Hunter S. Thompson-R.I.P.

In the early 80’s, I watched this wonderful comedy with Bill Murray in it called “Where The Buffalo Roam.” It was based on some writer that I never heard of, Hunter S. Thompson, and I wanted to learn more about him. On the Monday following my screening, I went to the Keokuk Senior High Library and checked out a copy of “Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.” It opened my eyes to a new feeling about literature and from there my dissent into provocative lefty rants came into fruition.
The book was recommended to all and soon several high school sophomores began quoting directly from the book. Tales of seeing Hunter S. Thompson speak in Iowa City were tossed around more than recollections of seeing Rose Tattoo live. The two share a thing in common: Angry Andersen, lead singer of Rose Tattoo, puked on stage when the band opened for the Pat Traverse Band in Burlington, Iowa and Hunter S. Thompson, lead singer of Gonzo Journalism, was drunk while lecturing to the collegiate counterculture in Iowa City, Iowa. Rose Tattoo were louder, though.

This just in from a friend who lives close to Hunter’s ranch:
“ It was second-home ownership and Vicious Wolf Realtors that did him in. When things got really wierd all he could do was drink himself to a stupor and reload shells out on the back deck,the one the Mexicans built for him out of sheer gratitude for that time went to the Aspen Town Council and Country Club to fight for them. He would have Raul or Jose' retrieve the targets.......
Yeah-someone will start a class now at Colorado Mountain College-The Literary Works of Dr.Hunter S.Thompson and Their Applications in Modern Society. Now him and Hemingway can shoot together.”
And there are reports that the Dr. wants to be cremated and have his ashes shot out of a cannon. Leave it to Hunter to have the most exciting funeral arrangements.

I Have A Thing For Cat Power

So you’re asking yourself: “Todd, what’s the deal with you and Cat Power?” I suppose the first exposure came with hearing the song “Cross Bones Style” from the album “Moon Pix” shortly after it was released. I took a chance at bought the album and it took a few spins before I could tolerate the haphazard rhythms, repetitive chord progressions and a hair above functional guitar playing. It was Chan Marshall’s voice that kept it in the cd player until I finally felt at ease with the disc. And then I got depressed.
Which is a common thing for any Cat Power listener to have after hearing “Moon Pix” considering the fact that the album’s lyrics, pacing, and husky vocals are all contributors to a very dark theme. Consider the track “Colors And The Kids” which begins dark enough with a repeated piano refrain, and then completely sucker punches you with the lyric “I could stay here/become someone different/I could stay here/become someone better.” Real heart wrenching shit.

I guess you could say that it got me on a Cat Power kick. My ex-wife would get pissed that I listened to the record so much. She was convinced that it had something to do with an attraction to Chan Marshall. The funny thing is that I had only seen one picture of her at that point, and her face was totally obscured by hair. Later on, I got an eyeful as to what Chan really looks like underneath those bangs.
There was an interview I read with her in The Big Takeover that totally pegged her as an unstable character. Her live shows were notorious for being very stressful situations: Chan would sometimes get paralyzed by fear in mid-set and even had fans help her regain composure at one performance. In the interview, Chan would often drift off topic and try to explain strange situations in her life. A story, a myth were now created in my perception.
In Omaha, Nebraska, I told the dread locked black man that I was really digging “Moon Pix” and he made a point to recommend her first e.p. That effort, while rhythmically stronger, is tough to get a hold on and may I admit that if the thing was beyond an e.p. I’d totally get bored with it. The record actually cooled my heals a little towards Cat Power, but I recovered after hearing their incredible cover of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” I’m being totally serious; it may rival Devo’s version of “Satisfaction” even though it’s world’s apart from it.
From there, I was throwing back “Myra Lee” and “What Would The Community Think” whenever I stumbled into it. Both albums are fine as Chan starts honing her chops and lyrics, laying the groundwork for something special, the album that is “Moon Pix.”
For some reason, I’ve got this who Omaha/Cat Power connection because I was, again, at the same record store with the dread locked dude and it had an ample supply of “You Are Free” for the album’s first week of release. This effort has noticeably better production that her prior efforts, but not to the point where there’s fucking sugar water making the counter sticky. At points, Chan sounds somewhat happy, but lest you forget the entire thing kicks off with a revisiting of Kurt Cobain’s suicide with just four simple words: I don’t blame you.

There’s no real diagnosis on Chan Marshall’s mental state, but she’s functioning enough to keep her head musically. Her allure is this entire “girl in trouble” guise and it seems that she may become one of those cult reclusive after she really starts to feel when the “music is boring me to death.”
She played in Omaha a week after I left. Such timing. The irony is that I was in the area for a funeral when I purchased “You Are Free” and was bummed that I was going to miss the concert. Why couldn’t the silly bastard die a week later?
So now comes word that Cat Power has quietly released “Speaking For Trees,” a two-hour movie dvd and single song music cd. What makes the film unique is that it’s composed of one two hour long shot featuring Chan playing a Danelectro outside among the trees. With wind and crickets as her only accompaniment, she performs a selection of songs, sometimes repeated, in front of a blurred camera. It sounds pretentious in writing, but viewing the performance (admittedly, this is one you won’t be playing frequently) is a very distant affair. The “statement” made is actually no statement at all; this is as personal as you can get with Chan Marshall and playing to the trees seems spontaneous enough (and genuine enough) to avoid the highbrow curse.
The song, “Willie Deadwilder,” will become Cat Power’s “Dark Star.” As actual performances become even more scarce, fans will be able to impress other fanatics with tales of hearing this 18-minute epic in the flesh. It follows no real structure and like the video disc that it shares, sounds extemporaneous, free, and repetitive.
For Cat Power fan, “Speaking For Trees“ retains the mystery of Chan Marshall and it‘s an opportunity to get a very minimalist view of her talent. She clearly is motivated by her own muse and seems determine to follow her own path. “Speaking For Trees“ will not increase any additional traffic on that path, but those willing to travel with her can at least enjoy the scenery.

Brian Wilson-Smile

Over the Christmas break, a friend of mine picked me up in a rental and I immediately took noticed of the selection of music in the car’s cd player. It was Brian Wilson’s “Getting’ In Over My Head,” the first of two cd’s Wilson released in 2004. Now this particular friend is fairly partial to jam-based rock and it wouldn’t have surprised me to find Govt. Mule or the like to be spinning in that factory GM disc player. But no, it was that wack job Brian Wilson.
I say “wack job” because I’ve seen the film “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times” and saw for myself the mental fragments of a man who had finally imploded after years of physical abuse at the hands of a father, years of psychedelic drug intake, years of over-bearing “guru”-types taking financial liberties, and of course, years of having to deal with Mike Love. That alone would make anyone a wack job.

The rumor, or at the very least, the story as I remembered it, was the thing that finally pushed Brian Wilson over the edge was trying to top the Beatles’ “Revolver” with The Beach Boys’ “Smile” album. So here’s the deal: Brian got a little nutty, Mike Love wanted to know why Brian wanted them to sing all “this weird shit,“ Brian lost a lot of self confidence and released “Smiley Smile” instead, Paul McCartney stopped by one day a played Brian a new track called “A Day In The Life” which pretty much destroyed Wilson from then on out as he realized he may have actually had a shot at finally one-upping the Beatles.
I heard “Smiley Smile” in college once as was completely blown away. I was blown away at how Beach Boys enthusiasts always cited “Smile” as the unreleased masterpiece. Hell, from what I heard on “Smiley Smile,” shelving “Smile” was the last sane thing Wilson did. It had a song about vegetables (complete with chomping celery as percussion), some shit about Woody Woodpecker, and a song about a girl going bald. I only made it through side one, and I didn’t hear anything near “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.” Beatles win. Fuck the Beach Boys.
So years later, Brian Wilson makes a comeback and I video tape a small portion of his appearance on The Tonight Show. His mouth is contorted and he looks insane. Leno walks over to him and I fully expect him to give Brian some juice and cookies before someone injects a sedative into him. Leno makes a remark about having Brian come back soon and Brian wants to know when. I can’t remember if Jay understood what he was dealing with, but if I were him I’d make sure the security was on high alert; one never knows what a crazy man is capable of.
In the fall of 2004, I was walking through Best Buy’s “w” section and stumbled across “Smile.” I immediately considered the purchase in an uncanny “must purchase” fervor, but for some reason decided not to buy it. I was a bit relieved when I later learned that it wasn’t the classic recording of “Smile,” but instead a re-recording done by Brian some 37 years later with a bunch of Pet Sounds disciples. Things changed a bit after I heard a few selections from the album I passed on. Even in a limited format like MP3, I could tell that every last bit of detail went into the sessions and, hell, even the version of “Good Vibrations” sounded passable.
But my Brian Wilson buddy snickered when I mentioned in the rental car that Wilson’s version of “Smile” sounded pretty good, asking me if I liked all of that shit about vegetables. To be honest, I completely forgot about the subject matter and became lost in Brian’s meticulous arrangements.

