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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIVXIVXXVIMXLXV

To celebrate 40 years of music from the never-tiring, always relevant, hi-NRG jazz-pop combo Chicago, those playful execs at Rhino Records have created a contest wherein we, the fans, get to design the cover art for their upcoming hit album. Has everyone turned in their entries? I sent mine in just a few minutes ago...

Smack My Rhymes-With-Witch Up

There are some tradeoffs which, frankly, are not worth the risk:

1.) Medical advancements can be helpful to the human race, but the end result of ending Tiga & Megan's tenure as conjoined twins will result in two times the amount of shit-awful albums when they eventually both go solo years from now. Some circus freak birth defects should just be left alone.

2.) I'm not against human rights, per se, it's just that if America wasn't a beacon for the those yearning to be free, we wouldn't have had that loathesome yelp-dog Regina Spektor flapping her wings to our shores back when she was pooping pickled Masliak Mushrooms into her diapers. And now we're stuck with her. And she keeps making albums. And they all suck.

3.) It's a pleasure having Alexei Luthor (who appears to be the publisher of several prolific blogs) as my new special friend, but he's forcing me to post the entire self-titled debut EP by The Ping Pong Bitches, and now I'm afraid that their management--or worse, the Bitches themselves--will track me down and break my legs like Popsicle sticks. Due to my fear of death, then, these tracks won't be up for very long. Grab them before the Ping Pongs grab me.

Beat You Up

I Love You, Necrophiliac

Rock Action

Dynamite

Chinese Song

[Update: Alexei and his hundreds of blogs appears to have vanished into thin air. We wish him well.]

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 2)

My 10-year-old ears should have been sentenced to Death by Injection for making me believe I liked Unborn Child, the painfully dreadful 1974 album by Seals & Crofts, an album so abysmally awful it doesn't even have camp value. Who could forget the goofy cover art, which illustrates the visceral thrill of receiving The Gift of Abortion as personified by a blob-shaped Rainbow-Being sporting enlarged disembodied horror movie peepers? I consider it a masterpiece-- the Mona Lisa of fetus extraction portraiture.

The 11 tracks on this album are fairly straight forward, lacking any poetic florishes: Ledges is about ledges. Windflowers is about windflowers. Rachel is about a female (or about a pet which keeps running away) named Rachel. Big Mac is about eating a Big Mac (or about eating a Big Mac which keeps running away). But it was the title track, Unborn Child, which caused a mountain of controversy. This Anti-Choice Kumbaya instantly divided their fan base, dialating and evacuating the stem cell of the audience, suctioning its precious breath, terminating its life before it had a chance to be fruitful and multiply. This chart-topping track generated so much heated argument, it was later left off the band's Greatest Hits album to avoid further furor (you might say it was aborted from the collection). Although I played this album endlessley as a boy, it was some months after its release when someone patiently explained to me what the title song was actually about. That, my friends, was the day I found My Loss Of Innocence, like stumbling upon a box of Girl Scout cookies smothered in KY Jelly.

In conclusion, I should admit I still find myself singing some of their earlier classic tracks in the shower (Summer breeze/Makes me feel fine/Blowing through vaginas in my mi-i-ind..."), but I would be remiss in not mentioning some fans liked Seals & Crofts back when they weren't famous, back when they were two country-blues aficionados, long before their folksy bluegrass leanings were somewhat diluted by the pop machinery of the '70's. Me? I liked Seals & Crofts back when they were still in the womb and there was still a chance they'd be eliminated in a back-alley clothes hanger hoe-down.

My Mind Is An Open Book, Which You May Check Out For 2 Weeks (There Will Be A Fine For Any Overdue Items)

That rat-bastard weasel Underneathica and I are in a violent mad-dash race to see who can post a write-up sooner regarding the album Jungle Rot by George Brigman. What Underneathica fails to understand is that I am far more obsessed with anti-social drug addict shut-in musicians than he is--perhaps because I am an anti-social drug addict shut-in musician myself. Michael Yonkers, Todd Tamanend Clark...name any one of 'em and I start drooling all over my government-issue orange jumper. I am way more into Don't Bother Me than him. I am much more likely to be humming I'm Married, Too during a lull while stamping license plates than he would be. I hasten to add: perhaps Underneathica doesn't even have a job in the first place? It is I, with my verbally-challenged speaking skills, that allows me to be in touch emotionally, physically, spiritually and--yes, telepathically--with songs like It's Misery.

