BRAFF BAG

The other night on National Geographic they were showing Aftermath: Population Zero, which the program guide describes thusly:

“Envisioning what Earth would be like if all 6.6 billion humans disappeared.”

When I flipped by, an unfortunate theoretical poodle was getting owned by a pack of theoretical German shepherds. I hit the FAV button on the remote to move on to the next channel, which was IFC. Garden State was on.

This led me to envision what Earth would be like if all 6.6 billion humans disappeared.

Because, hey, no Garden State...

SOME STUPID WITH A FLARE GUN

Forgive me, gentle reader, for the gross indelicacy of today's post, but I cannot let it pass without note that I farted the first three notes of Smoke on the Water this morning. That is all.

NMEeek

I went to Neiman Marcus for the first time in my life yesterday.

I was looking through a rack of t-shirts when a salesman popped up right in my line of sight. He was holding a $70 Juicy Couture tee with shiny silver accents on the front.

“This is a nice shirt. I had someone come in last week and buy this shirt. He went out to nightclub and the, how do you call it, was, was catching...” Here he made a motion with his free hand, outlining the silver design with his index finger.

“Disco ball,” I said.

“Yes, the disco ball. It was catching the silver and lighting up. His friend, he liked it so much, he brought his friend in the next day and he got same shirt.”

“That is quite a shirt,” I acknowledged. “Quite... a... shirt.”

YOU'VE BEEN ERASED

It's very rare that a video is exactly what it should be. But here's one...

BRIGHT AND SHINY PLATTERS

There are very few discs among my all-time favorites that I’d suggest are essential to you.

Sure, I could point out why I think you should like Dots and Loops or Haha Sound or Wild Gift, and you might very well be nonplussed. That’s fine.

But there are three that I think you ignore at your own peril.

I’ve prattled on enough about In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Just live with it for a while, and your soul will be a better place.

Another one is Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space. It’s a bit harder for me to articulate the reasons why I think this is so essential. It’s visceral. That’ll do.

The third is Exile in Guyville.

Now, there was every chance that this one would not age well, that 15 years on it would feel like a relic of indie days gone by. But it still holds up.

It’s profane, and sometimes gratuitous. But so are you.

It’s sprawling and confused. But so are you.

It’s righteously pissed. But so are you.

It’s really kind of beautiful. But so are you...

ISM-SKISM GAME

Got cut off this morning by a black Prius with the following bumper sticker:

Relax; God’s in Control
Expect Miracles

First I was moderately pissed about being cut off.

Next I was angered more intensely by the shoddy application of the semi-colon. Forgive me, but it’s who I am.

Finally I was damn near enraged by the sentiment, which is pernicious bullshit...

CATAPULT

One day years ago I was playing stickball at my old grammar school. It was a nondescript summer afternoon, but for some reason a side door was open. I went inside.

I walked the hallways in a bit of a daze, as recollections both sharp and dim pinged my brain.

Of course, everything was smaller than I remembered. I stooped to get a drink from the water fountain.

Last night I was listening to “Is This It?” and, well, let’s just say I had to stoop to drink from the fountain…

HORNS

OK Rocknoceros, just stay the living fuck away from my kids. I swear, one step closer and I will give you a beat down you'll not soon forget...

BANDSTAND

Had a little listening party here at the ranch the other night, featuring Nouns by No Age and the Sun Giant EP from Fleet Foxes.

First impression: the difference between the respective discs is kind of like the difference between wanting to be like your cool uncle and dressing up in your daddy’s clothes.

Don’t get me wrong—the Fleet Foxes disc seems perfectly pleasant. I could imagine my good friend Tom the Classic Rock Fan (TCRF) digging it. But for now I'm with No Age.

Of course, my initial thoughts on OK Computer were that it was for TCRF only too, so you never can tell…

L-O-V-E LOVE, IT'S COMING BACK, IT'S COMING BACK

I bought this shirt a couple of weeks ago.

Now, as a teenage punk, I developed a considerable disdain for hippies. Not so much due to their blinkered idealism, but more for the way in which their attachment to sex and drugs overwhelmed their attachment to radicalism, and led in a straight line to discos, coke spoons, and The Love Boat.

But given the tenor of our times, I find myself in sympathy with the idea of a politicized youth movement.

The one peril that goes with the shirt? Conversations with real hippies, as I learned on a weekend walk through Georgetown...

PENDULUM

Quote of the day, from Supreme Court Justice Anthony M. Kennedy:

"The laws and Constitution are designed to survive, and remain in force, in extraordinary times."

Does this mean we can have our country back now?

Liberte, motherfuckers. Liberte...

PUNCTUATION ROCK

So the book itself was nothing to fear.

It was a fairly nuts-and-bolts description of the genesis of Neutral Milk Hotel, and the recording of “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea.”

There was one small interpretive section, for which the author nearly apologized.

The only thing that grated a little was an “alternative” reading of the opening to King of Carrot Flowers Parts 2 & 3. In case you’re not familiar, the song starts with a naked display of faith: “I love you Jesus Christ/Jesus Christ I love you, yes I do.”

The author offers a couple of commas to the atheists for whom this statement might present a barrier to engagement with the album, and turns Jesus Christ into an exclamation: “I love you, Jesus Christ/Jesus Christ, I love you, yes I do.”

Well, as an atheist myself, bear with me as I cozy up to my fellow atheists here for a second.

Hi, fellow atheists. So, um, how’s your atheism going? Been a while since we’ve spoken. How was your Generic Winter Holiday Celebration? Good, good to hear. So, anyway, about this King of Carrot Flowers Parts 2 & 3 thing. Yeah, uh, if listening to someone express their faith is a problem for you, I have a suggestion: Fuck off. Now I realize that’s not a particularly productive suggestion, but seriously, if hearing Jeff Mangum sing “I love you Jesus Christ” bars the door to your potential enjoyment of the album, then the album does not need you. You need it for certain, but I guess you’re kind of screwed there, huh? Well, take care, y’all.

