Oh! You Pretty Things

from the LP Hunky Dory, RCA Records, 1971



One focus within the study of life-course sociology is a concept called “turning points”, those moments in time when the normal trajectory of our life is interrupted, subjectively or otherwise, in such a way that things are never quite the same again; arguably, this time period was exactly that for Bowie, the start of a transformation which would continue to evolve over time, but never again look backwards to the campy preciousness with which he started his career. This was the first album where all the players who were to become the Spiders from Mars has assembled, and although there were still traces of that eccentric fop of yore dashed across this LP, Bowie himself actually sounds more confidant than ever---both as a performer & as a writer. This particular song is a reflection of the times around him in 1971, “…what are we coming to, no room for me, no fun for you…all the nightmares came today, and it looks as though they're here to stay…”; after the death of the new left’s dream had fallen with such a thud, things looked worse than ever, and although glam rock was fueling the immediate needs of Britain’s youth, Bowie was looking way ahead here; the idea of aliens coming from above to colonize the earth wasn’t new, but ever the marketer to youthful rebellion, he created a future in which the kiddies would team with the aliens to create a new breed, “…look at your children, see their faces in golden rays, don't kid yourself they belong to you, they're the start of a coming race; the earth is a bitch, we've finished our news…” While plenty about Bowie’s likeness during this pre-Ziggy period was still somewhat effeminate, I disagree with reviewers’ assertions that this track is a celebration of homosexuality in plot---when he says “…you gotta make way for the Homo Superior…”, it’s actually a reference to Nietzche’s concept of the ‘Übermensch’, or superman; he specifically says, “Homo Sapiens have outgrown their use”, not “heterosexuals”. Without going into the boring depths here, I feel that Bowie was asserting the concept of “fluid sexuality” (or at least bisexuality) into Nietzsche’s paradigm, particularly when you consider his image transition from kitsch femininity to extraterrestrial androgeny; the choice of “pretty” has more to do with glam trends in the UK at that time, which were makeup & glitter, not necessarily homosexual in nature (ambiguous, sure), certainly not if you were a female fan of his. At any rate, this theory of a space-based route to salvation would directly inform Bowie’s next moves, namely acting as the origin of his Ziggy Stardust persona and subsequent conceptual trip. David Bowie has never been content to stick with one image for very long, and that turning wheel of front-stage identity began right here.

First Time Around

from the 12” single, Salsoul Records, 1979



Sampled a zillion times during the disco-house boom in the late ‘90s, this burner off of Skyy’s debut LP chugs along at a sultry pace, smack dab inside the mid-tempo erogenous zone I’ve previously written about (go ahead, pump your hips on the beat and tell me the timing isn’t damn near perfect: not so slow that you loose the groove, but not so fast that you can’t keep it up for an “extended play”…); the remix here, by Larry Levan, is spacey as all fuck, which is wonderful for those of us plagued by severe synthesizer addictions, but also befitting of the cover photo for the album this single was culled from---it looks as if they are the crew who battles inside the ships from Galaga or Defender, the Atari-like laser effects bringing it all together hazily. Skyy really was one of the tighter bands inside of the disco-funk / boogie template, and I recommend any of their earlier albums to those who dig this track.

Flesh for Fantasy

from the LP Rebel Yell, Chrysalis Records, 1983



You’ve got to imagine that Billy Idol took a lot of shit from his mates for this one---I mean, going from Generation X to this in 5 fast years must have seemed like pure treason to the punk faithful; frankly though, that core of purists never really took Mr. Idol seriously to begin with, and for good reason, because he wasn’t truly one of them. This album displays that dutifully, and it remains one of my guiltiest 80s pleasures; this song in particular really congeals everything that was right/wrong with that time period into four & a half minutes of pure unadulterated gratification. All the decade’s hallmarks are here: over-processed guitar, heavily echoed vocals, drum machine, synths, and the general aura of anal beads & uncut coke. Not a lot of substance to be found in the lyrics here, except for one glaring, existential truth; “…ain't it strange what we do to feel all right? Oh yeah…”

Suicide Solution

from the LP Blizzard of Oz, Epic Records, 1980



Any fan of Ozzy who had cable in the early 2000s (that’s the first time I’ve written that chronological phrase, and it feels icky…) was surely saturated with the perpetually replayed bio of him & Sharon: her becoming estranged from daddy to support the band-less Ozzy, who was generally just getting loaded on booze, ‘ludes & various other potions, wallowing in the self-misery of getting fired from Sabbath (apparently wallowing in his own sick & filth as well…)---but love conquers all, blah blah blah, they get a record deal, & off we go again. And thank fucking whoever for that woman’s patience & belief in him, as well as for poaching the virtuoso guitarist Randy Rhoads (may he rest in peace), because I can’t imagine having come of age without his ‘80s solo hits & crazy antics as background. This was the track some grieving parents tried to blame for their son’s suicide, claiming there were subliminal messages in the track that tell the listener to “get the gun” (or some such hogwash), even though it’s well-documented that the song was actually written about original AC/DC singer Bon Scott having drank himself to death. Frankly, one has to wonder if Ozzy wrote this tale autobiographically, when you consider his own lifestyle at the time, which was seemingly unaffected by Scott’s death. How is this dude still alive? One word: Sharon.