On a related note, if you find yourself writing an article about mega-popular actor/producer Tom Cruise and his long-term triumphant success in Hollywood, you might consider using the witty headline Cruise Control. Personally, I lean more towards the headline Dumb Fuck Scientology Sleazeball Buttface Sleazebag. It's got a little something sassy to it, ne c'est pas?

Beatle-Dee, Beatle-Doo

Now that the latest album from Sir Paul McCartney, Memory Almost Full is hitting the stores, it's time to revisit the ongoing Beatles Solo Album Invitational to gauge which former Beatle--dead or alive--has produced the most amount of dreadful solo albums during the last 37 years since Yoko Ono viciously broke them up. By looking at the chart, we see that Paul McCartney is still leading the pack, despite the estate of John Lennon continuing to reissue every flatulence his body ever emitted. In order for Ringo Starr to even begin catching up to these two, he'd have to begin releasing--right now!--a completed new album every six months. This would entail working with a songwriter in tandem, one more prolific than he, but sadly, Elvis Costello has already been burned by his previous musical association with McCartney ("Veronica", anyone?). Robert Pollard would be a promising alternative, and--providing he can stay sober--it would be an amusing juxtaposition to hear Pollard's fake British accent singing alongside Starr's fake American one. Meanwhile, the paltry sum of albums generated by George Harrison make him "the quiet Beatle" in more ways than one! His lackadaisical production schedule can be blamed on his Zen/Hindu/Buddhist/pothead approach to life, resulting in a why-bother-to-make-another-worthless-album-
when-I'm-only-going-to-die-and-come-back-as-a-hamster? attitude, though the actual responsibility must be placed upon his ex-wife and children who (unlike The Dragon Lady Ono) appear to have no interest in milking his legacy at all, turning their noses up at the very thought of mining the vaults for valuable excerpts of third-rate demos recorded during his brief but torrid love affair with Jeff Lynne. Instead of organizing benefits for Madonna (i.e., Shanghai Surprise), he should have been endlessly recording his every waking days in an heroic attempt to overcome what now appears to be a sure-fire victory for his arch enemy Paul McCartney.

Release Your Inner Nutter

If quirky were a rich and creamy sandwich spread, The Mules would be the 800-pound man too obese to leave his bed, thus earning a tough love visit from Dr. Phil. Every catchy musical phrase making a linear path to the chorus (exhibit A: Straight As Vs Drill) gets sideswiped by angular zig-zags upending what should have been the song's original intent (zany, thy name is Plenty Warning). Someday, there is sure to be a movie about the life and times of The Violent Femmes and--because of songs like Here To Help--these asses are going to be on the producer's A-List (my advice to the band: don't be in the sequel, showing Le Femmes old and bloated, touring long after their supernova faded from the underground zeitgeist, still singing the hits of their sexually-frustrated 20's thirty years after the fact: leave that to The Wrens).

My Love Affair With Lavender Diamond Is As Volatile And Passionate As The Central Love Affair In Reds (And Is Almost As Dull)

Me (a.k.a. Diane Keaton): Your theories on the worker's struggles are quite interesting to me.
Lavender Diamond (a.k.a. Warren Beatty): Thank you. Here's my latest written piece, entitled When You Wake For Certain.
Me: It's brilliant! I love you! I will never sleep with Jack Nicholson again!
[The romance blossoms; seasons change]
Lavender Diamond: Here's a new piece I've come up with. I'm calling it Dance Until It's Tomorrow.
Me: Dance Until It's Tomorrow??? What, did Kate Bush burrow into your ass and force you at gunpoint to come up with this crap? Get out of this house! I never want to see you again!
[Many months come and go. Our paths cross once again in the snowy streets of Petrograd.]
Me: I just heard Oh No and it opened my eyes to all the qualities that made me fall in love with you in the first place. It's so powerful, yet full of delicate passion.
Lavender Diamond: If you like that one, wait till you hear My Shadow Is A Monday.
Me: Jesus fucking christ on a Q-Tip--did I hear that right?? My Shadow Is A Monday??? You're more pretentious than all of Tori Amos' fictional selves combined! Take your music and serenade me never again!
[After a separation of almost a year, Lavender Diamond and I attempt to reconnect]
Lavender Diamond: I always want to be with you. I've written this quasi-Christian ditty for you entitled Side Of The Lord.
Me: Ugh. It stinks like a pickled jar of Natalie Merchant. I hate you. Drop dead.
[Lavender Diamond dies of Typhus.]