The fact that Wilson demanded retro equipment during the recordings is a nice antidote, but the reality that the thing was recorded in a something like two weeks demonstrates that Brian is in complete capacity of his mind if it regards music. And the fact that he was (apparently) able to recreate all of this sonic marvel live, on stage for a few selected dates, points to the idea that he’s feels so convinced the time is right to release his masterpiece that he debuts the event like it’s an achievement. It is an achievement, but it just misses the challenges and timing that made “Pet Sounds” such an important album. One has to consider how important this album might have been had Wilson found the courage to complete it then.
Regardless, the impressiveness of this album today should not go unnoticed, as should the efforts of Brian’s backing band. They’re so well-versed in Brian’s history that they make the execution of this record sound legitimately accurate. I’m convinced that one could add some tape hiss to any one of the tracks, call it a bootleg or recording session, and have a true Beach Boys fan disagree. This album would not have made any impact in the hands of lesser musicians, but in this case their significance is noteworthy.
This is clearly Wilson’s baby, and he directs the arrangements with a genius precision, creating vocal harmonies as beautiful as anything produced in the past 40 years. If music has become Brian’s therapy than we are all very fortunate to be able to listen in on the healing process. The subject matter is nowhere near the league of The Beatles, but then again, it almost sounds like Wilson was attempting to create a very American album. I guess the album was also intended to be a statement for children and, admittedly, I can see a small child even taking to this album. It may take him 37 years to finally figure out how important this album is. At least that was the case for me.

Look Into The Eyeball

Five days left with my current job, then it’s off to the majors again. Actually, more like Triple-A level, but at least it’s not the farm league like my current employment situation. I just found out that they’re creating a management type of position there which would pay the same amount as I’m making now. I’ve got to give it to them for trying to make things more tolerable financially, but the immediate supervisor (the one who supposedly doesn’t like me) is moronic. I think I’ve determined the reason she doesn’t empower people to do things, even when we’re bored shitless: She’s afraid the more she teaches others, the more at risk her own job is because she feels inadequate. You are inadequate and I could give a rat’s ass about your painkillers.
Which leads me to my own medical condition. I’ve now contracted some crazy-assed eye shit which is making my eyes blood red. Initially, the entire left eye was swollen and it looked like I had taken a beat down. At that time, the shit was cornered to just this one left eye, and it was leaking some yellow sticky tear fluid at a rapid pace. Having no medical insurance at the moment, you can guess that I was a little freaked out. I immediately thought: “What would The Residents do?”

Thankfully, the SLF’s kid had contracted some eye shit the week before and was provided with eye drops. If I could hold the shit together until Friday night, I could nick some of the little one’s unused drops. I had been informed that his eye had gotten better in three days or so. That would put me fully recovered by Monday night. Fuck health insurance! I see now that “W” just wants us to be foxy in regards to staying healthy.
Obstacle 1 turned out to be the news that the SLF also contracted the eye shit and seemed to be running a day behind my own symptoms. That meant that we’d have to share the remaining portion between each other. As the Mother of a 20 month old son, she had witnessed the wonders of pink eye and assured me that this was not that ailment. Supposedly, I’d be itching like a squirrel, scratching my retinas into bloody submission. My eyes didn’t itch, they made everything look pus yellow. Everyone I encountered appeared to have a liver disease and I really had no desire to communicate with anyone. A large sign pointed to my face announcing “Look At The Bloody-eyed Freak!” My roommate advised me to go to the doctor, but that fucker thinks everyone is born with Blue Cross Blue Shield.

So I get to the SLF and immediately start dropping. Of course, it’s in baby doses, so I up the shit a few. Soothing. But I want immediate results. It doesn’t happen and the SLF’s condition starts to worsen. I say with pride that at no time did her eyes ever look as blood filled as mind. Perhaps it was a sign from that subscription to Fangoria I had.
Her parents stopped by and saw the wonderful shape we were in and immediately called back to recommend that she go to the emergency room. Fearing the medicine would be used up if she didn’t, I pressed her to charge that shit to Wellmark. If I recall, those bastards charge extra for emergency room visits, but are there any doctors available on Sundays?
She came back upset because the doctor diagnosed it to indeed be pink eye, but she was steadfast in her opinion that it wasn’t. So much so that she leant me the new prescription while she continued to use her old medicine. That’s fucking teamwork.
So this medicine has created a thin blood red line right on the inside of my lower eyelid. It’s still blood red on the eye itself, but the pus has died down and the shit looks to be spreading to the right eye too. It was fine before I started using this newer medication, which makes me think that the SLF was correct in her original diagnosis. But I’m going to have to deal with this shit, new benefits start next week, so I’m a tad short on medical expenses at the moment.
Getting back to The Residents for a moment, they were a curio from my middle school/high school days where you could send a buck to Ralph Records and get a single sampler of all their artists. A few friends did and one walked away with a compilation that had The Residents singing “Easter Woman” and Snakefinger’s “Thrashing All The Love’s Of History.” It’s was awesome, but it belied the leather-clad skull that demanded “Buy Or Die!” in the print advert.
Reading the story of the Residents kind of sealed the deal for me. Nobody knew their identities (a la Kiss) and their real names. I think this was around the time of Kiss’ “Unmasked” effort, so you can see why The Residents started to appear a little more groundbreaking. Plus their “Commercial Album” had something like 40 songs at :60 seconds a pop. A great value, even at today’s inflated cd prices.
I finally got to see them in the late 80’s, but by that time, the had one of their eyeballs stolen and were doing a whole theatre piece. It was still pretty bitchin’, but I was jacked up on a lot of mushrooms too. Below is a picture from that tour. I’ve got the ticket stub somewhere and a memory of driving around Minneapolis, lost and freaked, surviving one encounter with their superb police department. I wish I could say the same for the St. Paul PD, I heard a few months ago that they killed this nice Russian girl that I hung out with once. It’s fucked up when you hear news about people you know who are killed by those hired to protect you. As usual, Joe Strummer was right again.

Rock And Roll Damnation

Can I take this time to acknowledge that AC/DC’s Phil Rudd is one of the best drummers in rock music? When one thinks of AC/DC, they tend to think about their monster riffs, cattle prod in the ass vocals, or lyrics that don’t tend to progress beyond the 8th grade. Fair enough, but for me one of the unsung heroes of the band and virtually unnoticed in rock drummer circles is Phil Rudd. An “in the pocket” player, Phil finds the grove and doesn’t deviate much from it. He certainly knows his place even though a band with AC/DC’s power would cause most drummers to try and hammer out every speedy fill they could in between those monster chords. “Fuck her gently.” Says Phil.

I heard Scorpions “Bad Boys Running Wild” on the way home from work tonight, and remembered how much I liked these guys in high school. I don’t know what my thing for Krautrock is, but I know my adoration for German heavy metal music contains 1.) Some savage guitar work and 2.)English as a second language lyrics. The Scorpions certainly fit both requirements. Rudolf Schenker and Matthias Jabs are very efficient guitar players with a nice metallic interplay while vocalist Klaus Meine is one of the most distinctive vocalist in rock music, thanks to an operation performed back in ‘81. Of course, singing the catalog in English also adds to his distinctiveness. Sample the lyrics to “Arizona” from the album “Blackout:”
“Arizona really was a gas
I was screwed up in a total mess
Mind blowing all the way you know
Just out of sight”
In case you’re wondering, in Germany “gas” and “mess” are phonetically the same when you’re speaking English. And “Bad Boys Running Wild” from “Love At First Sting” comes out as bad boys running wide. It really is a gas.
I’m still holding on to the belief that their early to mid 80’s output still rocks (“Animal Magnetism,” “Blackout,” “Love At First Sting”) and holds high court in my own personal collection. I’m tinkering with the idea of getting “Lovedrive,” which I recall has this kickass cover art and some guitar noodling from Rudolf’s brother Michael Schenker who served in the most awesome UFO and with his own project called the Michael Schenker Group. Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a couple of those discs either as I’m sure my cassette copies have been lost over the years.

