Hacking At Slop

Sailors

2012-01-27T19:53:00.000-08:00

The Aarght record fest continues with the Sailors' single, "Guilty Please Blues b/w Lets Go Chromin."

It sez on the back of this 45 that "Guilty Pleasure Blues" was recorded in Taiwan. I've been listening to punk and garage for decades and have NEVER heard of anything coming from Taiwan. The flip is the sloppy loud "Let's Go Cromin," which I'm sure is code for doing something bad. That hit was recorded at the "Bakehouse." Uh huh.

I'm getting bored with the high quality of music from Australia. This single ain't no exception. "Guilty Pleasure" has a vocal that sounds a lot like Johnny Thunders (!) to my ears. The guitar is some sort of weird thing with effects. Quite cool. "Let's go Chromin" is a sing-a-long rant that barely holds it together. I'm working on my second dirty martini as I write this and I'm guessing this tune is going to sound even better in about 3 more. Solid.

I have one more lp from Memphis that could disappoint. Certainly this Australian generation has its share of shitty bands? Somewhere there has to be another Midnight Oil, right?

Country Joe and the Fish- Electric Music for the Mind and Body

2012-01-27T17:18:00.000-08:00

This is how groovy ought to sound. Like you, I wildly presume, I assumed that Country Joe was just that "Fixin' to Die Rag" song you see on every documentary ever made about the 60s. Ho hum another Berkeley wannabe radical denouncing the man and protesting the war in the most direct way possible. And that's fine. But I had no idea that the band actually made some tremendously interesting music before it was delivering the hippie-rap for a generation. A few folks had mumbled things to me in the past that these guys were actually quite good, but who can get past those images? Well, the old one dollar purchase, that cheapskate's window into previously closed worlds, confirmed those mumbles. Much of this is gorgeous, some of it has the rich psychedelic glow of a good porch buzz at dusk, and a bit meanders in that too much acid in the studio kinda way. No matter. If you see this cheap, snatch it. You might just be surprised, and can the aging vinyl hound hope for much more than that?

Bill Fay- Time of the Last Persecution

2012-01-26T20:24:00.000-08:00

Bill Fay channels damaged folk that hits most of the right dark spots, but he might make you a tad uncomfortable with that whiff of crazy coming from the lyrics and the maddest guitar solos this side of Lou Reed's on "The Blue Mask." Easy listening for the apocalypse, as Sr. Fay seems obsessed with the Second Coming, whether that's Jesus or Hitler. But those melodies, that's the thing in the end, right? What's a synonym for haunting? Plug that in. I actually enjoy this more than Skip Spence's "Oar," which is probably sacrilege in some back room of an English pub where wild-eyed goateed men debate the relative merits of insane folkers. Me, I'm just a lurker on the fringes, searching for late-night sounds to make the hootch go down gently. This helps.

The James Arthur Manhunt

2012-01-20T19:50:00.000-08:00

Holy shit. This record is a trip. Heavy damaged guitars, squawking seagulls and all kinds a weird outer space stuff. And yet it's really beautiful.

This lp came from my recently arrived Aussie related stash. I think it was released by Aarght back in 2010. Man, I dig it. I think the closest I could pin it down comparison wise is very early Flaming Lips before they crawled up their ass and thought they were Brian Wilson. Remember that Pasta Skull clear EP? That's kinda sorta what this is about. But then at other times a bit JAMC.

Whatev. I could go through each of the songs, but really you gotta listen to it all the way through. Five stars all the way from here in San Fran. This made my Friday night home with a bourbon buzz. Thanks, brother man.

Nasty

2012-01-18T20:30:00.000-08:00

A 45 recently arrived to my house from Memphis Thom. What I got was a dose of misanthropic Aussie rock n roll. And as you might have gathered from the cover, the band has got a nasty name and its tunes more than match the sentiment. Side A starts with "Complicated Meditation Class," a Saints-style ripper. Nothing you haven't heard before, if you know your Oz p-rock. It's over before you know it and we're on to "Day Off." Here's where it gets more interesting. The Unfuckable's guitars and drums get much looser, almost losing control. The singer spits out what seems like scary venom until making the declaration that he's going to...just take the Day Off. The flip is named after the band. Its sad chorus finds the narrator recalling others pronouncing him "unfuckable" in single bars, large crowds, etc. A plodding, humiliating tale that occurs with a monotone vocal over Beasts of Bourbon-esque guitar work. Nice.

In short, no new ground broken here. But you could do a lot worse for someone who is so....unfuckable.

Quick movie review

2012-01-14T10:36:00.001-08:00

This movie is evidently up for an Oscar, so I thought I should check it out. It's rare that a book I read gets turned into a movie, and its subject matter is my favorite: baseball. And of course my wife was only too happy to watch a Brad Pitt movie. So we saw it last night. Couple of things...

1) The A's owner is played by Bobby Kottick, CEO of Activision. I used to cover that company in my equity research days. I even met him. It's really weird to see someone you've met in a movie. This is especially true when they're acting but in real life they have a corporate non-acting job. Kinda threw me for a loop. I thought for a second he was going to talk about gross margin expansion or sales of Call of Duty. Weird.

2) Brad Pitt is just an OK actor. He gets the job done, but he never really let's you forget he's acting. When I told this to my wife, she didn't look away from the screen and just mumbled "um, wha?...."

3) Why do you own a pro team and not be willing to lose money (at least initially) for it? At the beginning, the owner tells Beane he won't raise the payroll, which is 1/4 the Yankees. I understand not wanting to lose money in business, but this is not just a business. It's sports. If you wanna ensure you're always cash flow positive, go buy a laundromat. In sports you're supposed to try your best to win. Letting parasites like this owner into MLB is another reason to hate Bud Selig.

4) Jonah Hill can act. I didn't know this.

5) It's clear to me now that my biggest mistake was not getting a job in baseball. The whole time I watched the movie I was thinking how much I wished I worked in baseball. Damn it!

Can San Francisco Compete?

2012-01-11T22:08:00.000-08:00

Video- Leather Leather

2012-01-10T19:56:00.000-08:00

Oh happy Soulseek- apparently, the new server delivers every record ever made, and now I'm back on the old treadmill, having once found SS sterile and unsatisfying, I now find access to every record in the world a joy. Hurray for recycled pleasure, but call me in three months. And that brings me to Video's Leather Leather, who challenge my predisposition towards hyberbole and hype, which my cortex will once again fail to monitor. If we were to hop in the time machine and head back to the drunken hour of top ten lists, these guys would shove some top contenders to the sidelines. The previous bands of these guys make no sense, because this is the stomping, inventive punk rock you always wanted this shit to mutate into. Simplicity delivered smartly, and the timing is just right. Put the right pieces in all the right places and who needs a guitar lesson? I'm just on the upturn of the listening dig cycle, so if you know where I can secure a vinyl copy, do tell. Otherwise, it's just smiles and sterility, baby. This shit wins.

OZ by way of Memphis!

2012-01-10T19:43:00.000-08:00

Check it out! A hot package arrived today from The Bilby. All kids of Aussie stuff to check out. Many thanks to the Great Tom Jones. You are a gentleman and a righteous dude. Hopefully myself and Sonny will get out to Gonerfest this fall. I'd love to buy you a Schmidts and say thanks again in person. Anywho, I am now going to deep dive into my vinyl haul. Reviews to come!

No Talk- Leather Discipline

2012-01-07T12:09:00.000-08:00

Well, hello, and happy New Year! Let's talk about Erotic Asphyxiation, because that's the first song on No Talk's most enjoyable album, Leather Discipline. I don't know about you, but the occasional trip to homo joke punk island, a la early Turbonegro, is a refreshing holiday from the mounting responsibilities of aging rockheads everywhere. I say bring on the black leather jackets and the guttural vocals and let those three chords ride along the melody tracks. Just be careful with those singalong choruses when the kids are around, especially when the rousing anthem that is "Sexcop" spikes those dopamine levels and all of a sudden it's 1985 and you feel compelled to blast it and your cracking voice brings gasps of horror from the family. This is a basement album, and what you wear while listening can remain your little secret. I can't wait until Little League season, with the crowd hushed during a pivotal late-inning moment, and I begin involuntarily screeching out a few verses of Levi Leather Uniform. Good fun for the whole family! Did he just say "masturbate him"? Well, now I've got that stuck in my head, so don't say I didn't warn you. Straight talk with No Talk. Sexcop. Right.

The Year in Books

2011-12-28T17:38:00.000-08:00

The iphone ain’t been the life-changer others claimed it would be- I get a text every couple of weeks, make a few calls a month and occasionally check a score. One useful feature, though, is notekeeping. No more wads of soiled receipts with drunken scribble promising some new idea or album that I can't make out. Just poorly typed gibberish that hasn't gone through the wash. You can also keep track of what you’ve read, something I’ve never done and so here it is- a year in reading…

Tom McCarthy’s Remainder is one man’s obsessive attempt to recreate the conditions of his one perfect moment, a doomed and futile quest I learned from a professor in college when I was bemoaning the fading insights from a previous acid trip and he quipped, “The key to appreciating the hallucinatory experience is to recognize its ephemeral nature.” And he was right, for things don’t work out well for our narrator. I did a lot of rereading this year, and Bruce Duffy’s The World as I Found It was as rewarding a second time as it was the first. Sad to think this fictionalized account of Ludwig Wittgenstein and Bertrand Russell’s tempestuous relationship (it’s his first novel for god’s sake- the nads on that young man) has not received more enduring acclaim, but hey, how do you market this shit? If the prospect of tackling Wittgenstein directly is too intimidating, think of this as a 500-page sparknotes edition. David Foster Wallace’s suicide continues to haunt, and so continued contact with his work keeps the man alive, if only in synapses. In McCain’s Promise, he tags along on the Arizona senator's 2000 campaign and delivers the requisite details, before McCain lost his rebel mojo and embraced the Republican establishment, even if both sides wince while hugging.

David Lodge wrote a novel called Changing Places about two professors who exchange teaching posts, and in one famous scene, lit profs at a cocktail party admit to one classic they’ve never read. All is snickers and hoo haws until one schlump says Hamlet, and that’s all she wrote for his reputation. I read Madame Bovary for the first time this year, so this mea culpa should keep me in Social Sciences for some years to come. Took another stroll down p-rock memory lane with Eric Davidson’s We Never Learn, and all his prose histrionics aside, it’s a reminder that Crypt Records had one of the best winning percentages this side of Edwin Moses. Continuing the gaping hole in the canon thread, Lolita got checked off the list. Nabokov, in addition to sharing a name with a favorite Sharks goalie, is a funny motherfucker, and his descriptive detail is vividly original. One can't help but feel a bit pervy, though, as he makes it impossible not to lust after the young thang, and there you are. Blasted through and thoroughly enjoyed a work on punctuation, Lynn Truss’s best-selling Eats, Shoots and Leaves. I always hit one major Faulkner, this time a second trip through The Sound and the Fury, and the Benji section did not make me want to hurl the thing across the room, the years between readings having filled in some of the blanks. Simon Critchley’s The Book of Dead Philosophers recounts how philosophers’ deaths match their philosophies, but fails to generate much amusement or enlightenment.

Reread David Shields’ Reality Hunger, his manifesto calling for the death of the novel’s relevance and championing a new kind of hybrid literature that looks beyond the realistic confines of 19th century novelistic traditions. He celebrates works like Geoff Dyer’s Out of Sheer Rage, a failed biography about the author’s attempt to write a definite study on DH Lawrence. Reality Hunger is made up almost entirely of lifted passages that Shields comprised to illustrate how traditional notions of intellectual copyright should fall by the google highway as, like rappers and dj’s (love me- I play other people’s music), writers take what’s in the ether and rearrange it into something new. Maddening often, but also aggressively compelling, it’s a must read.

Keith Richards’ Life was OK, but few details formed particularly strong neural circuits in the memory sections of my brain. I spent many hours curled up with good ole William Gass, whose love of language for its own sake is a refreshing rejoinder to the minimalists and those who insist on the carefully constructed plot. Gass is a literary critic who makes you want to read and write and eat and drink and fuck, and I would heartily recommend Tests of Time, Temple of Texts, and Finding a Form even if you loathe literary criticism and find all artistic theory pretentious crap that academics employ to justify their salaries. Tom Rachman’s The Imperfectionists is a highly acclaimed modern novel that leaves me with the impression of having been mildly entertained and perhaps even amused. Beach or bar reading. The wonderful irony of David Shields’ memoir, The Thing About Life is that One Day You’ll Be Dead, written before Reality Hunger, is that it’s dreadful. He’s a far better arranger than he is a writer, as this may have been the worst book I read all year. Out of Sheer Rage by Geoff Dyer was not as good as Shields told me it would be, but it’s an interesting meditation on procrastination.

Read far less biography for some reason, but Anthony Cronin’s Samuel Beckett: The Last Modernist provided all the information a mildly curious reader of some of Beckett’s plays and novels could want. I’ve had a poster of the great man in my classroom for many years, and something about the severity of that face and haircut makes the man unknowable. Cronin fills in the details and delivers the influences, and even if so much of the man’s work remains ambiguous and difficult to penetrate, at least it’s less fog and mystery between every unspoken line. Having trouble refusing that third helping of lasagna or saying no to that eighth draught of Drake's Denogginizer? Try Daniel Akst’s We Have Met the Enemy: Self-Control in an Age of Excess, in which our hero offers the following thesis- we have limited self-control reserves that are depleted each hour by the onslaught of choices at our dispersal in a high-tech, 24/7 world, and we need to make pre-commitments (i.e., don’t buy a kegerator, alchie) to reduce our daily scream of temptation. Dan Ariely is all about behavioral economics in Predictably Irrational, another tome in the growing literature attacking the classical model of the rational consumer, and he has plenty of research studies and market examples (he’s much like Malcolm Gladwell in tone and style) to illustrate our follies when it comes to choosing wisely. Barbara Ehrenreich got cancer and loathed those who insisted she bear it with a smile and a positive attitude, so she wrote an entire book called Bright-Sided scalding the notion that optimism improves our lives. Timothy Wilson’s Strangers to Ourselves has been getting a lot of recent love due to nods from Gladwell and Daniel Kahneman, for his exploration of the power of the unconscious mind on how we think and behave. Given the mysteries of why I want or do or think anything, I’ll concur. After reading Michael Spector’s Denialism, I’m supposed to believe that my vitamin supplements are no substitute for eating fruits and vegetables and that is simply one truth I must deny. His attack on Jenny McCarthy’s ranting that innoculations cause autism is savage and, from all I’ve read, right on.

Andrew Baggerly’s Band of Misfits was a disappointing summary of the Giants’ World Series season that offers little that’s new if you were paying attention. Barry Schwartz’s The Paradox of Choice offers that too much choice is bad for us and he’s got the studies to back it up. Damn, that’s enough pop psychology, so how about Nick Hornby’s new novel, Juliet, Naked? I humbly believe that each of Hornby’s books has gotten worse, but this breaks that trend. I rarely cringed, and there is plenty to recognize in these middle-aged strugglers about love and loss and regret. Back to the couch with Robert Burton’s On Being Certain, which posits that the feeling of certainty is an emotional state that tricks us into believing we are right when often we are not. James McManus’s tale of entering the World Series of Poker and finishing in the top ten made poker seem thrilling, but he’s less successful guiding us through his own experiences at the Mayo Clinic in Physical. This is another in a long line of non-fiction works that should have remained magazine pieces. Patty Smith won the National Book Award. I repeat- Patty Smith won the National Book Award. Her Just Kids is the story of her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe when they were young upstarts in the NY arts scene. It is overly romanticized and deeply sentimental and while some of the poetic prose shines, not all of it does, and I’m baffled by the nearly universal praise this book has received. A far weightier and less dreamy-eyed account of the artist at work is Sarah Bakewell’s (love that name) How to Live: A Life of Montaigne, and one could do far worse than to use this book’s wisdom as a secular bible. Not quite matching Bakewell’s recipe for a life well-lived is Alain de Botton’s The Consolations of Philosophy, in which he uses the life and key ideas of a number of noted philosophers to teach simple truths about the art of living well.

