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.

The Beatles-The Capitol Albums Vol. 2

Let it be known that Capitol Records was run by fucktards forty years ago. Let it be known that Capitol Records continues to be run by fucktards in 2006. Here’s how I’ve come to this conclusion.
In early 1963, Capitol Records passed on signing The Beatles. The douchebag that made this decision later helped “produce” some Beatles albums. And by “produce” I mean he helped carve up British Beatle albums, re-sequence them, and then repackage them (at the rate of four albums a year) to American audiences.
So Americans were treated to vastly different versions of Beatles albums, and it wasn’t until 1987 when Capitol decided to re-issue the Beatles albums on compact disc that most of us learned that there was no such thing as “Meet The Beatles,” “Beatles ’65,” or “Beatles VI.” Instead, we were greeted with The Beatles “With The Beatles,” “For Sale,” and some album that had the same photograph as a greatest hits compilation album released after they broke up. Confused yet?
Here’s the rub: a lot of us grew up on the American versions. We loved those shitty sequenced things with their echoey “new improved Capitol full dimension simulated stereo” mix; it’s completed badassed to have all of the instruments on one speaker and only the vocals on the other. Hell, you could even turn the balance on your stereo and prove to the world you sang better than Ringo.
I thought that Capitol got it right in ’87 when they made (with the band’s and George Martin’s direction) the decision to let the American versions fall entirely out of print and only release the British counterparts from then on.
Beatlemaniacs are funny. They’ve been bitching ever since then that they can no longer get the albums that they grew up with. Knowing that Beatlemaniacs will buy a turd if was in the shape of John, Paul, George, or Ringo, Capitol re-issued all of the early American albums in a God-awful priced box set. In April of this year, they released the second installment of this series, and this is where it gets interesting.

As with “The Capitol Albums Vol. 1,” Volume 2 contains the stereo version followed by the mono version. Within an hour of “Volume 2’s” release, a Beatlemaniac noticed that the mono version of “Rubber Soul” wasn’t the original mono version of “Rubber Soul.” And it wasn’t just one person. Within hours, message boards devoted to the Beatles were blazing with angry fans that knew there was a huge difference between “Rubber Soul” mono circa 1965 and “Rubber Soul” mono circa 2006.
For those of you who don’t know the difference, here it is:
-->The 2006 mono version of the song “I’m Looking Through You” has a false start at the beginning of it. The original mono version doesn’t.
-->On the original mono version of “Norwegian Wood,” you can hear a cough 38 seconds into the song. On the latest version, there’s no cough.
That’s pretty much it.
Now, in defense of the Beatlemaniacs, it’s pretty cool that they figured those two very minor things out. Hell, I would have totally missed it. But they didn’t and they created such a stink on those boards that hundreds of ‘em contacted Capitol Records and asked “What are you fucktards doing?” Capitol responded and said that they essentially just bounced down the stereo mixes of two of the albums (“accidentally”) and didn’t used the original mono mixes. Then the Beatlemaniacs asked Capitol: “Well, what are you fucktards going to do to make it right?”
Knowing that Mark David Chapman was once a Beatlemaniac, Capitol records provided the fans with a recall plan that is easy to find on Beatlemaniac message boards, but nearly impossible on both the Capitol Records website and on the Beatles official website.
I won a contest at work that included a gift card and I, for reasons I’ll explain in a moment, decided to buy “The Capitol Albums Vol. 2” with it. The reasons are entirely nostalgic, just as they were when I bought “Volume 1” earlier this year. Well, that and I really didn’t have to pay much for either one of ‘em, unlike a real Beatlemaniac who probably pre-ordered the shit and has a Japanese copy of the same thing
And wouldn’t you know it: my copy has a false start and doesn’t have a cough. And wouldn’t you know it: I’m totally going after those fucktards at Capitol to get my correct version of “The Capitol Albums Vol. 2.” I mean, I’m totally obsessed with this; it’s the first thing I listened for when I opened the fucker up. I blame the message boards for this as they, literally, devoted more words to this topic that the total number of words in our Constitution. And you know how riled up things got after that was written.
So the nostalgic reasons are 1.) I completed ruined my parent’s copy of “Beatles VI” as a kid, but not before playing the piss out of it and 2.) I grew up listening to, and fell in love with, the American version of “Rubber Soul.” It’s slightly different than the British version: George’s “If I Needed Someone,” Ringo’s “What Goes On,” and the opener “Drive My Car” are gone, replaced with “It’s Only Love” and “I’ve Just Seen A Face.” In fact, I think that it’s actually better than the British version; it’s a more folk-rock approach that perfectly demonstrates a watershed in the band’s career while maintaining a thematic consistency from start to finish. And while I’d still give the British version five stars, after all, it’s “Rubber Soul” we’re talking about here, the American version remains the only bastardized version that is just a hair above what was available across the pond.
The original motion picture soundtrack to “Help” is included, and it’s a dandy if you enjoy hearing Beatles songs interrupted with “exclusive instrumental music from the picture’s soundtrack.” About ten people on those Beatles-fan message boards that I referred to earlier, actually admitted to liking these fucking things. Me? Not so much.
“The Early Beatles” disc is essentially the “Introducing The Beatles” album that was released by Vee Jay records a week before “Meat The Beatles” hit the shelves, which pissed off Capitol to the point where they eventually got the rights back from this small Chicago indie and re-issued it under their own packaging. The music is swell, but all you’re really talking about with “The Early Beatles” is a different cover on the front.

I’ve got to point out that these Capitol discs are, currently, the only versions that have been recently re-mastered. They sound great, fake stereo echo and all, and they remind us that someone needs to get off their ass and re-master the “proper” Beatle albums. This is a tough thing when you consider someone who may not actually own a Beatles album and want to; I couldn’t recommend to them spending the bones for either one of “The Capitol Albums” and I couldn’t suggest dropping down a few bones on a product that, essentially, hasn’t been touched with state of the art mastering techniques in nearly twenty years. The word is that it will happen shortly, so hold on to that wallet Shorty, and wait for Johnny Appleseed, the head of Apple Corps, to figure out that those Beatlemaniacs have got money just burning a hole in their pockets.

Rock & Roll Hall of Fame

A vacation to Cleveland just sounds funny. That’s part of the reason why I wanted to go there. I liked the idea of having people ask me: “Where are you going on vacation?” and having my response be “Cleveland.” Most people looked at me funny. Some didn’t miss a beat, “Oh, you’re going to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame?” Hell yeah, I’m going to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I’m a big fucking fan of rock and roll, you understand.

