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 SonicTemple) 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 30th 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
This morning I woke up and learned that an old friend had passed.
Technically, she was more than just an old friend. About twenty years ago, we were in a relationship together. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment for a few years, both of us broke but happy, working at a small market radio station together.
During our time, we discovered new things and we learned more about ourselves. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do, but in the end, the more we learned about ourselves the more we understood that we weren’t meant to be with each other.
I stayed in Iowa and she moved to Minneapolis, thinking that such a move would eventually draw me into the city with her.
She was wrong.
The last time we were together was during the Hole show in Minneapolis, the same year that Cobain killed himself. By the time I drove through Albert Lea heading south, I knew that our relationship was over.
I fell in with one of her best friends back home and she quickly discovered that she wasn’t really one of her best friends for obvious reasons. She fell back into a relationship with the guitarist from a moderately successful hair metal band, the same dude that I was competing with when we had just started dating.
The fact that one of the members was in a relationship with my new girlfriend bugged me a little bit, but their music is what really what made me despise them. They had their success, the grunge movement killed it, and the guitarist suddenly died in an automobile crash a few years after the band’s moment had come and gone.
When my relationship with her former best friend ended, we reconnected. I was finally able to apologize for the way I passively aggressive broke up with her and she was finally able to tell me “Fuck you!” for doing just that.
She also took great delight in psychoanalyzing me, accurately confirming that Yes, I had issues to resolve with my father and that, Yes, I had a pattern of getting into relationships with women that I work with and that, Yes, I always had to be in a relationship with someone, which explained why I was always dating co-workers.
All true, except for the part where she described herself as “a good catch.” I’m not debating this, but I cannot admit that she was the catch for me. That’s why we didn’t stay together.
I’m grateful for the chance to make things right with her, especially now that she’s passed away.
But I’m having a hard time dealing with it, as I do with death in general, because out of all the people I’ve known in my life, she was one of the few that could be counted on to be the most optimistic about it.
We need more people like that.
Knowing this, I struggle with why she was taken.
I began to cry in the shower and the sadness followed me to work. I became worried that my wife would get angry with me for getting so emotional over an old girlfriend. She wasn’t, but you can understand how I would feel awkward about it.
Ironically, most of my grief had nothing to do with our combined experience together, but it had everything to do with losing someone who valued life so much.
After the guitar player died, one of her girl friends died at the hands of the St. Paul Minnesota police department. The murder-and that’s what it was-was quickly cleaned up as justifiable, and the incident became the only time I could hear a bit of negativity creep into her voice.
But with each bereavement, she would handle it with a new bit of appreciation of life.
When her body began to fail her in her 30’s, she arrive home from the hospital with incredible grace and poise, appreciating the little things and finding a reason to stay positive even when her body was in pain.
She had another surgery a week or so ago, and she would post her progress on her Facebook page. She admitted her pain-almost eerily, as I read it now-but then would turn her attention on such seemingly trivial things, like how mild the weather has been here in the Midwest this year, and how blessed we are to experience it.
I speak as if she was a religious person, but that’s not the right word. While she was spiritual, it probably wasn’t in the same realm as I am with traditional Anglican worship. During the time we were together, she tended to favor crystals and other New Age items as her spiritual connection, and I probably teased her about it.
I sincerely hope that it brought her peace as she passed through, because it seemed to provide her with an enormous amount of it during her conscious time on this planet.
The pain in her passing is also fueled by selfish reasons. She was my first “adult” relationship, the first one where you pair up and live together. Like I said previously, we were broke most of the time, but we seemed to get along well with no cash, staying in on the weekends with Saturday Night Live, 120 Minutes (we'd make fun of Dave Kendall), and The Simpsons (when it was good) finding space on the VHS tapes, next to her never-ending recordings of All My Children, which she'd watch every night when she got home from work after midnight.
We’d save up money and go see shows. I can recall looking back at her from the front of a stage as I passed David Yow over the top of me, smiling brightly as this sweaty, drunk man made his way back to the soundboard. She was no dummy: her smile came from watching me bask in the glory that was the Jesus Lizard and from the fact that she had secured a table in the back at a safe distance to watch the entire spectacle. There she was, smiling at me ‘n Mr. Yow while she nursed a soda and took big, dramatic puffs of her Montclair cigarette.