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 1)

First in a series.
Religion and I never got along, even during my tenure as a pre-pubescent squirt, yet I found myself drawn towards hippy-dippy retellings of The Bible. Sadly, like millions of record-collecting dullards of the '70's, this meant owning the original motion picture soundtrack to Godspell (purchased at a thrift strore, I recall). The faux-funky gospel-tinged stylings of Light Of The World were somewhat alluring to my white-bread suburban ear canals, while All For The Best seemed, at the time, to be an absolute ovation-rendering showstopper. I was convinced it was The Most Perfect Foot-Tapping Showtune Ever Written. I never quite understood what Beautiful City was about...I still don't. I also seem to remember thinking All Good Gifts was telegraphing some important messages about...Thanksgiving??? Perhaps it was advising us to be nice to snails, being grateful for the foods we toss out after eating too much...? I never had a clue. Back then, the lyrics of By My Side seemed so deep and earnest. Today, it gives me the same painful shudder I experience upon hearing certain tracks by R.E.M. (circa Green). I was in the 4th grade and a total know-nothing. Please forgive me.

The Only Bush I'd Fondle Passionately Is My Own

To those of you in Albania who embraced George W. Bush with a frenzy of physical affection during his visit to your country this week, may I suggest that since you love him so much, you might take him off our hands and install him as your own president? Because his unending stupidity and skull-numbing isolationism is driving us Americans out of our fucking minds. Thank you.

PS: You have to take Laura Bush too. They are a package deal. Don't worry, you'll enjoy having her around. She's as much of an annoying ding-dong as he is.

PPS: You are not allowed to take Dick Cheney. We hope to one day conduct studies on his evil energies so as to formulate a synthetic version which can be distributed in pill form.

Knight In White Satin

If the fan-tabulous Wayne Cochran (thanks to songs like Somebody's Been Cuttin' In On My Groove, Get Down With It and Goin' Back To Miami) is known as the "white James Brown", does that make Pearl Jam (when covering one of his least exciting tracks Last Kiss) "the translucent Wayne Cochran?" Let me also be one of the first to say that as punishment for crimes against (musical) humanity, the crap-tacular Bob Seger should be forced to line his underwear with the royalty checks of Sittin' In A World Of Snow. And for my final joke today: Knock knock. Who's there? Nat. Nat who? National Geographic, and we've discovered a new race of White people and they all look and sound exactly like Eddie fucking Vedder. If that ain't an argument why we should all support ethnic cleansing, I don't know what is.

Ice Ice Maybe

Perhaps it loses something in the translation from Russian, but if Old Wainds are hoping to scare up more interest in their dark foreboding music, they should try naming their songs something more frightening than At The Gates Of Frosty Mountains, the title of which sounds like a children's ride at the Winter Wonderland theme park. Likewise Guardians Of The Icy Kingdom, which could be one of its gelato shops. I've had morning bowel movements more fraught with terror than these song titles--perhaps these Russkie Rockers would like me to send them the monikers I give my stools each dawning day? Request granted.

The Music Blogger Version of I, Claudius, Except I'm Not Pretending To Be A Dolt

My dear readers, what I am about to admit to you will be shocking and perhaps too painful to bear. Sometimes, in my most personal moments, I pull out Lolita Nation by Game Theory and tap my toes to The Real Sheila, The Waist And The Knees and One More For Saint Michael. Can you ever forgive me? Did Simon ever forgive Garfunkel? Garfunkel, if I ever get my hands on you, I'm gonna make you pay for what you did to Simon! I'M GONNA MAKE YOU PAY!!!

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

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

Chicken Feast

Earlier today, as what appeared to be the entire cast of Wassup Rockers jettisoned past me on their skateboards, it occurred to me that my life would be so much more enriched if Mark E. Smith would fire his current hired hands (again) and simply continue using Mouse On Mars as his permanent back up band, as he did on the new excellent CD Tromatic Reflexxions. Curb your shock and awe as you dine upon Chicken Yaiamas and Duckrog. Think of how much better the last Fall album had been if it had featured The Rhinohead or Speech Contamination/German Fear Of Österreich. Dream of how much less wormy Graceland would have been if it had included Dearest Friends, and Smith never would have allowed Paul Simon to hog all the song credits for himself the way Los Lobos did. You can bet his false teeth would have been clamped on Simon's hair extensions in a Manchester minute.

