It Takes a Nation of Zulus To Raise a Zulu Nation

Suffering from what I considered an infestation of zits in my youth, I was once informed that toothpaste, applied liberally to each blemish, would erase them quickly. During an application one morning, I was distracted by something or other and forgot to wash the gooey cream from my face, arriving at work with white spots all over my forehead and chin, garnering odd looks from fellow employees too polite to point out my gaffe. Isn't this the same flustered feeling one gets when No Smoke Records (who can't be bothered to create a website) once again informs us, to our disbelief, that Africa was once a hotbed of '60's garage rave-ups? Zulu Stomp: South Africa Garage Beats contains more great tunes than you can shake a rungu at. From Get Your Baggies On (by Bats) to I've Got News For You (by the oddly-monikered 004's), you'll find yourself standing slack-jawed at the wealth of garage-y goodness dripping from every groove. Personally, I find myself returning again and again to Freedom's Children's take on the overplayed Stones classic Satisfaction--with a breathless rhythm so primal, so urgent, I could almost swear it was The Monks taking a turn at this haggard horse. The entire comp rolls along at a clipped pace. It's as potent as a shot glass of Proactiv acne treatment served on the rocks. Or at least a similar pimple-themed punchline which hasn't occurred to me yet.

Disco:Very Does Dallas. No, Wait: San Francisco [Part 3]

The Long List of Artists Whose Music I Was Searching for at Amoeba Music on Haight Street, Thus Annoying the Counter Clerk Because the List Was So Fucking Long, But Also Annoying Me Because None of Their Albums Were in the Racks:

The Black Jaspers

Crookers

Kevin Dunn

Filmzenek Tarr Bela

Gay for Johnny Depp

Andrew Graham

High All the Time (Various Artists)

Hunx & His Punx

Mazing Vids

Moderne

Pretty & Nice

Reading Rainbow

Sonny & the Sunsets

Charanjit Singh

UV Race

White Fence

The Second Part of the Long List of Artists Whose Music I Was Searching for at Amoeba Music on Haight Street, Thus Annoying the Counter Clerk Because It Dawned On Her at Some Point That I Was Making Them All Up:

I Run, I Jump, I Skip, I Fall Down: Hello!

Click Your Heels, Scream "I'm Anglo!"

Almost There, Almost There--Oops! Wrong Turn

They're Dancing In Unison and I'm Drowning Beside Them

You Ate What???

Everybody Bends at the Knee

Reach Up! Reach Up! Give it Here!

Ow! I Stubbed My Toe! Ow!

My Womb Held Aloft

Him and Her and Me and Them and Us and He and She

Let's Look at the Sun and Go Blind (Now We Are Blind)

Invisible Sheets of Yesterday and Forever

Aching, Waiting, Hoping, Spinning, Spinning, Spinning

Plausorchiadidian

Sounds Like Ass

Disco:Very Does Dallas. No, Wait: San Francisco [Part 2]

Stalking Benjamin Bratt in the Haight Street Amoeba Music: A One-Act Play

Cast:
Benjamin Bratt as Himself
Disco:Very as Himself

Curtain rises on a busy day at Amoeba Music on Haight Street. Disco:Very, dressed in the youthful fashions of today, is in the "B" section of the CD racks, mystified as to why the goddamned store doesn't have any music by The Black Jaspers. At that very moment, Benjamin Bratt, star of both TV and talking pictures, enters the store, eventually inching his tall lithe frame down the aisle across from where Disco:Very is shopping.

Noboby has yet noticed Benjamin Bratt except Disco:Very--similar to the same way nobody but Disco:Very spied Michael Moore walking towards his gate at the Chicago Airport some years ago, and how could they miss him because that guy's as big as a trash barge? Does Disco:Very possess a sixth sense of some kind? An ESP which alerts him to the proximity of actors, musicians and entertainment personalities? Perhaps, upon Disco:Very's eventual demise, scientists ought to slice Disco:Very's brain into thin tissues so as to study and learn from what are surely remarkable and perhaps even revolutionary cerebral impulses.

Benjamin Bratt is dancing the dance upon which all celebrities embark: hoping to not be noticed while hoping to be noticed; pretending to be an Average Joe out on a shopping excursion while fully expecting that his many fans will gather around him, gawking and gushing about his filmic achievements. Because Disco:Very sniffs his nose at the types of films and TV series in which Mr. Bratt would appear, no praise will be forthcoming from the lofty blogger. Instead, he merely follows Mr. Bratt at a safe yet inquisitive distance.

What music will Benjamin Bratt be buying, in this enormous shop containing millions of CD's, records and tapes? The possibilities are as endless as one's tastes. Will Bratt pursue the extensive International section, concerning himself in particular with Native American recordings, thus showing an interest in his own proud ethnic heritage? Or will he instead skirt along the edge of the jazz aisle, purchasing a Verve reissue of musical renown? Perhaps Bratt will indulge in some extreme noise recordings and surprise us all by brandishing a recording of Sunn O))), or perhaps he's into the experimental creations of mathematically-inclined composer Iannis Xenakis?

No, Benjamin Bratt stays in the vicinity of the rock and pop aisle, picking through the racks labeled Fleetwood Mac.

Disco:Very, seeing this, shoots himself in the head.

[Curtain]

Disco:Very Does Dallas. No, Wait: San Francisco [Part 1]

Terrible Songs Heard While Shopping at the 9th Street Trader Joe's in San Francisco and the Type of Customers & Employees Who Respond To Each Song:

Song: Island Girl by Elton John
Reactions: Young bearded employee in ball-crushing tight jeans dances in snack aisle, bobs head side-to-side while singing along; Yoga-addicted Earth Mama sings along while reading ingredients on organic trail mix bag, exhibits no ethical or ironic qualms while singing the words "Tell me what you wanting with the white man's world".

