drill baby drill

Tom Smirch is a typical American...

"Fuck you, nanny state jerks! This is the land of the FREE!"
...with a typically American sense of moral obligation.

"Oh, well. If anyone asks, I'll say it was started by illegal immigrants."
Tom's ecological conscience makes him perfectly suited for work in the oil industry, where he can work to generate windfall profits while despoiling virgin landscape to make America independent from foreign oil.

You just know his truck is sporting a "Ron Paul '08" bumpersticker...
Tom is just trying to live the American Dream, but try explaining that to those pointed-headed liberal elitists bent on wrecking our cherished way of life...

Captain Marvel's flagrant disregard for IOKIYAR is appalling.
Because Marvel was too busy saving townspeople from the tar flood instead of rescuing Tom's excavation equipment, the drilling venture goes belly up and Tom is ruined....

...OR IS HE?

You're doing a heckuva job, Smirchy!
(From Captain Marvel Adventures #126; November 1951)

I was watching the fallout from the collapse of Bush's grand corporate welfare plan on the morning news. The network gave a considerable amount of screen time to various stockbrokers and speculators, who were universally unrelenting in expressing their contempt of Congress's lack of action.

I'm not convinced the bailout plan will work, and I'm certain that it won't help those folks who have suffered most from the market meltdown, but the last thing I need to see are the same motherfuckers who lined their pockets during the late smash-and-grab-a-thon bitching that the government isn't riding to their rescue fast enough. To quote Comrade Highlander, "my heart bleeds pish" for them. Let them pray to the trinity of Adam Smith, Ludwig von Mises, and Milton Friedman for succor...or is that "suckers?"

Transvision Vamp - Baby, I Don't Care (from Velveteen, 1989) - Schadenfreude loses much of its luster when innocents are caught in the vortex of comeuppance. Transvision Vamp loses much of its indie bubblegum luster when you realize that every song on every album sounds virtually identical.

Future Sound of London - It's Not My Problem (from Accelerator, 1991) - It's not my problem unless it affects me directly, in which case it's the WORST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED EVER AND SOMEONE NEEDS TO FIX IT RIGHT NOW.

you should want to hide

These are interesting times we live in, capable of turning the most sedate of souls into a honorary urban guerilla. Even if one has no intention of striking a blow against global capitalism by tossing a trashcan through the widow of a Starbucks or by pounding away on one's Authentic Anarchist Tribal Drum^TM at a protest march, there are many instances where concealing one's identity is absolutely vital.

We like to think that the courage of our convictions and righteousness of our actions are strong enough to bear close public scrutiny. However, even the staunchest soul will quail when the cashier at Trendo Records arches a pierced eyebrow in response to one's query about the release date of the new Danity Kane album.

There is no shame in using subterfuge when circumstances demand it. The guerilla is the fish that swims in the sea of the people, and it is crucial to realize that ideological purity must occasionally take a backseat to simple pragmatism.

Yes, you could deliver a stirring lecture on why your longstanding affection for Diane Lane is written in the heavens above, but odds are that your eloquence will be lost entirely on the smirking, pimply-faced goon at the ticket counter, and you run the risk of missing the first twenty minutes of Nights in Rodanthe, to boot.

It is far better to slip in under the cover of an adopted persona, something can allow to glide undetected amongst the masses. Something like a grizzled old prospector, or perhaps even Sir Walter Raleigh. This might seem like daunting undertaking for a newly awakened agent of change, but thankfully the countercultural gurus at 3M have issued this easy-to-follow manifesto on the art of disguise:



Simple, elegant, and most importantly, effective. Trust me on this, I speak from experience.

Ernie Smith - You Won't See Me (from Trojan Box Set: Beatles Tribute, 2005) - It's impossible to top pop perfection, but this reggae rendition of my favorite Fab Four track does a pretty admirable job with the source material...despite scraping up against the pilings during the chorus.

Groove Armada - If Everybody Looked the Same (from Vertigo, 2000) - Try making different tracks yourself -- It's fun figuring out all kinds of samples, fills, loops, and effects. And "Scotch" Cellophane tape holds the sound collage together like magic!

action breeds reaction

Can you hear it, brothers and sisters?

The Revolution has begun!

Sorry, false alarm.

At least Alexandra has the support of her friends and family...

