Admit it. You’ve totally neglected The Church’s post-Arista records output and the fact that they’re closing in on nearly two dozen records surprises you. I’m not sure what prompts a band to stay together as long as the Church, but I do know their chemistry is as such that they probably haven’t released a bad record in all that time and with their most recent-Untitled #23-they sound even better than just being consistent. Indeed, it’s an album that finds them curiously inspired, exploring the nether regions of seductive guitar textures and layers of high-altitude chill. Above everything is Steve Kilbey’s unmistakable voice-slight, comforting, and eerily ageless. What’s curious is how his understated delivery belies a pretty capable lyricist. As a matter of fact, nearly everything about Untitled #23 is pretty understated, and it’s easy to let its greatness get overlooked. Yes, it’s a grower. And yes, with each spin you move a little more towards the heaven that these purveyors of psychedelia keep reaching for. On “Space Savior,” Kilbey actually allows his voice to break a bit. The thing only utilizes two chords for over six minutes, yet the band’s repetitiveness is almost trance-like, with Steve spewing out stream-of-consciousness, only giving us the line “And I gotta get up! And I gotta get off!” to serve as a makeshift chorus. The lead-off single “Pangaea” is as least as dreamy and infectious as the band’s most famous song “Under The Milky Way,” but it’s also clear that The Church hasn’t been spending the time since then wallowing in nostalgia, trying to recreate the same song. While the voice may not be demonstrating the ravishes of time, his words are now born from life experiences. Gone are those dreamy layers of love’s optimism. They now have hints of regret and mistrust while still remaining as aurally infectious as ever. The album’s defining moment may be “Anchorage” which may explain why the band continues to dish out record after record, more recently in near anonymity. Through years of failed relationships, declining record sales, and a fickle public, The Church has found common ground and reliable kinship with each other. “Darkness/Returning/My torch keeps on burning” as it’s written in the track’s chorus, yet the band uses the spark of one another to light a path ahead. It took twenty-two steps before Untitled #23 to get to this point, and the road to it was obviously filled with its share of up and downs, twists and turns. In the end though, it sounds like the band has come to turns with it and will continue to forge ahead with rewarding material regardless of how many of us check out where they’re at on the map.
At some point in her life, the following men’s penises have been inside her.
Todd Rundgren
Iggy Pop
David Bowie
Mick Jagger
Jimmy Page
Steven Tyler
Rod Stewart
Elvis Costello
Stiv Bators
Jack Nicholson
John Taylor
Coyote Shivers
Fun Fact! She’s now married to Das Damen’s guitarist Jim Wallerstein. Did I stutter? Das Fucking Damen! That psycedelic rock band that recorded for Twin/Tone and SST in the 80’s!.Point is, there’s a big step between nearly everyone on that list who didn’t play in Duran Duran or have the first name of a member of the canine family. Now, as she approaches 60, she’s down to the dude from Das Damen and making a statement by snagging a younger dude If it were me, I’d totally be intimidated by the fact that the lust for life in Iggy Pop’s once resided in Buell’s vagina. Not only would the dude who helped create Fun House been a member of Bebe’s vagjayjay club, he probably would have left the place a mess.
Excuse the drool, but I'm completely hankering for another pointless reissue, if only for the fact that it's a great record. Oh, and the packaging sounds totally awesome. Check it:
Artist: Spiritualized Title: Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space Collectors Edition Label: ATP Recordings Cat No: ATPRCD36 Format: Collectors Edition CD Box set Pre Sale Date: Monday 23rd November 2009 Release Date: Wednesday 16th December 2009 Label: ATP Recordings / Spaceman Catalogue No: ATPRCD36 Format: Collectors Box Set / Strictly Limited Edition of 1000 Boxset Contains:
12 x 3" Prescription Pack CD’s packaged in a foil tray
2 x 5" CD’s containing 35 unreleased versions & outtakes
Digital Download Code for the original album
Individual Prescription Cards signed by J.Spaceman
Strictly Limited Edition of 1000
Brand New Artwork by the original designers Farrow & Spaceman
ATP Recordings / Spaceman are pleased to be able to offer the very limited collectors edition. This includes 12 x 3" Mini CD’s of the complete album track-by-track, a homage to the original release. This will be accompanied by 2 bonus discs. For those who don’t wish to open the blister pack, each unit will come with a code to download the original album in MP3 format._ Limited to just 1000 units, each collectors edition will come with a prescription numbered out of 1000 and signed by J Spaceman. Anyone who pre-orders the collectors edition before November 30th can have their own name, or name of their choosing printed on the prescription. The Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space Collectors edition, will be sent out from the UK on December 16th. If you do not wish to pay postage and handling, there will be an option to pick it up from the Barbican shows on December 16th or 17th. Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space Collectors edition is available for £125 + postage and handling. AVAILABLE FROM 3PM GMT MONDAY NOVEMBER 23RD AT http://www.blogger.com/www.lagwafis.com
O.K. So if I do my pounds to dollars conversion that makes this box set a cool $206. And that's before shipping and handling. Ladies and Gentlemen, we are in a recession. For that kind of bread, Spaceman should smoke a joint with me in my basement too while personally giving me song-by-song commentary as we listen to it.
They performed the album in its entirety last month at the Royal Festival Hall in London. Here's a nice audience shot video of "I Think I'm In Love" from that show. I've seen this band about three times and they've blown me away each time.
My money was on Grant Hart after Husker Du broke up. He wrote some of the Husker’s best songs and may have even been a bit more consistent than campadre Bob Mould. And then-within months, it seemed-he released the acoustic song “2541,” as in 2541 Nicolette Avenue, Minneapolis. As in the Husker’s rehearsal space. And it seemed a heartbreaking account of the band breaking up under the guise of a couple moving out of an apartment and moving away from each other. The line “things are so much different now/I guess the situation’s reversed/And it will probably not be the last time I have to be out by the 1st” ranks as good as anything that Mould ever wrote, but it’s Bob that gets all the critical accolades. Don’t get me wrong, I love Bob too. In fact, I remember a fight I had with my ex-wife once after she called Mould a “sellout” upon learning that he was writing story episodes for WCW wrestling. But Hart was completely off the radar; there were no verbal volleys about him, because he seemed to drop off the face of the Earth after Nova Mob’s The Last Days Of Pompeii. I remember occasionally hearing stories about him, how he looked like he was struggling with addiction. And there was little music to counteract those rumors. Grant Hart recently made his way back to Iowa and visited Des Moines with a set. Our man in the D.M. reports, “He played my requests of “2541” and “Sorry Somehow.” That was cool.” But damn if the dude don’t look haggard. And you would think the hipsters in the Twin Cities could add a buck to a fishbowl and chip in to buy him a leather jacket. What’s with the getup? Did Hendrix’s “If 6 Was 9” inspire it? Someone needs to call Robyn Hitchcock and tell him that we’ve found the jacket from his Fegmania tour. For real, those All Tomorrow’s Parties folks need to waive a shitload of money in front of Mould and Hart and get Husker Du back together for a reunion show. If Greg Norton plays hardball, just threaten his food joint with endless surprise visits from the health inspector or something. And he had better still have that handlebar mustache too. Getting back to Grant: he has a new record called Hot Wax, which will probably sell as many copies as the Husker’s first single.
