Flaming Pablum

Grappling with the Addiction

I've always been a bit of a collector. As a kid, it was comic books. Not just strewn around or in some cardboard box under a bed, but lovingly preserved in sleek plastic protective sleeves with a thin sheet of cardboard tucked behind each to keep them straight. I had rows of comics painstakingly preserved and chronologically ordered. My big title was Ghost Rider, and I had every issue right up to end the first series (the "Johnny Blaze" era -- including his first appearances in Marvel Spotlight, which I handled as reverently and as gingerly as one would the Shroud of Turin). I collected other titles as well -- notably the Champions, the New Teen Titans, the Fantastic Four (when John Byrne was drawing them) and the X-men,...but then, everyone collected the X-men. After school, friends and I would troop over to SuperSnipe on the Upper East Side, The Comic Art Gallery in midtown (a truly seedy, poorly ventilated concrete room on E. 59th street, up a dark, dank, graffiti-ridden flight of stairs) or Forbidden Planet down in the village to prize the latest issues or fork over our hardly earned allowances to fill gaps in our burgeoning comic libraries. I even attended the odd comic convention (and "odd" is the perfect word for them). I was in pretty deep.

My comic collecting days lasted until about halfway through high school. I pretty much gave it up around the same time I realized that still playing Advanced Dungeons & Dragons wasn't exactly doing wonders for my reputation. By this time, I'd started to collect records anyway (although the records I'd started to collect -- future classics by bands like Iron Maiden, the Misfits and Venom -- weren't exactly helping my afore-mentioned "rep" any more than the comic collecting had. But, out went the comics, "Star Wars" action figures and role-playing games and in came music. I even sold off huge chunks of my comic collection to make money (which invariably went towards buying more records). I still have all my issues of Ghost Rider, though. They're packed into crates that now reside in either a storage space in Lower Manhattan or in my mother's flood-courting basement out on Long Island.

The vinyl started to amass pretty rapidly as I hungrily immersed myself into zealous fandom for implausibly stupid heavy metal, needlessly antagonistic punk rock and wildly pompous gothic rock. Each weekend was devoted to scouring through Greenwich Village records shops looking for new records, band posters and other music ephemera. By the time it came time to pack up my stuff for my freshman year of college, it was clear that there was no way I could take all my records. Something had to stay behind.

I ended up temporarily forsaking my love for heavy metal in order to lighten the load (also rightly deducing that the girls at college probably wouldn't go for guys who extolled the merits of Judas Priest). As such, all my albums by Twisted Sister, Dio, Grim Reaper, Lita Ford, W.A.S.P, Quiet Riot, Ratt, Helix, Hanoi Rocks, etc. ended up either staying home or being pawned off to my friend Greg, who in turn posted them off to poor, rock-starved relatives in Poland (fact!). I kept the Motorhead, `Sabbath, Van Halen, Rush, `Maiden, AC/DC, Metallica, Venom and Kiss, but all the other poodle-haired crap had to go.

In college, my vinyl addiction worsened. Via the influence of similarly inclined schoolmates (who'd turn me onto bands I hadn't yet encountered like XTC, the Velvet Underground and King Crimson) and involvement with my school's radio station ( WDUB 91.1 on your fm dial ....whose slogan at the time was a meek "We Don't Suck!"), I'd procured such an amount of records that there wasn't much room for clothing in my closet. I had heated arguments over the phone with my mother, demanding that she drive out to Ohio and pick me up at the end of the year (I was without a car -- much less a license -- at the time) and help me cart my record collection home, instead of rolling the dice and having my music shipped. She'd always win, and I'd fret like a nervous grandmother every time I packed up my precious records into cardboard crates, hoping to see them pristine and intact on the other side.

It didn't get any better after college. Upon the advent of the compact disc (initially a more refined and accordingly more expensive medium), I was slow to make the change-over (balking at the notion that these thin slabs of purportedly unscratchable space-age polymer were going to be the dominant format). But, sure enough, my shelves swiftly became choked with rows of plastic jewel-boxes. Pseudo-employment (read: no benefits, job security or even the promise of timely paycheck) at a variety of music magazines ensured a weekly stack of promotional discs (having wormed my way into the good graces of several record labels' publicity departments, my name was added to their respective mailing lists). Compact discs started accumulating faster than I could quantify. Stacking the undesirable ones on my windowsill, sunlight was completely obstructed by unwanted albums within only a couple of weeks. At the same time, I was still voraciously seeking out new music (my imagination now captured by British indie bands like The Wedding Present and the Kitchens of Distinction and local noise-rock bands like Barkmarket and Cop Shoot Cop). What had started out as a hobby had turned into a habit.

