Cigar Face

Here's an observation I've been making for years. You ever notice that when guys smoke cigars, they always take a puff and then, as the smoke rolls from their mouths, pull the cigar away to look at it with this weird, confused face? It's an expression that lands right between that of dull pain and thinking "What the heck is this thing?" ALWAYS! Yes, ALWAYS!

There's a cigar store up the street from where I work. Every day as I walk past, I witness this behavior. Every. Time.

Anyone wanna throw down on this?

I only have a loose guess on the phenomenon. The cigar is a large and especially awkward item to have in one's hand semi-constantly. Sometimes I carry my cell phone in my hand as opposed to toting it in my pocket. I have several good reasons for this, but the point is that I usually just stare at it when I have nothing else going on around me. I'm sure I look fairly stupid. I'm sure the cigar carries a similar demand. It's big and weird and maybe even expensive, so it gets some study when it's being used.

Hell, some people just stare at their empty hands.

Consider this, too. People mimic behavioral subtleties, even when unconscious of doing so. Every cigar smoker I see makes the cigar face. Maybe one young, up'n'coming cigar aficionado kept noticing the seniors at the humidor doing it, and that influenced his mannerisms. The pattern of influence goes all the way back. I mean, that's gotta the be the case for some people.

A sexual argument can be made as well, but I'm gonna bail before unzipping that one. I'm sure your imaginations are functional enough to stroke the possibilities. I mean, dudes just sitting around in a quiet room, holding these things, and--well, your imagination just got head--I mean a head--start. I've seen these humidors. You could slip a cock ring on the tension. I mean, it reeeally--okay, okay I'll stop!

(I know this has got to be the dumbest writing topic anyone could ever scrape for, but, well, whatever)

For what it's worth, here's a rebuttal to Allmusic's review of 'Eat Your Paisley'

One of my favorite music writers, stylistically, is Ned Raggett. He has the unique ability of writing to the point with plenty of enjoyable personality. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to end a sentence before it becomes its own paragraph, but that's for another time. What I really want to address, after that tip of the hat, is Raggett’s review of the Dead Milkmen’s Eat Your Paisley found on Allmusic.com.

My main issue is with his review’s basic assertion: Having created a near-perfect blend of whiny humor and punk catchiness on Big Lizard in My Backyard, on their follow-up the Milkmen ended up falling a bit short. It's not a drastic, disastrous fall-off by any means, but part of the problem is the album's lack of a perfect single; where the past had "Bitchin' Camaro" and the future would have "Punk Rock Girl," Eat Your Paisley doesn't have a specific "must listen" number to recommend it.

Allmusic is a source of opinion I, eh, mostly confide in, and I know a lot of folks who say the same. With a few exceptions here and there, their writing staff is knowledgeable enough to make lucid, well-based judgments on artists, albums and songs for the curious music fan. That said, I thought I’d contest Raggett’s take on Eat Your Paisley. With all due respect to a critic I admire, I’m not so sure his review reflects the sentiments of the Dead Milkmen’s greater audience. While opinions are just opinions, I don’t want his to bias the newcomers.

1984’s Big Lizard in My Backyard is, for its own intentions, a perfect album. The Dead Milkmen pitched a take-it-or-leave-it disc that unlikely listeners around the world lovingly took, took, took. It’s easily one of my all-time faves. Raggett was right, it did have the perfect single. Actually it bore a load of potential perfects. “Dean’s Dream,” “VFW,” the title track and some others were just darn well structured and smartly placed in the sequence. While you’d think the proto-snot lyricism would’ve cheapened the hyper-catchy melodies, they actually—well blah blah blah, it’s just a damn good album with a heaping helping of sincerity beyond any notions of dumb novelty.

Onto Eat Your Paisley.

In 1986, the Dead Milkmen issued their follow-up to Big Lizard, but were smart enough not to try and recreate the vibe they rode before. Big Lizard was rampageous and very much its own case. Eat Your Paisley was going to mellow out a bit, without any pressure from the past's template. “Mellow” was not, however, going to be synonymous with “mature.”

With plenty of tasteless waggery about dead rockstars, ravaged hippies and exploding body parts, it’s in with the formula. But they also step outside the novelties for a few true moments of probity, and this is where I don’t agree with Raggett that Eat is devoid of a solid hit. The songs “I Hear Your Name” and “Six Days” measure up pretty damn well. In their lack of overt goofery they’re not the typical Dead Milkmen compositions, but that’s immaterial. They’re still Dead Milkmen songs, and they’re pretty flawless.

