Apologies for recent delays...blah blah...gluppledee flakk...
Whatta ya want? This is, like, 6000 words or something. Hope you brought yr. reading glasses! What's more, gulp, it's about music, and it isn't even my year-in-review & certainly not my decade-in-review musical considerations. Nope.
I couldn't resist one more, which, I guess, means we won't be talking about anything but music for a while here. So say goodbye to Hawaii. Say goodbye to NYC. Say goodbye to Plant FlikkFlorrkk, to which I was about to introduce you in my alien sex and dishwashing interlude, "So Who Needs a Butthole Anyway?" Pull up a chair. Unwrap yr. rations. You're gonna need 'em. And stop bitching about the delays. My dear readers, why don't you just shut the fuck up & get back to not-existing, OK?
Ahemm... Cough cough... Here goes...
Screw the Sex Pistols. Here’s the Great Rock n’ Roll swindle: Joan of Arc, Modest Mouse, Wilco, Tortoise. Somehow, across the high and many, many low points of my life. I let radio, magazines & unscrupulous friends convince me to buy records by each of these sculptures in linoleum. I even bought a Tortoise album after I saw them live, a context in which they’re supposed not just to shine, but to blaze like a supernova belching out archangels. They don’t. Still, after all the evangelizing I’d endured, I just couldn’t believe there wasn’t something there, so despite the live show, I bought one of their albums. There wasn’t something there.
Modest Mouse and Joan of Arc are beneath contempt. Little more needs to be said. Wilco are even worse, but only by virtue of the fact that they scamper around making movies, giving interviews— everywhere—(who the hell is their publicist anyway? Belial? Asmodeus? Ben Stein?)—about what downtrodden but spunky lil’ purveyors of Adult Alternative plip plop they are. (Adult Alternative? Who the hell comes up w/ these labels anyway? Belial? Asmodeus? Ben Stein?) Their lead singer’s depressed…their drummer (or bass player or whoever) quit the band while they were in the middle of recording a Peter Frampton tribute album, except they wouldn’t record a Peter Frampton album, because Peter Frampton, at least, has catchy songs and is funny, in small doses—even if he sucks, as well. Wilco is just a sleeping pill that’s a little too irritating to do its job. They suck.
And yet, time passed and the accolades kept droppin’ on alla ‘em, like pigeon shit on a Lexus. Before you know it, they’ll be showing up on lists of the Greatest Musicians of All Time, which is a pretty auspicious endorsement, when you consider that some believe that the birth of music as a form of human expression occurred prior to the development of speech, somewhere back there around 40,000 years ago. 40k years wortha musicians. Go Wilco! Way to beat out the competition!
Alla this hyperbolic silliness can be disheartening, esp., when you look off into the horizon and see another media hoax rolling in. It may very well have yr. name written on it. Up to a point, I can accept that I have & undoubtedly will continue to waste money on assholes like Tortoise. To say that they don’t deserve it is an understatement, but what sucks is that there are other artists who are good and are struggling to get by—as is always the case w/ people who try to establish themselves as working artists. They will not get yr. dollar, no matter how imaginative, beautiful or powerful their music may be, because you will never even know they exist. There’s no room for ‘em. There could always be more good music—it eases yr. passage through life. To see some of it overgrown by mold like Joan of Arc is not just aggravating, but demoralizing, if you love music.
So what do you do when this situation seems hopeless & becomes hopelessly depressing? Well, I look to good music I know of. It comforts me in & of itself, while it also reminds me that greatness can sometimes find its watering hole—that while much good music gets crushed by bad luck and bad bands like Modest Mouse, some good music thrives, maybe even attaining greatness.
So then—here’s a comfort pill that should also lift you up and hopefully inspire you & me to go out and find music that is real & heartfelt & that matters. Here are several reminders of how incredible music can be. W/ awe and wonder, I present...
My List of The 10—I Mean 11—I Mean 12—I Mean 10+ Greatest Musical Entities of All Time:
I have referred to the artists below as “entities,” because some musicians choose to perform—or at least distinguish themselves—as individuals, while others identify themselves as a group or collective. The term Entity may help avoid any confusion or awkwardness arising from these issues of nomenclature.
