The Litter Box

IT GAVE ME a nasty jolt, I can tell you. You see, what happened was this: once a year a hideous weekend-long thing billed as Fleet Week goes off in the general area of my living arrangements. It's an affair I remain a little foggy on, meaning-wise. It might commemorate the birth of the Navy itself, though frankly, October seems like an odd choice to officially commission any branch of the armed forces, never mind one that just screams springtime.

But that's me, and I'm rusty on my naval history. I've also been led to believe it's a celebration of our men and women serving in said branch of the military. I believe they won Best Dressed again this year, and who can argue with that?

Well, last weekend the time had rolled round again for my flotilla pals. I was in the backyard attempting to catch up on the 70 or so unlistened-to CDs that had been collecting dust. All was as smooth as silk with a peppy outfit from Texas named the Pink Swords, when suddenly, as if materializing out of the ether, a blue thunderbolt shot overhead, narrowly missing a direct score on me. It vanished immediately over the horizon, but not before setting off every car alarm and dog in a two-block radius. Ah yes, I had forgotten all about the Blue Angels.

Apparently the Navy added airplanes to the arsenal somewhere along the line, and these Blue Angels are an elite pack whose chief duty seems to consist of flying around as close as possible to the rooftops of civilian housing. Sometimes they join up into tight clusters of three or five and give the vicinity a good strafing before disappearing into the clouds. They repeat this routine all Fleet Week, thus ensuring the sheep that, as a nation, we're in able hands: look at all the damage they're capable of inflicting just by doing flyovers – never mind if they decided to start loosing sidewinders at the Aquafina truck. Of course, it also meant that no work would get done without the aid of headphones and a little distance, so I packed a bag and started up the trail away from the beachhead.

The jolt part comes into play right here. As I hooked a right off Lombard Street onto Steiner, I immediately spied a place called Claypool's BBQ. Not only that – outside Claypool's BBQ stood an individual with more than a passing resemblance to Philip Claypool, almost-Nashville superstar and former Curb Records whipping boy (for the record, I firmly believe Claypool, with the possible exception of Junior Brown, was the only Curb artist ever worth a shit).

Sure enough, it turns out it was the same Claypool, and he's now in the business of serving up barbecued grub to the Marina set. As I needed a place to stay out of the aerial fray and as my entire weekend was otherwise slated to be one long "God Bless America" symphony played in the key of afterburner, the idea came that it might not be such a bad idea to review discs from various eateries. And, as long as I was already there, why not review the food, too? Food and music go hand in hand. I can recall a miserable Killer's Kiss outing made less painful by a Connecticut Yankee cheeseburger. And that slice of Escape from New York pizza only helped to enhance the heady buzz incurred at the Buzzcocks show. And so, here are a few Fleet Week pocket reviews for your listening and dining pleasure.

Claypool's BBQ Chiefly a takeout joint with a couple of tables. The menu is small, efficient, and priced right. The barbecue pork sandwich was tender, but it was the smoked salmon that was a real knockout. Sweet, smoky, flaky, and a perfect complement for ...

Harold Ray Live In Concert, self-titled (Alternative Tentacles) Yes, San Francisco's blue-eyed soul combo hit it hard on their first recording. Recorded "live," complete with assorted off-key skronks, the disc captures the lads in all their raw, danceable glory.

Rating: smoked salmon sandwich, four stars; album, four stars

E'Angelo An old Italian joint on Chestnut Street (and a short walk from Claypool's, so I figured what the heck). I got in just before the dinner swarm hit. Even though the eggplant parm looked awesome, I went with the gnocchi. A light marinara sauce did the trick on that dish.

Clone Defects, Shapes of Venus (In the Red) One of America's great labels produced its first piece of crap since the last Country Teasers album. The only positive to this affair is that the Defects are from Detroit; the well is now officially dry.

Rating: gnocchi, three and a half stars; album, one and a half stars

House of Prime Rib Red meat and jacketed waiters. Chez classy.

Po' Girl, self-titled (HighTone) Even a bellyful of choice prime and domestic beer couldn't redeem Po' Girl. It's like Bonnie Raitt doing an imitation of that horrible woman who married Paul Simon, only for 58 minutes.

Rating: ribs, three and a half stars; "album," half a star