1984 album in review: Ratt -- Out of the Cellar

This is an album I'm sure my handful of readers out there weren't expecting, and in fairness, it wasn't even on my radar until very recently. To go a step further, I have a list of 30 albums from 1984 from which I'm working, and Out of the Cellar isn't on that list.

So, why, you may be asking, am I writing about Out of the Cellar? The reasons are as follows: 

Several years ago, after dropping my older son off at his fencing class, I had the radio on and Ratt's big hit "Round and Round" came on. I was surprised that not only did I know all (or most) of the lyrics, but I was actually enjoying the song.

"Round and Round" came up in a conversation I had and I was happy to learn the person I was talking to also a champion of "Round and Round." Underneath the glam metal dressing, the song is simply a killer pop tune with a catchy chorus. If you hear this song on the radio, it's an immediate earworm.

The third reason I decided to discuss this album is that glam metal was enormous in the '80s, and though I think a lot of it is crap, there are a few albums that have held up (at least to some degree) over the years. Out of the Cellar is one of those records. 

Okay, now here's where I talk about ways in which the album has not aged well. Would you like a side order of misogyny with your serving of shredding guitar solos and pop metal choruses? Comin' right up! "She Wants Money" finds our horndog protagonist bringing home a young hottie only to discover she's a...sex worker, perhaps? Or maybe she's just a "material girl" who is not willing to hook up with this guy unless he has some dough, and as he explains to the listener, he has none. So the girl is gone for greener pastures.

In "Scene of the Crime," our guy arrives at  his girlfriend's house only to discover the "cold-hearted [b-word]" is cheating on him. Needless to say, he is none too thrilled about this development and there is a threat of violence. So, yeah, a bit problematic.

What saves these songs is they are catchy as all get out and one can easily listen to them and enjoy them without paying any attention to the lyrics...but maybe this is only the case if one is a slightly nostalgic Gen Xer and not someone younger. I'm not sure how millennials or Gen Zers would respond to Ratt. I suspect they'd find the music anachronistic.

So I'm talking about feeling nostalgic about this album. The truth is, I didn't like Ratt back in the '80s. I thought they were hopelessly cheesy, though clearly "Round and Round" burrowed into my brain and never left. After the dust has settled forty years later, I have an oddly warm feeling for the era of '80s glam metal and I find this album to be the best and most enduring representation of that musical niche.

The Tragically Hip: No Dress Rehearsal

On Friday, I binge-watched the Amazon Prime four-part, four plus hour documentary, The Tragically Hip: No Dress Rehearsal. I fully intended on watching maybe just one or two episodes on Friday (the day it dropped), and saving the final two episodes for later...but who was I kidding? I would also like to say I watched all four episodes without getting deeply emotional and tearing up every ten minutes...but--once again--who am I kidding?

I also learned a lot about the band that I didn't know, probably because the Hip have been so private over the years. A couple things stand out:

When Gord Downie insisted on being the sole lyricist, the other guys were way more put-out by it than I ever knew. It sounds like it took them a while to get over that. 

The band went through a good decade-plus (roughly 2000-2012) in which they weren't getting along and were close to breaking up. It makes sense that they had rough patches, but as I said, they have always been so guarded that I (and probably others) assumed they always got along just fine.

I had gone through a period recently of not listening to the Hip that often. For whatever reason, I just hadn't been in the mood. This documentary, however, has made me fall in love with the band all over again. I plan on resurrecting my "Hip album review" series which stalled out on Fully Completely. (The Day For Night album is so daunting that I put it off for a long time. Now, however, it's time to tackle it).

I'm also looking forward to the upcoming Tragically Hip coffee table book. I initially balked at the price ($60ish), but after hearing more about it, I think I'll have to add it to my collection.

Let the Hipaissance continue!

Vacation reading: Chris Stein's Under a Rock

One of the best aspects of a relaxing vacation is that I get to catch up on reading. I can't tell you how wonderful it is to read during the daytime in a screened-in porch with Lake Superior as my "front yard." It beats the hell out of not getting to the book until 10 PM after eight hours of work and often falling asleep less than half an hour after cracking the book open.

Weeks ago, I started reading Chris Stein's Under a Rock--his memoir of his life before, during, and after Blondie (the band). It was a book that I'd pick up in the late evenings and almost immediately crash and burn before I made it more than about 15 minutes. I am happy to report that I shot through 184 pages in three days. I read on the porch of this cottage in Copper Harbor and I read on our 7 1/2 hours on the ferry to and from Isle Royale.

