Official Tom Petty Cover Art For New CD, Mojo, Sucks Donkey Balls

A few weeks ago, when I was posting a track from Tom Petty's upcoming CD, Mojo, I was a bit chagrined to find that, while you could pre-order the CD, there was no official release date or cover art available.  Being a bit of a graphic artist myself (come to think of it, I've made a helluva lot more cabbage as a graphics guy over the past year than I ever did as a rocker), I decided to whip up some cover art of my own.  It literally took me five minutes.

(my artwork)

Within days, the Tom Petty message boards were ablaze with comments about the cover design.  While many could not tell if it was official or not, the general consensus was that my cover art "rocked".  For many, the sly, sexual humor was exactly in line with Petty's good-natured, but rebellious nature.

Then yesterday, I saw the actual artwork for Mojo...

(the official artwork)

I must say I was a little disappointed.  No, I didn't actually expect them to go with my cover art.  I may be a dork, but not a delusional one.  The official art was no doubt "in the can" long before I chose to take my collage of two dogs humping, marry it to a hastily-assembled background image (nicked from the Petty website), and choose the first font that wasn't something totally lame like "Helvetica".

Admittedly, not a whole lot of thought went into my artwork, but it did manage to capture the essence of Tom Petty and I have written proof that many diehard Petty fans agree.  I have to wonder, though, if any more thought went into the official artwork.  I mean, it's got the look of a real rush job, if you ask me.  Most importantly, it has no fucking MOJO whatsoever.  It's like some well-paid art guy at the WB got an email at 4:15 on a Friday that read, "Oh I totally forgot to tell you.  You're in charge of designing the cover art for the new Tom Petty and we need it...lemme see here...by 5:00 today."

Well-paid art guy turned up the White Stripes song that was playing on his iPod and got to work.  By 4:25 he was done, out of his office and stuck on the 101 in his brand new Jag cursing the weekend traffic.

What I think the people around Tom Petty (including Tom himself, I suspect) fail to realize is that there is great simplicity (the cover art for Damn The Torpedoes and Hard Promises, for example) and not-so-great simplicity (the cover art for (Let Me Up I've Had Enough or The Last DJ and, yes, I know Petty's dear daughter was responsible for the latter).  Musically speaking, Petty seems to have recognized the beauty of simplicity early on and has used this to a great advantage.  But his past few albums haven't exactly rocketed off the shelves.  Sure, you can say Highway Companion debuted at #1 a few years back, but, in today's marketplace, that's a helluva lot easier to do than it was back in '81.

My artwork would have made those who fell off the bandwagon years ago take a look at the eye-grabbing CD staring back at them from the shelves of some Borders or Best Buy store and perhaps led them to reconnect with Tom Petty.  The official artwork looks like you could stick it in the jazz section and no one would care enough to complain.

Sure, it's easy to see Petty has cashed out.  He's set for life and no longer gives a fuck about any "minor" aspect of the art of making music anymore.  He's fortunate to have a deal at all, quite honestly, and not be forced to go the DIY route like many of his peers.  Still, it'd be nice to see some "great simplicity" from the man who has given us so much of that over the years, and not so much of this phone-in stuff.

Video Breakdown: Drunken Flip-Flop Guy At Coachella

If you haven't already seen this hilarious little video of some drunk dude at Coachella battling gravity, physics, and passers by in a valiant attempt to REGAIN YE FLIP-FLOP, definitely check it out.

Here's our play-by-play:

0:00 - Right off the bat, the dude has already become separated from his flip-flop.  That he is already stumbling, we can only surmise that he was probably doing this shit for a full minute or more before whoever shot this was able to finally start filming.  I mean, if you're at a rock festival, seeing a guy stumble around drunkenly for a few seconds isn't going to get your attention, necessarily.  So, let's assume we missed the first minute or so...at least.

Almost as fun to watch is the shirtless Cro-mag in the plaid shorts to the right of flip-flop boy.  I was gonna ask if the idea of wearing a belt ever crossed his mind, but then I realized that he probably doesn't know belts have been invented yet.  Hopefully, Pauly Shore and Sean Astin will soon realize he's missing. 

0:11 - Smug preppy dude almost bumps into flip-flop guy, who is still having a heck of a time retaining possession of his flip-flop.  Smug preppy dude then literally looks right through flip-flop guy as if he isn't even there.  Pwned.  By 0:13, smug preppy dude can no longer recall ever encountering flip-flop guy.

0:15 - Somebody tell the gaggle of sorority girls that this is not the time or place to stop and compare the new purses they bought specifically for Coachella and to get the fuck out of the way.  We're filming a drunk guy.  Closed set.

0:18 - Flip-flop guy has now resorted to a 3-point position in order to regain the pesky flip-flop.  For the next several seconds, it's like watching a high-speed car chase between a ruthless villain on a rice rocket and Mel Gibson in a Ferrari, except, in this case, it's in really slow motion and between a really, really drunk guy and a flip-flop.

Just as flip-flop guy seems like he's about to successfully finger his flip-flop, it pulls a move worthy of an NFL running back and once again manages to escape his evil clutches.  How the flip-flop does this without actually moving is a thing of beauty. I'm starting to wonder if this guy's really drunk or just retarded.  If he is drunk, I'll bet he's a total lightweight.  Probably slammed two PBR's in the parking lot before wandering away from his friends and finding himself here, forever immortalized on YouTube.  Sheesh, I've seen two-day-old babies with more coordination than this guy.

0:23 - Finally, after what seems like an eternity, an anonymous good Samaritan in a pair of kick-ass Pumas wanders by, takes pity on our poor drunken flip-flop guy, and nudges the flip-flop just enough for flip-flop guy to be reunited with his long lost flip-flop..."Oh, sweet flip-flop, how I've missed you so."

0:35 - Success!! Flip-flop guy and his missing right flip-flop are now back together.  Exhausted, the dude exhales like someone having just finished a half-marathon.  He enjoys a moment of solitude, kicking it on the grass; just him, nature, and about fifty people watching his every move.  Is this the end of the saga, where all that's left to say is "...and they lived happily ever after?  Maybe so...

0:43 - Nope.  Wouldn't you know it, the sumbitch decides to try his hand at standing up.  Epic FAIL.  Maybe he's not drunk at all, but rather, there's a 300-pound brick of hash in his back pack.  Have you ever tried regaining a lost flip-flop with 300 pounds of giggle weed strapped to your back?  No?  Well, then who are you to judge?

Yeah, you're right.  The only things in that back pack are a cell phone, some butt wipes, and a couple Jack Johnson CD's.

0:45 - Aw, crap.  Now he's lost BOTH flip-flops.   The up-side, of course, is that, in doing so, he seems to have made three new friends.  Forgetting all about his flip-flops, he proceeds to introduce himself to the lovely ladies. 

1:03 - For almost ten seconds, he and the ladies seem to be having quite the conversation.  God bless the one closest to him in the short black shorts.

 She not only appears to be the most adept at humoring a drunk guy, but seems needy enough to appreciate the attention.  Truth be told, if he was able to even remotely keep his shit together, he might have a shot with her, but, having given her two friends a case of the creeping willies, she and her girlfriends soon leave the area completely.  Man, I wish "Days Of Our Lives" was this interesting.

1:15 - At this point, he finally manages to pick both flip-flops up off the ground and then, employing true drunk guy wisdom, immediately drops them on the ground again so he can slip his feet into them.

1:31 - Twelve second later, he finally manages to get both flip-flops back on.  The crowd goes wild!

Two thumbs up, flip-flop guy.  Wherever you are, we salute you!

South Park "Mohammed" Episode Gets Censored - BOOOO!

Before last night's "South Park" episode had even aired, a pack of smelly, shit-stained Islams calling themselves Revolution Muslim vowed violent retribution against "South Park" creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone for their portrayal of the Prophet Mohammed.