Song: You Are the Woman by Firefall
Reactions: Middle-aged female customer in layers of Tibeten shawls sings along as if romantically involved with the protagonist of the song; elderly-yet-hip employee gawks as she skips past him in the dairy aisle.

Song: Dance With Me by Orleans
Reactions: Disco:Very, while purchasing Tamari-roasted almonds, shoots self in the head.

A-R-I-Z-O-N-A Is My State, Arizona Let Me Say I Think You're Great!

Now that Arizona has successfully banned Hispanics from rudely assuming they, too, can breathe the White Man's oxygen, I--a proud native Arizonan--now feel safer to enjoy patronizing our abundance of Mexican food restaurants without having to actually be around all those Mexicans. And on that same topic, a stern word of caution to underground lofi-funksters Javelin should they ignore the worldwide band boycott and choose to perform in The Grand Canyon State: I recommend only playing songs from your David Byrne-approved new album instead of certain tracks off your underground demos (since they contain what is almost certainly traces of what we Gringos call Spanish). As for the rest of you, stop stating our State government is at least as dumb as Georgia's. When it comes to The Championship of Passing Senseless Bills, everyone knows Arizona has them beat at this particular parlor game.

Making Up the Lyrics of Two Kate Nash Songs Based on Her Own Brief Descriptions in a Recent Article Within Spin Magazine

“I’m not on [Billy Bragg’s] level, but on my new album there are a couple of songs about serious issues: ‘I’ve Got a Secret’ is about homophobia; and on ‘Early Christmas Present’, I’m talking about cheating on someone and leaving them with an STD.” --Kate Nash, Singer/Songwriter, quoted in Spin Magazine, June 2010

I’VE GOT A SECRET
I've got a secret
I’m keeping deep inside
In my black little heart it does reside
I don’t like seeing guys kissing on guys
Or watching women eat each other’s pies

[Chorus]
I’ve got a secret, but it’s a secret no more
Being open-minded is such a chore
I’m a homophobe
Yes, I’m a homophobe
Watching ‘Glee’ is such a bore

Rainbow flags really piss me off
And no male doctor will make me turn my head and cough
I don’t want a man to be touching me down there
And I don’t think women should ever have short hair

[Repeat Chrous]


EARLY CHRISTMAS PRESENT

What’s inside this box?
Unwrap it and see
It will make you smile
It will hurt when you pee

[Chorus]
Even though it’s only April
I’m giving you your Christmas haul
It’s a warm dose of Chlamydia
And it's one-size-fits-all

It took so long to pick out
Because you’re hard to buy for
But an STD is the perfect gift
To come from a cheating whore

Christmas time is magical
It's a time for living large
But even the Baby Jesus
Would be grossed out
By your penis discharge

[Repeat Chorus, Ad infinitum]

NPR Puts the 'Pubic' Back in 'Public'

This morning, while setting up a tent enabling me a place in line to catch Sex & The City 2: Revenge of the Sith, I looked myself in the eye and said, "Disco, nothing is as it appears if even NPR sees fit to stream the forthcoming Sleigh Bells album in its entirety". Gone are the days when the denizens of public radio are subjected to the low-energy yawn-inducing AOR stylings of albums by The Chieftans or Norah Jones. No, NPR has decided that, from now on, they want blood red blood to drip from their listener's ear canals, damaging them for life. I, for one, hail this bold decisive move and look forward to the day they'll stream output from the likes of Ty Segall, Billy Bao and Brainbombs. Sure, listening to Treats confirms what we already knew: the best songs this band has written were already revealed in last year's widely-distributed demos (except for newbie tune Kids, which fuckin' rules), but if this is the type of stuff NPR is going to post on a regular basis, I say we get behind them and push for more. I mean, what else are going to do until May 27th?

Elliott Smith Fans Declare Jihad Against Fans of Pink Floyd. I Smell a Sitcom!

A fading street mural which happened to be randomly photographed for the cover of mopey suicide-y singer/songwriter Elliott Smith's hilariously overrated 2000 album Figure 8 was "tagged" earlier this week by low-wage lackees hired by 84-year-old Pink Floyd kingpin Roger Waters to virally promote yet another tour of the flogged-dead-horse mainstay The Wall.

The viral marketing utilized by Waters and his publicists involves high-profile/big-budget underground guerilla-styled postings promoting the upcoming tour through the use of crudely prited stickers, scripted in an excessively ornate, barely decipherable typeface.

Although the marketing campaign is being seen throughout the greater Los Angeles area, when it left its mark on the hallowed ground that is this anonymous mural on Sunset Boulevard, fans of Smith's work were outraged. "Elliott Smith literally painted this mural literally with his own blood!", screamed Smith follower Glewanda Furklemier. "You can see his tortured soul in each random curve and swirl. Why doesn't Barack Obama do something about this instead of wasting time on that silly oil spill?"

When it was pointed out to Ms. Furklemier that Mr. Smith did not, in fact, actually paint the mural, and that, instead, the photographer hired by his record company merely posed Smith against already-existing street art, Ms. Furklemier replied, "It doesn't matter who painted it. Pink Floyd is going to pay for this, mark my words. There will be a bloodbath of epic proportions, and we will choke the rivers with their dead!"

