SONG #130: Touch And Go

The Cars, Panorama, 1980

I remember Richard Love (my first musical guru-- he should get an avatar credit on this blog) explaining to me why The Cars were a great band while we watched them on TV in 1981.  I was staying over at my friend Chris' house, and The Cars were playing this song live on some show (it might have been Don Kirschner's Rock Concert), and Richard pointed out to me all the specificity in the arrangement, especially on keyboards and percussion.  It was a great lesson in listening, one of hundreds that he imparted.  As always, thanks, Richard.

I can't say it turned me into a Cars fan for life, though.  I think their song "Magic" killed the band for me in some fundamental way.  Can't say why-- it's no more annoying or more harmful that hundreds of songs like it, but for some reason it's fingernails on a chalkboard for me.  I really hate it (even more than actual magicians), so much so that I didn't listen to The Cars for about fifteen years after that.  Check out the video-- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bEu9wLDjKY  .  I'm that guy screaming at the beginning.  Do you hear that fake snare drum?  It's a nail in my soul, every time.

This project reintroduced me to The Cars, and I once again can listen to their early stuff.  The first album is the only one worth buying, but I actually think this album, their third, is the most interesting.  After blowing up instantly with the first two records (which have all those hits that you remember with varying degrees of nostalgia and "Oh, yeah-- that Circuit City song" awareness) leader Ric Ocasek wanted to make a "statement" record instead of just another collection of million-selling pop songs.  I'm sure the band was thrilled.  

Ric-- Hey, guys!  I'm ready to make another record!

Band-- Awesome!  You are printing money, Ric!  Can't wait! I'm gonna buy an offshore island this time!

Ric-- Not so fast!  I think we've done all we can with the traditional "pop song" idiom.

Band-- Who are you calling an idiom?

Ric-- Ha ha.  Seriously, now that we're a serious band, I'd like to make an art record, one for the ages, to cement our reputation in rock history.

Band-- Um... we're a serious band?  We're called THE CARS, for God's sake.  Please, man, just stick to the formula:  three minute hit, world tour, wheelbarrows of cash.

Ric-- Don't worry.  It will be arty and still sell!  We've got the world's ear!  I am a significant artistic voice.  

Band-- Well, can we hear some of your ideas?

Ric-- You bet.  For example, the title track is going to be six minutes of disconnected, angular atonal harmonies with synthesizer sound effects.

Band-- (Sigh).  Time to start investing in long-term securities, I guess.

Amazingly, though Panorama was a predictable dud, it didn't kill the band's career and still had a few hits on it (I even like the weirdo title track).  Ocasek rebounded by writing two more huge pop albums (he quickly fell in love with the pop song again-- "Shake It Up," "Since You're Gone," "You Might Think," "Tonight She Comes"), releasing a weird solo record, marrying Paulina Porizkova (sixteen years his junior), and retiring from public view to produce acclaimed albums by Bad Brains, Weezer and Guided By Voices.

Yes.  This man:

the human praying mantis

married this woman:

the Sports Illustrated swimsuit model and children's book author

and was basically never seen again.  Ladies and gentlemen, a man who is clear about his priorities... Ric Ocasek!

(I have feared, though, that he is in fact an actual praying mantis, and ate her.  Has anybody seen the two of them together lately?)*

"Touch And Go" rides the line perfectly between "hit" Cars song and "artsy" Cars song.  It's definitely strange, but it's still catchy as hell, and I think all the parts come together here in a memorable way.  The opening rhythm is as mathematical and jarring as a pop song can get, and it's coupled with that airy, icy synth sound and the robotic bass line.  Moreover, it's not like Ocasek's voice warms things up-- "All I need is what you got," he sings, sounding like a creepy, desperate stalker.  For the first minute, it's a song about not being able to relax around somebody, and the music perfectly conveys that distance.  Artsy Cars.

At 45 seconds, the band insert an extra two beats, and it's suddenly Hit Cars.  The drums settle into a loping groove, the guitar comes in with cheerful counterpoint, and we're bopping along.  Even the synth succumbs to the rhythm.  Now Ric is happy and everything is "so right," even if it's "Touch and Go."  Then back to the verse form, with some added guitar flavor.  I get it-- the song itself is "Touch And Go," moving back and forth from challenging art music to inclusive harmonic music.  Very clever, Mr. Ocasek.  On top of all that, we get a classic late 70s complicated guitar solo complete with harmonic squeals that lasts almost 30 seconds.  Check out the sudden ending as well-- we're back where we started.  Great final touch.

Perhaps Richard was right-- what this song offers more than anything is a quick course in Songwriting 101.  Now that 25 years have passed, I forgive the Cars for their transgressions, but I retain the right to rip the "Magic" video in the future.  In fact, anyone want to take first crack in the comments?

LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpEXADpzhC8

* Cheap joke.  They seem like one of the happiest, most normal celebrity couples of all time.  Good for them, though I'm much more age appropriate for Paulina, as I would have happily explained to her in the mid-80s.

SONG #129: Younger Face

Dan Baird, Buffalo Nickel, 1996

One of the great tropes (sorry-- I went to grad school) of the rock 'n' roll canon is the grizzled performer with one last great song in him about the past (until Bettye LaVette's remarkable comeback, I would have said it's always a him).  There are tons of songs about the fading, forgotten singer who turns out to have a rich history and one last shot to tell it.  It's the "Rime Of The Ancient Mariner" retold as a rock song.  In fact, it's the entire plot of the latest Jeff Bridges movie (which was called Crazy Heart, but that I always think is called Baby Heart.  I think I want it to be a comedy in which old Jeff Bridges gets a baby heart in a transplant, and starts... ACTING LIKE A BABY!!  "Hey Bob, want to go to the movies?"  "No!  I wanna POOP myself!  Waaaaaaa!!!!!!"  Actually, I can't believe that movie hasn't been made yet.  Somebody call Rob Schneider immediately.)  

In any case, some of those songs are pretty moving ("Fountain Of Sorrow"), and some of them are pretty cheesy ("The Gambler").  What's great about this Dan Baird song is that it takes that theme and flips it on its ear.  It gives the gravitas-filled "history" song the big raspberry.

