THE GATE IS STRAIGHT
Forgive the indulgence, but I'm going to take a week or so to walk through each of The Doors six studio albums-- I'll give a sentence or two to each track-- and maybe touch on some effluvia on the seventh day. Lord knows we're going to have to do something about all this classic rock content...
Break on Through (To the Other Side)
OK, if you're selling the whole Dionysian blah blah blah, this is a pretty good place to start-- an overture with just the right undercurrent of menace...
Soul Kitchen
This works best when it's simmering, as in the first verse. But the choruses, particularly the final one, are overcooked. And that little blues vamp at the end? Burp.
The Crystal Ship
I once saw Doors cover band Crystal Ship play at Great Adventure in New Jersey. No, I didn't have a mullet, but I can practically feel one growing as I type those words.
Twentieth Century Fox
This got some radio play because it's mildly crunchy and witlessly sexist, but it should have been left in the can.
Alabama Song (Whisky Bar)
This is more like it-- boozy, woozy cabaret with nice louche vocals. Really, they did Brecht well-- they did Brechtian horribly...
Light My Fire
Castrated for AM radio, with all the sex excised, this was still a huge hit. Which shows you just what a stroke it was...
Back Door Man
Bring back the garage-band Brecht! Pretty please.
I Looked at You
It's quite easy for even the most ardent Doors fan to forget that this song exists. It's probably even advisable that they do so.
End of the Night
You can do worse than to crib from Blake, and this, um, sustains a mood. Next.
Take it As it Comes
You could, for example, crib from the Maharishi. And "Specialize in havin' fun" doesn't exactly sustain the mood...
The End
Cut out the snake, the blue bus, and the Oedipal nonsense, and what are you left with? Seven beautiful, mournful minutes, plus an orgasm-- what could be better? It's too bad they couldn't find a better way to bring this to climax than with the mother fucking.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Friday, August 12, 2005
ROOM WITH A VIEW
The first thing that grabbed me about The Arcade Fire was this:
"But sometimes, we remember our bedrooms,
And our parents' bedrooms,
And the bedrooms of our friends."
MY BEDROOM
I had the same bedroom for the first 15 years of my life. The door didn't lock, and my dog would push it open with her nose every night to come sleep on my bed.
The inside of the closet was smeared with glow-in-the-dark paint, which in a lapse of judgment my parents had given to me one early Christmas.
When I was five or six, I got a poster of the Pals vitamins animal friends, and I would stare at it, concentrating, every night before I went to sleep. I had vivid imaginings of them coming to life and protecting me from the thing under the pillow that wanted to nibble on my fingers.
I had a wooden toy chest into which I was constantly shoveling my latest haul of baseball cards. I was not a sorter, and certainly not a preserver, but rather an amasser.
MY PARENTS' BEDROOM
My parents had two queen-size beds, which were on wheels and pushed together. If you weren't careful in navigating a move from one bed to the other, they would split apart like a stressed fault line.
My father kept Playboys in his dresser, which I uncovered in the course of some idle sick-day explorations. Several years after I made that discovery, my mom moved the magazines and stowed them under the flag that had been draped recently over my father's coffin. The flag had been folded into a tight military triangle. I don't know why she didn't just throw the Playboys out...
THE BEDROOM OF MY FRIEND
My best friend's bedroom was larger than mine, and we would use the space to spread out our shared collection of 45s. We spent long hours arguing the merits of KISS (he in favor, me opposed), witchcraft (he in favor, me opposed), and skateboarding (he in favor, me in favor, but inept). In this room, his sadistic babysitter beat him to the point of hospitalization with his own flute.
So all hail The Arcade Fire for understanding not only the power of memory, but the power of the specific locations of memory....
The first thing that grabbed me about The Arcade Fire was this:
"But sometimes, we remember our bedrooms,
And our parents' bedrooms,
And the bedrooms of our friends."
MY BEDROOM
I had the same bedroom for the first 15 years of my life. The door didn't lock, and my dog would push it open with her nose every night to come sleep on my bed.
The inside of the closet was smeared with glow-in-the-dark paint, which in a lapse of judgment my parents had given to me one early Christmas.