Reread Sam Lipsyte’s The Ask, and while it wasn’t as hilarious a second time, I would highly recommend the man for anyone who likes his comedy black. Peter Carey is an extraordinary novelist, and his newest, a retelling of Tocqueville’s journey to America and the making of that most quoted of all texts, is called Parrot and Olivier in America, and it will do nothing to harm his reputation. Mary Roach’s Bonk gets downright filthy as she investigates what science has to say about sex. This woman is a national gem- arguably the funniest writer out there. I kept putting off David Foster Wallace’s The Pale King because who wants to read an unfinished novel when you have no idea what he would have wanted and how much of it is actually finished and what would have been cut and, well, the questions- they do go on. But just to spend more time with the man’s prose, his humor and his humanity. And there are moving and hilarious and heartbreaking sections, but they don’t add up to a novel, which is fine. Read it without looking for coherence and you can find enough to make the muddling worth the time.

Mary Roach again, a good laugh required after the posthumous Wallace, and Stiff makes dead bodies a barrel of plastered monkeys. Really. When you start reading metacriticism, you have to wonder if the journey into your own ass has landed you in the maze of the large intestine from which you cannot extract yourself. Or something, but I’m sitting on the couch again and enjoying Craig Seligman’s dissection of Pauline Kael and Susan Sontag, Sontag and Kael, and digging out my collection of Kael’s essays and wishing I had time to go a movie. Instead it’s to England for Martin Amis’ new one, The Pregnant Widow, which is about a twentysomething’s pursuit of pussy, mostly the prized gash of a teutonic blonde he spends most of the novel plotting to enter. I actually preferred the jumps forward in time to see how the characters deal with middle age and how these desperate early searches for transcendence through mad Italian sex might affect them later. I’ve always enjoyed reading Christopher Hitchens, even as his arrogant public persona threatened to blind folks to the quality of his prose and the breadth of his erudition, and his recent death hit the solar plexus as few obits do. His memoir, Hitch-22, is a fascinating ride through the second half of the 20th century, and even as he’s name-dropping and placing himself at the fulcrum points of modern history, it’s hard not to be carried along by the sheer force of his storytelling and the savagery of his wit. He will be missed. Completing the troika of aging British monsters of lit is Ian McEwan and his Enduring Love, a creepy bit of psychological obsession that has our narrator stalked by a religious freak who feels divinely bonded by their experience in a balloon accident. Strangely suspenseful.

William Gay has studied long and hard at the Cormac McCarthy College of southern biblical grandiloquent prose, and his The Long Home is shockingly riveting, given how easy it is to fail out of that university. William Deresiewicz has become one of my favorite literary critics, and his recent takedown of the vaunted James Wood was a vicious thing of beauty Sadly, his A Jane Austen Education, in which he tries to show how reading JA taught him to be a better man is rather trite in spots and unbelievable in others. It’s also not very funny and not nearly as smart as he usually is. I can only guess he was going for those Jane Austen bucks that seem to roll in when you put her highness in the title and promise slippery bits of wisdom. Or maybe I’m still an emotional adolescent incapable of recognizing the quiet truths revealed. Don’t answer that.

I received Ammon Shea’s Reading the OED from a student, and like most gifts that happen to be books, I dreaded opening it. It is, however, a very funny account of one man’s year reading the OED. This is a trend in publishing- have some dude do something most polite suburban types would consider outrageous- read the whole bible, or the encyclopedia, or Remembrance of Things Past- and then recount the experience with witty asides and much self-laceration. What kind of dweeb does x or y or z. Why, this one! I liked this version, though, because it is filled with words I’m glad exist, like natiform (buttock-shaped) or insordescent (growing in filthiness) or goat-drunk (made lascivious by alcohol). In Lowboy, John Wray puts a 16-year old paranoid schizophrenic off his meds on a train and has him pursued by a monkish cop and the lad’s crazy mother. That sounds like a premise from hell, but this is one of the most satisfying modern novels I’ve read in a long time. Wray delivers on that premise by making the young man’s perception of the world alternately hilarious and horrific, but always believable. It’s also a page-turning thriller, and that combo ain’t no easy trick. Can’t believe anybody made it this far, but with four days left in the year and just 100 pages into Kahneman’s Thinking, Fast and Slow, it looks like John Jeremiah Sullivan’s The Blood Horses will be the finish line. This is mostly a portrait of the author's recently deceased father, who, when asked by his son the greatest thing he had covered as a sportswriter, replied, “Secretariat,” which sends the young man off to research the history of horse racing. I much preferred the family stuff to the old-time equine tales, because in the end this is about a son mourning his father. Stories don’t get much older than that.

This happiest time of the year

2011-12-23T09:59:00.000-08:00

Thank God for children. Without them, this time of year would just bum me out. Another year has passed and, wow, I still feel like a lifelong underachiever. But I can spend the next few days numbing acute feelings
of self-loathing and self-pity with little kids' laughter (and a healthy amount of booze). And rock 'n roll. Lord Christ, I love the rock 'n roll.

The Eddy Current Suppression Ring - So Many Things. What we have here is a collection of singles and B- sides that are, as usual, great. I wouldn't expect anything else from the godfathers of the New Aussie scene. The consistency of songwriting, sound and groove thing from this band is unparalleled. Nuff said. Even my Coldplay-loving wife loves these guys!

Black Lips- Arabia Mountain. A band that has absolutely dominated the scene for years with their encyclopedic knowledge of garage rock and insane work ethic. I wouldn't say all the songs on their latest will stick in your head, but pretty damn close. Still the best in the land?

Bass Drum of Death-There are some who will accuse these 2 of being young Nirvana wannabes. And I'll grant you at times they sound a bit like 'em. But I think BDOD are more in the J Reatard vein, which is great stuff in my book. Plus they're from Mississippi. So they've got that going from them.

Jack Oblivian- Check that. Jack Oblivian is the best in the land. See Sonny's review. Nothing to add other than this was in heavy rotation on the family turntable.

OBNs III- The One and Only. The greatest dirty p-rock record since the dearly remembered Problematics. Music for drinking with your friends and trying to act like you're 18 again. Glorious. Every year there should be a couple of rippers like this record. It makes you feel young and hungry.

Comfort Food for Late-Night Boozehounds- The Top 11

2011-12-22T15:07:00.000-08:00

And here we are again, reflecting on the lost opportunities, stupid comments and increasing jowliness of another year. Yea, but there's always reasonably good health, mister, so take a sip of gratitude, find the good in the taken-for-granted, and let's wallow for a moment in the righteous sounds of 2011. Sadly, neither John Prine or Harry Nilsson made a new record this year, so this list will have to do.

11. Dexter Romweber Duo- Is that You in the Blue?- that Dex is still kicking is cause for rejoicing, and even if this record can't be counted among his best, it's a comfort to know he's still out there, ready to transport the weary with one more aching ballad.

10. Missing Monuments- Painted White- King Louie is another nearly sunken American treasure, and if he wants to dive for pop gems, I'm listening.

9. GG King- Esoteric Lore- just enough weirdness here to help it transcend the genre tag, that being SoCal skate punk of the 80s, a sound that hasn't aged all that well but that conjures enough memories to bleed a little nostalgia into the listen.

8. Case Studies- The World is Just a Shape to Fill the Night- I don't know what happened to The Duchess and the Duke, but this gentleman keeps the folk flag flying with more yearning weepers sure to help the lonely keep the rope at bay.

7. Psandwich- Northren Psych- it's Ron House, for crying out loud, and he's rocking and screaming that he's stoned to death. So maybe it doesn't quite reach TJSA heights, but that voice plus guitars = a rasberry to the little things getting ya down.

6. Jack Oblivian- Rat City- this man just keeps delivering- a model of consistency as he drives through the vast array of styles he owns. "Girl on the Beach" should have been the summer hit that brought rock back to the radio.

5. OBN IIIs- The One and Only- 100% p-rock stomper with enough variety to keep things interesting but not so much that your feet stop moving.

4. Royal Headache- S/T- Aggressively hooky Oz pop that just keeps getting better as the melodies lodge indelibly in that place where emotional memory fires up the dopamine and pleasure ain't just a dive bar outside Vegas.

3. Total Control- Henge Beat- sometimes stylistic diversity means lack of vision, and sometimes you get the feeling the band is determined to do justice to its full range of influences. These guys might have made a love letter to Wire, Gary Numan and Joy Division, but they've woven their heroes' ideas into a thing entirely their own.

2. Crooked Fingers- Breaks in the Armor- this guy delivers more emotional weight in his voice than a middle-aged burnout can sometimes bear. More scaled back than recent albums, but all he needs are those melodies and that voice, and you've got yourself weepy gold.

1. Apache Dropout- S/T- what an original and entertaining record this is- wacky and hallucinatory and anthemic and you can call it a bonafide aural miracle. Folks will be digging this for years to come.

El Camino

2011-12-14T21:40:00.000-08:00

In the post-9/11 era, the mainstream has steadily shed rock 'n roll's influence. The Hives, White Stripes, and Strokes 2000 garage rock era is now about 10 years dead, an eon in popular culture. To aspire to be a hip hop mogul, dance floor diva or earnest sock-headed indie type is where it's at. Jay Z Inc, Katy Perry or Bon Iver. Some collaborative effort among the three would be the defining soundtrack of our age. Indeed, rock 'n roll is primarily relegated for Super Bowl half-time shows and guest judges on American Idol. Even video game publisher Activision has stopped making Guitar Hero because no one cares about that old man's music.

Which is to say, you take your guitar players and real drummers where you can find them. Enter the Black Keys. Guitarist Dan Auerbach and drummer Jay Carney came on the scene as Junior Kimbrough disciples recording their home made hits in some flyover basement about a million miles from New York or Hollywood. They even recorded an lp of Junior covers called Chulahoma, named after his hometown. Moreover, The Big Come Up, Rubber Factory and Freak Thickness referenced not only delta blues but Sonics-style garage rock. Slowly the Black Keys' reputation grew among the few who still cared about this kind of music.

El Camino is the follow-up to the duo's massive crossover success Brothers. It continues the break from earlier blues-y traditionalist records. In fact, El Camino raises the bar by offering more hits, hooks and melodies than Brothers. It should appeal even more to an audience not inclined to rock. The sound is much fuller with a whole band, multi-track vocals with soaring harmonies and dance-y beats. The Black Keys are a long way from that flyover basement, as hip hop producer "Dangermouse" makes another appearance.

No band can stay static lest they turn into the Ramones, so I understand why they have moved on. And this music sounds good to me in parts. I suppose I'm just that crabby old man who can't help but feel it was better back in the day. And who knows? Maybe the pendulum will swing back rock 'n roll's way.

Royal Headache

2011-12-08T20:17:00.000-08:00

The Oz-invasion continues with more shocking quality but with straight angles this time- fast-strummin pop music from the ironically named Royal Headache, about the least migraine-inducin' sounds from down there since the Hoodoo Gurus' "I Want You Back." I'm guessing Paul Weller is sitting uncomfortably somewhere, knowing this sound exists and that he failed to produce it when he dumped The Jam for the Style Council, that wimpy white man's attempt at a soul revue. Most of the R&B in this pup comes through the vocals, as the dude ain't afraid to sustain a note and emote. Mostly you get frantic down-strummin underneath those silky vocals, and as an old English teacher, I'm impressed how they cut fat from each tune. Economical, these boys, but with one exception. If you're going to produce a symmetrical pop album with six 2-minute songs on each side, an instrumental added to each just means a touch of bloat you worked so hard to cut from each song. I don't know if they decided 23 minutes would not make a proper album or somebody has an instro fetish, but unless you've got Rick Wakeman on keys, stick some vocals in and don't allow for bathroom breaks in the middle of your record. That is a quibble, however, for what is essentially an entirely loveable album. It's hard to imagine anyone but nitpicking naysayers not enjoying this thing. So sorry Paul Weller- I'm going to play it again and haunt your oxycontin dreams.

Deaf Wish- S/T

2011-12-01T20:36:00.000-08:00

I am a domestic dad with little bastards running through my house (six, as of one hour ago) at high speed ignoring my every command, smearing shit on the couch, torturing the dog and throwing things at my head. "I didn't mean it," is the mantra, and I wonder at the glories of the 1930s father, certain of his position, Scotch in hand, belt in the other, ruling his castle with the confidence of a man who knows his kingdom. I know the part of the sunken couch that I slink to when the wave passes and the video games go back on and the walls stop shaking and my bugged out eyes seek solace in a long draft beer and some Gene Clark.

So let's just say noise rock don't fit the current aesthetic, or paradigm, or pick your noun with the general meaning of model and give me a fucking break- I still own that Scratch Acid record, pull out the Laughing Hyenas late night, and find Pissed Jeans one of the three best bands of the last five years. Just don't ask me to pull out Wolf Eyes when you arrive at midnight on your bi-annual trip down wild hair lane- chances are, I'm passed out on the couch with Gram Parsons on repeat. But shiver me frayed nerve timbers, this Deaf Wish record, another Aussie missile in that island continent/nation's insidious attempt to rule our humble shores, is one effective drone. I do believe I like every song on it, and it ain't exactly Singles Going Steady. Screeching and pleading and fuzzing and, well, it's very noisy but you can sing along. Sort of. This shit just screams 1988-1992, if that means anything to anyone. You could almost call it Texas acid-damaged emo if you had no shame, which I don't, so there you go. The songs work, OK? Aristotelian catharsis is at hand. Just be glad you're not him, if you know what I mean. Now somebody tell me where I can find their other records so I can ignore the little bastards' next wave of madness.

So You Used to be a Surfer in Huntington Beach

2011-11-14T22:06:00.000-08:00

Holy Casey Royer, punk man, D.I. is back! Well, Ok, maybe it's just their smack-sodden spirit, but here it is, the music of my formative years played enthusiastically and with great vigor by four young dudes from, wait, that can't be right- New York? I could have sworn this came straight outta Huntington, what with the apocalyptic nuclear annihilation lyrics and the wannabe ghoulish guitar that sounds like a Fullerton mini-mall and those singalong background vocals on the choruses and Johnny's got a problem and he's outta control and note the poor punctuation as we swing back on the pendulum to the dumbass music of our youth that gave us so much pleasure and led to so many bad decisions (dagger earring, I still love you) and no matter how hard we feign maturity by putting unplayed jazz records on the shelves, that old bitch hippocampus speaks to good buddy amygdala and sense memory meets emotion and here come the images of the PCH at night, stopping for twelve-packs of Schaeffer and a slice on the way to some horrible venue where Social Distortion, The Adolescents, Doggy Style, Youth Brigade, and fourteen other crop-haired young bands would get on stage and snarl and prowl and otherwise act all punky and we in our deep intoxication would smash into one another at high speeds and fall down and then wallow in the brotherhood of that outstretched hand and up we'd pop for the next tour and boy did I have to fake any connection to these people but release sweet release and sometimes the band would find it and by miracle they'd be in tune and, well, memory lane can be a funny old street. Any band that delivers a time machine to that video arcade where the pock-marked acid dealer offered 14 hours of reality variety is a band worth keeping in the keep pile.