Two great albums in a row (The Cars and Candy O), arguably three (I loves me some Panorama), The Cars were one of my favorite bands of the late 70's. I loved everything about them-the drums, the keyboard shit, those bad-assed guitars-but mostly I loved their sound. Mostly. Check out that awesome Dean guitar Ric Ocasek is sportin'. And it looks like he hasn't rocked a shampoo in a while. I love how he just kicks back, chews a piece of gum, and mumbles aloud "Don't kid yourself. This is my band!" And check out those electronic drum toms by the side of David Robinson's Singerland drum kit. I remember seeing those things at a guitar shop in Keokuk. Then there's guitarist Elliot Easton, a lefty, standing next to Ben Orr. Ben's sporting an awesome Vox bass guitar and looks great standing next to Easton. But the revelation here is how good they sounded live. They must have rehearsed the shit out of the first two albums to the point where they could nail it in their sleep.
On would think that the rock and roll duo is creatively tapped out. From the Everly Brothers to the Carpenters, from the White Stripes to Hella, it seems that every nuance should be explored by now, every conceivable idea exploited. I suppose that you could probably break bands with only two members down further into two distinctive categories: duos that are so talented that they really don’t need any additional member because they’re already awesome enough and duos that are just so excited to play as soon as they can that they couldn’t be bother with bass player auditions. Japandroids fit in the latter category, with such infectious enthusiasm that you can understand why they laid down a few tracks and said, “I think we’re good here,” thereby keeping the door take at an even fifty/fifty. They’ve also figured out how bands manage to continue to foster with such numeric limitations on their creative input: bash out some high-spirited rock ‘n’ roll and have fun while doing it. Post-Nothing sounds like it was a blast to conceive, record, and one can only imagine that the two put on a nice high-energy live set. Drummer David Prowse obviously is working without a net or a metronome while guitarist/vocalists Brian King manages to find devices to overdrive both his guitar and his vocals. None of these strategies are anything new, but under the context of Japandroids’ keen sense of melody and fueled by a never-ending sense of enthusiasm. Girls seem to be motivating this pair of Canadians, which, in turn, makes for some awesome summer-appropriate anthems. “I don’t want to worry about dying/I just wanna worry about sunshine girls” King yells, suggesting that maybe the youth have their priorities right after all. The rest of Post-Nothing finds similar inspiration lodged firmly in the centric world of youthful ambivalence, and it’s a joyous reminder for the rest of us trapped in cubicles and relationships of monotonous routine. It’s a blast listening to these two pound out an energetic half-hour of unbridled fun. There’s nothing new going on-which makes the album’s already clever title even more so-but the pair’s total disregard for pretention elevates Post-Nothing to one of the freshest rock albums you’ll hear all summer. Japandroids may be working at a disadvantage when it comes to band members, but Post-Nothing demonstrates that King and Prowse have their business well under control and that all available positions have been filled by a pair of very capable young men.
There’s a mystery in my house that no one seems to understand but myself. You see, I’m the only fan of the band The Fall in my house, therefore, I would be the only person interested in Fall-related merchandise. With that being said, aside from an occasional t-shirt, I don’t have a lot of promotional material that would lend itself to actually promoting a band. Well, my man cave is full of concert posters, artwork, etc., but that’s nothing that I can necessarily walk around for others to notice. So I was surprised earlier this week when I came across the item in the blurry photo: a Fall pin. You know, those pins that everyone wore in the 80’s. The more the merrier. It gave you a chance to display to anyone who’d notice who your favorite band was. Realistically, I had a few of these, but they weren’t a part of my wardrobe by any means. And a button of the Fall wasn’t a part of my pin collection. I opened up the cabinet that holds our Tupperware assortments, looking for something to use for my sack lunch. In the cabinet, intentionally tucked off to the side like it was being hid was a pin celebrating The Fall. How it got there is beyond me. How I even got it is a mystery. I will proudly find an item for this surprise, letting the citizens of Cedar Rapids, Iowa that I love the Fall. I saw a girl-late 20’s-walking into Wal-Mart wearing a Smiths The Queen Is Dead t-shirt the other day. I would have said something, but I’m not a big fan of the general public.
I find Charlie Manson fascinating. When you take a look at the Family, Death Valley 1969, it’s stunning how this small, mentally ill man was able to convince intelligent teenagers that it was a good idea to murder. Charlie turns 75 today, which blows my mind since now the impish character is now old enough to begin losing some of his intimidation factor. I mean what are you going to do, dude? Become incontinent on me? As a kid, I watched Helter Skelter mini-series when it came out. It freaked my shit, but not as much as Bugliosi’s book of the same name. In the picture section, there was a picture of one of the Family members, dead, with the eyes obviously drawn in on the body. Every time I see a copy of that book, I always turn to that creepy picture. After the mini-series, I read how Squeaky Fromme tried to kill President Ford. Do you understand what kind of impact news stories like this has on a young child? I had a vision of zombies wandering around in America, waiting for secret messages from Charlie to go and perform a political assassination. “And swing by Dennis Wilson’s place and break his arm. That fucker never got me a record deal.” Remember when Squeaky escaped in the 80’s and tried to go visit Charlie? I mean, she barely got out of the same county that she was institutionalized in, but give the girl credit. That’s some major devotion to a dude that doesn’t top 5’. I made a cassette mixtape years ago that had dialogue from the Helter Skelter movie in between a few songs. I miss that type of shit.
Letterman fucked the help and I could really give a shit. There are moments of old Letterman every now and then, but it hasn't been the same since the old NBC show. I know, call it nostalgic, but it's true. There were moments watching Letterman at 11:30 CST where I questioned how his show could even be on the air.
It was awesome.
Take this clip from '85, when Dave forgoes having a show in front of studio audience and instead decides to have the show taped in his office. And what do you do when Teri Garr stops by? You try to get her to take a shower.
What do you do when Terri Gibbs stops by?
You make believe its still in front of a studio audience
Three of you probably got that reference.
I remember watching this the night it aired and it's ingrained in my TV cortex.
So hey, what was going to be a chance to see the very last Jesus Lizard show has now turned into a chance to see the penultimate performance. I’m a little pissed about it. You see, I knew both Thanksgiving weekend performances would sell out. And they rightly did. And then they announced a New Year’s Eve show, the real final show. That’s going to sell out too. I’m having second thoughts inviting my wife along. I don’t think she’s fully appreciative of what is about to occur this month. Regardless of the last show or second to last one, it’s going to be awesome.