Dan Baird was the lead singer and songwriter in The Georgia Satellites, famous for "Keep Your Hands To Yourself," a yodeling hit from the 80s.  The Satellites showed promise, but in the end they were always a little too twangy for me.  They imploded after a few albums, and Baird started off his solo career with a pedestrian solo album featuring another jokey single called "I Love You Period"  (response line: "Do you love me question mark?").  Get it?  It's funny once, and then it's really annoying.  I think I'd prefer it to be a song by an extremely sensitive singer-songwriter called "I Love Your Period," a menstruation-solidarity song.  "When you scream at me about the dishes, I truly feel your pain/  I'll try not to breathe so loudly, and earn back your love again," etc.

Just when I'd written him off altogether, Baird released this second solo album, which I think is totally worth a listen, if only for this first song.  I love the sound of it-- gone is the cheesy twang of his earlier work.  Instead, he sounds like the Faces crossed with the Clash, all big guitars and big-pocket drums.  I fell in love with the sound first (and the Dylan-mocking album cover art):

but once I tuned into the lyrics, I was hooked.  The song is about that old, venerable performer (it's impossible not to think of Baird himself, at that point a fifteen-year veteran of the business) but this time, instead of offering wisdom, he's just annoying everyone:

Another five and dime, local would-be legend

Well you're nearly done so you'd better just let it ride

Kinda sad now you're outdated

Nothin' special, in fact you're faded

For the younger face to take your place

Please step aside

He's steppin' on your pride

For every old guy with a great story to tell, there are five who just want to tell you about the time their band opened for The Guess Who in 1970.  Frankly, I feel like I have to be careful of coming off this way when I write this blog sometimes (I played with Phil Lesh!  A guy I know plays stadiums!  I met Elvis Costello!).  When I first heard this song at age 25, it made me laugh.  Now, I laugh, but much more knowingly.  I've been in this conversation more than a few times now, on both the giving and receiving end, and Baird's warning is well-taken:

And if you're gonna bore us to death with those worn-out war stories,

At least have the decency to buy us all another round

Kinda strange now, you don't matter

In fact you'd better be quick to flatter

The younger face come to take your place,

Don't it bring you down

And this used to be 'your' town

The other thing the song captures perfectly is the sycophantic nature of some music friendships.  Everyone wants to be friends with whomever is the next big thing, and sometimes that can lead to some pretty catty behavior.  I can't imagine what people have said about me once I've said goodnight.  If you allow yourself to think about it too much, you'll never pick up an instrument again.  It's a sad fact about the music community that sometimes the worst musician in the world is the one that just went to get a beer.

He sticks out his hand, smiles and says 'hey thanks for your memories.'

As he turns around walks away, he's takin' everything you used to be

All the young lions laugh and point in your direction

Was it really that long ago that you stood inside their shoes?

Your final scene comes down so tragic,

Here it comes as if by magic,

The younger face come to take your place,

Man, you're yesterday's news

Got nothin' left to lose.

That last line is the song's most interesting, though.  Here's the thing-- if Baird is bring autobiographical here, and believes that his time has come and gone, then why make an album at all?  Moreover, why make one so good?  There's something liberating in being "yesterday's news" (especially if you've banked the royalties from a top 10 hit like Baird did).  I think the strength in the album and the song rests in that last line.  Baird is past his prime, and so now he can just make music.  Buffalo Nickel is his best work because it's his most natural and least calculated (what a lead vocal, too!  I love his voice on this track).  Unsurprisingly, once he stops trying to write hits, he writes one.  When there's "nothin' left to lose," who cares what people say about you?  I'm a much better player now at 40 then I was at 20, and I play at my best when I can get myself to care less about what people think of it.  As long as you're good, a younger man's mockery is just that kid's own lack of confidence.  Since we're all apparently going to live to 100, it's a good lesson for all of us not to start feeling worthless and beyond our prime too early.  

This song is funny, insightful and a great lesson in humility and the fickle nature of other people's opinion all in four minutes.  An aging thumbs-up all the way.

LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWlVfPMG8JI

SONG #128: No Quarter

Led Zeppelin, Earl's Court 5-24-75 (Bootleg)

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I recently read the new massive Zeppelin biography by Mick Wall, which actually had some fresh and interesting information.  Once you've read Hammer Of The Gods by Stephen Davis, all Zeppelin books usually disappoint, but Wall focuses more on the music itself than most Zeppelin books, and he's a smart listener.  Recommended.

It led me to go back and listen to Zeppelin in a more careful way than I have in years.  Zeppelin's albums are so familiar to me now that I sometimes forget actually to listen to them-- I can pretty much follow them in my sleep.  As I read the book, though, I queued up the album being discussed and let it play while I read about it, and remembered what a great, and more importantly, wonderfully weird band Zeppelin was.

I didn't always like Zep-- just ask my poor, beleaguered friend Mike.  In high school, Mike loved Zeppelin, and we gave him endless grief for it.  I was heavily into punk rock and all music fast and short, and Zeppelin somehow struck me as music for stoned, dumb metalheads.  I sat at so many desks in middle and high school with "Led Zeplin" or "Lead Zepplin" or "Led Zepline" carved into them-- if you can't spell your favorite band's name, why should I listen to them?  I also couldn't forgive all the Lord Of The Rings imagery-- I was too busy singing along to songs about the Labour Party and Nicaraguan independence.  Because Mike also loved Rush, documentaries about the holocaust, and foreign films, I lumped Zeppelin in with what struck me as unneeded artistic ponderousness.  Though I had become obsessed with Zeppelin IV in the 7th grade (remember the inner album art?  SPOOKY!):

by high school I had left them behind as a relic of childhood.  I remember driving to Florida on a road trip with four friends after graduating, and Mike trying to play In Through The Out Door on the car stereo, and the rest of us making ENDLESS fun of it.  When I burst out laughing at the beginning of "Carouselambra," (still the only acceptable reaction to that dreadful track-- worst use of a synthesizer in rock history), Mike got so mad that he pulled the tape out and wouldn't talk to us for half an hour.  I'm sure I made him listen to Husker Du for four hours after that as artistic punishment.

Now, of course, I have to eat crow and admit that I was just wrong and small-minded (except about "Carouselambra," which I think might be the worst track by a "major" band in rock history.  Just check out the first thirty seconds-- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1mOcNj8otI    Yipe!  Makes Rush's synthesizers sound like poetry.)  

Forgive me-- I was seventeen, after all.  What turned me around was the release in 1990 of the Led Zeppelin box set. I got a review copy for our college paper, and damned if it wasn't great, and since I had ignored them for years, I hadn't burned out on all the songs.  Though people used the words "Zeppelin Fan" as an insult on campus (indicative of incurable whiteness and a lack of love for hip-hop and globalism) I had to admit that they sounded tremendous to me, and I went back and really listened to the band's work for the first time in almost a decade.

