Song Of The Day: "Gary Allan "Smoke Rings In The Dark"

It's a hard thing when you realize that you're a broken man. The only good thing that you can take from the realization is that this puts you one step ahead of 99% of the other broken men in this world who have not yet faced this truth in the mirror. Still, it does not mean you've won the race. It merely puts you at a crossroads. You can take the path of least resistance and just keep right on doing everything you've been doing, making the same mistakes, and see where that gets you, or you can take the path that seems hardly like a path at all, as it is not nearly as well-worn. By choosing this path, the going only gets tougher, but the pay-off - one hopes - is that when you next see daylight, it'll be the kind that lasts and sheds light on happiness you never saw before.

On the night I chose the latter path, I was listening to Gary Allan's "Smoke Rings In The Dark" over and over. I had to buy a new copy of the album because the gal I'd been with, but was with no longer, had taken my copy when she left. She took a lot of stuff I loved, including my dog Brody, and never came back. My life was now like a country song, I remember saying to a friend who tried their best to understand what I was going through, but couldn't because he wasn't broken the way I was, if at all.

As "Smoke Rings" played for what could have been the hundredth time in a row, I just sat in the dark, my own smoke rings filling the room with a haze that could not cover up the truth I was now facing. All these years, I'd been making the same mistakes, holding myself back from people, doing whatever I wanted when I wanted, and giving no thought to the hopes and dreams of the women who'd chosen to walk away from sure things to be with me, the longest shot of all.

Invariably, when the transgressions and breaches of trust began to add up, tensions would ignite like a powder keg and I'd have my world reduced to cinders yet again. And, just like all the other times, I'd lick my wounds and bounce right back somehow.

This last time, though, was not going to be like the others. I'd seen myself in that brief flash of light within the darkness and not recognized myself. Everything I'd told myself I was - the good things, the things that we all say to ourselves to get us through the day - was a lie.

I may not have been the only problem in the relationship. It takes two to tango, or to fight, but I was part of the problem and, on that night as I sat there, music playing, it was enough for me to come to a judgment. I realized that there was a part of me that had their shit together...my logical self...and a part of me given to flights of fancy. The logical half of me could not just walk away from the other half. Both were connected to the other and it was a life sentence, if you will. I wanted nothing to do with the illogical side of myself anymore. For all the good that had come from being "a reckless spirit" or whatever, it just wasn't enough anymore. I'd hurt the people who loved me too many times to count and it sickened me.

The next morning, I awoke quite surprised that I'd managed to fall asleep at all. The harsh morning sunlight cut through the shades, setting the room ablaze in shades of yellow and orange. I looked outside and saw the palm trees, but also the broken and hollow buildings of the neighborhood in which I lived. This place had been poison for both myself and the woman who'd left just days before, unable to take anymore. I suddenly saw that this was not a place where people with dreams chose to live, unless those dreams were built on lies. Were my dreams lies, I wondered? Needless to say, I broke my lease, kissed my security deposit adios, and got the fuck out of there.

I also did something I never did before and began asking strangers for help. Not people on the street, but people who could actually help me uncover more truths about myself and bring about the change I felt necessary if both sides of my being were going to make this new relationship work. Strangely, when a Gary Allan song came on my iPod, I found myself all too anxious to skip over it. Like a smoker who chose to not keep a pack of smokes around "just in case", I ended up leaving behind the Gary Allan CD when I moved out of the place I'd lived, but never called home.

For the next two years, I didn't listen to Gary Allan at all. His music reminded me too much of the woman who'd left and the man who'd once romanticized the broken characters in songs like "Smoke Rings" and "Man To Man". In my heart, it just felt like listening to those songs would be to take a step backwards, in time and in spirit.

And then one day I got a call from a publicist. "Do you want to interview Gary Allan," she asked? She'd also asked if I'd received the advance copy of Gary's new CD. She'd mailed it to the old address, which I found somewhat apropos. I imagined the manager wondering what the fuck was up with all these Gary Allan CD's being left behind, showing up in the mail and chuckled to myself.

I passed on the interview and never did get around to listening to his new CD (2007's Living Hard). But, the other day, I was in a book store, found a whole stack of Gary Allan CD's for a buck each, and found myself curious again. One of them was, of course, Smoke Rings In The Dark. I haven't listened to them yet, but they're there if I should ever need them. I imagine that the next time I hear "Smoke Rings In The Dark", or "Man To Man", or "Alright Guy", they'll no longer connect with me the way they used to - kindred spirits finding each other in this hard luck world. They'll just be songs to me and I'll either find something to hang my hat on the way normal people do, or I won't.

I'm different enough now, two years smarter, and no longer broken like I was. If anything, I can still feel a twinge of the old wounds that hang in the air like smoke rings when my heart skips a beat at the prospect of new love. They'll probably always be there, a reminder of those days when I courted darkness and despair, not knowing what I know now.

My Favorite Danica Can Add Faster Than Your Favorite Danica Can Drive, Na Na Na Boo Boo

In recent weeks, a lot of hype has surrounded Danica Patrick's entry into the world of NASCAR. It seems to be attracting the same level of media interest as Michael Jordan's transition to baseball. The thing is, Danica's about as good a driver as Jordan was an outfielder. Okay, that's not completely true, but she certainly isn't God's gift to racing, no matter how you slice it. Still, she has somehow been elevated to the same superstar status despite no actual accomplishments to back it up.

Oh wait, she's a woman. That's right, I forget that as long as you can fill a B-cup, you don't actually have to be good at anything (Sarah Palin, anyone?).

The thing is, she may be an okay-looking lady, but, judging from the media interest - not to mention those "unrated" Go Daddy spots that border on soft-core - you'd think she was some drop-dead gorgeous babe when, in truth, she looks like somebody's spunky kid sister.

Remove her from the race track and put her in your local grocery store, working the checkout lane, and you'd never look twice at her. Come on, admit it, she's a 6 at best.

So, why is she considered so freakin' hot? Rachel Ray posed for FHM, just like Danica did, and didn't get the "horny guy" career bounce that Danica seems to have received. Are there that many guys out there who hope she wins a race and then disrobes in the winner's circle, pouring a jug of milk over her sweaty, exposed breasts?

Never gonna happen...winning a race, I mean.

I say that all the attention is being placed upon the wrong Danica and that, without too much effort, the "other Danica" could turn out to be just as talented (or better) on the racing circuit.

"Whatchoo talkin' bout, Darren?!"


(Danica McKellar, aka "Winnie Cooper", all grown up)

Remember that TV show "The Wonder Years", and Kevin's first crush, Winnie Cooper?

Even as a mere teenager, Winnie's expressive, innocent eyes and pouting lips lured me in week after week. I was smitten. Winnie, of course, was played by Danica McKellar, who could have gone on to HUGE things if she'd played her cards right.

Instead, McKellar didn't so much give up acting as place it on the back burner while she enrolled at UCLA and eventually graduated summa cum laude (is that a great porn name or what?), with a degree in Mathematics.

She then went on to write two best-selling books on that very subject, "Math Doesn't Suck: How to Survive Middle-School Math without Losing Your Mind or Breaking a Nail" and "Kiss My Math: Showing Pre-Algebra Who's Boss". While definitely playing up the "pretty girls don't have to be dumb" angle, the books themselves are actually well-done, informative books on the subject, earning glowing reviews from critics and accolades from the mathematics community.

While Patrick is a role model for young girls who pay close attention to the fact that you don't actually have to be good at anything to make a great living if you play up your sexuality, McKellar is a great role model, proving that being pretty doesn't mean you have to leave your brain at the door.

Like Danica Patrick, she has taken part in some semi-racy photo sessions. The difference between she and Patrick, though, is that her beauty jumps off the page while Patrick's gaze at the camera doesn't say "Come hither" so much as "Take the fucking shot already, my butt crack is showing."

That Danica Patrick, a woman with moderate dimensions at best, gets all the glory while McKellar basks in relative anonymity these days is great for me because I don't have to share her with millions of Docker-wearing cubicle jockeys who go home each night to a woman of even more moderate dimensions (come on, you know its true). But if McKellar were to ever choose to get behind the wheel of a race car, she could literally end Patrick's career in a single lap.

She could finish dead last, in fact, and the racing world would flock to McKellar's pit area, flash bulbs popping while the actual winner of the race drinks milk all by his lonesome.

