Bad Things Come In Twos

When it rains, it pours. Let's all bow our heads in silent memory of Buck Owens and Nikki Sudden, both of whom died over the weekend. If you're clueless enough to only know of Owens as the co-star of Hee Haw, I hate your guts. Listen to Before You Go and Getting Used To Loving You and get back to me when you've paid proper respects to the King God of Righteous American Honky Tonk. If you have no idea who Sudden was, I'm going to remove your neck with a salad fork. Listen to Midget Submarines and Vertical Slum and get back to me when you've tossed all your WB Network-related indie rock blather into the garbage where it belongs. PS: Whoever borrowed my Buck Owens boxed set some years ago and never returned it, please bring it back.

Roll With It

Let's Roll is the kind of sample-infused creation Dickie Goodman would have concocted were he still alive. And harboring a severe case of 9/11 Denial. The Oakland, California provocateurs Porest have been associated with more than a few CDs over the years which have challenged the American politico status quo, but this particular track might just finally get them sent off to Guantanamo for good.

Acronym of L.O.V.E.

It seems somewhat misplaced to title your I'm-head-over-heels-in-love song after the (admittedly brilliant but) troubled soul of choreographer Bob Fosse. Stranger, still: spelling it as an acronym (B.O.B. F.O.S.S.E.) Being that I openly admit to having had a perverse fixation surrounding All That Jazz throughout my high school years, there is more than a little excitement in my loins when I hear Black Lipstick tack Fosse's name onto such euphoric subject matter. Maybe Fosse's estate will see an upswing in revenue as a result of this indirect product placement. Take note, Ann Reinking: the proceeds from your brief appearance in Mad Hot Ballroom won't last forever.

The Spirit Is Willing But The Flush Is Weak

When my Moms died, oh, five years back or so, my eldest sister and I had a few discussions about what happens when you die. My take: end of story. Her take: the spirit lives on and protects its loved ones forever and ever, Amen. Personally, I don't need anyone watching over me like that: my morning bowel movement is first and foremost about privacy. Why not do something useful such as, say, stealing for me from my favorite record store? Or perhaps give George Bush a little shove the next time he's leaning over the precipice of the Grand Canyon? I only mention this because the cover of Second Guessing by Oakley Hall somewhat resembles some sort of dead owl spirit face or something. If that's you, Mother, why have you come back as a fair-to-middling Alt-Country outfit from New York writing tepid run-throughs such as Hiway and Color The Shade? Is there No Depression in heaven and, if so, can I get a one-way ticket to hell instead?

The Girl With The Elephant Strap

The mixed gender guitar/drum duo is soooo 1999. And sorry to be the one to say this, but man lipstick and striped tights doesn't make you Kurt Weill. The only twosome catching my interest (be they brother/sister or not) is Deadboy & The Elephantmen, if only because they retreat into softer, quieter corners (on tracks such as No Rainbow, Dressed In Smoke and Walking Stick) where even Exene Cervenka and John Doe were too afraid to hide. Even better, when they finally do decide to rock out (Kissed By Lightening), it's as if they're setting their big hairy balls to music. (Yes, I'm well aware one of the members is a female--that's why God invented strap-on testicles.)

Frosted Flakey Goodness

I'm getting very nervous. Normally by this time every year, I've already discovered dozens of new (and not so new) acts whose music makes my receding hairline stand on end. But so far, 2006 has left me wanting--there isn't a single band at the moment about whom I'm urinating in glee. Where are all the good new bands for us to obsess over? After such a non-stop ride in 2005, is there something in the water supply keeping worthwhile bands from forming? Please don't tell me to name check The Arctic Monkeys and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! because I have, and...well...yawn. So far, my favorite discovery of 2006 is a result of my newly-formed illicit love affair with speed/death/thrash metal: pop lovers, I give you Detsorgsekalf (which may or may not be "Frosted Flakes" backwards, but with a "G" instead of an "F"), and their new album Tr00 Grim Warriors Ov The Necrokkvlt. If there is a more ridiculous, over-the-top and hilarious metal band to watch in 2006, buy it.

A Whiter Shade Of Gringo

In what is probably the Whitest of all the tracks on The Spanish Trip--a collection of psych rock numbers from 60's/70's-era Spain--the tot in Café Con Leche singing The Land Of Light maintains an upbeat Michael Jackson-style utopian funk pop sound, even when he's nearly buried alive underneath 10 tons of production theatrics. I was lucky enough to find my copy of this album in Austin, TX earlier this week, but you can find your copy at Forced Exposure.

