Sequencing is crucial in a record. You need an ebb and flow. A kick-ass opening song. Should the outro be a rabble-rousing kiss-off or a contemplative fade-out? Inquiring minds want to know!
Personally, I’d like to have sat in on the record meetings for African Elephants, the somewhat drab new release from Dead to Me. What made them choose “X,” the lone reggae song of the collection, as the opener? I’m not complaining; it worked for GNVFLA after all. What sparked the decision to include the fairly random, kind of not that great, Nirvana-esque song “Blue” as the closer after a solid half-hour of Dillinger Four-style punk? Can science explain this?
Now completely devoid of One Man Army members and stripped down to a three-piece, Dead to Me cycles through quite a few ideas on African Elephants. This makes the record come off as a little schizophrenic at times. Following proper lab etiquette, I wafted some fumes from “A Day Without A War” and detected trace amounts of O Pioneers!!!’s stomp. That works in well with more D4-ish tracks like “Modern Muse” and “Fell Right In,” which I swear share 98 percent of the same guitar intro. It’s an unfortunate case of self-plagiarization, given that the chorus to “Fell Right In” is a killer.
It’s this bit of repetition on a record of seemingly diverse ideas that keeps African Elephants from sounding great. It’s not a bad album, but I’ve got a list of other records I’d rather listen to that do the same job only better: Versus God, Apathy and Exhaustion, Neon Creeps. Still, it fulfills those punk obligations suitably enough. There are a few catchy numbers – “Bad Friends” covers bad friendships and awesome hooks; “Liebe Liese” has a nice strut to it (not to be confused with “Three Chord Strut;” “X” is a cool dub tribute. But there’s some malaise during the album’s second half. Maybe that’s the logic behind African Elephant’s sequencing – “X,” being a good song, gets backed up by solid stompers like “Modern Muse” and “Nuthin Runnin Through My Brain” while “Blue” gets… not a whole lot.
I try not to get too self-righteous about typos, for two reasons: 1) Grammar Nazis suck and B) Everyone makes mistakes. Example: I recently submitted a review to the Org where I got the band’s name wrong… every time. Go on, count the errors. What’s more, the band e-mailed me to gently correct my mistake, which just made me feel like that much more of an asshole. Point is, everybody takes turns fucking up. So it is with full self-awareness of my hypocrisy that I need to roast metal act Enemies of the Sun for a glaring error on The Heartless EP.
The track listing on the back cover is done with Roman numerals. Star Wars fans/apologists know that I means 1, II means 2, etc. Things get iffy on track four, “Between Me and the Heartless,” which is listed as IX, which actually translates to nine. Now, I know they meant IV. It’s not a big deal, and given that I kind of hate the EP, which sounds like Def Leopard trying to be hip “for the kids” by covering Stone Temple Pilots, complaining about it seems extraneous and mean. So I said to myself, “Hey, man. Chill out. Now be a good Opinionated Internet User and read the press release for research…”
Son of a female dog, these guys are from Milan, Italy! How do you mess up numbers invented in your own damn country? Furthermore, how do you think Def Leopard is awesome? Have you heard Hysteria? It sucks so hard.
OK, let’s talk tunes. The Heartless EP is bad. Listeners get four songs/15 minutes worth of metal leaning toward the glam side of lame. Fans of Motley Crue’s Dr. Feelgood and Velvet Revolver’s Contraband might get a kick out of it, but the rest of the world’s inhabitants can go on with their lives. Oddly enough, the final track – the aforementioned offender “Between Me and the Heartless” – has more of an appealing White Zombie vibe, though it’s almost as ho-hum as the preceding tracks. Overall, the EP makes me want to make up derogatory puns of the band’s name, like Enemies of the Bum or Enemies of the Fun or Enemies of the Songs That Are Good.
The three years that separate Oh! Calcutta!, the 2006 Lawrence Arms full-length, and Buttsweat and Tears, the band’s recent seven-inch, shouldn’t feel like a huge gap. First of all, it has only been three got-dammed years. Plus, fans were treated to side projects the Falcon and Sundowner during the interim. And yet…and yet…the last time we heard from this Chicago three-piece, George W. Bush was president. The housing market hadn’t gone to crap. The seminal film The Marine starring John Cena was still months away from hitting theaters. The world as I understand it now did not exist. That lends a slight air of nostalgia in spinning this, a five-song EP whose name and cover are perfectly matched.
