Ouch. That’s Hot.

A few weeks back I was setting up some microphones for one of my Not-So-Pro (TM) recording sessions and thought I’d test out some settings and make sure that the cords and the cables were humming along and making the right connections in the right directions and otherwise gettin’ the electronics all ready and warmed up to jump and jive and hoot and holler before the real musician arrived.

Thought I’d test it by doing a little bit of recording of my own.  For old time’s sake it seemed like a good moment to revisit a two-chord creation of Chicago’s one and only Blue Meanies, a second-rate third-wave ska band that still holds a nice little spot in the back side of my heart for playing a part in the old fun times when I used to romp around with Sarah and with Steve and with the suburban punks of dirty downtown Elgin, where the AA meeting hall would play host to dread-headed and tattooed teens who would pogo and skank till the floor boards would creak and crack and the the mic stands would topple and tables would spill the merch on the sweat-wet floor.

And we were there to hear this drummer named Jay, a guy that I used to work with in the summers and who had a place up in St. Charles with his brother.  I went over and I dropped him off and there were girls there, lovely girls in the prime of early lithely adultlife with summer-sunned shoulders and confidence and swagger and smoking cigarettes and they were beautiful and there were books being read and sketches being sketched and there was music being played and I said “uh, hi.”

And then I said “bye” and I drove away and that was about the end of that , but then I went up with Sarah and with Steve to see the band and they were opening for the Blue Meanies and the Blue Meanies were doing everything that they could to get that party started, as it were, and we rejoiced.

And they played a song that was not so much ska but a little more funk and they pressed it on pink vinyl and pink vinyl sounded pretty cool for 3 dollars, so I bought it and brought it to College and J (not Jay) put it on the Vortex (the Vortex being a Salvation Army Store-bought turntable taped up with the guarantee “Work Good”.)  And he dropped the needle on the record and we worked out the chords and gosh we played that thing a lot at all the college student-union and rec-hall and dorm-basement gigs.  Sometimes with flute and sometimes with sax and sometimes with harmonica and sometimes with whoever happened to grab the mic and it’s still stuck in my head all these years later with its vaguely suggestive title which only suggests things to someone who’s like 19 and totally sheltered but really wants to get out because he stood on Jay’s front porch and he saw girls and they were beautiful and he thought “maybe some day.”

Anyway, here’s the song as I recorded it a few weeks back.

I’m pretty sure that this is the album that The Killers hoped to hit when they took a swing at Sam’s Town.  As a fan of most things Killers, I enjoyed Sam’s Town just fine for what it was, but the Gaslight Anthem seems to have found the missing link between the current indie rock of the aughties and the swaggering grandeur that once drove the E-Street’s shuffle.

That link is the moment that the Grammy’s did the unfathomable and for once made Rock ‘n Roll History.   It’s the moment when Bruce told everyone who’s really The Boss when he took the stage with Elvis Costello and Dave Grohl and other Famous Friends to pay a four-minute tribute to Joe Strummer and the Almighty Clash.

The Gaslight Anthem gets this.   Sure, they love that Jersey sound and knowingly reference Mr. Springsteen in the lyrics pinned to their hearts and stapled to their rolled-up working-class sleeves.  But they also sold their soul to rock and roll, paying a toll of lost loves, broken vows, estrangement, and decline in hopes that 3 chords and a little truth might someday take them all a little farther down the line.

Listen to the chop-chop-chop-chop guitars in Film Noir and you’ll see what I mean.

Listening again to an album I’ve been enjoying for the last few seasons of the year, one of the few reliable happy pills in a long dark winter of the South Dakotan soul, some sunshine from Jacksonville reved up through heart-on-the sleeve 80s cheese.

A lot of critics panned this album, including my usually spot-on heroes over at Sound Opinions.  They were bugged by the trying-too-hard awkward adolescence of the thing.  They’ve all got a point.  The album is soaked in the sexy,  but it’s like a 13-year old trying on her older sister’s makeup and fishnets for the first time.    Kinda icky.

Sure, they’ve got a lot of growing up to do, but the innocence and honesty won me over.  As a kid who first ingested these sorts of Cure-pop grooves while sitting alone in his room imagining the kicks he wasn’t getting, I understand the rock ‘n roll fantasies of a bunch of nice young people who met up in Sunday School, hoping for the opportunity to be naughty, but you know, not like too much.

Eventually, I’ll get back to some real writing, but in the meantime here’s an interesting take on old media spooled out into something new.  more here.

Saw this over on the Melvillian blog this morning.  The whole series is here, and well-worth a look if you enjoy visualizing your puns.

Does this man look happy about it?   I’m not seeing it.  However, I would like to point out that he’s ready to pounce on the old school correspondence with a blast from his ready-to-roll dual-pen launch pad.  (I used to have one of those as a kid.  My grandpa always had a closet full of them with little gold plaques that read things like, “Pittsburgh Business Services — Where it’s our business to service your business!”)

Full ash try too.  Ah, the good old days, when every meeting started with a firm shake and the admonition: “The bar’s over there, help yourself!”

That all changed back at the start of the ’80s.  This broadcast blames it all on the MBAs.  It might be on to something; certainly insightful and with cool Australian accents, just like Bon Scott & Hugh Jackman.

Combing two great tastes to taste even greater together, Shawn Feeney has sketched out some visual puns set high upon the stages of rock ‘n roll.  More of his series “Musical Anatomy” perusable here.

Oh, how hip am I!  This album, the self-titled debut by Australia’s Wolfmother, came out a few years ago, but by the time I got around to it the combo had already dis-banded and then re-grouped with a new line up ala Axl’s GnR.  Keepin’ up ain’t in the cards any more kids, but the trees are still falling in the woods even if I’m not there to hear the sound.

Speaking of which, this album dropped just in time to ride the tide of the Guitar-Hero’d fascination with propper (and oft progger) rock from the halcyon days of the hard-livin’ ’70s.  It’s nothing more than a mash-up of the top-rock tropes that once swirled off of the nanny’s hi-fi and slipped into the bassinets and under the bonnets of these wee little lads from way down under.

One need not crate-dig past Blue Cheer to catch every trick that’s been recycled on this disc.  And that’s ok.  It’s just kinda funny.  Especially when they decided it’s time to rock the flute on “Witchcraft.”  Yes, they rock the flute in that same goofy/sputtery/spitty way that a certain band did back in the day.  And that’s after they play the Doors keys and the Deep Purple keys and get all sensitive with the pre-glam Tyrannosaurus Rex freak-folk warble and enlightened us with lyrics like: “She’s a woman, you know what I mean.  You better listen, listen to me.”

Of course, it’s the guitar that really sealed the deal for me.  The fret-born hooks and big and barbed and right as rain on a hot summer’s day.  Original?  Not a bit.  You can can picture these guys in-fighting in the studio:

“No, play the Zeppelin thing and then go straight into the Sabbath riff!”

“No way!  We gotta play the Sabbath riff twice, then I scream like a one-eyed pirate, and then we play the Zeppelin thing like we did last night.”

“You were drunk last night.”

“Wait, did you guys rehearse without me again last night?”

But when the licks are as good as this, everything turns out ok.  At least until the band breaks up.

Indulge me with some lazy blogging, m’kay?  It’s been a busy week,  but here’s a little cut & paste of a creative cut & paste from the crazed uncle of all angelheaded hipsters, Wm. Burroughs.

Credits Due: Cut-Ups from Matti Niinimäki on Vimeo via Boing Boing.