Young Black Teenagers: Ahead of Their Time?

Tampa, Florida, June, 1991. It was my first real vacation without the parents when Jeff and Patti allowed me to pick a friend (I chose Doug Jackson) and fly down for a week with Uncle Bruce and Aunt Pam. The usual Florida tourist sites were seen, Disney, Universal, Clearwater Beach, Hooters...but by that time in my life I was more interested in finagling my older cousins into taking us to a concert. Like a sign from God himself, that week Tampa was hosting one of the most bewildering package tours of the decade. Imagine my surprise when Michelle and Sean were obliged to chaperon my friend and I to see the Sisters of Mercy/Public Enemy/Gang of Four/Warrior Soul, in a multi-cultural, genre-bending, precursor to Lollapalooza (more on this show in an upcoming edition of WTF). First on the bill though were Young Black Teenagers, a hip-hop quintet from the Bronx clothed in matching army fatigues. They were neither young, black, nor teenagers.

Despite being lambasted by their peers, virtually excommunicated from hip-hop, and generally regarded as novelty simply for their name, Young Black Teenagers had plenty of talent to go round and a PE connection that should have made them household names on par with 3rd Bass. They were the first act signed to Hank Shocklee's Soul for Urban Listeners label and their Bomb Squad produced self-titled album is brimming with the same cathartic edits and air-raid samples that made Fear of a Black Planet such an apocalyptic good time. Bad business deals, bad press, and bad blood with their benefactors (don't fuck with the gift horse) led them down a quick path to the cut-outs. They did score a minor-hit with "Tap the Bottle" (well known for sampling "Tom Sawyer" without Rush's permission) and DJ Skribble went on to become MTV's resident turntable jockey (remember The Grind? me either).

Listening over this record for the first time in many years, I'm actually shocked at how socially conscious and politically adept the group's lyrics were. Of course the themes are dated (reminiscent of the Goats topical jeep jams), but it's easy to conclude that YBT's Achilles heel was that they were far ahead of the game. I'm not quite sure that Eminem could get away with "Daddy Called Me A Nigga' Caused I Like to Rhyme" in the new millennium without the Rainbow Coalition kicking in his door.



(Editor's Note: Trying something new. So you'll have to quickly create an Imeem account to hear the songs I'll be posting. It's well worth your time though.)

A Little Blake Goes a Long Way

Just posted this "sweeping generalization" of Cleveland's Exit Stencil Records. It had one glaring omission. What's going on with Blake Miller? He was excluded because he's from Columbus, right down the street. But the label did send me a stopgap split 7" with Julie Sokolow, anticipating the October release of Blake's sophomore album, Burn Tape.

"Tomorrow Sorrow," is apparently also the first song on the album, a soft, purple folk prayer, proving he's found a comfortable seat between the beards (Sam Beeeeam) and the bearded (Devendra), all the while spanning-off, eerily getting witty with reverb, bells, and tape loops. Go on, it gets stranger.
The second track, "Chilly April" almost naively attempts to become his one man lisa frank animal jug band, but saves it with the mist of a skeletal pop dirge in its center.

After listening to some David Thomas Brougton on recommendation, I'm thinking Blake Miller is destined to be his haunting American counterpart. Both singers are homely familiar, but still sound like they're singing, and creating, from some distant, mystic, crawlspace. Apologies to Ms. Sokolow for not flipping sides yet. I'm simply over-anticipating what's sure to be an interesting full-length (his new site features the first four songs). The real dark-horse.

Live at the Washington Beach Community Festival

By no means was this an anti-Comfest fest, and in order to handle the local scene with kid gloves, Comfest was not a bust. It's hard to fault "anyone" who's trying to make this city a better place. No utopia of course, but every town has it's share of lot lizards and bad poets. Full disclosure: there's nothing better than seeing "most" of your favorite bands in a sunny park with your wife, a fishboat, and mug full of CBC pale ale close to the hip.