Cut Out to FL

from the LP Deadringer, Definitive Jux Records, 2002



Florida is truly the inverted armpit of our nation (a quick perusal of our country’s more disturbing news stories will give you some indication, and watching the movie Bully will give you even more); I spent my whole youth growing up there, in a few different locales, and I can most assuredly attest to that fact---hell, I was joyfully a part of the problem previous to my departures. The scum of this entire fucking country eventually washes up down in Florida, as if there is some gigantic magnet for arrest warrants & bullshit under the ground that literally lures the hustlers, addicts, fools, & evil motherfuckers down south. That’s why the little vocal sample at the beginning of this track is so friggin’ appropriate, and one can scarcely imagine how many similar conversations and trains of thought wind up at that same conclusion every day. Sadly, it’s the same reason a lot of individuals wind up getting themselves killed down there. RJ ‘D2’ Krohn came up DJing in Columbus, Ohio and I saw him spin at a few parties around there in the ‘90s when I was living in Cleveland, long before he signed with Def Jux---I don’t think many ravers, including myself, had any clue what was in the works for this cat’s career. The comparisons to Shadow & Cam are fair, but RJ has his own vibe, more soul than funk maybe, like the Otis Redding to their Jimmy Castor Bunch, dig? Watch for the smooth switch-up around two minutes in, categorically seamless!

Cannonball

from the LP Last Splash, 4AD Records, 1993



Frank Black (aka ‘Black Francis’… love ya Frank, but just who the fuck exactly calls themselves shit like that anyways?!) was a dumbass for not fostering and encouraging Kim Deal’s songwriting abilities inside of the Pixies; but that’s okay, because thanks to his controlling narcissism she formed another band, The Breeders, blessing the world with some of the most oddly captivating nuggets found within the ‘90s indie rock cannon. Topping the sparkly & disjointed masterpiece that is their debut Pod was going to be a near-impossible task, and although I do like parts of this album, it kind of feels like they knew that fact too and just said “fuck it, let’s have some fun”; that works in a couple of places, but there’s this piña colada-ish vibe throughout the proceedings here that grates on me, increasingly as the album moves along actually. No worries though, I am a firm believer in the power of a solitary tune, and this lead single continues to be a perpetual delight for me, even though it got overplayed on MTV upon its release; you can’t resist lyrics like this, “…spitting in a wishing well, blown to hell crash, I'm the last splash… I'll be your whatever you want, the bong in this reggae song; want you, coo-coo, cannonball, want you, coo-coo, cannonball…”, nor can you resist Kim’s phatty bassline.

Spring Again

from the LP The Biz Never Sleeps, Cold Chillin’ Records, 1989



It was stunningly exquisite weather around these parts yesterday, went for a little drive in the mountains with a couple of pals, ate some downright savory Nepali food, celebrated the arrival of Spring; from the crisp look of things out my window, today might raise the bar once again! As rewarding as being a college instructor genuinely is, I have to admit, the consistent breaks we get are damn nice; that being said, spring break doesn’t carry the promise of unabashed hedonism the way it did when I was young, dumb & full of cum---no, the plans for this break are as follows: 1) clean the entire house, 2) grading papers & tests, 3) give bags of unused clothes to Goodwill, 4) put up some decals on the walls, 5) lay new mulch in the flower & plant bed out front, and 6) have a bonfire, with the expressed intent of burning all the random empty boxes that have piled high in our garage. How sexy is that?! It’s okay though, the mighty Biz puts a hustle in my step, and you can rest assured there will be a few happy-hours thrown in there for good measure!

Als Wär's Das Letzte Mal

from the LP Alles Ist Gut, Virgin Records, 1981



If you happened to have been granted access inside any urban, BDSM dungeon during the early ‘80s, there’s a pretty good chance that you’re already well familiar with this album---you probably also have a panoply of fascinating stories to share about said underground clubs, but we’ll save those for another day, or blog, or whatever. Fascism never sounded so sexy (wink), and the fallout from Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft’s (DAF, which essentially means ‘German American Friendship’) commie-centric image is hard to overstate, as suddenly Marxist symbology became something of a calling card for hardcore industrial and EBM crews; groups like Nitzer Ebb or Front 242 would have surely looked different had DAF not expanded the template before them. The title of this song means “as if it were the last time”, and yes, if your mind went right into the gutter with that one you were correct---the gist of the lyrics being to kiss, rub, & fuck as hard as one can with your respective ‘liebling’ (darling), like you might never get the chance to again. You can almost smell the leather…

