And I’ve gone on about this and sorry but I have no one to rant at the moment, so I’ll do it here.
Oh, and I’ll make it quick, promise.
My musical roots lie primarily in Austin. A solid niche of said music was rock and roll inspired Bluegrass.
The Bad Livers did boot-stompin’, moonshine distillin’, sister fuckin’ Appalachian Hills mothafucka! versions of punk anthems like this:
Of course there were the Gourds who weren’t quite so raw and perhaps relied a little more on pop song structure than the Bad Livers, but they still stayed true to the spirit of the backwoods rather than Hollywood, despite what the Snoop cover may imply.
And to save my personal favorite for last (mainly because I consider them all at least more than casual acquaintances and due to a crush on the singer that has persisted for the good part of 20 years) were the Meat Purveyors (formerly the Texas Meat Purveyors, but I think there was something about a cease and desist order from a company by that name).
The clips a bit promo-y and doesn’t give you a full song, sorry, but the quality is good. Here’s one from the Hole in the Wall.
And that’s why I hate Mumford & Sons. Commercialized mainstream pap for the masses waiting for the spoon-feeding. Just like contemporary Country, but that’s another matter altogether.
I ain’t drinkin’ no mo’, so I thought I’d be productive – if writing a ridiculous blog post consisting primarily of others’ work can somehow be considered “productive.”
This subject has been banging around in my head for a while, probably since the first time I heard the #1 song on the list (Uh-uh! No fair skipping ahead!). And while I’m sure I’ve missed a tune or a gazillion here, and I will probably do more on this subject, the top spot will always belong to the song I have placed there.
No matter what.
5). R Kelly – Trapped in the Closet – A first glance at the title makes one assume Kelly is professing his battle with homosexuality. But no, he’s just re-solidifying the fact that he’s a creep that can’t keep it in his pants for whatever biological reason is imperative at the time.
But R. Kelly wasn’t content to just be a creep with this song, he had to unleash what is quite possibly the most self-indulgent piece of crap I have ever been subjected to on the rest of the world.
4). Eminem – My Fault – How do you accidentally give someone mushrooms? And when you do, what do you say? “Shiitake! Those weren’t crimini!” Or would it be: “Crimini! Those weren’t shiitake!” Sorry, I’ll stop.
Plus, I’m pretty sure no one involved in the filming of this video has ever taken ‘shrooms. I’VE never seen the world warp and contort like that. Then again, I’ve never eaten 22 caps at once. No shit she’s freaking out. And possibly dead.
3). New Order -1963 – From Wikipedia: “According to the band’s lyricist, Bernard Sumner, the song is about the JFK assassination, which occurred in 1963. In the song, Sumner sings from the point of view of Jackie Kennedy, and theorises that John F. Kennedy (a devout Catholic for whom divorce was unthinkable) paid the mobster Jack Ruby to arrange for a hitman to take out his wife so that he could continue his relationship with actress Marilyn Monroe.[citation needed] It further theorises that Monroe committed suicide when she found out that the hired gun, Lee Harvey Oswald, had hit the wrong target. Oswald was, according to Sumner, then in turn assassinated by Ruby for causing his hitman business to go bust.
“Sumner’s theory is unlikely to be intended seriously, given that Marilyn Monroe died in 1962, over a year before the assassination took place.”
So despite the title, the antagonist’s name and Bernard Sumner’s insistence that it does, I find no contextual evidence that this song has anything to do with the Kennedy assassination. It sounds more like an argument that sociopaths shouldn’t be allowed to own guns no matter what the 2nd amendment says. That poor lady (Jackie O. or no); this song is the 80s equivalent of a made-for-Lifetime movie. And catchy as hell. Just don’t sing it out loud at work, there’s a good chance your cohorts will look at you with pity and fear for the rest of your sojourn at the job.
2). Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – The Mercy Seat – Spiritual conflict, murder and a stay on Death Row with no hope of reprieve are reasons enough that this song is creepy. But, really, it’s just the song itself. There’s something about the hopelessness in the protagonist’s beseechments to a seemingly uncaring Almighty, as well as the “industrial ghetto” feel of the whole damn song that ranks it so high on my spine-tingling scale.