Lou Reed publicly voiced his displeasure of Sally Can’t Dance, but then again, Lou Reed is an asshole, so it’s best to taper his comments with a dose of reality. As a matter of fact, Lou Reed as an asshole is found throughout Sally Can’t Dance so maybe his criticism of it was part of the Lou Circa ’74 character. His criticism of the album is one of the reasons I love it: the production. It’s slick, polished, and everything glistens. That’s not to suggest there aren’t some dirty moments throughout the album’s brief 8 song cycle, there’s a lot of it, actually, both figuratively and musically. But every instrument is distinguishable and there are moments where Lou’s voice-a relatively limited and weak instrument-is processed with studio gimmicks that it sounds awesome. “Kill Your Sons,” a song about Lou’s electroshock therapy treatments as a teen, remains as one of his fiercest songs ever. “NY Stars” finds Reed dismissing his hometown imitators with a deadpanned “Help the New York stars.” That same, intentional deadpan is used throughout Sally Can’t Dance (the “Alimony” bit in “Ennui,” the “then war broke out…a he had to go” line in “Billy”) and it never tires. Upbeat Lou even stops by for a laugh or two, with mixed results. The descriptive title track that details where Sally “used to ball folk singers” (a line that I like to use on my wife when we visit her hometown on the holidays. You know, we’ll pass a grain elevator and I’ll ask her if “that’s where you used to ball folk singers?”). It falls flat on the downright awful “Animal Language,” a song so embarrassing that I’ll let it play through and dramatically sing the lyrics like a Vegas crooner. You really haven’t lived until you’ve heard me belt out “they took the dude’s sweat and shot it up between the two” like Robert Goulet. Sally Can’t Dance became Lou’s highest charting album, leading him to exclaim that if he relinquished total control on his albums to someone else that he would surely find himself with a number 1 record. Given the artist’s cantankerous nature, noncommercial subject matters and penchant for subversive behavior, it seems highly unlikely that this could really happen. But Sally Can’t Dance at least promotes how Lou should have entertained the idea of letting someone man the controls behind the boards a little more frequently.
There was a time when I would buy Sonic Youth albums without even hearing a note. For me, they were a band that deserved this kind of positive reinforcement, an epitome of how bands with major label should act, progress, and influence. A pair of albums-A Thousand Leaves and NYC Ghosts & Flowers- abruptly ended that blind adulation. It seemed that one of my favorite bands had simply run their course and run out of ideas in the process. They had become pretentious and boring, oblivious to the fact that rock music should contain a bit of humor, or at least a wink towards it. Sonic Youth appeared to have grown up, no longer deserving their ageless band name. Around this time I purchased Murray Street only out of Trade Center guilt and I skipped Sonic Nurse altogether. I got a chance to see them in Ohio during the Rather Ripped tour-twenty years after I’d first seen them in a small club in Iowa supporting Sister tour-and was pleasantly surprised. Lee assaulted his guitar, Thurston dry humped his amp stack, and Kim jumped around like she was honestly overtaken by the amplified onslaught. And Steve Shelly? As usual, he was his awesome dependable self, keeping all of the chaos neatly contained in measured rhythms. The album they were promoting-Rather Ripped-was a high energy affair, complete with efficient song structures and what appeared to be an attempt to win back fans that had fallen by the wayside, like me. Sonic Youth’s latest, The Eternal, is curiously being promoted as the band’s first independent release in years (like that accounts for anything in this day and age and, to be honest, I never really considered Matador to be an “indie” label to begin with) when it should be promoted as their best work since Washing Machine. They’re continuing with Ripped’s fast-tempo tendencies and they’re expertly tiptoeing between streamlined guitar rock and their groundbreaking experimentation. It’s an album that manages to straddle a variety of different elements from their past while sounding amazingly fresh. An impressive feat for a band that’s approaching their thirtieth anniversary. The obvious attraction is the guitar interplay between Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo. They’ve proven to be ample warriors within the alterna-tuning freakouts and have even poked around some areas that could be fodder for jam-band fans. But The Eternal finds the pair consolidating their interplay into short, sweet bursts. Their performances are deceiving-one has to listen closely for their complexity-but when they do go off on extended tangents (“Anti-Orgasm” the wonderful “Antenna” and the closer “Massage The History”) it makes the impact that much stronger. The two are so good that they even make a mundane Kim Gordon track, “Malibu Gas Station,” into a track that you don’t dare skip. Because many of the complexities are brief, efficient and expertly positioned, you can expect The Eternal to grow a bit after a few listens. Trust me, this review looked a bit different after the first spin. But now after double-digit listens, it’s now apparent that I’m enjoying a new Sonic Youth album more than I have in years. More importantly, The Eternal has me looking forward to the next few Sonic Youth albums before they’ve even been contemplated. Seems like old times.
My cousin quipped that the reason I didn’t get Anomaly as a promo was because it sucked and the record company was afraid that people would find out about it sooner. Judging by the song titles and ridiculous cover art, the signs were pointing to the possibility that he was indeed correct. There is a song on the album called “Space Bear.” How good can the album be with a song called “Space Bear.” There’s also a song called “I Come From Outer Space” which features a chorus of “I thought I told you I came from outer space” repeated over a fairly innocuous guitar riff. Sure enough, a few hours after I heard the song, I began telling people-or merely talking to myself-“I thought I told you I came from outer space.” I’d do it with different inflections, just to make it sound different. Ace has his way with a hook. The issue isn’t if Anomaly bad-it really isn’t-the issue is that it took Ace twenty years to record a new solo album, and this is the best he could come up with? Christ, Ace has run ragged in Kiss, releasing a couple of albums a year, and was then forced to whip out a solo album in no time. And what came of it? The best of the four Kiss solo albums and the most popular. We’ve given Ace twenty years to return and what does he bring to the table? Another song about the perils of drinking. Wasn’t there another song twenty years ago about the perils of drinking? Did Ace fall off the wagon, or is his recovery from alcoholism the most lengthy in recorded history? “Foxy And Free” is a decent opener, with its neat Hendrix references and metal Ace dishing out some aggro riffs, it’s heavier than what one would expect from a 57-year-old man. Or is it 60? Who the hell knows? The point is, Ace is old now and is still releasing hard rock damage of someone half his age. There are some fine moments, there are more silly ones, and there is a couple where you think, “If these two Ace songs were tacked on to the new Kiss album and the replacement band’s songs removed, you’d have a really good Kiss album. Instead, you have one barely good Kiss album a slightly average-yet surprisingly consistent and heavy-Ace Frehley solo album. But you’d still hold it against him for taking so long to come up with something this uneventful. After all, the fucker came from outer space.
