Flaming Pablum

"BACK TO THE FRONT!"

Back in April of last year, Metallica released their eleventh studio album, 72 Seasons. Not only did I not buy it (or even stream it), but I have no recollection of ever even hearing the first single (the ridiculously titled “Lux Æterna”). If I’m being honest, I cannot say I’ve given a great deal of thought about Metallica since the release of… gosh, I don’t know … maybe 1997’s Reload. I think I just concluded, at some point, that I’d amassed all the Metallica records that I’d ever need. In retrospect, I have no regrets about that, as what material of theirs they released in the wake of Reload that I did hear failed to really impress me.

Suffice to say, this was not always the case. As I’ve laboriously alluded to several times on this blog over the years (most floridly here, I guess), I bought Ride the Lightning, the band’s second album, as a high school senior in 1984 based solely on the fact that on the back cover, guitarist Kirk Hammett was depicted sporting a Discharge t-shirt. I had not heard a single note off of it. But I figured that if these guys liked the bands on their t-shirts like Discharge, GBH and the Misfits (all big faves of mine), they must be on to something. Happily, I wasn’t wrong.

Pairing the adrenalized sprint of the hardcore punk bands extolled on their t-shirts with the signature heft of proper heavy metal (considerably weightier than most of the NWOBHM … look it up … bands of the time), Metallica – during that era – was this legitimately groundbreaking terror squad of iconoclasts, giddily upending trendy convention in pursuit of their finely distilled amalgam that was credibly re-defining the genre (alongside bands like Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth, but also droves of other, lesser-celebrated outfits, to say nothing of forebears like Motorhead and Venom). Metallica’s particular variant of the form, however, was especially realized and arguably the most impactful, compared to all their contemporaries (I’m sure Slayer fans will beg to vociferously differ). It’s really no accident that they rose to prominence faster than many of their peers.

Even their big breakout album in 1991 – the eponymous, Spinal Tap-alluding “Black Album” – was still excellent, even if it largely eschewed the roaring locomotive pace of their previous work. It suddenly made them household names, and there was simply no going back.

After that, however, to my mind, they got a bit lost. While many were shocked by their “new direction” with 1996’s Load (please, people… haircuts don’t matter), I was encouraged by their impetus to branch out, and I still like quite a few songs on that record. By Reload a year later, though, it seemed like everything that had initially drawn me to the band had been largely jettisoned. They were also reaching a level of fame and media saturation that continued to irrevocably housebreak their earlier mystique. In a nutshell, they were becoming as pop-culturally ubiquitous and gimmick-friendly as, say, U2. This was never what I needed from them. As such, I stopped dutifully picking up their albums (in much the same way I’d basically abandoned U2, after years of similarly following them).

Here in 2024, Metallica is still a going concern (as, for that matter, is U2), but the band seems as far removed from the cutting edge as can be imagined. Not only are they basically a lumbering dinosaur, but “rock itself” – in the minds of those who give a fuck about the zeitgeist – has been relegated to the back burner. Despite their arguable irrelevance, they’ll allegedly be playing around here in August of 2024, but I already saw them in 1988, 1992 and 1997. I wish them well, but it’s highly unlikely that I’ll be attending.

So, why am I bothering to discuss them here and now?

Well, as alluded in the post from the other day, 2024 is revealing itself to be one mean son of a bitch. My mother and her boyfriend of forty-someodd years, Jimbo, were about to begin their yearly migration down to a rented cottage in Florida. Jim has COPD, y’see, which makes breathing especially difficult in the cold weather … as if being 89 wasn't difficult enough, already. They normally spend most of their time out at my mom’s house in Quogue (on Long Island). They were both ready to make the trip – first from Quogue to New York, where Jimbo has a small apartment, and then down to Florida – when Jim suddenly contracted bacterial pneumonia. When he seemed well enough to travel, they made the trip into the city. Somehow, along the way, both my mother and already-sickly Jimbo contracted COVID. So, all of sudden, both of them are incredibly sick and sequestered in Jim’s tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. As such, I was suddenly recruited to aid and abet their survival and hopeful recovery, a mission which found me literally darting around Manhattan to secure them groceries, medical supplies, and prescriptions to – ideally -- safely deliver them through this fraught sickly period. I’ve been doing so pretty much since last Friday afternoon.

For a reason I can no longer recall, during one particularly testy sortie wherein I was trying to prize a pair of compact humidifiers for them, I dialed up the entirety of Master of Puppets -- inarguably Metallica’s finest hour – to score my attack, the breakneck stride of songs like “Battery,” “Damage Inc,” the sprawling title track and the furious thrash of the track below providing the frenetic soundtrack to my ducking and weaving through the sluggish human cattle of the Upper West Side whilst executing my provision-procuring duties. I found the bleakly bracing “Disposable Heroes” to be an especially galvanizing force to propel me through the stressful tasks of the day. From there, I moved onto a live rendition of “Creeping Death” from Live Shit: Binge & Purge which may have pushed me a little over the edge, being that I couldn’t stop myself from zealously chanting, through gritted teeth, DIE… DIE… DIE… DIE.., much to my fellow pedestrians’ pronounced alarm, during that morbid anthem’s stomping middle-eight.

If you need some sonic inspiration during your next stressy chore, you could always do worse than classic Metallica. Thank me later.

CODA: Mom and Jimbo aren't out of the woods just yet (and not yet in Florida), but are, so far, feeling a little bit better. 

 

How It's Going

Vinyl Summers

It’s been said that, should you be of a certain sensibility, a friend that routinely introduces you to new music is one of the best friends you can have. I’ve been very lucky to have a few of those types of friends, over the years. While this post is ostensibly about punk rock records, it’s really more those friends. 

