Flaming Pablum

Back to the Los Angeles of "Repo Man"

Prior to about 1994 or so, all I ever knew about Los Angeles and its surrounding environs came from the movies – specifically era-appropriatre films like “Grease,” “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” “Valley Girl,” “Tuff Turf,” “Body Double,” Penelope Spheeris’ “Suburbia,” “Into the Night,” “Mulholland Drive” and several other choice selections. As viewed through the prism of those films, L.A. was this strange sprawl of freeway clovers, dusty back streets peppered with incongruous palm trees, shopping malls, suburban ranch homes and high schools.

But there was one film in particular that really seemed to sum up everything I thought I knew already about Los Angeles and Southern California writ large, and that was Alex Cox’s inimitably oddball sci-fi opus, “Repo Man” from 1984. In much the same way many folks latch onto the elusive exotica of New York City based on atmospheric flicks like “Taxi Driver,” “The French Connection” or even “The Warriors,” I was smitten with the idea of that chunk of the West Coast being the sort of run down, washed out, quasi-derelict urban badlands wherein Emilio Estevez’s Otto, Dick Rude’s Duke and Harry Dean Stanton’s eminently quoatable Bud run completely amok.

As mentioned in this ancient post, one of my best friends – Rob D – moved out there in the mid-90’s, essentially squatting in a well-appointed corner bungalow/cottage owned by his step-mother in Costa Mesa in nearby Orange County (or, as we laboriously referred to it, “Behind the Orange Curtain”). During his tenure there, I made a few lengthy visits to the Costa Messa house, entirely romanced by the notion of exploring the same endless byways, boulevard, buildings and barrooms depicted in the films I cited earlier. Once again, as mentioned in that ancient post, I was particularly smitten with locating the former site of fabled hardcore punk venue, The Cuckoo’s Nest, but never managed to fint the right spot.

But about a beer-can’s reckless throw from the front lawn of Rob’s step-mother’s cottage was this deli-cum-liquor store that I would have absolutely SWORN was the one depicted in several key scenes in “Repo Man,” so much so that we came to regularly refer to the place as the Repo Market. Of course, this presumption was based on very little in the way of evidence.

Well, imagine my sad surprise to learn, this morning, by way of the exhaustively minutia-laden video below (clearly this man is my brother) wherein severl key locations from the film in questino are revealed. Suffice to say, that liquor store/deli was not in Costa Mesa.

Silly side bar: On some discussion board or another I frequent, someone invited people to list “movies about Punk Rock.” One participant put “Repo Man” at the very top of the list, which triggered my not-so-inner insuffferably pedantic streak. While, yes, Otto, Duke, Archie, Debbie and Kevin are all characters one would conventionally identify as “punk rockers” (to say nothing of the cameo by the Circle Jerks and a soundtrack rife with bands like Suicidal Tendencies, Fear, Iggy Pop and the Plugz), the film is really in no discenable manner about Punk Rock. It’s about a rogue scientist who kidnaps an alien’s cadaver and puts it in the trunk of an iconic 1964 Chevy Malibu and his surreal travails in dodging both federal agents and a plucky gaggle of repo men, whom Otto was taken up with, hungry to collect the bounty. If you’re looking to learn about Punk Rock, you won’t get far with “Repo Man.” Just saying.

Fermenting New Firewater: Tod [A] Looks Ahead

With the possible exception of Killing Joke, I don’t think there’s a band I’ve scribbled more about here than Cop Shoot Cop, the former NYC-based, clangy noise-rock ensemble of one Tod [A], who bowed out of said band, in the mid-`90s, during the recording of what would have been their fifth studio LP. Upon leaving C$C under arguably not the most amicable of circumstances, Tod turned his attention to forming Firewater, a loose collective of musicians who’d go onto to explore, over seven diverse albums, a far broader vista of musical styles than Tod’s previous band was ever likely to dare. Largely jettisoning Cop Shoot Cop’s full-frontal industrial assault in favor of a sinuous amalgam of influences from klezmer to ska to Middle-Eastern folk music to Romani to bhangra to sea shanties to Russian drinking songs to straight-ahead punk fucking rock and virtually all points and ports of global call in between, Tod’s inherent sense of wanderlust became deeply imbued into the music he was making. Putting his money where his mouth was, by the band’s sixth album, 2008’s The Golden Hour, Tod pulled up stakes and set out on a formidable trek across the imposing terrain between New Delhi, India and Istanbul, Turkey, recording with local musicians along the way. This experience not only fueled that album -– arguably Firewater’s finest -– but also served as fertile fodder for his first novel, “Banging the Monkey,” which surfaced in 2019.