Lo Mucho Que Te Quiero (The More I Love You) by Rene & Rene

Montebello by The Sugarplastic

Born In Xixax by Nina Hagen

Crazy Horses by The Osmonds

Annalisa by Public Image, Ltd

I Love Paris by Jonathan and Darlene Edwards

Gimmie Some Money by The Gories

Lycanthrothene by the Lemon Kittens

Just A Little Is Enough by The Last Roundup

Le Tourbillon as sung by Jeanne Moreau in Jules & Jim

Move Out Of Wichita by Paris 1942

Front Loader by Neil Innes & Eric Idle

Reflections In A Crystal Wind by Richard & Mimi Fariña

Mauna Kea by King Bennie Nawahi

Live Blogging The Season Finale of American Idol

7:01pm Why the hell am I watching this shit?

7:08pm Why the hell am I watching this shit?

7:14pm This program is America at its greatest! I can't believe the line-up they have tonight: Hollywood jokester Bruce Vilanche and his entire wardrobe of ribald t-shirts, long-time professional Nixon impersonator Rich Little, supermodel and current U.S. Treasurer Anna Escobedo Cabral, an inanimate George Foreman Grill, the entire state of Israel and Palestine (who will be explain the Arab-Jewish conflict in song) and so many more!

7:29pm They just announced that Lynne Cheney and her partner will be giving birth to their turkey-baster-conceived baby right after the commercials. The 10th caller into the show gets the placenta for free.

7:33pm I actually like this new Mac vs. PC ad...

7:40pm Holy shit, Lynne Cheney is having her baby live in front of an audience of 800 million people!

7:54pm The studio audience has risen up against the entire Cheney clan and is now tearing the baby into tiny little pieces right in front of her grandparents! Dick Cheney has collapsed from the sight and is dying from a stroke! Now they've ripped Lynne Cheney's head off her body and are poking it with large wooden sticks! This is the most awesome two hours of television I've ever witnessed!!!

8:06pm A tribute to Sgt. Pepper...is he still alive?

8:15pm A tribute to The Partridge Family...

8:24pm A tribute to Phil Silvers...

8:35pm A tribute to God...

8:45pm A tribute to the George Foreman Grill...

11:38pm I must have fallen asleep--did they announce a winner yet?

You Can Make It If You Try (But Ask Yourself Whether It's Worth The Bother)

It's a pleasure, finally, to have the long-ignored recorded output of Sly & The Family Stone back in print, each restored with original cover art, unreleased tracks and half-finished demos. The reissues end around the time of the band's demise, right before Sly went hoo-hoo with drugs and began missing live engagements, alienating fellow bandmates from sticking around. Sly himself carried on solo but failed to reestablish a following, even after attempting to win back his audience with several redemption-themed albums such as High On You, Heard You Missed Me, Well I'm Back and Back On The Right Track. One can only wonder if he would have eventually scaled the charts again had he recorded his other proposed titles Won't Be A No-Show No Mo'; Putting The 'Unity" Back In Comm-Unity Service; I Swear, Officer, I Didn't Know That Was A Bong 'Cuz I've Been Using It All This Time As A Vase; and Here I Am Again, Cleaned Up and Ready To Play It Straight (The Record Company Inserted a No Play/No Pay Clause).

My Precious Feelings As I Recount Kissing (With Tongue!) the Tribeca Film Festival and All of New York City

Celebrities Are Everywhere! My first day in the city and I run into Laurie Anderson for the second time in my life, or more accurately, her dog (unlike my last encounter, Lou Reed is nowhere to be found). "Why haven't you called me?", I hiss into the canine's whiskered mug. "I thought we shared something special, you bitch!" She sits staring straight ahead, mocking me with that the-fart-you-smell-was-not-made-by-me look. How is an Alpha Male supposed to lead his pack if the female won't expose her belly in submission?

Some Of The Celebrities Ride the Subway! I always knew that someday I would see Tom Verlaine in a public transportation setting, and here is how I envisioned our eventual exchange:

Me: Hello, Tom Verlaine, Musical Genius of All Time. I am unworthy of changing your guitar strings.
Tom Verlaine: Hello, Disco:Very. I've been wanting to meet you for a long time. For you are the only person in the world who understands me, the only person who really gets how brilliant my overlooked 1982 album Dreamtime is. I happen to know that over 20 years after its release, you still listen to it obsessively, and that is why I would like you to be my new special friend. Will you be my new special friend?
Me: Yes, Tom Verlaine, it would be my pleasure to be your new special friend. Can I play drums on your future albums and tour the world with you?
Tom Verlaine: Yes, Disco:Very, you may play drums for me because now we are best friends forever and you will tour the world with me, and although the other touring musicians will be a revolving door of comers and goers, you will remain my constant source of inspiration.