There’s one obvious point to the Rock Hall that needs to be mentioned. Like the definition of Rock itself, the Hall is pretty much all encompassing. But let’s be honest, the “Pop Music Hall of Fame” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Then there’s the whole debate as to why a city like Cleveland would be considered a suitable home to the Hall itself. You’ve got the notion that disc jockey Alan Freed coined the term “Rock & Roll,” but that’s a debate in itself. I say: give the town a fucking break. Over half the city’s population has left during the latter half of the 20th century and, admittedly, there’s not a lot of draw left to potential tourists. So fine, put the Hall on the edge of Lake Erie in a town that’s otherwise known for the Browns, the Indians, the Cavaliers, and not much else. Detroit may be the only other city in America that’s probably more deserving of self esteem boosting museum draw, but studies have shown that the majority of Americans think of Detroit as the place where people go to get shot at. So Cleveland it is and it is Cleveland that I went on vacation.
Let’s get to the point of this: if you are a fan of rock music (we’ll use this generalized term) you need to visit the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Seriously, devote a weekend (Cleveland deserves at least a weekend) to go there and explore this very meticulous shrine to a musical form that was considered to be nothing more than a novelty for the first decade of its existence.
Speaking of: there’s plenty of novelty housed within the Rock Hall, I’m guessing to accommodate the youth that pass through the doors alongside the parental units (Boomers) that pay the twenty bucks a head to validate the music of their own generation. As any fan of rock will tell you, there’s really no need to “validate” this era at all. Its importance is obvious. It’s the righteousness of this generation that really needs checked, but the Hall does a fairly decent job of conglomerating the phases of popular music while avoiding a “holier than thou” preference on one particular decade. The criteria of requiring an artist reaching the quarter-century mark before being eligible for induction does leverage the playing field a bit, but we don’t really need to hear, nor believe, that the importance of Green Day has been fully realized, do we?
So the kids have their interactive Ritalin exhibits, their Christina Aguilera costumes, and their references to 90’s “old school.” But the real find is for anyone with a hint of musical knowledge and, as expected, a treat for anyone that houses more than the usual amount of rock pedigree.

I image that if you fall into that latter category, the Hall can be a little overwhelming, particularly if you’re with someone who has less interest in you. Consider this observation from a family; I put the married couple to be in their early forties, and their pre-teen daughter and early-teens son. The Dad was completely taken with the artifacts and understandably wanted to take every moment in. The young daughter, on the other hand, really had no interest whatsoever in learning more about the importance of Les Paul and the development of the electric guitar. She started to fidget and whine. The father’s frustrations became obvious. “Why don’t you want to see this?” he asked, literally dumbfounded at why his daughter was bored. He finally reached a point where he didn’t care “why” his daughter was becoming winded. As any real fan of rock music would do, he stopped caring, declaring “I want to see this!” before letting his wife handle the child-care duties. The Mother and daughter went elsewhere to entertain themselves, leaving the son in Dad’s care. He took him to the exhibit that showed the progression of music technology, from Edison cylinders to Jobs’ Ipods. I heard the father explaining the concept of 8-tracks to his son. The son looked confused, and he had every right to be.
The 8-track tape player defies all logic.
If you’re a fan of both rock and guitars, then you’re doubly occupied. The Hall is overrun with them, to the point where you’re exhausted just trying to keep up. There are those that require some comments: the end result of “London Calling” coverboy Paul Simonon smashing his Fender bass, Howlin’ Wolf’s electric guitar, virtually all of Jerry Garcia’s Doug Irwin guitars, and countless others. There are some glaring omissions (we get Michael Anthony’s Jack Daniels bass but not one Eddie Van Halen six string) but give the Hall credit for not throwing up a bunch of autographed shit and calling it memorabilia. You can get that at any local Hard Rock Café.
There was a couple of special exhibits while I was there: a section devoted to Roy Orbison (pretty cool, particularly Roy’s handwritten action plan for himself, detailing what he was going to do with his career from that point forward) and another one for Bob Dylan’s “American Journey”, documenting his life from 1956 to 1966. This one was a tad mediocre, overflowing with interactive spots that essentially mirror the “No Direction Home” documentary and provide little additional insight. It was, however, somewhat eerie seeing Woody Guthrie’s Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital t-shirt that he wore while housed there, dying from Huntington’s disease.
Other notable artifacts (for me) included John Lennon’s handwritten lyrics to “In My Life,” childhood drawings from Jimi Hendrix, the mangled airplane skin from Otis Redding’s last plane ride, Jim Morrison’s report card (where he received a “D” in citizenship) and, fuck it, there are way to many things for me to list here.
Whatever your feelings about Jann Wenner, Dave Marsh, Cleveland, or that the whole idea of a rock and roll hall of fame is indeed a “piss stain,” you will find yourself humbled and attentive once you make amends and go there.

Dinner With Mike Watt

Ray Farrell, head of SST Record’s promotion department, called me one day while working at the college radio station. I was the program director there, and through the years at the station, I developed some pretty nice relationships with record labels and their employees. Ray had slighted me on a few occasions, or at least, I had felt that he had slighted me. It seemed that I could get whatever I wanted from record labels at the time; hell, I was prominently featured in fucking trade magazines as a “mover and shaker.” At least in my mind I was a mover and shaker. The reality, and Ray Farrell probably knew this, was somewhat different. Bottom line: Ray didn’t give me a ton of free shit. The label couldn’t afford it and I was probably presumptuous in asking for it. But whatever. I was young. I was movin’ and shakin.’
“firehose is going on tour and they’re coming to Iowa.” He explained. “You want to do a phone interview with Mike Watt?” Out of all the things Ray could have given me (free tickets, giveaways, a Raymond Pettibon print) the only thing he could come up with is a shitty sounding interview recorded over the phone line?! Fuck that. I had bigger plans.
I agreed to it and Ray gave me the phone number to Mike Watt’s house. “Call at [this time] on [this date].” He instructed. “Give me a call afterwards and let me know how it went.”
The bigger plan was this: I was going to parlay the phone interview into a full-fledged encounter with this, the man who played with the legendary Minutemen. I figured that I would invite him to dinner before the show in Iowa and treat him to a nice sit down dinner.

I called on the predetermined date and time only to hear about thirty minutes of busy signals. When I finally got through, a gruff sounding voice answered. “Hey Watt!” I announced, trying to sound cool, housed in a fairly clean Saccharine Trust t-shirt.
“I know you’ve probably been doin’ this all day long now…”
“Yeah, I’ve been on the phone all day…” he acknowledged.
“So whaddya say we cut this thing short and let’s just hook up here when you get to Iowa in a few weeks.”
“Oh, you mean like do an interview there at the station?” he asked.
I explained that the station I worked for was well over a hundred miles from where his band would be playing; therefore, it would be fairly impossible for him to stop by the station when they got into the state.
“What kind of food do you like?” I asked him.
“Mexican.” Was his short, to the point, and undebatable reply.
So with that, I told him that I would meet up with him before the show and take him to a nice Mexican restaurant where we could conduct the interview privately. Dinner, I added, was on me.
It goes without saying that the financial resources of most college students is fairly limited, and my role as Program Director for the student radio station paid a whopping one credit hour per semester. What that means is that I didn’t get paid, that actually, I was losing money at this gig. To supplement this lucrative salary, I worked for two other stations in the same market (under different names, to avoid that silly little non-compete clause) so that I could actually get a paycheck somehow.
I figured that I could afford to pay for Mike’s dinner and my own without much worry, and still have enough left over for gas, grass, and, well, that was about the extent of my budget right there.
I let Ray know to put me and my “producer” on the guest list for the show. I let my “producer,” a first year transfer student from somewhere around Omaha, know that he could come with me, but he’d have to buy his own dinner at the Mexican restaurant.
Before heading out, I called a few friends in the area to get their opinions as to what was the most authentic Mexican restaurant in the area. The consensus was that there was a little Mexican joint not too far from the venue that had a pretty authentic menu, and I was stoked that I’d be able to show Mike Watt how we do Mexican here in Iowa.
Now, before you start to giggle at the thought of “authentic Mexican food” and the state of Iowa together in the same sentence, let me explain that the part of Iowa where I’m originally from is close to a town that has some truly authentic Mexican restaurants. This was an area that heavily used Mexican migrant workers and the town actually built a fairly shitty subdivision to house them all in. A lot of families stayed there and continued their heritage with various community events, social clubs, and started a few restaurants so that the Iowa crackers could learn how to pronounce “Chimichanga” correctly.
On the way down to the firehouse show, I start to set the expectations of the interview with my “producer.” He had a tendency to try and take over my interviews, so I had to set him straight with this one. I also told him that he was not to mention anything about D. Boon. It was just a couple of years after Boon’s death and I wanted to avoid the topic entirely with Watt. I didn’t want to be “the guy that bummed out Mike Watt” and was afraid that any discussion of the topic would send him into a drop D chord, if you know what I mean…
I meet up with Watt and drummer George Hurley before the show and Mike actually remembered the prior arrangement. To my shock, Mike starts inviting everyone to dinner. George Hurley, Ed Crawford, the roadie, the t-shirt guy, I’m doing the math and it’s clear that I’ll be using my Dad’s Amoco card for a lot more than just gas for the next few weeks.
Thankfully, on the way to the Mexican restaurant, Ed Crawford decided that he didn’t want to run south of the border. He makes a beeline for a Subway and I’m secretly hoping that a few more in our group join him. They don’t, so the rest of us make our way into the “authentic” Mexican joint. I tell the “producer” that I may need to borrow a few bucks from him to cover the bill. He shows me a few twenties in his wallet and I breathe a sigh of relief. To show my appreciation, I let him sit next to me (I was going to put him next to the roadies) and we set up the recording equipment while everyone starts ordering from the menu.

