Because every little tidbit helps.

Hello, and welcome. We at BLURT figure that, after leaks, we get a couple days’ jump on new music—and why not pass that on to our readers? Each week, I’ll dig up the good stuff and give you a leg up on hipster cool. You know, ‘cause because every little bit helps. Check back throughout the week for reports on upcoming releases, chart updates and a retroactive leg up on albums you may have missed.

We Vs. the Shark: Dirty Versions (Hello Sir, July 1)

We Vs. the Shark live, work and record in Athens, but they look northward to the nation’s capital, taking inspiration from pretty much the entire Dischord roster as well as the usual DC acts like The Dismemberment Plan and Q and Not U. Their aptly titled second album is all momentum: Songs careen headlong into choruses, then veer sharply and messily across emphatic guitars and barked vocals before breaking into abrupt shout-outs or jams, as if Peter Falk were behind them yelling “Serpentine!” To capture the energy of their live shows, the band recorded the album in two short days, presumably with the volume set to ear-bleeding. I got $50 on We.

On repeat: “I Am the Contempt Machine”

Brazilian Girls: New York City (Verve Forecast, July 29)

Neither of the words in this band’s name is quite accurate. There’s only one woman in the band, and she’s not Brazilian, but a Franco-Italian-Austrian who lives in America (guess where). As usual, their third album is a studiously global affair, drafting Senegalese vocalist Baaba Maal for “Internacional” and singing every song in a different language. On “Ricardo” and “Good Time” this polyglot aesthetic sounds like an end in itself, but at least New York City brings back some of the Eurotrash decadence missing on their previous album, Talk to La Bomb.

On repeat: “St. Petersburg”

Wire: Object 47 (Pink Flag, July 15)

The title of Wire’s eleventh album—their first since 2003’s Send—suggests some angular, nonrepresentational piece of AbEx sculpture, the kind that rejects all attempts to name it anything other than what it is. Which is more or less the case. Object 47 is Wire’s 47th release, counting albums, EPs, and compilations. That means it comes with context intact: Even as the band work not to retread well-trod ground, these songs feature the same sociopolitical songwriting and tense interplay between drums and guitars as on previous albums. That’s a good thing. So are Page Hamilton’s (Helmet) blasts of feedback on closer “All Fours.”

On repeat: “Hard Currency”

Nico Muhly: Mothertongue (Brassland, July 22)

You may have already heard composer Nico Muhly this year on All Is Well, Samamidon’s lovely reimaginings of immigrant folk songs. (If you haven’t, you should.) Mothertongue, Muhly’s second album and first for Brassland (run by members of the National), is divided into three acts. First, Glassy Mothertongue features mezzo-soprano Abigail Fischer delivering a litany of barely intelligible voices—the aural equivalent of that green Matrix coding. The Wonders suite sets passages from The Travels of Sir John Mandeville to melody, dismantling the tune as it proceeds. Amidon shows up on the Only Tune suite, relating a murderous tale against Muhly’s refractive backdrop. Sure, it’s highly conceptual, but there are enough odd sounds and strange textures to make it accessible even to those who don’t usually venture into composer territory.

On repeat: “Wonders: I. New Things & New Tidings”

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington, DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

POP. FOR REAL.

There is such a thing as good pop.

When the June issue of Real Simple arrived, I tore through it, my inner (and hopefully hipper and better dressed) Martha Stewart unfettered by the wistful yet impractical thoughts that such [read more…]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Chuck Eddy dusts off his old vinyl and scratches his head. We all win.

Greetings, BLURT readers. This column’s theme is fairly simple: Basically, I sort alphabetically through my shelves for dusty old 7-inch vinyl indie singles from acts that aren’t household names, and try to figure out why I wound up keeping them in the first place. The first two installments appeared at Idolator.com; this month, I pick up in BLURT where I had left off.

***

BROKLYN BEAST “March of The Oil Barons”/”The Vampire Strikes Back” (Broklyn Beats, 2002): Clearly there’s a concept of historical importance here, not to mention a craft project: The label – featuring a photo of George W. Bush with fangs drawn on his face — is not actually on the disc, but rather on a sticker inside the sleeve, ready for the listener to cut out and apply. “Since United Records wouldn’t print our label you get to do it yourself!,” exclaims a Brooklyn-addressed press release, which I also tucked into the sleeve. That same one-sheet explains that the record is “a one-off experimental breaks project with production by label heads doily and Criterion,” and calls the music “hard dub and chug fun for the summertime,” which overstates matters somewhat: I hear skipping vinyl noises, cartoon-like sound effects, distorted scratch sounds, all switching gears and shaped and repeated into a clanging facsimile of a rhythm. Sort of reminds me of the early works of U.K. industrial band Test Dept. The flipside is equally repetitive, but faster, and even more disruptive, with abrasive horn-sample additives. An intriguing curio that tries to answer the question: “How far from what people think of as music as you can go and still maintain a recognizable beat?” Not quite this far, but maybe close. (www.broklynbeats.net )

THE BUNNY BRAINS/DESIGNER American Swiss/Cheese Single (LHG, 1996) I saw clamor-crazed Middle Atlantic combo the Bunny Brains play live a couple times (rabbit outfits were involved once), and I should disclose that one of their principal participants, Dan Seward, is the brother of my very good friend Scott Seward, the funniest metal critic on Martha’s Vineyard. Also, I should note that Scott once helped name one of their songs (on their 1995 Beach Bunny Bingo 10-inch EP) “Bring Me the Head of Trent Reznor (Chuck Eddy Mix),” and in 2000 they put out an anthology entitled Sin Gulls: Goring St. Eddy. Other than that, though, I honestly have no connection with them at all, and I’ve never been able to keep straight their apparent feud with some phony group of alleged Bunny Brains alumni who also claim to be the Bunny Brains. Or used to. Or something. Anyway, they split this four-song 7-inch with a Swiss band, and I only realized just this second that both sides weren’t by the Bunny Brains! The two Designer songs on the “Swiss Cheese” side are “My Favorite Toy” and “Beach Bum”; the former has a silly falsetto vocal lightening the horrendous heaviness of some slowly accelerating Flipper-style guitar sludge, while “Beach Bum” actually brandishes some semblance of surf guitars beneath its strangulated Gibby Hayes (of the Butthole Surfers)-style vocal. The “American” (as in Bunny) side soars 80 miles high in “1000 Years Ago” and digs appropriately into some Amon Düül sci-fi fuzz before getting cut short in “Space Noise Symphony  3 (1^st Movement).” Strangely, the Swiss side does not have more holes in it. (www.myspace.com/thebunnybrains )

CHEETAH CHROME & MIKE HUDSON “Downtown Beirut”/”Nothin’” (Or, 1995) I knew Cheetah Chrome was the Dead Boys (and, before that, Rocket From The Tombs) guy, of course, but I might not have remembered that Mike Hudson was the Pagans guy if I hadn’t received a frequently entertaining 159-page memoir by him called Diary Of A Punk: Life And Death In the Pagans last month. Still, these are clearly Clevelanders aging in New York, and they made a way better single in 1995 – almost two decades past their primes – than most would have predicted. “Downtown Beirut” has the sort of hard and lowdown post-Stooges guitar scritch that I would have called “grunge” before that word got codified into a clearly defined genre, and it seems to be about survival in a war zone – love in the middle of a firefight, Vietnamese babies on their mind, that kind of thing. “Nothin’” chronicles a war zone of its own: “just another junkie out of Avenue C,” watching his back for brothers who’ve been hunting for him. “You used to get what you asked for/But not anymore/And I’m just trying to score,” vamping down to a spoken-word section about quitting, giving up. “Baby, I got nothin’/You got nothin’, too.” In 1995, Avenue C was still a good place for the people in this song. Not anymore, though. (www.cheetahchrome.net )

