.jpg)
In:
out of tune instruments
Neil Young's new live album, Sugar Mountain 1968
Barack Obama's cabinet
1986
Good Vibrations
having arch enemies
Out:
old people on MUNI
any hot sauce that is not Tapatio
Hilary Clinton as Secretary of State
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Lou Reed: Metal Machine Music
Like any ravenous record collector who pretends that money ain't a thing, I regularly peruse eBay for the rare gems I can't find in real life.
My latest conquest, and at a pretty damn low price considering I've been chasing this thing for over a year, is this baby:
Feast your eyes on it--I can't believe it's mine now. Holding it in my hands feels like a dream.
So here's my take on it: as esoteric now as it was in 1975 when it was released, Reed's mystery as an artist/musician deepens, even upon first listen. It is probably one of the first pure noise records to ever come out, as he creates a vast musical landscape that seems almost prehistoric in its cacophony. It is an homage to machines, racing away from the organic wizardry Reed created with the Velvet Underground, which used solely the ingredients of sex drugs, & rock n' roll. But this noise masterpiece isn't a complete non-sequitir--you can hear the seeds of it in the grating fuzzed-out fury in the Velvets' magnum opus "Sister Ray".
Everyone knows Reed is a pompous ass. In my opinion, although I love this record for its novelty and absurdity (it's also great to make out to), Reed made music mostly for himself. This record is anti-mainstream, anti-radio, anti-Billboard chart, anti-music, anti-everything; it's a retreat into the bowels of his brain.
This is how I know it's a great piece of work: when the needle retreats back to its standby position and the music stops, your ears are left with a vacuum of sound, wandering and confused, your brain rattling with loosened screws. The only sensible thing to do then is to flip the record over and begin the madness again.
I'll leave you with this hilarious description of how Lester Bangs coped with Metal Machine Music:
"One day in the summer of 1975 I awoke with a hangover and put on Metal Machine Music immediately. I played it all day and through a party which lasted all night, in the course of which I got shitfaced again on cognac and beer, broke about half my record collection, punched out the front screen door in my house, physically molested one of my best friends' girlfriends of four or five years, told my friend who was a very talented poet that he couldn't write for shit, after getting thrown out of a restaurant for spilling beer all over his lap and myself and the table and creating a 'disturbance', zoomed over to another friend's house where I physically assaulted her, repeating over and over in a curiously robotlike rant, 'I know you've got a bottle of Desoxyn in your dresser! Gimme, I want them, I want to take all of them at once!', threw all the empty cognac bottles in the air as high as I could for the pleasure of watching them shatter in the street, ending up in a blackout coma stupor, which nevertheless never blacked me out quite enough to stop me from writhing on the couch, tearing at my hair and screaming at the top of my lungs, until the police came at seven a.m., whereupon I snapped to and told them that my friends, who were now out in the street breaking beer bottles and yelling 'MACHINE! MACHINE! MACHINE!' up at my bedroom window, had gotten a little rowdy and I would be responsible for them here on out."
My latest conquest, and at a pretty damn low price considering I've been chasing this thing for over a year, is this baby:
Feast your eyes on it--I can't believe it's mine now. Holding it in my hands feels like a dream.
So here's my take on it: as esoteric now as it was in 1975 when it was released, Reed's mystery as an artist/musician deepens, even upon first listen. It is probably one of the first pure noise records to ever come out, as he creates a vast musical landscape that seems almost prehistoric in its cacophony. It is an homage to machines, racing away from the organic wizardry Reed created with the Velvet Underground, which used solely the ingredients of sex drugs, & rock n' roll. But this noise masterpiece isn't a complete non-sequitir--you can hear the seeds of it in the grating fuzzed-out fury in the Velvets' magnum opus "Sister Ray".
Everyone knows Reed is a pompous ass. In my opinion, although I love this record for its novelty and absurdity (it's also great to make out to), Reed made music mostly for himself. This record is anti-mainstream, anti-radio, anti-Billboard chart, anti-music, anti-everything; it's a retreat into the bowels of his brain.