EMPTY RINGS AROUND YOUR HEART

For my birthday back in January, I picked up a copy of the “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” book from the 33 1/3 series.

And that, strictly speaking, was the last time I picked it up until this past weekend.

You see, I was a bit scared of the book. As much as I wanted to know more about “In the Aeroplane” I also didn't want to know any more than I already did.

It's kind of like how I felt about biology back in high school. I thought that to be alive is a startling and magical thing, and I didn't want that sensation to be corrupted by too detailed an understanding of taxonomies and nomenclatures.

But we grow older and recognize that willful ignorance has little to recommend it either, I suppose...

DYE MY HAIR BLUE

For your weekend consideration, three words that are not words but should be words:

Lasp.

Dickle.

Punion.

MY KIND OF TOWN

Takin' care of...
Mixed...
Too much junkie...
Too much monkey...
There's no like show...

However you slice it, I'm off on a business trip tomorrow. I'll be back here late next week.

DON’T SURROUND YOURSELF WITH YOURSELF

After a few years of studied neglect, I added some info to the favorites sections in my Blogger profile.

Initially, it seemed kind of neat that you can click on your own favorites and be taken to a list of other Blogger users who share a specific favorite.

But then I got this vision of people trying to triangulate soul mates based on their common taste in movies/music/books. And that scares me.

Because the world would be a much better place if everyone’s first criterion for a relationship was the differences instead of the similarities…

HEAR WITH YOUR HEART

Today I arranged my iTunes songs alphabetically for the first time, and it made for some odd neighbors.

Like, Love Will Keep Us Together and Love Will Tear Us Apart.

So, I am left to consider-- and not for the first time-- whom it is I should believe: The Captain and Tennille or Joy Division.

Sure Joy Division had the existential industrial angst, but Toni had a cute overbite, and that Daryl was a captain-hat-wearing motherfucker...

THE MERRY MONTH

I used to think that May was out to get me.

Yes, the month. That little three-letter month. That tiny auxiliary masquerading as a month.

May had taken my father, on its 18th day. A few years later, it took his mother, on a day I don’t recall.

My brother was born on its 20th day, under one of its little dark clouds.

But then I met Taeko, born May 7, and my opinion began to change. The dread that I typically felt at its approach abated, and by the time Lana was born on its 30th day, I had developed a layered, complicated relationship with the month.

And now I finally understand the lesson here: May is life.

RENOUNCE ALL SIN AND VICE

Thanks to the bluenoses at iTunes for protecting me from reading scary bad words like “sodomy.”

Which is rendered online thusly: Rum S****y & the Lash.

Of course, if you preview Sick Bed of Cuchulainn from the very same album, iTunes has chosen this 30 seconds to share: “Frank Ryan bought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid/And you decked some fuckin' blackshirt…”

So to sum up: my eyes are OK, but my ears have an ow-ie.

I hope to god that iTunes cleans up these naughty preview segments as soon as possible, or else the aged youth of America is surely doomed.

Materfucking sodomites...

ADAY IN THE LIFE

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I needed to explain Meat Loaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light to someone.

Here’s the slightly compressed version of events:

[Makes passing reference to song]

[Reference to song is met with puzzled look]

“Seriously? You don’t know it?”

“No, I only know that one Meat Loaf song…”

Me interrupting. “This is that one Meat Loaf song!”

“No, the ‘I would do anything for love’ song.”

Christ. That’s Meat Loaf 2.0…

“Really? How about ‘Well, I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday’…”?

“No. I don’t think I know that one.”

“OK, hold on—you’ve earned this.” I called up YouTube and showed him the video. This whole conversation had started because we were talking about Phil Rizzuto, so I fast-forwarded to that part of the action.

“You see, the Scooter thought he was just providing play by play, and didn’t know they were going to use it for an extended ‘baseball as sex’ metaphor.”

“Hah.”

Oh, it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night...

I KNOW MY RIDER

I was behind the "1-800-GOT-BYRDS" truck today. I suspect it's got something to do with bird removal...

Jesus, who knew that bird infestation was enough of a problem to warrant a stand-alone business? And one with a fancy truck no less.

Anyway, it got me thinking that I have an inexcusable lack of Byrds music in the juke.

Maybe one day I'll get infested a little...

A MAGIC NUMBER

Hey, who’s that crazy band cozying up to the coveted 9/30 gig slot at the 9:30 Club?

Oh yeah, it’s… Stereolab.

And if they open the show at 9:30 PM with a 9 minute, 30 second version of Three-Dee Melodie (or, heck, even Three Women), all my numerological dreams will come true…

HOME OF ELVIS AND THE ANCIENT GREEKS

I was driving to a site visit with a colleague this morning.

When we got in the car, I turned down the radio, so that Jon Langford was just barely whispering Memphis Egypt.

As we drove on, every so often I swore I still heard Memphis Egypt. I looked down at the track counter, and sure enough, time was moving forward-- surely there was a rumor of Eight Miles High, an implication of Electric Version.

But all I kept hearing was Memphis Egypt...

TESSERING IS CREEPY

Just finished reading A Wrinkle in Time for Lana's book-discussion group this week.

The overarching theme of the dangers of conformity was nice. The anti-Communist rhetoric it was shot through on was anthropologically interesting, ideologically yucky, and artistically grating.

I'm most grateful to the book for the introduction to the phrase "bark my shins."

Sweet Natalie Portman as Sam, what a wonderful turn of words that is! Can't believe I never encountered it before...

PEHDTSCKJMBA

Tom Waits, you magnificent bastard, you...

WHOM THE GODS WOULD DESTROY

I was flipping through channels the other night, and I came upon the bazillionth rerun of One-Hit Wonders on VH1.

