Halloween Countdown: October 19 - twelve more days 'til Halloween

The original Halloween film from 1978 is hailed as a horror classic, and rightly so. Along with Psycho, it is credited with providing the template for the slasher film genre, yet like Hitchcock's 1960 film, the horror is a matter of atmosphere, pacing, and soundtrack rather than the gory, high body count excess associated with substandard imitations.

The silliness and implausibility of Halloween's premise are masked by writer/director John Carpenter's skillful presentation, which manages to sustain a real sensation of dread throughout the proceedings -- hunter versus hunted, everyteen babysitter versus a monster, Jamie Lee Curtis versus a dude in coveralls and a Shatner mask -- made even more terrifying by the utter absence of scenery-chewing antics on the monster's part. It's no mean feat to pull off effectively, which is probably why the film continues to be held in high regard by folks (like Maura, for example) who consider slasher films to be low-grade exploitative garbage.

The problem with success, especially within the realm of genre material, is that there's an overwhelming temptation to return to the same well again and again until the box office revenue runs dry. "Sameness with a spin" is the operating principle, and Halloween's success meant that whatever charms the original possessed had to be recycled, laminated and built upon with copious amounts of ludicrous backstory over the course of a half-dozen slasher-by-numbers sequels, an unnecessary remake, and the head-scratcher that is 1982's Halloween III: Season of the Witch.

The third entry in the series is a sequel in name only, featuring none of the characters or plot points established in the original film. Instead it explores the timely issue of druidic fundamentalist terrorism, as it pertains to neolithic monuments, seasonal merchandise, and the use of advertising. Or, to put it simply, magical Halloween masks that make creepy crawlies burst out of people's heads when triggered by a subliminally-loaded TV commercial. There are killer robots involved in the mess somewhere, too.

The idea, according to the producers, was to expand the franchise into a anthology format, which translates into non-bullshit language as "a shameless bait-and-switch ploy that banks on name recognition." (Carpenter and co-writer Debra Hill wanted to move past the franchise, but the moneymen had other ideas. From such behind-the-scenes wrangling such cinematic atrocities are born.)

Despite the film's messy genesis and numerous other warning signs, Fangoria was still willing to beat the drum of unwarranted optimism...

...though I suspect that the full page ads the magazine was running for masks based on the ones in the film may have had something to do with it. The film did make money, though not nearly as much as hoped for and racked up enough terrible reviews that the producers retreated to the comfort of familiar territory for the fourth film. The Wikipedia entry for Halloween III: Season of the Witch claims that it "has gained somewhat of a cult following among audiences," which signifies little except that the one fan of the movie knows how to edit a wiki page.

For me, the film is significant for being one of the first instances where the popcult coprophagia of childhood gave way to a more sophisticated assessment of "Wow, this film is total crap! Why am I wasting my time watching it?" (I consider myself lucky. Many geeks never reach that level of awareness in their lifetimes.)

While I'm not above dropping a reference to the Silver Shamrock jingle from the film, for today's musical selections I'm going with two gems featured in the original 1978 movie.

John Carpenter - Halloween Theme (from the Halloween 20th Anniversary Edition OST, 1998) - Yes, there is a boogeyman, and he really digs the piano.

Blue Öyster Cult - (Don't Fear) The Reaper (from Agents of Fortune, 1976) - First person to make a "more cowbell" joke gets a size 10 jungle boot to the ass.

still one place to go

If you happen to be visiting this humble corner of the internet based on JC's words of high praise (made even more flattering by the fact that I consider The Vinyl Villain the platinum standard of music blogs), I'd like to apologize for not bringing my "A" game at the present time.

In a rare reversal of the Armagideon Time status quo, I have a backlog of workable post ideas, yet very little time to execute them because of things currently going on at the day job. I'm juggling the prep work for a move with my everyday responsibilities while trying not to crate up anything I might need for the same.

