Upon Some Greatness Is Thrust—Part 3: The Scam-ly Album

I had a dream…

Two hairy human backs—naked: one dotted intriguingly w/ liver spots, the other showing enough rib to achieve an anorexic sexiness. From in front of their owners, little rhythmic slapping sounds can be heard, as can a low moaning.

I have a hard-on.

I can’t see the men’s faces, but I am not behind them. Is that me in front—the one who is moaning? It seems wrong. There’s a windy, barrel-chested quality to those sobs—that’s what they have become: sobs.

I seem to be nowhere, but I try to move around them—past the slap-slap-slapping—to see…

Wormy grin= Netanyahu. Sneery smile= a chipmunk… oh wait, I’m mistaken. It’s Barack Obama. And they’re… naked… And that slapping is them jerking off w/ saliva-stained palms. Not a very efficient system, as you have to spit in yr. hand frequently to avoid going raw, but then, there’s The Economy & a certain need for corner-cutting. That probably explains the absence of lube, as well as the fact that only 2 people have shown up for this circle jerk.

Or 3, I guess… if the thing in the middle can be called a person. It’s sniveling on the cushions of fat that line its knees & elbows, cradling its head in its hands, and jabbering. It wears a torn gingham nightgown like one Melissa Gilbert might’ve donned on Little House on the Prairie. The subhuman thing looks up, weeping, but…smiling a little… Abu Mazen…

A sign has been pinned to his back w/ a safety pin that reads “”MIDDLE EAST PEACE PROCESS”” in a messy child’s scrawl.

Even the quotation marks are in quotes. A smaller scrap of paper—a Post-It, really—sez “The Roadmap” in red ink. On it, is an arrow pointing toward Abbas’s ass.

Oh Mr. Benjamin… Slaughter my people… Oh Mr. Barack… humiliate them! This is so hot!

He goes on and on, as they try to make their flaccid lil’ willies do somethin’. Futility. It’s all futility. But hot futility. Abu Mazen squeals…

Where’s Hamas? I need them now! My tight asshole won’t stay cherry forever!

PLING! CRIK! TEE-YOO!

Sounds like gunshots! For a second, I thought it was Hamas, but there’s no one around here but my friend & I. Wasn’t Benjamin Netanyahu just here? Yeah… I’m sure he was—w/ a chipmunk & a pincushion. Boy, dreams sure can get weird, can’t they?

What dirty thing do you want me to do now? My friend sez.

Oh, run yr. well-seasoned nut-sack across my eyelids—gently, like a llama grazing at clover.

KLING! BLAT! CRIK!

Another interruption! A horrible racket, and it was ruining the mood. My friend started zipping up & turned to leave…

Wait, please don’t go!

He shook his head, sneering, threw a $50 bill on the bed and left…

Wait! Brian Dennehy! Please come back!

WEENG! PLEEE! POW!

The end of a—well, I’m deeply uncertain whether I should call it “pleasant”—dream… This wasn’t the 1^st time I’d been pulled out of a deep slumber by those sounds…

GLEEK! KLEEPOW!!!

Gunshots. That’s what I get for being a PI. Sleeping late can get you killed, but then, I felt fulfilled. I felt that I deserved to sleep late…

I cannot begin to tell you what sorta high I’ve been on lately. Not only has this blog been foundering in bad writing about music, but my life has been foundering in this bad blog. You’d think I’d have something to write about besides music. I mean, not that it’s a bad subject or even—in my estimation—an unimportant one. It’s just that there are other things to write about—or there used to be—e.g. my exiting excursions to Hawaii & NYC—not to mention other matters. You’ve been left hanging, haven’t you? I’d say I was sure you were real unhappy about that, if I thought that you’d even noticed.

Unfortunately, I did notice. As I said, it seemed I was doing nothing but writing blog entries. My testicles have shrunken to a point where they’ve practically atrophied. My dog no longer recognizes me—or if she does, she must really be pissed off, ‘cuz whenever I walk by, she growls at me as ‘tho I were cat burglar—ha ha ha… Yep. I’ve been neglecting a lot & failing to enjoy even more.

Part of my compulsion arose from guilt. I felt bad that I’d been doing such a bad job of maintaining this here record. And that’s pretty dumb, as, well, talk about yr. victimless crimes, right? Still, empty guilt is 1 of my most charming traits—or that’s what 1 of the shrinks I used to have (back when I still allowed for the possibility that there was some reason to visit ‘em) told me. That was right before—maybe it was after—who can be sure?—she took out a restraining order on me. Anyway, I’m not a pussy like that anymore, but I do feel guilty more often than I oughta, and I felt guilty about overlooking—or rather, hiding from this blog.

Part of the prob. was that writing about Hawaii & NYC & that sorta thing actually feels like work. At some point back there, I made the unfortunate choice to make an effort in writing about these things. You may be disturbed to hear that past entries represented my “making an effort.” If writing that’s that lousy is laborious, I really must be fucked, right? A bad writer who feels compelled to try to write well? Man, do I have a headache, but fret not, friend out there. I didn’t make much of an effort. But even an effort can be a lot, if you are as pathologically devoted to inertia as I am.

So I ran from my blog. I hid. I took out aliases, pretending I was a professional writer. Somehow, always, my blog would find me.

Fuck off! I sez.

Steve, I’m positioned perfectly. I’m coverin’ every point of egress. You’re not gettin’ outta there till you promise to blog. After all, I’m a blog. If you won’t turn yourself in, I got nothin’ to lose. I’ll ventilate you, bitch. Look at my big shiny gat. Well! Go ahead! Look!

Dumb fuck that I am, I looked. And WHIZZ! BLING! KLUPP! Flakes of drywall danced slowly through the air, like the dandruff of angels.

My blog was drooling and blubbering.

I don’t wanna die! I know I’m a mediocrity, but I don’t wanna die! Pleeze?!

Blink blink. Snivel.

I sighed.

OK, let’s talk. Look, I can’t stand it HI.? NYC? The subjects are so big. The stories are so complicated. The liquor cabinet’s so empty. (Not that I have 1.)

Well, like, remember when you used to write about Harold Washington and things—sorta in-between. Like, when you needed a break from HI. or whatever?

My head snapped to 1 side, looking for an imaginary camera to which I might direct an expression of surprise. I’d forgotten all about Harold Washington, Jeff Foxworthy, Alf, Tori Spelling, etc. My blog was right. I’d forgotten about the Apple store, jobs I’d had transferring stag films to VHS tapes and speed-induced breakdowns at drive in theater. But then it hit me.

Yeah, but see the prob. is that when I get carried away w/ that shit, it can take over everything. Even in an entry that’s supposed to be about HI. or whatever, a digression can take over. I get lost. The entry gets lost. Meaning gets lost. I feel like I’m Hansel, wandering in the woods—trying to convince Gretel to shove a juniper stalk up my urethra, ‘cuz like, we’re lost, ‘cuz our wood-cutter dad just remarried to some skank bitch, who’s pist cuz I wouldn’t fuck her cuz she’s my dad’s new wife, and that ain’t right, and besides which, I’m only into dudes who look like Montgomery Clift—esp. right after the big car accident—and she’s a chick who looks more like Mark Hamill right after that bad car accident… Did you ever see Corvette Summer? I never did, but aren’t you morbidly curious? Dontcha just kinda wanta know how bad his acting really is when he can’t hide it behind a light saber in the middle of a glorified kiddie flick…

My blog had nodded off. Slowly, I reached for its piece, but it started and leveled the barrel at me.