Ironically, the success of both Pink Floyd and Elliott Smith have relied almost exclusively on compositions involving depressed whining about emotional isolation, but this irony has been lost amid the uproar.

Asked to comment by phone, Roger Water's response--given while counting huge wads of cash--was, "Elliott who?"

Play This at My Funeral (It Should Come On After Khia's "My Neck, My Back" But Not Before "Wind Beneath My Wings".

The strange little web doo-hickie Codeorgan allows your favorite website to be played as a nifty little ditty, using (as the website puts it) "a complex algorithm to define the key, synth style and drum pattern most appropriate to the page content." Is it any surprise that my Blogspot domain (http://discovery2005.blogspot.com/) translates into a dull monotonous dirge of minor keys played to a lackluster, unimaginative shuffle, devoid of passion and grace?

I wish I was dead.

[Update: the Codeorgan website seems to have vanished. Also, I am still very much alive.]

No posts for a short while as I will be in Los Angeles for the next 5 days. Let me know if you want me to buy you anything at Amoeba Music. Please note: I will not really be buying you anything at Amoeba Music.

Chank You For Talkin' to Me Africa (But I'll Be Damned If You Expect Me to Pick Up the Cost of Those Long Distance Charges)

The cheerfully sloppy Los Angeles quartet Wounded Lion kick up a shambling mix of Modern Lovers screech-pop on their forthcoming self-titled LP while furnishing the listener with a heaping plate of oddball topics on tracks such as Crünchy Stars and Hungry? When they express their obsessive torment concerning someone named Omar and his style of walking, I ask myself, "Could they be speaking about Egyptian film and music icon Omar Khorshid and the extensive 2-LP career sampler about to be released on Sublime Frequencies? Are they attempting to associate themselves with his mystical six-string noodling and exotic/hypnotic compositions?" Sometimes you ask the Universe for answers and it replies by pooping on your head.

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On (Literally?) (Yes. Literally.)

Although I live thousands of miles from the epicenter, the recent earthquake in Baja California supposedly sent slight ripples throughout the state in which Disco:Very Global Industries currently squats resides. At the time it struck, I happened to be watching this video, played at maximum volume through professional-grade headphones. Any shaking I experienced I probably notched up to the awesome ground-splitting aural assault of My Bloody Valentine. In related news: fuck you, Mother Nature.

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

Q: Are You Ready for the Insects? A: This is a Trick Question, Apparently

If you're obsessed enough to buy the Are You Ready for Insects CD EP [bottom, left] by Brooklyn brat-punk duo Mazing Vids due to the assumption the awesome title track would be contained within, you should probably think twice and instead put your money towards the vinyl-only EP Drastic Mirth [top, left], which is actually where this jaw-droppingly-great track resides. Oh, sure, the Are You Ready for Insects CD EP has some spazzed-out wonders of its own, but it's just not the same, even if I can download "Insects", oddly enough, for free directly from the band's website. Welcome to Chumpville. Population: me.

Who'll Stop the Rain? Perhaps If We Plug the Clouds with All Those Fucking Tribute Albums on the Market, That Might Help

If you're hard-up enough to purchase John Fogerty: Wrote a Song for Everyone just to hear any number of are-they-still-alive? artists pay respects to the Creedence Clearwater Revival song-penner, you might think twice before purchasing it via iTunes, seeing how they inexplicably mis-label the best track: Fortunate Son, performed by Al Perry, recorded during his ill-advised but thankfully short-lived obsession with The Go-Go's. That's all. Class dismissed.

The Joanna Newsom Drinking Game

The newest masterpiece by Joanna Newsom is about to hit stores. As you bask in its unicorn-ey goodness, have some fun and take a drink whenever she uses the following bullshit-meter-breaking words or phrases:

Svetlana

A seagull weeps

Sage

I'm oozing surprise

Yoke

Chim-Choo-Ree

Ursala

Two-by-two (re-loo-re-loo)

Inflammatory writ

Seahorse

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

Gasplessly

I am big-boned and fey

Dragons

Exhume your pinecone

Every 3.6 Seconds, Someone Dies of Hunger--Help Disco:Very's Efforts to Feed the World!

In actuality, this posting is really an excuse to offer up Burn, Tuning Out and I Can Be a Jerk, all taken from Rush to Relax, the forthcoming CD by Eddy Current Suppression Ring. Each album comes with a free disposable rack of lamb.

Christian Rock Band Makes Music Video. Hilarity Ensues.

Gauging from the talent with which they've been blessed, their God must really hate them. Perhaps they're not praying hard enough?

My Vagina is a Precious Butterfly Taking Flight in a Hard-Won Quest for Freedom

Now that King Khan (of King Khan & the Shrines) and Jasper Hood (of the Moorat Fingers) have outright killed the other members of their respective bands in a violent coup, the two unrepentant murderers have decided to carry on together with their new scuzz pop band, The Black Jaspers. Their debut album covers everything from amphetamine-induced noise pop (Smart Car) to thrash/punk pop (I Want My Face on the Radio), to hyper-aggressive power pop (Leather Boy), all delivered in the most fuck-you nasal-inflected vocal to ever grace rock and roll. A follow-up LP will be recorded as soon as Khan and Hood have paid their debt to society.

I Don't Swim in Your Toilet, Please Don't Pee On My Blog

Now that Gaz Coombes and Danny Goffey have outright killed the other members of Supergrass in a violent coup, the two unrepentant murderers have decided to carry on alone with their new cover band, The Hot Rats. Their debut album holds forth on tracks by The Kinks (a faithful reading of The Big Sky), Squeeze (a somber Up the Junction), The Velvet Underground/Lou Reed (a spirited take on I Can't Stand It) and even the Beastie Boys (supplying [You Gotta] Fight for Your Right [to Party] with a Who-esque melody it doesn't actually possess). A follow-up LP will be recorded as soon as Coombes and Goffey have paid their debt to society.