Along w/ my considerations of each entity's significance, I have also noted a pivotal piece from its repertoire. I haven’t always chosen what might be considered the best song. Instead I tried to choose songs that illuminate an important characteristic of the entity. My intention here is to allow you to create a very momentous playlist or mix tape that contains some of the Greatest Moments, not just in the History of Recorded Music, but in the 40k-or-so year History of Music period.
The format of the list is: Artist--"Song" (Album). Here goes...
1. The Reputation—"For the Win" (The Reputation)
What can be said about the Reputation that I haven't already said? Human passion has never been expressed more powerfully than it is in this music. So rather than making another clumsy attempt explain why I think it is so powerful, I'll just string together some past testimonials. Elizabeth, you deserve far better, but I wanna go listen to yr. record, & I can't write and listen to music w/ vocals at the same time.
Unconsciously, I begin typing out lyrics. And Elizabeth, yr. words are so much better than mine.
So I offer a pastiche of my past writing about The Reputation:
When an emotional expression is real, which, I'll grant ya, is rare, it's a great pleasure. That pleasure has led me to The Reputation, in spite of the fact that there is not a single other performer of this sort whose music I follow. Through only 2 albums and the handful of shows I've taken in, I've come to love The Reputation for their honesty and vitality—not to mention their silliness—though the group is now, sadly, defunct.
The Reputation were a power pop band here in Chicago. The actions of the group were dictated by one Elizabeth Elmore, an amply talented, possibly megalomaniacal singer, songwriter and musician (guitar and keyboard). Elizabeth is an ambitious, intense mastermind, & she & her band have chops to spare. They didn’t just caress you with pretty little songs. No, titanic passion was the rule of the day, and you better believe they kicked out some noise—especially live, where they’d really pummel you. For a pop mainstream type pop band.
"Power Pop" it's called, which is another stupid label. If you're not familiar w/ it, here's the idea, as critics & record companies have ladled it out: "Power" because on the one hand, it's usually played w/ kinda loud electric guitars. "Pop" because it's hooky—and because no one would ever call it dangerous.
There's too much of a pop sensibility in the music of the Reputation for it to project any danger—too much of a focus on melody and sentiment. Still, punk rock as I can be, I don’t see any reason why a love of melody or of un-ironic joy or heartache should be damning qualities for a rock band to have.
The group's first album, The Reputation, is a deeply dorky record that embraces the values of contemporary pop music: the worship of me myself and I—my perspective, my pain. Man, is it addictive. If you want my advice, I say go out and buy it now. Handle with care. If its operatically staged emotion doesn’t pulverize you, you’ll thank me. The second record, To Force a Fate, is more tentative, less distinguished, and ultimately disappointing.
As you might expect, Elizabeth Elmore wrote all the group’s songs, (except for a second album oddity called “Bottle Rocket Battles,” which was co-inked w/ guitarist Sean Hulet). So hers were the most prominent and intense emotions on tap. And boy, does she have emotions! In her lyrics, Elizabeth has never been about the other schlub, who’s usually a two-dimensional (one hopes) sketch of a lover. She’s about self –and generally self-pity at that—though she will hit an occasional rest stop for some self-aggrandizement—in part, at least, by goring you with a dismissal of your “simpering diatribes”
If you think it sounds like Elizabeth is less than compassionate, you’re right. But that’s OK. Hey, sometimes you need to wallow in narcissism, and when you do, Elizabeth is there for you, offering emotional comfort food—a sort of pizza of the soul. But don’t, for a second, believe that she’s doing it out of sympathy. If you want a piece of that catharsis, you’re gonna have to come to her. A larger-than-life persona has she. Not iconic, like say, Robert Johnson is iconic, but she is big—maybe even approaching Morrissey or Gary Numan, who are more analogous not just in emotional stature, but in their unabashed self-pity and grandiosity.
