Flaming Pablum

Ringtones Are Killing Music

I bet the germ of the idea of personalized ringtones dates back to the era when people used to agonize over what music to play in the background while they recorded their outgoing answering machine greetings, just so potential callers could be wowed by how eclectic their tastes were ("Wow, Steve's really into esoteric Krautrock! Who knew?") Taken to the logical extreme, now people can have their own cell phones play snippets of their favorite songs (or songs that they feel best represent their groovy lifestyle to anyone within ear-shot who might give a damn) instead of simply a conventional ringing. I suppose it's not really that different from wearing a band t-shirt or putting up a poster that aligns one with their favorite artist. It's a cultural identifier that says: "hey world, check this out! I like this stuff!"

By the same token, however, one cannot always control when one's phone is going to ring (just ask Clive Davis). I mean, yeah, they could turn the ringtone off, I suppose, but then what's the point of having it in the first place? In any case, there are invariably going to be situations when you're not prepared to have your cell phone start ringing, let alone play a shrill rendition of "The Humpty Dance" by Digital Underground (or whatever). Personally speaking, I cannot stand owning a cell phone, but my own circumstances -- being both a parent and an employee perpetually on call -- demand that I do. Apart from my colleagues at work and my family, very few people have my number. As such, when my cell phone does ring, nine times out of ten, it's going to be something unexpected, something urgent and/or -- in a worst case scenario -- bad news. So while I'd otherwise think it'd be funny for my cell phone to play the opening ominous notes of Killing Joke's "Requiem" or the opening, frantic wail from "Mutiny in Heaven" by the Birthday Party, sooner or later, I'd start associating these sounds with something irritating, unwelcome and quite possibly unpleasant. Now why would I want to do that to my favorite music?

Moreover, I also think that excising the odd bit, hook or chorus from a song for the purposes of putting it on a ringtone does that song a disservice. I rode on a bus not too long ago and a guy next to me's cell phone started going off. The guy had his iPod headphones in so -- I gather -- didn't hear that his cell phone was playing the hook from Jay-Z's "Dirt Off Your Shoulder" in seemingly endless, mind-numbing rotations. Hell, I even like that song, but now never wanna hear it again.

So, in short, I put it to you, dear reader: irritating ringtones -- let's cut that shit out, shall we? Thanks!

"Some Assembley Required" - Part Deux

Old Man Weather is a jackass. I've whined about it here before, but rainy days and toddlers really do not mix. The wife and I were sequestered inside our shrinking apartment this past weekend in a veritable steel cage match with our two over-vocal children. I fleetingly escaped the screamy claustrophobia on Sunday for the purposes of procuring a new kitchen table. As fabulous as that sounds, I should point out that the table in question is about the size of your average nightstand (purchased at the entirely brilliant, East Village shop, Tiny Living, a store devoted entirely to furnishings for the cramped apartment). With Oliver now vying for the lone high chair in our home, we decided to set up a little kitchen eating area (at the expense of the wine rack, which will now reside in the living room) so that we could feed both kiddie-kids at the same time. This is mighty exciting stuff, eh? Welcome to the life of a parent times two. Out goes sleeping late, endless nights out on the town and "Must Be 21 to Enter" and in come sleepless nights, endless diaper changes and "Some Assembley Required." Whoohoo!

Much like my last cranium-cracking dabble in carpentry, the assembley of our new kitchen table proved to be a taxing task, although my lovely wife handled the lioness' share of the work, while I took little Oliver out for a stroll in the drizzle and Charlotte napped (I put the stools together). A few blistered palms, sore thumbs and splitting headaches later, we managed to adequately construct our table (see pic -- notice the obigatory pint of beer), and it has honestly been a huge benefit (so that two hundred bucks were not in vain). I actually had a cup of coffee on it this morning. Watch yer hairy back, Bob Villa!

Tunes from the Guilty Pleasuredome

I picked up the latest issue of British music magazine, Q, this weekend, the cover story of which being a big piece on so-called "Guilty Pleasures,"' i.e. arguably disreputable albums that are "okay to love" by artists otherwise unencumbered by credibility. Despite the magazine's somewhat middle-of-the-road posture on many topics, I like Q and am always curious about their take on things. However, quite a few of the albums they cite in their run-down are ones I wouldn't consider embarassing at all (Moving Pictures by Rush, Introducing the Hardline... by Terence Trent D'Arby, etc.) Time was when I was more concerned with defining my identity by the music I listened to, prompting me to scramble to hide my Ratt albums when my punkily-inclined friends came visiting or hiding my Devo records when my metalhead pals were around. But everyone has such meaningless "skeletons" in their closet. It's a niggling leftover tick from the teenage years whose hooks dig deep.

Gradually, I started giving less of a damn. I like what I like for whatever reason. That doesn't mean I'm not embarassed by some of the dubious selections in my collection (when you own upwards of two-thousand-six-hundred CDs, not all of them are going to be pure gold). I used to work at TIME Magazine with an equally frothy-mouthed music fan named Jon. When he deduced that I was as equally voracious -- and equally opinionated -- about my record collecting, he wasted no time in printing out his Old Testament-sized list of discs, and would drop regularly updated copies (with a mighty ::thud::) on my desk for my perusal. "Jon, it's not quantity that counts," I'd breezily inform him, doubtlessly sending him into a rage, " it quality." Not to be outdone, of course, I started cataloging a master list of my own increasingly unwieldly collection. When they were all lined-up on my shelves, they looked pretty respectable. But in stark, clinical black and white, it was a different story. Sprinkled alongside hipster-approved albums by Parliament, Neu!, Black Flag and Pere Ubu came clout-immolating names like Candyflip, Whitesnake, the Mission UK, Sigue Sigue Sputnik and Ace of Base (yes, I own The Sign). More recently, when an almost-intimidatingly music-savvy friend at the Job similarly asked if I kept a list of my collection, I sheepishly surrended it to him, but not before warning him ahead of time that it was rife with potentially cringe-inducing clunkers.

But I feel absolutely no guilt in admitting the pleasure I get from albums by artists like Kiss, Queen, Rush, Billy Idol, Iron Maiden, the Plasmatics, Motley Crue, etc. Similarly, while they may not have aged so well, I still proudly keep albums by then-seemingly-esoteric 90's Brit-indie also-rans like Ned's Atomic Dustbin, Senseless Things, Ride, Curve, Pale Saints and Chapterhouse on my shelves. I also have albums by artists like Weezer and Stone Temple Pilots that I think people *should* feel quasi-guilty about (why both of these bands still entertain sizable fan bases is beyond me). But whatever -- it's all more or less decent stuff.

