Baby Booties

It's a Death Race To The Cutey-Pooty Finish Line for this cat wasting Earth's precious resources versus these toyz-n-da-hood from the CD Da Hiphop Raskalz. What parent wouldn't beam as proud as a flea-bit peacock upon hearing these urban scoundrels rap quixotic about candy, chicken wings and dinosaurs without any subversive sense of sexual subtext? You children run along to bed, now. Daddy's a little exhausted from a long day of contributing to the economic subjugation of the lower classes.

Singles Going Steady

At this point, John Waters could put out a CD of his own gastrointestinal biorhythms and I'd sell my sister's glass eye just to own it. So it reeks of obvious-osity that I'd be first in line to get A Date With John Waters, as much for Jet Boy Jet Girl (one of my all-time favorite New Wave gender-bending rave-ups) as for the bizarre John Prine track In Spite Of Ourselves. And if I may vulnerable-ize myself for a moment, I had no idea The Muppets were not the original creators of If I Knew You Were Comin' Id've Baked A Cake. Please don't laugh at me when I'm standing before you emotionally naked. And hairless.

Thriving In The Dark

Ignatz is a White guy, but don't hold that against him. He composes mournful spooky tunes, shrouded in feedback and distortion, circling and enveloping his high-pitched moans. While old-time American blues are the most obvious cultural signpost, the Belgium-native guitarist pushes his influences into darker territories than any predictable vintage music revivalist. Tracks such as He Deals With Love & Her Eyes Glaze take their time slowly settling into your spine, creating an uneasy but sedate rhythm which burrows under your icy brain for its almost 10-minute duration, while Silver Moon... Shine Sun! Sun! Sun! approaches the same mood but with a different tact, buzzing urgently with a more immediate mesmerizing raga-like trance. His new album II will haunt your dreams and sidle up to your nightmares, too. You want to hear the New Weird America? You're soaking in it.

I Can't Stand It Any More More

Although I appreciate the gesture, there are some of you who insist on sending me You Tube links of scenes from Mr. Show week after week. The problem is this: I already own all three DVD collections of the entire series, so you're preaching while barking to the choir up the wrong tree. Perhaps your spare time would be better spent downloading all those rare Velvet Underground bootlegs suddenly popping up at Chocoreve. Keep sending those other links--the ones of Kraftwerk, select scenes from Sesame Street, etc--but take care of your long-gestating VU obsessions first, is all I'm saying. [Update: Chocoreve hasn't posted anything since 2008 and is perhaps now dead. Or walked away from his computer for a really long time.]

Punky Brewster

Someone should have the bright idea to create a public smackdown concert between The Makers and Brainbombs, because I'd be as moist as a baby's nappy over the aural and visual delights therein. The Makers would be all like, "Look at us, we're singing Do What I Wanna and Angry Young Man and we're snarling and wearing our sunglasses onstage and flipping the audience the bird even though they paid to see us!"

This bratty tirade would be cut short, though, because the Brainbombs-while launching into Die You Fuck and Kill Them All--will have decapitated their rivals and stabbed them in the stomach and boiled everything into a stew before the lights have barely gone down. You might have assumptions on who the winner would be of such a confrontation, but you'd be wrong. The real winner would be: us, the viewing public. Oh yes, and the concert promoter, making moolah hand-over-ass from all the cable television and subsidiary rights.

I'm With Annoying

Annoying: Wal-Mart
Annoying Squared: Wal-Mart selling albums by Television Personalities to overweight trashy Americans

Annoying: The Grammy Awards
Annoying Squared: Everybody who was nominated for one

Annoying: A song by Death Cab For Cutie
Annoying Squared: That same song animated by Jeffrey Brown

Annoying: Fiona Apple
Annoying Squared: Fiona Apple being fawned over by Quentin Tarantino in a sleeveless T-shirt

Annoying: The Police
Annoying Squared: Sting quoting Shakespeare
Annoying Times Infinity: The Police reuniting for a world tour

Off The Mark

Mark, we need to talk. It's not that I don't like you anymore. I've been in love with you for 20 years now. I loved you in the scrappy days of your youth, I love you now in your old age. Heck, I was one of the few who stood by you after you had that fling with Brix, during which she softened your sound a bit. But it feels like this relationship isn't going anywhere. Oh sure, I was happy to see you make some money off that Mitsubishi commercial, but why oh why would you release Reformation Post TLC when it's obviously so devoid of interesting songs? I've tried to show an interest in The Bad Stuff and The Usher, but they're both just so safe.

Mark, I'm not getting any younger and I need a little more danger and excitement in my life! That's why I'm leaving you for Xexyz, this new black metal band I've been seeing who employ Nintendo soundtracks as the foundation for their dark scary music. When I listen to What Lies Atop Gran Mountain and Metroid, I feel alive and young and free, which is a feeling I haven't had with you in a long time. I hate to see it end this way, Mark, but I hope we can always be friends in the future.

Shooting Rubberbands At Jesse Sykes

It's been a long time coming but all I can say is Edie Brickell, it's great to have you making soft-rock Adult Contemporary records again. Just one question: Why the complete name change?