We traveled to Davenport, Iowa and saw Nirvana play in a basketball auditorium. We both noticed that Cobain seemed depressed from our vantage point in the bleachers. The band was incredible, and our location provided us with a unique perspective as we could see the stage, the crowd, and an unrestricted view of the backstage area all at once.
When the set ended, Cobain went backstage-by himself-and sat down in a metal folding chair directly behind his amp and cabinet. We could see him clearly, as he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a Camel Ultra Light cigarette and lit up while the crowd roared on the other side of his stack. He was alone and spoke to no one as he smoked his cigarette with a blank stare until a guitar tech brought a freshly tuned Fender for the encore.
Kurt rose, stomped out his cigarette, let the tech place the guitar strap over his head and obediently went out back on stage for a final song.
He was dead less than six months later.
By that time, she had moved out. It seemed that the band had about the same life span as our relationship. I drove up to Minneapolis to see that aforementioned Hole show with her in First Avenue, but aside from providing some strange closure from Cobain’s death, it didn’t save our relationship.
There was another time when she let me have it, years later right around the time that we reconnected. She had gotten mad at me for writing something on Glam-Racket concerning Nirvana, more specifically the death of Kurt Cobain.
You’ll remember that she was very much into commercial metal, and I was quite harsh on her for listening to it. Most of it was garbage, but I don’t think I ever admitted to her that I actually did like that Skid Row Slave To The Grind album and that first Faster Pussycat album that she played all the time.
I also will publically admit that buying Madonna’s Sex book was a good decision, even though I criticized her for being too expensive.
The Cobain piece bothered her because I brought up the time when I first brought Nevermind home and before a note was played, she offered up some criticism of the band. The inside photo shows Cobain giving the bird and she felt that was a slight of his fans. She was into a very self-righteous phase at that time, suggesting to me that her tastes in music were more worthy than mine because the bands that I liked didn’t seem to give a shit. Meanwhile, her favorite bands seemed to do more for their fans and were, therefore, more friendly to their supporters.
Eventually, she began to like some of the bands that I did, occasionally sending me pictures of her with Kim Deal of the Pixies and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth after we had separated, kind of an early attempt at a visual “fuck you.”
Like, “Fuck you! I’m hanging out with Sonic Youth while you’re stuck in Iowa!” kind of thing.
I know that wasn’t her intent, but envy is a motherfucker.
Anyway, I pointed out in my post that she originally didn’t like Nirvana and that rubbed her the wrong way. She had completely blocked out this incident, but for my own benefit, I confirmed her reaction from another source who was there as a witness.
I considered removing the offending post for her benefit, but then I remembered that this blog is for me. I don’t try to hide my past and it would be disingenuous of me to lie about anything that comes out of these writings. I have been known to simply avoid topics-and believe me: there are things regarding this very topic that I have chosen not to address-but on that particular incident, I felt that the impact of Cobain’s death on me trumped her concerns of harshness on our combined rock and roll history.
Now the impact of her death trumps everything now. She rebounded from those words, probably mad at herself from getting all worked up over someone who had no real power on her current life.
And good thing too: I noticed how fully she lived after we parted, reconnecting with an old flame, scoring good tickets for Madonna shows, and rebuilding relationships with her family. She even expanded that family with her beloved pets, who provided her with even more reasons to live life to the fullest.
In short, she was one of those people who deserved to stay here longer, and her death brings the inevitable amount of cynicism to me in between all of these tears. It’s not fair. It’s not right. And it’s not easy imagining this life without her wisdom and positive outlook.
I didn’t think about her all that much the past few years, probably because I shut off her update feed as it was filled with daily affirmations and cute postings of pets, angels, and funny pictures. Every once in a while, I’d check her profile to see if everything was ok.
A few weeks ago, she turned 42. I sent her a birthday message with a video to Concrete Blonde’s “Happy Birthday.” It was an appropriate gesture, I thought, and I’m sure she enjoyed it as she probably remembered all the times I told the story of when I got a phone call from Johnette Napolitano.
She replied back a thank you, and I tucked her away for another season.
But something-was it her spirit?-coaxed me back to her profile today. It was filled with comments of the many people she touched-and there were many-while I read in disbelief.
I struggled to get ready for work. I sheepishly explained to my wife why I was upset, concerned for her reaction. I made my way through work without much of a word except for those who approached, seeing that I was visibly shaken. I thought about what we do here in Iowa: buy flowers. The funeral is tomorrow, but then I remembered what a drag it is clearing out all the plants and flowers after the service is over. I lamented that I wouldn’t be able to make it to the funeral and questioned my place there anyway.
