Flaming Pablum

Happy Mothers Day

Cover Connection of the Day - 5/14/06

"Never Take Me Alive" by Spear of Destiny

Welcome to the first installment of a new category here on Flaming Pablum. It's a relatively meaningless and ultimatley trivial idea I'd been kicking around in m'head for the past couple of weeks, and because the rest of the fam-damily are all a-nappin' at the moment (you have no idea how rare this is), I thought I'd carpe the proverbial diem and bring the vision to fruition, as they say. The Pablum Playlist is, simply put, a category exclusively devoted to songs that I think are virtually flawless, if not entirely perfect. You may beg to differ, of course, but balls to you, as this is my weblog. They don't have to be by one of my oft-touted favorite bands or representative of an entire album, they are solely great goddamn songs that stand alone on the strength of their own unstoppable greatness. These are songs that manage to, without fail, lift me out of the grey, squalid predicament of the moment and take me somewhere else. There are loads of these songs. For the moment, we'll start with just one....

TITLE: "Never Take Me Alive"

ARTIST: Spear of Destiny

ALBUM: Outland

RELEASE DATE: 1987

In the spring of 1987, I was a disagreeable college student with a stubborn Anglophilic streak a kilometer wide. As such, I was prone to thumbing my grubby little fingers through the import bins in any one of several long-since-vanished record shops in downtown Manhattan. While I'd never been an especially big fan of the radio, I'd taken to tuning into a Long Island station called WDRE, who were gamely prone to playing cool, relatively adventurous music (they called it "modern rock") as opposed to the crapola like Mr. Mister, Night Ranger and the Outfield you were other-wise force fed around the dial. WDRE also made it a point to play b-sides, unreleased tracks and import selections. One such tune that they'd put into regular rotation right around the time I'd gotten home from my freshman year at Denison University, was this single from the fourth album by Spear of Destiny.

While I'd never heard of the band at the time, something about the lead singer's plaintive wail was hugely familiar. After a little sniffing around, I soon learned that SoD lead singer, Kirk Brandon, was formerly the lead singer of Theatre of Hate, a Cold War-obsessed Gothabilly (for lack of a better term) band whose debut album, Westworld (produced by the Clash's Mick Jones), I'd picked up a few years ealier. Once that bit of factual minutia was gleaned, it all fit into place. Where Theatre of Hate carved its niche in stomping, portentuous doom-mongering, Spear of Destiny specialized in similarly windswept atmosphere, but paired it down to a slightly less bombastic approach.

"Never Take Me Alive" is a slow-building, confessional yarn that finds our Kirk calling his mother (!!) to tell her that he's going on the lam because he killed someone (his reasons for doing so are fairly vague; evidently the victim was trying to "stop" him, failing to realize that Kirk would "go the whole way"). In any case, over spartan, Western-tinged guitars, slow-building keyboards and a marching, funereal beat, Kirk assures Mrs. Brandon that her tow-headed, spikily bequiffed son shan't be taken alive any time soon (what a badass!) It all starts to wander dangerousy towards soppy meladrama until the final refrain (at exactly 2:30 in the song, for those of you playing along at home), when Kirk scrapes a pick down the neck of his guitar and the sonic vista busts wide open into full on, sun-bleached Ennio Morricone apocalypse, rife with pounding drums, Spaghetti Western choral exhortations, and Kirk braying the chorus as his skinny British hide is dragged towards the noose.

It's awesome.

I was twenty when I first heard this song, and it's been a fave ever since. I was fortunate enough to go on a month-long bicycle trip in Europe shortly after procuring the "Never Take Me Alive" single, and the song was the first selection on a pair of mixtapes I'd painstakingly agonized over just prior to the trip. I can vividly recall peddling uphill in a thick July sweat outside of some little Bavarian suburb on the outskirts of Munich, breathlessly belting out "Never Take Me Alive" to spur myself on. It's a song dipped in mawkish histrionics, but its glorious, over-the-top'ness is part of its appeal. When I finally shuffle off the mortal coil, I want this song played as mourners shoot flaming arrows from the shore into my corpse-carrying canoe and drink as my smoldering vessel floats Valhalla-wards. Cheers.

