Flaming Pablum

Noo Yawker in The New Yorker - December 19, `05 issue

As the Village People once sagely observed, ya simply can't stop the music. And in keeping with that sentiment, the editorial higher-ups at The New Yorker realize that keeping up with that music is an arduous task. And that's why, I assume, they let the likes of me write for their "Goings On About Town" listings. This week, I penned the blurbs regarding upcoming shows by The Lemonheads, the unholy metal trinity of Amon Amarth, Children of Bodom and Trivium (this would be a great pre-Christmas treat to bring the kids to, by the by), Living Colour (remember them?), The Reverend Horton Heat (surely it's a sign of the impending apocalypse when the Rev in question releases a Christmas album, no?), skronky no-wave-avant-garage supergroup John Zorn, Arto Lindsay and Anton Fier (like a Lower East Side version of Rush!), Senses Fail and Saves the Day. Run -- don't walk -- to your local news stand to grab your copy. If ya can't do that, you can simply click here to read my contributions.

Sad News

It was with great regret that I report the news that drummer, George Javori, a member of Firewater's extended family of players, passed away this past weekend. Along with his work with Firewater, Javori played for everyone from Shivaree, Elysian Fields and Ted Parsons' Teledubgnosis through Joan Baez and Natalile Merchant, and was a truly a versatile and accomplished musician. I didn't know the man, but I chattted with him a couple of times at a few Firewater shows in the mid-to-late 1990s, and he was always a gracious, cool and decent gent. The most memorable occasion that sprang to mind when I heard of his passing was a show Firewater played at the Southstreet Seaport in 1999. At some point in the proceedings, the boyfriend of a fellow member of the Firewatercircus started suffering from a spontaneous seizure of some sort. The first person to leap to the man's aid was George, who helped revive the poor guy.

He will be missed.

Out of TIME

As I've been alluding over the past several months, I've been looking to change my job situation for some time now. After almost twelve years working for the TIME Magazine News Desk, I was finding myself in a bit of a bind, struggling to balance the unconventional scheduling demands of a weekly news magazine (acting as a liaison between TIME's extensive network of correspondents and reporters in the field and the editorial staff here in New York) and the needs of my expanding family. At long last, I'm happy to report that I've been offered another job outside of Time Inc. and accepted the offer in question yesterday afternoon.

At the risk of sounding needlessly histrionic, this is the end of an era for me, and a bittersweet one at that. While I was invariably renowned for grumbling about my Nosferatu-suitable work schedule, TIME Magazine became much more than simply the place where I worked. I'm very lucky and very proud to say I've worked with some of the brightest and most interesting people imaginable, and I have made some of the dearest friends of my life in this building. I've learned more in my time here than I picked up in any of the schools I attended. From my nerve-shredding first night alone manning the News Desk (which ended up being the same evening as O.J. Simpson's notorious slow-chase in the white Bronco), I've lived through countless historic events -- the death of Princess Diana, the assasination of Yitzach Rabin, the disappearance of John Kennedy Jr., the Oklahoma City Bombing, Columbine, Monica Lewinsky's stained blue dress, numerous political conventions, elections, scandals, "trials of the century", hurricanes, earthquakes, blackouts, the Tsunami and, of course, September 11, 2001, to name but a few -- all experienced alongside veteran journalists whose insight and dedication were constantly inspiring. But beyond their titles and impressive credentials, the individuals I was fortunate enough to work with at the magazine, by and large, are just great, genuine people, and I feel honored to have worked alongside each and every one of them for so long.

If you know me at all, you'll know that I'm somewhat reluctant to rapturously embrace change. I'm deplorably sentimental when it comes to these things and while change is invariably healthy, postive and necessary, I often have a hard time with it. This particular change for me is truly for the best and has been a long time coming, and I'm genuinely excited and looking forward to the challenges ahead of me. That said, leaving TIME Magazine doesn't feel like leaving just another job. It feels like leaving home, and I will miss the place very much.

Onward and Upward!
- Alex in NYC

Rock, Paper, Cancer

A slight variation on Rock, Paper, Scissors, I'm asking you folks to spend some paper on some rock that will beat Cancer. My good friend and erstwhile Killing Joke webmaster, Joe Mojica is currently doing battle with the many headed serpent that goes by the "C" name, and not too long ago, some of his musical friends got together and decided to put together a CD to raise funds on Joe's behalf. The end result is ATTACK, a dizzyingly eclectic collection of music that'll rock your face off, warp your brain and give you that warm, fuzzy feeling as well, as it's all for a great cause. To find out more, please click here or, better yet, to throw caution to the four winds and buy a copy, simply click here!

DESTROY CANCER WITH THE POWER OF ROCK!