That all said, I do have several albums that -- while I'm not at all proud of owning -- I would never part with, if only because each and every one of them managed to capture my attention, imagination and affection for some reason or another. So, why not throw open the doors of that closet and let the skeletons come out and furiously air-guitar? I love each of the albums below -- loosely ranked in order from the passively offensive to the abjectly indefensible - and I don't care who knows it (well, we'll see about that tomorrow). Herewith my FORTY GUILTY PLEASURE ALBUMS:

#40. Two Steps From the Move by Hanoi Rocks: I don't really express any guilt over owning this record -- the cursed Finnish glam-metal ensemble's sole attempt to break the American market. I picked it up on the debatable strength of their cover of Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Up Around the Bend" (which -- in retrospect -- is dire, despite the inarguable brilliance of that riff). Vocalist/pseudo-androgyne, Mike Monroe really has no voice at all, and the production is devoid of character or bite, but for the CCR cover and "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" (despite the titlular resemblance, Green Day did not later cover this particular track), I'll never get rid of it. It reminds me of my -- evidently hugely confused -- latter years of high school.
Best Bit: That riff and the "do-do-doyahhs" on the CCR cover.

#39. Arc of a Diver by Steve Winwood: Revered member of Traffic, Blind Faith and the Spencer Davis Group, Winwood said goodbye to all that gritty blues swagger and went all soft rock on this `81 effort. I had no clue who Traffic was at the time, but I remember quite digging the title track, which was all the rage on yawnsome classic rock radio at the time. It's aged remarkably well, as far as I'm concerned -- despite having all the bite of a stale loaf of Wonder bread. Also contained the singles "When You See a Chance" and "Spanish Dancer."
Best Bit: The opening, lilting guitar riff of the title track.

#38. Tin Machine by Tin Machine: Ah, now we're getting somewhere! With the exception of the man's justifiably derided Never Let Me Down (which immediately preceded this album), nothing David Bowie has been involved in has ever generated as much ire as this band-ish side project. Roping in Iggy's old rhythm section (the Sales brothers -- sons of Soupy!!!) and balding guitar noodler, Reeves Gabrels, Bowie assumed the role of frontman for a noise-inclined garage band. Fair enough, I say. It may have been a flimsy conceit, but I think "Heaven's in Here," "Tin Machine," "Under the God" and a couple of the other tracks actually do rock. I mean, yeah, there's some crap here too (notably their ill-considered cover of Lennon's "Working Class Hero"), but I don't think it's nearly as bad as some folks say.
Best Bit: When the central riff of "Tin Machine" re-introduces itself at exactly 01:25

#37. Sugar Ray by Sugar Ray: Okay, now it's starting to get tough. No one believes me when I tell them that this rinky-dink Orange County band's first album, Lemonade & Brownies, is actually pretty entertaining. Regardless, the only reason to own this album (their third or fourth...who remembers?) is "When It's Over," a succint little break-up song with a great pop hook. Sure, maybe they're complete frat boy jerks, but it's still a great little pop tune. Sue me.
Best Bit: The chorus of "When It's Over."

#36 Fush Yu Mang by Smash Mouth: Like Sugar Ray's less photogenic cousins, Smath Mouth were yet another gaggle of irritating Californians in Hawaiian shirt hanging out in Tiki-themed bars. That all said, this debut album boasted not only the irrepresible "Walking On the Sun", but also the gloriously idiotic "Let's Rock" and "Heave-Ho."
Best Bit: That intro to "Walking On the Sun" at exactly 00:08. Still fucking great.

#35. The Best by David Lee Roth: Adding insult to injury, not only am I citing a DLR album, but a Best-Of at that! Look, if you're like me, you still bitterly rue the day that the insufferable Mr. Roth left the fold of Van Halen. "Just a Gigolo" and "California Girls" were entertaining enough, but none of us ever thought it would spell the end of classic-line-up VH. But, of course it did. As far as hit-compilations go, ninety-seven perect of this disc is absolute crap, but for the afore-mentioned tracks from Crazy From the Heat and the lone respectable single from Eat'em & Smile, "Yankee Rose," it earns a place on my shelves. He really wouldn't redeem himself until the fleeting "Me Wise Magic" on VH's The Best of Van Halen Vol. 1 several years later (only to later disembowl the shattered remains of his dignity a decade later as Howard Stern's would-be replacement). Oh well.
Best Bit: "Well, let me roll up onto the sidwalk and take a look, yes!" in "Yankee Rose" (00:11)

#34. Left of the Middle by Natalie Imbruglia: Boy, this is tougher than I thought. Not sure how to explain this one, but I remember the wife really liking it (and that goes a long way in convincing me of stuff). "Torn" is a great little tune (and it certainly didn't hurt that Imbruglia herself was rather easy on the eyes). As a desperate grab at cred, I might point out that "Torn" was actually penned by one-time Cure bass player, Phil Thornalley. Amazingly, I managed to listen to other tracks on the album and even developed an affinity for the song "City," but I'll be damned if I could hum it for you (it had a nice, chunky guitar hook, if I recall correctly). All I know is that "Torn" used to make my lovely wife smile, and that makes this disc priceless.
Best Bit: The slide guitar in "Torn" that relieves little Natalie from her vocal duties at exactly 03:27.

#33. At Their Best by Jefferson Starship: I will indeed be amazed if any of my cool friends continue talking to me after reading this. In any case, this cut-price collection of Jefferson Starship (god, help me) tunes is one I picked up on the strength of the inclusion of not only their quasi-defensible 70's ballad, "Miracles" but also their bloated anthems like "Find Your Way Back" and "Jane" (leant ironic cool by its placement during the opening credits of "Wet Hot American Summer"). It doesn't happen often -- but when the mood strikes, it's perfect!
Best Bit: When the staccato keyboards merge with the power chords in the intro "Jane" at exactly 00:17. OH FUCK YEAH, BUDDY!

#32. Flashback by the J.Geils Band: Another best-of -- do I suck or what? In any case, Flashback neatly encapsulates all one could ever possibly need from the J.Geils band, including not only the overplayed "Centerfold," but better numbers like "Love Stinks," the amazing "Come Back" and their live doo-wop homage, "I Do." I promise you, they're really not as uncool as you think they are! Honest!. Alright, maybe they are, but hey -- they had a guy named "Magic Dick" in the band! MAGIC DICK! Well, I tried.
Best Bit: The "baby" refrain of "Come Back" that first reveals itself at 00:43

#31. Buckcherry by Buckcherry: I'm not going to waste a lot of time defending this one, because if you can't appreciate the wanton, coke-espousing charm of "Lit Up" (in a rollicking Ace Frehley-meets-Johnny-Thunders guitar spot-welding), then you simply suck a big bag of dicks and have no right owning any stereo equipment. I find it impossible to sit still when this plays. Best Bit: "Lit Up" is just genius from start to finish. If you beg to differ, you're just wallowing in a sickly mudslick of WRONG!

