Schniffles the giant rabbit eventually got his message across – there was no way in hell he was buying a watch.
Archives for September 2005
Wednesday Wadio: The Doves’ ‘There Goes The Fear’.
“A seven-minute outburst of pure joy… I’m certain I will not hear a better song for the rest of the year. I dare any artist to top this one. It won’t happen. – PopMatters.com, 2002
I first heard There Goes the Fear whilst sitting on my couch and instant messaging with Moynihan. “You’ll love this song” he said. “NME voted it the single of the year , and you already like the Doves. So download it.” Not one to have my music spoonfed to me, I reluctantly obliged, fired up the long-irrelevant but once magnificent AudioGalaxy and sat alone in my living room waiting to be friggin’ gobsmacked by this remarkable song I’d heard so much about. I wasn’t.
“One of the bouncin-est seven-minute verse/chorus/verse brit-rock epics with a jungle-percussive outro Radio 1 has ever spun.” – Pitchfork
I listened to it a second time while writing an article for the website I was working for at the time. And then again while making dinner that same night. I wasn’t crazy, I decided – the song really wasn’t all that special and I filed it away mentally alongside all the Flaming Lips Mike’s been trying to get me to listen to for the past decade. But the next morning, as if possessed, I put it on as soon as I got up and probably listened to it 20 times that day. I wish I were joking. Who am I kidding? I still love it and am listening to it right now.
“A fantastic anthem where the excitement builds with each twist and turn before exploding with the chorus: ‘Think of me when you’re coming down, Dont look back when leaving town’. These lines reveal the album’s theme; admitting wrong and refusal to regret. Resolutely look to the future instead.” – BBC
Something miraculous happened in those 8 hours I was asleep – I ‘got it’. And for the next 3 years (and still counting) I would listen to the song at least once a day without fail. It’s been on 90% of the mixes I’ve made since that fateful moment, and I’ve continuously pushed the song on all of my music-loving friends like a crack dealer with an overdue Lexus payment. But what is it about the song that makes it so special to me I’m asking myself right now? How do I relay it originally without just pasting in a bunch of quotes? Um, like this gem, for example:
“Personally, I think the song’s about taking a big bag of Es and dancing elatedly and completely uninhibitedly through the night and next morning.” – DrownedInSound.com
If I had to pick a word to associate with it, that word would be ‘euphoric’. This song is Friday night. It’s driving long distances with your best friends. It’s the adrenaline rush of a jetski ride. It’s fuck off work and hello Newport. It Ebbs and flows with many different layers, details and influences. I can count triangles, a wa-wa pedal, cowbells – and some tribal insturment right at the end that sounds like a monkey being wanked-off – amongst the sounds buried in the mix. It shares the slow e-brake pause of a Pixies verse with the catchy sing-along chorus of a Celtic drinking song – all the while powered by a Brazilian rhythm so intricate that I can never accurately remember it for the purposes of air-drumming – even after literally thousands of listens.
I feel like I’ve pulled my pants down somewhat having now admitted my unhealthy obsession and unnatural love of this masterpiece. But if you’re nothing else after reading this, you’re very fucking curious. Have a listen on Radio Pye in the left-hand column. There Goes The Dave.
On Giving Your Seat Up On The T. On Donner. On Blitzen.
Rarely do I relinquish my seat on any form of Boston public transportation, with good reason. In a litigious, bleeding-heart stronghold like this – clean cut white males like myself run the risk of being called racist, sexist or ageist before their bum is even out of the seat. “What, you think that just because I’m an older, Latino woman that I’m lazy and need to sit down!?” “No ma’am, you just shat yourself.” No one really fouled themselves this morning, but I did have yet another attempt to be thoughtful and considerate to others swatted down and vilified by a patronizing ‘do-gooder’.
An older gentleman got on the train at Government center, and as he walked past my seat I noticed he was having a hard time navigating and holding on the the rail. I readjusted the laptop, coffee and gym bag I was burdened with and got ready to stand up and suggest he take my place. As I looked up towards him, a 20-something hipster chick with Buddy Holly glasses and an iPod was shooting me a look from across the car that couldn’t have been nastier if I’d just badmouthed Interpol. I ignored her and sat the very gracious old-timer down.
Chivalry is not dead. It’s doing 5-10 in Fulsom for choking someone to death with a Nano cord.
How To Ruin A Pop Career In 4 Easy Steps.
1. Marry a guy who’s only God-given ability is to wear hats that Sinatra would have referred to as “faggotty”. The guy in question should also have been previously married very unsuccessfully. This is key.
