Desperate Measures

Hola, gang.


Let's just cut right to the chase, shall we? 


As I have made it abundantly clear, I do love me some Stephen King. For better or worse, I'm hooked on his relentless writing, all character based and paired up with other-worldly horrors. It may not be the most high minded and literary for those of us that still enjoy the written word, but man if it isn't habit forming. It all began years ago.


I"m pretty sure Desperation was the first book of King's that I read. There's the possibility that it was Needful Things but that cold winter year was so damn unpleasant that I tend to run together or straight up block out some of the memories. I was a miserable little pissant in middle school, I recall that much. My older brother had either sneaked home a book of King's or just slipped it under the parent's watchful radar. He could be plenty convincing when he wanted to be. Whatever the case, I picked up Desperation out of curiosity, having heard his conversations with our neighbor Ryan over the messed up thematic elements and horrible occurances. My morbid litte mind was more than just a bit curious, I'll confess. The illicit nature of the book was soon lost on my hungry mind - I was so desperate to keep reading that I thought nothing of bringing the book to school, sneaking the 700+ page book into my stack of required texts. I still remember Ms. Zubrowski asking me if my parents knew I was reading such gruesome fodder. I smiled and nodded, saying "They don't mind, as long as I'm reading."

In what was perhaps a harbinger of things to come, Desperation was both an examination of faith and a tale of evil things setting their sights on mankind. I was struck, as a young adult, by the honest and frustrated take on religion and nature of God that King took in the novel. On top of the angst-ridden diatribes were the nihilistic attacks on humanity as seen through the ancient deity Tak. In a way, they set the tone for my appreciation for horror literature and my rationalization for the world around me - awful, incomprehensible things may happen on any given day, but they do not mean I have to lie down and accept them. I am not just a reaction to the world but a presence in it, one that can shape it as it happens. 

The plot of the book is actually fairly simple - a long forgotten and malevolent evil is released from its imprisonment beneath the ground in the desert. It begins leaping from person to person, killing and consuming everything in its path as it continues marauding through the desert. When the ancient entity inhabits the hulking body of a local sheriff, it uses the man's authority and power to capture a group of people travelling through the local township. These people are find themselves imprisoned by the sheriff as a result of his con, and soon find themselves tasked with combating the demonic force. What ensues is a confrontation with evil, faith and one's own fallibility. It's a moving book.

Desperation is not one of King's highest regarded works. I'm willing to overlook that, though, as it has always been one of my favorites, if only for it being one of my earlier experiences. There's plenty of horror to go around here - animals being possessed, inhuman acts of violence, wanton destruction and an absence of the divine. Desperation is filled with the lonesome scares of the wilderness that draw on our sense of the natural world aligning with the gods against us. It set me on a new path when I was a teenager, one full of peculiar tales with distinct characters. Give it a read for a Southwestern taste of torture. 

From Below

Let's lighten the load, shall we?

Yesterday's piece on The Living Dead collection was a bit grim. That is one macabre book full of dismemberment and head shots. Fun stuff if you're into it, but maybe we take a bit lighter approach today? Let's use today's Book themed Spooky Month post to take a look at one of my favorite comics. Let's take a look at Hellboy.

 Created by Mike Mignola back in the early 90s, Hellboy is something of a fighter. The long suffering but good natured demon weathered the treacherous comic industry that snuffed out many a smart book in the latter part of the decade. A surprisingly enjoyable movie was adapted from the first few volumes of the book, directed by Guillermo Del Toro and starring Ron Perlman in a perfect fit for the titular demon. On top of that, Big Red has seen enough enduring appeal and marketability to warrant a second, more ambitious motion picture adaptation while the book continues its extended run. Spin offs have been successfully launched. Animated adventures have been created to expand the universe and satisfy a demanding audience. All of this without being on one of the two major labels. The cigar chomping, trench coat sporting paranormal investigator is one hard demon to keep down.

So why the love? Why all the adoration for what could easily have been a one-shot or cameo, a character too outlandish or taboo to last?