As a songwriter, Elizabeth possesses at least one other gift: hooks. She's always had the hooks. And they’re great hooks. You better believe she’s got a way with melody and song structure. She’ll have you humming along with her stuff in no time, even when, as was frequently the case at the live shows, things get pumped up a little close to 11. It’s still kinda noisy music! How great is that?
Speaking of the group's live shows, I really wouldn't mind being Elizabeth's guitar strap. I can only dream of being allowed to caress, gently slide over the cup of Elizabeth's breast, slick w/ the sweat of passion she must find in her music. (Not to mention the heat of the stage lights.) As a strap, I could sculpt her unseen nipple—exquisite, I'm sure. Most of all, 'tho, I could simply embrace Elizabeth—as an object, I admit, but one that she trusts. (I know I can't hope for love.) Oh but wait, we're getting off the subject...
Except we're not! Not really. I mention the guitar strap, because Elizabeth would spend a lotta time playing her guitar at the group’s live shows! Here’s how it used to work: Elizabeth climbs up the steps to the stage. (The small clubs do not seem to provide performers w/ a backstage area.) Her blond hair shines w/ streaks of copper. She is always resplendent in a brand spankin' new pair of blue jeans & a black sleeveless shirt. (She loves those things, & they do show off her shapely arms—toned, but not too creepily muscled.) There she will break out her ax.
Live, Elizabeth stuck to the ax, mostly, but when it was time to really tug at yr. heartstrings, she’d slide her dainty posterior behind some keys & machine-guns you w/ one of her sad songs. Each of the two Rep records climaxes in a long cathartic ballad, full of hushed pleading and sudden, belted out explosions. Elizabeth will pull out all the stops here, as she lets her trembling but stalwart voice cut through crashing piano chords. Man, she works those dynamics till yr. guts are wrenched up like Silly Putty in the hands of a three year old. It’s only later, after you’ve recovered your breath, that you realize that the lyrics are the same old mish-mashed myopia that Elizabeth always ladles out.
Still, I’m fascinated by Elizabeth and her music—I’ll admit it. It’s probably more than obvious by now anyway… Elizabeth, Elizabeth! (The tip of the tongue taking four steps.) What can I say? How could I ever show you the depth of the love I feel for you as a woman & as an artist?
My female friends tell me you are self-involved. I would say they are wrong, but for an abiding respect that leads me to, uh, extend only the truth to you. Still, why shouldn't you be self-involved? You are magnificent.
They point out that you may have exaggerated yr. apparent intelligence by delivering indecipherable lyrics like "...I'll stay far away from you ground the things we set aloft & burned them through a wasted premise: 'we'..." So I asked them how they could call these words pretentious if they couldn't even figure out what said words meant! Ha! That shut 'em up! (‘Tho truth be told, I think I was restating their criticism when you get down to it.)
My female friends say that you only tell yr. side of the story in yr. songs. Well, OK, I've said as much myself. What they miss—and I told 'em this—is yr. sensitive side. Vindictive as those songs may seem, they come from a deep personal pain
I think we can see what the problem really is here, Elizabeth: My female friends are really fucking jealous of you! Which is understandable. I mean, as the Song of Songs sez, "...thou art fair, my love; thou hast doves' eyes w/in thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are ever shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bares twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate w/in thy locks..." (4:1-4:3)
And what’s more, Elizabeth, you made really bitchin’ music. Here’s hopin’ you get back on the horse soon. The world needs you.
2. The Silky Underthings—“Gregorian Panting" (What?)
Whatever larger forces there are—be they Divine, Biological, or…Otherwise—they have endowed the Silky Underthings w/ real vision. Their songs plum the sorta misty territories that you can sense but never really see. Fortunately, the Silky Underthings are fluent in many musical forms. They find a ways to help you share & understand what they’ve discovered themselves.
What? is an awesome album—in the pre-Valley Girl sense of that word. With no need for drugs, it really can change yr. perception of the life that’s moving around you, as ridiculous as that may sound. It’s very difficult to find, but well worth the digging. Just amazing.
