Deep Dark Robot: Linda Perry's Lesbian Break-Up Album

When most people hear the name "Linda Perry", they either think of 4 Non Blondes' bohemian ear-worm 90's hit "What's Up?", Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful (which she wrote), or the fact that her label is responsible for foisting James Blunt's similarly-titled "You're Beautiful" upon the world.

As a result, some may view a new Linda Perry album with disdain, others with great excitement. We wholeheartedly admit to being in the former camp as we prepared to listen to the new album by Deep Dark Robot, a "band" featuring Perry and drummer Tony Tornay. Their debut album, 8 Songs About A Girl, is a stone-cold break-up album documenting Perry's often venomous torment in the wake of having her heart broken by the very woman these songs are about.

That Perry didn't have the guts to issue this album under her own name leaves me just a tad suspicious. I mean, the songs are so gut-wrenchingly personal that issuing them under the name Deep Dark Robot seems almost a disservice to the material. Imagine if Carole King had released "Tapestry" under the band name "Shiny Metal Typewriter".

Is she afraid of "coming out"? If so, she needn't worry, it's 2011. Women can be with women. Men can be with men. Sure, not everybody is hip to that scene, but so what? When you're being this direct and personal, have the guts to sign your name to it.

I can't help but believe that a whole lot of people who might dig this record will never get to hear it because of the name. Deep Dark Robot does not necessarily scream "heartfelt emotional catharsis". No, instead, it screams "third-rate Kraftwerk", which it most certainly is not.

But enough about the name.

Those who do get past the name will no doubt agree that this album should have been put out with Linda Perry's name on it, loud and proud, because, chances are, there will not be a more personal, soul-baring album made all year. From the opening molotov cocktail, "I'm Coming For You", Perry's one and only agenda on this album is to push record and share with us her 7 stages of grief.

In her case, it's more like two stages; anger and depression, which is just fine by me, as those are the only two with any real intensity to them. Nothing worse than seeing someone resigned to their predicament. Even "No One Wakes Me Up Like You", which I presumed would be a straight up love song set in better days, is a rip-snorting exorcism that recalls Johnette Napolitano and Concrete Blonde at their most focused. Then, just as the last note trails away and you think the song is over, it rips off its own pretty face and exposes the sharp teeth of rage and entitlement, Perry screaming "Come on pretty baby, give me what I want, what I want, what I want!"

Can you say "restraining order"? I knew you could.

"You Mean Nothing To Me" sounds like something of the last Codeine Velvet Club record, lilting chamber pop that's incredibly enticing and heartwarming. The juxtaposition of that softness and warmth set against such a cold-hearted sentiment is hilariously perfect.

"It Fucking Hurts" follows, proving the previous proclamation of "You Mean Nothing To Me" to be 100% false, and seemingly intent on planting one hell of an earworm in her ex-lover's brain just might be the best revenge ever.

"Won't You Be My Girl", like album opener "I'm Coming For You", seems derivative of a White Stripes/Black Keys vibe and, thanks to Tornay's ramshackle drumming style, the song doesn't quite take flight the way it could if Perry were a little more able to soar on her own, a la Jack White.

White's frenetic energy, you see, has long been capable of pulling a mediocre drummer to new heights. Perry just doesn't have quite the same guitar mojo and, thus, Tornay's passive drumming tends to keep the album's bar-room stompers rooted firmly on the ground.

Oh, what a guy like Dave Grohl could have brought to this album...

"Speck" sees Perry fall into a mode of self-pity. Meh.

The album-ending "Fuck You Stupid Bitch" sees Perry unveil a very intriguing falsetto singing style set against a funk rock backdrop that goes far in removing the venom that such a song title would seem to carry with it.

All things considered, this is an album that swings like a pendulum from one extreme to the other, just like a lover scorned. Maybe Perry knows that in another six months or so, she'll be embarrassed to have written such songs for a woman who was but a minor blip on her radar, all things considered, but it is a shame nonetheless that she chose to hide behind a band name that will do nothing more than limit the number of people who get to hear these songs.

Why Does Charlie Sheen Want So Badly To Be Conan O'Brien?

