"And I'm scared shitless of what's coming next"

I saw Drive-By Truckers perform at Saint Andrews Hall in Detroit on election night. As I wrote on social media, "if I'm gonna stress out about the election anywhere, I may as well do it here with Drive-By Truckers.

The whole evening had an eerie feel to it. I was too worried about the election to completely lose myself in the show, which is a shame because the band was absolutely cooking all night. It seemed that Patterson Hood in particularly was full of nervous energy. I know Hood's political leanings and I know he was likely worried about the election as much as I was, but was channeling all of this anxiety into his performance. Of the four times I've seen DBT, this was without a doubt the most incendiary show I'd ever seen.

There were people in the crowd who were looking at their phones at election results. I didn't want to know, though I looked at these folks--most of them middle-aged white people--and tried to surmise who they were rooting for. Though most of DBT's fans, at this point, have leanings to the left, this isn't always the case. I have a feeling the people directly in front of me were Trump supporters. I don't know that for sure, but that is my guess based on their jovial reactions to what they were seeing on their phone screens.

On the subject of looking at ones phone for election results at a fucking rock concert--why they hell would you want to do that? That just baffles me. Live in the moment, you idiots!

I had my phone on long enough to take a few snaps of the band on stage (and I must admit, a brief audio clip), but after that I turned it off. I wanted to be in the moment as much as possible. Given the heaviness of the evening, that wasn't easy.

There was no way Patterson Hood couldn't address the election--and he did. He changed the line "the duality of the Southern thing" from "The Three Great Alabama Icons" to "the duality of the American thing." The duality being the coexistence of understanding/beauty and racism/ugliness in this nation, and how we see it in particular sharp relief now in 2024 (and, without a doubt, in the months and years to follow).

I have buried the lede here. DBT are on a tour in which they are performing their double album Southern Rock Opera in its entirety, and "The Three Great Alabama Icons" is a key song on that album. By the time they reached the end of the album and the closer "Angels and Fuselage," the atmosphere felt funereal. Ostensibly, the song is about an airplane crash. The narrator of the song is in the plane and is facing almost certain death as he says to himself, "and I'm scared shitless of what's coming next." Hearing this song in the context of the election, and having a vague notion that the results would not be favorable, this line took on a whole new meaning.

By about 2:45 AM, in the darkness of our hotel room in downtown Detroit, it was clear that Donald Trump had defeated Kamala Harris, and I was completely and irrevocably scared shitless of what's coming next.

1984 album in review: U2 -- The Unforgettable Fire

It was all because of a girl I met...

That's how I became a U2 fan. To be clear, that's how I learned about the very existence of U2.

In the summer of 1985, almost a full year after The Unforgettable Fire's release, I attended a summer camp at Olivet College. This camp was patterned after Boys or Girls State, but was sort of a low-rent version of that. We were supposed to learn about how the legislative and executive branches of government ran by participating in mock campaigns and elections--or at least I think. I really don't remember much of anything we did at this camp, but I do remember this particular girl. She liked me, I liked her (probably because she liked me) and the most memorable parts of this summer camp were the evening dances in the Olivet cafeteria, hanging out with this girl (I'll call her "Janine"--not her real name), and her telling me about this band called U2 that her college-age brother hipped her to.

When the camp ended--which had to have been late June--Julie and I maintained contact by writing letters. We must have exchanged letters every week throughout the rest of that summer. Knowing that she liked U2, I bought her some U2 badges that I found at the oft-frequented Camelot Music at Saginaw's Fashion Square Mall. I gave them to her when we met up again in the late summer, and she seemed quite appreciative.

It was likely the autumn of 1985 that I finally decided to investigate U2 myself. I bought Under a Blood Red Sky and a little while later, The Unforgettable Fire. Meanwhile, as all teenage summer romances go, it slowly fizzled out between Janine and I. Distance and senior year of high school took their toll, but the gift of U2 that Janine gave me grew and blossomed.

As I mentioned, Under a Blood Sky, the live EP released in 1983, was my first U2 experience. It's hard to believe now, but at that time U2 seemed mysterious and incredibly foreign to me. A band from Ireland? That seemed so exotic! It's important for me to mention that I didn't have MTV at this point, so I wouldn't have seen U2 there. I also don't recall ever seeing any U2 videos anywhere else, and of course their music was not on the radio in Michigan's Thumb region--certainly not on any radio stations I listened to. The Thumb was a radio desert in the 1980s. There were no college stations nor alternative stations. In fact, I don't think "alternative radio" as a concept was even invented until the 1990s.

To indicate how sheltered I was from a musical standpoint in 1985, Under a Blood Red Sky was probably the rawest record I'd ever heard. Even though nobody would ever classify U2 as punk, it was what I imagined punk to sound like. It was aggressive, political, and unadorned. 

So imagine my surprise when I got my hands on The Unforgettable Fire. Outside of "Pride (In the Name of Love)," which is probably the most conventionally structured and produced song on the album, the album is muted and murky. It sounds like it could have been recorded in the ghostly castle pictured on the record sleeve, and then transmitted via a shaky telephone connection to Island Records headquarters, where it was re-recorded on a few Edison cylinders. To call The Unforgettable Fire "atmospheric" is an understatement.

But it was for those reasons--and the ghostly cover that appeared to have been captured with a daguerreotype or at best an 1890s Kodak brownie camera--that I was quickly obsessed with the album. The opening track, "A Sort of Homecoming," brought the murk in right away and conjured images of a long journey undertaken in a grey, overcast, wintery landscape. 

If I am in a particularly vulnerable state of mind, as I have been quite often recently, "Pride (In the Name of Love)"'s heartfelt salute to Martin Luther King, Jr., with its opening guitar riff that sounds like a clarion call, can still move me to tears--as it did last week when I listened to it one dark morning on the way to work.

The jittery "Wire" is a song I've always liked, but is not one that seems to get much attention. The lyrics might be a bit tossed off, but it's musically propulsive.

The Unforgettable Fire is, of course, not above criticism. There are several songs that are underbaked, like "Promenade" and "Elvis Presley and America" (which couldn't possibly sound any farther removed from the Hillbilly Cat or the United States). These songs coast by on mood, murk, and atmospherics.

The title track ("The Unforgettable Fire") and "Bad" are the two other songs that I still adore to this day. I spent hours trying to transcribe the lyrics to "Bad" (in the days before one could simply look up lyrics online).

Listen, I know that shitting on U2 is particular popular these days, and has probably been popular since the '80s, but I still love this band and don't give a goddamned what anybody else thinks. The Unforgettable Fire, as a moody if flawed listening experience, moves me as much now as it did in 1985.

Election dread

I have been dreading the election for months, and it gets worse and worse as we get closer. Every morning I wake up, after a few minutes of refreshing thought, the dark cloud of the election enters my mind.

