Big Star - Radio City

The story so far: former Box Tops singer Alex Chilton travels back to his hometown of Memphis after unsuccessfully giving being a solo musician in New York a try. He gets together with a few bandmates, and they all end up releasing one of the great unsung pop masterpieces of all time: #1 Record. The creative tension between the mercurial genius Chilton and melodic perfectionist Chris Bell is largely to credit for the album's (critical) success. Unfortunately, unlike Lennon and McCartney, who were able to sustain this tension and feed off each other for years, it got to be too much. Bell left the band once #1 Record was released, leaving Chilton on his own to front Big Star.

Bell left his beautiful imprint on Big Star's sound, and it's sad to ponder for a bit what could have been. But as it turns out, Chilton and the rest of Big Star could do just fine without that fourth member, thank you. Unrestrained by Bell's meticulous attention to detail, Radio City makes for a harder, rawer, looser, and more exhilarating ride. Its sparse production (the virtual antithesis of Spector's "wall of sound") reveals frequent holes of sound that presage punk by a few years; it sounds like a live album in spots. And it's just as successful as its predecessor.

It's a bit easier to choose the highlights of Radio City; after all, with this wildness comes some inconsistency. So here we go:

1) "O My Soul" - The clarion call to get wild, get drunk, and kick up your heels, and the perfect way to start this album. Loose as loose can be, but funky...and that rhythm section is unstoppable.

2) "What's Going Ahn" - Chilton's penchant for weird song titles continues here in this achingly sad tune. "I like love, but I don't know/All these girls, they come and go," he moans, resigned to be unsuccessful at love. And the drums sound like they're ready to fall apart at any moment. The most despondent that Big Star ever got...well, until the next album, at least.

3) "Mod Lang" - Then they turn around and deliver this glamalicious number, with Chilton howling almost inaudibly in the background. Fun, fun stuff.

4) "She's A Mover" - Sounds like the best outtake from Revolver the Beatles never released. So Big Star picked it up, dusted it off, tambourine and all, and went to work. Not so much a song as a three minute-long relentless groove.

5) "September Gurls" - Yes, the one critics the world over adore. I first heard this one and couldn't get past the clanging guitars. But the song is still power-pop heaven, and the most straight-ahead song here.

6) "You Get What You Deserve" - Chilton's bitter side comes out hard here in a pretty little ditty that recalls CCR's "Have You Ever Seen The Rain." Ends on an ominous single piano note.

And actually, that's something that really separates Chilton from so many other pop stars. He isn't afraid to express the negativity that permeates his psyche, and just about every song on Radio City has a dark edge to it. "Life is White" begins with the kiss-off: "Don't like to see your face/Don't like to hear you talk at all." (Apparently, that song was all about Chris Bell - kinda makes sense why he left, don't it?) Even the lightness of "September Gurls" is brought down by the line, "I loved you...well, never mind. I've been crying all the time." Ouch! Self-pity was never disguised so well or expressed so succinctly.

So there you have it. Two of the greatest pop/rock albums ever released. And no one knew about it back in the early '70s. And now you can get them both on one CD. Do it. Now.

Big Star - #1 Record

Holy shee-it. What a find I have made. And this is truly rare treasure that most people haven't even heard of. It's Big Star, people. The group that proves that life can be a shitstorm of unfair. These guys, were there any justice, should have been the ones who took the torch from the Beatles and run with it, enjoying wild success all through the '70s. Critically, no question. I mean, read some of these random review excerpts:

"It's safe to say there would have been no modern pop movement without Big Star."

"Anyone not in possession of Big Star's three landmark studio albums...should stop reading this now and go purchase them."

"Radio City and #1 Record brim over with punchy songs that served as the blueprint for almost every power pop band to follow, and the much darker Third/Sister Lovers is a depressive masterpiece."

I read the first excerpt in a review for Third/Sister Lovers back in the early 1990s, and was dumbfounded. I had never heard of any such group before. And these guys were a major fount from which the likes of R.E.M., the Replacements, Happy Mondays, the dBs, the Bangles, Teenage Fanclub, the Posies, the Soup Dragons, and Matthew Sweet all came? (For starters.) Wow. Gotta pick this one up. (At the time, Third/Sister Lovers was a major disappointment for me. To be continued later.)