I want to return to that word "weird" now.  It's impossible to hear Zeppelin anymore with new ears, since they're everywhere, and now sound like what rock music always sounded like, if that makes sense.  But as I spent the last two weeks with the catalog, I'm reminded how bizarre some of these records are, and I think the band's strangeness is why they continue to survive and transcend their time period.  It's too easy to forget that Zeppelin invented a sound and approach, and that some of their stuff is unthinkably strange to end up on an album these days.  

As exhibit A of the band's forgotten weirdness, I present this track.

"No Quarter" is originally from Houses Of The Holy.  It's written by John Paul Jones, the band's bassist and keyboardist.  Jones was famous for staying out of the craziness in the band's heyday, and also for being ignored by Plant and Page ever since.  I'm not sure why-- he's a phenomenal bass player, and not a bad keyboard player either, and seems like a friendly, smart guy who has aged gracefully.  "No Quarter" is his finest hour-- the one great song he's written (he also wrote "Carouselambra," so he's docked 725 cool points for that one).  

This version is from what Wall in his book suggests is Zeppelin's highest point-- a five night stand in May of 1975 at Earl's Court in London.  The band had just released Physical Graffiti, and sold out the 20,000 seat arena for five shows in minutes.  They were the biggest band on Earth, and were feted in the coolest city on Earth at its premier venue by hipsters, critics and rabid fans alike for an entire week.  By then, the show was close to four hours in length, featuring a sit-down acoustic section, and three mammoth solo moments-- this one for Jones, "Dazed And Confused" for guitarist Jimmy Page, and "Moby Dick" for drummer John Bonham.  Though four hours long, the show only featured about fifteen songs.  These three songs plus the "Whole Lotta Love" finale frequently lasted more than two hours by themselves.

See?  That's just weird.  No band would try that today-- even Phish or the most aggressive jam band.  It's not just bombastic and self-indulgent (it is surely both of those things as well-- remember Page's violin bow solo?  I prefer Nigel Tufnel, myself):

Page:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmNHtWqcXqY   (complete with hilarious Crowleyesque visuals)

Tufnel: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBiJ-K0IpDA

Narcicissm aside, this kind of approach to live performance is also extremely experimental and risky.  This "No Quarter" is almost 25 minutes long.  It has a solo piano section, but then it also has about twelve minutes of improvisation among Jones, Page and Bonham.  There's a template at work here, but they're also obviously working things out on the fly.  It's as adventurous as any Dead jam, perhaps more so because there are only three musicians onstage.  Jones is playing the bass with his feet on organ pedals.  The jam itself dips its toes in classical and jazz idioms as well as straight blues.  It's completely dissimilar to the "Zeppelin" sound people think of, and reminds us of the band's broad musical tastes.  The problem with bands that imitate Zeppelin is that they only like Zeppelin-- these guys liked all kinds of stuff, and it shows up in different places and ways all over their catalog.

What I find most appealing about this "No Quarter" is how much it expects of us as listeners.  The most admirable thing about Zeppelin was their assumption that their audience would follow them wherever they decided to go.  There were no singles, no attempts to placate radio, and they didn't play it safe in concert.  Quite the opposite-- a Zeppelin show was three plus hours of a band pushing itself.  There are a LOT of bad notes, and some moments when the band loses its place, but that's also pretty thrilling.  There's no drama in an AC/DC show-- it's the same every night.  I think that's what separates Zeppelin for me from other 70s dinosaurs; say what you want about them (and there's plenty to mock-- let's just remind ourselves what Page wore on stage at Earl's Court, shall we?)--

That silliness aside, this band was extremely musical.  And weird.  I really respect Plant for not wanting to go back on tour with the band.  There's no way they could ever recreate this kind of performance now, so better not to try,

So sit back and enjoy an unconventional way to reintroduce yourself to Led Zeppelin, almost half an hour of a kind of musical performance you can't get anymore in the age of 90 minute sets and "It has to sound EXACTLY like the album!" live performance.  Even Wilco, a band I admire as much as any other and whose live show is as good as it gets, would never push the envelope this far.  Keep music weird, I say!  

Mike-- enjoy your moment, even if it comes 23 years too late.

LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khLSrY4aBmA      (Part 1)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0nSFNtws-g&feature=related  (Part 2)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8hIIfXhFxE&feature=related     (Part 3)

SONG #127: Bird Song

The Grateful Dead, Veneta OR 8-27-72 (Bootleg)

It was just a matter of time...

Q:  What do Deadheads say when the drugs wear off?

A: This band sucks!!

There might not be another band with whom I have a more complicated relationship than The Grateful Dead.  If you're a music nut like me, then you've had to decide how you feel about this band, certainly one of the most influential of the last forty years, even if you hate them.  Here are some usual reactions to the question "How do you feel about the Grateful Dead?"--

Group A:  The Dead are one of the greatest bands of all time, breaking down barriers in terms of live performance and rock improvisation, and led by one of the greatest musicians of the 20th century in Jerry "Captain Trips" Garcia. 

Group B:  The Dead are historically interesting for helping to usher in a new kind of rock performance, and the story of psychedelic rock can't be told without them, but the music itself is fairly pedestrian and dated, and they stopped mattering in 1971.

Group C:  The Dead are a bunch of lucky poseurs.  

Group D:  I prefer Kraftwerk.

I have to admit that I fluctuate wildly through the first three of these camps.  There are times when the Dead is on the stereo, and I'm loving it-- I'm smiling and following along and totally understanding the Dead cult's obsession.  Then there are times when I find them completely harmless, but a little cliched, like a glass of Kool-Aid.  I don't object, but it would never be my first choice.  And then there are moments when I'm looking around and wondering if everyone else can hear what I do-- I have seen the Dead absolutely fall on their collective stolen face in such a shocking way that I can't believe that people would ever pay to see them again.

I've had over half-a-dozen distinct moments with the Dead, and perhaps that's why my response to the band is so varied.

1)  When I was twelve years old, Rodney Harris (a classmate of mine and cooler than me by a factor of about 700) lends me his copy of Live/Dead to listen to.  I had only heard of the band at that point, and what I had gathered was that they were an acid-drenched freakout band who would blow my mind with their otherworldly jamming.  They had just come and played the Cap Centre, and Rodney went with his older, cooler friends and came back raving about it.  I take home Live/Dead and put on Side One, the 23 minute version of "Dark Star," expecting my hair to be blown back.  I didn't know it at the time, but I was expecting Bitches Brew-era Miles Davis.  Instead, a gentle, almost pastoral jam slowly evolves over the first ten minutes.  It sounds to me like music that hobbits would dance to.  What the hell?!  I flip over the album, and get the next track, "St. Stephen," and it's better, but to my 7th grade ears, too slow, even at the end when the band starts to rock out.  Plus, what are these lyrics about?  "In and out of the garden he goes?"  Again, it conjures a picture for me of the midget lute players in "The Safety Dance" video more than anything.  

