Flaming Pablum

U2 Hit the Skids

The figurative scales that represent my love/hate relationship with U2 dipped squarely into the "love" area recently upon finally hearing their cover (with Green Day) of "The Saints are Coming" by ye olde Skids. Yeah, I'm a bit late to the table on this (being that it's kinda old news by now), but I managed to lay ears on it this morning, courtesy of a copy of U2's entirely needless new compilation album, U218 Singles. Despite being maddeningly ubiquotous blowhards (well, Bono, anyway), I have to applaud U2 this time for getting it right. And by getting it right, I'm not so much suggesting their tireless altruism (proceeds from the sale of the single are going to aid Musicians Rising, an organization that replaces instruments lost by musicians in the wake of Hurricane Katrina), but rather by not taking a giant, runny dump on the song they were covering, as they did with, say, "Helter Skelter" -- though, honestly, no cover version has ever done that particular track justice, not even Siouxsie's. There's no reason why any of the surviving Skids should hear this single and wince.

Critics are likely to credit Green Day (the arguably "punker" of the two ensembles) with retaining the urgent fire of the Skids' original track from 1978, but it's U2 who are likely to have suggested this song sooner than Billy Joe Armstrong et al. (whose punk roots owe more to the likes of Operation Ivy than to the fabled Class of `77). The Skids came high-stepping out of Scotland as progenitors of huge, chant-laden anthems buoyed by big-ass guitars that owed precious little if anything to the spittle-drenched nihilism of their British Punk peers. Sadly little more than a footnote today (the band is usually simply name-checked as the outfit guitarist Stuart Adamson was in prior to forming Big Country and making his instrument sound like a bagpipe), the Skids caved in under the aspirations of singer, Richard Jobson (who formed the equally ambitious-if-slightly-darker Armoury Show -- featuring guitarist John McGeoch, later of Magazine, Siouxsie & the Banshees and Public Image Ltd.) who is evidently a television broadcaster these days. Stuart Adamson, meanwhile, sadly took his own life in 2001 after a long battle with alcoholism. No idea what became of the rest of the band.

In any case, you can clearly hear the Skids' influence on those early U2 records (especially on the chiming chug of "I Will Follow"). Never truly orthodox punk themselves (much like U2, despite all their shout-outs to being forged by a love for the Ramones and the Clash), the Skids' predeliction for hoarily heartfelt anthems rife with cinematic guitar fireworks helped set a veritable template for U2, so it seems only just that U2 should repay the band. The end results are surprisingly faithful and punchy in a manner U2 haven't sounded in years (I'm guessing the added youthful jolt supplied by Green Day played a large hand in that). Should you enjoy the single, I heartily endorse picking up the original (the cut-price compilation, Sweet Suburbia - the Best of the Skids, shouldn't be very hard to find). And while "The Saints are Coming" is indeed a rousing little number, I still say it pales in comparison to "Into the Valley" (not least for its earnest, non-ironic chants of "AHOY!" and impenetrable lyrics about being punctured and impailed in battle). Anyway, despite the decision to debut the song at a football game (I guess it makes sense, but I hate the spot-welding of sports and music -- sue me), silly cowboy hats off to U2 and long live the Skids.

The Cult in NYC

So, I saw the Cult last night at Irving Plaza. Under normal circumstances, being that they were one of my fave bands from days of old, I'd post a slavishly detailed blow-by-blow account of the show, but the fact that it happened on a Monday night when I was already exhausted from a full day's work (to say nothing of the fact that the band didn't come onstage until quite late), I'm simply too wiped out with a big ol' headache to muster a proper review.

