WHITE MEN AND THEIR TOYS

I don't think the super rich are evil, but I fear they are out of touch--and that's dangerous.

Car traffic on the interstate highways has thinned out a bit in recent months, but the number of privately owned Prevost tour buses seems to have remained constant. The Prevost, squared off and boring looking, long ago replaced the more flamboyant looking Silver Eagle as the preeminent mode of band transportation, but most of the Prevosts I see on the highway don't appear to be hauling bands. Bands don't tow cars behind their buses, and most of the buses I see have some sort of SUV in tow. No, these buses, burning $4.50 a gallon diesel by the tanker load, are hauling rich people, and there are a whole bunch of them. One of these guys is a fan of ours who likes to drive his bus up from Lake of the Ozarks Missouri to Kansas City whenever we play at Knuckleheads. Our stock rises when he shows up because he parks his bus in front of the club and everybody thinks it's ours. Once, he came up towing his BMW. Somewhere in the blackness south of Jeff City, the driver noticed an orange glow in the side mirror and pulled over to find that the BMW was on fire. The owner simply unhitched the Beamer and they left it burning by the road.

It's amusing to hear about such extravagance in isolated incidents, but when I see all those buses pulling all those cars, burning all that expensive diesel merely for the amusement of the owners, I can start to go full-on Commie. Why do they get such big toys, and at what cost to the rest of us?

Meanwhile, back in Austin, the downtown skyline changes daily. We return from a six-week run to find that yet another high-rise condo, units all sold before construction commenced, has been completed. Where is all this money coming from? The economy is bad right? The condos are messing with the music scene. Condo buyers don't want to live near music venues, even here in the city that bills itself as “Live Music Capitol of the World,” so the developers are pressuring the city to lower the noise ordinance to 70 decibels at property line, way quieter than your lawyer neighbor's new Harley, and crippling for a music venue across the street from a construction site. Some clubs manage to get grandfathered in. Some don't. Those that do can expect the rules to change.

I was at a party in one of those new condo units once. The place turned out to be a sort of urban retreat for a couple who mostly lived on a high fenced ranch out in the hill country. The condo was one more toy. When you get that rich, is anything essential? I asked the fellow what he did for work. He said he was a cedar chopper. File under “Oh, please.” Cedar choppers were flinty, wiry fellows with gnarled up hands from gripping axes who, in the time of my grandfather, supplied ranchers with cedar fence posts. They rarely chopped cedar off their own land, as they generally had none. Now, in the era of mass produced metal fence posts, cedar chopping is an endeavor reserved for presidents on a photo op and rich guys whose wives want them out of the house for a while. I never did find out where his money came from.

The guy who left his Beamer burning by the road owns a club on Lake of the Ozarks. We played there once. I would never have guessed that there were so many 50-foot yachts in the middle of Missouri. The Mississippi Gulf Coast was once referred to as the Redneck Riviera, but I think that title now should go to Lake of the Ozarks, a vast manmade impoundment on the Missouri and Osage Rivers, which I'm told, has more navigable coastline than California, due to all the feeder creeks and secondary rivers that it backs up. But the yachts, My God they're everywhere. Most are wrapped in white plastic, perched on trailers in the lots in front of the dealerships that line the roads around the lake. Many more are lined up in slips down in the marinas, and quite a few are floating around in the coves, their owners and their friends lounging on the decks, drinks in hand, eyeing one another across the brown water. I asked why no one seemed to be fishing and was told that the fishing wasn't much good around there.

So the main sport seemed to be one-upmanship. The talk was all about who had the biggest boat. Someone pointed across the cove to an amphitheatre where some big touring act had recently played. The amphitheatre faced the lake, and there were slips where, for a fee, one could pull one's 50-foot yacht in and watch the show from one's very own deck chair. Virtually no one came to our show, but the club owner paid us well and provided the right wine back stage, a rare occurrence. He said he was sorry we hadn't gotten there in time to go out on his boat. This guy looked like he could have actually been a cedar chopper. By his wiry build and hillbilly twang, I guessed he had been raised in poverty, busted his way out of it in a big way, and was now proceeding to have himself a time.

