419 is a joke

URGENT MESSAGE:

Dearest readers,

I know this message may come to you as a surprise but please treat it for the urgency expected by it. We have been chosen as representatives for bitterandrew the High Seneschal of the Revolutionary United Front of Funkytown who was overthrown by the jealous masses on April 30th 2008 for being too handsome and witty for his own good.

After the High Seneschal went into exile, he instructed us to post this mini-playlist of happening sounds and groovy cuts inspired by the subject headers of bulk emails found in his spam folder on the morning of the revolution.

Best Regards
STEVE & EYDIE AMIN

(I'm actually kind of digging this exile business. The burdens of leadership are a hassle to shoulder for a low-key individual such as myself.)

When life gives you lemons, put them into a bowl on top of the fridge and forget about them until the rotting smell can't be ingnored any longer. When some bulk email scammer dumps a bunch of spam emails into your inbox, assemble a themed music post dealing with the subject matter.

"Miley Cyrus pictures available uncensored" - Wow, that didn't take long at all. Here's the thing: If you're going to try and use bait-and-switch tactics to attract my attention to the bogus "herbal supplement" you're hawking, you'll need to find a better enticement than Billy Ray Cyrus's tweener-targeted Vergeltungswaffe. Sure, I made my share of "Achy Breaky Heart" and mullet jokes back in the day, but why take your hyper-merchandised wrath out upon the nation's children, Billy Ray?

Hole - Celebrity Skin (from Celebrity Skin, 1998) - The only Hole I can stomach listening to, despite the songwriting presence of alt-rock antichrist Billy Corgan. The message of the song is that ambitions toward fame and celebrity can prove personally destructive. You know what else can be personally destructive? Scarfing down horse tranquilzers like they were M&M's, then following up the meal with a demerol chaser.

"Witchcraft will not help you in curing!" - So put your faith in Canadian pharmacy scams instead!

Spike Jones - That Old Black Magic (from The Anthology, 1994) - I can't help but think that Coldplay's "Violet Hill" would be vastly improved by the addition of cartoon sound effects. That's rubbish, actually -- there's nothing capable of making Coldplay sound like anything other than the utter shit they truly are.

"Bring out the T-Rex in you" - You mean I'll start wearing glitter on my face, score a string of hit records, then die in a horrible car crash? I'll have to think on that a bit. Speaking of channeling one's inner T. Rex...

Power Station - Get It On (Bang a Gong) (from Power Station, 1985) - In which the mid-80's supergroup (featuring the late Robert Palmer, the late Tony Thompson, and the understandably worried John Taylor and Andy Taylor) recasts a glam rock masterpiece in durable, non-biodegradable plastic.

"No test, No class, buy yourself Bacheelor MasteerMBA Doctoraate dip1omas" - I wonder if they offer degrees in Americaan Stud1ees, Engliish, or Soc1oloogy? Are there certif1caate prograams available? Is this really the way one should pad one's resuume?

Jetsons - Genetically Stupid (from a 1981 7") - Exceptional Devo-esque punk rawk out of Bloomington, Indiana that has been given much repeat play 'round Armagideon Time HQ.

brace yourself with the grace of ease

As a follow up to yesterday's post, I'd like to draw your attention to this jolly individual, the gaudily-dressed wielder of the Disintegrator Glove^TM and Dr. Ojo's partner in terror:

Fear...THE CRUMBLER!
He's crumbelievable!
While I do tend to feel a little depressed whenever I discover that a cherished piece of pop music has been repurposed as an advertising jingle, I couldn't help but laugh at the shrill, hyperbolic tone of this 2005 piece lamenting the use of a cheesy pop product to sell a cheesy food product.

Despite sounding like a lobotomized Carter USM track, EMF's "Unbelievable" is a perfectly fine bit of pop fluff, with the requisite levels of blood-pumping danceability expected in a proper "party music" track. I certainly wouldn't classify it as some kind of Gen X anthem, though, or use the commerical version as a vessel onto which to project my anxieties about getting older. This...

Work like this takes songs some of us remember from when we were single, broke and idealistic, ruins the songs, and points out that many of us now live in the suburbs, sold out to corporate America, and buy Swiffers and Kraft Cheese Crumbles.

...reflects more upon the insecurities and psychology of the writer than it does upon the intrusiveness of advertising in popular culture. (I can't be the only one who appreciates the irony of the Suicide Girls comment quoted at the end of the piece. Self-awareness, wha'?)

In those days when I considered writing as a craft and a potential career, I got involved in a disagreement with one of my peers, a fellow with a habit of counting his chickens before the eggs were laid, over the concepts of artistic integrity and selling out. He trotted out all the usual anecdotes about maintaining purity of vision, blah, blah, blah, and the predatory nature of entertainment biz. While I agreed that I'd never sacrifice a favored child on Mammon's altar, I also made it clear that I'd have no problem accepting a fat check for any and all of my minor pieces, even if I knew they'd be transformed from political satire into shallow RomCom pap in the hands of the purchasers.

The Clash's cover of "Pressure Drop" used to sell sport utility vehicles? Irritating.

Modern English's "I Melt With You" used in a fast food commercial? Nauseating.

The femvox cover of Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It" used to pimp Big Pharma's latest chemical cocktail designed to fuck with natural hormonal bodily processes? Unconscionable.

EMF's "Unbelievable" reworked as a processed cheese jingle? A definite step up, considering that the song had already been incorporated into the "jock jams" repertoire, not to mention being prominently featured in Coyote Ugly.

While it's only natural to feel disgust and disappointment at the insidious nature of the marketing beast, it's important to remember that one's personal relationship to a song can only be ruined if one allows it to happen. A negative response is still a response, after all.

...and when all else fails, turn to Sir Tom for guidance and comfort.

Tom Jones - Unbelievable (Live) (from the "Burning Down the House" CD single, 1999) - 100% Diceman-free, for the benefit of the asshole-intolerant.

there is something goin' down

Today's post features a trio of tracks plucked from the grooves of Saturday Night Pogo, "a collection of Los Angeles new wave bands" released by Rhino in 1978. I found the album in the "various artists" Nuggets store in Kenmore Square sometime in the summer of 1992, and it set me back all of two dollars and ninety-nine cents.

