HOW TO WATCH PORN AND STAY MARRIED

This week, Live from the Couch delves into advice for the brave souls among you who risk carpal tunnel syndrome to enjoy self-gratification and smut (yes, even the softcore variety).

First let’s set the ground rules. We’re not talking about full-on penetration, here. No woman worth marrying would allow anything from Vivid Entertainment in her home for more than one night—and even that would entail a costly visit to the Love Boutique and two or three extra glasses of wine. I’m referring to softcore porn from the ‘70s; the easy-listening, James Taylor variety of onscreen intercourse that tries to build a relationship before going all the way. Retro erotica is all the rage right now thanks to companies like Blue Underground and Severin Films. But trendiness isn’t a legitimate enough excuse; you need a well-rounded argument backed up by a solid business plan.

Follow these five simple steps and you too can soon be enjoying porn in your basement while the little woman watches Ghost Whisperer upstairs:

1)      Become a DVD reviewer. Easy said than done, I know. It took nearly a decade of begging and bribing various publicists on both coasts to become the man I am today: a part-time hack who barely makes enough each week to supersize his Baconator combo meal. Although the pay is poor to non-existent, most media outlets will let you keep the films you review which can then be added to your collection or (in desperate circumstances) used to construct a fairly sound DVD fort if your wife kicks you out.

2)      Lay the Foundation: Let’s assume you’ve cemented your reputation as a reviewer and now you’re drowning in new releases each week. Trouble is, you didn’t get into this to write 500 words on Ariel’s Beginning: The Little Mermaid 2. Well, man up, my friend! Yes, you’re forced to cover movies you don’t want, but it legitimizes your profession in the eyes of your significant other and establishes an alibi. Trust me, after asking her to sit down and watch Scorpion King 2: Rise of a Warrior, she’ll find somewhere else to be.

3)      Cover Your Ass: The day that first copy of Black Emmanuelle arrives is both triumphant and a little bit scary. Your first instinct will be to hide it in whatever pathetic excuse you call a porn stash (which your wife probably stumbled upon years ago and has beneficently allowed to continue). Fight the urge! In fact, let her open the package. Address any questions or concerns in a calm and rational matter. Explain that your job requires you to view films of many different genres—in fact, you’ll be covering an Ingmar Bergman set next week from the same company—and in order to continue receiving product you owe them some coverage. She’ll be suspicious. She may mock you. Laugh with her! Point out the amusing irony that you’re actually being paid to review porn. Eventually, the idea of extra income will defuse the situation.

4)      Open the Tap: Don’t get greedy! The amount of smut entering the house still has to remain at a significantly lower percentage than Ashton Kutcher comedies and season sets of Desperate Housewives. However, the foundation you’ve laid in Step Two should allow for a certain degree of freedom. Create a viewing space for your “naughty” movies, watch them only after 10 p.m. and keep a low profile.      

5)      Live the Dream: Congratulations! By now you’re adding $100-150 a month to the family income by watching simulated sex from master directors like Jess Franco and Joe D’Amato while becoming well versed in the physical assets of flat-chested European women who don’t shave their pits. Victory never smelled so sweet!

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America—Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.

ARE YOU READY FOR THE COUNTRY?

Upcoming albums from a Nashville veteran in exile, three scionesses of outlaw country, a British wanderer, and a young Midwesterner with album-of-the-year ambitions.

Fall is already crowded with big country albums—Tim McGraw, Kellie Pickler, Lucinda Williams, and, um, Darius Rucker and Jessica Simpson—but a few strong efforts by two rookies and two vets promise to sail under the radar, through not fault of their own. Four to watch out for, and don’t miss this first one.

