The Decline of the Independent Record Store

Tower Records has finally gone under. On October 6, the company was sold to Great American Group (the parent company of such “wonderful” stores like F.Y.E.) and the existing stores are currently being liquidated for a going out of business sale that will see the locations close by the end of the year.
We have no Tower Records in Iowa; they could be found in larger cities and, for someone like me, became a destination point whenever I traveled to a location fortunate enough to have one. The stores were a destination point because they housed a huge inventory selection. I was used to being a “special order” kind of guy, so it was very refreshing to walk into a Tower Records and find a band’s entire catalog available and even some import titles.

My first ever visit to a Tower was in the mid-80’s when cds were still fairly novel and when certain titles were hard to find. It was in Orange County, California, and I walked out with a vinyl import copy of XTC’s Go Two, an import cd copy of XTC’s The Big Express, an import cd copy of The Smiths’ Meat Is Murder and another vinyl album that I can’t remember the name of. How I got the vinyl back to Iowa un-warped and in one piece also remain a mystery.
The feeling of walking into a record store like that got me thinking of the various record stores that have managed to give me some joy. They’re the type of locations that, if you were unfortunate enough to be there with me, you’d become one of those “Are you done yet?” type of people while I’d still be on the “M” section.
Sadly, a lot of the stores that made an impact with me didn’t make enough of an impact with others; a lot of them are no longer in business but for those that are, I’ve tried to provide links if available. Here’s something that boggles my mind: I can remember what albums that I bought at some of these stores. This has to be a sign of some mental illness.

• DISC JOCKEY RECORDS (Keokuk, Iowa)-A chain, I know, but it was in my hometown and they did special orders. They had a fairly decent selection otherwise and they even had an import section. I’ll give them credit for later stocking titles that normally wouldn’t sell in small town Iowa; at least they listened to their customers. They did a terrible job of recommending titles, though. A worker there who was a grade ahead of me suggested that I get Planet P Project’s Pink World and Lita Ford’s Dancin’ On The Edge. Both efforts where awful and I immediately returned them. Typically, I would take a razor blade and make a deep, visually hidden cut in the first track. When you returned a record, it had to skip on their fancy Technics turntable before they would take it back and issue a refund. This trick ensured that every return I made was “legit” and helped me avoid future ridicule if someone found a Lita Ford or Planet P Project album in my collection. Oh, and the douchebag also sold me on the notion that the Planet P Project album was pressed on pink vinyl. Only his promotional copy was, but regardless of the color of the vinyl, that album sucked huge balls. Another dude made fun of the band named Scritti Polliti when I ordered the 12” for “Hypnotize” there. Record store clerks in Keokuk, Iowa don’t have the right to make fun of anyone’s music taste, in my opinion.
• UNKNOWN RECORD STORE (Quincy, Illinois)-I tried to run a search to find the name of this independent record store that was located in downtown Quincy, Illinois, but had no luck. Quincy was about 45 minutes away and was a frequent destination point when I first got my drivers license. This was an important store because it was the first store that also had used records. Thus began my tradition of bringing old records for them to buy and then turn around with the in-store credit to get albums that I wanted. The owner was a friendly middle-aged dude with a mustache. He was really into progressive rock and recommended that I buy Supertramp Brother Where You Bound, the first album that they did without vocalist Rodger Hodgson. It had a 16 minute long title track and guitar work from David Gilmour. It’s quite possible that I let the guy know I was a huge Pink Floyd fan at the time, which may explain why he recommended this album to me. In any event, it was a bad recommendation; I sold it back to the store for a loss a few months later and picked up a used vinyl copy of XTC’s Black Sea. That album, in case you’re wondering, is awesome.
  The store did a good job of stocking high priced import cds, particularly when domestic versions of the title weren’t available. If you’re good at math, you can add up how much money I actually loss when I sold vinyl copies to them at $3 a pop only to turn around and buy an import version of The Sex Pistols Never Mind The Bullocks at the hefty price of $30. This was also the same store where I bought the obligatory copy of Bob Marley’s Legend, thereby starting my love of reggae music.
• WEIRD HAROLD’S (Burlington, Iowa)-Still open and still with a huge vinyl collection. They also have a nice selection of used cds that can occasionally provide a customer with a great find. The store’s been around since 1972 and it’s still run by Dennis (or Denny, I can’t remember) who’s a nice guy. He’s not real up on rare titles (I got a first run edition of Stone Roses’ first album cheap) but he knows the value of the classic rock collection. While in radio, I would bring tons of promotional copies here, unload them for next to nothing, and have enough in-store credit to build the station’s library as well as my own. His wife owns the art store that it’s attached to, which may explain why it’s still around today. Small independent record stores in the downtown of a river town typically don’t last this long. I’ve never had anything recommended here; they just ring up the shit and say “Thank you.” Oh, and if you’re looking for that copy of Mason Proffit or Missouri, this is the place that will normally have it on the shelves. No shit.
• BJ RECORDS (Iowa City, Iowa)-It ain’t around anymore, but back in the day it was one cool record store. Lots of indie titles and a little added snobbery (the section for Madonna was listed as Madorka, but this was when she was still fairly new and her cultural relevance was questionable). We’d car trip up to Iowa City to be around the cool college kids and we’d find ourselves here (along with the headshops that sold bongs and one-hitters). They’d tolerate us at BJ’s and answer our stupid questions (“Does New Order sound like The Smiths?”). I got lots of Smiths imports here and this is where I bought my first Butthole Surfers album. When I arrived home, my Dad noticed this and said “Mother look, your Son bought a Butthole Surfers album.” I think he was suggesting that I was wasting my money, but you and I know better. When it started to struggle, the store closed, then re-opened, but customer indifference helped it close again. The last time I was there they had hardly any titles on the shelves and the place looked deserted. It was sad, particularly when one remembers how thriving it was. I didn’t even notice a clerk there on the last visit, until I noticed a black middle-aged dude with dreadlocks sitting on the floor behind the counter on my way out. I think all he cared about was that I didn’t try to rip off the last remaining inventory that the store had.
• THE RECORD COLLECTOR (Iowa City, Iowa)-Hard to find (originally), limited space (originally) for complete titles, and an extremely pretentious staff that consisted of a lot of local band members. What more could one ask for in a record store! They would have laughed me out of the store if I would have asked the “New Order/The Smiths” question that I asked at BJ’s. A lot of the conceitedness comes directly from owner Kirk Walther, who started the store with a crate of records and a whole lot of music knowledge over a quarter-century ago. He now spends the majority of his time in back, selling used shit on Ebay, buying record collections (ala “High Fidelity) and leaving the day-to-day operations to the college kids who seem fairly knowledgeable on sub-genres that I have no interest in. He’s a great guy once you get to know him and he is consistent with his recommendations. At the original location, it always seemed that they didn’t have much in stock, but what they had, you wanted. The key was to visit frequently; a lot of gems would come through the door only to be sold quickly if you didn’t get them first. He would pay top dollar for radio concert discs, which created an awesome merchant-consumer bond; I'd get mega bucks for those Led Zeppelin discs and walk away with something I really wanted. The newest location is easy to find, but hard to find parking for which makes destination visits a pain. Plus, they seemed to have focused more on trip-hop, dance music, and other club beats which ain’t my bag. There’s still fondness in my heart for ‘em, and it’s nice to know they’re still doing what they do.
• LET IT BE RECORDS (Minneapolis, MN)-Now reduced to an online store/mail order, but at one time it was a great independent record store located in the heart of downtown Minneapolis. The high rents must have killed ‘em. Lots of catalog and an extremely knowledgeable staff that helped you when needed. There was a rumor that the store had a “secret” basement warehouse filled with additional collectables. Maybe it is true, especially considering they continue to do online stuff. Minneapolis used to have a lot of great record stores (Northern Lights on Hennepin was another) but now the independents seemed to have vanished or sucked up by the national chains.
• HOMER RECORDS (Omaha, NE)-A totally badass record store (several locations) in a totally unbadassed state (Nebraska?!). Huge amounts of titles and a very friendly staff. I remember one time a clerk helping me during a moment of not knowing what it was I wanted to buy. He asked what I was listening to at the moment (Cat Power) and he located a hard to find title for me. He then went on to recommend another title. He then did something that I never had happen before: he opened the cd and let me listen to it at a listening station. I felt so obligated to buy it, even after I determined that I didn’t want it after I listened to it. When he wasn’t looking, I put it down in an unrelated section and bought the titles that I knew I wanted. Sorry, buddy. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him it sucked, especially after he so enthusiastically recommended it. A great store, though.
• SLACKERS (Columbia, MO)-On the first few trips to Columbia, Missouri, I totally missed this place. When I did see it, it didn’t look like much on the outside and I didn’t go in. I usually went down the road to Streetside Records instead. But on the third visit to Columbia, I was downtown and it was getting late, yet the place was still opened. The outside was misleading, because inside, the store had two levels of album titles and a great selection of used. I never had anybody recommend anything here, but one dude did find the album that They Might Be Giants’ “Snowball In Hell” was on for me. Once, I was struggling with paying top dollar on an import version of a T-Rex album. They had the same title there, priced at the same cost of a domestic version. Score! They also had a used copy of Syd Barrett's Barrett and I'm still kicking myself for now picking up the other used version of The Madcap Laughs. I already had it (on vinyl and cd) but this copy had bonus tracks. And bonus tracks are a music geek's best friend. I also got the limited edition version of Spiritualized's Let It Come Down for something like ten bucks. Anyway, a cool store that I now hit every time I’m in Columbia.
• VINTAGE VINYL (St. Louis, MO)-Located across the street from The Pageant, this store has a great selection of new and used titles. Once, I went there with the sole intention of buying an Alexander “Skip” Spence album and an album by The Cherry Valance. They had them both, and even had the Spence title used, which makes them cool in my book. What's cool is that it's sometimes open even after the show at The Pageant is over. There's nothing that's worse for the pocketbook than when you're record shopping in the afterglow of a concert.

