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Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Slowdive

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Tue, 10 Feb 2015 19:33:00 +0000

It's an awful, rainy day in NYC as I begin typing this. The rain has turned to sleet and the slick sidewalks will kill us all. That's why it's best to just stay inside, put on your one-piece pajamas with the the butt-flap, and curl up on the couch to listen to a bunch of dream pop, amiright? The point is, it's about time for another dispatch from the swirly netherland of post-punk/new wave/shoegazey dream pop that is the late-80s/early-90s (mainly) British music scene, which provides the soundtrack to my recent award-eligible memoir Sweet Tooth.

I'm here today to talk about Slowdive, a five-piece from the Thames Valley in England whose live shows in all likelihood inspired the derisive term "shoegaze," coined by a music critic commenting on the tendency for many bands of the time to constantly be looking down at their effects pedals rather than engaging with the audience. Slowdive's music had all the hallmarks of the shoegaze genre: feedback-drenched, squalling guitars, lovely but passionless vocals, an ethereal psychedelia, and an apparent reverence for My Bloody Valentine and the Cocteau Twins in equal measure. One of only a handful of shoegaze bands whose reputation has actually grown over the years (Ride and, well, Ride being the other one), Slowdive released three EPs in 1990 and 1991 that earned them a rabid UK following and ecstatic praise from the constantly hyperventilating UK music press.

Slowdive's music was said to be so gorgeous it would bring people to tears at their gigs. When I read that in a copy of NME in '91, I was sold--what skinny 18-year-old boy with terrible hair would pass up the opportunity for a good long cry? So I immediately headed down to The Record Exchange to order everything they had, just all of it, I'd mortgage my hair mousse if I had to. It turned out they only had the three EPs out so far--"Slowdive," "Morningrise," and "Holding Our Breath"--so I snapped those up with my sweaty teenage hands and ran all the way home. I still remember putting on the "Holding Our Breath" EP and losing myself in the staggeringly beautiful "Golden Hair" and "Shine" as I watched the record on the turntable go around and around and around into infinity.

Even better was the "Morningrise" EP, which was just, I mean, I couldn't, it was all too much, just bursting with beauty/truth, truth/beauty, poetry, sex, and pancakes. It made me feel all the things and all the things' things. That kids around my age were making music this drop dead gorgeous was embarrassing. I was thoroughly lacking in accomplishment--I had succeeded in getting a few poems published in our high school literary journal, but they were all terrible and deserving of epic mockery. But enough about me. Let's hear some more from Slowdive.

After such a stunning beginning, the band's first album, 1992's Just for a Day, was kind of a disappointment. They had stepped back from its wall-of-sound approach in favor of a generally hazy, low-key, sometimes barely-there atmosphere of plucked, reverby guitars, sleepy harmonies, and a listening experience that felt surprisingly insubstantial--especially coming on the heels of a batch of singles that announced their genius from the first few seconds. There were still some transcendent moments--"The Sadman" and "Primal," the album's final two tracks--but overall, it was a little bit of a bummer.

The UK critics were not kind to the album, and to make matter worse, the band's American label delayed its release for almost a year, meaning that when the band toured the states opening for Blur they had no album to promote. (How do I remember all this? I DON'T KNOW.)

Rachel is sad because there's no Slowdive album at the merch table.

Slowdive returned in 1993 with the "Outside Your Room" EP, which contained the spectacular single "Alison." It marked a return to the band's earlier glacial glory, with the icy atmosphere turned up to 11 on the chorus and singers Neal and Rachel telling a sad tale of this Alison lady who's sister is apparently missing or lost or in a coma or in the bathroom or maybe it's Alison who's missing I don't know she's not available for comment during the song itself but anyway, sadness sure is beautiful, which is the point of this paragraph.

Here, just shut up and listen:

"Outside Your Room" was followed by the band's second album, Souvlaki, which is the album that secured their place in the Shoegazing Hall of Fame. Souvlaki is bursting at the seams with cascades of white guitar squall and forlorn romanticism. The album even featured the great Brian Eno on a few tracks. Sadly, the UK press had already grown exceedingly tired of the shoegaze bands and moved on to grunge, so Souvlaki received no love, and, the album was delayed once again by the band's American label and ultimately released in the States about a year after the initial British pressing, with a few extra tracks tacked on, one of which is the band's gorgeous cover of Lee Hazelwood and Nancy Sinatra's "Some Velvet Morning," and another of which, "Country Rain," makes my cat Stella cry.

Slowdive issued one more album--1995's Pygmalion--but, though the album is revered as a minimalist classic by many contemporary electronic artists, it was really a one-man effort, with Neal basically noodling around in the studio and recording the whole thing himself. I don't even think the band toured the album. Though it's not one of my favorites, Pygmalion has its moments, one of which is "Blue Skied An' Clear."

This time Rachel is sad because she's barely on Slowdive's last album.

And with that the story of Slowdive had ended. Neal and Rachel went on to play music as Mojave 3 for five or so albums of countrified folk, and Neal also had a pretty solid solo career. Then, last year, Slowdive was suddenly on Twitter announcing shows, ultimately regrouping for a reunion tour and basically executing it flawlessly, all over the dang place. I saw them in NYC in October and hoo boy, if it wasn't transcendental. Apparently they're working on new material and THIS NEEDS TO HAPPEN RIGHT NOW, YOU GUYS, HURRY UP.

Anyway, here they are playing "Golden Hair" at the Pitchfork Music Festival back in August. And no, I'm not crying from the sheer beauty of the song or the knee-buckling cascade of crystalline guitars, or at even at witnessing the music of my youth make such a majestic return. I've just got something in my eye. (It's tears.)

Me Yammering on the Radio about the Book I Did

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Wed, 22 Oct 2014 14:21:00 +0000

You guys, I did an interview with WUNC, one of North Carolina's NPR affiliates, MONTHS AGO and I never posted it, how irresponsible is that? I'm terrible. Anyway, WUNC's "The State of Things" kindly invited me on to discuss my book Sweet Tooth, and I didn't accidentally curse or vomit onto the microphone, so basically, I nailed it.

Listen and comment and demand that they invite me back immediately, thanks.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: The Sundays

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Tue, 23 Sep 2014 02:44:00 +0000

Folks, it's time once again to ignore everything else on the Internet and reminisce about the good old days of 80's new wave-post-punk-gothicy-indie pop, aka the bands who hang out in the darkened corners of my recent book Sweet Tooth's new wavy mise-en-scene. Or something. In any case, let's take a quick buggy ride back to the year 1989, shall we?

The Smiths had broken up, and Morrissey had embarked on his legendary/notorious solo career with the high-watermark 1988 album Viva Hate. Meanwhile, Scottish dreampop weirdos The Cocteau Twins, who had been making some of the decade's most gorgeous and stultifying music since 1982, finally had a taste of American success with 1988's Blue Bell Knoll, their fifth album overall and their first to be available stateside. Enter a scrappy band from Reading who became the answer to the question all us sweaty Anglophiles didn't realize we should have been asking ourselves: What would happen if The Smiths and The Cocteau Twins rented a room, got nekkid, and made a baby?

The answer to that question, of course, was The Sundays.

Led by chipmunk-faced cutie-pie singer Harriet Wheeler, who apparently liked to dress in her mother's clothes, and her adorable boyfriend, guitarist and Johnny Marr lookalike David Gavurin, The Sundays nailed the exact sweet spot between wispy Smithsian guitar pop and ethereal, operatic flourishes straight from Planet Cocteau. But, though Harriet's warbly soprano did recall The Cocteau's Elizabeth Fraser, she tended, like Morrissey, to sing about much more mundane things, such as kicking boys ("When the weather's fine/when it's sunny outside/I think about the time/I kicked a boy 'til he cried"), visiting terrible places ("Hideous towns/Make me throw/Up"), and hating poetry ("Poetry is not for me"). And the mournful bassline from their song "Joy" (video above) also suggested a third post-punk antecedent: Joy Division. But The Sundays somehow transcended these influences and created something all their own, leading the British music press to start proclaiming them the Next Great Pasty-Faced Hope.

The band barely had enough songs to fill an album when they released their debut, Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic, in 1989. It contained their very first single "Can't Be Sure," as well as the infectious, breezily insistent "Here's Where the Story Ends," the song they are still probably most famous for. The video ended up as a staple on MTV's 120 Minutes and even found its way onto the network's regular daytime rotation.

I saw the band in Raleigh in 1990 and they were lovely and immaculate. They were so well received that they were coaxed back onto the stage for a second encore, something they were wholly unprepared for. "We have no more songs, actually," Harriet said sheepishly, smiling. So they launched back into "Can't Be Sure," which they'd of course already played. We were all fine with it.

It was hard to be a Sundays fan, though, because they worked incredibly slow, especially compared to their British compatriots, who were trotting out singles and EPs and albums and special compilation tracks endlessly like a bunch of jittery manic depressives. The British music press, as was their wont, quickly moved on to the next big thing, which was probably the Soup Dragons or some shit. We'd have to wait until 1992 for the band to reemerge with their second album Blind, and the single "Goodbye." It was a solid follow-up, with the guitars even more lush and spangled and Harriet's voice in fine form. It wasn't too much of a departure from Reading, though in interviews Harriet wryly insisted the band had evolved, and as proof pointed to the fact that the first album had 10 songs and the second had 12. Hard to argue with that.