I lost track of them around “World Wide Live,” where Klaus does the infamous “Do you see the microphones in the air? Do you see them?!” spiel. Like most people, however, I grew to despise them by the time they had their major hit about a guy who follows a little squirrel down to Gorky Park to listen to the gentle wind. But fuck man, I’d go see ‘em today if the price is right. As James Turner said in the 8th grade during basketball practice: “It don’t get no better than ‘The Zoo’ by the Scorpions.” He was right. He was also black. He also served time for robbery.
The station also played Ozzy Osbourne’s “Zombie Stomp” from the 1991 release “No More Tears.” The song starts out pretty good and the guitar playing is impressive. Then, the shitass drum production takes hold and Ozzy starts singing some of the most retarded lyrics ever. I mean, what the fuck?! Couldn’t somebody tell him that “hey hey do the zombie stomp” aren’t the most metal lyrics put to paper. I mean, it’s like a half step above “the bird is the word” on the metal meter. Some of these fucking metal artist would be better served recording in shitty studios with some stringent like Albini manning the microphones. I’m sorry, but there’s no fucking “big drum sound” on any early Sabbath album; those things are heavy as fuck because the band played heavy as fuck and didn’t leave the work for the mixing sessions. Someone needs to smack some sense into that guy. My money is on the horse that says his beloved wife is the one holding back any meaningful Sabbath reunion and then, if it does happen, the sessions will be marred by some big budget douche bag that spends a month getting the right guitar tone from Zakk Wylde.
I’m still working on “The Baker’s Dozen” list for 2004. It will comprise the best cd’s released last year and is created from over a year of research by the world’s most important rock critic: Me. Debate amongst yourselves, but the list will be final and cannot be changed. Unless I find a record later on that deserves to be in the top 13. For now, I’m leaning towards Loretta Lynn’s “Van Lear Rose” as the top pick. The Fall album, the new Brian Wilson, Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, and others will be included to. Due to my working situation, this will mark the first year that I don’t actually own all the titles listed. Thanks to the internet, I managed to sample the albums that will be included. I’ll get around to buying them eventually.
Every time I go record shopping lately, I get caught up in the “shit I need” mode and ignore new stuff. Last week was a prime example. I was actually holding the new Le Tigre and Libertines albums, only to replace them with Sweet’s “The Best Of” and The Rolling Stone’s “Between The Buttons.” Actually made out pretty good with those purchases.
Sweet indicates that I haven’t fully gotten over my whole glam period and I really didn’t have a good representation of The Stones in their ‘66/’67 period. In case you’re wondering, that’s a very good period for them, but The Beatles, The Velvet Underground, and others were clearly ahead of the curve. The finally gave up on this direction and returned back to more familiar pastures with “Beggar’s Banquet.” And that album turned out to be ten times better than “Abby Road,” so there you go. Speaking of The Rolling Stones, Charlie Watts is the shit too.

Highway 61 Revisited Reprise (Slight Return)

How do we fall into this thing called music obsession? I know a lot of people with the obligatory parent issues, and not all of them fret that they simple don’t have enough money to keep up on their cd collection. Not all of them seek comfort in knowing that they have the entire XTC discography. I can’t confess that all of them are even serious music fans, let alone fanatics. They don’t marvel at liner notes and stare at album jackets for hours on end. In fact, some of these people will actually portend to enjoy music more than they actually do simply because they notice that you speak of music with a passion. Psychology calls this the “Stockholm Syndrome.” I call it “posing.”
You probably think this is the part where I quote something by Nick Hornby. But my drive to work got me thinking about something different: “Where did this shit all start?” Then it got heavy.
I think my Dad liked music. I say “I think” because I still don’t really know my father. I find out surprising shit about him all the time. Like the night in high school he and a few buddies got busted with booze by the highway patrol. Or when I found out he cried when the family dog died. Or when you report to your parents that you’re on high blood pressure medicine and find out that your father has the same condition.
I bring these points up as a blatant analogy demonstrating how I was never emotionally close to my Father. I don’t need to know everything about him, but it would have been nice to have an actual conversation with him or feel a tad bit wanted. And by conversation I don’t mean politics, movies, history or (yep) music. No, I’m talking about real conversations where you hear about their own emotions, humanity, desires and failures. You need to hear about how it really hurt to have that fucking cocker spaniel die. You want to know if their own family was emotionally crippled and rife with a therapist’s thesis. You particularly want to know if you’re a tad bit wanted after the unwanted news of your own conception.
Sure, I’ve gotten to that whole “Forgive, Love E’m For Who They Are, Feel Sad For The Opportunities They Lost” bullshit already, and I’m not a bitter about it as I once was. But nonetheless, it did make me sit up and consider the reason why I love music with the passion that I do.
Growing up, I was handed down all of my parent’s 45’s and given access to one of those portable turntables from the sixties. My parent’s primary source of new music was via a new form of technology called the 8-Track. The 8-Track player was put high above my reach. I knew the old man liked The Beatles, so they became my favorite too. After the singles were absorbed, Dad gave me “Sgt. Pepper’s,” “Meet The Beatles” and “The Beatles ‘65” in long-play form. I had all the lyrics for these albums memorized before I turned 4.
There were a few albums that continued to remain out of reach along with the 8-Tracks. Those albums were Peter Paul & Mary’s first album, Pete Seeger “On Campus,” and Bob Dylan “Highway 61 Revisited.” All the people on the folkies albums looked old, but Dylan looked pretty young in that leather jacket and Triumph Motorcyles t-shirt. I imagined that someone took the photograph while he was working on the motorcycle. In my mind, he probably knocked out “From A Buick 6” immediately after installing spark plugs.

But I could never get my hands on that album. Dad deemed it to be too important to hand down to me and took notice of my love of writing on record labels with pens while they rotated around the turntable. I immediately stopped writing on my singles and album jackets, thinking that it would suddenly demonstrate responsibility enough to warrant a listen to that precious Dylan album. He wouldn’t budge.
Years later, I was snooping around one of Dad’s file cabinets and came across a file with a bunch of Bob Dylan lyrics typed out. I knew the words to “Subterranean Homesick Blues” before I even heard the song.
I began to “study” more music and became a handy reference table that my Father seemed to enjoy having. We could actually talk about music! My research continued.
By the time the inspiration for being a music geek was sown, a revelation occurred to me. As a teenager, I opened up the same desk drawer that had housed “Highway 61 Revisited” for so many years and found that the album was still there. At that point, I was the only person in the household that actually had a stereo, let alone a working turntable. The 8-Track player had died and never was replaced. Only a couple of radios remained in the house, and even these were only turned on in the morning during coffee as both parents listened to the news. It took a while before Mom became enamored by Katie, Matt, Al and Ann.
I grabbed that Dylan vinyl, marched up to my room, and smacked the fucker right on to my Craig stereo with the ceramic cartridge (I was obsessed by turntable cartridges, for some reason. I was convinced that metal cartridges were superior and looked for ways into incorporating one into the tone arm of my Craig stereo, even though it was fruitless effort). The snare cracked and I heard the familiar refrain about someone who dressed nicely, once upon a time, when they were younger.
I announced to my Dad that I had borrowed his copy of “Highway 61 Revisited” and would return it when I was done. He had forgotten that it was even there. How does one forget about their copy of “Highway 61 Revisited?” The thing was tucked away like a family jewel for years and now suddenly it’s not valuable? I knew that I’d been duped.
It was too late by then. I was already immersed in this who rock thing and I just couldn’t turn my back on it the way Dad turned his back on Bob. I’d even gone to such lengths as to replace the paper record sleeves with non-scratching ones by Discwasher, just to protect their contents. I bought Queen’s “News Of The World” and Cheap Trick’s “Live At Budokan” album and played them until both parents became annoyed, asking me to play something different.

You might say, it was my first “punk” period. Maybe. All I knew was that Queen’s “Get Down Make Love” was about sex.
So what started as the possibility that I could somehow form a relationship with my Father based on a mutual love of music suddenly gave way to the stark realization that he was merely a poseur. The music may have actually moved him at some point in his life, but now, it was just an occasional nudge. The next time I actually saw him get deeply entrance with a song was when he heard that baby-boomer history lesson by John Fogerty called “I Saw It On TV.” If you’ve never heard it, it’s along the same lines as Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start The Fire” but not as pretentious. I had to listen to the entire “Centerfield” album because Dad didn’t want to hear the Run DMC tape that I had purchased that same day. Guess which one is cited as groundbreaking?
So now we’re at the point in our relationship where I actually lecture him on his music collection. It’s riddled with “Super Saver” greatest hit complilations on the “special marketing” subsidiaries of major record labels. I chastise him for not having a copy of “Sgt. Pepper’s,” “Beggar’s Banquet,” or even “Highway 61 Revisited” anymore. He’s moved on to wine, buying suits, and hobnobbing with political brethren while I remain steadfast in my musical obsessions. How does it feel?

Anger Could Be Power

There are days when I feel really bummed out about the death of Joe Strummer. Admittedly, I don’t dwell on it a lot, but when I do, I get bummed. Is it wrong of me to admit that I’ve been more bummed about his death during the past year than my own Grandfather’s passing? Probably not; Gramps ‘bout haddit while Joe was still young enough to whip together a bitchin’ Clash reunion one of these years. This is the way I roll.
There are days when I think The Clash were the best fucking band in the world and, during their prime, this was probably the case. “The only band that matters” was one of their slogans and while it didn’t ring true to me back in the day, it certainly makes sense now. Give me a break: I would have rated “Candy-O” higher than “London Calling” in 1979 and stumbled onto The Clash’s masterpiece only because Epic Records decided to put a “offensive warning” sticker on the cover of it.
So I bought “London Calling” again for the third time thanks to a Best Buy gift card given to yours truly for taking some of Motorola’s wonderful on-line training. I’d like to think that the real reason I got it was because I complained that my login to Motorola’s website wasn’t working and that not being able to take their on-line courses was “making me very sad.” I got at least a dozen email responses from actual Motorola workers immediately afterwards apologizing for the inconvenience. I love it when sarcasm isn’t translated into the typed word.
With the Best Buy gift card, I walked right into their gay bathhouse of merchandise and bought the only disc that mattered: “London Calling (The 25th Anniversary Legacy Edition).” Let me state that I’m with you: I’m tired of all these labels re-mastering, re-packaging, re-marketing all of their shit for the sixth time only to have you buy it once again. God bless the girl who admitted to me that this deluxe edition was the first time she’s purchased it since it came out on vinyl. I have the shitty original cd issue and can attest to its weak-ass mastering.