#30. Seal by Seal: At the time, he genuinely seemed pretty hip. Regardless, I still think Seal's debut album (the one with "Crazy" and..umm..when he still had hair) is great stuff, however devoid of edge. He later became mawkish, soppy milquetoast crapola -- or maybe he always was -- but this album remains a keeper as far as I'm concerned.
Best Bit: Fuck if I know what he's singin' about, but the entirety of "Future Love Paradise" is great, great stuff.

#29. Boston by Boston: Another one I don't think really needs a lot of defending, much-maligned though it remains. Classic if only for its singular adherence to flawless, slick (over)production to the n'th degree. The soaring harmonies, the crying guitar solos, the extended passages of quasi-prog noodlery. If I was really pressed on the issue, I'd say the band's finest hour was the title track to their second album, Don't Look Back, the glorious, circular riff of which still gives me the giddy shivers like I was eleven years old again and hearing it from the backseat of the car, hoping one or both of my parents aren't about to switch the station. But, I never owned that album, so I'm sticking with their first one. Best Bit: When the formerly acoustic riff of "Long Time" is reprised by a thick, chunky, rocktastic electric one at exactly 06:58. Oh my God!

#28. Complete Greatest Hits by Foreigner: Yeah, bite me, haters! I actually own a couple of Foreigner albums, but I figured I'd pick this "best-of" not only because it handily compiles all their best cuts in one batch, but also because "best-of"s are extra lamentable. I was never a huge fan of Foreigner by any stretch, but I've always had a soft-spot for their less-celebrated track, "Long, Long Way from Home" (which awesomely refers to NYC as "the Apple in Decay!") from their debut, which I accidentally taped off the radio (remember when we used to do that?) after I'd taped "Private Idaho" by the B-52s. And if you fail to acknowledge the sheer pop perfection of "Urgent," you're an idiot.
Best Bit: The jittery pulse of "Urgent" and the introduction of that saxophone at 01:32.

#27. Faster Than the Speed of Night by Bonnie Tyler: I was originally going to leave this one out as "Total Eclipse of the Heart" is already the go-to example and crassly revered as some sort've ironic anthem. When I was in high school, however, the merits of this song had nothing to do with irony, and all and sundry thrilled to its gloriously over-the-top histrionica. I never liked Bat Out of Hell by Meat Loaf, but "Total Eclipse..." is far and away producer Jim Steinam's finest hour (though "This Corrosion" by the Sisters of Mercy comes damn close!). Best Bit: Every nano-second of "Total Eclipse..." is heart-pulverisingly crucial.

#26. Tubular Bells by Mike Oldfield: Despite being the quintessence of wanky, progressive muso self-importance, Tubular Bells remains a keeper if only because of its (fleeting) affiliation with William Friedkin's horror classic, "The Exorcist." Though tacked onto said film's soundtrack, I only dimly remember hearing it during a scene wherein conflicted mother, Ellen Burstyn is walking around Georgetown on Halloween and sees a couple of nuns in flowing black robes. In any case, "Tubular Bells" is still creepily hypnotic, with that extra faint whiff of brimstone to boot. Best Bit: The bass guitar suddenly starts tugging you towards Hell at exactly -- WAIT FOR IT -- 06:06. Hail Satan.

#25. The Best of Sade by Sade: I was originally going to cite her last studio album, Lover's Rock, but this collection is a thousand-times more appropos as a guilty pleasure (and Lover's Rock is a great album that no one should feel shame for owning). The Best Of.. features both the lovely songbird's schmaltzy early, slickly overproduced material like "Smooth Operator," but also slow-burners like "No Ordinary Love." Yeah, it may be gratuitous bump'n'grind music, but you tell me -- what exactly is wrong with that? Best Bit: The slow, sad descent into the intro of "No Ordinary Love".

#24. Sultans of Swing by Dire Straits: I'm somewhat hard pressed to find a reason to hold onto this one, but it still manages to dodge my hand every time I'm weeding the CD garden. I can't say I've ever played it a great deal -- after I found it on the discard pile at work one day -- but every now and then, I'll throw on "Money for Nothing" and/or "Tunnel of Love". And Mark Knopfler's score to "Local Hero" (a bit of which is apprised here) is lovely. It ain't exactly London Calling or Back in Black, but I'll keep it, thanks.
Best Bit: The opening flutter of tastefully struck notes of "Wild Theme" (originally from the score of "Local Hero").

#23. Business as Usual by Men at Work: I vividly remember buying this album at a long-gone record store on Madison Avenue in the 30's on the same day I bought Ozzy's live-double album, Speak of the Devil. The two albums complemented each other nicely. I never really liked "Who Can it Be Now?", but "Johnny Be Good" and "Down Under" were great singles. Best Bit: "Helpless Automaton" is the best early Police song the Police never wrote.

#22. Wingspan by Paul McCartney & Wings: Sure, he's an ex-Beatle, but he also wrote critically indefensible piffle like "Pipes of Peace" and "No More Lonely Nights." In any event, David Gilmour's guitar solo on the latter makes it forgivable. This collection of Macca/Wings tracks had already be pre-figured by a clutch of other compilations (not least the entirely solid Wings Greatest), but also tacked on cringe-worthy ephemera that would've been best left in the vault. Who cares? There's still some amazing moments here. Best Bit:C'mon, you HAVE to love "Live And Let Die"!

#21. The Very Best of 10cc by 10cc: They're little more than an obscure two-hit-wonder here, but they're postively loathed in their homeland. In any case, I see absolutely nothing wrong with 10cc. And "I'm Not in Love" is absolutely godike. If you can't hear that, cut your ears off -- they're of no use to you. Best Bit: There isn't a bad second during all six minutes of "I'm Not In Love." Gorgeous.

#20 MCMXC a.D. by Enigma: I just love the fact that when this ablum came out, so many folks -- myself included -- thought it sounded so deep and
atmospheric, failing to recognize it for the vast dollop of tepid cheese-whiz that it actually was. It hasn't aged at all well, though it's positively priceless as a period piece of unintentional comedy. Gregorian chants, hip hop beats, moody synths -- it arguably helped pave the way for acts like AIR and Zero 7 a decade later. Best bit: the ludicrous instruction by "the Voice of Enimga" (complete with vague Euro accent) to relax.

#19 The Very Best of Cat Stevens: by Cat Stevens: Despite achieving short-lived hipster cred via his music's placement in Wes Anderson's justly beloved "Rushmore," there is precious little that is especially cool about Yusuf Islam, nee Cat Stevens. After I admitted my fandom for the hirsute troubadour-turned-devout-Muslim's 1971 album, Teaser & The Firecat (a big favorite of my parents' back in the day -- they routinely played the eight-track), I was practically kicked out of the Firewatercircus. In any case, because the man's voice is so inexorably entwined with memories of my childhood, I'll continue to tirelessly defend him. Best Bit: The Ooooh-Ahh-Eeyahh-Oowahhh refrain from stinky hippy anthem, "Peace Train."