Chop Till You Drop

It's possible that sometime last year, someone somewhere must have tried turning me on to The Archie Bronson Outfit, but I probably ran the opposite direction when I heard the descriptions "David Byrne", "vocals" and "yelp", instantly crouching into my I Hate Clap Your Hands Say Yeah karate chop stance. If I'd heard the words "raw fucking cool guitars mixed way up front like a toothache" instead, 2006 would have turned out to be The Year Disco:Very First Heard The Archie Bronson Oufit, My New Favorite Band Of Right Now (Second Only To Deerhunter). Regretfully, I can only crank Jab Jab, Cherry Lips and Kink, all the while thinking about what I loser I am for only now stumbling upon this wonderful band. Don't make the same mistake I did, kids. You've still got time to turn your lives around. Listen to The Archie Bronson Outfit and be saved.

K-9 Kapers!

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

How To Volver

When your husband of many years is stabbed to death by your underage daughter after he attempts to rape her, it's best not to show much emotion about it. Just make sure you look super hot at all times, even while cleaning up the bodily fluids and hiding the body. Although mopping up gallons of fresh blood is messy work, you will probably only end up with just a few dabs of red on your sensual sexy body.

If you are the underage daughter who just killed her father, be sure to go about your average, normal teenage ways within a matter of a few hours. Sticking a knife in your father after he attempts to rape you is nothing to fret or worry about. Whatever shock or hysteria you feel initially will most likely pass once your mother unexpectedly opens up her own restaurant.

Should you feel the need to suddenly start up your own restaurant--despite no prior knowledge of running one nor any discernable ability to cook for large groups of people--don't despair. It is almost certain that a small film crew will magically appear on your doorstep asking if you can cater their film shoot. While most feature films, low budget or otherwise, would need to figure the catering costs into the budget many months before the cameras roll, this particular production can just wander the streets the very day filming begins, certain they will find a good caterer a mere few hours before lunch time arrives. Just make sure, as you're stirring pots and carving vegetables for 30 hungry high-maintenance crew members in a stuffy cramped kitchen, that you look super hot while doing it.

There should never be any worry, when starting up a brand-new restaurant, that your previous job as a cleaning lady at an unnamed instituion will ever come back into the picture. Because you've abruptly decided to take on this new entrepreneurial excursion, your old job should probably just fade away, as if it never existed in the first place. There is no need to explain this change of careers to anyone; ultimately, it's the loss of this unnamed hospital or university or whatever, where you scrubbed floors and washed sheets, all the while sporting sexy just-fucked hairdos and enormous stylish hoop earings that never get caught in your mop handle. There should also never be any worry that your fellow cleaning staff at this unnamed institution will look hotter than you. You will look stunning as you swab toilets, and they will look drab and plain and lack all the charisma that normally befits those who are forced to clean up after others as a means to make a living.

Super hot women who live in Madrid should constantly surround themselves with friends and family who are plain or overweight by comparison. While the other women of Madrid are forced to wear frumpy hand-me-down clothing (since, we are led to believe, you and your friends are very poor), you, on the other hand, should always wear fabulous form-fitting slinky dresses and fashionable jewelry at all times. For a change of pace, when you're in the woods late at night struggling with heavy picks and shovels to bury the dead husband whose life was taken by your own teenage daughter, you can instead wear a fabulous form-fitting track suit. Be sure to remain emotionally detached from these proceedings, showing the same concern for this ghastly circumstance as you would when creating a scrumptious meal for a small film crew on just a few hours notification.

When friends and family ask why your husband is nowhere to be found, simply tell them he promptly left you after a marital dispute. For the convenience of moving the story along, they will continue with their homely poverty-stricken lives, never once asking you for any specifics relating to this wildly unusual turn of events. Nor will they ask why you are super hot, va-va-va voom, sizzling sexy at all times of the day or night, while they, on the other hand, are forced to look unattractive and dull, even when partaking in the same working class existence as you.

Although you are super sexy and hot, it is perfectly normal to expect that one of your best friends will be a flashy overweight prostitute. Conveniently, she is also supremely adept at running the bar of your newly-acquired restaurant. Like you, she has no discernable prior knowledge of running a dining establishment--her spunk and joie de vie will more than make up for lack of experience. She is a hooker--how much different can it be to run a bar? By coincidence, she has also just bought several pounds of fresh meat--just enough to, say, serve the entire film crew which just showed up impulsively in the doorway of your restaurant. If you're worried that you'll have nothing to serve for dessert, fret not: another unstylish unattractive friend will pass by on the street and she, also, has just purchased large quantities of food for herself--in this case, chocolate cookies. Despite purchasing these for her own consumption, she will have no problem selling the entire supply of sweets to you. All you have to do is ask.

With your husband dead and buried, you are now single. As luck would have it, the Location Manager of the film whose cast and crew you are feeding happens to be young and sexy and hot, and he will flirt with you immediately, so there is no need to bother dating again or showing any inward turmoil over the shocking muder of your spouse. Because you are a walking wet dream, good luck and fortune will automatically fall into the lap of your form-fitting dress the minute you walk down the street.

Smell You Later

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

The Future Is In Plastic

The urinary geyser of excitement I have for Now I Hollar isn't because rap pranksters Plastic Little have sampled goddess/songstress PJ Harvey. Nor is it because this track features Spank Rock, one of the best new acts from last year. Rather, I'm excessively wallowing in pee-glee because they've taken the bold step of creating a "me so horny" for the new millenium.

