2000-2009 - Identification Code: Unidentified

2000-2009 - Identification Code: Unidentified - My decade in music.

Howzit goin?

Whazzap? I was so hip 10 years ago, when people said that! Whagguk? That's what they'll be sayin' in 10! You heard me! I'm right! I'm hip!

Hermm... Yes, well... Anyway...

Every year, I pick 80 minutes or less worth of music I've been listening to around that time and try to put it in a somewhat palatable shape. Then I set to boring the living hell out of you w/ my written reflections.

Here is my playlist for this decade. In it, I followed the same rules I follow for the annual lists. These are 1) The list can be no more than 80 minutes in length, so that it can be burnt to an audio CD and distributed to those poor souls who still listen to CDs; and 2) The songs included should represent the mostsignificant choices possible--not necessarily the best--'tho I do give preference to better songs, I've always tried to include some oddities or things I wasn't sure about, to keep things interesting and just to be safe. If there's one thing I've learned making these lists, it's that your feelings can change, even about something that seems very important--or trivial--to you at any given moment. Sometimes these things can even switch places.

I had 1 other rule for this decade's retrospective: that at least one song be drawn from each of the 10 lists. I chose only 1 song from 2009, but feel that's OK, since I don't have as much perspective about the music on that list. I haven't been living w/ it as long.

I worked on this list all year. I agonized, edited and wrote, all for something that's really just for myself. But that's OK. It's half the fun really. What wasn't fun though was cutting so many great songs! It pains me to exclude, say, Shannon Wright, whose music is so often overlooked and which I think is really beautiful, but at the end of the day, I was faced w/ 182 songs or 12 hours and 47 minutes worth of music. Something had to give.

Never mind that some artists that I love never made it onto 1 of these lists and therefore weren't eligible for inclusion at all. Just ask anyone who knows me at all if I've listened to Neil Young in the last 10 years. They will probably laugh at you. But he didn't make a single list.

Another tricky problem has been avoiding a stylistic quota system. I listen to heavy metal, but you'll find none of it here, which creates what seems like a skewed vision of what I've been doing for 10 years. I can't be sure that where I've included reggae or hip hop or jazz or any other genre--i.e., not rock/pop--that I haven't done so because I want to picture myself as a well-rounded person, but the truth is I love all this music, and I'm pretty sure there are no right choices. So I followed the logic William Burroughs once suggested: "if you can't be just, be arbitrary..."

(Format here is Song title - artist - album.)

1. Bicycle Built for 2 - Max Matthews - Early Modulations/Vintage Volts (2000):

At the beginning of 2000, my life was in a murky place. I'm not sure that the date had anything to do w/ it--2000 was also the year I turned 30--but I resolved to at least try to find some mental and emotional clarity. I love music. In my lowest moments, it sometimes keeps me feeling vaguely human. So I decided to look in that direction (as well as others). Naive as I am, I think I did understand that exploring electronic music was along the lines of exploring classical music--it's an enormous grouping that includes things that can be completely alien to one another. I was fortunate enough to stumble onto a 3-disc anthology called OHM: Early Gurus of Electronic Music. It served as an easy, compelling introduction to what still looks like a labyrinth, but one I now look forward to negotiating. This song, while relatively simple captures some of that feeling of newness, which made it seem like a good place to begin my consideration of the last 10 years I've spent listening to and thinking about music.

2. Laser Life - The Blood Brothers - Young Machetes (2006/2007): I've agonized over this list for about a year now. I held onto songs I loved like they were life preservers, trying to save their place on this list. From the beginning, I knew this song was guaranteed to make it for at least 1 reason: it's appeared on 2 different lists. There is only 1 other song that earned this distinction, Mudhoney's "Revolution," which is described below. In the case of that song, however, my decision to repeat the song was conscious. The repetition of "Laser Life" was an accident, so it must hold a special place in my heart. Its approach to rock n' roll is unique.

