Metal March

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?

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

Happy Birthday to Me

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

Sometimes, it's necessary.

Shine a Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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.