Time, the loss of the indie-minded stores, and pricing have really diminished how frequently I visit record stores; to be honest, I typically order things online via Insound or Amazon. I do miss the interpersonal relations that occur when shopping in person, but honestly, I’ve noticed a huge difference in the passion of the people working at these stores than in years past. And that’s a problem, particularly when people are ordering more via online outlets and/or downloading music free. Give me a reason to shop there and I’ll give you my hard earned dollar. After all, people like me are dwindling fast. A recent conversation with a twentysomething proved this. When I asked how he gets new music, he immediately stated that he downloaded all of his songs and has a collection on his harddrive that numbers into the thousands. When I asked if he pays for them, without missing a beat, he said “What? Do you think I’m stupid?” Record companies did an awful job of lending their support of independent record stores and help foster the climate of music fans that view the art as a disposable commodity. There are fewer people who are passionate about things like the interaction of music lovers, the liner notes, the artwork, and by undermining the dwindling outlets that housed these geeks, the industry has assisted their own downfall. And even though Tower Records’ poor bookkeeping and poorly managed growth plans helped put them in the predicament they’re in, I can’t help but think that record companies, particularly the major labels, helped contribute to their downfall.

Murry Wilson-I'm A Genius, Too!

Lately, I've been fixated with what's become the most talked about Beach Boys recording since the original Smile sessions: the initial recordings of the song "Help Me Rhonda." The date was January 8, 1965, when Murry Wilson, Father of Beach Boys' Brian, Carl, and Dennis Wilson, stops by the recording studio where Brian and the boys are in the middle of recording their hit "Help Me Rhonda." Feeling a little left out, and feeling the effects of several rum and Cokes, Murry proceeds to take over the sessions by offering his expert advice ("Loosen up and be happy!") and drunken wisdom ("I have 3,000 words to say: Quit screaming and start singing from your hearts...So you're big stars. Let's fight! Let's fight for success!").

Brian Wilson, who we've all treated as a damaged genius, is clearly in full possession of his sanity here and even mildly challenges his Father's drunken nonsense. It's funny, and a creepy look into the dynamics of The Beach Boys at the height of their career. What's amazing is that the band was even able to make music with this kind of bitter megalomaniac bum rushing their talents.
Learn more, and download the sessions from the awesome site WFMU's Beware of the Blog.

The Raconteurs-Broken Boy Soldiers

So I guess it’s cool to bash Jack White now, just like it’s cool to come across as nothing more than a N.M.E. writer; build a band up (read: hype) and then revel in the glory of knockin’ ‘em back down to the hardwood floors they slept on when they were young ‘n hungry.
No matter what anyone does or says to try to convince me otherwise, I’ll be a Jack White fanboy if only for the fact that the fella does his homework and executes what he’s absorbed in a completely credible and believable fashion.
Take his recent work with The Raconteurs as an example: their debut Broken Boy Soldiers is a hastily developed “supergroup” that’s firmly (at least for now) entrenched in an era of rock that spawned hastily developed superrock. If you’re scratching your head at the idea of what “superrock” is, then you’re spending way too much time on it; put down your dictionary, learn a few chords, and write a song, motherfucker.
‘Cause it seems that what White and Brendan Benson have done with Broken Boy Soldiers, which may be one of the year’s best albums because it doesn’t pretend to be one of the year’s best albums.
It recalls a period of rock where bands started testing the limits of their sonic delivery without understanding that, just a year or two prior to this, they learned the chord progression of “Louie Louie.” And I, for one, love it when a band with serious limitations on their music ability pretends that they don’t have any limitations on their music ability.

The thing is, Jack White is extremely talented at two things: writing lyrics and playing the electric guitar. But he’s also extremely talented at music appreciation. So he let’s his buddy Brandon handle half of the songwriting credits and merely adds a ton of clever guitar licks and a bunch of bitchin’ abandon. It’s a fun record, to the point where you can overlook such retarded prose like “I’ve got a rabbit, it likes to hop/I’ve got a girl, and she likes to shop” (“Intimate Secretary”).
So yeah, White doesn’t have to try very hard to shine throughout this thing, but you’ve got to appreciate the fact that he keeps trying to hide behind a big electric guitar to avoid the spotlight.
Best of all, the album cuts away at any of the pretension that Get Behind Me Satan may have had on some fans by clocking in at barely over a half hour and by barely hiding the fact that a lot of time and effort weren’t spent on worrying about what you or I think of Broken Boy Soldiers. Instead, a lot of time and effort was spent in simply having a good time making rock and roll. Which, of course, is exactly what a lot of bands need to start doing in the first place.

21,000,000 "Back In Black" Fans Can't Be Wrong

With, what, 21 million copies sold, I’m sure that there’s plenty of stories involving AC/DC’s “Back In Black” and the people who bought it. That’s a lot of records sold, and quite honestly, it amazes me that the album is in the same league as “Thriller” and The Eagles’ “Greatest Hits Volume One.” So while we wait for the other 20,999,999 owners to tell their own “Back In Black” story, let me tell you mine.
Prior to “Back In Black,” I had been exposed to AC/DC in various record stores and through the fervent support of their fans housed in my hometown. I specifically remember seeing the cover of “If You Want Blood” and being intrigued by the blood and guts imagery. I was also keenly aware that the band seemed to be a bit dirty and that lead singer Bon Scott had some visible tattoos; back in the day, tattoos were not as socially acceptable as they are now, and that meant that this Bon Scott guy probably grew up on the “wrong” side of the tracks.
The other noticeable thing was that their fans, at least the ones in my hometown, were also from the wrong side of the tracks. For the privileged folk on the North side of town, these individuals were known as “scurves.” To get a visual picture of the stereotype, they all essentially looked like AC/DC rhythm guitarist Malcolm Young. These are the individuals who saw Bon Scott and, unlike me, could relate to him. Even when said singer was holding up a man with a Gibson guitar jammed into his stomach.

“Highway To Hell” brought the band from the South side to all over town. With an opening riff that’s more effective than a chiropractor visit, AC/DC didn’t really change a thing; they simply kept hitting that brick wall with power chords until the motherfucker fell down.
The “Highway To Hell” single became a favorite at the local pizzeria that most 13 year olds frequented after the Friday night football games. While the girls stuck with the A-side, the rest of us played the flip, “Night Prowler,” when throwing down quarters in the jukebox. We did it for three reasons: 1.) It rocked, 2.) It was over five minutes long, thereby giving us more music for the money and 3.) they did that reference to “Mork & Mindy” at the end of it.
In middle school, I typically sat precariously in between the scurve section and popular section during lunchtime. The popular section was too boring; the scurve section was too scary. In between housed a section of individuals that could easily acclimate to either social stratum. Most of the table consisted of music lovers and we spent the time talking about the albums we liked.
On one day, there was some obvious discontent at the scurve table. One individual had skipped his morning classes and decided to come to school during lunch. He brought with him the news that Bon Scott was dead, and this information was met with a curious display of humanity. A couple of guys vowed to ditch the rest of the day classes, to retreat to the back of a nearby pharmacy and smoke Marlboros. It was a funeral wake that Mr. Scott would be pleased with.
I can’t remember what my reaction was, if any, to the news that AC/DC would continue on with a new lead singer. What I do remember is my first introduction to that album was also my introduction to cocaine.
To be 14 is a strange thing no matter what your locale is. The social cliques start getting defined at this point and, this is crucial, they pave the way for the all-important social network that one has in high school. One needs to align themselves with the “right” people in order to be accepted during the next four years and this alignment sometimes means networking with a variety of different people.
The obvious outlet is through sports, and I tried this approach. On one Friday night, myself and three other guys went to watch the senior high football game. While walking there, one of the guys really had it out for another dude, Sean, who was a notorious stoner and, ironically, was competing against him for the quarterback position on our junior high football squad. For this and some other trivial reason, this guy was going to kick Sean’s ass and the rest of us would be present for moral support. A challenge was given during the football game and about two dozen people made their way across the street to a parking lot to watch the fight. While I was originally in the other guy’s corner, I left the fight as a supporter of Sean. He went into the fight with the same lackadaisical attitude that he had for football; while the other dude swung wildly at Sean’s head, Sean danced back causing the other guy to miss each time. This made Sean grin and he laughed as the aggressor quickly began to wear down. By this time, Sean started to land some accurate jabs, swelling his opponent’s eye, and turning the match into an embarrassment. The scuffle was broken up, and someone yelled that the police were coming. Everyone ran, and I found myself running alongside Sean instead of the guy that I came to the game with. After complementing him on his fighting abilities, we walked to a party his older sister was at.
The party was in an apartment complex, which is an ultra-cool place for a party when you’re 14. What was amazing was that Sean was a year younger than me, and he was obviously much cooler since he had the hookup on parties in apartments. Even more amazing was that the chicks having the party were out of high school. From what I understood, it was Sean’s older sister’s place (he also had another older sister, a year older than me, who lived at home) and after a few moments of debating whether or not she should allow her younger brother and me into her place, she relented and agreed to give us one beer.
Sean determined that she also had some weed and asked her for a joint. She refused and Sean, in a stunning example of clever blackmail, threatened to tell his Mom that she gave him a beer if she didn’t give him a joint. Being older and cooler than us, the plan backfired and she quickly escorted us to the door. “Goodbye boys.” The other girls cooed, as we left, taking the shoe leather express to make sure we made our respected curfews.
“Fucking bitch.” Sean muttered. “That’s ok; I can get some weed from my other sister’s boyfriend. You wanna come over to my house tomorrow and get stoned?” Given the fact that this guy had single-handedly gotten me into a party with 19-year old girls and who, apparently, had a weed connection, the answer was a resounding “Yes.” Sean was decidedly more cool during the two hours that I knew him than most of the other friends that I had for years.
I drove my moped over to Sean’s house a little bit after lunch the next day. Nobody answered the door, so I went around back and noticed that his room was right off the sliding glass doors to the basement and there, still sleeping in his bed, was Sean. I banged on the sliding glass door and he woke up and let me in.
He told me that when he got home last night, he snuck out and went down the street to party with his sister’s boyfriend, the guy that was supposed to get us some weed. Sean explained that he didn’t have any weed, but he did score some coke from the guy. Having never tried cocaine and in no position to look uncool, I agreed to doing a line. Sean pulled out a new copy of AC/DC’s “Back In Black” album, put the vinyl on the turntable next to his bed, and poured a quarter-gram of cocaine onto the cover of the record jacket. The menacing opening bells served as an appropriate metaphor; I was doing a drug that was extremely “hip” for the time and I was traveling down a road that few fourteen year olds had traveled. AC/DC was the soundtrack to this as Sean laid out lines of the white powder on the stark black record jacket. We did lines throughout side one, and by the time side two hit, we were growing restless.

