2009 - Didn't Suck After All

Considering this year began with me hearing (incorrectly) from a Dr. that my wife had terminal cancer, the year really shaped up! I got a job, my wife got pregnant and I heard a lot of great music. Below are some of my favorites from the last year of the "oughts" decade:

The Hunches- Exit Dreams and Home Alone- More pulverizing and melodic thump from what is IMHO the band of this decade. I even got to see them live at the Hemlock. Too bad their singer is a dork.

The Guilty Hearts- Pearls Before Swine- Dirty, heavy grind from what is apparently LA's last remaining garage band. Worth the two-year wait since their last.

Ty Segall- Lemons- Got to see this guy play, too. A mere child with a very foxy girl drummer. But I digress. The album flirts with White Stripes' shtick, but manages to avoid Jack White foolishness thanks to Ty's superior songwriting and love of the Cramps.

Jack O and the Tennessee Tearjerkers- "Sweet Thang" was the single of 2009. A beautiful guitar intro dissolves into a great love song. Other standouts include "Walk of Shame" and "Homesick Blues." The Youtube video of Jack-O is worth catching, if you haven't already.

The Intelligence- Yeah, I know they sound like The Fall. But so what? I love the angular fucked up shit these guys have cranked out over the last couple of records.

Dinosaur Jr- Farm- They still have it. Even better than their previous comeback record. True, their sound hasn't progressed much since 1987, but Dino Jr's records are still better than 98% of the derivative, uninspired crap that passes for underground rock n roll these days.

Black Diamond Heavies- Alive As Fuck- Messy, distorted keyboard driven blues. Don't hate him because he's white playing old black men's music or sounds like Tom Waits! Just listen to this live record, close your eyes and enjoy.

The Black Lips- 200 Million Thousand. It's been a long journey for me with these guys. Way back when I was living in New York, Sonny sent me their stuff. I couldn't stand it. The guitars sounded all fucked up and the vocals warped and whiny. And then towards the end of last year something snapped, and I realized the Black Lips were the greatest garage band of this decade. Sadly, 200 Million thousand is their worst record to date. But it's still pretty damn good, cause the Lips are that good.

Please post snide remarks and your own list ASAP.

Next up- Best of the decade?

Find the Socialist

Save Your Pennies

Threshold Editions announced that they will publish Karl Rove's 592-page memoir, "Courage and Consequence" on March 9, 2010.

The political strategist helped elect President George W. Bush and served as White House deputy chief of staff in Bush's administration. His book promises to "set the record straight on those controversial years"--a popular theme with former Bush staffers. In 2011, both Bush and former Vice President Dick Cheney will publish their own memoirs. Cheney has already promised to reveal the "heated arguments" behind the scenes at the White House.

Threshold editor-in-chief Mary Matalin had this statement: "Karl has always been in a league of his own in the world of electoral politics and now he creates a unique genre for historians, policy makers, political junkies and serious readers."

The Sad Sack Franchise

Here's a pretty good piece on the Jackson trade and the NBA from Yahoo Sports-

By Adrian Wojnarowski

During Allen Iverson’s final days in Memphis, the Grizzlies owner should’ve had to sit and listen to A.I.’s voice bellowing in the back of the bus. On his way out of the Staples Center one week ago, on his way out of the NBA, Iverson made sure his bosses could hear him in the front. Lionel Hollins let it go, the way the coaches in Philadelphia once did, too.

Just let A.I. rip, let him go. Sources say Iverson started to speak louder and louder about how he had played for one dumb bleeping coach in Detroit a year ago, and now had come to play for another dumb bleeping coach in Memphis. He never dared speak this way on the Detroit Pistons’ bus because he feared team president Joe Dumars and respected the championship players on board.

