Death Says: "Remember Me?"

It’s gotta be like this: when one thing takes flight another thing lands. And now an upcoming death has got me thinking about mortality ‘n shit ‘n purpose ‘n happiness. Just when you think you have it all figured out, someone passes on and you get angry when you understand that they didn’t have it all figured out. You want to shake them from death’s grip and say “Listen up! See what you’ve missed! Look at what you could have had!” I’m talking about the things that money can’t buy. I’m thinking about the things that should be important.
So will death’s reminder bring my own Father the epiphany that he needs? Probably not. My thinking is that the death of the last substantial lineage with where he comes from will either cause him to retreat further into himself or produce a resentment that has been increasingly noticeable in the past few years. There are things that he can’t control, and it bothers him. The sad thing is that what he actually could control isn’t being addressed. He’s very lucky to have my Mother; I’m not sure if others would receive his emotional shallowness in much the same way as she does. I really hope that one day he can put away the baggage and demonstrate some feelings. The mindless bickering that he often creates does not serve his intelligence well and is extremely unpleasant to be around. And regarding that epiphany? I’m not waiting around for it to happen.
So with that bummer in mind, some things that have brought things into perspective. Think of it as the “enjoy every sandwich” list.

• Episode III-Quite simply a badass piece of work that renewed my faith in the whole George Lucas franchise. Aside from a few minor flaws, it’s the best thing since “Empire.” And even “Empire” had a few minor flaws. Let me remind you that Billy Dee Williams was in that thing, and even he makes Samuel L. Jackson look Shakespearean. There were times during the film in which I was actually thinking “This thing is totally awesome!” If you don’t believe me, consider the Godshonesttruth that I went into the theatre expecting just a hair better than Episode I or II. About halfway through it, I began realizing that is was on par with the original trilogy. By movie’s end, I was firmly convinced it was right on par with “Empire.”
• Take 5 Candy bars-I want to thank the pothead who came up with this motherfucking delicious confection. Don’t let the “let’s throw a bunch of shit in there” ingredient list fool you. It’s most awesome and, again, even I went into my first one with a “what the fuck are they putting pretzels in candy bars?” attitude. Every single Goddamn person I have recommended it to has walked away from one with a “damn, that’s a tasty sucker” comment. Except for one douchebag at work, but that fucker is into Butterfingers. Hershey is the shit. Fuck Nestle.
• Cat Power’s “Willie Deadwilder”-Now before you think “Oh great, here’s Worpswede going off on yet another Chan Marshall jerkoff” let me declare how fucking great this two-chorded eighteen plus minute piece of work is. Swear to God, this song has brought me close to tears and perfectly summarizes my love of the S.L.F. in more ways than I could possibly compose myself. It’s like Chan got into my head and wrote down the words I was too chickenshit to admit. Sample:
  

With your love I have foothold

I can carry on

But please don't let me worry you now

Please don't let me worry you now

There's nothing I am saying

That could ever be made wrong

I love you, love you so

I love you so strong

Please remember your heart in me

Please remember it's not anatomically correct

Please know there's no boundary

And if God is willing to protect

Our love, a world of love

I think you'd be willing too

Where are you from

And where are you going to

We have so much to do

Where you are going is

Where you do come from

And where I will be is with you

We have so much to do

We have so much to do

We have so much to do

Hurry, hurry, hurry let's go

Hurray, hurray, things are gonna be okay

Hurry, hurry let's go

All them children are waiting

It's time and they are ready

We got so much to do

And if God is willing

We have got so much

We have got so much

And if you thought the post would end without another picture of Chan, you'd be wrong...

Fucking Tweekers

The SLF and I recently visited our “friendly” fuckers at Wal-Mart to buy some allergy medicine. This event happened at 6:00 pm on a Sunday. In the aisle featuring all good things that mask allergy symptoms, we found disclaimers instead of products. Essentially, the disclaimers said that we must ask the pharmacist for these non-prescription items. The trouble was, the pharmacy closed at 6:00pm. We asked for a manager to ask why we could not purchase a non-prescription medication to complete our wonderful one stop shopping experience. He informed us that Iowa law prohibits selling allergy medication beyond a certain time. When we asked if Wal-Mart was going to extend the hours of the pharmacy to better serve the customers, he advised no. In retrospect, I guess we were a little hard on the fuckface, as he really was the messenger and we were just looking for yet another reason not to shop at the Smiley Store.

Here’s the Iowa law, in case your thinking about cooking up a batch:
Under new SF 169:
o Licensed pharmacists may dispense, on a nonprescription basis, products containing ephedrine, pseudoephedrine, or phenylpropanolamine, as the sole ingredient or in combination with any other ingredient, pursuant to rules currently being developed by the Board. An individual may not purchase from a pharmacy more than 7500 mg. of these substances during a 30-day period.
o Purchasers must be at least 18 years of age and, if they are unknown to you, must show a photo ID. Purchases must be logged. Pharmacies are not required to disclose the contents of a dispensing log to law enforcement officials unless the log is the subject of a court order or subpoena.
o Larger amounts of pseudoephedrine may be dispensed by pharmacies for legitimate medical purposes pursuant to a prescription issued by an authorized prescriber.
o Retail (non-pharmacy) outlets may sell only limited amounts of select pseudoephedrine products in controlled settings. Retailer sales are limited to one package of liquid or liquid-filled gel caps containing no more than 360 milligrams of pseudoephedrine to a single purchaser in a 24-hour period, and no more than 7.5 grams of pseudoephedrine from a pharmacy or retailer, separately or collectively, in a 30-day period. Retailers shall NOT stock or sell any non-liquid pseudoephedrine products or any products containing ephedrine or phenylpropanolamine.
o Retailers must keep liquid and liquid-filled gel cap pseudoephedrine products behind a counter inaccessible to the public or in a locked case, shall require a government-issued photo ID, and shall maintain for 12 months a pseudoephedrine purchase log including the purchaser's name, address, and signature.
o A pharmacy may elect to keep ALL pseudoephedrine products in the pharmacy and dispense the liquid or liquid-filled gel cap products in compliance with requirements and limitations for dispensing Schedule V pseudoephedrine products.

Jesus Christ, is there really an army of tweekers out there gobbling up allergy medications (even infant formulas) for their own recreational usage? Since these dipshits are up all night, can’t they just as easily drive to a neighboring state and purchase the ingredients there? A friend who’s a pharmacist foreshadowed this inconvenience by purchasing some extra pseudoephedrine products prior to the law, but I had no idea this shit was now as heavily monitored as heroin. Can I now purchase smack at the Wal-Mart pharmacy just as long as there’s a pharmacist on duty? Twenty bucks says the meth problem continues to rise even after SF 169 has been around for a while. Fucking tweekers. They always manage to throw a wrench into people’s business.
In the “good idea” department:
• A friend and I think it would be a good idea for me to throw a pair of men’s underwear on stage at a Judas Priest concert. You know: show Rob Halford a little love.
• I’m thinking about commissioning some art from a guy at work. Apparently, he will, for a modest fee, create a work of art from photographs. Many people are using him to create artwork containing images of deceased family members. This way, a family member who’s dead can be combined with those that are living. My goal is to have him make an image of Dale Earnhardt and Jesus Christ. Kind of taking the whole halo above the number three thing to the next level.