Who wants to see the guy she lived with a few decades ago?
So I’m staying home, trying to find time to adequately bereave while I write about a girl.
I wasn't much of a Descendents fan, but I get tons of hits on this blog whenever I post something about bobbleheads.
That tells me the readership of Glam-Racket is socially awkward middle aged white dudes who collect dolls under the pretense of "action figures."
But hey, I collect toy cars like Matchbox, particularly muscle car models if you're into the Lenten season of giving.
Here's the poop:
"At long last, Milo - the charismatic frontman of The Descendents - is once again available in Throbblehead form.
Milo V2 is limited to 2000 numbered units, stands at 7 inches tall, and is made of a lightweight polyresin. Accurately sculpted right down to the signature glasses, and new Descendents tee with bitchin' pant-grabbin' stage stance, Milo V2 is no joke.
"You can blame me for the V1 selling out," said Milo. "I told Aggronautix to only make 1000, and that they'd be lucky to unload a few hundred."
Milo is the fourteenth person to be polyresinated by Aggronautix. In May of 2009, the company launched with a highly popular G.G. Allin "1991" figure, which was limited to 2000 numbered units."
Not as good as the infamous "Maureen" interview, but still plenty revealing.
Like this bit from the aforementioned Maureen bit.
Maureen: I know how you like hats.
J: Yup...and hardcore.
In this interview, J. talks about those old hardcore days and how Dinosaur (who weren't Jr. at that time) would try to be a part of those shows, only to be slagged by the crowd.
Even the sound dude gave an opinion when he heaved a bottle towards J's head.
Here's Thrasher's Jake Phelps sitting down with his old Mass Mate.
Fastway has always been one of those bands that could have been bigger than they actually became. I remember a few of my peers that carried around their debut and even the second record saw some traction around Southeast Iowa, but from there, who knows.
I'd even venture to say that there were more Fastway fans than Motorhead in my neck of the woods. It's probably because my peers enjoyed Fastway's more commercial approach and because they didn't trust anything over a Phil Rudd tempo until Metallica came and played in Burlington during the Ride The Lightening tour.
Not that anyone cares anymore, but Fastway has evidently reformed and after a quick listen of the lead-off single, "Leave The Lights On," it's not half bad.
The cover art is bloody awful, but then again, it's not like there's a bunch of record stores around the country that are going to put this thing in the "New Releases" endcap.
The scripted stuff follows:
"MVD AUDIO will be relasing the long awaited Fastway album Eat Dog, Eat on April 10 (US). This is the first Fastway album in over 20 years.
After the shows of 2007, Fast Eddie Clarke (ex-Motorhead) and Toby Jepson (ex-Little Angels) began casually working on ideas and over time managed to gather enough for a full blown record. Toby took on the role of producer and also played bass and sang all the main vocals. Eddie and Toby were joined on the drums by Matt Eldridge whom has long been Toby's drummer of choice.
The record was created at Chapel Studios with Ewan Davies as the engineer and mixer.
Toby says: "We have collaborated closely on all aspects of the recording, specifically wanting to create a performance based, un-apologetically raw album that was song driven and above all made with passion. This we did, eschewing multi layered, heavily edited recording in favour of the simple 'warts and all' dynamics. I think the results are real. We hope you do to."
Formed in 1983, Fastway's self-titled debut album entered the U.K. charts at No. 43 and received very good reviews. One year later, "All Fired Up" was released and was a great success, thanks in no small part to high-profile support tours in the U.S. with Scorpions and Rush. In 1985 Waiting For The Roar saw the light of day and was followed by dates with AC/DC on the Fly On The Wall tour. In 1986 Fastway wrote the soundtrack to the horror movie Trick Or Treat starring Ozzy Osbourne and Gene Simmons.
After 1986, Fastway released two more studio albums with a different lineup and issued several live and best-of LPs."
Thanks to the recent induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, I pulled out my old vinyl copy of Alice Cooper’s Love It To Death and confirmed: it’s about fucking time.
I’m one of those “Alice Cooper is a band” supporters, the kind of fan who understands that theatrics is only half of the equation. The other half is a raw outfit of musicians who made those theatrics frightening.
But the scare-tactics were pretty badassed. On one occasion, I used the gatefold sleeve of Love It To Death in a “haunted house” me and my cousins made in my bedroom circa ’77. The picture was just close-up of Alice’s eyes in that spider leg mascara-but it gave the room a frightening feel along with my scientifically accurate plastic skull with removable skullcap.