COCOCOMA “6 ¼ - 125”/Take My Time” (Goner, c. 2006) Recorded December 2005 in their hometown Chicago, so my release-year guess can’t be too far off. Either way, this speedy, muffled nugget is the sort of revisionist garage punk that genre addicts pretend rocks harder than it does simply because it’s so inept and incoherent, and it’s got a Mad-type drawing on its sleeve to match (quaintly old-timey handlebar-mustached soldier handing a bomb to a baby in a stroller). You know the routine: sounds like a first take, and isn’t necessarily better for it. The A-side’s title is pronounced “six and a quarter, one twenty five,” and what saves it are gang-shout harmonies trying to sound inebriated, and the fact that it’s over before you can get too annoyed; some apparent sax blat doesn’t hurt. “Take My Time” is even less of a tune, with audible but incomprehensible vocals. Over a whole album, the shtick would get oppressive (and when I heard this band’s CD, it did just that), but at single’s length the slop makes for a halfway diverting novelty. (www.myspace.com/cococoma)

NIKKI CORVETTE ”Love Me”/”What’s On My Mind” (Rapid Pulse, 2003) In Detroit, Nikki is something of a new wave legend, and these are the same sort of hard-popping, glam-riffing, sugar-sweet bubblepunk crush trifles she’s made on and off since the late ‘70s, when her three-girl Corvettes served as a missing link between the Runaways and Go-Gos. “Bonkers boogie from the new wave Betty Boop,” a Detroit News critic raved in 1979. “If Marie Osmond were a juvenile delinquent.” Bomp reissued 16 early Nikki and the Corvettes toons on CD in 2000, and a nifty comeback disc called Back From Detroit came out on Dollar Record Records in 2006. This single, Detroiters will be ashamed to hear, was recorded in Minneapolis and released in Connecticut. But both songs are still innocent come-ons, equipped with super duper hooks just like always -- Nothing more, nothing less. And judging from the three photos included, Nikki still looks adorable. (www.myspace.com/nikkiandthecorvettes )

Chuck Eddy is the former music editor of the Village Voice and the author of several books, including the greatest book on heavy metal ever written, Stairway To Hell. He won’t admit it, but he knows more about rock ‘n’ roll than the entire accumulated BLURT brain trust.

[Pictured: Bunnybrains, Nikki Corvette]

A Column on the Rescued and Reissued

To kick things off we start at the top, with recent reissues on four legends from the worlds of soul and country: Willie Nelson, Buck Owens, James Brown, and Otis Redding.

Icons of Soul and Country

One Hell of a Ride, a four-disc set just issued by Columbia/Legacy (www.legacyrecordings.com), is the first compilation that aims to span the entirety of Willie Nelson’s now five-decade-plus body of recordings. It could probably only have come about as a result of the relentless consolidation that’s been a feature of the major label world of late; whatever the uses and disadvantages of that state of affairs, the result here is the ability to compile an overview that dips into and plucks from Nelson’s work on nearly all of the labels he’s spent time with, from Liberty to RCA to Atlantic to Columbia to Island to Lost Highway. The set starts at the beginning with the first song Nelson ever recorded, “When I’ve Sung My Last Hillbilly Song,” and then bookends to a close with a 2007 re-recording of the song, issued here for the first time (the comp is otherwise devoid of previously unreleased material). In between, it largely succeeds in representing the multifold aspects of Nelson’s long and restlessly prodigious career. There’s a nice sampling of his early recordings for Liberty (many in the Ray Price style but, even then, always with Willie’s own distinctive stamp), of his wilderness years with RCA followed by his breakout and outlaw success at Columbia, of his duet recordings with Waylon and with a seemingly unending stream of country (and other) legends, of his tax-debt record and his left turns with Island during the 1990s. Even Willie’s misbegotten reggae record gets a nod with the inclusion of his version of “The Harder They Come.”

Buck Owens put out a ton of live records: six in the U.S., and three more in overseas markets, including “Live” In Scandinavia, which came out in Norway in 1970. It was his fifth live release in as many years; all but one of those have been reissued by the Sundazed (www.sundazed.com) label’s comprehensive Buck Owens preservation project. For all their frequency, Owens wasn’t simply churning out carbon copies; each of his live discs has its own distinct character. And ”Live” in Scandinavia is different than all of the counterparts that preceded it in offering a snapshot of what a Buck Owens show had become circa 1970, rather than just documenting Owens and his Buckaroos in concert. Buck doesn’t even take the stage on the record until it’s half over; the first half is given over to the “Capital Caravan Show,” that is, Buck’s version of the classic country package show. So we hear right-hand man Don Rich and the Buckaroos warming up the crowd with several tunes (including not one, but two of the Band’s songs), followed by Buck’s son Buddy Alan, still wet behind the ears in the music business (and it shows) and then the Hagar twins, who inject some goofing into their Bakersfield twang. The star of the show arrives and basically does a selection of hits that are compressed into medleys before being joined by son Buddy and the Hagars for a couple of tunes. The upshot is less Buck, but more of a sense of what it was like to see a Buck Owens show.

Hip-O Select (www.hip-oselect.com) is now up to its fifth double-disc volume in its James Brown complete singles project, and by the end of this installment (The Singles Volume Five: 1967-1969), it’s still only 1969. Now the series is really getting to the prime stuff, to singles with which the Godfather would delineate the meaning of funk — “I Got the Feelin’,” “Goodbye My Love,” “Say It Out Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud),” “Licking Stick - Licking Stick,” “Give It Up or Turn It a Loose,” to name a few — along with classic R&B throwbacks like “You’ve Got to Change Your Mind” and scads of funky, bluesy, and soul-jazz instrumentals. There was room for all of it, because Brown was putting singles out at a prodigious rate — 20 or so 45s, sometimes two a month, in the 16 months covered by this set. The singles are arranged in chronological order of issue, rather than recording date (although that information is also provided for those who wish to program), which may not serve to illustrate Brown’s musical development per se but has the virtue of mirroring the way his audience heard Brown’s music develop. It can also remind us of the context in which that audience heard songs such as “America Is My Home” and “Say It Out Loud,” the former of which, recorded a full year earlier, Brown chose to issue as his first single following his famous appearance at the Boston Garden the night after the assassination of Martin Luther King; three months later, he answered the criticism that “America” had stirred up by putting out “Say It Out Loud.”