I moved downtown to East 12th street in 1996. By this time, I'd packed up all my vinyl into crates and crammed them all into storage. Even though I'd carted piles of discs off to the Salvation Army (specifically the unwanted promo ones) and sold a few at the few used places around town who'd buy (though never for very much), my music collection still commanded a worrying amount of space. On top of the elevated loft bed in my apartment, my disc collection sat like a fat angry beast, taking up a platform originally designed to accommodate a mattress. My life was changing, though. Now fully employed at a weekly news magazine, I didn't quite have the same amount of time to go disc shopping. But old habits die hard.

After a couple of years, I got married, and my wife moved all her stuff into the apartment. Virtually overnight, space became a scarcity. I packed more and more of my stuff (lovingly framed Plasmatics posters, Kiss action figures, commemorative Iron Maiden coffee mugs, etc.) into storage (vainly hoping one day to have a bigger place wherein these items might again be properly displayed) but I was fighting a losing battle. Stacks twice my height of my wife's enviable book collection now battled for dominance and shelf space with my compact disc collection. Then there was the added challenge of having to merge my wife's CDs in with mine (picture me wincing as I gingerly slipped discs by Van Morrison, Simply Red and Billie Holiday in with my Ramones, Bauhaus and Stranglers discs). While compromise was the order of the day, the discs still had a stranglehold on my life.

We ended up moving in 2002. While we were re-locating to a bigger space (merficully just four blocks away), I knew I had to relegate even more stuff into storage. This was going to really be our space, not just my old space that my wife had moved into. As such, more of my tactile juvenalia got packed up and put away (forcing me to upgrade my space at Manhattan MiniStorage from "personal closet" to "small room"). Divvying up the bookshelves, my wife and I found a happy middle ground where both her books and my discs could more or less co-exist. Détente achieved.

Then came Charlotte.

Our daughter was born in the spring of 2004 and life was -- quite expectedly and understandably -- turned completely upside down. Knowing that the days of cranking our stereo to lawnmower-reminiscent volumes were over, I sprang for a 40 gig iPod. Access to our book & disc shelves was swiftly obstructed by what had become a stroller parking area. Time spent schlepping around Manhattan, browsing in record stores with headphones on (already a no-no given the Tinnitus I'd developed in my right ear in 1999) was jettisoned in favor of long walks pushing a stroller. In very short order, Charlotte became mobile. A crawling, drooling, quasi-autonomous force of nature keen on giggling and destroying. Both a stack of miniature vintage novellas that belonged to my wife and rows of CDs in the U's and the V's (the shelves my daughter could reach) fell prey to her saliva-drenched little digits. Albums by the Undertones, U2 and the Unband found themselves being utilized as bludgeoning tools, while favorites by Van Halen, the Vibrators, Visage and the Virgin Prunes were used as de facto floor-sanders. Whole rows in the "various artists" section were yanked out and splayed around like cards after a zealous round of 52 Pick-Up. These were new challenges altogether.

In recent days, Charlotte has infiltrated the back reaches of the bookshelf that holds up our television, which until very recently acted as a home for my box sets. After finding my prized copy of the box set by enigmatic Californian post-punk ensemble, Savage Republic (renowned for their delicate, intricately die-cut cardboard disc sleeves) well and truly savaged by my preternaturally adorable offspring (a die-hard music fan of lesser moxie might overlook her otherwise unimpeachable cuteness and ignore restraint in a feverish thirst for vengeance), I was forced to find new box set accommodations. As I scrambled to create space in my closet whilst yanking box sets by Echo & the Bunnymen, XTC and Alice Cooper out of Charlotte's smeary little paws, I realized that this was simply not working. I need to cut the clutter and succumb.

Having "ripped" most of the important bits of my collection onto my computer (we don't really use the stereo itself that much anymore, itself having its limits repeatedly tested by my daughter's curious fingers), it seems I'm but a stone's throw away from putting my entire compact disc collection in storage for its own protection and to simply to create some breathing room. I still meander around compact disc shops, but the gnawing urge to buy new discs doesn't seem to be as tenacious these days (although maybe that's because I haven't heard anything in a while that really rocked my socks off). Have I been cured of my addiction? Was the answer all along to simply have a child? Seems a bit extreme. The notion of locking my discs away in a dank basement chamber isn't a happy one. But, maybe that's the best way,...or at least until my daughter is tall enough to reach the keyboard of my computer.