Suffice it to day, after making us sit through one shitty opening band (the Bangkok Five -- an ensemble so derivative as to make Buckcherry seem like Philip Glass in comparison) and a roundly unsolicited "art film" (please don't ask), the Cult arrived and played an admirably diverse selection of their catalog, going mercifully light on the newer stuff. My only real grievance -- apart from having to witness some unfortunte lady in the crowd do an impromptu interpretive dance during "Fire Woman" -- was with the band's sound. The band were HUGELY louder than anyone needed them to be, and this isn't just because I'm a big wimpy whiner with ear trouble. It was way loud, enough to drive me back to bar (having neglected to bring ear plugs, like a dolt). Still, the band played what I wanted to hear -- "Spiritwalker," "Wild Flower," "The Witch," "Nirvana," "Phoenix," "Love Removal Machine," "Star" and -- wait for it -- "She Sells Sanctuary." Billy Duffy remains the coolest guy in the room -- any room -- and still plays beautifully. Ian was a boisterous chatty cathy, but had me laughing for most of the evening (apart from exhorting that he was "bringing sexy back" during "The Witch"). All in all, a fine time was had by all. Reunion tours are usually a dubious prospect -- let alone second reunion tours (I last saw the band in the late 90's on their first reunion tour at the Roseland Ballroom), but I'd say they pulled this off with dignity largely intact. They were also filming it, so conceivably it'll end up on a DVD you really won't need to go buy.

In any case, in lieu of a proper reivew, I exhumed the below copy from a discussion I started on the ILM boards, zealously extolling my fandom for the band's 1987 album, Electric. A co-worker of mind recently exclaimed that the Cult "were such a mediocre band," a statement that almost prompted fisticuffs. Sure, they're silly -- but god bless'em. Long live the Cult.

Rewind to 1985. I hear "She Sells Sanctuary" for the first time and am immediately hooked. One glance at the video; I see Billy Duffy's spiky quiff and big fuck you Gretsch guitar, and I'm instantly reminded of Geordie of Killing Joke (probably not an accident). Within a week, I own both Love and Dreamtime and soak up as much of the band's music as possible. I later come across Live at the Lyceum (the versions of "Moya" and "Dreamtime" upon which alone make it essential). Astbury's penchant for lamentably hippy-esque claptrap aside, the man's vocal prowess and Billy Duffy's chiming guitars (and I'd like to point out Jamie Stewart's criminally unsung bass playing, especially on the earlier stuff) just gave them such a distinctive sound, making them swift contenders for "second favorite ever band" at the time.

While I loved Dreamtime's neo-psychedelic atmospherics, it's the Love album I really latched onto, and -- let's face it -- it's really all about Billy Duffy's guitar. Deftly balancing jangling chime with a thick crunch that echoes `Pistol Steve Jones (I always thought the intro to "Big Neon Glitter" sounded like an inverted version of "Pretty Vacant"), Billy Duffy was a solo-friendly guitar hero worth respecting (this would, of course, later change). I saw them play at the Beacon Theater on the Upper West Side on the tour for the Love album. While the Goffs came out in force, and while the band dressed like an excess-fueled Viennese motorcycle gang, you could sniff that the pull of "big rawk" wasn't exactly a far cry from them.

Rumors started to circulate about the band going into the studio to re-tool their sound (and Electric-haters should go seek out The Manor Sessions -- probably out of print by now, but available in snippets on the Rare Cult box -- to hear the same songs played in their old style). Next thing you know, Beastie Boys/Slayer producer Rick Rubin comes in, confiscates their crushed velvet ascots and love beads, snaps their Siouxsie LP's in half, dresses them up in denim'n'leather, and force feeds them a steady diet of AC/DC and the less delicate moments of Zeppelin. The Cult transform from trippy baroque gothic fops into power-chord-crazed leather-clad RAWK PIGS.

I was initially incredulous. The sleeve art of the 12" of "Love Removal Machine" didn't give away a lot of clues (but the picture of crushed 'Cult Electric Beer' cans on the back surely signified a departure). Subtlety was no longer the watchword, clearly. Hijacking the riff from the Stones' "Start Me Up," the single blossoms into a very metal dumbo classic. A travesty to the fishnet-stockinged cobweb brigade, "Love Removal Machine" was a big beery belch in the face of the Batcave. Piss off, Peter Murphy, Detroit Rock City here we COME!

It was all a joke, of course. Electric is such a purposefully hoary, ridiculous album that it is IMPOSSIBLE to take seriously, nor was it designed to be. For all it's cathartic riffage (and check your damn pulse if you can't get into the chug of "Wild Flower," brazenly ripped off with unsubtle aplomb from AC/DC's "Rock'n'Roll Singer" ), it is PARODY metal of the sort The Darkness *WISH* they could muster. The band are practically in "character" throughout, polishing up ever ludicrous heavy metal cliche in the book and wearing them like a chest-full of shiny sheriff's badges. Electric -- much like the Prodigy's The Fat of the Land -- achieved so convincing a parody that it became indistinguishable from the definite article to the lay person.

