Trapper Jenn MD

The Space In Between Is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52's (Fragment Seven Is Unequal By All Quantifiable Measures)

2012-02-09T18:49:00.000-08:00

COSMIC THING
6/27/89

In the history of rock and roll music, has there been a comeback story as heartwarming as the B-52's returning with Cosmic Thing? Has a band deserved to sell four million copies and have back-to-back Grammy-nominated Top 3 hits more than the B-52's? Conventional wisdom stated that it was impossible for them to recover from the loss of Ricky Wilson. The band members themselves may have at one time, however briefly, believed such as well.

Then they jumped back in the ring and sunset flipped everybody.

It was Keith Strickland's fault, really. He had by now completely abandoned the drums for the guit-fiddle, and the decision proved fortuitous, as jangly soundscapes owing more than a little to his late musical mentor's influence began flowing out, until he couldn't help but share them enthusiastically with his erstwhile bandmates. The flame thus born, the gang of once five now four reconvened and began jamming together, just like way back when (probably not too dissimilar a scene from that depicted on the album cover). Replete with renewed confidence and fresh tunes, the B's hired Don Was and Nile Rodgers to work their shiny shiny production magic (not as a team, mind you, although one tingles to think). Cosmic Thing sounds clean as palace marble, but nowhere near as heartless. The theme is warm reminiscence, as the members go wistful but never doleful, honoring their departed friend simply by being the band they were meant to be. None of the songs can be educed as sorrowful, and this is less avoidance of pain than assimilation of spirits. Just because you can't see someone, doesn't mean they aren't there with you.

"Cosmic Thing"--Best euphemism for booty ever? Maybe. "Biscuits," as heard in Digital Underground's "Doowutchyalike," is pretty good too.

"Cosmic Thing" kicks the parade off in sublime fashion from line one: "Gyrate it till you've had your fill/Just like a pneumatic grill!" Love to this day how Fred spaces out "pneumatic." But what about the ladies, those wigged wonders of warble? Oh the voice is still strong in each, but now those lustrous harmonies sparkle rather than sear.

"Dry County"--Sweet and warm biscuits washed down with a cold and sweaty soda. I bought Cosmic Thing the week of release--all of 12 at the time, I was--and I thought "Dry County" was just the bee's knees with extra cottage cheese. Goofy yet somehow riveting. Now, I regard it as goofy and enjoyable, but not unmissable. In other words, if Cosmic Thing is a party I just arrived at, I won't go out of the way to greet "Dry County" when I see it in the corner drinking punch. (But I will take a running leap at, say, "Channel Z." Big ol' hugs and all.)

The squonking music may do it in for most people, evocative as it is of a Dr. Seuss character in the throes of heatstroke. For me, it's Keith's wacked-out angel food cake vocals. The chorus absolutely works, though, at a Doozer-like level of dedication.

"Deadbeat Club"--Originally titled "There Is a River," which sounds far more fitting for Phil Collins than the B-52's, "Deadbeat Club" is an ode to the carefree days of salad in Athens, where the band and their peers wore nightgowns in broad daylight and danced to the music threaded in the wind while waiting for the streetlight to change. This is the closest the album gets to a mournful song, but thankfully "Deadbeat Club" avoids nostalgia, which is almost always a kiss of death for artists and was--lest we forget--a recognized medical condition in the 17th and 18th centuries. Then again, the American Psychiatric Association had homosexuality on the books as a mental disorder all the way up until 1973, so...fuck doctors.

Cindy and Kate save the vocal histrionics (such as they are) for the straightforward chorus, with some help from the deadpan club of Fred and Keith. Elsewhere, the duo is measured and enrapturing, stretching syllables and telling an extraordinary story. The "We were wi-i-ild girls" bridge vise-grips me every time. As does "Anyone we can/We're gonna find somethin'." I don't care if you belong to a club of just one, that line right there is real talk.

I only recently learned that Normaltown is an actual neighborhood in Athens. This whole time I thought they just made the place name up as a gentle jibe at the straight and narrows who couldn't make neither head nor hair of those "strange" kids.

"Love Shack"--Gay nightclubs, breeder weddings, seedy karaoke nights--"Love Shack" is inescapable. As the song that brought the B's back into the public eye, I respect the song forever. As an overlong Mr. Potato Song (the single edit is better than the original) it is one of the most divisive pop tracks of the past thirty years. I'll never forget the Spice Girls being asked by Rolling Stone what their most hated tune of all-time was, and the one that ended up marrying that football/soccer player replied, "'Love Shack.' I'd say it to their fucking face, I don't care." REBEL REBEL! Damn, trim the claws, kitty, 'fore ya hurt somebody. I get giddy thinking about what Fred Schneider would have said to any of the Spice Girls in their collective disgusting face.

"Love Shack" is so overplayed that its unique quality is now almost completely ignored. The verses are abnormally structured compared to most songs that were played on the radio not just in the late 1980s but in any decade. After the intro, with Fred and Cindy, the band firmly settled into a nice chicken scratch groove, we have verse one. Five lines in toto, Cindy starting it off and then being joined by Kate halfway through. Fred takes over with his auto braggadocio as the girls GPS it up behind him, until we hit the first instance of that hay-jumping chorus.

Verse two is eight lines: two for Fred, two for Kate, and Cindy singing both of her lines twice. Chorus, then verse three where Fred has a quartet of lines for us, including the "whole shack shimmies!" breather, after which everyone starts moving around and around and around and are you carsick yet? Kate and Cindy come back in to bookend Fred before Keith's mini-solo, which is just an excuse for everyone to frug. Fred repeats, with slight variation, his very first parts on the song, before the refrain hops back in and then dooooooooowwwwwwwn....dooooowwwwn. Okay, it ain't as cool as the "Rock Lobster"...anything, but "Love Shack" must be admired for its unpredictable momentum. (The only song in their canon comparable to it by this standard is "Devil In My Car," way back on Wild Planet.) This song was truly the result of a catch-as-catch-can jam by a band apart back together again just pleased as pickles to be making music together. Shit happens. Sometimes people yell "Tin roof! Rusted" and it doesn't mean anything other than they were having a ton o' fun. No one was trying to concoct a smash hit, 'cause only a mad alchemist would think this formula was can't-miss. And the B-52's are not mad. You grant that.

"Junebug"--Second-most notable nugget about "Junebug" is that it was used in a Target commercial, another thing the B's have in common with Devo. Most notable nugget, "Junebug" was the first song the band wrote after their hiatus. I love the infectious insect groove, but it's ultimately gormless pop. Is Fred trying to seduce a bug? I dunno.

"Roam"--The second smash hit, with lyrics courtesy of their old pal Robert Waldrop. (Is that a call-back to "Dirty Back Road" in the first verse, then?) Also popular for commercials. Just like "52 Girls" in that Kate and Cindy will command your complete attention for minutes using nothing but their natural voices. That last minute is kinda sorta heavenly.

Keith Strickland is no Ricky Wilson, and he shouldn't be. Ricky's playing had a jagged edge, a rawer tone, and while Keith sounds for lack of a better word "smoother" than his school chum ever was, he shares Wilson's ingenuity with the instrument. His guitar is a true partner with the girls here, an aid, an abettor.

"Bushfire"--Sex. Homo, hetero, all of it. In one not-neat shit-hot package. Kickin' up sawdust and saying the word "field" frequently, I approve!

"Channel Z"--The first single. Didn't set the world alight, but it's far better than "Love Shack" and just a bit superior to "Roam." Showcases the politcally/socially/ecologically-concerned B's, as all three take turns hurling crap at the mass media's fever for frivolity. Shit ain't changed.

Fred barks out, as he is wont to do, a litany of unpleasantries in the world then and today: toxic fog, "laser bombs," ozone holes and space junk. Wait, space junk? Wasn't that a Devo song? Well yeah, but that's a general term for debris in outer space. Fred actually says "space junk" three times in the song and the second time (2:47) he delivers it in direct imitation of Bob Mothersbaugh. That nasally tone is an unmissable mimic/tribute. Fuck yeah, Fred!

"Topaz"--Ah, a world without Channel Z. Topaz is visible, sure, but azure and cyan as well. Might be a little too much cyan, actually. Hmm. Kate and Cindy are fertility goddesses. Keith and Fred still the Deadpan Club back there. That flourish of synth and guitar when the "cities by the sea" come into view, wow....

"Follow Your Bliss"--Anti-climactic instrumental (well, the women do provide a couple choir practices) that always put me in mind of a trip to the grocery, pushin' the cart around, wishing things weren't so many calories. Sigh.

SMOOTH NOODLE MAPS
JUNE 1990

The CD version of Smooth Noodle Maps features a fold-out that shows the band members emerging from a computer simulation of Jupiter. Which is a cosmic thing, indeed. But where the B-52's went artistically and commercially right, the Spuds had their breathing apparatus malfunction and their satellite break apart and descend at a deadly pace back to Earth, where it hit some chick named Sally in an alley. Circle of life. See, Devo thought space was the place--maybe that literally riotous show they played with Sun Ra before making it big had something to do with it--but the B-52's knew that the space in between was far more crucial.

I heard once, and liked to believe, that the title refers to the texture of the human brain. Other sources cite a nutty mathematical system. I would research it more, but mediocrity only deserves so much of my time. Or yours, for that matter.

A Swedish proverb begs, "Love me when I least deserve it because that is when I really need it." When I listen to Smooth Noodle Maps, all I can think is, Man, I love Devo so much right now.

"Stuck In a Loop"--This is a Kim Wilde throwaway, you sons o' bitches. I wanna get stuck in a loop, I'll go read Artemis Fowl or watch an episode of Misfits.

"Post Post Modern Man"--My fella spud Patrick loves this track. Straight-facedly thinks that had it come earlier in their career, it would have been a fair smash. I think it has purge fluid leaking from its nose. Although Jerry and Mark singing together is always kinda cute. Jerry's all down in the canyon, Mark's all in the hot air balloon. They ain't no K & C Show, though.

"When We Do It"--Oh yes it's sexy sex time. Sexi luv? Shut yo' cupcake hole! Thank you Devo for taking the most fantastically fulfilling activity that can be enjoyed by two or more human beings at one time and strip it of everything that makes it fantastic and fulfilling. "When We Do It" will kill impending orgasms faster than the thought of a fully-clothed Ann Coulter. I can, after I've cleaned up the vomit and popped a breath mint, appreciate the theme of the track, the importance of mutual sexual empathy.

"Spin the Wheel"--Spaces the great potato-shaped wheel, once spun, will never land upon:

--Clever Phrase
--Nifty Idea
--Insightful Observation
--Humorous Remark
--Memorable Melody

"Mountain Dew"--Cover of a folk ditty by Bonnie Dobson. Remember the version of Devo that did good cover songs?

"A Change is Gonna Cum"--Remember the version of Devo that did good songs? From Shout on they've just been a shitball rollin' down that hill, gathering greater momentum and more shit, building into a gigantic fecal reminder of how far they've wandered from the path they once traversed with equal dollops of intelligence, irreverence and passion. I mean, "cum'? Even Prince would have said "U R lame" for that one. What's sad is the only thoughtful lyric of the entire album can be found on this song: "Every in-between time looks like a perfect picture/It seems to last forever/Because it's standing still." That's good. Really good. Too good. I think it was "borrowed."

"The Big Picture"--If you, like me, believe in the possibility of alternate timelines where different versions of ourselves live out variations of our lives based on the decisions we did or did not make, you may understand "The Big Picture" as Gary Numan in a timeline where he had no talent, taste, or shame.

"Pink Jazz Trancers"--Are you trying to brainwash me, Devo? I thought you loved all the good spuds! Or has disillusionment turned us all into ninnies and/or twits in your eyes? Did someone clone Mark and Jerry and those clones have been writing and producing the last three albums? So much query!

"Jimmy"--Jimmy is a vituperative shithead. People who can accurately be described with such words tend to inspire good songs. I would not call "Jimmy" good, either as a song or person, but held up to rest of Smooth Noodle Maps, it comes off smelling like "Sunshine of Your Love."

I mean, it's funny. Which is important. If you're not gonna worry about making music that's shrewd, carnal, or challenging--and clearly Devo by 1990 had watched the ship sail, then torpedoed it--you may as well elicit a chuckle or two. I told you about Jimmy already. First sentence. Well, that asshole got his and somebody else's to boot! Jimmy won't ever beat his wife, torment his child, kick the dog, or torture his employees ever again, 'cause he is in a wheelchair and Devo don't care, which is convenient 'cause of the rhyming thing. Or maybe it's just Jerry who doesn't care. I mean who is he to speak for everyone else?

"Devo Has Feelings Too"--Y'all had talent once upon a time as well. Y'all once possessed the ability to discern between what made a song good and what made it bad. You understood the difference between a toasted bagel and a burned one, and that no amount of cream cheese could salvage the latter.

"The king's been dead/They chopped off his head in '63." Again with the JFK obsession.

"Dawghaus"--Please don't start off the song by barking.

"Owwwwoooooo!"

GODDAMNIT.

Written and recorded too stultifyingly for me to even wail on uselessly about the willful misspelling. Bob1 pulls off some Sesame Street-style string yanks, but nothing can salvage this ugly Ohio terrier.

But, but...this guy is in the "dawghaus"! Courtesy of his woman! 'Cause he was out all night! I bet he used to party with Jimmy! Doesn't he know what happened to his bygone buddy? He's non-ambulatory and five dudes in ugly pastel suits could not be any less concerned. Why have you not realized by now that "Jimmy" is a metaphor for Devo's recording career?

As the eighties give way to the nineties, the B-52's and Devo are antipodes of each other. One group is riding massive success, the other sputtering out into museum-status.

The Space In Between Is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52s (Fragment Six Reflects the Soullessness of Modern Man Or Some Shit)

2012-02-02T23:17:00.000-08:00

To reflect the convalescence taken by The B-52s after the sudden passing of Ricky Wilson, their guitarist and visionary, this review features the two albums released by Devo after Oh No It's Devo!

SHOUT

10/9/1984

The fact that Shout was released exactly two weeks before my seventh birthday peeves me greatly.

My review of Bouncing Off the Satellites mentioned that albums dependency on the Fairlight CMI, an 80s synth if ever one was made to be called such, and here for the first and only time Devo made extensive use of it as well. (Also toiling with the Fairlight in 1983/1984 was The Art of Noise, whose debut Who's Afraid of the Art of Noise? showed how to make actual memorable music with the costly monster.)

Alan Meyers would leave Devo after the recording of Shout. Whether this is down to dissatisfaction with the band's artistic direction (which may or may not have been down to Jerry Casale's drug-fueled control-freakiness) or to devote more time to raising his newborn child is a matter of conjecture.

Warner Bros. was by this time sick to death of the spuds, whose uncompromising approach rankled the Rod Rooters seeking naught but gorgeous wool to entrap the lambs into the money pit. The record company refused to provide any financial push for Shout, kiboshing any hopes of a promo tour, and Devo's days sharing the halls with Bugs Bunny were over.

"Shout"--Gratuitous grandeur and hyperbolic gesture weeps from this whole record. Music by tone-deaf half-wits quite clearly, but whoa, this is Devo, the greatest thing to come out of Ohio since that other great thing I'm forgetting at the moment because I can't be arsed to Google search "Great Things From Ohio," the racket-gang that gave the lucky listeners a handful of fine full-lengths to blast from the studio and water the garden with. They are not tone-deaf, and if their wit made them seem like assholes sometimes to the ninnies and the twits, at least they were putting their whole ass into it, baby. So this development is a puzzler.

A clarion call signals the beginning of a laborious journey. Does Devo genuinely believe in change? Are they parodying protest music? Would I care exponentially more about the answers to those queries if "Shout" was halfway listenable?

"The Satisfied Mind"--This is a good-un, 'cause Mark programmed a tolerable melody for Jerry to bemoan the unexamined life over. GVC and those super-saturated keys make for a tidy marriage. Even the vocal effects don't disrupt the connubial bliss.

"Don't Rescue Me"--Stolen from a Taylor Dayne recording session.

"The 4th Dimension"--I wish they'd spaced the decent songs on Shout out a little more. 'Cause this is it. "Satisfied Mind" and this one. Oy.

The Jerry-narrated tale of an adventurous female who decided to use her fingers to facilitate travel across dimensions because she'd grown tired of the planet Earth. Replace "the planet Earth" with "the album Shout" and now the song is about me.

Nice "Daytripper" nod.

"C'mon"--No. You c'mon. Lemme show ya where it's at. And the name of the place is, goddamn this song is irritating. If I concentrate mega hard, and visualize a quirky Kirby-style video game, where a cute bright boneless creature makes adorable squeals and whoops whilst leaping higher than the tops of trees and collecting various special power up items hidden in balloons and clouds, maybe just maybe I can tolerate "C'mon." Maybe just maybe I can forgive the fellas their dearth of ideas and spirit.

"Here To Go"--Cocaine, I have heard it said, is quite the substance. It's when one attempts to make it a style, however, that the vessel begins to leak.

"Jurisdiction of Love"--Things in the average American garbage bag that are more palatable to the five senses than the song "Jurisdiction of Love."

--Moldy meatloaf

--Worthless lottery tickets

--Leaky AAA batteries

--Slightly bloodied bandages

--Broken vinyl single of "Love Machine" by the Miracles

"Puppet Boy"--Devo, you be remiss in your artistry. I would rather hear the sound of my own death rattle than the likes of "Puppet Boy." Guh! I think I'll just brew some coffee instead.

"Please Please"--Stagnant water that lures mosquitoes, emits a toxic vapor, and boom. Tons o' dead bugs.

"Love comes in spurts," the lyrics tell us. As opposed to execrable Devo songs, which are hemorrhaging all of a sudden!

"Are U Experienced?"--Ah well, at least Devo can be relied on to cover up head to toe, cozy and warm. They're like a Snoopy sleeping bag in that way.

The video shows that while sonically the fellas were caught in a depressing sludge pit and slowly sinking by the second, visually they were innovative as ever. The Hendrix impersonator busting out of the casket to play a solo, then he goes back in the ol' eternity box? Tremendous.

TOTAL DEVO

5/1988

Critics live for moments like this, so if you'll allow me: Total Devo? More like, Shit Sandwich.

At least with Shout you couldn't tell it was ass just by the cover. There is not a thing about Total Devo's art that appeals to my eye. We will not even start on Jerry's hair, because then we may never stop.

Having brought in ex-Sparks skinman David Kendrick to replace Alan Meyers, and now entrusting Enigma Records with releasing their increasingly cringeworthy spurge, Devo chucked the Fairlight and buddied up even closer with a longtime pal named Roland.

Fuck that motherfucker.

Roland sleeps with the people you care about and doesn't even consider their emotional and physical needs. Roland is a selfish whiny bastard whose corpse will be found wrapped up in a Persian rug that was stuffed in a refrigerator that was thrown off of a bridge. It's Roland's fault that Devo's sound was suddenly stripped of its birr! It is Roland that transformed these exciting and vital young men into the node-ridden taters we see hear and taste before us!

Damn you Roland.

"Baby Doll"--Bilge. Devo's obsession with their toys killed their music. They made a big deal out of being "Kraftwerk with dicks," but there is nothing remotely sensual on this album.

"Disco Dancer"--Released as a single, and singularly hideous. I care not about the Disco Boy and his shriveled mirror balls. He's the literal anti-Booji Boy. Where did Booji Boy go? Roland, what did you do with our Booji Boy?!

"Some Things Never Change"--Sad but true. Also depressing yet undeniable is that some things do change. From frantic harbingers of inevitable doom to fetid bedpans. Well done. I applaud Bob1 for his valiant attempt at quality via the ever-shrinking guitar.

"Plain Truth"--I'm torn. I mean, the keys are pretty much queasy off all the takoyaki they stuffed themselves sick with…but listen to Jerry actually singing! No no, not at all Statue Jerry, I mean actual melody comin' outta that motor mouth!

But then there's what he is in fact saying--"Who are you and who am I?" Sigh facepalm. And do I detect superfluous female backing vox?

"Happy Guy"--Garrison Keillor is a more riveting storyteller.

"Don't Be Cruel"--This is, as you may suspect, a cover of the Elvis classic. You may also, based on history, expect it to be another typically quality Devo redo. It is not. It is most assuredly butt-cheeks. A crap cover? Devo is dead. Cheap Trick also did "Don't Be Cruel" the same year, released it as a single, and had a big hit with it to boot. Drive that salt home!

"The Shadow"--Proof that you can jack T.S. Eliot poetry for your chorus and still come off shallow and empty, and oh yeah wait for it, hollow. Reciting them over music reminiscent of the credits sequence for a 1980s drama series produced by Stephen J. Cannell doesn't help the cause of coherence much either, spudlings.

"I'd Cry If You Died"--"Molten pools of mockery" was not taken from an Eliot piece.

We continue on our shit-boat trip through the disorient, and if you look to your other left, you'll see this overlong beam of invective directed towards a formless enemy which is supposedly undercut by the chorus. Makes sense; in The Princess Bride (the novel) Buttercup's parents made their verbal sparring literal sport by keeping score. When the father passed away, his wife followed him into the dark not long after. The consensus among their friends and acquaintances being that "the sudden lack of opposition" was too much for her to handle. Hate and love cannot be recognized and valued without each other.

"Agitated"--That's one word to describe me, yes. Well done. I'd call this run-of-the-mill New Wave except I wouldn't trust these dudes with the run of a goddamn shithouse.

"Man Turned Inside Out"--Ah yes, they called him "Inside-Out Man"! He was disgusting, what with his visible intestines.

Devo just did not care at this point. About music, about themselves, about an ever-dwindling fanbase, about a deteriorating world. So what happens, you end up with this--Mannheim Steamroller conducted by Boney M. No thank you.

"Sexi Luv"--If Alan Meyers hadn't quit the band by this point, believe that "Sexi Luv" would have torn it for him. How could it not? Is he not a man? He woulda stood up from behind the kit, let his sticks drop unceremoniously to the floor, and with a voice unmarked by any discernible emotion announce to his erstwhile bandmates, "That's it. It's been real. But honestly I'd rather spend the next month's worth of mornings cleaning up baby spew from my shirt than be in a band that permits a song called 'Sexi Luv' to be placed out into the public."

"Blow Up"--My advice? Watch the movie.

Mark's vocals were pitched down here, so he sounds like Bob Casale doing a Bill Cosby impression. That sounds like it should be funny. Sounds like.

Next review, the B-52's come back (literally) and Devo continues to manifest their destiny.

The Space In Between Is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52s (Fragment Five Was Once Part of a Chainsaw Blade)

2012-01-31T21:43:00.000-08:00

OH NO IT'S DEVO!

NOVEMBER 1982

With Roy Thomas Baker's sheeny production credentials, Oh No It's Devo! de-emphasizes the guitar and highlights the Omnichord and Roland synths, as well as the Linn drum machines...with largely pleasing results.

The conventional wisdom, all the more hilarious for the very idea that the word "conventional" could apply to any facet of Devo, is that the first time out was their pinnacle (which does happen with certain bands, and is the only way music can be better than sex), the follow-up a tougher if ultimately more rewarding listen, and the "mersh" record came along to give the group fame, fortune, addiction and venereal disease…then it all went to hell, and the product after that is pretty damn negligible.

Which is wrong. It's after Oh No It's Devo! (record number five if the score matters) that Akron's finest became horrendously facile. Consider this, then, the final huzzah.

"Time Out For Fun"--Simon Says as motivational tool. Everyone locate your inner happy rhombus! A straight-faced plea to PMA it up that doubles as one of my favorite Devo tunes of ever. These optimistic words coming from the mouth of one Gerald Vincent Casale, Smartass-At-Law, may stretch the tensile strength of credulity, but damn it, I want to believe in this song. Like how I really want so much to believe I can hold my liquor. It's so friggin' fun, and I could use more smiles these days anyways.

"Peek-A-Boo"--This song reminds me of a baby. It's real cute. It smells amazing. When it attempts to communicate, I could just die. Then, the baby grows into a toddler, to a young child, then to a teen, and finally to an adult. Real early along the way, it stops being cute.

"Out of Sync"--In the vein of Don Henley's "All She Wants To Do Is Dance," referencing a metaphorical female. But Devo didn't write songs about cocaine, they just snorted the shit.

"Explosions"--Only played live once, at the legendary-for-the-wrong-reasons first show on the "Oh No It's Devo!" tour, 10/30/1982 in Beverly Hills. Intended to transmit live in 3-D to college campuses nationwide, technical futzery abounded, peeving the band, who could at worst be accused of reaching far beyond their grasp. (For this show, for their career…)

"Explosions" is a lost classic for sure, except not really, 'cause if that was literally true, how would I ever know of it? Sounds the way an assembly line looks (and functions).

Awesome job by the Casale Bros. on the affirmations, also. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of my brain to this day.

"That's Good"--It's dance-y, but not too much that way, and they once played it on an episode of Square Pegs. Which starred Sarah Jessica Parker, who later participated in setting women back an entire generation with Sex and the City. Which also starred Kim Cattrall. Who once upon a time exchanged full-body high-fives with Jerry Casale.

"Patterns"--A redo of a little ditty called "One Dumb Thing" (later found on the Pioneers Who Got Scalped compilation and maybe my favorite example of Statue Jerry, but oh God, what a feast to sample from), this is a spudly ballad for the taters to sway with. The spiraling synth is reminiscent of "Mongoloid," but here comes off as far warmer and contemplative. Life is a series of patterns sequenced into a larger pattern. Perspective as key one to peace.

"Big Mess"--It must be awesome to not only have friends who manage fan mail for game show hosts, but to have unscrupulous friends who manage fan mail for game show hosts. Luckily, the song is more dynamic than the backstory.