The new one sounds fucking incredible. Go get it, particularly if you don’t have the Clash dvd documentary “Westway To The World.” The re-issue includes a dvd on “London Calling,” but it replicates a lot of footage from the “Westway” release, which makes me an even bigger sap. Just watching Joe’s eloquent everyman interview makes me want to flick off the Lord and ask “Why the fuck do you always take the good ones? You can have Don Dokken instead!” Just watching the documentary also makes me consider: “If I were gay, I would totally let Paul Simonon have his way with me.” I can’t say that about George Lynch.
The bonus dvd also has some great footage of the actual “London Calling” recording sessions, in retrorific black & white. It’s complete with producer Guy Stevens throwing chairs, twirling ladders, and jumping around like a crazy dude. Whatever he did worked and the footage is incredible.
Another selling point was the inclusion of the infamous demo recordings called “The Vanilla Tapes.” The tapes themselves don’t reveal much other than the demos of a band learning the songs that would comprise the bulk of the album. Sure, it’s fun for those of us that get a kick out of hearing shitty sounding versions of the songs we love, but it’s nothing to recommend to someone who only knows The Clash as the band they play whenever we bomb Iraq. For the rest of yous, the regular remastered edition is plenty enough, cuz they were the only band that mattered anyway.

The 2004 Baker's Dozen List

Here are the top 13 albums of 2004. They are not up for debate and any disputing of the standings is entirely wrong. I only reviewed a few or more of 'em, then I got bored. Maybe in a few days I'll throw out the rest for viewing; I think I've got 1 through 30 lined up enough, but I was thinking about doing a top 40 like Jack Rabid does. What can I say? I'm a big fan of lists. Add a fucking comment if you think you're so smart.

THE 2004 BAKER'S DOZEN

1. LORETTA LYNN-”Van Lear Rose”
   This is the way to do a comeback. Get back to the basics that brought you stardom and sing what you know. Loretta knows a lot and could probably teach people 50 years her junior a thing or two. Thanks to some amazing and complimentary basic production from Jack White, Loretta easily makes the most country sounding album Nashville has seen in 20 years. It shouldn’t have come this way, but I’m glad it finally came.
2. MODEST MOUSE-”Good News For People Who Love Bad News”
   If you see these guys live, you’d never expect they could amount to much. But turn them loose in a studio and something magical happens. They managed to hint at greatness in previous efforts, but “Good News” demonstrates that they’re in full capacity of their remaining brain cells, and consistently deliver some of the best quirk rock in the past decade. There’s no other band sounding like them today.
3. FRANZ FERDINAND-”Franz Ferdinand”
   You gotta love 80’s retro particularly when the new bands pick a sub-genre that really never had much of a moment in the sun. For those fans of that bass-heavy, choppy rhythm guitars that graced a lot of overlooked gems from the early 80’s, here’s a band that finally seals the deal. This album was successful for a reason: because it’s good. Memorable, hook laden, and up tempo, this debut may be hard to top, but right now it’s hard to put down.
4. THE FALL-”The Real New Fall L.P.”
   For almost 30 years, The Fall have been making albums. Some of them are groundbreaking or, at the very least, great while a few could be listed a frustrating. But no one could have expected Mark E. Smith to reach in and provide with a truly remarkable title at this stage in the game. Mark delivers his lyrics with as much fire as a man half his age and for some reason, this Fall line up seems positively energized.
5. COMETS ON FIRE-“Blue Cathedral”
   Blue Cheer were a band from the late sixties that had some minor success and influence. Comets On Fire would like to sonically remind you about Blue Cheer. In the meantime, Comets On Fire’s music is performed with such enthusiasm that one may just take their word for it, and nod in agreement. The nodding will eerily match the tempo on any song from “Blue Cathedral” and cause an inner need to witness a liquid light show.
6. BRIAN WILSON-”Smile”
   Few`people can return to a shelved product some 37 years later and expect it to work. Add a little bit of bi-polar to the mix and a probable recipe for disaster is in the mix. But Brian’s demons seem to be controlled when he remains focused on his crafter, and his craft is deserving of some distinction. The album sounds like it was recorded in 1966, and it sounds like nothing recorded in 2004. Brian is a master at vocal harmonies and in arrangements, and the “Smile” completion lets one ponder the “what ifs” had it been released when it was originally scheduled to.
7. A.C. NEWMAN-”The Slow Wonder”
   It sounds like a New Pornographers album and, surprise, most of that band are on it. As the leader and creative force behind that band, it makes no sense to release a solo album as it’s essentially the N.P. without the democracy or Neko Case. But hey, that’s not a bad thing since “The Slow Wonder” is filled with more hooks than a candy cane and with just enough sugar to make the most fervent crit tap their feet. It’s a great summertime record in the tradition of great summertime records. And drink up kids, cuz the thing clocks in a just a hair over a half hour.
8. BJORK-”Medulla”
9. WILCO-"A Ghost Is Born"
10. THE ARCADE FIRE-”Funeral”
11. IRON & WINE-”Our Endless Numbered Days”
12. DUNGEN-”Ta Det Lugnt”
13. DANGER MOUSE-"The Grey Album"

Best Reissue:

THE CLASH-"London Calling"

Best Single:

JAY Z-"99 Problems"

The Baby Jesus Remix

Me has composed twelve point plan for good happy success. I’ve only made it to step five, so sue me if your results vary. In step one, the patient is required to return to their hometown for the holidays. In my case, that town is Keokuk, Iowa. You may have read about it in my previous post entitled “Merry X-Max.” It’s a wonderful place and it’s a wonderful life starring Jimmy Stewart as the General Manager for the steel castings plant. Step two consists of hooking up with an old high school “dude,” preferably one who is as cynical as you are regarding the former stomping grounds. In my own example, we will now refer to the “dude” as Bob Weir. In fact, at one time the dude actually looked a little like Bob Weir, even though he enjoyed the Phil Lesh material more. After all, Ratdog is just a step higher than your local Grateful Dead tribute band. Step three requires smoking marijuana. You cannot proceed to step four without completing step three. And as the hometown Bob Weir stated on Christmas Eve: “As long as I can smoke something, I’ll be alright.”
For step four, you’ll need to visit Keokuk’s annual “City Of Christmas.” If you’re not familiar with Keokuk’s “City Of Christmas,” you probably have something similar in your own hometown. Essentially, it’s a bunch of Christmas lights, Christmas themed displays, and a low-wattage radio station that cranks out 24 hours of non-stop Christmas gansta rap. You now understand why you need to complete step three before progressing on to step four.

One drives through the City Of Christmas at a low speed. Speeders and vandals have to contend with the City Of Christmas Police Department. The offices of the City Of Christmas Police Department are a camper next to the bandstand. They wear Kevlar parkas and have their own candy cane swat team. It’s just like an episode of “Hill Street Blues” except all the characters here dress in green and red. When you leave the City Of Christmas, blue neon deer jump over your vehicle. Once again, you really should finish step three before step four. Trust me.
Step five requires you to look for your hometown’s toughest tavern, bar, or honky tonk. This part is tricky, as years may have passed since you’ve actually visited a local watering hole and, as The Byrds song goes “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” What?
Luckily, I just moved from my beloved hometown, so I knew that former violent nightspots like “Dirty Harry’s,” “The Glass Rail,” and “Tweaker’s Shank*” were now closed. Hell, the real violent spots, like the infamous “four corners” bars** (a stabbing every weekend!) were closed even when I was in high school, so there really hasn‘t been a truly scary bar in Keokuk in almost twenty years. I knew that some shady undertakings were taking place in a place called “T.J.’s House Of Music.***” I’m not sure who T.J. is, but I’m pretty sure that the only music there is the sound of people grinding their teeth after doing a line of crystal in the bathroom. It’s now Christmas, so a lot of bars are closed. T.J.’s doesn’t have any external signage, but a glimpse through the tinted windows showed a faint light over the bar. The door was locked and, despite our promise to pay in cash, the bartender refused to let us in, even though two men were still seated at the bar enjoying their Miller High Life and Meth. Bob Weir and I moved on to the ever-reliable Tee Pee Lounge.
There is no draft beer at the Tee Pee Lounge. Pleasure comes your way in twelve ounce cans and there’s nothing fancier than well drinks if’n your in the mood for a cocktail. Surprisingly, everyone was under the age of 30 (’cept for me and Bob Weir) at the Tee Pee Lounge, and even the bartender was pretty hot. I say this with amazement because a friend’s mother used to bartend there and she was at least 65 at the time. The fact that the Tee Pee found 1.) someone under the age of 30 to dish out cans of beer and 2.) that she was fairly attractive means the Tee Pee has made incredible improvements since they first opened in 1943. A drunk dude present that night told Bob Weir all about it. We had bet a round that the bartender wouldn’t know shit about the Tee Pee’s history. She didn’t. I won.
The local Coast Guard was present in the form of a drunk twenty-something guy that sat next to me and told me all about his work. He was very proud of what he did, oftentimes using a military vernacular to try and impress me. What did not impress me was his confession that he had to go to work in four short hours. Thank God the river is frozen over this time of year; this Marine wanna-be really needed to be put to bed and was in no shape ready to deal with The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald.
The jukebox played the obligatory Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, and today’s best country. “Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone” played which brought the dozen patrons into a reflective mood. Daddy don’t like to be tied down in Keokuk; hell, even the condom machine at the Tee Pee states “For refund insert baby.” I thought it was kind of clever myself.
Then Gloria Gaynor came on the jukebox and the bartender started to dance. Below is a picture of her dancing, but it’s too dark to see anything. She was hot. Trust me.

