Flaming Pablum

In Praise of....Kings of the Wild Frontier by Adam & the Ants

Appropos of nothing in particular, here's another one of these....

Originally posted on ILM 08/19/2003

Prompted by the lamentable video for "Vive Le Rock" aired yesterday on Vh1 Classic, I dug out my copy of Kings of the Wild Frontier and re-discovered why I dig this album so goddamn much to begin with.

While I'd been unsolicitedly sent a few credibly "Punk" albums from my father while he was working overseas (notably the first Clash album [Brit edition] and Pure Mania by the Vibrators), Kings of the Wild Frontier was the first arguably "Punk" record (well, cassette, technically) I bought on my own volition. That said, in retrospect, it doesn't sound especially Punk at all, though I'm hard-pressed to accurately describe it (pedants might suggest the amorphous tag "New Wave" or "Post-Punk," but the latter seems too genre specific to include this record). Sure, there's the "tribal" element and faux-burrundi drumming that was briefly the taste of its day (see also Bow Wow Wow and even my beloved Killing Joke), but there's so much more going on here. Produced by Chris Hughes, the overall sound is barbed but not sharp (if that makes sense), heavy at points but largley airy otherwise. I find it quite unique, actually.

The bizarre harmonies, the oblique jargon ("BRUSH ME, DADDY-O!", "ANT MUSIC FOR SEX PEOPLE, SEX MUSIC FOR ANT PEOPLE!"), the strange lyrics...what are these boys on about? Less blunt that the Antz' earlier work (ala the more conventionally punky "Zerox"), yet not quite as poppy as he'd (without his Ants) evenutally become. Pre-highwayman, proto-indian brave (inspiring both Darby Crash and Ian Astbury, and the latter will seemingly deny this to his grave...opting instead to credit Jim Morrison and some time spent on an Indian reservation as his inspirations) with a healthy albeit inexplicable dollop of jolly pirate icing! Arrrrghh, matey! I remember being somewhat put off when I went out looking for the record (having heard "Antmusic" played on the radio a few times) and saw the cover. "This freaky, flamenco-dancing matador with warpaint is Adam?"

But, of course, `tis the `choons that make this record. "Dog Eat Dog," "Antmusic", the title track, "Physical (You're So)" are huge classics, and you'll be halled `round the keel and made to kiss the gunner's daughter if you disagree, knave! "Jolly Roger" still makes me laugh out loud twenty-five years after I first heard it (especially the "baaaaahhhhh!" during the verse about Blackbeard).

Anyway, I think it's a massively great record (and recently re-remastered and re-released, appended with some extra tracks). Chime in, Ant Nation, but tread lightly, haters, as there might come a day when they're treading on You! (although given Adam's mental state these days, probably not).

Da diddly qua qua!

Spicily Swanning around in the Brothers of Brooks

Speaking of "spicing it up" (Dan, you jackass!), how about this for random: Took the wife and child up to midtown this afternoon to run some errands and to show off the offspring to my office-mates (mercifully, Charlotte did not throw a major wobbly when meeting the managing editor). Afterwards, whilst sauntering back downtown in the sweltering Summer heat, we decided to pop into Brooks Brothers for two reasons: (a) Peg has a long-dormant gift certificate she was keen to unload and (b) Brooks Brothers is air-conditioned. So, they we are in the veritable Kaaba of Uber-Preppiedom, when Peg says, "ooh, check out the gent in the cowboy hat." While I was expecting to see some self-satisfied bajillionaire gettin' his Wyatt Earp on whilst paying way too handsomely for a pink tie, who does the buckaroo in question turn out to be but the one and only Michael Gira.

For those of you who don't know, Michael Gira is the lead singer/strategist of legendary New York City noise rock ensemble, SWANS (if the name still doesn't ring a bell, remind me to hum a few bars of "Raping a Slave" or "Mother, My Body Disgusts Me" for you next time we see each other). In fact, here's a pic of the great man, albeit one that dates back several years. Avert your eyes, Mom.

