Keith Morris Says Hi

After side 2 of My War, I gave up on Black Flag. At that point in my narrow musical worldview, heaviosity was a crime better left unheard. I could get my ears around side 1, with some work, but damn it, where was my "Rise Above"? Sludgy riff monsters were unforgivable and best left on the dust heap of one's personal listening history. Forward, righteous soldier, to one thousand more three-chord toetappers. Thus, all the subsequent Flag records blurred together and all these years later, I realized I couldn't tell one from another. And who were all those singers? And when did they get that little girl on bass? And wasn't Bill Stevenson the Descendents' drummer? I had no clarity on these issues, and damn it, and I wanted clarity. Enter Stevie Chick's (even "authors" have punk pseudonyms now) Spray Paint the Walls: The Story of Black Flag, which answered my questions and even got me to download the rest of the catalogue. And that's the good news.

The book chronicles the early transitional years from Panic to Black Flag, and provides some insight into the Ginn family, a talented and eccentric bunch by all accounts, and clearly establishes Ginn as the driving force (and later slavemaster) and mastermind that got the boys out of the church, on to some stages and into the van. And while in the final years the man wears the big black hat, it's striking how many folks he screwed over still sing his praises. Unfortunately, he refused to be interviewed for this book (as did Rollins, Dez and Stevenson, apparently), so Chick is left to scour the fanzine archives for quotes from those folks. The decision she makes, sadly, to fill that void, is to load up on lengthy interviews with the likes of household names Dave Markey and Tom Troccoli. A good editor would have cut pages of heartfelt quotations from these folks, but this editor was having boyfriend problems, as typos and redundancies are the rule, which I could live with (but really, 20 bucks for a paperback and you can't clean up the typos?) if I didn't have to wade through another long Kira Roessler passage. But no index? Really? No Pettibon pix?

But if it's information (for the non-insider- I have no idea how much she gets wrong) you seek and you're just looking to fill in some gaps and to get inspired to pull out Damaged again (which I did on several occasions and I'm sorry but it holds up incredibly well, even for the middle-aged) this will do that. Call this a lost opportunity. I have no idea who Stevie Chick is, but perhaps a different biographer with ties closer to the band could have gotten more folks to talk. Maybe not. Ginn isn't going to speak to anybody, and it sounds like Rollins probably won't either. So the writing is second-rate and the editor screwed the pooch and there are gaping holes in terms of voices, but I got the information I needed. Perhaps I should have just read Our Band Could Be Your Life again, but then my local heroes at the magazine shop wouldn't have that slow Thursday afternoon sale, so call it community building. By the way, the SST site has all these records for nine bucks. I'm going to pull out Everything Went Black right now, with In My Head on deck. My family will be in the other room, watching Spongebob. I suggest you go straight to The First Four Years- that shit never gets old.

I Love You, Bianca

I'm listening to Ted Nugent and pondering one of sports' most surreal days, at least from this soiled couch. The US gets jobbed again, but it's hard to swing around the biggest cliche that just might be true- no quit in them boys. I doubt there's a single southerner on the squad, but again my Euro wife was amazed by the no-quit nature of her distant-second favorite team, and I was fighting waves of patriotic pride when Donovan did the slippy-slide, post-goal corner flag dive. They choke and they suck on the ball, but they keep coming. I was amazed watching the highlight show by just how many great scoring chances they had, and the offside ruling denying another good goal will only stoke American flames of victimhood at the hands of that big bully FIFA.

But they did it, and that one goal changed everything. They win the friggin' group and get Ghana, which is not Argentina or Germany or Spain or Italy last time I checked. In my stupid euphoria, I even checked the second round matchups, which are equally merciful- Uruguay or South Korea. Hey Holland, I'm looking at you in the semis- are you man enough? You only need to get past probably Italy and then Brazil, and therein lies the inherent injustice of the World Cup- overrate France and England and you give the USA a puncher's chance to get to the semi's. I love FIFA. I'm so fucking confused.

