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.

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

Albums That Meant Something - Part 5 - Dreams of Last Year's Heroes

This poster, hung over the foot of my bed, is what I woke up to every morning for the better part of a decade. It's the backside of the poster-sized cover to The Feeding of the 5000, Crass's 1978 debut.

As I've mentioned in previous installments of this series, I came into punk rock at a time when the scene was at a low ebb, reduced to isolated individuals and small knots of like-minded enthusiasts. Historical documentation and available material was thin on the ground.

Occasionally one might come across some second-hand books or music mags or a rare affordable treasure in the used vinyl bins, but for the most part it was a trial-and-error journey through uncharted territory when it came to discovering stuff outside the Clash/Pistols/Ramones/Dead Kennedys back-catalogues...or the hardcore scene, which had had taken a bad turn towards the metallic. Hard-won and incomplete information about bands or styles or whatnot was passed by word of mouth or the occasional expensive leap of import-record buying faith.

In the spring of 1992, I was a twenty year old enthusiast of 80's Britpunk and Oi with a studded leather jacket and a crest of purple hair done up Misfits style. It was stock template punrockerdom -- aggro posturing, meticulous accessorizing, and provocative (if a tad tired) fashionizing -- and I say that without making excuses for or condemning my younger self. It's all part of being young, but even then I was feeling a bit long in the tooth for the game and with little idea where it was all going to lead.

Then I discovered Crass.

I'm not certain what it was that convinced me to give the seminal anarchopunks a listen. Patches, badges and jacket paintings featuring the band's distinctive symbols and slogans were commonly enough spotted around the scene, though the same applied to Discharge, and I never warmed to their stuff. It was more likely my insatiable hunger for material to listen to, combined with my reading some reviews for Crass gigs (written in painfully earnest anarcho-communist jargon) in some old fanzines I found. In any case, I ended up picking up a copy of Best Before 1984, a 1986 retrospective of the band's career, at In Your Ear on Commonwealth Avenue sometime in the late spring of 1992.

It was the most terrifying thing I had ever listened to.

It was twenty tracks -- taken from the band's singles and topped off with a live cut from their final performance -- of hardcore anarchist politics delivered over crude tribal punk riffs and occasionally garnished with experimental sonic effects. Protest music (or political music in general) is an iffy proposition, as the proper mix of art and ideology is difficult to achieve.

Crass never aimed for a proper balance, and let the musical aesthetics take a back seat to the message. Yet on the best of their efforts, the sheer force of their convictions elevates the material past the level of noisy agitprop. Whether on "Reality Asylum," a scathing spoken word attack on religion, or the more traditionally punky "Big A Little A," about non-violent resistance, the sense of outrage is visceral, palpable, and chilling in a way no cartoony shock value nonsense could ever hope to match.

More so than the music, it was the concepts behind the Crass collective that struck a chord with me during that transitional period. The theories, manifestos and explanations -- packed in as booklets with Best Before and Christ: The Album -- concerning the punk movement, anarchism, pacifism, and activism influenced me greatly even if I didn't entirely agree with their views on politics and human nature. (I'd love to think a society could work on the basis of voluntary cooperation alone, but harsh experience has taught me otherwise, and no amount of utopian cheerleading is going to change that.)

It got me to thinking about what my priorities were as a self-identified punk rocker, which I realized meant more than an elaborate hairstyle and dogmatic adherence to genre orthodoxy...which was great, because I've saved a ton of cash since I've quit buying ultra-super-hold hair gel and Cockney Rejects bootleg live albums.

Here are two of my favorite selections from Best Before 1984. The first, originally from a 1980 split single with the Poison Girls, is a pointed rejection of letting the ends justify the means. The second, taken from a 1982 EP, is a sandblast of vituperative anti-militarism which brought down the impotent wrath of Parliament. (An edited news clip about the controversy precedes the track.)

Crass - Bloody Revolutions

Crass - Sheep Farming in the Falklands

all gonna feel the pain

Though I can strongly relate to both Nick Carraway and Paul Pennyfeather, the fictional character I identify the most with is Major Clipton from The Bridge on the River Kwai, gazing down at the panorama of broken bodies and twisted wreckage and despairing at the stupidity and waste of it all: "Madness! Madness!"