Blind also contained a cover of the Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses," which some slagged them off for, but which I think is just lovely, so suck it, haters.

The band's rate of output, sadly, actually diminished after Blind. They toured the world and made a great go of it, then returned to England, where Harriet and David started a family. It would be another five years before their third album, Static and Silence, emerged in 1997. It's this album where the band kind of lost me. It's not that it was bad. It had some great moments, like single "Summertime." But overall it was just dull and uninspired (I STILL LOVE YOU HARRIET AND DAVID.), leaving one with the impression that perhaps here was where the story should end. (Ba-dum-bum.) (Sorry.)

As it turned out, that album was where the story ended. After touring the world again with Static and Silence, The Sundays completely disappeared into the English ether, and there's been no sign of the band in the last 17 years. At least there hadn't been until, bizarrely, they reemerged earlier this year in an issue of American Airlines' in-flight magazine American Way after that mag's editor, a Sundays obsessive, tracked them down like a boss. Of course, even though they'd been found, they were still as elusive as ever, though they did confirm they've been working on new material (OH MY GOD) and have kind of sort thought about maybe touring again or something.

So, maybe the story continues, who can say, can't be sure, HURRY UP HARRIET AND DAVID.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Depeche Mode

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 01:41:00 +0000

You guys, it's been forever since we took a trip down memory lane and visited the glory days of pasty white folk emoting into the ether while sporting hairstyles that defied the laws of physics and good taste, aka my book Sweet Tooth's Greek chorus of new wave awesomeness. Let's get back to it, shall we?

Up next is Depeche Mode, a band that at first blush comes off as a gaggle of gay dudes who wouldn't know what to say to/do with a female if she showed up with cue cards and a map to her ladygarden. I mean, admit it, when you were dancing to "I Just Can't Get Enough" back in 1981 in your bedroom while fantasizing about lead singer David Gahan feeding you Fruit Rollups like a boss, you didn't even think for a minute that the fey fingertips hitting those synths behind him belonged to anyone but a first-tier nancyboy, amiright? Well you were wrong! That sissy's name was Martin Gore, the mastermind behind the band, and he's actually just a straight dude who liked to dress like a weird new wave lesbian, so there.

Now, there's not one person among us who has watched this band's legendary live show documentary Depeche Mode 101 and not come away thinking that David Gahan's butt has seen some serious man-action. Look how happy it is, wiggling all around like that. It was just bound to happen at some point, at least a few times, backstage, after the show, in a hot tub, while the other band members did each other's hair. But by all accounts, the men of Depeche Mode are all straight, which is one reason I've always had such shitty gaydar, because come on.

Anyway, enough about David Gahan and his tight white jeans. Let's talk about the music, which, for the purposes of this blog post, will concentrate on the era up through the band's high watermark, 1990's Violator.

There's much to love about Depeche Mode's '80s output. They were your secret boyfriends (and by "they" I pretty much mean David Gahan), the romantic loners you met underneath the bleachers to smoke weed and discuss hair products with before trying to get into their pants. Did you want something fun, dumb, and gay to dance to at the discotheque? Try "Just Can't Get Enough," "What's Your Name?" or "Boys Say Go!" Were you in need of some vaguely menacing yet melodic electro-industrial nonsense? Put on "More Than a Party," "Something To Do," or "Behind the Wheel." Or did you simply want something dark and sexy to listen to while lying on your bed with the black light on wondering if David in gym class was actually gay or just homoerotic? Try all of Violator, but particularly "World in My Eyes," "Personal Jesus," and "Blue Dress." If you were a youth growing up in the last decade of the Cold War, when we all thought it was possible we were going to bite it in some sort of idiotic nuclear fury, Depeche Mode's naked emotionalism and high, hilarious drama just kind of made sense, what can I say?

Depeche Mode was always a heart-on-their sleeve kind of band. And in their songs they asked all the important questions that all teenagers in the eighties had: "Why can't we all just get along?" ("People Are People") "Aren't rich businessmen the worst?" ("Everything Counts") "Wanna do some S&M?" ("Master and Servant") And, of course, "Would you please just shut the fuck up?" ("Enjoy the Silence")

And they did cheeky, idiotic things like rhyme "career" with "Korea" and got away with it! If I'd done that in my high school creative writing class I'd have gotten laughed out of the room, but then again, I wasn't David Gahan in tight white jeans. I was Tim, with the stupid curly hair in my face and the tight polyester pants. Amazing the difference that made.

Anyway, over the course of the decade, Depeche Mode quietly amassed a huge fan base in the U.S. by the time of 1987's Music for the Masses, without much by way of hit singles or blockbuster albums, and somehow ended up playing to sold-out crowds in stadiums across the country like they were U2 or something. I remember reading an item in Rolling Stone about the inexplicable popularity of Depeche Mode among squeaky clean college kids. It was kind of weird. Had they not heard "Blasphemous Rumors"? Maybe they had and they agreed that God had a sick sense of humor? Sure.

By the time the highly anticipated Violator rolled out in 1990, Depeche Mode were one of the biggest bands on the planet. "Personal Jesus" preceded the album and its video featured the band members hilariously visiting a brothel-type place in the wild west. And why not, I say? Might as well step that blasphemy up a notch.

I kind of lost track of the band after this album. Their next one, Songs of Faith and Devotion, dropped during grunge mania and the video for "I Feel You" featured my precious David Gahan writhing around with long hair and a Beetlejuice suit, but it came off like he was trying a little to hard to keep up with Alice in Chains or Soundgarden or some other early-'90s terrorism, and I just had to say "no." Really should give that album another try, now that it's twenty-one years later and we've all grown up a little bit.

In conclusion,

Read all Sweet Tooth Jukebox posts here.

Sweet Tooth on The Huffington Post, What?!

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Thu, 03 Jul 2014 16:32:00 +0000

You guys, my stupid mug ended up on Huffington Post the other day when Sweet Tooth got some love from their Gay Voices (not a horror movie title) section. I was just one row over and a slot-and-a-half down on the landing page from John Oliver, host of Last Week Tonight on HBO! This means I'll soon be getting my own cable show, which I will call Tomorrow's Just Two Days Away or something, on which I'll discuss treats.

Anyway, r ead the article and watch the promo video I put together, hurry up!

My iPhone Camera Will Not Be Denied: Folsom Street Fair East, NYC

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Mon, 23 Jun 2014 03:02:00 +0000

Folks, do you ever wake up on Sunday morning and think, "I just don't feel gay enough?" Or "You know, it's a white hot sunny day, it'd be great to see some barely clad old men in leather"? Or maybe just "butts"? It happens to the best of us. In fact, I was thinking all three of those things and more when my cat Stella woke me up this morning by slashing me across the neck. Thankfully, today was the Folsom Street East leather fantasia in Chelsea, NYC. When I found out it was happening, I rode my tricycle up yonder and took some photos so you wouldn't miss out. You're welcome.

First thing I should say is that I really gotta stop running into my ex like this.

What's even more awkward is that we were wearing the same thing. I KNOW!

I was relieved to find that there were games to be played at this fair. Like this one, which I'm just going to assume is called Dildo Rings.

You guys, there were also some branded Lucas Entertainment boy toys on hand to be photographed, so I did that.

And lest you think things weren't freaky deaky enough, here's a nice young man with a snout.

There were some great amenities, too. Like this one, where a brother could get his patent leather knee-high boots shined like a boss.

There were butts.

This shot looks a little more hostile than it actually was. They were nice!

The crowd was balls deep.

I don't know about you, but I'm hungry for some sausages now. Oh look.

I'm not actually sure what this guy's animating issue was, but he's a "bitch" and a "master," so who am I not to take a picture of him?

On the stage were a fun queen, a dude in his Sunday best, and an interpreter for the deaf. So much like my wedding reception.

In conclusion, I'll leave you with this one of my new friends who agreed to pose for me. I don't know their names, but in my defense, they don't know mine either.

The Sweet Tooth Launch Party Happened, and Here's Proof!

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Mon, 16 Jun 2014 22:35:00 +0000

Guys, I'm finally putting up some photos from the Sweet Tooth launch party, what took me so long, the damn thing was on May 28, good Lord. Anyway, it was a great crowd and a fun vibe, and there were Sweet Tooth candy bars and some beer and wine and cheese and pound cake and crackers and vegetables with dippin' sauce, and lots of lovely peeps. Thanks to everyone who came out to support me and the book. And thanks bunches to Wix Lounge for hosting us and not tossing us into the elevator when we stayed too late.

For those of you who weren't able to come, here's a taste of what you missed:

Aren't you aSHAMED? Yes you are.

Oh, and look, more photos.

Yes, I was wearing a headset because I needed both hands free to hold my book and also fondle my invisible backup dancers, which I guess is what I was doing in that first one. The reading was basically a cross between a Britney Spears Vegas show and a TED Talk. There were treats.

And beer in buckets.

And books.

And signings.

Sexiest party on a Wednesday night in Chelsea ever. Wait, no that's probably not right. Sexiest party on a Wednesday night in Chelsea that started before 8? Okay, fifth sexiest--yeah, I'm probably safe saying that.

Lastly, check out the hotties in the audience smiling and laughing and being awesome. Who did I wanna go home with, you ask? All of 'em, Katie.