I don't think the super rich are inherently evil, but I fear they are out of touch, and there is a danger in their being out of touch. Everyday, I see the physical evidence of extreme wealth sliding into the hands of a few. My fear is that those condo owners and Prevost drivers, despite the fact that they make up a very small percentage of the population, will be calling the shots for all of us—elites always do somehow, even in more or less democratic countries. How do you convince people who can afford to leave their burning cars beside the highway to care whether or not the rest of us can afford health care? Can they be made to understand that the price of the diesel they pump into those buses on their way to Disneyland affects the price of food, catastrophically for some. It's a hard sell, especially here in the States, where we still have enough room to isolate ourselves from people we believe to be different from ourselves. It's easy to pretend that other people's problems won't effect us, as long as they're out of pistol range or over a wall.

Singer-songwriter James McMurtry lives in Austin, Texas. When he’s not touring, you can see him at the Continental Club every Wednesday, ‘round about midnight. His latest album, Just Us Kids, is out now on Lightning Rod Records.

MEAT GROUP

Joe D’Amato’s Papaya: Love Goddess of the Cannibals is more of a sausage fest.

Not that the world couldn’t use another scathing expose on the dangers of nuclear power in third world countries—you just wouldn’t expect it to come under the title Papaya: Love Goddess of the Cannibals (Severin Film, 89 minutes). And certainly not from Joe D’Amato, a director whose previous career highlight involved a woman jacking off a Clydsedale. But this 1978 skin flick gets so sidetracked on social issues and island politics that it forgets to deliver on the title’s promise of death and debauchery. Things start promisingly enough with some foreplay involving the aforementioned tropical fruit and a surprise castration, but our guide through the overly plotted story, Sirpa Lane (infamous for her own animal act in Walerian Borowczyk’s The Beast), is far from masturbatory material. Co-star “Melissa” spends most of the film topless, but her sex scenes are such a timid touch ‘n grope act that the occasional flash of full frontal male nudity is actually a welcome break in the monotony. In the plus column, D’Amato composes some classy shots and the editing is intermittently inspired. That’s still not enough to make Papaya worth watching, but composer Stelvio Cipriani funktastic score makes the whole thing worth listening to, anyway.

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.

EVERYONE KNOWS IT’S WENDY

Dave Thomas, You Were A God Among Men

When I was in college, my girlfriend (who foolishly became my wife some years later) worked at Wendy’s. At closing time, I’d tap on the drive-through window, and she’d let me in so could gorge myself on all the free leftover burgers, ice cream, and chili I could cram down my gullet. Eat. Puke. Eat again. Jesus, I loved Wendy’s. Still do. That’s why I just about shit up my back when I learned about Joe Wendroth’s book, Letters to Wendy’s (Wave Books, 2000). Here’s the fiendishly clever idea: The book is a series of notes to Wendy’s management, ostensibly written on comment cards, from an unnamed narrator who sings the praises of the fast food chain. He also posits a few suggestions, such as establishing Wendy’s as a place for public executions. It’s sort of like a collection of prose poems, really. Sometimes disgusting, sometimes pornographic, always a thrill, the book can be read in about the same time it takes a typical Wendy’s crew to close down the restaurant for a night—couple of hours, max. My newfound purpose in life is to read this book while at Wendy’s, and film the whole thing for YouTube. Look for it.

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. 

OLDIE OF THE WEEK: TOMMY PAGE

Teenpop done well? Yeah, actually.

Even as new CDs arrive by mail, I’m always compelled to pull out old ones on a whim. Previously I wrote about Team Dresch and Those Bastard Souls, but this week I’m obsessed with someone a bit less reputable: Tommy Page.

His single “I’ll Be Your Everything” was a number-one hit in 1990, but it sounds like crap today. “A Shoulder to Cry On” has weathered the years much more gracefully, even if it remains a towering monument to the power of schmaltz. A new Jersey-born singer in the mode of New Kids on the Block (with whom he toured and recorded), Page recorded the songs in 1988, when he was 18 years old. And he sings it like an 18-year-old, which is part of the reason why it still holds up.

As teary ballads go, “A Shoulder to Cry On” is actually really good—big, direct, simplistic, yet stylish. By far the best part of the song comes right at the moment when the bridge transitions into the final climactic chorus: famed producer Arif Mardin and son Joe have inserted the sound of a revving motorcycle, implying some neo-mod leanings that may or may not actually exist but at fun to think about in a ‘90s teenpop context.

His voice slightly feminine but infused with effortless empathy, Page is harmlessly handsome and hammy here, playing the wiser, older friend to comfort all the teenage girls the song was written and sung for. The adult cynic in me thinks he’s playing sensitive to get into her pants, but I don’t really think Page has ulterior motives here. There is no subtext in “A Shoulder to Cry On,” only text. Besides, the genius of the song is that it plays into listener fantasies, allowing let’s say a young teenage girl to imagine a handsome older boy drying her tears while pledging his undying devotion. That it inspires a kind of playacting means it’s much more active that most of the teenpop created in the nearly twenty years since.

