20th Century Schizoid Men

There isn't anything I can write about Rainbow Ffolly that a bunch of mp3's couldn't better explain. The blame for my temporary bout of writer's block goes to a recently consumed feast of heavy Indian food. Mostly I'm just being lazy, and why bother getting all Trouser Press with the 411 when others are much more adept at it? If you're really needing some keywords upon which to base your knowledge of these tracks, here are a few: psychedelic, schizoid, Sgt. Peppers pop, Sixties UK art-school rockers. If you're really needing some tracks upon which to shape your opinion of Sallies Fforth, the obscure sought-after album just reissued by Rev-Ola, here are three of them: Hey You, Sun Sing and Labour Exchange. With this classic but rare album now available worldwide, collector scum will be prevented from raping our wallets with their hate crimes. What part of "No" don't they understand?

I Fought The Johnny Boy and The Johnny Boy Won

Upon my initial confrontations with this song, a violent wrestling ensued. After some fashion, the song and I were kissing cousins, holding hands as we walked merrily towards pop nirvana. I simply cannot stop playing You Are The Generation That Bought More Shoes & You Get What You Deserve. Yes, the song title is a little dummy dum-dum. Yes, the moniker Johnny Boy smells of Overly Clever Band Name Stink Rot. Yes, the Spector-esque production is excessively cutey-poo. So why can't I stop humming this tune every minute of the day? This song has helped me learn a little about myself, and I really do get what I deserve.

Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn

If tumultuous headache-inducing white noise squall is the god you bow unto every sunrise, by all means, avoid The Persephones Bees and Mellowdrone, both of whom traffic in the kind of light and bouncy AM radio pop that would drive you to rip your tattoos off with your own teeth. The 'Bees--which I'm shortening as a means to avoid typing that damn 'P' word--could be seen as an update to Sixties groove-crooners The Association, but fronted by a female Russian expatriate, which may or may not explain why one of their songs (Nice Day) was featured in a Hilton Hotel commercial. Is that a compliment or an insult? Discuss. Mellowdrone are just as slap-happy catchy but they rock a bit harder and their album covers bear parental advisory stickers, which means songs like Oh My can only be used in advertising for sleazy motels such as La Quinta.

Let The Eagles Soar (Straight Into The Pits Of Hell)

The abrasive insect drone of the Japanese quartet We Acediasts will make your nose bleed, but for all the right reasons. On the career-spanning cd Pre Acediasts, a track such as Ibasho (produced by NYC dance-niks DFA) spins its sinister PIL-like groove at the same time it tightens the noose around your greasy spine. Kajiroudou resembles nothing less than a hotel lounge singer mainlining Draino as the accompaniment to your watered-down Rum & Coke. Meanwhile, Un No Iiyatsu takes all your favorite nightmares and distills them into the perfect 3-minute funk song. Since you asked: my favorite nightmare happened last month while on a 2-hour plane ride when this 30-something cretin in the aisle across from me had the gall to watch the artistically reprehensible Hell Freezes Over on his personal DVD player during the entire trip. FAA regulations prohibited me from dangling him by his tongue out the emergency exit door, but don't think I wasn't tempted.

Hot Crunk In The Summertime

YoYoYoYoYo is the perfect summer album, when everything is about hot sweaty dancing and even hotter, even sweatier nasty fun. You can't see it right now but I'm listening to Backyard Betty and Sweet Talk and my skinny butt is shaking all over the place. Maybe your ass is quivering, too, or maybe it's waiting for something a little more juicy? All right, then--here's Bump, which has the type of female empowerment raps Helen Reddy could have written if she'd waited 40 years to be born. Spank Rock, I summon thee to play my hometown. You need to see me shaking my pimply butt in person.

Shock And Awe

25 years after I first heard it, My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts, the groundbreaking 1981 sampling masterpiece of sinister funk and edgy dub by David Byrne and Brian Eno, still makes me shake my head in shock and awe. It hasn't dated a bit--if anything, it remains remarkably ahead of its time. The remastering is superb, with a few songs returning slightly extended (check out Mea Culpa and Moonlight In Glory.) The previously unreleased tracks--especially New Feet and Number 8 Mix--are the icing on an already overloaded cake (Nonesuch has even given the album it's own website, full of free tracks for remixing at home, alternate album covers and more.) Now if only someone would reissue those rare and long-out-of-print Obscure label albums languishing in Eno's vault...

Plays Well With Himself

San Francisco's one-man noise machine E-Z Tiger is so bent on twisting your ears into pretzels with his ha-ha funny squall pop that he should be forgiven for turning his back on the audience at nearly every show. Faced with the difficult task of single-handedly playing every enormous sound on The Tiger Bounce (taken from his eponymous debut), he probably forgot anyone was watching.

Long In The Tooth

The hip hop hijinx of Token Recluse continue unabated: stop reading this paragraph right now and download the entire (free of charge) Unconventional Science remix of Aesop Rock's long-player Bazooka Tooth. (top left) My two favorites just happen to be NY Electric and Easy, but your results my vary. And as long as you're letting them foist free shit upon you, make sure to check out their latest (again, free) monthly mix (top right), always worth hearing.

