Mini-reviews: The week of Sunday, May 24-Sunday, May 31!

'Dem's the stats.

Hey-ho, kids!  For lack of any better ideas, I've decided that I'm going to give you the lowdown on all the albums I've listened to in the last week.  Many of these are first listens to begin with and I don't think I've listened to any album more than once this week, so many of these opinions will be pretty half-baked.  Of course, first impressions are pretty significant as is and normal people who don't write record reviews, and therefore don't listen to entire albums they may not even like at length, can and generally will base their entire outlook on certain artists based on first impressions (hell, normal people don't even listen to albums to begin with!)

But enough bullshit justifications, here are the reviews!

AC/DC - Highway to Hell and Back in Black: Alright, so the chart only has 11 tracks scrobbled for the week, but I did listen to 20 AC/DC tracks in just over the past week, so there.  At the recommendation of fellow blogger Sean Rose, I finally dug these gems out of the library and gave 'em a spin (for the first time in complete length, whoah!).  Goddamn they're good.  It'll probably take another few listens to really distinguish each tune, cause they're all similarly heavy, good-timesey rock 'n' roll (which is a fantastic thing).  Although I've always enjoyed Bon Scott's voice more, I may take Back in Black as the better of the two, for now at least, probably just because it had more of the radio hits I knew (and was able to sing along to), but I'll be damned if I wasn't rockin' out to "You Shook Me All Night Long," a song which typically kinda annoys me but felt perfect in context.  Maybe I was just in a good mood.  Then again, it's tough to feel like shit in the presence of AC/DC.

The War on Drugs - Wagonwheel Blues:  Another one per mention by Sean, although word came to him from Mark Prindle, who gave the band a rare boldface recommendation via his "Hip New Bands That the Kids Dig" mini-reviews.  I wouldn't say it's unjustified but frankly, the album didn't do all that much here.  It's got a nice psych-folk atmosphere but isn't particularly memorable.  Alas, you may disagree (especially if you are Mark Prindle).

The Dictators - Go Girl Crazy:  And speaking of good-times rock 'n' roll, here's another bona-fide, yet lesser known record that seems to stay in the shadows of the New York Dolls' debut album, but in actuality might better it.  It's proto-punk that thrives not only on musical lunkheadedness and snotty attitude like its peers, but adds the extra joy of ultra-stupid lyrics like, "Oh weekend / Soon he threw up in the store (a McDonalds) / But if he does it anymore / I'll make him eat it off the floor" and "I drink Coca Cola for breakfast / I've got Jackie Onassis in my pants."  Poetry comes not in finer forms.  They've got some ridiculous covers of "I Got You Babe" and "California Sun," and tunes like "The Next Big Thing" and "(I Live For) Cars and Girls" are just thoroughly enjoyable.  Highly recommended, and honestly I feel like stopping here and re-listening to it... but alas, I must press on!

King Missile - They:  Last.fm kept tossing these guys at the top of my "Recommended" section, comparing them to Ween and the Dead Milkmen.  If you don't know (probably not), they're the guys who do "Detachable Penis" (collective "Ohhhhhhh!").  But they do much more.  Much, much more.  In fact, something like ten albums more, each with at least fifteen songs.  I started myself on the Prindle-commended They, which seemed daunting at first due to its twenty-two song length.  By the end of the first song though, it became clear that it would be a highly enjoyable trip through mostly jangly, early lo-fi indie rock with some truly bizarre lyrics, in the vein of (guess who!) Ween and the Dead Milkmen.  "He Needed" is a list of things some guy needs.  "If Only" explains the woes of the inhuman ability to turn one's head into a food item.  "Hemophiliac of Love" is self-explanatory, and for some reason I remember "As I Walked Thru Queens" to be downright hilarious.  And that's only what I explicitly remember almost a week after listening to it once!  Naturally, this sprawling mess of off-kilter humor requires some more listens, and I look forward to when I get around to tackling this again.

Wilco - Summerteeth and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot:  Re-listened to both of these for the billionth time after hearing the news of Jay Bennett's passing.  They are still really great.  Not that that surprises anyone.

Jarvis Cocker - "Further Complications":  Nope, not again.  Scroll down.