One of the group's founders and the resident genius, Alex Chilton, died on St. Patrick's Day this year. His death prodded me to get their first two albums, both on one CD. And OH MY GOD what was I thinking not getting them sooner?

#1 Record is a brilliant, perfect power-pop masterpiece, brimming with optimism, excitement, wistfulness, puppy love, and just plain fun. Do you dig '70s Aerosmith? Alice Cooper? Badfinger? Todd Rundgren? Love? Moby Grape? The Byrds? The soundtrack to Dazed and Confused? Or even the other bands I've already mentioned? Go out and get this album NOW.

Just like with the Descendents' Somery, I can't narrow down which song is the ultimate pinnacle on #1 Record. But let me see if I can capture the high points.

1) "Feel" - Subtle strumming and an eerie, plangent twang suddenly explode into fireworks of scream-singing and wild drumming that don't let up for the entire song. These guys are going for broke. One hellaciously beautiful way to start off an album.

2) "The Ballad of El Goodo" - Crappy song title. Beautiful, defiant Statement Of Purpose. Required listening for really earnest and idealistic kids who are determined to live life on their own terms, goddamnit.

3) "In The Street" - Big Star's only claim to fame over the past decade. That '70s Show swiped the song for the opening credits. Extra points for the hilarious line "Wish we had a joint so bad."

4) "Watch The Sunrise" - Gorgeous, gorgeous meditative 12-string showcase by Chilton. And yes, you can just imagine the sun rise as the song is playing.

5) "When My Baby's Beside Me" - Kinda lame beginning, but man, I defy you not to clap along to the chorus. Addictive.

6) "ST 100/6" - Indecipherable song title. Not even a minute long. Slightly psychedelic harmonies over some simple guitar chords. Complete in its incompleteness, perfect in its imperfection.

So why didn't these guys get a break? Apparently, Ardent Records (or maybe it was Stax...the details are kinda sketchy), the company in charge of printing and distribution really, really fell down on the job. People heard them and wanted to get their hands on #1 Record...it just wasn't available anywhere. Another, much lesser reason was that people in the early '70s were just done with the Beatles and the Byrds and all those other poppy, fun bands that were so last decade. I don't buy that excuse. Music like this is just too awesome and timeless to pass up.

Random quickie song reviews

Ready for the '80s - Village People: Aside from the fact that it's virtually indistinguishable from any other Village People song, it's perhaps one of the saddest songs ever performed - unintentionally so. Just read the lyrics. (And fergawdsakes forgive the atrocious punctuation.) Ain't it so happy, peppy, and bursting with love and optimism for the future? Well, check this out. I doubt any Village People fan was ready for what the '80s were about to bring.

Gentleman Who Fell - Milla: That's model Milla Jovovich, y'all, at the ripe age of 16. With a gloriously untrained voice that swoops and whispers with trepidation to a man she can't catch. And yes, she wrote this (at least, in part), part of her only album, The Divine Comedy. A gorgeous, almost baroque arrangement that is essential listening for Jane Siberry and Kate Bush aficionados. And speaking of Jane Siberry...

Calling All Angels - Jane Siberry and k.d. lang: The best song off the Until The End Of The World soundtrack, itself an early '90s pre-Nirvana, pre-emo depressive classic. A slow funereal drum, pedal steel, and spare guitar plucking back these two chanteuses aching for aid and relief from above, "cause we're not sure how this goes." Who can't relate?

God Bless America - Kate Smith: There's good reason Kate Smith will always be linked with this song. You can just hear her heart swell with pride and unbridled patriotism, and it's impossible not to get caught up in it. She recorded many worthy versions, but this particular beauty was captured at Carnegie Hall in 1963, back when our nation was still brimming with optimism for the future and reveling in its post-war glory, mere days before JFK's assassination. It's a snapshot of simpler times, when it was still cool to be patriotic and have unshakeable faith that our country was on the right track. It's almost heartwrenching now to consider how far we've strayed from that moment. There was once a movement to make this song the national anthem. If they ever bring it back up, I'm in.

