Halloween Countdown: October 30 - this magic moment

I remember that day as if it was yesterday...

(From The Witching Hour #36, November 1973)
Almost seventeen years together and four years this day as husband and wife, and we owe it all to the Dark Arts!

(I kid. Maura is actually an animist non-traditional Catholic, which parses as "witch" to my Puritan-descended cognitive processes.)

Happy Anniversary, my Funky Foo! Even on those very rare occasions when things have been less than harmonious, they've always been interesting.

Combustible Edison - Bewitched (from the Four Rooms OST, 1995) - I don't particularly care for Tarantino's body of work, as I also possess worn copies of the Psychotronic movie guides and familiarity with the films he liberally cherry-picks his gimmicks from. I do appreciate fine vintage and contemporary lounge music (while despising the obnoxious lounge revival subculture), and this soundtrack album delivers the retrolicious goods.

Siouxsie & The Banshees - Spellbound (from Juju, 1981) - The creative wheels fell off the band with 1986's Tinderbox LP, but not before Ms. Sioux and Company recorded an impressive body of goth-pop-adelic gems which still stand the test of time.

waiting for the flash

Look at that sunavabitch go! Doesn't it just give you a tingly sensation all over, especially in the thyroid and reproductive organs? Since today happens to be the 63rd anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, I though it only proper to genuflect a little upon the event and its enduring legacy.

It was the ultimate product of the American "can do" spirit, the fireworks display that kicked off the beginning of the American Century (give or take a half-dozen decades). It showed the world that we had not only developed the means to end human civilization, but were also willing to use it if meant saving "a million lives" (or is that a billion now? Retroactive justifications are not immune to inflationary forces) or intimidating our uncomfortable Soviet allies with a display of overwhelming force upon a civilian target.


That last part worked so well that Joe Stalin's bunch of merry Bolsheviks wasted no time in acquiring some transuranic party poppers of their own, which wagered the future of the human race on a staring contest to end all staring contests. Fun times, indeed, especially for a kid whose global awareness was coming into sharp focus just as Ronnie Reagan decided to escalate the stakes in the name of God, country, and sweetheart defense contracts.

Flipping through issues of Discover and coming across absurdly cheery infographics about the science of the neutron bomb. Sneaking a peek at some of my father's National Guard manuals dealing with post-event assessment and body disposal. Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering if I'd be one of the dead or one of the living who envied them. (Knowing what I know now about the target-rich environment of Boston's suburban ring and the power-over-accuracy doctrine of Soviet warhead design, it's clear I'd have been in the dead category, as anything inside I-495 would have become part of Boston Harbor after a full-on nuclear exchange.)

At least it all worked out in the end, right? America won the Cold War, or so I'm told. (How did you spend your promised peace dividend?) History ended, and we now live in a peaceful neo-liberal hegemony overseen by the bestest nation ever. The specter of radioactive annihilation is a thing of the past, a completely justified phase that we've put entirely behind us.

Strongarm sales of ABM equipment designed to provoke the Russians? Official efforts to make the use of tactical nuclear weapons acceptable to the American public? The same conglomerates which are responsible for spiking energy costs attempting to exploit the situation in order to build more nuclear power plants? You must be thinking of some dark alternate universe, friend.


Synch up your Doomsday Clocks, cats and kittens! We're packing a musical MIRV primed and ready to deliver megatons of melodic enjoyment, and you're standing at ground zero! The party doesn't stop until the last payload drops.

Crass - They've Got a Bomb (from The Feeding of the 5000, 1978) - When you've got a massive stockpile of hammers, everything looks like a nail.

Dr. Strangelove & The Fallouts - Love That Bomb (from a 1964 single; collected on Atomic Platters, 2005) - This peppy little track (most likely a Laurie Johnson effort) was released to promote Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece of apocalyptic comedy. Go-go until you're gone-gone.

The Cure - A Strange Day (from Pornography, 1982) - A languid waltz to the shores of the abyss. The view from the edge is fantastic, I'm told.

The Epoxies - We're So Small (from The Epoxies, 2002) - Adieu, my fair synthpunkers! While I'm saddened to see you go, you've left a fine legacy of two outstanding albums, a handful of great b-sides and compilation cuts, and a not-so-good final EP.

Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup - I'm Gonna Dig Myself a Hole (from Gonna Be Some Changes: 1946-54, 2008) - A master bluesman goes underground, twenty-nine years before Paul Weller got the same idea.

there's still parties to be hosted

Amidst the trips to the home and garden store, the long sessions of Grand Theft Auto 4, and my ongoing existential crises, I seem to have let Armagideon Time's second anniversary pass by without marking the occasion. For some reason, I was thinking that it fell on May 11, the due date for webhost's annual bill. It wasn't until this morning that I remembered that I used free file hosting services for the first week of AT's existence, and that May 3, 2006 was the date of my first post.

Two years (and three days) of Armagideon Time, and all the awkwardly written posts, embarrassing personal revelations, and off-the-cuff musical selections that entails. Can you believe it? I'm having a hard time with the concept myself.

I honestly didn't think I had it in me to last a month, much less twenty-four of them, yet here I am -- two years older, not much wiser, and only feeling moderately burned out. And despite the occasional urge to pull the plug on the site and walk away, I do enjoy doing whatever it is I do here.

Even though the final written results rarely match my initial intentions, there seems to be a not insubstantial number of you out there who enjoy them nonetheless. I'm always taken aback when someone tells me that they follow AT because of the writing (rather than the prospect of getting some cool tunes) because I fairly well wince whenever I go back and read my crimes against clearly phrased English.

So, thanks, everybody (except Anonymous Q. Shitheel and that spam commenter who used to write epic poems about his digestive problems and the One World Order. Those two fuckers can go hang). Here's to the promise of a fresh new year of posts concerning my lackadaisical concept of dental care, self-conscious nostalgic reveries, and vintage Captain Marvel stories.

Now for eine kleine anniversary celebration repost musik:

Billy Bragg - Waiting for the Great Leap Forward (from Workers Playtime, 1988) - Folk rock and socialism!

David Bowie - Changes (from Hunky Dory, 1971) - Glam rock and diaper commercials!

White Heat - Nervous Breakdown (from a 1979 single) - Note-perfect power pop and hormonal angst!

do you remember when we met

Today we have yet another post commemorating a significant personal event, in this case the sixteenth anniversary of my first date with the woman who would eventually become my wife. Because our engagement lasted twelve years before we finally got around to legally formalizing our pairing, we tend to view December 7 as our "real" anniversary (not that we give October 30 short shrift -- any excuse to dine out is all right in Maura's book).

It's my fault, though, that the anniversary falls in the grim first week for December, and not a balmy day in late spring or early autumn. How I was to know that when a college classmate gave me her phone number and address on the last day of the spring semester, it meant she was interested in me? Or when she gave me (and only me) a present (a Bubblegum Crisis t-shirt from a con she attended) when I ran into her on the first day of fall classes? Or after she gave me a bunch of old punk and new wave buttons, records, and books...at which point I asked another girl in our collegiate circle out on a date?

"I wanted to punch you in the ribs so hard. I could hear the sound of them cracking in my head," Maura later told me, but the question is whether someone as osmium-dense as I was back then would have even registered the pain from such a blow. I was eventually saved by my own youthful obnoxiousness ("character flaw," my ascot) and things resumed their predestined course after a six-week interregnum.

Thus, on December 7, 1991, I found myself on sitting on a bench in Copley Plaza, reading King Solomon's Mines while hoping Maura would show up in time for the 7:00 PM showing of Beauty and the Beast. It was my first exposure to the chronic lateness that is my beloved's trademark as much as her strong sense of compassion and her ability to deliver a killer roundhouse kick are. But the old saying is true -- Good things come to those who wait.

Or in this case replace "good" with "the best thing that ever happened to me."

Club of Two, forever and always.

When working out the musical portion of today's post, my first thought was to go with the song that had been stuck in my head that fateful evening...

Blitz - Razors in the Night (from the b-side of the 1982 "Never Surrender" 7"; collected on Singles and Rarities: 1980-1983, 2001)

...which rivals anything by Bachrach and David in terms of romantic allure, but I was worried that it might give people the wrong impression. In the end, my wife and I each picked a song we felt best fit the occasion.

Maura went with Exene Cervenka's ode to love amongst the bohemian ruins...

X - Because I Do (from Under the Big Black Sun, 1982)

...while I opted to compound my retrological sins with this eighties cover of a 1959 Phil Phillips R&B hit by former members of a 70's rock supergroup (Led Zeppelin's Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, with ex-Yardbird Jeff Beck)...

The Honeydrippers - Sea of Love (from The Honeydrippers: Volume One, 1984)

...even if the wife is more partial to Plant's "In the Mood." Besides exceeding the recommended daily allowance of romantic dreaminess, the "Sea of Love" was also the first track on the inaugral mix CD I burned for my semi-trusty chariot, Super Lumina, and the song that played as I drove her off the dealer's lot and into the pages of history.

moola moola moola

Today is Jim Backus Day here at Armagideon Time.