For whatever reason, Sean decided to snoop around his sister’s room across the hall, possibly to look for hidden cigarettes. He went into her closet and found a shoebox on the top shelf. Inside, we found no cigarettes. Instead, we saw empty wrappers of condoms, a memento to keep track of all of the times she had sex with the guy that gave us the reason to be this restless. Rather than put the box back, he left it on her bed, joking that he was going to leave it for his Mother to find.
He then went upstairs to look for any stray open packs of smokes that his parents may have left behind. “Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution” started as he slowly marched downstairs, grinning and playing air guitar with two Marlboro 100 cigarettes dangling in his mouth. We went outside to smoke them clandestine under the deck.
I was a novice smoker at this point; actually I was doing it just to uphold my newfound image as “cocaine snorter” and I probably didn’t even inhale.
Suddenly, we heard the front door open and we quickly extinguished the smokes.
A teenage girl yelled “Sean?” from the living room.
“It’s my sister.” He explained.
We heard footsteps coming down the stairs as we remained quietly under the deck outside.
“Sean!” she screamed; she had discovered the shoe box of empty condom wrappers still on her bed.
Sean laughed while his sister violently opened the sliding basement door. She chased him around the house with the complete intention of beating her younger brother senseless. Sean grabbed a handful of rocks as he made his way around the front of the house and proceeded to throw the stones at his sister while calling her a slut. Tired and realizing that she couldn’t catch him, she gave up and retreated back into the house with tears in her eyes.
I hung out with Sean a few more times that year, but at the end of the semester, I had graduated to high school while he had one more year of middle school to go. With the change in schools came another change in the social strata; a blueprint was laid, but as any Freshman will tell you, 9th grade boys don’t rank much on the high school radar.
Sean became the starting quarterback on the junior high football team and, after the season end, continued to test the limits of the school authorities and his parents.
He struggled in school and his low grades even caused him to lose a little luster among his peers. Soon, he too would be considered a scurve-by-proxy, with only his North side address saving him from a life of ridicule and becoming completely discounted. Sean turned into that obligatory stoner, the one that people tolerated but understood that his poor decision making probably ruined any true potential. I later learned that he did end up in the armed forces, possibly a good choice for him, and that he “shaped up,” found a girl to marry, and that he leads a relatively calm middle-class life now.
And 21 million albums later, I’m sure that AC/DC live a relatively calm high-class now. Money provides them with a little more incentive to protect their investment and not take the same risks that they may have when they were hungry. That notion completely sucks, because with each passing year, and with each year they choose not to even release an album, their image gets safer. It’s a double standard for sure, because the older they get, the sillier their double-entendres come across, regardless of how awesome their power chords continue to be.
No matter how silly they seem, they’ll always hold a certain degree of danger for me. There was a time when the band’s fan base were a little dangerous themselves. Think of it this way: many of AC/DC’s line-up also struggled in school, had conflicts with authorities, and appreciated a good party. As they progressed, their repetitive formula managed to sneak into the homes of suburbia who understood the band’s demeanor was part shtick. Thankfully, AC/DC came of age with me and at that time their fans were just as unpredictable as the band. In my mind, they’ll be the band that was the soundtrack for Richard Ramirez, that made albums to do lines of coke off of, and the band who’s fans looked exactly like Malcom Young.

The Who-Live Review

The Who
Wells Fargo Arena-Des Mones, Iowa
September 26, 2006

Twenty three years ago, I had a chance to see The Who on the “It’s Hard” tour. Of course, it wasn’t really The Who back then, but it was ¾ of The Who, which is ¼ more of The Who than the incarnation in 2006.
Back to the story.
The venue was sold out, and being young and naïve about such things, I used the classified ads to look for tickets. I found a scalping company and made a call to the phone number listed on the classified. I spoke with a gentleman, the years have given him a Mike Damone quality, but I’m fairly sure he was more than a little shady.
The rest is hazy; I know I had to get my Father involved to get my money back and I know that I never got a chance to see that version of The Who.
To make matters worse, I spent my hard earned money on actually buying “It’s Hard,” which I thought was better than “Face Dances,” which wasn’t that difficult to accomplish anyway.
So it’s with a clear understanding of the irony that I got to see the band that came up with the line “Hope I die before I get old” on the eve of my 40th birthday. And it’s also clear that I went into the event without any lofty expectations, particularly since two members, and important ones at that, aren’t even alive. Let’s be honest here: both Entwistle and Moon were critically more important to the band than Rodger Daltry.
Money does funny things to people. It makes you do countless tours after you’ve officially broken up the band. It makes you team up with your former lead singer, record the first Who album since “It’s Hard” and go out on tour (once again) with the band moniker in tact because you know a Daltry/Townshend banner won’t have the same draw.

Yeah, there’s a helluva lot of cynicism here, and quite frankly, Pete Townshend deserves it. While you throw out the fact that the 2006 Who tour prominently features new music from the upcoming album “Endless Wire” and notice that the album isn’t even out yet (scheduled release date is October 31st), let me throw out the fact that “Quadrophenia” is well over thirty years old and remains the last brilliant effort that Townshend had a hand in creating.
Do the math with that; it’s laziness. I’m not discounting Townshend’s worth or the importance of The Who. In those thirty plus years, he has released some pretty remarkable music, but it’s nowhere as consistent as what he could have and should have been able to do. You can make excuses about the addictions and the egos involved, but the truth is that the money he made afforded him the ability to take the day off when it came time for him, and The Who, to deliver a few more efforts on the same caliber as the material from 1973 and before.
Because I’m a sucker for free tickets, I agreed to place my personal differences with Pete Townshend aside and take a look at the latest tour of The Who. There’s a little bit of buzz behind this one; first off, there’s a new album to promote and there’s actually some positive feedback regarding their recent shows, which feature a heapin’ helpin’ of new songs, including a mini-opera.
Horribly promoted and far from sold out (under 6,500 showed up), Townshend and Daltrey tapped Zac Starkey to fill the role of Keith Moon and Pino Pallandino to fill those large ox shoes of John Entwistle. Pete’s brother Simon Townshend joined the band on rhythm guitar and backing vocals while John Bundrick joined them (again) on keyboards. Pallandino didn’t attempt, and wisely so, to mimic any of Entwistle’s bass lines. Zac also steered clear of aping Keith, the guy who bought him his first professional drum kit, but he’s proven to be a great drummer on his own terms.
The new songs? Well “Fragments” sounds exactly like “Another Tricky Day.” “Real Good Looking Boy” wreaks of the obligatory “Elvis Presley inspired us to do rock and roll” nostalgia that most boomers feel they’re required to write about (and it sounds just as middle aged as you could imagine). The new mini-opera hints at a little bit of creative energy, but without Moon, Entwistle, and a full-vocal ranged Daltry, it sounds like it could have been written for “White City” or “The Iron Man.”
“The Man In The Purple Dress,” an acoustic number that takes a hard swipe at molestation in the Catholic church, worked well; there was passion behind the lyrics and Daltry’s delivery was colorful and believable.
The oddly titled “Mike Post Theme” was also a fairly enjoyable new selection.
But again, none of them really sounded like The Who as we, or the 6,200 people in attendance remembered.
Which is why Townshend thanked the audience for enduring the lengthy selection of new songs.
Which is why Townshend also scattered plenty of classic Who cuts throughout the setlist.

