Cooper: How 'bout that one, Colonel?
Sanders: Yeah, maybe with a one of my
buckets on her head.
Every morning, after I peel off the covers, don my bathrobe, and emerge from my masturbatorium to take on the world, I have this little routine that I go through - a morning ritual, if you will. First off, I make my way into the kitchen and put on the coffee. While it's brewing, I go take my morning dump. This is one of the few areas where I find my creative output to be both prolific and substantive and, after finishing, I often take a moment to gaze upon my work here and despair. I return, dejected to the kitchen, pour myself a cup o' joe, and then sit down at my computer desk and fire up a menthol.
While I smoke and caffeinate myself, I spew a couple pages of pretentious drivel into my journal, check my email to see if I've received any rejection notices from publishers or chicks on Plenty of Fish, and then try to figure out how long it will take before I run out of money. After that, I have a few more cups of coffee, five or six more smokes, and by then, I'm jacked up enough on stimulants, self-loathing, and soul-crushing disappointment, to pretty much be ready to start thinking about maybe doing a little actual writing.
Another love connection made possible by POF.
More often than not, though, I get distracted or interrupted prior to dipping my quill. The phone rings. Or, someone's posted a link on my Facebook page and I feel obligated to check it out and then I spend a bunch of time trying to come up with some witty comment on it. Or, I'm tempted to clickity-click the Pornhub tab on my bookmark bar and give myself a little much-needed TLC. Or, I just keep smoking and drinking coffee until it seems late enough in the day to start smoking and drinking beer.
The other day, though, my routine was interrupted by the piercing shriek of the intercom buzzer. I got up, hit the access button, opened my door, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a pair of beatifically smiling tweens all dutied up in their Sunday finest. The male, and thus, leader/spokesman, sported a white, buttoned-all-the-way-up dress shirt tucked into a pair of black slacks. His female helper monkey was kickin' it all cozy and comfy in a navy-blue cardigan over an ankle-length, floral-print sun dress.
Shit.
Our exchange went as follows:
Little did they know, Caleb and Penny
were mere moments away from the most
terrifying and delicious erotic experience
of their entire lives.
Male JW: Good morning, sir. My name is Caleb. This is my friend, Penny.
Me: Well, hello there, Penny.
Caleb: And how are you doing on this glorious day?
Me: I'm alright. A little hung-over.
Caleb: Great! Anyways, we have some good news for you.
Me: Oh yeah?
Caleb: Yes, oh my, yes! Jesus Christ died for your sins!
Me: Well, hey, thank him for me next time you talk to him.
I'm never overtly rude to the Witnesses. In fact, I kind of get a kick out of how they go around pissing everyone off. Nonetheless, they are pests, and I have a sure-fire way of getting rid of them when I'm not in the mood. I bluntly offer to accept a copy of the Watchtower in exchange for sex, and then I begin undressing as I make my way toward my bedroom. So far, none of them have ever followed me in there and they're always gone when I come back out. I'm a man of my word though: if they took me up on it, let me tell you, I'd snatch the Watchtower right out of their hands.
Then I'd fuck the living shit out of them.
Anyways, I was bored, and Penny was kind of hot, so I invited them inside for coffee. We talked for about 45 minutes, and though I found their worldview to be, for the most part, irrational and quite often repugnant, I was struck by one thing about these two brainwashed dipshits:
They were both deliriously fucking happy.
Following his recent podium appearance
and subsequent endorsement deal,
Tommy's family is now reconsidering
the Foster Care option.
I've often wondered about this. Why does it sometimes seem like the only genuinely happy people in the world are born again christians and the mentally retarded? Is happiness nothing more than a kind mental illness or delusion - some sort of incapacity or willful suspension of critical thinking? Is our only hope for lasting joy and contentment to join a cult or jam a coat-hanger up our noses into our cerebellums?
Don't worry, kids. The Reverend Dick has got a recipe for this oh-so-elusive dish. Though the ingredients are rare and often hard to come by, they're out there if you look for them:
Enjoy.
1. One big, sloppy scoop of Jackie Wilson's "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher."
I'm not really talking about the ugly-on-ugly variety of love here. I'm talking about genuine, lasting, meaningful connections with one another. Family, friends, partners, pretty much everybody, with the possible exception of politicians and corporate executives, who as we all know, must be destroyed.
Before embarking on a course of action, ask yourself,
WWJD: What would Jackie do?
He'd preach the fucking love, that's what. Be like Jackie.
2. 3 Heaping Tbs. of Animal Collective's "My Girls."
A friend of mine once told me that, when he's feeling all low-down and depressed, he asks himself three fundamental questions:
1. Am I hungry?
2. Am I cold?
3. Do I have to piss?
If he can answer "no" to each, then really, how fucking bad can things be? Wise words. But, as Animal Collective's Panda Bear knows only too well, sometimes the answer here is "yes." It sucks to worry about whether you're going to have to quit smoking in order to pay the rent, or to have to take the beer cans back and roll up your pennies so you can get yourself a box a Kraft dinner and a can of tuna. It's hard to be happy when you're not getting your basic needs met. We may not want to "seem like (we) care about material things," as Panda Bear puts it, but we all need food, clothing, shelter, and a place to piss. And we need to be free from the threat of losing these things.