In '06, I wrote: "Guitar-based rock isn't dead! It's survived off in some corner where the Blood Brothers have been preserving it, as though they were monks during the Dark Ages."

In '07, I wrote: "I think the Blood Brothers are really keeping the rock & roll spirit alive. “Laser Life’s” got all this energy and, well, noise. Also it’s got a sense of humor, and that never hurts."

The Blood Brothers approach to making rock new wasn't just cerebral crap. And despite all of the band's wit, it didn't even seem to be overly self-conscious either. In the end, it was just a hell of a lotta fun.

3. Earth People - Dr. Octagon - Dr. Octagonecologyst (2003): I guess we're sticking w/ newness as a guiding concept here, and that's a fine way to go at the threshold of another decade. Kool Keith, a.k.a. Dr. Octagon, a.k.a. Dr. Dooom, a.k.a. Black Elvis, etc.... has done w/ hip hop what the Blood Brothers do w/ rock. He's established a very unique voice and backed it w/ strikingly ingenious music. His records turn on a dime from humor to menace in the denseness of its musical tracks and most of all through Keith's vocals, which spin bizarre, often hilarious images out into very catchy, very funky songs. At various points in my life, hip-hop has been more important to me than rock. Hard to believe there's only 1 hip hop track here, in fact, but that may reflect how sad it's been for me to watch what's happened to the music in the last decade--its transformation from vibrant, wildly inventive art to assembly-line thuggery. Unfortunately, this song is a throwback to the 90s itself, but it reminds me of how I used to feel about hip hop and gives me a little hope as to where the music may still go in the future.

4. Losing Touch with My Mind - Spacemen 3 - Taking Drugs to Make Music to Take Drugs to (2005): Well, if the Blood Brother thought they were special, then what about this? Over the past 10 years, Spacemen 3 are the only artists to appear 5 different playlists! That's a 50% of 'em! It seemed impossible not to include them here.

As to their music, which I've logged countless hours listening to, what can I say? Maybe my guitar teacher put it best, when he 1st heard it, and snickered that it was "luded out." If I was Spacemen 3, that's what I'd put in my press blurb. But they're the geniuses, not me. I mean, just listen to the buzzing, droning and mumbly vocals! If you're not ready to party now, you should check yr. pulse. You not be in a coma after all.

5. Revolution - Mudhoney - March to Fuzz/Rarities (2002/2008): In 1990, Mudhoney and Spacemen 3, 2 very different underground rock bands decided to release a single together. On one side, Mudhoney would cover a Spacemen 3 song of their choice, while on the other, Spacemen 3 would perform a Mudhoney song. The bands were supposed to admire one another, admired each other somewhat, and the resulting recording was supposed to be a helluva lotta inventive fun, if not an opportunity to broker some sorta epiphany re: the other band's work that they mightn't be able to see, due to the infamously treacherous relationship between the forest and the trees.

In an ideal world, I'd've included the choices the bands made in this playlist. Spacemen 3 selected Mudhoney's "When Tomorrow Hits" and did manage to produce a take that is far removed from the original, but finds a hypnotic core that foregrounds its spirit. It's ingenious and in its way, quite potent, as Mudhoney's Mark Arm has acknowledged.

Still, where Spacemen 3 is all about exploration and mood--Mudhoney is all about the fun--'tho there is some anger down there in the mix. Both lyrically, (e.g. the bizness in "Into Your Shtik," about "why don't you blow yr. brains out too?") and in the ferocity of the band's musical attack, which here is as vicious as it gets in their any of their music. They took a completely different approach by to the Spacemen 3 song, by finding some of the silliness in its heart and expressing it in satirical terms.

Which cover is "better?" Depends on yr. perspective. My own shifts from time to time w/ my moods, and unfortunately, you're not gonna be able to formulate an opinion based on what I have here--if you don't know the songs already. 'Tho Spacemen 3 made five appearances in these playlists, not a 1 of 'em was "When Tomorrow Hits!" You'd think I'd've tried harder, but then I always try to obey the dictates of the moment, when I set these things up, and maybe, the mood was just never right.

