With Only 40 Years Left to Live, It's Time I Finally Got Around to Digitizing My Cassette & Vinyl Collection [Part 7]

"The Madam" - The Sensuous Black Woman (LP on Kent Records, [year of release unknown])

A full-on NSFW soul sister instructional, backed by greasy, slinky grooves and enough X-rated pillow talk to make you get down with your bad self and turn even Redd Foxx a beet red. My cassette copy has grown old in the tooth, so it was time to bring it forward into the 21st century, but I can assure you, similar to those of you who only read Playboy for the articles, I swear on a stack on Rudy Ray Moore albums that I only listen to this album for the music.

The Songs of Bob Dylan, Refashioned Into Porno Film Titles

Tangled Up in Spooge

It Ain't Me, Baby Batter

Jizz Like a Woman

Lay Lezzie Lay

Knockin' on Heaven's Door-gasm

Subterranean Homesick Boobs

The Times, They Are A-Bangin'

Ballad of a Hung Man

Bob Dylan's 115th Dirty Sanchez

It's All Over Now, Baby Blue Balls

I Shall Be Released (Of Sperm)

Love Minus Zero/No Limit Bukkake

Blowin' in the Wind

Live Blogging SXSW 2009 In Exasperating Detail, Part 1. [Let's Suffer Through It Together.] [Hugs!]

I'm waiting to board the plane which will whisk me away to sunny Austin, TX (except that it's currently pissing non-stop rain there at the moment). The adorable father/daughter duo dressed in look-alike pink shirts/blue jeans also awaiting their departure warm my heart. It's an affirmation of all that is good and precious to see a late-40's-ish father treat his early-20's daughter with so much affection and...holy shit, now they're kissing. OH MY GOD, THEY'RE TOTALLY MAKING OUT!! HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THEY'RE A COUPLE!! IS ROMAN POLANSKI OUT TO RUIN ALL OF OUR SOCIAL INSTITUTIONS???

It's time for breakfast. The spunky young African-American cashier at the bagel shop is eager to sing along loudly with every artist playing on the restaurant radio, and truth be told, her voice is easy on the ears so it's a pleasure to witness. She matches each song note for note: a tune by Paula Abdul, another one by Cher, a track by Brandy, etc. When Help Me, the overplayed annoyance by Joni Mitchell is aired, she clams up and has no interest in singing along. There's a joke here just waiting to be written but I'm not sure I'm up to the task--something about white not being a recognized color in the spectrum of music.

A visit to Austin means non-stop exposure to KVRX, the top-notch college radio station. I thrill along to everything they play until, that is, they roll out the oh-so-precious child-like twee folk of Agent Ribbons and their Barney-esque sing-along "Chelsea, Let's Go to the Circus". HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THEY'RE SERIOUSLY SINGING ABOUT GOING TO A CIRCUS!! IS JONATHAN RICHMAN EVER GOING TO PAY FOR HIS EVIL INFLUENCE OVER AMERICA'S YOUTH???

Plain and White (Except For That One Black Guy, And Can Someone Tell Me What Made Him Join This Honky Band?)

Today, we examine the painfully romantic lyrics of the new hit "Hey There Delilah" by America's newest sure-to-be-around-forever sensation Plain White T's:

Hey there Delilah
What's it like in New York City?
I'm a thousand miles away
But girl tonight you look so pretty

[Here the protagonist professes his love for a young woman living in New York City. Mirroring the plot of an Ed Burns film, post-collegiate young people sometimes have trouble connecting romantically with others in their age group/social status while residing in a metropolis of over three billion people. The implicit irony is that even when one is surrouned by such a teeming mass of humans, one can still feel alone. Also, "city" sure does rhyme well with "pretty"--it's why God invented the Rhyming Dictionary.]

Yes you do
Time Square can't shine as bright as you
I swear it's true

[Other phrases that might have worked in this rhyme scheme: I puked my brew; I'm not a Jew; I ate Elmer's Glue; You gave me the flu; Flour and fat make roux.]

Hey there Delilah
Don't you worry about the distance
I'm right there if you get lonely
Give this song another listen
Close your eyes
Listen to my voice it's my disguise
I'm by your side

[Here, the protagonist entices the young woman to "close her eyes", and mentions a "disguise". This is what therapists call the two warning phrases of date rape.]