Just because

2011-11-11T13:19:00.000-08:00

Missing Monuments- Painted White

2011-11-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

Missing Monuments is the new King Louie thang, and it's a pleasant romp through ten pop songs, but there ain't no 'Gypsy Switch' here, so it's a bit of a letdown. For those not following at home, his majesty put out a record several years ago called Memphis Treet with one killer song on it (and several excellent ones) that trumped anything I'd heard from him on the pop tip (The Persuaders and Kajun SS being whole other things) and hopefully not everything to come. He's a big boy, and I hope he takes care of himself, cuz great pop writers don't come around the block every hangover morning. Anyway, this is fine, but nothing really gets you singing along or tapping your toes with any urgency. I root for the guy- his voice is endearingly underdog. But most of these riffs are, in the inimitable words of Lars Ulrich in Some Kind of Monster, stock. It's nice background music for your coffee and Halloween candy before another day at the gulag, but I doubt I'd pull it out for the late-night shriekalong, and I don't catch myself humming along at odd moments of the day.

Total Control- Henge Beats

2011-10-26T06:29:00.000-07:00

Eddy Current is arguably my favorite new band from the last five years, and that the guitarist is breaking out in such successfully divergent ways is akin to what happened after the Oblivians split- even more great music and from different angles. Total Control is channeling influences probably too obscure for my rock-heavy shelves, but snatches of Gary Numan and Joy Division and Kraftwerk, with a healthy helping of several eras of Wire, make this sound sketchy on paper, at least if I were reading that description. It's a whole 'nother thing in the air, though, as this dude and his friends make it work, no matter how many left turns they take in mood and style from song to song. It's synth-heavy, yea, but the boy has groove in the blood, and if you dug some of the more atmospheric stuff on the last ECSR, this offers fascinating strands expanding in unexpected directions. Gloomy Curtisian atmospherics, OK, but with the right parts to keep things moving through the existential angst. Old tricks made new again- that's a good thing when it works.

OBN IIIs- The One and Only

2011-10-21T07:39:00.000-07:00

These guys sound like they discovered Back to the Grave and Aussie punk at the same time and had a hell of a party while they tried to channel their influences into a Texas free-for-all. What a good time this record is- plenty of variety and plenty of hooks to go with the p-time energy. Singalong choruses! Signature breaks! Collect 'em all! I want to leave for Austin in the morning, where I once fell in love with a girl on the street and as she glided away into the dark Texas night I could see my youth evaporating in her wake. This record sounds like the moment before she left, when possibility still hung in the air like the cheap lying dream of a better day.

Hipster City- Portland, Ore

2011-10-17T20:48:00.000-07:00

I took the fam with me for a 4-day biz trip to Oregon. I came away really impressed by the Beaver state. People are nice, the beer is AMAZING, and Portland is a fun town. In between business meetings, Liz and I hung out in the Pearl district with our girls. The neighborhood was crawling with foodie shops, brew pubs and 20- somethings with scary tattoos. I also hit an amazing small record store called 2nd Avenue Records filled with great vinyl. I bought a Bobby Fuller live lp and and a Them record. Both are excellent garage-y, guitar-driven things.

On the way out of town we passed a #Occupy Portland protest. I am really excited about this movement, so I hopped out of the car to take this pic. In the two minutes I was gone, a traffic cop almost ticketed me for being in a police zone and having expired license plates. Amazingly, though, he let us go. Such a cool cop tempered my stick-it-to-the-man ethos and made me like Portland even more.

Mott the Hoople- the Hoople

2011-10-14T16:22:00.000-07:00

I've always rooted for Ian Hunter. I don't know why. Second-rate rock stars evoke something in me I'd prefer not to explore, the recesses of those parts of the psyche holding uncomfortable mysteries no man ought to ponder, especially eight drafts in. I was buying Ian Hunter solo records before I knew who Gene Clark was. I used to lay on my dorm room bed with the lights out listening to "Reckless Youth" without irony. Maybe it's that glorious head of hair, which can only elicit something like awe in those with the baby-thin strands of an early combover contemplator. Perhaps it was the early Bowie obsession, the hero refusing "Suffragette City" but generously offering "All the Young Dudes," bestowing fame upon minions with the wave of his glittered wand. Maybe it was that fleeting crush on Corey Hart. Needless to say, no abode of mine has ever been without plenty of Hunter-led records, but I didn't have this one, which, upon multiple listenings, has not exactly left me aurally bereft. Like all 70s rock records, your hits lead each side ("The Golden Age of Rock 'n' Roll" and "Born Late '58"), and Ian and his foppy laddies even manage one more, the album-closing "Roll Away the Stone," deep questions of sin and redemption never far from a mind that once penned the anthem, "Jerkin Crokus." But that's mostly it. A second-rate Mott is a pleasure, albeit a minor one, like Sierra Nevada or calimari. I wouldn't say no in the desert, but this is the rain forest, gentlemen.

Leon Russell- Carney

2011-10-12T19:31:00.000-07:00

Why do one-dollar records bring such pleasure? And why does shopping for one-dollar records bring even more? I suppose some answers are obvious, mostly having to do with expectations, disappointment, freedom and hype. I'll leave that analysis for those wiser than me. Maybe part of it takes ya back to when you first got into music, when you would buy a record because the cover looked cool, or because you had vaguely heard something positive about this strange-sounding band, or because you hadn't been burned so many times. Maybe it's buying and laughing instead of buying and somewhat wondering if it's worth it. Maybe it's just the absurdity of buying a Rick James record because the cover is so astoundingly wonderful in the strictest literal terms that you can only stare and chuckle giddily and be reminded of that first record you ever owned, Styx's Grand Illusion, which you will also buy again at this record fair, and remember what it's like to listen bright-eyed and stupid and uncritically. It's a buck, for god's sake- let's listen-to-like instead of demanding something of the experience.

Anyway, today's dollar-bin special is Leon Russell's Carney, plastic you've probably ignorantly passed up involuntarily for twenty years. Dummy. This leads with his biggest hit, "Tight Rope," a tune I've heard on the radio but always assumed was Harry Nilsson hung way over and just starting another jag. I'm gonna have to assume the titular tight rope is a metaphor, a statement on Russell's lack of commercial success or maybe a commentary on his intake. It's not important, and this ain't decipher-the-poetry class. What we have here is a morning record leap-frogging what might loosely be called Americana tunes- a touch of gospel here, a little Cole Porter there, some swampy New Orleans piano everywhere. Somewhere between Mr. Nilsson and Roy Wood, Leon Russell's sound reposes- ending Side 1 with a tune called "Roller Derby" is just the right kind of contradiction for me, seeing as Hot Box Derby might have fit the southern sound more obviously. Look, this ain't no crazy overlooked gem from 1972, but it sounds like something from outer space, as it is impossible to imagine a long-haired freak in corpse paint sitting by a trailer trotting out hummalong piano ditties in the year 2011. It's a buck- it'll earn its value by the end of breakfast.

Tom Jones, give us a Gonerfest 8 recap!

2011-10-02T18:47:00.000-07:00

Did the Aussies wreck your house? Which bands blew you away? Which ones sucked? Spill the beans!

Mary Roach- Bonk

2011-09-29T22:19:00.000-07:00

Things I learned from Mary Roach's Bonk, the funniest book on earth about the relationship between sex and science.

A descendent of Napoleon, bitter at her inability to achieve orgasm via intercourse, raged against cows' superior anatomy: "Nature has favoured animals over womenkind... for the clitorises of mares are located right on the border of the genital orifice." Damn them.
Many 19th century American women had their clitorises removed because preachers said masturbation caused hysteria, epilepsy and idiocy.

Sexually stimulating a sow while you artificially inseminate her leads to a 6- percent improvement in fertility.

According to a 1940s survey of American men, roughly 27-percent of college-age rural males copped to having had "some animal experience to the point of orgasm." Calves, burros, and sheep were the preferred partners.

The last portion of a man's ejaculate contains a natural spermicide- not intended to kill his own soldiers but to annihilate the seed of any who comes after him.

Blood is the backbone of a stiff penis (note the eloquence of that sentence).

San Francisco cock-ring emergencies are so common that they have their own shorthand- "C-ring"- on the Fire Department teletype.

Dead men can get erections.

In 17th century France, a man could be arrested for not getting it up for his wife. If a man failed to satisfy his spouse, she could sue for divorce if the state could prove that he was not achieving erections for her, with the assumption that he was achieving them elsewhere. A tribunal would come in to see if he could get it up, and if so, it would be assumed that he was doing other women, which gave his wife grounds for divorce. Don't ask about procedure. Really.

Restaurants in Taiwan sell tiger penis soup for 320 bucks. Many believe that tiger cock will bring back a man's boom boom.

Male pandas have a really hard time finding the slot. And we protect these creatures.

More than one scientist has studied remedies for flatulence (or leakage from the back passage) during sex.

Young widows upset with life were often diagnosed with "womb fury."

Researchers have found that a session with a rectal probe electroejaculator dampens leg spasiticity for, on average, eight hours.

According to official literature, the following have been removed from rectums over the past ten years: a frozen pig tail, a bottle of Impulse Body Spray, a parsnip, a plaintain, a dull knife, a cattle horn, a salami, a jeweler's saw, and a plastic spatula. There is plenty more, but you get the picture.

A masturbating chimpanzee will stare straight at you.

Men's colognes actually reduce vaginal blood flow.

Just a random sample, really. Much more to be found in the book, especially the brilliance of the chapter on Danish farmers massaging teats to get pigs hot to improve fertility. Riveting stuff. I'll check back later after I've finished her work on dead bodies. Should be a hoot.

Case Studies- The World is Just a Shape to Fill the Night

2011-09-27T20:25:00.000-07:00

The Duchess and the Duke made two of the best records of the past few years, and the male half of that duo and the primary songwriter (I presume), Jesse Lortz, is back with a new name but a similar game. Dark ballads about loss and longing and ghosts. Being haunted recurs in this dude's lyrics, and usually the spectors come in the form of lost loves, or maybe just one. We get more female harmonizing, but it's not quite as aching as her majesty's, at least to these ears, and while I'm pretty sure this guy can't write a bad song, these don't quite reach the heights of those D&D efforts. And after three albums of unrelenting gloom and pining, maybe a hint from old Townes Van Zandt, the king of the moody brooder- drop a comic line or two to lighten the listener's load. Few lives were as dark as TVZ's, but he always seemed to get that tragedy had its absurdly comic sides. If you just got dumped, this might be the record of your life, but for those muddling through, a little variety would make the haunt that much creepier. An ironic little jig before that breakfast whiskey and those wistful looks out that stained dormer window might at least acknowledge that in the 24 hours of your pain, at least a few moments are weird. That said, I'd buy anything the man put out, even his new take on the death knell.

Kim Salmon reminisces

2011-09-27T09:53:00.000-07:00

Jon Wayne- Texas Funeral

2011-09-26T20:51:00.000-07:00

This is Godhead stupid, and the greatest record I had ever heard on the first night I listened to it. Granted, I was drunk and irritable and looking for a reason to feel sorry for myself, but this baby spun the evening in an entirely different direction. A dumb one. A slap upside the head and get down on the ground to get in touch with your own fucking absurd mortality direction. A reminder that no matter how seriously you take yourself in any given moment, there's some fucker in Texas trying to make country music who can remind you of what an asshole you are. Thanks, guys. I needed that. Up there with that Clap album for reissue of the year. Or maybe it was last year. Fitting. Dumb is as dumb hears and sometimes dumb is the only night road to take.

White Mystery

2011-09-25T20:44:00.000-07:00

White Mystery
White Mystery, MTV Hive

I ran across this last night. Not sure if I like em. But the guitar work is pretty fierce.

The Black Angels

2011-09-25T19:22:00.000-07:00

Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. So sayeth Mark E. Smith after the fifteenth Scotch or the umpteenth trip along the rhythm's edge. Find a groove, lock in and maybe the world will disappear and you can escape into the drone. The Black Angels understand this, and they deliver the pleasure quotient with one hook after another- albeit one hook per song. What we have here is Spacemen 3 worship by folks who really know their record collections. Dark psych of the desert variety, but one that detours from the Mojave through Texas acid-damage and left towards those Reid brothers' castles in Northern England. Let's not forget Roky, whom these guys sometimes back. Given the record I just bought is an exact replica of Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators and you have your influences duly noted. I can't stop listening to their four records, and I'm not sure I can name a single song. We're not talking anthems here. Find the beat and roll the head to and fro. Find the recesses of the hippocampus where the glory days of mushroom mornings sit neatly beside that hot soccer player you loved and lost because you were an asshole. Marinate in the same melody repeated and repeated and repeated. Ignore those lyrical attempts at darkness. A sameness dominates, but it's a righteous sameness. Passover and Direction to See a Ghost supply the hard S-3 rhythmic drone sounds, and Phosphene Dream is more freakbeat traditional 60s pop stuff. Hell, I even caught a whiff of Echo and the Bunnymen with my breakfast soundtrack, and I'm talking Crocodiles. Four out of four records is purty darn rare, so respect the track record and lock in.

Everything Old is New Again

2011-09-20T14:43:00.000-07:00

Life changes and then turns round again- Sunday night at Loard's, 30+ years later.

The most important band in the world on Letterman

2011-09-10T21:09:00.001-07:00

Bare Wires video

2011-09-10T20:52:00.001-07:00

Bare Wires - Don't Ever Change from daniel hilsinger on Vimeo.

Raise the Corn

2011-08-26T14:24:00.000-07:00

This is a twelve-acre corn maze made by a New Hampshire farmer in honor of Stanley Cup-winning goalie Tim Thomas. How will you top this when the Sharks win in 2012?

Crooked Fingers

2011-08-16T20:07:00.000-07:00

Summer music is supposed to be light and frothy, but I don't like that kind of music in any season. My obsessions gravitate toward darkness, and let the therapists dissect my sodden corpse. It's August, and time for immersion in Crooked Fingers, the only go-to band I have that morons might call indie. Yes, Eric Bachmann led 90s darlings Archers of Loaf and is currently touring with them, but the band he's had for the last eleven years can't be pigeonholed by fat, lazy goateed asswipes. I'm sure musical categories drive Bachmann to the tormenting vices he's chronicled so eloquently, if his lyrics are to be believed. I have no idea what to call Crooked Fingers, other than that rare band that can move you in mid-morning and the intemperate wee hours. I don't know what you care about in music, but if melody, emotional content and lyricism still matter to anyone, you should at least put prejudices aside and give 'em a listen. Let me help, because with just five records out, I might get through each one without passing out on the keyboard.

Crooked Fingers- S/T- Bachmann started the band spare, and the first offering is almost suffocating in its relentless grimness. The lush instrumentation to come later ain't here, but the naked vulnerability of the lyrics coupled with the hauntingly beautiful melodies made just about everybody who heard this a lifelong fan. I could listen to "Broken Man" or "New Drink for the Old Drunk" or "A Little Bleeding" any time or anywhere, and I'd just have to stop and listen and feel. I'm not sure how many suicides he prevented or sent over the edge, but it's that kind of record.

