The Wrong Reason

Andrew WK was one Red Eye last night, and he was funny. I don't normally go in for glam of any kind, barring some early New York Dolls, but I have a hard time believing that a fellow who's funny is also a shit musician. This is as illogical as it is compelling.

Besides, his new disc is called '55 Cadillac. What's not to love?

Rating My CD's: They Won't See Me.

4. The Beatles -- Rubber Soul

I've made a long habit of not particularly liking the Beatles very much, mostly out of sheer obstinate contrariness. Something about the media force-feeding of this long-gone group with only two members still above ground down the collective throats of those too young to remember them has always made me gag.  It's easily the most galling manifestation of the Boomer Grief-Nostalgia Complex: every few years some corporate clown decides to repackage the same old songs we've heard a thousand times, cries "The Beatles!" and lets slip the dogs of Pavlov. Say what you will about the Rolling Stones, they at least have the decency to record some crappy new songs to summon us to hear the old ones.

So I used to make great show of denouncing the Fab Four with any one of the following epithets:

Light Blogging Today.

Due to some needed re-categorization of some of my discs, plus a variety of other scut-work.

The Modest Mouse I bought on Saturday is pretty darn good.

Music Fire Sale: A Winner Is Me.

The FYE at the Waldorf mall is closing, and they were in full EVERYTHING MUST GO mode. 60% off on CD's, 70% off on other stuff. I got a cover for my Nano for about $2, and one for Wifey for another $2.50. As to the tunage:

• Black Flag -- My War
• Talking Heads -- Remain in Light
• Julian Casablancas -- Phrazes for the Young
• Modest Mouse -- We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
• Liz Phair -- Exile in Guyville
• Alison Irahita -- Just Like You

The latter two were for the spouse. I swear.

All told, I spent about $50. Huzzah!

Rating My CD's: I Will Not Sell Five Copies

3. The Aliens -- Astronomy for Dogs

Indie music promises to be one of two things: either an aesthetic accomplished workout for the mind's ability to appreciate music, or a better mousetrap than mainstream sludge, rocking harder, being more danceable. The latter is the cachet of punk and electro; the former, the self-conceit of most of the un-listenable music of this decade.

A halcyon time existed in days of yore, when we all loved the Beta Band, equivalent to the period when Jack Black got second billing to John Cusack. It has passed. If pressed, I could summon the will to make myself buy whatever song that was in High Fidelity that made us sit back in awe of its masterful pop-ness, the song that birthed hipsterism as we know it. But then I might wonder why I wouldn't buy "Let's Get it On" for much the same reason. There's such a thing as being too complete in your collection.

All of which is prologue to and avoidance of discussing Astronomy for Dogs, by several reunited Beta Band members calling themselves The Aliens, because after two paragraphs of dull snark I can't think of any more apt description of this record than "boring." I got it free with my Magnet subscription two years ago because they were out of the Nick Cave album I really wanted, and I figured that at best it could inspire me to join the ranks of those who can say "Why, of course I have The Three EP's by the Beta Band. Don't You?" No such luck.

Oh, they're trying. This is the kind of disc that provokes It's-It's reviews: "It's Electro, It's Pop, It's Better Than Having Your Wang Smashed in the Door of a '79 Buick LeSabre Repeatedley While Listening to And Out Come The Wolves!" All kinds of vim and vigor romp gaily through the songs, and numerous genuflections to whimsy made by inserting "We are the Aliens...We are the Aliens..." into the holes of several tracks. But the effect, lying somewhere between "enh" and "huh?", does not warrant any more of my time.

Grade: C

Rating My CD's: No, Walk This Way.

2. Aerosmith -- Toys in the Attic

Mainstream platinum album-sellers like Aerosmith that survive for more than ten years do so because at some point they've created something worth remembering, that draws from the most jaded critic the nod of satisfaction, that vinyl collectors and people who "like everything but country and rap" alike agree is classic rock (whatever that might mean). Whatever tedium they've cashed in on in recent years, Aerosmith met this criteria and earned the recognition of not sucking on their early albums.

Sure, their blues-inflected rock was, as Jon Savage put it in England's Dreaming, well past the initial point of inspiration, sure, even at their best, they made music best suited to getting drunk to. So what? Getting drunk is one of the human race's favorite activities; anything which enhances the joyous aspects of this and minimized miserable ones is to be commended. This is what the hipsters and haters refuse to get: not only is there wealth buried amidst the lowest common denominator, there's even merit in the mining of it.

As an example, Toys in the Attic, otherwise an unremarkable early 70's hard-rock disc, boasts "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion." Everyone who likes or doesn't like Aerosmith knows "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion." People who hate Aerosmith still like "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion." And well they should; these songs are an apotheosis of the genre: throbbing bass lines, slashing guitar, solid writing, and Tyler encapsulating every sneering horndog from Robert Johnson to Mick Jagger. You could bury these songs in a time capsule with the label "This Was Hard Rock" and leave it at that.