I think it has to be the attitude. Not like Poochy, I should clarify. Despite the amazing and vivid artistry on the pages, I suspect it has to be the scripts and dialogue that make this comic such a (forgive the pun) dark horse. Created and published at a time when darker, edgier and more extreme were the rules by which the suits played, Hellboy kept it simple and accessible despite the other-worldly concept and settings. One could chalk it up to serendipitous choices in creative direction, but you get the sense within just a few pages that Mignola struck just the right balance between Lovecraftian-inspired, n fueled trappings and a 'just my luck' down to Earth sensibility for the comic. Hellboy may be dealing with Old Gods and steam-punk stormtroopers but he does it all with such a dogged good nature that you don't feel like you're reading a dour and unpleasant comic. Red's got a soft spot for kittens and cartoons, how dark can it be? 

That being said, I love everything about the Hellboy universe - from the folklore that creeps in to the mixture between slapstick and violence that (unlike many comics) has danger and consequences. Characters die. Things hurt. Baba Yaga has a house on a chicken leg. Rasputin summons Red with incantation and painfully cool devices that look right at home among the pop-art-meets-German-expressionism stylings of the comic. Subject matter that could come across as too self-serious or absurd in the wrong hands instead has an air of mystery and menace, walking that fine line between horror and jovial comedy. What many have pointed to as an unrecognized reason for the success of Ghostbusters and Shaun of the Dead is also a large part of the enduring appeal of Hellboy - that back and forth interplay between the comedy and horror. They play off of each other in such a subtle manner you forget they are separate elements. That they work together so seamlessly is a testament to the craft. 

Of course, none of this would work as well without the dynamic visuals. The characters lend themselves to such iconic depictions that it's no wonder they've made the impact they have. The bold, bright colors and heavy lines compliment the old-world themes. Fellow paranormal investigators Abe Sapien and Liz Sherman the pyrokinetic look just as impressive as Red himself. There is such an undeniably cool simplicity to the pop-art aesthetic here that place Hellboy in its own league. I can think of few other books that feature anywhere near as much architecture as this - an inspired move that aids immensely in creating vivid, almost tangible settings for outlandish happenings.

Full of things that go bump in the night, these comics are a perfect compliment to Halloween. Trade paperbacks of the first issues are easily available today. If you're not into reading a comic the movies are fantastic, loving adaptations of the source material. Not all the best comics are Marvel or DC, for those of you that don't know - Hellboy is a great place to go off the beaten path. Check it out and see for yourself. 

Dead & Loving It

This literary introduction to Spooky Month won't be all King.

A couple years back a kind and generous family member had bestowed upon me a gift card to a major book retailer. It's always been known in my family that I was a voracious reader, a fact that has always been embraced and cultivated. What was not known, however, was that as my tastes developed they also tended to turn and decay ever so slightly. While I would whip through my high school homework with ease I would also find the weirdest and most divergent books to make my mind stretch and expand. In college, in addition to carving out time for philosophy texts, I would also devote too much of my time indulging in schlock and pulp, loads of comics and King. Sure, some of it was to blow off steam after exams or kill time on flights before the days of iPads. But let's be honest here, people - I love a good ol' grimy horror story. So when I was looking through the nationally known purveyor of the written word, I stumble upon something I had to have. It was awesome. It was huge. It was all about zombies.

The Living Dead collection, compiled and edited by John Joseph Adams, is a massive tome. Touting contributors from all over the spectrum, there are some big names between the covers. King makes an appearance, naturally, as does his son, Joe Hill. They're almost expected, sure, but there are also fantastic tales from the likes of Neil Gaiman, Clive Barker, George R.R. Martin, even Poppy Brite. The authors here are all at their freewheeling best, writing unconstrained by potentially offended or sensitive palates. The stories are all unflinching and raw, the plots and backdrops going for gusto. It's not a collection of essays on the first time they saw a scary movie. No, these are stories that delve deep into the meat of a good zombie tale - horrible, unspeakable (but well written) things happen. Worlds perish. People are c. It's grimy. It's gritty. It's hard to enjoy while eating dinner.

The stories are all unique and all strong enough to stand on their own. King's is a collection of all his hallmarks - your classic Romero-type outbreak in a small island town in Maine, complete with ordinary people dealing with horrendous things. Gaiman's is also identifiably his, with lots of quirks of humanity and touches of personality that make the scenes and people come to life, despite the overwhelming presence of death. There's a fascinating examination of the potential abuse of the political system in light of the deceased being granted the right to vote. The implications of Dale Bailey's story are mind blowing, it's a must-read for anyone interested in our current political mess, let alone fans of the undead. The tragic and heartbreaking tale of adolescent influence, 'The Dead Kid' by Darrell Schweitzer, still stays with me now, a moving and disturbing piece of fiction. George R. R. Martin paints huge vistas of dying and decaying worlds, telling a story of machinery and tech gone inhuman.