Saturday Night Pogo also happens to be the only album I ever purchased the store, though I kind of regret not picking up the copy of Regina's album I saw in the dollar bin while I was there. That's not a dig at Nuggets, mind you. It had everything I could possibly want in a used vinyl store...except records I was interested in purchasing, though I did buy a number of old issues of Creem there (including the one covering the Sex Pistols ill-fated American tour).

Early punk compilations are always historically fascinating -- even when the material, as in the case of Saturday Night Pogo, is mostly uninspired -- because the genre's boundaries hadn't yet hardened into easily categorized shapes. In the early stages, punk was a matter of self-identification rather than a sonic template (three chords songs clocking in at under three minutes). While there were distinct sources of inspiration, the "anything goes" ethos allowed a host of acts -- whether cynically, cluelessly or sincerely -- to adopt the "punk" (or if they had commercial ambitions, "new wave") label.

In the case of Saturday Night Pogo, unfortunately, this meant a heaping load of so-so Stoogean and garage rock-inspired tracks with some cartoony "punk" efforts thrown in for good (and not-so-good) measure. The Dils (transplants from the San Francisco scene) and future AOR staples The Motels both contributed to the album, as did the Berlin Brats (who appeared with The Dils in Up In Smoke's Battle of the Bands), but none of the other major players associated with the early L.A. punk scene were represented. That wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing in and of itself, but it this case the end result comes off as a c-list predecessor to 1979's Yes L.A. compilation.

Like I said: a historically fascinating (and brilliantly-titled) album, but an essentially disposable one.

VOM - I'm in Love with Your Mom - It's cartoony punk-by-numbers, but manages to pull it off in the most blatantly crass manner possible. VOM was fronted by music critic and provocateur Richard Meltzer, and during its brief career specialized in over-the-top shock tactics at the band's live shows. A couple of the band's members went on to form the Angry Samoans after Meltzer's departure.

Needles & Pins - I Wanna Play with Guns - Good (but not great) femvox power pop with both 60's retro and 70's punk flourishes.

The Hebe Geebees - Night Fever - A throwaway gag meant to justify the compilation's title, but one that outshines the more serious efforts. It also anticipated this film by a good two decades.

Friday Night Fights: Make Yourself Ready

In this week's contribution to Bahlactus's cosmic throwdown, World Welfare Work Association ("3WA") troubleshooter Yuri engages in a little workplace hostility with her partner and fellow "Lovely Angel," Kei.

(from Dirty Pair: A Plague of Angels #5, August 1991; by the incomparable Adam Warren)
I think it sums up my feelings regarding this current example of fanboy stupidity rather nicely. (Besides, there's nothing I could add that Charlie B. hasn't already said.)

While my interest in anime is pretty much nil these days, there will always be a place in my heart for the Dirty Pair. I was thrilled to discover that Dark Horse has begun to release translations of the original Japanese novels featuring the adventures of the ill-omened duo, whose nickname refers to the catastrophic collateral damage that inevitably occurs in their wake. (Now if only Amazon could get its shit together and ship me those novels, considering I ordered them over a month ago....)

The tendency by certain sectors of fandom to reduce the franchise to "that thing with the semi-naked chicks carrying big guns" is somewhat irksome. I'm not claiming that I'm above paying notice to Yuri and Kei's choice in attire, but space-bikinis aside, the real draw is the entertaining blend of comedy and science fiction on display in both the animated and comic book versions of the Dirty Pair. The American Dirty Pair comic miniseries helmed by Adam Warren are packed with visionary concepts taken from contemporary hard sci-fi, and Warren manages to strike the perfect balance between techobabble and T&A. (Masamune Shirow could take some pointers on that front.)

There's also a very personal and sentimental reason for my affection towards the Dirty Pair. As I probably mentioned in a previous post, the painting on the back of my punk jacket came from the cover of the third issue of the first Dirty Pair miniseries.


I chose the image because I wanted something a little different from the band logo or album cover route, and even though the thought never crossed my mind, it also captured the my "one foot in punkery, the other in geekery" stance damn near perfectly. When another punk-geek hybrid in my extended circle of collegiate acquaintances recognized the painting on my jacket and asked to see it, it was my first inkling that this particular individual, a dark-haired woman by the name of Maura, was interested in me (though it took a while before that realization managed to penetrate my thick skull).

Nakahara Meiko - Ru-Ru-Ru-Russian Roulette (from the Dirty Pair TV series OST, 1985) - This is the full-length version of the show's opening theme, and like most j-pop from that era, it manages to sound both timeless and incredibly dated at the same time. DANCE! DANCE! CHANCE! CHANCE!

installed to cop

Boston really never had much in the way of a homegrown gothic music scene, which is pretty surprising considering the city's historical atmosphere, architecture, and abundance of "spooky" locales. Salem's pagan Mecca is just a short hop up Route 1 from the city proper, and the Halloween season around these parts is absolutely note-perfect, a time when chill October winds make the fallen leaves caper and dance around the crumbling headstones of colonial burial grounds under the glow of a swollen harvest moon.

While the region's inherent spooktacular qualities would seem like a more fertile ground for a local goth scene to take root in than Los Angeles' surf, sun, and subdivisions, it never managed to happen. There was a small handful of bands clustered around the BDSM-themed multimedia hijinks of Sleep Chamber (who as a band, made an okay performance art troupe), but they made little if any impact outside their small circle. It wasn't until the early 90's that Sleep Chamber, in a symbiotic relationship with the goth-friendly (but not goth-exclusive) dance venue Man Ray, evolved into a minor cult sensation, but by that time the band's sound had drifted into then-popular industrial-dance music realm.

That's not to say that Greater Boston didn't have its share of goth devotees in the early-to-mid-1980's, but most of the crowd (the younger ones, especially) tended to exist as a subset of the larger punk milieu. As my wife, who was a punk rocker at the time put it, "the pretty punks became goths." In music, as with fashion, the barriers between the non-hardcore punk and goth sets blurred, with the fans getting their darkly iridescent music fixes from the UK's thriving gothic rock scene. Not surprising considering that, with the exception of LA's roster of "deathrock" acts, very few American bands copped onto the early 80's goth sound, and the few who did tended to be, well, uninspired.

Which brings us to the matter of Holy Cow, who were one of the aforementioned local gothic rock outfits in Sleep Chamber's orbit. Maura caught them live, as the opening act Specimen, back in her teenage years, and despised them, mostly due to the absurd onstage antics of their frontman. (Apparently he had an excessive fondness for leaping around and mugging for the audience, to the point where Maura was worried he was going to reach out and grab her eyeglasses from her face.) As a result, "Holy Cow" became a shorthand reference for a terrible performance, and a mention of the band's name would bring an elicit an reflexive "Oh, Gawd..." from the lovely lass (as it did this morning when I told her what I planned to write about today).