3. Spacemen 3—“Call the Doctor" (The Perfect Prescription)
Among other achievements, Spacemen 3 elucidated the momentous concept of hypnomonotony. This idea is rooted in the belief that extended, monotonous drones can elevate a listener to a state of altered consciousness. Unlike the Silky Underthings above, Spacemen 3 imply that pharmaceutical aids can enhance the transformative process of psychedelic music. In fact, the band celebrated the use of heroin. They recorded an entire (arguably tasteless) album, The Perfect Prescription, which acted out a night of intense drug use, song by song. I’ve never heard a band mumble and drone w/ such dedication—2 musical techniques that I, myself, feel can lead to a very intense experience for the listener. Go out & buy all of Spacemen 3’s records. Then throw out all of the other music you own. It’s the only advice I can offer you as a fellow human being, struggling through the chaotic terrain of life. Do it. Joy. Sorrow.
Oh yeah—go read the 4 part epic The Boom that Came to Sarnath at my blog, while you’re at it. Never have 2 great artistic endeavors—the music of Spacemen 3 & the writings of HP Lovecraft, been so powerfully joined!
4. Gary Numan—“Me! I Disconnect from You - Live" (The Pleasure Principle)
As much as any other musician, Gary Numan has gouged out the isolation—and attendant paranoia—at the core of human experience. When Gary whines in that his unique warbly yelp, “Why should I care?/ Why should I try?/ I turned off the pain/ Like I turned off you all”… he nails it. Find him silly—you could, as he frequently is—but you should also find him earnest.
Maybe part of why I laugh, when Gary puts out such heartfelt shit, is out of discomfort. Unflinchingly, in his silly ass way, he may be expressing just what you feel. Never mind that he employs vintage synthesizers to an excessive degree. (That part I kinda like, actually. Bloops, bleeps, mind-numbing feedback—these are a few of my favorite things.) I am only 10% kidding here.
Never mind that Gary sings about robots, and the literal disintegration of human beings. Do you laugh at Radiohead? If not, maybe you oughta hear me out. He is putting himself out there. (I saw him live once—yes, I admit it—and he gave at least 110%—as the lousy cliché goes.) It’s sad that I feel like I have to defend him. Pick up some of his stuff. Make room for his very weird approach, and you’ll see that he has a great deal to offer.
5. Tie: Sugar Plant—“Happy” (Happy)
Pizzicato 5—“Go-Go Dancer" (Made in USA)
(NOTE: I have ripped off a small section of a past Sugar Plant piece I wrote & interpolated it here. I can't see how they would mind, as in my position, I suspect they would do exactly the same thing.)
World War 2. You thought it was bad? Well, it’s worse than you think, because World War 2 may never have ended. Even if it did, it seems to have given life to some force—fierce, deadly ready to reclaim what it has lost, plus interest, from its enemies.
You thought the War was over, and so did I. Japan didn't think so...or at least the Japanese music industry didn't. A divine wind has broken, and it's headed for you... and me. It's coming to destroy all that we believe in and value...whatever those things may be. (I sure don't know.)
Emperor Hirohito wanted to instill a sense of religious awe in his enemies and in his people. Well, Japanese bands Sugar Plant & Pizzicato 5 don't just try. They succeed. Puny armaments are unnecessary to them. They have you—your hearts and minds—even if you don't know it yet.
Our own culture is being turned against us. Somehow, Pizzicato 5 have found a way to isolate everything that is most tasteless and awful in American music & recombine these materials into something so freakish, so depraved as to birth "Go-Go Dancer," not to mention other, equally monstrous "songs" like "Magic Carpet Ride," (probably, gulp, destined to make my 2009 Year in Review Playlist). It is a dark achievement—one that undoubtedly points toward the imminent collapse of our culture, but it is, nevertheless, profound. Not to mention catchy, 'tho w/ typical perversity, Pizzicato 5 offer up a song called "Catchy" that is an anything-but bag of mulch.