1b). Lee Hazelwood and Nancy Sinatra –Some Velvet Morning – Face it, this song is about a drunken pedophile/rapist just waiting for his chance with innocent (or maybe retarded?) Phaedra. Don’t argue with me. Yes, it is.
1a). Lydia Lunch and Rowland S. Howard – Same song, but the two artists doing it up the creepy factor to the nth degree. Brrrrrrrrr. And yipes.
Well, that’s it for this round. Send suggestions for the next installment, but “Some Velvet Morning” will always be #1.
When I first started buying comic books, the only outlet I had was the local convenience store (which shows my age, when is the last time you saw a comic book rack at a 7-11). Moebius was one of those elusive names mentioned infrequently in letter pages; he was a huge influence to many of the artists I liked, but the only way to get your hands on his stuff was to go to a comic specialty shop, which was too far for me to go on bicycle, so he remained an enigma for many years. When I finally gained exposure to his illustrations, I was floored. “This is where P. Craig Russell is coming from,” I thought to myself.
Moebius was one of the few geniuses that could tell an entire story with no words, pictures being worth so much more. But perhaps Neil Gaiman provides the best eulogy on his Tumbler:
This was the cover of the first Metal Hurlant I ever saw. I was — what — 14, and on a French Exchange to Paris and this beautiful magazine filled with comics opened my mind to what comics could be, and the art of Jean Giraud, AKA Moebius, made it so powerful and perfect. He drew different stories in different styles, and everything was beautiful. I bought a copy. I could only afford the one copy, but one was enough.
I couldn’t actually figure out what the stories were about, but I figured that was because my French wasn’t up to it.
I read the magazine over and over and envied the French because they had everything I dreamed of in comics – beautifully drawn, visionary and literate comics, for adults. I just wished my French was better, so I could understand the stories (which I knew would be amazing).
I wanted to make comics like that when I grew up.
I read them when I was in my 20s, in translation, and discovered that they weren’t actually brilliant stories. More like stream-of-consciousness art meets Ionesco absurdism. Didn’t matter. The damage had long since been done.
I met Jean Giraud on a couple of occasions. He was sweet and gentle and really… I don’t know. Spiritual is not a word I use much, mostly because it feels so very misused these days, but I’d go with it for him.
We wanted to work together. I wrote the Sandman: Endless Nights story DEATH IN VENICE for him to draw, but his health got bad, so P. Craig Russell drew it. Moebius’s health improved a little, and he asked if I could write him a very short story, perhaps 8 pages, and make them all posters, so I wrote the DESTINY story in Endless Nights for him. His health took a turn for the worse, and Frank Quitely drew it. And both Craig and Frank made magic with their stories, but somewhere inside I was sad, because I’d hoped to work with Moebius.
And now I never shall.
RIP Jean Giraud, 8 May 1938 – 10 March 2012
Though much of Moebius’ work was import only, he eventually crossed over into American comics, doing some work with Marvel Comics among others. He has influenced countless artists and his presence will surely be missed.
Okay, so I’m not a huge anime fan, but growing up in El Paso meant that most of the cable channels we got were from California, specifically LA. Everyday after school me and my nerdy D & D buddies got an hour and a half of Japanese cartoons. Voltron and Starblazers really didn’t impress us a whole lot; we could never figure out why they didn’t just become the giant robot or shoot the giant laser from the front of the ship in the first five minutes. But the show we really liked was Robotech; it was our Soap Opera. It had an ongoing plot and characterization beyond anything we’d seen – we were hooked.
So, I check things out once in a while. Akira, of course, is still the yardstick for most anime. But there is one that went above and beyond all expectations in my mind and it’s called Fullmetal Alchemist. Yeah, the Nipponese really went off with the “fullmetal” thing (I wonder if Kubrick ever made any money off that); Fullmetal Panic is still a huge Manga, but compared to Alchemist, it’s Loony Tunes.
