Iggy Pop - The Idiot

If you’re planning on taking your own life tonight, may I suggest Iggy Pop’s The Idiot.

Too soon?

Yes, it was thirty-two years ago tonight where Ian sat down to a viewing of Werner Herzog’s Stroszek and a spin of Iggy Pop’s The Idiot.

Then he went to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat.

His wife found him the next morning, and I assumed put all of this together. It seems plausible. And The Idiot is a really good album.

It time to think so; can you remember the first time you heard it? If you haven’t yet, remember it, write it down. I’m curious to hear what Iggy novices think about it or, like me, familiar with his repertoire to the point where you can compare it to Idiot.

Truth is, I hated it. The Idiot was so unlike anything else in Pop’s catalog, never mind that it sounded like Iggy was just as loaded as he was during Kill City, it was just that he had Bowie funding the dope for him.

It’s confirmed with the fact that Bowie made RCA hold on to The Idiot for just a little while longer so that Dave could be the first to market with a Berlin trilogy, making it seem that he was the one who taught dum dum Jim Osterberg everything.

Actually, The Idiot is the record that truly confirmed Pop was a certified genius, briefly breaking away from that dumb Michigan shtick just long enough to see that, even if he’s not fully in charge of his capacities or the control board, Iggy Pop is capable of delivering a left-field hit of epic proportions.

The sound is as unexpected today as it must of have sounded back then, the claustrophobia is menacing and there’s a general unease throughout it. This is the part of the review where I tell you that I really like the record now, but I think it’s important to explain how this weird-sounding thing planted a fucking seed in my head telling me to keep coming back to it.

The Idiot is the equivalent of sharing an 8-ball of cocaine with your friend and you decide to start recording the room at 4:00 in the morning. It’s that time when your forehead feels tingly and the coke becomes more of a need than anything else.

Oh wait, someone left this rhythm machine behind…

The irony is that the most “normal” song on the record is the one that begins by naming off all the friends who have o.d.’d or died. “Dum Dum Boys” produces a sensible song structure and good rock groove, but then Iggy appears like he’s had a bottle of wine or three, singin’ “Dah Dah Dah Dah Dum Dum Day.”

Because there are times after work, driving home just trying to shake of the fact that you’re no longer at work, when I feel like singing through the marbles of “All aboard for fun times,” just dreaming for a chance to stay up late in a coke-fueled panic.

By “Tiny Girls,” the dawn is starting to creep through the curtains when suddenly Iggy brings in a smooth sax. It takes the edge off, particularly when Bowie fucks around with the echo.

“Mass Production” is probably the best song Neu! Ever wrote, mainly because Iggy Pop sings it. It’s the record’s forgotten treasure, a big-rock ending to an anti-rock concept album with Iggy politely mentioning, “By the way, I’m going for cigarettes” after David stops fucking around with a synthesizer.

By my count, I’d say it took at least a dozen spins for me to get comfortable with The Idiot’s art-damaged interior, to find the pleasure in its icy restraints and outta mind adventurism.

But once there, I was hooked

Get me a pack of Marlboro’s, Jim.

Donna Summer - Endless Summer

My Mom was mad at my Dad.

This would have been 1977 or ’78; a time when fashion was questionable and disco was the preferred music on the weekends, particularly at the many clubs around the Midwest that suddenly began to install lighted dance floors in their poolrooms just to take advantage of all the boogie oogie oogien that was going down.

My father was known to dance on occasion and my mom liked to cut a rug every now and then. The trouble was, my Dad was never at home much, and when he was, he was somewhere else. This would have been the around the time when he was working for the teacher’s union on top of his teaching duties. We’d have a lot of weird teachers come over unannounced and they’d go on the porch, drink beer, and discuss all the bullshit they thought the administration was doing to them.

This was back when people gave a shit about making sure everyone got a fair shake. The kind of thing that people today are too busy with themselves to fight for, and if they do they run the risk of being perceived as some lazy union fuck. Behind all the harsh words and perceptions is some 24-year-old girl at her first teaching gig just trying to make enough to pay rent, her student loans, and to have a $50 left over to go have a drink with her girlfriends a couple times a month.

With Dad’s union demands, he was away from home a lot After a while, my Mom starts to get pissed because Dad’s really wrapped up in himself, is spending no time with us, and is clearly not providing not enough attention to her.

The solution to all of this was to have my Mom sign her and Dad up for disco dance lessons.

Within days, an influx of disco records began cropping up around the house: Chic, A Taste of Honey, and Donna Summer.

I thought it was cool that the record, the aforementioned Live and More, featured three sides of live music and a fourth side called the “MacAuthur Park Suite,” essentially a seventeen-minute long version of the song with “Heaven Knows” thrown in the middle for no apparent reason.

But in good faith, I cannot recommend any full-length Donna Summer record-Bad Girls would be the exception, I guess-because most of them were just vehicles for her endless supplies of new hit singles wrapped around in extended filler whose purpose was to only make sure the total track time hovered around 16 minutes per side.

There is probably no other Donna Summer record you need other than Endless Summer. I’m sure by now there’s probably a dozen greatest hits compilations you can choose from, but let’s begin with the first, most comprehensive greatest hits collection that really needs no additional repackaging, Endless Summer.

Somehow-and perhaps this is a testament to her voice, a beautiful mezzo-soprano-she transcended her original label as the “Disco Queen” and even found herself on the nominating ballot for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a few years ago.

I don’t think she belongs there, but that doesn’t diminish her overall body of work and importance in late twentieth century pop music. You simply could not get away from Donna Summer if you were anywhere near a radio between 1975 and 1980.

I found this out immediately upon the first listen of Endless Summer, 18 tracks of her best know songs, set chronological so you can hear the progression in her music throughout the years, a critical feature in making sure each year attempted to exceed the last..

Each song held some kind of brief memory from the 70’s: from the elaborate packaging of Live and More, to Summer awkwardly acting her way through Thank God It’s Friday to my Mom dragging my father on to the living room floor to work out a bit of dance fever to keep it fresh between practices.

Endless Summer bypasses all of the extended versions, club mixes, and other disco novelties by offering only the versions that we heard over the airwaves. The “hit it and quit it” approach makes the songs fly by, and suddenly you’ll find yourself into Donna’s Geffen years where the hits rather dried up. Then, “She Works Hard For The Money” shows up and you’re back on the cavalcade of hits once again.

The radio mix does put a damper on the awesome “I Feel Love,” probably the first Krautrock song in history to make the top 5 of the Billboard charts. You need to hear the trance-like state that tune can put you in with the right conditions, but it ain’t gonna happen at a radio-friendly 3:30.

I found it interesting that during these last years were spent quietly in the Florida Keys, painting and making occasional appearances. It was ironic to me that her location choice was relatively close to Miami, a city known to promote it’s love of dancing, a town that most certainly would recognize her as the Disco Queen.

Her reign was not just restricted to South Beach. Endless Summer provides the evidence that Ms.Summer’s reach was felt all the way into the land-locked states like Iowa, where her music was the catalyst of makeshift marriage counseling and the lighted floor industry.

It’s truly sad that she had to let go, but Endless Summer makes everything feel like sunny and in the mid 70’s once again.

.