I give it back to Rodney totally disappointed.  I don't get it at all, and spend the next year listening to London Calling.

Baseball equivalent: Strikeout.

2)  The Dead come to RFK stadium in 1986 with Dylan backed by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers in a superconcert mini-tour.  

I go with my boys Chris and Mike, and we are DESPERATE for it to be an epic show.  Instead, it's a total mess.  The PA is dreadful, and we spend the entire 2 1/2 hour Dylan set playing "Guess that tune."  I am a HUGE Dylan and Petty fan, and I can't figure out what songs they are playing half the time, especially Dylan, who is so nasal in his singing in 1986 that every word sounds like "Hehhhhhhhhuh."  Then the Dead come out and stink it up.  These were the last two shows Garcia played before lapsing into a diabetic coma that almost killed him.  He has admitted that he was terrible on that tour.  All I can remember is them playing "Iko Iko" for what seemed like two hours.  (Looking back on the setlist, it's a night dominated by Bob Weir songs, never a good sign that Jerry is feeling well).  On the way home, Chris and I try to put on a brave face and convince ourselves that our 20 bucks (a FORTUNE for me in 1986) was well-spent.  Mike is more honest; "I thought it sucked."  Mike was right-- I've listened to tapes of both Dylan and the Dead's sets from 7/6 and 7/7/86, and no one should be very proud.

Two outs, no one on.

3) Summer of 1987-- a bunch of us drive up to Philadelphia to watch the Dead as Dylan's backing band at JFK Stadium.  

THIS time, I get it-- the Dead's set sounds terrific (we are much closer, and the PA is much stronger, and I have consumed a considerable quality of grain alcohol punch (lesson here kids: don't glug from a friendly Deadhead's "juice" bottle until you know all the ingredients)) and a bunch of better-chosen songs are much more fun.  Hilariously, though the Dead change their setlist every night, 33% of the set is the same as the year before, but this time you can actually hear the music.  I remember "Jack Straw" and "Terrapin Station" as particular highlights-- we have a GREAT time.  Dylan's set is much more fun, too-- he is pretty terrible, but at least he is endearingly terrible, and by that point we are in the first three rows, and I swear that during "Simple Twist Of Fate," as I was singing along, he changes the words, looks under the lights right at me, and winks.  I leave that night with a much more open mind about the whole Dead thing.  I even buy a 2 for 1 cassette of Workingman's Dead and American Beauty for the car the next day.

Score a single for the Dead.

4)  My college roommate Mark turns out to be a huge Deadhead.  He falls in love with a particular bootleg-- the Dead in the fall of 1977 at a tiny college in Toronto (considered by big time Deadheads as the band's greatest year post-heyday).  He listens to it every day for months, and I can't help but grow attached to it as well.  I come to know the little twists and turns in the versions so well that they sound like the "right" versions to me, even now.  The fact that the band's shows are so readily available appeals to the collector in me, and I start dipping my toe in the live tape water.  By the end of college, I have worked my way through the band's catalog (though at this point, a lot of their records are still out of print) have a dozen shows that I enjoy listening to, and even though the concerts I went to in those years were weak, I definitely have developed a serious soft spot for the band.

Men on the corners.

5)  I move to the Bay Area, and come to realize just how important the Dead are to SF culture.  There's nothing like the energy at a Bay Area Dead show-- I see them at Shoreline near the end of the band's first run in 1994, and I've NEVER seen a crowd react to a band's first number in the same way.  I actually find it a little frightening-- the entire ampitheatre is a jam-packed sea of moving bodies at dusk; it looks to me like the end of the world for a few minutes.  Sadly, the band are TERRIBLE that night.  Garcia is reading lyrics from a teleprompter and playing a Midi guitar that makes it sound like he's playing a flute most of the night.  On purpose.  On the other side of things, my roommate at the time, Charley, is a HUGE Deadhead, famous enough to have a book on the band dedicated to him.  He has thousands of hours of tapes and hundreds of Deadhead friends.  EVERYWHERE we go, he knows ten people.  It is impossible not to be a little enthralled by it all.  Moreover, the introduction of the Dick's Picks series means that there are hundreds of fabulous-sounding hours of Dead to check out.  I start to fall hard for a bunch of songs and performances, especially from 1969-1973.

Let's call it a walk-- bases loaded.

6)  Another full disclosure moment: I've now collaborated and played with Phil Lesh on three benefit shows, and he's not just a terrific guy, but just as good a bass player as Deadheads claim that he is.  

Here's a clip from our Blood On The Tracks show: that's my arm playing keys on the left, and Phil coming in and out of view on the right (and the mighty Brad Brooks on vocals).  

http://www.youtube.com/user/williebb39#p/u/12/FzIJC40KdlY

I'm plenty arrogant about my own bass playing, and I've learned a ton watching Phil up close in the last five years.  Music flows out of him, and he picks things up quickly and with total originality.  I actually think that his Phil Lesh and Friends band is the best thing any of the band members have done since Garcia's death.  Plus, he's a great dad, his autobiography was really well-written and provided a ton of insight into the band, and at 70, he still has the energy for a four hour show.  We should all be so lucky.  Phil pretty much represents everything that Dead would like to represent.  

Single, scores two runs.

7)  For all of the Dead's positive influence on Bay Area life, the scene surrounding the band is as sad as it gets.  The detritus that was caught up in the band's wake wanders the streets of every neighborhood around here-- sixty year-old, strung out acid and cocaine casualties are a permanent fixture of any Bay Area neighborhood.  It's sad and pathetic and an equally important part of the history of the summer of love.  The psychedelic love days of Haight-Ashbury lasted a few months-- the hangover is now about 43 years old.  Filthy homeless-by-choice teenagers still flock to Haight Street.  Burnouts come to our benefit shows and tell me how great I was at Winterland in '78.  When I tell them I was eight years old at the time, they say "Weren't we all, man..."  Go watch The Grateful Dead Movie, recorded in 1974 at the last five shows the band did before they semi-retired for a few years.  The music scenes are fine, but the backstage footage is simply horrifying.  My favorite shot is a bunch of stoned, inner circle folks taking shockingly deep hits from an medusa-style nitrous tank in the band's dressing rooms.  The clip is about 45 seconds long, and you can watch these folks destroy the final forty years of their lives right in front of you.  It's a sickening indictment of the Dead's world (and 70s rock culture in general)-- it's like watching drug porn.  Simply stomach-churning.