The trouble is, much like Daffy Duck's self-immolating T.N.T. act ("I know, I know, but I can only do it once!"), there was no way back. Instead of scaling back, the Cult's nudge-&-wink was lost and they *became* those hoary rock pigs. Much like Rick Rubin's re-casting of the Beastie Boys from goofball ex-hardcore kids with a beatbox into frat-schmucky beery boys with a penchant for foul-mouthed misogyny and giant hydraulic stage penises (they claim to this day that said incarnation was simply an act), the Cult were now stuck in dumb metal mode. Sonic Temple and its dreadful younger sibling, Ceremony were the sounds of a band whose identity crisis had finally caught up to them. The joke wasn't over....it was now on them. What's worse, some of their peers (notably Balaam & the Angel and Gene Loves Jezebel) followed them into the dumb metal abyss, never to return intact.

Regardless, Electric remains a hugely fun record. So long as you ignore the lyrics ("Aphrodisiac Jacket," especially) and don't take it all so deathly seriously.

ADDENDUM: Incidentally, if you're curious about the show last Monday night, you can download and/or buy a copy of it on disc by clicking right here! I heartily recommend the rendition of "King Contary Man".

Teeth Versus Tongue

As I'm evidently wont to do, I've bitten my tongue again. Only, this time, I did it about a week ago, resulting in a canine-sliced divot just on the underside which has blossomed into a roiling vortex of sanity-wrinkling discomfort seven days later. I can't speak, I can't sleep, I can't eat without bursts of sharp, intense pain shooting through my mouth. At one point over the weekend, my wife dragged me to the pharmacy to investigate ways of treating it (other than my method of trying to complain it away). The matronly woman behind the counter suggested gargling with peroxide, a recommendation which struck me as somewhat unsound. "Madam," I said -- my speech slurred with swollen, crimson excruciation,"iff you fffink I'm going to put va same liquid in my mouf dat Debbie Harry uthed to wegularly dunk her hair in, you're thadly misssthaken." Undaunted, my wife bought a bottle of the stuff anyway, oblivious to my pronounced observation that the bottle clearly bore the legend "NOT TO BE TAKEN INTERNALLY." Hurrumph!

I've successfully resisted the peroxide treatment thus far, opting instead for washing my mouth out regularly with warm salt water (which stings like a bitch) and dabbing a medicated gel called "Kanka," which, given the name, I can only assume is manufactured by Australians.

In any case, until this thing goes away (please, God), my postings here may take a turn for the entirely unhinged. You've been warned.

"There's Always the Buzz-Buzz-Buzz in the Drum of the Ear"

Since Tinnitus is back to being the story of my life these days, I thought this song fit the bill for today.....take it away WIRE!

FRUITION!

Gleeming, marbled burgundy is the NEW BLACK, haterz!

...although, if truth be told, I still think these obnoxiously garish orange ones look pretty freakin' fabulous.

Sad News

Larissa Strickland of the Laughing Hyenas passed away this week. I had the pleasure of seeing this band back at the fabled Troubadour in Los Angeles back in 1995 (playing a high-volume double-bill with Clawhammer) and briefly hung out with them afterwards. They were very cool, very down to earth and very funny people.

You can read label boss, Corey Rusk's heartfelt obituary here, and while you're there, why not pick up the band's ass-whuptastic album, Life of Crime?

Move Along,...Nothing to See Here

Last night, in a fit of exhausted pique after a very busy day, I posted an "open letter to the American people" here, rudely lambasting this slackjawed nation's ridiculous preoccupation with the exploits of Britney and K-Fed while a vital, history-making election was transpiring. Don't bother looking for that post. I took it down this morning, as in hindsight, it felt a bit disengenuous (given that the story in question was part and parcel of why my day was so busy). Moreover, nine tenths of the stuff I write about here is inane crap as well -- albeit of an entirely different variety -- so who am I to go chucking stones? In any event, early results this morning confirm that the Democrats have won control of the House and two seats in the Senate still hang in the balance, so things are lookin' up. That said, I'll leave the political commentary to some of my more eloquent, politically-savvy comrades. When you need another fix of idiotic trivia regarding Sisters of Mercy re-releases or great NYC pizza parlors that have since closed, come on back.