As mentioned back on this recent post, my grade-school classmate Brad — who was basically a bigger, (way) more athletic and (way, way) more popular kid than myself — first bonded over our mutual love of music. At first, it was KISS, which was a very common, bonding element in the late `70s. As mentioned in this post, then as now, you either loved KISS or you loathed them vehemently, and Brad and I — despite being polar opposites in practically every other capacity — both entirely loved them. Our respective mothers were great friends, so we would be regularly thrown into social situations, early on -- an awkward pairing of beefy soccer star with scrawny sci-fi nerd. But when our mutual KISS fandom was fully disclosed, that seemed to bridge the major gaps between us.

But Brad was almost always one step ahead.

Here we were some unfathomable years earlier … at some grade-school Christmas pageant (or something). Brad’s sitting in the forefront. I’m the little dweeb in the back. To my right is my great friend Danny, eulogized here (and first immortalized as Rocky here).

Again, recounted on this post, by the summer of 1979, Brad had largely abandoned KISS (who were pushing their widely-maligned Dynasty album, at the time, which I’ll continue to defend) in favor of immersing himself into his preoccupation with the Beatles and, more specifically, the “Paul is Dead” conspiracy theory, and dragging me right along with him. We spent the entirety of that summer and much of the following months playing records backwards and freaking ourselves out. But that horse was only going to run so far, it being the precipice of the 1980s.

By the time Punk Rock had arrived in force, Brad was typically a few miles ahead of me. We’d all heard the Sex Pistols and The Clash, by this point (I’d been gifted the first albums by The Clash and, oddly, The Vibrators, in a cache of promo LP’s my father had shipped to my sister and I from London while on extended assignment for Forbes Magazine). I was into it, and starting to explore other bands like Devo, The Jim Carroll Band, Blondie, The Ramones, The B-52's and Adam & the Ants, all of whom I loved. But Brad had typically done a much deeper dive.

I remember arriving at the house Brad’s mother had rented out in Quogue, in the summer of 1981, and being practically blown right off the porch by the fire-power of the stereo that came with the place, a bit of consumer electronics that Brad was fully availing himself to. Feeling woefully out-of-step in my Pink Floyd The Wall t-shirt, I found Brad in the living room, steadily giving the speakers a worrying workout (and his mother a splitting headache) via weapons-grade airings of Nobody's Heroes by a band called The Stiff Little Fingers, So Alone by an unhealthy looking gent named Johnny Thunders and the double-album of The Great Rock N’ Roll Swindle, which featured a hilariously sloppy cover of “Johnny B. Goode” by the Sex Pistols. I don’t know how he was first hearing this stuff, but Brad was unwittingly showing me up to be a total punk-rock dilettante.

Of all the records we spun, that summer, however, there were two in particular that really sank their hooks into me, and both continue to be all-time favorites today, regardless of era or categorization. Those albums were the eponymous debut LP by Generation X and Concrete by 999.

With the former, all it really took was a solitary play of “Ready Steady Go” to get me onboard. Where their relative forbears in the Pistols and The Clash repeatedly sang about destroying all things “rock n’ roll,” Generation X remained avowed fans, proudly name-checking outfits like the Beatles, the Stones and Bob Dylan in this ode to a mid-to-late `60s pop music television program. But that reverence was brazenly offset by this amazing sound — the sheer tone of Derwood Andrews’ guitar -- a brash, electrified roar that was at once densely melodic and unthinkably distorted, and it was all over this LP. Coupled with suitably yobbish choruses, Tony James’ insistent bass, Mark Laff’s pugnacious drums and the distinctive vocals of a gent who was shortly to take over the world, that being the endearingly sneery Billy goddamn Idol, Generation X was fucking unstoppable. While dismissed by many of the punk orthodoxy for being unapologetically poppy, there was just no arguing with that first album, allegedly recorded in a single week with finished cuts often culled from manic, single takes. To this day, it sounds like precious little else, and Derwood’s guitar still gets my blood rushing (especially the intro clang of "Kleenex"). 

Here they were lip-psyching to “Ready Steady Go" on “Top of The Pops”…

Even the album cover was awesome — a smeary, over-saturated, sepia-drenched portrait of a bunch of leather-clad nogoodnicks from an explosive future.

The other big record, Concrete by 999, wasn’t quite as overt, but matched Generation X in its insistency and attitude. Kicking off with energetic “So Greedy” (the first song Brad played for me), Concrete boasted a taut, musical finesse you probably weren’t going to find on records by their punky contemporaries. Where Generation X's songs sounded feral and deliberately rudimentary, 999’s playing was tight, urgent and sharp, but with more of an airier sonic dynamic than a lot of their peers. I didn’t know this, at the time, but 999 was formed by a gent named Keith Lucas, who’d honed his chops some years earlier as a guitarist playing in the pub rock band, Kilburn & the The High Roads alongside fellow proto-punk rocker Ian Dury (later of the Blockheads). Swept up in the energy and impact of the era, Lucas quit the High Roads, changed his name to the punkier Nick Cash (as in: to steal), and formed 999 — named after the British emergency telephone number — with his brother Guy on lead guitar.

Somewhat ironically, by the time Concrete was released in 1981, 999 were being perceived, in British Punk circles, to be second-stringers pretty much on their descent, following their more well-received albums like 999 and Separates, featuring incendiary singles like “Emergency” and “Homicide.” But back in Quogue, we didn’t have that context. All I knew was that this 999 record sounded liked an explosion of pure adrenalin that could not be found on most of the rock albums of the day, when the rest of the world was determined to keep listening to Journey, the J. Geils Band and Billy Squier.

Beyond the hiccupy freneticism of “So Greedy,” there were covers of garage nuggets like “Little Red Riding Hood” by Sam the Sham & the Pharaohs and “Fortune Teller” by the Rolling Stones, as well as stomping chant-alongs like “Public Enemy No.1,” “Break It Up" and “Don’t You Know I Need You.” Beyond that, alongside some filler like “Silent Anger” and “Mercy Mercy,” the Nines tried their hand at more exotic fare than most of their safety-pinned peers via atmospheric workouts like “Bongos on the Nile” and “Taboo,” but the “big single” was “Obsessed,” a frantic homage to the Spaghetti Western scores of Ennio Morricone, replete with “hoo-hah” chants and suitably twangy guitar hooks, all framing a song about Nick Cash’s fiery libido. Here they are performing it (well, miming along to it) with great, pogo-y enthusiasm, on a children’s show (!!!) called “Cheggers Plays Pop”

At my first opportunity, back in the city, I hungrily sought out both Generation X and Concrete, but they were not entirely simple to track down. This being just prior to my discovery (via my pal Spike) of the myriad joys of record shopping in Greenwich Village, I took Brad’s tip and checked out the Crazy Eddie’s on East 57th Street, just off of Third Avenue, who had a surprisingly enviable selection of imported vinyl. This shortly became a regular stop, for me. 