2. Make sure said spouse already has two kids from a previous marriage whom he never sees. Cause things will be different this time around, and the second time is always a charm. No wait… yes that’s right. The second time.
3. In the tradition of Posh Spice (Brooklyn) and Madonna (Lourdes), name said baby well before it is born and after a city you’ve been to once yet pretend to have a deep connection with. I have a bigger connection to London and can’t even fit into a half-shirt.
4. On the subject of half-shirts, since your career was basically founded on them, make sure that the eventual birth results in a cesarian section scar so enormous that Islamic fundamentalists begin to pray in front of it.
Yes, kids. My former imaginary girlfriend, Britney Spears, gave birth today. I’m not saying anything every other man, woman, child and dungbeetle on the planet isn’t also thinking today. When I moved back from England in 1999, Spears had just broken onto the scene and was poised to embark on a long and lucrative career. But she’s shat it away in a short year like an Arby’s roast beef sandwich which was eaten too fast and had horsie sauce all over it.
Even Madonna waited until she was 40 to pop out a sprog. You can be goddamn good and certain certain there was no need to give her a C-section. She could have easily given birth to a gas truck by that pont. She timed the pregnancy extremely well, though – as she’s happily married, pushing 50 and set for life with a long exciting career behind her. And at least one vagina.
But age 23? Kevin frigging Federline? Girl – you could have committed suicide. You could have been killed by overzealous paparazzi. You could have overdosed. Britney – I’m very disappointed in you. Because you see, Brit and I have this little arrangement. I provide her with wisdom and guidance – and in return she doesn’t know who the hell I am.
The Big Haunt 2: Gettin’ Scary In The Suburbs.
“Just when I think I’m out – they pull me back in“. – Michael Corleone.
I wasn’t going to try and duplicate the naughty nightmare that was last Halloween’s The Big Haunt, but the people have spoken and we’re going to do it all over again. The people have also requested a change of venue, and an offer just fell into my lap. I believe they call this sort of coincidence a harmonic convergence or something. For the sake of my karma and chi, BH2K5 is officially a GO! And this year – it’s taking place in a real live haunted house!
In addition to the genuinely spooky suburban fall atmosphere, there will be a DJ, food, booze, prizes and games. There will be plenty of non-alcoholic options for the designated drivers, and plenty of places to sleep for those who think that designated drivers are for pussies. We haven’t worked out exactly what the costs to you are going to be, but they will be well within reason and certainly worth the short drive to Concord.
Will the Victoria’s Secret angel and the rest of the Canadians return? Will the gay biker drop in to beat the frig out of another kid in the living room? Will I actually spend more than 10 minutes on my costume? I don’t know – but I promise it’s going to be fucking legendary. I also promise not to drink an entire bottle of pucker and crap myself. Stay tuned for the Evite tonight, and keep Saturday, October 29th open for the Haunt. This is going to be one for the ages/Concord PD.
The Doves At Avalon In Boston.
For a Monday, last night was especially fun, silly, sonic and special. I can finally scratch ‘see The Doves play There Goes The Fear live‘ off the list of things I have to do before I die. Now if I can only get around to ‘sleep with a woman without paying her’ and ‘break into FBI headquarters and destroy a certain batch of DNA evidence’ – I’ll be able to shuffle off this mortal coil once and for all. Or at least live out the rest of my days knowing there’s no way I’ll ever be tied to that mouthy, missing stripper. I’ve said too much already.
Dead sex industry workers aside, this is an amazingly talented band from Manchester England who are quite huge over in the UK. To see them at Avalon was a treat, as they play venues 10 times the size across the pond. When Jimmi walked out on stage, after a great opening set by Longwave, he made a remark about feeling like the ‘house band’. After they got over themselves, they put on a long, amazing show which J-Rock, P-Cips, Yuki and myself fully dug. Check out the associated gallery here, and look for my full explication of ‘Fear’ tomorrow on Wednesday Wadio.
Monday’s Quotelet: Teats, Rhymes And Life.
Inspired by the success of Hanson and Another Bad Creation, music execs began to seek younger and younger new talent. “Bitch, Get Out Mah Crib” by The Titty Twisters drops September 27th.
Friday’s Quizzlet: Many Monkey References.
Appetizer: Who is the easiest person for you to talk to?
Probably my Grandmother, because she never remembers a word. I could tell her the house has been surrounded by killer purple space monkeys bent on the domination of Earth, and 5 minutes later she’d be making me a grilled cheese.
Soup: If you could live in any ancient city, which would you choose?