I have to say this book is unlike anything else I've ever read. I picked it up years before the whole zombie resurgence reared up. Now we have critically acclaimed television series, more video games than I can count and legions of films celebrating this micro genre of horror. While it was definitely ascending at the time, it was not the omnipresent force that it is today. I'm not claiming some 'cooler than the fad, in before it was popular' hipsterism, I'm just explaining that it was an eye opening gift from the world of fiction to have such an awesomely brutal collection of stories like The Living Dead. Give it a read, if you can stomach it. Just don't read it while you eat your lunch at the office. You might end up a vegetarian. 

Life Or Death

Already one post in and I'm thinking this is gonna be a long month.

I'm all about Halloween, Spooky things and the macabre. Sometimes, though, the subject matter presented in some of this freaky-deeky fiction gets the best of me. While I would love nothing more than to spend a week making emphatic recommendations about Stephen King's career, this one bums me out the more I think about it. It might have something to do with the fact that I just spent Sunday night watching a movie with my cat sleeping in my arms, but man...here we go.

Pet Semetary is some uncanny business. I mean that in the most straight-forward sense. Published back in 1983, the books is about a family in Maine (duh) who move to a rural homestead not far from the titular cemetery. Kind neighbors show them the lay of the land and get them set up in their new life as country folk, but also show them the local pet cemetery as part of the surrounding area. Louis Creed is okay with letting his children learn about the circle of life, his wife is less than okay with it. A busy county highway in front of their house forces their hand in the matter when their cat, Church, is struck down by a semi. Louis, not wanting to upset the balance of his family at a fragile time, makes the kind elderly neighbor Jud take him past a dead-fall at the border of the pet cemetery, into land that has been avoided due to its...strange properties. Known to the local Native American inhabitants as sour ground, their have been legends and tales of things being buried that come back to life. The catch is that the things that come back...come back...wrong. As the neighbor cautions "Sometimes dead is better". It only gets worse from there.

I remember seeing the movie adaptation of Pet Semetary on USA back in the mid 90s, when I was much more easily scared. I'm pretty sure it was broad daylight, but I was definitely disturbed by the images and concepts put forth. Dale Midkiff (who is somehow not Gary Sinise, despite my mind's fervent insistence) put in a great performance in the movie, particularly when a horrible tragedy befalls his family. Fred Gwynne plays Jud! How can you not enjoy that little twist of casting - it's Herman Munster! Anyway, the movie is not a bad adaptation of the book, having aged considerably well for the time and production values. I'd recommend it if you won't read the book.

Honestly, though? Read the book. You get so much more creep factor than you do with the movie. The movie is more of a drama, where as the book is out-and-out disturbingly developing horror. It builds so well. King puts you into Creed's head so well, you begin to understand his rationalization for his actions, even as you think he's off his rocker. What starts as a quiet tale of a family settling in to a new home quickly goes off the rails into a world of old gods and things in the woods that laugh at our assumptions. I still get the willies when thinking about some of what King suggests stalks the woods in Maine. All of this on top of the most repulsive ideas of the uncanny make for an unforgettably creepy tale. 

See how we do this? I might get a little squeamish at my own favorites, but as soon as I start to retread that familiar territory I remember why I get so excited and evangelical in the first place. You have to read this book if you want some horror for October. It's all about walks through the woods in the country, dead leaves and empty trees all around. Believable and relatable characters endure the worst things King can conjure. Nasty stuff. Just look both ways before crossing the street. 

New Signal

Spooky, gang.

This is a whole month of spooky. 

I've mentioned since returning from my honeymoon how I wanted to do larger themed projects for this site. This was one of the first things I thought of - a whole month (October, natch) centered around the freaky-deeky. Halloween is my favorite holiday, hands down. I love fall, I love the macabre, I love the costumes, I love the mystery, I love the night. Can not get enough of it, no joke. All of the month of October will be focusing on my favorite spooky things that I feel are deserving of more love and accolades - a week of books, a week of music, a week of shows and a week of movies. There's probably gonna be a lot of zombies. Also, a lot of Simpsons. Just warning you.

So - where do we start? 

October 1st, naturally. On October 1st in Stephen King's Cell, all is well with the world. Graphic novelist Clay Ridell has sold his idea to a popular independent label and he looks forward to seeing his young son. Without warning, the world loses its collective mind. The peaceful afternoon is shattered by planes crashing, cars colliding and people violently, and without provocation, tearing each other to pieces. While it's not apparent at first, the cause is soon traced to a widespread signal, a single call, spread through the world's cell network. The signal, from unspecified origin, effectively wipes out the higher functions in the mind, reducing all who hear it into aggressive, dangerous beasts. Society collapses in a moment and Clay is on the run, banding together with a few other stragglers and late-adopters to the common tech. As their group of surviving unaffected head north to an area supposedly without cell signal, the people affected begin to change, to demonstrate flocking behavior. It only gets crazier and more panicked as the tale unfolds.

Cell is a book that starts with a bang and explores the aftershocks. It's a short jaunt for King, clocking in at just 354 pages, a third the size of some of his larger works. The pace in the beginning is frenetic and scrambled, effectively throwing the reader into the chaos ensuing from a novel manner of terrorism or warfare. It's an interesting concept which serves as a strong jumping-off point for King, allowing him to play with the idea and expand it in horrible ways. From the pace and creative concept, it's not unlike Crichton or other tech-centered authors while summoning concepts and carnage owing to the zombie-auteur George Romero. Sure, it lags a bit as the characters spend a sizeable chunk of the book on foot, but the plot developments are always surprising and captivating. 

If you have any stomach for grisly horror or want some classic-styled but freshly energetic King for Halloween, read Cell. It's not one of his bigger works, but it's a passionately written book that's genuinely frightening and original. It's gripping from the word go - a page turner if there ever was one. This manic tale of technology gone rogue is just the opening salvo in my month of Spooky Stuff. Stay tuned to stay scared. You're gonna love it.

No Reason

Sometimes these things come out of the ether like ghosts rising from the grave.

I love Garbage. Most of what they have released has been really solid, thought provoking music. They've had some great albums, a collection of artistically unique videos and one mammoth greatest hits collection. I love their sound, in general - all the churning electro elements and post-grunge guitars mashed together by a group of renowned producers, all of which compliment vocalist Shirley Manson's distinct voice incredibly well. It's a shame that they've mostly been going in spurts and sputters for the last decade, because I would always love to have more from them. Their last official album, Bleed Like Me, came in a series of fits and false starts after the lukewarm album that proceeded it. Beautiful Garbage was too slick and soulless for their own good - they went from taking the p out of pop music to becoming robots themselves. Bleed Like Me brought all the warts back in (mostly) the right places. As I have admitted in previous pieces on the band, they have yet to hit the heights of their earlier work, but there is a really great song that stands out on Bleed Like Me. 

When the band released the patchwork tune that is 'Why Do You Love Me' as the lead-in single to the album, they came out with both barrels blazing. The only problem was they ran out of ammo -it's easily the best, most memorable song on an album that runs out of steam. This song, though, is a monster. The opening guitar licks are massive, the tone so fat and raucous it hardly feels like a guitar. Abruptly, the song switches gears for what will be the first of a few distinct sections. The verses are skittering and light as Manson sings of not being a Barbie doll or "as pretty as those girls in magazines". It could easily come off as trite riot grrl posturing of yesteryear but the band and Manson sell it with such conviction you're willing to buy it at face value. The band's distinct use of layered guitar lines build in to the chorus, where the song breaks wide open. Over squealing guitars and pounding drums, Manson wails the title of the track over and over, making it into an obsessive accusation as much as a derisive rhetorical question. As a segueway the same over-stuffed guitars pop back in to transition to another verse. It also shows up in a quiet little break wherein Manson coos about suspicions of a cheating mate, the separate pieces of the song making a bit more sense as they repeat. 

This single, released in 2004, felt oddly out of time when I first heard it. Not in the structure of the song, mind you, but in its tone. Other than the layers of polish granted by modern tech, it could easily have been written and released back in the band's early period when they were full of drive. Here, though, it's a welcome reminder that not all music in the 90s was dour grunge and flannel - there were, and are, bands that can play with energy and conviction beyond the indie scene. In fact, in a curious move, this single has none of the trademark electronic bells and whistles of their typical sound. I'm sure, given the sources, that the guitars and drums are twisted and tweaked beyond any natural existence, but you'd hardly know it without any blatantly artificial noises. 

I wish the rest of Bleed Like Me was written out of the pieces they were stringing together to make this track. It feels a bit like there's a whole album crammed in to this one single. The rest of the album, while not a waste by any means, fails to live up to this high point. There are some solid rockers and an interesting breather or two, but at best it's a bit of a let down, just reminding the listener of how good they used to be. Considering that Beautiful Garbage was such a mess, I was surprised Bleed Like Me was this good, to be honest. It's not the best of their career, but if you're into them I would recommend checking it out. There's some good stuff hidden in it.   

Feeling Blue

Sometimes I'm too stupid for my own good.

I remember being in 8th grade at my dilapidated middle school. It was Fall and the day was almost over. Everyone was grabbing their homework and throwing on jackets and backpacks. A friend of mine had a copy of Third Eye Blind's first album sitting on her desk, having borrowed it from a friend. Being a misanthropic little teenage snot, I started giving her grief over listening to such a blatantly poppy, radio friendly band. How dare she go out of her way to listen to music she actually enjoys, and on top of that it's popular! The horrors! Well, she stood up for herself (as she rightly should have) and I shrugged it off to go be opinionated about something else. Hindsight proved me to be pretty off the mark on that album - it was full of really catchy, strong songs. Even now, in the midst of my all-too-often played list of 90s songs, there are no less than three singles from that one album. 'Semi Charmed Life', 'Jumper' and 'How's It Gonna Be' are all insanely catchy, well written pop songs that, while not the hardest rocking tunes ever, are still satisfying. They've held up a lot better than some of the crud I was listening to at the time.

Sometime later, I think about halfway through high school or perhaps more, I found myself in the flipside of that situation. I found myself becoming obsessed with popular culture and the joys of mass appeal. I'd gone from being judgmental to feeling sheepish over diving in too far. Third Eye Blind's sophomore album was getting really strong reviews and the single 'Never Let You Go' was on heavy rotation on the radio.  In stride with the struggles over single-versus-album debate that I've written about before, I decided to throw caution to the wind and buy the album on the recommendation of a popular magazine. Maybe it was an attempt to feel like part of the youth culture I always seemed separated from. Maybe I didn't have sufficiently strong or well formed opinions of what I liked or would like. Who knows. Point is, I never learened my lesson about buying singles. So I bought Blue by Third Eye Blind. It seemed...alright. I wasn't blown away by it at the time. Looking back, even with my desire to fit in and be one of the popular kids, I wanted music with teeth. I still dug Marilyn Manson, NOFX and Method Man & Redman.  I still liked weird music. I was, in essence, trying to find a balance between my indulgent pop side and my indulgent art-rock side. Eventually, years later as I settle into a life I understand and out of which can make some semblance of sense, I think I've found that balance. In doing so I've come to appreciate that album.

In all honesty I don't know why I feel this strange, persistent pull to Blue. It was a bit of a flop, frankly. Maybe it's the fact that Third Eye Blind's first album broke so big and this one was so small that makes it appealing, like I can only rationalize enjoying the album if it's not ultra mainstream. Then again, I bought it in the anticipation of it being a big success, so what do I know about my own justification? Whatever my subconsciousness tries to tell me is really beside the point - there's something that makes me spin through these tracks every couple years and just see what shakes out. 

While it's not the great neglected album that, say, Neutral Milk Hotel can claim as their own, there are definately some superb little secrets here. The song most people would know from this album, the aforementioned 'Never Let You Go', is a pretty solid single, but not the best here. I'd make a passionate case for the likes of the shorter but sweeter and more punchy '10 Days Late', with its burbling bass line and snapping guitar chords, it's a great song about the terrors of unplanned p and how we cope with it. Another great, seemingly overlooked song is the wide open and airy 'Wounded'. It has some wonderful bits of echoed and reverberated guitars. 'Deep Inside of You', which I oddly remember being on the soundtrack to Me, Myself & Irene, is your typical millenium-era acoustic radio ballad. You know what, though? I don't care - sometimes I want to embrace some commercial-grade radio rock. It's easy on the ears and is really relaxing. I like singer Stephan Jenkins' voice. They're nice songs that don't stress me out.

Gun to my head, why do I like this album? I think the accessibility. The songs are strong, not mindblowing, but strong and enjoyable. Nice, poppy stuff for a bright and sunny day. That's what I was way off base about, back in middle school. I made the mistaken assumption that only (perceived) depth mattered. My pretentious angst-rock wasn't any fun for anyone but me - something I learned once I started driving and had control of the tunes in my car. You have to embrace what you enjoy, no matter who gives you guff. Within reason. We all have to have some accountability. Maybe I'm rambling. I'm rambling.

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. 

Frozen Embryo

Back at the wheel.

Over the weekend was the anniversary of Nevermind by Nirvana. Ask anyone and they'll tell you all about how it was such an influential record and it changed everything and yeah, yeah, yeah. At a certain point it becomes noise. I love that album, if it hasn't become apparent from related subjects. It is, indeed, fantastic - not a bad song on there, in fact. But while Nevermind gets all the clout, no one seems to give any props to the follow up.

 In Utero, released in 1993, is a more interesting album, one could argue. Nevermind was the band breaking big with fairly simply songs that just go verse-chorus-verse (to borrow an oft-used phrase from the singer himself) with repeated lyrics. As great as it is, there's not a lot of depth beyond that which we assign to it. In Utero, with its broader sounds and more twisted lyrics, becomes a more unique experience as years go by. It's a great album that always seems to be a "oh, yeah, that one too" inclusion in the band's canon, where it should be seen for the important evolution it signified. While we have these albums frozen in time to remind us of what a sea-change the band's breakthrough was, it's the wonder of what could have been that fascinates me. Where would Nirvana have gone to, had they not been abruptly halted? This album gives subtle indication of that elusive, unattainable alternate reality where Cobain persevered and made more music. 

Impossibly high hopes no doubt affected how the album was written. Nevermind was so omnipresent and adored that any meaningful following efforts would pale in comparison to the mega-seller. Cobain, being his normal difficult and confrontational self, made an album that was intentionally challenging and jarring. Nevermind was slick and polished, ready for the radio. In Utero was harsh, discordant a series of broken guitars and thudding drum and bass arrangements. For every accessible single like 'All Apologies' there was a bleating fury from the likes of 'Scentless Apprentice', which comes to such an unpleasant close that anyone but the most diehard fans are put off. There's the disarmed Beatles-inspired 'Dumb' juxtaposed with the band falling apart at the seams in 'Radio Friendly Unit Shifter'. When you try to find a common ground between all the tracks on In Utero, the closest you could come would most likely be the dynamic start-and-stop fury of 'Milk It'. The sounds in this song are carried throughout the album - the weirdly atonal little licks of clean guitars, the indistinct yet bobbing bassline and the absolutely massive drums parts. Elements of this sonic essence are found in 'Heart Shaped Box', 'Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle' and 'Rape Me.' 

While the record is definitely a challenge to get acquainted with, there are certainly pop elements that were emerging in Cobain's writing as his career edged towards the end. 'Dumb' is practically sedated in it's demeanor. 'Pennyroyal Tea' was a genuine radio-friendly single with its power pop chorus. The melody and riff in 'Very Ape' are, at their heart, quite catchy and hypnotic - they're just hidden under a layer of distortion and aggression. Had the album opener 'Serve the Servants' been played in their Unplugged concert it would have been almost too upbeat for the band. 

I feel like all of these signs pointed towards a band in mid-evolution, one that no matter the outcome would be unrecognizable in short time. Considering the change they experienced from the sludge of their debut album Bleach to their still-stunning Unplugged album, they were hardly a one trick pony. It's easy to forget this when all anyone talks about is the punk-meets-heavy metal grunge of Nevermind. They had their nuances, they were just overlooked in favor of their commercial successes. Had they been able to carry on, we most likely would have seen more of this weirdly experimental pop side to the band, Cobain becoming more and more comfortable with his softer side as his career went on. Instead, we have a band whose canon is heavily slanted towards negative energy and painful wailing, something that really only showed a part of their personality. Granted, they excelled at it. But that doesn't mean they couldn't write interesting, engaging pop songs. We'll just never know what would have been.

We would also (most likely) never have gotten the legendary Foo Fighters out of it either. Maybe that's more important.