A Georgia product like James Brown, Otis Redding followed Brown’s footsteps out of the Macon chitlin circuit to wider success. The reissue mavens at Rhino (www.rhino.com) have given the arche deluxe treatment to Otis Blue/Otis Redding Sings Soul, arguably the finest album (if only because his premature death precluded further opportunities) from one of the greatest of soul singers (a status secured in spite of that premature death). The record with which Redding hit his stride and came into his own, it gave the world soul standards (“I’ve Been Loving You Too Long”), re-defining covers (Sam Cooke’s “Change Is Gonna Come,” B.B. King’s “Rock Me Baby” and, especially, Redding’s turnabout-is-fair play co-optation of the Stones’ “Satisfaction”), and one song from which even greater things would come (with ’Retha’s reworking of “Respect”). This double-disc version comes billed as a “collector’s edition,” and that’s truth in advertising. What you get is a thematic expansion of the original. The bulk of the set is taken up by the mono and stereo versions of the LP. It’s filled out with related singles and B-sides, a couple of alternate versions or mixes (including a pounding, sped-up 1967 studio version of “Respect” that is simply mindblowing) and live versions of album material plucked from the In Person at the Whiskey A Go Go and Live in Europe albums. It’s a fitting treatment of a monumental soul record, but likely one that only collectors and serious genre devotees will find sufficiently attractive to shell out for.

Stuart Munro moved to Massachusetts from the Great White North over 20 years ago. He still likes living in America, where people continue to tell him that he seems familiar, yet somehow strange. A tip of the hat to the fine folks at Miles of Music (www.milesofmusic.com) for allowing him to resurrect the title of this column.

[Pictured: Willie Nelson, by Don Hunstein/courtesy Sony BMG Legacy]

SEE THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

Good luck, Senator Obama.

What am I to make of this place? In the words of Eliot, “How shall I presume?”

I am driving to Madison, Indiana, a ways off the interstate. The two-lane winds between lush farms. The livestock looks healthy and well bred and the machines all look brand new, pickups, cars, tractors, balers, bush hogs, riding lawnmowers—especially the ones which are ridden exclusively by older white guys. Some of the lawns exceed the four acre mark, but every inch is mowed. One of my bandmates remarks that these are some lawn-cutting sons-of-bitches out here. My friend, Leslie Silko, once referred to Texans as, “The People of the Lawn,” but Texans would have to do some serious irrigation to get lawns like these. Nice place they got here. And, they've got the necessary mowers and the gas to put in them.

They're prosperous, and, judging by their billboards, they're also religious, and they're… pissed off. One sign reads, “Your New Age Christ according to Oprah, will not save you.” Another says, “Heartbeat: Eighteen days after conception.” Yes, I'm sure most mothers’ hearts are beating eighteen days after they conceive. The next day, on the way down to Louisville, I see a billboard that reads, “Saturday, the true Sabbath, changed by the Antichrist.” One pickup has a “Terrorist Hunting License” window sticker with a picture of Osama Bin Laden, or maybe just some anonymous A-rab in the crosshairs.

These were my people once. I was never a Hoosier, but I was, and still am, related to middle Americans. They weren't always so angry, or so violently Christian. Someone has convinced them that they are in danger and that only Jesus and George W. Bush can save them. With Senator Clinton bowing out, Senator Obama will now have to try to win these people over. Good luck, Barack.

Of course, Hillary would have had a hard time with this lot too. Her husband, an Arkie, could talk the talk, but even he was branded by the gun press as “Handgun Control, Inc.”

Just you watch. No one will want to be called racist, so many rural Midwesterners, economically strapped from eight years of Bush policy, will still say they can't vote for Obama because he's a Democrat and therefore not totally committed to preservation of the second amendment as we now know it, as if any president would have time to mess with the Second Amendment in the current economic climate. No, when they say they can't vote for Obama, their real reason is that he's black, plain and simple.

Now, the Republicans get to run a former POW against a black man, and we all know they're rejoicing. I know Clinton shot herself in the foot when she "misspoke" about the sniper fire in Bosnia. The Republicans didn't have to engineer her downfall as they did Edmund Muskie's in 1972. But, I'm still haunted by the words of the Deep Throat character in All the President's Men: “They didn't want to run against Muskie, they wanted to run against McGovern, so look who they're running against…"

Look who they're running against now.

Good luck Senator Obama. You now have my vote.

Singer-songwriter James McMurtry lives in Austin, Texas. When he’s not touring, you can see him at the Continental Club every Wednesday, ‘round about midnight. His latest album, Just Us Kids, is out now on Lightning Rod Records.

Reading is fundamental, and finding a good book is as good as locating that great album in the used record store. Harry Crews and Jonathan Lethem are as cool as David Bowie and Devendra Banhart, right? Each week, alongside our various and sundry music tips, BLURT’s gonna blow you toward good reads, music-related and otherwise. First up: a little of both.

LOOKING AT LIT RIFFS

A short story collection that reinforces the songwriters’ constant entreaty to ‘Never mind what my song is about—what do you think it means?’

For most of us, a goddamn great song (and maybe even the gawdawful ones) will knit together a little narrative in your head every time you hear it. You can’t help it. Your brain will construct a story and try to figure out what the song is about, maybe conjuring something far afield from what the songwriter intended, but hey, once inside the cranium it becomes your song and all the gray matter packed beneath that bad haircut you’re currently sporting can pretty much have its way with the tune.

That’s the idea behind Lit Riffs (Pocket Books/MTV Books, 2004), a book I just came across at Borders after cruising through a half-dozen clearance bins of publishers’ scat like Rachael Ray cookbooks. In Lit Riffs, great writers—such as Jonathan Lethem, Aimee Bender, Neal Pollack, and so on—offer up stories based on songs. My fave so far is Tom Perrotta’s “Dirty Mouth,” inspired by Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.” (You know Perrotta—we can thank him for the ambitious resume-builder Tracy Flick in his novel Election, played to terminal perkiness by Reese Witherspoon in the movie by the same name.) Perotta’s tale is about swearing. Cussing. Four-letter words. And the linguistic S&M that occurs when kids start throwing those gems around. Good stuff. Reminds me of the time my mom blistered my backside for screaming, “Frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a damn!” to a rival gang of seven-year-olds across the street. If I could go back in time, I’d kick my own ass for yelling that.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

A DVD blog for inveterate couch potatoes.

Greetings, spuds. For the inaugural installment of Live from the Couch, we’re gonna look at two DVD releases concerning the venerated, beleaguered band Joy Division. 

Frontman Ian Curtis was only two days away from taking Joy Division on a US tour when he committed suicide in 1980. The group that was next in line to be crowned Britain’s “Best Band in the World,” and the tour may or may not have put them over the top, but his death made them immortal. Based on the book by Curtis’ widow (Deborah Curtis, played by Samantha Morton) and directed by video auteur Anton Corbijn, Control (Genius Products, 122 minutes) takes a distinctly feminine perspective, painting Curtis as a conflicted husband/father and selfish sod. Shot in B&W—the cinematic equivalent of pressing on vinyl—Corbijn meticulously recreates the Joy Divison’s TV appearances and live shows, while actor Sam Riley does a spot-on impression of Curtis’ droning vocals and epileptic choreography. Control is as brilliantly unglamorous and working-class as the one-bedroom flat Curtis died in.

            Extras: Corbijn contributes a feature commentary and separate on-camera interview to go along with a Making Of featurette and collection of Joy Division music videos.          

