Bound to a Chair and Forced to Watch

Unlike a lot of high falutin' critics who like to appear above it all, and who are, after all, paid to criticize, I'm just a fan, and so don't think there's a lot of bad art out there.  I do think that there is a lot of "good but not quite compelling" art.  You might be tempted to call it "worthwhile", but I have a lot less "while" left than I used to, and it's worth more to me now than it used to be.  So please don't think me a snob for passing on almost everything that's out there.

 
I'm a bell curve kind of guy, and figure that about 5% of stuff is great, another 5% totally sucks, and the rest is in that middle range that I call Movies (or whatever) I might enjoy if you tied me to a chair, put a gun to my head and forced me to watch (Or MIMEIYTMTACPAGTMHAFMTW, for short).

 
But the principal is especially applicable to watching TV, since it's right there in your house waiting for you. There may not be a gun to your head, unless you count the spouse who thinks you should be spending more time together. It's just too easy to sit down and find something "good" to watch. But I'll bet it's something already seen. And before you know it, 30 or 60 minutes of your life are gone. And for what? A rerun? Okay, "Family Guy", maybe.

 
Friends and family will swear by any number of shows, and the movie section of the Sunday Times would have you believe that we're going through a sort of movie renaissance. Nonetheless, the latest landmark-in -cinema/change-your-life TV show will have to just sit there at the end of my Netflix queue. Tempted to pick up that $15 copy of Rush Hour II at Costco? Jeez, it's probably on cable right now.


 
I've put in too many hours on things that were…good. And good just isn't good
enough anymore. Certainly not for an hour a week. So I guess I miss out on the water cooler conversation. I'm sort of anti-social anyway.

 
The last time I was tied up with a gun to my head was at my in-laws, who were watching "16 Blocks" (Bruce Willis, Mos Def, etc.). It wasn't bad exactly, but I'd sure like those two hours back now, thank you very much. I could have been reading a book or something. Which is an odd sentiment, given how a book will take up far more of my time than a movie. And I'm a slow reader, too, with the attention span of...whatever.

 
Theoretically, one of the good things about music, is that you can do other things while listening to it. So even if you don't love it, you've not completely wasted your time. Which is why, when I'm a captive audience, I have to do something, or that bell curve just doesn't apply, and the "suck" percentage goes way up. So when I'm over at someone's house for dinner, the host gets the impression that I'm trying to be a helpful guest, when in fact I'm just trying to avoid completely wasting my time. And who knows? Maybe I'll be able to make my way over to the stereo.

 
But even when the laundry is getting folded, I'm stingy with my music listening time, and consider it a particular imposition when someone thrusts their music upon me. It's too much like how I thrust mine upon them.

 
But marriage forces some compromises, and I do make an effort for my wife if she really likes something. Back in the Eighties, she loved Men at Work. I thought they were…good, but I wasn't going to expend a lot of my limited listening time to them. I did break down and give them a try on a Walkman while taking the train to work. For some reason - standing uncomfortably in a crowded smelly train? the screeching brakes not quite drowned out by the headphones that wouldn't stay on? Reading my book? - this didn't help much.

 
Why am I like this? It probably stems from an incident when co-worker Joe, insisting that I hear this great new song, practically duct taped his headphones on me, only to subject me to Chris Rhea's "Lady in Red". I had to sit there, grinning at him as my ears and brain were ground to dust.

 
So, no thanks, Joe.
I'll see you in hell, Chris.
Good, but not great, Men at Work.

 
Next.

Stupid Moments in Rock History, Part 1:

Well, there was the time I overheard a guy in a record store asking the clerk if he knew the song about "summertime" and "rain on my face".

I kinda thought I knew that it was the Alarm, but I didn't say anything. I still wonder why. I think I just didn't want to come across as a know-it-all, which is a first. So even though it would have helped the guy out, I didn't do anything. Maybe I didn't want to be responsible for more Alarm fans in the world.

But now I feel like Peter Parker when he found out what happened to his Uncle Ben, except for the Uncle Ben part. I just kinda feel bad about it. I hope the guy found it. It was back in the day when you couldn't just look it up on allmusic.com.

So, if you're out there, reading this, it's called "Rain in the Summertime" and it appears on Eye of the Hurricane and The Best of the Alarm. It's not such a bad song. It's just that they were so obviously trying to sound like U2. You know, like Coldplay now.