Crooked Fingers- Bring on the Snakes- and more of the same for round two, how the obsessive devotees wanted it. "The Rotting Strip" opens the eight songs here, and it may be my favorite ever from Bachmann. Ever had a failing relationship? "Blurry eyes half bent and I can't take you sober/ Tricking off the rotting strip that we've been trudging under/ We ducked into a dim lit room out where the river bends/ And turned to walk the burning bridge that we would build/ And crossed our hearts half hoping/ That we could both quit smoking/ And kick the booze and blow/ And one day go make something of ourselves." And later: "So we branded our hearts and we toasted the stars/ Getting wasted by the light of the moon/ You were a two-bit tramp and I was a low-life lying scam/ We were a bad lay coming undone burning for someone to use." No one gets off easily in these songs, the first-person narrator most of all. You don't have to feel like a complete fuck up and loser to immerse yourself in this album, but it fucking helps.

Crooked Fingers- Red Devil Dawn- the critics love this one more than the others, but I don’t. It’s fine for what it is, an attempt to flesh out the sound, broaden the scope of the tunes and produce more fully developed pop songs, which it does, but it doesn’t quite reach the heights of the next one, so let’s get to that.

Crooked Fingers- Dignity and Shame- for my money, this is Bachmann’s magnum opus. The mood has lightened, and the hooks are enormous. Apparently, this is supposed to be a concept album about some Spanish bullfighter’s doomed love affair, but that makes little difference. The greatness comes not from any tragic story, but from the songs, the wonderfully crafted and absurdly catchy tunes that come one after the next. While this might sound shiny and bright and sell-out to the studio apartment dwellers still clutching those first two records and their bottles of Peach Schnapps, terrified to jerk off for fear they no longer can, I’m calling masterpiece on this shit.

Crooked Fingers- Forfeit/Fortune- This is my least favorite of the five, even if a few tunes reach the high standards of previous efforts. I can’t even put my subjective critical ear-finger on the reason, other than that the songs don’t move or grab me the ways songs on other albums do. How is that for deep analysis?

Crooked Fingers will be releasing its sixth album in October, and I am excited. Or doomed. Or hopeful to have a new midnight friend. Or drunk. E?

"Spotted Owls"

2011-08-15T21:14:00.000-07:00

Warren Buffett, Chairman and CEO of Berkshire Hathaway, in a New York Times opinion piece, is calling on the so-called mega-rich to pay more in taxes.

Billionaire investor Warren Buffett is calling on the so-called "mega-rich" to pay more in taxes.

Buffett said Monday in a New York Times opinion piece that he would immediately raise rates on households with taxable income of more than $1 million, and he would add an additional increase for those making $10 million or more.

He also recommends that the 12 members of Congress charged with devising a deficit-cutting plan leave rates for 99.7 percent of taxpayers unchanged.

"My friends and I have been coddled long enough by a billionaire-friendly Congress," Buffett wrote. "It's time for our government to get serious about shared sacrifice."

Buffett noted that the mega-rich pay income taxes at a rate of 15 percent on most investment income but practically nothing in payroll taxes. The middle class, meanwhile, typically falls into the 15 percent and 25 percent income tax brackets and is hit with heavy payroll taxes. He said Washington legislators "feel compelled to protect us, much as if we were spotted owls or some other endangered species."

Buffett said he knows many of the mega-rich well, and most wouldn't mind paying more in taxes, especially when so many fellow citizens are suffering. He also said he has yet to see anyone shy away from investments because of tax rates on potential gains, even when rates were much higher in the mid-1970s, 1980s and 1990s.

"People invest to make money, and potential taxes have never scared them off," he said.

2011-08-03T20:16:00.000-07:00

Not to get all MBA on you, but this is a pretty interesting article on the much hyped Spotify service. I'd like to hear if anyone has tried it.

Unless you've been living somewhere without net access for the past week or so, you have heard about Spotify, an online music service that just launched in the U.S. The initial reviews have been pretty positive, and it has generated a lot of buzz, although it's quite similar to some services that have been available here for some time (Rhapsody comes to mind). But there's something pretty insidious buried inside music rental models like this. It's prime territory for a bait-and-switch strategy. In fact, this approach could be exactly what the music labels are relying on.

At first blush, paying a monthly amount to "borrow" content like this over the net seems like a pretty good idea. Many of us have used Netflix or Hulu and become accustomed to the idea of paying our monthly subscription fee and getting to watch as much as we want. Both of these companies have done a fantastic job with their offerings. Netflix has become so popular that it recently surpassed the amount of Bittorrent ("pirate") traffic on the web, proving that it's compelling offerings, not lawsuits, that win customer's hearts and minds. But if Hulu and Netflix are so fantastic, what's the concern about Spotify?

Simply put: the way we consume music is fundamentally different to the way we consume movies and TV.

Think about it. It is relatively rare to own a movie or TV series that you sit through and watch multiple times. Sure, there are some classics where that's the case, but most people watch a video once and that's it. Music is not like this. The same songs get listened to time and time again. We build playlists (custom CDs or even mix tapes, if you're old enough) around them. It's the very reason most people don't just listen to the radio. They want to own their favorite songs and albums so they can play them when they want. Understanding this — that we consume audio in a fundamentally different way from video — is critical to understanding why, from a consumer point of view, paying a monthly rental fee is a risky way of obtaining music.

Let me illustrate why.

Again, unless you've been living somewhere without internet for the past week or so, you would have seen the outrage when Netflix upped its prices. Well, if you think this is bad, just wait until Spotify does it. With Netflix, if the price gets out of step with what the company delivers you every month, it's a pretty simple decision to stop subscribing. You were paying your $10 per month to watch your movies or TV shows, you watched your shows, and now they're charging too much. So you stop subscribing. You don't lose anything, because you don't really want to re-watch all those old shows and movies that you've already seen. All you need to do is find somewhere else to watch next week's episode, or next month's movie.
But if Spotify were to do this and you choose to stop subscribing, all that music you have on your Android or iPad is gone. You can't get the music out, and there's nothing to suggest that you'll be able to get the playlists on your computer out as easily as Spotify does from iTunes.

This makes it the ultimate breeding ground for a bait-and-switch strategy: once you're invested, your willingness to pay goes up dramatically. Most of us would probably be willing to pay quite a lot to not lose all our music. That becomes all the more alarming when the initial indications suggest that Spotify is a tricky balancing act to make profitable. Three big variables affect its profitability: the percentage of paying users, the amount they pay each month, and — here's the real gotcha — the cost of track licensing.

I've got no insider knowledge that Spotify is planning on raising prices. But I do know this: Spotify get all its content from the same place everyone else does — the same industry that has forced price increases on other online services once they have become successful. That appears to be at least partly what happened with Netflix last week. At least in the case of the existing a la cartemusic services, if you don't like the new price, you don't have to buy the new track. In Spotify's world, if you don't like the new price, there goes your music library. Or, if Spotify tries to stand up for its users, the labels can just pull the songs and those songs simply disappear. Here's what one user in the U.K. had to say about that:

"It's really frustrating, and it seems to be happening a lot. Spotify has changed how I buy and listen to music, and I pay for Premium so that I don't have to download albums from iTunes, but now I'm having to do both."

If you're interested in seeing what the buzz is about, you should try it out. But beware. Spotify may try to resist price increases. But, given what we know about the record industry and how it approaches licensing negotiations, I wouldn't let my music get held hostage to a monthly ransom.

The Other GG

2011-07-31T23:00:00.000-07:00

I'm guessing this guy has a big record collection, because he draws from a wide range of punk rock sources. I didn't hear that kind of inventiveness and variety on the Carbonas album I used to own (the dude used to front that band), but this reaches far and wide without losing that strand that holds it all together. Anger and hooks and just a touch of evil, this is the best punk I've heard in awhile.

Boo Boo!

2011-07-30T21:21:00.000-07:00

I've been on a hunt for new blues guys for what seems forever. Basically, ever since Junior Kimbrough and RL Burnside left the earth over 6 years ago. A really long haul. I don't know why but the internet hasn't made it any easier. It's hard to filter through all the polished crap and cliches that make 99% of blues music intolerable. Just like 99% of pretty much any genre.

So in this age of Twitter, Tumblr and all the other crap people use to "communicate," I found out about Boo Boo in a TV ad. His song "So Tired" is in a 5 Hour Energy spot! But I instantly heard IT. My head lifted from my monitor at work when this song played. FINALLY an authentic voice. Just the right amount of whine, but then naturally deep in a second. And his music's raw hypnotic drive tipped me off Boo Boo was probably from Mississippi. Just like Junior and RL. This music is a slow-cooked drug. I get lost in it. I love it.

Name of the Game isn't a perfect album by any stretch. The production can be a bit too slick. Some of the songs don't really go anywhere. Boo Boo isn't ever going to be as good as Junior. But Boo Boo is alive! And I've found a new living reason to listen to blues.

For the Man Who Has Too Much

2011-07-30T08:44:00.000-07:00

Charlie Manuel's Tears

2011-07-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

Phillies' fans face adversity. Poorly.

Scourin' the Basement

2011-07-28T15:14:00.000-07:00

Happy summer, ya lousy lushes! Busy times on the couch and in the mountains, goin' bug-eyed from perusing too many books in prep for a new class in the fall and chasin' kids down trails that end in waterfall rainbows. July will make you a hippie if you let it, so put down the pipe, raise the bottle and curse something that's buggin' ya, like my failed attempts to get modern attempts at the p-rock, which may simply mean the time has finally come when I'm just too damn old to get it anymore. Find myself scrunching my face and yearning for some semblance of melody every time I slap a new disc on. That's OK, cuz there' still so much to draw from. Finally found a vinyl copy of Jack O's Don't Throw Your Love Away, which as always, sounds vastly superior to my nearly decade-old burned copy. Picked up the reissue of Fungus Brains' Ron Pistos Real World and it did not disappoint, all Aussie skronk with that rarely effective horn to boot- a must for lovers of all things 80s Oz noise. Have you been to Rasputin's lately? They must do their markdowns with Skinnerian rats slapping price tags for treats. With absolutely no discernible rhyme or reason for why one record is now four bucks and the exact one next to it remains 16, that crazymotherfucker that owns half of Telegraph gives the vinyl-digging obsessive a fighting chance of actually scoring. You see records in that place you just don't see anywhere else (Sundazed aficionados should head basement-wise pronto) and some of them at very affordable prices. For instance, grabbed John Phillips' self-titled solo attempt to become king of the Laurel Canyon drug freaks for just five clams, and it would be worth it if only for the back photo, in which our demonically smiling, top-hat, multiple-scarf, tight black pants and polar bear jacket wearing hero becomes the poster boy for BEIN' HIGH and thinkin' you've got the world beat not knowing that the steep descent of your career began on the fifteenth rail of your breakfast on photo day. Hell of a record, though. Let's see, snagged Doug Sahm's early San Antonio recordings that Norton put out after his death and while there's nothing as groovy as "Mendocino" on it, young Doug being below the age and before the time when bong hits replaced sugar-coated cereals as your wake-up ingestion of choice, you can dance to it. For one mere dollar I continued my quest to own every Guy Clark album, even these crappy 80s ones. For some weird reason, 2009's Son Volt comeback record was wrapped and available for four dollars, and while the earnestness remains high it did send me back to Trace, his first and best record that sounds amazing all these years later. Have you heard that David Allan Coe naughty set of songs? If you see a copy, pick it up for me, will you? Never fails to make me laugh uncomfortably, and the cover shot of him on his Greatest Hits album is priceless, some fashionista's nightmare combo of Gram Parsons' jacket, Indian rain symbol necklace with matching earring, stupidly symbolic hand prison tattoos, anti-Hitler mustache (did a pipe accident make that area below his nose no longer fecund?) and the obligatory badass country black hat. He's also looking straight into the camera with an expression of contempt for the candy ass motherfucker that even dares look him in the eye. My newest singer-songwriter project is Mr. John Prine, and any record that has "Sam Stone" on it is OK by me. You see any of his first four records, do yourself a favor. I thought I had Rockpile's Seconds of Pleasure but a quick scouring of the basement runovers suggests not- hooks thy father is Lowe.

Hey, does anybody know anything about Jon Wayne's Texas Funeral? It sounds up my alley, but I'm tired of gettin' burned.

Gotta date with a Beltran-strapped Giants' squad who now threaten to score that third run a game.

Who are these bands?

2011-07-26T11:07:00.000-07:00

I have discussed the subject of indie rock's reign as the dominant genre of "rock n roll." And yet still this list of groups performing at the annual Treasury Island music fest amazes me. Who the hell are these bands? Has anyone heard of them?

I do know who their fans are. I went to the Mission district a few weeks ago. It was like an American Apparel ad. So many skinny jeans! So much ironic detachment and cool! Anywho, if someone can recommend any of these bands, please do. The festival takes place on my birthday.

The Treasure Island Music Festival announced its lineup for the two day festival on Oct. 15 and Oct 16.

The first day's acts, which as SFist so correctly points out, tends to lean a bit towards the electronic/techno side.

The acts are:

- Empire of the Sun - Cut Copy - Death From Above 1979 - Chromeo - Dizzee Rascal - Flying Lotus - Buraka Som Sistema - Battles - The Naked & Famous - YACHT - Shabazz Palaces - Aloe Blacc - Geographer

Sunday the festival will return with more rock acts, including headliners Death Cab for Cutie and Empire of the Sun.

The acts for Sunday are:

- Death Cab For Cutie - Explosions in the Sky - Beach House - The Hold Steady - Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks - Friendly Fires - St. Vincent - The Head and The Heart - Wild Beasts - Warpaint - The Antlers - Thee Oh Sees - Weekend

Worse than Arnold Rothstein ?

2011-06-27T20:03:00.000-07:00

Today the LA Dodgers declared bankruptcy. The details are too long to go into here. Highlights include $100 haircuts, 5 homes in Bel Air and a divorce that includes the owner's wife handing out blow jobs to the chauffeur. A great LA story.

This sordid tale of a once proud franchise also represents another terrible chapter in the tenure of Bud Selig. His reign as Major League Baseball's commissioner has included:
1 A canceled World Series. The first ever. Previously neither World Wars had prevented a World Series.
2 The steroid scandal and the completely improbable claim that the commissioner, owners and GMs didn't know or facilitate it.
3 The BK of the Texas Rangers
4 The BK of the Dodgers
5 The revelation Mets' ownership is thick as thieves with Bernie Madoff.
6 The have and have-not MLB franchises and allowing the "national" sports media to present the game as an endless five-hour Yankees/Red Sox game.
7 Baseball's loss of African-Americans. It is now a "white boy and foreigner's game."
8 And locally, the catastrophe of the Oakland A's ownership. Co-owner Lew Wolfe is a shameless So Cal real estate speculator with no interest in baseball. He is also the former fraternity brother of you guessed it - Bud Selig.

So why does this matter to the non-baseball fan? It is a prime example of how those in power are rarely held accountable. Bud makes the owners' money, and the good of the game has ceased being something a commissioner cares about since Bart Giamotti and Faye Vincent stopped running the show. Sure, baseball is a trifling thing compared to tyrants, terrorists and homegrown scum like Dick Cheney. But in his ability to shield himself from accountability and act in the most brazen compromised manner, Selig reflects our times.

Dueling Video Clips- Your Winner Appears Here

2011-06-23T21:55:00.001-07:00

Winna

The Dog

2011-06-23T13:33:00.000-07:00

Just cause he was so damn cool.

2011-06-20T21:15:00.000-07:00

Jim Jones Revue

2011-06-14T18:42:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0WtJ3RYlTo

Rock may be dead, but nobody told these guys. They've got all the cliches but god damn it they've got the old-time energy as well. I don't care how many Little Richard riffs they rip or how many times this lead singer watched Tex Perkins woo 'em in Berlin, these guys want the old gold. They want to sweat and scream and bleed and they want you to join them. I don't care if it's all been done before, because ironic detachment never got them dancing. Maybe it actually takes courage to be a Jerry Lee meets Beasts of Bourbon rocker in 2011, and the two records I have by these guys actually rock hard and change the dynamic of the room. I say go.

