Kiss - Live At The U.S. Cellular Center, Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Here's the infamous Kiss concert review that I did a few years ago. I'm posting it because I lost it and a post pretty much guarantees I won't lose it again.

KISS
Live at the U.S. Cellular Center in Cedar Rapids, Iowa
September 2, 2000

I’ll admit it; I can’t stand Kiss. Even during my formidable days as a young boy I hated them. Back then; I really couldn’t adequately describe why I disliked them. As I grew older, I understood that it was the cheesy theatrics, the poorly aped Stones riffs, and the blatant marketing tools they used that really turned me off. A pretty advanced criticism, I’d say, for a young boy growing up in a small Midwestern town in the 1970’s. Cameron Crowe can suck my dick.

Don’t get me wrong: Every other kid that I knew ate the shit up. My cousin, for example, was so into this New York quartet that he (like so many others) bought every single Goddamn solo Kiss album the first day they were released simply so he could get the poster that came with each album…In a brilliant marketing move, kids had to purchase every one of these Godforsaken records to make the poster complete. It struck me odd that it was the posters and not the music itself that made him shell out the $7.99 x 4. My cousin continued to collect this Kiss memorabilia and probably has a goldmine sitting in his closet. I also need to mention that my cousin ceased buying Kiss products the day they took off their makeup. When confronted with this, he explained that he felt that they “sold out” when they trotted back into the spotlight with Ace and Peter back in the fold during the mid-90’s. When I asked him the night before he got married in 1999 of what band he now follows, he said “The Church” without missing a beat. God finally gave rock and roll to him in.

Then there was my next-door neighbor, Bobby H., who also loved the kings in Satan’s service. Bobby marveled at Gene spitting blood on the cover of “Alive II” and declared that they were indeed the hottest band in the world. I think it was Bobby that perpetrated the rumor that, at every Kiss concert, a goblin was passed through the audience where the concertgoers were required to spit into the large cup. When it was filled with the saliva of the crowd, it would be passed back up to the stage where Gene would drink the contents of it proving how insane he really was. I didn’t buy it. I was more interested in the retarded open letter that Gene included inside the gatefold of the Kiss “Alive” album. If I recall correctly, it was filled with lots of sexual innuendos and encouraged people to buy the new Kiss comics that Marvel put out because they used their own blood in the ink. It should be noted that Bob grew up and later hung himself in his garage leaving a wife and several kids to ponder “why.” Perhaps it was because he could never afford to complete the collection of all four solo albums, and that really bummed him out.

During the seventies, my parents were friends with another married couple, Vel and Eric, who didn’t have any children. I enjoyed going over to their house my folks because the dude had an enormous record collection. While my parents socialized, I was left to Eric’s records and turntable and would often fall asleep with his enormous Koss headphones still attached to my skull; Eric always loved interrupting my slumber by suddenly turning up the stereo, sending me jolting up with eyes wide open. It’s important to note that Eric introduced me to Frank Zappa and never clued my folks in on the fact that I was memorizing the lyrics to “Dinah-Moe-Hum” while they were playing cards in the other room.
Vel and Eric came over to my parent’s house one evening to help wallpaper our guest room. Eric soon grew tired of the activity and joined me downstairs in watching a movie. That movie was “Kiss Meets The Phantom of the Park.” We laughed together at the ridiculous plot, at Gene’s demonic growls and laser eyes, at Ace’s sudden bursts of “Ha!” and, most importantly, at why this piece of shit could possibly even be considered for airing on network television. It was reassuring to have somebody older and with more records than me to acknowledge that this band was a bunch of dumbasses that got lucky by taking an Alice Cooper routine to the next level. Only women and Gene bled back in 1979…

I almost bought Kiss’ “The Elder” back in the early 80’s because somebody told me that Gene and Paul were working with Lou Reed. It was a struggle: on one had I was curious to see if Kiss actually had some talent and Uncle Lou was there to give their image some creditability, or was he simply desperate for a quick buck because his contract with Arista had run out? I could never bring myself to buy it and, years later when I finally heard “The Elder,” thanked Jesus that I spent my hard earned money on Reed’s “The Blue Mask” instead. Other Kiss fans must have felt the same way too; “The Elder’ remains as the only Kiss album not to go gold. I heard that there was a local band in Iowa City that seriously contemplated performing “The Elder” in its entirety. That idea alone is more brilliant than the “concept” Kiss came up with and those guys, whoever they may be, deserve all future royalties of “The Elder” should they ever grow balls big enough to actually go through with it.
Kiss, by this time, decided to “rock out’ with their next release “Creatures of the Night.” I also seriously considered buying this one because of the big drum sound of “I Love It Loud.” The video ruled because it implied that, by simply listening to the song, Kiss could break the windows in your parent’s house and make your eyes glow. Shortly after that, you would find yourself wandering the streets with other teenagers whose eyes glowed like yours. Better believe it….
The make-up cash cow had run it’s course and Gene and Paul (rightly) assumed that they could gather some additional press if they appeared “unmasked” for “Lick It Up.” It was enough for Bobby H to forget what a piece of shit the real “Unmasked” was and go out and buy “Lick It Up” He expressed his glee at the new direction and I continued to chastise him by pointing out that even a monkey wearing a diaper could probably figure out the guitar part for “Lick It Up.” Bobby confirmed this by not naming his new Spaniel puppy Vinny Vincent and instead opted to name the dog “Jake” in honor of Ozzy’s new axeman Jake E. Lee. I was beginning to think that Bobby was coming around to my line of thinking.
I was almost floored soon after when a gay friend of mine went out and purchased “Animalize.” Our friendship was started on a mutual love of The Knack and it progressed into him supplying me with import Scritti Polliti singles and rare remixes of Yaz songs. How could this same individual who actually owned and enjoyed a Dead Or Alive album have Kiss in his record collection? Years later, it dawned on me that Paul Stanley often pranced around like a fairy and I came to the conclusion that “The Lover” probably played for “the other team” and my friend’s recent purchase of “Animalize” was merely a bad case of racing hormones. Whatever the reason, the album was full of shit. Only Gene’s track “Burn Bitch Burn” (sample lyric: “Burn Bitch Burn, ooh ooh ooh”) produced a smile on my face. I honestly felt that Kiss would be history within a year.


They weren’t, of course, so I had to settle with surrounding myself around people who despised Kiss as much as I did. I went almost an entire decade without hearing any new Kiss material and life was good.
That trend ended when I received a promotional copy of Kiss’ “Revenge” cd while working at a top 40 station. Initial reviews had been positive and with this in mind, I took the free copy home to give it a listen. It wasn’t bad. As a matter of fact, “Revenge” remains as the only Kiss album that I’ve ever heard in which I didn’t mock while listening to it to this day. Is it any surprise then that, a couple of years after the release of “Revenge,” Gene and Paul sacked the album’s line up? Perhaps they felt out of their element with critics actually liking their music.
During 1995, in one of those moments that you just can’t quite explain, I went out and bought the Gene Simmons solo album. The cover caught my eye: a cartoon Gene looking menacing with a trickle of blood creeping from his snarling lips. I’ve got to own this simply for the cover, I thought. I looked at the liner notes and noticed the album contained an amazing assortment of guests: Liza Minelli, Cher, that dude the slut-groupie Pamela DeBarres married, and a cast of others who should have known better
I forked over three bucks for the thing and felt smug. Technically, I hadn’t really bought a Kiss album. Since it was used, there was no risk of any member of Kiss receiving royalties from my hard-earned dollar. As I walked out of the record store I was still rationalizing the purchase with myself. Even if the music was a total farce, I could still salvage the sleeve as a reminder of how much I hated Kiss. Besides, I was almost thirty years old at the time, and it would be almost sacrilegious not to own at least one Kiss album. Sometimes it’s tough being a white boy.
The album is a total hack job. I’m not joking when I say that it has to be one of the worst albums ever made. The best thing on the album is Gene’s (straight) rendition of “When You Wish Upon A Star” which I later learned he included on the effort as a joke. I couldn’t contain myself in telling others at what a piece of shit the Gene Simmons solo album was. Most people were confused by my passionate hatred at a record that was approaching twenty years old. Only my cousin Jason understood my pain. “If you think that one sucks,” he said, “try listening to the Peter Criss solo album…It’s even worse.” Another friend of mine also said the exact same thing and even added that the Paul Stanley solo release ain’t no Sgt. Pepper either. Of course, none of this could erase the fact that the hottest band in the world had finally duped me.
Around the same time as the Gene Simmons solo album fiasco, I went out and bought a copy of their “masterpiece” album “Destroyer.” I bought it for no fucking good reason at a Wal Mart in Shenandoah, Iowa while visiting my wife’s parents. We had grown tired of listening to an alternative station in Omaha play 311 over and over in anticipation of these hometown boys return to Nebraska. 311 originally started in the state’s largest city and then realized that Chip Davis wasn’t going to release shit from them on his American Gramophone record company. Chip had found sickening success with his Yuletide moog noodle outfit Manheim Steamroller who’s name makes me think of Bob and Doug McKenzie rolling over each other yelling “Steamroller!” in the movie “Strange Brew.” Chip hadn’t even attempted to do anything pop since manning the boards for C.W. McCall and milking millions of dollars out of retarded Americans who thought that c.b. radios were something they had to own.
Anyway, 311 got brains, moved to L.A. (just like Poison) and then found themselves with a gold album on Capricorn. The kids in Omaha ate them up because they were “hometown” heroes and the only alternative radio station in town would play them every goddamn hour. This grew really old really fast and I joined my wife on a make-up run (no pun intended) to Wal-Mart. The Shenandoah Wal Mart had plenty of 1.) country music and 2.) bad hair band music. On this day, the cover for “Destroyer” was looking mighty good and, since our Honda didn’t have a c.d. player, I settled on a cassette copy of their most popular studio album. It was a masterpiece, all right…a master piece of shit. This is what prompted people to start bands? This is the same group that the Replacements covered? Either there’s something really wrong with me or the rest of the world became hypnotized with Gene’s laser eyes while watching the phantom of the park movie.
First of all, the production. Bob Ezrin, in typical Bob Ezrin fashion filled the album with a bunch of corny sound effects (just like he did with Pink Floyd’s “The Wall”). Gene and Paul’s songwriting made it easy to understand why 15 year old white boys loved them so much, because they sound like they were written by 15 year old white boys. The performances were far from “heavy” or “metal” but I attribute this to the lads themselves and not Mr. Ezrin. Bob did a fine job with Alice Cooper’s “Love It To Death” album and that thing was 10 times heavier than “Destroyer.” If you want a real picture of what heavy metal was in ’78, stay clear of “Destroyer” and go straight for “…Bullocks” by the Sex Pistols. I’m also a firm believer that Sid Vicious could play bass better than Gene even while nodding out in his own drool.
About five years later, I get a call from my friend Brad who works at a classic rock radio station in Iowa City. He had scored two extra comp tickets to see Kiss in their “Farewell” tour in Cedar Rapids and asked if my wife and I would like to go. It took me a second…I had to consider the gas it would take to get there, but I eventually said yes. I was surprised at my wife’s reaction when I told her the news. She seemed genuinely excited about going and her enthusiasm slowly spread to me. I had been told time and time again of how Kiss really never translated well to vinyl. The best way to truly appreciate the majesty of Kiss was in a live concert. I dug out the cassette copy of “Destroyer,” played it until Gene uttered the words “I command you to kneel” before pushing the eject button. What the fuck had I gotten myself into?
My wife soothed me with words like “It’s not like we’re doing anything this weekend” and “It’s not every weekend you get to see Kiss.” She was right. We hopped in the car and headed up to the Kiss concert.
I picked up Brad and his friend Tanya (who hates Kiss too) in Iowa City. Brad must have sensed my hesitation because he kept saying that the show would be very entertaining as we shared obligatory pre-concert bong hits. I noticed how Brad used the word “entertaining” rather than “rocking” or “intense” or “fuckin’ awesome.” My wife fretted over he appearance feeling that she would somehow be outdone by some Kiss hotty. I assured her that her worries were unjust as Kiss only attracts skanks who think that wearing leopard skin pants four sizes too small is acceptable in the new century. With everyone in good shape for the show, we drove to Cedar Rapids.
Dinner at Denny’s made us miss both Skid Row and Ted Nugent. Brad and I were bummed at this, as we were both excited at the prospect of The Motor City Madman screaming at the crowd to kill animals and to leave the country if we didn’t speak English. Michigan has produced some pretty fucked up people…and they all need our support, including Uncle Ted.
Remember that time when a rare white buffalo was born on a farm in Wisconsin? Ted, God bless him, asked if he could buy it with the sole purpose of killing it. He even managed to offend some Native Americans who viewed the white buffalo as sacred. I’d probably feel like killing The Nuge myself if the fucker hadn’t written “Free For All.” With head hung low, I accepted my fate that I would not be seeing “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang” on that Saturday night.
Unfazed, the four of us took our seats as the house music played The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” over the p.a. The sound guy cranked up the music when Keith Moon starts to lay into his kit after the synth part in the middle, right before Daltry comes back in. Right when Rodger hits the crescendo “Yyyyyeeeeaaaaahhh!!!” the road crew drops a Kiss curtain covering up the stage entirely. This was a que to all of the retards and drunks that it was almost time for the show.
Less than ten minutes later, a man comes on the P.A. with the same motherfucking spiel that they’ve been doing for over 25 years: “Alright Cedar Rapids! You wanted the best and you’ve got the best! Please welcome the hottest band in the world….KISS!!!” And with that, they launch into “Detroit Rock City” just like they do on their live albums.