White Light/White Heat/White Head

While recently buying gum at a local convenience store, I noticed the clerk at the cash register had the most incredible white-head pimple on his chin. It made me swoon, this pimple. Honestly, I was almost weak in the knees, made delirious with desire and envy. It took every ounce of my mighty, masculine strength to resist reaching up, grabbing that chin in my hands and squeezing! squeezing! squeezing! until the money shot enveloped me in its greasy bodily payday fluids. The euphoria of zapping that zit would have been similar to the unbridled emotion I get when listening to Texas Overture by Pere Ubu--a tune so filled to bursting with creamy-hot goodness that even the moster guitar riffs could be eaten like toast.

How To Sundance

Do everything possible to assist global warming in melting the world's snow in a speedier fashion. Ridding the earth of the icy nuisance that prevents you from seeing more movies is a most commendable endeavor.

The cliche, in this case, turns out to be quite true: everyone living in Utah really is a white, middle-class, heterosexual Mormon family.

When running behind schedule for a screening after sleeping late, the ability to brush morning breath from your teeth while driving 65 m.p.h. down winding slippery snow-crusted highways is a skill well worth nurturing.

Should your cinematic hero David Gordon Green happen to sit on the same shuttle bus as you, remain calm. Do not wet your pants, no matter how enjoyable that might be. Quickly but firmly approach, conveying how much his films mean to you and what an honor it is to meet him. He will be humble, polite and will shake your hand. Retreat as fast as humanly possible back to your seat. When the woman sitting next to you asks, "What filmmaker is that you were speaking with?", try to refrain from weeping.

Abstain from disembarking off the shuttle at the same time as David Gordon Green: it will lead him to think you're a stalker. If this is unavoidable, bury yourself in the festival program, giving him a few seconds head start to be in front. Sadly, things take a turn for the worst when you find yourself walking right alongside him again a few blocks later; worse, he catches you looking at him. Pretend to be distracted--whoa, there is something really super duper interesting in that shop window across the street! Speed up, passing him in a dramatic fashion as a reassurance that this has all been one big coincidence. Chartering a zigzag path doesn't help: shockingly, you suddenly find yourself right next to him yet again a few minutes later! Holy fuck, how does this keep happening? Eventually, you will have to duck into the festival headquarters to finally and truly avoid walking next to him. Later, fantasize that he relates this run-in with a crazed fan to all of his movie genius buddies as they sip Meisterbrau in the lounge of their private-membership cineaste salon.

When driving between the Sundance Resort and Park City, be sure to seek out the woman selling blankets from her front porch in the quaint town of Heber City. These handcrafted gifts all bear the likeness of various favorite childhood characters: Mickey Mouse, Dora the Explorer, Barbie and...N.W.A???

That Peter Zaremba look-alike you saw on the street the other day turns out, in fact, to be god-like filmmaker Chris Smith. You don't understand this, of course, until later in the day when he makes an appearance for a screening of his latest effort, The Pool. Wait in line to speak with him after the film ends, sulking further when you only have enough time to ask what song played on the soundtrack over the credits. He promises to post the tune on the movie's website but this statement is only meant as an abrupt conversation closer. When leaving the screening of this excellent new film, refrain from slapping the women next to you who--knowing nothing of Smith's background as a documentary filmmaker--complains that it was "too slow" and that "nothing happened".

If you happen to blank out on the name and filmography of marginally interesting queer filmmaker Gregg Araki as he scurries past you, it's best to be accompanied by an aspiring filmmaker friend with few inhibitions. He is more than eager to shout out, "Hey! Hey, you! Did you make The Doom Generation? And what's your name?" The notorious filmmaker seems amused by this arrogant and ignorant outburst; the boyfriend standing next to him, less so.

If you are a frightfully hip young man from L.A, with artfully coifed blonde hair placed just so, a good way to project just how much more evolved you are than the teeming masses sitting amongst you in the theatre would be to continue wearing your expensive brand name sunglasses as you enter the auditorium, taking great care not to remove them until just before the lights go down. You should also take great care to avoid the blogger watching you from two rows away--if he catches you alone outside, he's liable to take those sunglasses and shove them so far up your ass, you'll have to call in a search team to find them.

Because you are movie star hunk Paul Rudd, your ears will burn due to the excited shrill conversation about you between three high-pitched sorority girls who spied you strolling down the street earlier in the evening. Although the encounter with you probably took all of 30 seconds, their recounting of this brush with fame will stretch for a little over an hour.

It's not unusual to find Protagonist, the new film by Jessica Yu, surprisingly accessible because of its direct emotional core. A seemingly simple exploration on the practices of character development handed down from ancient Greek dramas (all enacted by puppets), it's the interspersed personal stories of four real-life men reflecting on power, violence, hubris and redemption which has you bawling tears of empathy. Don't be embarrassed--everyone around you is crying, too.

When flying home, don't be afraid to speak with the diminutive gentleman behind you, taking off his shoes for the X-ray machine. It's comedy legend Bob Balaban and he's the nicest man in the world. He'll accept your compliments gracefully and engage you in a friendly conversation long after he had en excuse to end it. Both the talents and the warmth of Bob Balaban make the world a better place.

God Said "Wha...?"