Two other tracks stand out. the title opener combines a pleasing rockabilly shuffle with some sharp production tricks, including some layered vocal fades, yielding a sound surprisingly modern and fresh. Less satisfying, but perhaps more memorable, "My Big Ten Inch Record" manages just enough self-awareness and spirit to be forgiven the lameness of its joke. The remainder settles comfortably into blues-rock competence, neither blowing your mind nor boring you.

I didn't buy this: my sister, a huge Aerosmith fan, gave it to me for a Christmas or Birthday present, thus handily winning the award for Best Unsolicited Gift Music (admittedly, the only real contender was a Blind Melon tape an aunt gave me). It doesn't make the rotation all that often, but I can't imagine getting rid of it. Sometimes a man just needs to hear "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion."

Grade: L

I Have No Idea Who Jay Reatard is...

...so I don't know if his death is a terrible tragedy that bespeaks a coming enshrinement as Great Dead Rock n' Roll Star or just one of those warnings to kids about the danger of drugs (yeah, first assumption, and Ted Leo may consider me suitably chastened if it turns out to be wrong. When a 29-year-old male in the music business dies in his sleep, it's the smart way to bet). I've been checking out some of his videos on Pitchfork TV, and I still don't have an answer.

I mean, I've heard of the cat, seen him sitting in a bathtub surrounded by 45's, but never heard him until today. "DOA" sounds good, "It Ain't Gonna Save Me," less so, but nothing I can fault. Seems a shame.

So I guess it would be really inappropriate to ask if his name is really pronounced like "retard," huh?

Pitchfork is Boring

I mean, I know I'm supposed to give a shit about Animal Collective and possibly even Badly Drawn Boy, but those names just want me to take a nice afternoon nap on clean new Irish Linen. And then soup for dinner. I like soup.

Good Lady GaGa review, though, by which I mean the actual review is provocative and timely.

Rating My CD's: It Begins.

1. AC/DC -- Back in Black

'Natch.


Grade: L

Argh.

Do I want the White Stripes box set? Yes.

Do I have $229? No.

Will I now fruitlessly scour their merch table, looking for something cool to buy in consolation, before giving up in a fit of fiduciary husbandry? Yes.

Rating My CD's: Grades Re-Post

[I'm giving this a seperate post so I can link it to each review instead of the apologia they were originally part of.]

Grades. Each CD will be given a Grade according to the following invented Scale:

C = Crap
OK = OK
L = Likes it
LL = Loves it
DI = Desert Island/Essential

Categories. These will conform to how I organize my CD's at home:

1. Rock/Pop/Country -- Honky folk music.
2. Jazz and Blues -- Non-Honky folk music.
3. Hip-Hop, Rap and Assorted Electro -- Stone Cold Rhymin' and Synchronized Beeping.
4. Punk, Metal and Assorted Alternative -- Angry Honky folk music.
5. The Rest of the Mess -- Movie Soundtracks, Classical, and other stuff I'm ashamed of.

And So Am I a Hypocrite...

After all the pissing and moaning I've done about the various mags, and especially Magnet, I had to go and defend them against the record nerds that pissed all over their 2009 Best Of.

It's not my fault. Honestly. They're just such a bunch of whiny little dweebs, all "you put obscure band X on your list instead of obscure band Q? Sellouts!" like they were solving the world's problems. Yet these same un-fathered dorkmats doubtless hold themselves above the sportsfags who argue with each other about special teams and the infield-fly rule.



Anyway: my contribution is as tasteless as it is futile.

I'll post an actual CD review tommorrow, I promise.

Just in Case I'm not Crystal-Clear On the Subject...

Is there anyone out there who actually remembers any of Magnet's Best of 2008? Aside from Vampire Weekend, of course, which won't leave the Target $10 aisle in my lifetime. I mean, the Rosebuds? Parts & Labor? Silver Jews? Come on.

Oh, Okay: I actually like the Whigs quite a bit.

So Here's the Plan...

Rating My CD's: An Exercise in Self-Criticism Disguised as a Shameless Attempt to Fill Space

Why? I (re-)started this with no plan, on a lark, because I felt like I had something to say. I don't know if I do or not, but as I said before, I've had the idea of expressing myself on the subject of music exclusively in blog format for some time. It doesn't fit into any of my life plans at present (I really should be balancing my checkbook right now). But I'm going to do it anyway.

But what does "doing it" mean? There's no way I can pretend that I'm going to be able to offer commentary half as authoritative, if that's the word, that all these trendhumping hipsters that run the mags can. They live for this shit, I'm just an amateur. Sure, I'd like to wander over to Record & Tape Traders and dig on Japandroids or the Thermals, or hell, lose myself in Built to Spill singles and pretend that I have some right to speak on them. But married suburban doughboys like myself have other shit to do.