You know what?  Fuck those food-flecked beard-wearing motherfuckers.  Can you imagine being in a cave with those little shit fucks?  Go outside, kill a cow, leave it ripening in the sun for three days, then shove your head up its ass.  Stinks pretty bad, right?  Makes your eyes burn, don't it?  Well, that's what these guys call an air freshener.

The minute I heard about this little club of big-talking douche bags who, you know damn well, lack the guts to show their fucking faces, I said to myself, "Pfft, you don't scare the 'South Park' guys one bit."

But when I tuned into Comedy Central last night, what I saw was an ever bigger abomination.  The network had buckled by censoring the episode to the point of making it almost unwatchable.  I mean, at one point, the audio bleeps they had used to simply block out any mention of Mohammed's name lasted for the duration of multiple sentences of dialogue.  Add to that the fact that we had to endure a fucking black box with the word "CENSORED" on it covering the Mohammed character.

I understand that Comedy Central cares only about the safety of Parker and Stone, but, fuck, why even bother showing the episode if you're going to ruin it like that?  Buckling is buckling.

Here's the thing:

These Muslim extremists have no sense of humor.  Have you ever known someone who grew up without ever watching Saturday morning cartoons?   They're an insufferable prick, aren't they?  These guys not only grew up without Saturday morning cartoons, they also missed out on the pick-up baseball games, and stealing an innocent kiss or two from Suzie Sawmeyer under the sycamore tree in-between innings.  You know what these guys did instead?  They played kickball, but with a dead kitten instead of a ball.  And when that got boring, they picked dingle-berries out of each other's crack hair.  No wonder these bearded butt bandits are so fucking touchy.

But, you know, the one universal truth about bullies is that, at their very hearts, they're little chicken shits who think strength in numbers makes them invincible.  What they seem to forget is that 30 spineless sand smugglers are only as strong as their weakest link.  A 5 mph wind would not only destroy their village, but their resolve as well.  I have found that those that "can" do and that those who "can't" make threats.

By caving in to this rag-tag team of tag-teaming tush-tonguers, Comedy Central has not only given those ass-tackling dirt merchants at Revolution Muslim leverage, they've also ruined the show's precedent for never backing down.  Regardless of whether you found the show funny or not, you had to hand it to "South Park" for being an equal-opportunity offender.  In their world, nothing is sacred and, truth be told, that's how the real world should be.  Religion is a joke, embraced by the small-minded and weak, and this incident is proof positive of that.

I am hopeful that the powers that be at Comedy Central will realize that these retarded, dress-wearing creeps are not a threat and that they choose to air the uncensored version immediately, prefaced with the statement, "Revolution Muslim, blow us.  Love, Comedy Central."

Okay, Seriously, This 3-D Thing Has Gotten WAY Outta Hand...

You want to get Osama Bin Laden to give up?  Make him sit through two hours of "The Turtle" warbling aimlessly in 3-D... Seriously, where did they test-market this thing, Abu Ghraib?  The last thing I wanna see in 3-D is KC and the Moonshine Band (came up with that myself), yo.  Crikey.

Song Of The Day: Summercamp "Drawer"

Believe it or not, there was actually a signing frenzy over Santa Barbara-based alt.rock bands in the mid-to-late 90's...SilverJet...Summercamp...uh...

Needless to say, it didn't last long and, if you blinked, you more than likely missed it completely.  But if you were paying attention, you no doubt heard this blazing rocker from Summercamp, a cool band featuring not one but two quite talented singer-songwriters in Tim Cullom (who write and sang lead on today's featured tune) and Sean McCue.


(if you dig the band, there are 13 live cuts on YouTube from a '97 gig in Osaka, Japan)

Their one and only album, Pure Juice, came out on Madonna's Maverick label and was produced by one of my favorite knob-turners, Chris Shaw, who I personally give most of the credit for making the first Weezer album sound so fucking awesome and I'm sure Ric Ocasek would agree, judging by how crappy his Shaw-less production jobs on albums by Johnny Bravo and D Generation sounded).

Summercamp - Drawer

Guess Its Just You And Me, Edgar

From the moment that I saw "Help!" as a kid, my future was sealed. I have no idea what I wanted to do with my life before then, but I sure as hell knew what I wanted to do from that point on.

I joined my first band before I knew how to play an instrument. My dad had an old set of drums in the house so, for lack of another option, I became a drummer. Granted, it was only because I called myself a drummer when the kid in math class who sat next to me told me he played guitar.

We started a band and, after a couple misfires and personnel changes, we started gigging locally. Where other bands got together and began rehearsing Van Halen or Beatles tunes, we wrote our own songs from Day One. First rehearsal alone netted two brand new original selections that I remember to this day: "Heart Like A Chainsaw" and "Bellyflop Into Love".

Just typing those titles made me chuckle, but, at the time, we were as serious as a heart attack.

Before long, we had enough originals to do a full set and immediately got a gig at the local Eagles club. Or was it the Lion's Club, I can't remember. We rocked out to a bunch of older folks who did their best to humor the band of idiots playing songs nobody knew. What were we thinking?

Club owners in the next town over, the closest thing to a big city in our neck of the woods, dug our demo tape of original material, but were asking the same thing.

With only one club left to hit, we strolled in one day to make our pitch to this Amazonian she-devil by the name of...I forget...but she took pity on us and, at the same time, took a lustful shine to me. A few moments later, with the rest of the band waiting impatiently in the car, I strolled out of the club with a huge smile on my face and our first legitimate club gig in the books.

When the day of the big gig arrived, we had already stolen the manager away from the hottest band in the area and made our debut to a room full of rock fans anxious to see what all the chatter was about. By then, we had added just enough covers to our set list to win over the crowd, but still sprinkled in a heavy dose of originals.

Here's a new Killing Joke tune, we'd say, getting the attention of the college kids, and bust into one of our own.

By the second night of our three-night stand, we'd see members of all the rival bands in town stroll in to check us out. Their girlfriends would be nodding their heads, trying to drag them onto the dance floor, but they'd remained standing, unwilling to give an inch. The look on their face was priceless. It was either envy or rage, or both.

That, combined with the rush of seeing people dancing to songs that were either originals or some obscure cover by Hoodoo Gurus, Platinum Blonde or The Alarm was a total drug and it was quite intoxicating. I was hooked.

That feeling was so strong, so memorable, that I was able to recall it at any given time, helping me fight off the nagging self-doubt that came with every bump in the road. No matter how good you are as a band, you will face rejection at every turn.

To get past it, you have to remember the gigs where a table full of stoners yelling "Play some Ozzy!" became your biggest fans despite the fact that they'd begun the night by calling you a bunch of new wave fags. By playing your own songs and putting on a show that flew in the face of everything these guys normally saw when they ventured out for a night in the clubs, you fucking won.

Sure, labels turned us down, and some clubs still wouldn't book us even though we were packing other joints in town, but we stuck to our guns and, within a very short period of time, hit what was actually a pretty low ceiling.

We could stay here, or we could hit Chicago and take our chances. Our bass player was not much of a risk-taker and left us high and dry before any such voyage could take place. Undaunted, I enrolled at DePaul University and began booking Chicago club dates before I even knew who'd be playing with me. We found a crazy-ass hillbilly to play bass for us, though, and managed to rock some Chicago shows before the guitarist gave up music at his new wife's urging.

I don't think I ever forgave him, quite frankly. What if The Edge had quit playing music just because his lady didn't want him hanging out in bars all the time? I honestly believe that my guitarist would have been the next Edge if he hadn't been so goddamned pussy-whipped, pardon my French.

As luck would have it, I took the demos we'd worked on and parlayed them into a solo record deal. By the time I was looking for a new guitarist a year or so later, he was single again and his wife was fucking someone else in her parents' house, which just happened to be right across the street from his. Oh, the irony.

Still, I can't help but shake my head at what could have been. Of course, he is now the plumbing king of Niles, Michigan, so whatever.