This is just a few examples of how my mind operates. Another example is to get off line for fear that the Man will see this post, check the time of the posting, and then conclude I’m cooking meth down in the basement.

Dig!

Anton Newcombe is unstable. This is why I just e-mailed him asking for some different guitar tunings to work with. I’ll let you know if he replies, but you’re probably asking why I would e-mail a crazy person. My thinking was: why not start with someone who is completely committed to thinking outside of the box. Anton Newcombe definitely thinks “outside of the box.”


Anton Newcombe is also completely committed to his music. Anyone who fucks with it, be it audience or band member, will soon feel the wrath of his manic ways. If you’re not all too familiar with the manner in which Anton runs his life, band, and career, I strongly urge you to purchase the documentary “Dig!” which chronicles his band, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, and his fixation on The Dandy Warhols.
After filming over 2000 hours of footage, you know there are some great moments that make up the rockumentary. So rather than repeat what you really need to witness anyway, let me say that “conflict” is a part of Anton’s life and musical direction. Those that try to work with him end up fighting. Those that try to assist him end up frustrated. Those that try to understand him end up confused. In the end, only his music manages to reveal him and even that is hidden under a retro fabric from a time and place that he wishes he had taken part in.
Anton is probably one of the most notorious targets for confrontation since Henry Rollins during his long hair phase. People actually attend a BJM show to either 1.) witness a meltdown or 2.) create one. And while you may not be able to control #1, it’s hard for me to understand why you would even want to provoke someone who obviously has challenges with dealing with confrontational people. It’s the equivalent to challenging a retard to a spelling bee; it’s just too easy.
Take a performance from Schubas in Chicago, Illinois. A man threw a full glass of beer directly at Anton only to be hit and escorted out….by his girlfriend. Prior to this incident, Anton got into a verbal argument with his guitarist over the volume of his instrument. The guitarist attempted to appease Anton, gave up and then increased the volume of the instrument again. Angry, Anton marched over to the guitarist’s amplifier and adjusted every control knob until his vision and his anger were under control.
While this incident is not on the movie, “Dig!” provides viewers with many other examples of “confrontation,” some of which end with broken sitars. “This doesn’t happen in my band!” reminds Courtney Taylor of The Dandy Warhols after performing with the BJM, as if anyone really expected differently.
The fixation that Anton has on the Warhols is fascinating. It’s almost as if he wants to live vicariously through them and use their success as both a rationale for his own band not succeeding and as a focal point for his own self esteem. The Warhols are also used as creative fodder, causing Anton to resort to bullying tactics both in song composition and as a marketing tool. Anton may be the star of the film, but the Dandy Warhols certainly come off as the hapless shells that jump when their major label asks them to do so. They have nearly no power over their direction while Anton meanders through the states with complete control over whatever he wants to do. It’s both an envious and unhealthy situation which adds to his own instability. This is clearly a man who needs direction and a peer that he can relate to. Courtney Taylor is unable to provide either as his own drive places his band as priority one. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
I consider The Dandy Warhols as a guilty pleasure, but nothing they’ve done will be treated with the same amount of reverence as what The Brian Jonestown Massacre has managed to accomplish. Never mind the fact that the BJM’s own catalog is filled with misfires and severely crippled ideas. While the movie may boost the catalog sales for BJM, it goes without saying that not even a lucrative inclusion on a soundtrack to a Hollywood smash would make them successful. And that’s what makes Anton’s band and music so appealing in the end: with this understanding, Anton continues to work out of sheer passion which is exactly what rock music needs more of these days.

Spoon-Gimmie Fiction

If you’re like me, Spoon’s 2002 release “Kill The Moonlight” took you completely by surprise. Typically, most bands become too bitter, too fractured to really rebound from a major label dropping. Their fans, typically, become too uncaring of such a drama to really give a shit about a band having their feelings hurt by the aftermath of a R.I.F. at WEA. Being dropped by a major was probably the best thing that ever happened to Spoon: “Kill the Moonlight” plays like a classic on the cusp of larger acclaim. In short, it sounds like a call up from the farm league rather than an effort of a band who’s time in the majors had come and gone.
And for that Cinderella story, Spoon suddenly found themselves the dubious distinction of trying to top themselves. Considering how good “Kill the Moonlight” was/is, it’s no shock then how their latest, “Gimme Fiction” comes up a few songs short of “Moonlight’s” majesty. That much you should know before entering into their latest, but it shouldn’t prevent you from hearing what they’re doing now. Because any band that possesses as much knowledge about rock music as Spoon does, deserves to have more attention than Soundscan currently acknowledges.

While “Kill the Moonlight” examined some insanely catchy medlodic patterns, “Gimme Fiction” replicates that direction with the electric guitar stepping up, front and center. There’s less of a cut and paste feel to the album, but it’s still a little difficult to understand why it took nearly three years to come up with it. I mean, I probably would have been thrilled to death if “Gimme Fiction” took a year to make but the shear fact that after all this time, the forty-four minutes represented here is the best that they came up with, well, it makes me feel a little disappointed. There’s a sense of some songs just on the verge of being finished and a few more songs that feel like they could’ve gone just a few steps further. “They Never Got You” is a prime example of this. It’s a song that maintains a new wave chord progression, but fails to really build a memorable agenda and after three minutes, you’re tired of the whole track. “Merchants of Soul” follows suit, this time with a neat piano pattern that once again fails to get past the idea that it may have made a nice bridge in some other song if they’d put some extra time behind it. There’s also a few Anglophile elements spattered throughout the entire effort but it only points to the sad fact that there’s a ton of other bands out today that focus their entire musical direction on post-punk Britpop and they’re doing a better job than Spoon is of replicating it.
Just when you’re a little testy about it, they’ll throw in a few songs that would fit right at home on “Moonlight” (“My Mathematical Mind,” “The Delicate Place,” “The Infinite Pet,” and “Sister Jack”) and then add a few that actually build upon that album. “Was It You” sounds a few yards away from a Talking Heads song and “I Turn My Camera On” may be the reason why this album suddenly reaches a few more music fans. If anything, I’ll bet you there are a ton of cellular phone manufacturers that would pay top dollar for this song to be playing underneath commercial images of their new camera phones. There’s a reason why marketers would be drawn to it: because it’s a crafty little pop tune that posses more heart in a mere three minutes than most contemporary soul songs do in an entire full-length outing.

“It took its time a-working into my soul/I got to believe it came from rock and roll” Britt Daniel sings on the opening track, “The Best And Dragon, Adore,” and “Gimme Fiction” took its sweet time hitting the streets. The members of Spoon have a good understanding of their rock history and their passion for it is prevalent throughout the new album. I’m still a little pissed at why it took so long to get released, at the same time, I’m glad it’s finally here.