In other news, ESPN2 switched to Wimbledon after the early games and there was a misprint, surely, on the screen, showing American John Isner leading Frenchie Nicolas Mahut, 27-26 in the 5th set. Isner could hardly move, and I was still shaking my cheeks cartoon fashion when Mahut held to tie it up. At 35-35 I went to the gym. When I returned, it was 51-51. It ended, in darkness, at 59-59. The boys will come back, if they can get out of bed, to finish tomorrow.

The record books were shredded. The set has taken over 7 and 1/2 hours, so far, which alone beats the former MATCH record for time on court. 59-59. I beat Brad Ackerman 10-8 in the third set of a big final and felt as if I had fought five years on the western front. 59-59. I have no context. The only taint was the non-stop prattle of Hannah Storm, Patrick McEnroe and Brad Gilbert, who made absolute jackasses of themselves. By some accounts, Storm used the word "epic" 457 times. "Battle of wills" was uttered another 873. Producers stopped counting the signifier, "warriors."

Tune in tomorrow to catch the conclusion (maybe) of that match and final group play for Holland and others. Our Tahoe trip cancelled due to more child sickness, I'll be back on the couch catching up on more New Yorkers. I'm almost up to April.

Mali on the Take

This is the first time I'm willing to take seriously accusations of game-fixing. Maybe the mighty Slovene mafia paid him off. Maybe they threatened his family. Slovenia knocked off Russia to qualify, so maybe the Russian mob didn't want its team to look even worse. OK, this is absurd, but it was that bad. And the man doesn't have to explain himself. Great- give yahoo Americans another reason to hate soccer. Jesus.

Merry-go-Sorry

Sam Lipsyte may be the funniest novelist in America, especially if you're a bitter, disappointed middle-aged man riddled with nostalgia for when the future meant great things and promise wasn't a dirty word and you've come to the conclusion that this it and this is all it'll ever be. The Ask is the newest one, and the first 150 pages are maddeningly hilarious- maddening only if you fancy yourself a barstool wit and you're confronted with your daddy. But this falls in that category the Elizabethans called a merry-go-sorry, for as we all know, middle-aged despair is only funny for so long. So if you're up for half a novel of caustic verbal dexterity followed by rapidly increasing sadness (no, it's not your memoir), dig right in. No, don't ask about the plot- this is social realism by failed family. Go read Richard Price if you want your socioeconomic boxes checked off. But, in a literary era still sucking multi culti's sagging tits, it's refreshing to read a guy who lists the Dwarves in his inspirational bands section. And before your blood boils too high on the jealousy meter, note the author photo that makes the 41-year old Lipsyte look like a retired mortgage broker summering in Concord. I give The Ask 4 1/2 stars, because laughing at your pathetic self is still a necessary part of grieving for your failed promise.

An Orgy for the Ears

Today's World Cup match has to be seen by our friends across the Atlantic as yet another humiliating moment of underachievement. It's just not the British goalie muffing a harmless kick and costing England a win. It's that once again, those nouveau riche yahoo Yanks came together as a team to prevent the English from winning. Same story, different century.

And so it goes with popular music. A lot has been written about the unique Englishness of Ray Davies. And I'll give you that. Outside of Dylan, an American rock 'n roller of the time probably wouldn't be capable of writing such scathing and humorous tales as "Well Respected Man" or "Sunny Afternoon." And yet clearly it's the deeply American influence that permeates the sound of all things Kinks. Which is to say, The Kinks' Anglo-American hybrid thing is marvelous.

Briefly.... I purchased this lp with lawn-mowing money when I was 13 while living in suburban Chicago. The record store, ARS (A Record Store, get it?), was across the street from New Trier High School. Don't look for it now. It's been replaced by a White Hen Pantry, or something. I rode home on my Schwinn, played it on my cheap hi-fi and fell in love with it.

