Well, I Almost Made It A Year

     I've been back at this writing thing for about a year now and the ideas are starting to dry up.  I have written about the few primitive ideas involving music that I've had rattling around in my brain for years and now I'm stuck.  I've been trying to come up with some other angle for the past few weeks but I've got nothing.

     Writing about current events is downright exhausting and the equivalent of banging my head against a wall.  As much fun as it is to type the word “pigfucker” from time to time, I couldn't do that on a regular basis in order to protect my own sanity.  I'd eventually end up standing on a downtown street corner wearing a sandwich board with “You Know What You Did” printed on it while having both middle fingers extended.

     I find writing record reviews difficult due to how personal music is to me.  I can barely form a sentence about a record, let alone several paragraphs, unless I have a life altering experience by the time I get to side B.  When that does happen, it takes weeks to put that experience into somewhat coherent words and by then no one cares about that record anymore.

     I have taken to writing in the cafe at the Carnegie Museum of late.  It used to provide a level of white noise without the over populated environment of a Starbucks.  That was working well until recently.  Now, in the past few weeks, it seems to fill up quickly with families that let their kids roam free like it was a playground.  This has a tendency to immediately derail my train of thought and the only words I can come up with are “Stupid fucking white people” and the white noise has become really white.  As entertaining as that sentiment is at first, I can only seem to take it so far before it gets redundant.

     I have noticed that I don't mind the conversations of the other tables if they are not speaking English.  They could be talking about the most mundane horseshit but it doesn't bother me because I'm an ignorant American and barely have a handle on English.  Most people seem to sit around trying to impress each other like they don't already know each other.  As much as I don't like to contradict Mr. Rogers, we are not special.  No one is.

     I'm still trying to figure out why large groups of people go to a museum if they're not on some sort of bus trip.  Viewing art seems like a very personal/solitary activity to me instead of a “Hey, let's all grab some beers and hang out in the Post-Modern wing” sort of thing.  You know, that whole art being in the eye of the beholder thing but what do I know.  I'm the type of person that would rather go to a movie or see bands play by myself than be distracted by another human and their endless wants and needs.

     People seem to wander around aimlessly and hope that the cafe staff will take them by the hand as if they've never been out of their houses before.  No one seems to be able to handle the simple task of ordering food without turning it into a life changing ordeal.  It's a sandwich with soup or salad, not brain surgery or tying your shoes.  How some people have made it this far in life without jamming a fork in a toaster while in the bath is beyond me.

     This brings me back to my old idea of everyone having to serve two years of mandatory food service like some countries have for military service.  If people had to work in food service, they might be less of a bunch of morons when at a restaurant because they would know how awful it is to deal with a clueless, picky asshole.  Or they would stay home and cook exactly what they wanted instead of being a drag on the rest of humanity because they won't eat anything that's touched an onion or has mayonnaise on it.

     I seem to encounter these types of people more and more of late.  Recently, I have started to stagger out of day job in the mornings and end up at Zeke's to sample the dark roast coffee of the day. More often than not, I end up in line behind someone that places a drink order that is so complicated I'm sure that there can't be any coffee in it by the time it's done being made.

     I almost ended up having a mugshot on the evening news when the guy in front of me placed his excessively long drink order and then proceeded to quiz the staff about why his cappuccino from the other day had a smokey flavor to it and asked if they could recreate it.  The staff looked at him blankly and saw they certainly had their hands full with this customer.  I don't know what kind of coffee this guy ordered but it was a two person job to get it made.  The clerks were relieved when I placed my order of “Put coffee in the coffee hole,” handed them exact change plus a dollar tip and merrily parted ways after our transaction.  The staff has better things to do and I have things to pretend to be doing back at my desk so why prolong the human interaction?

     I guess normal people would call it being friendly but I don't want to be friendly at 9am on a Tuesday.  I want my coffee from my dealer with a minimal amount of hassle and then to get on with my life.  I see it as making things more complicated than they need to be so why add baggage to my day when I clearly have enough of my own already.