Why? Why not? The man was a legend, up there with Paul Lynde and Vincent Price in the class of actors whose voices and trademark mannerisms are immediately recognizable to folks in my age bracket. I wouldn't pigeonhole Backus as a character actor, per se, as he did excellent work (Rebel Without a Cause, Deadline U.S.A) outside the parameters usually associated with that label. It was his knack, however, for portraying old money patrician types that would bring him the most fame, specifically his role as the jovial yet shifty uber-capitalist, Thurston Howell III, in the syndicated juggernaut that is Gilligan's Island.

Backus's talents shone bright in that loathed and adored legendary sitcom, where he provided a rare source of wit amidst the stock gags and gimmicky slapstick (not that I'm opposed to that sort of humor, but it does get tiring after a while) that dominated the series' three-season run. "A Howell never runs in the face of danger...he walks very fast." Yeah, it's nothing that Oscar Wilde would have lost sleep over, but Backus's skill in delivery made even such comedic coal sparkle like diamonds. Plus, there are few things that can bring a smile to my face like Thurston Howell's faux native warchant -- "Moola moola moola!"

Backus's other claim to popcult immortality, as the man who provided the voice for the optically challenged Mr. Magoo, has largely faded from the public consciousness, partially (and justifiably) due to the cartoon's insensitive treatment of ethnic minorities and the visually impaired. (The irredeemably awful live-action movie starring Leslie Nielsen based on the property didn't help, either.) That said, I consider Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, which almost completely dispenses with the near-sightedness gags, to be the finest adaptation of the Charles Dickens classic ever made, and the best animated holiday special, too. (Angry fans of the Peanuts Christmas special, please form a line on the right. Angry Rankin-Bass cultists please from a line on the left. All complaints will be resolved via my steel-toed left boot.)

Toward the end of his career, Backus dwelled in the standard character actor ghetto of kiddie fare, voiceover work, and lesser roles in even lesser projects. He set the precedent for harassing (as a prospector in the Grand Canyon) vacationing Brady brats which Vincent Price would later follow (as an archeologist in Hawaii). He played a comically inept white separatist militia leader in Greydon Clark's T&A cash-in feature (and future MST3K fodder) Angels' Revenge. And most importantly, he served as the villainous foil to a robotic crimefighting dog in C.H.O.M.P.S., which I bring up because it was a frequently-played favorite of mine in those bizarre early days of basic cable. (I saw it again recently on one of the Encore channels, and wept openly over my younger self's poor sense of judgement. Great theme song, though.)

He was also in Crazy Mama and Friday Foster, so it wasn't all bad...

A talented man across many venues -- stage, screen (large and small), radio -- Backus also recorded a couple well-received novelty singles in the the late 1950's.

Delicious! (from Golden Age of American Rock'n'Roll: Special Novelty Edition, 2003) - A Dr. Demento favorite, this dipsomanical delight is credited to "Jim Backus and Friend." There's been much speculation over who the friend in question actually was, with Hermione Gingold's and Phyllis Diller's names being put forth (and rebutted) as possible candidates, and it's more than likely the real truth has been lost to the ages.

As wonderful as "Delicious!" is, it doesn't hold a candle to Backus's follow-up effort..

Cave Man (from a 1959 single) - This has made the music blog and bootleg compilation rounds already, but if you haven't heard it already, here's your chance. Backus grunts, quips, and puns (and I strongly suspect is mostly ad-libbing) his way through prehistory backed by some good ol' fashioned 50's pop music. Bizarre and highly entertaining in the way a good novelty record ought to be.

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

I'd also like to mention that Progressive Ruin, "the swampiest comics blog since 1969," is celebrating its fourth anniversary today. "PR" or "ProgRu" or "that one blog by the guy who runs a comic shop, no, not THAT guy, the other one" is a consistently entertaining example of comics blogging done right, and Mikester is the closest thing the scene has to a Johnny Carson.

To extend that analogy:
Dorian Wright = Dick Cavett
Kevin Church = Steve Allen
Dave Campbell = David Letterman
Bully = Jack Paar
Chris Sims = Arsenio Hall
bitterandrew = Thinks he's Conan O'Brien, but is actually Chevy Chase

Anyhow, a big congrats to Mikester for hanging in there and keepin' on keepin' on when so many others have fallen by the wayside.