The meandering storytelling style was a major part of my inability to get into Chris Stein's memoir. The book could have easily been titled, Everything That Ever Happened to Me in My Life: No Matter How Inconsequential. Another title could have been Crazy Stuff That Happened in New York City: 1965-2023. I'm not sure if Stein had a editor--I assume he did--though I'm not sure what the editor was doing. There are so many stories and anecdotes, some relevant and fascinating, but many others that just don't add much to the narrative. To make matters worse, the chronology is often confusing and muddled.

All that said, Chris Stein is a musician and not necessarily a book writer, so I'll give him a pass. Once I finally had a long and relaxing time to devote to the book, I enjoyed reading it. There was also something funny and perverse reading about illicit escapades in seedy 1970s/1980s New York City while I was in a cottage in the Upper Peninsula feeling the breeze blow in from Lake Superior. It was like existing simultaneously in two disparate worlds.

1984 album in review: Prince & the Revolution -- Purple Rain

I initially thought that I would listen to Prince & the Revolution's Purple Rain, jot down my observations, and then write about the album (like a real record review). However, I have heard this album so many times and have such a deep connection to it, that I decided this probably wasn't necessary. For this post, I will simply write about my personal experience with the album. And really, who needs yet another review of Purple Rain, anyway?

In late spring of 1984--I can't remember the month, but it must have been either late May or early June because I swear I was still in school--I turned on the tiny black & white television in my room to an afternoon music video show. I don't remember what this show was called or what channel it was on, but it was about a half-hour long. It was on this show that I first saw the video for Purple Rain's leadoff single, "When Doves Cry." All these years later, it's hard to remember exactly what I felt upon hearing this song and seeing this video, but I know I was immediately drawn to it. I was only 16 and my experience with music was fairly limited. The stark, bass-less, electro psych funk of Prince was surely a revelation. 

And then there was the actual music video, which I rewatched it to jar my memory: Double doors open to reveal a large dark room with doves fluttering in the air and flowers strewn on the floor. Further into the room, we see an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. A nude, bathing Prince is in the tub. He lifts himself up, turns towards the camera, and extends his arm towards the viewer. He seems anguished. Is he pleading? Is he introducing himself to the world in the most Princely manner imaginable?

The video continues with clips from the upcoming Purple Rain film, and I was intrigued by that. Was the movie autobiographical? It certainly looked tense and dramatic.

I was further won over by the concluding shots of Prince & the Revolution "performing" in a completely white studio space. Their elaborate, brightly-colored neo-psychedelic, neo-Victorian clothing was like nothing I'd seen before outside of The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper uniforms. Prince was a captivating front man and the two women--who I would later learn were Wendy and Lisa--were beautiful with a hint of danger. I was sold on the whole vibe the band presented.

In July 1984, I traveled to Minneapolis with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. My Uncle Jim, in his job with the Keweenaw Ojibwa community, frequently made business trips on their behalf to the Twin Cities. I was the lucky beneficiary of the ones that occurred in the summer. Almost every summer, I'd visit my U.P. relatives and my stays were scheduled by them to coincide with the Minneapolis trips. 

One of our days in Minneapolis, we all went to the newly opened downtown City Center shopping mall. It was there that I bought my vinyl copy of Purple Rain. If I remember correctly, the record store had a prominent display of the album and maybe even a lifesize cutout of Prince. The Purple Rain buzz was palpable. In a city that had an active music scene, this was its pinnacle moment. This was the moment in which Minneapolis was finally in the national spotlight, perhaps for the first time since Mary Richards triumphantly hurled her hat in the air at Nicolet Mall in the opening credit sequence of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

When we returned to my aunt and uncle's house from Minneapolis, I had to return home shortly thereafter. And after I returned home, it was off to the Michigan State University campus for a high school summer camp. The upshot of this is that I had no time to spin Purple Rain and it remained sealed, likely propped up next to my dinky Emerson stereo.

Here's the thing about that summer camp: it further intensified my Purple Rain fever. This two-week summer camp was for science and art-inclined kids. I believe the goal was to show how art and science could complement each other. But to be perfectly honest, I don't remember much of anything we were supposed to have learned from an academic standpoint. What I most remember are the nightly dances we had in the McDonel Hall Kiva. This summer camp, in their ultimate coolness, hired a DJ to spin records at these dances. "Let's Go Crazy" is the song I remember the most. I have an image in my head of a group of us kids standing in a circle in the darkened kiva, Prince intoning in his preacher-like voice, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life..." As we listened to Prince's sermon, our anticipation for the song intensified and we were ready to explode as soon as the drum beat kicked in...and explode we did.

The kids I met at this summer camp were the coolest kids I'd ever known. They were kids who had many of the same interests and outlook that I had. I had spent most of my childhood and early teen years believing I was out of step with everyone else, but these kids made me feel much less alone. I discovered there were other kids out there who were similar to me, who accepted me, and were also cool! They were smart, artistic, and stylish--but stylish in their own unique ways. And we all loved Prince and Purple Rain. 

Purple Rain, almost the entire album, became the unofficial theme music of my summer camp experience. When I think of summer 1984, Purple Rain is the music I most closely associate with that time. Even when I listen to the album in 2024, it is inextricably linked to my memories of '84. I am reminded of my trip to Minneapolis, the Detroit Tigers' summer-long quest for the World Series championship, and the summer camp that took place from August 5-18 with all that entailed (cool kids, dances, cute girls, and some but not much learning). Purple Rain just might be the most consequential and important music of my life.

I Finally Watch Blue Velvet All the Way Through: Instant Reactions Edition

So, after years of only seeing dribs and drabs of David Lynch's Blue Velvet over the years, I finally watched the whole movie on Tubi. Before I have my opinions skewed and altered by whatever film podcast I listen to or film review I read, here are my instant, unvarnished reactions.

This film fits perfectly in the noir tradition. There's the young male protagonist (Kyle MacLachlan) who is in over his head, the femme fatale (Isabella Rossellini) with secrets, plenty of bad guys headed by one major bad guy (Dennis Hopper), and an ingenue (Laura Dern) to offer some contrast to the femme fatale. This being a Lynch movie, however, there's plenty of weird shit one would never see in any golden era noir. This is a noir with avant garde sensibilities.

It was never entirely clear to me what nefarious activities Frank Booth (Hopper) was up to, other than it involved a shady cop (or cops). It is abundantly clear, though, that Frank Booth is one of the scariest and most disturbing villains to ever appear on screen. 

The movie's most indelible and most "meme-able" image is Booth breathing in that plastic mask. Am I naive in that I don't know what he hell, other than carbon dioxide, he was breathing into his lungs? It certainly makes for a dark, twisted image. [Edit: it's amyl nitrite. I probably should have guessed that].

Did Dorothy (Rossellini) really enjoy being hit? Or was her self-worth lowered by her circumstances to such a degree that she thought it was what she deserved? In modern terminology, we might say she was a victim of toxic masculinity.

The dialogue in the movie is stilted and generally unrealistic, but in that it's similar to many 1940s noirs. That might have been a choice by Lynch?

It's easy to see a direct line from Blue Velvet to Twin Peaks.

I, er, saw a lot more Isabella Rossellini than I expected. I hope she was okay with doing all those nude scenes, particularly the one at the Williams' house. All I could think was, "find some clothes for her! She's probably freezing!"

Nobody uses industrial noises better than Lynch. They are in this, The Elephant Man (evoking dark, dangerous Victorian London) and Eraserhead (lending unease to that whole film).

What in the name of pancake makeup hell was going on with Dean Stockwell's character? The whole "beer party scene" was strange, even by Lynchian standards.

My favorite line in the movie (uttered by Frank Booth to Jeffrey (MacLachlan)), "Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!"

That's all I have for now. Off to find out how I misinterpreted the movie.

More movies: Brewster McCloud & The Day of the Locust

One perk of my job at the library is that I'm able to see many new items well before they enter circulation and, if I want, can place holds on them then and there.

With the recent deaths of Shelley Duvall and Donald Sutherland, the library has been ordering more of the movies they starred it, two of which are ones I had never seen until the last few days: Brewster McCloud (Duvall) and The Day of the Locust (Sutherland).

Brewster McCloud was released in 1970 and is director Robert Altman's next movie after his first true classic, M*A*S*H, which was also released in 1970. Brewster McCloud is an outlandish, somewhat anti-establishment black comedy about a young man named Brewster McCloud (played by Bud Cort, one year before his breakthrough in the classic Harold & Maude). Brewster lives--or rather, squats--in a fallout shelter in the inner bowels of the Houston Astrodome. (In one of the movie's many funny gags, Brewster continually dodges an inept, pith helmet-wearing security guard who unsuccessfully tries to capture him). Brewster, whose fashion sense had to have inspired the look of Waldo in the Where's Waldo? books, dreams of flying like a bird, and is constructing his own wings in the fallout shelter. He is assisted in this endeavor by a literal guardian angel played by Sally Kellerman (fresh off of playing Hot Lips Houlihan in M*A*S*H). 

