NICO COIN

I just wanted to comment on the Velvet Underground acetate that sold recently for upward of $150,000 after being purchased at a flea market four years ago for 75 cents.

Comment: Holy shit. Holy framjabulous shit...

IT’S SUCH A GAMBLE WHEN YOU GET A FACE

Back when I was 17, I worked as a dishwasher at a Howard Johnson’s.

The chief benefit was that I was able to boost the occasional industrial-sized carton of cheddar Goldfish when I made my nightly Dumpster runs.

(OK, my conscience requires a brief PSA at this point: Workplace theft kills, kids. Don’t do it. Keep your eye on the sparrow. Thank you.)

Anyway, the night manager was a bit of a well-meaning tool. He was in his mid to late 20s, and intoxicated by the power that comes with managing the restaurant at a HoJo’s.

One night, I was cleaning up my area and listening to music on my JVC box. Suddenly, the manager slid into view, air guitaring and singing along, right near the top of his lungs.

“I’m waiting for my maaaaan!”

I had a look of horror stenciled on my face. “You like the Velvets?”

“Oh, yeah. Me and my frat brothers loved this album!” he enthused, still windmilling at the ether.

Needless to say I was troubled by the image of a whole house full of fratboys like this huckleberry swigging PBRs and listening to the Velvets. This was my music, damnit. My private music.

Well, this past Saturday morning I went to Hollywood Video to rent a copy of stop-motion Rudolph for that evening’s family movie night. I was greeted by a lone clerk, probably 17 himself. He was dressed in black from head to toe, except for the interruption of his moon-blue name tag.

And instead of the usual endless loop of promos for Failure to Launch and Barnyard, the clerk had Richard Hell cranked up on the store’s PA.

As I went to pay, I handed him the DVD and my membership card. “Richard Hell, huh?” I said, nodding in the direction of the ceiling.

And of course he shot me a look. “This is my music, damnit. My private music,” said the look...

COME INSIDE

I should note that Karn Evil 9 wins some kind of weird daily double, since it comes from an album that also bears one my least favorite titles ever: Brain Salad Surgery.

I mean, it’s no Tormato, but it’s pretty damn bad.

Turns out they nicked it from Dr. John’s Right Place, Wrong Time. Huh. Strange bedfellows...

Oh, and Tom? You sing like a stuck pig.

SEE THE SHOW

This “song title that sucks” brought to you by the good folks at Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. Personal injuries a specialty.

Karn Evil 9, ELP

The main thing to hate about this is that ELP clearly think it’s clever.

But really it’s just designed to give stoners pause while they clean the seeds out of their red.

“Karn? Dude, what’s karn? Is that, like, Australian or something?”

And then the moment of revelation:

“Oh, man. Karn-evil. I get it! It’s like, like, carnival, except it’s evil. These guys rock, progressively!”

I confess I’m not stoned enough myself to know what the 9 is for. Nor why they needed to break it down into 1st Impression, Part 1; 1st Impression, Part 2; 2nd Impression; and 3rd Impression.

Fecking proggers...

DECISION ROCK

Bad title. Bad.

Puncture in the Radax Permutation, Stereolab

OK, my Franco-Brit friends, you know I pledged my troth many years ago.

But this is just brutal.

I still don’t know what the hell “radax” is. A game for the Commodore 64? A prescription antidepressant? A really bitchin' guitar?

What doesn’t help matters is the fact that the lyrics read like a sketchily translated synopsis of episode 6 of Bubblegum Crisis. “Humble biped you’ve come undone/You detached the mechanical”...

But just to prove my love, here’s a compensatory list of Stereolab song titles that kick the collective ass of all comers:

Our Trinitone Blast
Pack Yr Romantic Mind
Lock-Groove Lullaby
French Disko
John Cage Bubblegum
Avant Garde M.O.R.
Ronco Symphony
We’re Not Adult Orientated
Three-Dee Melodie
Fiery Yellow
Pop Quiz
Heavenly Van Halen
Metronomic Underground
Cybele’s Reverie
Tomorrow is Already Here
Diagonals
Velvet Water

IT AIN’T EASY BEING GREEN

Welcome to least-favorite-song-title week...

Skank Bloc Bologna, Scritti Politti

First things first: I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard this song.

I doubt that hearing it would improve my opinion of the title, though.

I mean, I’m sure the song is an urbane, witty, and caustic social commentary.

Or something. Sweet Jiminy Fuckit, for all I know it’s an instrumental.