My apologies for being stupid while trying to avoid being a jerk.
----------------
Now playing: The Alarm - Rain in the Summertime
via FoxyTunes

Getting Lyrical

Unlike poetry, great song lyrics don't necessarily impress on paper. As a matter of fact, the more "poetic" (poetical?) they sound when read, the less chance that I'll like them when they're sung. My favorites just look like matter of fact statements:

I made a lot of mistakes

Sufjan Stevens, from "Chicago"

I loved you, well… nevermind

Alex Chilton, from "September Gurls"

It ain't dark yet, but it's getting there.

Bob Dylan, from "Ain't Dark Yet"

Just single lines, really, whose original context gives them their power. And, by themselves, not very poetic. So let me play fair and try more than one line at a time. This is the first verse of "The Whistling Song" by the Meat Puppets (from "Meat Puppets II"):

It's the shadow in the dark,

The silhouette in the park,

It's the broken, faded bird

You've learned to call your heart.

Is that better? I don't know. They're just words. You might have to hear them sung by Chris Kirkwood to feel the pain and desperation. But because I heard the song before I heard the words, I'll never be able to just read them without hearing the music, too.

This is from the Shin's "Young Pilgrim" (from "Chutes Too Narrow").

Well I learned fast how to keep my head up

'Cause I know there is this side of me

That wants to grab the yoke from the pilot

And fly the whole mess into the sea.

James Mercer's delivery is almost matter of fact. (I'm big on this under-singing thing. When a song is good enough, it doesn't need the hard sell.) He's working with a pretty striking melody, so he just lets the rhythm of the words carry him along. And it's brilliant - so much so that the post 9/11 plane hijacking metaphor is forgivable.

Now, as much as I like the words above, I have no reason to think that you do. I've heard the songs and you may not have. So I suspect the words by themselves are not enough. (In case you don't agree, just listen to William Shatner's version of "Mr. Tambourine Man" and other such celebrity atrocities.) Ideally, the music and words share a symbiotic relationship. You'd think it would be easy to spot when this isn't the case. But when I try to think of songs with great lyrics and lousy melodies (or vice versa) I can't. They're out there but they probably don't register in the first place, and we as listeners don't care to know why. Let someone who's paid to do it explain it all to us.

I am open to the possibility that when the words are striking enough, they provide the real music instead of the actual melody. These may just be poems disguised as songs, though. And if the song is good enough, I'm not sure that it's critical that we understand the words anyway.

As a matter of fact, I'd like to propose a moratorium on "getting" lyrics. I'm not talking about the songs whose words you hear the wrong way ("Excuse me while I kiss this guy", the entire early R.E.M. catalogue, etc.). If it's good rock n roll, you probably can't make out some lyrics anyway. I'm talking about the words you can hear. Anyone care to explain "any jobber got the sack, Monday morning, turn it back" to me? I'm still trying to figure out what the hell Billie Joe threw off the Tallahachie Bridge. (Where the hell is Tallahachie, anyway? Anywhere near Tallahassee?) And "lineman for the county"? Who's that? A football player? A truck driver? A phone operator? And she's singing over the wire? Jesus. Beautiful song, though.

So, if we can agree that it's okay to totally misunderstand the lyrics, I will promise to actually read the lyrics when they're provided, as long as my glasses are handy - CD jewel cases having somehow justified the printing of lyrics in a 3 point font. This should improve the odds, but not guarantee that I'll get the words right. And so what if I don't understand the words I'm saying? It'll be like when I speak.

And I further promise to only sing them while alone in the car. That way, if I miss some notes, no one will notice. But that's a whole other posting...

More Morning Music

People are always (never) saying to me, "Hey Jaybee, thanks for those suggestions for morning music you gave last year. You've given me a reason to get out of bed! (The story of my life.) Ya got any more?"

How can I refuse?

What follows are several more records that can get you through those critical morning hours between say 6 and 9am on a Saturday or Sunday morning when you're asking yourself what the hell am I doing up this early? Don't worry, you're just turning into one of those old geezers who prowls the neighborhood in search of empty soda cans. (By the way, there is a "weeding the garden" ensemble – short-shorts, tucked in dress shirt, dress shoes and knee high white socks - in your future.) Before you get to that point, let me help you delude yourself into thinking you're still young and vital.