Guillemots - Through the Windowpane:  I accidentally found this on the ol' hub back at Case sometime during my freshman year (about a year and a half ago) and forgot it was there.  I finally decided to check it out and I subsequently discovered an album full of indie pop goodness, sadsack balladry and best of all, huge, bombastic, sweeping orchestral passages.  Now, it all may seem pretty overblown yet simultaneously run-of-the-mill, but Guillemots manage to pull off the bombast with a great deal of eloquence, space and restraint, and it helps that the singer has the sort of tuneful, almost Jeff Buckley-esque voice that justifies the grandiose heights the band hopes to scale.  Some of the slower stuff has a real somnolent quality to it, but songs like "São Paulo," the nearly twelve-minute long showstopping closer, pull no stops.  A massive orchestra, songs-within-a-song, an adrenaline, climactic finish - I loves me that stuff.  Modern day ELO maybe, but even more exaggerated and a little less corny?  Recommended.

Shearwater - Rook:  Very similar, mood-wise to Guillemots, just much more subdued, and the singer's voice is a lot more ethereal.  Consequently, it's also a lot more dull, but still has enough moments of beauty for it to be worth listening.  "The Snow Leopard" is gorgeous, "On the Death of the Waters" is quite startling and I think I remember liking "Home Life" a lot.

Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix:  A jolly good funtimes pop record full of synths and clean electric guitars and tight drums and what-have-you.  It'll probably take a few listens to develop itself fully, although it's not the sort of record I'm jumping at the chance to listen to again.  Still enjoyable through its duration!

Grizzly Bear - Veckatimest:  One of the most anticipated records of the year in the indie realm turns out to be basically what it's been cracked up to be.  Lush harmonies, dense instrumentation, very reminiscent of Pet Sounds (although obviously not quite as good, maybe more on par with Surf's Up?).  I'll certainly head on back to this one as it seems like the sort of record that not only fleshes itself out and distinguishes itself with each listen, but also the one where new details pop up.  On a related note, I'll also mention that in the twitterverse, of all the musicians I'm following, @EdwardDroste seems like the nicest and most genuine.  It shows in the music.

Pixies - Trompe le Monde:  Felt the need to reacquaint myself with this classic for some reason, and it certainly gets better.  Never realized how nasty "Planet of Sound" is or just how pretty "Motorway to Rosewell" is.  And of course, "U-Mass," "Space (I Believe In)," "Alec Eiffel," etc are still great.

Motörhead - Ace of Spades:  I'd recently developed an affinity for this album's title track (ashamedly due to its deserved inclusion in Rock Band 2, but it was bound to happen sometime), so I decided to (belatedly) check out the rest of the record.  Goddamn, whattan album.  These guys are just relentless, pounding out riff after riff of fast-paced, trashy, insane rock and roll.  You can smell the whiskey on Lemmy's breath.  So "The Hammer" may be a rewrite of "Ace of Spades," but few songs deserve to be rewritten more than that on.  And "Love Me Like a Reptile," "Fast and Loose," "The Chase is Better Than the Catch" and the charming "Jailbait" simply destroy.  Take this one for a drive now.  It's nice out.

Unwound - Leaves Turn Inside You:  Is this one a challenge or what?  I've heard Repetition before, which sounds a lot like Fugazi, and I was expecting the same here, except just 75 minutes of it and two songs that go on longer than 9 minutes.  Much to my surprise, I got something much more subdued, a few kinda poppy tunes ("December," "Demons Sing Love Songs," if I remember correctly) and it ended with some really creepy, lengthy instrumentals (actually, I don't think they were instrumentals but it was certainly the case where the vocals were subservient to the music) and the album just ends cold with a completely out-of-place old-timesy trombone solo that, in context, is quite frightening.  This is an interesting one.

Elvis Costello - Secret, Profane and Sugarcane:  Who ever thought that a 54-year old, British new waver could pull-off such an excellent and consistent Americana-country record?  Then again, with his relentlessly clever wordplay and rhyme schemes, Costello could pull off any genre that relies so heavily on lyrical content, and although the album contains some excellent performances from expert bluegrass and country musicians (and his old friend Emmylou Harris sings backup on "The Crooked Line"), it's those lyrics that yet again keep Costello moving beyond his third decade in the business.  Highlights include murder ballad "Complicated Shadows," the desperate "She Handed Me a Mirror" and the album's centerpiece, the jaunty "Sulfur to Sugarcane," which marks a roadmap of women with great lines like "Down in Bridgeport / The women will kill you for sport / The women in Poughkeepsie / Take their clothes off when they're tipsy."  Good stuff, and much livelier and more entertaining than Beware, Bonnie "Prince" Billy's similarly countrified offering from earlier this year.