3. A pinch of "Let's Lynch The Landlord" by the Dead Kennedys.
Before Jesus came along with his whole turn the other cheek nonsense, the Ancients considered smashing one's enemies to be a virtue. Too often in life, we find our above-mentioned security being undermined by the forces of evil, personified here by the DKs as a lynch-worthy landlord. The road to happiness is paved with power and freedom and the obstacles that block our path forward must be removed. Which is to say, if you see the Man sitting in his tollbooth along the way, don't pay him. Kill him.
4. A drizzle of "Full Moon" by Armand Van Helden featuring Common to taste.
As Common so eloquently spits of here, sometimes you just gotta let loose: hit the clubs, get stoned and shitfaced, dance your ass off, lure someone into the bathroom, and fuck like beasts without a condom on.
So to speak.
5. Garnish with a little "Float On" by Modest Mouse.
Besides love, acceptance is perhaps the most important ingredient of all. Guess what, kids? Things are never going to work out exactly the way you want them to. Sometimes your loved ones abandon you. Your friends will probably let you down. The Man will, at times, stand victorious over your fallen form, snickering and chirping derision at you like you're a fucking chump. The Buddha is too often right when he tells us that life is suffering. Then again, it may not always be shits and giggles but its not always tears and torment either. To live well is to cultivate the capacity for both, for the loftiest joys and the deepest of sorrows. At the end of the day, it really all comes down to how loudly you can howl.
William Katt: "Met Christopher Reeve,
He told me I'm the Greatest!"
The other day, I was at the grocery store, trying to figure out a way of turning my last ten bucks into nourishment for a week, when, all of a sudden, "Gettin' Jiggy With It," by Will Smith comes on over the supermarket satellite radio.
Unlike some of the other shoppers, who began to unconsciously shake their ample shit while heaving flat after flat of Mountain Dew, jumbo bags of Doritos, and bulk boxes of Pop Tarts into their already overflowing buggies, my hunger pangs left me in no condition to get jiggy with anything.
But as I stood there in the produce section, trying to stave off the onset of scurvy by covertly gobbling grapes and strawberries, I found myself actually listening to the song for pretty much the first time. I'd heard it before, I mean, back in '98 when it came out, the song was almost unavoidable. But I'd never given much thought to the message Big Willie Style was trying to convey. A starvation-induced reverie ensued. What was this nebulous "it" he was suggesting we get jiggy with? For some reason, I just had to know.
As it turns out, it's him. Will Smith.
And why would we would want to get jiggy with him? Well, for starters, because all women "wanna bounce with a bruthah that's platinum," Smith asserts. Also, he has floor seats at Lakers games and can pose effectively with a cigar without even smoking it ("it's for the look, I don't light it"). Still not convinced? No problem. Smith counters with his coup de gras:
"Met Ali, he told me, I'm the greatest."
Take it from me,
Parents just don't understand.
This seemed fucked up to me. My only explanation is that Muhammad Ali's punch-drunkeness must've momentarily got the better of him. Either that or his plan was to try and fuck Jada Pinkett when The Fresh Prince dumb-danced off to the bathroom to jerk off to his own reflection in the mirror while Jazzy Jeff made scratching noises for him in the background.
Nonetheless, as ridiculous as it was, his bold claim "started making trouble in my neighbourhood," so to speak. And I found myself wondering:
If not Will Smith, then who?
Who is the greatest? And why?
I like lists, so I decided to make one.
You may notice a few things about my selections: They're all Americans, most of them are black, and too few of them are women. Let me explain.
Swiss Rock Superduo, Myron's
recent, awe-inspring performance at
Saul Silverstein's Bar Mitzvah in Utica
was topped only by Uncle Shlomo's
stirring rendition of "Don't Worry Be Happy."
When it comes to pop music, the United States is well, Will Smith and the rest of us are Jazzy Jeffs making scratching noises in the background while he jerks off. Out of the dank soil of racism, economic oppression, and a thoroughgoing "You don't like it? Fuck you"-type attitude, the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave has somehow managed to sprout musical greatness the way more civilized countries like say, Switzerland and Canada breed mediocrity. I really don't know what else to chock it up to other than the resilience and spiritual depth of the people who created its musical legacy, i.e., the African Americans the pilgrims enslaved and persecuted, but never managed to beat the life out of.
British Prime Minister, David Cameron
during a recent fundraising event
at Boreham House, Essex.
For comparison's sake, the Brits are a similarly bigoted and plutocratic people, but they're also a bunch of perverts and copycats and their contribution to pop music reflects this. Eric Clapton's not a bluesman, he's a thief. The Beatles' music is great for associating wishy-washy revolutionary sentiment or the universal healing power of love with a particular sneaker or soft drink choice, but that's about it. And despite their uncanny capacity to mesmerize morons, the only lasting marks Led Zeppelin has left are those on the bodies of the groupies they've abused, and on the walls of the Holiday Inns they've abused them in.
The women-issue is a little different. The music industry has pretty much never permitted women to assume any role other than that of singer. Moreover, the list of women who've had any creative control whatsoever in the writing, arranging, and producing of their material is shockingly small. As a result, the industry basically disposes of them as soon as their tits start to sag: not exactly a recipe for greatness or a lasting career.
Anyways, here are, in my humble opinion, the Greatest of All Time.
Enjoy.
1. Miles Davis.
Song selected: "Summertime" from Porgy and Bess.