The Super Stocks - Ventura (from Surf Route 101, 1964) - Inspired by the So-Cal paradise where Mikester maintains his hidden lair.

and in the middle of the celebration

Today marks the nineteenth anniversary of my mother's death. She was 37 -- two years older than I am now -- when she took a fatal tumble down the attic stairs.

Ordinarily this would be my official day for gloomy introspection, but I've got the infuriating drone of workplace chatter and office Christmas party planning to keep me distracted (and extremely irritable). There's a reason why I usually stay home on November 30th...

(It's just as well, I suppose. I don't think I could articulate my feelings about my mom and her passing better than I did last Mother's Day.)

The Beatles - Golden Slumbers\Carry That Weight (from Abbey Road, 1969) - I still have my mom's copy of Abbey Road in my record collection, making it one of the rare few artifacts that survived the chaos which followed her passing. It's not my favorite Fab Four LP -- I'm more of a Rubber Soul man -- but its sentimental value is such that I find myself giving it a bleary-eyed spin or two as this time of year approaches.

My mother was also a big fan of Prince. Thankfully, those records did not survive the Great Upheaval.

Halloween Countdown: October 30 – she loves her mate as he loves her

On this day in 2004, my girlfriend and I got married after an extended (as in "twelve-year") engagement. It was a very odd and exciting time, occurring within the temporal vale between Maura's birthday and Halloween, not to mention under the sign of the Red Sox 2004 World Series victory (an auspicious omen, if ever such things did exist). To be honest, I really don't remember much of the proceedings on that rainy Saturday afternoon, just some stray moments and flashes that were vivid enough to impress themselves on my subconsciousness through the adrenalin-fueled haze.

I do remember the following day, with my morning spent gathering up essentials from my old place to bring to the house on the hill that would become our home for then on out. Unfortunately, it happened to be the day when Woburn's annual Halloween parade was being held, and I was forced to detour through two neighboring towns to actually get to the new house where Maura was waiting for me. We did a little unpacking, made a quick trip to purchase some essentials, then bought some takeout which we ate on the couch while watching horror films on a 12-inch placeholder TV and handing out candy to the occasional trick-or-treater.

Better than a honeymoon in Oahu? Absolutely, and much cheaper, to boot.

Three years have passed. My wife and I have settled in nicely, our "Club of Two" is as strong and exclusive an organization as it has ever been, and the Sox have swept their way to another World Series victory.

I love this time of year.

Happy Anniversary, "Girl"!
X - The Hungry Wolf (from Under the Big Black Sun, 1982) - The couple that preys together stays together.

Shane MacGowan & Sinéad O'Connor - Haunted (from The Snake, 1995) - The wife and I had this better-than-the-original re-recording (with MacGowan's backing band, The Popes) of a Pogues track from the Sid and Nancy soundtrack played at our wedding reception.

I said "He's kind of shy/But that's the kind of girl I am/He's my kind of guy" -- that pretty much sums us up as a couple, I think.

Halloween Countdown: October 4 – red dawn crazy crazy

It might seem odd to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Sputnik launch in a Halloween countdown, but, hey, if it's good enough for Stephen King...

In the opening chapter of Danse Macabre, King's ruminations on the history and mechanics of the horror genre, he recounts his childhood memories of the announcement that the Soviets had placed the first artificial satellite in orbit. From his perspective, it was an event as momentous and harrowing as the Cuban Missile Crisis or the Kennedy assassination, which may seem a hyperbolic reaction to a polished sphere containing a simple radio transmitter, but historical context is key here.


The terror wasn't about the crude device lofted into orbit as much as the delivery system that put it there. The Soviets had proven they had the means to successfully launch a ballistic missile, and so quite literally seized the tactical high ground in the Cold War arms race. Jet bombers had limited range and could theoretically be intercepted. (There was a Nike anti-aircraft missile site not too far from my grandmother's childhood home on the Woburn/Burlington line at the time.) An ICBM, on the other hand, could hit Muncie, Indiana just as easily as it could hit Seattle, with a next to zero chance of being knocked from the sky en route.

(This hasn't stopped the military-industrial complex from pissing away billions in trying to create a "missile shield", even though anything short of a 100% success rate would be fundamentally pointless. A successful interception would be poor consolation to the residents Hartford if both the Boston/Route 128 region and New York City had been transformed into fallout-belching radioactive craters.)

The Sputnik launch did mark the crossing into a new frontier, but intertwined with the visions of jet cars and lunar vacation excusions was the notion that Cold War geopolitics and the associated anxieties thereof had extended their reach across the entire planet -- an additional sense of dread in an era rife with panics, moral and otherwise.


