September 11, 2007
The First 100
Congratulations to my good friend Matt Groneman for being the first person to finish his Top 100 list! I'm only slightly jealous he beat me... by about three months. But please visit his blog, The Cultural Impresario, read his list, and argue with it. And then write your own.
September 10, 2007
The Greatest Man
An excerpt from my forthcoming memoir:
Paul turned to me and said, "You play guitar?" and I was like, "Yeah," and he was like, "Cool," and there I was playing on stage with my hero. Sir Paul McCartney was singing "Hey Jude," close enough for me to hug him or punch him, or do what I did, which was dumbly strum along, with President Clinton smiling from the wings. (Of course, that pun was totally intended.) Ten minutes later, my novel was finished, cancer didn't exist anymore, and your favorite hot actress was texting me emoticons. The hand of God had clapped, and I liked it, better than even your mom, whom I loved.
Sadly, I knew, the moment was fleeting, and the bitter wind of destiny would blow me on my course, a path beset with hungry wolves and other scary metaphors -- and long and winding run-on sentences, probably ungrammatical. I thought of my youth, and I thought of my sled, and "Rosebed" fell from my lips like a loogie.
Being the Greatest Man was a curse...
Paul turned to me and said, "You play guitar?" and I was like, "Yeah," and he was like, "Cool," and there I was playing on stage with my hero. Sir Paul McCartney was singing "Hey Jude," close enough for me to hug him or punch him, or do what I did, which was dumbly strum along, with President Clinton smiling from the wings. (Of course, that pun was totally intended.) Ten minutes later, my novel was finished, cancer didn't exist anymore, and your favorite hot actress was texting me emoticons. The hand of God had clapped, and I liked it, better than even your mom, whom I loved.
Sadly, I knew, the moment was fleeting, and the bitter wind of destiny would blow me on my course, a path beset with hungry wolves and other scary metaphors -- and long and winding run-on sentences, probably ungrammatical. I thought of my youth, and I thought of my sled, and "Rosebed" fell from my lips like a loogie.
Being the Greatest Man was a curse...
The Long and Winding Novel Excerpts
From my unfinished novel, Most Likely to Succeed
Because even when I'm writing fiction, I'm really writing music reviews.
1. Jordan’s All-Time Top-Eight Albums
That summer, I listened to The Beatles everyday, preferring their work from the years when they weren’t on speaking terms. The Beatles, or The White Album, was then my all-time favorite, just as The Beatles were then my favorite band.
As I cleverly opined in "The Long and Winding Column" (The Rage, October, sophomore year), "Not only were The Beatles bigger than Jesus, but they harmonized better, too."
Two other albums by The Beatles, Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper, also ranked high on my All-Time Top-Ten Albums list, following albums with skulls (Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction), a naked baby (Nirvana’s Nevermind), and a dead guy (Jeff Buckley’s Grace) on their covers. Sure, the covers totally ruled, but the music on the albums was pretty cool, too.
The next two albums were by The Smashing Pumpkins (Siamese Dream and the double-disc Mellon Collie), and I better stop soon – or rather, like, now – so whatever this is remains what it is and doesn’t turn into a Special List Issue (Entertainment Weekly, seemingly every three months).
2. Jordan’s Stereo vs. Johnny’s iPod
My problem was I read too much: The Catcher in the Rye (again and again and again), Romeo and Juliet, Huckleberry Finn... And I watched too many movies like Rebel Without a Cause. And I listened to songs like DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s "Parents Just Don’t Understand," which I heard every Friday for a two-to-three-year period, thanks to our attendance at Roller World’s "Flashback Friday."
I know, I know, it’s a silly example, but it’s also the one that proves my point the easiest: Parents just don’t understand, no duh, not in the world’s greatest masterpieces anyway. (Will Smith’s other masterpiece is "Girls Ain’t Nothin’ But Trouble." No shit.)
Perhaps it was the Beatles, my parents’ favorite band, who made me less reticent than usual to speak, at least until after I’d drunk a second cup, at which time I’d start to enjoy my verbal rants. I can’t understate the importance of the Beatles, the consensus pick for the best band ever, in a rare case of the huddled masses being right. Other examples include the deliciousness of pizza, the comfort of jeans, and the total adorability of babies.
Or perhaps The Smashing Pumpkins, whom I’d listened to up in my bedroom, had awakened or invigorated or otherwise inspired me: to express myself outwardly, to re-think my habit of internalizing everything, and to seek a connection with other human beings, instead of merely substituting writing and reading for living.
Sandwiched between The Beatles and Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins were then the number-two artist on my All-Time Top-Ten Musical Artists list. As I theorized in "The Greatest Band of Our Time?" (The Rage, May/June, freshman year), The Smashing Pumpkins are "at least the greatest band to have named themselves after a gourd."
Even though the band had their heyday when I was in kindergarten, I somehow fell in love with them when I was in junior high, thanks to an Ottumwa, Iowa, radio station, which only came in on clear nights in the summertime, and its hourly rock blocks, organized by decade.
I knew and believed and understood completely the rage and the loneliness and the pain in the lyrics. And the knowledge of being unique and alone was something I related to and let myself be defined by. And the music itself was the sound of pure emotion, somehow giving melody to everything I felt, from whispering doubt to deafening uncertainty to all the shades of pink in between, with piercing guitars and face-busting drums, which broke and mended and re-broke my heart.