Fresh out of the gate, they did it up right; with pictures of mods and early Who imagery filling up the big screens while they smacked through the regular opener “I Can’t Explain.” It went right into “The Seeker” and then into “Anyway Anyhow Anywhere.” I would have thrown “A.A.A.” in as the second song, but they didn’t ask me.
Had they, I would have eliminated “Who Are You,” a fairly uninspired “Behind Blue Eyes” and the utterly disposable “You Better You Bet.” While I won’t get into the argument concerning these song’s importance to the band’s catalog (with the exception of “You Better,” of course) I will argue that everyone seemed to be going through the motions when these songs came up.
The selections from “Tommy” were good, but nothing noteworthy.
Highlights were the opening three, a stunning extended version (ala “Live At Leeds”) of “My Generation” that even threw in a few lines from “Cry If You Want” and a nice attempt at “Won’t Get Fooled Again” which, unfortunately, seems relevant once again. If you’re wondering, Daltry did the scream at the end of it. It surprised a few people. It wasn’t embarrassing. It wasn’t anywhere near the scream circa ’71.
But then again, none of the show was really anything near The Who circa ’71.
What once was a band, in the truest sense of the word, that was almost indisputably the greatest live rock band in their prime, seems content on banking (again) on that nostalgia while Townshend tries to end the legacy on a positive note (read: mini opera).
This, of course, comes after over twenty years of “farewell” tours, Broadway versions of “Tommy” and Kenny Jones on drums even when the three surviving members admitted the “real” Who died with Keith.
So I’ll let ‘em end it with something better than “It’s Hard.”
But I ain’t paying for it, like I didn’t pay for this show. Because, at the end of the day, Pete Townshend seems a little like that scalper back in ’82. And after taking a piss on the Who’s legacy for over a quarter century now, forgive me if I take the line “Won’t Get Fooled Again” to heart.

Setlist:

Can't Explain
The Seeker
Anyway Anyhow Anywhere
Fragments
Who Are You
Behind Blue Eyes
Real Good Looking Boy
Sound Round
Pick Up The Peace
Endless Wire
We Got A Hit
They Made My Dream Come True
Mirror Door
Baba O'Riley
Eminence Front
Man In A Purple Dress
Mike Post Theme
You Better You Bet
My Generation
Won't Get Fooled Again
Pinball Wizard
Amazing Journey
Sparks
See Me Feel Me
Tea And Theater

20 Questions with Mark Prindle

"Mark Prindle, he's a buddy of mine!" I say, with the fervor and coked-up enthusiasm of Alfred Molina's character in "Boogie Nights" when he describes his relationship with Rick Springfield. There is no Chinese boy throwing firecrackers in the background as I say this, just as there is no real "relationship" between myself and Mark Prindle.
What it amounts to is that one day back in the 90's, I was looking for some information about Polvo, a band that I was totally obsessing on at the time. While scouring the internets, I discovered a guy who had posted some online reviews of Polvo albums and he let readers "Add Your Thoughts" about the topic. I did and then I promply forgot about it, much in the same way that most people completely forgot about Polvo.
A year or two later, I ran into Prindle's website and discovered that this was the same dude that reviewed the Polvo albums. He expanded his scope. Big time. To the point where dozens of other bands were reviewed, and with no hint of linear thought.
Buckner & Garcia, Sun City Girls, Sonic Youth, and many more were provided with reviews and, this is telling, their entire catalog was represented.
Prindle was/is unlike any reviewer that I've ever come across. Mixing a dollop of Lester Bangs with a heaping tablespoon of junior high humor, his reviews provide more laughs than actual information on whether or not you'd actually like the music. Like most music fanatics, he's obsessive about his hobby and his stream-of-consciousness commentary is not only an end result of his passion, it's fucking refreshing. Particularly after you've read a Pitchfork review.
Like Bangs, Mark has also ventured into the music world via such albums as "Keep On Zaccin'! Songs From And Inspired By Mystical Excursions On The Experimental Hallucinogen 'Prozac' (Fluxetine)" and "Stop, Drop and Roll: A Musical Celebration Of Death By Smoke Inhalation." His music, like his reviews, are littered with inside jokes, potty humor, and enough busywork to make a kid on Ritalin remain on task. And that's not saying that his music, like his reviews, are bad by any means. Christ, I heard more talent in his "Only The Good Die Young" album than I have in any fucking Jandek album, and that fucker has a documentary on him. Prindle, on the otherhand, does have a Wikipedia page devoted to him, so give him time and we may be seeing a biography about him in Netflix.
I started reviewing music and posting online ramblings for two reasons: 1.) My therapist at the time suggested that I needed a creative outlet to compliment my own passion and 2.) Mark Prindle. Actually, the therapist suggested that I start and maintain a journal and write about anything, but that idea came to an end when my ex-wife started rummaging through it and ripping out pages. She also ripped out several pages of my copy of Jim Carroll's "Forced Entries," for what reason, I don't know. So I started blogging shit, and I used Prindle's unrelenting enthusiasm as a role model. This isn't his career, which helps, and it adds to the validity of everything he writes about.
So as a way to public thank Mark Prindle and to perhaps let anyone who runs across this little slice of heaven know about him, I posed 20 questions to the man and he responded. Some of the questions use obvious Prindlesque juvenilia and I've added comments after the fact using that nifty italicized "-ed" thing that Jack Rabid does.

TWENTY QUESTIONS


Why did you start markprindle.com?
"I wrote silly record reviews for my college newspaper (the Daily Tar Heel) and upon moving to NYC with my brother in early ’96, remarked to him that I would greatly enjoy writing a book in which I told my thoughts about every single album I own. He said, “You could do that on a web site” and offered to set up the HTML for me. The rest is (etc)."

How much time do you typically devote to maintaining the site and/or writing reviews?
"Too much. Probably an hour and a half a day, at very least."

Do you still write for any zines or other publications?
"Not that I know of. Sometimes I’ll send something to New York Waste. I was in a good position to begin writing for Maxim UK (and wrote one very brief little joke article for them), but then the editor-in-chief who liked me got fired."

How did you get noticed by some of these publications? Did you solicit them or did they approach you?
"Both. Citizine and California Pop approached me. I approached most of the others."

I know that little is left for the imagination on the site reviews, but have you ever had to “modify” a review for a publication based on the feedback it received?
"I believe so, yes. If a joke didn’t come across the way I meant it to. Like Aerosmith’s “Hooked On Bobo” or whatever that one’s called."

The website has been up for ten years, what keeps you going?
"My urge to do something ‘creative’ (which is why I don’t write straightforward record reviews at all anymore – too fucking boring!), and the positive feedback I get from people. It’s nice to know I can make people laugh their folly and cares away."
Mission accomplished, sir!-ed.

Tell me about the worst album that you’ve heard so far this year?
"That new Pink album. It’s just terrible. She’s terrible. No vocal melodies, no musical melodies – why does she exist?"
Pink is regularly panned by Prindle and is a fairly easy target, I suppose. At the same time, I've heard one of her newer songs and it didn't produce the violent reaction that she seems to cause Mark. Who knew?-ed.

So far, what’s the best album that’s been released this year?
"Who knows. I’ve only heard about 1% of this year’s releases."
OK, he's got me there. What I was trying to get out of him was "What is your favorite release so far this year and he gets all pissy about the semantics. Christ.-ed.

You got a lot of feedback regarding your comments about Katrina, what other topics or comments have you made in the past ten years that struck a nerve with your readers?
"Did I? I got many more comments about my dumb attack on the 9/11 firefighters. I ended up deleting that whole bit after enough letters came through pointing out how asinine that whole bit was. So there’s another answer for #5."

Occasionally, I’ll try and solicit feedback from people at work by saying “Add your thoughts.” It makes me chuckle because I think about you. Does that make me gay?
"Couldn’t think of a full 20 questions, I take it?"
Actually, I originally had about 26, but narrowed it down to 20 and kept this one on the list because I thought it was funny. I was wrong.-ed.

Seriously. What’s your fucking deal about the band Bloodrock?
"My fucking deal is that they fucking ruled. Have you ever heard any of their albums?"
You're Goddamn right I have...When I was six, I listened to "Bloodrock 2" countless times and always got freaked out by the song "D.O.A." Then I got some taste and started listening to Styx albums. This is a great example of Mark's passion. Here's a band that was, he'll take offense to this categorization, a farm league Grand Funk. Both were managed/produced by Terry Knight and both sucked sweaty balls. For the record: Bloodrock is much better than Styx.-ed.

Have your parents ever visited your site? Do you talk that way to your Mother?
"My mother used to read my site, but stopped when she realized how “blue” my writing style is."

Was it hard to understand Mark E. Smith on the telephone?
"Very."

What bands would you consider yourself to be a piss drinking little fan faggot for?

"None. I’m too old for that silliness. "
OK, a little explanation here. Mark loves The Fall and so do I. Except he had a chance to speak with Mark E. Smith and, when he transcribed the interview several years after the fact, he publically declared himself to be a "piss drinking little fan faggot" after he chuckled at one of M.E.S.'s comments for no apparent reason. It's a great example of Prindle's self deprecating humor and one of the reasons why I enjoy reading him.-ed.

Stephen Thomas Erlewine. Add your thoughts.
"He just seems to really love a lot of records that are goddamned near OBJECTIVELY horrible. Maybe he just likes everything ever recorded?"
I don't mind S.T.E. that much. But many people do.-ed.

You’re on Wikipedia now. How gay is that?
"I’ve been on Wikipedia for about four years. Way to keep up on current “Mark Prindle” goings-on."
Again with the semantics. I should have deleted the "now" and left it at that. But really, had I known that Prindle has been on Wikipedia for the past four years, wouldn't that qualify me as being a piss drinking little fan faggot? Does the fact that I'm doing 20 questions with Mark make me one anyway?-ed.