No More Pauses, No More Grinding Halt

My time spent at the 2006 South By Southwest (or, as the locals call it, Crap By Southcrap) has yielded the following stats:

Number of Celebrities I Spotted: 3 (Comedian-who-makes-me-laugh Brian Posehn, Filmmaker-who-makes-me-cringe John Sayles and Film-Reviewer-to-whom-I-am-fairly-indifferent Harry Knowles, who was being pushed around in a wheelchair)

Number of Celebrities Spotted By My Intern: 1 (Cherlize Theron, attending as Producer of Cuban rap documentary East Of Havana and looking, I'm told, her usual beyond-gorgeous self.)

Number of Celebrities Attracting A Horde Of Local News Crews But Whom I Lucked Out In Missing: 1 (the-Tim-Allenesque-and-just-as-insufferable Ray Romano, showing his new--and probably equally insufferable--new documentary 95 Miles To Go.)

Number of Semi-Celebrities Spotted Whom I Had No Fear Of Approaching, Even Going So Far As To Getting My Picture Taken With Them: 1 (Jeff Krulik, director of Heavy Metal Parking Lot.)

Number of Films I Saw Which, On The Surface, Somewhat Resembled Me And You And Everyone We Know But Which, Unlike That Film, Didn't Make Me Want To Lock The Theatre Doors, Set The Building On Fire And Stab The Writer/Director In Her Precious Performance Art/Fart Eyeballs With A Ball-Point Pen: 1 (Apart From That, which also had the coolest promotional T-shirts of the whole festival.)

2nd Coolest Promotional T-Shirts Of The Whole Festival: Spout (for this free plug, maybe someone will send me the cool matching jacket, too.)

Number Of Trade Show Attendees Who Could Not Pronounce The Name Of The City In Which I Live: 3

Number Of Trade Show Attendees Who Gave Me Their Resumes In The Hopes That The City In Which I Live Paid Wages High Enough To Motivate A Relocation: 2

Number Of Man Ponytails Spotted, Thus Signalling The Official Return Of This Most Dreaded Of Hairstyles: 9

Another Pause, Another Grinding Halt

It's bad enough I've been blatantly shirking my posting duties, now you won't see any n-line musings for the next six days while my glamorous job flys me to the SXSW Film Festival, held in good old Austin, TX, whose automobile population holds the largest concentration of anti-Bush bumper stickers I've ever seen in one place. If you happen to be attending, you'll almost certainly find me most of the time at booth I-13 of the film festival trade show, so do drop by and pretend you're interested in what I'm selling. Or just hang around Waterloo Records and look for the guy running through the racks muttering album titles to himself in a crazed effort to fill in those missing gaps in his CD collection. You'll also be able to spot me at Magnolia Cafe, attempting to consume those gigantic gingerbread-banana pancakes in one bite.

Hot Child In The Citay

Bret B., close personal friend at Post-Punk Junk, don't be a hater for what I am about to spew: Citay, a new side-project of Ezra Feinberg (Piano Magic) and Tim Green (The Fucking Champs) is everything I violently despise made manifest--harmonic multi-tracked guitar solos with pompous overdramtic rock flourishes a la Queen, cribbing from Heart rather than Led Zeppelin, lyrics which are probably about, fuck, I don't know, leprechauns and wood sprites and moon goddesses or whatever the fuck, all of it graced with flutes and mandolin, etc--and yet, despite these traits, I like them. Correction, I love them. You heard me, Bret. I'm all about the L Word. Won't you hold my hand and skip into the thick of the forest with me while we sing along to Nice Cuffs? If any of you love pixie nymphs as much as I do, you'll gladly purchase this self-titled cd for yourself at Important Records.

