To experience: PJ Proby

One of the hottest jets to ever power out of Houston

May 15, 2008 Earworm

I was so unaware of country music throughout most of the 80's. The last time I had looked, Kenny Rogers was on an island with Dolly and Alabama were tossing out redneck make-out anthems and none of it seemed to sound much like country. It wasn't until the media got a case of the hysterics over Naomi Judd's hepatitis and subsequent retirement from The Judds that I was aware of their existence. Home from work one day because of a cold, I witnessed two over-sized drag queens - one bitch well known from the Baltimore days, the other bitch well known from Atlanta - on Sally Jesse (remember when that sort of thing was shocking)"performing" "Mama, He's Crazy" and I finally had a sound to put with the frenzy. Flipping through a stack of second hand cds a few weeks later, I found a copy of The Judd's greatest hits for $2.99 and thought "Why not?". A few days later, I went back for volume two.

Their are a lot of groaners in the catalog but when they were on, they were dead on, and the harmonies can not be denied even at their worst (and most condescendingly manipulative). But for every groaner ("Grandpa (Tell Me 'Bout The Good Old Days)" anyone) there is something as good, if not better, than "Why Not Me", the story of the girl left behind while her hearts desire wonders the world looking for the new. Lyrically, it's little more than another "the grass isn't always greener" story, but the delivery is so absolute in its charm that the listener can't help but think, "why not, indeed".

Another reason to love "Why Not Me" is the "yank" at a minute and a half in where Naomi jumps in for a bit harmony reinforcement. Oh, and for some reason, I find that it's the perfect tempo for vacuuming, and anything that makes that chore less tedious is worth it's wait in vinyl or plastic.

May 14, 2008 Earworm

It's hard to believe that it has been twenty-five years since This Mortal Coil shuffled onto this mortal coil, giving bedsit navel gazers a soundtrack for their silent seething, the goth crowd more atmosphere when applying eyeliner, and certain wise asses the opportunity to turn Tim Buckley's pretentiously awkward "touch me not, come back tomorrow" into the go-to phrase for dismissal. Hey, at least it wasn't "talk to the hand!"

"It'll End In Tears" gave those of us who cared a chance to hear The Cocteau Twins' Liz Frasier utter her first words and we all felt like proud parents and began to feel that there was hope for little Michael Stipe. Liz and Robin Guthrie took on "Song To The Siren" and made it their own, swathing it in filigree and shadow, and making dashed against the rocks heartbreak seem rather nice, thank you very much. For some, it's the definitive version and the perfect accompaniment for traveling on a "Lost Highway".

This Mortal Coil was the ultimate supergroup, a dressed in black Monkees, and a brilliantly diverse cover band that sneakily force fed a generation the esoteric treasures hidden in their parents record collection - jumpstarting (again) the catalog of Tim Buckley and Big Star when its more adventurous listeners began to read the writing credits. After the third album, "Blood", mastermind Ivor Watts-Russell promised that it would be the last and, for nineteen years, he's kept that promise. Meanwhile, kids like me keep finding ourselves occasionally lying on the floor in the dark, clutching our "limited edition" cd box to our chests having long ago traded in our vinyl copies, while realizing that those intermittent bouts of melancholy are normal after all and pondering the the new twist on worrying about our hair as vague traces of patchouli memories rise into the cloud of cigarette smoke above.

May 13, 2008 Earworm

Last night I dreamt Chuck Palahniuk loved me and you don't know (you don't know, you don't know) how glad Nancy Wilson is.

Maybe I should back up a bit...

On Monday morning I woke up with vague recollections of having a dream. This is not unusual for most people but for me, an avid melatonin fan, it is rare. The only dreams that I tend to remember are nightmares that can usually be analyzed right back to work worries because I recognize the snakes.

While the details were blurry, I could remember certain cast members in this dream; most of them un-loved, unnecessary, and unimportant. What was strikingly clear was the memory of Nancy Wilson's 1964 trip to the top twenty, "(You Don't Know) How Glad I Am", provided the soundtrack. A very classy affair where Nancy struggles to reach the right words to express what we're supposed to not know, "(You Don't Know) How Glad I Am" is burned into my being from repeated late night, after hours, listening when someone left the album at my apartment hundreds of years ago. It was beetlejuiced by repeated listens to volumes 1 through 4 of the "Early Girls" cds in preparation for the soon to be released volume 5. (Thanks, Ace!)

So, that takes care of Nancy for the moment. Now, onto Chuck...

Last night I dug into the latest issue of The Advocate and became engrossed in an interview with Mr. Palahniuk that took place in one of his favorite places,
the Portland Memorial Mausoleum. "I feel a comfort and absurdity and freedom that comes in the face of life. No mistake will last forever - all those bad or good choices you made, you'll still end up here.", said Chuck. "Hmmmm...", said I, and then tottered off to bed, not realizing that I was taking him with me.

In my dream he looked just like he did in that diner picture; the one where the beautifully pumped vein running down his beautifully pumped bicep told everything he'd not yet shared about himself with his public - the one that seemed designed to place him on a stool next to Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart, and James Dean, in some knocked off Hopper-ian vision of the pop culture hall of fame. He looked vaguely menacing yet in deep need of cuddling as he kept repeating various incantations of his Advocate quote interrupted by the occasional reminder of what I don't know. Eventually, I realized that he was in perfect sync with the jukebox playing Nancy Wilson. Suddenly, the bell on the door jangled and in walked Nancy, wearing the same red dress she was sporting on the album and I asked Chuck, "Is that a drag queen?" Chuck pulled the cigarette from my hand, inhaled deeply, and said, "It's your mistake, Buddy, make the best of it." I verified that there was no adam's apple and gratefully accepted one kiss on the cheek from him as Nancy kissed the other.

I woke up with the usual "WTF?" but you know what? You don't know how glad I am.