Heck, how about “Take Me Apart”? That’s a pretty sweet lay too.

It’s not that the Dead Milkmen have to work away from the gags and novelties to present something worthy of a hit single—I mean, look at the success of Big Lizard and songs like “Bitchin’ Camaro.” But that did kinda happen on Eat Your Paisley. The silly bits, like “The Thing That Only Eats Hippies” and “Beach Party Vietnam,” are moderately funny, moderately catchy and moderately memorable. But “Six Days” runs past them all. I can say with the whole of my heart that much of this album overthrows Big Lizard, save for “Dean’s Dream” (which, for my money, is their best song ever).

Final words on Eat Your Paisley? It’s far more melodic than Big Lizard, and, for what it’s worth, more consistent. My favorite songs? I’ve named them, but throw “Two Feet Off the Ground” in there, too. And "Moron"? I would recommend this album by that song alone. Oh yeah, and have you ever marveled at how wonderfully crafted DM’s instrumentals are? I mean throughout their career, not just between these two albums. Know what I’m talking about? They had a gift for writing the perfect instrumental. With Eat, we get perhaps my fave of the lot, “Vince Lombardi Service Center,” which closes out the album just right.

If you’re new to the Dead Milkmen, start with Big Lizard, but don’t let too much time pass before you move onto Eat, my favorite of them all. Got 'em already? Try Beezlebubba and Not Richard But Dick (which is out of print, unfortunately). Got those already? You must be a fan! Reading this blog? You could be the only one!

Dead Fans

I wonder if the Grateful Dead’s fanbase hurts their greater public standings. Actually, that’s a stupid question, because I’m positive they do. I mean, just look at ‘em. Why do Republicans hate potheads so much? Same reason. Just look at ‘em. Worse yet, listen to them speak.

Earlier today, I was stocking some used CDs at the music store (my 9 to 5, or 5 to 11), and a good portion of the lot happened to be Grateful Dead discs. As I shelved them, I felt that anti-hippy wrinkle in my brain begin to twitch. It’s a natural reaction for guys like me, but this was perhaps the first time I said to myself, “Ya know, you haven’t really ever listened to the Grateful Dead, so why do you down them so brutally?”

“I don’t know,” I answered to myself. “I guess it’s pretty much because hippies love them, and what they love, I don’t.”

It’s a pretty accurate system. What hippies like, I don’t. The clothes, the glass-legged politics, the “doctrines,” the smells; it sums up one of the few stereotype-accurate subcultures I progressively dislike. With so many hippy subscriptions to the Dead, they’re naturally at odds with my tastes in music. Right?

Well, I don’t know. Here’s the story, as I understand it, of a band called Lake Trout. Early on, they gained a fanship of twirling hippies due to certain jazz and organic drum’n’bass elements in their music. The dreaded subculture (quite literally, in one sense) gravitates toward such sounds, but the members of Lake Trout were coming from quite a different set of intentions (so the story goes). After a couple acclaimed releases, Lake Trout’s growing audience was noticed by the boys at Phoenix Rising records, who inked a deal with the sensational outfit. As it happens, the roster of Phoenix Rising is dominated by jam bands, thus locking Lake Trout into a future of outdoor festivals and a foul stigma you can’t scrape off. Not hippies themselves, Lake Trout was a hippy’s band.

The story of Lake Trout continues with some notable changes in their sound as time progressed, but what I’ve just mapped out is all that’s pertinent to my point. (Keep in mind, I can’t cite any sources for this information, but I have heard this tale from a few reliable mouths).

I’m not implying that the Dead befell the same happenstance, but it does seem like a hippy prerequisite to embrace the Grateful Dead ‘experience,’ whether you dig their music or not: If you want to be accepted as a hippy, you’re going to learn to like this band. It’s definitely a sort of mania, with a seemingly greater emphasis on aesthetics and classical imagery than the band’s music itself. I mean, I wonder how many Dead albums the average hippy actually owns, or how much of the band’s history your neighborhood tie-dyer knows. Conversely, there are many stone-free rock’n’roll buffs with hundreds of Dead albums and concerts in his/her collection. I’m sure of it.