As to Sugar Plant... What kind of monsters commit such an act as "Happy?" a heavily produced and numbingly protracted pop song. Its sins include a willful and irresponsible abuse of vocal overdubbing, an insultingly simple guitar “riff” that—along with the multi-tracked “ooohh”s—comprises a 6 minute fade-out, and, most sadistic of all, a chorus that runs something along the lines of “’Cuz when you’re happy/ It makes me happy/ To see you happy/ It makes me happy…” etc., ad nauseam, to say the least. (Don’t quote me on the lyrics—I didn’t bother to actually listen to and transcribe them.)
See, when you get down to it, ‘tho it may seem otherwise, this music aren’t antithetical to the spirit of rebellion; it is the spirit of rebellion. Look at vintage Mick. Look at Sid Vicious. Look at pre-army Elvis. Musical coolness has always been defined by the desire to annoy people, and through sheer, malicious obnoxiousness, to piss them off. Now tell me these songs don’t do that.
6. Tie: Syd Barrett—“Love You" (The Madcap Laughs)
Sid Vicious—“My Way" (The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle)
Speaking of Sid, how 'bout Syd? Yep, Sid n' Syd—just 2 more re-enactments of that rock-n-roll human sacrifice motif. However, Sid n' Syd have more in common than the usual burnt offerings. Unlike Kurdt or Janis or Jimi or Jim or any other tortured (Kurdt & Janis) or stupid (Jimi n' Jim) offering, when Sid n' Syd left, the band played on.
Sure, there were differences. The Sex Pistols fell apart, but have been worshipped ever since as a band. Sid was always just a hanger-on, whose naïveté was ruthlessly exploited fer laughs. And forever the dumb little kid, who swallows bugs to win attention, Sid ate it up. He had no musical talent whatsoever, but his inclusion in the band was a gag-within-a-gag. He was a mentally challenged prop in a (admittedly brilliant) skewering of the idea of rock "stardom,"—something that the world badly needed at that point. Somebody propped him up, gave him smack & then kicked him out of the band. Then they watched him kill his girlfriend with a kitchen knife. ('Cuz he did, no matter what any of you conspiracy theorists think.) And then they got bored w/—or depressed by—Sid & turned their heads while he went of & died. Rad!
Musically, the band may not've lost much—Sid's ability to play bass being notoriously underdeveloped. But Sid was a symbol. For something. Something that the band wanted to be, but didn't have long enough to realize, if they ever would've.
One thing that Sid seemed to have that, obviously, the band could not, was sweetness. He just seemed to be a nice, dumb kid, and that wasn't very punk rock. He did have some mean-spiritedness in him, but like the other Syd, he seemed to be mostly good-natured.
If smack annihilated Sid—physically—LSD annihilated Syd—mentally. Syd, who may have been yr. most famous acid casualty... so much so that the band that he fathered and dominated sent him packin'. Sure, David Gilmour & Roger Waters helped produce his first solo album, but that act was basically analogous to givin' yr. girlfriend a piece of jewelry to ease the breakup. Pink Floyd lived on far longer than the Sex Pistols, but the band became so utterly removed from its own fantastic sensibilities that its later albums were almost antithetical to its original spirit. There is a yawning gulf between Piper at the Gates of Dawn, which, at its best, inspires a sense of wonder, and, say, The Wall, which inspires a lotta yawning. Many bands change enormously over time, but I suspect that never, ever has the identity, the personality of a band altered so drastically, w/ the departure of one member.
Not even John Cale. You could pair up Floyd & the Velvet Underground, in that the first 2 VU records are so far removed form the last 2. It seems that some people like the first pair better than the 2nd, and the inverse is also true. But w/ Floyd, it's almost as 'tho ('tho not entirely) you have one band, briefly, that quickly vanishes. Then you have its unrecognizable legacy, which stretches on for decades. For myself, sad to say, I feel that we got the worst end of the deal, temporally speaking.