When Charlie Sheen announced that he'd be bringing his, uh, "show" to Detroit and Chicago, our first response was "What the fuck's he gonna do, performance-wise?". Our second was the realization that both shows would sell out. Fast.

One thing the Charlie Sheen meltdown has taught us is that we humans sure do enjoy our public meltdowns. Hell, we not only slow down to take a look, we buy tickets at upwards of $85 a pop.

Considering his recent online broadcasts were free and left a whole lot to be desired, we can't for the life of us imagine this guy pulling it together enough to present a decent show in the little time he has between when the dates were announced and when the first shows go down in early April.

Of course, we've got April 1 in the office death pool, so there is the very real possibility that these shows won't even take place and that those who bought tickets will be left with a collector's item, of sorts. Kinda like someone left holding a Led Zep ticket after Bonham punched his own ticket.

If Sheen does somehow manage to live long enough to see that these shows actually take place, what if he ends up putting on a better show than Conan O'Brien did? It's obvious the guy is using Conan's template to garner public sympathy and support after getting canned from his network TV gig. Twitter account, check. National tour, check. The only thing left to do now is dye his hair red and grow a beard.

Ah, who we kidding? This thing's gonna be a total train wreck.

Those who bought tickets will, more than likely, be left feeling like the many fame-seeking bimbos that get invited back to his place, but who ultimately leave in tears. Their dreams of being made to feel a part of the excitement will quickly give way to the screaming realization that Charlie Sheen's world is an empty one, lorded over by a drug-addled psychopath who is hell-bent on seeing just how far he can push it before it breaks. He doesn't want to rock their world. He just wants someone around to call 911 when he crashes and burns.

Rebecca Black vs. The Beatles

Watch Rebecca Black's "Friday" video HERE.

Okay, I admit it. I'm one of those dudes who digs music from a by-gone era - and by "by-gone era" I mean mostly the 80's - and has long thought that the Beatles was the sort of musical "perfect storm" that will never happen again in our lifetime. In fact, I had also written off the new generation of hit-makers as a bunch of talentless knuckledraggers propped up by hacks whose own careers stalled in the 80's, but who know rake in millions penning tunes for tween-age girls.

Max Martin, Dr. Luke, and Butch Walker, I'm looking at you.

For every "Katy Gaga" that comes long, one need not dig too far below the surface to find the usual suspects to be behind it all. At this point, the difference between Katy Perry, Avril Lavigne and Britney Spears is negligible, as the music is all cooked-up in the same kitchen.

As a result, I've come to view the current musical landscape as one resembling Japan after a 9.0 earthquake with a tsunami thrown in for good measure. I mean, what kind of tone-deaf culture do we live in where Justin Timberlake is considered an "artiste", or every new Gaga tune is heralded as some monumental groundbreaking event? The gal cut her teeth opening for New Kids On The Block and suddenly she's being compared to legends like Elton John because she sits down at a piano and bangs out a few notes? Aw, hell no.

It's as if by having your PR folks say it enough times, even the stupidest thing becomes regarded as truth by people who are too busy texting to do any actual thinking of their own.

In a way, such people don't deserve good music. At this point, it has become nothing more than background noise. Back in the day, you could pull up to a stop light and hear some kick-ass Journey or Van Halen being blasted by the car next to you. These days, it's a non-stop barrage of profanity and window rattling bass. Where's the artistry in that? It's nothing more than music to wear your pants on the ground to, or to wear your baseball hat sideways to...as if the idiots with tattoos and a penchant for starting each sentence with "Yo, yo, yo" have become the new honor roll.

Maybe you've gathered that my respect for "kids these days" is pretty low. Maybe you've also come to the conclusion that nothing good can come from a culture hell-bent on worshipping shit.

Of course, there was the time I fertilized my pumpkins with cow manure. Ended up with three first prize pumpkins at three different county fairs that year, as I recall. Turns out great things come from absolute shit.

None more so than the mega-talented Rebecca Black, whose single "Friday" has turned into a monumental YouTube juggernaut.

Black has singlehandedly revolutionized the world and is mere days away from forever reshaping the way we think of music. She has proven wholeheartedly that being raised on a steady diet of dung - whether it be from music, movies, fashion or tech gadgetry - can yield truly monumental results.