My wife was so happy that I was right on with the “skank” comment I made before and she thoroughly enjoyed watching the middle aged sluts make a “rock ‘n roll” symbol with one hand while clutching a plastic cup of Budweiser in the other. Most of the men in the audience had to be in their mid to upper thirties and most could use a shot of Rogaine in addition to their $5 beers. We sat next to two gentlemen who felt that the farewell tour of Kiss was such an important event that they towed their kids to the show. Both kids had to be younger than nine and both sported what looked like huge 70’s era headphones guised up as hearing protectors. They looked like Mathew Sweet did on the cover of his “100% Fun” album with the biggest difference being that Mathew was grinning from ear to ear in his child photo, and these kids were so fucking far from even thinking about cracking a smile.
I naively thought that the farewell tour with the original members would only focus on their material from the seventies. Gene and Paul, however, had other plans. This farewell tour would consist of the hits, including those that were made after Ace and Peter had left the fold. Ironically, Gene and Paul chose to avoid the band’s material from the 90’s and did not once acknowledge Eric Carr. Here’s a guy that manned the drum riser longer than Peter Criss and could actually keep a fucking beat. Gene made such a huge stink when Rolling Stone magazine failed to list his obituary when he died in ’91 and yet they now seem to have forgotten his role on the band’s farewell tour. The least they could have done was to display his image on the video screen whenever they did one of their “through the past” video montages.
It was quite a spectacle watching the old farts try to breathe some life into their awful 80’s material. Thankfully, they only did a handful of this shit and focused on their classic fare from the previous decade. They even let Space Ace do a couple of solo songs, which, after hearing his tone-deaf voice, made me wish that Paul and Gene pulled a song off of “Crazy Nights.”
Ace trotted out a “I can’t believe a man with so much technology at his disposal could sound so awful” version of the Stones’ “2000 Man.” It was so bad that The Glimmer Twins should file a restraining order against Ace Frehley for coming anywhere near the song in the future. To keep the fans attention away from the fact that Ace was so fucking far off key, the video monitors displayed some pathetic computer generated cartoon of the members of Kiss as superheroes. If the members of Kiss want to play cards, couldn’t they do it without an Ace in their deck?
Towards the end of the obligatory Ace guitar solo, smoke started to pour from the pickups. This was to signify that when Ace does a guitar “solo” it generates enough heat that his guitar actually catches on fire. In reality, it was just another ploy to distract the audience from the fact that even that Nigel from Spinal Tap played a better solo with his feet. Ace would often lose a pick while “jamming out” and flash a thumbs up to the crowd like the Fonz would. The crowd screamed, Ace continued, and then one of the most hilarious things I have even seen at a rock concert happened. The video monitors started to flash the word “ACE” on the screen in a desperate attempt to get the crowd to wake up. Like Iowa cattle, many in the crowd followed the instructions and started to chant “Ace!” as the word flashed on and off. Ace stopped, gave a “thumbs up,” said “Alright!” like he thought we were screaming for him to continue “shredding.”
Space Ace’s guitar started to produce some effects and it suddenly lifted from his arms and flew away. It is at this point that Frehley does a Henny Youngman one-liner like “Oh man! I that was my favorite guitar!” or “Oh man! I just got that guitar!” Before Ace could start doing more stand up, the rest of the senior citizens returned to rock our balls off.
Paul said the words “Cedar Rapids” forty-three times throughout the concert with three of them add-libbed in a ballad and one of them mouthed unmiked that I caught from watching him on the jumbo-tron. He did his “I want to get close to you, but you have to want me bad enough to scream” bit. The jumbo-tron displayed an image of a v.u. meter to which Paul instructed us to scream so loud that the needle would go “all the way into the red.” The crowd screamed. The man behind the soundboard turned up the audience mike. The needle went into the red. Paul grabbed a bar and flew to the other side of the arena. He sang a song about how much he loved us and said “Cedar Rapids” some more. He then flew back to the stage and left us feeling used like Pamela DeBarres.

Peter Criss practically smiled throughout every minute of the show from behind his kit. Here’s a list of three things that I imagined him smiling about: 1.) I’m so happy that Gene and Paul asked me to come back…Christ I was this close to having the bank foreclose on my house. 2.) Unbelievable! The crowd can’t even tell that the drum track is coming straight from a D.A.T. deck beneath the drum riser! 3.) I’m glad you’re dead, Eric Carr…Like paper covers rock, a cat beats the shit out of a fox every day of the week.
From what I understand, Peter stopped doing a drum solo about the fourth week into the tour. I really could care less who recommended this, Peter or the other members of the band, but whoever’s idea it was deserves a medal. Anyone who struggles with just staying in time should not have the words “drum solo” in their vocabulary.
Later on in the show, the kitty came out under a friggin’ disco ball and mewled “Beth” karaoke-style to the crowd. Pete exclaimed that he had never seen so many women around the front of the stage (“Usually it’s all guys!”) as he handed out roses to the skanks who had, no doubt, heard the excuse “me and the boys will be playin’ all night” far too many times than they cared to remember.
Gene breathed fire and, goddamnit, walked away without any third degree burns. The lights turned to green and Brad looked at me to announce that next would be a bass solo followed by (oh Christ) “God Of Thunder.”
My wife, who received a bass guitar less than a year prior to the concert, could play a bass guitar solo better than Gene Simmons. A bass solo in Gene’s world consists of the sound guy turning up the bass until it distorts, having Gene pluck one friggin’ note over and over again, spitting up blood and saliva on the first three rows of the crowd, and having the stage crew lift his fifty year old ass up to a platform above the stage where he commands the crowd to kneel before the God of Thunder. “Fly, fucker, fly!” I thought.
“God Of Thunder” was probably the highlight of the show. Not because of what was on stage, but because I saw the faces of true horror on the two kids sitting next to us as they looked at their fathers pleading “I don’t like this, Daddy” who remained unconcerned. They lowered Gene’s ass back down to stage left and Paul came back out with another half dozen “Cedar Rapids!”

The skanks continued to show their breasts every time the video cameras were pointed in their direction. Paul, in a desperate attempt to display a certain amount of machismo exclaimed that Cedar Rapids had become a “nipple-fest” which encouraged more skanks to flash the meatheads that like seeing tities at rock concerts. For about a half second, I believed that Paul was not gay.

More annoying than Paul trying to cover up his homosexuality was his constant yapping in between songs. Kiss would play a four-minute song and then Paul would go on and on for about five minutes about how we “had made (his) dreams come true” and how “people said that we couldn’t last…But twenty five years later, (we’d) proved them all wrong!” I swear to God, they could have knocked off almost an hour off of the total time of the show if someone had the balls to tell Paul Stanley to shut the fuck up.

Remember that long falsetto yodeling that Paul did at the beginning of “Heaven’s On Fire?” He now does that at the beginning of almost every fucking song. Sample: “All right Cedar Rapids! We’re gonna do something off of “Love Gun” for yooooooooohohohohohohohooooo!!!!” This wouldn’t have been so bad if the sound levels hadn’t been so motherfucking high. At the risk of sounding old, they had this thing way too loud for the concrete slab known as the U.S. Cellular Center and every goddamn thing bounced off the walls like the Grand Canyon.

It was loud beyond annoying…it was painful. The only reason for this that I could come up with was that they wanted it loud so that you wouldn’t forget the show for days afterwards because of tinnitus. Let me make it clear that it wasn’t really the band that was too loud, just Ace’s treble-heavy guitar and Paul’s annoying “there’s a butt-plug in my asshole” yodels. My wife had to actually go to the doctor a week after the show because her ears hurt so much. It was determined that she had an ear infection (nothing to do with the concert) but the doctor did detect an inflamed eardrum and lectured her for not wearing ear protection. I have to admit, though, if you have to go to the doctor for an after-concert ear problem, it’s cool to tell the physician that Kiss brought you to his office.

In total, Kiss played for two and a half hours (or ninety minutes if you take away Paul Stanley’s banter) like this really was the last time they’d be in Cedar Rapids. Paul mentioned that the (U.S. Cellular Center) arena was like “home” to them because they had played there every tour since 1983. Before that, Paul exclaimed that they used to play at the “coliseum,” a venue that doesn’t even exist in Cedar Rapids.

Hello Cleveland!