The Washington Beach Community Festival filled all the voids. Curated by Times New Viking, and pretty much birthed by Siltbreeze Omnicron, Tom Lax, it could've been subtitled, "Losers Whom Love Forgot." The Unholy Two, (now with even more guitar), started things off. Mr. Chris gives new meaning to the post-punk, making all the best punchlines blistering minute-and-a-half songs, forcing crowds to shield their eardrums, spitting improv-comedy from the cutting edge (what's being cut exactly? And why are you defending Officer Bobby Cutt$ Jr.?) Who really cares? This is everything you really want to hear/say in one quick knife hit from the electric stove. They should basically own CDR for the next year or so.

The second-coming of V-3? Kevin DeBroux is currently making Columbus his home, and Pink Reason, his ongoing journey, is beginning to sound like a descent, one that he will take, with all of you, kicking and screaming, moaning, and chugging puked-up vitamin water, along the way. Sporting a mohawk and the face of a young Tom Cruise, his incantation on this night went solo, playing a brief set of forgotten punk covers on an un-tuned acoustic guitar. This is the guy mother told me to stay away from (and eventually that guy, G.G., wrote me letters from prison), but I'd be damned if I didn't strain to hear the gospel that comes from his mouth. Honestly, this guy eats the truth for breakfast each and every day, then funnels it into eternally bruised, soul-rattling, deep-depression rock. Consider yourself fortunate the author of one of the year's most evocative albums might just have a post-office box here.

From there things get blurry. Not from alcohol, but from exhaustion. All's I can say, is that, for me (personally) Psychedelic Horseshit, owned the night. With new recruit, Laura (pictured above), filling in on bass duties, they seemed to physically say, "fuck a keyboard, play it yourself," throwing their cheap speak-n-spell into the decks for a new germ of crowd participation. I'm a tad bit partial, but this may have been the most engaging Horseshit show to date. Their energy (kinetic, poppy, yet wholly unrefined) can shine through any technical difficulty/drunkenness thrown in their path. They truly create their own fidelity. If this town has Zimmy, it's Matt Whitehurst. Keep in mind, Magic Flowers Droned, keep in mind. Fuck folk.

From there the heavy-hitters took center. Jerusalem and the Starbaskets caressed quotidian staples (i.e. White Stripes compounded blues riffs, Jeff Mangum's compounded inner-world-psych) and made them malleable for underground heads (like most in attendance). I could swear the duo played the same two-chord jammer for at least an hour, but I'm prolly quite wrong. Right? At this very moment they're doing the same thing for a crowd in flood-ravaged Oklahoma, and some kid is having his mind blown. Hmmm....Pavement and Elephant Six......and Lightning Bolt...for the micro-generation. Just don't blog it, keep it a secret. Please.

Live at Comfest

I could rant infinitely about the cons of Comfest (would love to start with that website, seemingly created at the turn of the century), but can only comment on the clueless entertainment committee and their quixotic quest to make everyone in town happy. Sure it's a hard feat, but do any of you have the pulse on what's good and what goes well together? I've posited the idea for curated stages time and time again, and honestly think the variety would be even greater while the quality would increase tenfold. Get a Ron House Stage, a Rick Cautella stage, a Paul Brown stage, a Hot 107.5 stage. Get WOSU involved, the Other Paper, fuck, even let the Alive writers pick some bands. Ok, I'm ranting. Get a clue. Seek out the talent instead of wading through applications from the X-Rated Cowboys.

Regardless, if you cherry-picked through the deluge of horrid cover bands and "new wave" hippies (Psychedelic Horseshit TM), you were able to find some worthy Columbus bands taken from their natural habitat and displayed for all-agers (who never get to see this sort of thing) and old-agers (who never go to see this sort of thing). Not sure if I would theoretically want my five-year old high on whatever fumes John Whitzky and El Jesus de Magico were huffing, but they would have learned a great deal about doo-woop and police brutality through the seamless theatricals of Hugs and Kisses "breakthrough" performance.