An American-educated (tossed around by the media like it's a mark of distinction, though there is no shortage of dumbasses the descriptor applies to) leader of Georgia, a Western-friendly former Soviet republic, tries to mobilize domestic support by appealing to nationalism. He decides to retake a breakaway province with a carefully timed surprise attack that less carefully fails to consider the presence of a couple thousand Russian separatist-friendly "peacekeepers" in said province.

The usual stable of neocon loudmouths, feeling rosy with the glow of Cold War nostalgia, offer their expert predictions about how a massive global military power will be humiliated on the battlefield by 18,000 American-trained troops. Russia is happy to put those theories to the test, as the offensive gives them a plum opportunity to soothe its amputee's itch with a liberal dosage of military force, as well as deliver a message to the West and it's former Soviet proxies about fucking around in Russia's traditional spheres of influence.

The Russians defy the experts' proclamations, put the Georgians to flight, and systematically degrade their military infrastructure over the course of a few days. With his country being hammered by an implacable foe, the Georgian leader makes it his solemn responsibility to act like a true leader to his people in their hour of need....by appearing on American television and making hyperbolic pronouncements and chastising the Western powers for not backing him up and/or shielding him from the consequences of his massive lapse in judgement.

His words are echoed by the usual suspects in the media, who dust off the pre-1989 propaganda lexicons (but not, interestingly enough, their history books) and jettison any pretense of objective journalism to engage in some pre-end-of-history style jingoism, weaving the present state of idiocy into a psuedo-historic tapestry which includes the Russian Civil War, World War II, and the 1968 uprising in Prague. It's astonishingly easy to call for military intervention when you're not the one who will be doing the fighting and dying.

And what of the West? A lot of tough talk masking the fact that there's really fuck all they can do without starting World War III, or worse -- without pissing off a major natural gas supplier. The opportunity the conflict provides to bitch out Putin and Company is welcome, but behind the strong words and messages of moral support for the Georgian government is the uncomfortable and unspoken acknowledgement that no one wants to risk a broken nose because his or her reckless buddy picked a fight with the biggest bully in the bar...especially when you've been telling everyone for years that that the bully is no great shakes.

Russia, on the other hand, has shown a great deal of enthusiasm for twisting the knife as long as it's diplomatically feasible, relishing the opportunity to make its rival global powers twist impotently in the wind.

Ah, what a lovely thing geopolitics is, and if the people -- Georgian and South Ossetian -- whose nationalism was exploited to make this happen are the ones who are suffering most, they can take solace in the knowledge that it has all been done for the highest of ideals.

Icon AD - Fight for Peace (from the Don't Feed Us Shit EP, 1982; collected on Lest We Forget, 2006) - A paradox I can get behind.

dispatches from the front

Yahoo may currently be a corporation under siege, but that hasn't prevented its ever-sagacious staff from addressing the burning questions of the now...

Remember: It's not a bailout. The current administration doesn't believe in bailouts. It's a gentlemen's agreement that uses taxpayer money and a minimum of accountability in regards to the mismanagement that caused the failure in the first place, okay?

Should you lack access to the circles of crony capitalism's largess, or if you or someone else in the financial services supply chain chose to forgo the FDIC's safety net because the program smacked of dirty Bolshevism, here are some other potential courses of action to take after your assets have evaporated:

- Take a drive up to the mountains with a loaded shotgun and a bottle of whiskey in order to "meditate" upon the situation.

- Check the various blood banks to get the best quotes per pint on sales of plasma.

- Learn to appreciate the taste of uncooked ramen noodles washed down with store-brand mouthwash.

- Cash out the tattered remnants of your 401k and invest in ten-dollar scratch tickets.

- Read up on the insulative properties of newspaper and which large appliance boxes are most resistant to rain damage.

- Explain to your children that college is for effete snobs, and that "true blue Americans" sign up for unbenefitted minimum wage service jobs as soon as they drop out of high school.

Rubella Ballet - It'll Never Happen to Me (from At the End of the Rainbow, 1990) - The playful, day-glo side of anarchopunk, bouncing out with some very danceable beats and a song title that effectively serves as the mantra of the American theory of disaster capitalism.