Forget It, Disco:Very, It's Chinatown

My assumption has always been that Fraidy Cat and Little Hitler--the two stray felines that showed up on my doorstop recently--were brother and sister, mostly by their markings and their inseparable nature. So imagine my surprise when I found Fraidy Cat digging into his in-heat sibling last night like a Rototiller. Little Hitler seemed pretty content, acting all like Do You Wanna Scratch It? The mere sight of this "Incest Is Best" performance shocked me to no end, and I Can't Stop Thinking About It. As a result, I Can't Sleep At Night and it's giving me a Chemical Imbalance (to sum up, I Don't Feel So Good). Talking with a local kitty abortionist, she assured me that it's perfectly normal for male felines to think nothing of a brother/sister scene and that kittycat Girls Like It Too, so I ultimately decided that That's Alright With Me. Plus, I'm A Robot named Lulu who gets that Microscope Feeling whenever I Walk Up The Street towards The League of Women Voters. Also, I'm A Bug. Success! Whatever tracks off the UK comp Static Disaster which I couldn't fit into this narrative can be bought at Tone Vendor.

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.

The Chinese Democracy Of Rap

Can anyone tell me what the hell ever happened to Q-Tip? His fantastic debut solo album (Amplified) was released in 1999, so what's been taking his time up since then? You can't tell me he's still working on films such as The Visiting. And why does his record label continue to list the still-not-released follow-up Kamaal The Abstract on their website? Is this thing ever going to come out? Until these mysteries are solved, I'm going to curl up into a dark corner and play Vivrant Thing, Wait Up and Breathe And Stop on a permanent loop. Join me, won't you?

Grits Are To Potatoes As My Arm Is To Your Ass

Let's get one thing perfectly clear: I do not like the taste of hot grits. I do, however, like the song Hot Grits by Elijah & The Ebonites (from Eccentric Soul: The Capsoul Label). And another thing: I do, indeed, like potatoes. I also like the song Mo' Taters by The Earthworms (from Las Vegas Grind, Volume 2). One more thing: I do not want to see any of you doing that "Good To Go" crooked arm gesture from those annoying Taco Bell commercials. Let's not let this non-trend get any further than the TV screen, okay? If I find any of you speaking or acting out this phrase, you'll have to pry my crooked arm gesture from your ass.

FORGOTTEN FAVORITES RECENTLY HEARD ON MY iPOD
[DURING WHICH I PEED MY PANTS WITH EXCITEMENT]

I Feel Like The Mother Of The World by Smog (buy)

36" High by Nick Lowe (buy)

La Valse Du Bambocheur by The Balfa Freres (buy)

Get Your Girl In The Mood Quicker by King Tee/Ice Cube (buy)

Teenage Head by The Flamin' Groovies (buy)

Subsequence by Mouse On Mars (buy)

Besaha by The Devil's Anvil (buy)

Countdown To Revolution! by The New Creation (buy)

Grepet Om Kniven by Khold (buy)

Yeti by Caribou (buy)

The Liquid Lovin' Spoonful

Back in the '80's, I used to loathe all those goths who dressed in nothing but black, listened to nothing but death-synth and inhaled clove cigarettes. Everytime I saw one on the street, I wanted to punch their lights out. But now? I find them cute and cuddly. You might even say, like my man Steven Spielberg says, I'd like to lay some liquid love on them. The always-reliable crate-digging of Post Punk Junk has uncovered a warm-'n'-chewy mope fest on-line and he's postin' it like there's no tomorrow--because to a lot of those goth kids, there isn't. To quote the Spielberg-ster once more, I hope you're putting all that liquid love into a bottle. Put that bottle somewhere where your kids can't get at it. And every once in a while, take the cork off and smell how sweet it was.

Death To The Death Pixies

What can you say about an electro-schlock duo from Sweden who call themselves The Bondage Fairies? A band who writes about consuming a platter of penis (Fingus Cooked My Cock)? Who, on tracks such as Pink-Eye Paranoia, sound like a more death-obsessed Pixies than The Pixies? Who frame their aspirations for masculinity (and lack thereof) within an Atari video game soundtrack (He-Man)? What can you say about a band like that? No, no, I'm asking you. I don't have the answer any more than you do. Think over your answer while you pre-order their debut cd (the amusingly-titled What You Didn't Know When You Hired Me) at AB-CD.com.