Grant Gee’s documentary Joy Division (Genius Products, 96 minutes) is much more than a companion piece to Corbijn’s Control; it’s essential viewing to balance out the story. While the shadow of Curtis’ death looms large over the proceedings, there’s little here about the domestic drama that drove him to suicide. Joy Division looks at the big picture, made up of interviews, bootleg concert footage and TV appearances. From their formative years as Sex Pistols posers to rewriting punk rock diction—the rebellious “fuck you” agenda evolved into a more reflective “I’m fucked” in a matter of three short years. Gee gathers the remaining members of the band, along with Factory Records founder Tony Wilson, to relate the facts and lets the music speak for itself.

Extras: Over 75 minutes of additional interviews and a music video for Transmission.

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America— Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.

WIN OR LOSE, OBAMA HAS HELPED SALVAGE AMERICA'S REPUTATION

I write this entry from a diner in the heart of London's East End, where I have recently taken up residence after living nearly my entire life in my beloved hometown of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA.

Being a recent transplant to Europe I feel it appropriate that my virgin blog entry on Blurt address an issue intertwined in both American and European society. That being the case, why steer clear of the personal? Let's cut straight to the bone and look at why when I say, "I'm American," approximately three-quarters of Europeans get a look on their face that says, "Excuse me while I swallow down the little mouthful of vomit that just crept up my esophagus."

As an American with joint Irish/American citizenship I started going to Europe on a regular basis about seven to eight years ago. In my early days of trekking around various European countries most people I encountered along the way almost seemed to sit up straight as an air of interest and excitement beamed from them upon learning that I was from the USA. This was especially true directly after 9/11, when Europeans seemed to swoon over me and beam gushers of sympathy and encouragement on me after learning that I was an American, or what one Englishman referred to as, "A victim of those heartless bastards hiding out somewhere in a cave of Afghanistan."

But those were the good old days, when it seemed the entire world was in sympathy with the USA. It didn't take long for Uncle G-Dub and Uncle Dick to f that up. The more the US took on the look of an Orwellian nightmare rather than the beacon of freedom, equality, and hope, the more European's soured on the USA. All of a sudden people were asking me, "Are you a fan of George Bush?," suspicion in their eyes. "And how do you feel about Iraq?" Yep, the Iraq war wrecked America's reputation with Europe overnight.

I wish I could say that Europe's sudden disdain for America was limited to our president, that they were thinking, "The American people are A-OK friendly folk who fell victim to the manipulation of GW...," but it isn't that simple. Millions of Europeans, conservative and liberal, young and old, poured onto the streets in protest of the US-led invasion of Iraq because it was so obvious to them that George Bush, Condoleezza Rice, Donald Rumsfeld, Colin Powell and company were full of total b.s. in arguing that Iraq was a threat to the rest of the world. "If we can see it," pondered Europe, "why can't the people and the Congress of the USA see it? What the hell is wrong with them?

Why aren't they out in the street in the same numbers we are? After all, it's their kids who are going to fight and die for oil and to enrich the pockets of Bush and his cronies." You see, Europe's attitude wasn't that the invasion of Iraq and the behavior of the USA pre- and post-invasion was a case of an administration gone out of control, Europe's attitude was that an apathetic, ignorant and lazy America allowed a bunch of criminals to do whatever the hell they felt like doing.

I'm sorry to report that I had become so accustomed to the rolling eyes of Europeans as I acknowledged being from the U.S. that their skeptical attitude toward my citizenship hardly phased me anymore.  However, that changed recently when people started asking me a new question, "What do you think of the black guy running for president? Barack Obama?"

Hmmm...  This is a new one! I thought to myself. Interesting...

And so it was that I noticed a new attitude creeping into the psyche of my European brothers and sisters. 

Regardless of how he performs as president (if he happens to reach that lofty office), one thing Obama's candidacy has done almost instantaneously is improve the image of the United States in the eyes of many Euros. Hillary Clinton's candidacy helped too, as Europe witnessed what seemed to be a breakthrough in America's patriarchal old-white-guy-running-the-country culture. But Hillary is very much viewed in Europe as the Old Guard. And having voted for war, her image in Europe is not what it might be if she were more of a Washington outsider. Furthermore, the true symbol of social progress in America for many Europeans lay in the history of America's civil rights era of the 1960's; highlighted in particular are the images of police dogs mauling peaceful African American activists, the courage of Rosa Parks, the inspirational vision and oratory of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X. After witnessing an illegal invasion of another nation, Gitmo, state sanctioned torture, extraordinary rendition, the refusal to join a international ban on cluster bombs, the abandonment of numerous nuclear weapons treaties, and a stick in the eye of the international community on the issue of the environment, an African-American running for president and having a significant opportunity to win the office resonates in the hearts of Europeans like the low hum of a Dutch-engineered windmill power station.

The reality is that European's see Barack Obama as a spit in the face to George Bush and his America. They see America's support of Obama as a sign that just maybe America is waking the hell up; that America finally realizes that the direction GW has steered the ship and consequently the world, is straight for the rocks on the shoreline. Bush is a madman bent on war, Obama is a diplomat who would do everything possible to avoid war. Bush can hardly form a complete sentence, Obama is articulate and eloquent. Bush's mind is vacuous and empty, Obama's mind is forward thinking and rational. Bush is dumb, Obama is smart. Bush is white, Obama is black.

The latter point sums it up nicely. To Europe it is as plain as black and white. Bush represents a belligerent, ugly America. Obama represents the idealized American Dream that is legend in European hearts; an America that does not judge a person based sex, religion, class or color, an America that lives up to the lofty ideals it has symbolized for so many years.

So is that enough of a reason to vote for Obama?  In my eyes it is not the reason, it is one of many reasons--but that's a topic for another entry. For now I'm just happy to report that Obama has already delivered in one respect. And I suddenly feel a flicker of hope in my heart when people ask me what country I come from.

Justin Sane fronts the originally Pittsburgh-based punk band Anti-Flag.

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

Today we’ll take a look at some upcoming books you may want to check out. Keep in mind that some of these may not be worth a quart of lukewarm monkey jizz, but they have the potential to be pretty good reads. Emphasis on potential. Consider yourself warned: Don’t blame me if these things turn out to be ossified dog turds between covers.

Join Together: Forty Years of the Rock Music Festival, by Marley Brant (Backbeat Books, released June 15)

If the sum total of your knowledge of rock festivals begins and ends with Lollapalooza, it’s time for a little history lesson. And a swift kick in the ass. Author Marley Brant provides the former, and I’ll provide the latter (just shoot me an e-mail and we’ll line that up). Yes, Altamont and the Woodstocks (the original and the pale imitators) are here—along with the lesser-known music fests. This book is touted to put the festivals in their proper social context. Now you’ll know why Altamont was such a glorious fuckfest of fists and felony arrests.

Goodbye 20^th Century: A Biography of Sonic Youth, by David Browne (Da Capo Press, released June 14)

Worshipers at the altar of Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon should get a kick out of this bio, complete with never-before-seen pics and a slew of interviews with Sonic Youth bandmates, hangers-on, and friends of friends tangentially connected to the band. The book will reportedly be a fairly exhaustive account of SY from the early days on the Lower East Side to today.