Boris - Pink:  I saw some live footage of this Japanese "stoner/sludge/drone metal" group a while ago and was very much humored and awed by their translucent pink drum kit and what I recall was a double-necked guitar.  It seemed quite ridiculous and I moved on with my life, but the sheer audacity of that look more than anything else stayed with me until I spontaneously decided to give this album a listen yesterday.  I got hold of the vinyl edition, which is much longer than any CD version (probably for the worse) and sort of expected something I wouldn't go farther than three tracks into.  I'm not much of a metalhead.  However, after the album's title track, and the two songs that follow it, which all sounds like Motörhead meets Queens of the Stone Age, but heavier and in Japanese (without the obnoxious METAL vocals that bug me), I was completely floored.  What followed those tracks, then much more suited the descriptions of Boris I'd heard, although the extremely heavy production helped maintain interest while the tempos slowed down and even dropped out.  One recalled The Melvins, while a few others were even dirgier.  A couple songs are actually quite pretty, "Farewell" and "My Machine" inclusive (although the latter goes on, on this version of the album, a bit too long at over ten minutes in lentgh).  Perhaps most absurd, and why the shorter versions of the album might be a bit better, is that at least 14 minutes of the 72 minute long album is just ungodly noise.  Now, I wouldn't be the first to complain about this, but that might be a little excessive.  At least eight of these minutes though, follow the propulsive, violent ten minutes known as "Just Abandoned Myself," which closes the album and harkens back to the album's first three tracks.  So, this is really a diverse, fascinating and LOUD record.  In Japanese.  Highly recommended.

Alright, I'm done.  Happy hunting.  Can you guess where I stopped writing last night and picked up again this morning?

Songs About Fucking: Jarvis Cocker's "Further Complications"

That is Jarvis Cocker.

A bit of backstory first:  Jarvis Cocker got his start in the mid-80s when he went to work with nothing but a four-track and a drum machine, unwittingly bashing out some of the biggest hits of the era with "Do You Remember the First Time?," "Razzmatazz" and "Pigeon Kill."  Later, he formed the band Pulp with former members of Scratch Acid, penning timeless classics like "Common People," "Don't Let Him Waste Your Time," and "Tiny, King of the Jews."  After starting Rapeman and releasing This is Hardco-

Hold on one second...

Okay, sorry folks, I seem to be a bit off with my history here.  Let's try this again.

Sorry, that's Jarvis Cocker.  Didn't recognize him with that beard!

Boy did I get confused there!  I hope you understand, though, because Steve Albini's presence is nothing short of painfully obvious, what with the loud, violent drums, ugly guitars and few frills, especially in relation to Jarvis Cocker's past work.  Even on the album's Pulpiest number, closer "You're in My Eyes (Discosong)," which goes so far as to feature female backing vocals, strings and horns, it can't help but end with two minutes of feedback and noise.  And when Cocker diverges from his Pulp past, we get tunes like "Pilchard," which sounds like the goddamn Jesus Lizard.

It's easy to credit Albini with making the album work, and in the hands of anyone else,  it would almost certainly lack that distinct, propulsive and powerful sound.  Still, it would be foolish to imagine anyone other than Cocker at the helm and heart of this record, and as soon as his voice enters past the dirty hook that kicks off "Further Complications," Cocker assumes complete control, his voice lurking and twisting in his usual manner over a rougher sound that suits him better than anyone could have predicted.  Songs like the grungy title track, the dirty sax-laden "Homewrecker!" and the raucous "Caucasian Blues" find Cocker yelping with a vitality and passion lacking in his more recent works, which were more drenched in ennui and reluctant placation than anything else.  "Fuckingsong" and "Angela" (which initially seemed unremarkable as a single but grooves perfectly in the context of the album) show him at his most lustful; in the former he uses the song as a virtual replacement for sex while in the latter he struts along, his 45 year old self longing for its 22 year old titular figure.

"Further Complications" has its fair share of relaxed moments, though, which evoke the material of his debut solo album, 2006's Jarvis, a fine album that was weighted down by the same sorts of slower songs that diversify and benefit this record.  Here we see the Jarvis we all know, and the soulful pace of the songs leave room for his notable aching wit.  "Leftovers" makes use of an old trick, the typical, "I wanna be your lover" line found in thousands of pop songs, yet his desperation, wit ("He says he loves you like a sister / Well, I guess that's relative / He says that he wants to make love to you / But instead of 'to' shouldn't that be 'with'?") and self-awareness ("And at the risk of repeating myself, I'm gonna say it again!") keep such "leftovers" fresh (kill me now).  "I Never Said I Was Deep" is another showcase for such cleverness with an instantly quotable, catchy and downright huge chorus, while "Slush" almost seems like a counterpart to Morrissey's similarly moody "It's Not Your Birthday Anymore" from his latest record.