Mudhoney made three appearances, which is not too shabby, "Into Your Shtik," representing one go-around. The other 2 are the one song other than The Blood Brothers "Laser Life"--described above--to appear on 2 separate lists. This time, the repetition was conscious, which must mean I really like this song, as well--and inna an over-arching way, since 2002 and 2008 are pretty far removed from one another, both temporally, and in the nature of my circumstances and sensibilities at the time. 2002's list is relatively fresh n' open-eyed and alla that. 2008's, which featured Spacemen 3's version of "Revolution," as well, was a more impatient, even bitter, 'tho it did show some hope for better times musically. (And personally.)

My consideration of "Revolution" has run quite long, hasn't it? Still, I have to relate 1 more piece of information: however you feel about "Revolution," after giving it a listen, I can tell ya that Sonic Boom was not even a little amused nor appreciative. He publicly aired his displeasure in tones that made you wonder if he mightn't just throw a punch at any member of Mudhoney on sight. And well, isn't that an appropriately angry enactment of the way this stuff sounds?

6. Put a Little Love in Your Heart - Leonard Nimoy - Spaced out/The Best of Leonard Nimoy & William Shatner (2008): What I wrote about this song in 2008: HA! Hahaha!!! Ahooo... ahuh... huuhh... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

Couldn't have said it better myself.

7. Death Defying Nutter Butter - The Silky Underthings - What? (2005): I've written a lot about the Silky Underthings. It's difficult to know what else to say that doesn't sound ridiculously superlative. Their music really is intense, alive and visionary--everything that music should be.

8. The Stars of Amateur Hour - The Reputation - The Reputation (2003): I've written even more about the sadly defunct Chicago power pop band The Reputation than I have about the Silky Underthings. Led by my heroine, the great Elizabeth Elmore, they bombarded you w/ some of the most shamelessly piquant, shamelessly catchy music ever to grace a playlist. Elizabeth's personality is extra-larger than life, but where her emotional expressions can get kinda self-centered and histrionic, they can also hew close to some very real feelings. At times, she can voice 'em as well as some of the best singer-songwriters out there. Meanwhile, the music is as infectious and energetic as this song, a bittersweet reflection on the Chicago singles bar scene, suggests. I've logged many hours listening to this stuff, which is weird, since it's not generally a kind of music I go for. The fact that I'm hooked on it must mean that it's pretty damn good. (And that I'm infatuated w/ Elizabeth.)

9. You Crummy - Lee 'Scratch' Perry - I Am the Upsetter (2005): I've been aware of reggae for more than 1 decade, so why did I deprive myself of it? I tried to answer that question in 2007, when writing about Derrick Harriott's "The Loser": "Because I was worried about looking like one of those aging NPR-listenin' people whose hippiness has become thoroughly diluted... If so, I was succumbing to one of the biggest, stupidest mistakes a person can make, which is to avoid living her/his life outta self-consciousness."

Sometimes, realizing you were wrong about something can feel pretty good. Like "The Loser," this Scratch Perry song, is reggae ('tho the styles involved are as far removed from one another as heavy metal and punk rock.) And like "The Loser," it’s one of the most emotionally intense songs I've heard in a long time. Of course, you could say that about many Scratch Perry songs. Because of that, and because of his staggering musical ingenuity, he's the reggae artist I listen to the most. But there's a lotta reggae out there, performed by a lotta different artists, and so much of it seems to be filled w/ real warmth, humor, anger, sadness... One thing I am looking forward to, as I get older, is digging deeper into reggae.

10. Drop-out - Times New Viking - Rip It off (2009): Just when ya think rock is dead, the Blood Brothers come along and give it CPR. Then they break up.

Well, whatta ya do now? Huh?! Wring yr. hands at the withering away of the bomp-she-bomp? Have a wake?