(from Josie & The Pussycats #53 -- Winner of the 1971 Eagle Forum Excellency in Comics Award!)
The Mo-Dettes - Foolish Girl (from The Story So Far, 1981) - The "old mind bit" is for boys!

get off my lawn

So, did you manage to catch last night's presidential debate? No? Well, I don't blame you considering it ran opposite Say Yes to the Dress. If I'm going to suffer through a television-induced optical migraine, I'd much rather it be caused by the diva-tastic antics of a megalomaniacal bride-to-be than by the phony bloodsport of 21st century American politics.

The wheels of the media-established consensus machine are still spinning at this point, so I am forbidden by law to assess which of the candidates "won" the face-off. Senator Obama did well enough in discussing foreign policy issues, considering that such subjects are supposedly where he is weakest. His nuanced approach to American militarism remains troubling, as it is impossible to tell how much of it is pandering to the "kick some ass" demographic and how much of it is sincere.

As for Senator McCain?

Wow, he actually looks better there than he did on the podium last night. (I kid. McCain doesn't look like the Reverend Kane from Poltergeist 2, no matter what my wife might say. He looks like an old school Sontaran. I'd add that Sarah Palin looks like the evil auction house woman from the first season of Charmed, but that would mean letting the world know I watch Charmed and....oh, fuck.)

While I do not believe that appearances ought to be the deciding factor in a political contest (though "Empress Tuesday Weld" has a nice ring to it), I'm pretty sure that looking and comporting oneself like Mr. Neighborhood Crankypants isn't the best way to win votes. The only things he was missing last night were an overgrown hedge, a German Shepherd, and a collection of seized Frisbees and wiffle balls.

When he did exhibit a rare flash of lucidity and substance, it was only to elucidate a more belligerent, if such a thing is even possible, foreign policy platform than we presently have. I don't deny that shit sells to a substantial section of the populace, but "extremist reiteration of the status quo" isn't what I'd call synonymous with "maverick."

The debate was McCain's to lose, despite the backfiring of his economic "white knight" stunt. The expert was supposed to school the neophyte, thus proving the latter's unreadiness to lead. Even if one calls the debate a draw, as the media consensus is tentatively claming it was, it means that McCain was evenly matched by Obama in the one area where he supposedly held a decisive advantage.

They can spin it in the media arena as much as they like, but I'm guessing that whatever pragmatic souls exist in the McCain campaign are currently shitting themselves.

Iggy Pop - Winners & Losers (from Blah Blah Blah, 1986) - Pop goes mainstream! This track (along with two others on the album) was co-written by ex-Pistol Steve Jones, coming on the heels of his stint in Chequered Past and prior to his solo career as a former guitar hero-turned-MOR hard rocker.

Fun Boy Three - The More I See (The Less I Believe) (from Waiting, 1983) - I liked Terry Hall better when he wasn't trying to compete with Robert Smith. One Robert Smith is enough for this world (or rather "too much," since Mr. Smith discovered the magical powers of elastic waistbands). That said, when Hall and company weren't moping up songs originally written by Hall for The Go-Go's, they did manage to record the odd bit of nifty, socially aware pop such as today's featured selection.

Friday Night Fights: Lights Out!

When it comes to keeping Binky's affections from straying, Peggy uses a carrot and stick approach....only minus the "carrot" part:

(from Leave It To Binky #70; December 1969-January 1970)
The Riff Randells - Traitor of the Heart (from Doublecross, 2007) - I suppose there is a theoretical limit to the number of femvox punk pop songs I can listen to before I sour on the whole subgenre, but as long the tracks stay hooky and the attitude breezy I doubt I'll ever reach that point. (I'm also inclined to give extra points for references to P.J. Soles.)

(He has come to your town to help you party it down.)

a stray thread of memory

UMass Boston is situated on Columbia Point, an artificially-augmented peninsula jutting out into the Dorchester Bay side of Boston Harbor, which means that my alma mater offers an amazing ringside view whenever a storm rolls in off the Atlantic. During major meteorological events, the storm surge can be strong enough to swamp parts of Morrissey Boulevard, forcing a closure of the road and sometimes even the campus itself.

That's what happened on October 30, 1991, when the Halloween Nor'easter (a.k.a. the "No Name Storm" a.k.a. the "Perfect Storm") slammed into the New England coastline. Up in the windowless clubrooms and offices on the fourth floor of Wheatley Hall, my small group of friends and I had no idea of what was going down until someone stopped by to tell us that Morrissey was closed off, and that we'd better skedaddle before things got any worse.

