TAKE IT, IT'S YOURS...

Random Friday thoughts-- now with 20% more gratuitous profanity!

-Removing the “And buses might skid on black ice” line from the single version of Senses Working Overtime was a dumbshit move.

-Lenny Kravitz. How the fuck did that happen?

-Andrew Loog Oldham is now more entertaining than the Stones.

-Frank Blank has nice jugs.

-I worry about Chan Marshall...

BORN TOO LOOSE


One of the other pleasures of satrad is the incidental exposure to unexplored levels of Suck.

Just the other day I listened in slack-jawed awe to something called The Scum Lives On.

The name of the band was Demolition 23, which it turns out was basically a mid '90s solo project for Michael Monroe.

Now Michael Monroe was the lead singer for Finnish Dolls jackers Hanoi Rocks. Their main claim to fame was the fact that their drummer Razzle was killed by Vince Neil in a drunk-driving escapade.

Yes, Finnish.

And yes, Razzle. As in, “first it's a candy, then it's a gum”...

So anyway, this song starts out by lamenting the deaths of Monroe's friends Johnny Thunders and Stiv Bators, then mourns the passings of Brian Jones, Keith Moon, Bon Scott, and Rob Tyner, and slips in a line questioning whether Abbie Hoffman's death was really a suicide, which seems like an oddly placed little conspiracy theory.

There is then a long list of the scum that still lives on (or at least lived on in '95)-- Jimmy Swaggart, Jesse Helms, Ronald Reagan, Donald Wildmon, etc.

It's all so ham-fisted that it borders on cute. But its true country of residence is indeed the land of Suck...

I STARTED SOMETHING I COULDN'T FINISH

In the course of my half-assed exegesis last week of shyness in Smiths' songs, brain coral reminds me that I completely forgot Half a Person:

“Sixteen, clumsy, and shy...”

I guess this sits somewhere between You've Got Everything Now and How Soon is Now? on the barometer...

DEATH IS A STAR

Amidst the celebratory nature of The Pogues show a couple of weeks back, there were various opportunities for remorse and regret. It was a typical Irish funeral, I suppose…

The one pointed item that has remained with me, though, is this: I miss Joe Strummer.

I was speculating with brain coral before the show that Joe’s death was just a cosmic fuck up. Like the Blaggard of Rock Death sharpened his scythe and went to lay a finger on the lead singer of The Pogues, but didn’t realize Joe was only a fill-in...

SPRYNGE

A found poem from your friends at the A.C. Moore craft store chain:

Silk-like spring candle rings
& decorative spring wood

DARLING...

My favorite Smiths’ songs generally grabbed me right upfront with one image made adhesive by its humor and/or audaciousness.

Here’s my top 5.

(1) Shoplifters of the World Unite
“But last night the plans of a future war
Was all I saw on Channel Four.”

(2) Ask
“Spending warm Summer days indoors
Writing frightening verse
To a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg.”

(3) Panic
Not for a given lyric, but more for the general fin-de-something vibe.

(4) How Soon is Now?
And here, for the general fin-de-something vibrato…

(5) This Charming Man
“Punctured bicycle
On a hillside desolate…”

COME OUT AND FIND THE ONE YOU LOVE

“Shyness is nice, and Shyness can stop you
From doing all the things in life
You'd like to…”

Fame is a weird poison.

As time wore on, Morrissey fought wars with the media, who portrayed him alternately as a pernicious layabout, a racist, an opportunistic exploiter, et cetera, et cetera.

Closer to home, he engaged in pissy border wars with his band.

While the poison slowly withered the body of The Smiths, it had a restorative effect on Morrissey’s general view of humanity. He came to feel a certain level of responsibility for the disaffected youth whom he had affected so deeply, and began to discourage them from wallowing too much in their sadness, their despair.

Their shyness…

SWEET SMELLING WIND

Stereolab in DC last night was golden sweet.

They peeled the roof off the club and stirred it up with a psychedelic licking stick.

Um, yeah…

The group appeared to be having fun, playing a nice mix of new songs and semi-obscure older stuff like Mountain and I Feel the Air (Of Another Planet).

My inner Mary was ba-da-ba’ing and ooh-la-la’ing throughout the night, particularly during Miss Modular and Cybele’s Reverie...

Au revoir to you too, Laetitia.

A CRACK ON THE HEAD

“I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar”

This time the shyness is referenced in the service of a couple of clever and telling homophones. Morrissey simultaneously bemoans this inherited shyness and announces his rather elevated place in the world: “I am the Sun, and the Air…”

But How Soon is Now? sounded like 2005 from where I sat in 1985, which made the whole pill easier to swallow.

My vegetarian ass had little use for Meat is Murder, and I liked but did not love The Queen is Dead.

I was developing all along a sneaking suspicion that The Smiths were primarily a singles’ band…

THE WHOLE WORLD IS WRONG

“No, I’ve never had a job
Because I’m too shy”

So says the burgeoning rock star as he traipses across the stage, slamming his naked chest with a bouquet of gladiolas to keep the beat…

As much as Morrissey appeared to be sharing his real feelings of dislocation and general ambiguity, he came across equally as a manipulative sharp.

And though I had some appreciation for the artistry of it all, at this point it was hard for me to escape the feeling that it was all rather smug and one sided…

THAT MYSTICAL AIR

My first reaction to The Smiths was uniformly positive.

Hand in Glove was self-serious, furtive, and capital R Romantic:

“And everything depends upon
How near you stand to me.”

What Difference Does it Make? was fat with dramatic overstatement:

“But still I'd leap in front of a flying bullet for you.”