More than anything else then, "Further Complications" finds Jarvis Cocker out of his element, yet feeling more comfortable and assured than he has in years, and with the help of Steve Albini, he's crafted a sonically powerful and lyrically masterful record.  Whether or not Cocker really is as "profoundly shallow" as he claims is irrelevant.  When an album bites this hard, all of that extra depth found here is a great added perk.

In memoriam: Jay Bennett (1963-2009)

Doing what he did best.

Sorry, folks.  I gotta get sappy for a sec.  Any musician who I respect and passes on affects me.  Thankfully the last time this happened at the magnitude that a blog entry was necessary was back in February with the death of Lux Interior, and at that point, this blog wasn't even functioning.  I just feel obligated to contribute to the tributes.

Yesterday and today have been unfortunate days for the music community, as it's lost one of the progressive voices for one of its finest bands.  Former Wilco member, multi-instrumentalist Jay Bennett, who played in the band from its inception in 1994 through the release of one of this decade's most acclaimed albums, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot in 2002, was found dead yesterday afternoon at his home in Illinois at the age of 45.

Bennett, more than anything, served as the innovative, forward-thinking foil to Jeff Tweedy's roots-rockin' traditionalist.  Although Tweedy wrote of the songs, Bennett was a primary architect of Wilco's sound, particularly on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and seemingly exclusively on 1999's Summerteeth, a pop masterpiece removed almost exclusively from the alt-country sound that Wilco initially embodied.  For more on my thoughts on Wilco, check out the kinda crappy reviews I wrote about a year and a half ago for my first blog attempt, which wound up being nothing but five Wilco reviews.  Whatta band.

Bennett left the group due to increased creative tensions between himself and Tweedy after the YHF label debacle that stalled the album's release.  Since then, Wilco has kept going, temporarily hiring producer Jim O'Rourke to fill-in for Bennett's spot on 2004's A Ghost is Born, which is a damn fine album, albeit one that loomed meekly under the shadow of its predecessor.  Regardless, the band hasn't reached the musical peaks set when Bennett was an active member of Wilco, and I'm not sure if Wilco The Album will be able to do the trick.

Bennett, after leaving Wilco, worked on several solo albums, one of which will remain incomplete due to his untimely death.  His passing, however, comes at a curious time.  Not only are Wilco releasing a new album (apparently, THE album), but Bennett sued Tweedy earlier this month for breach of contract with regard to the albums he made with the band and his appearance in the excellent documentary that chronicled the creation of YHF, I Am Trying to Break Your Heart, presumably to pay for hip replacement surgery he needed due to one-too-many stage dives he took as a young'un.  This issue suddenly came to a tragic conclusion.

Below are some clips of Bennett working with the band, notably the first one, a clip from I Am Trying to Break Your Heart where Bennett helps the group shape "Poor Places," which might be my favorite Wilco song.  In one article I read, he was described as a "mad scientist," constantly twiddling knobs and relentlessly sculpting sound to his liking on stage and in the studio, and he always seemed to have a cigarette in his mouth, a look he was able to pull off quite well.  Jeff Tweedy once sang, "You have to learn how to die / If you wanna be alive."  I guess Jay Bennett studied a bit too hard.  He will be missed.

Suck it, Sonic Youth!

Alright, one thing that everyone knows about Sonic Youth is that they love noise.  In most of their songs, they'll either a) start it with noise, b) end it with noise, c) feature a noise breakdown in the middle of the song or d) lace the entire track with subtle background noise.  They love the stuff, and they've been credited with revolutionizing guitar noise and its use in popular music, creating a wealth of incredible sounds using unique experimental techniques and countless strange tunings.  They've been the proud students of the No Wave scene and electric guitar ensemble composer and performer Glenn Branca.

But alas, ladies and gentlemen, I know who Sonic Youth's true predecessors are.