Cinco De Mayonnaise

Another shitty week. It's been a while since I've been this bumming. It's like an old friend that you really don't care for much anymore. Lots of life dramas, werkloads, and financial poopyness fill each day. It's easy to get lost in the routine and smoke more cigarettes. Fucking sometimes allows you a little solitude with it and music provides a brief distraction. I've gone from The Human League to Iron Maiden to Public Enemy to Superchunk to Black Flag to Richard Marx in single bounds, and I woke up the next morning to breathe again. I think I can shake this funk. I've kicked the shit out of depression ten times this bad.
On top of this, I need to move.
One has to ask themselves: What would Keith Richards do?

Now I understand that Keith is relatively wealthy now and has the ability to buy his way out of any major problem. But there has to be a few times a year where Keith just doesn't have things go his way. My guess is that he throws down a few Rebel Yell's, picks up a Telecaster and lights a smoke. My dream is that he throws a needle in his vein, slips his cock in the ass of a underage chick and lights a smoke.
Today kept reminding me of the Liz Phair song of the same name. The lyric "Cinco De Mayo/burn down Ohio" kept repeating through my head. Notable activity from today:

• A near retired woman felt sorry that the new Muslim girl had to wear that clothing all year long.
• I had two conversations with a guy we call "Milton." I used to jokingly bet that every time we had food, he would suddenly show up and ask for the leftovers. I would then purposely give him donuts and candy thinking it was quite humoring. Until I noticed his hands shaking. Then I became concerned. Indeed: a quick investigation with input from the training lady revealed that Milton shouldn't be eating sweets at all! He has diabetes. The fucker also drinks like a gallon of Mountain Dew each day. So anyways, I talked to him a few times today. It's a trip. Part of the conversation was about Keith Moon.
• I had my one-on-one with my boss. I still haven't quite figured her out and her departing Administrative Assistant didn't reveal much intel. I did learn that some of the other supervisors hate me. Ha! Me and the new guy are quickly becoming a threat and we're throwing down enough jack to be in first place overall.
• I missed "Flap Jack Day" again and saw a stunned hummingbird fly out of the building after getting trapped in the cafeteria. Some dumbass almost stepped on it. Geese also come up and poop in the smoking section outside.
• The Shins' "Chutes Too Narrow" is a fucking incredible album

Living In The Past

Jethro Tull. What the fuck? Can anyone possibly like these guys? I mean, they rank pretty fucking low on the cool meter and it’s hard to remember a time in which they were ever cool. But they were once. And I tolerate them.
These unshaved English minstrels pooh-poohed around hard rock in the late 60’s and, from what I’ve been told, were second to The Who during The Rolling Stones’ “Rock & Roll Circus.” I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never seen “Rock & Roll Circus” and, prior to Tull’s “Living In The Past” single, I know jack squat about Jethro Tull.
For some reason, “Living In The Past” b/w “Christmas Song” entered into my singles collection when it was originally released. I thought the flute sounded cool, but consider that even a fart sound pretty cool to a 6 year old. I liked the b-side of the single too because Ian Anderson references Santa at the end of it. To a 6 year old, Santa’s pretty fucking cool too.
The following year, Jethro Tull’s “A Passion Play” made its way into my album collection. The artwork was cool: a ballerina bleeding from the mouth graced the black and white cover art while a more appropriate one graced the back sleeve. The gatefold album opened to reveal a mock play program guide. One figures that this was to represent the actual performance of a passion play.
When one finally gets around to playing the one track album (literally, if you don’t include the “intermission” piece) they’ll find that there is very little tying this album together. Occasionally, you’ll hear a word about “acting,” “passion,” “play,” and combinations of the last two words, but that’s really all a listener has when looking for some linear meaning. And when you approach “A Passion Play” with any attempt at linear thought, you’ll walk away from it considering the effort to be one of the most worthless albums ever cut.
Consider approaching it instead with no expectations and with an eye on execution. When I do this, I find “A Passion Play” to be a work of extreme curiosity and intricate performances. Essentially, there are different songs within the one track structure of the album, but they’re segmented affairs filled with lyrics like “the ice cream lady wet her drawers to see you in the passion play.” It’s as if Ian and company simply threw some lyrics together without any idea that maybe they should review and possibly rewrite some passages after they worked out the musical arrangements.
And there’s where the album really takes off. The men of Tull pull out some incredible musical chops on the album, with total disregard for the fact that all of the rehearsal time would be spent on accompanying a piece that would be universally panned upon release.
For a young boy, that kind of highbrow criticism was lost. I knew Dylan wrote some strange words at that age, so it was totally acceptable for me to hear the lines:
“And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony shoulders of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision. (The examining body examined her body.)”
Plus it had the interlude “The Hare That Lost His Spectacles.” This is a fucking children’s story placed smack dab in the middle of the rockin’! As a child, it was cool. As an adult, it was annoying…until I picked up the cd re-issue of “A Passion Play” and saw the promotional clip for the “song” that was included on the cd. Its trippy Alice In Wonderland meets Winnie The Pooh is refreshingly bad and nicely dated to 1973.
Apparently, there is an actual story to the album. There is a guy who dies, he’s taken to a viewing room to revisit moments in his life, he’s sent to Heaven, doesn’t like it, sent to Hell, doesn’t like that either, so the fucker is reborn again. Got it? Fuck it, just nod like a retard and agree “the rain only gets in sometimes and the sun never leaves you alone” is a pretty clever line, even when you’re not baked.

The album made enough of an impact on me to explore Jethro Tull further with the albums “Heavy Horses” and “Songs From The Wood.” Both of these albums were purchased on 8-track and have not been replaced digitally. I did throw down some cash for a Tull comeback album of sorts called “Broadsword And The Beast” or something, but the album sucked and I sold it back to the record store a few weeks later. It must have been bad enough for me to even avoid some of Tull’s more popular moments, or I must have finally grown up enough to realize that they were an uncool band to continue supporting.
But fuck that shit: I actually like “A Passion Play.” I love the pretentiousness of it, I love the grandeur of nothing, and I love guys that wear overalls when they rock. Seriously, every dude in Jethro Tull looks like a farmer down the road in Iowa. I’ll grant you that the farmer’s probably growing organic foods and weed at his farm, but he is a man of the earth nonetheless.
Probably my biggest respect now comes from the fact that at their core, J.T. is a band firmly entrenched in England’s musical roots. And as uncool as that looks or sounds, it’s pretty cool that some hippies stumbled on to the idea and were able to make a pretty successful career out of it.
Did Ian go punk? Fuck that shit, Ian didn’t even go disco. He did go a little overboard with the “A” album where he starts the thing as an overdue solo album, but then realizes there’s more money to be made on a Jethro Tull tour than an Ian Anderson one. The only notoriety they seemed to get during the 80’s was a “Best Heavy Metal” award at the Grammy’s and they only won that because half of the voting committee had heard of them.
For the past 15 years, Tull has pretty much stuck to a compilation album every three years followed by the occasional memory lane tour. I’m sure that they’ve released a few original titles during this time, but name me a rock station that plays them. Like other progressive sorts, theirs is only pursued by hardcore fans, glanced at by novices, and ignored by children who now know John Fogerty was once on The Wiggles. A musical retard would also add that the drummer for Crowded House, who just committed suicide, also had a recurring role on that God-forsaken children’s show.
Anyway, for all of you musical elitist who constantly bag on the Tull: I completely understand and will even provide you with stones to throw. But when we’re done talking about how pretentious a progressive rock band can be, I’ll throw in “A Passion Play” to remind myself how innocent even the most overreaching band can be when listened through child’s ears.

