I woke up at 5:30 this morning from another radio anxiety dream. (Never mind what this indicates about my mental state). I was at WFMU, playing a minimalist piano record (my dream self's description) while running amok trying and failing to find the following: a live Neurosis album, John Cale's Paris 1919, Scott Walker's The Drift. Could have been a great radio show!

I went to a record store today. I had read about Bill Callahan's new record, Apocalypse, and wanted to buy it. Buy it, not download it. On CD. I wouldn't have thought I needed to clarify that, but Other Music had a shelf of new cassettes for sale. Mostly small run, limited release, collector's pieces, I gathered.

I wonder how they sound and if the tape hiss induces a dreamy nostalgia or false memories of the 1980s.

I have terrible radar when it comes to which shows will sell out. I'm always purchasing advance tickets (and paying exorbitant 'convenience fees') for shows that turn out to be half empty (sorry, LaLa Brooks), and sauntering up to a club at 10pm, incredulous when the show's sold out (sorry I missed ya, Dungen). Last weekend, I insisted we show up ridiculously early to see Meg Baird at The Stone. It's a small venue, and the last two shows I saw there (Laurie Anderson and Martha Wainwright) prompted lines around the block an hour before the doors opened.

It was a dark and stormy night. I guess that kept a lot of people home, because there was no line, but it was their loss. Meg Baird was soft, subtle and inspiring. I don't want to write about it; I just want to close my eyes and remember her playing and singing in that chilly room while the rain poured down outside.