I was perusing through my iTunes library the other night (shuffle mode strikes again!) and I came upon this little gem from 70s AOR, adult-contemporary-demigods Chicago off of their 1969 debut Chicago Transit Authority.  It's a solo piece by their guitarist, Terry Kath entitled "Free Form Guitar," and it's exactly what you'd think it is.  The piece consists of nearly seven minutes of ungodly, brutal, headache-inducing guitar noise.  Half of it sounds like a cross between a particularly obnoxious motorcyclist revving up his machine and a lawnmower exploding.  It's exactly the sort of thing that Sonic Youth built an entire career out of, yet Chicago was doing this over ten years before New York's prodigal hipsters came into existence.  Don't get me wrong, I love Sonic Youth as much as any indiephilic twenty year old would (The Eternal is my most anticipated summer release), but whether or not Sonic Youth would like to admit it, these guys, who later wrote this song, beat them to the punch and did a damn fine job at it.

Below is Terry Kath's monstrous solo.  Enjoy!

Addendum: Right around the same time, the Grateful Dead were also doing the exact same thing that Sonic Youth eventually did.  While Chicago's turbulent noise came from one man and his amp, the Dead were doing full-band freakouts, also similar to what Sonic Youth would do.  While this was brilliantly captured on 1969's Live/Dead album, here's the sound of the Dead doing their thing in 1968.  Have fun!

They Walk the Thinnest Line: The Dead Milkmen's "Beelzebubba"

Goddamn, I love this album.

Everyone knows that legendary quote from Rob Reiner’s brilliant mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap: “There’s a fine line between stupid and clever.”  Although the film parodied the mid-80’s hair metal movement, the one band that I feel exemplifies the balance between those two qualities the best is none other than Philadelphian punk-goofballs The Dead Milkmen, and their magnum opus, Beelzebubba proves the point more consistently, tunefully and hilariously than anything else they’ve ever done.

 

It’s easy to go on a song-by-song basis and mark each one as being either “stupid” or “clever.”  Naturally, the international smash hit “Punk Rock Girl” would be clever, while the repetitive, childish “Everybody’s Got Nice Stuff But Me” would be stupid, and likewise, “Smokin’ Banana Peels,” a satire of post-hippie culture would be clever while “Ringo Buys a Rifle,” which is exactly what you think it’s about, would be stupid.  Of course, that would lead to a superficial analysis of an album that deserves further attention, and yes, I am saying that an album with songs like “My Many Smells” and “Born to Love Volcanoes” does go pretty deep.  The cleverness is in the subtle details, the stupidity is in the big picture, and the supreme brilliance is in the almost effortless combination of the two.

 

Perhaps the first great shock of Beelzebubba, especially when compared to earlier Dead Milkmen efforts comes in the stylistic diversity of the record.  It isn’t until track four, “I Walk the Thinnest Line,” that we get to the first “normal” Dead Milkmen song here.  It isn’t that the first three songs don’t sound like Dead Milkmen tunes; no, no, no, that is clearly none other than Rodney Anonymous spitting out those lyrics with snide humor and bile, but opener “Brat in the Frat” takes cues from polka, complete with mandolin and accordion (on a Dead Milkmen record!), “R.C.’s Mom” is a James Brown parody, complete with a horn section (on a Dead Milkmen record!) and “Stuart” is a weird spoken-word diatribe.  The rest of the album is a bit more straightforward, but there are deviations on songs like “The Guitar Song,” a cute waltz heightened by the naïveté of Joe Jack Talcum’s nasally vocals, the multilayered melodies of “Sri Lanka Sex Hotel,” “Smokin’ Banana Peels” and “My Many Smells,” and the violin on several of the last few songs.  While they’d shown musical development from the start on songs like “Dean’s Dream” and “I Hear Your Name,” the fruits of their musicality ripen here.

 

Alas, that musical diversity, combined with fantastic melodies (honestly, applicable to almost every song here, the guys were on a real mean streak with this one) makes up part of what lies on the “clever” side of the record.  Still, the great appeal of the Dead Milkmen lies in the lyrics, be it the frequently hilarious one-liners they spit out or the unique subject matter they tackle, with a faux-juvenile brashness applied to the whole thing.  Or something like that.  That was a horrible sentence.