I'm not ashamed to confess that when it comes to the differences in taste between Maura and myself there is a point where I willingly cede matters to my personal imp of the perverse. My appreciation for certain bands or songs is heightened (Bowie's "Drive-In Saturday," Lord Sitar) or in some cases entirely predicated (Shampoo) or anticipating my wife's disgusted reaction when they crop up on the Zune's playlist during a commute home from work.

(I see it as a way to defuse incidental tensions in a non-belligerent manner, thus maintaining our usually harmonious relationship. Maura may see it differently. In fact, when it comes to Shampoo, I know she does.)

And so, when I came across a copy of Call It What You Will, Holy Cow's 1986 debut album, in the "Misc. H" bin at Second Coming Records back in the summer of 1993, I knew I had to buy it. Having only listened to it in the safety of my own personal space, with no risk of harm to my spectacles, I have to say it's really not that bad. It's simply redundant.

From the vocalist's blatant Peter Murphy impersonation to the obligatory dub-derived sonic effects, Call It What You Will makes no attempt to conceal the band's attempt to ape Bauhaus circa 1980. While I think In The Flat Field was and is a fantastic record, I really can't see the point of making a blurry mimeograph of the album half a decade after the fact.

It doesn't help that Holy Cow chose to fully embrace the genre tropes that were still in gestation when Bauhaus recorded their debut album six years prior. Good goth music tends to either walk a fine line between atmosphere and pretense (Bauhaus, UK Decay), or embrace the sillier aspects of the subject matter in a tongue in cheek fashion (Specimen, Alien Sex Fiend). Screw with the balance and there's a high risk of devolving -- no matter how strong the material may otherwise be -- into caricature, unintentional self-parody, or even worse, the po-faced absurdity associated with the death metal scene.

Remember: A little bit of the macabre goes a long way, and there are better way to honor one's heroes than to dress up in their natty old clothes.

From Call It What You Will:

Holy Cow - Ichorous Pus

Holy Cow - Lady Cadava

(For the record, this is the first post in which I made use of my USB turntable. It only took me four months to set it up, which is a new record time for my achieving a stated goal.)

seemed like the real thing

(from Blue Devil #3, August 1984; by Cohn, Mishkin, Cullins, & Martin)
Don't lose heart, Metallo! Kryptonite tickers may be hard to come by, but why not check out Armagideon Time's cardio-tastic line-up of replacement models? Our present stock includes several promising substitutes, hand-picked by our knowledgeable staff from a variety of materials and musical genres -- all guaranteed to get your blood pumping in style.

Lunachicks - Heart of Glass (from Luxury Problem, 1999) - This is for all those sad souls out there who've complained that Blondie's original version of the song sounded "too disco." Are you happy now?

Steel Pulse - Heart of Stone (from Sound System: The Island Anthology, 1997) - Soothing grooves for the end times, which seems kind of wrong yet sounds so right.

A Flock of Seagulls - Heart of Steel (from The Story of a Young Heart, 1984) - The New Wave at ebb tide. Be careful not to slice your foot open on some Big Pop flotsam; that shit can turn septic in the space of a heartbeat.

B.T. Express - Heart of Fire (from B.T. Express 1980, 1980) - WARNING: Individuals with hearts of fire should avoid wearing polyester suits, lest a real-life disco inferno occur.

though I love you unclean

From the January-February 1988 issue of Nintendo Power comes this token effort toward music journalism...

(Click to be like Wham! and MAKE IT BIG!)
It's written in the same hyperbolic hard-sell tone employed by the periodical to foist such quality gamepaks such as Ghost Lion and the California Raisins game onto the impressionable youth of late 1980's America, which is quite disconcerting considering the choice of artists featured. Of the three, only Debbie Gibson was an actual chart success at the time (though I still am unable to understand how that came to be). Huey Lewis and the News had already taken the first steps on the road to state fair appearances, and Julian Lennon, living proof that talent (unlike appearance) can't be genetically transmitted, had already basked in his necrotic fifteen minutes of public fascination a few years prior.

I assume the decision on which artists to spotlight came down to least offensive denominator, so as not to scare off the parents who actually paid for the games pimped in the pages of Nintendo Power, hence no South of Heaven or Locust Abortion Technician. I can understand that line of reasoning, but there must have been other acts able to meet Nintendo's vetting process, ones with proven tweener appeal and whose hypetastic "Sound Waves" blurb didn't require committing "...and clearly shows he is following in the footsteps of his talented father (late Beatle John Lennon)" to immortality via the printed page.

Or involve Huey Lewis at all

It's not like I would have noticed, anyhow. The period from roughly 1985 to 1989 was something of a pop interregnum for me, a time when I effectively unplugged myself from the contemporary music grid. My burgeoning appreciation for 60's pop, rock, and especially soul music, combined with the death of V-66, a local music video station and my main means of keeping up with music trends, worked to suspend my interest in anything recorded after 1972.

I apparently didn't miss much, either:

Granted, the pop charts are inherently weighted toward the crap end of the spectrum, and show only the narrowest view into an given era's musical legacy. There was plenty of outstanding stuff released during those years, but even if I wasn't bopping to the backbeat of some mid-60's Stax recording, the chances I'd have discovered gems like XTC's Oranges and Lemons or New Order's Technique or Billy Bragg's Worker's Playtime on my own back then were pretty much nil.

My peers at the time were either budding juvenile delinquents or (worse) Dungeons & Dragons enthusiasts. The musical tastes of both groups ran the wide gamut from hard rock to heavy metal, and took every iota of willpower I possessed to resist indoctrination. Seriously, I was this close to thinking that Rush was a brilliant band before I managed to pull myself back from the all-consuming abyss. The handful of kids in Woburn who were hep to what was then called the "college rock" scene didn't run in the same circles as I did, and, truth be told, they also tended to be pricks and not really the type of folks I'd take listening advice from.

It wasn't until I got into punk (by way of thrash metal) that I again started listening to music that wasn't recorded before I was born. The ready availability of cheap used vinyl made it easy to play catch up and discover most of what I missed out on the first time around (and then some) and take chances on things that I'd have otherwise passed up on checking out. I don't regret the hiccup in development of my musical tastes at all. If anything, I appreciate the advantage in approaching commonly known material as a outsider has conferred on several occasions. Nostalgia's lens flare tends to throw off one's ability to focus properly.