Clever fuck. You were trying to bore me into a coma so you could lift my gun and then prob. terminate me.

Look, I don’t wanna kill you. But you gotta admit: this has all gotten to be a little heavy, and if I fall back on stuff that’s easier, I’ll lose the thread—sorta like that magic thread that horny teen babe gave that Theseus guy so he could navigate through that giant underground maze w/o gettin’ seized by some hairy cow-headed stud, who’d then goose n’ sodomize Theseus w/ his horns before eating him (just why Theseus would wanna avoid such a titillating experience is beyond me)… I think the thread was this real long golden pube that I heard the horny teen babe stole from the crotch of a faerie princess from Davison, Michigan, who had an extra nipple that GLOORB BULUBB…

I found that I had the barrel of the gun in my mouth. My reflex was to start suckin’, but my blog was looking at me w/ a cold rage that distracted me.

No more pan-cultural folklore references. No more talking. Just listen: Music. Write about that. That will get you moving. Once you’ve built up some momentum, you can get back to NYC or HI. or Arcturus or wherever. Music. Usually, you can stay on-topic and finish what you have to say, when you write about music.

GLUPP?

Shut up. Write some entries about music. Now. No more runnin’. I wanna live!

More snivelin’ & weepin’. I hate my blog. It was bein’ all over-solicitous. You could tell it just wanted someone to feel sorry for it. Fortunately, I had a 9mm Browning in my mouth and was therefore exempted from having to say anything comforting. I did, however, brush 1 very greasy strand of hair from my blog’s teary eye. After all, I created the poor lil’ fucker…

Anyway. So. Music entries. And they started gettin’ as convoluted and unwieldy as my travelogues n’ psychedelic fantasies. Still, I soldiered on—I compiled my end of the year list early—got it outta the way immediately, before it could get outta hand; and then I lay to rest, once & for all, the eternal questions of who were the Greatest Musical Artists of All Time & what was the Greatest Song…

Fuck personal progress or blogress or whatever—I was hastening human progress. And then, finally, I’d said it all. There was nothing else to say about music. I was ready to barf, repeatedly, if I had to so much as glance at a Lester Bangs book. But my blog couldn’t demand anything else musical from me. It was gonna have to come up w/ some other tactic, & this time, I’d be ready for it. I’d get the drop--& w/ something a lot more creative than a 9mm. Something w/ plastique maybe—yeah… & cockroaches… Hmmm…

Ha! You can’t conceive of the happiness I felt! I laughed harder and in a healthier way than I did when Chicago Cubs pitcher Carlos Zambrano slugged former Cubs catcher Michael Barrett a few years back. It was a kinda elation I hadn’t experienced since childhood rides on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Once or twice I almost got an erection.

For days, my blog was conspicuously absent. It was like it knew I was laying in wait—ready for it this time. Then the other day, I was just hangin’ out, coalatin’ some photos of Elizabeth Elmore. Sigh… Elizabeth transfixed, as she took a solo… Elizabeth in a black sleeveless shirt, grinnin’ foxily … Somewhat incongruously, I was listenin’ to OHM: Early Gurus of Electronic Music, but even it couldn’t drown out my computer’s alarm tone (which, in case you’re wonderin’, is Barney Rubble chortlin’ like he just slipped a cleverly KY’ed finger up Fred Flintstone’s tight ass). It bespoke a new email message.

I don’t know why I set Elizabeth aside—as if I ever really could do that. I thought it would only take a moment to glance at the message—prob. just one more empty advertisement from some concern that is affiliated w/ some adult erotica type site I’d visited, which, despite the fact that I’d specified I didn’t wanna receive no announcements, offers, etc. re: various bargains or events in my area, had passed my name along to some other assholes, w/ whom I’d had no direct contact and were therefore not bound to leave me alone. And I’d have to email ‘em to unsubscribe. And their unsubscribe link would lead me to some 404: File Not Found Type page. And I’d shoot myself and then the computer—or maybe the other way around, just for the sake of variety. Butt that’s not what the message hadda do w/.

There was no subject heading, and I didn’t recognize the sender’s address: HYPERLINK "mailto:sforcemansblog69@aol.com"sforcemansblog69@aol.com. Who the fuck uses AOL anymore? I was intrigued. Of course, I’m sure the sender was hoping I’d be intrigued, so that I’d read the message, rather than deleting it out of hand, as I normally would.

12 pt. Arial characters spelt out: “best album?”

I woke up 4 hours later w/ crusted black blood in my eye. Apparently, I’d chosen to hit the bony ridge of my eye socket repeatedly w/ one of several blunt objects lying about, thereby driving myself into unconsciousness. I held my cradled my forehead and cast about for the weapon. Like it matters what I’d brained myself w/, but curiosity, often, is my undoing. Look at this email…

Of course it was from my blog. And of course, it had my number. Those words—those 2 accursed words—unleashed all of my diseased compulsiveness. Greatest Album. Now I have to write about that before—finally—I can rest—till I can quit writing about music for a while—maybe even quit writing this fuckin’ blog—and actually work on one of the many things I really want to write. Or maybe even I can just watch re-runs of Who’s the Boss? Or grow a tail. Or learn to speak Esperanto. Anything, anything, anything, but write about music again!

So w/ all due empty, targetless resentment, I bring you a consideration of The Greatest Musical Album of All Time…

Hole – Celebrity Skin:

Hole is/are/whatever…we’re really talkin’ about Courtney Love, right?…too chameleonic to be considered “great” What’s more, they mostly suck. But OK, back when, I liked their album Live through This. And I was all caught up in that Kurt & Courtney stuff. Live through This was OK, but sounded suspiciously like Courtney singin’ karaoke over a buncha Nirvana outtakes. Courtney’d act even pissier than usual—which was pretty pissy—whenever someone pointed that out. Eventually she overturned past statements when she allowed that Kurt might have helped her write some of the songs, but they were really hers at heart. Then Kurt died, and she went off and made this record w/ her ex-boyfriend and lead Smashing Pumpkin Billy Corrigan producing.

And pretty quick, Courtney released Celebrity Skin to mixed reviews. And damned if it didn’t sound a helluva lot like a buncha Smashing Pumpkins outtakes, wherein Billy whips 70s radio rock & softcore punk energy into one very intriguing cake. Or at least that’s what all the critics & DJs & various other outlets of musical lore told us.

People may’ve pointed out the apparently derivative nature of her new stuff to Courtney. They may or may’ve not been spit on for it. Or maybe she offered them that not-quite-convincing facsimile of a smile that she unrolled outside movie premiers on various red carpets—themselves unrolled—during her brief stint in Hollywood. (If you’re interested, you can actually watch her tryin’ to pull that smile together in the documentary Kurt & Courtney, right before she realized she was being asked about her involvement in ol’ Kurdt’s death.) Coulda gone either way. I don’t know. I was too busy playing Celebrity Skin really, really loud and ignoring everything else except for the fruit salads I had to make for the coffee shop I worked at. Melon-ballers & Courtney. The good life. Well, I made the salads anyway. In truth, I only rarely listened to this album, because it is so moving that I didn’t want to ruin it.

