Ouch. That’s Hot.

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.

Over at BoingBoing, a few videos have caught my eye. And now I shall stick ‘em in yours:

First up: A tripped-out add for Schaefer, the finest of American pilsners, and which was at “one point the world’s best selling beer. By the 1970s, however, it had ceded the top spot to Budweiser.” Perhaps harnessing the power of the Moog wasn’t the best way to appeal to the base:

Up next, Zappa scores some ‘ludes, uh, scored a Luden’s cough-drop commercial:

And finally, Perry Farrell returns to his roots for the benefit of some sort of telethon for the kids:

Jeepers creeper, I liked feeding these to my peepers. May the same be true for you.

Last night I spent a few pleasant hours rolling about in the late-life alternate reality that Woody’s been creating for himself and kindly sharing with others.  Every time you go it’s a little bit different, but there are a few things that one can count on:  It’s somewhere in Europe.  Americans will show up and feel a little sad about themselves.  And Scarlett Johansson will be there too.

Last night, we went to Barcelona.

In Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Woody lets us travel along with two 20-something American girls who get to taste a few new things before the tarred-and-chipped road of life sets the world in stone.  Although the inner-feared voice interfered with a full embrace of the choices our heroines chanced, there was a serenity at work in Barcelona that gave comfort.  In Barcelona the moment must be embraced, and life must be lived.  And in the end, in Barcelona, family will be loved, commitments will be honored, and conflicts will be forgiven, forgotten, and few.

Woody’s World sounds ok by me, although I’m still scratching my head a little (just a little) over the fascination with Scarlett Johansson.

The Economist recently ran the above photo of Holocauster Adolf Eichmann to accompany a review of a new book about him and his big Argentinian outing by a globe-trotting and chutzpah-raging yet still-green Mossad.  It wasn’t till the second glance at the portrait that I noticed the skull gleaming from just above the brim, set like a bedeviled guru’s third eye, channeling Kali and calamity.

And it reminded me of an old Glenn Beck rant (this being a few years before he started invoking the Mormon eschaton nightly on Cable TV) where he pondered what it must be like to be a Nazi, to get up each day in the officer’s barracks at Belsen, to get dressed up in your spiffy black SS uniform, and to look in the mirror and to never have it cross your mind:  “Hey, maybe I’m the Bad Guy.”

Great interview in the month’s TapeOp with Sufjan Stevens, a man mostly unknown but loved and adored by my former clique in the big ol’ OH-IO.  The article is called “So Wrong, But So Right” and that really sums up everything that is true about this guy and the way in which he goes about making his music.

I listened to Illinoise again yesterday at the gym. (The gym being this place where I like to strap on the headphones and find a world of my own, the anonymity of the group-sweat,  being together alone, all human, inescapably human.  The man beside me in the locker room, falling apart, his 60-some years of burgers and fries falling over his too-tight whites, heavy-breathing and panting while shrugging black socks up his shower-damp feet.  A quick-shave later and he’s risen from the bench, fully robed in pin-point starched oxford and charcoal-wool slacks.  Matched cordovan belt to Johnston & Murphy’s.  Watch, ring, wallet, keys.  A captain of local industry ready to take on the rest of his day, transformed, indestructibly armoured by the Macy’s Men’s Department.)

At the gym yesterday, I listened again to Illinoise.  (The gym being the place where I like to really give things a listen, being a captive in search of an audience to slip into, being able to listen in perfect ear-budded stereo to new and old and try new things knowing that just because my body’s strapped to the machine doesn’t mean that my mind can’t be stretching its wings.)

And so, at the gym yesterday, while listening to Illinoise, and reflecting on the recording as a recording after reading TapeOp’s interview with Sufjan, the following point was made more clear than ever:  It’s not what you’ve got, it’s what you do with it.  It’s not the tools, it’s the hands that weild them.  Within 10 feet I’ve got enough gear to write the next folk anthem and record a MySpace-ready demo capable of blowing up the indie charts.  Within 10 feet I’ve got enough typing-up and editing-down tools to write the greatest and latest novel to burn a hole in your soul.  Within 10 feet I’ve got a broadband connection and quiet room and a space for my head to burst, to bloom.

All of this can be summed up in one quote from Dallas Willard:  Never try to find a place to speak, try to have something to say. Alrighty then, here goes.

The Economist recently ran the above illustration on the cover, launching a look at the ways in which China does (and does not) have us all on the hook.

According to the article, in China there is a new mindset which is catching on around the globe.  The meme is that “geopolitics is now a bipolar affair, with America and China the only two that matter.”  In other words, the recent G20 meeting would be more accurately christened the G2.

The article goes on to explain how this is not entirely true, that the EU is still the world’s biggest economy (although I still think it’s cheating to lump all ‘em wee li’l countries together like that) and that India is also rising nicely as well.  However, for a Cold War Kid like me, this is paradigm-popping stuff.  Glad I married in when I did.   Whew!

Here’s the quick deal on this one:  There’s been a lot of love passed around my extended circles of friends with this book, and baby, I was feelin’ the lovin’ too.

So, cynical spectacles smashed by Same Kind of Different As Me, I hereby take another crack at posting from the heart, and shall let the soul roll wherever the soul may wish to flow.  Heck, you’re listening to a guy who once read and fully embraced not just The Celestine Prophecy, but also gave solid consideration to the The Tenth Insight.  I’m very ok with didactic cheeseball parables loosely inspired by real or imagined visions and touted as the next big thing to change your life forever.  I might even start watching Oprah.  I might.

The big difference between this tale and similar books (always shrouded in mystic light breaking through the dust jackets and paper-backed bookcovers glowing warmly on its way to your heart like a fleet of literary Thomas Kincaids) is Jesus.  That’s just facts.  Once you get into this book, you start hanging out with Jesus.  If you’ve ever done that, or would like to try it, this book will bring some joy to your heart.  If that creeps you out, you might not be into this one.

For me, it was like popping in an old CD that swung open memory gates and reminded me of good times, good friends.  The characterization of the Lamb of God as Buddy Jesus brought back to mind times we spent together, and prompted me to kneel down and dial in.  I’m glad it did.  Yeah, the book’s a little different, but then again the things that it wrestles with — divine love & forgiveness — are a little unusual too.  It won’t hurt you to read up on it.