For the musical portion of today's program, here are three tracks released in 1988-89 from bands that did not earn a blurb in Nintendo Power, but have earned my (belated) Seal of Approval:

Babes in Toyland - He's My Thing (from Spanking Machine, 1989) - If Siouxsie Sioux fronted the Cramps...

My Bloody Valentine - (When You Wake) You're Still In A Dream (from Isn't Anything, 1988) - Spike-heeled shoegaze.

Orchids - If You Can't Find Love (from Lyceum, 1989) - Live twee or cry.

yama yama yama

As a follow up to last Friday's musings about comic book depictions of the punk scene, I bring you...

KARMA!
The Punk Rock Superhero!
Like Dazzler and Vibe before him, Karma (a.k.a. Wayne Hawkins or Wanye "Tarrant," depending on which source you consult) was an example of the less-than proud trend of basing character concepts around facile interpretations of transitory popcult trends.

Karma (not to be confused with the Vietnamese member of Marvel's New Mutants) served, along with a magnetically-powered redhead and (no lie) a leukemia patient with burning hands, as a member of the Doom Patrol's junior auxiliary during the post-Crisis, pre-Grant Morrison run of the title, when the series was an utterly generic superteam book helmed by Paul Kupperberg.

The only thing unique about the series was its choice of locale. In keeping with DC's trend at the time to move away from fictional cities for its superheroic fare, this incarnation of the Doom Patrol was set in Kansas City, which just so happens to be the home base of Joe Stumble, a real-life punk rock superhero. (Correction: Joe actually lives in St. Louis, on the other side of the Show-Me State. I need to brush up on my flyover country geography.)

That Karma's powers, outlined here....


...really had little to do with the actual metaphysical concept of karma in accordance with either Hinduism, Buddhism, or John Lennon's "instant" variety was of little importance, as what really mattered was his function within the overall team dynamic. Karma, you see, served the important role as the Doom Patrol's resident Dude with a 'Tude...

...and what easier way to get that across to the reading public than through the iconography of a subcultural stereotype, albeit a slightly dated one (for 1988)? (I myself got into punk rock around that time, but even through the haze of clueless enthusiasm knew that the scene's glory days had gone by.) Should the popcult shorthand expressed through the combination of mohawk and piercings not be sufficiently unambiguous, there's also the tried and true method of dropping some appropriate band names...

...chosen, of course, for maximum "punkish" effect, as opposed to verisimilitude. Then again, 1988 + mohawk + soul patch + Throbbing Gristle and Butthole Surfers CD's (as opposed to LPs) ensemble could also be interpreted to mean that Karma wasn't a street hooligan, but instead a trust-funded art major attending UMass Boston. The easiest way to verify that hypothesis would have been to visit the Wit's End Cafe between classes to see if he was camped out in a corner, smoking cloves and chatting up freshman poetry majors.

Not that it matters now, as Karma was dropped from the team roster with Kupperberg's departure and eventually met his demise in a line-wide crossover event, the usual fate for deadwood z-list characters. Interestingly enough, Grant Morrison's groundbreaking and sublime run on the Doom Patrol captured the underlying essence of punk rock like no superhero comic before or since.

X-Ray Spex - I Am a Cliche (from the b-side of the 1977 "Oh Bondage Up Yours!" single; collected on the reissue of Germfree Adolescents, 1978) - Miss your dada? Let's have a Hugo Ball!

don't wanna go out tonight

Sage advice, indeed.

And now for a little lazy Sunday linkposting...

The Legomancer casts his deadly (but awesome) spell.

The little stuffed bull crashes the New York Comic Convention.

I'm ashamed I didn't think of the Benjamin's Privates joke first.

Let's go clubbing with Planet Mondo!

Once again, evilolive vists the internet's musty basement so you don't have to.

Oh, Robert, this is how I want to remember you, not the sweat pants, Reeboks, and smeared lipstick that followed.

If you haven't checked out the Vinyl Villain's "45 45's at 45" countdown yet, you really ought to.

The Vapors - Spring Collection (from New Clear Days, 1980) - Back in the days when used vinyl was cheap and plentiful, it was just as easy to pick up an entire LP for the sake of a single desired song as it was to sift through the less organized singles bins of the shops I frequented. It also gave me an opportunity to hear what else a given "one hit wonder" outfit had to offer. While most truly did have just the one bright and shining musical moment, there were a few instances where the material was first-rate from beginning to end, but overshadowed by the luminosity of the band's signature hit.

Modern English's After the Snow (featuring "I Melt With You") is one of those albums, and so is The Vapors' New Clear Days, a top-notch assortment of hooky power pop numbers sadly obscured by the novelty-driven radio success of "Turning Japanese."

architects of fear

For today's post, I'd like to pose a simple question to you, the reader:

Which of these two panels seems more likely to induce lasting psychological damage?

1. a standard "injury to the eye" number taken from a Jack Cole crime story

OR
2. this representative image of Peachy Pet, Johnny Thunder's precocious ward

I know which of the two images is going to cause me many a sleepless night in the weeks and months to come...

Frederic Wertham was right. His only mistake was focusing on the wrong targets.

Curve - Horror Head (from Doppelgänger, 1992) - Mining the same vein as Garbage, only earlier and, most importantly, better.

Friday Night Fights: Say What You Wanna Say

The mighty Bahlactus has once again sent out the call to battle, and the Master of the Funk Cosmic has decreed that this time it's all about the monochrome. I welcome this two-tone restriction, as it has motivated me to delve deep into my archive and spotlight some black and white treasures that I've been wanting to discuss, but never managed to get around to.

So without further ado, here's some punk-on-punter pugilism from the pages of Baker Street #6 (1990; written and illustrated by Guy Davis).

Some folks never learn....

I first stumbled across Baker Street on a spinner rack in Newbury Comics in the summer of 1991, a time when my interest in comics had taken a back seat to my interest in all things punk-related. Even though Baker Street's combination of subject matter and medium seemed specifically tailored to young Andrew's tastes, it took a while before my curiosity was able to overrule my deep-seated suspicions regarding popcult depictions of the punk scene, especially in the realm of comics, where "punk" tended to equal mohawk-sporting thugs or disco nightmares.