By the following summer, all things Punk had given way to all things Hardcore Punk, and Brad was still ahead of the pack, along with our mutual friend Rich, who’d turned me onto bands like The Mob, Flipper and the fabled New York Thrash cassette. Brad, meanwhile had moved on from late `70’s British Punk to evangelize homegrown hardcore outfits like Dead Kennedys, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, Black Flag, DOA, the Circle Jerks and this amazing compilation called Let Them Eat Jellybeans, which opened up a whole new world of options. Things were happening in real time, now, and life was getting genuinely exciting.

Funnily enough, about a year earlier, I’d been taken to a dude ranch in Wyoming wherein my family befriended a family from Washington D.C. named the Blows. The youngest of the Blow clan (and yes, that was their real name) was this kid named Wendel, who was slightly older than myself. Wendel mopily stomped around with a shaved head and combat boots. As I recall, Wendel also had a habit of spitting at my feet when we crossed paths. In any case, he was allegedly a bass player in a local band called S.O.A. (which stood for State of Alert, although I almost had my lights punched out when I questioned whether it would be more grammatically correct to say Alertness). Unsurprisingly, Wendel and I never became friends, but one of the bands Brad was touting that following summer was none other than S.O.A., whose music on the Flex Your Head compilaton (another sterling Brad recommendation) was truly bracing. As a footnote for the non-record geeks amongst you, S.O.A.’s lead singer was one Henry Garfield, who later changed his name to Rollins, joined Black Flag and the rest is blah blah blah.

As further and further summers went by and we all assumed our respective trajectories of adulthood, our paths and our tastes naturally diverged. I remember running into Brad a few years later, and he’d started listening to bands I’d consider unthinkable, like Lynyrd Skynyrd. Rich, meanwhile, became a full-time Deadhead, for a while, although I can’t say I have any idea what he’s into these days. I pretty much stayed the course, and invariably take my preferred music way more seriously than I arguably should. I still listen to records like Generation X and Concrete to this day (although you won’t find the latter on Spotify, for those of you addicted to lazy convenience).

But I will absolutely never forget how these friends -– and countless others like Zachary T, Billy K, Ralph M, John C, Sean H, Rob B, Rob D, Jay F, Charlie F, Walter W, Tim R, Ben K and several more -– opened those initial doors for me, infusing and enriching my life with those sounds that retain the freshness and intensity of the feelings I experienced when I first heard them.

For that, I will always be grateful.

ADDENDUM:

Brad and I in the summer of 2001, just prior to my wedding...

Some of the original vinyl discussed in the paragraphs above....

The Knife

It is another time, in another place.

The doorbell of our loft sounds unexpectedly and Peggy goes to answer it. It’s our then next-door neighbor Avner, holding a package. We love Avner. A big-hearted Israeli guy with an imposing height and physique to match his aforementioned heart, Avner is a tireless source of surreal wit and good cheer. We threw a party some weeks before this, and he came over to complain that we weren’t being loud enough, and then proceeded to commandeer the stereo, putting on a selection of disco classics which morph our CBGB vibe into more of a Paradise Garage aesthetic. We’re not quite sure what Avner's actual job is, but we know he pursues a fittingly bizarre sideline performing in a few West Village cabarets as “the Singing Cowboy,” …. which is extra strange, given his thick Hebrew accent. After standing silhouetted in our front door like a looming Darth Vader, Avner is welcomed into our home.

Avner proceeds to inform us that he’s taken a gig as a sort of ersatz door-to-door salesman, and asks if we will allow him to practice his pitch on us. No sooner are the words “of course” out of our mouths than Avner is busily unpacking his mystery parcel and laying out a series of strange implements and a thick coil of gnarled rope on our dining room table. His display complete, Avner launches into a clearly well-rehearsed, bright-eyed shpiel in his signature clipped English about the inarguable benefits of this new miracle product he is brandishing. Peggy and I are doing our very damnedest not to giggle as Avner delivers his detailed narrative. The product in question is a sort of wide, flat blade in a most unconventional shape, featuring a serrated edge and a curious grip. An ideal serving implement, this strange tool can act as both a versatile cutter and de facto spatula, perfect for slicing and dispensing pieces of cake, pie, lasagna and countless other dishes with ease and efficiency. By the same token, it’s also sturdy and rugged enough to cut seamlessly through the most resistant materials. With that he proceeds to demonstrate the blade’s prowess by butchering the aforementioned coil of rope into a series of bite-sized tidbits, fleetingly prompting my wife to offer them around as hors d’oeuvres. ”Rope, anyone?"

Following a few more compelling demonstrations of the blade’s myriad uses (including the fun bonus that it makes a weird little sound when you bend it against a hard surface), Avner wraps up his pitch and, figuratively, goes for the jugular. In short order, we glean that this is no practice shpiel but a genuine sales pitch, and we are expected to take the bait. Unable to resist Avner’s puckish enthusiasm, we oblige and ask how much he’s asking for the miracle knife.

“It’s a complete bargain at only $65.00”

Peg and I glance at each other, deflate slightly, and then succumb. We pony up an unthinkable 65 bucks for this single implement out of love and respect for our dear neighbor. Giddy with victory, Avner packs up his stuff and departs. We are 65 dollars poorer and now own a something that looks like the bastard child of a spork and a tool used by medieval dentists.

That was 1999.