The Joy Of Discovery

The main hook for most lovers of World Standard seems to be the puzzling satisfaction upon hearing a Japanese artist (Harumoni Hosono, co-founder of 80's synth stylists Yello Magic Orchestra) attempting to replicate the sound of early American folk idioms. To these ears, all the satisfaction lies in how beautifully they capture the feeling of a soundtrack to a movie not yet made. Considering the enduring popularity of the bands to whom they are often compared--Tom Waits, John Fahey, Holy Modal Rounders, Calexico--you'd think tracks such as Crazy Crazy Crazy, South American Folk Song, Columbia, To A Wild Rose and Coomyah (all taken from Jump For Joy-Discover America Series Vol. 3) would be, well, world standards. While this long-running project has many albums out, most of them are only available in Japan--what little I've been able to track down was found at Forced Exposure.

Sounds Of Terror

Newborn blog, freshly ripped screaming from the placenta, begins massive postings offering download after download of hokey Halloween vinyl (and the occasional Pink Panther Punk), while the rest of the blogging globe shakes its head in wonder and asks, "When does he get some shut eye?" The obvious answer is: Zombies never sleep...

Add One Cup Instability, Mix Well With Tone-Deaf Vocals

There are three main components which go into creating the perfect pop song, and Vile Vile Grass (by The Red Krayola) has them all: 1. Hesitant, unstable guitar work; 2. Rushed, off-key singing; 3. Paranoid ramblings overly concerned with Tarzan which then spiral into a nervous breakdown. This is one of the few accessible tracks on 1999's otherwise "difficult" Fingerpainting (and by "difficult", I actually mean jarringly brilliant). You can find it at Drag City.

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.

A Cast Of 79

Here is what I did in my 20's: played with a lot of mostly shitty local bands, few of which are worth talking about. Here is what Cast King did in his 20's: he recorded for Sam Phillips of Sun Records. Here is what I expect to do when I'm 79 years old: die. Here is what Cast King did when he turned 79 years old: he released his debut album, Saw Mill Man. This short but potent CD contains a mere 12 songs--Faded Rose, Wino and Numb are but three--of the reportedly 500 songs King has written during his lifetime. Considering how long it's taken him to get from point A to point B, here's hoping he records the next 12 songs as soon as possible. Buy this cool little obscurity at Locust Music. [Update: Sadly, Cast King has passed away since this was first posted.]

You Shoulda Woulda Coulda Been A Contender

You decide to vacation in Thailand, and for some distant reason, you decide to start fights with everyone you meet. This was a mistake on your part and your broken nose and fractured ribs are the proof. This is a country that produces boxing anthems punctuated by the sounds of your opponent elbowing you to death (Thai Boxing) and spoken funk-ballads glorifying the feats of Muhammad Ali (The Black Super Man). This raging bull of a country will kick your ass till next Tuesday, fool. Next time, buy yourself Volume 3 of Thai Beat A Go-Go at Amazon before you call your travel agent.

The Kids, Whose Attention Span Has Apparently Increased And Are Now Seeking More Classically-Informed Rock Music, Are Alright

The kids in the street are chanting their demands, and they want Prog. If Prog was a meat, the kids would be blood-thirsty, ravenous wolves ripping and snarling their way through a freshly-killed meal. To stretch this metaphor further, Delay 68 Records (which has just released Prog Is Not A Four Letter Word, a nifty comp of international math rockers) is the lone zoo-keeper poking raw flesh on sticks through the feed door of each cage. Although the album's definition of Prog is rather loose (Powiedzielismy Juz Wszystko by Breakout sounds more like Queen than King Crimson), there are many gems to unearth, such as Lambaya Puf De by Baris Manco, which almost has a smooth Punjabi funk thang going on, and if you put your ear to the boogie rock cowbell of Nem Erdekel Amit Mondsz by Illes you can almost hear the roar of topographic oceans. If those aren't reason enough to buy this fine compilation, perhaps you'll be motivated by wanting to own what is quite possibly the year's most untasteful cover art.  This album is ugly on the outside and ugly on the inside.

Bombast For The Bored

Now that concept albums are once again in vogue (thanks to you, Billy, Bixler and Stevie), the time is right for the grand reissue of two wonderfully bombastic out-of-print collector's holy grails that are a kind of Thick As A Brick for the post-Weezer set: L'Enfant Assassin Des Mouches by the French composer (and arranger for Serge Gainsbourg) Jean-Claude Vannier and Le Monde Fabuleux Des Yamasuki, by the French/Japanese micro-orchestra Yamasuki. Both albums are reissued by the crate-digging maniacs at Finders Keepers Records, and both will make your hair stand on end. If you are losing your hair, they'll make it grow back. Le Roi Des Mouches Et La Confiture and Mort Du Roi Des Mouches (Vannier) contain enough romantic strings, sexy sitar stylings and heavy metal crunch to make you flip what's left of your wig. Meanwhile Seyu Sayonara and Yama Yama (Yamasuki) is akin to hearing Pacific Overtures remixed by DJ Doom. Buy both CD's for maximum bugging out. You have nothing left to lose but your mind.