Things should settle down by Friday afternoon, but it's going to be low-content mode around here until that bridge is crossed.

In the meantime, I guess I'll just continue with the original version/cover version juxtaposition theme from yesterday, with a classic cut from The Doors (which the wife hates) and a punked up Ray Manzarek-produced cover by X (which the wife absolutely adores). It's all in the translation.

The Doors - Soul Kitchen (from The Doors, 1967)

X - Soul Kitchen (from Los Angeles, 1980)

what a beautiful feeling

The writing is on the wall for the Summer of 2008, "the summer that really wasn't." Already the leaves on the patio cherry tree are staring to fall, and there has been an undeniable crispness to the air these past few nights. Granted this is New England I'm talking about, so the possibility of a suffocating Indian summer shouldn't yet be dismissed, but the present vibe is leaning heavily toward "autumnal."

I suppose I could lament the passing of the season, which came and went without even registering on my consciousness, but this is the first Sunday in a month that hasn't been marked by the violent thunderstorms which have rolled across the Northeast for the past eight weeks. The skies above the highlands are currently a dazzling blue, the sun is shining through the trees out back, and if there is harvest season tang to the air, it only strengthens the urge to enjoy it while it lasts.

With that in mind, here's a mini-mix of psychdelic pop nuggets ideal for lazy Sunday lounging on the patio, fire escape, or wherever the sun is warm and the breezes are cool.

Donovan - Atlantis (from Barabajagal, 1969) - I'd be able to listen to Coast to Coast AM if sounded more like this. A ladle full of dreamy folk-rock makes the paranormal bullshit slide down easier. My question is: Did Donovan's Atlanteans blaze a trail for the little people of Stonehenge?

Tommy James & The Shondells - Crimson and Clover (7" version) (from Anthology, 1989) - Better than "Strawberry Fields Forever"? Yes, it's the greatest pop song ever recorded and nothing you or anyone else might say will change my mind.

The Byrds - Eight Miles High (from Fifth Dimension, 1966) - Maura on the twelve-string guitar wizardy -- an attempt to emulate the style of John Coltrane's saxophone playing -- employed by Roger McGuinn on this track: "It sounds like the flickering of flames." An apt description, even though she really doesn't care for the song, or psychedelia in general. (It's okay, I knew she was a no nonsense punk/pop purist when I proposed to her.)

we are the hollow men

There's a PSA that has been running on VH-1 Classic on behalf of autism awareness which features rawk icons like Roger Daltrey, Rob Halford, and Vince Neill speaking out on behalf of the cause. All of the participants came dressed down -- wrinkles, receding hairlines, and all -- for the taping; all except the dudes from Kiss, that is, who appeared in their full facepainted and overaccessorized glory.

Telling? Yes, but not suprising in the least. Kiss and any vestiges of dignity parted ways long, long ago. (See also.)

The Moog Cookbook - Rock & Roll All Night (from Ye Olde Space Band: Plays Classic Rock Hits, 1997) - See, this is a gimmick I can fully appreciate.

and so it was

Today is my 36th birthday. I'm not going to spend it composing a lengthy and involved post about the occasion.

Let Alex Chilton entertain you instead...

The Box Tops - A Whiter Shade of Pale (from The Letter/Neon Rainbow, 1967)

And a happy birthday to fellow 3/13 arrival Mike Sterling!

Friday Night Fights: Murder Diva

Sheila Sorrell is a dive bar chanteuse with looks to die for but a voice like murder...


Though the line of Shelia's would-be suitors stretches to Poughkeepsie and back, the hard-hearted siren is interested in one thing and one thing only -- the role of head diva in the local opera company.

It's an aspiration beyond her rather limited vocal range, but after a heartsick mad scientist attempts some untested chemical revenge upon Sorrell, she find herself in possession of a couple new bargaining chips...

...a granite body and homicidal tendencies.