I’ve been friends with Tod since the very early `90s, when I was tasked with writing up a cover story for a local freebie news weekly about “a hot new band that typifies the New York sound and sensibility.” Without skipping a beat, I chose Cop Shoot Cop, having become enamored of their wilfully chaotic live performances, their boldly unconventional approach (two basses, no guitars), their dark sense of humor (lost on large swathes of their audience), their unwieldy aesthetic and their cryptic poster campaign. Over the course of Cop Shoot Cop’s tumultuous rise and fall and then into the Firewater years, Tod and I have spilled many gallons of beer and ink about our respective trajectories. Now ensconced full-time in Istanbul, Tod only gets to New York City every so often, and he and I only get to convene in person every couple of years or so, usually around the holidays. The last time he was in town back in December, we caught up for a drink at an old favorite, the Ear Inn on the westerly end of Spring Street, and it dawned on me that I’d never subjected the poor guy to the Flaming Pablum Interview. So now, joining the estimable ranks of Big Paul Ferguson of Killing Joke, Chris Egan of Missing Foundation, RB Korbet of Even Worse, Erik Sanko of Skeleton Key, Fran Powers of Modern Clix, J Yuenger of White Zombie, Brooke Smith of Sunday Matinee, Don Rauf of Life in a Blender, and Andi Harriman of Some Wear Leather, Some Wear Lace, here with the Flaming Pablum Interview with Tod [A]…

FP: You’ve now been living in Turkey for almost 12 years. How’s that going? Of all the places you’ve lived, how does Istanbul compare?

I've lived in NYC, Denpasar, Phnom Penh, Calcutta, Surat Thani and now Istanbul. Though I didn't expect to be here quite so long, I can't complain about the city. Istanbul is the NYC of Turkey: it's a port city, which means it's quite multi-cultural. The cost of living is far less than NYC, and the town has public transport that doesn't reek of urine. It has a lot more cats and a lot less rats (do the math). I guess I feel as at home here as I have felt anywhere else, though the current Turkish government leaves much to be desired. Hopefully the people of Turkey will get rid of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named in the upcoming 2023 general election.

It’s been eleven years since you released International Orange, but now, I gather, have new music demoed and ready to be recorded — can you give us an update?

Having decided to procreate, I took some time off from recording and touring to concentrate on raising my daughter. I didn't want to be the father who was never there. In the meantime, I wrote fifty songs. I am now a free agent and I think I'm almost ready to get back to recording and touring. We shall see who winds up releasing these records.

Firewater has counted many illustrious names in its ranks, over the years — are you in touch with all those players? Might we hear from them again on the next LP?

Yes, we are mostly all still buddies. It's quite possible there will be some appearances from old friends once it's time to go into the studio and begin touring again.

If you had to characterize the direction and sound of the new material, how would you do so?

My itinerant lifestyle has certainly colored the new batch of songs, melodically, sonically, and rhythmically. There is a Turkish flavor to many of them. But somehow I can't seem to scrape all the American mud off my boots. I feel like my time abroad has given me perspective to write about the country of my birth.

Your first novel, “Banging the Monkey” was published in 2019. Are there more books in you waiting to come out?

Yes. I am working on a few new books at the moment: a novel (for adults), and some others for children. But I take my time. They will be done when they are done.

You were recently back in the States and in New York City for the first time in a while. How does your former home turf feel to you in the wake of all that’s happened?

I still love NYC. But as I told you when I saw you last, I feel safer raising my daughter in a quasi-dictatorship like Turkey where almost nobody has a gun, than in America where everyone seems to own multiple firearms.

In 2016, you joined some of your former Cop Shoot Cop bandmates for the commentary track of the live DVD New York Post Punk / Noise Series 1. Are you still back in contact with those guys today?