For a “farewell” tour, I expected the place to be sold out and was surprised that there were plenty of vacant seats. Surprised until I found out that ticket prices were a staggering $55 bucks for general admission. I didn’t learn this until the middle of the show and Paul tried to justify the hefty ticket prices towards the end of the concert. He went on for ten minutes about how we would pay the same amount of money that we paid (nada…thanks Brad!) and would never see the kind of showmanship that we were witnessing on that night. He continued to preach about how they started the band because they felt ripped off one night after seeing a show that wasn’t entertaining. According to Paul, Kiss was formed to show the rest of the rock and roll world how heavy metal should be played on stage and to give people their money’s worth. Give me my money’s worth, Paul, send me a friggin’ check for my wife’s doctor’s visit!

None of this shit mattered to the crowd, which consisted (mostly) of overweight skanks and middle-aged meth-lab owners. Remarkably, there were very few “metal heads” in the audience, which may be the very reason that Kiss are throwing in the towel.

Kiss has always been about marketing and not, as Paul described it, about giving the people their money’s worth. Does a real music fan actually need comic books printed in blood, poseable action figures (they could hardly do anything), or posters depicting the lads as revolutionary soldiers in the Kiss army? Kiss has always been about taking people’s money and the “farewell” tour was a last attempt at getting a buck before the bottom fell out.

You have got to give the band props for lasting this long and, yes, there have been numerous times when they were declared dead only to make a full financial recovery. The props I’m talking about are working up a new way to market themselves just when they are about to leave the rock and roll radar screen. The unmasking of Kiss in the mid 80’s, the power ballads of the late 80’s, the return of Bob Ezrin behind the boards during the early 90’s when grunge bands cited them as influential, and finally the reunion of the mid 90’s. These are prime examples of a band (specifically Gene and Paul) working a marketing machine that generated hype among a fan base that doesn’t know any better.

Take a look at the bands that cite them as influential. None of them went to the lengths that Kiss did when it came to self-promotion. They understood that 1.) they would never be able to compete with them on that level and 2.) the band was in reality a scam that “masked” their lack of musical ability. Kiss were never really very good at what they did, but they provided an image that depicted them as being much better than they really were.

And dumbshits bought it. I believe that the Kiss Army is divided into two distinct camps: those that are too stupid to tell and those that “get it” but accept the decadence that they promote. Whatever camp you’re a part of is irrelevant, you’re still a dumbshit, and that includes me. I believe as a young boy that Peter Criss was an excellent drummer. Why? Because of the size of his drum kit! Duh! When you’re nine years old you logically assume that he needs all of those tom toms because he’s going to play them. Years later, you start to notice that, out of all those drum accessories, Peter only seems to play the snare, high-hat and bass drum.

My hatred started because I felt used; I was wound way too tight to really understand that what they were doing was perfectly cool. It wasn’t until after seeing them live during their supposed last tour that I finally “got it.” They sucked shit but the concert was probably one of the best things that I’d ever seen because I knew that they knew they sucked shit. Gene and Paul probably sleep well at the end of the day and they may even take offense at this idea, but I’m positive that deep inside, the lashing that they have taken from critics over the past twenty-five years has created a certain amount of self-doubt.

They’ve written some good songs, but they’ve never really been able to come up with an excellent song that rock radio embraces enough to look beyond their pre-pubescent image machine. The Dave Clark Five sold as many records as the Beatles at one time, yet one band has stood the test of time while the other has been demoted to Dick Bartley’s oldies show. Kiss will probably meet the same fate, and part of me “like(s) it like that.”

Let’s look at this another way. In my mind, the Bay City Rollers “Saturday Night” and Kiss’ “Rock And Roll All Night” are virtually identical. Both songs are based in a rock formula and are easy to remember (nice hook). My eleven year old knows (a little) about Kiss but has no idea about the Rollers. Why? Because she’s never seen the Bay City Rollers jumping around in their little Scottish kilts but she has seen Kiss in Pepsi commercials rocking all night, partying every day, and enjoying the joy of cola. Her children will probably feel the same way about Kiss as she feels about the Bay City Rollers and they’ll never hear their music unless an ad agency uses “Sure Know Something” to sell Dr. Pepper.

What I’m getting to is that Kiss, specifically Gene and Paul, need to be in the rock and roll arena to perpetuate the myth. Without them, the myth, the band, the songs, grow stagnate and quickly become a memory triggered by the local oldies station. We probably won’t see white teenagers stumble onto Kiss the way that my generation stumbled onto The Doors or Led Zeppelin. What you’ll have instead is a middle-age father listening to an oldies station while driving his kids when suddenly “Detroit Rock City” comes on the radio. Dad will get so excited and try to explain why they were the “hottest band in the world” only to have a tough time selling it. Again, the biggest obstacle is that the band won’t be around to promote themselves but, you must admit, Kiss has never really been groundbreaking in their music either. So the kids ignore Dad (just like I ignored my Dad’s enthusiasm for the Dave Clark Five when they came on the radio!) and the radio station they listen to won’t be championing the band either (like my favorite stations championed the Beatles, Zep, or The Doors). Suddenly Dad hears Kiss segue right into The Bay City Rollers or Anita Ward’s “Ring My Bell” if they’re playing “I Was Made For Loving You.”

Nothing that Kiss did in Cedar Rapids changed my opinion of them. It promoted the myth to the converted at the same time they cleaned out their fan’s wallets (again). And Paul was wrong about justifying their hefty ticket price. I’ve seen better pyrotechnics at a Flaming Lips show in a small club and paid under $10 for that. Had I paid $110 for a pair of Kiss tickets, I would have been pissed. I would have fumed at the barking sound, poor musicianship, predictable showmanship, and endless banter.
As it stands, I didn’t pay for the tickets and it was worth the drive up to Cedar Rapids and dinner at Denny’s. At that price, it was one hell of a show and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I got to see the original members of Kiss do their shtick in full regalia and I had a good laugh at their expense.

After the band performed their final encore, the house lights came up to the sound of “God Gave Rock And Roll To You.” For many, the band was and will continue to be a religion but I remain an atheist. As the crowd filed out, we walked towards the floor. Our foursome saw the roadies start the load-out, the confetti-lined floor, and the garbage cans overflowing with beer cups. If there was a gospel to Kiss, it would have to be those three things: the workers that build the temple every night, the pageantry of the prayer cloths and the holy water the parishioners buy for just five bucks a cup. Paul Stanley is more cunning than Robert Tilton, however, as he has yet to be investigated by the I.R.S.

Our group was suddenly met by security as we were asked to leave the floor and exit the U.S. Cellular arena. With yellow jackets and walkie-talkies they ushered out the faithful and prevented us from watching the road crew dismantle the temple for just a few minutes more. Through the tinnitus I could hear one say: “Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain…”

What About The Voice Of Geddy Lee?

I’ve always been receptive towards new music, but like any other music fanatic, there was a time in which my record collection was probably just as weak as the people I ridicule today. Ok, maybe not that bad, but I did have my share of duds while growing up. After all, I’m the guy that got pissed at Heather A. for putting a few saltine crackers on 38 Special’s “Wild Eyed Southern Boys” as it played on my turntable at my very first “the parents are away” party. Now I understand she was doing me a favor in her drunken comedy gesture. Thank you Heather. Too bad I couldn’t return the favor later on by telling you “speed kills.” She’s one of those chicks that came from a well-to-do family, got caught up in meth, and now looks 10 years older than me. She even came close to losing her kids after she left them outside in subzero weather while she did whatever mothers do under the influence of methamphetamines.
I stole at least four albums from her older brother: Ozzy Osborne’s “Diary Of A Madman,” Van Halen’s “Fair Warning,” Rush’s “All The World’s A Stage” and Billy Squier’s “Don’t Say No.” I was doing pretty good up until Billy Squier. And I don’t know what the fuck was with me and stealing back then. I nicked several albums from Woolsworth (do you know how hard it was to steal albums?), cassettes from K-Mart, and a shitload of cassettes from unlocked cars parked in the hospital parking lot. I would go to the orthodontist and then check for unlocked vehicles on the way back to school. I picked up Lindsey Buckingham’s “Law & Order,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Live,” and Tom Petty’s “Hard Promises” this way. Not once did I get busted.
I touched my first vagina to the sounds of Rush’s “All The World’s A Stage” 8-track. Even then I was an overachiever: using a format that essentially has no real ending seemed like the perfect soundtrack to exploring the warmth of womanhood. Never mind the actual songs were nowhere near sexual, sans the seven minute version of “In The End.” But whatever: forethought and sensitivity were never really an issue with the girl that once made a beeline towards my willy, backstage in the middle school auditorium. Besides, she seemed impressed that I could recite “I can see what you mean/It just takes me longer” alongside Geddy Lee. The man with the squeaky voice was my first finger bang companion.

But getting back to the kleptomania, I really have no idea what possessed me to steal music. It wasn’t like there was other examples of my material thievery either. I probably stole nothing more in value that some Bazooka Joe bubble gum up until that point. Music made me do crazy thing. Like cash in all of my savings bonds to a ton of albums down at the mall. There was something so powerful about having enough cash to actually secure an entire weekend worth of quality listening material. “Quality” being very subjective to the age and time. It’s obvious that “Hold On Loosely” held a special place in my heart for a brief period in my life. Perhaps if I wasn’t so cynical, it might still hold a place of fondness with me today. For the record: I’ve never stopped loving that live Rush album.

Hunter S. Thompson-R.I.P.

In the early 80’s, I watched this wonderful comedy with Bill Murray in it called “Where The Buffalo Roam.” It was based on some writer that I never heard of, Hunter S. Thompson, and I wanted to learn more about him. On the Monday following my screening, I went to the Keokuk Senior High Library and checked out a copy of “Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.” It opened my eyes to a new feeling about literature and from there my dissent into provocative lefty rants came into fruition.
The book was recommended to all and soon several high school sophomores began quoting directly from the book. Tales of seeing Hunter S. Thompson speak in Iowa City were tossed around more than recollections of seeing Rose Tattoo live. The two share a thing in common: Angry Andersen, lead singer of Rose Tattoo, puked on stage when the band opened for the Pat Traverse Band in Burlington, Iowa and Hunter S. Thompson, lead singer of Gonzo Journalism, was drunk while lecturing to the collegiate counterculture in Iowa City, Iowa. Rose Tattoo were louder, though.

This just in from a friend who lives close to Hunter’s ranch:
“ It was second-home ownership and Vicious Wolf Realtors that did him in. When things got really wierd all he could do was drink himself to a stupor and reload shells out on the back deck,the one the Mexicans built for him out of sheer gratitude for that time went to the Aspen Town Council and Country Club to fight for them. He would have Raul or Jose' retrieve the targets.......
Yeah-someone will start a class now at Colorado Mountain College-The Literary Works of Dr.Hunter S.Thompson and Their Applications in Modern Society. Now him and Hemingway can shoot together.”
And there are reports that the Dr. wants to be cremated and have his ashes shot out of a cannon. Leave it to Hunter to have the most exciting funeral arrangements.