As I spin "Friday" for the tenth time in a row, the unequivocal majesty of the lyrics finally sinks in.

7:45, we’re drivin’ on the highway
Cruisin’ so fast, I want time to fly
Fun, fun, think about fun
You know what it is
I got this, you got this
My friend is by my right
I got this, you got this
Now you know it

On first listen, lines like those above may seem completely trivial and superfluous, maybe downright stupid, but the truth of the matter is that they hint at a level of genius heretofore unseen in the history of recorded music.

Einstein himself, if still alive, would unleash the mother of all face palms upon hearing such lyrics - not because of his intellectual superiority, but because he has no doubt met his match. The multiple levels of lyrical complexity hidden within such deceptively dense prose actually manage to fold in upon one another, creating the musical equivalent of a black hole in which only nothingness can exist.

Sure, there will be those who will dismiss Rebecca Black and her musical genius because it is so far superior to anything which they can understand, much like when the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan one fateful evening and blew the heads off of the older folks. Eventually, of course, they had to respect the level of artistry, for it was impossible to ignore it any longer. By then, everyone from Tiny Tim to Frank Sinatra were covering Beatles tunes.

Still, the Beatles, for all of their musical and cultural accomplishments, never made fucking Einstein do a face palm, near as I can tell.

Rebecca Black 1, The Beatles 0.

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Whatever Happend To...Ugly Kid Joe??

So the other day, my buddy Soul Patch and I are driving around, blasting some righteous tunes in his tricked-out Saturn station wagon and talking about music like we always do when I jokingly compared a song on the new Beady Eye (Liam Gallagher's post-Oasis band) album to an Ugly Kid Joe song.

It was the second time in as many days that this particular band had been the butt of one of my jokes, thus leading me to make a note to myself to Google these guys the next time I got the chance.

Like you, I was well aware of them for that split second in 1991 when they were all over MTV with the Top 10 single "(I Hate) Everything About You", but they immediately dropped off my radar after that.



I had always figured they got wise to the fact that they were destined to the no-sip sorting bin of "one hit wonder"-dom and just broke up once their next single or two totally tanked.

Turns out I was wrong.



Their next single after "Everything About You" was a cover of Harry Chapin's "Cats In The Cradle". Can you imagine that? I certainly can't. Turns out the song not only dented the Top 10 too, but also charted higher than "Everything" had, peaking at #6.

That's right, Ugly Kid Joe actually had two Top 10 hit singles!

Can you believe that? I mean, they were the Right Said Fred of heavy metal, if you ask me. Dollars to donuts nobody on this planet would ever cop to uttering the words, "Hell yeah, I'm-a get me an Ugly Kid Joe cassingle", but somebody was buying that crap.

Their third single, "Busy Bee" tanked. In the UK, though, it went Top 40, which no doubt gave these lunkheads the idea that they were now an "international smash hit sensation". They followed up this success with their second LP, Menace To Sobriety in 1995. The album completely missed the Top 100 and every single from the album imploded upon release.

The band found themselves playing to empty clubs, too. A friend of mine booked them into a 750-seat venue in Phoenix right after the album was released, but canceled the show a month later after selling only ten tickets. Yep, 1995 was a tough year. I think the only mention of them in the press came a year or so later when a recording of a message Judas Priest singer Rob Halford left on the guitar player's answering machine, expressing romantic interest, began making the rounds on the internet.

I must have either made that up, or I'm the onlky one who remembers it because a quick Google of "Ugly Kid Joe" and "Halford" revealed nothing.

Whatever. So, what does a band do when their second album drops like a turd Zeppelin? Why, make a third album, of course! That's exactly what these resilient crackers did, releasing Motel California in 1996.

Finally, 1997 saw the band finally call it a day.

By 1998, you couldn't hit a rummage sale without spotting an Ugly Kid Joe tape being offered for a penny. Yeah, I know, that price is kind of high. Maybe if you throw in that Trixter covers-only album where they demolish "(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party)" and let me leave my car running in your garage, we might have ourselves a deal.