The legendary Cheater Slicks provided the most awkward of these "out of body" experiences. Imagine their surprise when they were asked to play the Bozo Stage (ugh, change that name pronto) at 2 PM in some blistering sun. My brother has always remarked Tom Shannon is the "greatest bummer in the world" (a compliment) and seeing him sweat through some instantly classic garage burners from their recently released Walk into the Sea, was proof enough. Temperatures warped any chance at cohesion, it was more like a prolonged seizure in slow-motion, convulsions in reverse, cough, cough, cough.

Mike Rep and the Quotas (pictured above), on the other hand, embraced the family cook-out atmosphere. It was 1984 or 1994 or even 2004 all over again. They really fry the reverb without any oil down in Harrisburg, to the point that it sounded like a plane was constantly in take-off. Here's a guy who just loves to get up on his tree-stump and share his love of music with anyone who will listen.

Then again, "trying is pathetic," or so said Will Foster's t-shirt. The Guinea Worms were the weekend's MVPs. I've always adored Foster's ability to flip a repetitious three-chord chant into apocalyptic party rock. Slowly but surely, the Worms get better and better each time I see them. A long progression, but I'm thinking the pay off (a new 7" on CDR, a greatest hits of old material?) is well worth the wait.

I'm forgetting some things. Night of Pleasure are the only punk band in town worth noting. The Lindsay made sure everyone now knows their name, 'bout time if you ask me. And of course this guy....



My Comfest could have began and ended with Dead Sea's early Friday set. Somebody sign this band already. Scheduling snafus aside, Comfest tends to win back my heart every year. I'm much too tired to bitch.

Live at Festival Latino

Perhaps the last of the fests which I can walk to, bellied up to Bicentennial Park to little fanfare. Unless you dig cumbia or Mexican forro, and large intimidating crowds after dark (I know plenty of guys who go apeshit for it), there was little cultural value in Festival Latino, at least in the two hours I was there. Again, it was daylight, an anonymous latin-jazz group was covering Santana, foods which have pretty much become a staple of the Columbus menu were being served (every modest taqueira in the city in one place), and trinkets from South of the border were sold to adoring (clueless) Caucasians. There was scant representation from Brazil (to my wife's dismay) and the eternal underdog of South America, Uruguay, or for that matter any other country that isn't Mexico. I did see wax worms whipped into a strawberry desert though.

Fortunately the Capoeira community stopped by to show us all how it's done.

Diggin' in the (60's-70's) - The Prix Label

What's it gonna' take to get a job with the amazing Numero Group? Month after month they keep discovering, and gloriously repackaging, crate finds that are essential puzzle pieces in the evolution of modern music. They seem to have all the bases covered, lost power pop (Yellow Pills), lost femme-folk (Wayfaring Strangers), lost world funk (various Cult Cargo comps.) and the label's biggest undertaking, the Eccentric Soul series.

Numero already unearthed the amazing Capsoul Label (their first release), so who would've thought there was another Columbus imprint that needed digging up? The Prix Label began on 921 E. Broad Street in the now defunct Harmonic Studios. Over a four year span (1969-73) they released only a small handful of singles. Pretty much all of them are compiled here, along with a batch of master tapes found only a year ago at a local estate auction (the owners apparently had no idea what a goldmine they possessed). Of course there is a bit of overlap with Capsoul, session players and band members were an incestuous bunch in the small but vibrant Columbus scene (Marion Ray, a star of Bill Moss' label, also recorded a single for Prix), but that's not to say Prix isn't an entirely unique entity.

For one, they had Eddie Ray, who began in a trio with the legendary Sam and Dave. On "You Got Me" he shines like a legitimate star over a slightly psych soul groove. The album also boasts two tracks from OFS Unlimited, who were precursors to the big-band, multi-cultural, funk sounds of the Ohio Players and Sun. Their "Mystic" is a barreling slice of instrumental jazz blasts and polyrhythm, something that wouldn't be out of place on a Tarrantino soundtrack or necromanced into a Go Team sequence.