My girlfriend at the time and I, along with two of our friends, hopped on the shuttle bus to the JFK/UMass subway station. We made it as far as the Bank of Boston offices on the corner of Mt. Vernon Street before the gridlock, which stretched up and around the Day Boulevard rotary and back through the South Boston waterfront, became so impenetrable that the bus driver opened the doors and told us to walk the rest of the way to the subway station.

The rain hadn't started yet, but the wind off the ocean had already reached gale force levels, forcing us to crab-walk the last couple of blocks to the station. The northbound Red Line train was empty, save for my group, a middle-aged townie, and a twitchy street person. At some point during the long, stop-and-go stretch between Broadway and South Station, the street person stumbled over to the doors of the car and started to pound on them with his fists.

Then he unzipped his fly and pissed on the floor of the car, howling "God forgive me" over and over as the puddle of urine spread beneath him. Eventually the townie looked up from his copy of the Herald and barked "Yer forgiven! NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

A group of yuppies got on the train when we finally arrived at South Station. They stood in a group by the doors, their designer shoes smack dab in the middle of Piss Lake. "Hey, someone must have spilled something!" one said, the the rest of the completely oblivious group chuckled at the non-joke. I suppose I could have clued them in, but it was too entertaining a spectacle to spoil.

My girlfriend lived in Jamaica Plain, so I saw her off at the southbound Orange Line platform before catching a another northbound Red Line train to Alewife. Even though it was mid-afternoon and Downtown Crossing is a major public transit hub, the place was a ghost town. Even the street musicians and the folks who sold incense and Afrocentric pamphlets by the shuttered snack bar had packed it in and called it a day.

And I thought to myself, as I attempted (and failed) to sit on one of the platform's non-functional granite seat-sculptures, that this is how the end of the world will probably feel like.

(I also had no idea that thirteen years later to the day, on another stormy afternoon, I'd be exchanging marriage vows with a girlfriend-yet-to-be.)

As for the musical annotations, here's a double shot of postpunk, my genre of choice in the autumn of 1991....and for every autumn since then. The chill in the air and the ever-lengthening evenings add the right touch of environmental synergy for appreciating coldly minimalist soundscapes, don't you think?

Cabaret Voltaire - Premonition (from The Voice of America, 1980)

Joy Division - Shadowplay (from Unknown Pleasures, 1979)

(More Red Line inspired hijinx here.)

three hundred more years

From the pages of Mystery in Space #5 (December 1951-January 1952) comes this prescient glimpse into mankind's glorious future...as made possible by the unmatched killing power of the S-64 Disintegrator Gun:

...and by "Earth," we mean "America."
Thus S'less'thar, revered shaman and a cephalapod of peace, passed from this world. The rest of the I'lloni tribe had little time to mourn his passing, as they sooned joined him in radioactive oblivion. A Space Wal-Mart now marks the place where they died.
"So, any of you ugly motherfuckers know if there's oil around these parts? You've got fifteen seconds to answer."
"...and God help anyone stupid enough to challenge our Divine mandate to rule."
Hey, you can't argue with "Spaceman-ifest Destiny." (Not if you like being non-disintegrated, that is.)

Depeche Mode - Barrel of a Gun (from Ultra, 1997) - Catching up with the Industrial Dance Pop Scene? Or perhaps Music for the Goth Club Masses?

The Flesh Eaters - Disintegration Nation (from a 1978 single; collected on No Questions Asked, 2004) - The Flesh Eaters tend to get lumped in with the L.A. deathrock crowd, but aside from a slight arty inclinations and occasionally macabre subject matter, I don't really hear the connection...just some straight up, rough-edged punk rawk.

chainsaw massacre mon amour

From the letters page of the October 1983 issue of Fangoria magazine on comes this transatlantic appel du coeur:


I wonder if any of Fangoria's three or four female readers (which, like dark matter and the Higgs boson, are a purely theoretical supposition) took this Charles Boyer du cinéma d'horreur up on his offer, and exchanged passionate letters about their shared love of The Beast Within and I Spit on Your Grave.

"Oh, mon ami, when saw I the photo of you in red food coloring and corn syrup covered, my heart, it lept. Someday soon together shall we be, Basket Case watching and searching Fulci zombie films from street vendors du bootleg video...."