When I was five or six, I got a poster of the Pals vitamins animal friends, and I would stare at it, concentrating, every night before I went to sleep. I had vivid imaginings of them coming to life and protecting me from the thing under the pillow that wanted to nibble on my fingers.
I had a wooden toy chest into which I was constantly shoveling my latest haul of baseball cards. I was not a sorter, and certainly not a preserver, but rather an amasser.
MY PARENTS' BEDROOM
My parents had two queen-size beds, which were on wheels and pushed together. If you weren't careful in navigating a move from one bed to the other, they would split apart like a stressed fault line.
My father kept Playboys in his dresser, which I uncovered in the course of some idle sick-day explorations. Several years after I made that discovery, my mom moved the magazines and stowed them under the flag that had been draped recently over my father's coffin. The flag had been folded into a tight military triangle. I don't know why she didn't just throw the Playboys out...
THE BEDROOM OF MY FRIEND
My best friend's bedroom was larger than mine, and we would use the space to spread out our shared collection of 45s. We spent long hours arguing the merits of KISS (he in favor, me opposed), witchcraft (he in favor, me opposed), and skateboarding (he in favor, me in favor, but inept). In this room, his sadistic babysitter beat him to the point of hospitalization with his own flute.
So all hail The Arcade Fire for understanding not only the power of memory, but the power of the specific locations of memory....
Thursday, August 11, 2005
FEAR IS A MAN'S BEST FRIEND
The only album that ever actually frightened me? White Light/White Heat. I'm talking scared, like I couldn't listen to it for months at a stretch.
The thing just sounded like the ricketiest carnival ride in the lowest circle of hell.
Other contenders? Unknown Pleasures, I suppose. But that wasn't so much fear as a desire not to listen. Closer is glacial, antiseptic, sad, and pristine... but not scary.
Entertainment! is jittery and high strung, but probably more exhausting than frightening, when all is said and done.
There are others, I'm sure, but the dissonance that comes from that black slab tends to drown them out...
The only album that ever actually frightened me? White Light/White Heat. I'm talking scared, like I couldn't listen to it for months at a stretch.
The thing just sounded like the ricketiest carnival ride in the lowest circle of hell.
Other contenders? Unknown Pleasures, I suppose. But that wasn't so much fear as a desire not to listen. Closer is glacial, antiseptic, sad, and pristine... but not scary.
Entertainment! is jittery and high strung, but probably more exhausting than frightening, when all is said and done.
There are others, I'm sure, but the dissonance that comes from that black slab tends to drown them out...
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
SYNTH-THESIA
When it's over 90 degrees out, I need to listen to Stereolab's Velvet Water at least three times a day. Between 85 and 89, at least two times a day. Over 80, once a day. So, yeah, I guess you could say it's my summer song of choice.
If you've never heard it, I'll tell you what it sounds like: It sounds like velvet water....
When it's over 90 degrees out, I need to listen to Stereolab's Velvet Water at least three times a day. Between 85 and 89, at least two times a day. Over 80, once a day. So, yeah, I guess you could say it's my summer song of choice.
If you've never heard it, I'll tell you what it sounds like: It sounds like velvet water....
Monday, August 08, 2005
GRUESOME TWOSOME
Wait a sec, The Parent Trap came out in 1961? Does that mean the Beatles cribbed their yeah yeah yeahs from Let's Get Together? Were they equally influenced by Bill Haley and Hayley Mills? I can accept Let's Get Together as one of the most influential songs in rock history, because, hey, it's a really cool song.
It's probably more than ironic that this three word spurt, which became pop culture Morse code for parodying the Beatles in the early to mid 60s (see, oh, I don't know, Gilligan's Island, the Flintstones), would become the last words we'd hear on record from John. The way he sneers them at the end of Polythene Pam should have told anyone who was paying attention that the dream was over...
Wait a sec, The Parent Trap came out in 1961? Does that mean the Beatles cribbed their yeah yeah yeahs from Let's Get Together? Were they equally influenced by Bill Haley and Hayley Mills? I can accept Let's Get Together as one of the most influential songs in rock history, because, hey, it's a really cool song.
