3. The Band

Release: 1969 (Capitol, bastards who don’t document the release date on their records)

Acquisition details: 1993 or 94, in Chapel Hill (Skylight Exchange), during an effort to collect “canonical” pop music (esp. Christgau’s list).

Hain’t listened to in seven or eight years, prolly. I started out thinking: purty good faux Americana, though the chorus of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” certainly turns an interesting beginning into a drag. The subject matter of this record lies somewhere in a mythical borderland containing both the Old South and the Wild West, hey, maybe Arkansas, since the only real American in The Band came from there. At least that’s the gist of the sound (pianos that sound like the self-players, mouth harps and whatnot) and the lyrics I hear, though I’m certainly too lazy to really listen hard. But I grew more exhausted of the record as it spun repeatedly; its fakeness began to be as blatant as the lie of the sepia cover photo.

Actually, what can I say that Greil Marcus hasn’t already said, in his interesting yet mystifying (and overwhelmingly personal) explanation of the interconnectedness of all American culture and music in Mystery Train. Say, where is my copy? It wasn’t in the box labeled “Music bks.” Hate to lose the annotated discography in the back. And speaking of Greil, sort of, an amusing snarky comment about an old dorm-mate of mine (Marc Greilsamer: sorry to spill your true name Grill Cheese, but the anecdote requires I do so) who became a music critic since I last saw him (He gave me water and a brownie in Manhattan when I had eaten a Percocet too many [2], and couldn’t stomach the egg plant pizza I’d mistakenly bought; it looked so good layin’ there fried on top, and the batter disguised its vegetable nature). Anyhow, someone was put off by Marc’s “rockist” ballot for the 2003 Pazz and Jop, and called him Greil Marcus’s evil twin.

Mixworthy: n/a

Verdict: I don’t know. I’ve certainly heard it enough for the next half-decade. And who am I kidding, is anyone going to buy back this record with a big tear in the cover?

A2: ALTERNATIVE TV: Strange Kicks

Release: 1981 (I.R.S. Records)

Acquisition Details: Mid-90s from used record store? Must’ve been bought during attempt to get any possible punk product for cheap. Loved ATV’s weirdo single, “Life,” (“Life’s about as wondaful as a dead tramp lyin’ in the road”) and found “Action Time Vision” fine.

Mystifying Lyric: From “T.V. Operator”:
I’m as dull, dull, dull, dull, dull as a Belgian miner [minor?].

The LP’s jaunty in places, with decent guitars, and I gotta say I like Mark Perry’s vocals a lot, very English. But the most notable moments are the songs with predominant keyboards, including two with Farfisa organs (I think) on side two. The other synthesizer has, I suppose, a proto-techno texture, and it’s the nicest part of the song. So, while the record’s not annoying, it’s not really worth any effort. This is one of many personal lessons in learning that “punk” turned into “new wave” around 1980 or so (convenient, that), and I don’t appreciate the sonic qualities of ‘80s music anywhere near as much.

Mixworthy: n/a

Verdict (Courtesy of the lyrics from“Who Are They”):
They’re headed in a record store/
Surely life must be better than this.

The question is will anyone buy it back?

A1: ATTILA

Release: 1970 (reissue Back-Trac Records, 1985)

Acquisition details: 1990 or 1991. Seems like I got it in Germany, though I’m fairly sure that’s a false memory, and I got it earlier in Durham. Purchased new, but at discount price ($4 or so). Bought because cover (see below) drew my interest. Got my sister a copy later.

Embarrassing liner notes: “Attila: Is the most remarkable group on the scene since the Huns sacked Europe. There are only two men in the group, an unlikely number for a conquering horde.”

“[The vocalist] (Taurus) is twenty-one, single, and only sweats two things: perfecting his sound and South East Asia.”

“As they worked, a new feeling crept into their music. There was resentment and hostility at a world that locks new music away in the basement. Hostility toward all the people who say no to new sounds before they hear them. … What they are mad at is complacency, and all those without imagination.” (-Tom Paisley)

There are other Attilas: in case you’re confused, this is the one that included Billy Joel before he was Piano Man. Attila was a duo that featured Joel (the aforementioned Taurus) on organ and vocals and another guy named Small on drums. It’s not quite as bad as it sounds, in fact some bits groove along like the rhythmic parts of “Frankenstein.”