My Cousin Is Famous for Loving Hillary Clinton, You Guys

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Wed, 11 Jun 2014 18:03:00 +0000

Folks, my cousin Sean Brennan has just endured his (first) 15 minutes of fame for being the very first person in line at the first stop on Hillary Clinton's book tour, the Barnes and Noble in NYC's Union Square. He's been all over the news (seriously, Google him), interviewed by everyone from ABC to another ABC to Yahoo Finance to the UK's Telegraph to National Journal to Business Insider to NBC Chicago. (Sean, I wish I'd known you were doing this, I'd have given you a copy of Sweet Tooth to hold up for all the cameras.) He lined up at 2 pm on Monday and a mere twenty-some-odd hours later, in walks Hillary to say hello.

Take a look at this awesome photo of Sean getting down to the business of telling Hillary that, seriously, she needs to run for fucking president. I love his stance--hands on the table as if he's giving her an offer she can't refuse (that offer: unbridled adoration, which it appears she, in fact, did not refuse).

Well done, Sean! You know my mom's gonna be so conflicted when she hears about this...

Book Expo 2014, You Guys: In Which I Sign Books and Maybe Look a Little Confused

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Tue, 03 Jun 2014 02:39:00 +0000

So, you guys, my YA publisher, Charlesbridge, invited me to sign copies of my latest YA historical fiction novel Ocean of Fire at Book Expo in New York this past weekend, and I jumped at the chance. I was just a few booths down from Grumpy Cat, who has a new book that has already sold more copies than all human books combined, yet there was enough attention to go round--I was supposed to sign for two hours but we ran out of books in 30 minutes! Sure, they were free books, but still! Here, enjoy some photo evidence:

See? And I'm not even Lena Dunham!

Now, you're probably asking yourself, "why isn't Tim signing copies of Sweet Tooth, his latest book for Amazon Publishing?" The answer is: well, apparently, Amazon Publishing doesn't see much value in having a booth at Book Expo, because why would you want to have your authors make appearances at a humongous trade show full of book lovers and book industry folks? So counterproductive! Better just to steer clear and hope for the best. So, yeah, no Sweet Tooth signing. :-(

Okay, okay, so here's your Grumpy Cat paparazzi picture, courtesy of me:

Also, I almost got blowed up by Boba Fett, for your sins.

So, all in all, a pretty decent Book Expo, except for the total absence of any hot Sweet Tooth action on the trade floor. Maybe it all happened in the toilets.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Lush

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Mon, 02 Jun 2014 01:23:00 +0000

Hi, you guys. Time for another dive down my book Sweet Tooth's musical rabbit hole. I've already written about some of the big names of '80s post-punk but haven't yet touched on the genre from the late-'80s/early '90s that came to be known as "shoegaze." Really should do that. How about right now?

Shoegaze was a term coined derisively by a UK music critic to describe a scene of bands playing heavily effected, wall-of-sound guitar rock that had them constantly looking down at their effects pedals and rarely at the audience. Shoegaze bands took their cues from the reverb-laden and often gauzily romantic music being made by bands like My Bloody Valentine, the Cocteau Twins, and the Jesus and Mary Chain. It was defined by indulgent use of guitar effects pedals, very slight and sometimes barely-there vocals, and a dreamy, psychedelic airspace perfect for lying on your bed dreaming of the perfect boy. Or, you know, something.

One of the earliest of the shoegaze bands was London's Lush, a four-piece formed in 1989: two girls, two boys. The girls--flame-haired singer/guitarist Miki Berenyi and guitarist Emma Anderson--ran the show, writing all the songs and handling all vocals. I first encountered the band on MTV's 120 Minutes, when the program aired their first video, "De-Luxe," from the Mad Love EP. I immediately fell in love. It was as if Molly Ringwald and Wynona Ryder had ditched Hollywood and moved to Camden Town in London, telling themselves "Fuck it, we're gonna do this now."

After playing only a handful of gigs, the band caught the eye of 4AD, the seminal British post-punk record label that brought the world Cocteau Twins, Dead Can Dance, the Pixies, and, yes, Modern English. Their first recording for 4AD was the mini-album Scar, a sublime debut that somehow found that undulating sweet spot between Cocteau Twins and Sonic Youth. It was loud, spiky, and spindly, but it was also freaking gorgeous.

Their next release was the aforementioned Mad Love EP, on which the band collaborated with their hero, Robin Guthrie, guitarist from Cocteau Twins. The result was more spooky madness: there's "De-Luxe," whose gleefully abstract lyrics detail a psychedelic trip of some sort ("When we're wrapped in polythene/What's that supposed to mean?... When I'm up you're coming down"), and on one track, "Leaves Me Cold," Miki recounts a sex dream she once had on a tour bus. In the dream she's shagging one of the band's roadies or something, and, after being shaken awake by a bump in the road, she turns and sees the guy she'd just been dreaming about sitting next to her. "I'm coming but I wake up and it leaves me cold," she sings in a high-pitched, sing-song twitter, her passionless delivery a chilly counterpart to the aggressive shards of guitars exploding all around her and stuff. Capping off their early period, the band followed up Mad Love with a single that, in my humble opinion, is the desert-island shoegazer anthem, and the band's high watermark: "Sweetness and Light."

The band came off wonderfully self-effacing in interviews. Miki routinely referred to her own singing abilities as "crap," and would correct interviewers if ever they implied she had a good voice. ("Leave it out," she said in one article.) And they pretty much immediately became darlings of the UK music press, with one NME cover actually proposing the idea that Lush were the next ABBA. (Yes, the UK music press is often dumb.) The band had a nifty response to that over-the-top comparison when Scar, Mad Love, and Sweetness and Light were all collected onto an album for the American market called Gala, which contained a couple new tracks, one of them, "Hey Hey Helen," an ABBA cover. Which, you know, is the shit.

Lush made a second video for "De-Luxe" for the US market in 1990. It had a much bigger budget, and the result was a swirly, candy-coated, psychedelic fantasia, much like all of my contemporaneous teenage sex dreams.

Gala fits together amazingly well as an album, and it's one that I still return to frequently. It really showed the band at its best, starting off with the anthemic "Sweetness and Light" and that single's B-sides "Sunbathing" and "Breeze," both of which meshed dreamy guitar textures with sweet melodic hooks. Elsewhere there was the fun kiss-off "Bitter" and the kicking "Second Sight," with its whiplash time signature change and excitable drumming from Chris Acland. It also featured one of the band's best tracks, "Etherial," the title of which is an amalgam of the two people who are the subject of the song--Ethan and Merial--and a clever nod to the adjective most often used to describe the band. With Gala being released in the US in 1990, the band ventured out on a co-headlining tour with fellow shoegazers Ride, with the two bands swapping slots each night. (Ride was a bigger name in the UK at the time, so the whole co-headlining idea was annoying to singer/guitarist Andy Bell, who remarked that it was like the Beatles opening for Petula Clark--funny and also VERY RUDE!) I saw them on that tour in Chapel Hill when I was a senior in high school and it was freaking awesome. Miki had charisma to burn and when there were some technical difficulties she invited people up to tell jokes while they dealt with them.

The band toured a lot during the next year, so it wasn't until 1991 that they released any new material. The Black Spring EP came out in October, and its lead single, "Nothing Natural," was a stunner. Its video, sadly, was kind of lame. Miki and Emma were done up like the Bangles, inexplicably pressing their heads together throughout the song (probably because the video director was gross). They looked like sad, sapphic, porcelain muppets. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the gay stuff (and muppets), but the video just seemed to cast the ladies in a "save me I'm a girl" role that me didn't like much.

In advance of the release of their proper debut album, the band put out the For Love EP. The single was another solid slice of dream pop, and the B-sides, one of which was a gorgeous cover of Wire's "Outdoor Miner," backed the track up nicely.

That much-anticipated album, Spooky, came out in 1992, and it marked the moment when the band was sucked completely into the 4AD-Cocteau Twins industrial complex. Producer Robin Guthrie smothered the band in a swirl of slushy guitars and processed vocals and drums; he rounded off all the rough edges, effectively stifling the spunk that had made the band stand out on their early releases as much more than just pretenders to the Cocteau's throne. On Spooky, Lush sounded like Cocteau Twins clones without the benefit of Elizabeth Fraser's amazing pipes. Though the album starts off strong with the one-two punch of "Stray" and "Nothing Natural," things get boring very quickly when the cloyingly singsongy "Tiny Smiles" and flatly melodramatic "Covert" rear their heads. It should be said that there are some great moments on the album: tracks like "Ocean," "Superblast," and "Monochrome" are particular standouts. And if the bar hadn't been set so high with the Gala material, I'd probably hold Spooky in higher esteem. I always thought that Alternative Press's Dave Segal nailed it, though, in his review when he wrote, "While Spooky will likely be better than, oh, 90% of 1992's recorded output, one senses that it could've been so much more daring."

Lush toured the crap out of the album and were hand-picked by Perry Farrell for the second Lollapalooza tour in the summer of '92. They were the first band on, so they had the privilege of warming up a crowd that was really just there to see Pearl Jam, who was on next. By all accounts, the band had a blast on the tour, and tracks from Spooky did come alive, er, live.

