Flaming Pablum

"Amateur Night"

....that's what my friends and I (and probably you and your friends too) used to call New Year's Eve, the one night a year when everyone's suddenly convinced that they have the liver capacity, social stamina and overall moxie to sustain themselves through a marathon of alcohol-fueled revelry (yeah, as if we were such booze-hardened party warriors). Still, back in the late 80's and throughout much of the 90's, my capacity for excess and after-hours gallivanting was respectably sizable (or certainly tripled what it is now). Still, New Year's Eve was a night when going out meant dealing with a nation of out-of-towner idiots clogging up every conceivable option. If you didn't have a specific plan (i.e. a house party somewhere or a series thereof), you were invariably going to be more irritated than inebriated -- which was, of course, unacceptable.

When I was in college, the rules were a bit simpler -- go wherever you can and drink as much as you can. And if the sun rose the next morning and you were still out on the tiles, that was a palpable victory -- you had beaten New Year's Eve, a dubious win that demanded yet another round before retiring or falling down wherever you were until-then attempting to stand.

I remember the New Year's Eve between `88 and `89, prior to my graduation from Denison University. Flanked by a squad of equally clueless and youthfully ambitious classmates, we hit Manhattan like a hammer, losing some teammates along the way and gaining others, crashing parties based solely on overheard discussions from the first party we'd shown up at (itself one we hadn't been invited to). The latter part of that evening (or early morning, I should say) involved incidents of drunken ribaldry, being thrown out of cabs (prior to arriving at the stated destination), challenging unsuspecting doormen to unsolilcited bouts of Greco-Roman wrestling, breaking and entering and possibly an unorthodox usage of duct tape. But, y'know...we were young, impetuous and invariably stupid....and it was the 80's.

Since then, New Year's Eve has gradually scaled down. When I was single, I'd hook up with a few friends and hit a party or maybe two (the picture above is from New Year's Eve `95/`96...taken at some loft party off Astor Place). Once Peg and I got married in `01, we basically set up a routine with some friends who'd host a party each year (the picture below is from New Year's Eve `01/`02). Once we had a child, that was pretty much that (as finding a baby-sitter for New Year's Eve is about as simple as finding a great bagel shop in Tehran).

I should point out that NEVER in all my years as a native New Yorker have I EVER attended -- much less harbored a desire to attend -- a New Year's Eve in Times Square. These days, it's bad enough I have to work right in the crotch of it.

In any case, it's New Year's Eve right now. Peg popped out with Charlotte to those same friends (who also now have two little kids). I stayed home with Oliver. It's now about quarter after 8 p.m., and we're looking at dinner, drinks and some bad television, and that's about it -- which is perfectly fine with us. I'd be lying if I said we didn't miss the wanton nights out on the town -- and maybe they'll return some day -- but for now, we're happy to spend Amateur Night on the couch. No duct tape necessary.

That Was The Week That Was

It's the penultimate day of 2006. Being that Peg and I decided to stay put for this year's holiday season (as opposed to flying to Texas as we have in years past), I'd volunteered to man the ship at The Job during what is widely regarded to be the "slowest week of the year" between Christmas and New Year's. Back at my previous job at TIME, we usually had this particular week off (or "dark" as we called it). This wasn't the scenario at my new job (though lots of folks took vacation days anyway), nor evidently was it back over at TIME. In any case, even though the news team was reduced to somewhat of a skeleton crew, I was relatively sure that we could handle any unexpected curve balls that might be pitched our way.

Well, lemme tell ya, it was quite a week. Between the unexpected deaths of James Brown (and his accompanying memorial service at the Apollo Theater...and then his actual burial in Augusta, GA today) and President Gerald Ford and the execution of Saddam Hussein, we had ourselves quite a busy little week. But, we sailed through it and got the job done with aplomb, even with a fraction of our normal staff on hand. I was very proud to be a member of the the Job's team this week.

I've also been updating Flaming Pablum throughout these last few days, largely oblivious to the fact that, much like the website I work for, nine-tenths of the regular readers were away. With this mind, for those of you who may have been off skiing in the French Alps or scuba diving in the Cayman Islands or bass fishing in Abu Dhabi or spelunking in Alexandria, Egypt or doing whatever it was whereever your holidays took you, herewith a brief rundown of items from this past week that you might have missed or are too lazy to scroll down for...