I gotta better idea. Go buy every single Times New Viking record you can get yr. hands on. They didn't invent "lo-fi" rock--the movement toward using outdated recording techniques and equipment in hopes of foregrounding amateurism and thereby emphasizing feeling over professionalism, energy over ennui and fun over virtuosity. But they sure did perfect it.

Frequently, people point out that "amateur" is a word that was originally meant to describe a passionate admirer--often, simultaneously a practitioner--of a discipline of some sort. (Latin "amator"= "lover.") An amateur did not necessarily lack talent, might in fact, have cultivated a purer talent by focusing on what he/she loved, rather than on how he/she looked. Don't be deceived by the lack of polish here. These guys know what they're doing. They're gettin' rock off the life support and back to the great rent party that is the good side of mass Western culture.

11. I Got Nothin' - The Stooges - Metallic K.O. (2001): What a short, strange arc it's been for this Michigan garage band. Unlike Times New Viking, they really couldn't play their instruments when they started. Legend has it they'd never even picked 'em up really before forming the band. Of course, you have to take that sorta mythologizing w/ a whole shakerful of salt. But that's OK. Whether or not the tale is true, the same spirit runs through the music of the Stooges and Times New Viking.

Released in 1969, the first, self-titled Stooges record is a manifesto of simplicity and intensity in rock--something radically different than the Beatles, Jefferson Aeroplane or even the Stones. It was stripped down and unrefined, and the emotions in it were so raw that they threw the Stooges development into overdrive, leading to evermore sophisticated records at a very alarming rate. Their last studio album, the David Bowie-developed Raw Power sounded like howling punk rock rattling the commercial cage it had been placed in. Is it any wonder that was it?

Mostly. There was one last set of live shows that followed. Through the hate and humor he hurled around him, Iggy Pop drew the attention of the biker gang, The Scorpions, who'd warned him not to play the one last live show documented on Disc 1 of Metallic KO. For many years, the record was out of print, leading to drooling on the part of hardcore fans, who wanted to hear the only record Lester Bangs knew of where "you could hear beer bottles breaking against guitar strings," a live record which ended w/ Iggy himself being knocked unconscious as the gang rushed the stage. And that was it for the Stooges, until a recent reunion effort that's best left forgotten.

Anyway, this is the terminal point of a line of energy that grew ever darker, funnier and more exciting. I can almost hear it all come to a head here. Maybe it was a little stupid, as an artistic endeavor--maybe even irresponsible, as should you really encourage violence as Iggy did? Don't know for sure, but I think it's worth it for the catharsis--for the venting of spleen and bile and absurd humor that makes you laugh inappropriately. It's meant a lot to me over the last decade and still does as I write this.

(A postscript: I'm a little shaky on the anti-Semitism here than I used to be, however--'tho maybe that makes me a hypocrite.)

12. Pendulum Music - Sonic Youth - OHM: Early Gurus of Electronic Music (2000): I'm always interested in new sounds and new ways to look at music. I like to be surprised, and I like to be engaged. This song, if it may be called such, did both for me. It was "composed" accidentally, by avant-noise musician Steve Reich. Before a performance out west, he began swinging a microphone around by its cord. As it circled around, the microphone passed repeatedly in front of some amplifiers by the stage. Each revolution built up a growing stream of feedback, which became strangely haunting, if not exactly melodic. The sounds captured Reich's imagination, and he went on to arrange a performance that recreated the original happy accident. It used multiple microphones to further build up the noise and stretch the euphonic sounds into the ever more bizarre harmonies.

Sonic Youth "covers" and records Reich's composition here, allowing all of us who love noise to immerse ourselves in some wholly unique sounds.