Anyway, Syd didn't take long to meltdown either, but he died a long, slow death. Paranoid, hallucinating, sometimes a little better, but mostly, it seems, hiding. And I can't help missing the personality that he brought to Pink Floyd—and the sense of individuality that the band never seemed to re-capture, 'tho Roger Waters sure tried.
RIP, Sid n' Syd. Thanks for sharing...
7. Stooges—“Louie Louie" (Metallic K.O.)
The impact that The Stooges had on punk and post-punk musical forms is incalculable. Not a one of the band's 4 records is a dud. ('Tho David Bowie’s “mentorship” came very close to transforming Raw Power into one.) Each of these records is a distinct organism, w/ its unique set of innards. The 1st album, The Stooges, is so naive, so honest, but so edgy that its virtually impossible not to be carried away by it. This is “garage music”—the Real Deal. And it’s very clean next to the heat & sleaze of the more elaborate follow-up, Fun House, which can, legitimately, be called “dangerous music.” Once you move into Metallic KO, the band's last album—a live one—you move into violence, as at the end of the performance, members of a biker gang knock Iggy Pop unconscious.
Above, I said that the Reputation—and most other rock musicians—are not dangerous—no matter what they’d have you think. Here, ’tho, I think you are truly straddling the line of rock-n-roll danger. And who better than Iggy, who wrote a song called "Gimme Danger," could lead you there?
Iggy embodied the punk esthetic before it even existed. ('Tho I kinda believe that it always existed. Listen to Johnny Cash doin' "Folsom Prison Blues.") This viewpoint is challenging in that it argues that life has become oppressive to the individual, and that in hopes of finding healthier way of being alive, you should immerse yourself in intense—sometimes destructive--emotional chaos.
At least, that’s what I think that's the idea that punk championed, at its best. Obviously 'tho, if you're gonna play w/ fire, someone might kick the snot outta ya. And that’s what happened to Iggy.
He brought it to life. And however lame he is now, I think somebody oughta give him a medal.
8. R. Kelley—“Trapped in the Closet—Chapter 9 of 12" (Trapped in the Closet—Chapters 1-12)
To say that R Kelley is one of the greatest minds in Western music is akin to saying that apples are oranges or grapes are Edsels or omelets are vultures or muscle tissue is manure. It is a truth coupled w/ a falsehood & then wrapped w/in a framework that may either be foolish or grandly inspired or both. Or something.
R. Kelley is responsible for at least 2 momentous steps in the development of the musical arts throughout the ages: First, his work Trapped in the Closet has revivified the opera in the hearts & minds of the lower & middle classes. Second, his insistent use of a rhythmic water-dripping sound has stretched the boundaries of popular music as we know it—affecting not only his audience, but his peers and imitators, as well.
I doubt that any of us will ever fully understand the social and esthetic advancements R. Kelly has delivered to us. However, his work will continue to move us, and that is what’s most stunning and most important I suspect that R. Kelly’s work will be appreciated & studied for centuries to come.
9. Billy Joel—“Miami 2017 (Seen the Lights Go out on Broadway) - Live" (Songs in the Attic)
In a world of musical artists, Billy Joel is a craftsman. There's nothing wrong w/ that. D'ya want a painting or a wicker basket? Well?
I saw him on 60 Minutes when I was a kid. It was a feature spot, in which BJ was at home, relaxin' w/ whomever was covering the story. (I don't remember who it was.) The guy marveled at BJ's ability to just knock out a new song at a moment's notice. And so, like a caricature artist, BJ asked for a few details from the guy's life. Then he turned to his piano, and, sure enough, he immediately performed a very tuneful new song—all about the interviewer’s butterfly collection, alcoholism or whatever other pastimes he enjoyed. I was a young kid, amazed by BJ’s feat.
When I was 10-14ish, I saw BJ play a number of times. I don't know how many. I was a huge fan. Throwing away money from my paper route, I joined his fan club, so I could get the newsletter "Root Beer Rag," which was a rip-off that came out whenever whoever (or whatever) assembled the thing felt like assembling it. Still, I didn’t regret it—much. BJ was a model of manhood for me—romantic, savvy, & tough. He always ended his concerts by shouting, "Goodnight _________________ [insert name of town]! Don’t take any shit off of anybody!" I don't know about you, but I'm not afraid to say the wild boys were my friends.