We made a dollar in quarters that night at my parent’s house, so thank you Alice Cooper for making my amateur haunted house a financial success.
And thank you for making Love It To Death, the album that finally put the morbid spin on the entire Alice Cooper band after two records of uncomfortable weirdness. Alice’s third hones in on the aggression while a young Bob Ezrin places everything in its place within the mix, including instruments that weren’t prevalent on those previous records.
But even though there’s a piano in the back of it, “I’m Eighteen” is nothing but raw, irrational angst, you’ll swear you never heard a trace of them. So associated with those three syllabic power chord bursts of boy-into-man birthday, “I’m Eighteen” would become the first song you ever learned on a guitar, if “Smoke On The Water” had never been written.
Love It To Death is the reason I hate Kiss. The moment I learned of them, this record had been in my youthful heavy rotation long enough that I knew that Alice Cooper had started the entire heavy, theatrical rock thing a few years earlier. I also knew, at that young age, that Alice Cooper had done it much, much better.
And Ezrin-producer of Kiss’ Dynasty-did his best work with Alice Cooper too. The camaraderie began here, and it’s his efforts that help make the creep factor obvious, even without a visual guide. He brings the weird out during “The Ballad of Dwight Fry,” particularly when Alice promises to bring back all of the playthings to his little girl-the moment he gets out of the loony bin-“even the ones I stole!”
I also think Ezrin is responsible for the ironic Theremin on “Sun Arise,” a cheeky nod to “Good Vibrations.”
But the best one is “Black Juju,” where Ezrin directs Alice (the man) to damn-near stop the entire track to silence, before jamming a hot poker up his to make him scream “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” before the end reprise.
It was the most terrifying thing that this young boy had ever heard at the time, and it’s still creepy enough to give me a few more chills some four decades later.
And Love It To Death is still good enough to wonder why Alice Cooper hadn’t made it into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a bit sooner.
Going back to the first time I ever heard Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica, I remember wondering, “What is going on here?”
The second thought immediately following this was “Who on Earth would release this.”
Even today, Trout Mask Replica stands out as a left-field landmark, an impressive opus that may not sound like a masterpiece upon first listen, but its creative seeds begin to plant themselves immediately afterwards causing each subsequent listen to reveal an additional layer of complete brilliance.
So it goes without saying that the record company that had the impossible foresight to allow such a document to grow to fruition must most certainly be run by a special person.
The label was originally called Bizarre and it eventually transformed into Straight records. The men responsible for these forward-looking labels were Frank Zappa and his manager Herb Cohen. Together, they drew up a contract with Warner Brothers for Zappa’s material, and they secured a vanity label with the company so that Frank and Herb could offer artists an outlet for their creativity.
From Straight To Bizarre: Zappa, Beefheart, Alice Cooper and LA’s Lunatic Fringe chronicles the origins of Zappa and Cohen’s record company all the way to its ultimate collapse amid bad feelings and obligatory lawsuits. It’s recommended to any fan of Zappa or Beefhearts that’s interested in learning more about this very creative time for both of them and the strange business plan that Zappa hatched in turning documents of L.A.’s self-described freaks into recording stars.
What’s striking is how patient Zappa seems to be with these people, some of whom have clear mental issues that far outweigh any attempt at assisting their artistic endeavors. Others are just plain opportunistic, part of the scene because they invited themselves and invented a second-life persona that was either hiding their real history because of how awful it was or how bland it looked on paper.
For some reason not explained on film, (none of the interviews presented in this feature Zappa) Frank felt these enigmatic characters deserved documenting. He began on a quest to transform a paranoid schizophrenic named Wild Man Fischer who spent his days selling his stream-of-questionable-consciousness songs for a dime, essentially panhandling his lunacy for tourists and passer-bys.
For most of us, these characters are minor annoyances on our way to work, but to Frank, Fischer was part of the landscape of this social freak culture he was attempting to document. Fischer thought he’d sound like the Beatles when Frank finished, but when Zappa presented an album with not only Fischer’s primitive compositions, but his crazed existence in the form of field recordings, he got mad.
The Wild Man-true to his name-flung a flower pot too close for comfort at the head of a very young Moon Unit Zappa, trying to process how An Evening With Wild Man Fischer wasn’t as big as Meet The Beatles.
