Pop Punk (Fuzzed Out American Northwest Division)

Okay, okay, maybe the Thermals don’t have enough production sheen to be called pop. (Their first record, More Parts Per Million, is alleged to have been recorded in a bedroom in Oregon. And when you hear the song available here [see also for “comedy” about the band’s origins], you’ll think it was made on one of those tape recorders with the big buttons and the single hole microphone that you used to use to trade taped messages with your sisters.) And the singer, Hutch, doesn’t have the nasal tone that for god knows what reason became the required mode of singing for bubblepunk bands who’ve attained the top 40 since Green Day’s heyday. His voice is still nasal, just in a different fashion, one that’s appealing, kind of like the Mountain Goats. And the band descended from a folk duo (Kathy & Hutch).

This tune from their new album Fuckin A (yeah, yeah, not a pop title, since it won’t be stocked in Wal-Mart) was strong enough to inspire me to purchase the long-player:

Thermals – How We Know

This song makes no sense, and I even checked the lyrics that came in the CD booklet, mainly to figure out what “the trick lighting and the trick olives!” meant. (It’s actually “trick lighting and trick eyelids” which really clears things up.) According to iTunes, it’s my most beloved song, at least by number of spins (25).

If you never thought about spinning the Clash’s “1-2 Crush On You” into a recording career, then you aren’t a member of The Exploding Hearts, or rather you weren’t a member. They no longer exist as such, since three of their four members were killed after they crashed their van, shortly after signing a major-label contract. These two songs are from their only album, the aptly-named Guitar Romantic on the aptly-named Dirtnap Records.

One rocker and one ballad for your listening pleasure, featuring drug use, a trebly mix, and two of the stranger infidelities recorded in song.

The Exploding Hearts – Modern Kicks
The Exploding Hearts – Jailbird

Liveblogging Songs of the Robot (1970-85)

First off, a bonus downloadable track (291 kb, i.e., hi-fi).

1-2. Ah, the castrati singing of Jeff Lynne. Why is it appealing? Lyrics funny: “I drive the very latest hovercar,” “she does the things you do/but she is an IBM,” “she has an IQ of 1001, a jumpsuit on, and is also a telephone,” and “I love you … in theory.”

Pretty synth-y. (And by that I don’t mean pretty in the sense of beauty.)

3. Goddamn, you worked Rush into this. Geddy Lee really has a persecution complex: if he’s not being imprisoned on a future planet by religious types for his outlaw guitar work, he’s an enslaved robot. Binary chorus: very cute. Guitar solo: mercifully short.

4. Actually, this singing by Alan Parsons (Was he a real person, or was this just the band’s name? Was Parsons the singer?) sounds less robotic than the voice on “Eye in the Sky,” which I guess was less about a mechanical robot eye than some sort of clairvoyance, a metaphoric eye, if you will.

5. Jazz played by robots? (No, that would be Herbie Hancock.) Jazz listened to by robots? If so, they have shitty taste.

6. Hey, guitars. Oh damn, keyb. Android temperature regulation difficulties: “Cool when it’s warm/you’re cold when it’s hot/Ro-bot Ro-bot.” Oh wait, this is like commentary on the regimentation of modern life, not about real robots. Right? “You queue for the paper/You queue for the bus.” Oh guess not, with Asimov reference: “You hold the whole world in your metal paws/If it wasn’t for the three laws.” (Why are literal robots reading papers, you might ask.) Hmmm, how long does this solo go on? I see, iTunes informs me another 54 seconds. Say, is that temp reference a nod to "Fondly Farenheit" (about a crazy overheated robot)?

7. Just when I thought the Buggles couldn’t top the annoyance of “Video Killed the Radio Star.” Okay, 1:11 to go and I am fast-forwarding.

Did I mention this collection is on the synth-y side?

8. Obviously released before TMBG reached their mature phase. Are they saying “hip-eriffic” or “hip-horrific”?

9. Obviously released before Devo reached their mature phase. I cannot believe I am listening to a song that includes the lines “me work well/me feel swell.” Please, God of Robots, if you exist, shut it down.

10. Thank you God of Robots for answering my prayers, and sending me a song sung in a non-modulated voice. You sent the jam to punish my lack of faith, didn’t you, oh Metal Lord? Sounds like Bo composed these lyrics on the bus the night before. Can one “get funky with it” while doing the robot?

11. I haven’t heard this in years. I didn’t remember synthesizers and saxophones, or is that a synth-o-phone? This sounded like Yes until that cowbell clanked in. Now it’s getting familiar, er, wait, no, but now Iron Butterfly-ish. Weird, that riff I remember the song for is only performed two or three times during the song.