I didn’t stick around to watch, but a couple of minutes later I realized something: One-Hit Wonders is perhaps the most profound show in the history of television.

I’m not trying to be post-ironic here, and this is not about Shatner worship. If anything, his presence cheapens the experience, and I’m thankful that the interstitial heavy lifting is done by a faceless, low-fat vanilla announcer.

I am not so moved by the folks who had one pop chart hit, but measurable success in other genres/markets (Tom Tom Club, Dexy’s, Gary Numan, Sugarhill Gang).

But Rockwell and the Starland Vocal Band and The Heights and Haddaway and Tommy Tutone and Timbuk 3?

They felt the glorious, terrible pull of fame. People wanted to speak to them, put their pictures in magazines, ask them about the future, and you can bet they all had plans. For next hit records, next tours. They were in the ascendancy, with no conceivable outcome beyond further elevation.

But then it went away. For whatever reasons, they could never again find the magical confluence of notes, beats, and words that had led them to the top.

And still there were lives that required living.

Some made peace with their trajectory and the rocket that got them there, while others floated away into the ether, cursing the afterburn.

You might be tempted to ask while watching “What would I do in that situation?”

I would ask instead “What are you doing?”

LAB REPORT

That new Stereolab disc does not come out until August, but a preview track is now available on iTunes and as a gimme on Pitchfork.

This is me listening to Three Women.

Mildly funky drummer. Mildly bubble gum guitar. Oooh, vibes. I like vibes. I guess the horns were inevitable. Drum break, and it sounds a little sproingy. This one's in French, so it can be about whatever I want it to be about. I've decided it's about Sophia Loren's sister, although I'm not sure if she actually has a sister.

Man, was Sophia Loren the epitome or what?

This track? Not quite. But it's enough to make me come back in a few months...

EL IPOD DE DIABLO

Wait, if Juno MacGuff was all about 1977, and her contrapuntal counterpart was wallowing in 1993, why the fuck was the soundtrack filled with all that turn-of-the-century acoustic cutesy pie-ness?

A SOLIPSISTIC APOTHEOSIS

One of the groovy things about blogging on blogger (blog!) is that you can be all solipsistic and search your own blog. Sometimes random words will pop into my head, and I'll check to see if I've ever used them here.

For example, before today I had not used the word "solipsistic"-- and now I've logged two.

"Groovy"? Yeah, I've used that twice-- once in reference to a Clash song (Groovy Times), and once in describing Stereolab's version of One Note Samba/Surfboard. That same passage saw one of two uses to date of "apotheosis."

I'm going to roll the dice on "douche" here.

And aw mercy, it looks like we've got another first timer...

WE DON'T NEED THAT FASCIST GROOVE THANG

Taeko and Sebastian were playing Dance Dance Revolution when I came downstairs. Lana corralled me before I could join them in the TV room.

"I feel like dancing, but I don't wanna do DDR. I just wanna dance regular, my own dancing."

I took her to the playroom, put on Hyperballad, and we darted around the room like two balloons losing air. Just about the best dancing the world has ever seen, I'd say...

THE MARRIED KIND

Break out the Zinfandel, and drop the needle on some Love Unlimited Orchestra. It's sliced tongue and the fine art of erotic seduction.

We had dropped the kids off at school, and Taeko and I were stopped at a traffic light.

"I'd like to lick your back," I, um, purred.

"Whuh?"

"Lick your back. I'd go up your spine..."-- and here I reached over and traced a gentle line up the curve of her back-- "...and then I'd circle around your shoulder blades."

"Whuh?" she repeated.

It really wasn't necessary to repeat it-- I mean, I did hear her the first time.

I pointed to the street sign overhead. We were waiting to turn onto Backlick Rd.

"Ohhh. Well, I'd rather have a massage."

The light changed, and I made a sharp left...

CHEMICAL CHORDS

What do you do when the future becomes the past?

Well, if you’re Stereolab, you continue to invoke the past. After all, that is where the future began.

And yesterday is already here…

IN THE BACKSEAT

The kids were sparring in the back of the Odyssey as we drove to Bethesda to pick up some furniture.

"Poppycock!" said Lana.
"Balderdash!" said Sebastian.
"Poppydash!" rejoined Lana.
"Baldercock!" rejoined Sebastian.

I did everything I could to keep my grin from erupting into gale-force laughter...

JEFFERSON, I THINK WE'RE LOST

When the Virginia summer begins to imply itself with 80 degree April heat and ridiculous green, it takes me back to Charlottesville circa '93 as surely as Slanted and Enchanted or Exile in Guyville...

SOME VELVET MORNING

Lana came downstairs in her pajamas.

"Whatcha doing?" she sang, in a lilt that went up and then down.

"Just checking e-mail."

She looked at the screen for a few seconds, and finding nothing of interest, moved her eyes around the desk until they landed on the adjacent wall.

"Why do you still have a 2007 calendar?"

"I just never got around to buying a new one. Plus, that's one of my all-time favorite groups."

"The Velvet Underground." She said it in a way that made it sound as if someone had gone and buried a swatch of velvet. I never heard anyone say it that way.

"Yup. Here, wait." I pulled her onto my lap, and brought up iTunes.

"OK, listen." I started with Sunday Morning. "Pretty, huh?"

Lana nodded. "But they could also sound like this." I switched to I Heard Her Call My Name. "Noisy, right?"

Finally, I clicked on Head Held High. That got her. She started to dance right in the seat, like a motor had been tripped.

"What do you think that means: head held high?" I asked. She didn't respond-- she just kept rocking. Not sure if she didn't hear me, or if she just didn't care.

Either way, it was the perfect answer, really...

I HATE FAST CARS

On the way to work this morning, I was passed by three different gold cars that were speeding and weaving in an out of traffic.