13. Come to Daddy (Pappy Mix Version) - Aphex Twin - Come to Daddy (2008): Obviously, my love of music has grown to include an appreciation of squalling obnoxiousness. Electronic musician Richard James, a.k.a. Aphex Twin, has led some very intense--often very funny--excursions into solid noise. The humor here gives you an immediate in to this cacophony, as he combines the refrain from the Misfits song, "Skull" with a very silly come-on: "Come to Daddy, come to daddy..." Etc.--not to mention exaggerated techno sound effects.

I listened to a lotta Aphex Twin these past 10 years, from his gentle, haunting ambient stuff, through his anarchic cut-and-paste disembowelments of popular music. Sometimes, I found the ideas and expressions in his songs to be so unexpected and insightful as to change my perspective as a whole--in small but significant ways. I'm struck by his imagination and have had a lotta fun digging into its consequences.

14. Preaching Blues (Up Jumped the Devil) - Robert Johnson - The Complete Recordings (2002): The transition from Aphex Twin may seem kinda jarring--maybe even unmotivated, but I think when you move past the chronological and technological gulfs that separate these songs, you find a great deal of similarity. Both have boundless energy and aggression. Each is fast and loud and bears a strong sense of personality.

Said personality is so large here that it becomes as memorable as the staggering guitar playing, which is saying a lot. Johnson's virtuosity on his instrument drew the worship of guys like Eric Clapton, who've promoted him whenever possible. But the loneliness he evokes--not to mention the humorous cynicism w/ which he ridicules social foibles like Southern Baptism--have stuck w/ me just as much, making him a welcome fellow traveler and pointed influence throughout the 1st 10 years of the new millennium...

15. Christian Brothers - Elliott Smith - Elliott Smith (2006): Like Robert Johnson, Elliott Smith has exerted a considerable, even greater, influence on me. Some people close to me have asserted that his influence might not've always been positive, as it may've encouraged my focus on my own unhappiness. I say, as always, that my appreciation of Elliott Smith has more to do w/ him as a kindred spirit--1 who is far more gifted than I am at expressing feelings that I know quite well myself.

So am I depressed? Am I angry? Ida know. For me, Elliott Smith's music is filled w/ as much warmth as pain. And at its darkest or saddest, it's about a catharsis that allows me to not stab myself in the chest w/ a kitchen knife, as he did, thereby ending his life an intense and intensely meaningful musical career. I have his music and at times, it really, really helps me get by.

16. M.E. - Gary Numan - The Pleasure Principle (2000): I've sung the praises of Gary Numan many times, 'tho I know he might alienate a lotta people who share most of my musical enthusiasms. That's OK. He's all about alienation. He's also a paragon of 80s synth music, having delivered "Cars," which means that all that some people find in his music is a sorta moldy MTV reliquary. What's more, they might object to his warbly vocals and fey persona. Man, are they missin' out!

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Gary Numan knows about intense loneliness, and loneliness may be 1 of the flavors of this decade. Or maybe that's just me. He also knows how to dramatize--w/ synths and sci-fi conceits, sure--but he hits you hard w/ an unflinching view of entrapment and coldness--and most importantly, w/ the powerful need to break through alla that. His music presents a real challenge: if you can get past its silliness, what you find is bleak. The desire to live beyond that bleakness is also there, 'tho, and for me that can make his music well worth the effort.

17. Kid A - Radiohead - Kid A (2000): Obviously, Radiohead are the musical descendents of Gary Numan, and it's not surprising that at the peak of their popularity--not just w/ me, but w/ their entire audience--that I found myself delving into Gary Numan's music.

Radiohead covers a lotta the same territory. They portray a struggle to maintain your humanity in the midst of depersonalization. In 2000, these ideas seemed very relevant, and the music Radiohead used to express them put them far beyond any other artist of such popularity. Kid A ways revelatory. It disappointed some of their old school fans by mostly kicking the guitars out the window in favor of synths. Musically, its logic appeared to be culled from the sounds of electronica, rather than rock. Still, Radiohead were a rock band, and these perceptions were those of rock n roll enthusiasts. Electronic music fans might've found Radiohead's efforts to be watered down.