I Have A Thing For Cat Power

So you’re asking yourself: “Todd, what’s the deal with you and Cat Power?” I suppose the first exposure came with hearing the song “Cross Bones Style” from the album “Moon Pix” shortly after it was released. I took a chance at bought the album and it took a few spins before I could tolerate the haphazard rhythms, repetitive chord progressions and a hair above functional guitar playing. It was Chan Marshall’s voice that kept it in the cd player until I finally felt at ease with the disc. And then I got depressed.
Which is a common thing for any Cat Power listener to have after hearing “Moon Pix” considering the fact that the album’s lyrics, pacing, and husky vocals are all contributors to a very dark theme. Consider the track “Colors And The Kids” which begins dark enough with a repeated piano refrain, and then completely sucker punches you with the lyric “I could stay here/become someone different/I could stay here/become someone better.” Real heart wrenching shit.

I guess you could say that it got me on a Cat Power kick. My ex-wife would get pissed that I listened to the record so much. She was convinced that it had something to do with an attraction to Chan Marshall. The funny thing is that I had only seen one picture of her at that point, and her face was totally obscured by hair. Later on, I got an eyeful as to what Chan really looks like underneath those bangs.
There was an interview I read with her in The Big Takeover that totally pegged her as an unstable character. Her live shows were notorious for being very stressful situations: Chan would sometimes get paralyzed by fear in mid-set and even had fans help her regain composure at one performance. In the interview, Chan would often drift off topic and try to explain strange situations in her life. A story, a myth were now created in my perception.
In Omaha, Nebraska, I told the dread locked black man that I was really digging “Moon Pix” and he made a point to recommend her first e.p. That effort, while rhythmically stronger, is tough to get a hold on and may I admit that if the thing was beyond an e.p. I’d totally get bored with it. The record actually cooled my heals a little towards Cat Power, but I recovered after hearing their incredible cover of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” I’m being totally serious; it may rival Devo’s version of “Satisfaction” even though it’s world’s apart from it.
From there, I was throwing back “Myra Lee” and “What Would The Community Think” whenever I stumbled into it. Both albums are fine as Chan starts honing her chops and lyrics, laying the groundwork for something special, the album that is “Moon Pix.”
For some reason, I’ve got this who Omaha/Cat Power connection because I was, again, at the same record store with the dread locked dude and it had an ample supply of “You Are Free” for the album’s first week of release. This effort has noticeably better production that her prior efforts, but not to the point where there’s fucking sugar water making the counter sticky. At points, Chan sounds somewhat happy, but lest you forget the entire thing kicks off with a revisiting of Kurt Cobain’s suicide with just four simple words: I don’t blame you.

There’s no real diagnosis on Chan Marshall’s mental state, but she’s functioning enough to keep her head musically. Her allure is this entire “girl in trouble” guise and it seems that she may become one of those cult reclusive after she really starts to feel when the “music is boring me to death.”
She played in Omaha a week after I left. Such timing. The irony is that I was in the area for a funeral when I purchased “You Are Free” and was bummed that I was going to miss the concert. Why couldn’t the silly bastard die a week later?
So now comes word that Cat Power has quietly released “Speaking For Trees,” a two-hour movie dvd and single song music cd. What makes the film unique is that it’s composed of one two hour long shot featuring Chan playing a Danelectro outside among the trees. With wind and crickets as her only accompaniment, she performs a selection of songs, sometimes repeated, in front of a blurred camera. It sounds pretentious in writing, but viewing the performance (admittedly, this is one you won’t be playing frequently) is a very distant affair. The “statement” made is actually no statement at all; this is as personal as you can get with Chan Marshall and playing to the trees seems spontaneous enough (and genuine enough) to avoid the highbrow curse.
The song, “Willie Deadwilder,” will become Cat Power’s “Dark Star.” As actual performances become even more scarce, fans will be able to impress other fanatics with tales of hearing this 18-minute epic in the flesh. It follows no real structure and like the video disc that it shares, sounds extemporaneous, free, and repetitive.
For Cat Power fan, “Speaking For Trees“ retains the mystery of Chan Marshall and it‘s an opportunity to get a very minimalist view of her talent. She clearly is motivated by her own muse and seems determine to follow her own path. “Speaking For Trees“ will not increase any additional traffic on that path, but those willing to travel with her can at least enjoy the scenery.

Brian Wilson-Smile

Over the Christmas break, a friend of mine picked me up in a rental and I immediately took noticed of the selection of music in the car’s cd player. It was Brian Wilson’s “Getting’ In Over My Head,” the first of two cd’s Wilson released in 2004. Now this particular friend is fairly partial to jam-based rock and it wouldn’t have surprised me to find Govt. Mule or the like to be spinning in that factory GM disc player. But no, it was that wack job Brian Wilson.
I say “wack job” because I’ve seen the film “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times” and saw for myself the mental fragments of a man who had finally imploded after years of physical abuse at the hands of a father, years of psychedelic drug intake, years of over-bearing “guru”-types taking financial liberties, and of course, years of having to deal with Mike Love. That alone would make anyone a wack job.

The rumor, or at the very least, the story as I remembered it, was the thing that finally pushed Brian Wilson over the edge was trying to top the Beatles’ “Revolver” with The Beach Boys’ “Smile” album. So here’s the deal: Brian got a little nutty, Mike Love wanted to know why Brian wanted them to sing all “this weird shit,“ Brian lost a lot of self confidence and released “Smiley Smile” instead, Paul McCartney stopped by one day a played Brian a new track called “A Day In The Life” which pretty much destroyed Wilson from then on out as he realized he may have actually had a shot at finally one-upping the Beatles.
I heard “Smiley Smile” in college once as was completely blown away. I was blown away at how Beach Boys enthusiasts always cited “Smile” as the unreleased masterpiece. Hell, from what I heard on “Smiley Smile,” shelving “Smile” was the last sane thing Wilson did. It had a song about vegetables (complete with chomping celery as percussion), some shit about Woody Woodpecker, and a song about a girl going bald. I only made it through side one, and I didn’t hear anything near “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.” Beatles win. Fuck the Beach Boys.
So years later, Brian Wilson makes a comeback and I video tape a small portion of his appearance on The Tonight Show. His mouth is contorted and he looks insane. Leno walks over to him and I fully expect him to give Brian some juice and cookies before someone injects a sedative into him. Leno makes a remark about having Brian come back soon and Brian wants to know when. I can’t remember if Jay understood what he was dealing with, but if I were him I’d make sure the security was on high alert; one never knows what a crazy man is capable of.
In the fall of 2004, I was walking through Best Buy’s “w” section and stumbled across “Smile.” I immediately considered the purchase in an uncanny “must purchase” fervor, but for some reason decided not to buy it. I was a bit relieved when I later learned that it wasn’t the classic recording of “Smile,” but instead a re-recording done by Brian some 37 years later with a bunch of Pet Sounds disciples. Things changed a bit after I heard a few selections from the album I passed on. Even in a limited format like MP3, I could tell that every last bit of detail went into the sessions and, hell, even the version of “Good Vibrations” sounded passable.
But my Brian Wilson buddy snickered when I mentioned in the rental car that Wilson’s version of “Smile” sounded pretty good, asking me if I liked all of that shit about vegetables. To be honest, I completely forgot about the subject matter and became lost in Brian’s meticulous arrangements.

The fact that Wilson demanded retro equipment during the recordings is a nice antidote, but the reality that the thing was recorded in a something like two weeks demonstrates that Brian is in complete capacity of his mind if it regards music. And the fact that he was (apparently) able to recreate all of this sonic marvel live, on stage for a few selected dates, points to the idea that he’s feels so convinced the time is right to release his masterpiece that he debuts the event like it’s an achievement. It is an achievement, but it just misses the challenges and timing that made “Pet Sounds” such an important album. One has to consider how important this album might have been had Wilson found the courage to complete it then.
Regardless, the impressiveness of this album today should not go unnoticed, as should the efforts of Brian’s backing band. They’re so well-versed in Brian’s history that they make the execution of this record sound legitimately accurate. I’m convinced that one could add some tape hiss to any one of the tracks, call it a bootleg or recording session, and have a true Beach Boys fan disagree. This album would not have made any impact in the hands of lesser musicians, but in this case their significance is noteworthy.
This is clearly Wilson’s baby, and he directs the arrangements with a genius precision, creating vocal harmonies as beautiful as anything produced in the past 40 years. If music has become Brian’s therapy than we are all very fortunate to be able to listen in on the healing process. The subject matter is nowhere near the league of The Beatles, but then again, it almost sounds like Wilson was attempting to create a very American album. I guess the album was also intended to be a statement for children and, admittedly, I can see a small child even taking to this album. It may take him 37 years to finally figure out how important this album is. At least that was the case for me.

Look Into The Eyeball

Five days left with my current job, then it’s off to the majors again. Actually, more like Triple-A level, but at least it’s not the farm league like my current employment situation. I just found out that they’re creating a management type of position there which would pay the same amount as I’m making now. I’ve got to give it to them for trying to make things more tolerable financially, but the immediate supervisor (the one who supposedly doesn’t like me) is moronic. I think I’ve determined the reason she doesn’t empower people to do things, even when we’re bored shitless: She’s afraid the more she teaches others, the more at risk her own job is because she feels inadequate. You are inadequate and I could give a rat’s ass about your painkillers.
Which leads me to my own medical condition. I’ve now contracted some crazy-assed eye shit which is making my eyes blood red. Initially, the entire left eye was swollen and it looked like I had taken a beat down. At that time, the shit was cornered to just this one left eye, and it was leaking some yellow sticky tear fluid at a rapid pace. Having no medical insurance at the moment, you can guess that I was a little freaked out. I immediately thought: “What would The Residents do?”

Thankfully, the SLF’s kid had contracted some eye shit the week before and was provided with eye drops. If I could hold the shit together until Friday night, I could nick some of the little one’s unused drops. I had been informed that his eye had gotten better in three days or so. That would put me fully recovered by Monday night. Fuck health insurance! I see now that “W” just wants us to be foxy in regards to staying healthy.
Obstacle 1 turned out to be the news that the SLF also contracted the eye shit and seemed to be running a day behind my own symptoms. That meant that we’d have to share the remaining portion between each other. As the Mother of a 20 month old son, she had witnessed the wonders of pink eye and assured me that this was not that ailment. Supposedly, I’d be itching like a squirrel, scratching my retinas into bloody submission. My eyes didn’t itch, they made everything look pus yellow. Everyone I encountered appeared to have a liver disease and I really had no desire to communicate with anyone. A large sign pointed to my face announcing “Look At The Bloody-eyed Freak!” My roommate advised me to go to the doctor, but that fucker thinks everyone is born with Blue Cross Blue Shield.