Basically, whether you're a fan of lost soul or not, Numero has provided both a rich history few knew existed and another seamless compilation of hidden treasures that would otherwise remain buried.

Meta-Blogging - Read Population : Doug NOW

Father's Day is approaching, and there is no better way to achieve paternal remembrance better than digging into soft-rock. This is in no way designed to steal my brother's thunder, for the letter he received from Gerry Rafferty is essential reading. Yes, Mr. Rafferty was robbed, but so was Gino Vannelli's "Living Inside Myself" (pictured above), and a number of others that I learned about a few months ago over late nights with the Time-Life Classic Soft-Rock Collection infomercial (starring, btw, Air Supply). So, in tribute to Doug's masterwork here's an epilogue of forgotten soft-rock, a mini-mix (for a limited time only) that includes among other things, Benny Mardones' tribute to pedophilia, "Into the Night," which broke the top ten in both 1980 and 1989, and Boz Scagg's classic "Low Down," which should be a staple of sampling hip-hop entrepreneurs for years to come. Let me know what you think.

Beach Talk - The Tree of Snakes Finale?

Despite what you read here, I don't get out of the house much, so making my way down to Bernie's Distillery for Tree of Snake's last show (?) took some finagling, but it soon became commandment. I kinda needed the stench, the glory, the mayhem, of seeing one of the finest bands in Columbus' history say goodbye. Really, F-U-N, is a three-letter word most don't bandy around in normal conversation, at least the purest definition of the word. I can honestly say, that's pretty much all that Tree of Snakes provide. Like our own Ramones. Our own Black Lips, without the pissing in the mouth pretensions (and infinitely catchier, no less). Lessons learned? When life hands you lemons, don't make lemonade, "Grab Another Beer." Nothing comes in handier than a "Trusty Swordfish." And be thankful, no matter what your dead-end job may be, at least you're not an "Alligator Dentist."

I'm no videographer, but this captures the anarchy that prevailed. I've spent many an hour in the decrepit hellhole that is Bernie's, vowing never to return with each visit (the holes in between become longer every time). The whole show I was hoping the crowd would piece by piece destroy this institution once and for all. Joints were passed, bottles broken, kids hanging from the plumbing, naked Jason being naked; Why couldn't we end it right then and there? It would've have been glorious if Bernie's were no more after this night. I don't care who plays there in the future, I'm never going back.

Live at the Troy Strawberry Festival

Festival dois, and oh the drama that occurred at the thirty-first annual Troy Strawberry Festival. Diaper derbies (our ringer failed in his mission, fucking baby), Jimmy Buffet cover bands, hastily assembled arts and crafts, strawberry ribs, salsa, donuts, fried or un-fried, all consumed in under an hour. Luckily the three injured by a lightning bolt were eventually released from the hospital and the Eva Trostle controversy didn't rain on the parade (which I missed btw). More than anything, the fest is a chance to rekindle memories of my youth. I haven't been to one in years, but it's comforting to know that not much has changed, civic pride city-wide. The local color that shaped me is still intact, and the older I get, the more small-town America becomes appealing. Even the town characters that will one day appear in my memoirs are still trolling around; Efrim (the bike-riding, tin-can, collector), Crazy Sherry (the downtown obscenity screaming misanthrope), and of course Dottie (she looked exactly the same 20 years ago when I delivered her paper). Her and the Country Four show no signs of stopping their boot-scooting life of entertaining the village with down-home, fiddle-flavored, versions of "Okie from Muskogee," no matter how lyrics like "We don't get our trips on LSD" make the masses chuckle.

Of This Moment - Ex-Cocaine

By naming their album Esta Guerra (or This War, for English speakers), Missoula, Montana's Ex-Cocaine have crafted a timeless document of protest, even if there's no mention of battle or upheaval, of discontent or revolt. "Protest" because it speaks volumes with few words; the meditative escape of Bryan Ramirez's road-to-nowhere guitar ragas, the let-your-soul-bleed exorcism of Mike C's bongo beats, sound as far removed from the real world, the culture war, the war of rhetoric, that two like-minded psychic warriors could possibly sound in Montana. "Timeless" because Ex-Cocaine's buried ramblings won't truly take hold for another 20 years, even though on first listen you'd swear this was recorded 30 years ago by some Vietnam-defectives, live from a commune in Manitoba.