God: Are you leaving us, my son?
Disco:Very: Only for a short while.
God: Where are you going?
DV: To the 2007 Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah.
God: Will you see any celebrities?
DV: Perhaps. Mostly, I will be avoiding celebrities.
God: Care to name which ones you'll be avoiding?
DV: The ones still wearing "Vote For Pedro" t-shirts two years after they went out of style.
God: Will you come back?
DV: No, I plan on setting up a permanent domicile under the seats of the Egyptian Theatre. Of course I'm coming back! Jeez, I mean, c'mon, the festival isn't year-round or anything! I'll be back on Wednesday night.
God: What films will you see?
DV: I know what I won't be seeing: anything remotely connected to John Sayles; anything starring Zach Braff; anything about indie rock kids looking for love in the big city; any movie using the following bands in its soundtrack: The Postal Service, Jet, The Doves, Phantom Planet, Death Cab For Cutie, Keane or Beulah.
God: That doesn't leave much else.
DV: No shit, Sherlock. It means I'll only be catching, like, the new one by David Gordon Green and a documentary or two about border crossings and that's about it.
God: Do you have a nice lodging situation set up?
DV:: Hella, yes. My crib will be the shit.
God: Can I stay with you?
DV: There isn't any room.
God: But you're staying at a 2-room suite in a swank resort and--
DV: You don't want to stay with me. I snore and I'm a major slob. Also, I don't want to share a bathroom with you and find your holy pubes on the soap dish.
God: I don't have pubes.
DV: Everyone has pubes.
God: Only those weighted to earthly desires.
DV: Nobody desires pubes. They just happen.
God: Silence! Your Lord and Savior does not have pubes!
DV: Alright, alright, don't get your flowing robes in a twist. Whatever, I just want to be alone, is all.
God: Fine. You will be alone for all eternity, writhing in agony amongst the flames of hell.
DV: A sphincter says what?
God: What?
DV: Perfect.

The Roots Of Emo

Part One

Rainy Days and Mondays and New Zealand Movies With Excessive Rain As The Central Metaphor Always Get Me Down

There is nothing witty or clever about the topic of re-posts. Believe me, it's true. If there was something humorous to be said, don't you think I would have said it already? Someone wrote me asking if I could repost a particular song from the soundtrack of the depressing New Zealand flick Rain and I'm not only going to comply (Orange and Blue), I'm going to up the ante (Summer Of Love, Drive Home, Red Room.) The soundtrack (mostly by Neil Finn) is very difficult to find in the U.S. Your choices are to have someone copy the entire CD for you (which, I shouldn't have to remind you, IS COMPLETELY ILLEGAL, PEOPLE!!) or you pay through the nose for it at Gemm. You must choose your fate. I have spoken.

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

Tempura Soul by Fuka Vicente (buy)

Bomb Shelter by The Drags (buy)

Israelites by Desmond Dekker (buy)

Nice New Outfit by Fugazi (buy)

Transformation Mistriss by Cosmo Vitelli (buy)

Yo Se by Royal Trux (buy)

Tennessee Club Mix by Bob Sinclar featuring Farrell Lenn (buy)
Thanks to Jockohomo for being the Pusherman on this one.

King Kong by Psapp (buy)

Impossible Things by Looper (buy)

Pop Junior Pop by Jr. & His Soulettes (buy)
Don't worry about collector prices: someone can copy it for you (wink wink)

Plant White Roses by The Magnetic Fields (buy)

Noodle On The Couch by Volcano Suns (buy)

They Hunt Deers, Don't They?

Who are Deerhunter, and why did it take Underneathica so long to turn me on to them? How did kids so very young get a sound so steeped in the post-punk art-squall of This Heat, Swell Maps, Chrome and Wire? How could a group of unseemly 12-year-olds come up with such brilliant songs as Cryptograms, Tree Spies and Tech School? Here I am, old enough to be their great-great-great grandfather who can't grow a moustache and yet these boys with a collective age of 42 are writing better music than Jesus Christ. It warms my dark twisted heart to hear them kicking up an aural dust storm instead of taking their musical cues from the Garden State soundtrack, like most tykes of their generation. Let's hope they run for President someday.

A Day In The Life Of The Fool On The (MacWorld Conference & Expo) Hill

Future jailbird Steve Jobs has every citizen of the world at his denim-clad knees during this week's MacWorld Conference & Expo (well, at least those citizens of the world rich enough to afford a $500 phone), and when he's ready to coax a powerful tune from his latest technological innovation, he chooses...Lovely Rita, Meter Maid by The Beatles??? Wouldn't it have made more sense to choose Revolution? Hell, Tomorrow Never Knows would have carried more symbolic weight! By my estimates, over eleventy-billion-zillion songs have been written since recorded tape was invented and this is the one track you choose to play? At least you could have had fun with your musically-clueless image and picked something (anything!) more ear-grabbing off Flabby Road and Flabby Road II. Steve, if you want someone to provide better song recommendations for any future gadget unveilings, just give me a call. You know my name (look up the number.)

Cottage Industry

Scientists the world over agree: weepy feelings of nostalgia for the music of your youth makes one's brain turn to cottage cheese. So forgive me this curdled snack respite as I chuckle along to the way-stupid guffaw-fest music video of the Mondo Guano song, uh, Mondo Guano (unearthed for me by a devoted Disco:Very fan.) While we're already in this twisted neck of the forest, we might as well explore the unchartered lands of Fast Car and Pantano Del Fango (whose opening lines, "Going to the mudbog/Won't you come along?/I need to find the answer, I need to find the answer..." are probably brilliant, but who really knows for sure?) This was Bob Log before he became Bob Log. This was the sound of Young America gulping acid at midnight and taking 3 excrutiating hours to set up their instruments as a result. My hope is that attempts to resurrect those long-ago performances through pointless yearly reunion shows never come to fruition (I only like cottage cheese in small doses.)