Word has it the band reunited last year and is eager to release a new album and tour this year. While 90's nostalgia runs rampant, I have yet to see anyone eager to relive those glory days when Ugly Kid Joe had two freakin' Top 10 singles. No, I think those days are kinda like the holocaust. We know it happened, but we sure as hell don't like being reminded of it. Still, you've got to remind yourselves of such musical atrocities so that such history is never, ever repeated.

CD Review: REM "Collapse Into Now"

While the esteemed Athens, GA band's new album, Collapse Into Now, doesn't hit streets until March 8, NPR is currently streaming the album in its entirety.

While longtime fans greet each new R.E.M. album with warm anticipation, the sad truth is that each new lap around the track, so to speak, sees this legendary band's once-rabid fan base noticeably dwindle. Is it a case of life (marriage, kids, jobs, mortgages, etc.) simply overtaking the more carefree pursuits of youth (keeping up with our favorite band's every move), or is it, in fact, a case of a great band simply overstaying its welcome?

Granted, there are older - and lesser - bands still making a darn good living on the nostalgia circuit, but R.E.M. is a band still bent on creating a new musical landscape, not simply reliving old ones, no matter how much money might be in it.

This, of course, is because the members of R.E.M. are, themselves, quite comfortable as far as bank accounts and retirement funds go. They have absolutely no need, or desire, to partake in 80's/90's nostalgia. They are artists and, like any good artist, they live to create!

We, on the other hand, are a world-famous blog extraordinaire whose ears have been trained to spot bullshit and/or beauty wherever it may lurk and to immediately alert our readers so that they may avoid stepping in anything stinky. Let's face it, the world can always use another great rock & roll album. However, it doesn't need yet another crap piece of plastic.

"Discoverer" kicks off the new R.E.M. platter in elegiac fashion, as if Peter Buck might have been listening to U2's War for three straight days, save for trips to the restroom where he made sure to blast a little Grand Funk, before tracking this tune. Stipe soon enters the musical equation with all the subtlety of a man shouting into a megaphone and, while such a move is meant to convey the intended urgency, by the time the track subsides, we listeners are left wondering why.

"All The Best" quickly follows, adding a little gasoline to the fire. In it, Stipe wholeheartedly addresses the idea of "sticking around too long" and "showing the kids how to do it" - as if to beat rock critics to the punch. Stipe is singing with the same urgency as on the previous cut, but, on this one, it feels like he means it. A nerve has been touched. You can question his choice of fashion accessories, but if you choose to question his ability to rock as a man on the verge of turning 50, you will quickly discover that this kitten has claws. "It's just like me to overstay my welcome," he declares with equal parts pride and venom.

What makes "All The Best" such a revelation is that it's the first true all-out rock cut R.E.M. has done where it didn't seem like their hand was being forced to do so.

"Überlin" follows, slowing the pace considerably and heading into "introspective" territory. The song itself is melodically similar to "Drive" (from 1992's Automatic For The People), but I'm not gonna lose any sleep over a band stealing from themselves. The song still manages to stand on its own, highlighted by yet another heartfelt Stipe vocal performance augmented by Mike Mills' perfectly understated backing vocals. Whatever songs may first catch your ear on first listen, this is a song that you will find yourself coming back to, mark my words.

"Oh My Heart" continues the introspection, with Stipe singing in a lower register, creating a mood that is full of both sadness and celebration. This is a song created by a band well aware of its own mortality, seeing those who came before them fall, as all things eventually do, whether they be trees or empires.

"It Happened Today", while ambitious, shows the band revisiting Out Of Time-era themes and instrumentation ("Hey Pete, do you still have that mandolin?") and, while it may initially seem like a throwaway cut after a couple stone-cold stunners, this song will sneak up on you when you least expect it. My guess is right around the third listen or so, you'll glance at your iPod with amazement. "Where was that song the last time I listened to this album?!"

"Every Day Is Yours To Win" would surely make for a great title to the next Tony Robbins self-help book, but, in R.E.M.'s hands, it becomes a rallying cry for the jaded, performed with tongue effortlessly planted in cheek. Not a joke song, mind you, but one that proves you just can't take your eye off this band.

By now, it should be dawning on you that, while every new album by such a revered band is automatically heralded as "their best album since insert-name-of-last-platinum-record-here", in the case of R.E.M., this really is their best album in quite some time. While others heralded 2008's Accelerate as a rocking return to form, I never bought into that belief, hearing only a band forced to right a sinking ship by making a rock album they weren't truly ready to make.