Yes, I am in touch with Jim Coleman and Phil Puleo and we are on good terms. During the lockdowns, we made some sporadic attempts to collaborate from afar, but nothing seemed to catch fire. Jim and Phil seem to be doing quite well with Human Impact, so more power to them.

Is there any Firewater (or, for that matter, Cop Shoot Cop) material left “in the vault,” so to speak? Stuff that was never released? If so, will it ever see the light of day?

Yes, there is quite a bit. But tracks get left in the vault for a reason, usually because they weren't quite ready.

What’s your take on the music of today? Are there any new artists you’re particularly enthused about? What have you been listening to?

When I was a young punk I thought the way to move forward was to obliterate the past. Now I'm much more interested in the historical continuity of music. I'm trying to catch up on the homework I should have done when I was 21, learning the musical secrets of all the songs I love. I'm delving back into the past: jazz, the birth of rock 'n' roll. I listen to a lot of early blues, jazz, folk and psychedelia. Mainly I'm focused on developing as a songwriter and composer. I've been studying soundtracks (Morricone, Elfman, Zimmer), and I try to learn from the lyricists I admire (Dylan, Waits, Bowie).

Of all the spots you lived around New York City, which was your favorite, and why?

It was definitely fun living in Williamsburgh in the late 80's – early 90's. The rents were incredibly cheap, and there was much fun to be had exploring the empty buildings. I remember setting fire to an abandoned car in a vacant lot and watching it burn. Neither police nor the fire department ever came. That's how much of a no man's land it was at that time.

…which was your least favorite, and why?

By the time I moved to Bushwick, I had already pretty much had it with NYC. The locals weren't too enthused about the bohemian gringos encroaching on their turf, so there was quite a bit of aggro. Also, I was arrested for drinking a beer on the street outside my building, about 20 feet away from the corner where a bunch of jackasses had been selling smack and crack for years. So once I got out of jail, I was off to Thailand.

Where in the world is the food the best?

Italy, of course. I have worked there a lot, and the Italians really know what they are doing. But I also love Thai street food. Such an amazingly subtle combination of flavors. And usually $1 a plate. Indian and Mexican. Turkish food is also amazing.

What’s your favorite Firewater album?

The Golden Hour certainly was the most fun to make. The adventure of recording it, in India, Pakistan, and Indonesia, combined with working with my buddies in Tel Aviv to complete it. Everything seemed to come together on that record.

What’s your least favorite? Why?

International Orange was a nightmare to make. My record company didn't support the concept, so I had to cut a lot of financial corners. As a result, even though the songs were as good as those on The Golden Hour, the sound quality on International Orange suffered because of budget problems. I would love to re-record those songs someday. My ugly experience making International Orange also made me want to wait until I could afford to record in the right way.

What’s your favorite Cop Shoot Cop album?

Release. At that time CSC was firing on all pistons, and we had producer David Sardy at the controls. After that record, everything went rapidly south for the band.

What’s your least favorite? Why?

White Noise. It just hasn't aged well.

The irony here is the White Noise continues to be my favorite album by the band. It’s aged just fine, to my ears.

Why do the vinyl re-releases of Get Off the Cross... and Golden Hour have different cover art?

When Scott Schaefer approached me about doing vinyl releases of the Firewater catalog, I saw it as an opportunity to make something special. So I decided to re-make all the covers by hand. It's been really fun to re-imagine the art. The vinyl series will be continued in the near future.

Beyond from family and friends, what do you miss most about the United States?

A genuine NYC slice, and a real bagel. And not much else.

What sort of music is your daughter listening to?

I knew going into this parenting thing that I had a window of maybe four or five years in which I could vet the music my daughter would hear. Being a control freak, I took full advantage of those years. I wanted her developing brain to get a solid grounding in classic melody and song structure before she was exposed to bullshit musical 'content' from off the internet. So I made her tons of mix tapes: nursery rhymes; classical stuff like Carl Orff, Peter and the Wolf, and the Nutcracker; plus kid-friendly songs from folks like Raffi, the Beatles, Donovan, Ivor Cutler, Monty Python, Spike Jones, Woody Guthrie and the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band.

Yeah, well, to answer your question, the window has closed. You don't want to know what sort of music torture I am subjected to now. I can't wait till she's a teenager, and will start hitting me with some cool sounds.

What was the best concert you ever attended?