Math Doesn't Suck: How to Survive Middle-School Math without Losing Your Mind or Breaking a Nail

Kiss My Math: Showing Pre-Algebra Who's Boss

Hummer, RIP

Sad, sad news today as the announcement is made that General Motors is to stop production of its gluttonous douche tanks known as the Hummer. My "fondest" memory of the odes to excess was back when I was living in L.A. and briefly had the attention of "Sir" Clive Davis, the Arista Records legend. After one of his assistants stumbled upon my songs and made an introductory bid for my services, I was then introduced to a noted songwriter-for-hire who has done very well by Davis.

I'd really, really like to mention his name, but I am hopeful you will know who it is without too much hint-dropping (read on).

Anyhoo, the guy calls me on his cell phone and we start talking about a meeting. He asks me what I'm doing now, I look at my watch, notice that it is half past ten on a school night, and reply, "Nothing." He then asks for my address and tells me that he'll swing by and take me to this favorite restaurant of his.

So, ten minutes later, I literally hear the sound of tires squealing on the pavement outside and look out the window just in time to see the biggest contraption on four wheels pull into my driveway.

Not only that, it's yellow. My first thought is that anyone who buys a bright yellow Hummer and doesn't think it looks like they're driving around in an over-sized Tonka truck is missing a part of their brain.

Ah well, you get what you give.

So, as the guy talks a mile a minute and drives even faster, we speed down the backstreets of the San Fernando Valley. This guy drops names faster than Ric Ocasek's super-model wife. It's all I can do to keep up while also nodding my head every time the guy ends a sentence with "Know what I mean?"

I'm starting to think I'm stuck in the car with Ernest P. Worrell, except for the fact that Ernest never pulled out his cell phone and tried conducting two conversations at one time. Crikey, was he talking to me or the person on the other end of the Bluetooth?

All the while, he's talking about how great the food is at the place we're going. My mouth waters as he describes the subtle nuances of the meal he had there mere days ago. I can hardly wait. As we drive, I am literally able to look down on semi-trucks. Who knew they had numbers painted on the tops of their trailers? Needless to say, Mini Coopers looked like half-squashed beetles as seen from space.

We finally arrive at our destination. Turns out the place he's talking about is Jerry's Famous Deli, the well-known L.A. eatery with locations all over the city. The one he takes me too, though, was the one that had been shown recently on the news for getting an "F" on a recent health inspection and being forced to close temporarily.

Is this a joke, I think to myself? Is Ashton Kutcher going to jump out from behind a bush with a camera crew?

Turns out the dude's for real. As we walk into the place, every server within a 50-foot radius jumps to attention and we are seated at a choice table providing a view of the main dining area. As we sit down and are handed our menus, he introduces me to the waitress as if the information is key to her survival.

After we place an order for appetizers, the guy turns towards the other tables near us and says loud enough to be heard by the furthest table of diners, "Here you are now, entertain me." He then continues to stare expectantly, drawing a few quizzical looks from a few others besides myself.

"Ah, I love doing that shit," he says to me. The rest of the evening was a blur of self-important and self-congratulatory musings from a guy who can get away with that kinda shit and does.

I kept thinking that this guy and I could not be more different. For starters, if each of us were to mention visiting our Grammy recently, he'd be talking about the little statue on his mantle and, well, I'd be talking about my mother's mother back in Michigan. My mention earlier of growing up in Michigan, in his eyes, made us blood brothers, it seems, as he is also from the state shaped like a mitten.

So, where'd he pick up the British accent that comes and goes?

Later that evening, we literally spent two hours inside the Hummer parked outside a steak restaurant that was closed, but that he wanted to show me anyway, so I would know where it is. During this time, he plays me song after song that he's currently working on - his attention span getting the better of him each time, forcing him to click to the next track a mere twenty seconds or so into each song.

At roughly 4AM, he finally deposited me in front of my house and I jumped from the Hummer onto my front lawn, slightly spraining my ankle, but trying to not look like a dunce in front of the dude in the Hummer.

Whenever I see one of those things, I think of that night and just shake my head. It signifies a world I will never be a part of, occupied by people with which I will never have anything in common.

Ah, life is a rollercoaster.

Devo @ The 2010 Olympics

If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. Devo performing to a sea of admirers adorned in light blue Energy Domes. The band was in fine fashion considering the fact that this was the Winter Olympics and that the show was taking place outside. as the band ran through "Uncontrollable Urge", "That's Good", "Gates Of Steel" and a new one called "So Fresh".

Enjoy!

How Is This Not A Hit?!: Polly Scattergood "Unforgiving Arms"

"He's a typical writer
Always in love with what is gone
And I am a, a typical sinner
With a knife inside my back jean pocket..."
-Unforgiving Arms, Polly Scattergood

Buy Polly Scattergood


There are those feelings we get every so often that make life worth living; the buzz of attraction, the rush of that first kiss when both sides of the equation become one and "accidental", flirtatious touches are replaced by ones with deep intent, hearing a great song for the first time and having it completely sweep you off your feet, making you hope the DJ tells you who the artist is so you can point your car in the direction of the nearest record store.

Sure, you could order it on Amazon or iTunes, but you need this song now! At that moment, you are convinced that your life would stop if you were not able to procure said song, for it has already found a permanent place in your heart. To think that only moments ago, you had not even known of this song's existence. Your quest to own it now is a charming response to the fact that it owns you.

In the span of one listen, it altered your path, changed your direction, gave you a new purpose from out of thin air. It brought a smile to your face and a quickness to your heart that you hadn't felt in such a long time. You feel like a kid again and wonder how or why we ever choose to stop being kids who throw themselves into the things that they love with such wild abandon.

How did we stop being that kid? Just because we went to college and got a job shouldn't have had to mean that we put on the act of adulthood. Do it long enough and you become one, forgetting what it was like to just be you in the process.

I, too, am guilty of this. But I was given a great gift last night as I strolled into the local record store. It was late and I was bored at home. I tried the book store, but found nothing I could sink my teeth into. As I strolled down the aisle, I heard the last half-minute of a Pearl Jam song. I remember it only because of the contrast; my mind trying to shut it out, as opposed to when the next song began to play and my mind welcoming it in with quite open arms.

The song, oddly enough, is called "Unforgiving Arms" by UK singer/songwriter Polly Scattergood. The self-titled album on which the album appears actually came out almost a year ago on the esteemed Mute Records label (home of Depeche Mode, Erasure, and the recent Kraftwerk re-issues, among others). How I've managed to go a whole year without knowing of this song's existence floors me.

That such breathtaking beauty was out there the whole time while I went on living in a world without it makes me incredibly worried that there may be a whole bunch of other songs out there that have the potential to take my breath away but that I am keenly unaware of at the moment. Of course, how much crap would I have to wade through if I were to go in search of them? The sad truth is that I am left in the helpless position of waiting for such songs to find me, to be in the right place at the right time, like strangers on a train.

What I love most about "Unforgiving Arms" is the breathy, sing-song quality of the chorus juxtaposed against the somewhat jaded lyrics of the verses that are delivered in an irresistible spoken-sung fashion that gives the song a conversational tone.

Naturally, I came home with a copy of the CD and have been spinning the rest of it, hoping against hope that there are other musical treasures to be found. What I will say is this: if you love Kate Bush, or even early Tori Amos, you need to check out Polly Scattergood. She embraces that same ethereal musical vibe, tackling many of the same themes of inner struggle and romantic discord that those artists explore so wonderfully.

Album opener "Breathe In Breathe Out" (not the Bush song) effortlessly demands the listener's attention with a hint of piano and a voice laying its heart wide open, audibly shivering in the cold. What strikes me is the song's cinematic scope, serving as the musical score for films we've seen where a woman once in distress stands shaking et valiant at the top of rolling Irish hills as the camera pans high then begins travelling along the ocean's edge and away as the credits roll.

"I Hate The Way" definitely recalls Amos, but rocks a little harder than Tori ever has. Scattergood's vocals are full of little surprises, turning different colors like a chameleon changes the tone of its skin as the background requires and, in doing so, she is both vulnerable yet strong, scared yet brave, and ultimately defiant against a lover who has strayed one too many times.