With Memphis, forget it. The Grizzlies are a joke, signing Iverson for pure box-office reasons, and he made sure everyone – especially Hollins – could hear his frustration. Within 36 hours, Iverson was on “leave,” never to return to Memphis.
So, yes, Monday evening, Larry Brown made sure to remind management in Charlotte: Hey, A.I. is available now, too. Thanks but no thanks, LB. The Bobcats will take a pass, just as they did with an offer of Philadelphia center Samuel Dalembert(notes) for the two players – Raja Bell and Vladimir Radmanovic – it took to pry Stephen Jackson from the Warriors.

Brown has a big enough problem as Jax rolls into that NBA ghost town of Charlotte, bringing his baggage from the Bay Area. Don Nelson didn’t trade Jackson as much as he dispatched him to the worst possible gulag in the sport. Here’s your trade, Jax: Pack for Charlotte and report to the anti-Nellie: Larry Brown. From the free-wheeling, I-could-give-a-bleep coach in Nelson to the tightly wound, obsessive Brown.
“I give those two less than a month before it goes bad,” says a Western Conference executive who has history with Brown.

“Larry grates on the good guys really fast – never mind a guy like Jack,” says a former assistant coach. “This won’t go well.”

Everyone understood that the Iverson episode with Memphis would be brief and bloody, but a three-game meltdown, a weeklong leave of absence and his eventual release on Monday defied even the most cynical of minds. In some kind of twisted logic, Iverson ran himself out of town too fast to even serve one twisted purpose: become the common cause against which O.J. Mayo and Rudy Gay could unite.

Just a year ago, Pistons teammates listened to Iverson proclaim on the team bus that he was still one of the three best players in the sport – Kobe, LeBron and me, Iverson said – and probably not in that order. Eventually, Dumars shipped him out.
Timing is strange sometimes. Detroit had the chance to complete a trade for Jackson two years ago, until Chris Mullin discovered his bosses had negotiated a needless $28million extension with Jax behind the general manager’s back.

The deal did nothing but reinforce with Jax that action within the sad-sack Warriors franchise only comes with treachery and deceit. Once Jackson didn’t like his young supporting cast, much less the losing, he tossed tantrum upon tantrum to get himself traded. And it worked. He watched Nellie pull his share of power plays – getting contracts torn up and redone on threats of retirement, getting Mullin fired and his buddy, Larry Riley, the GM job – and understood that was the culture of owner Chris Cohan and president Robert Rowell.

These are the storylines the league office loathes: the disgruntled star wrangling with management, reinforcing stereotypes that remotely reflect the reality of most of the NBA’s rank and file. Nevertheless, Jackson and Iverson transformed the sluggish October and November news cycle into personal platforms for foolery. For the NBA, it’s a shame. Yet commissioner David Stern has no one to blame but too many clueless, lost owners and franchises which enable, even encourage, such behavior.

From Memphis to Golden State to bad franchises beyond, owners could’ve spared themselves the embarrassment of players who had done nothing but act in character. They deserved to sit there and get berated by A.I. and Jax – they asked for it. The public will always blame the easy target, the player, because that’s what it is: the easy, convenient target, the small that ultimately stands in for the big in public perception.

In a lot of ways, this is a league where the twentysomethings pushed out a selfish post-Michael Jordan era of players who cared far more about max contract benefits than max franchise responsibility. LeBron James and Dwyane Wade – and eventually Kobe Bryant, too – helped change the standard for the way a young NBA star carries himself, the way he goes about chasing championships.

Now, Jax goes to Charlotte and the New York Knicks consider the candidacy of Iverson at a gutted-out, hollow Madison Square Garden. Iverson’s a worthy heir to Stephen Marbury, who sources say is spending hours and hours at spas getting pedicures, manicures and massages, literally believing that somehow that’s part of preparing his body for a return to the NBA next season. That’s all Starbury needs to see: Iverson running the point for the Knicks this season, and somehow this whole cycle of dysfunction will have come all the way around.

Is it me, or do these kids suck?

New York Magazine is filled with the usual self congratulatory articles this week, including a feature which labels Brooklyn as the center of all music genius. Case in point is The Dirty Projectors. Other bands mentioned are Management and Grizzly Bear.

I am old. 41 to be exact. And so take this for what its worth, but all these 20 something quirky indie bands leave me cold. Maybe its because their musical reference seems more closely aligned with African high life music than Mississippi hill country or garage fuzz. Or maybe it's that these kids all seem a bit too self-aware. Or maybe (likely?) I'm just a grouchy old man on a rant about "kids these days."

But somebody needs to explain to me the appeal of this music? Where is the rock? Where is the roll? What happened to my America???

http://nymag.com/arts/popmusic/features/61874/

So You Used to be a Surfer in Huntington Beach

All that past tripping the Bay Area punk book bred had me scouring the basement shelves, looking for some trips down p-rock lane. Having spent the early 80s in Orange County, it was impossible not to catch the beach-styled melodic hardcore sounds of DI, Agent Orange, The Adolescents and Social Distortion a ton of times, but it's been years since I had a listen. Yea, it's the sound of youth and a bit silly now, but I can understand why I loved it then, as the hooks come fast and furious. If you want to hear a slightly updated version on that Huntington Beach aesthetic that works, check the bargain bins for Smogtown's Fuhrers of the New Wave, the best record in that style I've heard (granted, I ain't heard many). One big anthem after the next and it's Fender's all over again. Their next record didn't do much for me, but listening to this 2000 release in 2009 it's like cruising down Harbor Blvd. to the Music Market, where you might buy a record because the guy on the cover is wearing a Clash shirt (as I did with the first Leaving Trains album). Damn solid beach punk, if you're so inclined.

For the Love of Econochrist

Econochrist. For the love God, Econochrist. Something about that name just dredges up the worst aural waves of tuneless thrash, the most tired images of crusties begging quarters on Telegraph, and the dumbest PC kneejerk rants. After reading Gimme Something Better, an oral history of Bay Area punk, why is Econochrist stuck in my head like a bad pop song?

Well, the good news is that it ain't all Gilman all the time, even if the second half gets taken over by Tim Yo, MRR and the 924. I'm guessing for most folks, the ride will peak when you hit the spots you know the least about or the times you were there. I enjoyed the Mab stuff most, because I was still listening to the Doors and punkers scared me. The Nuns and Crime ruled it, and the opening sections make it all sound fun and wild as each band tried to differentiate itself before the mass homogenization that was hardcore would sweep through and lay down the laws. Yea, there is too much on the Dead Kennedys and Green Day, but there's plenty here to devour (the 480 pages went down in 3 days) to help fill in the gaps when you were in college, on the road or dabbling in folk. I was barely on the periphery for some of this, so I have no clue who is telling the truth, settling scores, kissing ass, letting the bitterness flow or remembering what he just don't have in his pickled brain no more. And certainly I can't do justice to the onslaught of names, places and dumb politics, so how about a list.

Christ on Parade, the Farm, Crimpshrine, Ruthie's Inn, DRI, On Broadway, Verbal Abuse, the Stone, Op Ivy, Berkeley Square, Neurosis, Barrington Hall, Isocracy, Napa St. Hospital, Avengers, Blondie's, Fang, Sick Pleasure, Attitude Adjustment, Pinhead Gunpowder, Negative Trend, Flipper, Oppressed Logic, Corrupted Morals, Gearhead, Filth, Blatz, Sweet Baby, Social Unrest, Pansy Division, Tribe 8, MDC, Tilt, Steel Pole Bathtub, Rancid, Schlong, etc. etc. etc.

It's funny- blasting through that list I realize how few of these bands I actually like, and most of 'em came early in the game (I'd say the Bay Area puts out far better records these days than in any of these eras, so shoot me). The best show I ever saw at Gilman was the Dwarves (who get short shrift here) and that was over in eight minutes. That said, you have to read the thing, if only to marvel at the names and places. And if you really need to be reminded about how terrific/horrific some of these bands were, there is a website and a playlist at http://www.gimmesomethingbetter.com/

I'm not gonna check, but I believe it even plays Econochrist. Jesus.

