Flaming Pablum

Noo Yawker in The New Yorker - August 7 & 14, `06 issue

Hey there! Remember these? As I mentioned previously, my contributions to The New Yorker have been a bit more sporadic these days, but I'm still at it. Often times, though, my blurbs are so few and far between that it hardly seems worth it to cite them. In any case, in this latest ish -- which, of course, you should all go out and buy with the quickness -- I scribbled the bits in the NightLife section of the "Goings On About Town" listings about lamentable NYC Hardcore c-listers, The Crumbsuckers, Throwing Muses, 50 Ft. Wave, Soul Asylum and endearingly silly electro-kicking boy, Gary Numan. The currest issue can be purchased from yer local newsstand, but if you'd rather spend your dough on the latest issue of Barely Legal instead, you can peruse my blurbs (as well as the rest of the mag) by clicking right here.

Oh Snap!

Remember my concerns about shaving my beard a week or so ago? I needn't have worried. Charlotte and Oliver didn't so much as flinch at the sight of my newly shorn visage. Certain folks at The Job, however, had an entirely different reaction. Just today, in fact, one of my colleagues came up to me. "You're gonna hate me, " she said, "and I do like the 'new look,' but....". I braced myself. "I was in the grocery store the other day," she continued, "and it really hit me.... you look like one of those guys on the Rice Crispies box."

"You mean Snap, Crackle & Pop?" I asked, somewhat incredulously. I didn't know quite what to do with that.

A bit of Googling later, I came up with the image you see at the top of this post. After a volley of e-mails, I assured my estimable colleague that so long as I didn't resemble Crackle (the one in the middle with the stripey hat), all was more or less well. She assured me that it was Pop (the one on the right with the yellow chapeau) that she thought I resembled the most. I suppose I can live with that. At least they wear Chucks.

Suffice it to say, the beard might be re-appearing very soon.

July's Batch of Bitching!

Look, I'm a pretty lucky guy. As I often like to remind myself, there are people with real problems in this world, and I'm not one of them. I'm pretty healthy. I'm married to an exquisite woman. We have two lovely, healthy children. I have a hearty gaggle of good, loyal friends, a fast-paced, engaging job and I live in the greatest goddamn city in the world. I have absolutely zero right to complain.

That all said, a man who does not vent every now and again risks imploding from within. So in the interest of clearing the air and getting things off my chest in a true primal scream style (Tears for Fears would be oh so in favor), herewith a this month's BATCH OF BITCHING!

* The Fellowship of The Riiiiiiinnng  I've complained about it here before, but in the last two weeks, that little, demonic gremlin named Tinnitus who lives in my right ear has been working overtime. You know the sound you hear when you wet your fingers and rub around the perimeter of a wine glass filled with water? Well, imagine that -- ALL THE DAMN TIME. My ear has been ringing non-stop since October 1999, but it's recently kicked up a notch, and I'm not exactly sure why. Oh sure, it could be the heat, the time of year, the humidity, stress, my diet or -- more likely -- the fact that I've been somewhat irresponsible with my iPod in recent weeks, but who can say? I have been somewhat overzealous in the volume department recently, which is never a good idea. Moreover, I have it on reasonably sound authority  (pardon the pun) that the persistent ringing in my ear can be worsened by caffeine, salt, cheese, chocolate, and -- very depressingly -- beer. Hell, why not throw sex and oxygen in there too and erase all reason to carry on while you're at it? I don't smoke, but evidently nicotine and -- wait for it -- marijuana are also purported to heighten the intensity of the ring.

