Glam It Up, Gentlemen

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

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

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

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?

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

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.

Listen to Al

In life you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times, that's what the fuck life is... one vile fucking task after another.

If I bleat when I speak, it's because I've just been fleeced.

Here's my counter-offer to your counter-offer: go fuck yourself.

I'm declaring myself conductor of this meeting as I have the bribe sheet.

Announcing your plans is a good way to hear god laugh.

You want a donkey's attention, you bring a fucking pole down between his ears.

Dan, don't you agree that truth, if only a pinch, must season every falsehood, or else the palate fucking rebels?

Over time, your quickness with a cocky rejoinder must have gotten you many punches in the face.

Pain or damage don't end the world, or despair, or fuckin' beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man -- and give some back.