There is a good possibility that Trump will win, and I'm trying to mentally prepare for that result. 

Can I be frank? What the hell is wrong with Americans? (Specifically, American voters). How is it possible that this election, if one believes the polls, is THIS close? 

For as long as I live, I will never understand Trump's appeal. Have Americans really become this nihilistic? This cynical? This callous? These are the only reasons I can fathom that explain Trump's continued popularity. It makes me sad about the state of this nation. (Having written this, I'm not naive enough to believe the United States was pure until Trump entered the picture in 2016. Our history is scarred with horrors, and we've had our share of terrible leaders before Trump).

This is just something I had to get off my chest. I've been avoiding writing about politics for many months, but this existential dread has been weighing on me for a long time. I just have avoided directly addressing it until now.

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 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.

1984 album in review: R.E.M.-- Reckoning

In my latest sporadically published posts about 1984 albums, I tackle R.E.M.'s second album, Reckoning.

This is yet another album I discovered after the fact. It was that hallowed autumn of 1986 that I have mentioned at least a few times in this blog. I had already heard "Fall on Me" that summer and quickly went out and bought a cassette of Lifes Rich Pageant at the Camelot Music in Saginaw's Fashion Square Mall. A month or so later, I arrived at Michigan State and quickly learned that, compared to several other kids, I was an R.E.M. newbie. I was "tripled" in my dorm room at MSU, which means I had two  other roommates. (We were assured by the university that as we settled into the school year, the "triple" would revert to a "double." Of course, I couldn't help but worry who would be the odd man out). Anyway, one of my roommates was a guy named Tim F. Tim was cool. Tim was the first to arrive and already had posters of the movie Eraserhead and Brazil on the wall. He had posters of Husker Du and R.E.M. I had no fucking idea what Eraserhead, Brazil, or Husker Du were. I at least knew who R.E.M. were, but only having Lifes Rich Pageant made me feel like a complete dork. Oh great, I was an oddball at high school and now here I am, already an oddball in college. Hopelessly uncool.

If Tim thought I was uncool, he never said anything, but I did feel like I was being judged. Thankfully, our third roommate, John, was a smalltown guy like me and I felt that we were both in the same boat as far as our Hipster Quotient went. 

After a few weeks, our tripling quandary was solved. Tim had a friend (no doubt as cool or even cooler than him) on the other side of the residence hall who needed a roommate, and he moved out. John and I remained together and became fairly good friends and still remain in contact to this day.

Now back to R.E.M. It wasn't Tim who turned me on to the band's back catalog, since he was likely too busy hanging out with his girlfriend or just being a cool dude. It was a girl named Tonya on our "sister floor" who tipped me off to an album called Murmur. Tonya was hipper than me but didn't have an attitude about it. She was open and generous and for that, I will always be grateful. She let me borrow her cassette copy of Murmur, and after I heard that album, I knew I was in love with this band. I don't know exactly what order I bought R.E.M.'s back catalog, but by the end of November 1986, I probably had all of R.E.M.'s albums.

What can I say about an album I have listened to countless hundreds, maybe even thousands, of times since I first bought it? What can I really add to the many essays about and reviews of this album and this band? I started this blog post yesterday by quickly writing first impressions of the album as I played it in my kitchen. I have to say that after I read over those notes, I liked the stream-of-consciousness composition. It seemed fitting considering Michael Stipe's impressionistic lyrics. I hope this doesn't seem lazy of me, but other than a little bit of editing, I have left these impressions fairly close to how I first wrote them. So, here you go, here is Reckoning...

Let me start with the album sleeve. The folk art of Howard Finster. This was still the "weird Southern gothic" stage of R.E.M.'s career, and the art of Finster--who was beloved by the band--is fitting. It is murky and swirling and unlike most any other album sleeve one would see in the 1980s.

Now to the songs:

Harborcoat. What is a harborcoat? I see references to harbor jackets? I imagine it as looking like a pea coat. The song of course evokes images of a windy wet seaside. Though I have not looked at the lyrics. I don't really look too hard at REM lyric sheets from this era. How accurate are they anyway? "A handshake is worthy if it's all that you've got" is a good aphorism. That is something to live by. We should judge people on their character and not on their material possessions. I wonder if Michael came up with that himself or if it was overheard or read in a book?

And now on to 7 Chinese Bros. The smell of sweet short haired boy? Hmm. Wait, the lyric sheets I see on the web say this is "mellow sweet short haired boy." Have I been singing this line wrong for almost 40 years? I like my lyrics better. 

More 7 Chinese Bros. Who listening to this song doesn't think of the book The Five Chinese Brothers, a book I later discovered many--like me--were freaked out by when the boy is depicted swallowing the ocean and his face expands to a grotesque shape. Though, if I am not mistaken, only one of the Chinese brothers in the book could swallow the ocean and not all seven as seems to be the case in the song, but is my reading of these lyrics far too literal? Possibly.

"She will return." evokes longing. Who will return? Should I actually look at the lyrics this time?

So. Central Rain. One of my favorites, especially the "I'm sorry!" refrain. There do seem many instances of longing and regret on this album. Lost love, broken relationships. "This choice wasn't mine." Bill Berry's drumming adds intensity to the song. It was the video of this song, that I finally saw on the video compilation R.E.M. Succumbs, that made me love this song even more. The band behind screens except for Stipe who is wearing big headphones. Don Dixon said Stipe didn't want to lip sync. He is actually singing live and is incredible.

Pretty Persuasion. I always think of being at a frat party at Alpha Delta Phi and hearing this cranking loudly out of big speakers. (And no, I didn't make a habit of going to frat parties, if you want to know. Had a friend in the frat, who later left the frat, but I digress). This song is another favorite. Peter's big sweeping guitar riffs. I don't know how else to describe them. The song has a forward momentum.

Time After Time. Droning Velvet Underground-like guitar line from Peter is probably the most distinctive aspect of this song. Peter Buck has a guitar break with some Bill Berry (?) percussion that reminds me a bit of Aaron Copeland's "Fanfare for the Common Man."

Second Guessing, a nice little rocker. "Why you trying to second guess me? I am tired of second guessing." At least that is how I heard those lyrics. "Who will be your book this season?" There is some anger in this song. A confrontation. Disagreements. Discord between two people.

Letter Never Sent continues with the theme of regret. "Seven shows are on the air"--the way I have always heard it--is actually "Heaven is yours?" Are we sure about that? Who cares. These songs are mainly about vibes and the feelings they evoke. Maybe a snipped of lyric that grabs you is what is most important.

Then the emotional Camera. "Alone in a crowd" "If I'm to be your camera, then who will be your face" I have read this is about a friend of the band who died. I can't make heads or tails of the the lyrics, quite honestly. Big surprise, eh. But once again, loneliness and regret and longing are the emotions I get from this song. Stipe sings with such sadness and despondency. 