This, however, is really what went down:

Me: Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! It's Tom Verlaine! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! It's Tom Verlaine! It's Tom Verlaine, sitting on the very same subway train as me! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Is that really Tom Verlaine?? I can't tell if that's really him! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd!Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! It's gotta be him! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Is that really him? Who is that woman sitting next to him? Is that a girlfriend? A wife? Why is she wearing Birkenstocks? Would Tom Verlaine date a woman wearing Birkenstocks? Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Should I go talk to him? Is that really him? Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd!Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd!
Tom Verlaine: (Stares straight ahead with that the-fart-you-smell-was-not-made-by-me look).

Everyone In New York Conceals A Hidden Talent! I'd love to be able to report that the street musician who occupied the 23rd Street platform performed his Neil Young repertoire with great skill and emotion, but in truth, hearing his wheezy whine and insecure big-dreams-on-display performance had me groping for the quick release only the third rail can bring. Where are the flesh-eating subway rats when you need them??

New York I Love You But You're Bringing My Reproductive Organs Into Regions For Which They Were Not Made

You will neither read me, hear me, see me, smell me or taste me for the next 7 days as I cavort and prance at the 2007 Tribeca Film Festival. If you're in the area, say hello. I'll be easy to spot: just look for the man on the observation deck of the Empire State Building whose fear of heights have made his testicles recess into his abdomen.

Ich Bin Ein Gringo

Don't look now but there is a good possibility someone has stolen my identity and switched it with the body and face of someone who is puro mexicano. Yes, I am partially of Mexican descent but I've always thought my mannerisms (such as driving a tan Toyota Camry) put me squarely in the category of muchos gringos. However, various remarkable events have taken place in the last few days which lead me to believe I am now livin' la vida Chicano. Witness, if you will:

1. Earlier today, in the shower at my local YMCA, some guy came up and began speaking Spanish to me. I replied in English and his retort was that he assumed I was Mexican! Is it because, naked, I resemble a hairless Chihuahua? Think about it!

2. A mere three days ago, I made a dinner comprised of tortillas, frijoles y queso, all ingredients used often in Mexican cooking! Also, I am quite adept at correctly pronouncing the word Tijuana. Coincidence?? Don't be so naive!

3. Last week on American Idol, the special guest mentor was none other than Jennifer Lopez, an actress/singer/clothing line entrepreneur who speaks Spanish! And she was raised Catholic--the very religion, out of all the world's religions, which annoys me the most! Do you see a pattern here?

4. The final straw in the burros back: just a few minutes ago, I happen to acquire the Nonesuch Explorer CD Festivals of Chiapas and Oaxaca, which contains some of my favorite field recordings of Mexican folk songs! Songs like Bats’i Son Martomail, K’in Sventa Ch’ul Me’tik Kwadulupe, Son Alegre and Danza de la Malincha! The truth hurts, eh, amigo?

The entire population of la raza blanca is in danger! Do I have to draw you a diagram?

Clouds of Joy (and Weirdness) (and WTF??)

If you were hoping to catch Dave Cloud at the ground floor, you're too late. To judge from a few of the previously unreleased tracks on his new career-spanning two-fer, Napoleon of Temperance (namely Belinda Purvis, Misengendered Mulatto Squandering Abeyance to Phantasmagoria, Sudden Stop and You Missed A Damn Good Chance), he's already taking the elevator through the Glass Ceiling of Crazy and is flying far into the stratosphere. It goes without saying, therefore, that Mr. Cloud is one of my favorite artists working today. He's my American Idol and Top Of The Pops rolled into one. And did I mention that he's completely crazy?

Absence Makes the World Go 'Round

[Click on image to make it legible.]

Killer Queens

I've been up since 5:30am, unable to slumber peacefully after being awakened by 10 minutes of gunfire rounds going off near my 'hood. Eventually, it occurred to me that it was my heavily Mexican/Catholic neighbors lighting strings of firecrackers in honor of Jesus' birth. Or Jesus' death. Or whatever the hell the morning after Good Fucking Friday is supposed to represent. What else can a poor boy do--besides play in a rock and roll band-- but get out of bed and put on some Cobra Killer jams like Without A Sun and Chemie Des Alltags to get the day started right? If Cobra Killer were a liquid morning stimulant, Starbucks would already be out of business. Take that, corporate weed!