As surprised to see him in Brooks Brothers as he was as probably surprised to be recognized in Brooks Brothers, I introduced myself and told him I was a fan, and he couldn't have been nicer and more pleasant.

As they say, "go figure."

The Tell-Tale ::Thud::

Funny thing about these weblogs is how, in relatively short order, they start to affect the way your day progresses. For example, I checked in this morning around 10:30 am to find that since my vampire shift at work ended at 4am , 8 mysterious individuals had visited my site to read whatever drivel I'd last taken the time to post (and invariably neglect to spellcheck). Who were they? What had they been hoping to find? Were they sated? What can do I do to keep them coming back? Somewhat ridiculously, I'm now finding myself re-examining the otherwise banal daily details of my life, wondering if they'd be suitable for (hopefully) witty and/or insightful encapsulation. This illogical need to document insignificant asides, irrelevant minutia and random observations is seemingly fueled by the simmering suspicion that sooner or later (probably sooner), I might run out of interesting things to say here. Then, of course, there's the argument that that's already happened and now I'm simply typing run-on sentences of arcane data obliviously into the cold, lonely, gaping maw of futility. Hopefully, that's not the case.

In between entertaining these and numerous other existential quandaries, my off-hours are ruled by a drooling, babbling Lilliputian who, when not rummaging recklessly through the apartment in a ceaseless mission to search and then accordingly destroy, requires -- nay, demands -- my full and tirelessly unwavering attention. Charlotte (the child..sixteen months old today, as it happens) has tenuously grasped the ability to....well, maybe not walk so much as stagger in a manner reminiscent of a tiny Frankenstein after several shots of Jaeggermeister. Where once I was allowed to juggle the task of minding the baby with other activities (like scouring eBay for vintage Stranglers posters I can't hang on my wall anyway), looking after Charlotte when I'm the sole parent in the house has become a full-time, all-sensory-consuming duty that requires the type of stealth, efficiency and a innate sense of alert normally reserved for agents of the Mossad. At one moment, she'll be giggling happily in the other room, presumably playing with soft, edgeless, unswallowable toys. Next, will come that tell-tale ::thud:: of toddler head hitting unrelenting hardwood floor (don't be too alarmed, this is an almost-daily occurrence in virtually every home with a small child) prompting me to scramble like a young gazelle to her. More often than not, it makes more sense to simply follow her around, as she pushes her toy stroller about our shrinking apartment in a seemingly endless Bataan Death March, exhorting bursts of giddy gibberish like a diminutive drill sergeant with a full diaper.

As such, internet access and weblog entry has been relegated to that amorphous and worryingly diminishing window of time dubbed "Naptime." As I type this, however, I can't help noticing that "naptime" has just ended, and I am being summoned. More to come.

In Praise of...Q:Are We Not Men?... by Devo

Being that the boys in question are playing here in NYC at the Hammerstein Ballroom in a couple of weeks (though rumor has it that tickets are selling for $80.00....when did Devo become the Rolling Stones?), I figured I'd add this one.

Originally posted on ILM 10/07/2003

Inspired by picking up the dizzyingly exhaustive new bio of the same name by Jade Dellinger and David Giffels, I was recently struck by how very few albums make me as unabashedly happy as this positively seminal classic. I remember seeing them on "Saturday Night Live" and thinking they were just another surreal sketch until a few weeks later I wrapped my ears around this record. They seemed a thousand times more subversive than conventionally 'dangerous' bands like the Ramones and the Sex Pistols and Kiss. There was truly NOTHING like them (before or since).

But beyond their singularly bizarre and unique aesthetic, there were actually hugely satisfying tunes on this debut album. Even if you were put off by the yellow suits and the whole schtick, "Uncontrollable Urge", "Praying Hands", "Gut Feeling" and of course "Mongoloid" and "Jocko Homo" (to say nothing of their notorious cover of "Satisfaction") are just simply great, great songs. Brian Eno's production is sharp and suitably alien sounding, retaining their raw edge, but filtering it through a patina of strangely synthetic-sounding elements. And unlike some of their later records (wherein they truly succumbed to de-evolution, quality-wise) this album quite literally ROCKS!

