PEACE QUEER: THE BLURT BLOG

Mis Spellers Of The World Untie

I would like to take this gracious opportunity that the fine people of Blurt have given me to tell all of you about the night I was abducted by and later escaped from the International League of Peace Queers.

I remember East Nashville was in the middle of a two-week kind bud drought that had set our neighborhood into a small state of confusion, chaos and tension. I was recording a song called “Last Summer At Band Camp I Did It With This Chick” with my so-called friends Eric McConnell and Kevn Kinney, when a crash through the control room door brought with it two large and heavily armed men identifying themselves as members of an International League of Peace Queers They were looking for me. Not Kevn, not Eric, but me.

They asked if I had written "Conservative Christian Right Wing Republican Straight White American Males." I tried to deny it. The next thing I knew, I was blindfolded and stuffed into a small closet, where I was forced to listen to early Phil Ochs and Joan Baez material.

I was also brutalized beyond what I consider an acceptable level of sanity. I remember saying over and over that I was already for peace, but they claimed I wasn’t, quote, “for it enough.” They demanded I write songs for an album that they boasted would easily outsell Thriller.

Fortunately for me, I already had a batch of songs similar to what they were looking for, so I assumed things were going to work out splendidly... or at least easily.

I could not have been more wrong. Later that night, I was forced to sing “Beer Run” until I vomited, and yet sadistically, every time I played it, I was electrocuted by some sort of device they called The Peace Keeper.

Then I realized not only were there a lot of them, but I recognized many of the voices. I couldn’t put an exact name to the voices, but I knew the voices. They taunted, they mocked, they emasculated and they spat — many of them screaming that “Beer Run” had set back the movement at least a million years.

I was forced to smoke weak marijuana and pretend to care about the world. It upset me. I called them folk Nazis and was beaten heavily for it.

But I gotta tell you, as much as I love hockey fights, I did eventually grow sympathetic to the cause, and I recorded the album for them. After the album was completed, they took off my blindfold, and it was then I learned that my captors had been a loose assortment of Americana shit storm artists that I like to call my peers.

Last year I was nominated for Unsuccessful Country Artist Of The Year at the AMA awards, and I lost to none other than high-ranking I.L.P.Q. member Patty Griffin. It was Patty, in fact, who told me that on my next mission, I would be trusted on my own to walk to the Three Crow Bar for a short interview to promote 'Peace Queer,' the album.  She said this interview would be for "Peace Queer," the bio, so I set out for the Three Crow.

On my way, I spotted an old nemesis from the Nancy Kerrigan camp who dated back to my Oregon years. This all would have been fine had he not spotted me, too, but he did, and his attitude toward me was egregious. I thought it smart to run, which I did. But by the time I ditched the guy, I thought I might be late for my interview. Luckily, I wasn’t.

At the Three Crow, I was poured a glass of wine and introduced to a kindly old gentleman named Cokie Roberts. I found his questioning style a bit aggressive, but in the end, felt I charmed the pants off him. We said our goodbyes, and I was headed back to Camp Peace Queer when it occurred to me that I didn’t have to head back if I didn’t want to. It was my chance to escape the Peace Queers, and I took it.

Golly, you hear a lot of strange and unnatural things about people these days, and with that very thought in mind, I'm personally just happy to have my old life back.

And I must say that while I will never forget that glorious creative summer with Patty and Kevn and the other Peace Queers, I will never, for the life of me, understand the beatings.

(Todd Snider lives in East Nashville where he writes songs, whoops it up and pisses off self-righteous people every chance he gets. His new album, sensibly titled Peace Queer, is due Oct. 14 and will be available as a free download at ToddSnider.net from October 11th to October 31st. It’s the followup to 2006’s The Devil You Know and represents, as far as we are concerned, a big-ass MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Keep a rockin’, Todd. BLURT loves ya.)

GATES CRASHER

On David Gates and bad bands. Yes, I’m talking to you.

Maybe you were in a band in high school. Or maybe you were like me: You hooked up with a bunch of guys (or gals) just out of high school with the misdirected notion of forming a band, and the whole concept went down in flames faster than you can say “thank you, everybody—goodnight!” Your experience was probably much like mine—when the bandmates managed to get together, they ended up fucking around more than anything else. Drinking. Smoking. Occasional drug use. And one or two horribly executed cover tunes. Truth is, none of us (and I’d dare say none of you) should have been allowed within 100 miles of an instrument. Well, except the drummer. Seems like the drummer could always pull off a passably mediocre cover of Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow,” while the rest of us sounded like a busload of Scottish bagpipe players rolling down Mount Kilimanjaro.