Frank Sinatra: In the Wee Small Hours-

As a committed Frankie skeptic, I held out quite a long time before getting this CD. And for once, I can take him. Here is Frankie the wuss. What a relief! For my money, it beats the hell out of Frankie the obnoxious tough guy who rock and roll damned near made obsolete. Yeah, you heard me. I strongly recommend it, but only for when you're feeling strong enough for the both you. Frankie's having a rough time of it.

Mississippi John Hurt: Rediscovered

If you like acoustic Hot Tuna, you will probably enjoy this. His voice is gentler than Jorma's and his guitar playing is just as good.
Now playing: Mississippi John Hurt - Candy Man
via FoxyTunes

Neil Young: Harvest Moon

I find this record somewhat over-rated, but it will appease the spouse. And hidden at the end of it is the haunting, ten minute "Natural Beauty".

Nick Drake "Pink Moon":

There isn't as much orchestration on this record as there was on his first one. Its starkness is probably due to the fact that Nick was to commit suicide not long after this. And yet, the music itself is not despairing. He's just going gently into that good night.
Now playing: Nick Drake - Pink Moon
via FoxyTunes

Bob Dylan: Time Out of Mind

Some people might place this on their Middle of the Night Music list, but I like it early in the morning. It speaks of hurt, regret and pain. Perfect for your depression. What better way to start the day?

Scott Joplin: Complete Rags

It might seem a bit jaunty for first thing in the morning, but in fact, it's very nearly perfect for it. Ok, maybe 9am instead of 7.

Now playing: Scott Joplin - The Easy Winners
via FoxyTunes

Thelonius Monk: Solo Monk

A more modern version of the above.

Django Rheinhardt: Djangology

At times you might think your listening to the soundtrack to the Little Rascals, but no, the guitar is too intricate, the violin too melodic, and the piano is giving them both a run for their money. From France, of all places.

Now playing: Django Reinhardt - I Saw Stars

Okay, now that I've got you this far, you're on your own. I can handle middle of the night and early morning, but haven't got the slightest idea what to do about daytime.

But I'm working on it.

EZ Listening

My wife informs me that the playlist I’ve titled “Easy Listening” might better be named “Kill Yourself” music. KY having a more positive connotation, I’ll have to resist my habit of acronymizing everything. “Kill Yourself”, or as I like to call it “Dark Night of the Soul” music is a favorite genre of mine, but giving it it’s own playlist hadn’t crossed my mind.

So why is my idea of Easy Listening music another person’s “Kill Yourself” music? Maybe because most other people’s idea of Easy Listening makes me want to kill myself.

During a particularly low period - which coincided with my discovery of Limewire - I tracked down several very old songs that meant a lot to me, but that I had never gotten around to buying (see the “One Great Song on a Lousy CD” post I haven’t written yet). Well, one thing led to another - I hadn’t heard these emotionally laden songs in a very long while, but now I was downloading and listening to one after the other – and I was sprinting down Desolation Row. And you never know when these mood altering songs might come in handy, so I burned a CD with the best/worst of them.

Listen to them at your peril:

Who Knows Where the Time Goes? – Judy Collins

Fairport Convention’s got the rockier version, with Richard Thompson on guitar, and Sandy Denny’s vocal, but it’s Judy Collins’s version that gets to me every time. I’m not sure why – she sounds peaceful enough. Maybe it’s because it seems like she’s out there…all alone.

Send in the Clowns – Judy Collins

Judy again (hey, I thought I was cooler than this). I’m not familiar with the other versions of this song, so I’m sure there are better ones. But there she goes again, putting me somewhere that’s just not safe to be for very long.

Philadelphia – Neil Young

From the movie, and miles better than Bruce’s “Streets of Philadelphia”, which is not bad at all. Living alone is bad enough, but dying alone?

Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwright

If you prefer the Jeff Buckley version, I understand. Either way, love’s a bitch – in a great way.

Birds – Neil Young

I can’t believe this song isn’t more famous. Okay, it’s tucked away on side two of “After the Goldrush”, but it’s an incredible kiss-off song. Whoever she was, I’m sure she was flattered.

Dying to Live – Edgar Winter’s White Trash

Just when you think there’s no reason to go on - about two thirds of the way in - he gives you one.

Jealous Guy – John Lennon

A beautiful song about being a jerk, and the harm it does. To be alive is to hurt other people.