Mike is very open and gregarious. He seems genuinely excited about the band, the tour, the record and he provides me with long, detailed answers. He even translates some Pedro-speak for me. I’m provided with a clear definition to what “We jam econo” means. “Econo” is short for “Econoline” as in Ford Econoline vans. Mike explains that they don’t need tour buses or other forms of fancy travel. For him, rock and roll as he understands it, is simply getting your gear together, throwing it into the Econoline, and getting out there and doing it. “You know, I read these things about other bands and how tough it is to go out on the road,” he preaches, “and how the concert industry is in a slump. That bands can’t make any money on tour anymore. The thing is: every tour that I’ve ever been a part of has made money. It’s about priorities, you understand.” He says these clarifying things a lot, like “You follow me?” “You know?” It had an almost teacher-to-student tone to it, like he was very aware of the impact that punk rock had on his life and that he was going to make damn sure you knew the ropes of the trade, in case you were in the market for an Econoline van too. I picked up on about half of this while the other half was spent hoping that the roadie didn’t order the steak fajitas.
Speaking of, the meal was positively lame. The food was far from fucking authentic and the hot sauce was a tad above tepid. I made a comment about the sauce and Mike concurred by declaring it “Weak” while his mouth was stuffed with food.
Let there be no question: Mike Watt can put down some food. And he can do it quickly. The man was done in no time flat and be made no attempt at trying to impress us with manners.
But Mike Watt has never been someone to try and impress anyone else. Aside from D. Boon, probably. That’s been part of his appeal, actually. This was a guy who really didn’t subscribe to the “punk formula” at all, and had the uncanny ability to read through the bullshit of these kinds of labels. So if a little bit of refried beans spills on his flannel, oh well.
After he ate, we talked some more about the band. Without any hesitation, he began to talk about D. Boon. The pain was still there, and some twenty years later, it appears that it never really left.
“It was D. Boon’s Mom that told me to play the bass.” He explained, with the same unison as the stories he told in “We Jam Econo.” That’s what struck me about the movie: the stories he told in front of the camera were the same stories, verbatim, that he told me nearly twenty years ago at a shitty Mexican restaurant in Iowa. His voice pause after each additional “You know?” I remained silent, occasionally nodding, letting Mike Watt spill another retelling of the tragedy to someone too young to fully appreciate the importance of the topic and too young to understand the pain that he overcame.
I paid for dinner with a few borrowed bills from the “producer.” Mike offered to pay for his crew, but I declined. I said that maybe we could work something out later on, maybe in the form of a free t-shirt or something. It seemed fair to me, but Mike explained that he couldn’t barter with his “merch.” It dawned on me. Every one of his tours made money. That $10 profit attributed to the bottom line. The stories he shared with me were worth more than a “weak” Mexican dinner.
We walked back to the venue. George and Mike worked on the set list (Ed, I learned, was not feeling well, and rarely spoke the entire night) while I snapped a few photos. We watched the soundcheck and snapped a few more before the doors opened. The “producer” rigged up a few microphones to record the show and we found a few good seats in back.
On the first song, Watt broke a string on his bass, and I witnessed an impressive example of d.i.y. He walked over to his amplifier and retrieved a new string from the top of the cabinet. He removed the broken string and strung a new one while continuing to play through the rest of the song.

Then another glitch occurred. A constant crackling noise started from Ed’s combo amp. A guitar tech came on stage in between songs to try and do a quick diagnosis, but nothing changed. This irritant, combined with Ed’s already sick demeanor, made for a very by-the-numbers set. George and Mike, on the other hand, probably had several additional years of these kinds of surprises and managed to maintain composure. They ended the performance with a cover of Public Enemy’s “Sophisticated Bitch,” which had Mike grinning from ear to ear and even prompted a smile from Ed.
After the show, I met up with Mike again to thank him for his time and to grab an autograph. There wasn’t a lot of chit chat offered, it was clear that he had more pressing things to do. Rather than spending some time with a couple of college kids in Iowa, Mike had to help with the band’s load out. Part of “jamming econo,” he explained, is also making sure that everyone helps out.
I quickly learn that my own lesson in “jamming econo” isn’t quite over yet.
“Grab those cables over there” he tells me.

Minutemen-We Jam Econo

I can’t tell you how important SST’s “The Blasting Concept” compilation albums were to me growing up. Priced at a mere $3.49, the album provided a glimpse of the SST Records roster. How could you go wrong? Certainly at that price, you’re sure to find a few tunes that you liked.
The album did more than that; it provided a glimpse into a different world of music. Meat Puppets, Black Flag, Husker Du, Saccharine Trust, and other SST labelmates were included on it. Starting it off was Minutemen’s “Paranoid Chant.”
“I try to talk to girls/And I keep thinking of world war three!” barked the singer. Underneath those effectively simplistic lyrics was a curious racket; a power trio that meshed together a unique version of punk rock that managed to epitomize the “paranoid” in “Paranoid Chant.”
For a young dude using a cheap compilation album to discover new music, the Minutemen were unlike anything else on the landscape. For an old dude talking about a new Minutemen documentary, they are still unlike anything else on the landscape.
You need Minutemen’s “Double Nickels On The Dime” in your record collection. It’s that simple. And once you’ve purchased that album, you may find yourself enamored in learning more about this power trio curio. That’s where the new documentary “We Jam Econo” comes in handy. For the novice, you’ll get to hear firsthand the Minutemen’s all-to-brief existence and you’ll learn of the incredible bond between bassist Mike Watt and guitarist D. Boon. If you’re already familiar with the oft-told story of the Minutemen, there are new stories to hear, concert footage to examine, and reminders as to why their legacy is so critical to underground music. If there ever was a band deserving of a documentary, the Minutemen are it.

The key is that even though “Double Nickels” stands sonically on it own, the Minutemen story is almost as critical. Even if the Boon/Watt story wasn’t part of the overall plot, you’d still have an important tale: Three ordinary guys from a blue-collar town whose musical inspirations far outweigh their potential. Their image, their political ideology, their musical lineage, their locale, their intelligence, all worked against them. It didn’t matter. Punk rock changed their lives.
Of course, the D. Boon story ends and begins with tragedy. The very moment this little band from Pedro was poised to go on to the next level, D. Boon dies in a car wreck, leaving his childhood friend Watt to spin briefly into a funk that seemed too deep to escape from.
It’s the magnitude of D. Boon’s death on Watt and how deep their friendship was that’s evident from the first five minutes of the film. Footage from 1985 shows the two talking about how they first met. Watt explains that he was walking along when Boon, literally, fell on him from out of a tree. A more recent shot then shows Watt walking the very same path and points to the exact tree where Boon fell on him. It’s heartbreaking. And it perfectly establishes how, almost twenty years after his best friend’s death, he’s still with him.
The only thing that’s really missing from the movie is an idea of how Boon’s death affected others. Sure, there are plenty of cameos from some of underground rock’s most elite names, but I know firsthand that the Minutemen were the catalyst for hundreds of upstarts and I know that Boon’s death ranks just as tragic as a Lennon, Cobain, or Strummer. We see the actual note that Henry Rollins sent Ian McKaye, notifying him of Boon’s passing. What I would have liked to have seen was a “soldier child’s” perspective too. I’ll never forget a conversation I had once with Dave Diebler about Minutemen. His band, House of Large Sizes, was clearly aligned with Minutemen’s d.i.y. ethos and his lyrics were clearly influenced by D. Boon’s. Diebler would go on about how important this band was to him and at the end of the conversation he shot me a look of sadness with an equal part of anger and said “Do you know that son of a bitch would still be with us if he had just put on his fucking seat belt?” I wanted to see just a few more examples of this in the documentary, for some reason. Some proof that it wasn’t just underground a-listers, art-types, and rock critics that felt something from this band, this artist. Their importance was felt all the way to Iowa, and it was large enough for others to start power trios of their own.
Nonetheless, this is a very good piece of work and there’s certainly more than enough information included to keep those who deem themselves to be familiar with everything Minutemen entertained. I wasn’t aware that “Double Nickels” contains a nod to both Pink Floyd’s “Ummagumma” and Sammy Hagar. I didn’t know that the reason Boon’s guitar was so trebly was because the band viewed the bass guitar and electric guitar as “sovereign states.” I didn’t know that legendary SST “producer” Spot was such a riot (I should have, if I’d only remembered side four of Black Flag’s “Everything Went Black” album). And I didn’t know that both Grant Hart and Richard Hell look like they’re one good vein away from an overdose. Greg Norton, on the other hand, looks pretty good lately.
The bonus material is excellent and I enjoyed almost all of the deleted scenes including Ed Crawford’s telling of how he literally called Watt up from Ohio after Boon’s death and pulled him back into where D. Boon would have wanted him to be: on stage with his “thunderbroom.”
The documentary ends where it should: a modern day Mike Watt driving around San Pedro in a Ford Econoline van. He narrates “So, December 22nd, 1985….” He starts to slowly shake his head, trying to ward off the approaching tears. He clears his throat and continues, “Heavy day for me.”
The shot continues and Watt tries to surmise it all by saying “Big change in my life…meetin’ D. Boon.”
We’ll never have the opportunity to meet D. Boon anymore. The only thing we can have is a chance to hear about him, and “We Jam Econo” is a great way to do just that.

Brokedown Palace

After a fucking year on the market, Brokedown Palace is sold. I signed the paperwork yesterday and, what once was a proud abode overlooking the Mississippi River is now in the hands of, I think, the ex-wife of the dude that used to trim the English Walnut tree that was just outside of the dining room. The same dude that gave the ex a ride on his Harley after I moved out.
I made enough money to cover the mortgage and cover the expenses that I threw at it over the years. In short: I broke even. Understand, the town in which it was built is not the most frequented of spots. In fact, the town (and area) has shown a dramatic decline of the population thanks to people who move on to opportunities outside of the area. And let me explain, there are no opportunities within my former hometown. Unless you happen to have a meth lab in your basement.
Nonetheless, there is some scenery there and some history. But scenery and history only go so far, and so I relied on a couple of acquaintances to help me unload the property.
The first was a my divorce lawyer, a guy that happened to be the older brother of a friend of mine. The lawyer also lived a block away from the house, so when it came time to sock it to the ex because she didn't hold up her end of the bargain on the divorce, he seemed like a logical choice to help me deal with the legal bullshit surrounding the sale of the house. Apparently, timeliness and communication weren't part of his expertise; countless unanswered phone calls ensued as did a lack of urgency when it came time to get some paperwork filed before the closing of the house. I went boating with the guy on one occassion and learned that he was a Jimmy Buffett fan. The fact that he was a "Parrothead" should have clued me in, but since I'm a cheap prick, I opted to overlook this for the possibility of getting some friendly prices for his services.

The realtor who listed the house was actually the chick I took to the senior prom, many years ago. She was dating an older guy who ran the local stereo store and I was dating someone who's parents wouldn't let her stay out all night. For a couple of kids who viewed senior prom as an allnighter, it became clear that we needed to leave the romantic halves at home and go to the prom with each other.
The "theme" was "Can't Fight This Feeling" by R.E.O. Speedwagon, which was a step down from the prior year's "Just Between You And Me" by April Wine. Seriously, what feeling were they trying to fight? What the fuck does that have to do with prom? Anyway, the senior class had spoken and chose the theme, so I shouldn't be pissed that my (joke) vote for Kiss' "Heaven's On Fire" didn't win. Me and a few other people thought that would be a great choice, mainly because of the completely indulgent Paul Stanley opener on the song.
Understand, my decision to go with the pre-realtor chick was a completely superficial one: we were there to party. There was no chance/desire for hanky-panky. No drama for making sure everything went perfectly. The only drama was getting someone to buy us kegs of beer and then loading them up to a room at the Super 8 (life's great there!) without an adult noticing and calling the cops.
After the room, the beer, and the corsages were secured, we met up with some friends at a parent's house for dinner. It was one of those "Let us make you a fancy dinner so that we can take pictures of how cute you all look" type of events. If I recall, a bird pooped on the shoulder of one of my friend's tuxedoes while we were on the deck for obligatory snapshots. Now there's a Kodak moment!
When we were all set to leave, me and the chick decided to play Reeses Penut Butter Cups with our drugs (You've got cocaine in my weed! You've got weed in my cocaine! Shit, let's open up some Jack Daniels and make it three great tastes that taste great together!). Little did I know, my parents decided it would be a good idea to show up at the formal, right around the same time the cocaine paranoia hit me. That wasn't me smiling on those prom pictures Mom; that was me grinding me teeth.
The band playing at formal was unable to accomodate our requests for Black Flag and Dead Kennedy's songs. Christ, they couldn't even play "Heaven's On Fire." After a few quick slow dances and a few more pictures, we decided to head to the Super 8 where the beer should have been nice and cold.
We had reserved at least four rooms and it became a situation of musical parties at the Super 8, much to the chagrin of the other guests. About two in the morning, I went outside and passed out in a convertable Ford LTD. At three in the morning, the car began to move as we were suddenly transported to the local nightclub who had reserved the place for the benefit of the prom. I should point out that, by this time, I had no idea where my prom date was.
By six in the morning, we had retired back to the hotel in a futile attempt to get a few hours of sleep. When I say "futile" I mean that, by that time, a few of the hotel patron that had to endure the drunken tomfoolery of teenagers, now started to retaliate us by banging on the doors of our rooms. "Who the fuck is that?" I yelled, trying to get a few hours of sleep to help kill the oncoming hangover. I noticed that I was passed out in between a couple and wondered if I had drunkenly missed my only threeway. My friend went to the door and was immediately met by a very angry person who proceeded to chastise him/us for keeping her up all night. When I again asked who was at the door, without pause he turned to me and said "It's a lizard" before sticking out his tounge, mimicking the reptilian woman who continued to bark at him.
My lengthy point is this: me and the realtor lady had a history together. So I was hoping that this history would be more of a motivator to actually sell my home, despite the fact that a nice commission should be motivating enough. But no, I get all sorts of inept requests ("Maybe we should lower the listing price.") and examples of shitty work ethic.
But fuck it. It's sold. It's over. Now I can return to the community for the occasional visit as a former homeowner there, with more than a few stories to share.
Like this one: the 'Cocaine Senior Prom kegger at the Super 8 staring the Lizard Lady with music by R.E.O. Speedwagon' story.