...and when all else fails, perhaps a change of career is in order:

While the world lurches toward economic, social, and environmental collapse, it's gratifying to know that science is doing its damnedest to answer the hard questions...like whether or not it would be feasible for man to dress up as a flying rodent and throw explosive boomerangs at petty criminals.

Fuck clean drinking water or ecologically sustainable fuel sources, this is the shit that really matters -- taking discussions usually reserved for the dank stinky basement of fandom (i.e. the CBR and Newsarama forums) and elevating them to the level of infotainment in service to the current overhyped blockbuster movie of the moment.

The Selecter - Three Minute Hero (from Too Much Pressure, 1980) - Though often overlooked (in favor of The Specials or The Beat) when I'm looking for a quick fix of second-wave ska, The Selecter's Too Much Pressure and Celebrate the Bullet never fail to impress me when I do make the effort to give them a spin. That's the problem with having an extensive music collection and not a lot of free time -- I tend to gravitate to that handful of perennial favorites within arm's reach instead of keeping a representatively diverse playlist.

never mind the mammary papilla

Hey, have you heard the news?

Truly a sad day for anarchists and enthusiasts of visible nipples alike.

While Farrah-mania never recovered from the Crash of '78, gossip columnist Cindy Adams's hyperbolic pronouncement of punk's demise in the June 1978 issue of Pizzazz Magazine turned out to be somewhat exaggerated.

During the anemic days just prior to punk's commercialized resurrection in the mid-1990's, my friends and I used to joke that "punk is dead...and we're maggots feeding on its rotting corpse." Punk music and fashion may have become codified and commodified, but the underlying philosophy -- the demystification of process and rejection of authority -- remains valid despite decades of exploitation and misappropriation.

Crass - Punk Is Dead (from The Feeding of the 5000, 1978) - Representing the disgusted anarchopunk perspective.

The Exploited - Punk's Not Dead (from Punks Not Dead, 1981) - Representing the tribalist street punk perspective.

The Vandals - The Day Farrah Fawcett Died (from Fear of a Punk Planet, 1990) - I'm more of a Cheryl Ladd guy, myself.

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.

entertainment through pain

A glimpse into the state of "rawk" criticism twenty-five years ago, courtesy of the November 1982 issue of Creem (the gift that keeps on giving). It's an excerpt from that issue's "Letter from Britain" column, written by Cynthia Rose (on loan from NME):

Rose's argument is that the New Pop aesthetic, as personified by ABC singer Martin Fry, is representative of British mass culture's emphasis on style over substance, where the then-current media fixation on Prince William's birth obscured Thatcher's circus of petty cruelties. Of course, lamenting the focus on appearance doesn't rule out directing catty barbs at Fry's complexion.

Oh, dear. I'm going to make a point of stating, whenever someone complains about the present state of political/social/cultural affairs, that things were better in the good old days, before the one-two punch of "Stool Pigeon" and "Endicott" shattered our previously idyllic paradise. "We lived happily and simply in those days, unaware that we would soon be overrun by slavering hordes of videogenic back-up singers."

At the risk of sounding reductive for the sake of argument, I'd venture to state that novelty is a core principle of "pop." Pop is ephemeral. Pop exists in the "now." Good pop songs can transcend their moments in time, but that is incidental to their initial purpose. Pop's purpose is not edify, not to uplift, not to bear the weight of the human condition on its shoulders, but simply to entertain. One could argue that a good pop song requires a certain level of substance and I wouldn't disagree; given the choice, I'd rather listen to Carter USM's "The Only Living Boy in New Cross" instead of Gary Lewis and The Playboys' "This Diamond Ring." "Good" is a different concept than "effective," however, and even the most banal pop confections can succeed in their momentary purpose by virtue of a catchy hook, a sublime harmony, or clever turn of phrase.

...and the manias over Elvis and the Beatles and the Stones and the other members of the sacred pantheon didn't involve commercialism or me-too behavior in the least. Nor do the countless photo-features, puff piece interviews, and band merchandise ads featured in every issue of every rock magazine ever published, apparently. The big chested blonde ladies modeling Creem t-shirts in an ad a couple pages after this column? They're making a statement of rebellion, honest.