Hearing this new album, though, I can see the purpose that Accelerate served its purpose by waking this giant from its slumber and bringing them back in touch with each weapon within their immense musical arsenal.

Now, if you're anything like me, when you lay your hands on a new album by a beloved band, the first thing you so is scan the song titles. You don't know why you do it, you just do. Thus, your curiosity is instantly raised by a title like "Mine Smell Like Honey". Maybe not enough to make it the first song you listen to, but one that makes you listen to the song with a little more attention wondering what of Mr. Stipe's might smell of honey. I've spun the song numerous times and I still have no idea what he's going on about.

That, of course, is an awesome thing when you think about it. Remember when we had no idea what Stipe was singing about? Hell, we could barely make out the words and, when we could, we were still just as lost, if not more. Those were the days, my friend, knowing you could always count on Berry, Buck, Mills and Stipe to leave you joyously confused, but never more sure of yourself and your band.

Those were the damn days!

"Walk It Back" is a wistful missive of a song, heartbreaking in its piano-laced simplicity, hauntingly ethereal production, and its brevity. It sweeps in softly, steals your breath, then exits before you can get it back.

"Alligator_Aviator_Autopilot_Antimatter" is a total throwaway of a tune - a B-side from a band who used to specialize in such things, if ever there was one - but damn if it won't have you treating your steering wheel like a set of Keith Moon's drums. Be careful not to use your gas and brake pedals as double-bass drum pedals.

"That Someone Is You" follows, indicating that, for this final stretch of the album, R.E.M. seem to have shifted into a new gear. When's the last time R.E.M. sounded this damn fun?! I honestly can't remember, myself.

"Me, Marlon Brando, Marlon Brando and I" sees Mr. Stipe shift his focus from Andy Kaufman to yet another flawed hero for the sake of exploring a magical world that exists only in the mind's eye, where anything and everything is possible. It just wouldn't be a latter-day R.E.M. album without such a detour.

Of course, none of this prepares the listener for the album closer, "Blue", which features a great vocal performance by Patti Smith before reprising the album's opening track.

As a longtime R.E.M. fan who grew disenchanted by the band's concessions to the big time right around the time Monster was released, I can tell you that Collapse Into Now is the musical equivalent of reconnecting with an old friend - one you were once so close to, have seen around over the years, but are finally able to spend some quality time catching up with - and enjoying every beautiful second of it.

The Mighty ROXETTE To Headline Pitchfork Music Festival?? Tix On Sale Friday!

As the only Chicago hipster mag with their own music festival, Pitchfork continues to be a guiding force in the "we know what you like more than you do" sweepstakes. Thus, when it was announced that tickets for the 2011 Pitchfork Music Festival, to be held July 13, 14, and 15 in Union Park, go on sale this Friday, we at The Shit did enjoy a bit of a chuckle over the fact that the fine folks at Pitchfork could be so bold as to sell tickets to a three-day music event without actually announcing the line-up.

I mean, that's pretty ballsy, right?

Naturally, demand for tickets will be high. After all, every hipster within a three-state radius, if not farther, will be compelled to attend, if for no other reason than to not have to explain to his co-workers at the organic food store why he is unable to attend "the" event of the summer. Let's face it, saying you're too cool for the room just ain't gonna cut it.

But, seriously, who buys tickets to a music festival without knowing what bands will be playing? Pitchfork could sell every last remaining ticket on Friday, then, on Saturday, announce that the festival line-up will consist entirely of Roxette tribute bands from all around the world, with a performance on the festival's final night by Roxette themselves!

Naturally, the hipster brigade would merely take this in stride, reflexively adopting Roxette as the latest legacy band whose recorded output is suddenly heralded as sheer genius on par with Lou Reed, Radiohead, and Jeff Tweedy. Vintage hot pink Roxette tour shirts from the band's 1988 "Look Sharp" tour would flood into Union Park to the sounds of a Bulgarian tribute band Chickidjya butchering "It Must Have Been Love".

Man, I hope Union Park has a bike rack.