The Avengers-S/T

In a perfect world, Penelope Houston’s name would be next to such recognized artists as Chrissie Hynde or P.J. Harvey, particularly because her work with The Avengers essentially helped paved the way for other women in the rock and roll landscape. But reality is a funny thing, and the reality is that The Avengers were only around for a couple of years and, during that time together, only managed to release a single and an e.p.

In 1983, San Francisco’s CD Presents released a posthumous album that compiled The Avengers’ proper releases and other career highlights. Simply entitled “The Avengers,” this record is becoming close to a forgotten classic when it deserved to be in the same breath as The Pretenders’ first album in terms of influence.
Unlike The Pretenders, “The Avengers” makes no attempt at lyrical cleverness. This is primitive punk rock music, written by a 19 year-old young woman, and performed by musicians with a much passion and anger as the band who made a similar racket across the pond around the same time: The Sex Pistols. Not surprisingly, The Avengers actually opened for the Pistols on their final performance in San Francisco and their 1978 e.p. was produced by Pistols guitarist Steve Jones.
“We Are The One” starts off the record with some slashing guitar chords from Greg Ingraham while Houston does a fairly good job at rallying anyone under the age of 21 with her declaration of “I am the one who shows you the future/I am the one who buries the past.” There’s something entirely refreshing about this youthful exuberance and it can be found throughout the record, even on their curious cover of “Paint It Black.”
“The American In Me” is the showcase track, and it remains completely relevant in today’s headlines. “It’s the American in me/Says it’s an honor to die/In a war that’s just a politician’s lie” sounds pretty angry for 1978, and pretty prophetic over a quarter-century later.
CD Presents went under in the late 80’s, making prices for the “official” self-titled album hovering around $75 for used copies. There are plans for reissuing this classic album, along with the band’s infamous Winterland concert opening for the Pistols, but for the time being, people interested in obtaining a high-quality cdr copy of the release can get it for more reasonable prices at Penelope Houston’s website.
As for Houston, she changed gears completely and undertook a more acoustic direction, releasing some very good efforts while adhering to a strict d.i.y. ethic. She’s currently re-teamed with Greg Ingraham and is touring the country under the Avengers moniker (sometimes known as scAvengers), providing an opportunity for younger audiences to witness a band that most certainly needs more recognition than it managed to get during their initial run.

Open Letter To Chan Marshall

Chan:
What's up? I couldn't help but notice that you seem, how do I put this, positively happy as of late. We all have problems, and from what I've read, you've had your share too. Christ, it was less than a year ago when I last saw you and I was more than pleased that you decided to spend a little over an hour with me. Sure, there were a few moments there when I thought you were going to bail, but you held it together. Then there was the planned tour with the backing band from "The Greatest" and the subsequent news that the tour was cancelled because, well, just because. From what I understood: you needed some time to sort some shit out and to get healthy. I wasn't expecting you to get happy.
The first indication was your performance on The Late Show. You looked thinner, tanner, and healthier. More unsettling was the fact that you actually smiled.
And now you've gone and released a new video for "Lived In Bars" where you're kissing patrons, dancing on tables, and seem genuinely pleased to be making a commercial for your song. It's kind of freaking me out.
Now before you assume that I'm just one of those fanboys who likes it when you're down, let me say this: I think "The Greatest" is indeed your greatest. And I'm extremely happy that you're happy. I'm just having some trouble with the whole 180 you've done in such a short amount of time. What's going on here? Is it possible that being drug free can bring that kind of happiness? I mean, where do I sign up?! Admittedly, my life has made its own turns for the better since we first met; Shit, you should have seen the state I was in around the release of "Moon Pix!" But damn girl, this extreme makeover thing is getting downright creepy.
Don't forget where you came from, k. I mean, what would the community think?
Much love,
T. Totale

Mott The Hoople-Brain Capers

On what should be the first installment of an ongoing series entitled “If you’re truly a fan of rock and roll, then you need to get this album,” Glam-Racket introduces Mott The Hoople’s incredible fourth album, “Brain Capers.” I would venture to guess that even the relatively few people that have even heard of Mott The Hoople have even heard of this album, but I would also venture to guess that anyone who’s a fan of David Bowie’s early 70’s output and who hears this album will realize where he got a substantial portion of his sound from. Short answer: Brain Capers.

Mott should really be billed as Mott The Fucking Hoople on this one. In terms of performance, the band smokes. Around 30 seconds into the incredible opener “Death May Be Your Santa Claus” you’ll understand what I mean. “How long before you realize what you missed/How long before we go out and may get pissed.” Hunter asks, in an almost perfect summation of where the band was at when they actually recorded this album. Ignored by the public, the band was on the verge of tapping out. “Brain Capers” sounds like a “Fuck it, let’s rock fellas and then go get loaded” type of album.
With nothing left to lose, what’s amazing is how structurally sound “Capers” is. This isn’t an anarchic effort; it’s fully realized and perfectly executed. Right down to the drummer losing his sticks at the end of “Santa Claus” before letting out a final “Wooo!”
Part of this is thanks to Producer Guy Stevens, best known as the madman behind The Clash’s “London Calling” sessions. Stevens simply rolls tape and lets Mott rock, understanding that his sole role is to capture the best performance and stay out of the way.
Ian Hunter also comes of age with this effort, delivering some of his most witty lyrics ever. Like the feel of the album, he eloquently captures the band’s state of mind. “The Journey” sounds like a road-worn band reaching the end (“Well I can see the end for the very first time…I guess I lost just a little bit on the journey/Yeah I guess I lost just a little bit on the way”) and downright bitter (“I swear to you before we’re through/you’re gonna feel our every blow/We ain’t bleeding you we’re feeding you/but you’re all to fucking slow”) by the time “The Moon Upstairs” towards the end of the album.
Bowie gave Mott “All The Young Dudes” and a second lease on life (just as he did with Lou Reed and The Stooges) but you can hear it for yourself: Mott had everything right well before he brought them back from the brink. And “Brain Capers” shows us that sometimes breaking up can sound pretty fucking good.

Wouldn't You Miss Me?