(Photo: Joshua Black Wilkins)

Jessica Lea Mayfield: With Blasphemy, So Heartfelt (Polymer, September 16)

If the women of Carter’s Chord sing about “Young Love” from an older perspective, Rust Belt belter Mayfield reports from the front lines. On the eighteen-year-old’s debut, the dark mood (courtesy of producer Dan Auerbach, who dueted with Mayfield on the Black Keys “Things Ain’t Like They Used to Be,” from Attack & Release) hooks you, Mayfield’s haunted voice reels you in, but it’s her songwriting that keeps you on the line. “I was walking with your left hand in my back pocket,” she sings on “For Today,” “and I stared at the sky while you kissed me.” But the chorus carries the kind of weighty confession that Lucinda Williams used to pen with her grocery list: “I could care less about you, care less about you/I love the sound of you walking away.” Young love isn’t sweet; it scars. That Mayfield can sound so much older than her years gives With Blasphemy So Heartfelt its dire gravity and invites you to obsess over it.

On repeat: the whole damn thing

Rodney Crowell: Sex and Gasoline (Yep Roc, September 5)

“This mean ol’ world runs on sex and gasoline,” Crowell sings on the title track to his thirteenth album, which is equally angry and randy. The singer/picker is outraged, but he’s not pining for some idealized past. That title track ends with an apt punchline: Same as in your mother’s day. The world’s always been screwed, in other words. Producer Joe Henry gives Crowell’s dissent a dark, smoky sound but mostly and wisely steps aside and lets the singer rail like Dylan, even wondering what it’d be like to be the first female president—his empathy is both comic and deadly serious. Most of all, the album runs on sex: “Moving Work of Art” (as in, “she’s a…”) is the seduction, “I Want You #35” is all taut tension with no release, “The Night’s Just Right” is pretty much self-explanatory. The world’s falling down around him, but Crowell just wants to make time.

On repeat: “I Want You #35”

Carter’s Chord: Carter’s Chord (Show Dog Nashville, September 16)

You could argue that Carter’s Chord are Toby Keith’s own Dixie Chicks. After all, he signed the all-female trio to his Show Dog label and co-produced their self-titled debut. While these sisters—Becky, Emily, and Joanna Robertson, daughters of parents who toured with Waylon Jennings back in the ‘70s—may lack the Chicks’ playful defiance (I’m thinking more “Goodbye Earl” than “Not Ready to Play Nice”), they have enough personality and songwriting chops to excuse themselves from the crossfire from that culture war. Their voices meld beautifully on these rock-country arrangements, especially on “Young Love” and “Dear Baltimore”. Only real dud is “Summer, Early ‘60s”, written by their mother, Carter Robinson, and closer to Garth Brooks’ “Thunder Rolls” than “Ode to Billie Joe”. On the other hand, opener “Boys Like You (Give Love a Bad Name)” sounds one power chord away from Bon Jovi, although it’s tough to tell if they’re in on the joke. Probably not, and more power to them.

On repeat: “Young Love”

Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs: Dirt Don’t Hurt (Transdreamer, October 14)

There’s only one Brokeoff, and his name is Lawyer Dave. He and Golightly team up for her fourth album, playing down-and-dirty country-folk numbers and rural blues stomps that sound like De Stijl-era White Stripes or Giant Sand relocated to the Ozarks. Their voices—hers high and clear, his low and gruff—meld nicely amid railroad harmonica, muddy guitars, and pots n pans percussion. They do right by Claudia Swann on “I Wanna Hug Ya, Kiss Ya, Squeeze Ya” and they do even better by Traditional on “Cluck Old Hen”, but the best songs here are Golightly originals like the clattering “Accuse Me” and the uptempo gospel “Gettin’ High for Jesus,” which is the country cousin to King Missile’s “Jesus Was Way Cool.” The big guy coulda turned wheat into marijuana and sugar into cocaine, but Golightly and Dave turn blasphemy into something resembling salvation.

On repeat: “Gettin’ High for Jesus”

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington , DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

“Dude, have you been to Berlin yet?!”