The licks are all bluesy rock n roll, the production loud and messy. Liner notes by some dude named Andy Wickham go on about the times are changin' but fail to mention when and where the record was recorded. I read somewhere else that it was recorded in Scotland at some debutante ball while the band was struggling on its way to the top. There are great ringers like the two mentioned above, but also wandering blues jams that highlight how apparently limited the band's repertoire was at the time, and also how much indebted the deeply English Kinks were to American influences. Check out Dave Davies peel off some great hooks on the menacing "You're Looking Fine." Top notch.

And so with a slight hangover and some national pride, I'll give this lp another spin. As Wickham states, "It's an orgy for ears!"

So I've been kinda busy...

My wife is preggers with twin girls and has a stomach that looks like a cartoon. I've thrown my back out moving crap into our new home in the Marina, aka Perv Central, aka "Pretty Town." I am not happy at work and am doing everything I can to change my situation. And, of course, Brian Sabean has done everything in his power to piss me off as the worst steward of cash and my Giants. And I apologize. I haven't posted in ages. No doubt there has been a deep void in your life.

Ok, now that we've gotten my problems and the shortcomings of the world out of the way, let's get right to it. My first grab was Please To Meet Me by the Mats. Memories of this album as a youth was that it was their "sellout album." The Mats had ditched boozy, doomed Bob Stinson, signed to a major label and the production had gotten really 80s clean. I can distinctly remember listening to PTMM while backpacking in Europe during the summer of '87 after graduating from hs. The Mats' direction was a very hot topic. I mean other than which 17 yo topless French chick had the hottest cans. All of this seems absurd now.

I mean any 17 yo cans are great, right?

But more to the point, Please To Me Meet is a really good rock 'n roll album. Perhaps more than any other Mats release, you can hear Westerberg's love of the Faces and his crazy guitar talent, with Bob out of the picture. And rather than going soft or corporate, the Mats are trying to move forward. You can't play "Gary's Got a Boner" forever, right?

And the lyrics are pretty amusing. This is a a band that has silly hot chops, as well as being lippy. "Ash tray floors, dirty clothes and filthy jokes" indeed. I know some balked at the horns on this record, but they are nazis. Just listen to the sax melt into "Nightclub Jitters" not long after the guitars roar on "IOU.". That weird feeling is the recognition that this band is killing it at the top of their game, rather than losing it or going soft.

So maybe it's the Fin Du Monde talking, but I say this record's the shit. Talk to you tomorrow. Feels good to be back. Go team USA.

Your Friend,

The Tuna

We Never Learn

I've been waiting anxiously for this book since I heard it was on its way, and I managed to consume its 300+ pages in less than 24 hours. That alone should tell you most of what you need to know, but a few words anyway. Eric Davidson, the lead singer of New Bomb Turks, wants to celebrate (and get some posthumous respect for) those "gunk punk" (his term) bands between 1988-2001, most notably the heavy hitters on Crypt, IntheRed, and Sympathy, which makes me his proverbial choir. Crypt is still my favorite label, and Davidson's tastes mostly run alongside mine. He champions Cheater Slicks, Devil Dogs, Gories, Oblivians, Dwarves, Dead Moon, and many others that essentially make up a list of my greatest hits from that or any other era. You get funny and illuminating interviews with everyone from Blag Jesus to Tim Warren to Mike Mariconda to Greg Cartwright. You get the road stories and even some backhanded digs (Jack White comes in for vitriol from several tongues). Given Davidson's love for three chords and a spray of hootch, you can read the book as something of a slap at how underground music has moved away from more straightforward rock music. I'm guessing he doesn't sit in front of the computer looking for the newest shitgaze myspace sensation. He wants his rock fast and sweaty and apolitical, and I had a very hard time arguing with him. Sure, I could have used less Supersucker love and maybe a page on the Revelators, but I ain't gonna nitpick his choices, especially as he said he turned in 700 pages and that first draft got chopped in half. And yes, his prose is annoying at times, especially when he reaches for metaphors to describe the music. Overall, though, this book will have you pulling out your Bantam Rooster and your Electric Eels and your Dirtys records, among about 100 others, and that alone makes this worth your time and money.