from the LP Three Imaginary Boys, Fiction Records, 1979
“F-I-R-E I-N C-A-I-R-O” The recent revolutionary fervor in Tunisia (which I was referencing a couple weeks ago) has now spread like wildfire into Egypt, with its largely college-educated population now equally at the end of their rope from decades of bureaucratic corruption and high unemployment, indicating the powder-keg potential of any successful revolt in the Middle East to snowball quickly across the region; most notably, to my sociological nature anyways, is the fact that in both countries, the catalysts for these masses of people taking to the streets were, in fact, single acts of self-immolation, echoing the protests of Buddhist monks in Vietnam over forty years ago (forever emblazoned on the cover of Rage Against the Machine’s debut album). This is a new tool of protest in the Arab world however, and something about its silent yet visceral impact has clearly struck a nerve with the people there---how could it not? Is there any more striking or profound display of dissent and absolute psychic exhaustion than lighting oneself on fire?! Many experts agree that Mubarak is far less likely to just leave the way Ben Ali did, and there are already reports this morning of widespread internet and cell-phone outages around large Egyptian cities, so we very-well could be in for a longer and perhaps bloodier situation than we’ve seen in Tunis---let’s just hope that whatever power structure results gives the Egyptian people more freedom, not less…
from the EP Shine, Stardog Records, 1989
“…he who rides the pony must someday fall…” A sorrowfully frequent tale amongst junkies is death by accidental overdose: either (1) of those recently released from rehab, with victims often forgetting to account for the loss of tolerance that such a time away generates, getting caught up in the eager adrenalin rush which is a relapse, or (2) individuals who get a bag of dope that is unexpectedly clean, transforming their standard dose into a fatal calamity, and paying dearly for it. Both scenarios often get brought up when discussions about the tragic & untimely death of Andrew Wood arise, singer of proto-grunge bands Malfunkshun and, more notably, Mother Love Bone (he OD’d only a couple of days before their debut album was to be released, with band members Stone Goddard & Jeff Ament then going on to form Pearl Jam), a person who by all accounts was one of the most talented, driven & all-around fun human beings that many of his pals had (have?) ever been around. Having watched a booter of MLB’s documentary entitled “The Love Bone Earth Affair”, which contains all sorts of wonderfully raw interview footage with him (including an interview he does entirely while holding onto a large stuffed animal named Freddie the frog), I have to agree, there certainly was a rather magnetic quality to his charisma, something which convincingly sucks the observer right into his glamorous world of glitter, stars & golden fruit; his stage persona was obviously influenced a lot by KISS and Queen, but the quirks to his glam-trash image and vocal styling come across awfully similar to Silverhead front man Michael Des Barres. “…but I'm proud to say, and I won't forget, time spent laying by her side…” Like many music fans in their thirties, I have a special set of memories relating to this epic song, thanks to its inclusion on the soundtrack for ‘90s grunge slacker opus Singles, heard at a time when I was gleefully smoking copious amounts of pot, tripping on acid, and duly flunking out of school. Chloe, those weeks spent stoned & laughing in the woods of NMH still rank among the most blissfully carefree of my entire outlandish life, thank you…
from the LP Fashion Nugget, Capricorn Records, 1996
Always existing dangerously close to the region of contrived schlock inhabited by G-Love or Jack Johnson, and coming across a bit like Soul Coughing’s dumber drunk cousin, Cake were the toast of the town there for a second back in the nondescript mid ‘90s, post-Nirvana wastelands; yes, most of their stuff smacks so heavily of upper-middle class cynicism (see: angst ex nihilo) that it’s only digestible in small doses, but this particular lump of infuriated discharge always proves to be a cathartic listen. I mean, there’s always somebody in your life that needs to hear the primary message of this song, even if they’re just on the periphery (see: that crazy dude on the bus that always gets preaching real good), “…shut the fuck, ah yeah, shut the fuck up…” Shit, there are surely people that would like to say that to me at times (see: G-Love & Jack Johnson fans, lol). I guess these guys are still churning out albums, their upcoming release apparently being recorded entirely with solar energy---I guess all that white guilt wasn’t just irony after all…
from the LP Killing Joke, Editions EG Records, 1980
“…the clock keeps on ticking, he doesn't know why, he's just cattle for slaughter…” It’s finals week around campus, and by the looks on some kid’s faces you’d think it was the end of the bloody world: sunken shell-shocked eyes, slouched shoulders, heads shaking in disgust, furrowed brows & pouting lips as far as the eye can see (as a child, when I’d stick my bottom lip out in protest, my mom used to warn me, “…you better suck that lip in or a seagull is gonna come along and shit on it…”). I’m not the kind of teacher who pulls any punches on exams---fucking hated professors that tried hard to trip you up by asking misleading or trick questions! This elegy was the opening track on one of alternative rock’s most consistently namedropped albums, the self-titled debut LP from British crew Killing Joke, a crunch-n-munching dirge that presents itself like Motörhead meets Gary Numan’s darker stuff in a bottle full of Tuinals. That said, this is hardly impenetrable, and many of the tracks on this top quality album are so catchy you’ll find yourself humming their melodies long after the record stops spinning.