In reading up on her career to date, I am amazed that "Unforgiving Arms" was never released as a single while "I Hate The Way" and "Other Too Endless" have. Both are fine songs, but I can tell you that if they'd been playing at the record store, I wouldn't have been half as knocked out. I think I may just have to pass this song on to a few music supervisors I know and hope that they'll hear the same thing I do. Stranger things have happened.

Polly Scattergood - Unforgiving Arms

DVD Review: "Capitalism: A Love Story"

Capitalism: A Love Story

Full disclosure: I am not a huge Michael Moore fan, nor am I a Republican or a Democrat. I am a registered voter, with no chosen party affiliation. First and foremost, I am an American.

What strikes me only minutes into Moore's latest film, "Capitalism: A Love Story", is how broken we are as a nation. Amazingly, broken though it may be, our political and economic system just keeps right on running, like the proverbial Energizer bunny. If the timing belt on my car breaks (which it did a few weeks ago, setting me back a hefty sum in the process), my car stops running. If the shoelace on my running show breaks, I stop running. But when America breaks, it just keeps right on going. How is that possible?

Michael Moore quite eloquently, and dramatically at times, illustrates just who is responsible for the deep financial hole we as a country are in, and how greed among the richest 1% of Americans has resulted in a load of deep shit for the remaining 99% of us.

The criminals responsible for this; Chris Dodd, Timothy Geithner, AIG, Lloyd Blankfein, Henry Paulsen, Barney Frank, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Bill Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, and anyone with "Goldman Sachs" on their resume who now holds a position within our government, are ALL responsible and, thus, should be held responsible for crimes against the American people. Who but them is responsible for building the necessary loopholes into our current system that has enabled a handful of people to profit from the pillaging of the American economy?

That they operate with absolute impunity and have continually flipped off the American people, who voted down the 700 billion stimulus package, by going ahead and doing whatever they want whenever they want is insane. You've been robbed. So have I, and so far all we've done is just bitch about it.

What can we do short of revolution?

What can be done short of tossing every single person listed above into a flaming lava pit, a la "Joe Vs. The Volcano"?

Harsh, I know, but each are guilty of treason (aka "betrayal of one's nation", a crime that is punishable by death) and, quite frankly, anything less would simply send the wrong message. Shall I show you a pile of dead American soldiers who died while creating the necessary diversion so that our politicians could complete the insertion of the necessary loopholes for their brethren in the financial community?

It should frighten you to the core of your being that such American deaths no longer register to the folks we've elected to office and that they care so little about the citizens of this country as to have no qualms at all about taking millions in donations from corporations whose own best interests are then placed before ours, making all involved richer while millions of people just like you lose their homes, their jobs, and the basics that we've long taken for granted because they were promised to us in the Constitution.

Or were they?

I guess someone in the White House finally sat down and read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and realized that there really wasn't anything that actually said that the government couldn't just do whatever the fuck they wanted, when they wanted.

Whether you're a Republican or a Democrat, whether you like Michael Moore or not, the message at the core of this film is that a serious crime has been committed and that the guilty walk free, thumbing their noses at us.

Meanwhile, our politicians do the dirty work for companies that lay off thousands of Americans at a time, benefit from huge tax breaks, then send jobs overseas to take advantage of even weaker economies than our own. You'd think an American president would require that there be requirements attached to a $700 billion bail-out, some levelk of accountability in exchange for the American people having to right such a check, but there were NONE. The government did not ask where the money was going, or what the companies would do to make sure it didn't happen again.

In response, AIG turned right around and handed out millions in bonuses to people responsible for the debacle that crippled our economy. Turns out Chris Dodd made sure such a stipulation was given the necessary approval. When the American people found out, we threw a major hissy fit, President Obama feigned outrage, and some of the bonuses were given back. Supposedly.

What we should have done is marched to Washington D.C. and fucking stormed every governmental building, dragging fat cats out by their tailor suits and setting them aflame. Just try arresting an angry mob of 250 million. How you like us now, fat cats?

That's not to say we wouldn't stop at Wall Street on our way east, making sure to tear down the financial hub that has been nothing more than a casino where the house ALWAYS wins for decades.

It's time to fight, people. It's time to go to war. This time, though, the enemy is on our soil and they wear disguises to look just like us, but they're not. They're heartless, treasonous souls who need to be quickly and with great force be removed from their positions of power.

If you can watch "Capitalism: A Love Story" and only be mad at Michael Moore, then more than likely, you're one of them. In that case, watch out. We're coming for you. Sooner rather than later, trust me.

The Knack "Alternate Route" Round Trip Redux

For a band that had quickly recorded two albums worth of material in just a few weeks; half of the tracks appearing on their landmark debut, Get The Knack, and the others appearing the following year on ...but the little girls understand, the grueling, slow recording process employed for their third album, Round Trip, served only to heighten the growing level of frustration within the band.

Time spent meticulously re-mic'ing the drums in order to get just the right sound for each song zapped momentum and allowed certain members of the band to disappear along with their proclivities for long stretches of time. The Knack circa 1980-1981 was a band literally flying apart at the seams, still valiantly trying to keep it together. Despite the runaway success of their million-selling debut, circumstances and an impatient public cried for more.

With the second album failing to maintain the momentum of the first and a growing media backlash seeing the band get very little positive press, the band knew going into these new sessions that it was do or die. Strangely, it was as if the gigantic juggernaut that was "My Sharona" and "Good Girls Don't" had never happened and that the Knack were just another L.A. power pop band facing uncertain times.

Like The Beatles before them, The Knack could very well have kept right on making albums like their first two and done just fine, but, instead, they risked it all for the sake of artistry and the world was all the better for it. The Knack, having quite intentionally patterned themselves after the fab four from the very start, were now trying to wipe that slate clean. In doing so, they too were a band eager to shed its skin for the sake of musical experimentation...just as the Beatles had done. Thus, comparisons to the Beatles were inescapable, even as the band moved into new territory.

Round Trip arrived in record stores in 1981 just as the new wave explosion took full control of the airwaves. Plus, a TV station by the name of MTV was quickly, and quite literally, altering the face of music. Thus, the world was changing and, when their third album finally arrived, the Knack found themselves to be a band out of time, no longer leading the charge.

Instead, bands like Elvis Costello & The Attractions, The Police, and the Pretenders were the faces of the "new wave" insurgence. While they had all got their start at roughly the same time as the Knack, each was now reaping the rewards of more gradual rise to the top while the Knack seemed to be paying the price for meteoric success.

Within weeks of release, sales of Round Trip stalled. Lead-off single "Pay The Devil (Ooo Baby Ooo)" had failed to generate any sizable airplay and the feeling within the Capitol Records tower was that the label needed to cut their losses rather than take any more chances on the band.

By 1982, The Knack would be without a record deal and in a state of shambles. Round Trip, their third and final record for the label, had not given the band a new lease on life. Instead, it had hastened their exit from the label and was a punchline used by the band's naysayers.

Those who bought the album when it came out and were true fans of the band, not merely fair-weather fans of whatever happened to be in the Top 40 at the time, were privy to an album of remarkable beauty. Over the years, it has been like a cherished, well-kept secret known only by a chosen few.

Listening to it now, I am able to see it as one of the last albums of a time when studio extravagance and excess were an accepted part of the equation in Hollywood, a place such albums as Tusk and Hotel California called home.

Love them or hate them, those albums are all iconic postcards of a place and time in music history when artistry and inspiration were chased at all costs, where bands that seemed on the verge of collapse still managed to make the best music of their lives, and just when you thought they couldn't top their last album, they did just that.

In a perfect world, Round Trip would be mentioned alongside such albums, as it is very much made from the same ingredients (sex, drugs - lots and lots of drugs - and rock & roll). Plus, like all timeless classics, it it sounds just as vibrant today as it did then. Such a shame very people got the chance to hear it.

The few who did hear it, and loved it, deserve applause for many years of being the lone voice in the wilderness, singing its praises. To those who've taken every available opportunity to play the album at parties, or for girlfriends, boyfriends, and the like, gathered here is an alternate take of the album you've loved for three decades.

Found within these new grooves are live versions, alternate takes, and rough mixes of every track from Round Trip. In some cases, you will hear things that reawaken your love for an old song. In others, new light may be shed upon a song that you might have initially overlooked in its original version. At the very least, one is given a cherished glimpse into the world of The Knack. We hope it gives you more fuel for continuing to be the lone voice still raving about one of the greatest album the world has never heard, Round Trip.