"Speed Racer"--I really wish I still had the We Are Devo! bio in my possession (or do I?), because then I could credit the person who made the observation that Jerry Casale and Mark Mothersbaugh completed each other creatively. See, per this observer, Jerry had all the ideas but no talent, whereas Mark had no ideas but a shit-ton of talent. This is of course an exaggeration to prove a point, but "Speed Racer" makes me think of that statement. The only song credited entirely to one member, and if therefore Mark is to credit for the inventive sonic trail blazed within, he is then entirely to blame for the banality of the lyrics. "I'm a big pirate and I like to steal"? That Barbie Doll bullshit, complete with high-pitched vox? At least, you can take the isolated parts and make one corking instrumental, with the right software. In fact I wish you would.

"What I Must Do"--Gerald hitting the confessional booth like a good Catholic boy.

"I Desire"--The most infamous song on the album, for borrowing lyrics from a John Hinckley poem dedicated to actress Jodie Foster. Hinckley of course is known less for his poesy and more for attempting to murder then-Prez Reagan. The band actually spoke with the shit-shot himself to obtain permission to use his words of love, and found no resistance: "I'm a fan of you guys," Hinckley reportedly told them. "I got your first album."

Haha, that's funny. You know what's not funny? The fact you had six shots at erasing one of the most rancid people from the face of the planet and you could not even once hit your target directly. That's unfunny on a Mencian scale. Fuck you and fuck your poetry, making Robert Herrick come off like Robert Frost. And oh check out this punchline, Jodie Foster is gay! You were writing romantic doggerel to a lesbian, you ridiculous idiot!

Much like "Speed Racer," the music saves the day. That beat is what transpires when manufacturers attempt to infuse toy soldiers with erotic feeling.

"Deep Sleep"--Not very somnolent at all. Or memorable. Weird Al's Devo tribute "Dare To Be Stupid" (released three years after this album) basically takes "Deep Sleep" as its launching pad…and does it drastically better. Mark Mothersbaugh, Jerry Casale and even the notoriously tacit Bob Mothersbaugh have all had disparaging quotes for Weird Al's devolved mash note, and you know what? If some goofy-fuck famous for taking original hit songs and turning them into odes to food decided that for one of his rare self-penned tunes he was going to take the aesthetic of my band's last album and do it better…I'd be pissed off too.

BOUNCING OFF THE SATELLITES

9/8/1986

On October 12, 1985, after most if not all of this album had been recorded (stories vary), Ricky Wilson died from complications related to HIV-AIDS. Wilson discovered he was HIV-positive during the Whammy! sessions in 1983, but told only Keith Strickland. By the time Bouncing Off the Satellites was being recorded, Wilson was noticeably thinner and weaker. Still, he kept his devastating diagnosis a secret from the others in his band. Most likely he did not want to present a burden. Something in that mind frame is quite admirable. Of course, the problem with such a decision arose when Ricky was hospitalized at Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York and an intern called Cindy Wilson to inform her that the big brother she idolized was dying. The secret was out in an unfathomably devastating way. Days later, Ricky was gone, his death attributed to cancer, such was the fear and ignorance surrounding HIV-AIDS at that time.

Although, again, most of the record was completed at the time of Wilson's passing, it simply does not sound to me like a B-52's album. Session musicians are sprinkled liberally throughout, and Fred Schneider's sprechgesang is almost nonexistent. For the first time, the band were pressured by record company execs to "write a hit." Even if they had, how the hell would they promote it? Ricky's death was a cinderblock to the gut, jackknifing them just in time to take the medicine ball to the head. Bouncing Off the Satellites came and went. The surviving members disappeared into their own worlds-within-the-world, to heal and reflect. Thoughts of reassembly were a galaxy away.

"Summer of Love"--The hit that shoulda been, and a sparkling example of the Fairlight done right. (To hear it done wrong, see the last three Devo albums.) The harmonies of Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson are uniformly fantastic, belting out some rather deceptive lyrics:

"I've been waiting for the man

Just buzzin' around...downtown

Waitin' for that very special

Comes in to see what I got

Orange popsicles and lemonade"

The original mix features much more of Ricky Wilson's guitar, and might be the best representation of the ideal sound the B's were aiming for in this next phase of their existence.

"Girl From Ipanema Goes To Greenland"--I always thought a song blessed with such a title should sonically resemble a spastic crackhead battle royale, but it stays in a spaced, spacey niche. Pointless, but fun.

"Housework"--A Kate solo vocal turn. Actually, the only other member credited on this song is Keith Strickland. Hmm.

You don't get many Kate solo tracks. Cindy, sure; out the ass. A Cindy Wilson spotlight moment became a quick hallmark of the B-52's albums. Why Cindy and not Kate? This song helps explain why. Asinine and forgettable, the words and music evaporate from your head at a two-second clip. The cries of a tortured urchin are more appealing to the ear. Far and away the nadir of the album.

"Detour Thru Your Mind"--Finally, at track four, we hear some Fred. (And, also, a chorus that is more than just the title said over and over.) Incredible; on the earlier albums, he's already crashed a party, spotted some pink air, done all sixteen dances, ran around, and gone down down doowwwn by this time.

He tries his best to make up for it here, a spoken word psychedelic sojourn (less down to acid intake, more up to dentist chair bliss) that manages to rhyme "orange" and "large" and inject the best back-masked message on a record to date. Great guitar solo, too, courtesy of Keith Strickland.

"Wig"--This is to BOTS what "Butterbean" was to Whammy! A song where they are clearly trying too hard to be the tackiest, wackiest band on Earth, yet somehow succeeding despite the slimsy slip showing. Keith plays a for-fucks-sake sitar solo on this bitch.

"Theme For a Nude Beach"--Featuring all five members on vocals, a loose-limbed frolic around Beach Bowl Galaxy that keeps evoking sandbars in the lyrics. It succeeds at the attempted graceful sounds, but the B's of 1979 would have been far kookier with this, making it sound closer to a real nekkid party.

"Ain't It a Shame"--As out of place on this album as a Whole Foods Market in Hagerstown, Maryland. The entire song is one long, heavy sigh, from the lazy guitar swashes to the resigned harmonica to Cindy's syrup-y vox gone mournful and bitter as she serenades deadly apathy. (Even Keith and Ricky's backing vocals seem afraid to wake the neighbors.)

In a case of "real recognize real", Sinead O'Connor did a cover of this song for her She Who Dwells... album. It's well-done, but not even Sinead could out-break Cindy's heart here.

"Juicy Jungle"--A horn-y Fred solo number that foretold the group's interest in environmental issues. (Although this was earmarked for Fred's upcoming solo, so no other B's appear.) Great cause; annoyingly trite song. All that money spent in the studio recording this claptrap could have been donated to Greenpeace. That had to cross Fred's mind at one point.

"Communicate"--Jumps out like fire from an exposed manhole after "Juicy Jungle." Fred pops in to deliver an imitation of Paul Lynde as a (fill in the blank) instructor while the girls with kaleidoscope voices shimmy behind him. The most positive song on the album (don't hold it in!) is also the most tightly structured and effortlessly executed, with perfect pacing and dearth of tacky keys.

How does one resist a tune that spells out the title within the lyrics? One doesn't, so stop Googling for the answer. Just listen to it over and over until you enter such a state of giddy other-than you start making up your own chant. (My favorite variation pays homage to my favorite musculoskeletal disorder "C-O-S-T-O-C-H-O-N dritis.")

"She Brakes For Rainbows"--(Hip hop crate digger alert: sampled by the Majesticons for their track "St. Tropez Party.") Written by Keith and Ricky and given to Cindy so she could pull a heart from a fuzzy hat. Gorgeously arcing chorus. Tells the story of "Brenda Holiday," a woman who doesn't speak much but knows more. "She knows where the rain goes/She brakes/She brakes for rainbows." The last song on the last album with Ricky Wilson isn't supposed to suffuse the air with unbearable sorrow--we're supposed to admire this Brenda--but as the chorus fades into the clouds, it's difficult to not think of Ricky Wilson following right behind.

The Space In Between Is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52s (Fragment Four May Not Actually Be a Fragment)

2012-01-28T03:20:00.000-08:00

NEW TRADITIONALISTS

AUGUST 1981

The blues and blacks dominating the cover art don't deceive. This is a darker Devo, ever more bitter with the world and less willing to make lighthearted fun of it. Utopian Boy Scouts in JFK pomps ready to seduce their female counterparts for their cookies.

"Through Being Cool"--Right outta the gate they're beating some poor schmuck over the gourd with a waffle iron. Least they had the decency to throw a pillowcase over his head. Harsh, but they're just following the NuTra blueprint. Which is actually red and brown. Oh well, we do live in a world with such a thing as scented deodorant.

Of course Devo's song about how they are so misunderstood was misunderstood. The "cool" refers not to hipness, but disposition. Although the vocal delivery comes off with phlegmatical as a military march chant, the lyrics advocate death to the "ninnies and twits."

Smart versus dumb, rabid curiosity versus satisfied ignorance, who will win? Neither. One needs the other to survive. Spice of life, when sensibly applied. The only thing more bone-chilling than a world where all copies of 100 Years of Solitude are destroyed…is a world where 100 Years of Solitude is compulsory reading.

"Jerkin' Back and Forth"--Another club-ready, not-about-masturbation platter, coming with two sides of vocal. This is some toe-tappin' emotional squalor right here.

"Pity You"--Toni Basil, years later, would cover this song as "You Got a Problem." Years prior, she covered Jerry Casale. Hi-o. And I'm out.

"Soft Things"--We're back!

Just in time too. Jerry tones down his tendencies towards statue-ness here, and actually sings a bit, to fine effect. The lyric-writing process musta been fun.

"Okay guys, guys. I need some words that end in '-otic.' I already have 'chaotic.'" Well done, but I'm disappointed rhotic, psychotic and kairotic didn't make the cut.

Although "Soft Things" is a clear celebration of the magnificent female form, Jerry still takes pains to mention the woman's mind. In fact, he is well aware that the undulating woman is in control mentally as well as physically, rendering him a pop-eyed, slack-jawed, ineffectual bone-sack.

"Going Under"--Lovers not-yet-so meet at the arcade, right by Berserk. Evil Otto watches the humanoids fall in love. His sinister smile does not fade, knowing as he does a thing or two about overwhelmed hearts.

"Race of Doom"--It's funny how mechanical and non-thrilled the fellas sound whilst reciting the title. Thankfully, the sonic lava bed is plenty engaged and engaging. This is music made to drop kick walls to.

Jerry sounds so goddamn removed. He's like Krang, a head in a microwave. I really don't wanna be his time bomb. I just wanna dance.

"Love Without Anger"--The fundamental message I get behind. "Love without anger isn't love at all." You need a healthy dose of both in a relationship, because no emotion should be off limits. This isn't to endorse the violence frequently borne of anger; that's not love. But neither is emotional compromise for fear of the occasional screaming match. Those are actually pretty good for you. Get the blood circulating, get some color in your cheeks. Besides, making up afterwards is the fun bit. That's where Bob1 steps in.

While Mark has the lead here, it's Jerry (resident Devo cat-dog) that I've always associated most strongly with the track. "Are you kidding me?" Oh he's taking from his real life right there.

"The Super Thing"--What a neatly programmed little drum pattern. Shame it would only be used the once.

More will to power with Professor Casale. I bet he read aloud those interminable speeches in Atlas Shrugged as vocal exercise. Ostentatious, but brilliant. Also, Bob1's guitar solo is the number two. He ain't down yet, no matter how much fire the double-headed dragon huffs in his direction.

"Beautiful World"--That T-mobile commercial where the guy mishears the lyrics to "Pour Some Sugar On Me" always pissed me off. "You don't have to understand music to enjoy it," the voice over informed us. Suck a dick twice over. Maybe you don't need to WRITE SONG-BY-SONG REVIEWS to show how good music makes you feel, but you should at the very least know the correct title of the song you are listening to. (T-mobile lunknuts didn't even know that!) Otherwise music is no greater or more profound a factor in your life than the toothpaste you use. It's not a catalyst for change, it's another bit of background noise.

Anyone who listens to "Beautiful World" and doesn't catch the cynicism probably watched the "To Serve Man" episode of The Twilight Zone and thought those aliens were so nice cooking for the humans like that. Such is the mouth-dropping cluelessness that Target ad campaigns are made of.

"Beautiful World" is no "Whip It"--it's superior. The hook is a petulant synth, statue Jerry has just been rubbed down to a gleam. You can't write or sing a song like this without having your sense of justice shaken, your heart broken, or your instincts correct. The lyrical twist makes me mad because it's true, and you can't refute it. This isn't a beautiful world. There are beautiful people, places, and things. Yes. Of course. But for every friend is a thoughtless stranger, for every staggering work of art a monolith of corporate greed, and for every Prius a Scion.

That said…it's all we have. Spuds don't quit. That's what the twits want, for the disillusionment to overwhelm us. I will never bring joy to the life of a twit. I hate those whores and shan't quite mashing them.

"Enough Said"--Video game time! The introduction is just pixel dust, man. Inconsequential lyrics and a weak finish for a damn solid record. Angry Devo is good Devo.

WHAMMY!

4/27/1983

The B-52s, on the other paw, were too busy updating their sound to be too peeved. Keith Strickland was growing increasingly disinterested in sitting behind a drum kit and POUNDBOOMCRASH, so he and Ricky Wilson vowed to take the band in a different direction, one closer to the current trend de-emphasizing the guitar and placing the sonic onus on those impersonal yet tempting synthesizers.

Cover art by William Wegman. No doubt some fans thought that dog was sniffing up the left-over PCP.

"Legal Tender"--Robert Waldrop again drops some words off, this time in celebration of counterfeiting money. It's easy and no one gets hurt, just richer--that's the B-52s way. This song was and is huge in Brazil. Not as much as football, but certainly more than The Simpsons.

The robot beats and whining key hooks do not try and fool you. This is the new sound, and you're on board or jumping over the railing and Wegman-paddling to shore. The repetition is so eighties baby, but Kate and Cindy's combined vocal chops take it all the way to the future.

"Whammy Kiss"--Dim the lights…hit the play button…Ortega! Get the acid! Sloppy, I said sloppy, and I would miss the whole point if I demanded more from this band than "I need a refuelin' I need your kiss/Come on now and plant it on my lips."

Ricky made it clear at the end of "Legal Tender" that adaptation was not decay, and he's even more a presence here, chopping and slashing into the romantic array of stars. Fred's so damn pushy though, even about something so sublimely simple. "When I get home! When! I! Get! Home!" Damn! You can mush up with the couch cushions, that's gonna be yer attitude, pal.

"Song For a Future Generation"--My favorite B-52s song of all-time. Not their best, that would be "Private Idaho." Unlike that space-punk classic, "Future Generation" is built to spill over onto your circuit breaker and wait around for your reaction. Some people still can't make it all the way through without vomiting up things they haven't recently eaten. Still others consider it a feel-good classic, a zany cosmic gift barely-fit for us silly earthlings but it was marked for us, so save the box!

I am of the second group. I am President of the second group, actually. Empress King Queen President, fully.

All five members of the group take turns at the mic, 'cause future generations have to know who exactly these people were. It's a fabulous concept that proves, even if the B's were moving further away from the sound that put them on the map, their goofy, sweet spirit was still there, still an inspiration.

It was funny as a kid listening to Whammy! on my brother's cassette, trying to make out every word they were saying (took years, literally, to figure out Keith's). It's probably even more amusing that as an adult I actually have ranked the members introductions.

5. (Fourth in the song) "Hey, I'm Kate and I am a Taurus/I love tomatoes and black-capped Chickadees." That's cute. But I always thought Cindy would be more rip-roarin' to hang with, and this kinda bears me out. "Loooove" tomatoes? Really? They're very basic, you know. I love pizza, which utilizes the tomato. Tomato juice, sure.

4. (Fifth in the song)"Hey, my name is Keith and I'm a Scorpio from Athens, G-A and I like to find the essence from within." He runs it all together with no variety in intonation, and also a bit vague. No wonder I couldn't suss it out as a kid, "the essence from within" is not something a kid can even begin to comprehend. Nowadays? I'd totally love to chop it up with Keith. He knows we are not alone.

3. (First in the song) "Hey, I'm Fred the Cancerian from New Jersey/I like collecting records and exploring the cave of the unknown." Fred Schneider is so goddamn Southern-fried kitschballs it's easy to forget he's from New Jersey. I wish it was as easy to forget New Jersey.

2. (Second in the song) "Hello, I'm Cindy, I'm a Pisces/And I like chihuahuas and Chinese noodles." Cindy is from Georgia. Oh my God is she from Georgia. The best delivery of all the B's here, definitely. Cracks my shit up consistently. And what great taste!

1. (Third in the song) "Hi, my name is Ricky and I'm a Pisces/I love computers and hot tamales." There's the novelty of hearing the voice of the late genius…the staccato laugh before his part, coming out of the key solo…the fact he loves computers in 1983. One year before the first Macintosh came out.

The absurdist desires cover the gamut--they want to be everything, fit into every role, try them on like crazy outfits or wigs, from one to the next, and so on, regardless of social expectation based on gender, age or economic class. (The insistent refrain "Let's meet and have a baby now!" could be understood as a piss-take of heterosexual idealism coming from this band, which is another check in its column.)

"Song For a Future Generation" always makes me smile, and if it doesn't work the same wonder on you…well..then…well we're gonna keep looking and listening, 'cause I feel like smiling to some music with you. How 'bout that.

"Butterbean"--How 'bout this?

Abandon decorum, all ye who enter here. This is a metaphor for nothing, the subject is actually the butterbean. While that particular legume is disgusting to my palate, this track helps me forget that fact for a few minutes. Mind you, there are a hundred other foods from the American South to extol in song. Barbecued ribs, anyone? Don't eat meat? Cornbread!

People down South get the shittiest of raps, but they enjoy eating, drinking, fucking and telling stories like nobody's business.

"Trism"--Music writer Rob Sheffield once marveled in a Rolling Stone column how utterly free of any flaw the first "side" of Whammy! is, and damn if that ain't just the truth plain as. It's not like "Trism" signifies the beginning of the end of the fun. It's just…it's funny how we have a song about atmospheric travel but the song about beans was more transcendent. Just sayin'. Fred Schneider's so white when he passes through a prism, more prisms come out.

"Queen of Las Vegas"--By the numbers, and none of them in the sequence presented will win you the Lotto.

"Moon 83"--This was the spot occupied by their cover of "Don't Worry Kyoto" by hero Yoko Ono if you acquired a first-pressing. I didn't, so I have to remain true to how I heard the record.

A modern remake of "There's a Moon In the Sky" from the debut record, which is both unnecessary and mediocre.

"Big Bird"--The other BB song already filled the goofy quota. There's still some of it on the floor, actually. Stop wasting my time.

"Work That Skirt"--I'm feeling like Whammy! would have been the greatest EP ever, but back-to-back short-players wouldn't have been a great look for the band. A tolerable surf-space instrumental.

What makes the second side hurt, like way beyond just being displeased with the lack of passion and innovation, is that Ricky Wilson's guitar is barely a factor. When the songs are as applesauce as those on the first side, the pill goes down easier. But given what would happen by the time the next B-52s album was finished makes their insistence on innovation bitter going down.

The Space In Between is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52s (Fragment Three Reflects Contrasting Ethics)

2012-01-26T23:02:00.000-08:00

FREEDOM OF CHOICE

5/16/1980

The beginning of arguably the most musically schizophrenic decade yet to be saw Devo on the precipice of relative stardom. The band members--specifically creative linchpins Mark Mothersbaugh and Jerry Casale--were not in it to wind up pioneers who got scalped (though that's precisely what happened). Nimrod record execs and their rock-dumb bottom lines damned to hell, Devo had a plan for global domination that would emphasize their art-driven paradigm. Moles envy pandas for good reason.

Old Akron cronies may have clucked their tongues when the band relocated to L.A. and then shuddered as synths grew more prominent and Devo's songs came out sounding increasingly poppy, but Devo had outgrown pissing off audience's waiting for Sun Ra. They were fated to create new wave nonpareil.

Buoyed by the top 20 hit "Whip It," Freedom of Choice went platinum and immortalized Devo--a band that evolved their visual aesthetic literally album to album--as the "flowerpot guys" (not to be confused with The Flowerpot Men, the "Ferris Bueller guys"'). The energy domes would define Devo like nothing they donned before or after, red ziggurat-shaped plastic hats that, per master mythologist Jerry, collects energy "that escapes from the crown of the human head and pushes it back into the Medula Oblongata for increased mental energy. It's very important that you buy a cheap plastic hardhat liner, adjust it to your head size and affix it with duct tape or Super Glue to the inside of the Dome. This allows the Dome to "float" just above the cranium and thus do its job. Unfortunately, without a hard hat liner, the recirculation of energy WILL NOT occur."

There are several origin stories for the dome, of course. Either the "Little Lulu" comic, a household lamp, or The Beginning Was the End, aka the most cannibal-tastic book ever written. I know, of course, that the true inspiration was the Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine.

"Girl U Want"--The first sound we hear is Bob1's cranky old bastard of a guitar, soon enough twinned with some tangy, Christmas-in-July key work. Inspired by "My Sharona," but leagues ahead of it, of course. Oops oh my, milkshake all over the exercise equipment, way to multi-task, fat boy.

This is the rare love ditty with enchanting lyricism. There are a multitude of fresh ways to say you're besotted with someone, but most people traverse the tried and true trail. Thankfully, while we are all Devo, Devo were not most people.

"She sends down an aroma of undefined lust/That drips on down in a mist from above." She ain't sprayin' Febreze, sweetie. See, that's an accessible alternative for the word "pheromones" (which I don't even think Burt Bacharach could have made fit into a pop song) and a sharp substitute for the phrase "messy pink pussycat."

"It's Not Right"--An early indicator of how exceptional an album Freedom of Choice is comes with "It's Not Right." This is, superficially, another "baby" song, the type of songs Jerry claimed Devo was above and beyond yet still produced in bulk anyway. ('Cause a dog licks its balls then your face, I guess.) Vapid, certainly; but the presentation is relentless, tugging your ear, tapping your temple, zapping approaching enemy aircraft into purple mist. Unbelievable, truly; you don't experience heartbreak when you traffic in groupies!

"Whip It"--The hit. The one. Devo and The B-52s would both have the hit, that song that rocketed them into mainstream awareness, making it possible for them to have "casual" fans, and dividing the more devoted supporters into multiple camps of, alternately, gratitude, weary acceptance, or churlish bitching.

First, about the actual song "Whip It." No question can there be that a great deal of its appeal to radi-yokels was its potential interpretation as a masturbation anthem. Never mind the reality, which is that the lyrics were penned as parodies of Norman Vincent Peale's happy little motivational nuggets (with a pinch of Pynchon as well).

"When a good time comes around/You must whip it.../I say whip it! Whip it good!"

Subtle for a parody, and not especially gratuitous for a lewd lullaby, but subtlety done even half-assedly will zoom by most heads most times. Is it one of their all-timers? In context, yes. For content, well, that's up to us. I never skip the song, but it wouldn't make my personal top 5 on the album.

So "Whip It" exposed Devo to the molasses masses. It earned them some tidy cash, though nowhere near what went to the exec at WB who couldn't understand why his kids liked that gay New Wave shit anyway. It made the very word "Devo" a catch-all insult for high school/collegiate lunkheads to hurl at any peers who didn't share their ideas of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Better to live in a world where this all transpired, for us as fans and for the members of Devo as artists. Imagine if "Whip It" hadn't been a smash. What would have been their next move? Dissolution? Desperation? If a few Devo-tees felt betrayed having to share their favorite music with a few thousand folks who "don't really pay much attention to lyrics" so what? Put yourself in the band's domes. At some point the artist needs to receive resonant recompense for their efforts. Otherwise they'll feel like they're stocking the shelves with vodka accidentally labeled as "Fourth Ward Tap Water."

"Snowball"--If I ever met the dude Sisyphus, I'd shake his hand. Then cringe as he got crushed by that big ol' rock. Sorry, dude. Big fan!

Mark Mothersbaugh was kinda born to press down and sweet-talk frequencies. The B-52s would, on their next full-length after Wlld Planet, try and take the keybs in that direction as well, less alien mating caterwaul, more dance floor call-to-arms, but never got the chance to let it play out. It's hard to imagine, even with the combined talent and vision of Ricky Wilson and Keith Strickland, that the B's coulda matched Devo on that front. 'Cause making you move with synthetic sounds is not hard to do; but to make ya feel? To make the listener hear the whine and weal and groan of the organ as an emotional pinwheel is a talent. Freedom of Choice is the whole damn show.

"Ton O' Luv"--Sometimes we hear what we want to. If someone wants to believe "Whip It" is about frosting the pastries, all the citations and references under the milky way ain't gonna convince 'em otherwise. That's maddening, but also, life. I like to think this is Jerry's paean to fat broads. It resonated a bit more when I was among their ranks, but I still dig on it. The music even wobbles and jiggles. If Jerry Casale is, as I like to claim, the esoteric Gene Simmons, then he has pounded the pillowed pavements with some wide-circumference chicks in his time. Bless you, sir.

"Freedom of Choice"--Devo are drawing the lines all right, same way a coroner does. Same sense of duty, too.

"Freedom of choice/Is what you got/Freedom from choice/Is what you want." Imagine being a middle American picking up the album 'cause you like that funny jack-off song and hearing this! Pepsi or Coke? Black or white? Democrat or Republican? Honda or Chevy? I come from a Pepsi family, we always vote this way, same vacation every year, I guess I could do something a little different, but the way it is is just so comforting. I don't what to overthink anything.

