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LIVING LIKE BURT REYNOLDS ON A
MAC DAVIS INCOME
OR
GUESS THE CORRECT AMOUNT OF SELF DEPRECATING COMMENTS
MADE IN THIS COLUMN AND WIN A DREAM DATE WITH PORN STAR
BELLA DONNA!!!
by Tony Rettman
Ya know,
winter always sends me into this sorta emotional hibernation.
Thoughts and words dry up like Bea Arthur's bones. Records
become mere background fodder. Aural wallpaper just there
to distract me from paying bills, growing up and getting
a life. I drift in and out of sleep so much these days that
everything is like one, long foggy motion. My apartment
is just one huge pile of records, dishes, magazines, bills,
etc. It gets so bad that I no longer think about doing anything,
I think about thinking to get it done later. Truly pathetic
shit. In my groggy state, I'm assured everything will get
done in time. Such as this column. Hence why I'm smacking
this thing out as Dolman virtually chews me out via the
electronic mail.
There's been a handful
of items that have broke me from my stupor enough to blast
the wax from my ears and take notice. Now, before we get
started, I ain't claiming to being the knowingest cat in
the world. I likes what I likes and dat's dat. But I guess
taking time out of my busy schedule of staring into space,
watching re-runs of 'The Steve Harvey Show', masturbating,
and generally feeling sorry for myself MUST say something
for my credentials, right??
It's
been awhile since we've heard a pweep out of The
No Neck Blues Band. This time around we have ourselves
a 'bootleg' LP done up like the old 'TMOQ'
boots from the 70's that's entitled 'Re:"Mr. A Fan"'.
Where previous NNCK releases certainly weren't the kind
of thing you'd throw on at your next dinner party, they
did have a certain flow that made them THEE finest non
bumpy drug taking records of the 90s. In sticking with the
true bootleg aesthetic of presenting an outtakes/odds 'n'
sods grab bag of selections, it seems a rather erratic batch
of jams were picked for this one. All four tracks stick
out from one another like beautiful, freshly hammered thumbs,
making this quite possibly the most bewildering NNCK release
I've heard yet.
The first track starts
off sounding like Greg Ginn practicing solo while a Can
practice tape plays quietly in the background. In typical
NNCK fashion, the jam confidently delaminates and shoots
off in a million directions, eventually settling into a
rough, uphill rumble. The second track is the strangest
egg in the nest. I mean, CHRIST! IT JANGLES! Certainly the
most un-
NNCK thing you or they could do, making it the winner in
the lot. Side two contains 2 more cuts. One is an almost
side-long meander that showcases how former NNCK vocalist
J.F. Ryan could have been a storytelling Robert Plant (minus
the high pitch and the eight ball down the front of the
pants) in some fucked up universe. The closer is barely
a snippet of a quiet-ass jam that sounds like the air blowing
over the first Glastonbury Fayre. In the words of Mrs. Joyce
Jammer -- 'How Free!'. This record is available in a wide
variety of sizes and colors from www.yod.com.
If you're a loser (just like me) you might remember me foaming
at the goddamned mouth and dedicating a whole column to
the first two volumes of Killed By Hardcore.
This series of bootleg compilations showcases the dustiest,
dirtiest and most obscure Hardcore tracks from the early
80s. The recently released third volume is just as pleasing
as its predecessors and makes me wanna do The Lawnmower,
The H.B. Strut and The Pizza Pie Maker all at once. The
highlights on here are plenty (at least by my standards),
so to spare the risk of coming off as obsessive as I did
last time around, I will give you an abridged version of
the goodies.
Italy's Negiazone were
known to me back in the day as bloodthirsty thrashers, but
the track presented here makes them come off like crazed
No Wavers doing their version of Ike and Tina's 'Funkier
Than A Mosquito's
Tweeter'. Finland represents something fierce here with
Rutto, Pyhakoulu and Appendix. All three tracks have horrible
recordings, undecipherable vocals and last as long as your
last orgasm. Perfect! Don't forget old favorites by No Thanks
(doing their classic anthem 'Fuck Everything'), Deep Wound
(celebrity appearance), The Worst (expect a CD retrospective
on them soon, by
the by), and the o.g. version of Die Kruezen's 'In School'
which still makes me want to 'punch the face out' of 'fucking
hippies and fucking jocks.' (Their words, not mine.) Wrap
it up in a cover that'll get you an honorary membership
in the Catholic religion and you gotta winner -- I wait
like a muther for more editions....
On
the same tipinski as the KBHC comps, I got a pretty decent
HC rag in the mail recently entitled Destroy What
Bores You. Although I have to admit to being completely
lost when he writes about the new HC stuff, editor David
Hyde has a passionate grasp on all genres of rebellious
raunchy sounds and it bleeds off the xeroxed pages of this
rag. The interview with Carl Snow, founding member of the
scorching early 80s HC band Koro, is mindbogglingly informative
and should give a chumbster to all you obsessive, dateless
Punk collectors. Try to grab one from fightordie@hotmail.com.
Those
nice, nice people at Detour Records over
in Blighty have been doing no wrong up until now. They're
always re-issuing great mod bands from the late 70s/
early 80s and doing a fine job. I know, not as cool as re-issuing
obscure No Wave bands that existed for a week and a half,
but what can you do? This time around though, I gotta throw
up my flabby arms and give a 'What the Fuck?' at their latest
release. The Time U.K. were a lousy band started by Rick
Buckler of The Jam right after his drumming duties came
to a standstill with that band in '83. They released a couple
of crappy singles that didn't even get a rise out of the
Anglo sucklers who worked the counter at the local Listening
Booth in my town back then. Time has not added any charm
or worth to this stuff. The vocalist makes a horrid attempt
at sounding like a third rate Paul Weller (at least Rick
knew what field his cow should graze in) and the production
sticks with that sickly sweet style that so many U.K. boys
with pretty hair and white framed sunglasses loved at the
time. The kinda sound that would make Lemmy tongue kiss
Andrew Ridgely. If I find out another volume of their highly
fucking excellent 'Bored Teenagers' compilations was shelved
to release this, I'll go on a hunger strike! Budweiser and
Fritos and nothing else! I ain't kidding! www.detour-records.co.uk.
