APOCALYPSE HUH?!

Necrophiles and other deviants are taken seriously in Apocalypse Culture.

Every so often you’ll run across a book that opens your eyes to something—like it or not. Back in the late 1980s, that’s what Apocalypse Culture (edited by Adam Parfrey, veteran journalist of all things weird and publisher of Feral House books) did for a lot of people, including yours truly. The minute I cracked the spine of AC, I was disgusted, horrified, and confused. And I couldn’t put the goddamn thing down. I remember thinking, “What the fuck is this? Is this for real?”

Yes, it’s for real. It’s a collection of essays, arguments, interviews, and rantings on the offbeat, the twisted, the sick, and the downright strange. Mass murderers discuss their goals and motives—which seem so insanely logical that it’s frightening. And in my favorite piece, a necrophiliac talks about her (yes, her) desires and how she managed to hook up with her lifeless lovers.

You may not agree with the points of view expressed in the book—in fact, I’d say few folks would. And that’s a good thing. But Apocalypse Culture is notable for its variety and the cogent manner in which some of its authors defend lifestyles and behaviors that are off the charts. In a way, it’s a refreshing departure from the usual bullshit, middle-of-the-road soundbites and sanitized, non-controversial statements that pass for intelligent discourse nowadays. These people in Parfrey’s book may be far left of center (Jesus, they’re not even on the same playing field), but they’re earnest and open about themselves, and have at least given their chosen lifestyles and positions a great deal of thought—which is more than you can say for most Americans.

Twisted as these essays and articles may seem, they offer a perspective you won’t get anywhere else. The book is an interesting cultural artifact and a peek into a dim, psychological corner—not an instruction manual, as its detractors would have you believe. Karen Greenlee—the aforementioned corpse humper—is merely talking about who she is, what she does (or did—I don’t believe she’s still, um, “active”), and how she feels. Ditto every other piece in the book. You won’t get that kind of perspective on life by thumbing through Reader’s Digest.

If you make it through AC without becoming psychologically scarred, there’s a sequel (which I haven’t read yet): Apocalypse Culture II. And if you make it through that one without feeling the slightest twinge of discomfort, then you’re one sick fuck and you better keep your ass away from me and my family. However, if you contact Adam Parfrey, I’m sure he’ll be willing to include your story in Apocalypse Culture III, you perverted asshole.      

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. 

OLDIE: Edie Brickell & New Bohemians

Recalling Ghost of a Dog (Geffen, 1990).

In the Deusner household, Ghost of a Dog ranks as one of the most underrated follow-ups ever. Following the unexpected success of their Geffen debut, Shooting Rubberbands at the Stars, the New Bohemians grew up quite a bit but refused to let go of their hippie-isms. These songs have soft hearts but tough minds. despite a few fretless bass riffs, these songs have aged perfectly. Kenny Withrow’s guitar appears out of nowhere with the right riff for the right occasion, and the drummer Matt Chamberlain and percussionist John Bush add textured grooves to “Woyaho” and “Mama Help Me.”

As a singer, Brickell possesses more natural charisma than she gets credit for, with a wide-eyed voice that sells the seedier details of “Carmelito” and the lump-in-throat hook of “Black and Blue” just as easily as the breezy introspection of the musical haiku “Oak Cliff Bra” and “This Eye.” “He Said” is quietly devastating, “Stwisted” darkly so: When she sings “I ain’t gonna kill myself loving you, I ain’t gonna break my own heart,” her voice remains clear and strong, as if mustering determination, but when she gets to the final soulful testimony (“Why make my heart go to bed at night beating alone?”), she’s a woman scorned but desperate, drawing out that whyyyyyyy angrily but make the rest of the question sound heart-rending.

Ultimately, Ghost of a Dog is a singer-songwriter album backed by the most inventive jam band you ever heard, but nothing here was a smash hit like “What I Am”—or even a modest hit like “Little Miss S.” What should have stocked every dorm-room CD rack during the early ‘90s was largely neglected upon release, and the band went their separate ways. Brickell married Paul Simon and road-tested a solo career, and the New Bohemians splintered. Even a 2006 reunion album couldn’t rekindle interest or color the band as more than a late-80s one-hit-wonder. In another universe, though, Ghost of a Dog is a career-making album.

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 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.

ARE YOU READY FOR THE COUNTRY?

Upcoming albums from a Nashville veteran in exile, three scionesses of outlaw country, a British wanderer, and a young Midwesterner with album-of-the-year ambitions.

Fall is already crowded with big country albums—Tim McGraw, Kellie Pickler, Lucinda Williams, and, um, Darius Rucker and Jessica Simpson—but a few strong efforts by two rookies and two vets promise to sail under the radar, through not fault of their own. Four to watch out for, and don’t miss this first one.

(Photo: Joshua Black Wilkins)

Jessica Lea Mayfield: With Blasphemy, So Heartfelt (Polymer, September 16)

If the women of Carter’s Chord sing about “Young Love” from an older perspective, Rust Belt belter Mayfield reports from the front lines. On the eighteen-year-old’s debut, the dark mood (courtesy of producer Dan Auerbach, who dueted with Mayfield on the Black Keys “Things Ain’t Like They Used to Be,” from Attack & Release) hooks you, Mayfield’s haunted voice reels you in, but it’s her songwriting that keeps you on the line. “I was walking with your left hand in my back pocket,” she sings on “For Today,” “and I stared at the sky while you kissed me.” But the chorus carries the kind of weighty confession that Lucinda Williams used to pen with her grocery list: “I could care less about you, care less about you/I love the sound of you walking away.” Young love isn’t sweet; it scars. That Mayfield can sound so much older than her years gives With Blasphemy So Heartfelt its dire gravity and invites you to obsess over it.

On repeat: the whole damn thing

Rodney Crowell: Sex and Gasoline (Yep Roc, September 5)

“This mean ol’ world runs on sex and gasoline,” Crowell sings on the title track to his thirteenth album, which is equally angry and randy. The singer/picker is outraged, but he’s not pining for some idealized past. That title track ends with an apt punchline: Same as in your mother’s day. The world’s always been screwed, in other words. Producer Joe Henry gives Crowell’s dissent a dark, smoky sound but mostly and wisely steps aside and lets the singer rail like Dylan, even wondering what it’d be like to be the first female president—his empathy is both comic and deadly serious. Most of all, the album runs on sex: “Moving Work of Art” (as in, “she’s a…”) is the seduction, “I Want You #35” is all taut tension with no release, “The Night’s Just Right” is pretty much self-explanatory. The world’s falling down around him, but Crowell just wants to make time.

On repeat: “I Want You #35”

Carter’s Chord: Carter’s Chord (Show Dog Nashville, September 16)

You could argue that Carter’s Chord are Toby Keith’s own Dixie Chicks. After all, he signed the all-female trio to his Show Dog label and co-produced their self-titled debut. While these sisters—Becky, Emily, and Joanna Robertson, daughters of parents who toured with Waylon Jennings back in the ‘70s—may lack the Chicks’ playful defiance (I’m thinking more “Goodbye Earl” than “Not Ready to Play Nice”), they have enough personality and songwriting chops to excuse themselves from the crossfire from that culture war. Their voices meld beautifully on these rock-country arrangements, especially on “Young Love” and “Dear Baltimore”. Only real dud is “Summer, Early ‘60s”, written by their mother, Carter Robinson, and closer to Garth Brooks’ “Thunder Rolls” than “Ode to Billie Joe”. On the other hand, opener “Boys Like You (Give Love a Bad Name)” sounds one power chord away from Bon Jovi, although it’s tough to tell if they’re in on the joke. Probably not, and more power to them.

On repeat: “Young Love”

Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs: Dirt Don’t Hurt (Transdreamer, October 14)

There’s only one Brokeoff, and his name is Lawyer Dave. He and Golightly team up for her fourth album, playing down-and-dirty country-folk numbers and rural blues stomps that sound like De Stijl-era White Stripes or Giant Sand relocated to the Ozarks. Their voices—hers high and clear, his low and gruff—meld nicely amid railroad harmonica, muddy guitars, and pots n pans percussion. They do right by Claudia Swann on “I Wanna Hug Ya, Kiss Ya, Squeeze Ya” and they do even better by Traditional on “Cluck Old Hen”, but the best songs here are Golightly originals like the clattering “Accuse Me” and the uptempo gospel “Gettin’ High for Jesus,” which is the country cousin to King Missile’s “Jesus Was Way Cool.” The big guy coulda turned wheat into marijuana and sugar into cocaine, but Golightly and Dave turn blasphemy into something resembling salvation.

On repeat: “Gettin’ High for Jesus”

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.

“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.