Like I said, I only made it to step five because me and Bob Weir totally shut down the Tee Pee Lounge. And even though it wasn’t the most surly bar in Keokuk, it probably was the most fun. And isn’t that what we’re really seeking during the holidays anyway? I got home at 3:30am and crashed the folk's refrigerator for some pickled herring before going to bed to let Santa do his business. Santa. Jesus. They're the same thing, according to Master Shake.

*Not a real bar

**The Four Corners were essentially four bars, each on facing the other on the corner in a neighborhood in West K. Only two of the four remained standing when I was in high school. Now, only one building remains and it's closed for business.

***Supposedly, Styx played there. I don't believe it.

Jesus Died For Somebody's Sins

Jesus is the reason for the season. So forgive me if my worship doesn’t include spending a certain amount of bones on living in a manger. Let me explain. I arrive home on Saturday night to find the driveway filled with vehicles. Inside, my roommate (the owner of this lovely suburban cookie cutter) has essentially asked his older brother to move in with us. Did I mention his brother is married? Did I mention the two have an infant daughter? Did I mention they also have a two year old son? Did I mention they have a five year old daughter? Did I mention that this family of five is now living in our three bedroom house with the two of us? I guess I don’t need to mention that I’m now going insane.
The roommate/landlord did run into some trouble with the law a few months ago that will probably result in him losing his license. His job requires him to travel quite a bit and he was in line for a promotion with his company. The fear was that if his employer found out if he had lost his license that they wouldn’t give him the promotion and, worse yet, may fire him for his actions. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen but it was going to pose a problem with the increased amount of traveling his new position required. He asked me to become his “driver” but that really wasn’t part of my own career goals. He then asked his older sister to undertake the position. She was going through a divorce, or considering one, but eventually she declined as well. Next family member. His older brother was not happy with his own position in Dallas, TX and was considering moving to Iowa to raise his family. Nice plan, or was it. Typically, people have a resemblance of a plan before moving across country and especially if they have four other mouths singing “99 Bottles Of Beer On The Wall” all the way to the Hawkeye state. Now I understand that Latino culture places a high priority on family and the bond between them is incredibly strong. But isn’t the notion of, oh I dunno, logistics also considered when family’s stick together during times of strife. Jesus Fucking Christ. I never want to be married to someone who acquiesces to an idea of moving across country into a younger brother’s house when said house isn’t big enough to hold more than four people. Again, if you’re keeping score, the number of living humans in this home is now up to seven. Jesus wept.

So he runs the idea by me without much time, effort, or thought beforehand. I mean, it’s just another example of selfishness and how he can manage to overcome a life lesson without negatively impacting a career advancement that will provide him with more cash to blow on fucking toys he’ll never use. As if he hasn’t learned already that all the cash in the world won’t by him happiness and resolve some deep rooted issues caused by, newsfuckingflash, his family. Jesus Christ on the cross.
So the brother is going to become his driver. His wife will stay home (here) and raise the kids until….Well that’s about all I know. I seriously thought this would be a retarded idea that would soon pass, but the situation has proven to be the reality of my surroundings. Jeezee Peezee.
The family is relatively nice and extremely quiet. They refer to me as “the guy who speaks English.” The wife cooks and cleans and I am included in the nightly dinner menu, which is strange as I kind of enjoy doing my own cooking. Added to this, it is an extreme Mexican diet, which isn’t bad with the exception of some low nutritional value ingredients. This works well with the roomies’ revelation that he has diabetes and high blood pressure. And if you’ve ever tasted authentic Mexican food, you’ll understand that it’s a culture that considers beef tripe as a meat. I’m fairly certain that his doctor did not recommend he increase his lard and grease intake during his last bloodwork session. Jeese Louise.
So I have no idea what the plan is, other than there is no plan and that the two year old likes to start screaming for his Daddy at early hours. I know this has to be taking a toll on the roommate, so I’m anticipating that the situation will change around the same time I’ll be actively looking for a new place to live. Jesus H. Christ.
As for now, I’ve got to get the fuck away for the holidays, so I’ve pushed up my schedule and now want to be on the road as early as tomorrow night. I don’t give a shit that it’s bitterly cold outside, the Honda will be loaded up with gifts and Christmas fucking joy after work as I run away from this diverse “Eight Is Enough” episode staring me as Adam Rich. The eighth character, by the way, is the baby Jesus.

A Sourmash Christmas Carol

Get yr. Snow license, it’s wintertime. It sucks being a largehearted boy in Iowa with long-distance relationship tendencies. You’re always driving towards fulfillment and then, eventually, driving back to reality. In my case, reality meant missing work entirely and not giving a rat’s ass about it or the repercussions. The funny thing was, I didn’t get a chance to demonstrate my ambivalence towards it; the manager who hates me was totally apologetic about it. In some manner it was her fault but ultimately the responsibility falls on me. Fuck responsibility up it’s tight ass.
So these wintertime travels remind me that I’m driving without insurance. Like I said: “Fuck responsibility.” But the cold air brings me back to other winter nights in a previous life. And while I don’t want to do a “u-ie” and return to that previous life, I do think it’s time for me to finally throw the whole thing in park. Is it the clarity of being sober that’s brought me to this understanding? Probably not, as I feel it has always been in me and drugs have a tendency to do wonders like mask pain and stifle initiative. And to this day, I’d rather enjoy the company of a spliff than a shot of Maker’s Mark. But a shot every now and then certainly does hit the spot.
Now on to one last memory of Christmas past…

In high school, I was moderately involved in theatre. By “moderately” I mean that if it happened to be a production that I was interested in, I would audition. On occasion, I would get a part. There were a few productions that I had no interest in. For some reason, “South Pacific” comes to mind. In some odd rationale, I felt the play was “racist” and signed up for the lighting crew instead of an acting or chorus part.
I can’t remember why I thought “South Pacific” was racist, but I do remember that it has nothing to do with the story that I set out to tell.
Mr. Anderson, our cigarette smoking drama teacher at the high school, approached me and a friend during the fall of my Freshman year. He stated that the community theatre group needed some volunteers for their yearly production of “A Christmas Carol.” Specifically, they needed some help with sound and lighting. Now the other dude had done a killer job running lights for the summer musical production of “Pippin” so I knew he’d be a shoe-in for the lighting chores of the Dickens production. That left me with a chance at doing sound.
As it turns out, they had picked another volunteer to run sound, so that left me with the boring duty of running sound effects for the production. Essentially, all I had to do was make sure there were a bunch of chain sounds for the Ghost of Christmas Past and some wind noises for the Ghost of Christmas Future. Pretty mundane stuff, but as any drama fag will tell you, there are more chances to get laid in school plays than any other extracurricular activity. Having dabbled in both sports and drama, I can tell you there is ten times more sexual activity resulting from the drama camp than any sport can provide. Some of the spoils can also fall on to members of the lighting and sound crew, and the community theatre presented an opportunity to have a go at some of the Catholic school girls. It goes without saying, I could live through the boredom of sound effects if there was a chance at getting a little after the cast party on closing night.
The sound guy they picked up was probably in his late twenties and far to old to be ogling the seventeen year olds in the production. Of course, that didn’t stop him just like the cold winter air didn’t stop him from retreating to his vehicle during intermission to snort cocaine. I’ll never forget him talking into the headsets during the performance how there was a “100% chance of a snowstorm” every night.
So while the sound guy was keeping himself entertained, there was little for me and the lighting dude to really do. I was also dismayed how everyone, particularly the director, always seemed to be too uptight to be really feeling the Christmas spirit. All of this prompted me to bring a fifth of Jack Daniels to the last night of the performance.
I devised a practical joke that would take place on stage in front of a live audience. At the end of the play, where Tiny Tim utters the whole “God bless us everyone” line, the Cratchit family toasts a glass and has a quick drink of wine. Up until that point, the “wine” was nothing more than grape juice or some other Shirley Temple elixir. On the final night, I poured Jack Daniels into the glasses and saved the rest for the cast party after the show.
The lighting dude, cocaine soundman, and myself were all aware of what was about to take place. When the line approached, the three of us turned up the headphones to the stage microphone to hear the reaction. Tiny Tim, a kid who couldn’t have been more than 9 years old said his immortal line and took a big gulp of his grape juice. Now, it’s a scientific fact that most 9 year old boys aren’t used to their first taste of Tennessee whiskey and most will probably immediately become violently ill afterwards. That is exactly what Tiny Tim did on this night. Although no vomit came up, the whiskey did. It came back out of his mouth and through his nose, causing the crippled boy to cough uncontrollably for the remaining five minutes of the play. All three of us backstage rolled with laughter as we heard Tiny Tim trying to expel the last remnants of the smuggled whiskey. All other cast members didn’t seem to notice or care about the new wine. Bob Cratchit actually seemed to enjoy his drink, finishing the nip entirely while on stage. .