Was it hard sucking Jess Margera’s dick and interviewing him at the same time?
"You could ask the same thing about any of my interviews. I actually don’t recall being all that fawning about Jess Margera, but I haven’t read that review since I posted it so you may be right. I don’t set out to do confrontational interviews though; that’s never been part of it. I set out to let my favorite artists (or.. you know, people whose bands I like) know how much their music means to me, so that they trust me and will be more willing to open up about things that they normally don’t discuss in interviews."
A little explanation here. It totally blew my mind that Prindle liked C.K.Y. and went so far as to interview Jess Margera for his site. That, to me, qualifies as being a real fan/supporter of their work. I consider C.K.Y.'s work to be of minimal importance; sure it's nice background music for my C.K.Y. videos (which I own), but I never really considered them to be anything more than a by-product of Bam Margera's MTV-funded empire. But whatever, it's his site and this is just some gentle ribbing, in much the same way I kid those who are huge Elvis Costello fans about his album "Spike." Christ, I've admitted to liking April Fucking Wine, so there's a huge target for anyone who wants to take aim at me.-ed.

How’s your dog?
"Great! He’s very happy at the moment because my wife and I have been out of town for 8 days and now we’re home."
Mark has a very cute dog. And his wife is very attractive too. Like Rod Stewart said, "some guys have all the luck. Then Phil Collins said something too, but I was into Peter Gabriel at the time.-ed.

How many beers would it take before you seriously would consider fucking Pink?
"So many that I would be passed out and incapable of performing."

What prescriptions are you taking right now?
"Effexor, Gabitril and Lipitor"
"Effexor" is an anti-depressant medication that is known as a serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor.
"Gabitril" is typically used as a medication to help with epileptic seizures.
"Lipitor" is a cholesterol-lowering medication.
All of these medications produce no side effects which prevent or hinder an individual's ability to maintain a review website.-ed.

So there you have it: Glam Racket's first interview! Mark was a great sport for participating and I, again, encourage every one of you to click on the link that's always been to the right of this page and pay a visit to Mark's record reviews site. Take a look at his opinions on the many albums he's heard and check out his own, ever-growing list of interviews.
And while you're there, add your thoughts.
I did.
Look where it got me.

White Whale-WWI

Someone tell me how a bunch of land-locked indie veterans have the balls to name themselves after a large sea mammal and throw together some nautical titles and name it after World War 1? There’s the idea that White Whale is somehow a “supergroup” even though the most popular band that one of the members is from, the bassist, is The Get Up kids. Add to this that the band is from Lawrence, Kansas, a Midwestern town that’s so far removed from the sea and the assassination of an Austrian Archduke, that you could pretty much dismiss these guys without playing one note of their debut album.
But hold the phone, Franz Ferdinand, these guys have got something good going on.
Singer Matt Suggs sounds like Ray Davies, which is a strange vibe particularly when the first words out of his mouth on the album are “Won’t you lay your nine good fingers on me/Would you please keep that lone one wrapped in gauze?” So immediately we’re let on the notion that the band is not out to give us a history lesson about the Black Hand or an albums worth of sea shanties.
It is an epic endeavor, with elements of British progressive rock and obligatory indie chamber pop making their way into the sonic landscape. It’s a blast to listen to with headphones; cheap synths, feedback, and drum machines pop in an out of the mix with precision. They’ve spent a lot of time on this album and it’s an admirable effort.
The album’s lengthiest tracks, “O’William, O’Sara” and “Fidget and Fudge,” utilize this approach the most and, as a result, are the best tracks on the album. They more than make up for the album’s worst entry “I Love Lovely Chinese Gal.” I’ve hit forward every time that song has come on.
So one dud among a pretty impressive album of eleven; not a bad way to start off and a heckuva better than Suggs’ other Merge output via his last band, Butterglory. While they provided by-the-book Pavement low-fi ethos, White Whale actually embraces the recording studio as another member.
I’ve got to give Merge records credit for finding a worthy follow-up to the surprise that was the Arcade Fire. Comparisons are inevitable, but White Whale are distinctly unique in their approach. In fact, the only comparison to the Arcade Fire should be: how will these bands be able to improve on debut albums this good.

Tight & Shiny: Remembering The Jesus Lizard

One of the biggest disappointments I have this year is not finding enough initiative to prioritize Touch & Go Records’ 25th Anniversary shows in Chicago as a destination. It should have been and I didn’t react selfishly enough when I heard about the line ups (Scratch Acid reunited! Big Black reunited!) and immediately book a hotel room for the event. Damn me and this domestication!
This prompted me to grab a Jesus Lizard cd the other day and remember those times when I had a chance to see them perform live when they were still a working unit. These shows are permanently embedded in my mind and they remain some of the most intense performances I’ve ever had the opportunity to witness.

I’d been a big fan of Scratch Acid, vocalist David Yow and bassist Davis Sims former band, and even had a chance to see them live. It goes without saying that it was a great performance. It also goes without saying that it was a drag to read about their breakup before anyone had a chance to hear and fully appreciate them.
But fate is a curious thing, and when the news that Sims and Yow had relocated to Chicago and formed another band called The Jesus Lizard, well, you tend to forget about what could have been and focus on what will become.
What they initially became was a real disappointment; part of the appeal of Scratch Acid was the rhythm section as Sims had a great drummer, Rey Washam, to play off of. The Jesus Lizard, on the other hand, started without a drummer and it undercuts the power of their first e.p. “Pure.” I mean, Big Black tried this approach first and they perfected it, so why bother replicating it?
Thankfully, they added a real drummer, Mac McNeilly, and then the real fireworks began. Their Touch & Go albums were perfectly recorded by Steve Albini and they do a great job of capturing the Jesus Lizard’s fury.
At the same time, the best way to appreciate this fury was to see them live. I don’t know what prompted me to travel on a weeknight to see them live with the knowledge that the show would end well past Midnight and the 90 minute drive home wouldn’t help my job performance at work the following day.
But I did. And I’m better for it.
I noticed David, a small man, standing by the soundboard before the show drinking a beer and failed to strike up a conversation. He looked approachable, but when their set began, he transformed into a lunatic.
Within thirty seconds, Yow was leaning into the front row of the tightly packed crowd of this infamous Iowa venue. Within 1 minute, Yow was on top of the crowd, the microphone chord his only connection with the stage. For well over an hour, David spent most of the performance either being passed over the heads of the audience, in the obligatory push ‘n pull of the crowd, or somewhere underneath a sea of sweaty concert-goers. Because I didn’t know any better, I found myself in the middle of all this. Yow’s boots kicked my head on a few occasions, his sweat dripped on my body, and he screamed unintelligible words every time I passed him overhead. It was glorious.

It’s easy to write about his drunken shenanigans, but it’s harder to express at how good the, essentially, power trio on stage was throughout this intense ordeal. They were more dangerous than Yow. Literally. Sims maintained his section of the stage by chugging out incessant rhythms on his bass while occasionally welding the headstock of his Fender like a baseball bat. I do remember the pegs of his instrument connecting with the head of an audience member who thought he would use Sims’ area as his own stage diving platform. The connection served as notice; nobody used that section of the stage to dive off of again.
On stage right, Duane Denison turned out creepy chord structures with his Travis Bean(!) guitar that belied their complexity. Seriously. Try to learn a few J.L. chord progressions and you’ll see that what he’s doing ain’t normal for your stereotypical band fronted by a small drunk dude.
And then there’s Mac McNeilly, who’s most lengthy appendage is more certainly his arms, bashing out the entire drive-by-shooting with stellar precision.
It was a twisted, beautiful racket that I simply cannot efficiently describe.
The Lizard was my savior. I vowed to attend church again.
That time came a few months later. Same venue, more people.
About thirty miles into trip, and unbelievable racket sounded from the engine of my Ford Ranger pickup. Like the aluminum headstock of a Travis Bean guitar, the sound was the undeniable noise of metal upon metal. And you don’t need to be a service technician at the filling station to understand that, when you hear the sound of metal on metal in a vehicle, it is not a good thing. Understanding that I was most certainly faced with completely ruining the engine if I continued onward, I had to make a decision: proceed to the show or pull over and call a tow truck. The truck was moving forward, so I steered it towards the show, which was well over an hour away, with my fingers crossed that I would make it.
Same venue. More people. The place was packed, hot and sweaty, but I was happy that the Ford brought me to the service. For some reason, I brought a gift for David Yow: an airline bottle of Absolut vodka. I pushed my way to the front and got situated between two tame looking indie rockers who had no idea what they were in for that close to the stage.
Most of the fear that the Jesus Lizard produces comes from the unsettling music along with the drunken unpredictability of Yow; you never know what to expect with a man who’s had too much to drink and with relatively little to lose.
Again, before the minute mark of the first song of their set, David was leaning into the audience, sweating, barking, and clearly loving his ability to shock the first timers like the ones next to me. He sprayed his beer into the crowd, and I thought that would be a good time to give him the little bottle of Absolut. He examined my gift as I handed it to him. He continued to scream into the microphone while he opened the bottle and, without a taste, he immediately sprayed the crowd with the liquor. I was a little put off that he didn’t drink it, but any good drunk will tell you not to mix your poisons.
Some of the more vocal members of the crowd continually berated David with profanity, a strange form of flattery that also served as a way to pry a primitive response from him. Being a veteran of the punk rock circuit and being used to probably more eloquent forms of verbal harassment, Yow ignored most of the verbal volleys. One did manage to catch his ear, and hey yelled back “Hey shitmouth!” to appease the baiter’s request for attention.
Another show, another life-affirming experience. That’s batting a thousand for you baseball fans and it placed the Jesus Lizard into the category of “must see” shows for me. The rapture overtook my reality and, for 90 minutes, I completely forgot about the late-model pickup with the barely working engine that sat in the parking lot of a friend’s apartment building.
The Ford dealership questioned why I didn’t bring the truck to them sooner, explaining that not enough oil was reaching all of the cylinders, thereby creating the unbelievable racket from the engine compartment. I didn’t hear a lot of the scolding, my ears were still ringing from the show, but I did hear that the costs of the repairs were all covered under the factory warranty.