After that event, Fischer was never allowed in the Zappa house again and his debut record has never been re-released to this day because of bad feelings. I verified this online where the lowest priced copy of An Evening With I found on a recent scan of EBay (VG rating) had a starting price of $20 with better quality copies ranging from $50-$100.
The GTO’s get ample screen time on From Straight To Bizarre with Pamela Des Barres and Miss Mercy spouting on about meaningless stories of getting high with the Magic Band and defining what exactly constitutes being a groupie. Out of all of the label’s releases, the GTO’s Permanent Damage may stand as the most unnecessary record ever made, but according to the film, Zappa tolerated their limit talents and unprofessional behavior in the studio.
Thankfully, a great deal of time is spend on Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica and the power that he exerted over the band during this period. It’s clear from Magic Band members John French (Drumbo) and Bill Harkleroad (Zoot Horn Rollo) that the Captain initiated a regime of cultdom that French later referred to as “Masonesque.”
You get the sense that Zappa himself was aware of this treatment, yet gave a wide birth between being concerned with their welfare and allowing his old friend Don Van Vliet to have what he wanted most: total creative freedom. In his defense, Zappa did give the Magic Band a hot meal every so often out of pity.
During the period where they were considered a band, Alice Cooper also maneuvered into a contract with the label based on an audition that Vince Furnier misheard to take place at nine in the morning at the Zappa cabin in Laurel Canyon instead of Frank’s preferred time of nine in the evening.
Frank also caught an Alice Cooper gig that witnessed half the audience leaving in disgust, which meant that Zappa simply had to agree to sign them based on principle alone. By the time of their third album Love It To Death, the band had finally found a new producer who captured their essence into a palatable offering, led by the enormously successful “I’m Eighteen.”
With that record in 1971, the logo of Straight Records was all that was left before the Zappa/Cohen project was phased out of discussion along with Zappa’s own contract with Warners.
I haven’t even touched on signings like the A cappella gospel vocal group The Persuasions, Tim Buckley’s Starsailor release, as well as Mother’s member Jeff Simmons’s solo album. They’re all included in the discussions during From Straight To Bizarre, which makes the film a bit heavy at over two-and-a-half hours in length.
You may get a bit winded by all of the talking heads throughout the feature, helping to assist in the film’s girth and you may get very sick of the original musical music they use each time the conversation focuses on Beefheart. There are samples of some of the label’s artists, but as a matter to save money, the producers must have bargained a lower number to someone familiar with Beefheart’s repertoire to come up with a cheesy facsimile.
Cheap tactics aside, the film does prove to be a good reference point for any up-and-coming Zappa fan looking to see how far his influence extended into the late sixties. It’s also a nice document of one of the most successful avant-garde record companies that ever benefited from a major record label and a reminder of how different the system was when it came to harvesting talent beyond the pool of commercial ambition.
A friend once told me “Every town’s got a Frank Zappa nut.” which is true and probably why I never ventured too far into Zappadom. Most of what I’ve heard or actually own, however, has been received well.
Out of those, I have a fond recollection of Frank’s late 70’s/early 80’s routine, which probably has every town’s Frank Zappa nut in a tizzy.
At the time, it was because this period was Zappa’s most heaviest (Steve Vai is one of the guitarists) and dudes in high school relate to heavy rock more than Ice Cream For Crow.
It’s also his most bawdy, progressive, and jazzy-but we tolerated all of those intricate excursions just to get to “Broken Hearts Are For Assholes” or to hear Zappa solo while sitting on a stool.
Believe me, it sounded like a good idea at the time, but the Zappa Trust’s latest DVD concert release The Torture Never Stops shows the band in precise form while Zappa looks like he’s growing weary of the entire comedy rock shtick.
Filmed on Halloween, 1981 at the Palladium in New York City for a MTV broadcast, Zappa and his band tackle a set heavy on You Are What You Is and other R-rated shenanigans from the aforementioned era.
Also from that era: Zappa in red jumpsuit, Vai in a leopard-skin shirt, band members in various states of funny headdress (it was Halloween, after all), xylophone solos, and lots of overplaying.
Zappa “conducts” the members on occasion, not seeming to notice that nobody in the band is using the maestro for a time signature. Sometimes he’ll pull out his guitar and solo, all of which possess the same tone and some really long phasing that’s present each time his pick hits the string.