"Gates of Steel"--With a simple as a handstand riff jacked from Chi-Pig's "Pimple on My Plans" slashing over emergent synth, Devo offers up a riveting yet fundamental plan of attack for the sick-of-it-all spudlings craving more.

"Give in to ancient noise/Take a chance on a brand new dance/Twist away those gates of steel!"

Love the contrast. We the people, driven by the same basic impulses since time immemorial, no matter how the way we communicate with each other has changed in all that time. You will never change history if you do not know history.

"Cold War"--"A boy and girl/Two separate worlds/The endless tug of war."

Men are from Mars, women are from Venus. Remember that hokey book/shirt/mug/towel/Lifetime movie/Pop Tart flavor? It's got some years on it, so perhaps you don't. The nifty link I have provided gives you the overview on this philosophy of love amongst the humanoids, and it's a tidy phrase to be sure. Did absolute bubkes-cheeks to actually improve relations between the genders, however. The reason for that failure to bring about revolution is, now check this out…men are from Earth, women are from Earth. Now the dude's head might be all Sweden and the girl may have a brain like Brazil, but it is most assuredly all taking place on the same goddamn planet. Stop with all the cutesy pithy bull, it wears down the horns. And ain't nobody runs the streets of a year 'cause they're afraid of getting a massage.

While "Cold War" doesn't stimulate me much mentally, the total sonic package is nothing less than bagels ripped outta the toaster and tossed to the starving Booji Boys and Girls.

"Don't You Know"--Similar to "Cold War." A little punchier, a little better.

"That's Pep!"--Lyrics straight-jacked from a poem by Grace G. Bostwick. Oh but do I love me a literate smart-ass.

Intro rules. The music that plays over the opening credits to "For Death It's a Wonderful Toy," the horror flick about a child's Slinky possessed by the soul of a serial killer recently executed by the state of Ohio.

"Mr. B.'s Ballroom"--I maintain that a rewrite of this track could be done transforming the subject to a frat orgy and you wouldn't have to change the words much at all. One of the rare Devo songs without an overarching message.

"Planet Earth"--The best merger of keys and strings on this entire album, but man check out bee-smasher Jerry over here. Talkin' 'bout the world and all the craziness. People buy, people cry, people die.

It's justice that Devo's best-selling album is also their best. Inevitably, though, there will be downsides to having your audience grow exponentially seemingly overnight. Not everyone will get the joke/message/warning/ethos. Devo's next record would attack this phenomenon head-on.

MESOPOTAMIA

1/27/82

Mesopotamia was slated to be the B's third album, under the auspices of one David Byrne (the number one white boy from Baltimore for years and years, right up until David Simon started writing and then ah, usurped! But it was a good run). Byrne and the band clashed. See, with all the outside musicians (including horn players and bongo-bashers) taking the B's in a decidedly more exotic direction, the vibe was that Byrne wanted less to educe an organic sound from the group, and more to mold them in his own image. Sessions were cut short, and a planned ten-track full-length was released as a six-song EP, in two distinct versions. The first, released through Warner Bros. in the U.S., is the one I heard. Island Records released Mesopotamia in the U.K., a longer version, featuring Byrne's original mixes. This release did not grace my ears till 2010, thanks to magic fairies of obscure music Fed-Ex'ing to me in a dream. This "alternate" EP is nothing revelatory, but certainly dancier and more adventurous.

Three of the four "lost" songs would be re-recorded for Whammy! the following year: "Queen of Las Vegas," "Big Bird," and "Butterbean." Of these, only "Queen" was later released in its original form, on the anthology Nude on the Moon. The fourth track, "Adios Desconocida," was a Fred-sung ballad. See, you know you wanna hear it now.

"Loveland"--Cindy solo, baby, you know it's a guaranteed good time when Miss Wilson's on the mic, blonde wig built for a Baltimore hon but made for a Georgia peach. She won't be thwarted in her quest to find the ultimate thaw.

Is that accordion? I love it to syrup-drenched pieces, whatever it is. Ricky's picking and choosing his spots here, and his touch is deft as ever, even buried as his sounds ultimately are here.

The Byrne mix is eight-and-a-half minutes, with spastic breakdown filler the reason for the season. Also a different vocal take (not better, not worse; always interesting).

"Deep Sleep"--Michael Stipe named Mesopotamia as one of his favorite releases of the 1980s in Rolling Stone, way back in the days when a person could reasonably expect to pick up a copy of Rolling Stone and find good writing. He wasn't given space to expound on any of his choices, but I bet this was one of his favorites.

Kate only, though she double tracks herself like a super falling stereo star. The band won an elephant in a radio station contest as well, and had to keep it in the studio.

This one's short and quirky. Seems like shared sex dreams between a sleeping couple in "the coldest part of the night"? Hmm. The end is the best part, and that's not meant smart-ass. It really is, it's quite spooking.

"Mesopotamia"--The enduring classic, and a staple of their live show to this day. All 3 B's if you please. I hate to think of this delightful song used in a history class by some misguided teacher seeking to impart some catchy wisdom unto a bunch of hysterically unworthy Rhianna fans.

"Before I talk/I should read a book!"

Fades on in with that pharaoh strut, stays a spell. "THEY LAID DOWN THE LAW!" Oh God, the vocal contrast on that line makes me want to suplex a bag of potatoes into the vent of a volcano and make fuckin' lava taters for dinner.

"Cake"--Kate and Cindy talkin' all sassy, pushing each others words around, y'all play nice! Is this song about cake? The hell it is. Take the sensuousness of red velvet, the familiar sweetness of chocolate on chocolate, and toss out the delicacy associated with lemon chiffon. Nonesuch here.

"Take a little/Take a little nip." Oh Lord, child. "If you want a better batter, better beat it harder." The vapors, they are acquired.

"Throw That Beat in the Garbage Can"--To get their shit together and write some new material, the B's got a house in Mahopac, NY and commenced to the creatin'. Unfortunately, their neighbors were crotchety douchebags with no concept of homosexuality, as the band's presence not only incited noise complaints, but also disapproving looks for the mere fact five young single men and women were sharing a home. Fortunately, they got a crackerjack tune out of the whole ordeal, from Ricky's recombinant riff and a bad-ass horn section loud as they wanna be. Fred's awesome here as well; not vitriolic, just pissed.

Byrne's imagining of "Garbage" includes some back-masking and judicious pruning of the guitar so's to highlight the percussion and sound effects. Yes, you actually hear a BOING! in there.

"Nip It In the Bud"--A whole lotta ado about not a whole lotta in general going on here. Ricky Wilson was just born to be the most underrated guitarist in the rock genre, is all.

So, uncomfortable though the aborted sessions were, they gave us one absolute classic for the canon, and a handful of other memorable tunes that showed the B-52s could still entertain without coming off as the band who plays three shows a week at Fellini-themed house parties with their equipment set up on the picnic table. Eager to explore on their own terms, they set about recording their real third album.

(Just a song before I go...doing some searching 'round, I've found several references to The B's and Devo performing a gig together (Devo headlining, is the implication) in Austin, TX 'circa 1980/81. The fuck? And no one ever got a pic of the two bands together backstage? Then how do we know it really happened?)

The Space In Between Is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52s (Fragment Two Moves If Stared At Long Enough)

2012-01-24T22:53:00.000-08:00

DUTY NOW FOR THE FUTURE

July 1979

In the ditch, police found five hazmat suits and an Englishman who insisted he was a quark. He was asked to perform a funny walk and upon refusal, was beaten viciously.

In the studio, Devo were skater tots under the auspices of General Boy (producer Ken Scott acting as his stand-in, most days) with neither boards nor ramps in sight but an insistence on safety nevertheless, for one never knows when one (or more) may be called into duty.

"Devo Corporate Anthem"--The first of two Mark-ed up instrumentals, both clocking in under 90 seconds. Perfect for making a roller derby team feel real important, but I say shoot higher! Plastic people in a plastic world all gather at the Devolympic Games, where medals of tin, lead and chrome are handed out to the athletes who managed not to quit, pass out or die during competition.

"Clockout"--Raw, to be kind; underproduced, to be accurate; missing heart muscle, to be mean. Alan Meyers was the band's secret weapon, "The Human Metronome" they called him, but there's a big difference between "stealth" and "timid."

Shame, 'cause Jerry always piles the relish on the dog extra high when attacking the big-wig fat-cat son-bitches who hated on him and his boys for having the balls to use their brains and the brains to use their balls.

"Timing X"--Not much to this, the second of two Mark-ed up instrumentals. It's nice if no coffee's handy.

"Wiggly World"--When Patrick and I saw Devo live in DC, 2005, we were even more excited than could be normally expected, as the spuds were including "Wiggly World" in their setlists alongside the other "hits." Dub-dub is bike rack 'n' roll, a simplified "Jocko Homo" that jacks lines from Shadduck's tract outright ("Wear gaudy colors or avoid display") in aid of making the classroom a more welcome environment for those students who may be freaked out a bit by descending chords but don't mind the occasional stormtrooper beam fight. Outstanding!

Then Josh Freese had to fuck up his wrist not enough to cancel the DC show, but just enough to drop the rather demanding "Wiggly World" from that night's set. Which wouldn't have happened if he'd used his hands for praying, like a good Christian soldier.

I'd rather live in a wiggly world than not; it's movement, leastways. I can be still when I'm dead.

(I am the only human being in the history of Earth to hear Bob2's super baritone here--"It's never straight up and down!"--and be reminded of Danny Wood's spoken turn on "Step By Step" by New Kids on the Block.)

"Blockhead"--Oh shush, I've always been a ravenous fan of music. The crap, the credible, the dull, the delicious, it's all passed through these doors. Furthermore, the way I'm wired, more of it sticks for me than for the average absorber.

Another 7/8 martinet jam, written by the bros 'Baugh.

Cube top

Squared off

Eight corners

90-degree angles

Flat top

Now that's a true blockhead; none of this perfectly rounded Charlie Brown nonsense.

"Strange Pursuit"--Beserk damn bursts of regenerative voltage. Beepy-boopy to haunt the pizza-fueled nightmares of a sleepy Snoopy.

Nerd love. It's no secret. "Intersecting love lines drew us closer every day." Shit, dude likely has graphs and charts crafted, sketches, a one-act play of how their first date should (no damn it, will) go if he ever goes beyond the crying wank stage and actually approaches this girl about maybe going out and having some pizza and garlic dough balls, or maybe a movie or something.

The last lines shouted by Mark in the throes of tumescent torment beg for the lyric sheet.

Darling i'm dazzled

But you know i'm too frazzled

(Jenn hears: Dialin' up the afterbirth, cadavers in the frazzle)

I've taken my mind apart

And lost some of the pieces

(Take apart the afterbirth and put it on a pizza)

It never gets tough

When you're gettin' real rough

(It never gets tough when you get into her bra)

The ending is no joke. It's a heartbeat, yeah maybe even a love beat, denting the sternum as the moment of truth nears. What happens next…is anyone's guess….

"S.I.B. (Swelling Itching Brain)"--Superheroes suffer, too. But while a lame-ass band like Five For Fighting will take that neat-o concept and turn it into a sappy, spineless, queasy and quivering ballad about how even uber-men need hugs too, Devo looks into the idol's head. Literally.

Whether it's the external pressures of keeping the world from collapsing into a Caligulian chasm, or the internal pressures caused by a further mutation of the very same demented force that transformed them from mere man to something other than, the noble freak cannot persevere. Saved so many, just to lose himself in the end. We're all devo, then.

"Triumph of the Will"--Rapist or just really horny guy? Why does Jerry Casale sing like I imagine a statue would sing, emotionless face tilted up just so, chin jutting out, eyes fixed on some grand sunset in the distance? The line "It is the thing females ask for/When they convey the opposite" (or as Jerry Statue says it, "Op-oh-sit") has me thinking this is the POV of a sexual assault master who never learned the subtle distinctions of human interaction and the agreed-upon rules of communication between procreative creatures.

Statue Jerry ain't a bad guy at all, really, just has some things he wants to get across, unsavory as they may be. I don't judge you, Statue Jerry. We all have our stories to tell.

"The Day My Baby Gave Me a Surprise"--I dunno what said surprise was. That anyone would ever love a mutated freak? Oh the 70s, what a time you must have been. John Merrick would get so much poon flung in his direction if he had been unveiled in this viral age.

There's a real 50s feel to this one, though, a real "let's race for pinks!" vibe about the whole shebang, especially Bob1's buried-alive guitar line during the verse and Mark's elastic "ah-hoo"s. Only the wavy synth dates the track definitively. Wall of Sound melted down by gamma rays.

"Pink Pussycat"--Spoiler alert: this is not about an oddly-colored feline. In case the stated desires to "sleep inside you," "lick you clean," and "mess you up" were just too tenebrous. It would be sexy if Mark weren't singing with mouse guts in his yawp, but somehow I feel that wasn't the intent anyway.

Maybe fun definite fact: Mark borrowed the word "stroft"--to mean, a combination of strong and soft--from a toilet paper commercial purporting the product to be just that.

"Secret Agent Man"--Ooh, swing and a miss. I prefer Johnny Rivers' version if only because he made it sound like the title was "Secret Asian Man."

"Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA"--Devo's second and final medley. Perhaps they realized what happens when you try and follow up perfection. (That's why perfection isn't really a very desirable state to attain. You literally cannot improve on it. What fun is that?)

Clock in,…out…left right left right…in out in out….duty now. We must repeat. Poor Bob2, why's he always the janitor in these secret complexes where revolutionary plans are being developed?

Wait? What's that? What's that? The Great Pumpkin? Shit no, stupid! It's Mr. DNA, aka Mr. Kamikaze, the altruistic pervert! Tomato juice for the Smart Patrol, what good young men they've been! Superheroes must maintain all of their strengths. Superheroes must be willing to die for what they believe in for life to go on. Strap on your helmets! Lower your visors! Preserve the strands!

"Red Eye"--Whew. Well I wouldn't blame "Red Eye" for being mediocre coming after that dazzling celebration of conscription but it's actually a lot better than just that. Music to chase rapidly accelerating transit to. Love can dumb us down to the point where the irreversible laws of physics are ignored if not outright disrespected.

WILD PLANET

8/27/1980

Devo's sophomore record was anything but a retread of what had done so well before, which earned them not only big points for guts, but also rewarded the listener with an album that, while far from flaw-free, hit its targets with deadlier accuracy.

Wild Planet is not a rehash of "The Yellow Album," but it doesn't wander off too far from that pylon-ed path. (When you consider that several of the tracks had been in the bands repertoire from damn near the beginning, this is a less vexing sin.) There are missteps. There are songs that can be confidently classified as among their greatest. There is also the definite sense of, "How much longer can they do this?"

"Party Out of Bounds"--The descriptor "party band" is often intended as a reductionist label, but the B's embraced that tag for its essential truth. Devo wrote songs about a band of young suburbanites using science as the weapon in the ultimate fight to save the world; "Party Out of Bounds" concerns the unique problem faced by inveterate party crashers who have bumrushed one shitty shindig.

Both songs are greater than tacos. And tacos...are pretty damn great.

Robot Ricky Code BADxG#C# produces a sound that Patrick once likened to the No Wave movement which had supernova-ed in its own special patch of stars a few years prior. I had never thought of that before, but there's definitely some James Chance in those spiked slashes.

"Dirty Back Road"--Robert Waldrop returns to write more thinly-filmed nastiness. J.G. Ballard took the car/sex metaphor to an extreme, but here it's nothing more than some anal on the beach. Why crash the whip when you can whip some ass? Best of all, in a group with three gay men, the girls sing it. Why not, though, Kate and Cindy were pretty much born to rub their voices together.

The unequal-yet-free two-note to three exchange between keys and strings is proof that kissing is really the best part of the whole experience though, and should not be overlooked.

"Runnin' Around"--After screaming out of the gates with peerless precision, the band stumbles. A dopey "baby" song saved entirely by Ricky Wilson's never-standard angles.

"Give Me Back My Man"--Then they bounce back so hard the sky snaps. Cindy solo turns would become hallmarks of B-52s albums, and it could be argued that this forlorn love song twirls prettiest of all. The lyrics go from mellow yearning to imploring to potential hopelessness, drowning in found sound all around. No song with the chorus "I'll give you fish/I'll give you candy/I'll give you-hoo/Everything I have in my hand!" should qualify as heartbreaking. But here it is. Even the way Cindy sings said chorus is soul-rending; there's a sense she's stretching those syllables out just to buy herself more time, that maybe just maybe there's still a chance, all she needs is time.

"Private Idaho"--Given its due as one of the greatest songs of the 1980s by Pitchfork Media, and covered surprisingly poorly by the otherwise sure-handed Sleater Kinney during select live shows in 2002, "Private Idaho" is still likely best known as the inspiration for Gus Van Sant's Your Own Private Idaho.

The details are irrelevant in this case; the fact that it remains known is all that matters. A seamless example of what made them a great band: Fred's barking, Kate and Cindy's cloud-shaming harmonies, Ricky's singular guitar style and Keith's workmanlike drums giving no hint that he was, along with his old high school buddy, the group's sonic visionary.

When art this fully realized hits your life, that life is spun but good. "Private Idaho" is the red velvet cupcake of rock and roll, ludicrously tasty and irresistibly fashioned to boot. The guitar is so inventively placed and played, the vocal interplay so effortlessly vivacious, the lyrics so goddamn Dada you'll cry for your mama. There are people in my life who don't like this song and those are people I consider "acquaintances." Even my mother likes this song.

"Devil In My Car"--A longtime live favorite gets immortalized. Too bad it's damned!

The burn is slow in this one, indeed, but the switch-ups are just enough to keep the lactic acid at bay.

"Quiche Lorraine"--Fred has this poodle, ya see, and oh does he love that poodle! She's so little and fashionable and did I mention green, and her name is "Quiche Lorraine" or "QUICHE LA POODLE!" Every day they pound the streets, owner and pet to us, but equals to each other. It's really so wonderful to see...to see...Quiche Lorraine running off with a Great Dane! Oh Fred. He's crestfallen. Have you ever seen a boy so sad? Uh oh, now he's bitter. Such rancor! Fred, you can't mean those things, didn't you and Quiche have such wonderful times together? Remember the park? The ice cream social? Fuck you too, asshole, I hope you can't sleep for a week because you're haunted by visions of your precious little two-inch tall poodle getting rammed by a big ol' Great Dane!

"Strobe Light"--A perennial fan favorite that I just don't dig on that much. Ricky's "solo" is again the highlight. I get why people like this song, it's classic sexy-silly, but Fred as Casanova is too funny to stand.

"53 Miles West of Venus"--Ah, this is more like it. A not-quite instrumental, this is Ricky showing the keybs around the town they both like to pretend is Neptune in a silver Cadillac they both like to pretend is a rocket ship. Sampled to great effect by underground hip hop group the Arsonists some years back, "Venus" is by turns spooky and loopy, and unforgettable.

The Space In Between Is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52s (Fragment One Is Yellow and Grotesque)

2012-01-24T00:34:00.000-08:00

Q: ARE WE NOT MEN? A: WE ARE DEVO!

8/28/1978

After several years slogging around the Midwest, and allowing a couple sour grapes to drop unceremoniously from the vine, Devo solidified as a tick-tock crew of "five punk scientists with a plan" ready to dominate the globe: vocalist/synthist/co-writer/geek Mark Mothersbaugh, vocalist/bassist/co-writer/wise-ass Gerald "Jerry" Casale, guitarist Bob Mothersbaugh ("Bob1"), guitarist/occasional key-toucher Bob Casale ("Bob2") and drummer Alan Meyers.

Before long, they captivated the New York scene and the -sters within. Famed names lined up to suck their dicks, but only one could stay on for any appreciable amount of time. Recording with Brian Eno in Cologne, Germany in late 1977, Devo very quickly rejected nearly every adventurous idea their legendary producer offered up and decided to commit the songs to tape as faithful to their original demo forms as possible.

Taking inspiration from a picture of golfer Chi Chi Rodriguez (with further impetus to avoid a lawsuit by morphing the image into something resembling the Hispanic cousin of Lyndon Johnson), Devo's prom picture is unnerving and irresistible. It is an immaculate indicator of the music to be found past the packaging.

Status as a watershed for rock music that stretched the brain and balls notwithstanding, it would take 19 years for Are We Not Men to reach gold status in the U.S.

"Uncontrollable Urge"--Devo has an image for every album. For their first time out, the iconic hazmat suits. Well done; a positive first visual impression is crucial. Moreso, however, the sonic impression. To this end, the Mark-penned "Uncontrollable Urge" is tattoo-esque. Listeners should take some Q-10 before hearing this one, because you're gonna wanna dance and you may as well boost your metabolism to the maximum rate.

There aren't very many aural similarities between Devo and their fellow freaks to the South, but one thing I've noticed over and over that the bands do share is the desire to get the most outlandish, weeping-wall sounds from keyboards, organs and synthesizers possible. Along goes the song and then, oh shit, your foot just went through the floorboard. Now it's stuck in lava. How did lava get under the house? Your house is on top of a volcano.

While flying the multi-vox flag was a common trick for the airborne B's, "Uncontrollable Urge" features a very rare Mark/Gerald/Bob1 arrangement, with the latter two just averring what their partner-in-crime is telling us with a minimum of enunciation. The ballyhooed call-response section is overrated, and best enjoyed live, when the four non-seated members of Devo converge at the center of the stage and "dance." The accentuation and augmentation of the word "yeah" in all our history is a properly depressing reality to endure.

"(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction"--Legendary cover of an all-timer. It even made Jagger dance. 'Course he woulda had to have been a bitter bastard to snarl at Jerry's bubble-butt bass or Alan hitting lily pads or most of all Mark's legless somersaults. Repetition as road to satiety.

"Praying Hands"--Take that, religion! Oh yes, kids, the God squad have been a popular target for the contrary at heart since Judas stuck Christ with the ultimate tab. The least anyone do while in the act of rebelling is be creative and interesting and Devo pretty much had no choice to be otherwise, being all young dumb and death to the humdrum.

Religious faith as a sufficient substitute for self-flagellation, that's a hard sell. Even for Mark, it seems, 'cause he never enunciates the word "diddling." The right hand is what? Shame pervades!

"Space Junk"--Jerry has no such issues in front of the mic. Or behind it. He even says "Tex-ass" and "Kans-ass" to remind everyone that he's a whip-smart, mega-conscious, line-steppin' young fella, but he's still young, after all. Scatological puerility shares shelf space with the erudite evolutionary ethos and neither shall collect dust.

The story is simple enough: girl walks down an alley, gets brained by felled satellite. Turns out earthlings are getting bashed left and right by this wayward space junk. Forget the National Guard, capital punishment, or military enlistment--this is how the government takes its citizens out.

"Mongoloid"--Devo's first single, written solely by Jerry, who handles the vox alongside the nasally Bob1. (Who also blessed "Space Junk.") The very title is now an anachronism, a reminder of bygone days when mental deficiencies were grudgingly acknowledged by polite society, who really were not very kind towards the afflicted at all.

The protagonist is de-evolution in action. He is dressed like a normal everyday man of business, has a nice home for his nice wife and children whom he supports with a nice job, but the guy is an actual idiot. Empirical fact! Yet...no one knows, or even cares. The mongoloid has assimilated nicely into his suburb, his society. What a nice, gentle, contented man. Wouldn't we all like to be like him.

If it seems like the pretzel plot of a black-and-white horror show, the tune itself won't disabuse you of the notion. That Minimoog is gazpacho status. Best served bleeding ice cold into the vocals with thickly-sliced snare blasts for further flavor.

"Jocko Homo"--Monkey one monkey two, we do how monkeys do. In good ol' 7/8 time, the true and actual "Devo Anthem." Inspired by BH Shadduck's anti-evolutionary tract "Jocko Homo Heavenbound" (which you can read here if you really have the time) this song is the crystallization of Devo's raison d'etre. Professor Mark runs a very interactive class, so be ready.

Simian drugs, simian drugs. "The poot" is the worst name for a dance ever.

"Too Much Paranoias"--Weakest song on the entire album, but instead of just leaving it at that, I'll boss up and tell you why I think so.

I admit freely, that smear of a guitar riff is amazing in the way a cat showing its teeth before it attacks an obnoxious child is amazing. You can't listen to or watch it just once. It creates a warm feeling of justice in the pit of the gut. Nasty justice. Tarpit-slick justice.

But, lyrics that quote the Big Mac song win no points in my scoring system. Not to mention when Mark sings the title, it sounds like the chorus to "Viva Las Vegas."

"Gut Feeling/Slap Yer Mammy"--A medley, in the way that mixing melted cheese in with yer mashed potatos is a medley. "Gut Feeling" builds tension with hands shaky from non-prayer, but the prevailing mood is a brutal wind that leaves the heart in the throat. Until verse two, when everything goes askew. "Tongs of love"? How is that an actual thing that was ever said?

The "Slap Yer Mammy" portion of the program is like most of the sex had in the world: raucous and inconsequential.

"Come Back Jonee"--Just a couple years shy of Ronald Reagan's ascension to the highest office in the United States, Devo long for the 1960s, namely the man that America rallied behind as the best of themselves, the handsome young New Englander John F. Kennedy. Privileged, poised, charismatic and fantastically horny (mind you, his chronic back problems meant that he was hardly the most active sex partner), he was a beacon of hope and portal to prosperity.