Knock 'em dead, sister! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

Sheila's plutonic rampage draws the attention of Plastic Man, whose prodigious powers of pliability are sorely tested by the stony songbird's stupendous strength....

...but Plas has a knack for thinking on his flexible feet, and manages to slip Shelia an antidote which reverts her back into her normal pneumatic form.

As for the whole killing spree thing? Have no fear...

All's well that ends well...apart from the painful cranial injuries and high likelihood of permanent brain damage, that is...

(from "The Granite Lady" by Jack Cole, from Police Comics #51, February 1946)

Electric Light Orchestra - Turn to Stone (from Out of the Blue, 1977) - Art-slash-prog rock acting as the mythological Medusa. Mirrored headphones recommended.

Suzi Quatro - Heart of Stone (from Main Attraction, 1982) - The softer side of Leather Tuscadero. Closer to talc than diamond on the hardness scale, but that's how the boulder rolls.

(Stone cold.)

push it to the floor till the engine screams

I work at one of Greater Boston’s many universities, and one of the great perks of my job is the unbridled opportunities for people-watching it provides. Every trip to the restroom, vending machines, or ATM yields insightful (and often painful) glimpses into the lives of that strange breed of creature known as the “college student.”

Although nothing will ever top the time I quite literally ran into two wild turkeys out for a late afternoon stroll behind one of the lecture halls, yesterday’s sojourn in search of some decent vend-o-fare did include some interesting material for the empirical anthropologist. At the entrance to one of the college buildings, I crossed paths with a rather hirsute and odiferous individual who bore all the distinct markings of the stereotypical male sci-fi/comics/RPG fan, right down to the patchy beard and air of disdainful superiority.

Considering my well documented set of hobby-horses and other assorted interests, it may seem hypocritical for me to tag others of the tribe with labels. Fandom is not monolithic, however, and as an Algonquin from the Northeast would have been certainly puzzled by certain customs and practices of a member of the plains-dwelling Sioux -- and vice versa -- there are aspects of fan culture which remain baffling to me. I have spent too much time dwelling in the houses of the non-fan, perhaps.

That’s all beside the point, though, because there was something about this particular fanboy that set him apart from his peers: He was carrying a large, old-school boom box with him, with the Star Wars: Episode IV soundtrack blasting from its tinny speakers. In these days of listening technology, where smaller and more personal is better, projecting a full-on sonic assault in a ten-yard radius around one’s self can only be seen as a deliberate act of attention-mongering only slightly more subdued than having John Williams and the London Philharmonic follow one around and play the music live. It struck me as the ultimate realization of fanboy megalomania, the overwhelming compulsion to relentlessly inflict one’s interests upon passers-by, while the passers-by merely roll their eyes and do their best to escape.

One thing that struck me after the fact was “Why the Star Wars theme?” The franchise does have its share of obsessively hardcore adherents, but it has also become part of the mass popcult consciousness. Everyone knows the theme to the first film, even folks with minimal interest in the movies, books, and related ephemera. The fanboy’s choice of music flew in the face of conventional fan-behavior where there’s premium put on exclusivity, which in turn provides opportunities for condescending pedantry: “Oh, you would think that. Obviously you’ve never seen the Japanese laserdisc version.” It’s a form of (arguably) secular Calvinism that puts an emphasis on proselytizing, but only for the sake of reminding those outside the elect that they are stupid, while the proselytizer is a genius. I’d have been less surprised if he’d played the theme to some as-yet-unlicensed-for-American-release anime series, a filk remix of the Man from Atlantis theme, or Rush’s 2112.

It got me to thinking about what tracks I’d select for my own intrusively blasted theme song (though I pray that I’ll never have to face that particular demon). After careful consideration, I narrowed the field down to two worthy candidates. The final choice would depend on my mood at the time:

Mike Post & Pete Carpenter – Drive (Theme to Hardcastle & McCormick) (from Television’s Greatest Hits, Vol. 6, 1996) – The original and superior version of the show’s theme song (with vocals by David Morgan). Truly the brightest, most glorious moment in the mismatched crimefighting duo with a bitchin’ high-end car genre of TV shows. Sure it was formulaic pap, but it was formulaic pap that spoke to the hearts and souls of a generation of kids too stupid to know better.