There are also bands I like with a greater audience that isn’t necessarily what the band was hoping for, and—okay, okay, you get it. Point being, I love many forms of music, so there’s a chance that I might actually like the Grateful Dead, separate from their fanbase. I had to lay my curiosity to rest. Determined, I grabbed one of their albums and headed to the store’s “listening station.” In hand was a two-disc set called Without a Net, documenting what appeared to be an insanely lengthy concert. I placed ‘disc one’ in the CD player’s tray and hit play, ready to experience what the fuss what all about.

It was awful. Just awful. The opening track, “Feel Like a Stranger,” faded in with an obnoxious funk beat, tacky wah-wah guitar, and horns that were obviously played from a synthesizer. Nothing about it was good.

But hey, I’ve heard false starts before. Maybe they were just jamming around, soaking up the audience for a few minutes before really getting to it. Considering this one clocked in at 7:32, my conclusion was unlikely. But still, they deserved a second chance. I skipped to the next song, “Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo.” I gulped at the title.

Just awful. It sounded like some leapfrog, paddywack goofery a dance teacher might use for her preschool-aged tappers at a recital. Just awful.

But wait. A ray of hope! Maybe. I noticed the date of the recording: 1990. The Dead’s heyday was in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, and as many aged musicians have demonstrated, the quality of their output tends to droop with their skin. The Rolling Stones’ Steel Wheels? Voodoo Lounge? Bridges to Babylon? There ya go.

So I consulted the Allmusic Guide for a suggestion. What’s that one definitive Grateful Dead album everyone needs to hear? According to AMG writer Jason Ankeny, it’s 1970’s American Beauty. I went back to the bin of used discs, and sure enough, it was right there. I grabbed it up and paced back to the listening station for the end-all test. I hit play.

Not bad. I gotta admit it. Not bad at all. Not quite revolutionary, but it did sound like several other bands of the period that I enjoy, like Love, the Burrito Brothers and Banquet era Stones. I couldn’t really find much about it to attack, and believe me, I was looking. Getting the gist of the opener, “Box of Rain,” I skipped along to the second track.

“Friend of the Devil” was above-average country folk with a good melody. Again, not bad. Pretty good, even.

Aha! The third track, “Sugar Magnolia,” is bit more of a bong hit. It bears that swirlie beat that’s the perfect soundtrack for folk-fest footage. This one had its hair in its eyes. While it wasn’t a bad song, some of their fan-based stigma was creeping here. But I’m not connecting the Dead with their fans just yet. I still have more investigating to do. Onto the next song.

Alright, I know this one. I’ve heard it before. “Operator” bleeds the stereotype a bit, with outdoorsy lyrics (“Singin’ like a summer breeze”), a questionable bayou accent and an awkward, proto-manvoice. It sounded like the local cover band’s attempt at CCR. The songs to follow it sit on the same carpet, not to mention the album’s big closer, “Truckin’.” Not for me.

But it did get me thinking a little more about the Dead’s following. Nothing at this point fully screams the stereotype. Plenty of bands sounded like this at that time. Tons, even. I confess I don’t know their history well, but maybe their practice of relentless touring helped to rack up the crowds and drive their name and logo into the minds of rambling druggies the country, and world, over. How could it not? The hippies wanted live music, and the Grateful Dead were always coming around to provide it. They were dependable.

But I’m going to stick with my guns here and hypothesize that a great deal of their following, especially that of today, is drawn in by the aesthetics and associations of the hippy archetype before they ever really dive into the music it’s based on. Bands like Phish and Widespread Panic seem more like Grateful Dead costume acts, straying little from the formula laid out before them. To be fair, however, I’m sure these bands sincerely love what they do.

Regarding the Grateful Dead specifically, I think there’s more romance and enchantment to a band with such a definitive community than the reality that actually surrounded/surrounds them. Maybe later in their career, they became it.

The point isn’t whether or not I like the Grateful Dead’s music. In their heyday, they were fine. The point is that I hate hippies.

Just What I Hate About Commercials

I used to love “Just What I Needed” by the Cars, but now I can’t hear it without picturing a Toyotathon or one of the blue-shirts at Best Buy pointing at the flatscreen on a Kenmore fridge.

Has this happened to you, too? Has a once beloved song been drained empty by television commercials?

