As unaccustomed as I am to self-promotion, I hope you’ll attend tonight’s all-uke shindig at Café Nine, 250 State St., New Haven. Show begins 9-ish. Besides my bizarre medleys of uke standards and underground rock, there’ll be the somewhat more civilized four-string strumming of Jim & Liz Beloff and Lauren Agnelli. Five bucks cover.

Stay tuned in future days for a new calendar section of upcoming events on this humble scribblers.us page. I’ve gotten requests to do the sort of previews and highlights I used to do a lot of for the New Haven Advocate and elsewhere (and which I still do for theater-type events at this site’s sister blog, New Haven Theater Jerk). Just need a little time to get back up to speed… and to go play ukulele.

The Jink-Los played all entirely different songs Tuesday at Hamilton’s then they did the previous Thursday at the Bullfinch. That’s because they were entirely different groups of musicians.

A band sold their name. In this town. And they say the economy’s in trouble!

It’s really about good fun among old pals. Monty Jewels of the Jink-Los has a way with names. John Jones of Fortune in My Misery doesn’t. The longtime neighbors and friends, who’ve known each other since the week they were both born (four days apart), share a lot of things.
“So why not share our name?,” Monty says. He sold the Jink-Los moniker to Johnny for a pack of smokes. Monty’s bandmates don’t mind; they’re all heading to college, meaning the band might’ve been on its last legs anyhow.

The new Jink-Los is the same cover band Fortune in My Misery was, but without the gloomy old name. See if they sound any different. For one tune at least, they will—Monty Jewels has an open invitation to jump up and sing on songs he likes.

Weiner Minstrels and The Ol’ Dirt Daubers at the Bullfinch. Cover your ears—because of the language, not the volume… Jonny Modero and Pier 23 and Light Up Time at Hamilton’s. Light Up Time apparently doesn’t challenge the club’s ban on band names with drug references… The Corliss Archers, Now Nordine and Uncle Whoa all at D’ollaire’s; after all those “Evening With” affairs, a three-band bill seems almost too much to handle…

Someone stole the basket.

Sun Wizard, Positively 4^th Avenue. There’s a folk-pop side to this, but reminiscent of the way that early T Rex was folk-pop—edgy, supernatural, blissful as if on drugs. When it charges ahead into full-blown rock territory, as with “Sick of Waiting,” it’s clean and frisky like Fastball or Jayhawks, with that wonderfully upholstered pop production style that throws lots of keyboards, harmonies and even horns into the mix.

Out of the Hurly-Burly by Max Adeler

We changed some things around in the bedroom, which gave me the opportunity to reconsider which books I really need to keep on the shelf by my side of the bed. Out of the Hurly-Burly made the cut once again, not just because of its bedside-friendly subtitle “Life in an Odd Corner” but because of its sheer exuberance and variety. A loose collection of stories, fantasies, essays, autobiographical anecdotes and poetry, Out of the Hurly-Burly alternately evokes Thackeray, Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, W.S. Gilbert, and Adeler’s contemporary and rival Mark Twain. It anticipates the rise of a strain of late 19^th and early 20^th century American humor writing typified by John Kendrick Bangs, Don Marquis and F. Anstey.

An international bestseller in its time, Out of the Hurly-Burly doesn’t have much of a following now. I only discovered it myself because its best-known edition has illustrations by the genius cartoonist A.B. Frost, who was to Joel Chandler Harris’ Uncle Remus tales what Ernest Shepard was to A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, or what George Herriman was to Marquis’ Arch & Mehitabel. Frost is also revered for the slickly sick adventure “Our Cat Eats Rat Poison” and some wonderful talking-animal cartoons for Puck magazine. Out of the Hurly-Burly was Frost’s debut as a book illustrator, and he contributed hundreds of detailed drawings as varied as Adeler’s text pieces.

For bedtime reading, the highest recommendation goes to Chapter 15, in which the narrator gets out of bed at night to answer the door, only to get stuck outdoors with his nightshirt caught in the slammed-shut front door.

Still flashing back to the scene outside UltraRadio last Thursday night, which I viewed comfortably from one of the 20 audience seats for New Haven Theater Company’s site-specific production of Eric Bogosian’s 1987 play Talk Radio.

The people-watching was going on avidly through both sides of UltraRadio’s large picture window. NHTC had to post a guard outside the venue to keep folks from pounding on the windows Today Show-style during the performance. Ultra Radio founder Randy Borovsky, who’d seen the show from within the studio with the rest of the internet station’s staff during a special dress rehearsal, seemed to enjoy being outside on the streets for subsequent performances, interacting with passersby. On the night I attended, the street folk included a bunch of administrative suits from the Shubert Theater right across the street from Ultra Radio. There was someone playing the role of dapper manager as part of the play. And that, of course, was not where the similarities between Bogosian’s frenetic drama and the real-life denizens of New Haven ended. The play has a clueless stoner, and you could find confused guys like that outside wondering what was going on in the Ultra Radio fishbowl. Lots of professional types and “average” folk too.

I liked the show—I’ve been a Bogosian fan for decades, and NHTC did him proud. But I especially liked the view of New Haven at night. It was as far from the “dangerous city” claptrap as you can get. New Haven’s a city of lively storefronts—the shifting non-profit Project Storefronts, the sidewalk seating outside restaurants—and here was another one, a radio window on the world.

The gerbils ran the running wheel right off the side of the cage Sunday night. The wheel fell entrance-down, the runner trapped within. Her sister escaped and frightened Kathleen and Mabel, who were engaged in homework in the next. They didn’t jump on chairs or anything, but they did think “rat” instead of “pet gerbil” and were understandably unnerved.

I trapped the gerbil under a tambourine, which is something I really ought to do for Halloween, because it’s really creepy to see a jangling tambourine scuttle slowly around the floor.

There was actually an indie band called The Gerbils, a lo-fi pop trio from Athens. This is not that.

An instrumental interlude:

Sssssssss.

Kksssssh.

Klik. Thup. Karak!

Sssss. Ssssss. Klssssssh.

Yes, its the espresso machine they leave on during the open mic at the House With Room coffeeshop near campus. There’ve been so many complaints about the gizmo’s hissings and creakings interrupting tranquil sets that some of the earnest folkies have risen up in protest. The other night, one performer implored his listeners not to order espresso while he was on. Not only was he scolded by House With Room management, espresso sales actually went up during his set because of coffee klatschers who didn’t like his attitude OR his music.

But the discontent is real. The machine has never been well-received by the fussy folksingers. Something’s got to give, and when it does, there’ll probably be a big whoosh of steam along with it.

Urgent message on the tin can: dinner is ready.

Hugh Laurie, Let Them Talk. I really avoided this, despite the blitz of positive features and reviews in my favorite UK music magazines. Then there it was, posted for free listening on AOL Music. Even then I hesitated. But I pushed “Play” and got a headful of determinedly idiosyncratic “Saint James Infirmary.” Challenging and confident, Hugh Laurie spends no time proving himself to the skeptical. You’re the one who has to follow him. Unlike so many actor/musicians who play the spotlight more than they do an instrument, Laurie finds affinities in slowed-down instrumental work-outs. When he duets with Dr. John, both men still their hyperactive sides for a sultry, sweethearted “After You’ve Gone.” Even the pattery “They’re Red Hot” gets a slow, train-conductor-intonation build-up. By the time you’re getting to the final track, the title song, and Hugh Laurie actually invokes comparisons to the great Randy Newman, well… you’re speechless.