OCD Chronicles: Julian Cope - "Fear Loves This Place"

So, several years ago-we’re talking a time when I was married to another and living in a community that was several hours away-I was in Iowa City for whatever reason and noticed a piece on the local news about a record store that had fallen on hard times and was preparing to close. I believe the store was called Rock n Bach, or something to that effect, and I made the decision to make a slight detour to the north and hit Cedar Rapids where the store was located.

It was easy enough to find, but reeked of slow death the moment that we entered into the store. It was like a funeral wake inside, no music playing, the windows covered with the obligatory “going out of business” signs and the faded posters of new releases from years ago. “Everything must go” the signs declared, but we had entered during a time when it probably should have been updated to “No really, everything must go! Take this shit too!” since the bins were picked clean of the good scores.

As a dutiful record shopper, I needed to make the trip worthwhile-so I proceeded to dig in, looking for anything worth buying.

Throughout the search, I could overhear a number of people going up to the owner, who made no real attempt to leave his chair behind the counter, unless it was to run the cash register-asking him what his plans were, how sorry they were the store was closing, and speaking of the general realities that record stores were having a tough time adjusting to the approaching millennium. In other words, this would have been around the time when the Internet was starting to take off, making such passive record stores like Rock ‘n Bach struggle with the notion that they actually needed to work for their supper.

Each customer would share a story about how much record stores mean to this, while placing their purchases on the counter, almost appearing embarrassed by the fact that they were too cheap that they didn't come in sooner when their shit was full priced.

Who knows. Maybe it was the owner's fault that he couldn't make it work, or maybe he just didn't feel like trying anymore.

I’m not suggesting that the dude would have even survived in a horrifically competitive environment, particularly since up the road there was a Best Buy that probably undercut his stock by two or three bucks a pop. I’m just saying that I wasn’t surprised that the place was closing its doors, based on my experience and bearing witness to the general malaise of the owner during its final days of operation.

It looked to me like he was ready to move on.

I did find an e.p. from The Fall on the cheap and a bootleg cassette of some Phish show that I had attended years before, but the real find came with a Julian Cope picture disc from the Jehovahkill record, marked down to better than a steal.

For years, I treated the limited edition disc with kid gloves, barely playing it, attentive to the reality that the jacket was also becoming a little loosey-goosey. But fairly recently, I began listening to the 45 rpm 12” for reasons that can only be described as “It’s been a while since I listened to some Julian Cope.”

To hear Cope nowadays is nothing short of a chore; his catalog is littered with pretentious meanderings that try to channel a certain amount of revolutionary jive while sounding more like a fried (ha!) geezer with a home studio and a bone to pick with institutions that have long-since become irrelevant.

While we do indeed need people like Cope on our planet, we don’t need them to release records every fucking year, especially considering how most of these releases could have been created by practically anyone with a modicum of talent and a personal vendetta.

There was a period-maybe two-in which Cope was faced with the enviable role of having a fairly large amount of notoriety and a head full of ideas, and the results were delightful. For all of its mass (it’s a double, which in the cd era borders on tedium) Cope’s 1992 release Jehovahkill is perhaps Saint Julian’s last bit of required listening. Once the record’s polarizing take on religion was released, his label suddenly determined that their artist would not “play by the rules” and promptly dropped him.

From there, Cope’s decent into indulgence was the only constant of his catalog. His literary works did a great job of highlighting the man’s other talents (he is an incredible wordsmith) and preoccupations, but gone were the days of the man toying with the pop model with just a hint of acid casualty underneath the commercial sheen. I mean, say what you will about the man’s mental state, but Fried at its core is chocked full of pop sensibility; “Bill Drummond Said” may be the world’s most perfect pop song about a pathetic music-biz type since the Stones’ “The Under-Assistant West Coast Promotion Man,” and that shit was delegated to the b-side.

By ’92, Cope was still on the radar enough that his label offered him a certain amount of autonomy, and he repaid them with a two-fer study on the perils of religion. The record misses the full-band treatment of his earlier catalog, and it’s noticeable. Particularly with “Fear Loves This Place,” the only single from Jehovakill. It’s sparse and filled with very minimalist arrangements. Cope belittles Guns ‘n Roses on the back cover in a well-written if not poorly channeled attack on the Guns’ bad-boy image, but the reality is that “Fear Loves This Place” could have had some massive potential had he brought just a third of Slash’s tone to the proceedings, propelling the track into the stratosphere where it’s impact would have been greater.

Instead, the song relies on Cope’s own vocal mojo to bring it almost to fruition. “We’re living one hell of a heaven” he sarcastically bellows, before belting out the next line “Deliver one world at one take” with even more moxie. He harmonizes with himself before giving the money shot of his song title. Cope lowers his voice during some moments, barely a whisper on some lines, complete with the sound of him breathing in to dramatic effect.

There is one line in the song-right before the final chorus-that gets me every fucking time: “O Lord, it’s coming to….me tonight/Peaceful the knives….inside me STTIIIILLLLL!!” The swell of his delivery is transcendent, and I’m seriously getting goosebumps just talking about it.

