I’m not one to throw around racial terms with music, because how could Talking Heads fit in any of those boxes? Almost irredeemably nerdburger, (look at them) yet absolutely effortlessly funky, never more so than on Speaking in Tongues, whence this gem comes. With this one sandwiched between “Burning Down the House” and “Girlfriend is Better”, side whatever of Speaking in Tongues played on vinyl sounds just warm enough to be live, and who knows maybe the tracks were recorded that way. Amidst that actual live sound, a sound that on the surface simplifies the music, an almost mathematical complexity bubbles underneath. It’s as if the genius kids at the ol’ School Of Rock were given a funk-by-numbers take home test and they warped it into this slab of genius. I picture three dudes in comically large yellow hazmat suits complete with 2001 helmets strutting in formation down that street in NYC where the Warriors met up with the Orphans (ed.- The chicks are packed! The chicks are packed! other ed.- no that was the Lizzies, the Orphans were the sad sacks). Of course these guys inevitably bust their helmets off revealing lollipop looking little heads and proceed to combine body rocking replete with alternating booty shaking and robot dancing, not the NSYNC style by the “we’re on Star Search cobags!” dance beat down. All the while, David, Tina, Chris and Jerry just shit out little funk squiggles, and Byrne’s only sweating for show- he could do it in his sleep. Oh, and those three lollipop funky hazmat kids? Fulsome, Chuckles and don’tEATnachos, from Well Rounded Nerds. This goes out to you.
Monthly Archive for December, 2005
Picture two giants of the internet world, mirror images, yet distinct, both reflecting upon the same woman, a woman having broken each of their hearts in turn. How are the two men different? One, I imagine uncomfortably reclining in a mohair so-called easy chair, dressed in an unflappable blue with orange-trim dessing gown, something mistakenly called Pajamas in certain circles, absent-mindely stroking his probably evil yet similarly inscrutable pussy. His surroundings include a large, hardwood bookshelf filled with Lovecraft volumes and several purported real yet most certainly fabricated Necromomicons, and one possibly real yet poor translation. A half-filled brandy snifter reflects the embers of an untended fire, and a portrait. A velvety, feline portrait of K…
The other nurses a different poison, self-doubt. Doubt whether he did enough to nurture the caged tiger, K. Did he? Sadly, no. The doubt suffuses the unpredictable ways of a struggling heroic Saab parked in the driveway and the smoking, blank computer screen, a screen that only recently reflected K. The very same velvety, feline K. as above, only in a different guise, a red, white and blue and…orange one.
Various Germs records litter the cigarette-stained shag, a half-finished 1:64 scale model of some obscure never-successfully-flown test-pilot-bane Messerschmidt idly sits on a lonely, cluttered desk. Reverb-soaked, urbane images of K…K…indelibly etched in the brains of two men. Are they different? Perhaps not as they are both completed by her….spoken of only in hushed, whispered, broken tones as…K.
This one goes out to Brad R. This is the song that they had on those ads for Gillette nee CMGI Field where his Pats play before it actually opened. The one with the crappy CGI showing all the amenities and crap. This song IS the Pats to me, and I know Brad must love it. You know how it goes. Ba-da-da-da-doo-doo Up shift Ba-da-da-da-doo-doo. I’m sure Brad’s pulse starts to race when he hears this song, even though he knows deep in his heart Tom Brady is a WINGNUT COBAG [Yosef made me write that]. I picture him at Our House East back o’ Northeastern, Bronson Arroyo’s sister on his lap, watching the Pats win another superbowl and then going out to flip some cars out in front of Taste of Asia on Huntington. Nice win today, B!
Why this song was never a huge hit in the US, I’ll never know. Oh maybe it’s because a bunch of sillies hearing this tune thought it was the B-52s. I guess when people start from zero, there is no such thing as ability to discriminate between some things that are completely different from one another. Of course I am an egotistical bastard, so when people think things are similar that I don’t, I assume that they are being less sophisticated in their hearing, as opposed to me missing out on some subtle similarity that they are picking up. Mostly its because they have demonstrably crappy taste in music. Well, this tune goes out to Blue Girl. The song is forceful, put together, has a killer riff and has spunk and backbone, and whatever you think of Sinead, she tells it how she thinks it. It’s just a great song. And I was thinking it reminded me of BG.