Suffice to say, it's been very discouraging. When the noise in my head first revealed itself back in `99, I swore off listening to headphones for a two year span, but caved in when my daughter was born (succumbing to the sleek allure of the then-still-newfangled iPod). The ring had levelled off, and I'd learned to live with it, so I figured I was more or less in the clear. These last two weeks, however, have proven me wrong. I've taken to doubling my otherwise half-assed regimen of imbibing the somewhat dubious homeopathic supplement, RingStop and woefully put my iPod into (hopefully temporary) cold storage. If only this problem were as easily resolved as that nasty little ear-infesting alien that crawled inside of Chekov's head in Star Trek, but it's sadly not that accessible. Tinnitus is (arguably) caused by the bending of tiny little hairs deep within the aural labywrinth (otherwise known as the cochclea). In any case, that's how one sniffily dismissive ear doctor once described it to me. All I know is that no amount of foraging around with a q-tip has made so much as a didley squat difference in my case, and believe you me -- I've certainly tried. Put simply, it's scary, it's maddening, it's heart-breaking and it fuckin' sucks, especially for a music fan such as myself. I can't help thinking that it's some form of karmic retribution for telling people who listen to music that I don't approve of that they're treating their ears like urinals (I have been known to say stuff like this).

At the very least, I'm in very good company. Fellow Tinnitus sufferers include the late Tony Randall, Pete Townshend of the Who, Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, Thom Yorke of Radiohead, Bono of U2, Bob Mould of Husker Du/Sugar, William Shatner, James Hetfield of Metallica, Neil Young, David Letterman, Blixa Bargeld of Einsturzende Neubauten, Cher, Lemmy of Motorhead (not entirely surprising) and many, many more.

....

* The Heat is On: It's the very rare individual that enjoys a cold shower. It's a jarring, unpleasant way to start the day. But lemme tell ya -- for the last two weeks, I've been positively pining for a brutally cold shower. For some reason, the one and only shower in our apartment has been incapable of delivering anything but piping hot, skin-seering jets of lava-like H20. It starts off as deceptively warm and then swiftly heats up to temperatures normally reserved for brewing coffee, boiling hot dogs and permanently scarring flesh. One has just enough time to quickly shampoo one's hair before one risks wholesale scalp immolation (and you can pretty much forget about conditioning). The problems are two-fold. For a start, the genius who occupied the apartment before us ripped out all the old fixtures and installed a thermostatic shower knob (basically, a volume knob for temperature) which is constantly going out of allignment, the numbers on the temperature gaugue rendered meaningless. Secondly, our building has evidently been having water- heater problems (this fact gleaned after I interogated our deputy superintendent, who said he couldn't do a thing about it until our Super came back from a dubiously earned vacation). So, in the interim, we have to fill our tub a full forty minutes before bathing our children in it, lest the roiling water burn their delicate hides to a crisp. But, in the mornings, when I'm pressed for time, I have no recourse but to bite the bullet and take the hottest showers imaginable -- and this during the hottest July on record. HEY, THANKS A LOT!

Five Things?

I was "tagged" by Zissy somewhat recently and --- as I understand it -- if I don't perpetuate the game, some horrible happenstance will befall me, inna chain letter stylee, so I guess I'd better play along. That all said, I find the categories (five things.... in my fridge, closet, purse, car) to be rather yawnsome (not least because I don't carry a purse nor own a car). As such, I am hereby concocting four new categories and carrying on the chain. Deal with it. Here goes...

FIVE THINGS....

...I don't understand:

1. Mandarin Chinese
2. the appeal of Beyonce's music (especially her latest single, which replicates the sound of being trapped in a dumbwaiter with a rabid gibbon wielding an airhorn).
3. why Beg to Differ by Prong is out of print.
4. the rules of Cricket.
5. how anyone could support our President.

...I bought on eBay:

1. first edition of Luc Sante's "Low Life"
2. the Butteryfly Potion e.p. by Foetus
3. large promotional poster for Sandinista! by the Clash
4. a Brak coffee mug
5. a talking bottle opener featuring the voice Carl from "Aqua Teen Hunger Force"

...I have but do not want:

1. Tinnitus
2. Benign Positional Vertigo
3. Oral Allergy Syndrome
4. a deviated septum
5. greying hair

...I want but do not have:

1. Deluxe edition DVD of Peter Weir's "Picinic at Haning Rock" (Australian only)
2. Beg to Differ by Prong on compact disc.
3. a red, convertable Mini Cooper
4. Peace
5. Quiet

And I am now "tagging" five more lucky people....