#18. Pump Up the Jam - The Album by Technotronic: Oh sure, they're a complete punchline today, but when I first heard "Pump Up the Jam," it actually seemed like a pretty big deal. I was working for a tiny music mag at the time, edited by a slightly maniacal editor who used to deejay at a number of clubs (this was in the late 80's, when the big, cavernouos NYC club phenom was still in full swing). In any case, he was raving about Technotronic and how revolutionary it was and blah blah blah and thus, never stopped playing it. I finally succumbed and picked up a cassette of the "band"'s debut album while on jury duty. I picked it up at J.R. Music World the same day I bought the cassette of Louder Than Love by Soundgarden, and strenuously applauded myself for being so "eclectic". Almost twenty years later (!!!), deposed "singer" Felly, slightly butch behind-the-scenes rapper, Ya Kid K and "Pump Up the Jam" are all footnotes, but any time I need to conjure the Summer of `89, this is one of the discs I reach for. Best Bit: That first "Oh I!" in the chorus to "Pump Up the Jam" at exactly 00:31.

#17. Amplified Heart by Everything But the Girl: Andrew Eldritch of the Sisters of Mercy once posted on his band's website that he not only loathed and despised Everything But the Girl, but that they were also the ugliest people imaginable (yeah, like you're such a jar of eye-candy, Andrew). Regardless, Amplified Heart sank its talons into me in late `92 when I was busy wasting vast amounts of time and energy wallowing in a viscous puddle of self-pity after being dumped by someone I really shouldn't have been dating in the first place (never fish off the company dock), and Everything But the Girl's pleasantly despondent pop tunes fit the situation to a tee. After this album, the band achieved hep cache by their affiliation with Massive Attack (EBTG vocalist, Tracey Thorn sang on a few cuts on the Trip Hop trio's gorgeous second album, Protection, not least the smoldering title track). Last I heard, Everything But the Girl were back to being decidedly not-hip. Amplified Heart remains a great, emotional tonic for newly-dumpeds and potential stalkers. BEST BIT: Tracy's mournful moan at exactly 02:06 into "Missing".

#16. Phantoms by The Fixx: Yeah, sure. They may have been soulless, overwrought, humorless, synthetic, pretentious, haplessly nerdy, awkwardly British, weedy and anaemic, but I still dug'em, not least for Jamie West-Oram's stylish guitar playing (no less distinctive than then-peer, The Edge's). I saw the band play at the Felt Forum (now called the Theatre at Madison Square Garden) on the tour for this album, and I remember it being pretty cool (General Public opened!). Though the only real "hit" on this record was the lyrically oblique "Are We Ourselves?", my personal fave tracks include "Lose Face" and "Sunshine in the Shade." They can't get arrested these days, but I think this stuff still sounds pretty good. BEST BIT: The chugging bridge of "Lose Face," rife with West-Oram's chiming, staccato guitar chords at exactly 01:32.

#15 Happiness by the Beloved: These guys were such a momentary blip on the radar that I'm not even sure they're eligible for inclusion here, but the album itself is so rife with giddy espousals of ecstacy-fueled euphoria and edgeless optimism that I feel somewhat silly owning it (being a the labouriously jaded cynic that I am). Apart from the (slightly) rocking single, "Hello," the majority of this disc borders on the insufferably saccharine and super-lite. But, if you're in the mood (i.e. high as a kite on E and have a time machine to take you back to 1989), it's perfect! The big single from their next album, "Sweet Harmony" was quite nice as well.
BEST BIT: The unapolegtic smile-blitzkrieg that is "Up, Up And Away."

#14. Drama by Yes: Despite being revered by both classic rock radio and a nation of hirsute, prog-rock die-hards, Yes have never been a hip name to drop (unless you're a complete loon like Vincent Gallo). Fragile remains their go-to disc (featuring such classics as "Roundabout" and "Long Distance Runaround"), whereas Drama remains one of their less celebrated discs. Elfin vocalist, Jon Anderson and King Arthur-crazed keyboardists Rick Wakeman (the man once scored a performance of King Arthur On Ice -- THE most un rock'n'roll thing EVER?) had left the fold, their places taken by Trevor Horn and Geoff Downes, otherwise known as The Buggles (of "Video Killed the Radio Star" fame). The Yes faithful were aghast. Regardless, Horn actually replicated Anderson's high-piped warble to convincing effect. Moreover, the rollicking "Tempus Fugit" amply proved that the band had lost none of their muscle, beefing up the band's sound, velocity and accessability (even adding elements of 'ska' [if you believe Allmusic.com] on the sprawling, amphetamine headfuck that was "Tempus Fugit"). Of course, it was not to last (the band fell apart, spawning Asia and paving the way for the streamlined, Trevor Rabin-era Yes and unleashing Horn to go find production fame behind Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Seal. Best Bit: 04:57 into "Tempus Fugit," when Steve Howe's guitar does a couple of cartwheels then disintegrates into countless spiraling, sonic fractals.

#13. Asia by Asia: The stage was set by the album cited at #14, Asia promised fans a bona fide prog supergroup. Imagine their dismay when the band in question -- featuring ex-members of Yes, King Crimson, ELP and …ummm...the Buggles, turned out to play mainstream pop-rock (I'm sure everybody blamed the Buggle). Regardless, Asia briefly excelled at hoarily overproduced radio fodder and at least birth one great single, that being "Only Time Will Tell," a flowery kiss-off propelled by histrionic bombast that robustly DEMANDS immediate irreponsible volume enhancement. Best Bit: The explosive intro to the album's opener, "Sole Survivor."

#12. Rarities, B-Sides and Other Stuff by Sarah McLachlan: Getting back into dangerous waters here. Though more renowned for being the insufferably pious founder of the Lilith Fair, the lovely Canuck named Sarah McLachlan - I'd like to sheepishly point out -- was once signed to Netwerk records (erstwhile home to fellow Canadians Skinny Puppy). I first heard McLachlan as the voice behind "As the End Draws Near," an atmospheric dance track by pseudo-industrial band, Manufacture. I passively followed her career after that. The Manufacture album that held the track in question is, I believe, out of pring, but Sarah tacked it onto this odds'n'ends collection (also containing her cover of XTC's "Dear God"). In any case, as far as I'm concerned, she has a lovely voice. BEST BIT: The jubilant middle-eight in the remix of "Into the Fire" (starting at 02:56) is quite lovely.