Thank you for voting, and not succumbing to Britney's terrorist plot to distract you from the polls.

"Honestly, I think we should just trust our president in every decision that he makes and we should just support that, you know, and be faithful in what happens" -- Britney Spears

Last Words about 315 Bowery

Please check out my colleague, Chris H's exceptional feature on the final, physical dismantling of CBGB. Good stuff!

ADDENDUM: You may or may not remember this post from a few days ago, in which I mentioned that I'd posted my own thoughts regarding CBGB and the state of the East Village in general on the Job's MySpace page. Being that you have to be a "friend" in order to read the blog entries, a lot of you folks may not have been able to access said piece. Being that I wrote it (and that it ultimately is of no great consequence), I thought I might as well reprise it for you here. That said, why not go befriend our MySpace page? You'll thank me later!

In any case, here `tis...

Thursday, November 02, 2006

CMJ's First Night In Post-CBGB NYC

Since last week's hotly contested closing and full-scale gutting of CBGB, there's been a lot of talk about it being "the end of an era." While the demise of the fabled birthplace of punk on the once-squalid Bowery is indeed a seismic event symbolically, many have been saying that downtown Manhattan -- and specifically the East Village -- has been bereft of cultural relevance for years, and that despite its storied legacy as a thriving hotbed of bohemia, it's simply become just another gentrified pocket of a New York City that is gradually eating itself. The hipsters have all de-camped to Brooklyn (and some even suggest that that frontier is starting to lose its cred).

Regardless, last night was the first night of the CMJ Music Marathon, an annual event wherein New York City is besieged upon by legions of up-and-coming bands trying to grab the brass ring -- bands like U2 and R.E.M. played at the CMJ fest back in the day. Doors on the city's rock clubs swing wide to accommodate hordes of badge-wielding music journalists and industry folk who race through the city's many tributaries to stand around in dark and cramped spaces, craning their necks to catch a fleeting glimpse of a hot new artist while droves of chatty industry mooks stand around schmoozing and drinking entirely-too-expensive beer.

A handful of the my colleagues hit the streets to soak up the first night of the fest. No exception, I set out to catch a performance by one of our colleagues, Benjamin Wagner..(executive producer by day, singer/songwriter by night). Since Ben was playing at a venue over in the former badlands of Avenue C, my trek to the show involved a veritable tour of the East Village's rock and roll ghost town.

There's the Continental on my right, which recently stopped hosting live rock shows and now just serves drinks. Hey, there's 15 St. Mark's Place, the former spot of Jesse Malin's punk rock funhouse, Coney Island High, which Rudolph Giuliani closed over "quality of life" issues prior to his 9/11 makeover as "America's Mayor." A little further down the block is the former site of the Electric Circus, where the Velvet Underground once performed as part of Andy Warhol's Exploding Plastic Inevitable. In less-celebrated times, it also served as the location for Billy Joel's video for "A Matter of Trust."

These streets may be cleaner and decidedly less meaner, but they're still the same strips upon which countless bands cut their teeth. And not just the Ramones, Patti Smith, Blondie, Television and Talking Heads. Bands like the New York Dolls, the Dictators, Mink DeVille, the Dead Boys, the Heartbreakers, the Voidoids, the Plasmatics, Suicide, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, Mars, DNA, James Chance & the Contortions, Glenn Branca, Klaus Nomi, Phoebe LeGere, Sonic Youth, Swans, Rat at Rat R, Pussy Galore, the Black Snakes, Bad Brains, Beastie Boys, Heart Attack, Kraut, the Mob, the Stimulators, the Undead, the Toasters, Agnostic Front, Murphy's Law, Cro-Mags, Leeway, Crumbsuckers, Token Entry, Letch Patrol, Iron Prostate, Furious George, False Prophets, Cop Shoot Cop, Helmet, Prong, Motherhead Bug, the Unsane, Surgery, the Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, D Generation, the Niagras, King Missile, Bongwater, God Is My Co-Pilot, Congo Norvell, Elysian Fields, Firewater, Botanica, Balkan Beat Box, Big Lazy, Gogol Bordello, the Strokes, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs all started here. There are countless reasons for the reverence.