My reservations turned out to be entirely unfounded, as series creator Guy Davis was himself a veteran of the scene, and strove to create a sense of authenticity in his depiction of the subculture and its assorted trappings. The series is a direct homage to the Sherlock Holmes stories, set in an alternate universe where the Second World War never happened (therefore preserving London's pre-Blitz achitecture and layout), and a thriving punk subculture (early 80's version) exists on the fringes of Britain's neo-Victorian society. Rather than being a simply stylistic flourish, the dichotomy serves to highlight the concepts of class conflict and systemic marginalization in a more effective way than using the real world of Thatcherite Britain could, while preserving the proper Holmesean flavor (only with more cuss words and graphic violence).

In the series's all-too-brief ten issue run (supplemented with a couple of short one-off pieces) Sharon Ford, a former-police-inspector-turned-punk-investigator, and Susan Prendergast, a baffled American medical student, took up the Holmes and Watson roles in two five-issue story arcs (the first a collaboration with Gary Reed) and chased down leads and unearthed clues to intricate schemes that stretched from the illegal basement ratting dens of punk clubs to the highest levels of the constabulary, and eventually to even darker places.

Davis's art, which I acknowledge can be an acquired taste, perfectly expresses the seedy, spiky, bristly atmosphere of this alternate London perfectly. This is especially true in the second half of Baker Street's run, when the last vestiges of his earlier genero-indie leanings fell away in favor of the Barry Windsor-Smith-meets-Phiz style exemplified in the above panels.

The series abruptly ended with the tenth issue, which resolved the mystery of the second story arc while leaving several overarching plot threads unresolved. Davis moved on to become the regular illustrator for Sandman Mystery Theatre, part of DC's Vertigo imprint similar in theme to Baker Street, but with the alternate history punk scene swapped out for the not quite as cool late 1930's DC Universe. (Davis also contributed art to the World of Darkness series of role-playing game manuals, but I won't hold that against him.) Some sketches included in one-off collection of Baker Street miscellanea hinted at a possible follow-up miniseries from Vertigo, but it never materialized.

I'll guess I'll just have to content myself with rereading the existing material for the umpteenth time, and thanks to this handy collected edition, I need no longer worry about being accidentally killed by an avalanche of nerd debris while searching the attic for the individual issues. Highly recommended. (The Baker Street collection, that is, not the being crushed to death by stack of Ray Conniff LPs and vintage Fisher-Price playsets.)

One of the reasons Baker Street resonated so powerfully with my younger self was that its visual and thematic components dovetailed perfectly with the love for "UK82" punk I had at the time. (Not that I don't still love it today, but there was a period back then that I listened almost exclusively to early 80's Britpunk and Oi! material.) In memory of those not-so-wild days, I offer this pair of perennial favorites from my 1991 playlist:

Abrasive Wheels - Just Another Punk Band (from When the Punks Go Marching In, 1982) - It starts off like "Holidays in the Sun"/But turns into a catchy punk anthem.

The Samples - Fire Another Round (from the b-side of the 1982 "Dead Hero" single; collected on No Future: The Punk Singles Collection, Vol. 2, 1999) - Picking up where "White Riot" left off.

jam or butter

Behold the apex of human technological achievement...

THE MEAT TOASTER
I did briefly consider writing a longer piece dealing with this wonder of the modern (meaning "1971") world, and its significance in terms of consumer capitalism's twin tenets of planned obsolescence and creating demand for unnecessary products, but what more could I really add that isn't right there in the advertisement?

It's a toaster, only instead of cooking bread-related items, it cooks meat. Not Pop Tarts, but porterhouses. Not bagels, but bacon. Not scones, but sirloin. To reiterate, it is a toaster designed to cook animal flesh -- in short, a meat toaster.

That the shell-shocked consumers of the early 1970's failed to embrace the manifest greatness of a device that utilized the costly inefficiency of electric heating coils to perform in three hours what would otherwise be a twenty minute task with a conventional oven does not surprise me. Very rarely (no pun intended) is a prophet appreciated by his contemporaries, especially when he seems likely to cause accidental household fires (or is fundamentally incapable of accommodating sliced onions, mushrooms, or peppers within his sizzling, juicy message).

The Toasters - Fire in My Soul (from Don't Let the Bastards Grind You Down, 1997) - Sadly, a cool blast of ska is no substitute for a CO2-based flame suppression device.

The Meteors - Meat Is Meat (from Monkey's Breath, 1985) - From the musical meat locker comes this raw slab of 100% USDA certified psychobilly. Remember: The OTMAPP seal is a guarantee of eternal freshness.

Richard and Robert Sherman - Music To Buy Toasters By (from Retro Shopping Vol. 1, 2006) - How they rocked it out in Caldor's home appliance aisle back in the day. Muzak version of "Mahogany" not included.

reverts to pure female

In wake of the cultural and social upheavals of the 1960's, it became a common enough practice for popcult entertainments to acknowledge, if only grudgingly, the heightened awareness of egalitarian principles that permeated the era. Not surprisingly, this trend resulted in a number of stories where ostensibly laudable sentiments were presented (intentionally or not) in the most gratingly patronizing or condescending manner imaginable.

Which brings us to "The Powderpuff Run" from Hot Wheels #4 (September-October 1970). As the title suggests, the series was a licensed tie-in to Mattel's popular line of die-cast toy cars, which also spawned a short-lived Saturday morning cartoon series. "Short-lived" because it had the misfortune of airing at a time when the FCC actually had teeth in matters not directly related to "wardrobe failures" and has-been Irish rock stars uttering four letter words, and the cartoon was yanked when it ran afoul of the restrictions on advertising time. (Those restrictions would later be lifted during the Gipper's administration, thus paving the way for a flood of terrible, cheaply-produced toy cartoons and infomercials for questionable products. Yay, progress!)

The only thing that set the Hot Wheels comic apart from the mass of forgettable and forgotten kid's fare from that wild era when kids actually read non-manga comics was the participation of Alex Toth, whose outstanding powers of illustration were capable of elevating even the most pedestrian plot material. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) Toth was not involved in crafting "The Powderpuff Run," which was a Len Wein/Ric Estrada collaborative effort. (Talented men both, and I won't fault anyone for not bringing their A-game to a short back up feature in a licensed toy comic, but I gotta call 'em as I see 'em...)