It is now 2022, and we are STILL using Avner’s freaky knife. We no longer live in that loft, but the Avner knife came with us when we moved, and while we’ve never again used it to cut up rope, it has been employed in the preparation of countless meals and intricate dishes, from pizza to soufflé to homemade pies to every single birthday cake we’ve ever made for our children. Other kitchen curiosities have come and gone, but the Avner knife has become the only constant. I don’t even know how I’d function, let alone even begin to replace it, if it went missing.

Best $65.00 we ever spent.

You're Essential

Currently in Rotation: March of 2013

Back by popular demand! I haven't done a Currently in Rotation post since March of 2007. In the ensuing six years, I've certainly read, watched and listened to innumerable things, but I'm just going to concentrate on what I'm currently digging. Hence the title Currently in Rotation. Let's get down to it.

TEXT: I go through long periods wherein I can't seem to find anything I want to read, and then suddenly strike oil and can't seem to find the time to read all the things that have suddenly piqued my interest. As I mentioned back on this post, over the course of the Christmas break, I read Dean Wareham's memoir, "Black Postcards," which I completely loved. That book reignited my taste for rock reads. After that, I skimmed through "In the Pleasure Groove," the autobiography of John Taylor of Duran Duran. While not quite as engaging as Dean's book, it was actually pretty good (and way more readable, for what it's worth, than Pete Townshend's strangely joyless, workmanlike memoir).

John Taylor's book took about a weekend to page through, so after that I reached for the paperback edition of Will Hermes' "Love Goes to Buildings on Fire," which purported to document arguably the most fertile period of music and culture in New York City's relatively recent history (i.e. the mid-to-late 70s). I was certainly captivated by the subject matter, but to be honest, the constant invocations of Dylan, Springsteen and Patti Smith started to bore the socks off me in pretty short order. With all due respect to Hermes (let alone the legions of friends and loyal Flaming Pablum readers who pray at those same alters), I just don't give a crap about those three artists. Sorry, there it is. Feel free to burn me in effigy, but if you want to bore me out of a room sometime soon, start telling me how Horses by Patti Smith changed your life. I'll be gone in a second.

Hungry for new material, I was suddenly deluged with options. For a start, picked up Peter Hook's new memoir, "Unknown Pleasures: Inside Joy Division." Along with being a striking physical artifact (shrouded in black, with the subtle Saville design from Unknown Pleasure across its cover), Hook's book is everything I wanted it to be; an affable, conversational glimpse into Joy Division's back history, albeit through the admittedly biased eyes of one of its participants, fueled by a sizable dosage of sour grapes. I got about a third of the way through it before I was suddenly bestowed a copy of a friend of mine's new novel, which I felt obligated to read. As such, I put Hooky down and dutifully cracked the binding on my friend's hopeful endeavor.

When a friend asks you to read his or her book, it's kind of scary for all parties concerned. It's a bit like when a friend invites you to come see their band play or ... much worse ... come witness their rookie attempts at being a stand-up comic. You want to be supportive and encouraging, but sometimes it's hard to feign enthusiasm when the act isn't quite up to snuff. I can't imagine pouring myself into the writing of a book and then showing it to someone. I take it as the greatest complement that he wanted me to read it, as presumably that means that he values my opinion.

In any case, I'm very happy to report that I found my friend's novel totally engaging, readable and well-executed (which, honestly, was a huge relief). I'm not in a position to give further details, but when I can, I'll give it a proper recommendation here.

I've since gone back to Peter Hook's opus. On deck after that is "Poseur: A Memoir of Downtown New York City in the `90s." Obviously, with a title like that, I clearly had to pick this book up. I was excited until I spotted the author's name, Marc Spitz.

I don't believe I've ever actually met Mr. Spitz, but he and I have had several parallel experiences. Younger than me by only a couple of years, Spitz also started off as an intern at SPIN (although after my fleeting tenure there). Unlike me, however, Spitz managed to climb the ladder and become a proper writer for the magazine and summarily went onto quasi-fame in the rock writer demographic. I too continued to travel in those circles, but more as a lower-profile bottom-feeder compared to Spitz, who seems to have capitalized on the experience.

In all candor, his memoir will probably make me simultaneously angry, envious and bitterly pedantic about meaningless minutia about music and NYC, but I'm gong to withhold judgement for the moment (or at least until I've actually read the book). While I may have several preconceptions about Spitz (I'm automatically wary of anyone who publishes fiction with titles cribbed from Smiths' lyrics), how many books can I claim to have published, eh? Zero. Zilch. So hats off to Marc Spitz. I look forward to reading this book. Look for a review of it when I'm done.

FILM: My wife and kids quite recently spent a week with my mother-in-law down in Texas, leaving me to fend for m'self here in the big bad city. As such, on one of my free afternoons, I took the opportunity to do something I rarely get to do; go to the movies. I mean, we still see lots of films, but there's a very sharp difference between watching a movie on your couch and actually sitting down in a dark theater.

That afternoon, it was a toss-up between Peter Jackson's invariably interminable trek through "The Hobbit" (I gather he's going to stretch that single book into three films, a stunt that seems somewhat needless) or this strangely timed documentary on the late Ed Koch called ... wait for it ... "Koch." I chose the latter, and I'm damn glad I did. Check out the trailer below.

DVD: It's only been six years since I've done one of these, but already these subcategories seem so quaintly dated. I mean, I'm very old school, but does anyone else actually watch DVDs anymore? I mean, I do, but it seems the rest of the world is more fixated with streaming and "on demand" and whatnot. In any case, being that I do still unapologetically buy DVDs, the last two I got my grubby little mitts on were the Criterion Collection edition of "Gray's Anatomy" by Spalding Gray (I consider myself an ardent Gray acolyte and endeavor to track down all of his available works) and I finally picked up a copy of the sprawling Alice Donut documentary, "Freaks in Love." Did I need to own this film? Not really, but I'm damn glad I saw it. I only wish certain other bands had films this detailed devoted to them. It certainly made me dig out my old Alice Donut albums again.