My thanks to Ginchopolis for making these tracks available for me to pass on to my readers, and to the surviving members of The Knack, Berton Averre and Prescott Niles, for being so great to their fans over the years. One of my fondest memories was of catching the band in '93. As I sat in a comfy booth that seemed more properly suited for a restaurant than a rock club, I anxiously awaited the arrival of our waitress for the evening. Who should saunter by first, though, but Prescott Niles himself. Later, Berton too appeared and they each spent a good half hour before the show singing album flats and souvenirs for one excited fan after another.

Radiating Love
Soul Kissin'
Africa
She Likes The Beat
Just Wait And See
We Are Waiting
Boys Go Crazy
Li'l Cal's Big Mistake
Sweet Dreams
Another Lousy Day In Paradise
Pay The Devil
Art War
Go Away, Stay Away

Devo At The Olympics on Feb 22!

On February 22, DEVO will perform at the Vancouver Winter Olympics.

While it may not be equivalent to performing during halftime at the Super Bowl, that one of my musical heroes is getting such a huge chunk of the world spotlight (as opposed to most others who never seem to get the proper notice, but I digress) is a HUGE DEAL for me. Especially when you consider how absolutely revolutionary the band was during their initial run.

This was a band that was decades ahead of the pack as far as merchandising and conceptualization went. Aztec energy domes, anyone? Some may think those are just funny red flowerpots, but who do you think of the minute you see one...DEVO, perhaps?

Mission accomplished.

Of course, many see such things as style over substance and those tend to be folks who only know the band from it's huge hit, "Whip It", and are missing a TON of great, ground-breaking music that the band has recorded.

Perhaps the fact that the band is performing on a world stage such as this means the world is finally catching up to where DEVO was...thirty years ago.

Further proof of this comes with the band's recent re-signing to Warner Brothers Records at a time when most bands from that era are reduced to indie status, or, worse yet, the nostalgia circuit of Indian casinos and state fairs.

Additionally, the major label system has been in steep decline, undergoing its own "De-evolution", if you will. How apropos that DEVO should unite with a label that, at one time, felt they no longer needed the band, forcing DEVO to ink a deal with indie labelk Enigma Records in the late 80's.

Enigma's no longer around, but DEVO is...and their union with Warner Brothers will give the band the ability to penetrate, per a recent news release, "every nook and cranny of our technologically advanced pop culture in the coming year."

For DEVO fans, this is exciting news.

To celebrate, here's a five-pack of choice cuts from the band's live show at Max's Kansas City (1979):

Blockhead
Uncontrollable Urge
Satisfaction (I Can't Get No)
Mongoloid
Gut Feeling/Slap Your Mammy

Song of The Day: The Knack "Soul Kissin'" (Live 1981)

(The Knack soul kissin' some ice cream)

With the recent passing of Knack singer/guitarist Doug Fieger, I find myself listening to The Knack's third album Round Trip with a certain wistfulness that wasn't there before. That's easy to explain, as death can often bring a certain amount of rain to any parade. Here's the thing that surprises me, though...there are certain songs that I listen to even now that Fieger's death can't touch.

The joy that lives within these songs, the absolute "serious fun" that he was having, are not lessened by his passing. Maybe, in some way, it actually heightens it. In the grooves of these songs, he will always be the young, wide-eyed rocker with the mischievous smirk and, while that may have rubbed certain people wrong at some point, that is what I'll always see in my mind when I listen to songs like "Soul Kissin'".

This version was taken from a 1981 New York City gig that came on the heels of the release of Round Trip and shows the band in quite soulful spirits, indeed.

The Knack - Soul Kissin'

Jeff Altman: Sweet & Meaty!!

Back in the late 80's, there was nothing like watching Late Night With David Letterman back when Dave and his staff were constantly pushing the envelope. One of Dave's favorite guests back then was comedian Jeff Altman, who never ceased to make milk, or coffee, or Mountain Dew shoot out of my nose.

What I loved about Altman was that he looked like a guy stuck in middle management, but would then proceed to go fucking crazy behind the mic.

Thus, I greeted Altman's '89 album I'll Flip You Like A Cheese Omelette (on Warner Brothers Records, no less) with great interest. Upon first listen, I laughed so hard, and for so long that my then-girlfriend thought I was having an epileptic seizure. Over the years, I have played the album hundreds of times and I still laugh just as hard today as I did then.

At the time, Altman was poised at the top of the comedy world...then nothing. By the early 90's, the guy had seemingly fallen off the face of the earth. To this day, I know he still does a number of dates, but he's had zero presence on TV; no appearances on Letterman's show, nor have I ever seen him on a little cable channel known as COMEDY CENTRAL.

Seriously, how does a comedy network trying to fill 24 hours each day with original programming not find time to show some motherfucking Jeff Altman? Pardon my French, but come on, man.

Needless to say, this CD is out-of-print, but if you have $104, you can buy a new copy on Amazon.

Listen, laugh, and thank me later.

Jeff Altman - I'll Flip You Like A Cheese Omelette

It turns out he put out a second comedy album in 2001, which you can buy for $6.99 (mp3 download) HERE.

Heavy Metal Midget and the Psychedelic Bike Shorts Dude

I had seen the pic before, but when my buddy showed me this earlier today, I couldn't help but be enthralled. Sure, the eye is immediately drawn to the midget (or whatever the @#$% we're supposed to call little people in the PC world these days) dressed up in full Rob Halford heavy metal attire. That's the punch line, right? Little guy trying to look all hardcore and shit.

I get from the somewhat quizzical facial expression that, just as the photo was taken, someone off-camera said, "Hey dude, nice fuckin' vest!" and the little guy's not quite sure whether they're fucking with him or not. He's got that look in his eye like wants to smile, flash some devil horns (he looks like he might even be trying to let one fly, but damn his stubby fingers), and nod that knowing nod that says "Together in Metal, dude".

But he's a midget. He's been fucked with before. Sometimes he actually manages to forget that he's only three feet tall, usually when he loses himself in some early Priest or some pre-Dickinson Maiden. Then some fuckhead drives by yelling "Short people got...no reason!" and totally destroys the one little moment where he forgot who he was.

How many times had he cried himself to sleep, wondering why guys who have it all still feel the need to belittle him? They've got girlfriends who ask them to get things down for them from the upper shelves, and when they get in the car, their feet actually reach the pedals. Why any normal person would rub that in the face of a little person doesn't make any sense. It'd be like Peyton Manning making fun of you because you can't throw a football 80 yards.

But that's not the craziest part of the photo, for me at least. What blows my mind is the guy next to the heavy metal little person. The one in the psychedelic tie-dye biker shorts. Those shorts are completely out of control. I don't know that there's a Deadhead alive who'd be caught dead in those things. Maybe the lead singer from Living Colour might have dug them...back in 1988. Beyond that, I'm just in total awe. Of course, like any true metal maven, he's topped them off with a stud belt and is good-to-go. From there, it looks like the top half of a leopard skin leotard...tucked into psychedelic, glow-in-the-dark, visible-from-the-moon, spandex biker shorts. And a leather half-jacket.

That is one dude that's confident in his metalosexuality, that's for damn sure.

You just know this guy has a ton of friends, too. He was wearing that very same leather jacket when most of his current buds first met him back in second grade. It wasn't a half-jacket back then. He looks like a guy who likes to be called "Rolly" instead of his real name, which nobody really knows. At the moment the photo was taken, he seemed to be catching up with one of his friends, who no doubt sees Jay from "Clerks" as a role model.

Here's the thing: the photo leads you to believe that the metal midget and the skinny dude in the biker shorts are buddies, but I think that the dude in the biker shorts is whispering to Jay, "Is there a fucking midget standing next to me?"

Jay nods.

"Can you believe that dude's outfit?! I mean, come on, white shoes in April? You gotta be kidding me."

Jay nods, not wanting to be a dick and point out the obvious. Plus, he's stoned out of his fucking mind.

Song Of The Day: Go-Go's "This Town"

So there I was parking in the mall parking lot to procure a last-minute Valentine's Day gift. As I walked through the Macy's store, I passed by the cosmetics section and heard the familiar refrain of "This Town" coming from a radio being played by one of the ladies working the make-up counter.

Making the scene all the more odd was that she was an older Indian woman (as in "from India"), surrounded by three or four other women, one of which was having eye shadow applied. While not the most surreal thing I've seen, it struck me as odd as I watched her mouth the words to the song in-between talking to the other women in her thick Indian accent. She wasn't old enough to be my mom, but she was close.