Strikeout, argue the call with the ump, get thrown out of the game.

So there you go-- in the right mood and with the right tape, the Dead and I are totally simpatico.  Catch me in a cynical mood and put on a late-80s audience tape, and I'm gonna get grouchy really quickly.

For those of you who are true believers wondering where I get off bring negative, and for those of you who want to know what I possibly could like about the Dead, I point you to "Bird Song" from Ken Kesey's farm in August of 1972.  

To you Deadheads-- I'm a practiced listener.  I've got all the essential shows, and I could easily engage in a "best Dark Star" or "most overrated Bettyboard" conversation.  To you skeptics-- it is true that you have to have an open mind about hearing the "right" performance of these songs.  "Bird Song" from 8-27-72 is a great place to start any Dead conversation.

This song is one of my favorites, though the band didn't play it as much as I would have liked, and never recorded a studio version.  It has everything I love about the Dead, though.  First, the lyrics are short and ethereal enough not to annoy.  In fact, I think they fit the music like a glove, and they're actually a fascinating alternate version of "Help Me" (see my last blog).  This song has the same "love of freedom" thing as its undercurrent.  Is it celebrating nature or wings or rootlessness?  Or all three?

Though I love Garcia's vocal delivery, creaks and all, it's the music that matters here.  This song has the groove that the band was born to play.  It lopes and dips and weaves.  It creates enough of a rhythm to be danceable, but it's completely elastic, slowing down and speeding up as it sees fit.  Over it, Garcia and Lesh counterpoint one another for over ten minutes, while Weir holds things down with his totally bizarro rhythm guitar playing (I'm not a huge Weir fan, but on songs like this, he's the secret ingredient).  The guitar riff is downright jazzy, and the chords set up Garcia for the playing he does best-- his ebuillient, major-pentatonic solos that keep searching for the happiest note.  On the other end of the scale, Lesh finds every alternate note for the root that he can without sacrificing the groove.  He's on fire here start to finish.

And here's the essential thing-- of course it's ragged in places, and there are bum notes, but NO OTHER BAND SOUNDS LIKE THIS.  You could play five seconds of the middle of this song, and anyone who listens to a lot of music could identify it as the Dead.  From about the four minute to the eight minute mark, the band displays without flinching all of its adventurousness and ability to listen to one another and fearlessness about losing control of the song.  Check out Garcia's work on the highest frets at around six minutes.  I think it's great and completely endearing.  And the hell of it is that four nights later the song probably was a ten car pileup.

If you want consistency, professionalism and reliability, the Dead will let you down every time.  If you like your edges frayed and well-loved and worn, though, I think you'll like this.  If you get hooked, be prepared to jump down a very long, varied and complicated rabbit hole.

So what am I, after all that?  I'm guess I'm a Deadhead who can admit when the emperor has no clothes.

LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=44z-bCHGVVs    (Part 1)   

            http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nno1WHaqwCk&feature=related (Part 2)

SONG #126: Help Me

Joni Mitchell, Court And Spark, 1974

Just went up to the woods for a few days of camping with Will and the Blog Gal, and I took two of those 33 1/3 books with me (if you don't know them, check them out-- http://www.33third.blogspot.com/).  The first one was about Elvis Costello's Armed Forces, an album I absolutely love and the second about Joni Mitchell's Court And Spark.  The Costello book I found almost impenetrable-- 141 pages of random insights that never quite came together for me as much of anything.  It was full of information, but hard work to finish (not unlike some of Costello's more recent albums).  On the other hand, Sean Nelson's Court And Spark book was terrific, and as soon as we were on our way home, I put it on the stereo for the drive.  It's a sign of a great book that it made me both want to hear the album again and also write about also.  Thanks, Sean-- you're a tough act to follow.

My relationship with Court And Spark is actually a very specific one.  In 1993, I went to visit my ex-girlfriend in Ann Arbor, MI for spring break.  We had just broken up, but we were 23 years old and felt the need to have a "we'll still be friends" visit for closure.  It might have actually gone OK, except for the fact that a) she had already met someone else who felt the need to meet me and tell me what a great boyfriend he was and b) I took the train to get there.

You read that right-- the TRAIN.  From SF to Ann Arbor.  On purpose.  Something told me it would be a good idea.  Let's just say that it's the last time I took (and ever plan to take) a long-distance train trip in this country.  We do a lot of things well in America, but Amtrak is NOT one of them.

The train left on a Saturday morning at 10am.  It was supposed to arrive in Ann Arbor at 8am on Monday.  Yes, that's 46 hours, but I figured that I'd have some drinks in the observation car, meet some fellow travelers, maybe have a great conversation or two, and sleep enough to still be cheerful on arrival.  I was way too poor to afford a sleeper car, so I had a seat that slightly reclined.  How bad could it be?

The train was 24 hours delayed.  A FULL DAY.  That meant that in Chicago they put us all on a bus that made 364 stops on the way to Ann Arbor, including TWO where passengers talked the driver to just stopping "here-- my house is right over there.  Right there!"  So we just pulled over on the side of the INTERSTATE and guys got out and ran into cornfields towards a few barely distinguishable houses.

Moreover, people riding the train were not the lovable, Woody Guthrie folks I was looking for.  There was one cute, interesting gal with raven hair and a slight French accent who I fell completely in love with for about 90 minutes in the observation car.  Other than that, I remember these seat mates:

a) a army guy on furlough headed home to "tear it up."  He got drunk in the bar car and threw up in his mouth through most of night one.  He was also deeply sexually repressed and, discovering I was from San Francisco, kept insinuating that I must be gay and might have a thing or two to show him.  He had a hard time saying goodbye in Wyoming.  He was the best seat mate I had;

b) a guy who got on in Nebraska who was an art student who explained his senior thesis project to me for 500 miles.  It involved a series of self-portraits as crucifixions.  He asked me twice if I knew how much Jesus loved me.  He had self-inflicted stigmata scars;

c) a woman who got on in her pajamas at 1am, asked me if I knew whether someone could file a police report for wife beating from a neighboring county, and then got off forty miles later;

d) a man who got on with a child wearing only a diaper, and rode with us for 100 miles without feeding the child, changing its diaper, or talking to it.  It wasn't until I became a parent that I realized the pure, unadulterated insanity of that moment.