Either Way, It Feels Like I've Died And Gone To Trashy Pop Culture Heaven

How long does it take before a mentally deranged performer unleashes his delusional talents on an unsuspecting French TV audience? Approximately one minute and thirty-five seconds.

What happens to a dream deferred? It ends up with its own cable-TV show.

The Rifle Man

At my local gym, the race to secure locker 15 is a battle over who begins their lunch hour sooner and arrives at this coveted spot first. I choose it because it mirrors my birthdate and is thus easy to remember each day, whereas my fellow athletes merely rely on its proximity to the showers. My chief rival is a gentleman about my age but much more bald. Although a comb-over is not yet on display, he does sport a Grateful Dead dancing bear tattoo on one arm, which fills my heart with gloom. Worse still, rather than update his life to today's technology, he still exercises using a Sony Discman. When he's in the shower, I always spy into his gym bag to gather evidence reinforcing my harsh opinions about his lackluster music taste rather than just hate him for his ill-informed inky accessory alone. Last week, it was Steely Dan's Aja; this week, the Meat Puppets (and not even from their interesting early period--he was listening to Monsters, an album which demeans all who listen to it). At the exact moment I was rudely rifling through his sweaty gym clothes and C-grade music collection, my iPod was rocking Sun OK Papi OK, and it's my feeling that the Japanese glitch grime, fractured electro-grunge and playful nonsensical fart-ness of each track reversed my transgression into a victimless crime. If you're reading this, balding work-out guy, please be aware that while my actions against your privacy might make me ripe for a lawsuit, I still have your sweaty disgusting underwear in my possession, and I'm not above introducing it as evidence in my defense.

A Short Reprise For Sufjan Stevens, Who Got Annoying, But For Very Good Reasons

Owing to a growing scarcity of twee/Americana costume themes, prominent musicologists have recently taken note of Sufjan Stevens mixing his metaphors (butterfly wings...with Boy Scout shirt???), a blatant desperate cry for help from a beloved performer who always seemed to possess an infinite grab-bag of folksy symbolism for each worldwide tour. In an effort to assist Mr. Stevens' in maintaining his place in pop history, Disco:Very herewith offers alternative suggestions for him to use as he sees fit:

Dress up as a cucumber fresh off the farm, accessorized with oversize Disney-style white gloves.

Outfit yourself in a cute Little Black Sambo outfit; refer to self as "wog".

Emulate the look and syntax of The Little Red Hen; complain that everyone in the band has refused to help write the songs; make off with entire take of ticket sales to teach musicians a lesson about the American roll-up-your-sleeves work ethic.

One half of the band is Confederate, the other half Union; Civil War battle reenactments take the place of between-song stage banter.

Wear giant tortilla costume with faint imprint of Jesus on it.

Outfit the entire band as Puritans; scold audience for immoral behavior, reenact the Salem Witch Hunt; lead entire audience to the gallows during encore.

Portray yourself as chitlins, drape entire body in pig intestines.

Sufjan is the White plantation owner, the entire band his slaves; lynchings occur upon audience request.

Dress up as praying mantis; wait for audience to come within striking distance, feast on prey.

Sufjan emulates President James Polk; dies after third song.

Concoct an entire suit made of snowy-white Marzipan; invite audience to eat it off you during the show.

Sufjan and the band dress as The Donner Party; eat one another by the end of the show (no encore).

Mimic the late Helen Keller, perform entire set deaf/mute.

Dress up as the Poky Little Puppy, prepare for role by consuming entire bottle of Valium before each show.

Dress up as the Indian Removal Act of 1830; negotiate land disputes with audience members residing west of the Mississippi River (if river not available in concert venue, substitute with nearest men's public urinal).

Impersonate the look/sound of P.T. Barnum; entire band dresses as circus freaks (bearded lady, man with no legs or arms, pinheads, conjoined twins, etc).

Band dresses up as sperm, Sufjan dresses up as egg; conception ensues during encore.

Sucking In The Forties

Will someone please hurry up and invent a time machine so I can skip ahead to the future of Two Weeks From Now when my new favorite CD Sucks Blood by The Ohsees finally arrives in the mail? Also, can anyone out there invent a pill which makes me feel as elated as I do when listening to It Killed Mom, the current runaway favorite on my Urinary Hit Parade of Excitement? This song is why God invented the repeat button (and the urinary tract). Sad though I am to know that The Ohsees were only resurrected to spit on the grave of the now-dead Coachwhips, in my gut of guts, I am certain that if the future is going to be this bright, I gotta wear shades (that whoosing noise you hear is the sound of my jokes flying over the head of my 8 to 15-year-old target market.) (I suck.)