Les Beatlettes - C'est Grâce À Toi (from Girl Group Power, Histoires de Filles: Quebec 60's Go-Go Music) - If I hadn't posted a Me First & The Gimme Gimmes track recently, I'd have gone with their cover of Johnny Lee's "Lookin' for Love" in a heartbeat. As it is, you'll just have to settle for this Francophone rendition of a Supremes classic, which shows that it is possible to have some infectious girl group fun without diluting one's sense of cultural identity.

Comix - Touche Pas Mon Sexe (from BIPPP: French Synth Wave 1979-85, 2008) - I learned about this compilation of vintage French synth wave from Joe over at Last Days of Man on Earth, and I owe him big time for the heads-up, as it has become my hands-down choice for favorite album of 2008. (Its melancholic electronic futurism was also responsible for dislodging the "Philadelphia Freedom" earworm I picked up during my second dental abcess of the year.)

Erasure - Oh L'amour (from Wonderland, 1986) - There's nothing Gallic about this one apart from the title, but we could all use a bit more confectionary synthpop in our lives. (If you responded to that with "not me," then I especially mean you, buster.)

Note: There's a new post up at the other blog in which I tackle a work of classical literature at the behest of a friend.

just not enough

Mitchell's academic record was good, extremely good. Excellent. But the arc wasn't there. The arc was something Turner had learned to look for in the dossiers of research people, that certain signal curve of brilliance. He could spot the arc the way a master machinist could identify metals by observing the spark plume off a grinding wheel. And Mitchell hadn't had it. - William Gibson, Count Zero

Eh, whatever. I'm quite content with this comfortable little niche I've carved out for myself.

Dow Jones & The Industrials - Ain't Good Enough (from the Hoosier Hysteria split LP, 1980) - There ain't nothing inadequate about this slice of art-damaged Indiana punk rawk.

coming home to roost

The present financial crisis, as explained and resolved in six panels of a Golden Age comic book:

(from Captain Marvel Adventures #112; September 1950)
A fundamental weakness in the underpinnings of market capitalism? Pshaw! It's all about telepathic waterfowl seeking to undermine our entirely sound and totally rational system of unrestrained greed, long since freed from the petty shackles of effective oversight. Thankfully, we have a government that is compassionate enough to insulate the titans of finance from their own self-destructive tendencies and is willing to commit as much of the taxpayers' money as is required to cover the speculators' losses.

Hey, it's an emergency. We can discuss accountability and regulatory issues later, after the the wheelbarrows full of cash and lines of low-interest credit have been dispensed to the poor, poor plutocrats who have already suffered so much. Please, pay no mind to the restructuring of the banking regulations that were created to prevent commercial banks from dabbling willy-nilly in the investment banking sphere. We need to be grateful that these entities were willing to buy out their failing cousins in a time of crisis, so just put aside any worries that this will pose an even greater economic risk down the line.

When the worrybird cackles, a quick response is required. As for those of you who will ultimately foot the bill for the bailout, and who have been suffering the most from the turmoil....well, you should have been more responsible with your financial affairs. Next time, don't take out a subprime mortgage to buy a home -- buy the firm that uses such mortages as security to game the markets. Then the government might be willing to slip you a share of that sweet $700 billion.

The Rare Breed - Beg, Borrow, and Steal (from a 1966 single; collected on the Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era box set, 1998) - This single was re-released in 1967 and credited to the Ohio Express, one of the many faceless bubblegum proxy groups used by songwriters and studio wizards of the period, though the actual touring line-up of the "band" hadn't yet been assembled. So don't expect to hear any similarities between this respectable slice of garage rock and "Yummy Yummy Yummy."

Action Pact! - Who's to Blame (from Survival of the Fattest, 1984) - It's a shame the 80's Britpunk scene imploded when it did, as there were a number of bands that were on the verge of breaking away from the formula (while not falling into the standard hard rock/metal/grindcore career trajectory) before it all came crashing down. You can hear it in the studio side of The Partisans' The Time Was Right LP, which sounds like nothing else recorded before or since, and you can hear it to a milder extent in Action Pact's second album, from which the above track was taken.

Wire - Let's Panic Later (from an EP included with, and later appended to 154, 1979) - It is impossible to calculate the creative debt indie rock owes to Wire....unless you're talking about Elastica, in which case the exact sum has been recorded in an out-of-court settlement.