1. My December installment of Currently in Rotation
2. My Top 5 Reasons for not doing a Year End Top 10 List
3. My stab at the Motion Picture Soundtrack survey
4. A trio of my favorite Christmas tunes
5. My Christmas rundown
6. My ruminations on the death of James Brown
7. The Curse of the Death T-shirt
8. Some thoughts regarding the late, great Pussy Galore
9. My incredulous rage at the misappropriation of a Spinal Tap song
10. Ruminations on the entirely unlikely possiblity of Killing Joke appearing on SNL or on the cover of Rolling Stone

There, that should bring your more or less up to date.

2006, meanwhile, ends tomorrow. Personally speaking, it was a massive year for me, largely based on the one-two punch of the birth of my son, Oliver, back in March and the start of my new job back in January. It was a year of intense change, new friends, new challenges and a lot less sleep. I'm looking forward to what lays ahead in 2007. So, until then...Happy New Year!

Picking the Poison

Fellow bloggityblogger and Firewatercircus member, mCr Rollie,  recently asked….

Is it better to perform on present day Saturday Night Live  or to appear on the cover of present day Rolling Stone?  Killing Joke would be the band in question.

Pardon me while I snort incredulously at the mere notion of either actually occurring. For a start, Killing Joke seem to be in "rest mode" at the moment (or so it's been suggested). Jaz Coleman, according to reports, was forced to cancel several tour dates due to some "health issues." Raven, meanwhile, decamped a while back to tour with Ministry and is currently working with a new band called Snow Black. Knowing him, he also has several other irons in the fire. I haven't the slightest clue what drummer Ben Calvert is up to, much less if he is even still in the ranks. I'd heard some rumors about Geordie's doings, but they're just that….rumors. After the somewhat lukewarm reception, botched promotion and purpotred intra-band acrimony stemming from Killing Joke's latest studio album earlier this year, we may be entering a fallow period of band activity. Adding insult to injury, there still hasn't been any further progress or word regarding the release of Gems of Power (a sprawling spoken-word boxed set project by Jaz and Raven) nor the next batch of promised re-mastered editions (specifically Fire Dances, Night Time and Brighter Than A Thousand Suns). Much like the hunt for Bin Laden, sadly the trail has gone cold. Killing Joke alumni Youth and Big Paul, meanwhile, were working together in Transmission, and there was talk of some live dates, but I'm not sure if they've come to any fruition as yet -- and they'll be in the U.K. anyway, which means I'm not going.

All's not entirely lost, however. News came down a couple of weeks back of Inside Extremities, a double-CD featuring a compete live set from the Extremities-era (with Martin Atkins on drums), appended with a second disc of rare mixes and a couple of "new tracks." While it's being pitched as "a fan's dream come true," that might be a bit of an overstatement. Still, I'll heartily welcome any new product bearing the name Killing Joke on it (even if it features an umpteenth live recording of "Wardance"). We'll see. It's something to look forward to, at least

But to answer Rollie's initial question -- which is preferrable (or possibly less cringe-worthy), performing on present-day SNL or gracing the cover of Rolling Stone, I think I'd have to opt for SNL. Sure, the show hasn't mattered in decades (depending on who you ask), but the exposure for the musical guests has remained fairly high profile. I don't make a habit of watching it too often anymore, but the last time I did, the Arctic Monkeys were on, and they kinda kicked a bit of ass, I'd say. Also, not to invoke SNL's once storied legacy, but bands that have played on SNL include: Devo, Gary Numan, FEAR, the Specials, Mink DeVille, the Fixx, Spinal Tap, the Cult, the Replacements, Joe Jackson, the Sugarcubes, the Smithereens, Fishbone, the Rollins Band, Portishead, Queens of the Stone Age, Franz Ferdinand, We Are Scientists, the Shins and TV on the Radio. To my knowledge, none of those respectable artists have ever appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone. I mean, SNL has showcased a healthy share of musical shit as well, but it seems they're more willing to take chances than Rolling Stone will ever be.

I also can't imagine under what circumstances Jann Wenner would ever concede to let the `Joke grace the age-old rag's cover. He's black-balled Kiss from its pages all these years. I can't imagine he'd regard Killing Joke with any greater sympathy.