Meanwhile, I am a musician who has been chasing the dream for longer than anyone should ever chase anything. To be a musician these days is like being a typewriter repairman. What's the point, though? The world has moved on and the once burgeoning music industry is a fucking joke. There's only a few major labels left and they are but shells of their former selves, holding on to the last worn remnants of what once was. Record stores are almost non-existent. If you want the new album by Foo Fighters or the White Stripes, you can just download it for free so, really, record stores are really nothing more than typewriter repair shops at this point, offering relics of a bygone age to an ever-dwindling number of people who still give a damn.

When I was a kid, albums were worlds unto themselves that I could lose myself in for hours at a time. The artwork, the lyric sheet, the list of credits, and the music itself all combined to create a three-dimensional experience in my head. Back then, rock stars were bigger-than-life creatures who lived lives others could only dream about. There was mystery and legend in not knowing their every move like we do today and our imaginations were left to fill in the blanks.

Now that those days are gone, what does a guy who has dedicated his life to rock & roll do? Join a cover band? Start writing kiddie tunes? Give up?

I really don't fucking know. I'm still flailing around, trying to make sense of it all. The world has become something shallow and ugly while I was out trying to make a go of it. Now I'm left to scratch my head and try to wedge myself into this world I really want no part of. It's enough to make you pull the car into the garage, close the door and just leave it running.

I can't imagine how lost guys who are used to selling millions of records must feel these days, when they can barely sell any. Those are the guys I feel sorry for because they at least had a taste - enough to become truly addicted to a whole other rush - and then have their supply cut off permanently.

Compared to them, I was thrown a few scraps here and there, but never got to sit at the table and get used to being waited on hand-and-foot. For that, I'm kind of grateful. Still, when I feel compelled to write a song, I automatically shut off the phone and hunker down...but then I realize there's just absolutely no fucking reason to do so. Who's gonna hear it? Sure, I could give it a way for free and get thousands of takers, but what the fuck reward is that? It'll end up some forgotten mp3 on some piece of shit computer that eventually gets tossed in the fucking garbage when the next cool piece of hardware comes along.

Nobody's gonna feel any connection to an mp3 like they did with a fucking album back in the day. I was in a bookstore the other day and stumbled into an aisle of used vinyl records they had for sale. I saw that iconic first Boston album, the one with the really cool painting of the spaceship in the shape of a guitar with the infamous "Boston" logo. At one time, there was nothing more majestic, but now it just looked sad, its frayed edges belying it's age, shoved into a bin with a bunch of other once-proud albums all dying to be given new homes. You could have your pick, $1 each, but there were no takers. Hell, I could have dropped a massive fart and nobody would have known, for I was the only one there amongst the forgotten idols.

To any kid these days, these albums are antique oddities, the names absolutely meaningless to them. "Edgar Winter Group? Who the fuck are they?" Well, little Jimmy, 'twas a time when Edgar Winter fucking ruled the goddamn earth. I never dug the music, personally, but I remember thinking the dude was from another planet and that he must live in an all-white mansion, lighting cigars with $100 bills.

These days, I see what passes for a rock star and just laugh my fucking ass off. Lady Gaga? You kidding me? Daughtry? Who the fuck made it backwards day every fucking day of the year, man? I wouldn't let that chrome-domed grease monkey change my goddamn oil for fear of his lameness rubbing off on my wheels.

These kids will never know how great it was to have actual living giants among us, cruising into town every blue moon and filling the local arena with pot smoke, beautiful girls, and loud-as-fuck rock & roll. These days, kids get excited to see Ashlee Simpson come to the local Verizon Enorm-o-pit and fucking lip sync.

You keep hoping the next generation will wake up and say, "Why are you foisting this crapola upon us when you guys got Led Zeppelin and Aeromsith?", but that will never happen. They'll simply accept what they are given because they know nothing else. To them, their parents' Nirvana records will sound like crap, but, oh, that new market-tested Justin Bieber record - the one where each human voice has been treated to the point of being completely neutered and removed of all humanity - will be the fucking bomb.

Of course, by then, even Justin Bieber will be wondering what happened to the good old days when people bought his music because, by then, we'll be on our second generation of kids raised to believe that music is free.

I honestly hope I am not around when that day comes, but God seems quite intent on making sure that I am. What I ever did to Him, I dunno.

Sly Stone At Coachella - Trainwreck

Why does anyone even bother booking this guy? It appears that legendary R&B icon Sly Stone actually managed to show up for his Coachella gig. The only problem is, so did his demons.

The festival promoters hired a crack band that was well-rehearsed, thinking that this might somehow prevent the inevitable. Sadly, Sly showed and did not disappoint in the "Disappoint" department.

Incredibly sad to see such a once-supreme talent go to absolute waste.

Song of The Day: Andrea Perry "All Alone"

Buy Andrea Perry's Two Today!

Every time I see the blogosphere go ga-ga for some two-bit female singer/songwriter whose head is filled with self-important and mostly melody-free delusions, but is hot enough that no sex-starved, coconut-scented indie hipster can stop himself from taking the bait, I can't help but enjoy a chuckle at their expense as I listen to the tasty confections of Andrea Perry and wonder how the world ever missed out on this supreme talent.

Admittedly shy and prone to avoiding the trappings of fame and its blind pursuit, Perry seems happy to have lent her music to a slew of commercials over the past decade and change, while also releasing a trio of superb CD's that display a knack for effortless hooks and a heady, sugar-coated musical palette.

In her quite capable hands, even a moment of unspeakable loneliness becomes a jubilant musical journey full of McCartney-esque bass riffs, floating pianos and harmonies that swim in your head like topless mermaids (okay, maybe that's just my head).

If you dig this track, I urge you to drop whatever you're doing now instead of working and pick up her music wherever you can find it.

Andrea Perry - All Alone

Kesha (Ke$ha) Takes Crap In Over 9,000,000 Americans' Living Rooms

("I'm so elegantly wayyyyysted.")

The great thing about the internet is that it enables you to watch a more horrific, but briefer trainwreck within a larger, less gruesome trainwreck without having to waste more than three minutes of your time to do so. Of course, I am referring to Kesha's craptacular performances that were part of the most recent Saturday Night Live telecast this past Saturday.

For starters, anyone looking for proof at just how far society has stumbled in the last three decades need only watch "Saturday Night Live". The show is as painfully unfunny as ever and Lorne Michaels should be ashamed to show his face, but, alas, he isn't because there's just too much easy money to be made churning out absolute crap. "Saturday Night Live" should have been put to rest long ago, but the strength of the brand has been used to foist completely third-rate entertainment upon the masses, being what they are these days.

Saturday Night Live was anti-establishment, cutting-edge, and, most importantly, funny as hell. It provided a much-needed alternative to the otherwise milquetoast media offerings of the times and offered a grand stage to comedians, musicians, and artists who would not have otherwise been afforded such exposure. In doing so, it made absolute stars out of John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, and others, who were as far from the epitome of "Hollywood leading men" at the time, much less the comedic actors of the time.

"Saturday Night Live" was a show that resembled a taking over of the NBC studios by a rag-tag group of misfits united in their desire to satirize and challenge the old guard. We'd been poking fun at them for years, but now we could tune in and see once-seemingly untouchable public figures such as Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford and the like skewered on a weekly basis.

As if that weren't enough, each week's musical offering was one of many groundbreaking musical acts of the day. One week it could be Leon Redbone, the next it could be Elvis Costello & The Attractions. One thing you knew for sure, though, was that you might find yourself running out on Sunday to buy an album by an artist you'd been blown away by the night before. For many such acts, their appearance on Saturday Night Live was a pivotal step towards breakout success.

Before long, "Saturday Night Live" had gone from TV's best-kept secret to top dog at the network and across the country. There was not a living soul in America with a television who didn't know about the show or its many popular cast members. Even as Belushi and Aykroyd left for Hollywood, new cast members quickly filled their spots and became stars in their own right.