Then he was murdered. 'Cause only world leaders of true genius think riding in a parade car with the top down is okey-dokey. Still, Devo long for those days. When the President was sexy and being a hippie didn't seem utterly laughable; the days when you and your friends could gather in peaceful protest and not have to worry about taking a bullet in the back. Sonically, they hearken back even further. This is pure cowboy rollicker, pistols at dawn and saloon doors. It all seems so long ago.

"Sloppy (I Saw My Baby Gettin')"--Written with Akron buddy Gary Jackett, this is an insipid yet intermittently entertaining "baby" song. How fucked up does a guy have to be to think he "missed the hole"?

"Shrivel Up"--The most well-constructed song on the album wraps it all up with a plastic prettiness. The bounce is ominous, the alien signal is cryptic, and the spidery guit-fiddle spreads its web in a second flat.

The American worker has rules to abide by: God, family, fast food, corporate America, trends, friends, slogans, logos. Even Devo is this. We are all Devo. If this strikes some people as contradictory and contrarian, limited and limiting, well, "It's at the top of the list/That you can't get pissed." But rules get broken as umbrage is taken.

Jerry delivers this all quite carefree, whimsical voice calling forth from a thin mouth turned up in an empty smile. We're all going to hell, who gives a shit?

Old age will shrivel us all up, exorbitantly-priced desperation tactics aside, but its worse for your soul to beat your body to the punch. Which is the punch line of this song. Get in line, Punch in, punch out.

THE B-52'S

7/6/1979

The B-52's do not have a message for you. If the world really is going to shit, if people really are doomed to get dumber and uglier and fatter and more insensitive, then just try to slow down the regression. Dress up. Dance. Party. Get together with your friends and be happy. Bliss isn't ignorance just because you put the world aside for awhile.

Fred Schneider, Kate Pierson, Keith Strickland, Ricky Wilson and his little sister Cindy Wilson bonded at some Athens Chinese restaurant over a shared mixed drink called a "Flaming Volcano." Jam sessions proved funky and fortuitous, and the B-52's played their first gig at a Valentines Day party in 1977. (So if you think that particular day is just some hokey Hallmark holiday designed to sell more crap and drive lonely people to messy suicide, just think of it as celebrating the first ever live show of a legendary racket-gang. Works for me!) Flamboyant and proud, their entire aesthetic was and ever is a beautiful mess. Like Devo, they visited NYC, blew off heads, and Warner Bros. musta thought they made quite the kitschy coup by scooping up these wigged-out weirdos.

They had no idea.

"Planet Claire"--A Peter Gunn-inspired number that would inspire a like-named rock musical about the B's that debuted in 2002 at the Maryland Ensemble Theatre in the city of Frederick. As introductions go, only "Hello I have money for you" can top it. Or maybe, "I know where you can go and get a pretzel shaped like Snoopy."

Interplanetary communicative transit translated by stentorian yet still silly Fred Schneider. The man has a few "Wow, he just recited this word/line the absolute greatest way anyone could ever recite it" on this album, indeed across the band's oeuvre, and his enraged "WELL SHE ISN'T!" is one of them, if not the one. Good gravy on yer honey biscuits.

"52 Girls"--Conclusive documentation of ball lightning.

Who snatches the show? Probably Ricky. With the five strings of his blue Mosrite tuned to EADxBB, the band's resident reticent visionary conjured up one of my favorite-ever guitar parts. It obeys no speed limits or any other street signs, forgot to shave this morning, had coffee for breakfast and coffee for lunch. Donuts for dinner.

But maybe it's Kate and Cindy? Harmonies clashing so brazenly one crackerjack voice melts into the other, rendering most of the words incomprehensible. In the end, "52 Girls" is less about the names or numbers (they only mention 25 girls, incidentally) and more about that indescribable feeling.

Also, how ineffably cool when they sing their own names in the song. Remember "Chantilly Lace," when dude introduces himself to the girl on the phone with "This is the Big Bopper speakin'!" ? Something about referencing yourself--even if its your artistic alias--in a rock song is so great to me.

Or maybe it's not this version at all, maybe it's the original cut in 1978 as to the B-side to the original "Rock Lobster." Performed faster, and in a higher key, thus the lyrics are much clearer. You ain't missin' any vacuous edicts to drink your Ovaltine or anything, but it's still a fascinating listen.

"Dance This Mess Around"--More Martian Morse code. Lights gone all blue, and dimmed at that. I can barely see the decor to pass judgment!

Fred Schroeder, I mean Schneider, busts out the toy piano for some further ambience, and finally a mean green shines down on Cindy.

The B's penchant for songs that sound like a Captain Beefheart cover band at a beach blowout invaded by little green people just as the dance contest is about to start glows here. Ricky was like a guitar-wielding robot programmed to play the best possible parts at the best possible times, not a note too much, not a second too late. Code: CFxxFF. That acknowledged, this song belongs to his baby sister. When Cindy completes her semi-sultry lamentation of love leaking vital fluid, the boisterous blonde (or whatever wig she had on) waits for her big bro to prepare the piqued crowd with a wicked smirk that says "Oh you have no idea what you're in for."

"WHY DON'T YOU DANCE WITH ME?! I'M NOT NO LIMBURGER!"

(For the first few years of my fandom, I heard this line as "I'm not no limber girl," which confused me, 'cause uh honey, I think that kinda answers yer question.)

Fred and Kate join in as the dance contest is suddenly back on, this time with the little greenies on the judging panel. Fred mentions "all 16 dances," but again, who's counting? Me. And they only mention nine. That leaves seven unidentified. So I have decided to fill in the gaps by naming them all after me and my six siblings. How does one do the Jenny Lee? Oh wouldn't you love to know. I personally want to know the moves behind the Aqua Velva or the Shy Tuna.

"It's time to do 'em right!"

Damn, there's Fred again barking at us, 'cause apparently quite a few partygoers screw these dances up more often than not, then again you see how frequently white folks futz up the Running Man, what hope can there truly be.

"Rock Lobster"--Seven psychotic minutes (at 180 bpm!) guaranteed to separate your party into two distinct groups: the cool and the frigid. Enter the Ricky Robot Code CFxxFF and watch the room divide.

"Rock Lobster" is a legendary song whether you like it or not--the song or the status--and it proves the rule of "the dumbest and/or least demanding work of an artist will invariably be their most popular." So it was that a gleeful Ricky Wilson explained his mood to Keith Strickland with the fateful words, "I've just written the stupidest guitar line you've ever heard." Splash on--don't just sprinkle--maniacal keys, the blatant Yoko-lations of Kate and Cindy, Fred's demented storytelling and you got pure beach blanket bombast that sure beats a bomb blast. Leave that to them other B-52's.

The final two minutes of this virtually-illegal song are beyond the pale. I am appalled at how fucking well it holds up after 30-plus years. Ricky revs it up, the girls decide their throats are now the enemy and the larynx must die, and what the lobster dip is now in the air on the floor and you know what if there's still chips left in the bag...smash 'em! AHAHAHAHAHAHA! This is the best thing I've ever let myself listen to, you can't possibly improve on this, wow I--

"LET'S ROCK!"

Ahhhhhhh! He did it again! I'm hungry! We gotta glue the chips back together!

Henry Rollins once called Fred's exhortation one of the greatest moments in rock music, and dude was not being facetious, nor was he lying, thereby trying to turn you into him. It, and the entire song, is for the ages.

"Lava"--It's west of Java. But I'm sure you know that by now. Also, humans do not use only 10% of their brain. That's an urban legend. Just thought I'd throw that in there while debunking is happening.

Fuck the lyrics, the guitars alone are a sex metaphor. Pour it on me, thick and gleaming.

Why does Fred pronounce lava two different ways? Mysteries of history.

"There's a Moon In the Sky (Called the Moon)"--Earth is so special. Other planets moons have names, like Jupiter's Io and Saturn's Rhea--but our moon is THE MOON. If I get a dog I'm going to name him or her "The Dog." I understand that's a lot of pressure for one animal to deal with, but I want it to grow up feeling unique and confident in its exquisite exclusivity.

The B-52's sure wear those shoes well. They skip craters along the rivers of Mars. They name all the other planets! There's a triumphant "one of us" attitude that's very sincere and caring, like all the freaks are welcome. Gay subtext? Possibly.

"Hero Worship"--Lyrics by band buddy Robert Waldrop for Cindy to tear into her all by her lonesome. Let go of her hand Mama, your girl does just fine.

Okay, now that the mother's gone...this song is about blowjobs, right? "Jerking motions won't revive him/Mouth to mouth resuscitation." Yeah? I mean Cindy for all her ass-smackin' kinda treats syllables like she's molasses and they're popcorn and it's time to make the balls. Oh God I didn't even intend that pun.

"God give me his soul."
"I hero worship/He deserves it/I preserve it!"

I'm kinda scared still, in a way I never was as an innocent chubby-cheeked li'l lassie, so I'll just conclude this by saying "Hero Worship" has the best guitar tone and structure on the album. Bye now.

"6060-842"--Actually, this may have been the stupidest riff Ricky Wilson ever came up with. And guess what, it's also golden. Stay playboy.

Predates 867-5309, with less Jenny and more Tina. It takes all three vocalists to tell the riveting tale of a number written on the bathroom wall. Kids these days don't know not thing one about the time before smartphones. Can you imagine not having all the goddamn answers and options easily accessible, and having to wonder about things, and use your ingenuity? Do they know about the apoplexy one feels in the face of a heartless operator? We coulda had something special! Alas.

"Downtown"--Jus' like Devo, the B's cover a well-worn tune but nowhere near as spectacularly. Cindy sounds a bit English here, and not the refined accent either. It sounds like a house band playing the customers out of the club as the place shutters up. Compared to the vital original material before it, "Downtown" is imminently skippable.

The Space In Between Is the Place: The Music of Devo and The B-52s (Introductory Fragment)

2012-01-23T17:41:00.000-08:00

Submitted for your approval: two bands, quintets at that, as similar to each other as the Spanish and Italian languages, yet as dissimilar as the classic contrast of fire and ice. Devo. The B-52s.

Both were formed, as were so many good things, in the 1970s, and hailing from parts of America that are virtually worlds away culturally from the artistic capitals of New York and California. Devo sprouted up in Akron, Ohio, snotty college kids who were forced to stop fuming on the periphery and jump into the fray after the tragedy at Kent State in 1970. The B-52s came together as weirdos in a weird land, the one the only the Athens, Georgia (that's GA to them). The B's had in their ranks one pair of siblings; Devo, two. Devo espoused the revelatory concept of human de-evolution, which averred that hirsute bipeds are doomed to move backwards, growing dimmer and dimmer, falling apart with each successive generation.

Both released their debut albums outside their home country, in the latter part of their birth decade, with noted names behind the boards. Both were signed to Warner Bros., feted by famous David B.'s. The dominant color for each album cover was yellow.

Yet while Devo challenged the status quo, the B-52s were the self-proclaimed "tackiest little dance band in Georgia" (which allowed that there was an even tackier one somewhere out there). While both bands fit neatly into the burgeoning "New Wave" subgenre, Devo were jagged, dark and robotic, a jarring alternative to the B's and their surf-rock game-show Beach Blanket Mothra aesthetic. And, it must be said, whilst the five men of Devo were documented pussyhounds, all three males in the B-52s were openly gay.

I discovered each band almost simultaneously. Severe asthma kept me from going outside to engage in the raucous play typical of young children, so I stayed inside and absorbed universes. I watched television, played video games, watched movies my brother taped off HBO, read magazines and books, and oh yes yes yes, listened to the cassettes and vinyl records scattered all over the house, reflecting the vast tastes of my six older siblings. One sister in particular was the New Wave fan, and it was a big deal when she brought Whammy! home. But, I will save that remembrance for that review.

Devo I caught onto just a little before, via their constant presence on MTV. Their videos for "Satisfaction" and "Whip It" were just made to imprint on the brain. I didn't delve deeper into their catalogue until well after the B-52s were practically family in my record collection.

Now it has come to pass that I've seen Devo live twice, the B's never; the odds are virtually guaranteed that this will not change. Yet I don't know if Devo can ever mean to me what the B-52s have. I don't know that it should be held against them. After all, both bands are more than worthy of this project which takes over my blog for this week, a full discography review of both bands, two albums per day except one day when it's three for the sake of symmetry. The very first of these shall be up later this evening.

It's my wish as always that you will check in, hop in, strap in, and enjoy.

Since Words Are My Business, And All

2011-12-08T20:21:00.001-08:00

My fantasy of getting paid for my writing is creeping closer to reality. I say nothing more. At this time.

What I would like to do with this post is give readers a solid overview of where I am in running this here business. I've wanted to do something all-encompassing for some time now, but held off for a variety reasons, chief among them the fear that it was just my hubris short-circuiting my brain.

So with cause for optimism and walk to match the talk, here it is.

NOVELS

415 101

My baby, and this gestation period has been ridiculous. Yet, it has been exactly the length it should be. The first of "The Lucy Wayne Trilogy," this finds this not-quite heroine struggling to find her creative feet with adulthood looming. Release date late 2012.

The Grief Show

Second of the trilogy. My attempt at combining the hoary theater troupe premise with the most devastating event that any human being can ever face. Project 70% completed.

Mother Brain

Lucy goes out in style. Also, to Japan. Eschews the ensemble and focuses on duality-as-joy-as-agony. Project 15% completed, a number which will leap by the end of the year.

One Crisis At a Time

Not part of any trilogy, 'cause then that would indicate I don't know how to count. Tale of a single case involving Washington D.C.-based private detective Laura Hamer. I have about 12 different ways I could take this...still in the outlining process.

NONFICTION

Spirit Desire

AKA, "No Setlist 2." The first monster dedication to inspiration proved so popular I had to do a second pressing, which itself has sold out. This blog let me know people wanted to read what I wrote, but that book told me they were also willing to pay for it as well. What a world. This will not be published until 415 101 comes out, so late 2012, early 2013 for this baby.

POETRY

Lyrics For Monster Movie Music

Collected verses/fragments since 1995. Release date 2012.

MAGAZINE

A Splash of Her #1

Thanks to a friends suggestion, Patrick and myself are partaking on what we hope will be a multi-issue zine-dealy. The debut issue (featuring my text and Trick's image-mashing) showcases the women in music who have influenced me the most profoundly as both a female and artist. If this sounds rote to you, then you must not be very familiar with my writing. I don't do "rote." I do, rather: Entertaining. Edifying. Honest.

Release date January 2012.

BLOG

Yeah, I'll still be tossing up the goods right here on Trapper as well.

The Space In Between Is the Place--Devo and B-52s discography review (January 2012)

Neither Elegy Nor Effigy Be--The 30 Greatest Sonic Youth Songs (And 10 Worst) (January 2012)

Glamour Boys--Duran Duran 1980s discography review (February 2012)

It's the Girl in the Red Truck, Charlie Brown (February 2012)

Blogs Ruined Music For an Entire Generation--Free Kitten discography review (March 2012)

It's the Pied Piper, Charlie Brown (April 2012)

He's Your Dog, Charlie Brown (April 2012)

The NASA Space Station (May 2012)

Snoopy's Getting Married, Charlie Brown (June 2012)

The Birth of the Constitution (July 2012)

Snoopy's Reunion (July 2012)

He's a Bully, Charlie Brown (August 2012)

The Wright Brothers At Kitty Hawk (August 2012)

Happiness Is a Warm Blanket (September 2012)

Why, Charlie Brown, Why? (October 2012)

The Mayflower Voyagers (November 2012)

Shut Up, White Girl--My Ten Favorite Hip Hop Albums of All-Time (December 2012)

Gods For the Godless--Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth discography review (January 2013)

I would so love to have the Big 4 reviews out sooner, but that shit is just a massive undertaking. That said, I've never felt discouraged, just...beaten. But that's good, y'see. Writing should make you feel like you're either about to conquer the world or get crushed underneath of it.

What's Romance: Wild Flag and Lee Ranaldo at the Bell House, Brooklyn, NY 10/15/11

2011-10-22T20:29:00.000-07:00

This review is a truncated version of the one that will appear in my book Spirit Desire. The pre-show and post-show sections have been edited for space and palatability therein. The show review is as it will appear in the book.

A person can be homeless despite having four walls to call their own (or four walls they can pay someone else for the right to pretend they are their own). Patrick and I, individually and as a crime-fighting duo, have many a home. Our respective pads in Maryland, paramount of course; Seattle, which never fails to entice Patrick despite its very real status as the most sprawling gray anything on the North American continent; San Francisco, the city I fell in love with either because of or in nose-biting spite of the hilly streets I walked over and over for six hours; Baltimore, which is so much more than what was shown on The Wire, but is all of that without question; Washington D.C., the richly textured American capital, where the haves and have-nots co-exist in desperation; and New York City.

Our trip on a weeekend in early October to see Erase Errata, Talk Normal, Edie Sedgwick and this art-scat duo that were so unforgivably self-aware and uselessly indefatigable in their quest to confront the disengaged crowd that I have forced their name from my brain. (They're just gonna have to find another four walls.) It was EE's first NY gig in five years (and four years since we saw them in Baltimore) so our attendance was a given.

The show, save naturally for those unnamed twats above, was sweet as the empty sugar factory across the street from the venue no doubt once was in its halcyon days. But as I mentioned earlier, we made a weekend of it, and something about that combo of music, visual art (a ceaselessly fascinating trip to MOMA, and a fruitful venture to the not-gone-yet St. Marks Bookshop) and the satiation of culinary rapacity (Japanese street food at Otafuku; Sri Pri Phai in Queens, the best Thai food to yet touch my tongue) ignited our shared tinderbox. We'd been to NY many times before, done so much fun shit, but this trip, of all the trips, this one tripped the wire?

Well, yeah. It was just an unspoken understanding (that didn't stay so for very long, 'cause we are some fuckin' silence-killers) that we would have to up the frequency of our visits. We became determined to detect any excuse to return, then jump on it, wrestle it ground-down, and tag it with a big ol' blue and red sticker that said "J & P."

Wild Flag's forthcoming tour in support of their imminent debut album seemed the optimum opportunity to sidle off and on subway cars and cast shadows on sidewalks wider than Santa ass. Of course we were going to see 'em in DC, I mean that's one of our shared homes of the heart after all, but why not in NY too, goddamnit? As it turned out, the most exciting not-precisely-new racket-gang of the past five years were touching down twice--the Bell House in Brooklyn, and then the Bowery Ballroom in Manhattan. Well, the latterly, more alliterative gig was not a go--fell on a Wednesday and we both got jobs. The Bell House gig was ideal, falling as it did on a Saturday. Small snag, though--it was already sold out.

Paul Lynde's ball sac! Yet, we remained hopeful, or at least I did. Trick is oftentimes crazed inscrutable. It got worse when we discovered--independent of each other, mind--that the opener at the Bell House gig would be Lee Ranaldo. By turns a member of Sonic Youth, a writer, a string sculptor, and a bike enthusiast, whose long-awaited "singer-songwriter" solo rec is slated to be released in early 2012.

Charles Nelson Reilly's taint! I brought to Trick's attention two things: first, my agitated attitude, and StubHub, where a couple tix to the gig were going for double face value. To me, it was a no-brainer. The J & P Show goes to shows like this, or what's the point of us? My nagging and whining was operating on peak championship levels, but Patrick deflected my pleas.

Le sigh, Charlie Brown.

The next day, he casually announced he had purchased the tickets.

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Whenever feasible, make your time in NYC stretch. Stuff the fresh space created by elongation with wish fulfillment. Do your research, but never lose the element of surprise.

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Surprise, however, can bring things to a halt as much as propel them forward.

9:30 Friday night, Olney. (Patrick's home-away-from-heart.) The house was all ours, what with Trick's mother attending some pseudo-bacchanalian soiree, and his pops wisely ensconced at the family's beach house in Delaware. Patrick whupped up a couple soothingly cool drinks--Cosmo for he, SoCo Lime for me--and then settled in to fiddle with his new toy, an iPhone 4S, which he had received at his door earlier that morning, as he was virtually just out the door for work. AT&T's 3G was presenting some problems, namely that it wasn't registering on the damn thing. He was a sight to behold, butt riding the edge of so-soft lazy chair, brow furrowed, light of the MacBook screen completely whiting out his eyes behind his glasses. I was semi-sprawled on the couch nearby, red velvet cupcake in hand, eyes glued to a rerun of that weeks Parks and Rec via OnDemand.

Without a word or even sound of warning, Patrick paused the show. I was a bit taken aback at the sudden cessation of the only actually funny sitcom on network TV, but that was baby emotion compared to what I would soon have to process.

Patrick was now gaping at the computer, his features softer now.

"What's up?"

"Oh wow."

"What? What, man?" Somebody died.

Minutes within seconds.

Patrick's eyes became visible to me again as he leaned back a bit in the chair. Always gorgeous whatever the mood of the man who boasts them, they had widened just enough that I could tell this was some news beyond a new-fangled tech gadget, or a particularly assholish display by cops in the midst of peaceable people, this was the kind of news that was going to hit our chests with a thud and leave a ringing in our ears that maybe only a good nights sleep would shoo away.

"This is from Spin.com." Man, do you have any idea how many times either of us has not spoken that sentence? Already everything is all off. He read the following aloud, in a voice that sounded like it didn't believe a syllable of what it was actually saying.

"Musicians Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore, married in 1984, are announcing they have separated. Sonic Youth, with both Kim and Thurston involved, will proceed with its South American tour dates in November. Plans beyond that tour are uncertain. The couple has requested respect for their personal privacy and does not wish to issue further comment."

"The fuck?" Eloquence is my true middle name. I just use three of the letters to make it easier.

"Wow. Wow."

"Dude."

"I know."

Not terribly long after that initial volley of shock, my phone went nutty from Twitter and FB. I checked messages and notifications as my Sonic brethren registered their reactions, and repeated, "'Plans beyond that tour are uncertain.' Oh I don't like that at all. Christ, Trick. I think hearing news that someone died of smallpox would be less of a shock."

And that still remains to me the most devastating sentence of the whole statement. For Kim and Thurston's family and friends, the dissolution of their marriage actually hits home. For the people who know them, this is a haymaker. I'm grateful for what their relationship made possible, and I find them both interesting creatively, but I don't know them. I don't care how many records I have, interviews I've read, videos I've watched, shows I've attended, I do not know who they are. At all. I know what they have shown me, what they have shown all of us, but that's still a kaleidoscope perspective itself.

The very real possibility of no more Sonic Youth? No more albums, no more tours? What the hell am I gonna do for my summer vacations now? I'm two concerts shy of 60, damnit! I know Sonic Youth. Yeah, that's a kaleido-view too, but they're an artistic collective, that's how it's supposed to come across to our eyes. 21 years now they've been the biggest positive influence in my life that I don't also refer to as "Mom." Where would I be if I hadn't found them and decided they were worth keeping around? As a woman, as a writer, as a daughter, as a friend, as a partner...it does my head in to consider it otherwise.

The Internet is absolutely nothing if not a dumping ground for jejune spew, and there's more Tumblr posts, tweets, forum ramblings on no longer believing in love than I can handle. More than a couple people are saying--without caveat--that this news is affecting them even more than the separation of their own parents. The people who made them possible versus the people who made "Sleepin' Around."

My parents never divorced (it took death to part them after 49 and 1/2 years, imagine that) but even if they had...I can't imagine the end of a semi-famous couples marriage would mean more to me. These folks saying such things don't seem especially stupid, as I check out their other web feats, so I can only conclude they are in fact insane.

Of course...the news is fresh. First reactions are often over the top. But some of these folks are scaling the planet in a single half-witted bound.

Confusion is certainly next. And next after that is...conclusion?

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Up until we board the train early the next morning, Patrick and I are in a commonwealth of shock. We're set to be staying with our friend Annie, and meeting up with who knows besides, and there's no question what topic will dominate conversation.

Some of my friends online take this news harder than others. I empathize. My buddy Mike puts the video for "The Empty Page" on his Facebook, and dedicates it to me, and we both know why.

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So the Bell House, as it turns out, is in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn. We begin a walk that will take us over several thousand avenues before Patrick realizes he has misread the address and notice immediately the WANTED posters with sketches of at least six attempted rapists plastered on a few storefront windows. Then we notice the children. Then the pharmacy advertising the surplus of herpes medication. Annie and I quickly conclude that Park Slope is run by children (and thus undesirable to either of us as a place of future residence) and Brooklyn is unquestionably the rapiest borough in all New York.

When we pass by a stoop and spot a young towheaded boy teetering on his feet in front of his mother, li'l dark blue GAP sweater on, quiet oh so quiet, we all three decide to nominate him for mayor.

"Why is there a stickball game happening in the street right now?" I ask with a desperation I'm kinda surprised to realize isn't a put on. "Is this 1940s Hells Kitchen or some shit?" Turns out the street was blocked off for some mild construction work. All the better to let your children run wild and free, 'cause as they say in Park Slope....

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The Bell House holds 350 folks standing, which is a nice crowd to be part of. Not terribly small, not at all large, and as a bonus the stage is like a half-octagon. Tempting as the sides looked, we made our way up front, side Mary B. T. Trick and Annie grabbed a trio of Stella cans while I protected our spots, and Patrick beat me to the "Slayer back cover" reference upon their return.

I had voiced earlier in the day that our pal George would no doubt find us at some point in the venue, just like he had at the much larger Williamsburg Waterfront when the Flag played with SY. When he did, I was just a couple sips into my beer, and felt kinda guilty that I had to give him a cold-can handshake. The yak was SY-heavy, of course. I was personally surprised that George wasn't on side Carrie, as he has a confessed crush on the rather rambunctious Ms. Brownstein. But, that meant he'd be with us, and I'm all for friends not letting friends attend shows alone.