WEBSITE: By this stage of the proceedings, I'm encountering cool new blogs, Tumblrs and websites all the time. The last one that really struck me, I suppose, was Bargain Bin Blasphemy, a Tumblr which takes age-old, middle-of-the-road album covers and gives them an endearing Black Metal makeover.

TELEVISION SHOW: Despite the fact that I have nothing be vicious, palpable contempt for all four of the series' primary protagonists, I cannot seem to stop myself from continuing to watch "Girls."

MUSIC: It's been a pretty dry spell in terms of discovering new artists to get excited about. As such, I've been digging a lot of older music of late. Specifically, I've been grooving to high-powered rotations of The Cramps, Einsturzende Neubauten, Lou Reed, Joy Division (largely inspired by Peter Hook's book) and Pink Floyd, after I lazily sprang for the unforgivable "Experience Edition" of Wish You Were Here.

I hemmed and hawed about it for a long while, but after reading lots of purple prose about Soundgarden's reunion album, the horribly titled King Animal, I hate to say that I really can't seem to find myself giving that much of a damn about it. And I loved Soundgarden back in the day. I first saw them back at L'Amour in Brooklyn on the tour for Louder Than Love, and dutifully saw them on every tour following. But I can't seem to get excited about this new album. I just sounds formulaic to me. The band's former sonic sprawl and primal yawp seem alternately forced or entirely absent. I genuinely want to like it, but it just isn't happening. Am I missing something?

Currenty In Rotation - March `07

  It's been about a quadrillion years (well, actually, about three months) since I've done one of these, so I thought I'd catch up.

TEXT: Since moving little Oliver into his big sister, Charlotte's room a couple of months back, my wife and I have been positively rapturous about having the master bedroom back to ourselves (and all that that entails). One much-missed joy that we're rediscovering is the ability to read before bed again. As such, my bedside table now plays host to a veritable tower of books waiting for my attention. I'm way behind on a few titles I picked up months ago. I've tried reading two books at once, but that just doesn't work for my feeble reading comprehension skills. In any case, I'm currently shin-deep in John Robb's "Punk Rock: An Oral History." Basically it's the long-awaited "answer" to "Please Kill Me" by Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain, the deservedly much-feted oral history of the American incubation period of Punk Rock -- which, as we all know PRE-DATES the `Pistols, the Clash and the rest of the more-celebrated British Class of 1977. In any case, the British counterpart to the argument has long been served by Jon Savage's comparatively impenetrable and needlessly textbooky, "England's Dreaming." Now along comes Robb with a blunt, full-force tome to rival Legs' meisterwerk. I'm only in the opening stages of it, but so far it's fairly entertaining and informative. I'd also been looking to pick up Clinton Heylin's "Babylon's Burning: From Punk to Grunge" (because, y'know, one can never have too many books about Punk). I picked up a weighty copy of Heylin's book at St.Mark's Books recently but put it back down in fairly short order. Any book that boasts such a title (which, by implication, I'm guessing means the musical spectrum that extends from the 70's through to the 90's) and doesn't even mention Killing Joke in its index if flatly not worthy of the paper it's printed on. I should point out at this stage that the `Joke are well represented in Robb's book. So, up yours, Heylin.

FILM: It's still exceptionally rare that I get to the movies these days (although I did manage to go see "300" the other night, more about that in a sec). That said, a friend of ours recently leant us a DVD copy of Scorsese's "The Departed" (it was an Academy consideration copy, or something). Lemme tell ya, if you enjoy seeing people getting pistol-whipped, hit really hard from behind and shot unexpectedly (and, really, who doesn't?) then THIS IS YOUR MOVIE! Hot damn! And while I've never forgiven him for that dreadful remake of my beloved "Planet of the Apes" (which, I suppose, was really director Tim Burton's fault), Marky Mark Wahlberg is outrageously entertaining in this film. Hell, even Leo DiCaprio hands in a fine performance. It also features Alec Baldwin (who simply just has to show up to completely steal a scene) and one of my faves, Ray Winstone (of "Sexy Beast", "Quadrophenia,' "Ladies & Gentleman...The Fabulous Stains" fame). From start to finish, this movie completely rocks. Peggy even loved it (although she watched most of it from behind a pillow). Even despite the fact that the story line has been beaten to death (from "Donny Brasco" through "State of Grace" through "Goodfellas"), it still completely delivers.

But let me just say, if it's violence you're after, look ye no further than "300." I'd been massively psyched up to see this film since first reading about it months ago, and was finally let off the leash last night to catch it on the big screen. So much has been written about this film already that it seems needless for me to attempt to encapsulate it here (but please check out my revered colleague, Kurt Loder's hilarious review of it by clicking here). Suffice it to say, "300" is every bit as over-the-top as has been described, and it makes the more ludicrously violent battle scenes in "Braveheart," "Gladiator," "Lord of the Rings," "Henry V" -- to say nothing of the big grandaddy of'em all, "Alexandr Nevski" -- seem like outtakes from "My Dinner With Andre". I honestly cannot express how much I enjoyed this film. It truly deserves to be witnessed on a great, big fuck-off screen, so DO NOT wait for the DVD.

DVD: As I lamented here, the very day that Peg and I signed up for Netflix, our favorite local video outlet closed for good, which is a damn shame. Adding insult to that injury, two of the first three films we've rented from Netflix so far have been hugely lame. "Little Miss Sunshine" was fine, but we then rented "Coffee And Cigarettes" by Jim Jarmusch. I should point out that I'm a massive fan of Jarmusch's. "Mystery Train" and "Dead Man" are two of my favorite films of all time, and even some of his less celebrated flicks like "Ghost Dog" and "Night On Earth" have some great moments in them. Enticed by the purported cameos from Iggy Pop, Tom Waits and The Whtie Stripes, I'd eagerly put the film in our "cue" and waited to be wowed. What a letdown. "Coffee & Cigarettes" is absolutely excruciating. Pointless, self-indulgent, plotless, rambling, masturbatory... I simply couldn't bear it. It broke my heart. Similarly, "For Your Consideration," the latest Christopher Guest venture (following in the tradition of "Waiting For Guffman," "Best in Show," etc.) finds his storied ensemble losing steam. We didn't even last through twenty-five minutes of it. Eject! We turned that off and ended up watching "Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason" on TBS, which -- while entirely hopeless and devoid of a point (it doesn't really advance the story from the first film at all) -- was still a thousand times more engrossing than "For Your Consideration."