As an extra bonus, I remember members of my family getting actively disquieted by their unflinching weirdness (most evident on "Shrivel Up" and "Too Much Paranoias"...to say nothing of the thoroughly inexplicable faux-Chichi Rodriguez-morphing cover art) and what's not to love about that when you're a perpetually disagreeable twelve year old? The fact that this album acted as a palpable irritant to my family (way more so than Kiss etc.) as well as thoroughly rocking made it a virutally priceless addition to my then fledgling record collection.

Its younger brother, Duty Now for the Future is also positively brilliant in the same wonderfully deranged manner, but after that, the band seemingly acquiesced to the demands of the music industry. The albums were still dazzlingly fresh and unfailingly interesting, but they seemed a bit de-fanged and housebroken after Freedom of Choice, the album that firmly tied the one-hit-wonder albatross that was "Whip It" around their collective neck. They would never again sound so alive and frantic as on Q:Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo!

If you can't appreciate this album for the thing of unique brilliance that it is, truly someone has sucked the marrow of life out of your joyless bones.

In Damnation of....Horses by Patti Smith

This actually doesn't come from ILM, but rather it's a chapter I contributed to German rock scribe, Sky Nonhoff's book, "Don't Believe the Hype: Die miestüberschätzten Platten der Popgeschichte". Very similar to Jim DeRogatis' "Kill Your Idols" (I'm not sure which beat which to the bookstore, but Nonhoff's is -- sadly -- a Germany-only publication so far), "Don't Believe the Hype" culled together several essays devoted to toppling many of rock's sacred cows. I'd met Sky back in the Autumn of 2002 while visiting Munich, and he gamely asked me to be a part of it. So, I volunteered my services for skewering this album, and Sky also had me tackle Appetite for Destruction by Guns'n'Roses (look for that soon). I submitted the review below. Sky translated it (he's multilingual) and it's now out in finer bookstores everywhere....er...everywhere in Germany, that is. Being that I don't speak a lick of German beyond what I've picked up in war films, I cannot say whether or not the text below at all mirrors the text that appears in the book when translated. In any case, here it is. Thanks, Sky. Sorry, Patti.

PATTI SMITH
HORSES
(ARISTA) 1975
Initially released in 1975 (when the pop charts were clogged with the Carpenters and the Average White Band), this debut album by Patti Smith is roundly hailed as a cornerstone of Punk Rock. Drenched in self-indulgent melodrama, however, Horses sounds more at home rubbing shoulders with the hoary likes of Meat Loaf than with comparatively spartan albums recorded by Smith's fellow CBGB's alumni like the Ramones and the Dead Boys. Its arguable merits strenuously extolled by U2's Bono and REM's Michael Stipe, Horses has attained canonical status, but closer scrutiny begs the question, does it really measure up?

An accomplished wanna-be made good, Patti Smith came to New York City as a desperate scenester with a fixation with Mick Jagger and Arthur Rimbaud. Through a strategy of opportunism that set the template for unhealthily ambitious scenemakers like Courtney Love to follow years later, Smith managed to befriend and manipulate enough people to put together an ensemble featuring rock critic and Nuggets-archivist Lenny Kaye on guitar, Richard Sohl on piano, Ivan Kral on bass and Jay Dee Daugherty on drums (seen inexplicably brandishing a switchblade on the inner sleeve of Horses). Having assembled her gaggle of feathered-haired henchman, made a name for herself from hanging around with all the "right people" and her aggressive, unsolicitedly confessional poetry, Patti ditched her dalliances as a full-time poet and/or painter in favor of becoming a rock'n'roll star (and started to behave accordingly). Landing a contract with Clive Davis' Arista Records and roping in ex-Velvet Underground bassist John Cale as producer, Patti checked into Jimi Hendrix's fabled Electric Ladyland Studio to record her first long player.

"Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine," intones Patti as the album begins. It may be an auspicious opening statement, especially for its era, but the thrills come few and far between after that. While her affinity for Jagger, Keith Richards, Bob Dylan and other yawnsome rock dinosaurs cannot be overstressed, it's Smith penchant for the pompous faux-Shamanism of the Doors' Jim Morrison that really mars this vinyl. Her limited, amateurish "vocals" pushed way up in the mix (dwarfing the contributions of her bandmates), Smith coughs up couplets of supposedly deep nonsense before hijacking "Gloria" by Them (a song also covered by the Doors) newly rife with references about dry-humping parking meters.

That cover version deflowered and out of the way, it's strictly downhill from there. "Redondo Beach" is such a shoddy, ham-fisted attempt at reggae that it makes Sting at his worst sound positively like Peter Tosh. "Birdland," meanwhile, is a babbling rant that makes for an excruciating nine minutes and fourteen seconds of z-grade, masturbatory poetry and shameless self-indulgence that sounds like some extra-chromosoned offspring of Jim Morrison and Van Morrison after a rude round of drunken buggery. Following that bloated mess, "Free Money" wheezes out of the speakers in a damp fart of treacly pianos and anemic guitars and Patti's overwrought mewling with little or no regard for tempo.

Apologists continually cite the band's "crude" playing, whereas "meatless" might be a more appropriate term. There's still plenty of needless filigree, though, well to the fore on "Break It Up," which finds Television guitarist Tom Verlaine succumbing to classic rock excesses by strangling his fretboard for his former girlfriend (Verlaine was yet another stepping stone on Smith's path to stardom). The album's centerpiece, "Land", comes mumbling out next, finding the singer's grating pronunciation of the world "locker" as a convincing argument for poetry to be left on the silent page and kept away from the microphone at all costs. Nine more aimless minutes of incomprehensible exhortation and a lifeless pilfering of "Land of a Thousand Dances" later, this flimsy vessel hits the rocks with the drunken thud of "Elegie" a funereal dirge suffocated in mawkish lament by the flaccid guitars of Blue Oyster Cult's Alan Lanier, begging the question: "who invited him?"

Arista's 1996 re-release of Horses on compact disc appended a live cover of the Who's "My Generation" that displays a more feral performance from Patti's gang. That exciting aesthetic seems entirely missing from the album, however, which comes largely unencumbered by memorable tunes (apart from the appropriated ones). An epiphany for some, and a sacred cow in dire need of toppling for others, Horses is the quintessential example of an album that is more "important" than good. A few short years after this album's release, No Wave enfant terrible Lydia Lunch made a scathing indictment in the Soho Weekly News that Patti Smith was nothing more than a barefoot hippy, and the chore for the listener steeped in tuneless bellowing and hollow histrionics that is Horses only confirms that.

CRUCIAL ADDENDUM: PLEASE READ.

In Praise of...Destroyer by Kiss

Originally posted on ILM 08/02/2003:

Somewhat inspired by all the recent Kiss threads of late (KISS Music from the Elder: Brilliant or Trash, Kiss Symphony: Alive IV, etc.) I returned today to the definite article and slapped a tape of Destroyer in the ol' walkman whilst yutzin' around town running errands. I have to say, there are precious few albums like it. Let's review, shall we?

It must've seemed like a huge leap at the time from the garagey sound of the first three records and the whallop of Alive to the über-production of Destroyer (and I believe they claim they even lost fans over it), but twenty-someodd years later, it still sounds like nothing else on earth (though the band themselves certainly tried to replicate its sound, to no avail). From the echoey expanse of the sound, to the vast arsenal of theretofore taboo instrumentation (pianos all over the place, organs, female back-up vocals, church choirs and all those strings, oboes, french horns and woodwinds on "Beth".....and is that a calliope on "Flaming Youth"?) it's a ridiculously herculean effort. Original pressings even came appended with a mysterious coda track reminiscent of the fabled "inner groove" of Sgt.Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, featuring Paul Stanley ruminating about having parties to an obviously receptive audience while the choir from "Great Expectations" warble said silly song's chorus angelically). What an opus!