Warm and analog, these grooves just wouldn't sound proper on disc. Maybe cassette, but it's magnetic tape may need some baking in desert sun. Point being, Ex-Cocaine become most affecting as we reverse everything we know and think about modern music, the more anonymous and mysterious, the more confusing and mind-altering, the BETTER.

Honestly, I have no business tackling an album this deep without absorbing it for hours on end. A bender with the recent Siltbreeze offerings is in order. No one can describe, and reference, these latest releases better than Roland Woodbe himself. He'll start foaming at the mouth about Parameter, Steve Perigrine Took, and Roy Harper (try Stormcock), and you'll start another trip down another rabbit hole, picking through amazing records you never knew existed. Though my bro has a good take on the Pink Reason LP (equally perplexing and amazing as this one), there's a whole new world out there neither of us has tapped into. Think of these albums as dirty bombs, landmines placed over cisterns holding the truth underground. Freedom Rock.

Beach Talk - Moviola

My first encounter with Moviola was over 11 years ago, when I procured a copy of the Frantic EP (on 10" vinyl no less) from Trader Vic's on a tip from Tim Taylor. He gave me the obligatory record clerk logic "If you like Pavement, you'll love these guys from Columbus." That was a spark indeed, a band only 60 miles away that tried to sound like my high school crush.

Long gone are the days when Moviola cribbed from those lo-fi pioneers and dressed up their rustic pop in crusty fuzz and spindly guitars; 'cept for the nostalgic whiff that begins "Hand to Mouth." The quartet's seventh album, Dead Knowledge (on Catbird Records), is "matured" sure, but also the most adventurous, nuanced, and definitive album of their decade plus span, connecting the dots between Big Pink, the Grand Ole' Opry, Haight Asbury, Laurel Canyon, Muscle Shoals, and back to the Iuka Ravine.

By genre-hopping through the annals of Americana, unearthing mothballed memories, local folklore, and instruments from the attic (or the Elida High School Marching Band), Dead Knowledge might resonate as the group's last waltz (sorry, had to say it); the album they've always wanted to make. Recorded among the dollar stacks at the fabled Used Kid's Records, it's a confident and original reflection/mosaic of the heroes (Levon Helm, Neil Young, Bob Dylan) that were staring at their backs from musty, tattered covers. Rather than shunning off influences, Moviola embrace them here, feeding off the spirits that rose from the vinyl graveyard.

Moviola's longevity though, predicts Dead Knowledge is a new awakening, most evident in the rough-hewn, almost lysergic and definitely slow-burning, psychedelia that creeps into the album's first third. "Akron to Oakland" and "Rudy" recall American Beauty-era Grateful Dead, not the hirsute, brown acid, ten-minute jam, you're thinking of, but the adherence to craft and tradition a spry Jerry Garcia twisted into breezy, and equally trippy, little labyrinths. Elsewhere there are hints of bluegrass, "Humility," Tijuana brass, "Knotty Pine," and smoky, juke-joint blues, "Don't I Know," all along the way lined with weeping slide guitars, elegant strings, the occasional Beach Boys harmony, and some of the crunch from their roots for good measure, making for one varied and quite delightful travelogue.