So I get to the SLF and immediately start dropping. Of course, it’s in baby doses, so I up the shit a few. Soothing. But I want immediate results. It doesn’t happen and the SLF’s condition starts to worsen. I say with pride that at no time did her eyes ever look as blood filled as mind. Perhaps it was a sign from that subscription to Fangoria I had.
Her parents stopped by and saw the wonderful shape we were in and immediately called back to recommend that she go to the emergency room. Fearing the medicine would be used up if she didn’t, I pressed her to charge that shit to Wellmark. If I recall, those bastards charge extra for emergency room visits, but are there any doctors available on Sundays?
She came back upset because the doctor diagnosed it to indeed be pink eye, but she was steadfast in her opinion that it wasn’t. So much so that she leant me the new prescription while she continued to use her old medicine. That’s fucking teamwork.
So this medicine has created a thin blood red line right on the inside of my lower eyelid. It’s still blood red on the eye itself, but the pus has died down and the shit looks to be spreading to the right eye too. It was fine before I started using this newer medication, which makes me think that the SLF was correct in her original diagnosis. But I’m going to have to deal with this shit, new benefits start next week, so I’m a tad short on medical expenses at the moment.
Getting back to The Residents for a moment, they were a curio from my middle school/high school days where you could send a buck to Ralph Records and get a single sampler of all their artists. A few friends did and one walked away with a compilation that had The Residents singing “Easter Woman” and Snakefinger’s “Thrashing All The Love’s Of History.” It’s was awesome, but it belied the leather-clad skull that demanded “Buy Or Die!” in the print advert.
Reading the story of the Residents kind of sealed the deal for me. Nobody knew their identities (a la Kiss) and their real names. I think this was around the time of Kiss’ “Unmasked” effort, so you can see why The Residents started to appear a little more groundbreaking. Plus their “Commercial Album” had something like 40 songs at :60 seconds a pop. A great value, even at today’s inflated cd prices.
I finally got to see them in the late 80’s, but by that time, the had one of their eyeballs stolen and were doing a whole theatre piece. It was still pretty bitchin’, but I was jacked up on a lot of mushrooms too. Below is a picture from that tour. I’ve got the ticket stub somewhere and a memory of driving around Minneapolis, lost and freaked, surviving one encounter with their superb police department. I wish I could say the same for the St. Paul PD, I heard a few months ago that they killed this nice Russian girl that I hung out with once. It’s fucked up when you hear news about people you know who are killed by those hired to protect you. As usual, Joe Strummer was right again.

Rock And Roll Damnation

Can I take this time to acknowledge that AC/DC’s Phil Rudd is one of the best drummers in rock music? When one thinks of AC/DC, they tend to think about their monster riffs, cattle prod in the ass vocals, or lyrics that don’t tend to progress beyond the 8th grade. Fair enough, but for me one of the unsung heroes of the band and virtually unnoticed in rock drummer circles is Phil Rudd. An “in the pocket” player, Phil finds the grove and doesn’t deviate much from it. He certainly knows his place even though a band with AC/DC’s power would cause most drummers to try and hammer out every speedy fill they could in between those monster chords. “Fuck her gently.” Says Phil.

I heard Scorpions “Bad Boys Running Wild” on the way home from work tonight, and remembered how much I liked these guys in high school. I don’t know what my thing for Krautrock is, but I know my adoration for German heavy metal music contains 1.) Some savage guitar work and 2.)English as a second language lyrics. The Scorpions certainly fit both requirements. Rudolf Schenker and Matthias Jabs are very efficient guitar players with a nice metallic interplay while vocalist Klaus Meine is one of the most distinctive vocalist in rock music, thanks to an operation performed back in ‘81. Of course, singing the catalog in English also adds to his distinctiveness. Sample the lyrics to “Arizona” from the album “Blackout:”
“Arizona really was a gas
I was screwed up in a total mess
Mind blowing all the way you know
Just out of sight”
In case you’re wondering, in Germany “gas” and “mess” are phonetically the same when you’re speaking English. And “Bad Boys Running Wild” from “Love At First Sting” comes out as bad boys running wide. It really is a gas.
I’m still holding on to the belief that their early to mid 80’s output still rocks (“Animal Magnetism,” “Blackout,” “Love At First Sting”) and holds high court in my own personal collection. I’m tinkering with the idea of getting “Lovedrive,” which I recall has this kickass cover art and some guitar noodling from Rudolf’s brother Michael Schenker who served in the most awesome UFO and with his own project called the Michael Schenker Group. Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a couple of those discs either as I’m sure my cassette copies have been lost over the years.

I lost track of them around “World Wide Live,” where Klaus does the infamous “Do you see the microphones in the air? Do you see them?!” spiel. Like most people, however, I grew to despise them by the time they had their major hit about a guy who follows a little squirrel down to Gorky Park to listen to the gentle wind. But fuck man, I’d go see ‘em today if the price is right. As James Turner said in the 8th grade during basketball practice: “It don’t get no better than ‘The Zoo’ by the Scorpions.” He was right. He was also black. He also served time for robbery.
The station also played Ozzy Osbourne’s “Zombie Stomp” from the 1991 release “No More Tears.” The song starts out pretty good and the guitar playing is impressive. Then, the shitass drum production takes hold and Ozzy starts singing some of the most retarded lyrics ever. I mean, what the fuck?! Couldn’t somebody tell him that “hey hey do the zombie stomp” aren’t the most metal lyrics put to paper. I mean, it’s like a half step above “the bird is the word” on the metal meter. Some of these fucking metal artist would be better served recording in shitty studios with some stringent like Albini manning the microphones. I’m sorry, but there’s no fucking “big drum sound” on any early Sabbath album; those things are heavy as fuck because the band played heavy as fuck and didn’t leave the work for the mixing sessions. Someone needs to smack some sense into that guy. My money is on the horse that says his beloved wife is the one holding back any meaningful Sabbath reunion and then, if it does happen, the sessions will be marred by some big budget douche bag that spends a month getting the right guitar tone from Zakk Wylde.
I’m still working on “The Baker’s Dozen” list for 2004. It will comprise the best cd’s released last year and is created from over a year of research by the world’s most important rock critic: Me. Debate amongst yourselves, but the list will be final and cannot be changed. Unless I find a record later on that deserves to be in the top 13. For now, I’m leaning towards Loretta Lynn’s “Van Lear Rose” as the top pick. The Fall album, the new Brian Wilson, Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, and others will be included to. Due to my working situation, this will mark the first year that I don’t actually own all the titles listed. Thanks to the internet, I managed to sample the albums that will be included. I’ll get around to buying them eventually.
Every time I go record shopping lately, I get caught up in the “shit I need” mode and ignore new stuff. Last week was a prime example. I was actually holding the new Le Tigre and Libertines albums, only to replace them with Sweet’s “The Best Of” and The Rolling Stone’s “Between The Buttons.” Actually made out pretty good with those purchases.
Sweet indicates that I haven’t fully gotten over my whole glam period and I really didn’t have a good representation of The Stones in their ‘66/’67 period. In case you’re wondering, that’s a very good period for them, but The Beatles, The Velvet Underground, and others were clearly ahead of the curve. The finally gave up on this direction and returned back to more familiar pastures with “Beggar’s Banquet.” And that album turned out to be ten times better than “Abby Road,” so there you go. Speaking of The Rolling Stones, Charlie Watts is the shit too.

Highway 61 Revisited Reprise (Slight Return)

How do we fall into this thing called music obsession? I know a lot of people with the obligatory parent issues, and not all of them fret that they simple don’t have enough money to keep up on their cd collection. Not all of them seek comfort in knowing that they have the entire XTC discography. I can’t confess that all of them are even serious music fans, let alone fanatics. They don’t marvel at liner notes and stare at album jackets for hours on end. In fact, some of these people will actually portend to enjoy music more than they actually do simply because they notice that you speak of music with a passion. Psychology calls this the “Stockholm Syndrome.” I call it “posing.”
You probably think this is the part where I quote something by Nick Hornby. But my drive to work got me thinking about something different: “Where did this shit all start?” Then it got heavy.
I think my Dad liked music. I say “I think” because I still don’t really know my father. I find out surprising shit about him all the time. Like the night in high school he and a few buddies got busted with booze by the highway patrol. Or when I found out he cried when the family dog died. Or when you report to your parents that you’re on high blood pressure medicine and find out that your father has the same condition.
I bring these points up as a blatant analogy demonstrating how I was never emotionally close to my Father. I don’t need to know everything about him, but it would have been nice to have an actual conversation with him or feel a tad bit wanted. And by conversation I don’t mean politics, movies, history or (yep) music. No, I’m talking about real conversations where you hear about their own emotions, humanity, desires and failures. You need to hear about how it really hurt to have that fucking cocker spaniel die. You want to know if their own family was emotionally crippled and rife with a therapist’s thesis. You particularly want to know if you’re a tad bit wanted after the unwanted news of your own conception.
Sure, I’ve gotten to that whole “Forgive, Love E’m For Who They Are, Feel Sad For The Opportunities They Lost” bullshit already, and I’m not a bitter about it as I once was. But nonetheless, it did make me sit up and consider the reason why I love music with the passion that I do.
Growing up, I was handed down all of my parent’s 45’s and given access to one of those portable turntables from the sixties. My parent’s primary source of new music was via a new form of technology called the 8-Track. The 8-Track player was put high above my reach. I knew the old man liked The Beatles, so they became my favorite too. After the singles were absorbed, Dad gave me “Sgt. Pepper’s,” “Meet The Beatles” and “The Beatles ‘65” in long-play form. I had all the lyrics for these albums memorized before I turned 4.
There were a few albums that continued to remain out of reach along with the 8-Tracks. Those albums were Peter Paul & Mary’s first album, Pete Seeger “On Campus,” and Bob Dylan “Highway 61 Revisited.” All the people on the folkies albums looked old, but Dylan looked pretty young in that leather jacket and Triumph Motorcyles t-shirt. I imagined that someone took the photograph while he was working on the motorcycle. In my mind, he probably knocked out “From A Buick 6” immediately after installing spark plugs.

But I could never get my hands on that album. Dad deemed it to be too important to hand down to me and took notice of my love of writing on record labels with pens while they rotated around the turntable. I immediately stopped writing on my singles and album jackets, thinking that it would suddenly demonstrate responsibility enough to warrant a listen to that precious Dylan album. He wouldn’t budge.
Years later, I was snooping around one of Dad’s file cabinets and came across a file with a bunch of Bob Dylan lyrics typed out. I knew the words to “Subterranean Homesick Blues” before I even heard the song.
I began to “study” more music and became a handy reference table that my Father seemed to enjoy having. We could actually talk about music! My research continued.
By the time the inspiration for being a music geek was sown, a revelation occurred to me. As a teenager, I opened up the same desk drawer that had housed “Highway 61 Revisited” for so many years and found that the album was still there. At that point, I was the only person in the household that actually had a stereo, let alone a working turntable. The 8-Track player had died and never was replaced. Only a couple of radios remained in the house, and even these were only turned on in the morning during coffee as both parents listened to the news. It took a while before Mom became enamored by Katie, Matt, Al and Ann.
I grabbed that Dylan vinyl, marched up to my room, and smacked the fucker right on to my Craig stereo with the ceramic cartridge (I was obsessed by turntable cartridges, for some reason. I was convinced that metal cartridges were superior and looked for ways into incorporating one into the tone arm of my Craig stereo, even though it was fruitless effort). The snare cracked and I heard the familiar refrain about someone who dressed nicely, once upon a time, when they were younger.
I announced to my Dad that I had borrowed his copy of “Highway 61 Revisited” and would return it when I was done. He had forgotten that it was even there. How does one forget about their copy of “Highway 61 Revisited?” The thing was tucked away like a family jewel for years and now suddenly it’s not valuable? I knew that I’d been duped.
It was too late by then. I was already immersed in this who rock thing and I just couldn’t turn my back on it the way Dad turned his back on Bob. I’d even gone to such lengths as to replace the paper record sleeves with non-scratching ones by Discwasher, just to protect their contents. I bought Queen’s “News Of The World” and Cheap Trick’s “Live At Budokan” album and played them until both parents became annoyed, asking me to play something different.