12. 8:57? Now I can go take a piss. Okay, Jen, I think you’re right, this is the least bad song on the comp. At least it has a compelling beat. This is a song that allows you plenty of time to look stuff up. “Recorded in 1978, at the peak of the band’s creative output, the album demonstrates the power of the synthesizer to create an array of emotions.” –Craig DeGraff.* Is twitching an emotion? I really can picture robots dancing to this. I am loathe to admit it, but it seems like Kraftwerk is now one of the most influential bands ever—you can hear not only the history of all sorts of electronica in here, but the early years of hip-hop and the more recent glitchy stuff; hell, even recent Wilco sounds somewhat like this. Lester Bangs was right when he answered, “Where is rock going?” with “It’s being taken over by the Germans and the machines” and “sometimes automatons deliver the very finest specimens of a mass-produced, disposable commodity like rock.” What perfect German names: Ralf, Florien, Karl and Wolfgang (and they used to have a Klaus, but he played guitar, and was purged from the group for another synthesizer player). From Ralf, “Ve cannot deny Ve are from Germany, because the German mentality, Vitch is more advanced, Vill always be part of our behafior.”**

13. Folksy?! This guy didn’t get Neuromancer at all.

14. Is it just me, or did they sludge this down? This is absolutely indistinguishable from a Spinal Tap performance.

15. Do you remember when you were playing among the giant tinker toys in your friend’s basement and listening to the radio and what “domo ari gato” meant was one of the more important mysteries of life?

What is the plot of this song? First there’s a secret (“secret secret”: good hook) and the person he’s talking to doesn’t know who he is and he’s maybe a machine or mannequin (something tells me this is merely for the meter/rhyme, as mannequins are pretty easy to distinguish from androids in my experience) or maybe the “mod-ron man,” but wait he’s a robot and then he’s not a robot and then he’s here to help, but then he’s not a hero and now there’s something about setting something or someone free from some unspecified imprisonment then he’s a man but he’s lacking control. Is this mask metaphorical? I’m having more trouble following this song than the Hawkwind tune. Now, the singer’s thanking Mr. Roboto for helping him escape. I thought the singer was Mr. Roboto. Has he changed singing perspective? Now the problem is obvious: “too much technology”. And now the song’s gone all Luddite, “machines de-humanize.” Isn't it weird for a robot--if he's singing--to complain about dehumanization/too much technology; that, or he's ungrateful since this robot saved him It’s time to reveal his identity, though I’m not sure what triggered this. Kilroy is his identity. Kilroy?! Who the hell is Kilroy? Is Mr. Roboto Kilroy? Or did he help Kilroy escape? Is Kilroy a robot?

Summary: I’m too lazy (or sane) to go back and listen to all the lyrics, but the predominant themes seem to be the robot’s crummy lot (enslavement/escape) and the dehumanization of modern life, although Bo Diddley just wanted you to dance like the poor enslaved machines, obviously remembering very little from his own struggle during the civil rights movement. When will you humans learn? And Peter, way to start the “miracle” with such a downer.

If “Mr. Roboto” hadn’t left me in such a good mood, I woulda wanted to put together a Robot Wars-style challenge CD. My “Rumpofsteelskin” (“dynamite sticks by the megaton in his butt!”) and Futureheads’ “Robot” (“The best thing is our lifespan!”) and “The Robots in My Bedroom Were Playing Arena Rock” (self-explanatory) would’ve kicked your robots’ shiny metal butts.

*Liner notes to Machine Soul: An Odyssey into Electronic Dance Music

**Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung

Contest

Announcing the first (and likely last) annual Fats Durstonia CD contest.

If any readers would like to participate in this masochistic project, the idea is this:
Compile a CD-length playlist* of seriously annoying songs. The only rule is one song per credited artist (a Chicago song plus a Peter Cetera song would be acceptable, for instance). This is to keep wiseacres from listing a Kenny Loggins album. Use whatever definition of annoying you wish.

At some future date (if there are any takers), all participants will reveal their lists, and we may work out some mail or ftp'ing exchange, if such cruelty seems warranted. Annoying prizes to be determined later; unfortunately, I lost my Sha-Na-Na CD in one of our moves.

Now, on to the challenge of narrowing down to a single Sir Paul McCartney selection...

*You will realize if you've been reading this blog that I have a little bit of a head start.

Bhangra

The best music I've ever experienced at a wedding reception was Indian bhangra, at "Juice" and his wife's wedding. (Sorry Burgeoner and Mood, my wedding’s DJ: good music, but not loud enough; not quite an experience.) The wedding itself was a blast, too: three hundred people (or more) not paying attention to a lengthy ceremony involving paste applications and gold lamé fringes, but rather getting snacks from waiters (including a server whose entire role was to carry around a tray of dips) and visiting the open bar. The reception featured a series of skillful (and a few less-than-skillful) dances performed to club-volume blasted bhangra, which I’d never heard before. This set off a years-long search for CDs to recapture the feel of that music. Thanks to a fine municipal library system, this quest wasn’t too expensive, but tinny computer and headphone speakers have been as unable to duplicate that wedding experience as recordings are incapable of replicating the power of live music. Still, I’ve found a number of good songs:

A. S. Kang – Teri Janjhar

Don Shiva – Dake Dake

Anakhi – Lok Boliyan

The first two come from the compilation Bombay Bhangra Club (not to be confused with Bombay 2: Electric Vindaloo, which is now my all time favorite album title) and the latter from Bhangra Beatz, and it looks like these songs appear on other compilations as well.