Quincy Jones – The Streetbeater (Theme to Sanford & Son) (from Television’s Greatest Hits, Vol. 3, 1990) – I associate this track with pain, blinding white pain of the nausea-inducing variety. It’s not because I think it’s a bad piece, quite the contrary. Way back in the day when Maura and I first started dating, I was channel surfing and stopped on TV Land just as the theme began to play. I was thrilled; Maura wasn’t and she demanded I change the channel before the tune got stuck in her head. I tried playing “keep away” with the remote, at which point the woman I would eventually marry “accidentally” elbowed me square on the nose, causing me to black out for a few minutes.

My other strange encounter of that was considerably less irritating than the boom box nerd, but far more intriguing. In the courtyard outside the science building stood the most adorable pair of hipster undergrads, a gal and a guy, sharing a single pair of iPod earbuds as they made goo-goo eyes at each other. Ah, young love in bloom, free of all the complications, pregnancy scares, and drunken 2:00 AM phone calls…

As I dragged myself back to my dismal little cubicle, I found myself wondering what song exactly the little lovebirds happened to be listening to. My first guess was Sisqó’s “Thong Song,” the pinnacle of romantic sentiment in Western cultural history. Not even The Bard’s sublime Sonnet 18 (Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?/Thou art more lovely and more temperate) can approach the passionate resonance of “She had dumps like a truck truck truck/Thighs like what what what/Baby move your butt butt butt.” (Ed. note: I’d sooner vote Republican than post that track here.)

After a little more reflection, I began to wonder if perhaps “Thong Song” was a little too much freak to handle in that gooey stage of their relationship. Maybe they were listening to more intellectually stimulating romantic material, like “Anthrax” from Gang of Four's 1979 LP Entertainment! It’s a heartwarming analysis of love as lensed though the Marxist concept of alienated labor and as compared to a deadly spore-borne illness. It’s one of the all time great make-out songs, too.

Then it hit me, and it was so painfully obvious that I cursed myself for not realizing it sooner. There is only one song that truly, madly, deeply captures the that sort of bliss in musical form, and that song is:

Commander Cody – Two Triple Cheese, Side Order of Fries (from Lose It Tonight, 1980) – In the days when I used to buy used vinyl by the pound, the “C – Misc.” bins in every secondhand records shop in the metro Boston area were packed to the partitions with Commander Cody (with and without The Lost Planet Airmen) LPs. I never purchased any, but it made me contemplate why these stores just didn’t create dedicated slots for Mr. Frayne and company. Was it a case of hipper-than-thou audiophile bias against blue collar “boogie woogie” rock? Or simple laziness?

(The illustration for today's post was courteously provided by the incomparable Chris Sims.)

visual synergy: all's fun at the fair

"It's guaranteed to make you puke." Not a statement usually used to pitch a product or experience, but twelve-year old boys are a different species entirely. The engine of induced regurgitation being referenced was the Tilt-A-Whirl, one of many lurid and potentially dangerous attractions at the annual Boys' Club carnival. (The club only sponsored the event, the administration of which was handled by those semi-nomadic purveyors of fried dough, chancy rides, and rigged games of chance colloquially known as "carny folk.")

The arrival of the carnival at the vacant lot abutting the Northeast Trade Center in North Woburn was always a time of wonder and delight, though never so much so as in the spring of 1984. Previous trips had been made under the watchful eyes and tight purse strings of parents or other adult chaperones, but having turned twelve, and thus standing at the crossroads of childhood hijinx and adolescent angst, this marked the first time my friends and I were able to attend the carnival alone and unsupervised, free of admonishments about our sugar and trans fat intakes, the no-win nature of the midway games, and our suitability for trying out the coolest and most dangerous-looking of the rides.