Against all odds, against any rational thought, Kiss founders Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley have put together a scab band, pissed off nearly every remaining Kiss Army member by their unquenchable desire of money and managed to release the best album in almost three decades. Why should you trust me? Because I hate Kiss. I’m on a mission to review every Kiss album in their bloated catalog in the hopes of finding some logical explanation as to why they are so revered and-without spoiling too much of my quest-I am having a tough time of it. I went into this Wal-Mart only album fully expecting to hate it only to walk away with my jaw opened at how decent it was. There was the embarrassment of the reunion album about eleven years ago and then the unexplainable decision to take the image that former founding members Ace Frehley and Peter Criss created and allow a pair of Johnny-come-lately members don the outfits and act as if nothing ever happened. The decision was so moronic that even local television stations made fun of them live an on camera. Kiss was never a band of much respect, but now they were a bona fide joke. So excuse me for really…REALLY…wanting Sonic Boom to suck so much shit that I could come up with a few hundred words to bash them. But something’s happening here. Aside from all of the hype concerning the cover art (the same dude that inked Rock And Roll Over did Sonic Boom) and Paul’s endless yapping that the new album was a return to their classic 70’s sound, even Vegas odds makers had the new album as another late-career embarrassment. Maybe Paul-the obvious motivator on this one-was getting tired of the jokes at his disposal. Maybe they noticed AC/DC’s own late career marketing deal and decent album and decide that they were actually going to put some effort into this one. Or maybe they can finally taste the opportunity of getting into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and want to go in with a good album under their belt. You can already hear Gene’s smug and ungrateful speech right now, but even that asshole knows that there would be at least a couple less eye-rolling audience members if his band could walk in with their heads high off a new album instead of one that was released in 1979. Of course, nobody but the faithful are going to give a shit about this one as nobody but the Kiss Army wants to hear anything new by these guys. Hell, even Gene thinks records are a waste of time, as they don’t pocket him with nearly the cash that he feels he’s entitled to. As a result, his songs on Sonic Boom continue down the embarrassing road of getting’ pussy and I’m pretty such I’ve heard his double-entendres here some place before. Paul’s material is top notch and it sounds like he actually gives a shit about this project. His song’s are catchy, anthemic, and contain some good riffs. Admittedly, some of the riffs sound suspiciously similar to older ones, but after such shit like Psycho Circus, Hot In The Shade, and The Elder, this ain’t a bad thing. One thing that is a bad thing is letting new(er) Kiss Members Tommy Thayer and Eric Singer have their own tunes, giving the false pretense that they are somehow part of the band. They are hired guns-we all know it-so don’t insult our intelligence and dash their hopes that they’re somehow part of the organization by letting them have a couple of spots on your “comeback” album. Besides, they suck and are even shittier than Gene’s songs. But I will give Thayer for laying down some decent solos (I’m sure the main riff’s are Paul’s) and suggesting that he may indeed be the best Kiss guitarist since Ace. There’s absolutely nothing new to Sonic Boom, but that seems to be the point. It’s just a little raunchier than their material has been since Love Gun. It begs the question: What took you guys so long? Had they released Sonic Boom immediately after Love Gun who knows, we may have already been introducing this greedy fucks into the Hall already. Instead, we’re questioning why it’s come so late in the game and trying to figure out their ulterior motives.
One of my biggest fears in writing this review is the perception that I am the site’s lone Ronnie James Dio and that role puts me in a category of irrelevance. Kind of like the irrelevance that Dio himself faced about ten years ago when he was playing the shtick in clubs and secondary markets. Only the faithful showed up then and I would probably count myself as one of those vocal naysayers, laughing at every one of those few hundred patrons coming to get a glimpse at this tiny old man. Tenacious D may have resurrected Dio to a pop culture joke, but it was a re-examination of his work with Black Sabbath in the early 80’s that resurrected him to a credible and influential voice in metal. The reunion shows were supposed to be a swan song, a final glimpse at a band that was on its own deathbed at the time of conception. But there were reports during the tour that the band-now named Heaven & Hell thanks to the endless meddling of Sharon Osbourne-was preparing to record a new album together, the second reunion of this line-up. Initially, I found myself as a naysayer, rolling my eyes at the notion of a disc of new material, envisioning a slow death of decreasing popularity and smaller venues. The fellas seemed intention on exiting the metal arena in embarrassing fashion, too old to know when it’s time to put away the gargoyles and call it a day. The Devil You Know should be the sad remnants of that union, the document that tells us that the moment ended decades ago and, while reminiscing among the old farts is fine, the idea that they can translate it into credible new material is silly. Well Holy Diver, the joke is squarely on me as Heaven & Hell deliver their heaviest recordings closer to the age of seventy than they did at twenty-one. It’s an effort that provides them with a reason to exist-albeit under a new name-and it should provide an inspiring reference point to anyone considering what the shelf life of a metal band should be. Dio, who’s voice is still impressive at his advanced age, has moved from an egotistical bellower to one that has transitioned his talents into an ominous howl. The end of days is written all over this record, and Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler work each riff like it will be their last with Vinny Appice plodding along at a snails pace. Seriously: the album is more than half over before the band kicks it into second gear with “Eating The Cannibals.” All of this dirge and slow motion head banging begins to sound the same by the end of the album, and repeated listening had me reaching for the remote so that I could program only the best songs on the album. One of those is “Bible Black.” It begins as a forlorn acoustic number until the ninety-second mark. At which time the band unleashes into a menacing refute of Christianity. “Let me go!/I’ve seen religion, but the light has left me blind!” Dio roars while Iommi delivers another worthy riff underneath the sacrilege. While not as noteworthy as Heaven & Hell or The Mob Rules, the fourth installment of this Sabbath line-up is most surprising for its consistency. Not even I imagined that these four old-timers would have been album to create an album that matches the releases that are already available, particularly since it’s been over fifteen years since the last installment. It also annihilates practically everything that Sabbath’s more notorious frontman has released during that time. Which begs the question: shouldn’t Sharon be doing more to make sure her husband is contributing to his own legacy than worrying about what his former bandmates are doing? Because, judging from The Devil You Know, Heaven & Hell are doing more to retain Sabbath’s lofty stature than he is.
Check it if you don’t believe me, but Black Moth Super Rainbow’s “Forever Heavy” is one of my most spun tracks according to Last FM. The song, from their last effort Dandelion Gum, is a trippy and memorable blend of old school analog synths and a weird “Born On The Day The Sun Didn’t Rise” is similar to “Forever Heavy” in the sense that it too is the lead off track to their full length-this time it’s their latest entitled Eating Us-and it’s infectiously similar to that ’07 gem. I have a feeling that it too will become a popular track and show similar high numbers to my spin totals, particularly after this summer is over. In fact, much of Eating Us resembles the same acid-laden landscapes that precede it, with one very noticeable difference: the production quality. BMSR opened for the Flaming Lips last year, and the OKC pranksters must have put in the good word to producer Dave Fridmann. He uses his trademark big drum sound, puts a lot more audible detail in the mix and might have had a hand in streamlining every song to economical time lengths. Unlike the sound stamp that he placed on the last Tapes ‘n Tapes album, his work with BMSR is a breath of fresh air and provides new dimensions to their sound. All of the retro keyboards make an appearance again, and the vocoder that was used somewhat sparingly in Dandelion Gum is used to the fullest here. Fridmann also pushes more stringed instruments here, including a beautiful string section at the end of “Gold Splatter.” Eating Us is a much more mainstream endeavor, with its terse running time and focus on melody, and there are certainly more than a few tracks that could garnish widespread attention. BMSR always seemed to be a band that was destined to become merely an enjoyable curio, referenced as one of those underground bands who delivered a few great songs before disappearing into the psilocybin landscape. Their latest shows that perhaps the band has bigger things in mind and that they’re not quite content with becoming an underground footnote. A lot of forethought went into the making of Eating Us; whether or not it’s the work of Dave Fridmann or the members of BMSR will be seen with future releases. But for the time being Eating Us leaves you feeling full and very satisfied.