Glitter, Thy Name Is Disco:Very

Unlike the rest of you, I have a glamorous, high-profile job of note. You heard me: I HAVE A GLAMOROUS HIGH-PROFILE JOB OF NOTE! As such, pressing and important life-changing projects can pop into my "In Basket" at a moment's notice, and these exhausting yet necessary intrusions can throw my blogging schedule into utter turmoil. Why have I not been updating with any regularity? My glamorous, high-profile job is the very reason I have not been updating with any regularity. If there is one thing Mariah Carey and I have in common, it is that we both have to sweep away some of the glitter which rains down on us and our far-reaching careers on an almost hourly basis. While I'm busy cleaning up, I give you this link to some crazy-ass French dude named Chocoreve who is offering downloadable files (password: posted_first_at_chocoreve) to almost 100 different psychedelic rock, garage rock and Krautrock album masterpieces (such as Blues Scene, shown above). Sadly, they are all RapidShare files, but seeing how you little people--living in poverty and squaler--are used to daily disappointment, I'm sure you'll get over it. Eventually. [Update: Chocoreve seems to have died, leaving his website in permanent limbo.]

Copper, Cattle, Citrus, Commerce, Climate

Since it will probably be another year until we see a follow-up to Illinois, and probably two more years until he tackles the next American state, bloggers seem to be placating themselves with live recordings to wait out the delay for the next sprawling set from Sufjan Stevens. It is unto this fray in which I heartily jump: here is Mr. Stevens and his squad running their paces at Lee's Palace in Toronto, on November 16th, 2004. You can download it here as a 71.2MB jesus-fucking-christ-this-is-going-to-take-forever! mp3 download, or you can click here for an .sitx file (which, presumably, will download faster). If Sufjan happens to be reading this musical offering and intends to sue my ass to Kingdom Come, I'd like to strike a little bargain: you cancel the lawsuit and I'll teach you the little A-R-I-Z-O-N-A Is My State diddy drilled into my preschool-era brain by the Phoenix Union School District way back when. Feel free to use it on the eventual Arizona album in the year 2037. Sadly, the lyrics do not mention any of what we used to call The Five C's.

Comics: When I read cat comic Garfield, life seems chaotic and unstable. Now, with the creation of the Random Garfield Generator, all is right with the universe.

Blogs: Is Worker #3116 the funniest man in the world or just a raging bitter asshole who can make you laugh to the point of dry heaving? The answer is yes.

Commercials: Blixa Bargeld, lead shouter/singer of the industrial rock outfit Einstürzende Neubauten, pitching for Hornbach, Germany's home improvement megastore (here, here, here and here).

Fun: Prepare to waste your entire day--nay, the rest of your life--with Let Them Sing It For You, micro-sampling at its most extreme.

Web: Tiny hamsters sleeping, adorable puppies in a cup, cuddly kittens stretching after a nap: If the awwww-factor were a drug, Cuteness Overload would be the head of a murderous worldwide cartel.

Vlogs: A kind-of video All Things Considered without the quaint affectations, but funny (and entertaining): RocketBoom

Vinyl: Quite possibly the world's largest collection of Halloween records, lovingly scanned and catalogued for our amusement. Now all we need are the audio files...

Music: Someone was bound to do it, I'm just glad it was the AV Onion.

Video: On the Egg Obsessive Meter, I fall somewhere below Edith Massey and these people. Synchronized group excercise in a giant omelette pan has never looked so good.

mp3's: Now that my business has prospered, I am suddenly filled with the urge to visit my parents.

You Are Oriental And We Are Oriental, Too

Don't even begin to tell me Neo-New Wave is on a rapid decline due to the slowly-rising popularity of Neo-Prog. I am so still into The Plastics from way back in the day, that my Neo-Post-Neo-New-Wave revivalism is half a decade ahead of itself. In other words, much like the hick trucker I spotted back in 1988 whose 1969-era muttonchop sideburns predated their full-on faddish return in 1993, my unwavering love affair with Dance In The Metal and Back To Wigtown (both from Origato Plastico) makes me five years ahead of my time. Unless you live in Japan, the closest you can get to the album are those rare occasions when CD Universe has it in stock.