This is how I know it's a great piece of work: when the needle retreats back to its standby position and the music stops, your ears are left with a vacuum of sound, wandering and confused, your brain rattling with loosened screws. The only sensible thing to do then is to flip the record over and begin the madness again.
I'll leave you with this hilarious description of how Lester Bangs coped with Metal Machine Music:
"One day in the summer of 1975 I awoke with a hangover and put on Metal Machine Music immediately. I played it all day and through a party which lasted all night, in the course of which I got shitfaced again on cognac and beer, broke about half my record collection, punched out the front screen door in my house, physically molested one of my best friends' girlfriends of four or five years, told my friend who was a very talented poet that he couldn't write for shit, after getting thrown out of a restaurant for spilling beer all over his lap and myself and the table and creating a 'disturbance', zoomed over to another friend's house where I physically assaulted her, repeating over and over in a curiously robotlike rant, 'I know you've got a bottle of Desoxyn in your dresser! Gimme, I want them, I want to take all of them at once!', threw all the empty cognac bottles in the air as high as I could for the pleasure of watching them shatter in the street, ending up in a blackout coma stupor, which nevertheless never blacked me out quite enough to stop me from writhing on the couch, tearing at my hair and screaming at the top of my lungs, until the police came at seven a.m., whereupon I snapped to and told them that my friends, who were now out in the street breaking beer bottles and yelling 'MACHINE! MACHINE! MACHINE!' up at my bedroom window, had gotten a little rowdy and I would be responsible for them here on out."
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
In & Out
IN:
Prop. 8
Going Back to Cali--Biggie Smalls
wearing my new Danzig shirt 30 times in a row, then using it to mop up spilled beer on the kitchen floor then as a giant handkerchief for my runny nose then using it to wipe the blood off my toes when i stepped on leftover broken glass before even thinking about washing it.
pretending i'm as angry as Greg Sage sounds on Wipers songs.
the Economist
learning Pearl Bomb by the Melvins on electric bass
OUT:
Prop. 8
name-dropping grindcore bands
going home for Thanksgiving
not going apeshit when any Iron Maiden song comes on
pastries
Prop. 8
Going Back to Cali--Biggie Smalls
wearing my new Danzig shirt 30 times in a row, then using it to mop up spilled beer on the kitchen floor then as a giant handkerchief for my runny nose then using it to wipe the blood off my toes when i stepped on leftover broken glass before even thinking about washing it.
pretending i'm as angry as Greg Sage sounds on Wipers songs.
the Economist
learning Pearl Bomb by the Melvins on electric bass
OUT:
Prop. 8
name-dropping grindcore bands
going home for Thanksgiving
not going apeshit when any Iron Maiden song comes on
pastries
Friday, November 14, 2008
MAYYORS/SKELETONS show
Taking the helm at leather-daddy haven the Eagle Tavern on 12th & Harrison last night were two bands I have never had the pleasure of hearing before: Mayyors (Sac-town) & Skeletons (NYC), Stupidly, the drummer of Skeletons is my old friend yet I still have not seen them in action; I can safely say my world is a better place now having done so.
I never knew something like Mayyors existed. As if straight out of my dreams, everything was fast and throbbing with sweaty feedback, soaked in aggro riffs and runs that sound like they're being run through a paper shredder set to destroy. The bristling vocals took turns speaker-shredding with the grinding fuzz guitar on songs such as "Airplanes" and "White Jeep", and the bass-and-cymbal-heavy drum set makes the punkbeat impossible not to move to.
The more mobile members of the band didn't waste any time getting up in the audience's shit either. Guitarist Chris Woodhouse bopped and swaggered behind Cousin It-style locks when he wasn't lurching off stage to play against those in front as if challenging them to a duel. The singer, whose name is, quite simply, a mystery to me snarled and breathed the virtually indeciferable words like a cat in heat, careening around heedless of anyone in his way. I like bands who aren't afraid of a little friendly audience interaction--a mano-a-mano musical experience.