Sigue Sigue Sputnik - Rockit Miss USA (from Flaunt It! 1986) - The launching of Sigue Sigue Sputnik caused much dread in those concerned about CFC's and the hole in the ozone layer.

Skip Stanley - Satellite Baby (from a 1956 single; collected on The Ultimate 50's Rockin' Sci-Fi Disc, 2003) - SHAKE YOUR ASTEROID!

...and just so no one accuses me of straying from the musical aspect of the Halloween theme month:

dok-u-ment - Live in Fear (from New Wave Complex, Vol. 9) - Nearly ten minutes worth of oppressive and dark synth. Googling turned up next to nothing on dok-u-ment, except that they were probably from Germany or thereabouts and that this track came from a cassette release, which would explain the why it sounds so muddy. (Personally, I think it just adds to its claustrophobic atmosphere.)

the king is dead

(This is a slightly tweaked version, featuring different songs, of last year's tribute to The King. I'm not reposting it out of laziness, but because I found myself writing the same damn thoughts down on this year's anniversary of his death. I also have a dentist appointment today, and while being doped up on painkillers might give me insight into the man and the legend, it's not really conducive to well thought out writing.)

Today marks the thirtieth anniversary of Elvis Aaron Presley’s death. On August 16, 1977, the King’s heart, weakened by years of drug abuse and too many deep-fried sandwiches, gave out as he squatted on the toilet in his palatial estate; an absurd yet mythic death for an absurd yet mythic figure.

It is Elvis’s role as a mythic figure that fascinates me. It is a tragic tale of celebrity and success, ruin and rebirth set against the backdrop of the American Century and the concurrent rise of mass consumer culture. A talented poor boy makes it big, only to fall prey to his own voracious appetites, the destructive counsel of self-interested handlers, and a hunger for wholeness that could not be sated by conspicuous consumption. Elvis’s story serves as the Platonic form embodying the distorted sense of perception which accompanies the loftiest peaks of celebrity status and amassed wealth.

I wonder how things would have turned out for the King he hadn’t spent over a decade tied up (thanks to his predatory manager, Tom Parker) making progressively awful films with even worse musical numbers. Set free from the stifling confines of his marketing-dictated persona and given access to some the first-rate songwriters and innovative musicians of the sixties, who knows what direction his career could have taken?

While he had no particular love for the Beatles (and bitched about their “anti-American” attitudes to Richard Nixon), Elvis saw Welsh crooner Tom Jones and Brill Building alumnus Neil Diamond as his rivals in the mid-to-late 60’s, suggesting grand pop inclinations consistent with his marvelous post-Hollywood output (“Suspicious Minds”, “Burning Love”). Despite being the seminal figure in the creation of rock’n’roll, Elvis never inextricably locked himself into the genre that way other early rock’n’roll and rockabilly artists did, preferring to see himself part of the broader tradition of pop vocalists.

Today's featured musical selections feature The King at his trancendent best and embarrassingly worst.

Elvis Presley - Trying to Get to You (from The Sun Sessions CD, 1990) - The Sun Sessions is the Elvis album, as far as I'm concerned. It's a series of historical moments (and outstanding songs) captured on acetate, refreshingly free of the foul dust that floated in the wake of his dreams.

Elvis Presley - Dominic the Impotent Bull (from the Stay Away, Joe OST, 1994) - "Milkcow Blues Boogie," it ain't. Hold it, fellas. That don't move me. Let's get real, real goofy for a change.

There's some question as to the actual title of the song. The soundtrack to 1968's Stay Away, Joe remained unreleased until 1994, when the film's songs were tossed onto the collected rerelease of the music from Kissin' Cousins and Clambake, where "the Impotent Bull" (really, the best thing about the song) was shed in favor just plain "Dominic."

two small horns and a wooly jaw

Happy 2nd Blogoversary, Bully!

Keep up the good work. This one is dedicated to you, my little stuffed friend.

-

Bad Manners - Wooly Bully (from Ska 'N' B, 1980) - I have no clue why this album is out of print, but then much of what record companies do mystifies me.

I couldn’t leave her if I tried

Has it really been a year? Wow.

This post marks the first anniversary of Armagideon Time. When I launched this project on May 3, 2006, I was certain that I wouldn’t make it through six weeks before I got bored and packed it in. I came close on a couple of occasions, but there always seemed to be someone around at just the right moment to whisper words of encouragement and praise in my ear.