But let’s diagram this.

OK, point one: Skank.

Skank is just an ugly word, independent of its meaning as a descriptor for an unwholesome woman.

And even if it’s being used more in the ska sense, it still hurts my brain.

I don’t have a connotative opinion about “bloc” but its use right next to skank only serves to bring out the ugly in it.

And then there’s “bologna”...

Yes, bologna— the most put-upon of all the pressed deli meats.

“Hey, Bologna, somebody named Tony called and wanted to know where the hell you get off rhyming with him, being spelled like that and all,” shouts Mortadella.

“Hey, Bologna, what’s your first name again?” taunts Salami.

And all the while, Head Cheese turns away silently and faces the German potato salad, weighed down with equal measures of guilt and empathy.

Bad choice, Scritti. Bad choice...

THE NEW WORLD

As Tower’s bankruptcy sale winds down, it is interesting to see what kind of merch continues to clog the racks even at near-giveaway prices.

The rows of Poison CDs speak of a store buyer too confident that hair metal was due for a comeback, and a hard comeback at that. Perhaps somewhere a Duane Reade is overstocked with Aquanet...

And apparently not even the most ardent jam-band fan needs a live CD of every show that the String Cheese Incident played in 2005. Imagine that.

But I do have to confess to a certain sadness and resignation when I see all the unsold copies of the first three X albums.

I want to get on the PA and make an announcement:

“Hello. Do you people realize that you can get a copy of Wild Gift, with bonus tracks, for $5.20? Back away from that David Gray CD very slowly, and meet me over here at the end of the alphabet.”

But still it remains the unheard music...

DADDY COULD SWEAR

OK, OK, under great pressure I’ve been forced to take the following oath:

I, sliced tongue,
I, sliced tongue,

Do hereby solemnly swear
Do hereby solemnly swear

That I will never again
That I will never again

Build a post
Build a post

Around something I did
Around something I did

While I was in the shower.
While I was in the shower.

And that means “never”
And that means “never”

As in “the twelfth of...”
As in “the twelfth of...”

As in “never say...”
As in “never say...”

OK?
OK.

Got it?
Got it.

I mean, seriously now.
I mean, seriously now.

Like, if something noteworthy does happen in the shower,
Like, if something noteworthy does happen in the shower,

For the purposes of this blog
For the purposes of this blog

I will pretend
I will pretend

It happened
It happened

Somewhere
Somewhere

Else.
Else.

DO IT CLEAN

I wrote a song in the shower this morning.

Thomas Pynchon

Thomas Pynchon does not exist.
If you think you’ve read his books, you haven’t.
If you think you’re him, you aren’t.

And if you think this is a song
About Thomas Pynchon
You’re wrong.

I wrote a song about gladiolas
And Thomas Pynchon stole it.
He’s a drunken whore and you know it.

But if you think this is a song
About Thomas Pynchon
You’re wrong.

Because Thomas Pynchon does not exist.
His library card is made of chintz,
And your imagination is a magnet.

So if you think this is a song
About Thomas Pynchon
You’re wrong.

And if you think this is the end of the song
You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong.
It is the beginning...

MR. SPARKLE

My good friend brain coral was talking the other day about Mark Linkous’ pre-Sparklehorse days, and he mentioned something that I damn sure should’ve known, but damn sure never did: Linkous was in the Dancing Hoods.

Now, the Dancing Hoods were a mid 80s Long Island band that received some local airplay on WLIR. What I remember most about them is that they sucked.

But wait, maybe they didn’t suck. Maybe my reverse provincialism colored my opinion to such a degree that I was blind to their inchoate brilliance.

Maybe their music was made of flowing ribbons of color, ribbons worn supple in a warm, rippling milkbath of sound.

Perhaps their music was informed by the melancholy of the ages, sung sweetly with a tongue forged of ice and fire.

Or maybe it was a future sound. The sound of gleaming crystal spires and the open synapses of biomechanical connectivity.

Nah, I think I’ll just stick with my original story: They sucked...

BEAT SURRENDER

That's entertainment, cassette style.

Setting Sons, Sound Affects, Snap! THE JAM

I picked up The Gift at the Tower flameout, but not these. I have a sentimental attachment to the disc that outweighs its general merits because it is where I hopped on with The Jam.

Little did I know that when I hopped on, they were just about getting ready to pull into the station. Which led to the gloomy sequence of breakups that dotted 82/83: The Jam, The (English) Beat, and The Clash.