Third show. Bigger venue. The legendary First Avenue in Minneapolis was full of the Lizard brethren and it was nice to see them in a larger setting, although it was offsetting to lose some of the intimacy. It’s hard to smell Yow from a distance and you miss the impact of assisting him scale the club as he passes above you.
Nonetheless, the band started the set with my favorite J.L. song of all time, “Glamorous.”
Denison crunched out the familiar chords while “Mac” counted off with his hi-hat. Yow stalked around the drum riser, mush-mouthing the first few verses before parking himself directly next to the bass cabinet.
“Smoke it down to the filter! And put it out on your hand!”
With the microphone still in his hand, he ran, full speed, towards the audience and completely cleared the first five rows before landing on the top of outstretched hands of the (literally) supportive audience.
First Avenue can hold a few people. So appreciate the distance that Yow covered while out in the crowd; the apparent goal was to try and take him back towards the doors to the bar area, and by-God, he nearly made it on a few tries.
“Shitmouth, I love you.” David muttered at one point while back on stage. Apparently Yow had seemingly come to terms with the loud audience member who kept yelling a request for “Seasick.”
A chance to see the Lizard for a fourth time in Peoria came and went thanks to some unsuccessful detective work on the part of my cousin who could find no mention of a Jesus Lizard show in his hometown and found it hard to believe that a band would even be playing at the local V.F.W. hall there. But it was true: a concert review in the next issue of Rolling Stone documented the performance and it mentioned that Yow had unveiled his “tight and shiny” routine for the crowd their. This trick consisted of David pulling out his sweaty testicles and displaying them under the bright stage lights for the attendees. It goes without saying that I was very disappointed with my cousin’s lack of drive in trying to find tickets.
Their next album, “Down,” was their final on Touch & Go and the band’s final work with Steve Albini. It was a bit of a “downer” for me as the band, understanding that they had pretty much run the course of abrasive noise guitar rock, attempted to shore up the chaos in favor for a more scaled down approach. Think of the albums “Goat” and “Liar” as reflections of getting violently drunk; think of “Down” as merely an even-paced way at getting inebriated. There’s a difference, and the Jesus Lizard started to sound like the beer was almost empty.
Curiously, they jumped to the majors. Why the decision to record for Capitol seemed like a good idea was beyond me; the band had limited commercial appeal and I didn’t think that the label’s better distribution could expand their audience much.
Albini didn’t like it either. He wasn’t present for the last two records and much of their fan base wasn’t present either. This included me.
It had nothing to do with “selling out,” again, there was no way the band could have been accused of that. It had everything to do with changing out of those sweat and beer-soaked jeans into a new pair of Levi’s off the rack. There was nothing wrong with that old pair. They may have been a little stained and smelly, but hey shitmouth, they fit just fine.
So the mention of “Touch & Go” records’ 25th anniversary show has got me reminiscing a little, and it’s made me realize that a band like the Jesus Lizard was fairly uncommon back in the day and even more so today. There was no video budget, no myspace street team, no video game tie-in that demonstrated their supposed street-cred. There was just a little man with total disregard for his own health and safety and a hammering trio that drove him to the edge of the stage night after night.
And there was us, a few thousand rock ‘n roll revival converts that were sure that was the face of God on stages some nights. On others, it was just the reflection of a middle-aged man’s testicles.

Tapes 'n Tapes-The Loon

The trouble with the Midwest is that we tend to ape what each coast squeezes towards us. I’m sure acid wash jeans hit the land-locked midsection several years after the fact and that the hip coastal kids laughed at our delinquencies. But I’m also sure there were a couple of Midwesterners that looked good in those acid wash jeans too.
Tapes ‘N Tapes are those good looking kids, even though the clothes they’re sporting are a little dated and more than a little contrived. It still fits.
Put a blindfold on it and you’d swear that the Pixies reunited, toured, and presented “The Loon” as their comeback album. Hell, by track three (“Insister”), they’re quoting “Harvard Square” like they’re from the Pixies’ stomping grounds and they’re galloping along just as good as Black Frances did in “Vamos.” But singer Josh Grier doesn’t seem to have the sense of humor that Frances does in his songwriting, so all we’re left with really is a lot of head-scratching lyrics (“in Houston/in Oslo/the contracts/they can’t slow/and no sex/and no sleep/it’s hard toe/it’s hard speak”) and a good idea what he and the other fellas did during harsh Minnesotan winters: listen to a lot of records from the Pixies, Pavement, The Shins and maybe even a few Modest Mouse albums.

So honestly, I should be really harsh on ‘em. But I can’t. Not only are the songs on “The Loon” so completely familiar, they’re also earnestly executed. Honestly, a track like “Omaha” is just as good as anything on “Chutes Too Narrow” and if more songs were like the ones on “Chutes Too Narrow” you wouldn’t hear me complaining.
So I know all about the hype machine of this band (and the upcoming backlash, I suppose) and I know how it’s not going to change the world or inspire others, since it essentially mirrors its own inspiration. I also know that I’ve been playing it all summer and have yet to be disappointed with the results. But now the pressure should be surely felt by the members of Tapes ‘n Tapes for their follow-up. Margaret Fairless Barber once said “To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking forward.” Now is the time for them to figure out who they really want to be, to start building upon their obvious influences and to start looking forward.

Bob Dylan-Modern Times

Let’s call bullshit on this idea that “Modern Times” is a modern masterpiece that neatly completes a master-stroke trilogy of classic Dylan albums. Two words: it ain’t. So now that we’ve disposed of all of the hype (you think Bobby himself had a say in it, anyway?) it’s time to reveal what “Modern Times” really is: an album that more than anything else mirrors some of Dylan’s AM radio drift as a young boy in Minnesota. That’s concerning to me; I always viewed him as a forward looking artist that’s not interested in revisiting his past. “Modern Times” seems hellbent on nostalgia, both lyrically and musically, as this is surely an album that would please even his own Grandparents.
Let’s call bullshit on the idea that “Modern Times” is supposed to compete with legitimate masterpieces, i.e.: the real classic trilogies, and the entire notion we can even critique recent efforts with the same pen as Bob circa ‘65, ‘75, ‘85, or even ’95. And fans have to get used to the idea that the reason “Modern Times” isn’t a modern masterpiece isn’t because it’s no “Blonde On Blonde,” it’s because it’s not even the same caliber as “Time Out Of Mind” or “Love And Theft.” The truth is, those albums are better, and I would put them closer to essential Dylan than his latest.
This is critical. If you’re looking for a looking-glass into those eras, may I point you in the direction home of something called The Bootleg Series? After all, if you’re going to compare apples to apples, here, then at least keep it in the same orchard. The fruit of “Modern Times” is clearly from an older tree, and that’s why it’s important to judge it with the trees that have a similar number of rings.

Much has been made of Bob’s recent cranking about how most modern-day studio techniques sound like “static” and, to that point, his latest album sounds impeccably under-produced. The music has depth and focus; it’s about as retro sounding that a modern studio could contrive. So the issue isn’t really that Dylan hasn’t attempted to make another “modern” sounding album or that there’s not enough Lanois mystery to hold it together sonically. The problem is that it sounds so utterly pedestrian at times, and I’m not used to seeing Dylan walking down the sidewalk, waxing poetic about Alicia Keys.
“Thunder On The Mountain,” the lead-off track that features the curious Keys reference is one of the better tracks. Actually, it’s one of Dylan’s better tracks, period. We get a glimpse of angry Bob (“Gonna raise me an army, some tough sons-a-bitches”), funny Bob (“I’ve sucked the milk out of a thousand cows”), horny Bob (“I got the pork chop, she got the pie”) and the Bob that wants you to believe he’s nothin’ special anymore (“I’ve already confessed, I don’t need to confess again”), all in the span of six minutes. Of course, by the end of those six minutes, you’re looking for more signs of that lyrical prowess in the rest of the album. You’ll get it, of course, in a nice tepid package that manage to evoke the music bed of an Ipod commercial while being clearly uncommercial at the same time. Only Dylan himself could create such a dichotomy.
So while we’re discussing the 31st album of his career, no doubt that Bob is having a blast working with his band, making music that’s entirely un-modern and surprisingly complacent at the same time.