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me

[Here, there are two possible scenarios being played out. 1) The power of what the young woman does to the singer are so powerful that a single phrase repeated many times conveys the emotional impact of this romantic interaction. Or, 2) the songwriter simply ran out of lyrics and went for broke.]

Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar

[The singer has, indeed, reached his goal and is now paying bills with his guitar. The end result should now be that the young woman will be impressed with his bread-winning abilities and, thus, will now "put out". Whereas most young men of a certain upward physical stature would simply "put the moves" on such a female, the singer here--being ungainly, awkward and rail-thin--must write songs such as this to acheive the same effect.]

We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

[In a puzzling move, the songwriter rhymes "good" with "good", inserting "would" to achieve some structural balance. While there are few additional phrases which might have worked, experts agree that "I rule this 'hood" would also assert itself as a boast to make the young woman "put out".]

Hey there Delilah
I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all

[In a brilliant stroke, the songwriter sheilds himself from music critics by using the phrase "every simple song". It reinforces the idea that this song is "from the heart" and therefore can withstand the lofty academic ruminations which would attempt to tear it down and label it aural bathwater. This is the same defense strategy used by Paul McCartney for his 1976 smash hit "Silly Love Songs".]

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me

[Here, the songwriter seems to make the bold assertion that if he simply repeats this already-redundant phrase four more times, the impact of these words upon the listener will increase ten-fold.]

A thousand miles seems pretty far
But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way

[Love can travel across vast differences--be they geographical, physical, emotional, spiritual, financial or sexual. Would love, however, walk a thousand miles just to be with someone? Even someone so willing to "put out"? Not when there are hundreds of other women just as eager to "put out" living just a few blocks from the singer's apartment.]

Our friends would all make fun of us
and we'll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way

[Nobody in the entire history of human existance has ever experienced love before, only the singer and the young woman to whom he is crooning. The singer and the young woman are uniquely qualified to feel the sensations of love because the young woman has promised the singer that she will "put out".]

Delilah I can promise you
That by the time we get through
The world will never ever be the same
And you're to blame

[In a striking reversal, the singer blames the young woman for all the world's sins: lust, poverty, pollution, suffering, etc.]

Hey there Delilah
You be good and don't you miss me
Two more years and you'll be done with school
And I'll be making history like I do
You know it's all because of you
We can do whatever we want to
Hey there Delilah here's to you
This ones for you

[The singer puts down the young woman again, this time by slamming her life's choices: He is "making history" writing hearfelt deeply personal music which touches the souls of listeners around the world, while she is merely finishing a Master's Degree in Cognitive Physics. The singer is a putz.]

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me.

[For good measure, the key phrase is repeated four more times. This will be useful for live performances during which the audience can be engage in a now-this-half-of-the-room sing along.]

An Open Letter To The Drunk, Horny Couple Who Blocked My View Of The Stage Almost Six Months Ago Today

How I loathe you. The disturbing image of that grinding and humping to the sounds of the local band I was straining to watch has been permanently seared into my brain, and for this transgression against my existence, I will personally assist in arranging your travel plans to Hell. Your attempts at what I will call, for lack of a better phrase, dirty dancing--not to mention what appeared to be a 25-year age difference between the both of you--speaks volumes about the type of people you are. This tirade is directed to you, the male, sporting The Ponytail Which Dare Not Speak Its Name, and the woman, hitherto known as Lil' Slutty Slut Slut (Lacking Rhythm) (Owing to Her Honky Heritage) (And Bad Fashion Sense). How I wish the groovy band I was trying to enjoy hadn't inspired you into such appalling physical behavior, all of it taking place right in front of the table at which I sat, right in front of my very own eyes, the eyes I must now hollow out with a stick to rid them of these tarnished visions. How I wish the sounds emanating from the stage hadn't been so dance-heavy; how I wish the artist on stage had instead been Miss Violetta Beauregarde as she violently shreiked Adolf Hitler's Emotional Side and I'm The Tiennamen Square Guy And You Are All The Fucking Tanks into your sexually twisted ears. Observing your endeavors to writhe and bop along to Flanger When You Die and The Umbearable Lightness Of A Farm Tractor--with their warped psychopathic tendencies and intensely anti-social leanings--would make my heart skip a thick joyous rope. If there is one reason, and one reason only, to support abortion rights in America, it is to provide the last God-given opportunity to kill off any possible living offspring as a result of your abhorrent intermingling. On the upside: you left before the encore.