The Gospel According to Bruce Springsteen: Rock and Redemption, from Asbury Park to Magic, by Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz (Westminster John Knox Press, released June 16)

Uh, make that the Reverend Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz, pastor of the First Parish Universalist Church of Stoughton, Mass. This book joins similar titles by Westminster John Knox—part of the publishing arm of the Presbyterian Church (USA)—examining the roles of pop culture icons in shaping faith in America. Or something. Previous titles in The Gospel According to … series focused on the Beatles and (wait for it … wait …) Oprah Winfrey. But you have to admit that the blue collar ballads of The Boss have a certain spiritual appeal, and are far more interesting than another reading of Leviticus. The good Rev. Symynkywicz analyzes this intersection of faith and music—so if you’re a militant atheist of the Christopher Hitchens mold, you probably won’t dig it. Otherwise, it may just fill a gap in your collection of Saint Springsteen scripture.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

ILL PENICILL’

Sometimes a moldy oldie is the best medicine.

Generally, this Blurt blog (Blurg? Shoot me.) will look months ahead to get a sense of highly anticipated albums, but every once in a while, I’ll look back at an older album that I’ve recently discovered or rediscovered. Or, hell, just something I found in the $1 bin. Don’t hold me to this, but I’m going to try to keep it older than a decade and fairly obscure. Nothing like “Hey, remember Funeral?”

Team Dresch

Personal Best

(Chainsaw Records, 1995)

I went through a riot grrrl phase for a few weeks last year, trying to get my head around a genre I didn’t countenance too much the first time around. So I dipped into Bikini Kill, Bratmobile and early Sleater-Kinney (that self-titled album… not so hot), but Personal Best stuck with me beyond that early burst of interest. It’s one of those albums that could inspire a dissertation on queer identity and feminist politics. There’s even a line that goes “Half of this is me and I’m not sure who the other is,” “other” being an academically loaded word. But who wants to read a dissertation on a Friday? These songs wouldn’t have stuck with me—and I wouldn’t be writing about them now—if Team Dresch hadn’t given them so much emotional heft and desperate viscerality. Opener “Fagetarian & Dyke” admits early to career misgivings, wondering if ten years of little sleep and Smiths rip-offs was worth it; the verses are urgent, melodic, almost diaristic, but the choruses abruptly loud, messy, cathartic. There’s fury in their populism, as they lace those excoriating guitars with pop-song ba-ba-ba’s on “She’s Crushing My Mind” or Breeders-style B-side jangle on “Freewheel.” Only “#1 Chance Pirate TV” doesn’t survive the 13-year interval between then and now, but it was designed to be topical: Referring to an event three years earlier, the lyrics imagine a television station that shows Sinead O’Connor ripping up the Pope instead of lame late-night skits. Personal Best ultimately lived up to its name, a rock album that looms large over its genre (if not, sadly, over the ‘90s in general). Even removed from that context, though, it still rages eloquently.

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington, DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

A VOMIT-LIKE VIBE

What's in a name? Everything and nothing.

In the first installment of Hamell on Trial's YAP video blog, Ed Hamell riffs on King Riff: scruffy, venerated, dearly departed music scribe Lester Bangs.

BLURT knew a Hamell blog—initially meant to be text-only—would be something special: his own brand of blurt. His raucously intelligent songs and stage banter are uncommon, to be perfectly plain, and we knew he’d fit us like a new pair of socks. This was even clearer in our initial discussions about the blog, where Hamell inferred from the BLURT name that we’re going for a more honest, immediate take on the music magazine format. 

In the clip, Hamell characterizes this as a “vomit-like vibe.” We like that, ‘cause it’s what we aim to give you, chunks and all.

Isn’t that where quote-unquote music journalism is headed, into the hands of any chimp with a keyboard and the wherewithal to start a blog? It’s a return to the purest form, the junction of word-of-mouth and “influence.”

But what is influence, and what’s it worth? Back in Lester’s day, it was still pretty much (albeit decreasingly so) about that one guy in your circle of friends who had his ear to the ground, listening for the big sound. Lately, the “form” has devolved to something slightly better than catalog copy. Record reviews in some publications are as short as 40-50 words. What, really, can be said about the music in that much space? You can’t even read between the lines when reviews are reduced to “it sucks or it don’t.” (Either a record label’s wet dream or nightmare.) And frankly, some of it seems bought and paid for.

But then, should we be persuaded by long-stemmed, flowery prose like on some music blogs? Or the petulant, douchey ravings of one who thinks he’s fit to be a sweat stain on Lester Bangs’s T-shirt? Different strokes—you decide.

For our part, we’re gonna shoot for the sweet spot, split the difference between the two, and give you intelligent spew. Which, one supposes, is what Lester did—just on a plain that will forever remain just out of our reach, but thankfully not our comprehension. But while BLURT holds the Bangs canon in high esteem, and acknowledge his influence on music writers everywhere, we're not trying to cop his dope-ness. Who can?

Nobody. Lester Bangs was one of a kind, hatched from a broken mold.

And he sure wasn't Donald Trump. That is to say, we're pretty sure he'd be outraged at any attempt to copyright a word or phrase, even for his own use. Nor would he see a need to do so. Neither do we.

We’re just gonna be here doing our thing and hoping you dig it. And what, exactly, is our “thing?” Here’s a portion of a discussion we had with Hamell, where he explained his intended direction with this video blog, and it became clear that he gets BLURT.

“Why isn't there a rock mag that appeals to my demographic? Why were Creem, Uncut and Grand Royal “special,” at least initially? How [do we] not insult the readership's intellect? How do we differentiate the mag from the nine million other mags out there with a foot in the past, present and future? So... I've come up with something that appeals to me both on a creative and aesthetic level.”

Blurting is intrinsically human and non-exclusive. You are BLURT.

(BLURT lovingly dedicates this to Jeffrey Morgan and Steven Wells. Mwah!)

Ed Hamell picked up the guitar at age 7 and started writing songs not long after. In his early 20s, Mr. Hamell was the front man and writer for an original band, but local bands were a dime a dozen in the tough, working class neighborhoods in Syracuse, NY. So he launched a one-man act called Hamell on Trial. Six albums (plus a live one) and countless shows later, Hamell himself is one of a kind. Catch him on tour this summer in the U.S., Canada and Europe.

STRAIGHT TALK ABOUT BAMMY

Disinformation gives you the real deal on dope.

Let’s make a list of the greatest influences on rock music. We’ll want to throw the blues on the list, along with gospel. And teen angst—hormonal and otherwise. Oh yeah, and drugs. Can’t forget the dope.

Narcotics have been responsible for more good, bad, and indifferent rock songs than just about anything else (attention songwriters: I’m still waiting for that generation-defining song about knocking off a Walgreen’s for a handful of OxyContin). And dope has also been to blame for ushering a fair number of quality musicians into the afterlife. Add to that the United States’ complicated and contradictory relationship with the stuff and you’ve got a recipe for disaster: the U.S. “war on drugs”—a seriously misguided attempt to fix a problem by bludgeoning it to death with a tire iron.