Michelle Shocked Live At The CSPS Hall

Michelle Shocked

Live at the CSPS Hall, Cedar Rapids, IA

Monday, May 14, 2012

It has been nearly a quarter-century since Michelle Shocked has been on my radar, and I imagine for many fans, fair-weather though we may be, Short Sharp Shocked remains as their first and only foray into her body of work.

But Ms. Shocked’s sophomore record is such a significant release that even after 25 years, I am still interested on where her troubadour Converse All-Stars has taken her. So when Michelle stopped by my community on Monday night, I determined that “Anchorage” was a brilliant left-field smash that required me to attend.

Dressed in those black high tops, Michelle shows some of the age of the years in her face, but her body bounds around like the youthful version. And the fight is still there: white t-shirt, tight black jeans, an old Bob Dylan conductor hat, and a red bandana around her neck with the word “Occupied” prominently printed across the front. She came prepared to talk some dialogue about the 99% movement-a cause, which got her, arrested during a protest in Los Angeles last November (she told the pigs her name was Michelle 99)-but thankfully she brought an acoustic guitar on Monday night and someone left behind a nice piano for her to play around with, making the evening more than just a political event.

On that second effort, Michelle is seen being choked by someone ironically hired to serve and protect on the cover of Short Sharp Shocked. He did neither in Michelle’s case, but the startling image makes it one of the most powerful covers in the past quarter-century, and her East Texas ease belies a strong woman who can back up her convictions with potent words and intimidating vocal range.

The performance took place in the CSPS Hall, a century old structure next to an old firehouse, both of which took on extensive damage from the 2008 flood. Finally, some life is coming to the downtown area in between pockets of unrecovered devastation and an obvious appearance that something indeed ran clean over the landscape.

This was my first visit to the restored center, which features a nice stage in an auditorium upstairs, perfect for artists who may not be familiar that there is a market for this out in the heartland.

For Shocked, she nearly filled the area, but the layout was very informal and Michelle used a platform in front of the stage for her acoustic set, bringing her even closer to the audience. I got there late, and as I was being hushed over to a seat, I noticed that she had captured about a half-dozen patrons from the audience and was wrapping up an impromptu version of “This Land Is Your Land.”

I wasn’t prepared for an evening of Woody or audience participation (more on that later), but being blessed with perfect timing, she set on to a set of obligatory favorites, most of which came from Short Sharp Shocked.

Shocked provided an update to “Leroy” and his wife from “Anchorage,” with the narrator now a grandmother and Leroy’s job bringing them down to Montana. Shocked mentioned that she drove from their place in Billings to then drive to Omaha and then  to Cedar Rapids, treating the couple as if they were long-lost friends of us in the audience, which they were in a way. “I look like an old housewife,” admitted Shocked during the song’s sudden self-realization.

I couldn’t help but thinking that, for all of her talk of turning 50 and growing old, Michelle Shocked is still doing things her way and does not seem one to bow to authoritative demands. That’s probably farther from the truth for most people who age, some who even must be taking steps of complacency as they approach what’s left of their retirement.

There were some moments of nostalgia, thinking back on the guy who stood her up at senior prom and adding a few licks towards the backwoods culture she calls her leveling point. But there was no condescending tone and she seemed to bend over backwards for us to sing along, and to engage when the discussion turned to foreclosure or what the occupy moment stood for.

Just when you felt that you had your fill of progressive dogma, Shocked announced that she’d be back to lead a brief forum on the topic, after she called her boyfriend on the phone and played three new songs before the intermission.

No joke. Shocked grabbed her phone and called her boyfriend David Willardson just as she sat down to the piano where she began explaining the large portraits behind her. Each one began as a painting by David, followed by an incredible muse they created over Michelle, which in turn created the song. At first, the entire “hold the phone up to the microphone” bit got somewhat uncomfortable. After a while, Willardson on the other end just became another character in the community, offering a few insights to the painting while Shocked gave her musical rendition. She had high praise for Mr. Willardson, even suggesting (with him still on the phone) that she was expecting to be married by the end of the year, a decision she made while hearing the refrain of a sermon in her head, encouraging her to do the right thing with her relationship.

With the intermission ending, Shocked continued talking to David on the phone before ending the call and leading the now reduced crowd on a discussion of the Occupy movement. For those that were left, if I may use profiling tactics, none of them looked like the housing crisis took much out of them, and indeed, which Shocked pressed the crowd for personal accounts, no one raised their hand to testify.

Shocked quickly got the sense that it may be our polite Midwestern demeanor, but I think that none of those in attendance had anything to add to the discussion, even when most seemed to be in perfect harmony with her progressive ideals.

You could tell that the momentum she was trying to muster up was merely glossing over the fans that stayed to hear just a few more songs and a few more tales of East Texas.

For me, the moment came during “Graffiti Limbo,” another Short Sharp Shocked tracks, this time extended and with bonus footage. “You wanna hear the long version or the edit?” she asked, leading the audience to naturally respond for the former. What we learned was that the evidence the corner lost in this 1988 account of the death of graffiti artist Michael Stewart, was in fact Michael’s eyes.

The original song only suggested something was lost, but the retelling plays up the ”justice is blind” irony of this case that never did find the accuser.

“To serve and protect.”

It was a pretty poetic moment, if you let the words sink in a bit. You may have even found a correlation between the content and what happened in our town just a few days prior, when a man was placed in the back of a Cedar Rapids squad car and was unresponsive when he arrived at the jail.

His family just made the decision to take him off life support.

This kind of thing makes me grateful that Shocked is still out their raising a stink. It’s reassuring to know as well that her stink still sounds pretty good. The new songs found an emotional depth and a sense of challenging herself by adhering to a new idea of combining song-cycles with her boyfriend’s work, even adding more musicians to the process for an entire piece.

But even armed with just an acoustic guitar and that underrated voice, Shocked can hold her own quite well and would be the first to admit that all of this is “Just one woman’s opinion.”

Dr. John - Locked Down

At 71 years of age, the good doctor would seem better suited for retirement than some late-career appreciation effort coordinated by a member of The Black Keys. But here he is, complete with Gris-Gris font and a hint of windowpane acid; Locked Down is a comeback album for a legend who really doesn’t need one.

I think Dr. John gets this, but Locked Down sounds like a sly wink to us under the idea that Dan Auerbach somehow conjured this awesome session from him. Here is a musician operating on such a level that this is music that he could make in his sleep. It was just Auerback’s balls in approaching him with the album’s vintage tint sound.

God bless him for it, because Locked Down’s look back is the stuff that people will be enjoying for years to come, potentially being the first exposure to Dr. John in the process and sending them on their merry way down the annals of his catalog.

Mac Rebennack’s confidence exudes throughout the album, in both vocal phrasing and his own performance. He adds on and lies off as needed, giving the rhythm section center-stage in some moments.

Those rhythms save him at times, like “Ice Age,” a cut with such rhythmic possibilities that Doc’s off-the-cuff societal observations sound like bits of brief genius. It all ends the moment you check the lyric sheet, but who has time to read when your ass is shakin’?

And when the worst song on the album prompts that kind of forgiveness, then you’re really holding a damn fine effort. Locked Down is a powerful reminder to people a half-century his junior of how the possibility of perfection can come at any moment.

The idea is to be ready for it and to be the open to the idea that it can happen. It has happened here, Auerback’s decision to put the rhythms out in front give Doc a chance to be a little ornery with his own place in the mix.