I can't name just one: Black Flag at some bowling alley in New Jersey circa 1984, Nirvana at the Reading Festival circa 1992, Tom Waits at the Beacon Theater 1999, Bone Machine tour, Motorhead in Istanbul, 2011. Plus any Jesus Lizard show. 

What five albums can you not live without?

Ramones - Ramones
Tom Waits - Rain Dogs
The Doors - The Doors
David Bowie - Diamond Dogs
Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited

The best songwriter is….

There are seven: Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Robyn Hitchcock, Leonard Cohen, and Ivor Cutler. (and me.)

The Soft Solution

Hey again, all … we’re still doing some tinkering at the back end, trying to parse the comment-leaving problems. We may find a solution, or we may not. I’ve reverted back to the old design, as I personally prefer it, and it’s got sort of what I project as an established identity. If I have to change it, I will, but not sure we’re there, as yet.

In any case, I do have some stuff coming up, including a Flaming Pablum Interview with Tod [A] of Firewater/Cop Shoot Cop and a rumination on Ungano’s, a fabled, long-vanished rock club in the unlikely environs of the Upper West Side. I’m looking forward to unleashing that one.

In the short term, however, please enjoy this live recording of The Soft Boys performing at the Portland Arms in Cambridge, England in 1978. This is, of course, Robyn Hitchcock’s first band (since we’ve been discussing him, of late), and it’s both an amazing recording and entirely hilarious. If I’m not mistaken, the Portland Arms is still there in 2023.

Enjoy. Back Soon.

“OWW, MY EYES!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE???”

Myself and the fine folks at Typepad, my blog provider, are trying to get to the bottom of that recurring time-out problem when it comes to leaving comments. As such, this blog may shortly be undergoing some visual changes, because we’re exploring the theory that my current design scheme might have something to do with the glitch.

I don’t want to change this design. I like this design. I genuinely am uncomfortable with change, but needs must, as they say.

In any case, don’t be alarmed, in the coming days, if you check back here and things look … different. Hopefully, it’ll only be temporary.

Cheers.

Two Records, Two Summers

One summer in the early `80s, my mother and step-father rented a small, two-bedroom house on Quantuck Lane in Quogue, out on the East End of Long Island. We’d previously owned a house about two blocks away from that spot, but my Mom & John had sold that, which should have been a giant bellwether of things to come, but I was an oblivious and petulant teen, at the time. Unbeknownst to my older sister and I, this particular summer would be one of our little family’s final ones all together, but things hadn’t quite gotten to that breaking point, just yet.

In any case, as my collegiate elder sibling claimed the rear second bedroom for herself, I was bequeathed the house’s ersatz “den” as my bedroom, which I immediately decorated by sloppily taping an Iron Maiden poster to the deep forest-green-painted wall. At the end of the summer, upon removing said poster, I would unwittingly remove some of that paint, but that’s a different anecdote.

I honestly don’t remember all that much about the house, other than having to — under pronounced protest — periodically mow its lumpy, uneven lawn with end results that failed to please any of the concerned parties. I also remember rummaging through its closets and finding a vintage, electronic sign for Champale — a festive malt liquor that allegedly tasted like sparkling wine — that changed colors when you plugged it in. I’d made a furtive plan in my head to take that with me when we left, at the end of the summer, but was talked out of it in the wake of sullying that aforementioned paint job in the den.

Beyond all that, however, my most indelible memories of the Quantuck Lane house involve the stereo system in the living room, a hotly contested piece of consumer electronics over which my sister and I vied for absolute dominance. Her copies of, say, the Flashdance soundtrack, Thriller by Michael Jackson and All This Love by DeBarge sat nervously in fragile and unconvincing detente alongside copies of some of my favorites like First Issue by Public Image Ltd., No Sleep `Till Hammersmith by Motorhead and the live hardcore compilation, Rat Music for Rat People. The conflict was constant, and each of us would brazenly disregard the other’s commandeering with blithe dismissal. It wasn’t at all uncommon to hear the jarring, signature scratch of a stylus being hastily wrenched from a record mid-spin, replacing an emphatic bash through “Live Fast Die Young” by the Circle Jerks with an umpteenth airing of “What a Feeling” by Irene Kara. It was simply that kinda summer.