Walking further east, there's the former spot of the St. Mark's Bar & Grill, where the Stones shot the video for "Waiting on a Friend." Even further down the strip on my right is the Physical Graffiti tenement, the building pictured on the sleeve of the Zeppelin album of the same name. Approaching Avenue A, here's the former spot of Sin-e, a cozy hole in the wall where Jeff Buckley used to perform. These and countless other spots are long gone from the block, replaced by incongruously tony boutiques and eateries.

On Avenue A, I stop in for a quick slice of pizza at Sal's, adjacent to what used to be A7, the former epicenter of NYC hardcore where the Bad Brains held court. On the corner is Jesse Malin's bar, Niagra, which now boasts a memorial mural of the late Clash frontman, Joe Strummer. Joe's stoic face stares out across Tompkins Square Park, the former stomping grounds of anarchic, industrial noise collective, Missing Foundation (whose signature upside-down cocktail glass graffiti was once scrawled ubiquitously on these very streets), Even further down East 7th street -- one of the same, formerly-decrepit byways Jean-Michel Basquiat used to haunt, tagging his cryptic "Samo" inscriptions, lies my destination, the Alphabet Lounge.

A low-ceilinged venue with a humble stage in the back and a woefully inattentive bartender, the Alphabet Lounge acts as a perfect showcase for Benjamin's brand of heartfelt acoustic rock (although, the venue's surprisingly beefy sound system made the Iron Maiden show I saw at Nassau Coliseum a couple of weeks back seem shamefully polite). I arrive just as Ben's show is kicking off. Despite the intimacy of the venue and the arguably chilly atmosphere of it being an "industry show," Benjamin, flanked by a three piece band, played his heart out to a wholly receptive crowd, even throwing in a couple of cover tunes by Oasis and Matthew Sweet (a singer/songwriter equally reverent of New York's musical legacy, having drafted former Television guitarist Richard Lloyd and former Voidoids guitarist Ivan Julian to assist him on previous records).

Today's downtown music scene may be a thousand light years, culturally speaking, from the backwater wasteland where Tom Verlaine and Richard Hell of Television found their first lucky break when they wandered into an already decaying CBGB in the mid-'70s, but as long as artists like Benjamin Wagner can still find a stage, a microphone, a working PA and a responsive crowd, live music still thrives in downtown Manhattan

Currently in Rotation - October/November `06

As I suggested in my previous post, I've been sort've busy as all get-out these days, a fact which largely renders these Currently in Rotation posts a bit moot. For example, I have a couple of brand spankin' new DVD's sitting here on my desk, notably Bad Brains Live at CBGB 1982 and Kissology: The Ultimate Kiss Collection Vol. 1 1974-1977. They're both very pretty, and very cool and I'm sure I'd thrill to the contents of each -- but I'll be damned if I know when I'll ever get to watch either of them. Honestly speaking, my days are spent at work, and then I race home, help Peg feed and bathe the kids and then put them to bed. Then Peg and I eat, and by the time we're done with dinner, we're usually too zonked to concentrate on anything on our television screen. Moreover, subjecting my wife to hours of either the Bad Brains or vintage Kiss might very well fall under her definition of "cruel and unusual punnishment." So, ideally, she'll go out with the girls sometime soon (maybe in the next few months), and I'll stay home and babysit, and watch these DVDs with the sound turned way low so as not to wake up the kids. There's something vaguely pointless -- if not sacreligious -- about waching a live Bad Brains show or a full-scale, pyrotechnical Kiss spectacle with the sound turned low, but it's probably the only choice open to me. Otherwise, I should just go return them.

Likewise, I just went out for a neighborhood stroll by m'self, with the intention of buying a new pair of sneakers. While I didn't manage to accomplish that task, I did stop into my favorite bookstore, Shakespeare & Co. on Broadway. More often than not, this place boasts at least three or four titles that I didn't even know existed which I'd love to voraciously read. Thing is, I'm already three books behind. I just don't have the time and energy these days. With Oliver still sleeping in our room, it's fairly impossible to sneak in a couple of pages before we crash without waking him up. Similarly, weekends sprint by with only fleeting opportunities of quiet time (in those increasingly rare moments when both children are napping). In any case, I honestly cannot justify spending any more money on books until I find the time to finish the ones already gathering dust on my side-table. Otherwise, the only books I'm reading these days are "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish" by the Dr. Seuss and "The Tale of Peter Rabbit" by Beatrix Potter. Often. And out loud. Hell, by this point, I could probably recite both of'em to ya. Verbatim. And lately, I've taken to reading them both in the voice of Sean Connery just to keep myself amused.