Watch the video and marvel at the fashions: Page’s turtleneck-and-varsity-jacket ensemble is period-accurate, but it’s overshadowed by the model’s floral-print dress, which manages to split the difference between Laura Ashley modest and Frederick’s of Hollywood revealing. 

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.

FANS 2.0

In some cases, video really does kill the radio star.

My favorite band is old and ugly.

Or at least that’s the case for my favorite member. Harsh, I know. But compared to today’s annoyingly skinny, nubile poster-boys of rock, I could care less… in my minds’ eye, he’s hot, hot, hot. Oh, and also one hell of a guitar player. Call me smitten. Read more...

A Triple-A radio programmin g 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.

NO COUNTRY FOR PANSIES

You will read this archaic, pseudo-biblical diction, pal--and you will like it.

I’m late to the game on this, but I read Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men not too long ago. Yes, I know there was a movie by the same name that won some awards at some kind of big-time movie show or some shit like that. But I refused to see the movie before reading book. The reason is simple, folks: I refuse to let some Hollywood starlet humper (some of you call them “directors”) dictate how I will experience a story. That’s between me and Mr. McCarthy, thank you very much.

Anyhow, after thoroughly enjoying NC for OM, I dove right into McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Holy Jesus. What a beautiful, bloody, ass kicking tale that is. Forget about those supposed badasses you’ve seen in celluloid Westerns. Clint Eastwood is a corset-clad, simpering little milksop compared to the dirt-eating boys in Blood Meridian. Yeah, I know the complaints about Meridian: “I don’t understand it, the language is too hard to follow … why can’t he write it in plain English?” Suck it up. Sometimes reading is hard. McCarthy is employing an archaic, pseudo-biblical diction that’s perfect for this kind of story. If you don’t want to work that hard for your entertainment, stick to pawing your way through your girlfriend’s Victoria Secret catalog, tough guy.    

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.

PORK FROM HEAVEN

George Carlin is probably hand-delivering the pork to J.C.

Well, you did it, America. You’ve killed George Carlin.

I know what you’ll say. “He always had problems with his ticker!” And it was probably nothing more than a good, old fashioned heart attack that claimed his life on June 22. Genetics, hard livin’ and an atrocious diet, most likely. But I’ll tell you something: I prefer to think of Carlin cashing in his chips because of something he saw you doing on television, America. He shot up from the La-Z-Boy, pointed at the TV with an impossibly long finger, furrowed his brow in that oddly plastic way he had, and exclaimed, “What the fuck?” And that’s when the chest pains began. I have no idea what he was watching—maybe another round of moral cluck-clucking about all those knocked-up teen girls in Massachusetts. Who knows. But Jesus, America. I’m sure it’s something you’ve done that pushed Carlin over the edge. Fuck knows you’ve given me chest pains on more than one occasion. (And in some small measure, we all owe G.C. a debt of gratitude for the freedom to say the word fuck in certain circumstances. The litany of tributes and memorials that have come in the last few days will cover that territory, so I won’t go into detail here. But for a crash course, click here. 

George Carlin wrote a handful of books, most notably Brain Droppings (1997), Napalm & Silly Putty (2001) and When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? (2004). But of course you don’t get the whole Carlin experience by reading his books, good as they are. Your best bet is to snag his DVDs. Five minutes in you’ll be struck by how many of today’s comics pale in comparison, and how little they have to say (I’m lookin’ at you, Dane Cook.)

When I was a young’un, there were a few HBO programs my parents expressly forbade. Such as Risky Business—primarily because of the Tom Cruise/Rebecca DeMornay scene on the train, still one of the hottest goddamn simulated sex scenes in cinematic history. The other program on the shit list was, well, anything with George Carlin. But many years later I had an opportunity to catch G.C. live in Salt Lake City—which is the most mind-humping juxtaposition of mental imagery in and of itself. Several people walked out during the show (especially after he began skewering the Mormons—what did they expect?). He was in rare form.

Goodnight, George.   

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.

SOMETHING FOR EVERYBODY

Getting a leg up on impending new stuff.

Back for more? Here are three upcoming releases you should know, and one you can blow off. You... are... almost... savvy.