In any case, hold not thy breath waiting for either. As dysfunctional as they irrefutably are, the gents in Killing Joke have better things to do with their time.

The Fine Line Between Clever and Stupid

Taking Rollie's problems with that Slash/Volkswagon commercial a step further, I can't quite pinpoint why this American Express Business Card advertisement featuring "Gimme Some Money" by the Thamesman (a.k.a. Spinal Tap) offends me so much, but it really freakin' does. Maybe because [a] I love and cherish all things regarding "This Is Spinal Tap" and hate to see it used to pimp freakin' credit cards or [b] the fact that the song is seemingly being utilized entirely without any semblance of irony or perhaps [c] the fact that they chose a somewhat less celebrated song from the film (as opposed to, say, "Big Bottom," "Sex Farm," "Hell Hole" or "Listen to the Flower People"). This last point I find especially puzzling, being that since they picked a track primarily beloved by pinheaded fanboys like myself, surely they must have known how much it would upset we pinheaded fanboys. Maybe they're doing it just to fuck with us. Or maybe I just need to get a life and stop worrying about stupid shit like this.

In any event, it sucks.  So screw you, Amex!

"Sweet Little Hi-Fi" by Pussy Galore

TITLE: "Sweet Little Hi-Fi"
ARTIST: Pussy Galore
ALBUM: Sugarshit Sharp
RELEASE DATE: 1988

A couple of nights back, I was in Union Square Park with my wife and kids, running around this funky Christmas light installation. It sounds hokey, but it was actually pretty fun and impressive, and my little girl absolutely loved it. In any case, while she was giggling her head off and hopping about it in, she narrowly avoided crashing into a little boy who was doing the same thing. That little boy's father, a slim man with striking black hair and a piercing stare, stepped forward and asked his son to apologize to Charlotte (which, I thought, was jolly nice of him, being that no harm was done). I looked up to acknowledge the dude and tell him not to worry about it, and who should it be but Jon Spencer.

Although looking respectably domesticated and a little older, there was no mistaking him. I told him I was a big fan and he smiled. After a moment, he and his son turned to leave, but not before he turned to offer me a "Merry Christmas." That's right, the man who wrote such chestnuts as "Kill Yourself," "Don't Give a Fuck About You" and "Adolescent Wet Dream" wished me a Merry Christmas. My night was made.

On the walk home, I explained to my wife just who Jon Spencer is, noting that while yes -- he fronts the currently somewhat-adrift Blues Explosion (who might've been in a Gap ad at one point, I can't remember and stopped caring some time after 1998's Acme), he was once the louche, foul-mouthed, leather-clad lothario (and Brown University dropout) that fronted the fearsome shlock-punk garbage-can noise ensemble, Pussy Galore. Though originally hailing from Washington D.C., Pussy Galore relocated to NYC in the late-80's and haunted the same squalid rock underground that birthed Sonic Youth, Swans, Rat At Rat R and ultimately my second all-time faves, Cop Shoot Cop (legend has it that Spencer and Tod [A] from C$C once played together in a band called Shithaus and that Cop met their second bassist, ex-Virus/Undead/Blacksnakes bassist, Nasty Jack Natz, sleeping on the floor of Pussy Galore's waterbug-infested rehearsal space in Alphabet City -- a factoid which remains dubious if only because to hear them play, you'd never believe Pussy Galore spent any actual time rehearsing). Pussy Galore were messy, punky, rude, loud and genuinely unlikable much of the time. Pairing the arty dissonance of Sonic Youth with the cartoony irreverence of their idealized Rolling Stones (PG were infamous for their track-by-track cover of the Stones' beloved outlaw opus, Exile on Main Street which is nigh on unlistenable in many parts), Pussy Galore sounded legimately dangerous. There's a famous quote by Lemmy Kilmister about his seminal band, Motorhead, to the effect that if they moved into the house next door to yours, your lawn would die. Working that same analogy, if Pussy Galore moved into the house next door to yours, they'd vomit on your driveway, crap in your garden and rape your dog.