Soon, superstar acts such as the Rolling Stones clamored to be on the show. For them, being associated with the coolest show on TV would be just the shot in the arm they needed to connect with a new generation of kids who might have written off as a band their parents listened to in the sixties.

By the 80's, the musical acts continued to be uniformly great - The Go-Go's (whose performance on the show took them from nobodies to #1), The Clash, and Blondie, to name a few - but the show itself was losing steam. It was no longer a rag-tag bunch of outsiders poking fun at the establishment. Now, they were the establishment. For many, "Saturday Night Live" was synonymous with comedy and millions looked to the show for the next shining comedic talent. SNL did not disappoint, tirelessly churning out stars such as Eddie Murphy, Chris Farley, Phil Hartman, Mike Myers, Adam Sandler, Will Ferrell and others.

By the late 90's, however, the writing was atrocious and many cast members were sub-par. Truth be told, an entire season of shows could barely be edited down to a single mildly entertaining hour of highlights, but that didn't stop NBC from continuing to renew the show year after year after year. The show itself had sunk to self-parody and, occasionally, the musical performances did as well (as seen in this admittedly enjoyable clip where Elvis Costello interrupts a performance by the Beastie Boys to perform "Radio, Radio")



The truth of the matter is that if they called it anything but "Saturday Night Live", it would be seen for the complete comedy vacuum that it is, but, by grasping onto a brand that was long ago built on the blood, sweat and tears of huge comedic talents, the show embarrassingly goes on.

These days, the week's musical guest is no longer a cutting edge talent deemed worthy of a shot on national TV, but, rather, the latest ball-of-hype currently being foisted upon the dunce-cap generation of mouth-breathers who might actually buy this crap.



And so it was that newcomer Kesha graced the stage this past Saturday, in an outfit that revealed every flaw in her physique, rapping her way through "Tik Tok" with all the flow and finesse of a gun-toting P. Diddy, who, quite fittingly, gets name-checked in one of the song's first lines.

Her performance, while wooden and completely devoid of grace, is actually pretty much what passes for normal on "Saturday Night Live" these days. In the '70s and '80s, a band would hit the stage armed only with their instruments and attack their song with unbridled venom, playing as if their very lives depended on this one performance.

Nowadays, a singer hits the stage in an outlandish costume surrounded by an army of poorly rehearsed (or so it appears) back-up dancers to perform their latest hit in a manner that couldn't be more self-conscious than if you'd pulled someone out of the audience and forced them to sing the song. Chances are, if you did, the performance would sound very much the same, considering that the mic isn't plugged in or turned on.

I imagine Kesha has worked hard to get to where she is, paying dues with years of performances in half-empty dive bars, building her audience one show and one fan at a time. Some music industry executive with a great set of ears and an eye for taking raw talent and turning it into something bigger and better no doubt saw the potential and said to themselves, "I have seen the future of music and her name is Kesha."

Or, more accurately, she was just a kid who producers Dr. Luke and Max Martin thought they could mold into Britney Mach 3, singing songs that even a sober Britney would think were beneath her. They're not beneath Kesha, though. This chick might be nervous and self-conscious, but she will suck you off if it means she gets her shot in the spotlight. As a result, she got to wear the Wonder Woman-meets-Captain America outfit last night and America got to watch Kesha take a dump in their living rooms.

You go, girl.

Song Of The Day: The Romantics "Take Me Out Of The Rain"

Buy National Breakout Today!

I'm just gonna come right out and say it: The Romantics are a fucking national treasure and some of their best work can be found on their second album, the sorely underrated National Breakout.  You've no doubt heard the term "sophomore slump", right?  That's when a band comes charging out of the gate on their first album and absolutely nails it, then puts out a follow-up effort that sucks and stops their career dead in its tracks.

While the Romantics did not suffer at all from this curious malady that has struck a number of great bands, the response to the band's second effort was curiously "meh".  In hindsight, I believe that its arrival at a moment when the "power pop" movement was in serious decline sealed the album's fate and quite unjustly so. 

I mean, how could anyone who dug the first album not be blown away by tracks like "Stone Pony", "Friday At The Hideout", "Tomboy" and "A Night Like This"?  Of course, I've always favored "Take Me Out Of The Rain" because it plays like the theme song for so many of my early teenage forays into the wonderful world of girls. 

Those rainy days when it was too wet to hang out anywhere else, so my current girl of choice and I would hang out in my bedroom - door open, of course, thanks Mom - playing records and, ahem...having as much fun as we could have with the door ajar.

The Romantics - Take Me Out Of The Rain 

Song Of The Day: Tommy Conwell "I'm Seventeen"

It was a hot autumn night in Chicago when Tommy Conwell cruised into town for a free show at the Metro in support of his just-released second Columbia Records album, Guitar Trouble.  Having found his previous album, Rumble, to be a delightful mix of pristine pop and barroom brawlers, I was definitely interested in checking out the show.  See, despite the glossy co-writes and cover tunes (such as Jules Shear's "If We Never Meet Again")  that Columbia had no doubt foisted upon the rootsy rocker on his debut effort, I had a hunch that seeing him in-concert would reveal the real Tommy Conwell.

Needless to say, I was not disappointed, as Conwell proceeded to rock the fucking roof off the joint, tossing out tasty heaps of jagged guitar lines and working the room like a seasoned blues man.  The crowd stood there, mouths agape, for the full show and I was absolutely convinced that this guy would be around for a good long time.

He then proceeded to disappear off the face of the earth.  The album, of course, tanked, and Conwell was dropped from the label.  He kept up a faithful presence on the local Philly scene for years following that fateful gig, but the Rumblers were toast.

While he would release two albums in the late 90's with his new band, the Little Kings, if you weren't in Philly, chances are you missed them.

These days, he seems to be content performing solo shows and working as a guitar teacher.  Still, we at He's A Whore thought it might be a nice day to drag out this nice little cut from Guitar Trouble.


Tommy Conwell - I'm Seventeen

Song Of The Day: Andrew W.K. "Las Vegas, Nevada"

39 Tracks for $8.99?  Go get it!

There are few artists as confusing as Andrew W.K., who many thought would single-handedly revolutionize the music world with his first (and second) album.  Of course, living up to the humongous onslaught of hype that was heaped upon him proved an impossible task and the album fell far short of expectations, which was great for me because I won at least four bets with folks who believed that his first record would go platinum.

After his second one tanked as well, Andrew went into hiding, only to resurface earlier this year with his "long-awaited" third album, Close Calls With Brick Walls, which pretty much returns to the full-on bombast of his debut effort.

Don't get me wrong, I dig Andrew W.K., but simply found the hype to be completely out of control and based completely on the guy's gung-ho "Let's Party!"schtick.

Now that the hipsters have moved on to other things and expectations have been lowered considerably, Andrew W.K. seems content to just keep on keeping on to a smaller cult audience.  This, of course, is fine with me as long as he keeps coming up with sweet rockin' tracks like today's song of the day.

Is it a hit?  No, but it's the sort of rocker that makes you wanna trade your Prius in for a '78 Camaro in a lovely shade of primer and cruise the local boulevard to check out the girls in their summer clothes.

Andrew W. K. - Las Vegas, Nevada

Song Of The Day: Slow Runner "Rainyface"

When I listen to Slow Runner, I become the kind of man who can admit that he's wrong, dance poorly in a pair of football pants with Jagger-esque confidence, and even ask for directions when I am lost.

Needless to say, it has been quite some time since new Slow Runner music last landed on my desk and it was with great excitement that I rubbed the sleep from my eyes at the crack of noon (give or take three hours) and began listening.

From the first notes of "Rainyface", I was instantly transported to a time and place where people walk everywhere they go and stop by unannounced because the "welcome" mat one sees everywhere they go is meant to be taken literally.