WEBSITE: I have two to shout about. One that, here at the four year anniversary of the war with Iraq, is more appropriate than ever before. The other appeals the opposite side of the brain. One where nonsense seems to be the order of the day. Kinda like the White House. If you can figure it out, hats off to ya.

TELEVISION SHOW: I've spoken about it before, but the last show to really command my attention was the Sundance Channel's reality show, "Ladette to Lady," wherein a gaggle of boozey, sweary, libidinous party girls with indecipherable accents descend up on prim and insufferably stuffy British finishing school for the puruposes of transforming into proper debutantes. Sound ridiculous? It is, but lemme tell ya -- it's action packed. Nudity, violence, backstabbing, tears and lots and lots of cussin'. It's got everything. You will love it. Check it out.

MUSIC: I've picked up a couple of new discs recently. First up is the eponymous debut by Nick Cave's new "stripped down" band, Grinderman. Flanked by Bad Seeds bassist, Martyn Casey, Dirty Three violinist/noise-maker, Warren Ellis and No Wave percussive all-star and erstwhile Bad Seed, Jim Sclavunos, the dubiously mustachiod Cave is asserting that Grinderman is a proper band with its own identity, but I can't help feeling that it smacks of the Tin Machine syndrome (i.e. Midlife crisis rock from the greying old guard). While I applaud the notion of Cave moving away from the more mawkishly soppy balladry that has marked his work since No More Shall We Part (especially in the wake of the departure of Blixa Bargeld from the band's ranks), the harder approach here just feels a bit contrived. Lyrically, Cave's always been a master story-teller, but with Grinderman, he seems to be assuming a role more than ever before. It's not bad, though. Despite its churlishly juvenile title, "No Pussy Blues" is fantastic, and the guitar coda on the title track (evidently played by Cave himself) sort've echoes the fragmented guitar-bothering rife within Neil Young's score for "Dead Man" (and you know I love that). All in all, while it's not a return to the feral days of the Birthday Party, it is sort've a refreshing, bracing taste of Nick Cave that's been seemingly long dormant.

Next up is the full length long player by the Horrors. Yeah, I've spoken about them here before, and yes they're as derivative as the day is long, but damn if I'm not enjoying Strange House. A sloppy mix of the Birthday Party (again!), the Cramps, Nuggets-era garage Farfisa and even a wee bit of Alien Sex Fiend (vocalist, Farris Badwan is an [un]dead ringer for Nick Fiend),  Strange House is a great, careening train wreck of hoary, hirsute fun.

I've picked up a few other discs lately, notably the new one from the Stooges, but I want to give that a full, proper spin before weighing in. So, stay tuned for that.

Currently in Rotation - December `06

It's nigh on pointless to keep doing these Currently in Rotation posts, being that -- as I've moaned laboriously elsewhere on this weblog -- I don't have bundles of time these days to read or go to the movies or whatever. Regardless, I'll plough onward….

TEXT: Haven't been able to read a damn thing.

FILM: I haven't been to a movie theatre in months.

DVD:  The only DVD that's been darkening the inner chamber of our player these days involves Elmo, I'm truly sorry to say.

WEBSITE: Instead ot linking you directly to the site in question, I'd prefer it if you read my excellent colleague, James Montgomery's story about it first: The Cult Of 'Last Christmas': Wham! Chestnut Spawns Covers, Web Site

TELEVISION SHOW: Keep your precious "C.S.I."s and "The Closer"'s,…`cos if you missed "Prime Suspect 7: the Final Act," you missed out, buddy. Helen Mirren rocks way harder than your favorite band Full stop!

QUOTE: "If the shoe fits --- kick someone with it!" -- Timothy Raycroft

MUSIC:  Okay, music is the one area wherein I've been dabbling, although said dabbling invariably only involves my walks to and from work. In any event, here are a couple of discs that have been sucking the juice out of my iPod this month:

First up the brand new record by…umm.. Brand New. If you'd suggested to me a year ago that I'd ever be citing anything by this band as something I'd ever consciously espouse, I'd probably have poured a pint of beer on your shoes and told you to go suck a sock. But hey -- this record's actually mighty fine. Despite having been made by an otherwise cloyingly whiney emo band from Long Island, The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me is actually comparitively restrained for its genre. There are still moments of vein-popping, lung-straining apoplexy, but they are utilized judiciously. Several folks at The Job have been zealously crowing "RECORD OF THE YEAR" anytime its name is invoked (including my colleague, Jane, whose taste is admirably discriminating, despite a lamentable appreciation for the shrill, mawkish sea-cow that is Mary J. Blige, but I digress). I don’t know if I'd bestow that sort've honor on it, but several songs on it -- notably the opening salvo, "Sowing Season (Yeah)" with its avalanche of spiraling guitars - rock mightily. Plus, it boasts some wicked creepy cover art, and who doesn't love that?

Next up is the eponymous debut e.p. by the Horrors. Yeah, I know I initially derided them for being entirely bereft of originality (which remains an accurate call), but this disc is infectiously shambollic. I especially enjoy their cover of Screaming Lord Sutch's "Jack the Ripper" (notably for their vociferous pronunciation of the word "rippah"). I've also heard that as a live act, they are somewhat "trainwrecky." I'd love to see that. In any case, while their forthcoming full L.P. will probably be only half-listenable, this small clutch of tracks is fairly entertaining.