Based on all the filthy, deviant sex portrayed on the new HBO series, Rome – uh, Rome. Friends, Romans, countrymen – show me your titties.
Salad: What is the most exciting event you’ve ever witnessed?
I saw a woman get fatally hit by a car in the old Combat Zone around 1989. What I was doing in the Zone at 14 years of age is anybody’s guess. But if you were to guess ‘procuring a fake ID’ you’d be correct. I was also at the Triumph the Insult Comic Dog DVD taping, and will probably be all over the new live Pixies DVD. Anyone who knows me is well aware of my vast library of stories. On a related note, stay tuned for the re-launch of my old “30 Tall Tales” feature. In the meantime you can read about Evil Inka and the Attack of the Spider Monkeys.
Main Course: If you were a celebrity, what would you do for a publicity stunt?
I’d grow a goatee, don some aviators and travel around New Orleans in a rickety boat – in 2 feet of water. I’d also make sure the boat was crammed with my entourage, including a photographer who would capture my impromptu selfless deeds for prosperity. There’d be so many people on board, casually documenting my narcissistic rescue efforts, that the boat would eventually sink – leaving me to look quite the soaking wet twat. Oh darn – someone beat me to it.
Dessert: What do you consider the ideal age to have a first child?
My parents had me when they were both 33, so I am using that as my benchmark. Which means I have exactly a year and a half to find my baby’s momma. Is that enough time to fall in love, copulate, spawn, fight and have a restraining order filed? I think yes.
Have You Seen The Size Of That Boy’s Heeeed?
There was a parcel on my desk when I got into the office this morning, and I eagerly tore into it knowing full well what it contained. Last week I decided I was in desperate need of a baseball cap, and after being upsold during the checkout process on lids.com I ended up with a blue Maple Leafs and red Canadiens cap. And they’re beautiful. And they’re XL. And they couldn’t be smaller and more ill-fitting around my ginormous skonz if I were Willie Mackenzie himself.
When football season started at Vermont Academy, even though I was a starter I had to go through hell week helmetless – because a large one had to be special ordered for me (private school). The year before at CCHS, I had to make do by jamming my head into the only helmet that came close. This left my chin fully exposed and subsequently got me knocked unconscious by Jodice during the WestPoint drill one day at practice (public school). So this sort of hardship is nothing new. But somehow, as I looked at the XL on the sizing chart last week, I figured I’d be OK – and momentarily forgot that if I’d been in Louisiana last week near one of the broken levees, I probably could have saved thousands of lives by simply nodding a few times.
I’ll send them back and get a refund. There’s a 30 day guarantee. In the meantime, I shall remain hatless – and will also try to block out the time I went up to my roofdeck for a smoke and it was mistaken by scientists around the world as a lunar eclipse. I’m here all weekend. Tip your waitress.
Wednesday Wadio: The Smiths’ Bigmouth Strikes Again.
“Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said, I’d like to mash every tooth In your head.” – The Smiths – Bigmouth Strikes Again
Where to begin. As far as I’m concerned, 1986’s The Queen Is Dead was the pinnacle of The Smiths‘ short lifespan. And I’m not alone: It regularly tops various ‘all time best’ charts with the likes of the Beatles, Elvis Presley or David Bowie. Everything the band is known and loved for – angst, humour, politics, wit – is best represented on this album. The first Smiths tape I ever heard in its entirety was Meat is Murder, which was given to me by Nick Allard in the parking lot of LPSS in 1987 (This was also the very first CD I ever bought) – but quickly transfixed by this strange Manchester outfit, I soon had all 4 of the proper albums and ‘The Queen’ strode to the front of the pack as my fast favorite.
Bigmouth Strikes Again is the first song on this album that will really grab you by the throat, but eventually I ended up preferring the title track. Still, Bigmouth is a great introduction to the band, and I don’t want Radio Pye to get too obscure. Truth be told, if I had to pick my favorite Smiths song, it would be a toss-up between The Headmaster Ritual and You Just Haven’t Earned It Yet, Baby. Truth be told, Morrissey would also probably prefer to grab you by the cock.