Note: My other project, pronounced WOO-BIN, celebrates its second week of existence with a recital of the most sublime verses ever penned by human hands.

the premises now in existence

From a 1921 advertisement for the Willys-Overland Sedan, a self-proclaimed "Woman's Car":


...at which point Helen was forcibly dragged from her car by a couple of Alexander Mitchell Palmer's agents, tortured, and sentenced without hearing under the Anarchist Exclusion Act of 1918. Despite being born in Cedar Rapids, Helen was then deported to the Soviet Union, where she died of starvation during Comrade Lenin's "Glorious People's Economic Plan to Kill a Whole Bunch of People" a year later.

Chumbawamba - The Good Ship Lifestyle (from Tubthumper, 1997) - "This is your captain speaking. We appear to have run aground on the reef of harsh reality. Please make a mad rush toward the limited number of lifeboats. Millionaires and trophy wives first."

peculiar indeed

What's this you say? You're running low on nightmare fuel? No problem, I've got something that should carry you until the next service station of unquiet dreams...


Don't worry about returning the favor, friend. It's the least I could do.

Naz Nomad & The Nightmares - I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night) (from Give Daddy the Knife, Cindy, 1984) - In which The Damned's garage-rockin' alter egos barnstorm through the Electric Prunes' psychedelic classic from 1966. Don't let the mediocre reviews by garage rock purists put you off -- this album is retro-revival done right.

Friday Night Fights: She'd Break It Again

Mr. Tawny never told me he had a sister....

(from Tiger Girl #1, September 1968)
The Tigermen - Tiger Girl (from a 1965 single) - One 1960s obscurity deserves another, so I'm following up my tribute to a forgotten Gold Key superheroine with a garage rock rarity out of upstate New York.

(Fear his mighty roar!)

the bitter angels of my nature

I took a stoll over to Wheately Hall yesterday afternoon to see if the vending machines in the lobby had a better selection than the ones closer to my office had. Trapped between the double doors at the entrance to the building was a representative example of a certain breed of freshman which flocks to the campus at the start of every semester.

Dressed to the nines in the latest "hot" celebrity fashions, they look like they're headed out for a night of high-cover charge clubbing rather than a rousing 8:30 AM session of English 101. For them, the college experience isn't about pedagogy as it is about being seen, a rather sad attempt at prolonging the superficial bullshit of the high school experience. A few of these kids eventually smarten up and knuckle down, but the vast majority barely make it to midterms before quietly departing to work at the local Tello's store.

This particular example was sporting a Posh Spice-meets-Kim Kardashian-meets-South Shore mallrat ensemble, complete with oversized sunglasses, an unnaturally black dye job, and an uneven spray-on tan. I guess she tried to slip between the doors as they closed behind another student, but wasn't quick enough and got pinned between them halfway through.

For most folks with a modicum of common sense, it wouldn't be a big deal. The doors are on the heavy side and have really bizarre centers of gravity (especially if you're a southpaw, like I am), but not so much as to cause more than a slight inconvenience. This aspiring scholar, however, was having a tough time of it, due to the fact that she was holding the requisite giant cup of coffee in one hand and was fantically texting on her cell phone in the other.

She was so fixated on the latter activity that she could barely summon more than a slight wiggle, and even that was for the sake of getting a closer look at her phone's display screen. Maybe she was typing in the last string of a chemical formula that could cure cancer, solve world hunger, and provide an eco-friendly alternative for fossil fuel, and the urgency of the task was so great that she couldn't put the phone down for fifteen seconds and lever the doors open with her shoulders...but I somehow doubt it.

After watching this sorry display of obliviousness for a couple of minutes, I wondered if I should perhaps give her a hand.


Good Andrew thought: "Well, gee, sure she's an idiot, but that doesn't negate your obligation to do the right thing and help her out! Such small acts of basic kindness are what make a random and uncaring universe tolerable for its residents!"








Evil Andrew thought: "Anyone that fucking stupid deserves exactly what he or she gets."





Guess which side won the moral debate?

Pete Townshend - Let My Love Open the Door (from Empty Glass, 1980) - Or let my profound disgust make me circle around to the back entrance of the building and leave the idiots to wallow in their idiocy.