You might say, it was my first “punk” period. Maybe. All I knew was that Queen’s “Get Down Make Love” was about sex.
So what started as the possibility that I could somehow form a relationship with my Father based on a mutual love of music suddenly gave way to the stark realization that he was merely a poseur. The music may have actually moved him at some point in his life, but now, it was just an occasional nudge. The next time I actually saw him get deeply entrance with a song was when he heard that baby-boomer history lesson by John Fogerty called “I Saw It On TV.” If you’ve never heard it, it’s along the same lines as Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start The Fire” but not as pretentious. I had to listen to the entire “Centerfield” album because Dad didn’t want to hear the Run DMC tape that I had purchased that same day. Guess which one is cited as groundbreaking?
So now we’re at the point in our relationship where I actually lecture him on his music collection. It’s riddled with “Super Saver” greatest hit complilations on the “special marketing” subsidiaries of major record labels. I chastise him for not having a copy of “Sgt. Pepper’s,” “Beggar’s Banquet,” or even “Highway 61 Revisited” anymore. He’s moved on to wine, buying suits, and hobnobbing with political brethren while I remain steadfast in my musical obsessions. How does it feel?

Anger Could Be Power

There are days when I feel really bummed out about the death of Joe Strummer. Admittedly, I don’t dwell on it a lot, but when I do, I get bummed. Is it wrong of me to admit that I’ve been more bummed about his death during the past year than my own Grandfather’s passing? Probably not; Gramps ‘bout haddit while Joe was still young enough to whip together a bitchin’ Clash reunion one of these years. This is the way I roll.
There are days when I think The Clash were the best fucking band in the world and, during their prime, this was probably the case. “The only band that matters” was one of their slogans and while it didn’t ring true to me back in the day, it certainly makes sense now. Give me a break: I would have rated “Candy-O” higher than “London Calling” in 1979 and stumbled onto The Clash’s masterpiece only because Epic Records decided to put a “offensive warning” sticker on the cover of it.
So I bought “London Calling” again for the third time thanks to a Best Buy gift card given to yours truly for taking some of Motorola’s wonderful on-line training. I’d like to think that the real reason I got it was because I complained that my login to Motorola’s website wasn’t working and that not being able to take their on-line courses was “making me very sad.” I got at least a dozen email responses from actual Motorola workers immediately afterwards apologizing for the inconvenience. I love it when sarcasm isn’t translated into the typed word.
With the Best Buy gift card, I walked right into their gay bathhouse of merchandise and bought the only disc that mattered: “London Calling (The 25th Anniversary Legacy Edition).” Let me state that I’m with you: I’m tired of all these labels re-mastering, re-packaging, re-marketing all of their shit for the sixth time only to have you buy it once again. God bless the girl who admitted to me that this deluxe edition was the first time she’s purchased it since it came out on vinyl. I have the shitty original cd issue and can attest to its weak-ass mastering.

The new one sounds fucking incredible. Go get it, particularly if you don’t have the Clash dvd documentary “Westway To The World.” The re-issue includes a dvd on “London Calling,” but it replicates a lot of footage from the “Westway” release, which makes me an even bigger sap. Just watching Joe’s eloquent everyman interview makes me want to flick off the Lord and ask “Why the fuck do you always take the good ones? You can have Don Dokken instead!” Just watching the documentary also makes me consider: “If I were gay, I would totally let Paul Simonon have his way with me.” I can’t say that about George Lynch.
The bonus dvd also has some great footage of the actual “London Calling” recording sessions, in retrorific black & white. It’s complete with producer Guy Stevens throwing chairs, twirling ladders, and jumping around like a crazy dude. Whatever he did worked and the footage is incredible.
Another selling point was the inclusion of the infamous demo recordings called “The Vanilla Tapes.” The tapes themselves don’t reveal much other than the demos of a band learning the songs that would comprise the bulk of the album. Sure, it’s fun for those of us that get a kick out of hearing shitty sounding versions of the songs we love, but it’s nothing to recommend to someone who only knows The Clash as the band they play whenever we bomb Iraq. For the rest of yous, the regular remastered edition is plenty enough, cuz they were the only band that mattered anyway.

The 2004 Baker's Dozen List

Here are the top 13 albums of 2004. They are not up for debate and any disputing of the standings is entirely wrong. I only reviewed a few or more of 'em, then I got bored. Maybe in a few days I'll throw out the rest for viewing; I think I've got 1 through 30 lined up enough, but I was thinking about doing a top 40 like Jack Rabid does. What can I say? I'm a big fan of lists. Add a fucking comment if you think you're so smart.

THE 2004 BAKER'S DOZEN

1. LORETTA LYNN-”Van Lear Rose”
   This is the way to do a comeback. Get back to the basics that brought you stardom and sing what you know. Loretta knows a lot and could probably teach people 50 years her junior a thing or two. Thanks to some amazing and complimentary basic production from Jack White, Loretta easily makes the most country sounding album Nashville has seen in 20 years. It shouldn’t have come this way, but I’m glad it finally came.
2. MODEST MOUSE-”Good News For People Who Love Bad News”
   If you see these guys live, you’d never expect they could amount to much. But turn them loose in a studio and something magical happens. They managed to hint at greatness in previous efforts, but “Good News” demonstrates that they’re in full capacity of their remaining brain cells, and consistently deliver some of the best quirk rock in the past decade. There’s no other band sounding like them today.
3. FRANZ FERDINAND-”Franz Ferdinand”
   You gotta love 80’s retro particularly when the new bands pick a sub-genre that really never had much of a moment in the sun. For those fans of that bass-heavy, choppy rhythm guitars that graced a lot of overlooked gems from the early 80’s, here’s a band that finally seals the deal. This album was successful for a reason: because it’s good. Memorable, hook laden, and up tempo, this debut may be hard to top, but right now it’s hard to put down.
4. THE FALL-”The Real New Fall L.P.”
   For almost 30 years, The Fall have been making albums. Some of them are groundbreaking or, at the very least, great while a few could be listed a frustrating. But no one could have expected Mark E. Smith to reach in and provide with a truly remarkable title at this stage in the game. Mark delivers his lyrics with as much fire as a man half his age and for some reason, this Fall line up seems positively energized.
5. COMETS ON FIRE-“Blue Cathedral”
   Blue Cheer were a band from the late sixties that had some minor success and influence. Comets On Fire would like to sonically remind you about Blue Cheer. In the meantime, Comets On Fire’s music is performed with such enthusiasm that one may just take their word for it, and nod in agreement. The nodding will eerily match the tempo on any song from “Blue Cathedral” and cause an inner need to witness a liquid light show.
6. BRIAN WILSON-”Smile”
   Few`people can return to a shelved product some 37 years later and expect it to work. Add a little bit of bi-polar to the mix and a probable recipe for disaster is in the mix. But Brian’s demons seem to be controlled when he remains focused on his crafter, and his craft is deserving of some distinction. The album sounds like it was recorded in 1966, and it sounds like nothing recorded in 2004. Brian is a master at vocal harmonies and in arrangements, and the “Smile” completion lets one ponder the “what ifs” had it been released when it was originally scheduled to.
7. A.C. NEWMAN-”The Slow Wonder”
   It sounds like a New Pornographers album and, surprise, most of that band are on it. As the leader and creative force behind that band, it makes no sense to release a solo album as it’s essentially the N.P. without the democracy or Neko Case. But hey, that’s not a bad thing since “The Slow Wonder” is filled with more hooks than a candy cane and with just enough sugar to make the most fervent crit tap their feet. It’s a great summertime record in the tradition of great summertime records. And drink up kids, cuz the thing clocks in a just a hair over a half hour.
8. BJORK-”Medulla”
9. WILCO-"A Ghost Is Born"
10. THE ARCADE FIRE-”Funeral”
11. IRON & WINE-”Our Endless Numbered Days”
12. DUNGEN-”Ta Det Lugnt”
13. DANGER MOUSE-"The Grey Album"

Best Reissue:

THE CLASH-"London Calling"

Best Single:

JAY Z-"99 Problems"

The Baby Jesus Remix

Me has composed twelve point plan for good happy success. I’ve only made it to step five, so sue me if your results vary. In step one, the patient is required to return to their hometown for the holidays. In my case, that town is Keokuk, Iowa. You may have read about it in my previous post entitled “Merry X-Max.” It’s a wonderful place and it’s a wonderful life starring Jimmy Stewart as the General Manager for the steel castings plant. Step two consists of hooking up with an old high school “dude,” preferably one who is as cynical as you are regarding the former stomping grounds. In my own example, we will now refer to the “dude” as Bob Weir. In fact, at one time the dude actually looked a little like Bob Weir, even though he enjoyed the Phil Lesh material more. After all, Ratdog is just a step higher than your local Grateful Dead tribute band. Step three requires smoking marijuana. You cannot proceed to step four without completing step three. And as the hometown Bob Weir stated on Christmas Eve: “As long as I can smoke something, I’ll be alright.”
For step four, you’ll need to visit Keokuk’s annual “City Of Christmas.” If you’re not familiar with Keokuk’s “City Of Christmas,” you probably have something similar in your own hometown. Essentially, it’s a bunch of Christmas lights, Christmas themed displays, and a low-wattage radio station that cranks out 24 hours of non-stop Christmas gansta rap. You now understand why you need to complete step three before progressing on to step four.