Good Night, Spider-Friend

     I remember sitting in the living room, as a child, on Saturday mornings watching The Incredible Hulk and Spider-Man & His Amazing Friends.  The intro to each show, as well as the lead in to commercials were narrated by Stan Lee.  This was my first exposure to “The Man,” in what would feel like a lifelong friendship that lasted for about 35 years.  I never had the chance to meet him, and I know he was essentially just a pitchman selling his wares, but his approach in reaching out to his audience made him feel like he was an uncle that lived far away.

     The first time I remember having a Spider-Man comic book in my hand was at the local barbershop at an age when they still had to put a plank of wood across the arms of the chair so I would be up high enough for the barber to cut my hair.  There was an end table in the corner next to the dog that was so old you'd swear it was dead but someone forgot to tell him.  On this table there were magazines and newspapers for the grown ups and on the shelf underneath there was a small stack of comics for any kids that came in.

     The books were tattered, torn and yellowed with age and cigarette smoke.  I can't remember what any of the books were about but I can still remember they had the smell of old paper, the hair products used in the shop and that almost dead dog that laid next to them.

     As a kid that hasn't fit in anywhere since kindergarten and that had parents that seemed too caught up in their own bullshit and failing marriage to pay much attention, comics and cartoons are what helped salve that burn for me when I was a kid.  They provided a world for me where people fought for the greater good.  Sometimes these characters had their own inner conflicts and failings but they always tried to do the right thing in the end.  And every now and then, bullies like Flash Thompson would get their occasional comeuppance.

     I didn't realize until years later that most of these characters and stories came from one man.  Stan Lee, with the help of many other writers and artists, created a universe that contributed to getting me through my day to day until Punk Rock was put under my nose and I suddenly had a soundtrack to go along with the comics that I was reading.

     I know Stan Lee has a conflicted history with his coworkers but he always did fall on the right side of history when it came to social issues.  He used his platform of comics to create characters that stood out because they were different and fought against prejudice.  There were times he would use his monthly column, known as “Stan's Soapbox,” to speak out more overtly on issues that were important to him.  If there were things he felt his readers needed to know, he was not afraid to tell them.  With millions of kids reading his words, he knew he was a role model and did not take that for granted.

     The fact that Stan Lee used New York City as a backdrop for his stories is something that still amazes me.  Spider-Man lived in Forrest Hills, Queens which is the same neighborhood where The Ramones grew up.  This is sheer coincidence involving a fictional character but it still feels like magic to me.  You can keep your Jesus, I'll put my faith in Spider-Man punching a mugger in the face on the Lower East Side any day.

     Modern American culture dictates that at some point we must all “grow up” and put away childish things such as comics and records.  Stan Lee lived the majority of his life surrounded by comics, proving that you don't need to walk away from the things that you love.  To this day, I still pick up a comic from time to time or watch a cartoon if I'm in the mood.  There are few things in life that are finer than a well written episode of the Venture Bros. or Rick & Morty.  Batman: The Animated Series is still one of the best uses of that character that I've ever seen and warrants re-watching every now and then.

     And I don't think I would ever trade in my record collection for fantasy leagues and following high school football or whatever else "normals" my age do.  I'll be just fine with my childish things. Going without them at this point in my life would be like cutting two legs off of a chair and expecting it to still function as a chair.

     I will forever be indebted to Stan Lee for what he has done for me and I will always be a “True Believer.”  His death, at age 95, wasn't like it was unexpected.  I'm sure the coroners report will have the cause of death listed as “Too Old For This Shit.”   But the loss carries a lot of weight nonetheless. The characters that Stan Lee created helped this misfit of a child feel a little less lonely when I needed it the most.  Thank you, Stan.  Excelsior.

My Turntable Is Approaching Critical Mass

     This past Friday (11/9/2018) was a monster of a release day.  The debut album from Laura Jane Grace & The Devouring Mothers.  New albums from J. Mascis and Charles Bradley.  An acoustic EP from War On Women, a live album from Thee Oh Sees and reissue box sets from The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix.