As far as recorded output, Lush was silent for the next two years, finally reemerging in 1994 on a 4AD compilation called All Virgos Are Mad, which contained the Lush track "The Childcatcher," a summertime slice of pop-punk bliss that boded well for the band's forthcoming material. Their next album was preceded by two EPs, Hypocrite and Desire Lines, released on the same day and showing two very different sides of the band. "Hypocrite" was all jagged anger and spleen, while the dirge-like, 9-minute "Desire Lines" took its time unspooling into a gorgeous, cascading midsection, though the back end of the track kind of goes on forever and ever. It was an odd choice for a single, and sadly, neither track charted very highly. (Quick shout-out to "Hypocrite" B-side "Cat's Chorus," which, like "The Childcatcher," showed the band at their zippy finest.)

The album Split came out a few weeks later to decidedly mixed reviews. Though in the intervening years it has gained a reputation as the band's strongest (it is not; that would be Gala), the musical climate had shifted dramatically in the two years since Spooky, with all the world just wanting grunge, grunge, and more grunge. And though Split was a much more varied record than anything they'd put out before, alternating among attitudinal aggression, lush orchestral numbers, and sun-kissed pop, the album failed to gain traction beyond the band's loyal fan base. :-(

Lush reemerged again in 1996 with a new batch of songs that were decidedly more radio-ready than anything they'd done before. This wasn't too surprising, since in the intervening years Britpop had exploded in all the sad British faces, and in London Lush were surrounded by other bands--some of them really awful, like Dodgy and Cast--that were having top ten singles and albums. I imagine that by this point, Lush wanted them some of that for themselves. So they went all in on the pop.

The first taste of the new Lush was single "Single Girl," which had begun as a B-side but then was moved up to top billing by the record label. What to say about "Single Girl"? Hmm. Well, it was super catchy and playful, with the kind of simple melody that burrows into your head and stays. It was also... well, kind of dumb. But hey, pop is allowed to be dumb, and the band was rewarded for the being kind of dumb with a #21 UK chart placement, their highest ever. Lush were officially press darlings again. The next single, "Ladykillers," was even more of a departure, with Miki singing in her lower register and channeling her inner Elastica.

The song was a smart, punchy "f*ck you" to a series of men that Miki had been approached by, and rumor had it that one of these gentlemen was Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Homoerotic Chili Peppers. Again, the single reached #21 in the UK charts, and the video received tons of airplay on MTV, which was still a few years away from re-imagining itself as the teen pregnancy channel.

The album Lovelife came out in March 1996, and though it was generally well reviewed, it's really not my thing, baby, and it's got a few cringeworthy songs ("Ciao," a duet with Pulp's Jarvis Cocker, and the godawful "Tralala" being two of them) that send me scrambling for the skip button. Many of the B-sides to the singles, which were collected on the compilation album "Topolino," were stellar, though ("Ex," "Dear Me," and "Piledriver" were particular standouts), and they proved that the band still had it in them to serve up the pop hooks and infectious harmonies. The band also covered the Magnetic Fields' "I Have the Moon" and Elvis Costello's "All This Useless Beauty," both of which were Lush at their absolute loveliest. And though Lovelife didn't really do much for me, it did seem that the band was in an exciting transition, and I still held out hope that they still had it in them to top the shambolic majesty of Gala. It wasn't to be.

Lush released one final single, "500 (Shake Baby Shake)," which hit #22, before tragedy struck: guitarist Emma Anderson, exhausted from the band's incessant touring and feeling overwhelmed by the demands being placed on the band by their American label, announced she wanted to leave the band, and two days later, drummer Chris Acland, always such a delight in interviews and by all accounts a happy guy, hanged himself in his parents' house in the Lake District. He was only 30 years old. The remaining members were obviously devastated--Chris wasn't just a bandmate, he was a close friend and Miki's former boyfriend. (Miki herself has said she'll never understand why he did it.) With the death of one of their core members, Lush disintegrated, officially disbanding in 1997.

Sadly, Lush has been largely forgotten in the years since their breakup, and they are now little more than a footnote in the histories of the shoegazing and Britpop scenes of the '90s. This is a total bummer, and one hopes that with the resurgence in interest in shoegaze in the past few years, the band will finally get some respect. Gala alone deserves the world's attention. It was their purest musical expression, the sound of a young band downing some shots, hopping in the pool, and splashing around gleefully. It's one of my top 10 favorite albums. (That's right, I said it.) The band never topped it.

Miki once said in an interview that she would be dead before anyone said anything nice about Lush. I hope this modest post, at least, goes even the slightest distance toward proving her wrong.

Sweet Tooth Party Tonight, Oh F*ck!

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Wed, 28 May 2014 19:59:00 +0000

You guys, it's happening. Tonight, it's happening. All (some) will be revealed and much (all the) beer and wine in New York City will be consumed. It's gonna be a sloppy train wreck, and everyone loves those, so come on down to Wix Lounge 2nite at 6!

Writing Process Blog Tour What?

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Mon, 19 May 2014 13:55:00 +0000

Folks, I've been asked by my friend the great artist and illustrator Evan Turk to participate in a blog tour centered on writing process. Don't know what a blog tour is? Neither did I, really, but I like Evan's explanation of this particular one, so I'm just going to stone cold steal it wholesale without sending him a dime: "It's sort of a blog chain letter that asks authors to explain a little bit about how they write." You can read Evan's contribution here.

So, with this thing there are four questions I must answer, then I'll be passing the baton to two more writers I've recruited: Kenneth Walsh (aka Kenneth in the 212), whose book Wasn't Tomorrow Wonderful? is available now and will provide you with all the Blondie references you need in a summer read, and Michael Lopez-Saenz, whose first YA novel The Thousand Natural Shocks I really wish I'd had handy when I was a sweaty gay teenager hiding in the orchestra supply closet during lunch.

You can find out about my writing and such at my author website, timandersonauthor.com. I've written six books, (four already published, two forthcoming), including two adult books at four YA books. Anyhoo, let's get this thing started with question #1:

What am I currently working on?

So nosy! OK, so my latest book Sweet Tooth was just published and I've just finished the writing of my fourth YA historical fiction novel Massacre of the Miners (two have been published so far, City of the Dead and Ocean of Fire, and the third, People of the Plague, is out in September), so the decks are cleared now and I've begun work on a collection of travel stories with the working title Everybody Hates a Tourist. It'll feature stories of being a hapless visitor to places like Amsterdam, Buenos Aires, Toyama (Japan), London, Florence, Paris, Bangkok and Koh Phi Phi (Thailand), Playa del Carmen/Cozumel/Chichinitza (Mexico), and Blackpool (England), as well as American locales like Los Angeles, Coney Island, and St. Petersburg.

I have no plans right now for another YA historical fiction novel (I signed on for four books in the Horrors of History series from Charlesbridge), but I would like to try my hand at something for kids that's less serious and straight-faced. The HoH books were sometimes a stone cold bummer, since they dealt with horrific events in American history such as the Galveston hurricane of 1900 that killed more than 6,000 people. It's pretty inappropriate to attempt a zinger at pretty much any point in the narrative, you know? So I'd be into doing something less death-oriented, like a book for younger kids about a furry mammal who runs for political office or something? We'll see.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

If we're talking about my books for adults I suppose my genre is "humorous memoir," so here's the easy answer: no other books in my genre are about me! I think in general my books are so specific in their topic that they necessarily stand apart. My first book Tune in Tokyo: The Gaijin Diaries, for example, is a travel memoir about two years I spent teaching English in Tokyo. Now, there have been quite a few memoirs of the foreigner's life in Japan, but I wanted mine to focus particularly on the urban experience of Tokyo and to offer a gay perspective, which was sorely missing from the canon, as it were.

Sweet Tooth is a gay diabetic memoir of adolescence in the '80s, and I'm pretty confident it's the first book you can say that about. At least this year. It's a very playful, though also often fraught, account of my type-1 diabetes diagnosis in 1988, when I was 15, and the simultaneous gay panic I was undergoing as my hormones officially went spastic. It's also a celebration of '80s pop culture, with lots of musical references (The Smiths, Echo and the Bunnymen), pop culture riffs (on Twin Peaks, for example), and misguided commentary on fashion (more paisley vests!) and haircare (more mousse!).

Why do I write what I write?

Tune in Tokyo and Sweet Tooth really just came out naturally--they were what my hands wanted to tap out when faced with a blank page on a computer screen. And actually, TiT came out of a series of email newsletters I sent to folks while I was in Japan--funny stories and updates that folks really responded to. It was the response that I got from readers that convinced me I could put a book together and there'd be an audience for it. So I actually outlined the book and wrote the first few chapters while I was still there. Then a hundred years later, after I jumped through all the publishing hoops (book proposal, agent, rewrites, interest, rejection, brick wall, debilitating sadness and frustration) I self-published it (and it was later picked up and re-released by Amazon Publishing) and was able to move on to Sweet Tooth, which was a book I'd had in my head for a long time and had already started writing.

How does my individual writing process work?