Billy Corgan, the band’s singer, guitarist, and songwriter, was one of the heroes in my personal pantheon, right up there with Thomas Jefferson (because even great men can be hypocrites), Jeopardy! whiz kid Ken Jennings (living proof that nerdiness can be lucrative), and Mr. Peanut himself, Mr. George Washington Carver (without whom we wouldn’t know the joy of Reese’s Pieces). And Benjamin Franklin, who goes without saying. (See chapter one for a discourse on his bad ass.)
But The Beatles, not The Pumpkins, were playing during breakfast, and "Paperback Writer" came on the stereo. You could say the song was becoming my anthem. It was either that, or The Smashing Pumpkins’ "Zero." In third place was another fine choice, Elvis Costello’s "Everyday I Write the Book."
Johnny, to provoke me, said, "Is this the Monkees?" Johnny, a daydream believer himself, had dated three homecoming queens in the tri-county area in just that one summer. The twinkle in his eyes revealed he was playing.
I took the bait. I tried to play back. "You know who this is," I said, with a razor’s-edge less of an edge than usual. I wasn’t exactly what anyone would call cheerful, but at least I was less dour than my usual pre-noon self. "Take a wager. Who do you think?"
Johnny, as always, was nice enough to humor me. "The Kinks? Herman’s Hermits?" Wow. Where’d that come from? His musical knowledge surprised me that morning. Typically, he listened to "whatever’s on the radio," and he didn’t buy CDs or read music magazines like I did. He claimed his favorite rock bands were Green Day and Metallica, even though, when questioned by me, he couldn’t name five of either band’s songs.
When he ran, somewhat inexplicably to me, he listened to guys like John Mayer and Jason Mraz, acoustic singer/songwriters who "put (him) in the zone." His iPod was full of Jack Johnson downloads, songs that were as mellow and cool as the listener. "They help to clear my head," he once told me. "They help me not to think. It’s music to run a sub-five-minute mile to." For me to run a sub-nine-minute mile, I would’ve required an all-star, all-ghost band: John Lennon’s songs, Jimi Hendrix’s guitar, Keith Moon’s drums, Janis Joplin’s vocals, and Beethoven’s and Mozart’s dueling pianos.
His theme song, in my mind, though, was Nada Surf’s "Popular," full of "Johnny Football Hero" and his conniving "cheerleader chick." Yes, of course, my brother ran cross country, but just that summer, he’d dated two cheerleaders. Also, after winning state, he’d become "the biggest fish in (the) pond," the guy who set the standard for "being attractive," which, of course, as everyone anywhere knows, is pretty much "the most important thing there is" in high school.
3. The Nada Surf Defense
I’ll end by sharing one key detail: My favorites, as a rule, were not from this millennium, except for Nada Surf’s Let Go, which the band released when I was in middle school – i.e, those years when we’re all the most impressionable. Nada Surf, as I say, and I say it quite often, is kind of, like, well, I guess, like, "my band," as no one I’ve ever met owns this album, and everyone who’s heard of them thinks they’re one-hit wonders.
But Let Go, their third album, has a song that’s even better: "Inside of Love," which I learned about in a chatroom. "‘Inside of Love,’" wrote NadaBoy8, "will change ur pathetic life." Endquote.
And I myself asserted as much, in "Three Important Rules for Breaking Down Your CD Collection, or Why Nada Surf Deserves to Be ‘Popular’" (The Rage, December, freshman year):
The alternative-rock trio Nada Surf, known today, if at all, for their one big hit, "Popular," an MTV "Buzz Clip" that was popular (get it?) back in our elementary school daze, makes me feel like a schoolgirl with a secret, which is something I don’t even know how it feels, other than giddy and dying to tell you.
Their recent CD, Let Go, is their masterpiece, despite or because it lacks the song "Popular," and because, not despite, it has a better song, the beautiful, moving "Inside of Love," perhaps, no joke, the greatest song ever, a song that, if the world were right, and if the world were fair and just, and if this silly world of ours were not afraid to love, well, it’s the one that would be their one hit, a new "Amazing Grace" or "The Star-Spangled Banner," an improved "Hallelujah" or "Y.M.C.A.," because it deserves to commemorate your life, a life that, once you’ve heard this song, deserves to be commemorated.
And sure, that’s hyperbole, like I’m foaming at mouth, but I meant it when I said it, and I’ve sometimes meant it since. I sent the piece to Rolling Stone, where it must’ve gotten lost.
Because even when I'm writing fiction, I'm really writing music reviews.
1. Jordan’s All-Time Top-Eight Albums
That summer, I listened to The Beatles everyday, preferring their work from the years when they weren’t on speaking terms. The Beatles, or The White Album, was then my all-time favorite, just as The Beatles were then my favorite band.
As I cleverly opined in "The Long and Winding Column" (The Rage, October, sophomore year), "Not only were The Beatles bigger than Jesus, but they harmonized better, too."
Two other albums by The Beatles, Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper, also ranked high on my All-Time Top-Ten Albums list, following albums with skulls (Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction), a naked baby (Nirvana’s Nevermind), and a dead guy (Jeff Buckley’s Grace) on their covers. Sure, the covers totally ruled, but the music on the albums was pretty cool, too.
The next two albums were by The Smashing Pumpkins (Siamese Dream and the double-disc Mellon Collie), and I better stop soon – or rather, like, now – so whatever this is remains what it is and doesn’t turn into a Special List Issue (Entertainment Weekly, seemingly every three months).