#11. From Time to Time: the Singles Collection by Paul Young: At this late stage in the proceedings, I should point out that I didn't actually purchase each and every compact disc that I happen to own. After several years of writing for a clutch of music magazines, several record labels were good enough to put me on their mailing lists, and my mailbox was shortly inundated with cumbersome cardboard boxes filled with albums, nine out of every ten being absolute crap. This little Best Of popped out of one of them, and while I never in a quadrillion years wuold've ever spent any hard earned cash -- or even cash I happened to find on the sidwalk, for that matter -- on a Paul Young album, I decided to hold onto it. Who doesn't love a little schmaltz every now and again from a British blue-eyed soul boy? The man's got a decent voice, and I always kinda liked "Come Back & Stay". Again, this is another favorite of the wife's. BEST BIT: When Paul starts to lose his shit towards the end of "Come Back and Stay (02:32)

#10. Rock 'N' Soul Pt. 1: Greatest Hits by Hall & Oates: Not only do I own this album, but I actually went to see them at Madison Square Garden (on the Big Bam Boom tour) with a pal of mine in high school named Leo (I was wearing a sling and a Circle Jerks t-shirt at the time). Sure, they're shameless cheese-mongers, but there's just no arguing with "She's Gone," "Sara Smile," the bass line of the utterly ridiculous "Man Eater." I also really love "Adult Education." My only regret here is the omission of "Family Man." Best Bit: The big drum and guitar breakdown at exactly 03:25 in "Adult Education."

#9. Script for a Jester's Tear by Marillion: They remain pretty obscure on this side of the pond (apart from a fleeting almost-hit called "Kayleigh"), but mention their name to a savvy Brit, and they're likely to dump a pint of beer over your head. Fatuous prog excess ala vintage Genesis, Script.... overflows with compicated time signatures, verbose lyrics, flowery guitar appregios and filligree-laden keyboards. I picked up this album sometime during my senior year of high school almost purely out of curiosity. Better in small doses than in long sittings, the title track is especially sprawling in its hoary histrionics, as burly frontman Fish (that's it....just Fish) laments laboriously over -- I think -- unrequited love. Best Bit: When the band kicks into an odd rhythmic pattern at 01:23 into the title track, supposedly inspired by the sound of a train passing over a bridge (or some ridiculous bullshit like that).

#8 Turn It On Again - Best Of 81-83 by Genesis: To quote a friend of mine this very day, "Phil Collins has got the kind of face that I'd never get tired of slapping." Yes, it's true - Phil Collins is a jackass, but I still have a soft-spot for a couple of Genesis tunes, notably "Mama" and "Turn It On Again." What can I tell ya? Best Bit: Every nanosecond of "Mama" is great, as far as I'm concerned.

#7.Breakfast in America by Supertramp: I remember when my sister bought this album in the summer of `79 that it was something I probably shouldn't like (as I was otherwise preoccupied at the time by Devo, the Ramones, Kiss and Adam & the Ants), but did anyway. They looked like a bunch of hairy creeps and vocalist Rodger Hodgson whined like a girl, but something about those plaintive keyboards on "The Logcial Song" and the slow build of "Gone Hollywood" kept me comin' back. Best Bit: When the saxophone starts puking all over "The Logical Song" at exactly 01:53.

#6. Strange Magic: The Best Of Electric Light Orchestra: by ELO: Insipidly silly, yes, but think of those pop gems: "Livin' Thing", "Do Ya," "Evil Woman," "Turn To Stone," "Mr.Blue Sky"? The list is endless. I think I picked this up second-hand, but my favorite memory of this collection dates back to 2001. I had a Russian personal trainer at the time named Ilya, who was a massive ELO fan, and quite out of the blue -- pardon the pun -- he asked me if I wanted to go see them play live. While I'd never harbored a great desire to see the band, the idea of seeing them with my Russian personal trainer was too funny not to entertain, so I said yes. Shortly before the night in question -- which I'd started to regret saying yes to -- I threw this collection on one night and found myself really psyching myself up and getting into it. "This is gonna be GREAT!," I lied to myself. As great as "Don't Bring Me Down" and "Living Thing" are, I had low expectations for the show, but I was determined to reamin optimistic. As fate had it, September 11th happened and the show was unsurprisingly cancelled. Oh well. Best Bit:"Please Turn Me Over" at the tail end of "Mr. Blue Sky (4:50)

#5 Tales Of Mystery & Imagination by The Alan Parsons Project: More wanky prog-lite from the pre-pop Alan Parsons Project. A concept album based around the writings of Edgar Allen Poe, I first heard bits of Tales Of Mystery & Imagination when my fifth grade teacher, Mr.Mclellan, used "The Raven" to score a scene of a weak school play adaptation of "Lord of the Flies" (lord knows why). In any case, I didn't hear it again until 1984, when I picked up a Portugese (!!!) copy of the album on cassette from the bookstore at the college I was visiting (a college I would attend the following year, Denison University). There's a lot of crap on this record, but "A Dream Within a Dream" and the afore-mentioned "Raven" are stunning. Best Bit:The creepy vocoded vocals on "The Raven" still give me a thrill all these many years later.PROG-O-GOTH!

#4. Quick Step & Side Kick by the Thompson Twins: Before they became complete crap, The Thompson Twins actually made some bizarrely great, dance music. They get no respect today, of course, but "Lies," "Love On Your Side" and "If You Were Here" were pretty fab, as far as I was concerned (the video for "Lies" being especially creepy, as I remember). I didn't mind "Hold Me Now," but they turned into shit after that. Best Bit: The rapid-fire opening drums of "Lies".

#3. Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We? by the Cranberries: If I'd known what they were going to turn into, I never would've picked up their first indie CD single, "Uncertain" back in `91. They seemed like a nice little rip-off of the Sundays, the Cranberries did, only with a slight Celtic lilt, and a pleasantly melacholy streak. This debut LP was suitably dipped in moody atmospherics and tastefully jangley guitars. And as I'd just been dumped by that co-worker (see #17), the depressive vibe of this record scored big points with me. By the next album, they swiftly became entirely lamentable. This record's still nice, though Best Bit: The open tangle of guitars of "Wanted" that completely swipe a Smiths song I can't place at the moment.

#2. In My Tribe by 10,000 Maniacs: Okay, I'll admit it. Natalie Merchant is a reprehensibly sanctimonious harpee, but I have to confess - I love this record. An inescapable disc during the second semester of my senior year of college, it seemed I couldn't walk from my front door to the classroom without hearing any one of its twelve tracks blasting out of someone's window (including their cover of Cat Stevens' "Peace Train," later stricken from the album once he was heard to support the fatwa against Salman Rushdie -- TAKE THAT, CAT!) I actually went to go see them that year at the Newport Music Hall in Columbus, Ohio (with some no-name oppressed woman with a guitar opening, who would turn into the very successful Tracy "Fast Car" Chapman a year later -- who knew?) In between songs, Merchant piously scolded the crowd for the litter-strewn streets of Ohio's capital. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves!" Yeah, rock'n'roll! Best Bit:I still adore "Don't Talk."

...and the most horribly embarassing disc in my collection is....