Quick Addendum

The internet has made the world a much smaller place. In response to my last entry regarding Devo's performance this past week at the Hammerstein Ballroom, I got an e-mail out of the proverbial blue from one Mr.Vic Thrill himself (see above), who gamely sent me an mp3 in an effort to sway my opinion. In retrospect, I should point out that I actually quite enjoyed Vic's set (my only real problem with it was that it was a bit on the shrill side....and for that I'd sooner blame the Hammerstein's sound system). There are more nuances to his music than you'd have detected that particular evening. In any case, it's entertaining stuff, so I once again recommend checking out their website. See what you think.

I hope to be posting more later today, so stay tuned and all that...

Devo at the Hammerstein Ballroom 8/10/05

Shortly before leaving for this show, I turned to my wife and asked her if it was wrong of me to be wearing a Devo shirt to a Devo show. "You're concerned with looking dorky at what is essentially a dork convention?" she answered. "Don't worry about it."

Now, I love Devo. Always have. Somewhere between Kiss and Killing Joke, Devo were my absolute favorite band. (Read my fawning appreciation for their first album by clicking here ). They were my first ever concert (Radio City Music Hall on Halloween of 1981, a show captured here by photographer Allan Tannenbaum....I've actually bought a similar print from this same show from the man himself). Sure, they tapered off, quality-wise towards the 90's, but they never totally went away; rather they were exiled into a state of financially-imposed hibernation. They'd still play out now and again, but such events were rare and usually on the West Coast anyway. Then, for their first New York City show in over a decade, Devo played in Central Park last Summer with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs (a discussion about which, should you care, can be read by clicking here ). At that point, I hadn't seen them live since the autumn of 1988, playing in a somewhat downmarket club in their home state of Ohio (where I went to college). Sure, they were invariably going to be older, fatter and alternately greyer and balder this time around, but c'mon....it's DEVO! I had to go.

That show was a revelation. Defying both their encroaching waste-lines and Biblically inclement weather, Devo's performance in the park last summer was a positively religious experience. Tight as ever and boasting a hyper-kinetic stage presence most bands half their age can't claim, Devo delivered a set that was steeped in nostalgia but with a manic energy that belied the material's age. I practically wept. About 30 seconds after their final number (a stirring rendition of "Beautiful World" sung by Booji Boys), the band left the stage and an unrelenting ceiling of water fell from the skies (the rain stopped just prior to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, biding its time until the concert's end). My friend John and I were soaked to the bone by the time we made it out of the park, but it was a great experience all around.

When I heard that they were coming back this year, albeit at the comparatively antiseptic Hammerstein Ballroom (a somewhat humongoid shell of a space often blighted with dubious acoustics), I was initially skeptical. Skepticism turned to incredulity when I heard they were asking upwards of $55.00 for tickets. But via the good graces of a hugely accomodating and utterly fabulous industry contact, my friend John and I were once again going back to see Devo. How could I not, after all?

I've never had a great time at the Hammerstein Ballroom. I've seen some noteworthy shows there over the years (the first Bauhaus reunion, the Prodigy circa Fat of the Land, the Beastie Boys circa Hello Nasty!), but the not-so-great instances outweigh the positive ones (my friend Sean and I actually left a Massive Attack show there early because of both bad sound and a huge, unmanageable crowd, and I stupidly injured myself via drunkenly sliding down a banister at a mind-numbingly dull Verve show at the Hammerstein back in `98...although that was really my own fault, not the venue's). They're notoriously hard-assed about keeping patrons in their assigned areas. No one from the mezzanine is allowed on the floor and vice versa, no one is allowed in the aisles and there's absolutely no re-entry once you step outside. These stipulations are vigorously enforced via squadrons of yellow-shirted security goons wielding flashlights. Rock'n'roll abandon is kept to a firmly clench-buttocked minimum.