The story is simple: Immortal alchemist fathers two sons with a disease prone woman and abandons them. Then their mother dies. So the two pre-pubescent boys draw a magical circle and attempt the most verboten thing in alchemy – even more taboo than creating gold. They attempted to resurrect their mother. Because alchemy in this (or any) world requires equivalent exchange, the older brother (Edward) has his left leg torn from him. The younger brother (Alphonse or Al) loses his entire body. In a last ditch effort to save the only family he has left, Edward sacrifices his own right arm in order to bond his younger brother’s soul to a suit of armor. They then go to work for the military and unravel a major conspiracy – the country the lived in was founded to sacrifice all of its citizens in order to attack God directly. In their way stand 7 homonculi (artificially created humans) fueled by ‘Philosopher’s Stones.’ Said stones consist of sacrificed human souls.
Edward and Al (last name Elric, BTW. Nice nod to Moorcock) are trying to restore their bodies, but once they learn the secret of the stones, they attempt a different tact. Edward’s arm and leg are made of ‘automail’, alchemically enhanced prosthetics, while Al is a 14 year old in a suit of armor (this creates a lot of tension for him – he can’t sleep, eat or do what every other 14 year old boy loves to do). There are two full series of FMA (both currently available on HULU); I recommend the reboot, FMA: Brotherhood.
[Spoiler]: Which brings me to my point: the 7 homonculi are named, and personify each of the 7 deadly sins. Lust is the hot femme fatale, Wrath is (I shit you not) the president, but his title is “King Fuhrer Bradley.” Gluttony is a fat blob that eats anything he can. Greed is – well Greed gets complicated – but he possesses impenetrable armor. Envy is a shape changer, Sloth is a cross between Marvel Comic’s Hulk and Juggernaut and Pride is King Fuhrer Bradley’s adopted son, Selim.
The show is dark. Beloved characters die horribly and state alchemists are staging coups but all the Elric brothers want are their bodies back.
But enough about FMA, let’s talk about Catholics, the originators of the 7 Deadlys. The also came up with 7 ‘heavenly’ virtues.
So:
Deadly Heavenly
Wrath/Anger Kindness
Pride Humility
Lust Chastity
Greed/Avarice Charity
Sloth Diligence
Gluttony Temperance
Envy Patience
(Yeah, apparently early Catholics were boring with a lot of time on their hands.)
All of these are absolutes in one way or another, which is why mainstream religion is idiotic. Most gnostic beliefs state that everyone possesses all of these qualities equally and the balance is the key. Mercy without Severity is weakness, Severity w/o Mercy is cruelty and oppression.
Whether you live in Houston or Austin, this is the biggest going on in June. Here is my page at Examiner. If you want a heads up on your favorite bands or are looking for something new, I’ve done previews for nearly 20 bands (which is just a drop in the bucket). You want to see a full line-up. Sure. Here ya go.
I guess I need to start paying more attention to music press. Neon Indian have been the buzz for a couple of years now, and thanks to the Houston Free Press Summer Fest, my sorry ass finally got around to hearing them. Chillwave? Sure, but I call this particular piece techno-gyspy.
Playing on the theme of Ironweed’s “Your World of Tomorrow,” I think Chris Hedges has put forth the future quite clearly. Yeah, anyone not in the top 1% economic class is bound for modern-day serfdom.
That’s right, people. Listen to your derivative metal and laugh, but Kirschner’s manufactured band turned out to be one of the best things the 60s produced. Let me run it down for you:
1: Most of us have more respect for bands that write their own songs and play their own instruments, granted, I’m with you. But guess where that came from? Folk music. Bob Dylan and such ilk. Elvis never wrote a hit, most pop stars didn’t. Michael Nesmith did, and he sang it. Or Mickey or Davy did. But the Monkees originally were not allowed to do a damn thing but act like jackasses on camera. Behind that jackassery were Tommy Boyce/Bobby Hart, Neil Diamond, Gerry Goffin/Carole King, Harry Nillson and just about every other hit maker of the time. I’m kinda surprised Lou Reed and John Cale were never part of the mix, but I’m pretty sure they quit Pickwick before 66 or so to do heroin, hang with Warhol and do their own thing. Plus, NY and Cali were alot farther apart then they are now. Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork managed to sneak a couple songs in the first season, but it wasn’t until Nesmith put his fist through a wall next to Don Kirshner’s head and said “That could have been your face, motherf*^&er” that the powers that be actually let them play their own instruments on recordings (Kirshner is also the same genius who, when told about Alice Cooper, asked when he could meet her.) Perhaps the producers’ reticence was initially understandable as Micky Dolenz and Davy Jones were actors first, musicians second (in fact, Mickey had to actually learn to play drums – he was just waving the sticks during to first season. But learn to play he did). However, Nesmith and Tork should have been in the studio from the start beyond just vocals.