from the LP You’d Prefer An Astronaut, 12 Inch Records, 1995
Sticking with an Illinois theme, Hum are surely among the mightier unsung heroes to have never emerged from the underground, short a brief (and mostly forgotten) brush with fame via their lead single from this LP, “Stars”. One might think that having the almighty oracle of all things indie & Midwest, Stevel Albini, producing your demo would ensure eternal success, but you’d be wrong, and the story of Hum reads similar to countless other crews that also fell prey to lady luck’s emotionless divining. Where their Chi-area peers the Smashing Pumpkins always leaned more towards a Led Zeppelin frame of mind, Hum reached more for the stars, marrying Hawkwind’s brutal drugy riffage to Pink Floyd’s expansive dream, concocting a noise that sounds both sprawling & torpid at the same time, and employing cryptic lyrics which tease the brain, “…sleep comes to everyone while we wait for the Sunday afternoons… that's why the suicide machine is built for two, a simple sick device devised to overload on love, to bring us colored dreams and soundtracked waves of fun…and to the left where up is down, now stands a zebra made of shapes of me, and silver and the sun; so bring no guilt with you up above the flat-line, let's just hit the sky, exploding into one…and so I give myself away, to everybody everyday; and so I give myself to you, and you need it more than I do…” Psychedelic haze from the nation’s midsection: get high, raise volume, and exist…
from the EP Burning the Fields, Tower Release Records, 1985
One (the only?) constant within the gothic subculture through the decades has been a heavy focus on one’s outer appearance, wholly conceding the importance of image as symbolism and rejoicing in the power that’s inherent to a deviant likeness, even though kids can now buy their outfits pre-made for them ala Hot Topic (looking scary used to require a great deal more effort). British rockers Fields of the Nephilim (that is one hell of a name) distinguished themselves from many other goth acts by embracing a more apocalyptic wardrobe, less bat cave and more WWIII morning-after; frankly, with those goggles and dirty leather dusters they looked a bit like extras from the set of Mad Max, but they’ve committed themselves to it ever since their inauguration unto the frowning masses, so way to keep that up! “Singer” Carl McCoy never has been able to carry a tune all that well, so it’s a good thing that he was singing about deeply twisted shit, and even better that drummer ‘Nod’ Wright happens to be a polyrhythmic prodigy on the skins. Put on your pout!!
from the 7” single, Sub Pop Records, 1988
These early Nirvana tracks have never really come to sound dated, perhaps in part because the musical influences which served as grist for Cobain’s mill at this stage (Melvins, Meat Puppets, Dino Jr., Scratch Acid, etc…) have fallen so far off the radar that we’ve never been submitted to a proper revival, but one can’t deny the eagerness with which they attacked their instruments, a sloppy and unprejudiced expression of post-adolescent ambivalence. Speaking of which, aren’t we due for a resuscitation of all things flannel, unkempt & loose-fitting (in keeping with the twenty-year retro rule)? Anyways, back to the music, which always came first for Cobain, particularly early on, and it was something he often made reference to in interviews, wondering why in the hell reviewers kept vigilantly analyzing his words (often written on the spot, as an afterthought). With that in mind, forgive my hindsight here, but given the complications he wound up having with stardom later on, it’s glumly ironic that they came out of the gate with a song called “Big Cheese”--- obviously not intentional, but sadly prescient.
from the LP The Taller You Are the Shorter You Get, Homestead Records, 1989
Lyrics have always been secondary to me---you can have the smartest or most heart-felt words in the world, but if the music sucks I’m not gonna fucking listen to it (the opposite isn’t true, and in fact there is plenty of great music containing no lyrics at all); frankly, before I started writing this blog, I didn’t know some of the specific lines to a number of tunes I loved. That said, incredible writing can certainly catapult a song into one’s memory in a way that instrumental stuff can’t, particularly if the words connect to a certain feeling, situation, or moment in time that links up with your own life or mindset. Often times it’s some short & basic phrase which winds up revealing itself to be a broader existential truth, as is the case with this slice of indie rock heaven from Cleveland mainstays My Dad Is Dead (essentially the work of Mark Edwards, yet another Ohioan working-class hero), laying at our feet a stunningly real declaration of belief in the form of a rhetorical proposition, “…I could spend my whole life figuring out what’s important to me; I could spend my whole life thinking about what matters to me; I could spend my whole life worrying about what's gonna happen to me; I could waste my whole life thinking about just what it is my life means… sometimes what matters doesn't really matter at all, sometimes it doesn't fit inside the big picture; sometimes I need to be just where I am, sometimes I need to know that right here is good enough…” It reminds me of that parable about the three monks huddling around a half-full bucket of water, contemplating the meaning of life: the Confucian monk argues about the bucket being full, filling your life with stuff & accomplishments while the Buddhist monk argues for the paramount worth of said bucket’s emptiness… the Taoist monk, having become annoyed with their endless prattle, kicks the bucket over and walks away laughing. I’m sure I adulterated the finer nuances of this fable, but you get the idea: the moment we stop trying to figure it all out, we actually figure it out…
from the LP Pure Guava, August Records, 1993
Could there be any more appropriate band to go and see on Halloween than Ween?!! Surely not, and so my better half & I set off a couple nights ago to experience what was undoubtedly one of the wildest and loosest Ween shows we’ve ever been to, dressed in complimentary banana and gorilla outfits (yes, we are that lame). Deaner had high praise for this area in an interview he gave to the free weekly out here, “Denver and Boulder are the places that we've played more than any other place; we're almost there once a year...it's the pot-smoking hippies… honestly, it's a very liberal, progressive, artsy community that's rich in marijuana smokers. I'm really, truly excited for the Halloween show in Denver. There's no way it can't be fun…” True to his prediction, the show was fucking epic, even for Ween, pummeling the crowd with a far-reaching 3+ hour set that all the hardcore fans are still drooling over (including a sweltering “Let Me Lick Your Pussy” to close the show, and a touching rendition of this number, "Sarah", with only Dean & Gene on stage, one of the only times they’ve ever played this track live, and something which brought the vibes so hard I saw some people crying gently)---not to mention their hilarious bunny costumes, the perfect amount of surrealism & good old fashioned fun. I also happened to be sitting near a couple from Florida, and it turned out that my first Ween concert (at Club Detroit in St. Petersburg, 1995) was also their first, something which reminded me for the zillionth time: it truly is a small world. Ween: bringing good people together for over twenty years, may we all be blessed enough to enjoy another twenty or more…all hail the mighty BOOGNISH!!
from the LP Jane’s Addiction, Triple X Records, 1987
Certain musicians come across deeply validating of one’s inner freak-flag, whether directly or intangibly, delivering songs which carry the heaviest freedom vibrations: Hendrix, Rage Against the Machine, The Pixies, The MC5, etc… High up on that list, for me anyways, is Jane’s Addiction; I stated in a previous post that listening to their music can almost be a spiritual experience for me sometimes, and I meant it---somewhere between the thud of their primordial rhythm section, the drive of Navarro’s guitar (cannot even believe solos he peels off here, the kid was still a teenager when this album was released for fuck’s sake), & the banshee-like wails which compose Perry’s inimitable vocal delivery, it just hypnotizes me in a deep way that few other bands manage to do. You can’t fuck with lyrics like these, “…way down low where the streets are littered, I find my fun with the freaks and the niggers...I love them whores they never judge you, what can you say when your a whore; they cast that pearl and it don't upset 'em, they take their chances if they get 'em…gimme some more, motherfucker, I need a little more, goddamn you…oh how I love them whores, oh how I love them whores…” Who else can get away with saying shit like that?! Not many bands have balls big enough to open with a live album---even though they had already been signed by Warner Bros, Perry wisely made sure to receive a contractual allowance to release this set, taped live at the Roxy in L.A., on an indie label, assuring them some underground cred outside of California before rolling out with a major label debut. Squares need not apply.
from the LP Truth and Soul, Columbia Records, 1988
Some bands manage to be so sprawling & wide-reaching in both image and sound that they captivate nearly everyone who gets exposed, a difficult approach that doesn’t always lend itself to getting far beyond your local show circuit, but one that certainly pays off big if you do happen to make it---because everybody loves you. Los Angeles based nutballs Fishbone are a good example of this phenomena (as were their scene compatriots the Red Hot Chili Peppers), encompassing influences from no less than funk, punk, ska, jazz, metal & hip-hop, then congealing those elements into a mildly controlled mayhem that, when digested with an open mind, proved impossible to resist. Seeing these guys live is quite an experience, every bit as fun & chaotically addictive as it sounds, and the brass section only amplifies that playfully uplifting vibe, “…got this feeling, got this feeling, got this feeling from the ocean, yeah, it’s all right…” While internal struggles tore the band apart in the mid ‘90s, there was a time when it felt like these guys couldn’t lose, and it always sounded like they knew it.
from the LP Suicidal Tendencies, Frontier Records, 1983
Got together with a close friend from my adolescence yesterday, and the trip down memory lane has left my head spinning a bit; although we hadn’t seen each other in over a decade, it felt just like old times---well, apart from the beautiful & intelligent daughter she brought along with her, that was new. Me & S had actually dated for a brief time way back in high school, and she was one of the people who had written to me during my time in hell (see: abusive evangelical boot camp outside the country), which still means a lot to me actually. All out-going & in-coming mail was read, much like jail, only they had even stricter rules down there regarding what would be allowed through: for example, if you got a letter from someone not on the “ok” list, or a note that mentioned rock music or a TV program or something which could potentially take one’s mind away from their attempts at brainwashing, you weren’t allowed to have it. However, they kept those letters, and when you are finally freed they hand them all back to you---I can’t put into words swell of emotions I felt upon looking at that bundle of envelopes, after 27 long months of torture, knowing that my friends not only remembered who I was, but they wondered where I had gone & they had missed me. In all honesty, it was the strength I needed to handle fallout from the PTSD, something which I still struggle with to this day, albeit to a much lesser extent now. S gave me lots of updates on some of our other friends or yore, and similar to my experience in Florida around Xmas, it’s left me with a renewed intention to seek out some more people from my past---not merely due to some voyeuristic desire to see what they’re doing, but to thank them most heartily for supporting me at a time in my life when I needed it the most. This track, from one of the loudest punk-metal bands ever: Suicidal Tendencies, hits home with any of us (by now, surely a sizeable number) who were locked away as kids because we were different, or rebelled against our parent’s wishes; if someone reading this has recently gone through a similar type of experience, take heed my brother or sister, I know how you feel, and I can promise you this: things do get better!
from the LP Uncle Anesthesia, Epic Records, 1991
Criminally underrated and probably wounded by the ‘grunge’ label which they were eventually pegged under, the Screaming Trees were never an easy band to categorize, something I admit being rather partial to: way too brash and clamoring to be considered neo-psych, but far too hazy and stoned to fit the alt-metal mold of the other grunge idols. Hailing from the sleepy mountains of central Washington state, the Trees worked really hard at sculpting their own sound, and almost their entire discography carries an instantly recognizable vibe that is theirs alone; equal parts British Invasion, mid-career Cream era psych rock, Feelies-like post-punk, and some Sabbath thrown in for good effect, all capped off by Mark Lanegan’s distinctive crooning. Their move from indie grail SST to Epic records was a risky one for a cult act, but it really served their sound well, and this LP was produced by none other than Chris Cornell (ala Soundgraden); the rhythm section flies along at breakneck speed while layers of fuzzy guitars wash over you in waves, Lanegan’s woozy delivery surprising at every turn, “…on a day so long ago, now no one can remember, there's a change, this too will pass and vanish in the haze; this is moving too far, under the skin of your sight, ocean of confusion took me back to the end of the night… transparent dreams fade in my head, in my eyes; I'm looking back for one last time…” Sandblasting psychedelic mayhem at its finest--- peyote buttons sold separately!
from the EP Jar of Flies, Columbia Records, 1994
It didn’t take an intuitive genius to know that Alice in Chains lead singer Layne Staley was a tortured man, being that he wore his heart on his sleeve no matter how damaged & injured it might have been, baring his soul to us fans in a way that few performers dare even approach; as time wore on, his consistently worsening physical appearance was enough for anyone with half a brain to understand. That said, it didn’t make things any less shocking or depressing when hearing the news of his death in 2002, after an extended period of alienation from friends & family. This track was recorded at a time when Layne’s addictions were just beginning to get the best of him, and having become something of rock star he watched his personal struggles become fodder for the eager press, something which none of us “regular folk” who struggled with drug problems can even conceive of. Maybe that’s why he just faded away, more content to die alone rather than blowing up in front of the cameras, “…we chase misprinted lies, we face the path of time, and yet I fight, and yet I fight this battle all alone; no one to cry to, no place to call home…my gift of self is raped, my privacy is raked, and yet I find, yet I find, repeating in my head: If I can't be my own, I'd feel better dead…” We all know what it feels like to hate yourself, or parts of yourself, from time to time, or that feeling of sickening embarrassment when others learn your dark secrets, the unrelenting shame felt when you let down people who you respect; in hindsight, it’s tempting to presume he may have meant the words he sings here, but an interview he gave closer to his death reveals a more complex picture, (given just months before his death) “…drugs worked for me for years, and now they’re turning against me; now I’m walking through hell… I know I made a big mistake when I started using this shit; it's a very difficult thing to explain…I know I’m near death…I know I have no chance, it's too late…I never wanted to end my life this way…” May he rest in the peace he couldn’t find here on Earth.
from the LP At War with the Mystics, Warner Bros. Records, 2006
Part of being a good entertainer is knowing what your audience digs, what they hate, what will make them smile & what really makes them grooooove; well, it’s no secret that Flaming Lips frontman Wayne Coyne has got that part of the equation completely figured out, so much so that recent tours of theirs have resembled a lysergic circus as much as a rock concert (I realize this is a point of contention for some---get over it, have some fun). I’ve always been very “hit or miss” when it comes to the Lips discography, tending to lean towards the early indie stuff more than the last decade or so of orchestral madness, but when they do hit it for me, it hits hard. Knowing that Coyne famously roomed with one of Texas’ larger LSD chemists for a while back in the day makes me wonder if their gradual evolution, from abrasive punks to cartoon-like anti-paranoia superheroes, has had less to do with getting recognized than it has with keeping an acid-damaged mind happy and far from the heebie-jeebies. Whatever the raison d'être, I was totally blown away by their presentation a few summers ago when they shared a bill with Ween at Red Rocks (note: it took the stage crew longer to clean up the Lips’ mess than it took to assemble Ween’s entire set): opening with “Bohemian Rhapsody”, the confetti cannons, the giant hands (which, incidentally, is what your extremities start to feel like when you’ve been using ketamine a lot…), the dancing aliens & santa clauses, and closing with a cover of “War Pigs” while images of Bush, Cheny, Condoleeza, et al. flashed continuously on the screen behind them---all of the above tricks pointing to a truly cagey performer, which at least partially explains their place as one of the strangest and longest-running alt-rock bands still in existence.
from the LP Rattus Norvegicus, UA Records, 1977
Coming across something like the Modern Lovers on steroids and hardcore porn, or Television with another row of even-sharper teeth (think the Dictators’ uglier British cousins), their timing & attitude seem to be the only tangible reasons why the Stranglers’ first album is continuously grouped in among the “punk” scene when discussions of said era arise; themselves heavily influenced by the work of Roxy Music, their sweeping use of an organ (both for atmosphere and as a lead instrument in its own right) predicted the direction that bands like Magazine or Japan would later take post-punk and new wave. Driven along by a thumping bassline, which does a bang-up job emulating the feeling of walking forward, this catchy song makes lewd chauvinistic wordplay into a fine art, “…well there goes a girl and a half, she’s got me going up & down…all these skirts lappin’ up the sun, why don’t you come on and lap me up…is she trying to get out of that ‘clitares’ (French bathing suit…); liberation for women, that’s what I preach…walking on the beaches, looking at the peaches…” A nasty summer anthem if there ever was on, come along and enjoy some old fashioned cheeky British wit without any guilt--- remember, there was no such thing as “P.C.” back then…
from the LP Sub Pop 200, Sub Pop Records, 1988
Like most people, I purchased this Sub Pop compilation in the early ‘90s due to the inclusion of tracks by Nirvana, Screaming Trees and Mudhoney that couldn’t be found anywhere else---funny thing was, the big-wigs were duly outshined on this collection by significantly lesser-known bands, and like so many other music purchases in my life, I wound up stumbling upon a handful of fantastic groups by accident, such as the Fastbacks, Tad, & this little-known crew called Chemistry Set. I tracked down their self-titled EP and a 7” single that came after this, but none of the songs on those come close to this number, and for me, this track was the clear winner in the whole bunch here, making perfect use of the fast-slow-fast formula; that washed out chorus is so brilliantly stoned and effortless, it feels like you are floating on a cloud, “…and when you’re high in your room, and you feel in tune, grab a guitar and start playing very loud; come and join us, ‘cause it’s lonely underground…”
from the LP Three Imaginary Boys, Fiction Records, 1979