Even better, the fairgrounds were less than a mile from the neighborhood where we lived, well within easy biking distance. The only thing that prevented us from attending the carnival every single night it was in local residence was the lack of parental largess once we had burned up our initial stores of ready cash.

While our money lasted, though, we wandered the stalls and attractions in hopes of winning a amateurish reproduction of a Led Zeppelin or Blue Oyster Cult LP cover painted onto a sharp-edged sheet of glass (which one of the older kid's told me were for sniffing cocaine of off, making it the peaked-in-high-school set's equivalent of a gold-plated spoon) from the goldfish game, or to check out the assortment of hard-used and dated arcade machines (Joust! Berzerk!) set up in an army surplus tent on the edge of the lot overlooking the Zayre's parking lot. The carnival had a open city vibe to it, where groups of kids from different parts of the city would meet up and form temporary alliances.

It was one of the kids from the subdivided hinterlands near the Burlington line, a classmate of mine (due to Woburn's unintuitive boundaries for elementary school districts) who made the above case for the Tilt-A-Whirl's superiority vis-a-vis the Flying Bobs, the Round-Up, or the giant ferris wheel with enclosed spinnable cars. "It's guaranteed to make you puke," he said, and the unspoken challenge contained in his endorsement could not be denied. So the members of our group paired up and gave it a shot.

Rumors about that "kid from two towns over" who lost an arm in the ride aside (and those rumors were as ubiquitous to the carnival's atmosphere as the smells of frying medium and whiskey breath^*), a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl doesn't really instill roller coaster levels of adrenalin-spiked terror. Functionally, the ride is only a step or two up from the kiddie merry-go-rounds featuring bright plastic race cars in place of horses, with a stiff dose of centrifugal force to add some kick.

And it's that force, acting upon a belly packed to the esophagus with junk food and soda, that produces the effect my classmate vouched for. At the ride's conclusion, my friends and I staggered off the exit gantry, and one by one proceeded to lean over and spew forth steaming primitivist murals of half-digested candy apples and popcorn onto the blank canvas of dust and trampled grass before us, all to the oohs, ahhs, and ewwws of the other kids watching. There was even a pointed critiquing session of our efforts, in which I fared rather poorly.

Lack of texture and poor spread radius. It's the story of my life, really.

Wow, that ran longer than planned. Are you ready for a music video thrill ride of thrills. excitement, and cheaply made teddy bears filled with styrofoam pellets? The management asks that you keep your arms and other appendages inside the car at all times.


Dire Straits - Tunnel of Love - The Warsaw Pact's superiority in bumper car technology was completely offset by NATO's fleet of state-of-the-art canal barges.


Depeche Mode - Get the Balance Right - Now watch as we go from moody...


Madness - House of Fun - ...to joyously goofy...


Lush - Hypocrite - ...to gloomy introspection in the course of this non-stop merry-go-round called "life."

Madness - House of Fun (from Madness, 1983)

Lush - Hypocrite (from Split, 1994)

^* Maura, who did grow up two towns over from Woburn, says that there was a bona fide carnival-related mutilation back in the day, which could very well be the ur-text from which the stories sprung.

Vacation II: Day 6 - You're driving me insane

It’s human nature to evangelize on behalf on the things we enjoy. A certain thing will strike a chord with us, and we feel the urge to rush off and share the experience with others, whose reactions may or may not match our own. You can lead a horse to water, but often enough the horse is too busy eyeing the low hanging apples in the orchard across the way to care.

And that’s fine, even if there are fewer things more frustrating than when one of the initially nonplussed becomes a convert later on, and attempts to proselytize you with the same damn thing they ignored your original recommendation about previously:

“You’ve got to hear this band. They’re awesome!”

“You mean the band whose CD I gave you as a birthday present last year?”