The story begins with the member of the Hot Wheels racing team puttering around the Metro City Speedway. When team member Ardeth (no relation to Bernadeth) asks why the team isn't planning to field an entrant to the women-only "Daisy Derby" event (because there is no vocation so dangerous or skill-intensive that it cannot be diminished with a girly descriptor when women are involved), tempers begin to flare...

DO IT, SISTER!
Before Ardeth can deliver Mickey's well-deserved braining, the arrival of a mysterious driver of exceptional ability captures the attention of the team. And guess what, she's a WOMAN!

Two women participants in an overwhelmingly male-dominated sport? Won't anyone think of the patriarchy?
She's not just any woman, either. She's Alexandra, cousin of the Hot Wheels Team's hated rival, Dexter Carter. Carter's gloating (coupled with his disturbingly misaligned nostrils) is too much for Mickey to take, and changes his mind about Ardeth's participation in the Daisy Derby...

Dexter Carter: The bastard child of Henry Mitchell and Oswald Cobblepot?
Supporting a colleague's dreams and career aspirations? Whatever. Winning a dick-waving contest by proxy? COUNT ME IN!

With little time to waste, the team members commence burning the midnight oil to kit out a suitable ride for Ardeth to use. Because they're aiming for performance over aesthetic appeal, the final product ends up looking a bit rough around the edges, so Ardeth and Janet, the Daphne Blake to Ardeth's Velma Dinkley, take it upon themselves to do a little impromptu customization...

Yeah, because there's an inherent sense of dignity in turning one's car into a rolling billboard for Viagra or chewing tobacco.
Is it an attempt to subvert traditional perceptions regarding gender? Or to unironically embrace them? The text is ambiguous on this point.

Race day arrives, and Ardeth discovers that winning might be a harder proposition than she had previously anticipated. Not only is Alexandra a skilled and aggressive driver, but she has also had her car outfitted by the same firm that does automotive customization work for Matt Helm and Penelope Pitstop. Even though she is in full view of thousands of (granted, mostly shitfaced) spectators, she doesn't think twice about employing these non-street legal modifications...

The principles of fluid dynamics worked differently back in the late 1960's.
As Ardeth struggles to regain the lead, Janet hatches a little scheme of her own to neutralize Alexandra's decisive advantages on the asphalt...

..and so the Anderson Family's weekend outing to the races ended in an explosion of flame and sheet metal. In lieu of flowers, the family has requested donations be made to the local Waffle House.
Other signs Janet had considered using included "Your attitude scares potential mates," "Work or family? You can't have it all," and "Your biological clock is ticking!"

Alexandra's fall to the inexorable forces of biological determinism leaves a clear path to the checkered flag for Ardeth, who nets the Daisy Derby Cup (which is just like the Metro City 500 Cup, but decorated with plastic flowers and pink ribbon and stuffed with a $25 certificate for a pedicure instead of a check for $5000) with no further complications.

Feeling empowered? I know I am. (Wait, I meant "confused and slightly queasy." I confuse those all the time.)

Nobody fucking cares what you think, Mickey.
The Bodysnatchers - Ruder Than You (from a 1980 single; collected on The 2-Tone Collection: A Checkered Past, 1993) - We named one of the local feral cats (the mother of Lil' Baby Setz and Nubby, and therefore the grandmother of our kittens) "Rude Girl," in reference to this song and The Clash's "Rudie Can't Fail." How's that for insular personal trivia?

As for the song, it's a swell bit of all-female 2-Tone ska. Singer Rhoda Dakar later went on to work with The Specials and other members of the band eventually formed the Belle Stars.

The Dictators - (I Live for) Cars and Girls (from The Dictators Go Girl Crazy! 1975) - An admirable philosophy, I suppose, providing the car in question isn't a 1985 AMC Eagle and the girl isn't Sally Kern.

no supper tonight

I've never been one for alarmist behavior. I can wallow in obsessive dread with the best of them, but that's more rooted in the frustration of events escaping my control, things like car repairs or dental work where I'm forced to operate on someone else's terms. Outright panic just seems pointless; few things ever turn out as badly as imagined, and even the few that do live up to the ultra-negative expectations are better handled with a clear head.

My undergraduate mentor, a cultural history professor, would frequently evoke the looming spectre of societal collapse, always clarifying his somber jeremiads with "I say when, not if." Back then, I considered his apocalyptic assuredness as the affection of a veteran leftist prone to seeing dark portents on every horizon. Despite my ingrained cynicism, his pronouncements seemed based upon the grim predictions of 70's science-fiction rather than upon empirical evidence. Nowadays, though, I'm not so sure.

I have been feeling troubled as of late. The sensation is not the familiar one of personal existential dread, but rather a gut feeling that events of consequence are unfolding and interlocking at a glacial but accelerating pace. Food riots are breaking out across the globe, as the neo-liberal promises regarding globalization have proven themselves to be not only empty, but outright malignant in terms of consequences. Energy costs are skyrocketing, causing rampant inflation. The edifice of debt-financed prosperity has effectively collapsed. The programs and policies created to check and mitigate the damage have been defanged, dissolved, or discredited.

When school systems are dropping milk from the lunch menu so they can bring in soft drink concession revenue, the problem is bigger than a simple economic downturn. When a basic staple of life such as flour or corn is priced beyond reach because of commodities speculators, it is clear that the system is broken.

The center has failed to hold, and few people want to connect the dots and awaken to the greater problem. (In this country, its a matter of denial, in that few will acknowledge the notion that fast-and-loose capitalism does not intrinsically favor America and will devour any victim with equal aplomb.)

I can't shake the feeling that that this is just the beginning, that these events collectively presage something huge and ugly with the capacity of permanently transforming the global quality of life.

The Clash - Armagideon Time (from the b-side of the 1979 "London Calling" single; collected on The Story of The Clash, Part 1, 1990)

he's the man of the hour

It is only natural, I suppose, when recovering from a prolonged physical ordeal that one's thoughts would take a pronounced turn toward the introspective. During my slow convalescence, I have frequently found myself pondering roads not taken. My meditations have centered on matters as small as my habitual negligence regarding flossing, as well as grander existential questions about my ultimate purpose in life.

It occurred to me that maybe my talents were not best served in my current dual occupation of paid techmonkey/unpaid internet commentator, and that I could obtain a greater sense of personal fulfillment through a career in the European supercriminal field. There is visceral sense of satisfaction to be obtained in wrecking the economies of several Continenal powers through an overly elaborate scheme involving disintegration rays and amphibious cars. It's certainly a superior experience than explaining to my coworkers (for the umpteenth time) why downloading spyware-laden clutterware onto the department server is a bad thing.