Harvest – Neil Young

The slow pace and laid back playing could fool you into thinking it’s just an ordinary country tune. But there’s the screaming in the rain, and the uncertainty that it’s all going to be all right.

Urge for Going – Tom Rush

Alone again, naturally, because nothing lasts. Pull that coat closer when he sings “winter’s closing in”.

Streets of London – Ralph McTell

You think you got problems? Hopefully, you’ll feel some consolation, but probably not.

That’s the Way – Led Zeppelin

Young love torn apart. Their most poignant moment.

John Barleycorn - Traffic/Can’t Find My Way Home - Blind Faith

OK, thematically, they don't fit, but musically they do.

Handbags and Gladrags – Rod Stewart

Talk about guilt. This pampered rock star (well, pre-pampering) gets to play an overworked geezer lecturing a spoiled brat. And somehow you feel guilty about it.

Percy’s Song - Arlo Guthrie

This is where I just lose it. I think it’s Arlo’s delivery as much as it ‘s Dylan’s tale of injustice. It just builds and builds until you’re devastated.

Still with me? Did we lose anyone?

Do you remember when Judas Priest got sued because their music supposedly caused two young people to attempt suicide? And if you try hard, you can probably think of a few songs that refer to suicide. Some of them have even caused legal problems for the artists. But we both know that that’s a crock. There isn’t one song above that mentions it, but several that make it cross your mind.

And I do birthday parties.

Free Download of "People Got A Lotta Nerve"

Here's the new song by Neko Case, for your downloading pleasure:

http://www.anti.com/media/download/708 (MP3)

It's from her new album "Middle Cyclone".

While I haven't heard the new record, I can definitely vouch for her last one, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood". It's a great record.

In case you'd like to know more about Neko, check out today's NY Times Magazine.

Rascals Rule!

Only a cultural event of seismic proportions could cause me to depart from my usual meanderings on music. I’m referring, of course, to “The Little Rascals-The Complete Collection”. No, not the Young Rascals. I’ll get to them some other time. “The Little Rascals”, also known as “Our Gang”.

I’m occasionally tempted to go back and relive certain things from my childhood, like comics and TV shows. The results have been mixed. On one hand, reading the earliest reissued Spiderman comics has been a joy because I never read them all to begin with. It was a blast filling in the story gaps and bringing back some of the original pleasures.

Not so with some trips down TV memory lane via DVD. I rented “The Time Tunnel”, which you may remember was on ABC on Friday nights. It was a precursor to “Quantum Leap”, with the time traveler having the extraordinarily bad luck of ending up on the deck of the Titanic (I guess it beats landing half a mile to the left of it, though.), the fall of Jericho, Pearl Harbor, etc. The effects back then were cheesy and the sets minimal to the point of non existent. I got to the third episode and gave up.

“The Man From U.N.C.L.E.”, alas, was even worse - so much so that I’m even thinking of passing on my old fave “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea” and “I Dream of Jeannie” (although a Barbara Eden screen-saver isn’t a bad idea.)

Ah, but the eight disc “The Little Rascals - Complete Collection” has been a joy nearly from start to finish.

Only in Rascal-land, can you give a kid (with a history of run-ins with the law, no less) a box of matches, tell him to go burn some paper, and everything turns out all right anyway.

Only in Rascal-land can a little boy in all innocence complain about getting kissed and hugged in bed by his sleeping older brother (who is hot for teacher), and suggest that he just sleep with the teacher instead.

Discs one and two cover the Jackie/Wheezer/Chubby/Mary/Farina Era. In it, Farina transforms from complete stereotype to veritable wise man. Chubby is surprisingly tough, even if often dressed like a girl. Wheezer evolves from cute baby to annoying younger brother to jaywalker and finally to black marketeer. Jackie is the supposed ringleader, but it’s Mary who is tough, tough, tough.

Meanwhile, Officer Murphy does for Irish cops what Stepin Fetchit does for African Americans.

And then there’s the Miss Crabtree trilogy. First, there’s her intro as the replacement for the supposedly irreplaceable Miss McGillicutty, then her getting surrealistic answers to history questions (Q: Who was the Hunchback of Notre Dame? A: Lon Chaney), and finally when Jackie and Chubby try proposing to her.

But there was also time for social justice, as the rascals save Grandma from losing her store and her house.