I think these questions are mostly irrelevant. In Kid A, I found a an expression of post-modernism in its most positive form. The record pulled in whatever it needed from rock, electronica--even a bit of free jazz in "The National Anthem"--to communicate its points. That's what the best art does--uses the right tool for the job. But while a lotta musicians pursue this sorta eclecticism, few have the assurance and talent to make it work.

Radiohead did, and if you haven't had the experience of seeing them live, you might not know that they can do this even when they're outside of the studio and removed from most of its trickery. I saw them live at the lakefront in Chicago in the summer of 2001, and it was one of the best performances I've ever attended. (And I have attended many.) The huge full moon that rose over the lake didn't hurt, nor did a warm breeze that blew in. Everyone in the open seating crowd just seemed to get caught up in a very authentic fellow feeling, and the music was great. I don't think I'll ever forget that night.

18. Black Satin - Miles Davis - On the Corner (2004): Miles Davis may be my favorite musical artist of all. He mastered nearly every jazz form--except, notably, free jazz, which he despised. He moved beyond standard jazz methodology and into explorations of rock, classical and electronic music. I listen to all of his stuff. Kind of Blue, which is a lush, modern jazz record in the most conventional vein, is the record I always think I would take to a desert island w/ me if I had only 1 choice. Still, he's equally intense on On the Corner, which is a record I love for very different reasons.

In the late 60s and early 70s, Miles Davis made darker electric music that alienated many of his listeners--just like Radiohead. And like Radiohead, his music seemed to be at least somewhat preoccupied w/ dehumanization. But whereas Gary Numan and Radiohead might envision machines swooping down to claim us as their own, Miles might have been looking at a twisting of humanity--past bestiality and into the demonic. I might be extrapolating a lot from what I hear, but I'm not the 1st. Many critics and listeners have detected a strain corruption here.

Lester Bangs wrote about the "insectival" atmosphere of this album. When I listen to the queasy harmonies of the horns, the menacing thud of the base and those brittle handclaps, I can't help but feel that there's something fevered going on--maybe feverish--and fever means sickness. Soon after this album, Miles "retired" for 5 years and fell into a quagmire of drugs, paranoia and depression. Again, I think darkness in music can be transcendent. It can show you a way out through its confrontation w/ things you feel but cannot deal w/ yourself.

19. Baby Doll - Cat Power - You Are Free (2003): In 2003, I might've listened to Cat Power's (a.k.a. singer/songwriter Chan Marshall's) You Are Free as much or more than any new album. I was overwhelmed by Chan Marshall's very idiosyncratic view of the world. Like Miles, n' Gary, n' Radiohead, she was asking what seemed like very important questions in her lyrics--which could be very poetic, if free associative. These questions dealt w/ humanity, as I saw it. Was it getting harder to be human in the face of our retreat into cyber/satellite shells, while meanwhile, out there in the physical world, some very bad shit indeed was afoot? She never dealt w/ Iraq or Afghanistan or anything like that, but she did ask whether we were going to maintain our basic humanity as individuals--or as she put it in this song, "Don't you want to be clean?"

I might've felt it all the most here 'tho, because here it really was expressed as a choice, w/o white washing how heavy the weight of choosing might be, she suggested that it was necessary: "Don't you want to be free?"

Beyond the lyrics, the music was important in posing these questions. The sounds were passionate and struggling w/ fear and despair, just as much as the words. Unfortunately, as she consolidated her fan base, I felt myself drifting out of it to a point where the next album, The Greatest, meant absolutely nothing to me. I saw Cat Power back in the old days, when Chan could not be trusted to keep her guitar in tune, or even to complete an entire song. She's freakin' nuts, of course, but I found her much more compelling in this setting than I did when I later saw her fronting a buncha session hacks from Nashville and parts beyond. She looked like the star she'd become, which is only fair. She'd earned it. But the show was lifeless.