Despite his dastardly penchant for throwing bitches down the stairs in a drug-addled, misogynistic frenzy, Miles Davis is, hands down, the greatest of all time. Four times for the better (and once for the worse), Davis, as sideman, collaborator, or full-fledged leader, revolutionized his chosen idiom. That's right. Count 'em. Five fucking times! Nobody else on this list did this more than twice. He played with Charlie Parker on the Savoy and Dial sessions that birthed Bebop. With Gil Evans as midwife, he squeezed out "the birth of the cool," Cool Jazz, that is. On Kind of Blue, often regarded as the greatest album of all time, he and Bill Evans invented Modal Jazz. His large ensemble work on In A Silent Way and Bitches Brew set the blueprint for fusion. And those are just some of the highlights. Virtually all of Davis' work, with the exception of his embarrassingly shitty 80s output (which helped spawn Smooth and Pop Jazz cultural criminals like Kenny G and the bubonic John Tesh), is capable of evoking stunned astonishment in all but the seriously hearing-impaired.
Albums to check out:
Selecting even a small group of albums from Davis' vast and awesome oeuvre is kind of like picking which Playboy Bunnies to sneak off into the grotto with during a party at Hef's house, but here goes: Birth of the Cool, Walkin', Sketches of Spain, Kind of Blue, In A Silent Way, Bitches Brew, On The Corner, all of which are sublime masterpieces that should be a part of everyone's music collection.
2. James Brown.
Song selected: "People Get Up And Drive Your Funky Soul" from the Motherlode compilation.
Along with being one of the major players in the emergence of Soul as a form distinct from straight-ahead blues, James Brown, along with his band, the JBs, invented funk. That's right. He invented funk. For that alone, he should be worshipped as a god in his native land and never should have been sent to prison for leading cops on a multi-state car chase with an underaged girl riding shotgun. Jesus Christ, the man was all fucked up on PCP at the time. Can't a soul brother, even the Soul Brother No. 1 get a break in this country? Apparently not. Although by the late-seventies, his creative juices had begun to dry up, he'd already left the world an astonishing body of work. He remained an amazing live act right up to the end. I saw him live a year or so before he died and he was still doing splits and shit. The guy was like 70 years old. When my grandma was 70, she was dropping her cigarettes on herself, lighting herself on fire, and not even noticing. Hot Pants!
Albums to check out:
James Brown had the irritating tendency to throw a hit or two onto a record along with a bunch of unrelated material, but his enormous discography has plenty of highlights: Live At The Apollo, The Payback, Sex Machine, Black Caesar, Hot Pants, Hell. The Motherlode and In The Jungle Groove compilations are also fantastic collections of his funky seventies shit.
3. Aretha Franklin.
Song selected: "A Change Is Gonna Come" from I Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You.
With the exception of the Beatles, no other artist has achieved the degree of universal critical acclaimed and widespread popular appeal as Aretha Franklin. This is why she's won more grammys than any other female artist besides Alison Krauss. (No really, Alison Krauss has the most grammys: 22. Aretha has 18. How the fuck did that happen?) Anyways, unless you're a member of the Ku Klux Klan or severely mentally retarded, you either already love Aretha, or will after even the briefest exposure to her music. Aretha is the most authentic, most emotionally honest, most soulful, and most powerful of all vocalists. She's the Queen of Soul, for Christ's sake, and not only because she stands supreme in the genre, but because she's the reigning monarch of all those who have one. The greatest singer who ever lived.
Albums to check out: I Never Loved A Man The Way I Loved You, Lady Soul, Soul '69, Young Gifted And Black.
4. Ramones / The Velvet Underground (tie)
Songs selected: "Beat On The Brat" from Ramones and "What Goes On" from The Velvet Underground.
The first caucasians on the list and for good reason. They represent the first time whitey didn't just steal his shit from his darker-hued countrymen, scrub it free of all soul and substance, and proudly market it to the masses as his own discovery. The music of these two bands is basically the Illiad and the Odyssey of all things Alternative and the sonic blueprint they set down is one of the main reasons your parents don't like your music. Why? Because unlike pretty much everything that came before it, this music is not rooted in the blues. As such, it represents a new and authentic place for white kids to start other than by ripping off Robert Johnson or Muddy Waters. Though the alt-tsunami hasn't entirely washed away the encrusted filth of Zeppelinism and Prog-Rock pretension like a deluge from on high, it has, over time, severely dilapidated the temple of Rock and driven its denizens into the high hills of cultural irrelevancy. On a personal note, the advent of the music of these two bands upon my dark suburban world affected me like being knocked on his ass on the road to Damascus affected the apostle Paul. New Vistas of previously unimagined possibilities suddenly splayed out before me like a thousand dollar hooker, and I knew, right then and there, that things would never be the same.
Albums to check out:
Ramones - Ramones, Ramones Leave Home, Rocket To Russia, Pleasant Dreams.
The Velvet Underground - The Velvet Underground & Nico, The Velvet Underground, The Velvet Underground Live 1969, Loaded.
5. Ornette Coleman.
Song selected: "Lonely Woman" from The Shape Of Jazz To Come.
There are few artists in the history of American blues-based music more important than Ornette Coleman. His early work represents a kind of Gotterdammerung for jazz as a progressive form. Prior to Coleman, one could characterize jazz as developing along a continuum where progress was understood largely in terms of the expansion of the harmonic possibilities implicit in the American pop or blues song. Coleman, however, dispensed with harmony as a structural requirement of the music altogether. Throughout his long and diverse career, he has explored the notion that it is the direct interaction between the melodic lines of the individual performers, rather than their relationship to to a preconceived harmony that makes music what it is. In a way, his work has stressed the primacy of the actual over the metaphysical, the thing itself over its explanatory apparatus. Coleman, thus, offers the "revolutionary" suggestion that the best way to make music that is fully real is to focus on reality.
