You Pull The Trigger of My....

Been having a little trouble carving out the time to do any actual writing these days, but I've stumbled over some pretty awesome gems the past few weeks. This one comes to you courtesy of The Metal Inquisition - a blog that is vastly superior to mine, even if it does happened to be more starved of content of late. Enjoy.

You can file this under "Thanks For Making My Weekend Totally Fucking Awesome":

You're Invitied But Your Friend Can't Come

Good God, Vince Neil, you're a fucking jackass.

Still Looking for Someone Who Was Around

As we approach the one year anniversary of his death, MetalUnderground reports that it will be releasing a Peter Steele tribute album. According to the site:

"To honor Peter’s memory on the anniversary of his passing, and lead a new generation of metalheads to his music, heavy metal news site Metalunderground.com has teamed up with a dozen underground bands from across the globe to release an exclusive tribute album. The tribute, entitled “All For None, None For All: A Tribute to Peter Steele," was done in collaboration with Dan Mitchell of Beneath The Woods Studio and features twelve stellar cover songs from many stages of Peter’s career in both Type O Negative and Carnivore."

I've posted quite a bit here about my admiration for Steele's music. If you could get past all of the dumb-guy-from-Brooklyn humor, the sex god nonsense and the very pre-Twilight-era vampire fetishism, I was always convinced that there was a ridiculously talented songwriter within the guy.

And, as I have written elsewhere on this blog, tracks like "Love You To Death" and "Haunted" have always seemed so beautiful to me that they almost didn't count as metal (a feeling I first experienced the first time I ever heard the middle section of "Orion" -- or, much more to the point now that I think of it, the intro to "Damage, Inc." -- as a young teenager....and that's some excellent songwriting company).

But all of that said, I'm always a little wary of tribute albums. I own a lot of them, and they're often just shy of worthless. The exceptions tend to be when the interpretations show some real ambition. And in order to inspire that, it generally helps if the source materials has a depth of arrangement to it.

So, that's why I'm relatively eager to give this one a try. If Steele and Josh Silver could do one thing, it was typically to put a worthwhile arrangement on a song. Plus, the one cover I've ever heard of them (via Boston shoegazers, The Constants) was generally very satisfying.

So, check it out. I have to admit that I don't know a single band on this list, and that's a good thing. I'm kind of looking forward to this.

What we need is awareness, we can't get careless

No time for a real post tonight, so I'm just going to point you to an exceptional article from the New York Times this week, about the legendary Clyde Stubblefield's crusade for royalties for the countless hits on which he's been sampled over the years.

(try and diagram that sentence for me, will you?)

Now, if you're looking for me to write a post that attempts to invalidate hip-hop as an art form for its frequent reliance on sampling, you've come to the wrong place. I think sampling can be pretty fucking artistic, in fact. And, no, I'm not talking about that garbage Puff Daddy was doing ten years ago.

I'm talking about my roommate and I -- both suburban white kids -- staring at each other in the living room of our college apartment upon our first listen to "The Chronic" and "The Predator", wondering where the hell Dre and Ice Cube had dug up those ridiculously obscure (...to us) hooks and horn lines.

I'm talking about realizing for the first time that the fanfare introducing "Jump Around" was lifted off of "Harlem Shuffle".

I'm talking about the fact that I intimately know every single funky-ass drum fill to "Bust A Move", but don't actually know the first line to the song.

At root, I'm talking about the exuberance of being turned on to totally new music when a familiar artist delivers it to you in a new package. Ultimately, that is the beauty of sampling.

Some are apt to discredit Stubblefield because, well......because he's a drummer. And drummers rarely get songwriting credits. Hell, you ask even the mighty Hal Blaine how much he got paid for doing the tracks for "I've Got You Babe" or "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" or "Help Me, Rhonda" or "Age of Aquarius", and I'm willing to bet you the bottle of Guinness in front of me that he received not much more than his day rate.

But things should be different for rap and hip hop. Because unlike rock and roll with all its pretty guitar players, hip-hop has few - if any at all - of the distractions that prevent the listener from recognizing the core essence of this music is about the beat and how the MC's meter works around it.

Anyway, by now you know where I stand: when one artist has constructed such an overwhelming number of those beats, it's just plain wrong for him not to receive a writing credit or royalty or some sort of formal recognition for being the source artist (...and heaven forbid that the estate of James Brown lays some claim to any available cash, because God knows that bastard loved nothing more than docking his musician's pay).

Ok.....I think I was going to try and keep it short tonight, and now that I've brought up my feelings about James Brown, this post is absolutely on the verge of unraveling. Next thing you know I'll be on that asshole, Ray Charles.

Give the article a read and weigh in.