Seeing her rocking out to the Go-Go's brought a smile to my face and also reminded me what a kick-ass little tune "This Town" is; a heady mix of evocative surf guitar with a nifty little Motown chorus thrown in for good measure.

For a brief moment, I was reminded of those younger days, when, like all teenage female Beatle fans of yore, we fellas each had our favorite Go-Go (mine was Jane, no shocker there). Good times.

Go-Go's - This Town

The Figure Skate Drinking Game, 2010 Olympics Version

Ah, those crazy Olympic figure skaters. Lemmee tell you, tonight was not the night to take a shot every time a skater's ass mowed the ice like a Zamboni with a big crack in the middle, was it? I should know because I am typing this with one hand, the other covering my left eye so that there aren't identical monitor screens staring back at me. Just as soon as the room had stopped spinning from the last coupla shots, another skater would bite the dust and my buddy Slim would hand me another.

"Drink 'er down, Kristi YamaGULPi!"

Pardon Slim's poor punsmanship, he's as drunk as I am. See, we were in such a wild hurry to begin this rather impromptu drinking game that we forgot to figure out a way of taking turns. So, instead of him drinking every time a skater does a full 180-degree turn on their butt and me drinking when they do an actual drop and roll, we're both drinking anytime a skater and the dreams they've had since childhood go SPLAT! Still a pretty fun game, either way.

I can imagine that, for the families of those Olympic skaters, when they see their little skater take a tumble, tonight was not so fun.

The family, unable to afford the trip to Canada, is probably watching from a motel room in Boise, having mortgaged the house to the hilt supporting their little skater's dream, then losing it to foreclosure last year. The siblings wonder what life would be like if they got to do what they wanted to do instead of being treated like luggage by their parents, gazing upon their brother/sister whose life has rendered theirs non-existent, the NBC logo at the bottom of the screen, the joy that washes over their mom, who they have never actually seen smile, as their little skater takes center ice.

"Ah, how lovely of Celine Dion to re-record this song specifically so that it fits our little skater's routine better," she gleams. Father nods, stoic as a wooden indian, never quite noticing before how tight a rump his little skater has...mmm, mmm, mmm, he says.

Then "BLAMMO", right after Celine hits that note that makes her mouth look crooked, as if trying to sneak a burp out without the person on her left noticing, their little skater falls on their ass. GAME OVER. Of course, there's still a minute left in their little skater's program. The bits of ice remain glued to their little skater's arse, reminding everyone in the room of that toilet paper commercial with the cute little bear with bits of tissue in its butt hair. They all smile...father nods to mother, reaches into his duffle bag for something shiny and metallic...

There's no other option. Winning was the only option. There will be blood.

(**exhale**)

Doug Fieger, RIP

After a long battle with cancer, Knack singer/guitarist Doug Fieger passed away today. To say that Fieger was an instrumental part of my musical youth would be quite the understatement. In the space of three albums, he and the Knack created a permanent soundtrack for my life.

Seeing them for the first time, during a brief reunion tour in 1993, I was floored at how easily they were capable of breathing new life into songs I thought I'd heard enough for one lifetime (the hits). I walked away from the show with a wide-eyed smile, an album flat autographed by three original members, and the hope that the band wouldn't just go away, but stay together and keep on making new music. My hopes were answered and then some as the band remained a vital, active force right up until Fieger's cancer battle took him off the road.

Still, those first three albums are ICONIC. Anyone who says otherwise is letting their own hipster delusions get the better of them and, in the process, is missing out on a lot of great music. Just like the Beatles were so much more than "Please Please Me" and "I Want To Hold Your Hand", the Knack were more than "My Sharona" and "Good Girls Don't". In fact, anyone who has bothered to listen to the band's third album, Round Trip, knows precisely what I am talking about.

On that record, the band dispensed with pandering to public and record company expectations, creating a record of absolutely breathtaking musical breadth. One could dismiss it as the band simply trying to make their own Rubber Soul or Revolver, but that's a lazy argument at best. The range of genres explored; from the funky groove of "She Likes The Beat" and "Soul Kissin'" to the dreamy psychedelic jam "We Are Waiting" to the buoyant pop of "Radiating Love" and "Just You Wait And See", proved this was a band capable of doing it all.

Sadly, Capitol Records quickly washed their hands of the album and the band. One can't help think that, released in another time, when labels and radio formats were more open to such experimentation and genre-hopping, the album would have found its rightful place in the musical pantheon.

With Fieger's passing, you can expect many mentions of "My Sharona" and Get The Knack. It's a shame that, for many, the celebration of this man's music will stop there because he certainly didn't. This was a man - and a band - of stunning depth and complexity. A beautiful voice went silent today, but his music will live on.

The Knack - Sweet Dreams

Rare Radio Comp: 99x's "Live X" (1993)

I'm just gonna come right out and say it...the 90's was a pretty sucky decade to my ears. Radio stations seemed to do little else but blast the latest and subjectively greatest) from the likes of Crash Test Dummies, 4 Non Blondes, Gin Blossoms, Third Eye Blind, No Doubt, Pearl Jam, and any number of jam bands I'd rather just forget altogether. Every so often, a decent tune would break through the onslaught of grunge and neo-ska stuff, but then we'd soon be returned to our regularly-scheduled all-grunge-all-the-time hit parade. Ugh.

Of course, there were a few artists I enjoyed. Radiohead had just barged onto the scene with "Creep", Matthew Sweet was still basking in the goodwill afforded him via the magnificenbt "Girlfriend" album, and bands like Cracker, the Jayhawks, and the BoDeans were turning out some pretty cool heartland rock.

Quite mercifully, there was a great radio station in Atlanta, the almighty 99x, playing such bands quite heavily. Around '93, they issued a compilation of in-studio performances from ten acts - most of them pretty cool flashbacks to a decade that is otherwise best left forgotten. I had been looking for this CD for AGES, as it features a rare in-studio track from my buddy Adam Schmitt.

Strangely, while most tracks were recorded at a local Atlanta station where such in-studio sessions took place for broadcast on 99x, Schmitt's track, "Felt So Cool", was actually recorded in his own studio (but differs greatly from the version that appeared on Illiterature), Radiohead's "Creep" was taken from a KROQ studio session, and the Indigo Girls' "Down By The River" was recorded live at the Metro in Chicago.

None of this detracts from the enjoyment factor, of course. Just for kicks, I listened to the whole thing and was taken back in time to a day when bands like Crash Test Dummies and Cracker could not be avoided, no matter how hard you tried. I imagine Radiohead completists will be all over the band's stripped-down version of "creep" and that closet Dummies fans will be delighted to see not one, but two tracks for their listening pleasure. An added bonus in the cover artwork that was designed by local artist Howard Finster, best known for his work on REM's "Reckoning" and Talking Heads' "Little Creatures" album covers).

All in all, it ranks as one of the more listenable radio station in-studio collections from that decade and I am passing in hopes that you'll find one or two nice surprises.

Lenny Kravitz - Believe
Crash Test Dummies - Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm
Cracker - Low
Indigo Girls - Down by The River
Evan Dando - It's a Shame About Ray
BoDeans - Idaho
Matthew Sweet - Divine Intervention
Jayhawks - Waiting For The Sun
Radiohead - Creep
Adam Schmitt - Felt So Cool
Crash Test Dummies - Superman

Gimme Head(s)!

One thing I noticed the minute the bands of my generation reached their later years, if you will, was how silly some bands looked the more they got older and how the music they played didn't really lend itself to being played by old guys.

I think of this every time I see some mention of the latest version of Ratt or Faster Pussycat come to town. I chuckle at the thought of 50-year-old guys having to shoe-horn their fat asses into a pair of leathers (or worse, spandex...please, no, not the spandex) just to maintain appearances established by long ago, when they were young, hungry, and eager to snag the babes with their flowing locks, cool rock outfits, and rail-thin physiques.

That's what makes bands like The Police so refreshing by comparison. They were smart enough to choose a look and sound that they wouldn't regret in their fifties and sixties. That music is something they'll always be able to play and, though Sting's range may not be what it once was, they've got nothing to be ashamed about when they hit the stage.