One of my favorite writers of all time perfectly captures the mood and miscues of a bunch of fuckups slaughtering another band’s song. In David Gates’ (not the lead singer of Bread) Preston Falls (1999), anti-hero Doug Willis falls in with a bunch of musically retarded idiots who stumble through songs in a booze and drug-fueled stupor that will seem all too familiar to those of you who once harbored delusions of musical grandeur. Gates’ ear for dialogue, however, is pitch perfect, and he completely nails the sheer idiocy of a pack of overgrown boys arguing over which song to butcher next.

Gates is a senior writer with Newsweek, and covers music and books for that publication. He’s a fine journalist as well, and his reviews outshine the usual lusterless fluff found in news magazines. And while you’re hunting down Preston Falls, check out Gates’ first novel, Jernigan (1991). It’s every bit as good as reston Falls, and the novel’s sad-sack protagonist will make you feel really good about how awful your life has turned out.

One piece of advice, while we’re on the topic of youthful forays into music. If your shitty cover band recorded anything, do the world a favor and destroy said recording. Please, think of the children. I’m still hunting down a cassette tape loaded with my former band’s caterwauling. Please, God, don’t let my daughter find that—I’d rather she stumble upon my stash of amputee porn.      

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

This column (with apologies to Dr. Seuss for the subtitle, below), the first of a two-part dip into the strange end of the pool, starting with some homegrown weirdness, and going abroad for some exotic amalgams next installment.

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

Australian musician and score composer David Thrussell seems dedicated, via his Omni Recording Corporation label, to rummaging around in some of the odder corners of Nashville country music. Besides the more obvious — a Porter Wagoner collection entitled The Rubber Room — the label has put out comps on Jimmy Driftwood, Henson Cargill, and The Stonemans. And with Nashville Sputnik - The Deep South/Outer Space Productions Of Jack Blanchard And Misty Morgan 1956-2004, it’s on its third--yes, third--issue on the oddball pair Jack Blanchard and Misty Morgan. Think Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra, throw in a dash of Roger Miller, and add healthy amount of the totally whacked on some of their creations and the totally lame on others, and you get an idea of what Jack and Misty were all about.

The first two Omni comps collected the pair’s recordings during their late ‘60s-mid ‘70s heyday (if a heyday is what they actually enjoyed). This one is batting cleanup, as the “productions” in the subtitle indicates. It collects pre-Nashville work, including early recordings by Blanchard as a member of the Dawn Breakers and the Rockin’ Impalas and by Morgan under various curious pseudonyms (“Jacqueline Hyde and the Moonfolk,” “Maryanne Mail”), as well as sundry oddities (among them, a disco version of their hit, “Somewhere in Virginia in the Rain,” the strangely unreleased “Dance of the Living Dead Chickens,” and “A Weird Little Christmas,” a yuletide narration that lives up to its name). There are also several tracks that Blanchard produced on a string of minor and mostly-forgotten artists that range from the goofy (“I’m Hung Up on You,” by Rusty Diamond, the Country Nut) to fine country soul (Donel Austin’s “Don’t It Look Like Georgia”). Like the Jack and Misty stuff, those tracks are of varying interest, but some of them are well worth recovery, which might be this comp’s greatest service.

Chet Flippo’s liner notes to the Water Records reissue of Shel Silverstein’s 1968 release, Boy Named Sue and His Other Country Songs, begin by pointing in the same direction as the title of the Jack and Misty comp: “Shel Silverstein landed in Nashville like an alien from outer space.” No doubt, especially consider the general tenor of things in Music City at the time. The multi-talented multi-tasker didn’t take long to make his mark there with his songs, though, most famously thanks to Cash with “Boy Named Sue.”

But Shel wanted to sing ‘em as well as write ‘em, even though he was far from being the world’s greatest singer — not that he was trying to be, with his talking, howling, screaming, wailing manner of doing so. That just adds to the effect here, whether he’s engaging in a hilarious celebration of wickedness (“Dirty Ol’ Me), ruminating on, and wondering at, getting old (“Time”), wallowing in classic denial (“Pathetic Way of Getting Over Me”), singing a truckin’ song, complete with telecaster twang, about not being able to drive a truck (“Somebody Stole My Rig”), singing a gunfighter song with a twist (“Comin’ After Jimmy”) or telling the tale of that boy named Sue.

One of the most enduring results of Silverstein’s Nashville tenure turned out to be his long-running collaboration with Bobby Bare, which began with Bare’s understated 1972 epic, Sings Lullabies, Legends, and Lies (recently given the arche deluxe reissue treatment by Legacy, for those keeping score at home). The collaboration continued in 1974 with Singin’ in the Kitchen, credited to “Bobby Bare and the family,” also just reissued by Omni. It’s kind of a children’s album, with treatments of such Silverstein classics as “The Giving Tree” and “The Unicorn,” and kind of more than that, “Lovin’ You Anyway” and others not exactly being kids’ fare. But it really is a family album, with contributions from wife Jeannie and all of the Bare kids, including future alt-country rocker Bobby Bare Jr., whose toothy grin is front and center in the cover shot. Omni, as usual, adds a bunch of bonus stuff, notably most (but sadly, not all) of Bare’s 1967 RCA gospel album, This I Believe.

Back before Muhammad Ali became Muhammad Ali, when he was just beginning to set the standard for styling, profiling, and trash talking for all who came after him, six months before he shocked the world in February, 1964 by winning the heavyweight boxing title from Sonny Liston, Cassius Clay decided or agreed to make I Am the Greatest!, a hilarious comedic oratorical performance crossed up with a boxing match, complete with ring introduction, a bell starting each track, and an after-bout interview with the victor. And quick as one of Clay’s left hooks, it was gone, Columbia yanking it from the shelves in response to Clay’s announcement of his membership in the Nation of Islam and his accompanying name change.

The record predicts Liston’s demise, of course, and relentlessly mocks and insults him — for four-and-a half straight minutes worth on one track, “Will the Real Sonny Liston Please Fall Down.” But the main subject, naturally, is Clay, and his seemingly endless variety of raps and outsized boasts on his greatness, beauty, and abilities, with, every once in a while, some sly, self-aware self-deprecation. He recites poetry, does set pieces, trades off with his own Greek chorus, riffs off Shakespeare--“Much Ado About Cassius” finds him in Olde England, slaying a dragon and winning the king’s “heavy weight crown” —  and extends his predictive powers from merely predicting the round in which he would win his fights to the future, finding that he will become president, live to be 175 years old, sire 94 children (all named Cassius Clay — so that’s where Foreman got the idea!), and finally, leave his mouth to science.

All in all, it’s a remarkable display of vintage Cassius Clay. The Rev-Ola reissue adds one more curiosity, Clay’s serviceable but unremarkable rendition of “Stand By Me,” which was released as the b-side of the album’s lone single.

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 NEW NEW

We just have to like it.

Great music isn’t always obvious. Think of it like this. Chances are (to quote a former colleague), your favorite song didn't become your favorite because you only heard it once. Which perhaps is why Coca-Cola --- arguably one of the most famous brands of all-time --- still advertises. Why then, if there's a decent band, critically acclaimed even, under the radar but the real deal... here comes release date, folks make a lot of noise... the record drops, it's great and [read more...]

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

SPASTIC PLASTIC

You can’t intentionally make a cult film.

You can’t intentionally make a cult film. Like farts, they have to happen naturally. Which brings us to two new DVDs with spastic colons: Brutal Massacre: A Comedy and Forbidden Zone: In Color.

Featuring an all-star cast of horror has-beens like Gunnar Hansen, Ken Foree and David Naughton, Brutal Massacre (Anchor Bay, 95 minutes) is a bathroom BJ for the Fangoria set. (It even includes a mail-in rebate for 40% off an annual subscription.) But no matter how hard writer/director Stevan Mena’s mockumentary tries to mine the horror genre for yuks, it comes off as amateurish rather than endearing. Naughton plays a hack horror director with one last shot at low-budget redemption. His too-cutesy crew is made up of a clueless assistant director (Brian O’Halloran, Clerks), an over-qualified line producer (Ellen Sandweiss, Evil Dead) and a pint-sized Hindu director of photography with a taste for rough sex (Gerry Bednob, Walk Hard).

Crowds might eat this shit up at a horror convention, where the anticipation of ogling Linnea Quigley’s ass pushes everything to a fever pitch. But watching the Brutal Massacre shoot unfold at home is as painful as actually being there. Comedy is tough, no matter how effortless those Fresh Prince repeats make it look. And at least Mena’s last effort, the John Carpenter knock-off Malevolence, gave straight-up horror the old college try. Brutal Massacre is so eager to bend over that it loses your respect from the word “gore.”

Produced as a showcase for the theatrical noodlings of the brothers Elfman (Richard and Danny), Forbidden Zone still barely registers as a blip on the midnight movie radar even after nearly 30 years. This release (Legend Films, 74 min) might change all that, despite the fact that it’s been colorized at the behest of director Richard Elfman, who originally planned to have the negative shipped overseas and hand painted. The result is a pharmacological fantasy world, blending ‘20s silent cinema and kinky peepshows with a Rocky Horror aesthetic. It doesn’t hurt that little brother Danny contributes the musical score, including a couple of numbers that would feel right at home in Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas.

In fact, the whole production shares the Burton’s penchant for two-dimensional backdrops and animated interludes. There is some genius at work here. There’s also a lot of dry-humping performed by bearded Jewish wrestlers. Forbidden Zone often gags on its own quirkiness, but there’s an honesty and authenticity to Elfman’s bizarro universe that earns his film a free pass. Just hearing Herve Villechaize deliver the line, “I love feeling your nipples stiffen when I caress them,” earns this one a piece of cult film history.  

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.

ON DECK

What’s stacked on my nightstand (next to the empty beer bottles, soft-core porn, and bag of beef jerky) and next in line to be read.

Just for shits and giggles, here’s a look at what’s in the batter’s circle for the coming weeks. These are books I just picked up at a local used book store. I won’t blog about all of them, but here’s a peek at some of what I’ll be reading (as soon as I finish plowing through David Brooks’ On Paradise Drive, a defense of the ’burbs. It’s hellishly slow, people, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna give up on it.

The Wall of the Sky, The Wall of the Eye, by Jonathan Lethem

Lethem has quickly become one of my favorite novelists. His tales are inventive and engaging, without being overly coy. Some writers try too damned hard to be “post-modern” and it really chaps my ass. Lethem spins a good yarn and knows when to let the line go taut, and when to let out some slack. 

Amnesia Moon, by Jonathan Lethem

Can’t believe I’ve never read this one.

Shalimar the Clown, by Salman Rushdie

You remember Rushdie. Back in the late 1980s the Ayatollah Khomeini called for his death after Rushdie wrote The Satanic Verses (which I’ve been meaning to re-read.) Shalimar is supposed to be damned good. If it’s not, I’ll issue my own fatwa and demand that the head of every critic who praised the novel be ground into dime-sized pieces and sprinkled liberally over the dry patches in my shitty lawn. Yeah. Right there next to the Dodge Dart up on blocks. 

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. 

R.I.P. ARTIE TRAUM

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

Barbeau, Beatlemania and Brother don’t preach.

Vampyres of Hollywood: A Novel, by Adrienne Barbeau and Michael Scott (Thomas Dunne Books, released July 8)

Alright, vampire books make me want to shove my face into a wood chipper. I mean, come on, can you think of a concept that has been more overhyped and overplayed than a damn blood sucker story? My thinking is this—there are three reasons to pen a vampire story nowadays: 1) you’re an Anne Rice geek and you scribble out fan fiction just because Lestat makes your genitals tingle and you don’t care if your work is ever published; 2) you’re committing career suicide; 3) your name is Adrienne Barbeau. Perhaps—just perhaps—if you’re a chesty queen of horror and sci-fi flicks, you can get away with a story about vampires. In Hollywood. Literal vampires, mind you—not the celeb leeches we’ve all come to know and loathe. Hell, she was married to John Carpenter, so she’s gotta know something about writing dark fantasy, right? Yeah.    

Life With My Sister Madonna, by Christopher Ciccone and Wendy Leigh (Simon Spotlight Entertainment, released July 15)

It was bound to happen: Madonna Louise Ciccone Ritchie’s little brother has finally penned the book we all expected. He apparently rats out his sister, exposing every dope-fueled tryst and all-too-public lezzie make-out session. Do we really give a shit about this stuff anymore? Apparently someone out there does, or books like this wouldn’t see the light of day. I won’t be reading it, but if someone would kindly e-mail or fax the naughty bits involving Madonna locking lips with Gwyneth Paltrow, I might be persuaded to read it. Alone. (God, what I wouldn’t give for explicit photos ….)

Beatlemania Forever: The Beatles Encyclopedia, by W. Fraser Sandercombe (Collector’s Guide Publishing, released August 1)

Another Beatles book you say? Damn straight. Beatles books are like prostitutes—sometimes kinda nice to look at, but rarely worth the cover price. That’s why your local used book store is packed to the rafters with the things. But this one has the potential to be a pretty decent one, if only because of its comprehensive coverage of the Fab Four. And those peripherally connected to the band, too. Time will tell.

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. 

EXTREME TAKEOVER

Just Because You’re Paranoid Doesn’t Mean They’re Not After You

I have a soft spot for extremists—political, cultural, and otherwise. Some of the best music has come from the fringes of society, as have the most interesting characters and social movements. Notice that I did not say the most palatable characters and social movements. Certainly some of the people and ideas coming from the far, far, right and the way out, wacked-out left are about as pleasant as a night of sodomy and post-coital snuggles with the grizzly.

But that’s I love about Jon Ronson’s Them: Adventures With Extremists (Simon & Schuster, 2002). Ronson introduces you to a rogue’s gallery of kooks, crackpots and major-league pricks, and you don’t have to leave the comfort of your double-wide. I mean, do you really feel like spending a few hours of your Saturday hanging out with a Klansman? Didn’t think so. That’s why Ronson has done it for you. The book feels like a particularly gritty and realistic episode of “The X-Files,” sans Scully and her persistent, sultry sneer.

Sometimes you may have trouble believing half of what Ronson says and does. But don’t worry about it too much. When was the last time you told a story and hewed to the truth down to every insignificant detail? If you make a habit of doing that shit, please don’t invite me to your house for a few cold ones. You’re a boring ass.

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. 

ALT-ROCK MARATHONERS

Your weekly leg up on upcoming new releases: Juliana Hatfield, The New Year, Mercury Rev..

Three long-running alt- acts return from years in the wilderness, either reinvigorated or simply to reclaim lost ground. I can’t hear them outside of the context of their larger careers, but if there are any newcomers out there, let me know how these sound completely new, will ya?

Juliana Hatfield: How to Walk Away (Ye Olde Records, August 19)

A few weeks ago I picked up Hatfield’s 1994 break-out album Become What You Are in the dollar bin of the sketchy used CD store down the street. Listening to songs like “My Sister” and “Mabel” I was a bit surprised by how immature it sounded: the clumsy rhythms of her lines, the easy sentiments, the barely invested singing, the simplistic arrangements. It sounded like high school poetry in the worst way, which made it strangely compelling, as if she had bypassed all the usual music-biz checkpoints and plunked these songs right on my desk. Fifteen years later—by very stark contrast—How to Walk Away is studiously adult, which is not quite as surprising as the mere fact that she has stuck around for so long. Launching her own label and taking the reins of her career, Hatfield has been going AOR gracefully over the past few years, which suits her better than early 90s alternative ever did. Producer Andy Chase of Ivy streamlines these songs with a careful, uncluttered sound, as Hatfield voices spectacularly grown-up disappointments about love, life, and music.

On repeat: “This Lonely Love”

The New Year: The New Year (Touch and Go, September 9)

Four years doesn’t feel like a long time, but in the indie-rock world, it can be an eternity. Think of all the bands that have come and gone since 2004, when the New Year released their second album, The End Is Near. Many bands might seem old hat with that sort of interval, but the Kadane brothers have been refining their signature sound—slow-moving indie-rock with delicate vocals, mordant observations, and shimmery guitars—for nearly two decades now. It has yet to sound dated. The New Year, their third album, begins with a slow, slow fade-in to Folios, then transitions into “The Company I Can Get,” another epic in miniature: “I need all the company I can get / even that redneck in the red Corvette,” sings Matt Kadane as the guitar lends his self-deprecation a certain splendor. Therein lies the contradiction that keeps the New Year compelling after so many years: As down on himself as Kadane always sounds, the band (with Steve Albini again producing) always lift him up… a least a little bit.

On repeat: “The Door Opens”

Mercury Rev: Snowflake Midnight (Yep Roc, September 30)

Continuing the band’s migration away from noisy to ethereal—which is neither as egregious as detractors declare nor as righteous as the agonistes claim—Snowflake Midnight (Mercury Rev’s seventh album and first in three years) alights in the same Casio forest that swallowed Grandaddy a few years ago. Synth bleeps and programmed motorik beats replace the baroque orchestrations of The Secret Migration and All Is Dream, but the band keep the music simultaneously dense yet airy, occasionally reaching for majestic (“Senses on Fire”) but often settling for something just shy. John Donahue’s lyrics remain determinedly soft-focus and sentimental, and his fascination with beautiful butterflies and vulnerable snowflakes often sound inspired by a schoolgirl’s notebook cover circa 1982. Snowflake Midnight sounds a little dippy at times, but Mercury Rev sounds genuinely reinvigorated, emerging from their cocoon once again as the American Sigur Ros.

On repeat: “Senses on Fire”

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.