My New Year's Resolutions

1. In 2007, I vow to finally "get" bands whose talents currently leave me scratching my head in utter dismay (i.e., The Raconteurs).

2. In 2007, I vow to finally learn to pronounce the word "raconteurs".

3. In 2007, I vow not to hate more bands but to intensify the anger over the bands I already hate (quality over quantity).

4. In 2007, I vow to find someone who can tell me if those recent Captain Beefheart reissues are worth buying if one already owns them as cheapo imports from 15 years ago (how many times do I have to re-purchase these things, anyway?)

5. In 2007, I vow to take TV On The Radio, grind them down into a fine microscopic dust, and have that dust analyzed by the world's top scientists as a means to figure out why everyone goes so fucking ga-ga over them, 'cuz dude, once I know the answer, I am so going to put that dust in my morning fruit shake and drink it.

6. In 2007, I vow to always surround the name Beck with the words Idiot Scientologist (as in, "The latest album by Beck, Idiot Scientologist, is a dull rehash of the lame white boy street funk schtick he's been shitting out for the last several years; or, It would be a shame if Idiot Scientologist Beck were to wake up one morning and realize his dumb-ass bad-sci-fi-novel religion has been a complete waste of time from the minute he was brainwashed into accepting it".)

7. Most of all, 2007 is the year I vow to download the billions and billions of albums this Napster-as-pig-face guy is offering at his website, despite the complicated subversive tactics which have been erected to avoid detection by the Filesharing Police. Just looking at the exhaustive list of everything he's got for the taking, I can tell 2007 is going to be a long year.

A Big Load of Down

Just like taxes and death, you simply cannot escape the mammoth bigness of the annual best-of year-end comp from your pal at Disco:Very. However, for the first time in history, you'll now have three choices: 1) if you're a fan of Joanna Newsom, you can ignore this offer completely, or, 2), if you prefer a 2-CD set in your postal box, you can toss me an e-mail (peecat[at]mac.com) with your name (fake is fine) and address, or, 3) you can download it directly from my hairless little hands right this very minute (Disc One is here, Disc Two is here; titles/names can be downloaded here.) Of course, you must consider carefully all of the ups/downs/pluses/minues of choosing a cold, heartless download over receiving a warm and fuzzy 2-CD set in the mail [click on image to embiggen]:

The fine print: If you choose to have a CD package mailed you you, please be assured that 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 (unless you want me to). I will not send you spam (unless you want me to). Delivery time of a CD package can be anywhere between 5 days and 6 weeks, depending on my energy level. This offer is good until my patience runs out.

Y Kant Tori Kill Off Joanna?

The best part of 2006: a lot of superb reissued music made it to the marketplace, such as Crushed Butler's visceral, wigged-out It's My Life. The worst part of 2006: Joanna Newsom continued to wreak havoc on our ear canals with such mind-numbingly awful lyrics as, "Picking through your pocket linings/Well, what is this?/Scrap of sassafras/Eh, Sisyphus?" DO YOU SEE WHAT PROBLEMS YOU HAVE WROUGHT UPON THE HUMAN RACE, TORI AMOS??? Obviously, the unicorn-ness twaddle of Newsome's latest musical missive didn't make it onto my annual 2-CD year-end free giveaway Disco:Very 2006. Want to know who did? Want to know how to get a copy? Check back in a few hours and all shall be revealed.

Ask Not What You Can Do For James Brown, Ask What Can James Brown Do For You

In the case of James Brown's death, I'm on Stage Three: Bargaining. "Oh, benevolent all-knowing Being", my tearful negotiations would begin, "How about we offer you a different but infinitely less-talented past-it performer like John Cougar Mellencamp or Carlos Santana to kill instead?" The sadness is multiplied when you realize we now have nobody to pen triumphant funk credos extolling the strength and dignity of can-do self-reliance. You know the types of songs I mean: those sassy pumped-up tunes like Brown's own I Don't Want Nobody To Give Me Nothing (Open Up The Door I'll Get It Myself) or Brown-protege Marva Whitney's You Got To Have A Job. I've already accepted the challenge and written a number of New Style songs for today's (man's man's man's) world. Or as we'd say in Brown-speak: I wanna get up and do my thang:

Don't Be Sending Me My Yahoo E-Mail Password (It Will Come To Me Eventually)

I Don't Need You To Spot Me (On The YMCA's Recline Bench Press)

Ain't Nobody Going To Process My Groceries (Give The People Self-Check Registers At Trader Joe's)

Don't Be A Quitter (Say It Loud - Smoke Yourself Proud)

Get Up, Get Involved, Get Into That Banana Republic Silk/Cashmere V-Neck Sweater On Your Own (The Sales Clerk Is Just Talkin' Loud & Sayin' Nothing)

I Can't Stand Myself (When You Touch Yourself) (Papa's Got A Brand New Bag Of Viagra)

Stacks of Wacks

Big deal. So a guy buys a Velvet Underground acetate at a yard sale for 75 cents and discovers it could be worth $150,000. I've got boxes full of those same acetates taking up space all over my house. I'm using one as a mouse pad right this minute. Hell, I've been making them into vinyl ashtrays to catch the ash off my $50-a-day smoking habit. If all you drooling indie kids are that ga-ga over all of this, a cheaper alternative might be to head over here where my man Taste has those same hella-rare tracks available as a free download. If you're still anxious to spread some green around, why not consider buying this shit-awful indie-by-the-numbers comp off me that I stupidly picked up used a few weeks back? It's got all the darlings of the ATP crowd, which just happen to be all the bands I hate with a violent, seething red-eyed anger: Modest fucking Mouse, Elliot fucking Smith, Pedro the fucking Lion, Minus the fucking Bear, Of fucking Montreal, etc, etc. My going price just happens to be, oh, say, $150,000.

