The Contrarian

Flame On.

The internet is a curious place. I'm equally fascinated and repulsed by the reply comments I read at various sites, mainstream and otherwise. Depending on the temperament and medication intake of those who feel obliged to mark digital territory with their grammatically-challenged offal, such comments can either provide a chuckle or make one pray for a planetary collision with a colossal meteoric object.

[An aside: Godwin's Law states, "As a Usenet discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches one." I find this to be mostly irrefutable.]

I usually enjoy the comments on Idolator. This is because the readership is, by and large, comprised of snarky musical elitists, which means I'm in good company. Sometimes I go against my better judgment and chime in myself.

The other day, Idolator scribe Dan Gibson posted an out-of-the blue diatribe against The Doors. Now, I understand that for many, appreciating the band is merely an adolescent rite of passage. Others, like myself, revere them for the giant permission slip they gave to rock 'n' roll to indulge its lusty, metaphysical urges. (But if you don't find humor in the band's stylized nihilism, you're totally missing the point.) Some, including people I respect, absolutely abhor the group. This doesn't prevent me from occasionally rushing to their defense, especially when I've passed my productivity point at work. (You know, like now.)

So if you have some time to kill, you should check out this Idolator post and its attending comments. Not only did yours truly get firsties, I also managed to land a couple of zingers. If you make it through that thread, you might wanna read today's (somewhat) pro-Doors retort from Idolator's Anthony Miccio.

Or you could just skip the whole thing, and listen to this genius song from Bruce McCulloch of Kids in the Hall fame. I'm not asking here. This is an order.

In other news, my brilliant, beautiful wife and I are taking a long weekend in San Francisco in June. Well, one day will be work-related. But after that, we're gonna visit with Arthur and enjoy us some California dreamin.' Maybe we'll even have a Democratic nominee by then. We'll definitely have a house. Did I tell you we close on May 23 — my birthday?

Portishead.

Just a quick plug for my review of the new Portishead album, Third, which appears at Dusted today. I happen to think it's one of my finer pieces of criticism. Normally I wouldn't be so brazenly self-promotional, but here's the intro paragraph, to get you hooked (or to make you gag on gassy pretension):

The penultimate scene in James Whale’s classic horror film Bride of Frankenstein features the awakening of the Monster’s mate, played by the severe yet striking Elsa Lancaster. The Bride, with her shock of white hair and erratic yet sensual body language, embodies the jarring juxtaposition of the lamplight world against the blinding verisimilitude of the electric age. At their best, Portishead provides a musical corollary; vocalist Beth Gibbons’ piercing tenor betrays the anguish of an analog soul torn apart and reconstituted in a Frankenstein-like arrangement of ones and zeroes. The music, while beautiful, is often as herky-jerky as Lancaster’s reanimated woman — an awkward marriage of grace and grotesquery. This aesthetic is still present, albeit in muted form, on Portishead’s “comeback” record, Third. The album ditches the dramatic ballast of 1997’s Portishead, but a mood of expectant dread is present throughout. Wallowing in the band’s mottled music is as easy as ever, and in many ways, even more rewarding.

More later.  . .

Their Satanic Majesties Request.

So you're probably aware of the new Martin Scorsese concert movie about the Rolling Stones. It's playing in IMAX theaters here and there, which is great if you wanna see Keith Richards' wrinkles in Grand Canyon-esque proportions. I think I'll skip it.

I have no idea why I'm writing this particular post on this particular day. Sometimes you just gotta follow the whims of The Great Magnet. So please indulge my exegesis on the perpetually misunderstood Stones LP, Their Satanic Majesties Request.

Conventional wisdom holds that the Stones should never have attempted a psychedelic album. Conventional wisdom is partially right. Truly, Mick and co. had no business going lysergic, other than to escalate their pop-cultural Cold War with the Beatles. The Fab Four had just released Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, which was the psych-pop shot heard 'round the world. You think the Stones were just gonna roll over?