The Baffling Music I Listened To In The Days Of My Sappy Youth (Before I Discovered Punk Rock and Everything Changed For The Better) (Part 4)

That slamming sound you hear is from the collective jaws of my readers hitting the ground after hearing me admit to once liking the oddball collection of studio outtakes Garden in the City from Earth-mama songstress Melanie. If you're unfamiliar with her work, she's the aural equivalent of a doe-eyed pastel-shaded Margaret Keane painting.

I was introduced to her granola-infested oeuvre through a friendship with my high school's Freshman rebel. He seemed to abide alone (the parents he professed to live with were always away on mysterious "camping trips"), he sometimes smoked cigarettes and frequently got sent home from school for refusing to wear shoes. His unexplainable affection for this LP of boho folkie musings should have given me pause, but his outsider status amongst our age group drew me towards it all the more--it seemed to me just one more intoxicating swirl of icing on the iconoclast cake.

At the time, my alarming ignorance of rock history strengthened the assumption that Don't You Wait By the Water was a vérité recording of purist backwoods blues and that Lay Lady Lay was a Melanie original (after finally hearing Dylan's "cover", its curious lack of flute freakout left me wanting). Listening to the painfully sincere title track as an adult causes my eyebrows to arch ever upwards: why the freaky pronunciation of the word country? How can you befriend a cloud? To paraphrase Carla Bley's reaction to The Shaggs: that song brings my mind to a complete halt.

Although Garden in the City was not a chart-topping mega-hit, Melanie would later find fame via her soft-porn pop hit Brand New Key, as well as renewed celebrity amongst indie hipsters after being recruited by Stephen Merritt as a vocal guest of The Sixths. Garden's closing track (People in the Front Row) cemented its place in the pop pantheon after being sampled by Australian rap act Hilltop Hoods.

My shame over once favoring this musical transgression has never wavered. As soon as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame installs confessionals, I'll be the first one in line chirping my Act of Contrition.

Disco:Very Translates a Very Bad (Overly Long) Press Release for Harper Simon

"Give a listen to Harper Simon’s shining solo debut and you’ll soon recognize that he is much more than just a shooting star."

[Translation: Harper's father is Paul Simon.]

"Harper Simon is the work of an exceptionally gifted singer-songwriter and guitarist who’s clearly discovered who he is and found his own way and as a recording artist in a time when the very concept of recording an album seems threatened."

[Translation: By focusing on the supposed demise of the album as an art form, which is a complaint one tends to hear from past-it no-longer-charting folk/pop singer-songwriters of the 1960's, it allows us the opportunity to subversively remind you that Harper's father is Paul Simon.]

“The long playing album is the great artistic medium invented in the second half of the 20th century,” says Simon. “The long playing album is not just ten songs thrown together randomly. It has an arc. It has a structure. It is the attempt to make ten songs that are all as good as each other, and fit together in a seamless whole. Long playing albums like Sgt Peppers, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Pet Sounds, Blonde On Blonde, Sticky Fingers -- these albums have helped define our culture. When I was making this record, I was very conscious of making a record that was an homage to the LP.”

[Translation: Why did we casually allude to "Bridge Over Troubled Water"? No reason. No reason at all.]

"Simon recorded his new album in Nashville, New York and Los Angeles with the help of an altogether impressive and decidedly eclectic and multi-generational group of musical collaborators, including famed producer Bob Johnston, an all-star group of veteran first-call Nashville session players, an impressive group of contemporary young singer-songwriters and friends, and yes, even Harper’s own father, the legendary Paul Simon."

[Translation: Have we mentioned that Harper's father is Paul Simon?]

"Making [this album] ended up being a journey in its own right. Simon started the long and searching recording process for Harper Simon in Nashville, cutting basic tracks with Johnston – who was behind the board for classic recordings from Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash and Leonard Cohen – backed by a Who’s Who of enduring session greats familiar from countless classics of the Sixties and Seventies...“I was also very honored and thrilled and moved beyond words to be able to work with some of the people whose work was featured on some of the best albums of all time,” explains Simon. “People who I had been listening to my whole life and whose names I knew only from liner notes and production credits. In search of a sound that satisfied him, Harper...gradually brought in other great players associated with other eras, including a whole new generation of wildly talented musical friends into the mix including Inara George, Petra Haden and Sean Lennon, ultimately mixing the results with Tom Rothrock, know for his work with artists like Beck and Elliot Smith, who all helped bring the shock of the new..."

[Translation: Nepotism fucking rules.]

“The people that came together to contribute to this album are a totally bizarre and wonderful collection of people that will never come together again,” Harper explains. “There are players that represent every era of Rock n Roll from the 50s, 60's, 70's... every decade up until now really. People like Bob Johnston and my Dad and the Nashville A Team, these people started making records in the 50's. Then they made some of the most groundbreaking records of the 60's. There are folks like Steve Gadd and Steve Nieve who played on great records in the seventies... Marc Ribot in the 80's... And many others from today like Inara George, Eleni Mandell, Sean Lennon and Adam Green to name just a few. I always wanted to blend these great session players from the 60's with my friends and contemporaries... that was always part of the concept. I think I may have gotten carried away, but it sure was fun.”