It's probably more than ironic that this three word spurt, which became pop culture Morse code for parodying the Beatles in the early to mid 60s (see, oh, I don't know, Gilligan's Island, the Flintstones), would become the last words we'd hear on record from John. The way he sneers them at the end of Polythene Pam should have told anyone who was paying attention that the dream was over...
Saturday, August 06, 2005
JUDGE AND JURY WALK OUT HAND IN HAND
Where was I? Oh yeah...
I'm Free
Soup Dragons improved it. There, I said it.
Don't be afraid of your freedom.
Jig-Saw Puzzle
An awkward attempt at a "message" song. And of course, the Stones being the Stones, the only part that resonates is the verse that goes on about how hard it is to be the Stones. That stuff about Keith and Brian is especially poignant...
Let it Bleed
To answer the sanctimoniousness of Let it Be with this loose piece of debauchery, well, damn, it just warms the cockles of my heart. Because "You can cum all over me" is a much better balm than "Mother Mary comes to me"...
Little T&A
Purportedly "about" sex, but this has got to be the unsexiest vocal performance in the history of recorded sound. I've got a better chance of getting hard listening to Edison sing Mary Had a Little Lamb.
Mixed Emotions
The simmering tension between Mick and Keith allowed them to cap the '80s with something that actually felt, uh, felt. And it had been a while...
Respectable
That part about talking heroin with the president? Brilliant. But then this kind if meanders. It feels like it could have been so much more, if they would have just pulled back the curtain a little further.
Silver Train
The best thing on Goat's Head Soup. Feels classic, but ultimately it's an empty vessel. And you know what that says about the rest of Goat's Head Soup...
Stray Cat Blues
Mick once claimed, much to the disbelief of an early '70's interviewer, that the end of this was influenced by Heroin (the cap aitch Velvets version, that is).
Sweet Virginia
As inspirational verses go, one can do much worse than "Got to scrape the shit right off your shoes."
Waiting on a Friend
Awww...
We Love You
In which our fair young peacocks get tossed in the jimmy, and produce a little universal-mind love poem for the faithful. But still it tickles me every time.
When the Whip Comes Down
Some Girls was talked up as the Stones "answer" to punk. Gee, what was it, Far Away Eyes? Beast of Burden? The cover of Just My Imagination? No, it was this.
You Can't Always Get What You Want
This might very well be the Stones finest, most fully realized achievement. From the Bach Choir, to the mournful French horn, to the death, frustration, and resolution, to the scream underlying the choir at the end, this works on just about every level. Supreme.
Where was I? Oh yeah...
I'm Free
Soup Dragons improved it. There, I said it.
Don't be afraid of your freedom.
Jig-Saw Puzzle
An awkward attempt at a "message" song. And of course, the Stones being the Stones, the only part that resonates is the verse that goes on about how hard it is to be the Stones. That stuff about Keith and Brian is especially poignant...
Let it Bleed
To answer the sanctimoniousness of Let it Be with this loose piece of debauchery, well, damn, it just warms the cockles of my heart. Because "You can cum all over me" is a much better balm than "Mother Mary comes to me"...
Little T&A
Purportedly "about" sex, but this has got to be the unsexiest vocal performance in the history of recorded sound. I've got a better chance of getting hard listening to Edison sing Mary Had a Little Lamb.
Mixed Emotions
The simmering tension between Mick and Keith allowed them to cap the '80s with something that actually felt, uh, felt. And it had been a while...
Respectable
That part about talking heroin with the president? Brilliant. But then this kind if meanders. It feels like it could have been so much more, if they would have just pulled back the curtain a little further.
Silver Train
The best thing on Goat's Head Soup. Feels classic, but ultimately it's an empty vessel. And you know what that says about the rest of Goat's Head Soup...
Stray Cat Blues
Mick once claimed, much to the disbelief of an early '70's interviewer, that the end of this was influenced by Heroin (the cap aitch Velvets version, that is).
Sweet Virginia
As inspirational verses go, one can do much worse than "Got to scrape the shit right off your shoes."