I remember, as a youngster, hearing the splashes of rich white people cannonballing into my neighborhood’s country club pool (I’m a white guy too, but you know what I’m saying). The kids would laugh, the silver-haired business dads would grunt, their blonde wives would squirt SPF 5 and the lifeguard would blow his whistle at the troublemakers. Streaming under it all was the sound of a cheap radio, hissing from the snack bar. Tuned to the now-defunct WHSL, it would broadcast “the hits of today and the classics we love” or something, which meant the turf between Huey Lewis and the Rolling Stones. Van Halen might have been a bit too bristly for this crowd.

Anyway, believe it or not I have a vivid memory of first hearing the Who’s “I Can See For Miles” over that very FM station by the pool. The verse of the song wasn’t familiar to me, so it didn’t particularly grab my attention. When the chorus kicked in, however, I knew that song! I chimed in: “I can drive for miles and miles! I can drive for miles and miles!”

But then I stopped myself. Something was off. Those were the words I surely knew, but the band on the radio wasn’t singing that. Instead of “I can drive for miles,” the singer said “I can see for miles.” Weird. Why?

I asked my mom, who did her best to explain that this was the real version of the song that the Firestone tire company based their jingle on. It was in that commercial I always saw on TV at home. All the sudden, the Who’s version felt real lame to me, like the corny ad it now was. I never grew to like that song. Firestone ruined it. Today, every time “I Can See For Miles” streams through the radio, I can only picture a new set of Hi-Tread Potenza Pole Positions on the shiny rims of some ol’ GTO as it burns rubber into the sunset. And a jackass is behind the wheel.

Saddest thing is, that’s a song I might otherwise love.

As hard as I’ve tried, I can’t remove the commercial associations from these adopted songs. I don’t know what band does that song in the Progressive Insurance commercials, nor would I be a fan anyway, but I do remember hearing it on the radio earlier on. I can just imagine how dead that song must be to an actual fan of the band that penned it. It’s now on TV every seven minutes.

Lately I’ve noticed more and more incidences of hit songs (or could-have-been-hit songs) in advertisements and TV show intros. When I first heard the Dell commercial tracked by the 13th Floor Elevators’ “Won’t You Miss Me?,” I was really put off. I didn’t want to hate that song. I had always loved it. I didn’t want it attached to a brand.

Was it, inadvertently, a test to separate true fans from the unworthy? “Ben, if you really loved that 13th Floor Elevators song as much as you say, you wouldn’t let the Dell Corporation ruin any of its sweetness. Your will is quite weak.”

But I don’t know. It’s like having a crush on the hottest girl in school, only to find out she has irritable bowel syndrome and can’t go an hour without storming her diaper. Yes, she wears diapers too.

Know what I mean? It’s that stigma that latches on forevermore until something can, somehow, remove it. Would I hate the Shins any less if I hadn’t seen Garden State? Can I ever remove Zack Braff’s spikey nose from their plain-bagel sound? Yes, I already thought the Shins to be wholly overrated, but Braff’s generic movie seemed like a commercial for that band. They brought one-another down even further.

But back to the issue of enjoyable songs being tarnished by popular business, it kinda bugs me that a songwriter would allow their work to be woven into a brand name. Sure, I know it’s not as easy as that (sometimes the record label is the dealer, while the songwriter has no control over the fate of his/her music), but still, it kills the song. “Just What I Needed” will never again be that once-catchy summer song by the Cars. It’s now a zombie feeding on Dominoes Pizza at Office Max.

The trend of catchy, connective music to track advertisements is catching on in creative marketing departments the world over. I wonder what song will be drained next. Stephen Malkmus had a close call with that Sears ad. Let's not even mention Pepsi and the Rolling Stones.

Reviews For No Reason

Haven’t written much lately, but I’m in no drought of material. It may seem that way, however, as I return with some randomly conjured, completely irrelevant, likely useless record reviews. Perhaps you’re asking, “Who the hell cares what you think about a record?” Well, no one reads this blog, so I know you’re not asking. Here we go!

Bailter Space Capsul (Turnbuckle Records, 1997)
Since I’m just casually pulling albums out of my head/ass to review and discuss, it’s seems likely I will only concentrate on good albums, right? Since they’re worthy of our time, right? Okay. That said, let’s talk about Bailter Space. You knew it was coming. It says so in the title.

The sound of this New Zealand indie trio is so damn warm to be so dark, and the feeling exists, believably, beyond its lush studio engineering. The one I’ve been getting the most out of lately is their 1997 album, Capsul. Genre qualities aside, it embodies what I look for in an album when I want to label it ‘complete.’