Hot Johnny

Pat Stack

Ben Wagner

Jonathan Goldner

Jane Says

We'll see if they take up the challenge.

Small Man, Big Mouth

And now a quick word from the youngest representative of the organization...

Hello, friends. Oliver here. My father can't come to the computer right now, because he's nursing the whopping great headache my sister and I have been giving him. See, here's the thing: there's a battle of wills going on here. Myself? I don't like sleeping. I do it as infrequently as possible, and only when it's the least convenient for the rest of the household. I'm also a very light sleeper and will rise and scream at the slightest provocation (like, say, blinking too loudly). My big sister Charlotte, meanwhile, has crossed the threshold into the realm of the so-called "Terrible Twos." As such, she's mastered the art of fussy eating (or not eating, in her case) and become quite accomplished at whining, making illogical demands at inopportune times and throwing tantrums that are truly a spectacle to behold, let alone listen to. All told, I'd say that collectively, my sibling and I are winning this struggle. In any case, this is why there's been a span of several days since my father last posted here. I'm sure he'll be back on soon, however, to bring you another needless missive about some justifiably forgotten, rinky-dinky Punk Rock band from 1981 or some other trivial crap like that. If you are similarly preoccupied with such drivel, do stick around.

Meanwhile, I need a burp and change, so I'm signing off for now.

Cheers,

Oliver in NYC

PS: Yes, those are cockroaches on the design of my handsome overalls. Why anyone saw fit to decorate children's clothing with images of said tenacious vermin is quite beyond my small months, but go figure, as the grown-ups say.

Currently in Rotation - July `06

Currently taking up the sparse supply of my attention not otherwise sapped by screaming children and urgent pop music news...

MUSIC: I hate to confess it, but it's been a mighty long while since I've layed my quaking digits on a new CD. I did begrudgingly download the entirety of the Gnarls Barkley album, St. Elsewhere. I wanted to hate it -- put off by the hype and the stupid name, but between the ubiquity of "Crazy," the bizarrely faithful cover of the Violent Femmes' "Gone Daddy Gone" and the robustly soulful "Smiley Faces," I simpy couldn't stay away. Apart from that, I've been listening to an inordinate amount of Underworld (specifically their live album from 2000, Everything, Everything) and bruising fistfuls of vintage Motörhead, courtesy of the good graces of my colleague, Robert, who nicely bestowed upon me yet another entirely needless box set by same, Protect the Innocent (a collection rendered entirely superfluous by their more comprehensive boxed set, Stone Deaf Forever and/or the largely flawless `84 compilation, No Remorse -- both of which gathering a fine patina of dust on my shelves). Then again, there's never such a thing as too much Motörhead.

FILM: I'm quite sad to report that I did finally get to see "Kill Your Idols" (you can read my feverishly anticipatory post about same right here). I regret to say that the film is rather sizably flawed. While the (fleeting) archival footage of No Wave mainstays like DNA and Teenage Jesus & the Jerks is compelling, and the interviews with Arto Lindsay, Michael Gira, J.G. Thirlwell, Jim Sclavunos, Glenn Branca and the still endearingly irascible Lydia Lunch are interesting and informative, the film's lack of historical context, objectivity and perspecive (to say nothing of visual detail -- don't talk about NYC in the late `70's while showing footage of the city in the current decade) makes it seem a bit incomplete and slapdash. Moreover, the linkage between the No Wave scene and NYC's more contemporary rock scene (filled out by the dubious likes of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Liars, Gogol Bordello, Black Dice, the lamentably idiotic A.R.E. Weapons, and some other also-rans) is hugely tenuous at best. Adding insult to injury, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and A.R.E. Weapons come across rather poorly in their respective interviews (YYY vocalist Karen O is a brain-fryingly ineloquent tangle of "like"s and "y'know"'s, while A.R.E. Weapons front man, Brain F. McPeck displays all the humility, taste and insight of Poison's Bret Michaels), whereas the members of the old guard come across as either pompously disinterested or positively inebriated on the heady wine of sour grapes. A little historical context and background to set the table would've been a nice touch. No great conclusions are reached. The oldsters write off the new breed as cushioned, derivative, nostalgia-crazed sellouts, the new kids pshaw the suggestion that they owe anything to their forebearers. No fruition is achieved. Key players and locales go without a mention. This film could have been so much more, but it fails rather miserably. In fact, apart from the interviews with Lydia Lunch and Gogol's Eugene Hutz, there's really nothing here worth wasting time on. Don't even bother renting it.

