The head vs. ass debate in rock is inevitable. There will always be those who want to make artistic statements. There will always be those who simply want to shake it. Let's move the art forward. Let's move it back. Let's make people think. Let's make people dance. Let's show them how brainy we are. Let's show them how primitive we can be.

You get the point.

I've generally fallen on the cavemen side, with the occasional dalliance with the dark side of the grey matter folks. Get your politics out of my good time, they say, and I mostly nodded along. Sometimes, though, if you live long enough and get just the right kind of bored, you want to go further into enemy territory, if only to see if you've given 'em a fair aural shake.

So I've been music-reading again, and whenever you do that, you're generally going to find a headmusic bias. Why? Cuz critics have more to chew on. Lyrics to explicate. Tricky arrangements to ponder. Sound experiments to compare to industrial wastelands and movie soundtracks. Plus, brainy rock critics just don't like to dance. It's a Cartesian thing. Anyway, after the Reynolds and Marcus books from two weeks ago, I finally picked up Clinton Heylin's From the Velvets to the Voidoids: The Birth of American Punk Rock, a 1993 publication rereleased in 2005 as, I can only assume, the explosion of cd reissues has made that era even more accessible (at least in terms of product availability) and interesting. Heylin's story starts with, you guessed it, the Velvets (he seems obsessed- he was the editor of the new book that collects just about everything ever printed about 'em) and ends, ironically, with a brief mention of The Plasmatics, included only as the death knell to the creative era that was. As journalism, the book is top-notch. All the major players are here, but you get the narrative and the context to see the interplay between bands, ideas and fringe lurkers, and Heylin skillfully weaves his own takes with the words of almost all the major players.

It almost made me want to buy a Blondie album.

But not quite.

So, if it's information and context you want, this provides both. Recognize that the man is infatuated with Patty Smith, believes Television's Marquee Moon is a masterpiece, and paints Richard Hell as a true artist, and you can keep that lump in your throat from exploding upon some of his pronouncements. If you do bite, get the reissue, because the cover price is worth it if only for his postlude, written in 2004 and taking no prisoners. Not everybody was happy with his version of events, and he gets personal. Let's just say Cheetah Chrome is not a fan, and Legs McNeil may want to get all battle royale on Heylin's ass. Neither would be pretty.

Oh yea, no matter how many books I digest on the era, ain't nobody gonna convince me The Talking Heads are worth a shit. DeeDee Ramone shoulda smacked David Byrne upside the head all the way back to the art school from which he came. We'd have all been better off.