Another digression: "Mope rock", so many people I knew referred to R.E.M. as mope rock in the '80s. They didn't fit in with the Motley Crues, Def Leppards, Whitesnakes, Madonnas that were dominating the pop charts in the 1980s and listening habits of a good portion of my fellow collegians. It did sometimes question whether I was, in fact, a "sad person" listening to allegedly depressing music like R.E.M. But I would take them over the schlock mentioned in this paragraph. (In fairness, both Def Leppard and Madonna had their moments).

Don't Go Back to Rockville. Now, my moment of Zen with this song is hearing The Half Smokes cover it in a bar, IN ROCKVILLE, MARYLAND! That was at SuburbsFest '23. This is a song that was written entirely by Mike Mills. The theme of longing and regret continues in this, the most straightforward song on the album. This is Americana before there was a name for it.

The album concludes with Little America. A song that is ostensibly about a band on tour, specifically R.E.M. touring in the South. "Jefferson, I think we're lost." Jefferson being the band's manager, Jefferson Holt. The swirl of references is the musical/lyrical equivalent of looking out the window of a tour bus or van as the shopping strips, highways, street signs, farms, houses, and multiple businesses zip by one's eyes. Peter Buck's opening guitar riff is like a clarion call. It's anthemic, and the song careens like a rusty old van barreling down the highway from Greenville, South Carolina to Athens, Georgia with who knows how many stops along the way.

"It's really a fantasia about university" (The Secret History by Donna Tartt)

The above quote, and title for this post, is a direct quote from Donna Tartt, lifted from The Borris House Festival of Writing & Idea's podcast episode "Donna Tartt and Rick Stroud." The episode was posted on April 3, 2020 but I just listened to it today. Upon finally finishing The Secret History last night, I spent the entire day seeking out and listening to every podcast episode I could find devoted to the book.

The second I heard Donna Tartt describe The Secret History as being "...really a fantasia about university," I thought it the most succinct and perfect description of the book. I've heard reviewers and commentators describe the book as either magical realism, a figment of the narrator's imagination, the product of an unreliable narrator (but mostly true), or on the rare occasion a story to be taken at face value. One definition of the word "fantasia" is "a work of art or literature that expresses the author's imagination freely and creatively." That is what The Secret History seems to be, a free and imaginative work of art that can be whatever the reader wants it to be. So maybe however one interprets the book, that interpretation is valid.

Allow me to backtrack a bit. Here is my history with The Secret History:

When The Secret History was published in 1992, I was working at Schuler Books. I remember what a literary sensation it was, which I'm sure is why I resisted it then. I wasn't much interested in contemporary fiction in 1992 and even less interested in a book that was receiving loads of media attention. Chalk it up to being a contrarian twenty-something. (Not to compare myself to Donna Tartt, but it turns out that she was also not particularly interested in contemporary fiction during the time she was writing The Secret History).

Fast forward to 2008, when I read with delight to book The Fortress of Solitude by former Bennington student Jonathan Lethem. Then I became a fan of the podcast of another former Bennington student, Bret Easton Ellis. Inspired by the podcast, I finally read Ellis' book Less Than Zero. (My Facebook memories tell me I finished reading the book on February 7, 2015. My impression was that I should have read the book when I was younger because I found the characters to be self-centered and obnoxious--which was probably the point). So those books were my first dips into the world of the illustrious Bennington College literary alumni.

Six years later I was directed to the podcast Once Upon a Time...at Bennington College. I only listened to about half the series because it just became too dishy amd soapy (but not soap dishy). (My podcast listening also coincided with my first trip to Germany. When I returned from Germany, I became completely obsessed with German history for several months and Bennington was jettisoned. It's probably quite clear that I am one prone to obsessions).

Donna Tartt and The Secret History were the most fascinating subjects of the Bennington podcast, and that book remained on my mental front burner until finally, while on vacation in Ithaca, New York in September 2022, I saw The Secret History at Barnes & Noble and bought it. (I still bristle a little bit at paying $19 for a paperback and hoped to find it used, but it was there, so what the hell? Why not!).

I don't think I finally got around to starting The Secret History until about December 2022, and though I made it to about page 100 by early 2023, it was a struggle and I lost interest. The pace seemed glacier-like and the story didn't seem to be going anywhere. I almost tossed the book permanently into the "I give up" pile. Instead, it was relegated to the "try again later' pile.

I didn't remove the book from the "try again later" pile until June, and this time it clicked. At about page 150-ish, when main characters Henry Winter, Francis Abernathy, and twins Camilla and Charles Macauley have their classic Greek-inspired bacchanal and [spoiler alert] kill the Vermont farmer (or did they kill him?), I was hooked from that point on. A bit later [not a spoiler alert], when the "Hampden Five" (I made up that term) kill fellow student Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran, I was fully in.

Once again, allow me to backtrack. My initial negative reaction to the book also had to do with this question in my mind: "Why do I give a fuck about these narcissistic, materialistic, pretentious East Coast elite college students?" If I had stuck with the book on my first attempt, I would have learned that their narcissism, materialism, and pretentions were largely what led them to make the questionable decisions they make. Their intellectual pretentions were the whole point of the book.

Now I will move on to my instant reactions to the book. I am writing this now so I don't forget but will try to write this in a manner that will make it at least somewhat interesting to my dear readers--all three or four of you. 

First, a brief plot synopsis: The Secret History takes place at the fictional Hampden College in Vermont--inspired by Bennington College--and follows a close-knit group of Classical Greek majors who study under the tutelage of the charismatic and mysterious professor Julian Morrow. One of these six students, Richard Papen, is the book's narrator. Richard is the outsider among the group. He's a transfer student originally from California, from modest means, and joins the course a few weeks(?), several weeks(?) after Henry, Francis, Camilla, Charles, and Bunny. Anyway, these six young people become a little too emotionally and intellectually wrapped up in their Classical Greek studies, and it leads them to do some terrible things that have dire consequences.

So here are my notes:

Far be it for me to criticize Donna Tartt, who at a young age was already an accomplished writer, but the book could have used some pruning. There were a few cul-de-sacs that lasted a bit too long. I am thinking specifically of Richard's winter break freezing his ass off and starving in Hampden, as well as the 70+ pages at the Corcoran home during Bunny's wake and funeral. 

While I am dishing out nitpicky criticisms, I didn't buy that there was any romantic connection between Richard and Camille, nor Henry and Camille for that matter. Then again, we are dealing with an unreliable narrator in Richard. When Richard declares his love for Camilla and asks her to marry him, I expected her reaction to be, "What? Are you nuts? Of course I don't want to marry you. There is nothing between us!" Instead, her reaction was much calmer and more measured than I expected or seemed appropriate.