#1. Picture Book by Simply Red: Okay, okay, calm down -- let me explain. As abjectly indefensible as it is, I own it because back in the Summer `86, I worked as a surly, underpaid dishwasher at a snobby place out in the `Hamptons called The Barefoot Contessa. To be fair, the place had a relaxed vibe. There was a stereo in the front of store with speakers the played in the kitchen. At first, the management were pretty liberal about it. We could all bring in tapes (remember them?) and play whatever we wanted (within reason). This worked well enough for a while. I stupidly pushed the envelope a bit too hard one day, though, when I brought in Snap!, the compilation of tracks by the Jam (pretty harmless, I thought). Well, during the middle of -- either "Eton Rifles" or "Funeral Pyre" -- the manager came scrambling back in a frothy-rage (no love for Mr. Weller, I guess). In any case, from that day forward, only *two* tapes (count'em: 2) were allowed to be played. Those two tapes: the soundtrack to "Annie" and Picture Book by Simply Red. Adding insult to injury, the tape deck out front was set to auto-replay, so after a tape had played both its sides, it would START OVER AGAIN. The meant that we'd be treated to seemingly endless rotations. After a day or two, someone actually STOLE the "Annie" soundtrack tape -- honest, it wasn't me -- and invariably snapped it in half and buried it out back. That left us with Picture Book by Simpy Red -- over and over and over and over and over again. After a week or so, my fellow-dishdog, Bill, evidently reached the end of his tether and climbed up ontop of one of the freezers to disconnect the spearker wires that fed back into the kitchen, liberating us from Mick Hucknal's sickly whine. After that, we brought in our own boom box and subjected the kitchen staff to a steady diet of Iron Maiden and Black Flag. Good times. At the end of the summer, I went back to school and found myself missing my summer at the Barefoot Contessa. And nothing brought back the memories of my friends and experiences there like hearing Picture Book by Simply Red. So that's why I bought it and that's why I still own it. Plus -- I hate to say it -- the wife quite likes it. Best Bit: I don't care how much of a coolster punk rocker or hardened metalhead you are - if you can't acknowledge that "Holding Back the Years" is a lovely song, I weep for your cold, brittle stone of a heart.

....but yeah, otherwise, Mick Hucknall is a completely revolting prick.

Live and Let Diet

I've heard it said that honesty is a prerequisite to true friendship. This may very well be true, but if you really want to hear the straight poop -- free of any of the excess filter or compassionate cushioning designed to protect your feelings that one of your friends might thoughtfully provide -- you can always count on your family to unsolicitedly deliver it. Such was the case about a week or so back when a member of my family -- who shall remain nameless -- came visiting. "So Alex," they asked, while I was busily attempting to wrangle our feisty 2 year old while still clutching our inordinately beefy five month old with my free arm, "Are you still regularly going to that gym of yours?" I knew instantly where this was going. "Why, no," I calmly responded, my brow starting to furrow in anticipation of their next comment. "Between my demanding work schedule and wanting to get home in time to see the kids before their respective bed times...," I explained, "I really don't have the time to go to the gym these days." "Oh, I see," they summarily observed. "That must explain that double-chin you're developing."

Ah, yes.....good times.

It's true that I let my membership to Crunch lapse some time ago (despite the clingy entreaties from said organization, who tenaciously stalked me by phone like an awkwardly jilted ex). Simply put, it was just getting way too expensive to belong to a gym I never had the time to go to. Moreover, I rationalized that my deficit in time spent on some inane treadmill was being compensated for by my time spent scrambling after my kids or rocking them to sleep or pushing those strollers around downtown Manhattan. That all said, after a full day over at the Job and an action-packed early evening trying to get the kids to sleep, there are fewer things the wife and I enjoy more than several drinks and -- hell, why not? -- how about some ice cream after dinner? Couple this with my changing metabolilsm (one of God's petty torments to the over-30's), and I'm not shedding the weight as effortlessly as I used to. This all leads to snappy comments from the near'n'dear about my evidently encroaching girth.

As if on cue, my wife recently unearthed a dog-eared paperback copy of "The Complete Scarsdale Medical Diet" by the late Dr. Herman Tarnower from my Mom's basement. All the rage in the late 70's, the Scarsdale Diet really found fame when its architect was slain by his assistant/former lover, Jean Harris (who shot him at close range). In any case, Peg and I are considering trying it (ummm...the dieting part, not the homicide part). While Peg's charmed by the late-70's retro-kitsch (especially amused by its myriad suggestions to "drink plenty of diet soda"), I'm more interested it its grisly affiliation with true crime (dieting is always more fun when you know there was foul play involved). In any case, it does say that it can help one lose up to 20 pounds in 14 days. So, with nothing to lose, we're thinking about it.

It's not that I'm fixated. I don't consider my gradual widening a huge problem, but it seems like it's something I should act on sooner than later. Moreover, the ever-so-delicately noted "double-chin" problem is one I didn't really need my nameless relative to point out to me. I'd already noticed it in the mirror, giving my newly shorn face a resemblance to my own father's. A couple of months back, I ruminated here about making some drastic changes to my diet (specifically the swearing-off of my beloved beer). It seems the time may be nigh to put this theory into action. The Scarsdale plan not only involves an inordinately unsavory predominance of something called "protein bread," but also involves saying goodbye to ANY/ALL ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. Oh dear.

Clearly, some tough times may lay ahead if I take up the challenge. Best case scenario, however, will involve a slimmer, healthier albeit invariably crankier self. Look out, world.

Even More Kool Krap Out There on Ye Olde `Net

#1 Good news for fans of the tastelessly depraved. The endearingly black-humored Perry Bible Fellowship page has been updated, now rife with new strips specially designed to upset, degrade and ultimately immolate the apple cart.

#2 I stumbled upon this website recently that features some truly amazing photography, and I'm a complete sucker for that stuff -- especially images of dear ol' NYC like the one below. Lots to look at here at Overshadowed.com!

#3 Speaking of cool photos of NYC, I stumbled upon this rather odd website which, along with documenting the webmaster's slighty bizarre obsession with antique glass and prisms, features some truly awesome photographs of old NYC -- from the turn of the century to the 1930's -- as featured below (Broadway & 28th street in the 1910's). Fascinating stuff.