One of the problems for the aspiring Euro supercriminal is the shocking absence of any vocational training programs or graduate-level seminars from which to learn the tricks of the trade. Granted, there are MBA programs, but those skew toward the megalomaniacal world-destroyer career path, where I'm more interested in the anarcho-hedonist side of things. Not even the renowned University of Phoenix offers something as straightforward as an MFA in Creative Villainy. No wonder this country has lost its competitive edge.

Instead, I've had to content myself with reviewing the recorded careers of some of the past luminaries of the profession, and performing a comparative inventory of relevant assets to determine my potential prospects. Here's a brief annotated summary:

Vehicle: While a tan 1998 Chevy Lumina lacks the sex appeal of a 1962 Studebaker Avanti or 1970 Plymouth Barracuda, the sturdiness, the horsepower, and, most importantly, the aggressive unremarkableness of the mid-sized family sedan make it an ideal getaway car. A quick turn into a suburban subdivision during a frenetic chase would utterly perplex the local constabulary as they would be forced to deal with dozens of vehicular red herrings.

Nefarious Weapon: At hand.

Secret Lair: The house on the hill isn't so much "secret" as "relatively isolated," which gives it the benefit of "hiding in plain sight." Its interior is well stocked with electronic gadgets (including a Zune, a gaming PC, and an Xbox 360) and exotic pets (well, a couple of dogs, some cats, some rabbits, and a chinchilla). While there are no alligator pits or other sinister deathtraps per se, we do have a garage full of feral cats who can be quite peevish at times and there are some low pipes in the cellar capable of braining the unwary intruder.

Disguises: An essential skillset for a supercriminal to possess, and one that I have clearly mastered.

Female Assistant Partner: No problems there. Even better, she has a ruthlessness and facility for physical violence which I am altogether lacking.

Wardrobe: This one poses something of a problem. I lack the physique to properly fill out a skintight body suit. (Diabolik was able to carry off the look, but his svelte frame had definition and tone, while mine does not.) Masks, hoods, or dominoes are right out, too, as they wouldn't accessorize properly with my spectacles. (A monocle would be an ideal affectation -- especially if it incorporated integral sleep ray/x-ray vision functions -- but the need to constantly squint would play havoc with the depth perception.) Formal evening wear is classy, but too constricting, and lasting trauma from 70's childhood prevents me from ever donning another turtleneck pullover. The best option would be an all-black business casual ensemble with a collarless button-down shirt. It's stylish, breathable, and has enough flexibility should I need to leap from an overpass onto the top of a passing train.

Though it would appear that I am well-prepared for the switch in careers, there are still a few questions that I still need to resolve. For instance, how are the elaborate interconnected networks of victims, accomplices, foils, and dupes that every supercriminal needs to carry out his or her plan generated? Is it something expected to be in place prior to embarking on the career path? Does it organically emerge once one has begun? Or does it involve some pump priming on the part of the supercriminal to make sure that the rival mob bosses, spoiled countesses, and brilliant-yet-unlucky detectives assume their proper places within the grand scheme? (Not to mention the serendipitous extended relationships linking all the major players, like the countess's servant being the former girlfriend of the mob boss's son who is a colleague of the dedicated gendarme...)

Because, honestly, the whole high maintenance aspect seems suspiciously like work to me, and would dim the allure considerably should it be the case. Sleeping on a pile of ill-gotten banknotes doesn't feel the same if you're too knackered to properly enjoy it.

Finally, every sophisticated supercriminal worthy of the title needs to have some appropriate theme music. To this end, I have selected a ginchy double-bill of parochial punk and cosmopolitan cool to accompany my anticipated dastardly adventures.

Jerry's Kids - Spymaster (from Kill Kill Kill, 1989) - The best track on this late-in-the-decade offering by the local 80's hardcore legends, and it's a crunched-up cover of a La Peste song.

Georges Garvarentz - Le Temps Des Loups (from Shake Sauvage - French Soundtracks: 1968-1973, 2000) - The wolf is on the prowl, and he has brought a horn section and vibraphone to assist him in his predations.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to attempting to shape my usual hissing chuckle into something better befitting my new vocation.

and pay our fees

Here's another item from The Colonial Cookbook -- an advertisement for the finest feminine footwear fashions 1909 had to offer:

Remember, ladies: Only the most shameless of harlots would be so brazen as to bare their ankles to strange men. It is but the shortest of slippery slopes leading from exposed calves to the catastophic folly of universal suffrage.

(On a more serious socio-linguistic note, the use of "Patrician" for a line of Edwardian Era women's footwear is quite fascinating. The term itself describes a postion of privilege, while its etymology is rooted in the Latin word for "father," pater, from which the word "patriarchy" is also derived.)

Girls At Our Best! - Too Big for Your Boots (from Pleasure, 1981) - The treacle masks the taste of the venom.

there's no hurry

While I try to sort out what I'm going to have for dinner on this fine Saturday evening, here's a simian-themed dish ideal for those amongst you who feel that they aren't getting enough cholesterol in their diets:

(from The Colonial Cookbook, published in 1909 by The Lady Friends of the Colonial Club, Dorchester, MA)
Honestly, I think eating a real monkey would be both tastier and healthier, though I'm told the meat can be rather gamey.

A quick bit of googling revealed that "English Monkey" was a bit of gastronomic payback by the Cymric crowd, who were a tad peeved over the implied classist snub of the English naming a similiar dish "Welsh Rabbit" (later "Rarebit"). In that sense, it could been seen as the culinary forerunner of the "diss" rhyme, only substituting soggy bread crumbs for drive-by shootings.

Madness - Cardiac Arrest (from 7, 1981) - A very palatable fusion of British and West Indian pop cuisines, with a distinct nutty overtones.

I'll have one of those

I recently picked up the G.I. Joe 25th Anniversary two-pack featuring Tomax and Xamot, Cobra's resident Corsican twins and leaders of the elite Crimson Guard. Though my days of nerdy impulse purchases are largely behind me, I splurged on this particular pair of action figures in the spirit of brotherly bonding. My brother will get the Tomax figure and I'll hold on to the Xamot one (as we share the distinction of being the sibling with the facial scars).

Hey, it's cheaper and more sanitary than getting matching tattoos, all right?