I chuckled each time I heard that line, but gave them points for commitment. Points for making such a cool/dark Motown/glam racket, too…

So when I saw the first album on sale as an import at Titus Oaks in the early spring of ’84, I jumped at the chance to own it.

I didn’t have a record player, so I had a friend make a cassette copy for me.

A week later I was back at Titus Oaks looking to sell the slightly used album. Soon after, I recorded over the tape— I don’t recall what. Probably one of those radio mixes that still has Make a Circuit With Me and Love Will Tear Us Apart running together in my head.

So what went wrong?

THIS ONE IS DIFFERENT BECAUSE IT'S US

Here's a piece of a poem I wrote when I was 11:

“Friends are people you can trust,
As you can see, friends are a must.
So if you are friendless, come to me
And I'll show you how good a friend can be.”

My teacher melted, and wrote on the paper in big dripping script “Will you be my friend?”

But the truth of the matter is that I was a bit of a manipulative, passive/aggressive bully.

Kind of like Morrissey, I suppose.

Coming up: some thoughts on a conflicted relationship with The Smiths...

BELLE POGUE

March concerts to date.

Belle and Sebastian still feel vital— they have morphed into this weird T-Rex/Nick Drake/New Order amalgam, and while it might not always work, it’s often pretty damn thrilling.

The Pogues were a kick of nostalgia, with some predictably complicated strata of memory and meaning. I met myself in a dream, and I just want to tell you, everything was alright…

Whatcha got Stereolab?

THE SONG WENT ON THOUGH THE LIGHTS WERE GONE

Shane MacGowan ambled on stage like a golem, each size-12 foot pointing outward like a strategically placed plank, with a couple of hours of tenuous balance the end goal.

He sprayed the mike with something resembling “Misfarbinshungtumonibushgreadcodpiecefuggerwakinklickcick.” I caught mrs. brain coral’s eye and we both kind of shrugged and applauded.

As the night went on, it became apparent that these utterances were generally the song intros. I think I finally figured it out when I heard “sislymacnen” and then the band started playing Sally MacLennane…

And the band was great—rollicking and sloppy enough to remind you that for all the trad trappings, there was a significant punk undercurrent behind their formation.

Shane would lean over slightly between each song and peer at the set list taped to the stage, with a teeter here and a totter there. But when the band started playing, he actually did a fine job of delivering the goods. Where I expected gobs of garbled lyrics and more missed cues than a third-grade production of the Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat, I got a surprising fealty to the original content and structure of the material.

Sure, a couple of verses came too soon, and a couple of lines never reached their intended destination, but this was not Bicentennial Elvis or anything like that.

I am not an apologist, but anyone who tells you that it was a train wreck on a musical level must have an agenda.

As far as being a train wreck on a human level, well, yeah. But you had to know that going in. And it was then up to you to either celebrate it or make your peace with it.

The drunken 40-year olds driving the mosh pit down on the dance floor came to celebrate it, cheering loudly when Shane switched from a glass of whiskey to a bottle. They all had their reasons, I’m sure.

I made my peace with it, and I had my reasons as well…

TWENTY-FUCKING-FIVE TO ONE...

Things I expect from The Pogues show tomorrow:

-A raucous noise from the band.
-Brief flashes of equipoise and lucidity from Shane.
-90% of the audience will know 95% of the lyrics, which will be especially helpful in that half the time Shane will know a quarter of the lyrics.
-I have a sneaking suspicion that some folks in the crowd might get drunk.

Back Monday to confirm or refute these predictions...

YOU SAY THAT YOU ARE SO HELPLESS TOO

Guilty pleasure.

Could it Be I'm Falling in Love?— The Spinners

The Spinners, like the '73 Mets and Gerald Ford, were emblematic of an era that saw the repeated triumph of mediocrity.

Time and again, the thoroughly ordinary would find themselves lifted to unanticipated heights.

More often than not they quickly lost their footing and slid back to the middle level, but they could hold tight to the memory of that brief moment when fortune was their franchise.

I personally found it a great comfort to live in such times.

One afternoon in the late fall of '73 I came home and was greeted by my mother, her face contorted in hard grief and hysteria: “Do you know what it's like to have no friends? Do you?” she screamed.

I did not.

I turned on my heels and retreated quickly, so I don't know how the rest played out. I only know that I didn't see her again until a few days before Christmas.

She returned home and brought with her one of the few gifts I received that year: a leather belt, hand-tooled in the psych ward of Central General Hospital.

It was a very mediocre Christmas...

STREAMING OUT OF THE MAGNETS

The New Pornographers/Belle & Sebastian show was cool. Both groups were in fine Sunday-night fettle—loose, casual, and interactive.

Best of all, though, was the opportunity to hang with mr. and mrs. brain coral, who wouldn't know from a third wheel if you willed them a tricycle factory.

Bring on The Pogues, for better or worse...

QUE SERA SERA

Guilty pleasure.

Baby Hold On— Eddie Money

It has that one glorious moment, when the faceless voice rises from the swamp of the LI bar-band circuit and gains the flint to self-mythologize:

"Mama's always told you girl
That money can't buy you love..."

The moment glows like a flash pot, hangs in the air for an afterbeat, then vanishes, leaving behind a fine residue of pearlash...

MY ENGINES DIE

Guilty pleasure.

The Ghost in You—Psychedelic Furs

This bunch had all the superficiality you’d expect from the bastard offspring of PiL John Lydon and solo Bryan Ferry.

It’s right there in the name, people: Psychedelic. Furs.

But boy, did this one work its melancholic magic on an 18-year old cruising around in his friendly green Maverick, trying to forget a Nancy…

ME GOT GOD

OK, Pull Up the People has convinced me that I probably need at least a little M.I.A. in my life. We'll see how much...