So when I'm writing about music, I'm really writing about myself. All music writers do this; the honest ones cop to it. So what do I have to say about myself, through someone elses poetry and labor? How can I know, unless I look at what they've done.

Thus, one of the primary projects of this blog is going to be rating my CD's. I'm going to do them all, according to category, and (gulp) alphabetically. I'll do the stuff I love and the stuff I hang on to for no reason, and the middling medium-rotation seasonal stuff as well. I may or may not set myself up as an Amazon Associate so as I can put buttons and widgets on my CD's, depending on whether I decide it's worth the bother. Forthwith comes the breakdown:

Grades. Each CD will be given a Grade according to the following invented Scale:

C = Crap
OK = OK
L = Likes it
LL = Loves it
DI = Desert Island/Essential

Categories. These will conform to how I organize my CD's at home:

1. Rock/Pop/Country -- Honky folk music.
2. Jazz and Blues -- Non-Honky folk music.
3. Hip-Hop, Rap and Assorted Electro -- Stone Cold Rhymin' and Synchronized Beeping.
4. Punk, Metal and Assorted Alternative -- Angry Honky folk music.
5. The Rest of the Mess -- Movie Soundtracks, Classical, and other stuff I'm ashamed of.

Tags will conform to the Category of CD's. Hence, anything tagged "mycd1" will  be all the stuff from category 1, and so forth.

If I can get these done by the end of the year, I might move on to Rating My Vinyl and then, in grim desperation, to Rating my iTunes, at which point my wife will likely sneak up behind my and put an end to my misery with a ball-peen hammer. No jury on earth would convict her.

I also changed the template, as I'm sure you can see.

 

Another Year, Another Show...

...another ten minutes wasted trying to figure out what the fuck Magnet's Best of 2009 is talking about.

The End of the 00's: Whatever

Fluxblog led me over to The Awl's End of the 00's Retrospective, and I wearied of finding a single essay I liked. Indeed, it was a chore to find a single essay I read. None of them seemed to really be about the 00's at all, but about competing for Most Un-Related Introduction to a Historical Retrospective. I mean, this one almost worked for me, but decided to throw itself off into nowhere at precisely the point that M.I.A.'s career did.

This one, on the other hand: Pure Awesome.

Lady GaGa, Because one Ga Just Isn't Enough

Ace of Spades stepped out of politics to express opinions similar to my own regarding Her Ladyship, the Ga of Gas, which can be summed up as "Huh. That's...interesting..." The comments are overwhelmingly anti-Ga, and I can't come up with very much pro-Ga, but like I say, I don't hate her, which for young pop stars is an achievement.

Maybe I just like "Poker Face" more than I am prepared to admit.

Demetri Martin & Sarah Silverman Have a Show

Because they aren't tepidly amusing enough on their own.

And His Suit is Made of Liquid Metal

So I saw Adam Lambert's other performance on SYTYCD (DVR's do not bring about a sense of urgency in TV watching), and it was so meh-tastic as to deserve a word that rhymes with meh-tastic that I don't feel like inventing right now. For one thing, now that it's 2010, my patience for invoking the fashion sense of 1986 is officially at an end. I'm prepared to start wearing a striped vest over a T-Shirt over my shorts n' Docs with a jaunty Cat n' The Hat hat if need be, just so I never again have to see a grown man dress up a shiny Vietnamese pimp suit with poop on the shoulder while not wowing me with lyrics warbled over a Kajagoogoo beat.

Each of these guys would give Adam Lambert a wedgie.

 

I don't know what Lambert's record deal involves, but I get the strange idea that he's perfectly content with the kind of glam-pop his handlers are squeezing out of him. And while that may sell for a while, he's only got so much timbe before the next Idol season and America finding another rubber-faced yowler to make its Gay Boyfriend.

Sisqo's Sadness Now Seminal

I don't know who the loons are at the 20th Century Masters, but they are breaking all ankles to ensure that no artist falls so rapidly from omnipresence to obscurity that he cannot have a repackaging passed off as a "Best of." Not even Sisqo.

But do you know what's really sad? I mean aside from vainly trying to recall any track on here that's not  "Thong Song". Aside from "Home Wrecker" instantly making you think of "Gold Digger" and then making you laugh really hard at how "Gold Digger"-like it's not. Aside from an album cover seemingly unsure whether it's a crime scene on a snowbank or a freeze-frame for So You Think You Can Dance.

 

WTF?

What's really sad is the fact that two of the tracks aren't really his. Apparently Sisqo can't even fill out a Greatest Hits without accompanying tracks by hip-hop powerhouses Mya and DMX. You'll remember them when you click on the links. The latter fellow liked dogs.

I am Become Phlegmatic...

Got a rather nasty cold on New Year's Eve, and then spent the weekend either in bed or running around to Southern Maryland. So the musicing, it has been light. I've a few things in embryo, but am, as they say, craploads of busy. More later.