Though I have seen the horrible acts in the book compared to Crime and Punishment, which makes sense, I have not seen the murder of Bunny compared to Leopold and Loeb. (Leopold and Loeb, the two highly educated young men who attempted to use their "superior intellect" to commit a "perfect murder" in 1920s Chicago). The Hampden Five share a foppish arrogance with Leopold and Loeb. The book does an exemplary job in showing how lives can unravel after horrible decision(s) have been made.

At this point, I should avoid too many spoilers, so let me just say that Henry's, er. rash decision near the end of the book took me by surprise. I did not see that coming.

Before I make the book sound overly serious, I should point out that there is plenty of humor sprinkled within. I enjoyed the description of the Hampden students flushing all their drugs down the toilet when the FBI arrived on campus to investigate Bunny's murder. There is another scene in which the group is outside the Corcoran's house getting high before Bunny's funeral. Bunny's bizarre low rent Kennedy-like family is also amusing.

And then there is Judy Poovey. Richard's hard-partying, aerobics-obsessed dorm neighbor Judy has to be the best minor character in the book. Judy provides some comic relief with her exuberant personality, but she is also caring and generous. Once again, Richard is an unreliable narrator and allows his obsession with Camilla to color his perception of the other female characters, most notably Judy. Richard could have and probably should have been kinder to Judy. Judy will be fine, though. She doesn't need Richard or anybody else, for that matter.

On the subject of partying, there is so much drinking, drug consumption, and smoking that I practically got a hangover myself. I could almost feel my own liver and lungs turning diseased, misshapen, and blackened. The sheer amount of substance abuse definitely pinpointed the 1980s as The Secret History's setting.

The book made me ponder my own college experiences in the 1980s. I didn't go to a small elite private liberal arts college on the East Coast, but an enormous middle-class public university in the Midwest. I definitely knew way more Judy Poovey's and Cloke Rayburn's (Hampden student and small-time drug dealer) than Camilla Macauley's and Henry Winter's. That said, I can relate to Richard and his desire to fit in with the cool crowd, or should I say the arty and literary crowd, which did exist to a certain extent at my alma mater, Enormous State University, though I'm not sure any of them dressed as extravagantly or anachronistically as Henry, Bunny, Charles, Camilla, Frances, and to a certain degree, Richard, who spends most of the book playing catch-up. Our [anti-] heroes wear suits, ties, and pince nez glasses as if they'd stepped out of one of Jay Gatsby's parties in West Egg.

This leads me to the "Dark Academia" subgenre, which I did not even knew existed until less than a week ago. Apparently, Dark Academia has plenty of fans--many of whom are Gen Z--and there are several bookshelves worth of books classified as Dark Academia. Dark Academia has also spawned a fashion style that seems at least partly inspired by the Hampden Five. I have worked in libraries for almost 21 years and was completely unaware of this. Of course, I'm also a 50-something Gen Xer, so of course I'm not up to speed with what's trending among Gen Z or TikTokers.

I have also learned that there is fan art inspired by The Secret History. A keyword search of "Secret History fan art" reveals a plethora of drawings and paintings, many of which are quite creative and stunning. I will include some here...okay, I tried to include some here, but my computer is not cooperating. Just type in the keywords I mentioned into Google Images to see this fan art.

Reddit has an extremely active Secret History group, and I have hovered over it recently and made a few comments. Two nights ago, I had a vivid dream that I created a t-shirt with the caption, "I PARTIED WITH JUDY POOVEY." This dream seamed too good to waste, so I posted on the Reddit page and the positive response I received was stunning.

After all this verbal vomit about The Secret History, I can probably put it to bed now. If I can get either this laptop or another computer to cooperate, I'll post some of the best Secret History fan art. If you've made it this far, you're either a big Donna Tartt/Secret History fan or a glutton for punishment.

Redd Kross concert, part II

Picking up where I left off...

Dale Crover took the stage, but I don't think I even noticed he was up there until he began strumming his acoustic guitar. I was shocked at how few punters (I'm just gonna borrow that Britishism) were in the performance area, so I wasted no time in moving to the front.

Crover is an unassuming guy. He could easily be mistaken for one's friendly neighborhood record store clerk or oil change technician, but as soon as he starts performing, it's clear he is an intense and talented musician. That said, he has an easy rapport with the audience, asking us if we enjoyed his Detroit/Michigan music-centric pre-show DJ set (which featured the disparate likes of Ted Nugent and Question Mark & the Mysterians to name a few). The crowd approved enthusiastically. He played about a half dozen songs, reminding us that he had a solo album coming out in October, and at about 2/3 of the way through his set, assuring us that he'd play a few more songs and then bring the boys out for a rock show. (I'm paraphrasing).

Crover finished at about 8:45 and Redd Kross (with Dale) hit the stage at 9:00 on the dot, all dressed in white pants and white collarless shirts with colorful psychedlic patterns on the front. "The boys" launched into "Switchblade Sister" and the joyous rock show took flight. Younger brother Steven McDonald, on bass, is the comic ringleader. He clearly enjoys mugging for the audience and ironically goofing in stereotypical "rock star" poses. Older brother Jeff is, compared to Steven, a bit more subdued, but not above dancing, making faces, or placing a scarf over his head during one song. (Sorry, I can't remember which one). Lead guitarist Jason Shapiro seems content to remain on the side and rip the occasional searing solo, but when prodded by Jeff or Steven, he will mug and pose. The bottom line is all four guys seem to have a blast on stage, and their enthusiasm is infectious.

I remained about ten feet from the stage, but years of concert attendance has taught me to wear ear plugs. I want to preserve as much hearing as possible. My concert buddies J. and F. seemed content to hang in back, and I wanted to give them their space anyway.

Redd Kross played a set that covered their entire career and made me want to obtain ALL of their albums. There is so much stuff still out there for me to discover and absorb. I also think I should finally increase my Melvins and Dale Crover knowledge.

The band concluded the night by playing some nuggets from their early days and a rousing cover of "Crazy Horses," the wildest, heaviest song the Osmonds ever recorded. (A song that Ozzy Osbourne declared a personal favorite). If any readers out there have never heard "Crazy Horses," go to YouTube immediately--and then return to this post.

When the band left the stage and the house lights came on, we all walked away satisfied with the exhilarating rock show we'd witnessed.

[P.S., I wanted to include photos in this post, but I seem to be experiencing technical difficulties].

Redd Kross concert, part I

Last night I witnessed another great rock show.

I tagged along with a co-worker "J" and her significant other "F" to Detroit's El Club to see Redd Kross. (Yes, I think I've mentioned them a few times recently).

The El Club is located on Vernor Highway in Mexican Town. I don't think I'd ever spent any time in this neighborhood, but I was impressed. It seemed vibrant and full of life on this evening, with restaurants and shops on the north side of Vernor and the large and green Clark Park on the south side of the road. There is also a multistory apartment or condo project under construction a stone's throw from the El Club.