This song arrives like a neighbor I call friend, someone who doesn't have to knock on the door.  Remember when times were that simple?  I do, and for anyone longing for such a time, "Rainyface" is as welcome as a lemonade stand on that first really hot day of spring. 

"Oh, I don't have a quarter.  Do you handle ATM transactions?  You do?  Great!"

Yes, times have changed, even in the fictional sleepy town that Slow Runner inhabits in my mind has added a street light in the center of town, but it's still a place I find myself longing to visit.  Heck, after hearing the three new gems on Slow Runner's new EP, Ghost Rendition, I may just move there.

Slow Runner - Rainyface

Sandra Bullock: You Say You Wanna Intervention...?

Seeing the serious left turn Sandra Bullock's life has taken as of late, I figured I'd re-live this little nugget of genius that I wrote back in September 2009, which questions pretty much every decision Sandra Bullock had been making as of late, including marrying that tattooed grease monkey Jesse James.  Ah, if only she'd listened to me...Enjoy.

 Lately, I've been thinking that it's time for a serious intervention.

I have watched silently as someone who used to be so successful in their career just continues to carelessly throw it all down the drain.

Never being the sort to meddle, I felt it was not my place to butt in where I knew my opinion was not wanted, but it has reached a point where I literally can no longer watch this person continue to do such things to themselves and to those around them

The person to whom I am referring, of course, is Sandra Bullock, whose latest film to hit theaters is the painfully unwatchable "All About Steve".

In this cinematic colonoscopy, Bullock plays a socially-stunted woman who writes crossword puzzles for the local paper. To say the least, she's a little obsessive-compulsive - think Adrian Monk, but with a hang-up on verbage. Anyhoo, her parents set her up on a blind date with a mild-mannered and ruggedly handsome cameraman played by Bradley Cooper, who may also be in need of an intervention soon if he doesn't learn to JUST SAY NO to a shitty script sent his way.

Long story short, Bullock's character stumbles through the date while Cooper's "Steve" hangs in there much longer than any supposedly rational guy would. The next day, he shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and moves on with his life. Bullock's character does not. In fact, she begins stalking him to the extent that you can't believe the movie doesn't simply end at the half-hour mark with her being hauled off in a straitjacket by the authorities.

Oh, but that wouldn't be a Hollywood ending, now, would it?

Bullock, clad in a ridiculously obvious fake blond wig and loud red go-go boots, proceeds to throw herself headlong into this celluloid shit sandwich in some seemingly desperate attempt to ensure a Razzie nomination, if not a lifetime achievement award.

After all, this is not the first sideways turd Bullock has foisted upon us as of late. Why, only months ago, she ventured forth with the reprehensible "The Proposal", a film that seemed to honestly believe that if you build it - and by "it" we mean a film that centers around two incredibly shallow and unlikeable characters, including the unbelievably cheesy Ryan Reynolds - they will come.

They didn't.

First off, who the fuck thinks Ryan Reynolds even looks real? The guy looks like he fell out of an Archie's comic strip. A leading man in a rom-com he is not. Bullock, by comparison, seems hell-bent on playing only female characters no man on Earth could possibly love.

Miss Congeniality 1 & 2, anyone? How about "Two Weeks Notice"?

Okay, I'll give you "The Lake House" (2005), which was an enjoyable film. Still, she didn't exactly light the screen afire with her magnetism. No, the film succeeded despite her...and despite the emotional vacuum that is Keanu Reeves. Director Alejandro Agresti should have been nominated for an Oscar for not allowing the film to suffer at the hands of such poor casting.

Bullock apologists would surely defend every film she has made as "likable" in much the same manner registered Republicans could never bring themselves to say an unkind word about "their boy" Dubya, but Bullock's next role doesn't bode well for their tenuous grip on reality. She co-stars with the great actor...drumroll please...Tim McGraw in "The Blind Side".

Can her taste really be this bad?

Oh wait, what am I saying? this is a woman whose married to tattooed body shop superstar Jesse James. Of course her taste can be this bad. Additionally, no intervention in the world can save her until she realizes that she has a problem and wants to change.

Until that happens, brace yourselves, movie fans. It's gonna be a long & bumpy ride and if the bus dips below 55mph, we're dead meat.

Gayest Douchebag Cover Of A Starship Song EVER!

Cursive Demolishes Starship




I dunno Cursive from a hole in the ground, but something tells me they're one of those hipster bands built on a mound of record-store-clerk doucheness.  You know the type; ride their ironic Schwinn bike to work, drink Starbucks only so they can complain about it, and when you ask them if they have the new Nada Surf record, they just look at you like you asked for Leo Sayer's Greatest Hits, or something.

Whoever these guys are, they certainly succeeded in displaying their complete lack of talent on this ultra-fucked version of Starship's "We Built This City".

An Open Letter To DEVO

Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that DEVO are back, having re-teamed with their former label Warner Brothers, and still no doubt buzzing from the worldwide audience afforded them during their recent performance at the 2010 Winter Olympics.  Most recently, the band unveiled sixteen songs from recent recording sessions and have asked the general public to help them select the best twelve tracks for official release as part of their DEVO Song Study.


Normally, the opportunity to listen to sixteen brand-new DEVO songs would fill me with the sort of glee most children only feel on their birthdays and Christmas and it was with great enthusiasm that I began to listen.  What I heard led me to write this open letter to DEVO...

Dear DEVO,

As always, a world with DEVO in it is certainly better than one without, and seeing the same label that kicked the band to the curb in the late 80's come crawling back three decades later is highly inspiring, but, as a fan of the band since the very beginning, I really must admit that the new material that you've debuted at http://songstudy.clubdevo.com/ is not up to the standards that I have come to expect from DEVO.

At all.

Let me also say that, while I enjoy good schtick as much as the next guy, the premise of the new DEVO album being the result of extensive market research, meticulously crafted by a team of corporate partners, a selection of the finest music producers in the business, and a small cross-section of the general public is not funny, cute or amusing.

DEVO, Inc. has always been and will always be five men united in the pursuit of that which lies directly outside the corporate world, where test groups and market research crush every great new idea in favor of a lame, but recognizable one.  When DEVO first joined forces with Warner Brothers in the late 70's, it did so while remaining detached from the corporate mindset.

Would DEVO's reinterpretation of  the rock classic "Satisfaction" have survived the scrutiny of a test audience?  For that matter, would the choice of Brian Eno as producer been given the green light, or would DEVO have been paired with one of the "finest music producers in the business"...such as Richard Perry (Leo Sayer, Art Garfunkel, Pointer Sisters) or, perhaps Tom Dowd (Rod Stewart, Kenny Loggins, James Gang), resulting in a total stylistic mismatch and, more than likely, a crap first album?.

We certainly would not have seen anything resembling that landmark first DEVO album, Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are DEVO, an album that was groundbreaking by its mere existence in the same universe as the Bee Gees, Eagles, and the Village People.

Seeing an album that was as anti-establishment as anything that had ever come before carry one of the most recognizable corporate logos in the entertainment industry was like seeing Disney release a film about a knight in shining armor fighting the powers of darkness with a silver detachable penis.

There is nothing about this new DEVO music that seems at all anti-establishment.  There are no musical or lyrical surprises, no unexpected twists and turns, or any sense of artistry to be found.  Instead, it sounds like someone finally created the ultimate DEVO plug-in for your ProTools set up, where any young whipper-snapper can knock out a few chords and then, by then pressing a single button, make it sound exactly like what someone who knows very little about DEVO thinks a new DEVO song might sound like.

Sometimes, even an approximation of something you love is acceptable.  Other times, it can be like eating pre-packaged supermarket sushi.  Sure, you've been craving it for weeks and, yes, technically, it is sushi, but you end up wishing you'd waited until you could have had the real thing, prepared right in front of you with great care and attention-to-detail.

If you wish to give the world merely what you think they expect from DEVO, you are, in essence, giving them an approximation...not the real thing...and, in doing so, you short-change us all.