Albums to check out: The Shape of Jazz to Come, Dancing In Your Head, Ornette!, Ornette On Tenor.
6. John Fahey.
Song selected: "Sunflower River Blues" from Death Chants, Breakdowns, And Military Waltzes.
A somewhat idiosyncratic selection, I admit, but no one has ever inspired in me quite the awe and envy of another man's skills quite as much as John Fahey. Fahey's prowess, however, had nothing to do with the effect-laden histrionics or fingertip gymnastics that meatheads find so drool-inducing in the work of Steve Vai or Eddie Van Halen. What Fahey explored was the poetic rather than the heroic capacities of his instrument. On most of his albums, he simply sat down in front of a microphone with his acoustic guitar and took you on an aural journey through the history of American folk and blues-based music. One capable of blowing all but the most shit-clogged of minds. Fuck Jimi, Fahey's greatest guitarist of all time.
Albums to check out: Death Chants, Breakdowns, And Military Waltzes, Blind Joe Death, Dance of Death And Other Plantation Favorites, The Great San Bernadino Birthday Party.
7. John Coltrane
Song selected: "Quartet: Acknowledgment" from A Love Supreme.
Once he got off the smack and high on God, Coltrane spent the remainder of his unfortunately short life giving thanks and praise to the Lord above for revealing to him a new vision of reality, one in which the divine power of love permeates every aspect of being. The results, like pretty much all of Coltrane's work, is at times tender, lyrical, and sublimely beautiful, and at others, ferocious, skronky delvings into another world. In any case, whether your listening to the earlier, secular, smack-head 'Trane or the later, more sanctified version, the music itself offers a more compelling case for the existence of a higher power than the entire corpus of Scholastic Theology. Regardless of whether its source is celestial or terrestrial, that Coltrane's music is inspired is difficult to deny.
Albums to check out: A Love Supreme, Ole, Live At The Village Vanguard, Giant Steps, My Favorite Things.
8. Captain Beefheart
Song selected: "Owed T'Alex" from Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller).
It so happens that I lost my virginity to Captain Beefheart. Hmmm... That didn't come out right. I mean, I lost my virginity while his music was playing in the background. Anyways, I don't think I'd recommend it as a sure-fire way of getting your ladyfriend or gentleman caller in the mood. That is, of course, unless they happen to get turned on by the sound of a Howlin' Wolf impersonator barking surrealist poetry over an harshly angular, free-jazzy accompaniment. But the Captain's music is so much more than this. In a sense, he may be the only truly great caucasian bluesman. He reminds me of some of the very early Mississippi Delta musicians who sang largely for themselves in a wholly personal, idiosyncratic voice before the music got co-opted by the music industry, and formalized and homogenized soon after. Like them, Beefheart never achieved the success and recognition that his genius should have afforded him and, eventually, he gave up and turned to oil painting. Our loss.
Albums to check out: Safe As Milk, Trout Mask Replica, Clear Spot, Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller).
9. Son House
Song selected: "Death Letter Blues." This is a great video of Son House performing this Delta Blues masterpiece.
The steaming cesspool of poverty and hatred that is the Mississippi Delta has probably produced more musical greats than any other place on earth. Robert Johnson, Charley Patton, Skip James, Bukka White, and Muddy Waters, just to name a few. But the greatest of them all is Son House. He's the shit. To see this solitary man here, sitting on a chair in a suit and Colonel Sanders tie, writhing in seeming agony as he frets, bottlenecks, and basically pounds the fuck out of his National while howling his tale of truth and woe is to see the living manifestation of the blues in all its frenetic, hypertensive glory.
Albums to check out: Son House's work mostly preceded the advent of the LP but there's tons of great compilations out there: Delta Blues, Preachin' The Blues, Heroes of the Blues, Son House: Revisted.
10. Al Green
Song selected: "Here I Am Baby (Come And Take Me)" from Call Me.
Combined with a well-prepared seafood penne and a nice merlot, the sexy, soulful stylings of Al Green are almost guaranteed to get you laid. Indeed, no one harnesses the power of the Holy Spirit in the single-minded pursuit of sexual conquest with quite the righteous audacity or supple touch of the Reverend Al Green. The Higher Power of this ordained minister and divinely-inspired apostle of the poontang, however, is one that even the most faithless among us cannot help but wanna get down on our knees and pray to. He only wants to "take you by the hand, hold you, squeeze you, lie down next to you, love you, Heeee-hee, Heeee-hee... Yeeeeaaaah!"
Albums to check out: Let's Stay Together, The Belle Album, Green Is Blues, Al Green Is Love.
The Reaper responds to his doctor's
suggestion that a low-dosage SSRI
might help allay his tendency
toward overly morbid thoughts.
Every week, when I go see the shrink about my Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Chronic Premorbid Depression, he asks me to fill out a questionnaire. This information enables him to track and quantify my mood over the previous seven days and determine whether or not it's trending in the right direction. Then we talk about the results. It's not like on TV. We don't discuss my dreams, or my sex life, or my mother, or whether I dream about having sex with my mother. He doesn't give a fuck about that shit. He keeps it Cognitive. Anyways, it's the same set of questions every time and one of them is this:
Recurring thoughts of death?
0. Not at all
1. Sometimes
2. Frequently
3. Most of the time
Dr. Snuggle-Bum's patients adore him,
but his colleagues have voiced
concern about his outdated
Freudian methodology.