“Did you? I don’t remem-GAK! Why…are…you…strangling…me?”

Again, it’s all part of the game of social relationships, and not a big deal. Taste is a very personal and a very mutable thing, and responds erratically to the hard sell technique. Individuals enjoy what they enjoy, and despite the best efforts of marketing departments, there are no infallible predictors on what will click with people. As the old saying goes, there is no accounting for taste, and it’s to one’s benefit socially to keep that in mind, even if the various manifestations of the principle are baffling in the extreme.

There are limits to my vive le difference attitude, however, and they mostly center around the ennoblement of one’s personal tastes. It’s been pointed out time and again that just because you like something doesn’t mean that it’s good. I’m willing cut a little slack regarding that, if only because “good” is an entirely subjective term. I can accept that there are people who think Love Story or The Da Vinci Code are “good” for reasons other than their relative quality vis a vis other books, but I draw the line at beatification, where the descriptor takes on an almost religious significance.

There’s a difference between enjoying The Doors’ music (or even holding up Jim Morrison as an important figure in the history of pop music) and treating the band’s music and mythology as the Word Incarnate. I use The Doors as an example because the absurdly hagiographical tenor of No One Here Gets Out Alive, read while I was a teenager, that first brought this phenomenon to my attention. Examples abound, though, including the cults that have sprung up around two of my favorite bands, The Clash and The Pogues, which I believe diminish their legacies through unquestioned superlatives and platitudes.

Apart from the pop music sphere, these attitudes are also distressingly common in the many permutations of the nerd-o-sphere: comics, gaming, sci-fi and fantasy literature. Nerd behavior (and I say this as one of the herd) trends towards the obsessive end of the spectrum to start. The leap from fan to cultist is not an especially long one, but it is discernable. One telltale sign is a reliance on received wisdom over personal insight:

“The Watchmen is the greatest comic ever.”
“Why?”
“Because of Alan Moore.”
“I’m not seeing the logic there.”
“Everyone says it’s the best.”
“Still not seeing your argument.”
“Entertainment Weekly said it was the best comic ever.”

The last bit of that fictional, but reality-based, exchange brings up another factor into the sanctification process: the need of certain nerd-types for outside validation of their interests.

Years of operating at the fringes of “mundane” (and, oh, do I despise that term) society has led to a particular, vulgar iteration of what has been called the “superior virtue of the oppressed.” In the common usage of the term, it applies to the dominant culture’s paternalist romanticization of an oppressed group. “Women are too virtuous by nature to deal with politics, thus we cannot allow them the vote,” and so forth and so on. In nerd culture, it’s applied by the fringe to itself, a consensual self-image mirroring that of the X-Men, super-cool outcasts hated and feared by a jealous world.

Yet for all this pretence of setting themselves apart, there need for validation remains strong, and things like a mention on ET of Nick Cage’s comics collection or some mediocre comedian dropping a nerdy inside reference into his routine gain a disproportionate level of significance. Liking something is not enough, that THEY like it too is what matters, as THEY (be it Wil Wheaton or Vin Diesel) then equal US.

I find this marginalization of a work’s or creative force’s very personal appeal in favor of a declared significance deeply depressing. There should be no shame in just liking -- or even loving something -- for what it is, rather than as a magic mirror by which to define one’s self though reflected light. Or to be comfortable in one’s own skin, rather than living vicariously as an acolyte in a mystery religion dedicated to an entertaining diversion, be it London Calling, Ender’s Game, The Great Gatsby, “How Soon Is Now?” or what have you.

Gerry & The Pacemakers – I Like It (from The Definitive Collection, 1995) – Like eating a large bag of mini-marshmallows and washing it down with a quart bottle of chocolate syrup. So just another typical day round these parts, then. The Rezillos did a scathing, yet no less syrupy, cover of the song on 1978’s Can’t Stand The Rezillos LP.