WEBSITE: Worst URL's EVER!

TEXT: Over the course of the last couple of weekends, I've been re-reading Jon Krakauer's gripping 1997 best-seller, "Into the Wild," documenting the mysterious trajectory of a doomed, self-styled recluse/Jack London-disciple named Chistopher McCandless, who went well out of his way to renounce all worldly comforts in order to try his luck living out in the unrelenting Alaskan wilderness. Somewhat unsurprisingly, he did not succeed, but the circumstances of his demise and the stories of the lives he touched along the way make for hugely compelling reading.

LYRIC/QUOTE: "Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana" [Groucho Marx]

the Big Shave

Lest I create the wrong impression via the picture that accompanied last Sunday's rumination on all things metal, my facially tonsorial tribute to Sir Ian Kilmister was rather short-lived (not because I'm a ridicule-phobic wimp, bur because it simply made me look too jowly). I rocked the Lemmy handlebars for a couple of hours, but ultimately decided to finish shaving the rest of it off --- yes, I know, I should have a "breaking news" banner at the top of this post -- because, well, why wear a sweater on your face when the weatherman is threatening record-breaking heat? Also, it just seemed like time for a change. I've been sporting the face-fur on and off since the summer of 2001 (I inexplicably decided to grow one during my honeymoon). I kept the beard the longest for this last stretch if for no other reason than to maintain a sense of physiognomical consistency for the benefit of my childrens' developing cognition. So much for that.

Peg, Charlotte and Oliver stayed out on Strong Island for an extra couple of days following this weekend (as the thought of being cooped up in our apartment in 102 degree heat was less than enticing). They're back home today. It remains to be seen if Charlotte and Oliver -- let alone my wife -- are going to freak out at the sight of my newly beard-less face. I'm sincerlely hoping not. I mean, I can always grow it back, but it'd be nice not to traumatize them this early in their respective little lives.

Stay tuned.

Hot in the City

Make Mine Metal!

A long-brewing project finally came to fruition over at the job this past weekend, that being the painstakingly compiled, entirely arguable list of the Greatest Metal Bands of All Time. A source of spirited debate and -- let's face it -- heated argument over the course of several weeks, the Greatest Metal Bands discussion set our office on fire for a little while. I lobbed my two cents into the fray, despite largely being perceived as "the new guy" (anyone who knows me well can tell you I have a very hard time keeping my nose out of music discussions -- I've been known to unsolicitedly opine to fellow patrons at record shops when I see them lining up to purchase what I perceive to be an ill-advised choice -- it's a habit that has gotten me in trouble not just a few times). In any event, while I didn't make the final cut on the "Great Metal Debate" panel (I was literally "an alternate," which is tantamount to saying I "carried a spear" in a Shakespearian production), I did manage to submit my votes for the grand tally. In any event, a whole lot of work and love went into this project (hats off to my comrades Jem and Rahman, who both seemed to sweat off whole years of their respective lives toiling on this thing), so please do check it out. Also be sure to watch the Great Metal Debate on MTVOverdrive, tho' you'll need to do it on a PC (though that'll be changin' soon!).

But because this is my weblog, I thought I might as well cite the acts that I think make the cut. Feel free to differ, but you'll just be wallowing in a sickly mudslick of WRONG!