They probably should've. Provocative title and famously goofy album cover aside, most of of the record fails to capture the whimsical trippiness of the era, instead offering a hodgepodge of half-baked musical motifs and self-consciously fanciful lyrics. Sitars, tremolo and hard panning do not a great psych record make.

Which isn't to say there's not some interesting music on TSMR. "Citadel" is fairly groovy, but Jagger's paisley melodies just don't fit his musical personality. He's great as the sexually knowing über-cad, a guy with a forked tongue and designs on your daughter. Here, he just sounds silly. They should've sold this one to the Zombies, who know what to do with a trip-fop number.

Surely you've heard "2000 Man" in whatever Wes Anderson movie it appears in. I can't listen to it without thinking of the Butterscotch Stallion or Jason Schwartzman. And I've had enough of that, thank you.

I'm sure the failures of this record aren't for want of proper drug use. Maybe it was the wrong kind of drugs. Because only "Sing This All Together (See What Happens)" comes close to a proper outer-limits jam. 

"She's a Rainbow" features string arrangements by one John Paul Jones, who later anchored the low end for Led Zeppelin. His contributions don't make the tune any better.

But "The Lantern," with its shuddering guitars and spacey vocals, is excellent. Check it out for yourself. 

It's not like the Stones can't get psychedelic — it just needs to be part of the periphery, rather than front-and center. "Moonlight Mile," from 1971's near-perfect Sticky Fingers, shows what the band is capable of when they employ psychedelia in service of a solid song.

You can't really call Their Satanic Majesties Request  a complete failure — it inspired Brian Jonestown Massacre. I think that's a good thing. And dismal reaction to the album forced the Stones to focus on their real strengths— namely, hoary pop-rock with blues and country overtones.

End Transmission.

Self-Aggrandizing.

Two items in today's issue of Washington City Paper. First is my hotly anticipated (by my wife and the cats) review of the new Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds LP, Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!. Second is my micro-profile (or "One Track Mind," as WCP cleverly call it) of local band The Wayward.

On deck: a review of the long-awaited Portishead comeback for Dusted.

As you were.

Stressed.

Long, tough weird day. I was a little testy out of the gate, but I'm doing better now.

We might wait on the house. Things in our lives aren't perfectly stable at the moment, and buying a house requires a certain level of security. But we've got time. My only worry is that this particular property is gonna go, and we'll be left looking at shitholes. (Which make up the lion's share of properties in our price range.)

Links:

I wrote a review of Carla Bozulich's band Evangelista for Dusted. I think it's one of my better ones. I'm gonna try to catch her/them at SXSW.

Wrote a short little thingie for Washington City Paper about a local DC band called The Moderate. It's a weekly feature they have called "One Track Mind," where you get a close-up look at a tune from an up-and-coming act. On deck for WCP is a review of the new Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds record, Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!. Looking forward to that one.

Scored a little press for the organization in today's Pitchfork news. Just doin' my job.

Jeff Tweedy blogs for the New York Times about his migraines, depression and panic attacks, all of which he's conquered without pharmaceuticals. Way to be, Jeff. Wish I had that kind of fortitude.

I can't tell you how pissed I am at the brewing delegate battle, so I won't. I'm doing my best to avoid any political coverage, lest I blow a gasket. You know it's serious when Casa del Casey becomes a Chris Matthews-free zone.

See you tomorrow. I'm hoping it's a better day than this one was. . .

Our Turn.

Well, today's the big day — the Potomac Push, the Chesapeake Challenge, the D.C./Maryland/Virgina throwdown. I got up this morning, took a quick shower and scurried down the street to my conveniently located voting center and pressed the little screen for Obama. Damn, I feel good.

Our man O looks primed to sweep today's primary states, but Texas (and its large Latino population, who came out solid for Hillary Clinton in California) looms. But I think things are shaping up. I'm hoping Obama can seal the deal to take on the Angry Old Dude. If so, we'll be looking at Nixon-Kennedy all over again — age vs. youth, entrenched cynicism vs. inspired idealism, Celine Dion vs. Beyoncé. Should be awesome.