TRIVIAL FOOTNOTE: Kirk Brandon's arguable badassedness took a bit of blemishing several years later, however, when none other than Boy George unsolicitedly outed him as a former lover in his tell-all autobiography.

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A Blog with Sharper Teeth

I bit my tongue earlier this week whilst chewing some gum. Come to think of it, I've been inadvertantly sinking my evidently razor-like incisors into my tongue and lip with alarming frequency lately. Maybe it's because of stress or maybe it's because I eat too fast or maybe it's my nascent vampiric tendencies finally coming to full fruition, but damn if it ain't a painful and hugely unpleasant habit. It impedes the enjoyment of any food (even the soft stuff) and lends my speech a quality that suggests I've logged several hours on the short bus home from school. It's hard to make a convincing argument to your co-worker about the brilliance of Heaven Born And Ever Bright, the criminally undersung fourth album by insanely proggy-post-punk band, Cardiacs, when it sounds like you're holding your tongue and trying to say "I was born on a pirate ship."

I figured that since my last post here on Flaming Pablum was earnestly dedicated to my seasonal warfare with pollen, I might as well continue on the self-indulgent malady tack and moan about my aching tongue. And while I'm at it, I should also take the opportunity to bitch about my "benign" positional vertigo (prompting unpredictable dizzy spells), my allergies to apples, pears, peaches, plums, strawberries, beets, almonds and soff-shell crab, my worryingly regular bouts with heartburn and the piercing tinnitus that continues to whistle its seemingly tireless clarion call in my right ear. Maybe I should change the name of this weblog to Flaming Hypochondriac's Complaint Corner.

Now that I've gotten that out of my system,….

In the middle of my daily lunchtime walk around the block today, during a brief pause in entertaining deeply uncharitable thoughts about the hoards of roaming, corpulent tourists impeding my path, my eyes caught sight of a postcard for sale on the racks of one of those cheap-o "I Love NY" curio shops. The postcard featured several images of the World Trade Center in flames, inscribed underneath with the legend: "Manhattan Under Attack: The Unthinkable!" Why would anyone buy one of these? And who would they send it to? What sort've reaction would they hope to inspire? I simply don't get it. Then again, there are people out there who buy commemorative "Ground Zero: 9/11" baseball caps, so go figure.

Trouble with the Trees

Behold the pollen spore. Look well upon him, for he is my enemy. More so than any hateful ex-girlfriend, any duplicitous former co-worker, any whistleheaded teen pop act, any shrill reggaeton rapper or any militant Islamic fundamentalist, it is his sole mission to transform my life into an inescapable facsimile of Hell. And as of early May, he is winning the battle.

If you too are suffering, despite what I said in this post, I implore you to stay inside. I'm doped up full of Claritin, and it's not helping at all. My head is under seige.

I hate Spring.

At War with Efficiency

It was a beautiful Spring day at last, a couple of weeks back, so the Missus and I threw caution to the four winds and decided to take the entire platoon on an expedition to midtown. Despite having dropped a cool six hundred smackers on a jet black (of course) Valco Runaround Twin (expensively procured for the purposes of taking both Charlotte and Oliver out onto the mean streets of Manhattan simultaneously), we opted instead for the Baby Bjorn/MacLaren Volo umbrella stroller approach (can you believe the lingo I'm dropping here? Be warned, child-less men -- once you start procreating, you're going to need to know these terms!). I'm quite looking forward to busting out the big Valco, though. We haven't as yet being that the weather hasn't been nice enough to subject little Oliver to the elements, and -- frankly -- we're a little trepidatious because the Valco is pretty freakin' huge (imagine a diminutive air-craft carrier with BMX tires). I'm a little concerned that once we squeeze it out our front door, we'll never manage to get the fucker back in. The only thing it's missing is a machine-gun turret. It's pretty badass looking, though -- or at least as "badass" as a dual-seating double-stroller's ever going to be. No one's going to challenge you to stroller derby with this bad boy, let me telll ya -- `cos they're just gonna lose. I remember the sales-guy in Buy Buy Baby taking pains to highlight how "cool" the black one looked. Let me just say that once you've started shopping for double-strollers, "cool" just isn't on the menu anymore. But if the idea of pushing a big, black Imperial Star Destroyer down the avenue really mows your lawn, might I suggest picking one up.