Truth be told, you'd be better served merely issuing the songs from Smooth Noodle Maps under a new title and packaging.  For starters, very few people currently taking the DEVO Song Study would know that these songs had already been released.  This, of course, was no fault of Warner Brothers, but, instead, fell upon Enigma Records' ability to sell millions of Poison albums, but virtually none of yours.

A song like "Stuck In A Loop", which was merely one of the many fine songs found on Smooth Noodle Maps, but by no means the best, sounds positively inspired next to the songs featured in the new DEVO Song Study, where tracks such as "Signal Ready", "Sumthin" and "Please Baby Please" are all energy and perspiration, but not one iota of inspiration.  The songs sound like cartoon theme songs written for shows and producers you have zero respect for..."Pfft, they'll buy anything!"

When I was in school, my friends and I got made fun of for listening to DEVO.  Expecting some iron-pumping jock to understand the greatness of "The Day My Baby Gave Me A Surprise" was to be expected and made me love DEVO all the more.  If I had played a song like "Cameo" (one of the new tracks), though, they'd have made fun of me.  What's worse is that they'd have been right to have done so.  It's a horrible track in every sense.

So, is the new DEVO album a cash-in, a statement that the high-school jocks were right all along?  Say it ain't so, DEVO.

Sincerely,

Darren Robbins
He's A Whore

Today's Rock Star...Sigh.

When I saw this flyer advertising an upcoming appearance by MC Lars at The Cavern Club in the UK, I just thought to myself, wow, so this is what gets celebrated these days.

I mean, basically, it's a kid holding a laptop, wearing as much Hot Topic attire as he can fit onto his body in some unsuccessful attempt to not get beaten up during recess.

Whether or not he truly succeeds at becoming famous or not is beside the point entirely.  What's most troublesome is that this level of "creativity" is celebrated more and more, and less and less is required to be taken seriously on the mainstream music scene.  I mean, seriously, what the fuck does an MC do that means diddly in the great scheme of things, or a DJ, for that matter?  Hey, wow, you can play other people's records...that makes you a star!

It used to be you had to at least learn to play an instrument...guitar, bass, drums, keyboards...or sing.  That, of course, requires years of practice.  Who's got that kind of time, man?   The minute I started seeing CD turntables at Guitar Center, I realized that the idiots had been let loose in the asylum and that a serious seismic shift of supreme idiocy had taken place across the land.

During my last trip to Vegas, I saw one humongous billboard after the other advertising the appearance of one lame-ass DJ after another, as if the fact that Samantha Ronson can hit "play" on a turntable while munching Lindsay Lohan's hoo-ha somehow makes her somebody whose existence is worth mentioning.

At least Steven Tyler could carry a tune...and I'll bet he's ten times the rug-muncher Ronson will ever be.

Ah, but these fucking kids today...they honestly don't realize that McDonald's may taste fine, but it ain't real and its certainly nothing to aspire to, aesthetically speaking.  Chicken McNuggets are foul, not fowl, but don't try telling that to the carbon-copy hipster kids in their stone-washed Pink Floyd Dark Side Of The Moon t-shirts fresh off the racks from Target.  They're too busy listening to the latest Black Eyed Peas joint in the form of an mp3 compressed at 128 kbps that they stole off of a torrent site and are now blaring thru shitty little ear buds, nodding their empty little heads and thinking it's da bomb.

Put them in front of some state-of-the-art speakers, though...some actual Pink Floyd played on a real, honest-to-God turntable, and you'll see them yawn inside of ten seconds.  Oh, but give them a TV and a plastic guitar with some buttons on it and they'll come back the next day knowing all the words, thinking "Another Brick In The Wall, Pt. 2" is the greatest thing since Pringles with trivia questions printed on them.  And, hey Dad, can you get off the computer so that they can download Pink Floyd's entire discography in the form of a single .zip file and mash it down to three or four really choice ring-tones, man?

I once joked that, due to the continual dumbing-down of music via rap and hip-hop, that popular music would one day be reduced to someone shouting obscenities over a dial tone...this was years ago, of course, but then I heard the last Kanye West record and realized that I'd actually prefer someone shouting obscenities over a dial tone next to that talentless nonsense...yet how many times has West been called a genius?

Hell, I've even heard R. Kelly called a genius...Um, no, he's a pedophile, but thanks for playing.

Now, if Bob Dylan were to have emptied his bladder into the face of a fifteen-year-old girl back when he was at the top of his game, that would have been genius.  As it stands, we've become a society of idiots who are much too easily impressed, yet, at the same time, appalled by the slightest protestation from the likes of, well, me.  Poor little baby...but, well, you may have noticed that the short-bus parked out front does not say "gifted" on the side, now does it?

The legendary musician/engineer/producer Alan Parsons once sang, "Where do we go from here now that all of the children are growing up?"  The line never bothered me until I was faced with the fast-approaching reality that the idiots raised on video games, iPods, and texting the person standing right next to you rather than just talking to them were becoming...GASP!...adults...and having children of their own.

Near as I can tell this MC Lars is one of them.  Celebrate his greatness, his legend, his artistry, for in the poster advertising his upcoming appearance at the esteemed Cavern Club, he looks as if he has almost figured out...how to...OPEN A LAPTOP!

TA-DA!!!

Somebody sign him to a multi-million dollar ten-album deal, quick!

Top 10 BEST and WORST Bass Players In Rock & Roll

THE TEN BEST BASS PLAYERS IN ROCK & ROLL (in no particular order, although McCartney IS #1):

Macca
Let's face it, Sir McCartney is the single-most influential bass player in rock & roll.  Anytime you see someone playing a Hofner bass, dollars to doughnuts Paul is their favorite Beatle and their main inspiration in picking up the instrument.  Such things aside, McCartney's main contribution to the art of rock & roll bass playing was to prove just how melodic the bass could be within the confines of a four-piece rock band.  In McCartney's hands, the bass literally became another singer in the band.  I posted an mp3 months ago featuring the isolated drum and bass parts on "A Day In The Life"...one need only listen to his work on that song to fully recognize McCartney's always tasteful, understated genius.

John Entwistle (The Who)
There are those who see John Entwistle's emotionless scowl, all fingers flying, and award him the crown of rock's best bassist on that alone.  Others find his work overly busy and self-indulgent, calling him one of the worst in rock.  I'm here to tell those who may fall into the latter category that they are out of their panty-sniffing minds.  For anyone who takes the time to listen to just about any Who song after 1967, the first thing they'll notice is just how much space the bass is filling.  This allows Pete Townshend's power chords to sound all the more ominous, and his more esoteric work to not bring the momentum of the songs to a complete standstill.  To me, the album title Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy is the best description of Ox's bass playing style.  It may not necessarily be melodic, as McCartney's parts tend to be, but for all the notes being played, there is not a single one that does not serve the song perfectly.

Sting (The Police)
The guy may be an insufferable ass, a pompous, self-absorbed egomaniac, and the owner of more castles than any other musician on the planet, but the dude can play a mean bass.  What I've always been most amazed by is his ability to craft highly melodic bass lines in very odd, very non-rock & roll time signatures, and then effortlessly sing over the top of them.  It's like rubbing your stomach and tapping your head at the same time, only a whole lot fucking harder.

What's also impressive is the fact that a guy who was essentially a jazz snob could be bothered to join the punk movement (at Stewart Copeland's urging) and then start turning out all sorts of innovative, angular reggae-tinged bass lines that weren't merely a cop of what had come before.  In other words, for a guy who could have very well said "I am above such nonsense", he got down and dirty and became the chief architect of a sound that is as one-of-a-kind now as it was then.


John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin)
Many place JPJ and Ox in the same category...bass players in two of England's biggest rock bands of the late 60's/early 70's.  For most Zep fans, Page, Plant and Bonzo get all the love, but JPJ's contribution to the band remains highly underappreciated.  For starters, any bass player who can not only come up with deceptively complex and counter-melodic bass lines, but also match Bonzo accent-for-accent is a genius.  Add to that Jones' strength as arranger within the band and you have a guy who deserves to be on this list.