2. Jordan’s Stereo vs. Johnny’s iPod
My problem was I read too much: The Catcher in the Rye (again and again and again), Romeo and Juliet, Huckleberry Finn... And I watched too many movies like Rebel Without a Cause. And I listened to songs like DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s "Parents Just Don’t Understand," which I heard every Friday for a two-to-three-year period, thanks to our attendance at Roller World’s "Flashback Friday."
I know, I know, it’s a silly example, but it’s also the one that proves my point the easiest: Parents just don’t understand, no duh, not in the world’s greatest masterpieces anyway. (Will Smith’s other masterpiece is "Girls Ain’t Nothin’ But Trouble." No shit.)
Perhaps it was the Beatles, my parents’ favorite band, who made me less reticent than usual to speak, at least until after I’d drunk a second cup, at which time I’d start to enjoy my verbal rants. I can’t understate the importance of the Beatles, the consensus pick for the best band ever, in a rare case of the huddled masses being right. Other examples include the deliciousness of pizza, the comfort of jeans, and the total adorability of babies.
Or perhaps The Smashing Pumpkins, whom I’d listened to up in my bedroom, had awakened or invigorated or otherwise inspired me: to express myself outwardly, to re-think my habit of internalizing everything, and to seek a connection with other human beings, instead of merely substituting writing and reading for living.
Sandwiched between The Beatles and Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins were then the number-two artist on my All-Time Top-Ten Musical Artists list. As I theorized in "The Greatest Band of Our Time?" (The Rage, May/June, freshman year), The Smashing Pumpkins are "at least the greatest band to have named themselves after a gourd."
Even though the band had their heyday when I was in kindergarten, I somehow fell in love with them when I was in junior high, thanks to an Ottumwa, Iowa, radio station, which only came in on clear nights in the summertime, and its hourly rock blocks, organized by decade.
I knew and believed and understood completely the rage and the loneliness and the pain in the lyrics. And the knowledge of being unique and alone was something I related to and let myself be defined by. And the music itself was the sound of pure emotion, somehow giving melody to everything I felt, from whispering doubt to deafening uncertainty to all the shades of pink in between, with piercing guitars and face-busting drums, which broke and mended and re-broke my heart.
Billy Corgan, the band’s singer, guitarist, and songwriter, was one of the heroes in my personal pantheon, right up there with Thomas Jefferson (because even great men can be hypocrites), Jeopardy! whiz kid Ken Jennings (living proof that nerdiness can be lucrative), and Mr. Peanut himself, Mr. George Washington Carver (without whom we wouldn’t know the joy of Reese’s Pieces). And Benjamin Franklin, who goes without saying. (See chapter one for a discourse on his bad ass.)
But The Beatles, not The Pumpkins, were playing during breakfast, and "Paperback Writer" came on the stereo. You could say the song was becoming my anthem. It was either that, or The Smashing Pumpkins’ "Zero." In third place was another fine choice, Elvis Costello’s "Everyday I Write the Book."
Johnny, to provoke me, said, "Is this the Monkees?" Johnny, a daydream believer himself, had dated three homecoming queens in the tri-county area in just that one summer. The twinkle in his eyes revealed he was playing.
I took the bait. I tried to play back. "You know who this is," I said, with a razor’s-edge less of an edge than usual. I wasn’t exactly what anyone would call cheerful, but at least I was less dour than my usual pre-noon self. "Take a wager. Who do you think?"
Johnny, as always, was nice enough to humor me. "The Kinks? Herman’s Hermits?" Wow. Where’d that come from? His musical knowledge surprised me that morning. Typically, he listened to "whatever’s on the radio," and he didn’t buy CDs or read music magazines like I did. He claimed his favorite rock bands were Green Day and Metallica, even though, when questioned by me, he couldn’t name five of either band’s songs.
When he ran, somewhat inexplicably to me, he listened to guys like John Mayer and Jason Mraz, acoustic singer/songwriters who "put (him) in the zone." His iPod was full of Jack Johnson downloads, songs that were as mellow and cool as the listener. "They help to clear my head," he once told me. "They help me not to think. It’s music to run a sub-five-minute mile to." For me to run a sub-nine-minute mile, I would’ve required an all-star, all-ghost band: John Lennon’s songs, Jimi Hendrix’s guitar, Keith Moon’s drums, Janis Joplin’s vocals, and Beethoven’s and Mozart’s dueling pianos.
His theme song, in my mind, though, was Nada Surf’s "Popular," full of "Johnny Football Hero" and his conniving "cheerleader chick." Yes, of course, my brother ran cross country, but just that summer, he’d dated two cheerleaders. Also, after winning state, he’d become "the biggest fish in (the) pond," the guy who set the standard for "being attractive," which, of course, as everyone anywhere knows, is pretty much "the most important thing there is" in high school.
3. The Nada Surf Defense
I’ll end by sharing one key detail: My favorites, as a rule, were not from this millennium, except for Nada Surf’s Let Go, which the band released when I was in middle school – i.e, those years when we’re all the most impressionable. Nada Surf, as I say, and I say it quite often, is kind of, like, well, I guess, like, "my band," as no one I’ve ever met owns this album, and everyone who’s heard of them thinks they’re one-hit wonders.