Capsul’s opener, “Shield,” presents the center of Bailter Space’s gravity, not kicking up too much flashy dust nor putting on any sort of clinic for their talents. They hold their ground as they resonate a couple agitated, minor notes, which shed their skins into something bright as the song builds.

What, you don’t dig my vagueness? I thought it sounded nice, but if you want some plain talk: the shit rocks. It’s simple. It’s full. It explodes. It calms, but the tense air remains nonetheless. It’s not driven by a cheap formula. It’s the opening speech before the curtains open for the second number, “Pass It Up.”

More teeth glint in this one, and not through a smile. The rant-like lyricism is delivered independent of the beat, and the music that covers the bones is wild and unafraid. It’s one of the most savage songs on the disc. Comparisons so far? Chune, Girls Against Boys (in mood, not sound), and Sonic Youth. Guitarist/vocalist John Halvorsen is the hungry man’s Lee Ronaldo.

Track three, “Velo” submits the final personality of Bailter Space for this album, though each visitation to follow still bears equal potency and variation. Here, the darker moments of early ‘90s era Wedding Present have an unidentical twin, though the intent may be a little different. And the sound isn’t so gleamed that it’s shoegazer-y, but some textures do make recollections of Ride and Swervedriver pretty easy.

The eleven tracks to follow expand the examples set by the first three, adding ideas and moods. For a trio, they manage a gigantic sound with a consistent vibe. Like I said, it’s very dark, but very warm. The more abrasive they get, the smoother they become.
If you’re like me, Bailter Space’s Capsul is the perfect sound at the moment. I’m not currently in the market for innovation or the bizarre, but for something strong enough to explode beyond what other bands have tried with less success. Bailter Space just ‘gets’ it, and they deliver their ideas with full feeling.

(The review on the Nein, below, was written to be published in Encore Magazine, hence its upbeat magazine-y-ness)

The Nein Transnationalisms (Sonic Unyon, 2006)
I’ve clapped my hands for everything the Nein has recorded in their three-going-on-four years as a band. They have outrun their stylistic contemporaries by creating consistent material without ever collecting dust, and they are without a doubt one of the most inventive rock bands in North Carolina at present. Once again, they receive loud applause for their new EP, Transnationalisms.

As with their previous releases, Durham’s the Nein give us a composite of early and late period Wire, young Brian Eno and plenty of the spookier sounding ‘60s garage-pop. Their sound is very deliberate, but smart enough not to show any real dependence on their influences. While such influential elements may be apparent when sought, I often forget about them when listening to the Nein. In fact, they blend everything so well that I didn’t even realize the first song on Transnationalisms was “Butcher’s Tale” by stylistic ancestors the Zombies. It did, after all, sound like the Nein.

Not only do they possess masterly songwriting ability, but their production control in the studio also does that much more to convey the members’ technical intelligence. Layering eerie tape loops and space echoes at just the right volumes gives their songs the bionic complexion of an anxious heartbeat in a metal body. It’s very dark and futuristic to be the heir of ‘60s rock and early ‘80s experimentation. Oh, and they have no trouble reproducing these sounds in their live show, which I can’t say for many other groups who overdose on ‘studio magic.’

Transnationalisms is the teaser for their next full-length album, Luxury, due out in January, and while the band claims it will be “different, but not completely,” I can’t imagine it will disappoint me in any way.

Any fan of genres led by Wire, Joy Division, the Fall or a number of weird ‘60s psychedelics are going to recognize the Nein as today’s authorities. Though short and prompt, Transnationalisms is one of the year’s best releases.

Jason Loewenstein At Sixes and Sevens (Sub Pop, 2002)
Who's writing the best post-Sebadoh music? Sorry Barlow fans, but your guy hasn't been doing it for me. He's prolific, absolutely, but I'll take quality over quantity. Sebadoh's 'other guy,' Jason Loewenstein, is solid gold.

It's true I had to jump a lump of peer pressure before I loudly declared my love for Loewenstein's solo debut. "I dunno," my buddy/boss Fred said firmly. "It's just not the same without Lou Barlow's songs keeping the pace." To clarify, on Sebadoh albums Loewenstein and Barlow would alternate turns at the helm. "Yeah," I weakly responded. "I agree."

But I didn't agree. It's true Sebadoh classics like Bakesale and Harmacy wouldn't have such character without that formula, but At Sixes and Sevens is, truly, just as strong if not moreso. And I feel no blashemy in saying that. Blasphemy is a stupid concept in music anyway.