I remember hearing about The Clash breakup on MTV. I was at my friend Larry’s house, and his punk cousin from SF was visiting. Right after the news, they played Spandau Ballet’s True video, and the cousin remarked on the negative connotations that song was sure to carry for me until the end of time.

Ironic then, that at the same exact time, about 8,000 miles away, the woman I would one day love was busy knitting a sweater for Spandau’s Gary Kemp.

Life can be gloriously strange, you know?

A LUGGAGE LABEL TIED TO HIS TONSILS

Random thoughts on last Friday's Raconteurs/Bob Dylan concert...

-The Raconteurs portion of the show worked best when they stowed the egalitarian bullshit and acknowledged that Jack White is the only qualified front man in the bunch. That this shift occurred during a delirious cover of Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) made it all the better.

-One of the good folks with whom I went to see the show misheard The Raconteurs as The Raccoon Tours. And sweet underlined, boldfaced, italic Jebus, would I pay $60 to see that! They could just set up garbage cans all over the stage and have those cute little buggers knock them over for an hour or so. Sure, one or two rabid ones might get into the first couple of rows, but that front-row population could use some thinning anyway, so no biggie...

-There’s something to be said for sitting in a college-basketball arena and hearing Like a Rolling Stone performed by its author. There’s something to be said against it as well...

-Overheard, from the grayed boomer to my left: “The only protest singers this generation has are the Dixie Chicks.” OK, first of all: What? And second of all: What?

-AARP card + hippie dancing = CASH ENTERTAINMENT!

PAGING JANET PLANET

Still more Morrison on the cassette front...

Moondance, Saint Dominic’s Preview, Irish Heartbeat, VAN MORRISON

Moondance was Brother Van’s apotheosis of the pop/jazz/mystic. I probably can’t stand 90% of the people who really love this, but I love it too.

The air quotes are starting to show on Saint Dominic’s Preview, and the two 10+ minute tracks either make you see visions or the inside of yer eyelids.

Working with the Chieftans, it would’ve been hard to eff up the mostly traditional songs on Irish Heartbeat, and he didn’t. Nice, pleasant, ruly, and as essential as a bell on a beagle...

KIMCHI WILD

And by the way Korean grocery store, thanks ever so much for the $5 copy of the Criterion DVD of Gimme Shelter with the easily suppressed Korean subtitles.

Please acquire for future sale $5 copies of the following: Kiss Me Deadly, Heimat (the region 2 Tartan print, ideally), and The Tube Anthology: The Best of Series 1.

Thanks in advance Korean grocery store...

Your pal,

sliced tongue

CASUAL JOYS

Morrissey. Morrison. More cassettes I never replaced.

The Queen is Dead, Louder Than Bombs, THE SMITHS

Louder Than Bombs comes within a few hairs of being all I need of The Smiths. I’d be happy to own it on disc/download, but I know in my heart I’d rarely have cause to listen.

Strange Days, Morrison Hotel, THE DOORS

When I was a mid teen, a friend of mine bought me a new copy of Strange Days for my birthday three years running. The first two copies were out of necessity, as I had worn out the cassettes. The third was a joke, as I had worn out The Doors. Hey, Kenny, my birthday’s in a month and a half or so. I have an idea for a gift...

Last week was pleasure travel—now business travel will eat a couple of days off my calendar. Back next Wednesday...

TAKE IT IT'S YOURS

The Replacements, Tim
"The ones who love us best are the ones we'll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays at best.
The ones who love us least are the ones we'll die to please
If it's any consolation, I don't begin to understand them"

If it's any consolation? I can't think of anything more consoling...

The Velvet Underground, VU
More than just fag ends. I have most of this scattered about Peel Slowly and See, but I should really have the whole thing. Forgive the sacrilege, but I'm more likely to listen to this all the way through than I am the first album.

Various, DIY: Blank Generation
This is awesome from head to toe. And hot cans of piss, the CD's even better...

SHOPPING

My laptop monitor got cornholed somehow, so getting access to my list of cassettes would require some patch work that I'm not up to at present. Damn you, cornholed laptop monitor. Damn you to hell.