What’s better than sittin’ back & listenin’ to the amalgamated cheese ball that Billy &/or Courtney have made for yr. personal dinner party? Instead of marbled meat n’ cheese, it’s givin’ you distant little punk explosions folded over into that clean 70s feelin’ of rollin’ down yr. windows & crusin’. This is Cali 70s rawk—strictly decadent, but yearnin’—not above self-doubt—just like Hotel California or Rumors or one a those solo Joe Walsh records. (Did he live in California when he wasn’t being a mercenary for the Eagles?)

There are only 2 problems here, in this otherwise perfect platter. First, Billy &/or Courtney seem to have a shaky understanding of what that Fleetwood/Eagles, etc. shit sounds like, so they can only offer you a vague whiff of some car-tune of it here—a shaky replica of feeling, but not of sound. Worse, ‘tho neither Billy nor Courtney was every really an exponent of the punk esthetic, both seem to’ve forgotten what its 90s renaissance—the 1 that made ‘em famous—sounds like as well. This record only weakly recalls 70s yawn rock or 90s whine rock. It sounds a lot more like indeterminate mulch rock—a timeless, if bland, style, when properly cultured.

Still… there’s that 2^nd prob.: Courtney can’t sing! She makes Stevie Nicks sound like Stevie Wonder. And that’s a liability you don’t want weighing down a record like this. At best, we could argue that Courtney’s a sorta jazz singer—scattin’ & honkin’—like Ella Fitzgerald in heat. More like Billie Holiday maybe—in her later years, when many feel that her voice became less “perfect,” musically, but also far more expressive of emotion. Courtney’s just like that.

Mmmff…snicker… Not really… For one thing, Courtney never could sing, which was OK when her music was impersonating quasi-punk rock. After all, her dead hubbie’s talents were limited in this area—‘tho he did have them, & you could hear them in an unplugged context. But simple as he may or may not’ve been, he never entertained illusions that he was Glen Frey—who can sing OK, but has little discernible personality. Kurt did have personality—lots of it—but it’s rare that you get a lotta personality and talent. Mostly what C has is personality—again, lots of it—unfortunately, it’s almost aaaaalllllllll unlikable.

If you feel little affection for Courtney, you’re mostly sorta left looking for talent. You’ll find it on this album, but for the most part, it isn’t hers. It’s the studio-as-artist esthetic championed by guys like Phil Spector, back when—an esthetic that took over a lotta the airwaves a long time ago. Behind the singer, battalions of backup vocals founder in string section squalls. If you’re Mariah Carey, you mostly show up to do karaoke. You read out the lyrics phonetically, not even paying attention to what you’re singin’, as yr. voice does these little dolphin jumps. You may very well be singin’ “I Wanna Be Black,” which is Mariah’s case would be pretty fuckin’ funny.

Here we are, adrift in a sea—did I say “sea?”—is a sea enough to contain this shit?—of twisted, elaborate enactments of art, personality, empathy, facelessness. Courtney has a face. It’s ugly, attractive or bland, according to yr. taste, but it’s there. And if there’s something buoying us up here, it’s the struggle, dance, intercourse, fight over a parking spot—whatever—here between that face and that sound. Humanity in Cyberbia—there’s Courtney, hashin’ it out—tryin’ to assert her uniqueness and significance, all the while, tangled up in matted balls of wires & playlists. Tension, baby, is the rule here. It leads to this utterly embarrassing artifact—something that is part train wreck, part commercial, part sex, (of course,) but mostly, mostly, mostly, a really good standup routine.

I hate to just laugh at people. Mostly, it’s a negative indulgence, but when someone feels she needs to act out her stupidity, her longing for popularity, her incredible self-consciousness, it becomes something like tragi-comedy. Ultimately, too, given the context of Courtney’s life, her utter bitchiness & her utter cynicism in appropriating a musical style that was, well, pretty shallow to begin w/, & in which, I suspect she had no interest—not even in its few elements that were not entirely shallow—along w/ so many other expressions of ugliness—well, unfortunately, the sense of tragedy falls away, and despite the fact that it was not yr. intention to do so, you find yourself laughing at her after all.

It’s so absurd! This record is so absurd! Listen to “Heaven Tonight” w/ its nasal “unh-hunh’s.” Look at all those 90s teen movies & TV shows, like, say, Dawson’s Creek, that featured these songs. Troll through the repeated lyrical imagery of someone—variously the protagonist & then her lover—galloping to each other—all of which is embarrassing & a little troubling, but I can’t say whether the pathology that’s marked out here is Courtney’s or someone else’s—possibly a disgruntled songwriting hack, who was having a good, long laugh at her expense. Worst, in “Heaven Tonight,” one of many candidates for the albums nadir, Courtney repeatedly describes herself galloping to heaven to save “you.” OK. I’m not certain who “you” may be, but I think we have to at least entertain the possibility that you’re Kurt Cobain! And if so—dude—I have 2 things to say to you: “Scentless Apprentice” is a great fuckin’ song, (and you have others,) and dude, I’m really sorry your wife has culled such an unpleasant bowl of gruel from yr. memory. But then, bad taste was always a staple of the punk esthetic, so I’m sure you’d agree, it goes w/ the territory you wandered—and I am wandering—through.

So that’s sad, I think. The Big Grungicide. But we can take solace in an image of Courtney galloping to heaven. Do you see it? In yr. mind, is she like a partially wooden/ partially fleshy rocking horse? Is she more like herself on all 4’s w/ a scuffed bit in her mouth? Or possibly she’s a sorta centaur? (Where am I, Wisconsin’s House on the Rock?) Or do you have somethin’ better?

Recently this album came up on random play. (I understand that you won’t believe me when I say this, but I didn’t buy it myself. My sister gave it to me 1 Xmas as a gift.) I was captivated by it. Why? There’s just something so big, so enormously fascinating here—an illustration of turmoil—about individual vs. machine (studio, etc.;); about loneliness & the desire for love—(not as stated in the lyrics, of course, but as redolent in the musical air as rancid semen—as Courtney looks for someone, everyone, to think she is cool)—and fame; about really ill-conceived ideas that foreground the characteristics of at least 2 “alternative music” icons w/ whom Courtney was close—the scrawny one in the ratty cardigan and the other one w/ the pale, globular bald head. This record’s got it all. So even if it’s horrible, it is the Greatest Album of All Time.

So that's it. I will never write about music again... as Alf is my witness... (I may not be able to resist writing about Elizabeth Elmore, but I'll point away from the music and just point toward her...) And maybe I won't write about Hawaii. And maybe not NYC. And maybe not Harold Washington. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get that lucky...

Ya gotta have hope...

Upon Some, Greatness Is Thrust - Part 2: The Song Show

The Greatest Song of All Time:


Lou Reed- I Wanna Be Black - Street Hassle

The Artists featured in Part 1 of this feature wrote some of the Greatest Songs of All Time, of course, but what distinguishes them most is their entire body of work, the epic sweep of their careers and their undeniable status as icons of all that is truly great in music. However, I’d be remiss if I didn’t note that none of them can be credited w/ The Greatest Song of All Time.