1. Black Sabbath
Honestly speaking, any list of "ten greatest" metal bands that doesn't start with Black Sabbath isn't worth reading, as the compiler simply doesn't know what he or she is talking about. Black Sabbath is the definite article. Full stop. Yeah, you can say "What about Zeppelin?", but there is so much more to Led Zeppelin than their over-touted heavy aspect (calling Zep a metal band is like calling the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel "a picture"). Sabbath, meanwhile, possibly lacking the aspirations and -- arguably -- the chops of Zeppelin were so much PURER in their attack, perfecting the pitch black majesty of the STENTORIAN RIFF that causes flowers to burst into flames and pavement to crack. If you can listen to Tony Iommi's riffage on, say, "Supernaut" off Volume 4 or even the opening chords off "The Mob Rules" (the last album of the Ronnie James Dio era) and not feel the urge to air-guitar, you simply don't appreciate metal. Buy yourself a Judy Collins record and start collecting ornamental doilies, because heavy metal obviously isn't your bag.

2. Motörhead
Much like their brethren in AC/DC and the Ramones, Motörhead would emphatically much rather be referred to as simply a rock'n'roll band than a heavy metal band. One could further argue that Motörhead are almost a genre unto themselves, as though they've inspired countless bands (No Motörhead = no Metallica, no Slayer, no Venom, etc. etc.), it is virtually impossible to name another band who actively *sounds* like Motörhead. Between Lemmy's hoarse croak and his signature Rickenbacker bass (which has been known to *STRUM*), Motörhead sound like Motörhead and nothing else. Upon the era of the "classic" line-up in the late 70s (featuring Fast Eddie Clark and Philthy Animal Taylor), Motorhead were often mistaken (sonically speaking) for a Punk band, given the amphetamine-fueled velocity of their attack (not to mention Lemmy's brief stint as bass player in the Damned). Motörhead are *THE* bridge between metal and punk. If you don't own No Sleep `til Hammersmith (basically the first three albums played harder, faster and sloppier than the studio versions), you're life has been dimmed by a paucity of rock excellence.

3. AC/DC
Again, another band who'd bristle at being tagged simply a "metal" band. AC/DC are pure rock'nroll to the bone. Big tunes, big attitude and more riffs than can be soberly quantified. Despite the thick-headed rumor that their name was an acronym for "Against Christ the Devil Comes" (pure bullshit) and the song titles "Hells Bells" and "Highway to Hell," AC/DC eschewed the more ridiculous heavy metal cliches in simple favor of songs about getting loud, laid and loaded with one's wheels, whiskey and women. Again, the power of the riff and a healthy, hell-bent libido. Godlike.

4. Iron Maiden
Somewhat ironically (pardon the awful pun), Iron Maiden have never really been all that "heavy" (unlike their N.W.O.B.H.M. peers in Motörhead), but have always been quite melodic (anchored around the multi-guitar attack), especially upon the arrival of second lead singer, Bruce Dickinson (original thuggish frontman, Paul Di'anno strove to make Iron Maiden the metal-punk fusion that Motorhead became). Without any radio support, exceptionally little video airplay and virtually no regard paid to image (the band's photograph never appeared on the front cover of their studio albums, their place taken by iconic undead mascot, Eddie), Iron Maiden became a huge phenom without ever truly compromising their aesthetic (and never really had a crossover pop hit like their peers in Judas Priest) becoming virtually synonymous with the term "heavy metal". Guilty of every imaginable genre cliche (the wearing of spandex, epic-length songs about swords and sorcery, devil worship, lengthy guitar and drum solos, massive stage-sets rife with pyro and macabre imagery), Iron Maiden *ARE* heavy metal, and aren't afraid to shout it from the rooftops. Respect is due.

5. Kiss
Again, though never especially "heavy" (though their first three albums and seminal live double, Alive, still pack a wallop), Kiss are incalculably influential on all things metal -- from Biohazard through Britny Foxx, virtually every metal band owes something to Kiss, if not sonically than certainly sartorially/tonsorially/stylistically. Taking Alice Cooper's comparatively kitschy aesthetic of theatrical spectacle to a sensory-engulfing extreme, Kiss' preoccupation with other-wordly stage presence and more bang for the buck set a template that is still followed today. They also wrote some damn fine tunes along the way that they don't get nearly enough credit for.