     Outside of Against Me!'s Transgender Dysphoria Blues, I think Bought To Rot may be the best thing Laura Jane Grace has ever done.  I was completely floored by the time side A came to an end.  After the opening salvo of “China Beach” and “Born In Black,” “The Airplane Song,” “Apocalypse Now (& Later)” and “Reality Bites” was one of the best coupling of songs I have ever heard on an album.

     I am so glad that I resisted the urge to listen to the early singles and the NPR album preview.  I was greatly rewarded for having patience and saving the first listen for the full range sound of the vinyl.  Initially, I was worried because of the total of fourteen tracks on the album.  There are instances when a band goes long like that it starts to feel like there is some filler involved in some of the songs.  Then I remembered that even though this is the debut album for the Devouring Mothers, the parties involved with making this record certainly know what they are doing.

     Bought To Rot has a completely different feel to it than an Against Me! album so it made sense to put it out under a different band name.  The songs are still jammed packed with hooks and are anthemic as all get out.  But the songs sound as if they are being approached from a different angle which makes them stand apart from Grace's work in Against Me!.

     I did have to take a break from the record after the song “Screamy Dreamy” to listen to “Fireater” off of the late, great Maggie Estep's album Love Is A Dog From Hell.  The songs are eerily similar and it was great to be reminded of Maggie after not having listened to her records for a while.

     I will certainly be heading north to Cleveland, in April, to see these songs on a stage.  From the sound of the album, they are aching to be played live.

*     *     *

     J. Mascis somehow found time to write/record Elastic Days during what seemed like an endless tour with Dinosaur Jr. over the past few years.  This album is a continuation of his previous solo albums, Several Shades Of Why and Tied To A Star.  Not to say that J. is putting out the same album over and over but these albums are definitely a come down from the monstrous wall of sound that is Dinosaur Jr.  He's certainly earned the right to take a breather and mellow out after years of Marshall amplification.

     Hearing him play around with different instrumentation and composition is worth the price of admission alone.  I don't think J. gets the credit as a songwriter that he deserves.

     Elastic Days has the kind of feel to it that would be suitable for listening on a laid back Sunday morning before the worries of the coming week come crashing in to ruin the mood.

*     *     *

     Charles Bradley's Black Velvet is a collection of covers and the last few songs that were in the vault at Daptone Records.  The term “Soul” fails horribly to describe what Charles Bradley was capable of.  He operated on a completely different, much deeper, wave length than what normally would be described as soul music.

     I miss this man so much.  Three albums and this collection are not nearly enough but it's all we've got and every second of Charles' work is worth hearing.

     The download card for the deluxe edition is also a seed packet that can be planted to grow wildflowers in memory Charles.

*     *     *

     War On Women released an acoustic EP called Live At The Magpie Cage.  The Magpie Cage is the studio that is owned and operated by J. Robbins, of Jawbox fame.

     Having their usual Punk Rock rage and amplification stripped away from them, the songs on the acoustic EP definitely have legs of their own which cannot be said for songs written by other bands when they attempt to put out records like this.

     The lyrics stand out more when they aren't backed by their familiar sound and fury.  Given the content of War On Women's songs, the weight of the lyrics is on full display.

     Shawna Potter's voice more than handled the change of pace from screamy/shouty to actual singing.  And that cannot be said about the capabilities of other hardcore singers.

*     *     *

     Live In San Francisco by Thee Oh Sees, operating under the name OCS, was reissued by the Austrian label Rock Is Hell.  This live album came out earlier this year in obscenely limited quantities and disappeared almost as soon as it was announced.

     Luckily, Rock Is Hell saw fit to do another run for those of us that missed it the first time around. This time there are 300 on clear pink and 1,700 on black vinyl.

     This version of the band is the less raucous line up which is why they go under the name OCS instead of Thee Oh Sees.  The set mostly contains songs from the album Memory Of A Cut Off Head that came out in 2017.

*     *     *

     The box sets released by The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix are a can of worms that I don't think I will venture into.