The video itself is awash in color saturation with pointless quick editing at some moments, one of them a headache-inducing jump between Zappa singing into a mic while percussionist Ed Mann bashes together a pair of cymbals.
Again, the performances are note-perfect, but from start to finish, Zappa looks disinterested. He only cracks a smile during the encore after a rare mistake occurs when a band member forgets their vocal cue.
The Torture Never Stops is hardly revelatory-something in which the late icon needs in terms of turning on new devotees-but it will most certainly entertain fans of this period of Zappa’s discography and the Zappa nuts who want to steer them to more fulfilling efforts.
Known for the novelty hit “Valley Girl,” Ship Arriving Too Late To Save A Drowning Witch would be awesome even if there wasn’t a Frank Zappa record inside the cover.
The cover itself is so awesome that you’re probably safe to knock a whole star off the rating above to get a better idea of the true quality of this record.
I’m mean, honestly, there’s like six songs on this thing and Frank’s such a genius that he probably farted the tunes out in one take before copying and pasting the shit on different tracks using razor blades and splicing tape.
And then he played the tape backwards while mixing it.
Opener “No Not Now” is a nice bit of quirky Frank, but when the funniest line is “string beans for you” it becomes apparent that Frank isn’t trying terribly hard.
My wife likes to point out how old I am by telling me how she was just 3 when “Valley Girl” was a hit, but then she laughs whenever I play it. I think it’s safe to say that the novelty hasn’t worn off on this Top 40 gem that was originally played so much that you wanted to rip out Moon Unit’s voice box as punishment for overexposure.
The title track is probably the most impossible musical piece of all time, but it’s over twelve-minutes long so you’ll probably find yourself leaving the room to go see if there anymore blueberry Toaster Strudels in the freezer right around the seven minute mark.
While I may not come from nowhere, I do come from a time where A Ship Arriving Too Late could be found on the cassette tape format. That meant you listened to “Side A” and “Side B” completely while avoiding the fast forward and reverse, tape snapping buttons. After a while, you begin to notice and appreciate the complexity of Zappa’s work.
At barely a half-dozen tunes, it’s quick to the auto-reverse and all of that repetitive listening probably makes it a personal favorite when it probably shouldn’t be.
Out of nowhere in the late 80’s came a group of power pop affectionatos who released a gem of such quality that the only story befitting of such an achievement is one of another tale of criminal oversight and record company troubles.
That group was the Bears, a band most famous for one of the members-Adrian Belew-who cut his guitar neck with such luminaries as Frank Zappa, King Crimson, and even a brief stint in the Talking Heads’ touring band.
The label was the Primitive Man Recording Company (better known by its clever acronym P.M.R.C.), a small label with impeccable chops and a deal with (then) power house indie I.R.S. records. Unfortunately, the name and distribution deal weren’t enough to keep the label afloat for any significant amount of time, rendering The Bears’ output as helplessly out of print and hopelessly expensive to anyone wanting to discover the band’s impressive take on smartly executed power pop.
The Bears also had an ace or two up their sleeve that came from the ashes of Cincinnati favorites The Raisins. Their history was based firmly in that power pop ear candy, but when success eluded them, they took the only step they could-disbanding into obscurity-until Belew rang them up as a fellow fan and musician, imploring them to give it another go with him in the line-up.
An impressive debut came from that great decision, only to be followed by a relatively dumb one: having an illustrator from Mad magazine come up with the art work to that decent record.
With a cover that bad it’s no wonder that most record buyers shied away from the product, leaving behind one of the best power pop records of that decade to collect dust and reach the cutout bins. And when those bins got empty, the fortunate ones still holding a copy gouged the price so high that The Bears became one of those records too expensive for most to appreciate.
Had they held on to a decently priced copy, they would have found the Bears fully capable in bringing some new quirks and tones to an admittedly restrictive genre.
Within the opener, “None Of The Above,” Belew brings his zoo animal guitars into the mix for an appreciation to the common man,.
By the second tune, The Bears bring an old Raisins tune out of retirement, “Fear Is Never Boring,” on the sheer fact that it’s so tightly wound with indulgent goodness it simply couldn’t be left in the closet as another forgotten entry.
The one/two punch of the album’s opening sequence makes the rest of the material hard to stand up to it, but The Bears never falls below a point of above average songs with a complete appreciation of how much of a treasure it came to be the moment it became such a treasure hunt to find.
And because my review of 5150 is shaping up to be one of the most read reviews on this site, for reasons that are beyond me. Particularly because I am a fan of the David Lee Roth era Van Halen and was not particularly glowing in my assessment of Sammy Hagar's first entry as Van Halen's lead vocalist.
With the recent addition to A Different Kind Of Truth into the DLR catalog, and with the added surprise that it's pretty freakin' good, I sat down and did a list of the best Van Halen records from the David Lee Roth period.
Feel free to comment on your own list while realizing that the correct list is as follows:
1.) Van Halen You really do need to start at the beginning with Van Halen’s catalog. Not only does it remain as the band’s best offering, it’s really something you need to hear from start-to-finish to get a better grasp at how the record blew minds when it was first issued. Of course, it’ll be hard to do since the guitar as we know it ultimately changed when Van Halen’s debut was released, but just imagine how every tone, note and solo on that left anyone with even a minor interest with the instrument scratching their heads in amazement. Even the covers are vital as it doesn’t hide from the fact that Van Halen cut their teeth on the club circuit and filled out the gaps with a plethora of cover songs, occasionally rivaling the originals.
2.) Women & Children First For most bands, the third record typically stands as the make or break effort. It’s a release that demonstrates their creative mettle, an opportunity to build upon the first two records (generally, one in the same) while pointing the way for future endeavors. Van Halen could have easily taken the easy road with Women & Children First, playing down their heavier elements in favor for more commercial pastures like they did with “Dance The Night Away” from II. Thankfully, they didn’t. Instead, they brought out songs that were aggressive, clever, and anything but safe.
3.) Fair Warning Even darker than Women & Children First, Fair Warning remains as the overlooked gem in Van Halen’s cannon. Exposing the soft white underbelly that decadence afforded them, Fair Warning combines massive riffs with naughty subject matter and if the stories of inner-band turmoil are true, at least they were going out on fire.
4.) 1984 For all the drama it create and for all the success it garnered, 1984 straddles a fine line of commercial appeal while sounding like a legitimate step ahead. How they would have followed this record is anyone’s guess, but methinks Eddie would have held a bigger role since 1984 is a big “fuck you” to Dave’s logical assumption that nobody wants to hear keyboards from rock’s greatest living guitar player. Guitar Player subscribers don’t, but fans of Top 40 radio sure did. Thankfully, 1984 is incredibly consistent-maybe the most consistent V.H. album since the debut-and it still plays like the same kegger party soundtrack that it was when first released.
5.) A Different Kind Of Truth Ranked high not only for the fact that it has more good to great tracks than either II or Diver Down, it also came after an improbable delay. I mean, no one should release albums this good after such a layoff and after so much drama has transpired. Yet here we are, looking at a record that begs to be played now as well as a decade later-which is probably when people will begin to realize how good Truth really is.
6.) II How do you follow up a debut record that changes the face of the rock and roll guitar and introduces an entirely new genre in the rock ‘n roll landscape? You can’t. Instead, the members of Van Halen rushed back into the studio and cherry-picked the best remaining songs from their club days and released them as the follow up to Van Halen. II isn’t a bad album, it just isn’t a great album like the debut. While the debut sounded like it was created by a band of otherworldly talent, II sounds like the work of a really good rock band with songs that cater to the beer ‘n cigarette days of the Sunset Strip. A while there are a few awesome tracks, there’s also garbage like the opening cover “You’re No Good,” which sounds just as weak today as it did thirty years ago.
7.) Diver Down I can remember how excited I was at the news of the Diver Down release as a freshman in high school. Immediately after purchasing it, I remember how disappointed I was with the results. 31 minutes, almost half the songs are cover versions, 3 tunes are instrumentals with one of them nothing more than filler music for a fucking video. The sad thing is that Diver Down contains three must have originals (“Hang ‘Em High”, “Little Guitars,” and “The Full Bug”) which means that most fans ended up shelling out hard earned cash for an album that the band didn’t seem to put much work into beforehand.
Honorable Mentions:
“Me Wise Magic” and “Can’t Get That Stuff No More”
A pair of tracks from the band’s first greatest hits compilation, when the band was toying with the notion of joining forces with Dave again. Given the band’s DLR catalog, these tracks probably rank towards the bottom. But when compared to their entire output, including their tenure with Sammy Hagar, the songs are a much tolerable affair, providing hints as to what Van Halen might have sounded like if Roth had remained the frontman and followed Eddie’s increasing dominance in song arrangement and structure.
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 