In college, older and seemingly tougher myself, I couldn't resist putting his song "You're My Home" on a mix tape I made for a girlfriend. No matter how tough I was, I was still grotesquely sentimental, at times. The ex made a reasonable effort to pretend that she found the song moving, but it was pretty clear that she was more embarrassed than anything else. I'm not sure, but maybe she couldn't handle BJ's naked emotion. Craftsman ‘tho he may be—more Tin Pan Alley than heavy metal—I think his songs do synthesize real feelings.
I rarely listen to him now. (He’s just too special.) Still, having immersed myself in his catalog as a kid, I am disappointed that people aren't aware of the epic dimensions of some his songwriting. To be fair, he rarely foregrounded them in the work he selected for radio release—except maybe, for "Goodnight Saigon." That song is another case of a non-vet somehow trying to establish his credibility as a sympathizer w/ the American service men who escaped from the Vietnamese cesspool alive. It's a draft dodger's love song to the vets he ditched. Similarly, "Allentown" is too muddled and short to make much of an impression.
BJ shone in his epics you’d find on his albums, like "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" & "The Ballad of Billy Kid." These songs are more effective when they are performed live. "Billy the Kid" & the great "Miami 2017 (Seen the Lights Go out on Broadway)" can be found on the live album Songs in the Attic, along w/ other, equally grandiose numbers. On this album, BJ & his band stretch out, crashin', boomin' & rockin' wherever it's appropriate. That's another facet of BJ that isn't always apparent: he can rock when he wants to. Screw Zeppelin.
BJ, when he feels like it, can be a sorta Dostoyevsky of MOR pop—well, OK, maybe more like a Dickens. I think all of us could benefit from an exploration of his larger, rarely visited sound worlds.
10. Bob Dylan –“???” (??!? )
I said it about Elizabeth Elmore, and I’m gonna ask it about the great Bob Dylan: what can I say about him that hasn't already been said? Oh, I know... I don't get it. The guy wrote some good songs, like "Positively 4th Street," say, but I'm unable to appreciate his claims to godhood. I'm never sure if its an Emperor's clothes situation, (which I doubt, 'cuz I ain't clever enough to see through most illusions,) or if I'm just not feeling... something... I respect Dylan—'tho prob. not as much as you do. And I don't think I'm cool. If anything I assume I'm deficient somehow—that I’m lacking some sensitivity or missing some soulful gene. I feel awful saying this, but I find his mumbling theatrical share-cropper-isms a little off-putting. And some of his lyrics strike me less as poetry than they do as gibberish. It’s strange how heavy my confessions make me feel, isn’t it? I want to tell you that I’m not trying to be a contrarian. I just don’t feel it. And isn’t that the point of music?
Most likely you find me an idiot and an asshole now, if you didn't already. I suspect you are right, but I'm just trying to be honest. That said, I put Dylan on my list because he's on everyone else's. Who am I to argue w/ a cultural imperative? (As far as songs go, I don't know. You pick 1.)
11. Sleep—“Dopesmoker" (Dopesmoker)
Sleep no longer exists as a band. In some ways, that may be just as well. Their final ('tho a reunion is imminent) album Dopesmoker contained a single song, "Dopesmoker," which clocked in at 1:03:31. More than a full hour of sludge/doom metal w/ lyrics that provide muddled combinations of Biblical/ Tolkeinesque imagery, all baked down to one very dense brownie. Ever muddy and ever loud, it intones the unforgettable phrase "Proceeds the Weedian... Nazareth..." approximately 50 times. (The numbers would be higher here, if this tune didn't advance at the pace of a snail eating molasses in January.)
It's a wicked expansion of Black Sabbath that is simultaneously a reduction. It's better. Yes, better than Sabbath. Who else give you over 1 hour of a single song? Not even Iron Butterfly, who weren't nearly as together musically. It's an act that is as avant-garde as it is basic, and therefore, it is radical. Lower yourself into its muck. You may never come out, but who cares? Do you have something better to do?