Currently in Rotation - August `06

Can you believe we're already halfway through August? Jeez Louise, time freakin' flies! In any case, this month -- when not gnashing my teeth and ripping my hair out -- I've been busied by the following:

MUSIC: Based on the testament to its unlikely greatness from my colleague, Gil, I picked up the new New York Dolls album, One Day It Will Please Us to Remember Even This, and am continuing to give it a fair shake, despite it not immediately grabbing me. It's not bad, but it's just not getting me too excited, which might suggest a bigger point: maybe I was never a fan of the `Dolls to begin with. I remember picking up the band's seminal eponymous debut album from 1973 when I was in high school -- as they were name-checked by everyone from the Smiths to Hanoi Rocks as a huge influence. I'd always liked "Trash" and "Personality Crisis," -- and you'd have to be completely blind not to see their moves ripped off by more successful bands from the Sex Pistols through Motley Crue -- but it never felt especially crucial to me. I'm sure in the context of their original era (the drab early 70's), the band's shambollic rock'n'roll probably sounded like nothing else on the planet, and their sartorial/tonsorial take on "glam" made the likes of Bowie and Bolan seem as transgressive as impolite nuns. I quite enjoyed the bittersweet documentary, "New York Doll", which documented the band's Morrissey-orchestrated reformation, concentrating on the surprising post-band trajectory of original bassist, Arthur "Killer" Kane. But with original `Dolls members, drummer Billy Murcia, legendary guitarist Johnny Thunders, second drummer Jerry Nolan and Kane himself all dead (the gentle giant passed away just prior to the release of the afore-mentioned documentary), it seems a bit rich to dub this new band (fronted by only original members, vocalist David Johansen and guitarist Sylvain Sylvain) the New York Dolls. Moreover, the New York Dolls without shock-haird junkie stormtrooper guitarist, Johnny Thunders (pictured below playing with his more ass-whuppin' post-Dolls band, the Heartbreakers) makes about as much sense to me as AC/DC without Angus Young. Regardless, it's still not blowin' my skirt up either way. I'm sure they'd be fun to see live, though.

The other album I've been spinning a bit lately is a hugely screamy little record by a Seattle combo called The Blood Brothers. Young Machetes is actually the band's fifth album (not out in stores until October) and I can't decide whether I love it or hate it, and that's always a good sign. "Set Fire to the Face on Fire," the album's opener, is shrieky, purple-faced call to arms that makes one want to break every window in one's house, spew lighter fluid around and strike a match. Dinner party music this is not. If you have a wife, chances are that she'll hate it.

FILM: Now that the movie's finally out, can we all stop freakin' talking about "Snakes on a Plane" now? Please?

WEBSITE: CATS THAT LOOK LIKE HITLER!

TEXT: Maybe his fifteen minutes have been up for a year or two now, but I still think Anthony Bourdain is one cool motherfucker. I loved "Kitchen Confidential" (despite the abortive "sit-com" they made out of it that sank from view quicker than a cockroach in a pot of gazpacho), equally thrilled to "A Cook's Tour" and read his last book of culinary-noir (culinoiry?) fiction, The Bobby Gold Stories: A Novel. Hell, I even picked up his Les Halles cookbook (the Tartiflette -- basically a deadly concoction of potatoes, cheese and bacon -- is the shit!). So, I of course had a hard time not picking up his latest opus, "The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones." I'm only a couple of chapters in -- and it's basically the same sort've fare (pardon the pun) you'd expect. But it's fun stuff. Plus, the book is dedicated to Joey, Johnny and Dee Dee. Respect!

QUOTE: “My earliest memory is shouting: at what and for what reason, I don't know. Probably a tantrum; or I may have been rehearsing. I was always an early starter.” - Lemmy

**NEW** SHIT THAT'S PISSING ME OFF THIS MONTH: After working the Friday overnight shift there for over a damn decade, TIME Magazine has evidently decided to change its big closing night from Friday night to Wednesday night. Yeah, sure -- wait `til after I've left to make it easier, why don'tcha? Bastids!

**ALSO NEW** OLD TIMEY VIDEO CLIP OF THE MONTH: If for no other reason than that it rocks so damn hard, herewith the truly disquieting and slightly silly video for "Envoye" by Swiss industrial weirdos, The Yong Gods, looking a bit like the Blue Man Group's retarded cousins. Put simply, it's tres awesome!

Heavy Metal Old Timer's Night in Bolivia, The Benefits of Stigmata, Poo in a Sunday Roast and Bruno

…or things that caught my eye today, elsewhere on the `net.

In no real order....

*I can't help feeling that it's rather tragic that long-deposed, former Iron Maiden vocalist, Paul Di'anno is currently fronting a `Maiden tribute band (sort've the inverse of the Ripper Owens story) and making a big splash in Bolivia, of all places, but the man's gotta eat, I suppose.

....

*"I'd rather poo in my mum's Sunday Roast than have Danger Mouse produce a Portishead record, no offence like." So sayeth Portishead manstermind, Geoff Barrow, eloquently expressing his paucity of enthusiasm for the idea of collaborating with the celebrated producer of the moment. I used to be a sizable fan of Portishead's debut LP, Dummy, but I can't help thinking that said record's melancholy torch songs and noirish Trip Hop (arguably the blueprint thereof) haven't aged with any semblance of grace. Moreover, their follow up eponymous album didn't do much to blur the impression that they were simply a one-trick pony, albeit a darkly enigmatic one. In any case, for making such a gloriously scatalogical denouncement, Geoff Barrow earns a salute from Flaming Pablum. Incidentally, this contentious bit of info came from a recent installment of For the Record (lovingly compiled and whipped into shape by the fabulous Jane) over at the Job.

....

*Evidently, Stigmata gets you free drinks!

...

*Lastly, it is with profound sadness that I report that  evidently character actor Bruno Kirby has passed away from Leukemia. Hats off to Bruno.

You may remember Bruno from his roles in "This is Spinal Tap," "City Slickers," "Good Morning, Vietnam," "When Harry Met Sally," "Donnie Brasco," "The Basketball Diaries" and -- according to IMDB -- Wililam Friedkin's "Cruisin'," wherein Kirby played a "man greasing up his fist in a club."

9th Street Shakedown

I had a bit of an odd experience late last night. Around 11:00 pm, after sitting through the entirely unsatisfying "Gene Simmons Family Jewels" on A&E (a truly blatant, cringe-inducing rip-off of "The Osbournes" if ever were there one…and on A&E no less, despite being neither arty nor especially entertaining) I was saddened to discover that we were out of milk in the `fridge. With the wife and little people due to arrive back from my Mom's place out on the `Island today, the absence of a quickly accessible bottle of milk would be frowned upon by all parties concerned. So, I dutifully put my sneakers back on to go walk around the corner to our local deli on University Place to procure a fresh carton. No big problem. I've done it a million times before.

It was a cool night with the slight whiff of impending rain in the air. I strolled into my deli, bought my half-gallon of milk and strolled back out. As I turned on my corner and started to walk the couple of yards to my building's lobby, two young gents came walking my way. Both somewhere in their early twenties, walking and conversing in a manner suggesting that they'd recently smoked a great deal of crappy, Lower East Side weed. They were both done up in in self-styled "punk" gear (one kid was sporting a Crass t-shirt beneath a massive, unkempt afro). I thought nothing of it. Suddenly, Afro-Crass kid wobbled directly into my trajectory. "Hey man," he started to slur, "you need to …..." Before I'd really taken any stock of the moment, I'd already brushed past him (though no physical contact took place) and was walking into my lobby. Evidently, they followed me in. "You know these guys?" asked Steven, my ever-understated doorman. Now these dudes had entered the lobby, standing just inside the doors, squinting in my direction. Not in the mood for any shenanigans, I told Steven that I didn't have the foggiest idea who they were, stepped into the waiting elevator and was gone.