But Let Go, their third album, has a song that’s even better: "Inside of Love," which I learned about in a chatroom. "‘Inside of Love,’" wrote NadaBoy8, "will change ur pathetic life." Endquote.
And I myself asserted as much, in "Three Important Rules for Breaking Down Your CD Collection, or Why Nada Surf Deserves to Be ‘Popular’" (The Rage, December, freshman year):
The alternative-rock trio Nada Surf, known today, if at all, for their one big hit, "Popular," an MTV "Buzz Clip" that was popular (get it?) back in our elementary school daze, makes me feel like a schoolgirl with a secret, which is something I don’t even know how it feels, other than giddy and dying to tell you.
Their recent CD, Let Go, is their masterpiece, despite or because it lacks the song "Popular," and because, not despite, it has a better song, the beautiful, moving "Inside of Love," perhaps, no joke, the greatest song ever, a song that, if the world were right, and if the world were fair and just, and if this silly world of ours were not afraid to love, well, it’s the one that would be their one hit, a new "Amazing Grace" or "The Star-Spangled Banner," an improved "Hallelujah" or "Y.M.C.A.," because it deserves to commemorate your life, a life that, once you’ve heard this song, deserves to be commemorated.
And sure, that’s hyperbole, like I’m foaming at mouth, but I meant it when I said it, and I’ve sometimes meant it since. I sent the piece to Rolling Stone, where it must’ve gotten lost.
September 9, 2007
Goodwill Hunting: We Are The World
The first post from my other blog, The Battle of Hastings:
Goodwill Hunting:
Record Reviews of Actual Records!
My studio apartment doubles as a library, with hundreds of DVDs, CDs, and books – and now, even records, actual records, warped and dusty, but surprisingly playable. For just one dollar, sometimes less, I can add whole albums to my music collection, a bargain too good to be anything but true.
With prices so low – they must be crazy! – I’ll gamble on a record, or two, or a dozen, where maybe I wouldn’t on a higher-priced CD (even though thrift stores sell them, too, often for less than $2.99). I’ll double up on albums I already own, just so I’ll own them in their older, cooler forms. I’ll even buy albums I’ve only slightly heard of, or albums I suspect will suck, just because there’s nothing to lose, except space.
And some people wonder why I don’t have an iPod. Ninety-nine cents for just one track?! Apple’s treasure is this man’s trash; Goodwill’s trash is this man’s treasure. St. Vincent de Paul is my rock (or my source); armories of misfit Toys in the Attics are my salvation.
But anyway, here’s a fossil I found:
USA For Africa, We Are The World
Like The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, an album often named by music magazines and the Sgt. Pepper liner notes as the greatest of all time, the cover of USA For Africa’s We Are The World features a group photo of musicians and melty-faced wax statues (no less than six Jacksons took part in this “historical recording”!) for future pop-cultural historians (um, me, I guess) to struggle to identify. Thankfully for me, there’s a list of names on the front. Sadly for the members of Huey Lewis’ backing band, “& The News” is listed collectively.
Some of the faces are obvious today. Others are James Ingram and Jeffrey “Definitely Not Ozzy” Osborne. But peep this collection of mid-‘80s talent! Dylan, Springsteen, (Lionel) Richie... that Geldof dude who organizes benefits (he also played Pink in Pink Floyd’s The Wall!)... two token blind guys (and four other posers in sunglasses, indoors)... and, leading off the alphabetical lineup, Dan Aykroyd, representing all the white people who ripped off black people’s music, I guess. (In 1985, when this record was released, the Sgt. Pepper-suited Michael Jackson was still identifiable as a member of the latter race. The banana-suited LaToya, however, is as white as Kenny Rogers’ USA For Africa sweatshirt and matching beard.)
But more than merely a “We Are The World” single, We Are The World is an album, you see. Sure, there’s the song that everyone knows, but then you discover the deep album cuts: “Nine Previously Unreleased Songs,” according to the back cover, or “Nine New Superstar Songs!” according to the front (exclamation point mine). Here’s the tracklist in decreasing superstardom: Prince & The Revolution, Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band (so far, so good), Tina Turner, Chicago, The Pointer Sisters (good at one time, or so I’ve been told), Huey Lewis & The News (great in Back To The Future), Steve Perry (solo), and Kenny Rogers (ugh).
The ninth superstar is Northern Lights, a supergroup you’ve never heard of, even though you’ve heard of some of its members. Unfortunately for actual superstars Joni Mitchell and Neil Young, the list of Canadian recording artists (Northern Lights, get it?) is alphabetical, so higher billing goes to the artists you’ve heard of either slightly less or possibly not at all: Bryan Adams, John Candy, Corey Hart, Gordon Lightfoot, Anne Murray, Aldo Nova (who?), Oscar Peterson (um?), and Mike Reno (who’s probably not even real). “And Others” also appear.
But wait! There’s more! Holy pop-cultural artifact, Hatman (my new nickname for the goofily hatted Steve Perry)! The record sleeve is an ad for even more outdated USA For Africa products: books, buttons, pins, posters, sweatshirts, T-shirts, and muscle T-shirts! USA! USA!! USA!!!
Tragically, this offer ended Feb. 1, 1986.
Before I even played this record, I knew the following statements would be true:
1. The title track is gonna be treacly.
2. The superstar B-sides are gonna be bad.
3. This is where Quincy Jones jumped the shark.
After one play, I knew I was right. This processed cheese is why I hate the ‘80s. (The Prince and Bruce cuts aren’t too bad, thought.) Also, although we might be the world, we actually harmed the world with this music. (And Steve Perry, please, just reunite with Journey.) I’ll file this record as a conversation starter, not as something I’m going to play.
Goodwill Hunting:
Record Reviews of Actual Records!
My studio apartment doubles as a library, with hundreds of DVDs, CDs, and books – and now, even records, actual records, warped and dusty, but surprisingly playable. For just one dollar, sometimes less, I can add whole albums to my music collection, a bargain too good to be anything but true.
With prices so low – they must be crazy! – I’ll gamble on a record, or two, or a dozen, where maybe I wouldn’t on a higher-priced CD (even though thrift stores sell them, too, often for less than $2.99). I’ll double up on albums I already own, just so I’ll own them in their older, cooler forms. I’ll even buy albums I’ve only slightly heard of, or albums I suspect will suck, just because there’s nothing to lose, except space.
And some people wonder why I don’t have an iPod. Ninety-nine cents for just one track?! Apple’s treasure is this man’s trash; Goodwill’s trash is this man’s treasure. St. Vincent de Paul is my rock (or my source); armories of misfit Toys in the Attics are my salvation.
But anyway, here’s a fossil I found:
USA For Africa, We Are The World
Like The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, an album often named by music magazines and the Sgt. Pepper liner notes as the greatest of all time, the cover of USA For Africa’s We Are The World features a group photo of musicians and melty-faced wax statues (no less than six Jacksons took part in this “historical recording”!) for future pop-cultural historians (um, me, I guess) to struggle to identify. Thankfully for me, there’s a list of names on the front. Sadly for the members of Huey Lewis’ backing band, “& The News” is listed collectively.
Some of the faces are obvious today. Others are James Ingram and Jeffrey “Definitely Not Ozzy” Osborne. But peep this collection of mid-‘80s talent! Dylan, Springsteen, (Lionel) Richie... that Geldof dude who organizes benefits (he also played Pink in Pink Floyd’s The Wall!)... two token blind guys (and four other posers in sunglasses, indoors)... and, leading off the alphabetical lineup, Dan Aykroyd, representing all the white people who ripped off black people’s music, I guess. (In 1985, when this record was released, the Sgt. Pepper-suited Michael Jackson was still identifiable as a member of the latter race. The banana-suited LaToya, however, is as white as Kenny Rogers’ USA For Africa sweatshirt and matching beard.)
But more than merely a “We Are The World” single, We Are The World is an album, you see. Sure, there’s the song that everyone knows, but then you discover the deep album cuts: “Nine Previously Unreleased Songs,” according to the back cover, or “Nine New Superstar Songs!” according to the front (exclamation point mine). Here’s the tracklist in decreasing superstardom: Prince & The Revolution, Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band (so far, so good), Tina Turner, Chicago, The Pointer Sisters (good at one time, or so I’ve been told), Huey Lewis & The News (great in Back To The Future), Steve Perry (solo), and Kenny Rogers (ugh).
The ninth superstar is Northern Lights, a supergroup you’ve never heard of, even though you’ve heard of some of its members. Unfortunately for actual superstars Joni Mitchell and Neil Young, the list of Canadian recording artists (Northern Lights, get it?) is alphabetical, so higher billing goes to the artists you’ve heard of either slightly less or possibly not at all: Bryan Adams, John Candy, Corey Hart, Gordon Lightfoot, Anne Murray, Aldo Nova (who?), Oscar Peterson (um?), and Mike Reno (who’s probably not even real). “And Others” also appear.
But wait! There’s more! Holy pop-cultural artifact, Hatman (my new nickname for the goofily hatted Steve Perry)! The record sleeve is an ad for even more outdated USA For Africa products: books, buttons, pins, posters, sweatshirts, T-shirts, and muscle T-shirts! USA! USA!! USA!!!
Tragically, this offer ended Feb. 1, 1986.
Before I even played this record, I knew the following statements would be true:
1. The title track is gonna be treacly.
2. The superstar B-sides are gonna be bad.
3. This is where Quincy Jones jumped the shark.
After one play, I knew I was right. This processed cheese is why I hate the ‘80s. (The Prince and Bruce cuts aren’t too bad, thought.) Also, although we might be the world, we actually harmed the world with this music. (And Steve Perry, please, just reunite with Journey.) I’ll file this record as a conversation starter, not as something I’m going to play.
August 27, 2007
Billy Corgan's Super Hits!
Zero
I’m struggling with something Billy Corgan’s never known: a chronic case of writer’s block. I don’t have a buddy to drum me into shape. I don’t have a file of B-side reviews. I’m not so confident (read: megalomaniacal) to name this comeback article Zeitgeist, as if it’s ‘95 again and melancholy rules. My style hasn’t influenced hungry young writers to pick up their laptops and cite me as their hero. (Are any My Chemical Romance fans reading this?) I never had a Zwan, just a bunch of solo projects, works that meant the world to me but everyone else ignored. Despite all my rage, I’m basically a blogger. Emptiness is loneliness and loneliness is cleanliness and cleanliness is my alphabetized CD collection.
1979
Probably the best partial year of my life. I slept a lot and ate a lot and women called me cute. When the decade ended, so did my innocence, or at least the carefree part of me that liked to watch mobiles. Born the same year as a Billy Corgan memory, it seemed I was born to rock the fuck out. Even though the Pumpkins wouldn’t smash till I was twelve, I’d already mastered the screams of their genre. I’d also mastered the smell of grunge.
Blinking With Fists
Sixteenth summer. Parents’ car. Everything hot and oppressive as hell. The radio played my new favorite songs, including some tracks from this one upcoming album – a double CD with six distinct singles – as well as the same band’s Fleetwood Mac cover. The band’s old hits had never stopped playing, their noise and their speed in sync with the car, louder, faster, zooming onward, somehow never falling apart. I wasn’t sure what they meant, but I got them, gleaning their truths from daily repetition. They sounded like lessons I needed to hear. They felt like memories I needed to keep.
As the Smashing Pumpkins rattled the windows, frivolous pop was an object in the mirror. Ahead of the car, my life stretched out, full of questions and glimpses of answers, blurry directional signs and lights, from dawn to dusk, from twilight to starlight, the greatest days I’d ever known, scenes I’d try to re-create later, minus the pain of being a boy, plus the pain of being an adult, listening, writing, never slowing down, wondering now if I took the right path, mixing my words like vanity poetry.
They might not have been the world’s biggest band, but they were the biggest band in my world.
But even back then, I was old in my shoes.
Today
I’m somewhat old now, damn near thirty, and most of my idols are peddling nostalgia. Rage Against The Machine is back, raging against your last sixty dollars. Pearl Jam headlined Lollapalooza, playing songs with riffs again. Velvet Revolver is a teenage boy’s dream team, or really a bloated old-timer’s game. Get up, get, get, get down, Flavor Flav’s job is a joke in your town. (Chuck D, bless him, is lecturing at colleges.) At least ol’ Tupac’s still making records.
And half of the Smashing Pumpkins are back, the only two band mates who ever really mattered: Billy, of course, and drummer Jimmy Chamberlin, a.k.a. Billy’s best friend forever, Billy’s partner for all his projects (except for Adore, when Billy kicked him out), and perhaps the only person in the world Billy likes.
Here’s how the credits of their new album read, typographical quirks intact:
songs by WILLIAM PATRICK CORGAN
performed artfully by
JIMMY CHAMBERLIN: DRUMS / BILLY CORGAN: ALL THE REST
So basically, yeah, it’s your typical Billy project.
This comeback of sorts – because Billy never left – seems to pose questions for a self-indulgent essay: Can this band capture the Zeitgeist again? Can a former teenager still rock out, now that he’s living as a twenty-something drone? Why the hell is “Tarantula” called that, other than the fact that tarantulas are scary? Did I ever really care about Billy’s deep thoughts, especially those on the state of the union? Good or bad, kick-ass or shitty, how will this album affect the band’s legacy? How do I judge it – against what criteria – Siamese Dream or someone else’s album? Do I really prefer the Stone Temple Pilots, a more collective songwriting team, equally ambitious and occasionally maligned, whose body of work contains less filler – but also less of everything else? Am I actually damning Billy’s productivity? Why the hell do I listen to music? What do I even get from it anyway? If someone honestly wanted to know – “What does music mean to you now? Why does it remain such a force in your life?” – would playing this band’s greatest hits be acceptable? Is it possible today to love them like I used to, back in the days when everything was new, before I became so critical and boring? Does the fact that Billy sounds like himself – after he tried to sound like the Cure – make him consistent or merely repetitive? Does this make Zeitgeist rad, or a failure? Really, isn’t it better than Gish? That unmistakable voice – do I hate it?
What would I think, if I were sixteen?
Holy fucking shit, this rocks. Loud and fast and heavy and hard and kinda like “Zero” thirteen times over. Actually, no, it’s more like disc two, or maybe a bunch of Mellon Collie B-sides, any of which could really be singles, compared to some of the shit on the radio. I bet I’m gonna play this album a lot. I bet it’ll sound really cool on the highway. How the hell does Billy do it? Does he simply wake up, eat breakfast, and write? I can’t wait till 1997!
At twenty-eight, I crave more variety. I miss the occasional piano-based ballads, or maybe just songs without so much distortion, or anything else to save me from the pummeling. I also would prefer some prettier melodies, or something as perfect as “Disarm” or, well, “Perfect.”
“Tarantula,” though, is monstrously rad, and so are the songs with these words in their titles: “Doomsday,” “Black,” and “Bleeding the Orchid.” “United States,” whatever it’s about, also rocks my ramparts off. With or without my gratuitous profanity, the album does, as the kids say, rock. I give it at least a thousand words, some of which, hopefully, won’t be rock. Maybe I’ll drop a couple of rads.
Zeitgeist isn’t as great as I hoped. It clearly falls short of capturing its title. You can’t go back to 1995. But thankfully, it’s not as bad as I feared. In fact, it isn’t bad at all. Judged against anyone other than Billy, it’s the best rock album I’ve heard this afternoon.
It’s good to know nostalgia isn’t always false, and some things – old friends, music, writing – are not so different from what I remember. Despite my old age, I’m still the same Matt on the page.
And songs that sound like “Zero” rule.
See This Movie More Than "Once"
The movie poster was almost enough: A guy and a girl on a sunny city street, walking, talking, and carrying a guitar. Further incentive came from my friends, two of whom called me to tell me to see it. Sure, we exchanged the normal friendly pleasantries, but recommending Once was the reason they called. My good friends knew what the poster only hinted: “This movie changed my life,” said one. “I’m gonna see it again,” said the other. All of this suggested a new favorite movie. Everything was saying I had to see Once.