So Please Don't Ask Me Why I Love You.....

So.... Blabbermouth is reporting that Poison and Motley Crue are touring together. And this has the seventy or so remaining fans of 80's hair bands in a gigantic uproar, presumably because Poison are "poseurs" and the Crue are "rock".

Or something like that.

I couldn't really care less. I've seen the Crue twice, and I admit it was an awful lot of fun both times. But those guys are charades of the hedonists who wrote "Looks that Kill" and "Live Wire" thirty fucking years ago, and the more they try to flex their muscles and reclaim any credibility associated with that era, the sadder it makes me.

I'm relieved to say that I never saw Poison live, but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like the majority of their singles. (What can you say? Most of their catalog is straight off the pages of the Cheap Trick songbook, and that formula happens to work.).

I am bummed, however, to learn that the New York Dolls are touring with them. I shouldn't be, but I am.

The Dolls are something special for me. My introduction to the band by way of a roommate happened to coincide with the era at which I began to play in a band of my own, and when I finally was beginning to embrace punk rock. I was already a devotee of the Rolling Stones and I had gone though a hair metal phase, so they were, in so many respects, a missing link for my musical tastes.

There were nights and nights and nights my musician friends and I lost in the living room of our dilapidated old Maryland farmhouse, jamming to "Trash" and "Personality Crisis" and "Give Him a Great Big Kiss" (the last of which I danced to with my godmother at my wedding this past weekend). These are some of my happiest memories.

During that same era, I picked up a copy of Johnny Thunders' stunningly tender "Hurt Me" album, a CD that provided much of the soundtrack to a terribly sad period of time that I was entering into just about ten years ago. As much of a gem as I find that disc to be, I can't say that I listen to it very often anymore. I guess that it just dregs up too many sad memories - particularly the title track, which just breaks my heart to this day.

So, yes, the Dolls are special to me.

I admit that I was cynical to their decision to re-form so many years after Jerry Nolan and Mr. Thunders had passed away - although less so after viewing the marvelous "New York Doll" documentary, which chronicles this reunion through the delicate eyes of Arthur Kane.

I also admit that I had a doubly-sour taste in my mouth when I learned that the band would continue the touring even after Mr. Kane himself passed away shortly after the reunion. (Yet, this somehow did not dissuade me from seeing the band with this new line-up not once, but twice. I guess I'm selfish like that.)

But touring with the Crue and Poison is just the goofiest goddamned thing I can think of. As bad-ass as Motley Crue may have seemed to me when I was all of 11 years old, I'm not sure they were ever as threatening as the transvestites adorning the Doll's first album - appearing so deviant, and bored and truly subversive. The Crue looked like characters from a movie; the Dolls looked like real, live sex workers. Touring with those guys, at any age, would seem to be a diminishment of that highly-effective image.

Poison, meanwhile, launched their entire careers off of a debut single which was, for all intents and purposes, "Personality Crisis", and (to the best of my knowledge) they never bothered to give the Dolls props for it. For that reason alone, I completely shun Poison and this tour.

But what this really proves is that at the end of the day, none of them are any better than the others. Punk is no more noble than metal. Metal is no more noble than hard rock. Hard rock is no more noble than glam.

They're all pretty much the same. In the words of fellow New York punks, the Dictators:

"What's it all about? Pussy and money.
I'm not trying to be cute, I'm not trying to be funny
Everybody lies about pussy and money
It's always going to be that way."

Once Upon A Time I Thought That I Was Cool (But I Don't Want to Brag)

Nearly fifteen years ago, I was routinely doing some dumb ass things. Things that I may not be technically "ashamed of", but I'm sure not proud of them, either. I guess that the most appropriate term would be "embarrassed". I am embarrassed my actions at that time.

And there is probably nothing that I am more embarrassed by than my former drug use.

Now, I'm not talking about the good stuff. Not the illicit substances smuggled across borders and sold on street corners.

I'm talking about the sad ass trucker speed cocktails I typically would procure at convenience stores. Boxes of asthma medication, stay-awake stimulants and various weight loss supplements that I'd heard would get me buzzing through my weekends.....never you mind that I was already naturally thin as a reed, and generally wound up tighter than your cousin's skinny jeans. Speed was not at all what I needed in my life.

It was a short period.....six months, max. I received no real benefit from the experience, and I have to admit that I course-corrected fairly promptly (though - in the spirit of full transparency - not until after I mixed Pimatine and Miller Lite one evening, only to lose control of my car on a back country road and drive myself into a speed limit sign that was well clear of where any car should have been).

It's all so embarrassing in retrospect. I had all of these aspirations of being a rock star or a scenester or a local celebrity of some sort....which is so painful to admit now that I'm in my late-30's and too tired for angst. But its the incorporation of fake drugs that really takes the cake.

