from the 7” single, Colgems Records, 1967
“…and the kids just don’t understand…” The suburbs have been topical fodder since their inception, the epitome of the American dream for some & indicative of the evil empire for others---the ironic thing about that being that families who live in suburbs are no more/less similar than yuppies living downtown or heads living in the hills, and it’s foolish to attempt painting them with a broad brush. That hasn’t stopped numerous songwriters & poets from decrying the presupposed malevolence that neighborhoods full of similar looking houses must presumably espouse, and this sprightly and delicious treat from the Monkees is a great example of that; written by Carole King & Gerry Goffin, it’s a sarcastic mockery of all things cookie-cutter, very of it’s time and place, and one in a long line of Monkees tracks that sound happier than a double rainbow but include heavy-ish lyrics. This single came right as the Monkees were beginning to show their countercultural leanings more and more, rocking love beads and dashikis all over the place, having grown tired of being seen as teen pop idols. Another pleasant valley Sunday indeed, only the “charcoal burning everywhere” is just as likely to be found alight in a hookah as it is on a grill.
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 12” single, Thrust Records, 1986
Okay, this song was everywhere in South Florida when it dropped, a big hit on the radio down there, so I apologize if those memories overly bias my opinion on the ultimate worth of this track, but dude…there’s no worth in denying that I still love this shit. Miami freestyle cuts like this one were notorious for packing an unfathomable amount of effects into the mix, as if the producers never met a hi-hat or synth-clap they didn’t passionately love, but that’s part of the appeal for me, because those sounds capture a specific (yet nuanced) portion of the mid – late ‘80s that I fondly remember. The one oddity surrounding this crew, essentially the work of radio DJ & producer Bob Rosenberg (with the help of some hired voices), is their choice of moniker---while most freestyle crews went by their own names or simplistic abbreviations thereof (i.e. Stevie B, Debbie Deb, Lisa Lisa, etc…), these guys decided to call themselves “Will to Power” after Nietzsche’s theory regarding human nature and our eternal pursuit of success…?!? I guess it’s fitting enough, having dropped in the middle of the most consumer-driven decade ever, but it never fails to make me wrinkle my nose.
from the LP There’s A Riot Goin’ On, Epic Records, 1971
All of us define the word “family” differently: for some it just means their immediate family members while others include any known connection by blood (no matter how distant or embarrassing), and still others are willing to go farther out in their definitions, counting close friends and, perhaps, even pets (guilty) among their own family affairs. As indicated, I wholeheartedly fall into the latter category, having decided for myself at an early age that blood only meant something if they gave a shit about me, and that I was likely going to be depending on friends as much as my parents or siblings when I envisioned the arc of my life. The reality has wound up being pretty close to the prediction, and had it not been for the compassion, patience & understanding from all the dimensions of my family, I can safely say that yours truly wouldn’t be sitting here composing this post right now. As we prepare to enjoy some good times with the Colorado-based members of our family over the next few days, my thoughts are also with the rest of my family who are scattered about north, south, east & west: mom, dad, Karen, Kristy, Kathy, Dave, Kelsey, Ainsley, Walker, Jessica, Ezra, Stevie & fam, Susie, Lynz, Jeanie, Verratti, Arlie, Whit & Liz, Gavin, Lisa, Serena, Andrea, Starr, Molly & fam, Mama Mac, and all the Olson’s, sure love you guys and miss all of you!!
from the LP Why You So Craven, Arrival Records, 1981
I have a lot to be thankful for, particularly my happiness, health & freedom. Funny thing is, there was a time in my life when I used to scowl & complain about those individuals who always seemed to have a smile on their faces, something which I deemed (in my infinite wisdom as a juvenile delinquent…) to be a sign of ignorance and, probably, low IQ; fortunately, I’ve come to understand that those of us who smile a lot aren’t stupid, we’ve just come to realize the power of attitude adjustment. Some family of mine have been suffering through all manners of physical ailments lately, something which is always a sobering reminder of how much we often take our good, or least decent, health for granted---in all honesty, having packed on 40+ lbs in the last year or so, it’s about time to get off my lazy ass and take my physiological well-being more seriously. Maybe most of all I’m thankful for my freedom, knowing sharply and all too painfully what it feels like to have that most basic tenet of human experience taken away: the freedom to go where I please, behave how I choose, say whatever I want…shit, freedom to stumble down to the ‘fridge in the middle of the night, chug some milk, and pad back upstairs to a nice comfortable bed (it’s the simplest of things you miss most when you are locked up). Today, be mindful & thankful of what you’ve got. Eat, drink, puff & be merry!
from the LP Electric Warrior, Reprise Records, 1971
The concept of having a “next big thing” has chewed up and spit out a myriad of artists over the years, the notion that there is always something just around the corner, waiting to be discovered and celebrated, while at the same time encouraging us to turn on that which we were loving only moments before, but must then scoff at as “so last year”. I’m sure all of us here are above having our tastes be impacted by changing trends (right, and monkeys might fly out of my butt…), but generally speaking, fads have a way of destroying musicians as quickly as they have made them into stars; this is nothing new, as even classical performers & composers fell victim to passing styles and new crazes. Marc Bolan was something of a paradox when it comes to this subject matter, clearly having been an individual that was keenly aware of all the things considered in-vogue at any given time, but also someone interested in helping to define whatever zeitgeist happened to be emerging; thus, even though he was quick to abandon his elfin-hippie persona once ‘60s psychedelia became passé, he imbued a number of his glam rock masterpieces with an underlying sense of dippy ephemera, something which clearly differentiated his work in T.Rex from that of other glam “rockers” that tread much closer to the bubblegum model. That mixture of pastoral and spacey acoustics cut with harder-driving electric tendencies was a combination that makes this album absolutely magical, as evidenced in this lilting number, particularly towards the end of the track with that mind-melting back-tracked guitar & violin filled coda, simply divine and utterly heady man!
from the LP Siembra, Fania Records, 1978
This was the biggest selling salsa album of all time when it was released, and it’s gone on to move tens of millions of units over the 30+ years since it dropped, perhaps the greatest release of Fania records’ entire discography; what Dark Side of the Moon is to North America & Europe, Siembra is to South America, Central America, the Caribbean, & parts of NYC…it’s that hallowed and revered. To the untrained anglo ear, this might sound like any old salsa record from the ‘70s---granted, with stellar production & arranging care of Willie Colón, but a large part of what makes this LP so relevant still today are the socially conscious themes found in many of Rubén Blades’ lyrics, speaking to the difficult lives of many Hispanic people in both New York and around the Spanish speaking world. It should come as no surprise that it’s the percussion that really hooks me in most Latin music, but the critically aware subject matter found here absolutely serves as the sweetened condensed milk to this slice of musical Tres Leches!
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 12” single, Mountain Records, 1983
While many bands who signed with independent labels have enjoyed large-scale success in the rock-n-roll landscape, the same has generally not been true for funk crews, and where DIY rock bands & labels actually increased their reputations by resisting the corporate empire, most of the small funk bands & labels out there proved unable to compete against the financial backing and prowess of the majors. Perhaps this has more to do with the intended audience (i.e. rocks fans being accustomed to digging through the underground for the next big thing, funk fans historically looking to the radio first & foremost), but the reality is that while loads of indie rockers have ascended the ladder of public achievement, often becoming as famous as their major-label peers, throngs of able funkateers have been wholly forgotten by the masses. Sadly, this pattern held true for bassist Aaron Broomfield and his siblings, who even went so far as to open their own record label (the Mountain records of this release); growing up in Miami Beach, Florida imbued Aaron with a real forward-leaning sense of funk, being told by numerous labels and radio station managers that his tunes were too progressive. In actuality, the wax he cut with his brothers & sisters (initially as Broomfield Corporate Jam, then just under Aaron’s name) is some of the dankest space boogie this side of Mars, easily right up there with the kind of stuff Zapp and Mtume were doing around this time. Aaron did an interview with danceclassics.net a few years back and closed by saying this, “…let your minds and your hearts be forever open…these are challenging and stressful times we are living in today, may all of you find truth and happiness in your daily lives…I hope my music will lift your spirit and awareness, and inspire you to do good things for yourself and humanity…” Word!
from the LP Tom Tom Club, Island Records, 1981
There aren’t a whole lot of husband & wife teams to be found in rock-n-roll, which isn’t terribly surprising because it’s difficult enough to build a successful marriage without also attempting to be professionally involved together. That said, Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz (longtime rhythm section for the Talking Heads) make it look easy; calling themselves Tom Tom Club, the couple signed to Island records and crash landed at Blackwell’s heady commune in the Bahamas (Compass Point), bringing in players from all over the Caribbean to help craft this entertaining slice of post-modern mayhem. In fact, none other than Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry was supposed to produce, but in typical fashion he never showed up---not that it seemed to matter much. This dropped at a time when all the lines between varying musical genres were blurred, allowing for the intermingling of all styles present, constructing new soundscapes which totally defied categorization. The lyrics are all in French, but I found a translation which essentially breaks it down like this: an elephant & hippopotamus, disguised as people, walked to a town where they came across children fleeing and crying, and when they asked what the deal was they were told that it was a war, and all the men were killing each other; wisely, some owls told the pair to shed their human costumes.
from the LP Stone Cold Rhymin’, Delicious Vinyl Records, 1989
You’ve all heard me whine incessantly about the craptacular state of mainstream hip-hop today, and how things used to be so good, blah blah blah. Well, along with all the other danky stuff I’ve posted on here, this slice of old school wax should be enough to silence any of the doubters. Everything on this cut brings the freshness: the layered breaks, Young MC’s speedy (and noticeably clean) rap delivery, and the impressive mix of tasty samples, including The Ohio Players’ “Skin Tight”, The Incredible Bongo Band’s “Apache”, and those super-skeezy guitar licks pulled from Shaft’s theme song---sick! This entire album was chock full of similarly dope beats, breaks that made you want to move your feet, and it’s not going out on a limb to assume that the Chem Bros & Fatboy Slim found plenty of inspiration inside these grooves.
from the LP Burn Berlin Burn, Grand Royal Records, released: 1997, recorded: 1995
Typically, when someone announces that they are an anarchist, it’s met with understandably doubtful expressions & exhausted sighs---even the Black Blockers I knew up in Minneapolis (deemed by some to really be “true” anarchists) were mostly just angsty, middle-class white kids acting out their pre-conceived notions of rebellion (i.e. “smell me, motherfucker…”). Thus, it was with a suspicious & cynical mind that I first laid ears on digital hardcore forbearers Atari Teenage Riot, although it was admittedly more enticing due to the press reports of them being banned in their own country following a spate of riots that had erupted after their performances; I don’t mean that I think riots are cool or anything vacuous like that, but when art causes people to lose it, I can’t help but take notice. The results, musically speaking, were a pretty mixed bag: much of the album (not an LP proper, but a collection of their previously released 7”s & EPs) was filled with jackhammer gabber-beats which proved to be near unlistenable to all but the most dedicated of hardcore fans (see: people high on glue), but a few of the tracks where they slowed things down have become a consistent part of my library over the years, including this song---the one which got their LP barred from stores in Germany. For us Americans, it’s like the Weather Underground going techno, radical slogans & brash tunes; frankly, somebody out there needs to sample Alec Empire (the band’s leader) when he says, “…we react very strongly to tranquilizers, you know…” Seriously though, given Angela Merkel’s declaration last month that multiculturalism in Germany is dead, and the rise of right-wing neo-fascism spreading across Western European politics like wildfire, maybe these guys weren’t just being paranoid or dramatic…
from the LP Another Side of Bob Dylan, Columbia Records, 1964
Full disclosure: I postponed getting into Dylan for as long as was humanly possible, due mainly, I suppose, to my contrarian nature, which recoiled at the sheer magnitude of praise which has been heaped upon his shoulders over each successive decade; along this same reactionary & juvenile train of thought, The Beatles & Stones both came purposefully towards the end of my classic rock education as well, excepting for particular hit songs which one just knows. In the case of Dylan, he had become a Christian during the halcyon days of my childhood, so by the time I was adopting metal, punk, & hip-hop there seemed very little place for this preachy, shaky old man whom I had decided probably didn’t deserve all the credit he received. “…Ahhh, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now…” Although his early tunes have become increasingly distanced from youthful ears, mainly just due to time, these lyrics are among the most astute & genuinely willing words of all modern music, “…crimson flames tied through my ears, rolling high and mighty traps, pounced with fire on flaming roads, using ideas as my maps; we’ll meet on edges soon, said I, proud 'neath heated brow, ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now…” The cliché is true, onwards from the apex of our adolescence, when we know everything, the older we get, the more we realize that we know nothing at all---we also become increasingly socialized, which sort-of leaves major forward progression at the feet of younger generations’ blind blazing idealism, short of us all resisting what’s come before anyways, which is always a safe bet. Love or hate his voice, but respect the dude’s unyielding insight.
from the LP My Queen, Hotlanta Records, 1978
Look, up in the sky, is it a bird? Is it a plane? It’s…well, fuck if I know just what in the hell that’s supposed to be---some kind of winged, scantily clad, female afro-insectoid with giant antennae, Ugg boots & a whip…?! Perhaps they have come to bring us the funk… Maybe they’re related to the Thumpasaurus people, like distant cousins or something; in fact, these sentient beings have such a hardcore appearance that one could make a good case for their inclusion in a Blaxploitation version of Star Wars, call it Space Hustle or some equally ghetto designation. In all seriousness, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that the band responsible for this hot mess, Gaston, is from Atlanta; the humidity literally drips from those warped polysynths, trickling down into the heady stew of funk which is the behemoth rhythm section (more cowbell!). All I know is that, if this track is any indication of what life might be like in the distant galaxy from which those creatures hail, sign me up for an exploratory mission to their planet.
from the LP Holiday, Merge Records, 1994
Male singers who have unfathomably deep vocal ranges always run the risk of sounding like they’ve been chasing Quaaludes down behind pints of Jägermeister, but in the case of Stephen Merritt (the persistent axis inside of indie rock darlings, the Magnetic Fields), that deadpan drawl actually contrasts wonderfully against his peppy, skewered take on pop music; not to mention, dude loved him some drugs for a minute, so it all fits. Upon first inspection, one wouldn’t be judged harshly for presuming that this was just a droll take on your basic love song, “…on the ferris wheel, looking out on Coney Island, under more stars than there are prostitutes in Thailand; our hair in the air, our lips blue from cotton candy, when we kiss it feels like a flying saucer landing…” However, when you factor in Merritt’s unorthodox upbringing and his well-noted sense of misanthropy, another picture emerges out of the second verse, “…in Las Vegas where the electric bills are staggering, the decor hog wild, and the entertainment saccharine; what a golden age, what a time of right and reason, the consumer’s king and unhappiness is treason…” His sarcasm smacks like those old school sourballs, pointing us in the direction of his dilemma over these modern times, not necessarily anti-capitalist exactly, but maybe leaning in that direction. To be honest, I’m very hit-or-miss when it comes to assessing the Mag Fields whole discography, but when things all come together as they do in this song, the sensation resembles rolling naked through fields of warm cashmere Snuggies.
from the LP …e a Tropa Maldita, Continental Records, 1973
Fuck man---as long as I continue to unearth mind-blowing gems like this entire LP, there appears to be no end in sight of my unceasing obsession with Brazilian music, something about the boundless & intrepid approach which gets me floating along through those blissful fields of mental repose and creative possibility. Paulo Bagunça told Rolling Stone in an interview that his music, “…only come’s from within, the heart of the cave, dreams and nightmares…” I’m telling you people, there exists a palpable energy woven into the measures of the songs found on this album, a feeling of mystery, but an atmosphere of celebration; this particular track expands like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, woodsy percussion & driving bassline leading the way, and that sing-along chorus brings the campfire vibe just right.
Vol. 1, Side B, 1996
Perhaps no other American jungle DJ has received as much global acclaim and notoriety as has Damian ‘Dieselboy’ Higgins, and although that amount of visibility has certainly brought with it the standard chorus of haters, no one can argue that his ascendance to power was almost entirely the work of his own two hands, along with important early support from Nigel Richards, the granddaddy of Philly’s beats scene. If you were an up & coming DJ back in the 1990s, your reputation was often made on the weight of mixtapes, and few parts of those mixes were as important as the intro---in this case, the jungle breaks don’t even drop until over four minutes past the start. Dieselboy’s sound got considerably darker as the years progressed, but he came out of the gates ready to throw down, as this mix ably demonstrates. LOVE to Shampoo & the Philly massive!
from the LP Goody Goody, Atlantic Records, 1978
Notoriously competitive and ceaselessly narcissistic, Vincent Montana Jr. was the primary force behind both the Salsoul Orchestra & MFSB (they shared several players), not only providing percussion support, but arranging & composing most all of the music; a native of Philadelphia, Montana was infamously fussy and difficult to deal with (he actually wound up suing Salsoul Records), but perhaps it was that dogged selfishness which we have to thank for all of his many established classics. This album dropped right after his split with Salsoul, and that’s actually his daughter Denise rocking the sexy fresh-jive vocals, “…the look that’s love, is outta sight; two together, alright…super, dynamite…it looks like love, feels good, soft & sweet…let’s get, down…” Her singing matched with that ultra-minimal breakbeat (boom boom, boom boom boom) combine to bestow this number a rather dirty feel, even with all those radiant violins coming on like an angelic procession, your hips never lie.
from the 7” single, Colgems Records, 1967