And now I can’t decide whether this was a metaphor, a portent, or just a random assemblage of assholes...

TALK TALK TALK TALK

I haven’t been really gripped by anything since Sound of Silver and Person Pitch. So while I wait patiently on 2008, I’ve been doing some digging for worthy stuff that I might have just missed.

I looked back to the Pitchfork top 100 of the 80s and 90s lists for candidates, and found one sitting at number 11 on the 90s list: Laughing Stock by Talk Talk.

Now, honestly, I never would have given Talk Talk a third thought beyond It’s My Life and Talk Talk (the song), and even then it would not been a thought of much consequence.

So it did always intrigue me to see them on this list. It’s like finding out that Blancmange had some secret profundity beyond the simple pleasures of Living on the Ceiling and Don’t Tell Me.

I listened to it for the first time last night, and I fell asleep on the couch almost instantly. That’s not a judgment on the music, though—I was just exhausted.

I woke up around halfway through, and I did hear some very pretty sounds…

PENETRATION

Downloaded the new Fuck Buttons album today.

Actually I didn't. I just wanted to say "Fuck Buttons."

Fuck Buttons.

I'm so ashamed...

JUST LOOK THEM STRAIGHT IN THE EYE AND SAY...

So now The Pogues are coming out with a five-disc 111-track box set of ye auld odds and sods.

And I need to ask myself: will I buy?

I think the instructive parallel here is The Simpsons on DVD.

I bought the first five seasons before I realized that the discs were sitting unwatched. The bankable nostalgia that drives so much consumerism was working its reflexive magic. So I stopped.

I have a feeling I'll eventually cave on this one, but I kind of know how it ends...

KIPPERS FOR BREAKFAST

To the person who was trespassing on brain coral’s attempt to enjoy the exhibits at Fort McHenry by staging a loud cell-phone discussion concerning how mediocre artists’ best albums are always live albums: I take issue with you Sir/Madam.

First off, using Supertramp to make your point only reinforces the spuriousness of your argument.

While they were indeed mediocre, they do not have to their name a live album of any especial note or merit. Everyone knows that Breakfast in America is their meisterwork, dumbass.

Second, there are really only a small handful of mediocre artists that actually support your thesis. Peter Frampton for sure, and Kiss, arguably. Can’t think of too many others.

It sounds to me like you were attempting to have an “ironically witty” conversation in a public place, so that everyone in your general vicinity could experience your ironic wittiness.

And for these reasons, I heap upon you great big cans of scorn, whoever you are…

NORTH POST

Flashback Monday, where we look back at a 21-year old in the initial throes of a five-year obsession with The Pogues...

North Song

Nap while the church doors are swinging

And hell will well-stain your tide. Amen!

Be at peace while the church bells are ringing, 

And you'll never be active again.

Oh, a star it might shake in the north sky,

A star it might shake in the north,

But I'll never get down 

On my knees on the ground

Where another was driven away.

Follow your love on a Sunday

To romp on a lawn in the country air,

And you'll follow her down on a Monday

And rot in a corner right with her.

A star it might shake in the north sky,

A star it might shake in the north,

But I'll never get down

On my knees on the ground

Where another was driven away.

Oh, I must have been christened in soda,

Since I can't be kept down in a pew, 

And I live my life like I oughta,

Not like some fucking priest on the screw.

A star it might shake in the north sky,

A star it might shake in the north,

But I'll never get down

On my knees on the ground 

Where another was driven away.

CHK

Wait, Panic at the Disco dropped the exclamation from their name?

I haven't been this shaken up since Matchbox 20 became matchbox twenty...

MAC DADDY

So, within minutes of opening up my new Mac, I was on the phone with Northern Virginia Pest and Small Animal Control (or NOVA PSAC, more familiarly)…

ST: Um, hi. I have a bit of a problem here. I just bought a new MacBook…
NOVA PSAC: Feist?
ST: Huh? How…
NOVA PSAC: It’s Feist, again, isn’t it? We here at PSAC have been dealing with this for almost a year now. We see it three, four times a week. What is she doing, sir?
ST: Now? Now she’s just kind of squatting in the corner. But she was floating around the room just before. We have a cathedral ceiling, so she was really up there…
NOVA PSAC: Dammit, man—not a cathedral ceiling. That’s where your most persistent Feist infestations take root. So, she’s not mobile now. Is she making any sound?
ST: Hold on. OK. OK. Yeah. She’s counting. Just “1,2,3,4” over and over again. Please tell me you can make this stop. In the name of all that is good and right, please…
NOVA PSAC: OK, sir, hold on. Don’t get hysterical. We here at PSAC are trained professionals. We’ll take care of this. Is she blocking your way?
ST: No, no, she’s still over in the corner of the room.
NOVA PSAC: Excellent. Here’s what you need to do: Go into another room, preferably the largest available room in the house. Next, you’re going to need to form a Canadian supergroup collective. I’d recommend you get one of the violin players from Arcade Fire and one of the dudes from Stars, to start. Who knows, that might even be enough.

So I did just that, and then sent them on a tour of 750-seat clubs, mostly out west. And all of my Feist problems were solved.

Thank you, PSAC, from the bottom of my heart!

CORE A APPLE

Broke down and bought a Mac. Now begins the transfer of files from the HP.

And if Feist starts bounding about my living room while I'm trying to work, frankly I'm going to be a little pissed...

SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL

Fun facts about Urban Voodoo Machine, who opened for the Pogues:

-It is the year 2008, and they call themselves "Urban Voodoo Machine." By choice, apparently.
-One of them used to be in Flesh for Lulu. Isn't that nice, like Miami Vice?
-They transgressed all rules of opening-band decorum by playing for about 12 hours. Tighten it up a bit lads, 'K?

We're spring breaking around here-- be back late next week.

DEAD OLD TREES

Shane did not seem any more or less coherent than the last time around.