Rockism is prone to a form of myopia which confuses personal sentiments with universal truths about "the music." It takes the shape of a cranky evangelism (with Calvinist overtones) that stresses the chimera called "authenticity." The problem is that authenticity, when used to separate art from product, is a subjective concept in objective clothing, and is applied unevenly based on pre-existing biases. The closer a performer hews toward those biases, the more authentic he or she is deemed.

In the article, Rose singles out Marianne Faithfull and Tom Verlaine (ex-Television) as examples of authenticity in contrast to the New Pop's superficiality. The choice of Faithfull stuck me as interesting as her persona as fallen angel of the 60's Modtopia has generated as much, if not more, ink than her music (which to be honest, I've never seen the appeal of). Though rooted in Faithfull's real experiences, it has become part of the packaged persona of the entertainer -- except the "sex, drugs. and rock and roll" template fits better with the rockist party line than shiny gold sport coats and back-up singers do.

(The Tom Verlaine bit didn't surprise me, since it's standard practice for rock journalists to fawn over anything that ever played CBGB's in the 70's. Expect a gooey retrospective on the importance of the Tuff Darts to appear in the pages of Spin any day now.)

It's not a matter of dismissing the concept of relative quality. There is a world of difference discernable between Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" and Kajagoogoo's "Too Shy" or Anthrax's "Among the Living" and Manowar's "Guyana," even after accounting for differences in individual tastes. It's the imposition of manufactured, mythical standards in place of an empirical personal relationship with "the music" that irks me. I have far more respect for someone who can plain out admit he or she listens to Hoyt Axton because they like his music than for someone who launches into dissertations about historical relevance and "importance" which fairly reek of received wisdom.

If you find pop music too superficial for your liking, then fair fucks to you. Don't, hovever, curse apples for not being more like oranges. Or hold new wave disco-synth bands up to a mythologized standard that doesn't even apply to the purist acts you cite as examples.

When it comes to enjoying music, the only honesty that really matters is in regards to one's own tastes.

Shallow new wave glossiness, uncompromising anarcho-punk convictions -- I adore them all.

ABC - Poison Arrow (from The Lexicon of Love, 1982)

Crass - Don't Tell Me You Care (from the How Does it Feel? 7", 1982; collected on Best Before...1984, 1986)

where do we go from here

Nine consecutive boss battles -- four cakewalks, four tedious grinds, and one absolute pain in the ass -- with nary a savepoint in sight. Lose one, and it's time to start all over again at the beginning.

FUCK YOU, ROGUE GALAXY. If I hadn't already invested three days of my life in playing the game, I'd have snapped the disc in two.

Soft Cell - Frustration (from Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret, 1981) - Marc Almond feels my pain. Why do I find that so disturbing?

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I seem to know a lot of August babies. Is there something about November that makes it especially conducive to human fertility?

If I remember correctly, friend and fellow blogger Dave Lartigue of Dave Ex Machina celebrates his birthday today. Since I know Dave is a big fan of games (boardgames, that is) and music, I gathered together a handful of relevant tracks in honor if the occasion.

Rubella Ballet - Games of Life (from At Last It's Playtime, 1985) - The fun side of anarchopunk.

Pop Will Eat Itself - Games Without Frontiers (from Peace Together, 1993) - I'm still waiting on the grebo revival movement, complete a new line of mass-produced cyber-pirate-yeoman wear available from Hot Topic.

The Cardigans - My Favourite Game (from Gran Turismo, 1998) - I was this close to posting the bemani cover version of this track, but I was able to pull myself back from the Eurodance abyss just in the nick of time.

Vacation II: Day 1 – Lazy Saturday Afternoon

My second scheduled vacation for 2007 has begun with the roar of a cantankerous lawn mower and the rumbling of thunderstorms headed this way. As the morning’s yardwork has left me feeling completely thrashed and the potential for nasty motherboard-frying surges is limiting the time spent on the computer today, I figured I’d use this opportunity to give my answers to the “Name five to ten songs that have impacted your life” meme AC tagged me with.

This was harder to compile than expected, as “significant” is a much different creature than “favorite.” Most of my favorite songs have had little impact on my life outside the enjoyment they have brought to me, whereas the songs that I can recall making an impact aren’t what one would necessarily expect, given the impression of my tastes inferred from my various posts.