[Translation: Unlike Daddy's brief Graceland-era stint collaborating with Los Lobos, he actually let me keep the authorship of songs I wrote by myself.]

"In the end, it’s clear that there is real blood on these tracks, to borrow a phrase from another iconic songwriter who’s not Simon’s father, and let there be no doubt that blood is Harper Simon’s."

[Translation: We have no shame.]

"Finally, this is an album that reflects powerfully the long road to get to the point where Simon was ready to stake his musical claim...And so he has taken the time and care to make an album built to last. And this is only really the beginning."

[Translation: Although you'll be tempted to compare Harper's music to that of his father's, we can assure you that the only trait these two share are their receding hairlines.]

Whose Hilariously Pretentious Song Title?

Quizzes by Quibblo.com

Second to None (Except for Everyone In First Place)

The general public fires off a myriad of e-mail questions towards the Disco:Very offices once it learns of the year-end free CD offer. In an attempt to quell potential uproar, let's discuss some of these inquiries openly:

1. I just sent you my address--does this mean I can expect to be stalked?
    Only if you want me to. And even then, what's in it for me?

2. The new year began over a week ago--where is my CD already?
    Do I come down to your job and insist you cook my Big Mac faster?

3. I'm with the RIAA.  You're under arrest.
    That's not a question.

4.  What songs were left off the CD, and why?
     The reasons are as varied as the rejects themselves.  Here are a few:

• This track sounds too much like their other songs, only without the pathos.
• This one is even too disco for me.
• Another blogger already picked them as a year-end favorite, and I am a lone wolf.
• They used a flute on a previous song, therefore they must be penalized.
• My fans can only take so many songs in Portuguese in one sitting.
• Sorrowful expressions of ethnic cleansing through song is sooooo 2005.
• She lives six blocks away from me, and I do not pander to friends (again: lone wolf).
• Time constraint, pure and simple (also: ew, she's a widow).
• My fans can only take so many songs recorded on wax cylinder in one sitting.
• Just because it sounds like "Sister Ray" doesn't make it as good as "Sister Ray".
• This resembles Tom Petty a bit too much for comfort.
• When the fey receptionist at my gym doesn't even know this song, this singer's career is dead.

An Obvious Set-Up, Followed By Laughter You Will Be Powerless to Stop. Plus, Bono is a Putz.

For once, I am in complete agreement with Bono. All anyone need do is look at the way China has successfully curbed its citizens from enjoying freedom of information. If torturing is good enough for Americans to inflict on suspected Al Queda operatives, why not do the same for those who provide free music to the general public? I am so committed to this very notion that I have attached a taser machine to my testicles in a show of support. This expensive contraption is designed to activate any time I should dare to share music files with my adoring public.

On a lighter note, I've just discovered a new band named UV Race whose music has been non-stop on my headphones. Here are a few of my favorite tracks:

Gore Orphanage

[OH MY GOD!!! MY GONADS!! MY PRECIOUS DELICATE GONADS!!!]

All the Things I Do

[DEAR GOD, MAKE IT STOP!!! MAKE THE PAIN STOP!!!]

The UV Know

[HELP ME, BONO!! HELP ME WITH THE PAIN!!! MY BALLS ARE ON FIRE!!! CAN'T YOU WRITE A SONG OR A FUCKING OPERA ABOUT THE PAIN AND MAKE IT GO AWAY???]

Meet Me Under the Clocks

[AAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!! I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO SHARE QUALITY TIME WITH MY TESTICLES AGAIN!!!]

The Gift That Keeps On Giving. Forever.

It's that time of year where I offer all readers a free 2-CD set comprised of my favorite songs from the last year. Simply send a name (any name will do) and address to the e-mail address listed at the bottom of the right-hand column and you'll be sent a package in a week's time. Regular readers will also get--at no extra cost!--a tall glass of herpes. Don't delay!

A Feather of Down

Instead of resorting to the usual twee-indie visual of putting a fucking bird on their CD cover, the Bristol-based art-dub trio Beak went one better and simply named themselves after the most important part of the avian anatomy. Any band that mixes the hazy drone of Neu! and early Public Image, Ltd. is bound to make my goosebumps have their own goosebumps. Some of the songs on their self-titled debut are drastically sparse in their Metal Box-like focus (Ears Have Ears), while others pace themselves into a high-strung motorik gallop (Iron Acton). (Pill even begins with the kind of screechy Mideast violin howl familiar to anyone who got all the way through The Flowers of Romance.) In a perfect world, this would be the soundtrack for waiting rooms and elevators.

Crank Calling Record Stores on the Busiest Shopping Day of the Year [Part 2]

Same Store Clerk From Previous Crank Call: [Name of Store.]
Disco:Very: Hi, I'm calling to see if you have the CD Santana Performs Yiddish Favorites.
Same Store Clerk From Previous Crank Call: [Pause.] [Hangs up.]

Crank Calling Record Stores on the Busiest Shopping Day of the Year [Part 1]

[Store Clerk for lame-ass local chain CD/DVD store]: [Name of store] on [name of street location].
Disco:Very: Hi. I was just in your store and I bought myself a copy of Where the Wild Things Are by Steve Vai but I think there's something wrong with the CD.
Store Clerk: OK. What seems to be the problem?
Disco:Very: Well, on the song "Taurus Bulba", Steve Vai is supposed to be playing a solo which is comprised of 2100 notes per minute but when I listen to it, I can only count about 2086 notes, tops.
Store Clerk: [Pauses.] Uh...
Disco:Very: I thought that maybe you had an in-store copy you could listen to and maybe you and I could count the notes together over the phone so we can determine if my copy is defective or if it was an error at the pressing plant.
Store Clerk: [Laughs] Well, uh...I don't think we have an in-store copy here.
Disco:Very: I know the mistake isn't on my end because I'm very good at counting. And I'm sure the problem isn't with Steve Vai because his nimble fingers dance merrily across the strings as if summoned forth by Zeus, with the power and majesty of 1000 winged horses.
Store Clerk: [Hangs up.]