Surprise, surprise, frequently or incessantly occurring thoughts of death tend to be deemed a bad thing by most mental health professionals. Such thoughts add points to your shitty-mood score and will elicit a raised eyebrow and a earnestly-voiced inquiry about whether you're thinking about going softly into that dark night. This is partly because suicidal patients are a pain in the ass. The I-Hate-Myself-And-Want-To-Die-type tends to make blubbering late-night phone calls to his therapist's home and, if Dr. Don't-Do-It ducks him the way his friends and families do, he or she ends up feeling all guilty, worrying about whether the little crybaby's gonna pull a Cobain on him. This is also bad for business. Let's face it, after the Hippocratic oath, the most important thing for a doctor to keep at the forefront of his or her mind is this:
Dead patients don't pay their bills...
Cromwell: B'gosh, Charles, old boy.
A necrophiliac I be not,
but damn it, ye look good in there.
Sometimes I wonder, though, if our culture's squeemishness about the other side, which often manifests itself in a full-on, tight-lipped terror of it, doesn't go a little overboard.
I mean, hell, we dress our corpses up in party dresses and pump them full of chemicals so they look good enough to fuck, instead of like the rotting sacks of meat that they actually are.
When Fido wanders out into the street and gets his asshole driven through his brains by a speeding minivan, we tell the kids he "went to live on a farm," rather than show them his smashed and mangled body and teach them a lesson about why it's not a good idea to play on the fucking road.
And pretty much all of the world's major religions have as their selling point: "Death? Hey, don't worry, little dudes. We gotcha covered. All we want is your life in exchange."
The Lord will reward me
for my fashion choices.
And that's the thing. What people think about death often dictates how they live their lives. For a lot of people life is just an audition for the eternity that comes afterwards, and they'll do pretty much anything to pass it. They'll refrain from masturbating. They'll kill Moslems. Fuck, they'll even dress like an 17th-century Puritan if they think they'll be rewarded for it in the world to come. People want their lives to mean something other than they do, I guess, and the only way to do that is to have it be about the one thing it's not: Death.
And, to a certain extent, that's okay. Let's face it, Death is fucking interesting. In fact, along with Life, Love, Beauty, Truth, Sex, and God, Death is on the short list of things that are, always have been, and always will be worth thinking and talking about.
Psst. Hey, Gents.
For future reference...
By the way, this list, though perhaps not exhaustive, is pretty much the same for both men and women. I've noted, however, that some women tend to replace the "sex" entry with either "chocolate" or "shoes:" a sad fact that probably has less to do with some sort of sweet-toothed vapidity in the fairer sex than it does with the lackluster cocksmanship and anatomical ignorance of their menfolk.
Anyways, here's a parting thought:
I wonder whether the world wouldn't be a far better place and our lives far more joyful and interesting if everybody just cowboyed the fuck up, looked the reaper in the eye, and faced the following terrifying, but nonetheless, quite probable possibility:
When you die, you're just fucking dead.
And then lived accordingly.
Anyways, here's a few of my favourite songs about that night without a dawn.
Son House: "Death Letter."
Fuck Robert Johnson and his Satanically-inspired skills, Son House is, in my humble opinion, the best of the old-school Delta Country Bluesman. Here, House gets a letter informing him that the woman he loves (not his wife, by the way), is dead. This is a haunting, ghoulish tale of anguish, fear, loneliness, and a deep sense of sinfulness. Maybe the greatest song ever.
Nas: "Life's A Bitch (And Then You Die)."
As a white, middle-class dude from the Canadian suburbs, it would be kind of ridiculous to suggest that Nas is somehow "strumming my pain with his fingers," so to speak. I mean, none of my peeps are "doin' years in the hundreds," and those that "never made it" aren't dead, they're just still living in the 'burbs, which, come to think of it, might actually be worse. Still, the message of "Life's A Bitch" isn't all that far off from my own philosophy of Affirmative Nihilism. This is how you live when facing death is a part of your everyday reality. Maybe then you actually fucking go for it, protect your neck in the meantime, and "puff a little fly" at the end of the day to celebrate, or forget, or whatever. Because, let's face it, Nasty Nas is right, "you never know when you're gonna go."
Richard Wagner: "Siegfried's Funeral March" from Gotterdammerung.
Despite being a rabid anti-semite, a remorseless philanderer, and, like Hitler, a vegetarian, Richard Wagner was still the most gifted and important composer of the late nineteenth-century: proving, along with Miles Davis and Martin Heidegger than being a genius and being a fucking asshole are not mutually exclusive personality traits. On a personal note, the pompous douche in me has always hoped that Wagner's elegy on the death of his superhuman Nordic hero-saviour would be used at my own funeral.
Bauhaus: "Bela Lugosi's Dead."
A great post-punk hymn on the death of Death or, at least, of its most well-known pop-culture personification, Bela Lugosi. What's interesting about the song is that there's absolutely no sadness in it. It's more of a triumphal black mass, a kind of necromantic "Candle in the Wind" without the weak-assed, boohoo, I-would've-liked-to-know-you-but-I-was-just-a-kid shit. Through death, Bela lives forever: "Undead! Undead! Undead!"
Oh yeah! Watership Down, motherfuckers!
How ya like me now?
"May you live in interesting times" runs the old Chinese curse, and as I bid farewell to the Year of the Rabbit with a middle-fingered departing salute and a scathing torrent of profanity, I got to admit, the bunny was a bitch, but she definitely didn't bore me.