For this show, John and I were sequestered upstairs to the mezzanine. Nothing quite tempers anticipation for a live rock show quite like having to sit in seats. Couple that with the inarguable fact that this crowd was not exactly culled from the hipster elite (in other words, boy was my wife's assessment ever correct). While Devo's roots are as entwined with the foundation of American Punk Rock as Blondie's, the Ramones' and/or the Talking Heads', precious little of those bands' cool cache is evident amidst the Devo nation. Devo, ultimately, is a band composed of and -- more importantly -- for geeks. The average Devo fan makes the workaday Rush zealot seem like an original participant in Andy Warhol's Factory. And believe me when I tell you that the geeks were out in force this night. Being that I'm not exactly a stranger to geekdom myself, I was somewhat prepared for this, but John and I ended up sitting amidst a particularly robust strain that was enough to give us pause. Alongside folks sporting patented Devo finery in earnest (I too own an official energy dome and a yellow suit, although neither ever leave the apartment), there was one very excited gentleman wearing a banana suit later seen being escorted out early by another gentleman we assumed to be his psychiatrist. There was also one unfortunate character weaving through the aisles, yelping incoherently and not being at all well-tended to by his compatriots (who really ought to have been looking out for the poor fellow). Decorum and political correctness forbid me to describe this particular individual further, but I doubt that will stop John (read his account of this particular episode by clicking here ). To be fair, I did spot Moby up in the bar area along with us, but he's not exactly immune to accusations of abject geekery either.

In terms of the show itself, John and myself basically had a lot of fun. Despite there being no mention of it on the ticket nor the website nor the poster, there was an opening act, that being Vic Thrill & the Saturn Missile, an endearingly strange but still kinda shrill and not-just-a-little annoying local act who defy accurate description (you can find out more about them by clicking here .)

Though it seemed to last a lifetime, Vic's set was relatively brief and Devo hit the stage (after the requisite preparatory filmstrip) at 9pm. Almost an identical set to last summer's gig in the park, the band ran through material largely from their first couple of albums (highlighting their more aggressive work over their more streamlined later tracks). All went more or less routinely until touring drummer Josh Freese (erstwhile drummer of the Vandals, A Perfect Circle and very briefly a member of Guns'n'Roses), somehow managed to severely injure his left arm towards the end of the set. After some rudimentary first aid application, Freese gamely played through the encore with one arm (doing what John so charmingly described as "pulling a Def Leppard"). A truly impressive feat, especially for a gent who was really pounding the tubs into submission (original Devo drummer Alan "Human Metronome" Myers has been absent from the ranks since the latter half of the 80's). After a spirited sprint through "Gut Feeling/Slap Your Mammy," Freese eventually had to succumb and the show concluded (no rendition of "Beautiful World," alas). Given the circumstances, I was amazed that he lasted as long as he did.

I've been looking around the `net for a proper set list but haven't found an accurate one as yet. Suffice it to say, they ran through most of the favorites and some refreshingly less celebrated tracks like "Wiggly World" (a personal favorite, though "Praying Hands" would've been a nice treat too). No new material (though rumors of a new album abound). It seems Devo are content being what is ultimately an oldies act. But if they can still play with this sort've fervor, I can't see a thing wrong with that. Same time next year?

Suckerpunched by Pop Music

One of the first things someone told when they heard I was starting a weblog was to make sure that I didn't turn into one of those blinkered bloggers who apologize for not posting more often, given that it reeks of self-importance and presumption. I agreed. But, that said, after you get into a rhythm of regular posting, once you deviate from it, it seems weird not to address the lull. So, at the risk of being self-important and presumptuous (too late), I'd like to just say that I went to Texas for a few days to go pick up my wife and daughter who were visiting my in-laws.

Beyond that, I've been in a vaguely weird head-space lately due to certain recent events that I can't go into just yet. On top of that, in the span of only a couple of hours, I received an e-mail from a long-estranged friend, only to hear later in that same afternoon from someone else that a former colleague/friend I'd sadly fallen out of touch with had just passed away. So, to make a long story short, I'm a bit out of sorts at the moment, so please excuse the potentially erratic status of this weblog.

On a considerably lighter note -- since I'm being so honest at the moment -- I might as well throw caution to the four winds and confess that I've taken a bizarre liking to something that was initially just a fleetingly guilty pleasure. I first warmed to the New Jersey band, My Chemical Romance, after spotting their video for "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" on MTV2, relishing its smarmy charm (somewhere between vintage John Hughes, "Rushmore," "Three O'Clock High" and "The Warriors"). I normally loathe these types of bands -- half-baked rinkydink pop-punk revivalists leeching off the sartorial aspects of their predecessors and pretending they're being original. For all intents and purposes, My Chemical Romance should veritably personify everything I can't stand about today's music. They're nothing but a derivative affront to virtually all the bands I hold dear.