Afterwards I hung around their unmanned merch table awhile before the singer came to the rescue, rewarding my patience by telling me the copy of their recently re-pressed 7-inch "Megan's LOLZ" I scored was only one of a hundred. After some investigation, I came find out this 7-inch is a gem and will remain so. It's been on repeat for two straight days now, and I've been telling everyone within earshot about them. Notoriously elusive online, I'll probably only get my next fix when I see them again on Dec. 6th at El Rio. I've joined the Mayyors fiend club.
Skeletons claimed the stage shortly after, their songs blooming out of the wreckage the Mayyors laid down. Misleading me into thinking some minimalist, bare-bones musical approach was in store, but their songs were fully-realized, storming out in complex, proggy arrangements the band had an iron grip on.
Drummer Jon Leland's parts were technically astonishing, and with three guitars and an alternating electric bass, the set's sound was thick-knit, huge. At times it achieved a My Bloody Valentine-esque level of sonic attack where I could feel my guts churning and vibrating and my ears began to beg for earplugs; being able to really feel the music is the way I prefer it. Singer Matthew Mehlan's vocals blended perfectly into the barrage, his voice panning over a vast emotional landscape. It was hard not to get consumed by the tidal wave of sound, and from the looks of those around me, no one was immune.
Skeletons are touring the South before ending up in the Bronx at Fordham University Dec. 5th. Too bad I'll be on the other side of the country.
I never knew something like Mayyors existed. As if straight out of my dreams, everything was fast and throbbing with sweaty feedback, soaked in aggro riffs and runs that sound like they're being run through a paper shredder set to destroy. The bristling vocals took turns speaker-shredding with the grinding fuzz guitar on songs such as "Airplanes" and "White Jeep", and the bass-and-cymbal-heavy drum set makes the punkbeat impossible not to move to.
The more mobile members of the band didn't waste any time getting up in the audience's shit either. Guitarist Chris Woodhouse bopped and swaggered behind Cousin It-style locks when he wasn't lurching off stage to play against those in front as if challenging them to a duel. The singer, whose name is, quite simply, a mystery to me snarled and breathed the virtually indeciferable words like a cat in heat, careening around heedless of anyone in his way. I like bands who aren't afraid of a little friendly audience interaction--a mano-a-mano musical experience.
Afterwards I hung around their unmanned merch table awhile before the singer came to the rescue, rewarding my patience by telling me the copy of their recently re-pressed 7-inch "Megan's LOLZ" I scored was only one of a hundred. After some investigation, I came find out this 7-inch is a gem and will remain so. It's been on repeat for two straight days now, and I've been telling everyone within earshot about them. Notoriously elusive online, I'll probably only get my next fix when I see them again on Dec. 6th at El Rio. I've joined the Mayyors fiend club.
Skeletons claimed the stage shortly after, their songs blooming out of the wreckage the Mayyors laid down. Misleading me into thinking some minimalist, bare-bones musical approach was in store, but their songs were fully-realized, storming out in complex, proggy arrangements the band had an iron grip on.
Drummer Jon Leland's parts were technically astonishing, and with three guitars and an alternating electric bass, the set's sound was thick-knit, huge. At times it achieved a My Bloody Valentine-esque level of sonic attack where I could feel my guts churning and vibrating and my ears began to beg for earplugs; being able to really feel the music is the way I prefer it. Singer Matthew Mehlan's vocals blended perfectly into the barrage, his voice panning over a vast emotional landscape. It was hard not to get consumed by the tidal wave of sound, and from the looks of those around me, no one was immune.
Skeletons are touring the South before ending up in the Bronx at Fordham University Dec. 5th. Too bad I'll be on the other side of the country.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Tyrannosaurus Rex, T. Rex, Whatever
Marc Bolan and Mickey Finn (who later became percussionist of the T.Rex incarnation) put out an album named "A Beard of Stars" in 1971, back before Bolan was wearing top hats and sequined three-piece suits.
From the very first song, "Prelude", a minimalist, languid electric guitar instrumental punctuated by Finn's hand chimes chirping, the album feels like a call for a gathering of the tribes, a greeting to fellow folkies and flower children who also made it into the strange, new decade of the 70s.
My favorite is "By the Light of the Magical Moon", a mini manifesto about forest life and playing under a sky full of possibilities strummed out acoustically and layered under an electric guitar drawl (it almost sounds like they're talking to eachother) and bongos; "Wind Cheetah" is a lovelorn dirge laden with droning organs, its lyrics reading like a mystical poem about losing a fragile lover to evil forces shrouded in the dark of night.
"Elemental Child", another bright spot, is a purely-electric number that Bolan's dirty boots stomp all over. Glimpses of his nascent glam-rock vision and experimentation can be heard in the careful use of reverb between the verses of this seemingly innocent folk song. The lyrics are medievally surreal couplets: "Torch girl of the marshes/Her kiss is a whip of the moon/Dawn's damsels are dancing/To the hum of her sunny young tune" and "Gems hemmed in the heart's head/The shield of the rivers is hers/She once told me to think white/And the night disappeared like a bird. His meandering phrasing and quavering falsetto gives way to an all-out jam that picks up speed with furious strumming and classic Bolan riffs and bends.
It's with this album closer that you can tell Bolan is approaching the feet of the glam-rock gods to offer his vision and musical heart, ready to ascend as creator and innovator of the new movement that would become glam rock.
37 years later, I got my hands on it during a random music trade with my friend Drew just when San Francisco's sun was coming out again; ever since the entire album has become emblematic of new light and nighttime mists of spring in the city. I can't let go of it--I haven't stopped listening to it since playing "Elemental Child" on my radio show a couple of weeks ago and TRULY hearing to how much it grooves.
All the songs are gentle little ballad-gems about the love in this dazzling universe of ours (perhaps a lot more dazzling when Bolan & Finn were sitting around in fields writing them). Song titles like "Dragon's Ear" and "Wind Cheetah" are whimsical glimpses into the far-out, dream-studded brain of Bolan.
From the very first song, "Prelude", a minimalist, languid electric guitar instrumental punctuated by Finn's hand chimes chirping, the album feels like a call for a gathering of the tribes, a greeting to fellow folkies and flower children who also made it into the strange, new decade of the 70s.
My favorite is "By the Light of the Magical Moon", a mini manifesto about forest life and playing under a sky full of possibilities strummed out acoustically and layered under an electric guitar drawl (it almost sounds like they're talking to eachother) and bongos; "Wind Cheetah" is a lovelorn dirge laden with droning organs, its lyrics reading like a mystical poem about losing a fragile lover to evil forces shrouded in the dark of night.
"Elemental Child", another bright spot, is a purely-electric number that Bolan's dirty boots stomp all over. Glimpses of his nascent glam-rock vision and experimentation can be heard in the careful use of reverb between the verses of this seemingly innocent folk song. The lyrics are medievally surreal couplets: "Torch girl of the marshes/Her kiss is a whip of the moon/Dawn's damsels are dancing/To the hum of her sunny young tune" and "Gems hemmed in the heart's head/The shield of the rivers is hers/She once told me to think white/And the night disappeared like a bird. His meandering phrasing and quavering falsetto gives way to an all-out jam that picks up speed with furious strumming and classic Bolan riffs and bends.
It's with this album closer that you can tell Bolan is approaching the feet of the glam-rock gods to offer his vision and musical heart, ready to ascend as creator and innovator of the new movement that would become glam rock.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Sonata Arctica
is a Finnish fantasy metal band. Not the first thing you think of doing on random Tuesday night but on a whim, Hilary and I went to see them perform Monday night at Slim's.
Jesus H. Christ, where the heck do I start? The crowd was comprised mainly of partially balding, bespectacled men in their early 30s who looked like they had Lord of the Rings memorized but never hesitated to throw down the devil's horns and headbang at a moment's notice.
The band's look was textbook Scandanavian-metal. All of them had long, flowing locks and flaxen facial hair (THE LEAD GUITARIST, Elias Viljanen, HAD A PERSONAL WIND MACHINE SO THAT HIS COULD BLOW FREE AS IF RIDING ON A MOTORCYCLE OR IN A PERPETUAL MUSIC VIDEO). The lead singer would periodically scream "HELL YAAH!" with such Finnish zeal that I choked on my PBR more than once upon hearing it. We had no choice but to obey the singer, Tony Kakko, halfway through the show when he instructed us to clap and bend to the music as if we were in some speed metal aerobics class. It ruled.
Their music is amazing. It's essentially prog metal on speed, but the fantasy part comes with their lyrics, which are about lighthouses and sailors with restless souls and children with monkeys as friends, usually sung about in falsetto. Lots of wailing. Lots of vibrato. Think Bruce Dickinson's (of Iron Maiden) and R.J. Dio's wide-eyed lovespawn who's a metal child with a hippie heart.
What had me wide-eyed were their dueling guitars straight out of the vein of J. Priest--actually it was technically a guitar dueling with a KEYtar. And the keytarist (Henrik Klingenberg)? He is no less of a man because he can shred on a handheld keyboard.
Before their healthy four-song encore, Kakko snuck back onstage to play a game with us. He divided the crowd into three sections and instructed us to make various drum kit sounds, such as "BAM", "TSSSST" and "BOOM", on command. Once we had it down he pretended to play us like a set of drums while he sang the words to "WE WILL ROCK YOU". METAL.
That said, please enjoy the song (but maybe not the truly ridiculous video) "Wolf & Raven":
And also "The Ruins of My Life", just to give you a taste:
Jesus H. Christ, where the heck do I start? The crowd was comprised mainly of partially balding, bespectacled men in their early 30s who looked like they had Lord of the Rings memorized but never hesitated to throw down the devil's horns and headbang at a moment's notice.
The band's look was textbook Scandanavian-metal. All of them had long, flowing locks and flaxen facial hair (THE LEAD GUITARIST, Elias Viljanen, HAD A PERSONAL WIND MACHINE SO THAT HIS COULD BLOW FREE AS IF RIDING ON A MOTORCYCLE OR IN A PERPETUAL MUSIC VIDEO). The lead singer would periodically scream "HELL YAAH!" with such Finnish zeal that I choked on my PBR more than once upon hearing it. We had no choice but to obey the singer, Tony Kakko, halfway through the show when he instructed us to clap and bend to the music as if we were in some speed metal aerobics class. It ruled.
Their music is amazing. It's essentially prog metal on speed, but the fantasy part comes with their lyrics, which are about lighthouses and sailors with restless souls and children with monkeys as friends, usually sung about in falsetto. Lots of wailing. Lots of vibrato. Think Bruce Dickinson's (of Iron Maiden) and R.J. Dio's wide-eyed lovespawn who's a metal child with a hippie heart.
What had me wide-eyed were their dueling guitars straight out of the vein of J. Priest--actually it was technically a guitar dueling with a KEYtar. And the keytarist (Henrik Klingenberg)? He is no less of a man because he can shred on a handheld keyboard.
Before their healthy four-song encore, Kakko snuck back onstage to play a game with us. He divided the crowd into three sections and instructed us to make various drum kit sounds, such as "BAM", "TSSSST" and "BOOM", on command. Once we had it down he pretended to play us like a set of drums while he sang the words to "WE WILL ROCK YOU". METAL.
That said, please enjoy the song (but maybe not the truly ridiculous video) "Wolf & Raven":
And also "The Ruins of My Life", just to give you a taste:
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