Two Indie Rawk Darlings Scheduled to Face Off In Court This Week

A federal court Wednesday will consider the fate of a bitter fight between Portland hippy-dips Yacht (top left) and rough-and-tumble Brooklyn duo Sleigh Bells (bottom left), who claim they are “five times more rawk than Yacht”. Yacht, frequently seen posting naked against dreamy nature-like settings, isn't contesting the accuracy of Sleigh Bells’ claim, but says the argument is misleading. Yacht, in its legal response, says Sleigh Bells is suing because "we frequently refer to lightness and darkness as opposing forces of good and evil in our songs, and that paints us as New Age wimps." Sleigh Bells wants the court, which will hear arguments today, to force the music-consuming public to reevaluate Yacht’s standing in the indie rawk sweepstakes of 2009.

Sleigh Bells are asking the court to consider such endeavors as Yacht's current “Catalogue of Influences” poster as well as the title of their 2007 EP, “I Believe In You. Your Magic is Real”. “Give me a fucking break,” says Tony Melone, legal representative for Sleigh Bells. "Even Doug Henning wouldn’t have come up with a CD title that stupid, and he believed in vedic flying!”

Yacht spokesman Mark Siegel responds: “We think our music is simple, straightforward and honest," he says. “We think we're doing a great job. So what if some of that is performed while advocating awareness of extraterrestrial intelligence?"

The U.S. District Court in Atlanta will decide the question of when a band segues from merely being "simple" to becoming outright dopey. Sleigh Bells’ main beef is with the vague areas of Yacht’s lyrics and image, which denote a communion with nature and spirits.

Sleigh Bells’ image is awash in 80’s smarm and enough distortion to make your ears bleed; Yacht, in contrast, has almost no grit of which to speak. Sleigh Bells, in its lawsuit, says consumers may think Yacht’s association with LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy means Sleigh Bells offer no downtown boho cred of their own.

"If our songs are judged to be truthful but not misleading, even though they're damaging to Sleigh Bells’ business, well, that's just competition," says Tom Zellerbach, a friend of the band. But Yacht has a hurdle, too. Their website lists a mission statement and urges listeners to find importance in triangles. The court "could question whether that manifesto is beyond ass-backwards," he says.

Riffs and Variations on a Single Joke (A Not-Really-All-That-Funny Joke.) [silence.] [sound of crickets.]

How fitting that Susan Atkins, former follower of cult leader Charles Manson would pass away so close to the release dates of the two latest Sufjan Stevens albums: The BQE and Run Rabbit Run. As I sit here, listening to the spritely Movement III: Linear Tableau with Intersecting Surprise and the mournful Year of Our Lord, it occurs to me that the parallels between these two icons of American artistry have been staring us all in the face for quite some time:

Both have connections to swords. Susan Atkins witnessed Charles Manson injuring a guy with a sword. The name "Sufjan" means "comes with a sword".

• Both became so-called Born Again Christians. For Susan Atkins, this occurred in 1974 while serving life in prison. For Sufjan Stevens, this occurred in 1975 (the date of his first and, so far, only birth).

• Both are connected to nonsense ramblings which have no rational meaning but are misjudged by followers to be riddled with insight. For Susan Atkins, this can be found in the Manson's crazed racial-uprising scenario he termed "Helter Skelter". In the case of Sufjan Stevens, this can be found in such song titles as "A Conjunction of Drones Simulating the Way in Which Sufjan Stevens Has an Existential Crisis in the Great Godfrey Maze".

• Both are/were imprisoned for life due to the crimes of their youth. For Susan Atkins, it was due to her role in the Tate/LaBianca murders. For Sufjan Stevens, it's due to being forced to come up with 48 more CD's to fulfill the terms of his "Fifty States Project".

• Both initially avoided confessing to playing a part in several violent murders. Susan Atkins eventually confessed. Stevens has yet to.

In addition, the name Sufjan Stevens has 13 letters in it, the same number of letters in the phrase: You bite my butt.

In conclusion: are we still boycotting Whole Foods? It's the only place I can find green lentils.

My Precious Feelings on the 36th Telluride Film Festival

Although I am not the winner of this year's edition of the Be the First to Spot Ken Burns game, I do, however, witness many 4-year-olds around town with the same bowl-cut hair style, which scores me a few points in the end.

The next morning, I happily spot Mr. Burns being nagged by his wife in broad daylight and provide him momentary respite from her by insisting I get my picture snapped with him (that's me on the left).

The minute the festival schedule is announced, rumors being to swirl like Lysol® Power Toilet Bowl Cleaner as it washes away pesky lime and rust. Due to a surprise announcement that Up in the Air will be screening, everyone is on the lookout for George Clooney to make an appearance. It certainly explains why I keep getting stopped in the street by strangers assuming I am him. Curse my masculine square jaw and rugged good looks!

The festival begins on a high note for me thanks to Henri-George Clouzot's Inferno, an engrossing recounting of the unfinished masterwork-which-could-have-been by the director of The Wages of Fear and Diabolique. Some of the visuals are so strong, you want to take them home in your pants pocket to take out and look at later when you're alone.