It was all a bit of a pose, of course. Pussy Galore assumed a certain character and played that character to the hilt. To find out that they weren't as slavishly depraved and badassed as they sounded was a bit of a letdown, but everyone has to grow up some time. I first found out about them around 1989, when I was working for a tiny music magazine. A copy of the gloriously titled Dial 'M' For Motherfucker showed up one day and swiftly became an office favorite. Based on that rudely clamorous record, I sought out the band's earlier discs, only to find them ten times as insane-sounding. I used to routinely sneak the hilariously hostile and profane "Spin Out" (from Corpse Love: The First Year) onto mixtapes for friends, incongruously squeezed between comparatively tame, well-crafted compositions by resepctable artists. Their finest moment on record, however, for me remains "Sweet Little Hi-Fi" from their 1988 e.p., Sugarshit Sharp.

Clocking in around three minutes, "Sweet Little Hi-Fi" is a rollicking, barely-on--the-rails runaway train, loosely anchored by that "eternal one riff." With ex-Sonic Youth vet, Bob Bert smackin' the shit out of pots, pans and sheet-metal (a D.I.Y. blend of percussion also utilized by Neubauten, Swans, Cop Shoot Cop, Missing Foundation and later Skeleton Key) and Spencer, Julia Cafritz and Neil Haggerty brutishly mishandling their guitars (Pussy Galore never featured a bass player), "Sweet Little Hi-Fi" is wonderous in its moronic simplicity. The track reaches its rabid, slackjawed zenith at exactly 1:17 into the proceedings when the riff is slightly modified and buffered by a third barking guitar. It cranks, stutters, jerks, staggers sprints, pukes and then all of a sudden, it's over. I can never hear it once, I have to play it three or four times at least.

Jon Spencer went onto record several great records with both the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and his lovely wife's band, Boss Hog. Neil Haggerty went onto form Royal Trux. Bob Bert, I believe, formed a band called Bewitched, but I'm not sure what he's been up to since, nor do I know the current whereabouts or doings of vindictively potty-mouthed Julia Cafritz. The New York City of Pussy Galore's era is long gone. The clubs they played have closed.  Most of the bands they played with have broken up. The `zines that wrote about them are out of print. The bars they drank in have shuttered and the record stores that sold their vinyl are all but a memory. But with one spin of "Sweet Little Hi-Fi," the stench of sweaty, sweary rock savagery returns. That stench is the smell of Pussy Galore. Wallow in it.

TRIVIAL FOOTNOTE: I owned the fabled "from the hate fuck capital of the world" t-shirt for a while -- procured from now sadly defunkt Rocks In Your Head in Soho, but I was always too much of a ….well….pussy to wear it, and ended up giving it to my nextdoor neighbor.

mog.com

More about this song

Share

The Curse of the Death T-shirt

Okay, not that I'm supersticious or anything, but the first time I wore this shirt, James Brown died. The second time I wore this shirt (today), Gerald Ford died. I'm just sayin'......

Say It Loud

I should preface this post by saying that I have never owned a James Brown album. Apart from a few select tracks on a couple of compilations I own, my music collection does not nominally acknowlege The Godfather of Soul's recorded output in the slightest (although his influence is rampant throughout). While I like a lot of his stuff, I was never someone you'd call a James Brown fan. That said, I still know what a genuine innovator he was.

It's true that whenever a musician -- or any public figure, really -- dies, the horseshit cannons start firing uncontrollably.  Flowery, revisionist hyperbole becomes the order of the day. In this particular case, though, it's all true. James Brown may have been a legitimately crazy, drug-imbibing ex-felon with a series of dubious blights to his record (there was a hilarious article in SPIN in 1988 detailing one of James' more fabled bouts with the law -- also encapsulated in song in "Not Now James" by Pop Will Eat Itself and "Free James Brown [So He Can Run Me Down]" by Foetus), but his contributions to contemporary music simply cannot be overstated. The veritable blueprint for countless acts to follow, James Brown was an innovator, perfectionist and consummate performer. The man didn't earn the title, "Hardest Working Man in Show Business" for nothing. Simply put, without James Brown, funk would not have existed. Without James Brown, there would be no Hip Hop. But it doesn't end there. James Brown practically invented stage presence. Mick Jagger, Prince, Iggy Pop, David Bowie, Sly Stone, Michael Jackson, Robert Plant, David Lee Roth, Johnny Rotten, Joe Strummer -- none of these names can top -- let alone touch -- what James Brown was capable of.  He was as crucial a performer as can be named. Full fucking stop.