He again relied on the set list taped to the stage in an effort to follow along, and sometimes he needed Spider to correct his song announcements:

“This is Body of an American.”
“No Shane, we just did that.”

But then you hear the lyrics to Dark Streets of London (“And every time that I look on the first day of summer/Takes me back to the place where they gave ECT”), and you think a little harder about the journey from electroconvulsive therapy to this stage on this night...

TO HELL, WHICH IS CIRCULAR ALL AROUND

Different vibe at this Pogues show than there was back in 2006. I wouldn’t say it was subdued, but it was relatively laid back.

The crowd on the floor back in 2006 looked like white water—it rose and fell and chucked and sprayed.

This time around, the floor was marked by a few enthusiasts, but nothing too aggressive.

Telling quote, from Dude #1 to Dude #2, re Dude #3, directly in front of us upstairs: “I promised his wife I wouldn’t let him go down on the floor.”

WHERE THE RIVERS ALL RUN DRY

So brain coral and I are heading out to see The Pogues again.

I have to say, I don’t feel like we’re tempting fate. We got our grace last time, sitting like a big, fat whole note on the staff.

I am prepared now, I think, to have some good uncomplicated fun…

DETOX

During the course of work today, this phrase jumped out at me: “liver regeneration.”

I thought about how my mother willed my father’s body to science after he died at 46, so that further research could be done on his cirrhotic liver.

I thought about how my brother benefited from that research when he got his liver transplant 17 years later. Still, he didn't make it to 33.

Then I thought about Shane MacGowan, who just turned 50 this past Christmas day.

Liver regeneration.

Huh…

WON'T YOU LET ME TAKE YOU ON A SEA CRUISE?

Dear Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines,

Just an FYI that contrary to the information in the address field for all the mail you keep sending me, my name is not in fact “Dong Park.”

Close, but not quite.

However, if I do go through with my tentative plans to become a Korean porn star, it’s good to know that I have a nom de smut waiting for me.

Regards,
sliced tongue

I GUESS THAT I JUST DON'T KNOW

I kicked NyQuil last night after riding the horse for two straight days.

I'm sure you know the drill for coming down: night sweats, hallucinations. Real dark-night-of-the-soul kind of stuff.

Somewhere in the middle of all that I wrote this song.

Greek Versions of American Movies

Voiceover, voiceover, voiceover, voiceover
I want my voice to be heard
Over the explosions.

Voiceover, voiceover
In a thousand years
Show me your culture.

Voiceover, voiceover, voiceover

GOOFBALLS

So I got hopped up on NyQuil and tried to write a song.

The song was called If I Were a Woodentop.

Problem is, the whole thing amounted to just repeating "If I were a Woodentop" about 65 times.

Damn you, cough/flu/cold medicine. Damn you to phlegmy hell...

OVER THE EDGE FOR YONKS

OK, we've all been sick around here for five or six days. Last night I just couldn't get any traction in bed, so after my second vividly weird dream, I headed downstairs. And I remember the vividly weird dreams better than anything that happened after that.

So tonight, I'm getting ready to ride the NyQuil train.

I just sucked down a capful fit for a 12-year old. Now I'm going to slip on some headphones and listen to Dark Side...

FANTASTIC DAY

Of course, I’m not going to get too excited about Vampire Weekend.

Because there’s a very good chance that they’re basically Haircut 100 wrapped in hypertext.

And there’s nothing wrong with that. We all need some nice music to listen to while we’re folding our favorite shirts…

JEUX SANS FRONTIERES

These Vampire Weekend boys seem well aware of the Peter Gabriel dialectic (“This feels so unnatural/Peter Gabriel too”), which is essentially this: Peter Gabriel is great/Peter Gabriel sucks.

The fulcrum for this particular philosophical constant occurs somewhere around the time when he stopped naming all of his albums “Peter Gabriel.”

“So” then, is fully realized sucking. A grand achievement in sucking. It sucks like a vampire 40 days dry.

Thank you for choosing the great Peter Gabriel, boys...

MORE CONFUSIONS, BLOOD TRANSFUSIONS

My vampire three-day weekend:

Saturday
Watched The Doors, right up until the part where Jim and the boys visit the Factory. “Let's get out of here, man-- these people are vampires,” hisses Kyle MacLachlan as Ray Manzarek, with disdain for the Warholites. Goddamn, does this movie... suck.

Sunday
Bought Vampire Weekend at Best Buy for $7.99. Haven't listened to it yet, but I'm already over the fact that they're a band of privileged boys biting African rhythms for a living. Because Christ, if I got worked up every time privilege had its way with its culture of choice, I'd never get out of flipping bed.

Monday
Discussed Bunnicula in Lana's reading group, the tale of a cat who is convinced that the new bunny in the family is a vampire.

All in all, it was an AB+ few days...

UNDYING LOVE

One service the crappy movie did was bring me back to Across the Universe the song. The naked version, specifically...

I find now that stripped of all the Spectorian strings I no longer care whether Lennon's reedy serenity signifies resignation or transcendence.

I am happy just to let it be...

MOBY DEEP

I was making a disco mix for the kids the other day, and I put Everytime You Touch Me on after the 12” mix of I Feel Love.

And you know what? Moby deserves some real love. Because Everything is Wrong is a start to finish album. One of the best of the 90s.

I don't have much use for any of his other stuff, but man, that one is sublime...

THE NEW BLACK

Wonder how Rehab will sound when Amy Winehouse finally succumbs to her appetites.

More tuneful than Janis, at least...

I SAW A FILM TODAY, OH BOY

It is with no sense of undue reverance for The Beatles that I mention I wasted two hours of my life on Saturday watching Across the Universe.

I suppose it was well made, and as far as mushy-headed love stories built around Beatles' songs go, it was a damn sight better than Sgt. Pepper's.