The Reality Of It All

Due to my hectic career as a renowned creator of hit reality television shows, it sometimes takes me a long while to find time for a posting or two. Currently, I'm working on an offshoot of The Biggest Loser where, instead of overweight Americans resisting the temptation of food, we'll have wasted rockers struggling to avoid the downward spiral of excessive drug addiction. After hurtling gauntlets of managers with platters of pills and groupies offering bowls of coke, contestants will face the weigh-in, where the boniest post-rehab musician gaining the most pounds each week is declared the winner. I'm also developing a reality show for MTV wherein Neu!-influenced indie rockers--desperately attempting to prove their Krautrock credentials--will live together in a locked guarded house, keeping a 4/4 motortik rhythm going for the duration of an entire TV season. I'm placing my bets on Fujiya & Miyagi who, on the basis of Casettesingle and Conductor 71, could probably play this steady beat until Our Savior Jesus comes back to destroy the earth. Lucky for them, using a drum machine is not considered cheating.

The Agony Of Defeat Of The Pun Of The Agony Of Da Feet

Perhaps it's due to my freakishly large shoe size and thighs of titanium, but when I jog, I book. So even though it was made for running, the new long-playing corporate-ass-kissing concoction by James Murphy (mouthpiece of LCD Soundsystem) entitled 45:33 (Tales of Topographic Oceans was already taken?) is more suited to the Poky Little Puppy sweatin' to the oldies while plodding on the 3.3 setting of a treadmill (if you're anxious to just do it, it's currently being offered for free by my close personal friend Taste*). More likely, you'll catch me speeding past you to the live LCD Soundsystem concert being offered at Live Bootleg. It sprints along at a much more brisk clip, and helps me keep these buns of steel tighter than a clogged sink at the Playboy mansion**.

*Apparently, the Man made him take it down.
**Like you, I have no idea what that means.

Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair Is The New Black

Free Jazz and I are like oil and water: specifically, I'm the cheap rusty sludge coming from the faucet, and Free Jazz is the fancy aged European olive oil in a thick hand-crafted dark brown bottle. But in the Salad Bowl of Art-Damaged Free-Form Squealing, Patty Waters and I blend into a harmonius mixture of flavors, thanks to her notorious squawk-fest Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair. Ms. Waters takes this oft-covered Old World folk tune and bites it raw, spitting it out onto your lap like so much chewed Play-Doh. You haven't heard singing this deranged since Yoko Ono metaphorically fell into bed with Ornette Coleman and birthed Aos, the illegitimate love child which split up The Beatles. If, like me, you haven't yet learned how to suck at the nipple of the Free Jazz teat, skip on over to Destination Out where you can discover Patty Waters and more at A Beginner's Guide To Free Jazz, proof positive that the freshness date on your current favorite music genre expired at least 40 years ago.

Laughter Is The Best Way To Make Fun Of Those Less Intelligent Than You

Giggles came a-plenty earlier today when I was lucky enough to witness the spectacled, pasty white, Rebel-Without-A-Grill, Yo La Tengo-worshipping music store clerk at my local CD chain store as he attempted to help a thuggish, rough-looking gangsta Snoopafella figure out which artist performs "Slam Dat Ass" and "I Wanna Fuck You" (predictably, the Decemberists devotee came up blank.) I haven't laughed that hard since I downloaded (almost) the entire thrash metal oeuvre of Boston's bad boys Anal Cunt, freely available at Loadown. If I can't laugh at tracks like Pottery Is Gay, Recycling Is Gay, The Internet Is Gay, Windchimes Are Gay, Harvey Korman Is Gay, All Our Fans Are Gay, I Noticed That You're Gay, If You Don't Like The Village People You're Fucking Gay, The Word "Homophobic" Is Gay, I Just Saw The Gayest Guy On Earth, Song Titles Are Fucking Stupid and Having to Make Up Song Titles Sucks, I don't want to be part of your revolution.

When This Blog's-a-Thrashing, Don't Come a-Smashing

No recent postings does not mean I'm lazy. I've simply been busy negotiating with Google, who--still high from their recent You Tube purchase--are now offering to buy my shit-hot Disco:Very for a reported $800 billion (their reasoning: when your readers are apparently too intimidated to post comments, it's gotta be the greatest blog around.) My woeful lack of public appearances makes me similar to the sad hairless Chihuahua genius we call Billy Corgan, and like Mr. Rat In A Cage, I'm here to tell you that great things are on track for the future. As some of you know I am indeed blogging again; blogging that comes from a place so pure it will burn the lies off the very souls of those who try to discount it. I have arrived at a place in my life where truth and honesty prevail and I am creating from that place, a place I call Honesty Prevails Village, a gated community for tortured artists and the people who suffer along with them. Be sure to visit the gift shop.