So I got to Ann Arbor a full day late.  By then, I had been reclining in a seat or sitting in a bus for 72 straight hours.  My legs ached-- I was filthy from no shower and being in cramped, airless spaces.  I then had a truncated, awkward visit, and GOT BACK ON THE TRAIN to go home.  (Those doing math-- I was on the train to get to Ann Arbor for the same amount of time that I was actually there.)  I left at 10am on Friday, with a 10am Sunday arrival in SF on the itenerary.  

You can see where this is going-- I got into SF at 3:45am Monday morning, caught the 4:30am bus to Marin (after being harrased by a bunch of bored teenagers for about ten minutes-- who hangs around the bus station acting tough at 4am on a Sunday???  I still wonder about that) walked back to my apartment by 6:45am, took a shower, and went to work.  That's a 216 hour spring break, with 144 of them spent on trains and buses.  To visit someone seeing someone else.

SPRING BREAK!  IT'S FANTASTIC!

Remember, this was pre-cell phones, internet, or iPods.  All I had was my Discman and the 24 CDs I had painstakingly chosen, and 36 Huck Finn papers to grade.  I ended up listening to only two CDs the whole trip: Matthew Sweet's Girlfriend and this one.  This album of songs about lonely, broken people living in LA in 1974 was a fitting soundtrack for all of us lonely, broken people riding Amtrak that week.  I will never hear this album without thinking first of that bizarre community I inadvertently joined that week.

I am not a Joni Mitchell fanatic.  I love Hejira and Blue, and some of Ladies Of The Canyon and The Hissing Of Summer Lawns,  but there are dozens of her albums that I find absolutely unlistenable, and she's obviously a self-obsessed nutter on some very basic level.  It's possible to find her so off-putting that the music can't overcome it-- and the blackface album photos from the late-70s?  I don't care if you're Canadian and friends with Charles Mingus-- not cool.

It's definitely worth taking a close look at all her work from 1970-1976, though.  First of all, Mitchell is a brilliant musician.  Had she been a man, her guitar playing would have been seen as among the era's most influential and original.  She's a terrific player, and her use of unique, invented tunings is, in my opinion, unparalleled.  Her guitar playing sounds totally original because it is, and there aren't more than twenty acoustic guitarists you can say that about.  Then there's that voice.  Mitchell has ruined her voice with cigarettes and making ridiculous statement in interviews over the years, but back in the day, it's was just a pure, remarkable instrument.  Mitchell does things with her voice on these records that few can do.  It's a voice of incredible octave range, and she's unafraid to try unique voices and stacked, overdubbed harmonies.  Sometimes she sounds silly and contrived, but most of the times she's breathtakingly, effortlessly talented.  Listen to her climb up to hit those high notes on this track-- the specificity of the phrasing and the notes she hits is unmistakably her.

The rap against Mitchell is usually that she's either too confessional / hippy-dippy, or she's too jazzy.  How do you explain this song's massive appeal then, as it's the pinnacle of everything that turns people off about her?  "Help Me" was a top 10 hit, as was this album.  Can you imagine millions of people singing along to "Help Me" in 2010 as they did in 1974?  It shows how much musicality we've lost as a culture.  Kids don't get music in school anymore, and they don't learn instruments, and so a lead vocal as sophisticated, complicated, and as complex as this one would NEVER make it past this generation's "starmaker machinery" (to quote the next song on the album).

I love how complicated this song is-- rhythmically, instrumentally, vocally and lyrically.  Again, Nelson's book is remarkably eloquent on the subject of this song, but I'd add this extra observation-- this song is one of the most honest hit singles ever written about our unwillingness to be empathic enough not to hurt other people.  "Help me," becuase I'm going to crush this other person before he/she crushes me first.  I love the line "flirtin', hurtin' too"-- I've been on a lot of dates when I could tell that someone liked me a lot more than I liked them (and vice versa, let's be honest), and I could never get past that.  There was always a moment when it was clear that we were either going to shake hands and move on, or be using each other.  "Help Me" describes that moment when you make your choice either way, with a slick, detached cool that lets you know that Joni's already been here many times before.  It still gives me chills, decades after it first became a song that was speaking for and not just to me.

And Lynn, BMC '91-- where are you, girl?  Get on Facebook or something!  We're due for a "how are you" email.  

LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPG69s5x4N8

SONG #125: Butterfly

Mason Jennings, Mason Jennings, 1997

If there's one thing 35+ years of listening, playing and (trying to) write music has taught me, it's that almost everyone who takes the time to learn an instrument to the point of competency has at least one great song or performance in him or her.  I've seen so many bands where I've thought their set was totally forgettable, and then the last song is terrific: tight, tuneful, instantly memorable.  The pod is filled with hundreds of these songs-- a band's magic four minutes.  It's one of the reasons I spend so much time and energy checking new groups out-- these songs make me really happy.

That said, the vast majority of people don't have more than that.  In the mid-90s, I did the sensitive ponytail man acoustic guitar troubadour thing for about a year, and wrote about 50 songs.  Three of them, I'd say, are quite good.  The rest are so forgettable that I can't remember them, and I'm the author.  They deserve to be forgotten.

Because of the "one song" phenomenon, every artist has at least one big fan, a champion.  And usually it's that one song that made it happen.  There was a guy who came to every show I did in 1995-- he was more excited about them than I was.  It was because he'd flipped for two of my songs.  And we all have friends who push obscure bands on us.  My advice?  When they tell you that you "HAVE" to check something out, ask them what the one song you have to hear is; that'll tell you everything you need to know.

In 1995, however, two songs and one superfan did squat for you.  We were at the height of the time of the Album.  With the advent of CDs, the length of an album had bloated out from 35 to 65 minutes in length, and a band couldn't put out an album until it had 15-20 songs.  Every band needed to make a Big Statement.  Even pop icons like Janet Jackson put out long, long records.  Sometimes, that was a great thing-- Tom Petty's Wildflowers, for example.  Other bands are not in any way meant to be listened to an hour at a time (every Red Hot Chili Peppers album, for example, starts off with me thinking "I love these guys-- why don't I listen to them more often?" and ends with me thinking "Kill me.  Please.  Just kill me.")