Now the Warriors are getting interesting

"No one trusts Don Nelson," Stevens told Broussard. "When Nelson was in Milwaukee, Wayne Embry trusted him and brought him in, and he betrayed Embry (alleged racist remarks Nelson supposedly made about Embry that Nelson vehemently denied). In Dallas, Mark Cuban took damn good care of him and his son (Donnie), and he betrayed Cuban. In Golden State, Chris Mullin hired him and trusted him and Nelson backstabbed him by reaching out to president Robert Rowell and blaming Mullin for everything that was going wrong with the Warriors."

Hello. But wait, there's more.

"I'm disgusted with the quality of Nelson's coaching and with the lack of trust his players have in him," he said. "Nelson is the winningest coach in NBA history to never have coached in the NBA Finals, let alone won a championship. Yet he keeps getting jobs despite being 69 years old."

Well, that borders on the personal. But Stevens hadn't finished clearing his throat.

"Chris Mullin wanted to re-sign Baron Davis, but Nelson nipped that in the bud. Then he helped put together the trade that got rid of Jason Richardson. Then the Warriors lost Matt Barnes. Nelson loses the trust of all his players."

And in case you were unsure of Stevens' motives:

"I just want him out of there now. It doesn't matter where. At this stage, something has to be done. It can't get any worse."

Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/ratto/index?#ixzz0WQJ6VIOG

Short Attention Span Book Reviews Return

Once upon a time there were book reviews, and then...

Well, what's the point? Nobody reads anymore, but if they did, here are three from October that just might fill a lazy Sunday afternoon...

Bobby Fischer Goes to War: How the Soviets Lost the Most Extraordinary Chess Match of All Time by David Edmonds and John Eidinow is a hoot, friends. I don't know the first thing about chess, but this is the second book about it (see the great Walter Tevis' The Queen's Gambit for the real deal, budding novel hacks) that had me flipping pages like that dude in the joke about the tiniest violin player. Fischer is a fascinating character study if you like savant bastards. He is a repulsive human being who today would be diagnosed as autistic. The man's social skills make me look like an above-Highland player. I was actually more interested in Boris Spassky, who comes off as a fascinating rebel in a Soviet system that will not tolerate deviation from the Party line. That contrast of personalities is intriguing enough, but throw in the Cold War backdrop and the whole thing plays like a great sports movie blended with a LeCarre thriller. These are the same guys that brought us Wittgenstein's Poker, so they're playing for a laymen audience. They're far more interested in the psychological undercurrents between the players and handlers and the various meanings to be had from an American bastard facing a Soviet sophisticate when the Cold War was still reasonably hot. All that and Henry Kissinger, too. What's not to like?

I finally finished the third of John Burdett's Sonchai Jitpleecheep novels, Bangkok Haunts, and the streak continues because this is another entertaining ride through the Buddhist sensibility of our hero as he tracks some sick rich fucks looking for the ultimate thrill by producing a snuff film starring a former Sonchai lover for the pleasure of other sick rich fucks to whack to when that stripper on the pole just won't do. You get all the Thai cultural insider stuff, the condescension towards the West and particularly America, the deeply plotted intrigue, and the endearing Jitpleecheep at the center again as he tries to stay true to principle in a city given over to flesh for cash and the corruption that breeds. All three deliver quality entertainment value, and perhaps offer a mild balance to the celebration of sex tourism Mr. Houllebecq fancies in. And where, for the love of provocation, is that bastard's new one?

The reclusive southerner, Padget Powell, has a new "novel" composed entirely of questions, so I figured it was time I went back and read the one that made his name, Edisto, a coming-of-ager made fresh by our 13-year old hero having the old soul voice that comes from an alchie mom who insists he stay home from school, read the classics and work on his novels. The voice takes some getting used to, but when you find the rhythm, the rewards in language alone tickle the eye. Throw in some local color and the juke joint where our hero sips Schlitz and a visit to an Ali/Frazier bout complete with Easter hats and barfing, and you have a pleasant Saturday afternoon of leisure.