Outrageous Cherry

2011-06-10T10:11:00.000-07:00

Around and around we go on the music obsessive merry-go-round, looking for satisfaction through price and medium and, oh yea, quality. My general pattern has been vinyl >cassettes> cds> vinyl> soulseek> and vinyl again. But we've had another quantum leap in record prices, and who wants to lay out 18 bucks for a new slab based on Internet raves when you've been burned so many times before? So many folks have left the sterility of the Soulseek game, so it's harder to hear new music for free first to purchase later, which leads me back to the bargain cd bins, a place I thought I'd never return. These serve a couple of functions- they let you hunt for dollar nuggets, which are more fun to listen to than just throwing down plastic for brand new stuff (maybe because expectations are so low), veritably risk-free and make finding treasures far more likely (assuming you can call any cd a "treasure"). They also allow you to take chances without blowing cash that could be better spent getting really drunk.

So I snuck out of work recently and headed out to Concord Rasputin's to escape consciousness by flipping through hundreds of misfit cds, and lo and behold some are some purty darn good: Espers II (gorgeous female singing backed by bearded Pennyslvanian Renaissance reenactors), that Ministry record with "NWO" and "Jesus Built my Hot Rod" on it, a Jesus Lizard ep I'd never seen, and a number of others that will probably get a listen and then get shelved. The big winner, though, is Outrageous Cherry's Out There in the Dark, which is jam-packed with enormous hooks and inventive songwriting. I have one other record by these guys and it has some great tunes, but this one is just so relentlessly consistent that I wonder if I missed the hype boat when it sailed or if it (mixed metaphor and cliche alert) flew under the 1998 tastemakers' radars. I say get your 90s version of a 60s psych-pop freakout on and be fully prepared to press repeat and have these songs stuck in your head the rest of the week, a plight you really ought to thank me for in cash.

Apache Dropout

2011-06-07T06:41:00.000-07:00

This is the best new record I've heard this year, but its oddness makes description a challenge. One song sounds like Thin White Rope, but that's the only one. Another sounds like a darker Modern Lovers, but that's the only one. An ode to Johan Kugelberg includes a spoken word break about fucking in the streets. The back cover has an intense Indian woman with a nuclear blast above her head. What does all this mean? Quality, sir. No easy category quality, but that indefinable stench of goodness keeps wafting from the speakers and it's been too long since I've had a whiff. Rambling, shambling backyard yesirree quality time (fire up the barbecue and whip out the mushrooms, dad!), and we even get a singalong chorus for anthemheads ("Teenager"). Sneakily addictive and druggily pop, this wins the first half of the year for being- follow the circular logic- really, really good.

You Need This

2011-05-14T09:44:00.001-07:00

http://www.aggronautix.com/products.cfm

Dig the Bargain Bin

2011-05-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

Finally, Amoeba listens to its cheapest customers and offers a "Newest Arrivals Bargain Bin," an essential space for those who can seemingly only gain musical pleasure cheaply. Sure, once the wind blew you into the used bins and there the nuggets sat, but like all things to the old, those better days have passed. Anyway, I played hooky a few weeks back and here's some of the haul. It was about seven bucks for the eight records, which last time I checked cost less than half for a new record by some garage band in Wisconsin.

Ron Wood & Ronnie Lane- Mahoney's Last Stand- apparently, this is the soundtrack from some movie I have not seen, but having listened to these mostly instrumental grooves for a quiet morning, I'd like to. This came out in '76 after the Faces' prime, but they're having a hoedown on somebody's million dollar porch and having themselves a time. Worth your buck, hippie.

Eddie Money- Can't Hold Back- I can't make it through the whole thing- all right, I can't make it through Side 1, but with two radio hits in the first three overproduced spurts of schlock, who needs to? Worth a buck only if you overly romanticized Eddie Money's McNally's escapades beyond all subsequent hospital visits.

Van Halen- 1984- have you also forgotten the boys look futuristic on the back cover and that no Eagle regular has ever looked more flaming? Of course it's worth a buck, if only for "Hot for Teacher," which rocks.

Miles Davis- Bitches Brew- I've had this on the ipod for years, but there it sat in all its gatefold glory, inside a shirtless smiling Miles and some Gleason liner notes doing the beat thing a decade late. I dig the new directions- purists can suck it.

Waylon Jennings- The One and Only- we're a long way from outlaw territory- this was an attempt at mainstream Nashville success before rebellion became marketable. Worth a buck only for the context, at least to this cheap bastard.

Dusty Springfield- Dusty in Memphis- send a big ballady English songstress to record with top Memphis studio dudes and let history write the story. I could listen to that voice all of Sunday morning, and somehow the demons keep their distance or nap their frolics off. I'd have paid top dollar for this, so drop your buck if you see one.

Doc & Merle Watson- Then and Now- this is a surprise winner, a Grammy-winning father-son effort that makes these long-covered tunes their own. Even the TVZ cover doesn't piss me off, which doesn't surprise me given the reverence the great one had for Watson. Worth a bicentennial quarter, at the very least.

Willie Nelson- Phases and Stages- I can't tell one Willie Nelson record from the next, probably because I rarely play them more than once. Somehow they call out to me as soothing respites to the day-to-day when I'm trolling the record store, but nothing ever jumps out and screams 'play me' when I'm actually listening. Worth a buck if only for "Bloody Mary Morning," a song I can't remember but a sentiment I stand full-heartedly behind.

#WINNING!

2011-05-01T21:11:00.000-07:00

Pretty damn cool

2011-04-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

Bass Drum of Death, man!

2011-04-28T17:10:00.000-07:00

So yeah, you take a bit of Jay Reatard's new wavey type stuff, add some fizz to the production and a drummer who sounds like he played in the New Bomb Turks. And that's Mississippi's Bass Drum of Death. Just a two-piece. This is my second find this year. The other being the aforementioned Left Lane Cruiser. Or at least side one of LLC's latest.

But back to Bass Drum. Listen to this record when yer cruising with the windows down. It's summer time rock n roll. Perfect for cold beer on back porches, too. Maybe cold beer when you're driving? Not sure anyone does that any more. Anywho, I'd be interested in hearing what Memphis folks think about these guys. As I understand from my good Memphis friend The Colonel, these guys are well-known in those parts. He said BDoD plays a lot with some "insufferable hipster" named Dent?

Whatever. Check this out and get your rock n roll on.

Round 2 Around the Corner- Sharks vs. Red Wings

2011-04-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

Well, at least the next opponent is easy to hate, if not to beat. Death to Hockey Town (oh wait, it's already in ruins).

Born to be a Rolling Stone

2011-04-22T16:56:00.000-07:00

The Be-Bop-a-Lula Gene Vincent is fine by me, but I love his later work even more, especially the twelve songs he cut in 1966 with Glen Campbell on guitar. The songs are fantastic with one notable exception, but it's the voice that kills. Ten more years of pain and booze and the yearning aches, ya know? That voice- jesus- hard to imagine so much abuse didn't destroy it, but that sound dazzles. We're a long way from rockabilly, but it ain't easy to categorize. You get the hard-rocking "Bird-Doggin'" and the gorgeous pop of "Love is a Bird" and the swinging "Poor Man's Prison" and the wistful "Lonely Street." That doesn't include "Hurtin' for You Baby," "Born to be a Rolling Stone" and "Ain't That Too Much," which all have huge hooks delivered in that voice. The only stinker is "Hi-Lili Hi-Lo," which sounds like he's auditioning for a Julie Andrews' movie. This album wasn't released in America right after he made it, but it comes in several varieties now. I'm staring at a British version with Gene kneeling Paul Hornung-style by his star on Hollywood Blvd. He looks like he can barely hold that grin a second longer before he'll have to beat a child. This one is called Born to be a Rolling Stone, but I've also seen it as Ain't That Too Much- The Complete Challenge Sessions and Bird-Doggin'. It don't matter. The songs remain the same, and that voice- damn.

Sharks 6, Kings 3

2011-04-21T22:50:00.001-07:00

Hey Norton

2011-04-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

The new Ugly Things has a long article on Norton Records with sidebars of folks naming their favorite releases. I have somewhat mixed feelings about Norton, as their celebration of all things daddy-o and the overuse of words like 'wild' and 'wacky' and 'crazy' can wear you down. Plus, too many average rockabilly players get too many raves. That said, when I actually looked through their releases, I realized how many I had and how many I loved. They also do first-class packaging with some of the most beautiful covers and arguably the finest liner notes out there. Here are a few of my favorites.

Fort Worth Teen Scene- three full cds of mostly excellent 60s garage, with many of these tunes being nastier than your standard variety beat run through. All three are recommended.

Bobby Fuller- El Paso Recordings, Parts 1-3- this guy is the perfect link between Sun and the Beatles, and even if nobody solves the mystery of his murder (legend has it they poured gasoline down his gullet), so many songs keep getting unburied. He is so much more than "I Fought the Law," which isn't close to his best.

Gino Washington- Love Bandit & Out of this World- these are two of my all-time bestest soul releases, reminding you how much exuberance the older singers brought to the party. Fantastic tunes delivered with great enthusiasm in a spirit of fun, and we're a long way from Marvin Gaye.

The Mighty Hannibal- Hannibalism- he's right up there with Gino in the soul pantheon, but he has his somber moments, even crooning an anti-war number. Every time I pull this out I'm surprised by how good it is.

King Coleman- It's Dance Time- everybody, including your three-year old, is gonna get off the couch for this one, as this remains one of the best times on vinyl. Offbeat R&B that's just a hoot.

Friday at the Hideout- this collection from Detroit's Hideout, a weekend teen hangout for the likes of Bob Seger and his friends, is shockingly good. The tunes stand out from the endless pack of 60s comps for their diversity and quality, and it's a good time to boot.

Charlie Feathers- Uh Huh Honey- this guy has just a bit of swamp in his rockabilly thing, and the songs are just more distinctive than many of the releases from that time. His country stuff is also the shit.

Stud Cole- Burn Baby Burn- one of the genuinely weird discoveries from a near-Elvis impersonator who brings the spookiest double-tracking vocals to his bluesy uncategorizable numbers. That's him pictured above, and I can't recommend this enough if you haven't heard anything fresh for awhile.

Flat Duo Jets- Safari, Introducing, Red Tango, Wild Blue Yonder- my love for all things Dexter knows no bounds, and you can't go wrong with any of these.

Andre Williams- Greasy, Bait and Switch- not much left to say about this guy, but these records do hold up, even if B&S is uneven.

Hasil Adkins- The Wild Man- this has always been my favorite from him, even though most folks dig Out to Hunch. His version of "Matchbox" wins the prize, and that's a long list of contenders.

The Sonics- duh

"I Don't Know How to Feel Right Now"

2011-04-20T10:25:00.000-07:00

"The true fan naturally thinks of the team as a kind of artificial totem, through which the community enjoys and suffers together the team's varied fortunes, maintaining a common temperature, as if every citizen shared the same heart." William Gass

Clearly, I am not a true fan, and for once, at least this morning, Mr. Gass is very, very wrong. Last night, the Sharks stunk up the ice for twenty-one minutes, and when I turned off the television, they had been outscored 8-0 in the last four periods by a weak offensive team missing its top scorer. I didn't even stick around long enough to see the last desperate act of the white-flag waving NHL coach- switching goalies. So after I put two kids to bed and sat down to read in the peaceful quiet of my living room, I noticed a pleasant calm, a serenity that comes after the worst has happened, like the pacific expression of that keyless drunk stumbling from the tank after his DUI in a forgotten beachside town.

Of course, man was not meant for lucidity and peace of mind, and conditioning overpowers that first illusion of will power and cheap wisdom. I turned on the fucking TV, and now it's 4-2, and the eyes roll and I've chomped down hard on the bait, knowing in a moment the lie that is free will. And then it's 4-3, and even while I'm speaking out loud to an empty room, "I ain't buying that tease," I'm whipping out the credit card for another roll in the masochist hay. 15 seconds later the Kings score when the Sharks appear to be collectively on PCP, like five teel hippies in a field. 15 seconds to remind you just how stupid your fleeting faith had been.

But we're still in the second period, and here comes another teel wave. 5-4. Joe Pavelski, the most stoned looking on that hope-crushing fifth Kings' goal, then miraculously flips a backhand over a stunned Jonathan Quick (I kid you not, this is their goalie's name) and in the inimitable words of that Frenchman stuffed into a cannon and then taken out when Joan of Arc decides boulders would have more destructive power on that Simpsons' episode mocking the classics, "I don't know how to feel right now."

The third period is naturally played more conservatively than a Barry Goldwater budget, and they're heading for OT, and I'm off for a beer. Three minutes later the mostly silent Patrick Marleau receives the puck with one hand on his stick, spins past a defender at the blue line and then threads a perfect pass to the recently incompetent Devin Setoguchi, who buries the winner on the same top shelf Joe Pavelski hit in Game 1.
Sharks win, 6-5 and take a 2-1 lead in the series.

Ecstasy, right? Greatest playoff comeback in Sharks' history ought to warrant a solo dance in the dark and a bit of morning giddiness, but no. It's mostly disgust with their absurdly awful play and the positions they put their long-suffering fans into. To paraphrase a buddy- I'm in a different place, and I hate being in that place, and I hate them for putting me in that place.

And I can't wait for Game 4.

Round 1 is Here

2011-04-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

Well, that cold April rain falling on this dismal morning can only mean one thing- the start of the most exciting two months (one if you're a Sharks fan) in sports- the NHL playoffs. Because alcoholic aging punkers tend more toward baseball (longer game times mean more justifiable drinking times, plus all those "it's OK" day drinking benders with the 1:00 weekend starts), let me guide you through the first round of this year's playoff matchups.

EASTERN CONFERENCE

(1) Washington Capitals vs. (8) New York Rangers- the Rangers are everybody's consensus pick for biggest dog in the post-season, so even the Caps can't choke to them. Caps in 5.

(2) Philadelpia Flyers vs. (7) Buffalo Sabres- You'd have to love the Flyers except for one thing- Chris Pronger, the most intimidating and successful defenseman over the past decade, is out for at least the first two games. Sabres in 6.

(3) Boston Bruins vs. (6) Montreal Canadiens- the hate in this rivalry makes every game a must-watch and more emotion favors the underdog, but I'm still sayin' Boston has too much all over. Bruins in 6.

(4) Pittsburgh Penguins vs. (5) Tampa Bay Lightning- Malkin and Crosby are still out, but somehow they'll figure out a way to make it happen. Pens in 7.

WESTERN CONFERENCE

(1) Vancouver Canucks vs. (8) Chicago Blackhawks- last year's Stanley Cup winners back in on the last day and get this year's regular season class act for their trouble. All signs point to the Canucks marching through the playoffs, but they rarely beat the Hawks and they have a history of Shark-like gagging. Hawks in 7.

(2) San Jose Sharks vs. (7) Los Angeles Kings- the first round is always a struggle for the men in teel, and this year should be no different. The loss of Kopitar, though, and the Kings' general lack of firepower should set Sharks' fans' misery back a few weeks. Sharks in 6.

(3) Detroit Red Wings vs. (6) Phoenix Coyotes- the Coyotes match up well against the aging gentlemen from Hockey Town, but somehow those red and white jerseys find a way. Wings in 7.