2: Influence. I’m gonna name one band. The Sex Pistols used to play “(I’m Not Your) Stepping Stone” live. And the Pistols were no less manufactured than the Monkees. Don’t believe me? Go back to Rock School 101 and re-read the chapter on Malcolm McLaren.
3: Moog synthesizers. The Doors used one on “Strange Days,” but the Monkees earned critical nods for “Star Collecter,” a song about horny, dirty groupies, which I’m sure prettyboy Jones had plenty of, as well as “Daily Nightly,” a Nesmith-penned jaunt down Psychedelic Lane.
“Please God, let her keep on going/Wherever it is she’s going to/give her an autograph and tell her/It’s been nice knowing you……How can I love her/When I just don’t respect her” – “Star Collector”
4: Jimi Hendrix. Peter Tork and Mickey Dolenz went to the now legendary 1967 Monterrey Pop Festival and were blown away by the ex-military, physically striking young man doing unspeakable things to his own guitar. So, being artists in their own right (stifled as they were), they asked him to open for the Monkees on their first tour. That’s right, Hendrix OPENED for the Monkees. Well, once. As they were a TV phenom, the Monkees main audience were 8-14 years old and primarily female. As soon as Hendrix did his flaming guitar invocation, the room of 4000 people ran screaming from the “crazy nigger” (cop’s words, not mine) trying to burn the place down. They parted ways amicably but that was when the Monkees finally realized they were a joke. And they got mad.
5: Head. Motherf*%$ing Head. It’s not a secret that the Beatles Hard Day’s Night and Help inspired the Monkees to begin with, so perhaps it only made sense that they return to the big screen. Not only is Head one of the trippiest movies the 60s ever produced, it used a disjointed mockumentary style of film-making to utterly deconstruct the Monkees phenomenon of four, cuddly harmless young men who’s only purpose was to provide mindless comedy and pop music to the 8-14 demographic. The movie was written in what has been rumored to be an LSD-fueled weekend by long-time Monkees collaborator/director Bob Rafelson and Jack Nicholson – Nicholson and Rafelson were friends and would later work together on Five Easy Pieces. They genuinely liked Davey, Mickey, Mike and Peter and wanted to give them a vehicle beyond TV, which was stifling them, to express how they were really feeling.
Anyway, the movie starts on a fairly grim note as Mickey throws himself from a bridge while the rest of the band stares on in horror. It’s ok, though, he gets rescued by mermaids and dropped off in the desert. Yup. Sexual innuendo and drug references ensue. One of the most telling moments of the movie, after a pro-war chant (in the late 60s!), the repeated image of that famous Vietcong execution video:
Hey, hey, we are The Monkees You know we love to please A manufactured image With no philosophies. You say we’re manufactured. To that we all agree. So make your choice and we’ll rejoice in never being free! Hey, hey, we are The Monkees We’ve said it all before The money’s in, we’re made of tin We’re here to give you more! The money’s in, we’re made of tin We’re here to give you…
They knew what they were and how people saw them, and Head was their way of breaking that mold. With a lot of help. The cameos are sometimes surprising, but the people who show up for just a second were there to show support: Terri Garr, boxer Sonny Liston, Nicholson, Victor Mature, Toni Basil (“Hey Mickey”), and Frank Zappa are just a few to make an appearance.
Unfortunately, the genius that is Head prove to be the pinnnacle of the Monkees’ career. Tork stayed for one more album and quit, Nesmith lasted another couple, but by time 1970 hit, it was only Dolenz and Jones and the resulting album is…., well pretty awful.
However, Nesmith went on to create MTV and many early videographers took cues from the Monkees TV show as a model for narrative music videos.
Dismiss them if you want, but the Monkees left an indelible stamp on modern media.
