Jar Head

It's oh so quiet.

I'm writing this from the new digs. What strikes me most, aside from the obvious, hit you on the head nature of moving, is the quiet. In the last five years I became quite accustomed to the sound of drunken howling, passing ambulances and car horns. The general ambiance of Uptown, in short. Escaping to the farther rings of the city offers something that I used to associate with living in my parent's house as a teenager - total silence. A quiet night like this one, totally bereft of noise, sneaking into the kitchen so as not to wake anyone sleeping with my footsteps and opening of cupboard doors...suddenly I"m 17 again, living in my parent's basement. 

Not all was silent, though. Through out the winter I spent my share of quiet, late nights playing PS2 games with the volume at the audible threshold. Between GTA3, Silent Hill 2 and Tony Hawk 3 I was a content Midwestern recluse. No matter the depths of a blizzard or quiet solitude of a Sunday night, I was happy to sit in the quiet and vid out. A night like this makes me think of a favorite lost song I should be hearing. If I still had my PS2 still hooked up (somewhere, packed away in a box with our shared systems - Atari, Nes, Snes, Sega, N64, PS2, Xbox, GameCube and a Wii) I would get all nostalgic and play Tony Hawk 3 with 'Not The Same' by Bodyjar on a loop.

The Tony Hawk video games weren't just frenetic, addictive fun. They had killer soundtracks, too. As a Midwestern recluse I heard a fair amount of good, fresh music from these games. I can attest that among my friends more than a share of us had memorized lyrics due to marathon gaming sessions. We all had our favorites. Mine was the melodic punk offering of the (now defunct) Australian band Bodyjar. Countless sessions of fevered two-minute rounds were played to the strains of blasting guitars and snide, rounded vocals only half discerned. The only thing missing from tonight that would complete the recollection is a PS2 controller and about three feet of snow, which, being the end of November, should be here by now. 

Hearing the song now, I still dig it, even if my tastes have slowed down slightly. While I listen to more down-tempo instrumental and ambient music, I still have an affinity for the unresolved tension of the main riff to 'Not The Same'. The pre-chorus, with its not-quite-out-of-key chord progression, still sounds great. If you're at all near my age bracket (which you can figure out via context clues) you might be familiar with this song. Give it a spin or hey - bust out the PS2. It's about 10 years on from that sweet spot with all those great games. On a quiet night like this, I'm quite tempted, myself.

Down And Out

...and just like that, I don't live in Uptown anymore.

The big move happened over the course of the last two days. It was a suspiciously smooth process, thanks in no small part to extensive pre-planning and several extremely helpful friends. I find myself typing this on a laptop in bed, my back full of knots and my mind completely shot. We're sort of settled but there are still a multitude of packages to be sorted and put away. As soon as I'm done with this post I'm shutting off the laptop and turning on Netflix. To shut my mind down, I'm going to indulge in the underrated, defunct series Party Down.

Originally broadcast on Starz back in 2009 and 2010, Party Down starred Adam Scott, Ken Marino and Lizzy Caplan as under-achieving caterers in Hollywood. It was a show that, while never killing the competition in the ratings, has garnered a devoted audience that followed along into the second and final season. The show, featuring a who's who of character and comedy actors, followed wash-up actor Henry, played by Scott, as he sorted his life out while slumming it in the catering business run by and old drinking buddy. He hits it off with a coworker and romantic entanglements ensue. His lack of motivation, along with his constant "Don't I know you?" troubles, make for an engaging and human series that was just strange and funny and fresh. It was a bona fide creative TV series amid a sea of banality. 

There are tons of reasons to watch this show. Scott is perfectly suited to play the surly, adorable Henry as he sorts out his life. Marino is an almost too-painful-to-watch natural as the perpetual sad sack boss of the Party Down catering crew. Lizzy Caplan, channeling the misery of Hollywood in her Casey character, is believable and well written. The rest of the cast is just as strong, with Martin Star, Jane Lynch and Megan Mullaly all bolstering the little series that could. Alumni from The State all make appearances, as do a cavalcade of wonderful headscratchers like Steve Guttenberg, J. K. Simmons, Kristen Bell and Ken Jeong. The writing is natural and flows freely, having an improvised air while being meticulously scripted. The plots and events are hysterical and rarely if ever contrived for a TV comedy. Also, who can't relate to taking a job when you need to, instead of when you want to? The underdog nature of the show is totally relatable and a genius creative choice.

It bums me out that this amazing, quality show got the ax after only two seasons, but then again I feel glad just to know it made it this far. 20 episodes is quite the run for a show this smart and funny. Usually we get stuck with dreck that lasts forever and barely a season of anything smart. Party Down shown bright and briefly. Take a look online or on DVD to see what you missed. I'm putting on an episode and tuning out as soon as I can.

Deeper and Deeper

Evening, cats.