Dive In The Pool - Barry Harris and Pepper Mashay: Originally came out on the first Queer as Folk soundtrack back in 2001, and was therefore deemed worthy to pollute gay danceclubs nationwide for years thereafter. It tries to sound tribal, but fails miserably; how pathetic is it that Baltimora and Gloria Estefan sound more authentic? Includes the requisite black diva (with one of the worst drag names ever), here lamely howling at all the boys to dive in the pool and get soaking wet. Hoarksome. I defy you to listen to more than 30 seconds of this shite without banging your head against the wall, or at least shutting it off.

Generic blog title about misspelling.

Yeah, I'm a lazy, uncreative bum. And I let others do the work for me. Put a sock in it. I shoveled a foot of the wettest, gloppiest snow of the season off our driveway for over an hour today and had a craptacularly useless day otherwise.

So.

Now that we all are clear on my emotional state, let's move on to indulge more of my supposed moral superiority where language is concerned, shall we? Check out this beauty. Anything that references hemorrhoids in the battle against spelling "lose" wrong is golden. And here is the whipped cream on top: "If you put an "A" in "definitely," you're definitely an A-hole." Bonus points for offering up this advice as a poster you can purchase.

Ahh...sweet balm to the soul...

Ramblings on not having kids

What is it about my parents that inspire such ugly, angry sentiments? Pull up a chair and set a spell. I'll tell ya.

Tonight was a classic example of a typical family dinner...except this time it was blown up much more than usual. Dinner pretty much comes down to this: the rest of the family, and then me. The rest of 'em talk about politics, rant about Obama as if he's the downfall of this country of ours, and otherwise engage in conversation the likes about which I could really give a shit. Even the subtle nonverbal behaviors often imply that I'm not really one of "them."

But tonight was really beyond. I really was pretty much ignored during the whole meal. There was company over, which may explain a bit, but really? Rude not to include everyone in conversation from time to time, right?

My big news: I tried out for four solos during a choir retreat this weekend, and landed one of 'em. Thrilled about it - it's a fun one, in a wacky Marx Brothers-inspired ditty called "Lydia the Tattooed Lady." So I told my parents about it. Mild congratulations, at best. Then when I mentioned the name of the song, not only did they immediately say the name of the song wrong (and one thing I've learned is that you don't correct your elders), but they went on to talking about "John the Tattooed Skier," who was spotted schussing down the slopes sans shirt, exposing his ink for all to see. And it went on from there, leaving my good news in the dust. (I somehow suspect that my stint in the local gay men's choir also contributed to my news' lukewarm reception.)

It's behavior like this from my parents that really reinforce the idea that having kids is really just not for me. My old college roommate mentioned a few years ago that he was gonna be a dad, and I was thrilled for him and his wife. Their daughter, of course, is adorable and perfect - and I say that with as little saccharine inflection as I can. They've really done right by her. But I admitted to him that the responsibility of being a parent would be overwhelming to me. I'd be obsessing over every little tiny minute detail, wanting to make sure everything was just so, and freaked out about how said details, if neglected or mishandled, could irreversibly send the kid on a path toward a terrible fate of some sort. He heard me, but he also said that, well, these little buggers are pretty damned resilient, and you just do the best you can. I've heard the former, and I do kinda believe it. But that second part? Not good enough for me.

My parents did the best they could. I have to assume that. On nights like this, it's awfully hard for me to believe that, though. After 35 years, I still feel like a pariah in my own family. What the fuck? If they did the best they could, and this is the result, I sure as hell don't want to do my best and still end up alienating any kids I might have.

I was never breastfed, and as such, lost out on an essential part of my growth. I deal with more colds and such than I should, I have had more illnesses than many - heck, my health just ain't where it should be in general. Also, if my mom actually stopped to consider the bond between her and her baby simply by breastfeeding, she might have done it. Especially knowing how things have been ever since then. (Why wasn't I breastfed? I was adopted, and, well, if a woman hasn't been producing milk, why bother, right? I can't tell you how much that statement is WRONG.)

I sometimes think I was awfully rebellious as a teenager. As a kid, apparently I was "the perfect child." Never cried, never wanted for anything, easy-going, relaxed. And then hormones kicked in, and I transformed into, well, into a regular teenager. Were I in another family (perhaps even one consisting of my actual birthparents, were they up to the task), I might have been handled better. My parents thought that my rebellious streak was me reacting to them. Well, perhaps some, but they give themselves too much credit. It was not about them necessarily. It was about me trying to carve out my identity. Unfortunately, my identity and their values were at odds. A lot. So it was a very unfortunate coincidence. (In contrast, my brother and sister, who were blood-related within the family, became typical "rebellious" teenagers, but because their values were so similar, it usually was a non-issue.)