But the first thing you notice is the cover, where the two band-mates stand in medieval (not Hun-like) armor amidst hanging sides of beef. The second thing you apprehend is the fuzzed up organ, very similar sounding to the one in “In-a-gadda-da-vida,” except when it sounds like an electric guitar solo (which is pretty amazing in a bad way). Then you become aware of Billy Joel screeching in a manner standard to heavy metal band vocalists about ’68-72, like Uriah Heep or Deep Purple, I’d say. Then you realize the godawful nature of the lyrics. The doggerel really makes you appreciate Joel’s later lyrical sophistication, even if you hate his corniness.

From “Wonder Woman”:

Wonder woman with your skin so fair
Wonder woman with your long red hair
You have the velvet touch
You have what I want so much

Far worse, from “California Flash”:

He jumped out on the stage
He knew he had everything made
He broke out into a song
Oh, he couldn’t do nothin wrong
Then he started doing a dance
Said it was imported from France
The girls all started to prance
To see the California Flash movin’ his pants.

Side one is listenable until the last “song,” a 7:39 instrumental called “Amplifier Fire [geddit!?]: Part 1, Godzilla; Part 2, March of the Huns.” It sounds a lot like a Hammond organ mimicking a contemporary jazz guitarist (electric). Side two sounds a lot like what I’d imagine a Rick Wakeman solo album would sound like, were I ever to be unfortunate enough to listen to one.

Mixworthy: In my younger days I always thought I’d put “Wonder Woman” on a tape for a red-headed girlfriend, if I ever had one. I did (redhead) and did not (put the song on her tape). I had wised up by then, I guess.

Verdict: Keeper, but really only because it functions as a historical curiosity for both my past as well as Billy Joel’s.

Records' Records!

A confluence of several events has inspired the resurrection of Fats Durstonia: a completed move; lots of baby care responsibility at home; the fact that our landlords left behind a snazzy record player with a repeat function. (The blog’s neglect has been the fault of a number of time sucks: moving, dissertation, work, baby care, and, most/worst of all, video games.) In blatant imitation of a couple of other blogs (one now on hiatus itself), I’m gonna work through my record collection, in approximate alphabetical order, trying to listen to three or four per week. If you have records, you know that you must keep them in some order, or you’ll never find them via their skinny little labels. So “A’s” are with “A’s,” “B’s” with “B’s,” and so on, but they won’t be strictly alphabetized as that would be more work than I’m willing to put in.

After moving my really heavy record collection (two crates and two boxes), and knowing another move is imminent in 2006, I felt that I really needed to get some more use out of them. Baby-proofing had resulted in the disconnect of speaker wires a few months back, leaving headphones the only viable option for record listening, and everyone knows headphones are for iPod/computer mp3 listening. Although I love my records, though there are certainly a number that could be gotten rid of … and there are a few I’ve never heard all the songs on (Tonio K, I’m lookin’ at you). Each record will get the dignity of at least one full listen through, maybe more.

3MRM 2b: Funky White Madeleine

“Julia” While this reggae-pop schlock cover was unfamiliar, the original is, of course, old hat. Early in high school I taped The White Album off a continuous radio broadcast with my second clock/radio, which had all of one speaker, which crackled if you held a lighter near it (hey, 14 years old living in a town of 400 people, sumthin to do). The tape was a C-60, so it ran out somewhere during “Revolution No. 9”. This cassette and one of the Beatles’ “greatest 40 hits” taped from the same station, albeit with commercial interruption, were #1 and #2 in my 9th-grade rotation; in my head “Eight Days a Week” still runs out about 30 seconds early.

“The Breaks” With the exception of Blondie’s “Rapture” (mastering the cars/mars/etc. rhyme gained neighborhood esteem), rap didn’t come over the radio station I heard (only one pop station in town) in junior high, but I heard kids at school singing Blow’s “Basketball” and mimicking the Fat Boys’ Human Beat Box. But the second* pre-recorded cassette I ever owned, at the pitifully late age of 16, was Run-DMC’s Raising Hell, purchased for me in absentia by my Grandma for xmas, a choice that would’ve no doubt offended her, since she once hissed “Get Away!” at my sister for wearing a bikini. (Do you need to know all the words to “Hit It Run”? “You Be Illin’”?)