Musical talent takes different forms. Some artists, ‘tho they are not have that kinda stature, get lucky enough to just write a great song once in a while. Some even have a system & are able churn the things out—be they dumb as a bunny—like Mozart is in Amadeus—or as soulless as a .357 Magnum left lyin’ in a snow drift. Or both.

Wow. There are a lotta good songs out there, aren’t there? That’s why I’m not gonna bother w/ a list. We’d be here all day. Besides, there’s really no need. My choice goes far beyond any other in the force of its performance and in particular, in its wealth of spirit. It also bears the mark of its maker: that unmistakable character. Lou Reed.

Once he got over the whole trying to make music that was any good or relevant or worth listening to—mostly right around the time the 3rd VU record came out, ‘tho he had momentary spasms of humanity thereafter—ol’ Lou made a whole career outta not carin’ nor tryin’ to play music, nor to craft those characters you grew to love in his early lyrics. Instead, he decided to try something really cool, while makin’ sure you knew he was doin’ it: loafing around in some rock star placenta, gobblin’ pills, bein’ a drunk, putting on five hundred pounds than suddenly losin’ ‘em, sayin’ he was gay, then sayin’ he was straight then sayin’ he wasn’t Jewish, than sayin’ he was & that it was an integral part of him as a human being. He also said he felt deeply indebted to black music & black culture, & noted how both had influenced his toonz.

Thus “I Wanna Be Black.” It’s a real funny satire of white college kidz, Lou explained, when pressed. Otherwise, he’s avoided talkin’ about the thing, & in a rare act of apparent insecurity he yanked it from an original record, Sally Can't Dance, and a subsequent box set called Beyond Thought & Expression—in both cases, right before it the recordings were released. It later showed up in several different places, including another collection of Greatest Hits—where it totally belonged from the get-go.

I like this song for a few reasons. The band sounds like they’re drunk playing it. Lou sounds like he’s on speed. (Prob. was—that was one of his things around then, if it isn’t still now.) The crowd sounds like they’re drunk, on speed and prob. can’t hear anything, which is prob. just as well, ‘cuz I don’t believe that middle brow people like them were ready of the Grand Artistry of this song, either in the avant garde sorta (out of tune, out of rhythm, etc.) way the band played it or in the gently ironic bent of its lyrics. Ol’ deadpan Lou. Some people just don’t get him.

I do, which is why the thing I like most of all is its lyrics. Let’s explore some excerpts, so we can all appreciate the scalpel of his wit:

“I wanna be black, have natural rhythm / Shoot 20 foot of jism too/ And fuck up the Jews…”

These lines open the song, & in them, Lou establishes all of the most important ideas he will wrestle w/ throughout the song. One bears mentioning right away: a grotesque perception of African American sexuality. To whom do these ideas belong? Ralph Ellison & Malcolm X—2 of the greatest black minds (some might say 2 of the greatest minds period) of the post WWII era both write of their encounters w/ white peoples’ fiercely unhealthy coveting of African American eroticism—and in particular how it arises from unclear visualizations of black physiology. I think that’s what Lou is hitting on here & in other bizarre sexual images that’ll follow. I think he’s tryin’ to capture that Caucasian view of titillating alienism that defiles African Americans. I guess. I don’t really know. I’m followin’ Lou’s direction here. I must be really, really repressed, ‘cuz I can’t remember ever seeing a black guy emit 20 feet of semen—or is he emitting a smaller amount—say, a regular wad—that shoots through the air for 20 feet like a soft line drive hit by Cubs second baseman Mike Fontenot? (What he imagines when he contemplates 1st baseman Derrek Lee is best left to the imagination—or not even that—but I’m guessing it would do w/ which kinda streak Derrek was following at that point—dramatic hitter that he is.) If Lou sez I think that ‘tho, I must, altho’ maybe I’m not the 1 thinkin’ it. As I said above, whose perspective shelters an image like this?

I also think Lou is pointing toward the ludicrousness of these sexual myths in an effort to diminish the harm they have done to white men. Lou wants to assert that it is very unlikely that anyone can shoot jism that far, because he can’t, and he’s not inferior to black men, physically, in any other way, including penile endowment. He—and every other male of non-African extraction—need not be insecure. We have just as much to offer as any other man—except maybe for Lou & John Holmes.


Further along Lou’s cultural excursion, is a pivotal moment that may provide some explanation. Maybe:

“…I don’t wanna be a fucked up / Middle class college student anymore/ I just wanna have a stable of foxy little whores…”

The juxtaposition of this college student w/ blaxploitation imagery demonstrates the absurdity of Afro-philism. On the other end of the moral scale, look how these romanticized images play out in the sermonizing of losers like Bono. The sanctimonious light we view men like MLK in distorts what we see:

“I wanna be black, wanna be like Martin Luther King/ And get myself shot in spring/ And lead a whole generation too/And fuck up the Jews…”

White people have long scrutinized Anti-Semitism in the African American community. Notes have been taken, files filled. Lou understands these things, which is good, ‘cuz I need him to lead the way, to help me out of this, uh, darkness so I can better see something that I mostly don’t see: how obsessively black people hate Jews.

Coupla things I have trouble w/: Before college, I spent most of my school years in classes where a large portion of my classmates—sometimes the majority—were African American. I do not remember a single time—not once—when any uttered an anti-Semitic slur or even referenced Jewish people, except when germane issues came up in History or Social Science courses. I went to school w/ the same kids through most of that time. There were 2 Jewish students, both female, who were allowed out of school for the Jewish holidays. About the only time anyone expressed anything about a specific person’s Jewishness was to wish he/she was Jewish and therefore also be freed from school.

Another thing that happened in high school: for a homework assignment, I read this magazine article that I have remembered—shakily—ever since. It was called “Blacks & Jews: The Epic War” or some such shit, and it focused on misunderstandings between these two American communities. In particular, it focused in Chicago. A poll was conducted for the article on the South Side of the city. Much of the South Side is overwhelmingly black, and traditionally, income levels have been low. If I remember right, the majority of those polled didn’t understand what it meant to be Jewish. An even larger group said that they had never met a Jewish person before.

So Nation of Islam aside, (up until recently, Farrakhan lived here,) who I think represent a very small cross-section, it seems to me that the anti-Semitism of black people in America has been overestimated. Well, I mean, that’s what I thought until I heard Lou’s song. I’m still struggling w/ that point, as I said, & feel that it could be clarified, but maybe Lou feels that he shouldn’t spoon-feed you. Maybe he has too much respect for his audience. I mean, for an example of that respect, just look at this song.

Here are more lyrical excerpts:

“…I wanna be like Malcolm X/ And cast a hex…”

Brilliant moment of staccato rhyming!

“Over President Kennedy’s tomb/ And have a big prick too…”

I left out a part earlier in which Lou applies the image of a panther to African American identity. ‘Tho it’s not stated outright, it seems pretty likely that he was invoking the Black Panther Party. In this way then, particularly when the disturbing image of Malcolm X raining down voodoo on JFK’s grave—well, that’s something far more manifest than chickens coming home to roost. Lou has done nothing more—nor less—here than to recapitulate decades of black politics, as they shifted away from the civil rights strategies of MLK through Malcolm X’s black nationalism to the terminal radicalism of the panthers. And he accomplishes all of this in the space of 30 seconds!