Recently I snagged a copy of Under The Influence: The Disinformation Guide to Drugs (2004, The Disinformation Company Ltd.), edited by High Times contributor, musician, DJ, and journalist Preston Peet. Peet’s book includes an ensemble cast of cops, commentators, academics and old-fashioned rabble rousers, all writing succinctly and eloquently about the FUBAR manner in which law enforcement, the justice system, politicians and the public all approach the so-called “war on drugs.” It’s a good book to have in your arsenal for those late-night, booze fueled (my drug of choice is in liquid form, ladies and gents) arguments with the conservative Republican inbreeder who showed up at your party uninvited. Toss him a couple of toddlers to chew on (after all, they eat children, don’t they?), crack open the book, and begin your spiel. You’ll be ignored, but do it anyway.

A disclaimer: I’m in no way advocating drug use. I’m simply arguing that it’s inherently idiotic to send a 60-year-old ex-hippie to San Quentin for selling bags of bammy out of an Airstream trailer. And the government will seize the Airstream and the land it sits on as part of the bust—they’d snag the old hippie’s soul if they could figure out how to do it. It makes no sense to throw non-violent offenders into the clink for participating in an underground economy. Under the Influence lays out some pretty rational arguments along these lines—and more.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

SING-ALONGS ALL AROUND

Let’s do what John Mellencamp says and get a leg up, get a leg over, boy. Here are three upcoming releases we think you should know about.

The Hold Steady: Stay Positive (Vagrant, July 15)

“Our songs are sing-along songs,” Craig Finn sings in the very first verse of the very first song on the Hold Steady’s new album. And sure enough, almost every song here sounds specifically designed to get fists pumping, lighters flying, audiences singing. All the need is one of those cool hand signs that Van Halen used to have, the one with the thumbs and index fingers touching and the pinkies extended. Work on that, guys. Stay Positive may not live up to the impossibly high standards of the previous two albums, but that’s almost like saying the Holy Ghost needs to hold up his end of this whole Trinity bargain. Ultimately, there are enough killer choruses and urban details to compensate for non-essential songs like “Yeah Sapphire” and “One for the Cutters.” “The sing-along songs will be our scriptures,” Finn decrees on the title track before breaking into a sing-along chorus like it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

On repeat: “Stay Positive”

David Vandervelde: Waiting for the Sunrise (Secretly Canadian, Aug 5)

David Vandervelde is obsessed with styles much older than him. On his full-length debut last year, he filtered English glam (specifically Marc Bolan) through Midwestern power pop (specifically Cheap Trick). From there he widens his range to take in very different ‘70s sources, namely Peter Frampton and Seals & Croft. As a whole, Waiting for the Sunrise is a better soft-rock exegesis than Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky, with much less noodling to boot. Like The Moonstation House Band, it’s a bit more re-creative than interpretive, and despite its August release date, it’s actually a pretty good summer album, perfect for lounging on the porch and letting the summer breeze blow through the jasmine in your mind.

On repeat: “I Will Be Fine”

Perhapst: Perhapst (In Music We Trust, Aug 19)

The promise of a solo album from Decemberist John Moen prompts a thousand drummer jokes, including the one with the punchline “Hey guys, why don’t we try one of my songs?” None of the other Decemberists took the bait, but Stephen Malkmus did (Moen is a former Jick). I didn’t know a guitar could arch its eyebrows. Despite a weak falsetto, Moen proves just as playful as his former bandleader, whether he’s putting extra quote marks on opener ““Quote,"” cribbing from the Traveling Wilburys on “Maryanne,” or singing sha-dooo ahhh over and over on “Incense Cone.” The results aren’t as bad as the joke predicts: Moen writes strong indie-pop hooks like they’re punchlines to his own in-jokes.

On repeat: “Harbour”

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington, DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

A POST MORTEM ON TWO PRE-FAB COMEDIES

Fool’s Gold lives up to its name; The Bucket List actually kicks a little booty.

Since it’s a slow week in the world of independent/underground/alternative cinema, let’s dissect that particular brand of Hollywood product known as the “pre-fab comedy.” Epitomized by the likes of Wild Hogs and anything starring Matthew McConaughey, the pre-fab comedy is a cheap slut dressed up like a high-class whore. There may be some curb appeal, but you get what you pay for. In the case of a Fool’s Gold (PG-13, Warner Home Video, 112 minutes), you’re lucky if that’s not some sort of cinematic STD.  

The pitch probably sounded good: Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey are a pair of bickering tropical treasure hunters whose marriage is rekindled by their wacky exploits in pursuit of a fabled shipwreck. Check that—it still sounds like the ass end of a late-night run for the border. But Hudson is hot in a flat-chested sort of way. And McConaughey specializes in this sort of “himbo” horseshit. Yet the very definition of the pre-fab  comedy is that all the work was done before the cameras even rolled. It’s all in the packaging; details are for critics and auteurs.

Still, it’s hardly worth mocking a movie that’s this intent on embarrassing itself. From McConaughey’s record-setting shirtless performance (honestly, even porn actors don’t find this many excuses to go bare-chested) to ex-Cosby kid Malcolm Jamal-Warner’s brilliant career makeover as a Rastafarian gangster, Fool’s Gold is a treasure map of potential Razzie Award moments. That being said, while the comedy is about as fresh as a Jeff Foxworthy HBO special, the action scenes are shot with more realistic verve than the new Geriatric Jones adventure. So, pat yourself on the back boys.

But just as a double-wide can make the perfect home for a new family and their Bob Seger-series Hummel figurines collection, a pre-fab comedy can hit the spot if the conditions are right. The Bucket List (PG-13, Warner Home Video, 97 minutes), bottomed-out for me before it even hit theaters, with its cutsey ad campaign pitching the idea of two terminally ill buddies (played by two terminally overexposed actors, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman) who hit the road to live out their dreams before they die. You’d think that Nicholson setting off on this philosophical journey would resonate with the Easy Rider generation who watched him do the same thing on the back of a motorcycle 40 years earlier. But those selfish bastards sold their children for Humvees and hi-definition TVs. Don’t trust anyone over 60, man.

Morgan Freeman lays down a foundation of reassuring voice-overs while Nicholson paints the whole thing his usual shade of crazy. But there’s some meat left on the bones of Justin Zackham’s script, even after director Rob Reiner got done picking it clean. Amidst the sap and sentiment, both actors find a couple of moments to escape the blueprints and play someone other than themselves for the first time in a few movies. And in Hollywood’s pre-fab subdivision, that’s like putting pink flamingos in your fucking front yard.

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America— Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.

YOU WOULDN’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M ANG LEE

As with Ang Lee’s Hulk, Louis Letemier’s The Incredible Hulk relies heavily on CGI—but it doesn’t suck.

As a theater filled with moviegoers applaud after the end of Universal’s The Incredible Hulk, I think they were just grateful that they didn’t have to sit through Ang Lee’s awful 2003 version. By that standard, this green-eyed Hulk is definitely a better experience. Gone is the Oscar-winning director, replaced by French filmmaker Louis Letemier (Transporter, Transporter 2), also gone are actors Eric Bana (so brilliant and yet he couldn’t save Hulk) and eye-candy Jennifer Connelly, replaced with Edward Norton and Liv Tyler.

Picking up 158 days after the last film ended (that’s the number of days Ed Norton’s Dr. Bruce Banner has gone without “incident”), the scientist with major anger-control problems finds himself hiding out in Rio de Janeiro’s abounding favelas. Considered property of the U.S. military by General Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross (played stiffly by William Hurt), the film’s first act includes a blistering, action-packed chase through the streets of Rio as the soldiers, led by Emil Blonsky (Tim Roth), on loan from Britain’s Royal Marines, get their first look at the not-so-jolly green monster.

From there, I guess you’re supposed to ignore plot holes and simply enjoy the rollercoaster ride. Cool cameos and a not-so-serious approach help this Hulk movie come across as a better fit than the last feeble attempt. This, being a superhero-filled summer, I suppose were just expected to gorge on popcorn and candy and not ask any questions.

Roth, hardly an intimidating force at 5’7” does a great job playing Blonsky, an English mofo determined to kick some green ass. Willing to do whatever it takes; Blonsky eventually transforms into the “Abomination” mutant to take on the Hulk. But that’s where the film falters a bit as the climatic ending comes across as no more than a CGI-fest. Sure, CGI effects have come a long way from Jurassic Park, yet most of these action films never quite seem to measure up to the presence of those scary onscreen raptors. But if all you crave out of your summer blockbusters is over-the-top action, then you’re in luck.

Oh, and there’s a surprise cameo appearance by Iron Man himself, Tony Stark, a/k/a Robert Downey Jr., at the end. Actually, the surprise was blown in the Incredible Hulk trailer, which made all the fanboys wet themselves at the hint of a possible Avengers movie. Always leave them wanting more.

Jose Martinez is a Los Angeles-based journalist with more than a dozen years experience covering news, film, music and sports. Out and about every night, he's at home in dark clubs and theaters, and shuns the daylight when possible.

STRIPPING IT DOWN

'Nuff said.

As an industry insider, whining, while overrated, is mandatory. So here goes: radio sucks, labels are greedy, people have no taste, musicians are short on talent, and yes, Ticketmaster is demonic. Wah [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

What do a bag of crack, an expertly scripted porn flick and a strawberry shortcake have in common?

Last week, I recommended Under the Influence, a look at the “war on drugs” from 30,000 feet. Want to get down to ground level and get a sense for what the “war” does to people? Check out Eric Schlosser’s Reefer Madness: Sex, Drugs and Cheap Labor in the American Black Market (Mariner Books, 2004). Granted, the whole book is not dedicated to the topic, but the section of the book Schlosser dedicates to the legal, political, and judicial twists of dope enforcement will make your skin crawl. Schlosser is a top-notch journalist—and he gets down and dirty with folks whose lives have been seriously fucked by a legal system gone haywire. The rest of the book—with sections on immigrant farm workers and the porn industry—makes for compelling reading as well. Schlosser chronicles the lives of real people caught up in each of these facets of an underground economy that is more far-reaching, profitable, and stable than today’s politicos would dare admit. Hell, with drugs, sex, and strawberry pickers in one book, how could you go wrong? I know I’ll never look at a bag o’ crack, an expertly scripted porn flick, or a strawberry shortcake the same way again. (P.S.: I’m combining all three in a special Schlosser-themed party at my house next Saturday. Come on over.)

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

RECYCLE, REGURGITATE, RESURRECT

Reconstituted classics and quasi-zombies.

Sometimes it’s best to just grieve and move on. When Matt Groening’s second TV progeny, Futurama, passed away quietly during a Vikings/Packers game on the Fox network five years ago, I mourned just like anyone else. Yet, as much potential as the show had, it only rarely hit the sitcom sweet spot like its overachieving older sibling, The Simpsons. So why bring it back for a series of 90-minute mega-episodes premiering on DVD? In two words: Family Guy.

Realizing that an unwarranted cancellation, followed by a well-promoted resurrection, could spell lingering success for Groening’s creation too, Fox is now on their second Futurama movie, The Beast with a Billion Backs (20^th Century Fox, 89 minutes). The original voice-cast brings their A-game and every character of significance makes an appearance, but the jokes are stretched like a bad facelift. Large chunks of Bender’s shiny metal ass have been grafted here and there in an attempt to preserve the show’s dignity. But it’s pretty clear Fry, Leela and Zoidberg should have been left to orbit the Earth in peace.

Then there’s Jack Black, who wore out his welcome as a movie star the weekend School of Rock opened and hasn’t found another role to fit him since. Odds were a Michel Gondry film (director of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) wouldn’t be his best bet, either. But that’s why they play the game, my friends.

Be Kind Rewind (New Line Home Entertainment, 102 minutes) is just the sort of Godard-meets-Walt Disney experiment Gondry specializes in. Working with a Hollywood wet dream set-up (Black and Mos Def accidentally erase all the videotapes in the store where the latter’s character works and have to reshoot the movies themselves), Gondry does his best to prove the auteur theory by turning the movie into an improv-amateur-art flick, satiating the suits with scenes of a low-rent Ghostbusters but keeping his camera focused on a higher purpose. Be Kind Rewind may be too sloppy for an Oscar, but it’s the biggest open-mouth kiss the movies have had in a long time.

Meanwhile, The Signal (Magnolia Home Entertainment, 103 minutes) cashes in on the apocalypse craze, borrowing the central idea of Stephen King’s Cell but managing to improve upon it with a meager budget of around 50K. Anyone caught watching the unexplained transmission (which looks like the psychedelic visualer from iTunes) goes soft in the head and starts cracking skulls. In the midst of this rage-induced rapture, directors Jacob Gentry, David Bruckner and Dan Bush divide a love-triangle into three parts, mixing mocha-black comedy with shots of straight-up horror. Call it brainwashing, but this is the best goddamn thing I’ve seen in weeks!

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America— Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.

NO COUNTRY FOR PANSIES

You will read this archaic, pseudo-biblical diction, pal--and you will like it.

I’m late to the game on this, but I read Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men not too long ago. Yes, I know there was a movie by the same name that won some awards at some kind of big-time movie show or some shit like that. But I refused to see the movie before reading book. The reason is simple, folks: I refuse to let some Hollywood starlet humper (some of you call them “directors”) dictate how I will experience a story. That’s between me and Mr. McCarthy, thank you very much.

Anyhow, after thoroughly enjoying NC for OM, I dove right into McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Holy Jesus. What a beautiful, bloody, ass kicking tale that is. Forget about those supposed badasses you’ve seen in celluloid Westerns. Clint Eastwood is a corset-clad, simpering little milksop compared to the dirt-eating boys in Blood Meridian. Yeah, I know the complaints about Meridian: “I don’t understand it, the language is too hard to follow … why can’t he write it in plain English?” Suck it up. Sometimes reading is hard. McCarthy is employing an archaic, pseudo-biblical diction that’s perfect for this kind of story. If you don’t want to work that hard for your entertainment, stick to pawing your way through your girlfriend’s Victoria Secret catalog, tough guy.    

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

PORK FROM HEAVEN

George Carlin is probably hand-delivering the pork to J.C.

Well, you did it, America. You’ve killed George Carlin.

I know what you’ll say. “He always had problems with his ticker!” And it was probably nothing more than a good, old fashioned heart attack that claimed his life on June 22. Genetics, hard livin’ and an atrocious diet, most likely. But I’ll tell you something: I prefer to think of Carlin cashing in his chips because of something he saw you doing on television, America. He shot up from the La-Z-Boy, pointed at the TV with an impossibly long finger, furrowed his brow in that oddly plastic way he had, and exclaimed, “What the fuck?” And that’s when the chest pains began. I have no idea what he was watching—maybe another round of moral cluck-clucking about all those knocked-up teen girls in Massachusetts. Who knows. But Jesus, America. I’m sure it’s something you’ve done that pushed Carlin over the edge. Fuck knows you’ve given me chest pains on more than one occasion. (And in some small measure, we all owe G.C. a debt of gratitude for the freedom to say the word fuck in certain circumstances. The litany of tributes and memorials that have come in the last few days will cover that territory, so I won’t go into detail here. But for a crash course, click here. 

George Carlin wrote a handful of books, most notably Brain Droppings (1997), Napalm & Silly Putty (2001) and When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? (2004). But of course you don’t get the whole Carlin experience by reading his books, good as they are. Your best bet is to snag his DVDs. Five minutes in you’ll be struck by how many of today’s comics pale in comparison, and how little they have to say (I’m lookin’ at you, Dane Cook.)

When I was a young’un, there were a few HBO programs my parents expressly forbade. Such as Risky Business—primarily because of the Tom Cruise/Rebecca DeMornay scene on the train, still one of the hottest goddamn simulated sex scenes in cinematic history. The other program on the shit list was, well, anything with George Carlin. But many years later I had an opportunity to catch G.C. live in Salt Lake City—which is the most mind-humping juxtaposition of mental imagery in and of itself. Several people walked out during the show (especially after he began skewering the Mormons—what did they expect?). He was in rare form.

Goodnight, George.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

SOMETHING FOR EVERYBODY

Getting a leg up on impending new stuff.

Back for more? Here are three upcoming releases you should know, and one you can blow off. You... are... almost... savvy.

Broken Social Scene Presents Brendan Canning: Something for All of Us (Arts & Crafts, July 22)

The Broken Social Scene reproduces asexually, producing buds that eventually separate when mature. Already, the Toronto outfit has spawned solo debuts from Emily Haines, Feist, Kevin Drew, Amy Millan, Jason Collett, and now Brendan Canning. Canning was one of the Scene’s founding members, so it’s no surprise that the songs on Something for All of Us retain that band’s low, forward thrust and its patient cacophonic crawl. “Chameleon” buzzes with synths, gradually building but never peaking. Instead, it gives way to the guitar duel of “Hit the Wall” and the errant folk of “Snowballs and Icicles.” Hell, if you close your eyes, you might think it’s the new Scene album. Nothing wrong with that.

On repeat: “Something for All of Us”

Andre Williams: Can You Deal with It? (Bloodshot, July 29)

The man who wrote “Shake a Tail Feather” returns to Bloodshot after nearly a decade, this time with the New Orleans Hellhounds in tow. On the talking-blues “Hear Ya Dance,” the seventy-two-year-old can still sing so low and lewd you can only hear him in your gut, but he spends most of this short album speak-singing with gravel in his mouth, still animated and raunchy and cartoonishly threatening on “If You Leave Me.” The Hellhounds don’t have the range or refinement of The Sadies (who backed Williams on his ’99 Bloodshot album Red Dirt), but maybe that’s for the best: With cult-legendary Crescent City organist Mr. Quintron, the group craft a sloppy garage-punk sound that matches Williams’ loose delivery and lascivious lyrics, drawing out his ruffian tendencies. They can deal with it.

On repeat: “Pray for Your Daughter”

Taylor Hollingsworth: Bad Little Kitty (Self-release, July 29)

Taylor Hollingsworth’s in-jokes—like launching your third album with the most obnoxious rock-dork introduction you could imagine—can get a little annoying. But get past the shit-eating-grin persona and you’ll find a strong blues-punk album that combines the brattiness of the Black Lips with the southern-rock jams of old-school Molly Hatchet. The Birmingham-born rabble-rouser, who has played with 13ghosts, Maria Taylor, and Conor Oberst, writes riffs like dirty jokes, but these songs have real wit. “Damn Boy (What’s Wrong with You),” which has the inevitably of a theme song, slyly rewrites the Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself” as a loser’s anthem that’s even more sordid and surly. And “TNT & Dynamite” is the running-naked-in-the-yard bastard child of Southern Culture on the Skids and Jon Spencer. But “You Don’t Treat Me Like a Man” cuts through the humor to find a kernel of real heartache, and “Christmas Blues” manages to sound actually kinda pretty. For God’s sake, though, skip that introduction and just delete “Bad Little Kitty,” whose pop-metal rave-up doesn’t make up for the full-minute of Hollingsworth repeating the album title and distorting his voice. Dork.

On repeat: “Damn Boy (What’s Wrong with You)”

Here’s dud in your eye:

Ratatat: LP3 (XL, July 8)

This duo made a big noise a few years ago with their self-titled album, but all I hear now are crickets.

On repeat: something else.

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington, DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

New releases for the week of June 24 – July 1.

Here we are again with another round of new releases. The usual spate of warnings apply: purchase at your own risk, as I have not had a chance to check these out. Your mileage may vary. Not responsible for lost or stolen items. Consult your physician before undertaking any exercise program. Side effects include anal bleeding, insanity and death. If you wake up dead, contact your doctor immediately. And so on.

Rock Star Babylon: Outrageous Rumors, Legends, and Raucous True Tales of Rock and Roll Icons, by Jon Holmes (Plume, released June 24)

Looks to be something like 288 pages of Ozzy Osbourne-esque tales of gnawing the heads off small mammals, imbibing too much (of anything … food, sex, dope, Tide bleach, etc.) and then laughing about it: “Ha ha. Boy was I fucked up that time I killed a hooker and dumped her body in a ravine south of Las Vegas. The music was great, though. Good times.” Seriously, haven’t we seen and heard this kind of stuff somewhere before? Oh, yeah, on just about every washed-up-celeb reality show and VH-1 retrospective of the past decade. Still, if you can’t get enough naughty rock n’ roller material to fill your otherwise meaningless existence, this may be the book for you.

Counterculture Kaleidoscope: Musical and Cultural Perspectives on Late Sixties San Francisco, by Nadya Zimmerman (University of Michigan Press, released June 28)

What the hell is going on? We’ve been hit by a spate of books analyzing the late 1960s and its music/culture, presumably because 40 years have passed since the era choked on its own vomit and died. In another 40 years, will publishers be cranking these things out because it’s the “80^th anniversary”? I’ll be too old to give a shit. Nonetheless, Zimmerman’s book is an “academic” look at the movement, with her main points being: a) the “hippie” movement of the era was, in fact, an organized rebellion; and b) contemporary critics and culture have tarnished the whole shebang by commercializing 1960s clichés to create a crass “hip consumerism.” In other words, you’re a fake and a fuckface because you’ve got that shitty tie-dye shirt you bought at Target.

’Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky: Jimi Hendrix: Voodoo Child, by David Henderson (Atria, released July 1)    

Initially published in ’78, this book is regarded as one of the best biographies of Hendrix. Henderson is an old-guard “New Journalist,” and his prose hums like a high-tension power line. This re-release reportedly includes information previously unavailable to Henderson when he was first putting the book together. Should be a good one.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.