But nostalgia only goes so far. So yeah, it’s cool to hear Buttsweat pick right up where Calcuttaleft off. Fans still get Chicago punk at its best. Co-vocalists Brendan Kelly and Chris McCaughan are trading the mic a little more this time around (although still not as much as on The Greatest Story Ever Told, a record that lives up to its title). The guitars are crunchy, although the band does incorporate the occasional country/folk influence, like on the comparatively soft closer “The Redness in the West.” Oh yeah, and every song is totally awesome.
See, the Larry Arms write fast songs about getting drunk, juxtaposing high concepts (sadness, the changing of the seasons, existentialism) with low art (Saturday Night Live, Half Baked). They’ve been doing it well for 10 years now, and they do it well here. “Spit Shining Shit” kicks off the vinyl, and it’s clear that the Larry Arms are still one of the best punk bands around. It’s a thrilling three-minute burst about small-minded people and the need to get away from them, opening with guitar and vox before drummer Neil “Tennessee” Hennessey brings the rock. Improbably, follow-up “The Slowest Drink at the Saddest Bar on the Snowiest Day in the GreatestCity” is even better. This time the guitar intro is snarling. The topic is in the title, and McCaughin’s lyrics effortlessly flow from him, bouncing off rhymes and scene description like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Lines like “I walk through the snow to a bar where there’s no one I know / Drink slow, drink slow with nowhere to go / And when I leave I’ll be singing this song / Summer’s gone / Carry on / I’m a ghost in the dawn” astound time and again.
“Them Angels Been Talkin’” hits on the flipside and it’s another rocker. Those who buy the digital version are then treated to a bonus track, “Demons,” although everyone and their mommas can get up ons this beauty via Spin.com. The fact that it’s free makes it even more of a must-hear – and makes me wonder how many more songs TLA has in storage. Can we score a full-length, please? But first I need to talk up “The Redness in the West.” It starts out somber, with Kelly talking again about feeling worn down and wasted before turning into a self-help mantra: “We’re gonna fuck ’em all when we get there.”
If there’s a complaint to be had with Buttsweat and Tears, it’s that it’s over too soon. It’s been three years and I could use 10, 20, even 30 new tunes. But that’s the beauty of the seven-inch; it’s a perfect salvo. Besides, it makes it easier to back up and put on “Slowest Drink” again. Welcome back boys. It’s been a while.
I'm a drummer. I love playing drums. I don't get to do that too often these days.
I had a band in high school called Caution! that played loose, sloppy garage rock, and an indie rock group in college called Emergency and I. Both bands had decent runs, but after E&I broke up, I couldn't seem to find a steady outlet for skin-pounding, outside of the occasional substitution gig. I never thought of myself as a stellar drummer, but I got the job done, and it was a little depressing to see my skills atrophy. But then, it's not like my life stopped. Playing music just sort of fell by the wayside, unless you count leading drunken acoustic sing-alongs at parties. School got in the way. Writing got in the way. Work got in the way. Life happened.
Every so often, my dad brings up playing music. Because I used to work really hard at it. Because I spent a summer coming up with the $1,000 to buy a nice drum kit and cymbals and now they just sit in the garage. He always compares it to basketball. See, he used to participate in a youth league up through his college years. And then he had to train to become a CPA. And then he had to work. And then he got married...
It's fitting then that, after band practice today, my friends and I played basketball. We suck at it so hard. But we do a decent job covering Mountain Goats tunes. Today we jokingly called ourselves Science Club. I've got a decent list of bands that never took off. TMF. Cats Playing Jazz. And a few that never even got to have names. But it was fun playing today. We covered songs like "No Children," "Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton," and "This Year." I messed up a lot. Whatever. It was great to shake the dust from my stands. And when we were on, it was the best feeling in the world. I don't want to tour in a van or plug clothing sponsors or pretend to change someone's life. I just wanna have a beer and sing the songs that make me feel alive, and then afterward maybe grab a (veggie) burger.