These are just some high points, capturing the bulk of the song. I have not, for instance, presented the interminable close of the song that repeats “Yeah yeah yeah I wanna be black…” more than 10 times! Way to bring the point home to the Slow Joe in the 5th Row! What tenacity!

Now remember… if this song makes you mad… this is satire. That means that everything Lou says here isn’t offensive, even if it offends you. Lou’s not afraid to takes chances say some things that might offend other people. They don’t offend him, but that’s another matter. He’s not here to offend himself; he’s here to offend you. Or someone like you. Anyone who’s reactionary enough to not find it funny or smart when someone ridicules his or her personal pain for no esp. good reason. That’s quite an artistic achievement on Lou’s part.

See, satire is predicated on the idea that you take something that is real and illustrate how ridiculous it is by acting it out. So if someone, say, does a standup routine for the parents of a child whose been murdered by a pedophile, and the comedian decides to make all his jokes about raping and murdering children, that’s OK. It’s satire.

And so what is Lou satirizing here? Racism? Welp, it’s said that he meant to make fun of white college kids who wanted to be black due to distorted images they harbored. I think he’s done a very incisive job of getting’ down there & wrestlin’ w/ that topic. Except for maybe onnnneee lil’ fault—which shouldn’t be damning—every diamond has its flaws, & besides, I’m not Lou, & so could be wrong. My small criticism centers on the fact that most successful satires offer some sort of line that distinguishes the real from the Loudicrous. While that line is prob. here, I’m having some trouble finding it. I’m not saying that I’m letting the matter go. I’ll keep looking for that line, all the while maintaining my faith that Lou knows what he’s talking about, even if I don’t.


I think it’s pretty clear that Lou has done something unprecedented here: He has take “the race problem,” something which has destabilized America for centuries--not to mention the degree to which it’s plagued the larger world—and he has utterly clarified, so that we can all finally understand one another. It’s good to put pesky misunderstandings like the triangle trade and the middle passage in perspective in such a visionary manner, & if I were black, I know that I would be incredibly grateful to Lou Reed and would apologize for all the naughty anti-Semitic thoughts that I, like every other person of African descent, harbor in my nappy lil’ head. Thanks Lou!

Just like Jesse Jackson oughta. Lou sure showed him—he paid back Jess’s anti-Semitic remarks w/ what appears to be an entire song that acts out bigotry against African Americans, but that in reality does something more constructive. Sadly, Jesse didn’t seem to notice Lou’s attempt to establish a dialogue in the song “Good Evening, Mr. Waldheim.” His past comments on African American culture just made the tantrums he directed at Jesse even sillier & therefore a lot more fun.



Honorable Mention in the Best Song of All Time Competition:

Public Enemy – “Welcome to the Terrordome” (Fear of a Black Planet)

(As scrutinized in the last entry, "An Intentional Wreck.")

Chosen for more less the same reasons as “I Wanna Be Black,” but in reverse. One difference here is that the music is actually dynamic and alive—however paranoid. I used to defend some of the lyrics in this song, because I loved PE so much. I was wrong.





NEXT: The Greatest Album of All Time!!!!!!!!!!!!! What will it be?????????? Just you wait!!!

An Intentional Wreck—My 2009 (Musically)

OK! I’m gonna try to keep this short! Ha! Where have you heard that before!?!

I don’t wanna sell you short. I know how you have nothing better to do, and need me and my lists and travel accounts to keep you moving. Even more than that, you need my musical lists, and I gotta do 2 of ‘em! One for the year and one for the decade! Fuck, are we gettin’ old…

And in the interest of finishing all these obligatory lists before we get too much older and possibly succumb to our mortality, I’m gonna hop into my account of this year in review. The old rules apply—I went w/ the most striking or seemingly significant songs, which are not always the same as the best. I find that approach more illuminating, not to mention interesting, and besides, many of the results are the same. The format is “Song title—Artist—Album.” Let’s have at it…




Digeridoo—Aphex Twin—Classics:

Though this song came out only a little more than 10 years ago, it’s already ancient. The world of electronic dance music seems to work that way. Still, this song is also creative and catchy—and is easily more memorable than most of its contemporaries. Good music—the kind that can wake you up a little and make you look at what’s happening around you—I mean—the light and the colors and the sound—not the news… That kind of music ages well.



Dummy Discards a Heart—Deerhoof—Apple O’:

I’ve been aware of Deerhoof for a while now, tho’ up until recently, I hadn’t actually heard them. I’ve been missing out. Deerhoof are one of those bands that you might never “figure out,” because they go off in so many musical directions. Their music is so idiosyncratic that it feels like the flotsam & jetsam of some alternate reality ‘tho it’s difficult to imagine what that reality might be. What kind of place projects something as strange, squalling and sweet, as this? Free jazz caroms off of saccharine melodies. Thudding metal guitars and vintage synths are beat back by vocals that rev from cute sing-songing to ungodly shrieking. And somehow, usually, they make it work. It’s worth noting that some of this music is reminiscent of Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, and that points toward a danger that Deerhoof may have to navigate around: insularity. Beefheart lost his connection to most of his audience, becoming arrogant and maybe paranoid.

Deerhoof are not Beefheart, which may be both good and bad. They certainly haven’t been granted the stature that 60s and 70s rock critics were happy to offer Beefheart as the First Great Avant-Mainstream Artist of the Rock Era. But so far, over several albums, they have refined their vision, continued to explore, and it seems—you can never be sure—haven’t fallen into sexual love w/ their navels. (Anyone know or remember that old Gomer Pyle gag?) Let’s hope they can continue to operate this way, because it’s fun, smart music.

Now if someone could just talk to Fiery Furnaces…



Hound Dog—Big Mama Thornton—Hound Dog: The Peacock Recordings:

OK. So, here’s one you don’t have to work real hard at. It offers not only guitars and an American blues structure, but singing as well. And what singing! Are you sittin’ on yr. ass yet?

Man, she belts this song out. That growl…Still, the standard assessment states that awesome ‘tho that growl may be, Big Mama really only had this 1 power. Otherwise, she was an OK singer and intensely charismatic, but was musically limited. I don’t care. Her performance here is something to be experienced—a storm in the form of a girl, as Courtney Love once said.



Drop Out – Times New Viking-Rip It off:

Wow, y’know I feel really stupid about saying all that shit about rock being mostly dead, aside from the Blood Brothers. (Who have now disbanded, sadly.) Because, well, here’s Times New Viking.

Remember when rock n’ roll was cool? Remember when it was both exciting & excited? When it was alive? When it was dumb? Most of all: Do you remember when rock n’ roll was fun???

I do. But I’d forgotten. Whenever music like this comes along to deliver a swift kick in the ass, thereby reminding me, I am grateful.

I don’t have anything descriptive to say about this song that won’t just seem superlative. So… my advice… just listen to it.



Heaven Tonight –Hole – Celebrity Skin:

I’ve been writing about this song elsewhere recently, which is only appropriate. Why? you ask, because I’m approaching a my fourth decade on this earth, a Great Time of Decline & Mediocrity. What music better captures that sorta energy?

No The song’s heightened visibility is appropriate because Courtney Love’s music is defined by the inappropriate amount of notice it draws. Despite appearances, she is incredibly talented—in at least one respect: The amount of attention she seizes from the world around her is vastly disproportionate to her achievements as a musician or actress. That’s not a unique skill, of course, but Courtney has developed it to an expert level.