6. Van Halen
Like their antipodean pals in AC/DC, Van Halen leave the dungeons'n'dragons aspect of metal to lesser bands and put the emphasis on libidinous uber-hedonism and seemingly invincible musical chops. With original frontman, David Lee Roth in the fold (arguably the PREEMINENT rock front man, once upon a time), Van Halen were massively influential, not least for Edward's dizzying guitar techniques. Kudos is rarely extended to bassist Michael Anthony, whose high-piped harmonies are really the voice of Van Halen. Everything up through Diver Down is absolutely unstoppable, and even 1984 had its glorious moments. Without Dave, they don't matter.

7. Metallica
Inarguably the heavyweights of the big 80's four (rounded out by Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth) who took their cues from hardcore punk and the rawest elements of the N.W.O.B.H.M., Metallica were a refreshing jolt of unbridled aggression upon their debut. They'd rank higher on this list if not for their diminishing returns in the quality department following what has become known as the Black Album. But for the brilliance of Ride the Lightning and Master of Puppets, they will forever be metal royalty.

8. Venom
Taking Black Sabbath's flirtation with the dark side to a whole new infernal depth, Newcastle's VENOM inadvertently became the flashpoint for the church-worrying Scandiweigan black metal phenomenon, despite being largely tongue-in-cheek about it themselves. Despite embodying every cartoony metal stereotype, Venom's music was a thrilling, jarring, reckless juggernaut of sound.

9. Slayer
Like Venom, only definitively American and far less cheeky. Unrelenting. Uncompromising. Ever bleak. Never kidding. Not for the weak.

10. Anthrax
Taking the locomotive chug of their speedy peers, spiking it with the wise-ass sensibility of New York comic geeks, Anthrax were less scary than Slayer and Metallica, but equally forceful in their attack. Too little is said about their first album with ex-Armored Saint vocalist, John Bush, Sound of White Noise, which is positively heroic in its oomphy heaviosity.

11. Motley Crue
Easily the finest of the "hair farmers," if only for Too Fast for Love and Shout at the Devil (though the title track of Dr.Feelgood is hugely unstoppable, and rips off the bassline of the middle-eight of Killing Joke's "Love Like Blood"). Indefensibly silly and juvenile, but great fun otherwise.

HONORABLE MENTION: Deep Purple, Judas Priest, PRONG, Helmet, Pantera, Accept, Fudge Tunnel, Napalm Death, Kyuss, the Wildhearts, Blue Oyster Cult

BAND THAT AREN'T TECHNICALLY "HEAVY METAL" BUT STILL WARRANT DISCUSSION/INCLUSION:
The Stooges, Ramones, the MC5, Queen, Hawkwind, Rush, Killing Joke, the Misfits, Bad Brains, King Crimson, the Plasmatics, the Dictators

One Year Later

Party hats on, people. Flaming Pablum turns a whole year old on Saturday. I fully expect there to be slam-dancing in the streets, pint-spilling in the bars, vindictive glaring in the baby supply outlets, vociferous arguments in the movie theatres and bloody-knuckled fisticuffs in the record shops. Please do not let me down.

I'd like to thank those of you out there who have kept up with proceedings here at FP, especially those who were around when I was pompously calling it The House of Vassifer and/or the entirely lame Alexspace. I started the weblog after my then-colleague and drinking comrade, Hot Johnny started his own (also celebrating a birthday this week). I thought to myself, "if that pantsless, barking monkey can have a weblog, then why the hell can't I?" So, while it's true I only started Flaming Pablum to piss him off, it swiftly seemed to me like a swell means of showcasing my own dubious writing skills and maybe even aid me in my quest to find a new job (those with a keen eye for detail might have noticed a swift decline in content quality once said new job was finally attained). In any case, thank you for reading, all the same.

Being that we're only at a year, however, we still have to claw through weening, crawling, teething and potty-training. So stay tuned for that.