[Vinyl Vednesday is a weekly feature about three favorite vinyl finds. It’s not meant to be a dick-measuring contest, but it kinda is. This week’s installment is on Michael Jackson, the subject of the documentary This Is It. I won’t be seeing the film. It was never meant for public consumption, a quality that’s also kept me away from Kurt Cobain’s Journals and The Mountain Goats’ Hail and Farewell, Gothenburg. John Lennon demos and Emily Dickenson poems aside, I avoid that stuff. As of such, I think Jackson’s actual songs are a better way to celebrate his life than unfinished behind-the-scenes footage of an unfinished live show.
Records: Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall (1979) and Bad (1987) on black and Thriller (1982) on picture disc.
Place of Purchase: Off the Wall and Bad came from Siren Records in Doylestown post-Jackson’s death. Thriller was purchased at the Philadelphia Record Exchange pre-.
Quality: All three records, in one way or another, were purchased to fill in some gaps in my Jackson collection. I already owned Off the Wall on CD prior to this purchase, but I’m one of those chumps who likes to have the albums he loves on multiple formats. It’s perhaps a more comprehensive record than Thriller, in that it’s a really, really good R&B/disco album. The title track definitely feels like a precursor to “Thriller,” which is always a good thing, but my favorite song is the closer, “Burn This Disco Out.” If there’s a problem with Off the Wall, it’s that the back-half is a little too heavy on ballads. “Burn This Disco Out” rectifies that by being a perfect party jam, making it all the more tempting to flip the record back over to side 1 and play cuts like “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” and “Workin’ Day and Night.”
Bad, meanwhile, was purchased because I thought I’d give it a whirl. The title track isn’t that great (and the video is even worse). But I’ve always been a fan of “Smooth Criminal,” which I own digitally but wanted to get a physical copy of. Plus, “Dirty Dianna” combines the predatory sexuality of “Billie Jean” and the metal shredding of “Beat It” into one awesome song. As it turns out, though, Bad deserves its reputation as the disappointing Thriller follow-up. The ballads got worse, the production is too of its time (namely, it’s too sparse, synthesized, and sterile), and all of those Jackson vocal quirks people laugh at start here (“Shamon,” “a-hee-hee-hee,” and so on and so forth). It’s hard to believe Quincy Jones handled this uneven release.
Ah, but Thriller, now there’s an album. Some critics have slagged it as more of a collection of singles than a cohesive album, which seems too easy/lazy to say since seven out of the record’s nine songs were released as freaking singles. If it had “Rockin’ Robin” and “Rock With You,” it could double as a greatest hits collection. Hell, if it consisted solely of “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” it would still count. That song just keeps getting better and better as it rolls along. Too bad the picture disc doesn’t play for shit. I love the Philadelphia Record Exchange’s low prices, but their used vinyl is always a gamble. Siren might charge more, but I’ve yet to have a problem with any of their used stuff. Oh well, at least it looks pretty. Look at that belt! Yes! Plus, I can just play my parents’ copy of Thriller.
Yeah, I wasn’t kidding about the multiple formats thing.
With Eating the Dinosaur, author Chuck Klosterman has finally penned a true sequel to his knockout 2003 collection Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto. They’re both collections of original essays examining the philosophical hidden meanings of popular culture. Where they differ, though, is in maturity. Cocoa Puffs took on The Real World, John Cusack, and Saved By the Bell. Dinosaur, meanwhile, attempts to explain the Waco massacre, the Unibomber, and the mathematical theories of the film Primer. Obviously, this is headier, more mature stuff.
Klosterman announces as such on the collection’s first essay, “Something Instead of Nothing,” in which he contemplates how realistically (or unrealistically) interviews depict people. It reveals everything the book is about, from the formatting – although the essays jump around from one subpoint to the next, they are helpfully annotated – to the book’s general topic, which is, “What is real?” Supplemented by interviews with documentarian Errol Morris and radio host Ira Glass (as well some delicious footnotes. Seriously, Klosterman provides some of my favorite footnotes of all time), Klosterman debates with himself and his subjects over why anyone would bother telling the truth in a public interview. The potential gains are numerous – exposure, publicity for a product being sold, and for the ridiculously famous, a chance to interact with a sane, smart human being – but Klosterman provides just as many reasons why giving interviews is a bad idea, and why telling the truth can be an even worse one. This is why Klosterman occasionally lies when being interviewed.