Locked Down would be a masterpiece on its own merits, but the fact that it comes so late in Dr. John’s career is what makes it extra noteworthy. He delivers it so effortlessly that it prompts listeners to get excited about examining of his past work, while shedding an incredible light on future possibilities. 

Singles, 45's and Under: Chuck Dukowski Sextet-"My War:

How many teeth has this headstock seen?

For every year the Rolling Stones exist and by definition begin dismantling their legacy, there is another example of an artist-let’s call them of an “older” age-that’s still able to maintain credibility and relevance even when the hairs go grey or start to come out entirely.

That was one sentence, by the way.

I don’t know what the fuck Chuck Dukowski was doing since he was in the band SWA. And SWA was such a shitty band that I really didn’t mind not knowing what Chuck Dukowski was doing musically.

Years past. These characters get brought up again when you’re reading some old remembrance by a former SST Records associate and you think: “Chuck Dukowski! What the fuck!”

And that’s when you seek out a split single of two former SST alumni, one of which is covering a great Black Flag tune.

Dukowski slaps a fancy word for six on his name and takes up bass duties again, while his wife, Lora Norton, steps in to become the lead mouth of the Chuck Dukowski Sextet.

To say her gender had me concerned when tackling such a brutal song wasn’t the case at all. In fact, it made me put this on my top “mustfind” list during Record Store Day.

Recorded in one take with no overdubs, the Chuck Dukowski Sextet transforms “My War” into their own, while doing the impossible by taking an iconic hardcore anthem and turning it into a brilliant revision.

The age drops off everything; there’s no hint of Dukowski’s d.o.b. And Norton gruffs up enough anger, with her frequent shouts of “Oh, Mother Fucker!!!!”, that she could easily pacify a buffy Hank Rollins in a fair fight.

The song takes on a new resonance, particularly considering such notable cases of violence or bullying that have made our news recently. “You’re one of them! You say that you’re my friend! But you’re one of them!”

It’s awesome.

Worth every dime.

But wait! There’s more!

Ol’ beardo Mike Watt brings together the Missingmen moniker and picks his old favorite Roky Erickson for another cover, “Sweet Honey Pie,”

It sounds like a soundboard recording, which could be my way of saying the recording is charmingly rough. And Watt’s such of softie and he’s picked such a charming Roky song that you’ll play it a few times and delegate it to side B.

Not that this is a bad thing, it’s just that the CD6 flip is so much more awesomer that you’ll find yourself burning up the grooves.

Fun In The Cubicle: Don't Rock The Jukebox

There’s a guy at work-a totally sweet and jovial dude about my age-who fronts a country cover band on the weekends. They’ve been at it in one way or another for a good twenty years or so and they’ve progressed from their humble beginnings as a reliable, small town bar band into a much older, reliable, small town bar band.

They’re terrible.

And I mean that in the kindest way possible, but it’s also hard to understand why after so many years you don’t happen to notice that your band is incredibly awful.

They’re wonderfully goofy looking, the kind of image that could be used as one of those “Worst Album Covers Of All Time” web sites, under the “Embarrassing Promotional Band Photos” tab.

To top it off, my co-worker talks about his band constantly. To whoever walks by his desk. So at the end of the day I positively loathe his band, even when I’ve never actually seen them play live.

You may ask “Then where do you get off talking shit about his band if you’ve never seen them play?”

To which I will correct you by saying “I never told you I’d never ‘seen them,’ but I did say I’d never seen them play live!”

The truth is: there’s You Tube footage of them.

Out of respect for a guy that has his heart in the right place and is someone I spend an inordinate amount of time with on any given weekday, I will not be posting information about his band or links to that previously hinted footage.

I will only say that anyone who gets on stage and plays in front of a crowd with just a little bit of heart, has my utmost respect.

And having said that, it gives me every right in the world to still formulate an opinion of them and slightly ridicule them if the moment is so deserving.

A local radio station recently gave area country bands a chance to do an American Idol contest, one in which the winner would get to open up for country star Alan Jackson when he makes a local stop in my city this summer. I think it’s for our annual 4^th of July celebrations, the same ones that were pretty decimated by floods back in 2008.

The festival is limping back to light, and Alan Jackson is just about the same mid-level name recognition that they had in years past. I think the dude from Styx and the dude from Chicago made a stop here once.

Anyway, my co-worker sent in an audition tape and his band got chosen. Like I said, he talked incessantly about this, and how he was nervous, and how this could be his band’s big break, and how he needed to save his voice to better prepare for the show.

I shit you not: this is a guy that normally sings two thirty song sets for any normal country joint performance who’s now concerned about his throat for a three-song performance in a new country bar downtown, judged by a trio of minor celebrities, like the mid-day radio dj at the country station.

Or maybe it was the morning-drive guy.

This “save my voice” bullshit is the kind of nonsense that I get to hear. Everyday. Nonstop.

“Good luck!” I say on the day of the show, half genuinely and half with a desire to have him report back on Monday that he and his bandmates were forced to dodge a barrage of AA batteries from the crowd.

Like I said, he’s likeable enough for me not to make that a “D” battery image.

They got through the first round, but I’m sad to report that they lost in the semi-annual round, which means that those minor celebrity judges was playing fair.

One judge wrote that their drummer messed up during “Sweet Home Alabama,” a charge my co-worker disputes.

That’s the story, and it has nothing to do with the photo attached to this post.

Yes, our going away present was a sixer of Fat Tire...and tuneage.

No, what you see there is a picture of my co-worker singing to the manager of my department who recently resigned because we all work in a fairly shitty company.

As you can tell, he’s really getting into the performance, a trait that he exudes even when singing to some of the more tenured ladies in our area.

My former business manager is trying her best to look excited when all she really wanted to do was to get the fuck out of there. She’s slyly snagged his cowboy hat and provides a little clapping rhythm while he gets on his knees, the brief performance in the corner of the cafeteria.

When my co-worker was lobbying other co-workers to come down to watch his band during their inaugural performance of the “Get A Half-Hour Opening Slot Before The Opening Band Of Alan Jackson” contest, I would have put my odds at 25% of me attending. The show was free, but my time is valuable, so to rustle enough energy for me to drive from the ‘burbs to the downtown (now with double the violence!) to work my way in a country bar was very implausible.

So I made some posters for my co-worker instead.

I found the snapshot of the going away party performance from the week prior and crudely wrote “Tuneage” on it. I then began to put them up on the cubicle walls in our area, some empty and some occupied by other co-workers. I picked the ones that I knew wouldn’t seem to mind lending a spare wall and those that also my find humor in it.

My musician neighbor did not seem to understand why, but I assured him that it was all in good fun and that it was promoting his performance that evening. He seemed to tolerate that explanation even though-as you can see in the picture-it doesn’t list a damn thing about his event.

It just declares “Tuneage.”

I’m proud to note that some co-workers have even made requests for duplicates of this “flier” and that a copy for you can be secured for the unbelievable price of $9.95 plus $9.95 shipping and handling. It comes on office-worthy 8 X 11 copy paper and printed in stunning black and white.

Supplies are limited, so act now.

Welcome To The Bunghole: The 2012 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

You only needed to see the first two dozen rows in front of the stage of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Awards Show to figure out what’s wrong with the organization. Nodding in unison during the Faces set, you witnessed the entire out of touch spectacle of white men in their fifties and sixties, glad-handing each other like they were responsible for something great.