While pursuing his dream of flight, Brewster gets mixed up in a string of murders, is pursued by a young woman who gets a little too excited watching Brewster do pull-ups (he needs to strengthen his arms to operate his wings), falls for a wide-eyed (with unbelievably intricate eyelashes), eccentric, but adorable Astrodome tour guide (Shelley Duvall in her first-ever film role). Meanwhile, Brewster is, with good reason, the prime suspect in the string of murders. A hot shot detective, Frank Shaft, is called in from San Francisco to lead the investigation. Shaft is a not-so-subtle parody of Steve McQueen in Bullitt. (Another funny joke is how Shaft's arrival in Houston is a hot news item on the radio).

If the whole movie sounds madcap, that's because it is. There is so much delicious wackiness in the movie that would take too long to describe and would ruin the fun for anyone who hasn't seen Brewster McCloud. (I didn't even get around to the wild car chase scene featuring a Plymouth Road Runner, Chevy Camaro Z28, AMC Gremlin, and multiple police cars. It had to have been at least partial inspiration for the huge chase scene in The Blues Brothers).

When The Day of the Locust came across my desk, my eyes lit up. It was a movie I had wanted to see for years--even decades. I was intrigued by its portrayal of 1930s Hollywood and the myriad folks who see their dreams either fulfilled or (more likely) shattered in Tinsel Town.

The characters in The Day of the Locust are all broken to one degree or another. Tod Hackett is a fresh-faced Yale grad who arrives in Hollywood to do art design for films. He is slowly corrupted by all he sees and witnesses. Hackett falls in love with the young ingenue/femme fatale Faye Greener (a brilliant Karen Black) who dreams of being a starlet, but can't make it beyond stints as a film extra. Faye rebuffs Tod's overtures since she prefers a man who can provide fiancial security. Considering her father Harry (Burgess Meredith) is a penniless, failed vaudevillian and equally inept door-to-door salesman, one can hardly blame her.

Donald Sutherland plays the bland, emotionally stunted, religiously pious accountant Homer Simpson (yes, that's really his name!). Homer and Faye enter a completely loveless relationship, but one in which Homer can provide financially. Need I say that none of this ends well? All of the characters have their downfalls. The movie culminates in one of the darkest and most horrifically surreal scenes I"ve watched on screen.

So, on that note, I'll say I'm happy I watched both of these films. They both have excellent performances, and are movies that are so much of their time. The darkness, anti-establishment stances, and cynicism could only have come in the 1970s.

I Finally Watch Eraserhead

 

In my previous post (about R.E.M.'s Reckoning), I mentioned that my college freshman roommate Tim had an Eraserhead poster on the wall when I arrived in our dorm room. I likely projected my somewhat negative--or at best, ambivalent-- view of Tim onto the movie. I assumed it was some hipster bullshit that I didn't want anything to do with. And despite that fact I enjoyed some other David Lynch creations, I never saw Eraserhead. The sight of the video/DVD cover was the same as the poster Tim had on the wall and immediately irritated me.

As the years have gone by, though, I have had Eraserhead in my mental "need to watch before I die just to see what the fuss is about" checklist, and now after a few serendipitous--or maybe simply coincidental--events I have finally seen Eraserhead.

A few days ago, I noticed that one of my favorite movie podcasts, Blank Check with Griffin & David, had dropped an episode about Eraserhead. That immediately made me think of the R.E.M. post I wrote last week, so yesterday I checked to see if Eraserhead was streaming on any of the streaming services, fully expecting the answer to be either "NO!" or "YES, BUT YA GOTTA PAY EXTRA!" However, to my amazement, MAX (aka HBO MAX) is currently offering the movie, and I did not have to pay extra!

Late last night, I fired up Eraserhead and you know what? I kinda liked it! I won't say I loved it, but I definitely appreciated it. It is without a doubt a strange movie. A surrealistic fever dream (or nightmare) of a movie full of bizarre imagery, but one has to give David Lynch credit for having the chutzpah to make such a singularly strange vision his first feature.

Eraserhead is only 89 minutes and that is the perfect length. Any more than an hour-and-a-half--of slimy "babies" that look like enormous spermatazoa with eyes, "cooked" chickens that move and gush blood(?), warbling circus freaks, and bewildered, bedraggled, shock-haired Jack Nance--would be out staying its welcome.

I can see why 18 year-old hipsters and hipster wannabes loved this movie in the immediate aftermath of its release. The movie's weirdness certainly would appeal to young people in the late '70s and into the '80s. (I'm not sure if it has any resonance with young folks in the 2020s). As a middle-aged parent, I can see how at least part of the film is a metaphor for the fear of parenthood--albeit taken to a surrealistic and horrific extreme.

So I can finally take Eraserhead off my "need to watch" list. I now wish Tim was here with me so we could talk about it, and he could (secretly?) judge me for taking so long to see it.