But, forgiving them their youth and appropriated style (hell, these kids probably weren't even born when the Sisters or Mercy and/or 45 Grave were already well into their creative decline), MCR have a handy knack with big, hoarily histrionic choruses and inescapable hooks. They may look like gothy punks (lead singer Gerard Way is a dead ringer for former T.S.O.L. vocalist, Jack Greggors circa their live cameo in "Suburbia"), but these guys owe more to the likes of the equally dubious Third Eye Blind and Meat Loaf (albeit slightly harder and sped up) than any of the fabled Class of `77. I sprang for a used copy of their second album, Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge (once again, they have a decidedly Meat Loafian penchant for titles) for four bucks, listened to "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" once or twice, and then promptly threw it on the pile.

However, it's "Helena," the second single from the album, that has really vaulted them out of my "to ultimately sell" pile of CDs and squarely back into my rattled subconscious. Prompted by the spastically funereal video for same, I re-dug the album out and bludgeon me with my own sawed-off limbs if I can't get this song out of my head. Dunked in a viscous fondue of mawkish pathos, "Helena" features a soaring chorus and garment-rending refrain of the sort that are such staples of great pop music (to my ears) that I virtually well up whenever I hear it. No rinkydink pop-punk band of emo-lovin', whippersnappin' clowns from New Jersey with deplorably silly hair should be able to do this to me, but sure enough, there I am boppin' along with the acne-speckled kids who shop at Hot Topic. Clearly, I'm losing my edge and it's midlife crisis time!

Noo Yawker in The New Yorker - August 8 & 15, `05 issue

Yes, it's that time again. In this current issue of The New Yorker, I sheepishly penned the blurbs in the Night Life section of the "Goings On About Town" listings (or "Goat!" as the hip folks call it) for Jefferson Starship, Colin Hay, Ben Folds and The Knitters.

Do You Nomi?

My first DVD review for my friend Dusty Wright's new podcasting site, Culture Catch, has been posted (under the column heading "Digital Vidiot"). It's for Andrew Horn's award-winning documentary about the late Klaus Nomi. Read it by clicking here. As an arguable bonus, it comes replete with a needlessly smug pic of me. Hoo boy!

Wilsey at the Mic!

As earlier cited here, there was a reading by Sean Wilsey from his book, "Oh the Glory of It All" which I was fortunate enough to attend this evening at the Housing Works Bookshop on Crosby Street. Taped for a segment of Katherine Lanpher's show, "Liberal Arts" on Air America Radio, Sean read alongside fellow memoir author (memoirist?) Jeanette Walls, whose new book, "The Glass Castle," served as a compelling contrast to Sean's. Also along for the segment came the curious musical duo, One Ring Zero, a Virginia-via-Brooklyn-based band whose current project features songs with lyrics contributed by such authors as Jonathan Lethem, Margaret Atwood, Paul Auster, Dave Eggers, A.M. Homes, Rick Moody, Neil Gaiman, and Denis Johnson. I found them hugely entertaining, and you can find out more about them by clicking here.

Evidently, Lanpher's "Liberal Arts" program will be a regular feature at Housing Works, so I strongly urge you to check it out if you're in the area, even if you're a fatuously jackbooted stormtrooper of the Right Wing.

Updates, Tidbittery and Answering some Commentary

Just a quick entry to cite some weblog updates. Further pictures have been added to the Vanishing Downtown photo page, which you can see by clicking here .

Just to clog up the weblog with more needless ephemera, I've recently added a list of a few songs that I'm suggesting you avail yourself to. They're just some tracks that have been blowing a new part in my hair in recent days. I dig'em. You might too. You can find that by scrolling down on the bar to the left.

Since they're starting to pile up, I thought it might be a good idea to address a handful of the comments that have been logged, so here goes.

In response to my entry about the remastered Killing Joke albums, Matos W.K. writes: I don't think Raw Power is a very good example, for one reason: the '97 edition wasn't just remastered, it was completely remixed. Very different thing.