Neither does a band like Talking Heads. The shame is, David Byrne wants nothing to do with the rest of the band and we're the worse off for it because those songs hold up and the band would no doubt still be able to put on a great show, perhaps even create new music that doesn't fall too far from their classic-era material.

Truth be told, 1979 is easily my favorite era of music and the Heads were a large part of that scene, sharing the alternative spotlight with the likes of Sting & the boys, Elvis Costello & The Attractions, The Cars, and others who successfully filled my ears with tons of great music.

Only in hindsight, though, did I realize just how awesome the Talking Heads were as a live band. At the time, I viewed Byrne as something of an oddity and it would take a few more years for me to get the hang of the guy.

Having said that, this 1979 live recording truly nails what the Talking Heads are all about to me - not the "Stop Making Sense" version of the band where Byrne had become a parody of himself, embracing a theatrical flair much like Michael Stipe would as time went by (just because you can't find a jacket that fits doesn't make you master showmen, fellas). The Heads in '79 were a supremely awesome jam band for folks who hated jam bands. The songs are each extended musical explorations that show of the proper chops of a band still trying to find its feet in the "new wave" world, with roots firmly planted in NYC's post-punk underground.

Recorded at: Agora Ballroom, Cleveland, OH on March 15th 1979

The Big Country
Warning Sign
Artists Only
The Girls Want To Be With The Girls
The Good Thing
Electricity (appeared on Fear Of Music as "Drugs")
New Feeling
Found A Job
Psycho Killer
Take Me To The River

Song Of The Day: Roadmaster "New York New York"

If I had a dime for every guy who has ever walked out of a Guitar Center with some shiny new piece of gear and stars in their eyes, thinking that now, finally, there is NOTHING to stop them from reaching the BIG TIME, I'd be a rich, rich man. I liken most of those guys to the kids I grew up with who thought that they could run faster in a new pair of Kmart tennis shoes. Little did they know that it takes just a little more than that to run fast. It takes natural, God-given talent. You either have it or you don't and no $2,000 guitar is going to change that.

As if that weren't depressing enough, though, there are hundreds of people on this earth with more talent in their little finger than every artist currently in the Top 10 combined, yet they're doing something other than making music to make ends meet, their rock & roll dreams given up for dead.

I could just tell you that "the fame game" is a crap-shoot, write "THE END", and crawl into bed with my lady, but I think you deserve more than that. You deserve a story.

Our tale begins in Indianapolis, Indiana in the late 60's. High school freshman Mike Read sits in the cafeteria completely unaware of the fact that an older kid by the name of Adam Smasher (real name Asher Benrubi) is on his way over to try bullying him out of his lunch money. Adam quickly discovers that Read isn't going to roll over and play dead. Rather than push the issue any further, he befriends the young Read and they go on to form a band together called Pure Funk.

With constant gigging and self-promotion, the band becomes one of the bigger college bands in the area. Joined by guitarist Rick Benick, bass player Toby Myers and drummer Stephen Riley, Smasher and Read decide to take a stab at the brass ring and try landing a big-time record deal.

Their first move was to change the band's name to Roadmaster.

As only they could do, the band managed to get a demo into the hands of Todd Rundgren, who invited the band to his Bearsville Studio, where they cut a few tracks. Despite Rundgren's name being enough to get their new demo heard by ever major label in the country, it wasn't enough to land them a deal. That is, until they got a call from Indianapolis-based Village Records.

Only Roadmaster could hook up with pop genius Todd Rundgren and cut a demo in his world-class recording studio, only to land a record deal with a label in their own hometown. It wasn't the major label deal they'd been looking for, but it was better than nothing.

1976 saw the release of the band's self-titled debut album. They spent the next year playing any joint that would have them while also opening shows locally for the likes of Rush, Bob Seger, and Ted Nugent. Perhaps disenchanted, singer Adam Smasher soon bowed out of the band to hit the local airwaves as a well-respected rock radio personality. Oddly enough, he stuck around long enough to contribute backing vocals on the group's second album as new lead singer Stephen McNally joined the fold.

What may have initially looked like a "better than nothing" record deal with fledgling label Village Records a couple years prior now looked like a stroke of genius for the band as Village signed a national distribution deal with Mercury Records. This meant that Roadmaster's second album, sSweet Music would benefit from the distribution and marketing muscle of a major label while still having the dedicated support of the Village Records home office. As the album hit the streets, so did the band, this time sharing stages with the likes of Blue Oyster Cult, Cheap Trick, and Kiss throughout the country.



Third album, Hey World, followed in '78 and the band returned to the road as rock radio stations played a handful of tracks from the album, which sold in the area of 300,000 copies. Mercury and the band felt that they were on the heels of breakout success so the band was sent into the studio with the legendary Flo & Eddie, who'd gone from fronting the Turtles to working with the likes of Frank Zappa & The Mothers Of Invention, T. Rex, Alice Cooper and Blondie. Roadmaster's fourth album, Fortress, was Flo & Eddie's chance to shine as record producers and, truth be told, they delivered the goods.

Unfortunately, Fortress sold poorly and the band was immediately dropped by Mercury Records in 1981. While Fortress may have faded into total rock & roll obscurity, it does have a song that has always rocked my world and that I am excited to share with you today...a little ditty called "New York New York" (not to be confused with Sinatra's famous tune of the same name).

It may be worth noting that bassist Toby Myers went on to play bass for fellow Indiana rocker John Cougar Mellencamp while Benick and Read were part of Henry Lee Summer's touring band during his CBS Records days.

Roadmaster - New York New York

Adios American Chopper!

When American Chopper debuted on the TLC Channel six years ago, it was like a breath of fresh B.O. on a reality TV scene that hadn't yet been over-populated by grease monkeys. I mean, for awhile, it was just them and Jesse James. Now we've got shows about freakin' lumberjacks and fishermen, like anybody really wants any of that nonsense.

But I digress...

Within a few episodes, and seeing the friction between Orange County Choppers founder Paul Teutul Sr. and his son, Paul Jr., even I was starting to wonder who the fuck parked a Mack truck up Sr.'s ass. What he failed to realize mentally - although he sure as hell benefited from it financially - was that Junior's stylish and innovative designs were OCC's ticket to the Big Time.

When a company, or celebrity, requested that OCC build them a bike, what they were saying was "Have Junior build us a bike that will make our head explode" and, almost without exception, Junior came through. He did so by putting himself in the place of the client, asking himself what it was that was important to the client, and then found a way to integrate key elements into the design of the bike so as to come up with something that was as far from cookie-cutter as you could get. With a slew of jaw-dropping bikes, many of which are now legendary in the chopper world, and a hit TV show, business at OCC was booming.

So, why was Paul Sr. constantly riding Junior like a punk? If the worst thing he was doing was rolling in an hour late and not putting his tools away, I'd have found a way to let it slide if I were Paul Sr., but, since he alone (to hear him tell it) built OCC from the ground up, he was not going to let some young whipper snapper stroll in any damn time he wanted.

It was like he forgot that Junior was his own flesh and blood, and that things only really started hopping after the kid began designing bikes for the company. Deep down, I can't help think that Paul Sr.'s rage is a direct result of petty jealousy. He realizes that Paul Jr. can come up with better designs in his sleep than he can and that the company would have never had the luxury of their new (and gluttonously palatial) headquarters if not for Junior.

Paul Sr. has profited immensely from Jr.'s creations, yet that new structure is a total fucking monument to himself.

Ask Paul Sr. and I am sure he'll tell you that Paul Jr. would be nothing without him, as would anyone else employed by the company. In his own mind, Paul Sr. built OCC from nothing and is the sole reason that it is the success that it is.

Of course, these days, you've got some technical school computer dilrod by the name of Jason looking like someone who just tripped off the short bus and designing bikes via a CAD program and a sketch tablet hooked up to Illustrator and MotoShop (I just made that up, but I wouldn't be surprised if such a thing exists). Meanwhile, Paul Sr. continues to estrange himself from every single one of his offspring while continuing to bask in his own greatness.

Yet this is a man brought to tears in front of his own employees when making a company-wide (!) announcement about the health of...his dog. Now, I am a huge dog lover and, most days, prefer their company to that of the human variety, but even I've gotta say, "Yo, Paul, that is some fucked up shit". Heaven forbid he be moved to tears upon learning of his son Mikey's alcohol problems and admission into rehab last year.

There just seems to be some wires loose in that big, fat, mustachioed head of his.