Gloria Jones – Tainted Love (from a 1964 single; collected on Rude Boy Revival, 2002) – Sometimes, it pays to go back to the source. No bloops, no bleeps, no nasally British vocalist, just pure, uncut Northern Soul.

Vacation II: Day 5 - The figures don't lie

+

+

+

x 5 straight days =

I'd like to say I've learned my lesson this time, but that conclusion is not supported by the empirical evidence. For a more in-depth exploration of the subject, I refer you to my forthcoming paper, "A Differential Analysis of Junk Food's Ability to Suppress Andrew's Better Judgement," which shall be presented at the 74th Conference of Really Depressing Science this fall.

Today's dinner specials include a classic bit of British Invasion fare, served with a side of Scandanavian neo-garage cuisine. Bon appetit!

The Troggs - I Can't Control Myself (from The Singles: A's and B's, 2005)

The Hives - Here We Go Again (from Your New Favourite Band, 2002)

Vacation: Day 3 - A place where nobody dared to go

Some couples spend their vacations sipping cocktails and dancing until dawn in exotic tropical locales. Others retreat to the comfort of the air conditioned bedroom of their modest suburban house and watch the 1980 musical bomb Xanadu via Comcast On Demand. I know which option Maura and I prefer...

Considering how unrelentingly harsh I was on the Sgt. Pepper's musical, it might seem odd that I think Xanadu, universally panned in its day, is the bee's knees. What can I say? It's a wonderful and rare experience, being able to witness a gory head-on collision between the 70's and 80's and to gawk at the art-directed carnage of excess.

Maura loves it for the cheesy colorfulness, its peek into old school roller culture, and Olivia Newton John's voice. I love it for its clueless enthusiasm, dated-yet-fascinating special effects work, and the Electric Light Orchestra's and The Tubes' contributions to the soundtrack.

(The Tubes' participation was a nod to cutting edge punk and new wave sounds that "the kidz" were into at the time. I've long considered The Tubes to be the 70's punk scene's John the Baptist figure, but based on the film's "new wave" costume designs and hair styles, it's clear the filmmakers didn't have clue one about the scene. Yet another reason to love the film, as far as I'm concerned.)

Actor Michael Beck blamed Xanadu for dissipating his post-Warriors career momentum. (For all the talk about what a dud the film was at the box office, Maura remembers going to the neighborhood theater to see the film when it premiered and finding that the show had sold out.) As a consequence, Beck fell irrevocably behind in the actors who might be Mark Metcalf but aren't stakes, thus allowing Craig Wasson to claim a decisive lead. (Beck went on to appear in Hal Needham's 1982 classic waste of celluloid, Megaforce, which should have wiped clean any karmic debts in a just universe.)

(from the Xanadu OST, 1980)

Olivia Newton John & Electric Light Orchestra - Xanadu

Electric Light Orchestra - The Fall

Who knew Polyhymnia had such a wild side?

never worry ‘bout the things we were missing

Brad Delp, the lead singer of the band Boston has passed away at age 55.

It may seem at odds with the musical tastes I’ve exhibited here previously, but I have an insane fondness for Boston’s 1976 debut. It’s one of those rare albums that I can listen to from beginning to end without ever feeling the urge to skip a track, alongside The Clash’s London Calling, UK Decay’s For Madmen Only, and The Cure’s Seventeen Seconds.

My love for the band came, like my interest in Captain America, from my younger brother who developed a taste for seventies rock while he was attending college out at UMass-Amherst. He’d make occasional trips back to Woburn on weekends and breaks, and we’d spend the time playing Perfect Dark and discussing (and arguing) comics trivia. We also made a lot of trips to area comics stores in search of back issues, and it was on one of those trips that my enduring love for Boston was sealed.