It took me a while to find my voice. When I started off, I tried my hardest to force myself into the role of a music critic and historian, but it was never an easy fit and I eventually gave up trying. Then, in an Archimedes-in-the-bathtub moment, I hit upon the notion of doing “theme” posts, and I started to hit my stride. Besides, I’m somewhat ambivalent about formal music criticism; I enjoy reading it when it’s done well, but it’s a rare occasion when overly detailed analyses manage to capture what makes a given piece of music a success or a failure, especially when lensed though the many-fold prism that is “personal taste.”

Given the choice, I’d rather just relate a personal anecdote, popcult reference, or random factoid to set the tone, and let the music speak for itself. I think this approach works, based on the fact that there are a hundred of you who make the effort to visit the site on a regular basis. (“Only a hundred?” you may ask. I’ve never been comfortable with being proactive on the self-promotion front, so the growth in readership has been an organic affair, helped along by the occasional kind mention here and there. Or you can see it as a bit of cyber-gnosticism, a hidden little cabal where the cool kids hang out but need to find the hidden doorway before entering the clubhouse. It’s also why I don’t beg for comments.)

I’m amazed whenever someone cites Armagideon Time as a positive example of or a favorite music blog, especially when the person giving the praise is able to codify what the heck it is I’m doing when I myself am not sure most of the time. Assessing a project from the trenches is hard to do, and it’s very comforting (and flattering) to discover that maybe, just maybe, I’m not completely making a terrible mess of things.

So, yeah, a big thanks to everyone who helped this blog make it as far as it did: the readers, fellow bloggers (as represented in the “Other Places of Note” links in the sidebar), and most importantly, my wife Maura, who has been patient and supportive regarding the whole project…even if she will never understand why Shampoo’s “Trouble” is such a great song.

No particular theme for this momentous occasion, just a small assortment of tracks culled from my “Current Favorites” Winamp playlist.

The Clash – Kick It Over (from Singles Box, 2006) – My favorite of the two 12” dub mixes of “Armagideon Time” The Clash recorded.

Benny Goodman – Sing, Sing, Sing (from Greatest Hits, 1996) – Yeah, it’s the one bit of swing jazz that everybody knows, but it still gives me chills each and every time I hear it. It’s also one of the few songs where “drum solo” doesn’t mean “slow, painful torture.”

The Monkees – I’m a Believer (from More of the Monkees, 1967) – I make no apologies. I’m a pop functionalist; the internal processes involved in production don’t matter, only the end result.

The Wall – When I’m Dancin’ (from a 1982 12” single, collected on No Future: Punk Singles Collection, Vol. 2, 1997) – Note-perfect punk pop, made all the more special because I discovered it unexpectedly on a collection of so-so UK82 band b-sides. The wife and I had it played during our wedding reception.

Oh, I am a dog

On February 2, 1979, John Simon Ritchie, aka Sid Vicious, died of an overdose. For many a young punk rocker, Sid was a hero and role model. My wife thought he was the berries, tried to imitate his look, and named a pet rat after him. Even I had a couple t-shirts and practiced imitating his trademark sneer (also cribbed, along with Sid's spiky hairstyle, by Billy Idol) in my dresser mirror, although I identified more with Johnny Rotten’s vitriolic rage and Joe Strummer’s revolutionary idealism.

As I've gotten older, and arguably wiser, I’ve lost my taste for the self-destructive strain of adolescent nihilism Sid embodied. The hyper-romanticized myth surrounding his life and death has crumbled away, leaving only the story of a sad, pathetic kid getting lost inside an assumed public persona and a drug-induced haze. It’s the Elvis Presley story as written by Charles Bukowski, complete with needle tracks, a dysfunctional and violent romantic pairing, and the brutal death of a lover in a seedy NYC hotel.

I have a friend who reminds me a lot of poor Sid, perpetually doomed to try and live up to a self-created role that he is fundamentally unfit to play, but will never cast aside though it will ultimately end up destroying him. People die easier than myths do.

Sid Vicious – Something Else (from a 1979 single, collected on Flogging a Dead Horse, 1980)

give us this day all that you showed me

I do a lot of autobiographical and personal anniversary posts on Armagideon Time. For one thing, they’re a convenient frame to cobble some relevant tracks together when I’m feeling lazy. Plus, it has become clear to me that this site has turned out to be more Laurence Sterne than Greil Marcus in tone -- an unending stream of digressions and observations set to music. Based on the traffic logs and user feedback, I guess it works well enough.

Fifteen years ago, on December 7, 1991, Maura (my lovely wife and co-conspirator) and I went on our first date. We saw Beauty and the Beast at the Copley Plaza cinema, and ate greasy pizza at Quincy Market afterwards. (I remember Maura telling a Margaret Dumont-like matron at the next table over that her fur coat looked like a dead dog carcass.)