In any case, having waived the heavy artillery option, Peg strapped little Oliver into the Baby Bjorn (if you are unfamiliar with these --- do you live in a cave? -- they're basically modern pappooses), and Charlotte rode in the comparatively light-weight umbrella stroller (though it certainly doesn't seem especially "light weight" when you're heaving it up and down stairs to and from the Subway) and off we went.

Our target destination was H&M -- a sort've godawful clothing chain with an outlet on 34th & Herald Square. While possibly not a hotbed of cutting-edge fashion, they have a pretty great selection of baby stuff -- with a bone or two thrown to ol' Dad (last time we were there, we picked up a tiny Motorhead shirt for her -- which is deceptively appropos, given that -- like the hirsute brethren of Motorhead -- my daughter is hugely fond of screaming `til hoarse at high volumes and wholeheartedly endoreses the Motorhead credo of "No Sleep at All!"). Once inside H&M, we bulldozed our way towards the back elevator went up to the kids' section on the third floor.

Now, I should point out at this stage that I -- like most men -- do not especially enjoy shopping. I should qualify that. I enjoy shopping for some things, like compact discs and camera equipment and shit like that, but clothes shopping -- even if the clothes in question are for myself -- usually bores me. I'm more inclined to target one item, attain it, pay for it and then head for the door with all speed. Hit it and quit it, real quick. I'm also not especially tolerant of inefficiency (I realize this statement might prompt huge laughs from co-workers past and present, but it's true). I'm sharply principled (read: uptight) enough to venomously loathe carelessness on check-out lines (or lines of any kind -- see this earlier post for those details). If there are even just a couple of people in front of you, you should have plenty of time to pick out the exact change and anticipate every conceivable question the cashier might have in store for you. Being that nine-tenths of the world is a bit more relaxed about these things than I am, you can imagine that I'm frequently gritting my teeth.

So, while we went perusing through H&M -- doing our unsuccessful best to block out the high volume R&B pumping out of the store's sound system -- Peg suggested letting Charlotte out of her stroller, as it would be "fun" for her. My first instinct was a predictable "Hell, no, are you high?," but I was swiftly talked into unstrapping little Charlotte from her bonds. Almost immediately, my daughter was darting around the aisles, pulling garments off hangars left and right and basciallly making a big inefficient scene. Watching her giddily scampering towards the down-escalator with two pairs of gaudy corduroy trousers dragging behind each little clenched fist, it became jarringly obvious that I wasn't going to be able to physically intercept her before she reached the point of peril. In my best vocal approximation of an authoritative drill sergeant, I barked out my little girl's name, stopping her cold in her tiny tracks with surprising success and, yes, efficiency. As I watched her little shoulders slump, however, I winced -- knowing she was about to unleash the strongest weapon in her arsenal: the piercing cry. Like Hell's own car alarm, Charlotte released an anguished banshee wail that managed to even drown out the relentless faux-dancehall call to booty-shakin' that was blasting out of the speakers above us. If I thought we were making a scene before hand, I hadn't seen anything yet. A seemingly uncomplicated mission to obtain a few quick items devolved into a ear-worrying maelstrom of tears, awkwardness and headaches.

Here's the thing, though: Kids are messy. Kids are inefficient. Like it or not, having kids will forcibly re-allign your petty personal paramaters and social standards. While I may grumble at the occasional public tantrum and lament the compromises Peg and I must make (I can't begin to remember the last movie we were able to go see, let alone imagine the next time we'll be able to go out to dinner), the fact that I no longer have the time to painstakingly alphabetize my CD collection or design intricate tableauxs for my lovingly collected KISS action figures is probably a good thing (the KISS figures all live in storage now anyway). Maximum efficiency is a Utopian ideal, after all, and I'm slowly learning to surrender in my struggle for it.