It was a weekday afternoon in the spring of 2000, and my brother decided out of the blue that we should pay a visit to a store we frequented in Waltham (two towns over, but still a hike). After calling and checking that the place would be still open when we got there, we hopped into his car and made our way down Route 128. He had Boston’s debut album in the car’s CD player, and made a remark that he had recently gotten into the band. It was nostalgia candy to my ears, but I’d be hard pressed to pick out a better soundtrack for a late afternoon drive with the windows rolled down and zero personal obligations for the immediate future.

We cleared the rise overlooking the cluster of hills around the Route 20 exit just as “More Than a Feeling” kicked into full rocking mode. The staid outcrops of New England granite in the distance stood silhouetted against the bruised violet and apricot tapestry of the sunset, and it felt so perfect, that synergy of classic rock, brotherhood, and the glories of a warm spring afternoon.

So thanks, Brad, for the part you played in making it happen.

Boston – Rock and Roll Band (from Boston, 1976)

we like to throw our bodies around

It’s Friday night, a perfect time to cut loose and go crazy. The question is whether to rock out or boogie down. Both are worthy courses of action, which makes for a really tough call.

Then again, who said it has to be an either/or proposition? Not these folks.

Electric Light Orchestra – Shine a Little Love (from Discovery, 1979) – It seems natural that a rock outfit renowned for its string section would dabble in disco, although said section was dropped from the band at the time of Discovery’s release. Dig the use of sound effects lifted from the Galaxian video game, always a plus in my book.

The song feels like it could have been commissioned by NBC to promote its 1979 fall lineup, and I can’t listen to the instrumental parts without envisioning Eric Estrada and Larry Wilcox using their motorcycles to pull a chain of Peacock Dancers on rollerskates across a soundstage while Conrad Bain gives a big “thumbs up” to the camera.

As a side note, ELO frontman Jeff Lynne reminds me of one of my dad’s old fishing buddies. The line “Hey kid, fetch me a beer from the cooler in my van, ok?” would have made the basis of a superb sci-fi concept album.

Uriah Heep - Whad' Ya Say (from Fallen Angel, 1978) – They once roamed the land like magnificent denim- and fringe-bedecked dinosaurs, the hard rock bands of the Polyester Era, and when the opportunity arose to trade credibility for a chance at megaplatinium “crossover” success, they came a’running, visions of tax exile status dancing through their heads.

Their time has passed. Their few remaining acolytes hunker down in basement apartments, putting the finishing touches on their SCA apparel and next weekend’s Dungeons and Dragons scenario while lambasting the sorry state of modern (i.e. post-1980) music.

Alice Cooper – You Gotta Dance (from Goes to Hell, 1976) – Check out this skeleton I found in a certain shock rocker’s closet. It’s wearing a lovely peach leisure suit and a gold chain, and is that Jovan Sex Appeal I smell?

Alice does disco... only a year after the release of Welcome to My Nightmare and a good year before the runaway success of Saturday Night Fever convinced other rock acts to hop on the bandwagon. The man’s a true pioneer.

the elves are back in town

Today’s featured holiday track comes from the Greedies, a short-lived punk-slash-rock outfit assembled by Thin Lizzy frontman Phil Lynott. The group’s roster was extremely fluid, and consisted of Lynott, some of his Thin Lizzy bandmates, and an ever-changing roster of musicians including Rat Scabies of the Damned, Chris Spedding, Bob Geldof, and Ex Pistols Steve Jones and Paul Cook.

More of a diversion than a serious attempt at creating a hybrid supergroup, the Greedies only played a handful of live shows and their recorded output was limited to a 1979 holiday single, a stomping rock medley of “Jingle Bells” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” titled “A Merry Jingle”. Lyrically, it’s a bit on the slight side, but Steve Jones milks that wonderful descending guitar riff (familiar to anyone who has bothered to listen to the post-Lydon Sex Pistols material) for everything it’s worth. You won’t get that on Enya’s new holiday album.

The Greedies – A Merry Jingle (from a 1979 single, collected on Punk Rock Christmas, 1995)

Here's a video of the group "performing" the song on Top of the Pops: