LETTERS FROM THE ROAD: ASHTON ALLEN

Guest Post this week from one of my favorite artists, Ashton Allen: Dear Music Industry, So, I have a question. I'm confused. Ok, so you got Miley Cyrus, right? And then there's Hannah Montana. Buuuuuut...ok wait. Are they the same person? Cause umm, one's a brunette annnnd...the other's blonde annnnd....but....I heard it was the same girl....but then I was thinking...wow...I guess that's working out well for her ...or them..or...her dad [...]

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 presentati on of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

…TO BAKE COOKIES ON MICK’S BARE ASS

Martin Scorsese lights up animatronic rock dinos the Rolling Stones.

I think people have the wrong idea about Martin Scorsese’s Shine a Light (Paramount, 121 minutes), mostly because of the name in front of the title. Neither Scorsese nor the Stones have been culturally relevant in over a decade. Why should their IMAX concert film be any different? It’s little more than a public service to folks who can’t afford a C-note for the real thing; and with that in mind, it does a bang-up job. Gathering a dream team of camera men who light up New York’s Beacon Theater with enough bulbs to bake cookies on Mick’s bare ass, Scorsese captures the Stones at their animatronic best; one-time rebels who still managed to keep their self-respect. No one can ever accuse the group of not putting on a show. And that is the real point of Scorsese’s film: how a band that seemed destined to self-destruct managed to survive and thrive well past their prime. There are no direct answers to that question, although it’s posed to the group in countless flashback interviews—most amusingly when Keith Richards is told by a journalist that’s he’s the musician most likely to die next. “I’ll be sure to let you know,” he deadpans, as only a walking corpse can. Just as Scorsese knows that Shine a Light is only a snapshot in yet another cinematic coffee table book about band whose story is still being written. Shut up and enjoy the pictures.

As far as the guest artists go: Jack White is out of his league, Christina Aguilera is out of sync, and Buddy Guy nearly blows the walls out the back of the theater. Extras on Blu-ray include four extras performances and a supplementary featurette that delivers a better backstage vibe than the film itself.

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.

BOOZE CREWS

Harry Crews: one-stop shoppin’ for no-bullshit, hard-drinkin’ prose.

How on God’s green earth could I have missed this: Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon, along with Lydia Lunch and Sadie Mae, teamed up in the late 1980s to form a band called Harry Crews. They released one album, Naked in Garden Hills (1989). Considering the fact that I’ve been on gorging myself on Sonic Youth for the past two months, how in the name of all things holy did I miss that one?

Now, I’m also a big fan of Harry Crews the writer, ever since I read Car way back in high school—which was far more bizarre than my half-congealed, teenage-reptilian brain could handle. Whereupon I promptly scurried back to the safety of Penthouse Forum as my primary source of literary sustenance. But I couldn’t shake Crews’ no-nonsense, hard drinkin’ prose, and went on to consume about a half dozen of his other novels over the course of a year. Crews navigates the same psychological back roads as Larry Brown (another writer often cited as a musician’s favorite), but often steers into darker territory, usually when you least expect—or want—it. For starters, try Classic Crews: A Harry Crews Reader to sample from the buffet of one of America’s most distinctive writers.  

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. 

THE PLIGHT OF THE NAUGHTY GIRL

Samantha Fox blazed a trail for skanks’ rights in “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too).”

Every once in a while, I have to dig my way out of the avalanche of promos and find the oldies but goodies that remind me why I’m in this racket in the first place. This week, revisiting one of the most respected songs of the 1980s has thoroughly reinvigorated me and renewed my faith in music as a means of social change: Samantha Fox’s “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too).”

Up until the late 1980s, it had been long understood that much like camels in the desert, naughty girls could go for long periods of time without love. But in 1987, twenty-one-year-old Samantha Fox, a successful model and aspiring actress from London, exploded that misconception with her hit single “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too),” in which she admitted that while it’s fun not being on Santa’s nice list, she and others like her in fact do need love too. It’s difficult to overestimate the impact these new findings had on society, and the controversy was immediate and intense. The Catholic Church reasserted its ban on naughtiness before marriage, parent-teacher organizations across the country decried the song as anti-nice propaganda, and many critics accused her of inflating anecdotal evidence to try to speak for all naughty girls.

Unbowed by the new pressures facing her, the young Fox confronted her opponents in a startling video that at the time was panned as overly conceptual. Now, however, it is regarded as one of the most influential clips of that decade, alongside Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” and Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” Having dyed her hair pink for the shoot—an unmistakable sign of outrage and dissent—Fox dances in a poor urban neighborhood, clearly conveying the idea that the plight of naughty girls is as crucial an issue as poverty, racism, and bared midriffs. What remains especially disarming about this protest song, however, is Fox’s naked vulnerability: “Please don’t tease,” she sings, her despair increasingly palpable, “if you lie my heart will freeze.”

Twenty-one years later, it seems hard to believe there was ever a time when naughty girls were systemically denied the love they need, but the success of artists as diverse as Beyonce, Rihanna, and Joanna Newsom shows just how far we have come in acknowledging the needs of naughty girls. And we all have Samantha Fox—singer, model, activist, naughty girl—to thank for it.

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.

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 alphabetic ally 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. This is the 5^th installment (first two appeared at Idolator.)

***

DESTROY ALL MONSTERS “Typical Girl”/”Attack Of The Chiggers” (no label flexi-disc, 1997): Slow slimy sludge-shtup shtick shtuck to the bottom of some sadistic prison guard’s big boot, from Ann Arbor post-Stooge proto-punk avant-garage performance-art legends, allegedly recording live in ’75; the flexi apparently came inside a zine the band put out several eras later. “Typical Girl” addresses its nastiness, in ways sickos may have found erotic, to an unnamed “little girl”: “I know you so good like the back of my hand.” “You look like everyone else! You’ve got no self respect!”  “You’re so typical like all the rest/ That’s why I like my baby the best.” At least he can’t be accused of high standards. A woman gets pulled onto the stage, sounds like, and starts squealing, “Don’t touch me! Get him out of here!,” then gasping amidst rubbing noises from a sax, or saw, or strings, or something. Maybe it’s staged, maybe it isn’t, but either way you get the idea you’re hearing something you shouldn’t. Second song is even slower, with a more distanced vocal; guy yells out “attack of the chiggers!” as guitar makes itchy chigger-attack sounds. On purpose or not, the “ch” word might easily be confused for an “n” word. (www.myspace.com/destroyallmonstersdetroit)

DJ BLAQSTARR “Feel It In The Air”/ BUSY P “Pedrophilia” (Fader, 2007): “I can feel it in the air/I can feel it in the street/I can feel it in my balls/I can feel it in my feet” – or words to that effect. DJ Blaqstarr plays a variation of so-called “Baltimore club music” (sort of a Tourette’s-inflicted distant relative of early Chicago house, Miami bass, and/or Detroit ghetto-tech), with skippity beats under a sample that goes “caw! caw! caw!”; eventually the silly lyrics fall out, so the caws and skippities are all you’ve got left. Busy P, from Paris, makes an even more shapeless brand of hipster-sanctioned dance music – namely, the squelchy, mildly rock-infused techno identified with French label Ed Banger Records, from which Justice also emerged last year. Two electronic themes criss-cross; one fades out while a voice squeaks “Busy P!” Eventually, it slims down to a few isolated bloops. No idea how one would dance to it -- seems kinda slow. But I like the Southern Comfort joint venture slogan on the label: “Start and end things right. Drink responsibly.” (www.myspace.com/blaqstarrmusic; www.myspace.com/busyp)

DOILY “2000 Dumb”/”Welcome Home” (Broklyn Beats, 2001): The martial rhythm sounds submerged – on a submarine, maybe. Springs and gadgets and bellows (both kinds) succumb to nautical miles of deep-sea echo. Deadpan spoken phrases, seemingly  from movie dialogue, emerge out of the abyss: “Shot down in cold blood.” Gradually the music turns into a busted pinball-machine on tilt, or better yet a firing range, heard through static over a broken field radio in the back of a Jeep with no doors. That’s the A-side; the B-side has not-quite-tuned-in shortwave transmissions evolving into dub reggae, or some bassline’s recognizable approximation thereof. The transmissions fade in and out, do backflips over Pymgy of the Ituri Forest drums, thicken into quicksand until you start losing your belongings. Word is that some Brooklyn gal pieced it all together. (www.broklynbeats.net)

DYKEHOUSE “Chain Smoking”/”FYD” (Ghostly International, 2003): The label’s from Michigan and specializes in electro, but the A-side’s music is almost a conventional indie guitar-jangle breakup song – guy makes out with girl in backyard, tries to undo her pants, but now he’s chain smokin’ ‘cause his heart’s broken, so he rhymes “frown” with “upside down” and “loud” with “mushroom cloud.” His voice really does have some of that two-packs-a-day gruffness to it, too, and the melody has some of the pop feel of mid ‘80s Hüsker Dü, but more twee and British. “FYD” starts with a higher voice – probably a guy attempting a Princely falsetto – and has more synthesizers, but depicts a situation no less concrete: “At the club last Friday/You’re all done up in black/I knew I had to have you my way/When I saw you arch your back.” So he buys her a drink, drives her home in his Mercedes, takes her up to “Big Daddy’s room,” where he brings out his “Dutch love broom,” whatever that is. (I chuckled at it, I admit.) Then he switches into minstrel-boast mode, updating a trusty old seduction growl from Isaac Hayes or Barry White amid wah-wah effects: “Who’s the motherfuckin’ pimp? My big dick just won’t go limp.” Not as funny as he hopes. Then simulated sex moans – maybe like fellow Ann Arborites Destroy All Monsters years before. There was a minute or two there in the early ‘00s when work from weirdos named Morel and the Horrorist hinted that techno might turn into a new kind of singer-songwriter music; this’d be another example, I guess, but the idea didn’t seem to stick around for very long. Maybe the problem was that the mundane clubland situations depicted seemed too shallow for listeners to care about them? Just a thought. (www.ghostly.com)

EL CAPTAIN FUNKAHO ”Space Slut”/”Bootay”/“My 2600”/”Evil Goat Interlude” (Stones Throw, 1998): From a reportedly moonlighting San Francisco library clerk, more cartoon pimp shtick, though of the outer-space variety this time. Chipmunk-punked robot aliens seek booh-tay, harking back to Bootsy Collins and Captain Sky and especially Jimmy Castor: El Captian Funkaho requests that you hand over your tutti fruity, and soon it’s time for the post-Hendrix feedback solo. “My 2600” opens with a mega-heavy riff out of Black Sabbath’s “Electric Funeral,” then turns attention to old videogame brands, many of which I’m unfamiliar with: Atari, Asteroids, Bezerk, Combat, Pong, Pac Man, and (in a possibly intentional reference to the great 1984 Rebbie Jackson hit of that name) Centipede. The artist starts rapping like he’s auditioning for Newcleus, and yet more psychedelic freak-funk pours in. “Evil Goat Interlude,” named perhaps for the Satanic inverted ibexes of black metal fame, is just a few seconds of chattering and guitar growl. The 45 sleeve colorfully depicts a mad scientist with star-shaped sunglasses and maroon Bozo the Clown hair, furiously joysticking. There are also goats. What else do you need? (www.stonesthrow.com)

 [Photos, top to bottom: Destroy All Monsters, Dykhouse, Funkaho]

FAHRVERGNÜGEN

I love driving. The freedom to just go, $4/gallon be damned. Inherently and wonderfully American, isn't it? But as carbon-footprint-conscious as I like to think I am (and although I've never [...]

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 presentati on of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

HAMELL CON CARNY

Join Hamell on Trial at Field Day in Ireland, where he watches Gary Busey and Jodie Foster in Carny, then goes to the carnival, where he declares that one ride is "fuckin' goin' down tonight."

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 neighborho ods 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.

NEW AND NOTEWORTHY

New tomes concerning the Spice Girls, indie band survival techniques, and cool.

The Indie Band Survival Guide: The Complete Manual for the Do-It-Yourself Musician, by Randy Cherktow and Jason Feehan (St. Martin’s Griffin) 

Someday I’ll write a guide. It will be called, The Fuck Up’s Guide to Life: The Complete Manual for Underachievers, or How to Get Paid Spewing Bitterness and Invective on The Internet. Until that day, my fellow slack asses, you must content yourself with the Cherktow and Feehan manual—just the ticket your piss-poor band has been waiting for. Read up, learn how to market yourselves, build a cult following, stumble into obscurity, toss your musical hopes and dreams into the dust bin, and become an orderly at a retirement community earning minimum wage. How’s that for a career arc? Seriously, though, if you’re serious about making it in the music biz, and if you have a modicum of talent to pull it off, you might want to get a hold of this book. Useful as hell.

Clawing at the Limits of Cool: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and the Greatest Jazz Collaboration Ever, by Farah Jasmine Griffin and Salim Washington (Thomas Dunne Books)

You like jazz? Yeah, me neither. But you gotta appreciate its role in American history and literature. Without it, we wouldn’t have Jack Kerouac and the dope-addled Beat movement of the 1950s and ’60s. And without that, well, we’d all still be reading Jane Austen and Evelyn Waugh with our thumbs up our collective asses. So any history of Jazz greats is at least worth a nod of respect. Plus it’s bound to have some great heroine-related tales, since Miles Davis injected enough junk to bring down a water buffalo. 

Spice Girls Revisited, by David Sinclair (Music Sales, 2^nd edition) 

WTF? This book required a second edition? Who are the assholes who bought all of the first editions? I lose faith in humanity a little more each day.

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. 

RATED EX

Perhaps you’ve gotten this far through life and never heard of Frederick Exley. Let me introduce you.

Exley, or “Ex,” was one of those “one hit wonder” kind of novelists. In 1968 he published A Fan’s Notes, and if you haven’t read it, then you need to turn off your computer, fire up that shitty minivan, and head on over to the local soul-killing, super-sanitized Mega Bookstore and get it. Chances are they won’t have it, and you’ll have to contend with the dull-eyed stare of the 20-year-old clerk when she says, “Would that be, like, maybe a study guide or something? Like, maybe, Cliff’s Notes?” If she says that, you have my permission to set the place on fire.   

Anyway, A Fan’s Notes is a brilliant piece of semi-autobiographical fiction (in the same vein as On the Road) chronicling Exley’s obsession with football legend Frank Gifford (husband to that insufferable ditz Kathie Lee Gifford) and the New York Giants. Now, before you freak out at the idea of reading a “sports” book, let me explain something: A Fan’s Notes is only tangentially about sports. It’s more like a memoir of alcoholism and mental illness. And not fitting in. Anywhere. Walter Kirn described it best in Slate about a decade ago: “A Fan’s Notes divides the world into two camps: tortured, bewildered misfits (Exleys) and serene, fair-haired conformists (Giffords).” Nerds versus jocks, if you want to over-simplify it. But with boozing, sex, and electroconvulsive therapy thrown in for good measure.

Exley penned two other books which were flops. You can skip those. But despite some elements in Notes that seem a little dated and kitschy now (Perpetual angst! Stints in mental hospitals!), the book is really more relevant than ever with its examination of celebrity, obsession, middle class perfection, and what it means to constantly encounter images of beautiful, successful people living a life you will never, ever know—you loser. Stick with A Fan’s Notes, and soon you, too, will be hating all the pretty people. As if you didn’t already.

P.S.: For an excellent biography of Ex, check out Jonathan Yardley’s Misfit.

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. 

DEEP THROAT FOR PRESIDENT

Peeping two sexy new releases from Dark Sky Films.

Star Trek may have led you to believe that the time-space continuum has no sense of humor—but note the eerie similarities between Paris Hilton’s recent political bid and Linda Lovelace for President (Dark Sky Films, 95 min), a bicentennial spoof starring another sword-swallowing quasi-celebrity.

Released at the height of the Roger Corman drive-in era, Lovelace was desperately trying to escape the success of Deep Throat and producers like Arthur Marks were willing to give the slut a shot. What spewed forth is a mix of Mel Brooks, Smokey the Bear jokes and more double-entendres than an entire season of Three’s Company (although you’ve gotta admit, “The first woman president to go down in history” is pretty goddamn clever). The sex itself is innocuous; Lovelace looks like she’s humoring her cut-rate co-stars, which include Mickey Dolenz and Scatman Crothers, rather than pleasuring them. And the opening sequence—Linda posed like Patton with a camel-toe in front of an American flag—is pretty much the only full-frontal we get to see.

As an attempt at mainstream stardom, Linda Lovelace for President is a bust. But jokes that fell flat three decades ago now have outrageous camp value on the cinematic market. Imagine a country that was naïve enough to make jokes about pedophiles or let a porn queen lead a parade down Main Street? LL for President is an embarrassment of riches that could only have sprung from the ‘70s. The fact that it was almost directed by Richard Donner (as mentioned in the DVD extras) makes it even sweeter.

However, Games Girls Play (Dark Sky Films, 88 min) is a much more authentic presentation of the softcore sitcom formula made popular in the day starring authentic sitcom regular, Christina Hart, who appeared in everything from Happy Days to Hawaii-Five-O.  Sent off to a British boarding school after sleeping her way through Congress, Bunny (Hart) challenges her new roommates to a sex game involving important visiting dignitaries: the first one to bed a foreign official and snap a picture wins.

Directed by Jack Arnold, a respected ‘50s sci-fi craftsman who at this point in his career was tackling The Brady Bunch, there’s not a moment of simulated sex in the entire film. Yet Games Girls Play is still a turn-on, mostly thanks to Hart’s non-stop nude scenes, which make it seem like you’re watching that secret episode of Three’s Company (a show Hart also appeared on) where Chrissie finally takes her top off. Supported by a cast of British hotbodies with good teeth and a knack for delivering punchlines, Games Girls Play is one of the better inoffensive smut films of the era.

Christina Hart sits down for an interview on the DVD extras. But if you want to keep the image of her as a pert-nosed California girl forever locked in your memory, don’t watch. The space-time continuum has not been kind.

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.

DISCOVERY: THE DUTCHESS AND THE DUKE

Sometimes it’s nice to look back at what we might have missed even a few months ago. That’s how I came across the Dutchess and the Duke, a Seattle duo who are looking way back to the 60s on their debut, She’s the Dutchess, He’s the Duke. The title may be stunningly obvious, but these ten songs are anything but. Drawing from some imagined-but-never-made Dylan album (check the subterranean homesick album art), the duo play scuzzed-out, scuffed-up acoustic folk rock full of jaded observations and pointed wordplay about wayward friends and lovers. Duke Jesse Lortz plays all the guitars, Dutchess Kimberly Morrison plays everything else: flute, keys, tambourine, handclaps. He sings wry leads, she oohs and aahs and harmonizes like his last friend. She’s the DJ, he’s the rapper. Despite all the old sounds and obvious musical touchstones, She’s the Dutchess never sounds like music to thumb through your record collection to (despite the Incredible String Band-style wailing on “The Prisoner”). They’re too anchored in the here and now to escape to the there and then.

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.

TRIBAL SHORTS

Certainly, what unites us here at Cut Through the Noise is music...but it's more than that...more than just something that goes on between your ears. It's an axiology that extends from the music to our music-lover lifestyles: how we vote, what we drive, what we eat, what we wear, etc. We are a tribe [...]

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 presentati on of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

HUNTING IS HALF THE FUN

”Sonic Reducer” singles out worthy music and spoken-word recordings that sit somewhere outside the mainstream. This is not an obscurity contest, however, and most (but not all) of these recordings did receive a traditional release, distribution, some attempt at publicity, etc., from some recognizable small- or mid-sized labels. The point is simply to draw attention to some really good records from all sorts of genres, eras and formats. Everything in this month's column was originally released on CD in the mid- to late-nineties. They may not be easy to find, but hunting is half the fun.

DANNY FRANKEL, New Thing on Jupiter (1997, WIN Records)

Widely traveled drummer/percussionist Danny Frankel's New Thing on Jupiter is a minimalist hep-cat party-starter, perfect background music for an intergalactic beatnik cocktail lounge. Bongos, optigan, tape loops, autoharp, whistling and a Casio help spread out the spaced-out vibe. Danny is unique stylist who has toured and recorded with Jim White, Lou Reed, Rickie Lee Jones, Beck, Marianne Faithful and many others.

IRA COHEN, The Majoon Traveler (1994, Sub Rosa import)

World-traveling poet, photographer, publisher and filmmaker Ira Cohen's continent hopping spoken word CD of mystical, mythical musing was produced by the untouchable Algerian mix-master Cheb i Sabbah. Featuring cut-ups of Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, Angus MacLise, the Master Musicians of Joujouka, Moroccan street recording and other deep thinkers and players. Friend and contemporary of William S. Burroughs, Paul Bowles and Brion Gysin (who The Majoon Traveler is dedicated to), Ira is a true original: a brusk, no-bullshit-allowed mystic with a deep, Jewish-Brooklyn baritone.

LUTHER RUSSELL, Down at Kits (1999, Cravedog)

One-man funk factory Luther Russell drops a mother-lode of smooth, dubby instrumental funk that mixes up Memphis, New Orleans and Kingston, cocktail lounges, roadhouses and a touch of sublime muzak. Luther did the major-label two-step with The Freewheelers in the early 90s, then moved up to Portland, where he left a huge mark before eventually returning to LA. He figures hugely in the next record...

FERNANDO, Pacoima (1998, Cravedog)

Born in Argentina, raised in the San Fernando Valley barrio of Pacoima (home of Ritchie Valens), living in Portland, Fernando Viciconte has a string of superb releases. Pacoima is really something special: sung entirely in Spanish (except for one track), it's a mix of rock en Español, Tex-Mex, Casio-twiddling tangos, gutsy ballads and Farfisa-driven rockers that could be lost tracks by ? and The Mysterians, Sam the Sham or the Sir Douglas Quintet. Producer Luther Russell gives it a kinetic, live-wire feel, and plays most of the instruments, sans some of the guitar, trumpet and pedal steel.

THE GONE ORCHESTRA, Begone (1995, self released)

If Sun Ra's Arkestra added low-fi FX and dipped into boogie-woogie and boozy blues along with their outrageous space jazz? Well, actually they did. But Gone Orchestra do it really well, too. This Portland combo is thick with iconoclastic personalities and sonic tinkerers, including a few affiliated with he Smega collective of cultural contrarians. If Duke Ellington was smoking crack while making records it might come out like this...

CRASH WORSHIP, Triple Mania II (1994, Charnel House)

In a savvy move, Crash Worship pared their monumental, primordial percussion assaults down to shorter, digestible pieces, separated everything in the mix and made a CD of actual song-like material. And they do it with out losing any of their menace or psychic heavy-osity. The provocative cover is vintage Crash Worship: art inspired by Henry Darger's pan-sexual waifs,  rendered in full-color etched copper plating.

IAN SHOALES, I Gotta Go (1997, 2.13.61)

Tart-tongued, sharp-witted and incredibly verbally agile, comedic social commentator Ian Shoales sprints through 24 short, tongue twisting subjects ("Neo-Literacy," "Boomerville," "Elvitude" etc.), all ending with his trademark "I gotta go." These 24 tracks were recorded between 1985 and 1995, and reflect the cultural landscape of the Regan and Clinton eras; we can only imagine what he would make of the current Bush/Cheney/Carlyle Group-led on-going fiasco. Unlike many spoken-word recordings, it holds up under repeat listens.

UTAH CAROL, Wonderwheel (1999, Stomping Ground Publishing)

On Wonderwheel, the Chicago-based duo of Grant Birkenbeuel and JinJa Davis make tight, deadpan, insanely catchy folky rock with brief, funky instrumental interludes. Something eerie and possibly dangerous lies just below the surface, while the top side is smooth and user friendly. They have since released two more CDs, Comfort for the Traveler in 2002 and Rodeo Queen in 2007. On this first release Utah Carol manage to sound completely original without actually breaking any tangibly new territory, which is notable into itself.

RUBE WADDELL, Hobo Train (1996, Vaccination)

Junkyard blues, drunken sea-chanteys, depression-era calls to arms, homemade instruments, debauchery, anarchy and pork-pie hat wearing surrealism. Named after the legendary early 20th century baseball player, ambulance chaser and boozer, Hobo Train is the first of several outlandish CDs this Bay Area  four-hat has released. Rude Waddell are pretty much the ultimate house-party band. As long as your house has big holes in the walls, a dirt floor and is well away from any neighbors?

NEW COAT OF PAINT: SONGS OF TOM WAITS (2000, Manifesto)

Andre Williams, Knoxville Girls, Dexter Romweber, Botanica, Preacher Boy and others remake, retool and rethink 14 of Tom Waits' songs. A trio of ballads by Carla Bozulich, Sally Norvell and Eleni Mandell anchor the center of the record. But check Lydia Lunch and Nels Cline sliming their way through "Heartattack and Vine" and Screamin' Jay Hawkins completing owning "Whistlin' Past The Graveyard" to see why this is a superior collection.

Carl Hanni is a music writer, music publicist, disc jockey and vinyl archivist living in Tucson, AZ. He hosts the vinyl-only “Scratchy Record Show” every Tuesday night at the Red Room in downtown Tucson, and spins records wherever and whenever he can. He believes that in a better (all analog) world all records would be released on vinyl, but takes good music from wherever he finds it—even on CD. His feature piece on legendary bass player/record producer Harvey Brooks will soon be published in Goldmine.

TEENAGE WASTELAND

Of hormones and pulp.

Tell me this: Is there anything in the universe more annoying than the American teenager? With all of their surly, awkward, pimpled-ness, can you think of a segment of American society that is more loathed and loved than teenagers? I mean, just about every corporation and manufacturer worth its weight in Clearasil panders to the teen demographic. Most of the films Hollywood defecates into the theaters are geared toward teen boys who have lots of money to blow and want to see more tits and s’plosions. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se.

Same goes for music. Teenage rage and mooning over unrequited love have spawned the best and worst in songs. And books. How else do you account for the enduring popularity of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road? Teenagers. God bless ’em.

So to understand the hormone-injected inspiration behind pop culture, you gotta understand the American teen. A good place to start is Teenage Confidential, by Michael Barson and Steven Heller. It’s a graphics-intensive romp through the history of the teen in the U.S., through movie posters, album and magazine covers, and advertising. Some of the copy adorning the movie posters is absolutely priceless (from the 1940s B-movie, Girls Under 21: “Too old for playthings … and too young for love!”). The book focuses on the’40s, ‘50s, and early ’60s, so you’ll have to look elsewhere for a fleshed out treatise on The Jackson 5.

Gotta love the book covers from mid-1950s pulps, too—young delinquents arching their backs in suggestive poses, black leather jackets, cigarettes tucked behind ears, and titles such as Juvenile Jungle, Teen-Age Mafia, and Hate Alley. As a fan of these schlocky paperbacks, I can tell you that the contents are every bit as melodramatic as the titles and cover art. Good stuff. I shudder to think how what the cover of a pulp novel about my teenage years would say. Probably something like, Tragically Responsible: The Story of a Boy Who Works Part-Time for Milstead’s T.V. & Appliance, Makes His Car Payment on Time, and Never Gets Laid … But Abuses Himself Fourteen Times a Day to Photos Ripped From the J.C. Penney Catalog!     

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. 

YOU DON’T HAVE TO LIVE LIKE A REFUGEE

Peeking at The Pretenders, Palmyra Delran, Beaten by Them and The Standard.  

I typically approach new material by bands who had their heydays in the 1980s or 1990s with no small amount of trepidation. There’s no way it’s going to live up to their best work; admittedly, that’s not the best way to think about it. But I’m pleasantly surprised by new releases by refugees from the postpunk 80s and the riot grrrl 90s, although much less so with a storied album by an indie band still plugging away.

The Pretenders, Break Up the Concert (Shangri-La, September 23)

In recent years, country music has become the last refuge for washed-up artists looking to revive their careers in a genre whose fans still buy albums. Bon Jovi and Jewel saw modest commercial upticks after signing with Nashville labels, and upcoming albums by ex-Hootie Darius Rucker and Jessica Simpson will likely do the same. Of course, Chrissie Hynde is not now and never will be washed up, no matter how many mediocre Pretenders reunion albums she releases. The latest, Break Up the Concrete, is the band’s least mediocre in nearly two decades, mainly because the Pretenders have gone country. Not slick Nashville country, but roadhouse country. Break Up opens with the rockabilly single “Boots of Chinese Plastic,” then launches into “The Nothing Maker,” which is steeped in pedal steel. “Don’t Lose Faith in Me” and closer “One Thing Never Never Changed” are convincing country-soul numbers, while “Don’t Cut Your Hair” and the Bo Diddley-style title track tear up the barroom dance floor. Unlike other artists, Hynde’s gravitation toward country never really sounds like a career-calculated move, if only because it’s such a good setting for her brassy vocals, which amazingly have lost none of their jive or authority over the years. Has she aged at all?

On repeat: “Boots of Chinese Plastic”

Palmyra Delran, She Digs the Ride (Apex East, October 14)

On the heels of last year’s friggin’ great Friggs retrospective, Today Is Tomorrow’s Yesterday, comes this genial EP from guitarist Palmyra Delran, who trades her band’s sloppy East Coast riot-grrrl assault for a more pop-addled sound complete with surf riffs and jangly guitars. The Joan Jettsy “You’re Losin’ Me” stops for a kazoo-sounding guitar solo, and “When I Was You” begins with a strong Byrds-by-way-of-Bangles riff, then careens into a ska breakdown. “Baby Should Have Known Better” roughs up a girl-group chorus, while on the title track, lovely backing vocals ooh and aah coyly behind Delran’s vocals, which exaggerate the sneer in Delran’s voice. Short but sweet, hardened but happy, She Digs the Ride could be the soundtrack for the coolest teen movie ever, by which I mean Clueless.

On repeat: “When I Was You”

Beaten by Them: Signs of Life (Logicpole/Thrill Jockey, November 11)

Remember that Silver Mt. Zion album from earlier this year? Think back. Remember how it was pretty damn silly? Remember how you thought apocalyptic post-rock had run its course and was no longer a viable genre? Remember thinking that scene in 28 Days Later was both its pinnacle and its death knell? Well, I remember. I also remember taking it all back after hearing this Australian band’s ominous debut, on which they build tense grooves instrument by instrument. Each member does his own things, not always playing toward a common purpose and so creating a strange friction on “Town Too Small” and “Pioneer 10.” The drama recalls early Dirty Three, but without the same sense of careening abandon. These songs go where they need to go and the band just follow along, which makes Signs of Life sound organic instead of forced or “written.” Beyond that, it’s well sequenced as an album, cresting and fading dramatically between tense numbers and more atmospheric songs like the title track--never a glamorous compliment, but crucial here to maintain that sense of undirected flow. Only complaint: Post-post-rock band should not be allowed to rap, which sinks “Verge” and nearly ruins the mood altogether.

.

On repeat: “Town Too Small”

When Hell is full, the dud will walk the earth:

The Standard, Swimmer (Partisan, September 23)

Yes, I feel absolutely terrible panning the Standard’s long-in-coming sixth album. The Portland band got shafted when V2 folded shortly after they signed with the label, and they spent nearly a year in the wilderness, shopping around Swimmer. Credit them with persistence: Singer Tim Putnam founded Partisan Records to release the damn thing himself. It’d be a tale of triumph if Swimmer were their Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, but instead it’s more of the same: high-drama indie rock that’s still pretty faceless.

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.

Seriously. Even I'm over it. Not the novelty of Guitar Hero (God willing, that'll never wear off).... Rain forests, black rhinos, the ozone layer; now that shit needs saving. But the music industry? Puh-leeze [...]

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 presentati on of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

“Dude, have you been to Berlin yet?!”

Episode eins

FITZ
Twisted Robot booking agent out of London and Berlin, Mighty Robot warehouse warden in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, club owner, label owner, party planner, behind the scenes rock purveyor. For the past nine years, Fitz has been an integral component in the noise, rock, punk, new wave, and psych movements burgeoning throughout four continents. Originally from The Land of Thin Lizzy, Fitz now resides in Berlin, where, with his business partner Paul Carlin, he runs the club West Germany, promotes shows at other venues around town, and books a select few bands touring European soil. Rocking through small clubs and massive festivals in six-week jaunts, the Twisted Robot roster currently includes Comets on Fire, Six Organs of Admittance, Black Dice, Japanther, and Rick Rubin's new darlings, Howlin' Rain.
  
Showcased here are Brooklyn’s DIY indie punk sons, Japanther (www.myspace.com/japanther), and London’s Sun Ra Archestra-meets-Bette Davis amalgam, Chrome Hoof (www.myspace.com/chromehoof). See also www.twistedrobot.com.

“Dude, have you been to Berlin yet?!” covers the music, art and fashion scenes in Berlin, as witnessed by Jenna Young, recent transplant from New York City and guitar player in the rock band Ghetto Ways.

While Mrs. Hamell is away, Ed and his son Detroit play.

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.

THE CRAZY HOMICIDES: Twilight of the Old Brooklyn

Waxing nostalgic for a stylish street gang and the spirit of the city they tormented.

Last month I took a car service into Manhattan from my neighborhood in Brooklyn. The driver was a Dominican or Puerto Rican about my age. The conversation quickly embarked on "the changing of the neighborhood," the most common form of small talk in NY since 'Where were you on 9-11?' This stroll down memory lane turned into a'Where are they now?' of a peculiar group of Brooklyn residents in the late 70's-mid 80's: The Crazy Homicides.

You could easily pick them out all over Park Slope, Sunset Park and Gowanus, cause they had a specific style. They all wore Civil War-type, Union cavalry hats--the kind with a small bill and a flat droopy top, and motorcycle-type leather jackets. My driver gleefully boasted, "My brother was one of their leaders. He was a very, very funny guy." I was stunned and shot back, "I was mugged once by a group of the them, and the one who did all the talking, was in fact, very, very funny!" The driver, without any sign of discomfort retorted "yep, that was probably my brother."

He continued with a gushing description of one of his brother's top career accomplishments--a victorious battle about eight blocks from where my recording studio was then, and is now. "[The rival gang] left the pool hall and were hanging on 10th St. My brother knew that they were waiting for more guys, so when they were about 30, he sent 20 of his guys down from 5th Ave., and another 20 up from 4th Ave. He had them trapped--six or seven of them ended up in the hospital." Ahhhh--epic Brooklyn history.

So, this is how my own "funny" encounter with The Crazy Homicides went, 27 years ago.

I was walking near my recording studio with Bill Laswell (Material, and major record producer). He was my studio/roommate at the time. Three Crazy Homicides approached from behind: "Hello, we're Brooklyn muggers, and you have to give us your money." The put-on announcer voice was disarming. I turn around to see three guys with big smiles, grasping big screwdrivers, in Union cavalry hats. The jovial tone made me decline the demand for money, and we kept walking.

Me and Laswell made the mistake of starting to talk about music. "Oh, artists," the funny guy says. "Now we'll have to throw you in the Gowanus Canal." The canal was, and is today, a fetid and toxic body of water on the edge of Park Slope. I quickly coughed up $40.

The mugging really ate Laswell up. A couple weeks later, we had seminal hip-hop artist Afrika Bambaataa at the studio. Bam, as everyone calls him, had himself been the leader of a gang in The Bronx called The Black Spades, that he later transformed into the pacifist and utopian Zulu Nation. There always were a handful of young devotees from the group following him around. Laswell had the vision of a great moment, The Zulu Nation taking an assertive stand against The Crazy Homicides in a defiant display of confidence. So, off they all go for "a walk," unbeknownst to Bam, to find the Homicides.

Laswell spots a few of them in a Blimpie. "Yo, why we goin' to Blimpie?" Bam inquires.

Now Bam had quite a gregarious style, as you might imagine an African king--leopard cap, lots of  jewelry, a staff. As they walk into Blimpie, the Homicides turn to face Laswell and Bam in a moment of silence. Then one of them bursts out: "Yo, it's Mr. T !" The two watch stonefaced as the Homicides burst into a torrent of laughter, practically falling out of their seats. "Hey, Mr. T!"

(For those too young to remember, Mr T. was a very popular black action movie and TV star who sported a heavy gold jewelry style, years before mainstream rappers like LL Cool J and Run DMC wore heavy gold chains.)

Back in the cab--2008--two men from Park Slope, Brooklyn are reminiscing about a neighborhood that's practically been erased from memory. I found myself lamenting the demise of a violent neighborhood gang, who had style and humor, and in that sense seemed kind of smart. We arrived at my destination, and the tone in the cab changed.

Sadness overtook the driver's face as he says, "Sorry about the $40." I don't think the look of sadness was about the $40, because he still charged me $30 for the ride. I think that in apologizing, it became clear that we'd moved forward, but that there's a trade-off. And that part of us that is mythologized with Jesse James and the OK Corral, and Don Corleone in The Godfather, is really just below the skin, periodically finding a toehold in our aspiring utopias.

By coincidence, I decided to buy a new lock for my door tomorrow, because I didn't feel safe enough. I think that ties it together nicely.

Martin Bisi is an American producer and songwriter. Visit him at www.myspace.com/theendcredits.

ONE-SIDED STORY: The Pursuit of Happiness

I was fairly obsessed with the Pursuit of Happiness for a couple of months during eighth grade, when it wasn’t uncommon to catch “I’m an Adult Now” on late-night MTV. Seriously, what dorky small-town eighth-grader wouldn’t be? Coming across like Weird Al’s id backed by the Violent Femmes ego, the Toronto band assayed smart, smart-ass lyrics about getting girls, not “getting” girls, and getting girls to do certain things, which are typically the three thoughts crowding any thirteen-year-old’s mind. So when I found the band’s 1990 album One Sided Story in the dollar bin, I was simultaneously elated (oh cool! I haven’t heard this band in nearly twenty years) and crushed (oh shit! I’m old).

One Sided Story is the lesser Pursuit of Happiness album, the confused follow-up to their 1988 debut, Love Junk. Todd Rundgren’s production sounds overly polished and flat, with Moe Berg’s vocals too low in the mix and the guitars defanged. And some of Berg’s songs sound a little too ungenerous (“Something Physical”) or too conceptual (“New Language”). Still, it’s hard to deny his angsty hook on “Two Girls in One” or the cocksure boy-girl exchange “The One Thing,” and Berg could write a sharp, witty lyric, whether he’s chasing an absurd comparison (“Your love is like greasy fried noodles...”) or making himself the butt of the joke (“Sometimes I go too far / The girls think I’m icky / They can see the boner in my pants”). One Sided Story is a hard album to love, even harder to hate, which pretty much sums up the relationships Berg’s singing about.

Despite their clever singles, this band was never going to be your life. But they had a vision of how rock and roll needs to sound—tense, lusty, rejected, dejected, smart, and hopelessly, darkly adolescent—and the clarity with which they pursued it means One Sided Story never sounds as dated as you would expect.

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.

GEORGE OF THE LITERARY JUNGLE

Wrap your lips around these stories, baby.

Remember the first time you saw that Tarantino flick From Dusk till Dawn? Maybe you had a vague notion where the movie was headed. But about a third of the way through it (and if you’ve seen it, you know exactly at what point I’m talking about) the plot takes a left turn, careens off the road, and rattles through the mesquite and sagebrush at 80 miles an hour. That’s also the feeling you get when reading George Saunders’ short fiction. Saunders’ plots and characters sort of amble along at first, with fate throwing her customary curve balls, and people fucking things up as they generally do. And of course all of this happens in some slightly off-kilter setting, such as an amusement park or a museum devoted to an arcane subject. But at some point, Saunders will yank the wheel and you’ll find yourself careening through some strange territory.  

Probably the best Saunders short story collection is Pastoralia. The tales are reminiscent of Kurt Vonnegut’s work, and Saunders admits that KV is a major influence. Still, Saunders has a voice and post-modern spin all his own. And like KV’s work, Saunders’ stories are shot through with plenty of deadpan humor.

Saunders’ stories are best consumed in small portions. The plots and settings are so similar that they lose their flavor if you get greedy and gorge yourself on too many at once. And they’re not very filling—there are no deep connections with characters (really, you don’t give a shit what happens to them). But you can only take so much “serious” fiction before you feel like guzzling a pint of Clorox and then wrapping your lips around a Glock. So after a tough day at the office (berating your co-workers, cheating the public, stealing paperclips, ogling the new interns, inhaling a dozen Buffalo wings at Chili’s during lunch—whatever futile and desperate act fills that void once occupied by “ambition”) there’s nothing like a Saunders story to set your mind at ease. At least your life isn’t quite the train wreck it could be—just ask any character in a Saunders story about 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. 

TWO-BUCK CHUCK

Charles Willeford's sleek, mean prose is worth more than two fuckin' bucks.

No doubt you’ve been known to haunt used book stores on occasion. Or maybe a book sale hosted by your local library. I make that assumption because that’s the type of person who would be reading this blog to begin with. If you’re averse to used book stores or haven’t set foot in a library since Reagan was regularly dropping a deuce in the White House, then fuck you, please visit this blog and let the grownups talk for a while.

Anyway, as much as I love trolling ratty book stores and library sales for decent reading material, there are three inherent drawbacks: 1) It’s too goddamn exhausting to elbow your way past the gargantuan hausfrau wedged between you and that table over there loaded with Really Good Books; 2) It’s difficult to hold your breath for an hour to avoid sucking in the pervasive odor of dried sweat, unwashed asses, and Camembert cheese that seems to swirl around people who frequent these places (present company excluded, of course)—why does “reader” have to equal “lonely, shit-stained derelict?”; and 3) It’s a little bit depressing to find a book you love languishing in a discount bin.

This third point was ably demonstrated the other day, when I discovered Charles Willeford’s The Way We Die Now for about two bucks at a local bibliophile hangout. What a goddamn shame. Willeford’s prose is sleek and mean, and his crime fiction is (prepare for a shocker) character driven, not propelled by the plot alone. Willeford didn’t get much props when was alive, and today certainly doesn’t get the credit he’s due. Consider yourself too “refined” to read crime fiction? Willeford will change your mind about that. He’s what they call a “writer’s writer” (Jesus, I hate that phrase … but it fits), and no Willeford novel should ever be moldering away on a chipped, folding table—which was probably sitting beneath bad pastry for a Mormon church fundraiser twelve hours previous—for two fuckin’ bucks. There’s no dignity in 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 Column on the Rescued and Reissued

From There to Here, and Here to There, Funny Things Are Everywhere, Round 2

As promised, a little travel abroad this time around.

"From the center of the world in the holy land...there's a special band, known by the name of the Soul Messengers." So the Soul Messengers announce in "Equilibrium," one of the tracks on Soul Messages From Dimona, yet another stunning resurrection from Numero Group. The center of the world referenced in the song is Dimona, Israel, but while the Soul Messengers and their music were from there, they weren't always of there. In fact, they started out playing in Chicago, and via membership in the African Hebrew Israelites of Jerusalem, who began a return to the holy land in 1969, ended up in Dimona, and where they've been, more or less, ever since. So they were soul messengers in a twofold sense, bringing a soul message to a locale where it was all but unknown, and using soul music as the vehicle to convey their message about their God.

The Numero Group offering compiles the Soul Messengers and its offshoots, the gospel singing group The Spirit of Israel and Motown-esque kid group Tonistics, as well as another group that grew out of the return, the Sons of the Kingdom. The result: lots of straight up funk, a track ("Go to Proclaim") that sounds like Al Green gone Hebrew, a marvelous rendition of the old spiritual "Daniel" with reggae touches from the Spirit of Israel, some sweet soul from the Tonistics on another shout-out to their place in the world ["Dimona (the Spiritual Capital of the World)"], and an astonishing song ("Modernization") from the Sons of the Kingdom that calls down the wrath of God upon the West ("almighty God, the cry goes out to you, if you don't stop modernization, civilization is through / hurry, hurry Father, we don't have a lot of time, destroy their institutions and the scientific mind!").

***

The funk shows up elsewhere far-flung from its origins, as the compilation Polish Funk 3, from Polskie Nagrania, attests. It comes complete with a subtitle in the Polish variant of Engrish --"the unique selection of rare grooves from Poland of the 70s." Some of it sounds like the musical equivalent of Engrish, too, or the soundtrack for the Festrunk brothers (and yeah, I know, they were Czechs, not Poles), and a lot of it sounds like the 70s. Stan Gorys' "I'm Looking For a Friend" would have served perfectly as the theme for Mannix, while "Crowd" by the Alex Band and "Funky for Franka" by Laboratium recall that the fusion of that era. And if "Strit" reminds you of the stuff you worked up in your high school jazz ensemble, that's because it's performed by the high school graduates who made up Poznan's Light Music Orchestra.

Here and there, the definition of funk gets stretched: Alibabki's "Once Was a Couple" sounds closer to the Fifth Dimension than anything funky, and with the atmospheric strings, jazzy guitar, and deep Polish voice of Bogdan Gajkowski, "I Don't Regret Those Days" is pure slow jam. All of this is of variable quality and appeal; the album's most interesting and strangest moments arrive with "Return," with its big band hipster jazz and Andrzej Dabrowksi's beatnik spoken-word lyrics, and with "Discoland," by Chorus & Disco Company ("among the band's unbearable melodies we found a gem," the liner notes inform us), a seven-minute disco-funk mélange of horns, strings and synths and the briefest of lyrics--"discoland, disco"--repeated ad infinitum. Those are the only two words of English on the album, and they turn out to be even stranger than its various approximations of funk wedded to Polish lyrics.

***

The steel guitar seems to show up in some unexpected places, too (check out the Sacred Steel gospel tradition, which came to the attention of the wider world a few years ago, for example). Bollywood Steel Guitar, from Sublime Frequencies, chronicles the role it has played in the popular music of India. This is "Bollywood" steel because the origin of the music collected here is in film soundtracks. As the comp's liner notes explain, "in India film music has become an industry unto itself...The music is just as important as the film and lives on long after the film has left the theatres. These songs are, for the most part, the pop music of India."

The comp samples instrumental versions of those songs -- what the notes label, in turn, "the elevator music of India"-- that feature the steel guitar, apparently the most popular instrument in such covers. It showcases seven different steel players doing hits drawn from films made between 1962 and 1986 (the liners list the film in which each song originally appeared). Who knows what these songs sounded like in their original context, but the steel-ified versions are all over the place. Some --"Chahe Mujhe Koi Junglee Kahe," with Van Shipley on steel, or "Ajhoon Na Aye," where Sunil Ganguly's steel sinuates its way amidst sitar and drums -- sound like straight-up Indian music (or what sounds straight-up to these uneducated ears). But "Mera Naam Chin Chin Chu" has the unhinged of Hank Penny's western swing, and "Mast Baharon Ka" sounds like Spade Cooley gone Bolly, using strings, accordion, clarinet and steel to mix Indian flavor into a western swing sound. Kazi Aniruddha gives "Piay Tu Ab To Aja" a spaghetti western vibe, Charanjit Singh weds his fuzzed up steel to horns and a bluesy beat on "Manje Re," and Kazi Arindam's version of "Mere Liye Too Bani" verges on disco, with some sitar thrown in for good measure. It's not simply strange, but strangely familiar.

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.

THE ROAD TO SUICIDE-VILLE

Revolutionary Road: A pitch-perfect examination of how middle class life can seriously fuck you up.

I just about pissed myself the other day when I found out that Sam Mendes (director of Jarhead and American Beauty) had recently completed a film adaptation of Richard Yates’ Revolutionary Road (1961). For details on the flick, go here. Due to be released in late December, the movie stars Leonardo DiCaprio (Yes, the man-boy we all love to hate—but he’s actually a better-than-average actor once you suppress your initial gag reflex and pay attention to what he does. How’s that for a ringing endorsement?) and Kate Winslet (she of pale-and-heaving-bosoms aboard doomed ocean liner fame, like DiCaprio).

Now, understand that Revolutionary Road is probably one of the best American novels of the past 50 years, a pitch-perfect examination of how middle class life can seriously fuck you up. If you’re a fan of AMC’s Mad Men, then you have had a taste of the book’s mid-1950s/early 1960s flavor—but that’s only a weenie-on-a-toothpick sized sample of what you’ll find in Yates’ novel. Revolutionary Road has some of the most awkward, uncomfortable sex scenes you’ll ever read—just like real-life sex. And no one is better at illustrating the heady mix of anxiety, joy, fear, hope, disappointment, conventionality, and petty rebellion of American suburban life than Yates. I know, others have taken a stab at this, but Yates did it best and has yet to be topped. Ever had a fight with your wife or girlfriend, husband or boyfriend, or that blow-up doll you call a “companion?” Yates nails domestic disharmony and the snippy bitchiness between friends and lovers, and you’ll hear your own words spilling out of the mouths of protagonists April and Frank Wheeler.

If you don’t think that’s your cup of tea, then you need to change your brand of tea, because Yates’ book is a psychological rollercoaster with the most depressing ending in the history of depressing endings. Ever. You’ll want to slice open your wrists with a rusty flathead screwdriver. And then you’ll fight the urge to pay a meth-head to back a Ford F-150 over your crotch. Sound like fun? Seriously, though, there has been talk in Hollywood for years about making an adaptation of Revolutionary Road—but the project has oftentimes been scuttled because studio heads (read: pencil-pushing asswipes) found the ending too depressing. So here’s a note to Sam Mendes: I hope to God you didn’t fuck it up. America is popping anti-depressants like Mentos, so I think we’ve finally reached a point where we can take it.           

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. 

HOW TO WATCH PORN AND STAY MARRIED

This week, Live from the Couch delves into advice for the brave souls among you who risk carpal tunnel syndrome to enjoy self-gratification and smut (yes, even the softcore variety).

First let’s set the ground rules. We’re not talking about full-on penetration, here. No woman worth marrying would allow anything from Vivid Entertainment in her home for more than one night—and even that would entail a costly visit to the Love Boutique and two or three extra glasses of wine. I’m referring to softcore porn from the ‘70s; the easy-listening, James Taylor variety of onscreen intercourse that tries to build a relationship before going all the way. Retro erotica is all the rage right now thanks to companies like Blue Underground and Severin Films. But trendiness isn’t a legitimate enough excuse; you need a well-rounded argument backed up by a solid business plan.

Follow these five simple steps and you too can soon be enjoying porn in your basement while the little woman watches Ghost Whisperer upstairs:

1)      Become a DVD reviewer. Easy said than done, I know. It took nearly a decade of begging and bribing various publicists on both coasts to become the man I am today: a part-time hack who barely makes enough each week to supersize his Baconator combo meal. Although the pay is poor to non-existent, most media outlets will let you keep the films you review which can then be added to your collection or (in desperate circumstances) used to construct a fairly sound DVD fort if your wife kicks you out.

2)      Lay the Foundation: Let’s assume you’ve cemented your reputation as a reviewer and now you’re drowning in new releases each week. Trouble is, you didn’t get into this to write 500 words on Ariel’s Beginning: The Little Mermaid 2. Well, man up, my friend! Yes, you’re forced to cover movies you don’t want, but it legitimizes your profession in the eyes of your significant other and establishes an alibi. Trust me, after asking her to sit down and watch Scorpion King 2: Rise of a Warrior, she’ll find somewhere else to be.

3)      Cover Your Ass: The day that first copy of Black Emmanuelle arrives is both triumphant and a little bit scary. Your first instinct will be to hide it in whatever pathetic excuse you call a porn stash (which your wife probably stumbled upon years ago and has beneficently allowed to continue). Fight the urge! In fact, let her open the package. Address any questions or concerns in a calm and rational matter. Explain that your job requires you to view films of many different genres—in fact, you’ll be covering an Ingmar Bergman set next week from the same company—and in order to continue receiving product you owe them some coverage. She’ll be suspicious. She may mock you. Laugh with her! Point out the amusing irony that you’re actually being paid to review porn. Eventually, the idea of extra income will defuse the situation.

4)      Open the Tap: Don’t get greedy! The amount of smut entering the house still has to remain at a significantly lower percentage than Ashton Kutcher comedies and season sets of Desperate Housewives. However, the foundation you’ve laid in Step Two should allow for a certain degree of freedom. Create a viewing space for your “naughty” movies, watch them only after 10 p.m. and keep a low profile.      

5)      Live the Dream: Congratulations! By now you’re adding $100-150 a month to the family income by watching simulated sex from master directors like Jess Franco and Joe D’Amato while becoming well versed in the physical assets of flat-chested European women who don’t shave their pits. Victory never smelled so sweet!

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.

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