There’s nothing revelatory about the 2012 nominees; you could have ignored each one of this year’s contenders and replaced them with a more deserving or more influential artist. With no disrespect to the artists that were honored, there were dozens more still left behind and genres that continue to go overlooked.

A lot of that sniveling with shine as I run down the broadcast of the event with a total disregard for the truth and with a cynical view of what all this means.

Yes, the event of MCA passing makes it hard to find anything but praise for the Beastie Boys and their first year entrance into the hall. Even if you were to bring up the annual “rap vs. rock” argument, it’s hard to not see how the Beastie Boys belong in the rock hall just as much as they will in the rap hall of fame. Ad Rock and Mike D did a great job of holding their shit together and for acknowledging a few bands that probably belong in the hall ahead of them.

How great would it be to see Bad Brains nominated?

Freddy King’s induction sounded almost like the same after-thought that was his nomination. The entire celebration could have been a huge orgy of Texas performers who hold Freddy just a little bit closer than the rest of us, but it wasn’t. A Texas superstar jam would have got people talking, more importantly, it would have gotten people ready to discover who this Freddie King cat was. Instead, it was a performance more to the tune of “Who Is This Guy?” and “Why Should I Care?”

Laura Nyro? I still have questions about this one. And no matter how much Bette Midler loves her, it doesn’t ease my concern even when there’s no a dry eye in the house. Heck, Bette Midler didn’t need to be anywhere near Cleveland that night. One thing that was cool is having Nyro’s son on stage for his mother even when the Hall previously tried to have him out of the picture on the pretense of some family dispute that Jann Wenner or Tom Hanks should feel the need to manage.

Donovan came on, read a hippie dippie poem, and reminded everyone why this Dylan-wanna be shouldn’t gain entrance.

Who's the dude on the left? Adler's pants rule!

The million dollar question was “Will he or won’t he?” which is stupid if one only glances at Axl Rose’s track record over the last dozen years. Of course he’s not going to show! Of course he’s going to release a half-logical letter that tries to paint him as “the normal one” throughout all this. But then you see that train-wreck of a drummer Steven Adler, sporting a few promotional That Metal Show t-shirt as his wardrobe, presumably because they’re the only show/network that would let Adler on without Dr. Drew being in the same room.

The look of joy on this man’s face was priceless, and then it was promptly ruined by the face of Matt Sorum who managed to get in because no one had the good sense to admit it was Appetite that gets them to Cleveland, and nothing else.

Where the fuck was Izzy was the big question. Without a direct link to Indiana present, the rest of the guys looked out of place. The performance with some karaoke dude taking Axl’s spot, sounded just as safe as if they were G’n’ R impersonators, Mr. Brownstone.

And how did Green Day get the nod as presenters? I really disliked Billy Joe Armstrong’s smug delivery and, was it just me, or did he just out Axl as crazy? Was that a little fuck you to the frontman? Is he aligning himself with the Hall movers and shakers? The whole thing didn’t seem very punk to me, and was about half as ballsy as Armstrong seemed to think.

Which brings us to who I guess was considered the “headliners” in this year’s class: the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I used to like these guys but I jumped ship when BloodSugarSexMagic got played to piss and I wasn’t much into One Hot Minute. Now, I just find them to be mildly annoying radio fodder that may have peaked over a decade ago. I say this like I know what I’m talking about, but who knows, if someone played me their material since that shit with Dave Navarro, I just may like it in the right setting.

The stage used to be the right setting for the Chili Peppers, but I couldn’t get how strange Anthony Keidis looks now in that haircut and mustache. And it looks like he positively hated singing “Give It Away” for the thousandth time. So yeah, I’m kinda thinkin’ that leaving them in the mid-90’s was a good thing.

I suppose you could make the argument that the reason why the performance(s) were nearly on the same, lame award show level as everything else was because the money shot-Axl Rose on stage with the original G ‘n R members-was a no go.

Or you could say that maybe Billy Joe was wrong when he called Axl crazy, maybe W.A.R. had it right all along when he said fuck-all to the entire notion of a rock and roll hall of fame. Of course we all know his excuse was bullshit-the dude is certifiable when faced with the reality of how his entire career will be defined by one album-but a big “Amen, brother!” to him for throwing out some legitimate questions as to what the fuck this Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is really all about.

The only time a real G ‘n R reunion will ever come about is when Axl is faced with a foreclosure of his lifestyle. And when people continue to pay $75 bucks a pop to see “Guns ‘N Roses” when the facsimile should only be able to make State Fair gigs, we can rule out any possibility of a true G ‘n R reunion.

At this point, that’s about as likely as the Rock Hall committee actually sitting down to take a hard look to see if their actions are actually contributing to the genre’s legacy or working against it.

Because there was nothing reminiscent of what I perceive rock and roll to be from what I saw during 2012’s ceremonies. It’s almost disappointing to watch some of my generation’s most notable artists succumb to something that contains none of the rock and roll spirit the Hall portends to exude. It has become as lifeless as the exhibits on display in Cleveland and it is destroying any reason for a younger generation to even want to gander at rock’s illustrious history.

Workin' For MCA: Adam Yauch R.I.P.

It was not until HBO ran the telecast of the 2012 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Awards Show that it hit me.

Adam Yauch was dead.

You always knew something was up because the base camp seemed mum on the deal. Then came the aforementioned telecast where only two of the Beasties showed up.

There is no way Adam would have missed that. You knew he was in bad shape. And that sucks because he is my age, you know?  We're supposed to be turning into Republicans now, not watching our musical peers die! From what I know about him-I do not think it was the work of a good press manager-Adam Yauch seemed like the kind of guy continually striving towards spiritual perfection. Here was a dude that walked a misogynist line at first, but then got a chance to see a completely new worldview with his fame.

And it sucked, even when his wallet was full.

He saw the way things were while traveling the globe. He endured the Cretins at nearly every stop, the ones who viewed that to fight for their right to party meant to be prone to violence, to disrespecting women, to ignoring those who suffer more in favor of his own superficial needs. So he transformed himself into a Buddhist spiritually, and his music became more from the heart as well.

At first it appeared that he was gonna to outmaneuver the Treacherous Three with equal shares of basic passion and novelty. But when he began to put more of his spirit into a new spat of songs, the Beastie Boys suddenly because more than another white boy novelty.

You can probably guess that I hated Licensed To Ill. As I loaded in my shit into Rider Hall, a dormitory on the campus of the University of Northern Iowa, the sounds of Licensed To Ill blared out of nearly every window. It was a precursor to what was to come next: binge drinking followed by a continual formation of 4 to 6 troops as they made their way to a collection of bars within walking distance from the campus in a spot referred to as “The Hill.”

In the morning, you’d find sleepy and embarrassed girls quietly pushing their way out of stranger’s dorm rooms, disgusting remnants of vomit in the communal showers, and then the entire thing begins again with another bit of Bloody Marys over “No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn.”

Fuck the Beastie Boys!

They sounded like they were part of the problem and I wanted nothing to do with them. I was working as the Program Director for the campus radio station the next time I came across the Beasties. How ironic that they were there towards the beginning of my college career and here they were trying to paint a soundtrack for my exit. I was having nothing of it.

A new record came into the station, Paul’s Boutique, and I immediately placed into the bin for the Rap show that we aired every Saturday night before the metal show. I was sure that the show’s host would find a good audience for this new Beasties record, because I most certainly wasn’t part of that audience.

By this time, I was fully enthralled with Public Enemy and a new band called De La Soul and guessed that the Beasties were following their moronic id on to a new record label because they didn’t get what they wanted with Def Jam.

Then a friend called me.

“Have you heard the new Beastie Boys record? He asked.

“No, and I have no intention of listening to it either!” I responded like a no-it-all.

“Dude, you need to hear it. It’s nothing like the first one.” He encouraged.

It took more that one phone call before I made a return visit to the rap radio show’s record bin and pulled Paul’s Boutique from the crate. “Is this as good as I’ve heard people say it is? I asked the white rap show host whose last name was easily misread as “Bologna.” “

Yeah, it’s a really good record.” He replied, surprised that I would even give a shit. As far as he knew, the only record I every borrowed to make a copy of from his pile was Schooly D’s Am I Black Enough For You.

 I put Paul’s Boutique on the Technics turntable in the back production room, admiring its selfless artwork that barely identified the artist and title. I also got a kick at how the band used the old Capitol rainbow spiral label for the vinyl version. What I really loved was how the Beasties spent the three or so years in between records and completely reinvented themselves in a way that nobody could anticipate. How did three schmucks from Brooklyn get their heads out of their ass in such short order that their sophomore release ended up being an absolute classic?

I was sold.

And the Beastie Boys became our generation’s hipster MCs, splicing in the collective memory of our pop culture before anyone else into some of the best lines ever put to pen and over a collage of beats and loops that had everyone playing “Guess The Sample.”

While the Beasties may not have got better after Paul’s Boutique, they certainly became more beloved. I’d say they were worthy enough to gain access to the Rock Hall, but I would have rather seen a few more releases instead of having their entrance speech seem more like a eulogy instead of an induction.

What a shame. Adam Yauch was one of those rare artists continually evolving, and if not in music, then in life itself. I hope that his faith prepared the transition into the next realm with all the beauty he deserved. His greatest lessons may indeed be the ones not found within music, but what an awesome residual effect they are for the rest of us.

Deep Thoughts With Scott "Wino" Weinrich

It's my anniversary today, and any idea of being able to celebrate it with her alone was thrown at the window when I signed up the boy for soccer and flag football at the same time. And while spending this day alone with my wife is ideal, the reality is much different with children. It's a life-affirming thing, and we have a full year to celebrate our fifth anniversary anyway. When do you reach that moment of changing priorities? For Saint Vitus' Scott "Wino" Weinrich, that moment comes after getting into a drunken fight at a party in Maryland. I wasn't prepared for what comes next.

Record Store Day Postview

I put back a picture disc single for the new Cult single on the grounds that I’m not confident of their output any longer (and probably haven’t been since Sonic Temple) and I returned the “Diddy Wah Diddy” single by Captain Beefheart because I already have that on vinyl somewhere. I passed on the other Flaming Lips release because I refuse to say “Fwends” and because they’ve released nothing but rare nonsense for an entire year now. Time to let the other bands have some fun, fellas.

“I knew you’d make it, man!” a smiling Kirk Walther greeted me as I approached the counter at the Record Collector store in Iowa City. A line extended around the used cd center piece where a few dozen patrons waited patiently to be checked out. It was the kind of business that any store owner would smile over, each customer clutching what they managed to stumble upon.

I arrived about 15 minutes after the store opened for Record Store Day, a clear admission of defeat as I knew there would be a lot more devotees than I could claim. I was there before I was last year, which found me scavaging the leftovers, but still satisfied for showing up.

RSD 2012 found me bringing a wish list, but understanding that I’d probably come up short on more than a few of my items.

“We just sold that one.” Walther relayed, pointing to the T-Rex 6 X 7” box set of T-Rex’s Electric Warrior that was on my hand-written list. I’ve had three copies of this record at some point in my life, so I wasn’t too worked up that I missed out on another version of it.

Feistodon was sold out and they didn’t stock a copy of the 10” live e.p. from The Knack. I made up for it with a pink and white tie-dye version of The MC5’s “Kick Out The Jams.” It was the old Elektra singles label that sealed the deal. Well, that and the fact that Africa Bambaattaa’s version is on the flip, complete with the old Tommy Boy label.

“There’s still a few copies left of that Iggy record in the center section in back.” He offered. When I went back to snag a copy, I noticed the vinyl version of the new Dr. John record. It was like this all morning, I’d look for something on my list and I’d even up with something that wasn’t on it in addition to whatever I found.

The customers that I did battle with were clearly there with a sense of urgency. The Misfits record and the Widespread Panic album were one of the first to go as was a bunch of stuff that I wasn’t that interested in. The Phish albums went quick, and there was a few bands that I wasn’t familiar with who seemed to be rarities by the time I entered the store.

Supposedly, the second guy in line got there at 1:00am, which is totally righteous. I mean, how often in this day and age do you hear about anyone camping out all night in front of a record store.? Judging by the pictures, the dude looked totally exhausted, but jubilant as he displayed the items that he scored from his devotion.

I was in the zone for a moment, jumping through a bunch of singles at a nice click where I grabbed The Byrds “Feel A Whole Lot Better” reissue, the Mike Watt & the Missingmen/Chuch Dukowski Sextet split, and the pink vinyl version of Mastodon’s “Spoonful Weighs A Ton” split with the Lips.

My eye caught a single for The Mynabirds and I quickly secured a copy. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that it wasn’t the Neil Young/Rick James band of the same name, The Mynah Birds. Instead, it was some band on Saddle Creek label and I was super pissed at how I could have let this happened. I was caught up in the Record Store Day frenzy! If anyone wants to trade even up for my copy of the Mynabirds with a copy of The Mynah Birds, hit me up on the request line.

And what would record store day be without some mindless spending? After a while, I noticed that my goodies kept getting larger and larger, to the point where I had to put some things away.

I put back a few used cds while keeping a copy of Bob & Doug McKenzie’s Great White North album. I also held on to The Hums Of The Lovin Spoonful-a record that was one of my favorites when I was four or five- and there was a 30^th anniversary edition of Bob Marley’s Exodus that was had for next to nothing.

When I went back to make a second sweep, I notice that the 7” box set for Unrest’s Perfect Teeth had been sold. Even though it wasn’t really a Record Store Day special, the Record Collector had 10% off anything that wasn’t a RSD exclusive. “Cath Carroll” is awesome.

Maybe that’s just the excuse I need to make a return visit well before the Record Store Day 2013.

Before I do any further consideration of record purchases, I first need to devote the time necessary to actually listen to the stuff I just purchased. Here it is, 24 hours later, and I’ve only managed to get though the singles at least once as well as a run-through of Great White North.

Because what I failed to bargain for what how vinyl records require you to make a commitment in some manner. It forces you to be in front of your stereo for around 40 minutes and devote that entire time to listening to that album.

I never imagined that I’d have to make plans not only to participate in Record Store Day, but to find the time to actually listen to the records that brought me out in the first place.



The line outside prior to opening.





Record Store Day Preview

Record Store Day is tomorrow.

Here’s my super-duper wish list that will go largely unfilled:

1.) The Knack – Live In Los Angeles 1978 A red/yellow speckled 10” vinyl account of the live prowess of this shit-hot power-pop band.
2.)  Mastodon/Feist – “Commotion” b/w “Black Tounge” The most unusual pairing for R.S.B. in a split 7” that is both intriguing and potentially awesome.
3.)  The Flaming Lips/Mastodon – “A Spoonful Weighs A Ton” Just the idea of Mastodon covering the Lips’ original on the flip has got me a bit hot ‘n bothered.
4.)  Mike Watt & the Missingmen/The Chuck Dukowski Sextet – “Sweet Honey Pie” b/w “My War” I can already hear Watts’ voice, but I’d like to gander Dukowski’s take on the Black Flag gem.
5.)  The Mynah Birds – “It’s My Time” b/w “Go On And Cry” What’s this? A single featuring the band that Neil Young and Rick James were in? Give it to me baby!

This year is unique as I’ll be able to fly solo for the first time ever. Typically, I’m tethered to the children (or wife) which impedes the nostalgic feel of a time where I could go to a store like The Record Collector and spend the better part of two hours digging through the bins.

None of that in 2012, and while I don’t think I’ll be part of the initial rush, there is part of me that wants a running chance at some of those titles above. The Record Collector remains the last man standing, and this year is kind of special as it’s also the store’s 30th anniversary.

The story of the Record Collector can be found here, or at least a quick look back at the salad days as well as some surprising thoughts about Record Store Day from owner, Kirk Walther. He admits that he was kind of embarrassed when the music lover holiday was first announced five years ago.

From the Little Village article: “When the idea was first conceived, I was quietly embarrassed,” Walther said. “To me it simply magnified the fact that record/CD stores were in their death throes because of internet competition, and that to have a ‘special’ day glorifying a failing entity was self-defeating.”

I think I get that, and I kind of felt the same way. It seemed like a last-gasp effort, but thanks to those that were envolved, the focus shifted on getting people back into the experience of going to a record store. Then they began to offer things that focused on the other aspect of record buying, like the visual art of the product and the phyiscial act of actually holding the record or absorbing the liner notes.

Just the idea of it all is psyching me up.

I’ve spent a large amount of time in record stores. I remember those moments of being in a record store, feeling the pressure of being there with someone who doesn’t appreciate the entire experience as much as you do. You see that they’re ready to go, and you’re not even to the “E” section yet.

I’ve been there looking for nothing in particular, only to stumble across something that you’ve been searching for a very long time. That moment of elation, knowing that anything else you may find is just gravy.

I’ve also been there when you’re searching for a sound, and the employee behind the counter points you in just the right spot, handing you that record you’d never heard of before it becomes the thing you couldn’t take off the record player.

Walther’s been that guy for me, providing me with an impressive hit-to-miss ratio in his recommendations. When you consider the number of emotional connections that he himself initiated with the records he’s handed to me, I think I owe him more than one visit a year.

That’s something I’m working on, because I don’t think I’ve ever had a bad moment in a record store.

Even when the store employees acts a little snarky-which Walther and staff could be at times-it’s critical to let that pecking order run its course and it’s just as important to be able to grow a thicker skin when you find yourself in front of some eye rolling of a clerk who doesn’t share your appreciation of the Scorpions.

Twenty-five years ago, The Record Collector was in this tiny upstairs location, cooled by two window air conditioners that felt marvelous on sweltering Iowa summers. It was cramped. It was perfect.

There were two guys who worked with Kirk, a big haired dreadlocked dude who’s name I’ve forgotten and Mike Sangster, veteran of legendary Iowa rockers The Hollowmen and later of Head Candy, a band who once appeared on MTV’s 120 Minutes. Sangster could be a real prick, but the bands he was in were really awesome, so what can you do? Sometimes I’d bring in some nifty radio items and if Kirk wasn’t there, his other two employees would differ an offer, leaving me hanging.

But I kept coming back, because every time I left the store I was sure to have something that I liked. I’m sure the same will hold true tomorrow.

Losing Touch With My Mind: Socks, Spacemen 3 and Iowa's No Fault Divorce Law

I found some socks in my drawer that I didn’t recognize.

With clear mind, I knew that they weren’t mine. I also determined that they weren't my wife's that happened to find their way into my sock drawer. They looked familiar, but they weren't her style. What would she need in a pair of argyle socks when she didn't even own a pair of khakis?

I think of socks as a utilitarian article of clothing, something that should relatively match in color the other aspects of the wardrobe, while not distracting from the ensemble through pattern or design.

So, whose fucking socks are these?

I’m happily married now, but there was a time that I wasn’t happily married, albeit to someone different. I know that every divorce is different, but those who have experienced it understand its toll. And part of that is your mind’s ability to block out moments of time in your life while still remembering that there are big gaps in your mind that are still accessible.

It’s unfair to deny yourself your own history, but it’s a defense mechanism that prevents you from ultimately remembering the outcome of that part of your past: the divorce. With a little bit more focus, I remembered how these curious pair of socks was left behind in a bedroom set that I moved with me after the divorce was final. I didn’t think about it at the time, I just threw them in a laundry basket while I removed the shelves from the highboy to make carrying that monstrosity much easier.

The walnut bedroom set was that of my grandmother, so I dutifully wrote it down on my list of things that I felt I was entitled to when we began the process of identifying property ownership. I also put down the musical instruments (except the longhorn bass I bought for her and the SWR amplifier), the memorabilia from various rock shows, my library desk and chair, and, of course, the entire remnants of our music collection. It was easier to identify “her” titles, but I found a bit of resistance when she tried to claim that those records that she actually purchased for me were actually hers since she paid for them.

I successfully pointed out the lunacy of such a claim, secretly worrying that she would be walking away with my rare copy of Captain Beefheart’s Lick My Decals Off, Baby--a record she most assuredly wouldn’t appreciate.

Thankfully, we compromised on all of this quickly. I was in no mood to communicate with her, let alone barter, and I understood how utterly ridiculous this would all look from the outside.

We would be arguing over records.

Months later, when the collection was secured and transported to my new home, I took time in making sure everything was in its right place. I alphabetized the collection, taking mental inventories of the various artists and putting their catalog in chronological order.

In some instances, it’s harder to do this, particularly if the artist was short-lived, but their posthumous catalog kept growing.

I found this out when getting to the Spacemen 3 section.

Spacemen 3 weren’t together all that long, releasing around a half-dozen records during their actual existence while watching their offerings increase after they broke up, thanks to the introduction of live recordings, demos, and unreleased material.

Should I put For All The Fucked Up Children Of This World before Sound Of Confusion since it features demo recordings from before those sessions, but was released well after the debut? Should I put my copy of Taking Drugs To Make Music To Take Drugs To ahead of…

Wait a second.

Where was my copy of Taking Drugs To Make Music To Take Drugs To?

I went through every title in my entire collection again to see if I had misfiled it. All of this must sound incredibly compulsive, but trust me, it is so much easier to find if you suddenly have an urge to hear the demo version of “Feel So Good” instead of the proper studio version. It’s right there, no waiting, no searching.

Several months later, my newly christened ex-wife called me in my new home one evening. I would typically let calls like these go directly to voice mail after discovering that we really didn’t need to communicate, except through lawyers, and that any attempt at rational conversation would just escalate into her screaming at me.

For some reason, I answered the call.

She was moving out of our old house, and that meant we’d need to sell it.

“I found an old Spacemen 3 record in the computer room,” she told me.