How foolish. How unnecessary. How insecure. How much more desperate for an image could I have been?

I am still so embarrassed about it all.

************

And this leads me to Steven Tyler.

Now, this isn't about Tyler's decision to be a judge on American Idol. Because, frankly, by this point in time I don't really know how anyone on earth could feign shock or disappointment at Steven Tyler compromising his rock and roll cred. ("Rocks" was awesome and all.....)

I'm talking about an appearance Mr. Tyler made on Letterman last week, in which admitted that the circumstances of his erratic behavior last year were the result of drug use.

"Drug use?" I mused, as I lay on the couch. "This could be good."

What followed was, indeed, shocking: Mr. Tyler formally admitted that his famous Sturgis flop off the stage was the result of ..... wait for it.... Lunesta.

And not just taking Lunesta pills, but snorting them.

*****

Now, allow me to be perfectly clear about one thing: I'm not proud of my failed attempts to become the Brian Jones of the Cough and Cold Aisle back in the day.

But I sure as hell know that if I had an army or roadies, employees and record company enablers at my disposal, I would have made it a point to step it up well past the pharmacy aisle and gotten something a little more worth wrecking my career over.

(As opposed to wrecking my car. Naturally.).

But that's just me. I was hopelessly insecure and desperate for validation, and doing ridiculous things each and every day so that people would continue to pay attention to me.

I doubt that Steven Tyler would know anything about that, would he?

The Greatest Closing Track of All Time

A few months ago, NPR's "All Songs Considered" blog did an entry asking readers to tell them what they thought the greatest closing tracks of all time were.

Now I know what you're thinking: NPR sucks. It is not metal. It is for yuppies. Their news is biased. They speak in monotone, and a large number of their employees have speech impediments.

The fact is that NPR does not suck. Because there is not one media outlet on this planet that does more with less.

None.

Is it for yuppies? I couldn't tell you. I may be on the wrong side of "young", but I'm urban and professional, and there's not much I can do about that.

Is their news biased? Let me tell you something, Jack: All news is biased. FOX and MSNBC are fucking embarrassing in what they cover. CNN is fucking embarrassing in what they don't cover. Cry "liberal" all you want, but NPR does more actual analysis than anyone this side of John-fucking-McLaughlin.

Do they have an unusually high number of employees who are (literally) physically incapable of properly enunciating? Yes. Yes, they do.

All of this is beside the point. Because near as I know, FOX and MSNBC don't know shit about music. And NPR absolutely does.

So, when I came across this particular NPR blog entry, I spent a good deal of time poring over the comments section, disappointed at how predictable so many of the selections were...the countless calls for "Sgt. Pepper", "Dark Side" and "Highway 61" from the balding pot-bellies I always associated with NPR listeners....along with the equally predictable calls for the closing cuts from albums by the Afghan Whigs, Radiohead, The Clash, and U2.

My selection? My selection reminds me that no matter how gray I am or how socially liberal my politics might become, I'm not quite the same as these NPR people.

Because I believe that the greatest closing track of all time happens to be"Rocket Queen", which concluded Guns n'Roses' debut album, "Appetite for Destruction".

It certainly wasn't a popular choice among their followers, but "Rocket Queen" was, in fact, a stunning closer for "Appetite". In the midst of a debut album that was more violent, more angry, and more misogynistic than just about anything else that had hit the mainstream (certainly much meaner than anything the Sunset Strip had produced in recent memory), "Rocket Queen" basks in a socially and lyrically filthy, over-the-top sexuality, making bedroom promises that would be fully threatening if they weren't so offhandedly boastful.

"You'd better turn me on tonight," Axl sneers, his bravado and contempt stemming from the power inherent in even having that choice.

It's nearly feminine in that regard....which is an interesting way of thinking about it.

Because out of nowhere, the songs stops on a dime approximately three minutes into what might be the funkiest and most sexual groove in the history of hard rock. And it shifts gears towards a much more classic, romantic, Southern-rock-style conclusion.

Those last three minutes are shockingly tender. They are pleading and vulnerable in a way that dreck like "November Rain" could never be, lacking any traces whatsoever of self-consciousness. Expanding on what I mentioned earlier about a nearly feminine voice for this song, it's not impossible to imagine this as - brace yourselves - a love letter from one prostitute to another.

And I challenge you to sit down with the song and consider that theory.

On one hand, this track would seem to reveal that there's more to Guns n'Roses than Jack Daniels, strippers, groupies and cocaine.

On the other hand, their debut album ends right there, with literally nothing but those three minutes to support such a claim.