“The Stroke” My other sister really hated this, only she thought the chorus was “stroke man, stroke man”; wait, maybe that wasn’t her criticism, since she was about nine when it came out. Perhaps it was my friend who recycled his very cool (and cruel) older brother’s musical opinions, a guy who listened to the Clash, the Crass, and Fearless Iranians, and somehow knew in the early 80s that tattoos were the hipster future.

“Kiss” A shameful memory, as I heard the Tom Jones/Art Of Noise cover first. But I saw the real video soon thereafter, and it’s never fallen out of favor since. Fellow Minneapolitans, have you noticed how the interstate on-ramp caution lights blink exactly in time with this song? Coincidence?

“Rockit” Another video introduction in the mid-80s: a video with robots, robots playing music. Shoulda been named “Scratchit,” though.

“China Girl” Found this a few months ago, online, intrigued by all the critical fuss about shantytown mash-ups. Hope her vocal style matures beyond all them, “yaaaaahs”. Excellent choice of butting the “Sweet Dreams” sample against “Don’t You Want Me”; synth texture so similar.

“Don’t You Want Me” Shouldn’t this have been on Music of the Robot 1970-85? In my head this song will always be tied to Steve Miller’s “Abracadabra”; they were ruling the airwaves when I first heard my favorite uncle say “shit” for the first time, splashing himself with something nasty out of a can he had picked up, I don’t know why, since we had no conception of recycling then. A year later he explained: “Now there are ‘songs’ and there are ‘tunes,’ the songs you really like. ‘Beat It’: Now there’s a tune.” This was the last time I saw him as he was killed in an accident not long after passing on this wisdom.

“20th Century Boy” First exposure: a commercial—Levi’s?—in 1990, I think, wherein the lead wore sideburns. Only lower class dudes had that sort of facial hair then, but still he looked cool, no doubt enhanced by that growmbling guitar, the sneery voices and saxes. And then that whole 90210 thing blew up, and everybody and their brother grew sideburns.

“Seven Nation Army” I have two other covers of this; a club version and the Flaming Lips’, which has amusing alternate lyrics (“goin ta florida/gonna bowl me a perfect game”). The original inspired a listening sensation just like when one of my roommates acquired the first Led Zeppelin box set (three (!) whole new songs; ultimately disappointing). Elephant was a lifesaver in Tanzania, when I needed rawk to cleanse the palate of a little too much bongo flava (in the city) or simp pop (wiener Dutch housemates: “I don’t know how you can lissen to dis; it iss so noisy.”).

“You Ought To Be With Me” This song was part of an early draft for my 3mrm volume. His falsetto, like the Reverend is polishing your ears with chamois made from angel hide. Bought the album (Call Me) in college in an effort to collect the pop canon, but shelved it after a few listens. A couple years later the cassette found its way into my car rotation during pizza delivery (thanks, humanities B.A.!) as a soothing break from funk and punk and non-tipping college students, and soon thereafter a song from it onto each and every comp tape I made for girls.

“Summer in the City” Inextricably intertwined with “Hot Child in the City” in my head. Must’ve come over the single speaker of my first clock/radio, an all-brown affair with a covering like tweed and a clock with hands. This machine had an amazing weakness: if a single thread inside was snipped, every function ceased working (hey, 13 years old living in a town of 12,000 people, sumthin to do).

“I’d Rather Be With You” After all the fun with him as a bassist with James Brown (“Soul Power”), Parliament (“Night of the Thumpasarus People”), and Dee-Lite (“Groove Is In the Heart”), I sprung for a Bootsy hits CD at the end of the pizza-driving era. But after I recorded the songs I liked, and sold it back, I’m not sure if I’ve ever listened to that tape again. He needs someone else to sing.

“She Drives Me Crazy” Is it fair that that Roland Gift got those cheekbones and that voice? The guy across the hall in my freshman dorm (nickname: “Scrotum”) played this, complained about his roommate shedding leg hair, re-used his snot tissues after they dried, and watched Night Court re-runs every day. Every day.

“Woman to Woman” Dre you cagey bastard!

“I Get Lifted” Another soft soul from the pizza-delivery years.

“I Won’t Back Down” Listened to the original on the floor of a high school friend’s room, a room with a hole (two?) punched in the wall by its inhabitant. Ah, adolescent rage.

