Children Are The Single Most Precious Resource We Have. As Much As A Heaping Handful of Illegal Black Beauties. Oops! Did I Type That Out Loud?

I know who you are. You're a parent and you want to teach your kids about drugs. Sit them down (chained), load up Psych Out! (which came free with the April 2006 issue of Mojo Magazine, top left) and force the little hellions to listen to Blow Up by The In Crowd. Tell them, "This is how you'll sound on good drugs (i.e., uppers)". Later, nail their feet to the ground and play Revolution (Top Gear Radio Session) written and performed by the very same band after they took bad drugs (i.e., hippy psychedelics) and changed their name to Tomorrow. Explain to your children, "Bad drugs twist your brain into writing songs with an overabundance of time signatures while convincing you that the image of your band is best served by adopting a new spacey moniker referencing the infinite". The closer is the clincher: Barclay James Harvest's Pools Of Blue, a soft heartfelt ballad that should keep them off downers well into teenhood. If all that fails to scare them, show this picture of what Barclay James Harvest looks like now (top right). That oughta do it.

Normal See, Normal Do

More than anything, I wanted to see myself liking and actively listening to the debut album Boo Hoo Hoo Boo from They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, the aural 3-ring circus on Kill Rock Stars. Sadly, they only bring to mind those dark days in the early 80's when the world was under the sway of Oingo Boingo, and the "Why Be Normal?" button was the name tag of a generation. If Big Dot or Hiccup is your cup of double-espresso latte, by all means, plant yourself in front of this CD. As for me, my time would be better spent strangling the young man who sullied my plane ride to Austin last month when he watched his Hell Freezes Over DVD during the entire 2 hour flight. Shall I make room for you on his neck? I'll provide the rope.

Donkey Begets Honkey

Let me get this straight: Two long-haired crusties win The Amazing Race, the grand prize for the American Inventor goes to a Polish immigrant, a honkey who hopes to turn Negroid someday is the favored American Idol, and to top it all off, Legacy Recordings corrals a 2-disc multi-label restrospective of roots rebel T-Bone Burnett...? Did I fall asleep for two years and the Democrats wrestled their way into power again? Putting the Donkeys back in the White House would make me smile, but I'm much more gleeful about Twenty-Twenty: The Essential T-Bone Burnett which not only highlights some criminally out-of-print recordings (Trap Door, Shut It Tight) but also points out some of his best songs as well (Power Of Love, Driving Wheel ). But who the hell gave this tall Texan Jesus Freak permission to remix certain tracks off Proof Through The Night? Is he trying to tell us the original versions of Fatally Beautiful and Hefner And Disney are somehow inferior? Unless America has altogether given up on checks and balances, I want an investigation launched.

Lost: One Horizon, Reward Offered For Safe Return To Owner

In the end, the world will forgive Tom Hanks for foolishly jumping into bed with the universally panned The Da Vinci Code, the same way we all once absolved Burt Bacharach for scoring the 1973 musical train wreck of Lost Horizon. I'm a big enough fan of The Burt that I can allow him the soppy spectacles of Reflections, Question Me An Answer, Things I Will Not Miss and the almost unbearably hippy-dippy World Is A Circle. Sitting through the entire film (still unavailable on DVD) is another matter entirely. But I'm more inclined to take on this Herculean task than watch any Ron Howard film you'd care to mention. But please, please don't mention any of them. I just had lunch, thank you.

The Brian Joseph Massacre

Two qualities which make "micro-sampling" (or whatever it's being called this week) so much fun is, 1) hearing how similar it all sounds to the banned 'n' burned records of Brian Joseph Davis, and 2) figuring out from where the sampled source was taken. In the case of the staccato hiccup of Rikki (on Mylo's worldwide mega-hit Destroy Rock & Roll), it was pieced together from Living It Up, off the transcendent/depressing Rickie Lee Jones 1982 long-player Pirates. It is my pleasure to solve these sonic puzzles out so that you may sleep more soundly at night. You're welcome.

Torn Between Three Lovers

In much the same way Ginger used to worriedly pick between Gilligan or Skipper each night, I used to ponder, when riding an elevator stuffed with strangers, which of my co-inhabitants in the tiny box I would relent to have sexual relations with if the lift were to get stuck between floors with a flat tire in the middle of the ocean. It was the song Aerosmith forgot to write. Nowadays, as a semi-quasi-grown-up adult, I instead debate which track on Forgotten Lovers by Gary Wilson would be worth a naked snuggle or two: Rhythm In Your Eyes? Or perhaps Chrome Lover? Or maybe an indescretion with You Took Me On A Walk Into My Mirror? Mr. Wilson, is that a mixed metaphor in your lyrics or are you just happy to see me?

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

Dumbhead by The Shermans (buy)

Walk Through Walls by Half Japanese (buy)

Malibu Barbie by Al Perry & The Cattle (buy)

Dear Betty Baby by Mayo Thompson (buy)

Blood Done Signed My Name by Radio Four (buy)

The Hunt by Squeeze (buy)

Corona by The Minutemen (buy)

On And On With Lou Reed by Trash (Unable to Find Vendor)

Internet by Camille Davila (buy)

Heil Brockwurst (Großer, Dicker König) by Die Goldenen Zitronen (buy)

May You Always Be Troo

I've posted about Detsorgsekalf once before, but because they are, hands down, my current all-time favorite band, I couldn't resist writing about them again. In a 20-minute EP jam-packed with great lines--every single one of them shouted at a delirious pitch--here are my Top 10 favorites from Troo Grim Warriors Of The Necrokkult:

1. I wish I had marshmallows!/Goes well with man-flesh! (The Embers Of Your Church)
2. We are troo/We are grim/We will come to pillage your village, oh yeah! (Troo Grim Warriors Of The Necrokkult)
3. Slaying the poodle! (Troo Grim Warriors Of The Necrokkult)
4. Wait! We've already made that Star Wars reference! (Frostburn Upon The Winter Of Mankind's Discontent)
5. Cold!/Frostbite!/Elephant bread!/Cookies!/Milk!/Hot black tar! (Frostburn Upon The Winter Of Mankind's Discontent)
6. You remind me of my ex-girlfriend/She was a leper! (Necrolust Of The Whore Of Whormalton)
7. What are we doing on the highway? (Necrolust Of The Whore Of Whormalton)
8. I fucking hate Jumanji /Damn you, Robin Williams! (Necrolust Of The Whore Of Whormalton)
9. I shall now waste another, maybe, 40 seconds of your miserable, wretched life/With a keyboard solo! (Keyboard Solo)
10. And for no reason, here's a guitar solo! (Black Xmas)

Divine Secrets of the Yay!!!!!!!!!! Yay!!!!!!!!!! Sisterhood

My brow frets when I actually find myself in agreement with Jane's Addiction, but yes, nothing is shocking: not that new homoerotic "Network" Mac commercial, nor the annoying folk-freaks Feathers openly writing the word "Yay!!!!!!!!!!" on their website, nor Wolfmother claiming they'd never heard of Black Sabbath until a few years ago. The only thing in the world which makes me gasp in disbelief is when I find myself actively embracing a song by softie sister Vashti Bunyan. Can I help it if the hypnotic swirl of piano on Feet Of Clay makes my heart go into cardiac arrest? It's my shocking little secret.

20th Century Schizoid Men

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

I Fought The Johnny Boy and The Johnny Boy Won

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

Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn

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

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

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

Hot Crunk In The Summertime

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

Shock And Awe

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

Plays Well With Himself

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

Long In The Tooth

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

Zatanic With A "Z"

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

The Ruling Class Has Left The Fortress

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

Rabbit Stew

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

Their Love Will Tear You Apart

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

Misery Is The Thing With Feathers

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

Time, Time, Time Is On My Mind

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

Bad Things Come In Twos

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

Roll With It

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

Acronym of L.O.V.E.

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

The Spirit Is Willing But The Flush Is Weak

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

The Girl With The Elephant Strap

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

Frosted Flakey Goodness

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

A Whiter Shade Of Gringo

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

No More Pauses, No More Grinding Halt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Pause, Another Grinding Halt

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

Hot Child In The Citay

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

Forget It, Disco:Very, It's Chinatown

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

Listen To The Warm

The female of the two feral neighborhood cats that I reluctantly adopted 4 months ago (lovingly christened Fraidy Cat and Little Hitler) has gone into heat. She spends all day and night arching her back and exposing her genitals, which makes all the balls of the nearby male cats quiver and groan, bringing forth presumptuous purring and howling noises from all interested parties. This song, Psychedelia by The X'Lents has the same effect on me. The clunky circular repetition makes me hot and dizzy, and I find myself exposing my genitals to all the males in the neighborhood, who then make loud aggressive noises towards me. Poor Little Hitler will find her inflamed hormones quenched when she is spayed later this week, but it's anyone's guess on who is going to douse my fire. This Spanish Fly of a song is from Simla Beat 1970-71, and you can download the entire album here.

The Chinese Democracy Of Rap

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

Grits Are To Potatoes As My Arm Is To Your Ass

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

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

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

36" High by Nick Lowe (buy)

La Valse Du Bambocheur by The Balfa Freres (buy)

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

Teenage Head by The Flamin' Groovies (buy)

Subsequence by Mouse On Mars (buy)

Besaha by The Devil's Anvil (buy)

Countdown To Revolution! by The New Creation (buy)

Grepet Om Kniven by Khold (buy)

Yeti by Caribou (buy)

The Liquid Lovin' Spoonful

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

Death To The Death Pixies

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

The Joy Of Discovery

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