First up in this roughly chronological list is a tie:

Dexy’s Midnight Runners – Come on Eileen (from Too-Rye-Ay, 1982)

…and…

Styx – Mr. Roboto (from Kilroy Was Here, 1983)

The awakening of my individual tastes in pop music came occurred somewhere between my tenth and eleventh birthdays. It’s not that I was unaware of pop music or didn’t have favorite artists prior to that, but my preferences were shaped by received wisdom, handed down by or picked up from my parents, my teenage aunt, or the older kids in the neighborhood.

Then, in 1982-1983, I made the evolutionary leap to an independent consumer of pop, aided by the plethora of local music video programs put together to cash in on MTV’s success as well as the debut of WHTT, “Boston Hit Radio,” which played the “hottest Top 40 songs” every hour on the hour. The goofy concept rock of “Mr. Roboto” and the faux Celtic soul of “Come on Eileen” struck a chord with young Andrew, and I would camp out next to the boombox waiting for both songs to crop up on ‘HTT’s extremely tight rotation cycle.

(Thank Providence I came of age when I did, while new wave pop was still in full swing. If I was born a few years later, I might have been scarred for life.)

Jumping ahead a couple of years:

Sam & Dave – Soothe Me (from The Best of Sam & Dave, 1969) – The better part of my junior high and high school years were spent as a soul boy, with a look and musical tastes akin to an independently invented version of mod revivalism. It was this track, discovered through The Blues Brothers (where it plays on the Bluesmobile’s 8-track during the fateful traffic stop), that ignited my burning passion for sweet Memphis soul and opened my eyes to a musical world outside the classic rock and heavy metal ghetto of my immediate circle of friends.

Circle Jerks – When the Shit Hits the Fan (from Golden Shower of Hits, 1983) – The first punk album I purchased was the Repo Man soundtrack, and so impressed was I by the Circle Jerks’ tracks on that LP, the second punk album I purchased was Golden Shower of Hits. My affection for California-brand hardcore (and hardcore in general) has waned over the years, but upon listening to this track again I found myself flashing back to junior year, staring into the bathroom mirror, preparing to make a personal paradigm shift by spiking my hair up with glob of petroleum jelly.

Crass – Sheep Farming in the Falklands (from a 1983 single, collected on Best Before...1984, 1986) – I came to the anarchopunk party late in my punk career. (Indeed, the music and message played a big part in my ditching the rigid fashion-punk template and making the Great Leap Forward.) More than anything else the band ever recorded, this blistering howl of righteous indignation and anger (for a war that had been over for nearly a decade at the time I first listened to the song) struck a chord with me, and echoes of the profanity-laced rant that closes out the piece can be observed in many of my political posts at Armagideon Time.

…and finally:

Rubber City Rebels – Brainwave (from a 1979 single) – In the spring of 2006, I was reading the copy of Simon Reynolds’s Rip It Up and Start Again that Maura had given me for my birthday. I got to the bit about Cleveland/Akron scenes of the late 1970’s, which provided a list of some of the lesser known participants. Most of the acts were known to me, if only through individual tracks on obscure punk and new wave compilations, but one act, the Rubber City Rebels, I’d never heard of before.

My curiosity led to a Google search, which in turn led me to this post at Something I Learned Today featuring a representative selection of the band’s material. Prior to my stumbling across the site, I was almost completely ignorant of the concept of mp3 blogs apart from Fluxblog and a couple others dedicated to more recent material (which really didn’t interest me that much). I spent the better part of a weekend exploring all Something I Learned Today had to offer, then embarking on a whirlwind linkjumping tour of similar sites.

At the time, I had been mulling over the idea of starting a blog, but my initial choice of focus -- comic books -- was already overserved with clever folks doing what I was thinking of doing, and better than I ever could. The discovery of the mp3 blog scene was a major revelation to me, and I discovered what my true calling was. Thus was Armagideon Time born.

I'm not big on tagging folks, so anyone who wants to take up the meme-baton and run with should feel free to do so.

and if you say goodbye

Chaironymus C. Chairington
(1999-2007)
You will be missed, I guess.
My computer chair gave up the ghost last night. It was not an unexpected passing; the past few months were laden with portents of chairdeath.