*I only liked a single song on my first cassette, a blues mockery that makes me embarrassed to hear it now. That tape was James Taylor’s Greatest Hits. Really, it mostly made me queasy. Defense: You see, I liked a song of Taylor’s on the radio in ’86, though at first I had no idea who sang it. When I asked around trying to figure out the artist, one girl suggested maybe the Beastie Boys, ‘cause she knew they had an awesome song on the radio. I thought to myself that perhaps a band who decided to name themselves the Beastie Boys, whoever they were, probably didn’t carry such a sweet melody. When I finally solved the mystery my mom bought me the tape, which of course did not contain the song I wanted. That’s my excuse.

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.

Annoying?

There was some consternation among the mp3 bloggerati about Daft Punk’s P-Diddyesque sampling of Release the Beast to create their (or “their”) song Robot Rock. But no one seemed to comment on the other plagiarism from Human After All: Technologic sounds almost exactly like the Butthole Surfers’ Annoying Song, with the guitars removed and the synth from Ginuwine’s Pony added. Although I don’t think Daft Punk’s is supposed to be annoying (who really knows, with robots, though), it is. Both of them are nonetheless catchy.

Historian vs. Pop Musician, part 1

Came across a song to rival the horribleness (and length, 9+ minutes) of Suicide’s “Frankie Teardrop.” It’s Eugene Daniels’ “The Parasite” (which doesn’t even make sense, as it’s about North American settlers, plural), which apparently comes from an actually released major label album. This song equals Suicide’s for its amateurish sound, monumentally stupid lyrics, and a tone-deaf singing style remarkably similar to Shatner’s interpretation of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” What “The Parasite” lacks in pretension it makes up for in condescension. But the reason I’m writing about it is its historical subject matter, the bone-headedness of which gave me an idea: commenting on the admittedly rare historical pop song from a historian’s perspective. That one’s gonna take some work to do, so I’ll do a short one first: The third section from Nas's kiddie singalong "I Can," which I like, is the only historical portion of the song. I am unfortunately working from the [clean version].

Before we came to this country/
We were kings and queens/
No, your ancestors were not kings and queens, or likely anyone with even a modicum of political power. In most cases those sold into slavery were the weakest and most vulnerable members of various West and Central African societies: outcasts, criminals, debtors, soldiers, children, peasants. In fact, the African population who ended up in North America was pretty much analogous to the European immigrant population; the whites, for the most part, were from the same lower class positions. I don’t know why you’d want to claim a royal background anyway, Nas; isn’t that sort of society even more exploitative and unfair than our own?
Never porch monkeys.
You shouldn’t resurrect this, even for the sake of a rhyme, because it reminds racists.
There was empires in Africa called Kush, Timbuktu/
Again, I know all the models of “historical greatness,” at least as popularized, include past empires as a measure of a people (whatever that means), but are you enamored of the American empire today? Really, you seem sold on inequality and exploitation as good things, confusing might with right. (Note: Kush flourished 10th century – 7th century BCE. Timbuktu wasn’t an empire, but an important city in a series of Sahel empires, flourishing 13th – 16th c CE.)
Where every race came to get books/
To learn from black teachers/
Who taught Greeks and Romans/
Asians, Arabs/
“Every race” stretches the truth, since I doubt any Chinese or Amerindians studied there, but considering the inter-connectedness of the Islamic world during Timbuktu’s heyday, there might very well have been an Indonesian or two who traveled that far. And yes, Timbuktu was renowned as a center of learning among Muslims, famous for its scholars and manuscripts. Anachronistic: the Greek and Roman empires disappeared several hundred years before Timbuktu was even built. I guess it’s possible that early modern Greeks might’ve traveled there, as they were Ottoman (Muslim) subjects at the beginning of Timbuktu’s decline, but Nas means the ancient Greeks, ‘cause they were “great”.
And gave them gold. When/
I seriously doubt the teachers gave the students gold. It’s the other way around. In fact, book-selling was one of the most profitable trades in Timbuktu.
Gold was converted to money/
It all changed.
Anachronistic: Gold was first made into money early in the second millennium BCE, including in Egypt, though I’m not sure when (or if) minting coins began in West Africa. (Slabs of salt, gold dust, and cowrie shells were the currency there in the early modern period. Meanwhile, in East Africa, there were cities minting their own gold coins.)
Money then became empowerment for Europeans.
The gold from West Africa did supply Europe with some of its specie before the rise of Western European powers (the English slang “guinea” for coins indicates at least partial African origins for their money) , but that gold was very expensive, and in fact some of the Portuguese missions down the west coast of Africa were undertaken in an attempt to cut out the North African middlemen. And it is true, that Western European credit systems enabled slave (and other) trading in West Africa from the 15th c CE, but the wealth that really empowered Europeans came from the Americas.
The Persian military invaded/
Anachronistic: Nas! This was the 6th c BCE, and limited to Egypt.
They heard about the gold/
The teachings/
And everything sacred/
Africa was almost robbed naked.
Now you’re denying both African resistance (some Africans fought against the slave trade) and African complicity (other Africans did virtually all the capturing of slaves) in the Atlantic slave trade, which began in the 15th c CE.
Slavery was money/
So they began making slave ships.
Persians?! Your antecedent is unclear, Nas. Slave ships—for transporting slaves, as opposed to those powered by slave labor—were mostly a feature of the last 600 years, and besides, pre-modern enslavement was not exclusive to Africans (obvious from the fact that the root word of “slave” is the same word as “Slav.”).
Egypt was the place that Alexander the Great went/
Back to the 4th c BCE!
He was shocked that the mountains were black faces.
No he wasn’t. The Greeks considered Egyptians as among the most “civilized” people in their world.
Shot off they nose/
Anachronistic: Guns didn’t appear around the Mediterranean until 1500 years after Alexander’s invasion. You’re confusing this invasion with events in the 19th century, where European imperial agents are reputed to have chiseled away the noses on paintings of ancient Egyptians, because they looked too “black” to fit within the Europeans’ racist worldview.
To impose/
What basically/
Still goes on today you see...
Agreed.