Of course, in 1965, two songs was a career.  If you had a great song, you could put out a single.  If you had a follow-up single, then you were a major artist.  What we gained in the age of the album (which was quite a lot-- no one loves albums more than I do) we lost in terms of the legitimate, deserved one hit wonder.  People use that phrase One Hit Wonder like an insult-- however, writing, recording and communicating a perfect song to millions of people?  That's a miracle, as far as I'm concerned.

Now, in the time of the digital download, the great single track is back, and the one superfan can use the internet to create enough buzz to put a band into the general consciousness. The single is once again King of the Castle.  No one is really buying albums anymore-- but they are buying single tracks-- tens of millions of them.  I'm sad that the album is fading as an art form to some extent, but I'm really happy that hundreds of artists with one great song can record them at home and stick them up on iTunes.  That's a great development-- we have the chance to relive the pop explosion of the 1960s, when there were ten new bands with a great song every week.

It also means that we have the chance to go back and rediscover the hundreds of great tracks that were lost in the 90s because they were tied to boring albums and consequently forgotten (there were no singles in the 90s, remember?  It was either plunk down the fifteen bucks, or hear nothing).  This track is one of my favorite examples.  I don't think much of Mason Jennings-- he's fine, but basically unremarkable.  That said, here it is-- his one perfect song.

Will's pre-school teacher Tika turned me on to this track-- she put it on a mix that she made for friends, and I listened to this tune nonstop for a week.  I love everything about it.  First, the production-- I love the tremolo guitar that sounds like it was recorded in a hallway.  I love the grumbly bass line.  I love the hilariously loud, live drums.  The arrangement is fantastic as well-- for such a simple song, it crackles with energy.  It reminds me of a cleaned-up, poppy lost Violent Femmes track.  Most of all, though, the vocal performance is perfect.  The slacker, barely trying voice that sings the verse (with maybe the best use of the f-word in a rock song) gives way to that effortless, glissando "Butterflyyyyyy" that introduces the chorus.  It's one of the most fun songs to sing along to on my iPod.

"Butterfly" won't change the world, and it doesn't justify a career, but it's 2 1/2 minutes of perfect pop music, and it's made my life better, and the digital age gives it just the right place for it to exist.

Hell, maybe I'll dust off a few of my own demos.  Maybe.

LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZSHt3SF8V8

SONG #124: Detroit Rock City

Kiss, Destroyer, 1976

Have you seen this commercial yet?

LINK: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tuS7Yap0KY

Well, I have.  Like a BILLION times.  My friend Jorge gave me his old Tivo so I could tape World Cup games, so I've been taping old Scrubs episodes as well, and Cherry Dr. Pepper bought ad space on every single Scrubs episode I've taped.  So I've heard Gene Simmons say "KISS... of Cherry!!" a BILLION times this month. 

It's even worse than the FIRST commercial Gene did for Cherry Dr. Pepper:

LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8uiyAjIzdc&NR=1

How much does Gene's kid HATE his dad?  You can taste the rage in that short little back and forth.  And what about the fact that Gene is apparently getting ready to have group sex with a bunch of his son's classmates?  So creepy.  So sad.  So not getting me to try Cherry Dr. Pepper.

And that's why we need to talk today about "Detroit Rock City."

You have to imagine the little about-to-be seven year-old who moved to Annapolis MD from Gainesville FL in the summer of 1976.  We had moved around a lot, so I entered 2nd grade at the Naval Academy Primary School (motto: Questions Are Subversive) determined to make friends and fit in.  And what did the kids on the bus want to talk about?  Kiss.  Only Kiss.  I was already a music nut at that point, but basically I just listened to the radio, so I had totally unformed opinions and no allegiances.  If it was on the radio, I loved it.  But Kiss was the first band that I actually learned anything about, and through whom I learned that your musical choices made a statement.  If I wanted have friends on the bus, then I had to learn about Paul, Gene, Ace and Peter.  Fast.

Really, it's my parents' fault.  They could have turned me into a Beatle freak with no trouble at all, but they weren't paying much attention to my musical development, and the next thing they knew, I was saving my 25 cents a week allowance to purchase Kiss Alive II, which was, as far as I could tell, the most significant achievement in human artistic endeavors up to that point.

These days, Kiss fandom must seem a little crazy to people.  THIS band sold over 100 million records?  And I admit, if I had been a teenager in 1977, I'm not sure it would have made sense to me, either, even though every teenager I met in 1977 thought Kiss was the coolest thing on earth.  The first Kiss music I heard was at the neighbors' house, where the 16 year-old second-oldest of five played me Kiss Alive!, their 1975 live album (and their best moment, actually).  If you remember this family from Blog #98, you'll remember that these guys played an important educational role in my life.

FLASHBACK:

One drove a Camaro with racing flames and worked at a fish restaurant.  The second had a green AMC Gremlin and worked at Safeway.  The third had Scott Baio feathered hair and worked at an Orange Julius at the Severna Park mall.  They all shared a bedroom, and they had in it:

a) the Farrah Fawcett Majors and Cheryl Tiegs posters that inspired puberty across this great land of ours;

b) a stereo with an 8 track player that had Frampton Comes Alive stuck in it, so they just kept listening to it;

c) some horrible skunkweed pot plants growing in the closet with a sad little gro-lamp;

d) a blacklight poster of the frog sitting at his desk saying "I'm so happy I could just sh-t";

e) an oil painting of the virgin Mary.

In addition to the Frampton, one of the brothers also had Kiss Alive!  I watched them roll joints on the album's back cover, where you can see two kids in the concert audience holding joints waiting for the show to start (look to the right and left of the stoned, sign-holding kids):

As if these these crucial, life-changing educational moments weren't enough, their house was also the first place I heard LOUD rock music.  I thought it was astounding.  I had never seen or heard someone turn up a stereo like that-- the Bee Gees would have blown me away at that volume.  (Mom and Dad kept the stereo around two out of ten.)  Moreover, Kiss wasn't a bunch of old, long-haired guys like other bands I'd seen pictures of.  They were cartoon characters, and therefore mythic and ageless.  I genuinely assumed that these four men were basically from outer space.  They had makeup, distinct one-dimensional personalities, and were shrouded with mystery.  No one had ever seen their faces!  Their concerts featured a man spitting blood and fire!  Things exploded!  There were drum solos!

Remember that it was before the internet and MTV and cell phones.  You almost NEVER got to see a band on TV, or an actual electric guitar and amp, or get reliable information about stars.  Kiss was the best-selling band in the US for three years, and NO ONE SUCCESSFULLY GOT A PICTURE OF THEIR FACES.  Can you imagine that happening now?  It's unthinkable.  To me, it made them seem like superheroes.