But there was one LP, however, that always managed to restore the tenuous peace. Procured, I believe, during the latter portion of her years at Milton Academy in Massachusetts, my sister’s well-loved copy of So Far…, a compilation of songs by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, was a record that soothed both our intra-sibling ire, and whose melodic mellifluousness also appealed to our long-suffering mother and step-father, who were swiftly losing patience with our perpetual squabble.

While inexorably steeped in the very freewheelin’ hippie ideals my favorite punk bands strove to decimate, the songs off of So Far.. were pretty hard to argue with, although I tended to steer well clear of the more cloyingly twee selections like “Our House” (still kinda hate that one) and “Teach Your Children” in favor of the more assertive fare like “Ohio” and “Wooden Ships.” But whether they were singing about social injustice or the comely charms of folk singer Judy Collins (allegedly the subject of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”), the sheer combination of those voices — Graham Nash of the Hollies, Steven Stills of the Buffalo Springfield and former Byrds firebrand David Crosby (and, on occasion, Neil Goddamn Young, also late of the Buffalo Springfield) — that richly distinctive, inimitable sound could sway all skeptics and silence all naysayers. It may have lacked the ponderous heft of Venom, the splenetic fury of Black Flag and/or the willful contrarianism of John Lydon, but So Far.. was undeniable to me. And, again, beyond its sonic warmth and timeless songwriting, those songs became synonymous with moments of harmony and happiness in that little house on Quantuck Lane.

At the end of the summer, instead of swiping that flashing Champale sign, I swiped my sister’s copy of So Far…

Seemingly a bajillion summers later, when my own children were just barely out of their toddlerdom, I remember buying a copy of Greatest Hits by Crosby, Stills & Nash at a long-vanished bookstore in Westhampton Beach. That disc went onto become a “car favorite” of my little family’s, with both “Marrakesh Express” and “Southern Cross” becoming crucial to my kids (the latter being re-dubbed “The Beach Song,” as it perfectly scores the drive from our home to the beach, and the former because its opening guitar parts made my little Charlotte and Oliver giggle inexplicably).

We lost David Crosby, yesterday. I could write several paragraphs about why he was rightly revered as a true voice of his generation, a wildly talented songwriter and a notoriously erratic, drug-fueled rock star, but I’m relatively certain all that material has been well covered by every major music and news periodical. I figured it might be more impactful to express what his music meant to me, and that is nigh on indefinable.

I will forever associate the music of David Crosby and of CSN(Y) with family, happiness and home, and the loss of that singular voice is tremendous, no matter which particular band t-shirts you’re inclined to wear.

May he finally rest in peace.

Feedback Fumble

I’d love to thank everybody for the uptick in feedback prompted by this post. I was pleasantly surprised to hear from so many of you and relieved that … as of yet, at least … there hasn’t been any vituperative invective or needless trolling. The day is young, of course.

Incidentally, for those of you who’ve tried to leave a comment and had this missive pop up….

We're sorry, but your session has expired. We cannot complete your request. Please refresh the page and try again.

…please know that I am working on rectifying the issue with the providing platform. In the short term, might I suggest emailing me directly via the link at the top of the bar on the left of your screen (under the ABOUT header). 

Keep’em comin’.

-The Management.

Point It at Daniel Ek Deux: The Hitchcock Kibosh?

In the wake of posting my curious Spotify quandary yesterday, I reached out to a number of different folks -– one a former colleague who now works within the Spotify organization. That individual didn’t immediately know what the answer was, but vowed to “look into it.”

Another colleague of mine, meanwhile, used to work for a indie label to which Robyn was fleetingly signed and has remained somewhat in touch with the great man. She said she’d fly the story by him, but he’s allegedly notorious for taking ages to answer texts and emails (which isn’t entirely surprising). That said, I have faith that he will eventually respond to her, so watch this space for that.

On top of all that, however, a regular reader named S. Norman (a cheeky allusion to a fabled Monty Python sketch involving a gargantuan hedgehog named “Spiny Norman”) helpfully wrote in with a very plausible explanation -– that it’s all Robyn’s doing.