Petey, Can You Hear Me?

Pete Townsend of Mod rock combo The Who has lived long enough (and rocked long enough) to proudly earn the title, Elder Statesman of The Rock Aristocracy. Personally, I've always fondly thought of him as The Doddering Pain-In-The-Ass Grandfather-Figure Who Dominates The Topic Of Conversation at Family Reunions By Cornering His Relatives With Stern Lectures On How We're Ruining Our Lives And How We Should Heed His Advice Or Else We'll End Up Like Him. Give Grandpa a polite and reverent pat on the head, you children of rock and roll, set aside that noisy Slayer cd and replace it with Apollo: Atmospheres & Soundtracks by ambient wunderkind Brian Eno, jumping ahead to track 5 (An Ending (Ascent)) and keeping the volume extra quiet so as not to jolt granddad's teeth past his gums and into our heaping plate of fruit compote. Here's $15, children, run along and buy a copy of this cd at Amazon.

Me Love You Long Time

Call me a whore, if you will, pimping my wares all over the web like so many tarted-up, rosey-cheeked come-ons directed toward your ears, waving you down as your Firebird turns onto my street. We can role play that hooker scene from Full Metal Jacket, if that's your kink. But no, really, I just want to give you something, free of charge: send me an e-mail with your name (fake is fine), address and zip, and I will personally send you a list (audio style) of my favorite songs discovered in 2005. Sure, everyone else in the blogosphere is playing it old school, merely writing up their year-end faves. Me? I sit in your lap while you're driving and sing it lovingly into your ears. Figuratively speaking.

The fine print: Once you have received this free gift, your (real or fake) name and e-mail/home address will be thrown away and you will not be mailed anything by me ever again forever and ever, amen (for next year's list, we start at square one). I will not send you spam asking if you'd like firmer breasts or a larger penis (my assumption is that you are already endowed with both--feel free to prove me wrong). Delivery time can be anywhere between 5 days and 6 weeks, depending on where you reside. This offer is good until I damn well feel like rescinding it. Disco:Very loves you, and loves to "put out" for you. You may know the music on my list or you may not, but whatever you feel, at last you know you can listen to artists who are real. Disco:Very will not change its year-end list style to meet the whims of a frustrated world. You should appreciate this because you know Disco:Very is pure what more can you ask?

The Colon Makes Me Laugh

Please note the new address for this blog: www.discocolonvery.net. Also, I've slightly tweaked the site and, in additon, I have boldly removed my personal profile to establish a more dramatic yet hushed air of mystery. From now on, you will wonder from afar who I am and what makes me tick. You'll desperately want to be my friend, but I'll keep a wide emotional distance, allowing you into my vulnerable little heart only when I feel you are able to grasp the many complex layers of The Onion I Call My Soul. Also, the stink of my soul will make you cry, and it's delicious in soups.

Putting the 'Total' Back Into 'Totalitarianism'

Personally, I don't see what the big deal is. If state-sponsored censorship means an end to tepid classic rock and easy listening hits, fetch my passport, dawg, 'cuz I'm moving my cribs to Iran! Clearly, the head honcho of America's next refinery takeover is merely trying to ban his fellow citizens from listening to bad music. He isn't abolishing, say, He's Your Man by The Oblivions, so what's the harm? If anything, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is probably just pissed that lame-ass folkie Cat Stevens is fighting for his side. Purchase Popular Favorites at Mordam Records.