Broken Social Scene Presents Brendan Canning: Something for All of Us (Arts & Crafts, July 22)

The Broken Social Scene reproduces asexually, producing buds that eventually separate when mature. Already, the Toronto outfit has spawned solo debuts from Emily Haines, Feist, Kevin Drew, Amy Millan, Jason Collett, and now Brendan Canning. Canning was one of the Scene’s founding members, so it’s no surprise that the songs on Something for All of Us retain that band’s low, forward thrust and its patient cacophonic crawl. “Chameleon” buzzes with synths, gradually building but never peaking. Instead, it gives way to the guitar duel of “Hit the Wall” and the errant folk of “Snowballs and Icicles.” Hell, if you close your eyes, you might think it’s the new Scene album. Nothing wrong with that.

On repeat: “Something for All of Us”

Andre Williams: Can You Deal with It? (Bloodshot, July 29)

The man who wrote “Shake a Tail Feather” returns to Bloodshot after nearly a decade, this time with the New Orleans Hellhounds in tow. On the talking-blues “Hear Ya Dance,” the seventy-two-year-old can still sing so low and lewd you can only hear him in your gut, but he spends most of this short album speak-singing with gravel in his mouth, still animated and raunchy and cartoonishly threatening on “If You Leave Me.” The Hellhounds don’t have the range or refinement of The Sadies (who backed Williams on his ’99 Bloodshot album Red Dirt), but maybe that’s for the best: With cult-legendary Crescent City organist Mr. Quintron, the group craft a sloppy garage-punk sound that matches Williams’ loose delivery and lascivious lyrics, drawing out his ruffian tendencies. They can deal with it.

On repeat: “Pray for Your Daughter”

Taylor Hollingsworth: Bad Little Kitty (Self-release, July 29)

Taylor Hollingsworth’s in-jokes—like launching your third album with the most obnoxious rock-dork introduction you could imagine—can get a little annoying. But get past the shit-eating-grin persona and you’ll find a strong blues-punk album that combines the brattiness of the Black Lips with the southern-rock jams of old-school Molly Hatchet. The Birmingham-born rabble-rouser, who has played with 13ghosts, Maria Taylor, and Conor Oberst, writes riffs like dirty jokes, but these songs have real wit. “Damn Boy (What’s Wrong with You),” which has the inevitably of a theme song, slyly rewrites the Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself” as a loser’s anthem that’s even more sordid and surly. And “TNT & Dynamite” is the running-naked-in-the-yard bastard child of Southern Culture on the Skids and Jon Spencer. But “You Don’t Treat Me Like a Man” cuts through the humor to find a kernel of real heartache, and “Christmas Blues” manages to sound actually kinda pretty. For God’s sake, though, skip that introduction and just delete “Bad Little Kitty,” whose pop-metal rave-up doesn’t make up for the full-minute of Hollingsworth repeating the album title and distorting his voice. Dork.

On repeat: “Damn Boy (What’s Wrong with You)”

Here’s dud in your eye:

Ratatat: LP3 (XL, July 8)

This duo made a big noise a few years ago with their self-titled album, but all I hear now are crickets.

On repeat: something else.

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.

STRIPPING IT DOWN

'Nuff said.

As an industry insider, whining, while overrated, is mandatory. So here goes: radio sucks, labels are greedy, people have no taste, musicians are short on talent, and yes, Ticketmaster is demonic. Wah [...]

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 presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

What do a bag of crack, an expertly scripted porn flick and a strawberry shortcake have in common?

Last week, I recommended Under the Influence, a look at the “war on drugs” from 30,000 feet. Want to get down to ground level and get a sense for what the “war” does to people? Check out Eric Schlosser’s Reefer Madness: Sex, Drugs and Cheap Labor in the American Black Market (Mariner Books, 2004). Granted, the whole book is not dedicated to the topic, but the section of the book Schlosser dedicates to the legal, political, and judicial twists of dope enforcement will make your skin crawl. Schlosser is a top-notch journalist—and he gets down and dirty with folks whose lives have been seriously fucked by a legal system gone haywire. The rest of the book—with sections on immigrant farm workers and the porn industry—makes for compelling reading as well. Schlosser chronicles the lives of real people caught up in each of these facets of an underground economy that is more far-reaching, profitable, and stable than today’s politicos would dare admit. Hell, with drugs, sex, and strawberry pickers in one book, how could you go wrong? I know I’ll never look at a bag o’ crack, an expertly scripted porn flick, or a strawberry shortcake the same way again. (P.S.: I’m combining all three in a special Schlosser-themed party at my house next Saturday. Come on over.)

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.