To The Paramedic Who Saved Nikki Sixx

AC/DC released the DVD “Family Jewels” this past week; a collection of rare television footage, promotional clips, and shitty 80’s videos. Yes it’s true: you can now own the entire “Fly On The Wall” video again in a handy digital format. The good news is that the discs are broken up into two sections, one for Bon Scott and the other for Brian “There’s a bowling pin in my anus” Johnson. By the end of disc two, you’re ready to knock that silly hat off of Brian’s head and scream “What the fuck is with all that shit after “Flick Of The Switch?” Or if you’re like my S.L.F., you’re going “Oi! Oi! Oi!” (like in “T.N.T.”) by the time they hit the “Highway To Hell” clips. Yes it’s true; I had to explain why it’s cool that every single AC/DC song sounds the same. And again, don’t get me started on “Mr. Metronome” Phil Rudd…

I would be remiss in mentioning that I broke down and bought Motley Crue's “Shout At The Devil” last week and will again declare that it’s a good album, but it definitely is not the “classic” album that those money fuckers want you to believe. I had forgotten how utterly bad some of those songs were (pointless version of “Helter Skelter,” album fillers “God Bless The Children Of The Beast” and “In The Beginning”) and how retarded Nikki Sixx could be as a lyricist. Let’s take a closer look at the song “Bastard.”
At first, you’d think the song is about a dude that pisses off Nikki so much that he declares “consider that bastard dead!” What’s confusing is the line that follows:
“Get on your knees
Please beg me, please
You’re the king of the sleaze
Don’t you try to rape me”
So is Nikki afraid the dude is going to fuck him and, in order to save his masculinity, has to kill him? It’s shit like this that prevents “Shout At The Devil” from being anywhere near a landmark release.
To top this shit off, there’s a recent interview with Mick Mars who basically admits he thought the whole make-up and metal thing was retarded but that, essentially, he was getting old and wanted to be famous. I guess his shitty bar band from the 70’s wasn’t paying the bills for Mick, his wife and children, so he took the Crue route. Trust me when I say “shitty bar band;” I’ve heard songs from his old band and I can say “shitty” with conviction. I guess Mick really wanted to be a blues guys, yet even after making some jack with Vince, Neil, and Tommy, still has yet to produce anything that refers to his love of the genre. It’s what they call “selling out” and it’s something that these fuckers have known about all along.
I will be fair in saying “Shout At The Devil,” “Danger,” “Looks That Kill” and “Knock ‘Em Dead Kid” all rock nicely, but I’m having a hard time with the entire “It’s a big deal that we’ve reunited for the fans” bullshit that Sixx seems to be pumping out with as much fervor as his “I almost died from an overdose!” sound bite.
Shout at the devil…and ask for a higher guarantee on tour.

Kiss - Live At The U.S. Cellular Center, Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Here's the infamous Kiss concert review that I did a few years ago. I'm posting it because I lost it and a post pretty much guarantees I won't lose it again.

KISS
Live at the U.S. Cellular Center in Cedar Rapids, Iowa
September 2, 2000

I’ll admit it; I can’t stand Kiss. Even during my formidable days as a young boy I hated them. Back then; I really couldn’t adequately describe why I disliked them. As I grew older, I understood that it was the cheesy theatrics, the poorly aped Stones riffs, and the blatant marketing tools they used that really turned me off. A pretty advanced criticism, I’d say, for a young boy growing up in a small Midwestern town in the 1970’s. Cameron Crowe can suck my dick.

Don’t get me wrong: Every other kid that I knew ate the shit up. My cousin, for example, was so into this New York quartet that he (like so many others) bought every single Goddamn solo Kiss album the first day they were released simply so he could get the poster that came with each album…In a brilliant marketing move, kids had to purchase every one of these Godforsaken records to make the poster complete. It struck me odd that it was the posters and not the music itself that made him shell out the $7.99 x 4. My cousin continued to collect this Kiss memorabilia and probably has a goldmine sitting in his closet. I also need to mention that my cousin ceased buying Kiss products the day they took off their makeup. When confronted with this, he explained that he felt that they “sold out” when they trotted back into the spotlight with Ace and Peter back in the fold during the mid-90’s. When I asked him the night before he got married in 1999 of what band he now follows, he said “The Church” without missing a beat. God finally gave rock and roll to him in.

Then there was my next-door neighbor, Bobby H., who also loved the kings in Satan’s service. Bobby marveled at Gene spitting blood on the cover of “Alive II” and declared that they were indeed the hottest band in the world. I think it was Bobby that perpetrated the rumor that, at every Kiss concert, a goblin was passed through the audience where the concertgoers were required to spit into the large cup. When it was filled with the saliva of the crowd, it would be passed back up to the stage where Gene would drink the contents of it proving how insane he really was. I didn’t buy it. I was more interested in the retarded open letter that Gene included inside the gatefold of the Kiss “Alive” album. If I recall correctly, it was filled with lots of sexual innuendos and encouraged people to buy the new Kiss comics that Marvel put out because they used their own blood in the ink. It should be noted that Bob grew up and later hung himself in his garage leaving a wife and several kids to ponder “why.” Perhaps it was because he could never afford to complete the collection of all four solo albums, and that really bummed him out.

During the seventies, my parents were friends with another married couple, Vel and Eric, who didn’t have any children. I enjoyed going over to their house my folks because the dude had an enormous record collection. While my parents socialized, I was left to Eric’s records and turntable and would often fall asleep with his enormous Koss headphones still attached to my skull; Eric always loved interrupting my slumber by suddenly turning up the stereo, sending me jolting up with eyes wide open. It’s important to note that Eric introduced me to Frank Zappa and never clued my folks in on the fact that I was memorizing the lyrics to “Dinah-Moe-Hum” while they were playing cards in the other room.
Vel and Eric came over to my parent’s house one evening to help wallpaper our guest room. Eric soon grew tired of the activity and joined me downstairs in watching a movie. That movie was “Kiss Meets The Phantom of the Park.” We laughed together at the ridiculous plot, at Gene’s demonic growls and laser eyes, at Ace’s sudden bursts of “Ha!” and, most importantly, at why this piece of shit could possibly even be considered for airing on network television. It was reassuring to have somebody older and with more records than me to acknowledge that this band was a bunch of dumbasses that got lucky by taking an Alice Cooper routine to the next level. Only women and Gene bled back in 1979…