Doors were 8, but Mr. Lee didn't set foot on stage till round about 9:30. The pre-gig music did its best (B-52s, Gang Starr, and some non-obvious Beatles--"It's All Too Much." Which even reminded me of SY, with that "Catholic Block"-esque intro) but damn. Not as bad as the solid two-hour wait for Devo at the 9:30 Club (I wanted to amputate my goddamn feet) but I was struggling to nurse my Stella and frankly, I was about to bust from the anticipation. Lee's solo shit! The drama, real and imagined! How many peeps would want to be one of the few hundred packed sick in that space that night? I knew quite a few personally.

Before hearing note one, I could tell that Lee's new solo shit was going to be superior to the most recent offering of his much taller bandmate. Demolished Thoughts is not a bad album, but you can't see review after review liken a record to a classic (in this case, Beck's Sea Change, the comparison abetted by the presence of Mr. Hansen behind the boards) and then have it be just good. Also, I'm lately thinking of "Benediction," and its recurring hook of "I know better to let her go," and shit is massively depressing.

The repeated threats of a "singer-songwriter" offering from SY's resident Dylanophile led a few in the fandom to expect a laid-back Lee, gentle acoustic and sweet croon, serrated poetry and wide swaths of branding colors. As the guest list on the album became public knowledge, however, expectations changed. Bob Bert, Nels Cline, Steve Shelley, Alan Licht, John Medeski. Not the stuff of "Gentlemen of the Echo Canyon."

My own personal hope as a listener was more or less made manifest by Lee's set that night. With help from a band of Licht on guitar, Irwin Menken on (sometimes 8-string) bass, and SS Beat Sgt. himself playing Janet Weiss' drumkit (save for a tom and cymbal that he switched out at set's end), Lee presented an eight-song set that sounded pleasingly similar to his tracks on latterly Sonic Youth albums--verse chorus verse, strong searing melodies, thoughtful lyrics presented with a warm delivery, and generous delay pedal, baby.

Patrick shot vid of two songs, "Angles" and "Xtina," on his phone. (If he'd known somehow in advance that "Off the Wall" was going to be the most enthralling of the whole set, he'd-a got that one too. Oh well, next gig.)

Surely we weren't the only attendees wondering how if it all Lee would broach the shocking news of the previous day. He got it out of the way before strumming chord one, doing the standard stage chatter of greeting and preemptive warning before musing that it was "a strange night to be starting a new project." Some tittering in the audience. He then introduced "Angles" as "kind of a love song. This goes out to a couple of dear friends of mine who are going through some shit right now." He said this all with barely a change in vocal intonation, reminding me--again--how useless the speculative essays of imperfect strangers are in response to news of this nature. I felt for the guy right then. Steve, as well.

Lee has that knack, though, if his songs are anything to go by. He's won a fair legion of devotees with a bracing approach to his art, that plain-spoken even whilst plain/plane-traversing style that has stood in such stark contrast to Kim and Thurston's approaches since way back "In the Kingdom #19." If you count yourself among that crowd, I can tell you that you will love this shit he has forthcoming. Straight on. Patrick and I agreed, not one hitch on the setlist, every tune a winner.

The highlight, as previously stated, was "Off the Wall," which fucking rocked picture frames, clocks, shelves, posters and plasma screens. Best origin story goes to "Shouts," which was inspired by the photo of a couple making out in the riotous Vancouver streets, post-2011 Stanley Cup Finals. (Patrick and I vow to engage in some really intense hugging right outside Verizon Center when the Capitals finally win the Cup, just FYI.)

When Lee introduced his stage mates, Steve naturally got the most enthusiastic reaction. Almost lost in the applause was Lee's remark: "Still playing together."

Lee and band were a good lubricant for the crowd, who were ready to fly the Flag, or have the Flag flown, or what the hell ever. This would be our third time, and Annie's true first, as she arrived late to the Williamsburg gig and that was an opening slot anyway, and those kinda don't count. (To me, anyway, and even then not always.)

I was a bit surprised they kicked off the set with "Black Tiles," which ends their debut, and not "Romance," but I shouldn't have been. It has that rug-ripper riff and the mystical influence of so much Mary Timony work. "Romance" was right on its heels, however, a great song about great songs. Wild Flag are definitely less political than Sleater-Kinney, which is not an "X" in their column at all, 'cause not all ballads should be about ladymen, nor should all songs about ladymen be ballads, necessarily.

High-energy, occasionally high-wire (an incorrigible pedal of Carrie's threatened to derail "Future Crimes," but thankfully Janet Weiss refused to relinquish the reins), if my big goofy ass is in the front row fuckin' rockin' then I'm not sure what anyone can use as an excuse. Strong female presence no shit, but salutes aren't gender exclusive. The good stuff never is.

The good stuff doesn't have to clash to matter, but with Wild Flag the admixture makes them a fixture in my heart, mind and gut. Carrie's raw, base musings on the power of music, Mary's whimsy in spell-casting and virtuosity in dragon slaying, Janet's redoubtable power, and Rebecca's keyb waves, which come together with the more angular riffs to create a definite B-52-ish effect on a song or two. Annie opined that Ms. Cole is the "Tito" of the group, which if you're going by star power alone she is, but that's still not too fair. Oh Annie.

"Boom" remains my favorite, on record and in crowd, an electrifying chromatic rebirth, and I swear I heard Janet add some "ooh" on the chorus (couldn't glimpse her sufficiently, sadly.)

"Something Came Over Me" is a grower. Mary's verses are pre-sunset but the chorus is new sunrise...huzzah? Dusk or dawn, damnit pick one! You picked both! And we love you for it.

"We're gonna let the good times/Let the good times toll." And wow are they.

Two new songs in the set: Mary's "Nothing," a constant jog of a song and Carrie's "Winter Pair," a staccato burst that sounded like nothing else they've put to record thus far (there was something very Devolved about the workmanlike structure and even tone of the guitars). Nothing rocked like "Racehorse," though, which treated doors jammed shut like they should be treated. Dollars, pounds, Euros, lira...Wild Flag are a solid bet regardless the currency exchanged. Serves much the same purpose "Let's Call It Love" did for last-tour S-K--an excuse to stretch out (sometimes, literally) and celebrate the moments.

Two covers finished the night, one of which I did not recognize (and later found out was "She," by the Misfits) and one of which damn near blew us away: Television's "See No Evil." (I distinctly remember the wide-eyed "Oh fuck are you kidding me?" look passing between Annie and myself as that classic li'l riff filled the air.) Mary on vox! She's my Richard Lloyd. Can you really fault Carrie for being up in her Kool-Aid half the show? Mary B. Timony, and the B doesn't stand for bacon but it should, 'cause she sizzles.

Sweaty and sated, we stood back and let the crowd disperse. Trick noticed Lee hanging out in the space near the steps leading up to the right side of the stage, just in front of the doors permitting backstage entrance, chatting it up with some folk he knew. Figuring that I fall into that category, I let Patrick talk me into sauntering over and waiting my turn to hold court with dude. I knew somewhere deep down Patrick wanted badly to atone for his first and only time speaking with Lee, Cincinnati 2003, where dude was so shaky-legs he accidentally called Jim "Lee." To Lee's face. (Man, if you don't have No Setlist by now...there's only three copies left. Just sayin'.)

With Annie and George hanging back, we waited, J & P Show in the wings.

Man, I hope he remembers me to see me. I know he remembers my name, I got one of those names you remember, last name anyway, but he might not know me to look at me. I have lost some weight. My hair's a little longer. Oh man, I don't wanna pull a Patrick....

In an absolutely unnecessary face-saving move, I meekly asked Lee if he recognized me. I don't know why I'm so ruthlessly self-deprecating, y'all, just am. And sure as sugar boots, he did. He momentarily threw Trick off asking him if he had a handle on the board (we both initially misunderstood it to mean if he had some hand in site maintenance) until Patrick recovered in time to introduce himself as AKA "Pantophobia."

The three of us had a nice talk. Really couldn't praise the new stuff enough...found out the record will be out Feb./March next year, he will be touring, and his band will hopefully feature an organist, as John Medeski's key work features on the album throughout. So there's a whole other element to look forward to! Talked about that news, talked about WF. Didn't get to touch on if O'Rourke is on the album anywhere, or the Brooklyn show in August, or his personal recommendation for where to get pizza in the city, but fuggit. Next time?

Book Report (For Once, Not Mine)

2011-10-14T11:56:00.000-07:00

Things that I learned reading Girls Like Us:

1. Everybody pretty much slept with everybody, from like 1964 up till 1978.

2. While Joni Mitchell and Carly Simon both gave up the gushy to the inexplicably (despite what the dogged anecdotes try to tell me) magnetic James Taylor, Carole King did not. I had long believed she was one of his conquests, but this pleasant clearing-up of misinformation means that Carole King--when one takes into account her work with Gerry Goffin, her early solo work, the fact that she, oh yeah, was a massive influence on the Lennon-McCartney songwriting team, and her refusal to spread 'em for the aforementioned sad-eyed, horse-riding troubador whose most tolerable song he stole from her anyway--is the greatest of all these women.

3. Yes, Joni has the greatest single album of all 'em (Ladies of the Canyon; I put Blue right behind it) but external factors must always be, uh, factored in. Not only did she shtup Sweet Baby, she also for a time dated Jackson Browne. My God. Consider Roberta Anderson knocked down a notch to number four on my list of Jenn's Top 5 Canadians Ever. I don't care if she diddled with Leonard Cohen. It was only for two weeks, that hardly erases the horrible sin of letting Jackson Browne even get past second base.

4. Women, and our unique triumphs and struggles, will never actually be taken seriously.

Girl Where You At

2011-10-12T18:17:00.000-07:00

Caught in a fictional world of my own creation...I have not abandoned this blog or promised projects...but my mind pulls me a myriad of ways.

In the meantime, the top 5 Beatles bass lines:

1. "Rain"

2. "Taxman"

3. "I Want You (So Heavy)"

4. "Hey Bulldog"

5. "Something"

The Crazy World of Sally Brown

2011-08-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

Click the pic to fully enjoy the absurd delight.

Summer Spell--Sonic Youth Live 8/12/11

2011-08-18T11:42:00.000-07:00

8/12/11

Williamsburg Waterfront New York, NY
Note: this is the truncated version. The full review of our weekend will appear in the No Setlist sequel, Spirit Desire. The pre-show writings have been edited for this blog, and everything I wrote about post-show has been omitted as well as Kurt Vile and Wild Flag's opening sets. Again, all of that material will make the book. The review of Sonic Youth's show is exactly as it will appear in the book.

Arriving in Brooklyn a bit after noon, we emerge from the underground onto Bedford Avenue. As I text Robin, Dave calls. Another mass meet-up is materializing nicely.

Lunch at Sea Thai after an appetite-increasing walk around the general crammed area. It has a positive rep, and is certainly the most aesthetically pleasing Thai restaurant I've frequented, very modern decor and a Buddha-blessed pool in the middle of the dining area. The tofu Pad Thai was quite good, but the shining star of the meal was the iced coffee.

Upon figuring out we could just walk into East River Park, our day took a turn for the awesome. The stage was off to the left as we entered, traversing over gravel and dirt, marveling in the skyline view across the water. The MetLife building is cool as always, but lacks Snoopy. Why they don't have a Snoopy on top of the tower, or a smiling Snoopy face on one side, or even Snoopy climbing the building ala King Kong, I could not tell you.

The seaplanes were in effect. Imagine, a seaplane flying by King Kong Snoopy on the side of the MetLife building! Brilliance.

Not long after our entrance into the park, Sonic Youth began soundchecking. Getting to witness soundcheck is a rare, beautiful thing, like a mini-golf course with no kids around. As it turned out, this particular soundcheck was like a mini-golf course where kids are explicitly banned.

To our shared astonishment, we were able to walk up a small hill and stand by a waist-high barricade and enjoy the views. (Well, for awhile, anyway.)

Preamble is useless, and believe me I tried. I love words and the smiths who love them, but sweet crabcrackin' Christo Beans, they played: BRAVE MEN RUN, COTTON CROWN, WHAT WE KNOW, GHOST BITCH, INHUMAN, there, the caps lock was on and broken in our shared sonic soul. We were banished to the bottom of the hill for the last three songs, but oh well what's that mean, the band doesn't have to be distracted by scraggly outta-towners?

Our buddy Aaron stopped by, full beard in effect. He got to hear "Ghost Bitch" and "Inhuman" with us. All in agreement, they've been rehearsing the former song for awhile, despite its 25-year absence from setlists. Way tight, even when Lee Ranaldo nearly bonked himself whilst playing the cymbals. I won't lie, when we saw dude bust the acoustic out, then conjure up the unholy scree and...and..."Slowly pour/The liquid down" I got chills and clutched Trick's left shoulder like a string of pearls. I knew I brought my Bad Moon Rising tote for a reason.

Thurston sang "Inhuman" real delicate-like, which only makes sense; the reason that song is so sparsely played by SY is that it destroys T's throat, namely when he screams the title for minutes on end like he's being tortured.

I made Facebook updates intended to enlighten, not enrage or enervate. I knew even as I tapped the screen on my iPhone fervently, though, that I may end up doing all three.

Robin and his girl found us thanks to my Snoopy tee. Not the first time I've been pinpointed in such a way, and I hope it's not the last.

We depart for the line outside and Dave finds me. His purchase of No Setlist is captured on camera. Robin and Aaron express interest, and I'm that much closer to selling out my second pressing. (Final pressing also, I'm thinking.)

Dave and I hit it off quick and fierce, talking about the words of music and the music of words. Everyone in our makeshift crew got along, and why wouldn't we? We're here to enjoy Sonic Youth. I like turkey, you think it tastes dry and flavorless, your favorite album isn't my favorite album, boo hoo. DID I TELL YOU THEY SOUNDCHECKED "BRAVE MEN RUN"?

I didn't want to put that info out there pre-gig, but as it turned out, Robin's girl was talking to a group of young fans and one of their number--a fresh-faced dude with brown hair cut close to his skull, and face contorted in permanent half-smile--told her he wanted to hear "Brave Men Run."

"Jenn, Jenn! Come here, tell him what you heard at soundcheck."

"Uh, 'Cotton Crown,' 'Brave Men Run,'"--

"What?! What?! That's my favorite song!" He proffered a hand and of course I accepted.

They let us in and amazingly we got near the front, side Lee. George found us, sandwich in hand! Cool dude, always. Derek located us as well. Unfortunately our girl Annie wouldn't be getting off work till 6:30, but she'd find us. She always does.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The time creeps closer.

"Tonight! Is the night!"

Yeah, Robin! I join in.

"That the skies will open! And spray forth the divine hand with poison finger!"

I had no way of knowing, even with soundcheck, how permanent an effect this show would have on me and Patrick. I will tell you this, though; as soon as we saw Kim Gordon come out in a tight orange dress just polite enough to be served, we knew it was on.

"Brave Men Run"--Reactions immediate and delayed ricocheted 'round, but all I could think was They're doing it, it's happening, oh my shit hell, seven days seven nights and twenty-five years! Twenty-five years since they've done this one live, that's longer than some of the people here have been maintaining heartbeats!

The intro plucks on the recorded version are focused crystalline blue; live, those same notes felt like a bristly soul-kiss.

I couldn't help but glance over at the dude from the line, my brother in hands. To have your favorite song kick off a concert, and it's one they haven't dusted off in a quarter-century (hello, 2011!)--wowo. Meanwhile, I get my favorite SY song revisted acoustically on a crappy TV show.

"Death Valley '69"--I turned slightly towards Trick. "Bad Moon medley," I remarked approvingly. Lust-crazed rams doing ritual battle have not thing one on Sonic Youth and their raging peace.

"Cotton Crown"--Welcome back! If you don't like those C's, feel free to borrow some K's.

New York fans are forever going to deny SY the unconditional love they deserve. They're so cool, I mean shit, do you not listen to lyrics, the city from which they hail is "forever kitty." I dunno what that means, but it probably means something. Maybe New York City is pussy in that good wet way, pussy in that bad cowering way, or pussy in that it slinks meows and coughs up hairballs and makes me sneeze uncontrollably.

Angel reveries sound eerily similar to cascading white waterfalls underneath a sky black and thick as pitch. So I don't care about the cool kids and their self-central snark.

"Kill Yr Idols"--I mean they're just taking this song to heart, right? Riiiight. Shocker in Kittytown y'all, hide the rice. Not played since 2003 (and sparingly at that), "Kill Yr Idols" has been a mainstay on the J and P Wishlist. From the very first seconds (a possessed music box that requires constant winding up) I was gobsmacked. That feeling would hang around.

Jesus but I musta been a sight. There's been mad hubbub this week about the Kanye West/Jay-Z collabo album, and I don't know if anyone else has ever seen Jay-Z's Fade To Black documentary, but amid all the self-aggrandizing and Fugazi-sampling is a delightful session with feted producer Timbaland. Timbo, who looks like he's hiding sides of beef underneath his tee shirt, is knocking back some mystery liquid from a gallon jug and playing Jay some of his most recent, as-yet unclaimed beats. Several come and go, and then the instrumental that would be turned into "Dirt Off Your Shoulders" blasts over the speakers. Always sounded like the music Rosie would play as she cleaned up after the Jetsons to me, but Jay was immediately taken. As he listens, his head nods and his face contorts as if he's so impressed by the music that he's just disgusted.

That was me all night, pretty much. "I haven't heard that live until tonight," I told Robin after the final evisceration of Baal. Oh, I had no idea.

"Eric's Trip"--After not hearing Lee's signature tune from SY's signature LP for a li'l while, it was cool as a walrus in a bowler hat to flip once again with the boy Eric.

Lee is the coolest poet. His eyes seemed to be transfixed on what I can only imagine was a gorgeous East River behind us. Who knows the sparks that set off in his mind, coupled with the words that escaped his mouth.

Craning my neck to peep Lee also brought into sharp (I'm gonna need) relief how high up the stage was.

"Sacred Trickster"--I thought this set would have like four or five Eternal tracks, so the placement of "Sacred Trickster" this deep in the setlist was a bit of a surprise. Guess what else was a surprise? Everything.

Lee still has the "Theresa's Sound World" sign taped to his amp, bust it out. My body is ready.

Setlists for non-album-tour gigs are always good value. The choicest cuts of the previous wreck-hard are chosen so's to keep SY from playing a "greatest hits" set (well, except for Prospect Park last year) and "Sacred Trickster" is an terse, tense excuse for Kim G. to chuck the guit, to jump, kick and pump, free to be, to poise upon the precipice of the stage and Hey the rope's gone. I'm just now noticing that?

Watching Sonic Youth in LA, 2002, I heard a guy from the crowd proclaim his desire to bear Kim Gordon's child. I've never thought that was weird.

"Calming the Snake"--Hey, no new crap! Play "Kill Yr Idols"! Oh wait, you did. Proceed!

Reason 312 to stand on Lee's side: you get to not only see but hear his pre-verse riff of impending unpleasantness. Reason 124 Kim is the Goddess of Music: Just when I thought her prolonged shrieking on "DV 69" couldn't be topped, she unleashes a monster wail here.

I was nice and lubricated by this point, no alterants (other than the one I paid forty bucks for) to credit or blame. Thurston was too, it seemed, but I'll wager no amount on his sobriety.

"I have to ask Lee a chord question."

"I'm asking Mark the same question!"

I turned around and said to Dave, "Yeah, 'cause he's been playing those old songs so long now."

Thurston explained that the band were delving "super deep" for this show--'course, if you were hip to the Twitter tease, you knew that. You just didn't know how far into the water they were willing to dive in order to find treasure.

"Starfield Road"--Of course, they coulda been like, "Leave the treasure to Link, we got riptides to create. Strongest at the surface, y'know."

Caught in a rip current, the body's natural response is to swim against it, towards the safety of the shore. That didn't apply tonight. 'Cause Sonic Youth busting out "Starfield Road" for the first time since the infamous gear theft of '99 is not a natural occurrence. It's not a natural song. You know the scene it makes? Not a fucking nature one, that's for certain.*

When Sgt. Steven Shelley brought the beat in for questioning--boom boom tish-tish boom boom tish-tish--the other prisoners went bafunkers and applied sleeper holds on each other in their shared ecstasy. And for "other prisoners" you should of course read, "me and Patrick." Our simultaneous capture of the Sacred Specter was blessedly immortalized via Dave's camera.

"Yeeeah!"

"Noooo! Shiiiiiit!"

Yeah. No shit.

That's what happens when you leave your spaceship unattended, ostensibly peaceable Martian visitors!

*Someone in the audience did yell out for "Making the Nature Scene," prompting a smile and mouthed "No" from Lee. I've seen him react that way to a shouted song request once before, 2002 in Baltimore, when our friend-we-hadn't-met-yet Tony made his standard plea for "Genetic." You know what that means, then...RIP "Nature Scene."

"I Love Her All the Time"--Under the influence of a haze so profoundly relaxing as to be damn-near post-coital, I was still able to survey a scene almost too scandalous to stand: Lee, screwdriver jammed between fretboard and strings (now that's some high action, badumpish hi-o) and Thurston, drumstick placed similarly on his instrument, and another drumstick clutched firmly in his right paw.

I was still capable of being in disbelief, even after "Starfield Road." I whipped around to Trick. "Nice intro," he said. I was jarred a bit, but when I paid attention, I could hear the cow calls of "Marilyn Moore" over the speakers as the band prepared to unearth another gleaming gem. He did not, however, seem to register what was about to happen. The same guy who's seen The Year Punk Broke 1,991 times, who has probably gleaned more pure inspiration from SY's live footage on said doc than anyone else who's ever viewed it, he was not getting it. I dunno if he was still stunned, I mean likely he was. (His initials are PTS, after all.) But when I told him what this unsuspecting gaggle was about to get smashed with, he reached into my ever-prescient Bad Moon tote bag and provided yet another update for my Facebook page (I would have done this myself, but my hands were shaking and iPhones ain't cheap). "Starfield" auto-corrected to "Starbucks," and dude didn't even notice.

The air was turning purple, purple as that Vikings cap shoulda been, and I was sober as a chastened lover.

Innocent hands here, a frantic mouth there. Not real life, not fantasy, so...

"Ghost Bitch"--Lee brandishing the acoustic means a Dylan cover is afoot, or, "Ghost Bitch." The flaw-free soundcheck turn was replicated for a crowd that may or may not have realized the gravity of the situation (25 years since they last played it live!) Happy Jumpy Dude up front, are you even that old? Why do you love Bad Moon Rising so much that every note of every song that comprises its formidable, unbroken whole propels you upward, inspiring to hurl your ululations into the sweaty air? I wanna know your story, 'cause I'm pretty sure I'll hear a great chunk of my story in there too. Don't bother with your phone number, lets exchange epiphanies.

"Tom Violence"--How come every time T-bone dedicates a song to someone that isn't his daughter, it's always "Tom Violence"? Do these lucky folks actually request the most frequently-played song in SY live history or is it the fail-safe go-to if someone is indecisive or carefree about what song the band plays after shouting 'em out? My friend Chris got "PCH" by request in Portland a couple years ago (and oh my God, if SY did this setlist in Portland, forget it, the Roseland would be roofless at this point in the show) and my buddy Mike straight-up approached Thurston outside the Metro in Chicago pre-show some nine years ago, gave him a whistle and said, "Play this during 'Silver Rocket,'" and that is precisely how shit went down that night.

"Later on a large rattlesnake head's gonna come over the river and introduce us to 2012. It's gonna spray LSD with angel dust. And we will all become women."

Which is all mighty fine and jim dandy to the emotional rescue, but what about those of us who already are women? Do we get, like, two more tits and an extra vag? Did the drug-spewing Sistrurus even consider that his actions would have consequences?

"What We Know"--Dude, I know nothing right about now. What are y'all doin'? What is life without your love? How do I live? Which way is up up up and away in my beautiful my beautiful seaplane? Do you know where you're going to? Did you remember to make a copy of the cake recipe? Don't you know that loving you is easy 'cause yer beautiful?

"Drunken Butterfly"--"This is our last song."

"The fuck it is!"

Wow, I can hear my thoughts now!

I suspected the return of this 'un. It's fun, it's simple, it's Kim as a hypnotic orange whirl. (Ever been a pervert with some sherbert?) Whoever I have to kill to get legs like hers, they died for a worthwhile cause.

Ah, encores! A time for the band members to refresh and rehydrate. A time for crowds to show if they really love the band or are just in it to come-n-go. A multi-tiered necessary evil, is the encore.

Dave noticed a pair of women--twins?--in matching flamenco dresses, holding ukeleles skyward. People like that could only be up near the front. Billyburgers to the back, texting about how the show sucks because they haven't played "Schizophrenia" and do I need to pick up any PBR or are we good?

No, you most assuredly are not good. You are drinking PBR. Stop that.

Kim shouting out Wild Flag and adding "Woooo!" was like whoa. As soon as she dedicated the next song to them, Patrick knew what it was.

"Flower"--I knew right then I was not in any way exaggerating how incredible this concert was on some "me I'm super fangirl, super duper fangirl" pitter patter. Confirmation received: 8/12/11 was a show for the ages, from the ageless, for all ages, under a sage spirits aegis. Blessed be those.

"Flower" isn't precisely a wordy song--but I yelled all those words at the tip-top of my weak lungs anyway. Probably looked goofier than I sounded, but I'm through being cool. Sweaty, loud, aching from the non-stop crank 'n raunch, that compulsion to move when you hear music that has direction.

"Support the power of women

Use the power of man

Support the flower of women

Use the word

FUCK

The word is love"

Everyone should have their poetry read aloud by Kim Gordon. Unwavering, hearty, a woman of the world.