Hailing from rural Pennsylvania and sporting one of the weirdest band names since The Flaming Lips (a band they’re opening for this fall), Black Moth Super Rainbow have quietly made a few retro-minded instrumental albums over the past five years. Dandelion Gun, their latest offering, continues with their psychedelic soundscapes while managing to make a more lasting impression than the last few Air albums combined. Their secret is two-fold: memorable melodies created on instruments (and recording studios, for that matter) that are no less than a quarter-century old. The instrument of choice ends up being a variety of pawn-shop synthesizers underneath a dated vocoder. This strategy makes deciphering the vocals (when they’re present) nearly impossible and, because it’s used so frequently, there’s a chance that a listener can grow fatigued of the gimmick while sober and/or long periods of listening. But when Dandelion Gum is taken in small sittings, and one of the best methods is to throw in an individual track on a mix-tape, the results are enormously rewarding. For the past month, I’ve been enamored with the opening track “Forever Heavy,” going as far as to include it on my own commute mix and add it as a song profile to my own MySpace page (they’ve since deleted the track). That song, as you’ll discover throughout most of the album, eloquently balances a low-fi economics (here’s hoping B.M.S.R. never get a proper recording budget) with lysergic-fueled visions (apparently, Dandelion Gum is “Hansel & Gretel” themed concept album that probably makes sense after a few tabs of acid) to create a spacious, and sometimes creepy, album. As hokey as their stage names are (the band members are referred to as Tobacco, Iffernaut, Father Hummingbird, Power Pill Fist, and The Seven Fields of Aphelion) and as limiting as their antiquated equipment may be, Black Moth Super Rainbow are deserving of a wider audience, which is hopefully what will happen after a high-profile tour with their fellow Oklahoma zanies. At the same time, with Dandelion Gum being just a few tracks short of long lasting flavor (get it?), they’re well on their way to getting that wider audience completely on their own.
It’s quite possible that the worst Bob Dylan album of all time is the one in which he joined up with the Grateful Dead for the Dylan & the Dead release. Twenty years after that disastrous merging, Dylan again looks to the Dead camp and calls up lyricist Robert Hunter to help out with album 33, and not just on a few cuts, but nearly every single one on Together Through Life. It’s an album that may not challenge Dylan & the Dead in terms of sheer blandness, but it comes close and it certainly knocks the wind out of Dylan’s late career winning streak. Aside from a few unique forays into “Tex-Mex,” there’s little intrigue to be had at all, with everything sounding very much the age of Dylan himself and with none of the lyrics providing any insight to Zimmy’s mindset as he approaches 70. Instead, everything sounds like it was put together in haste with Dylan’s words taking shape as an afterthought. I get the idea that Dylan makes the records that he wants to and that there’s no reason why he needs to consider what any of us should think the next step should be. But this seems like a patchwork, cobbled together from mundane musing on love and half-baked songs born out of movie soundtrack compositions instead of real inspiration. It is the sound of Dylan going though the motions with a very competent band who make each song sound like a dust-worn border town. And then there’s the matter of Dylan’s voice, so wrecked at this point that you’ll cringe at the sight of Bob lighting up on the inside sleeve photograph. As wasted as it sounds, his voice may be the only truly intriguing thing that Bob contributes in Together. Everything else-either by pen or by phrasing-is just too cozy for its own good. Even the arrangements sound congenial, like their true inspiration came from a couple of podcasts of his radio show instead of Dylan or Hunter’s prose. There’s no complaint about the performances mind you-they’re all nicely executed, well suited and completely forgettable-but when you’ve got Bobby phoning it in under the pretense of laid-back spontaneity, for fucks sake have someone spike the punch a get shit going. As talented as the musicians might actually be, they all sound like they’re sitting on their ass, working out after-hours Tex-Mex run-throughs and a few nods to the Chicago blues. It sounds like everyone had a swell time playing-hell, even Dylan busts out with a laugh on “My Wife’s Hometown,” but the thing about “after-hours” is that not all of us are invited to the show. The bar is closed, the doors locked, and we’re left outside, pining for a glimpse of greatness from a man with a well-documented past. You listen for those hints of greatness before realizing that the man is not the slightest bit concerned with it. Because-and this is key-we understand that time is a precious commodity here. There’s a disservice to both himself and to those of us who love him when we see him spinning his wheels like with Together Through Life. We’re wanting every moment and every album to count from here on out, and we remember those years when Bobby’s releases were disappointing affairs. The slightest hint of a slowdown, particularly after coming off a few very good efforts, only gets me even more worried about album 34.
Shredding? Check. Kick Triplets? Check. Murmaider sequel? Check. Yes, Dethalbum II is similar in many ways to its predecessor and it packs a mean metallic punch. But one of the things that it loses over the debut is a sense of humor. I hope that Brendon Small isn’t thinking of taking Dethklok into legitimate territories, because the animated series brilliance is how laugh-at-loud funny it is. That must be a little tough for Small, a talented musician himself who has surrounded his surprise hit series with equally talented musicians. It’s not surprising that half of them have histories with members of the Zappa family-another artist that struggled with finding a balance between absurdity and legitimacy-because Dethalbum II is chock full of nearly too perfect performances that is obviously way smarter than the fictional characters could possibly come up with. Don’t get me wrong: there are funny moments throughout the sophomore effort, but it isn’t as obvious as the debut and much of it is darker. Take the song “Dethsupport,” which is a timely commentary on our health care system. Dethklok solution to even the most mundane and treatable of ailments (nearsightedness, epilepsy, cataracts, etc.) is to simply “pull the plug…kill me now!” because the treatment is too expensive. The humor is in how close the lyrics resemble the Republican rhetoric how overhauling the health care system would create “death panels” and result in Grandma and Grandpa dying from bureaucracy. Other tracks, like “The Cyborg Slayers” aren’t even funny at all or are only funny in title alone (“I Tamper With The Evidence At The Murder Site Of Odin”). But the musicianship is so impressively brutal that you can’t help but play this at such ear-damaging volume and enjoy it. All joking aside: Dethklok’s Dethalbum II continues to affirm that the band continues to stand head and shoulders above any other cartoon band. It certainly is a bit harder than the debut, but then again, the jokes are harder to come by too.
A review of the Dethklok show in Des Moines can be found here.
Do you want to know why people don’t listen to the radio anymore? Because there’s no personalities, there’s no distinction between one station and another, they play the same songs that they’ve always played for the past quarter century, and there’s no localism being broadcasted. One would think that the stations left of the dial-those that take up the non-commercial bandwidth-are staying true to their roots and broadcasting the things that other radio stations are too afraid to play. What we have here is an actual playlist from KRUI 89.7 FM, a student run radio station at the University of Iowa that used to be a Mecca for subversive and challenging music. Sure, the quality of the airshifts varied from dj to dj, but I don’t ever remember it looking this bad:
You Don't Need to Be A Prostitute - Flight of the Conchords Magnolia Mountain - Ryan Adams & The Cardinals Percussion Gun - White Rabbits Walking the Dog - fun. Charmer - Kings of Leon Kids - MGMT An Eluardian Instance - Of Montreal Have You Ever Loved a Woman - Eric Clapton Non Dairy Creamer - Third Eye Blind Doris Day (Don't Go) - Jack's Mannequin
Again, this may be just a show that’s playing by their own rules and totally dismissing the intent of the station. Maybe the thinking is that by including such mainstream acts like Third Eye Blind, Eric Clapton, and Kings of Leon that they’re actually being rebellious or an alternative to the alternative. My thinking is that they’re not thinking. That they’re using the public spectrum like an Ipod shuffle while encouraging us to, ironically, reach for their own Ipods. And yeah, in case you’re wondering: Flight of the Conchords have a new disc out and, like their first one, the best FotC you can get is the one available on dvd.