I was hooked, and I took everything they did at complete face value and as perfect.  I was as uncritical as you can imagine.  If it was on a Kiss album, then it was music exactly as it was supposed to be performed, by geniuses-- the epitome of rock godhead.

To add to their appeal, they completely horrified my parents.  I think they were expecting me to turn into Linda Blair from the Exorcist at any moment.  (Actually, she looks a lot like Gene on that Alive II cover.)

"I... wanna rock n roll all nite..."

When they saw the cover for Kiss Alive II, my Mom engaged in a classic moment of bad parenting.  She took me to Sears, which was one of the only places you could buy albums in Annapolis in 1977.  There was a music section next to the hi-fi / electronics section and across the aisle from the Garanimals.

I had saved up $5.50, painstakingly, over almost five months, and I was just a week away from having the money needed for II, a double album.  KNOWING I didn't have enough money, Mom took me to the record section, and said, "Look, Jeff, you could buy this other Kiss album right now!"  She pointed to Destroyer, the 1976 single album that had catapulted them to superstardom.  We then had the following conversation:

Me: No thanks.  I want to wait a week.

Mom: But that's a long time from now.  You can buy this one right now!

Me: But that's only one album.  The other one has two.

Mom:  Yeah, but you could be listening to this one tonight!

Me:  I don't have my money with me.

Mom:  I can pay for it and you can pay me back.

Me: Can you lend me the extra twenty five cents?

Mom:  No.

Me:  Well...

Mom:  This one looks pretty cool.

Me:  Yeah, it's supposed to be, but...

Mom:  I think you should get it.

Me:  Well...

Mom:  Great.  Let's go.

My mom, the heroin pusher!  :)

So that's why the first full-length album I ever bought with my own money was Kiss' Destroyer.  Mom did that because she wanted to keep the blood-spitting demon picture on Alive II out of her house.  Instead, she bought me an album on which Kiss trample upon a poor village that they have apparently raped and pillaged (or just set fire to with the power of their mighty rockin').  Here's the back cover:

I'm not sure it was any less demonic.

(Too bad she didn't know about this album)--

As if the cover weren't enough to turn me to the dark side (the pre-Star Wars dark side, by the way-- the REAL dark side!), the first track on Destroyer begins with the sound of a teenager listening to the news about a drunk driving accident, then getting into his car (with Kiss playing, naturally-- I love the part when he sings along badly to the radio) and speeding off to meet his ultimate demise in... a drunk driving accident!!  Don't these damn kids ever listen to their elders?  Not if they're cool Kiss fans, they don't!  I definitely got the message.  Parents and authority figures= square, uncool, non-makeup wearing idiots.  Kiss and its fans= reckless, drugged-up and overglammed hedonists with awesome boots.  No contest.

But that track, this one, is Kiss' greatest moment.  It's the only track they ever recorded which suggests that the band had some musicality.  The drum and bass parts are terrific  (even though they're obviously hanging on for dear life.  Gene can BARELY play that bass line-- every break is an adventure).  It's more complicated than anything the band would try again.  In the middle of the song, the band locks into the best riff of its career, and Paul and Ace engage in some twin guitar soloing that's actually memorable.  And the lyrics, silly as the are, do actually build some suspense.  You know what's going to happen, but you still find yourself waiting for the inevitable crash.  Plus, how can you not love all those gratuitous car sounds?

To my 1977 ears, this was as dramatic and awesome as music could get.  I wanted to be Ace Frehley more than I wanted to be president or an astronaut or even centerfielder for the Orioles (Al Bumbry in 1977, in case you were wondering.)  Even now, tonight, in 2010, I think it's great.  It's Kiss' signature five minutes (even if Kiss Alive! is the record for the time capsule).

Forgive me for celebrity name-dropping, but I have to add a sidebar true story; in 2004, I was playing bass for Rich Price, and we were making an album.  In the studio next door working with another band was Bob Ezrin, the producer of Kiss' Destroyer.  One day, both bands found themselves in the break room watching VH-1's "The Best Hard Rock Songs Of All Time."   And what should come on but... "Detroit Rock City."  I look over at Bob, and he smiles, and we have a "You recorded that song!  Cool!" silent exchange.  A nice moment.  The band he's working with then proceeds to trash the song's production!   I am not making this up.  That song sounds like crap!  I hate the drum track!  Etc Etc.  It is clear they have NO idea what Bob has done in the past.  Bob looks at me again, with a different little smile, which tells me that a) he HATES this band he's working with, and b) that he's going to make them sound like garbage.  Later that day, he came by and lent me his Wurlitzer keyboard to play on a song.  When I remarked to him how good it sounded, he said "Yeah, that's the one we used for "'Comfortably Numb.'"  'Cause you see, Bob Ezrin also produced Pink Floyd's The Wall.  (Though I don't really care for the production on that album, do you?)

So this Kiss album, the first I ever purchased, and I are deeply, spiritually linked, probably forever.

It's now 35 years later.  Time has, of course, passed.  The "Oz" curtain has risen on Kiss, and the men behind it turn out to be not godlike conquerers, but four dumb-ass Long Islanders.  I still love Ace, who laughs like a hyena and was definitely the inspiration for Mick Shrimpton (the "Smell The Glove"-era drummer for Spinal Tap).  But Paul is now a parody of a parody, and Gene Simmons is perhaps one of the most colossal jackasses of our time.

Exhibit A (don't skip this one-- a MUST SEE):  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6vdZ_b0l_U

Exhibit B:  http://www.erim.net/archives/gene-simmons-and-terry-gross-interview

Exhibit C... this damn commerical!  I understand that bands sell out, and I really don't care most of the time (I am a Who fan, after all), but this one goes so far beyond what's acceptable.  It just makes me shake my head in disbelief, and soils all my happy memories of air guitaring to Kiss records in the 3rd grade, dreaming of a world not dominated by aluminum siding houses and authority-obsessed teachers.

So while I find this commercial impossible to swallow (see what I did there?  Soft drink ad?  Swallow?  I'm back, baby!), I'm trying to hold on to some of that old admiration.  I think I'll go listen to Ace's solo record instead.

SONG LINK:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6RqEwUX5kY

P.S.  If you want more information about Little Kiss (yep, that's a real, touring, midget Kiss cover band in that ad), then you must watch this Daily Show expose:  http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-may-11-2006/honey-i-shrunk-the-kiss