Later in the book, Klosterman considers whether it’s better to be a perfectly built athlete with average stats or an averagely built player with those same scores – do we appreciate people more when they have to earn their achievements more? He compares Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain with Branch Davidian leader David Koresh. He attempts to explain – occasionally even justify – Ted Kaczynski’s worldview. As is Klosterman’s way, the writing is incisive and humorous, though with diminished returns.
Klosterman seems at a Joe Sacco-like crossroads. Does he continue to write about rock ‘n’ roll and low culture? Should he pursue more “adult” topics like war, disease, and bitter, bitter failure? Dinosaur feels like an argument for the latter. While his musical observations are compelling when coupled with more “real world” goals – like on the Cobain/Koresh essay – some of Klosterman’s thoughts seem too tired and uneventful in comparison to his more socio-political material. On “T is for True,” he discusses irony, literalism, and honesty as they apply to Weezer frontman Rivers Cuomo, political figure Ralph Nader, and filmmaker Werner Herzog. The Nader portion is insightful; the Cuomo section less so. The essay examines a guy who may or may not have contributed to the rise of the Bush administration (which is stirring), as well as the guy who wrote Make Believe (which I would rather forget). While Klosterman takes an original stance on explaining Weezer and its fans post-Pinkerton (Cuomo has always written explicitly about himself. Pinkerton is just the point where he and his fans’ interests overlapped), the topic still feels rehashed, in that every Weezer release stirs up yet another conversation about how the band was better with Matt Sharp involved.
While I appreciate Klosterman’s unique approach to the topic, there’s still a part of me that resents people who argue that Weezer has released an album this decade on par with its ’90s material. In a world where Jason Todd and Bucky can come back to life, a man has to believe in something, dammit, even if its means believing that Weezer will never be good again (but… but the “Red Album” was funny in spots…!). Keep “We Are All on Drugs” to yourself, pal, and pass the “You Gave Your Love to Me Softly,” please.
But I could never call anything Klosterman writes in this or any of his other books disappointing. He’s still the premier scribe of the aughts, as far I’m concerned, and I will continue to follow him, taking in his every witticism. Still, there is this slight feeling of fatigue in reading Dinosaur, the thought that maybe Klosterman is getting sick of all this nonsense. In truth, every book he’s done since Cocoa Puffs has attempted to distance itself from that work in some way. Killing Yourself to Live was too concerned with mortality and fidelity to be taken lightly, IV was a clearinghouse collection and not a true continuation, and Downtown Owl, Klosterman’s first novel, was another rumination on death (and his home state North Dakota). While Dinosaur is the closest Klosterman has come to mimicking Cocoa Puffs, it also works best when it takes on fresh, more adult topics. Also, sports, oddly enough. “What We Talk About When We Talk About Ralph Sampson” allowed me to have quite a meaningful five-second conversation with my father about basketball.
Subtract about 15 minutes from Try To Be Here, and Jeff Caudill’s latest full-length would be a solid country-tinged rock record in the vein of Gin Blossoms, Lemonheads, and I Can Make a Mess Like Nobody’s Business. As is, it steers closer to sub par Dashboard Confessional balladry. Still, there are a few gems to be gleaned from the record.
Caudill did time in pop punk act Gameface, and those roots crop up whenever the guy flexes a bit. Basically, if he’s fronting a fast-paced tune, you can count on it being a barn-burner. Plus, he’s backed by Popeye Vogelsang (Farside) and Robbie Rist (The Brady Bunch, although he leaves the curse of Cousin Oliver at home. Turns out the dude is a solid drummer), among others. Rist also co-produced the record with Caudill. The pedigree is there, and, occasionally, the hits. “Remember the Time” is a rollicking tune. “Try to Be Here” is adorably goofy in its funky sentiments. The midtempo “Spend” will appeal to Counting Crows fans.
But where Counting Crows could put “Angels of the Silences” and “Walkaways” on the same record like it’s no big deal, Caudill trips up trying to provide a mellower balance to Try To Be Here. “Stay Home” derails the record’s momentum early on. “Reminder” kills five and a half minutes. “Dreaming in Realtime” is haunting but a little too formless. Throw in a few indistinct midtempo tunes like “Let’s Get Lost” and “All Things New,” and the album’s second half sags.
When Caudill works up the gumption, he can be a compelling songwriter and performer. While Try To Be Here isn’t a failure, it could benefit from a little more pep. Remember: Evan Dando generally keeps things fast and quirky. Embrace songs about killer werewolves.
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