Baleful Influence Watch, pt 2

Apologies to my legions of faithful readers (does 3 count as legions?) for the dearth of posts. Work + Wife's sprained ankle + Baby + NCAA tournament = No blogging.

The Burgeoner demolished my case for the Replacements below, and provided a number of replacements who I should’ve ranked much higher. (I guess my hatred of “Supernatural” really has faded, though the mention of it as one of the 25 best no. 1's in the 90s made me want to throttle the blogger who claimed such.)

U2: “Clocks,” Coldplay (2003)
I’d always thought this was U2, and turned the channel, natch.

Pearl Jam: “Serenity,” Godsmack (2003)

ACC Tournament

It was my lucky (crusty, the wife sez) underwear that pulled Duke through the tourney. Game one: As though some sort of mediums are working the game. The entire team seems to be channeling Duke centers from the past, except for Shavlik, who is just Shavlik. It appears that Eric Meek, Tamon Domzalski, and two Matt Christiansens are out there on the floor with Randolph, heaving up airball layups and committing a series of hopeless bungles in the lane. In addition, Melchionni has stolen Redick’s mojo, the wife notes. Game two: Redick takes the mojo back. Game three: Remarkably Zen about calls until the last minute or so, when Shelden’s head again mistaken for ball by both opposition and referees. Screaming until then limited to stupidities of announcers and shoddy camera choices by ESPN editor. No one, not even Mickie Krzyzewski wants the coverage to linger on Coach K; we all want to watch the Goddamn game. No one wants to hear Dick Vitale explain Redick’s proper use of screen from five minutes back; we want to watch what’s going on now. Query: what works about the slow down game? I dunno, but Akbar saves the day, a la NCAAs first round, 2003. Thank you, Kentucky, Wake, and Arizona. #1 in Charlotte?! Must go shower.

Ear Bugs

The wife, “And I asked if it came with headphones, and the guy sniffed, and said, ‘It comes with ear buds’.”

The sister, “Ear bugs!?”

My ear bugs don’t really fit. If I smile, or grimace, or really do anything with my facial muscles, they fall out. And after I wear them about thirty minutes my ears really start hurting. Do I have unnaturally small ear holes? Do they have different sizes available? Lucky for the multitudes of headphones around the house.

I'm not that patient

I’m glad I wasn’t “there in 1974/
The first Suicide practices/
In a loft in NYC/
…working on the organ sound…”

I’ve come across the worst album I’ve listened to this year, and I heard the entirety of Now That’s What I Call Music! 10 last week.*

Anyone who claims that Suicide is worth hearing is posing. Maybe this “band” is at the root of ‘eighties synth-pop, Wax Trax, and/or micro-house (which I know nothing about), but just because you’re seminal doesn’t mean you don’t suck. I’d bet you’d rather hear George Harrison’s Moog noodles or Popcorn’s “Hot Butter” (or was it Hot Butter’s “Popcorn”?). I know I would.