During the curtain call, Tiny Tim looked white as a ghost before quickly exiting the stage to look for a drinking fountain.
The director was not too pleased with my practical joke and made it a point to tell me and the lighting guy that we would not be invited back to volunteer for the Great River Players. My heart broke and then my mind noticed the oxymoron of the words “volunteer“ and “invited.” The mind quickly refocused as it remembered the words “cast party” and the reason for attending: “Catholic girls.”
Unfortunately, the lighting dude decided to keep up with Tiny Tim in the whiskey department and had almost the same results. By midnight, he was too loaded to walk and he was late for his graveyard shift at the radio station. I had to leave the Catholic girls in the capable hands of other cast members and drive the lighting dude to work, which led me to a brief career in radio. But that’s another Christmas story for another time.

The Fall-The Real New Fall L.P.

Most people probably hate to be known as an asshole. Pablo Picasso was never called one, but I'd bet that The Fall's Mark E. Smith has heard it a few times during the band's 27 year existence. After all, when Mark started out, he originally auditioned for some heavy metal bands only for them to discover that Mark was 1.) tone deaf, and 2.) an asshole. So what's an asshole to do but form his own band and piss off 49 former band members (including 1 ex-wife) to the point where "The Fall" is merely "Mark E. Smith's band this time." Mark, perhaps one of music's greatest songwriters, of course worded it best with a song once that admitted "My friends don't amount to one hand."
Originally called "Country On The Clink," the album was planned for release in April 2003. Somehow, a promotional copy was leaked on the internet, even though the promotional material was clearly labeled: "For promotional use only - anyone abusing this will have Mark E Smith to contend with and may God have mercy on your soul!!!". Being an asshole, MES scrapped the album and remixed the entire project because he said so. To be an even bigger asshole, MES provided English fans with a slightly different version of the album last year before releasing it in America in 2004.
There have been some great Fall albums. There have been some really bad Fall albums. And if you believe that bands typically get a little soft after their first quarter century, you'd probably have a number of examples to back up your hypothesis. But you wouldn't have Mark E. Smith fronting any one of them. He's an asshole like that.
"The Real New Fall LP" is a great Fall album. After a few years of surprising silence, Mark comes across positively renewed and the "new" Fall line-up sounds exactly like they did twenty seven years ago: unlike anything else. The music, the lyrics, it's all remarkable. Proof that even at 46 (he looks much older) Mark has got more left in him than England's newest hitmaker. What keeps him both relevant and off the radio is his satirical rants and uncommon delivery. As John Peel said "They are always different. They are always the same."
Six years ago, it did look like the end. Mark had managed to piss off his (then) band enough to the point where a drunken on-stage fistfight broke out between him and...the rest of the band. The performance continued with Mark's shirt stained with his own blood. After the performance, Mark fired everyone except one individual and continued on the road. Mark even went a step further, perhaps salt on the wound, with the album's song "Portugal" which sounds like the reading an angry letter directed to him, essentially chastising Mr. Smith for his abusive treatment of band members and the crew ("You were abusive, way beyond what anybody should have to reasonably deal with. Words fail me how offensive a human being you are. Treat people as you want to be treated!").

"I hate the countryside so much/ I hate the country folk so much" he barks on "Contraflow," but Smith has always been more of an urban poet rather than some Hibbings, Minnesota troubadour. In 1965, Dylan let out a collective sneer asking a generation "How does it feel?, while MES has made a living with a sneer that seldom asks, yet instead demands that you "Open the goddamn box!" on "Boxoctosis," perhaps the album's most memorable track. And I've yet to hear Dylan rhyme "Dolly Parton" with "Lord Byron."
The coupling comes from the standout track "Mountain," which ranks as one of the greatest Fall songs ever recorded. Nobody in music could come up with a lyric like "So I went fishing, and a note from a fish said: 'Dear Dope: If you want to catch us, you need a rod and a line. Signed, The Fish.'" and make it work. Read the line aloud. Now sing it. Now explain how a guy with, at the most, two monotonic notes in his voice has managed to make a career out of it. Not that MES has gotten rich from his original vision of forming a band with "raw music with really weird vocals over it," but if I could, I'd pay him a King's sum to never change from being different.

Too Fast For Larry King Live

The question that appears to be on everyone's mind is "I wonder how the new job is going with Todd?" Well, in a nutshell, the job allows me to drive to a place to do absolutely nothing and get paid for it. I wanted something with low stress, but this is utterly retarded. And it seems that those involved or somewhat responsible for this new career of nothingness, are nothing but apologetic. They then offer me a Wiggles guitar for Christmas.
Which reminds me of past jobs that paid shit but provided me with ample amounts of entertainment. Gone are the days in which I can suggest to a co-worker to urinate in the boss' office and actually witness him doing it. People then ask "Didn't that stink up the place?" but then these people don't know anything about the river cities music leader. This was a place that allowed a cat to drag in the half-eaten carcass of a bunny rabbit, smearing the blood and entrails of the rodent throughout the break area. There were so many health violations present that a little human pee might have actually cleaned the place up somewhat.
Which brings me to Mick Mars and the recent news of a full-fledged Motley Crue reunion. To me, the only thing more exciting than a Motley Crue reunion are actually photos of Mick Mars just weeks after hip replacement surgery. Like I give a shit about a last cash-in attempt by a slightly higher than mediocre Sunset Strip band. They did one halfway decent album overproduced/remixed by the former producer of The Cars ("Too Fast For Love") and one relatively enjoyable album that seemed quite awesome after five beers and several bong hits ("Shout At The Devil"). Then the girls started buying their albums. Then Motley Crue became irrelevant in my world.
Which reminds me that I wanted to mention how absolutely dead Mick Mars looks now. The fucker was old before, but now he looks older than even my Dad and probably walks slower than my Grandfather. It appears that the reason why Motley Crue broke up to begin with was because Mick died. Since there have been remarkable achievements in the world of science, doctors have suddenly been able to resurrect Mick Mars from the dead and the only way to pay for these doctors is to force The Crue to reunite and tour once more.

Which reminds me that Motley Crue was on Larry King tonight. Let me repeat: Motley Crue was on Larry King tonight. Is there not enough news in the world that Larry Fucking King has to report on yet another Motley Crue reunion?! And in case your wondering, Mick Mars looked like he was going to pass out in pain throughout the entire interview, which mainly consisted of Larry getting Mick Mars mixed up with Nikki Sixx.
Which reminds me that today's kids have no fucking idea who Motley Crue is. Instead, they know them as "The band with that big dick drummer."
Which reminds me that I've spent way too much time dwelling on Motley Crue for one night.

I Miss The Comfort In Being Sad

It's snowing here, and the casual Xanax hangover has brought an urge to sleep again. Either that, or the bullshit reality of working once more in a bullshit position doing the same bullshit that I was doing nine years ago. This ain't what Lennon meant when he sang about ""Starting Over" and Jack Douglas isn't producing my life. But then again, he got assassinated shortly after "Double Fantasy," so I must count the proverbial blessings.
Which gets me to thinking about the Nirvana box set, a purchase that I have yet to acquire. It seems like just a few years ago, but in reality was almost a lifetime away, when radio was ripe with mediocrity and a little power-trio from Washington got Killdozer's producer to clean up their Jack Endino garage sounds and make an undisputed classic called "Nevermind." Working at a Top 40 radio station at the time, a co-worker and friend exclaimed "You should add it!" when we discovered that DGC records would be releasing "Smells Like Teen Spirit" as a single. The song was incredible, and it was ours. "No fucking way that thing will ever take off." was my honest reply. It did, of course; we added it at the station three weeks later. And the world turned on its hair metal axis....