(4) Anaheim Ducks vs. (5) Nashville Predators- the Ducks have the best line in hockey with Perry./Getzlaf/Ryan, and that alone will be too much for the Predators, who have never won a post-season series and want to keep that streak alive. Ducks in 7.

See you in a couple of weeks for Round 2, when my 3/8 prediction stats will have my credibility drowning in a puddle of beer, sweat and tears.

Range Rats

2011-04-09T14:33:00.000-07:00

If you've seen the Dead Moon documentary, you might remember that tale of Fred and Toody on the road playing country songs in odd locations- middle-age walkabout, Cole style. Well, the record from that time (before Fred remembered he was born to rock) got buried, but the good folks at Mississippi have dug it up and put it out. Range Rats is better than I expected, as I'd seen a few pics of Fred with a cowboy hat and they zinged high on the cringe meter. The sound here is actually much better than on a Dead Moon record, as perhaps they still had commerical dreams. There's nothing here that's going to make you sit straight up and scream, "For the love of Gram Parsons!" but it's a pleasant aural stroll along that Oregon trail. They don't overdo the countryisms in the vocals, the tunes have big melodies and their harmonizing is rather pretty. I'm gonna chalk this in the pleasant surprise category and see if I can cancel that drunken Internet order from last night. Don't let friends surf drunk, especially with a credit card.

Gass

2011-04-05T20:28:00.000-07:00

I'm not on Facebook and I don't tweet. The iphone my wife insists I have has the sound off. I haven't watched a commercial television program since Cheers. I don't watch network news and I gave up on CNN. I couldn't find satellite radio if I were dating a slutty NASA secretary. My car has no GPS and the sound of a text makes my skin crawl.

I am old, and while the setup looks ready for a vitriolic denouncement of all things modern tech, that is not my direction. Let me put it this way- avoiding the popular cultural filters, I have to find other outlets to let me know what's what. Allow me to introduce you to one, if you have not yet made his acquaintance.

William Gass has a voice that makes me feel less alone, even though he is now 85 years old. He is a cultural and literary critic and a respected novelist, which matters far less than that he is a stylist, and one of the few remaining. It doesn't matter what he's writing about- it's the getting there that counts. While I would humbly submit that his last novel, The Tunnel, is the last masterpiece of this generation's age, few agree. It makes no difference. The writing schools will continue to pump out spare-prosed breakdowns of marriages by those who haven't lived, and the thirtysomethings will applaud as they recognize their own failures in the self-congratulating whining nothings who inhabit those apartment walls. It's time to leave such fiction on the shelf. It is a whirlpool in a cul de sac, a self-lacerating mirror fuck that takes us nowhere but to our own misery. Reading ought to serve a better purpose.

Gass teaches philosophy, but he is a remarkably playful writer. Some smart guys like to slip some vulgar into their highbrow to show they can ride with the truck drivers, but for Gass, writing must be about all of it. Spiritual yearning and shit-stained yes-fucks. Art and assholes. Gods and garters. Gass makes reading about anything a pleasure, and that’s a sentence I really ought to end with. Plot, for the big man, is for Hollywood hacks. When the mind that reads meets a like mind that writes, narration is beyond the point. We seek connection beyond what we’re allowed when we drop the kids off at practice.

The long dorm bullshit sessions are over. When the swirl of middle-age life leaves you numb on the couch again, no text or tweet or post will make ya feel any less alone. Gass reminds us that books can still deliver one kind of human connection that social media simply doesn’t offer- sustained and deep focus on another's consciousness. And if you’re extremely lucky, you just might find a writer who lets you know those horrific thoughts that arrive at your weakest moments are human thoughts, sent from the collective mind but rarely spoken aloud or the A-list won't find you on it. We need our truth tellers to remind us we are not entirely alienated. Gass’s erudition is far beyond mine, but he settles in on the page and makes you feel at home in the dark muck, the strange mix of higher aspirations and baser drives. When you read Gass, you recognize the breadth of your waking life delivered without judgment. A sample-

What hope of happiness now, now I must fuck my own hand?

I’m sick of living in your childhood.

He is human in his off hours.

If there were a god who did create, then he’d have the cock squirt scotch at climax, and oral sex would produce a genuine and weary climax.

Prison is a splendid place to put writers. It gives them a sense of grievance, and we know that grievances are among authors' more powerful motives; it removes them from temptations, and we know how easily writers are tempted by bosom or bottle; it eliminates distractions, that of the housewife among the more miserable, and makes pointless all the petty steps which must be taken in order to advance one's commercial, scholarly, or political careers; it directs the mind to the main things: liberty, injustice, the misery of humankind, the irremediable loss of opportunity, man's vast immemorial waste of Time, now seen as not some abstract flow of tick to tock but as the lit wick of life itself blown out and the expired candle's timorous thread of smoke still unaccountably mistaken for the flame.

That comes from a one-minute skimming of one essay, and more and merrier frolic on nearly every page the critics hacked bile and snot upon. This is a man you don’t read, let alone meet, every day. Digging deep into his pages leaves the tinkling sound of the cell unheard and the querulous cry of junior a distant echo in the cobwebs of your bad day. The man gets it, and all you can say is thanks for sharing.

Chi Pig

2011-03-31T14:00:00.000-07:00

I haven't seen this, but apparently it came out this month. "She's Not on the Menu" was the first song that popped in my head when I saw the title of this film. It's been a long time since SNFU made it in my tape deck, and it looks like the years have not been kind to Chi Pig.

Cold Turkey

2011-03-30T21:50:00.000-07:00

Even when Lennon was trying to be a hippie or a house dad or a spaceman, he could roll, ya know?

Digging

2011-03-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

Forgive me. I've never owned a Misfits record before. I used to have a taped-over TDK with a mishmash of songs, but I've never owned an album proper. Some of those so-called classics just slip through the vinyl cracks, and even when you think you've heard it, well, I guess not. I bought Static Age for $10.98, which these days passes for a steal, the price of vinyl on full ascension. People complain about the price of gasoline, but at least it comes down occasionally and at great speed. This new era of niche vinyl lovers has driven the prices beyond what I'll schlep out on anything but a sure thing, and that's sad, because I'm a lifetime digger. Do people regularly shell out $17.99 for an album they've only read about? Is everybody previewing everything via download and then just dropping the big load once they've determined the quality? I don't know, because everyone I know rolls their eyes when they see my record player. I am a very small island in my social circles, so what people do or don't do in the fetish world of vinyl record buying is a big mystery.

But I'm curious, because we've been through a number of stages, but seeing cd list prices six bucks less than vinyl list reminds ya of the tectonic shift. If you ask your typical bald, middle-aged, spectacle-wearing cultural critic, he'll write that music as a material item has been dead for a long time. Free, according to the caffeinated folks at Wired, is the new norm, and we're all supposed to get used to it. Of course, as any former Soulseek user will tell ya, what comes free through your computer at night and made you romp down the steps each morning to see what arrived in the Transfer box becomes sterile and empty over time. If everything is free, what has value?

Well, at least that is part of my experience, if not all of it. When the Soulseek kick started waning, I went back to vinyl, and that made the process of acquiring music fun again. After awhile, though, I missed a few things. Most of all, I missed the hunt for nuggets, the cheapies some hungover buyer had mispriced. Finding that underpriced record you've been seeking forever is why diggers dig. Or just seeing something that looks weird and at a few bucks is worth the risk and won't tarnish the experience if it sucks. Unfortunately, it gets harder and harder to find anything like that anymore, at least at the stores I now occasionally sneak away to. Granted, my time is far more limited these days, but I never find vinyl nuggets anymore, at least the way I define them. I even started rummaging through the cd bins, at least the bargain ones, because the hunt for cheap remained an important part of the experience. It makes no sense, unless you consider that seeing some record for a buck reminds you that you just might like it; thinking about what you might like on Soulseek requires you to recall, but digging is about recognition, and any cognition expert will tell you the latter is a far easier part of our memory to access. So I see a Ministry greatest hits record and think, what the fuck? One enjoyable song is worth a buck, and the process far more than that.

And so I bought a Misfits record, because the reissue business has made quality vinyl a viable option. I'm curious, though: are these reissue folks making any money at this, or is it a selfless effort of love? Are those 4 Men with Beards profiting, or are they making vinyl that no longer exists that they'd like to hear? I don't know the answer to these questions. All I know is that if you offer me a record that has held up for twenty or thirty years at five or six bucks less than one that a few folks on the Internet are hyping, I have a very easy decision. For the record, I can't believe how good this Misfits record is. Really, I am not kidding. It's fucking hit city.

For the Love of Tanner

2011-03-21T20:30:00.000-07:00

To watch The Bad News Bears today is to look at a nearly unrecognizable world. Walter Matthau stumbles around as a less than sober contrast to today's cult of self-esteem parenting that rewards breathing. The "parenting" revolution of the last twenty-five years has not necessarily been an evolutionary leap forward, and this film reminds you of its mixed results. Look, I spend most weekends in a camping chair on various East Bay little league fields, and the most common parental cry is "Great job!" Little Timmy looks at three fastballs down the middle without lifting that hundred dollar aluminum bat off his shoulder, and the coach shrieks, "Great job, Timmy! Great try!" Little Max dribbles a meek grounder to the first baseman who lets the ball slowly roll into his glove and takes one easy step to the bag. The parents erupt: "Beautiful play! Now that's baseball!" Both boys look embarrassed. I breathe deeply. And the beat goes on.

Obviously, there is nothing wrong with positive encouragement, but at times it looks like a presentation of good parenting. Watch me encourage the children. If you get the same words in the same tone for doing absolutely nothing that you do for fouling off five pitches and then ripping a single to left, the traditional conditioning model has left the building. If I'm mixing my metaphors, maybe I'm confused, too.

The Bad News Bears came out in 1976, and the opening scene is Walter Matthau driving into the ballpark's parking lot, dumping a bit of Bud from the can he's holding and topping it off with bourbon. He's being paid to coach a new team of misfits because the parents are busy. He's got his afternoons free and a fierce booze habit to support, so a genre is born- the lovable losers pull together and take on the arrogant rich kids for the championship. It was a novel premise at the time, but from a 2011 couch, much of the fun is spotting cultural shifts.

For one, Matthau drinks openly and publicly AT ALL TIMES. He drinks in the dugout. He's holding a Schlitz when he ambles to the mound to berate his pitcher. His Bud never leaves his hand when he drives, and he never shows the slightest self-consciousness about any of it. He does all this in the presence of blessed children, and yet few comment on or gape at the booze in his hand. It's just there. A few kids comment by dismissing him as a drunk, but their tone is sadly knowing, as if they've seen this act for too long at home. He's not a good man and he's a terrible role model, and I wouldn't want him coaching or coming near my sons. But something in his unwillingness to even pretend at niceties makes him a cartoon anti-hero for those choking on the trophy-for-everyone times. Any "great job" coming out of his mouth comes in response to something worthy of the utterance.

The kids are especially tough. Everybody's favorite is Tanner, the trash-talking, racial-epithet hurling, fist-throwing second baseman. Tanner turns no cheeks and never met an empty "good game" he could spit out. At the end of the championship game, when the evil Yankees deliver their empty apology, Tanner doesn't fake-smile and the boy doesn't hug. "You can take your apology and your trophy and shove it up your ass." He could grow up to be a horrible person, but it's hard to find that brash fighting spirit and toughness today. In an uncomfortable sense, Tanner keeps folks honest. Kelly Leak, the Harley-riding, chain-smoking and cougar-chasing baseball Brando, does doughnuts on the field during the opening day ceremonies and takes Tatum O'Neal to see the Stones. He was winning when Sheen was in diapers. Today, he'd probably be in Learning Skills and on Ritalin.

Most importantly, the movie remains hilarious. The kids are distinctively funny, a few adults are not shallow and selfish, and the games are filled with weird drama. Find a sixer of Schlitz Malt Liquor and rent this beauty one rainy afternoon. Tanner will be a far better inspiration for the evening than that gym visit ever could. If you haven't seen it for awhile, you might be surprised just how raw this thing is.

Round 16 with The Beatles

2011-03-16T21:45:00.000-07:00

I keep trying every couple years or so, and it's always a different catalyst. This time it might have been a blurry late-night Behind the Music John Lennon, the Final Years. Or maybe it was a Ringo infomercial. It's hard to say. No matter, but for some reason I feel compelled to "get" The Beatles, having failed miserably for all these years. I'm getting closer, but I suffered a major setback tonight when my wife insisted I not skip "Imagine." That fucking song has a way of highlighting Lennon as the poster boy of all things "stupid hippie" and everything else that was absurdly naive about the 60s.

I did pretty well a few years back with Revolver and Rubber Soul, but Sgt. Pepper's ended the run. Is that the most overrated album in rock? It sounds like the voice you've spent your whole life trying to suffocate with a camphor-soaked hankie. I always liked the White Album, even in my college days, when we set Let It Be on fire, taped it to a longboard and burned it in the trash can on 45th St. in Newport, screaming "Let it burn, let that fucker burn!" Not to get all druggy on ya, but The White Album is one great fucking acid record, up in the pantheon with Electric Sun or The Pleasure Principle. "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" will make you fuck a light socket, but beware those emergency room bills. I even downloaded some early Beatles for the first time, and some of that sounds more honest. Cloying, but not dripping with pretension. Of course the problem with classic rock is you can't hear the hits anymore. Like the big cliches, all power is gone. Radio saturated the airwaves with the Fab Ones and and left our ears soggy, even if "Hey Jude" and "Yesterday" were dead on arrival.

But the older I get and the further I drift from the old dogma, the better the Beatles sound. They still can't touch the Stones in my personal on-the-bus-off-the-bus trip, but the polarization ain't as great. Hell, I put on John Lennon's Greatest Hits earlier this evening and only fast-forwarded through seven of twenty songs. I'm not sure if that's emotional maturity, middle-age or laziness, but that "Working Class Hero" tune kills. Anyway, I'm just avoiding duties and clearly have little to say. Ya got any personal Beatles' demons to exorcise?

Cure the Sunday Blues

2011-03-13T17:20:00.000-07:00

I'm hungover, and it's raining on a Sunday afternoon. Tried to watch Richard Pryor on the Sunset Strip and fell asleep. Tried to listen to J. Mascis' new band, Sweet Apple, but failed because it's aggressively awful. Picked up that Touch 'n Go book and was reminded of the print zine's chief function - to salve the Sunday afternoon blues. Read a piece on John Brannon when he was in Negative Approach and was reminded that I've never checked out The Laughing Hyenas on youtube. And there it is. Enjoy.

Passing in the Left Lane

2011-03-12T19:51:00.000-08:00

I found it. The first record of 2011 I really dig. It's the product of a two-piece from Fort Wayne, Indiana. On their new lp, Junkyard Speedball, they team up with the Rev. James Leg from the Black Diamond Heavies and Detroit Ghetto Recorder's Jim Diamond. What transpires is a very fun lesson in slide guitar, distortion and backbeat. If you're thinking this is just like the Black Keys, or even the White Stripes, you're wrong....this is waaaaay better. More like a modern day Bantam Rooster. Raw, middle America punk-ass blues. Dig it!