A was going to write a quick explication of the song, but surprisingly found a great one it’d be hard to top: A bombastic single with a powerful performance from Marr and a biting vocal. A speeded-up Morrissey occasionally accompanies the vocal proper, giving an eerie effect (this is credited to Ann Coates in the “The Queen Is Dead” sleeve, a pun on an area of Manchester). I’ve found that most people new to The Smiths initially pick this track as favourite, whereas later it tends to grate a little bit. Morrissey marries the old with the new in these lyrics, mentioning Joan of Arc’s Walkman, seeming to imply that the situation under discussion (i.e. the protagonist saying very much the wrong thing, like his thoughts of angered violence) has been going on forever and will go on forever. Of course, he is pointing out a similarity between him and Joan of Arc rather melodramatically, lending a quite comical tone to what could have been an empty vessel. Painting Joan of Arc’s talk of God’s communications as something that “just slipped out” is in stark contrast to his harsh sentence upon himself “I’ve got no right to take my place with the Human race”. The sleeve lyrics to this song provide one example of Morrissey’s Wildean propensity to capitalise nouns such as Human and Love.
If that wordy and pretentious take made any sense to you whatsoever, you desperately need to spend some time with the Smiths. If not – I think Motley Crue is coming back to the Worcester Centrum in November.
Bob Denver – The Reluctant Icon.
Bob Denver died today, and to say his time was up would be somewhat of an understatement. Earlier this year Bob underwent quadruple heart bypass surgery – and he has been battling cancer for ages. He eventually warmed up to the fact he’d be eternally Gilligan, and was harder to kill than an African cockroach. I’m glad he stuck around as long as he did – as he always made me smile.
“It was the mid-’70s when I realized it wasn’t going off the air,” Denver told The Associated Press in 2001, noting then that he enjoyed checking eBay each day to keep up on the prices “Gilligan’s Island” memorabilia were fetching.
Bon voyage, little buddy. And I’m sure it’s no shock that I’d easily pay upwards of $100 for a coconut radio. And by coconut radio, I of course mean Tina Louise’s bamboo gusset.
Monday’s Quotelet: Southern Shrinkage.
Fats Domino was a bit shrivelled after 27 straight hours in the water, but is currently receiving treatment at an emergency shelter near Biloxi.
Schnauser-Sitting In The Sun.
Royce and Bentley are a little hairy handful. Janet, Josh and I are over at our neighbor’s house today babysitting puppies. But they have jetskis (the neighbors – not the puppies). So the pooches are being sat upon in shifts, while the relief sitters rip around the Rideau on Sea-Doo GTIs. It’s a swell trade off. Swell.
This is our last trip up to Portland this summer, and although I frequently write about how exchausting it has all been, I will miss it. The rental units move back down to Florida for the winter in October, and I’ll be Canadaless until Christmas. No more poutine, no more creullers, no more campfires.
Luckily, I have enough Horton’s in my Boston kitchen cabinet to choke a moose.
Friday’s Quizzlet: The Big Greasy.
Here is the message I found when I went to grab the Quizzlet questions this morning from my usual source: Please take the time you usually spend on your Feast to reflect upon your blessings and pray for the victims of Hurricane Katrina.
Is it wrong that I’m aroused by that scenario?
It’s hard to wax humorous in the midst of an anarchic natural disaster like Katrina. Here are some of my favorite headlines from the last several days. I have been watching the events unfold with an unhealthy persistence:
– How the hell do you lose Fats Domino?
– 2 women were given C-sections by doctors who had no water to wash their hands before or after the surgeries. I’m pretty sure neither of the babies will be named Katrina. Shaniqua, maybe.
– Normally, this is called Mardi Gras I thought.
– Patients are dying in droves because all of the hospital’s life support machines are off (there’s no power) but luckily there’s a sniper across the street to help speed up the process. Headshots are cheaper than healthcare.
– Fats! We were worried sick. Aaron Neville’s mole was also airlifted to safety.
Now that I’m officially going to hell, please donate $20. They make it really easy. I am seriously wearing the T-shirt I bought at Pat O’Brien’s today as an additional sign of inappropriate solidarity. Katrina is a filthy whoore. Hang in there people. Help is on the way.
The Creativity Vampires Lurk.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a day more devoid of creative thought than I did on this Thursday the first of September, in the year of our lord 2005. So I’ll do what I’ve set out never to do – and write about not being able to think of anything good to write about. I’ve thought plenty today about my job, my coworkers, my clients, my new roomate – but not once about this website or it’s beloved readership. Not once about dead hookers or the many associated jokes. And for that, I apologize. But I’m glad to see I still have some sense of priority in my life. And a job.
A gift has been bestowed upon me, methinks. And that gift is the ability to keep ‘er going, copy-wise. I can write about anything and make it somewhat funny and interesting. But today I feel like I’m on some sort of brainwave blocking medication. I got a ton done at work – one of the most productive days in a while. But I feel like I’ve been lobotomized. Instead of wasting time running around like a smacked arse, I got a little work done today. So please forgive me – this doesn’t happen often.