So glorious a ruckus and so much a "spokesman" for my generation, I related to Kurt but not in a weird Carpenters "Superstar" kind of way. I liked the idea that someone my age from a blue collar small town who wrote honest songs and played guitar poorly got famous. And the lesson of this story is that rock stars with lots of raw talent and a Mosrite guitar end up with a shotgun wound in a seldom used room of their home.
I came to work at the radio station and started my day. The traffic director paged my office phone and said that Tracy from Elektra Records was holding for me on line one. It wasn't an "add day," meaning that I wasn't expecting phone calls from record companies. But Tracy and I had a nice, personal relationship and so I took the call.
"Have you heard the news yet?" She asked, noticeably upset.
"No. What happened?"
"Oh Todd...They found a body at Kurt's place in Seattle and they think it's him."
Kurt had been missing for a few days and the theory was that he was using again. But her demeanor hinted that it was more than simply an overdose, and when pressed she admitted to not knowing much more than a male body and a shotgun found next to it. She was crying. I didn't know what to think. This man was not a relative, and I didn't know why a sense of panic filled me.
"I've got to go see what's going on, Tracy." I said.
"Call me later." she said. "Are you going to be Ok, Todd?"
Nobody had asked me that in a long time, death or otherwise.
I went to the newsroom and had the news director pull all of the automatic A.P. news feeds that were starting to litter his floor. It was there that I read in chronological order the entire events of April 8, 1994. There was no official word on who was found in Seattle that morning, but most of us understood it was him. The violent nature of his action was something that took me entirely off guard.
I did my part. I read the news. I played the songs. I announced the tragedy. I fielded the phone calls. And when I finally was able to put things in perspective, ironically as I played the lies that housed a chorus of "And I swear that I don't have a gun," I began to feel the emotions of that day. I retreated into the music library and starting to cry for a guy who just fronted a band. It was the first time since John Lennon's death that I had done such a thing. These tears were different, because he was supposed to speak for me somehow, and instead, the selfish fuck took the easy way out. I looked out of the music library window and noticed how gray that April afternoon had become. The afternoon news announcer burst into the control room and noticed me crying. She apologized for the interruption and asked if I was ok. What was different from her concern as apposed to Tracy's earlier inquiry was the fact that the news announcer was verbally offering her two cents on how "stupid" Kurt was for killing himself and leaving his child without a father. True, but she didn't seem to understand that part of his allure was his emotional fragility and the loud/soft=Janov/Lennon therapy of his output. Her uneducated comments angered me. She later became my wife, and I always resented her for the actions she displayed on that day.
Afterwards, I went home to my parents house having recently moved home after splitting with my then-girlfriend. She initially had her own opinions about Kurt too, declaring that he didn't appreciate his fans very much because he was flipping the bird in the "Nevermind" insert photo. Two weeks after Kurt's death, she was replaying his memorial for me and silently weeping next to me on the couch. A tad melodramatic for someone who earlier declared him to be such an ungrateful prick. I guess you could say I was resentful about that too.
My Mother could sense that this front man actually meant something to me and treated me with kid gloves when I made it home.
"I'm sorry about what happened with that Kurt Cobain." she offered.
"I heard about it on the news and I know you really liked him."
I went to the back room of my parent's house and watched MTV report on the suicide of Kurt Cobain. Kurt Loder was talking with David Fricke and, for a brief moment, it seemed that MTV actually understood it had an obligation to do something other than make money. Then came the copies of the suicide note filled with tiny writing, sentences sloping downwards, and words scratched out from last minute edits. A perfectionist all the way until the trigger was pulled.
I couldn't listen to Nirvana much after that. It felt wrong and it perhaps was too real for me to take. I always believed what he was writing, but his violent end suddenly made everything bold-type and personal. I continued to purchase the obligatory posthumous releases only to watch them collect dust. There's a part of me that wants to run out and purchase the new Nirvana box set, but there's the bigger part of me that understands it won't be something I play after the initial spin. There's no amount of demo material, home recording, or unreleased track that will make me understand more than I already know or want to be reminded of.

Bob Dylan-Live Review

Bob Dylan & His Band
Carver-Hawkeye Arena, Iowa City, IA
10/29/04

It must be noted that if you’re considering an evening with Bob Dylan, don’t go with the expectation that he is obliged to give you anything more than a performance that allows you to be in his presence. He changed the face of music and that means he’s given you plenty, thank you very Goddamn much. Admittedly, The Rolling Thunder Review of 1975 was probably the last time Bob actually went out of his way to make a lasting live impression. Since that time, and especially in the past ten years, Dylan has settled into a role of the traveling troubadour, playing a selection of songs that include a few that just happen to be some of the most important lyrics ever created by a man.
Another important reminder is that Dylan’s voice plays a minor role in his career. It’s always been this way, of course, but it’s especially relevant now. His voice is fractured by cigarettes, a motorcycle accident, and this thing called life. I suppose one could argue that his phrasing is a critical piece to the lyrical genius, but I could argue that, in a live setting, phrasing also takes a back seat.
No. You’re there to pay your respect to the man. He knows it. You should too. He doesn’t owe you anything, and yet his most recent albums prove that he continues to produce challenging material with words that add to his already legendary gifts.
At the same time, I’ve got to believe that Dylan actually enjoys touring and performing live. After all, his 2004 tour started several months ago, brought him around the world and back in time to do it all over again. It’s not like the guy is hard to find: he played the Midwest just a few weeks prior to this late October gig and he continues onward to markets typically overlooked by even farm league performers. As I said, he’s a troubadour and he seems to have a desire to let everyone have an opportunity to see him in person just like Woody Guthrie did before him. It’s a nice role for him, and I wished that at least enough people recognize this opportunity to fill three quarters of the Carver Hawkeye arena.

Despite poor ticket sales, the Dylan faithful were present to pay their respects and hear some of his newer material and changing interpretations on the familiar classics. Who are the “Dylan faithful” these days? Judging by the audience demographics they include old hippies, Deadheads, intellectual types, Middle class baby boomers and the children of middle class baby boomers forced to attend the show with their parents because Mom or Dad bought them a ticket. Hey, it could have been worse: it wasn’t disturbing like the number of 7 year olds I saw with Dad at a Kiss concert several years ago. And while I’m confident that the children who attended Dylan on this night have less of a chance of growing up misogynous narcissistic pricks that spit blood from a demon costume, I don’t think there’s much chance they left the arena with a full appreciation of Dylan’s work.
First of all, undisputed classics that were performed like “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Stuck Inside of Mobile,” “Highway 61 Revisited,” and “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You” were so unrecognizable that in many cases it took some of the faithful a verse or two to figure out what song he was doing. Once they did, the faithful were then challenged by Bob’s rephrasing of it, causing many in the crowd who wanted to sing with the master’s words to become disoriented and resort to barking out lyrics before they actually left Dylan’s mouth. This happened to the middle aged guy who sat next to my friend. By the time of “Mobile,” he simply would preview each verse before it came, causing my friend to ask me in painful sarcasm “Do you hear an echo in here?”
But imagine for a moment that you’re Bob Dylan, The Man, and you’ve done a song like “Tambourine Man” thousands of times and you’ve heard from people how brilliant it is a thousand times, what do you do? You know you’re somehow required to examine it on stage once in an while, so why not chop it up, reheat it, and serve it up like a brand new dish? It’s his song after all. He can do with it whatever the hell he wants. Besides, it must get real annoying hearing people sing along with you after 40 years of touring.
The band took this material and his more recent songs and transformed them into a tight late 60’s country rock blend. Bob was dressed in a classy black western outfit and spent most of his time behind the keyboard with most of the band members watching his every move. Occasionally, Bob would break out the harp and serve up a dual instrumentation with the other hand on the keys. The stage was very basic with a curtain featuring the Dylan-eye logo as the backdrop for the first half of the songs and a plain white curtain the backdrop for the latter half. Even the band themselves seemed to complete the basic necessities look by having nothing larger than a combo amp for instruments. If the old fogies were worried about leaving the show with their ears ringing, Bobby made sure the mix was warm and clean with even his harmonica playing falling safely within OSHA noise standards.
What makes Bob Dylan “The Man” was his total ambivalence for the audience that evening. Throughout the set, Bob seldom looked at the crowd and didn’t acknowledge them once with words. The words from his songs were enough, and again, I think he was more interested in making sure that he had a good time rather than those in attendance. Dylan would move over towards members of the band every once in the while and tell them something, which I assumed might have been to add or change something to the night’s setlist.
One of the most annoying aspects of the show was with Bob’s delivery on several of the songs that evening. On five or more songs, Dylan would end the verse an octave higher than on the start. This created the impression of almost comical familiarity, which I’m sure wasn’t the intent. Actually, I’m not sure what the intent was, as the delivery created a blur between songs that were originally miles apart. There’s no reason for an updated version of “Make You Feel My Love” to sound the same vocally as “Tweedle Dee.”
Bob finally addressed the crowd during the encore, presenting the members of the band to the crowd and telling a joke about the drummer’s home state of Louisiana. This would mark the only time that he ever spoke to the crowd or face them. It should also be noted that those unlucky ticket holders on the left side of the arena saw nothing but the back of Bob Dylan up until that point as he rarely left his keyboard and, as mentioned, didn’t bother with any form of eye contact with the audience.
The encores, which remained the same tonight as they did on other dates of the tour, were the classic one-two punch of “Like A Rolling Stone” and then a nice jammy version of “All Along The Watchtower.” And just when the guitarist started to get some fires going with the Deadhead contingent, the show ended. A true Dylan faithful probably expected it while a casual fan probably left feeling either a little disappointed or understanding given the performer’s age.
But Bob doesn’t continually tour because he needs money or wants to somehow connect with his fans. He does it because, I think, he actually enjoys hanging out with the boys. There were times when I felt I was watching a rehearsal or watching a group of talented musicians devotedly backing a legendary icon. This isn’t a slag on the performance by any means, but one clearly has to approach a Bob Dylan concert nowadays with an understanding of what to expect. You’re there to be entertained to some extent, but entertainment has never really been a part of Dylan’s career. What brought him attention is the same thing that helped changed the course of rock music and made it a legitimate art form: his words. We were there to acknowledge this, to pay respect, to honor a man from Minnesota for the contribution he’s made to music. If Bob happens to enjoy himself performing live and living the life of a traveling troubadour, then we ought to respect that and grab at least a few opportunities to see how he’s going to present his art to us. After all, we don’t know how many times Bobby will be able to keep revisiting Highway 61.