I'm very curious as to whether or not Thurston realized the bottle had water in it when he decided it would make a nice substitute for a plectrum. It was a simultaneously hilarious/unsettling/liberating sight, the world's oldest teenager making wet plastic love to his guitar.

"He could've been electrocuted," Patrick said at the song's conclusion, almost as an afterthought.

"Yeah, I don't think he cared."

"Sugar Kane"--Biggest pop of the night? Prob'ly. I envied the band their watery view especially here. "SK" has always put me in mind of a beach dreamsicle scene, waves of an indeterminate blue shade pounding against millstone-hued sand, underneath a sky gone white and orange, whilst the goers below lay out on Chudley Cannons towels and sip Sunkist Icees. No matter the number of times I've heard this one, and no matter how many sighs I exhale at the concession to the casual fan (and believe me, the reality that Sonic Youth can and do have such a thing turns my noodle map all soggy), the pole shift always uncoils my guts. Top dropped, pedal pressed, sensation as the only moral rule. Just another portal to pass through.

I love being at or near the front. That's where the excited people are. The ones who shimmy-shout. The unabashed fans, the proud lovers. My people. Hold on.

Bam, second encore!

"Psychic Hearts"--I distinctly remember thinking, "I am nonplussed as shit right now." I wish I had said that to Patrick, but all I could do was look over like, dude. He just let loose with a soulfelt "wooooow" and rummaged in my bag.

"What the hell, summers spell."

You said it, big fella.

17 going on 18 I was when I picked up Thurston's new solo album, and the title track left pockmarks chest-wide. Inarguably some of the man's most magnificent lyrics, stark imagery and lush empathy for the devils inside all the angels. In that crowd, at that moment, in consideration of all that had come before, I felt sincerely that that song was for us. Sonic Youth do not play songs from other members solo records. Ever. Not the whole goddamn band, as part and parcel of a predetermined setlist. They were having a blast first to last, playing with the possibilities, weighing the probabilities on a futzy scale, and we got to experience the glorious outcome. Got no time for sad songs, baby.

At Patrick's behest, I tore myself away from Thurston's stoic form and paid greater attention to Lee. The band had been doing a straightforward rendition for most of the songs duration, but as the tune wound down, Lee was letting off some unobtrusive lickage that nevertheless stood bravely alongside Thurston's counsel in the ameliorative effort. Now that I think on it, it woulda been too fuckin' cool if Lee had put in some backing vox for those couple lines where T double-tracked himself on the recorded version. His tender tenor would sound superb on a line like "Love 'em all and say it loud."

And then they were gone. Again. Lee picked up a paper airplane that had made its way to the stage earlier (one of several, in fact) and launched it up towards the lights. Too much height, as it turned out.

"Dude, did we just hear Sonic Youth play 'Psychic Hearts'?"

"Wow."

"This...this isn't happening."

"Yes it is. It really really is."

"Well they can't just end it like that."

"Inhuman"--They can end it like that, though.

Third encore? Sure. I've forgotten what planet this is happening on, I mean maybe my spirit has passed into the dimension where Sonic Youth concerts are always like this. Cool. So what's next, a track off Lee's imminent solo record? How 'bout "Sunday" with Mary Timony on third guitar? How 'bout a goddamn interpolation of "Song For a Future Generation" by the B-52s with Rebecca Cole on synth? Hi my name is Jenn and I'm a Libra and the only way this show could get any better is if I'd worn my Snoopy backpack like I'd originally planned and if they played "Starpower" with Kim on vocals and yeah yeah, I know it never happened that way, Thurston always sang it live, and they haven't played that song live in 25 years, but as of this concert right here right now, throw everything you expect from SY live out the fuckin' window. It hit someone in the head? Are they still conscious? No? Job well done, then.

I looked over at Robin's girl and...this is her first Sonic Youth show.

Sky is the limit and my flame is no longer extinguishable by likelihood and probability. 58 shows and SY just shocked me. The gall, the audacity, the nerve of you, Sonic Youth.

When Thurston strapped that bass on, it was the beginning of ten minutes of funk. Not like James Jamerson funk. I mean funk like stairwell piss. Funk like the assuredly hairy backs of CT's own Charter Oak Motorcycle Club, who Thurston felt compelled to tell us about, in his mildly Hedbergian manner. Funk like the ukeleles the flamenco twins tossed to Lee (although only one made it to the stage) and funk like he played that motherfucker too (despite bemoaning its lack of a jack). Funk like bodies in the pit that inevitably broke out.

"My body is a pastime, my mind is a simple joy."

It wasn't dancing, it was like shaking yourself dry after being sprayed clean with a riot-ready hose. It was jarring a loose cog back into its proper place through decidedly improper technique.

The drop out after verse one was almost stunning. A plummet exposing the nagual, but the window of opportunity was limited before they and we returned to the bass line of the blue screen of death.

"Inhuman" was created to be destroyed. Sonic Youth accomplish this in a myriad of fun ways. Lee hit a cymbal-like instrument that I could not identify, shit-eatin' grin on his face the whole time. Later he would take drumsticks and de-string two of his guitars the old-fashioned way, twirling twirling twirling towards freedom. Kim hits the deck and conjures up some scree. Thurston loses the stringed accoutrements, grasps the mic, and proceeds to

"IINNNNNNNNNNNNHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNN."

A relentless cry of identity, slathered in equal parts greed, guilt, pleasure and pain.

"IIIIIINNNNNNNNHUUUUUUUUMAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNN."

Thurston maniacally ripped the cords free from the tape that kept them immobile on the stage. All the while I'm thinking what I did to deserve seeing "Inhuman" twice in concert in my life and also, his exhortations sound a bit similar to those of Captain Caveman.

It could not have happened. It did. It was the kind of show I wish all my Sonic Lifers could've attended, all clustered together, feeding off the novelty and energy, reveling in the reveille.

"Anything is possible through the power of love."

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 7--Stop When I Tell You

2011-07-04T18:21:00.001-07:00

5/24/2005

Those who wondered how Sleater-Kinney would handle the transition from Kill Rock Stars to Sub Pop Records had to feel like they wasted their time. A month or so after the release of their seventh record, S-K announced they would be going on "indefinite hiatus." The curtains on the cover was one early hint; the fact that this album almost didn't get made due to increasingly fractious band relations was another.

The news devastated the band's devoted fanbase; this acolyte in particular was fond of saying, for months afterward, "Music just got 63% more suck." An annoying off-shoot of this grieving, however, was the alleged dearth of worthy female bands once Portland's pride shuffled off to side projects. Like Erase Errata, Electralane, and Mika Miko didn't exist!

So far as parting shots go, The Woods is a quality one, but I'd be a flat-out fibber to say they couldn't have departed on an even higher note. There are only ten songs, and a couple of them get lost in a locked room. The decision to jack up the levels and blow out the jellies (hi, Flaming Lips producer David Fridmann!) means every song is coated thick as the sand that is quick with distortion. Madlib said "You must be out ya head if your system ain't up to the red," but for many listeners the chronic static drove them batty by "ruining" fundamentally good songs.

"The Fox"--A Timonian tale of duck/fox seduction that draws vexed circles around the mismatched combatants. A Burtonian headbanger. A Zeppelin-esque moon shot. A Robitussin-abetted night swim.

You know that delicate guitar interplay you love about Sleater-Kinney? Yeah. You shouldn't grow so attached to things. 'Cause it's gone.

"Wilderness"--Carrie and Corin trade off in this fair-minded ode to the formers parents and their doomed union. Like "Light Rail Coyote," the music shimmers sparsely with the skies and streets of the PNW, but the words tell a much more solemn story. Carrie bravely tells the tale from dual POVs, and wisely avoids the pitfalls of ornate sentimentality no matter the person. Nothing is too sweet, nor is it too bitter.

"What's Mine is Yours"--It's like "You Make My Dreams Come True" for people who appreciate how good that song is in the first place.

This one's for the freaks, who pronounce the "b" in "subtle" just 'cause they know that's not how you say it, but they hate that word anyway. "You can bleed, as long as they don't see it." Sleater-Kinney, from start to finish, never hesitated to give voice to those society shunned.

The guitars detect ghost whistles...the vocals grasp, gasp and scorch...the drums make paste of bones strong and brittle. Carrie's minute-long goddess move may have put some fans off momentarily, but as a fan of Sonic Youth, it warmed the cookies of my heart.

"Jumpers"--On the short list of "most-beloved" songs in their history. Inspired by a New Yorker article detailing the unfortunate status of San Francisco's storied Golden Gate Bridge as a Mecca for the suicide-minded, Sleater-Kinney wrote a song that is, naturally, riveting. Carrie and Corin's verse-work is somber and even soothing if you're not paying too close attention. The jam-punting that follows gives just a few seconds prep-time before Corin lets the desperation fly.

Every line is memorable, but I've always been fond of "The Golden spine of engineering/Whose back is heavy with my weight." A depression so deep, a misery so massive, an emptiness that can inexplicably be measured. Two sublime achievements of mankind (that would never know to identify themselves as such) come together for the purpose of creating a ridiculous arc in the sky plan. The best of us, the worst of us.

"Modern Girl"--A lachrymose Carrie number that waits way too long to unlock Janet from the bathroom, "Modern Girl" is like a soggy corn-chip that challenges one's ability to sing along whilst maintaining a smirk fit to fell bearded Billyburg boys right where they slouch.

It features harmonica. Yes. We get it, Carrie. Sarcasm. Your whole life is not a picture of a sunny day. No one loves you, thus you ain't really so happy. And this super-donut of which you speak defies even the greatest fantasies of Homer J. Simpson.

"Entertain"--Ah, here we go. Blunt Carrie. Brazen Carrie. Back in 2005 there was this slew of Gang of Four knock-offs that people with no sense of history enjoyed listening to. Jet, Franz Ferdinand, and where are they now? Hey, it was a righteous fight at the time. If patently unfair. As it is, "Entertain" goes a minute too long--stop it, stop it, they're already dead!--and they don't exude the sneering joy that I prefer to see in fraud-exposers.

"Rollercoaster"--The riffage is fittingly looping. What's weird is the metaphor mixture: love as rollercoaster ride with trembling start, euphoric ride, jarring stop (and gotta love how the song itself "returns" for another ride, so to speak); love as food ("We had a good time at the beginning/It tasted just like all the things I was missing"). Now, the only common ground with rollercoasters and food is they can both make you puke. And, you can find plenty of each at Dorney Park. But, Dorney Park has Snoopy. Snoopy, he would tell Corin to just hush up and enjoy the pizza 'cause there's more comin', I mean it is Pizza Saturday after all.

The food metaphor is evoked much more often, as well. Might have behooved 'em to name the song something like "Bouillabaisse Babies."

"Steep Air"--A very uncharacteristic, plundering air keeps this song from distinguishing itself.

"Let's Call It Love"--YEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS. This is more like it, so can we have more like it? Eleven minutes long, this one. Eleven sultry, sweaty, sexy, muggy, torrid, are you ready yes I'm ready, to falllllllllll in love, is that what this is, yeah let's call it that minutes. Metaphor this. Sex music for ant people, ant music for sex people. Don't imagine mountains where none exist. Multiple orgasms will sharpen the vision. Y'all know "The Rule of One," right? Which is? It ain't enough.

Creamy raunch and buttery roll. Don't get precious about that which we would not be without.

"Hit the floor, honey/Let's battle it out." Corin supplants Robert with every shamelessly lascivious line.

"Show me your darkest side." Upon first listen, Patrick and I really wanted to believe this line was "Snoopy/The dog is sick." When I saw them do this song live, I looked over at Corin from my cozy spot in front of Carrie's mic and could easily imagine she was actually saying "Snoopy/The dog is sick." And it cheered me.

Letting the music breathe as they do here was an unusual move, like giddy parents introducing a new sibling. Listeners accustomed to fighting for air along with the songs either cooed over the clean pink slate, or ground their teeth to the colicky red cries. Again, as a Sonic Youth fan, I was tickled to hear Sleater-Kinney stretch out. (SY weren't too displeased, either; I spoke with someone who stood next to Lee Ranaldo at SK's show at the Roseland Ballroom in New York and during "Let's Call It Love," Ranaldo could be seen shaking his head in amazement.)

"Night Light"--The sentinence of said light can be heard here in Carrie Brownstein's string witchery. Sturdy, smart, and not enough. Never enough. Shit.

A night light is there for peace of mind. But bulbs burn out, and require a replacement. A night light is generally outgrown by the one who came to rely on it. Come on, sleep in the dark. Lights out. Night.

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 6--Protest and Survive

2011-07-03T06:36:00.001-07:00

8/20/02

The American government's message to its people after the attacks of September 11, 2001 was to show the world that no tragedy could send us from knees to belly. How best to accomplish this show of strength? Buy stuff. Engage each other in meaningful dialogue about the government's repulsive foreign policies? No, go to Disneyland. Or World. Or both, 'cause more bucks is more freedom is victory is safety is family is America.

The 80s underground music scene flourished under the conservative reign of Reagan, suffered accordingly for both of Clinton's terms, so cool hunters could realistically expect a rebirth of passionate protest from the sidestream's finest.

But wow...nothing happened.

With the Patriot Act making it easier for citizens rights to be diminished for The Greater Good, artists suddenly scurried into their dark holes, frightened to raise questions and rattle cages. Sleater-Kinney were among the few brave souls, and they weren't content to offer just a protest song; One Beat is a whole damn album dedicated to the fight against fear and its many children--complacency, ignorance, hatred, and propaganda.

"One Beat"--Shakin' out the fossilized thought from second one, Corin asks "Is real change an illusion?" and the answer is...In these days and times, most likely. Real change is necessary for any body to stave off atrophy, to develop strength and wisdom, to reach ever closer to its fullest potential. If the denizens of this here globe had never at any point provoked genuine revolution, those of us alive right now wouldn't find ourselves in the world as we know it. A world where we have more information at our disposal than ever before, but too much disposal information. Hence, the unlikelihood of real change for the better.

"One Beat" sets the sonic tone with jagged, defiant guitar work, voices confident enough to slip on passion, and the march-precise drumming.

"Far Away"--With just a second to steel ourselves, we the listeners are thrown into Corin Tucker's raw remembrance of September 11th, when what should have been just another fabulous morning with her new baby boy went to hell already on fire. This recollection of watching the horror unfold on television, in a home thousands of miles away from the disaster sites, proves that tragedy is not provincial. (So much galled me about that terrible time. Nothing more so than the loss of thousands of lives. But my God, when otherwise well-intentioned people started that whole "Today We Are All New Yorkers" crap. I got no time for it. When an event of that magnitude occurs, it throws into sharp relief the silliness of boundaries, labels, barriers and dividing lines. We are citizens of the world.)

Corin gives her words the room they need to reverberate. Which they do with a power unmatched by any other song in their history.

"Far Away" is a shield against a collapsing sky. Dented, but not destroyed.

"Oh!"--Come along and ride on an onanistic voyage! After a pair of political powder-kegs, it's time for Carrie Brownstein (armed and legged with a new, sassier delivery) to bring that heart beat, oh it's a love beat. "Crazy to sane," "black to blue," it's all star power star power star power over y'all.

"The Remainder"--An abrasive rebuff of a traitorous relation. Yessir. I do not know who or what put the idea in my head that the subject of this song was Sara Dougher, Portland musician/writer/teacher and SK collaborator. The watery effect on Carrie's background vox is unnecessary, but harmless.

"Light Rail Coyote"--A tribute to Portland told with a short story writer's descriptive eye, "Light Rail Coyote" is all brown and green. This music is the new classic rock ("dirty river" is so CCR). Warm, familiar, to be blared. And based on a true story.

"Step Aside"--Canopies torn away, solar-powered sockets spark the dirt dance floor, pardon me is that a horn section? Yeah, but the breakdown is the hottest rock, so step to a side but don't stay there.

A lyrical misstep, however: "When I feel worn out/When I feel beaten/Like a worn-out shoe/Or a cake half eaten." Well shit, at least it didn't get waterlogged, so you can make it again! (Bringing up cake in songs is almost always not a good look.) Alternate lyric: "When I feel beaten/When I feel worn out/Like a used-up fuel/Or a page torn out."

"Combat Rock"--A fitting song title for the racket-gang that realistically could be called, from 1997 on, The Only Band That Matters. Carrie's terse Morse Code of Moral Cohesion is blunt and insolent and refreshing. Simply put, all the boys in all the bands weren't writing songs of this fiber. They fucking still aren't, actually.

Love is never having to bite your tongue. America the Beautiful, America the Brutal. We need to get off our knees and sing these songs at the top of our lungs.

"O2"--It's vital to stay strong. It's helpful to thrill to the wide open spaces. Elixir is hoax-milk; music is the juice of life. "O2" is always paired with "Light Rail Coyote" in my mind as sweet evocations of Portland life, foliage updates and all. Don't you just love those songs that are one continuous climax? Don't they roil all the good honest emotions up in your chest until you just laugh 'cause it sounds better than a shout or scream?

"Funeral Song"--Carrie returns to her usual semi-croon here, 'cause ain't nothin' sassy 'bout dyin'. Dead's just dead. "Nothing says 'forever' like my very own grave."

Janet is as relentless as an assassin. Here, there, everywhere. She's got more than one beat, even though one really is all you need. Beat back the hounds; don't fear the reaper, set that fucker on fire. Fill the void with rocks and sounds. Great pyro-imagery here, and if the last thing I hear before my fire is snuffed out by the coldest hand is the buzz and whine of a theremin, I can (cease to) live with that.

"Prisstina"--A tale about a bookworm gone club-bunny that sounds more than anything like a New Wave experiment. I'm not sure why this made it, but "Lions and Tigers" didn't. (I'm sure Patrick will jump in to explain the importance of mood in sequencing. Then he can jump right back out and get me a sammich.)

Holy shit, are those male backing vocals? Yes but unfortunately it's not Fred Schneider, it's Stephen Trask. Who is a top-notch individual I've no doubt. Certain crevices of the Interweb were explored and found to contain fans who were nonplussed (definition the first) over Trask's contributions. Something about the exclusively female realm being breached.

(Neat bit of trivia that will never appear on Jeopardy! and made Slim Moon think about reaching for the Tums: on the vinyl and CD tracklistings, "Funeral Song" and "Prisstina" are transposed.)

"Hollywood Ending"--Hollywood, where real change is an illusion, along with every other goddamn thing else. Sun, smog, fame, love. Everyone is doing instead of being, slick as lotion on fake skin. "You stay on till you're good and raw."

"Sympathy"--Corin's is the strongest overall voice on One Beat, and the closing salvo is a spiritual stomper. "Far Away" gave us a peek at new mother Corin fearing for the world her child would inherit; "Sympathy" tells us that it almost never happened.

On the list of things that will, almost without fail, cause even the staunchest skeptic to reach out to a God somewhere, almost losing your newborn child has gotta be top 3. I still maintain that thinking you may be about to die is number one. We are selfish creatures, us humans. "We are equal in the face of what we are most afraid of, " sings Tucker. No one has ever been too great to die. But goddamnit, the terrified parent says, give my child the chance to be great first!

To hear the selflessness of "Sympathy" is to hear the quintessence of motherhood. Mama Bear will do anything for Baby Bear, including taking a steaming bowl of porridge (just) right to the face.

If the only thing between me and a black bear is my mom, I can tell you this. Maybe that black bear dies, maybe my mom dies, but you know who doesn't die in this scenario? That's what moms do. A mother's love for her child is the purest love there is. I won't say "purest love imaginable," because it can't be imagined. It must be felt, first-hand. Heart to heart, one beat at a time.

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 5--Burning Down the Clubhouse

2011-07-01T21:07:00.001-07:00

5/2/00

The final finger for the fist was the band's most accessible platter yet, crafty and clean, polished and powerful, smart and fun throughout. An additional treat is the increased presence of drummer Janet Weiss on backing harmony vocals.

This is my favorite SK album, which is not a popular opinion whatsoever. It's that record many fans say "It's better than almost any other bands best, but compared to the other Sleater-Kinney albums..." Yeah, yeah. It might not be a gate-crushing rocker like Dig Me Out, but it's more varied and controlled, and a 101 on how to challenge the parameters of patriarchal thought without coming across as sententious assholes.

The replay value of this album is off the charts. Let's go.

"The Ballad of a Ladyman"--The showtime sheet at a Japanese rock festival read: "Sleater Kinney 8:30 'Ladymen'." The showtime sheet at ATP 2002 in Los Angeles read: "Sleeter Kinney." Outdated ideas of masculinity and femininity and masculinity versus piss-poor spelling, clearly Sleater-Kinney know how to fight the real enemy.

"I gotta rock!" Compromise is fer babies.

One of the greatest lyrics in their catalog ("Boys who are fearful of getting an earful") and one of the finest breakdowns of music recorded in the 21st century. Not perfect--'cause perfection sucks and should never be yearned for--but superb.

"Get-High Cream" would stink worse than Hitler breath.

"Ironclad"--Being a resident of Western Maryland, I pop crazed mental chubbies for Civil War references. My favorite field trip was the Antietam Battlefield; I've devoured book after book dedicated to the fight between the Blue and the Grey; I live a mile from the National Museum of Civil War Medicine, which is not only an educational building but haunted as well. So when Carrie namedrops the Monitor and the Merrimack, yeeeeessssss. History! No surprise "Ironclad" was a staple on their setlist when they hit DC.

The jitter-jagger of Carrie's guit plays nice with Corin's corded muscle-work. Janet plays hide and seek lackadaisically, knowing that when she's found, the party is on. Right there in the middle of the museum.

You have many songs about hero worship, but not many about hero warships. In the frequently fractious relationship between the two C's, I wonder who was which ship?

"All Hands on the Bad One"--Sleater-Kinney, the hypocritical thinkers worst enemy. The first to on snark get set go all over the two-faced sycophants. You can get to heaven on the back of these harmonies. Everyone say hello to Sarah Dougher on organ; she'll pop up again. She'll also appear on the next album.

"Youth Decay"--Less sycophants, more psycho baby elephants.

The said issue of eating disorders doesn't deserve to be belittled by sour meanderings anyway. SK know the score: 1200 calories to 500. I'd love to gather up some bricks, concrete blocks, piss balloons and wet leaves and just blitzkrieg a McDonalds with this song blaring from the getaway car.

Is there some incest happening as well in this sordid domestic scenario? "Daddy says I got my Mama's mouth"? Eww.

"You're No Rock N Roll Fun"--Arguably the best SK song ever.

Two weeks after the release of All Hands, my favorite band of all time ever the one the only the Sonic Youth put out NYC Ghosts and Flowers, to my mind their weakest full-length release. Usually SY records take over my life, but this time I kept going back to SK. It's not inaccurate to say that for the remainder of 2000, the Pacific Northwest's finest had deposed the Beasts From the East as my number one racket-gang.

With songs like this, how could I resist? A smart-not-clever jibe at the self-important rock stars stinking up the post-gig scene, "You're No Rock N Roll Fun" does the Loco-motion all over those pretentious twats. Listen to this and learn how to get down.

"#1 Must Have"--At this point--the not-quite halfway mark--Sleater-Kinney have firmly established themselves as the most confident band on planet Earth. Nonbelievers invited to commence with the fucking of themselves in 3, 2....

Noted for Corin's direct identification of herself as a riot grrrl, "#1 Must Have" is a tic-tac-toe board X'ed and O'ed out with disgust and hope. At the band's final East Coast show in Washington, DC, Tucker dedicated this song to a young girl sitting onstage who had been brought to the show by her father. It's been five years since, and I hope that young lady will never fail to refer back to that moment for inspiration.

"The Professional"--A minute and a half is all it takes. Inerrant, erratic, radical. Carrie doesn't enunciate much here but who cares. Clarity is for the professionals. The "she" is the "them" there, see? Sleater-Kinney did nothing but piss off professionals their whole life long. The chorus mimics the feeling of being rewarded with a cheesecake.

"Was It a Lie?"--The agony of women as entertainment. This song was inspired by real-life, the pathetic story of a man who captured video of a young woman being struck by a train. The video became a sick hit, a source of comedy for too many.

Fittingly, "Was It a Lie?" is reminiscent of a deserted place: useless train tracks, sleepy hollow side roads, rednecks heads. Was it an evitable situation? Yeah. But whether or not this woman was fucked up, homeless, tired, lost, that makes her violent death funny? "A woman's life got cheaper that day." Everyone's life is becoming cheaper every day.

"Male Model"--The male ideal of musicianship gets a nice swift kick here. Corin is awesome, but Carrie is for the chidren. "Show me your riffs"? Holy shit that's fantastic. Fuck you, Woodstock '99. To this day. And the greatest mondegreen in the band's history can be found within these walls, as well.

"Don't get me wrong/I'm not opposed to something big." Clearly. This band once covered Boston live and took massive inspiration from the B-52's just as much as Gang of Four.

SHOW ME YOUR FUCKING RIFFS.

"Leave You Behind"--This coulda been a single, with a quirky video directed by some indie iconoclast, featuring the members in mini-skirts swaying offbeat in a hideously-decorated kitchen waiting for the pancakes to finish up. Lovely but lightweight.

"Milkshake N Honey"--Dedicated to the fans at SK's final show ever. This song breaks the swag-o-meter. Corin is dripping here, people. This is a gender-fuck par excellence. "I've always been a guy with a sweet tooth/And that girl was just like a king-sized candy bar." I'm guessing Patrick doesn't rate this song highly 'cause he's one o' them boys fearful of the earful. Too bad; this is a beautifully sleazy body-full.