Waiting on a Friend
Awww...
We Love You
In which our fair young peacocks get tossed in the jimmy, and produce a little universal-mind love poem for the faithful. But still it tickles me every time.
When the Whip Comes Down
Some Girls was talked up as the Stones "answer" to punk. Gee, what was it, Far Away Eyes? Beast of Burden? The cover of Just My Imagination? No, it was this.
You Can't Always Get What You Want
This might very well be the Stones finest, most fully realized achievement. From the Bach Choir, to the mournful French horn, to the death, frustration, and resolution, to the scream underlying the choir at the end, this works on just about every level. Supreme.
Friday, August 05, 2005
IF YOU'RE ON YOUR BIKE, WEAR WHITE
And now for some random thoughts on some random Stones songs (I'm pulling these from an alphabetical list, if a pattern is apparent)...
2000 Light Years from Home
One of the few pieces of Stones psych that's worth it's weight in lysergics. And really, this one is not so much about the trippy part of the trip as the dislocation part of the trip. Which is what keeps it from floating off into the ether.
All Sold Out
Between the Buttons has had a weird history as far as public perception goes. I think initially folks felt it was just kind of minor and weird, and eventually it became admired for being minor and weird. It's actually kind of endearing after all those cocksure albums to hear the Stones a bit lost in the sheets. This is a perfect representation of that vibe.
Before They Make Me Run
"And then there's Keith, waiting for trial/25,000 bail/If he goes down/You won't hear his sound/But his friends'll carry on anyway/Fuck 'em!"
Can't You Hear Me Knockin'
I've waited in the street while my buddy stood under some dirtbag's window buying coke with money he scored by stealing his parent's credit cards. Sounds exactly like this song. Well, the first half of the song, at least-- not the wanky part.
Dead Flowers
On the train into MSG to see the Stones back in '81, some Deadhead bikers were going on about how they hoped the Stones would play this. And I was hoping to hear Have You Seen Your Mother...? Sadly, we were all terribly misguided.
Flight 505
I've always loved that Satisfaction piano riff at the opening.
Happy
Yes.
Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing in the Shadow?
What a glorious piece of skronk this is. It's a shame that they followed the line of sonic experimentation from here to Satanic Majesties-- it was not perordained that they had to take such a mundane and of-the-times turn. Perhaps part of what makes this so discordant is the fact that it is simultaneously the sound of revolutionary promise and, at least in retrospect, the sound of retreat from revolutionary promise.
It's Thursday night, and my needle is on E-- more tomorrow...
And now for some random thoughts on some random Stones songs (I'm pulling these from an alphabetical list, if a pattern is apparent)...
2000 Light Years from Home
One of the few pieces of Stones psych that's worth it's weight in lysergics. And really, this one is not so much about the trippy part of the trip as the dislocation part of the trip. Which is what keeps it from floating off into the ether.
All Sold Out
Between the Buttons has had a weird history as far as public perception goes. I think initially folks felt it was just kind of minor and weird, and eventually it became admired for being minor and weird. It's actually kind of endearing after all those cocksure albums to hear the Stones a bit lost in the sheets. This is a perfect representation of that vibe.
Before They Make Me Run
"And then there's Keith, waiting for trial/25,000 bail/If he goes down/You won't hear his sound/But his friends'll carry on anyway/Fuck 'em!"
Can't You Hear Me Knockin'
I've waited in the street while my buddy stood under some dirtbag's window buying coke with money he scored by stealing his parent's credit cards. Sounds exactly like this song. Well, the first half of the song, at least-- not the wanky part.
Dead Flowers
On the train into MSG to see the Stones back in '81, some Deadhead bikers were going on about how they hoped the Stones would play this. And I was hoping to hear Have You Seen Your Mother...? Sadly, we were all terribly misguided.
Flight 505
I've always loved that Satisfaction piano riff at the opening.
Happy
Yes.
Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing in the Shadow?
What a glorious piece of skronk this is. It's a shame that they followed the line of sonic experimentation from here to Satanic Majesties-- it was not perordained that they had to take such a mundane and of-the-times turn. Perhaps part of what makes this so discordant is the fact that it is simultaneously the sound of revolutionary promise and, at least in retrospect, the sound of retreat from revolutionary promise.