First, a couple of non-essential (as far as I could tell) bolts popped loose and were borne away by the cats. Then the threads on the adjustment knob for the backrest got stripped, forcing an improvised fix which involved a pair of locking pliers and a spare nut from a muffler installation kit. Finally and fatally, the ring which secured the base pole to the seat popped loose, and no amount of pounding, bending, or twisting could set the problem right. I even tried wadding an old sock (visible in the photo) into the docking hole to stabilize the seat platform, but to no avail.

What had previously been a functional place to park one's ass has become a personal Tilt-A-Whirl with a slightly diminished risk of accidental dismemberment posed by the large scale version. While I wish that the terminal phase of the chair's life had come on prior to my weekly trip to Target, thus eliminating the need to make an additional trip this evening, I'm astonished that it held up as long as it did.

I bought the chair eight years ago, at the equally deceased Ames store in the Redstone shopping plaza, and it set me all of twenty dollars. I was scrambling to set up a space for my new PC, and in my haste opted for cash and carry efficiency, rather than ancillary concerns like comfort or ergonomic design, in picking out a computer desk and chair. Later on, after the move into the new house, I had an opportunity to rethink the setup, but given the space limitations I was working with, I decided to keep what I had for the time being.

In those eight years, that cheapjack chair has supported the mass of bone and gristle that is my posterior though countless hours of gaming, writing, music listening, and internet browsing. In its off hours, it served ably as a bed for napping cats, a clothes rack, and nightstand. Truly, a career to be envied by its home furnishing peers, especially when one considers its humble origins.

You served well, Mr. Chairington. May a flight of ottomans escort you to the great outlet store in the sky.

Booker T & The MG's - You Can't Sit Down (from Green Onions, 1962) - Not comfortably, at least, although that can be ameliorated a little by some sweet instrumental soul.

Hagar the Womb - Armchair Observer (from Funnery in a Nunnery, 1984) - Showing a more playful side of anarchopunk.

The Merseybeats - I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Cry (from I Think of You: The Complete Recordings, 2002) - Better than The King's version. Better than the Fab Four's version.

Memorial services will be held around 8:00 AM on Wednesday, by the front garden wall between the bin of recyclables and the bags of household trash.

the language we use isn’t what we want

Another political post today, spun out of something that I wanted to address in the previous post, but couldn’t fit in.

There was an editorial that ran in the Boston Globe a few weeks ago, written by a military officer and Iraq War vet presently attending Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, about how the American public at large seems disconnected from what is happening over in Mesopotamia. It wasn’t the typical “protestors are making us lose the war” nonsense, but a broader lament about the lack of home front involvement in what the author saw as a just and necessary cause.

As typical whenever these points are raised (not too frequently, but often enough), World War II -- the last “Good War” -- was brought into the argument as an example of the seamless meshing of domestic and military policies. It’s a potent mythic evocation, conjuring images of victory gardens, scrap drives, and war bonds, but it’s also highly anachronistic and rather pointless in the context of present day American society, and shows that the writer might be as disconnected with the greater reality as the people on the “home front.”

To put it bluntly: If the Iraq War required the sort of domestic, social, and economic organization that World War II required, there would never have been an Iraq War. The planners of the conflict were well aware of this, and based policy on a deliberate separation of the military and domestic spheres, knowing full well that a “war tax,” or food or fuel rationing, or any other war-related inconvenience levied on Joe or Jane Q. Public would have far more political repercussions than the death of a few hundred thousand Iraqi civilians. Moreover, it’s impossible to imagine the nation’s titans of commerce and industry submitting to profit-eating regulations or levies for the sake of a greater cause that would then face intense scrutiny from the moneymen and the general public.

Instead the goal has been to tailor the demands of the conflict to maximize support while minimizing the potential for political or economic backlash. So it’s been “support the troops” (meaning “sit down, shut up, and slap a yellow ribbon magnet on your Escalade”) and “they hate our freedoms” (meaning “the brown-skinned heathens are coming to eat your children” – xenophobia is always a safe bet when dealing with Americans) which are great for triggering gut level reactions that pacify without asking much of those pacified. It hasn’t been a complete success, so badly botched the whole affair has been, but in terms of keeping the average person at arm’s length to what’s really going down, it’s been fairly effective. Sacrifices made in the name of fear or “patriotism” can only go so far, though, and tend to work better when it comes to poorly understood intangibles like civil rights or protection by law than those of the pecuniary or immediately personal sort.