Note: I almost forgot to mention that there's a new pronounced WOO-BIN post on the subject of parenting, Woobin-style.

won't be worried long

One of my strongest childhood memories is of my mother relating a bit of family folklore to me. It concerned some great-great-relation of her father's side of the family, a stoically creepy bunch of Old Yankees from Maine's Androscoggin County. This particular relative worked in a lumber mill, and during the course of his duties got his arm stuck in the machinery. As his friends tried in vain to find the best way to extricate the ruined limb from the works, my laterally-thinking ancestor came up with an easy solution -- power up the machinery and let it take the limb off quickly and cleanly. So they did.

I can't help but think that lingering effects of my mother's story somehow figure into the following random, but characteristically "Andrew," autobiographical antidote.

I adopted Mia not too long after Zoe Blackfeet, my previous feline companion, wandered off and never returned. Mia had belonged to some neurotic yuppies from Winchester who had soured on the idea of pet ownership and dumped her off at the vet's office.

Unlike Zoe (or Budwina before her), Mia was not a personable cat. I don't know if it was from poor socialization or abuse experienced at the hands of her previous owners, or a simple matter of temperament. I've lived around cats my entire life; they're capricious creatures. Mia, though, wasn't so much aloof as sociopathic, and able to switch from snugglebunny to psycho-slasher with no warning whatsoever. (She also possessed the ability to shed her weight in long white fur on a daily basis.)

Even if she wasn't the nicest cat, I was still happy to have her around and living in a decent home.

On a lovely spring afternoon in 2002, I was in my bedroom reading a book when Mia hopped on the bed and stretched out beside me. I patted her. She purred. I scratched behind her ears. She viciously bit and scratched my left forearm, and refused to let go until my limb had been thoroughly flensed.

It hurt like hell, but cat scratches usually do, and this didn't appear that much worse than some of the previous feline-related injuries I had dealt with. I washed the arm with some soap and water and let nature do the rest. That the cuts seemed to be a long time in healing or there was a growing burning sensation in the arm didn't worry me a whole lot. Nor did the fact that over the course of the following week or so my forearm swelled up to near-Popeye proportions.

Maura, of course, was concerned, but it's her job to be. Besides, who is more familiar with my internal workings than I am? It wasn't until I had entered the second week following the incident that I was forced to acknowledge that something wasn't right. (Maura's mom was particularly persuasive with her worried stare and repeated use of "Jaysis.") While my co-workers and family (not Maura, because she understands me) chimed in with a loud chorus of "EMERGENCY ROOM," I decided to take matters into my own (swollen and healthy) hands.

Using a sterilized needle, I opened up the bite wounds that were the source of the infection and let the stream of pus drain out. Afterwards I soaked the arm in warm water and Epsom salt for an hour before slathering the area with anti-bacterial ointment and bandaging it up. It took about a week of such therapy before my arm started to resemble its old self (though I still have a few scars), thus proving that not only that am I too laid back for my own good, but that I can occasionally remedy the problems which arise from my complacency (in an extremely painful and disgusting way that could have been avoided with a glimmer of foresight).

Prince Buster - Pussy Cat Bite Me (from Wreck A Pum Pum, 1976) - Felis dentata ska.

Tom Jones - It Takes a Worried Man (from Along Came Jones, 1965; collected on Millennium Edition, 2000) - Devo's cover of this folk standard will always be the definitive version as far as I'm concerned, but Sir Tom's powerhouse vocals and that magnificent horn section are almost enough to make me reconsider my position.

Love and Rockets - No Big Deal (from Love and Rockets, 1989) - True, but a perfectly fine song, nonetheless.

roll for critical fumble

When I was stuck at my grandma's house a couple weeks back, I unearthed my well-worn copy of the 4th edition of the Trouser Press Record Guide. It was published in 1991, just before the alternative rock scene went mainstream. In those days before information on obscure indie and punk bands was a mere Google search away, the Guide was an invaluable resource when it came to deciding which albums and artists to keep an eye out for at the local record shops.

There was a time (back when I rode the Christian Herter scholarship gravy train) when my mornings were spent copying out promising leads from the Guide onto index cards and my afternoons were spent wandering from one used vinyl store to another in search of the objects of ephemeral desire. As a result, my copy of the guide is, how you say, "beat to shit," missing its cover, its spine bent into a c-shape, and the pages stuffed with clippings and photos of interest to me at the time.