“Vampires are the living corpses of the undead, who, instead of giving back their bodies to the earth, fire, air or water and decomposing in the usual way, are animated by their own or another spirit to drink blood or draw energy, goodness or virtue from the living. Those who have been bitten and thus infected by a vampire become vampires themselves when they are dead. Vampires are thus predatory upon the life-energy of the living and have a vested interest in maintaining their own half-life by such methods.”
– Matthews, John and Caitlin; The Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures; p. 498; HarperElement; 2005.
“Vampires are not dashing, debonair or sexy. They are vile, twisted creatures damned to a living hell on earth through malevolence or misfortune. But the origin doesn’t matter, a vampire is a vampire and they are to be feared, hated and hunted like Jews in 1940s Germany.”
– An as-yet unnamed, politically incorrect character from Albrecht Zimmer’s forth-coming new novel.
That’s right, not only have vampires become an utter literary cliche, the Nouveau chic they are currently enjoying is about as as far away the ancient legendary “truth” as modern-day Christianity (but the latter is a point for later).
But don’t take my word for it, here’s Craig Ferguson:
Sort of gets the point across, right? That’s probably not his most caustic take on the phenomenon, but I rather enjoy his Andy Rooney impression. But don’t let me bore you with my literary pet peeves, here’s more Fergie:
Yeah, ha ha. What really pisses me off is that the clip where Ferguson says [I’m paraphrasing here]: “OOh, I’m sensitive, I care for you, I’m a vegetarian. That’s not a vampire. That’s a [bleeping] Jonas Brother.” I smell the Disney Propaganda machine at work. But here’s something just as good, Fergie AND Lewis Black tag-teaming the Twilight franchise:
OK, enough with the Ferguson but he made some good points: Vampires should be evil and view humans as food. This new romantic vampire thing is fairly sickening with the Twilight and (as far as I can tell) most other of the teen/young adult oriented novels. Maybe the sex isn’t there, but adoration of an undead, no longer human and therefore not technically a cannibal being is prevalent.
Then we get to the Sookie Stackhouse/Anita Blake, adult “paranormal romance” type stuff. But let’s call a spade a spade and name it was it is: S M U T. Again, nothing wrong with that, but why take a creature of nightmare and make it an object of lust?
Charlaine Harris (responsible for Stackhouse and True Blood, the HBO series based on her books) has turned vampires into southern gentlemen and European aristocracy with moral sense. OK, they want to be accepted by humanity, so they drink artificial blood, the eponymous fluid of the TV series’ title. Come on. If there were that many vampires, humans would be enslaved and penned in feeding camps. Oh, and probably raped repeatedly.
Laurell K. Hamilton is the creator of Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, but again gives the blood-suckers morality. And libidos to make Pan blush.
These are not vampires. Vampires are cunning, relentless creatures driven by the need to feed and fear of sunlight.
Most of Buffy’s vampires were of that ilk, but then along came Angel. These are no longer people, people! The soul is dead and gone. That is part of the definition. Arrgghhh! No morals, no regrets, no love nothing but the hunger.
As flawed of a movie as it was, at least John Carpenter’s Vampires cast the title creatures in an appropriately diabolical role.
And this I blame entirely on Anne Rice.
Not Bram Stoker? No. If you have actually read Dracula (I don’t know many who have), it is not a love story. It’s just that Mina comes in a familiar and tasty package. It’s like this. If you have never lived in Texas and you are confronted with two breakfast options, migas or an omelette. An omelette, when prepared correctly is a right lovely meal, and something that many are familiar with. In comparison, migas, with their diced tortillas, eggs dyed by the salsa cooking in them and runny cheese everywhere is a messy, not particularly attractive dish. Nutritionally, however, the migas and the omelette and practically identical and in many cases, the sloppier appearing is actually much, much tastier. Just turns out Drac’s a snob, not a romantic.
So damn you Anne Rice and Louis, Lestat and the rest. What was once a fun motif for horror has been castrated, glamorized and spoon-fed to the masses. Who are eating it up in droves.
Fuck it, I’m done. Ferguson, take us out:
Now that’s a vampire. And that’s what you do with one.
edgeoreason 