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 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 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 7” single, Korova Records, 1980
Sociologist Erving Goffman spoke at length about what he called the dramaturgical sociology, positing that all human beings were essentially actors in the movie of life, presenting ourselves in the manner to which our setting or role of the moment demands, managing our impressions in the eyes of other observers---even if someone chooses to rebel against the norms in a given culture, one does so as a reaction to the set expectations, and in so doing they act out rebellion in the ways which other “rebels” have already displayed for them, proving thus to be just as inclined to have societal forces guiding their moves. The actors in any given exchange who have power or leverage (the dominant class) often have the ability to exercise greater control over what the subordinate actors do, say, or even think, making a dramaturgical impression of puppetry rather than proper theater. It’s no fun being a puppet, whether individually or as a member of an oppressed group or subculture, and some of us have a greater propensity to resist authority than others; if I had to guess, I would wager that singer Ian McCulloch (the metaphorical ‘Echo’ leading the Bunnymen) is that kind of guy, someone who doesn’t like to be told what to do or how to be cool. He had originally been paired with Britain’s other resident psychedelic mess, one Julian Cope, but neither were willing to back down from one another’s visions enough to fashion that creative tension into a functional template, so Cope fired Ian, and the rest is history; frankly, as much underground cred as Mr. Cope has garnered over the decades, I think it was his loss. The Bunnymen’s guitarist, Will Sergeant, had an atmospheric approach to the lead role that wound up having an enormous impact on everyone from Peter Buck to the minimalist master himself, Johnny Marr. These guys grew in popularity as the decade progressed along, but it’s these early psych-based cuts that I love the best.
from the 7” single, Rough Trade Records, 1980
As generic as this track might sound through modern ears, nobody else was making this sort of sparse & twee rock back in 1980---at least no one fronted by a female vocalist, something which added leagues to their delicate vibe; the Young Marble Giants hailed from Cardiff, Wales and were only around long enough to record one full-length album, but they get name-dropped like a motherfucker throughout the indie rock world as having been very influential to a wide range of other musicians. This song is so minimal it almost disappears, but that synth playing one solitary note (sounding sort of like a theremin) commands attention, and frankly, the tune is downright catchy; Billy Bragg nicked the chords from this for his clever track, “A New England”. Not sure what to make of all the apocalyptic imagery here, “…as the light goes out on the final day, for the people who never had a say…as the final day falls into the night, there is peace outside in the narrow light…”, but it fits the austere ambiance like a glove.
from the LP Freedom Of Choice, Warner Bros Records, 1980
The 1970 massacre at Kent State University stands as one of our nation’s turning points, an event which epitomized the divide running through the whole country at that time, something which basically ended the idea of peaceful resistance & also predicted the direction that groups like the Weather Underground would take in retaliation for what was increasingly seen as something of a social-civil war. Some people who witnessed the tragedy that day were so appalled and moved by the events that it ignited creative fires deep within their souls, wrought from the stress of a seemingly imploding world. One notable example of this is the band Devo, threee members of which were students at Kent during the shootings and had already discussed the idea that our human race might actually be “devolving” into a more basal species, and they have often been quoted as saying that the events that day were the ultimate catalyst for them deciding to form a band. They carried these ideas forward with them for almost a decade before things started to happen, and their informed, smart-assed approach to sociological observation proved the perfect fit for an angsty, new wave of cold war kids---funny thing is, I doubt many of them understood that Devo was often pointing their empirical surveillance the youth’s way, “…in ancient Rome, there was a poem, about a dog, who found two bones; he picked at one, he licked the other, he went in circles, he dropped dead… freedom of choice, is what you got; freedom from choice, is what you want…” Culturally, we continue to be bombarded by exponentially more & more shit than ever before, perhaps correlating to the increasing state of disconnect up in here. Maybe these crafty nerds were on to something…
from the EP The Visit, New Hormones Records, 1980