One drives through the City Of Christmas at a low speed. Speeders and vandals have to contend with the City Of Christmas Police Department. The offices of the City Of Christmas Police Department are a camper next to the bandstand. They wear Kevlar parkas and have their own candy cane swat team. It’s just like an episode of “Hill Street Blues” except all the characters here dress in green and red. When you leave the City Of Christmas, blue neon deer jump over your vehicle. Once again, you really should finish step three before step four. Trust me.
Step five requires you to look for your hometown’s toughest tavern, bar, or honky tonk. This part is tricky, as years may have passed since you’ve actually visited a local watering hole and, as The Byrds song goes “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” What?
Luckily, I just moved from my beloved hometown, so I knew that former violent nightspots like “Dirty Harry’s,” “The Glass Rail,” and “Tweaker’s Shank*” were now closed. Hell, the real violent spots, like the infamous “four corners” bars** (a stabbing every weekend!) were closed even when I was in high school, so there really hasn‘t been a truly scary bar in Keokuk in almost twenty years. I knew that some shady undertakings were taking place in a place called “T.J.’s House Of Music.***” I’m not sure who T.J. is, but I’m pretty sure that the only music there is the sound of people grinding their teeth after doing a line of crystal in the bathroom. It’s now Christmas, so a lot of bars are closed. T.J.’s doesn’t have any external signage, but a glimpse through the tinted windows showed a faint light over the bar. The door was locked and, despite our promise to pay in cash, the bartender refused to let us in, even though two men were still seated at the bar enjoying their Miller High Life and Meth. Bob Weir and I moved on to the ever-reliable Tee Pee Lounge.
There is no draft beer at the Tee Pee Lounge. Pleasure comes your way in twelve ounce cans and there’s nothing fancier than well drinks if’n your in the mood for a cocktail. Surprisingly, everyone was under the age of 30 (’cept for me and Bob Weir) at the Tee Pee Lounge, and even the bartender was pretty hot. I say this with amazement because a friend’s mother used to bartend there and she was at least 65 at the time. The fact that the Tee Pee found 1.) someone under the age of 30 to dish out cans of beer and 2.) that she was fairly attractive means the Tee Pee has made incredible improvements since they first opened in 1943. A drunk dude present that night told Bob Weir all about it. We had bet a round that the bartender wouldn’t know shit about the Tee Pee’s history. She didn’t. I won.
The local Coast Guard was present in the form of a drunk twenty-something guy that sat next to me and told me all about his work. He was very proud of what he did, oftentimes using a military vernacular to try and impress me. What did not impress me was his confession that he had to go to work in four short hours. Thank God the river is frozen over this time of year; this Marine wanna-be really needed to be put to bed and was in no shape ready to deal with The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald.
The jukebox played the obligatory Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, and today’s best country. “Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone” played which brought the dozen patrons into a reflective mood. Daddy don’t like to be tied down in Keokuk; hell, even the condom machine at the Tee Pee states “For refund insert baby.” I thought it was kind of clever myself.
Then Gloria Gaynor came on the jukebox and the bartender started to dance. Below is a picture of her dancing, but it’s too dark to see anything. She was hot. Trust me.

Like I said, I only made it to step five because me and Bob Weir totally shut down the Tee Pee Lounge. And even though it wasn’t the most surly bar in Keokuk, it probably was the most fun. And isn’t that what we’re really seeking during the holidays anyway? I got home at 3:30am and crashed the folk's refrigerator for some pickled herring before going to bed to let Santa do his business. Santa. Jesus. They're the same thing, according to Master Shake.

*Not a real bar

**The Four Corners were essentially four bars, each on facing the other on the corner in a neighborhood in West K. Only two of the four remained standing when I was in high school. Now, only one building remains and it's closed for business.

***Supposedly, Styx played there. I don't believe it.

Jesus Died For Somebody's Sins

Jesus is the reason for the season. So forgive me if my worship doesn’t include spending a certain amount of bones on living in a manger. Let me explain. I arrive home on Saturday night to find the driveway filled with vehicles. Inside, my roommate (the owner of this lovely suburban cookie cutter) has essentially asked his older brother to move in with us. Did I mention his brother is married? Did I mention the two have an infant daughter? Did I mention they also have a two year old son? Did I mention they have a five year old daughter? Did I mention that this family of five is now living in our three bedroom house with the two of us? I guess I don’t need to mention that I’m now going insane.
The roommate/landlord did run into some trouble with the law a few months ago that will probably result in him losing his license. His job requires him to travel quite a bit and he was in line for a promotion with his company. The fear was that if his employer found out if he had lost his license that they wouldn’t give him the promotion and, worse yet, may fire him for his actions. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen but it was going to pose a problem with the increased amount of traveling his new position required. He asked me to become his “driver” but that really wasn’t part of my own career goals. He then asked his older sister to undertake the position. She was going through a divorce, or considering one, but eventually she declined as well. Next family member. His older brother was not happy with his own position in Dallas, TX and was considering moving to Iowa to raise his family. Nice plan, or was it. Typically, people have a resemblance of a plan before moving across country and especially if they have four other mouths singing “99 Bottles Of Beer On The Wall” all the way to the Hawkeye state. Now I understand that Latino culture places a high priority on family and the bond between them is incredibly strong. But isn’t the notion of, oh I dunno, logistics also considered when family’s stick together during times of strife. Jesus Fucking Christ. I never want to be married to someone who acquiesces to an idea of moving across country into a younger brother’s house when said house isn’t big enough to hold more than four people. Again, if you’re keeping score, the number of living humans in this home is now up to seven. Jesus wept.

So he runs the idea by me without much time, effort, or thought beforehand. I mean, it’s just another example of selfishness and how he can manage to overcome a life lesson without negatively impacting a career advancement that will provide him with more cash to blow on fucking toys he’ll never use. As if he hasn’t learned already that all the cash in the world won’t by him happiness and resolve some deep rooted issues caused by, newsfuckingflash, his family. Jesus Christ on the cross.
So the brother is going to become his driver. His wife will stay home (here) and raise the kids until….Well that’s about all I know. I seriously thought this would be a retarded idea that would soon pass, but the situation has proven to be the reality of my surroundings. Jeezee Peezee.
The family is relatively nice and extremely quiet. They refer to me as “the guy who speaks English.” The wife cooks and cleans and I am included in the nightly dinner menu, which is strange as I kind of enjoy doing my own cooking. Added to this, it is an extreme Mexican diet, which isn’t bad with the exception of some low nutritional value ingredients. This works well with the roomies’ revelation that he has diabetes and high blood pressure. And if you’ve ever tasted authentic Mexican food, you’ll understand that it’s a culture that considers beef tripe as a meat. I’m fairly certain that his doctor did not recommend he increase his lard and grease intake during his last bloodwork session. Jeese Louise.
So I have no idea what the plan is, other than there is no plan and that the two year old likes to start screaming for his Daddy at early hours. I know this has to be taking a toll on the roommate, so I’m anticipating that the situation will change around the same time I’ll be actively looking for a new place to live. Jesus H. Christ.
As for now, I’ve got to get the fuck away for the holidays, so I’ve pushed up my schedule and now want to be on the road as early as tomorrow night. I don’t give a shit that it’s bitterly cold outside, the Honda will be loaded up with gifts and Christmas fucking joy after work as I run away from this diverse “Eight Is Enough” episode staring me as Adam Rich. The eighth character, by the way, is the baby Jesus.

A Sourmash Christmas Carol

Get yr. Snow license, it’s wintertime. It sucks being a largehearted boy in Iowa with long-distance relationship tendencies. You’re always driving towards fulfillment and then, eventually, driving back to reality. In my case, reality meant missing work entirely and not giving a rat’s ass about it or the repercussions. The funny thing was, I didn’t get a chance to demonstrate my ambivalence towards it; the manager who hates me was totally apologetic about it. In some manner it was her fault but ultimately the responsibility falls on me. Fuck responsibility up it’s tight ass.
So these wintertime travels remind me that I’m driving without insurance. Like I said: “Fuck responsibility.” But the cold air brings me back to other winter nights in a previous life. And while I don’t want to do a “u-ie” and return to that previous life, I do think it’s time for me to finally throw the whole thing in park. Is it the clarity of being sober that’s brought me to this understanding? Probably not, as I feel it has always been in me and drugs have a tendency to do wonders like mask pain and stifle initiative. And to this day, I’d rather enjoy the company of a spliff than a shot of Maker’s Mark. But a shot every now and then certainly does hit the spot.
Now on to one last memory of Christmas past…

In high school, I was moderately involved in theatre. By “moderately” I mean that if it happened to be a production that I was interested in, I would audition. On occasion, I would get a part. There were a few productions that I had no interest in. For some reason, “South Pacific” comes to mind. In some odd rationale, I felt the play was “racist” and signed up for the lighting crew instead of an acting or chorus part.
I can’t remember why I thought “South Pacific” was racist, but I do remember that it has nothing to do with the story that I set out to tell.
Mr. Anderson, our cigarette smoking drama teacher at the high school, approached me and a friend during the fall of my Freshman year. He stated that the community theatre group needed some volunteers for their yearly production of “A Christmas Carol.” Specifically, they needed some help with sound and lighting. Now the other dude had done a killer job running lights for the summer musical production of “Pippin” so I knew he’d be a shoe-in for the lighting chores of the Dickens production. That left me with a chance at doing sound.
As it turns out, they had picked another volunteer to run sound, so that left me with the boring duty of running sound effects for the production. Essentially, all I had to do was make sure there were a bunch of chain sounds for the Ghost of Christmas Past and some wind noises for the Ghost of Christmas Future. Pretty mundane stuff, but as any drama fag will tell you, there are more chances to get laid in school plays than any other extracurricular activity. Having dabbled in both sports and drama, I can tell you there is ten times more sexual activity resulting from the drama camp than any sport can provide. Some of the spoils can also fall on to members of the lighting and sound crew, and the community theatre presented an opportunity to have a go at some of the Catholic school girls. It goes without saying, I could live through the boredom of sound effects if there was a chance at getting a little after the cast party on closing night.
The sound guy they picked up was probably in his late twenties and far to old to be ogling the seventeen year olds in the production. Of course, that didn’t stop him just like the cold winter air didn’t stop him from retreating to his vehicle during intermission to snort cocaine. I’ll never forget him talking into the headsets during the performance how there was a “100% chance of a snowstorm” every night.
So while the sound guy was keeping himself entertained, there was little for me and the lighting dude to really do. I was also dismayed how everyone, particularly the director, always seemed to be too uptight to be really feeling the Christmas spirit. All of this prompted me to bring a fifth of Jack Daniels to the last night of the performance.
I devised a practical joke that would take place on stage in front of a live audience. At the end of the play, where Tiny Tim utters the whole “God bless us everyone” line, the Cratchit family toasts a glass and has a quick drink of wine. Up until that point, the “wine” was nothing more than grape juice or some other Shirley Temple elixir. On the final night, I poured Jack Daniels into the glasses and saved the rest for the cast party after the show.
The lighting dude, cocaine soundman, and myself were all aware of what was about to take place. When the line approached, the three of us turned up the headphones to the stage microphone to hear the reaction. Tiny Tim, a kid who couldn’t have been more than 9 years old said his immortal line and took a big gulp of his grape juice. Now, it’s a scientific fact that most 9 year old boys aren’t used to their first taste of Tennessee whiskey and most will probably immediately become violently ill afterwards. That is exactly what Tiny Tim did on this night. Although no vomit came up, the whiskey did. It came back out of his mouth and through his nose, causing the crippled boy to cough uncontrollably for the remaining five minutes of the play. All three of us backstage rolled with laughter as we heard Tiny Tim trying to expel the last remnants of the smuggled whiskey. All other cast members didn’t seem to notice or care about the new wine. Bob Cratchit actually seemed to enjoy his drink, finishing the nip entirely while on stage. .

During the curtain call, Tiny Tim looked white as a ghost before quickly exiting the stage to look for a drinking fountain.
The director was not too pleased with my practical joke and made it a point to tell me and the lighting guy that we would not be invited back to volunteer for the Great River Players. My heart broke and then my mind noticed the oxymoron of the words “volunteer“ and “invited.” The mind quickly refocused as it remembered the words “cast party” and the reason for attending: “Catholic girls.”
Unfortunately, the lighting dude decided to keep up with Tiny Tim in the whiskey department and had almost the same results. By midnight, he was too loaded to walk and he was late for his graveyard shift at the radio station. I had to leave the Catholic girls in the capable hands of other cast members and drive the lighting dude to work, which led me to a brief career in radio. But that’s another Christmas story for another time.