Live at the Feast of the Flowering Moon

Adventures down Highway 23. I decided this would be the summer of the festival (usually free and rich in people watching), so my wife, her friend Carol, and I, headed to Chillicothe to attend our first of the season, the Feast of the Flowering Moon, which is basically a small town co-opting it's native beginnings to have a rinky-dink street fair. There was nothing to see here (once you've seen one Cheese on a Stick cart, you've seen them all) except for the Midwest's Finest Dance Troupe. By the time we made it to our destination the rotting retired war hero at the info booth told us "If yooorr here for da injuns, they just done their last dancing." (He really said "injuns.") I trusted my instincts and guided our trio down by a small pond where I spotted tee-pees set-up. Luckily we arrived right as they were starting their last show of the weekend. This was some amazing shit to behold (witness my first uploaded youtube clip above). My lovey quipped that the music was much better than that Animal band I've been going on about, and she was right. Right enough to get me digging into the archives of Navajo songs recorded in the 1930s and 40s (all available at most public libraries). After that it was time to wrap up the whole shebang with Ross County Idol. We were tempted to watch sub-civilization humiliate themselves with another rendition of "Jesus Take the Wheel" or "Achy Breaky Heart," but they'd already done that by relegating the Native Americans who'd traveled for hours to second billing at the bottom of the hill. Mutants.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot - The Black Swan Brakhage

It came while watching the flawless season 3 finale of Lost, where Jack rocks a freak-folk beard, an oxycodin addiction, and In Utero, before opting for suicide via bridge jump (and it's all in the future, mind you, after leaving the island). Within the episode, there was another glimpse of the Dharma Initiative's logo for the Swan Station, which is eerily close to the one used by Olivia Tremor Control offshoot, the Black Swan Network. Coincidence? Or does an art designer on set, have a hankering for Cubist Castles? It made me joyful that I never sold my vinyl copy of Dream Tapes, the group's two-track ambient noise opus, for I always knew it would come in handy one day. Age has not left this album obsolete, in fact it's starting to make me a bit angry that more modern psych-folk types aren't admitting their debt to Olivia Tremor Control. Tribal edits and extensions, tape-loop fuckkery, smoke and mirrored guitar sketches, horns attached to oscillators; light years ahead of their time if you ask me.

Forget about Pink Floyd with the Wizard of OZ, or Grizzly Bear with City of Lost Children. Try Black Swan Network's Dream Tapes with By Brakhage: An Anthology, skip forward to his more brief, color-encrusted, 80's films, play loud (with bong and buddha box, if available), and you've achieved dorm-room transcendence.

Beach Talk - The Evil Queens

I'll lay the cards out on the table, I have never been a huge fan of the Evil Queens (but I've never made a conscious attempt to be into them). I was always turned off by what I thought was a derivative aesthetic; the "heavy" lineage of Columbus grit-rock (Monster Truck 005, Bob City, the Means, Grafton) whittled into radio chunklets and suitable sonics. While there appears to be a enclave of groups in this town (who shall remain nameless), in the last couple of years, who have exploited that legacy to create artistically challenged, not challenging,(and downright awful) results, Lonesome Werewolves, separates the Evil Queens far from their contemporaries. Obvious chooglings, power chords, brutal swells and depressions, are in their proper places, but guitarist/vocalist Jacob Sundemeyer (the architect of this classy bunch) is a master of subtlety, a dynamic character within his songs, and capable of realizing "pop" is needed even in the most ham-fisted of metal moments. To the high-tide Mudhoney informed crunch and maudlin Nirvana-esque hook of "America, America," to visceral booze stomp of "Year of the Cretin," there's little here to mentally edit.

Coincidentally, Queens of the Stone Age's Era Vulgaris leaked the day I got Lonesome Werewolves into my grubby little paws, and since then I've given the local boys more time. Homme is busy inviting in new best buddies and making a veiled attempt at textured groove (you'll never write a Groundhogs album Josh, though this isn't half-bad) instead of becoming fully unleashed. The Evil Queen's are content making that music for him. Here it's not desert and horse, it's cramped dive bars and hard liquor.

The Evil Queens will be celebrating the release of Lonesome Werewolves on Saturday, the 27th. Cafe Bourbon St. Bring a flask.