And here is Sinead somewhat wailing this one at the ’89 Grammys- obviously there is a backing vocal track, but I think she is at least singing some of the time, and she is still utterly mesmerizing- only 21 years old here.
I think we know that this goes out to Adorable Girlfriend and her warm feelings for the Uncanny Canadian, whose writing at one time graced these very pages.
This ditty features several lines that must be ironic, given the state of the lemony condo, UC’s fixer-upper of an embassy on American soil. A not unejoyable toss-off from a band I have not really heard that I should listen to. This came on when I was listening to LA Seitz (from LA Seitz, natch) neighbor radio at Last-FM, my new favorite toy.
My only problem with the song is that is doesn’t express what I think we all feel, and that is the Canadian Curling Association is a cabal of blackguards and scoundrels.
This song goes out to Twisty Faster, spinster aunt extraordinaire of patriarchy blaming fame at I Blame the Patriarchy. Twisty would clearly fathom the meaning of such a dedication, however for the rest of us, a little back story. Twisty has deigned to comment here one time more than this humble blog would ever deserve, that is to say once. She commented on a particular Friday Pooper Shooter where our computer lavished us with a particular Jethro Tull ditty “Minstrel in the Gallery” and Twisty mentioned an anecdote involving herb, dorm rooms and certain hippie-ish behavior.
Twisty now has a sitch that is attempting to abrogate her patriarchy blaming ability, which appears to be fueled by delicious tacos. We would like to deidicate to her this lost oh so jammy gem from Joe Walsh and the James Gang. Now, we realize that there is nothing more patriarchy than someone that has anything to do with the Eagles, but I would like the point out the length of this song (7:00) and the “mind-altering” guitar solo that incorporates Ravel’s Bolero (which led to the song being unavailable in the Bolero version for many years). Also, the drummer seems to be thumping on the skins like he’s wearing nothing but a marijuana leaf necklace, and Mr. Bass guy comes in like he’s smoking a pipe with stars in his eyes and then it gets all trippy. Since the chemo is undelightfully knocking Twisty on her delightfully snow white bottom, we were going to recommend this song and some medicinal Mary Jane. Alas, in our delay of implemeting Dedication Week here at Song of the Day/Three Bulls!, we find that she is happily returned to full vim and obstreperousness by seemingly similar sage advice. Rock on, TF!
So Pop Ren hooks me up with a song that has probably been in the back of my brain for a super long time, meaning I knew there was a particular song that I couldn’t remember, and this was that song. That’s twice in the last two weeks (the other was Adorable’s “Homeboy”). This song was going to be my secret weapon in the war against Gavin M., but it sprained a calf-muscle out of the gate and I pulled it for something more nefarious. I didn’t want to cause Gavin to retreat to his dark place, thinking of the dance floor blossoming of shy-Goth girl Samantha whatshername as he airdrummed his make believe Simmons electronic drum pads in his black jeans. Going home alone, like Morrissey said he would, he would cry into his pillow, thinking of this wistful modern rock masterpiece. Raising his meek voice in prayer to Dear Lord “why have you made me, Pinko Punko er Gavin M., such a cobag?” Only later would he find out that that sweet shy girl really had a crush on him, braces and all, but she was only waiting for him to ask her to dance to this very song, and since I didn’t, er Gavin didn’t, she married Bruce from Pittsburgh but treasured her TDK 60 minute mix tape of rare 12 inch singles that someone left her anonymously. Or at least that’s how this song makes it feel like it happened, and I wouldn’t want Gavin to revisit that bad place.
Irregardless*, a great song, legitimizing all possible derivations of the Flock of Seagulls flip [link to awesome Gavin post utilizing Flock of Seagulls here- thanks for tagging it with nothing relating to the band, save phonetically representing the synths on the track. Cobag].