In other news, my Dengue Fever review is up at Dusted. This record is incredible. Buy it.

Criticism.

My review of Dead Meadow's Old Growth is in this week's issue of Washington City Paper. Another band I've historically been a fan of, another new album I didn't like so much.

The new one from The Apes (which I'm slated to write about for an another issue of WCP) is excellent, however. And I can't wait to sink my teeth into the upcoming Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds jam.

Matthew A. Stern has a thought-provoking notice of the latest Zs record in today's Dusted.

Thanks to everyone who I sent previews of my album to — your comments are much appreciated. The rest of you will be able to absorb its '70s guitar glory very soon, following a few minor mix/mastering tweaks.

Back later. . .

Farce Volta.

I reviewed the new Mars Volta album, The Bedlam in Goliath, over at Dusted. I wanted to like it, honest. I saw 'em live back before their debut full-length came out, and they rocked pretty hard. But their subsequent records are all flash and little substance.

Here's my best paragraph:

. . .and by God, the lyrics are terrible. “It’s only a matter of folding time and space before I become your epidemic,” Cedric Bixler Zavala sings on “Cavelettas.” Although Goliath is the first TMV release not to have a central theme, it was informed by a “haunting” involving a cursed Ouija board that Omar Lopez Rodriguez picked up in Jerusalem. I’m not about to taunt the supernatural, but it sounds like they were communicating with the ghost of a 14-year-old Dungeon Master with a thing for bad adjectives.

I think I've got a review of Dead Meadow's latest running in this week's Washington City Paper. I'll post a link when it goes live.

Giant Monster Saturday.

Just saw the monster-takes-Manhattan flick Cloverfield, which is an over-hyped, JJ Abrams-produced bit of fluff. Better than I anticipated, but still fairly silly. The shaky handheld cinematography made Brooke literally nauseous, but I got through it OK.

The rich-kid characters were annoying, but more realistic than a Sci-Fi Channel movie. Not that you really get to know them, or anything. It's all panicky reactions to *911 To The X-treme*-style devastation. I was surprised that the filmmakers actually went as far as to show crumbing skyscrapers and billowing debris tearing through city streets. It looked pretty familiar, if you know what I'm sayin.' And how could you not?

The creature design was quite good, actually. I'm glad they gave it a more humanoid shape, as opposed to the slug-lizard-insect monsters we so often see in these kind of films. I sensed a definite Lovecraftian inspiration, with a nod to Harryhausen and The Host. Of course, the Statue of Liberty head-in-the-street stuff was totally ripped off from John Carpenter's Escape From New York.

All in all, a bit of ridiculous fun. You know what else falls into that category? Eddie Murphy's ass-rap classic "Boogie in Your Butt." Step aside!

Embedded in Bed.

Me and my nurses.

Home sick, working on a press release and some policy documents. Tomorrow is a big writing deadline day. I need to bust out that King Crimson piece, as well as notices for Jesu and Dead Meadow.

Other music I'm slated to poop on write about:

Nordic Nomadic
Dengue Fever (yay!)
The Mars Volta (sheesh)
Dax Riggs
Susumu Yokota (yay!)

Some of you may have seen my review of Black Mountain, which ran over at Dusted today.

Looks like I'm going to SXSW this year. Should be. . . um. . . fun?

Washington Post recently published one of those cutesy pieces about candidates' theme songs. It's about how the lyrics are usually inappropriate or ill-considered for campaigns. Every major election cycle brings at least one of these articles. It's like the "historical Jesus" stuff that runs during the holidays.

CNET on Reznor/Radiohead: "musicians aren't merchants." Dude, tell that to Ian MacKaye.

Might go see Cloverfield, if I feel better. Reviews have been somewhat encouraging.

Cat's name might just be. . .  drumroll . . . Cornelius! "Corny" is just too good a nickname to pass up.