Spiny cited two bits of evidence to back up his theory, the first being this 2020 Tweet from Robyn himself…

And the other being the following passage from this Brooklyn Vegan piece from August of that same year…

Robyn Hitchcock, who has been selling his paintings online to supplement income he would've made touring, says he's actively trying to get all his music off of Spotify and other similar services. "Needless to say, once I’ve clarified the digital distribution situation with my former label, all my past recordings and those of the Soft Boys that we have control of will be removed from exploitative streaming services."

Hitchcock's partner, Emma Swift (whose music is not on Spotify), broke the situation down with Robyn as the example. "Some math, brought you by hacking into @RobynHitchcock’s Spotify for Artists app. Based on these stats, RH would bring in 1.4 million streams per year. Which is about 5600 dollars. 50 percent which gets paid to his record label. In Robyn’s case, he is a prolific artist with more than 20 albums on there. He’s written over 500 songs. It has been his full-time job for 40 + years. He’s been playing guitar since before Daniel Ek was born. Mr Ek seems to think Robyn and artists like him don’t work hard enough. Record labels have made Mr Ek believe artists are utterly replaceable, when the fact is each artist is unique and special. We’re not iPhones. We have individual talents and gifts to offer." She adds that with an artist like Robyn, who had been on major and independent labels, getting off streaming services is not as easy as pushing a button. "It’s not as easy for signed musicians to boycott."

With all this in mind, I’d suggest that Robyn sounds like he’s in the process of doing all in his power keep his new music off Spotify and to remove all the music of his that’s already accessible there. That might conceivably include putting impediments towards his songs being put in playlists, right? Sounds possible. 

Personally speaking, while that somewhat thwarts my original intention of turning my son onto Robyn’s vast catalog of unique and vibrant music, I am 100% in support of Robyn’s position here. To further put my money where my very big mouth is, I’m also endeavoring to indoctrinate my burgeoning-music-fan son into the faith of the tactile artifact. With my daughter now sequestered back at college, I’ve offered to exhume from storage a portable turntable I bought a couple of years back at a school auction, set it up on his temporarily absent sister’s desk (they share a room) and give him full access to my unwieldy collection of vinyl LPs.

Once again, fuck Spotify.

Point It at Daniel Ek: My Mysterious Spotify Quandary

As previously mentioned, while I abhor the platform in question, I've started using Spotify more often, lately, as a means of evangelizing music to my kids. Charlotte doesn't really give a rat's ass, but Oliver's been fairly receptive, thus far. In any case, I started making him a playlist the other day of one of my favorite songwriters who's coming to town in a few weeks and who we hope to go see perform live. He's got a sprawling catalog, so it took a little while, but before I could complete it and send the link to Oliver, I got a “takedown notification” email saying: "We have found the following content to be in violation of our content policies, and we have removed it. Please see our Spotify Terms and Conditions of Use for more information."

Now, while it’s certainly true that I’m an avowed fan of several bands who trade in the brazenly objectionable, this was not a playlist packed with selections by naughty bands like the Revolting Cocks, Cop Shoot Cop, the Murder Junkies, Butthole Surfers, Pussy Galore or the Strangulated Beatoffs – this was simply a collection of songs by British singer/songwriter Robyn Hitchcock.

At first, I assumed this was a scam, but then sure enough, I looked at my Spotify account, and the title of the playlist had vanished. The playlist itself was still there, but there was a blank space where my title had been. I had called it– oh so imaginatively -– Robyn Hitchcock for Oliver. Beyond the fact that the word "cock" happens to appear as part of Robyn's surname (and, yes, it’s his actual name – no relation to Alfred), I cannot imagine what the problem might be.

As they’d voided that playlist title, however, I assumed that that was indeed the case, so I simply re-titled the playlist as Robyn H for Oliver. This morning, however, I woke to *another* takedown notice with the same reprimand. I mean, seriously, Spotify, what the actual fuck?

I perused the Terms and Conditions of Use page, but nothing really jumped out at me. While taste is all relative, I can roundly assure you that nothing in Robyn Hitchcock’s catalog – either with his bands The Soft Boys, The Egyptians or as a solo act – is really anything anyone could genuinly consider offensive, unless whimsical psychedelia and surrealist wit are now considered obscene.