A lot of this essentially repeats some of the same words I posted on a frequented music board, but I wanted to share a few stories involving Syd Barrett as news of his passing came today.
First, I suppose, there’s the introduction to this crazy diamond. The first Pink Floyd album I ever owned was “Atom Heart Mother,” a post-Syd release. Nonetheless, the music on this admitted Floydian also-ran led me to “Dark Side Of The Moon.” And then “The Wall.” And then to “Wish You Were Here.” And then to “Animals.” And then to the cassette collection of a high-school girl who had increased her Floyd collection exponentially to the point where it included the very first Pink Floyd album, “The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn.”
Since I didn’t have this release, it became a logical decision to ask the girl to borrow it. “It’s not like the other Floyd albums.” She advised. And she was right.
“Piper” is on an entirely different planet, and it was obvious that the leader of this version of Floyd was the primary spaceship captain. I read more about this founder, and how the band undertook a new direction when it was quite clear that the initial frontman was completely incapable of fronting the band. The idea that this instability was caused by hallucinogens became very intriguing; here was rock’s first acid casualty. And like a lot of people, I found humor in that story.
I swear I passed “Piper” around to a few people, and it seemed that others became attracted by the sound and the story of Syd. I went to the local Disc Jockey and asked the full-timer if they had either one of the two Barrett solo albums I’d read he released after leaving Floyd. “What’s the deal with Syd Barrett all of a sudden?” He asked. “You’re the third person to ask about him this week.” I special ordered “The Madcap Laughs” from him and the Rodger Waters/Ron Geesin soundtrack album “Music From ‘The Body.’”
I must have found something there, because suddenly the Album Oriented Rock version of Pink Floyd started to seem a tad contrite. The declaration of “We don’t need no education” gave way to “Oh where are you now/Pussy willow that smiled on this leaf?”
The latter painted something much more visual than anything starring the lead singer of The Boomtown Rats.
The Disc Jockey dude invited me over to take a listen to his Syd Barrett bootlegs. He wouldn’t allow his collection to be taken from his home, and strangely, he hadn’t invested in a tape player. But he did allow me to bring my cassette deck over if I wanted to copy these rare “artyfacts.” Regardless of the extremely low-fidelity, I now had versions of Syd Barrett radio broadcasts which sounded like they were recorded directly off of an A.M. radio.
And so it was announced that a collection of Barrett outtakes would be released. I picked up “Opel” as an import copy before it was officially released in America. This is telling as this decision was based entirely on the number of import “Opel” units sold domestically. Capitol records figured out that there was a devoted cult following of Syd Barrett fans in the states.
Upon first listen, the “Opel” collection sounded suspiciously like the bottom of the Barrett barrel. A few hits of l.s.d. demonstrated that “Opel’s” subtlety was beautifully misleading. The fact that most of the tracks are presented in a primitive state assists with this. They are a basic blueprint of something that could have been something glorious.
The more I learned, the more I understood that Syd Barrett’s demise was much more complex than just a guy who took too much acid. Sure, the claims of a crazy, balding fat guy showing up during the “Wish You Were Here” sessions fueled the mystique. As did the Disc Jockey guy’s information that a fanzine called “Terrapin” was comprised entirely of Barrett sightings. As did the rumors that he now lived a life of seclusion with his mother.
The more I learned, the more I sought out things that were “Barrett-esque.” Without him, there wouldn’t have been the discovery of Robyn Hitchcock, Julian Cope, Skip Spence, Jeff Mangum, and others who tread the fine line of losing touch with their mind. Shine on, Syd. You shone like the sun and provided some light for me to see a different side of music.

Pumpin' For The Man

"You've got:
'My bossman's a bastard and I want to kill him' blues'"
-Henry Rollins
1987

Fuckin' A. And let me declare publically that I would love it if Hank stopped by my company's corporate offices and beat the living shit out of my fuckin' boss. I should clarify that my boss is merely a douche; it's the owner that I can't stand. I received word from my superior that the owner feels I somehow disrespect him, that I ignore him, and that I give the perception that I'm too good to actively participate in team meetings.
So like a fucking baby, I can anticipate the owner giving me the silent treatment for a few months and probably making some disparaging comments about yours truly to others but, sorry, I don't have time to manage 20 people and then be expected to manage the owner's neurotic mindset.
So I've become a passive job-seeker, and my most recent interview was with a fairly laid-back publishing company. I had a killer first interview and was rushed in for a second interview with the president of the company. On the way down to the interview, for reasons unknown, I played Pink Floyd's "Meddle" album. I would like to blame Rodger Waters and company for helping me bomb that second interview. The blame, of course, falls squarely upon me, and "Meddle" is a pretty good early 70's Floyd effort. Nonetheless kids, if you're needing interviewing tips here's a good one from me: Try to spend more time giving detailed examples of your work-related success rather than giving detail examples of why the owner of your company is a cocksucker.
We'll just chock that one up to a "learning experience" and move on...
On the good side: The Cedar Rapids Kernels fucked up the Burlington Bee's 13-5. This seemed to quiet down the SLF (and Burlington native) after the Bee's spanked the Kernels during the last Minor League outing we had in early June. Unlike B-Town, the locals up here seem to really dig Minor League play as the attendance for both games was fairly high.
One of the best things about the game: Milwaukee may have their sausage run, but here in C.R., we have running eyeballs. Here's proof as they make their way from the infield.

If you're curious, the green eye won by an eyelash. I totally stole that punch line from the old dude sitting behind us in the bleachers.

Spinning:
T-Rex-"T-Rex"
The Fall-"Perverted By Language"
Tapes 'N Tapes-"The Loon"
Sonic Youth-"Rather Ripped"
The Brian Jonestown Massacre-"Give It Back"
Spacemen 3-"Playing With Fire"
Pink Floyd-"Meddle"
Black Flag-"Who's Got The 10 1/2?"

The Flaming Lips-At War With The Mystics

Oh yeah: The Flaming Lips have a new album out this year. As usual, it was on the list the day it was released, right after “Update Work Spreadsheet” and right before “Pick Up Bread.” As unenthused as I was when listening to “Yoshimi” the first time, I set the proper expectation for “At War With The Mystics” because, to be honest, I hate feeling letdown.
But alright, far out, and aw yeah, this new one is right up my classic rock alley. They’ve be nodding to and occasionally covering the classic rock stalwarts they grew up with for twenty years now, but “Mystics” is the first time they’ve had both the studio wizardry (read: Dave Friddman) and a band member (read: Steven Drozd) capable enough to pull off a prog-rock statement.
I say statement because, apparently, there’s some correlations between the content of the songs and our current political situation. Forgive me if I don’t really know for sure; I was too busy admiring how “Pompeii Am Gotterdammerung” totally rips off Floyd circa ’71.

It’s not as good as “The Soft Bulletin,” and some may argue not as good as “Yoshimi.” But I’m playing it more than “Yoshimi” and I understand that “Bulletin” may be the Lips last truly incredible album.
Whatever. They still have it in ‘em to make consistently good-on-the-verge-of great albums which, by my calculation, puts them in the top five most important bands around today. And like Pink Floyd’s “Meddle,” The Flaming Lips’ “A War With The Mystics” will also sound really good on the years thirty years from today.