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FITZ
Twisted Robot booking agent out of London and Berlin, Mighty Robot warehouse warden in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, club owner, label owner, party planner, behind the scenes rock purveyor. For the past nine years, Fitz has been an integral component in the noise, rock, punk, new wave, and psych movements burgeoning throughout four continents. Originally from The Land of Thin Lizzy, Fitz now resides in Berlin, where, with his business partner Paul Carlin, he runs the club West Germany, promotes shows at other venues around town, and books a select few bands touring European soil. Rocking through small clubs and massive festivals in six-week jaunts, the Twisted Robot roster currently includes Comets on Fire, Six Organs of Admittance, Black Dice, Japanther, and Rick Rubin's new darlings, Howlin' Rain.
  
Showcased here are Brooklyn’s DIY indie punk sons, Japanther (www.myspace.com/japanther), and London’s Sun Ra Archestra-meets-Bette Davis amalgam, Chrome Hoof (www.myspace.com/chromehoof). See also www.twistedrobot.com.

“Dude, have you been to Berlin yet?!” covers the music, art and fashion scenes in Berlin, as witnessed by Jenna Young, recent transplant from New York City and guitar player in the rock band Ghetto Ways.

While Mrs. Hamell is away, Ed and his son Detroit play.

Ed Hamell picked up the guitar at age 7 and started writing songs not long after. In his early 20s, Mr. Hamell was the front man and writer for an original band, but local bands were a dime a dozen in the tough, working class neighborhoods in Syracuse, NY. So he launched a one-man act called Hamell on Trial. Six albums (plus a live one) and countless shows later, Hamell himself is one of a kind. Catch him on tour this summer in the U.S., Canada and Europe.

THE CRAZY HOMICIDES: Twilight of the Old Brooklyn

Waxing nostalgic for a stylish street gang and the spirit of the city they tormented.

Last month I took a car service into Manhattan from my neighborhood in Brooklyn. The driver was a Dominican or Puerto Rican about my age. The conversation quickly embarked on "the changing of the neighborhood," the most common form of small talk in NY since 'Where were you on 9-11?' This stroll down memory lane turned into a'Where are they now?' of a peculiar group of Brooklyn residents in the late 70's-mid 80's: The Crazy Homicides.

You could easily pick them out all over Park Slope, Sunset Park and Gowanus, cause they had a specific style. They all wore Civil War-type, Union cavalry hats--the kind with a small bill and a flat droopy top, and motorcycle-type leather jackets. My driver gleefully boasted, "My brother was one of their leaders. He was a very, very funny guy." I was stunned and shot back, "I was mugged once by a group of the them, and the one who did all the talking, was in fact, very, very funny!" The driver, without any sign of discomfort retorted "yep, that was probably my brother."

He continued with a gushing description of one of his brother's top career accomplishments--a victorious battle about eight blocks from where my recording studio was then, and is now. "[The rival gang] left the pool hall and were hanging on 10th St. My brother knew that they were waiting for more guys, so when they were about 30, he sent 20 of his guys down from 5th Ave., and another 20 up from 4th Ave. He had them trapped--six or seven of them ended up in the hospital." Ahhhh--epic Brooklyn history.

So, this is how my own "funny" encounter with The Crazy Homicides went, 27 years ago.

I was walking near my recording studio with Bill Laswell (Material, and major record producer). He was my studio/roommate at the time. Three Crazy Homicides approached from behind: "Hello, we're Brooklyn muggers, and you have to give us your money." The put-on announcer voice was disarming. I turn around to see three guys with big smiles, grasping big screwdrivers, in Union cavalry hats. The jovial tone made me decline the demand for money, and we kept walking.

Me and Laswell made the mistake of starting to talk about music. "Oh, artists," the funny guy says. "Now we'll have to throw you in the Gowanus Canal." The canal was, and is today, a fetid and toxic body of water on the edge of Park Slope. I quickly coughed up $40.