It's Thursday night, and my needle is on E-- more tomorrow...
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
RIGHT IN THE BED NEXT TO MINE
So there I was, minding my own business. The Clash had stripped the paint from the walls, the Velvets had refurnished the room, the Dolls brought a beanbag chair for the corner, X came with some warm beer, R.E.M. fashioned an abstract paper sculpture for the desk, the Pogues brought some cool books they had stolen from the library...
Then the Stones showed up out of nowhere, bearing candles, of all things. The dark and weary charms of Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main St suddenly made a whole lot of sense to me.
Yes, Brown Sugar is a strained (but invigorating) effort to offend, Wild Horses is a dull maudlin gray thing that seems like it will never end, and Sister Morphine is a terrible bore, but the rest of Sticky Fingers is drugged out, desperate, and wonderful. Songs like Sway and Moonlight Mile exist so you can have something appropriate to listen to when you're driving to 7-11 at 2 am to buy cigarettes.
Exile let in some light, but just a little, because it was sprawled out on the couch with a hangover to end all fuck.
I had grown up enough not to forgive the Stones their numerous trangressions, but rather to allow the aspects of which I will be eternally critical to coexist peaceably with the aspects for which I will be eternally grateful.
How's that for a notion of circular time?
So there I was, minding my own business. The Clash had stripped the paint from the walls, the Velvets had refurnished the room, the Dolls brought a beanbag chair for the corner, X came with some warm beer, R.E.M. fashioned an abstract paper sculpture for the desk, the Pogues brought some cool books they had stolen from the library...
Then the Stones showed up out of nowhere, bearing candles, of all things. The dark and weary charms of Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main St suddenly made a whole lot of sense to me.
Yes, Brown Sugar is a strained (but invigorating) effort to offend, Wild Horses is a dull maudlin gray thing that seems like it will never end, and Sister Morphine is a terrible bore, but the rest of Sticky Fingers is drugged out, desperate, and wonderful. Songs like Sway and Moonlight Mile exist so you can have something appropriate to listen to when you're driving to 7-11 at 2 am to buy cigarettes.
Exile let in some light, but just a little, because it was sprawled out on the couch with a hangover to end all fuck.
I had grown up enough not to forgive the Stones their numerous trangressions, but rather to allow the aspects of which I will be eternally critical to coexist peaceably with the aspects for which I will be eternally grateful.
How's that for a notion of circular time?
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
TELL ME A STORY ABOUT HOW YOU ADORE ME
My awareness of the Stones idled at a certain level of constancy throughout childhood, revving up a bit with Some Girls and maintaining some traction through Emotional Rescue.
The relationship deepened as I was transitioning out of an embarassing adolescent obsession with The Doors (Lions in the street and roaming/Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming...-- Christ, I can still knock that shit out in my sleep), and discovering punk. I developed a particular affection for Out of Our Heads and Aftermath.
The door of my cassette player was held closed with silver duct tape, and it emitted a slight click click click as the cassettes played. I would listen to I Am Waiting and Going Home late at night, with their quieter passages battling the native noise of the machine.
It was great, but something was wrong. It wasn't so much the calculated efforts to shock that began to trouble me, but rather the more casual misogyny. I had realized that a shitheel was not what I was, and this seemed to be the perfect soundtrack for being a shitheel...
My awareness of the Stones idled at a certain level of constancy throughout childhood, revving up a bit with Some Girls and maintaining some traction through Emotional Rescue.
The relationship deepened as I was transitioning out of an embarassing adolescent obsession with The Doors (Lions in the street and roaming/Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming...-- Christ, I can still knock that shit out in my sleep), and discovering punk. I developed a particular affection for Out of Our Heads and Aftermath.
The door of my cassette player was held closed with silver duct tape, and it emitted a slight click click click as the cassettes played. I would listen to I Am Waiting and Going Home late at night, with their quieter passages battling the native noise of the machine.