I can even see it developing a moderate cult following.

But jesus, there's a prospective cult that needs to have the ever-loving hippie kicked out of it...

DII

Our prices are so low, we're practically giving these posts away. Act now!

June 22, 2007

June 25, 2007

July 23,2007

July 24, 2007

August 28, 2007

October 4, 2007

November 29, 2007

December 3, 2007

December 20, 2007

January 10, 2008

January 29, 2008

GALA 500

November 28, 2006

December 11, 2006

December 18, 2006

December 20, 2006

January 4, 2007

February 7, 2007

February 12, 2007

February 13, 2007

February 21, 2007

AND I WOULD POST 500 FILES...

Back when I hit post #200, I did a top 10 best of/worst of list for the blog.

Well, here we are at post #500.

So in celebration of the milestone, this week I'm going to link back to some of my favorite posts from #201 through #499.

Just to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive, is all...

June 19, 2006

July 12, 2006

July 28, 2006

August 25, 2006

September 12, 2006

September 14, 2006

September 15, 2006

September 25, 2006

September 29, 2006

October 19, 2006

YESTERDAY'S GONE

I wrote this at lunch today, on the theory that the world needs more poems about Fleetwood Mac.

Fleetwood Mac

Eileen if I still knew you
I’d borrow your copy of Rumours

And put it on my iPod.
Well, everything except Oh Daddy

And Dreams. Ah, but maybe
I’d keep Dreams

To remind me of
Your love for Stevie.

Yes, I’d keep Dreams
Eileen if I still knew you.

SCISSORS

Taeko is now pretty much obsessed with the DDR I got her for our anniversary. Pretty good at it too.

Me? I'm like some sort of degilled marine creature flopping around on the land, trying to figure out just how these things you call "legs" work.

All the songs are knockoffs, but I'll be goddammed if even the fake version of I Don't Feel Like Dancin' is not totally awesome...

A NEW COMPLAINT

If you're going to die young, with drugs anywhere near the scene, well then brother, you'd be better served by not leaving behind pics of yourself looking this much like Kurt...

SWEET MAGNETIC JESUS

I confess that I have not been pining for a farrago of Magnetic Fields and the JAMC.

But I am at least curious…

YOU ARE A TAR-ZHAY MARKET

It’s pretty amazing how ambient music has evolved.

And here I don’t mean “ambient” as a specific genre or subgenre. Rather, I’m just talking about the music they play in public while you do stuff.

This afternoon in the men’s room at the Westin Alexandria, they played La Femme d'Argent by Air.

And the day after Christmas at the Potomac Mills food court, they were playing World Shut Your Mouth. Which is the most awesome choice of songs to play at a mall food court, for post-holiday Americans wallowing in obesity of body and spirit.

Most. Awesome. Choice. Ever.

Ambient Music Selecting Geniuses, I want to shake your hand.

I want to consume, piss quickly and efficiently, avoid the urge to shoplift, consume more, and then shake your blessed hand…

TEENAGER IN LOVE

Today is our 15th wedding anniversary, and Taeko slipped a card into my brown-bag lunch.

This is what she wrote:

“Thank you for being so nice to me for 15 years!”

My first reaction was to giggle a little.

But after about 30 seconds, I could feel the sentiment evolving, and a minute later I realized it was incredibly profound.

So thank you, Taeko, for bearing with me and my veneer of cynicism and irony.

Thank you for being so nice to me for 15 years…

HELLO PANDA

The problem with Person Pitch is that the first three songs sync up pretty well with the length of my commute.

And they're so fucking brill in both the "-iant" and "Building" sense that for the longest time I've lacked real motivation to get involved with tracks 4-7.

I'm sure that Comfy in Nautica/Take Pills/Bros will begin to pall soon, and when they do, woo hoo, more Panda Bear for me...

PERSON PITCH

As it turns out, my brother was at game one of the 1986 WS. I didn’t know this until a few years later.

I was sitting in his rented house, the one where the wood floor in the living room sloped to the west, and squirrels breached the flue routinely. He was working the remote, and stopped at a Mets’ game.

“What are you doing? You hate baseball.”

And that was true, as far as I knew. Baseball was my thing.

Growing up, I had a bottomless chest of baseball cards in my room, and had memorized all sorts of arcane facts and records.

I spent many afternoons as a kid hurling a tennis ball against my garage door, pretending I was Jon Matlack or Jerry Koosman. I played in the neighborhood street games with the boys my brother’s age, who chose me for their side before they chose him. I played little league, made all-star teams, went out for celebratory pizza and soda with the coach.

And all the while my brother glowered at the game. Said it was for “pussies.”

Really what it had become was a symbol. A symbol of how much easier things seemed to be for me. A symbol of all his struggles in the world.

But as we sat quietly and watched the game together that night, so much of the accreted bitterness dissolved away.

We sat and we watched, and we did not make a sound for destiny to hear...

SYMPATHY FOR THE RED SOX

Among my 2007 holiday swag was the nine DVD collection of every game of the 1986 World Series, plus the sixth and deciding game of the NLCS.

I have now watched the playoff game and the first WS game.

And going back to the beginning and starting with game one of the series raises the whole experience-- which exists in the memory as high drama-- to the level of Classical tragedy.

At the outset of that first broadcast, Vin Scully notes the heroic effort being put forth by Bill Buckner.

Scully returns again and again to the image of the hobbled warrior, who is earning the respect of friend and foe just by being out there.

And it is truly painful to watch, particularly when Scully points out that one of Buckner’s legs has atrophied due to his injuries. You squint a little and swear that you can notice the difference.

Then with the Sox holding a 1-0 lead, John McNamara replaces Buckner with Dave Stapleton for defensive purposes, and even the most hardened Mets fan must get a catch in the throat.

I muttered “Learn from that” under my breath when I watched this time around, but of course destiny did not listen...