Thankfully, today is American Chopper's final episode, bringing a close to the show's six-year run. We'll no doubt be treated to one more ridiculous chopper design that is but a shell of what Paul Jr. was capable of creating while Paul Sr. smiles like a walrus high on his own fumes at the unveiling ceremony, oblivious to the fact that he just delivered sub-par goods to a client that deserved better.

Good riddance, Paul Sr. May the rest of your family thrive as you continue to deny the fact that, while you may have laid the foundation, the OCC empire rose to greatness thanks to the blood, sweat and tears of many others besides yourself.

John Mayer: The (Fictional) He's A Whore Interview

While he's given a couple higher profile interviews as of late, pop icon John Mayer sits down with us to give his most candid and earth-shattering interview ever.

HE'S A WHORE: So, John, you've been making a lot of news lately with some of the more candid revelations from your Rolling Stone and Playboy interviews. When's the last time you masturbated?

JOHN MAYER: I'm firing one of as we speak. Look, I'm not one of those guys whose ashamed to admit that they jerk off. Heck, this one time, when I applied to be a waiter at the local Bennigan's...this was obviously long before I was famous...the guy asked me "Where do you see yourself in five years"...typical interview question...and, rather than lie to him, I just said, "Probably jerking off to that photo of your daughter you have on your desk." Needless to say, I didn't get the job. I did nail his daughter, though.

HAW: You also made mention of your "hood pass", which you caught some flack over for calling it your "nigger pass". Wish you could have that one back?

JOHN MAYER: Yeah, I'm sorry about that. No, actually, you know, I'm sorry we live in a world where white people get dumped on whenever they use the "N" word. I mean, it's just a word, man. Lennon wrote a song called "Woman Is The Nigger Of The World" and, while he got shot, I don't remember him catching any flack over it.

HAW: It was actually very controversial at the time.

JOHN MAYER: Have you seen Yoko's tits lately? Those are not the same downward dog-looking tits she had on Two Virgins, I'll tell you that much. For an older chick, she's got a very respectable rack. I've got a recent picture of her with all kinds of Jergen's lotion on it. Hell, I'd bang her to a Sean Lennon record.

HAW: Let me throw some names out there and you just say the first thing that comes into your head...Sarah Palin.

JOHN MAYER: Monty Python. Michael Palin makes me giggle, man. You gotta wonder if they're related right? If so, one of them's bound to be disappointed about that.

HAW: Ellen Degeneres

JOHN MAYER: Mens underwear. I get the feeling she prefers it to women's panties and I'd fucking shit a golden brick if she ever wore a thong. I think I could turn her. I mean, she's about as sexy as Macauley Culkin, but I think she needs turning. The minute she broke up with Anne Heche, I was convinced she'd start fucking guys. How could you not just to get the bad taste out of your mouth? Line forms behind me, fuckers.

HAW: Jennifer Aniston

JOHN MAYER: Dude, that's so People magazine of you. Okay, I'll bite. They're real. Next question.

HAW: How does it feel knowing that, due to your association with a number of well-known ladies, you're seen more as a celebrity or a media sensation than an actual artist?

JOHN MAYER: Hey, at least I don't feel the need to walk into a Waffle House and punch out some waitress just to get some press every time I put out a new album like Kid Rock does. No sex tapes, a la Tommy Lee, either, although I can't believe there hasn't been yet. I've dated some pretty sneaky ladies and, let me tell you, I could have sworn I saw some blinking red lights on more than one accasion and thought, Oh shit, this one's gonna end up on YouTube.

HAW: So, what's your best move in the bedroom?

JOHN MAYER: I do this thing with my tongue, where I say every word I can think of with an "L" in it...lovely Lydia from Lybia loves her labium lapped by long-schlonged lads who live in long beach...shit like that. Drives them fucking wild. Of course, they always ask me later "Who's this Lydia, chick?" Whatever.

HAW: What music are you currently digging?

JOHN MAYER: You mean beside my own? Just look at the Billboard charts, man. I am digging all of it. These times are incredible. Great music everywhere you turn and if any of those folks wanna give me a call, I'm sure we can work out some mutually beneficial situation. Akon, call me.


HAW: What do you think about Lady Gaga?

JOHN MAYER: Mmm, pretty hot for a dude. Don't get me wrong, but I've jerked off to Dale Bozzio since I was fifteen and Lady Gaga is no Dale Bozzio. Hell, she's no Terry Bozzio for that matter, but she's got a decent ass and that, my friend, is all you need sometimes. Just bury their face in a pillow and saw some wood, you know?

HAW: Do you think she'll still be around in five years?

JOHN MAYER: Not if I bang her at some point (laughs). Seriously, my dick has the ability to make or break a career. Okay, mostly break. I mean, Jessica learned that one the hard way. She thought she was making a positive career move by giving me her digits. You can't tell me she didn't run home and tell Ashlee that she was gonna make a rock album. Fuck that bullshit, even I have yet to make a rock record and you know damn well I could if I wanted to do so.

HAW: Okay, since you brought it up, why don't you make the kind of record where you unleash the full fury of your well-documented guitar talents instead of making records that sound a bit wishy-washy?

JOHN MAYER: Wishy washy?! I won't fight you too hard on that one, but I know which side of my toast to butter. Is that how the saying goes? Look, nobody wants a John Mayer rock album except a bunch of guys whose ladies already dig me and bring them to my shows. When I walk out onstage and see those guys, I wanna go out of my way to make the night as painful for them as possible. I mean, their lady came there to see me and dragged their ass along. The minute they walked inside that arena, they ceased to exist. All their lady sees is me, man. So, fuck, I'm going to keep making records those gals like.

HAW: Anything else you'd like to add before we wrap things up?

JOHN MAYER: Yeah, but I won't. I mean, I could say something that would just make headlines and bring you all kinds of attention, but that's not me. Not my style. No, fuck it, I'll make an exception. When exactly did it become wrong to say "retarded"? Fuck, yesterday, I tripped over my own feet walking down the stairs and I called myself retarded. I mean, you'd think I'd have this walking thing down by now, but every once in awhile...or sometimes I'll be eating and bite the wall of my mouth accidentally. Fuck, does that hurt or what? It's retarded though...Shit is always gonna be retarded. Either that or just plain gay. Fuck, you can't even say that something is gay without pissing off a gay dude, or someone who thinks the gay dude can't take it. Look, I have friends who are gay and they can talk some fucking smack, but if I happen to call that shirt your wearing "gay", you'll hear about it on fucking CNN. That's fucking retarded, man and you can tell Wolf Blitzer I said so.

Well, on THAT note, here's John's version of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" for your listening pleasure...with a super-long introduction from Mayer, so be patient.

John Mayer - Free Fallin' (live)

Revisiting Sam Kinison "Louder Than Hell" (1986)

Unlike the first time you see most comedians, Sam Kinison arrived on the scene like a thundering bison knocking down everyone and everything in his path. In other words, he got your attention and, love him or hate him, you walked away knowing you'd seen a one-of-a-kind comedic genius.

His '86 album Louder Than Hell proved that his act wasn't all visual, nor was it all about the trademark howl that made him a star. Kinison was an ex-preacher who'd given in to the dark side and we, his loyal fans, were the richer for it.

One cannot help wonder what direction Kinison's career might have taken had he not died so soon. He could very well have slipped into the abyss of self-caricature and become a total has-been (which is where he was headed, quite frankly), or he might have hit upon something through which he could have reinvented himself and come back better than ever. Considering that the world we live in is even more screwed up and dysfunctional than ever, I can't help thinking he'd have had more material than knew what to do with...

We'll never know, of course, but it's refreshing to hear him at his absolute best on this long-out-of-print debut album and to know that his schtick - and the material - holds up amazingly well almost 25 years later.

If you haven't thought about him in awhile, or have forgotten just how foogin' refreshing the occasional a full-on scream right in your face can be, I urge you to take another listen to Kinison at a time when he was hungry, hell-bent, and in full control of his comedic talents.

Blind
Big Menu
Libya
Relationships
Alphabet
Sexual Therapy
Manson
Jesus
Devil
World Hunger
Letter From Home
Love Song

Songs Of The Day: Fischer Z "Marliese" and solo John Watts "I Smelt Roses (In The Underground)"

It can be infuriating at times to be a John Watts fan.