We parted ways at the Orange Line entrance across from North Station. She gave me a goodnight peck on the cheek, and I crossed Causeway Street to wait for the commuter train back to Woburn. I spent the next half hour on a cold wooden bench trying to concentrate on reading the King Solomon’s Mines paperback I had brought with me, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying the night events and analyzing them in minute detail.

The Partisans – White Flag (from The Time Was Right, 1984) – The tracks on the studio side of this exceptional LP deal with themes of betrayal, compromise, futility, and frustration. Fitting, considering the album was released while the once vibrant 80’s Britpunk scene began to collapse in on itself. “White Flag” is the sole exception, a love song couched entirely in military terminology.

Ultravox – Hymn (from Quartet, 1982) – One of Maura’s favorites, this track has a strong anime feel to it, evoking images of azure-haired, big-eyed mecha jockeys scrambling to face down the planet-killing dreadnoughts of a sinister alien empire. The song shares its melody with the Zones’ 1979 powerpop song, “Mourning Star.” The Zones evolved out of Silk, a Scottish 70’s teen pop outfit that Ultravox frontman Midge Ure had been also been a member of before joining the Rich Kids and, later, Ultravox.

it's alright, Ma, I can make it

(I wrote the following piece last year on this date. The number of years has been updated to reflect the passage of time, but the rest of the sentiments still stand.)

Today is the eighteenth anniversary of my mother's death. I knew I was going to make note of that here, but until a few moments ago I wasn't sure how.

I debated typing out the full events of that day, since even the smallest details been permanently etched into my gray matter, but that seemed pointless. Yet replaying those small details in my head (I wore a Yankees t-shirt. I ate a sandwich made from homemade bread for lunch. My art teacher gave me a lame lecture about joining the Army.) made me realize one important thing:

That day, probably the worst day I've ever lived through, began like any other day, but by midnight, my entire life had been upended and permanently changed.

It's probably the most miserable object lesson ever, but it's one that has stuck with me through the years. Live in the now. Appreciate what you have while you can, because a shitstorm can strike at any moment and take it all away. My mother just wanted to go back to bed and sleep off a port wine binge, and ended up lying on the attic landing with her head cracked open.

Belly – Stay (from Star, 1993)

The Monkees – The Porpoise Song (from a 1968 single, collected on Greatest Hits, 1995)

Roger McGuinn – It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) (from the Easy Rider OST, 1969)

We’ll raise a glass to JFK

On this day in 1963, President John F. Kennedy had his date with destiny (and a rifle bullet) in Dallas, Texas.

I have mixed feelings about the man and his legacy. My parents revered the man, whose election presidency symbolized the unbridled promise of a new decade and a new generation of leaders. My father especially took JFK’s vigorous brand of Cold War liberalism to heart, and to this day will not tolerate any criticism of the man.

As I grew older, and my political awareness developed, the notion of JFK as a saintlike figure I inherited from my parents was gradually eroded away, not from the right, but from the left. I held onto my parents’ progressive idealism, but moved toward a more radical antinomian perspective. The nuclear sabre-waving over a fictitious “missile gap,” the Bay of Pigs fiasco, and the shenanigans that set the stage for America’s futile and protracted engagement in Vietnam -- not to mention the sleazy alliances with corrupt party machines and mob-front labor organizations – paint a much darker picture of a president I had been taught to believe was the Ideal Democrat.

Such is the danger of idolatry; it’s far better to acknowledge the “warts and all” from the get go, rather than deal with the shocking disappointment over clay feet down the road. I had professor in college who tried to reconcile his Chomskean politics with affection for JFK by insisting that had Kennedy lived, he would have turned on the CIA and military-industrial complex. That’s why he was assassinated, according to my professor. His argument struck me as an attempt to buttress a collapsing façade with Popsicle sticks, but it also demonstrated the manner in which JFK captured (and retains a hold on) the imagination of that generation.

The Misfits – Bullet (from Static Age, 1978/1997) – “Texas is the reason that the president’s dead.” It makes better sense than either Oliver Stone’s or James Ellroy’s explanation.

Human Sexual Response – Jackie Onassis (from Fig. 15, 1980) – Yet another band tainted by mental association with a former girlfriend of mine. It’s a shame because they’re really good and they were from Boston (which is always a plus with me, unless the band in question is Morphine or Extreme).