I get most of my writing done on the weekends, and I have to be very disciplined. Generally, I sit down at the computer, get on the Internet, and watch cat videos on YouTube for a while. Then I get up, maybe do some dishes (not too many!), put away some clothes, call my sister, call my mom, cuddle with my cat Stella, go check the mail, make some food, realize it's a beautiful day outside so I should really go for a bike ride, bike into Manhattan, maybe see a movie or meet a friend for coffee, then maybe go to the Y, get some dumplings, flip through the Village Voice, slowly become gripped by crippling guilt, rush home, and clickety clack on the computer for a few hours, breathless and sweating. The point is, I have a problem getting started so it helps if I'm handcuffed to my laptop or outfitted with a shock collar that will go off if I leave the apartment or go on the Internet for anything besides Wikipedia. And I absolutely must have noise--music or teevee or the vacuum cleaner, whatever. Helps me feel like something else is going on as I write. Once I get going, I'm good for it, but as I said, it takes discipline. Ish.

Thanks to Evan for the invitation! Handing it off now to Michael and Kenneth.

Sweet Tooth Launch Party in NYC May 28!

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Thu, 15 May 2014 16:34:00 +0000

You guys, there's a party going on right here. A celebration to last throughout the year. These immortal words from Kool and the Gang couldn't be less true, actually. Because the party isn't until Wednesday, May 28, and it will only last a little over two hours, probably. Still, it'll be an opportunity to celebrate good times, come on!

Yes, the official Sweet Tooth launch party is happening in just a few short weeks. So if you're in NYC, come on down! It's being hosted by Wix.com at Wix Lounge in Chelsea, so it'll be near all your favorite gay bars, and there'll be free beer and wine, so you'll find me more entertaining. I'll be reading and signing copies of the book, and there will be munchies both sweet and savory. And there's no dress code, so I'll be wearing my Speedos and whatever H&M cardigan is closest to the couch that day. (They're all pretty awesome.) You should feel free to do the same.

You can get more information and RSVP here.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Joy Division

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Mon, 12 May 2014 17:50:00 +0000

It's Sweet Tooth Jukebox time again, people. Wtf is Sweet Tooth, you're asking? It's this. Who am I? I am this. We good now? Ok, onward to seventies boy band Joy Division, the happy-go-lucky gaggle of young gargoyles above. They were from cheery Manchester, England, and came together in 1976 after two of them--Bernard Sumner and Peter Hook--saw the Sex Pistols play the Manchester Lesser Free Trade Hall. They started life as Warsaw before settling on the name Joy Division, which was apparently the name of a prostitution wing at a Nazi concentration camp. Provocative!

Anyway, Joy Division was once called "the missing link between Elvis Presley and [Siouxsie and] the Banshees" by the NME, which, you know, is perhaps overstating it--at most they sound like Elvis sleepdancing with Bela Lugosi after a particularly blue Christmas. The point is Joy Division was dark. Dark like a basement playroom with black mirrored walls and only a dark blue lava lamp to offer you glimpses of your own debilitating sadness. Or something. What I'm trying to say is Joy Division gave you very few reasons to shake your fist in the air and proclaim "Life is totally worth living I'm going to call my mother!"

But boy did they have some midnight jams. Like my personal favorite, "She's Lost Control," which is utterly unembedable but can be heard here, The song, which is carried along by Peter Hook's bouncy yet droney baseline and Stephen Morris's stiff, robotic drumming, is about a girl having an epileptic seizure, with lead singer Ian Curtis playing the agitated, empathetic narrator. Curtis also suffered from an often debilitating epilepsy (he sometimes had seizures while performing), and his urgent delivery on "She's Lost Control" pretty much proves it. Also, this track is pretty much the sexiest song about epilepsy ever--a bold statement, but a true one.

The band released two studio albums--Unknown Pleasures and Closer--and were officially set for Next Big Thing status just before the release of the second when Curtis hung himself on the eve of the band's first American tour. This, you'll understand, was a stone cold bummer. Two singles were released in the wake of his death--"Love Will Tear Us Apart" and "Atmosphere"--and they are absolute stunners.

"Atmosphere" was actually the first Joy Division song I ever heard. I remember watching the mesmerizing video on 120 Minutes, being hypnotized by those military drums, those chilly synths, and that gorgeous baseline, and then being totally thrown off by Curtis's atonal singing. "Good Lord," I thought, "couldn't they have done a second take?" But it turns out the delicate intimacy of Curtis's vocals--sounding like a robot trying to emote for the first time--completely make sense for the song. It really is the most beautiful track of the post-punk era. Yep, even more beautiful than "Orgasm Addict."

Of course, the surviving members of Joy Division eventually regrouped and continued on as New Order, who over the next decade would show the world that all they really wanted to do was party. But Joy Division is the dark, dusky basement where the party got started, and the band's legend has only grown with time. (Check out the movies 24 Hour Party People and Control for the fun biopic treatment.) A generation of mopey teenagers clasped the band to its breast because they all knew the sad yet somehow comforting truth that no matter how depressed they felt, Ian Curtis probably felt much worse. Teenagers are so tacky.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Echo and the Bunnymen

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Mon, 28 Apr 2014 14:06:00 +0000

You guys, it's time once again to explore the musical touchstones of my award-not-winning new book Sweet Tooth, the gay diabetic memoir you've always wanted yet didn't really understand why. Up next: Liverpool's Echo and the Bunnymen. Now, truth be told, I probably would have fallen in love with these boys even if they didn't sound like mad romantic post-punk love fraggles. Reason #1: singer Ian McCulloch's hair. Reason #2: Ian McCulloch's lips. Reason #3: I just like the word "bunnymen." And reason #4: the hella handsome blonde rhythm section of Les Pattinson and Pete de Freitas. I mean, look at them. It's just... gah.

But the fact is, these attributes, however important and arousing, were just window dressing for some of the most exhilarating, operatic, and punchy music to come out of post-punk England. Echo and the Bunnymen's debut album Crocodiles is a classic, bursting with angular new wave classics like "Rescue"and, on the US version, "Do It Clean." The follow-up, Heaven Up Here, explored an icier pallet, with McColloch's sombre lyrical playfulness and the band's dramatic arrangements meshing to arrive at something more epic, yet just as raw. But it was on their third record Porcupine that they really justified their existence. From the swirling, mathematically precise strings on "The Cutter" to the staccato guitar and bouncy bass of "Back of Love" to the ode to Shakespeare contemporary John Webster (and the misnaming of one of his most famous tragedies, The Duchess of Malfi, which McColloch for some reason renders as "The Duchess of Malfior") on "My White Devil," through to the swaggering closer "In Bluer Skies," Porcupine is a frigid masterpiece.

And just when you figured they'd reached their high watermark, here came 1984's Ocean Rain, the quintessential Bunnymen album, with all the drama, spleen, and hooks of its predecessor, but with that ineffable, hard-to-pin-down, "I-don't-know-what" (as the French say) that pushed it into the official shortlist of desert island albums.

Did I listen to this album over and over while lying on my bed with my black light on? Would you even believe me if I said "no"?

Up next was the 1985 singles collection Songs to Learn and Sing, which featured one of their most swoon-worthy tracks, "Bring on the Dancing Horses." Also featured on the Pretty in Pink soundtrack, this song spontaneously got high school boys and girls across the land pregnant, constantly.

You know what else did? The band's 1987 single "Lips Like Sugar." This track was from their self-titled album from the same year, on which the band incorporated lots and lots of crystalline keyboards. In my opinion, it's always a good idea to incorporate lots of crystalline keyboards, so this album made me a furiously happy fop.

Of course, all lead singers with giant pillow lips eventually wants to go solo, so Ian McCulloch left the band after this album to embark on a fully unremarkable solo career. Also, very sadly, drummer Pete de Frietas was killed in a motorcycle accident in 1989. Bizarrely, the band continued with a new drummer and singer, releasing the actually not embarrassing album Reverberation in 1990. Still, it wasn't the Bunnymen.

After a few years of other projects, the three original surviving Bunnymen regrouped in 1997 and released Evergreen, a solid, melodic collection that saw them settling very nicely into middle age. They've put out an album every few years ever since and continue to tour. And as it happens, they've got a new one called Meteorites coming out later this month.

Of course, the Bunnymen's dancing horses have long since returned to the stable to play canasta, and anyway it's Echo and the Bunnymen Version 1.0 that really matters. You can't be beautiful forever in this cruel world, but you can on YouTube, so let's sit on the floor, turn on the black light, and soak in "The Killing Moon" while teasing our hair into a fright wig in honor of Ian and his bunny boys.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Sinead O'Connor

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Tue, 15 Apr 2014 17:13:00 +0000

Folks, it's time for another dispatch from the '80s vortex, brought to you by my new book Sweet Tooth. Buy it now, monkeys--the NSA already knows you want it.

Anyway, onward to the rock 'n roll: was there ever a more ferocious and foxy dame to appear on our teevee screens in the eighties than Sinead O'Connor circa 1987's The Lion and the Cobra? Of course there wasn't. Two years later, Sinead would become extremely and exhaustingly famous for covering Prince's "Nothing Compares 2 U," for her rapturously received album I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got (which I've always been kind of lukewarm on), for tearing up a picture of the pope on Saturday Night Live, and for getting yelled at by Frank Sinatra. But oh, in the glorious year of 1987, the world was all "wtf?" when a tiny lightbulb-headed woman with pipes for days and limitless spleen to vent burst onto the scene and was everything any angry and sexually frustrated teenager could want in a pop star.