He, of course, is the mastermind behind the band Fischer-Z, which saw a groundswell of chart success in the early 80's across Europe, the UK, and into Australia with songs like "So Long", "The Perfect Day" and "The Worker". Just when it seemed the band was poised for their commercial breakthrough - the one that would put them truly over the brink, Watts chose to break-up the band and, in essence, start from scratch.

As you can imagine, that sort of thing tends to interrupt your momentum. Additionally, Watts obviously has the attention span of an infant gnat and, as a result, his albums tend to be all over the place, stylistically speaking. I'm a huge fan of the rock stuff, the mid-tempo pop numbers like "So Long", but I'm slower to love the explorations of reggae and ska that seem to take place here and there.

"Marliese" is a song from the album Red Skies Over Paradise, which was the last Fischer-Z album before Watts chose to essentially go solo. I think it's the sort of song Elvis Costello wishes he could write. The song is obviously sung from the POV of a guy who has finally just had it with a girl and is right on the edge of paying her back in full for all the damage she's done to him. Whereas much of Costello's more venomous work seems so full of verbal venom that you can almost feel the spittle flying, Watts' poison pen carries a deceptively darker edge to it.

It's no use crying out 'cos they can't help you now.
You're forced to hear the words I have to say.
I saw your face when I was taken down.
You seemed so pleased, you're not so happy now.
It's your turn to be afraid.


This isn't just a guy who wants to talk, to say what he never got to say and leave it at that...or is it?

Not wishing to peg John Watts as a guy who simply writes songs about jilted lovers who've turned into demented stalkers, one of his earliest solo tracks, "I Smelt Roses (In The Underground)", paints such sunny day pictures in the mind and again shows Watts' supreme powers to conjure up vivid images with song. The horns that burst forth in the chorus carry with them a jubilant joy that speaks of the first truly warm day of spring. What I love most is the urgent timbre of Watts' voice as he reaches for the high notes with which to relay the message of a potentially new beginning.

Then, out of nowhere, the parade of smiling faces is interrupted by a man waving a handmade sign that reads "But now it's over". That man, of course, is Watts who has shown up to throw a wrench into the spokes of his own song. Therein lies the beauty, contradiction and genius of John Watts.

Harlequin "Love Crimes"

The best $4 I ever spent as a younger version of myself was on the two-lp Exposed! sampler that CBS Records put out in the '80's. Being a relatively new convert to bands "left of the dial", if you will, this compilation featured a ton of new music by bands that had not yet managed to cross my radar, like Psychedelic Furs, Adam & The Ants, Loverboy (!), Billy Thorpe, and Harlequin among others.

It was that last band, Harlequin that really grabbed, though. Their two contributions to the sampler came in the form of "Innocence" and "Thinking Of You", both from their second album, Love Crimes. Truth be told, I already owned the first Furs and Adam & The Ants albums, so I was already well into those acts, but, of all the other bands on Exposed!, Harlequin was my favorite.

Truth be told, I thought it would only be a matter of time before the rest of the world knew about the band so I enjoyed every last second of those songs for as long as I could before radio got a hold of them and they'd no longer be my secret. Well, here it is thirty years later (wow, that actually kinda boggles my mind...thirty years) and I'm still waiting.

See, I never even saw the band's album in one of the local stores until many years later, long after the band had (I presume) ceased to exist. I was also quite taken aback to discover that they'd actually released other albums in their native Canada, one of which (One False Move) was in the same cheapo bin of used vinyl that I found Love Crimes in so, after parting with a five dollar bill, I excitedly drove home to reintroduce my ears to Harlequin.

Upon doing so, my first thought was how could a band with such radio-ready tracks have escaped stardom in the US? Seriously, download and play "Thinking of You" and tell me that its irresistibly sticky hook isn't lodged in your brain for the next day or so. Produced by legendary knob turner Jack Douglas (producer of albums by Aerosmith, Cheap Trick and John Lennon among others), both Love Crimes and One False Move are two slabs of expertly-crafted arena rock (not at all a derogatory term in these parts, by the way) bristling with edgy guitars and crisp, hooky vocals.

As I have spun these platters almost non-stop for the past couple days, I am once-again mystified at the complete lack of respect yet another great Canadian act received from what one must believe to be a tin-eared American audience.

I guess the great thing about knowing so little about a band is that when you do listen, your mind can imagine them to be whatever you want them to be as the song ear worms its way into your subconscious. The same cannot be said for lesser bands like Glass Tiger or Men Without Hats, whose goofy posturing in the few videos I saw as a kid, ruined the whole experience...although "Safety Dance" was a nifty little pop nugget before I got sick of hearing it everywhere.

Ah, but don't let me drag down the proceedings with my ramblings.

Do yourself a favor and download these tracks, crank them first chance you get, and then thank me later if so moved. :)

First up, Love Crimes (which I see is available on CD at Amazon for the steap sum of $78 if you want it). Later this week, I'll put up One False Move and some other stuff as I rip it, so check back then.

Innocence
Love On The Rocks
Thinking Of You
It's All Over Now
Heaven (Dial 999)
Saying Goodbye To The Boys
Wait For The Night
Crime Of Passion
Can't Hold Back
Midnight Magic

Oscar Nominee: The Messenger

We, the people of the United States of America, are currently involved in two wars. Not one, but two. Of course, when I say "we", I do so in much the same manner a football fan comes home from a game saying "We won", or "We lost", as if by rooting for that team, they somehow share a connection, or affiliation, with those on the field.

We Americans do feel at least some connection to those on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan. Some of you reading this may have family or friends serving in either war. Perhaps a few of you have even had the knock on your door that will change your life forever, notifying you of the death of a soldier in action. There are few things in this life harder to do than answer the door, seeing two uniformed officers waiting outside.

Maybe if you don't open it, your son or daughter or husband or wife won't die. Maybe if you crawl back into bed, you can start the day over and perhaps do something diffrent that will change this moment, perhaps prevent it from happening. If only you'd gone to the store a half hour ago like you planned, then you wouldn't be here right now and you could live an extra hour or so in happy oblivion, completely unaware that someone you love and miss with all your heart is no longer with us.

In the Oscar-nominated film The Messenger, Staff Sgt.Will Montogomery (Ben Foster) and Captain Tony Stone (Woody Harrelson) are two soldiers whose duty it is knock on doors of houses to which they were not invited and where their presence is never greeted warmly. Without having to say a word, they will ruin someone's day in the worst possible way, yet theirs is a job that must be done.

After a few incidents where the recipients of the bad news were less than hospitable, the two soldiers pay a visit to a woman (played superbly by Samantha Morton) whose husband has been killed. Upon informing her of this, she is almost apologetic in her eagerness to break the tension of the moment. She feels for the soldiers more than she does herself.

Bewildered by her, Montgomery parks outside her house later that night and watches her through a window as she and her son interact. A day or so later, their paths cross again at the mall and he gives her a ride home. There is an instant connection between them, but also secrets the other may not wish to know.

It is around this time that the two officers begin delving into the dark recesses of the other's psyche in hopes of finding out what makes the other guy tick. In doing so, they see enough of themselves in the other to be frightened by the thought of how much they're really alike.

All of this - the male bonding, the comforting of a widow - is secondary to the harsh, grim reality that American soldiers die on the battlefield every day. This isn't World War II, either, where you can tell who the enemy is by their uniforms. In Iraq or Afghanistan, anyone could be the enemy. Rather than simply shoot first and ask questions later, American soldiers abide by rules determined by politicians. This isn't war, this is suicide.

Yet there is nary a mention of these deaths Stateside. The country as a whole is intent on merely going about their business rather than face the fact that some young kid had his body blown to bits for no good reason. No good reason at all.

Our peace isn't at jeopardy. We aren't revolting against anyone, or fighting for a freedom that lies just out of reach. Hell, neither Iraq or Afghanistan did anything to America. The moment the U.S. chose to go to war, they essentially signed the death certificates for thousands of soldiers whose bad luck was thinking a stint with the National Guard was going to be a walk in the park. Instead, they found themselves in some parched piece of earth where anyone could have a bomb strapped to their chest and a desire to honor a God who rewards acts of cowardice.

Sadly, it takes a movie like The Messenger to remind us that war is real, death is very real, and that we as a country have deluded ourselves into thinking that if we just go about our business as if nothing is wrong, there will be no knock on the door.