*Lest Seitz think I used that “word”
UPDATE: VIDEO MAKES it cheezier than it is. It still is awesome. Gregor will attest. And Pop Ren. Thanks toGavin
So Gavin M. and myself are waging a war of attrition. The skirmishes have consisted of an interchange of 80’s obscurities. The goal: guess the band and/or song. The underdog, I rely on quick feints at the edge of Messr. Gavin’s fraying, genius mind. He, the overdog, relies on the massive blindspot known as my lack of musical knowledge. So far the battles have included:
Gavin M.: Bluebells‘ “Cath” (a friendly exhortation to eat it cobag because I didn’t know it)
Pinko: Freur “Devil and Darkness” (implied EAT IT COBAG since he should have known it)
Gavin M.: Orange Juice “Rip It Up” (completely awesome, but a definite EAT IT COBAG HOW MUCH DO YOU SUCK from the master, because how could it be possible that I didn’t know it)
Pinko: Thrashing Doves “Beautiful Imbalance” (oh, now who is the master of obscure and forgotten?)
Everything has been a skirmish up to including the recent exhchange:
Gavin M.: Wide Boy Awake-Slang Teacher
Holy crap. Of course I didn’t guess it as this band never even had an album. As an artifact people might be all, this sucks, it’s English White Boy Hip-Hop from 1983!!!!!! What I might point out to you cobags, is the first 10 seconds could easily be Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit” or New Order’s “Perfect Kiss” and it probably predates them both. And it’s got spacey walled up behind the cheese casiotone and of course some slappy bass. These oddities are actually important to remember before Clear Channel completely erases all musical history.
What’s next? I’m gonna take a risk and try….
(pop renaissance- you have the raw material to feed my desire to crush G., please help me out)
Hand claps. Lazy jangle. Sub-Fantastic Voyage electro-bassy farts. If this song had an eensy bit more low-end, some rap dude could sample it for cash money. Richard X produced Annie’s “Chewing Gum” clearly has a squiggly antecedent in this booty boondoggle. Shades of Tom Tom Club’s “Genius of Love” in some of the minor noodies. Intermittent Prince “banernernernerner” chinga ching (from outer space). Lackadaisical bandmembers bouncing to the tracks that had already been laid. Edwyn Collins soulfully lisping arch arch lyrics Franz Ferdinand probably heard when in their nappies. Sadly, No, I am not joking.
Update- here’s the vid so you can hear/see the genius:
Dean Wareham’s (formerly of slow-core heroes Galaxie 500) now sadly caput second band, Luna, never got the reverence they deserved. For several reasons, one being the cobag music press loves to inflate the legend of G500. The Wareham sound, slow and deliberate, and fuzzy with his G500 cohorts Damon and Naomi, became cleaner and more tasteful, refined as it were, and refined is never new. Well, the man should be a guitar hero, and middle period album Penthouse, whence this song comes, is full of his meandering sinuous leads, never noodling, always embroidering. I can only descibe this kid of guitar sound as finger tips rippling still water. Does that make sense, because that’s what it sounds like. His nasal vocal delivery will grow because the music is so good.
This song may also be an obscure reference to Suicide’s “23 Minutes Over Brussels”. Of course I drop that ref like I know something, but I don’t know shit. I was in the Amoeba over in the Haight the other day, and they were playing this amazing album, full of scary vocals and moody, noisy soundscapes and some weird shimmering Farfisa-type organ, sounding slightly like Clinic, except a million times creepier. I ask the clerk what they are playing as I usually do (and not to suck up, I only ask if I like it, I think record clerks are usually totally awesome and helpful and only sometimes snobby, but when they are snobby I want to yell at them. Somehow, they can make you feel like sh*t, they have some serious power, the record store clerks) and the lady went and checked, and said “Suicide, the first album- the self-titled one.”
I go look at the CD and see that it came out in the 70s and I was expecting it to have come out in 93 or something. And then I felt sad for myself. I always wanted an older brother or someone to share all these cool bands with me and expand my world view. My little sister is WAY more plugged in that I was, partly because of me, but now she has left me in the dust. Where were you pop renaissance? Where were you when I wanted to go to the Jesus and Mary Chain/Curve/Spiritualized show at St. Andrews? Where were you, Gavin M., with all your obscure art-scene crazy bands? Scratch that, I would have crapped myself at some of those Gavin shows. COMMENT PREDICTOR:
“I saw Suicide like 4 times at the CBGB, we opened for them one time.”
Posted by Gavin M. 3:24 am