Haunting spaced out drug rock elegy. The recording isn’t too bad on this version. Takes about 2.5 minutes to get started, but what I find totally unastounding is that there are some choads that just kind of chat the whole time. You know, the people that have an infinite amount of bar time and an infinite amount of shows that they see, and they go to bars on show night to just drink at the bar and blabber during some totally awesome song. From their latest, In the Future.
Archive for the 'Sleazo' Category
If this song doesn’t suggest an exceptionally awesome, hypothetical episode of Miami Vice, I don’t know what does. 6:25 of totally cheesasm. Was in the mix on the lunch hour Old School jam. I think some of you know what I’m talking about.
Not even inscrutable totally standard, terrible AC/DC misogynist lyrics (BUT HE LOVES WOMEN!!!). Sadly, as usual, Angus craps out a footlong vegemite sandwich loaf of chunky riffage and I am hooked. It is a bad, bad habit.
I am afraid this personage is going to eat me. And has a lot of rage. Perhaps BG can give him a hug? Thanks, M-D.
This song might work if science were like CSI in ultra modern sleek super discos with supremely attractive people taking each other’s DNA samples and what not. The beat you hear is the slow throbbing of geekly loins. Sad. It’s not really like that in real labs all the time. Or ever. Keep on dreaming sexy science studs and babes!
We had these guys on before. You know I have a soft spot for retro, sinister, fuzzy 60s-esque drug rock. If you’ve seen the R-rated red-band trailer for the Coen Brothers’ No Country For Old Men you’ve heard another tune off their album Passover, “Young Men Dead.” The lead singer recalls a Jim Morrison like voice without sounding like him, kind of the delivery I guess. This one is quite good, and if you like any one of their songs, you’ll like the album.
I can’t wait for the White Stripes backlash. This will make it easier for me to piss you off. Consider this post the first of many “touch touch touch touch touch I’m touching you” (you: “don’t touch me. you’re on my side of the car”) in the backseat of the station wagon while our parents are dragging us to Craters of the Moon National Monument. I still like them and dedicated followers of fashion cannot dissuade me.
Neo-psych garagey stoner jammies. Kind of have that dope-deal-gone-wrong widescreen final-scene vibe. This song is pretty good. From Austin, Texas.
Allison Goldfrapp is kind of creepy. She usually plays various characters in her videos. This one is called “Zombie Suzanne Somers.” teh l4m3 will accuse us of bucking the heteronormative overlords, again with this video, but the dudes in tightys at the end, I don’t even think he’d go for them. I kind of like Goldfrapp.
I find Marc Bolan very creepy in this clip. I fairly shocked their weren’t 200 anime/video game weirdofests on You Tube. T. Rex has that glammy dark side of bubble-gum sound. Usually their riffs just kind of slither, like in “Bang a Gong,” that is a slithery snake mating dance of a riff. This song is a little different, more about Bolan looking like a more cherubic Alice Cooper, but not an act.
From what Pitchfork called the gayest album as in G.A.Y. capital G. and A and Y. I wouldn’t know. If Norwegian disco electro drawlers is gay, maybe. Who knows, maybe the rest of the album is about guys doing guys and dancing with their “daddys.” What I do know is there is a slightly sped up remix of this song that gives essentially the same song, an eensy bit punched up plus an extended kind of trippy outro that singlehandedly legitimizes all remixes evar. Awesome. Original can be found here.
Let us consider the sleaz-o factor once again of the 100% pure greasy sleaze that the Stones have perfected. Let us consider the use of horns on this track. Said horns are completely employed for sleaze. They exist as the finishing leer, the underlining of the obscene gesture, the come on, the successful come on, eventually. Let us compare these horns to the use of brass say on The Beatles “Martha My Dear”- they are merely an accoutrement, a little twist, a fill. Innocent. Even on “Got To Get You Into My Life”, they give some oomph, but it just seems so tame, so frankly Paul (not a bad thing). On the Stones song they are nothing more that the swinging of Mick’s dick. Not even “Puppetry of the Penis” but a May Day parade full of missile launchers covered in pork fat and dirt. The brass are the glue that keep the entire band on a monomaniacal course here, a course destined for we all know where. Mick’s pants.
Under cover of thanking their fans for supporting them after a 1967 drug bust, Mick and Keith basically give the world a kiss off dressed with psychedelic sounding vocals, backed by John and Paul, dressed in mellotron. At it’s dark, stinky heart, however, there are some of the best oooooohs-oooooohs, stompy piano and what the druggy stench only superficially cloaks, that is the most punk song possible from a bunch of flower power slumming sleazoid millionaires. Possibly their most unheard and least listened to genius moment this side of “Monkey Man”.