Escape Winter with White Wires II

2011-03-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I'm listening to this record, and I'm listening to it often, I get the queasy feeling that its target audience is 13-year old girls. Let's face it- generally, we could abolish rock lyrics and we'd be better off. Toe tap to the catchy riffs and avoid words like "popularity" and "summer girl," and you can escape the river of tasks curling into your inbox making pleasure a fantasy equivalent to Democratic efficiency. I don't know- the relentless grind can get you down, and sometimes only the Brainbombs or Pissed Jeans reflect the churning bitterness within. A steady diet of that shit, though, and you're on the 7:00 news, so lighter fare tempers the darkness and creates the illusion that convertible fun might be just around the corner. That's where White Wires come in. Their new record, White Wires II, is a collection of singalong summer anthems to pretend to. We need that escapism now and then. The top is still on the Mustang, but it's nice to know that soon it can come off and we'll be riding through the Oakland hills, gazing at majestic views of the East Bay and contemplating a trip to Haight St., to Amoeba and then several rounds at Hobson's Choice. White Wires are about possibility, and they make the medicine of winter go down just a little easier. Maybe Drunks with Guns is a better x-ray, but I'm hoping White Wires point to the future. Or at least Tuesday.

How to End Your Career

2011-03-02T22:21:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I watched a fascinating documentary on Harry Nilsson. You remember that guy- he sang the theme to Midnight Cowboy, "Everybody's Talkin'," even if he didn't write it. He did that kooky "Put the lime in the coconut" ditty. He partied with John Lennon and apparently sent the anointed one to rehab and god, which is probably redundant. Anyway, after his breakthrough album sold a gillion copies, he imploded and insisted the following song be his next single. I like this man, at least at a humble distance.

"You're Breakin' My Heart"

You're breakin' my heart
You're tearing it apart so fuck you

All I want to do is have a good time now I'm blue
You won't boogaloo,
Run down to Tramps, have a dance or two, ooohhh
You're breakin' my heart,
You're tearing it apart but fuck you

You're breakin' my heart
You're tearing it apart, boo-hoo

You stepped on my ass
You're breakin' my glasses too
You won't drive my car, might be a star
I've had enough of you
I'm goin' insane
There's no one to blame so fuck you

You can't have your way
There's nothing left to say
There's nothing left to do, ooooohhh
You're breakin' my heart
You're tearing it apart so fuck you

You gotta have your way
There's nothing left to say
There's nothing left to do, ooooowww
You're breakin' my heart
You're tearing it apart but I love you

Metal March

2011-02-28T20:44:00.000-08:00

Stop listening to another tuneless take on indie/garage/noise/trash/weird/experimental/etc. and just listen to some fucking metal, dude. I'll be this week's guide.

Kvelertak- S/T - a Norwegian John Brannon fronts Turbonegro during the latter's glory years, which might sound hideous to you, but your track record of wrong speaks for itself. That our screamer sings in Norwegian renders all lyrics unintelligible, but given the standard inanity of metal poetry, that is probably a blessing. The difficulty distinguishing between the eleven songs suggests the relentless pursuit of a clear vision or the extremely limited range of your one-trick pony- I say let's ride.

Black Breath- Heavy Breathing- Seattle, of all forgotten places, has itself something serious here. I'm guessing these boys have a lovingly maintained shrine to Entombed in their shitstained communal space. Apparently these guys come from hardcore, but haircuts are fucking expensive and metal chicks are hotter and sluttier. I'm listening to this in Piedmont right now, and this song is called "Eat the Witch."

Shining- Blackjazz- Trying to describe this would put the final nail in my asshole coffin. That album title should tell you most of what you need to know, especially if you couple it with the premise of this stroll through metal lane. This record genuinely makes me ponder a ride on the middle-aged acid train. I have no idea if I enjoy this "music." I just know it is weirdly intriguing and makes suburban streets radiate pulsating heat when I trudge off to the gulag.

Peaking?

2011-02-26T21:44:00.001-08:00

Maybe the Sharks are peaking at the right time this year.

Happy Birthday to Me

2011-02-24T22:02:00.000-08:00

King Tuff came out of nowhere a few years back with one of the best pop records in ages. You could describe it a number of different ways, but let's say Marc Bolan more than had a run for his money. The mystery of who the hell this band was didn't hurt the allure, and when folks learned it was a one-dude effort from a doom metal guy, eyebrows raised. So of course expectations were high for what comes next, and fast it came. But it didn't come in the form of King Tuff. Apparently, overwhelmed by stage fright when faced with playing new songs live and alone, our hero drafted a few friends and Happy Birthday was born. According to the always credible Internet legend, one song got them a deal with Sub Pop, and the new record was born. And well, the initial backlash was rather unkind. I was late on all of it, but by the time I bought the record, I had read enough trashing of the thing to know my ears were tainted.

And, well, it didn't sound so hot at first. It meandered. Sure, the first tune was a pop monster and the second was no slouch, but those first few listens had me wondering how many Brian Wilson bios our hero had been reading and whether symphonic harmonies was an oxymoron. Time passed, and thankfully, I kept listening. Slowly, the best qualities of the songs revealed themselves, even if a few songs offered very few best qualities. Most did, though, and the extra listening time rewarded the effort. I'm pretty sure that if I had downloaded this album, I would have buried it after three listens, and its treasures would have lain dormant in the Recycle Bin. I don't have the energy for that big argument, but this is clearly a record that offers its pleasures slowly. D-loads demand immediate love, cuz if the first listen don't cut it, five more hopefuls are queued and ready for consumption. You have to pay attention to this record in a way you don't have to with King Tuff to find what's best in it. Don't get me wrong- the KT record is clearly better, but this one is sneaky good. Give it a chance.

BOB

2011-02-20T22:20:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, it's necessary.

Shine a Light

2011-02-18T21:15:00.000-08:00

Well, with five eight-year old boys shaking the house to its foundation, I'll take any diversion I can get. I never saw Martin Scorcese's Stones' film, Shine a Light, so after wiping cupcake frosting off the TV I figured even Mick shirtless was better than finding pepperoni in the Wii. But sadly, with too few exceptions, this one was a yawn. The 'film' is mostly concert footage with what looks like a paid (or rich) audience of New York's beautiful dancing and raising their arms to cue cards as the boys march through the hits. We get desperate attempts at relevancy with Christine Aguilera and Jack White, the latter particularly smarmy and gross as he kept slithering up to Mick's mike for his duet, but neither worked. The other big guest, Buddy Guy, was one of the best moments, as the then 70-year old's voice boomed out of that microphone and the band seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves when he was up there. I also enjoyed Keith singing "Connection," and "Faraway Eyes" was a pleasant little nugget. But let's face it- you've seen it all before, and it's probably not a good sign when you spend a good chunk of the time talking wigs, botox, hair dye and viagra with your wife while watching a rock concert. And we were talking about the band, you fuckers.

Anyway, this is an easy skip. Yes, Mick's ballerina figure remains astonishing, and Keith is a Johnny Depp pirate with the proverbial cigarette dangling. Ronnie Wood looks like wax and not ironically, the oldest and grayest Stone, Charlie Watts, looks just fine. I will always love the Stones, but I've seen enough of them on film. The old records hold up beautifully, but does anybody need to see them again in any context? Maybe an extended interview with tough questions about failed relationships or their inability to make even a decent record in thirty years or whether they feel like old actors pasting on the smile one more time to pay some bills. They played a video of late '70s Stones right after the movie with the band playing aggressively bad disco that was far more interesting than the film because it was raw and unpredictable and a little crazy in a way 65-year old men can't, and really shouldn't, be. Put the cameras away, guys. Let memory do its work.

They Are Kinda Sorta the Road Crew

2011-02-15T20:44:00.000-08:00

OK, I'll admit it- the Giants' WORLD SERIES VICTORY has softened my edges. I don't mutter about the pathetic We Believers filling Oracle to watch another losing season with great hopes of free pizza. I could not care less who starts at quarterback for the Raiders or 49ers. But most shockingly, I've taken a zen approach to the disappointing Sharks season. That, you'll be happy to hear, ends tonight.

If you haven't been paying attention, the Sharks made the conference final and got beat by the eventual champion Blackhawks. OK, they got swept, but they did trounce Detroit, a perennial obstacle and class-of-the league team, and the series had me leaping off couches, at least four times. Expectations were tempered, however, by an off-season in which the one big defensive gun on the power play, Rob Blake, retired, and win-every-faceoff and do-the-little-things scrapper Manny Malhotra signed with the fucking Canucks. In response, Doug Wilson let Nabby go and signed two goalies, including the Stanley Cup-holding Antti Niemi, who left the Blackhawks in odd contractual circumstances. The Sharks did not appear to have improved themselves for arguably the first time in the Wilson era, and then they spent the first half of the season playing worse than that.

After a six-game losing streak had the usually chipper Shark Tank fans booing the team off the ice in consecutive games, coach McLellan looked like the best candidate for an aneurism since Hal McRae trashed his office. He was trashing players every night in the press, calling his superstars pussies with no heart or work ethic. Don't you just love hockey?

Well, the team looked slightly better after the losing streak, and then they left for a seven-game trip completed tonight with an overtime win over their usual bitches, the Nashville Predators. They beat the Bruins and the Caps along the way, two of the class teams in the East, but stumbled in New Jersey and Florida, blowing third period leads in both games to shit teams to ruin my Tahoe weekend before completing a 5-2 trip with tonight's Patrick Marleau clincher. I've still got those two chokes stuck in my craw, but I'm struggling to admit that's a pretty decent road trip record. The team stands seventh in the Western Conference as of tonight (with a few games left on tonight's west coast docket), precariously clutching a playoff position in the absurdly tight West. This is new for Sharks fans, who are used to a comfortable division lead and even a small cushion for top spot in the conference over the past few years. One philosopher suggests the Sharks' dominance over the regular season only to fall short in the playoffs makes this year's early failure a new kind of hope, and another offers that maybe this team just isn't very good. I think they're coming together, and I say that begrudgingly. The defense is infinitely tighter than in the early season, and while we desperately need a big stopper on the blue line, the team defense looks far more in sync than at any other time this year. Let's put it this way- in seven road games, the Sharks gave up eleven goals, and Niemi just ain't that kind of stopper.

So for the casual observer, things look relatively bright. But we are Sharks fans, and words like "confidence" and "hope" and "belief" are for religious fanatics and Obama supporters. We're like the David Humes of hockey, or maybe we're just Missouri- show me or shut up, and keep those abstract nouns to yourself. I'm gonna hug my Joe Pavelski doll and then pour a long draught from the kegerator. And then I'm going to steel myself for the pain ahead. I suggest you do likewise.

Fuck Keith Richards- It's Lemmy

2011-02-14T19:46:00.000-08:00

I finally caught Lemmy, the documentary about Sir Kilminster, Motorhead MC. Granted, I saw a bowdlerized version on VH1, complete with more beeps than an episode of The Daily Show, but the gist was clear. This was less documentary and more hagiography, as Sir Lemmy is lionized as the patron saint of all things rock 'n' roll. One famous rocker after the next does his/her talking head bit with no superlative unuttered. Dave Grohl probably finds the bestest bestest when our hero is deemed "the baddest motherfucker of all time." And for good measure, Mr. Grohl states emphatically, "Fuck Keith Richards. Lemmy is rock 'n' roll." Those two lines are the guiding principles of the film, as folks come to pay homage, not to tease or chastise. Interestingly, in his autobiography, Lemmy rips just about everyone he's ever come in contact with, but those folks get no air here. If you want a deep exploration of the man's psyche, you'll be sorely disappointed. This is a celebration, not an examination, and so with that on the table, you can enjoy what's there.

Which is pretty fun, for what it is. This ain't no A-Z narrative with baby pics through tortured adolescence and then manhood. This is not the rise and fall and rise again of Behind the Music. This is Lemmy's perpetual now, which amounts to a few simple pleasures. Touring, playing video games, sitting at The Rainbow nursing Jack and cokes, chaining Marlboro Reds and playing trivia games. It's probably worth the price of admission just to see his pad, which looks like Melrose Place gone to seed and sits conveniently a block from the Rainbow, his first stated reason for getting the place. His second? Rent-control- he drops just $900 a month on it, and even that looks like no steal. The tiny place is stuffed with pop memorabilia and Nazi crap, including a number of Lemmy dolls of varying design and materials. You get to watch Lemmy make fries and cover his considerable jowls with scent. I call that must-see television.

You also get moments of Lemmy's "wisdom," such as it is. He shocks his son by pronouncing him the greatest thing in his apartment, which catches the poor lad completely unprepared and nearly lands him in a puddle of his own tears. Lemmy seems not to notice the irony when a moment later he matter-of-factly mentions the time the two of them, father and son, shared the same woman, and then quips, "But you know, some broads are into that. Same as a guy doing the mother and daughter." The son's confused look is either priceless or heartbreaking, depending on your own proclivities. The confirmed bachelor says that any true rocker must choose the road or his beloved, because the two are mutually exclusive. He poignantly denies encouraging his lifestyle on anybody else because too many of his friends didn't make it. He's been lucky, but he's too old to find god now.

You get a few old clips, but mostly it's Lemmy in his apartment or at the Rainbow, or it's Metallica or Joan Jett or Ozzy singing his praises. He's clearly earned his respect on the circuit, and if most of these talking head rockers have a god, it's Lemmy. I can't say this is well-crafted or provides a compelling narrative or offers much insight into one of rock's iconic figures, but if you dig Motorhead, you kind of have to watch it.

The Insecure Network

2011-02-12T20:33:00.000-08:00

I just got done watching the Social Network. It is the most depressing thing I've ever seen. Evidently, being extremely smart and getting into Harvard isn't enough to make you feel good about yourself. Instead, you worry about which Harvard club you can get into and when you're not invited, you send nasty stuff on the internet about people. In the process of doing this, you discover the rest of the world is sort of insecure, and wants to be in the in-crowd. And you end up richer than God, because you figured this out and added some ads.

Oh and you can never stop talking. Never.

What I was left feeling after this movie is how shallow people are. And with all the challenges in the world, evidently our best and brightest can't stop being obsessed about where they rank in the Quad. Just like everyone.

When are we going to cure cancer? Or figure out how to make cars run on water so we never have to buy another barrel of mid-east oil again? Hell, I'd settle for a cure for hangovers. Instead, we get Facebook and Jesse Samberg.

You don't listen to this record enough

2011-02-11T19:02:00.000-08:00

There isn't enough time or space to tell you how much I love the Replacements. So I'll try to just keep it short... youth, lots of real cheap beer, midwesterners, crazy talent and rock roll. The Replacements were the best American rock n roll band that ever happened during my life time.

And then they started sucking really hard. And they broke up. Sort of like that relationship you had with that crazy alcoholic girlfriend in '88. It was red hot. Then you realized she is nuts and there is no fucking way this can last. And it hurts, sucks, makes you cry. In the meantime, Pearl Jam has taken over the airwaves.

Rough stuff, brother.

GrandpaBoy album Dead Man Shake is Paul Westerberg's brief, lone contribution to musical greatness since the demise of the Mats. Its horribly cheap sounding. He plays drums and he's really bad. And yet the lp is filled with so many great songs. He just peels off the hooks. The lyrics are barbed and the notes very, very bluesy. Even a Jimmy Reed cover.

Do yourself a favor and get a hold of this. It will make you love music, remember when you lived and died for musical heroes and you weighed 20 pounds less. And that crazy hot girl that could never have lasted.

And didn't.