This was my first time at the El Club. I'm not sure why I had never been there before. Maybe the drive seemed daunting, but in truth it's easier to get to the El Club than it is getting to, say, Saint Andrew's Hall.

I had envisioned the El Club as a hole-in-the-wall place, but it's bigger than I expected. One room is dedicated to the bar, while another room--maybe slightly smaller than a basketball court--is the performance area with a stage on the north end.

I briefly checked out the merch table (nothing I couldn't live without, and disappointingly sparse anyway. Darn you, Redd Kross, for not satiating my consumerist needs!), and settled on a tequila mule cocktail from the bar that set me back $18 after I added a $3 tip. "Welp, I guess that'll be my only drink of the evening," I said to myself. (The drink was good, but not $15 or $18 good).

At about 8:00, Redd Kross (and Melvins) drummer Dale Crover took the stage with an acoustic guitar as the show opener. The Melvins are a blind spot in my music fandom. I have, of course, been aware of them for decades and respect the hell out of their integrity and commitment to their craft. That said, I only have one of their albums (Houdini, probably their biggest selling record) and haven't listened to it in a long time. But I am smart enough to know that Dale Crover and his Melvins bandmate Buzz Osborne are goddamned bona fide legends in the alternative music community, so the opportunity to see Crover up close was a big deal.

It has to be mentioned that there is cross-pollination in the Melvins and Redd Kross camps. Dale plays drums for both bands, while Redd Kross's Steven McDonald has also played bass for the Melvins since 2015.

(To be continued)...

Redd Kross

I find it continually amazing that even in my, er, "advanced age" (well into my 50s as of this writing), I still find music that I either never knew before or never noticed, and that music knocks me off my feet and gets me suddenly obsessed.

Redd Kross, the 45-year-old post-punk/power pop/glam rock/neo-psych/garage rock band from Hawthorne, CA is the latest example.

I'm not a complete newbie to Redd Kross. I have been aware of them for decades, and I'm pretty sure that in my 1990s bookstore day, a musically hip co-worker must have slipped a Redd Kross song on a mixtape they made for me. (I will have to check). Lately, Redd Kross has come across my path several times. The music writer Dan Epstein, who I follow on Facebook, has a biography of the band coming out in October, the band has a new documentary that's getting attention, and Redd Kross's highly-lauded new album (the eponymous Redd Kross, aka "The Redd Album," complete a cover that mimics Beatles' "White Album" sleeve) has been in my feeds. All of this eventually converged in my consciousness, and the tipping point was a post in which Dan Epstein praised the album Neurotica as being a formative record for him. "Okay, that's it," I thought, "it's time for me to investigate this Redd Kross."

I checked out a video of the song "Neurotica" on YouTube and was immediately sold. It was definitely one of those "where the hell have I been?" moments. Then, I had to stream Redd Kross on Spotify shuffle. Once more...blown away. Every song felt like exactly what I needed at that moment. The exuberence, the verve, the humor, the joy, and the fun were like a salve. The day I streamed Redd Kross was the day the Supreme Court issued their insane opinion about Presidential immunity. I was feeling depressed and needed the healing that Redd Kross provided.

The streaming led me to ordering a used CD copy of Neurotica, followed by nabbing the new album from FBC. Just yesterday, I ordered a used CD of Phaseshifter, another album that feels like music made in a laboratory specifically for me.

I should also mention that in a recent interview I heard with the McDonald brothers (the two guys who are the heart and soul of Redd Kross) they spoke fondly of my other boys Sloan. If you praise Sloan, you are a friend of mine.

So the Redd Kross deep dive is well under way. I'll let you know when I come up for air.

SuburbsFest 2024

Seeing as how this is the last day of June, it seems appropriate and necessary to finish the month with a post.

Last weekend was SuburbsFest, which took place just north of Rockford, Illinois. For anyone who might be a first-time reader of this blog (yeah, right--who am I kidding?), I have mentioned SuburbsFest in the past, so just check the tags on the right side of this page.

This time, I got L. to come with me to the Fest. I was quite surprised that she wanted to come, and in fact had pretty much planned on not coming because it was on her birthday weekend. I assumed the last think she'd want would be to spend a weekend in Rockford, Illinois. It also seemed out of the question for me to come solo. Instead, she actually asked about it a few months ago and I was excited that she actually wanted to see what this thing was about.

This year's Fest was probably the most fun I've had, and a lot of it had to do with L. being there. Since all the official Fest activities took place between 6 and 9 PM, we were able to do whatever we wanted the rest of the day. On Friday the 21st we toured the Laurent/Frank Lloyd Wright house, and on Saturday the 22nd we visited the Anderson Japanese Gardens. Both places were beautiful and further proof that almost every place in the world has fascinating sites (and sights) to see and experience if you look hard enough. I give L. full credit for suggesting those two places to explore.

As for the Fest, it is fun to see all of those folks again, many of whom I consider friends at this point. Each night featured good music as well. The band Frank Muffin (de facto Rockin' the Suburbs house band) were tremendous fun as always, and I also enjoyed seeing the Rockford power pop band Half Catholic. I was happy to grab a copy of their 2023 EP, Art in Heaven, which has a definite Teenage Fanclub feel to it.

So it was a wonderful time at the Fest, and it's hard for me to believe it's been over for over a week already.

Detroit weekend (part two)

Anytime we--and presumably the rest of the world that is able to take trips or vacation--wake up the morning on which we must check out of and leave a hotel, that morning turns into a logistical puzzle. There is showering, toothbrushing, packing away toiletries, packing suitcase(s), finding breakfast, and getting out of the hotel before the checkout deadline. This is further complicated when one also needs to get to an airport or train station. Thankfully, having merely driven our car the two hours or so to Detroit, this was considerably easier than most of our trips.

We decided to make it simple and eat breakfast at Presley's, the restaurant on the lobby level. Despite only one person working the tables when we sat down, it was perfectly fine. Would recommend.

Upon checking out and picking up the car from the valet, I drove up Woodward to the Cass Corridor and Third Man Records.

(Publishing this now but will return lickity split).

(Okay, I'm back--a bit later than expected).

We popped into Third Man as soon as they opened, as we arrived on Canfield at about 10:50 AM, even after blowing our turn off Woodward. It was the first time we had been to Third Man since early March 2020, just days before Covid shut the world down. The clerk in Third Man had cued up The Beatles' 1962-1966 "Red Album" which sounded amazing on the store's sound system. I have to say it was emotional for me to be there and be greeted with such beautiful music.

If any readers out there have never been to Third Man, it is like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory for music/record nerds. I half expected Jack White to appear in tux, tails, and top hat and sing a song. It is quite a place, intricately designed and detailed in Jack White's trademark style of red, yellow, and black and vaguely old-timey, vaguely steampunk decorative style. Of course, the merchandise and music for sale feels like it was specifically curated for my musical taste. I could have easily dropped three or four figures on stuff, but kept my impulses in check for the most part.