Trust me: you don't.
Thus Ends the List of the Greatest Musical Entities of All Time
Now, onto the disc/ playlist/ wax cylinder/ whatever you’re gonna put the recommended songs on. Pretty quick you’ll be able to appreciate this Profound Assemblage of Artists. Ready?
Here is the suggested sequencing for the tracks:
1.? [Dylan song??? Kinda presumptuous to disturb my vision at the beginning, but I trust yr. judgment, 'tho not everyone is talented enough to make a mix tape. Be careful... Just make sure it's got that beginning of a mix tape oomph, OK? Or put a Dylan song in one of the other suggested slots below...]
1. or 2. Miami 2017
2./3. Me! I Disconnect from You
3./4. Trapped in the Closet
4.? [Dylan song of yr. choice… if you didn't insert one as the first track... Remember, stick w/ the mood, OK? Or consider one of the suggested slots below...]
4./5. Happy
5./6. Love You
6.? [Dylan song, if not inserted as track 1 or 4 above… Whatever you feel is appropriate. Really... You know better than I do… or put it further down...]
7. My Way
8. Go-Go Dancer - Some insults just have to be borne. See 4/5 above.
9. Louie Louie
10. Call the Doctor
11. Gregorian Panting
12. For the Win
12.? Dopesmoker or Sonic Titan
It becomes more apparent that you may want to exclude the Dylan song. Otherwise, you will arrive at a very unlucky number of songs, possibly cursing yr. mix tape or playlist. Hey, it's up to you. I'm leaving it offa my mix 'tho. One must always respect the ineffable by not screwing w/ one's luck.
Or you could skip Sleep's entry, as it'll make this list preclusively long for almost any medium. Try an mp3 disc or just a computer playlist, if you listen to yr. music that way. If you burn an audio CD or use even more primitive technology, like cassettes, (prob. 'cuz you think you are a real cool holdout/rebel, who’s defying Corporate America or some such shit,) you could try Sleep's only other song, "Sonic Titan," which is shorter and would fit, but is less cool. (It's still good 'tho.)
Otherwise, I guess you're stuck w/ Dylan...
I feel like I'm lettin' you down on this Dylan song. For what it's worth, I just asked the computer to randomly pick a song out of the Dylan records that I have, and you can go w/ it, if you like. You got lucky: it was "Subterranean Homesick Blues." You coulda got "Just Like a Woman." Being as we drew this 1, I'd put it between "Trapped in the Closet" & "Happy." I think that's really the only place where it might work. Like I said 'tho, pick the song and sequencing you'll enjoy the most. And hey! I just checked it out, and it appears that if you go w/ "Sonic Titan," as yr. Sleep track, you can fit Dylan in the slot I suggested w/ room to spare!
Now I should prob. say something that sounds cool to justify the time I’ve taken away from both of us to present my ideas to you. (For what it’s worth, I guarantee you that it took me more time to write this than it did for you to read it.) Uhh… Cool, eh? How about this? Many great human endeavors are ephemeral. Like life, they pass on, and often, & then they are slowly forgotten. We can be grateful for music, as it survives down centuries to connect w/ our emotions, helping many of us negotiate alla the crap & exhilaration we meander into. That connection, if you feel it, is the dissipation of loneliness, & 'tho it’s temporary & often limited, it can also be profound.
Sometimes, when the stars are right, (the celestial ones—not Miley Cyrus,) music may break down walls between audience and performer. On Metallic KO, Iggy takes a moment outta "Gimme Danger" to improvise some lines that seem to be directed more at the audience than at any fictional lover: "I need you... more than you need me..." Whether or not he's right, Iggy points toward a feeling—he shows his audience how, for one transcendent moment, music can be more powerful than audience and musician combined. Very briefly, here and there, almost anyone can be moved by music.
And I’m sure every time you play this mix, you will be.