“I’ve been looking for that!” my voice blurted with obvious relief. “Can you send it to me?”

It was obvious to her how important this record must have been to me and this clearly gave her some additional power.

“It’s mine!” she shot back.

My head filled with rage as I understood completely what she was doing. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to quiz her on the history of Spacemen 3 ("What's Sonic Boom's real name?!") and point out that she had no clue to who they were before meeting me.

“But I bought it for you,” she fired back, “and now I’m keeping it because I paid for it.”

There were miles between us during this phone call, but I could see her smile with delight as if she were right in front of me. She had me. She began to suggest that I had obtained all of the items I was entitled to. There would be no discussion of additional possessions that I failed to acquire when I moved out.

I could hear her laughing as I sputtered out excuses at how this had turned into a very immature dispute. “What could you possibly want from the 1985 demo sessions by the Spacemen 3?” I desperately asked.

“I’m fucking with you!” she offered after a good chuckle. “I’ll put them in the mail on Monday.”

Taking Drugs To Make Music To Take Drugs To sits next to the other titles in my Spacemen 3 collection today, a rare title where the incidents around the record are more notable than the music contained within it. It may not be the case for other listeners, but for me, the act of possessing it far outweighs the performance. I’d heard these songs before, and in most cases, much better versions. But if you’re a completist, that’s beside the point.

The original intent of the record was to fill in the gaps, but it turned into a verifiable battle of the sexes. A footnote to a failed marriage as recalled by a stray pair of argyle socks found in my drawer this morning.

This article originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

Easter

It’s Easter.

A time when you make sure you don’t paint the Easter eggs yellow, for fear that they'll get lost among the dandelions that have come up early this year.



We’re on a farm near the Mississippi River, visiting my wife’s parents. And although we’re literally off of Highway 61 (revisited), it’s a distance to any port of civilization and at least an hour from the nearest Starbucks.

I get comfort from attending service where the same prayers have been read for centuries, but the church I’m visiting today on this Easter Sunday is more contemporary. They sing contemporary Christian songs and tailor their service to run like a concert. The words to the songs are projected on to a screen so that we may sing along. But if you don’t have the sheet music to go with it, you’re hosed. And since I’m not versed in contemporary Christian music, I observe and stay silent.

Not that I’m familiar with many traditional Christian songs either, but my wife knows them and I like hearing her sing. The only one that’s familiar to me today is the two they always seem to perform when we visit here: “Lord I Lift Your Name On High” and another one called “My Redeemer Lives.”

I long for the old “O Lamb Of God” verse we have at my Episcopal church. First the leader. Then the choir. Then the congregation.

Then the recommendation that I left in last week’s offering plate.

The Nils - The Nils

Life ain’t fair, but the thorns of injustice hit Montreal’s The Nils particularly hard. Blessed with an impeccable sense of melody and bursting at the seams with post-punk energy, The Nils left behind a small catalog of evidence and an endless amount of unrealized potential.

The Nils debut full-length was released in 1987. Part of the funding the band received leading up to their debut came from the guy from Men Without Hats. Even people back then thought it was an odd pairing, too.

It’s because The Nils sound nothing like Men Without Hats, but they do sound a lot like The Replacements. In some weird moment of synchronicity, a pair of brothers from Canada created noise out of boredom. After a few days of tinkering with a new guitar, Carlos Soria noticed that his brother Alex was getting good with his instrument.

They formed a band with a few more young locals, and before too long The Nils were getting noticed. And for a bunch of teenagers, they sounded pretty good.

Particularly Alex Soria, who began to write some emotionally vulnerable stuff under the racket that he and his brother were bashing through their amplifiers.

Aside from a few e.p.’s on Canadian labels that made Twin/Tone look like a major, the band waited on the sidelines for their moment.

And when it came, it became their undoing.

When the band was finally extended an offer, they were in desperation mode. They signed the first offer presented to them and on the surface, it looked promising. Rock Hotel Records started life as a rock subsidiary for Profile Records, who were enjoying tremendous success with rap artists like Run-D.M.C.

The Nils collects a dozen tunes of sloppy, up-tempo punk/pop that displayed just as many signs of “maturity” while avoiding the tiredness sound that plagued the ‘Mats own forays into adulthood (Don’t Tell A Soul).

Instead, the vast majority of the songs on their debut feature galloping rhythms and three-chorded brashness. You’ll find no trouble name checking the bands that followed The Nils tradition and you’ll be able to find several that made a decent living doing it. But you won’t be able to find a suitable explanation as to why The Nils weren’t able to create similar favor.

The opener “River Of Sadness” builds from an acoustic twelve-string into rollicking bit of melancholia. Westerberg himself-particularly with his association to the Mississippi-would have enjoyed penning Soria’s plaintive musing “By the river of sadness/My heart unfolds.”

The Nils is filled with emotional depth, hidden under arrangements that most undoubtedly rocked the cigarette smoke off of more than a few dives in its day.

And just at the moment when the band began to play to larger audiences, their upstart label lost the financial backing of their parent company. The Nils suddenly found themselves in a quiet van ride back to Canada, and when they arrived home, they faced a myriad of legal wrangling just to get back to the same point as when they began.

All of this, of course, also kept The Nils out of print and out of record stores. By the time it was over, we had unceremoniously forgotten about the band, right around the same time a bunch of younger bands had figured out how to present a similar approach directly into the mainstream.

While lesser bands rode to their own 120 minutes of success, The Nils floundered at home-the wind completely out of their sails and their bitterness leading them into addiction. Alex decided to walk by the railroad tracks one day a few years ago after another setback fell on him and instead of turning back to go home and start over, he walked directly into the path of an oncoming train.

What a shame, mainly because Alex used to conduct one of rock music’s most formidable locomotives himself and The Nils is the best example of that power before everything derailed too soon.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

The Fall - Ersatz GB

Featuring the same band found on Your Future Our Clutter, The Fall’s twenty-ninth album sonically mirrors the previous effort with Mark E. Smith incorporating even more marbles in his mouth.

And since Clutter was such a winner, Ersatz GB is more of the same, with the only disappointment being that it’s exactly that: more of the same. The line-up has become so adept at following M.E.S.’ phlegm that they sound a bit safe at times. There’s little evidence that the whole thing could go off the rails, and because Smith sometimes works best when he’s his own worst enemy, it’s an odd feeling.

Make no mistake, Ersatz GB is not accessible enough to finally make The Fall a household name, but it is the first Fall record in quite a while that appeals exclusively to longtime fans like myself while giving novices little reason to seek out the previous 28 efforts.

Closer “Age Of Chang” does hint of a little chaos thanks to bullhorn vocals and lo-fi recording strategies that make Smith sound like some propaganda minister preaching over the airwaves while the band suddenly returns to proper fidelity. The problem is, they’ve used this strategy before, or better put Mark has used this strategy before during another lineup, decades ago.

If it was challenging then, what does that make it now?

It makes it an effort reeking of going through the motions, lazily coming to fruition because it was about that time to release another Fall record.