 

Regardless, there are plenty of lyrical touches, and otherwise that fall into the clever side of the debate.  Before “Bad Party” begins, you can hear some guy amidst the party sound affects saying, “I mean, the Captain and Tenille!  They’re like, so innovative!” which I honestly just noticed for the first time while writing this review.  The bizarre Who parody that comes toward the end of “My Many Smells” (“See me / Hear me / Touch me / Smell Me!”) is entirely out of place, fitting next to nowhere on a punk album released in 1988.  The seminal “Punk Rock Girl,” where Talcum’s endearing vocals shine through again surely benefit such understandably misguided lyrics like “And someone put a Beach Boys song on the jukebox / It was ‘California Dreamin’’ / So we started screamin’ / On such a winter’s day!”

 

The subject matter being satirized at hand is diverse, and it's all tackled just as effectively through simple mockery as it could be with serious, thought-provoking sentiments.  The guys run through spousal abuse (“R.C.’s Mom”), post-hippie nightmares (“Smokin’ Banana Peels”), PBS telethons (“Born to Love Volcanoes,” which I still think is one of the greatest song titles.  Ever.), teenage boredom (“Bleach Boys”), fraternities (“Brat in the Frat,” which, in addition to fellow mortuary-minded punks, the Dead Kennedys’ “Terminal Preppie” still stands as one of the great anti-college anthems) and American ignorance (“Stuart”).  Sure, it ain’t politically correct, but come on.  Come onnnnnnnnnn.

 

Now, the stupid end of the deal?  Well, I’ll illustrate that through a bunch of wonderful lyrical passages.

 

-       “Don’t you wanna hang out with the Bleach Boys, baby? / In a world where ministers murder golf pros? / Don’t you wanna drink some bleach tonight?”

-       “Take Elvis for a walk and shut up!”

-       “Maybe she loves volcanoes too / I’ll just have to take a guess / She looks like a volcano / With her red hair and brown dress”

-       “The kids must be part of the conspiracy / Mr. Rogers works hand in hand with the KGB”

-       “Maybe we’ll take the host hostage / Ooh, what a clever play on words!”

-       “Let’s have sex without birth control / Sell our offspring to some dirty old men / Let’s play Big Black at 3 AM / And tell the neighbors they can all get fucked” (That whole verse is nothing short of genius.)

 

And there’s much more where that came from.  Ultra-stupid, but you’d have to be numb to not find it amusing in the least.

 

I suppose it isn’t all fun and games either, though, as album closer “Life is Shit” ends the proceedings on a bit of a somber note.  So there’s a vulnerable emotional core to the band in the end, even if it is a pretty simple and even banal one.  Regardless, I still think those three lines say more than some of the most verbose, elegant poetry, which is clearly reflected in the sing-a-long reprise of the tune’s direct and universal chorus, “Life is shit / The world is shit / This is life as I know it.”  C’est la vie, boys.

 

Stupid?  Clever?  Both?  You make the call.  Whatever the case, go track this album down because it is absolutely worth your time, and if you give yourself in to its puerile charm, there’s a lot to enjoy here, and far more than I’ve even been able to mention in this already too-long review.  Hell, I don’t know if the Dead Milkmen knew they were creating something so complex when they were making the record.  That’s not to undermine them, but I like to imagine it was created that way.  Makes it all a bit more brilliant in the end.

 

(And, if you so desire, check out the “Smokin’ Banana Peels” EP!  Skip past the stupid dance remixes of the title track and stick around for the other five tunes, which are apparently re-recordings of old demo tunes.  If you thought “Life is Shit” was depressing, you’ll love “I Hate Myself” and “Death’s Alright With Me,” and “The Puking Song” is probably the single most stupid song the band ever recorded, and that includes “Takin’ Retards to the Zoo.”)

 

Here’s the video for “Punk Rock Girl”!  I think there may be one for “Smokin’ Banana Peels” as well, but I’m not sure.  Can anyone confirm or deny this?

 

Frank Zappa's "Packard Goose" and why I'll never be a rock writer

“Rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, in order to provide articles for people who can't read.”

-       Frank Zappa, 1993

 

“The Ultimate Rule ought to be: 'If it sounds GOOD to you, it's bitchen; if it sounds BAD to YOU, it's shitty'”

-       Frank Zappa, The Real Frank Zappa Book

 

Every now and then, some song will come on the ol’ iPod that will really get me thinking, and it’s generally something that I haven’t heard in a while and it’ll usually wind up with a full-fledged attempt for a blog entry, if not a successful one, which this should be.  While cruising down Route 1 in Milford, CT, this gem of a tune from Mr. Zappa entitled “Packard Goose” came on and I was reminded not only of why it’s such a fantastic song but also why I could probably never wind up as a rock and roll journalist for the rest of my life.