Dig Dat Crazy Boogie-Woogie Christmas, Daddy-O

No matter where I am any time of the year, complete strangers constantly come up to me on the street and shreik, "Hey Peecat, what are your thoughts on holiday music?" By and large, I hate all of it, especially the traditional stuff, but especially the stuff by contemporary artists trying to write a new holiday classic, like when Brian Setzer (inbetween fetishistically jerking-off with his guitars), reconfigures a by-the-numbers rockabilly tune, replacing the word "baby" with "Santa". Or when he performs a trad-dad number and peppers it with pseudo Swingers lounge-speak. I'm here to tell you there are only three Xmas records worth owning: the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas, the astonishingly-great A Christmas Gift for You from Phil Spector and Christmas Album by Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass. And in the case of the latter, the only track I ever play from it is Las Mananitas, which has little to do with Chirstmas being that it's a traditional Mexican birthday song. Upon the rare chance I feel like hearing a modern take on a holiday tune, I pull out the third Red Red Meat album Bunny Gets Paid and cue up their version of There's Always Tomorrow (originally from the animated TV special Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer). As I've mentioned before, they have a bizarre way of somehow saddening any song they touch. If you don't become a weepy, pouting alcoholic after hearing this track, you must already be one.

Sin, Wash, Repeat

Everyone knows that for surefire laughs, replacing "fucking" for the middle name of someone you hate is instant hilarity. George Fucking Bush, Donald Fucking Rumsfeld, Pope Fucking Nazi-Youth Jew-Hater Whatever His Name Is, etc. This helps explain why we should all hate Sting, Moby, Madonna, Cher and Beck: their one-name moniker prevents us from doing this (plus Beck if a fucking Scientologist, so we should hate him regardless of what name he goes by). And speaking of lousy religions, on this most holiest of holy days--the birth of Jesus Fucking Christ--it seems appropriate to post a track or two by The Knights Of The New Crusade, who hope to wash away your indie-rock sins with the beer-swilling, whoop-hollering guitar-punch attitude of garage punk. Ain't No Monkeys In My Family Tree might just be one of the best anti-Evolutionary Theory punk songs ever written, while You Got To Move is as inspiring and uplifting as any fiery sermon preached by Billy Fucking Graham. You can buy My God Is Alive! Sorry About Yours! at Midheaven.

A Different Kind Of Tension

Yes, yes, it's all very special that Killing Joke influenced everyone from Nine Inch Nails to Nirvana by grafting incisive agresso-punk sloganeering onto high-energy tribal rhythms and liberating the indie rock legion towards a new world of movement and sound, bla bla bla. Who cares? I JUST WANT TO HEAR THOSE FUCKING DRUMS! Tension-- taken from the newly-reissued (with bonus tracks) What's This For?--rocks my world but they get extra points for continuing to use that creepy clown figure on most of their album covers. Buy it at Amazon.

White Grlz On Dope

Yes, yes, it's all very special that Lesbians On Ecstasy are recontextualizing folkie feminist anthems by KD Lang, Melissa Etheridge and the Indigo Girls, grafting them onto hi-NRG dance rhythms and liberating our Saphhic Sisters into an empowering Womyn's womb of movement and sound, bla bla bla. Who cares? I JUST WANT TO HEAR THOSE FUCKING GUITARS! Parachute Clubbing rocks my (it's-a-man's) world but they get extra points for covering the (possibly non-lesbian, to the best of my knowledge) Fat Truckers (retitling their hit Super Bike into the more appropriate, and more hilarious, Superdyke). Fight the hetero-centric patriarchy at Alien 8 Records.

To All The Grlz I've Loved Before

The provacative sex-kitten schtick of Bow Wow Wow never much moved me. I altogether ignored the fad of C-30 C-60 C-90 Go! when it first came out in the late 70's. Now that I'm finally hearing it anew on Grlz, I'm hanging my head in shame--why didn't anyone warn me how great it was??  Although this compilation is sorely missing other female-fronted acts such as The Au Pairs, The Flying Lizards and Liliput, this one track has made it worth owning. Buy it at Crippled Dick Hot Wax.

Billy Fucking Joel: The Everyman

As a wise old friend once put it, Mick Collins of The Dirtbombs is a national treasure. I begin with this statement because, this morning, I turned the TV on for some noise to jump-start me towards arriving to work on time (which didn't happen--I was 30 minutes late!) and who should be on The Today Show but Billy Fucking Joel. The image of him plinking through his usual cutie-pie Everyman routine, coupled with what I can only describe as that sound has forced me to cleanse my palette with something containing a little bit of fuck you-ness: hence, Candy Ass, taken from the Australian-only EP Chariots Of The Gods? Buy it (or not) from Shock.com.