It was sad--like losing an old friend--but ultimately I could accept it. Her earlier albums were more than enough to win my gratitude and admiration.

20. Summer Cannibals - Patti Smith - Gone Again (2000): As I said, 2000 was a bad year for me. Briefly, I reached one of the absolute lowest points of my life. Circumstances were already bad, and then very bad things began to happen. I felt like I was gonna fall apart--and despite my best efforts, briefly, I did.

This song is dark, dense hard rock. Its sounds suited my feelings, and I could relate to the haze through which Patti seemed to be seeing the world--one in which, at moments, you weren't sure you could trust the way the world now looked to you. Had it always looked this way? Were the people around you like that? And what did that say about you yourself? If you were right, then live w/ it every day? If you were wrong, then weren't you sick to hold these perceptions?

Patti presents a vision of people twisted into monsters, 'tho they either don't see themselves as such or don't care. They celebrate it, taking communion together, and they draw the singer in to do the same. She doesn't resist, but at the end, she can't continue to sit through the meal. She can't participate anymore. It's not a moment of strength, when she turns away--or at least she doesn't see it that way. She's not setting herself above the cannibals. She's got a seat at the table. I see it more as a capitulation to weakness--a feeling that you can't proceed as you are. You can't do what everyone else around you can.

In this dream---'as it's presented w/ the logic of dreams--that sorta foggy impressionism--she sees only 1 way out. Defeated--her strength and courage fail her, and the world around her looks perfectly corrupt, so she gives herself up as part of the feast. It's a sick image, full of self-hatred and fear of everyone else, but it's drawn w/ strength and force. And again, in acting it out in a song, we may be able to let it go in our own lives.

I was mostly able to, and this song played its part in that. It was a real comfort to know that someone else had these feelings and preoccupations that seemed so bent and at times, to be drawn from such terminal inadequacy. I was happy, but not surprised, when I saw Patti Smith, twice, and she projected this enormous humanity--kindness, humor and attitude. Well into middle age, she'd survived the fury of the punk explosion, and for what it's worth, was the first woman to cut a path through it. I am not a feminist, but I recognize the courage and confidence it must've taken. More than that, I recognize the power of her music. No matter what it's creator's gender was, it'd still kick ass.

But now, all of that was sorely tested by the tragic death of her much loved husband, as well as the loss of a brother and some very close friends. You could see how she might've found herself in the place she maps out in "Summer Cannibals." That she was able to transmute those terrible feelings into this song--into the entire album Gone Again--is testament to her bravery and compassion--not to mention her significance as an artist.

21. Your Children Aren’t Special - Bill Hicks - Rant in E Minor (2008): In the last 10 years, Bill Hicks has had a considerable effect on me as a writer. Like Elliott Smith, I share his sensibility, and but I also aspire to Bill Hicks's voice... Well, I'd like to have my own voice, actually, but I'd like to develop it w/ the same flair and intelligence that he showed. His standup is laugh-out-loud funny, but always insightful. He always wears his anger on his sleeve, but it arises out of a desire that the world and the people in it--including himself--might be better, might try a little harder to reach some real fulfillment.

That's it! Before I sign off, some quick notes about the ten annual playlists:

Titles - Each comes from a line from one of the songs on the list--shown in parentheses here:

2000 / Grab a Chair, You're Gonna Need a Shield (Gluecifer, "I Got a War")

2001 / Riots in the Motor City (The Stooges, "I Got Nothin'")

2002 / God Save Us All (Brainiac, "Fucking with the Altimeter")

2003 / A Certain Inept Licentiousness (The Reputation, "The Stars of Amateur Hour")

2004 / It Doesn't Pay to Try (Johnny Thunders, "You Can't Put Your Arms around a Memory")

2005 / A Red Coal Carpet (The Rolling Stones, "Gimme Shelter")

2006 / A Cat in a Bag (The Verve, "The Drugs Don't Work")

2007 / 43 Ways to Kill You with a Pimento (David Cross, "Monica Lewinsky & the 3 Bears")

2008 / People Passing through Me (Gorillaz, "New Genius (Brother)")

2009 / An Intentional Wreck (Public Enemy, "Welcome to the Terrordome")

The title of this decade's list comes from the Dr. Octagon song, "Earth People."