The songs themselves, of course, are the stars of the show. Arguably their finest selections are here, notably the epic "Detroit Rock City", the genuinely sinister sounding "God of Thunder" (written, somewhat incongruously, by Paul Stanley and not Gene Simmons), the anthemic "Shout It Out Loud" (which I've always preferred over "Rock'n'Roll All Night") and, of course, their power ballad-minus-the-power, "Beth." Maybe not "something for everyone," but it's a pretty wide array of offerings all the same.

Once again, though, what really sets it apart is storied producer Bob Ezrin's touch. Lending the band so much sonic space to work within, it sounds as if it were recorded in the apse of the Cathedral of St.John the Divine in Upper Manhattan. Ace's guitars wail mournfully from far off corners of the huge room. Peter's drumming reverberates up from some dank lower chamber. Booming piano keys augment Gene's bass. Children's voices like demonic cherubim with leather bat wings flap and giggle all over "God of Thunder." It's a masterpiece, by gosh!

The track that struck me recently is one I've normally never given a great deal of thought to, but it just seemed so wonderfully ludicrous that I thought it was worth mentioning. "Great Expectations" is inflated with so much needless pomp and circumstance, that it's hard to believe it was recorded with a straight face. Basically an entirely presumptious excercise in self-mythologizing (written by Gene, naturally), painstaking detailing the hopes, dreams and aspirations of every self-(dis)respecting groupie ("you know what my fingers can do, and you wish you were the one I was doin' it to!"), Ezrin forgives Simmons' laughably pretentious preenings (I'm sure Ezrin was paid handsomely enough to overlook the band's ego problems) and bolsters proceedings with lilting pianos, drama-drenched surges of guitar and hauls in some innocent church choir of eunuched choir boys to chime in on the Dickens-pilfering chorus (is Gene suggesting that it is indeed a great thing to expect sexual favors from the band?) Such hubris wouldn't rear its head some clumsily again until the unforgivable "Charisma" on the Dynasty album. But dressed up in Ezrin's magic, it's practically a hymn.

I could go on and on, and already have. I haven't even touched on the cover, which remains one of my very favorite single images of all time. But just what the hell is going on there? Are they running? Are they dancing? Are they celebrating in the wake of the destruction their unbriddled display of RÖCK wreaked on the smouldering city behind them? Also, what's with the gestures? Paul looks like he's doing the hokey-pokey. Peter's steering an imaginary bicycle, Gene is shadow-boxing, but....what's up with Ace? One finger feyly points at you, whereas the other hand holds four fingers up...signifying that it's their fourth studio album? Signifying the four members? Fingers extended to catch a descending pop fly?

Regardless, Destroyer is, was and ever shall be one of my favorite albums.

In Praise/Damnation of....

As I believe I mentioned in my opening entry last week, I'm somewhat obsessed with music. Now, by this I don't mean to claim in the slightest that I have any exclusive understanding of all genres of music or a richly cultivated insight into the inner workings of creative musical mind, but rather that the appreciation of certain music seems to take up more space in my brain than it does in most other folks' (space invariably meant for other things like knowing how to do one's own taxes or knowing how to properly crack an egg without getting yoke and shell everywhere or knowing how to drive before the age of 36, etc.). As such, the majority of the writing I've done over the past several years has been about music. Sometime in early 2001, though, I happened upon an internet forum wherein other like-minded music dorks from all walks of life converged to debate, discuss and argue about music until they were all blue in the face. Clearly, I'd found a home. This place, should you be curious to check it out yourself, is the ILM ("I Love Music") board, and you can find it as the top link in the column to the immediate left of this entry.