I went and saw Once on a cloudy afternoon, losing myself in the darkness of the theater. When the screen went to black, I didn’t want to leave. Rare is the movie so targeted to me, a writer and musician who wastes my days alone. Rare is the movie that speaks both to and for me, and stays with me forever like a friend or a dream. But Once was a movie I’d already memorized, a story I’d known but I’d never quite seen – and finally, a soundtrack to purchase immediately. Finding such beauty and truth is quite rare – yes, in a theater, but also in life.
Once was so incredible, so moving, so perfect, I’m finding it impossible to reign in my rambling, even though it’s been several weeks since I saw it. Today, on a day when I’ve locked myself inside, I’m far from feigning composure about it.
Yes, this movie will change your life. You definitely need to see Once once – and then you need to see it again.
Here, I know I should summarize the plot, and tell you, “It’s a musical, but not like what you’re thinking,” and name the director, writer, and actors. I’m pretty sure the movie takes place in Ireland, but I don’t remember its setting being mentioned. To me, these details seem small and unimportant.
The only thing that matters is the simple, timeless story, which just so happens is told through song. This musical begins as a simple boy-meets-girl; it actually ends with some real-life ambiguity. Struggling musicians find solace in song, even as they search for love in their lives. Neither of them can afford a proper instrument – the boy busks for change on his holey guitar; the girl makes arrangements on a music-store piano. (The two main characters never get named, not even in the closing credits.) The boy will leave for London soon to chase his musical muse. The girl, an immigrant, is waiting for her husband. Before he goes, will she help him make a record? As they harmonize together both literally and figuratively, their voices and words enrich their lives. They love each other as much as they can.
Time is fleeting. The city is crumbling. The songs they play together are magic.
You, too, will fall in love. You, too, will want to sing.
The boy is played by the Frames’ Glen Hansard, who unplugged his usual Coldplay-esque anthems to expose their Damien Rice-esque core. The girl is played by Marketa Irglova, a previously unknown young singer/songwriter. (Their names do matter. They’re worth remembering.) They meet over music, they woo through their songs, and they even give instruments as gifts of their affection.
The songs this pair wrote for the movie transcend it, sharing their story but standing alone. (I listened to the soundtrack every day for two weeks. Now I’m down to every other day.) Frankly, they’re miracles – not that I'm religious – perhaps the reason God gave us music, and certainly expressing the meaning of life.
And everyone else in the movie breathes music. A banker sings a song because he’s more than just a banker. A tired engineer awakens in the studio, remembering there’s more to music than just mixing it. Music means the world to these characters and me, and everyone else who raves about this film. So music, perhaps, is the real main character.
Perhaps I ought to live more fully than I do, instead of seeing movies and reviewing them for no one. But stories like this give me hope it’s all possible, living and loving and sharing my dreams, finding that person to listen, read, and harmonize.
This movie maybe changed my life. It certainly inspired me to write, if nothing else. When Once comes out on DVD, I know I’m gonna watch it again and again. Maybe I’ll be able to share it.
Writing a Book Is "Better Than Nothing"
Here’s a real-life rock ‘n’ roll fairy tale:
A girl releases an indie-rock album. The local press declares it a classic. Men in suits say, Babe, we need you. Lawyers, managers, record execs... Morning DJs, bassists, drummers... Directors, producers, snarky critics...
The big advance. The video debut. The Billboard cover. The national tour. Conan O’Brien. Spin. Rolling Stone. Your local alt-weekly. Beavis And Butt-Head. Comparisons to Belly and Alanis Morissette. (Note: This story is totally ‘90s.)
The Warner Bros. recording artist, the Next Big Thing of 1995, singer/songwriter Jennifer Trynin!
If you’re like me, you’re saying, Who?
You’ve never heard of Jennifer Trynin.
*
A decade after her music made the cover (or rather, the size of her record advance), an excerpt of her writing appeared in Billboard. This was my first exposure to the artist. I cringed at her description of a clueless music industry; I laughed at her depiction of her clueless younger self. Everything I’d thought about the industry was true, at least in the chapter I read online. (The biz, like, sucks, man. Commerce wins.) Her voice was witty, vivid, and real, the voice of someone whose jokes reveal truths. As someone who devours music blogs and liner notes, I knew I had to read this book.
Plus, I wondered who the writer really was, considering her claims of major-label servitude. Her name, Jen Trynin, rang no bells. Her supposed hit single, “Better Than Nothing,” meant absolutely nothing to me. Her debut album, Cockamamie, might as well have been left unreleased. (Which is sad, ‘cause it rocks, but I’ll get to that later.) I knew her as a writer, instead of a musician, which is probably more than most people knew her. (And now it’s like I’m dissing Trynin, twelve years after everyone else, which is silly and wrong and totally unintentional, ‘cause how many people know who I am? I’m trying to tell you you ought to know Trynin.)
It’s clear why I’d want to read such a story, and even more clear why she’d want to write it down: Not to avenge her bargain-bin status, but rather to reclaim her voice. In Everything I’m Cracked Up To Be: A Rock & Roll Fairy Tale, Trynin speaks with candor and humor, spiting both Warhol and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Her fifteen minutes begin anew. Her writing debut gives her life a second act.
The book is available at fine booksellers everywhere. The album’s on Amazon for less than a dollar.