"Pompeii"--The partially buried, now free to see the world. Nothing too deep here. Corin goes Grape Ape, so stick around for that.

"The Swimmer"--An engrossing routine that could have been titled "The Shimmer." Breast stroke all the way, then towel off, change and relax with a night-time kite-flight while Chopin streaks the sky from your stereo. A stunner.

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 4--Steal Away

2011-06-30T21:45:00.001-07:00

2/23/99

Musically, The Hot Rock represented a drop in room temperature. To the consternation of some, the album's pace was slower overall than that of Dig Me Out; Carrie's lead lines were more abstract than before, and nearly every track features structural shifts that abruptly halt the pogo wherever it's stuck. Fans who'd fastened onto the raucous sound of the prior album may have lamented the lack of rave and bubble, but only briefly, because Sleater-Kinney's zeal is uncompromising as ever.

"Start Together"--The reason SK connected with their fanbase in a way few bands of their era could match is pretty basic: the band understood how crucial feeling connected to something is. It's a need that crosses every imaginable barrier--race, gender, age, religion, nationality.

Corin is downright sweet-sounding here (think tone, not content) over Carrie's superbly woven web.

"Hot Rock"--I've never seen the 1972 movie of the same name, starring Robert Redford chief amongst others, and I likely never will, just 'cause heist capers don't intrigue me like that. Resolutely un-punk, but hypnotizing. At a couple minutes in, Carrie's lead coaxes Janet's rolls out of the oven. MMMMM.

Trying to follow the lyrics will leave your brain scrambled, blood thickened, eyes crossed and mouth slackened. Not unlike what happens when you eat at Carls Jr., but at least Sleater-Kinney don't overload you with empty calories.

"The End of You"--Corin took her inspiration from The Odyssey, using the marine navigation metaphor to stand in for the life of a rock band.

SK specialized in introductory riffs uniquely suited to send crowds into a froth, all high-pitched shrieks and arms shot skyward. "Bless me with Athena/There's no meaner, she's the best." The goddess of war, wisdom, strength, justice and the female arts? Uh, yeah. (I'm sure Corin's partial to the Olympian version of her birth.) A tribute to talent and guts in abundance.

"Burn, Don't Freeze"--Corin and Carrie demand the listener learn to multi-task over one of the most abstract guitar patterns to bless a Sleater-Kinney wreck-hard. Carrie's saying more stuff, and although it takes some time to discern, also the more interesting stuff. Listen to this muffucka in headphones and you will agree: salient points made all round.

"God Is a Number"-- The observation that numbers and equations are insidiously replacing letters and reason as the preferred mode of communication between bipeds is so obvious that even Christians agree. It's all John 2:11 that, and Corinthians 8:22, right?

This is not the song you play to get people into Sleater-Kinney. They will run screaming from the chorus, and leap right out the nearest rattling window.

"Banned From the End of the World"--Anyone who lived through the millennial hysteria of 1999 can attest to how annoying it all was. Y2K! Computers are going to kill us all, planes will plummet from the sky and anarchy will reign! Philip K. Dick, the rumors are true! Except none of that. I thought humanity couldn't get anymore ridiculous in my lifetime but well, 2012 is only a year away. "Party without fear," ah, tis only a sweet dream. One of the happiest guitar parts they ever conjured up, too.

"If you want it, I'll come right over." Oh you do that.

"Don't Talk Like"--Sad. As hell. Except with walls of blue flame, not orange or red. Corin sounds mournful as a widow, and Carrie's playing is infused with intensely focused invention to keep the tears from abandoning their ducts and leaving tell-tale trails.

One of their most overlooked songs, and maybe the best guitar tone on any of their tracks as well.

"Get Up"--Corin Tucker is Luna Lovegood directing a Wrackspurts porno flick. Should be incorrigible and twisted, but isn't, thanks to AD Janet Weiss as Hermione Granger's insistence on logic. When the title comes, it's exhilarating not because of some key change or speed bump, but because it feels like a natural conclusion.

"One Song For You"--I'd much rather hear Carrie get sexual than Corin, for a few reasons. Even when Ms. Tucker takes over the chorus, I'm still stuck on Carrie's subtle come-on. Another neglected gem from this album.

"The Size of Our Love"--Uncomfortable, but touching, from the opening line introducing us to the cancer-ridden lovers and taking us each agonizing step to the end of all ends.

"I'll die in this room/If you die in this room."

The addition of violin is as tasteful as you'd hope with a song of this nature.

"Living in Exile"--Living a lie, more like. An Ice Queen in search of heat after a shattering abandonment. It's quite Buddhist, really. Nothingness is everything. Melt away, back into the earth. Sounds same-y by now, which is not a complaint. Most of the riffs on the album would have no trouble making Fred Schneider do the Monkey whilst gripping a cowbell.

"Memorize Your Lines"--Good grief, more love in shambles? More violin? What's love got to do with it though? Humanoids more often than not prevaricate on instinct, spew bull even when the truth would save the day. The best actors are sociopaths, and if sociopaths are people who never learned the basic societal functions, who's to say someone couldn't unlearn those functions as well?

"A Quarter To Three"--The chorus has never not reminded me of "Back on the Chain Gang" by the Pretenders, fronted by noted Riot Grrl negator Chrissie Hynde. (For all her bluster, I couldn't help but agree when Hynde voiced in an interview exactly how writing PUSSY POWER on your abdomen signalled revolution. But.) Carrie sounds like a stripped-down Chrissie at scattered points throughout SK's discography, so the evocation may not be coincidental.

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 3--Treasure Chest Fulla Titles

2011-06-30T04:21:00.001-07:00

4/8/97

John Goodmanson behind the boards for the first time (he would also help any number of extraneous circumstances not fuck up two future SK albums, All Hands on the Bad One and One Beat), cover pilfered from The Kink Kontroversy, and a new drummer in the person of Janet Weiss, who brought a few extra years of kicking ass to the table...Dig Me Out is arguably Sleater-Kinney's most worshipped album.

"Dig Me Out"--The hosannas are plentiful and well-deserved. The first song Carrie and Corin played for the new girl is the first song of the album and shows that if Andre the Giant Has a Posse, Janet Weiss Has a Sniper Rifle. Like the best lover you've ever had, Janet exposes all those who came before her as pitiful charlatans. And it only takes one time.

Carrie's riff is even more furiously entreating than the words. "Outta my body/Outta my skin." A gesture made by women understood by women, and those who understand women. That spirit of confrontation has not left them over the two years since their debut, but they've channelled it far better than any of their influences. The difference between Sleater-Kinney and Bikini Kill, musically, is the difference between walking a tightrope with or without a net.

"One More Hour"--Rob Sheffield's phenomenally readable memoir Love is a Mix Tape is a tribute to love, music, the love of music, and--wait for it, Godot--the music of love. Moments of triumph, tragedy and trifle are all memorably soundtracked. No reminiscence is more poignant than the funeral of Sheffield's wife, writer Renee Crist. While the actual service featured but one song--"Shall We Gather At the River," a standard hymn--Sheffield's inner stereo was blasting "One More Hour."

As far as searing pleas for time go, "One More Hour" isn't particularly mournful or bitter; nor is it hopeful. There is no real hint as to the direction Corin's recovery will take. The room she is left alone in represents sweet days gone sour. Either it undergoes a drastic redecoration or remains untouched.

The song's cardiac pull becomes outright push when you consider the inspiration for it was taken from real life: the romance of Corin Tucker and Carrie Brownstein. (The love that Spin magazine dare not respect the privacy of.) Listening to Carrie beseech her ex to "let it go" and "say goodbye" while Corin tries to express in words tender in their simplicity exactly what the experience meant to her ("I needed it") is just too much, but it's just enough.

"Turn It On"--That's three perennial people-pleasers all duck-like already. Damnation. Sleater-Kinney wouldn't have got the attention and accolades they did if they were three guys playing the same songs...my ass. Three guys--anywhere at anytime--wouldn't have come up with these same songs. It's not about the design of the wheel, it's about the durability. You may as well say, Ah, Bad Brains are overrated, people just namedrop them 'cause they're black. Please please you!

SK treats androcentrism like the world treats Mr. Bill. Sugar and spice? Nah. Paraffin and potassium nitrate, more like. They're subject to the infuriating apathy, borderline idolatory, and invincible prejudices that make up the world because they bare themselves for themselves. The knife goes in, the guts come out, and that's what being an artist is all about. "It's too hard/It's too good."

"The Drama You've Been Craving"--Intense repetition pumps along the call-and-response.

"Heart Factory"--The ICD from the last album is doing your body fine, but wouldn't you like a brand-new ready-made ticker pulsing the way it's s'pose to? Sure.

Not chilling like a Stepfather Factory (the latest in technology!), this is a different beat altogether. The guitars, rather than the voices, play off of each other here and how glorious it is. Do you hate anthems? Then this is your anthem. Carrie the saleswoman, Corin the disgruntled consumer.

"Words and Guitar"--Wag yer tail. Galvanize yer life. "Music is the air I breathe." From a racket to a lull and back, now you see why the heart factory can barely keep up with the demand.

"It's Enough"--No one has ever said the word "enough" more distinctively than Corin does here. It makes me wanna kiss a red velvet cupcake. A compact fixture-shaker, fer sher.

"Little Babies"--Special punks need the most attention!

Fuck that, it's Carrie's Special Dark Chocolate bumped up against Corin's Krackle in a fight to the sugar coma! Puerile chorus, but kids love candy. I've never been able to shake the instinct that tells me this song is at its core very despondent in spirit.

"Not What You Want"--With a warrior wiggle not seen since the heyday of Rygar, our golden trio duplicates the sensation of wind burn as experienced by the feelers of highway bugs. DESTINATION: IRRELEVANT.

"Buy Her Candy"--I was in the audience for Sleater-Kinney's last show on the East Coast in August 2006 (and I was also there for when it wasn't their last show on the East Coast). Janet's technical problems made room for a rare live rendition of this drum-free beauty. It hadn't been played since 1999, and wouldn't appear again for the remainder of that final tour. As grateful as I was that we in DC were spared "One More Hour" (their traditional closer that year, assuring their fans left the club as complete emotional wrecks), in a way "Buy Her Candy" pierces the heart just as lethally. The novelty of the moment--shit, the honor of the moment--kept me, protected me even, from feeling it too intensely (and I'm a woman who has to fight back tears at the sight of cardinals, okay).

Crush hard; crush harder. It's like watching someone cry over you as the last breaths leave your body.

"Things You Say"--Corin does two things with her immoderately gifted voice: race up the stairs and keep time from killing itself.

"Dance Song '97"--Songs like these weed out the class from the crass at parties.

One guitar buffs steel, the other creates ice crystals. Keys open doors. Winner of the boogie showdown is...Janet! 2:23 on is a smashbug John Waters would clutch pearls over.

"Jenny"--I ain't a Jenny; don't call me a Jenny. Only two people get to call me that, and they follow it with an endearment that is the construction of the pyramids to you. Can you imagine anyone calls Corin Tucker "Cor"? Only if they think she deserves it!

Wins and losses are runner-ups forever to the persistence of memory in a world without end. The frame will never hide the truth of the picture for very long.

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 2--Code Red

2011-06-28T19:40:00.001-07:00

3/25/96

With slightly increased production values, and an increased vocal role for Carrie Brownstein, Call the Doctor showcases a much-improved Sleater-Kinney. While it suffers from the same malady that kept their debut in bed for a couple days--Second-Half Epstein-Barr--the overall picture is vibrant, powerful, and raw. Leave it to these women, and their irresistible press forging technique, to make punk polemics sound, and feel, fresher than ever.

"Call the Doctor"--Corin and Carrie in our ears on some Angel/Angel shit. The door is ajar. Fuck outta here, I thought it was a door? Call the doctor up and begin to make sense of it. Less than a minute to go, you find out you've been discretely fitted with an ICD. These corrective shocks will be felt throughout the album.

"Hubcap"--My SK-lovin' buddy Trick once filled up several pages of a notepad with a song-by-song grading of each album. Most songs scored "A," many others scored "A+," and I think there may have been an "A-" somewhere. Therefore, the "C+" he stuck beside "Milkshake N Honey" (as featured on All Hands on the Bad One) jutted out toward mine eye like an unwelcome tumescence.

"My dude! How?" He replied with some mumbly poo about how it dragged on and just wasn't very enticing to the ear at all, and he even used the word "turgid," except he didn't, because he doesn't know what that word means.

"There are worse songs in their catalog then that," I protested. "Easy." Challenged, I had a ready reply.

"Hubcap" is the insomnia anthem of our age. Super soporific. Lora's drums and backing vocals both bore me thick. The refrain is crap: "You're my co-pilot/Not my god pilot." It's like they got hung up on the phrase "God is my co-pilot" one day and thought they'd turned a neat enough trick to put it in a song. They didn't.

"Little Mouth"--Bratty Carrie, brattier Corin. This was made for screaming, be it while by yourself or by yourself in a crowd. Cocksucker tease blues, only one dare necessary, one day it'll all turn around. One woman is every woman, whether she wants to be or not. Sleater-Kinney relish the reality.

"Anonymous"--Anonymity, I feel, is for the shitbirds. Brown-winged and scared to fly. Do any of you freaks remember 1996? Remember when no-name nuts had no realm to disgrace other than the letters section of the newspaper? Remember letters and newspapers? Fuck, I feel like my mom reminiscing on the Fireside Chats. Anonymity by force or choice, we're talking about the extermination of identity and that's a weak move to me. To me. Own it or lose it, I say.

(Incidentally, Lora Macfarlane's best drumming is featured on this song.)

"Stay Where You Are"--Still figuring out how to fit their dogs with invisible leashes. Carrie rides the guitars with a supreme queen poker face, while her insides--you know--just have to be breakdancing on tidal waves under a firework-blemished sky.

"Good Things"--The most heart-pulverizing track in their discography, least till they get back together (oh stop, it's as inevitable as Charlie Brown's failure). The guitars are the shoulder for Corin to soak with tears, 'cause it does not doubt to resist the pain.

A near-flawless reflection on the impact one person can make on your life. Self-aware yet self-assured ("It's a dumb song/But I'll write it anyway.") Corin certainly could have "sung better" on "Good Things," but why? Her performance, all flay and flutter, personifies the keen sting of regret.

"I Wanna Be Yr Joey Ramone"--Listen to this fuckin' thing, here; all slipping and sliding around the edges of the kitchen counter, discretely snatchin' some donut holes (who left the box out?!) and eatin' 'em ducky-style. Mainly Corin's baby, but Carrie is practically a sound effect on the chorus.

What does it all mean, PSK? Does the female protagonist want to be a male idol because the guys get to have all the fun and attention and glory? Or because the dudes get all the pussy? All I know for sure, this was the first time Sleater-Kinney's music came to my attention, and it was pretty much down to the Thurston Moore namedrop. Well done.

"Taking Me Home"--Pissed women and the men who piss on them. Punk-drenched distress funky fresh dressed to aggress, ready to crash the party. "I got me mixed up with somebody else."

"Taste Test"--Lora sings sweet under Corin, while Carrie tries to have the hostages freed by confusing their captor. It worked, I guess, 'cause I didn't remember seeing a news story stating otherwise. Lyrics are circuitous, the music less so.

"My Stuff"--In the immortal words of George Carlin, "Have you ever noticed how other peoples stuff is 'shit,' and your shit is 'stuff'?" The best crafted song on Call the Doctor, but not the best, and not even top three, really.

"I'm Not Waiting"--Stoic to start, permitting Corin to set certain terms. "I'm not waiting till I grow up to be a woman." Rejected music for a parody of 1950s instructional videos. Sleater-Kinney aren't so much into instruction as direction.

"Heart Attack"--Corin plays drums, Lora plays guitar. It shows.

There's a line here, "Walking into your house, cause I really want to figure you out," that resonates with me. I don't drive or bike, so I have ample opportunity to walk by homes that, especially in this nice weather, have open windows and doors. I only get to peek for a second, just long enough to catch a couch, a blaring TV, a table covered with...what is all that exactly? Who lives here? What's their story? I am about stories, 'cause everybody on Earth has at least three in their pocket at all times. Some of which will outlive the one who wears the pants.

That's not Carrie's angle here, though. This is hypochondria in bloom as a lethargic two-step towards the unimaginable. "Stress case undone/Preplanned, no fun." Everything makes our molecules come up short, everything clogs our arteries, everyone is out to get us, no one cares but you, nobody lives forever.

Call the Doctor signified progression without compromise. It was clear that Sleater-Kinney could go even farther. They just had to want it.

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 1--Pedal to the Bronze Medal

2011-06-27T19:53:00.000-07:00

1995

Writers more skilled/patient than myself can attempt to explain the Riot Grrl movement of the Nineties. People who were directly affected by scores of young women taking the world to task for injustice with cords and chords can try and recreate a nth of the experience. I don't know how differently I would have turned out if my teen self developed in an environment with easy access and exposure to the world of aggrieved feminists with ungodly volume at their disposal. I don't think about it; I found my outlet regardless.

Olympia, Washington was a key locale for the movement (Portland, Oregon and Washington DC being arguably the two next crucial) and it was there, in 1994, that members of Heavens to Betsy and Excuse 17 endeavored to make a side project the main focus. Instead of calling this band Sweet Murgatroyd, the trio looked to their practice space address for inspiration, and Sleater-Kinney was officially born.

Their debut record clocks in at just under 23 minutes. Brevity is soul.

"Don't Think You Wanna"--It would be a nice story if Sleater-Kinney started out as a blood-boiling powershack, but that defies the conventional wisdom of artistic evolution. Not yet are they way up in the sky, but the elements that would make them legends are apparent: Corin Tucker's defiant ululations and special dark rhythm guitar; Carrie Brownstein's special dark vocal delivery and defiant lead guitar; lyrical task-taking and the intelligent initiation of mischief; NO BASS ALLOWED.

Missing is a superlative drum sound. By their third album Sleater-Kinney would boast one of the greatest drummers alive, but until then, here's Lora Macfarlane.

"Don't Think You Wanna" is like an immaculately pressed sheet lain over a ratty mattress that some brat blew snot all over the night prior. The Bikini Kill influence--that splenetic posturing--reeks from this song.

"The Day I Went Away"--The inevitable title of Lora Macfarlane's autobiography.

SK fans discovering this album after the fact may be struck how similar the verse melody of this song is to "Good Things," a song that appears on their second record and one of the band's most enduring classics. If they aren't, they will certainly perk up at the presence of what would become the hallmark of Sleater Kinney's sound: dual vocal harmony/dueling vocal disharmony. Carrie and Corin occupy different floors of a hollowed-out halfway house.

"A Real Man"--A prime example of what Bikini Kill and Huggy Bear and pretty much every band of the Riot Grrl genre save for Bratmobile couldn't manage--precocious command of thought and action. (And even then, love Bratmobile as I do, their best never approached Sleater-Kinney's apex material.) Screaming and cursing is great, and I recommend it, but I didn't notice a lot of ALL CAPS and "fuck" in The Second Sex when I read it. This is not to say that women should make their point in a predetermined, "appropriate" fashion, but that there are a wide variety of methods. When Corin says "I don't wanna join your club/I don't want your kind of love," it's a plainly stated yet fantastic refutation of sexual norms, a resolute rebellion against hetero love as polished world ideal because it gives the world more hamsters for the wheel.

What is "a real man"? Sports fan, beer drinker, truck driver? Voracious reader, organic food consumer, Prius steerer? I can't believe--but I can--that people in this day and age use phrases like "a real man." My best friend is a beer drinking sports fan with an Equality sticker on his Accord. So is he like "almost a real man"? Please, learn my befuddled self.

"Her Again"--Tucker's sluggish retread tires me out, and Brownstein's lead is a Zeppelin, and it's almost a lost cause till the appearance of a chorus fit to crack the Earth's crust and make Mars Clay Pies. Imagine the power these songs would secrete if they had a real drummer!

"How to Play Dead"--Sleater-Kinney's lyrics would never be so crass again, which is both a nice thing and an unfortunate thing. "Clean up your mess/Then I'll suck your dick." This song brings to my mind the dilemma of power in sex; the acts of fellatio and cunnilingus can and have been construed to demean the giver as being at the mercilessness of the recipient. When I went through my own period of questioning the sexual expectations of myself and my (male) partner, I reached a detente within myself by considering both sides of the carnal coin. Did I think that the man I loved performing cunnilingus demeaned him? No, because to my mind subservience is not an automatically undesirable trait. In fact, I think that in the sensual realm, it's as close to an immaculate state as we mere fleshed-out marionettes can ever hope to attain. Same with blowjobs. If you care enough for and about the person, and you immerse yourself in the erotic universe you two are instantaneously creating, it becomes another segment that services the whole.

The title "How to Play Dead" distressingly describes too many experiences for women. Lay back and take it. Give give give and get a little if you're lucky. A death wish to the dumb and powerful instinct of so many!

"Be Yr Mama"--By far my favorite song here. It's dynamite. It sticks. It lashes the whip and moves to match approaching hips. All those who would let stomp, swing, and sweat...approach. Corin's vocals are an especially challenging listen here, but Carrie's lead patterns are so seductively smart that resistance is shattered into billions o' bits.

"Be Yr Mama" features some portentous shifts in mood and tone. The recipe's not all the way there yet. Yet.

"Sold Out"--The promise of diamonds.

"Slow Song"--Delivers what it promises, which cannot always be said for Papa Johns. Caveat emptor, y'all.

"Lora's Song"--That's back-to-back songs that are not only underwhelming, but also end in the word "song." I am beginning to think that in a better world, we would be making reference to "Sleater-Kinney's debut EP." Again, the title tells all, as the drummer steps up to the mic. Or rather, stays seated while the mic is brought to them. Given that Sleater-Kinney are the female equivalent of the Beatles, it only makes sense that this would happen at least once in their discography. Just like Ringo's alleged best, "Lora's Song" is like watching paint peel. It has a bit of a cult--a bit of a bite, in other words--and how much of that is revisionist sympathy and how much is people being tone deaf I cannot say for certain, as funding fell through early on for my proposed "Project To Figure Out Why the Hell Anyone Would Like the Drummers Song on the First Sleater Kinney Album."

"The Last Song"--Memorable for the chorus, which showcases (under red light) gut-imploding screams that Carrie would never try to match for the remainder of Sleater-Kinney's life. The last confrontation, the last damnation of the nameless useless, petulance directed at moral pestilence, can it be any ponder that their most ardent fans saw these women less as rock goddesses and more as blood relations?

So how to follow, then? A concept album about the iron woes of women since time immemorial featuring a prog-length epic about the lose-even-when-you-win scenario posited in the Pole Ax Theory? Yes, and no. Mainly no.

Time and A Half For Weekend Work: The Music of Shonen Knife

2011-05-29T11:12:00.001-07:00

Super Group

11/7/2008

With the insanely adorable Etsuko Nakanishi taking over behind the drums.

"Super Group"--Still at it...in fact addicts.

Naoko Yamano is the rare lyricist whose words jump into the air, into your ear, and tickles the hairs. "Their recordings are the best/Super pop songs touch everybody's heartstrings."

Intention and satisfaction in a wall of riffage and occasionally flashy bottom end...soloing simple as sun beams...the modern Shonen Knife in full force here.

On paper, the Traveling Wilburys were the greatest super group ever. George Harrison, Roy Orbison, Bob Dylan, Jeff Lynne, that other guy. Where from concept to execution did it all go so horribly wrong? I bet Naoko loves that record though. Just a guess.

"Slug"--Youth is served with the increased musicianship exhibited by the rhythm section. The intro makes me think someone's about to bust out a sped-up "I Will Follow Him," but alas alack. The fuzz axe-wielding behemoth saves it for its wedding night here. Very cool song, and I co-sign the sentiment fully. I remember being a young girl (not a little girl; I was once "young," but I have never been "little") staying with my family in Kentucky some random sweltering summer night and stepping out on the back porch to witness a veritable slug family leaving trails all over the steps. Then my grandmother made me eat tapioca pudding. I fucking loathe tapioca pudding. More than slugs? I dunno, it's not a contest! They're both terrible, horrible, no good, very fucked up things to be endured in this world.

"Muddy Bubbles Hell"--The obligatory devil-horns to the sky anthem, and with a title like that, how could it be anything but such? It's like if you see a song called "It Will Be a Good Time (Jah So)," you know it's gonna be reggae, and it's gonna suck.

When the temptresses pull back the hellfire curtain, cannons do not boom, pits do not spit up lava, demonic laughter does not escape Satanic lungs, and Rob Halford does not take the stage on a motorcycle. Speed and slash is forsaken, leaving ample room for spooky pewter-hued shadows to haunt your every step underneath a sky that shifts shades by the second.

Shit is Sabbath-ian.

"Deer Biscuits"--Yet another song on Super Group reminds me of well-spent youth in KY. Not 'cause of any deer, but 'cause of biscuits. For all the crap people from the American South get from other Americans--lazy, uneducated, insensitive, hateful, intolerant, obese, unwashed--you cannot deny that they do three things at a higher level of outstandingness than any other people in any other region of the U.S., and those things three are: drinking, storytelling, and eating. And they eat plenty biscuits. Plenty cornbread. Plenty buttered up and washed down.

Lest I fall into a snare decorated all pretty-like, however, I will be the first to say that the music taste of the average citizen who has to crane their neck to see the Mason-Dixon line lacks a tad. Play some Shonen Knife for the average Tennessean, and it will not go over well.

Naoko is not the mistress of metaphor. This song is about how she visited a deer park and gave a deer some biscuits. She also dispenses some advice for those listeners who may one day visit a deer park: "Make sure it's a sunny day."