Flea (Red Hot Chili Peppers)
You may love the Chili Peppers, or you may loathe them to the point of listening to talk radio so that you won't have to toss your car radio out the window should one of their songs be played.  I personally fall into the latter category, but that doesn't stop me from admitting to the world that Flea is a mutha of a bass player.  Oh, how I wish he'd been old enough to be in Rick James' band, or Funkadelic because this guy is, without a doubt, one of the funkiest white guys on the planet.

John Taylor (Duran Duran)
I've heard one of the guys mentioned above refer to John Taylor as one of his favorite bass players, so you know right there that a guy who most certainly knows what he's talking about as far as bassists go must know a great bassist when he hears one.  Additionally, I've listened to A&R guys and producers go on and on about how great Taylor's bass parts were.  Why they felt the need to convince me, I don't know, as I was a huge fan of his work before any of the teenage girls at my high school even knew he existed.  Taylor's work is tight, funky, and melodic, but what sets it apart is its elegance.  He has the heart of a 60's R&B bassist, but also a knack for detail, which makes his bass playing very exact and to the point.  It was this precision that made a band of admittedly so-so musicians sound much tighter and funkier than they actually were.  The rest, as they say, is history.

John Deacon (Queen)
Let's face it, whoever came up with the bass line for "Another One Bites The Dust" should be on the list for that and that alone.  So should the guy who came up with the bass lick from "Under Pressure".  Thankfully, they're the work of the same guy.  Deacon also wrote a fair share of the band's better material, including "You're My Best Friend", "I Want To Break Free", and the aformentioned "Another One Bites The Dust".  A little known fact is that he also played a ton of rhythm guitar on albums such as "Hot Space", one of the group's more underrated efforts, truth be told.  For a guy who never bought into the star trip, wanting only to slip into the background and allow the spotlight to shine upon Freddie Mercury, he sure did make his presence known in musical ways and that, my friends, is why he's on this list.  As bassists go, this is the one any band would've been lucky to have.


Peter Hook (Joy Division/New Order)
Sometimes not knowing the unwritten rules of an instrument can lead to wonderful mistakes.  In the case of Joy Division/New Order bassist Peter Hook, teaching himself the instrument and then playing it like a lead instrument to be heard above the rest of the racket being made by his fellow band mates led him to come up with the distinctive sound for which he is best known.  I can hear a Peter Hook bass line a mile away and have always found them to be the most interesting musical parts of most New Order songs.  They stick out like beautiful sore thumbs, driving the beat, laying the groove, and, many times, providing the key melody in the song.  In that sense, he's the closest to a latter-day Paul McCartney, if you will.


Mike Mills (R.E.M.)
Mills has always been R.E.M.'s secret weapon, the component that shaped them from a foursome of rock & roll hobbyists into one of the most popular bands in the world.  While his bass playing would never be described as flashy, or innovative, it has always perfectly served the song and the drummer.  Lesser bassists would have simply locked in with the kick drum and plodded along, but Mills did the exact opposite and, in doing so, helped the band create a sound that is distinctly their own.

Cliff Burton (Metallica)
There is a reason that longtime Metallica fans still mourn the death of Cliff Burton: the guy was a monster heavy metal bass player.  He and he alone turned a run-of-the-mill metal band into a fierce, snarling juggernaut that would take Europe and then America by storm one home-taped bootleg cassette at a time.  That he never got to partake in the band's conquering of the States is one of the sadder stories in rock & roll.  Still, one listen to any of the band's early work - Kill 'Em All, for example - reveals Burton's thundering yet melodic bass parts, even despite the truly pedestrian production.  In his bass playing was a sense of commitment that was audible from the first note.  While the rest of the band was putting on an angry face, scowling with a look of forced fury, Burton smiled as he played one nasty steam shovel of a groove after another.  Not only did he achieve his dream of playing bass in Metallica, he died in the fucking line of duty.  All of the above gets him on the list.

And now, THE TEN WORST (In no particular order, although Sid Vicious is #1):

Sid Vicious (Sex Pistols)
Seriously, man, the damn thing wasn't even plugged in.


Robert DeLeo (Stone Temple Pilots)
I've never heard a bass part by this guy that wasn't absolutely rudimentary and lazy.  Everything about the guy's approach to the bass seems to say, "Hmm, let's see...what's the fewest notes I can possibly play and still get paid."  Having said this, Robert is actually one of rock's cool guys.  Plus, anyone whose paycheck is reliant upon Scott Weiland actually showing up and not being a total junked-out, track-marked mess has my deepest sympathies.


Geddy Lee (Rush)
As mentioned earlier, you either love Flea's playing or hate it.  Sometimes the line between love and hate is mighty thin and you find yourself loving something one day and hating it the next.  Geddy Lee's bass playing falls into this category.  While I will admit that he has had moments where his work was pretty listenable (most notably on Moving Pictures and the underrated Grace Under Pressure), most of the time, his approach to the art of playing bass is indulgent, anti-melodic, and complex for the sake of being complex.  Plus, the guy's voice grates on me like cat claws on a chalkboard.

(Maya Ford...she's the one hidden all the way in the back...in every photo)

Maya Ford (the Donnas)
"Who the fuck is Maya Ford", you ask?  My point exactly.  If she was any good at what she did, you'd know her by name...like Tiger Woods (you know, the guy who's one of the best in the world at fucking strippers, porn stars and Hooters waitresses, then getting clubbed by his wife).  Okay, maybe that's a bad example.  Anyhoo, Maya is bassist in the band The Donnas.  Still doesn't ring a bell?  Okay, she's the chunky one that they always try to hide in the back of promo shots.  Truth be told, the only thing entertaining about the band's last few albums have been the lengths to which they've gone to hide her in their album cover and promotional photos...add to that the fact that, after eight albums and a decade of constant touring, her playing remains as clunky and uninspired as ever.  But hey, she's a rock star and I'm not so guess what, she still wins.  Either way, she's on the list.


Robert Trujillo (Metallica)
Everything about this guy screams suck.  To go from Cliff Burton to Jason Newsted to...this guy...is a slap in the face to Metallica fans who remember how fucking great Burton was.  Trujillo's continued presence in the band is proof that Metallica no longer has a clue, or gives a fuck.

Pete Wentz (Fall Out Boy)
Pete Wetzhispants is one of rock's biggest pussies and plays the bass like a total chick on her period.  Seriously, I've yet to see a picture of him actually playing the bass...I dare you to wade through the umpteen pages of photos of him on Google doing everything EXCEPT play a fucking bass.  Holy fuck, man, the first time I heard him play on an album, I though I was listening to Flight Of The Conchords trying to be intentionally bad and funny.  Oh, it was bad alright but, like the latest Conchords record, it wasn't funny at all.  Here's the thing...any great bass player would bang Ashlee Simpson in a pinch...say, if they were stranded at a Motel 6 in Des Moines and she was the only game in town, but they wouldn't fucking marry the chick.  Only a really shitty bass player would ever say "Yeah, I wanna spend the rest of my life with that."  I'd sooner try carrying on a conversation with a Korean-made Squier bass myself, but, hey, whadduh I know?

Adam Clayton (U2)
First off, let me just say that I love U2 and Adam Clayton.  The guy has always been the only real rock & roll thing about U2, but, as far as bass players go, he's Meg White minus the sweet rack.  I mean, I've only rarely seen the guy use more than a single string on the bass and, while some of his bass lines are key to the songs...such as on "With Or Without You", "Sunday Bloody Sunday"...they could be played by a five-year-old.  Or could they?  Maybe the guy is actually a motherfucking genius.

Mike Dirnt (Green Day)
Without mincing words, Dirnt's bass playing is predictable, ham-fisted, and lame.  Additionally, the guy is fucking goofy looking that it's hard to take him, or that dumb-ass looking drummer, seriously.  Here's the REAL reason why he gets on this list though...