Then, I consiered another explanation – however abjectly ridiculous. The opening track on my playlist is a Robyn rarity that I’d first heard on the great man’s collection of “leftovers and outtakes” called Invisible Hitchcock. Incidentally, don’t bother looking for Invisible Hitchcock on Spotify as, like these awesome nine albums, they don’t seem to have it, but that’s another matter entirely. While not the version I’d first to come to love, I used the version from the I Wanna Go Backwards box set of a song called “Point It at Gran.”

Is that what’s bugging Spotify? Do they deem that title as too aggressive or triggering?

Listen to it and you tell me if this is worthy of a takedown notice that says I violated their terms of service. The offending playlist, meanwhile, can be experienced beneath. You'll notice it has no title. Enjoy, if possible. 

Coming Up....

Just some visual hints about some upcoming content....

Recent Record Roundup

Just to step away from NYC crime, for the moment (until there’s another development), I thought I’d let you know what I’m currently grooving to, or trying to groove to, as the case may be … like anyone cares.

Moonage Daydream – A Brett Morgen Film
Someone gave me a Barnes & Noble gift card over Christmas, but I already have a leaning tower of books I’ve yet to crack open on my bedside table, so I decided to blow it on compact discs -- `cos, y’know, I still buy those, and you can bite me if you’ve got a problem with that, etc. etc.

Incidentally, I don’t know if you’ve checked out the music section of your nearest Barnes & Noble, lately, but proceedings are sort of in “circling the drain” mode at the ones near me (specifically the one on Greenwich Street above the TriBeca Whole Foods and the flagship on Union Square). There’s a load of marked-down titles, but it doesn’t look like they’re stocking anything else beyond only the newest/biggest releases – so, y’know, if you go looking for anything obscure, I’d suggest that you ain’t gonna find it there.

In any case, with that in mind, my options were pretty threadbare, but I did spot this on the New Release rack and instantly snapped it up. I mean, I’m pretty much the sort of guy who’ll pick up anything with the name Bowie on it, so why not? With a gift card, the price was certainly right, know what I’m sayin’?

The crucial conflict here, however, is that while I had every intention of seeing the film from whence this soundtrack sprang (a purportedly lavish, immersive and not-especially-linear doc about the great man shot in retina-immolating high-definition IMAX yadda yadda yadda), but …. I didn’t get around to it in time. Yeah, I know it’s now available for streaming and all that, but I kinda wanted to get the whole IMAX experience, but `twasn’t to be. As such, I approached these two discs cold, without any frame of reference as to how the music thereupon is utilized in the film. I mean … should that matter?

Regardless, this sprawling collection was somewhat reminscent, to me, of that Love project by the Beatles, which acted as the soundtrack to an ambitious Circque du Soleil production in Las Vegas back in 2006. Tracks are re-imagined/remixed and sewn together in an artfully atmospheric and uninterrupted sequence that, I’m assuming, mirrors how they’re used in the movie. Unlike the Love album, though, there’s a great trove of live material interspersed thoughout.

In many instances, I found myself yearning to hear whole songs instead of edited mixes or snippets of medleys, but I guess that’s not the point. Maybe that same grievance can be aimed at the film? Can’t speak to that, yet.

Overall, I’m sure there are some transcendent bits buried across these discs, but again – the package ultimately seems meant as a souvenir from the movie, and not a “proper” collection of songs. Maybe I should see the movie, eh?

Every Loser by Iggy Pop
While I’ll still continue to maintain that Iggy is the greatest living American, I can’t say I was especially optimistic going into this record, which I picked up with the Bowie soundtrack via that Barnes & Noble gift card … how fitting, right?

Six years ago, Iggy teamed up with Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age and recorded what I believe was meant to be his swan song, that being the excellent Post Pop Depression. But once Ig wrapped up the tour for that well-received record, it seems he was suddenly swayed from his retirement plans. His next move was Free, wherein he tried to shake off shackles of the rock he'd become associated with in favor of a more experimental series of collaborations that he just put his (still formidable) voice atop. It did alright, but didn’t set the world on fire.