"BBQ Party"--Super Group is, by far, the most Southern album Shonen Knife will ever do. How goddamn yee-haw y'all is a barbecue? Mind you, Naoko lists tofu and squid among the edibles at her particular git-down.

"Pig out pig out!" the chorus exhorts. Ah gluttony, the most universal of the deadly sins! "Don't worry about your diet." I hear that; see you in muddy bubbles hell, closely monitored daily caloric intake!

(Quiet as kept, Etsuko is the MVP. She's the classic mini-dynamo, contained in fresh-lock containers when at rest.)

"Pyramid Power"--Naoko's tone is kinda wicked...it's probably the most notable aspect of 21st century SK albums, all told.

"Earth Wind and Fire made a 'Fantasy'/Pyramids on the stage." She's right, you know.

"Time Warp"--Let's do it. Again and again. And again and again!

"Na Na Na"--I won't lie, we're hitting a rough patch here, that inevitable skid on most latterly Knife records featuring songs that are utterly unremarkable. This is the band that did "Public Bath," the racket-gang that is exactly what the Ramones would be as Japanese women, mediocrity cannot be accepted.

"Your Guitar"--This is better. Meaningful volume has returned, and so has heart. Naoko beseeches a woman who has abandoned her rock n roll fantasies to walk over to that corner, dust off that Fender, plug in the amp, and re-commence to the fuckin' rockin'. Naoko, see, she never stopped. She knows how good it can always be.

"Jet"--I am a feverish fan of Paul McCartney. Yeah, I'm one of those. "Jet" is one of the man's finest several minutes, so I was kinda apprehensive at the prospect of Shonen Knife running it through their popcorn mower. And while it's not a tragedy, nor is it a triumph. The vocal harmonies bring visions of three singing Hello Kittys and no, I don't want that in my head. The ooh-woo's are far too subdued.

Super Group...just another product from the factory. It's what I expected.

Free Time

1/6/2010

This cover is one of the few immaculate creations to spring forth from Earthly minds. CATS IN SPACE, a sight so spectacular that fish burst through the ocean, through the sky, through the planet to gaze adoringly upon it!

I picked up both Super Group and Free Time at Amoeba Records, the Hollywood record store that really needs to annex a small house for me to live in. Trick and I were staying with our friend Kar, and if we couldn't make it out anywhere else, we had to pass through Amoeba. Just one of those decisions that's "no brains required."

We blasted Free Time in the car the next day, and it was like reuniting with your life's love after a week with no contact.

"This doesn't sound like them," Patrick claimed.

"Sounds good to me," I said.

"This fucking rocks," Kar averred.

"I never said I didn't like it!" Poor Patrick. Kar and me each have two X's, you only have one.

"Perfect Freedom"--Limber and lucid, the perfect freedom granted to crack planks underfoot in the attic, instead of cheekily checking reflections in a spic'n'span kitchen floor.

"Rock N Roll Cake"--Malt shop sells fuzz-rimmed drinking glasses and wicked tasty cake by the slice.

"I want to sleep inside it/Like hibernation." Kinda like Slayer do between albums!

The contrasting guitar parts make this a near-rival for red velvet.

"Economic Crisis"--Feed is back! Back to stay! Metallic Knife is here early baby, the gleam...the dream...the not-quite scream that makes me rip off an arm, tie a shirt around it and wave it violently in the air like GOOOOOOOOOO TEAM!

Naoko is raging and incomprehensible. Aren't we almost all, in these shaky fiscal times? We need money for food, gas, concerts, Snoopy, leggings, lodging. Enunciation suffers.

"Do You Happen To Know"--Etsuko's drumming is so on point that point had to kindly ask her to move a bit to the left so it could breathe. Pop that is immediate, warm, and sharp.

"Capybara"--Cowgirls with backbone sing 'bout barrel-shaped rodents with webbed feet. Do you think all the animals Shonen Knife have serenaded over 27 years really appreciate their efforts? I mean, I'm sure an underappreciated creature like the capybara is deeply grateful for the affectionate attention, but do you imagine similar thankfulness from bison? Hell no. Bison are looking out for bison.

"An Old Stationary Shop"--This song is about a stationary shop that has some years on it.

Free Time is the perfect name for this album. 'Cause SK got plenty of both. Breathing out the jive and breathing in the love. They eat a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream once a week, three spoons deep in that bitch, and feel no apprehension, shame, guilt or remorse.

"Monster Jellyfish"--Rambunctious, ramshackle, and who cares what jellyfish think? Stingy bastards, ruining beach experiences. Not to fret; Etsuko's got the death roll down. Smash 'em, smash 'em, smash 'em with yer fist!

"P.Y.O."--Pretty Young Oysters? No.

Purse Your Ovaries? No.

Pick Your Own? Yes.

This one's made to be listened to with a fellow Knife-head (even if they don't know they are yet) and sing along with, even if the rousing chorus occurs only in a hastily-assembled playground of your own mind.

Pick your own what? Berries. "Cranberry, strawberry, blueberry, blackberry, gooseberry, Chuck Berry." Oh Naoko.

"Love Song"--Uninspired title, but listen. No hitting the wall on Free Time. "I don't want cheap love songs/But people in the world like to listen to love songs/I don't know why/Maybe I have a strange mind." The chorus is so fabulous it's practically creme-filled: "I need you/I want you/Musty phrases embarrass me."

What makes this song extra amusing is its resemblance to early Beatles records--namely chord structure and vocal harmonies--the lyrics of which were packed sick with "musty phrases" of yearning and devotion.

"Star"--How you gonna be a star without love songs? The problem is the star that longs to shine alone, that sees the congregation of a constellation as compromise. Gaseous and distant, indeed.

After a few pleasant but average full-lengths, Shonen Knife delivered the greats with Free Time. This doesn't bode well for the next album, as the band have not to my ears released back-to-back powerhouses since Pretty Little Baka Guy and 712 but I can't know that for sure, can I?. Naoko's still so damned determined to live every second of her life in thrall to rock and roll, she may surpass herself with the next one. To quote the legendary Japanese comedian Hosei Yamasaki: "It's a surprise. Look forward to it."

May I Interest You In Some Words?

2011-05-23T09:30:00.000-07:00

Reviews of Super Group and Free Time by Shonen Knife will appear in this space this week, as the work at the factory never really ends, does it?

Daily updates on this blog have given way to more ambitious, wordier projects, and I don't see this changing anytime soon. Off-line writing is taking up most of my time (as I feel it should) so when I put something up here, it's got to be worth my efforts. Discography reviews, Peanuts reviews...big girls do things big, right?

The sequel to No Setlist will be called Spirit Desire, and two things have to happen before it can be published: I need to attend/write up 'round 20 more SY shows and I need to have my first novel published. I'll begin shopping 415 101 next month. Will it get accepted by a publisher before I reach my show goal? I dare not dream.

You Know the Name: The Music of the Beatles, Pt. 14--Future Servants

2011-05-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

3/7/1988

DISC TWO (December 1965 to March 1970)

"Daytripper" (A-side released 12/3/1965)--One of the most instantly-identifiable riffs in rock kicks off this call-out of those "half-a-hippies" who want all of the pleasure but none of the danger that comes with counterculture involvement. Is it unbelievable on any level that the promise of the sixties was never realized? If we each look at our individual selves as microcosms of the larger world, how can we expect justice and peace as the rule?

"We Can Work It Out" (A-side released 12/3/1965)--What a pair! There are few finer ways to spend five minutes. A top tier Mario galaxy...some choice Flannery O'Connor pages...standing out on the dock, gazing at a sky's five o'clock shadow, watching cardinals flitter branch to branch.

Harmonium warm as cornbread sopping up the succulent honey barbecue sauce as it streams slowly from the fat pile of ribs. This is a true collaboration, with Paul and John putting their personalities into their parts: Paul sweetly imploring and hopeful, John tapping his wristwatch and foot in frantic annoyance.

I've always associated "We Can Work It Out" with ferry rides, without ever having actually been on a ferry. Something about the flow of the verses brings to my mind a vessel moving slowly and surely across the water. Could possibly be related to the classic symbolism of water as life.

"Paperback Writer" (A-side released 6/10/1966)--So how come there exists a replica of the poster that inspired "Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite" available for purchase on Amazon (among other online vendors) but I can't pick me up a laminated reproduction of the Daily Mail article that drove Paul to pen this propulsive piece? "The aspiring author is a unique being," it no doubt began. "Feeble-bodied yet able-minded, bright-eyed but somehow world-weary, a cynic who will begin purring love sonnets if scratched just so behind the ears--what would life be without the earnest pensmith?"

John referred to "Paperback Writer" as the "son of 'Daytripper'," but really, this is the better song. "Daytripper," great as it is, still sounds like it's taped up in a cardboard box. "Paperback Writer" teems with the power of teamwork, taking huge gulps of air, lungs working like a bellows, it just needs a break! Just the one.

Even if the ink-stained protagonist is but a mere hack, he's still a writer, and it's pseudo-scientific half-fact that we the scribblers are superior to 98% of the rest of the galaxy just because we traffic in the multi-colored magic of letters to words to sentences to paragraphs. The heartbeat of a writers life is sensational, loosening the kickstand and riding roughshod over seemingly-barren land ahead. No EKG can measure it, but "Paperback Writer" powers along purely on the sound of its echos. "Why do you want to be a writer?" I've been asked. Same reason I breathe, actually. Kinda got to.

"Rain" (B-side released 6/10/1966)--Released two months before Revolver, "Rain" is a definite precursor to the new shades of sound that album would unveil for a not-so-hip-as-they-thought public. The rhythm section is traditionally the epicenter of a song, but not here. Paul and Ringo run this town. Detachment as an expedient to self-discovery. Imagine blowing bubbles whilst inside a plastic bubble.

"When it rains, and shines, it's just a state of mind." Cool, but people're still gonna bitch about the weather.

"Lady Madonna" (A-side released 3/15/1968)--Macca's tribute to the world's mamas--"How do they do it? Bless 'em"--from the ones who would rather see their child's skin tanned by the sun rather than a screen to the ones who let their brats get fat off Dominos.

Mom-love is the best, 'cause um moms are the best, but just the very title of this song reminds me of the line, thin as a junebug's legs, that mothers have to toe every day. Especially their sons. I can't imagine many women want their boys to grow up viewing other females in black and white terms, as either delicate creatures to be protected or unscrupulous, devious whores to be used like a wet wipe. Anybody that knows me, knows I am a fierce advocate of the middle. It's where the cream is, after all.

"The Inner Light" (B-side released 3/15/1968)--Esoteric text yet again lights a fire under George Harrison's righteous ass (Tao Te Ching)--"See all without looking, do all without doing." Okay, so how do I conjure up a nice plate of lamb biryani without actually looking up the phone number of the Indian place downtown? All things are possible, except when they're not. "The farther one travels/The less one knows." This is true. Disney lied to us, kids; it ain't a small world, after all.

"Hey Jude" (A-side released 8/30/1968)--Paul apparently wrote this song as a comfort to young Julian Lennon, whose parents were in the midst of an acrimonious divorce. The lessons of patience, grace, and repetition as the secret of happiness are heard in every line. Julian's dad, however, heard a message to himself, one that Paul couldn't bring himself to say in a voice without melody. "You have found her/Now go and get her" struck John's ears as a tacit admission of approval re: himself and Yoko Ono, and it makes sense. It's an odd line to say to a young boy struggling through the shitstorm of emotions stirred up by a broken home, anyway.

More of those superbly imperfect J and P harmonies yet again. Funny how two wildly divergent personalities prone to violent clashes can end up stronger for it all and others, well...

The four-minute "na na" chorus is the perfect way to determine who is a Beatles fan and who isn't.

For the truly obsessed: check out 2:57 to 2:59 in headphones if you have not already. An entire blog post could be made here--and has been made elsewhere--about the apparent "undeleted expletive" heard here.

"Revolution" (B-side released 8/30/1968)--Heard this before on an album, have you? No you haven't. See, this is the good version, with guit-fiddles distorted as a Tea Partiers worldview, and featuring the best pre-verse scream not from the throat of Tom Araya. John's delivery is much stronger, and his ending refrain, those defiant "All right!"s, is acerbic enough to twist your face.

"Revolution" is relevant still in a world gone madder by minute from an abundance of information without an accompanying increase in discrimination, with the end result being that the minutiae of matters is either completely ignored or unjustly aggrandized.

"Get Back" (A-side released 4/11/1969)--A chronic tape echo effect, false start, and pleas to some wayward chick named Loretta set this version apart from the album track.

"Don't Let Me Down" (B-side released 4/11/1969)--John's impassioned declaration of love. This is almost too exposed to air to withstand--if you're a weak pussy.

"The Ballad of John and Yoko" (A-side released 5/30/1969)--Listening to celebrities detail their travails is almost as satisfying as hearing them bitch about having to pay exorbitant taxes. Or having an electrode placed on a vaginal wall getting shocked till burns appear. Despite the repeated evocations to God's lad throughout, the track is quite non-acerbic and tedious. I'm not even a Christian, but I find saying you are/you will be "crucified" is a poor choice of words, intended to strike up controversy and cover up mediocrity.

"Old Brown Shoe" (B-side released 5/30/1969)--Just the title makes me think of "Little Brown Jug," which makes me think of how much Homer Simpson loves a hoedown and I didn't say stop.

A grower that busts through the roof before you even know what's what, I'd call this one of the Beatles' most overlooked tracks. "I want a short-haired girl who sometimes wears it long" makes far more sense (and is far more alluring a lyric) than anything from "Within You Without You."

There exists some controversy over the bass track, which is to "Old Brown Shoe" as heat is to popcorn kernels. Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn credits "a fine combination of matching lead and bass guitar notes played by George and Paul." However, George told Creem in 1987 that he and he alone was responsible for the bottom end. Pretty convo-ending, hmm? Yes...except I could also point to an interview where George seems to forget he played bass on "Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight," crediting Paul with it instead.

Don't trust artists, y'all. It's all sex lies and muddy memories.

"Across the Universe" (No One's Gonna Change Our World)--Picked by Spike Milligan to appear on a charity album for World Wildlife Fund. Bird chirps bookend the track (did "Blackbird" teach us nothing?) and the song itself is inexplicably sped up. Not comically so, but noticeable. And terrible.

"Let It Be" (A-side released 3/6/1970)--The orchestra drank some decaf, George demanded a do-over, and Linda McCartney had something to say. Other than that.

"You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)" (B-side released 3/6/1970)--A pastiche recorded over three sessions in 1967 and one topper turn in 1969.

Patrick hates this one more than any other Beatles original. What strikes many as endearing--the shameless style-jumping and self-conscious goofiness--is what makes him twitch, itch and pitch a bitch. "Do you hate fun?" is all I can say in response.

Paul has referred to this as his favorite Beatles song, although that may have as much or more to do with the joyous frivolity of the recording sessions as the actual finished product.

If the nightclub and lounge sections bug you it's not so hard to grasp why, but if you can't enjoy the first part, I cram to understand you. The piano! The yelling! More Pinkus, please, and leave it in the bottle this time! It's music to rattle the glasses on a table to.

The 2009 mono box set featured "Mono Masters," which matched Past Masters Volume One perfectly but omitted those tracks from Volume Two that never had a mono mix. So goodbye to "The Ballad of John and Yoko," "Old Brown Shoe," and "Let It Be." Hello four previously unreleased mono mixes of four Yellow Submarine songs.

"Only a Northern Song"--See, 'cause Northern Songs Ltd. was the publishing company that handled all the Beatles songs. While Macca and John each had 30% shares in the company, George had a paltry 1.6%. Thus, "It really doesn't matter what chords I play/What words I say/It's only a Northern song." Nice to see ol' GH with a sense of humor.

The end is like someone took the walrus and fed it burritos till it exploded.

"All Together Now"--Paul is for the children. The children who still don't know the alphabet. Everybody join in! Oh no, won't be doing that.

"Hey Bulldog"--I feel the earth! Move! Under my feet! "Hey Bulldog" is one of those classics that virtually every rock band has run through once in rehearsal or rewrote subconsciously. A jackknife in a sweaty palm, slitting open bags for booty.

"It's All Too Much"--I got a Catholic block! No? Just me? Listen to that guitar up front, that is dead on! Aw man. Li'l feedback parade happening, too.

Thankfully, I as a listener never feel compelled to say at any point, "Well, the song tried to warn me." Considering that this is a six and a half minute George song, that is an amazing feat. "All the world is birthday cake/Take a piece but not too much."

Sifting through the debris of a wrecked cruise ship, where are all the bodies? Small issue, that. Accoutrements ahoy, matey, collect as much as you can.

And on that note of crass thievery, I bid this review series farewell. Thank you for reading. No band in rock history has had more words dedicated to them than the Beatles, and I hope you found mine entertaining, enjoyable, and maybe even educational. For me at least, it was certainly a thrill.

You Know the Name: The Music of the Beatles, Pt. 13--Look What We Found

2011-05-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

3/7/1988

The Beatles regarded albums and singles as two separate entities, valuing the former above the latter, and even refusing to release individual sides from two of their most beloved albums (Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band and The Beatles). As a result, some of the group's most well-known tracks never made it onto any official album.

In 1987, the Beatles discography was made available on CD for the first time, and an additional treat was in store when a two-volume collection arrived not long after that compiled all these lonely hearts. Past Masters is, at the very least, a tidy history lesson. The band's growth and progress is on display, from the hit factory that aspired nothing loftier than to break a sweat, to drugged-up pioneers of exceptional artistic bravery, to stubborn malcontents on the verge of collapse.

DISC ONE (October 1962 to July 1965)

"Love Me Do" (original single on Parlaphone Records)--The main difference between this and the version that appeared on Please Please Me is who's playing drums--Ringo here, Andy White on the album. In their never-ending pissing match with the English, the Scots should never fail to at least once a week bring up how Andy White just killed Ringo Starr. Holy shit. But why stop there? Everything about the Andy White version sounds better. (And lest you believe I'm just throwing darts at Starkey, "Love Me Do" just isn't "Love Me Do" without his tambourine part.) There's a dearth of energy here that makes me wonder if the fellas had to do a show in Azkaban before hitting the studio.

"From Me To You" (A-side, released 4/11/1963)--The title was inspired by "From You to Us," the name of the NME's letters column. Irrefutable proof that once upon a time, said rag was not just tolerable, but influential as well.

Patrick and I get our fight caps on over two songs on Past Masters. "From Me to You" is one of them. I believe it started when he said that the song was the weakest one featured on the 1's album. My forebrain could not process this fully.

"Weaker than 'She Loves You'? 'The Ballad of John and Yoko'? Is this some sort of elaborate attempt to get my systolic blood pressure reading up to match my body weight? You can't believe that."

Oh but he does. Patrick regards "From Me To You" as a pure yawn, whereas I feel it's just as catchy as one. Some of the Beatles most impeccably realized melodies are in here, sweet yet powerful, heartwarming without being gut-churning. It smacks my gob to realize it isn't universally beloved by the fandom.

"Thank You Girl" (B-side, released 4/11/1963)--For defending "From Me To You"? No problem.

A brief missive of appreciation to the estrogen brigade, because frankly, they made the Beatles. Of all the things a group of young men could bestow upon a woman, a half-assed song beats gonorrhea any day.

Yeah, this one's standard as a knock-knock joke, right down to the harmonica, but John and Paul find some more space here to show off their yelling ability. Girls, when a guy starts shouting platitudes, you are the recipient of a love most divine. "And eternally/I'll always be/In love with you." Really, you will never require panties again.

"She Loves You" (A-side, released 8/23/1963)--Sly to use the third person, 'cause hearing someone talk about what they're feeling, doing or about to do can get trite.

One of several that John and Paul knocked out side by side, ear to ear, nose to nose, whilst cooped up in an artless hotel room, hurling ideas teeming with what they knew and what they thought they knew up against walls painted some horrid shade of impending death, over and over, till they either stuck or shattered.

The quality disparity from the verses to the chorus is jarring to me personally. The chord pattern is P to P for pied to piper, but that legendary refrain NO NO NO.

"I'll Get You" (B-side, released 8/23/1963)--You got A-sides. You got fuckin' A-sides. There's B-sides, and then there's hysterical B-sides that win again. Is this the worst Beatles song to feature the word "You"?

Well, love songs are like love affairs. They can't all be winners. Some of them will result in the fabulous exchange of thoughts and fluids and make you dream of immortality. Still others will make you want to bludgeon your paramour with a cement block you left in the freezer overnight.

"I Want To Hold Your Hand" (A-side, released 11/29/1963)--Washing the brains of chickadees after conjuring up a mischievous lather, "I Want to Hold Your Hand" was The One, the first Beatles song to hit number one in America, and as much as that chafes Brit crotch, said feat was and in many minds still is the barometer of true success for musical acts.

If I'd been a young lass in 1963, I would've been right there in love. I wouldn't have been screaming myself hoarse, but still. How could I resist three cute English fellas (and the drummer) and their innocent yearnings. You wanna hold my hand, you wanna get some milk too and share it? Music to sensibly shake my modestly skirted booty to.

"This Boy" (B-side, released 11/29/1963)--While I was typing out "B-side," I thought, Yeah, no shit. Really nothing else to say.

"Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand" and "Sie Liebt Dich" (released 3/5/1964)--If you wonder why the Beatles would redo two of their early singles in the language of romance, I suggest you do the history. They got traces of black, red and gold in their collective DNA, baby. So when EMI's West German branch called, the boys were like, "What the bloody hell is Odeon Records?" Then when they found out, they got to work creating songs that are funny to listen to once (much in the way it's amusing to watch a video of yourself having sex, laughing to keep from screaming in horror) and then never again. Now, if they'd switched the yeah's for ja's, the replay value would be insane.

Certain facts about these novelty songs are far more interesting.

"Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand" actually translates to "Come Give Me Your Hand," which is far more in the German spirit (although not as much as "Give Me Your Hand Or I'll Rip It Off" would have been).

"I Want to Hold Your Hand" was resung over the original track, but "She Loves You" had to be replayed, as the original two-track tape could not be located. Some listeners claim this is apocryphal, and both tracks are the original with new vocals, but just listen: "She Loves You" is played at a faster tempo while retaining the original key of the song. The key would have changed if it was just a matter of the tape being sped up.

Finally--I speak German. You are a pastry. It should be said "deesh," not "dick." Come on, guys. Whoever helped them with the pronunciation brought a catheter along.

"Long Tall Sally" (1964 EP of the same name)--Check out one take Paulie over here. Macca's Little Richard turn--especially the "Wooooo!" does a fan proud. Intimidation is always a factor when you're tackling the track of an in-fact master, but "Long Tall Sally," from toes to eyeballs, is one of the best covers the Beatles ever did. Put this 'un on next time you have to clean a room or two. You won't actually get any cleaning done, but you won't care.

"I Call Your Name" (Long Tall Sally EP)--"I can't sleep at night/Since you've been gone."

"'Cause I've been too busy shagging/Countless other birds/WOOOOO!"

"Slow Down" (Long Tall Sally EP)--Turning Larry Williams' original into an Uncouth Joseph (Sloppy Joes to certain Americans, steamers to others).

I don't even know what that meant. I'm sorry.

"Matchbox" (Long Tall Sally EP)--This was Pete Best's vocal turn live, so of course it goes to Ringo here, all you drummers sound alike to me! Goddamn, most boring EP ever.

"I Feel Fine" (A-side, 11/27/1964)--Ah, so much better! A country-tinged (not -tinted) foot tapper with a verse structure that both looks and sounds like a fresh chain link (you know). The sheer quality of the track itself is often overlooked due to its place in music history; "I Feel Fine" was the first song to use feedback as a recording effect. (Hilariously, they had to tell Parlaphone that it was accidental, or its inclusion would have been disallowed, as feedback violated the label's stringent sonic standards code or some such.)

"She's a Woman" (B-side, 11/27/1964)--Roaming soulfulness, so forgive it for treading the path most traveled by, won't you?

In 2008, neuroscientists discovered that the heart has its own independent nervous system--its own "brain", if you will, or even if you won't--and can thus send messages to and receive messages from the traditional brain. And the brain obeys! That's pretty cool.

Heart to brain: "Keep doing what you're doing!"

Brain to heart: "Back at'cha."

I bring this up because I think that my heart reacts rather strangely to love, and the manner in which it does reminds me of this song. Your heart may react to the novelty of love with fireworks, rainbows and pizza, compelling your brain to compel you to go nuts and get some new clothes, new music, new furniture, all the better for the new you! Don't stay indoors, the heart implores, enjoy the vast expanse of the world and convince yourself it's all a visual metaphor for your life at this moment.

My heart, however, processes love by suddenly making me very sleepy. And I don't say that to dis this song. It's fine. But I kinda just wanna curl up and think about how romantic love would be the best thing ever if you never got out of bed.

"Bad Boy" (Beatles VI, US LP)--The US releases were like a shit pickle that swam in piss instead of brining liquid. Just because the record companies sought the validation of the voracious American super-consumer doesn't mean they actually liked any of them. Another Larry Williams redo, the intro is suggestive of the edgiest sixties rock made by unkempt vandals, but that's where it stops.

"Yes It Is" (B-side 4/9/1965)--"Ticket To Ride" was the A-side. Damn. Some superlative tri-harmonies on display but little else of note.

"I'm Down" (B-side 7/23/1965)--The flip of "Help!" fares better, with one of my favorite vocal arrangements to appear in a Beatles song. Embodies no less than four formulas of the music scene at that time, but executes each one perfectly.

As Rubber Soul to Help!, Past Masters Volume 2 is to the first compilation. Check this space tomorrow for the final post of the Beatles Discography review.