So yeah, adopting ain't for me. I'd hate to adopt a kid and unwittingly screw that kid up for life.

I'm also fucked in the brain enough that I don't think I'd make a good, effective, and solid father. Loving? Yes. And God knows I'd tell that kid as often as I could that he or she could do anything - ANYTHING - they wanted to. (A message I never heard. Oh, wait, scratch that. I was told "If you're gonna be a ditch digger, be the best damned ditch digger you can be." Yeah. Thanks for the lesson in ambition and being a success.) But giving a kid what he or she would need to actually go out in the world and be functional, successful, and as completely evolved as possible? Not terribly likely.

Also...I would not want to raise a kid with my current (and possibly lifetime) partner. I tolerate many of his habits that I feel are self-destructive, because I know their influence extends only to me, and I've learned to mitigate his influence over the years. (Health is also a huge issue, in general, and Mr. Man is just not healthy at all. And OH MY GOD is that a subject for another post or seven.) But were we to welcome a new bundle of joy into our lives, thence would begin much fighting and anguish. Our sometimes-opposing values would be sorely tested. And it might mean the end of us. (See above about trying my best and still fucking up a kid's life.)

Incidentally, about the whole choir retreat this weekend: tons of fun. Our cabin was small, but the six of us had a blast talking about everything under the sun, from ghosts to Family Guy. LAUGHED our asses off. And became much more tight-knit friends. It was glorious. So to come from that to a dinner where I was a mere afterthought at the table, all but ignored, was a huge slap in the face.

Henry Rollins - Airport Hell

Henry Rollins rules. Over everyone. At least when he's opening his mouth and spewing some of the most razor-sharp commentary on popular culture you'll ever hear. I ain't much a fan of his music; he's way too heavy-handed, and there isn't much fun to be had with his tunes. Even Weight, his band's most critically-lauded album from 1994, was a bit harsh. But put him in front of an audience without a band, and just tell him to GO!, and he will deliver. He'll make you think, but beyond that, damn, will he make you laugh.

I'm at the airport right now, and although I don't travel as much as the peripatetic Rollins, I totally get his skewering of the whole airport scene. When people go to the airport, their IQ does plummet 40 points. Any sane, rational human being gets this, and some prepare accordingly. But others are just too stupid to understand the simplest of concepts.

For example, the metal detector. "What does a metal detector detect? Me-tal," he imbecilically points out, along with the rest of his amused audience. But who doesn't get it? The old man with a janitor's keychain and a month's supply of laundry quarters in his pockets who has to run through the metal detector three times. Apparently, the rules don't apply to him. Or how about showing your ID and boarding pass? How simple is this? Have it in hand. Answer the security questions quickly. Drop off your bags. And move along to the gate. Total time elapsed should take no more than one minute. Two, tops. But some dig in their pockets, trying to find these most essential of objects. And of course, this happens after standing impatiently in line, doing nothing. But the worst part? "Where are these people standing?" Rollins seethes. "In front of ME!" Naturellement.

Rollins continues with the sarcasm, longing for the day when there is a "sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up" light in the plane, and fantasizing about slamming through people who sag on the side of the moving walkway, hurtling them into the air and sending carry-on bags flying, scattering papers and undergarments everywhere. But until then, he still has to deal with the idiots who fail to grasp the simplest of concepts.

Sure, there's simple yelling and spleen-venting that goes nowhere. But Hank has a very worthy point. These people who stand in front of him, acting stupid and wasting time, are slowly killing him. What little life we have on this planet, he reasons, is far too valuable to spend in line, an unwitting victim of the inanities of others. This from a guy who had to dodge bullets in gang shootings back in his heyday with Black Flag. But he also saw one of these shootings result in the death of one of his best friends, right in front of him. Rollins knows whereof he speaks.