Shot From A Canon

If Paul Schrader can pick the The Big Lebowski for his Film Cannon (in the September/October issue of Film Comment)--choosing it, mind you, before Sunset Boulevard, Gun Crazy and Salvatore Giuliano--I feel I can safely place Strum & Drum by the Sex Clark Five way up high at the top of my Definitive All-Time Greatest Albums Of All Time List (Canon). The angelic vocals of Fool I Was, those tentative White Boy rhythms in Alai, the curious subject matter blending the quest for nervous love (If You See Her With Me (Let Me Know), Girls Of Somalia) with precise descriptions of geo-political conflicts (Sarajevo)...all of it would sit nicely on my Western Canon trophycase (next to The Residents' Third Reich And Roll, Daniel Johnston's Hi. How Are You? and The Fall's This Nation's Saving Grace).

Another Kind Of Fire by Edie Carey: I like to extinguish fires by pissing on them. Plus, I avoid drinking fluids so my pee is thick and dark yellow. Did I mention I've also got blood in my urine?

Most Imperfect Skies by Don't Die Cindy: I used to hate you for your awful band name alone, but now thanks to your dumb-fuck album titles, I have a whole new layer of froth forming in my mouth.

The Makings Of Me by Monica: Judging by your provacative album cover, you have all the makings of a topless turd. A turd which is also a giant 'ho. Henceforth, you will answer to the name 'Ho Turd.

Lovers Requiem by I Am Ghost: You're the creepy, scary goth ghost of my nighmares, and when you sing "Pretty People Never Lie, Vampires Really Never Die", I thank Lucifer you're a ghost instead of a vampire, because I want assurance that you will die. Very, very soon. Like, yesterday.

Still Searching by Senses Fail: Congratulations! You've scored a 10-point field goal in the Soccer Game of Suck.

Vultures by Smile Empty Soul: The sound of choking on one's own vomit, for an entire album. It gets worse: it's a concept album.

One More Drifter In The Snow by Aimee Mann: Let's hope nobody sends out a rescue team.

We Couldn't Think Of A Title by Psychostick: Although they're as entertaining as Open Mic Night at Catch A Rising Star, I couldn't think of an insult more hurtful than this: They're from Phoenix.

I Love You by Diana Ross: Hell hath no fury like a woman with a botched face tuck, especially when her last hit was during the Mesozoic Era.

I Don't Care Where I Go When I Die by Gaza: With song titles like "Pork Finder", "Slutmaker" and "Hospital Fat Bags", I think it's safe to say nobody else cares where you go when you die, either.

Smile...It Confuses People by Sandi Thom: Does Ms. Thom have to pay Hot Topic royalties when she cribs her album titles off those half-inch buttons with wacky phrases they sell? Youth wants to know!

Suck Not, Lest Ye Be Sucked

The genius of Walt C. goes beyond what mortals would term "music". In other news, Modest Mouse has announced they will once again be postponing their forthcoming album We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank, vowing to keep working on it day and night until it no longer sucks. Accomplishing this Herculean task puts the new release date sometime in the year 5048.

Mopey's Choice

Which is worse: hearing the original version of "In A Big Country" performed by Big Country, or the yuppie FM-lite version on that icky-twee Kohl's commercial? Would you rather endure the faux-50's stylings in Grease or this sickening embroidery pattern? When I'm in the mood to hear moody opera pop, I pick Sigur Ros, except when they dawdle between albums, in which case I head towards the upstart quasi-Sigur Ros-esque-ness of Faunts, who creates, well, high expecations with High Expectations (on their debut CD High Expectations/Low Results). Sure, Gone With The Day sounds a bit too too too, but if there aren't any Icelandic post-rock albums appearing on the (tundra) horizon, what else am I supposed to do--sit around and pout? It's not like I can embroider one of my own.

An Open Letter To Perpetrators Of School Violence

Will all of you psychotic gun-toting maniacs please stop killing innocent children in America's classrooms, if only for another week or so? Because everytime you unleash your weapons, it takes away from the Foley scandal in the mainstream news, and if there is one thing I love, it's watching Republicans writhe in agony like the fuck pigs they are. Besides, they'll be plenty of other completely horrifying news topics in the coming weeks to take our minds off sexual predators in U.S. government. As for today's take on music: bla bla bla Beyond Istanbul bla bla bla Underground Grooves of Turkey, bleh bleh bleh Depresyondayım and Reggae Turca Tone etc etc etc. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm but it's hard to stay interested in music when you're living in a deranged country where war mongers are hell bent on pushing us all towards Armageddon.

Sweden Is Alright, If You Like Saxophones

My deep forbidden love of International Harvester is an open book. It's the secret diary I leave lying around, unlocked. So why don't I love Arbete Och Fritid the same way, seeing how they grew from the same mighty musical acorn? Easy: saxophones. I hate saxophones. Small parts of Petrokemi Det Kan Man Inte Bada I, for instance, make me urinate with glee, but then that damn saxophone comes in and my ears slam shut. Thank gawd they also play flutes, making it that much easier to rationalize my narrow music tastes. PS: If you don't hear from me for a long while, it's because I'm entering a rehabilitation clinic for treatment of alcoholism (apparently, it's a cure-all for sexual orientation--who knew?

Butt Trumpet

Sweet holy Jesus on a rotoblade! Pink Tentacle is offering up the entire You Tube music video collection of the completely kick-ass Japanese psych-punk band Yura Yura Teikoku. It's during such times as watching the video for Rame No Pantalon that I'm happy to still have a 9-year-old's sense of humor.