The relationships change, with Mary being Jack’s love interest (and kicking his ass), and then his sister (not much better).

Now you may not like the overall film quality, but where else can you get a Boston cream pie (in the face) with your Shakespeare?

Disk three introduces some new characters, like Brisbane - a real hard case, and pretty boy Dickey Moore. Wheezer’s still hanging in there. And then there’s Dorothy, the annoying little sister who repeats everything you say (am I being redundant?), who morphs into one tough chick, kicking ass here, sticking up for Stymie there. More crazy answers - and a donkey - for Ms. Crabtree. Even dog Petey has some close calls. A train ride from hell (or heaven, if you’re a kid), Stymie as the inventor of chiropractic, two of the ugliest babies ever and the dawn of the Spanky era. And mush.

On disc four, we learn that even five-year-old chicks go for the guy with the nice fire truck. We also learn more about Spanky’s complex relationship with monkeys, the evils of Limburgher cheese (although anyone familiar with Abbott and Costello or the Three Stooges would already know this) and the downside of hooky.

On disc five, Spanky is the unchallenged ruler of the group, even though he’s at least a foot shorter than everyone else. (Even Wheezer never rose to such heights.) He and Scott comprise a duo whose dialog seems lifted from Waiting for Godot.

Who knew that (eating) lemons was good for your freckles (which were crucial for telling the good kids from the bad kids, moustaches not yet being an option)? Let alone that two people who liked to eat them would be sitting next to each other? In front of the kid trying to play the trumpet? (Oh yeah? You try it!)

And horseradish. How else would I have ever learned about horseradish?

By the way, at this point in time, Buckwheat appears to be a girl.

There’s also more Shakespearean influence, this time in the sophisticated dialog:

Rascal 1: Oh yeah?

Rascal 2: Yeah!

And what’s that on the horizon? Why, it looks like a planet with a radio tower on it. No, it’s, it’s… Alfalfa, or as I call him “Crazy Eyes”. It takes a while before he becomes citified, but before he is, he pioneers a new use for lard while the world waits for Brylcreem to be invented.

Disc six is more or less the Alfalfa show. He breaks into song at the drop of a hat, and believe me, there are a lot of them dropping. He always starts off in a high register and goes up from there. If he ever did the “Star Spangled Banner”, my beer bottle would shatter.

But there’s more: In walks Darla, who rocks everybody’s world. She, Alfalfa and Spanky will form what to my mind at the time was an ideal threesome. To be with Darla, us guys were even willing to be Alfalfa, and we’d have settled for being Spanky.

And don’t forget Porky. Otherwise he’ll eat your lunch. Literally.

With his hair now released from confinement, Buckwheat is now officially a guy.

And look out! Here comes Butch!

On disc seven, neighborhood bully Butch casts a shadow over the proceedings comparable to that of the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. It is because of him that I took an immediate dislike to David Johanssen.

Sexual politicals are now in full swing as the He Man Woman Haters club tries to get off the ground a couple of times, with at best mixed results.

Porky is revealed as the true originator of “Otay!” He and Buckwheat together create their own unique language, whose single grammatical law is to drop as many consonants as possible.

And I couldn’t quite notice that there’s quite the bit of cross-dressing.

Disc eight contains some very early silent episodes that are cute, but a little slow for me. It also has a lot of commentary that I can take or leave. So you could safely skip it.

As the series progressed, and the film quality improves, the episodes become shorter and less anarchic. The adults become more and more in charge of the situation. The plot lines start repeating with only slight variations. And the rascals themselves go from very poor city kids to almost middle class suburbanites.

Some other things I learned:

1. It’s really not a good idea to have the kids hang out in a train yard

2. Place the burglar alarm more than a foot off the ground

3. Try to keep the mothballs out of the soup

4. Children (and by extension, chimpanzees) don’t necessarily make the best caddies.

If you’ve never seen the Rascals I can’t guarantee that you’ll love watching them now, but if you’ve seen them before and want to relive them, you’re in for a treat. And if you think you’re above it all, I challenge you to use the word "isthmus" in a sentence.

So marvel at the fashion sense, be appalled at the poverty, appreciate the integrated cast, but be shocked at the casual racism, even in this well meaning setting. But above all have a good laugh.

When you watch these discs, I guarantee you’ll say “Isthmus be my luck day!”