It's Friday and I've spent the day moving heavy boxes. My back and arms ache. I've had more than my share of a bottle of red (Red Truck - not a cab or merlot or zin, just red) like an adult jukebox. I can't push myself to work on a longer, more involved piece I've been putting off, as of late. Instead, I thought I'd share with you the joy that is Adele remixed as part of a Childish Gambino track.


I knew of Adele prior to this, of course. 'Chasing Pavements' had been all over the scene and the soulful young lady had made a name for herself with her old-school voice and intense inflection. I'd been crazy impressed with Childish Gambino from his album Culdesac, his phenomenal mix tapes and his work in comedy. So when he took her ascendant single 'Rolling In The Deep' and cut it up, I was a little confused. I forgot about her career and focused on his...with good reason, I'd argue.

Adele is a voice whose reputation goes far and wide among the popular culture these days. She has such clout from her talent that I felt genuinely sad when I heard that she had to cancel her recent tour and undergo major surgery on her vocal cords/throat. She's the opposite of a flash-in-the-pan - she's an artist who you really get an intense interaction from. Similar reactions stem from Childish Gambino - he's a musician who can't be confined to one simple thing. He's  not just a rapper, or DJ, or singer or comedian, or actor. The guy is insanely talented at whatever he throws himself into. I'd already been blown away by his musical endeavors. So these two forces colliding made something even more amazing.

As great as Adele's version of 'Deep' is, the Childish Gambino remix is more vibrant, more vital. It's a song that brings out different feelings and emotions from it's different dynamics than the original, as if that's not as obvious enough of a statement. Instead of a churning acoustic and plodding backing band we have Gambino setting Adele's unmistakable voice against sparse yet infectious hand claps, getting your mind into the rhythm right off the bat. He wraps her voice around a series of breaks and percussive tones that evoke DIY aesthetics like banging on pipes and sampling overheard sounds. He warps he voice using pitch-shifters and snippets of samples, rearranging the song into a more distilled, aggressive version of itself. When a break appears midway through, Gambino drops in for a verse to offer a response filled with vitriol and defiance. His rapping is a genius example of breaking convention and offering a novel back-and-forth for a kiss-off pop song. It's fantastic stuff.

Don't get me wrong - Adele made an amazing song with 'Rolling In The Deep'. I just find the Childish Gambino version, which I actually heard before the original version, to be a more defining take on the tune. Hers is canon, his is gospel. Hers is the standard, his is the ripper. He tells a story and builds on the world she created. Listen to them both and let me know what you think. 

Life Lesson

Sometimes the cover is the superior version.


I racked my brain trying to figure out which cover I could use to illustrate this example. I sorted through the usual business, looked at acoustic versions and covers by the Smashing Pumpkins and 80s new wave acts and modern dance tracks on the radio (that are just terrible). Then it dawned on me. Well, to be honest, it came on my headphones on the bus ride home. A song so infectious and sublime that I can't help but kind of bob and sway along when it comes on, even in public. For a white dude in Minnesota (in November, nonetheless) that's saying something. 

'Lust for Life' as performed by Childish Gambino is awesome, plain and simple. It's got all the things I need to love a song these days. It has some fuzzy synth opening it up. It has the multi-talented Gambino singing an infectious and sun-shiny melody about simple pleasures, like wanting a pizza and a bottle of wine. A heavy, swinging beat kicks in to propel the song along, making my dance instinctively. Gambino throws down a verse filled with equal parts wit and swagger, then cuts the whole thing off after just two minutes and forty seconds. A pop song that hits all the right marks and knows when to pull the plug, basically. I adore it, for the parts and the whole. Too bad the original is nowhere near as good.

Pitchfork would have a bird for the defiance (or maybe I'd get higher marks for dumping on their own reviews) but I just don't enjoy the original version of 'Lust for Life' by California indie/hipster/awkwardBeachBoyripoff band Girls. It just embraces all the intentionally self-aware, pretentious quirks that a wider culture pigeon holes as...pretentious, self aware and flawed. It's hard to pin down the specifics of why I find their song so grating, but I think it has to do with the intentionally shoddy production. The vocals are so intentionally sloppy and insincere that it makes me feel like the boys behind Girls can't enjoy life without making it from a safe distance. The musicianship is flawed in its sub-par delivery, substituting aloofness for talent. 

If there's one thing I can't stand in life, it's mocking insincerity standing in the way of enjoying your existence. There is a distinct difference between these hipster pretensions and genuine humor or camp. Where Girls are self-aware to a hyper degree, Gambino approaches the track with a sincerity and polish that shows his talent and appreciation for his own craft. He takes what he does seriously and doesn't want to squander any opportunity. Girls don't seem to want people to like them. Yeah, I'm obviously projecting my own insecurities here, but I'm aware of it and stand by my assertions. Life's too short for insincerity. Put on the Childish Gambino version and have a blast. It's clearly more fun.