And yet, y’gotta admit… there’s an ocean of product out there, at least as banal and ludicrous as this shit, but somehow, Courtney manages to make her stuff stand out. Whether it’s that amphetamine gleam in her bleary eye, or just the spunky way she brays out “eh-hehh, eh-hehh” from within a sea of studio-birthed back-up singers that support her in “Heaven Tonight,” Courtney can whip up musical hamburger helper like no one else—except, maybe, for Billy Corgan…



Bike – Pink Floyd-The Piper at the Gates of Dawn:

Even Courtney Love couldn’t come up w/ gibberish like the stuff Syd Barrett spouted. I mean, to be fair, Courtney’s gobbledygook is cribbed straight from Rock Lyrics 101, whilst Syd’s was deciphered from some alien transmission. She was peddlin’ poppycock, and he was movin’ moonshine. Or something.

That said. What you get here is an engaging overcranked flow of images that are at once bizarre and hilarious and that never fail to do the same thing Courtney’s tryin’ to do: to sing a song about 2 kids fallin’ in love.

And that’s just the lyrics! Here, you also get a vicious rock beat, a maniacal harpsichord, and a pure “noise” coda that makes The Beatles’ “Revolution Number 9” feel even more tedious than it already felt. I finally picked up this record a couple years ago. I’d heard most of it and knew it was great, but somehow, circumstance dictated that I never got my hands on it. The whole thing is brilliant, but this song came on random play one night while I was hanging out, and I was carried away by it.



Miniature Tune—Ata Ekbar aka Sote—Persian Electronic Music:

For me, this song functions the same way. I don’t care about the lyrics—which is fortunate, because there aren’t any. When the song starts, I feel like I’m down there inside it—pure sound. It draws me out of my personal murk, & I wait & listen for what will happen next. This song comes from a collection of music by 2 different artists. Both transpose traditional melodies as part of their music—which is generally weird/avant garde. (A term that may make some of you hate it outright, but as the man said, listen w/o prejudice.) And some of the stuff is freakin’ noisy, if you like that sorta thing—and I sure do. This guy’s younger, and I like his stuff the best, but I say run out & get it. You’ll probably have to go to Amazon or somewhere like that, if you do, but really, trust me, it’s worth it.



Time to Blow (featuring Terry Hall) – Leila – Blood, Looms & Blooms:

Leila is an Iranian-born electronic musician, who explores techno, ambient and various other styles with real creative flare. Here, she’s conjuring up pop music from a parallel universe—something that reminds you of the things you hear on the radio, but through little musical twists and turns sounds completely different.

The carnivalesque vaguely sinister atmosphere of this song is heavy, while the lyrics are a clever acting out of paranoias of both romantic and generalized. I haven’t heard anything this unique and energetic in a long time.



Magic Carpet Ride – Pizzicato 5 – Made in USA:

Just goes to show you, there’s more than 1 way to be an alien. I’m not talking about nationality, ‘tho 1 might speculate as to how a non-Western point-of-view affects the conceptualization of music of an ostensibly Western style. I am talking about music, and the wholly unpredictable ways that some people find to make it.

Aside from the fact that both are inclined to bend Western pop music to their will, Leila and Pizzicato 5 couldn’t be farther apart. The method is different, and I suspect the goals are as well. Pizzicato 5 seem hell bent on making the most Western music possible, trying to go so far as to hitch up their covered wagon and head West of the West.

Without shame, they work every cliché of middle-of-the-road pop into the music on the hits collection Made in USA. The lyrics are insipid, but unexpectedly troubling. Do the sentiments: “Life is a lie, and we all have to die,” belong in a happy-crappy song like this? Not sure, but they caught me off guard when this song came on random play on my ipod 1 day. And I guess that’s what makes this music interesting to me: it comes off as banal in the most mainstream way—in fact, it would appear that is what it’s going for—and yet it’s wrong. Off. Weird.

The music of Pizzicato 5 is legitimately alien in a way the Residents will never be despite all their aspirations. Their music is also terrible. But it seems to say something about popular music as a whole—about the give and take of ideas and cultures, artists and listeners. And that—along w/ my innate sado-masochism—is why this song is on this list.



Mutilated Lips – Ween – The Mollusk:

Yet another approach to pop music that is both familiar and alien. Ween are able to take their weirdest ideas, which really can be bizarre and squeeze them through a sorta shoehorn of perfectly accurate radio pop/rock forms—effortlessly, it seems. Like other bands that shuffle from metal to Nashville country in the space of a few songs, Ween are usually concerned w/ satire—w/ exploring the ridiculous aspects of varying genres as a means of revealing something about them or about other non-musical phenomena. But unlike the Residents, say, (who are really taking a beating here,) Ween’s reproductions are virtually perfect—w/ each original song sounding like a classic of its genre that you somehow forgot. They respect the forms they manipulate, while admitting their flaws. In fact, they seem to be as fascinated by the flaws as they are by the purer facets, which to me, is a sign of real love. They’re supposed to be big Prince fans, and I definitely think there’s a purple shadow falling over this one, ‘tho it’s also under the larger influence of progressive rock, as is the entire album, The Mollusk, from which it’s drawn. It’s an incredible record, well worth picking up.



Smokestack Lightning – Howlin’ Wolf – His Best (Chess 50th Anniversary Collection):

A big spooky blues—creepy & insistent—it’s almost hard to believe that “Smokestack Lightning” comes from a guy who foregrounded his sense of humor in songs like “Tail Dragger” & “300 Pounds of Joy.” This one’s dark, maniacal, and repetitive. Very simple, but very powerful, which is often the case w/ real art that’s made by someone who’s bold enough and big enough—in this case, both physically and spiritually—to pull it off. I spent some time working on the main riff on my guitar this year. It’s a lot of fun to play.



Are ‘Friends’ Electric? – Gary Numan & The Tubeway Army – Replicas Redux:

I’ve written before about my views on Gary Numan—of how, 80s synth-trappings aside, I think he offers a vision of longing and personal isolation that is pervasive, if not universal. I don’t know about you, but I’m lonely, even though I’m not wholly alone. I’m stuck in here, in my head. There are a lotta commercials going on outside, but no actual programs, and I’m not sure if anyone in them feels the things that I feel. I see aliens out there, looking in at me. If they’re aware of me at all.

I am also not special. Nor are you—in one sense. Depending on how you look at things, there are a lotta you, which means you’re superfluous. And that’s depressing. On the other hand, you’re all by yourself. It’s a paradox, I guess. Anyway, Gary soldiers through all that—never afraid to look like an ass. (Which is good, because he often does.) This was a great, early one, vicious and sad, down to the quotation marks around “Friends.”



Put a Curse on You – Quasimoto – The Unseen :

I grew up on rock n’ roll, but hip-hop was at least as important to the process whereby I scuttled through adolescence to my teen years & then to points beyond. I learned a lot from this music—socially, esthetically and in other ways that I can’t always see. So it’s pained me considerably to see it become so distant and abstract to me, where once it was vital.