 

“Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose

Or the Ronald MacDonald of the nouveau-abstruse

Well fuck all them people, I don't need no excuse

For being what I am

Do you hear me, then?”

 

First, a few words on the song.  Maybe it’s because of the swearing, the fellatio references, or the somewhat overlong guitar solo in the middle (the whole thing is eleven and a half minutes long), but I really can’t figure out why this song isn’t one of the man’s most beloved works, at least not outside his hardcore fanbase.  It comes as the climax and conclusion of the Joe’s Garage saga, where Joe has the great revelation that makes up the core of the song’s content and essentially ends the story (although there’s roughly twenty minutes of album after that, but that’s just another guitar solo and a really stupid (read: great) song about muffin frosting).  Plus, it contains perhaps the greatest mantra of Zappa’s career, read by Dale Bozzio, one that I’ve taken so close to heart that I have it inscribed on the back of my aforementioned iPod, because I’m a cheeseball at heart.

 

“All them rock 'n roll writers is the worst kind of sleaze

Selling punk like some new kind of English disease

Is that the wave of the future?

Aw, spare me please!”

 

So, I also suppose a few words on Frank Zappa are in order as well.  Really, he is probably rock and roll’s greatest philosopher (a title he’d probably despise) and its greatest cynic (a title he’d probably despise a little less).  Despite his somewhat radical ideas, almost anything that came out of his mouth was right on the money.  I’d go on, but instead I’ll just recommend that you all give his pseudo-autobiography The Real Frank Zappa Book a read.  It’s utterly fascinating and almost always hilarious, and it’s not so much an autobiography as it is a discourse on his social, political and philosophical ideas.  But anyway, the point I’m trying to make here is that, for all intents and purposes, Zappa may very well fit the prototype of the “punk” – non-conformist, free-thinking, doesn’t-take-shit-from-anybody-especially-not-the-government, musically-gifted, dark-yet-well-humored and autonomous.  Maybe if he were alive now, he’d appear on some celebrity reality TV show and sell his soul to VH1 for eternal interviews like poor John Lydon, but with Zappa (and really no one else because he was so damn sincere), it simply seems disrespectful to imagine such a fate to fall upon him.

 

“Oh no, you gotta go

Who do you write for?

I wanna know

I believe you is the government's whore

And keeping peoples dumb

(I'm really dumb)

Is where you're coming from

And keeping peoples dumb

(I'm really dumb)

Is where you're coming from”

 

And “Packard Goose” is certainly one of his greatest platforms for his punkish ideologies, despite insulting the genre in the second verse way up there (although that’s no doubt a greater stab at the rock and roll writers thank at punk itself).  In the context of Joe’s Garage, the titular character, played by Ike Willis, was just released from prison after plooking a tiny chrome-plated machine that looks like a magical pig with marital aids stuck all over it to death.  Oh yeah, and the big thing is that this all takes place in a post-apocalyptic world where music is banned in all forms.  That’s the important part.  The gay robot sex is stupid in the great Zappa tradition, but Joe’s revelation when he leaves prison is simply, “fuck all those guys” because he can sing whatever he wants to and play whatever he wants to and run through all the beautiful imaginary guitar solos in his head that he wants to, goddamnit.  And that’s the crux of the biscuit right there.

 

“Fuck all them writers with the pen in their hand

I will be more specific so they might understand

They can all kiss my ass

But because it's so grand

They best just stay away

Hey, hey, hey”

 

WARNING: TRAIN IN DANGER OF DERAILING

 

On several different occasions in the last week, I’ve found myself at different bookstores, perusing about and eventually flocking over to the “Music” section of each.  And each time I’ve left, I’ve wound up feeling depressed, even after merely looking at the titles of some of these books.  Clearly, there are some rock writers who really know what they’re talking about, who’ve done all of the research they can and compiled thorough, comprehensive works of near literature. But honestly, how many Pink Floyd biographies does the world really need, especially if there’s already an extremely detailed one written by their drummer (famously the non-partisan one, and also the only one who was in the band for its entire existence…)?  Do we need biographies of bands that are barely into their second decade of activity, still presumably going strong?  And I’m sincerely trying not to offend anyone, but what sort of person spends their life’s work chronicling the life and times of some group that no one will remember ten years from now?  I can’t recall the specific artists, probably because I’ve tried to block them out, but there were some titles that left me wondering, perplexed, why in God’s name someone cares so much about this particular artist.