TORQUED TONGUE

Things I learned on my winter break, part 1.

Panda Bear’s Comfy in Nautica makes a great soundtrack for your first car accident, particularly if the collision occurs on a road that encircles a large shopping mall.

Ah, sweet irony…

Here’s the damage report, for those of you scoring at home.

Body and spirit: undamaged. Car: $4,800.

FORKED TONGUE

Bless the pointed heads at Pitchfork for arranging to make available MP3s of almost half their Top 100 tracks of 2007 list.

My iPod now has a nice 25-track album named "Pitchfork Best of 2007" that I'm just itching to get to know...

THE SAME WHEREVER YOU GO

So I can’t say the Pogues saved my life. But they did help me live. And for that I owe them a tremendous debt of gratitude.

They’re coming around again in March, and brain coral and I bought our tickets yesterday.

I can see doing this every two years or so for as long as it holds up…

Happy Xmas and a Merry New Year, all. I’ll be back in early January

A FREEBORN MAN

Once upon a time, I had an argument with my mother.

Something to do with wasting potential and the lack of a rudder.

I remained calm throughout, as she pushed me for answers: What was I going to do? Where was I going?

“Somewhere. You'll see.”

“What, when you're dead?”

I flinched. She had to have noticed that I flinched.

God, no. Death had nothing to do with it.

She shut her bedroom door, and I retreated to my room without answering her.

“When I'm alive, mom. When I'm alive”

MISFITS



So this dude? Totally Kurt Cobain's claymation doppelgänger. Right down to the “You can't fire me/I quit” philosophizing.

Too bad Kurt couldn't defang the Bumble...

BLOWFISH

Of course, it is best to defer to Hootie in times like this:

"Sometimes you're crazy and you wonder why
I'm such a baby 'cause the Dolphins make me cry..."

And I did actually cry small tears of joy when the 0-13 Fish caught a break and found their way to a win in OT. Thrust my arms in the air and cried...

THE NECESSITIES AND MORE

And then there's this:

"Honest to goodness, the bars weren't open this morning,
They must have been voting for a new president of something.
Do you have a quarter?" I said "yes" because I did.
Honest to goodness the tears have been falling all over the country's face.
It was better before before they voted for what's his name,
This was supposed to be the new world...

"I said 'yes' because I did" seems like a throwaway line, until you let down your defenses a bit. Then suddenly it's a punch in the gut, and you're embarassed by how easy it is to lose your elemental humanity.

And really, fuck all the what's his names...

THE FACTS WE HATE

And no, for once and for all, X were not hardcore. They were beatniks—beatniks who met in poetry workshops, fell in love sloppily, and wanted to play fast with a big old grin on their face.

They also said this:

"I'm guilty of murder of innocent men,
Innocent women, innocent children,
Thousands of them!
My planes, my guns, my money, my soldiers,
My blood on my hands,
It's all my fault!
I must not think bad thoughts."

Like I said, beatniks.

But if that doesn't resonate with you at all here in America v.2007, you're just about three-quarters fucked...

SASON ACCENT

Another thing I like about Jens Lekman is that he pronounces the word "father" like it's something you should be feeding to a cow...

THE SWEET SWEDE SWAYED SWEETLY

One thing I like about Jens Lekman is that he writes songs with his name in them, so that phonetically inclined yakkos like me have a clue how to pronounce it.

It's still not too late for you, Sufjan!

UNLEADED

A couple of weeks ago I stopped to get gas on the way to work. It was about 7:45 AM when I pulled up to the pumps. My windows were down halfway, and I was playing the untitled instrumental from In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Pretty loudly, if you must know.

While I was filling my tank, a woman pulled up to the other side of the island. She was probably in her early 60s, and as she peered around to my side, I was sure that she was about to complain about the volume of the music.

"What is that?" she asked, with no rancor and obvious curiosity. "Is it Irish?"

I was so prepared to apologize that it took me a few seconds to formulate a different response.

"There's some Celtic in there I guess. But they also have roots in Louisiana."

"Louisiana. Huh." She paused to listen some more. "Very interesting."

I thought about that woman all day...

GREAT SCOTTSO!

It's good to know that the classic-rock folks have a sense of humor.

I heard a promo on satrad the other day that went something like this:

"Madonna is nominated for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year, and Bad Company still sit on the sidelines waiting? The Beastie Boys are considered for induction, and Jethro Tull still stand outside the door?"

The tone was incredulous, and if you didn't know any better, you might have thought for a second that it was serious. Hee.

Goddam, I love it when the classic rockers get wacky...

WHO'S THE LEADER OF THE PUNKS...

I swear I read the other day that Johnny Rotten is now married to Ari Up's mom.

In 1990s Mouseketeer terms, this would be like Justin Timberlake marrying Keri Russell's mom.

Yo.

OF MONTREAL

Taeko had never heard Arcade Fire until yesterday.

She doesn’t usually take note of the music I’m playing in the car, but as we drove to Costco everyone was strangely quiet. So quiet that I kidded myself that they were all listening intently.

“Then we think of our parents/Whatever happened to them?”

I imagined Lana and Sebastian sitting there in the second row of the minivan getting a chill up their little spines.

Taeko, though, was the first one to speak.

“What kind of music is this?”

I didn’t know how to answer that, and I told her so.

“I mean, what genre?”

Again. Um, OK: grandiose, gently avant rock that hitches up right close to the mainstream?

“Sounds like David Bowie,” she said.

Right, David Bowie. That’s basically what I meant.

She didn’t come out and say so, but I think she liked it…

20TH CENTURY BOY

Waiting out in front of 9:30 for brain coral and his brother, I noticed a guy slip out the door for a smoke with a group of four or five others.

He was short and slightly built, with straight-leg skinny jeans and a haystack of hair on his head.