Eventually I migrated to The Guinness Who's Who of Indie and New Wave Music and a number of microgenre directories as my sourcebooks of choice, as they better matched my specific musical interests and covered artists not included in Trouser Press. The fact that the writing in those other directories was a little more even-handed was also played an important factor, because as handy as Trouser Press was for determining release dates and album titles, the commentary and capsule reviews in the book frequently reached toxic levels of "jaded hipster" and "rockist" attitude.

Certain bands were especially singled out for critical maulings in which informational content took a back seat to self-satisfied rants permeated with the phony idolatry of rockist mythology, where the mythic (and false) aura of authenticity is all that matters. I noticed it back in 1993, but it was even more obnoxious to revisit fifteen years later, as my tastes have shifted and broadened and I've gained a bit more knowledge about the artists, the ideologies, and the music involved.

It's all very silly and pointless. What you may claim to be the pinnacle of pop genius, I might find to be kind of pedestrian, and vice-versa. Our individual tastes are our own, and that's nothing to be ashamed about...unless you are a Katy Perry fan, in which case I hope the Fates are kinder to you in your next incarnation. Savaging INXS for not being Elvis Costello might make for some unintentional laughs, but it's also quite pathetic. (Besides. I'd rather listen to Kick than Armed Forces any day of the week.)

Here are some excerpts from some of the more egregious rockist rants from my copy of the Trouser Press Guide, deliberately chosen with certain readers of this blog in mind.

Orange Juice:

Glasgow's insufferably coy Orange Juice, de facto leaders of the Scottish neo-pop revolution, typified a UK trend towards clean, innocent looks that unfortunately spilled over into the music.

Orange Juice - Falling and Laughing (from You Can't Hide Your Love Forever, 1982) - It's true. MTV and Smash Hits ruined everything. God forbid that someone who knows how to tune a guitar and doesn't look like a refugee from a Bowery methadone clinic becomes a chart success.

Oingo Boingo:

This eight-piece LA outfit (with three-man horn section) started out trying to be a West Coast answer to XTC and Devo, but suffered from studied wackiness/quirkiness and managed to hide solid cleverness behind overproduction and hamminess.

Oingo Boingo - Wild Sex (in the Working Class) (from Nothing to Fear, 1982) - Wow. That's reading an awful lot into what I always thought of as pretty entertaining party music.

Conflict:

In the real/rock world, only the young and the gullible expect their favorite bands to abide by lofty personal standards.

Conflict - The Guilt & The Glory (from It's Time to See Who's Who, 1983) - I don't entirely disagree with the above statement (in an otherwise positive write-up) about the stalwart anarchopunk outfit, except that the "real/rock" part makes me want to punch somebody and for the fact that Minor Threat, the most generic-sounding hardcore band ever, was praised for wearing their hearts on their sleeves in their Guide entry.

Pet Shop Boys:

The in-joke references and self-amused esoterica strewn thoughout songs like "West End Girls" and "Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money)" should have precluded their general popularity, but evidently the laxative-smooth synth backing has utilitarian value for clubgoers. Ghastly, depressing and offensive.

Pet Shop Boys - Suburbia (from Please, 1986) - Pop sensibility and synthesizers are anathema to rockists....until some cherished rock idol appropriates them for his own use, at which point there's only a 50% chance the purists will howl for his blood.

--------------------

In other news, there's a new post up at pronounced WOO-BIN on the subject of local geography.

you are the big one

While it may have been perfectly fine in 1950 to create a gag strip featuring an aspiring hammy actor named "Whitey Way" (as in "The Great White Way"), the name carries a whole truckload of non-Broadway connotations for present-day readers...

The Heart Throbs - Kiss Me When I'm Starving (from Cleopatra Grip, 1990) - The pillars of the speculation-based economy may be crumbling around us, but my love for melancholic indie pop remains forever solvent...especially when the piece in question sounds like a jam session between The Banshees and The Primitives.

time goes by so slowly

Pay attention, cats and kittens, because I'm only going to go through this once. This is how Miss Melody Lane...

ENUNCIATES
PARKS HER ASS
EXERCISES
FREESTYLES
LANDS A COVETED ROLE
This will be included on the final exam. For additional research, I will refer you to Miss Melody Lane of Broadway, a 1950 comic series concerning a small town girl (livin' in a lonely world, naturally) who took the midnight train and found herself caught up in a nightmare world populated by the likes of Ed Sullivan, Eddie Cantor, and Guy Lombardo.