Eccentric Man

from the LP Thank Christ for the Bomb, Liberty Records, 1970



Sounding not unlike some long-lost Primus cut with Hendrix sitting in on guitar, this crunching earthquake of a song does as good a job as any of conveying the all-out garage attack on the blues which was at the crux of the Groundhogs’ argument against pop music: ugly, atonal, grimy, freaky, and yet still entirely danceable and somehow catchy, a heady stew of sharp British wit & acid-headed bluesy rock which, if you haven’t yet been acquainted with them, you need be prepared to go out and buy the whole damn album. They ran in the same free-concert circles as Hawkwind & the Edgar Broughton Band, but were far more traditional in many ways than either of those bands; that being said, there is nothing orthodox about their music. Frenetic and passionate, the vocals of guitarist & singer Tony McPhee easily stand up to the sonic assault backing him as he recounts the tale of a man who is homeless by choice, “…the people think I'm crazy, but I know I'm wiser than all the sages, 'cause I have money they think that I'm a fool for doing what I do, but I know it's right; call me an eccentric man, I don’t believe I am…”

Mid-Season Bud Mix

Green Bush Series Part III, Side A, 1998



Carlos ‘DJ Sneak’ Sosa was an integral part in the transition between Chicago’s first & second waves of house music innovators, eventually becoming one of the world’s most recognized DJs and producers, a title which he still enjoys (a stroll through his upcoming spring calendar has him in no less than Miami, Chi, Amsterdam, London, Rome, San Fran, & Brussels within the scope of just 2 months). Moving with his family from Puerto Rico to the Windy City in 1983, Sneak later developed his own distinct style of house music: minimal, quirky, bouncy, jazzy, and tracky as a motherfucker, the combination of which happens to really get your body grooving. When you see Sneak behind the decks he’s always got a big, goofy-ass grin on his face, because he loves what he does, and he respects the voyage he’s been on, the journey of house music itself, like no other---google his rant against many current euro DJs for a slice of that. He tossed out loads of mixes back in the day, this one being among my top 5 favorites of his, and he still continues to do so, on his website: http://www.sneakthedj.com/

El Mondongo

from the LP Colombia!, Soundway Records, released: 2007, recorded: 197?



When I was first working in the Dominican Republic, mondongo stew already sat among my list of native dishes I knew I needed to try, and locals were literally forcing it on me almost immediately upon my arrival; it’s one of those meals where you could ask 10 different Dominicans for their recipe & wind up with 10 slightly different answers, but the common ingredients where I lived in the campo were: beef & chicken stocks, yucca, plantains, squash, onions, sofrito, bay leaves, tamarinds, pork tripe (and often the snouts, feet, & ears) that’s been soaked in sour orange juice, and many times also the tripe from guinea pheasants or cattle. The whole process of preparation looked absolutely repulsive in the early evening when things were first getting on the stove or fire---jump forward 6 – 8 hours later, after insane amounts of merengue dancing, rum drinking, pot smoking & a little blow, and upon returning to the said stove/fire, the savory aroma coming out of that caldron is, quite simply, far too amazing to deny. For real, if you like to explore different culture’s foods, and you find yourself en la Republica Dominicana, sancocho de modongo will never disappoint after a long night spent partying or staying in from the heavy rains.

Across 110th Street

from the LP Across 110^th St, UA Records, 1972



The northern perimeter of Central Park, while looking very different today than it did back in 1972, remains a defined & recognized boundary between Manhattan and Harlem, as much a metaphor as it is an actual street---110^th street in this case. Although that line has become largely gentrified & whitebreaded, back in the early ‘70s, Harlem’s side of the border was still a very rough & tumble place, crawling with the 3 Ps: pushers, prostitutes, & pimps. Whatever your feelings about blaxploitation movies, they hit the nail on the head for an increasing number of individuals who called the urban wastelands of the 1970s home; great choice grabbing Womack for this soundtrack, props to whoever made that call. This song was utilized to near-perfect effect in Jackie Brown, but I still recommend to any adventurous heads out there (who haven’t already done so), track down a copy of the original, and don’t be no jive turkey!