Nearly a teenager herself, Sinead was raw and bald and gorgeous and angry and Irish and pale and terrifying and flawless and maybe a little nuts. She could move from a dulcet coo to a siren's wail in the span of one line, and you never knew which Sinead to expect from moment to moment. The first song on The Lion and the Cobra, "Jackie," a spooky lament for a (literally) lost lover, perfectly encapsulated the spitfire anger, sadness, and aching melodrama at the heart of the album. "Jackie left on a cold dark night, telling me he'd be home," she begins, donning the persona of the ghost of a dead sailor's wife who spent the last twenty years of her life

Washing the sand with my salty tears
Searching the shores these long years
And I walk the seas forevermore
'Til I find my Jackie, oh.

Heavy! Here, have a listen:

Now, who among us hasn't found ourselves haunting the seven seas because we's lost our one true love in a shipwreck or a mutiny or a Scylla and Charybdis attack? It's the human condition!

The single "Mandinka" was a more upbeat rocker about "dancing the seven veils" and not knowing no shame, not feeling no pain and also, somehow, the Mankinka tribe in Africa. Sure, why not? It's also a song about a singer who can visit all the octaves, any time, whenever she wants. Don't believe me? Here:

Up next is Sinead's sex anthem, "I Want Your Hands on Me," which has the most air-drum-worthy beats in all the land. Truly one of the shwingiest songs of the decade, maybe even in human history, who can say? Did I listen to this song over and over while fantasizing about blowing the entire varsity soccer team behind the bleachers? You're awfully nosy!

But the song that really set Sinead O'Connor apart was the six-minute-plus epic "Troy," in which she had the audacity to compare a love affair she was suffering through to the sacking and burning of Troy during the Trojan War. (It's kind of like when in my diary I compared my teenage diabetic disappointment with Diet Shasta to the crucifixion of Christ, but this blog post isn't about me.) Thing is, she totally pulls it off, you guys. It all makes perfect sense. She was sacked and burned like Troy. She rose like a phoenix from the flames. And she gave hope to the rest of us, since we were all Trojans in the late eighties. Or something. The point is, the Internet is making it impossible for me to embed the video here because of "restrictions" or some shit. What is this, North Korea? So here's the lame youtube, audio only.

(Side fun fact: Did you know that Enya did the spoken word part on the song "Never Get Old"? I KNOW!)

Sinead went on to great fame and fortune with her next record, which catapulted her into the stratosphere on the heels of the gripping, dramatic video for "Nothing Compares 2 U," in which she gets so caught up in the emotion of it all that she sheds real tears. I, however, found this album pretty disappointing after the brittle majesty of The Lion and the Cobra. It didn't have the anger, the searing drama, the glistening, gorgeous mythos of her first. Though "Three Babies" and "Jump in the River" both nodded toward the lush and schizophrenic romanticism of her debut, the album as a whole was too tame, too prematurely adult.

Then, of course, Sinead became a pariah in the US overnight when she pulled the SNL stunt. She was knocked cleanly off her perch on top of the world and never regained it. Because when you've lost MC Hammer, you've lost... um, what exactly?

After her spectacular fall from grace, Sinead released a decent album of American standards called Am I Not Your Girl, which failed to do much for her in the marketplace. Her next album, 1994's Universal Mother, had some awesome tracks on it, but it was a little ponderous for the masses--Sinead had officially become a niche artist. She's put out an album every few years since then, none of them electrifying, some of them quite good, like her last one How About I Be Me and You Be You?

But any thoughts I have about Sinead O'Connor and her music always come back to the place where I found her: walking the seas, a despondent ghost, sing-howling about her dearly departed Jackie over an epic swirl of beautiful noise. It never got better than The Lion and the Cobra. And I've been waiting for a reissue of it ever since it was first released, so hurry up, record company, wtf are you waiting for? We need B-sides, alternate takes, remixes, previously unreleased tracks, liner notes, high-minded analyses, and praise heaped upon her by other artists. Sinead has earned it.

Come on, Rhino Entertainment (or whatever record company-type entity handles reissues of Ensign/Chrysalis albums), don't make me sic ghost-Sinead on you, cause she's scary when she's pissed.

Publishers Weekly Loves Sweet Tooth, Thank God!

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Thu, 10 Apr 2014 11:06:00 +0000

I knew this review was happening a few weeks ago but didn't know if it would be good or not. It's good! Not only do they describe Sweet Tooth as "lively and invigorating," they also use the word "man-candy," which I'm thinking might be a first for them? Maybe not, they're such saucy flirts over there at PW.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Cocteau Twins

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Thu, 10 Apr 2014 01:24:00 +0000

Time for another Sweet Tooth Jukebox dispatch, you guys. Up next: Cocteau Twins, the trio from the Whitest Ever Planet, whose ethereal, otherworldly, transcendent, and [INSERT HIFALUTIN ADJECTIVE HERE] music made grown men cry, grown women wonder where all the heroes went, and grown children wet the bed.

The Cocteaus emerged out of the post-punk UK scene, taking their cues from the Banshees, Joy Division, and the other usual suspects, but they quickly developed into their own inimitable beast, putting out countless dark, blissful, gossamer singles and a steady stream of increasingly jaw-dropping albums. Their first full-length Garlands came out in 1982 and their last (Milk and Kisses) dropped in 1996. While they were with us, there was no more dependable band in the universe--fans always knew there would be new material if not every year then at least every other year. Then, as the nineties began drawing to a close, and after fourteen years together and, apparently, quite a bit of psychodrama, they broke up and, with the exception of one appearance at Coachella that almost happened in 2004 before singer Elizabeth Fraser backed out, they've never looked back.

The Cocteaus are without a doubt one of the most influential bands in the modern era--they basically invented shoegazing, and they've informed the sound of countless artists, everyone from Grimes, Animal Collective, and Beach House to Portishead, Bon Iver, My Bloody Valentine, Chvrches, and even the Internet's favorite punching back Lana Del Rey. (That's right, I said it.) Prince was a fan, and so was Madonna. Who else can say that? Not me.

I could wax on and on about Scotland's pastiest-ever exports, but I'm going to make it easier on myself and you by just stone cold reprinting an essay I wrote for The Nervous Breakdown a few years ago on Elizabeth Fraser, chanteuse extraordinaire and beautiful oddball. I can't really say it any better now than I did then. Enjoy:

ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE: A SALUTE TO COCTEAU TWINS' ELIZABETH FRASER

The late eighties were a great time to be a fanboy of weirdo new wave ladysingers from outer space (mainly Britain). It seemed like every time you turned on your new favorite show, 120 Minutes, some wackadoodle dame dripping with otherworldly moxie was popping up sporting a leotard or a tutu or a completely bald head, leaving your mouth gaping in wonder at the sheer brilliance of it all. You had your helium-voiced ethereal fantasist (Kate Bush), your ferocious and feline Weimar Republic throwback/riding crop enthusiast (Siouxsie Sioux), your tiny elfin powder keg (Bjork of the Sugarcubes), your scary trannie android (Annie Lennox of Eurythmics), and your testy and tempestuous ingénue (Sinead O’Connor). All of these ladies had allure to burn and the musical chops to back it all up.

But there was one lady, from a very distant star (Grangemouth, Scotland), who truly stood head and shoulders above the rest in what she brought to the table. Not only was Elizabeth Fraser of the Cocteau Twins an alabaster-skinned ice princess with a mystifying hairstyle--she also had one of the most gorgeous voices to which pop music had ever born witness. With a staggering range that took it from the gutter to the stars in effortless swoops, and an easy way with melody and multi-tracked harmonies, Fraser’s voice was downright operatic in the sense that, unlike all of her peers, she sounded as if she could actually acquit herself quite nicely in an actual opera. (Of course, it would be one performed by an orchestra of hologram robots and staged on the distant planet of Mongo, but it would still be an opera.)

The first glimpse I got of Elizabeth Fraser was in 1988, when the video for “Carolyn’s Fingers,” a single from Blue Bell Knoll, the Cocteau Twins’ fifth album—and the first to get major label distribution in the U.S.—was in regular rotation on MTV’s “alternative” shows, such as the aforementioned 120 Minutes and its daytime counterpart PostModern MTV. She was exquisitely weird-looking--her short mess of kinky hair was tamed with Dep (or whatever) and styled (sort of) atop her head like a lopsided valentine, and she stood against a spectral blue background dressed in an all-white ensemble so un-rock-‘n-roll that Ms. Fraser wouldn’t have looked out of place if she’d worn it to an after-service luncheon down at the Presbyterian church. Her bandmates, guitarist Robin Guthrie and bassist Simon Raymonde, were also alluringly pale and otherworldly, but this was Elizabeth’s show.

Her voice stopped me in my tracks, as did her ice blue eyes and her soft, smiling face. And the song itself was a gorgeous wash of glacial guitar and epic, angelic vocals beamed in from the celestial moons of Tatooine or some shit. But what were these mysterious words this woman was uttering that sounded so unlike any language I’d ever heard? Was she singing in Klingon? Elvish? Scottish?