That all said, I have managed to soak in some stufff, so herewith a quick rundown.

MUSIC: It took me a great, long while, but I finally managed to pick up a copy of Beyond Light by Transmission. Far from a household name, Transmission is a supergroup-of-sorts, consisting of Paul Ferguson, Martin Glover and Simon Tong (and some other no-name gent). For those of you who haven't already connected the dots, Glover and Ferguson also go by the names of Youth and Big Paul Feguson, a.k.a. the original rhythm section of Killing Joke. Transmission marks their first collaboration since Big Paul briefly played with Youth's post-`Joke band, Brilliant back in the mid-80's. Filling out the ranks is guitarist Simon Tong, ex of the Verve and currently serving in another new supergroup, The Good, The Bad & the Queen (featuring Damon Albarn of Blur/Gorillaz and Paul Simonon, ex of the mo'fuckin' CLASH, for cryin' out loud!)

In any case, despite what the layperson might think, Transmission don't sound even slightly like Killing Joke. More along the lines of the ambient trance music Youth has been dabbling in with Dragonfly Records and Liquid Sound Design in the 90's, Transmission make instrumental "soundscapes" rather than pop/rock songs. The only factors that honestly prevent Transmission from wandering into the perilous realm of "New Age" (pronounced like sewage) is Big Paul Ferguson's live drums and Tong's guitar. Sounding a bit like a beefier version of Disintegration-era Cure, Beyond Light is steeped in moody, sprawlingly cinematic pieces that come across as surprisingly melodic and even melancholy. There's also a degree of subtlety here that was largely lost on the last Killing Joke album. As a die-hard fan of that band, I can't help wondering what Transmission would've sounded like with the `Joke's Geordie Walker on guitar detail instead of Tong. We'll never know, of course.

Regadless, I didn't expect Beyond Light to be anywhere near as compelling as it's turned out to be. I strongly recommend it. You can pick up your own copy here.

TEXT: As I lamented above, I haven't really been able to sit down with any books for a great amount to time, lately. That all said, I did recently pick up "Fanatic" by Henry Rollins. The book is basically one long playlist of songs Henry played on his short lived radio program on Indie 103.1, "Hamony in My Head." I never got a chance to hear the show in question, but it doesn't matter. Reading Henry's strenuously earnest and detailed takes on countless tracks (most are pretty obscure punk singles, but there are several "who'da thunk he'd like that" selections) made for pretty entertaining reading (and yes, there's even a Killing Joke track cited). Even if you think he's completely out to lunch, there's some interesting stuff here for fans of relatively esoteric music.

WEBSITE: I'm sure the person who designed this website takes it very seriously, but I cannot help but laugh. Please avail yourself to Ace Equals God!, the Website!

OLD TIMEY VIDEO CLIP OF THE MONTH: Evidently, YouTube have started to tow the line in terms of copywright law ever since they were subsumed by Google, so I should probably roll this shit out now while I can. A lot of my favorite clips have already vanished. So, before this too goes the way of all flesh, I give you a song by a band I've been inexpicably listening lots of lately, New Model Army. I first heard this song when I was a sophomore in college, around the same time I was developing a healthy skepticism about our nation's foreign policy. I used to play this track with irritating constancy, much to the pronounced chagrin of my then-roommate, Dave -- who very justifiably gave me a great deal of grief about it. New Model Army are still around, by the way, although all that long hair is gone, and drummer Rob Heaton has since passed away. In any case, get your groove on to "51st State"!

Blogstipation!

Ahoy, gang!

No, I haven't fogotten about you. I'm just in a crazy-busy period at the moment. The Job has been especially demanding lately (we've just undergone a rather radical re-design of the website, and are still trying to acquaint ourselves with the changes), and Charlotte & Oliver are as demanding as ever (Charlotte especially, as she's recently taken to not napping, which sort've take a gigantic dump on the rest of the day, as she gets all cranky and whiney....much like her father). In any case, I have a number of items on the burner that I'm chomping at the bit to post here. They're on the way, I promise.

Charlotte, looking forlorn on Halloween, post-non-nap