Post Script: Since I started composing this post in mid-April, we went onto actually return the afore-mentioned Valco Runaround Twin -- entirely unused, in exchange for a model by Australian stroller company, Phil and Ted's, which seats the kids in single-file (one slightly above the other) instead of side-by-side. Peg eventually came to the conclusion (even though we never got around to testing it out) that the big fuck-off Vaclco was simply too unwieldy and summarily -- WAIT FOR IT --- inefficient.

Han Solo: Bad Motherfucker!

My not-so-cleverly-disguised inner geek did a little victory lap this week upon hearing the news that the original version of "Star Wars" (y'know…the version prior to George Lucas' entirely revisionist, needlessly touched-up "special edition" from the mid-90's…which summarily became the only version available) is slated for a September release on DVD. For those of you who might not know (or, more likely, care) about the arguably subtle differences between the versions, the "special edition" found Lucas adding lots of garish computer animation to certain scenes, which -- on what was then twenty-year old film -- stuck out like glistening brown turds on a prayer rug (did DaVinci touch up the "Mona Lisa"? LEAVE IT ALONE, GEORGE!) More crucially, the "special edition" altered the simmering exchange between Greedo (Jabba the Hut's slimey, pistol-wielding errand boy in the Cantina scene) and insouciant space pirate (note the second word in that title), Han Solo. In the original scene, punkishly louche Solo -- sensing imminent execution at Greedo's hand -- SHOOTS FIRST from underneath the table in an endearing demonstration of self-preserving dirty pool. At the time, it completely fit the profile: Han Solo is a badass PIRATE! Pirates do that sorta thing; and don't think twice about it. In the "special edition," Lucas clumsily re-edited the scene to have Greedo fire the first shot, providing Solo a "self-defense" alibi to buffer his re-tooled image as a saintly "hero"/role model. I remember loudly exclaiming an incredulous "OH WHAT THE FUCK?" in the middle of Manhattan's posh-o Zigfeld theatre at the close of that sanitized scene. I hate revisionism, and have hated George Lucas for it ever since.

It's not all good news, though. While Lucas may have buckled to the demand of Uber-Geek Nation, he'll see a pretty profit from it, being that he's releasing it inna Disney stylee in a limited edition run before it's sequestered back to "the vaults," which means if you don't pony up the cash with all speed, you'll never get your hands on a copy. But perhaps this was the man's plan all along? In the same way Kiss knew they could always pull out their trump card and re-unite the original foursome with make-up -- ensuring that the oldsters all come out of the woodwork with wallets out and ready, maybe Lucas was counting on milking the die-hard completist dollar from the get-go? I wouldn't put it passed him.

In any case, read my colleague Larry Carrol's more authoritative piece on the news by clicking here.

MTVNews agrees to HONOR THE FIRE!

Though I've contributed fleeting news bytes about Foetus and The Wonder Stuff to the For The Record section, I'm very pleased to announce my first news brief for MTVNews Online. Invariably to no one's great surprise, the item in question happens to be about -- WAIT FOR IT -- my beloved KILLING JOKE. Please avail yourselves to the story (respectfully edited down from my hyperbole-laden, Old Testament-sized original draft) by clicking right here. And why not do me a solid and show your alleigance to the `Joke by hitting the link repeatedly, ensuring that the story "does well"?

Brooklyn's Burning

See what happens when I talk shit about Brooklyn? They get so mad they BURST INTO FLAMES. Seriously, as I walked outside this morning to drop off my little girl at day care, I looked up and saw a vast column of black, acrid smoke rising from the east, and was instantly chilled to the bone, reminded of that certain other morning when the clear blue Manhattan sky was blotted by smoke. As it turns out, however, it was merely a fire at a mercifully abandoned warehouse (albeit a very large one) and not the dropping of "that other shoe" many of us have been expecting these last four and a half years.  Still, I can't be the only New Yorker to have felt that queasy jolt at the sight of those ominous plumes.