(More later. Consider this a living document for now).

Third Man, continued...

I bought three records: The Gories' Shaw Tapes (live show from 1988), Mudhoney Live at Third Man, and a compilation of tracks recorded by John (Negative Approach/Laughing Hyenas) Brannon' first band Static. The only one I've listened to so far is the Gories. It's a record that has been around for a while, so it's nothing new.

After we had poked around Third Man and some other cute boutiques on Canfield, we headed out of Detroit and decided to stop in Ann Arbor. I honestly could not remember the last time I'd been in A2. I know it was pre-pandemic, so I think it was 2019 for the Michigan Folk Festival at Hill Auditorium. (It's funny how the timeline of life is now divided into pre and post pandemic).

Despite there being some bicycle riders' event that day, Ann Arbor seemed less busy than I expected, which means we didn't have to drive all the way to the top of the parking garage to find a spot. Since we were parked across the street from our main destination, Literati Books, it was easy getting that out of the way. I bought two books there, Joan Didion's The White Album (which I have wanted to read for at least a year or so) and Percival Everett's Erasure (basis of the movie American Fiction). I've since begun reading the Didion and it's excellent. Her towering intellect is certainly challenging, but her "boots on the ground" reportage (is that a word?) of '60s/'70s California is fascinating. She has absolutely "no fucks to give" and is completely unsentimental in her observations. It's made me want to read Slouching Towards Bethlehem soon.

Detroit weekend (part one)

Over Memorial Day weekend, we spent (almost) two days in Detroit. 

We drove down on Saturday morning and, upon arrival, checked in at the Hotel David Whitney, which is the relatively new luxury hotel in the historic--built in 1915--and opulent David Whitney Building. The David Whitney Building is located across from Grand Circus Park on Witherall Street, between Washington Boulevard and Woodward Avenue.

We were both relieved that we could check into the room early, as it allowed us to drop off our suitcase and explore the absolutely stunning hotel room. The decor was vaguely Arts-and-Crafts (or Arts-and-Crafts adjacent), appropriate for a building constructed in 1915.

At about noon, we made the short walk from the hotel to Comerica Park to see the Tigers play the Toronto Blue Jays. The stadium was overrun by Jays fans, who had likely flooded over the Ambassador Bridge and Windsor Tunnel. My gut reaction was to be disappointed in Detroit fans for not supporting "our" team in "our" ballpark, but in fairness they had probably headed "up north" for the holiday weekend.

In never fails that I always sit in front of the most obnoxious fans at any sporting even I attend. The guys behind us sounded like the cast of Trailer Park Boys: loud, beer-swilling 20-something Canadian guys. They were reasonably good-natured except for the time I thought they might get in a brawl with some dudes buying beer in the aisle and blocking all of our views). Overall, they could have toned it down a notch but then again, maybe I'm just a cranky old guy.

In the hot sun with no breeze that I thought might bake me from the inside out, the Tigers beat the Jays in a close one, 2-1. The Jays fans left the game disappointed.

After the game--thank heavens the game did not go to extra innings because I don't think I would have lasted--we headed back to our gloriously air conditioned and not sun-drenched hotel room. We had a few hours to decompress before our Echo & the Bunnymen show that evening.

After some research and much menu study and analysis, we settled on District 78 for dinner (good place, by the way. We made the right choice). Then, it was the short stroll up Woodward to the Fillmore for the Echo show.

As much as I'm guaranteed to sit in front of annoying people at sporting events, I'm also guaranteed to have some crazy or embarrassing situation at whatever concert I attend. In this case, I saw a guy in line for the show who was a dead ringer for my friend Matt C. So much so that I approached the poor guy with my hand outstretched as I exclaimed, "Hey! How's it going?!" It was only after seeing the utterly baffled and bemused expression on this poor guy's face that I realized this was NOT Matt C. Oops! I apologized and "Not Matty" took it in stride.

As for the concert, it was...fine. Ian McCulloch seems to be going through the motions at this point. I'm not sure if he has health issues or he's just uninspired. Every so often, he can summon the old magic, but by and large he is a sad sight as he performs in darkness (no spotlight), usually sitting on a stool. (Oddly enough, he seemed sprightlier when it came time to walk off stage).

On the bright side, Will Sergeant's guitar playing was on point, and hired guns that comprise the rest of the touring band were tight.

By the time the show was over, and having drank the strongest old-fashioned I'd had in a long time, I was ready to just crash in the hotel room.

1984 album in review: Husker Du--Zen Arcade

I have debated back-and-forth with myself trying to decide which 1984 album to go with next. I have finally decided on Husker Du's Zen Arcade.

The Replacements and Husker Du were two big punk/"college rock" rock bands to emerge from Minneapolis in the '80s. I "discovered" both of them in that fateful autumn of 1986 that I have mentioned more than a few times in this blog. "Discovery" is giving myself too much credit. In both cases, it was another kid in the dorm who floated an album my way. With Husker Du, it was a cassette copy of their 1986 major label debut, Candy Apple Grey.

Until about 2000, Candy Apple Grey was the only Husker Du album I owned and was completely familiar with, since up to that point I was a much bigger fan of The Replacements. For reason I can't remember now, I made the deep dive into the Husker Du discography. At the time, I worked at Borders corporate headquarters in Ann Arbor and attending graduate school in Ann Arbor's [ugly step]sister city, Ypsilanti, AND commuting from Lansing. Maybe I was looking for more music for my commute and was feeling nostalgic for stuff from my college years, which at more than a decade distant already seemed like a long time ago.

In short order, I picked up CDs of Candy Apple Grey, New Day Rising, Flip Your Wig, and Zen Arcade. This might be heresy in the Husker Du community, but I prefer 1985's New Day Rising and Flip Your Wig over the more highly lauded Zen Arcade. This is not to say I don't appreciate Zen Arcade's many charms, it's just that I don't think it needed to be a double album. (The sound you hear is Husker Du fans pelting me with tomatoes). The album has plenty of excellent tracks, like the incendiary opener "Something I Learned Today," Grant Hart's folky melodic "Never Talking To You Again, and "Hare Krsna" (with it's "I Want Candy"-like vocal line). And then there is the epic 14-minute closer "Dream Recurring," which to my ears sounds like something RUSH might have recorded for 2112. (I may very well be further incurring the wrath of Husker Du fans with that statement. It is meant as a compliment--and if you don't like RUSH, get over yourselves). 

I have a complicated relationship with Zen Arcade. I'm not saying it's a bad album. Quite the contrary. It is a damned good LP and, in retrospect, has aged remarkably well over these four decades. I just question whether it needed to be a double album. I also challenge anyone to explain the "story" that is told over its 70+ minute runtime. At best, the album is 23 songs loosely tied together by an overarching theme of alienation, but with few exceptions the vocals are so buried in the mix that it's hard to make heads or tails out of many of the songs. (May the tomato pelting continue).