This recording is pure Loewenstein. Not only did he write every lick and play every instrument on board, but he produced it as well. The result? Well, I'd be fibbing if I said this breaks away from Sebadoh's gritty, straight out of the oven sound. To go back to my buddy Fred's assessment, it really is a continuation of Loewenstein's credits from the old days, and the notes are every bit as good. This may be irrelevant, but I did like Loewenstein's Sebadoh songs better than Barlow's anyway.

His smart-assed nature seems to govern much of the subject matter on At Sixes and Sevens, poking fun at showoffy attention hounds ("Hey kid, I think you got my attention with the backflip to the second stage.") and recounting life's hinges through dark lightheartedness ("Well I dropped out of highschool one sunny afternoon. 'Are you sure you wanna do this?' Well, I doooooo.") Other lines are perfectly indicative of his personal style, like "In the land of herbs and spices, you're workin' for minimum wage. You're hungry for the Tascam, but you can't afford the tape." Layer it all on a homespun, meaty recording of exciting, classic indie rock from one if its finer pioneers and you have a perfect album that I've failed to describe well.

The lack of acclaim this album received confused me. It seems like the Sub Pop logo is cred enough to make the idiots at Pitchfork Media salivate, but they gave it a disgraceful 4.2 out of 10 for no good reason (and trust me, the author of the review tried to supply one). The Pitchfork review and others make the case that Loewenstein is stuck in the old days, trying to serve up more Sebadoh songs but mustering only half the quality.

But wait. Stuck in the old days? To me, that's such a good thing. What's today offering that the "critics" love so much more? The Shins? TV On the Radio? Clap Your Hands Say Yeah? Have you heard that lumber? I don't know what it is with these bands that pop so much praise, but I see it as some of the most lifeless, hackish "indie" (whatever) music to date. Loewenstein stuck in the old days? He's so much more the wiser.

The Unsteady Fave-Five

Earlier today I was listening to Superchunk's 1992 album, On the Mouth. It was the first time in a few months I'd given it a spin (you have to understand that at one time I listened to this album every day for lengths of time), so the songs had a fresh punch to them. At the climax of "New Low," I said to myself, nearly out loud, "This has got to be one of my top five favorite albums ever."

Bored as I was, I flipped through my mind for the many albums to which I've bestowed that same honor in the past. Superchunk's 1993 disc, Foolish, has also worn the blue ribbon at many points.

I'm not going to pull that stupid High Fidelity thing on you, but I do feel like jotting down a loose but true top-five-of-all-time.

I'm only 26.5 years old, and I can't fully forecast my musical interests beyond the next ten years, but I do feel like I'm at a point in life where I can look back to the many albums I've absorbed and list out five of them that have truly impacted me more than all others (with windows for honorable mention, of course). It could change tomorrow, and maybe I'll jolt out of sleep at 4am tonight and say, "Wait! I forgot about [some other notable album that I failed to recall when making my top five list]! That is totally a top-fiver!" The next night I'll do it again. After three more nights of sweaty wake-ups, I'll probably have a completely revamped top five.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing all this is because I want to bookmark my top-five at present, so I can see how I feel about it as the next few weeks roll on. I'm positive it'll change. It just seems obvious to me.

Ahem:

1. Rocket From the Crypt Circa: Now! (Headhunter, 1993)
2. Superchunk On the Mouth (Merge, 1993)
3. Drive Like Jehu Yank Crime (Interscope, 1994)
4. Screeching Weasel Anthem For a New Tomorrow (Lookout!, 1993)
5. Assfactor 4 s/t (Old Glory, 1995)

I think I'm pretty comfortable with that. These are five crucial, mood-independent albums I can crank when I'm up or down, tired or wired, horny or nauseous, starving or stuffed, chunky or smooth, alive or dead. I never seem to tire of them, and unless something pretty dramatic happens to my brain, I doubt that will ever change.

Rocket From the Crypt Circa: Now!
This is my favorite band ever, and that's for certain. I flew from my Atlantic coast to their Pacific to witness their farewell show in October of 2005. First hearing Circa: Now! marks the point when I thought, "God. Damn. This is the best band in the world."

It feels like a concept album, but perhaps it isn't. Doesn't matter. It bears a consistent mood that has a Sgt. Pepper's type of complexion to it, each song flowing together like one lengthy, singular thought. That's not a lofty claim whatsoever.