The mugging really ate Laswell up. A couple weeks later, we had seminal hip-hop artist Afrika Bambaataa at the studio. Bam, as everyone calls him, had himself been the leader of a gang in The Bronx called The Black Spades, that he later transformed into the pacifist and utopian Zulu Nation. There always were a handful of young devotees from the group following him around. Laswell had the vision of a great moment, The Zulu Nation taking an assertive stand against The Crazy Homicides in a defiant display of confidence. So, off they all go for "a walk," unbeknownst to Bam, to find the Homicides.

Laswell spots a few of them in a Blimpie. "Yo, why we goin' to Blimpie?" Bam inquires.

Now Bam had quite a gregarious style, as you might imagine an African king--leopard cap, lots of  jewelry, a staff. As they walk into Blimpie, the Homicides turn to face Laswell and Bam in a moment of silence. Then one of them bursts out: "Yo, it's Mr. T !" The two watch stonefaced as the Homicides burst into a torrent of laughter, practically falling out of their seats. "Hey, Mr. T!"

(For those too young to remember, Mr T. was a very popular black action movie and TV star who sported a heavy gold jewelry style, years before mainstream rappers like LL Cool J and Run DMC wore heavy gold chains.)

Back in the cab--2008--two men from Park Slope, Brooklyn are reminiscing about a neighborhood that's practically been erased from memory. I found myself lamenting the demise of a violent neighborhood gang, who had style and humor, and in that sense seemed kind of smart. We arrived at my destination, and the tone in the cab changed.

Sadness overtook the driver's face as he says, "Sorry about the $40." I don't think the look of sadness was about the $40, because he still charged me $30 for the ride. I think that in apologizing, it became clear that we'd moved forward, but that there's a trade-off. And that part of us that is mythologized with Jesse James and the OK Corral, and Don Corleone in The Godfather, is really just below the skin, periodically finding a toehold in our aspiring utopias.

By coincidence, I decided to buy a new lock for my door tomorrow, because I didn't feel safe enough. I think that ties it together nicely.

Martin Bisi is an American producer and songwriter. Visit him at www.myspace.com/theendcredits.

ONE-SIDED STORY: The Pursuit of Happiness

I was fairly obsessed with the Pursuit of Happiness for a couple of months during eighth grade, when it wasn’t uncommon to catch “I’m an Adult Now” on late-night MTV. Seriously, what dorky small-town eighth-grader wouldn’t be? Coming across like Weird Al’s id backed by the Violent Femmes ego, the Toronto band assayed smart, smart-ass lyrics about getting girls, not “getting” girls, and getting girls to do certain things, which are typically the three thoughts crowding any thirteen-year-old’s mind. So when I found the band’s 1990 album One Sided Story in the dollar bin, I was simultaneously elated (oh cool! I haven’t heard this band in nearly twenty years) and crushed (oh shit! I’m old).

One Sided Story is the lesser Pursuit of Happiness album, the confused follow-up to their 1988 debut, Love Junk. Todd Rundgren’s production sounds overly polished and flat, with Moe Berg’s vocals too low in the mix and the guitars defanged. And some of Berg’s songs sound a little too ungenerous (“Something Physical”) or too conceptual (“New Language”). Still, it’s hard to deny his angsty hook on “Two Girls in One” or the cocksure boy-girl exchange “The One Thing,” and Berg could write a sharp, witty lyric, whether he’s chasing an absurd comparison (“Your love is like greasy fried noodles...”) or making himself the butt of the joke (“Sometimes I go too far / The girls think I’m icky / They can see the boner in my pants”). One Sided Story is a hard album to love, even harder to hate, which pretty much sums up the relationships Berg’s singing about.

Despite their clever singles, this band was never going to be your life. But they had a vision of how rock and roll needs to sound—tense, lusty, rejected, dejected, smart, and hopelessly, darkly adolescent—and the clarity with which they pursued it means One Sided Story never sounds as dated as you would expect.