So, there you have it, my thoughts about Husker Du's Zen Arcade, an album I like but do not love, by a band that I truly do love.

1984 album in review: Echo & the Bunnymen--Ocean Rain

Just for fun, I've decided to take a look back at some favorite or notable albums that were released forty years ago.

1984 was, in retrospect, a significant year for pop/alternative/metal/rock music. I have already made a long list of my favorites, and I will at least try to explore them here in this blog. These entries might be a little freewheeling, so beware. I mean, it IS a blog, right? I reserve the right to be a little sloppy.

Leading off is Echo & the Bunnymen's Ocean Rain. The album was the band's fourth album and was released on May 4 of '84. (May the Forth be with Echo and the Bunnymen--sorry, I couldn't resist). 

In full disclosure, and as should be no surprise to anyone who reads this blog, I had absolutely no awareness of this album's existence in 1984. The first I ever heard of Echo & the Bunnymen was accidentally seeing their name on the marquee of Detroit's Fox Theater in about 1985(ish). 

After arriving at college in autumn 1986, I was finally educated in the subject of "college rock," and part of my "graduation" included the acquisition of Echo & the Bunnymen's best-of compilation Songs to Learn and Sing. (If memory serves me, I got The Cure's Standing on a Beach: the Singles on the very same day). It wasn't until over a decade later that I finally decided that Songs to Learn and Sing wasn't enough and I decided that I need ALL the "EatB" albums. This, of course, included Ocean Rain.

So let's get to the album. All these years later, and I still don't know what these songs are about. I don't have a clue. But I love them. Echo & the Bunnymen are, for the most part, a "vibe" band. Their songs evoke moods. Ian McCulloch's lyrics range from impressionistic to surreal, but always poetic. Even on songs like "The Killing Moon," ostensibly a love song, nothing is straightforward.

From the album title and sleeve photo to many of the lyrics, sea, seafaring, and water is a consistent theme in Ocean Rain. Is this due to the band being from the seaport of Liverpool? Was Ian McCulloch going through a Patrick O'Brian reading phase? I really have no idea. Perhaps these questions will be answered in guitarist Will Sergeant's third installment of his highly entertaining memoirs.

As for the nautical mood of this album, there is a "blind sailor," a "tidal wave," swimming so well in the "seven seas," and all the presumably allegorical water and sailing imagery in the (beautiful) title track. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the lyic that always makes me smile, "kissing the tortoise shell," which McCulloch pronounces like "tore-toys. "Tore-toys Shell" seems like a good name for a Echo & the Bunnymen tribute band.

The songs on Ocean Rain range from the unusual and experimental ("Yo-Yo Man", "Thorn of Crowns") to the comparatively poppier tunes such as "Silver," "Seven Seas," and "Ocean Rain." But when the album gets weird, it doesn't hold back, such as Ian McCulloch's "c-c-c-cucumber, c-c-c-cabbage" rant on "Thorn of Crowns." That's a song that seems as if McCulloch wrote it after looking through his refrigerator with the marijuana munchies.

One of the band's strengths is that the music matches the lyrical content, probably none more so than on "Nocturnal Me," another song that defies interpretation, but evokes a mood. It is a mood of darkness, passion, gloom, and icy coldness. All of that in one song. They keyboard sounds as if it's being played in the ice palace from Dr. Zhivago, or perhaps the dark cave pictured on the album cover.

On my list of favorite 1984 albums, Ocean Rain has risen in my estimation over the years. I would likely have it in my top ten. That said, it's not my favorite EatB album, but certainly slides somewhere into the top five.

After Ocean Rain, the band released the forementioned Songs to Learn & Sing compilation in 1985. After closing that chapter of their career, the Bunnymen were poised for their big breakthrough with their self-titled "Grey Album" in 1987, but it never happened. They simply weren't U2, more like U2's sullen, misbehaving brother. The death of drummer Pete de Freitas was a major blow. Though the band has continued to make good-to-great albums, they never made it beyond cult status.

My goal in 2024 is to revisit more 1984 albums in this blog. Perhaps I could throw in some 1994 albums, too. There are certainly some that deserve my expert analysis. So, we'll see how that goes. No guarantees, but I will give it a shot.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Happy St. Patrick's Day...or what's left of it. I'm sure by the time anyone reads this, the day will be over.

It has been almost a month since I wrote anything in here, so it felt like time.

Inspired by the Apple+ TV show of the same name, I'm reading Slow Horses by Mick Herron. It's not the sort of book I normally read, but so far, so good. I'm taking a short break from it right now to write this.

It's that late Sunday evening wind down from the weekend, probably my least favorite times of the week. Early Monday morning between 6 and 8 AM might be the only time that's worse. I don't want the weekend to end yet, so am feeling rather restless. 

I now feel compelled to return to my book. It is too late in the evening to give any account of my activities this weekend. Maybe later.

Berlin revisited...finally

It has been nagging me for months that I never returned to my promised blog post about Berlin, so I will return to it and try to retrace it to the best of my recollection.

We arrived at the Berlin hauptbahnhof from Halle in mid-morning on August 15, 2023. The Berlin train station is probably the largest one I have ever seen, and if it's not the largest, it's easily the brightest and shiniest, full of steel and glass. As is customary for us, we sought the nearest Starbuck's--conveniently located in the train station--and once sufficiently caffeinated, made our way into already sun-soaked Berlin. 

We crossed the Spree to the Spreebogenpark on the other side of the river, and then walked by the mid-century modern government buildings such as the German Chancellory and the Buro des Bundeskanzlers. My first thought was, "wait...this is Berlin? Is this what it looks like? So far, it reminds me of the drab government buildings of Lansing--only a bit larger." I assure you that my initial impressions soon changed for the better. It just took me more time to realize I was seeing perhaps .01 percent of the city.

Our next dilemma was that some in our contingent were in desperate need of a restroom, because I suppose we didn't have to pee in the train station and, thus, didn't seek out any facilities. After wandering around a bit more and desperately trying to locate the nearest public restrooms on (some of our) phones--what in the world would be do if we couldn't find all of life's necessities on our little handheld devices?--we ended up on the campus of Charite University of Medicine, were we found public facilities. Thus, all of us save our older son made our first "deposits" to Berlin's local "national trust."

At some point, we decided to retrace our steps back to train station and purchase tickets for a sight-seeing bus tour. We also witnessed firsthand the highly competitive nature of the various tour bus companies. The salespeople, who hustle for their respective tour buses, are territorial and take great offense if they sense a competitor breeching etiquette or trying to "steal" potential customers. At one point, I was worried that our particular salesman was about to engage in a fist fight with an over-aggressive competitor. Thankfully, that did not happen.