The Fall-The Real New Fall L.P.

Most people probably hate to be known as an asshole. Pablo Picasso was never called one, but I'd bet that The Fall's Mark E. Smith has heard it a few times during the band's 27 year existence. After all, when Mark started out, he originally auditioned for some heavy metal bands only for them to discover that Mark was 1.) tone deaf, and 2.) an asshole. So what's an asshole to do but form his own band and piss off 49 former band members (including 1 ex-wife) to the point where "The Fall" is merely "Mark E. Smith's band this time." Mark, perhaps one of music's greatest songwriters, of course worded it best with a song once that admitted "My friends don't amount to one hand."
Originally called "Country On The Clink," the album was planned for release in April 2003. Somehow, a promotional copy was leaked on the internet, even though the promotional material was clearly labeled: "For promotional use only - anyone abusing this will have Mark E Smith to contend with and may God have mercy on your soul!!!". Being an asshole, MES scrapped the album and remixed the entire project because he said so. To be an even bigger asshole, MES provided English fans with a slightly different version of the album last year before releasing it in America in 2004.
There have been some great Fall albums. There have been some really bad Fall albums. And if you believe that bands typically get a little soft after their first quarter century, you'd probably have a number of examples to back up your hypothesis. But you wouldn't have Mark E. Smith fronting any one of them. He's an asshole like that.
"The Real New Fall LP" is a great Fall album. After a few years of surprising silence, Mark comes across positively renewed and the "new" Fall line-up sounds exactly like they did twenty seven years ago: unlike anything else. The music, the lyrics, it's all remarkable. Proof that even at 46 (he looks much older) Mark has got more left in him than England's newest hitmaker. What keeps him both relevant and off the radio is his satirical rants and uncommon delivery. As John Peel said "They are always different. They are always the same."
Six years ago, it did look like the end. Mark had managed to piss off his (then) band enough to the point where a drunken on-stage fistfight broke out between him and...the rest of the band. The performance continued with Mark's shirt stained with his own blood. After the performance, Mark fired everyone except one individual and continued on the road. Mark even went a step further, perhaps salt on the wound, with the album's song "Portugal" which sounds like the reading an angry letter directed to him, essentially chastising Mr. Smith for his abusive treatment of band members and the crew ("You were abusive, way beyond what anybody should have to reasonably deal with. Words fail me how offensive a human being you are. Treat people as you want to be treated!").

"I hate the countryside so much/ I hate the country folk so much" he barks on "Contraflow," but Smith has always been more of an urban poet rather than some Hibbings, Minnesota troubadour. In 1965, Dylan let out a collective sneer asking a generation "How does it feel?, while MES has made a living with a sneer that seldom asks, yet instead demands that you "Open the goddamn box!" on "Boxoctosis," perhaps the album's most memorable track. And I've yet to hear Dylan rhyme "Dolly Parton" with "Lord Byron."
The coupling comes from the standout track "Mountain," which ranks as one of the greatest Fall songs ever recorded. Nobody in music could come up with a lyric like "So I went fishing, and a note from a fish said: 'Dear Dope: If you want to catch us, you need a rod and a line. Signed, The Fish.'" and make it work. Read the line aloud. Now sing it. Now explain how a guy with, at the most, two monotonic notes in his voice has managed to make a career out of it. Not that MES has gotten rich from his original vision of forming a band with "raw music with really weird vocals over it," but if I could, I'd pay him a King's sum to never change from being different.

Too Fast For Larry King Live

The question that appears to be on everyone's mind is "I wonder how the new job is going with Todd?" Well, in a nutshell, the job allows me to drive to a place to do absolutely nothing and get paid for it. I wanted something with low stress, but this is utterly retarded. And it seems that those involved or somewhat responsible for this new career of nothingness, are nothing but apologetic. They then offer me a Wiggles guitar for Christmas.
Which reminds me of past jobs that paid shit but provided me with ample amounts of entertainment. Gone are the days in which I can suggest to a co-worker to urinate in the boss' office and actually witness him doing it. People then ask "Didn't that stink up the place?" but then these people don't know anything about the river cities music leader. This was a place that allowed a cat to drag in the half-eaten carcass of a bunny rabbit, smearing the blood and entrails of the rodent throughout the break area. There were so many health violations present that a little human pee might have actually cleaned the place up somewhat.
Which brings me to Mick Mars and the recent news of a full-fledged Motley Crue reunion. To me, the only thing more exciting than a Motley Crue reunion are actually photos of Mick Mars just weeks after hip replacement surgery. Like I give a shit about a last cash-in attempt by a slightly higher than mediocre Sunset Strip band. They did one halfway decent album overproduced/remixed by the former producer of The Cars ("Too Fast For Love") and one relatively enjoyable album that seemed quite awesome after five beers and several bong hits ("Shout At The Devil"). Then the girls started buying their albums. Then Motley Crue became irrelevant in my world.
Which reminds me that I wanted to mention how absolutely dead Mick Mars looks now. The fucker was old before, but now he looks older than even my Dad and probably walks slower than my Grandfather. It appears that the reason why Motley Crue broke up to begin with was because Mick died. Since there have been remarkable achievements in the world of science, doctors have suddenly been able to resurrect Mick Mars from the dead and the only way to pay for these doctors is to force The Crue to reunite and tour once more.

Which reminds me that Motley Crue was on Larry King tonight. Let me repeat: Motley Crue was on Larry King tonight. Is there not enough news in the world that Larry Fucking King has to report on yet another Motley Crue reunion?! And in case your wondering, Mick Mars looked like he was going to pass out in pain throughout the entire interview, which mainly consisted of Larry getting Mick Mars mixed up with Nikki Sixx.
Which reminds me that today's kids have no fucking idea who Motley Crue is. Instead, they know them as "The band with that big dick drummer."
Which reminds me that I've spent way too much time dwelling on Motley Crue for one night.

I Miss The Comfort In Being Sad

It's snowing here, and the casual Xanax hangover has brought an urge to sleep again. Either that, or the bullshit reality of working once more in a bullshit position doing the same bullshit that I was doing nine years ago. This ain't what Lennon meant when he sang about ""Starting Over" and Jack Douglas isn't producing my life. But then again, he got assassinated shortly after "Double Fantasy," so I must count the proverbial blessings.
Which gets me to thinking about the Nirvana box set, a purchase that I have yet to acquire. It seems like just a few years ago, but in reality was almost a lifetime away, when radio was ripe with mediocrity and a little power-trio from Washington got Killdozer's producer to clean up their Jack Endino garage sounds and make an undisputed classic called "Nevermind." Working at a Top 40 radio station at the time, a co-worker and friend exclaimed "You should add it!" when we discovered that DGC records would be releasing "Smells Like Teen Spirit" as a single. The song was incredible, and it was ours. "No fucking way that thing will ever take off." was my honest reply. It did, of course; we added it at the station three weeks later. And the world turned on its hair metal axis....

So glorious a ruckus and so much a "spokesman" for my generation, I related to Kurt but not in a weird Carpenters "Superstar" kind of way. I liked the idea that someone my age from a blue collar small town who wrote honest songs and played guitar poorly got famous. And the lesson of this story is that rock stars with lots of raw talent and a Mosrite guitar end up with a shotgun wound in a seldom used room of their home.
I came to work at the radio station and started my day. The traffic director paged my office phone and said that Tracy from Elektra Records was holding for me on line one. It wasn't an "add day," meaning that I wasn't expecting phone calls from record companies. But Tracy and I had a nice, personal relationship and so I took the call.
"Have you heard the news yet?" She asked, noticeably upset.
"No. What happened?"
"Oh Todd...They found a body at Kurt's place in Seattle and they think it's him."
Kurt had been missing for a few days and the theory was that he was using again. But her demeanor hinted that it was more than simply an overdose, and when pressed she admitted to not knowing much more than a male body and a shotgun found next to it. She was crying. I didn't know what to think. This man was not a relative, and I didn't know why a sense of panic filled me.
"I've got to go see what's going on, Tracy." I said.
"Call me later." she said. "Are you going to be Ok, Todd?"
Nobody had asked me that in a long time, death or otherwise.
I went to the newsroom and had the news director pull all of the automatic A.P. news feeds that were starting to litter his floor. It was there that I read in chronological order the entire events of April 8, 1994. There was no official word on who was found in Seattle that morning, but most of us understood it was him. The violent nature of his action was something that took me entirely off guard.
I did my part. I read the news. I played the songs. I announced the tragedy. I fielded the phone calls. And when I finally was able to put things in perspective, ironically as I played the lies that housed a chorus of "And I swear that I don't have a gun," I began to feel the emotions of that day. I retreated into the music library and starting to cry for a guy who just fronted a band. It was the first time since John Lennon's death that I had done such a thing. These tears were different, because he was supposed to speak for me somehow, and instead, the selfish fuck took the easy way out. I looked out of the music library window and noticed how gray that April afternoon had become. The afternoon news announcer burst into the control room and noticed me crying. She apologized for the interruption and asked if I was ok. What was different from her concern as apposed to Tracy's earlier inquiry was the fact that the news announcer was verbally offering her two cents on how "stupid" Kurt was for killing himself and leaving his child without a father. True, but she didn't seem to understand that part of his allure was his emotional fragility and the loud/soft=Janov/Lennon therapy of his output. Her uneducated comments angered me. She later became my wife, and I always resented her for the actions she displayed on that day.
Afterwards, I went home to my parents house having recently moved home after splitting with my then-girlfriend. She initially had her own opinions about Kurt too, declaring that he didn't appreciate his fans very much because he was flipping the bird in the "Nevermind" insert photo. Two weeks after Kurt's death, she was replaying his memorial for me and silently weeping next to me on the couch. A tad melodramatic for someone who earlier declared him to be such an ungrateful prick. I guess you could say I was resentful about that too.
My Mother could sense that this front man actually meant something to me and treated me with kid gloves when I made it home.
"I'm sorry about what happened with that Kurt Cobain." she offered.
"I heard about it on the news and I know you really liked him."
I went to the back room of my parent's house and watched MTV report on the suicide of Kurt Cobain. Kurt Loder was talking with David Fricke and, for a brief moment, it seemed that MTV actually understood it had an obligation to do something other than make money. Then came the copies of the suicide note filled with tiny writing, sentences sloping downwards, and words scratched out from last minute edits. A perfectionist all the way until the trigger was pulled.
I couldn't listen to Nirvana much after that. It felt wrong and it perhaps was too real for me to take. I always believed what he was writing, but his violent end suddenly made everything bold-type and personal. I continued to purchase the obligatory posthumous releases only to watch them collect dust. There's a part of me that wants to run out and purchase the new Nirvana box set, but there's the bigger part of me that understands it won't be something I play after the initial spin. There's no amount of demo material, home recording, or unreleased track that will make me understand more than I already know or want to be reminded of.