Shortest List - 2002 - 1:11:17

Longest List - 2001- 1:20:57 (which is actually more music than will fit on a CD, but somehow the playlist has survived in this form.)

Shortest song - Bicycle Built for 2 - Max Matthews (2000) - 0:40

Longest song - Amen - Bardo Pond (2006) - 29:12

My Favorite List - 2007

My Least - 2002

Artists who appeared on more than one list:

2x - Air, The Beatles, Bill Hicks, Brainiac, Broadcast, Can, Cat Power, Charles Mingus, Dr. Octagon*, Gorillaz, Johnny Cash, Johnny Thunders, Lee "Scratch" Perry, Radiohead, Ruins, Shannon Wright, Stereolab, The Verve.

3x - The Blood Brothers**, Gary Numan, Ladytron, Mudhoney**.

4x - Aphex Twin, Elliott Smith, Miles Davis

5x - Spacemen 3

* Dr. Octagon is an alias of hip-hop genius Kool Keith, who also appears on the 2005 list in his Dr. Dooom persona.

**As described above: though The Blood Brothers & Mudhoney each made 3 appearances, both bands contributed only 2 songs a piece. The Blood Brothers' "Laser Life" and Mudhoney's "Revolution" both showed up twice, on 2 different lists, a phenomenon that more or less guaranteed them a spot in this retrospective. In the case of the Blood Brothers, the repetition was unconscious and occurred 2 years in a row. I guess I really like that song. In the case of Mudhoney, the choice was conscious--not only did it illustrate something about the Mudhoney/Spacemen 3 clash, I just really like this song as well.

The Bizarro List: an 80 minutes or less playlist of songs I really wanted to include, but couldn't: (without descriptions, 'cuz it is the B List, and who has the time to read or write more?)

1. For Felix (& All the Rats) - Matmos - A Chance to Cut Is a Chance to Cure (2003)

2. I Hear a New World - Joe Meek & the Blue Men - I Hear a New World (2007)

3. Come on Let's Go - Broadcast (2000)

4. Lost - Meat Puppets - Meat Puppets II (2001)

5. Bombay 400 Miles - Kalyanji & Anandji Shah w/ Dan the Automator - Bombay the Hard Way: Guns, Cars & Sitars (2000)

6. Les Yper-Sound - Stereolab - Emperor Tomato Ketchup (2002)

7. Love It's Getting Better - The Pastels - Worlds of Possibility EP (2007)

8. Black Sabbath - Black Sabbath - Black Sabbath (2001)

9. Dummy Discards a Heart - Deerhoof - Apple O' (2009)

10. Gossip Folks - Missy Elliott - Under Construction (2006)

11. Nutty - Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane - At Carnegie Hall (2005)

12. Cocaine Blues (Live) - Johnny Cash - The Essential Johnny Cash 1955-1983 (2005)

13. Criminally Insane - Slayer - Reign in Blood (2001)

14. Soul on Fire - LaVern Baker - Soul on Fire: The Best of LaVern Baker (2006)

15. New Genius (Brother) - Gorillaz - Gorillaz (2008)

16. Foggy Minded Breakdown - The Blacks - Feels Just Like Home (2000)

17. Destroy Everything You Touch - Ladytron - Witching Hour (2005)

18. Melody - Blonde Redhead - Misery Is a Butterfly (2004)

19. Within the Quilt of Demand - Shannon Wright - Maps of Tacit (2002)

20. Myself When I Am Real - Charles Mingus - Mingus Plays Piano (2006)

Woo hoo! We did it, you & I! I'll see you in December 2010 w/ another boring list! Maybe!

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…