Five flights up, after putting my milk in the `fridge, I started to dissect the incident, and realized that I had left Steven rather high and dry in a potentially unpleasant situation. I immediately went back downstairs, running the fleeting exchange over in my head. What had just happened? Had I just escaped a botched mugging? What did that kid say to me? Neither of my potential assailants were particularly intimidating, but there was still two of them and one of me. Did I just completely wimp out and leave poor Steven in danger? Was I almost shook down mere steps from my own home?

I arrived back in the lobby to find Steven like the too-cool customer he always is, sitting calmly and un-blood-splattered behind his desk, with no sign of my would-be highwaymen anywhere in sight. "Sorry, Steven," I offered -- feeling like I'd just acted like a huge jackass-coward, "what was that all about?" "I don't know," said Steven, peering up from his glasses, "they gave up and left when they saw you get on the elevator." I walked back outside. 9th Street was quiet and empty, without so much as even a car in sight, let alone any youthful, Crass-espousing brigands. I said goodnight to Steven again and went back upstairs.

I'm still in the dark about it. Maybe the kid had a sincere, legitimate question. Maybe it wasn't a shakedown at all. Maybe they were just messin' with me. Maybe he wanted to know where the nearest ATM was. Or maybe I did just narrowly slip through a confrontation. I can't help but think that on any other block in this city, my guard would've been a bit higher up and I'd have sussed out the situation a bit more. But no one expects something like that to happen right in front of their own home. That said, this is still New York City. Oh well.  Maybe next time, fellas

Comes the Fall

Shortly after posting last Friday's missive (featuring the vid for "Breakaway" by the criminally undersung Big Pig), I managed to duck out of the office and scurry over to 40th & Third to board my weekly Hampton Jitney, rubbing hostile elbows and exchagning confrontation-baiting glares with the usual gaggle of cretins in madras and pre-crumpled gingham. Ducking my head into a book and -- ill-advisedly -- slipping on my headphones to distract myself from the experience, I routinely try (and often fail) to keep my pronounced distaste for riding the indefensibly expensive Jitney kept to a visual minimum. Stepping off the bus in Quogue an hour and a half later, I was immediately struck by an unexpected feeling in the air. Instead of the sweltering, heady humidity of recent weeks, a seemingly premature seasonal shift had taken place -- the air was crisp and cool. Summer is clearly on its way out. It may get a few last licks in this week, but Summer will very soon -- to paraphrase the otherwise ridicule-worthy Don Henley -- be out of reach.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I love the Fall. Hell, I was born in it (October 13th -- and yes, it was indeed fittingly on a Friday). The East Coast in the Autumn is a time of robust splendor and bittersweet, windswept melancholy. The Fall is also one of a couple of times a year when the planet Earth sees fit to go out of its way to torment me. Thanks to my so-diagnosed "oral allergy syndrome," the seasonal appearance of certain plants/fungi/micro-organisms that evidently flourish in the Fall sends my immune system into an embattled frenzy. All energy is sucked out of me, I lose my senses of smell, taste and sight, my eyes turn into acid-dispensing fawcetts and I ceaselessly sneeze with an intensity that replicates the sensation of being puched in the sternum with an anvil. Simply put, life as I know it becomes entirely no fun. I can dope up on Claritin all I want, but it never seems to make much of a difference. I've gone to see allergists, but their solutions have never really done a great deal to stem the tide, and I'm just not entertaining the notion of the treatment that requires a shot in the arm every week for two years -- that just ain't gonna happen, I'm sorry.

So this past weekend, as with the early shift in temperature, so too arrived my first seasonal allergy attack, making me wish I had an entirely different head. On Sunday morning, while strolling around Tanger outlet mall in Riverhead (it's a pretty horrible experience while you're doing it, but lemme tell ya -- shit's cheap there), I was struck -- as I'm keen to call it -- by "the hammer," reducing me to a sort of drippy, cranky somnambulist. Having already imbibed the recommended dosage of Claritin, there wasn't much else I could do but suffer -- and complain, of course. Both of which I did in spades, much to the delight of my loved ones. Hooray!

Anyway, waah waah -- poor me. Herewith some other items to ponder.

*Joining the ranks of diet, listening habits, stress and lack of proper rest, it seems my afore-mentioned allergies might also be playing a role in the recent increase of the Tinnitus I've been bitching so profusely about lately. Regardless, I've decided to re-double my efforts in terms of combating the ring, and am investigating the option of acupuncture. Honestly speaking, it has a debatable track record of success in treating Tinnitus, but what have I got to lose? At the very least, I'll be able to say I've tried it and sated my curioisty. And if sticking needles in my head will liberate me from the madness, fuckin' SO BE IT. If that doesn't work, I'll try the next option. I'm going to start documenting my effrots in a new category here which I'll be calling SCREAMING EAR. Look for that soon, Tinnitophiles!

*As if you needed any further indication that Punk Rock was indeed dead, while waiting for the train to whisk me back to NYC last night, I saw a guy pull up to the station in a fire-engine red Ferrari to drop off his unlikely-tanned girlfriend while cranking a noxious Nelly Furtado single at volumes normally associated with sonic warfare. Boasting slicked back black hair and a disquietingly mandarin-tinged ersatz-tan himself, this goob was also sporting a sleeveless green t-shirt emblazoned with the CBGB logo. Somewhere, Richard Hell is frowning (...more than usual).

*In less depressing news, please check out my colleague Kurt O's lovingly penned article about legendary American independent label, Touch And Go. Home to the trailblazing likes of the Necros, Scratch Acid, Big Black, Killdozer, Man…Or Astroman? and droves of other amazing bands, Touch And Go has been a home of vital and visceral music and is currently celebrating its 25th Anniversary. Read all about it by clicking right here. And for you younger little snots out there, why not forego picking up that new Fall Out Boy record (or whatever) and pick up Songs About Fucking by Big Black or Head by the Jesus Lizard. You'll thank me later.

Breakaway!

Ahoy gang.  Well, it's Friday afternoon, and I'm slowly preparing to take off for yet another weekend out on the `Island, trying to squeeze the last few nice days out of the Summer before it all ends. So until I'm back in front of a computer again come Monday, I'll leave you with one of my favorite old videos, "Breakaway" by a since-forgotten Australian ensemble from the late 80's, Big Pig.  Known for their hugely percussive sound, inexplicable leather aprons and the robust vocals of fabulous babe,  Sherine Abeyratne, Big Pig didn't make more than a one-hit-wonder impression here in the States, slipping into obscurity shortly after their debut album, Bonk. They made a second album, but it was never released here and I've never been able to find it. Honestly, the rest of Bonk isn't wildly memorable, but this track's a keeper (or I think so, anyway), rife with big, thumping drums.  Play it loud and jump around like the 80's never ended.