Baby Boy

My relentless coverage of covers continues.

I've written about American Idol winner David Cook before. In short, he's the only contestant for whom I've ever had any concern. He was a fresh and welcomed change from the established bleating young starlets and barely-pubescent baby faces singing tired and retread covers. Here, instead, was a young man who had already had a relatively successful career with his own band and then on his own before finding his way onto Season Seven of the former TV juggernaut. His rise to the winners circle was fun and strange, an artist out of place in a stagnant TV competition. His versions of songs justified watching the show, I told my better half. Nah, turns out I just liked him and his music. His versions of songs were crazy good for the circumstances.

Cook had done some impressive work with the material he was handed on the show. He gave passionate performances that showcased not only his talent as a performer and musician (this being the first time contestants were allowed to play instruments) but also his ingenuity as an interpreter. His rearrangements of songs were just as entertaining as when he performed. When he introduced his cover of Mariah Carey's seminal pop hit 'Always Be My Baby', my better half and I exchanged worried looks - how was that going to work, exactly? As soon as they showed a clip of him casually strumming the tune in front of Carey (a sadly forgotten talent that has been swept under the rug too early, it should be noted) we both 'ooh-ed' in understanding. The dude had done it - he took a famous, famously female song and re-contextualized it to make sense from a male perspective. It was awesome.

Cook's performance was a stunner and a clear indicator of his front runner status. The way he strutted around the stage belting out his newly arranged ballad, there was no question he was in the lead. What had been a light and fluffy pop song (a fantastic bubblegum piece of music) had been transformed into an amazing and powerful ballad, a declaration of love. Sounds sappy, I know. Still, when he was done we were both agog. It was a game changing performance from Cook. He wasn't just a pop musician on a TV showcase. He'd made it clear that he had a wealth of talent from which to work. When coupled with an intuitiveness and insightful sense of musical savvy, it was no wonder he shot to the top the way he did.

Sure, maybe it's a little unusual for a guy to be championing a winner from a past season of American Idol. You know what? I don't care. I have listened to this song recently, simply on its musical merits and catchy sound, let alone the fact that I was looking for a solid and overlooked cover to write about. Listen to Carey's original version, followed by the cover by Cook. The way they compliment each other shows how the two are derived so much from the artist perspective and intention and not just the gender. Cool stuff.

Scary Business

Evening, one and all.


It's been a long week for me. One that finds me here, having a cocktail and waxing nostalgic about movies from 15 years ago. I'm glad it's over - Halloween is almost here! So in the interest of Spooky Month, I've been racking my brain, trying to summon the unsung, the things that deserve another day in the sun. Even if the sunlight kills them. Today, it dawned on me - a movie that is surprisingly enjoyable and criminally underrated. Do you guys remember The Frighteners?

In some ways, it's amazing this movie is as unappreciated as it is. First off, it was directed by Peter Jackson. Yes, that Peter Jackson. As a result, it was filmed in New Zealand, which gives a very distinct look to the film - it's a little Beetlejuice-esque in some of its more zany moments, but with gorgeous landscapes and vistas. You want more notoriety? Sure - how about the last major theatrical role by everyone's favorite, Michael J. Fox? We all adored him at his peak, but how many of us saw this hidden gem when it was released? Not I, sadly. Debuting in 1996, I recall seeing the trailers and thinking it looked pretty rad, if a bit off. The kind of movie that seemed too good to be true. Allow me to explain.

The Frighteners is a movie that is, in a way, the flip-side to The Ghostbusters. Fox plays an architect named Frank Bannister (puns!) who loses his wife in a mysterious car accident. Through a series of conveniently obtuse events, he gains the ability to see and commune with the dead. This ability, coupled with a small town's gossip about the mysterious death of his wife, lead him to a career stall-out. He begins to use a few ghost friends to con his fellow townsfolk with staged hauntings and fake poltergeists. It's more than a little over the top, if just a little bit bad ass. His convenient little scheme goes awry, though, when a massive black-robed...thing...begins killing people around him, setting Bannister up as the culprit. These events manage to tie back into a reclusive neighbor and the legend surrounding a long dead serial killer. Needless to say, it gets worse. A lot worse. 

If you have any interest in Spooky Month, you have to see this movie - it's an underrated gem of the horror-comedy genre. Fox is superb as the tortured but good natured con man. His undead friends, one of whom is Chi McBride, are awesomely ghoulish, playing their strange roles with aplomb. Sean Astin's father John gives one last amazing performance. Jake Busey delivers an insane performance as Starkweather, the less of whom I say, the better. It's a surprisingly strong film for a little-known mid-90s horror-comedy. Also of note - it bears more than a passing similarity to Silent Hill 4. Both center around similar antagonists and horrible things that strike from within the walls. 