     As curious as I am to hear what Giles Martin was able to with The White Album, the six CD box set is certainly cost prohibitive.  After hearing the way he cracked open Sgt. Pepper, the Gile's version of The White Album would definitely be worth a listen but not for an arm and a leg.

     The 50^th anniversary reissue of Electric Ladyland by The Jimi Hendrix Experience is a different story.  Early reports of the mix/mastering are not good.  Things were trimmed and clipped instead of letting the sound stretch out into the full range.

     I have been burned by the Hendrix estate before with the various releases of rehashed material billed as new and unreleased.  With the amount of people complaining about the finished product, I think I'll be staying away from this one.

*     *     *

     The shit is getting deep but at least there's a mountain of music out there to help us get through it.

Who Would Win In A Fight, Lemmy Or God?

Trick question.  Lemmy is God.

     As awful as the movie Airheads was, the answer to that question could not have been more correct.  Lemmy Kilmister would most certainly qualify as a god in the mythological sense.  Lemmy carried over fifty years of rock history on his shoulders.

     One of his go to lines in interviews was “I remember a time before Rock 'n' Roll.”  That is something all of us younger pups have certainly taken for granted over the course of our lives.  And this statement comes from a person that saw The Beatles play in clubs, roadied for Hendrix, played in Hawkwind and melted our brains with Motorhead.

     Trying to imagine my adolescence without rock music makes me shudder.  There is no way that I would have made it out of my teens or even to this very moment if it weren't for the rush of dopamine that I get from rock music.  There are days that I'll only get out of bed because I know that if I don't no one else is around to hit the play button.

     My first exposure to Motorhead was in the 8^th grade while watching the British comedy The Young Ones on PBS.  There was a musical guest on each episode to play during some sort of montage.  Motorhead was on to play “Ace Of Spades” while the cast was trying to get to a television studio to appear on a gameshow, in the episode “Bambi.”

     I don't even know if I had any interest in music at that point in my life but that always stuck in the back of my mind.  Weirdly, even though that Ace Of Spades seed was planted in my youth, Orgasmatron was the first Motorhead album that I ever bought.  A friend of mine had it on in his car when we were hanging out and the Lemmy hook sank in deep and has been there ever since.  The next time I walked into the now long gone record store Brave New World, I came walking out with my own copy of Orgasmatron, No Sleep til Hammersmith, and a greatest hits comp.  Those were enough to sate my curiosity until years later when I started to pick up each album as I came across them.  Motorhead released twenty-two studio albums and several live records over the forty years of their existence.

     Their final studio album, Bad Magic, was a fitting send off for Lemmy and the band.  I haven't gone back to it often since Lemmy's passing but Bad Magic was in heavy rotation up until then.  From all accounts, Lemmy had a very difficult time recording the album due to his escalating health issues but he pulled it off in the end.

     Motorhead's last live album, Clean Your Clock, is a really difficult listen.  It was released a few months after his passing and the shows the songs were pulled from were recorded a few months before.  His death was still too fresh in my mind when I tried to listen to it and it was very apparent that he was struggling through each song.  This was at the point where he had to walk to his mic stand with a cane and have his Rickenbacker handed to him when he got there.  I would still recommend picking up the vinyl because it came with a bad ass pop-up book like gatefold cover.  When you open it wide there's a stage setup with the members of the band.

     Lemmy's death was a gut punch.  I took solace in knowing that the sun was going to come up in the morning and that Lemmy would always be there to steal my hearing.  Knowing that one of Life's great truths no longer holds has a way to compound my usual existential crisis.  Being followed by David Bowie's passing a few weeks later certainly didn't help matters either.  Trying to listen to their records for months afterward was not something that I could do in public.  Finding myself to be a snotty, tear covered mess while at the coffee place was not the best situation.  As if I don't get enough weird looks already.

     Lemmy was aware of what a life filled with whiskey and amphetamines would lead to and he accepted responsibility for his own actions.  The man left nothing on the table when he left us and the world is a better place for it. May we all be stone deaf forever.