Noo Yawker in The New Yorker - December 12, `05 issue

This week, the "Goings On About Town" listings feature blurbs of mine regarding Railroad Earth, Fiona Apple, the Subways and the unstoppably mighty X. Find the issue at your favorite news stand, or simply click here.

Some Fleeting Monday Morning Observations

* Climbing out of the subway station this morning on 7th Avenue and 49th Street, I found myself staring up at a massive, two-paneled billboard. On one panel loomed a vast black and white photograph of a contemplative Marvin Gaye circa What's Going On?, looking pained and poignant in a rain-dampened pea coat. On the adjoining panel read the legend: Hennessy - Never Blend In. That's it. Now, is this to suggest that Hennessy cognac is somehow like Marvin Gaye? Or is this to imply that if you liberally drink Hennessy, you'll accrue the same sort've profoundly soulful pathos Gaye's more celebrated work is renowned for? Or is it asserting that Gaye, like Hennessy, didn't mix well with other liquors? No matter how you slice it, I couldn't help thinking that it was rather belittling to the legendary soul man's legacy. So Hennessy gets the middle finger, and I'm not really even a Marvin Gaye fan. Screw advertising.

* I was down in our building's basement Saturday afternoon, loading some laundry out of one of the dryers. When you have a child, you find yourself doing inordinate amounts of laundry. Decorum and good taste forbid me from going into detail as to exactly why you're doing so much laundry, but trust me, your laundry duty increases sevenfold. In any case, the maintenance staff in our building generally has the basement wired for sound, and tuned to some Lite Rock radio station, meaning you often find yourself folding your underwear while grooving to the plangent strains of vintage Journey or Hall & Oates. In any case, Saturday afternoon -- December 3, 2005 -- I found myself wincing through the shrillness of an especially toxic rendition of "Sleigh Ride" ("Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring ting tingling too...") by some noxious, washed-up crooner like Paul Anka or something. People, we have flippin' THREE WHOLE WEEKS before the actual holiday, and they're already cranking out the carols?!?!? WHAT IS THE RUSH? I've barely digested my goddamn turkey. Why must the holidays be paced at such a feverish sprint these days? Humbug.

* Succumbing to the seemingly premature arrival of the Christmas season, we actually picked up a small, table-top-sized Christmas tree yesterday. If we put a conventional tree in our living room these days, Charlotte would invariably go a bit nuts and try to climb it, so we're sticking with the pint-sized variety for the moment (perched where her little mitts cannot get at it). Attempting to jump-start the seasonal cheer, the wife and I both decided on practically the only album of Christmas music either of us can really stomach, that being The Original Soundtrack Recording of The CBS Television Special: A Charlie Brown Christmas, music by the Vince Guaraldi Trio. The perfect balance of Yuletide sentimentalilty and mid-60's piano jazz (albeit with one fleeting bit of cloying irritation, when the Peanuts gang bust into a lung-straining shoutalong through "Hark the Herald Angel Sings") this album's a timeless keeper. If I remember corrrectly, I think I gave a copy of this disc to every member of my family a number of years ago, and most copies were met with incredulous chortling. Laugh it up all ya want, but this album is everything you could possibly need when it comes to Christmas music, so Paul Anka, Andy Williams, Bing Crosby and Burl Ives can all go kiss my ass.

*ADDENDUM* I know I just invited Bing Crosby to kiss my ass at the -- fittingly -- tail end of the last bullet point, but I would like to take that back, as I do consider myself a fan of Bing's duet with David Bowie on "Peace On Earth/Little Drummer Boy." Recorded for a television special on September 11, 1977 -- just a few months prior to Bing's death -- the duet paired the old, martini-swiggin' coot with a somewhat emaciated Bowie with an awkward quasi-mullet for a surprisingly melifluous stroll through a Christmas favorite. I also enjoy the somewhat incongruous fact that at the time of the recording of this cherished chestnut, Bowie was allegedly crawling out from under a pre-occupation with heroin, cocaine, the occult and -- some suggest -- Nazism. I woner how that would've flown with ol' Bing.

Secret Machines at Webster Hall 12/01/05

So, I went and saw the Secret Machines at Webster Hall last night. I'd seen them once before, a couple of years back opening for Interpol, which -- in retrospect -- was kinda like seeing Blue Cheer open for the Archies. I remember really digging their stentorian sound (pairing the levee-breaking rhythm section of Zeppelin with the cinematic expanse of Live at Pompeii-era Pink Floyd), but their debut e.p., September 000 -- while quite good -- didn't match the sensory-engulfing whallop of their live show. A couple of months later came their major label debut, Now Here is Nowhere, which basically became my favorite new release of 2004 (next to maybe the comparitvely rinkydink retrophilia of the Futureheads). But, being prone to weighty, eighteen-minute songs, the album really wasn't one that lent itself to repeated airrings (especially not with an infant in the house), so I kinda filed it away and forgot about it.