The Angry Samoans-Back From Samoa

Clocking in at less than 18 minutes total, The Angry Samoans “Back From Samoa” is hardly an “album,” let alone an essential one. It’s an album that doesn’t pretend to be an actual album, just like the band doesn’t pretend to be more than they actually are. And what they are is a highly credible, offensive punk rock band from Los Angeles.
Completely misguided and completely lacking that part of the brain that tells you “You shouldn’t say that,” The Angry Samoans remain a band that few have heard, but once you have, you want everyone to hear it with you, if anything, just to see the reaction on their face.
I’m not talking offensiveness in the sense of The Mentors or G.G. Allin, I’m talking about a bunch of guys that can write a riff and then, just because, decide to throw in some lyrics about Hitler’s cock. It works, for at least 18 minutes, and the world is a better place for it.
“Back From Samoa” remains the only real Angry Samoan “album” that you need, and, trust me, there are days in which you need this “album.” Take the song “You Stupid Jerk,” clocking in at a mere twenty three seconds and featuring the following lyrics:
“You stupid jerk
I can’t take it no more
Your face makes me wants to puke
And your Mother’s a whore
Oh!
You stupid jerk”
Screw taking a deep breath and counting to ten; play this song whenever someone has pissed you off and I guarantee better results.
Or take my personal favorite “The Ballad of Jerry Curlan.” Mr. Curlan, apparently is “nice,” “sensitive” and “goes to Sacramento.” But what happens next is inexplicable. The song literally goes from an off-key ballad into a verbal diatribe that can only be described as full-on hatred towards the subject matter. Jerry, through the aid of increased distortion and faster tempo, is then chastised as a man who “buttfucks his dog,” and who “licks his sister’s pussy” among other even more disturbing tirades. It’s a believable tirade; there’s no doubt in my mind that The Angry Samoans hate Jerry Curlan with a passion. Who Jerry Curlan is remains a mystery. And its better that it remains that way.

So how did a teenager from Iowa discover such a landmark album? Three words: New Wave Theatre. This show, which aired as a segment during USA network’s “Night Flight” program, provided me and (assuming) countless other tolerant youths across the country with a world of strange and exciting music. With the show’s “Ghost Host” the late Peter Ivers, I had my first exposure to the Samoans, Fear, and tons of other second wave L.A. punk.
The Samoans appears (the actual footage appears above) and it features a live performance from them. Afterwards, the band discusses the reason why they seldom performed live (financial reasons) even within the SoCal area. The interview is then cut short with lead vocalist Metal Mike Saunders’ declaration of “Billy Squire!” Thankfully, I recorded “New Wave Theatre” religiously, and the Samoans’ bit became a favorite until I found the album one weekend in a record store. If I recall, most of my friends were pretty enthusiastic about this record.
So can this record be recommended? If you’re a white, straight American male with a firm sense of irony, then perhaps. For anyone else, there’s a good chance that you wouldn’t get the joke and an even better chance that you’d be offended.
By “irony,” it’s important to understand that a few of the band members were, in fact, rock critics and that one member, in fact, later received a doctor’s degree. It’s also important to note that some of their most notorious swipes came towards members of the L.A. music community. By demanding that legendary d.j. Rodney Bingenheimer “get of the air” and calling a recently deceased Darby Crash a “homosexual,” the band managed to burn every bridge imaginable. If not for a few thousand people (Lester Bangs was among them) who got the “joke” and admired the band’s apparent lack of self-restraint, the Samoans may have ended up as a forgotten shock outfit. Amazingly enough, they continue to (occasionally) perform live as a working unit and “Back From Samoa” remains in print to this day. Which is fortunate, because there are not very many bands around that can be as intentially offensive as The Angry Samoans and, in this day and age, we could really use some more intentially offensive bands around.
You stupid jerk.

The 53rd Annual World Series Of Drag Racing

Say what you will about NASCAR; there’s a world of difference between the Talladega set and the folk that frequent the local drag races. Sure, the mullet quotient is up there in both, but the drag racing crowd seems closer to the idea that there are dreams to behold in the ’78 Trans Am sitting on blocks, rusting away in their back yard and that disputes can be settled by seeing who can travel a quarter-mile the fastest. It’s a simpler crowd, for sure, but they have a better understanding than some of the elite as to what constitutes “fun.”
Fun is, watching a Peterbilt semi truck powered by three airplane jets.
Fun is, watching a crane, disguised as a dragon, destroying a 1990 Pontiac Grand Am.
Fun is, watching a Chevy Van barrel down a stretch of concrete on nothing but the rear wheels…at speeds of over 120 miles an hour.
Let there be no misunderstanding that these things are indeed very fun. And I feel sorry for you if you feel that you are somehow above it.

There are no curves on a drag strip. It’s a straight line with two lanes. Two cars start at the same point at the same time. Only one of those vehicles makes it past the finish line first.
Vehicles are paired accordingly; you won’t see a jet car going against, say, a funny car. It’s an ultimate test of horsepower and driving ability. By driving ability, I mean that it takes a lot of effort to keep a vehicle with that amount of power on the road, headed in a straight line.
And it’s a profession not for the faint of heart. These are some of the fastest accelerating vehicles on Earth, even faster than a Space Shuttle launch or a catapult-assisted jet fighter. They’re also deadlier; there are numerous examples of vehicles exploding and/or catching on fire when taking off from the starting line.
The biggest score settled last Saturday night during the 53rd Annual World Series of Drag Racing? A challenge to all drivers to be the first-ever to hit a 300 mph run. The record (290 mph) was broken by Tony Pedregon who piloted his Nitro Funny Car down the strip in only 4.935 seconds and a top speed of 300.53 miles per hour.
With over 10,000 fans packing an Illinois village too small to be called a town, racing began shortly after 5:00pm on Saturday night. By midnight, they were just starting the second half, thanks to a couple of first heat crashes at the end of the strip.
There is an unbelievable roar every time a car takes off. I’m talking a painful noise that easily destroys eardrums without adequate protection. It’s to a point where you can actually feel the power of the vehicle within the grandstands lining the first half of the quarter-mile track. This is a profession that ignores catalytic converters and any other type of gas saving/ecological compliance. The fuel used to propel some of these vehicles runs about $30 a gallon and it’s indeed used at a fantastic rate. While I’m a firm supporter of low-emission/high mileage consumer vehicles, it’s refreshing to see performance vehicles that have an ultimate goal of loud/fast rules, irregardless of the impact.
One of the most enjoyable aspects of drag races of this magnitude is the public address announcer. This is the same guy that does the obligatory “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!” radio ads you’ve heard on the radio or television. While these ads are comedic and fun to imitate, they belie the sheer work that the announcers do. Not only do they posses an encyclopedic knowledge of the machines, drivers, and history of the sport, they are continually “on,” and to maintain that energy level for upwards of 8, 9, 10 hours, is simply admirable.
What I like about this all is the sport’s total lack of pandering to novices. You either get it or you do; there’s no apparent goal to grow the fan-base through means of “dumbing down” the sport. NASCAR, on the other hand, has done a tremendous job in doing just that and, in the process, making it one of the most popular and lucrative sports in America. It’s more marketable, for sure, because of the personalities involved and the corporate sponsorships. But in drag racing? You’ll get the obligatory automotive sponsors but few mainstream ones. Madison Avenue may view the sport as too segmented to actually promote mainstream companies. But the “rednecks” that frequent drag races know a little something that Madison Avenue probably neglected in their research: the cars move too fast to even see a fucking logo.

Just Between You & Me: April Wine's a guilty pleasure

I’m old enough now to admit to my guilty pleasures, probably because I can justify them out the ass and have more examples of credibility to weasel out of them. Take April Wine, for example.
I like April Wine. Admittedly, they only released about three good albums (notice how I didn’t say “great”) and none of those managed to change a thing on the rock and roll landscape. And I don’t expect anyone to rush out and actually buy an April Wine record because I suggest it, nor would I expect you to change your opinion about them (provided you even have one) just by simply reading this.
You don’t need an April Wine record.
It’s understandable that you’ve never heard of them.
If you have, it’s ok not to like them.
This is my guilty pleasure, not yours.
It started on shaky ground anyway. In the late 70’s/early 80’s, my musical knowledge was limited. It was formidable. It was impressionable. It was in the learning stages. To give you an idea of where I was, this would have been the time of middle school. I remember being a huge fan of The Cars, The Knack, Cheap Trick, Rush and Van Halen. I had a deep affection for “classic rock,” because it was new to me then and there was a shorter amount of distance between a Led Zeppelin cut then than the distance between a Nirvana cut today, if that makes any sense. Yes, The Beatles and The Stones were up there too, but they were Gods; a V.I.P. club that everyone respected because, well, that’s what the radio told us to do.
Radio was huge to the young, fragile eggshell mind. I remember staying up later than I was supposed to, listening to A.O.R. radio stations. Occasionally, they would play new released in their entirety, and I recorded them onto a cassette straight off of the radio. I got Van Halen’s “Women & Children First” and Black Sabbath’s “Heaven & Hell” this way. For a kid with limited allowance, you did what you could to get new music. In my opinion, this was, logistically a much more complicated task than downloading music; if Mom or Dad caught you staying up late, they would knock on the door, thereby ruining the recording, which essentially was just putting the cassette microphone close to the stereo speakers. Fidelity wasn’t much of an issue. Being able to say you had the new Van Halen album was.
Friends would become big influences on actual music purchases. I remember one such friend telling me that the new April Wine album, “Harder…Faster,” was the shit. He praised the track “Say Hello” and told me that I needed to get the record. I did. I told another friend that he needed to get Devo’s first album. I hope that this eloquently explains how fucked up I was musically.
So I purchased “Harder…Faster.” I liked “Say Hello.” I really liked “I Like To Rock.” It didn’t blow me away or anything, but it was what it was: competent classic rock designed to move the rock boat ahead rather than rock the boat.