The Oasis Is Dry

Don’t expect me to get all sentimental about the news that Gabe’s Oasis is closing. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this venue, let me describe it: It’s a little shithole in Iowa City that is divided into two sections. The first floor is primarily a bar that the hardcore drinkers fully utilize when the place opens its doors every afternoon. The second floor contains another bar and a little stage that your piece of shit band can play. Legally, I think that the place is supposed to only hold about 150-200 people. I swear I’ve seen more than that in there. There is no functioning air conditioning and the place can easily get up to over 100 degrees during ideal conditions. And the bathrooms? It’s probably a half notch better than CBGB’s, and the graffiti is marvelous.
At one point in time, it was a frequent stopping point for various bands looking for a little Iowa jack. Truth be told, I’ve seen some excellent shows there: Sonic Youth, The Flaming Lips, Soul Asylum, Superchunk, Junior Brown, Clarence ‘Gatemouth’ Brown, Mudhoney, Uncle Tupelo, Henry Rollins, Luna, The Jesus Lizard, and a host of others have had a chance to see the wonders of Gabe’s “green room” and how easy it is to load in/out of the upstairs venue. For some of these bands, one gig there was enough to never visit again. For others, the panache made it a repeat destination; rumor has it that some bands made a point to book a show there solely based on past experience and crowd enthusiasm.
For the past decade, something happened with the caliber of performances at the place. I’m not sure the reason behind it, but I do know that during Gabe’s heyday, there were at least a couple of shows each month that I wanted to see. Lately, that batting average whittled down to about a couple of shows a year. And when you’re faced with the idea of spending a late weeknight sweating out dollar cans of Schlitz, well, let’s just say an evening watching Aqua Teens doesn’t sound like a bad alternative.
Admittedly, all this posturing doesn’t discount the reality that a lot of good time was spent there. This was a great place for some formidable local talent to cut their teeth on, and there have been several shows fronted by local stalwarts that are permanently engrained in my memory. There’s something very reassuring that a band who feels the need to plug their shit first had to lug their equipment up treacherous back-of-house stairs and risk an audience of a few paying patrons. It builds character.
I’m not sure what’s next. From what I understand this closing is merely a “remodel,” but it sounds like the name is going to change and “remodel” means a fresh coat of paint in a bathroom that for twenty years looked fine painted in piss and Sharpie pens.
So long, little shithole.

Top Ten Gabe’s Oasis Moments:
1.) The Jesus Lizard-One of the best shows I have ever seen in my life. There’s something strangely cool about passing a sweaty little man over your head.
2.) House of Large Sizes-Too many cool shows to mention. A perennial favorite.
3.) Sonic Youth-The “Sister” tour. Kim looked like she hated the place. Thurston played his guitar on the rafters. The Hollowmen opened, and gave one of their best shows ever for the occasion.
4.) Uncle Tupelo-Actually, they opened for H.O.L.S. (this was before “No Depression”) and they rocked. Fairly unknown at the time, it took only two songs before the audience completely adored them. Their performance made the ever-reliable H.O.L.S. perform even harder.
5.) The Flaming Lips-The 2.0 version, power trio lineup. A mindblowing performance that made me a lifelong fan. This would have been around the time that “Oh My Gawd” was released.
6.) Soul Asylum-Fuck the haters: at one time, Soul Asylum had some of the best live shows in the Midwest. Run Westy Run opened, making it a Twin City double bill for the ages. I think the capacity was well over the limit for this one.
7.) Superchunk-Neutral Milk Hotel opened. It was Laura Ballance’s 30th birthday and the band gave a spirited performance for the occasion.
8.) Junior Brown-For this night, Gabe’s Oasis was transformed into a shitty honky tonk. Great performance with a hugely diverse crowd.
9.) Luna-Flawless. Just some beautiful musicianship in front of a very adoring audience. I yelled out “Indian Summer” when they came out for an encore, and they played it.
10.) Barkmarket-There was only a handful of people in attendance, but Dave Sardy, Rock Savage, and John Nowlin provided us with an intimate sonic freak out and a few minutes of after-show face time.

First Day Of Summer Top Ten

I think someone told me it's now officially summer, but I rarely pay attention to people anymore.
The "official first day of summer Top 10":
David Bowie-"Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack"
T-Rex-"Electric Warrier"
My Bloody Valentine-"Isn't Anything"
Ugly Cassanova-"Sharpen Your Teeth"
Sonic Youth-"Rather Ripped"
The Raconteurs-"Broken Boy Soldiers"
Centro-Matic-"Fort Recovery"
The Twilight Singers-"Powder Burns"
Art Brut-"Bang Bang Rock & Roll"
Motorhead-"No Sleep 'Til Hammersmith"

And in a recent revisiting of a couple of classic rock albums. I have determined:

Cream-"Goodbye" is a piece of fucking shit. I remember my Dad had this on 8-track when I was a kid. I picked it up on cd (cheap) several years ago with some of that "you loved it as a kid" nostalgia bullshit. It really reeks; these guys were supposed to be a supergroup, but half of the tracks on this last-gasp effort to make some jack before the band imploded are from poorly executed live performances. Ginger Baker plods along like anything but a proficient drummer. Jack Bruce needs to focus on playing a few notes instead of cramming a novel into his fretwork, and Eric Clapton sounds like he'd rather be playing for the Yardbirds. "Badge" is the only thing that saves this thing from being thrown against the wall.

Steve Miller Band-"Fly Like An Eagle" is actually a pretty good album. Again, another reminder from Dad's 8-track. I bought this at the same time as "Goodbye" (I guess a futile attempt to relive my childhood) and almost put this one back because I thought I couldn't stand Steve Miller and I was more than sick of the hits from this album: the title track, "Take The Money And Run," and "Rock 'N Me." Truth be told, Miller's work on his Fender is pretty impressive, and the hits sound a little more fresh in their original album sequence. This thing is apparently being re-issued on a 5.1 audio format, just the way "Steve Miller intended it" to sound. Whatever, Space Cowboy. This ain't 1976; quadrophonic audio didn't catch on.