Setlist:
To Be Alone With You
Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You
Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum
Mr. Tambourine Man
Cold Irons Bound
If Dogs Run Free
Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again
Love Sick
Highway 61 Revisited
Make You Feel My Love
Watching The River Flow
Honest With Me
Standing In The Doorway
Summer Days
(encore)
Like A Rolling Stone
All Along The Watchtower

Kittie/Otep/Crisis-Live Review

KITTIE/OTEP/CRISIS
Quad City Live, Davenport, IA
10/23/04

Nu Metal, not to be confused with the “New Wave of British Metal” moniker from twenty-five years ago, seems to be a sub-genre filled with testosterone-filled young men filled with equal amounts of hatred and commercial desire. The irony, of course, is that the N.W.O.B.M. movement was also filled with plenty of hard cocks that seemed more intent on using them rather than whining about the state of their romantic lives, how unfairly the world has treated them, or how their upbringing was devoid of a strong male influence. There always seemed to be a hint of hatred, but much of the aggression was supplemented by a sense of humor, either by means of lyrical content or by their imagery.
But since grunge made it a little cooler for the metal boyz to discuss their feelings openly, and since hair metal made it cool to actually pursue the golden ring of Soundscan sales, their seems to be a prevalence of music acts that, well, just kind of sound the same. And where metal fans could rejoice in a community of non-conformity, there now seems to be a landscape of Nu Metal acts simply marching in line, which is something that record labels enjoy. At one time, there was no doubt that one could decipher the difference between Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Def Leppard, etc., but I’m hard pressed to see (or, more importantly, hear) the difference between Drowning Pool, Disturbed, Stain, etc.
Which is why I seemed a little bit more tolerant of the female faction of Nu Metal: at least I could hear the difference between the bands. They’ve also got to understand the track record for their ilk isn’t that impressive: The Runaways never really got beyond cult status, L7 never were able to get a gold record award, and the whole riot grrl movement never became anything more than a handful of fervent fanzines. Men seem to like their metal fronted by people with beans and franks and chicks seem to be content with letting the boys rule the roost, at least commercially speaking.
So the fact that Kittie was able to move over 500,000 copies of their debut Spit is very impressive. One has to consider the commercial impact that Ozzfest gave this all-female Nu Metal outfit and, therefore, it was interesting to see how the band faired after the limelight of metal’s most prestigious festival wore off. True to history, Kittie’s relevance, personnel, and sales figures have changed dramatically in the past four years as most consumers seemed intent of having just one album fronted by vaginal walls. I don’t understand why this anomaly occurs, but I do know that it took Lita Ford adding a bunch of synths before she was able to crack the top 40. Perhaps this act gave her the ability to cross-over to a larger demographic, and perhaps this is why Kittie has yet to match the limelight of their first release.
From Ozzfest to Quad City Live, a small club located on the Mississippi River in Davenport, Iowa. Time’s making changes for Kittie, and it’s time for a much needed change in metal’s appearance but I’m not confident that they’re the band that’s capable of doing it. What they are capable of doing is aping a lot of the same shtick of their male counterparts while holding a loose grip on the sound that brought them exposure in the first place: performing balls-out rock with only the vocals providing a telltale hint that there’s estrogen manning the wheel.
This tour, with the uncreative title of “Metal Movement Tour 2004,” brings three bands (Crisis, Otep, Kittie) of sexually common lineage across America with some very uncommon backgrounds. Openers Crisis, hails from New York City, has been around the block for over a decade and undergone numerous personnel changes themselves. The band struggled to find a touring drummer for the Otep/Kittie tour and settled on their original drummer while their current one recuperated from surgery. As a result, the band focused on their older material rather than selections from their latest release “Like Sheep Led To Slaughter.” They performed a truncated set that propelled singer Karyn Crisis’ dreadlocks perilously close to the stage lights. A nice set that deserved a little more allotted time.
Otep, another recent Ozzfest alumni, came next with a more politically inclined direction. Otep (also the lead singer’s name) hails from Los Angeles and mixes a blend of lefty-poli poetry-with a nod to Slipknot. There’s a hint of mysticism about the band and, from what I gather, a lot of Goth elements abound along with more than a hint of Morrison-esque pretension. They seem to have a fervent following too, as many in the audience were drawn to Q.C.L. to see this band. Marching out on stage with a prop pig head, Otep seemed intent on making a statement, and I was surprised that much of the band’s anti-war dogma was accepted by such a, um, unsophisticated town like Davenport, Iowa. But the crowd seemed to grow restless at Otep’s continual need to tone down the volume and turn up the spoken word theatrics. It was the musical equivalent of revving an engine at a stop light only to tamely accelerate once the light turns green. Marilyn Manson once declared of singer Otep: “That girl scares me.“ But the only thing that scared me was the notion that Otep herself started to morph into the decaying corpse of Jim Morrison, which is who she seemed to be channeling on more than one occasion. Things did manage to get close to redline when the band centered on “House Of Secrets” standout track “Warhead.” Unfortunately, by the time the crowd was awaken with this G.W.B. attack, the band exited the stage. And while the crowd began chanting “Otep!” in the hopes of an encore, the p.a. music came up (Slipknot, of course) and the house lights illuminated. In short, the band’s load-in took longer than their actual set did.
Which cleared the way for Kittie. It’s uncertain if both openers short set time was a result of muscle flexing or intimidation, but it obviously made things that much easier for the Ontario, Canada quartet. Probably 75% of the attendees remained for Kittie, including several small children who continued to dart around with Pepsi colas in hand and black Kittie t-shirts on their backs. It was also obvious that Kittie held the full sound and lights hostage until their set started, which came at least four hours after a very young local Evanescence wanna-bees started the metal shenanigans.
If Kittie’s line-up has changed, there is no indication of lack of chemistry between the new members Lisa Marx (guitar), Jennifer Arroyo (bass) and founding sisters Morgan and Mercedes Lander. All four ladies displayed something that seems entirely lacking in today’s nu metal bands: a sense of humor. From the set-opener “Looks So Pretty,” it became clear that, despite dwindling record sales and fan base, the band enjoys performing together and combining old-school metal requirements (hand devil horns, insipid stage banter) with nu metal workmanship (guitar chugging, double kick drum spastics). And it was very refreshing to see a young woman as the first person to stage dive and crowd surf a crowd comprised of at least 65% males. I wasn’t really sure of the woman in her late thirties wearing the “More Fucking Blood” t-shirt, but she seemed happy and the male crowd was tolerant of her stumbling head banging.
The only real concern, aside from a drunken lush with a lit cigarette weaving in a crowded area, was the occasional venture into polished, near radio friendly material like the title track from their latest release “Until The End.” While the audience seemed appreciative of the melodic aspects of this direction, they were very receptive when the ladies focused on the agro qualities that brought them exposure in the first place. They even enjoyed Mick Mars lookalike Jennifer Arroyo’s bass solo which points towards the Lander’s belief that this line-up may indeed be a little musically stronger than the original incarnation.
So while Kittie continues to hold up and exceed many of their male counterparts, it seems a tad disheartening to watch their talent become under appreciated. We’ve seen it before with Joan Jett, L7, Bikini Kill, and other ladies that pursue the territories that seem to be reserved for those with a penis. And while I hate to play the sex card and put everything in such simpleton terms, I can find no other reason why a band like Kittie loses appeal while another male-dominated band with sub-par chops can find a wider audience. The material that is more polished certainly isn’t at the level of a “Kiss Me Deadly” and the band doesn’t seem intent on reinventing the wheel like, say Otep, is (and failing, I might add). The only thing I can hope for is their declaration that they’re in the game “Until The End” because we need bands like Kittie to be around. Sooner or later, metal’s glass ceiling has to break and encompass a more diverse lineage.

Joy Division - No More Ceremonies (bootleg)

On February 29th, 1980, Joy Division joined the band Killing Joke for a leap year performance at the Lyceum Theatre in London. This performance, or at least some of it, has been available on various vinyl bootlegs throughout the years under the titles “Komackino” (sic) and “Isolation.” In 1997, five of the songs from this Lyceum set were made available on the official Heart & Soul box set with much improved sound quality. No More Ceremonies marks the first time the entire Lyceum performance is available on compact disc with a limited edition run of 500 copies.
The set features a list that heavily borrowed from their then unreleased Closer album. As important as that album turned out to be, it’s nice to hear many of those song titles translated into a live setting. At the same time, there isn’t a lot of difference from the studio versions and the ones presented on this document. “Heart & Soul,” “Isolation,” and “Love Will Tear Us Apart” all suffer from lack of fidelity. The audience seems more enthusiastic with the familiar material like “She’s Lost Control” while one concertgoer seems to exclaim that the newer songs “sound the same.” Martin Hannett’s production would change that, of course, and according to accounts from the spring of 1980, Ian’s behavior became even more erratic to the point in which dates were cancelled. We know about the suicide that took place that May, which makes any document (especially a complete concert) even more enticing to fans looking for evidence of a downward spiral. They won’t find it here, but instead, a typical bootleg quality concert recording of an enormously influential band on the verge of releasing a landmark album and facing tragedy at the same time. For fanatics, that won’t prevent them from seeking out this unofficial release but for fans with a certain amount of control, the Heart & Soul box set is enough to satisfy their thirst for live material.