Even though Matos is an exceptionally well informed guy whose claims I'd never normally dispute, I dug out my copy of Raw Power just to make sure, and color me embarassed. Matos is absolutely right. The 1997 edition was indeed entirely remixed by Ig. I stand corrected. Thanks, Matos.

In response to my entry about the Wawa Canteen, Paul writes: A problem with this place is that it doesn't look like the actually have any food there. It looks very sterile and sort of unindulgent, which has always put me off (I wander past it often, working at NYU). Almost a bit George Jetson-ish, like the food would magically appear on a conveyer belt..

In Wawa's further defense, I ordered in some delivery from them earlier in the week, and it was absolutely top drawer stuff. I still highly recommend the place.

In response to my entry regarding Patti Smith's Horses, a reader who prefers to remain anonymous writes: This is such unbelivably pompous crap - let's hope it never finds its way out of Germany.

Well, ya can't please everyone.

The Joke Remastered

A couple of people have been asking me to weigh in on the recently released remastered editions of the first four Killing Joke albums (well, technically, they're the first three albums along with their live mini-LP, Ha!, released on compact disc for the first time). I could cut right to the chase and provide the predictable and -- for all intents and purposes -- entirely accurate answer by succintly saying: They're brilliant, of course, and if you don't already own them, you face a bleak and unliveable future of suffering the eternal torments of the tastelessly damned! Being that I've been somewhat outspoken in the past about my unflinching alleigance to all things Killing Joke, I can't imagine why anyone would expect me to write anything different. But, in all seriousness, I am capable of being somewhat objective on the subject, so here goes.

Nine times out of ten, I'd say you have to have a pretty sophisticated ear (or a significantly souped up sound system) to discern any major differences in remastered albums (beyond simply being able to pick out that they've been made louder). Remastering an album doesn't equate to sonic alchemy. While you can occasionally exhume the odd pithy nuance, you can't conjure sounds that weren't already there. Those in favor will invariably cite the 1997 remastering of Raw Power by Iggy & the Stooges, given the arguably muddy original production by a then coke-addled, judgement-impaired David Bowie. While the contrast in editions in that particular case is striking (the remastered version of Raw Power positively assaults the listener where it once used to only threaten), often times remastering an album is merely a crass way for record companies to syphon further monies from dorky completist record collectors and shameless fanboys (like myself).

I never really had a problem with the production (by the band themselves) of Killing Joke's debut. I mean, it definetely sounded of its era (1980) production-wise, but in no way would I have considered it sorely in need of a remastering (or at least less so than other albums by the band, notably Fire Dances, supposedly to be remastered and re-released later in the year). Likewise, I wasn't under the impression that What's THIS for..!, the band's more groove-oriented second album, was in any way hurting in the production department. After remastering, both of these records now boast new horse power in the volume department, but their signature apocalyptic wallop remains largely the same. But louder. Much louder.

It's the band's third album, aptly titled Revelations, that has really been rescued by the remastering process. Helmed by lauded Krautrock pioneer Conny Plank, the original recording was was never marred by shoddy production, but the remastering has cleaned up the sound to such an extent that it sounds as if it was recorded only last week. Despite the success of the single, "Empire Song," Revelations is thematically the band's darkest album, rife with an uneasy sound to match the tense malaise of the subject matter. Put simply, where once Revelations was somewhat scary, after being cleaned off and pumped up (nice usage of layperson's terminology, eh?) it is now inexplicably terrifying. And that's exactly how it should be.

Ha!, meanwhile, is simply a joy to behold. I'd only ever owned the recording as the b-side of the Fire Dances cassette, so to finally hear it rendered in sparkling digital sound (especially the brutal stride of "Pssyche" and the onstage rendering of "Unspeakable") is a long overdue pleasure. It might not be the perfect starting point for the unintiated, but it's a vital entry in the catalog (as it marks the first appearance of Raven) and I'm glad it's finaly gotten its proper treatment.

Regardless of the arguable needlessness of some of these remasters, I heartily applaud them simply because they came appended with expanded artwork (courtesy of original sleeve designer Mike Coles of Malicious Damage), a smattering of bonus tracks (though more would have been nice) and they herald further activity from the band in question (who are supposedly putting the final touhces on a new opus as I type this). The pump has been primed, so more is expected. Ready yourselves.

Anyway, there you have it. Now go snap those rinky-dink Ryan Adams discs that are stinking up your stereo in half and go buy these at once.