Disco:Very Reveals Endings to Recent Oscar-Nominated Films You Were Never Planning on Seeing Anyway

LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
Japan loses the war because they did not know "The Secret"

AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
Earth gains more self-confidence after J. Alexander provides free makeover

UNITED 93
Crisis averted when passenger Faith Popcorn identifies terrorism as the new cultural zeitgeist

BABEL
Four more narrative threads are interwoven into the story, all of them involving LonelyGirl15

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
The yellow VW bus is a penis symbol

Monkey See, Monkey Do, Monkey Throw Down and Work Some Sweat

If a thousand monkeys type at a thousand typewriters for one thousand years, and those monkeys are not typing but are, instead, recording a much sought-after LP of greasy groove-thang instrumentals, and the monkeys are from, perhaps, Turkey, and they live by the credo "Give the drummer some!", plus they decide to vogue one of their own hairy bruthas on the album's cover, rather than the actual composer Mustafa Ozkent, and they like to rock the Wah-Wah and the Hammond, will they produce Shakespeare? No, but Finders Keepers will find a way to track down the original master tapes from 1972 and release it anyway.

Bloggers Against Drunk And Sober Societies

Nyquil wasn't made for those days like today, when allergies have got your head so swollen you feel like a balloon with a pulse. No, it was made for those days like today, when you have mind-numbing allergies but you also want to experience the full sonic threshold of Rhys Chatham's epic long player Die Donnergotter at the same time. Take a few spoonfuls of that green elixir, pop that baby onto the headphones and let the almost 22-minute ride steer you to new heights of alcholic epiphany. Trust me--this is one time you'll want to drive drunk.

Manifest Destiny

Chico Mann's lo-fi drum machine screams Shuggie Otis, but his saucy slinky rhythms spell F to the E to the L to the A (or, at the very least, harken back to his day job with Antibalas). Groove workout Soul Freedom is like a late-night transmission from some mysterious African shortwave station, while Piensalo fronts a primitive bedroom-recording innocence not seen since Daniel Johnston tried to purge the devil from his own heart. The new album is titled Manifest Tone, Volume 1, and I'll be a broken man if there's not more volumes where that came from.

Mission Acceptable

For those regular readers who are furious, burning with rage, frothing with anger that I long ago forbid you from sending me link after link after fucking link to Mr. Show clips on You Tube--clips which I already own, clips I have watched over and over until my eyeballs are nine months pregnant with laughter semen--can I make it up to you by offering a link to the hilarious new VH-1 sketch comedy show Acceptable TV? Can I help it if some Public Relations suckface named Jon Creech keeps sending me solicitations about these television clients he reps, just because I'm a raw and radical take-no-prisoners blogger and he's some 9-to-five suit-and-tie Corporate Corpuscle hawking his latest test-marketed edgy hipster laff fest? Does he think I'm some finger-on-the-pulse 16-year-old who will shit his diapers to be tossed an e-mail promo bone, blabbing about this show to all my friends on My Space, thankful to him for placing me so ahead of the pop culture curve? The joke's on him: he doesn't realize I'm a bitter, vile-spewing 42-year-old hater with thinning hair and an ulcer who is only using him as a means to net more free web goodies! Thank goodness this show (which begins airing March 23rd) is actually worth watching, otherwise I might say something about him I'd later regret.

Brain Slaw

Travelling through France many eons ago, my sickly obsession with record sleeve graphics motivated me into buying a 7" EP from a French band of whom I'd never heard. Imagine my surprise when the EP turned out to be pretty bleepity-blankety punk rock cool. Flash the fuck forward 10 years later and imagine my wet and wiley wee-wee thrills when I stumble upon said band's website and the spastic joyride that is Pom Pom Ass. Imagine, furthermore, that I pee freely while excitedly watching the accompanying music video. All of this adds up to one plodding, dumb-ass pogo dance through Lobotomyland. This song puts me in rolling-backward-eyeball, forehead-slapping heaven.

Are You There, Me? It's Me, Me.

I'm back from the 2007 SXSW film festival. Actually, I returned a bit earlier than today but needed some "personal" time to process the following observations made while in attendance:

1. The woman at the trade show booth for Music Supervisor looked disturbingly like my Aunt Gracie. I kept expecting her to scold me for not waiting an hour after eating before I went swimming in her pool, followed by backhanded racial insults slyly directed towards my mother.