Brrrrr. It gives me chills just thinking about it.

Gene Vincent and The Blue Caps - Unchained Melody (from Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps, 1957) - Having endured the whole pottery fetish/Whoopi Goldberg/Righteous Brothers-fueled nightmare that was the Ghost phenomenon, I'm pretty confident in saying that I never need to ever hear this oft-covered romantic pop standard ever again.

If I did have to listen to the song again, however, this rockabilly-tinged interpretation would be the way to go.

expanding locally

My media micronation expanded today with the launch of pronounced WOO-BIN, a blog created to bring the majesty of the Boston accent to the starving masses.

So if you're morbidly curious or just want to put a voice behind my words, check it out.

Or don't. I'm not pushy.

In any case, I'm commemorating the event with this track, in which Boston's neurotic new wave legends do their take on a 1966 Detroit soul classic by The Capitols...

Human Sexual Response - Cool Jerk (from Fig. 15, 1980) - Not bad. Not bad at all.

at weekends will change their behavior

With all the hoopla regarding the circus of pain and stupidity known as the 2008 presidential election, it's easy to forget that there are other electoral contests being held this November 4.

With that in mind, the two candidates for the state representative seat in my little corner of Boston's northwestern suburban sprawl have been packing my mailbox to the brim with reminders of what's really at stake.

The answer is "not that much." It's a symptom of the problems of living in a de facto one-party state. Not that I'd ever vote Republican, but the presence of an active opposition would at least motivate some of these party hacks to try a bit harder, and not settle for the traditional paradox platform of "lower taxes/more and better services" that the average suburbanite can't seem to get enough of. "I want decent roads and a great school system, but that extra fifteen bucks a year in taxes is too rich for my blood. I have Escalade payments to make, after all!"

I take my civic responsibility seriously, and take pains to vote in every election, no matter how inconsequential. Even if it's a futile gesture, I refuse to cede that marginal say in how things are done. Besides, at least I'm balancing out the vote of one other motivated idiot. The state rep decision is a bit of a puzzler, though, because I really don't care for either of the choices.

No matter how intently they look me in the eye during a door-to-door meet'n'greet and promise the sun, moon, and stars that they won't fuck over civil servants ( which both the wife and I are) on contract, benefits, or pension matters, no matter how much they swear they won't roll over for some out of state developer's plans to drop a massive luxury condo complex in our backyard, their records speak for themselves. (C'mon, I can't be the only person to pay attention to how these folks vote in the legislature and city council. What, I am? Oh.)

In the end, I'll probably do what I always do in these situations: cast a write-in ballot for my dog Oscar. Given the steady decline in voter turnout, I fully expect the little guy to win one of these years, too. He is better qualified for the office, that's for frigging sure.

Here's a sample from today's prodigious haul of eco-unfriendly landfill fodder disguised as campaign literature. See, that One Guy has been hammering that Other Fellow over his blue state bona fides. It's an argument that I'd ordinarily be receptive to, if that One Guy tossing stones didn't have a strong record of DINO tendencies himself:


My initial reaction to this was "Wait, the Catholic Church is allowed to donate directly to candidates?"

The Damned - Anti-Pope (from Machine Gun Etiquette, 1979) - Though quantum theology has predicted the existence of anti-popes, it wasn't until the constuction of the Large Liturgical Collider by Saint Hippolytus in the 3rd Century A.D. that one was actually observed in action.

Friday Night Fights: Rolling Like Thunder

There a right way and a wrong way to woo Jonni Thunder.


That would be the wrong way.

Ever wonder how Moonlighting would have turned out if Maddie had a pet rabbit and power to electrocute people with her touch? Well look no further than Jonni Thunder, a.k.a. Thunderbolt #4 (August 1985; by Roy & Dann Thomas and Dick Giordano). Stilted references to Raymond Chandler's works, the cutting edge of 1980's pantsuit technology, tenuous links to a Golden Age superhero, the ever unreliable flexographic printing process -- this underrated mini-series had it all.

Edwyn Collins - A Girl Like You (from Gorgeous George, 1994) - Retro-licious pop without peer, courtesy of the man who gave Orange Juice its distinctive tang. I don't care that it took the excremental Empire Records to bring this gem to the attention of the American listening public; it was a price well worth paying.

(All hail the MC Cosmic!)