On some of the music discussion boards and mailing lists I'm a member of, there have been some depressingly myopic and dismissive comments made about the man's passing that I just find depressing. Judging James Brown by his fleeting cameos in "The Blues Brothers" or "Rocky IV" or from his numerous run-ins with Johnny Law is like judging Orson Welles' career solely via his frozen food commercials. I may have figuratively shook my fist at his name yesterday when news broke of his dying (the nerve of him…dying on Christmas like that!), but James Brown was a damn genius.

Knowing I was going to have to further wrestle with the developing story today at The Job, I selected the lone James Brown track on my iPod during my walk to work this morning, specifically a vibrant live recording of "Sex Machine" (taped at Studio 54 sometime in the 70's). While James was arguably already into his decline at the point of this recording, the performance is still a hyperkinetic workout that indescribably pulses and struts and stops on a dime. As Chuck D of Public Enemy said, may James' funky soul rest in peace.

A Christmas Without Funk

A Christmas gift from my sister, the shirt I'm wearing in the picture to the left bears the legend (in a bolded baroque font), "Manure Occureth." Said garment was bestowed upon me last night on Christmas Eve, when we packed up the kiddie-kids and bagfuls of prezzies for my extended family and drove out to Rye, where my sister lives with her husband and two sons. Gifts were exchanged, drinks were drunk, meals were consumed, jokes were made and laughs were shared, all in the familial glow of holiday warmth and good cheer. Apart from some eschewed naps and the odd tiny tantrum from the littlest representatives of the flock, the evening was a lovely, smashing success.

The rest of the night? Ehhh....not so much. The inevitable toll of holiday excitement, the absence of sincere nap-time for Charlotte and Oliver (the latter having briefly sacked out on my shoulder for a half-hour at one point during the proceedings) made for a somewhat unrestful evening. If Santa Claus had attempted an overnight visit, he'd have surely been sent scrambling back towards our non-existent hearth for a hasty retreat at the sound of little Oliver's gnashing and wailing. We were up around the clock, trying to coax our robustly energized little boy back to sleep, or least to a state of relaxation wherein he no longer felt it necessary to release a high pitched squeal that could shatter a wine glass.

When Christmas morning arrived, the wife and I were suitably zombified. Charlotte, meanwhile, immediately started to seek out one of the gifts she received the night before -- specifically a noxious stuffed Barney which sings. You may recall both my thoughts regarding Barney and my feelings about toys that make noise, but if you don't, suffice it to say that I'm not an especially big fan of either. Couple them into a single object, meanwhile, and you've pretty much consolidated everything I find evil, insipid and utterly worthy of contempt in all the world. That object now lives in our house (although my wife heroically hid the offending purple effigy in her hall closet until we can figure out a way to deal with it without damaging our sanity). Charlotte simply wasn't buying it, and summarily mounted a unrelenting whine attack. We attempted to placate her with other equally vile toys (notably the Elmo T.M.X. from my sister that breaks down in fits of convusing laughter -- or is it hysterial grief? I haven't decided which), but Charlotte doesn't seem quite what to make of that as yet. Christmas was swiftly becoming overwhelming for her, so we decided to put off further presents until after breakfast (itself a high volume affair).

       As I sat in our kitchen beside my kids (each sounding off and banging whatever utensil they could get their little mitts on against the nearest table and/or wall), resplendent in my new novelty t-shirt and bedraggled bed-head -- attempting to drown my headache in coffee -- my wife turned on the radio. The maxim of my shirt being morbidly prescient, the news immediately came barking through (courtesy of NPR) that James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, had passed away during the night. I sprang to my computer.

A little over a hour later, after frenzied talks with my boss, a producer, a senior editor and a writer, we managed to speedily land the plane and put up an admirably exhaustive article on the passing of the preeminent architect of funk and former hardest-working man in showbiz. We left immediately thereafter, repaired with our kids to French Roast on 6th Avenue for a leisurely brunch (or as leaisurely as you're going to get when you have two little kids in tow) involving a couple of Bloody Marys for Peg and a couple of beers for m'self.

So yes, manure does indeed occur -- especially when you're least prepared for it -- but Merry Christmas Anyway!

Fave Christmas Tunes Pt.3

Vince Guaraldi OWNS Christmas!

Fave Christmas Tunes Pt.2