Information on A. S. Kang, per a translated German website:

A.S. Kang with "Teri Jhanjar", with which Indian rhythms with schneidigen raps, traditional singing and modern Synthis combine themselves to a packing Soundclash.

Exactly. That’s my only information, other than “boliyan” which means something like “bundle of traditional songs,” and “bhangra” itself, which is derived from a Punjabi word for hemp. Speaking of hemp, maybe “Juice” will download, drop by, and translate some of the lyrics in the comments.

If you're wondering, the worst music I ever heard at a wedding--also VERY, VERY loud--was during a middle class Tanzanian reception, coincidentally also three hundred strong.

First, you should know, that Tanzanians always turn their radios, boom boxes, and walkmen to the maximum volume, distortion—or nearby music sources—be damned. (Thanks to Mista Bly for pointing this out). You want a fuzzed-out KiSwahili cover of “When Doves Cry”? Got it. You need Kenny Rogers for jeep beats? Yep. You like Huey Lewis Muzak with squelching violins? Yours. Yes, you’ve never believed that elevator music could be played at ear-piercing levels. But you’ve never been to a Tanzanian reception.

The reception I attended not only featured a DJ, but also a small brass band (two trumpets, a trombone, two drummers), and there were apparently no rules about the two interfering with each other, as random trumpet blares competed with various siren screeches from speaker stacks (usually signifying some transition in the program, e.g., from everybody shaking hands with the bride and groom, to everybody dancing past the bride and groom). The DJ also interjected synthesizer machine gun sounds during particularly poignant moments, and allowed feedback to well up to numbing volumes a couple of times. Actually, so far what I’ve described ain’t too far off from a Bomb Squad production. But Public Enemy wouldn’t play Phil Collins twice. Or “Yesterday,” or “The Greatest Love of All,” or “Jambo Bwana,”* although Flav might appreciate the incongruous explosions that punctuated them.

*”Jambo Bwana” is a tourist KiSwahili song delivered in the same sing-song manner of American children’s records or Kurtis Blow, the official** version backed with the tones of the smallest of Casios. As far as I could gather, no Tanzanian conceives of kitschy culture as embarrassing, and adults routinely sing along with as much fervor as they muster for Shania Twain’s lyrics. The words to “Jambo Bwana” translate as such:

Gree-tings
Gree-tings mis-ter
What is your news?
Ve-ry good now
Let us all sing
Let us all dance
Ki-Swa-hi-li
Is our lan-guage
[then some repetition]
Ha-ku-na-ma-ta-ta [no worries]

**There are at least three official versions, Tanzanian, Kenyan, and generic “African”.

Power Pop

Überscenester was a power pop band I saw in Minneapolis opening for the band that opened for Archers of Loaf, who I’d never gotten around to seeing while I lived in NC. They were very good with a short, peppy set that was a perfect opener. (Creeper Lagoon, named all too well, followed with an interminable mope that drove me to buy ear plugs, which the (pre-)Wife had smartly purchased on the way in.) Überscenester’s performance led me to half-assedly search for one of their recordings for the last six years. And last month I finally found their only album (they also produced two EPs, the first a test-run for the album) in the Cheapo bins.

The “Shooting Stars” LP (their quote marks) was recorded and released in the twin cities in 1999 (the label) or 2000 (web) on El Basso Records, which appears to be defunct, as does the band. Unfortunately, the recorded songs don’t measure up to the live versions. You know how you don’t really notice lyrics so much at a show; it’s the guitar crunch that catches you, and you enjoy that on nearly every track. Sadly, the witty band name did not translate into witty words, or even clever pseudonyms: Al Grande, Matt Young, Davin O and Mike Suade. (I know all the good punk surnames haven’t been taken; even the Scandinavian Hives came up with some snazzy ones at about the same time.) Advice for Matt: eschew clichés, nothing good ever came of “apple of my eye” or “wish upon a star.” A band with the moxie to name themselves Überscenester ought to have damn cool lyrics. (Lifter Puller’s subject matter lives up to the name far better.) That said, every song provides some listening pleasure (melody, guitars, noise) and a moment to wince (lyrics, earnest singing). Oh yeah, the City Pages’ readers voted them sixth-best (tied) new band in 1999. Listen yourself:

Uberscenester - Going Out With Him

Conversely, the Weakerthans (judging from an admittedly small sample of tunes) have some of the best lyrics I’ve heard from the new millennium, including this, my favorite breakup song I’ve heard in a long while:

Weakerthans - Plea From A Cat Named Virtue

It’s a fucking anthem! In a cat’s voice! I found this song incongruously tucked in Punk-O-Rama Vol. 9, amidst bands who apparently believe that Minor Threat is the apotheosis of (semi-)popular music. (Maybe they got onto this comp sound unheard since some of the band came from Propaghandi.) Also excellent is Our Retired Explorer (Dines with Michel Foucault in Paris, 1961), from the same album, Reconstruction Site (2003), which I’m going to buy when I get myself back to a record store.