My
brother once regaled me in a tale from his younger days
about a pal of his who used to grow his own. Like most home
growers, he had different grades of
his green, but he had one he simply called 'End Of The Day'.
The obvious reason for this was because no matter what time
you inhaled the stuff, all chores and errands became distant
memories as you settled in to contemplate the lazy joy of
it all.
This
latest one from The Anomoanon (entitled
'Asleep Many Years In The Wood') kinda gives me that same
feeling. Every time I listen to it (and I do listen
to it quite a bit) it seems I find myself stretching out
on the futon by the third track. I just gotta remember to
go grocery shopping before indulging next time. Some people
have dismissed this band due to the very similar
vocal styles between Ned (front style vocalist for this
combo) and his brother Will Oldham. To this I say, well...
um...THEY'RE BROTHERS YOU IDJITS! Obviously these people
are some kinda fascist assholes who don't believe in the
'A song is a song is a song and if it does it's job, fuck
it' philosophy. The gentle warble of Ned's voice is a sweet,
sweet thing wrapped around the somber proceedings and makes
me wish I had a third shoulder to cry on. I know from now
on I will have my eyes cast on all these boys do. And should
you do the same? Yeah! Sure! Why Not? www.temporaryresidence.com
You
might have seen copies of Arthur magazine
lurking in the corners of your local record shoppe and wondered
just what the shit it was. What it be is (get a load of
this) a free nationally distributed periodical dealing with
all forms of culture the standard reader/lover of Blastitude
would eat up like a bowl of Corn Chex. Reading this statement
on screen must seem downright
retarded and too-good-to-be-true to you, but once you get
on the bus and dig in, you'll get what I mean. Two issues
have creepy crawled their way across our fair land thus
far and I can't help but feel tickled over the thought.
Highlights of the past two issues include a piss-releasing
advice column with Neil Hamburger, an excerpt from the novel
of my eighth grade idol Mat Hoffman, Joe Carducci telling
everyone what the fuck is up, a beautiful loserific story
about Texas based filmmaker Eagle Pennell, Steve Aylett's
appreciation of Pulp novelist Jeff Lint, a collection of
Charles Brittin's photography, and a heartfelt eulogy delivered
to Jam Master Jay by Pete Relic. The centerpiece to it all
for a dorkus malorkus like me is 'Bull Tongue', a column
written by 'lifers' Thurston Moore and Byron Coley that
extends the 'Underground' column Byron did (about) fifteen
years ago in the pages of 'Spin' to the level it should
be at. I pray to whatever diety that'll hear me that this
mag will continue for as long as you and I will run. It's
been awhile since I've held something tangible in my hands
from the present day that's made the hairs stand up on my
acne-flecked back this much.
If the local cool jernt in your area don't carry Arthur,
get in touch with them at distro@arthurmag.com.
What's
a dude to do when the winged one is talking mad shit about
the bands you love so much? In the past two months, Julian
Cope has given more than needed accolades to both Comets
on Fire and The Sunburned Hand of the Man
on his
website and it's making me wonder if I'm as 'underground'
as I think I am or if Julian is
hipper than I think. None the freaking less, The Sunburned
Hand of the Man have finally made their way to the vinyl
format they love so much, so let's celebrate. After a clutch
of very fucking heavy CDR-only releases last year, SBHOTM
have released 'Headdress' on the Records imprint. Where
the CDRs seemed to contain the elements of the overdriving
release I gush over in
SBHOTM's live sets (Jack Bruce sitting in with second line-up
Traffic) this LP seems to be a slow pulling of fibers. The
jams seem to hang and tease, but the moments when they truly
blossom (like that first track on the second side) make
me wish I kept a little more weed around the house. The
combo of Maloney's shamism, Orleans' beyond-scorching guitar,
and Jackie's bass work is something that makes the concept
of non-ironic 'jam rock' seem as real as the computer screen
that you stare at right now. (Hah! gotcha!) These guys could
keep putting out records 'til I become a millionaire (i.e.
sometime never) and I'll be happy as a crud-loving crud
lover. www.surefiredistribution.com.
 
Anyone
who's traipsed around their basement in an ascot owes something
to Lee Mallory. Besides writing a bulk
of material for The Association, he was pretty much the
centerpiece of Curt Boettcher's Psych-Pop studio supergroup,
The Millennium. Someone real regal at The Rev-Ola division
of Cherry Red has unearthed some solo tapes from the man
and thrown them together in a package they call 'That's
The Way It's Gonna Be'. The bulk of the material is Boettcher-produced
and surprisingly shows A BIT (we're not talking German Oak
here, but, you know) more gravel and grit than his usual
work. There are some portions where Mallory's git really
gets to sing a song that gets me weeping like a li'l bitch,
but that's just sometimes, I swear. None the less, his
version of 'Wild Mountain Thyme' will get even the most
ardent Whitehouse fan weeping on their latest copy of 'Nudist
Annual' . One of the tracks that appear later on the disc
(for some reason, no studio dates for them seem to appear
in the liner notes) has a real weird early 70s' cock rocking
quality to it that makes me wonder what this guy could done
if he continued. Would he
have given Paul Rodgers a run for his money? Let's just
hope so....For now, go to www.cherryred.co.uk.
THIS
JUST IN
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