At long last, Your Humble Narrator has returned to his crepuscular little corner in Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge to spin the toons for the multitudes once again. It was a fairly long hiatus this time around—almost two months—but I figure that my time was well spent as the previous posting on this page will attest. One event that took place while I was out of the Santa Fe pocket was the Matador anniversary. The Little Bar That Could first opened its door (there's only one) on May 5, 2007, and it has been taking names and kicking butt ever since. There was that whole unfortunate pandemic thing back in 2020, but with that one exception the Mat has been open every day of every week of every month for the past 18 years. That is pretty incredible. A wide range of watering holes—most of them within a block or three of the corner of Galisteo and West San Francisco Streets—have come and gone during that period of time, but the Matador abides and, somewhat improbably, so does DJ Inky. The promo image that appears above dates back 16 years.

Ahhh, printemps in New Orleans, printemps in New Bjork! Such joy, such bounteous pulchritude, such not-awfulness of meteorological conditions! Not to deny the appeal of printemps in my beloved Santa Fe, but the wind, Gentle Reader(s), the wind! The near constant gale force gusts blasting eastwards out of Arizona can begin to mess with yo haid after a while, so in recent years I have resolved to put thee behind me, Satanic zephyrs, and decamp to Ink South. This year I decided to append my southern sojourn with a trip to the Big City, the lure of inexpensive non-stop flights from Louis Armstrong International to LaGuardia being too attractive to resist. So, after the numbing two-day excursion across half of New Mexico, all of Texas, and three quarters of Louisiana, I hitched up at Laurel Street and settled in for about ten days before heading north.

Welcome back, Gentle Reader(s), to yet another installment of Matador Playlist coming straight to you via the good graces of Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge. Be forewarned as this shall be the last iteration of the playlist for a few weeks, as Your Humble Narrator will be taking off for Ink South in a few days. Come February I’m about ready for a bit of a break from Santa Fe winter, which has been has been distressingly devoid of snow while still managing to be cold as a sumbeyotch—up until this week at least, which has been bizarrely printemps-ish as regards matters meteorological. It’s all rather disconcerting, but what with the Orange Goblin going progressively apeshit crazy on a daily basis, I can’t say I’m surprised. As Miss Exene Cervenka observes in song #4 in this week’s playlist, ‘The World’s A Mess, It’s In My Kiss.’ Pucker up, Gentle Reader(s).

At long last, I am returned, Gentle Reader(s)! It has been four weeks since I last posted a Matador Playlist and it’s not because I’ve been at the Sundance Film Festival or lying in the sun down in Tierra del Fuego or enjoying the terrors and pleasures of alien abduction or anything exciting like that. No—the explanation is considerably more mundane: I’ve been sick. And when I say ‘sick’ I mean flat-out groaning miserable for a week, barely ambulatory for another week, seriously dragging ass for a third week, and then slowly returning to something resembling ‘normal’ this past week. I’ve not been sick in years—like, six or seven years at least—so I’d forgotten how completely lousy it is. To confirm: It’s completely lousy. At the behest of my very expensive concierge doctor I got vaccinated to the full extent of the law back in late November through mid-December so I was feeling pretty bulletproof come the holidays. So much for that conceit. Who knows what the deal is/was? Perhaps it was the impending horror of DrumpfReich 2.0 that compromised my immune system and allowed whatever this dreadful shite is to sneak in. Drumpf blames Biden and the LibDems for everything, so I blame Drumpf. My Apple stock is tanking: I blame Drumpf. Forgot to buy salad dressing at the store: I blame Drumpf. Stubbed my toe: I blame Drumpf. Fuck that dude.

When I was a little kid I engaged in all manner of magical thinking, as children are often wont to do. I had the notion that if I longed for something desperately enough or imagined a particular outcome to some situation fervently enough my wishes and desires might actually produce some tangible effect on reality. Now that I’m an alleged adult and have the Medicare card to prove it, the folly of magical thinking has gradually become apparent to me. Regardless, on the evenings of November 8, 2016, and again on November 5, 2024, I went off to bed carrying with me the hopeful fantasy that what I knew to be a foregone conclusion would not, in fact, have come to pass when I awoke to the harsh light of morning.

I’m putting it right out there, Gentle Reader(s)—right at the git go: I have NO idea what I’m talking about. Certainly when it comes to futbol—and yes, I’m going to call it futbol, just to be clear that I’m talking about The Beautiful Game and not the gladiatorial concussion-fest that us colonials are traditionally frothing over. I’ve been a fan for several years now, and what little I know about futbol is what I have gradually gleaned through the process of acquainting myself with the Premier League via the good graces of over-the-air NBC broadcasts (one, perhaps two, matches on Saturday or Sunday mornings), Telemundo (also Saturday and/or Sunday morning fixtures, en Español), and, for the last couple of years, the Peacock streaming channel. The 2022 World Cup and its seemingly endless rounds of buildup matches further served to expose me to the substantially more boggling realm of international futbol competition. I trust Harry Kane is feeling somewhat better by now.

Tis’ the season, Gentle Reader(s), for a festive holly jolly Matador playlist! What could possibly say ‘Merry Christmas, one and all!’ quite like ‘Breaking Glass’ by David Bowie and AC/DC’s ‘Hells Bells’? Kind of sums up the whole holiday vibe right there, does it not? Well, maybe not at your house, but at Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge—HELL yeah!

Somewhere ago, sometime ago, I heard related an anecdote of a sort regarding the legendary folk/rock impresario Albert Grossman. Confronted with an individual who is insufficiently in awe of his music biz stature and far-ranging influence, Grossman blusters ‘I’m BOB DYLAN’S manager!!’ To which the other party replies, ‘Do I come to you with my problems?’ This doesn’t really have much of anything to do with anything as regards this week’s playlist, but it’s amusing and I thought I’d take the opportunity to share it with you. You are welcome, Gentle Reader(s).