You’d be hard pressed to find a musical movement in the past century or so that encompassed as many differing sounds & influences as did the post-punk scene, where having no boundaries or limits on one’s creativity and experimentation was the norm; in so doing, that scene fashioned some of the most memorable (and least classifiable) groups in rock history, including the exceedingly bizarre and enigmatic Ludus. Formed in Manchester by the radical feminist artist named Linder (she’s the proudly responsible party behind that incredible collage which adorned the cover of the Buzzcocks’ 45 for “Orgasm Addict”), their music was expansive, aggressive, assertive, but always funky & jazzy as well; it’s hard to front on lyrics like these, “…abuse my sexuality, I’ll use my sexuality…you take it and make it, you take it and make it…commodity, I am your property, commodity, I am your property…”
from the 7” single, Radar Records, 1978
First week back in session here, so lots of students to entertain and, with some hard work and a little luck, perhaps even edu-ma-cate on the broad discipline of sociology; I can’t be all cool though, as I have to admit, every start of the semester makes me realize how much I love my job. The first few days are always fascinating to any alert observer, people preening and trying hard to make their best (or purposefully worst) impressions: the obvious stuff like clothing, shoes, hair, jewelry, but also things like attitude, posture, preparedness for the class (i.e. textbook(s) out & notebook open for note-taking vs. pencil wrapping on the table to the beats blaring out of the headphones still being worn). Though his Egyptians have always left me feeling lukewarm, Robyn Hitchcock’s earlier psychedelic post-punk troupe, the Soft Boys, never disappoint, witty & attentive slabs of seething intelligence which never pandered to any prevailing trend or, indeed, anyone. Mixing post-modern, gender-based existentialism with a sneering sense of aversion to fads, Hitchcock’s lyrics ring no less true today than they did in the late ‘70s, “…man, you’re gonna be a woman someday, yeah…girl, you wanna be a man and you will, yeah…butcher, it’s meaty when you chip off your roots, yeah…”, concluding that, “…us, we want to be some anglepoise lamps, then…” It never gets boring with everyone’s identity management running at full volume, and in all honesty, I kinda dig all the wild haircuts the kiddies are rocking these days, particularly the Latino & Latina hipsters working that Japanese anime look---a la vanguardia y super badass!
from the 12” single, Factory Records, 1984
Propelled along by their rhythm section’s brisk pace (the minimal production of which does very little to help their argument about not being Joy Div / New Order wannabes… I’m just saying…), Scottish crew The Wake clearly didn’t miss a beat after losing their original bassist right before this single dropped: that being none other than Bobby Gillespie, who went on to play drums with the Jesus & Mary Chain before fronting Primal Scream. In fact, this sound is remarkably tighter than that found on the Wake’s first album (sorry Bobby), indicating the maturation which would present itself in full on their next LP. Hath my whore-like lust for synthesizers any point of cease? HELL to-the NO! That melodica heard in the background, tooting only 2 notes…slays me.
from the 7” single, Bridge House Records, 1981
Oh yeah, this is the stuff man… Equal parts Joy Division, Bauhaus, & Gary Numan, this scorching track from the relatively unknown Wasted Youth (no relation to the Cali hardcore crew of the same name) gets everything right: driving rhythm section, minor chord harmonies, weird synth effects hovering about, and a dreamy (not to mention catchy) chorus with forcefully processed vocals; not surprisingly, a Martin Hannett production. Gothic new wave post-punk bliss. The precious few people who remember this band are typically fans of the guitarist Rocco Barker, who later went on to find moderate fame with the band Flesh For Lulu (a John Hughes favorite), but most of the mood on these early singles owes far more to drummer Andy Scott and bassist Darren Murphy, who provided the relentless metronomic pulse that makes their sound so appealing, to me anyways.
from the LP What Does Anything Mean? Basically, Statik Records, 1985
I was 14 years old the first time I really got off on LSD; we’d dropped acid a couple times in middle school before then, but it was either bunk or really weak, because I was taken very much by surprise that one autumn evening when those two doses of purple shields I’d taken earlier began to come on, strong. Admittedly, my heart was pounding pretty good and I was getting a little scared, but thankfully our pal Marshall (who we all called ‘Sheesh’) had brought a boombox along for the journey, and right as the tall grass I was lying in began to streak upwards, swaying to the music like emerald spires shooting thousands of miles into the electric dusk sky, I happened to glance at the rising moon----that moon saved my ass man! I glimpsed my mother’s face smiling down at me with the most serene look, and it was all my mind needed to proceed joyfully through that rite of passage, dancing around to Jethro Tull & the Beatles, tripping the light fantastic. “…I thought I heard her calling, hush now don't you cry; figure in the sky, figure in the sky… can't stop myself from shaking, my mind at last is waking… hadn't time to analyze, what I saw before my eyes, but nothing would surprise me, here on our beach…” The Chameleons resided in a gauzy, guitar-driven world that attracted a bigger audience in their native UK than over here, although American college radio gave them a cult base. Their lyrics often play with double meanings, and they even took their meshing of drugs & religious imagery onto the art for this LP, one of coolest and trippiest covers of the decade, in my opinion.