I walk out midway during the first screening of the three-part Red Riding: 1974, which is too formulaic for my tastes. A few hours later, I endure a screening of The Miscreants of Taliwood--a potentially fascinating documentary on the local film production of Pakistan as it wrestles with local Islamic fundamentalism, but the story is overwhelmed by the self-absorbed director who inserts his hammer-over-the-head moral judgements into nearly every frame.

Despite critics who find his vision far too bleak, I personally delight in the films of Michael Heneke (Cache, Funny Games) and his deeply morbid take on the world, especially in his new flick The White Ribbon (a perfect date movie if you're trying to woo a Goth). He sometimes tries a little too hard to be The Bad Boy of Cinema ("I hope you have a disturbing viewing experience", he proclaimed before the screening I caught), but he'd be the type of person to which I'd gravitate at a party, especially as he gloomily points out the violent malicious nature of humanity to the shocked and horrified guests.

One of the delights of a great festival is when the selected films share similar thematic concerns. Such was the case of two very different films, A Prophet and Coco Before Chanel:

A Prophet: The protagonist is trapped in an oppressive prison system with no means of escape.
Coco Before Chanel: Lowly employees are trapped working for the oppressive Coco Chanel without any means of escape.

A Prophet: The lead character must resort to violence and murder to climb his way to the top of the prison hierarchy.
Coco Before Chanel: Coco must resort to violence and murder to climb her way to the top of the fashion hierarchy.

A Prophet: The protagonist conceals a razor blade in his mouth in order to slit the throat of an opponent.
Coco Before Chanel: Ditto.

It is announced that a special appearance will be made by Helen Mirren, who is in attendance with her new costume drama The Last Station. It certainly explains why I keep getting stopped in the street by strangers assuming I am her. Curse my matronly demeanor and bosomy man-boobs!

I hereby apologize to everyone sitting near me during It Came From Kuchar, the side-splitting new documentary about the Kuchar twins, George and Mike. The campy clips from their lewd filmography had me convulsing with booming laughter during the entire 90 minutes.

Early on, I decide to skip the special screening of the new Todd Solondz film Life During Wartime. If I wanted to experience tiresome smart-ass writing whose only intent is to make the viewing public uncomfortable, I'd just read my own fucking blog [*rimshot*].

I have a newfound respect for filmmaker Alexander Payne, whose films (About Schmidt, Sideways) have always slightly annoyed me. All of his picks as Guest Director of the festival were worth catching, from the weepy 1937 drama Make Way For Tomorrow to the Spanish black comedy El Verdugo to the darkly ironic Samurai epic Daisan no Kagemusha. His presentation of the splendid Italian romantic comedy Le Ragazze di Piazza di Spagna, which featured a very young Marcello Mastroianni in one of his earliest roles, was made even more special for me because I was sitting a mere two rows away from his frequent co-star Anouk Aimée. Being able to look over at her as Mastroianni appeared on the screen had me in cinematic heaven.

On the Cutting Room Floor

Once again, I must apologize for the lack of posts. Everyone in Hollywood has been scrambling to repeat the runaway-freight-train success of the family-friendly Disney flick Beverly Hills Chihuahua, so as a result, I've been hired to script one of the many dozen sequels in the works. America, I give to you an all-Chihuahua version of Caligula! I don't want to give away too much, but in my version, castration has a more beneficial purpose.

In between my daunting writing schedule, I will be at the 36th Telluride Film Festival for the next few days. I promise to gossip about everything I see upon my return.

My Thoughts on Hearing John Lennon Being Played as the Soundtrack to the Health Care Reform Rally I Attended This Morning

Power to the People
The lyrics are painfully naive regarding revolutionary change but I'm just happy to be here protesting alongside my liberal brothers and sisters. Whoo hooo! Health care reform now!!

Imagine
Well, I'd rather chew off my own ear than ever have to hear this fucking song ever again, and although its themes can only tangentially be linked to the health care issue, what the hell: c'mon everybody, hold your signs high and let everyone feel your passion on this issue!!

Mother
Um, doesn't this song chronicle Lennon's anguish over the loss of his mother after she died in a car crash during his youth? I'm not really sure what that has to do with health care...

Cold Turkey
Look, I guess you could link a song about heroin addiction to the need for a more inclusive health care system but maybe we could find a more appropriate CD to be playing and...

Woman Is the Nigger of the World
OK, now you're playing a song containing the "N word" at a rally somewhat connected to our current president, who happens to be Black. HOLY SHIT, CAN THE ORGANIZERS OF THIS RALLY GET A CLUE AND TURN THIS GODDAMNED CD OFF???

They Are Insane, These Gallic!

There hasn't been much time for me to post anything lately, what with all my waking hours spent getting Courtney Love ready for her stage debut in the musical version of Howard the Duck (she plays the title role). For now, you'll just have to be satisfied with me posting three albums of authentic '60's Ye-Ye French pop: the now out-of-print Ils Sont Fous Ces Gaulois! series, volumes 1, 2 & 3 (I haven't yet bought volume 4, though Dionysus Records apparently has it). Forgive me for lacking the album cover for Volume 1 (if anyone has it, please send it my way). I have to go now--I can hear Courtney screaming for her daily Oxycontin smoothie. There's hell to pay if I don't have it whipped up the minute she gets back from her court-ordered parenting class.