My nextdoor neighbors went onto see them on the tour for that record and raved about their new live show. Evidently, the band -- with the aid of major label financial muscle -- had beefed up their onstage aesthetic. When I'd see them back in 2002, their spartan stage set-up consisted of three huge floodlights (one behind each player) aimed *directly* at crowd eye-level, appending a blinding visual element to match their deafening sound. Now, the band employs a lighting rig comparable to vintage Genesis (again, more prog-homage), that, while more colorful and sophisticated, still puts the emphasis on retina-immolating brightness. In any case, when we heard that they were comin' back, I decided I should go check'em out again.

So, last night I did..with incongruous opening acts, Anton Newcombe (of the Brian Jonestown Massacre, who I missed) and Annie from Norway (basically a liteweight new millenial Kim Wilde). While they haven't really embraced anything new, the `Machines put in another whiplash-inducing performance. The sheer brunt of sound feels comparable to being shot in the sternum with a Howtizer. Though again prone to meandering tunes that seem to go on interminably, when they launched into certain tracks (notably "First Wave Intact" and "Nohwere Again"), it was sheer brain-nullifying euphoria. Spotted Bowie headbanging up in the v.i.p. balcony (we spent the rest of the evening looking up and pointing --- and he eventually smiled and pointed back. Ha.) The band proceeded to blow a new part in my hair and gaping hole in the back of the place.

Still on a high from last night, I tracked the Now Here is Nowhere album on my way to work today on my iPod, and it somehow fittingly sucked all the power out of the thing by the climax of the final track (I swear it was fully charged when I left). Yeah, maybe they're hairy Texan heshers who need to wash more often, but when they're *on*, their vast, lumbering music sounds like limbed glaciers doing battle. Going deaf never felt so seizmic.

In other words, they rocked.

*Quick Addendum*: It would be remiss of me not point out, at this stage, that I did not, in fact, take the truly amazing photograph at the top of this post. Nor, for that matter, was said photo taken this past Thursday evening (although it does perfectly capture the essence of the event). I found this striking image via Googling. The photograph was taken by one James Coglan, a student at Oxford University in the UK. Visit his website by clicking here.

Kolkata Cut-Up

As I'd mentioned in this comparatively antiquated post, my friend Tod [A] (erstwhile frontman of Firewater) has been keeping a wildly engaging "travelblog" about his recent adventures and dubious exploits in Thailand and India dubbed Postcards From The Other Side of the World. I'm happy to report that not only is there is brand new entry ("The Dead Rat"), but he's also appended the weblog with photos like the one above. In any event, it makes for some great readin', so please check it out by clickin' here!

And Zoso it Goes.

It was never my favorite Zeppelin album --- a hesher cliché blighted by the hackneyed warhorse of epic-length, baroque wankery that is "Stairway to Heaven" -- but after reading Erik Davis' hugely entertaining book for Continnum's 33 1/3 series on Led Zeppelin IV (or, if you prefer, Four Symbols, Untitled, Runes, Zoso, or That One with "Stairway to Heaven" On It) over my tryptophan-addled Thanksgiving break, I have a newfound appreciation for the majestically mysterious dollop of dinosaur dung that is the fourth album by Led Zeppelin.

Prompting the exact response a book of this sort ought to, Davis' engaging overview treats the lauded Zep opus with reverance, but never takes it or itself too seriously (especially when dwelling on Jimmy Page's dabblings in the occult and/or Robert Plant's strenuously ridicule-worthy preoccupation with Tolkienesque tomfoolery). While, once again, IV was never my first choice when it came to them Zepsters, Davis' comical and informative dissection of the album has vaulted my copy of the disc from its ageless slumber on my shelves and into my disc player for repeated airrings and re-evaluation. The highest compliment I can pay to this book is that it has forever altered how I will hear the record in question. And for that, I cannot recommend it highly enough. Go fetch!

Oh, and also be sure to check out Davis' own website, Techgnosis.

*ADDENDUM* One infamous aspect of Led Zeppelin IV concerns guitarist Jimmy Page's afore-mentioned fascination with the occult, specifically the the life and work of Aleister Crowley, the notorious founder of Thelema whose grim house on the shores of Loch Ness, Boleskine, Page famously purchased. Many have suggested, and Davis covers this in the book, that "Stairway to Heaven," when played backwards, boasts several creepy invokations to "my sweet Satan." I stumbled across this handy website, which features forwards and backwards snippets of the passages in question. Please enjoy.