Really, any of Hank's spoken-word stuff is brilliant. The older he gets, the more incisive he gets, the more expressive his dead-on impressions of old fragile women or teenage skater punks. One of his most daring of monologues, from the album Big Ugly Mouth, is a cryptically-titled "Touch and Go," wherein he extols the virtues of beating off. As a twenty-something dude. To fellow twenty-something dudes and their girlfriends. Yipes. It takes major balls to talk about that onstage for nearly ten minutes at a time in your life when merely admitting that you beat off is just asking to be ridiculed. The Boxed Life is even more brilliant; though I haven't heard it for years, it was a staple during my stint as a college radio DJ. But the most hilarious stuff I've yet heard accompanies "Airport Hell" on Think Tank. He debunks homophobia (while convincingly explaining why he's not gay despite continual rumors), relives the stupidest thing he ever did onstage ("I just kicked my own ass!"), explains how he'd persuade nations like Iraq not to fuck with us (starting with executions during televised sports events like the Super Bowl), wants to rename El Nino "the First Four Black Sabbath Albums," and wrings tears in a parable about a teenager with terminal cancer who, as his last wish, wanted to just spend some time with Rollins himself. Honestly, the whole double-album should be required listening for...well, at the very least, for anyone reading this blog. If nothing else, a few more people would pull their heads out of their asses and act a bit smarter at the airport.

"Where can I go to see a big good healthy dose of bad attitude?"

Gloryhallastoopid, my prayers have been answered! Maybe six years late, but still...better than nothing, right?

Daria: The Complete Animated Series is being released in May. EVERYTHING. Eight discs worth. Soup to nuts. Pilot episode to two full-length season-ending films. A Mystik Spiral video. A top 10 MTV video countdown with Daria and Jane.

Of course, all clouds must have smoky gray linings, right? The music that made Daria such a perfect time capsule of the 1990s is not intact. It'll be replaced by covers and (as they put it rather euphemistically) "appropriate" generic music. Boo-hiss. But a rather weak boo-hiss. I mean, this has been WAY long in coming, and for Daria to finally be released is major cause for celebration. I may have to have a weekend long Dariathon in a few months. Can't wait.

The final word in apostrophes. Or at least the fiercest.

Subtlety was never my strong suit, but neither was in-your-face confrontation. Which makes this compendium of rules and examples of apostrophe usage like Turkish delight to my soul. Careful, kiddos...not for the faint of heart, nor for you old-fashioned 1800s schoolmarms, either. Just tells it like it t-i-is...with f-bombs galore!

(With props to the brilliant, twisted Shatner worshipper (no joke) over at Damn Kids, who found this originally.)

"I swear with God as my witness, I will never pick up another man!...in a library...on a Saturday...unless he's cute...and drives a nice car. Amen."

Okay. So I was never one of these guys who got into the Golden Girls back in the day. Just didn't appeal to me. It was only years later, after coming out, that I realized second-hand just how big a touchstone GG was to so many gay men. And it kinda makes sense. The foursome exhibit, collectively and individually, traits that we boys enjoy. There's the self-confessed, uh, sexually generous one (Rue McClanahan/Blanche), the outspoken one who doesn't put up with bullshit of any sort (Bea Arthur/Maude...er, I mean Dorothy), the nice one who is just a bit ditzy for her own good (Betty White/Rose), and the ornery one who just lets her trap fly, and damn the consequences (Estelle Getty/Sophia). Still, it doesn't really appeal to me that much. Sit me down and force me to watch an episode? Sure. But I won't go out of my way to watch it.

Then again, I may have to reconsider. I may have missed something wonderful. Apparently, not only are Blanche, Dorothy, Rose and Sophia all lots of fun to watch, they are responsible for having recruited and seduced many young influenceable boys to the dark side back in the 1980s. At least, so sez Stephenson Billings, a right-wing Christian and probable closet case who writes for ChristWire.org.

Ho boy, do you have to read this article. Seriously, I'm amused and confused by it. I can't tell whether he's serious, or whether he's parodying the right wing Christian wackos who are suffering some sort of mental condition. If he's serious, then oblivious self-mockery was never so luscious to behold. Here's some fun tidbits from the article, for those of you who just don't have the time and/or attention span:

• "The Golden Girls television program was never much to look at. A foursome of Florida geriatrics getting agitated about pharmacy bills and shoulder pads - who could ever find such a thing interesting?" How about the author? He wrote over 1500 words about this show and believe me...he has a pretty good grasp on some of its arcana.