After hearing this celestial chorale, I of course spent the next few months feverishly tracking down and buying up any and all Cocteau Twins imports I could get my sweaty little teenage hands on. And as I immersed myself in her band’s spacey, cold-to-the-touch back catalog, I learned one simple truth--there was no way Liz Fraser was singing any human language. She was just forming her mouth into sounds that sounded good and letting those sounds be the lyrics. Album after album, song after song, there was no telling what on earth was happening in her world. Was she singing about gumdrops and unicorns? Egg drop soup? Gang warfare? Yes. All of these things. Or none of them, maybe? Who knew? I had to travel far back in time, to the dark, primordial year of 1982, in order to hear Ms. Fraser utter any word you would find in a dictionary. A few songs on first album Garlands, amid all the twittery yelping and staccato-hiccup vocals Liz was once wont to engage in, included a handful of real phrases of English: “stars in my eyes, stars at my feet” – “I could die in a rosary” – “winged water, feathered river”. Your typical early Goth pap-- nothing that wouldn’t be out of place on a Bauhaus song. But after flirting with human language early on, Elizabeth Fraser dove headfirst down the rabbit hole and spent the rest of the eighties throwing the world’s linguists for a loop.

This was a revelation: that someone could dispense with language altogether and just use their voice as an instrument. It was also a singular self-effacement in the context of a decade that gave us such strong "Look at me!" attention hogs as Morrissey, Robert Smith of the Cure, and, yes, the ladies mentioned in the first paragraph above, not to mention the mainstream Queen Bees of the Me-decade like Madonna, Boy George, and Bono. We may not have been able to always figure out what all these singers were going on and on about (what’s a Lovecat, for example?), but they were most definitely singing real words used to convey any number of real meanings. “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore” – “Let’s Go to Bed” – “Love and Anger” – the singers behind all of these songs, delightfully weird as they may have been, were, when it came down to it, relatable as humans.

But Elizabeth Fraser? She was a blurry blotch of brilliant ambiguity, an otherworldly seraph floating on a cloud of compelling, vertiginous vagueness and hiding behind a veil of hyper-imaginative deflection. Liz gave away nothing about herself in her lyrics. Even her song titles, though written in Roman letters, were bizarre transmissions from an outer-galactic polar volcano, though they were mercifully transcribed into English on the record sleeves: “A Kissed-out Red Floatboat”? “Cherry-Coloured Funk”? “The Itchy Glowbo Blow”? “Ella Megalast Burls Forever”? Whatever are we to make of these phrases, Elizabeth? Sure, sometimes she came down to earth and threw us a bone with a “Love’s Easy Tears” or a “Sigh’s Smell of Farewell,” or, you know, perhaps a “Blood Bitch,” just to prove that she’s human like the rest of us (and, at heart, an adorable little Goth). But then she’d go all sphinx-like once again with ditties like “Fotzepolitic” or “Aikea-Guinea.”

In contrast to her contemporaries, Elizabeth Fraser was a completely blank slate. The only entry-point into Liz’s world was her voice. No one could possibly know what that voice was saying, but it sure was beautiful. Therefore, the songs—these gorgeous, majestic, spine-tingling cathedrals of sound—could mean whatever you wanted them to mean. Did you just get dumped? Liz understands. Grandma died? Liz’ll take care of it. Failed your driver’s test? Liz has you covered. Coming to terms with your terrible homosexuality? Let Liz handle it. Just woke up with blood on your hands in a strange hotel room? Liz knows and she’ll make it better. (You should probably call your lawyer, though.)

Interestingly, it was when Liz started peppering her songs with more recognizable English on the Cocteau’s 1993 album Four Calendar Café that the internal dynamics within the band started fraying. On several tracks on the album, Elizabeth, who was romantically involved and had a child with guitarist Robin Guthrie, sang of domestic strife and romantic ambivalence. “Are you the right man for me/Or are you toxic for me?” she sang on single “Bluebeard.” "Is this what my body says? Use me, drain me, fall around me," she sighed on "Theft, and Wandering Around Lost." Though she employed a bit of English on the band’s final album, 1996’s Milk and Kisses, she largely reentered the Cloud of Lyrical Impenetrability on most of the songs such as “Eperdu,” “Tishbite,” and “Violaine.” After this last triumphant album, Fraser and Guthrie’s relationship, as well as the band they had made together, imploded and receded into legend.

The Cocteau Twins released eight albums, eighteen singles and EPs, and a number of collaborative recordings during their fourteen-year run from 1982 to 1996. (The most memorable of the latter, by the way, is Liz and Guthrie’s cover of Tim Buckley’s “Song to the Siren,” which you should watch immediately. Do it now.) That’s a lot of songs, very few of which giving us even the slightest clue as to the Mystery of Liz. To this day Elizabeth Fraser remains an enigma wrapped in a riddle folded into a puzzle and then combined with a larger riddle and magically reduced to a smaller but still quite complicated puzzle that morphs into a conundrum that then disappears into a black hole. This is obvious.

Criminally, Ms. Fraser hasn’t released a solo album in the sixteen years since she was a Cocteau Twin, with her most high profile musical outing being the three tracks she sang on Massive Attack’s 1998 album Mezzanine. For years it has been rumored that she was working on a solo album for Blanco y Negro records, but nothing has ever materialized. She released one song called “Underwater” in 2000, but nobody heard it because it was a limited edition of only 200 copies.

Some exciting news came in 2005 when it was announced that the reformed Cocteau Twins would be headlining the Coachella Festival in California. But it was not to be--Elizabeth pulled out of the appearance after realizing she simply couldn’t face working with her ex-bandmates anymore. In November of 2009 she released a lovely song called “Moses” as a tribute to a friend who had recently died, and chatter about a solo album began anew. But now here we are in ~~2012~~ 2014, and it’s still radio silence from Our Lady Fraser.

In a 2009 interview with the UK’s Guardian newspaper, Liz, was as hard to reach as ever, though for once, she laid out in plain English what was behind all her otherworldly warblings:

She has always struggled to write lyrics, she says, but suddenly something will click and she “goes with the sound and the joy” – that’s why she sings sounds and words that have no meaning, of which she can only make sense later. As she puts it, “I can’t act. I can’t lie.”

So when you were singing along with Liz Fraser as she chirruped some flibberty lyrical nonsense in whatever song—was that a Cherry Coke mention in “Iceblink Luck”? A reference to Sudan in “I Wear Your Ring”? Something about lettuce leaves and Lois Lane in “Summerhead”?—she didn’t know what she was saying any more than you did. Perfect.

Elizabeth Fraser may not have known what her subconscious was conveying in the vast majority of the songs she sang, but she still sang like she meant every word.

Come back, Liz. It's been way too long, and right now the world needs more of your sublime cherry-coloured funk. Or, you know, whatever you want to call it.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: Siouxsie and the Banshees

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Tue, 01 Apr 2014 15:53:00 +0000

Welcome to another installment of Sweet Tooth Jukebox, a series of posts inspired by the music I memorialize in my new book Sweet Tooth, available now, just buy it already, Jesus. Sweet Tooth Jukebox is my chance to force you to watch videos of my favorite bands from back in the day and read my words about them because knowledge is power and you were probably listening to Starship in the '80s. (I secretly was too, sometimes.) Pay attention, there will be a quiz, probably.

Up next: Siouxsie and Her Banshees. This band got their start way back in 1976 when they played a hastily put together set at the 100 Club Punk Festival in London. If memory serves, Sid Vicious was on drums that night. (Can someone fact check that for me?) Their set included a decidedly sacrilegious version of "The Lord's Prayer," and they made a wonderfully god-awful racket, by all accounts. It took them two years to get a record deal, by which point punk was kind of over, so their debut album The Scream is perhaps one of the first post-punk records. Between 1978 and 1996, the Banshees released 11 studio albums that are amazingly varied in style. Their first two were angular and angry, they added some color and bounce to the mix on 1980's Kaleidoscope, and then basically invented goth on 1981's classic Juju, which featured the single "Spellbound," the video of which showed Siouxsie at her most feline and her eye-makeup at its most turbo-charged.

And let's face it, we all had huge crushes on Budgie the drummer. What was not to love? He was one of the best-ever rock drummers, he had bleached-blonde hair and alabaster skin, and he always walked around dressed like a Victorian carnie. My dream date!

The band cycled through a few more styles--whoozy psychedelia on A Kiss in the Dreamhouse and Hyaena (check out the video for "Dear Prudence" above, in which Siouxsie's rocking some hairy-ass armpits), slithery modern rock on Tinderbox--before releasing Peepshow in 1988, a collection of goth cabaret torch songs and tales of childhood panic/horror that spawned the absolutely bonkers track "Peek-A-Boo," which became their highest-charting single to date in the States. (Fun fact: if you want me to dance at your party like a drunk marionette, give me some booze and put on this song.)

Now, some Banshees fans will quibble with my giving prominence to the video for "Peek-a-Boo" up top, because at the time it was viewed by diehards as kind of a sellout to pop radio. People who think this are wrong. This song is genius, and the video is fun as hell. Siouxsie's got a Cabaret bob cut and some country/western leotard-type sleeveless body suit with long-ass gloves, the boys are dancing muppet-like in the shadows and wearing masks, there's a bunch of animated projections on faces and such, there are tassels, there are hella big feather fans. What else could you want from a video? The answer is: I don't know, maybe a shirtless Budgie?