The relevant change here isn’t in hip-hop by itself, of course, but also in my own attitudes toward it. I followed it w/ real excitement through so many shifts. I’ve been able to adapt to a lot—and yet sometimes now, it seems that I’m on the verge of losing something that meant virtually everything to me. Of course, I’ll never lose the old records—though… see below—but that’s old music, & hip-hop, at its best and worst, used to be about a sorta eternal renewal—new styles, new personalities, dramatic new stylistic visions. It moved so fast, it was easy to get lost, and that disorientation wasn’t always a good thing—only 99.999% of the time.

Maybe that’s why I find it so hard to understand or relate to where the music is at now. What’s more: how did a kinda music that was so focused on innovation end up foundering in a paucity of ideas? How did something so fulla spirit become so soulless—and I’m not just talking about, nigger, bitch, gun, etc. I’m talking about cold commercial cynicism and a dead sound—sorta like unoccupied airwaves, but more irritating. There was a time when rappers wore their underground status like a badge, now… who’s got the hit? Do you really care?

Anyway, this is my long-winded way of saying that I’m glad I finally picked up this record. It’s a little challenging—maybe lacks the immediate grabbing of a lotta great hip-hop—but it’s imaginative and it’s clever and it feels alive in an unforced way. I’ll settle for that.



Welcome to the Terrordome – Public Enemy – Fear of a Black Planet:

We now bring you Part 2 of the Decline & Fall of Hip-Hop… a.k.a., Maybe It’s My Fault…

Ha! Stupid white liberal! I tell myself that maybe I just don’t get it now. Maybe my vision is just clouded by age and cynicism and syphilis. I don’t want to lose hip-hop. Let me look to the clearest point of all—the True North point of hip-hop. From here you can navigate through any quandary, esthetic… or even moral. Don’t laugh! The point off in the distance, sending off little flashes of light in the big Western Snowstorm is Public Enemy, and they have more than a subtle grasp of how to fight immorality, the System, the Man, the Power.

God, I loved Public Enemy. I bum rushed the show in ’88, at the Saginaw Civic Center. It was a bone crushing standing room only crowd, mostly black. There were 4 acts. Public Enemy was the 2nd to hit the stage, which meant that their set was truncated at around 30 minutes. Professor Griff and the Security of the First World hit the stage before Chuck D or Flava Flav. The S1Ws marched around, African American guys in camouflage and berets—and each toting a presumably fake Uzi. They spun out flawlessly synchronized para-military moves. It was stunning. A guy next to me could see I was into it and asked just who the hell these guys were, and where were the rappers. I told him. He looked at me like I was speaking Greek. I wasn’t, but I was white.

I’d induced my party to arrive hours before they opened the doors, so we could get in front. So we were pressed up against the barricades, all through the show. I was eyeball-to-eyeball w/ Chuck a few times. That intensity you see in his gaze in all those pictures is real. I recited every single lyric along w/ him. He reached out to slap my hand at one point, but I couldn’t reach far enough. Weep not for me! I received a consolation prize. After PE’s set, Flava Flav came walking down a narrow little corridor that the security guys maintained between the stage and the crowd. His boom box was barking out bass heavy drum breaks. He slapped a few hands as he passed, including mine. I’m sure I’ll never forget that—even when I see him on bad reality TV shows.

Not long after that, Public Enemy broke. Gone was the time when I needed to explain the S1Ws to anyone who might care. Just like that, PE became the best artists, musically and morally, in hip-hop or R&B. The breadth of their topical vision was matched only by the genius of their musical productions.

Unfortunately, there was at least one serious flaw within the group, and problematically, it was a moral one. Public Enemy had set themselves up as symbols of virtue, of something right that had to rise up. They believed in true justice—that the bigotries of the world would be reined in—and kids like me, who needed to feel that these things could be true, also believed. Now, here was Professor Griff telling The Washington Post that Jews were accountable for “the majority of the wickedness that goes on across the globe.” In the same interview, he made the stunning observation that Jews’ prominence in the jewelry industry was self-evident, as, well the word” jewelry” does contain the word “Jew,” doesn’t it?

It’s up to each of us to decide whether we should laugh at Prof. Griff or get pissed off. Me? I didn’t explicitly defend him back then, but I did maintain that Public Enemy should not be criticized if they didn’t kick him out of the band. Do you fault the Detroit Tigers for playing Ty Cobb? But then, the Tigers aren’t hawkin’ morality, are they? Only peanuts.

You shouldn’t nod at bigotry. I almost don’t think that needs to be said. Still, we nod at hypocrisy, so I guess maybe it does. Bigotry can hide itself very easily—in an offhand joke, or even in the music of the most righteous group in the history of hip-hop. (I’m not even gonna into the homophobia of PE’s “The G That Killed Me.”) Worse, bigotry can be communicated from musical artists to the idealistic kids—and oldsters—who love their music. It can be smuggled in w/ all the good ideas a group represents, finding its way into the things that a passionate fan believes.

See, I really believed. I would say I wasn’t trying to cover up anything that I knew or thought, but I don’t think that’s true now. At the time, I did. But something vague has always squirmed around somewhere in my head. I used to think it was doubts that racists had planted—not just in me and not only concerning PE, but in others, and concerning black nationalism as a whole. To an extent, I still believe that’s true. There is a barfworthy playbook that stupid people w/ an underdeveloped conscience use to beat down the hope of others and to act out their own fears—to keep ‘em in line. Many of these people consider themselves to be liberal.

But Professor Griff was an asshole and in hesitating to condemn what Griff had said, Chuck D revealed flaws in his leadership, a quality which, up until that point had appeared almost superhuman. It seems profoundly silly now to’ve believed that a prominent rapper could ever be Malcolm X, but in PE, for the first time in hip-hop, the energy was there, and that possibility seemed very real. Maybe we were expecting a lot of the guy, esp. in the face of a media stampede, but like Barack Obama, it’s hard to believe that Chuck didn’t see what his opponents would do the second he gave them an opening.

When the group finally dismissed Professor Griff, some people applauded the move, some people derided it. I was too busy holding my defensive crouch, ready to leap out and tear the throat outta the 1st person who questioned Public Enemy in front of me. I actually argued, defended, etc. everything without giving it so much as 1 thought. In retrospect, I know I didn’t want to think. To do so might’ve threatened the meaning that PE held in my own small world.

On the heels of all these troubles came this song—a dark successor to the stunning and galvanizing “Fight the Power.” Where that song’s attack had been deft, direct and vicious, “Terrordome” was muddled and menacing. It’s a song about confusion, and, delivered by immensely talented artists who were in the grip of a suffocating paranoia, it is a song about fear and hatred. Unfortunately, the hatred here is not just the object of the song. It’s not just something to be singled out and challenged; it’s something to indulge in.

I won’t bother w/ some of this song’s other troubling lyrics, ‘tho there was a time when I also would’ve defended bits like, “I don’t smile in the line of fire, I go wildin’…” as well, and am no more proud of it. I’m gonna stick to the issue. The song is peppered with a few lines that are at least arguably anti-Semitic. (“Arguably,” I say, only because Chuck & followers insist there is no anti-Semitism here, that he is misunderstood.) Digs like “told the rab to get off the rag” are stupid and unnecessary, but mostly trivial. They are also well below the very real dignity of PE to that date. More problematic was a reference to an apology that Chuck had offered—through clenched teeth—to Jews worldwide. The lyrics run “Crucifixion ain’t no fiction/ So-called chosen, frozen/ Apology made to whoever it pleases/ Still they got me like Jesus…” Some felt that these words raised the shadow of blood libel—that blob of medieval repugnance that allowed for the systematic persecution of European Jews for centuries, who were blamed for Jesus’s execution. And those who felt that way were right.