Xenu, Save Me From This Wall Of Fire!

When someone is the sole survivor of, say, a crowded fiery building and claims that God was looking out for them that fateful day, what they're really saying is, at that particular moment, The Almighty Huzzah wasn't so interested in saving anyone else's life and, therefore, abandoned the unfortunate others to their pyro-infested passing. In other words, God knows I'm really good at praying. I imagine this is what Beck thought when he channeled L. Ron Hubbard before embarking on his new album The Information, thus giving him the power to smite his enemies on the Billboard Top 100. But will he be able to keep that pace on the charts with such boring trifle as We Dance Alone and Cellphone's Dead?

Thank you, but I'll stick to the fuzzy funky shoulda-been-hits of Itavayla (Children Of Tomorrow and Hyperborea, in particular), which effortlessly reach their magnificence by keeping their groove to the grindstone. I'd like to say they're better songwriters but it might just be they're more, I don't know, blessed.

Har De Har Har

There are times when multi-band performer Munly shoulders the tired-and-dull country/punk routine but embellishes it with a fresh, ragged pop approach (Chutzpa), and then there are those other times, when he's veering this close to the wretched excess of mid-80's roots rock bands, performing songs about mountain stills and hoedowns (Seven Warts On Pa's Belly). Throw in the occasional violin, and you've got the reason an entire generation grew up hating Camper Van Beethoven. On a further downside: songs about trains. On the upside: regrettably unique band photos portraying Munly as a skin-and-bones concentration camp victim.

Their Jeans Runneth Over

Has there ever been a better band name than Pissed Jeans? Well, besides Bathtub Shitter, of course. But their amusing monker isn't the only attractive weapon in the sonic arsenal of this Allentown, Pennsylvania outfit: with Boring Girls, they've found a way to write the world's first one-chord song. It basically plays itself. They'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect monotony.

A Tricked Out Stingray

Here's what I think happened: All the creatures in the Kingdom we call Animal are able to talk clearly to each other, easy, and some alligator who was tired of being teased and taunted with pieces of meat and dangling babies passed it on down the line that it was time for revenge. Eventually, it reached Stella the Stingray, who decided it was time to teach this uppity Aussie that payback is a bitch. Another theory I possess: because His Funkiness The Pope-ster insulted the world's Muslims with his teasing and taunting, some Turkish Stingray terrorist is going to taunt and tease his ass during his visit next month, the same way the jocks used to tease and taunt the algebra prodigies at my grade school cafeteria at lunch time. The Turks are all, "We're going to kick your ass after school, your Eminence!". It's the same exact story, only way, way less violent and lacking a soundtrack. I would score this fight scene with Mazhar ve Fuat/Turkuz Turku Cagiririz and/or Uc Hurel/Hurel Arsivi, both taken from one of the latest in the Love, Peace & Poetry series, Turkish Psychedelic Music. How do you cry "Uncle!!" in Turkish? Be sure to visit The Crocodile Hunter website, which pays loving tribute to Irwin, offering dozens of pictures showing him as he harasses various wild animals in every corner of God's great land.

When Hairy Met Smally

A Conversation Between Sufjan Stevens and David Byrne
Sufjan: What's your favorite episode of Sex & The City?
David: I love the one where Carrie can't get Aidan to have sex with her and she's wondering why he's holding out because, you know, men are dogs.
Sufjan: Is that the one where Miranda is rocking the Prada ankle strap in that awesome green shade?
David: That's the one, girl.
Sufjan: I've got to get me a pair of those. My favorite episode is when Charlotte is doing the guy with the uncut penis--
David: --and Samantha's ex is now a drag queen?
Sufjan: --with the Gucci white suede lace ups?
David: That one kills me every time!
Sufjan: It's between that one and the one where Charlotte is turning 36 and can't believe she's still not married. What girl can't relate to that?
David: I like watching reruns of that one just to catch glimpses of that Fendi purse Charlotte is using--do you know the one?
Sufjan: The pink one? That purse is so you!
David: I always wanted that purse but could never afford it.
Sufjan: Just like Miranda wanted to have a baby and couldn't figure out how to juggle motherhood and a career.
David: She sure figured out how to juggle all that with her Mission wrap skirt!
Sufjan: Those girls are so lucky to be able to live in New York City and afford all those great clothes and shoes...
David: (sigh) Some girls have all the luck...
Sufjan: (sigh) Yeah...
David: Yeah...(sigh)
Sufjan: (sigh)
David: So, have you heard any songs by Victoria?
Sufjan: No, not yet. Do you think any mp3 blogs will post anything by them?
David: Let's hope so.

Don't You Point Those Things At Me Unless You Mean Business, Mister!

The Today Show hasn't been very forthcoming on this topic but Meredith Vieira has also joined DiscoColonVery.net as a sparkly new co-host. The only difference here is that, due to her puke-filled taste in music, she won't be saying anything or posting anything. If it was up to her, you'd be downloading files by Today Show Concert Series artists like John fucking Mayer and The Beach fucking Boys. Thankfully, my rampant narcissism dictates that I control every facet of this website, which means you'll instead be listening to Duchess Says, the new rebel-yell outfit taking France by hook and dagger via Black Flag and Rabies (Babies Got The). Make yourself useful, Meredith dear, and get me some ice for my Hot Toddy. If the cubes are stuck together, you can always break them apart with Matt Lauer's nipples.