Julian now performs the song, as he does with most of his material, solo. As in, he gets on stage with a guitar, tells a few long-winded stories, and obediently fleshes out a set list with fan favorites and whatever kick he’s feeling. He doesn’t take kindly to talkers, drunks and hecklers-not that he should, by any means, but the shows seem to have become more of a lecture than a rock and roll show, and that’s kind of a shame considering how dangerous this man could be in front of an audience.

I’m not asking that he cut himself open like he was notorious for, but it would be nice to have Cope recognize the power of his material and to suppress his ego the extent where he forces himself to interact with other musicians to fully unleash the strength of what are some truly remarkable songs.

With that being said, I’m so grateful that he hasn’t turned into the shell (ha!-see previous one for the Easter Egg gift) of a figure that one of his biggest rivals-Ian McCulloch-has become.

Anyways, the tune in question is below, and it has completely overtaken me this week as I had to go to my Hematologist to see if I had cancer. So yeah, fear knows this place.

That's why they made a "Reflection Room" in the medical pavilion.

Here's a shot:

That's a waterfall back there. The kind TLC told you not to chase.

And no, I don't have cancer.

Yet...

The OCD Chronicles: Death Cab For Cutie - "Photobooth"

Death Cab For Cutie takes the Shoe Leather Express

You might be able to tell through my words, thoughts, and endless reminiscing that my heart is full of flawed romanticism. Certain actions from years ago still haunt me and I’m very aware that I cannot change things that I’ve done to others, or choices that I may have made.

This includes a list of women that I could not communicate effectively with or provide the type of relationship that they may (or may not) have been trying to achieve. And while my choices-those flawed and those that were correct-have led me to the place that I am at today, I cannot help but wish the path to my current happiness was a bit more honest, efficient, and completely aware of how love may be life’s only true fulfilling thing. These feelings of regret are brought to light through songs.

After all, it’s the soundtrack to our lives, right?

And there’s probably one band in particular that is led by another man with a full heart, who’s catalog is filled with glances in life’s rear view mirror, constantly re-evaluating scenes in his head and roads he could have taken instead.

Christ, even their name is stuck in a reference from yesterday: Death Cab For Cutie.

I’m tired of talking about this band’s rise and fall in my own playlist, but I cannot ignore how there are songs in their catalog that serve as triggers. Because, let’s face it, part of becoming completely enamored with a band’s music often depends on how closely it relates to your own life. There may be themes or topics that appear in their songs that are so close to a personal experience or event that you’re almost certain that the lyricist has been snooping around in your journal, emails, or even worse-your mind, to come up with a few lines of prose for a fucking pop song.

And you love them all the more for it.

Like I said, I’ve fallen out of love with Ben Gibbard, but admittedly this may having more to do with no longer being such a fanboy that I don’t have a proper reference to his most recent work. All I have is the moment where our relationship ended, and the fond memories that he created with Death Cab For Cutie before our falling out.

One snapshot is the appropriately titled “Photobooth” from their 2000 e.p. Forbidden Love.

 The extended play is for completists only. Casual fans can stay away because short of half the songs on the five track e.p. are mere alternate takes or acoustic versions of songs that already appeared in their much better full length offerings. Two other songs are leftovers and they sound it.

That leaves one truly good track, which stands out in my mind as “great” because of the aforementioned connotations to my own memories which also seem to reflect Gibbard’s.

“Photobooth”

“I remember when the days were long” Gibbard begins “And our nights when the living room was on the lawn.” Usually, as we get older and more responsible, we tend to forget those times when our vehicles were the ticket to freedom. It was a time when an act like being able to simply hang out with a member of the opposite sex required traveling a short distance, and often the grass of a park, or cemetery, or beach, or whatever, became our refuge and our furniture. After all, how can you discover each other through thought or touch when your parents or roomates are within earshot in another part of the house?

“Constant quarreling, the childish fits/And our clothes in a pile on the ottoman” It must have been the hormones, because when the fuck did so little turn into so much drama? It is moments like this when I look back and realize how much time was wasted on trivial things, preventing us from enjoying what Queen referred to as this “crazy little thing called love.”

Those moments are precious, and to squander them now seems wasteful, but during your younger years, I’m willing to bet that most relationships are spent creating and dealing with petty bullshit instead of enjoying the moments you have with someone else to the fullest. Particularly in the summer.

Did you ever find love at the beginning of the season, work like hell to get them in the sack and then realize when it was all over that there was no chance of the relationship ever moving beyond that one moment? By the time the leaves on the trees begin to change, so does your attraction.

 Gibbard’s next line is where “Photobooth” really stands next to copyright infringement for me:

“Well I lost track and those words were said
You took the wheel and you steered us into my bed
Soon we woke and I walked you home
And it was pretty clear that it was hardly love”

When you finally get “permission” to advance, when it becomes clear that everything you have worked for the entire season to achieve is finally becoming a reality, it’s only afterwards that you figure out how maybe the other person isn’t the complete package that you’d hoped for. Maybe the sex wasn’t that good. Maybe you’re plagued with the guilt of saying things you didn’t actually mean and now you’re faced with the reality of having to distance yourself away. Maybe it’s the regret of opening the present before Christmas morning. 

The temperature in Iowa at this moment has literally dropped over twenty degrees in the course of one or two days. The hint of fall is approaching, and the memories of all of the things that didn’t get done are clearly in front of me.

Yet, my mind wanders as it often does, to a time when the only honey do list was to change direction with the season, on that seemingly endless quest to connect with someone. To finally get it right. To build a more permanent memory than some immediate snapshot taken in the photobooth of some dingy bar of a relationship that was extinct before the machine dished out the evidence of another example of wasted time.

Not necessarily wasted on the other person, but maybe the time spent with that person was riddled with pointless exercises that prevented you from taking the next step, or stepping away to look for a connection in a different direction.

May the cool air push your hard heart forward.

The OCD Chronicles: The Breeders - Saints

It’s not technically All Saints Day today, but we acknowledged it in church. Our family lit one of the candles you see their from our Sunday morning congregation, in memory of those loved ones who’ve passed.

We also view Saints someone differently. They can be alive, some have yet to be born. But we give special pause to reflect on those who have left us, which left me in a contemplative mood, bringing me back to the musicians that we’ve lost over the years.

And then there is the song that’s been going through my head. The Most Awesome Breeders in one of my favorite songs of theirs: “Saints.”

This is the J. Mascis mix that was used for the single. The album version is different, not as rockin’. Hard to believe that this is almost two decades ago, but it’s awesome enough to qualify Kim Deal as a saint.

To all you young’uns: The Breeders were a pretty big band, back in the day. I wished there were more like them now, and I’m speaking to bands that don’t have the Deal sisters in them.

This is right at their apex, so rise, Lazarus, and rock your balls off for two minutes.

OCD Chronicles: Siouxsie and the Banshees-"Song From The Edge Of The World"

I hate peer-to-peer file sharing.

Not for the reasons you might imagine and not for any solidarity with the record industry.

I hate peer-to-peer file sharing because I get overwhelmed.

Somebody recently wrote a rather long winded piece on how you can find virtually anything online nowadays, and the article was met with a smug “No shit, Sherlock.” response from readers, including one music site who sarcastically exclaimed that the reviewer just discovered Napster.

My Napster days were filled with shitty bit rates and dial-up internet, neither one conducive to filling out my catalog. Additionally, I didn’t have the awesome IPod to trot around with me, so I used Napster for primarily a listening station for newer music.

But now, thanks in large part to Apple’s invention (that I came to later in the product’s lifespan) I’ve been filling in my catalog with titles that weren’t in my collection or in some cases, sold back to the record store during that time when people did such things to fund their aluminum endeavors.

I’ve also been going through some of my vinyl collection, seeking out gems that I’d long forgotten. Most of it I’ve been able to find, including the additional rarity that side-tracks my searches.

One of these gems-Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Song From The Edge Of The World”-planted a seed deep within my cranium, like that bug they let tunnel into Checkov’s ear in that Star Trek movie. I have the original 12” single and began to question whether it was eventually released on a proper full length.

A quick search of the internets brought a lot of answers and even a few questions regarding the elusive track.

Foremost, that said elusiveness was a direct result of the band themselves, who felt that there wasn’t something “right” about the mix of the song. That confounded me as “Song From The Edge Of The World” was probably my favorite song from the band. Sure, I’ve got strong ties to the album Hyena and there are a lot of other tracks that raise the hair on the back of my neck, but I absolutely adore this cut.

To me, it’s the perfect balance of their goth weirdness with the more commercial direction that they were just beginning to examine in the last half of the 80’s.

Right around the time I was in college.

Siouxsie is positively haunting when she belts “We’ll dance away…When the day…is…done” letting bassist Steven Severin battle out the propulsion of this up-tempo track with drummer Budgie.
Since there is plenty of compilations in the band’s catalog which hold the various singles and popular cuts of their lengthy career, I assumed that “Song From The Edge Of The World” could be found somewhere.

Evidently, that’s not the case.

While there are a few compilations that hold the cut, none of them seem to have the single version that’s been nibbling inside. I learned that my 12” single is worth a pretty penny among Siouxsiephiles and that a passion for this song is shared by many others.

So I sought it out amongst the file sharing community and in no time it was floating through the wires and into my external hard drive.

And to make matters even more interesting, my mp3 copy has the noticeable sounds of vinyl when it plays, making my find sound the same way as it does at home.

OCD Chronicles: The Oranges Band - "My Street"

I’ll admit that a decade ago, I was firmly entrenched with the belief that New York City would save rock and roll from its own girth. What I forgot was that rock and roll was bigger than N.Y.C. and if the big apple faltered, there are cities around the world ready to pick up the slack and save rock music from its own decadence.

The Strokes have fallen, for sure, but their wake was large enough that a plethora of copycat bands-both real and perceived-came on the heels of the success of Is This It. And like any band that possesses the kind of influence-again, real and perceived-there is a degree of creative worth for some of these also-rans, albeit smaller than the real thing.

Some of them were disappointments-I have The Stills’ first single if anyone wants to make an offer. But others were intriguing, like Baltimore’s The Oranges Band.

Despite having an awful name, The Oranges Band seemed to be working a unique blend of N.Y.C. rhythm guitar heroics with a touch of Manchester jangle. My perspective is based on the one e.p. that I purchased, On TV, which is about a half-dozen ok tunes and one tune of such curious charm that I listened to it again and found myself as infatuated with it as I was a decade ago.

“My Street” starts with the obligatory rhythm guitar, angular in approach and choppy in delivery. After a few spins, you’ll be whistling the parts and admiring the hidden muscle coming from the amplifier. All of this is perfectly juxtaposed against Roman Kuebler's timid delivery, which sounds a bit like Morrissey if he had to fight with Johnny Marr if he turned the amp up a bit more.

Things get really Smith-sy during the bridge, when vocalist Roman Kuebler admits like a few Moz how he'd “wish I was built like a fairy" adding the wonderfully made-up word "unawary” right afterwards, in a bit of "Accept Yourself" sass.

In less than three minutes, it’s over. But it'll stay on your arm, you little charmer as "My Street" is built for the repeat button. And in case you’re wondering if the rest of the extended play comes close to matching “My Street,” the unfortunate answer is “no.” While that opening track is good enough for me to keep On TV all these years, it wasn’t enough to prompt me to follow this promising band from Baltimore with the silly name.

They’re still at it, from what I learned, now with a different line-up but I’m not familiar enough to see if their later material is worth a trip past “My Street.”

Someone created a video of a bunch of dudes walking around N.Y.C. looking silly and they used "My Street" as their soundtrack. The sound quality is terrible and the video itself must be a real hoot to whoever knows those people.

OCD Chronicles: Diesel - Sausalito Summernnight

Plagued with an unmemorable name and best remembered for a minor hit with an even more unmemorable song title, I finally purchased the song that resides in many radio station libraries as one of their “Wow” tracks.

Wow tracks are those songs that didn’t or barely reached the Top 40-some of which are merely regional hits-that are played sparingly to generate a “Wow! I haven’t heard this song in ages!” feeling from the listeners.

In this case, the song is “Sausalito Summernight,” an infectious, new wave-y tune from the early 80’s from the band Diesel.

You can barely understand, let alone hear the song title in the chorus. It’s there; underneath the bigger exclamation of “All Aboard!” you can hear some deep voiced dude mumble “Sausalito Summer Night.”

How I found the song was by typing in the lyric about driving around in a Rambler. From that, Yahoo brought up this curious song title from an unnamed band located overseas.

I didn’t know that they had Ramblers in the Netherlands, or that fixing these relics was relatively cheap (“And $80 dollars on repairs”).

I always assumed that the Euro’s value was higher than the dollar.

“Sausalito Summernight” has a clever guitar riff, off-kilter and reminiscent of new wave flavors of the day. What the search for this record did for me is provide Diesel’s follow up attempts, ones that evidently discarded any evidence of new wave undertones for a firm adult alternative, almost country flavor.

Whatever the band’s future direction, it became clear that “Sausalito Summernight” would be the band’s only brush with the American charts. It’s a tune that was catchy enough for me to throw down a buck for an impulse purchase, even though the band should send me a dollar for the time it took in figuring out what the song title actually was.

Since acquiring this song, I’ve been muttering my own chorus to this song and it works much better. Sadly, my own lyrics to the song-“All aboard! The excrement express!”-was incredibly well received by my song, particularly after explaining what the word “excrement” meant.

The new lyrics, however, were not well received by my wife.

The OCD Chronicles: Charlie Sexton-"Beat's So Lonely"

Blame Dylan.

What other excuse is there for suddenly having the one and only hit for Charlie Sexton streaming through my head the day after seeing him playing lead guitar (again) for Bob Dylan's band.

And aside from the nifty little minor chord progression of "Beat's So Lonely's" chorus, there's really nothing all that memorable for me about this song.

I can remember when the song first came out, the press was telling us music fans how Charlie was this guitar prodigy, a cool kid around my age that came from Austin, Texas and played with a bunch of cool people.

They told us how Sexton had teamed up with Keith Forsey-the mastermind behind Billy Idol's biggest hits-and was about to take over.

Then "Beat's So Lonely" came out, causing us to scratch our heads and ponder "Where's the guitar?"

The chicks dug him though; the only time I ever heard Sexton's debut album Pictures For Pleasure was through the cassettes of girls who thought he was cute.

The OCD Chronicles: Cee Lo Green-"Fuck You"

Is there any way that this song couldn't plant a seed in your head so deep that you just have to let the thing grow until it dies from overwatering?

There isn't.

This song is just too good.

And yes, there's a clean version under the very pedestrian name "Forget You" and yes, it sounds as pedestrian as you may think.

I mean, would you yell "Forget You!" if you saw your lady/man with someone else, driving by in a fancy car?

No fucking way.

The OCD Chronicles: Iggy Pop - "Funtime"

It’s not even my favorite Iggy solo album and I’m going to admit that it took me over a year to warm to it, but there are moments when The Idiot is an awesome mood compliment.

The deadpan of Mr. Osterberg on “Funtime,” particularly the line “Everybody we like your lips. Baby baby we like your pants” fit better than a pair of business casual khakis as I make my way out of the car to walk into work.

You see, I’m in dire need of a vacation, even during a time when the company is going out of their way to make me feel appreciated, inside there a moments when any small ailment makes me feel like calling in sick.

I press forward. Counting the days to my vacation, which officially begins in 3 days and 20 hours from now.

But who’s counting?

I’m in a robot right now, spewing out phony enthusiasm just like the off-kilter chorus of “All aboard for fun time.”

I can walk from my car in the parking lot to my cubicle in the span of “Funtime.”
I can drive from my driveway and reach my parking lot all in the span of The Idiot.

By the way, I can do the same thing with Devo’s Q: Are Wee Not Men? A: We Are Devo! too, so it’s not that unique.

Here's a version of "Funtime" that's ten-times better than the one on The Idiot.

OCD Chronicles: Black Crowes-"Good Friday"

Not a true OCD moment as this song hasn't been repeating in my head for days on end like other entries to this personal series. But since today is Good Friday, this Black Crowes classic is spinning internally.
The same thing happens on Christmas (Big Star's "Jesus Christ"), the 4th of July (Bruce Springsteen's "Independence Day"), and Halloween (Sonic Youth's "Halloween") and all of these moments are obscure enough that most people have no idea when I belt out

I will not forget you
Nor will I except the blame

How this song (from Three Snakes And One Charm didn't gain the band automatic entrance into the classic rock vaults is one of life's great mysteries-indeed, the band has a bunch of potential classics that curiously didn't get airplay even though their DNA is filled with AOR lineage.

OCD Chronicles: The Beat-"Save It For Later"

You have to understand that music is a constant companion in our home. Sometimes it’s played in solitude through the earbuds of an Ipod. Sometimes that Ipod is patched through car speakers or through a docking station in the kitchen.
Sometimes it’s merely a song sung from memory and sometimes that memory becomes clouded with a juvenile urge to add inappropriate lyrics.
The kids tend to like these versions, often more than the original.
And there are those songs in which they’ve never heard the original and I can’t wait until they do. There’s some deviant feeling inside of me that wants to witness the lightbulb go off as they recognize the song they’re hearing was completely dismantled by their father and rebuilt with new meaning.
That song currently is “Save It For Later” by the English Beat.
I Just Can’t Stop It, the first album by the English Beat, was always on my radar growing up. It wasn’t until college when I first heard it. I was drawn to the album’s artwork-it’s New Wave pink looked fetching, but I never invested the money to actually buy it. I’d been burned in the past by buying an album based on artwork alone and it wasn’t a good feeling.
A few years later, the English Beat shortened their name to The Beat and they released Special Beat Service. A co-worker at the local pool had a copy on cassette and it became synonymous with the summer. “Save It For Later” was an obvious hit, and it also received some airplay on the video channel.
More recently, my daughter has successfully completed potty training-albeit with a few missteps-but for the most part, she’s done a splendid job.
She has yet to actually poop her pants, but her success rate has a lot to do with the fact that the moment she feels like she has to poop, she announces it and can spend quite a long time “making stuff brown.”
She also confuses going poop with going pee, but since we’ve incorporated the color coding system into her bathroom habits, she’s starting to catch on.
What does all of this talk about bowel movements have to do with the English Beat?
Well, on some occasions, our daughter is so obsessed about not having an accident that we actually have to convince her that she has enough willpower that she can wait the five minutes or so until we get home. Understand that we’re not jeapordizing her bladder or anything; there have been times in which she’s gone to the bathroom and then announced “I have to go to the bathroom!” a mere ten-minutes later.
When we tell her to “Hold it. We’re almost home!” she resorts to more dramatic tactics.
“Daddy, I have to go poop!”
You see, “making brown” is a more urgent situation and she’s smart enough to know that when she says the word “poop” that Mommy and Daddy move a bit quicker.
We’ve gotten smart to this, and one day I implemented a diversionary tactic to counter hers.
I began singing the English Beat’s “Save It For Later,” but with different lyrics.

“Save it for later
We know you’ve got to poop”

She thought that was pretty funny.

The boy thought that it was pretty funny too.

It worked, but it came at a price. The boy remembered the song and began singing it randomly. It caused me to laugh, which he took notice of and then proceeded to sing it at the most inappropriate times.
Then his mother caught wind and tried in vain to put a stop to it.
But you can’t stop it-it’s lyrical GOLD I tell you!
Say it with me, and feel free to add your own twist (and crawl) to it. Our more recent version puts a sense of ownership to it:

“Save it for later
You know you’ve got to poop”


The song-regardless of whether it’s the great original version or our family’s toilet version-is a lot better than any of the turds that General Public gave us after the English Beat split up.

The OCD Chronicles: Hairspray-"Mama, I'm A Big Girl Now"

I’ve heard this song at least ten times today. That’s on top of the dozen that I endured yesterday. This is in addition to the reality that the song may end up as the most-played song on my wife’s IPod as well as mine.
Blame my parents.
They are the ones who introduced the Hairspray musical to my daughter. At 2 ½, she doesn’t know all the words, but she can sing the phrasing and inflections, hitting the critical spots and giving a true theatric production to her performances.
“Mama, I’m A Big Girl Now” was originally restricted to my folk’s house. It was a cute little “Grandma’s House” routine, much like her princess skirt and tiara. She’d request the song and Grandma would put in the cd in their Bose Wave Radio with optional cd player. In case you’re wondering, they do sound pretty good, but I’m not convinced of the high asking price.
For Christmas, she received her own copy of Hairspray and a barely-functioning Coby cd boombox was acquired for her room. The song is now played endlessly and, on occasion, the version gets longer depending on the number of times the song skips while being played.
It’s reached an epidemic point where I’m mouthing “If I get a hickey then don’t have a cow” while also making more inappropriate lyrics that I struggle to keep out of earshot from the little girl.
As for right now, The Runaways “Cherry Bomb” remains as my IPod’s top track, but there’s a very good chance that this will change before summer returns.

OCD Chronicles: Polvo - "Beggars Bowl"

Funny how the moment you hear something new from a band that’s been out of commission for a while is the moment when you realized how much you missed them. Such is the case of Polvo, a band I religiously followed during their initial run during the 90’s. Along the way, there was a nicely documented dispute with those Chapel Hill guitar beaters, but there were a whole lot more close-to-idyllic records they released to wade through. It was guitar rock for people who believed there were no wrong notes on a fretboard, no such thing as a bad guitar tone, and nothing quite like creating aural chaos with stringed instruments plugged through an amplifier.
There was a strong contingency of supporters during their career, but not enough to keep the members of Polvo together even when they physically began to move away from each other. After the band’s quiet disbanding their reputation began to slowly quiet like the final moments of a plucked chord.
But thanks to Austin’s Explosions In The Sky, the band reformed after getting a nod and a large gig from their younger brethren.
“You like me! You really like me!” exclaimed Ash Bowie.
And Pitchfork deemed it to be cool.
Actually, a reformation of Polvo is cool. But what’s even cooler is when said band goes beyond a one-off show and makes new music. Which is what they did. Which is what I’ve been spinning repeatedly.
The new song is called “Beggars Bowl” and it’s the first track from their upcoming album In Prism which is scheduled for a September release on the very same label that dished out earlier Polvo awesomeness.
The biggest difference between the new song and older material is the noticeable increase in fidelity and testicles. It’s meaty, and it sounds like the only thing that’s changed in the band’s approach is better recording technology and a penchant for louder volumes.
Fine by me.
Here’s hoping the full-length rocks similar balls.

The OCD Chronicles: Krokus-"Midnight Maniac"

It’s a two-parter. First of all, thanks to my cousin for getting that woeful piece of shit “Midnight Maniac” by the Swiss band Krokus stuck in my head for my trip. Shame on me for even having that woeful piece of shit on my IPod. I feel the need to point out that “Midnight Maniac” was on my Heavy Metal box set compilation and I imported those discs to my IPod prior to leaving for vacation. The truth is, I could have skipped that track entirely. In fact, there were plenty of other songs on that compilation that I didn’t import over. For some reason, I didn’t do this for Krokus. I considered it, noticed it wasn’t their awful version of “Ballroom Blitz,” a decided to keep it on for nostalgic reasons.
Even that is not entirely true because I can’t count one person who I used to hang out with that owned or listened to Krokus. There may have been one guy from my neighborhood that we played basketball with that may have owned it (I do remember him spinning a few Dokken cassettes) or my next-door neighbor that had awful taste in metal. Those are the only sources that I could remotely tie my youth to Krokus.
Years later, I came across a great story where the lead singer of Krokus, Marc Storace, was asked to review the new album by The Fall and Mark E. Smith was asked to review the new album by Krokus. Smith, of course, hated the album and eloquently whipped the band in the written review. Storace replied with a bit of verbal wit of his own, stating that he didn’t much care for the Falls’ music, citing that it made him feel depressive.

In other repeated spins, the recurring song for this trip is The Commodores’ “Easy.” For fun, I set the IPod to shuffle and enjoyed the ensuing train wreck. When we hit the Minnesota border, I changed gears and put in Lionel Richie compilation. It lasted until it reached “Easy” and then the gag ran thin. But in the ensuing days since then, I’ve heard that song at least two other times. Either it’s a Lionel Richie conspiracy or my brain is now hypersensitive to anything Richie-related.

The OCD Chronicles: Rainbow-"Man On The Silver Mountain"

Here’s a riddle: what do you get when you’re a wheel, the sun, black, white, the day and the night?
Answer: you get “The Man Of The Silver Mountain.”
Look, nobody said that Ronnie James Dio was a poet. In fact, the guy has a tendency to use a lot of the same imagery over and over. While most people would be content with writing one song about rainbows, Ronnie has written a couple (“Rainbow In The Dark” and “Catch The Rainbow.”). In fact, Ronnie joined up with awesome Deep Purple guitarist Ritchie Blackmore and formed a fucking band called Rainbow.
And right out of the gate, the duo wrote a song about an imaginary dude whose name everyone screams and who needs to be made holy again.
I have two versions of this song: the original studio album version that everyone’s familiar with and the eleven-minute long live version from On Stage.
It was Brad Company that introduced me to this version, presumably over a few hits of weed some night. That’s really the only way one can fully appreciate Ronnie James Dio’s improvisational wordplay at the end of the track.
You see, it’s a medley, beginning with “Man On The Silver Mountain” until it slows down until Ritchie breaks out a slow blues piece. RJD comes back in and the band breaks into an up-tempo rocker about a bad luck woman that’s “starstruck.” Dio reaches the end of that song and then begins to croon about how we all need some love.
Unexpectedly, Dio then changes gears and then starts singing how he’s the man….you’re the man…hell, we’re all the man on the silver mountain!
It’s as fine a piece of nonsensical vocal scatting as you’ll ever hear and ranks just behind the Guess Who’s drunken ramblings of roast beef.
As stupid as the lyrics to “Man On The Silver Mountain may be, they do speak the truth. The song is good enough that it certainly does “lift your spirit higher.”

Check out the badass rainbow lighting rig they used during Rainbow's 1977 tour.

Speaking of badass: that badass on drums is none other than the late Cozy Powell.

Speaking of dumbass: that dumbass on keyboards is none other than future Planet P Project founder Tony Corey. If you'd like to see to see some passionate comments from Tony Carey fans calling me a dumb-ass, please check out one of Glam-Racket's most popular reviews: Planet P Project's Pink World.

OCD Chronicles: Aerosmith-"Uncle Salty"

For you younger fans of rock ‘n roll this may be hard to believe, but at one time Aerosmith was a very, very, good band. In fact, between ’74 and ’77 the very well may have been the best American hard rock band around. Starting with Get Your Wings and ending with Rocks, the band released three start-to-finish classics and appeared poised to be America’s true answer to the Rolling Stones.
I was too young to appreciate this at the time, having just a few of Aerosmith’s singles to spin. A friend and I would often play various singles and act out the songs trying to make each other laugh. One of my most successful versions was the flip side to Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” The “b/w” track was “Uncle Salty,” a laid-back song that, like “Walk This Way,” was found on the Toys In Attic album.
I have no idea what the song is really about, but in my “performance,” I imagined that Uncle Salty was an old dude that walked with a cane, occasionally peaking out of the curtains to see the “sunny day outside my window.” It garnished many a chuckle from my 5th grade friend. An interesting side note was that he was a Mormon. When we first met, he told me that he couldn’t drink pop because his religion prevented him from taking caffeine. By the time he moved away to another town the following year, I had him drinking Mountain Dew, buying sex novelties from the gas station across the street from our elementary school, and stealing weed from his black-sheep older brother who left the church when he figured out that the Mormons were a pretty wacky group. I have no idea if my friend continued down the road of sin or if he succumbed to the church doctrine after the few years of shenanigans that he experienced with me.
Those memories came back after a recent spin of “Uncle Salty.” The other tracks on Toys seem to carry their own stories-all related to a girl that had an affection towards Aerosmith, unfortunately both the classic and late 80’s commercial zenith-but “Uncle Salty” carries with it a weird story of two kids trying to overcome boredom on a rainy day. It also reminds me that, with enough time, Aerosmith and peer pressure, you can totally convert a Mormon kid into a Coke drinking delinquent.
After all, the pushers and the shovers is the life to lead.
BTW: I tried to find some video footage of Aerosmith performing “Uncle Salty,” but apparently, You Tube has turned into a receptacle for nothing more than Guitar Hero fans uploading their goddamn videos of them getting a high score playing “Uncle Salty” on expert mode. Bit of advice, unless you’re a cute four year old that can manage to get a high score playing it, don’t bother uploading your shit because nobody wants to watch you playing a video game. Do everyone a favor: learn how to play a guitar, nail some Joe Perry riffs and upload your performance of that instead.

OCD Chronicles: Prince-"Sometimes It Snows In April"

The weather in the Midwest has been unpredictable this April. One day it’s in the mid-60’s and the next day it’s snowing. Prince gave me a song for that years ago on his Under The Cherry Moon soundtrack, Parade, a woefully boring movie and a criminally overlooked album.
It contains “Kiss,” which in itself is enough. But one of my favorite songs ever by Prince is tacked on the very last track of side two.
“Sometimes It Snows In April”
I didn’t notice it until years later when I saw a ballet performance set to Prince music. The performance began with a routine set to that song and it was the most lasting impression of the show for me. What makes it so unique is that it sounds different from Prince’s usual “sound,” if that’s possible, given how unpredictable he is. Upon further examination, you’ll notice that the reason for the sound difference is because the music was written by Wendy & Lisa, with Price merely contributing the lyrics. It’s the perfect song for a sudden winter storm in April and it comes up in my brain’s playlist the same time every year.
Sorry, I looked for a clip, but could find nothing but cover versions and animated tributes post-911.

OCD Chronicles: Enuff Z'Nuff-"New Thing"

It was the summer of ’89 and I was going off for a weekend of rock climbing and rappelling for the weekend. On the way to Backbone State Park, I stopped by and picked up a pair of cassette singles-cassingles, I think they were called-perhaps the second most retarded music format of all time, right behind the 8-track.
I don’t know what possessed me to buy a deuce of cassette singles, but it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. I suppose I still had some affection for the 45 single, but since the record company told me that I couldn’t have a 45 anymore, I was forced to spend money on their tape equivalent. Yeah, maybe I could have bought the cd single of the songs, but the record company told me that since the two or three songs were still on a shiny aluminum disc that they’d have to charge me $5.99 for each one of them. That’s $12 for six songs, two of which were just repeats of another one under the guise of “single version” and “album version.”
Fucking pricks.
One was Madonna’s “Express Yourself.” The other song was E’Nuff Z’Nuff’s “New Thing.”
The appeal of Madonna’s “Express Yourself” is pretty obvious: the song is one of her best, the message is timeless, and the video was awesome.
So what the fuck is up with “New Thing?”
Enuff Z’Nuff had just released their debut album-a stupid looking thing with a Day-Glo peace symbol-and the first single, “New Thing,” began to get a few spins on MTV. The video was a lot dumber than Madonna’s and I remember them looking so stupid that I didn’t want to get caught actually possessing an Enuff Z’Nuff album in my collection.
A few years later, they were labeled as “metal’s answer to the Beatles,” but the reality was that they were just another pop-rock band from the Midwest (like Cheap Trick) that made the critical error of dressing like a bunch of hair-metal dumbasses.
And that’s something you can’t dig out of.
They never did, but this fucking song has remained in my head for nearly twenty years now, that’s a lot longer than that stupid cassette single lasted.
You are warned: the song isn’t that good and the video is even worse.

Enuff Z'nuff - New Music - More Music Videos

OCD Chronicles: Patti Smith-"Piss Factory"

I probably neglected to mention the change in my real world duties, so here’s the rundown. The division that I work for suddenly changed my work schedule to a time that I could not manage. When I was hired, I was advised that my shift ended at 4:30. When I confirmed my work schedule, I was told that it would be 4:30pm, 5:00pm at the latest. They then introduced a “shift bid” process, which means that you are forced to bid on your shift preference each quarter. Three criteria are used if you get the bid, with seniority being one of the criteria.
Everything was fine for the longest time, but then in an effort to fill vacancies, they began offering positions to people in other divisions. There was an overwhelming response and most of the shifts were filled with tenured associates, thereby eliminating my own seniority criteria.
They also began tweaking other aspects of the shift bid process which, to make a long story short, put me at a shift that was two hours past my traditional shift end and put a unworkable child care situation. In short, one kid’s after school program ends at a certain time and the other’s childcare provider ends even earlier. My shift would have ended after both of those times, and I was unwilling to find new arrangements within the two-week start date they proposed.
The solution was to work for another division within the company.
Previously, I dealt with more high-end clientele. Arrogant rich fucks and the local sales base that “supported” them. I now deal with a blue-collar clientele, individuals with much smaller income and even smaller understand of what products they have. It’s frustrating, but surprisingly less frustrating than the bullshit that I was dealing with before.
The new position required 4 weeks of training, one in which I was placed with a pair of new hires. As we made our way into our new surroundings (mine, ironically, just three sections down from my old cubicle, which means that I retain my view of the lake) I saw the excitement that one particular newcomer had towards his position and the great desire to make an impression.
I was immediately reminded of Patti Smith’s “Piss Factory.”
“Hey sister, you’re movin’ way too fast
You’re screwin’ up the quota”
I looked at the stats and, sure enough, said noobie was already near the top of our team’s stats. I wanted to tell him that he’d have the rest of the year to blow it out of the water, to take it easy for the first 90 days because nobody cares about his stats now. When it gets to the end of his first ninety, his boss will get with him and set realistic goals. Why bust ass and then find yourself having to bust even more ass just to demonstrate that you’re making an improvement? Start low and move up gradually.
“Now get off your mustang, Sally
You ain’t goin’ nowhere…”
At least for one year; those noobs gotta stay in one spot before they can transfer elsewhere.

OCD Chronicles: Snakefinger-Trashing All The Loves Of History

The first time I heard Snakefinger’s “Trashing All The Loves Of History” was from a friend’s Buy Or Die sampler that he got through Ralph Records. It was taken from his Greener Postures album from 1980.

I didn’t know what to make of it at first; it’s a very unusual sounding song. Snakefinger wasn’t blessed with the most talented of voices, and it was striking to hear an English accent coming from him, particularly since the most identifiable voice from The Residents came from the dude with the southern accent.

Snakefinger always had special billing on those Resident records, so you knew he a.) wasn’t one of the eyeballs and 2.) probably had his own career outside of Residents’ recordings.

There is a similarity between the two in terms of aural weirdness. It’s quite possible that Greener Postures was cut at the same studio as some of the Residents’ late 70’s material. The guitar tones…while fluctuating throughout the song…sound similar to the tones that Snakefinger creates with his masked friends.

“Trashing All The Loves Of History” literally snakes around with strange, off-kilter riffs that can only be memorable through repeated listening. His vocals are processed through heavy amounts of echo, occasionally giving way to squirrelly effects at the end of a verse. It’s as weird as anything the Residents have made with curios guitar chords, rhythms and sounds that are obviously indebted to Zoot Horn Rollo from Captain Beefheart fame. In other words, if you listen through the weirdness, there’s a lot of difficult shit going on.

Snakefinger died of a heart attack on stage in Austria. Shortly after that, I dropped a few tabs of acid and painted a picture in his memory.

Here's a live video of Snakefinger taken shortly before he passed. Yes, that's Eric Drew Feldman of Captain Beefheart fame on keyboards.