Back before the band made "American Idiot", Dirnt almost succeeded in breaking up the band because he felt that Billie Joe Armstrong's songwriting was becoming "too mainstream".  This was no doubt right after "Good Riddance" became the year's prom song of choice, no doubt.  Yep, ol' Dirnt was so deeply troubled by the band losing touch with their punk roots that he finally just put his foot down and laid into Armstrong.  To this I say, "WHAT FUCKING PUNK ROOTS?!"  Seriously, "Dookie" was to punk what Uggs are to fashion footwear.  The truth of the matter is that from the moment they inked with fucking WARNER BROTHERS, they were a POP BAND the same way Nirvana became one the minute they signed to Geffen.  Hell, these days, Billie Joe and the boys wear more fucking eye-liner than the Go-Go's and The Bangles ever did.  Punk roots, my ass...that Dirnt would try to deep-six Armstrong's band while, at the same time, cashing the checks and living in a nice fucking house he never could have afforded otherwise just smacks of total douchebaggery and that puts him on the list.

Colin Greenwood (Radiohead)
Let's face it, if I'd have asked you to name the bass player in Radiohead, you wouldn't have been able to do so, so don't get your panties all in a twist when you find him on this list.  For a band that gets tons of praise for their musical genius, this guy brings ZERO to the fucking party.  He makes Robert DeLeo from Stone Temple Pilots look like Sting by comparison.  Unimaginative, soulless, and uninspired...just three words that describe this guy's bass skills.  What Radiohead needs, besides a swift kick in the butt, is a guy like John Deacon, man...someone who doesn't just find the same note the guitarist is playing and who knows how to come up with a meaty lick that can make a song into something special.  This guy does none of the above, so he's on the list.

Chris Carter (Dramarama)
As I'm buds with the guitarist in this band, I never wanted to mention to him that I thought Chris was a hack bass player, but then he told me a story about how Chris never practiced, never wanted to rehearse, and would often leave his bass outside in the back yard in the rain and shit, not even interested in taking care of the instrument, but very much loving the idea of being "a rock star"...well, that just confirmed all my suspicions and cemented his position on this list.

Stereophonics "Keep Calm And Carry On"

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As a consistent Top 40 rock act in Britain for a decade and change, the Stereophonics have reached that point in their career where each new album is greeted with a certain amount of interest by mainstream rock fans.  With five of their albums having gone #1 in the UK, each new release brings with it a certain amount of raised expectations. 

Known for such huge hits as "Dakota" (from 2005's Language, Sex, Violence, Other?), and "Have a Nice Day" (from 2001's Just Enough Education To Perform), the band has maintained their popularity despite an ever-shifting sound from album to album. 

On their seventh album, Keep Calm And Carry On is no different, frontman Kelly Jones and the rest of the band remain committed to stretching their own musical boundaries, creating an album that is both musically and thematically mature, while, at the same time, proving they can rock with the likes of Muse and Primal Scream.

While the band churns out arena-worthy rockers such as "She's Alright" and "Trouble" with great ease, the more atmospheric songs are where the band truly shines.  This, of course, is nothing new to anyone who found themselves transfixed by the soul-searching "Rewind" from Language, Sex..., but the band ups the ante quite considerably this time around. 

Tracks such as "Beerbottle" and "Could You Be The One" showcase Jones' emotive vocals, which shines against the subtly pulsating and atmospheric musical backing.  Perhaps wisely so, the band is confident to let Muse have their bombast, choosing to take the low road with a handful of tastefully seductive mid-tempo tracks that build slowly to a head, revealing further nuances with repeated listens.

For me, the Stereophonics' strength has always been Jones' heartfelt lyrics, which he delivers with a confidence that carries just enough sadness and regret to connect with anyone whose found themselves on the losing end of love a time or two.  In Jones' capable hands, a song like "Uppercut" retraces life's missteps with a desire to apply all that he's learned toward finding happiness in a new day.

On "100 MPH", a ballad that stands as one of the album's highlights, the band gives U2 a run for their money in creating a song that one envisions a stadium of strangers swaying back and forth, united in a moment to be captured by a thousand cell phone video cameras.

Truth be told, the album's only real clunker is the faux-funk "Stuck In A Rut", which never manages to take flight.  Bonus points for attempting something outside their comfort zone, but when the band returns to mid-tempo territory on the wonderfully touching album closer "Show Me How", it's a quite welcome return to form.

As for whether Keep Calm And Carry On will bring the band the Stateside success they've long deserved, that's highly unlikely.  It's no fault of the band's, though, and one sincerely hopes that by some miracle I am proven wrong in that respect.

CD Review: Kate Miller-Heidke "Curioser"

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In today's mainstream musical climate, there is very little room for actual artistry, or, for that matter, complex personalities.  Nope, just give the masses a ring-tone chorus and flash yer ass, a la Lady Gaga. The masses, in turn, will bestow upon you the tag of rock star, musical genius, and, before long, millionaire.  At this point, your accountant will suddenly start returning your calls, referring to you as "my favorite client", while dropping his pants at the sight of that many zeroes in your account balance.

As I listen to the new (for the US audience, although it has been available in Australia for two years) Kate Miller-Heidke album Curioser, I can't help but wish music like this would be welcomed with open arms by radio programmers.  I will admit to getting a nagging feeling that Australian songstress Kate Miller-Heidke is gonna be pitched to we Americans as the Australian Lady Gaga.  'Tis true that the Lady's success has potentially opened the door for any number of similar acts to gain a little chart traction, but come on, just because she's a gal who dresses somewhat outlandishly and sings hooky tunes does not make her Sister Gaga.

This, of course, is a sad statement because Lady Gaga is someone who comes from the prefab New Kids On The Block cookie cutter world.  Sure, she has a helluva marketing team behind her, but she's no musical genius.  Stripped of her accessories, recording studio bells-and-whistles, and million-dollar videos, she's just a kid with a winning lottery ticket in her hand.

As for Miller-Heidke, the first thing you'll notice when you listen to Curioser is that this is a woman with feet on both sides of the fence.  On one side, she's got songs that you could see Beyonce or Gwen Stefani doing ("The One Thing I Know") - all fluffy chorus and studio glitz - and then she'll hit you with a real heartbreaker of a song ("Caught In The Crowd") and you find yourself thinking that this is the kind of underdog you could find yourself rooting for very easily.

Then, just as quickly, she gives you more of the Beyonce fluff ("Can't Shake It") and you find yourself almost saying out loud, "Make up your mind, girl!"

She responds with the plaintive piano-based "The Last Day On Earth" and the cheeky "I Like You Better When You're Not Around" and all is forgiven.  Then you realize...fuck...if she plays her cards right, she could be the next Sarah Maclachlan.  Is Kate Miller-Heidke doing any Lilith Fair dates?  I bet she is...

I just hope that, ten years from now, she won't be ripping my heart out with commercials full of sad-eyed puppies in kennel cages, her songs forever reduced to background music for the Humane Society.

My final consensus is that Curioser is very much like that first Nelly Furtado album (Whoa Nelly) where everybody was raving about what a great singer and songwriter she was, each of us with the chorus to "I'm Like A Bird" stuck in our heads.  Then, sadly, her even more art-y follow-up came and went with very little interest. 

"Fuck that," Nelly must have said, at which point she started shaking her ass, singing idiotic songs like the dreadful "Maneater", and making some real fucking money.

My hope is that staying true to her artistic side will end up serving Miller-Heidke better and keep this very talented artist from having to feign enthusiasm over lip-syncing half-songs like "Promiscuous" and "Maneater" to an audience of fair-weather fans who can't go ten seconds without texting someone five feet away from them. 

It is for this reason I am also choosing to ignore the cheap applause drawn by her current YouTube hit "Are You F*cking Kidding Me" (The Facebook Song)...ugh.