2. Pegging your pants to a diameter smaller than that of your ankles is The New Flared Corduroy Loose Fit Jeans (previously known as The New Black). Also, there were a shocking amount of attendees who resembled Harry Knowles in both girth and hair style. I weep for a generation. Especially if they all start reviewing movies on-line.

3. While I applaud the practice set forth by the Alamo Drafthouse Cinemas--that is, bringing food directly to your seat while you enjoy a movie--I would recommend that, while watching a midnight horror flick involving a man whose eyes are being pulled from its sockets by a Satan worshiper, it's best not to be eating Creme Brulee.

4. Although everyone else was in line to obtain the autograph of director John Sayles during a special festival appearance, I was in line to demand he pay back the six hours of my life he owes me for sitting through Casa De Los Babys, Lone Star and Sunshine State.

5. While everyone else at the Austin Airport was gawking as Peter Buck walked by, I was demanding he pay me back the $60 I paid for the past four REM albums. The punchline is: I downloaded them all for free.

6. The ultimate in nerd overload is to attend a sold-out screening of the new typeface documentary Helvetica, where you will find interactive dorks and graphic design junkies of all shapes and sizes. The punchline is: I was the eighth one in line.

These Arms Are Fakes

Earlier today, some clients from out of town who have been pampered all month by yours truly left more than a couple of frantic voice mails on my cell urging me to put pressure on the local police department to patrol their hotel more frequently after one of the clients found his car had been burglarized. "Sure thing", I felt like replying, "Let me call Sherrif Taylor and Barney Fife so we can eradicate crime in this town all together! After we catch those varmits, maybe Aunt Bee can bake us a huckleberry pie!" It's this kind of work-related turmoil that makes me happy to skip town for a few days and hang at the 2007 SXSW Film Festival. Yes, this means you won't hear from me for a while. And yes, I'll be coming home right as the music festivities start, which means I'll be missing a list of bands as long as your right arm. If you have a missing stump for a right arm, the list will be much shorter and will only feature Pete Townsend with a mohawk. You heard me: the man is often seen sporting a mohawk. I hope I die before he gets old.

A Social Contract With Ann Coulter

1. WHEREAS this agreement applies to the tenuous relationship between Ms. Ann Coulter and the American Public; and

2. WHEREAS this agreement in principle, signed in conformity with the provisions of Chapter 7 of the Agreement on Internal Bigotry (AIB), aims to reduce barriers to communication and is intended to allow both parties to have access to trading insults in all American jurisdictions; and

3. WHEREAS this is a provisional agreement which will be taken forward to each regulatory body for ratification and approval by March 7th, 2007; and

4. WHEREAS parties agree that the situational insults are defined and agreed upon by both parties; and

5. WHEREAS Ann Coulter is free to use the term "Faggot" however and whenever she sees fit, pertaining to politicians and anyone disagreeable with her political views, for the immediate benefit of increasing her book sales, speaking engagement fees and providing sought-after Right-Wing zealot street cred.

6. THEREFORE, the American Public is allowed to forever more return insults towards Ann Coulter, allowing Ms. Coulter to be labeled by the American Public, en masse, as follows:

a) Cunt

b) Stupid Cunt

c) Ugly Cunt

d) Horse-Face Cunt

e) Stupid Bitch Cunt

f) Fuck-Pig Cunt

g) He-Woman Cunt

h) Butt-Ugly Cunt-Face Cunt

i) Indeterminate-Gender Cunt

j) Fucking Dumb-Ass Cunt

k) Anal Cunt (with deepest apologies to the band Anal Cunt)

l) Androgynous Butch-Cunt

m) Transsexual Hatchet Job Cunt

n) Cuntzilla, Queen Of The Cunt People

o) Bitchy McCunt Cunt

p) Coulter-Cunt, The Ugliest Cunt of Cuntville

q) Count Cuntula

r) You Is One Ugly-Ass Man-Cunt

s) The Cunt Ann Coulter, An Adams-Apple Sporting, Freakishly Tall Overtly-Masculine, Never-Been-Linked-Romantically-With-A-Man Asexual Cunt Hole

t) Ms. Cunt

RESOLVED that under this paragraph, signatories are formally committed to implement the agreement.

Signed On This Day of March 7th, In The Year Of Our Lord, 2007

The Silent Scream

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

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

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