*
You totally know how the book’s gonna end: Jennifer Trynin will not become famous. Everyone’s promises will fade away and die. Perhaps her band will fight and break up. Perhaps she’ll sleep with people she shouldn’t. (Perhaps the latter will lead to the former.)
And then she’ll write a tell-all book and thus live happily ever after, once again becoming better than nothing – or better than a washed-up, coulda-been obscurity – and thereby promoting that same debut album.
Except for that hopeful, uplifting twist, the story is something you’ve seen on VH1. (Behind The Music or I Love The 90s?) But something in the telling is fresher than Snow. The first-person, present-tense point of view helps, imbuing the tale with a you-are-there immediacy and letting us feel the buzz as it happens.
It also helps that the structure is classical. For the first two hundred pages or so, the book reads like a rock geek tragedy. Her voice is a chorus that gives away the ending. Like a Hitchcock film, the book leaves clues, providing us readers with important information and leaving poor Jennifer searching for the truth.
For example, she meets with a Maverick exec who tells her, Sorry, we’ve found our token chick. There’s no way Trynin could know the implications, but attentive readers will find it ironic. (A little too ironic? Yeah, I really do think.) We know this chick is Alanis Morissette, the angsty-female alt-rock juggernaut, the multiplatinum fly in Trynin’s Chardonnay.
And just like that, you know Trynin’s done. You wonder when she’ll figure it out. The gap between reader and character is huge – and even more thrilling than the mid-‘90s music scene, with cameo appearances by Morphine’s Mark Sandman, Aimee Mann, and (allegedly) Paula Cole! (Her name has been changed to protect her unshaven armpits.)
From rock ‘n’ roll fairy tale to cautionary tale, Trynin’s debut memoir rocks.
*
Everything I’m Cracked Up To Be fascinates and educates, from industry schmoozing to the artist’s sellout guilt, from valuable music-business advice to even, you know, the actual music, which Trynin, strangely, often skips, probably because she knows it’s not important, at least to the people who make their living selling it.
And yet, you need to read this book, not quite speed-reading but racing nonetheless, at least if you’re a fan of music and literature, and even more so if you’re Trynin’s target audience: someone who missed her album the first time, and now you miss songs that sound like your youth.
You see, I came of age in the ‘90s, my middle school, high school, and college years. As such, I’m a walking ‘90s cliche, loving stuff that sounds like Trynin: Juliana Hatfield, Letters To Cleo, Belly (and even Tanya Donelly solo), Veruca Salt, The Breeders, Hole... And yes, Ms. Morissette herself, a bigger, shinier version of Trynin. This is the stuff I like to put on mixtapes. These are the women who've influenced my tastes.
So I, of all people, should’ve heard of Trynin. The fact that I hadn’t proves Trynin’s point: the music industry is kind of fucked up. Trynin never flat-out says so, but yeah, it’s there, and it’s kind of, um, obvious. Read this book if you need further proof.
In 1995, I would’ve liked Trynin. I know, because I like her now. Thanks to her book, her website, and her MySpace page, I finally was able to hear her debut album. Twelve years after her huge advance, I finally bought a copy of Cockamamie. “Better Than Nothing” is lodged in my head.
Her music deserved a much bigger audience. I hope her book finds greater success.
Yo Vanilla
(Remastered and re-released from the vaults.)
Yo, Vanilla:
Our high school chemistry teacher wants our class to create some sort of project in which the experimental subject (a human subject, no less!) becomes luminescent while "flowing" (his words) through the air. Supposedly, this subject will never stop flowing and glowing. The only pieces of equipment he's allowing us to use are one microphone, stagelights, and one candle.
We have no idea where to begin, and the project is worth 50 percent of our grade. Our teacher hasn't given us any type of rubric, practical knowledge relating to this project, or advice or help of any sort.
We were thinking of working together on this project; should we? Do you know of any similar successful projects? If you do know of such a project, what happens to the experimental subject? Will he or she continue to flow and glow? Please be specific as to exactly what happens. Passing this class depends on you!
--Mr. Iannetta's AP Chemistry Class
All right, stop. Collaborate and listen. Ice is back with a brand new invention. Something grabs a hold of me tightly, flow like a harpoon daily and nightly. Will it ever stop? Yo, I don't know. Turn off the lights, and I glow. To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal, light up a stage, and wax a chump like a candle.
Yo, Vanilla:
I live in a college dorm, and the people who live in the room below me are always playing their music so loudly I can hear it through the floor. I've called them on the phone and told them in person to please turn down their music, but these things only caused them to boom their music more loudly. They even boom it at night and prevent me from getting any sleep!
What can I do to make them turn their music down? And why does my brain feel so numb lately? Would it be some kind of crime for them to turn down their music a little?
--Dorm Rat
Dance. Bumrush the speaker that booms. I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom. Deadly, when I play a dope melody. Anything less than the best is a felony.
Yo, Vanilla:
My boyfriend of eight months always tells me he loves me, but in the same breath he tells me he wants to leave me. I look into his eyes, and I can't tell if he's playing or not. I love him, and I don't want to leave him, but sometimes I think I should. I really don't know what I should do anymore. His words and actions confuse me.
What should I do? Is he only playing when he says these things?
--Confused
Love it or leave it. You better gain way. Better hit bullseye. The kid don't play.
Yo, Vanilla:
Did you stop?
--The V.I.P.
No, I just drove by.
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