Sliced, Diced, Covered and Smothered

Just when you think a DJ couldn't possibly further the art of slicing and dicing a James Brown sample these days, along comes Nova Danca (Melo Do James Brown), by Malha Funk, taken from the new non-stop-dripping-with-grooves Latin American club comp Coconut FM, compiled by German performer/prankster Señor Coconut. If that track is a little too old school for your ass, wrap your brain around the crazy cumbia of La Cebolla by Dick El Demasiado, whose backing arrangement seems to have been sampled from one of my recent acid flashbacks. I think I like their cover better than my original version. Get the party started and order this cd from Sterns Music.

Rainy Days and Red Red Meat Always Get Me Down

Depression is a rarity for me (my life is pretty flippin' great). Probably a handful of sad movies (Nobody Knows, Tokyo Story, A Thousand Clouds Of Peace, Faces, You Can Count On Me, Before Night Falls, The Day I Became A Woman) and sad songs are the two motivators that get my eyes all misty-like. Some of the saddest songs ever written are by the no-longer-with-us Red Red Meat. How sad was this band, you might ask? So much so that they even sounded sad when they covered someone else's song (in this case, Polara's Listening Now). Cheer up and buy this 7-inch split single (Polara covers Red Red Meat on the flip) from Perishable Records.

Rebel Without A Camera

I'm all about breaking the law: J-walking, using the office photocopier for personal purposes, going 45 in a 35-speed-limit zone, and posting tracks found at NPR: grab this recording of The Magnetic Fields performing live at Carnegie's Zankel Hall on November 18th, 2004 before The Man throws me in the slammer. I haven't been this excited about a musically-related crime since I saw Calvin Johnson in nothing but his boxers at the downtown YMCA last week (and me without a camera).

I Vant To Be Alone (Swabbed In Dark Fabrics, Stage Right)

Did anyone else see Patti Smith on Conan O'Brian last night? She and her band (shown above, minus Flea) performed an oddly slowed-down Redondo Beach (sorry, I don't have an mp3 from that performance to offer you, only the studio recording from Horses). Much stranger than the tempo change, however, was seeing guitar guru Tom Verlaine hiding out on the left side of the screen, playing his trademark flight-of-fancy leads and fills almost completely out of the spotlight (all Robert Fripp style) and wearing various head gear (hat with mufflers, black scarf) to hide his identity (Greta Garbo called, she wants her affectation back). Why on earth Verlaine would feel the need to hide his visage from the Conan crowd has me mystified--has he suddenly leapt to the level of superstardom of Michael Jackson when I turned my back? You can buy the 30th anniversary edition of Horses from pretty much all the major vendors.

Serving Up Some Khold Cock

Damn you, Aquarius Records--you've gone and got me hooked on Black Metal. It's bad enough I find myself listening to the total-joke-band-even-if-they-claim-they-aren't-a-total-joke-band joke band Goblin Cock (Stumped sounds more Queens Of The Stone Age than it does King Diamond), but to make matters worse, Innestengt I Eikekiste by Norwegian death rockers Khold has been rocking my iPod for two days non-stop. AQ calls them the Nirvana of Black Metal, whereas I see them more as The Beatles (if they sang catchy pop tunes after smoking a dozen boxes of unfiltered cigarettes), My Bloody Valentine (for the multi-channeled, layered guitars) and early REM for the nonsense lyrics I come up with when I try to sing along:

"In the state behind your sister
You wrote a letter, signed it 'Mister'
Sounds alike, you're a water
Mr. Merchant, forced your daughter
(Chorus) I'm mixing teabags
I pissed on Doo Rag
Short decline
Some strap a He-Rag..."


Please be aware that I know you have some inclination as to the definition of a "He-Rag".

Consumption: Microbes made cuddly.

Film: Finally, a way for me to actually be entertained by Star Wars.

Web: A fascinating analysis of The Amen Break.

TV: Yet another in a long list of reasons to hate Lisa Loeb.

Ads: Former It-Boy Fatboy Slim makes a pathetic attempt to claw his way back into the spotlight, with the help of the musically-clueless Nordstrom (which figures) and Olivier Gondry (who should know better).

Technology: All I can say is, what took them so long?

Blogs: Don't. Mess. With. Lee Hartsfeld, the most knowledgeable music lover on the planet; The temporary technical difficulties of Out Of 5 appear to be over. No, wait--they're back again; Who the hell is Post-Punk Junk and where did he get such good taste? Every track is just begging to be downloaded.