SHIT THAT'S PISSING ME OFF THIS MONTH: The gents who staff the deli near my office must assume that I'm from New Zealand and have an impenetrable Kiwi accent or something, as they insist on hearing my clear and accurate pronunciation of the word "WHITE" as "WHEAT". As such, I am regularly treated to the displeasing surprise of finding sandwichs I've procured at said establishment prepared on a variety of bread that I did not order and that I wouldn't feed to a famished duck (suffice it to say, I postively loathe wheat bread). It's becoming somewhat of a trend, and I'm finding it most upsetting.

OLD TIMEY VIDEO CLIP OF THE MONTH:  Ah, an oldie but a goodie. I first saw this video courtesy of a compilation videotape called A Mouthful of Sweat which featured bands like Unrest, Galaxie 500 and Daniel Johnston. I prized it off eBay and watched this clip slavishly. Finding clips by Cop $hoot Cop can be mighty tough (though you can find the videos for "Interference" and "Any Day Now" over at The Job). In any event, someone of obvious taste and distinction has uploaded this to YouTube, so I'm taking the opportunity to sing its myriad, malevolent praises. Herewith "Shine On Elizabeth," from the fabled Piece Man e.p. (splattered in "real pig's blood").

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"!

Currently in Rotation - September `06

Can you believe were almost done with September? What the hell happened? Where did it all go? In any event, it's almost time to bust out the Cosby sweaters and start carvin' the damn pumpkins, so I'd better go ahead and get this month's edition of Currently in Rotation up and out. So here goes....

MUSIC: With the exception of Bowie's Pin-Ups, Another Time, Another Place by Bryan Ferry, Kicking Against the Pricks by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Garage Days Re-Revisited by Metallica and maybe Undisputed Attitude by Slayer, tribute/cover records are rarely a good idea. Nine out of ten of them fall flat (Duran Duran's arguably bloated Thank You -- as one particuarly tragic example -- was recently voted the "worst album of all time" by a British music magazine, although I actually don't think it's all that bad). However well-intentioned, albums comprised solely of cover versions of other artists' songs tend to smack of hubris, barrell-scraping, contractual obligation and ineptitude. Def Leppard were recently savaged in the press for Yeah!, their collection of glam and classic rock staples. Even my beloved Firewater released a covers album, 2004's Songs We Should Have Written that, while boasting a few great moments, was far from their finest hour.

So imagine my surprise to learn the Grant Lee Phillips, former lead singer of criminally unsung 90's "alternative Americana" trio, Grant Lee Buffalo, was releasing an all-covers album. To my pronounced relief, however, Grant didn't try to tackle the predictable crap like Gram Parsons, Hank Williams or Leonoard Cohen, but rather concentrated his homage on largely familiar alternative hits from the 80's (hence the title, nineteeneighties). While their career had its low-profile ups and downs, I am firmly of the mindset that Grant Lee Buffalo crafted at least two shimmeringly perfect singles in their day, namely the eerily evocative "Mockingbirds" and the flawless love song that was "Truly, Truly" (from their otherwise dead-on-arrival final album, Jubilee). Phillips' distinctive vocals can both swoon a sweet falsetto and exhort in a throaty baritone (ala a less self-conscious Eddie Vedder). I've never been an especially ardent fan of so-called "alt.country" let alone, folk-rock, but Grant Lee Buffalo brought a new sound to that particular table that managed to capture my attention. The band died a quietly ignominious death after the failure of their last two albums to match the critical acclaim of their first two, and Phillips went onto launch a solo career, often touring with the likes of equally compelling artists like Robyn Hitchcock and M.Doughty (ex-Soul Coughing). So, again, to hear that he was releasing a covers album did not bode well. Had his muse finally abandoned him?

I wasn't going to pick it up at first, but when I heard that he took on "City of Refuge" by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds (one of my favorites), I couldn't resist. The album is basically a collection of rootsier, virtually campfire-friendly renditions of songs you wouldn't normally imagine working in a folkily acoustic context. Some tracks work better than others. His rendition of New Order's "Age of Consent," for example, excises the original's twitchy urgency, replacing it with a drowsily contemplative vibe. More often than not, Phillips' arrangements are perfectly pleasant, but just make you pine for the originals. His trek through the Psychedelic Furs' signature "Love My Way" jettisons the memorable marimba hook, and his pass at "Under the Milky Way" by the Church just makes you miss the original's twelve-string atmospherics. There are a couple of duds. His take on the Cure's "Boys Don't Cry" just falls completely flat (no one should cover this song, honestly) and his handling of R.E.M.'s "So.Central Rain" sorely misses Pete Buck's Rickenbacker chime. The bottom line is that while this album would sound great being played live one cool, starry night on the front porch of a cozy cabin off the shores of some remote island in a far flung Maine archipeligo, all it manages to make me do is shuffle my iPod to hear the original tracks that inspired it. And while I applaud Phillips for covering "City of Refuge," his version lacks all the palpable menace that makes Cave's original so thrilling in the first place.

But still...it doesn't suck.

WEBSITE: Brandspankin!, a "site dedicated to the high art of advertising parody, and giving brands the spankin' they deserve." The gent behind this site left a comment on an earlier post of mine, prompting me to seek out his weblog. Some very funny, endearingly inflamatory stuff to be found here.

TEXT: I'm sad to say that I've had precious little time to devote to any serious book readin' of late. My weekends are chock full of toddler-maintenance, and by the time the Missus and I are ready to call it a night, we're both too exhausted to crack the bindings of any bedside tomes. I still haven't finished the Bourdain book I cited last month. That all said, my wife recently handed me a copy of Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik on the strength of an entry called "Barney in Paris." Two paragraphs in, and I was convinced that the man was a sheer, unfettered genius. I haven't had time to read the rest, but if this entry is anything to go by, it's a possible new fave.