The Pogues - Thousands Are Sailing (from If I Should Fall From Grace With God, 1988) – JFK is only mentioned in passing, but I remembered it’s been almost seventeen years to the day since I first saw the band live at the Opera House in Boston, and felt like commemorating that event.

Halloween Countdown: October 30 – sometimes it takes a nip at me

Today my wife and I celebrate the second anniversary of our wedding. The event itself was a pretty low-key affair, the five months previous having been entirely taken up with the extended ordeal of buying and refurbishing our house. The logistical nightmare involved in dealing with the affected cluelessness of the previous owners, the abrasive pushiness of the real estate agent (not the woman who showed us the house, who was a total peach, but her superiors in the firm), and the bank (which were hesitant to sink a few hundred thou in a property that was a shade seedier than Ed Gein’s old place), pushed all other concerns to the background for much of the summer of 2004. My future wife refused to even think of planning the wedding until all other issues were resolved.

Even though the wedding and reception plans were cobbled together at a very late date, things went surprisingly well. We booked the Goddard Chapel at Tufts University for the ceremony and found a nice Unitarian minister to officiate over the proceedings. Our original plan for the reception was just to invite folks back to my in-laws’ house for a small party, but my wife’s father generously stepped up and booked us a function room at a classy Italian restaurant in North Cambridge. We made the centerpieces ourselves from skull and pumpkin candle holders and plastic flowers purchased on the cheap at a local craft store. Keeping with the Halloween theme, my wife got Dia de los Muertos bride and groom figurines for our cake topper.

She wore a blue silk Chinese dress with a silver tiara. I wore a black suit with a sombrero, red satin sash, bolo tie, and tanker boots.

I handled the reception music duties, and burned four CD’s of our favorite songs (punk, new wave, oldies, Irish music) to load into the hall’s sound system. (The random playlist kicked off with “Pretty Vacant,” to our mutual amusement and joy.)

While we were too buzzed on the excitement to take it all in, everyone seemed to have a good time. The best comment about the night came from my sister-in-law’s friend who said, “Only and Maura and Andrew’s wedding would the bride dress in Chinese costume and the groom as a mariachi band member, and the reception held in an Italian restaurant with Irish music on the loudspeakers.” We are citizens of the world, my wife and I, though the verdict is still out on which world.

To commemorate that momentous day while meeting my Halloween theme obligations, here is an appropriate track plucked from our reception music playlist:

Sparks – Eaten by the Monster of Love (from Angst in My Pants, 1982) – Wonderful quirky pop from the new wave leg of the Mael Brothers’ ongoing musical odyssey, this song was put to excellent use in 1983’s Valley Girl.

no one will guide you

This is my 100th post on Armagideon Time.

I began this blog in an attempt to actually do something remotely productive with my time, instead of just coming home from work and playing videogames until I passed out. There were no great ambitions behind my starting it. It just seemed like the easiest of several contemplated projects to do; posting and commenting about various tracks from my collection beats trying to come up with well reasoned commentary about comic books and/or politics on a regular basis. If my writing is shit, at least there’s the music as a consolation prize for the reader. It sure beats a case of Turtle Wax and a copy of Armagideon Time: The Home Game. (“Here’s a random song! You have thirty seconds to come up with a tangential, yet somehow relevant soundbite! Go!”)

I have zero pretensions about my role here. I’m not a bona fide music critic in the commonly understood sense, nor do I aspire to be one. The tenets of that particular mystery religion are incomprehensible to me and, I suspect, most of its current practitioners – a consensual mass deception carried out by scores of would-be Lester Bangs and Greil Marcuses too wrapped up in self-importance to admit they have no fucking idea what they or any of their peers are rambling on about.

Outside the gates of the old North Woburn dump was an old concrete foundation, a relic of the old tanneries, where unscrupulous sorts would dump their junk to avoid dealing with the sanitation authorities. The trash that ended up in there wasn’t of the household dustbin variety. Most of it was shit cleaned out of attics, basements, or gutted and abandoned houses. It was a paradise for a ten year old boy, providing he didn’t poison himself messing around with the sacks of arsenic that occasionally popped up in pile. Old magazines (yes, including porn rags), beat-up toys and games from previous decades, and sleds (plastic and wooden – there were a lot of these in there, for some reason) were the most common finds. Once I found two albums of postcards, used and unused, some with rare stamps attached, dating back to the 1910’s that had once belonged to a family of wealthy world travelers. My mother’s jaw dropped when she saw them.

My intent for this site has been to carry on that childhood work. Think of it as dumpster diving for a digital age. I hope you’ve enjoyed it so far.