True story: I was messing around online at work and I noticed that the number one search item for a few hours today was Soupy Sales. What on Earth, in this day and age, are people searching for Soupy Sales on the internet? And then I noticed that Soupy passed away today. The dude rubbed shoulders with the Rat Pack, knew a bunch of hip jazz musicians, and sired on-time Iggy Pop and David Bowie rhythm section members Tony and Hunt Sales. I never really paid much attention to Soupy; he was after my childhood and I really only remember him from those game shows in the 70's. I do remember my father speaking poorly of him as an unfunny hack. Balance that with Iggy Pop's claim (on the Dinah Shore show) that Soupy sales was an influence on The Stooges. When in doubt, trust in Iggy. Here's Soupy with a surprise visit from Alice Cooper.
I wish I could adequately tell you how awesome my hometown was growing up. It had its share of typical small town bullshit, but there was moments of joy. In fact, there was a point in the mid-90's when I thought the town may be on a the brink of a turnaround. As we entered into a new century, I understood that it wasn't to be. It's been a year since I've been to my hometown-ironically to help my parents move, thereby ensuring that any real return home would come to an end. It's just as well as those who remain there seem content on watching the town deteriorate. Each time I did manage to go back it became frustrating watching neighborhoods crumble and the exodus of families leave for better opportunities. It was like seeing an old girlfriend, one who developed a nice meth addiction since you saw her last. But I remember when she was cute, just like her funny name.
Check out this late night finds. A pair of hit singles from the 1910 Fruitgum Co. Who are these guys? One of the originators of bubblegum music, a genre from the late 60’s that focused on non-threatening pop music. It was a genre that was met with such disdain from my father that I never actually had any singles by these guys, the Ohio Express (“Yummy Yummy Yummy”), The Archies, or any other “group” that had a hit or two on the radio. The 1910 Fruitgum Co had 3 top five hits and one top 40 hit that The Ramones covered (“Indian Giver”) before imploding thanks to label chokeholds. You see, Buddha Records-the band’s label-didn’t really want creativity. They wanted hits. And if you didn’t conform to their demands, then you were quickly replaced. See the awesome movie That Thing You Do! for more details. Take a look at the first video for the band. This is the original line-up, a group of guys from Jersey who happened on to a record contract. The lead singer and keyboard player-Mark-was the last piece of the line-up and the youngest member of the band. More on that later. Notice how goofy the bass player is in the video. He’d become the first member to go. Now check out the dude playing the Fender Jaguar. He’s either really high, or he just doesn’t give a shit.
As you can see, 1910 Fruitgum Co. shows were only attended by two people at a time. Now here’s hit single number 3. The Talking Heads covered this one when they were first starting out.
Did you notice how every member of the band-aside from the lead singer, Mark-are no longer in the band? Keep in mind, this was merely a year after their first hit. The band was on the road performing when they went to do a radio interview. The DJ began asking about the new single, a song that the members had never even heard before. Except Mark. He followed Buddah record’s suggestion that he cut the vocals on a new track without the rest of the fellows. Then, as the band was touring, the label released the song to radio without telling the rest of the guys about what had happened! That’s what you call a “dick move” in the business. Naturally, the rest of the guys got pissed, split with the idea that they could do it on their own, leaving Mark to continue on with the 1910 Fruitgum Co. name and to work with a bunch of session players. Except the tambourine guy, he might have been Mark’s secret lover. The best moment is when Mark says the secret of their success is because of the label promoters. When the host politely suggests that “talent” has something to do with it to-an obvious attempt at stroking the young musician-Mark stands his ground and firmly reiterates that the promoters at the record company are more important to a band than talent. You can see-in one short year-how the guy has turned from a scared young pop hopeful into a cynical and defeated old man. Before too long, Mark would also leave the band and enjoy a life of a piano salesman in New Jersey.
The waiver has been signed, so this may be my last post ever. With any luck, I will die from scalding hit Duncan Hills coffee being poured over my body at tonight's Converge/High On Fire/Mastodon/Dethklok show in Des Moines.
Is it just me, or does the middle age dude playing guitar with Brendon Small serve as an image killer? I mean, I understand that I won't actually be seeing Murderface, Pickles, and the rest of the cast, but I didn't know that they would reanimate the corpse of Jerry Garcia for rhythm guitar duties either. But seriously, a quick search of the net finds the old fart to be Mike Keneally, a Zappa protege who has traded licks with the best of them while still managing to look strangely out of place while shredding with a fake melodic death metal band. I have high hopes that this will be as brutal as the line-up suggests it will be, regardless of how anyone looks. It better be: I'm using one of my floating holidays to recuperate.
I’m going to confess that, while I was waiting for the release of Mastodon’s Crack The Skye, I totally immersed myself in Kylesa’s Static Tensions and the experience was very gratifying. While the Savannah, GA’s quintet delivers a different kind of metal than their Atlanta brethren, it is an equally challenging offering. It would be easy for a band with drop tuning foundations to get lost in the landscape. After all, there is a ton of bands out there wallowing in the sludge and most are interchangeable. What Kylesa have going for them is lean set of tracks for their fourth effort, all logging in at an efficient 40 minutes and nicely decorated with aggressive riffs and plenty of trippy sidesteps. While none of the tracks reach the six-minute mark, there are enough psychedelic meanderings within the guitar parts to make everything sound concisely epic. Then there’s the bands ace card-a dual drummer attack-which is immediately noticeable but curiously underutilized. Drummers Carl McGinley and Eric Hernandez frequently drum in tandem with each other instead of against each other’s patterns. There are plenty of moments of polyrhythmic workouts but surprisingly little in terms of bashing every bit of white space into a whimpering pulp. There’s nothing wrong with this approach, mind you, but I expected a band with this type of arsenal to use it to the fullest. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Kylesa’s approach is with guitarist/vocalist Laura Pleasants’ contributions. Thanks to a strategy that splits vocal shifts between her and other vocalist Philip Cope, Static Tensions doesn’t wear thin and the result is a metal album with brains, heart, and hints at the possibility of greater things. Kylesa is band with a revolving door of members, which has been their Achilles Heel for past efforts; there’s been little opportunity to grow as the band focused on getting the right members on board. Thankfully, they have a fine line-up in place for their upcoming tour as Mastodon’s opener. Here’s hoping the journey will solidify this line-up’s camaraderie and spark them to look at further forays into the more aggressive corners of stoner metal. Because Static Tensions demonstrates, it’s a journey that Kylesa is well equipped to undertake and that they might be miles ahead of their closet competitor already. Awesome cover, too.
It’s a shame that the Get Up Kids are-at this moment-pegged with an image problem. And how ironic is it that while this image problem is in full bloom, they are now hitting the road for a series of reunion shows. Will the fanatical and those that admit the band had some pretty formidable records show up, or only the faithful? Have the faithful diminished to the point where the band is full circle, touring the same venues like they did when they first started? The band is guilty of more than a few crimes, the first is that they helped accelerate a genre known as “emo,” which in itself isn’t necessarily a bad thing, when you get around to considering who the true originators of the genre are: Rites Of Spring. The Get Up Kids tidied up the genre that Rites created (and ultimately destroyed by calling it a day after one landmark album) but they also managed to sound like a bunch of whiners, which is crime number two. According to those aforementioned fanatics, the album to get the GUK’s second full-length platter, Something To Write Home About. On its release, it was met with such praise that I picked it up. I remember liking “Company Dime” and “Holiday” seemed kind of catchy, but I’ll be goddamned if I’ve heard it since then and a recent spin (resulting from the news that they’re playing close to home) had me scratching my head “Why do I even have this?” I had money to burn back then, and there must have been some review that caught my eye. Which is why now I must implore you to save your money or your internet connection and avoid this album. Don’t make the same mistakes that I did. Something To Write Home About is a collection of twelve songs that seem to dwell on missing a girl. The irony is how connected out society was becoming at that time (1999) which only points to the possibility that nearly every one of those twelve songs is rooted in bullshit. The idea that life on the road promoted such sorrow and loneliness by only the SECOND ALBUM seriously points the need for every one of the Get Up Kids to contemplate another career choice. Crime number three is creating tepid arrangements around such pansy-ass themes that you can actually feel a vagina beginning to grow where your balls should be immediately after listening to this. The album is littered with keyboards and acoustic guitars during those moments when someone must have mentioned “Hey, let’s throw in an acoustic guitar right here and sound like bigger pussies!” Something To Write Home About is an album of tempered performances and of tempered creativity. It tries so hard to be important that it overlooks the fact that its themes translate into such unintentional pathos. It renders all of its emotional content useless which makes it hard to understand how anyone would even be able to connect with it. Ten years later, The Get Up Kids will see first hand if anyone still relates to Something To Write Home About during their reunion tour.
On the band’s fourth full-length (fifth if you count Call Of The Mastodon) Atlanta’s Mastodon make an album that will finally test the patience of the alternative elite that have traditionally supported them. I tend to view these music-types with more of a suspicious eye then an indie rocker who will verbally announce disdain for anything metal because at least the metal hater is being honest about it. Yes, I’m one of those who believe there’s a large contingency of hipsters that have stood by Mastodon on the sole reason that they needed to find a relatively underground metal band to align with just to prove that they’re open to all kinds of music. Their affection towards Mastodon should end with Crack The Skye, an album that puts the notion of “concept album” to a point of ridiculousness while utilizing a famous producer (Brendan O’Brien) to help capture the mayhem and, quite possibly, tidy up the results to get it ready for mass consumption. While Crack The Skye isn’t quite The Black Album, it does share that album’s spirit and intention: to make the most technically precise album of their career and to make it the most accessible too. Here’s where the bands took different roads: Metallica started to compose songs that were completely different from their catalog arsenal. Mastodon is taking songs that are in their catalog titles into entirely new dimensions. They’re now toying with progressive elements. They’re singing. They’re creating songs that you may actually hear on the radio, not just the stations on the non-commercial bandwidth. It is these elements that will most certainly take a negative view to anyone that isn’t a real metalhead underneath all that pretention. While Bob Rock taught Metallica that recording is the process of capturing the perfect take of each song, Brendan O’Brien is teaching Mastodon that recording is the process of capturing the perfect sounds of each song. He’s introduced the band to an impossible amount of vintage gear-amplifiers and guitars-and these brushes are used extensively. In every song. In every manner. The amount of soloing will make your head spin, but it’s the tone and texture of these sounds that will make you understand what a great producer O’Brien is. There’s a great risk that any band would faced when dealing with this amount of interplay. O’Brien’s gig was to introduce new tones for these indulgences, but it fell upon the band themselves to make sure the execution worked. They do, particularly Brent Hinds who treats every solo like it’s his last. Perhaps it’s the result of one scary and stupid altercation with the bassist of System of a Down that left Hinds with a brain injury, severe enough to the point where he was at risk of losing his craft. His soloing gets more intense as the album progresses, until it gets to the last song on the album, A thirteen-minute-long epic called “The Last Baron.” Halfway through it, Hinds unleashes a solo is so sick that you have no idea how they’ll come out of it let alone how they got there. The answer is clear: the band has decimated nearly every aspect of metal in the course of the album that by the time they reach the final track, they have no choice but to start lifting techniques from the Zappa camp. Crack The Skye clocks in at a wonderful fifty-minutes in length. As a result, it doesn’t wear thin while it gives you plenty of extra sonic gravy to savor with repeated listens. It’s the kind of album that your older brother, if he really loved you, would bequeath to you when he left the house for good. The only downfall of the album is the concept-something about a kid hiding Rasputin’s spirit and using it to travel through the astral plane in order to get back to Earth-is impossible to take seriously. Not only does the concept itself take on too much and serve as a point of contention among non-metal critics, it’s a distraction from what the real concept of Crack The Skye is. The album’s namesake is drummer Brann Dailor’s sister, Skye, who passed at the age of 14. Dailor, one of the album’s chief composers, has spent a long time dealing with that pain, and this album seems like one of the first attempts at coming to terms with the tragedy. The fact that he’s hidden the album’s true meaning in a mess of Muscovite Tsardom indicates to me that Dailor’s still not ready to let go of some of his emotional baggage just yet and having to explain such a wordy concept theme is more tolerable then having to recount the details of his own personal tragedy. What he leaves off the paper, Mastodon executes through sheer musicianship and that is what makes Crack The Skye special. The moment you forget about the “concept” or worry about what it was supposed to be, you can do nothing but admire the performances it contains. There’s no band today that can match what Mastodon is able to do with their instruments. Is it better than Leviathan or Blood Mountain? It’s probably in the middle. While those aforementioned albums have a bit more muscle to them, Crack The Skye has a bit more passion behind it. Not only with the “real” concept it avoids through ridiculous diversions, but in the manner how the band talks through their shit by playing together. There’s a scene in the deluxe edition DVD where the band discusses the making of the album. Brann begins talking about the inspiration his sister provided them, while a later interview with Brent Hinds shows his not entirely certain about the details of Dailor’s sister. As the album shows, Crack The Skye is the band’s sonic therapy session and it is even complex and layered than the real world baggage that helped forge it.
Mastodon will be appearing with Dethklok and High on Fire October 14 at the Val Air Ballroom. Cook venue. Awesome line up. Don't be stupid. Show up and get floored.