Jack of Heart- San Francisco/Ponytail

2011-02-08T21:28:00.000-08:00

Apparently, this is one former Fatal and a Creteen making sounds nothing like their previous bands. Things slow down with just a touch of cowboy, but there's a groove if you wait for it. The A-side finds its particular stride nicely and settles in, even if the flip sounds like a couple of guys in mom's basement with a bong and a bucket. If both were soundtracks, the hit would be for a Gallic march into the sea, and the B-side would nicely support that new Danish comedy, "Idiots at the Beach." I kept staring at the back cover, wondering if that juxtaposition of titles was harkening back to the SF ponytail boys of the 80s, psychefunkepuss lovin' and Naked Lunch showing but not reading pricks that rode rice rockets and talked a lot about process. Do those guys still exist? Speaking of the 80s, Larry Blakes on Telegraph is closing its doors after over thirty years. That downstairs space should have been the greatest east bay rock venue ever, but instead they gave that chick from the Heinz Club, what, three months? It's depressing that I spent more time in the upstairs bar, often trying to beat up the jukebox every time the Eagles came on. It was indeed a ponytailed bartender who 86ed me after that first attack. I met my draft-dodging friend Harold in that bar, when I noticed he was drawing what looked like a scene from Under the Volcano on a cocktail napkin. We stopped here on a couple of bar crawls, and I think I even managed to avoid ever eating. Clearly, Telegraph has fallen on hard times in the last decade, but if somehow they could find a new owner who hates blues and rap, that street might have a chance.

Sandwina, God of Bloat

2011-02-06T13:29:00.000-08:00

All hail the bloat of Sandwina, our symbol of that most religious of American holidays, Super Bowl Sunday. We wish you reflux, indigestion, flatulence and halitosis at your Monday meeting. May Roger Goodell go with you . . .

Soundtrack to a Stained Pillow

2011-02-04T16:10:00.000-08:00

It's as close to drugs as I get these days, the last few days of the flu, and I was seeking a soundtrack to the fever break and the rancid sweat staining the pillow. John Prine's "Sam Stone" has always been a friend of mine, and this morning I wondered which was the greater line from that famous couplet ("There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes/ Jesus Christ died for nothing, I suppose."). Perhaps they can't be separated. Roy Wood's "Nancy, Sing Me a Song" had that otherworldly quality suited for the half-dream state to thrash in, and Skip James' eerie falsetto on "Devil Got My Woman" made me cry for mommy. The undisputed king of the saturated sheets, though, is Spiritualized's Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space. You can mutter "bombast" all you want, but in the throes of the fever grip the critical judgment tends to take a holiday, and this sounds like the fullest ambition met. The scale of this man's reach makes the glory of last Saturday's weeding effort feel rather small, and the lyrics have their moments, too ("Sometimes I take my breakfast right off of the mirror"). OK, it's r'n'r decadence 101, but a little self-mythologizing self-destruction almost sounds refreshing these days. Next time that useless doctor gives you the weak antibiotic, try Mr. Pierce instead, a drug for those too old to take the traditional variety.

Straight Arrows- Can't Count/Something Happens

2011-02-02T20:26:00.000-08:00

Was pleasantly surprised to find this in the dollar bin having heard good things from multiple sources, and them sources don't lie. Big hooks on both tunes nearly lovingly buried in boombox production. Charmingly inept two-note leads that keep the kids dancing, and a stomping drive to the pop that conjures images of sweaty hair flung aggressively side to side, letting out the week's frustration in two minutes of release. In other words, more Aussie power. Word is a new record just hit, and I want it.

No respect!

2011-02-02T13:10:00.001-08:00

Pitchers and catchers report in about 10 days and something is stuck in my craw. According to the "national media", the Phillies are now the best team in the NL. Not your defending champs, the San francisco Giants. This is bc Philly signed Cliff Lee and they have a hot prospect to replace Jayson Werth, who left for Nationals and $1 trillion.

If memory serves the Giants beat the Phillies in the post season. They also beat Cliff Lee TWICE in the World Series. But somehow if you now add the Phillies and Cliff Lee they are now so much better than the Giants, that the defending champs don't get the benefit of the doubt to repeat.

No respect!

Down Home Ways

2011-02-01T19:08:00.000-08:00

Muddy Waters was the first bluesman I discovered without help from an adult. My dad liked BB King and John Lee Hooker, but I discovered Muddy as a California kid transplanted near Chicago. It's his voice and stellar backing band that I really dig. Check out the great harmonica work on so many of his songs. That's James Cotton. It didn't hurt that Muddy recorded for the legendary Chess label. The Stones even named a song after the address of Chess.

Anywho, this is pretty good introduction to his music. My faves are Hoochie Coochie Man, Forty days and Forty Nights, Young Fashioned Ways and I'm Ready. It's pretty sexually charged stuff from a Chicago OG by way of Mississippi.

Guitar Shop Assholes

2011-01-31T18:49:00.000-08:00

Does anyone know a good place to get an amp fixed in the Yay Area? I bought a fender twin and it doesn't work. It's the real deal though, US of A made. So I took it to Guitar Works in SF on Portrero Ave. That was 2 months ago and still my amp isn't ready. How the hell am I ever going to learn to shred like Don Dokken if I can't play with my amp?

The Dirtys- Teenage Teenage Problem Child

2011-01-29T16:22:00.000-08:00

It's always refreshing to hear The Dirtys, even if these songs don't quite match the heights of the best album tunes like "You Should Be Sinnin'." There is a fuck-all quality to these guys, as every song sounds like it could implode at any moment. Tight only means plowed in their lexicon. Legend has it they had legendary ingestion appetites, and if that kind of thing can be illustrated through sound, this might do it. If cheap trucker speed affects folks variably, I give you The Dirtys, playing different songs when they're playing at the same time. And it works, charmingly, if you're predisposed to love the underdog. They're like that lovable mutt who eats the neighbor's turtle and has really bad drug problems. You know the one.

Hit Me

2011-01-28T17:14:00.000-08:00

This single highlights the Neckbones' schizophrenia. Or, as mama used to say, too many cooks spoil the broth. I don't know the details, but with more than two songwriters with different styles, you might have quality-control problems. I love Souls on Fire, but it is a better record with ten songs, not sixteen. We got a similar problem here. The A-side, "Hit Me," is debauched fun, bringing back those wonderful early morning felt memories when you and your buddies are all beaked over the table, spewing bad jokes and driving the post-dinner couples back to their rooms, whooping it up and laying it down and waking up the next afternoon with a stupid smile and two crumpled bills on the night table. It's a Vegas party anthem for the wee hours and nay a saxophone blows. You can almost smell the puke when that sucker ends. The B-side is a generic, blues-based bar rocker. OK, in the old days, the b-side was supposed to blow. But not anymore. One dude got one side and the other got the flip, and we got bipolar disorder. Note to self: program Tyler Keith songs consecutively and get sorry ass back to the green. Those bastards still have my money.

The Gospel Swingers- Mississippi

2011-01-26T20:20:00.001-08:00

Wow, I forgot I owned this, which I suppose is part of the fun of grab bag theater. This has to be one of the more obscure IntheRed releases, despite the star-studded pedigree. If Feast of Snakes, Blacktop, and Fireworks ring bells, prick up your ears. This falls on the R&B tip of the 90s' embrace of older music (OK, this came out in 2001, ya nitpicker), and it's hard not to hear the echo of Jon Spencer somewhere in the studio background. No incessant shrieks of "Gospel Swingers, Gospel Swingers" as backup vocals, but I'm guessing these folks have heard a Joe Tex record or two. Look, if a chorus consisting of the spelling of a poor southern state frightens you, maybe you should pass. Me, I kinda dig that "hump back hump back i" closer, and I'm just a wee bit sad that the good people at ITR passed on the album that came after this. Now maybe it was as stinky as the Now Time Delegation (three members of that band play here, and I never heard the damn thing, as it was released years later on some obscure Euro label), and so no stones thrown, but if you see this one in the dollar bin, snatch it up and sing along. That chorus will take you back to first grade.

Home is Where the Floor Is

2011-01-25T21:27:00.000-08:00

OK, so the blind grab has its downfalls- everybody knows how damn good this is, so what's there to say? And I do believe, but correct me if I am wrong, that this remains relatively available. Hell, my copy comes from RocknRoll Blitzkrieg in Berkeley, CA, so copies must be around for the taking, unless they're not. Let me point out that you get four songs of non-generic, ole Aussie p-rock power, and not just two. Double your pleasure and double your fun. I believe Bill Hicks said that. And must we really go after the president tonight? Really? Instead, let's talk about kegerator maintenance, because if you're going to pour confidently at your next shindig, you don't want mountains of head landing atop your boss's first pour. It is critical to clean the lines, faucet and taps. I can't emphasize this enough. Invest in beer cleaning line solvents and your IPAs will taste like the hopbomb from that disturbing dream last night. Second, don't be afraid to play with your regulator. Sure, most "experts" recommend keeping PSI at 12, but your unit is special, so treat her with the attention to detail she deserves. Finally, and rarely mentioned in most literature, make sure your beer line doesn't sag below the tap. Sagging can cause kinks that lead to wild beer, and you sure don't need 3/4 foam when the family comes over. Whip that line around your tap to assure that gravity doesn't rear its ugly head. Let's review- clean, play and whip, and not necessarily in that order. Keep those three verbs in mind, put the X single on repeat, and you've got yourself a hell of a Super Bowl party.

The Brides- Bad Attitude

2011-01-24T18:03:00.000-08:00

I don't own that many singles, relatively, so my superlatives are generally ignorant and histrionic. That said, I'm not sure I've heard a better rock 'n roll single than this one. It's just, well, perfect. Sorry about that. It makes me wonder whether you should bemoan the lp that never came, or take the untarnished genius that is this single and be happy nothing came along to suck the air out of things. Who's to say? Anyway, I've owned this since it came out and each time it just screams from those speakers, and how many records can you say that about?

Glam It Up, Gentlemen

2011-01-22T22:25:00.000-08:00

This single should win an Oscar for catchiest, gayest, stupidest and greatest single of the past several years. It certainly has the biggest hooks this side of a White Wires record. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with my sons singing along to "Boys Life," but I'll live. I had a spicy Korean pork sandwich today that wasn't as good as this single. I paid X for a new album yesterday that does not have single moment in the same area code as this record. If singles are meant for singing along to, this is teleological, which is probably the name of their next offering. Enjoy the glory- I'm going to.

Crossed-Eyed

2011-01-21T19:56:00.000-08:00

I remember the turn to rock in the 90s, and now everyone wants to turn their backs on enjoying that shift. I don't know- I liked Supershitty to the Max. I liked Turbonegro. Sure, most bands were wanky and tuneless, but acknowledging the obvious debt to childhood seemed honest to me. I could sing along, even if the hair thing remained a problem. Entering these sweepstakes was one Rocket 455, and the single here is "Crossed-Eyed/Headin' for the Texas Border." Forget the A-side, but the flip is a beast- just everything this kind of big rock is supposed to deliver- anthemic chorus, driving, simplistic chord progressions, and dumb travel lyrics. That it's a Flaming Groovies cover will attest to, well, the fine songwriting skills of Mr. Loney. These guys had a pretty good ep if I recall, but that appears to be in the lost file.

Not So Young, Still Filthy

2011-01-21T15:34:00.001-08:00

Let me scream into the ether one more time- The Problematics record on Ripoff is one of the finest examples of snot-nosed anthemic punk rock ever released. I'll take a swig and let that dissipate into the virtual tunnel our good friend Ted Stevens used to call a bunch of tubes. Kick forward many years and the good people at Big Neck release a new band with that same P-matics singer, and they're calling themselves The Shirks, and damn if it ain't just straightforward, almost-but-not-quite-as-great p-rock action. Really. One would think the singer of that particular band would be smoking out of his neck, but the pipes have been maintained and he sounds exactly as he did when he was probably a teenager causing his dear mother no small amount of heartache. I would go right now to www.bigneckrecords.com and purchase a bunch of singles. They ain't all winners, but this one is. And get that Seger Liberaton Army cd, and maybe a Baseball Furies record. Stay away from the 7-10 Splits, though- those guys really suck.

Digging in the Basement for Olde English Love

2011-01-20T19:05:00.000-08:00

I bought Bantam Rooster's Deal Me In for a buck a few weeks back, and that thing still brings the big sound, unlike just about every other two-man band not named Flat Duo Jets. Tom Potter's voice is a national treasure, and you should be able to walk into the Smithsonian, push a button of Olde English and hear that crazy backwoods scream. It would cost about five buckos to pull off, and we could keep the top tax rate at island purchasing levels. No funding for commie art! Starvation breeds quality! Let them eat ramen! Anyway, I was rummaging through the basement and discovered this box of old singles, so what better project to start and then abandon than to review a couple and then go back to the frustrating business of reducing the foam on the fucking kegerator. What we have with the first blind pick is something new from Mr. Potter that, how shall we say it, does not live up to the earlier work. Two fairly generic riffs coming at you middle-aged crawl. Not that the old shit was all about speed (hell, one of my favorite Rooster numbers is "Summer in Hamtramck," which sounds like Kim Salmon on ludes), but there ain't a lotta here here unless hearing that voice again is enough to make you put on "Pony Up" again and search the back of the closet for your Vegas Shakedown video. It lays there, and that's about it. Hell, this was probably just a cheap excuse to get loaded with buddies while the wives took the kids to waterworld. Potter will be back, but if not, the three Bantam records, the SLA shit (wildly underappreciated) and all that Dirtbombs banter is enough for the discerning asshole.

Why Do You Think I Like... Cocaine?

2011-01-19T04:51:00.000-08:00

I knew an 'ol boy who took his girl out on a country road the other day. Stopped his car and took his key out. Says to his gal, "Now are you gonna be like a Camel and walk a mile? Or like a Chesterfield that satisfy?" She said, "It depends on if it's King size or regular, daddy?"
And so begins Abner Jay's "I'm So Depressed," the first song on the "terrible comedy blues" that is The True Story of Abner Jay that Mississippi Records released last year. I've had a burn of this for several years but ain't nothing like the real thing, and if you play this back-to-back with Folk Song Stylist, which Mississippi also put out, you will hear more than just the Charles Barkley of one-man bands- you'll get warmth and beauty coming from those cheap ole speakers, because when the man is not tellin' dick jokes ("Listen. They got a pill on the market now, for fellas who're havin' a little trouble, but you got gotta swallow it down quickly 'cause if you don't you'll get a stiff neck."), he's singing ever so smoothly about cocaine or Vietnam or terrible things. Abner is one of those singers who will help you put your self-pity in perspective- somehow your pain just feels silly when you hear his voice, because you have to believe he has suffered far worse than you ever will, and he's still doing butt gags and sprayin' soldier jokes ("A young boy was in here last night. He had just been drafted. He had to go to Vietnam. and he had his little 'old girlfriend with him. And she was crying because he had to leave her behind for the front. it was hard when he left. So they left here and went down to the depot and she was cryin' down there because he pulled out too soon. So he kissed her and went off in his uniform.") Put this on and follow the liner note directions- now it's buck dancing time!

A PowerPoint is the Toast of the New Millenium

2011-01-06T22:08:00.000-08:00

In the what-are-you-listening-to department, I've been working for hours on my sister's birthday party slide show, and these are the songs open for consideration-

Steve Miller- Jungle Love
Eddie Money- Two Tickets to Paradise
Kansas- Carry On Wayward Son
Monkees- Pleasant Valley Sunday
Journey- Anyway You Want It
Sweet- Fox on the Run
Earth Wind & Fire- Boogie Wonderland
Boston- More Than a Feeling
BTO- Takin' Care of Business
Carpenters- Close to You
ZZ Top- La Grange
The Byrds- Turn Turn Turn
Foreigner- Cold as Ice
Fleetwood Mac- You Make Lovin' Fun
Queen- We Will Rock You

Ok, figure out the three songs that made the cut, and then seek counseling. Anticipating no winners, I offer no prizes. The keg is still going, though, so there's that.