Tonight we enter the Year of the Dragon, but before I greet that rascal, Puff, by boozing and barfing the past 365 days into into oblivion, I feel obliged to look back upon the works of his cruel, lagomorphic predecessor and despair.
Happy New Years, America.
Thanks for the good time last year.
btw, How's that ass, this morning? lol!
- Goldman Sachs!
2011 was another year where the super-rich got richer, the poor got poorer, and everyone else lost either their jobs, their homes, their savings, or their hope for a brighter tomorrow. A lot of people finally got fed up with the international banking cartel's protection racket and at least tried to do something about it by taking to the streets all over the world. To no avail. Now that the smell of bong hoots, mouldy Birkenstocks, and unwashed dreadlocks has dissipated along with the wind of hopeful rebellion it wafted in on, things are pretty much back to normal, which is to say, totally fucked up and unlikely to change anytime soon.
Prime Minister Lego Man vows
to rebuild the Canadian economy,
brick by little, plastic brick.
Up here in the great white north, we somehow ended up giving a creepy, sweater-wearing, cat-molesting, right-wing, Lego Man look-alike a majority government, even though I've yet to meet anyone who voted for him or even considers him anything other than a total fucking douche. Not long afterwards, the Harper-youth of Vancouver celebrated his victory with a kind of latter-day kristalnacht, lighting cop cars on fire, smashing windows, and looting high-end merchandise from local boutiques. Coincidentally, our local hockey corporation bungled the Stanley Cup final that same night, a loss many experts have also attributed to Harper's victory.
On a brighter note, 2011 wasn't a bad year for music. It wasn't a great one either, but there were quite a few albums that, though maybe not of the life-altering-variety, were, nonetheless, undeniably fucking good. There were also some surprises. Perennial big-dick playas like Radiohead and TV On The Radio underwhelmed their harems of critics with puny, flaccid releases this year, which gave the odd musical omega male the opportunity to sneak in there and get a little some-some.
The thing I noticed most this year, though, was how prominently the theme of escapism featured in a lot 2011's best albums. Often it was an escape into the musical past. This years' releases by Destroyer, M83, Washed Out, and Youth Lagoon all reference the 80s, whether it be the verby keyboards that characterized a lot the decade's British synth-bands, the self-conscious professionalism of its production values, or simply the theme of the transformative power of sleep and dreams that artists working during ten years of Reaganomics, Spuds McKenzie, and the Dukes of Hazard, clung to like a tattered woobie. Other eras were alluded to as well. The Cults summoned the giddy ghost of the girl groups of the early 1960s and Fucked Up reincarnated the shit-kicking utopian ferocity of early punk rock while thankfully avoiding many of its more deservedly maligned cliches. What would a rule be without exceptions to prove it, and idiosyncratic releases by tUnEyarDs, Colin Stetson, and Danny Brown (whose fucking hilarious parody of hip-hop bravado was the most refreshing thing I heard all year), do just that.
Come to think of it, maybe it's just me who wanted out of here this year and selected my best-of list accordingly. It wasn't exactly a banner year for the old Reverend Dick.
Anyways, Happy New Years, bitches!
1. Destroyer: Kaputt.
Sometimes the worst ideas yield the best results. Destoyer's Kaputt is an excellent case in point. Dan Bejar takes some of the lamest, cheesiest, and most justifiably dated compositional materials from the 80s ("Careless Whisper"-style saxophones, Duran Durany basslines, white funk guitar licks, synth sequences that even Don Henley or Phil Collins would reject as too commercial) and crafts a sublimely beautiful masterpiece out of them. Bejar's sings like a weary scenester whose "seen it all," but who is still capable of imagining a better world. If nothing else, it was one reason not to hate the Coove in 2011.
2. Fucked Up: David Comes to Life.
The best punk album I've heard since, well, the last Fucked Up album. The combination of Damian Abraham's Cookie Monster on PCP vocals and the layers upon layers of roaring guitars is the sonic equivalent of the scourging scene in Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. And yet, the album also radiates a kind of bestial beauty, helped in no small part by the use of soft female vocal harmonies and allusions to the work of minimalist composers like Lamonte Young and Steve Reich thrown into the mix. If I have any criticism of David Comes to Life, it's that it goes on a bit too long. Towards the end, it starts to feel like a ferocious bout of ball-slapping coitus that's starting to chafe a bit.
3. Danny Brown: XXX.
Danny Brown explores some unlikely and refreshingly unhiphoppity territory on XXX, delving into why he drinks PBR rather than Cristall, the highs and lows of looking for scrap metal to salvage, and the "I'm rich, bitch!"-type feeling he gets when he receives his income tax return. It also features the best song ever about eating pussy.
4. M83: Hurry Up, We're Dreaming.
On Hurry Up, We're Dreaming, M83's Anthony Gonzalez continues to muck around in the ooey-gooey textures of 80s synth pop, but without the affected coolness of some of his previous releases. He heats up the sauce, here, so to speak, and the result is beautiful as always, but openly emotional rather than just moody. Pretty, pretty shit.
5. Cults: Cults.
On Cults' self-titled debut album, Madeline Follin manages to affect this weird, girl-groupy, pretty in pink, my pussy smells like cotton candy-kind of snarky, super-cool cuteness that I don't come across all that often or nearly enough. If Nancy Sinatra's vibrator came to life and made an album, this is what I imagine it sounding like.
6. Washed Out: Within and Without.
Washed Out's music sounds like the bands name: imagine you're laying on a beach, the sun on your chest, the ocean lapping at your toes, while Enya gives you a suntan lotion hand-job all soft and slow-like. Then you waken.
7. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart: Belong.
A great little pop album. Sweet, unthreatening, catchy tunes that make you bop your head from side to side as you cruise mallward down the highway in the new Cabriolet your dad bought you.
8. tUnEyarDs: w h o k i l l.
One of the few albums I heard and liked this year that was unlike anything I've heard before. Quirky without being obnoxious. Hip without being pretentious. Okay, it's a little pretentious. I mean, let's face it, it's not like this chick would ever hang out with you or anything.
9. Colin Stetson: New History of Warfare, Vol. 2: Judges.
I'm a big jazz fan, but I got to admit, I haven't really listened to all that many jazz album made in the last thirty years and those that I have sound like they were made fifty years ago. This one doesn't. At all. Check it out.
10. Youth Lagoon: The Year of Hibernation.
No album title summed up the music of 2011 quite like Youth Lagoon's The Year of Hibernation. The album itself resounds with the moods and textures of just this sort of long winter's nap, evoking something of those dreams when you fall in love with some unknown someone and then awaken to the sad realization that it was just a dream. Fucking melancholy, to say the least.
I don't want to sound like an uppity douche or anything but I really hate riding public transit. It's an assault on my sense organs. The sordid spectacle of morbidly obese, indeterminately gendered monstrosities sprawled out over the courtesy seats, sweating, and panting, and dribbling purple slurpee all over themselves like a pack of track-suited Jabba the Huts is a constant reminder that my cherished belief in the universal brotherhood of man is a full-on fallacy. On more than one occasion, I've sat down in a seat and felt the horrifying sensation of its previous occupant's urine seeping through my dress slacks. I'm also not a big fan of the smell of farts. A few years back, I had to ride the Main Street bus everyday to and from work and calculated, over a six month period, that I smelled 1.68 farts per ride on the Mainer.
Perhaps worst of all, though, is having to listen to the inane chit chat of the urban underclass. What follows is a transcript of an actual conversation I heard the other day:
Hoochie No. 1: Then I called him and he was all like, "shit!"
Hoochie No. 2: No way!
Hoochie No. 1: No, totally! He was like, "shit!" Then I was like, "whoah!"
Hoochie No. 2: Oh my god! You were like, "whoah!"?
Hoochie No. 1: No, I know, right? I was totally like, "whoah!"
Hoochie No. 2: Oh, shit!
I guess she should have known
by the way he parked his car
sideways that it wouldn't last.
For the more fortunate among you who've never had to use public transit as your main means of transportation, I assure you: this is by no means an atypical exchange. Let's just say that, over the years, I've pretty much abandoned all hope of overhearing the answer to any of life's great mysteries while riding public transit.
But then about a week back, I kind of got my mind blown. It started out predictably, which is to say, unpleasantly enough. I boarded the eastbound Broadway bus, fought my way through the fart cloud, and sat down at the back across from a pair of mall-rattish tweens who were squeaking at one another in that shrill, smoke-detector-like vocal frequency that immediately made me wince, and clench my asshole, and regret my choice of seating. From what I could gather, one of them was blubbering about some dude who'd just dumped her and the other was trying to console her. My fight or flight instinct now activated, I was just about to bolt and go try and squeeze myself into the Jabba pack at the front when something altogether surprising happened.
Weepy Tween: I'm like, so sick of getting hurt like this all the time. It's like, why can't it just ever work out, you know?
Wise Tween: Yeah, but that's like, the whole thing about love, right? I mean, it only ever works out once.
When I heard this, I was totally, like, "whoah!"
Love. Like the wise tween says, it only ever works out once. And let's face it, that's only if you're lucky. For most people, it never does. Sure, they eventually find someone to bitch at and squabble with over whose turn it is to play the hand-held poker machine on the tour bus to Reno, but this seems less like love to me than it does a kind of detente based on the threat of mutually assured destruction.
Teen: I was like, totally high on crystal
when I met Uncle Jesse.
But why, though? Why, when the truth is found to be lies and all the joy within you dies is it so fucking hard to find somebody to love? I mean, everyone wants it. Everyone's looking for it, but then, when we think we've finally found it, it usually ends up not being reciprocated, or fizzling out after a month or so, or they cheat on you, or give you the clap, or get all drunk and coked-out and throw you down the stairs, or kill themselves, or whatever. And even when those rare and oh-so-precious occasions of overlap occur, when you gaze into your lover's eyes and are pretty fucking sure that the mystical sense of connectedness you feel is not just your own love reflected back at you, that something miraculous has happened, that somehow, someway, you've crossed over into one another's soul-space and fused the flaming tonguetips of your beings...
you end up fucking it all up somehow. Usually over something stupid that, when you're laying on your deathbed, alone, thinking about it, you're gonna be all like, "shit."
Things like:
Yeah, I love him, but he doesn't make enough money... and he always pisses on the toilet seat.
Yeah, I love her, but she's always blowing all my money... and she always freaks when I piss on the toilet seat.
Yeah, I love him, but he won't talk to me.
Yeah, I love her, but I wish she'd just shut the fuck up sometimes.
Yeah, I love her, but she won't dress up like Raggedy Ann and let me fuck her in the ass with her head in the toilet.
Yeah, I love him, but he won't dress up like Raggedy Ann and let me fuck him with a strap-on with his head in the toilet... oh, and he always pisses on the toilet seat.
And so forth...
Anyways, here's a bit of sonic sadness for the heartbroken, past and present. The lonely. The wounded. And especially, those of you out there still searching for that power that could destroy you, but never would.