Ersatz GB will be the record known for giving Smith’s spouse her own entry, “Happi Song,” perhaps the most memorable tune only for the fact that it sounds nothing like the rest of the album. This isn’t to suggest that Eleni Poulou has finally reached the status of ex-wife Brix in terms of influence or talent; it merely means that one song on the album give M.E.S. time to cough up a few bits of lung and for us, a brief reprieve from the atonal monotony of The Fall’s latest document.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

Joe Carducci - Enter Naomi

Reading Joe Carducci’s Enter Naomi has helped me deal with the loss of the friend I wrote about a few weeks ago. The book chronicles Carducci’s relationship with Naomi Peterson, staff photographer at SST Records back in the 80’s. It also documents the road that Peterson took to get to such an achievement as well as the road to her premature death at the age of 39.

Peterson’s name was not only synonymous with the bands on SST Records, she became the eye to many of the most influential bands of the 80’s and early 90’s. Then, the name that graced so many credit listings suddenly became scarcer. It was a second edition of Rollins’ book Get In The Van before her death was made public.

It is made public again and goes deeper into her life with Enter Naomi. Carducci provides succinct descriptions of her days growing up Asian-American in Southern California, detailing a teenage Naomi who seemed to struggle with her mixed heritage even when she was as beautiful as any California blonde darling.

Her dark clothing and dyed hair gave way to the underbelly of Southern California’s emerging punk scene, and with her good looks and bubbly personality, she worked her way in.

She picked up a bottle for courage and a Nikon camera as a reason for being there. After one too many late nights out, her father banished Naomi from their home, hoping to get his daughter to follow the American Dream that he tried to provide as a serviceman.

Instead, Naomi followed a different path, this one to SST records. At first, it may have been just a chance to crash, but later it became the place where her talents were fostered and utilized.

What is interesting is how Carducci attempts to spin a narrative of her life only after she passed away. There is almost a sense of guilt in his words-and from others who provide their memories over someone they ultimately didn’t know anything about when she was alive.

We hear about her struggles with identity, but nobody explains why. We learn about her failed relationships, but little is know why. We hear about her struggles with alcoholism, but again, we don’t really know why.

Naomi, it seemed, spent more time trying to capture the stories of others through her camera and not enough time trying to relay her own. Within those struggles of identity was a woman who cared more about creating the identity of others. She felt out of place, yet found a home with a bunch of similar outsiders, and the more she got closer to them, the more she realized that her own burdens might have been a but more superficial than the punk rocker from the broken home in front of her lens.

With these gaps, Carducci begins adding bits of the SST family to the story, which can be a bit long-winded to anyone who isn’t familiar with it.

Luckily, I was. The names of Greg, Raymond, Mugger, D., Mike Watt, and a host of others, leap from the pages like old friends, even though I don’t know any of them. Like Naomi, SST seemed a little bit like family to a lot of us. Their bands came at critical times in my own life, so to hear their names is all the more comforting.

We read about them in fanzines and through second-hand information. They seemed larger than life, but works like Enter Naomi show us how it all was part of an incredible moment of d.i.y. ethos and a tremendous amount of hard work, one that did not produce its rewards for at least another decade.

And by then, everyone just seemed too exhausted to fight anymore, Naomi Peterson included.

I remember. I’m sure a lot more people do, too.

That’s why Enter Naomi ultimately becomes some kind of blessing to have.

Because there was really very little beyond her artistic fulfillment that benefited her and rewarded us. There was very little in terms of financial compensation, and after a while, it’s easy to understand why someone would finally just cash out and try to lead a normal life.

Even today-as of this writing-there isn’t even a Wikipedia page devoted to Naomi Peterson.

Enter Naomi was written in 2007.

Def Leppard's Outer Groove Message

From the mailroom comes this question from a Glam-Racket visitor:

“Bought Pyromania on LP when it was new. Just outside the center label but before the grooves, the phrase, "If you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly" is written in the vinyl, apparently done by hand with some sort of hot-enough-to-mark-vinyl stylus. I haven't seen it for 25+ years, but even at the time I thought it was unusual. Any insight? It may exist on every copy for all I know, but I've never seen anything like it on another LP.”

Me? No idea about the origin of that Def Lep note, but I’ve venture to guess it came from the character Mad Dog in The Cannonball Run.

Somehow, that movie seems up Def Leppard’s alley.

Indie records were plum filled with outer groove notes on the vinyl. I’m fairly certain the wax job is legit and at the behest of the band.

I do remember that Def Leppard at the end of “No No No” from High ‘n Dry had a lock groove where Joe Elliot’s scream of “No!” would repeat endlessly. I know this because it played at a party my next door neighbor’s place once and someone forgot to take the needle off the record. When I went in to investigate, I noticed one of my neighbor’s friends sitting drunk in a chair, bobbing his head in unison with each yell.



SST used to put messages in the outer groove of a lot of their vinyl stuff. I just got done reading Joe Carducci’s Enter Naomi where he referenced an old Black Flag record where they praised the “generosity” of the female supporters of Torrance, California.

“Torrance Tang…It’s Happening!”

Singles 45's and Under: Elastica - "Stutter"

I listened to Elastica’s debut album for the first time in ages the other day as well as the single to “Stutter” for no real reason other than I like the BBC recording of “Annie” better than the album version.

It all brought me back to those halcyon days of the mid-90’s when people like myself could smugly declare “We won!” in a premature attempt to collectively pat ourselves on the back at the thought that we had finally converted punk rock/post-punk rock as the norm.

What a complete crock of shit.

Looking back now, as we wipe off the circle jerk of Nevermind reissues and the “vitology” of Pearl Jam, it seems almost embarrassing to think that a few slack-jawed flannel wearers could even believe that they’d be able to topple the might of the recording industry and their power in transferring subversive music into viable commodity.

There I was, right in the middle of an ode to impotence considering the impotence of my naïve youth. What started out as a revolution turned into flock of farm league also-rans, who in turn, transformed even the Double A entries into chart toppers.
I think of all of those rugrats that I’ll have to explain Daughtry, and even though I’ve been told that I should ignore bands like Nickelback, I still think I should apologize for them too. This is not what we intended, and it makes even the most derivative of bands like Elastica seem utterly original in their faux art reprise.

Immediately, I want to transfer a copy of Elastica into the zzZunes of those younger kids to get them on the right track. I want them to take it all in and then immediately give them the keys to Wire’s Pink Flag and The Fall’s Perverted By Language just to jack up the sales totals to a more reasonable figure.

I want them to realize the critical importance of those efforts because they were so overlooked when they were first released.

As far as Elastica is concerned, I can tell you that the eye-opening moment for me wasn’t how they up and nicked those aforementioned underground heroes, but how they finally expressed an opposite sex response to a topic that we all try to “keep between the sheets.”

“Is it something you lack/When I’m flat on my back/Is there something that I could do for you?” Justine Frischmann sarcastically snaps, questioning why her partner seems to have difficulty achieving what should be the most basic of reactions from her suitor.

Not to make excuses-which is what “Stutter” is, a litany of plausible excuses for her man’s failure to launch-but it is an event that every man faces at some point in their life. Guilt, intimidation, and an fear are all part of the shit running through a young man’s head, as are the ways in which we compensate for those things.

Growing up, men would casually refer to things like “whiskey dick” in an off-handed excuse, and when cocaine entered the mix, you never experienced the level of desire that drug provided while having to navigate how useless your sex organ was while under the influence of it. You ended up a sweaty, flaccid wreck trying not to look your partner in the eye while trying to get the thing to match wits with your desire.

You may have pondered what that partner was thinking, and “Stutter” confirms all of your worst fears.