Those who feel the pain inherit the problem, and the powers at be have done their all to keep the populace as numb and comfy and as detached from the truth as possible.

Danse Society – We’re So Happy (from Seduction: The Society Collection, 2001)

Rudimentary Peni – Sacrifice (from The EPs of RP, 1987)

I’ve got 5-4-3-2-1

As a dilettante retrologist, I’m fascinated by how the media has interpreted and presented various social and cultural movements to mainstream America over the years. From the “punk rock” episode of CHiPs to the treatment of the sixties counterculture by “old guard” sci-fi writers (“Permissive child-rearing practices have created a dystopian society of cannibalistic drug-crazed hippies!”) to 1950’s educational films featuring squeaky clean, pencil-stealing juvenile delinquents, it’s pretty much a given that what is presented to the listening/reading/viewing public bears as close a resemblance to the reality as Pringles do to actual potato chips.

There are numerous reasons for these popcult translation errors: laziness, cluelessness, personal axe-grinding, sensationalism by way of capitalizing on common misconceptions or preconceptions, or all or any of the above. Barring the most egregiously ugly or hate-filled examples, they can be highly entertaining and historically informative glimpses into the tectonic cultural shifts that shape our society. (Even the nastier stuff can possess a degree of educational value, but the entertainment factor tends to get lost amidst the overall tenor of the work.)

So when I was flipping though a copy of Young Love #112 (November 1974), and came across this page…

…I thought I was in for a rare treat. Brilliant, isn’t it? It’s so over the top, with the aspirations and ideologies of a heterogeneous movement reduced to some buzzwords and a “OMG, the wimminfolk are wearing pants and waging a jihad against the old order” message. I could totally envision a photocopy of it adorning the front cover of some feminist fanzine, circa 1990, as a bit of ironic (or perhaps not, depending on the ‘zine) appropriation. Based on the title and caption, I was expecting a hard-hitting and thoroughly bizarre exploration of the romantic lives of these new fangled “feminists.”

Instead I got this…

Nothing about why Nancy, the pants-wearing “tomboy,” felt the call to direct action or the root causes of her dissatisfaction, just the story of poor jilted Alex trying to come to grips with a love lost to that “crazy movement” called...feminism.

“Consider yourself lucky, Alex…at least you found out before you took the big step! Now if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to head back to my furnished bachelor apartment for a Hungry Man Salisbury steak dinner and unsatisfying masturbation to late night Cinemax!”

Does Alex engage in some serious introspection about why Nancy left him, and the implications of his behavior in light of modern egalitarian principles? Hell, no! He follows the advice of his creepy friend and hits the ground running in search of a “chick still willing to be female” (thus providing insight into reasons behind the radicalization of Nancy). First up, some bowling lessons with Sally, followed by a tempestuous fling with “gorgeous…intelligent…sophisticated” Franny, an artist who paints in the cutting edge style of mail order black light posters. Neither woman is able to scratch Alex’s itch, so he then turns to “outgoing” Louise, “bouncy” Sandy, and “old-fashioned” Maggi. Still, none of these lovely ladies with their suggestively euphemistic descriptions fit Alex’s exacting, yet unclear standard of perfection.

Just when it seems that shall be no balm in Gilead for our poor, promiscuous protagonist, who should show up unannounced at his door but Nancy, wearing a skirt and having come away from her foray into the world of gender politics with a new sense of her role in the world:

Enslavement by choice. It’s a kooky new world, people, can you dig it? (For a minute there I was worried for the fate of the patriarchy…)

The preceding two panels have been brought to you by Patronizing Obnoxiousness, just one of the fine products of the Condescending Asshole group of Traditional Values companies.

Linda Evans – He’s My New Love (from Beach Blanket Bingo, 1965) – From Check the Cool Wax’s much appreciated direct from the film rip of the soundtrack. It’s a nice bit of pop fluff, but I wouldn’t consider it the high point of Ms. Evans’ career. That honor would have to go to either this or this – I haven’t made up my mind on which. (Edit: The wise sage that is Retro Music Snob pointed out that the vocals were actually provided by Jackie Ward, session singer extraordinaire.)