from the 12” single, Red Rhino Records, 1984
It’s incredible to me just how much sunglasses can actually hide, both literally & figuratively, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t a major fan of them (what does that say about me…); shit, as a guy it’s one of the few accessories we’re allowed, so you better fucking believe I have an army of them. There’s a lovely disconnect from reality which appears near automatically once the shades have been donned, and with the ‘80s retro craze still at full capacity, sunglasses continue to make our post-modern heads seem evermore hollow, like craters on the moon. Walking a genuinely deft line between goth & angular post-punk, Leeds-based crew Red Lorry Yellow Lorry (‘lorry’ being British nomenclature for trucks used in shipping) continues to sit high amidst my pile of band’s that deserve more love; no, there’s no new ground being broken or anything, but the way they managed to combine their influences produced a subtle vibe all their own: spooky, jangly, unfastened. This uptempo number falls somewhere between the Cult & early Sisters of Mercy, almost like it’s the catchiest tune neither band ever recorded.
from the LP Jeopardy, Korova Records, 1980
I spent a brief tenure flunking out of college in the middle of Indiana, about as “heartland” of a place as one can find around this country anymore, rows of corn and soybeans as far as the eye could see; for a boy that grew up at the beach, getting high in the middle of a cornfield was surprisingly exhilarating, the dappled night sky above us untainted by city lights and the contiguous silence of the countryside pairing to produce a truly alien landscape to any urban spawn. In fact, I never went to class at all. My poor mom & dad, arriving for parent’s weekend only to be met by the faces of puzzled professors, one after another, explaining to them as soothingly as possible, “…um, well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I’ve never met your son before…what did you say his name was again…?” Looking back, I’ve gotta say, I’m thankful for my time in the heartland: days spent with my fellow flunking allies, driving aimlessly through the quartered counties, Graffix hookah firmly entrenched in between the driver & passenger seats, clam baking all the while---nights spent tripping on weak microdot and chugging cheap tequila, hitting up girlfriends for the use of their cars (no shame) when Travis was in dispose (namely his sisters wreck, but that’s another story for another day…). Shit, we probably listened to Dark Side of the Moon & the Dead’s Europe ’72 over a hundred times that fall… Here’s to rural Indiana! Happy birthday Verratti!!
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…
from the LP What Makes a Man Start Fires, SST Records, 1982
Boy, SST really had the market on arty punk rockers back in the day, managing to score some of the most inventive & brilliant musicians around, not least of which having been the LA-based crew the Minutemen; from the music to the lyrics, it never felt so good to think this hard! There aren’t enough adjectives in a thesaurus to describe how magic and inimitable the whole package was, born of the truest & deepest of friendships; guitarist (and singer for this lone album) D.Boon died in a car accident just before Xmas of 1985, and brother for life Mike Watt (bassist) has since dedicated all his musical endeavors to Boon’s memory. The existential question found within this song isn’t beyond the grasp of anyone’s basic understanding, and yet its depth remains unknowably bottomless, “you lie there naked, I lie here naked, both on the pavement; why are we different?”
from the EP Will Wallow & Roam After the Ruin, Boneless Records, 1980
I’ve always been consumed with people’s biographies, the origins of what they become & what that evolution looked like along the way, because although it’s fair to believe that one can certainly untie many of the more perilous tendrils of a confined socialization, I ultimately feel that we can’t escape our pasts; assumptions about reality, whether accurate or not, become real in their own consequences. I suppose that’s why I’ve always been drawn to the earliest creations of artists I like, and even those I am just getting acquainted with, because there is typically an overarching element of clarity in the construction, unencumbered by expectations or obligation, free to be free. Before he shortened the name & changed musical direction, Giant Sandworms was noted indie musician Howe Gelb’s first major band, and this blazing EP was their debut on wax; although he formed the group in Arizona, it was not Gelb’s home---he moved there with his dad from semi-rural Pennsylvania after they lost everything to a flood when Gelb was only 15 years old, the turmoil of which is perhaps best expressed (intentionally or otherwise) in this EP’s title, and the title of his next band’s first album, Valley of Rain. These recordings are the sounds of a young artist trying to find his voice, borrowing heavily from David Byrne & Bryan Ferry (you should hear him cover Roxy’s “Mother of Pearl”, freaking seamless), but already quirky & difficult to pin down; Gelb has often expressed embarrassment over his delivery here, but I love it. Musically it’s bursting at the seams, pure post-punk ampage with a little glam rock sheen, but most of all: FUN.
from the 12” single, Merciful Release, 1982
I’ve spoken before of musical litmus tests, those particular bands which come to define an actual doorway into another level of subcultural membership, bands whose very mention can instantaneously separate a group of individuals into partisan camps; back in the day, the Sisters of Mercy were most assuredly one of those groups. You either knew about them and had all of these old singles of theirs on crappy booter cassettes, or you looked upon this band (hell, the name alone) with derision and, ultimately, fear of what sinister acts might be going on there. The funny thing is, looking at them now, the scariest thing about this Leeds-based crew was their name…well, that and Andrew Eldritch’s bass-heavy gurgle, enough to make Richard Butler (Psychedelic Furs) sound downright perky. This track is a hot jangly mess, matching dark & light tones with masterful ease, and introducing us to Mr. Eldritch’s cynical, near misanthropic worldview, “…Alice pressed against the wall so she can see the door, in case the laughing strangers crawl and crush the petals on the floor…she needs you like she needs her tranqs, to tell her that the world is clean, to promise her a definition…pass the crystal, spread the Tarot, in illusion comfort lies; the safest way, the straight and narrow, no confusion no surprise…” Wise choice in naming the protagonist Alice, a name which conjures all sorts of druggy imagery, from Wonderland to the bogus diary of an acid casualty that never was (remember reading Go Ask Alice?!?). The shadowy vibe, and fast beats, got them lumped in with the goth movement, but the Sisters always had a good deal more going on than merely a pout and some black eyeliner.
from the LP Is This It, RCA Records, 2001
For some reason, be that the increasingly early age kids are hitting puberty these days or just the mere fact that we live in a 24-7 news & media cycle now, musical acts with even a modicum of mainstream appeal never stay secrets for long, and they certainly don’t manage to secure an exclusively older audience without sliding into compulsory shock tactics or the overuse of words like “bitch” and “motherfucker”; in the time between discovering this incredibly tight new crew from NYC and actually seeing them live (a measly gap of perhaps 6 or 7 months), they had transformed from a scraggly bunch of struggling musicians to a scragglier bunch of “it” boys. While they were surely deserving, the fallout from such massive popularity came in the form of me & my partner’s neighbors at said Strokes show: on our left, a gaggle of giggling girls (none of them older than 12 or 13) chaperoned by a harrowing assortment of 40-something moms trying to look cool, on our right, some douchebag hipster couple, incapable of smiling, dancing or giving any indication that they were enjoying the show, trying even harder than the bored housewives were to be “cool”…I’m not sure who gave us the uglier look when we offered each group a hit off of the gargantuan joint we were smoking! Without any doubt, the Strokes completely blew us away, barreling through almost the whole album, the kind of show that reminds you of why you started going to concerts in the first place---to get wasted, dance, sing, and piss off squares (in approximately that order); I was so drunk by the encore that I actually bribed a bartender, who was already unloading beers into ice buckets and wiping down the counters, last call having been a good 20 minutes earlier, into giving me one last beer, and the kind enterprising young man sold me a Rolling Rock for $15. Ah, the careless exuberance of a youthful mindset! Our surrounding company be damned, we had an incredible time that night; predictably, the Strokes’ subsequent albums have been unable to capture the level of eager fun found on this debut. Beyond being a fucking excellent tune, this track reminds me of the first time I ever popped some Somas, freshman year of high school, but I digress…that’s a riotously irresponsible story for another wastey day…
from the LP Three Imaginary Boys, Fiction Records, 1979