Diggin' in the (???) - Mutant Sounds

Being addicted to downloading ain't easy. Everyday there are new sites/blogs popping up, linking the voracious collector to endless libraries of new music. It's literally at my fingertips, it's overwhelming. But where does one go when the latest Chemical Brother's leak just won't do? Lately Mutant Sounds has curbed my eventual slide into a crystal meth binge (joking, mom). My brother (or was it Dusty) clued me into this guy who has much more time than the average human to digitize his entire collection. I have yet to see an album on here that I recognize (even the references are out of my range). The only problem being, there are not enough hours in the day to experience it all. Mutant Sounds needs a separate blog to filter through it's endless listening pile (If you're reading this, I'll help); a greatest hits if you will (cause be warned, much of this is lost for a reason). Here are a few gems found in the past week:

Daminhao - (pictured above) Dig deep with this one, many links to learn more. There are some that suspect this to be an elaborate ploy, but Brazil's answer to Jim Shepard may have just saved my life. Exotic psych insanity.

Ballistic Kisses - Devo (the dog and the band) had great impact on our Earth. Hopeless/Ambitious broke, musicians, from NYC, trying to emulate a sound birthed in Akron,Oh, is both hilarious and stunning.

Freshly Wrapped Candies - One of the most highly recommended albums on the site, and as fractured and "pop" as the description claims.

Video Ventures - Real Life

Yes. The VV section is always a lazy excuse just to post something. It's not particularly pressing or vital information (but what is on this site). I've recently been caught up in the new Chromeo disc, lamenting the street-funk of the 80's, so it's been a strange coincidence that I keep hearing Real Life's "Send Me an Angel" in various locations (my work, a local high school, the quickie mart). Not that it's street-funk, it's one-hit (knife-hit), new-romantic, post-pop. By an Australian band no less. The sick thing, is every time I hear it, I'm reminded of the Lori Laughlin (you may remember her as Jon Stamos' wife on Full House) driven vehicle, Rad. So I found it fitting to track down the pre-coital BMX make-out scene (try to spot the evil twins from COBRA) in which this song is featured (three years after the single was released).

I was 10. Rad was...well...rad. And it has yet to have a proper DVD release. Criterion? Hal Needham did also direct Cannonball Run and Stroker Ace.

Of This Moment - The Wombats

I have to go with my instincts on this one. Yes, I'm sick and tired of Brit band after Brit band, with horrible names, and even more horrible songs titles, making their way to the States to conquer, if only for a hot minute. Honestly, the Kooks? I thought they'd finally crash halfway over the Atlantic, but I was wrong, so wrong. Every time I happen to skip through the "alternative" radio here, they're playing that song. The Kooks? They sold out a show here last week?

While I'll be forthright in proclaiming my love for the Arctic Monkeys second attempt, Favourite Worst Nightmare, that album has given way to the debut from Liverpool's Wombats. I know, tell me about it, another achingly cheeky moniker. As far as I can tell, the album, Boys, Girls, and Marsupials, has yet to see a U.S. release (if you're sneaky you can find it though). Surely when they land here, all hell (might) break loose. There's just something about them that's ultra-catchy, ultra-endearing, and has me up at night biting my fingers as punishment for liking another band of blokes. You'll swear it's painfully average upon first listen.

As proof I've uploaded "Moving to New York" for a brief time, or you could go here and get a taste of their new single.

Bo Jackson's Shoe Box - James Brown Complex

WANTED: The evolution of hip-hop in cassette and cassingle format, accompanying Bo Jackson Cross-Trainer shoe box the housed them, and the cigarette carton proportioned mini-boombox Lamar sold me for a dollar. Will pay $1,000 US dollars, OBO.

Son of Bazerk - Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk
1991 (Soul/MCA)

Besides the beat, the DJ, the MC, the graffiti, and the breakdancing, can you think of another element as important to the identification of hip-hop than the James Brown sample?

The Godfather of Soul had such an impact on the genre's "golden age" that it was inevitable that a group would morph his presence/power/poise into a full-fledged, all-encompassing, vehicle from which to create and broadcast. Enter Son of Bazerk featuring No Self Control and the Band. Their debut, Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk, was not a classic by any means, but was worth the adventurous and cartoonish trip it provided; the manic energy and variety alone maintains the album as one of the 90's true anomalies.