Zatanic With A "Z"

In the same manner Beltway homo Tom DeLay's perpetually dyed hairdo attempts to pass itself off as darker than it really is, the oddly lo-fi bizarro opera axe grinders Urfaust want every track on Geist Ist Teufel to paint it black. But how can you be an agent of The Antichrist when you seemingly have a Liza Minelli impersonater as your lead vocalist? No matter how tortured the howls of Drundenfß sound, they eventually set up camp in, well, Camp. More remarkably, these Kraut rockers even turn in a sprightly (if altogether aberrant) forest leprechaun jig ditty with Auszug aller tödlich seinen Krafte. It's the final untitled 15-minute track of hypnotic keyboard swashes, however, which finds them lighting into new metal territory. It's the only moment when their doom cabaret, old chum, comes to its full realization.

The Ruling Class Has Left The Fortress

Anytime I hear Thom Yorke sing, "When I am king, you will be first against the wall", I can't help but nod my head in empathy. With any luck, my overthrow of the American monarchy will hopefully be as violent and filled with malace, at the same time optimisically coupled with State-sponsored deluxe reissues of all my favorite forgotten vinyl gems. My first edict will be I Shall Be Released, the 1987 debut of Carmaig De Forest, publicly proclaimed while blasting Big Business from the city's fortress loudspeakers. Also, my arch nemesis Sarah Jessica Parker will be allowed to pick the execution of her choice: being hunted down in the forest like a wild animal, or forced to endure 20 years of watching non-stop back-to-back episodes of her truly awful Sex & The City. Like my mentor Yorke, I am tough but fair.

Rabbit Stew

Sometimes, I'm not the fastest bunny in the race when it comes to obscure Swedish psych rock, having only finally listened to last year's universally-acclaimed Ta Det Lugnt by long-haired freak boy/cotton draw-string pants wearing Dungen in the last month or so. While I initially enjoyed its soup of one-thirds power mixed with one-third pop, you'd have thought each cd came with a fucking Lexus for all the heaps of praise it received from various music writers. For every two (Matthew) sweet tracks such as Gjort Bort Sig and Lipsill, you also get a dull free-jazz instrumental show-off endurance test (Om Du Vore En Vakthund.) Worse still, some of the guitar workouts veer a might too close to latter-day Dinosaur Jr. excess, even. My advice is to burn the songs you like and make friendly with the delete button for the rest.

Their Love Will Tear You Apart

There are hundreds of songs in the thrash/noise marketplace hoping to make your eardrums bleed, but 55,000 Flowers For The Hero (from the new Birchville Cat Motel cd Our Love Will Destroy The World), is probably the only one which ruptures you internally, where it can do the most damage. Personally, I lose a little interest in this track after the 5-minute mark, when the pulsating beat gives way to some off-kilter random drum fills (just imagine how torn up your head would be if they'd kept the same aural attack for the full 15 minutes), but the initial assault is so overwhelming, I bow down in submission for the entire duration anyway.

Misery Is The Thing With Feathers

Did you ever get a CD because you heard it weeks ago while listening to WFMU while at work? And, because you were drowning in piles of stressful ulcer-inducing uncompleted projects, this song somehow injected you with a fresh new sense of purpose? And then some days later you get home with the CD and the song you remembered hearing (in this case, Symphony of Treble by Blonde Redhead) revealed itself as just so-so? And then you listen to the rest of the album and it holds your interest even less than the song you initially desired? And earlier that week, a friend had lent you The Orphan's Lament by Huun-Huur-Tu but you avoided listening to it because you feared it would be a little too All Music Considered topped with a smudge of Paste? But then it was time to return the cd to your friend so you finally listened to tracks such as Aa-shuu Dekei-oo? And by the time you got to the last song, Ödugen Taiga, it made you weep because it reminded you of the ending of The Story Of The Weeping Camel where the camel weeps? And both songs so totally ruled that you vowed to never again acquire CDs by any band who would name their latest release Misery Is A Butterfly? Sister, I can totally relate.

Time, Time, Time Is On My Mind

Did you ever get allergies so bad you had to drink a little Nyquil Cold & Flu Medicine just so you could get a good night's sleep? And then the kick-ass alcohol content made you good and drunk? And then your dreams twisted the day's events into one another? And earlier that evening you had watched disc one of The Tomorrow Show with Tom Snyder wherein a young Elvis Costello peddles his forthcoming single from his then-brand-new 1981 LP Trust? And your brain, soaked in medicine-liquor, somehow tumbles facts so that, when you wake up all hungover, there is a Costello song playing over and over in your head as you rub the crust from your eyes? But the song isn't anything from the afore mentioned album and is, instead, Man Out Of Time, the centerpiece of his 1982 masterwork Imperial Bedroom? Yeah, that happens to me all the time, too.

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.