It was great, but something was wrong. It wasn't so much the calculated efforts to shock that began to trouble me, but rather the more casual misogyny. I had realized that a shitheel was not what I was, and this seemed to be the perfect soundtrack for being a shitheel...
Monday, August 01, 2005
IT IS THE EVENING OF THE DAY
My first memory of the Rolling Stones? Breaking the zipper on my sister's copy of Sticky Fingers. And around about the same time, my next door neighbor Mitchell and his garage band murdered Brown Sugar every weekend. Sounded like the tin-pan rattle in heaven's kitchen to me.
A few months ago I was driving my son to his art class, and Jumpin' Jack Flash came on the radio. "What's that gas gas gas song daddy?" he asked, and I wished I had an easy answer.
Because, you see, it's very complicated...
My first memory of the Rolling Stones? Breaking the zipper on my sister's copy of Sticky Fingers. And around about the same time, my next door neighbor Mitchell and his garage band murdered Brown Sugar every weekend. Sounded like the tin-pan rattle in heaven's kitchen to me.
A few months ago I was driving my son to his art class, and Jumpin' Jack Flash came on the radio. "What's that gas gas gas song daddy?" he asked, and I wished I had an easy answer.
Because, you see, it's very complicated...
Friday, July 29, 2005
LIGNIN AND CELLULOSE DECAY
I have a 20 lb slab of petrified wood that has evolved into an heirloom.
It was a constant presence in my grandparent's house throughout my childhood, occupying one dark corner or another. When my grandmother passed away, it went to my brother, and spent some years in his dark corners.
When my brother died 11 years ago, I took the petrified wood from his house. I now keep it near the bushes outside my front door-- I figure that given its history, it can bear the elements.
All of which leads to an obvious question: Why the fuck are the Rolling Stones releasing a new CD next month?
Next week on the Tongue: all Stones, all the time...
I have a 20 lb slab of petrified wood that has evolved into an heirloom.
It was a constant presence in my grandparent's house throughout my childhood, occupying one dark corner or another. When my grandmother passed away, it went to my brother, and spent some years in his dark corners.
When my brother died 11 years ago, I took the petrified wood from his house. I now keep it near the bushes outside my front door-- I figure that given its history, it can bear the elements.
All of which leads to an obvious question: Why the fuck are the Rolling Stones releasing a new CD next month?
Next week on the Tongue: all Stones, all the time...
Thursday, July 28, 2005
MOULDERIN'
If Younger Me had read the sentence "Bob Mould wrote scripts for the WCW from 1999 to 2001" Younger Me would have body slammed my cassette copy of The Blasting Concept and pile driven it into oblivion.
Older Me thinks it's so uncool that it curves around and almost touches cool.
Almost, but not quite...
If Younger Me had read the sentence "Bob Mould wrote scripts for the WCW from 1999 to 2001" Younger Me would have body slammed my cassette copy of The Blasting Concept and pile driven it into oblivion.
Older Me thinks it's so uncool that it curves around and almost touches cool.
Almost, but not quite...
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
SING, SING A SONG
The spontaneous group sing-along is an odious moment whenever it pops up in movies-- I remember the hard-to-articulate rage that swelled up in me the first time I saw "The Big Chill."
But when it actually does happen spontaneously in real life-- especially when the main participants are a bunch of kids unaware of the beaten H'wood trope-- it's, um, kind of magical.
My nine-year old niece and 13-year old nephew were visiting over the weekend, and in a discussion about their favorite thises and thats, we lapsed into a group version of "All Together Now," with my six-year old daughter and two-year old son making a game effort.
We slid out of the moment as easily as we had entered into it and moved on, but part of me is still there...
The spontaneous group sing-along is an odious moment whenever it pops up in movies-- I remember the hard-to-articulate rage that swelled up in me the first time I saw "The Big Chill."
But when it actually does happen spontaneously in real life-- especially when the main participants are a bunch of kids unaware of the beaten H'wood trope-- it's, um, kind of magical.
My nine-year old niece and 13-year old nephew were visiting over the weekend, and in a discussion about their favorite thises and thats, we lapsed into a group version of "All Together Now," with my six-year old daughter and two-year old son making a game effort.