Apologies aside, we had gone nowhere, and the whole endeavor began to feel false. The next Public Enemy album, Apocalypse 91: The Empire Strikes Black was the last one I bought. I can’t say that a conscious feeling of falseness convinced me to move on. I think it’s more relevant that the music began to feel less assured and less alive. Still, the first 3 albums profoundly changed the way I look at music, and I have continued to listen to them ever since.

Then just lately, I was walking home from a guitar lesson, and this song started playing on my headphones, and somehow, I couldn’t brush aside the negative parts of what I was hearing. I just couldn’t enjoy the song, despite all of its power. It became very clear to me that there is no way to rationalize bigotry. PE convinced me of that. And if they themselves have been called into question for me, I still believe in the example that they once set.

Louis Farrakhan once said that Hitler was “a great man, but evil.” I can’t go that far, but I will say that I loved Public Enemy, and I loved this song. I don’t exactly hate either but after my recent epiphany—and its consequences, which include a discovery of some of the homophobic crap Chuck D. has felt the need to ooze recently—I don’t think I’ll ever look at either the same. Still, it is a great song—not evil, but vicious, intense and alive, in the sense of a twitching nerve.



A Means to an End (Live) – Joy Division – Closer (Expanded Edition):

I don’t think that the hatred Professor Griff felt could’ve been any more intense than the anger Ian Curtis seemed to live with. This anger lacked an easy target, it moved from self to other, always seeming to be very close to violence. Here you get that energy as much as you do in any other Joy Division song. This live performance—which has been released as part of the expanded version of the band’s last album, often leaves you wanting to duck and cover as vitriol and noise explode out of a thick atmosphere of tension.

It’s funny to me that a band that’s popularly associated w/ plodding depression can be so energetic. They sound very much like a rock band here, manic and very sharp. The drums, especially snap. The guitars are jagged lines—harsher and more irresistible than a great deal of rock acts’ ax work. And this song is where it all hits hardest for me. Powerful, very volatile stuff.



Heroes (Aphex Twin Mix) – Phillip Glass – 26 Mixes for Cash:

Over the years, many musical artists have approached electronic music artist Richard James about w/ requests for a re-mix of one of their songs. 26 Mixes for Cash is a collection of these re-mixes that twists and turns through a lotta different territory—from techno to dance pop to, well… this song. Usually, James works under the moniker Aphex Twin, but he’s recorded original music, as well as mixed music by other artists, under a dizzying array of names. The typically cynical humor of the compilation’s title doesn’t suggest how much invention and what an understanding of different musical forms—something which I believe comes from a genuine love of music—you’ll find herein.

The pedigree of this song is complicated: In 1996, Phillip Glass composed an orchestral version of Bowie's 1977 album Heroes including, of course, the title track. Richard James was brought in to “re-mix” the song. He incorporated the original Bowie vocals into the instrumental score. He claims never to’ve heard the song, but found it to be “a good tune.”

I’m not sure how seriously to take that, but who cares? Isn’t this just surreal, messed up, brilliant? That you could render this insane parody of rock n roll hubris from the musical equivalents of a soup can and a used hunk of chewing gum says a lot about human ingenuity—not to mention about how to make some damned interesting music.



Okwukwe Na Nchekwube—Celestine Ukwu & His Philosopher National—Nigeria Special: Modern Highlife, Afro-Sounds & Nigerian Blues:

Generally, I don’t pursue “world music.” When I was younger, I thought it was something that yuppies or 2nd generation hippies who listen to too much NPR seek out. Though I’m not the only person to hold such a stigma, it was dumb and limited me. I’m trying to move past my knee jerk meat n’ potatoes mindset, and one happy product of that effort is this song, which comes from a compilation of 70s Nigerian rock music.

I know nothing about Nigerian music, but 2 things made me think I should look into it—an All Music Guide feature and an enthusiastic description of it offered by my guitar teacher. Of course, it’s always cool to hear songs performed in a way that is outside the standard mindset. This music is beautiful, funky, psychedelic and boils indigenous style w/, of course, American styles. (An approach that’s reminiscent of Miniature Tune” above, though the songs couldn’t be anymore different.) This particular song is just so haunting, so beautiful and so infectious that I couldn’t let it go and found myself listening to it frequently.



Feel So Good – Spacemen 3 – The Perfect Prescription:

Yep. No surprises here. Still… One day this summer, I’d walked into the Loop. I was listening to the Perfect Prescription. It was close to evening rush hour, warm, and the sky had been cloudy all day. It hadn’t rained at all, but as I was walking west up Madison, just before I hit Wabash, the clouds suddenly broke, and this song started playing. The light was gold-toned, and fat drops of rain started falling in it. Despite the rush hour malaise, some people were smiling at the change.

It didn’t last, but it was almost as real as a commercial! Ha ha… just kidding… Nothing’s as real as a commercial. Anyway, it really was good moment that seemed almost spiritual in its clarity. I’ve remembered it ever since.



The Biggest Lie – Elliott Smith – Elliott Smith:

Elliott Smith was viewed as a singer-songwriter. The demands of that genre require an intense foregrounding of self, as one artist is largely responsible for the creative direction of the music. He/she writes the songs—as the job description sez—and he/she often records or performs without accompaniment.

One consequence of this situation is that the singer-songwriter’s audience often comes to him/her out of intense identification. If you like, say, Joni Mitchell’s early music, it’s probably because you recognize pieces of your life in her music. There may be times when she communicates something that you feel better than you can do so yourself. To some extent, of course, that’s true of any genre, but nowhere is it more pronounced than in the music of the singer-songwriter.

As far as Elliott Smith goes, I guess it’s clear what side I come down on. Starting w/ “Needle in the Hay” in 2005, I’ve included one of his songs on each of my annual playlists, except for 2007’s. My choices weren’t part of an intentional program. The music has just continued to speak to me—so much so that I haven’t even gotten past the his self-titled album when it’s come to choosing songs on my lists.

So I say that the listener powerfully identifies w/ the singer-songwriter. What does it say about me that I’ve been focused on Elliott Smith for the last 5 years? That I’m depressed? Ida know, but I don’t think he’s a bad influence. Misery loves company, and sometimes, sometimes, company is what gets you through.

Not everyone shares my appreciation for Elliott Smith. Many’s the joke about his wheezy little voice that I’ve had to sit through. I’m pretty sure my guitar teacher, who’s a classic rock stalwart, kinda hates his guts for his exotic tunings alone. And when I told a friend how hilarious I thought the punch line to this song was—as a wicked deflation of love song hyperbole—she told me that she thought it was “mean.”

Lester Bangs wrote, “I thought it was Iggy Stooge, you thought it was Joni Mitchell or whoever else seemed to speak for your own private, entirely circumscribed situation’s many pains and few ecstsasies.” No accounting for taste, I guess.




Well, that’s it for this year. I’m not gonna say much more for now. I’ve gotta go off and finish my decade in review list—soon so I can someday know real peace. I hope you’ll forgive me if I made this, uh, short… Relatively… The Decade in Review List is on Its Way!


Forceman out…