Now comes Every Loser which finds the greatest living American seemingly attempting to re-assert his mojo and maybe score another big hit (a feat he really hasn’t matched since 1990’s “Candy,” which I frankly fucking hated). Recruiting wunderkind pop producer Andrew Watt to helm the project and roping in accomplished-if-predictable big name players like Duff McKagan, Dave Navarro, Stone Gossard, Eric Avery, Chad Smith, Travis Barker and the late Taylor Hawkins, among others, Every Loser (everytime I type that, my hands type Easy Lover), has all the earmarks of “big rock record.” To his credit, the actual sound on this record crackles with life and sonic depth. Fresh from a similar job for the comparably iconic Ozzy Osbourne, Watt’s made a great leap from producing poppy piffle bullshit music like Bebe Rexha, Post Malone, Lana Del Ray and Justin Bieber to working with bona fide rock gods, which might have been his intention all along. In that respect, Watt’s taken these eleven songs and done a great job with them. High marks to the boy.

That said, something’s missing here, for me. Where Iggy sounded genuine back on Post Pop Depression, I can’t help from feeling that this record sounds a bit forced. There are too many throwaway one-liners and dumb cliches (at their worst on “Neo Punk” and big single, “Frenzy”). None of it is necessarily bad, per se, but I just don’t envision myself returning to it all that often. Suffice to say, there isn’t anything here that can touch any of the work that first established Iggy Pop as the icon he became (although, to be fair, I doubt anyone was expecting there to be). I would make a case for a few tracks off of, once again, Post Pop Depression to be worthy of the great man’s legacy, but there’s none of that here. If I had to pick one song, I’d suggest that “Strung Out Johnny” (about his ol’ pal Johnny Thunders, mayhaps?) is the album’s strongest track, but y’know … it ain’t exactly “The Passenger” (…or even “Run Like a Villain” or “I’m Bored,” etc.)

Gift by The Sisterhood
Long promised from British indie label Cadiz Music, I was under the mistaken impression that this was the first time this 1986 EP was released on compact disc, but that turned out not to be the case, although it has been out of print for eons. I still have the cassette version from the original release that I bought back in college.

For those not familiar, this record was less of a band project and more of an emphatic middle finger from Sisters of Mercy main-man Andrew Eldritch to his duplicitous former bandmates Wayne Hussey and Craig Adams. Having jumped ship during attempts to record the follow-up to their 1985 masterpiece, First and Last and Always, Hussey and Adams immediately formed a new band and started making plans to stick it to their fomer boss. Eldritch rightly felt their new collective moniker was a tad too close to the definite article, so immediately sprang into action, recording Gift (which means “poison” in German, don’tcha know) with a string of notable recruits (among them Alan Vega from Suicide and James Ray from James Ray’s Gangwar and fleeting Motorhead drummer Lucas Fox, although he only provides recitation, not percussion). Because of contractual obligations to his major label, Eldritch himself allegedly does not sing a note on Gift, but I can’t help thinking he’s not-so-secretly buried in there somewhere.

Anyway, Eldritch rush-released Gift out on his own Merciful Release records to stymie Hussey and Adams’ plans. In turn, they simply reverted to a new name -- The Mission (another nod to their former allegiance, given that the aborted record was intended to be called Left on Mission and Revenge) and jolly well became a proper entity in their own right.

Thirty-seven years after its initial release, how does Gift sound? Well, again, it was never meant to be a Sisters of Mercy album, but while essentialy comprised of (mostly) filler, there are some great, elegiac moments herein. In between a string of electronic instrumentals, there is the solid single “Giving Ground,” to recommend it, the vocals being handled by suitably overwrought James Ray. Beyond that, most of the other tracks just plod on too long, although I will always like the deliberately ponderous funeral march that is “Rain From Heaven.”

Ultimately, Gift is more a curious artifact for completists than essential listening, but having played the fuck out of it back in college (subjecting the long-suffering listenership of my college radio station to tireless airings of “Giving Ground”), I felt I should own it on disc at last. One major grievance, however, is that the sonic assembly of this package is woefully slapdash, with “Rain from Heaven” simply cutting off before the song ends, as if to suggest that no one at Cadiz Music thought to give it a listen before it was released.

Odd, that.

ADDENDUM: Just a point of clarification, lest I mislead any readers. I procured the Sisterhood disc directly via Cadiz Music, and NOT at Barnes & Noble, who wouldn't know their Sisters of Mercy from their Sister Sledge. Secondly, over the course of a very long walk around the Upper West Side and Central Park, today, I listened again to the Moonage Daydream soundtrack in its sprawling entirety and, as a single work, it holds up very well.