• "Our lonely boys...slender, unathletic children...were left out of the fun militarism of the Reagan years." I'm sorry, but I just don't reach this guy. How is militarism fun?


• "The show lit a match which enflamed their intense physical urges. With the utmost cruelty and immorality, the Golden Girls seized upon this opportunity to cross the hormonal wires of America's lost generation." Um, I think this guy is confusing this show with porn. But let's follow his convoluted logic, shall we?


• "When the rush of cheesecake and gabfests wore thin, these hairless boys needed a harder thrill...same-sex experimentation. What woman would have them now, anyway?" Um, maybe dumb women who don't know enough to avoid getting into self-defeating relationships with gay men? Or those who misguidedly think they can change them around. In the words of Henry Rollins, if you were gay and someone straight came up to you and said, "I can turn you around," don't you think you'd be REALLY certain of your sexual orientation at that point?


• "This led to the worse [sic] excesses of early homosexual visibility - the most enormous of drag queens, the dirtiest of leather daddies, the most enticing of twinkie boys, androgyny, overeating, public sex, and the birth of "camp." Dear God, where to start? That's quite a compliment, honoring the Golden Girls with being the fount from which all these aspects of gay culture sprang. But let's step back, shall we? Let's touch on just a few of these. Drag queens? Been around forever and ever - both enormous and tiny. They kicked off Stonewall, and quite honestly, every queer individual of every stripe owes a debt of gratitude to them. Leather daddies? Oh yeah, I can see where homespun, wholesome Rose Nylund inspired guys to don biker's caps, tight, tight leather pants, and put on a hypermasculine persona. Nothing to do with Marlon Brando in The Wild One or Tom of Finland's illustrations. Nothing whatsoever. Overeating? Oh yeah, that cornerstone of gay culture. Must have been all that cheesecake. If it weren't for us gay boys, the Cheesecake Factory would be kaput. And the birth of camp? Seriously? Um, go back to (at LEAST) 1930s Berlin, where cabaret shows were all the rage. There is where camp enjoyed a rampant heyday, if not its actual birth.

See, I feel stupid having to explain these things. I feel like I'm teaching a fifth grader for the millionth time that 2+2=4.

One more thing: How about his accusations of leather daddies and flaming queens who "attack with the swiftness of a ninja," then head off "groping someone's son in a Sears lavatory"? Ya know, this equating homosexuality with pedophilia has to STOP. We gay men aren't interested in boys. We're interested in men.

I have to stop. I can't stoop to this guy's inanity anymore. It's kinda useless for me to mock him at this point...he does such a good job of it himself. Instinct should seriously consider hiring him on as a regular contributor.

"And now, the sports news. I'm your host, Chuck Sirloin."

Stupid, stupid, stupid (and insanely obvious) sports news that gets people all riled up. Because, y'know, nothing - not even a war in Afghanistan, the muck and mire of health care reform, or the economy - can compare to the import of these luscious jewels. To wit:

- Tiger and his affair(s). OMG. Stop the presses. ANOTHER sports hero sticking his pee-pee in another warm, tight vagina that is not his by virtue of marriage. Can't imagine.

- Mark McGwire and his steroids. Heavens to Murgatroyd and pass me the smelling salts! A baseball player on steroids! People, it's not like those Popeye-sized forearms of his way back when didn't scream it out in the first place.

- Brent Favre (sic). Need I go into it? The sports poster child of growing old gracelessly. Either retire or don't. And the fact that he went to Minnesota after years with Green Bay, antagonizing one of the biggest rivalries in the country, made him even more of a twat.

- Overanalysis of anything football-related, for that matter. Seriously, people? The fact that we make a multi-billion dollar enterprise out of football is a joke to me. Yeah, I can get behind the whole "pride in your own city" thing. There's better ways to do it. The way that millions of people either a) spend hours examining and analyzing players and their abilities and their potential, or b) pretend that they do is hoarksome. Straight-guy dick-fencing of the worst kind. (As a gay man, I have to admit I don't mind examining and analyzing players and their, um, assets. Most specifically: linebackers in tight contour-accentuating uniforms that barely restrain their big guts and bubble butts. Yum. Oh, and Howie Long, too. At least looks-wise.)