The Silent Scream

A punk rock friend of mine exclusively listens to punk rock and lives the punk rock lifestyle (regularly dining on triple-patty burgers washed down with thick shakes, paid mostly with a collection of spare change). He tried, in vain, to rape my ears with the strains of the FM Knives but I was too busy absorbing the squishy pansy-ass feelings of Sufjan Stevens and eating vegetarian nut roast with a side of lemon-drizzled radicchio while wearing sweatshop-free loungewear from American Apparel. Eventually, my hearing went "boi-i-i-innnng!" and punk rock seduced my heart through the likes of Automatic.

In a related story, I recently asked a punk rock acquaintance to brainwash the tastebuds of the windmills of my mind. Rest assured, he is punk rock but I don't know him well enough to be aware of his dining habits. My assumption is that, being a punk rock, he eats grease and lard and antler parts and sniffs glue for dessert like all the punk rocks do. But never you mind--the main thrust of my story is this: he tells me listen to The Carbonas--which is well and good--but why didn't he set me up on a blind date with Les Breastfeeders instead? Yes, that name is perfection itself, but the music has impregnated me with the sperm of shout yelling on Ostrogoth-À-Gogo and Viens Avec Moi, and why would I ever want to abort such a precious gift?

K-9 Kapers!

Like all of you, I was immediately prepared to rabidly despise Dr. Dog, what with that band name, that cosmic album title (We All Belong), the scruffy long hair, the ramshackle Elephant 6 sound, their remarkably uncreative website, being fawned over by NPR, a few songs sounding like the most boring parts of The Basement Tapes, etc. But then those wonderful Abbey Road-style guitar riffs of Keep A Friend kick in and I'm butter in their arms. Why, I've even found myself humming along to the Lennon-esque Ain't It Strange with its odd percussion breaks and hidden vocal tracks. It's rather odd, this new tentative relationship I have with these proto-hippies, espcially considering they channel the dreadful Dead with such lines as, "Well, let's grab a case of lager/And some old beat-up shoes/Head down to the river/Strap on a canoe..." (Weekend). But considering how much this album entertains me overall, I'd say this is one dog I want humping my leg for a long time. A very very lo-o-o-o-nnnng time. No, I'm serious about this. I'm really really into dogs humping my leg. Yes. Dogs.

Smell You Later

Generally, I tend to stay away from stupid stinky folk hippies, hence my ignorance on this matter. So please indulge me this quick question: stupid stinky hippies don't have sex, do they? If not, why do nearly all the stupid stinky folk hippies within Folk Is Not A Four Letter Word summon up such sultry sexy rhythms (Ar Goll, It Takes So Long)? Is that why this song is called Warm Up My Lips? Is that why it begins with the word "spooge"? Isn't there a law against this, somewhere?

Listen To The Warm

The female of the two feral neighborhood cats that I reluctantly adopted 4 months ago (lovingly christened Fraidy Cat and Little Hitler) has gone into heat. She spends all day and night arching her back and exposing her genitals, which makes all the balls of the nearby male cats quiver and groan, bringing forth presumptuous purring and howling noises from all interested parties. This song, Psychedelia by The X'Lents has the same effect on me. The clunky circular repetition makes me hot and dizzy, and I find myself exposing my genitals to all the males in the neighborhood, who then make loud aggressive noises towards me. Poor Little Hitler will find her inflamed hormones quenched when she is spayed later this week, but it's anyone's guess on who is going to douse my fire. This Spanish Fly of a song is from Simla Beat 1970-71, and you can download the entire album here.

All Over Your Face And Stuff

There's no denying it: I'm an easy sell for a Mash-Up that has me cackling like a school girl. Especially if it uses Television's boho pre-punk masterpiece Marquee Moon. But especially if placed alongside the Khia grind and bump hit My Neck, My Back. The unstoppable superstar DJ Certified Bananas has merged the two into Television Is Crack, which made me gleefully skip around the room upon first encountering it last year buried within one of his genius monthly on-line mixes (no longer available except to stream on YouTube). Remember the first time you even heard this Khia classic? After you get over the short shock of such up-front sexuality, you really have to sit back and admire what is essentially a highly-instructional Joy Of Sex chapter to which you can dance.