It was on the bus tour that I fully appreciated the sheer size of Berlin and realized that what I saw across the river from the train station was in no way all there was to this metropolis. I snapped hundreds of pictures with my phone of practically everything I saw: vestiges of the former East Berlin, whatever remains of the Wall (not much at this point), Potsdamer Platz, Alexanderplatz, the iconic television tower (Fernsehturm), and on and on and on. The enormity of Berlin is staggering, and I still think we only saw a fraction of the city.

When the bus tour ended, we hopped off and quickly made our way to the Pergamon. At this point, it was nearing mid-afternoon and Berlin was hot. Temperatures were easily close to 30 degrees celsius. Once in the Pergamon, we learned that, for reasons I won't fully disclose in order to save embarrassment for the person responsible, our tickets were messed up. The upshot was that only a few of us (me, Avery, and Calder) entered the Pergamon's galleries of archaeological and historical artifacts. The museum was crowded and hot from lack of air conditioning and the sheer mass of humanity. We blasted through the museum in about an hour or so and then decided to seek out an early dinner. Crossing the Spree towards the "three girls and a boy" sculptures along the river, we found a place and I consumed my very first authentic German schnitzel. The highlight of the meal was Avery and Calder acting incredibly goofy and slap-happy. I can't even remember exactly what they said or did, but it was entertaining.

The Brandenburg Gate (Brandenburger Tor) was absolutely THE landmark I wanted to see while we were in Berlin. We had thought we'd able to hop back on our tour bus and ride it west along Unter den Linden to our destination. Unfortunately, our tour bus had stopped running, so that meant we had to walk. Avery, Calder, and I walked at a brisk pace towards the Brandenburg Gate, while the rest of our contingent, er, walked at a slightly less brisk pace. This walk was the highlight of the Berlin trip for me. As the day made its way towards early evening, the temperature cooled a bit and made for a pleasant hike along this busy Berlin thoroughfare. Finally reaching the Brandenburg Gate was definitely a profound and powerful moment in my tourist/traveling life.

We then walked by the Reichstag and back to the Berlin train station, where we caught our train back to Halle, finally arriving at our hotel in the late evening, well after the sun had set.

Kick Out the Jams revisited

In the days since I wrote my Wayne Kramer tribute, I have been steadily bothered by my own unintentional slander of the MC5's debut album Kick Out the Jams. While I still consider it my least favorite among the band's three official albums, it's still a good album and absolutely worth investigating.

If it's the first MC5 album one listens to, one must place it in its historical context to appreciate it more. The band had only recently been signed to Elektra Records, and the story goes Elektra thought the "5" were too raw and inexperienced to record a studio album. (But what young band ISN'T raw and inexperienced when they enter a studio to record an album?). In any case, Elektra decided to record the band at their home stomping grounds, the Grande (pronounced GRAND-ee) Ballroom, at the corner of Grand River Avenue and Joy Road in Detroit, on October 30 and 31, 1968. Their debut would be a live album.

Detroit in October '68 was still only a year removed from the rebellion/riots of '67. The city still had gaping physical and psychic wounds that it's still trying to heal in 2024. (On the bright side, the Detroit Tigers baseball team had won its first World Series in 23 years on October 10 of '68, almost exactly three weeks prior to the recording of this album. I'm not sure how many in the crowd or on stage cared about baseball or the World Series. There are pictures of the MC5 playing baseball at Burns Park in Ann Arbor, so it's possible those guys had some interest). 

In any case, it was revolution and definitely not Tigers baseball that was in the air at the Grande--well, that and likely plumes of pot smoke--when the MC5 took the stage on October 30. The band was fresh off playing in Chicago's Lincoln Park during the notorious and catastrophic Democratic National Convention, which took place in August. They were the only band brave (or crazy) enough to play at the convention.* 

Perhaps I should backtrack for a moment. The MC5 was managed by John Sinclair, founder of the White Panther Party. The White Panther Party was a vehemently anti-capitalist, anti-racist, pro-marijuana, pro-socialism, pro-"sex, drugs, and fucking in the streets" radical group. The MC5 were, I suppose, the musical extension of the White Panther ethos. So when the emcee, Brother J.C. Crawford opens the album with this revolutionary rap to the young people gathered at the Grande, it's no bullshit:

"Brothers and sisters! I wanna see a sea of hands out there! Lemme see a sea of hands! I want everyone to kick up some noise! I want to hear some revolution out there, brothers! I wanna hear a little revolution! Brothers and sisters, the time has come for each and every one of you to decide whether you are gonna be the problem or whether you are gonna be the solution! You must choose, brothers! You must choose! It takes five seconds! Five seconds of decision! Five seconds to realize your purpose here on the planet! It takes five seconds to realize that it's time to move! It's time to get down with it! Brothers, it's time to testify and I want to know: Are you ready to testify? Are you ready? I give you a testimonial! The MC5!"

It may seem a little histrionic or melodramatic looking back at this in 2024, but this was real. The Vietnam War was at its apex, the Tet Offensive earliet in '68 had made it clear that the United States was not winning the war, yet the war effort escalated and many of the kids in the audience at the Grande were ripe for the draft. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy had both been assassinated within the last six months. The Kick Out the Jams album captures the heightened tension of the time. (And it also captures the sounds of young people who just want to have a fucking great time that night). Turn off the lights and burn some incense and/or weed and you, the listener, might feel you've taken the wayback machine to the Grande.

(MC5 at the Grande, October 1968. Photo by Leni Sinclair)

I recently heard some archive interviews with Wayne Kramer and he said that as soon as he started playing "Ramblin' Rose," the first song on Kick Out the Jams, he broke his E-string of his guitar and was immediately out of tune for the rest of the evening. (These were the days before guitar techs who could have handed him a new guitar or fixed the problem for him). As I wrote in my previous blog post--which was confirmed by Brother Wayne--he was thoroughly unsatisfied with the sound of the record. At the same time, there is an undeniable ENERGY to the album. This is a band that was committed and on fire. In the right mood, Kick Out the Jams is an exhilarating ride, and the title track remains one of the most incendiary, take-no-prisoners slab of high energy rock 'n' roll ever recorded.

So what the hell, ignore my advice in the previous post and go directly to Kick Out the Jams, with the understanding that what you'll hear is a loud and often grainy, out-of-focus snapshot of a gritty but wounded Midwestern industrial city in one of the scariest years in American history. If you are intrigued by that, then advance forward to 1970's Back in the U.S.A. (much tighter and cleaner but still pissed off) and then 1971's High Time (a perfect marriage of Kick Out the Jams and Back in the U.S.A.).

*Ignore the legend that the MC5 played six hours in Lincoln Park. Wayne Kramer has vehemently denied their set lasted anywhere near that length.