celeb Matt Costa.

Listen to his tracks off Ash Wednesday here.

Oh, and P.S.? Here's what music blog favorite Brooklyn Vegan had to say about Perkins' July 1st, 2006 Bowery Ballroom show with Costa:

7) There were more people at the show for Elvis Perkins than for Matt Costa who was headlining (I left too).

ELVIS PERKINS PERFORMS WITH PERNICE BROTHERS AT SPACELAND, 1717 SILVER LAKE BLVD., LOS ANGELES, (323) 661-4380. WED., NOV. 22, 9 P.M. $10. 21+.

"The Barstow Boyz are to good taste what Kevin Federline is to good taste," Alison Rosen wrote in last week's issue. "Which is to say they wouldn't recognize it if it were a boat in their driveway." Which is a really cute and clever way (that's our Alison!) of saying that the Barstow Boyz play good covers of bad cock rock songs, bringing a party like you wouldn't believe. Tonight, they make a rare appearance at Detroit Bar. So sayeth the Boyz:

You're playing a special Thanksgiving eve show. Who would have been more into the Barstow Boyz: the pilgrims or the Indians?
The Indians would actually be into us because their spirits inhabit us. So they're actually in us, but I think the old black hats would be into us too. They disrespected women like we do.

Join them and about 200 fans and take a cab home. Although staying up till seven a.m. and waking up next to someone you don't know is not the way you want to start Thanksgiving. Trust me.

ALSO: Jerry Lee Lewis for up to $125 a pop at the House of Blues; karaoke at the Prospector; possibly special Definitely Maybe (Indie/Brit Pop) at Memphis Costa Mesa. Know of more? Let us know.

AND IF YOU LOVE LA: Join the Acid Girls as they ditch their night at Avalon for a party in the city @ Crash. Word is:"Crash is held every Wednesday night at The Stone Bar, one of the top rated bars in Hollywood. This place features a huge horseshoe style bar where we are serving the cheapest ass drink specials in town! Gang of Neon & special guest DJs will be thumpin' on an awesome JBL sound system which can be viewed from a make-out loft which over looks the dancefloor. This party is here to provide LA with the latest and greatest in everything in Fight House, Analog Rock, Heavy Synth, French Wave, Indie Rock, Balie Funk, and any other form of mature dance music that's taking the world over . . . This isn't your average bar and this isn't your average "Indie, Electro club" . . . Step it up and let's crash LA!" www.gangofneon.com for more info.

It's no secret that I love Harry Nilsson a lot. A lot a lot. And so it is that I hear traces of him in just about everything, from Madman Moon to Kelley Stoltz (if you look beyond the obvious Brian Wilson presence) to, now, Richard Swift. Swift's latest, Dressed Up for the Letdown (out February 20 on Secretly Canadian) brims with wistful mediatations on love and death--notably on how the former helps us all cope with the latter. It's heavy stuff, with Swift's sometimes happy/often sad piano melodies anchoring each song in a robust '70s throwback sound. And that's Nilsson '70s, not Jackson Browne '70s (sorry, Josh Rouse), the kind of stuff that plays in the musical theater quadrant of your mind's eye. Bonus points for asking too-good-for-this-one-SUV-town Frank Lenz to sit in on bass. For a better idea, hit Swift's MySpace page and listen to "Songs of National Freedom." Dude's touring Europe at the moment, but stay tuned for local shows to be announced. Also, check the Nov. 30 Dec. 7 issue of the Weekly for a full review of the CD.

OTHER RECENT ARRIVALS: All Black Cinema (formerly John Wilkes Kissing Booth), It's Like Stars Hitting Ice. Groovy stuff from former JWKB frontman Derrick Brown, once again begging the question: Why is this man starving in Nashville? Review to come in a few weeks Nov. 30.

KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR: The awesome boys and gal in Lightmusic, who are finally laying down some of their spectacular tunes in the studio as we type. I may just have to pull a Rob from High Fidelity and start a record label so I can sign these kids before anyone else does. Obligatory full disclosure: drummer Kevin is so rad, we hired him as an intern.

BONUS FUN OF THE MUSICAL VARIETY: Visit lovely LA dudes Division Day's MySpace to watch top notch video for their song "Hurricane." Totally Police, totally rad.

Sat., Nov. 18: Too bad there's already a Best of the Lemonheads album on the shelves, and badder still that it was compiled by Atlantic Records (and not lead Lemonhead, Evan Dando): tonight's set would have made an epic greatest hits tracklist. Tunes from Come on Feel laid like cozy bed buddies with favorites off It's a Shame About Ray ("Turnpike Down," "Alison's Starting to Happen," "Rudderless") and Car Button Cloth ("If I Could Talk I'd Tell You"), saving just enough room for new numbers like "Become the Enemy." That it all fit together so well—and without, it seemed, too many problems—was a bit surprising, given that this night was Dando's kick-off on a national tour supporting the first-in-almost-a-decade album The Lemonheads, and also that the new album, depending on who you ask, is either a pretty strong comeback album for the Lemonheads—or a pretty decent tribute to its frequent guest star, J. Mascis. With Mascis (and guitar) absent, Dando's new stuff came off a little softer, slipping away from Rock-with-a-capital-R back down toward a more comfortable pop sound, which is to say it sounded more like the old stuff—nice and easy, like listening to best Lemonheads mixtape ever. And yet, even with the band in good form, and the audience alarmingly polite and respectful, there was one person who appeared anxious for the show to be over: the onstage security guard, who kept stepping in front of the bass player to check the set list. Maybe there was a time constraint; maybe he's just a weirdo. But next time? Just a tip: it would help to be a tad more discreet. Photo by Jennie Warren

AND IN OTHER NEWS: Mike Watt teams up with Kelly Clarkson.

Jimmy Breslin on the assassination of Robert Kennedy in the Times today here. Say Brez:

You couldn't get the gun out of the hand of the shooter. Hands grabbed and yanked and twisted but could not get it. The gun waved and people jumped away from it and now Roosevelt Grier, the immense professional football lineman, grabbed the shooter and got this huge arm around his neck from behind, and somebody screamed, "Kill him!" and Roosevelt just stared. All he had to do was tighten the arm and the guy is gone. Somebody else screamed, "No, no! Keep him alive!"

Very great piece. You'll be down after reading that so let me give you something nicer from that same year: crummy cars, cheap guitars and the system you can't beat live in Detroit below.