In any case, after a few years of regular posting there, I introduced a new type of discussion thread wherein the merits of individual albums are rapturously extolled in needlessly fawning detail. After a while, I was happy to note, the In Praise Of... threads caught on, and now other posters log in their favorite albums and swoon about why they're so great, significant, meaningful to them, etc. I should point out that these are not record reviews. There's been a bit of a trend recently rife in a few periodicals I shan't name where record reviews are composed in the first person and are littered with arguably witty personal details about the writer and little or no relevance to the subject he or she is purportedly reviewing. As far as I'm concerned, reviews should stick to the facts of the subject and not be about one's experience at summer camp or high school. That said, the In Praise Of.. entries that I am now going to duplicate here (reprised and edited from their original threads on ILM) are NOT record reviews, so personal information can and often is included. I hope that makes sense. Let me know if it doesn't.

Some of my fellow regular ILM'rs who bother to read this weblog might recognize some of these, but they'll have been slightly edited and tweaked. Look for them coming very shortly.

Wawa Canteen

Been meaning to try this place out since it opened, being that it's a veritable stone's throw from our back door. Occupying a space that used to house a truly dingy looking establishment, Wawa Canteen (289 Mercer Street at Waverly Place) is a stylish little KOREAN eatery tucked in the labywrinth of NYU. I only stopped in and had a plate of steamed dumplings today, but (a) they were excellent and (b) owner/manager Philip regailed me with the place's history and ambitions (they just got their liquor license, apparently, and now plan to stay open later). Cursed by scaffolding that has evidently blighted the building for four whole years, Wawa Canteen is a gem of a find and I'd really love to see it succeed, so I'm doing my part to spread the word. Oh, and they also deliver. Do check it out: http:///www.wawacanteen.com

Enjoy

Noo Yawker in The New Yorker - July 25, `05 issue

As some readers here may know, I've been contributing to the the "Goings On About Town" section of The New Yorker magazine since about mid-2001. Being that I launched this weblog for the purposes of both exercising my writing and showcasing it (for lack of a better term), I figure I might as well further plug my own stuff. I write pretty exclusively for the Night Life section of "Goings On About Town," primarily about upcoming music events/concerts etc. Being that The New Yorker doesn't give bylines for these type of blurbs -- nor, for that matter, do they feature a masthead -- the friends and acquaintances of mine who do know that I contribute have to usually guess which blurbs I've penned. Today, however, the guesswork ends. In this week's issue (7/25/05 - featuring a bike messenger going head to head with the Tour de France on the cover), I wrote the blurbs regarding: Adrian Belew, The Raspberries, Coheed & Cambria, Teenage Fanclub, the "Dot Dash" Festival (featuring the Zero Boys and Teengenerate) and lastly The Kaiser Chiefs. If you're curious, do please enjoy.

Escape from Soup Island

Back from L.I.. Apart from the benefit of leaving the teeming hive of Manhattan, our trip out to the outter reaches of Long Island (specifically my mother's house in Quogue, a sort've sub-Hampton enclave which likes to kid itself that it's still a quaint, undiscovered little country hamlet) was mired by the merciless ire of Old Man Weather. It's not that it rained --- rain would've been a welcome relief. Instead, it was a sunless bog of intense humidity that replicated the sensation of spending 72 hours duct-taped to the undercarriage of a wheezing, incontinent bull walrus.

In any case, I'm back now. Since my last entry, I've fielded a number of comments from readers and friends of mine regarding what a drab, dull and lilfeless title I selected to replace "House of Vassifer" (that being Alexspace), the worst of which coming from my friend Tod, who likened it to the sort've moniker normally used to christen venues which host "poetry slams". This simply will not do. So, I've decided to change the title yet again to better reflect the proposed content of this weblog. It may stick, it may not. It'll suffice for now, though.

I hope to fill this weblog today with lots of extraneous stuff, but am currently sweating in an internet cafe that is insisting on playing Edie Brickell & New Bohemians at a volume normally reserved for Guantanamo prisoner intimidation. Thus, I must flee. Check back later if you've a few minutes to slay.