We slid out of the moment as easily as we had entered into it and moved on, but part of me is still there...
Friday, July 22, 2005
UNLOADED
Oh, sweet nuthin', I ain't got nothing at all...
OK, one thing. I was in a meeting today, and two people were searching for a final appropriate word to finish a thought. They landed on the same one simultaneously, and it was certainly not the most obvious word given the context of the discussion: cohesion.
So, cohesion y'all, until next week.
Oh, sweet nuthin', I ain't got nothing at all...
OK, one thing. I was in a meeting today, and two people were searching for a final appropriate word to finish a thought. They landed on the same one simultaneously, and it was certainly not the most obvious word given the context of the discussion: cohesion.
So, cohesion y'all, until next week.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
1974
This was wearing a rut in my brain today:
"You got your fuel lines/And a handful of ludes"
No earthly idea what put it in my brain, but it's a nice snippet of poetry. And just when I was thinking "Did you steal that from Iggy, you fucker?" I took a trip to the island of misheard lyrics, and saw that it's actually "cue lines" (queue lines?), which is definitely more Bowie style. Instead of being industrial cool and coolly abstract, it's more just antiseptic and abstruse. So I say again: fucker.
1974, REDUX
The Ramones knew it; Don Kirschner knew it; the little boys and girls of '74 knew it; I'm not sure if Bob McAllister knew it. "Saturday Night" was like a really sweet day at elementary school, where you started the morning by acing a spelling quiz, and closed out the day by stealing a kiss from the boy/girl of your wee heart's desire.
I had to call in some serious markers, but I negotiated a day off from Sunday school to watch the Rollers go all tartan on "Wonderama."
And it was clear that this stuff was becoming my church anyway...
This was wearing a rut in my brain today:
"You got your fuel lines/And a handful of ludes"
No earthly idea what put it in my brain, but it's a nice snippet of poetry. And just when I was thinking "Did you steal that from Iggy, you fucker?" I took a trip to the island of misheard lyrics, and saw that it's actually "cue lines" (queue lines?), which is definitely more Bowie style. Instead of being industrial cool and coolly abstract, it's more just antiseptic and abstruse. So I say again: fucker.
1974, REDUX
The Ramones knew it; Don Kirschner knew it; the little boys and girls of '74 knew it; I'm not sure if Bob McAllister knew it. "Saturday Night" was like a really sweet day at elementary school, where you started the morning by acing a spelling quiz, and closed out the day by stealing a kiss from the boy/girl of your wee heart's desire.
I had to call in some serious markers, but I negotiated a day off from Sunday school to watch the Rollers go all tartan on "Wonderama."
And it was clear that this stuff was becoming my church anyway...
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
P.S., I LOVE YOU. WELL, ACTUALLY...
I've always liked the idea of Patti Smith, but I've never really hooked in to the reality of Patti Smith. I heard "Ask the Angels" today and it was great. Her voice moves from earthy to commanding to mannered at all the right moments; I love how she pronounces "wild" so you can hear it as wild, why yield, or white heat, depending on your mood; and if that "and rock and roll is what I'm born to be" ending doesn't mean anything to you, then chances are you weren't.
Maybe it will click into place one day...
I've always liked the idea of Patti Smith, but I've never really hooked in to the reality of Patti Smith. I heard "Ask the Angels" today and it was great. Her voice moves from earthy to commanding to mannered at all the right moments; I love how she pronounces "wild" so you can hear it as wild, why yield, or white heat, depending on your mood; and if that "and rock and roll is what I'm born to be" ending doesn't mean anything to you, then chances are you weren't.
Maybe it will click into place one day...
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
PEEP
The new Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is perfect music for running yellow lights. That moment when your pulse quickens a bit, your foot hovers between the gas and the brake-- maybe twitches once or twice-- and then you opt to give it the gas. It feels slightly transgressive, but it's all within the letter of the law...
The new Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is perfect music for running yellow lights. That moment when your pulse quickens a bit, your foot hovers between the gas and the brake-- maybe twitches once or twice-- and then you opt to give it the gas. It feels slightly transgressive, but it's all within the letter of the law...
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