Birds of a Feather

It's inspiring to see Soul Jazz Records, via Fly Girls, tutor the music-buying public on the important role women played in the development of rap. Young and old alike will be schooled on the ground-breaking work of Tanya Winley (Vicious Rap), Nicki Giovanni (Ego Tripping) and Lady B (To the Beat Y'all), all of whom paved the path for today's chart-topping female artists like Queen Latifah and Missy Elliot. As comprehensive as this collection is, however, can someone tell me how they could have overlooked that fine feminist fowl Cheap Cheap the Cooking Chicken? Her feathered flow is mad wicked, yo.*

*Note to readers: Please pretend it is still fucking hilarious when an old white guy speaks in urban hip-hop lingo. Because, let's face it--it is.

I Think I Speak For an Entire World in Mourning When I Say...

Who is going to get custody of Ben? Who is going to get custody of Ben???

Artiste At Work

Cat Power to Direct Vodka Commercial - Pitchfork [Friday, June 12th, 2009]

6:33am - Vodka bottle fails to show up for costuming. Reached by cell, announces it wants to permanently retire from public performance. Blames erratic behavior on mental exhaustion.

7:49am - Vodka bottle arrives on set, loaded up on Seroquel to battle stage fright. Suffers nervous breakdown in front of crew.

8:05am - During lighting tests, vodka bottle is seen obsessively chasing bad spirits away with matches and sage.

9:26am - Filming is set to begin but is held off because vodka bottle is nowhere to be found. Vodka bottle later found outside talking to squirrels.

10:18am - Vodka bottle announces it is uncomfortable being in its own skin. Chases entire film crew from set, encourages them to sue.

11:50am - Feeling suicidal, vodka bottle abruptly disappears again. Later found working as babysitter in Portland.

12:11pm - Vodka bottle tosses back a handful of Effexar, admits to alcohol abuse. Decides it has grown tired of its own material and would rather be whiskey. Checks itself into Mount Sinai Medical Center but leaves after six days because "it's not for me".

1:28pm - Commercial project is shut down for good. Cat Power reduced to directing episodes of Two and a Half Men.

E-Mail Message Caught in My Spam Filter Which Could Easily Double as Lyrics to a Song by Joanna Newsom

Scamp sap nibble baboo? Bled arise public elan. Emir luting. Sniffy valuer tare thyme? Bingo bled. Potboy ape palmy palmy! Elan arise. Arise ladder. Elan wen cooker. Chump chalk. Swathe feel bingo nibble? Bled estop gird. Potion feed bled tops! Find acuity. How chump wen swathe? Cooker chalk tops renew? Tare voter. Fetid nopal scamp. Mix luting flake bounty? Valuer novel ingle gasper. Morgue flood potboy chump? Module luting feed. Tandem gas large lumper! Nimbus public arise. Scamp sap nibble baboo? Bled arise public elan. Emir luting. Sniffy valuer tare thyme? Bingo bled. Potboy ape palmy palmy! Elan arise. Arise ladder. Elan wen cooker. Chump chalk. Swathe feel bingo nibble? Bled estop gird. Potion feed bled tops! Find acuity. How chump wen swathe? Cooker chalk tops renew? Tare voter. Fetid nopal scamp. Mix luting flake bounty? Valuer novel ingle gasper. Morgue flood potboy chump? Module luting feed. Tandem gas large lumper! Nimbus public arise.

You Cef! I Cef! We All Cef for Unicef!

I have decided to hold a concert for Bangladesh in my living room. The goal is to raise at least $3 million dollars for the cause but because there’s probably only enough space for about 11 people (provided everyone helps me move the credenza outside to the front porch), tickets will be going for $28,000.00 each. To make my job a little easier, I’m only asking one band to play for the full 6-hour event: Varghkoghargasmal. Rather than have them repeat the same set for the duration of the concert, I’m requesting that they play Autumn Rain for the entire half-day show, making it progressively slower and sloppier as the song progresses. Varghkoghargasmal’s gloomy blood-splattered death metal dirge, paired with the type of ear-pleasing Casio keyboard arrangements you’d hear on a late night infomercial for Teflon pans, is sure to be a hit with the crowd. Refreshments can be purchased in my kitchen. I hope everyone likes buttermilk!

My First Five Reactions to Seeing the Statue of Ronald Reagan Dedicated Earlier Today at the U.S. Capitol

1. Amazing! They were able to perfectly capture an action-figure likeness of his complete indifference to the AIDS crisis.

2. In order to more closely resemble how he looked during his tenure as President, shouldn’t the statue show him lying down taking a nap?

3. I’m so delighted to see that somebody finally found a use for all that money he made from the Iran-Contra arms deal.

4. I’m a little confused: is this a bronze statue or is he still in that prolonged coma?

5. If only they’d made this statue during his Presidency, it could have provided John Hinckley some good shooting practice.

Watch What Happens (When I Lower My Blogging Standards)

Think of me as your Millionaire Matchmaker for music. There are many similarities: Like the host of that show, I am of indeterminate gender, no matter how hard you squint. The procedure my clients follow is also very much the same: you contact my offices (read: visit my website) and ask that I hook you up with a long-term winning relationship (read: song). After extensively studying your profile, I have determined that you'll be a perfect fit with Nerve City's The Armory, a mad echoey thumper which one hopes will be on his/their/its upcoming why-is-it-taking-so-fucking-long-to-come-out-I'm-about-to-pee-my-undies release.

If that suitor (read: track) doesn't twinkle your toes, how about I fix you up with This Land Is No Good, the electroshock-therapy-driven screamer by Love Tan from their Miscellaneous Night Feelings LP? My hope is to see you two walking down the aisle (of your nearest record store) in the near future. True love is never having to say "You Are Sorry."