What I did on my fall vacation: Trawled the aisles of the Huntington Tower. I promised I wouldn't bite until the discounts hit 30%. They did, and I bit, as follows:

The Jam-- The Gift
Dusty Springfield-- Dusty in Memphis Special Edition
Deerhoof-- The Runners Four
Broken Social Scene-- You Forget It In People
The Jesus and Mary Chain-- Psychocandy (reissue)
TV on the Radio-- Return to Cookie Mountain
DJ Shadow-- Endtroducing
X-- The Unheard Music (DVD)
New York Doll (DVD doc on Arthur "Killer" Kane)

All in all, a nice haul...

HOME TAPING IS DESTROYING MUSIC

The Clash, Give ‘Em Enough Rope, Combat Rock, 1977 Revisted, THE CLASH

I received the Clash on Broadway box as a gift back when it came out, and I’ve let that function as a stand in for The Clash, Give ‘Em Enough Rope, and Combat Rock for far too long. I’ve seen all three CDs (four, if you count the UK edition of the debut) hit the racks for $7.99, so it’s pretty hard for me to claim that the dollar made me do it.

The 1977 Revisited comp was a godsend when it came out in 1990, as it was the first real release to include the tracks that had been removed from the original version of the first album when it finally dropped in the states (1977, Deny, Cheat, 48 Hours, Protex Blue), as well as Groovy Times, Gates of the West, and a couple of others that had not seen the light of US day.

I’ll be on the road early next week, and will return to the cassette survey on Wednesday.

May you have a 120-minute, chromium-dioxide, write-protected, Dolby II, Type IV weekend...

YOUR CASSETTE PET

Can't buy a thrill. Haven't bought an upgrade...

Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, BOB DYLAN

Subterranean Homesick Blues kicks off Bringing It All Back Home with a khat-y rush, and then the words just keep on coming...

Some of my favorite lyrics from this period:

Take what you have gathered from coincidence (It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue)

Well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, “Tell me great hero, but please make it brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?”

The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly
Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and cry"
And dropping a bar bell he points to the sky
Saying, “The sun's not yellow it's chicken” (Tombstone Blues)

Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain
And all of your children start to resent you
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? (Queen Jane Approximately)

Oh, the ragman draws circles
Up and down the block... (Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again)

For good measure, I should note that I’ve also never replaced Blood on the Tracks.

And for the life of me, I can’t tell you why...

BOW WOW WOW

What’s all that barking in the Classic Rock pound?

Why it’s these puppies, who never made the upgrade from tape...

The Rolling Stones, Aftermath
Anybody can write a song about masturbation. Lord knows anybody can write a masturbatory song. But rare’s the song that is actually the act of masturbation. So a cramped thumbs-up to you, Going Home. And aside from some awkward “I am so the new Lord Byron, dammit” lyrics from Mick (“Like a withered stone/Fears will pierce your bones”), I Am Waiting sure is purty...

The Rolling Stones, Between the Buttons
The sound of life becoming irretrievably strange. One of my favorite things when I was a kid listening to my sister’s album collection was the way Mick sings the word “from” in Ruby Tuesday. It’s actually the kind of sound you’d expect to come out of the frog-like, three-quarters—dead Brian Jones pictured on the album cover...

The Rolling Stones, Beggars Banquet
This is really kind of slight, which is one of its overlooked charms. Sure, Sympathy for the Devil is all self-consciously “heavy” and Street Fighting Man is a slippery revolution, but most of the rest is loose country bluegrass and blues (and other music for urban gourmandizers). And about Street Fighting Man. Let’s take a minute to imagine what might have been if Mick had kept to his original vision. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you perhaps the Worst Lyrics Ever. Pay Your Dues:

“Chief to scorn his friends make love to his re-la-tions
He beats his wife and made her life a to-tal wet va-ca-tion

Now did everybody pay their dues?
Now did end up with tribal blues?
All the braves and squaws and the maids and the whores
Did, everybody pay their dues?

He's a tribal chief his name is called dis-order
His flesh and blood he tears it up when acting right is nor-mal

Now did everybody pay their dues?
Now did any of them try to refuse?
All the braves and squaws and the maids and the whores
Did, everybody pay their dues?

See all the children roses pi-ling
What's all with us to be grown up is to be good at ly-ing

Now did everybody pay their dues?
Now did any of them try to refuse?
All the braves and squaws and the maids and the whores
Did, everybody pay their dues?”

I mean, sweet sunstriped Jebus...

The Rolling Stones, Some Girls
Sure, they stooped to offend, sometimes to good effect (When the Whip Comes Down), and sometimes to ill (Some Girls), and the country stuff was, oom, yawn— oh, excuse me— but yeah, this was pretty decent. Call it a comeback...