He bantered with his friends for a few minutes, and when the group broke apart he headed back toward the front door of the club. He stopped mid stride and spun on his heel. “Can I have a kiss, honey?” he said very gently to one of the women in the group, and she complied.

I saw him smile and enter the club, noting for the first time the laminate attached to his shirt.

So when this fun, unremarkable trio named the 1990’s opened the show, and I saw that he was the singer/guitarist, I liked the band just a little bit more than I probably would have otherwise…

FREEZE, MAN, FREEZE

Multiple choice quiz.

Place the following description: “Whipped up fluffy chocolate-on-chocolate taste!”

(1) From the liner notes for One Nation Under a Groove
(2) From the poster for Sweet Sweetback's Baadaassss Song
(3) From the wrapper of my fun-size 3 Musketeers bar

If you said (1) or (2), you're probably right. If you said (3), you're right for sure-- I have the wrapper right here in front of me...

ET TU, BRUT?

So as my buddy brain coral will happily attest, Art Brut ruled the night at 9:30.

Eddie Argos was all louche charm, with a loose flannel shirt draped over a pillowy gut.

His greatest innovation? Referring to the band by name at every opportunity.

“Art Brut, are you ready?” he’d bellow, and I’d feel a giddy little tug at my heart.

You had me at Art Brut, Eddie…

RUNAWAY AMERICAN DREAM

Nature does not spit out Bruce Springsteens casually.

I was reminded of this the other night watching Craig Finn of The Hold Steady flail around the 9:30 stage looking like your eighth-grade social studies teacher infected with the rage virus.

The boy’s got lyrical faculties for sure, the kind where it wouldn’t at all surprise you to hear him break into Blinded by the Light at any given moment.

He’s vulnerable to the same traps as early Bruce as well, e.g., the tendency to drop in syllables where silence would do, and a hella blind spot regarding real, actual women. Sandy, meet Holly. Holly, meet Sandy…

But Craig is a zero-charisma guy, whereas 70s Bruce dripped the stuff. And sex, too—I remember one dirtbag who passed first-year Spanish just because Ms. Krebs thought he looked like Bruce.

And I’d imagine that Bruce never used his encore as an opportunity to tell the audience what a sincere joy it was to be onstage performing for them.

I’m pretty sure he just let the encore(s) do the talking…

HEY, KIDS, ROCK AND ROLL

I took the kids to a friend's house last month, and there was a big old trampoline in the backyard, encircled by a thick wire-mesh enclosure.

The kids bounced around for an hour like radical ions.

A couple of weeks later, I saw The Go! Team at 9:30, and the experience was much the same.

I liked the Sonic Youth-y moments the best, and I was crushing on Kaori Tsuchida for sure.

Tomorrow night: Art Brut and the Hold Steady.

Ooh, my soul...

CODA

There was actually one more session, several days later.

We invited our friend Howie, who was assuming the role of "manager."

And yes, we were po-mo enough to say it with air quotes.

However, with Howie sitting in, we became paralyzed by self-consciousness. We abandoned anything we attempted.

Howie was our Yoko.

ONE MORE SONG

Mike, Larry, and I would soon find ourselves moving in different orbits.

I started to see less and less of Mike, and rumors of him wearing outrageous makeup in NYC clubs gained quick currency. The rumors accreted until it was said that he was living in the village with his boyfriend.

The last time I saw him was on the day of our 10th high school reunion, in a local pizza place with a girl I did not know. He wore a drab flannel shirt and jeans, with nothing on his face except a bit of dark stubble.

I lost track of Larry at around the same time I lost Mike. Folks said that he was living with a 40-year-old woman and her 10-year-old daughter, and I eventually heard a rumor that he had been institutionalized.

I have not seen Larry again.

I retreated to my poetry and to my books, and I am sure there was a surfeit of colorful rumors about me as well.

But before all that, there was time for one more song.

Just one more song…

Listen for: 0:38, Mike bringing the backup vocals. 1:33, as we get together one more time…

WE CAN'T HAVE THAT

I thought about leaving this one out.

The first half at least is just ugly and vituperative.

Well, except for Larry's drum solo at the start, which is pretty sweet.

I give teenage me a little credit for locating the anger more properly in the second half of the song, and yeah, “I can't have that/We can't have that” gets at the spirit of 17.

Listen for: theatricality masking pain, pain masking theatricality, throughout...

FLASH

Rumor had it that a flasher had been spotted on the grounds of JFK High School.

So this was our trenchant commentary on the situation.

Listen for: 1:48, a lesson learned from the Dolls on the simple glory of the word "trash"...

I LOVE YOU

And this one goes out to all the lovely ladies of Plainview!

Listen for: 2:09, where, for the love of Paul McCartney, I sing "But I can't let me go on like this." Well, at least I was just making it up as I went along...

TWIST

Now it can be told: I invented emo.

Listen for: me inventing emo.

FLIP FLOP

Jocularity!

Listen for: Speaking in tongues, 1:37.

I HATE YOU

I totally spit the bit on this one.

I mean, Mike and Larry brang the noise, but I just didn't bring the funk.

I'm thinking in particular of the moment at 0:48 when I resort to counting to four. Twice.

Listen for: OK, the “Ready, leeettt's go!” part at 0:11 sounded promising. And the Johnny Rotten homage at 1:56 is kinda cute...

HAPPENS ALL THE TIME

And then it was the day after that.

We got together again, and this time with intent. We wanted to make more songs.

We headed over to Mike's house, but soon realized that he was locked out (which became lyrical fodder for the walking blues of track 1). So we recorded instead at my house.

Listen for: the inexcusable run of irredeemably off-key singing that starts at 0:53. If I could change anything about any of these recordings, I would wipe both passes at “Glad you're not around.” The “Couldn't find a key, and then it hit me” part at 1:14 is pretty punktacular, though...