Sing Harpy

The Fall obsession is in full swing again, with some time spent on their early 80’s material, a salivation to pick up “Fall Heads Roll” (despite some consistently fair reviews of it) and that feeling that I don’t have any studio albums from 1991-2001 in my collection. It’s stupid; why split hairs over a band that I will admittedly never be able to complete and, in reality, have no desire to. They’re famously inconsistent but have a track record of never really releasing an entirely bad album. And when you look at bands with a similar 30+ year track record, that’s a pretty good batting average. I mean, fuck, even Scorpions released several duds (“Virgin Killer” anyone) during their lengthy career.
So let’s trace the history of this recent obsession: at my public Iowa University, there wasn’t a lot in terms of diversity. I’m sure that my Midwestern upbringing challenged a few of the left-of-center types, but what these judgmental folk didn’t understand was that my hometown was anything but a typical Midwestern home; the locale was built with fringe manufacturing blue-collar men and women, just an eyelash away from a lay-off and one beer away from alcoholism. Sure, these were the same people that would yell “Faggot!” without hesitation, but they were also oblivious to the fact that they were ridiculed with as much frequency as any minority group. It’s like the last concept they had of superiority was that they were white and heterosexual. Knowing this provided me with a better insight that some liberal collegiate who viewed them as just part of the problem. The problem was that these “enlightened” people would treat them with the same animosity that they were accustomed to and provoke the same behaviors that made them enemies to begin with.
I’d like to think that Mark E. Smith would understand this strange dichotomy too. I don’t see him as the type of person who would view intellectuals as know-all elitists. In fact, I see him feeling more comfortable with drinking a Bud with a factory worker and writing about it later on, in terms that the factory worker wouldn’t understand and in verses that would make him appreciated by fellow artists. I’d also like to think that he’d understand this lunacy.
So a friend in college had a mix-tape given to him provided by a lesbian who was in the same noise rock band as he was. The track included was “I Am Damo Suzuki” from then new “This Nation’s Saving Grace” album. The song was fascinating; it gallops along, sometimes losing time, while an inspired Mark E. proclaims his love for Damo, the lead singer for some of Can’s most important efforts.
From there, a slow, gradual dissent into Fall-dom began. “Nation’s” begot “Frenz” which sequed into “Oranj” and then “Extricate.” If you’re familiar with the Fall’s extensive catalog, you understand these references and you know that I had a long way to go from there. The task was too daunting; I left thinking that I had a fairly good idea of what the Fall were all about.
For a decade, I ignored their material. The continual changes in their line-up was offsetting. Of course, I didn’t know that this was part of their appeal: Mark E. is the Fall. And he’s an asshole. That’s pretty cool. Legendary BBC dj John Peel, who’s also pretty cool, cited The Fall as his favorite band. When asked why, he provided an infamous quote to his infatuation: "[they're] always different, always the same."
During this time, I kept a careful eye on Mark E.'s exploits, including the infamous fight he had with a fellow (then) bandmate moments before taking the stage. He went on with the show, in case you're wondering, complete with blood on his button down white shirt. Classic.
I came back. And at probably one of their highest points ever put to wax ("The Real New Fall L.P." a.k.a. "Country On The Clink"). It amazed me that they could continue to release such vital efforts some three decades into their career.
With this newfound revelation that I needed to examine their catalog further, I’ve gone headlong into becoming obsessive. It’s been a blast, really, particularly considering the recent exploits of their current tour.
Consider this: MES continually berated members of his band and his tour manager just days after arriving in America for their 2006 tour supporting the album “Falls Head Roll.” On the sixth day, the tour manager and every member of the band (except his wife, the keyboard player) made plans to quit because of the treatment they’d been receiving from MES. Opening band The Talk, apparently took sides with the rest of the Fall, and in an act of curious solidarity, the lead singer of The Talk picked up a dirty banana peel and threw it in Mark’s face during The Fall’s set. After ending the set early, the rest of the Fall grabbed a flight back to England, leaving Mark and his wife to complete the rest of the American tour.
In the hands of mortal men, this would have meant canceling the rest of the tour. But this is Mark E. Smith. He contacted his manager, who contacted The Fall’s North American record label, who contacted another band on the label, Cairo Gang, to learn the material and finish the rest of the tour. My friend who actually provided me with the mix tape that introduced me to The Fall, gives Glam-Racket some information about The Falls’ show at The Knitting Factory in Los Angeles:
Glam-Racket: Was Mark drunk?
MM: (incredulously) Was he drunk?! I saw these guys in the early nineties and thought the singer looked quite weathered for his age but there was nothing to prepare me for watching this doddering fellow who looked more like an octogenarian who had wandered out of his nursing home room than the singer of The Fall. It was sad, but wait, I will say that I quite enjoyed the show. His "new" band (early-twenties-somethings) did just fine and his voice is the same as always and there is something wonderful about just that. And they played lots of old school Fall and it rather rocked.
Glam-Racket: Did he twiddle with the knobs of the musician’s amplifiers?
MM: Indeed he twiddled knobs drunkenly and, of course, he walked around playing on everyone's instruments and at one point actually grabbed the neck of the guitar in the midst of a song which I thought was both extraordinarily silly and somewhat annoying. Most of all, however, I was pleased (thanks for the videoclip) that they played "Mountain Energy" which is the real reason for my rekindled interest in current Fall anyway, thanks to a track on a wonderful compilation provided by yourself. H. and myself and another couple had rented a cabin in the mountains over the past holidays and one night while lit on shrooms we listened to the comp, in particular we listened to "Mountain Energy" about four consecutive times and I'm almost ashamed to suggest it could have been more, but these were moments well spent. It's been a long time since I've had "favorite song" but there is just something about that tune that makes me swell.
Indeed....

Judas Priest-Sad Wings Of Destiny

Let me give you a glimpse of teenage life circa mid-80’s in small-town Iowa. During my senior year of high school, I stopped doing stupid things like going out for football, and pretty much any extra-curricular sport, choosing instead to do things like speech and drama. I enjoyed it more than having your Friday nights tied up with out-of-town games, hitting the “sleds” and running “hills” during practice, talking about how Judas Priest was the greatest band ever, and showering with a bunch of sausages. The fact was, speech and drama had a high proportion of chicks and gay boys, which meant that there was a much better chance of getting laid if you happened to be a heterosexual male. It’s mathematics, Holmes. Speech and drama also opened up a huge window of new music too; Judas Priest turned into Joy Division and black eyeliner replaced black AC/DC t-shirts.
But you can’t really take the metal away from horny teenage boys, even if you’re replacing football practice with rehearsals of “You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.” There were three other likeminded dudes that I hung out with on a regular basis and, there seemed to be a pattern that we developed after school: driving around, smoking weed, stealing candy from the Southside 7-Eleven, and then driving around some more. Here’s how clever we were: we’d mix Slurpee goodness into the Big Gulp cups and pay for the price of a soda. Four of us would enter the store, creating diversionary tactics, until the clerk would give up trying to watch member of the quartet. Then, another customer would walk in to pay for gas and a few of the lads would stuff their Levi jean jackets with Charleston Chews and other loose-item confections. It was brilliant. And we never got caught, just like Jane’s Addiction said…
We’d alternate cars, but there seemed to be one guy who insisted on driving more than the rest of us. He had a diesel Volkswagen Rabbit that was on its second or third engine and on its second or third cassette deck. The problem was, this guy had a very limited music selection, and it seemed that we were always listening to the same things over and over when cruising with him. Fucking Bruce Cockburn was a reoccurring tape, as was Pink Floyd “The Wall” and a, you guessed it, a Judas Priest album. That album was “Sad Wings Of Destiny.” I can tell you why he had this particular album: unlike Priest albums that we all grew up with (“Unleashed In The East,” “British Steel”), “S.W.D.” was usually found in the bargain bins, and being broke most of the time (we bought Bud Light while he would “splurge” on fucking Old Style) this was the only real “heavy” album he could afford. But whatever, S.W.D. turned out to be a pretty good album.
What made it good was the fact that it really didn’t sound like the Priest albums we were accustomed to; while heavy in some places (“The Ripper,” “Deceiver”), it also featured some bloozy jams (“Victim Of Changes”) a mellow ballad (“Epitaph”) and an almost prog-rock exercise (“Dreamer Deceiver”). It’s a pretty versatile album, and it marks the first truly awesome Priest record put to tape.
Priest later teamed up with producer Tom Allom, who managed to capture the band’s badassed fury on tape. And while they’d later, single-handedly re-invent heavy metal under his direction, “Sad Wings Of Destiny” hinted at their ability and provided a glimpse at how fluent Judas Priest really was underneath the leather.
But enough of my wordings: every time I listen to “S.W.D.” I get a craving for Bernie Kozar, Charleston Chews, and a Mountain Dew Slurpee. That fact alone makes it essential.