Smokin' Pot in the Hot City

from the LP The Speed of Cattle, Alias Records, 1996



Oh the luxury of a dry climate---so many of my mountain dwelling neighbors here have no appreciation for exactly how much impact is lessened from the heat when humidity is taken out of the equation; there’s nothing quite like taking a big hit on a joint or blunt, only to find that every working pore on your forehead, cheeks & nose has suddenly gushed forth with salt water, as if your face was a fucking beach towel being wrung out thoroughly before getting tossed in the car (there are few things in the world that smell worse than a mildewy, moldy damp beach towel left to rot in a hot trunk, let me tell you). I have to confess, I most assuredly don’t miss “smokin’ pot in the hot city”, but the contrast is nice to have, makes me appreciate my surroundings (no matter how shallow that might sound); I do miss smoking weed at the beach, big time, but if you read this blog you already knew that, sorry. I love Loaf & the whole Chapel Hill scene, ‘nuff said.

Tambura

from the LP Sun Goddess, Columbia Records, 1974



Okay, yes, this could undoubtedly just as well be titled “Scenes from an Afternoon Delight”, but it’s most definitely some high class shit, not the soundtrack to some run down amateur hour at the 3-for-1 porn theater. In fact, the more I listen to it, the more I’m tempted to create a re-edit that brings in some orgasmic moaning on top of this all, flang it out more, if that’s even possible. Thing is, Mr. Lewis was already a well accomplished jazz pianist & composer by the time of this LP---shit, he was nearly 40! That history in the business tempered his experimentalism just enough to make the whole affair seamless, funky enough for space cadets but still plenty grounded for jazzniks. He controls all the synths & pianos heard here, crafting the slinkiest stew this side of Siam, and much respect to Maurice Jennings on the drums & percussion. Earthy & natural baby, right on.

It's So Easy

from the LP Appetite for Destruction, Geffen Records, 1987



Was there anything better than this album when it dropped!? Yeah, of course there was, but if you were a boy (or girl) with raging hormones and a taste for trouble & middle fingers, that didn’t matter: Guns ‘N’ Roses had come to save our lackluster lives. I originally had this on cassette, one of the first in my collection to be adorned with that now-familiar black & white logo “PARENTAL ADVISORY”; I wonder if Tipper Gore and that whole league of pathetic concerned parents (PMRC) would have gone through with the labeling had they known it would only wind up boosting record sales to the bands whose albums bore that branding…dumbasses. I admit, when faced with the half wax figure, half porcelain doll / botox crash test dummy that is Axl Rose these days, it’s even difficult for those of us who worshipped them back in the day to imagine him ever having been cool, but he was (plastic surgery nightmares, that could be a whole friggin’ blog unto itself). Excepting for the drummer though, everyone else in the band was still cooler than Axl even back then, and you gotta love the drug-addled backing vocals, barely laid down care of Duff & Izzy; remember…no one had even seen Slash’s face yet!!

Bambaataa's Theme

from the 12” single, Tommy Boy Music, 1986



A man grows up in the ghetto (re: Bronx River Pjs, pre Giuliani’s fascist regime), goes on to head that area’s biggest gang, but then a funny thing happens--- that man takes a trip to Africa. A vision was born there, forged by the gritty reality of Apartheid’s ugly scars and its parallels to the violence he saw, and had himself incited, in neighborhoods back home. Upon returning to NYC, the man formerly known as Kevin Donaldson had ceased to exist; in his place: Afrika Bambaataa, enlightened Zulu warrior & electro prophet. Previous to his smash “Planet Rock”, rap music had mainly kept to disco and funk albums for their loops, but Bambaataa changed all that with one inspired Kraftwerk sample and some sick electric breaks. It’s almost unfathomable to imagine what rap music, and electronic music in general, would have looked like had Bambaataa never gone to Africa & decided to change his path.

Untitled

from the LP Disintegration Fiction Records, 1989



The term ‘epic’, when used as an adjective, means “impressive by virtue of greatness in size, scope, or heroism”; without any doubt at all, that word simply pales in comparison to the harrowing monolith of power & gloom which is Disintegration. It almost seems cliché, but while attempting to eschew the rising stardom that had surprised the band following Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, they actually wound up composing what many Cure fans consider to be their magnum opus, hurtling them even farther into the rock star galaxy, never again able to go backwards in either popularity or scope; where Pornography felt akin to the bubonic plague (I really mean that in the best possible way, because I love that album too), this was an ethereal fog that played amidst the mossy bracken in the moors, deceptively attractive yet sinister & detached. Bob gave an interview with Mojo magazine a few years back and affirmed the long-held rumor about their rampant LSD use around the time of this album’s recording, essentially locking themselves in the mansion that served as the recording studio and proceeding to gobble down ‘60s-era amounts of the substance---frankly, knowing that, it’s mind-blowing they got everything to sound this good! “Untitled” was the last track on the LP, a wistful bookend about what could have been, a theme that’s never far from anyone’s heart, “…pushing my face in the memory of you again, but I never know if it's real, never know how I wanted to feel; never quite said what I wanted to say to you, never quite managed the words to explain to you, never quite knew how to make them believable, and now the time has gone, another time undone…” That accordion just slays me every damn time!