I often wonder why it doesn't get the props that critics baste Scream Dracula Scream (Interscope, 1995) or Hot Charity (Elemental, 1995) with. Those are both absolutely, positively masterpiece works, but they still come off as mere collections of great songs. Circa: Now! presents itself as the brilliant moment all bands wish to have.

Guitarist/Vocalist Speedo (aka John Reis) has said in his notes that this album was dished out before the band really got its footing, before the "rocket sound" took effect. While it is true that the band went somewhere slightly different in their albums to follow, well, you know by now how I feel about this one.

Circa: Now! melts man-child energy, puzzling lyrics and conscious pop-writing all together in the same tortilla, and any fan of the craft needs to take it in...slowly.

Superchunk On the Mouth
This 1993 album was actually produced by RFTC's John Reis, but beyond his trusty studio smarts is the wet sugar songwriting of Mac McCaughan, Jim Wilbur, Laura Ballance and [one of my favorite people in the world] Jon Wurster.

And beyond the songwriting is its delivery, which could only feel its proper sound through the unique squeal of this Chapel Hill quartet. They couldn't write it for anyone else. Between the distinct vocals, noisy guitars and solid, no-need-to-be-flashy drumming, Superchunk is probably the most identifiable and imitated band in all of '90s-style indie rock.

On the Mouth is their third full-length, and while their case was already made by the time 1991's No Pocky for Kitty hit the shelves, this is the album I most connect with the Superchunk sound.

It's visual. You can picture their every mood between the gritty and winded. When the energy is high, I challenge any punk band to match it. When they're doing it live, they look like a thousand mouse traps snapping across the stage. Movement and business-free rawness explode, and they're even catchy when they're discordant. Most of all, they seem to be having a great time. All of this is caught on On the Mouth.

Drive Like Jehu Yank Crime
If there's one commonality that's spining through these three favorites so far, it's the involvement of John Reis. While front and center in RFTC and behind the mixing board for On the Mouth, Drive Like Jehu is not "just another" one of his musical projects. After the release of their first album, a city--and eventually a planet--of copycats hatched, none of which would ever neighbor the thought or quality of their initial inspiration. When Jehu's second and final full-length, Yank Crime, hit the shelves in 1994, Reis and his bandmates (notably guitarist/vocalist Rick Froberg) proved they were on another world altogether, and one the copycats couldn't locate. Drive Like Jehu had no peers.

Opening with an explosion and bubbling down to dark trances before intelligent aftershocks, Yank Crime is another case of complete thought, as opposed to a patchy run of partioned songs.

They also deliver some very quotable guitar tricks, which have been attempted to death with few successes by their imitators. That "angular" sound? (God, I hate that word.) You can ultimately trace its prevalance back to Jehu, though its face on Yank Crime is far more tasteful than what the runaway version of the sound became.

While their debut is a master work in its own right, Yank Crime rests their case.

Screeching Weasel Anthem For a New Tomorrow
What? Screeching Weasel not good enough for your top five? They're just uninspired, snotty punk, huh? This album can't stand up to anything, eh? Ever heard this album? No? Thought so.

When this one was re-released a couple years ago, Ben Foster's new liner notes clued us all in that Anthem For a New Tomorrow was modeled after Wire's 1977 genius debut, Pink Flag. No, that revelation has nothing to do with my love for this 1993 pop-punk treasure, but maybe it does give Screeching Weasel a little more credibility among the doubters and haters. But you know what? Fuck it. When you find something that can explode with excellence beyond something as irrelevant as credibility, you have a winner.

Yes, it's pop-punk. So were, by some after-the-fact definitions, the Buzzcocks and the Ramones. Those two bands creatively plied a perhaps moldy line of music into something great and refreshing, prodding the more general music critics to reconsider their once-declining faith in punk music. (Yes, I'm well aware of the thousand other anomalies in this genre, but as far as making an impact on the world of music makers, the big names are the best examples.)

Anthem For a New Tomorrow is such an example for the early '90s pop-punk re-explosion. In the late '80s, it was getting a little plain. Screeching Weasel's 1988 recording, Boogadaboogadaboogada, has its membership among punk's getting-stale moments (though a million fans would violently argue with me there). When Anthem came out in 1993--good god--I imagine it like an explosion behind the heads of their peers, totally unprepared for the blast. Everyone within its proximity hit the deck, then slowly peeked back to marvel at the sight.