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington , DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

GEORGE OF THE LITERARY JUNGLE

Wrap your lips around these stories, baby.

Remember the first time you saw that Tarantino flick From Dusk till Dawn? Maybe you had a vague notion where the movie was headed. But about a third of the way through it (and if you’ve seen it, you know exactly at what point I’m talking about) the plot takes a left turn, careens off the road, and rattles through the mesquite and sagebrush at 80 miles an hour. That’s also the feeling you get when reading George Saunders’ short fiction. Saunders’ plots and characters sort of amble along at first, with fate throwing her customary curve balls, and people fucking things up as they generally do. And of course all of this happens in some slightly off-kilter setting, such as an amusement park or a museum devoted to an arcane subject. But at some point, Saunders will yank the wheel and you’ll find yourself careening through some strange territory.  

Probably the best Saunders short story collection is Pastoralia. The tales are reminiscent of Kurt Vonnegut’s work, and Saunders admits that KV is a major influence. Still, Saunders has a voice and post-modern spin all his own. And like KV’s work, Saunders’ stories are shot through with plenty of deadpan humor.

Saunders’ stories are best consumed in small portions. The plots and settings are so similar that they lose their flavor if you get greedy and gorge yourself on too many at once. And they’re not very filling—there are no deep connections with characters (really, you don’t give a shit what happens to them). But you can only take so much “serious” fiction before you feel like guzzling a pint of Clorox and then wrapping your lips around a Glock. So after a tough day at the office (berating your co-workers, cheating the public, stealing paperclips, ogling the new interns, inhaling a dozen Buffalo wings at Chili’s during lunch—whatever futile and desperate act fills that void once occupied by “ambition”) there’s nothing like a Saunders story to set your mind at ease. At least your life isn’t quite the train wreck it could be—just ask any character in a Saunders story about that.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

TWO-BUCK CHUCK

Charles Willeford's sleek, mean prose is worth more than two fuckin' bucks.

No doubt you’ve been known to haunt used book stores on occasion. Or maybe a book sale hosted by your local library. I make that assumption because that’s the type of person who would be reading this blog to begin with. If you’re averse to used book stores or haven’t set foot in a library since Reagan was regularly dropping a deuce in the White House, then fuck you, please visit this blog and let the grownups talk for a while.

Anyway, as much as I love trolling ratty book stores and library sales for decent reading material, there are three inherent drawbacks: 1) It’s too goddamn exhausting to elbow your way past the gargantuan hausfrau wedged between you and that table over there loaded with Really Good Books; 2) It’s difficult to hold your breath for an hour to avoid sucking in the pervasive odor of dried sweat, unwashed asses, and Camembert cheese that seems to swirl around people who frequent these places (present company excluded, of course)—why does “reader” have to equal “lonely, shit-stained derelict?”; and 3) It’s a little bit depressing to find a book you love languishing in a discount bin.

This third point was ably demonstrated the other day, when I discovered Charles Willeford’s The Way We Die Now for about two bucks at a local bibliophile hangout. What a goddamn shame. Willeford’s prose is sleek and mean, and his crime fiction is (prepare for a shocker) character driven, not propelled by the plot alone. Willeford didn’t get much props when was alive, and today certainly doesn’t get the credit he’s due. Consider yourself too “refined” to read crime fiction? Willeford will change your mind about that. He’s what they call a “writer’s writer” (Jesus, I hate that phrase … but it fits), and no Willeford novel should ever be moldering away on a chipped, folding table—which was probably sitting beneath bad pastry for a Mormon church fundraiser twelve hours previous—for two fuckin’ bucks. There’s no dignity in that.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

Seriously. Even I'm over it. Not the novelty of Guitar Hero (God willing, that'll never wear off).... Rain forests, black rhinos, the ozone layer; now that shit needs saving. But the music industry? Puh-leeze [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentati on of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.