It was good enough for me to snag a couple of tickets to go see April Wine, 38 Special, UFO, and The Outlaws in concert. This would be my first real rock concert. The first concert was actually The Spinners at Six Flags with my parents, but I didn’t count this because we went to Six Flags to ride the Screamin’ Eagle and not to hear “Rubberband Man.”
April Wine sounded just like they did on record, aside from a few extra guitar solos and a lengthy drum solo from their bald headed drummer. I was completely sober, which may have lead to my increased appreciation for April Wine; I’m not sure if the older boys sitting directly behind us smoking weed had the same impact. All I knew was that I had attended my first fock concert with the dude I recommended Devo to. The band that I went to see was April Fucking Wine. That’s my justification for this guilty pleasure.
Their performance was in support of their “Nature Of The Beast” album; the only album to chart high in the states and produce a hit single here in the States, “Just Between You And Me.” I suppose the track qualifies as one of the first power ballads, but that’s hardly groundbreaking.
The album was, again, merely good. Lots of hooks, some decent guitar work, but several songs were plagued with dorky synthesizer effects that ultimately diminish the “rock” quotient and prevented it from being referenced later on among the critical elite. Even at that age, the idea of having laser sounds during their track “Caught In The Crossfire” seemed a bit contrite. Thankfully, they had a song that featured the lyrics “the man in the back/smokes a pack and a half” to offset this type of studio defects. Because when you’re fourteen years old, smoking is cool.

The Wine made another appearance during my senior year of high school. A full four years after it charted, the school voted “Just Between You And Me” to be our Senior Prom theme. By this time I had outgrown my April Wine phase, because their follow-up to “The Nature Of The Beast,” an album called “Power Play” featured even more synthesizer noodlings and even shittier material. The band was tapped out, and I had moved on to more aggressive forms of rock music that, thematically, fit the teenage angst better than this one-notch-above-bar-band outfit from Canada.
April Wine made one final appearance in my life. In the mid-nineties, the band played, literally, in a field in the middle of nowhere minutes away from where I lived. Steppenwolf was the headliner, and I was able to score a pair of tickets to revisit a band that was a small, yet important, part of my own youth. I’d guess that well over a thousand people attend the event, and I’d guess that the majority of them were drunk. To my surprise, the Wine performed well: their set contained extended guitar solos and, yes, another drum solo from the same bald headed percussionist. It was a time-machine moment with only the performers looking a little worse for the wear.
For good reason: from the moment I started to distance myself from them, they released another, even more keyboard laden effort (“Animal Grace”) that managed to put a wedge between leader Myles Goodwyn and the rest of the band. Another album appeared (“Walking Through Fire”) which contained only Goodwyn surrounded by horrid 80’s production value and an obvious intention of fulfilling the contract obligation he had with Capitol Records. This was not an “April Wine” record, it was a Miles Goodwyn and the label-hired producer record that understood nobody would by a Miles Goodwyn record but a few might be inclined to get a new April Wine record. It didn’t work, of course.
If you’re wondering, the band (Goodwyn managed to make up with some former Wine members) continues to tour and release albums, some 35 years after they began. For a few of those years, they reached me and created some memories, so they’re a guilty pleasure only in the sense that I’ve got to explain why I have a couple of their albums in the collection and justify the decision.
In layman’s terms: because I like to rock.

Kuyahoga Music Festival-Live Review

Kuyahoga Music Festival
Hold Steady
Sonic Youth
Death Cab For Cutie
Flaming Lips
Cuyahoga Falls, OH
8/3/2006

With so many festivals this year (Lollapalooza, Pitchfork, Bonnaroo, etc.), it’s easy to overlook a few. So you’re forgiven if you’ve heard of “Intonation” before “Kuyahoga (sic) Music Festival.” I’d never heard of it either. All I knew is that I was faced with choosing between a “reunited” Germs concert and Billy Idol (with Gary Numan opening, I would have been more excited to see him, actually) during a visit to Cleveland. The trouble was: a Germs “reunion” is kind of hard considering the state of Darby Crash these days, and Billy Idol cried “More! More! More” with his $55 ticket price. So I got my own whiplash smile when I noticed, literally a few days before I left for Ohio, that a concert featuring Death Cab For Cutie, Sonic Youth and The Flaming Lips would be in effect during my stay. And from what I could tell, there were tickets available, unlike most festivals that I had heard about.
So what of this Kuyahoga Music Festival? I’m not really sure and I think the promoters are still trying to figure out an identity other than “we’ll have three stages, some beer, and a few vendor booths (including one for the Marines) around this amphitheatre in central Ohio.” That’s fine, actually, because the Blossom Music Center is a fine location with excellent acoustics in the pavilion area and plenty of “cheap seats” lawn area to stretch out on whenever your favorite jam bands decide to pass through. No sir, I came for two things: Sonic Youth and The Flaming Lips, two bands that I had seen before and had no hesitation about seeing again.
Let me show my age by saying that Ohio was unbearably hot for much of the time I was there and on the day of the show the heat gave way to showers which meant that there was no way I would be dragging my ass around to see a few second stage acts. The rain and 45 degree angle incline saw to it that I found my reserved seating in front of the main stage (the show was nicely attended, but far from sold out) and stayed there for the duration. I’m sure the acts on the other stages were just fine, and I probably would have seen a few of them in more suitable conditions, but remember kids; you’ll get to be middle aged too someday.
The Hold Steady. Well, we arrived later than expected and we missed them. I’m actually kind of bummed about that.
Sonic Youth. Here we go! It’d been nearly twenty years since I saw them last and I’m happy to report that both Kim and Thurston look about the same as when I saw them last. What’s funny is that twenty years ago, I remember thinking “Man, Kim looks really old.” And now my reaction was “Wow, Kim looks really good!” Whereas before she looked really pissed off to be playing in another shitty punk club (ah, Gabes!), tonight she looked happy to be playing an outdoor music festival sponsored by 92.3 K-Rock. She jumped around and danced, which may explain S.Y.’s decision to have a touring bassist. I have no idea who he was but I am positive that he wasn’t Jim O’Rourke, which means the dude was pretty cool in my book.
Lots of material from “Rather Ripped” which is fine, because that album totally rules. What’s changed in the past twenty years is that S.Y.’s punk roots were very apparent then, but they’ve changed into an almost alternative tuning jam-band, which is fine, because jam bands totally rule.
Now, before I lead you to believe that they played “I Know You Rider” or “Dark Star,” there were several moments of distorted bliss and, indeed, by the time they were into their third or fourth song in the set, Thurston found himself falling into the crowd, with guitar in tow, while a gray-haired Lee Renaldo performed six-stringed exorcisms on stage.
Steve Shelly remains as one of the most understated and competent drummers working in rock today. It would be so easy for a band like Sonic Youth to have a heavy-handed drummer, but they made a brilliant choice with Shelly’s propelling rhythms. They’re subtle, effective, and criminally overlooked.
They played “Schizophrenia,” just like they did twenty years ago. And I smiled again, just like when I was 21.
Death Cab For Cutie were up next, and I was fairly underwhelmed about seeing them a second time this year. The ladies, as usual, did not share my lack of enthusiasm, and they danced to “When Soul Meets Body” and all of the other “hits” in the D.C.F.C. arsenal. Admittedly, I may be a little bit harsh on the fellas, but admittedly, their set hasn’t changed that much in the past five months. A few things deleted, a few things added, all performed like a good major label artist would.
Then, a surprise.
Wayne Coyne stepped on stage and performed a song with the band that had been running through my head the entire day: a note-for-note cover of R.E.M.’s “Cuyahoga.” I gave in a sang with the remaining Death Cab set along with the thousands of young ladies in attendance.

Which leads us to the band that I’ve been particularly harsh with as of late: The Flaming Lips. Oh sure, I think “At War With The Mystics” is a fine album and I would encourage each and every one of you to witness a Flaming Lips show at some point in your life. For me, the crux of the problem remains that I have seen them more than any other band in my life and I was growing tired of the band’s lack of spontaneity. It’s been a few years and a few lifetimes since I’d seen them last and I was in need of another Lips experience to bring me up. They delivered in spades. I’m sure the set didn’t deviate much from the last stop, but then, I’m not on a mission to follow them like I was during “The Soft Bulletin” or “Yoshimi.” I’m content with this one stop until the next album hits and I think that’s the key. Sure, there was the obligatory “Race For The Prize” and “She Don’t Use Jelly” and a lot of the same stage tomfoolery was used. But given the current state of the world and dismal outlook of some performers, it was a joy to see others experience the spectacle firsthand, including the special lady friend.
There was a heavy anti-war element present, but not to the point of self-righteousness. Wayne delivered sermons that, paraphrasing here, simply asked people to put the drama of their lives and the world at the gate, and focus on transcending the issues they arrived with through music. It’s a simple message and in the hands of a cynical person, could be seen as a tad hokey. But Wayne Coyne is far from hokey; he has a tremendous work ethic and a very admirable outlook on life: this is all we have, so let’s make the most of it for the next 90 minutes. And for 90 minutes, Santa danced, confetti fell, people danced, and faces smiled.
The spontaneity factor was addressed at the first an only encore, a stunning rendition of Sabbath’s “War Pigs” delivered true to the roots and close to the bone as static images of Bush-Cheney-Rumsfeld were projected on the screen. I wondered how the boys in the Marine information booth were handling such an obvious rejection of their profession.
The contemplative moment was cut short with the reality that, because this was a festival, we had to make the obligatory trek to search for the rental car that, from what we last remembered, was parked on grass somewhere well outside of the amphitheater. As we walked, refrains of “War Pigs” were heard from the walking, along with updated lyrics to “Do You Realize?” (‘do you realize, that we can’t find the car”). It struck me that the Kuyahoga Music Festival may not have been the first on the minds of rock fans this summer, but for those that attended, it was one of the best ways to end the season.