As I type this, on the final day of 2006, I haven't heard a pop-punk album to match it. Obviously, it's my favorite pop-punk moment of all time.

It maintains a mood throughout, dark and futuristic. In fact, not a single moment makes me picture any sort of punk imagery whatsoever. The vibe is something very seperate from the spikes and leather, even when such things are directly referenced (i.e. the song "Leather Jacket"). Maybe it feels more like a soundtrack? I can't easily say, but it does convey a mood that steps far outside the boundaries of sentimental punk or emotionally-direct songwriting. Take songs like "I, Robot" and "Every Night" and you'll feel the texture of a band not preoccupied with genre appeal.

Assfactor 4 (s/t)
Definitely the odd one out, here, but damned if it isn't great. My adoration for this LP might possibly be more personal than critical (my own songwriting and lyric style were heavily influenced by that of AF4), but if you want me to be strictly critical, I can do that for you.

Their songs end before you realize your heart is telling your brain to let your lungs breath. It's seriously some hyper stuff. The screaming is bullseye and the lyrics of each song cycle through a good few times in one blow. While they may be communicating a serious idea or two, they're worded for fun. The guitar playing, while not overtly technical, is pretty lofty work for its tempo. The melodies, and how fast they come at you, are what make AF4 memorable.

And again, every step of the way on this LP seems connected as one body. In one sense, a proper album of material can't escape that, but within the confines of this one there's an absolute streaming color from first song to last, beyond mere consistency.

Between the dramatics and brights you won't hear a single cheesy moment. I can't imagine the members of AF4 wanting to put out a recall on anything collected here. They were well ahead of the game when this LP came out in '95. Today, I feel many a band would have trouble catching up with them--if they even knew where to begin.

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There it is: my top five as of 12/31/06.

Happy new year!

Warp Drive=World Peace

To get those bills paid, I write for a local features magazine called Encore. Over the holidays, every writer was told to pound out a 600-word piece addressing the following question: How can we achieve world peace?

Well, you know what silly questions beget, so here's what I submitted:

It seems to be a pretty common beauty pageant question: “How do you think we can achieve world peace? You have thirty seconds to answer.”

What follows is a thoroughly unrealistic gab with heavy repetition of the words “love” and “understanding” through blindingly white teeth. The Pollyanna character comes out, placing a heaping helping of faith in the goodness of humanity.

Sure, we can’t get on track without optimism, but world peace? Heck, I’ve even seen a couple music discussions come to fisticuffs.

Now, I’m not the grumpy pessimist who wants everyone to know that “life stinks,” and as a matter of fact, I have abhorrence for such people. But I guess it all winds back to these little quirks of interpersonal difference, which prevent the 9 billion stubborn jerks on Earth from getting along.

Talk to any etiquette coach and you’ll hear a golden rule of social interaction: Don’t mention your beliefs regarding religion, politics or ethics, or you could end up with a black eye. People have little tolerance for the unlikeminded.

This will never change. We’re always going to butt heads in defense of our interests. We’re always going to get in bar fights over who was the best singer for Iron Maiden (and we all know it’s Paul Dianno). So we’re doomed, right?

Well, maybe not. I think we need something grander to occupy our thoughts—something astronomical to distract us from our fidgety personalities and childish hunger for attention.

And here’s where I’m about to make myself very socially awkward for all of you. Umm. Well—have you ever seen Star Trek: First Contact? It essentially portrays mankind toward the end of the 21st century, with the war-savaged world in shambles. The future seems pretty hopeless for the surviving members of humanity—until the Vulcans take notice that an Earthling has built a spaceship with warp-speed capabilities, and they make their presence known to us.

Okay, stop laughing at me. I’m not a dork. It’s a good movie and I’ll defend it with my fists if I must.

Kidding.

Getting back to the movie, the lives of every Earthling are changed with the knowledge that there’s a whole universe of better things to think about, and our interpersonal differences are just plain stupid.

No, I’m not so warped that I’m expecting a ship-load of aliens to come down here and fix things for us. I’m only suggesting that when we get in fights over something that happened on Myspace, or what the best AC/DC album is (it’s High Voltage, by the way), we should all cool out a bit and drop the drama-queen crap.

That’s a practical first step towards the bigger picture. If you want to stuff me in a locker or give me a swirlie for nerding out, I’ll remember your name when I invent the warp drive.