The less said about the Banshees' last two albums, Superstition and The Rapture, the better, because damn are they awful (though Superstition did include one of their best-ever singles, "Kiss Them for Me" and The Rapture's second half tried mightily to redeem its first.). But let's just say that up through Peepshow, this band was pretty damn flawless. Even their meh songs had at least a groovy bass line you could ride, a prickly guitar refrain spidering all over the place, and/or some glass-shattering yelps from Our Lady Sioux. They were constantly reinventing themselves and never dragging their feet. And they had the best B-sides in the business, hands down. (Seriously, get their B-sides collection Downside Up and be amazed. If you don't swoon in your boots for "Tattoo" I don't even know what to say to you.)

In conclusion, Siouxsie was my fairy godmother in high school and she got me a date for the prom, the end.

Sweet Tooth Jukebox: The Smiths

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Tue, 25 Mar 2014 01:09:00 +0000

Welcome to the inaugural Sweet Tooth Jukebox post, in which I'll be posting videos and typing out a bunch of nonsense about the bands featured in my new book about my gay, diabetic adolescence in the eighties, Sweet Tooth, which is available now so go buy it, I'll wait here.

Of course, we have to start with The Smiths, as they are all over Sweet Tooth and they even gave a few chapters their titles. But where to start with The Smiths? They are a wonderland of somber and sick hyper-melodrama, a fantasia of feral self-hate and brilliant self-assurance, simultaneously depressing and freaking hilarious. And oh, the one-liners. Why do we love The Smiths? Probably for some of the same reasons that others hate them, chief of these being their swishy lead singer Morrissey, who was always emoting about some boy or girl who left him at the train station or the iron bridge or Wally Range or the Holy Name Church or Buckingham Palace, all while barely wearing his sheer button-up shirt as he swung and swayed like a teenage girl dancing in front of her bedroom mirror and singing into her hairbrush. He irritated the crap out of some folks, but I couldn't help but admire the man--after all, it takes balls to be that aggressively fey.

But as magnetic as Moz was, he wasn't the sum total of The Smiths. There was also, of course, his writing partner Johnny Marr, the king of the breezy guitar earworm, whose busy and infectious fretwork was a sturdy counterpoint to Morrissey's flights of lyrical fancy; and the other two guys, Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke, who made up a solid rhythm section and, even more importantly, brought some reserved, boyish sex appeal that Morrissey couldn't manage because he was too busy swishing and swaying, beating himself langorously with a flower bouquet, and making out with his microphone.

The Smiths were only together for five years, but in that time they released an epic number of amazing tunes. Number one on my list is in the YouTube up top: "The Boy with the Thorn in His Side" from their album The Queen is Dead. Your number one might be different, but you'd be wrong. Sure, "How Soon Is Now?", "Cemetery Gates," "This Charming Man," and "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore" make great cases for themselves as the King of Smiths Mountain, but none of them has this perfect a mixture of mopey-eyed romanticism, soaring gayrotica, lush strings, a tight 'n jangly pop bounce, and a melody to die/kill for. Plus, the song contains one of Morrissey's most poignant lines in "When you want to live/how do you start?/Where do you go?/Who do you need to know?" (I've never gotten a satisfying answer to any of those questions, btw.)

In short, for this ex-new wave boy, The Smiths are the best band the world has ever produced. They're the Fancy Feast of pop, as my cat Stella once remarked to me, and Stella, even though she's a Republican, knows her pop history.

All the Best Cats Love Sweet Tooth

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Thu, 27 Feb 2014 12:55:00 +0000

I'm pretty sure Stella is giving it two paws up.

The 21 Stages of an Insulin Attack: A Diabetic Adventure in GIFs

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Thu, 13 Feb 2014 05:14:00 +0000

Do you know a type-1 diabetic? The kind that has to jab themselves all day, every day, forever, with needles? Then you need to be able to recognize when this person--be it your dealer, your mother-in-law, your office crush, or your Craigslist hookup--is having an insulin reaction. Because things can get real, and you need to be armed with the facts. One moment you might be chatting about wanting to get your hands on a Michael Sam sex tape (there's gotta be one!), the other you're wondering why the person you're speaking to is having trouble forming words or is laughing maniacally and sweating like a honey baked ham for no reason.

Your friend (dealer, mother-in-law, etc.) is in trouble, you see. Because, though he's an insulin-dependent diabetic, sometimes he may have taken too much insulin, or not eaten enough to cover the insulin he took, or exercised too much, or has been really stressed out lately. Maybe you're hanging out playing Scrabble, maybe you're in your office's supply closet, maybe he's asleep and you're there for some reason--the point is, at these times of what is called "hypoglycemia," his blood sugar will plummet to depths no human should be prepared to accept, and his body will do its best to let you know that you need to FEED HIM SUGAR NOW OMG. He won't go through all of these stages, but that all depends on you and how fast your reflexes are. (Also, how many Snickers bars you have on you.) You can learn more about the hilarious/irritating/dangerous world of low blood sugar attacks in my book Sweet Tooth, a memoir of my life as a type-1 diabetic teenager who thinks he likes dudes but knows he loves Froot Loops.

So, herewith, are the various stages of an insulin attack:

The part when he starts twitching

The part when he starts sweating

The part when he seems like he's a million miles away

The part when he becomes kind of confused

The part when he sweats some more

The part when you realize he's probably having an "episode" so you try to feed him some Nutella and he's not having it

The part when you try to get him to just open his mouth for one freaking second so you can squeeze some cake icing up in there and he's all...

The part when you get him to his feet and assume he can still walk to the kitchen by himself

The part when you realize, oh shit, this is getting real

The part when he starts to lose control of his motor skills

The part when you sit him back down and he gets weirdly emotional

The part when the sweating is kind of becoming a problem

The part when you try to feed him a Little Debbie snack cake and he rebels

The part when he falls on the floor and does some weird kind of land-based doggie paddle

The part when he reminds you of an old horror movie you once saw

The part when he starts laughing like he's seen the other side and it's hilarious

The part when the sweating is getting kind of ridiculous

The part when you manage to get some dulce de leche down his throat

The part when he realizes that delicious sweet things taste good and make things better

The part when he's really sorry for being so much trouble

The part when the amount of adrenaline in his system is way too much for him to remain upright

My book Sweet Tooth: A Memoir is out now from Lake Union Publishing. Buy it for all of your best frenemies.

My Copies of Sweet Tooth Have Arrived and Stella's Bogarting All of Them

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Thu, 06 Feb 2014 20:48:00 +0000

Guys, I got my copies of my new book Sweet Tooth, which chronicles my adolescence as a poor gay boy who loves sweets, and my cat Stella has already staked her claim on all of them. Jimmy said she's spent all day stacking them in different formulations. The one below is particularly poignant, as it really gets to the heart of the experience of a diabetic who loves Nutella and sometimes has low-blood-sugar episodes.

That there is a vat of God's own chocolate hazelnut spread, plus some chalky glucose tablets in case your blood sugar is low and you have absolutely nothing else around to combat it, plus a glucagon injection kit, which is as delightful as it sounds--if a poor diabetic has passed out or is unresponsive to whatever sugar you're shoving in his face, you may need to take out the glucagon and jab him with it, for freedom (and so he doesn't slip into a coma).

After doing her art project, Stella whipped out a copy and turned directly to the part about her, because she's narcissistic, like most cats.

Here's Something Fun: The Book Jacket for the Thai Version of Tune in Tokyo

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 02:44:00 +0000

You guys, I know you're tired of me talking about myself incessantly, but seriously, this is fun stuff. For some reason, the island nation of Japan, in which I lived for two years (a long time ago, but still) has exhibited no interest whatsoever in translating my book about Japan, Tune in Tokyo, into Japanese, which is just rude and dismissive, no? You know who hasn't been rude and dismissive? Thailand, that's who. Yep, Thailand, that wondrous nation formerly known as Siam, snatched the rights to this book up like a Thai kid in an American candy store or something I don't know whatever.

The bottom line is, I'm thrilled that anyone wants me, and I'm double thrilled that it's Thailand, because I love Thailand--in the original draft of TiT, in fact, there was a chapter about a visit I took to T-land, but I ended up dropping it because it wasn't really on point, but I plan to include that story in a future book, so heads up, Thailand LOVE ME AND ASK ME OUT!

I'm triple thrilled with the design job on this here book jacket. They nailed me! Especially the narrow waist, the large biceps, and the platinum blonde hair. It's like I'm looking into a mirror. What's more, the Thai publisher, Matichon, has included Tune in Tokyo in a "Travelogue Series" of theirs. You wanna see an ad for it? Okay, if you insist.

In conclusion, I don't care that Japan is completely indifferent to my book's existence, because I'll always have Bangkok.

Introducing... Sweet Tooth: the Gay, Diabetic Memoir You've Been Waiting For!

noreply@blogger.com (Tim Anderson) — Wed, 11 Dec 2013 01:43:00 +0000

Folks, I have great news, so sit down, shut up, and pour yourself a drink. Or wait, maybe pour yourself a drink, then sit down, then shut up. (Maybe you should shut up first?) Oh, whatever, just shut up and listen: my next book, Sweet Tooth, the follow-up to my generation-defining juggernaut Tune in Tokyo, has a publication date, hooray! You can get your grubby little hands on it on March 11, 2014. Like, this 2014! The year after this one! Do you know how soon that is?

Head on over to Ye Olde Amazon page to pre-order. You might also think about getting copies for your cat wrangler, your food tester, and your doppleganger, because you know you never get them nice things.