The album's recipe is the most puzzling piece, as it was produced by the Bomb Squad (who seem to throw everything into the pot here) and helmed by Terminator X. Son of Bazerk was, at least for one record, hip-hop's living, breathing, James Brown-aping, Godzilla; crossing Tim Dogg with an undefeated middle-weight boxer. There's a fine-line between his idiosyncratic rhyme-style and his constant spitting of misogynistic (but alway amusing) come-ons or gruff, street-wise "superbadisms."

The LP is best known for "Change the Style," a single that single-handedly tackles dub, doo-wop, thrash punk, and of course JB soul modes (a theme that remains on each subsequent track). Keeping him grounded is his crew, highlighted by MC Halfpint, who hasn't been heard of since, but here injects plenty of innovative and light-hearted verses to balance the "Funky Drummer" complex that defines Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk. Really, this is just strange, lost, and intriguing stuff, deserving my praise and someone's re-issue dollars, even if it is one giant James Brown sample magnified to infinity.

Gimme' Swag - Skidmore Fountain

Being a diligent blogger and trying to keep up with the trend-a-minute shifts in modern music, I have recently found, pays off (sort of). Brooklyn's Skidmore Fountain has the distinction of being the first band to send anything to the World of Wumme headquarters specifically. Congratulations. As much as I'd like to write a glowing review simply for the gesture of clogging my mailbox, I'm just not down with payola.

The sticker affixed claims Break is "post-post punk rock with wildly avant pieces." How can you be more post than post? I'll give em' the avant, as this is extremely in line with mid-90's maze-makers like Shudder to Think and the Dambuilders (thanks to a trigger-happy cello player), but I'm tempted to call this Orchestrated Incubus. The problem lies in singer Randy Bergida, who flogs any of his band's redeeming qualities with lyrics and vocal scree that suggest he got his training from Linkin Park or a host of half-life emo frontmen. Harsh, sure, but there are some awfully talented musicians in this bunch, and I'm inclined to give them the green light to reassess just what it is they are trying to accomplish in Skidmore Fountain. Being from Brooklyn does not afford you a free pass. There are bands like this everywhere, in every city. It's "frock" (friend rock), a genre that keeps thriving because all of this band's acquaintances don't have the heart to tell them the truth.

Still, keep sending me stuff, even hate mail.

Live - Spoon at Skully's 4.29.07

Fuck yeah, I went to this show simply to see the kids, who were held to six or so songs, three of which I missed. Jack Daniels is an evil man, sponsoring bohemia then cutting it short. I've seen Spoon multiple times, therefore smoking and drinking in the back of the club was necessary to avoid the throng of salivating middle-ager's looking to grasp onto something remotely hip. I swear I saw a toothless hick lip-syncing "I Turn My Camera On," (see car commercials do get you chicks). Not to fault Spoon, but it's beginning to feel like Brit Daniel's approach is purely antiseptic. Someone even asked (jokingly of course) from outside if Spoon were playing, or if it was a cd of Spoon. He's certainly amassed at least a greatest hits disc worth of skeletal indie-rock and tricky soft-punk, lately though the auto-pilot has switched to full-on bore. Could he really have peaked with Girls Can Tell? He does write music for soundtracks now.

I poked in for a few of my favorites and could see that at least Mr. Daniel was against the war; writhing on the floor, scraping the edges of his guitar for any grisly atonal scrawl he could muster out of songs now quite benign. I love the guy, broke bread with him, babysat his children, and once even compared him to Prince (can I take that back?) His band however, is for the war, for standing still. They kinda smiled, complacent and happy to be making their nightly stipend for playing along with such easy swill. Perhaps I'm just a bit cynical towards show with seemingly no purpose. Spoon come off as a band that's making music that's as safe as their name; nothing sharp or harmful in any move they make. The newer tracks blended into the background, the old favorites were fawned over, and everyone went home happy and drunk for free. But did you remember it the next day?