 

“Hey, Joe, who did you blow?

Moe pushed the button boy

And you went to the show

Better suck a little harder or the shekels won't flow

And I don't mean your thumb

(Don't mean your thumb)

So on your knees you bum

Just tell yourself it's yum

(Yourself it's yum)

And suck it 'till you're numb”

 

But those publications are by and large factual, or as close to being factual as anything else out there.  What are worse than those are those books that push opinions.  You know, list books.  Books that try to falsely, objectively sum up rock and roll culture in fifty albums or one hundred solos or five hundred songs, rendering the presumed objectivity impossible immediately.  Sometimes, these are okay.  I own that 1,001 Albums You Need to Hear Before You Die book because it’s just so ridiculously sprawling that it’s as close to covering all of popular music as anything else I’ll find.  But the sheer multitude of these books is astounding, and yes, ultimately depressing, particularly when they seem to have no damn clue what they’re talking about.  I found Elliott Smith in a book of “bands you’ve never heard of” and even that 1,001 Albums book not only gives the shaft to Zen Arcade but also includes Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit.  Christ, that is almost unforgivable (seriously, the editor has the good judgment to include five Tom Waits albums and all three Dexys Midnight Runners releases, but after 2000, he has no idea what is going on.  Even in 2006, you’d have to live in a cave to think Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit are essential listening experiences.  Gahh).

 

“Journalism's kinda scary

And of it we should be wary”

 

But hey, who am I to subject other lousy opinions to my own?  Like Frankie says, “If it sounds good to you, it’s bitchen.”  So, there.  Well, after that, he also says, “The more your musical experience, the easier it is to define for yourself what you like and what you don't like. American radio listeners, raised on a diet of_____ (fill in the blank), have experienced a musical universe so small they cannot begin to know what they like.”  This is also a valid argument, and there’s no doubt that the rock writers, journalists and critics have some greater degree of authority on the subject than most people (let’s assume that; sometimes I doubt this is true), which I guess gives them a right to get their opinions published under the guise of a definitive guide to trick people into objectivity…?

 

“If you're in the audience and like what we do

Well, we want you to know that we like you all too

But as for the sucker who will write the review

If his mind is prehensile

(Mind is prehensile)

He'll put down his pencil

(Put down his pencil)

And have himself a squat

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

Give it all you got

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

Sit 'n spin until you rot

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

He really needs to squat

On the Cosmic Utensil

(Cosmic Utensil)

(Cosmic Utensil)”

 

The bottom line is, I can’t do it.  Maybe rock criticism could be a lucrative outing for me someday, but I could never see it as a profession (then again, I never thought I’d get into the music program at CWRU, and I did, and I also used to think I wouldn’t live past age 30, which I’m doing just fine with).  I wouldn’t want to get stuck either foisting my opinions on people who couldn’t care less or spending my entire life devoted to detailing the minor incidents in a music scene that, again, no one will care about ten years after the book gets published.  Why even blog?  Well, I do personally enjoy writing about music.  It’s something I’m passionate about.  It’s a way to kill time.  It’s a means to try and become a better writer.  Reviews to me aren’t so awful either, particularly because it’s clear that those are merely opinions (and it’s particularly obvious if the writer has a distinct style, which is why Mark Prindle is a genius).  Plus, I just bank on the fact that next to no one reads this, anyway, so I’m not contributing greatly to the sludge.

 

“Information is not knowledge

Knowledge is not wisdom

Wisdom is not truth

Truth is not beauty

Beauty is not love

Love is not music

Music is THE BEST . . .

Wisdom is the domain of the Wis (which is extinct)

Beauty is a French phonetic corruption

Of a short cloth neck ornament

Currently in resurgence . . .”

-       Frank Zappa, “Packard Goose,” 1979

 

And I guess that above passage is what it’s all really about.  Music is the best, there are no objectives and the rock critics are all bullshit artists.  Well, that’s all just speculation.  Until then, let the Bangs’ and the Prindle’s and many lesser authors keep doing their thing and let the artists make the real statements.  Now, pardon me while I go squat on the cosmic utensil.

 

 

In other news: Proof of my theory that no one reads this blog was made evident by the fact that my over-a-year defunct Wilcophilic first blog attempt has been getting way more hits than this.  Why?  Because somehow, google’s top image result for “Wilco A.M.” leads to it.  Life’s a funny thing, innit it?