Crass – Bata Motel (from Penis Envy, 1981) – Based on the events of the past few weeks, I suspect that a large segment of the superhero comics industry and fans of the genre would fail to see the irony in play here.

I’ve got love in my tummy

I watched the latest episode of Showtime’s Masters of Horror anthology series last night, and what promised to be an interesting premise ended up only confirming that the show has lost its way and whatever uneven charm the first season of the show promised. There have been a couple decent episodes this season. John Landis did a fine job with the darkly comic serial killer story, “Family,” and Joe Dante’s “The Screwfly Solution” was a interesting failure buoyed by the strength of its disturbing premise, a mysterious plague that induces violent behavior towards women.

It also hasn’t helped that the standards for being considered a “master of horror” have been lowered over the course of the show’s run. John Landis, Clive Barker, and John Carpenter? Okay. The guy who directed Fright Night and Child’s Play? Not so much.

Peter Medak, who directed last week’s episode, “The Washingtonians,” has an impressive enough resume, having directed episodes of Magnum P.I. and 1990’s excellent The Krays (featuring twin gangsters who terrorized 1960’s London with synth ballads like “True” and “Gold”), but little to commend him as a “master of horror” apart from his work on the 1980’s Twilight Zone series. Even the bona fide horror film directors involved have failed to bring their “A-game” to the project more often than not. Dario Argento’s second season effort, “Pelts,” elicited its horror unintentionally though a sex scene featuring a naked, hairy Meat Loaf.

Here’s the TV.com summary of “The Washingtonians”:

After his grandmother's funeral, Mike finds out an artifact in her basement could re-write the history of our nation. There are clues that suggest George Washington was in fact a cannibal, Mike must protect his family and escape from a band of Washingtonians, hungry for human flesh and willing to protect Washington's secrets.

Sounds pretty interesting, right? A grand historical conspiracy and folks eating people – what could go wrong? Quite a bit, actually, as the narrative flailed around between suspense film clichés, dark humor, and poorly developed political commentary and never really got the balance right. The notion of cannibalism as a metaphor for America’s rapacious appetite was already fleshed out (no pun intended) in Ravenous, and “The Washingtonians” lifted more than a little from that 1999 film. So much so, in fact, I had to double check the Internet Movie Database listings to see if it was a follow up effort by the same creative team. (It wasn’t.)

The problem with cannibalism as political metaphor is that it’s too facile, a cliché that even the most naïve college Marxist would hesitate to use on a placard. There is still strong story potential in the premise, but in order to make it interesting, one would have do a little research, extend the scope, and generally do a bit more than simply create a secret gut munching cult patterned after Boston-now-LA cult rockers The Upper Crust, then resort to a cute ending featuring a child uttering a profanity.

Oh, well. I should count my blessings. “The Washingtonians” was 100% free of sex scenes featuring Meat Loaf, so I can at least mark that in the plus column. It also inspired me to gather together this little smorgasbord of musical delicacies, cooked medium rare and served with a garnish.

The Ohio Express – Yummy, Yummy, Yummy (from The Best of the Ohio Express, 2001) – This song was written before the discovery that love was extremely high in trans fats and posed a hazard to the public’s health. The world has since learned to live with healthier love substitutes, although they can never get the flavor quite right.

The Flesh Eaters – See You in the Boneyard (from A Moment to Pray, A Second to Die, 1981) – Another album in dire need of a reissue. One of those records that left me feeling underwhelmed after the first spin, the unique mix of punk, deathrock, and new wave has grown on me over the years.

Anthrax (UK) – Capitalism is Cannibalism (from the Capitalism is Cannibalism EP, 1982) – Not the American metal band, but the British anarcho-punk act aligned with the Crass contingent of bands.

The Buoys – Timothy (from Timothy, 1971) – This catchy tune about devouring a colleague’s flesh was written by Rupert “The Pina Colada Song” Holmes, which makes me wonder if there’s a alternate version of that cheese pop classic out there featuring the lines “If you’d like eating human flesh at midnight/In the dunes on the Cape.” If there isn’t, there ought to be. This song was a minor hit in 1971, proving yet again that the Seventies were completely fucked up in the best possible way.

Oh, I suppose this post wouldn’t be complete without this blast from the past, so here you go: