This Steven Hyden piece on the new Daft Punk product led me to this Wikipedia article on ‘Rockism’ (I am an unapologetic rockist) which led me to this ‘Gallery of Rockism‘ which led me to this 1990 Robert Christgau post-mortem on the 1980s which contained the phrase ‘drastic shifts of fashion are to be expected when you valorize disposability’ which is something I quite like. ∞
That’s A Lot Of Clash
There will come a time when you feel the need for a lot of Clash. Perhaps all of Clash.
I have you covered, friends.
RIP Stompin’ Tom
Stompin’ Tom Connors was a true Canadian patriot of the old school, and he celebrated the things about Canada that others dismissed. RIP, Tom.
Video Intervention
Musical Years
I’m coming up on 50 years old. Well, it’s a couple of years off still, but the corner is definitely in sight. Music remains something that makes my life better, and somehow, even though I still love to revisit a lot of the stuff I listened to during my formative rock and roll years, I still take great pleasure in finding new things to love. Music is the fuel for some chamber of my heart, some mutant ventricle that only pumps when it gets that fuel.
Rock and/or roll has lost its cultural heft and sweaty eldritch power to fire up much of the deranged, half-human youth of today, sadly (a situation ably traced in this recent, many-part opus on Grantland called the Winner’s History of Rock and Roll, which I highly recommend [Part 1: Led Zeppelin, Part 2: Kiss, Part 3: Bon Jovi, Part 4: Aerosmith, Part 5: Metallica, Part 6: Linkin Park, Part 7: The Black Keys]), but it’s far from dead, and there is still a lot of rock music coming out — little to none of which gets heard by the Greater PopCulturaltariat these days — which just fills me to the brim with feels.
One of the bands I’ve discovered in relatively recent times is The Rural Alberta Advantage. I have no idea how well-known they are, but they are Canadian (hooray!), so my guess is: maybe not so much, outside of Canada at least.
The Price Of Oil, Redux
I remember when the shit was clearly going to impact directly on the fan, at least to anyone with a couple of f–king braincells to rub together, as the last particles of dust from the World Trade Centre settled onto the homeless folks and the masters of the universe there in New York.
I remember that. And I remember how I thought ‘Oh, that Billy Bragg, much as I’ve loved him and his ethical stances and musico-politicking all these years, he’s gonna bounce off the marshmallow mindset with this’ when he released his song “The Price of Oil“.
It came up on my random-ass playlist tonight, and I misted up as I sang along. Remembering the fury I felt as the news outlets told us idiot fables about ‘shock and awe’, and realizing how I’ve tamped down my outrage into a little impotent packet of irony these days. I thought about the past couple of years, and all the people whose people died.
Here, you: download it. Or just listen right here.
Voices on the radio
tell us that we’re going to war
those brave men and women in uniform
they want to know what they’re fighting for.
The generals want to hear the end game
the allies won’t approve the plan
but the oil men in the white house
they just don’t give a damn.
‘Cause it’s all about the price of oil
it’s all about the price of oil
don’t give me no shit
about blood, sweat, tears and toil
it’s all about the price of oil.
Now I ain’t no fan of Saddam Hussein
oh, please don’t get me wrong
if it’s freeing the Iraqi people you’re after
then why have we waited so long.
Why didn’t we sort this out last time
was he less evil than he is now
the stock market holds the answer
to why him, why here, why now.
‘Cause it’s all about the price of oil
it’s all about the price of oil
don’t give me no shit
about blood, sweat, tears and toil
it’s all about the price of oil.
Saddam killed his own people
just like general Pinochet
and once upon a time both these evil men
were supported by the U.S.A.
And whisper it, even Bin Laden
once drank from America’s cup
just like that election down in Florida
this shit doesn’t all add up.
‘Cause it’s all about the price of oil
it’s all about the price of oil
don’t give me no shit
about blood, sweat, tears and toil
it’s all about the price of oil.
Download it, if you haven’t before.
I am no better than them because there are people I would be happier to see dead. There is no honor in this.
Living With War
Neil Young’s new album is now streaming. It kicks a fair quantity of ass. But you probably already know that, and if you’ve being paying attention, you also know that it waves the stiff central digit at George Bush and his administration. This makes me smile.
Here‘s a CNN cretin interviewing him about the album:
You can also download the entire album in mp3 format from here, and although that may not be strictly kosher, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. [Update: album's been taken down, it seems.]
For some reason, they decided to bury the lyrics in idiotic scrolling marquees at the official site, so I’ve reproduced them in less annoying, non-scrolling style here.
Share and enjoy.
[Update: It's a shame most of the songs are muddy, meandering fuzz-pedal wanks, musically, but I appreciate the intent and the sentiment, and I'll try like hell to like 'em. Some music takes time. This shouldn't, if Neil wants his heart-on-the-sleeve message heard, but what are you gonna do? I'd be inclined to give him a big kiss, then slap him on top of his nappy hippy head and ask him what the f--k he was thinking.]
Wonderchicken Drinking Songs, Volume 1
Here’s a new post-series that I’ve just decided I’m going to do, you know, until I lose interest: the greatest wonderchicken drinking songs. Ever. Because I’m on the beer again, and I’m all lovificated, and by god I want to share the joy. Yes, the joy.
So, without further ado, here’s number one in a series of several thousand. I hope it makes you wiggle your butt.
Mojo Nixon — Positively Bodies Parking Lot ([Update: mp3 taken down after a couple days. Thanks for playing!])
The Syndicate of Soul is playing
At the Free Frank Frenzy
Me and Mitch are
Drinking ourselves into gin oblivion
Hold onto this, hold onto that
Man I know just where we’re at
Cause it’s Positively Bodies Parking Lot
I’m going back there,
I can’t stop
Got a bottle of beer out of the back out my car
Underage girls going in the back door
Yeah we’re outside the world famous The All-Dive Bar
Crazed couples are pumping away behind the Dipsy Dumpster of Love
Lorna Doone queen of the ladies room got herself a new bridegroom
He’s buying a rubber there in the bathroom
With a thousand tiny pleasure spikes
His buddy’s puking in the sink for the third time that night
Gopher killing, bullethead, taking pictures with the infrared
The regulars are glued to their barstools
And Jose Sinatra, he’s starting to drool
But his feet are getting mighty small, and I’m standing there in the hall
Tomcats singing wild and true, blasting out the super blues
It’s a Friday night in the summertime, I’m going out my mind
Harvey’s teeth are scaring me, go down to the ditch to take a pee
Crickets are singing a Beat Farmers song
I can smell Alberto’s mighty strong
Jack and his wife just backed over the fire hydrant
The water’s shooting high in the sky
And the Silver Eagle motorcycles are drowning there, don’t you know
Country Dick and the Snugglebunnies got me in an airplane spin
I’m thinking about gin, sin, and these three ex-girlfriends
They done showed up to squoosh my head, but I was saved by this guy they call
Well they call him Mojo’s dad cause he’s a screaming lunatic
Librarian from El Cajone checking out my love bone
Redhead says that she wants me to dance
Rock Jet’s got everybody in a trance
Peak expectations causin’ intoxications
I can smell the mating dance of fornication
Be young, be foolish
Be happy,
Blasting out of the jukebox
Two a.m., lights are on, nobody can stop, nobody’s going home
Can’t leave, can’t go anywhere, cause you know you’re already there
It’s positively Bodies parking lot
Positively Bodies parking lot
Positively Bodies parking lot
It’s positively Bodies parking lot
Yes it’s positively Bodies parking lot
Collect them all!
The Three Ages of Wonderchicken
It’s been metric yonks since I posted to this category, ages since I’ve shared some music with my fine and deeply sexy readerfolk.
So here’s not one, no not even two, but count ‘em three! songs for your delectation, to make up for my dereliction. Songs that I hope you might not know yet, and might after hearing them enjoy as greatly as I do. If you do like ‘em, go buy the albums in question. As usual, the mp3s’ll be up for a couple of days at most before I take them down again.
I’ve chosen three songs that put me in mind this evening of Being Wonderchicken at age 18, 28, and 38, respectively.
With no further ado, then:
#1: Being 18
The Mountain Goats – This Year [Update: mp3 taken down, sorry]
I broke free on a saturday morning
I put the pedal to the floor
headed north on mills ave
and listened to the engine roar
my broken house behind me
and good things ahead
a girl named cathy
wants a little of my time
six cylinders underneath the hood
crashing and kicking
aha! listen to the engine whine
i am going to make it through this year
if it kills me
i am going to make it through this year
if it kills me
i played video games in a drunken haze
i was seventeen years young
hurt my knuckles punching the machines
the taste of scotch rich on my tongue
and then cathy showed up
and we hung out
trading swigs from a bottle
all bitter and clean
locking eyes
holding hands
twin high maintenance machines
i am going to make it through this year
if it kills me
i am going to make it though this year
if it kills me
i drove home in the california dusk
i could feel the alcohol inside of me hum
pictured the look on my stepfather’s face
ready for the bad things to come
i down shifted
as i pulled into the driveway
the motor screaming out
stuck in second gear
the scene ends badly
as you might imagine
in a cavalcade of anger and fear
there will be feasting and dancing
in jerusalem next year
i am going to make it through this year
if it kills me
i am going to make it though this year
if it kills me
That was both melancholy and joy-inducing, was it not? OK! On the next song, friends, with alacrity and alcohol!
#2: Being 28
Ray Lamontagne – Jolene [Update: mp3 taken down, sorry]
Cocaine flame in my bloodstream
Sold my coat when I hit Spokane
Bought myself a hard pack of cigarettes
in the early morning rain
Lately my hands they don’t feel like mine
My eyes been stung with dust and blind
Held you in my arms one time
Lost you just the same
Jolene
I ain’t about to go straight
It’s too late
I found myself face down in a ditch
Booze in my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don’t know what love means
Jolene
Been so long since I seen your face
Or felt a part of this human race
I’ve been living out of this here suitcase for way too long
A man needs something he can hold onto
A nine pound hammer or a woman like you
Either one of them things will do
Jolene
I ain’t about to go straight
It’s too late
I found myself face down in a ditch
Booze in my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don’t know what love means
Jolene
Well, that’s a little melancholy too, perhaps, but there’s a ray of light knifing through the clouds, isn’t there? f–kin’ right, there is!
#3: Being 38
Smog – Dress Sexy At My Funeral [Update: mp3 taken down, sorry]
Dress sexy at my funeral my good wife
Dress sexy at my funeral my good wife
For the first time in your life
Wear your blouse undone to here
And your skirt split up to there
Dress sexy at my funeral my good wife
For the first time in your life
Dress sexy at my funeral my good wife
Wink at the minister
Blow kisses to my grieving brothers
Dress sexy at my funeral my good wife
And when it comes your turn to speak before the crowd
Tell them about the time we did it
On the beach with fireworks above us
On the railroad tracks with the gravel in your back
In the back room of a crowded bar
And in the graveyard where my body now rests
Dress sexy at my funeral my good wife
Dress sexy at my funeral my good wife
For the first time in your life
Also tell them about how I gave to charity
And tried to love my fellow man as best i could
But most of all don’t forget about the time on the beach
With fireworks above us.
Light’s not going out there, goddamnit, much as it may seem so. Right? Joy and antijoy can meet without the fabric of spacetime gettin’ all shredded like a hooker’s panties. You bastards need to get off the happy pills.
Anyway, so there you go. Songs good. If I’m still blogging when I’m 48, I’ll update this motherf–ker.
Share and enjoy.
Update: Songs taken down. Snooze/loose.
Update 2: Jeff Ward at This Public Address joins the fun! Anyone else care to play?
Update 3Shelley gives it a go (sort of), too! You know, this used to be easier when trackbacks were flying around all over the place…
Maxell XLII
This stopped me in my tracks this evening, while a flood of rock and roll memories washed over me.
This :
I wonder if the sight of that piece of molded plastic ramps up in you the same welter of blurry, beery, hormonal reminiscences that it does in me. If you’re pushing 40, and rocked out with your [insert gender-appropriate appendage here] out, and spent long nights at the stereo making offerings, making entertainment for your friends and lovers, thrilled by the fact that you could actually tear songs from those big black frisbees and rearrange them any way you wanted, if you spent weeks and months, years of your life swapping one Maxell after another into the cassette player of your patient buddy’s Datsun F10, wiping off the rye you’d spilled, dropping your Player’s Light on the carpet again, waiting for the hiss that marked the end of the leader and knowing to the 10th of a second when the first kerrang of that fuckin’ kickass tune dude was going to swoop down and tweak your heart, if you remember that one night with a thermos full of vodka and pink lemonade as the snow fell like magic out of a sky that was so close and black and solid that you felt like the air was getting squeezed out of you, wearing red and white Santa gloves in the back seat of that big black fast ’65 Barracuda with the first girl you’d ever really loved, the girl you still hadn’t gotten up the nerve to tell, being tossed laughing to and fro as the car whipped around corners slick and roaring, if you remember shit like that now, then you know how I feel tonight.
Thanks to project c-90, via Mefi.
Ship Of Fools
I don’t know what the f–k. I think my brain has been frozen by monetarization, and my heart as well, not to mention my goddamn lilypad-fat keyboard-strokin’ fingertips. Sorry about that am I, faithful friends and supporters. Sorry, and silent, and scattered.
Fleeing from the money, I’ve scarpered around the curve of the globe over and over again over the years, running from the in-the-end unwelcome wealth thrust upon me, and now, since I’m paying for this site to be hosted, I have an urge to spit on it and walk away. I’ve finally found a way to pay to my host the last of the Paypal-imprisoned dollars I owe — the dollars you, my friends, gifted me with months ago — which is good news of a kind, perhaps, but it’s all a swampy money-tainted sh-tswirl in my mind now. Big red bar sinister ‘Keep out!’ as the favicon.
How f–ked up is that when you’re disgusted by the idea of posting to your own weblog? Pretty kinda ish, I guess.
So maybe that’s it. I don’t f–king know. I’ve had a few, and I’m talking sh-t again. So here’s a song. Rock over London, motherbasters!
Went to see the captain,
strangest I could find,
Laid my proposition down,
laid it on the line.
I won’t slave for beggar’s pay,
likewise gold and jewels,
But I would slave to learn the way to sink your ship of fools.
Ship of fools on a cruel sea,
ship of fools sail away from me.
It was later than I thought when I first believed you,
Now I cannot share your laughter, ship of fools.
Saw your first ship sink and drown from rockin’ of the boat,
And all that could not sink or swim was just left there to float.
I won’t leave you drifting down, but it makes me wild,
With thirty years upon my head to have you call me child.
Ship of fools on a cruel sea,
ship of fools sail away from me.
It was later than I thought when I first believed you,
Now I cannot share your laughter, ship of fools.
The bottles stand as empty, as they were filled before.
Time there was and plenty, but from that cup no more.
Though I could not caution all, I still might warn a few:
Don’t lend your hand to raise no flag atop no ship of fools.
Ship of fools on a cruel sea,
ship of fools sail away from me.
It was later than I thought,
when I first believed you,
Now I cannot share your laughter,
ship of fools.
It was later than I thought when I first believed you,
Now I cannot share your laughter,
ship of fools.
PS: I’m comin’ after you ‘making money from blogging’ f–knozzles, if it’s the last thing I do in this textosphere. And I’m gonna talk about your magic underwear.
[Update : Note to self when posting drunk - in future, delete 3 out of 4 uses of all variants of the word 'f--k'. Except f--knozzle. That's always a keeper.]
Fireworks
Long time since I’ve done this. My apologies. And yeah, not much to say at the moment that isn’t too angry to want to preserve for the ages.
Rather than hunt-n-peck out the diatribes that have been orbiting my brain and screeching like scalp-furrowing harpies of late, and instead of, like, bringing everybody down, man; instead of pointless wonderchickensian ranting, I invite you to enjoy some possibly-relevant and heart-lifting music.
One of my faves from the fine and excellent Canadian band The Tragically Hip, downloadable as always for the next day or two [4.8Mb]. [Update : Link removed after two days. Sorry!]
If there’s a goal that everyone remembers
It was back in ol ’72
We all squeezed the stick and we all pulled the trigger
And all I remember is sitting beside you
You said you didn’t give a f–k about hockey
I never saw someone say that before
You held my hand and we walked home the long way
You were loosening my grip on Bobby Orr
Isn’t it amazing anything’s accomplished
When the little sensation gets in your way?
Not one ambition whisperin’ over your shoulder
Isn’t it amazing you can do anything?
We hung out together every single moment
‘Cause that’s what we thought married people do
Complete with the grip of artificial chaos
And believin’ in the country of me and you
Crisis of faith and crisis in the Kremlin
And yeah we’d heard all that before
It’s wintertime the house is solitude with options
And loosening my grip on a fake cold war
Isn’t it amazing what you can accomplish
When you don’t let the nation get in your way?
No ambition whisperin’ over your shoulder
Isn’t it amazing, you can do anything.
Next to your comrades in the national fitness program
Caught in some eternal flexed arm hang
Dropping to the mat in a fit of laughter
Showing no patience tolerance or restraint
Fireworks exploding in the distance
Temporary towers soar
Fireworks emulatin’ heaven
Till there are no stars anymore
Fireworks aimin’ straight at heaven
Temporary towers soar
Till there are no stars shinin’ up in heaven
Till there are no stars anymore
Isn’t it amazing what you can accomplish
When the little sensation gets in your way?
No ambition whisperin’ over your shoulder
Isn’t it amazing what you can accomplish, eh?
This one thing probably never goes away
I think that this one thing is always supposed to stay
This one thing doesn’t have to go away