Cedar Rapids has been in the news from the flood of ’08 and the presidential elections from last year, our town has been quietly absent from any national recognition. It now appears that we will be featured in a major motion picture and our fair city will also serve as the film’s name. The film features Ed Helms as “a wholesome and naive small-town Wisconsin man (Helms) who, when his role model dies, must represent his company at a regional insurance conference in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where his mind is blown by the big-town experience.” The Hollywood Reporter also reports that John C. Reilly has also signed on to the film, which is scheduled for release next year. The reality of Cedar Rapids is much different, of course, directly resulting from the aforementioned flood and the slow process of recovery. If you were to visit our town right now, you’d probably be surprised at how little it has to offer right now, aside from the occasional minor league sports, an art museum that prominently features native Grant Wood, and a wide array of chain eating establishments. Most of the town’s character was knocked back a few steps with the influx of water, and hopefully some of the charm will return when things have rebuilt. Our neighbor, Mount Vernon, is just down the road a spot, and it hides one of the state’s best restaurants (it’s up there with some of the best eats in larger cities and over half the price) and a cool vibe that’s really prevalent during the fall and winter months. Apparently, it’s on the hipster’s radar too. Aside from that, we’re kind of in transition. The preverbal “pardon our progress” sign is on which means that we’re in need of a nice Hollywood makeover. We’re content to recommend that you visit Des Moines which has a burgeoning night life (2 hours away) or Iowa City for drunken tomfoolery and related assaults from drunken youth (about a half-hour away, so technically in the neighborhood). We also have Dubuque, which is your atypical river town (an hour away) albeit with more Catholics per-capita than most Iowa cities, or Davenport, another river town that is part of the Quad Cities (an hour away). I really have no idea what made that area a destination point, but all four points (Davenport, Rock Island, Moline, and Bettendorf) all make up a reasonable amount of Midwestern population and pointless commuting. Then there’s Waterloo/Cedar Falls, which is like North/South, black/white, rich/poor, all rolled into one. It’s about an hour away. I like it. Lots of cool nature shit (Backbone State park, about an hour to the east is pretty awesome and will change the opinion of anyone who thinks Iowa is all cornfields and farms. I failed to mention Council Bluffs, which is essentially a suburb of Omaha with a few casinos, and Sioux City that is in the northwest part of the state. It’s close to South Dakota and is strangely Republican. They keep voting this moron Steve King into the U.S. House, so we don’t visit there. Hopefully, by the time Cedar Rapids the movie is in theatres, we’ll be dressed up enough to have you stop buy and say hello. I hope the director will treat us with a modicum of respect and not point too much fun at our version of a “city.” We actually think the model that most of you are familiar with is kind of silly-what with your hour-long commutes, toll roads, and endless entertainment. “You can’t always get what you want.” Is our model, and the stuff that passes as sushi at Target is almost as good as the real thing. But seriously, you can find the good sushi here.
I don’t know if this is confession or an incredible source of pride for me, but until right now, I had no idea that the song on one of those Caveman Geico commercials was, in fact, a song. I use the word “song” lightly of course, but what I mean is that I had no idea that it was created for something other than a Geico commercial. I’m sure that 3 Doors Down made a ton of money with this pairing, but it’s saying something when you agree to have a moment of creativity that will forever be associated with cavemen bowling.
One of the coolest things that my father ever did for me was to hook up and FM antenna that I got for free, on the ceiling of our attic and run the cable all the way down to my bedroom. He tucked the cable into the trim on the wall and snaked it to my Technics receiver, transforming it from a static inducing nightmare into an awesome FM signal-capturing giant. I was able to pick up rock stations like 97X in the Quad Cities with no trouble and, on occasion, I could even pick up the legendary KSHE-95 in Saint Louis when the leaves fell off the trees. For those of you not familiar with KSHE, it was the premier AOR station in the Midwest. They played your typical AOR hits, but they also developed their own-regardless if it was a hit elsewhere in the country. Back in the early 80’s they spun some pretty new wave sounding songs that most AOR stations wouldn’t touch. I’m not saying the songs were good, I’m just saying it made the station sound a tad more eclectic than other stations with similar formats. It was from these memories that recently I began creating an IPod playlist with somewhat of a nod to the old KSHE 95. I began adding minor hits to the mix, carefully avoiding the trappings of worn out rock tracks like “When The Levee Breaks” or “Crazy Train.” Instead, I began filling those spaces with things like April Wine’s “Say Hello,” Honeymoon Suite’s “New Girl Now,” and Saga’s “On The Loose.” Notice a pattern? What the fuck is with Canadian rock bands from the 80’s with their occasionally catchy songs, only to disappear into obscurity? I suddenly remembered one such Canadian rocker with his only claim to American fame that was woefully missing from my AOR playlist. Kim Mitchell’s “Go For Soda.”
If you’ve never heard the song before, you’re not missing much, really. Musically, it’s forged from anonymity, a relic from the 80’s that you’d easily overlook in between songs of similar structure. But if you spend a few moments paying attention to it, “Go For Soda” may harness you in. Mitchell comes up with a pretty good guitar hook and a chorus that seems to celebrate sobriety, without an indefinite article. I mean, why not go for a soda. For Mitchell, he just goes for it. I quickly download the song and chucked in a few bucks for a track from the obscure Kansas City group Missouri a track from another Kansas City alumnus called Shooting Star and the long version of Manfred Mann’s “Blinded By The Light.” Real AOR stations don’t play single cuts. All together, I have a pretty nice playlist of AOR cuts with just the right amount of familiarity and surprise closet classics. And Kim Mitchell? From what I hear he still goes out every once in a while to play “Go For Soda” for the millionth time when he’s not working his day job as a DJ for an AOR station.
Who the fuck schedules a medical procedure when the band is on a world tour? Brian Fucking Johnson, that’s who! Yeah, I’m a little ticked that six dates of AC/DC’s Black Ice tour have been postponed while Johnson recuperates under doctor’s orders from some unnamed ailment. I’d wish him well if one of those six dates didn’t happen to be a date that I planned on attending. Sure, the tickets will be honored when they get around to announcing a new date, but I chose the Des Moines date because it was a weekend and it worked out better economically. We sold our tickets to the Chicago show for this date and, wouldn’t you know it, the Chicago show went off without a hitch. The band is also supporting what looks like a fairly worthless box set called Backtracks. Not only is the name of this compilation pretty weak, but so are the tracks. Evidently, only one disc is devoted to rarities, and some of them have already been featured on Bonfire. Then there’s two other discs of live performances-neither one a complete show-so if you’ve got a hankerin’ to hear “Hail Caesar” from the Stiff Upper Lip tour, well now’s your chance! It also includes a 180-gram vinyl version of the aforementioned rarities disc and it comes housed in box that’s shaped like an amplifier.
You may be thinking, “Wasn’t there a box set that was shaped like an amplifier not too long ago?” and the answer is “Yes.” The Heavy Metal box set came shaped like a Marshall head with knobs you can turn. I’ve got the set and it’s pretty clever. AC/DC decided to go a step further and make their box set that’s shaped like an amplifier actually work. That’s right, you can plug in an electric guitar directly into the packaging and a tone that vaguely resembles an electric guitar comes out. Angus Young demonstrated this in a promotional video for the box set and, in the process, managed to show us how awful he can sound when playing through a fucking toy. The price, you ask? $200. And not one note from the fabled Back In Black sessions with Bon Scott on vocals.
Admit it. You’ve totally neglected The Church’s post-Arista records output and the fact that they’re closing in on nearly two dozen records surprises you. I’m not sure what prompts a band to stay together as long as the Church, but I do know their chemistry is as such that they probably haven’t released a bad record in all that time and with their most recent-Untitled #23-they sound even better than just being consistent. Indeed, it’s an album that finds them curiously inspired, exploring the nether regions of seductive guitar textures and layers of high-altitude chill.