QUOTE: A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin. - H. L. Mencken

SHIT THAT'S PISSING ME OFF THIS MONTH: In an ill-fated attempt to clear my head one recent weekend afternoon, I decided to stroll on up to my local Virgin Megastore on Union Square just to punish myself (with two little kids at home, it's not like I have a great opportunity to blast any new music, much less watch any DVDs with any semblance of regularity). In any event, while I was incredulously stomping around looking for the "import" section (which had been evidently dismantled to accommodate a larger Hip Hop section -- yeah, like Hip Hop doesn't already have enough an unremitting stranglehold on popular freakin' culture that it should need to dislocate my favorite stuff!), my fruitless search led me downstairs where I found myself in the DVD section. And what should I see staring me square in the face but this beautiful little bundle of cruelty.

Rewind the clock to 1979. I was a feckless 8th grader otherwise obsessed with Kiss, "Ghost Rider," "Star Wars," "The X-Men" and the Ramones.  My father -- in an exceptionally rare instance of coolness -- decided that it would make for a swell bonding experience to take his son to go see Francis Ford Coppola's newly opened Vietnam War epic, "Apocalypse Now." I had no idea what the film was about, nor could I even correctly pronounce the first word in the title (much less find Vietnam on a map), but I'd seen the poster and it looked way fuckin' cool. I vividly remember seeing it at some crappy movie theater on 3rd Avenue and brieftly thinking that maybe my dad wasn't such a raging jackass after all (I was wrong, of course). In any event, I was mesmerized. I soaked up every hugely confusing nanosecond of "Apocalypse Now." To this day, it remains one of my favorite films of all time, and it all started that afternoon.

One of my best friends at the time was a lanky, bespectacled class-mate named Charlie. A fellow comics devotee and Kiss fan, Charlie was also an ersatz gun-nut and potential future-survivalist obsessed with all-things war.  It was Charlie who first introduced me the needlessly violent D.C. comic, "Sgt. Rock" and first played me Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine by the Doors (who we both momentarily latched onto strictly because of the placement of "The End" during the opening scene of "Apocalypse Now.") It was Charlie who fist got ahold of the soundtrack LP to the film, which featured about eighty percent of the film's dialogue (which we, of course, dutifully memorized for the purposes of unsolicited recitation at inopportune times). I think we even picked up copies of Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" (the book upon which "Apocalypse Now" is loosely based, although the original narrative takes place in the African Congo and involves elephant tusk trading), in an ultimately futile attempt to more fully understand the film.

The trouble reallly started, however, one day when Charlie and I started to discuss the film in inordinate detail. For some inexplicable reason (perhaps I simply saw an earlier cut of the film than Charlie), I vividly remember the film concluding not only with Brando's haunted soliloquoy ("the horror...the horror"), but with a very artsily shot montage of the air-strike (presumably called in by Chef before his neck was forcibly parted from his head) as the credits rolled. Plumes of orange flame silhoeting the Cambodian statuery and haggard palms of the Kurtz compound, set to ominouosly struck piano chords. At my first mention of this, Charlie was incredulous. "You're such a fuckin' liar, Alex" he scoffed. Evidently, as far as Charlie was concerned, the film ended with the final utterance of "...horror" and the titles rolled over a black screen.  It was this pivotal discrepancy of events that almost tore our friendship apart (and remember, this is years before both the advent of readily available VCRs, let alone the film's release on VHS). We argued with vein-popping intensity about it.  Too late to catch the film again in a theatre and without the resources to prove each other wrong, we decided to agree to disagree on the point, but we never really saw eye to eye on a subject ever again.

Over a decade later, the film was finally released on DVD. Charlie and I, having both graduated from grade school (let alone our respective high schools and colleges) had long since fallen completely out of touch. I remember popping the DVD of "Apocalypse Now" into my player and watching it end to end (as I always had), rapt by every last detail. Sure enough, following Kurtz's dying utterance, a lone white point appeared out of the black that suddenly blossomed into a blinding ball of napalm. I WAS RIGHT.

Cut to 2001. Francis Ford Coppola releases "Apocalypse Redux," a supposedly complete "director's cut" that includes all footage from the film restored into one sprawling piece. I dutifully went to see it one rainy Tuesday morning at the movie theatre under the building that I now work in. I was gripped by every extra, equally confusing nanosecond of footage. BUT GUESS WHAT? No fuckin' final air strike. Sorry, you lose.

I later found the answer:

Was There an Ending With an Air Strike on Kurtz' Compound?

When I saw Apocalypse Now in a theater years ago, the end credits were shown over footage of massive explosions in Kurtz' compound. But on the DVD, the end credits are simply white letters over a black background. So, were there multiple endings or what?

Material on the DVD covers this issue. At one time the filmmakers released a theatrical version of Apocalypse Now that had end credits shown over behind-the-scenes footage of sets being blown up. The problem was that to many viewers, including me, this footage looked like a continuation of the movie's narrative in which an air strike was in progress on Kurtz' compound.

When it was realized that Coppola's intended ending was being muddled by this version of the end credits, the sequence now on the DVD was substituted. With this change, the film's ending is unambiguous: Willard switches off the radio without ever calling for an air strike, and therefore we can assume there won't be one.

To make a long, rambling rant short, I'm strenuously lamenting this supposedly definitive collection. They did it with "Monty Python & the Holy Grail," they did it with "Star Wars," they're doing it with "Blade Runner" and now with "Apocalypse Now." Stop syphoning monies out of the fanbase, goddammit!

ADDENDUM: In the entirely unlikely event that Charlie is reading this, you can see the sequence for yourself right here. Enjoy,!

OLD TIMEY VIDEO CLIP OF THE MONTH: If you've spent any amount of time reading this weblog, you'll know that I harbor an almost fetishistic fascination for the NYC of the 1980s. As such, I bring you "Run and Run" by the Psychedelic Furs. It's not that I think this song is the bee's knees or anything (the band made fistfulls of better tracks than this), but the clip finds Richard Butler and the boys swanning about Battery Park, the Gramercy Park Hotel, long-defunkt Venus Records on W.8th Street, lower 6th Avenue and snippets of the East and West Village all circa 1982. As a video, it's no great shakes, but as a period piece, I find it quite compelling.