I have to say, if you've never seen The Frighteners, you're missing out. It's one of Fox's great unsung roles. He has this wonderful anxiety through his whole performance that makes him so energetic and endearing, despite the trouble he causes. It's both freaky and deeky, full of laughs and gore, dancing the line in a superb manner. Check it out before Halloween hits!

Garfield & Ghouls

Spooky Month can never die!


We're switching gears again, kids. No more auditory evils, no more mixes for costume parties, no more ambient soundtracks. We're delving into Spooky TV shows and specials, the kind of stuff that either gets under your skin or celebrates my favorite of all holidays. Today, we're starting back at the beginning. Let's look at something from my childhood that scared the bejesus out of me - Garfield's Halloween Adventure.

I could see where this would be an innocuous thing. I could see how the execs and artistic talent behind this animated special from 1985 could make the assumption that everything presented here would be just fine and dandy for a children's Halloween special. That lazy, lasagna loving cat goes trick-or-treating with Odie and they have a bit of an adventure, a fright or two, throw in a couple musical numbers and a couple commercial breaks, you got yourself some advertising bucks. What ensued still gives me chills. I remember the white-knuckle terror of watching this as a small child, my brain melting at the twisted visuals that were stealthily presented in this cartoon.

 One in a series of holiday specials from Garfield, the 80s and childhood staple, this half-hour cartoon was charming and simple on the surface. Garfield experiences Halloween. Jon gets him to carve a pumpkin. Garfield and Odie look for costumes in the attic, then go trick-or-treating. They see a house in the distance, across a river. Taking a rowboat, they find it's an old house that is home to what is clearly a disturbed old man. He tells a tale of pirates who are due to return from the grave that night to reclaim buried treasure. He steals the pair's boat and the two animals hide in the cupboards from some amazingly terrifying ghosts. That is when my brain promptly melted and oozed out of my ears. 

Once I reached adolescence, I found reliving the childhood terrors a bit of a thrill. Surprisingly it still gives me the willies. I have to say, the style of animation and the manner in which it so innocuously creeps into what was expected to be a pleasant animated outing is effectively unnerving. I know I love the macabre and the surreal, but just Googling the images for today's post got my heart to race a bit. Some stereo effects kicked in at the wrong moment in my headphones and my pulse skipped a beat. How can this cartoon have had such an intense effect on me at such a young age? It must have been the shattered premise of peace and safety. I guess it was my first experience of the dangers that can come in seemingly innocent packages. 

Good gravy, just one post about Spooky TV and already I need a drink. Tell you what, I'll come up for more modern fare for tomorrow's post and you try exposing your kids to the unexpected terrors of Garfield's Halloween Adventure on Youtube. Scar them like I was, it'll put hair on their chest and a surprise in their diapers. Spooky Month never dies!

Impending Music

My older brother took me to what I consider to be my first concert.

Growing up in the goon docks, I had only seen bands that would come through and play festivals. These acts were rarely of concern or relevance to me. Acts like Lynyrd Skynyrd and Twisted Sister and Alice Cooper were a big loud spectacle, even fun at times, but their shows were more an instance of causality than seeking them out. Rock Fest or (ugh) Country Jam would throw these festivals in the countryside, packing in as many inebriated attendees as possible, boasting lineups of bands well past their prime, all of it happening in a chaotic, messy amphitheater. Not to say First Ave is a pristine, sterile environment, but it kind of kills the excitement to see any live acts when mosquitoes and sunburn are of more concern than a band's latest album. Compounding these concerns was the reality that I was (and continue to make myself) an outsider - I was weird, made strange jokes, looked as awkward as I felt, liked unusual music. Basically I was a prototype of my modern self, which was great for embracing who I am today, but hard and lonely when surrounded by avid Kenny Chesney fans. So while I had seen concerts, I didn't consider any of them my 'first concert'.

The older brother fixed that with a birthday surprise - tickets to see Green Day as they toured to support their latest album, Warning. I was crazy excited, both for what I knew would be a great show and that my brother had made such a cool gesture - not only did he make a big investment (Ticketmaster was just as bad then as it is today) but he's never been a huge Green Day fan, either, so it meant he would make the most of it just to make me happy. I was really touched at the gesture. The night before we were driving up to the Twin Cities for the show I recall excitedly boasting to friends about the concert. In hindsight, they were polite but not as enthused. I get it, now. But I didn't care at the time - first show! Plus, it was a band that (in my mind) was huge! I never thought I would get to see them live, either by my tastes evolving or the band calling it quits. Fortunately neither have come true and I could see them again if I so desired. Interestingly, they seemed older then than they do today.

Warning is recognized today as a transitory album. In the wake of two major-label albums full of snotty punk anthems, Warning's predecessor Nimrod saw them wobble on their legs, ever so slightly. It was an album with experiments and the occasional misstep - for every up-tempo single, there would be a laid-back surf number or acoustic ballad. They were evolving as they grew older, as any band does. Warning exemplified that evolution. The song tempos slowed down even further, there were more natural sounds like acoustic guitars and harmonicas. More than ever, the band appeared to be putting greater thought into their song writing process. These weren't more of the band's standard fare of petulant take-downs and negativity. Instead, they offered songs decrying our coddled and pacified lives (Warning), examinations of faith in relationships (Church On Sunday) and fictional tales of dramatic doings (Misery). While some reviewers cried foul at the time, I really enjoyed the strange new sound coming from what had been a (fantastic) single-minded band. It was a fresh step, even if it sounded less youthful and energetic.

Despite the change in tone, the band was great live. If anything they sounded more vibrant in light of the more down-beat tunes. They played a fantastically energetic set full of old hits, new numbers that sounded just as intense (like the punchy 'Castaway' and 'Fashion Victim') and got the crowd really riled up. Green Day, at one point late in the show, brought people up on stage to play their instruments. Like an idiot, I crowd-surfed out of the pit only minutes before. Slight regret aside, it was a great show, one that had everything I wanted and some a great opening band, the Australian rock outfit The Living End. On the long drive back to our humble town we broke down our respective experiences, me being agog at the sound and energy, he being impressed with their quality live show and The Living End. Even with a two hour drive each way, it was still absolutely a more enjoyable experience than anything I had seen before, hands down.

The point I made earlier about transition and the band sounding older then than they do now is brought to light by their own work. After Warning came a lull in the band's career - they had made almost an entire album to follow Warning but the tapes were stolen from the studio. In a writing exercise and act of frustration, they started writing little 30-second suites to compose a larger number. This simple idea would usher in a new era for the band, selling millions of the rock opera American Idiot and even creating a Broadway show. They play with more piss and vinegar now, but they were just as passionate to perform back then, almost 10 years ago. A brief glimpse into an older, wiser Green Day showed that they were capable of new sounds, they just needed a bit of a push to get rolling. Warning was a transitional album, one that's full of great songs from a seemingly divergent band. You really ought to give it a listen - it's fascinating in light of where their sound actually ended up.

I always think of that killer first show whenever I hear this album. Songs from Warning first hit the airwaves around this time of year when it was slated for release, so when the sun sets a certain way, I flash back to high school and where I was when I heard them for the first time. Funny how the memories come together like connecting dots. I should thank my brother for that concert, the next time I talk to him. I don't think I conveyed how much it meant to me at the time. 

Parental Records

The more the years go by, the more I see the influence of my father in my life.

Sure, this seems painfully obvious to an outsider observing two inherently link specimens, one the genetic and causal result of the other. But to one of the animals inside the experiment, the nature of the situation is not so readily apparent. Furthermore, the opening statement could be more appropriately phrased as: The more the years go by, the more I see how my life is shaped from what I take from my father. This understanding has come into sharper focus for me in the more recent years, but most identifiably as I read through a book he had picked up over the course of my wedding weekend. The book, Fire and Rain by David Browne, is a look at the state of the world of popular music in 1970 and how it shaped and was shaped by four entities - The Beatles, CSNY, Simon & Garfunkel and James Taylor. My experience in reading the book was no doubt shaped by my relationship with my father; my understanding of it colored not only how I perceived the music but how I perceived the reading experience itself. Both were revelatory, but I gained more from my burgeoning clarity than I did from the book.

Don't get me wrong - Fire and Rain is an interesting read, it just lacks teeth at times. It was fascinating for me to gain an understanding and clearer perspective on things that I had little or unfocused comprehension. While in town for my wedding, my dad decided to pass a rare lull in the action by wandering around a book store, something I'm more than a little pleased to see is an inherited trait. Having an appreciation for the artists studied in this book (like anyone his age, one could fathom) he picked it up as some light reading material for the evening and finished it while I was off on my honeymoon. When I visited them earlier this fall, he casually mentioned it as entertaining and insightful, not too challenging given the wide scope of the book. Always looking for more fodder, as well as a chance to share something with my father, I took him up on it and read through it this past week. As I said, it was an interesting, if light, read - pretty much his take on it, from what he's told me.

To be honest, sitting on the bus and reading his book 100 miles away gave me the same feeling I got from pinching his record collection when I went off to college. A neighbor of mine left me a gently used, but still serviceable, stereo that actually had a turntable built in with its modern components. Knowing his LPs weren't getting much action at home, I MAY have asked to borrow them. They also may have just ridden along with my stuff that was still boxed up from freshman year. The point is, I had been listening to his vinyl since I was about 14 and had first gotten the itch to figure out what this Led Zepplin business was all about, anyway. Some of my favorite times in college were spent sitting in my apartment with my then-girlfriend-now-wife and other friends, goofing off and drinking while spinning his original pressings by The Stones, CSNY, Eric Clapton and even Kool & The Gang. They really did sound different from the horrible, pirated mp3s we'd all grown accustomed to, and it was a distinct badge of honor to answer questions of origin with "Oh these? These are all my dad's records."

In addition to the sense of connection I gained from reading David Browne's book, I also gained a much stronger understanding of the world of music that I took for granted. It sounds foolish but with so many revered bands existing around the same time, it was strange to think of them as having overlapping careers. To read that Bridge Over Troubled Water came out the same year as James Taylor's Sweet Baby James kind of made sense when you hear them on the radio; to know that came out the same year The Beatles dissolved was a fresh context, though. Further, I found it surprising to realize the Kent State shootings happened and that CSNY's 'Ohio' was written almost immediately in response - the freewheeling 60s had come to an abrupt end and that song seemed to legendary to be almost dashed-off in a matter of less than 20 minutes. I had no idea that James Taylor, the gentle artist he always was, had not only had debilitating d a but also had himself committed on several occasions. Those kind of realizations change the way you see an artist as well as their canon of work. It became much more apparent why CSNY barely held together, as well as the notion that The Beatles had no choice but to pack it in, they didn't function as a unit anymore. Also? Not necessarily Yoko's fault. Shows you what old punch-lines and cliches really teach you.

These were musicians I've heard my whole life, through my dad playing them in the house (or the car, more likely) or from oldies stations. Knowing that they were real people, not just legends already on pedestals, made them (and their music, of course) much more relatable. Reading about Paul Simon fretting over his premature hair loss was endearing and humanizing. Learning that James Taylor was kind of nuts made him more appealing as an artist, frankly. I've only known him as the balding and gruff old man who plays folk songs. Getting a sense of who he was as a young man (and the troubles he endured) deepened my appreciation greatly. Reading all this knowing that Black Sabbath, Led Zepplin and Devo were right around the corner was just as illuminating as anything else in the book.

It's all about context. The history in the book, my relationship with my father, whatever you do in life. Understanding the larger picture makes such a monumental difference. My father is a man of self-discipline who still reads for pleasure - I've always read voraciously but only in the last few years has my control over my life really come into shape. My love of running absolutely ties back into his. Funnily enough, he hardly ever spoke of it, he just did it every morning. That seems to be a more effective way to ingrain a lesson into your kids - no lectures, just show 'em how it's done. He's told me before of his love of a good harmony, a peculiarity I also share with him (thus the CSNY, I guess). My musical roots fall squarely into his domain, as well. Reading this book helped me understand that. I'm glad he let me borrow it - unlike his records, I plan on returning it. 

Hello Self

This is not unlike my internal conflict regarding U2.

I have, in general terms, no concern for Madonna. Why would I, really? Her music was never targeted to me and I never connected with what she was saying. Her impact on music - pop, dance, club and electro - is undeniable, though. Just because I didn't care for it didn't mean I didn't appreciate her legacy and influence. She changed the cultural landscape with her hyper-sexualized image and dace-centered tunes. She's had tons of hit songs and sold millions of albums. We just were never on the same plane, musically. I'm fine with that; there are plenty of artists whom I respect but don't bother with. I won't name names but legendary status doesn't necessitate patronage. In other words, I wasn't into what she was putting out. There was one single, though, that broke through the malaise.

It was fall of 1998. I think it was my freshman year of high school, which was also kind of a weird year in music. There was kind of a lull in music I dug - I had run the gamut of 90s alt rockers, draining the well of anything I found pleasure in. There was nothing to be passionate about. I remember feeling this terrible pall wash over me as I began to realize high school was going to be a worse, older version of middle school, at least for the foreseeable future. Same kids. Same town. Same teasing. I was unhappy but struggled to express or resolve the issues I was facing. I kind of wanted something melancholy to help see me through the fog affecting me. Had I known about Portishead and Bjork at the time, I would have been all about it, their albums of the time being longtime favorites of mine once I discovered them. I recall listening to Adore a lot, curiously exploring the subtle electronic undertones. The world was slowly growing colder and my mood dampened each day. I was your typical py teenager, all awkward skinny limbs and poor temperament. 

Madonna had seen a big success in her album Ray of Light, which was only on my radar due to the high volume of MTV I consumed at the time. Not of any interest to me, it didn't even register beyond its pervasive singles on pop radio. That changed, though, with the single 'The Power of Goodbye'. Unlike the many times I've been unable to cite an attraction to a song, this time I could break it down on a scientific level. I loved the ambient sounds, the electronic burbling the production. The chord progression was one of absolute satisfaction and resolution - I got such a sense of peace from the way the softly played tones shifted from one chord to the next. Madonna's self-aggrandizing nature and (mediocre) singing had been toned down, making it much more palatable to my fickle taste. Even the video for the song, which by that point in MTV's life span was receiving little play, was all mournful blues and agony over the ending of a relationship. Basically I loved everything about the song.

Except for what it was. 

As much as I loved 'The Power of Goodbye' it was (at least in my mind) totally unacceptable that I enjoyed it, especially among my peers. I already took enough abuse at school about looking and acting different than the standard high school, small town dude - blasting some sentimental Madonna tune would have brought on more torment than it would have been worth. So I never really got to enjoy it, as I always felt guilty for liking something so feminine and graceful. Now, of course, I know better. Forget all that noise - I love the things I love for exactly the reasons they're awesome. I've certainly shown in my posts here that I make no bones about my adoration for atypical pieces. I embrace my quirks and the ensuing results. Including this song. 

Now, as fall rolls in again, I find myself wanting to hear the song and remember what growing up was like. The feeling in the air at the time, the memories of where I was at that point in my life. I'm glad I've come to a point in my life where I have the confidence to be who I want, even if that gets the occasional eye-roll from my better half. 

Car Crash Cacophany

Evening, gang.

I'm totally tapped. Had a massive day at the office, book-ended by a run around the lakes in the morning and a surprise yoga session in the afternoon. I would love to give you an emphatic recommendation buy at this point it would feel false. In the face of failure, I'll throw a bit of honest to goodness fiction in here, one of the first I ever wrote, to be compensated by a double post tomorrow. So, you hang tight and read this short, sad story and check back in for what I ought to have posted today. I'll see you on the weekend...

Keep your cards close – keep your cards close to keep your cash closer.  I hated that phrase the first time I heard it.  Felt so unloving – who would hold it as a life motto?  My grandfather told me that when I was young, and I learned as I grew older that he wasn’t a trusting person.

His wife, my grandma, was just as cynical.  I remember being upset as a young boy because it had rained on the day she was supposed to take me to the State Fair, and the lesson she passed on to me was “Nothing in life is certain, save death and taxes.”  Sick thing to say to a kid, perhaps, but at least she was leveling with me at a time in my life when the whole world was sugar-coated.  It was the kind of lesson you don’t realize you’ve learned until Life already has you bent over and waiting for it and things around you have fallen apart.  No one ever sees it coming until they’ve missed their chance.  

Boxer

Hey, howdy, how are you?


You have no idea how good you have it now, do you? Things are so conveniently available to the masses that its not even a question of whether or not you can get something, it's just assumed you can. Even before the advent of iTunes and Amazon and Bit-torrents, you had Napster and Kazaa and Blubster, all those horrible, unchecked file sharing services. Before all that existed, if you wanted anything even the slightest bit elusive or rare you were S.O.L. Imported?  Tough cookies. Out of print? Don't even bother. Now? It's assumed not only does it exist, it ought to be free. I get scoffed at by my friends (many of whom are in non-traditional, performing arts careers, mind you) for paying for music. I saw the writing on the wall, that the RIAA was going after anyone and everyone who downloaded anything, whether or not the cause was rational. 


So I stopped. No more shady downloads. I've never fried a hard drive or picked up a Trojan or gotten Lemon Partied. So scoff, amigos, but there are tons of artists putting out free music that is super sick, like Das Racist's first two mixtapes - they were so good I had to shell out for their first proper album (pertinent review pending, it's a thick album to unpack). When I was 14 I would have prayed and slobbered for file sharing, just to track down the rare things I desired. The best I could do were expensive box sets. I used to love the physical weight and tangibility of a box set, knowing there was so much rare gold in them. Before I delve into the massive and daunting Smashing Pumpkins box set I thought I'd take a look at my first box set, Nirvana's Singles.

I've written of my love for Nirvana before, not so surprisingly about their rumored lost tracks. While I had no means of contacting bootleggers and tape traders in my youth, I was able to drop some lawn-mowing/snow-shoveling cash on the collection of singles from their two major label albums, Nevermind and In Utero. As the back of the cardboard sleeve explained, there were 11 fresh tracks contained within, six of which were studio songs and not just more live tracks (which were always mediocre at best). When a band has such a short time of creation as Nirvana, every spare track counted. To have fresh content after their premature dissolution was amazing to me then and even now. I still love these songs, both for what they were and what they represented.

The stuff that wasn't live was great. The 'Teen Spirit' single had two like-minded rockers, the punk edge of 'Even In His Youth' and the dirty, grimy 'Aneurysm' which showcased Dave Grohl's drumming. The 'Come As You Are' single had an encapsulated version of the hidden one-off jam 'Endless Nameless', which brought their energy and impulsive nature to the Nevermind sessions. 'Lithium' was backed by the off-kilter and wobbly 'Curmudgeon', a song that vacillated between rolling verses and aggro-choruses. The 'All Apologies' single saw the band at their wit's end as they mucked around on the intentionally off-putting 'MV', whose embryonic roots were the basis for 'You Know You're Right'.

There was no hidden, great single in the bunch. No magical untapped genius - just a collection of one-offs and b-sides that meant the actual albums weren't the end of the band. There was this secret little trove of finished songs that extended their canon just that crucial bit, a way of prolonging their life in my mind. Now you can pull them all off iTunes or Amazon in any order you want. I like having a playlist of all their collected gems in one spot, as if verifying my collection's scope. This particular box set opened the door for me. I'll look at another tomorrow.

Danse Floor

Bon nuit.


Feeling tapped, as of late. It's that time of year wherein Minnesota flips a switch and we abruptly change from the heat and humidity of summer to the cool, crisp air of autumn. It seems to have happened just over night, in a jarring transition the affects the mind and body. Everyone I know is just a bit more tired, struggling just a bit more to pull themselves from the comfort of bed in what are now dark mornings. I can still (barely) force myself to get up and run before work, which is a shot of adrenaline that gives a slow-burn of energy for the day. The side effect, though, is it leaves me feeling a bit detached. As I walk to my bus stop in uptown I have to force myself to gear up for facing the masses of people, my quiet life shaken from it's peaceful start. So I turn to alienated and alienating music.

A song that's always helped me cope with this sense of detachment from crowds is 'Glass Danse' by new wave band The Faint. A neighbor of mine in college who really had me pegged but never socialized enough (or maybe I didn't reach out enough) included it on a fantastic homemade compilation album. It was called "When the Committee Meets at Your House" and it had some amazing homemade artwork I've never gotten around to scanning. Mark was a real hep cat, a guy who made me appreciate some of the more subtle aspects of city living. I wish I hadn't fallen out of touch with him. I was a different person back then, almost a full decade ago. I had much less social nuance and tact, and I was most likely an obnoxious college student. He was very patient and polite, and had great taste in music. His compilation turned me on to the Mountain Goats and Jacques Dutronc and Bonnie Prince Billie. Still, of all the songs, Glass Danse, from the album Danse Macabre, was my favorite.

I think maybe he saw it as touching on my inner isolation, or his. Who knows. I just knew it was a funky dance number at the time, a buzzing little number with teeth that sounded phenomenal when you cranked it up. Now, as I listen to the lyrics through headphones on the bus, surrounded by people I don't speak with or even make eye contact, I think maybe he sensed I would grow up into a more reserved version of myself. The icy cold detachment in the lyrics is the epitome of Minnesota (n)ice, our polite surface being a form of keeping the world at arm's length. I'm glad I still have the homemade compilation with his handmade artwork - I just wish I was still in contact with him. He was cool.

Warm Fuzzy Viewing Four

I haven't forgotten about doing these.

It's been a while since I've written any Warm Fuzzy Viewings. Not wanting to dilute the content of the site, I've held off until I felt I should contribute to a different section. So how about something that only seems to make sense at night? Maybe it's because it is set during the night, or because I watched them late at night in my parent's basement when I was in high school, whatever the reason - it wouldn't be right to watch it in broad daylight. I'm talking about the Meteor Shower Trilogy, also known as the Lost South Park Movie.

 Originally broadcast as three separate episodes in the summer of 1999, the Meteor Shower Trilogy has the main cast of South Park split up into their own stories. Cartman's story involves his abusive babysitter (and his obsession with the dated misfire that was Wild Wild West) while his mom attends a party at the Marsh's house to observe the titular meteor shower. Stan's episode is centered around the events of the party, where he's sequestered to the basement with a few other kids (including Butters!). At the party, a misunderstanding entices the involvement of the South Park police force, setting up a parody of the Waco incident in 1993. Kenny gets lumped into Kyle's story for an episode about camping and his Jewish heritage that gets weirder and weirder as the plot unfolds. None of what happens is intensely dramatic or of any permanence to the overall mythology to the show, it's just some bizarre and funny stuff. It's all set over the course of a single night, the three episodes occurring simultaneously.

I had wondered, when I saw the episodes ten years ago, if you could splice them all together into a single story. You may or may not recall my adoration of Fan Edits and how they re-contextualize stories with which we're already familiar. See where I'm going with this? Yeah - provided you know where to look on the ol' interwebs, you can find what's referred to as The Lost South Park Movie or The Meteor Shower. It's pretty loose and not to big on overlapping stories due to the way the individual episodes were written but it's still a very cool concept that only makes sense for me at night. I remember vividly the Sunday nights lying on the couch in the basement and howling at these episodes, loving the fact that they all took place over a single night. If you're interested, take a look around the web and see if you can dig 'em up. It's a cool concept.