I almost bought Kiss’ “The Elder” back in the early 80’s because somebody told me that Gene and Paul were working with Lou Reed. It was a struggle: on one had I was curious to see if Kiss actually had some talent and Uncle Lou was there to give their image some creditability, or was he simply desperate for a quick buck because his contract with Arista had run out? I could never bring myself to buy it and, years later when I finally heard “The Elder,” thanked Jesus that I spent my hard earned money on Reed’s “The Blue Mask” instead. Other Kiss fans must have felt the same way too; “The Elder’ remains as the only Kiss album not to go gold. I heard that there was a local band in Iowa City that seriously contemplated performing “The Elder” in its entirety. That idea alone is more brilliant than the “concept” Kiss came up with and those guys, whoever they may be, deserve all future royalties of “The Elder” should they ever grow balls big enough to actually go through with it.
Kiss, by this time, decided to “rock out’ with their next release “Creatures of the Night.” I also seriously considered buying this one because of the big drum sound of “I Love It Loud.” The video ruled because it implied that, by simply listening to the song, Kiss could break the windows in your parent’s house and make your eyes glow. Shortly after that, you would find yourself wandering the streets with other teenagers whose eyes glowed like yours. Better believe it….
The make-up cash cow had run it’s course and Gene and Paul (rightly) assumed that they could gather some additional press if they appeared “unmasked” for “Lick It Up.” It was enough for Bobby H to forget what a piece of shit the real “Unmasked” was and go out and buy “Lick It Up” He expressed his glee at the new direction and I continued to chastise him by pointing out that even a monkey wearing a diaper could probably figure out the guitar part for “Lick It Up.” Bobby confirmed this by not naming his new Spaniel puppy Vinny Vincent and instead opted to name the dog “Jake” in honor of Ozzy’s new axeman Jake E. Lee. I was beginning to think that Bobby was coming around to my line of thinking.
I was almost floored soon after when a gay friend of mine went out and purchased “Animalize.” Our friendship was started on a mutual love of The Knack and it progressed into him supplying me with import Scritti Polliti singles and rare remixes of Yaz songs. How could this same individual who actually owned and enjoyed a Dead Or Alive album have Kiss in his record collection? Years later, it dawned on me that Paul Stanley often pranced around like a fairy and I came to the conclusion that “The Lover” probably played for “the other team” and my friend’s recent purchase of “Animalize” was merely a bad case of racing hormones. Whatever the reason, the album was full of shit. Only Gene’s track “Burn Bitch Burn” (sample lyric: “Burn Bitch Burn, ooh ooh ooh”) produced a smile on my face. I honestly felt that Kiss would be history within a year.


They weren’t, of course, so I had to settle with surrounding myself around people who despised Kiss as much as I did. I went almost an entire decade without hearing any new Kiss material and life was good.
That trend ended when I received a promotional copy of Kiss’ “Revenge” cd while working at a top 40 station. Initial reviews had been positive and with this in mind, I took the free copy home to give it a listen. It wasn’t bad. As a matter of fact, “Revenge” remains as the only Kiss album that I’ve ever heard in which I didn’t mock while listening to it to this day. Is it any surprise then that, a couple of years after the release of “Revenge,” Gene and Paul sacked the album’s line up? Perhaps they felt out of their element with critics actually liking their music.
During 1995, in one of those moments that you just can’t quite explain, I went out and bought the Gene Simmons solo album. The cover caught my eye: a cartoon Gene looking menacing with a trickle of blood creeping from his snarling lips. I’ve got to own this simply for the cover, I thought. I looked at the liner notes and noticed the album contained an amazing assortment of guests: Liza Minelli, Cher, that dude the slut-groupie Pamela DeBarres married, and a cast of others who should have known better
I forked over three bucks for the thing and felt smug. Technically, I hadn’t really bought a Kiss album. Since it was used, there was no risk of any member of Kiss receiving royalties from my hard-earned dollar. As I walked out of the record store I was still rationalizing the purchase with myself. Even if the music was a total farce, I could still salvage the sleeve as a reminder of how much I hated Kiss. Besides, I was almost thirty years old at the time, and it would be almost sacrilegious not to own at least one Kiss album. Sometimes it’s tough being a white boy.
The album is a total hack job. I’m not joking when I say that it has to be one of the worst albums ever made. The best thing on the album is Gene’s (straight) rendition of “When You Wish Upon A Star” which I later learned he included on the effort as a joke. I couldn’t contain myself in telling others at what a piece of shit the Gene Simmons solo album was. Most people were confused by my passionate hatred at a record that was approaching twenty years old. Only my cousin Jason understood my pain. “If you think that one sucks,” he said, “try listening to the Peter Criss solo album…It’s even worse.” Another friend of mine also said the exact same thing and even added that the Paul Stanley solo release ain’t no Sgt. Pepper either. Of course, none of this could erase the fact that the hottest band in the world had finally duped me.
Around the same time as the Gene Simmons solo album fiasco, I went out and bought a copy of their “masterpiece” album “Destroyer.” I bought it for no fucking good reason at a Wal Mart in Shenandoah, Iowa while visiting my wife’s parents. We had grown tired of listening to an alternative station in Omaha play 311 over and over in anticipation of these hometown boys return to Nebraska. 311 originally started in the state’s largest city and then realized that Chip Davis wasn’t going to release shit from them on his American Gramophone record company. Chip had found sickening success with his Yuletide moog noodle outfit Manheim Steamroller who’s name makes me think of Bob and Doug McKenzie rolling over each other yelling “Steamroller!” in the movie “Strange Brew.” Chip hadn’t even attempted to do anything pop since manning the boards for C.W. McCall and milking millions of dollars out of retarded Americans who thought that c.b. radios were something they had to own.
Anyway, 311 got brains, moved to L.A. (just like Poison) and then found themselves with a gold album on Capricorn. The kids in Omaha ate them up because they were “hometown” heroes and the only alternative radio station in town would play them every goddamn hour. This grew really old really fast and I joined my wife on a make-up run (no pun intended) to Wal-Mart. The Shenandoah Wal Mart had plenty of 1.) country music and 2.) bad hair band music. On this day, the cover for “Destroyer” was looking mighty good and, since our Honda didn’t have a c.d. player, I settled on a cassette copy of their most popular studio album. It was a masterpiece, all right…a master piece of shit. This is what prompted people to start bands? This is the same group that the Replacements covered? Either there’s something really wrong with me or the rest of the world became hypnotized with Gene’s laser eyes while watching the phantom of the park movie.
First of all, the production. Bob Ezrin, in typical Bob Ezrin fashion filled the album with a bunch of corny sound effects (just like he did with Pink Floyd’s “The Wall”). Gene and Paul’s songwriting made it easy to understand why 15 year old white boys loved them so much, because they sound like they were written by 15 year old white boys. The performances were far from “heavy” or “metal” but I attribute this to the lads themselves and not Mr. Ezrin. Bob did a fine job with Alice Cooper’s “Love It To Death” album and that thing was 10 times heavier than “Destroyer.” If you want a real picture of what heavy metal was in ’78, stay clear of “Destroyer” and go straight for “…Bullocks” by the Sex Pistols. I’m also a firm believer that Sid Vicious could play bass better than Gene even while nodding out in his own drool.
About five years later, I get a call from my friend Brad who works at a classic rock radio station in Iowa City. He had scored two extra comp tickets to see Kiss in their “Farewell” tour in Cedar Rapids and asked if my wife and I would like to go. It took me a second…I had to consider the gas it would take to get there, but I eventually said yes. I was surprised at my wife’s reaction when I told her the news. She seemed genuinely excited about going and her enthusiasm slowly spread to me. I had been told time and time again of how Kiss really never translated well to vinyl. The best way to truly appreciate the majesty of Kiss was in a live concert. I dug out the cassette copy of “Destroyer,” played it until Gene uttered the words “I command you to kneel” before pushing the eject button. What the fuck had I gotten myself into?
My wife soothed me with words like “It’s not like we’re doing anything this weekend” and “It’s not every weekend you get to see Kiss.” She was right. We hopped in the car and headed up to the Kiss concert.
I picked up Brad and his friend Tanya (who hates Kiss too) in Iowa City. Brad must have sensed my hesitation because he kept saying that the show would be very entertaining as we shared obligatory pre-concert bong hits. I noticed how Brad used the word “entertaining” rather than “rocking” or “intense” or “fuckin’ awesome.” My wife fretted over he appearance feeling that she would somehow be outdone by some Kiss hotty. I assured her that her worries were unjust as Kiss only attracts skanks who think that wearing leopard skin pants four sizes too small is acceptable in the new century. With everyone in good shape for the show, we drove to Cedar Rapids.
Dinner at Denny’s made us miss both Skid Row and Ted Nugent. Brad and I were bummed at this, as we were both excited at the prospect of The Motor City Madman screaming at the crowd to kill animals and to leave the country if we didn’t speak English. Michigan has produced some pretty fucked up people…and they all need our support, including Uncle Ted.
Remember that time when a rare white buffalo was born on a farm in Wisconsin? Ted, God bless him, asked if he could buy it with the sole purpose of killing it. He even managed to offend some Native Americans who viewed the white buffalo as sacred. I’d probably feel like killing The Nuge myself if the fucker hadn’t written “Free For All.” With head hung low, I accepted my fate that I would not be seeing “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang” on that Saturday night.
Unfazed, the four of us took our seats as the house music played The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” over the p.a. The sound guy cranked up the music when Keith Moon starts to lay into his kit after the synth part in the middle, right before Daltry comes back in. Right when Rodger hits the crescendo “Yyyyyeeeeaaaaahhh!!!” the road crew drops a Kiss curtain covering up the stage entirely. This was a que to all of the retards and drunks that it was almost time for the show.
Less than ten minutes later, a man comes on the P.A. with the same motherfucking spiel that they’ve been doing for over 25 years: “Alright Cedar Rapids! You wanted the best and you’ve got the best! Please welcome the hottest band in the world….KISS!!!” And with that, they launch into “Detroit Rock City” just like they do on their live albums.

My wife was so happy that I was right on with the “skank” comment I made before and she thoroughly enjoyed watching the middle aged sluts make a “rock ‘n roll” symbol with one hand while clutching a plastic cup of Budweiser in the other. Most of the men in the audience had to be in their mid to upper thirties and most could use a shot of Rogaine in addition to their $5 beers. We sat next to two gentlemen who felt that the farewell tour of Kiss was such an important event that they towed their kids to the show. Both kids had to be younger than nine and both sported what looked like huge 70’s era headphones guised up as hearing protectors. They looked like Mathew Sweet did on the cover of his “100% Fun” album with the biggest difference being that Mathew was grinning from ear to ear in his child photo, and these kids were so fucking far from even thinking about cracking a smile.
I naively thought that the farewell tour with the original members would only focus on their material from the seventies. Gene and Paul, however, had other plans. This farewell tour would consist of the hits, including those that were made after Ace and Peter had left the fold. Ironically, Gene and Paul chose to avoid the band’s material from the 90’s and did not once acknowledge Eric Carr. Here’s a guy that manned the drum riser longer than Peter Criss and could actually keep a fucking beat. Gene made such a huge stink when Rolling Stone magazine failed to list his obituary when he died in ’91 and yet they now seem to have forgotten his role on the band’s farewell tour. The least they could have done was to display his image on the video screen whenever they did one of their “through the past” video montages.
It was quite a spectacle watching the old farts try to breathe some life into their awful 80’s material. Thankfully, they only did a handful of this shit and focused on their classic fare from the previous decade. They even let Space Ace do a couple of solo songs, which, after hearing his tone-deaf voice, made me wish that Paul and Gene pulled a song off of “Crazy Nights.”
Ace trotted out a “I can’t believe a man with so much technology at his disposal could sound so awful” version of the Stones’ “2000 Man.” It was so bad that The Glimmer Twins should file a restraining order against Ace Frehley for coming anywhere near the song in the future. To keep the fans attention away from the fact that Ace was so fucking far off key, the video monitors displayed some pathetic computer generated cartoon of the members of Kiss as superheroes. If the members of Kiss want to play cards, couldn’t they do it without an Ace in their deck?
Towards the end of the obligatory Ace guitar solo, smoke started to pour from the pickups. This was to signify that when Ace does a guitar “solo” it generates enough heat that his guitar actually catches on fire. In reality, it was just another ploy to distract the audience from the fact that even that Nigel from Spinal Tap played a better solo with his feet. Ace would often lose a pick while “jamming out” and flash a thumbs up to the crowd like the Fonz would. The crowd screamed, Ace continued, and then one of the most hilarious things I have even seen at a rock concert happened. The video monitors started to flash the word “ACE” on the screen in a desperate attempt to get the crowd to wake up. Like Iowa cattle, many in the crowd followed the instructions and started to chant “Ace!” as the word flashed on and off. Ace stopped, gave a “thumbs up,” said “Alright!” like he thought we were screaming for him to continue “shredding.”
Space Ace’s guitar started to produce some effects and it suddenly lifted from his arms and flew away. It is at this point that Frehley does a Henny Youngman one-liner like “Oh man! I that was my favorite guitar!” or “Oh man! I just got that guitar!” Before Ace could start doing more stand up, the rest of the senior citizens returned to rock our balls off.
Paul said the words “Cedar Rapids” forty-three times throughout the concert with three of them add-libbed in a ballad and one of them mouthed unmiked that I caught from watching him on the jumbo-tron. He did his “I want to get close to you, but you have to want me bad enough to scream” bit. The jumbo-tron displayed an image of a v.u. meter to which Paul instructed us to scream so loud that the needle would go “all the way into the red.” The crowd screamed. The man behind the soundboard turned up the audience mike. The needle went into the red. Paul grabbed a bar and flew to the other side of the arena. He sang a song about how much he loved us and said “Cedar Rapids” some more. He then flew back to the stage and left us feeling used like Pamela DeBarres.

Peter Criss practically smiled throughout every minute of the show from behind his kit. Here’s a list of three things that I imagined him smiling about: 1.) I’m so happy that Gene and Paul asked me to come back…Christ I was this close to having the bank foreclose on my house. 2.) Unbelievable! The crowd can’t even tell that the drum track is coming straight from a D.A.T. deck beneath the drum riser! 3.) I’m glad you’re dead, Eric Carr…Like paper covers rock, a cat beats the shit out of a fox every day of the week.
From what I understand, Peter stopped doing a drum solo about the fourth week into the tour. I really could care less who recommended this, Peter or the other members of the band, but whoever’s idea it was deserves a medal. Anyone who struggles with just staying in time should not have the words “drum solo” in their vocabulary.
Later on in the show, the kitty came out under a friggin’ disco ball and mewled “Beth” karaoke-style to the crowd. Pete exclaimed that he had never seen so many women around the front of the stage (“Usually it’s all guys!”) as he handed out roses to the skanks who had, no doubt, heard the excuse “me and the boys will be playin’ all night” far too many times than they cared to remember.
Gene breathed fire and, goddamnit, walked away without any third degree burns. The lights turned to green and Brad looked at me to announce that next would be a bass solo followed by (oh Christ) “God Of Thunder.”
My wife, who received a bass guitar less than a year prior to the concert, could play a bass guitar solo better than Gene Simmons. A bass solo in Gene’s world consists of the sound guy turning up the bass until it distorts, having Gene pluck one friggin’ note over and over again, spitting up blood and saliva on the first three rows of the crowd, and having the stage crew lift his fifty year old ass up to a platform above the stage where he commands the crowd to kneel before the God of Thunder. “Fly, fucker, fly!” I thought.
“God Of Thunder” was probably the highlight of the show. Not because of what was on stage, but because I saw the faces of true horror on the two kids sitting next to us as they looked at their fathers pleading “I don’t like this, Daddy” who remained unconcerned. They lowered Gene’s ass back down to stage left and Paul came back out with another half dozen “Cedar Rapids!”

The skanks continued to show their breasts every time the video cameras were pointed in their direction. Paul, in a desperate attempt to display a certain amount of machismo exclaimed that Cedar Rapids had become a “nipple-fest” which encouraged more skanks to flash the meatheads that like seeing tities at rock concerts. For about a half second, I believed that Paul was not gay.

More annoying than Paul trying to cover up his homosexuality was his constant yapping in between songs. Kiss would play a four-minute song and then Paul would go on and on for about five minutes about how we “had made (his) dreams come true” and how “people said that we couldn’t last…But twenty five years later, (we’d) proved them all wrong!” I swear to God, they could have knocked off almost an hour off of the total time of the show if someone had the balls to tell Paul Stanley to shut the fuck up.

Remember that long falsetto yodeling that Paul did at the beginning of “Heaven’s On Fire?” He now does that at the beginning of almost every fucking song. Sample: “All right Cedar Rapids! We’re gonna do something off of “Love Gun” for yooooooooohohohohohohohooooo!!!!” This wouldn’t have been so bad if the sound levels hadn’t been so motherfucking high. At the risk of sounding old, they had this thing way too loud for the concrete slab known as the U.S. Cellular Center and every goddamn thing bounced off the walls like the Grand Canyon.

It was loud beyond annoying…it was painful. The only reason for this that I could come up with was that they wanted it loud so that you wouldn’t forget the show for days afterwards because of tinnitus. Let me make it clear that it wasn’t really the band that was too loud, just Ace’s treble-heavy guitar and Paul’s annoying “there’s a butt-plug in my asshole” yodels. My wife had to actually go to the doctor a week after the show because her ears hurt so much. It was determined that she had an ear infection (nothing to do with the concert) but the doctor did detect an inflamed eardrum and lectured her for not wearing ear protection. I have to admit, though, if you have to go to the doctor for an after-concert ear problem, it’s cool to tell the physician that Kiss brought you to his office.

In total, Kiss played for two and a half hours (or ninety minutes if you take away Paul Stanley’s banter) like this really was the last time they’d be in Cedar Rapids. Paul mentioned that the (U.S. Cellular Center) arena was like “home” to them because they had played there every tour since 1983. Before that, Paul exclaimed that they used to play at the “coliseum,” a venue that doesn’t even exist in Cedar Rapids.

Hello Cleveland!

For a “farewell” tour, I expected the place to be sold out and was surprised that there were plenty of vacant seats. Surprised until I found out that ticket prices were a staggering $55 bucks for general admission. I didn’t learn this until the middle of the show and Paul tried to justify the hefty ticket prices towards the end of the concert. He went on for ten minutes about how we would pay the same amount of money that we paid (nada…thanks Brad!) and would never see the kind of showmanship that we were witnessing on that night. He continued to preach about how they started the band because they felt ripped off one night after seeing a show that wasn’t entertaining. According to Paul, Kiss was formed to show the rest of the rock and roll world how heavy metal should be played on stage and to give people their money’s worth. Give me my money’s worth, Paul, send me a friggin’ check for my wife’s doctor’s visit!

None of this shit mattered to the crowd, which consisted (mostly) of overweight skanks and middle-aged meth-lab owners. Remarkably, there were very few “metal heads” in the audience, which may be the very reason that Kiss are throwing in the towel.

Kiss has always been about marketing and not, as Paul described it, about giving the people their money’s worth. Does a real music fan actually need comic books printed in blood, poseable action figures (they could hardly do anything), or posters depicting the lads as revolutionary soldiers in the Kiss army? Kiss has always been about taking people’s money and the “farewell” tour was a last attempt at getting a buck before the bottom fell out.

You have got to give the band props for lasting this long and, yes, there have been numerous times when they were declared dead only to make a full financial recovery. The props I’m talking about are working up a new way to market themselves just when they are about to leave the rock and roll radar screen. The unmasking of Kiss in the mid 80’s, the power ballads of the late 80’s, the return of Bob Ezrin behind the boards during the early 90’s when grunge bands cited them as influential, and finally the reunion of the mid 90’s. These are prime examples of a band (specifically Gene and Paul) working a marketing machine that generated hype among a fan base that doesn’t know any better.

Take a look at the bands that cite them as influential. None of them went to the lengths that Kiss did when it came to self-promotion. They understood that 1.) they would never be able to compete with them on that level and 2.) the band was in reality a scam that “masked” their lack of musical ability. Kiss were never really very good at what they did, but they provided an image that depicted them as being much better than they really were.

And dumbshits bought it. I believe that the Kiss Army is divided into two distinct camps: those that are too stupid to tell and those that “get it” but accept the decadence that they promote. Whatever camp you’re a part of is irrelevant, you’re still a dumbshit, and that includes me. I believe as a young boy that Peter Criss was an excellent drummer. Why? Because of the size of his drum kit! Duh! When you’re nine years old you logically assume that he needs all of those tom toms because he’s going to play them. Years later, you start to notice that, out of all those drum accessories, Peter only seems to play the snare, high-hat and bass drum.

My hatred started because I felt used; I was wound way too tight to really understand that what they were doing was perfectly cool. It wasn’t until after seeing them live during their supposed last tour that I finally “got it.” They sucked shit but the concert was probably one of the best things that I’d ever seen because I knew that they knew they sucked shit. Gene and Paul probably sleep well at the end of the day and they may even take offense at this idea, but I’m positive that deep inside, the lashing that they have taken from critics over the past twenty-five years has created a certain amount of self-doubt.

They’ve written some good songs, but they’ve never really been able to come up with an excellent song that rock radio embraces enough to look beyond their pre-pubescent image machine. The Dave Clark Five sold as many records as the Beatles at one time, yet one band has stood the test of time while the other has been demoted to Dick Bartley’s oldies show. Kiss will probably meet the same fate, and part of me “like(s) it like that.”

Let’s look at this another way. In my mind, the Bay City Rollers “Saturday Night” and Kiss’ “Rock And Roll All Night” are virtually identical. Both songs are based in a rock formula and are easy to remember (nice hook). My eleven year old knows (a little) about Kiss but has no idea about the Rollers. Why? Because she’s never seen the Bay City Rollers jumping around in their little Scottish kilts but she has seen Kiss in Pepsi commercials rocking all night, partying every day, and enjoying the joy of cola. Her children will probably feel the same way about Kiss as she feels about the Bay City Rollers and they’ll never hear their music unless an ad agency uses “Sure Know Something” to sell Dr. Pepper.

What I’m getting to is that Kiss, specifically Gene and Paul, need to be in the rock and roll arena to perpetuate the myth. Without them, the myth, the band, the songs, grow stagnate and quickly become a memory triggered by the local oldies station. We probably won’t see white teenagers stumble onto Kiss the way that my generation stumbled onto The Doors or Led Zeppelin. What you’ll have instead is a middle-age father listening to an oldies station while driving his kids when suddenly “Detroit Rock City” comes on the radio. Dad will get so excited and try to explain why they were the “hottest band in the world” only to have a tough time selling it. Again, the biggest obstacle is that the band won’t be around to promote themselves but, you must admit, Kiss has never really been groundbreaking in their music either. So the kids ignore Dad (just like I ignored my Dad’s enthusiasm for the Dave Clark Five when they came on the radio!) and the radio station they listen to won’t be championing the band either (like my favorite stations championed the Beatles, Zep, or The Doors). Suddenly Dad hears Kiss segue right into The Bay City Rollers or Anita Ward’s “Ring My Bell” if they’re playing “I Was Made For Loving You.”

Nothing that Kiss did in Cedar Rapids changed my opinion of them. It promoted the myth to the converted at the same time they cleaned out their fan’s wallets (again). And Paul was wrong about justifying their hefty ticket price. I’ve seen better pyrotechnics at a Flaming Lips show in a small club and paid under $10 for that. Had I paid $110 for a pair of Kiss tickets, I would have been pissed. I would have fumed at the barking sound, poor musicianship, predictable showmanship, and endless banter.
As it stands, I didn’t pay for the tickets and it was worth the drive up to Cedar Rapids and dinner at Denny’s. At that price, it was one hell of a show and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I got to see the original members of Kiss do their shtick in full regalia and I had a good laugh at their expense.

After the band performed their final encore, the house lights came up to the sound of “God Gave Rock And Roll To You.” For many, the band was and will continue to be a religion but I remain an atheist. As the crowd filed out, we walked towards the floor. Our foursome saw the roadies start the load-out, the confetti-lined floor, and the garbage cans overflowing with beer cups. If there was a gospel to Kiss, it would have to be those three things: the workers that build the temple every night, the pageantry of the prayer cloths and the holy water the parishioners buy for just five bucks a cup. Paul Stanley is more cunning than Robert Tilton, however, as he has yet to be investigated by the I.R.S.

Our group was suddenly met by security as we were asked to leave the floor and exit the U.S. Cellular arena. With yellow jackets and walkie-talkies they ushered out the faithful and prevented us from watching the road crew dismantle the temple for just a few minutes more. Through the tinnitus I could hear one say: “Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain…”

What About The Voice Of Geddy Lee?

I’ve always been receptive towards new music, but like any other music fanatic, there was a time in which my record collection was probably just as weak as the people I ridicule today. Ok, maybe not that bad, but I did have my share of duds while growing up. After all, I’m the guy that got pissed at Heather A. for putting a few saltine crackers on 38 Special’s “Wild Eyed Southern Boys” as it played on my turntable at my very first “the parents are away” party. Now I understand she was doing me a favor in her drunken comedy gesture. Thank you Heather. Too bad I couldn’t return the favor later on by telling you “speed kills.” She’s one of those chicks that came from a well-to-do family, got caught up in meth, and now looks 10 years older than me. She even came close to losing her kids after she left them outside in subzero weather while she did whatever mothers do under the influence of methamphetamines.
I stole at least four albums from her older brother: Ozzy Osborne’s “Diary Of A Madman,” Van Halen’s “Fair Warning,” Rush’s “All The World’s A Stage” and Billy Squier’s “Don’t Say No.” I was doing pretty good up until Billy Squier. And I don’t know what the fuck was with me and stealing back then. I nicked several albums from Woolsworth (do you know how hard it was to steal albums?), cassettes from K-Mart, and a shitload of cassettes from unlocked cars parked in the hospital parking lot. I would go to the orthodontist and then check for unlocked vehicles on the way back to school. I picked up Lindsey Buckingham’s “Law & Order,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Live,” and Tom Petty’s “Hard Promises” this way. Not once did I get busted.
I touched my first vagina to the sounds of Rush’s “All The World’s A Stage” 8-track. Even then I was an overachiever: using a format that essentially has no real ending seemed like the perfect soundtrack to exploring the warmth of womanhood. Never mind the actual songs were nowhere near sexual, sans the seven minute version of “In The End.” But whatever: forethought and sensitivity were never really an issue with the girl that once made a beeline towards my willy, backstage in the middle school auditorium. Besides, she seemed impressed that I could recite “I can see what you mean/It just takes me longer” alongside Geddy Lee. The man with the squeaky voice was my first finger bang companion.

But getting back to the kleptomania, I really have no idea what possessed me to steal music. It wasn’t like there was other examples of my material thievery either. I probably stole nothing more in value that some Bazooka Joe bubble gum up until that point. Music made me do crazy thing. Like cash in all of my savings bonds to a ton of albums down at the mall. There was something so powerful about having enough cash to actually secure an entire weekend worth of quality listening material. “Quality” being very subjective to the age and time. It’s obvious that “Hold On Loosely” held a special place in my heart for a brief period in my life. Perhaps if I wasn’t so cynical, it might still hold a place of fondness with me today. For the record: I’ve never stopped loving that live Rush album.

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.