Really, people who swear by this have been duped like modern art patrons (not a coincidence: Suicide’s singer came out of NYC’s avant-garde artist community). I suspect the reason that Suicide was a duo was that they were so dreadful the drummer and guitarist left. And the remaining two wrongly believed they were good enough to carry on.

Shall we examine Suicide’s “gritty lyrics of love”**?

From “Cheree”

“Cheree Cheree/oh babyuh/oh babyuh/I love you/Cheree Cheree/My comic book fantasy/I love you/oh baby.”

Hmmm. The grit must be later in the song. Lessee. Repeat above. Then “My black leather lady***/Oh come play with me/Oh buhay-bee.”

That’s it, the sum total of the song’s lyrics.

Okay, that was the single. I mean, they prolly bent to the conventions of the marketplace; the demands of capital necessitated simplistic words, right?

Here we go with “Girl”:

Oh girl.

Turn me on.

Yeah.

You know how.

Oh Touch me soft.

You might think a song 4:04 in length might contain more, and you’d be right. There are some orgasm sounds that are too embarrassing to relate here.

All right, love songs are just silly anyway. This one is called “Che”—it must political, huh? (Unless it’s a variant on “Cheree”…)

He’s wearin’ a red star

He’s smokin’ a cigar

And when he died

The whole world lied.

Said he wazza saint.

But I know he aint [echoey sound effect on the vocals here]

Chuh…Che

Hooray Hooray

Chuh…Che

Hooray Hooray

(There are also some yelps here and there.)

So you’re arguing that good lyrics aren’t necessary for a good song; it’s about delivery and music. Alan Vega sings in the manner of a heavy-breathing midnight caller, occasionally lapsing into psychosis. There are great gaps between the each line, suggesting he made up the words as he went along.

On every song there’s a synth background that sounds like bugs at night in the summer. Occasionally there are tinkly melodies that recall opening novelty "musical" Christmas cards. Sometimes the “music” becomes a perfect replication of your fridge when it’s humming loud in the middle of the night and making it so you can’t sleep. Sometimes it sounds like a ill-grounded circuit, like how your laptop might sound when plugged into an outlet in Tanzania. From time to time some kid must’ve come on to mash organ keys randomly.

I do believe I’m going to record one of these to give to anyone who betrays me in the future.

--

*Okay, okay, I skipped Marc Anthony’s song.

**Roni Sarig, The Secret History of Rock.

***This is mumbled, so possibly mis-heard.

Potential

I’ve come across an album with the potential to be added to the 2000-2004 list: Devin the Dude’s mis-named To tha Extreme (2004). Rarely do I like a record so relaxed all the way through. This was the record Marvin Gaye would’ve made if he’d had a sense of humor. The subject matter limited to weed and sex, sometimes both in the same song, and it’s funny throughout with not one skit. Devin gets played by a freak, rides a plane high, is denied a nipple tickle, receives his comeuppance from a muscle-bound Jamaican, and fails to pay his parking tickets. Apparently, Ray Stevens (ca. “The Streak”) is a guess vocalist portraying a rapping redneck cop, “this street is ars/we seldom see rims like ‘at with a yellow stripe ‘round the tars.” A bizarre but sweet musical equivalent of “can’t we all just get along” closes out the album, and it includes both an admission of dictionary failures and the word “combinate.”

Drawback: On some of the “romantic” tunes, there’s that synthesizer wash that sounds like the way xmas tree icicles look.

I suspect the record will end up in the B range, since its strength is entirely in the lyrics. His vocals, samples, music, and beats are not really remarkable in any sense.

Sharkman

An old friend died this last week. He wasn’t old; he was a friend a long time ago. I’d only seen him once in the last dozen years, but we'd sent a few emails back and forth. It was strange to learn of his death from a website whose author did not even know him.

Watching Wizard of Oz with Sharkman was more fun than any other time I have seen that movie. I also ate more prunes in one sitting with him—he had jars of ‘em in his room, jars—than ever before or since: he had decided they were a good luck talisman for free throws at that time. I know he would’ve raged at the referees today, and I raged along with him in spirit. I think I’ll dig out the Mr. Bungle tape (his favorite, a dozen years ago) and rage some more.

Influence Watch, pt 1

Pearl Jam: Chad Kroeger, “Hero,” 2002.

Pearl Jam: Creed, “One Last Breath,” 2002.