While I was struggling to free the toys from their hermetically-sealed plastic sarcophagus, something on the back of the package caught me eye. It was an advertisement for a mail-in offer. The offer in itself wasn't remarkable, but rather its interestingly phrased title...

Unfortunate? Yes, but almost certainly unintentional, even given the country's ongoing slide into the reactionary grip of rampant militarism and social conservatism.

It got me to thinking, however, what role an "Operation: Rescue Doc" would play on the modern battlefield. Probably something similar to this...

(Your are free to choose whether to click or not.)
Were you aware that Snake Eyes was a dues-paying member of NARAL? Well, now you know, and as they say, knowing is half the battle.

Jello Biafra & Mojo Nixon - Will the Fetus Be Aborted? (from Prairie Home Invasion, 1994) - YEE-EFFING-HAH!

The Mekons - Born to Choose (from Born to Choose, 1993) - "Protect the unborn, beat on a whore" -- a succinct and accurate summation of the inherent paradox that underlies anti-choice ideology. A bit on the reductive side, you say? Probably, but guess what? I don't give a flying fuck when it comes to those bigoted, hypocritical zealots. They can wallow in the stink of their own twisted dogma till even the flies drop dead from disgust, but they have no business dictating matters of public health or making individual personal decisions for the rest of us.

the choice is made with a fresh resolve

It's a beautiful spring day up here on Mt. Misery. Even though I still have a little ways to go before I reach full functionality again, it's time I put aside the emo-rbidity of the past couple of weeks and carpe the diem.

Besides, I can think no better way to facilitate the healing process than with some fresh air and some infectious grooves. The windows have been opened and the playlist has been finalized, arbitrary standards of quality be damned.

Catch you on the dance floor, cats and kittens -- this party is just beginning.

David Naughton - Makin' It (from a 1979 single; collected on Super Hits of the '70s: Vol. 24, 1996) - An American werewolf at the disco! This was actually the theme song to the identically titled and short-lived sitcom (starring Naughton) made to cash in on the Saturday Night Fever craze. The series tanked, but the song was a hit, coming in at #14 on the Billboard Top 100 songs for 1979 and even finding its way into Meatballs, the 1979 summer camp comedy film starring Bill Murray and Chris Makepeace.

Looking back, I kind of regret that I didn't use "I've got looks/I've got brains/and I'm breaking these chains" as my high school yearbook quote.

MiniVIP - Miss Augusta (from Let's Boogaloo: Vol. 3, 2006) - One of the contemporary numbers from the third -- and best -- volume of this excellent series of "lost" and retro-leaning soul, dance, and funk compliations, and it's an absolute stunner, with organ-driven hooks that catch hold of the listener and refuse to let go. (Not that any right-thinking person would want to escape its aural snare.)

Fatboy Slim - Ya Mama (from Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars, 2000) - Not to be confused with "Yo-Yo Ma," though considering the Boston Symphony Orchestra's sad attempts to keep up with the trendiness curve (Ben Folds? Seriously?), I cannot rule out the eventual possibility of seeing a bunch of highbrow culture vultures tripping on E and waving glowsticks in time to a Norman Cook performance at Symphony Hall.

Shriekback - My Spine (Is the Bassline) (from a 1982 single; collected on Priests & Kanibals: Best of Shriekback, 1999) - At the present moment, it is my jaw that is pulsing out the beats and acting as my own internal rhythm section, but why quibble over details? Those peripheral axons lead to the same central trunk line, after all.

my knees are shakin' and I hurt a lot

Ain't that the way of things -- just when you think everything is going to be all right, the fates take a carefully aimed Parthian shot just to keep things interesting. If there is a higher power, I suspect that it's a really big fan of William Sydney Porter.

Even if my present setback amounts to a inconvenient short-term prelude to better days, I'm having a hard time looking past looking past the excruciating now...mainly because it's difficult to see the grand horizon when one is bent over the bathroom sink in a state of intense pain.

Teenage Head - Bonerack (from Teenage Head, 1979) - A repost, but this masterpiece of Canadian punkabilly is always worth hearing.

life wouldn't be so long

I'm off to finally get this abcessed tooth taken care of. It would have been nice if I wasn't going into the procedure with a raging head/chest cold, but that's how the cookie crumbles.

Visage - Fade to Grey (from Visage, 1980) - All roads lead to entropy...and hopefully the wamth and comfort of my bed once this nonsense is over.

deep scarred for life

My appointment with the endodontist is at Tuesday at 11:00 AM, which means, Providence willing, that everything should be sorted out by this time tomorrow. Curiously enough, I'm not feeling the usual sense of dread that accompanies such events, only a feeling of weary resignation coupled with inexplicably having "Philadelphia Freedom" stuck looping inside my head. Very unsettling, indeed.

One 1970's nightmare deserves another, so today's minimal content post features a 1972 advertisement for the Blythe doll. Poorly received upon its debut, the hyperencephalic Keanesian homunculus with color-changing saucer eyes has since gone on to become a prized totem among both doll collectors and camp-addicted hipsters. The dolls also have a large fan following in Japan, which, given that nation's well-noted fascination with the hellish zone where adorability and terror overlap, should surprise no one.

(click to induce a larger mental trauma)
Blyth Power - God Has Gone Wrong Again (from the 1985 "Chevy Chase" single) - No kidding. At least these anarcho-folk punkers are there to put things right.

His Name Is Alive - Her Eyes Were Huge Things (from Home Is in Your Head, 1991) - More of an ethereal interlude (from a 4AD band? The Devil, you say!) than a complete track unto itself, but the title was too perfect to pass up.

he is legend times two

In honor of the late Charlton Heston, here's what may very be the greatest scene ever committed to film, at least from a purely retrological standpoint.

Heston. Vincent Price. John Derek. Flagellation. A fight to the death. If the actual scripture hewed closer to what Cecil B. DeMille presented in The Ten Commandments, I might not have discarded my faith.

"His...powers...of hammy acting...are greater...than...my own...aarggh!!!!"
Rest in peace, Chuck. Fuck Conor Oberst, you'll always be the one true Bright Eyes in my book.

Jerry Goldsmith - Main Title (from The Planet of the Apes OST, 1968) - The disconcerting minimalism of Goldsmith's score sounds downright avant-garde after decades spent listening to John Williams's signature bombast and Danny Elfman's whimsical gothica.

(See also this post.)

keeps us away from who we're loving

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