Stage One: Denial.
The Avalanches: "Since I Left You."
You know that false sense of freedom and endless possibility you feel right after you walk away? That fleeting period of deluded bliss that typically ends after a day or two with a drunken, weepy, pleading late-night voicemail message that almost always goes unanswered? Here it is, and you can dance to it.
Stage Two: Anger.
The Descendents: "Jean Is Dead"
Okay, granted, this song is about your lover committing suicide, but it captures perfectly the fucked-up, heartbroken rage of being ruthlessly abandoned by that special someone.
Stage Three: Bargaining.
Marvin Gaye: "Please Stay (Don't Go Away)
R&B's greatest love machine summons every kilowatt of sexual potency he possesses to lure his ladyfriend back into his arms. Guess what, kids? If Marvin can't pull it off, neither can you.
Stage Four: Depression
Sinead O'Connor: "Nothing Compares 2 U"
Obvious and well, kind of cheesy, I admit, but before you groan, I challenge you to listen to this song during the early stages of a painful breakup and not start blubbering inconsolably like a five-year old whose turtle just died. This soft rock favourite came on the radio at McDonalds one time approximately seven hours and fifteen days after I'd gotten dumped and I started gasping and McSobbing all over my quarter pounder. McHumiliating.
Stage Five: Acceptance.
Frank Sinatra: "For A While"
The saddest of all the stages. There's nothing more heartbreaking than the pain of not even feeling the pain anymore. But with the onset of numbness comes a new if empty resolve. Time to pick the kleenex up off the floor, throw out the empty Hagen Dasz cartons and bottles of cheap red wine, stop leaving the phone off the hook except when you call in sick to work, and proceed with the bleak business of getting your shit together and moving on... alone. Here, old blue eyes sings like it's over with a capital "Oh."
We're now over a month into the Occupy Wall Street movement and I'm starting to wonder if anything real or lasting is going to come of it. My guess is, that eventually people are just going to get bored of the whole peaceful protest thing, and when the last hippy leaves, the forces of evil will go in, clean up the used condoms and Egg McMuffin wrappers, and then get on with business as usual: making the world a shittier place for you and me.
Already, the remaining protesters are starting to seem like the stragglers at a once-raging house party. The Man has to stay up and keep his eye on them so they don't steal his stereo, but he knows that pretty soon, they'll all go home, wash their Che Guevara T-shirts, fire up the bong, and settle down to evening of reading Marcuse or watching 9-11 conspiracy videos.
Get in there and crush them before they start singing "Kumbaya."
I hate that fucking song.
And what then? What becomes of the first large-scale public uprising in America in almost a generation? Maybe nothing at first, I'm told. Hey, these things take time, right? Political consciousness needs to be raised. Alliances between seemingly disparate parties formed. The masses need to be galvanized, not along the familiar political lines of Right and Left, but according to the universal, immutable principles of Right and Wrong.
Basically, blah, blah, blah, Rome wasn't built in a day.
Part of me sympathizes with this approach. I mean, when it gets right down to it, I'm a lover, not a fighter. Given the proverbial Friday night choice between fucking and fighting, I'll take fucking, and so should you. It'd be nice if love really could conquer all, but as so many of us have realized, love often isn't even enough to save a relationship, let alone the world. And let's face it, Wall Street can't be saved. It doesn't need to be occupied, either. It needs to be razed to the fucking ground Hiroshima-style and the bankers and their political sycophants that aren't completely incinerated ground up into free hamburger meat to feed the poor.
Rome may not have been built in a day. But it was burnt in one and it's about time we lit that motherfucker up.
From American Apparel's "Black Flag Collection:
Leather, zip-front "mad-bomber" jacket: $399
Bolshevik-gold, woollen scarf: $49
Hair by Vidal Sassoon, Beirut.
The Age of Aquarius is over, kids. We gave peace a chance. It didn't work. As far as I'm concerned, what The Man needs now a good, hard, hate-fuck, and the best place to bend him over is in the streets, right in front of the Fox News cameras.
It's time to riot, bitches!
For those about to wreck, I salute you! Here are some playlist recommendations for your ipod.
The Dead Kennedys: "Riot"
Maybe the best song ever about the perks and pitfalls of going to battle with the man. Jello Biafra and company capture the giddy glee of hurling manhole covers through a Taco Bell window yet warn of the potentially futile clash with a better armed, better organized opponent. Watch out, kids. As Jello tells us, "Cops can riot all that they please."
Bob Marley: "Burnin' and Lootin'"
Bob usually sticks to preaching the love and praising Jah, but as he was well aware, sometimes even them belly full of Jamaican patties and a lungful of ganja smoke just doesn't fucking cut it, blood clot. I and I is hungry for meaningful political change... and a pair of Air Jordans, a bottle of Crown Royal, and a hella big plasma screen.
Blitz: "Someone's Gonna Die Tonight"
In any constructively destructive act, the forces of mookish thuggery need to be given a certain amount of leeway. And nothing gets a gang of ballcapped date-rapers to smash glass and light shit on fire quite like this ode to indiscriminate hooliganism by the British Hardcore band, Blitz.
N.W.A.: "Fuck Tha Police"
Not all cops are bad. Just most of them. Unfortunately, even the good ones are still the unwitting minions of the Dark Lord, Sauron and, as such, they're also likely to be the first of the nocturnal forces we clash with. And they'll have to be fucked.
Preferably in the ass with their heads down the porta-potty hole.
